Off to a good start...


"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed."
– Carl Jung


Several things had struck Hermione as strange about the discovery once she stopped to think about it. The sheer lack of secrecy, for one; once she started looking in earnest, he hadn't been terribly difficult to find. His choice of alias had been obvious once she'd thought about it. The caravan was not protected or concealed magically in any way, although she had avoided going too close; it was quite probable that there were some nasty defensive wards in place. Even so, something seemed off; this was Severus Snape, the man who had been a spy and a double agent through two wars, and yet here he was out in the open. It didn't make sense. He could have hidden himself far more cleverly; so why hadn't he? Why had he been openly wandering through Waterloo Station during rush hour? And why, now that she knew he was alive, had he not moved or hidden himself?

This was where it broke down. She simply didn't know him well enough to even hazard a guess. Nobody did, really; even old colleagues who had worked with him for twenty years hadn't been much help in earlier searches. He must have known that he risked being spotted, walking around so openly, so presumably that had been his intention all along; it seemed he wanted someone to discover that he was still alive. And if he hadn't taken steps to hide himself now that she knew... There were several possible explanations, she decided finally. One, he simply didn't believe she was clever enough to work it out. Two, he didn't believe she would bother searching for him. Or three... he wanted to be found.

Her thoughts were interrupted when her phone rang, startling her. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's me," Harry's voice greeted her. "Any news?"

"I'm not sure," she answered slowly.

"What's happened?"

"Well... I wasn't completely honest with you before. The reason I know that he's still alive is that I saw him."

"What?"

"I should have told you, but it hadn't really sunk in when I called you. I was in shock, I suppose. I didn't go looking for him or anything. I was walking through London and I literally ran into him. He gave me the slip, but not before talking to me – reluctantly. It was definitely him. And now... I think I might have found where he's living. But something seems off."

"Off, how?" Harry asked faintly.

"It was too easy." He started laughing, and she felt a smile tugging at her lips. "I know, I know, but hear me out. He was wandering openly through London. He's using a really obvious false name. It's taken me two weeks to track him down – Snape, who the Ministry and the Order have been hunting for ten years. He's not even trying to hide, Harry. There are no concealment spells in place at all, not even a Muggle-repelling charm, and he hasn't tried to change his appearance." Well, aside from one or two minor cosmetic differences, at least. "Does that sound like Snape to you?" she asked.

"When you say it like that, no." She could hear Harry's frown in his voice and could picture him running his fingers through his hair. "So, what, you think this is... I don't know, a trap?"

"I don't think so. There's no reason for that. He doesn't need to lure us in if he wants to make contact and I don't think he'd bother playing games. No, I think this is something else."

"Like what?"

"I think either he doesn't believe anyone would look for him, or he wants to be found. I wondered if he just didn't think we'd be smart enough to find him, but even if he did think that, he wouldn't risk underestimating us. I think he wants to be found."

There was a short silence before he spoke again, sounding thoughtful. "If you're right, where does that leave us?"

"I don't know. I spoke to a... neighbour; he's only been where he is now for a couple of years. I assume he was seriously hiding himself before that, and now I think he wants us to find him."

"Well, this just got complicated, then," he said with a sigh. "Can you come over? This needs more than a phone call."

"Just you and me?"

"And Ginny."

She laughed. "So when I asked you not to tell anyone else..."

He laughed with her. "Ginny doesn't count, you know that."

"All right. I'll be there soon."


"So you think this is some sort of challenge, daring us to work it out?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Hermione replied slowly. "It might be. I think I need to talk to him properly."

"Is that a good idea? He hates you."

"Harry, he hates all of us," she pointed out. "Who else can go? He definitely won't want to talk to you, you know that. And Ginny..."

"I don't know him well enough," Ginny said, shaking her head. "And I was working against him so hard in that final year, when you weren't there... He hates me, too. I think unless we want to tell everyone else, it's going to have to be Hermione."

