Okay, I'm nowhere near as clever as I think I am, clearly. Almost everyone guessed it. You should all feel very proud, because I now feel a bit silly for hyping it up so dramatically.


"There is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness."
– Pearl S Buck.


As the weeks passed, she grew no closer to understanding him. He continued to shun all company, avoiding meals and the staff room; she spoke briefly with the house elves and learned that they delivered raw ingredients to his rooms and he did his own cooking. She was certain that apart from his students, she was the only person he spoke to. Even with her, he was unfailingly sarcastic and cool as he had always been; any question that he didn't want to answer was either ignored completely or drew only an insult in reply. She had never for a moment imagined that he would suddenly open up and become warm and friendly – frankly, if that had happened it would have been more terrifying than facing Voldemort, and would have indicated chronic brain damage – but given the circumstances she had thought he might have changed a little.

And yet, despite his invariably cold and disdainful attitude, every so often there were startling glimpses of something else. A week after their first conversation in the lab, she found a note on her bed that said, cryptically, "I believe I have something of yours." Her curiosity piqued, she went to his rooms after dinner and found him lying on the sofa in his living room, reading, with a purring Crookshanks curled up on his lap. Unable to even speak, she stood in the doorway staring as Snape's long fingers absently stroked through the ginger fur behind her pet's ears.

"How did he get in?" she managed finally.

His black eyes gleamed with amusement behind his glasses. "I have no idea. In my experience, however, it is almost impossible to stop a cat from going somewhere it particularly wishes to go."

"I'm sorry if he disturbed you."

"He didn't. I like cats," he said absently, to her surprise. Not sure of how to respond, she watched him remove his glasses and lay them on top of his book on the small table near his elbow. Of all the possible ways to get inside his head, she hadn't thought of animals.

"Did you ever have a pet?" she asked softly. He shook his head, apparently quietly absorbed in the flicker of the firelight over Crookshanks' fur.

"No. When I was young, my father would not have tolerated an animal, even just for the holidays, and doubtless one of my year-mates would have taken exception to any animal belonging to me. When I was teaching... I never really thought about it, to be honest. The dungeons aren't really ideal for an animal, anyway; your cat is the first to have voluntarily ventured down this far."

"Crooks sees the whole of Hogwarts as his territory. Apparently that includes you," she replied, wanting to keep him talking. He snorted softly; it might have been a trick of the light, but Hermione thought she saw him smiling a little. I owe you a treat, furball. You're not a cat, you're a miracle worker. "You should be flattered. He doesn't like most people." She had never fully puzzled out Crookshanks' criteria for his discerning friendship, but evidently he considered Snape worth the effort.

"Splendid; nor do I. We'll get on famously," he replied sarcastically, and she bit her lip to stop herself laughing.

"How did you get into my room to leave the note?" she asked, more curious than worried. "Is it the same way you access Minerva's office?"

"Yes."

"Can anyone else do it?"

"Yes."

She thought for a moment. "Can just anybody do it?"

"No."

"Could I do it?"

"Not yet."

"You're not going to give me even a tiny hint, are you?" she asked, frustrated by the monosyllabic answers, and he half-smiled in response and shook his head.

"No. You already know everything you need to know in order to work it out."

"Come on, Crooks," she told the cat, who opened one eye and looked at her drowsily before reluctantly uncurling. To her amusement, he braced his forepaws against Snape's chest and looked the man in the face, purring, before turning and leaping down, padding over to his mistress. She picked him up, smiling a little, and watched Snape brushing ginger hair off his trousers – he seldom wore his robes in his rooms, she had discovered. "Sorry about the fur."

"The only way to avoid cat hair when you own a cat is to get one of those ghastly hairless Sphinx things, and I hardly think they count as real cats," he answered mildly.

"True. I've never really been sure what Crookshanks is – I think he's half red Persian, half Kneazle, but that might be wrong."

