A/N: It is so, so wonderful to read your theories and guesses! I am having a ball writing this. Welcome to all of the new followers. A reminder that this is an AU story; it deviates from canon in many more ways than keeping our favourite Potions Master alive.

So far: Hermione has charmed a letter to be seen by the Headmaster. She places it in the bedside table, thinking it would no doubt reach the next Head. There has been no formally recognised replacement for Snape, hence the castle still recognises him as Headmaster – the letter then comes to him. She has managed to charm any reply from him to come to her person, but anything she wishes to send him must go through the drawer. Why/how? Answers will be forthcoming. Remember that there is a year between them, and that sometimes they might be in the same place (office) at the same time of day, and thus able to communicate quickly.

And did anyone else play 'Where in the world is Carmen Sandiago?' Hahah. I can imagine Hermione just lapping that up.

We're going to be a bit jerky, a bit rushed, a bit breathless, with this chapter. Important discoveries will do that. I'll keep the years at the top of each POV; is everyone good and ready to leave them off for the next chapters? If it makes it clearer and easier to see them, let me know and I can keep them.

Chapter 3

1997

He was shaving when it happened. It was a long perfected ritual of comfort that he used to ready his mind for a day of near constant Occluding that induced headaches not unlike the feel of Thorin sodding Oakenshield's hammer striking his skull. Cream smoothed on with a brushthat cost more than his undershirt; smooth, even strokes with the razor; his own hand towel to pat his bare cheeks dry.

It wasn't much. Truthfully, it was the only thing he still bothered to do with any measure of precision. His hair was no longer washed as well as he used to – fuck what anyone else said, it was clean, despite its lank appearance that couldn't be helped – and his fingertips were beginning to smell like nicotine. It was such a small thing to notice, in the overall grand scheme of things; standing in front of the mirror in only the thin white cotton t-shirt, Severus watched his reflection as he lifted his hand to his nose and took a deep breath in. He winced at the harsh scent and the slight yellowing of the small, lined pads of skin above his neatly filed nails. Years ago, he would've washed his hands twenty times until there were no traces of the Muggle cigarettes. For now, though, he simply shrugged and returned to inspecting his clean, hairless cheeks, chin and neck.

When Severus was a teenager, he once grew a beard for a week. It was the week after his father had died, unmourned by him, and a year after his mother had passed. The beard was unintentional and quite hideous – somehow, somewhere along the line, Snape men had developed a knack of growing hair as quickly as they could remove it. Severus had begun to shave everyday not long after his voice broke at thirteen; the only exception his genes gave him was that the hair around his eager, seventeen year old (at the time) penis was thin and fine, thankfully never growing with a vengeance the way the hair on his head or face did. His chest and arms were somewhere in between; smattered with black, though not as much as on his legs, and, let all the Gods be praised, at least his back and arse were bare.

The week of The Beard (capitalised, given its horrendous nature) was largely unforgettable. He'd drunk himself almost to death in the sitting room of Spinner's End, then splinched himself while attempting to Apparate to buy books in Diagon Alley. Because apparently, when Severus Snape was filled to the brim with whiskey and port and loaded with coins from his Da's gambling debts (owed by others – who'd have thought?) recently paid to his cupped hands at the funeral, he went to buy books.

He'd arrived at the alley with a part of his shoulder missing; a week of a beard turned into a total of three after he'd regrown the skin at St. Mungo's. By the time he returned to Spinner's End, full of a dangerous mix of shame (out of all the wizards in Britain, Remus sodding Lupin had been the one to see him and drag him into hospital) and anger, the beard was level with the middle of his neck. Severus had a very long neck.

Thus began a lifetime of meticulously caring for his facial hair, lest he find himself in St. Mungo's again, probably with his cock splinched off, knowing his luck.

He moved his head from side to side, examining and then approving of the job. Not that it improved his appearance – a bit of beard would probably do him some good, hiding the way his cheeks were teetering on looking hollow. He was still too thin; he'd always been built like a greyhound, lean and long, but now it was unhealthy. Skin that was generally so fair it looked nigh on translucent was beginning to take on a true sallow look; even his lips were dry and cracked.

