Words & Wool
Part One

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It's a quiet night, the sort of night that we love best. Severus's potions are finished for the time being; they won't need tending until tomorrow noon. My deputy is slated to receive the emergency calls this week, so I shan't be bothered with work. So tonight we have tea and wine and books and each other, and I am content. Though my husband is a difficult man to read—even after all these years—I believe he is content as well. He is stretched out on the sofa now, reading aloud from the book in front of him, his voice still sending that same spiced warmth down my spine that it did when we began. (Which, I might add, is not the same as the frisson of near-terror that he inspired during my school years.) He will read until his voice tires and then pass the book to me. In turn, I will hand him the knitting needles, and he'll work on our project while I pick up the story where he's left off. My reading won't be quite as fluid as his; I get distracted watching his fingers loop and slide and perform all of those little, second nature movements. Then he'll look up at me and smirk; he knows precisely what I'm thinking. Sometimes, I'll smirk back. I used to blush, mortified, back in the day, but now I know that if I'm thinking it, he'll be thinking it, and that often leads to very satisfactory conclusions for both of us.

But perhaps, like a great many people, you're wondering how we got here in the first place. You'll have heard the stories, maybe even read the histories. You're familiar with the people we were when our world was at war and everything that was good was in danger of falling to pieces. You know of the times he rescued me and my friends from mortal peril and of the everyday exchanges wherein we couldn't abide each other. There will be that faint distaste from thinking of student-teacher relationships, and if you're Muggle or Muggle-born, from a girl being involved with a man old enough—though just barely—to be her father. The latter I can do nothing about. He is older than I am, with a life that was incredibly complicated before I was even born. It bothers him sometimes, and other times, I think he finds it a comfort; in the ordinary way of things, he won't outlive me. I don't know if thinks I am stronger than him in this, or if I love him less than he loves me and so will not grieve as deeply. More likely, he simply doesn't think of it at all that way; he can be very self-centred at times. As far as the student and teacher, I would point out that our relationship didn't begin until several years after the war—and after the last time we'd seen each other.

•••••

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After the war ended, there was a great deal of chaos, both generally and personally as we reshaped the bits of our world that had come apart, fixed what was broken, and tried to find new places that would fit the people we had become. This isn't a period in my life that I care to dwell on, and if it interests you, you'd likely be better served by referring to Harry's memoirs or some of the articles that appeared in The Prophet at the time. Draco Malfoy's introspective shows the view from the other side, and he's proven to have an unexpected ability to find the comic aspects. For my part, suffice it to say that when it was over, I was firmly ensconced in the Department of Magical Creatures and using everything I had to crusade for their rights. In the essentials, I hadn't really changed much. I did, however, become such a nuisance to my superiors, that in spite of the fact that they couldn't get rid of me altogether, they did manage to 'exile' me by making me the liaison officer to Japan and shipping me off to the British Embassy there.

As far as they were concerned, it didn't make me any less of a 'nuisance.' (At one point, I almost had the kappa in a wholesale revolution. But that, too, is another story.) At the beginning of this one, I was fairly well settled in both the country and my work, and I'd even set up a small guest house for British magical folk who were passing through for one reason or another. Being the insular—and, dare I say, xenophobic—clan British wizards, and the Ministry in particular, are, the Ministry's accommodations were medieval in the worst sense. It was their way of dismissing anyone who might be inclined to 'go native'—which anyone who travelled outside of Europe was considered to have done. I dismissed their opinion by nudging Harry for funds and (volunteer) elves and creating a place for anyone who was 'weird' enough to want to be there.

Since I only had myself to consult, I chose a place in the deepest of forests, where there were no Muggles to be bothered with whatever magical experiments might take place or my 'colleagues' coming to call. Tengu and kitsune are not the most comfortable of neighbours whether you believe in them or not.

I'd had word to expect one or two visitors over the next several days, but was at that point alone. I was reading, leaning against the frame of the open sliding door, and my magical needles were busy with an ongoing project...

•••••

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"Granger, please tell me this is some sort of avant-garde lace pattern."

My eyes shot up even as I straightened, and I was shocked to see Professor Snape there, large as life and just as capable of engendering mortification as he ever was. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks to see that slightly pained expression on his face. I admitted with a great deal of reluctance that it was, in actuality, supposed to be a scarf. It looked more like a fishing net.