"Since he seems in remarkably good health considering his age, and since he was clever enough to find a way through my wards, it seems unlikely that he is just a cat," he agreed. That was a good point; she had owned her familiar – or he had owned her, as it sometimes seemed – for fourteen years now and he'd been around three or four years old at least when she had bought him. Abruptly the absurdity of the situation hit her; she was discussing breeds of cat with Severus Snape, of all people.

"This is the sort of conversation I would have expected to have with Minerva, rather than you."

He looked up, another hint of what might almost have been a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Actually, McGonagall doesn't like cats much. I believe she is mildly allergic. You can tell when she has transformed recently; she sounds like she has a bad cold."

Hermione bit back a giggle. "Then why is that her Animagus form?"

"Latent masochism would be my best guess," he observed dryly. "Although I suppose it is more likely that she did not know she was allergic until after she had learned to change form. You would have to ask her." His eyes glittered with amusement. "If you do, please ensure you warn me in advance so I can get a good view."

"That would involve you leaving your dungeon and associating with us lesser mortals," she pointed out. "Are you sure it would be worth the effort?"

"To annoy Minerva McGonagall? Absolutely."

"And on that note, I shall take my cat and leave you to your book," she decided, "before I lose all respect for my Headmistress. Good night, Severus."

"Good night."

As she left, she looked down at her purring cat. "I don't know how you managed it, Crooks, but I do believe you actually made Snape smile. For that, you deserve a treat; let's go via the kitchens and find you some fish." Walking through the corridors, she paused and stared down at her pet as a sudden thought occurred to her. "If you got into his rooms by yourself, you could have got out again very easily. So why did he bother telling me you were there, if you weren't bothering him? Did the world's greatest misanthrope actually want company?" she asked.

Crookshanks blinked enigmatically at her.


That conversation had been a huge surprise, one that reinforced her determination to get to know the real Snape. In particular, she wanted to see that hint of a smile again – she'd never seen anything other than impassiveness, a smirk or a sneer on his face, save for moments of rage (and, once, agony, as he lay dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, but she tried not to think about that) and she wanted to see what a real smile would do to his face.

Her twenty-ninth birthday fell on a Saturday near the end of September. She was in the staff room early that morning, laughing with those of her colleagues who were awake as she opened her gifts; it was a surprise when Snape walked in, since he rarely set foot in the place. He looked tired and irritable, as he so frequently did, and moved straight for the coffee kept percolating in the corner. "What brings you here, Severus?" she called across to him.

"Ran out of coffee," he muttered, focusing on what he was doing. Apparently he wasn't a morning person. Pouring himself a cup – he always took it strong and black, with either no sugar at all or what Hermione considered to be far too much, depending on his mood – he turned and was most of the way out of the door when he seemed to notice what was going on. "It's your birthday?" he asked in a neutral tone of voice.

"Yes."

To her disappointment, if not exactly her surprise, he said nothing else and simply swept out of the room. Exchanging glances with her fellow staff members, she rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Would 'happy birthday' have killed him? Just when she thought he was starting to soften a little, he'd do something like this, and leave her wondering if there really was anything more to him than the bitter shell he allowed the world to see.

Hermione felt very guilty for those thoughts later, when she returned to her rooms after lunch and found a breathtaking arrangement of paper flowers in her living room - three red and white roses, each one folded with exquisite precision. There was no card, no note, but she didn't know anyone else who liked origami or who could get into her rooms. When she thanked him that afternoon, he looked her straight in the eye and said impatiently that he had no idea what she was talking about; if nothing else, the experience taught her that there was never any sign to show when Snape was lying, and that it was unwise to believe for a moment that she understood anything at all about him.


She had little further contact with him until the end of October. His quest to cure himself was still in its research stages; she knew he visited the library occasionally and checked out books on human health, healing and Dark magic, and she tried to direct her own reading to those volumes he didn't seem to have already read. Once he started actually brewing, she would no doubt see him more often, but for the moment he didn't seem to particularly want company. Minerva had – reluctantly – insisted that he rejoin his fellow staff members in the staff room occasionally; evidently the Headmistress realised that the division between Snape and everyone else wasn't a good thing. He had obeyed with equal reluctance and spent an hour or two most evenings in his usual corner, grading essays or reading the newspaper and utterly ignoring everyone, but Hermione was certain that he was aware of everything being said around him and that half the reason for his obedience was the chance to keep abreast of current developments.

