July 2011

"Owl delivery for you."

Ron handed the scroll to Hermione as he entered the kitchen, still buttoning his shirt. He made his way to the far end of the table, pausing to plant a kiss on his daughter's head as he passed her chair.

"Funny - I didn't hear it," Hermione murmured, frowning at the neat writing, before giving her husband a startled look. "Are you going in this morning? I thought, after the late night - ."

Ron grimaced a little as he sat down. He'd sustained a minor injury to his hip during a late-night arrest and had spent a couple of hours in St Mungo's, waiting to be treated. It had been past 3AM by the time he'd got to bed. "Got to. Team meeting this morning. I'm not surprised you didn't hear the owl, the amount of noise these two make," he added, summoning the coffee pot with a wave of his hand. "Funny how two fairly small people can make such an incredible racket."

Rose grinned at her dad. "Not my fault. Hugo's totally clumsy this morning."

Hermione glanced at her son, who flushed and bent his face over his egg.

"What's the matter, mate?" Ron touched Hugo's shoulder gently.

"Oh, he's just practising for a school test, but he's rubbish at it. Honestly, Dad! All he's got to do is levitate his plate from one side of the table to the other, but he keeps dropping them."

And don't I know it, thought Hermione, wearily, as Hugo glared at his older sister.

"Eat your breakfast. And stop teasing your brother," she ordered.

Rose smiled at her mother, entirely unfazed. At nine, she was the brightest in her class. She resembled her mother to some degree, with her curly dark hair and big intelligent brown eyes, but possessed a far greater degree of confidence than Hermione had done at that age. But then she was growing up in a very different world.

Ron frowned down at his toast. "You know, I'm not so sure that this 'primary' school, as you call it, is such a great thing. I think they push them too hard. After all, we didn't go to school at all until we were eleven. Mum's tutoring was good enough for us."

Hermione shrugged, deciding not to point out that he may not have done, but she certainly had…and it had almost certainly prepared her far better for the rigours of study at Hogwarts. "Well, I think it's better this way. I could never understand why the wizarding world didn't have anything equivalent. After all, it helps to prepare them for Hogwarts. I always felt we spent far too long on the basic spells in our first year. And it means they all go in at a similar level. Otherwise you've got situations where the kids from the older wizarding families have a far greater advantage right from the start than Muggle-borns, or kids like Harry." Plus, your mother didn't go out to work, she added to herself.

She watched seven-year-old Hugo as he concentrated carefully, his blue eyes narrowing as he waved his 'kinder-wand'. This was a six-inch version of the adult wand he'd receive at eleven, with a quarter of the power. It was a relatively new initiative, invented by Seamus Finnegan in partnership with George Weasley. Initially, it was intended to be a fairly high-tech toy, but since Hogwarts had expanded to provide a primary school education at various locations throughout the country, it had formed part of the early curriculum. She knew that the older generation were not too keen on young children having wands, which was why they came with built-in controls that restricted their power to limited applications in home or classroom locations.

She tried very hard not to wince as the plate rose and wobbled dangerously in the air; she'd already had to repair six others this morning.

The plate spun very slightly and then crashed down again hard, cracking across the centre. Rose sniggered and Hermione gave her a hard look before muttering a "Reparo" in the direction of the plate.

"You're doing very well," she said, encouragingly. "As I recall, Rose broke hundreds of plates before she passed the test."

"Really?" Hugo brightened up, encouraged by this unexpected evidence that his older sister was not entirely perfect.

"Anyway, I think that's enough practising for now," Hermione added, quickly. "If you've finished your breakfast, you both need to go and get dressed. And remember – you're going back to Uncle Harry and Aunty Ginny's for tea, so make sure you take something to get changed into – and I mean it, Rose," she added warningly. "I don't want you messing your uniform up. I remember what happened the last time you decided to carry out illegal experiments with James. Help Hugo find some clothes too."

Rose laughed, and Hermione felt a familiar warm glow as her precocious daughter bounded up the stairs. By contrast, as sturdy red-headed Hugo hurried after his leggy sister, her heart clenched.

Her eyes dropped, and she found herself taking in her surroundings with a fresh sense of surprise.

