Chapter Eight

Rachael made remarkable progress during the following week, in which time he saw her every evening but one. On Tuesday—their first meeting since the lakeside—they stayed behind after class. Rachael had barely been able to contain herself before the final student exited the classroom. She had pushed a chair up against the door-handle and dimmed the lights to a muted glow. Snape made a mental note to explain how such things could be achieved by simply willing them so.

'I didn't sleep a wink last night,' she said.

'At least you were spared from dreaming about me again.'

Rachael grinned and walked to the front of the classroom where she eased herself up onto her desk. 'All I could think about was the thing you did—the magic thing. You said a word before it happened. Is that important?'

'Yes. The word is an incantation; it must be spoken before performing the...' Snape paused.

What to call it?

Rachael had accepted that their abilities were magical acts without question. He had expected a bitter rejection of such a fantastical concept: she had proven herself to be pragmatic and realistic, not given to flights of fancy or whimsical notions, despite her recent experiences. Yet it was almost as if witnessing his spell had prompted a remembrance of magic, if not the details of her own history.

His dilemma was now around the language he should use when discussing their abilities: the real words or some feeble euphemism? He made up his mind to trust in her newfound acceptance.

'... before performing the spell,' he explained.

She didn't even raise an eyebrow in response, but merely nodded, waiting eagerly for him to explain how it was done.

'So, the wand is a conduit, and the incantation is the prompt?' she responded.

'Exactly. Each spell has its own incantation.' He held up his wand and muttered the word, 'Lumos' to demonstrate. 'Performing a spell requires forethought, focus and fortitude, which naturally requires effort, but over time, and with a great deal of practice, it will become as natural as breathing.' He pointed his wand at the whiteboard which filled much of the wall behind Rachael's desk. She turned to watch as the three words appeared across the board apparently scripted by an invisible hand.

'Will I ever be able to master it as well as you?' she asked.

Snape smiled at her enchanting naiveté—soon to be lost forever once her memories returned to her consciousness. 'There is more to magic that writing on walls and multiplying leaves, Rachael. I have no doubt that you will be able to perform such mundane spells, but I am more ambitious for you than that.'

She slid down from her desk and walked towards him, stopping only when she was close enough for him to catch her scent. He detected cinnamon and something pleasingly floral this time. In the half-light, it was so easy to forget that Hermione Granger stood before him. He could almost believe that Rachael's eyes were darker than Hermione's: her eye-lashes were more defined; their expression, expectant and fearless, where Hermione's had been anxious and troubled. Her hair behaved differently too; it fell about her face softly when she wore it down as if it no longer felt the need to curl and frizz so haphazardly. Even her lips were altered. Rachael smiled at him with an easiness which seemed to speak of her pleasure in finding a kindred spirit in him.

It didn't matter if he was delusional; he felt the warmth of her admiration and her awe just as intensely whether it was real or imagined. She was so close to him now that it would be effortless to reach out a hand and touch her hair. Perhaps she wouldn't recoil in horror, perhaps she would let him. He felt the tingling sensation of her lips pressed against his cheek as the memory of her goodnight kiss came unexpectedly to the fore. He had stopped himself from dwelling on such a simple, meaningless gesture most of the time; but when he lay in bed at night, in the trance-like state of semi-wakefulness when the mind is too vulnerable to resist, too often, he had fallen asleep with the recollection of her lips against his cheek.

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for the answer to a question he was likely to savour long after she stopped being Rachael Saunders, the Muggle French teacher.

'You will be a formidable witch,' he replied, before he had considered the wisdom of moving so quickly from magic and spells to the most incredible word of all.

She merely laughed. 'Witch? I like the sound of that. But if I'm a witch, you're a wizard, Severus.'

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'A witch without a wand is like a dragon without fire.'

'But how can I practice spells without one?' she asked.

Snape stifled the urge to gently smooth the perturbed creases from her achingly youthful forehead.

Instead he held out his wand in both hands. 'A wand will never perform as well for someone else,' he told her. 'But you may practice with mine.' She seemed to know that it took some effort to share an object so sacrosanct when she took the offered wand.

He remembered his own first lesson in Charms, when Professor Flitwick had taught the class how to properly control the movements for each spell and charm. It had been easier for him than most of his fellow pupils—controlling his magic had never been a struggle. He took back his wand from Rachael and demonstrated the correct way to hold it. She listened intently as he told her to imagine it as an instrument of her will while simultaneously wielding the wand with a sequence of swishes and flicks. The empty glass levitated six inches above the table at his command of 'Wingardium Leviosa', then returned to its stationary position, once more, as he lowered his wand.