He still refused to attend meals, but the major feasts were compulsory for all staff members, and so it was that Hermione found herself sitting next to him at Halloween. Even for Snape, he seemed in a dark mood, pushing his food around on the plate with no appetite and staring into space, and the shadows in his eyes were more pronounced than ever.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly. He didn't answer, didn't even seem to have heard her, and that was a bad sign – Snape was always aware of his surroundings. Such distraction was extremely out of character. "Severus?"

"What?" he snapped irritably.

"Are you all right?" He glared at her before transferring his gaze back to that point in the middle distance that seemed to fascinate him, not bothering to answer. In this mood, even if she could push him to respond it would likely only be to snarl something unpleasant, but she was worried about him. "Did you have another attack?" she asked very quietly, after making sure that nobody else was listening.

That earned her a somewhat surprised look, as if it hadn't occurred to him that that might be what was worrying her. "No," he replied unexpectedly. Hermione thought furiously, trying to think of what else might be troubling him.

"Then what?"

"Can't you mind your own business for once?" he snapped, hunching his shoulders and turning away. Glaring at him, she returned her attention to her food; let him sulk if that was what he wanted. After a moment she heard him sigh and glanced at him from the corner of her eye, seeing the tension in him as he muttered, "If you must know, I haven't been sleeping well."

"I thought you never did," she remarked dryly; he was an extreme insomniac. As the only member of the Trio still at Hogwarts, Hermione now possessed the Marauder's Map; it seemed that no matter what time she idly checked it in her waking moments, the little dot labelled Severus Snape was always to be found moving around in his office, his lab or his living room, very seldom in his bedroom.

He glared at her; unlike most of his infamous glares, the reason for this one was easy to read, a clear See if I ever bother telling you anything again, and she felt slightly ashamed of herself. "Any particular reason?" she asked gently, trying to convey an apology without actually apologising, since he seemed to dislike it so much.

"I don't like this time of year," he replied shortly. From the set of his shoulders as he turned away, Hermione saw that the conversation was over; he had answered her question and evidently considered that to be the end of the story. Thoughtfully turning back to her meal, she contemplated what he had said; was it autumn that he disliked, or October, or Halloween in particular?

It wasn't until later that night when she was getting ready for bed that the answer hit her abruptly, and she cursed herself for not realising it earlier. Of course! Halloween 1981 had been almost the worst night of Snape's life. Not only had he lost the only person he had ever cared for, but it was because of him. Sitting on her bed, she thought about it some more; there were other factors in the story. As with everything concerning Snape, it wasn't as simple and straightforward as it seemed at first glance.

Lily's death was obviously the worst part, but James' death would have affected him, no matter that he had hated the other wizard; he had owed his life to James, and had failed to repay that debt. And Voldemort had fallen. Although Snape had changed sides by then, he probably still felt a lingering loyalty to his first master. Also, she realised slowly, the deaths of the Potters marked a broken promise – Dumbledore had promised to protect Lily and her family in exchange for Snape's service, and had failed to do so, no doubt just one of dozens of instances when someone had broken their word to him.

"It's no wonder he can't sleep," she murmured to Crookshanks, who was sitting and looking at her intently. Abruptly an idea occurred to her, and she looked at her pet. "Crooks, would you go and see him? Severus? I'm certain he could use a friend right now, and one who can't talk would be perfect – he won't want human company, even though he probably needs it. Please?"

The cat looked at her for a long moment, then stood and came to rub his squashed face against hers, purring reassuringly, before jumping off the bed and heading out of the door with a flick of his tail. They used animals in Muggle therapy all the time, Hermione reasoned as she lay back, particularly in cases of depression and psychiatric disorders. Besides, listening to Crookshanks purring and feeling his warmth on her legs always made her feel better after bad dreams or when she couldn't sleep. What Snape needed right now was company that wouldn't judge him, that just wanted to make him feel better, and since he would never believe such innocent motives of her, Crookshanks would be the next best thing. He would be far more likely to trust an animal.

