A/N: Beta reading thanks to the peerless Diabólica, whose sure hand shaped this fic. Thank you, darling.


Before I Saw Your Face

Chapter 1

She stands beneath the overhang and looks up and down the street, even though she knows no one is there—even though she knows no one can see her. Harry's Invisibility Cloak covers her completely and caresses her face like a lover's fingertips.

She slips from beneath the overhang out into the autumn night, the fog a mist of damp so close it's as if she wears it beneath her clothes. Diagon Alley is quiet, the gaslights blurred beacons from point to point along the way. She spots the tracer immediately, like a crimson glitter trail only she can see, footsteps leading on into the fog.

She hurries to follow, her breaths short and her heart fast. There's no true fear in her mind. It's not like the war years, when she walked in lockstep between Harry and Ron, fully prepared to give her life so Harry would have his chance. The war is her past, and her administrative post in the deputy heads' office is her present.

But not every Death Eater is in prison—some have been given lesser sentences. And the end of war doesn't mean the wizarding world is perfectly safe and unthreatened. There is still treachery in the world.

It is her place—her duty—to investigate possible dangers.

This is what she tells herself.

She hurries and makes the turn into Knockturn Alley, her quarry's pace steady as she follows, her own increasing. She must somehow catch up before the building pops into being between the ramshackle shop fronts on either side.

She must know where he goes. But she must not be caught. He must never know she even suspects him of wrongdoing.

His legs are so much longer—perhaps his purpose drives him to quicken his steps—and again, she is too late. In the blur of an instant, she sees the sleek, well-tended brick building, then it is gone—and so is he.


Snape stands within the portals of his destination, a half-smile of amusement on his lips. Why in thunder does Granger follow him every time he leaves Hogwarts? She is a suspicious girl, no question, but an intelligent one. She's grown up curvy and clever.

Too bad she is so young.

But it will do no harm for her to follow him here. She'll never gain entrance.


She stops on the last spot she saw him, panting and frustrated. She yanks the cloak away, stuffing it hastily into the bag hanging from her wrist. She becomes aware of the dropping temperature and the solidification of the mist into spattering rain drops. She has left so quickly to stalk her prey that she has failed to provide herself with either cloak or umbrella.

She vents her annoyance with a stomp of her foot more suited to the student she once was than to the administrator and teacher-in-training she now is.

"Got away from you, did he?"

Thank Merlin nothing has occurred to slow her reactions. With her newly-made vinewood wand in her hand, she rounds on the gnarled, mostly toothless old witch in a business-like way.

"Nay, missy, no need for that!" The witch sidles sideways, keeping an eye on the wand. "I only thought you might want a little hint of what he's up to. Don't hurt us!"

A beautiful white cat peers from around the old woman's skirts, its eyes glowing green in the ambient gaslight. An old witch with such a lovely familiar can't be all bad.

She flexes her wrist so that the wand points at the ground. "What do you know?"

The hag extends a twisted, age-spotted hand with a small, grubby card protruding. "We'll let you have it, but you should pay us. Gold is a fair exchange."

She considers for only a moment. Even if the card bears nothing of use to her, the old hag probably needs to eat. She extracts a Galleon from her coin purse and the witch snatches it and drops the card to the ground. By the time she retrieves the card from the increasingly damp cobblestones, the hag and her familiar are nowhere to be seen.

But she doesn't mind. She's staring at the grimy business card, printed on textured white cardstock with raised silver lettering.

TPE may be found at number eighty-three, Knockturn Alley, London


Ronald Weasley says, "Scorpion Sours," and when the stairway appears, he takes the steps two at a time, at age twenty still half Quidditch athlete and half overgrown puppy.

The headmaster's office is very different from what it was during Dumbledore's time, and Ron takes a moment to view and appreciate the changes.

The Sorting Hat still rests on a tall shelf, but where once the headmaster's desk held pride of place, now two matched desks sit facing each other. The desk on the right holds some small framed photographs and a tin Ron recognizes from his student days—he knows it contains homemade shortbread biscuits. One spindly-legged table sits adjacent to the desk, and on its surface some of Dumbledore's favourite arcane magical devices burble and smoke.

The other desk would appear to be unused, save for the pot of red ink residing beside an elegant raven's feather quill he also recognizes from his student days. Otherwise, the desk's polished mahogany surface is utterly bare.

At a smaller desk, situated nearer the door and vaguely halfway between the two larger desks, a young woman sits. Her desk is tidy, but it is obvious that the neatness is a continuous struggle. She is surrounded by stacks of books and ledgers, parchment and gradebooks. She concentrates so completely on her work that she does not immediately look up when Ron enters. With a grin and a shake of his head, he places his hands flat on the desk surface and leans in until his nose nearly touches the top of her bushy brown head.

"Good to see you absorbed in your work."

She jerks her head up so quickly that she bumps into Ron's face.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Hermione!"

She throws her hands up. "Don't you have better sense than to startle me?" But she is rising and rounding the desk to pull his face down for a closer inspection. "It might hurt a bit, but it's not broken." She touches the tip of his nose.

He laughs and catches her up in a tight hug. "Sorry to startle you, but you did invite me—I couldn't have got in without the password, yeah?"

She kisses his cheek and disentangles herself. Her hair is pulled into a French braid, but tendrils have escaped to curl into a bushy, messy halo. She wears black teaching robes open over a neat, dark blue skirt and sensible white blouse.

"Damn if you don't look the part, Hermione. Do the kids call you 'professor?' "

She puts her hands on her hips. "Of course not! I'm not through my training yet—and I don't know for certain that this is what I want to do—not on a permanent basis, anyway. It's just a . . . comfortable place to be for a while."