A sudden noise had his eyes narrowing; the Carrows weren't due for a couple of hours, there were no students in the castle yet, the rest of the staff were all far too busy plotting his death at their hands…

Oh, fuck! What?

He whipped around at the sound of sliding wood and darted back into the bedroom just in time to see the drawer of his bedside table move. It eased itself open slowly, almost cautiously; he could almost picture someone standing back and taking a good look at whatever was inside, but a wave of his wand showed that there was no one at all in the room. And then, slightly louder this time, the door was shoved shut with a force that had him sprinting to the table.

He tried every damn diagnostic spell he could think of and still nothing revealed itself. No enchantments, no curses – nothing!

"Bloody buggering hell…"

Severus directed a scowl at the innocent looking piece of furniture. Low in height (it barely came up to his knee) and made of a smooth, dark material that he guessed was rosewood, it was unassuming and plain. There were no embellishments, no foolish carvings; it was completely different to the rest of the furniture that was almost garish in its ostentatiousness.

It was utterly deceptive.

Oh, he'd opened it earlier that morning of course – he'd seen that the other letter, the first one, was gone. But his head was throbbing so much that for once he'd assumed that the alcohol fuelled night had lent itself to giving him strange hallucinations.

Apparently not.

The letter flew into his waiting hand and he read through it quickly; by the time he reached the 'H', he was fighting off rising bile in his stomach.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody fucking hell – something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Wrong with Potter or Weasley or maybe another minion, one that'd gotten the Trio into trouble, trouble that had surely meant they'd been captured overnight, strung up for Order bait or… Or to trick him. It was her.

There was no doubt in it; no one else wrote like that. Not so much the precise flowing letters in old cursive (the 'p' in 'point' was openly curved for Merlin's sake, like she was some aristocratic Muggle lady) but the tone of it all. The dripping disdain etched into the script, the natural condescension. All directed at him.

But that was not the issue. It did not relate to the 'Greater Good' – well, it might, as everyone else was supposed to believe that he was a pariah after all (though it did hurt to believe that she did, the one who he'd assumed would be the only person to dig further) – but what it did reveal was that somehow she was sending him messages, begging him to guide the students into the 'Light', as if there was a choice in it. As if there was a way for him to do it.

Almost as if someone was speaking into her little ear – at that, an image of curly black hair and long, insane fingernails flashed into his mind – and telling her just what to say to draw him out of the bat cave and into revealing his 'true' allegiances.

Bellatrix could sod off. He'd have heard if they had been captured.

Wouldn't he?

But how the fuck was Hermione fucking Granger writing him a letter?

…

1998

The letter was gone. Gone, gone, gone.

Hermione flew into the sitting room and collapsed onto one of the upholstered chairs in front of the fire. The letter was gone.

Was it gone gone? As in, taken? Or vanished?

Had she placed the letter into an equivalent of the vanishing cabinet? No… Hermione shook her head. She didn't think so. There was nothing about it in…

She stuck out her hand and summoned 'Hogwarts: A History'; it shot into her waiting hands with a thunk from its place in the middle of the second bookcase. Muttering a spell that she'd developed in her fifth year, she watched as pages flicked in front of her, searching for rosewood, bedside table, Headmaster's bedroom, magical.

No results.

She sat back in the chair and breathed in and out until her pounding heart calmed.

Which was all for nothing when she heard the drawer to the bedside table jerk open in the other room. Only seconds later, a folded piece of parchment appeared on her lap.

…

1997

'Miss Granger -

Explain yourself.

Now.'

Severus penned the letter and crouched down in front of the bedside table to test his theory. In a movement so quick it was almost a blur, he threw it into the drawer, closed it, then pulled it open a moment later.

Yes – just as he thought it would be, the letter was gone.