This house was new enough for her to still feel the excitement of owning her own property. With Ron's most recent promotion and the salary increase that came with it, they had finally felt secure enough to leave The Burrow and buy their own house.

It lay on Watchbell Street in the ancient Cinque Port city of Rye in East Sussex. Hermione adored the view from the back garden over the marshes to the sea beyond. It was a town that she had visited with her family as a child, and she had always cherished her memories of the rambling, cobble-stoned streets and old second-hand bookshops.

She'd always assumed that they'd move somewhere nearer to Harry and Ginny in Godric's Hollow down in the West Country. They'd always loved it there. And yet, when it came down to it, she found herself drawn strongly to this aspect of her Muggle childhood. It was within reasonable apparating distance to their jobs and her parents. It was also close to Luna Lovegood, who lived in a ramshackle cottage near the lighthouse down at Dungeness whenever she was in Britain, although more and more her research into magical creatures took her abroad. The eccentric Ravenclaw had become a good friend to Hermione in recent years. It was a comfort to be able to talk occasionally to someone who knew all about Hermione's carefully repressed feelings for Severus but didn't judge.

Best of all, one of the first of the primary schools was based there, and Hermione really did want her children to gain the advantages of an early structured wizarding education. In Godric's Hollow, they were still being home-educated, which might suit Ginny, who was working part-time as a Quiddich correspondent for the Prophet, but did not suit her so well.

Ron had no particular objection, and there was a small established wizarding community in Rye itself, which seemed cautiously welcoming. And an extensive wizarding bookshop, hidden behind a second-hand Muggle bookshop, at which Hermione had spent many happy hours browsing. Severus would love it.

The almost brand new kitchen was gleaming; Hermione prided herself that it combined the best of Muggle technology with her own magical adaptations. No ancient Weasley kitchen, this. Nor did it resemble the small, cosy rural kitchen in Andalusia. She shied away from a sudden vision of Severus leaning against a unit, stirring one of his delicious stews. No. She had made her decision years ago.

Ron interrupted her musing, giving the scroll a nod. "Are you going to open that?"

Hermione sighed. "It's Neville. I think I know what it's likely to say."

She opened it anyway and read the few lines before sending it flying towards her husband.

Dear Hermione,

I hope this finds you all well. I'm afraid I have some bad news. We really can't keep our mutual friend on at the school any longer. I'm sorry, but I've got to think of the safety of the kids.

He's away more than he is here nowadays, and when he does turn up, he's quite obviously under the influence of some kind of Muggle substance. Hagrid has done his best, but you know the problem. Minerva has made it quite clear that if he turns up again, he won't be allowed to enter the grounds – and she really means it this time.

I really can't think what else to do, but if I can be of any help, please let me know.

Hannah sends her love.

Neville Longbottom, Prof Herbology, Hogwarts

Ron read this and put it to one side. "No great surprise."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know, I really hoped that he might make a go of it this time."

"Hagrid has got the patience of a bloody saint. I think if it was down to him, the gates of Hogwarts would always be open," Ron remarked as he gulped down his coffee and poured another cup.

"But it isn't," Hermione agreed. "I can't really blame Minerva; I'd probably do the same in her situation. She's got the reputation of the school to think of… and the safety of the children."

She frowned at her plate, suddenly not hungry. "The question is…what to do now? I don't suppose Lucius - ."

Ron shook his head. "No chance. He's more-or-less reclusive now. Apparently he lives in just one room these days. Malfoy Manor's practically a ruin. Literally falling down around his ears. He's lost everything. And he just sits at his window, shouting abuse and shooting repellos at anyone who dares to approach. No one knows how he's still alive – he doesn't seem to get any food delivered, and he's got no money."

Hermione swallowed, appalled. "Surely you could overpower him? He can't have much magic available if he's got into that state."

Ron shrugged. "And do what? We can't take him in without orders. And no one's complained about him. He's committed no crime. The reality is that no one gives a damn."

Hermione pushed her plate away, feeling sick. "That's the trouble with the wizarding world. I've been saying it for years. You need to have some kind of…detention order – something that orders his removal to St Mungo's for his own safety. You can't just leave him to starve to death – or to kill himself."

Ron sighed. "That's not the way it works, and you know it. You're suggesting that the Ministry has more control over individuals…and yet, we all remember what happened when the Ministry was all-powerful. Kingsley's not keen to go down that route again."