'Your turn,' he said, handing the wand to Rachael. 'Remember, the glass is yours to command. It has no free will; you are its mistress. You must believe in your power and your ability to dominate the object. Do as I did and state the incantation with purpose and authority.'

Rachael showed no signs of reserve or trepidation as she gripped the wand and pointed it at the object. Her first attempt smashed the glass into a thousand tiny pieces without it even rising an inch.

'Merlin!' she yelled in exasperation.

Snape was startled by her sudden use of a wizarding expletive. He realised that the more they practiced magic, the closer they were to reaching full memory return. He tried to suppress the feeling of panic that the reminder prompted in him—instead, he smiled at her look of disappointment.

'A little less enthusiasm next time, perhaps,' he suggested, taking back his wand and demonstrating a Reparo charm. She smiled with relief as the broken shards rearranged themselves to form a perfectly repaired glass. On her second attempt, the glass left the table as if it had been shot from a catapult; it hit the ceiling and shattered on impact. She let out an exasperated cry and stamped her foot in self-disgust.

'Better,' he said, amused by her outburst. 'Next time, even less... authority. Self-discipline is an essential component of control over your magic. Your power is unquestionable, but you must also learn restraint. And remember that you are using a borrowed wand. My wand will never perform as well for you as your own would. Try again.'

She sighed and nodded before turning to make her third attempt. Snape found himself drawn to her eyes as they focused on the object and the spell. He was alarmed by how much pleasure he could derive from simply observing the animation and spirit held within their gaze. He wondered if anyone else had ever noticed it, or was he the only one to truly appreciate their radiance?

'Wingardium Leviosa!' she commanded. The glass soared high into the air, hovered for a moment, then returned to the table at some speed where it landed with a clatter, but at least remained intact. Rachael turned to Snape and beamed. 'I did it! I actually did it.' She frowned as she handed back his wand. 'But your wand felt... reluctant. Does that sound stupid?'

'An accurate description. This wand's allegiance is to me; it will perform for another witch or wizard, but never well.'

'Can we practice more tomorrow?'

He smiled at her intoxicating enthusiasm and knew at once that the situation, for him, was hopeless. He could no longer deny it: he had come to look forward to Rachael's company more than he could ever have anticipated. He thought of her often. Marking homework made him wonder if she was similarly employed, and as he put quill to parchment, he imagined her at home, scribbling French corrections with her blue pen on white paper. He thought of her, too, as he taught his Slytherins and Gryffindors—he remembered her admonishments over his teaching style when they had conversed in the French restaurant. Her words would come back to him as he mercilessly reproached his first years for their carelessness. And as he lay in bed at night, he thought of her drunken giggles and the bold interest she had shown him the evening they met on the train. He lingered on the fall of her blue dress and the twist of her hair, and he now found it impossible to fall asleep without attempting to recall her light floral fragrance. He had forgotten what it felt like to anticipate something with pleasure. Anticipation for him had always been coupled with dread. Rachael had become his expectation of contentment. But the more time he spent with her, the sooner she would remember. Once that happened, Rachael was lost.

Her loss was inevitable, he realised as she looked at him eagerly.

'Of course,' he replied. 'Practice is essential.'

The next two evenings were also spent in the French class, practicing charms. By the end of their third session, Rachael had become proficient at controlling the Levitation Charm; she had mastered the Summoning charm, and had also managed a Reparo—much to her delight. Their conversation had inevitably turned towards what else could be achieved with their magical powers, and when Snape gave her a brief explanation of Transfiguration, she had begged him to demonstrate.

She clapped her hands with delight when he pointed his wand at a chair and changed it into an excitable black and white border-collie who ran around the classroom and knocked over the waste-paper bin before Snape turned it back.

'We must be the luckiest people in the world,' she proclaimed, her eyes shining with delight.

Snape smiled at her exhilaration. 'There is nothing more satisfying than discovering the extent of your powers, but as I told you, there are many more who...' he stopped in response to the frown which had appeared on her face.

'Who cares about them?' she said. Her eyes seemed to implore him not to continue, and at that moment, he wished they really were the only two magical beings in the world, and he couldn't help offering up a silent, treasonous thank you to Lucius Malfoy for Obliviating Hermione Granger and leaving Rachael Saunders in her place. She would be glad to remember her friends and the wizarding society that had been taken away from her, soon enough; but for now, he would enjoy her shared wish for their isolation.

