AN: Okay, so this story has been bugging me. I started it about a decade ago and I keep thinking about it lately because it isn't finished. It isn't finished and I haven't put out any Harry Potter fanfic and that's a ridiculous oversight because I love Harry Potter fanfic. This story (or what I have of it) was originally posted on Ashwinder. I hope you like it!

Further note: I've moved away from HG/SS, because while I felt fine with the age gap as an early-20s person, I feel a lot less comfortable with it as a 30s person and (especially) as a teacher. So... not sure how all this is gonna end. The M rating might be overshooting, so smut-seekers take note!


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Hermione Granger tightened her grip on the bag that hung from her shoulder as she made her way up the stairwell of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, She could feel the straight edge of her notebook through the canvas and clutching to that firmness gave her a boost of confidence and a sense of defined purpose. She would simply chat with her mother about the items scribbled on her list and, this way, they could completely avoid the subject of Hermione's father.

It would work. It had to.

As she pushed her way up the last few steps to the landing, the door opened and Neville Longbottom's lanky form bobbed into view. His round face seemed a bit sad and distant and he was shoving some small object into his pocket. When he caught sight of her, though, his face brightened pleasantly.

"Morning, Hermione."

Hermione smiled with the modest cheer that she lately held in reserve for special occasions. "Good morning, Neville. I haven't seen you for a while. How have you been?"

"Good, good." His small but easy smile reminded Hermione of the last time she had seen him; he had hugged her and smiled the same way at his Gran's funeral more than a year ago. Funny she'd wait until the war was over and done with. Not even the Reaper could out-stubborn my old Gran!

His brown eyes were dryer at present than they had been then, but Neville still had the look of someone well-accustomed to sorrow. It struck Hermione that he had perhaps always had it, that she had only recently learned to identify just what it was.

As if to spite his own sad eyes, Neville tugged the collar of his dark green professional robes and his smile warmed a bit. "I made Assistant Botanist at Herbatius Herb's Geenhouse up in Darlington. Still doesn't pay much, but I enjoy the work. What about you, Hermione? Did you take the Arithmantic Association by storm?"

"By storm… not exactly, no."

It took a moment for her to remember it, but she had in fact met briefly with the Association nearly a year ago. Before...

Hermione forced a smile, snapping the attention of her disciplined mind back to the subject. "It turns out they do little more than bicker over the finer points of formula development. From what I could tell, there was no opportunity for research, no new knowledge to explore, and no interest in expanding experimentation into multi-disciplinary pursuits." She offered a short laugh, partly at the Association and partly at Neville's expression, which was already glazing over. "Bit of a dull crowd, actually."

Neville loosed a surprised chuckle at that. "That's a right damning sentence coming from an avid fan of Hogwarts; A History. But then, it certainly wasn't easy for me to settle down again after the war. I wouldn't be surprised at all if you… Well, I've heard rumors that you…" His smile guttered and he peered at Hermione with the question, the serious one, furrowing his brow. "Have you caught them yet?"

Hermione abandoned her efforts at smiling and squeezed the edge of her notebook through her bag as she spoke. "I've been researching the spell residues they left behind at the latest site, but I'm running out of libraries to turn to."

"The latest site? You mean they attacked again?" Neville's face registered shock, perhaps even a little fear.

"There have been a number of incidents over the past year. Not all violent and none so severe as… as that first, but there is a definite similarity within the lingering aura afterwards."

"Hermione, I had no idea. There hasn't been any mention of rogue Death Eaters in The Prophet… I suppose it's too much to hope that they just didn't know about it?"

Hermione only nodded. Better not to get started about the number of letters she had written this year, to The Daily Prophet as well as various branches and levels of the Ministry – all of which had been answered with polite coddling and run-arounds. "I never thought I'd say it, but it's a pity Luna's father gave up on The Quibbler."

Neville seemed capable of only shaking his head slowly. Finally, he forced out two words. "The Ministry?"