"It's not about tyranny," she argued. "It's about compassion. Sometimes people need to be looked after for their own good. The reality is that not everyone came out of the war unscathed. Many of us had scars – physical and psychological. And the wizarding world tries to ignore that. It's all been about looking forward – trying to forget the past. Well, some of us haven't found it that easy…"

"You mean you." Ron's voice sounded mild, but there was just a touch of condemnation.

Hermione eyed her husband. "And we're back to that again, are we?" She sighed. "I'm not going to apologise, Ron."

"I'm not asking you to."

"But you still don't understand why, do you?"

"I -," Ron looked away. "I only know that Mum - ." His voice faded away.

"Your mum what, Ron? Go on, why not say it?" She observed him steadily. "You know you want to – you've been holding back for years."

"OK." There was a flash of anger in his blue eyes as he looked back at her. "Yes - why not? Mum had seven of us, and Gin has had three, and Fleur two, and Audrey two, and Angelica's got the twins – and not one of them walked out on their six-month-old child for three months. Three whole months, Hermione, and hardly a word from you in all that time. If I even understood why, it might help -."

"We've been through this before, I don't know how many times," she snapped. "Post-natal depression, Ron. It's an illness. And no one at St Mungo's understands it. That's the biggest irony of the wizarding world – they can treat any number of devastating illnesses – cancer, heart disease, Parkinson's, you name it. Things that would carry off Muggles. But as soon as they come across a psychiatric illness that's not caused by magic, they're stumped. It's just a case of 'take this potion and pull yourself together'."

She shook her head. "I felt like I was going mad. I was so alone…and your mum – I know she meant well. She tried to help, but…it was no good, Ron. I was no good. I mean, for heaven's sake, I even felt like I deserved -."

She broke off quickly.

"Deserved what?" Ron was looking down; his voice calm but his fingers clenching and unclenching in frustration.

Hermione sighed, resting her forehead on her hands. "I can't explain."

"Since then," Ron was still looking at his hands, "- since then, you've changed. You came back from that Muggle hospital and you weren't you. You were…harder. Older, somehow. I can't explain it, but it felt like the joy had gone out of you."

Hermione looked up at him in surprise. It was unlike Ron to be so perceptive – in domestic matters, anyway.

She'd been more than a little surprised when Ron had chosen to go into the Auror programme. She understood the attraction – with his best friend there already and the prospect of an exciting career – but she didn't think he would be well-suited. He wasn't exactly the best scholar in the world. And yet, somehow he'd got through the rigorous training programme and had proved to be something of a star in his own right. Ron had always been an excellent strategist. He'd risen fairly quickly through the ranks and was now managing his own team.

She ran her eyes over her husband's face. He looked…older. Older than his twenty-nine years, anyway. It was partly the job, she knew. She saw the signs in Harry too, and some of the other young Aurors that she'd got to know socially - the weariness and cynicism carefully hidden beneath the usual cheerful smiles. They'd had to grow up far too fast, these boys and girls. The post-Voldemort era was not an easy time for them – their schooling had been disrupted, and they had been thrown into a world where the population was decimated, and forced to take on senior roles when barely out of training.

Hermione knew that, even now, Ron spent a fair amount of his time interrogating wizards and witches who used to be Death Eaters. It wasn't much fun, especially when faced with desperate individuals who had tried to put their past behind them and start a new life. Worse still was trying to talk to the devastated spouses and children who had had no notion of their loved one's past. Last night's action had ended in the arrest of a young man who'd been just a kid of fifteen when Voldemort was at the height of his power…and yet there were credible witnesses who had placed him at the scene of the gang rape, torture and murder of a group of Muggle girls. It didn't seem credible.

Ron was thinner than he used to be – less obviously muscly, but the strength was still there, hidden beneath a leaner, well-trained body. His eyesight had deteriorated and he'd recently started wearing glasses. There was magical surgery he could undergo at St Mungo's to restore his twenty-twenty vision, but it was expensive, and he didn't consider it to be a priority.