'We don't need to consider the others yet,' he replied.

Rachael smiled. 'Good. When can I have a go at Transfiguration?'

'With a borrowed wand? Never. Transfiguration is too dangerous and precarious. Besides, we have many other charms and spells to work on first.'

Her disappointment soon disappeared. 'When? Tomorrow?'

'I'm afraid not. I have business to attend to.'

'School business?'

'Yes. But perhaps you would be free on Monday night?'

Her brow furrowed as she took the bad news. 'Two days? That's ages off.'

'I'm sure you will survive without magic for two days,' Snape replied, wondering how he would manage to last a full forty-eight hours without her.

'I suppose so,' she conceded. 'But... I'll miss it.'

Snape would have given all the Galleons he had to hear her make the same declaration about him instead of magic.

'Until Monday, then,' he said.

She walked to her desk to gather up her bag and books. Snape noticed that she seemed to be pondering on something as she did so. On several occasions she looked up at him and seemed about to speak. Finally, she slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him to the exit door where he busied himself with cancelling the protective enchantments which had ensured their privacy.

Rachael looked up at him apprehensively. 'The classroom isn't free on Monday,' she said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. 'I was wondering if perhaps we could do something different? Meet for dinner first maybe?' She stared at his shoulder as she spoke. 'At Chez Jules again? Only, it would give us chance to have a talk about magic some more. And then we could go somewhere quiet to... practice. It's only an idea though—just say if you think it's a bad one.' She glanced up at him, and he saw the faint blush in her cheeks and the uncertainty in her eyes. Without giving him the chance to answer, she continued anxiously. 'It probably is a bad idea. I just thought it would be... nice.'

He could only wonder at how slowly the hours would pass until then as he pictured the two of them in the restaurant together—she in her blue dress, grilling him on his knowledge of magical things and perhaps sharing a bottle of wine. How could she doubt his answer?

'I look forward to it,' he replied, smiling as he watched relief light up her face. Her smile remained with him for the rest of the evening and into most of the next day.

'Your time is up.' Snape slammed down the quill he had been using to mark second-year Hufflepuff essays and peered, hawk-like, around the Potions classroom. 'Stop what you are doing and stand away from your cauldrons while I examine whatever catastrophe you have managed to create,' he instructed, rounding his desk and striding along a row of cauldrons as he considered the wisdom of setting an impromptu Monday morning potions test. 'At this half-way stage, the potion should be transparent and odourless.'

He paused at one of the cauldrons and looked inside before dipping in the ladle and scooping up copious amounts of its gelatinous, moss-coloured contents. He lifted it up to chin height, glared at the creator of the brew and allowed the slop to fall back into the cauldron with exaggerated disgust.

'McGuire, do you have some medical affliction I am not aware of which prevents you from comprehending simple English?'

'No, sir,' mumbled the fourth-year wizard, keeping his eyes firmly on the chopping board in front of him.

'Then remind me of step four, written clearly on the blackboard.'

The boy lifted his head and squinted up at the board. Snape waited as he silently read the directions as instructed. Finally, he looked back at his teacher with a shame-faced look of sudden insight.

'When should you add the ground scarab beetle?' Snape enquired, his voice dangerously smooth.

'After the armadillo bile, sir,' he muttered.

'And when did youadd it?'

'Before the armadillo bile, sir.'

'How can you expect to pass your O.W.L.s if you can't follow simple instructions, boy?'

Greg McGuire watched mutely as Snape banished his disastrous attempts at brewing a Wit Sharpening Potion with a wave of his wand.

'There isn't a potion in the world could sharpen your wits, McGuire,' he said, leaving the red-face young wizard to clear up his mess. Snape continued his examination of the rest of the class's efforts with similar sarcasm and repugnance, deducting House-points here and there as he saw fit. At the end of the row, he stopped at a table and appraised the cauldron in front of him.

'Finally,' he said, 'someone who knows the difference between before and after. Gather round everyone.'

Twenty-four students did as bid, crowding around Snape as he ladled up the perfectly transparent concoction for all to see.

'When instructions are followed precisely, the results will also be precise. Potions, as I believe I have already mentioned, is an exact art. While enhancements may be possible for the advanced practitioner, fourth-year O.W.L students will listen when I speak, readwhatever I tell you to read, and follow the instructions. Do I make myself plain?'

'Yes, sir,' mumbled twenty-five voices in unison.

'Well done, Miss Crawford. Twenty points to Gryffindor.'

