Chapter 40- With or Without You

.

.

My hands are tied, my body bruised

She got me with nothing to win

And nothing left to lose

And you give yourself away

And you give yourself away

And you give, and you give

And you give yourself away

With or without you

With or without you

I can't live

With or without you

.

.

Had a murder of Blast-Ended Skwets descended upon her in that moment, Hermione could not have looked away from the man sprawled out in front of her.

Wrapped in the secure oblivion of sleep on the settee, Severus appeared far younger, the harsh lines that normally bracketed his mouth and furrowed his forehead sliding into altogether smoother notations. The indigo fringe of his eyelashes stood out absurdly long against the chalk white plains of his face; Hermione had to stifle an entirely inappropriate laugh, the cartoonish sight reminding her forcibly of a snoozing llama she seen once at a petting zoo.

Ahhh, she thought, a mordant, whimsical sort of humour bubbling to the surface, but then my life is less of a zoo right now and more of a mad house, isn't it?

Still, the urge to pet him- to stroke at the hair limply plastered to his cheeks, to soothe the lines of tension the buzzed yet down the long length of his arms- was strong enough that she had to sit on her hands, lest they sneak out on their own accord.

I love him… oh, God. I really do love him!

The realization was such a bitter one. For all that the front of her jumper was still damp from his tears, she knew he had only accepted her comfort and assistance at St. Mungo's that evening because he'd been pushed well beyond the limits of his emotional endurance. She fully expected him to lash out in some fashion once he'd regrouped; his reliance upon her meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

The slow, steady rise and fall of his chest was oddly mesmerizing, and for several minutes, Hermione simply stared at the subtle flexing of the white cotton oxford shirt as it stretched over his lean torso. As if sensing her unrelenting regard, he shifted uneasily, lips compressing into a thin line as his entire body tightened in on himself; silently, she rose from the armchair and plucked a blanket from the back of the settee, resolved to leave. Carefully, she began to drape the fabric over him, but paused as the faded remains of the Dark Mark caught her attention in the shadowy-half light.

Hermione had only seen it once as a student, back when it had served as a living link to Tom Riddle. Lost in febrile wanderings following her injuries gained in the Department of Mysteries, she had briefly surfaced to find Professor Snape leaning over her, urging her to drink a foul-tasting healing draught. His appearance had been as startling as it was frightening; while the usual frock coat and billowing robes were absent, he was no less ferocious in short sleeves and wildly-mussed hair. As he'd leaned over her to administer the potions, the Dark Mark upon his forearm had seemed to stare at her, coiling and hissing with malice. She had cried out in alarm as Snape's features had likewise twisted; he'd nearly dropped the phial onto her chest, clutching at his arm in with a sudden pain of his own.

Poppy had come running and Professor Snape had disappeared into the murky ether of the Hospital Ward; it was only weeks later that she realized that he must have been Summoned.

Peering closer, she examined the Mark as it was now. No longer the vivid black and malevolent thing that she recalled, it had been reduced to blurred and greying curves, seemingly… diminished.

But no less significant, she mused, thinking about the myriad of ways that the past lingered and dictated his present. Hermione longed to run her fingers over the abomination, to somehow erase the traces off his pale skin like it was nothing more then the remains of bothersome soot. She was struck then by how possessive her thoughts and feelings towards Severus were, and for her, how unusual that intensity of sentiment was.

Is it because of the soul bond? Is that why I just can't leave things be? she wondered. Or simply because it's Severus and he's always fascinated me? Oh, she'd been in love before, or at least a reasonable facsimile of it, but nothing with the same breathless desire- nay, biological imperative- that she felt for the man sleeping in front of her.

It was the persistent arousal thrumming through her blood that finally snapped her out of the trance. I am not going to get what I want from him. What's left is to decide how much I can live with and move on.

Coming to a series of rapid decisions, she tucked the blanket carefully around Snape and summoned Poppy.

She met the Healer in the hallway, coolly composed and firm in her resolve. Briefly she outlined what had happened in St. Mungo's. While the woman's concern was mostly for Snape, Hermione could see a thread of worry for herself as well and felt a pang of guilt for the distance that would henceforth be required. She is Snape's person, Hermione reasoned. And besides, if given any room to meddle, she'll just make this all the harder for the both of us.

Coming to the end of her explanations, Hermione stepped back from the doorway and motioned her inside. "I'm headed back to London for the weekend. I need to reset the wards on my parent's house."

It was a lie and they both knew it. Poppy reached a hand out as if to comfort her, but Hermione moved briskly towards her own door as if she had not seen the gesture.

"Be safe," the woman finally called, and Hermione nodded before stepping to her own quarters.

"You as well." Shutting the door, she sagged against the unyielding surface and hoped that she was making the correct choice.

Hermione stood at the wrought iron gates of the Castle, looking at the reflection of the blood-red setting sun over the lake. Her mental meanderings of the day had provided her with a path forward, but also pointed out some rather large areas that needed tidying before she could move on.

Deciding to tackle the obvious, she pulled her mobile out of her pocket and called George.

Every window of the Burrow was lit up when she Apparated to the boundaries, bringing to mind the old adage about safe harbours in the midst of the storm. Thinking about the dark house waiting for her in London, Hermione shivered; this was to be a temporary shelter at best.

George met her at the door with a hug and grin. "I hope that you're hungry, 'Mione. Mum's serving up the sticky toffee pudding, and you know she'll not take no for an answer."

She smiled anaemically back. "I'm sure I've room for some. Were you able to speak with Ron?"

"Yeah. He was a bit confused why you wanted to speak with him, but you know Ronniekins. Too many bludgers to the head…"

"Hermione?" Molly called, pushing George out of the way. "Come in and have some pudding, dearie. You've arrived just in time. Everyone is here…"

The first few minutes around the massive kitchen table were exceedingly awkward; George hadn't mention to anyone other than Molly and Ron that she would be stopping by, and she was accordingly peppered with questions from the various members of the Weasley Clan.

Thankfully, she was able to escape that majority of explanations by the simple expediency of keeping her mouth full, and by the time that she had finished eating, conversation had drifted into another direction.

Glancing over at Ron, she noted that he was watching her with weary eyes. I do manage to make a right mess out of most of my relationships, don't I? she thought guiltily as she put her spoon down.

Seeing that her bowl was empty, he cocked his head towards the privacy of the lounge. She nodded, and together they rose and slipped out of the room.

He didn't sit, instead choosing to perch on the windowsill with arms crossed over his broad chest. "So, what's up?" Ron asked as she settled into one of the overstuffed chairs.

Taking in a deep breath, Hermione tried to calm herself. "I know that I've said it already, but I wanted to apologize again for how I treated you. And I don't just mean the way that I left… the way that I acted before was horrible, too. I knew that you cared for me- cared more than I did, truthfully- and I never trusted you enough to tell you how I really was feeling. I'm sorry," she finished in a rush, "…I know it's not nearly enough, but I am so terribly sorry."

Ron turned his face away, expression lost in the empty void of the dark window. Hermione's nerves finally got the better of her, and she bit her lip, staring down at her tightly knotted hands. She heard a whisper of movement, and then Ron's voice, low and commanding.