He was right. The joy had gone – for both of them though, not just her. She could still remember the early days – the fun of being a young couple with no responsibilities, the late night parties, the lazy long dinners with friends. Even when Rose's arrival surprised them both, there had been the wonders and pitfalls of early parenthood to share…the giggling over their cack-handed attempts at holding a slippery infant body over a baby bath, the endless pacing up and down with a colicky child, the good-natured ribbing over who'd had the most disturbed night, the peaceful weekend mornings in bed with their infant daughter – their little miracle. The joy and the pride of first steps and first words.

It hadn't been the same with Hugo.

Hermione bit her lip. "Don't you think that things changed before I went away? When Hugo was first born and we had all those problems with his health?"

Ron frowned. "I dunno. You were anxious, of course - naturally. You didn't seem confident, not the way you were with Rose, but then Mum was there to help you - ."

"Yes," muttered Hermione, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "And don't I know it…"

Ron's head snapped up at this. "Yeah, well, it's just as well she was around, wasn't it? What do you think I would've done with a toddler and a baby and a full-time job if she hadn't been able to look after them for three whole months?"

Hermione felt instantly guilty, reaching instinctively across the table towards him. "I will always been sorry about that. I didn't want to go away, but it was the right choice, Ron, believe me. If I hadn't…" she swallowed. "If I hadn't, I might have – well, I don't know what I might've done."

"You'd never have hurt the kids." Ron looked up at her, intently. "You'd never have done that. Not you. I know you too well."

The last phrase was barely a mutter and he looked away again. Hermione felt the familiar twinge of guilt as she looked at her husband.

It had all seemed so simple ten years ago. They were friends – had become more than friends in the end. They'd grown up together, had fought, had protected one another, had been through the fear and torments of the Voldemort years, had fought the Final Battle side by side. And now, here they were, barely able to communicate. Sitting at opposite ends of the table, trying to understand each other.

"The reality is that I might have hurt them," she replied, observing him carefully. "I know you don't want to believe it, but that's what mental illness does. That's what I mean about the wizarding world. Someone like Lucius Malfoy goes completely mad, and you all shrug your shoulders and decide that there's nothing you can do. But in the Muggle world, they believe that psychiatric disorders can be treated – not just with drugs but with therapies – psychotherapy, cognitive behavioural therapy, motivational interviewing…"

She shook her head. "I just wish there was a way of incorporating such therapies into our world. I mean – some of those people in that ward at St Mungo's – years and years of just sitting there, kept sedated, no hope of a cure. People like the Longbottoms...with some form of magical occupational therapy – who knows?"

"And I suppose you're the one to introduce it?" Ron broke in, with cruel amusement. "Going to turn Healer again, are we?"

She glared at him. "Well, why not? It's not as if I'm going anywhere at the Ministry."

It was a recurrent sore point between them that, even as Ron rose higher in the Auror ranks, Hermione was still stuck in a relatively menial position at Magical Law Enforcement.

Ron shrugged. He gulped down the dregs of his cold coffee and stood up, accio-ing his tie and jacket to him. "You can hardly blame the Ministry for that."

"Really? You think I deserved all that rubbish that the Prophet wrote about me? All those 'madwomen' headlines?"

Ron gave her a bland look. "Well, it's like you say, isn't it? We wizards are too stupid to understand how the human mind works. Never mind legillimency and occlumency. Never mind Voldemort's mental control over half the wizarding world. If you've got a mental health problem, naturally you have to run back to your safe Muggle world to get the 'proper' treatment. And I suppose your therapist told you not to have any contact with your own husband and young children…because that's incredibly sensible, isn't it? To deprive two young children of their mother?"

"I understand," she replied, through gritted teeth. "And I regret it. You know how much."

And it was true – he did know. He knew her deepest fears whenever she looked at Hugo…

His face softened. "Look, I stood by you, didn't I? And so did my family, and Harry. If it hadn't been for him…"

"I know," she said, equally softly. It was largely down to Harry's considerable power and reputation that she'd been allowed to return to her job…and gradually, her colleagues had stopped avoiding her and the papers had turned their attention to other matters…

But the mud still stuck. Even now, when she dropped the children off at school or went shopping in Diagon Alley, the faces were averted, the conversation muted. She understood why. There was a fear – a deep-rooted fear in the wizarding community. Already depleted by the mad tyranny of Voldemort, it sought to reinvent itself, to restore the population, to regain the grandeur of the wizarding past. And it held no place for perceived mental weakness within its ranks.