"A... scarf," he repeated. "I see..." And he infused those words with a degree of comprehension and derision such as only Severus Snape is capable of. "Perhaps, Miss Granger, you would do better to limit yourself to art forms that do not involve such... complexity."

He glided away before I could formulate any sort of retort, circling around to the front of the house. My heart dropped into my stomach when I realised that he meant to stay, and then I abused my brain for being slow, because of course, why else would he be here, in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the planet? It wasn't as though he would be in the neighbourhood and simply pop by for a chat. I snatched up my needles, yanked the yarn off, and jammed the mess into its bag. "And I suppose you can do better, Prof— Master Snape?" I growled, hauling myself to my feet and stomping noisily through the house so I could answer the door. Some fragment of a sense of humour reasserted itself; at least he proved that he could knock politely. The sound coming from the front door was nicely regulated. I opened it, smiling my company smile. "Welcome to Bluewood, Master Snape."

"Thank you, I—" He had stepped through the door before fully recognizing me. "Granger," he hissed, and then I heard resignation take over. "Good afternoon, Miss Granger. Am I to understand that you are my host?"

"Up to a point." My smile was a bit more genuine and decidedly more smug. It wasn't often a girl had any sort of upper hand on Severus Snape, who obviously hadn't thought to make any inquiries about Bluewood before coming here. "I oversee the place, and I'm the one you come to if there are any difficulties, but you won't have to see me if you don't want to. I just have a habit of greeting guests so you know who I am and I know who's about. Otherwise, it's elves."

"English elves?" He eyed me suspiciously.

I sighed mentally. Nearly every British wizard asked a variation of that question. "Yes, proper English elves." Actually, I'd considered the local equivalent, but they tended towards the impish, and if they could by the furthest stretch of the imagination misinterpret foreigners, they would. The results were too exhausting to keep sorting out matters every time someone got a tiger instead of a teakettle. "Does that mean you'd like a proper English room and proper English tea?"

To my surprise, he shrugged. "As long as the room is clean and the tea hot, I don't much care."

It was then that I took a proper look at him, a man I hadn't seen since the war trials years before. In the basics, he was much the same: his hair still hung limply around his face, which naturally still had that massive beak of a nose. His robes were still black, still all-enveloping. He'd lost that... vibrating tension I remembered from my school years. While he looked miles better than the last time I'd seen him, there was a tired gauntness in his face that I didn't like. Had it always been there? The schoolgirl in me couldn't remember. Without any further consideration, I invited him back to the kitchen, a large, sunny room that blended aspects of both cultures.

He simply watched me as I bustled about. I couldn't tell what he thought, nor could I figure out how to start a casual conversation with him; I couldn't imagine him having a casual conversation with anyone. I pulled things out of the magic-fridge and pantries. There was a standard spiel, and I trotted it out with a bit of relief, explaining that the elves cooked if wanted, but they also left finished food in the pantries as well as ingredients if he wanted to cook for himself.

I set out a veritable feast of small things and after some thought, made a pot of jasmine tea. The tea received a raised eyebrow, but he didn't make any complaint, and the food certainly disappeared quickly. I had a scone and drank my tea while leaning against the counter; I stared out the window instead of staring at him, though I was pretty sure I could feel his eyes on me.

"Thank you for the meal, Miss Granger." I turned back to him, startled as much by the mere sound as by the unexpected courtesy.

"You're welcome." I offered then to show him a room, and when he agreed, I took him to the Western-style side of the house. He would be more comfortable there—I very much doubted that he was here in order to immerse himself in the culture—and there was less chance of us running into each other, since I had a traditional room. When I opened the door, I would have sworn he looked pleased and perhaps a bit surprised. I returned to my room feeling pleased as well.

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The feeling didn't last very long. I spent the next day in Hokkaido, negotiating some points with a kami who lived there. The details have long since escaped me, but I was tired and disgruntled when I returned home, and my mood was not improved when I discovered a parcel on the kitchen counter with my name on it. Inside was a finished scarf done up in the wool I had been using, complete with a swirling pattern and long fringes. Pinned to it, written in that spiky writing I remembered so well—though it was in deep black instead of the vivid crimson of the past—was a note that said simply, You're welcome. I had no doubt that its effect on me was precisely the one that he'd intended. Fortunately for my self-respect, I had the presence of mind to cast a silencing spell before I let loose with an extensive catalogue of swear words. It was just as well that we didn't see each other that night or for the few nights following. I might have severely hexed him.