Ron pats her comfortingly on the shoulder. "You know there's always a place for you at the Burrow—Mum asked me last weekend when you're coming to visit." He knows Hermione's parents are living in Australia, and although she has made contact with them, they are more nonplussed than pleased to meet the daughter who erased herself from their memories.

He looks away from Hermione's pensive expression and gestures towards the two unoccupied desks. "How's this working out, then? Are they getting on alright? And has the Board come any closer to making a decision?"

Hermione steps to a small table against the wall that holds a box of teabags, a jug of water, a sugar bowl and small pitcher of milk. "Neither of them wants the title, but they're perfectly amenable to looking after things until someone else can be found to take the job. I take their first- and second-year classes to free them up for administrative duties."

She turns from the table with two steaming mugs of tea. "You can bring the shortbread from McGonagall's desk. For some reason, she dotes on you."

Ron smirks. It's no surprise to him that another elderly female has succumbed to his charms. He goes out of his way to be pleasant to the old girls. He fetches the tin and joins Hermione at a small round table apparently used for tea breaks.

"How's Harry?" Hermione asks, studying Ron with big brown eyes. Her eyes have always been her prettiest feature.

"Parvati and I don't see him much—he and the ferret are getting their restaurant ready to open."

Hermione raises her eyebrows. "Now, Ronald. He's our best friend's boyfriend now, so be nice!"

Ron laughs, knowing that Hermione agrees with him. Probably. "He'll always be the ferret to me—and he still calls me the weasel, so . . ."

"So you deserve each other," she says, but Ron can tell she isn't really annoyed.

Hermione offers McGonagall's tin of biscuits to him, but he can see her visibly jump when a silky voice speaks from the doorway.

"Shouldn't you be socializing outside of work hours?"

Hermione presses her lips tightly together, as if she wants to make a retort, but Ron is instantly on his feet, advancing to Snape with outstretched hands.

"Professor Snape! Great to see you."

The deputy headmaster sends a folder of parchment floating to his desk with the flick of a finger and accepts Ron's handshake. Relations between Snape and the Order members have stabilized over the two years since the end of war, but one still cannot describe Snape as a warm or welcoming person.

Snape maintains contact for the minimum acceptable time and withdraws his hand. "What brings you to Hogwarts, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron watches Snape slip the shaken hand into the pocket of his robes, as if to protect it from further liberties. Snape still behaves like an antisocial git sometimes, but there's no arguing with the sacrifices he made to bring victory to the Light. There's also no arguing with Harry, who insists that everyone give credit where credit is due. Harry even told the Daily Prophet that Snape was the bravest man he ever knew, and the silly buggers splashed it all over the headlines.

Ron grins and gives Snape a hearty clap on the shoulder. "I had to come up and see how our Hermione is getting on, didn't I?"

Snape makes no answer to this, but he disengages from Ron by taking a step towards the tea table. He studies the rigid set of his teaching assistant's shoulders for a moment, then with a sly smirk, he reaches past Hermione to filch a shortbread biscuit from the open tin. Hermione flinches, and Ron makes a mental note to ask her what's going on with her and Snape.

The two of them are behaving more like the teenagers they teach than the adults they are.

Ron crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to one side, surveying the late headmaster's spy. "Your voice sounds fully recovered now—not hoarse at all."

Snape inclines his head, reticent, as ever, to speak of his war injury. He has taken to wearing an old fashioned cravat with his frock coats to hide the horrific scar on his throat. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous, but the old fellow manages to carry it off with dignity.

The carriage clock on the mantel chimes four times, and Ron turns slightly to include Hermione in the conversation, even though she remains stiffly in her chair, staring straight ahead and not looking at Snape at all.

"I'd better go. Mum asked me to pop out for milk, and she'll be looking for it."

Hermione stands. "She'll think you fell down a rabbit hole," she says. "I'll walk you down to make sure you don't find any more distractions."

Ron puts a brotherly arm around her shoulders, but she turns away from him at the door to say, "Unless you need me for something, Professor?"

Even Ron cannot miss the irony with which Snape responds. "I need you, Miss Granger? Whatever for?"

Hermione's lips compress again, and she flounces out the door. Ron and Snape exchange a look. Ron shrugs, philosophical as ever about the mysterious behaviour of witches. Snape's austere face is expressionless, until he humorously arches one coal black eyebrow.


"All right, spill. What's going on with you and Snape?"

Hermione grabs Ron's arm and pulls him into an empty classroom, muttering, "Muffliato."

She purses her lips, considering whether she should take Ron into her confidence. He's one of her best friends, but his thoughts are bound up now with Parvati Patil, with whom he shares a flat in London, and with his professional Quidditch career as the reserve Keeper for the Chudley Cannons. He's not thinking about clandestine matters of state any longer.

Would he be able to understand her concerns? Such as the shelf of Charmed books in Snape's rooms that appear to be perfectly blank? Or the way the deputy headmaster slips away several nights a month claiming to have work to do in his rooms, but then leaves the castle and Disapparates? Would Ron care about Snape's obviously Secret Kept destination in Knockturn Alley?

"What?" Ron says. "You're up to something, aren't you? I know that look."

She looks up into his freckled face, the concern in his guileless blue eyes, and knows she cannot burden him with her suspicions. There's no way Ron can keep a secret from Harry, and the last thing Hermione needs is a visit from Harry, who has now appointed himself Snape's ambassador in the world. If Harry knew Hermione suspected Snape of something, he would put himself right in the middle of it, and Hermione would be helpless to stop him.

"I don't know what you're on about," she says, infusing her voice with indignation. "And watch what you say where the students can hear you. Don't forget, I'm a teacher now."

She knows from his expression that he's not buying her story, but he just shrugs. "Have it your way, then."

And as happy as she was to see him in her office, she is happier still as she sees him out the castle doors.