The community in Rye seemed less bothered – they were a little more liberal and a little less concerned by media gossip – but even here, she saw the occasional nervous glance.

She had committed the grave sin of acknowledging her problems…and, in doing so, she had challenged what they knew to be true. Madness should only be caused by magic. It should not be as a result of delayed war trauma caused by torture, manifesting as puerperal psychosis following a difficult birth. That they did not understand…and like any traditional community, they rejected it utterly.

It was Severus who had, unknowingly, woken Hermione up to the danger that she was in. When he had struck her and she'd sprawled in the dust, an undignified heap, there had been a moment…a moment of almost-terrifying exultation. Yes, her mind seemed to tell her, yes, yes, you deserve this…you have earned this degradation, this pain.

With all that had immediately followed that moment, she'd had no time to analyse her reaction. It was only later, at home, that she'd recalled her response…and she'd known then that something was seriously wrong. The frenetic cleaning at 3AM, the way in which she had been able to disassociate herself from Hugo even as she obsessed over his feeding, her mood swings…they should have been warning enough. But that single slap, and her reaction to it, had been the real wake-up call.

And so she had removed herself. She'd called her parents, left the children with them, along with a note for Ron, and had voluntarily checked herself into a secure psychiatric unit. Luna had recommended it – there was a squib working there who specialised in treating traumatised witches and wizards. She had treated Luna herself shortly after the Battle and had helped the Ravenclaw recover from her imprisonment at Malfoy Manor.

With her therapist, she'd explored issues that she hadn't dealt with for years – her childhood insecurity, the bullying and name-calling, her fears for her own safety, her capture and torture, her fears and hopes and guilt over Severus. And she'd learnt to see how her past had affected her during Hugo's prolonged and traumatic birth…and that it was not her fault.

She gazed up at Ron, who was busying himself with his tie, not looking at her. "You think I'm harder now? Have you ever thought that perhaps I was supposed to be this way? That I've left behind my insecurities? What you perceive as 'hardness' is only a result of refusing to give in to their prejudices. I won't apologise for being human. And I'm not that insecure girl any more, desperately trying to fit into a world that still thinks my Muggle background makes me a less powerful witch…when it so patently doesn't."

He sighed, impatiently. "This conversation is getting us nowhere. You know I believe in you – I know you're one of our most powerful witches. I always have done."

"Then why must you keep on bringing up the past?"

He eyed her as he fastened his jacket. "If you have to ask that, then I guess you don't know me that well." He raised his voice. "Come on, kids, I'll drop you off at school before apparating."

As the children clattered down the stairs, he turned back to her. "I'm working late – but I guess you'll be out anyway? Trying to track him down?"

"Yes, I suppose so." She frowned, thinking carefully. "I've got a report to finish, but not much else, so I'll be able to take the afternoon off. It may take a while."

"OK. Good luck with that. If you need me to do a trace, let me know. And – and, be careful. You don't know what kind of state he'll be in. He might get aggressive."

She nodded. "OK, I'll be careful, although I'm sure I can manage him. He can't have much natural magic left, so I should be able to subdue him."

He stepped towards her, but she couldn't miss the hesitation before he leaned down to kiss her cheek. And she found it almost impossible to disguise her flinch at the press of his cold lips against her skin.

He stepped back, and she saw the pain in those blue eyes before his mask appeared once more. "See you later."

"Yes, OK."

As he turned away, she felt her shoulders slump. Oh, gods, Ron, how did we come to this?


Actually, it took less than two hours to trace him.

Hermione stepped into the pedestrian subway. At the far end, there was a pile of what looked like rags, but turned out to be a man's slumped-over body.

Hermione walked briskly towards him. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily at the strong smell of urine and she stepped carefully around the puddles and the dog faeces.

Draco glared up at her out of encrusted yellow eyes. "Piss off, Mudblood."

"Charming as ever, I see, Malfoy," she replied calmly, quite unconcerned by the familiar insult.

He gave a sound that might have been a snigger but it ended in a rattling cough that robbed him of his breath. As he gasped and hacked, she ran her eyes over him in some concern.