Hermione couldn't help it; her lips thinned into a tight frown. "Aurors handle the crime scenes, but there is no ongoing investigation. The Minister would rather keep his administration's hands clean of the war, now that it's over. I suppose I can't blame him. Wizarding Britain has come out of a dark time and it's right that people should celebrate and be happy."

Neville shook his head, incredulous. "Not if people are still dying."

"People aren't dying, Neville. One person died in that first attack and, ever since, it's been little more than harassment and mysteries. Bad memory charms, long-term hexes, vandalism, a couple of Muggles disappearing for a week and reappearing with no memory of what happened… Just enough ugliness to make people uncomfortable - if the news even makes it into The Prophet, that is."

"Well… why haven't you contacted the Defense Association, Hemione? Most of us would be more than happy to help, you know."

She watched Neville shuffle his hands within his pockets for a second. He almost looked hurt. Hermione smiled. "Everyone is off living their lives by now, Neville. Even Harry and Ron are off at Auror training most of the time. Besides, I'm not sure how you or anyone else could help me, anyway. All I do is study and search for more books on magical residue to read. I'm not sure that anyone else could even follow my notes – they've gotten so convoluted."

"I guess you have a point." Neville placed one large palm on her shoulder. His warmth soaked through the fabric of her blouse and robes and Hermione smiled up at him. It was no wonder he had such a gift for plants; the man had kindness in his touch. "If anybody can figure out a puzzle, Hermione, it's you."

She didn't say it, but she thought it. It rather has to be, doesn't it?

"Thanks Neville. I should probably get in to see my mum."

He removed his hand and replaced it in his pocket, his cheeks perhaps a bit pink. "Right. I'll see you later, Hermione." He took two steps down and then turned back to her. "You'll owl me if you figure out a way that I can help, right?"

Hermione smiled, the brightest she had in a long while. "Without fail."

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The ward was the same as it was every week. The light from the tall windows made the white walls glow and cast across the gossamer bed curtains peacefully. At the same time, the place reeked of saccharine medicinal potions and the biting, coppery scent of sanitation spells. The floor was laid with tile like squares of polished bone and the beds were lined up like graves.

Residents tottered about between their beds and the plush armchairs near the reception desk, including Neville's mother, who was cooing over a plastic baby doll. The nurse was speaking softly with Mr. Longbottom and only spared Hermione a glance and a familiar nod of greeting. Hermione strode slowly down the ward, passing other patients - including Gilderoy Lockhart, who was still hard at work perfecting his connected letters.

Peering through a crack in the curtains of the last bed of the row, Hermione found her mother sleeping peacefully and breathed a sigh of relief. She had a chance to prepare. Pulling back the curtain a few feet, Hermione entered the small space and set her bag down beside the visitor's chair – her chair. She snapped the wand out of her sleeve with a practiced sleight of hand and worked some slow magic on the drooping flowers at her mother's bedside.

They weren't actually flowers. In fact, they were paintings of flowers made of equal parts oil and magic. It was a hobby Hermione had picked up from her father, who had so loved painting large vases of lilies or single stalks of orchids or tulip poplar branches in bloom. He had of course painted on canvas, but Hermione saw this (as many other habits of hers) as an opportunity to practice wandwork.

With careful strokes, Hermione shifted the blues to one side, stretched and darkened the greens, lightened red to pink, and finished by freckling the throats of the Asiatic Lilies with purple. They were not as beautifully rendered as her father's paintings had been, but Hermione reasoned that she would grow better with practice. For today, it would do.

Returning her wand to its place, Hermione sat quietly and tugged the notebook from her bag. She reviewed the talking points she had laid out for herself, determined to be prepared this time. Again and again she read through the topics, then recited them mentally while staring at the crack in the curtain she had left open, then expanded upon as many of the topics as she could until her head was full of her side of the oncoming conversation.

She glanced at her mother. The woman's mouth was open slightly, from time to time twitching in one corner, as if in a nascent smile. Hermione sighed and smiled herself.

"Alright Mister Snape. Time for breakfast."

Wide-eyed, Hermione peered again out of the open curtain and watched as the nurse drew back the dividers of the bed across from her mother's. There, lying perfectly still, was Severus Snape.