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A pair of married witches arrived, interested in the flora on the islands in the southern Pacific, but unimpressed with the magical facilities there. (They weren't any better than what I had been given on my arrival in Japan.) Another wizard was consulting with Master Yamada, an authority on written charms. So there were periods of busy-ness interspersed with periods of deep silence. It was during one of the silent periods that I surprised Master Snape in the kitchen, tea caddy in hand. Actually, I think both of us were surprised. He, or we, had been so adept at avoiding each other that I, at least, had nearly forgotten that he was in the house. He raised an eyebrow in the way that he has and gestured in an unspoken question. I recognised the caddy as my everyday sencha and nodded. "Please." He added another spoonful of leaves to the pot. I tossed my things in the direction of my room—they were enchanted to make their own way there—and settled gratefully onto a stool.

We didn't speak; I simply watched him, absorbed the way he looked and moved. I suppose it was a strange thing to do. Certainly I would have been too in awe of him before to stare so blatantly, and there was no reason now to be particularly interested. I had come out of the war with a great deal of respect and awe for him as well as—yes, I admit it—pity. He made it quite clear to everyone that he wanted nothing to do with us and our changed opinions, and I, at least, respected that. I was curious, I guess, which shouldn't surprise anyone, least of all myself. He was very fastidious, which, when I thought back, was of a piece with the teacher I had known. His movements had always been painfully precise, and—his hair and teeth aside—he had never been a slovenly man. His robes no longer billowed—was this because he no longer needed to swoop down upon ill-behaved students?—but were graced with knife edge seams and mirror-shined buttons. He'd changed the collars, too, I noticed: wider, circling a simple, black neck cloth. In a facetious sort of way, I wondered what he would look like with a beard, or even simple five o' clock shadow. (The answer, I discovered later, is something close to Vincent Price in a horror film: not bad, but you start expecting maniacal laughter any moment.) The house must have agreed with him, for he looked better rested and though it may have been my imagination, better fed. More relaxed. Beyond that first surprise, he didn't seem to mind my being there.

He found the small, handle-less cups that matched the pot—pretty things, with designs that changed according to the season—and poured the tea. With the pot between us, he settled on a stool not terribly close to mine. I reversed my earlier impression and took it as a sign that he didn't really want to acknowledge my presence. A bit annoyed, I broke the silence, asking, "Why did you act like that? About my knitting?"

He set down his teacup and steepled his fingertips, staring over them at the kitchen range. "You mean," he said finally, "why did I act like an arse."

"If you want to put it like that, yes."

"Habit, mostly." He made a dismissive gesture. "Rudeness is a difficult habit to break after several decades, and as everyone expects it of me anyway, I don't really have a reason to try."

"That explains why you spoke the way you did," I pursued, "but not why you chose to speak at all. It's not like you had to acknowledge my presence in any way; you could have gone around front while cheerfully ignoring me."

He sighed and reached for the pot. "If you must know, Miss Granger, I hate to see simple tasks performed badly. If you paid a fraction of the attention to your knitting that you do to your 'causes,' that 'scarf' of yours would not come out looking like the work of a deranged spider after a weekend-long heroin binge."

I think the sound I made could best be called a frustrated growl. "I do," I informed him. "I've tried. Tried for years, under every condition I could think of. I'm just rubbish at it, all right? There, I admitted it. It's a sore point. I don't mean to do it badly, I don't want to do it badly, but I can't seem to help but do it badly, and then you pop up and do in less than a day something I haven't been able to manage in a decade. And you simply have to rub it in, and to top it off, I can't even take advantage of your work."

"'Pop up?'" he repeated, handling the phrase as one might a dead rodent. "I do not 'pop up,' Miss Granger. And what, may I ask, is wrong with my work?"

"Nothing is wrong with your work; it's a lovely scarf, damn it. But I need something that I've made with my magic in it. And anything else I've tried comes out even worse, because I don't know anything about it in the first place. I can't paint or sew or draw stick figures. I can't even cook anything more complicated than spaghetti noodles or scrambled eggs."