"Hermione, look at me."

She found that he was crouched next to her, blue eyes gone hard with a fierceness that she'd rarely seen from the boy.

"I didn't merely care for you. I loved you," he said, intoning the last words with a controlled rage. "I loved you. I wanted to be your husband. I wanted you to be the mother of my children, and my partner in life. And you just… vanished."

He shot up suddenly, bulky body looming over her and anger leaking out every which way. "Do you know what I first thought? That you had gone off and killed yourself! I couldn't sleep for months. All I could think about were the signs that I ignored, all the times that I had been a piss-poor boyfriend and even worse friend. If I just said something, or noticed at the right time… maybe you wouldn't of done it…"

Hermione couldn't breathe, her heart making an admirable attempt to escape her ribcage as she watched her first lover struggle for words.

"When the press accused me of being behind your disappearance- of murdering you!- there was a part of me that felt that I deserved it. I knew that you were desperately unhappy about what happened to your parents; I knew that you felt horribly trapped by how quickly things were moving between us, but it was easy enough to overlook all that until you suddenly left… and then when Mum and Dad finally came to me and told me what had really happened—that you chose to leave like that— Bloody hell, Hermione, I loved you and it was never good enough!"

Ron glanced away again, unconsciously and violently cracking the knuckles of his left hand. When he looked back at her, a portion of the adult veneer had returned, replacing the sheer rage with something more impenetrable and jaded.

"I cannot begin to express how hurt and mad I was. It was a bloody good thing that Dad never let on that he knew where you were, because if I had found out… well, that's neither here nor there." He sighed deeply, running a hand through his messy hair and shoulders slumping. "Why are you bringing this up now?"

"I've been thinking about our relationship for the last week or so, and I realized that we never really talked about what happened. That my apologies were rushed and half-assed at best." She gave a humourless snort. "Truth be told, I've had a taste of my own medicine, and it unequivocally hammered home how much of a bitch I was to let things linger the way they did."

Ron stared at her in silence for nearly a minute, and she held her breath, wondering if he would relent.

"Why?" he finally asked. "Why did you leave like that?"

She bowed her head, grateful to have a chance to explain, at least somewhat. "It wasn't you, I promise. I felt like such a fraud, Ron, and I absolutely hated the attention we were getting. It was all rubbish and lies- I was no hero- I as good as killed my parents, and I knew that I couldn't be the wife that you wanted, or a million other things that I was supposed to be… Christ, everything was just such a ruddy mess in my mind. I was a fucking wreck and I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone… not you or even Harry, for that matter. Do you remember that last afternoon in London, when we visited St. Mungo's?"

"Yeah," he confirmed, expression guardedly curious.

"All I could think about when we were walking around Muggle London was if I had enough brass to 'accidently' fall off the kerb and into the path of a bus. If I could do it over again," she said thickly, and then had to stop and clear her throat. "…if I could have it back, I would have done a million things differently, Ron. I would have spoken with you, at the very least, and not been such a coward about everything."

Hermione realized abruptly that she had started crying, and hastily plucked a tissue from the inlaid wooden box on the side table. The latent curiosity in Ron's face had fled and he was left appearing rather uncomfortable.

"It was a shite time, and I don't any of us were making good decisions," he muttered eventually, and gingerly sat down next to her. "Listen, you could never forgive me for leaving you and Harry in the Forest of Dean, and I'm not going to ever forgive you for vanishing like that. But what's done is done. I'm tired of being mad about it."

"Thank you," Hermione said, wiping her face a final time. "And for what it's worth, I have forgiven you for leaving us. I'd be pretty hypocritical if I didn't."

Ron arched a red brow. "Yeah, but you haven't exactly forgot about it, have you?"

"No," she replied with another snort, "…but at this point it's water well under the bridge, don't you think?"

"I suppose." His smile was half-hearted. "What did you mean earlier when you said that you had gotten a taste of your own medicine?"

She looked at him for a long moment, wondering how much she should divulge. "I've… developed feelings for someone who has absolutely no interest in that sort of relationship with me, and I'm not sure that being friends—even good ones—is enough."

"Ouch. You're not talking about Neville are you? Because if you are, you might be in luck…"

"I wish. Believe me, if it were Neville my life would be far less complicated."

Ron gave her a considering glance. "Then who? It's not as if there are that many eligible blokes running around Hogwarts. From what Neville says, the Castle might as well be a monastery for all the action that the staff gets."

Hermione was saved from answering when Ron abruptly turned an alarming shade of green and did the maths himself. "Blimey, Hermione, tell me you didn't…"

"Fine," she responded a touch acerbically, feeling her face turn beet-red in return. "I won't tell you."

That earned her a shaky laugh. "Snape? How in the name of Nimue's nickers did that happen?"

Although he looked rather gobsmacked, Ron expression was surprisingly thoughtful, and free of the judgemental scorn or horror that she would have expected. Huh… not a single reference to bats, gits, or grease. He really has grown up.

"Do you really want the gory details? Not that there are really that many, honestly."

"As strange as it sounds, yeah, I do." Rolling his shoulders uncomfortably, he went on. "Because I can't see how you could have… I mean, it's Snape. He's not exactly the warm and fuzzy type, is he?"

His face was so earnestly bewildered that she could help but chuckle, and the compulsion to break down and tell him- tell someone the unvarnished truth- nudged her to continue. He's going back to America tomorrow, she reminded herself. If you are going to tell someone, Ron's not a bad choice…

"It started when I first came back- at the beginning of my project he was an anonymous advisor, and we emailed back and forth for several months. Then we started to work together, and it was rather… nice."

"A meeting of the minds?" Ron asked with mild sarcasm.

"Something like that, yes." She gave him a mock glare, and he subsided with roll of his eyes. "Did you parents tell you anything about my apprenticeship ceremony?"

"No."

Hermione took a deep breath, weighing whether she should ask him to make a wand oath to not share the next part. No, I either trust him or I don't; anything less would be an insult, especially after the first part of our conversation. "Well, that's where things got interesting."

In the end, Hermione told him everything- about the soul bond and the startling realization that she was attracted to Severus, her illness and their associated projects, the moments of humour and connection as well as the more recent discord and strife.

"…so," she concluded, "...it comes nine years too late, but that is everything there is to say about my love life. Or rather, my lack thereof at the present moment."

Ron leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, blue gaze keen and yet somehow gentle, the quality of his regard reminding her strongly of Arthur. "Well, you certainly know how to pick 'em, Hermione. Lockhart… Krum... me, Snape…."

She laughed softy. "Need I remind you about your own dubious choices, Won-Won? And to be fair, Lockhart was a rather short-lived infatuation, not a relationship."

"So you say." His expression turned more pensive. "Are you sure that what you feel isn't, I dunno, an industrial strength crush brought on by proximity and crisis?"

"No. While what I feel is certainly of the industrial strength, it's not of the temporary variety. I want him and not just in my bed; it sounds trite, but I want the luxury of knowing him in all those little, intimate ways that my parents knew each other."