It's a start, she told herself. She was trying not to pity him, but it was extremely difficult sometimes.


This latest idea seemed to be working much better than her previous efforts. It was hard to tell whether he was sleeping better because of Crookshanks or because Halloween was now past, but he seemed a little less stressed, and she found herself trying not to smile every time she noticed ginger hair on his robes. Her cat now spent several nights a week away from her room; she missed him, but if he was spending those nights down in the dungeons, Snape needed him more than she did.

When Snape himself raised the subject in the staff room, somewhat awkwardly asking whether her cat should be spending so much time away from her, she smiled vaguely and looked him in the eyes and replied that, in his own words, it was very difficult to prevent a cat from going anywhere it particularly wanted to go; it was a very Slytherin answer, and one she was proud of. If he suspected that it had been her doing, he didn't say so.

Halloween marked the start of a difficult time for Hermione, as well. Now it was mid-November, and the anniversary of the day her parents had severed all ties with her for good was just days away – a month or two after the war had ended, she had gone to them and restored their memories and tried to explain herself. They had been horrified by what she had done to them and by the knowledge that she could do the same again, or worse, without their knowledge or agreement; the next couple of months had been increasingly strained, before it had all fallen apart for good at the end of November that year.

During the day she could focus on her lessons, on her continuing research into neurology and autoimmune diseases, on her administrative duties as a staff member, on her reading; but at night there seemed nothing she could do to shut her mind down and close off from the painful thoughts and memories that plagued her. Following Snape's example, she tried music; it worked a little, and it certainly helped to not have the silence pressing in on her, but it didn't stop the insomnia or the nightmares.

After one particularly horrendous dream, when she woke up literally screaming, Hermione admitted defeat. Snape had once promised to make her some Dreamless Sleep if she wanted it, and right now she did. Sitting up, shivering, she absently stroked the fur of her worried cat and looked at the clock. Half past two in the morning. She needed to get some sleep, or she would be passing out during classes tomorrow. Fumbling under her pillow, she found the Marauders' Map, and murmured, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," before scanning the parchment for a particular figure.

She wasn't remotely surprised to find that Snape wasn't in bed, despite the extreme earliness of the hour, but he wasn't in his rooms at all. It took almost ten minutes of searching the map before she found him atop the Astronomy Tower, walking in slow circles around the railing. Well, it seemed there wouldn't be any potion tonight – it would take time to brew it anyway, really. Still, she could at least ask him; he would have it for her tomorrow, unless he was in one of his tempers. And truthfully, she didn't want to lie here any more; talking to someone, even if he was in a nasty mood, might help. At least a fight would distract her. Muttering, "Mischief managed," she stood and grabbed her robe.

By the time she emerged into the cold night air at the top of the tower, he had stopped walking in circles and was standing by the rail, gazing out over the grounds. As always, he didn't seem remotely surprised to see her, merely glancing up and inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement before returning to his contemplation of the autumn night. Walking over, she stood beside him and looked out onto the grounds; it was a clear night, the sky filled with stars, and the moon was half full. Neither of them said anything, in that curious atmosphere that develops in the small hours of the morning when two insomniacs meet.

Truthfully, she was a little surprised at his choice of location. She had known for many years that he frequently wandered the halls at night, but this was the very spot where he had killed Albus, the spot where he had willingly laid himself open to blanket condemnation and hatred and effectively damned himself. It seemed a strange place to want to stand and reflect, but she had only really known him outside of the pupil-teacher relationship for a few months; certainly not long enough to get a grip on how he thought.

"I couldn't sleep," she said finally, softly.

"Really, Professor Granger?" Despite the sarcasm of his words, his tone was neutral, quiet. "I couldn't tell."

"Don't, Severus, please. I usually enjoy fighting with you, but I can't face it tonight."

"Then I shall endeavour to restrain myself." From anyone else, that might have been teasing, but his eyes and voice were serious. He was looking at her in the thoughtful way she hated, the look that meant he saw far more than she wanted him to see.

