Previously: Severus felt drained by the time Eileen rang off. Not two seconds after he slumped down onto his sofa, someone knocked on the front door. Granger.

"Hi," Granger said. "Can I interest you in a duel?"

Chapter Ten: Oleander

7 July 1987

The purple fire of Dolohov's curse sizzled through the air towards Severus. She was fond of that one, wasn't she? Dodging out of its path, he closed one hand around Granger's wrist. She had no time to yank away or release another curse before he took to the air, dragging her with him. With a yelp, Granger wrapped her legs and her free arm around him.

"Severus Snape, if you drop me, I swear—"

"We are all of three feet off of the ground. Now, shall we get back to the duel, or do you wish to continue with your impression of a limpet?"

Tightening her grip on him, Granger tried to take control of the flight. He knew her magic—knew the sharp burn of her curses, the meticulous flow of her brewing. This was different. Feeling her tap into the Darkest spells she'd ever cast, his skin warmed. It was like that intoxicating pull that had seduced him to the Dark years ago, at once both forbidden and welcoming. The hand still holding her wrist drifted up between her shoulder blades, as if trying to pull her magic closer along with her body.

The tempting lure of it helped Granger succeed in reducing their altitude until the unmown grass was just below Severus's feet. Falling the rest of the way, he pressed her against the fence and jabbed his wand into the hollow under her jaw. Something bright and blue burst behind his eyes, and Granger was gone. He saw only his own empty sitting room, even though he could still feel the sun on his back and Granger's body entwined with his.

"Don't let me interrupt," a familiar voice said. The artificial distraction dissolved, replaced by a very real distraction in the form of Charity. Crossing her arms, she tapped one foot as she smirked at the two of them. "In fact, would you mind moving about a metre to your left? I was going to work on some new projects; I won't be able to see you if you stay where you are."

Granger let out a shaky laugh. "Call it a draw?" she asked, disentangling herself from Severus. He didn't consent to her ruling, but he did remove his wand from her jugular.

"Spoilsports," Charity said. The smirk faltered almost imperceptibly as her gaze fell to the ground. "I'll be in my shed if you need me."

Granger followed Severus back into his house without waiting for an invitation.

"Did you want something else?" he asked as she locked and warded his door behind them. All he wanted was an early night with a book.

"A way back home would be nice, but I doubt that's in the offing." Her hands rose to her necklace. "Do you mind if I just…" A click of the clasp made her glamour vanish. Dark brown curls tumbled around her shoulders, and her face shifted to one Severus hadn't seen since the day they'd met. Her body remained the same. "Can I be myself for a little while?"

"Very well."

"Thanks." Removing her fake glasses, she sighed. "That duel wasn't quite the stress relieving activity I'd hoped it would be."

Severus shrugged. It hadn't helped him work out any of his frustrations either, but he hadn't expected it to. "What was that nonverbal spell you cast near the end?"

Severus's shields had been firmly up, but they'd been useless against her illusion spell. At a guess, the spell's creator had designed it to make a scene play out directly over the target's eyes, rather than attacking the mind. It would have been far more effective if he hadn't been touching her at the time, but—

"Oh, it was one of mine," Granger said, and that revelation was like feeling her fly again. "It's just something I was playing around with when I got burnt out on Potions research just before…" As her voice trailed off, she grabbed her wrist. A brittle gasp of laughter escaped her lips. "You have to be joking. I can't even tell you… Ouch. It happened years after… Fine. Fine."

"Are you quite well?"

"Not really, no. Doing battle with an Unbreakable Vow is beyond frustrating, though I suppose I should be grateful it warns me when I get close to breaking its terms. I could just drop dead because I'd failed to think before I spoke. Professor Dumbledore would object if I spent the rest of the year as a hermit, wouldn't he?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

Granger sat on the sofa and hugged her knees to her chest. "Even without the Unbreakable Vow, there are some people I wouldn't be able to warn. I can't remember the details, which sounds horrible and callous. There were so many. I've a strong suspicion that with my knowledge of the future, teaching in this time might drive me slightly mad."

"All teaching drives one slightly mad."

She attempted a laugh. "You certainly never seemed fond of it. If I'd had any idea I would end up here…"

"If you'd had any idea, I'd wager you would have left that book alone."

"Maybe. I don't know. I might have tried it anyway, just in case I could save someone." The way she looked at him felt like it should have broken the Vow. "And if I'd stayed in my own time, I never would have learnt how to fly."

Severus scoffed. "You still haven't." Lowering himself down next to her, he scrutinised her half-familiar face. "You believe my future self won't agree to continue your lessons?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Granger blinked first.

"We never found…" Pausing, she rubbed the spot on her wrist where the Vow had taken hold, testing its grip on her. "I haven't seen you since the war ended. Harry thinks you're off on your own somewhere, and you don't want to be bothered by anyone."

"That's… a reasonable hypothesis."

"Yeah."

"Do you agree with him?"

There was that Vow-shattering look again. Severus couldn't decide whether he liked it or not.

"I want to," she said. "Very much so."

Severus's heart behaved like he was back in his role of spy, skipping over several beats as his pulse ramped up. Granger studied him as if memorising his features. As if she might miss him when she went winging back to her own time.

This was his moment—far sooner than he'd anticipated. He could cast Legilimens, force information about his probable death from her mind. Instead, he sat there as Granger leaned forward and brushed a barely-there kiss over his cheek. A friendly kiss. Something Charity would do. Nothing more.

"Thanks for the duel," she said. "And for letting me vent and have a break from being Heather for a few minutes."