Glancing down, she saw that she had torn the tissue to shreds, the remains strewn about her legs and lap like miniature clouds. "Intellectually, I understand why he wants nothing to do with a relationship. But emotionally? I just don't understand why he doesn't want the same thing as I do. It's all there- attraction and compatibility, and the proof can be found in the fact that we manage to create a ruddy soul bond without meaning to." Her mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "It's like you said earlier- what I feel isn't good enough for him, and it's tearing me apart."

"It doesn't bother you that you two share a soul bond?" Ron asked carefully.

Hermione shook her head. "I suppose it should, but no. Minerva told me a couple of weeks ago that we were far more alike than not, and I agree with her. I just wish that he would trust the bond- and me- more than he does."

Ron shot her a bemused look. "Ah, see this is where we blokes think differently. I love Emily, mind you, and I've even told her so, but if I suddenly found myself sharing a soul bond with her I'd be rather freaked out by it."

"Freaked out?" Hermione repeated, amused by the blatant Americanism.

"Yeah. Totally freaked out," he said, purposely flattening his accent into something approaching surfer boy rather than English lad. His grin faded as he continued, however. "Hermione, please don't take this the wrong way, but you are looking at soul magic from a very Muggle point of view."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that: you see the connections of soul magic as something inherently good- as a blessing, as it were. But magically speaking, that's simply not the case. Soul magic can be Dark, just as it can be an instrument of good."

Her glare held some heat. "I am aware of that, Ron. I did help to find and destroy several of the Hourcruxes, or don't you remember?"

Ron wasn't ruffled by her attitude. "Think about it- how many times has Snape been involved with some sort of soul magic?" Deliberately, he began counting off on his fingers. "Let's see, there was the life debt that he owed Harry's father after the Shrieking Shack, and again then when he pledged as a Death Eater. I can't imagine that Dumbledore would have accepted him without swearing some sort of oath when he turned, and then there was the Unbreakable Vow with Malfoy's Mum near the end of the war… those are just the things that we know about- and none of them are positive. Little wonder that he doesn't count your soul bond as something to be trusted, especially when it lets you see far more than anybody would be comfortable with."

Hermione felt a return of her low-level nausea; Ron hadn't pointed out anything that she hadn't already thought about, but his words hammered home how impossible the situation was. His voice was quietly sympathetic as he went on. "And that doesn't take into account other aspects of his past, like his relationship with Harry's Mum."

"I know," she said, hating how the words came out. "Believe me, Ron, I know."

Conversation lapsed as the Burrow creaked and groaned with life around them; Hermione could hear George and his mother laughing about something as they cleaned the kitchen, and the light tread of someone in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Ron patted her knee encouragingly and rose, proffering one large, freckled hand up.

"I don't know what to tell you, Hermione. It sounds pretty bleak. Just keep the faith, I guess- things may not work out the way that you want them to, but it'll all come together in the end. I mean, look at me. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life living in rural England working as an Auror, or failing that, tending the shop with George. Instead, I live in Los Angeles and I'm a professional Quidditch player. It's not the life I'd imagined, but I'm happy and wouldn't give it up for the world."

She gave him a faint smile. "Easier said than done, but I'll give it try."

"There is no try, only do," he intoned with smirk.

"Did you just quote 'Star Wars' at me?"

"I did."

"And to think not that long ago you had absolutely no interest in watching anything Muggle…"

Ron shrugged, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I also thought that Chudley Cannons had a chance to take the Cup every year, too. Clearly, I've changed."

"Not in the ways that count," she told him, meaning it as a compliment.

In a move that surprised her, Ron pulled her into a tight hug. Hermione relaxed into his embrace, the familiar muscled contours of his chest and the scent of him recalling the long-forgotten feelings of security and comfort. For brief flash, she wished that this type of affection- that Ron- had been enough to help her navigate the events following the end of the war. Where would I be? she wondered. Married? Kids? Working for the Ministry? With a pang, she pushed aside that train of thought, easily remembering how suffocated and hopelessly stuck she'd felt by everyone's expectations. By her own.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again into the soft flannel of his shirt, resting her cheek on the spot that let her hear the steady beat of his heart.

"Me, too. But that's the way the cookie crumbled," he replied, lightly kissing the top of her head. "Come on, let's go see what everyone else is up to. I'm shocked that Mum hasn't sent a search party out…"

The cool stillness of her parent's house came as a jarring change after the familial effervescence of the Burrow. Determinedly, she pushed aside any thoughts that could be considered self-pitying; if she was going to get through the next several months, Hermione knew that she was going to have to be focused and on point, not wallowing in twenty different flavours of grief.

Feeding Crooks and extra helping of tuna along with his dry food, she pulled out her planner and began to plot her time away in earnest. Her first N.E.W.T. exam was in less than three weeks, and it wouldn't be too hard to lose herself in revising. Then, of course, there was the all the data input that she needed to complete with the newest batch of patient health histories, and the lesson planning for the upcoming term…

Snape ran.

Feet pounding over the well-worn lakeside path, he tried to concentrate on the rhythm of his steps and the measured cadence of his breathing to no avail; his brain continued to interjects thoughts into what should have been the blank slate of his mind, but what was instead a jumbled, contradictory mess.

Almost two weeks had gone by since he'd utterly lost the plot in St. Mungo's. Outwardly, there had been no repercussions. Poppy had thankfully let him be, somehow refraining from fussing over him and if Minerva knew what had happened, she gave no sign. As for Hermione… he had the uncomplicated, easy friendship that he had been hoping for.

It was a hollow victory at best.

There had been no further fights or heated words; no pregnant pauses or liquid, languid moments that left him frustrated well into the night. It was as if their last several confrontations had not occurred.

Indeed, she had neither cut him out of her life, nor treated him with the cold disdain that he had expected. Within the scope of their professional duties she remained the dutiful, involved apprentice, full of questions and ready to assist where needed. Privately, however, she was courteous but disengaged. She did not slip into his rooms to wantonly pilfer his alcohol and snuggle down on the settee; there were no further quiet meals shared between the two of them, and she did not even come and mark papers when he was working in the lab. Apprentice Granger was there and Hermione was decidedly not.

Panting, he came to a stop, hands braced on his thighs. Her withdrawal hurt; more than that, he missed her badly. And that is exactly why you would have been a fool to even consider anything else with her, Snape reminded himself. For all that it stings now, it would be twenty times worse later. Better to let matters whither and die on the vine than be poisoned by the fruit later on.

If there had been one positive over the last fortnight, it was that he was finally back in control over his wayward reactions; he'd had none of the embarrassing lapses that had so marked the beginning of the month. Minerva had been correct- the Prewett Wards had been influencing him unduly.

Shakily, he straitened and wiped the sweat off his face, contemplating if he was up to another lap around the loop. He had nearly decided to turn back when twin cracks of Apparition sounded from the main Hogsmeade path. Snape swivelled, trying to make out the figures in the distance. The shifting, curly mass of hair perched upon the shorter of the two people gave away Hermione's identity, making the second person Richard Brightbrook.