"In the summer, you offered to brew Dreamless Sleep for me, if I ever wanted it," she said softly, not looking at him. "I would like that, if the offer still stands."

"It will be on your desk tomorrow night." A little of the tension left her; she had thought he would refuse, or at least play games before agreeing. She couldn't face another night of horror.

"Thank you," she said even more softly, her throat tightening.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered equally softly.

"I don't imagine for one moment that you would be interested."

He stiffened slightly beside her, his eyes growing angry; lost in the empty grounds below them, she didn't notice, fighting the tears threatening at the back of her eyes. As he glared at her, his eyes lost that hard edge of anger and turned thoughtful once more before resuming their usual neutral expression; he appeared to be thinking hard.

"I found some old issues of the Prophet from around this season, in the autumn following the war," he said finally, with just the faintest hint of a question in his voice.

She nodded stiffly. "Yes, Severus, you were right as usual. Well done."

"I'm not trying to pry, Hermione." His use of her first name startled her, helping push back the threat of tears as she turned to face him. His eyes were as unreadable as ever, the only discernable emotion in their black depths being a hint of the deadened, lifeless look she remembered from years ago.

He continued speaking softly, his voice gravelly and rough. "Despite popular opinion, I am human. I am also very familiar with pain, grief, sorrow, anger... and guilt."

His understanding hurt more than his sarcasm would have done, and she turned away from him, biting her lip and swallowing. She hated feeling emotional and vulnerable – human, a little voice whispered – and if she was going to break down in front of anyone, Severus Snape wouldn't have been in her top one hundred. There was movement out of the corner of her eye; she glanced up and found him holding out his robe to her.

"It is cold up here," he said quietly, almost awkwardly. "You may not have noticed, but your body will be feeling it."

He was right. Reluctantly, she reached out and took the black cloth from his hand, wrapping the garment around her shoulders and only realising when it stopped that she had been shivering. The familiar smells of the Potions classroom clung to the fabric, woodsmoke and herbs and chemicals and preserving agents; she could identify all but one that eluded her. Huddling deeper into the still-warm wool, she concentrated on it, something earthy and herbal, and eventually identified it as rosemary. She hadn't thought of rosemary as a particularly masculine scent before. Rosemary for remembrance...

Beside her, he cleared his throat, shifting slightly and obviously ill at ease, before speaking in the same rough and gravelly voice. "I am going to tell you one of the hardest lessons that I have ever had to learn, Hermione. Not everything need be a battle, and you cannot fight everything and hope to win. Sometimes it is necessary to admit that you are... only human."

Something about those words, coming from this man of all people, hit her like a blow. That, combined with the realisation that he certainly spoke from tragic, bitter experience, finally sent her over the edge, and she started crying almost silently.

When her tears finally slowed, she realised that her face was buried against his chest, her hands tangled in his shirt. Where his robe smelled of his work, this close she could smell him – a strange, complex scent that reminded her of nothing so much as rain, the distinctive smell of the air after a storm, touched with a faint hint of smoke and something herbal, rosemary and peppermint and thyme. Had she ever imagined that this would happen, she would have predicted that he would have run, possibly literally, or hexed her, but in fact his arms were around her and holding her close as he awkwardly attempted to hug her – his whole body was tense and he was quite clearly extremely uncomfortable, but he was making an effort to be comforting. It struck Hermione that he very probably had no experience of this sort of comfort and had no idea what he was doing, but she appreciated the effort, and although everything about him screamed that he wanted to be a long way away, just the warmth of his body was soothing.

Taking pity on him, she drew away carefully; as soon as she moved, he dropped his arms and stepped back, avoiding her eyes. Finding her handkerchief, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose before wrapping his robe more tightly around herself and rejoining him at the rail.

Wiping her eyes again, she stood in silence for a while. "How did you know?" she asked finally. Hermione herself wasn't entirely sure what she was asking, but as always he seemed to understand; even so, it was a while before he answered. He kept his eyes resolutely on the horizon, and his knuckles had turned white where he gripped the rail.

