Missing Moments

by tearsofphoenix

From acquaintance, to respect, to friendship and love their story had grown slowly... SSHG

Missing Moments

By tearsofphoenix

Standard disclaimer applies – it's all JKR's

This story is related to events written in the last chapter of "I open at the close". It adds a more detailed tale of the development of Snape's relationship with Hermione, and of their resultant struggles.

As ever what I write couldn't be here without the wonderful help from Whitehound.

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It was like living in the past, she concluded.

It wasn't just the fascinating past of velvety and beautiful robes, parchments written up with ink and quills, or inlaid and decorated furniture in castles or manors, though; it was a past where too many people were still affected by ancient prejudices, whilst laws and authorities did nearly nothing to change beliefs or behaviours.

"Nobody tells us about these differences until we start school, and there's no explanation anywhere about how everyone will be regarded... unknowing students learn haphazardly, from puzzling comments the first time they speak to their new schoolmates, but this isn't the sort of thing you should learn from small-talk and casual chat!" Hermione, in the Headmistress's office, was launching herself into a speech that explained what she hoped to attain by reading the magical parchments which she was asking her old Head of House for permission to access.

"So, I'm making a start by writing this thesis, I'm submitting it to my tutor at the University. It's about the effects of contrasts…" Right when she was at the core of her tirade a knock at the door interrupted.

"Minerva" began Professor Snape, entering. "Do you have the faintest idea about this arriving in my quarters?" he asked, showing a small parcel, unopened, in his hands. Then he saw that the witch was otherwise engaged; even if his approach had begun with the relaxed familiarity of previous meetings with his old colleague, he fell silent and stopped at once.

Hermione, startled at his arrival and still flushed because the words that she had spoken had come to her from her strongest beliefs, realised that she could have told her former Professor, too, of her wishes for her studies and for her future choices, and asked his advice. But she hadn't planned to renew their acquaintance so soon, and now was gaping at him, unable to continue her speech or to say anything else.

"I'll come later" he blurted out, without giving any sign of acknowledgement of the young witch's presence.

Slightly disappointed, and not knowing if it was due to her own reaction or to the interruption and to the subsequent embarrassing pause, the young witch went on, with a calmer voice: "I'd like to know more about the lists of those students to whom you send letters every first year. I especially wish to see if and how they are listed as Muggle-borns… if I may."

Minerva nodded, understanding: "Ah, yes… Muggle-borns. I remember when we sent your letter. Nobody anticipated that it would be delivered to a witch so able to exceed the achievements expected of the average student!" she commented, smiling.

Hermione blushed, and after a deep sigh, answered: "It's not about me, actually. It's more about what is still going on in our world, even now that Voldemort's demise is certain… and it's with the hope that the new generations will change their attitudes, maybe with a little help from new laws…"

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Some days later Hermione finished scanning those of the precious parchments which she was permitted to examine. They were kept in a magical archive, directly connected to the Ministry's Registrations Office, and she had now very well understood how things worked. So much for any privacy policy, she was thinking, comparing what she had learned until now with the rules and laws of the Muggle world.

Then she made for the library, to check some of the latest years of the Prophet to explore further neccessary information.

Approaching Madame Pince's desk, the young witch thought of the last time when she had checked the archives of the newspaper; then, remembering how she had found the photo of Eileen Prince, suddenly her last meeting with Professor Snape came to her mind. He had seemed… interested the first time when she had told him of her project, and yet, during her visit to Professor McGonagall, he hadn't even addressed her.

But still, she thought, her silence had matched his; and thus, perhaps, a new interview, with some explanations, might not be too bad a course of action.

This time, however, Minerva informed her that the professor wasn't in his quarters: he had gone home for a while, and Hermione, who after all her searching knew where that place was, asked herself if she would dare to reach him there. There was something else, at the moment, that she wanted to ask him, and anyway she wished to know how he was managing, now that more time had passed since his awakening from his near-death experience.

This is why she now found herself in front of the door of a brick-built, dilapidated house, situated in a street named Spinner's End.

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"Miss Granger… What a pleasure" were the words with which Snape welcomed her into his house.

Looking directly at his black eyes, the young woman couldn't tell how much his greeting was true, or if it had been said with sarcasm, or just as common courtesy.

She knew that he had changed, he was a different person since his awakening after his near-death experience with the snake, and during their previous encounters he had shown some attention to her, in fact a great deal if compared to what she had experienced during the six years in which she had sat in his classroom… on consideration though, she thought, sighing, his attention in those days had been so near zero that one could not form a true idea of its real current measure.