"Do you mean to tell me you escaped Molly Weasley's home economics course?" He sounded amused, the bastard, though he still looked at the kitchen rather than me, and his hair therefore screened his expression.

I made a face. "I got the abbreviated version; we didn't have the time for more. And I think there was a disconnect between the housewitch of twenty generations of housewitches and the Muggleborn daughter of a professional feminist, not to mention Great-Grandma Mimi, who was a professional flapper." I smiled to remember the feisty old woman, who'd taught the tiny me the Charleston instead of the omelette. She'd also told me to be who I was and tell the rest to go fuck themselves. (In those words and out of earshot of my grandmother, who was rather more conservative.)

I would have sworn—still would, for all that he denies it—that the corner of his mouth started twitching.

Finishing my tea, I slid off the stool with a sigh. "So, in the end, I never managed to master any of the things she tried to teach me. They just didn't work. I don't know what else to do, but... Well, you're hardly interested in my little problems, Master Snape. I have a few other things to catch up on before I go to bed. Good night."

"Good night, Miss Granger."

Severus Snape returned to England a few days later; I didn't see him again for another two months. And even then, I hadn't expected to see him at all.

•••••

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I was at the Embassy itself in Tokyo—a place I tried to be as seldom as I possibly could. The city itself was well enough, though it made me miss London, but the Embassy staff were always a pain in the arse to deal with, the magical staff in particular. Like myself, the majority of them were 'volunteered' for their posts. Unlike myself, they wouldn't do well in a life outside the Ministry, so they were stuck until misdeeds had been forgotten, superiors left or passed on, or until they themselves went toes up. It was a small department, but a maliciously bitter one; I had known reports not only to go astray but to be defaced or completely rewritten. They resented the fact that I had improved my exile and could, in fact, chuck the lot whenever I felt like it and not suffer eternally.

I never accepted any sort of food or drink within a mile radius of the bloody building.

On that particular day, I had been forced to argue my way through five people just to get to the floor that housed the Owlery and yet another one to have the use of an owl without having to pay for it—as though I would trust personal correspondence to the Embassy prats. (I would send it through good, old-fashioned Muggle mail to Harry, who would then owl it to anyone else.) Made thoroughly annoyed and ready to hex the next person who interfered with me, I heard the ever-familiar, cold, sneering voice that so perfectly mirrored what I felt. I followed it down the hall with, I admit, evil-minded anticipation. If these mental adolescents couldn't remember their actual adolescent years, I was quite certain that Severus Snape would spare no pains in reminding them.

Bartleby the Bone-brain was busy trying to refuse Master Snape entrance to the country on the grounds of frequency. No magical governing council seems to like witches and wizards moving about as freely as they might; I never have found out why. And Bartleby, having nothing better to do than memorize old laws, was stubbornly contending that unless Master Snape wanted to become a resident, he could visit Japan no more than once every six months for a total of no more than four weeks in a year. Snape was not amused by this limitation on his movements, and I was in complete sympathy with him. His movements had been more than sufficiently limited already; Professor Dumbledore had kept his dog on a very short leash, even when it was a detriment to his goals.

Master Snape had a few choice words that whittled Bartleby's officiousness to the smallest of whinges; it was a delight to hear. He turned briskly on one heel—oh, I missed his old robes at that moment—and found me leaning against the door frame. I was Disillusioned, naturally, so that I could eavesdrop properly, but I did not for one second believe that I could elude Snape. He smirked, and I smirked back.

"Going my way, sir?" I asked, dropping the invisibility. Bartleby jumped and glared, but I didn't much care. As a technical member of the Embassy, I didn't have to deal with him directly.

"Indeed, Miss Granger," Severus replied, with remarkable civility and a distinct glint in his eye, "if you are returning to the guest house."

"I am."

"Excellent. If you would be so kind as to lead the way...?"

"Certainly."