…

1998

Her legs couldn't move any faster. She ran into the bedroom and, without any of her usual grace, whirled her wand around. There was no trace of anything. Not even the little bedside table had any remnants of magic other than her own.

Hermione's mind was filled with swirling, curling thoughts – the loudest, the most prominent, was the one shouting into her ear that there was only one man who had ever written to her in such a way before. Essay upon essay flew through her head, countless pictures of a spidery red script: 'Elaborate, Miss Granger' or 'Not enough, Miss Granger,' or 'Think for yourself, Miss Granger'.

With anticipation so acute it was painful, Hermione whispered at length, "Finite Incantatem."

At her words, the plain block letters on the letter transformed to the small, silky letters that surely she was never meant to see again.

Impossible!

Wasn't it?

…

1997

Severus had already deduced enough to know that wherever his reply went, it wasn't back to him. The drawer was… what? An intermediary, in a way. The letter was delivered to him within it, he had seen with his own eyes that it opened and closed with the natural time length of an actual hand instigating the action. Had she managed to get a house elf to deliver it? Elf magic was not his speciality; perhaps they were utilising some old form of disguising themselves?

What a bloody nightmare.

He sat down on the bed and watched the piece of furniture like a hawk; he was a patient man, and would reap the benefits of waiting. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. Breakfast could wait, for now.

What could this – all of this – mean? Were the children in even more danger than they actually were? Had she beencaptured?

Sighing, he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees, raking a pale hand through his flat hair. It would do him no good to pretend that the idea of Hermione being captured was more painful, harder to deal with, than any of the others. Potter was crucial, yes, but he was also a fool, much like his faithful sidekick Weasley.

But Granger… she was the backbone of the Trio. And secretly, he admired her. Not any more than he should – no, he knew that she would become a beautiful young woman, no matter how unconventional her features were (that horrid hair!), though that wasn't it – but perhaps he admired her at the level that her intellect, her curiosity, deserved.

Severus had always thought of Hermione Granger as the epitome of innocence – she was nothing like his Lady D'Arbanville, his Lily of the Valley, the flame haired woman that had captured hearts as quickly as she slid their owners her little sideways glances from underneath her lashes. There was nothing calculating about Granger.

Or was there?

He was sure that he was wrong about her, in some way or form. It was that that enticed him, sparked his interest. And when had that started, exactly? He knew the moment, glad that he had a photographic memory because Merlin knew that pensieves weren't designed to be used for things such as this.

He had been for a run in the dead of night, the only time he had the freedom to follow the path past the Forest in his old battered shirt and threadbare trackpants. If any Slytherins had seen him in such clothing, he would've been dead the next day, and so night it always was. It was in her…what… sixth year. Last year. When she was a prefect, and came into the Hall on her first day all polished with her proud little badge glinting and then garnered more of his respect when she staggered in for breakfast a week later with wild, awful hair again and the badge pinned haphazardly to the falling neck of her robes.

He'd been bent over at the waist, catching his breath. He always took the long way back to the dungeons on the nights that he ran – the older members of his House had worked out most of the secret passages, but there was no fucking way they'd take the corridors that went past the Gryffindor side of town – and that night was no exception.

The night was quiet, still. Argus was further down in the depths of the castle, keeping his way clear (the benefits to a good working relationship with Filch far exceeded the annoyance of curled lips from others when they saw the two walking together). He was walking slowly, hooded jumper tossed over his arm; it was always warmer away from the dungeons.

There'd been a noise; a small one, a sharp intake of breath in surprise. Whipping around, he came face to face with Hermione Granger, staring not at his flushed cheeks but at his heaving chest covered in a flaking picture of a Cat Stevens album. Possibly the worst choice, not that he'd intended to bump into a student past midnight.

"Miss Granger," he bit out, grinding his teeth together to stop a shout of anger as he watched her eyes travel slowly from his feet back to the shirt, narrowing in on the faded words. He was too stunned by her blatant perusal to insult her, though he should have.

"Miss Granger," he tried again, voice lower, more scathing. This time her head snapped up and wide tea coloured eyes connected with his own onyx gaze.