And there is one with absolutely no compunction about taking what he wants and damning the timing and consequences, he thought snidely. The Healer had lured Hermione out for several more evenings away from the Castle, and it rather galled Snape to privately admit that Longbottom had been correct on at least that count.

The pale sickle moon lent only enough light to illuminated the broadest of details of the couple at the gate; still, he didn't need a high-powered torch to know what would follow when Brightbrook swiftly closed the distance between himself and the slight figure that was Hermione.

Snape turned back to the dark of the lakeside path, determined to not feed the wave of disgust and jealousy that threatened to overturn his carefully cultivated calm. Another lap around, he decided, jaw firming. Maybe even two.

He ran on.

St. Mungo's was a hive of bustling, efficient activity the next afternoon, and he took a bit of perverse joy in billowing down the hallways, scaring Healers and patients alike.

Idiots, the lot of them. If they had any sense, they'd be more afraid of the things that can't be seen rather than something so ruddy obvious…

Snape had visited both Draco and Alice the previous Sunday, and as with before, Lucius was conspicuously absent. Astoria had informed him that her future father-in-law had joined a weekly Bridge group, although he was apparently finding it quite difficult to find a regular partner- and thus she, Snape and Draco had continued their rather odd discussion of Muggle literature. This visit, they debated the differences between Stoker's Dracula and the real thing.

"I swear, there is one nurse on the morning shift who must be a vampire; she's taken more of my blood than everyone in the afternoon and evening combined," his godson groused, yawning deeply.

"Mmm, I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that the hospital runs the majority of tests in the morning, and she's the one nurse that you're afraid of," Astoria noted dryly. "Far more likely that she is a vampire, come to drink your blood..."

"Precisely." Draco's grey eyes slipped to half-mast, and he appeared in imminent danger of nodding off.

"And on that bombshell, I'm off," Snape said, squeezing Draco's shoulder and rising. "Shall I bring you a head of garlic next week? I'm fairly confident that I could badger a goodly amount off Neville Longbottom if your need is so dire."

That earned him a supercilious sniff. "If I wanted garlic from Longbottom, I'd ask him myself."

He raised an interrogative brow, and it was Astoria who answered the unspoken question. "Neville stopped by midweek. He brought that lovely hibiscus plant for the room and a purple orchid for me."

It was Severus' turn to grumble. "Pity you couldn't have shown a bit more inter-house unity when you where in school. It certainly would have made my life easier."

"Better late than never," Astoria teased, giving him a cheeky grin.

Speak of the devil, Snape thought as he entered the Janus Thickey Ward. Longbottom had Brightbrook pinned into a corner, and appeared to be giving him quite the talking to; it was the first instance that Snape recalled seeing emotions other than geniality and humour cross the Healer's expression.

By the time that other man finally managed to push past Longbottom and disappear into a back hallway, their discussion had drawn the notice of the rest of the medical staff. The Gryffindor made a face at the unwanted attention and strode towards the Matron's desk. Seeing Snape, he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Coming from visiting Draco?" he asked tensely.

"I am."

Tactfully, Longbottom didn't inquire how the other man was doing; Snape could only imagine how frustrating it would be to answer that same question time and again when there was very little chance for true improvement.

"Good afternoon, Ellen," Neville said to the Matron, who returned the greeting stiffly, clearly peeved that her favourite Healer had been upset.

"Are you both here to see Alice?" she questioned, eyeing Snape with barely concealed wariness. He'd never gotten the full story from Poppy as to how exactly Hermione had known to come fetch him from the closet, but seeing the medi-healer's face, he rather thought that it hadn't been a lucky accident. Somehow I don't think my little leap off the deep end was as private as I had hoped. Blast!

"We are," Longbottom finally answered for the both of them, and Snape realized that he had been caught wool-gathering. Bloody fucking wonderful, now they are really going to think that I am some sort of poor barmy bastard, and prone to frequent breakdowns to boot…

"Right," the woman said, stepping from behind the desk and motioning towards Alice's room. "Mr. Snape, you'll still be limited to ten minutes…"

"Add him to the family list," Longbottom interrupted. The nurse clearly did not believe that pronouncement, and the Herbology Professor was forced to continue in nettled tones. "He's a cousin. Shall I have Gran bring by a copy of the family tree?"

The Matron backed down. "As you wish. I'll add him. Please hold still for the cleansing charm." Aiming her wand at the two of them, she swiftly performed the spell, the power of her magic tousling Longbottom's hair and Snape's robes. Unwarding the door, she waited for the two of them to enter before bustling off in a huff.

Snape let the younger man go in first, and was relieved to find that while the sight of Alice was still painful, it did not provoke the same up welling of sentiment as it had a fortnight before.

"Hullo, Mum." Neville smoothed the light blanket that covered her torso into neater lines and then leaned down to kiss her pale forehead.

Settling himself into the far chair, Snape watched as Neville started fussing with the various plants decorating the room. "Dare I ask what your discussion with Brightbrook concerned?

"Three guesses, and the first two don't count." It was about Hermione, then…

"And was it worth ruffling the feathers of all the Healers on the Ward?"

Neville shrugged. "That wasn't my intent, trust me. It's not my fault that Brightbrook was feeling rather defensive when I asked whether or not Hermione was confiding in him."

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache suddenly threatening. "You do realize that if Hermione catches word that you- or any of us, for that matter- are meddling in such a fashion she'll carve your bollocks off and give them to her familiar as playthings?"

The other man let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, she'll do that, and more besides." Settling on the brightly lit windowsill, he considered Severus for a long moment. "Given that she is neither confiding in Minerva, Poppy, myself, or it would appear, you, I wanted to make sure that she was speaking to someone."

"And?" Snape drawled, already knowing the answer from the sudden lack of levity in Neville's steady gaze.

"She is not."

Ask the bloody question, man… "And is her current behaviour and manner similar to when she left before?"

"It is. I haven't decided on how worried I should yet be; this has been a horrid month for all of us, and taking several weeks to process matters isn't usually a bad thing. If this silence keeps up… well, then, yes. I would be very concerned."

Surprisingly, the Gryffindor's mien was free of any judgement or censure; it appeared that he was in no way trying to guilt Severus into acting in a particular direction.

"What, if any, words of comfort did the estimable Healer Brightbrook have?"

Longbottom smirked at his carefully measured sarcasm. "Alas, he told me that as delightful as their evenings out had been, matters had remained relatively impersonal and furthermore, it would be none of my business if that changed."

"And your response?"

"That as her friend- and his- I would rather disappointed if he took advantage of dicey timing to try and win affections."

Snape rolled his eyes. "My, don't we sound positively Victorian."

"Yes, well, that's when things devolved a bit beyond what I had planned. To give the man credit, he told me that Hermione- not to mention women in general- were not prizes to be won or lost. In return, I told him that he knew what I meant and could take his political correctness and bugger off back to Canada." Again, Longbottom shrugged nonchalantly, but there was a hint of anger behind the movement. "I then proceeded to remind him that I have far more friends at this hospital then he does, and if I felt that he was at all taking advantage of Hermione I would not hesitate to use said connections to remedy the situation. Shockingly, that did not make for a happy Healer."