Miss Crawford beamed with pleasure while everyone else sloped back to their own cauldrons in silent resentment.

The door opened and in walked a nervous-looking boy wearing Ravenclaw robes and holding a piece of parchment. He walked slowly up to the Potions master who had returned to his desk.

Snape looked up at him as he approached and waited for the boy to speak.

'Well?' he said when it became clear that the visitor was going to remain silent. 'You are interrupting an examination. Speak up!'

The boy handed Snape the parchment. 'P-Professor M-McGonagall asked me to give you this, sir.'

Snape scowled at the stammering boy and took the note. He had managed to avoid Professor McGonagall's repeated attempts at cornering him for an update of his progress for over a week. He didn't want to be reminded by way of an official report that his time with Rachael was nothing more than an assignment. Avoidance of the inevitable discussion prolonged the necessity of admitting the stark reality of their relationship. He waved the boy away and unrolled the scroll.

Severus,

I wish to see you in my office after your morning Potions class for a full report of Miss Granger's progress.

The password is perfringo.

Minerva

The inescapable moment was at hand. A direct summons could not be fobbed off with deception, avoidance, or pretending to be deaf. Snape dismissed the class and made his way to the headmistress' office.

'You wanted to see me, Headmistress?'

Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk with her hands folded in front of her, as if she had been waiting for her deputy's appearance for several minutes.

'Indeed I do, Severus,' she replied curtly. 'You promised me a weekly report.'

'I promised you a regular report,' Snape reminded her. 'Not a weekly one,'

'But you haven't given regular updates; it has been over three weeks since your promise, and during that time I have heard nothing from you beyond, all is well, or it's a delicate process, Minerva. Well, delicate process or not, there are a number of people, as you well know, who are very anxious for some information on Hermione's progress. I'm beginning to think that you're hiding something.'

Snape felt a moment of alarm at her insightful words. The idea of her guessing that his involvement in the case had become personal was unnerving. He remained silent, however, and waited as she stood from her desk and walked towards the fireplace. After a minute's contemplation, she turned to face him, concern etched across her face. 'If the case is hopeless—if there is no chance of her recovery, keeping it from us will not help. I'm sure you mean well, Severus, but I need to know.' She pointed to a chair by the fire in a request for him to sit. 'Now, let's have no more delaying tactics. I want the truth, however disappointing it may be.'

Snape's sigh of relief was imperceptible as he took a seat as bid and waited for Minerva to take hers.

'My intent was not to deceive, I can assure you,' he told her. 'Miss Granger has been making excellent progress, and though her memories have not returned in full, there are signs that they will.'

The headmistress' eyes shone with delight at Snape's good news, and he felt rather ashamed that his avoidance had misled her into believing Hermione Granger a lost cause.

'I'm pleased to hear that,' she said. 'Very pleased. The others have also been very anxious—and difficult to appease, these last few weeks, I can tell you. I will be glad to have something positive to tell them. But tell me more—what makes you think she is making progress?'

Before he could answer, they were interrupted by the familiar whooshing sound of the Floo connection. Snape turned towards the grate to see Harry Potter's head suddenly appear in the flames of the fireplace.

'Ah! Harry. There you are,' exclaimed Professor McGonagall.

'Hello, Professors,' he replied. 'Er... I was just wondering if there was any news?'

'You'd better come through, Harry,' said the headmistress.

Professor McGonagall conjured a chair with a flamboyant series of wand waves and placed it beside her own. Harry walked through the green flames, dusted off his ash-covered robes, and took a seat.

'Severus was just telling me that all is going excellently with Hermione's progress,' she told him.

Harry grinned and turned his attention to Snape. 'We were beginning to worry,' he said. 'It's almost a month now. Is she starting to remember?'

Snape knew that he needed to proceed carefully. If he admitted the extent of Rachael's increasing magical powers, he was afraid they would feel it was time to bring her back. His only hope now was Lucius Malfoy's confinement in Azkaban. Without him to reverse his spell, even if her magical ability returned, her true memories might not.

He gave a brief overview of his encounters with Rachael over the past few weeks, leaving out the fact that he found her infinitely more engaging as Rachael Saunders than she had ever been as Hermione Granger. He also omitted to tell them that he had a date with her that evening, or that he had spent most of the weekend thinking of little else.

Harry listened with obvious excitement to Snape's account of Hermione's development.

'This is exactly the news we were hoping for,' he said. 'In that case, I think it's time.'

Snape glared at him. 'Time, Potter?'