Hermione had hoped to have captured his interest, since then, but who could ever be sure of anything with that mysterious wizard?

Watching her, standing quiet and insecure, he spoke again, revealing something more of his present attitude: "Good evening to you too, Miss Granger… and to what do I owe the disputable pleasure of your presence?"

"Oh, er, good evening, Professor," she began hurriedly, "sorry to intrude but…"

"Don't waste time with inane pleasantries, Miss Granger" he cut in. "Since you are here do come in and state your request."

There wasn't true irritation in his voice; rather a hint of bitterness, as if requests could be the only reason for someone visiting there. It wasn't easy at all, though, to continue speaking. Hermione would have asked if everything were all right, but then she knew better than to try such a direct approach.

Entering, Hermione saw a not-too-much neglected living room, full of books and furnished in a comfortable way: perhaps what she saw of the exterior was very different from the life that was kept inside.

"Do you remember the project of which I told you last time we talked, Professor?" she eventually began, in front of his impatient gaze.

"I admit I haven't dismissed your idea as completely unworthy of the attempt, but…" he began to answer. He hadn't anticipated, though, that she wasn't so easily ready to give up speaking.

"Well, I'm working on it. And it isn't just a matter of laws, Sir, it's more something that for centuries has been rooted in magic people's opinion, you know" she went on, eager to take advantage of his quite tolerant mood and ignoring his last words that promised some dissent.

"So I wanted to ask you about this aspect of it, since you already knew about all this before going to Hogwarts. How did you learn about our world? How did your mother explain the rules of Magical society to you? By the way that's why I asked permission from Professor McGonagall to examine some more parchments there… and I was sorry that the last time I saw you, I didn't greet you properly…" she ended, once more speaking with too much hurry but wishing to say this, at least, despite his declared judgement on pleasantries.

"But," he answered, stressing the word on which he had been cut off, "even if your intent is admirable, foolish and daring though it is, I fail to see how prying into my past could be useful to anyone or, most of all, to you," he concluded, and this time he was beginning to sound less accommodating.

Reflecting on a previous meeting, when he had seemed more helpful and lenient towards her enthusiastic intent, Hermione searched for ways to renew that feeling of communion: that day when he had seemed to hear her speech, and even to accept the fact that she had come to him, of all people, to discuss her purpose and ask advice. She of course knew the reason for her choice, since the day when she had seen him, a neglected youngster, through his memories.

Now, though, he seemed distant, and she was almost at a loss for words.

Until she understood that the right word was what she needed.

That word. Heard so many times since the first one when Malfoy spat it in her face, putting in each syllable of it all his disdainful tone; heard through unbearable waves of pain during her "visit" to Malfoy Manor; and learnt in the full blast of its meaning during her journey through Severus Snape's memories within the Pensieve, it was a word that told nearly a whole history on its own.

"Please, Sir… all the Muggle-borns should know how even a single word still could define and persecute them; it's still like this, to many… and Muggle–borns should have a chance to defend themselves and to know what it means when they are called 'Mudblood'", she pleaded defiantly.

Perhaps she was sincere, or perhaps she was more cunning than brave in hitting him with that challenge but, like that first time when she had talked to him at the Leaving Feast, even if he would dismiss her, forbid her from saying that word, shout at her to never refer to herself that way… again, as on that day he couldn't react, a lump in his throat was making that impossible to him, this time

"You are a Prince, Sev, a disinherited one, but still a prince, my son! How can you be so pleased by that company?" she had told him, one evening, when he went back home very late, after a delightful afternoon spent talking, enjoying the chatty friendship of his adorable neighbour who never stopped asking him about their shared magical connection and of the magic school that awaited them.

He didn't want to listen to his mother's outburst, then, nor to tell her that he would not be condemned to live a destiny like her own unhappy one; he was still savouring the memory of the beautiful young witch that had ignited the first light of his miserable youth. And Eileen, perhaps, sensed his shielded thoughts, and that was the last thing that she would tolerate, to be ignored even by her own son! So, after trying unsuccessfully to convince him with a plea of "Don't make the same mistake I made, son" she had shouted: "She isn't for you, Severus! She is a dirty Mudblood!"

He had gone out of the room, slamming the door, without knowing that, one day, he would make those words his own, too… for a brief, awful, unforgettable moment.