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If you have never attempted it yourself, I have to tell you that double Apparition is a far more intimate activity than you would suppose. I hadn't realised it before, since the few times I had practised it had been with friends. I was used to them. With Severus Snape, with whom I was accustomed to strictly limited and well-defined interactions, it was quite a different matter. When you Apparate with another person, you have to be hyper-aware of their existence in order to avoid splinching the two of you. Somewhere in your mind you must know where every part of him or her is, from the hairs on the head to the fingernails, toenails, and... and their most personal bits. With the boys, it's almost automatic; I've seen most of them anyway, and it's easy for me to separate the 'me' from the 'them.' But I'd never thought of Severus Snape in that... in that context, as physically male, though of course I knew it intellectually. For that matter, I had never even taken his hand the way I had to do, and I had to be conscious of each finger interlaced with mine, the way his palm pressed against my hand... Neither of us meant anything by it, not then, and I doubt he felt uncomfortable since he merely had to hold my hand and wait, but it was as disconcerting for me as if I'd suddenly seen him getting out of the bath.

I was ready to thank every god I could think of when we arrived at the guest house no worse for wear. I didn't even forget his satchel.

I let him know that his old room was empty if he wanted it. He nodded cordially and left me to find my own room and collapse in private.

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I'd recovered my equilibrium by dinner time, and was reasonably composed when I found him already at the table. I was curious as to what had brought him back so soon—I didn't think there were any new seasonal plants to be harvested, though I could have been wrong—but I didn't want to ask. I doubted he would have answered such questions anyway. Instead, I tried to make conversation by asking about home. I heard from everyone regularly, but it was something to talk about, and being Severus Snape, he might think of things that the others hadn't thought to mention.

He was more cordial than I would have expected, and the conversation was pleasant. I tried not to tax his civility too far, asking too many or too intimate questions. I knew from before I left that he had refused to return to teaching, but still stocked Hogwarts's 'medicine' cupboard. From the things he said, I learned that he was a supplier for several other individuals on a private basis and was somewhat involved in his own research. I couldn't be sure, but on the scale that I inferred, I didn't think he was earning enough to live on, and I wondered how he managed. Perhaps he had sufficient savings? Or an inheritance? That was a question I certainly didn't dare to ask. If he was satisfied, then it was none of my affair.

And yet... I wasn't sure that he was satisfied. He'd lost the little weight I thought he'd gained two months before. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly, but there was just something not quite right about him. The war, perhaps, I thought. We were all glad it was over, but I couldn't deny that it had given me a purpose that was distinctly lacking in the following years. I imagined that it had to be more severe in him, who had spent twenty years or more for that same goal. Perhaps his life was a bit... empty?

Whatever it was, I told myself sternly when I retired, it was not something I would be allowed to fix. Snape was a master at putting up walls; it would be a miracle if he even admitted to me—a child, likely, in his view: a former student—that something was wrong. If, indeed, something was. It was just as likely that I was reading too much into my impressions and the most that was wrong was him spending too many days in extended brewing sessions, forgetting to eat as he pursued whatever discovery he was after. Certainly, without the regimentation of Hogwarts's schedule, it wouldn't be difficult to ignore things like lunchtime and bedtime. Perhaps my life was the unsatisfactory one, if I was dreaming up bogeys in a closet that wasn't even there. The only thing I could do was what I would do for any guest who fetched up on 'my' doorstep: make sure he was fed, comfortable, and if we were both inclined, entertained.

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The following day was a Thursday—which I know because it was a day I was in the habit of taking off of work. I woke early, prepared a large pot of Earl Grey, and enjoyed the benefits (and detriments) of the full English breakfast the elves whipped up. They informed me that Master Snape had already had his breakfast, and indeed, I finished only just in time to see him walking away from the house in harvesting robes—close-fitting, of abbreviated length—and an enormous sun hat. I blinked a bit at the hat.

I spent much of the day with all of the little chores around the house: laundry, airing my futon, a bit of dusting. Later on, I read a bit, both for pleasure and for information. Towards the end of the day, I took up my knitting bag and sat down for an hour or two of frustration. In the generally vain hope of improving my mood if not my skill, I placed myself on the back porch, leaning against the jamb of the sliding door. I laid my book on the floor beside me and attacked my latest project. I was sufficiently engrossed so that some time later, I didn't notice Severus's approach until I heard him speak.

"Granger," he sighed, his voice exasperated, "you've already massacred your cast-on, and your stitches are tighter than Minerva's knickers. Haven't you anyone to show you how to knit properly?"