"Should we tell anyone else? Kingsley should know..."

"No, not the Ministry, not yet; that's the last thing we need."

"Fair enough," Harry conceded. "What about McGonagall, then?"

"I don't think that's a good idea either. She's never really forgiven Snape," Hermione said regretfully. "I think we need to find out what's happening and why he's suddenly not hiding any more before we get anyone from the Order involved again."

It was Ginny who asked hesitantly, "Do you want to tell Ron?"

Hermione sighed. "Not yet. I don't want to argue, and that's all we ever do these days. You know he found it hard to accept that Snape wasn't a bad guy; he's going to hate this more than anyone else. Let's not tell him until we have to."

"Much as I hate it, you're right," Harry agreed quietly. "So, you're going to go and talk to him?"

"Try to, anyway. I'm not telling you where he is yet. You understand why, don't you?"

He nodded. "So you can tell him truthfully that nobody else knows."

"Yes. I'm not sure if he'll talk to me at all, but if he does and I lie to him and he picks up on it then he's quite likely to hex me into next week."

"Is this going to be dangerous?" Ginny asked.

"I don't think so," she said thoughtfully. "He wants someone to find him. I doubt he'll be happy to see that it's me, but I'm probably a better option than Harry would be. I annoyed him a lot, but I didn't cause him any specific problems – except for stealing from his supplies in the second year, anyway," she added ruefully. And setting fire to him in the first year, and attacking him in the Shack at the end of the third year... I was a real delinquent, wasn't I? "In any case, he didn't seem in very good shape when I saw him. If it does turn nasty I'll be able to at least get away."

"Be careful, Hermione," Harry cautioned her. "Nobody's ever beaten Snape in a duel, not one on one. He's been living on his own for ten years; he might have gone as loopy as Mad-Eye did."

"I'll be careful."


The biggest problem was what she should say. That was one of the main reasons why they hadn't tried harder to find Snape; there simply weren't words to apologise for misjudging him so completely for so many years, and he wouldn't have accepted it anyway. She knew that if she could persuade him to talk to her, at some point he was going to ask what she was doing there, why she had come to him. Finding an answer to that was going to be difficult, because she wasn't sure herself. A large part of it was guilt; they all owed him so much and they hadn't really tried to find out what had happened to him. She wanted to make sure he was all right, that he didn't need anything. There was also curiosity; she wanted to find out where he had been all this time and how he had survived. And finally she wanted to somehow try and compensate for the way he had been treated for so long.

He'll laugh himself into a hernia. Then he'll hex me into next week.

Even so, she had to try. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the bare ground where the caravan was parked and reached across the rickety steps to rap on the door with her knuckles.

After what seemed an eternity she heard uneven footsteps and a shadow appeared on the other side of the frosted panel set into the door. The lock clicked, and for a moment she wanted to run; before she could give in to the impulse, the door swung open and Hermione found herself face to face with her former Potions teacher once more.

His expression didn't change, not even a slight widening of those black eyes betraying his thoughts on seeing her. They stared at one another silently for a moment before he exhaled. "I suppose it is too much to hope for that you would be willing to simply leave."

"I'm afraid not," she replied quietly, feeling the terrible tightness in her throat beginning to ease. He wasn't going to attack her, or he would already have done so.

"Naturally not," he muttered. Turning away without another word, he retreated inside, leaving the door standing open behind him. Choosing to interpret it as an invitation, albeit not a very gracious one, she followed him inside and closed the door, looking around curiously as she entered what turned out to be a small living space containing a pair of old sofas, a table and chairs and a number of cupboards all crowded together. He didn't seem to have magically enlarged the interior of the caravan at all. An old radio was playing in the corner; he turned it down, but not off, and moved into the long and narrow galley-style kitchen before turning to look at her, leaning back and propping his hips against the counter. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked at her grimly, waiting.