Sighing he invited Hermione to sit; he was beginning to let go of the chaining effects of his most painful memories, but an unexpected reminder sometimes still found ways to come haunting his mind. And, then, he couldn't help but start speaking of that time long ago, when a woman, nearly destroyed in her spirit by the way the Muggle world hadn't welcomed her after she had endured the rejection of her Pure-blood family, had taught him about their heritage and about the magical people to whom he belonged.

"And you called yourself The Half-Blood Prince" Hermione commented, thoughtfully. "You were in the middle between two worlds, it seems, between two irreconcilable factions, and you had to find a place amongst them without a real chance."

"Ah, but I chose, Miss Granger, and what a choice it was!"

"Of course you had to choose!" was her indignant answer "Each and every one of us chose, and our Houses had a not-so-little say in those choices!"

"I'm not in need of excuses or pretexts, Miss Granger!"

"Well, you may not be, but you had many of them: I can imagine what it would be like to be a young, not so rich half-blood student in a house like Slytherin, full of disdainful Pure-bloods! Not to mention what other Houses like mine were able to do, as help, and what they did, through their champions…" she went on, with sympathy and in a bitter tone.

"Don't waste your pity, girl: all this matters nothing, now! I was fascinated by what my choice promised and I did it." he ended sourly. Then, as if amused by a sudden thought: "But, yes," he went on, "your House also made some difference. Perhaps you'd be interested to know that Gryffindor is still able to be less virtuous than what popular belief assumes!"

"I know" she admitted, without arguing. "I know a long list of not so honourable things done by Gryffindors, even by me… and, well… I'm asking your help."

He seemed to consider her admission, and in the end offered, sadly: "We didn't know, at the beginning, that the Dark Lord would inflame prejudices against Muggle-borns and Muggles to the point of threatening their lives… we didn't really know that that choice would turn out to be more than just a 'cooler' life-style…"

She nodded, silently, to the poor, proud Slytherin of his youth who had so strongly hit her heart, without adding anything else: sometimes there weren't any right words to be said, and this was one of those moments.

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Some more meetings elapsed, one after the other, and Severus Snape was forced to acknowledge himself captivated by her crusade. As things progressed in this way he didn't fight his increasing involvement in her project: even if he knew that he deserved some peace and that he had already done more than his duty, giving his life, his soul, he himself, to restore some goodness and justice.

What he tried to fight now, actually, was a completely different, and yet equally demanding, kind of involvement.

"You can't possibly believe it to be that simple!" he was sneering after having heard her latest idea.

"Well, in the Muggle world it works!" had been her indignant answer.

"Credit me with some knowledge of it, then. You know perfectly well that also in Muggle society, subtle or not, differences among classes are still in place" he countered.

Hermione sulked, but didn't stop talking and began to enumerate the many improvements due to progress in the most modern Muggle countries.

Snape didn't want to consider how much he had permitted her proximity, since those first days in the hospital wing after his recovery, and he didn't know what to do with her constant presence. Equally at home wherever she found him, she was beginning to invade much more than just his quarters or his old house.

Anyway he wasn't in the right mood to listen to her, today, and thus, trying to convince himself that this fact had nothing to do with an increasing feeling of unease, Severus snapped: "Stop your incessant lecture, if you are able to! And please come back when, at least, you have some coherent plan instead of this regurgitated list of contracts, fines and prohibitions!"

Then, turning on his heel, he left his quarters without waiting to see if she, too, was leaving.

She blinked. They had disagreed many times on many things, not always reaching a fast accord but often finding some good solution, and thus she decided to not let those words affect her heart too much. She had a project, and she wouldn't be distracted from it by some volatile temper, or so she hoped.

The following week, thus, she was there again, stubbornly knocking and entering without waiting for an answer. Looking at the way his hair was hanging in front of his concealed eyes, she supposed him in an even fouler mood than the time before and halted, loosing a bit of her resolution. But Snape looked up, and seeing her standing there, unsure and slightly afraid for the first time in ages, he asked, sighing: "I presume that you finally have something of substance to submit?"

She wasn't aware of having been holding her breath up to that moment and those words.

Seeing her at his door, eager and ready as ever, he had asked himself what in Merlin's name a young witch like Hermione Granger might want with him, once her mission would be completed and she didn't need his help anymore.

On the other hand, since that time he had admitted that he couldn't let her down, no matter how much all that idealism was affecting him who, granted, was making a fool of himself: all this would end, one day, but to experience this emotion for a time, even if not forever, seemed a less painful choice, by now, than having none of it.