My head shot up; my fingers tightened on the needles. "No, I don't," I replied, mortified. "And I don't see that you have any grounds for criticism. Have you ever tried Muggle knitting?"

Piling his bags and boxes on the ground, he plucked the project from my hands and settled, ramrod straight, on the edge of the deck. With efficient tugs, he pulled apart the mess and rewound the wool. "I began knitting—in the Muggle fashion," he informed me pointedly, "more than a decade before you were born, Miss Granger, long before I applied myself to the magical method. I know precisely how to work these infernal tools.

"Pattern?" He raised an eyebrow and held out a demanding hand.

I could feel my face heat. "I don't have one."

He rolled his eyes. "Even walking requires its introductory lessons, Miss Granger. Are you still attempting a simple scarf?" I nodded. "Very well."

I watched, speechless, as he made his initial loop, threaded it on the needle, then wound the yarn's tails around his thumb and forefinger. It was a shock to me that he knew something so mundanely Muggle as knitting, but then there was also a resigned inadequacy, because of course he knew how to do it and of course he knew how to do it well, for he was Severus Snape, who knew how to outdo everyone at everything. The needle in his hand dipped and caught up the yarn from the simple web between his fingers, smoothly pulling stitch after stitch onto itself.

"Casting on," he said, and immediately I was eleven years old again, in awe and doing my best to absorb every syllable, "is one of the most difficult skills for a beginner to master. One must judge the necessary tension and accurately maintain it until the full count of stitches is created. You, Miss Granger, were piling on stitch after stitch so tightly and so close together that your subsequent rows would balloon out into deformity."

I pulled my knees up, setting my chin on them. "I thought mundane knitting might be easier for me to manage," I explained. "I have so much trouble channelling my magic through other objects, it seemed like a good alternative." I caught the swift, side-long glance, and as I didn't think it could be any worse, I added, "I feel like an idiot."

His lips twitched, but whatever scathing comment he might have made—he certainly wasn't going to mouth any conciliatory platitudes—was kept behind his teeth. Instead, he simply turned the needles, slipped the first stitch, and swiftly knitted across. Over and over, the needle slid in, the wool swept around, the needle ducked out, the stitch eased off: a quick, fluid dance of movements that recalled to mind watching classroom demonstrations of brewing skills and, however briefly, duelling techniques.

"The idea is simple, Miss Granger, but you cannot gallop ahead in that wild horse fashion you are so fond of. You must attend to every stitch in its turn." Finishing the last stitch, he passed the needles back. "Every skill in its turn. Practice. You are to slip the first stitch—and your instruction book should be sufficiently useful if you did not follow my example—and knit the rest. Pay attention to the tension of each stitch. If you attempt anything more complex..." He left the threat open, and I took it seriously, but only up to a point. I didn't doubt he could think up something unpleasant, but it would be a bit silly if he decided to hex me over a stockinette rather than a garter stitch.

He rose and picked up the baskets I hadn't realised he still had, then mounted the deck and disappeared inside the house.

I reapplied myself to my knitting.

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He reappeared some time later, presumably after storing whatever treasures he had found. "This," he remarked sourly, "is a vile climate, Miss Granger. Merlin's nads, what possesses you to stay here?" It was the height of summer, and high temperatures were only enhanced by the muffling blanket of humidity. You might remark that we're wizards, so what was the big deal? And you'd be quite right. I didn't keep the whole house cool, but I had charmed the deck to make the most of what little breeze there was, and my guests generally tended to their own magical thermostats. Master Snape, however, had been out harvesting magical plants and such, and they didn't take well to foreign magic. I'd forgotten that little detail, and was sympathetic to a man who had just spent several hours in the stifle with just that hat. I peered at him, but however he'd managed it, he'd been sensible enough not to sunburn. He did look rather tan.

"The Ministry, naturally," I answered him. "They take great delight in thoughts of my misery. Come, sit down. It's nicer out here."

He did, to my surprise, but not before he plucked the knitting from my fingers, his lips thinning. I'd managed to drop stitches, or something of that nature, and once again, he started unravelling the wool. I hadn't gotten very far, so I suppose it was easier than trying to pick the stitch back up. "I don't suppose it's occurred to you to quit the bloody Ministry," he said. "Why should you be the one to fulfil their baser urges?"

