He sat in absolute silence, letting every last detail spill out of her, barely moving at all except for when she reached the point of Ron's homecoming from the fateful Australian Quidditch tour, and the news of his love affair, with which he had lambasted her over dinner that night. At that point he stood; stalked across the room, his movements abrupt and jerky; and returned a moment later with a box if tissues in his hand. He dropped the entire box onto her lap without a word, settled back in his chair again, and resumed his quiet, attentive demeanor as she struggled to continue her narrative, now liberally interspersed with snuffles and short breaks in which she fought for composure.

"So that's it," she finished at last, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "I'm here because I didn't want to be anybody's charity guest at Christmas. Any of them would have had me, but…" She trailed off; looked away from him; looked back. Her eyes were glazed, unfocused. "There is no nefarious plot to hunt you down, or if there is, I am entirely unaware of it. I just… I needed… space, and… and…"

And then she was crying again, her face buried in her hands and a wad of tissues; exhausted, sluggish, worn out tears. Nothing remotely as powerful as the maelstrom of sobbing that had overcome her earlier, right before she'd launched into her tale – but somehow even sadder. She had no concept of how long she'd cried like this when she heard him mutter, "oh, hell," and then he was on his knees in front of her chair again, taking her by the arms and pulling her down onto the floor beside him, crumpled up tissues and all, into a surprisingly gentle embrace.

"It's all right," he soothed her, "don't –"

Suddenly angry and defensive, she stiffened, trying to yank herself away. "Don't tell me not to cry! Don't you think I've –"

"Don't fight it, is what I was going to say, Hermione," he cut her off. Her tear-bright eyes flew up to his, amazed. "Don't fight it. Let it out. It's like poison; it needs to get out. All of it, it's okay. Let it go."

And then she was crumpling again.

He held her as she cried for a long, long time.

OOOOO

On a dim and distant level, she registered him lifting her from the floor. Some time had passed, and she'd cried herself out completely. She was totally overcome with fatigue, and felt strangely... empty, somehow. But curiously enough, this was not the awful, desolated emptiness she'd been expecting. No, this emptiness felt somehow... well, clean. It felt as if, just as Snape had said, there had been some sort of spiritual wound within her that had been full of poison; a terrible, festering ichor - and that now it had been bled empty and clean. That didn't mean it had been healed; no, the wound was still there. Probably would be for a long time yet. But with the poison drained from it, she'd finally reached the point she'd been searching for without even consciously knowing that she was searching at all. A clean and empty point from which she could start over.

But not just yet. Not just now. There was only one thing on the agenda right now, and that was more rest. As trusting and compliant as a child in her exhaustion, she dragged up her arms - they were unbelievably heavy just now - and circled them loosely around her former professor's neck as he carried her back over to the bed. Floating in a dim, muted space that barely resembled consciousness at all, she hardly even noticed the way he slid one hand under her head when easing her down against the pillows. Hardly noticed - but did. Even compromised, she was still Hermione, after all.

Then he was sliding his hand - gently, so gently - out from beneath the heavy, tumbled mass of her hair and murmuring almost directly into her ear, "Hermione, you need to let me go." It was only then that she realized she still had her hands linked round behind the base of his neck. She let them fall away, her arms coming rest loosely beside her on the coverlet.

"I'll be right back," he told her, starting to turn away.

Sudden panic flared within her. She didn't want to be left alone. Frantically, achingly she didn't. "Wait," she croaked, barely audible. Then again, louder, "wait." She struggled up onto her elbows.

Dropping back into a crouch, he took her by the shoulders and pressed her down, into the soft embrace of the bed. "I'm only going to the kitchen, Hermione," he said quietly. "To get you a damp cloth for your forehead. You're flushed and overheated. I'm not leaving you alone. I'll be right back. Okay?"

Even while fighting to keep her own eyes open, she registered the surface exasperation in his - but deeper down, underneath, there was understanding - a totally unexpected and staggering amount of understanding. And something that might almost be described as kinship, as well.

She took a deep, shaky breath, relaxing.

" 'kay," she whispered. She watched him stand and walk away. By the time he returned, not even a minute later, she was fast asleep again.

OOOOO

The next time she opened her eyes, Hermione noticed right away that the light was very different. It had been dawn when she and Snape had had their breakfast conversation; barely light out at all. Now, the light that slanted in through those astonishingly tall windows was a thick amber-gold; the light of late afternoon verging on evening.

Merlin, she thought, sitting quickly up in the bed, I've slept the whole day! And then, a moment later, or is it more than one?

She had totally lost track of the passage of time.

Pushing her sleep-tousled hair back out of her face, she scanned her surroundings; she appeared to be quite alone. A folded-over note that she spied, an instant later, on the nightstand, confirmed it.

The note was brief and to the point:

Had to leave for business.

Will be back by dark.

Wait for me.

Will return you to your hotel if you wish.

Meantime, make yourself at home.

SS

Back by dark. That couldn't be too long from now, judging by the light. She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, easing them down to the floor. The cool smoothness of the polished concrete felt surprisingly nice underneath them, surprisingly... inviting. She curled her toes.