"Do you dislike him that much?" Snape asked, genuinely astounded by the threat.

"Not at all. I respect him greatly." Picking up a potted violet, the other man painstakingly fussed over the furred leaves. "Had this happened six months ago, or six months from now, my objections would be moot."

"It's not going to happen, Neville," Snape said quietly, looking away from both Alice and her son. "I'm not going to change my mind."

"And I am not trying to convince you to do so. My only goal is to make sure Hermione isn't hurt anymore than she already is."

Severus wanted to sneer at that overtly sentimental statement, but found that he didn't have the heart to do so; instead he was simply grateful that Hermione had such an ally.

"You'd better hope like hell that Brightbrook keeps his gob shut," he finally said. "She really will have your bollocks if she finds out that you said all that."

"It can't be any worse than when she Petrified me at the end of first year…"

"I wouldn't bet on it."

One week later, Hermione walked into an empty classroom to find Griselda Marchbanks, one of the N.E.W.T. examiners, awaiting her. The stern, elderly witch was perched upon a straight-back wooden chair, looking for all the world like she'd just stepped out of some Edwardian period drama.

"Good afternoon, Madame Marchbanks," Hermione said courteously. "I appreciate your willingness to come to Hogwarts and proctor this exam individually for me."

The witch waved her words aside gruffly. "Think nothing of it. If anything, it gives me the chance to catch up on all the juicy beginning of the year gossip with the Headmistress. And my goodness, has your little project certainly caused tongues to wag during the Wizengamot hearing yesterday."

Hermione was mildly annoyed at her project being referred to in such middling terms. Give her some credit- the woman is what, one-hundred and thirty? One-hundred and fifty? Should you make it that far, I rather imagine you'll see most Mastery projects as 'little' as well.

"And did the Headmistress and Chief Healer of St. Mungo's adequately answer the Wizengamot's questions during the hearing?"

Cocking her head to peer at her, Marchbanks gave a short cackle. "Oh, no indeed. Minerva and Hugh nearly put the old codgers to sleep, and those who did manage to follow the proceedings understood one word of four, if that. But then, I highly doubt that the goal was for anyone to understand much, was it?"

Hermione plastered on her best 'innocent and unaware' face. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know what you mean, Madame Marchbanks."

"Of course not." With a smirk, she clapped her hands twice and a long parchment suddenly appeared. "Let us proceed, then. We'll do the practical part of the exam first, and then move on to the written…"

As the older woman rattled off the instructions, Hermione waited for the wave of nervous panic to hit and felt… nothing. Oh, she wanted the highest marks to be sure, but whether it was from the cumulative effect of the passing years or a healthy dose of perspective, her normal testing anxieties were wonderfully absent.

Small blessings, I suppose…

"Are you ready to begin, Apprentice Granger?"

Pulling out her wand, she nodded. "I am."

Exhaling slowly, Hermione transitioned from downward dog into the locust pose, feeling the muscles of her chest open up as she interlaced her hands behind her back and raised her legs.

Grant me acceptance, she recited. Grant me strength, and healing…

An unexpected knock at the door caused her to jerk upward with a startled yip; with a sigh, she relaxed the pose, resting her forehead on the floor for a long moment before getting up to answer the summons.

"And if not acceptance, some bloody peace and quiet would suit just as well," Hermione muttered to herself, snagging her towel off the back of the sofa.

It turned out to be Neville at the door, hand raised to knock a second time.

"Greetings," he said in a manner that was both cheerful and annoying.

"Hi," she returned, arching an eyebrow. "Do you need something?"

"Nah, just coming over to see what you are up to."

"Yoga," she told him succinctly, pointing to her mat.

"That's when you sit like a pretzel, right?"

She barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes at his feigned ignorance. "In part, yes."

Neville's grin widened as he took in her posture. "And are you going to let me in, Hermione?"

"Will you go away if I don't?"

"Nope."

Shaking her head ruefully, she gestured him inside. Fetching a glass of water, she watched as her friend plopped down at one of the kitchen chairs.

"So," he said, dawning out the syllables, "…when's the party?"

"What party?"

"The one to celebrate you getting an "Outstanding" on your Transfiguration N.E.W.T."

Oh, what nefarious deeds are you plotting, Professor Longbottom? "I hadn't planned on doing anything. Maybe after I complete the Potions and Charms sections I'll do something."

Neville shook his head, leaning forward intently. "Not good enough. Getting this N.E.W.T. is more than enough reason to have a bit of fun, and the way that I look at it, you can either throw yourself a party and have some control over it, or I can throw you a party and I can promise you that it'll include several surprises." His expression turned distinctly mischievous. "And we both know how much you enjoy surprises."

A little huff of exasperation escaped. "And why, pray tell, is this so important to you?"

"Because the last time we did something pretty cool we didn't exactly celebrate, did we?" he replied, referencing to the horrid year directly following the end of the war. "Moreover, you've been hiding yourself away for the last month, and if it continues much longer people will start to wonder if Snape's got you chained to the wall of his laboratory."

"That," she hissed, knowing that his innuendo was deliberately but unable to stop the flare of temper, "…is highly unlikely to occur under any situation, and you know it!"

Neville's expression was utterly serious when he replied. "I do." Carefully, he reached out and placed a callused, warm hand over hers. "I've been here, Hermione; you can't have forgotten how head over heels I was for Luna. It wasn't just some silly crush- I loved her. Six years on and I still think about her everyday." He trailed off for a second, and then rallied on. "At this point, you've either decided to make it through the school year and move on to something else, or you've chosen to make this your new life, come hell or high water. Whichever route you take, I want to support you."

His hand tightened on hers. "Be aware, however, that I'm going to keep pestering you until you give in. If you go this alone, it will be because you've made the choice to do so." Easing back, he deliberately lightened his tone. "It's only the end of October, and this has already been a long term. You need something to celebrate. Why not?"

Staring at Neville's sympathetic and determined expression, Hermione was nearly overwhelmed with gratitude. Somehow, he had pieced together enough of what had occurred to deduce the strength of her feelings towards Severus but he wasn't going to make her spell it out; she would be left with her pride, at least. True, she could pass off her funk as a combination of things- stress, grief over her parents, her illness- but it was such a relief to not have to lie to at least one person.

"What," she whispered, "…have I ever done to deserve a friend as good as you, Neville?"

"Plenty of things," he shot back stoutly. "You were my friend, Hermione, at a time when very few others were, and not once during our school days did you mock me or make me feel inferior. For that alone, I will always been in your debt."

She chuckled weakly. "You're setting a pretty low bar for friendship, you know."

"I wish. You and Harry were about the only two who didn't treat me like I was the village squib."

"Yeah, well, Mr. Uber-Heroic-Snake-Killer, you certainly showed them in the end, didn't you?"

"I did that." He smirked. "Returning to the original question- when is the party?"

He's absolutely right… as usual. I need to start re-integrating myself into Castle life before I ossify. How best to celebrate? "How about Sunday night?"

The following evening found Hermione crouched in the dark behind one of the greenhouses, cursing Italian shoemakers in general and her poor choices in particular.