So she saw, amazed, the look that he finally gave to her: it was soft, quite relaxed, like that of a fighter at the end of a battle in which he hadn't had any real chance of victory. And he made a gesture, one that to her, to him, implied a greater acceptance than the mere invitation to sit and explain. She came to stand by his desktop, and opened an ancient tome to show him her latest discoveries. He didn't mind the increased closeness, this time, and their discussions started again until, pointing together to the page which both were reading, even their eyes and hands reached in unison.

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Later she knew that she no longer needed the excuse of real news or a reason to ask his advice, it just seemed nice to keep up her regular visits; they established a routine, after some time, and neither of them ever deserted one of their weekly meetings.

One day, though, in late spring, she arrived in a hurry, and started speaking from the moment she appeared, asking if he was connected to the Floo Network. Snape told her that he was, in his quarters at Hogwarts, but conversely it wasn't the same in his old Muggle house. He was watching her with a bit of curiosity, because she had always preferred to Apparate rather than arrive coughing in dirty fireplaces… but she hadn't explained more, seeming unaware of his inquiring gaze.

Then, after some time spent commenting on the latest news about the new Minister for Magic's election, she said, the shadow of a little uncertainty in her voice: "May I ask something else, more personal?"

He looked to her frowning brow and, perceiving a real difficulty there, a true embarrassment, for once he restrained himself from making his usual remark about the fact that up till now, nobody had ever succeeded in stopping her asking questions, and confined himself to the raising of an eyebrow, as he waited in mild amusement.

"Are you planning to stay at Hogwarts during the holidays, sir, or to leave?"

Something told him that the personal level of her query wasn't related to his plans but to hers.

"Never mind" she went on, interrupting his line of thoughts and the growing silence: "I'm asking it because I'll be travelling with my room-mate, for the next few weeks, and if we prolong the trip it will be difficult to Apparate to your home from the more distant places".

She wasn't a good liar, and she was a chatty person, so that short account, lacking in any names of people or places, sounded strange to Snape, who was now sure that something else was bothering the witch. He wondered about the possibility that she could have troubles or fears linked to the process of Apparition, but then that would be a first, since she had been one of the most skilled learners of it since her earliest attempts.

"Very well, Miss Granger. I have no plans for the summer, so far, but let's say that I could do with some respite from your mission, for a change."

His tone hadn't been acerbic, but all the same she flinched, as if knowing what barriers statements like that could still raise between them. "It will be a journey undertaken for study and further research, but I'll send owls if I can't reach you with the news," she offered.

"Rest assured that I will not hold my breath waiting for them" was his retort, which came out of his mouth before thinking of anything better - before thinking at all.

This time she didn't answer, she just nodded slightly and, after a while, she was gone.

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Almost a month later, she arrived to find the professor engrossed in chopping a mixture of herbs. He didn't lift his head from work, and didn't notice how pale she was.

Hermione was likewise unaware of her appearance, less healthy than ever, and offered her help by approaching nearer and sniffing deeply, as if savouring the fresh scent emanating from the cut leaves. He nodded and lent her some roots, without comment other than a short: "Well, since you are here," as if still testing her real wish to be there.

They went on quietly for some time. In fact, she had missed only a couple of their weekly meetings during this past month, and every time she came back, she had shown him such energy and enthusiasm that Snape was beginning to think that perhaps his had been just the meaningless doubts of a cantankerous old fool.

She, meanwhile, was comparing his company to that of the noisy groups with which she spent almost all her time at the University, thinking that her ease with Snape during these meetings was something precious that didn't need to be ruined by too much inquiry or over-analysis… and she lifted her chin to look at him, fondly.

Right at that moment, though, a light tremor prevented her from safely using the knife that she was handling. "No" she thought, feeling panic, "please, not now…" but she recognized it as the first sign of the ache that sometimes had affected her after the war, and she couldn't continue, so she let go of the instrument, abruptly.

Something like that had happened before, when she had been alone, and she loathed the faintness that always engulfed her mind and her body on these occasions. Excusing herself, she tried to regain her strength before things could get worse and headed for the kitchen, saying she felt thirsty, with the little hope that he hadn't noticed too much.

But of course he had, and after a while, worried by her prolonged absence, followed her steps to check. She was sitting on the floor, near the door, and it seemed that the only movement she could make was that of her tremulous breathing.

"What is it, Hermione?" he whispered, kneeling at her side. "Why didn't you tell me of all this?"

That had been the first time when he had assisted her during an episode, and it would be a long time before they came to the last.