"As I said, I am familiar with pain. I... I also know what it feels like, to – to be drowning in it, until you are desperate to turn to someone, anyone, and – just let go, because it is that or suffocate."

He does understand. In a moment of understanding of her own, Hermione turned to look up at him. "But nobody ever did that for you, did they?" she asked very softly. "You could never... let go."

A muscle twitched under one eye, and she could tell that he was using every scrap of iron self control to keep his face utterly devoid of expression. His eyes looked dead, lifeless and lost. "Good night, Hermione," he said finally, turning away and passing hurriedly through the doorway and down the stairs. She knew better than to follow him; he had unbent as much as he could tonight, and if she pushed any harder he would snap.

She drew the warmth of his robe more tightly around her, her heart aching for him in that moment. He hadn't answered her; he hadn't needed to. So many years of pain and grief, and nobody to turn to, no-one to offer simple human comfort; he must have been so terribly alone. She remembered how stiff and uncomfortable his body had been as he tried to hold her and wondered when he had last even been touched; he had never liked human contact as far as she had seen, but that was possibly because it was unfamiliar. In some ways he reminded her of a stray animal, filled with fear and distrust, desperate to reach out to someone and yet too frightened to do so, flinching away from the simplest gesture. She couldn't even begin to imagine how lonely he must be; she suspected that it had gone on so long that even he didn't know how badly he was hurting.

And yet, despite that, he had tried to help her when she needed it. He had tried to offer comfort when he had no idea how to do so. There was nothing to be gained from it, not when she was already in his debt for the Dreamless Sleep potion. It had been utterly out of character, and yet he was the only one who could have fully understood how it felt to push all that pain and grief and guilt down until you couldn't bear it any more. Her friends... they were 'typical Gryffindors', as Severus would have said, passionate and blazing, and their emotions raged out of them at those around them; Hermione wasn't normally like that. She usually kept everything inside, in much the same way as Severus did.

Slowly, she began the long walk back to her rooms, lost in thought and remembering the lingering smell of rain.


In the cold light of day, she revised her opinion a little. No doubt he was hurt, deeply, almost mortally, but that didn't mean he would respond to any attempt at help. He was forty-eight years old; almost half a century of keeping to himself had left its mark. This wasn't a story, she wasn't going to magically – hah – find the solution to all his problems and help him heal. He was too broken for that. His wounds went too deep to heal; the best he could hope for, the best that she could achieve, was to give him something else that would allow him to forget them as much as possible, something to dull the pain a little, so that he could live with them. That didn't seem like much, but it was more than anyone else had given him; if she could manage it, it might be enough to repay him, a little.

Typical Gryffindor, she told herself with a small smile as she washed her face and brushed her teeth, trying to take responsibility for the world's problems. It's not my job to heal him. She still wanted to, though; partly because he deserved better, partly because the wizarding world owed him, partly because he was a fellow human being, but also partly for his own sake. Over the past few months she had caught brief glimpses of the man beneath the scar tissue that enclosed him; she had a feeling that it might be someone she would like to get to know.

There was no innocent, loving individual buried deep to be coaxed to the surface, she knew that. If there had ever been anything like that inside him, it had died years ago. He was who he was – damaged, bitter, mistrustful, alone, angry and hurt. If she couldn't accept that, she needed to walk away right now, because if she persisted in trying to change him they would both suffer for it. There were tiny glimpses of something better in him; if she could reach those, they might balance the darkness that everyone saw in him and help him find some sort of stability. To try anything else would be wrong, somehow. For better or for worse, that darkness was part of him, and she didn't have either the power or the right to change that.

The sheer scope of what she was planning left her dizzy. Of all the possible victims of the war that she could have decided to try and help, she just had to fixate on the most damaged of them all. Then again, she had been set on this path the moment she walked into him in Waterloo Station, whether that had been coincidence or something else entirely. Still, the fact remained that Hermione felt out of her depth. She needed to talk to someone who could offer a different perspective, but who?