As was becoming habit, she had gone salsa dancing with Richard and his friends; upon returning, she had decided to take the long way back to the Castle owing to the unseasonably balmy weather. All had gone swimmingly until her right heel had sheered off, leaving her trying to re-affix it while balancing on one foot and juggling her wand for light.

"Oh, you bloody bastard!" she exclaimed as the pointy heel slipped off the base yet again.

"Problem?"

At the sound of the resonate, rippling voice, Hermione whirled, wand shooting sparks into the night. Unluckily for her, the hasty movement killed her balance once and for all, and she began the mortifying, pin-wheeling descent into a massive pile of mulch.

Balls!

Naturally, Severus caught her.

The reaction was instantaneous; Hermione felt her bloody light up like a pinball machine as she was pressed into his lean heat. Even sweaty from running, he smelt absolutely fabulous. It was all she could do to not press shamelessly against him and moan, ethos and pride be damned.

They jerked away from each other at the same moment. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to keep a firm hold on her forearm, or she would have gone arse over teakettle yet again.

"My heel broke," she reported lamely, wondering what was worse: her flaming face, rock hard nipples, or damp nickers. At least my nickers aren't visible…

"So I see." If he felt any of the same sort of physiological reaction that she had, Hermione couldn't tell; if anything he appeared a touch board, black eyes flat in the moonlight.

"Stick your foot out," Snape continued, pulling his own wand from his waistband. "Securus Ambulantes." With a hollow click, the heel snapped back into place, and he added a reinforcing charm for good measure.

"Thank you," she said evenly, proud that her voice wasn't a breathy, husky mess.

"You're welcome."

Gingerly, she let go of his arm, testing her balance. The spell work seemed solid enough, and Hermione reckoned that she'd at least be able to make it back to her rooms unhindered.

"Are you headed in?" he asked after a moment.

"Yes." Oh, now this isn't awkward at all…

"I'll walk you in." Brilliant. Now I can't even be trusted to get myself back to the door.

They set off in silence together, his steps nearly inaudible despite the piles of brittle leaves underfoot; Hermione wanted to wince every time her feet touched down, the crunchy, autumnal rumble impossibly loud.

She'd been waffling for days about how to invite him to the dinner party. To not do so would be an unforgivable insult, and moreover a draw a line that she had no wish to create; as it had been nearly month, she thought that it was safe to resume some limited social contact. As long as there is plenty of other people present, that is, she amended, body still humming from the accidental contact.

Reaching the side staff entrance, Hermione held open the door, waiting for him to walk through. He did not enter, however.

"You're not coming in?" she asked.

"No. I want to run a bit more." There was very little emotion to read in his mien.

"Right." Just do it already, Hermione! "I'm having a dinner party Sunday night to celebrate finishing my Transfiguration N.E.W.T. It's nothing big- just Neville, Minerva and Poppy. And you, of course, if you can come."

"I can, and I will." Snape cleared his throat. "I assume you are cooking?"

"Yes. I thought I'd do a roast with Yorkshire pudding and all the rest."

"Shall I bring a couple of bottles of red, then?"

"That would be lovely." Christ, can this get any more painful? Deciding to end the misery for the evening, Hermione gave him what could pass for a smile and started in. "I'll see you about six?"

"You will." With a final nod, Snape swept off down to the steps, stride already lengthening as he made for the lake.

Well… that could have gone a lot worse. With a sigh, Hermione started up the stairs.

Sunday evening found Snape in the maddening position of dithering over what shirt to wear; his hand had settled on the blue one that Hermione liked so much before he drew away with a muttered oath and snatched one of the plain white oxfords. You aren't dressing to impress her, he reminded himself firmly. This is just a dinner, not some special occasion.

Her behaviour had been no different during the sixth and seventh year classes, nor when they had been brewing privately the previous day. Accordingly, he had no idea what her invitation to the dinner party meant, if anything, and the fact that he had been mentally debating the notion all week set his teeth on edge. Merlin's beard, but that woman can tie me into knots without even trying! Why are you even trying to figure this out? It's not as if it changes anything. Just get dressed, man, and go…

Snape was greeted with a burble of music and voices when he opened the door to the internal hallway. Making the short walk to Hermione's door, he braced himself in case Richard Brightbrook had made it onto the guest list, but was relieved to note that only Poppy, Minerva and Longbottom were present.

For a brief period, his entry went unremarked. Minerva and Poppy were standing at the table, fussing over a large vase of fresh cut flowers, and Longbottom was chiding Crookshanks off the counter, the cat apparently having designs on the gravy.

"Neville," Hermione said with a laugh as she pulled the roast from the oven, "…just toss him off the counter. I don't think that any of us wants added protein in our meal due to the presence of cat hair."

The showdown continued as both the cat and the Gryffindor stared at each other. "You do it, Hermione. I want to live with my pretty face intact."

"Honestly," she complained good-naturedly, shooing her familiar away with only a stern glance. "You not only outweigh him by at least ten stone, but are also a powerful wizard."

"Yeah, but he has claws…"

Hermione turned in Snape's direction, and for the first time, he properly saw her.

Fuck.

She was stunningly beautiful. In that instant, Hermione was the embodiment of every domestic, womanly fantasy he'd ever had. From her clingy sapphire jumper and black skirt to what appeared to be the impeccably cooked roast, she was sheer perfection.

Still bantering back and forth with Longbottom, her face was animated and relaxed in a fashion he'd not seen in quite sometime. She's happy, taunted that insidious internal voice. For the first time in weeks, she's happy. Note that you have absolutely nothing to do with that state…

How long had it been since he'd seen her thusly?

The night of her birthday.

That hadn't been the first night that he'd dreamt of her in his bed, but it had been the first time he'd purposely wanked himself into oblivion thinking of her. For better or worse, Snape had not been able to see her in the same light after that; she no longer could be stuffed back into the 'friend' or 'apprentice' boxes of his mind.

And you've been punishing her ever since…

It was horribly true- in ways little and not, he had been punishing her for his mental sins. He even had withheld himself and his friendship because of a lack of discipline. Oh, matters were far more complicated than a simple wank destroying his entire equilibrium, for sure, but that had been the turning point.

"There you are, Severus," Poppy said cheerfully. "I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to come over and fetch you."

As the three others turned to face him, he saw a bit of the impersonal mask slide over Hermione, robbing her of some of that hard-won happiness.

It hurt, regret and shame washing through him. How can you blame her for her lack of control when you've been just as bad? Time to move on… and not be such a bastard in future.

"I got caught up in some reading," he lied, and held up the bottles of wine. "I do come bearing gifts, however."

"Mmm, and good ones at that," Minerva announced, reading the labels.

Wordlessly, Hermione handed him the corkscrew and he went to work. "So, Minerva," he began, "…I've yet to hear whether or not Hermione managed to beat either of our scores in Transfiguration or not."

Dinner was a surprisingly cosy affair; the excellent food and wine assisted matters greatly.

"And that is why Mr. Hewes spent the entirety of yesterday turning alternating shades of puce and lavender," Neville concluded with a chuckle. "I dare say he'll steer well clear of Miss Anderson after this."

