Today's Post is dedicated to Alan. Thank you, Mr. Rickman. Thank You…

These directions, Hermione grumbled to herself, were for shite. "Go two miles, then take the sharper right after a sharp right after a big curve." The whole bloody road was on a mountain, wasn't it? There was nothing but curves. And now that the rain had moved in visibility was bollocks. She supposed it was probable that by now, at the three mile mark, she'd passed the turnoff. More than likely, he'd put a notice-me-not on the road to MAKE it hard to find. She grinned at the thought.

When had she gone from hoping that she'd found Severus Snape to being sure of it?

Well it hadn't been three years ago, when, searching through the IMM currency exchange ledgers she'd noted an entry showing the conversion of a modest sum of money from Galleons to American Dollars. Though the date had been perfect, roughly one week after the battle of Hogwarts, and the name had been tantalizing, Tobias Evans, she hadn't been certain then.

She hadn't been certain when she discovered that Mr. Evans, who'd purchased an expensive official portkey passage to Vancouver seemed to have failed to appear…or at least, no one who took that multi-stage journey (book to the Azores, shoe to Halifax, two litre bucket to Vancouver) could remember anyone of any description sharing any part of the arduous trip with them, even with her memory enhancements.

She hadn't been certain when she discovered that Mr. Evans had purchased an old hulk of a pickup truck, (when enhanced the muggle used-salesmen recalled started as if by magic under Mr. Evan's hand; obviously his memory wipe had been more perfunctory.) Even when she'd discovered that Mr. Evans had passed up a perfectly lovely red model for a rusted hulk of forest green, even then, she hadn't been certain.

Then, the trail of Tobias Evans had disappeared. So. She'd followed the truck.

Its stickers had been renewed in Seattle. A few months later, a deed of sale (which subsequently proved to be an excellent forgery) had been processed in San Francisco, transferring ownership to a non-descriptly named Josiah Jones. Non-descript, unless you knew the name of the man she was hunting. He couldn't reclaim that name, but the rhythm; the alliteration could be his once again. Josiah Jones. Somehow, it fit.

But even then she hadn't been certain.

She hadn't even been certain at the beginning of the summer when the APB on the green truck finally yielded a hit, at a garden store in Ben Lomond, California, and the officer described the driver as tall, early middle age, lanky of build, with dark hair silvering at the temples, and dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt.

Oh, she'd hoped. Both of them had hoped. Ever since the night of Ron's wake, when Harry had confessed that the body he'd carried into the great hall with such ceremony had been a snatcher, temporarily transfigured to resemble the fallen potionsmaster. Of course, the power of the Elder Wand had been such that the glamour had outlasted the burial of the body, and the disappearance of the original had gone unnoticed. Only Harry had known that Professor Snape had survived.

Yes, ever since then she'd hoped. But she hadn't known. All summer, while she'd arranged her cover story, cleared her schedule, planned her trip out, she had hoped. But she had not been certain. Not until now. Now? Instinct was screaming at her.

He…was…alive.

The feeling was almost strong enough for her to turn around. After all, all she'd ever wanted was to know. But she'd come this far, driven initially by grief and later by hope and a longing for something she couldn't quite define. She'd take the final step. She would lay her eyes on the man who had been hero and tormentor in her life's first great quest. She would see for herself that he had, in fact, survived his hell.

She turned her rental car into the rain, making a hasty U turn, and began retracing her path. Using her magical senses, she looked not for the poorly described road, but simply for a spot that she didn't quite want to look at. When she found it, she almost cheered. Definitely a notice-me-not. Grinning, she turned in.

SSSS

His preparatory duties complete, Severus Snape stood on the deck of his home and watched the rain sluice down off the eaves. Now that what he cared for was protected, he did not fear the storm. Like the earth, he welcomed it.

He bent to untie his hiking boots, and slipped shoes and socks from his feet. Milo, his aesthetically challenged, but undeniably loving mutt dog, looked on contemptuously as he removed the remainder of his clothes.

"Are you coming?" Snape asked him, already knowing the answer. "You know you love the hot tub."

Milo may have loved the hot tub, but he most certainly did not like the rain. The drought had been heaven for him and he greatly resented its end. Milo sniffed, turned in place once, then, his opinion made crystal clear, nosed the screen door open, disappearing into the warm house.

Chuckling, Severus Snape braced himself, and walked out from under the eaves. Entirely nude, he spread his arms and let icy needles of water hit his skin. He would meet this storm, he thought, with pleasure. As the first rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, his laughter was pure and true. What a pleasure it was to live.