I leaned back. "Well, for one thing, I'm not miserable. I miss home, but on the other hand, I'm closer to my parents here, and I like Japan well enough. For another, I'd like to finish the jobs in hand, leave things better than when I found them—and preferably in a state that irritates the hell out of the Ministry. After that, I haven't really decided whether I want to fight it out and take over the department, or chuck it altogether and find other ways of annoying the Wizarding World as a whole."

There was a tiny rumbling that grew in volume until I realised that it was Snape himself, laughing. I grinned.

"That's a Granger I recognise: seven years of being a burr in my arse." His eyes glinted at me in an amusement that took any sting out of the words.

"I was only your student for six years," I objected.

"Trust me, Granger, you were as big a burr outside the classroom as in. Still are." He'd finished casting on again and passed the needles back. "Now, begin again with all due deliberation."

I did, and of course, found myself being far more careful under his scrutiny than I had been before. It also occurred to me how difficult it was; my mind kept wanting to hare off after one thing or another: the Arithmantic equation I was working on, the tea date I had tomorrow with several of the forest youkai. (They were generally polite and quite curious, especially about the odd foreign delicacies like scones or Indian tea. I tried to stay on their good side, as I knew they were capable of a good bit of damage if displeased. When I was feeling particularly bitter, it used to amuse me thinking of what would happen when my successor arrived and—as was likely—refused to be hospitable.) I found myself wondering about what Master Snape had collected in the forest, though I didn't dare ask. Finally, I growled in frustration. "How do you do it?" I demanded. "How do you keep your concentration on your work?"

"I don't," he smirked. "I know what I'm doing, well enough that I don't have to pay the same kind of attention that you do."

"This," I informed him, "is tedious."

"Naturally," he replied blandly.

"Why in the hell did you learn?" I demanded.

"My grandmother tied me to the chair." This was said deadpan, and knowing what little I did about his family life, I wasn't sure whether I should take him seriously or with a very large grain of salt. He read my expression and elucidated. "My grandmother had very strong ideas about raising children. She considered my father an abysmal failure, and when I was left in her hands—which was relatively frequently—she endeavoured to correct the gaps in my upbringing. One of her core beliefs was that a man who couldn't put food on his stomach and clothes on his back was a useless pillock. Therefore, she used every means available to make me learn basic cooking, knitting, and mending. She found bribery more effective than physical restraint, though, until I went to school and learned the value of these skills; the only reason I didn't go about in piecemeal robes was that I taught myself the equivalent spells and could fix them up myself." He scowled at some awful, associated memory, I assumed.

It seemed so normal, the idea of a child Severus and his grandmother, and yet so alien when I thought of him. Severus Snape was such a self-contained entity that it was difficult to imagine him having any sort of family connections. I knew he'd had a father and mother, naturally, but I'd never thought of him having any relations beyond the necessary, nuclear ones. Had he ever had siblings? Aunts? Uncles? I knew of Eileen, but what had her parents been like? Had they ever evinced any interest in their grandson?

Or was his grandmother Snape the only one who had bothered to care? "Is she still alive?" I asked softly, wanting to know, but not wanting to shatter this mood of confidences.

His eyes became a bit distant, but he smiled. "Oh, yes," he said, "and will for a while yet, if I have my say. Granny Snape is a tough old bird, as tough as they make them." What he didn't say then—and not until much, much later—was that he'd taken advantage of some of the opportunities presented by the Philosopher's Stone to lay aside a diluted Elixir that would extend her life. He would also recount the measures he'd taken during the Wars to keep her safe away from the Death Eaters. He'd left his parents to fend for themselves, as they had left him.

But that was later. There, on the deck of my guest house, I smiled. "I'm glad," I told him, and the look we exchanged carried something of understanding. I continued under his stern eye, and did better, though he had to intervene a few times to avert mistakes. But I liked the thought that he considered me sufficiently worthy of being taught his grandmother's skills.

When he left, that time, I truly believed he was gone from my life for good, at least for so long as I remained on this side of the world. Perhaps we would meet again when I returned to Britain. And perhaps he would consider me a friendly acquaintance, someone with whom it would be no hardship to sit at Miss Lowglass's for tea or the Ebon Squirrel for a pint.

Or I could screw up my knitting again as an excuse.