"And what did Miss Anderson have to say about the situation?" Minerva queried, eyes sparkling with mirth.

Neville put down his wine glass, beginning to laugh in earnest. "It was a humdinger of a line, I'll give her that much credit. And I quote-'Just because you saw me do it, doesn't mean I did it.'"

"No," Hermione exclaimed. "Please tell us that she earned an extra week of detention for that!"

"She did, never fear."

Severus shook his head. "That sort of reasoning positively boggles the mind. Must we start teaching logic on top of everything else?"

"It's a particularly Gryffindor train of thought, isn't it?" Poppy asked with a sly grin.

"Oh come now, that's not fair!" the current Head of Gryffindor protested, appealing to the former Head of Gryffindor for support.

Minerva threw her hands up. "I'm sorry, lad, but Poppy has the right of it."

"A Slytherin," the Healer teased, glancing towards Severus, "…would not have gotten caught hexing another student. A Hufflepuff, on the other hand, would have come clean immediately, and a Ravenclaw would have vowed to show her up in every exam and class from here to eternity."

"Agreed," Snape said dryly, helping himself to another portion of parsnips. "That, or the Ravenclaw would have enlisted a Slytherin to do the dirty work in return for academic help."

Hermione bemusedly stood, grabbing the last bottle of wine off the counter and topping off all of the glasses. "Poppy, I just realized that I don't even know what house you were Sorted in when you went here."

"Oh, that's an easy enough answer." She paused dramatically, taking a sip of wine. "None of them, as I didn't attend Hogwarts."

"Wait, what?" Both Neville and Hermione were shocked.

"I didn't stutter, Mr. Longbottom. I am not a graduate of Hogwarts. Why, I wasn't even born in Great Britain, for that matter."

"You'd best tell your story, Madame," Snape ordered, "…before these two young whippersnappers expire from the shock of it."

"I'll need more wine, then," the Healer retorted, and Hermione poured the last of the bottle into her glass. "My story begins in nineteen-fifty," she intoned with faux-seriousness, "…in New Delhi, just as the Republic of India was likewise being born. My father was a senior ambassador for the Ministry of Magic. We- that is, my parents and myself- stayed in India until nineteen fifty-four." She smiled fondly. "I can clearly remember sneaking up to the roof one night just before we left to watch a wedding procession go by, complete with elephants and fireworks. It was quite the show, and when my father found me, he gave me a good scolding and then split a bowl of mango ice cream with me."

"Was your family forced to leave India?" Neville asked.

"No, not at all. Relations between the magical community of India and Great Britain were far less strained then their Muggle counterparts. He was sent back here for further training. In addition, my mother was also having a difficult pregnancy, so it was felt that returning to London would be a wise choice. My sister Penelope was born here shortly after we arrived, and in nineteen fifty-seven, we left England again, this time because my father had been made the Ambassador to Kenya."

Poppy looked down at her plate for a moment, a pensive expression crossing her face. "We had a very happy couple of years in Nairobi. As the eldest child of the Ambassador, I was spoilt and indulged shamelessly; I was quite the curious child, and managed to get my governess and myself into all sorts of trouble for it. Unfortunately, when I was ten, my mother was killed in an influenza epidemic that hit the magical community rather hard. The next year I flatly refused to go to Hogwarts- I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my Poppa and sister behind." Leaning back with a sigh, she gave Hermione a half-smile. "So, instead, my father hired a tutor and I completed my education that way. Father was sent back to England for a final time when I turned eighteen, and after taking my N.E.W.T.s, I was accepted into the medi-nurse programme at St. Mungo's."

"When did you come to Hogwarts?"

"When I was twenty-one, at the beginning of the nineteen seventy-one school year. Your first year as well, if I remember correctly," she noted, looking back at Severus.

"It was."

"I Apprenticed under Madame Galen for five years, and when she retired, Albus promoted me to Matron. So that, dear children, is why I was never Sorted into any of the houses."

"Have you ever wondered?" Hermione asked. "I mean, if you had come here."

The other woman's mouth quirked. "I have good idea. I snuck the Sorting Hat on once while waiting for Albus in his office… it was rather amused, truth be told, and said that I had all the possibilities of a Slytherin, but I would have made far more trouble in Hufflepuff."

"Sounds about right," snarked the Headmistress.

"I thought so."

They were halfway through the pudding when Flitwick floo'd, sounding apologetic.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but it appears that we can't do without your collective presences for more than a couple of hours. Someone snuck a load of time-release nosebleed nougats in, and we've a whole host of children descending on the Hospital Wing."

"No rest for the wicked," Poppy said with a disgruntled sigh. "Thank you for the lovely dinner, dear. I hope we get to do it again."

"We will," Hermione promised, rising as well.

Minerva took one last fortifying bite of pudding and then glanced over to the two Heads of House present. "Shall we go and investigate?"

"There won't be any Slytherins involved, I promise you that," Snape muttered, but offered McGonagall a hand up.

"I think you mean that there won't be any Slytherins caught being involved," Neville corrected.

"It's the same thing, in the end…"

Neville stared down his nose at the Head of Slytherin. "No, it's not. It's not even close to being the same thing…"

"Boys, boys," Minerva chided, "…come now, we do have better things to do tonight rather than debate semantics."

"Other," shot back Snape as he swept out "…other things to do, not better. That is a semantic distinction I'm willing to make."

"My, aren't we feeling argumentative all of a sudden?.."

And just like that, Hermione found herself alone as the bickering receded down the hallway. With a quiet laugh, she began to clear the china off the table, stacking it neatly by the sink to wash. Crooks, sensing that the time was right, hopped up onto the table and stuck his head in the gravy boat, licking at the remains.

"Thank you for at least waiting until everyone departed, my uncivilized familiar," she admonished him, shaking a spoon at his bottle-brush tail. "However, I'll not be feeding you any additional supper, so don't bother begging."

He pointedly ignored her, and slipping her apron back over her head, Hermione set to work cleaning the plates. With a flick of her wand, she turned the volume of her stereo up, humming along with the music.

She was halfway through washing Grandmother Granger's china when 'Nessun dorma' came on, the aria instantly transporting her to the bright memories of other Sunday evenings.

It had been a good night. No, she corrected herself, this was a wonderful evening, and Poppy did have the right of it- I should host dinners more often. Dad would have enjoyed hearing about Poppy's childhood, she mused idly, and that's certainly the closest I've ever gotten to recreating Mum's roast. A bit more garlic next time, I think, and a little less rosemary…

The kitchen swam out of focus for a second, the familiar clink and swish of washing recalling her Mum's presence as strongly as any summoning. How many times had her mother offered her little bits of advice and wisdom while they washed the dishes? Grief, needle-sharp and overpowering, and she gasped, tears suddenly running down her cheeks.

Oh, Mummy, I wish you were here! If only I could have one last meal with you and Daddy…

Putting a saucer down blindly lest she break it, Hermione bent over the sink and wept.

Severus return to the staff quarters triumphant; not a single Slytherin had been involved or implicated in the evening's misdeeds. Given how quiet the Common Room was, however, he'd wager that his House wasn't entirely innocent.