She took a moment to look at him. His weight was to one side, resting mostly on his left leg, but he didn't seem to be in pain as far as she could tell. He didn't look quite as tired as he had done the last time she had seen him, either; that was possibly helped by the edge of wariness in his eyes. "You came alone?" he asked finally; she knew what he was really asking.

"Yes," she replied, and for a moment didn't explain any further, watching the skin tighten at the corners of his eyes; the days when he could render her incoherent with a look were gone. He was as intimidating as ever, but she'd seen too much to be so easily unnerved. Relenting, she told him what she knew he had really wanted to hear. "Nobody knows where this place is, or how I found it. Two people know that I'm here, and why I'm here. Nobody else knows I was even looking, not yet."

He relaxed very slightly, underscoring just how tense he had been, and after a moment his lips twisted into a very familiar sneer. "In essence, then, nobody knows where you are and my life would become much easier if I were to Obliviate you where you stand."

"If you were going to do that you would have done it already," she retorted, "and you certainly wouldn't mention it in advance and give me a warning."

His expression changed subtly, and he drawled, "Ah. As insufferable as ever, I see." Trying not to smile, she watched him reach across the width of the tiny kitchen to the stove and stir the contents of a pot, a faint smell of spices filling the room before he replaced the lid. Settling against the counter again, he looked her over with his usual expression of faint disdain. "The two are Potter and Weasley, I assume?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You said that there are two people who know what you are doing," he elaborated with exaggerated patience, scowling slightly. "Potter and Weasley?"

She shook her head. "Potter and Potter, actually," she replied.

His scowl deepened to a frown, his black eyes growing distant for a moment before he focused on her once more. "Ginevra?"

"Ginny, yes." She frowned in turn. "I didn't realise you knew about that."

He smiled mirthlessly, the expression more than half a sneer. "I could have lived without knowing. Sadly one of the side effects of constantly gathering information is that some of it is less than pleasant." He shook his head, critically examined the contents of the saucepan on the stove, sighed and switched it off. "I suppose I should not be surprised that Potter never got over his Oedipus complex."

"What?"

"You don't find it at all distasteful that he married a woman who differs from his mother almost solely in eye colour?" he inquired, his lip curling. The fact that he had referred to Lily, even indirectly, made Hermione pause before she answered truthfully.

"Actually I was surprised that you know what an Oedipus complex is... sir."

He gave her a faintly exasperated look. "I haven't been your teacher in eleven years, Miss Granger – unless it's Mrs Weasley now?" he added nastily, looking her up and down. "No ring, though."

"It's still Miss Granger, and it's none of your business," she answered tartly, trying very hard not to blush. She hadn't realised he knew about that, either.

"I have little to do these days save read," he said calmly. "Greek mythology and psychology are both interesting subjects." It took her a moment to realise that he was responding to her earlier comment about Oedipus. There seemed nothing else to say, and she watched silently as he opened a cupboard door to reveal a tiny fridge and removed a carton of orange juice. Taking a glass from a cupboard, he paused and glanced sideways at her; it took her a moment to catch on, but she nodded and he took a second glass down, pouring drinks for them both.

"Thank you," she said softly as she took the glass, sipping gratefully. He didn't respond, moving back into the small living room area and reaching up to switch off a black and white TV playing silently from on top of a cupboard. She watched him settle himself carefully on one of the sofas, turning his body to ease his right leg up along the edge of the cushions; looking up, he met her gaze and raised an eyebrow before jerking his head towards the other sofa.

Sitting down, Hermione took a moment to gather her thoughts. "Your leg is damaged?" she asked softly.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Most of me is damaged," he replied sarcastically, "one way or another."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. The knee has very limited mobility, though." He took a sip of juice, transferring his gaze to the joint in question. "Cumulative damage," he said finally, answering the question she didn't quite have the courage to ask him. "I received a number of injuries to my right leg over the years. It weakened the joint. At the end... in the Shack, I... assume I fell awkwardly and caused further damage. By the time I managed to treat my injuries, this was the best I could do."