She was starting to see it now, the attraction of living in a space like this. To the unobservant eye it was stark, but... well, the truth of the matter was that she was already feeling more comfortable here than she had in her hotel, or even in her own home, since it had been abandoned by her husband.

She was feeling more comfortable here than she had felt... well, anywhere... in a long time.

Though a large part of that might have been the books. Sweet Merlin, so many books. Hundreds... maybe more. As she had noted on her first awakening in this unusual domestic space belonging to her formerly least favorite Hogwarts professor (with the notable exception of Umbridge, of course), one entire wall was devoted to books, right up to the ceiling.

And the ceiling in here... was high.

Standing, reaching up and back to twist her hair into a messy knot, she decided to raid the pantry and see what there was to eat around here... and then to have a look at just what sort of titles the elusive Severus Snape was favoring these days. Maybe even crack one or two of them open.

Just one of two of them, mind.

OOOOO

When he returned about an hour later, it was to find her curled up at one end of his sofa, a blanket from the bed tucked around her up to the waist, an empty plate and glass at her elbow, and at least half a dozen books piled haphazardly beside her on the couch. She was deeply engrossed in a volume on the history of a nearby northern California wizarding enclave located just outside the scenic coastal community of Half Moon Bay.

She raised her head to see him standing in the doorway, frowning.

"The books on those shelves are very carefully organized and cataloged," he said by way of greeting.

Hermione rolled her eyes and closed the book in her lap, but held her place with a finger even so. It really had been very interesting and she didn't want to lose her place.

"I left markers in place of every book I pulled out," she replied. "Your collection is breathtaking. I wouldn't do anything to... dishevel it."

"Hm." He regarded her for a moment in silence, then crossed over to her, shrugging out of a heavy Muggle-style coat as he did so. Beneath the coat he was wearing blue jeans and a black turtleneck. Muggle attire from head to foot. It was so... odd. And yet he wore it comfortably. He had had one Muggle parent, Hermione remembered. Plus he'd apparently been here, living in the Muggle world, for quite some time. The latter fact probably had more to do with the easy, unselfconscious way in which he was carrying himself than the former, she thought.

There was no arguing with the fact that he had worn robes well, with an undeniable dramatic panache; yards of jet-black fabric billowing in his wake as he'd stalked the halls of Hogwarts, striking awe and fear in the hearts of his students. And yet...

And yet he also wore these clothes well . They looked quite decent on him. He looked quite decent in them. Well. This was an unexpected turn for her train of thought to be taking. Hermione felt a blush mounting in her cheeks.

"So what... is it... that you do here, exactly?" she blurted out, rather more abruptly than she'd intended.

A peaked eyebrow was the only response she got.

"For work," she clarified, leaning forward to deposit the book she'd been reading on the coffee table, giving it up as a lost cause for the moment. She could find her place in it again later. What mattered now was that the act of putting it down, ever so carefully of course, gave her legitimate cause to break eye contact.

And compose herself.

"I work as a consultant for the university," he said, sinking into a chair opposite the sofa, directly across the coffee table from where Hermione sat. "San Francisco State University. The chemistry department. That is how Muggles refer to potions, you know. Chemistry. They think me some sort of a genius, I believe." Daring to raise her eyes again, Hermione saw just the barest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "I have so many fresh ideas, they tell me. The head of the department's been after me since I first signed on, to tell him where exactly it was that I studied, so he can send out a recruitment team. Snag a few more just like me. But because I'm only a consultant, not a member of the faculty, I'm under no obligation to share that information unless I wish to. Which I do not."

He leaned back in the chair; crossed his legs. "I've been offered a full-time position there; I've even been offered tenure. Mostly, I think, because were I to accept, I would have to provide my credentials. That poor man's being eaten up by curiosity, I think. He's gone half past mad with it." There was that tiny, dark half-smile again, flitting across his face and then gone. "But I neither need nor want another professorship. I like the freedom of consulting work. I make my own hours, come and go as I please. Keep to myself. And I'm left with plenty of time to read. And think. So pray tell me, what is it, Miss Gra -" he paused; frowned slightly. "What is it, Hermione, that you do for a living?"

"I... I've been teaching at Hogwarts these past two years."

"Is that so. How utterly unsurprising. And your subject is?"

"Two subjects, actually. Runes and Inter-Species Magical Cooperation. That's a new one, an elective for seventh years. Minerva let me introduce it last term."

"Minerva's a good woman," Snape said reflectively. "Fair, level-headed, and incredibly dedicated. Hogwarts is fortunate to be under her direction. She is deeply concerned about you, you know."

"She... wha... what?" Hermione stammered, caught completely off-guard. "How would you know a thing like that?"

He regarded her for a moment longer, then reached down and pulled something from the front pocket of his jeans. He held it out to her across the coffee table. "More reading material," he said, his tone deceptively bland. "I picked it up on my way home."

Taking it from him, she realized that it was a wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet, which had been folded over several times in order to make it "pocket sized".

"The Prophet," she exclaimed, unfolding it. "Where on earth did you get this?"