With that, she refastened the necklace, smiled at him through the glamour, and left.

8 July 1987

Hughes,

The potion may help to retain some of your sanity when you begin teaching. I brewed a batch for myself as well. See that you don't give me cause to use it before September.

The other item is offered free of charge. You will need to visit Dumbledore to view it; I do not own a Pensieve.

— SS

Hermione was nearly late leaving for work. She hated being late, but the puzzle of Snape's latest gift took longer than expected to unravel. If her work was correct, he'd created a potion for selective hearing. The user would only hear others speak if what they had to say was both interesting and well-informed. All stupidity and boring observations would be filtered out. Chuckling to herself, she placed the bottle of emerald green potion next to the jar of swirling Pensieve memory. If those silvery clouds didn't contain the memory of Bald Bella, as he'd called her, then Snape was a horrible tease.

Algie wasn't waiting in the garden when she arrived in Northumberland, so Hermione set herself the task of weeding the stinging firethorn patch. Why Algie had chosen to cross a nettle with a firethorn, she would never know. A flameproof scarf tied around her hair and a pair of dragonhide gloves that went up to her shoulders offered some protection, but not enough.

As she uprooted dandelions and other interlopers, Hermione's thoughts drifted to Charity. Specifically, the last time she could remember talking to Professor Burbage. It had been at the Yule Ball, right after Ron had spectacularly ruined everything. Professor Burbage, who'd had a few extra laugh lines to go along with Charity's same old grin, had cradled Hermione's hand in hers and dropped a chocolate into her palm. The same way she always had when Hermione had been stretched thin from too many spins of the Time Turner.

"I hope you aren't running yourself ragged again this year, Miss Granger," Professor Burbage had said.

"No, Professor." Hermione's fingers had closed around the sweet, crinkling the cellophane. "Thank you."

"Chin up, my girl. He's not worth it."

They'd smiled at one another in passing after that, but there had been no words exchanged between them. Not that Hermione could recall.

Leaning back and examining her progress, Hermione wiped the sweat from her brow. The stinging firethorn seemed intent on conspiring with the July sun to roast her to death, but her mind remained elsewhere. About a decade into the future, to be precise.

If only she could warn Snape about Charity's death. About anyone's death, for that matter. He was going to hate her when it happened. She hadn't even been able to mention Horace's passing to him, and Horace hadn't succumbed to the lasting damage from Dolohov's curse until years after the war.

At least Fawkes had understood her—or she thought he had. All she'd done was think that she needed his feather, being careful to avoid any specifics that would break the Vow, but the phoenix had read something in her that had brought tears to her eyes. It had been like being at Dumbledore's funeral and like learning of Snape's true loyalties. Like hearing the list of the dead for the first time. The Vow hadn't offered one warning sting during the whole ordeal. She wondered whether that was because Fawkes didn't count as a person, or because whatever information she'd imparted to him hadn't been given willingly. Maybe some combination of the two.

"Ow," Hermione hissed, recoiling from a tendril of stinging firethorn that slashed across her neck. "Shite."

A gasp came from a nearby privet hedge, followed by a muffled giggle. Following the sound led Hermione to a smaller version of a familiar, round face. Neville.

"Hello," she said, only just resisting the urge to hug him. "I'm Heather."

"Hi," he said in a tiny voice. "I'm Neville."

"Sorry about the language." Hermione solemnly shook his offered hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"That's OK. Uncle Algie says way worse. Way, way, way worse." Crouching down, Neville plucked a dock leaf from a flowerbed that Algie had ordered Hermione to leave wild. "Here. This will make your sting go away."

"I think that's an old wive's tale," Hermione said. "Dock leaves don't actually help with nettle stings."

He faltered for a second, as if doubting himself, then said, "I think these are different. Uncle Algie fertilises them with murtlap essence. They worked on me when I tripped and fell into the stinging firethorn."

"Oh. Right." Rubbing the leaf over her neck brought instant, cooling relief. Hermione sighed. "That's much better. Thank you. I wouldn't have thought to… Did you say you fell into the stinging firethorn patch?"

"Yeah. It hurt a lot."

"I'm sure you were very brave."

"Not really, no."

Neville followed along with a handful of the murtlap dock leaves as Hermione went back to her weeding. Sprawled out on the grass at a safe distance from the stinging firethorn, he cautiously began asking questions and making observations about every plant he could see. Which, in Algie's garden, was a considerable amount. Even at not-quite-seven, Neville's future career path was obvious.

"Can Squibs do any Herbology?" he asked, twisting a blade of grass between his chubby fingers.

"To some extent, sure. There are some plants they can't safely handle, and there are some plants that won't grow without the proper charms, but there's no reason a Squib couldn't tend to any number of plants that are also grown by Muggles. Why do you ask? You're not a Squib."

"I might be." Neville whispered as if this was his deepest, darkest secret. "I've never done any magic."

Hermione gave a firm shake of her head. "You're probably just a late bloomer. But even if you are a Squib, so what? Neither of my parents were born with magic, and they've done all right for themselves."

Neville scrunched up his nose as he gave her statement serious consideration. "Uncle Algie and Gran wouldn't like it."

"Good thing it's your life, then, and not theirs."

"Quite right," a gruff voice said from behind them. Whirling around, they were faced with a grimly smiling Algie. "A late bloomer. That's what you are, lad. We'll force that magic out of you yet."

Hermione winced. Not quite the bit she would have chosen for Algie to focus on. Poor Neville.

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