"Is your voice because of...?" She trailed off and when he looked at her she brushed her fingers over her throat.

"Yes," he replied, scowling. "Is my medical history really any of your business?"

"Given your reasons for incurring those injuries, and given that I was there in the Shack at the end, yes, I would say it is," she replied, and for the first time since she had known the man she had the dubious pleasure of seeing Severus Snape caught totally off guard.

"How much do you know?" he asked softly. His voice was dangerously calm; in classes that tone had usually come just seconds before he tore shreds off whichever student had been unfortunate enough to draw his wrath.

"Everything you gave Harry," she answered quietly, "corroborated by Albus' portrait." His jaw tightened and he looked away, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "If it makes you feel better," she offered, "very few people saw any of it. Nobody outside the Order. And only a couple of us saw everything." Although admittedly a lotof people had heard Harry yelling at Voldemort about Snape's feelings for his mother; she wisely decided not to mention that.

He didn't reply; she watched his hands as he set his glass down and slowly raised his right hand to rest lightly on his left arm. Evidently her attempt at reassurance hadn't made him feel better; he also still apparently retained his old nervous habit of touching the Mark during uncomfortable conversations that she had observed many years ago.

It was almost ten minutes later when he spoke again, but the silence hadn't been uncomfortable on her part. He didn't seem particularly hostile, somewhat surprisingly; the situation was a little awkward, but not as frightening as she had thought. "Well? Why are you here?"

That was the question she had known was coming. "To decide what to do next," she replied simply.

He looked at her, scowling slightly, and she elaborated. "Once I knew you were alive, I wanted to talk to you before we decide whether anyone else should know. And I wanted to find out what happened to you."

Snape sneered, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. "Wait for my autobiography, Miss Granger."

She finished her juice and set the glass down, looking at him. "How did you survive?" she asked bluntly, deciding that the time had come for questions of her own.

He sighed, looking tired once more as his sneer faded. "I have no wish to play Twenty Questions with you. Is there no chance at all that you will simply walk away and leave me in peace?"

Hermione took a gamble. "If you truly wanted to be left alone you would have hidden yourself more thoroughly." A tic jumped at the corner of his eye and he looked away as her words struck home.

The silence dragged out for several minutes, broken only by the faint sound of the radio still playing to itself. "Luck," he said finally.

"I'm sorry?"

"How I survived. It was luck." Avoiding eye contact, he settled back against the sofa and stared upwards at the ceiling. "I have not yet decided whether it was good or bad luck."

"There must be more to it than that. I saw your injuries. We couldn't find a pulse."

"I am astounded that you bothered to check," he replied sourly. "I am, however, not surprised that you did not find a pulse. I am reasonably certain that there was no pulse to find. I believe I was clinically dead for several minutes. I don't know how long; I seem to recall reading once that the brain can only survive six minutes without oxygen before the damage becomes too severe, but that may be wrong."

"How did you survive?" she repeated.

"After Arthur Weasley was attacked by Nagini in the Ministry, I was one of those responsible for his treatment..." he began slowly.

"I didn't know that," she interrupted, surprised.

"Nobody did except Dumbledore and one of the healers. That was the point," he replied dryly. "In any case, I was unable to devise a perfect treatment but I did manage a partial antivenin. Based on my work with him, I concocted what I hoped was a reasonable facsimile of Nagini's poison – naturally, I was not permitted to analyse the real thing. I dosed myself with the synthesised venom in an attempt to build up tolerance, something I did with many poisons, and at all times I carried with me a number of potions including a bezoar derivative of my own devising, Blood-Replenishing potion, common antidotes and other healing potions. A first aid kit, if you like, designed to attempt to be ready for whatever might happen."

She frowned. He saw it and continued softly, "I always expected to die. It was inevitable. The only doubt was in the time and the method. As it happens, that kit allowed me to survive on more than one occasion. Still, it was not a perfect solution, as you can see."

"You seem all right," she said without thinking. He raised an eyebrow, an almost bitter expression darkening his eyes still further.