"There are easily a dozen newsstands in this city that stock wizarding papers," he said, "and of those dozen, I know of two that sell wizarding publications from overseas. Including our beloved Daily Prophet. One simply has to know where to look."

"How extraordinary," she breathed, and then, a moment later, smoothing the paper out and catching sight of the headline at last, "oh. Oh, no."

The article about her didn't take up the whole front page; there was that much to be grateful for, at least. The banner headline was something about trade negotiations with goblins reaching a dangerous stalemate. But she was there nevertheless; tucked into a lower corner, but still apparently front-page material. Merlin.

War Hero Goes Missing, the headline read. Smaller than the one about the goblins, but bold-faced and quite attention-grabbing even so. There was a photograph of her too, and a rather unflattering one at that, which made her suspect the involvement of everyone's favorite bottom-feeding scum-sucker, Rita Skeeter. A quick glance at the name beneath the headline confirmed it; the article was a Skeeter specialty, all right. She scanned it briefly, her dismay mounting by the second.

Certain phrases jumped out at her, each more mortifying than the last.

Recently orphaned...

Crumbling marriage...

Abandoned for another woman...

Emotionally fragile...

Increasingly erratic behavior...

Self-harm a distinct possibility...

Friends and colleagues, including Harry Potter himself, deeply concerned...

Plea for information, directly from the Headmistress of Hogwarts...

Oh, God. oh, God. It was all her own deepest insecurities about herself and her life, wildly sensationalized and splashed across the front page of a newspaper for just anyone... anyone... to see and read and speculate on, and draw their own conclusions about. It was beyond awful. It was beyond humiliating. It was... it was...

There weren't even words.

She raised her shocked, horrified eyes back to his, and found him watching her intently.

"Well, Hermione," he said said quietly, "you seem to have caused quite an uproar. Don't you want to let them all know where you are?"

"God, NO!" she practically screamed, her voice breathless and a touch hysterical. "Tell them where... you can't be serious! Tell them where I am - why? So they can suffocate me with their false pity again? Even the real pity was awful, but the false was... the false was..."

She broke off; swiped the back of her hand across her face. The tears had started flowing again, but she was only marginally aware of them. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "I just want peace. I just want dignity. I just want space, and time, to try to heal. I will not be their goddamn FREAK SHOW, I won't! I... won't..." Voice trailing away to a whisper, she lowered her hand, very slowly, away from her face. It was, she realized quite distantly, shaking. The hand, that is.

"Oh my God," she said faintly, opening her eyes again, locking them once more on his. "I get it now. I get it."

"Do you," he said. It might have been a question, but it wasn't. Not really.

And she did. She did. The reason why he'd turned tail and fled, choosing to vanish from the sight of the wizarding world just when he'd been vindicated, just when he'd finally, publicly, been given credit for everything he'd done throughout the war. Everything he'd sacrificed. Everything he'd achieved.

Because with that recognition had come publicity. Speculation. And, once all the details were out, pity. Loads and loads of pity. Pity from many sources, not least of all her.

"Yes." Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. "I understand it now. I understand it perfectly. Oh, prof - uhm, Severus. I'm so sorry." She dropped her face forward into her hands, fingers clenching in the hair at her temples.

"Hm," he said again, meditatively. Then nothing more for a long time, as she wrestled with her tears. After several moments she heard him stand; pace to the end of the loft; pace back again. Pick up her plate and glass; carry them into the kitchen. Pace some more.

Eventually she raised her head and opened her eyes... couldn't hide her face in her hands forever, after all. He was leaning against the counter that separated the kitchen from the living space, watching her intently.

She swallowed hard.

He retreated back into the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and brought it to her. She gulped it down gratefully.

"Well," he said at length, "I told you I'd return you to your hotel... if you wish. I was thinking, however, that we could get a bite to eat first. As it turns out, having a little bit of company from my past is not... as wholly unpleasant as I had imagined it would be. Besides which," he added a bit hastily, picking up, perhaps, on the expression of fresh astonishment that was dawning across her face, "one cannot simply arrive in San Francisco with a guidebook under one's arm and just... show oneself around. Or actually, in your case, I suppose one can. But that's not the way to see the city. To get a proper feel for it, you need to step out with a local."

"A local," she echoed, faint amusement now coloring her voice despite everything. "And that's you?"

"Well between the two of us here, I'm a damn sight closer than you are. So what do you say?"

"I... I should..."

A polite refusal was right at the tip of her tongue, but then she paused, thinking it over.

To decline would be reflexive... but was it really what she wanted? To be escorted directly back to her hotel and left there, deposited at the lobby to make her way back to the sterile, soulless confines of room 218? It was a nice room as far as hotel rooms went, sure, but... did she really want to just scuttle off back there, and... and...

And what?

Sit alone?

She didn't, actually, now she thought about it. Besides which -

"I am a bit hungry," she admitted at last. The only thing she'd found to eat earlier were half-stale crackers. Really they'd only managed to whet her appetite. "What did you have in mind?"

Another lightning-quick glimpse of a smile flashed across his face, there and gone again so fast she had to wonder whether, in fact, she saw it at all.

"You'll find out when we get there," he said.