He could hear music- Pavarotti, he thought- playing from Hermione's open door, and he hesitated, wondering if it was an invitation or merely a coincidence. We've spent the last month working together amicably enough, he reasoned, surely we can spend some time alone outside of the classroom without it all going to hell.

Walking forward, he paused in her doorway, taking in the odd way she was standing at the sink. Then it hit him- she was crying.

Well…fuck, he thought for the second time that night.

A large part of him wanted to run away; she had yet to see him, so he could do so without fear of making matters worse.

She didn't leave you when she was well within her rights to do so...

Yes, but would she really want you to comfort her right now?

There was a whisper of movement, and then a soothing hand was suddenly on her back, turning her gently into waiting arms. It took her several seconds to realize that it was Severus, and before Hermione could stop herself, she buried her face in his shirt, tears falling harder as memories of her family swirled tightly within her.

He didn't say anything, just rubbed her back in slow circles, and the warmth of him was what finally helped ease her sobs. Handing her his handkerchief, Snape stepped back slightly, looking down at her expression.

"Ten years," she murmured, "…it's been almost ten years since I last saw them, and their loss still hurts like nothing else."

"I'm sorry," he said. "If I could fix it, I would."

"Me, too," she replied, closing her aching eyes and leaning against him again.

"Come," he finally told her, tugging her over to the sofa. "…sit here and finish your wine."

She shook her head. "I need to finish the washing first."

"I'll do it." Rolling his eyes at her dubious expression, he went on. "Merlin knows you've washed enough cauldrons for me over the last six months; the least I can do is a few dishes. Besides which, you cooked. Tradition dictates that someone else should be doing the cleaning."

"If you're sure…"

"Yes. I promise you, Hermione, I know how to wash silver and china."

"Here," she said, pulling the apron off. "Take this so you don't get grease on your shirt."

"That is what charms are for, or don't you remember?"

She made a face at him. "Fine, have it your way."

With a huff that wasn't entirely manufactured, Hermione sat down on the sofa, slipping of her flats and tucking her feet under her. Snape turned, looked at the large stack of dishes still awaiting cleaning, and sighed. Shifting back to her, he eyed the ruffled pink fabric in her hands.

"I charmed it to repel things just like your running shirts," she informed him helpfully.

Wordlessly, he stuck a hand out and she tossed it to him. Deftly he put it on, tying the back with a few quick twists. "Better?" he grumbled, looking ridiculous in such a feminine colour.

"Immensely."

Unsurprisingly, Snape was methodical in his cleaning, drying each item carefully before moving on to the next. Snuggling down into the soft cushions, she watched him silently, enjoying the graceful economy of movement. It was also simply nice to be in the same room with him. I've missed him, she thought to herself. Face it, I've missed just being around him, full stop.

Whether it was from the wine, emotions, exhaustion or the comfort of his company, Hermione felt her eyelids grow heavy.

"I'm sorry," she confessed slowly.

"For what?" He didn't turn around, but she could hear his confusion.

"For being so beastly this month."

That admission of that particular sentiment did stop him, and he turned, propping a hip against the sink, peering back at her. "You haven't been beastly at all."

"Yes, I have…"

"No," he cut her off. "You have not. Moreover, if you had been beastly, I wouldn't have blamed you." Holding her gaze, he spoke firmly. "You have nothing to apologize for, Hermione."

She didn't know how to respond to the intensity in his regard, and finally started fiddling with her wine glass instead. Seeing that she wasn't going to argue further, he resumed the washing.

He had just started in on the silver when she asked another question "Are we still friends, Severus?"

Black eyes gleamed as he looked over his shoulder. "Yes."

"Good. I'm glad," she mumbled, laying her head back down.

"As am I."

"Where should I put…" Severus began to say, and then froze as he took in the woman before him.

Hermione had fallen asleep, the faintest hint of a smile lingering on her face. She was curled up neatly on the settee, hair tumbling into a riot of curls down her back and wine glass perilously close to tipping over.

Emotion inundated him, a protective sort of possession being the most readily identifiable of the bunch.

She shivered slightly, burrowing deeper into the cushions, and he summoned a blanket from her bedroom. Even asleep you can turn me into a useless mess… Gently, he placed the fabric over her, plucking the wine glass from her hand at the same time.

A rough bump at his leg jerked his attention abruptly downward. Hermione's fiend of a cat wound around his ankles, leaving behind a plethora of ginger hairs.

"Did she not feed you?" he asked softly, and the cat meowed several times in rapid response, shooting off towards the cupboard that held his food.

"Fine, I'll feed you, but only if you desist this whinging immediately…"

Hermione woke hours later to find that someone- Severus?- had covered her with her blanket. Peering around the dimly lit room, she saw that he had also finished tidying everything up as well.

Crooks lay on the other half of the sofa, purring quietly. He also smelt rather strongly of cat food. The glutton butted her hand affectionately when she reached down to pet him; feeling the stiffness in her back, she slowly rose, tucking the blanket around her.

"Come, it is time for Bedfordshire, my smug kitty."

The next morning found the two of them chopping ingredients companionably in the storeroom for Severus' sixth year class when Minerva came hurrying in.

"What's the matter?" Snape asked slowly, not liking the expression he saw on the Headmistress' face.

"You've been summoned to the Ministry."

A.N.~ Yes, yes, I'm evil and all that jazz. What do you expect? Torturing readers is how I get my jollies off...

Ah, but what readers you are! Despite the length between updates, you all have remained incredibly generous in your reviews and comments; I'm both thrilled and touched by how much thought goes into them. Many, many thanks to lena1987, Onyx Obsidian, Perry Downing, minniemousemom, mak5258, OnlyAMonster, Brightki, mama123, DADAMistress, Dentelle, Banglabou, Emra3m, ConstanceScully, BlueWater5, Nachtwens, viola1701e, villafoo, RhodaBush, Lizpin, Tra8erse, Snapesphoeniks, orlando switch, blacky, Aureleis, amr, ScarletOwl13, faithishopeisloveislife, Marriage1988, Zoldronica, chicpea, Sassyluv and several guests for leaving me such wonderful commentary. I'm still responding to reviews- I put my back out last week so sitting at the computer is rather painful at the moment. Sorry for the delay!

Amr, one of the wonderful anonymous reviewers, wrote that yet far, "Hallelujah" is a woefully inappropriate title!" True, this is not a particularly joyful tale, but my inspiration is drawn from this bit of Jeff Buckley's cover of the song- "Baby, I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)/ I used to live alone before I knew ya/ And I've seen your flag on the marble arch/ And love is not a victory march/ It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." Make more sense now?

But never fear... there will be lemons and happiness in future.

The title of this chapter comes from another one of my favourite tunes, U2's "With or Without You". Yes, yes, I am sad sod in real life, or at least a single one. How can you tell? ;)

Finally, I've started posting my entry into the 2016 LJ SSHG Gift-Fest. Called "A Derailed Train of Thought", it's a rather different sort of story (hey, it takes place in France!) and I've got the first seven chapters posted. Check it out...

As always, happy reading!