"You," he replied heavily, "do not know what you are talking about. As usual," he added nastily, but the insult lacked any real venom. He seemed tired again, and his fingers hadn't stopped absently tracing his forearm where the Mark was concealed by his sleeve.

"I can't be as ignorant as all that," she countered. "I found you, didn't I?" Hermione recognised his scowl. It was the expression he had worn in class when he hadn't been able to find anything to criticise. Rubbing his eyes wearily, he didn't answer. Gathering her courage, she moved on to the next question. "Where did you go, after the Shack?"

She hadn't really expected him to answer, but he did, still in an oddly talkative mood. "Here and there, at first, finding temporary hiding places while I healed. Then I left the country. I spent some time in Asia, later in America. Not doing anything. Travelling. Seeing the world," he added with heavy irony in his voice. His eyes were closed now, the edges of his words softening; he sounded almost drunk, and she wondered what medication he was taking at the moment and what it was doing to him.

"You came here two years ago," she prompted softly when he stopped speaking. He opened his eyes and looked at her, before sighing.

"My ostensible landlord talks too much. Yes, I did. I returned to Britain three years ago, moving from place to place. Got tired of it all. Hitched around the country for a few months, saw the caravan for sale. Bought it and a car, drove around a bit, found this place. Decided it would do. Parked here. End of story." His sentences were growing shorter and the story was more disjointed. "Any more questions?"

"Not right now," she answered slowly, certain that something wasn't quite right. "I don't think I should stay any longer. But I haven't made my decision yet. Would it be all right if I came back to talk to you another time?"

"Is there any way I could stop you that wouldn't result in my arrest?"

That was the closest she was likely to get to acceptance. Deciding not to push her luck any further, she nodded and stood up. "Thank you for talking to me."


"Well? How did it go?" Harry asked eagerly when she returned. He frowned. "You look odd. What happened? Did he... I dunno, attack you or something?"

"No," Hermione answered slowly, frowning. "It was... Again, it was too easy. He let me in without a problem, answered my questions. Oh, he was as unpleasant as ever, but I don't think he really meant it. It was really strange."

"Was he all right?" Ginny asked.

"No," she repeated, certainty in her voice. "No, he definitely wasn't all right." She described his injuries, the ones she knew about, and repeated what he'd told her about what had happened to him.

"And he told you all this freely?" Harry asked. "That's not right. You're sure it was Snape, and not some nutter messing around?"

"It was definitely him. I think he's ill, or he's been ill recently; I think he was on some kind of medication. Towards the end, his voice changed, and if I hadn't been there for the past hour I would have thought he was drunk. I suppose that made him a bit more talkative, but there's more to it."

"Like what?"

"I'm almost certain now that he wanted to be found. He mentioned getting tired of it all, before moving to where he is now. When you think about it... He's been alone and on the run for ten years. That must do strange things to someone's mind."

"You think he's what, gone crazy?"

"No. Definitely not that. No... I just think he's been very lonely for a very long time. He seemed like it was almost a relief to talk to someone."

"I suppose that makes sense," Harry agreed slowly. "I mean, the counselling we got after the war wasn't much, but at least we were offered some sort of treatment. If he's been shut inside his head with his memories for a decade... I guess he would be a little weird."

"What will you do now?" Ginny asked.

"I don't know. I'm going to go back and talk to him again, find out if it was just a one-off or if his mind has slipped or something. I have more questions I want to ask him, anyway. When we know what state he's in, maybe we can come up with something. But... we owe him. All of us. The Order, the Ministry, the whole wizarding world. I want to try and find out what he wants; to see if we can pay him back a little. He's back for a reason; I just don't know what it is yet."

"And you've never been able to resist a puzzle," Harry added, laughing slightly. She tried to glare at him, but he was right. Snape had always been an enigma, and now she had a chance to crack it.

She couldn't wait.


Next chapter shortly after the New Year.