An hour later, the storm was pulsing in earnest. His muscles, which had been tense from the day's exertions, were now pliant and loose from the ministrations of his cedar tub. He'd mourned the loss of the aged redwood tub last year, but its stern refusal to hold water, even with magical help, had finally caused its retirement. He smiled. That hot tub, already old when he'd arrived, had been the first pleasure he'd allowed himself in his new life. It had begun his process of learning that he needn't suffer without succor. It had disabused him of the faulty notion that there could be no achievement without pain. It was a simple concept, but it had been utterly foreign in his previous life. Strange now, to think of it. But no matter. He knew now. He'd raise a glass to the redwood tub now, if he had one.

A glass. Now that was an idea. He vaguely considered summoning his favorite bottle of single malt. But that wasn't what he truly wanted. It was at times like this, the icy rain pounding upon his head, the hot water soaking in to his musculature, that he most missed the spicy tang of a good firewhiskey. Oh, he could distill it himself, but during the hot days of mid-summer, when the finicky drink must be brewed, it always seemed such a lot of trouble. After all, he craved it only in truly cold weather, of which, on his mountain, there was shockingly little. But, he decided, at a moment like this, that pleasure would be worth the effort. This year, he would bottle some for future storms.

Warm, and loose, and considering the merits of various replacement intoxicants, he was so mellow that he couldn't even find it within him to be annoyed when a trill ran over his wards, and was quickly followed by a pair of headlights making their tortured way up his treacherous and rutted private drive. A neighbor with a problem, undoubtedly. Though he was older in years than most of his community, his apparent youth meant he was often on call whenever there were burdens to carry, domestic animals to rescue, or technological catastrophes to be undone. Such tasks were then rewarded with gifts of fresh baked pastry, or casseroles of one sort or another. Since he had not been answering his mobile, no doubt someone had come to seek his assistance in person. Perhaps there would be pie. Pumpkin pie. That wouldn't go amiss. Not at all.

Though there wasn't a single one of his aging hippy neighbors who would be surprised to see that he tubbed in the nude, he summoned a towel and wrapped it tightly about his hips. It seemed the polite thing to do…and it gave him a place to stash his wand in the unlikely case that he might need it.

As he reached his driveway, the car reached its destination. He'd purposefully ended his drive many yards from his deck. Forcing arrivals to walk those final feet gave him time to identify the person approaching, time he often needed to prepare himself for interaction. The majority of his neighbors were laconic and respectful, made the additional adjustment time unnecessary. But three had large personalities, making preparation for their invasion a necessity. Of course, it was one of those three, Mrs. Egan, who was the best baker of the lot, so though she drained him to no end, there were certainly recompenses for her arrival.

But this was not Mrs. Egan's aubergine Subaru. In fact, he did not recognize this particular vehicle at all. It was a late model compact car; a rental? A lost tourist then? Heaven help him, with the weather this bad, he'd have to put him up for the night. Annoyance raised its ugly head. Then the door swung open, and a small, tidily dressed woman stepped into the rain. His nostrils flared. No, not woman. Witch. And a bloody powerful one too. But obviously one that meant him no harm, as his wards had barely twitched.

Nonetheless, the idea of witch or wizard penetrating the bubble of his sanctuary raised in him a rage that had long been his companion but had lately slumbered.

Eyes almost blind with fury, he surged forward. He swiftly crossed the empty space, pinning the witch to the side of her car. Adrenaline and fury coursed through him as he drilled the tip of his wand in to the soft flesh of her neck.

"Who are you?" He rasped. "And what are you doing here?"

In a blur, the witch pivoted, executed a rather spectacular non-verbal that simultaneously disarmed him, numbed his entire body, and warded him against executing non-verbals. With minimal physical effort on her part, their positions were now reversed, and he was utterly incapacitated. And then she smiled sunnily.

"Hello professor! I'm Hermione Weasley. And I'm here to see you."

SSSSS

Author's note: When I was writing this story, Mr. Theolyn was my primary plot beta. And he was very concerned by the balance of power in the story between witch and wizard. In a culture that is so very loose with the concept of consent between man and woman, I am honored to have a partner who cares about these areas so keenly. But while I feel a responsibility to make mindful choices in that area as I write, (all lemons in my story are consensual.) I am dealing with a character who has dwelled in the grey areas all of his life. This Severus will be neither a perfect man nor a perfect mate (at least not in the parts we get to see). Please take this is an invitation for discussion in your reviews. I would truly love to hear your reactions and your thoughts concerning issues of gender balance in the story.

Of course, if that stuff is not your cup of tea, and you simply want to wallow in lemons, well, that's legitimate too. Rest assured, the lemons are not far off. Have at it, and enjoy!

Warmly,

Theolyn

Addendum: I have just read the news. As of this morning, Alan Rickman has gone on to King's Cross Station. He was a masterful artist, and he was sexy as hell. Given how I felt about Snape in the novels, I'm convinced that no one else could have played him in the movies. I felt a thrill every time he came on-screen. Still do. Thank you Alan, for making my favorite character come to life, and giving him a depth that has inspired all of us to continue reading and writing about him.

Travel well, and know that you are remembered.