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It was a late autumn day, warmed by the last rays of a weakened sun, and this time when she visited Snape at Hogwarts, she walked up from Hogsmeade, instead of Apparating to just outside the castle gates. She had felt stronger lately, and this time she had travelled with the helpful - albeit weird as ever - Knight Bus, that luckily could be anywhere in Britain within seconds. Pity not to have thought of it earlier, she mused. And she had strongly wished for a little walk outside, where the beauty of the natural setting, with its gorgeous landscapes, often rivalled the charm which the sight of the magic building always evoked for those who were able to see it.

Reaching the entrance to the grounds, Hermione sighed softly, and continued her walk towards the front doors of the castle until she was halted by the sight of a couple of students fighting. Perhaps some students would always feud, arguing over silly things, trying new hexes and breaking rules, as they had always done before growing into adults, no matter how many changes might be suggested, she thought. Oh, but one of those, now, was assuming a nasty pose, wand at the ready while the other had fallen badly on the ground. Hermione advanced, and cried aloud hoping to make them stop.

Seeing her coming nearer they ran, and were able to disperse themselves before they could be identified. The witch, however, didn't feel disappointed: her main purpose had been achieved, after all, and so she resumed her slow walking.

Only that, actually, she didn't. Nothing had announced it, today, but she felt a sudden frailty and, grateful for a small bench placed by the path not too far away, she let her knees go and crumpled on the ground beside it.

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Through the window he had watched the gates more times than he could count, awaiting her arrival. And so he saw her walking, shouting and then halting and, despite the distance, her appearance, sitting on the ground and with her back reclined against the un-cosy edge of a bench, told him that once again something wasn't right, and that it wasn't related to the row she had witnessed some minutes ago.

But, by then, he knew perfectly well what was, once again, going on; and it didn't hurt less for the fact that both knew that sooner or later she would recover.

"Never underestimate the after-effects of a curse like that" he had affirmed that first time, because after she had regained some strength, and after some precise and searching questions from him, she had explained that she had suffered like that since some time after her torture by Bellatrix Lestrange, and that she hadn't wanted to make a fuss, having been reassured by the healers that those symptoms would reduce to nothing, in due time.

He had shown concern, however, and offered her some further advice. "You see," she had said in the end, after a deep sigh that spoke volumes of her reluctance to say it so openly, "there was the malicious lust of the werewolf, and the sneering indifference of the Malfoys… but what hurt more was the fact that they choose me not because I am a woman, considered weak… what they wanted, in fact, was to start with the Mudblood."

Once more he couldn't shout at the only slightly recovered witch to not pronounce that word. He could only, awkwardly, put an arm around her to assist when she finally stood, and keep ready, since then, the required potions that could help.

Owls were flying around, approaching the castle from everywhere, directed towards the Great Hall where soon many young witches and wizards would receive their parcels or letters from families. She could sense wings flapping, thin birdcalls, but didn't see their beautiful flight.

With eyes closed she was trying to fight the tears caused by her sudden perception, one more time, of her illness, and by the numb ache felt first in her legs and then all over her body. She didn't see Severus approaching, either, but, when he sat on the bench, silent but breathing heavily from the fast walk and the worry, she recognized his presence, his scent, and dared to lean her head on his leg, so near and firm.

He stroked her hair, slowly, trying to say the right thing. "Slytherin and Gryffindor, were they?" he finally asked.

"One of them was definitely a Hufflepuff, but I didn't have a chance to get a clear look at the other one" was her answer, again with a low voice.

"Times are a-changing" he commented, slightly relieved to have elicited an articulate answer from her.

"During fourth year, Hufflepuff rivalled your House in harassing Harry, you know" she went on, and then opened her eyes, not caring anymore to hide how much they would reveal of her suffering weakness to his scrutiny, and smiled softly. She had learnt from him the proud need to not be pitied, and was glad to see that they had both learned from the previous difficult attempts to cope with her disease.

Feeling her breathing becoming more regular, and her tremor lessening, as happened after every episode, he played the card she loved best, that slightly acerbic one that always reassured her that things were as they had always been: "How long would you have stayed here on the ground, lying on that stone corner, without help, if I hadn't arrived, you silly insufferable woman?"

"I knew that you would come" she whispered, while trying to stand up. He supported her until was it certain that she could stay on her feet, then, very slowly, they resumed the walk.

He wished he could help her more, and he would have relieved her fatigue by scooping her up in his arms. He was planning to do so, sooner rather than later, if he could find the nerve to ask her what needed to be asked.