Albus' portrait was the obvious choice, but Hermione rejected the idea the moment it entered her head. Severus had loyally served Dumbledore for more than twenty years, but she would eat Crookshanks if he had ever actually liked his master, and she was certain that Dumbledore had never entirely understood his spy, only how to control him. Hermione still thought of her Headmaster with affection and respect, but at the same time those emotions were far less than they had been. Necessary or not, she could not like what he had done to all of them. It had been necessary, but the way he pretended that it wasn't happening turned her stomach. She would have thought much more of him if he had honestly admitted what he was doing to them.

No, Albus would not have any insight into what made the Potions master tick. At best he could probably tell her how to provoke certain reactions, and she could work that much out for herself. Severus' old colleagues were equally bad choices; he had never liked any of them and they had never liked him. They would have nothing to offer either.

Maybe what she needed wasn't new knowledge but a different way of looking at what she already knew. Not one of Severus' friends – he didn't have any – but maybe one of hers could help her organise her muddled thoughts. But who? Not Ron; he still wasn't speaking to her, but she suspected that was because he'd forgotten. Christmas would bring a card and a present as though nothing had happened. Harry? No. He had too much history with Severus, too much bitterness. He no longer hated the Potions master, but he would certainly not understand wanting to help his old foe. Besides, a male perspective wasn't what she wanted here.

Ginny? Too close to Harry... and in any case, Hermione suspected her red-haired friend wouldn't understand either. She didn't want to spend weeks trying to explain what it was she was trying to achieve, not when she didn't really know herself. Abruptly the answer came to her; smiling, Hermione settled at her desk and began to write a letter.

Dear Luna

It's been a while since we spoke, not since you offered to give Severus an interview back in the summer. Sorry about that. I've just been caught up in getting back into the routine. Actually, I wanted to get your opinion of something; I know I've said it before, but you always seem to have a different perspective, and I think I could use that right now... Are you free this weekend? I'd love a chance to talk...


"Hello Hermione! I was going to write anyway. I know this time of year is bad."

"Yes, it is," Hermione agreed, oddly relieved to talk about it in this way. Luna's curious blend of dreaminess and rock-solid common sense was strangely relaxing. "It's getting easier now the anniversary's passed, though."

"Good. It hurts less every year, doesn't it?" Her friend's vague eyes were sharp now. "Did anyone else remember?"

"No," she admitted sadly, "but I didn't expect them to."

"Being alone doesn't help, you know."

"I wasn't alone. Someone at Hogwarts worked it out. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about..." Taking a deep breath, Hermione launched into the story of what had occurred atop the Astronomy Tower. It took a very long time; throughout, Luna said nothing, just sat with her chin in her hand and stared at nothing in particular, listening without comment.

"Well," she said matter-of-factly when Hermione was done, "I can see why you didn't go to any of the others."

"No," she agreed wryly. "I thought – hoped – you wouldn't react the way they would. I don't want to try and justify wanting to help someone."

"You don't need to," Luna replied cheerfully. "I've never seen Professor Snape the way the rest of you did, anyway. I suppose it's because I'm not a Gryffindor; he never hated the Ravenclaws. I got to see a more neutral version. And I've never believed in what someone shows on the surface; nobody's simple."

"Exactly," Hermione agreed quietly. "It took me far too long to learn that. So do you agree with what I'm trying to do?"

Luna looked oddly serious. "Yes, actually, I do. I think... Well..."

"What?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, please. I've thought this for years, but if I'd said it before you'd have hexed me."

"Said what, Luna?" she demanded, exasperated.

"Well, I've often wondered if you and Professor Snape were at odds so much because you're so much alike. I mean, it's obvious why he hated Harry, and if you hate Harry you have to hate Ron as well, but you weren't so tangled. He seemed to hate you on your own merit."

"I annoyed him. I tried too hard, I showed off."

"So did a lot of students, but he never hated them for it."

"What's your point here, Luna? I'm not angry, just confused. How are we alike?"

"You're both hurt," Luna said simply. "What happened on the tower showed that. He couldn't have helped you unless what you were going through matched something he'd suffered; he wouldn't have known how. But it was always more than that. I think you must have been very similar to the sort of student he used to be."