"Oh. S-sorry, sir. My apologies." She shifted on her feet, drawing attention to her skin tight grey jeans and too-large shirt. A men's shirt? Severus cocked an eyebrow.

"For what, Miss Granger?"

"Hmm? What? What do you mean, sir? 'For what'?" The bemused shake of her head was humorous enough to send his mouth quirking. He couldn't even fight it; he was always in a good mood after a run.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, voice just above a whisper. The time she needed to gather her thoughts was longer than usual, and he took in her messy hair, half restrained, and slippers adorned with strange blinking eyes, a nose and abnormally large whiskers. When he raised his head after inspecting the ridiculous looking things, he almost laughed to see her challenging glare. Good. At least he'd have something to entertain himself with, then.

"Well," she began with a huff, "nothing, to be honest."

"Oh?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes. Nothing. Obviously you did not wish to be seen with your…" her eyes dragged over his shirt again, "attire, and yet here I am. Seeing you."

She was always too perceptive. "Your point, Miss Granger?"

"I don't have one. I was going to the kitchens and ran into my Professor in a Cat Stevens shirt. Merlin, I've seen McGonagall wearing worse."

"Ah. Her Cyndi Lauper jumper?" Gods, he was enjoying this.

"The very same," she sniffed. "Anyway – my point is that you've run into the only person who doesn't particularly care. So, apologising was merely a reflex. I didn't mean it. Goodnight, sir."

"Going to the kitchens? To see your paramour?" He shouldn't have said it, but really. Walking around in an old navy blue men's t-shirt?

"My what? Are you daft? Oh, shite," she clapped her hands over her mouth at his furious expression. "Sorry. Oh, gods… I didn't mean that. Sorry. I'll just be-"

"No you won't. Back to your dorm, Miss Granger. Now."

"Right," she mumbled and pivoted on her heel. "Sorry again. You're truly not daft. In fact, you're probably the smartest person in this castle and I'm including the Headmaster in that count. I certainly didn't mean to imply that-"

"Miss Granger," he growled, jerking his chin to remind her. "Leave."

"Yes, yes, I'm going!" she spat out, much to his amusement though he was stumped when she glared over her shoulder at him and said, "And there's no paramour! Who do you think I am? This is more comfortable than any flimsy thing from Madam Malkins, thank you very much."

Not even his, "Five points from Gryffindor for being out of bed," was enough to have her steps pause, though she did wave her hand in the air when she turned the final corner and was out of his sight.

Finally, after casting a muffliato and jogging to a deserted corridor, he gave in and laughed harder than he had in years.

…

He knew it.

Not even five minutes later, he watched with amazement as the drawer opened and closed in front of his eyes.

"Well, fuck."

Naturally, he dove in and tore open the parchment, reading it so quickly that his lips mouthed the words at the same time that his brain began to process them.

/

'How is this happening? Is it you? Really you?

Tell me now, or I'll call up a fiendfyre and incinerate this entire bedroom. Because if it's not you, then the alternative is that I'm imagining things and I'd rather like to keep my wits about me.

H.'

/

He couldn't resist. Not even Bellatrix would write her like this, mad with curiosity.

/

'Miss Granger,

Who else would it be? You are sending letters to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. I am the Headmaster.

Now, my demand remains the same. Explain yourself.

And since you are determined to write in such a childish manner as if you were searching for Carmen Sandiago, then I shall sign off as such:

-S.'

/

'I KNEW IT! I KNEW IT!

How is this happening?

H.'

/

'Miss Granger,

That was my question. If you wish to continue this charade of stupidity, then you will explain what the hell you are doing.

S.'

/

'Right. Hang on, then. Don't move. I have a theory and I'll write it all out but it's going to take me a couple of minutes.

Jesus Christ, I cannot believe this is happening.

DON'T MOVE.

H.'

/

'H,

I am not a deity, no matter how highly you seem to think of my talents.

You have five minutes.

S.'