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During the following months, the problems which she had been experiencing with Apparition began to lessen, after Hermione was dosed with the different potions which Snape had added to those given by the healers, when, one morning, he stormed into her flat, after waiting for her in vain. Having witnessed the increasing frequency of her crises he had decided to break his unwritten rule whereby he never initiated any of their encounters.

"Stay where you are and don't you dare to move!" had been his first words, and she, who had tried to uncurl herself from her own comforting embrace in order to greet him, gave up the attempt, feeling that she had neither the strength nor the wish to argue. Emerging from her fireplace, in a few long strides he had reached the armchair where she was crumpled, and to her dizzy ears his next words had sounded like a balm rather than a lecture: "It's an established and well known fact that not everyone reacts the same way to this curse. What kind of idiot is your healer, then?"

And he had gone on checking her condition and explaining, and since she didn't remember how many times or how long she had endured Cruciatus that infamous night, he affirmed that she couldn't compare those many times with the few rounds which Potter sustained during their fourth year. They hadn't affected her friend anymore after his recovery under Pomfrey's care, as Hermione tried to say one time too many.

"You are still acting as it were your fault!" he had rebuked her, "And talented though that Veela woman may be, her care can't be compared to that given by a competent mediwitch!"

"I recommend these," he had ended, handing her four vials and resuming a calmer tone, "and you may ask your healer whether they are safe, or not, as you wish: here is the recipe".

Hermione had tried to extend her hand to him, and he had come nearer. "Please" she had croacked, trust and need in her eyes, "I'd like to try them now."

Later, after the effect of the new potions had begun to improve her capacity to interact, and after reading the little paper with the ingredients and the instructions, very advanced and challenging to any other wizard, both gave up pretences of independence or non-commitment and since then the cure was always of his own brewing.

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More time passed, and their relationship grew with it. The fact that she was trying, through her research and her project, to change something so deeply related to events that had strongly affected both their lives, made them more and more concentrated in their efforts, while at the same time they were growing completely sincere and confident with each other.

Winter came, and snow was falling. Over time the old house of Severus's youth had become cosier and cosier, thanks to his renewed life. Seated on his old couch, Severus Snape was reading the medical report from St. Mungo's which Hermione, sitting at his side, had handed to him. It had been a long time since her last episode, and he had for a while been confidant, not just hopeful, that this confirmation would be forthcoming.

"I'm fully recovered, Severus," she said, beaming.

He knew that the young woman could, now, live a full life, with nothing worse to endure than the normal fears or worries that affected everyone. And he knew that it was time to take the next step. He, above all, knew that this time words wouldn't fail him, nor events.

If she allowed him to speak and to do it.

"So… first things first: now that I'm well I can dedicate all my time to finishing the project! My thesis is nearly completed, you know, and my tutor will have it published! Ah, but I must also go away for a few days, I need to meet my room-mate to terminate my part of the contract on our room. And then…" She was going on babbling so he sealed her lips, silencing her with a long kiss that ended any further update.

"Are you happy when you're with me?" he asked later, his light tone hoping to hide his real, lingering need for reassurance.

"What do you think?" she breathed, with the most unconcealed trust and affection.

"Unbelievable as it is, it seems that you are fine, yes," he teased softly. "But will you stay, Hermione? And, one day, after having fixed everything and everyone, will you marry me?"

She blushed, then her answer showed how she was more than willing to change her priorities… from acquaintance, to respect, to friendship and love their story had grown slowly, and rightly so. At the end of that journey it seemed a waste to continue at that pace, though. "I will be an old hag, by then, Severus! And you'll be whiter than Albus Dumbledore ever was…" she smiled, brightened by the light in his eyes, in front of her.

"So… yes, I will, and as soon as possible!"

Since then, ever after, there were no more lost chances, nor missing moments, for either of them.

A.N. A kind reviewer of "I open at the close" asked to know more about the growth of this romance… well, here it is... a sign of how reviews are appreciated and very helpful!

We know that the Knight Bus can travel by day as well, because in OotP it picks the Trio up from Grimmauld Place in the mid morning, and the night-time beds have been replaced by chairs.

I wrote the bit about what Snape really knew of Death Eaters when he was a student after the very convincing reading of the great job made by Whitehound in her essay that can be read at www. whitehound. co. uk/Fanfic/good_or_bad_Snape. htm

And also the section breaks are from her site, they are available to everyone at this link: www. whitehound. co. uk/Fanfic/ffn_how-to. htm (remember to remove the spaces after all the dots).