Harry nodded. 'We haven't just been sitting here letting you do all the work, Professor. We've been working closely with the Ministry. It hasn't been easy. There's been so much red tape: interviews with senior Ministers, all sorts of forms to fill in, reassurances from my Auror team, and... '

'Potter! What are you talking about?' Snape demanded, an icy feeling of dread grasping at his insides.

'Lucius Malfoy,' said Harry. 'We think we can get him out.'

If Snape could have groaned aloud, he would have done it. For the first time in ten years, he was experiencing the same feeling of dread he had felt when Voldemort had told Snape that the Elder wand was not performing well for him—it was the realisation that this was the end. He maintained his composure as he turned to his superior.

'Did you know about this, Minerva?'

Minerva peered at him from over the top of her spectacles. 'Yes, Severus, Harry has been keeping me appraised of all his efforts.'

'And you didn't think to tell me?'

'You didn't seem to want to share information, Severus,' she replied shrewdly. 'I would have thought you'd be pleased. I can't imagine that you have enjoyed taking Muggle French classes and spending time with one of your least favourite students.'

'The time I have put into making this mission successful is of no importance. However, I would feel it to have been completely wasted if it turns out to have all been for nothing.'

'You've been brilliant, Professor Snape,' said Harry. 'But I thought this was the very best we could hope for. We, or rather... you, have worked on her magic, and we have managed to get access to Lucius Malfoy, who can restore her memories. We never expected the Ministry to agree to our request to... erm... borrow Malfoy for a bit.'

'But even now, the Ministry finds it difficult to refuse anything of Harry,' interrupted Professor McGonagall, who smiled fondly at her embarrassed-looking former student.

'And what of Lucius' health?' Snape demanded. He knew what Azkaban could do to a man, and Lucius was no longer the most robust of wizards. 'He may not be in any fit state to be relied upon to meddle with Miss Granger's mind.'

'It is hardly meddling, Severus. He only has to cancel his spell. What could be simpler?' replied Professor McGonagall.

'We have been assured that he is well enough, Professor,' Harry said. 'Once we are given the official all-clear to go and get him, we will only have a few hours to take him to Hermione and make him reverse the spell before we have to return him. It will be a very small window.'

Snape tried to resign himself to the inevitability of her return. He knew that trying to prolong it was nothing more than a selfish act; it was what hewanted, not what was best for Rachael. She no longer had a place in the Muggle world; her magic was too strong for her to comfortably remain within it—to maintain friends when she had so much she must now keep from them. Her place was back amongst her own people, with her old friends and all she knew and once cherished.

Once she returned, she would no longer think of him as the friend he had become—her mentor, the guide who had been with her throughout the discovery of her new and exciting powers. She would only remember all he had ever been to her: cruel, resentful... often malicious. Her opinion of him would be tainted. But it was useless to lament—they still had a little time left—he was determined to make that time count. Perhaps then, she would remember that he couldbe a friend, someone to count on. And there was still a chance that once she knew how he had deceived her, she wouldn't think of him with too much disgust.

Snape could barely meet Harry's eyes. 'How long?'

'We hope it will be by the end of the week. Maybe Friday if all goes to plan.'

Snape nodded resignedly. 'There will be no blundering Auror delegations sent to get her,' he stated. 'If it is to happen, I will do what is necessary.'

'I think that would be for the best, don't you Harry?' Minerva replied.

Harry shrugged. 'If you like. I was hoping that I... ' He stopped when he saw the glare which allowed for no dissenting opinion. 'But you are probably right; it would be best if you did it. She does trust you, after all.'

Snape's stomach clenched with the knowledge that her trust in him would soon be lost forever. He had never shirked his duty, no matter how difficult and unpleasant, nor had he ever chosen the easy path. He could not contemplate the terror she may face if an Auror team appeared in her front room, wands at the ready. He had no faith in their diplomacy—he must be the one to take her.

'You only need to send your Patronus when it is time,' Snape replied.

Harry nodded. 'You will perhaps have half an hour to find her, Stun her, and take her to St Mungo's.'

'That won't be a problem,' said Snape wearily.

'You will ... take care of her, won't you?' Harry added anxiously.

His reply was a disdainful look which both reassured and silenced him at once. Minerva beamed and conjured up three wine glasses and a bottle of something bubbly to go with them.

'I never thought I'd ever really be saying this,' she said. 'A toast! To the safe return of Hermione Granger and a mission well completed.'

'To Hermione,' repeated Harry.

Snape raised his glass. His own toast was a silent goodbye to Rachael.