"And what is that?"

"Clever. Isolated. Outcast. Frustrated. Lonely. Brilliant. Impatient."

Hermione opened her mouth in angry denial, and then closed it again. Nothing that Luna had just said was untrue. There were differences; she doubted Severus had ever tried to win a teacher's approval or help a less able student, and she had never created spells to hurt people or been exposed to the kind of universal bullying she had seen in the Pensieve. But Luna had just listed a lot of common factors.

"Maybe," she said finally, reluctantly. Had it been anyone else but Luna, she would have been outraged at the implications, but Luna didn't see the world in the same way as most people – that was why she was talking to her in the first place, after all. "What does that mean now, though?"

"I don't know," Luna replied cheerfully, "but obviously it means something. He wouldn't have opened up as much as he has to just anyone. Even with what you told me about his health, he didn't need to let you see as much as you have. He's responding to you, Hermione; the why doesn't matter. If you want to help him, you've got more chance than anyone else would. But that doesn't mean it's going to work."

"I know that," she assured her friend. "This isn't a fairy tale. He's not going to become a different person, and I don't want him to."

"What do you want?" Luna asked very seriously.

"I want to help him. I'm just not sure how. I'm not arrogant enough to think that I know how to help him. He is what he is; I just want to make that less painful and less difficult for him. And, well, in a strange way, I think we're friends, although most people probably wouldn't see it like that."

"Hmm," Luna murmured, apparently thinking about something else entirely; Hermione was used to that.

"What was he like when he gave you that interview?"

"What? Oh. He didn't. He sent it to me, and the photograph. I haven't seen him since the war."

"So, any ideas on what I do now?"

"Getting Crookshanks to help him was a good start," Luna said thoughtfully. "Animals are always easier to deal with than people. I think you had the right idea when you compared him to a feral stray... Hold that thought. Just let him get used to you being nearby sometimes. Try and find something to talk about – books might be a good idea. Something safe. Have you touched him at all since the tower?"

"Pardon?"

"Don't worry, I'm still not insane," Luna said with a smile. "It's a serious question."

Hermione thought about it for a while. "I've only seen him once or twice since then. He gave me the Dreamless Sleep I asked for and told me that it wasn't the answer, and I gave him his robe back, and we met briefly to talk about his research."

"Did you touch him?"

"I can't really remember... Wait. Yes. In the staff room, accidentally. I touched his arm."

"How did he react?"

"He jerked away," she said slowly. "Really violently. He tore the paper he was reading. I remember thinking I would have got less of a reaction if I'd accidentally stabbed him."

"And afterwards?"

"He acted as though nothing had happened, just growled at me to watch out."

"You were right, then. He probably hasn't been touched in a long time."

"What does that mean?"

"Touch is important, Hermione. Muggle psychologists have done experiments with animals – puppies or monkeys or something, I forget exactly. They took newborn animals, and raised them with all the basic needs – food, water, warmth, healthcare, cleanliness – everything except physical contact, with their own kind or with humans. They never touched them if possible."

"And what happened?" she asked curiously.

"Most of them died. The ones that survived were abnormal. Aggressive, dangerous, and incapable of interacting with one another."

Hermione processed that slowly. "So what does this mean I should do?"

"I don't know. This is your project, not mine. But if it helps, it's how they start taming horses; they spend a week or so just teaching the horse that being touched doesn't hurt, that it's not something to be afraid of. Maybe that's how you start. Show him that interacting with another human won't hurt him, that talking and touching is normal. I mean, intellectually he already knows that, but you need to show him unconsciously. This isn't an intellectual problem – or the two of you would find it much easier. This is about instincts, not reason. So asking a Ravenclaw for help wasn't very smart of you, really."

The two smiled at one another, before Hermione started to laugh. "You're giving me advice on how to break Severus to bridle?"

They both dissolved into helpless giggles.


Luna should be dreamier, perhaps, but nobody can be like that all the time. Crookshanks is going to be showing up again; he's fun. The pace is picking up a little, but we're still taking things nice and slowly, don't worry.