The years had not been kind to Draco Malfoy. The blond hair of which he had once been so proud hung in greasy dirty-yellow long tangles over his shoulders. He was thin to the point of emaciation, his skin unhealthily white. He looked easily double his twenty-nine years. It looked as if he hadn't been able to satisfy one of his suppliers – his nose was freshly broken and bloodied and one of his eyes was almost closed by a swollen bruise. Some of the fingers of his right hand were broken – it looked like someone had stamped on them.

He was dressed in a variety of tatty Muggle clothes, had obviously been nowhere near a bath for a long time and smelt nearly as bad as the poky subway within which he was currently sheltering.

He curled into himself, raising a shaking hand to wipe at his mouth. Hermione frowned at the smear of blood she saw there.

"What are you, some fucking do-gooder?" Draco sneered. "Come to gloat, because your life is so fucking perfect, Granger? Yeah, well, I don't need you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yeah, because you're coping so well by yourself, Draco." She went to sit down next to him, hesitated and then crouched down instead, trying to avoid too much contact with the stinking floor.

"So, who was it, then?" she asked. "Your dealer? Muggle, was he?"

"Didn't have the money," Draco muttered, closing his eyes.

Hermione sighed. "You know how stupid it is taking Muggle drugs, don't you? You think the stuff you got in Nocturne Alley was strong enough? It's bad, but it won't kill you. Cocaine will. And there's worst stuff out there."

"Just wanna feel warm," the man next to her slurred into his chest.

"There's better ways for that." She took his unresisting hand and peered at the oddly angled fingers. The scabs looked infected and she didn't like the sound of his chest as he breathed in and out. "So what happened with the programme?"

"Waste of fucking time," he grunted. "Just strapped me down and stuck needles in me to keep me quiet, til I begged them to let me go."

She frowned. "I thought it involved group therapy, activities…" She remembered reading the brochure before digging into her savings to meet the extravagant cost of the detoxification programme. Those people could afford to charge what they liked – there weren't many such programmes available in the wizarding world.

Draco forced out another laugh that threatened to turn into another coughing fit. "Not for me, Granger. What'd you expect? It's me – fucking Draco fucking Malfoy. Public enemy number one. You think they'd do anything to help me?"

They ought to, I paid them enough. She didn't say it, though. What was the point? The staff at the unit had probably been kids at Hogwarts when Draco and his cronies had had a reign of terror under Severus' year as headmaster. She could imagine how satisfying it must have been to have had him strapped down and helpless on a bed, especially if they'd been some of the unfortunates on whom the senior Slytherins had perfected their crucios.

She sighed. "I'm going to have to get you to St Mungo's - again. That hand needs splinting, and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't have pneumonia."

"Sod off, Granger," he muttered, but there was no real venom to it. He was obviously too weak to object.

She bit her lip, considering the options. They wouldn't keep him at the hospital once they'd treated the infections – they didn't consider drug addiction to be serious enough for admittance. And, in any case, she didn't have the power to advocate for Draco's welfare. There was only one person who might possess it…and he was probably in even greater need of care, if Ron was right.

"We need to find somewhere for you to go," she murmured. Hogwarts was clearly out. Ron would go ballistic if she took him home. As for Malfoy Manor… "Not your dad though…"

Draco's body stiffened in outrage, roused from his stupor. "That bastard. Not going back to him…"

"He is still your father," she pointed out.

"He killed her." Draco was getting agitated, and she put a hand on his arm, trying to soothe him. "He killed her, that fucking arsehole. He killed her, she would've been alive if he hadn't – if he hadn't – he hadn't…" His voice trailed off.

"Your mother?" she ventured, tentatively. Narcissa had passed away a year ago. No one knew for certain, but the rumour was that she'd killed herself. Lucius had gone into steep decline since her death.

Draco moaned, burying his face in his damaged hands. "All his fault. If he hadn't gone with Voldemort, we would never… he killed her… she couldn't bear… he killed my mother…"

"Draco? Draco, can you hear me?" She poked at his bony cheekbone, but the man was unresponsive.

Hermione sighed. "You owe me big time for this, Malfoy." She stood up and used her wand to levitate the stinking figure into the air. "But in the meantime… where are you going to be safe, and away from all temptations? Of course, there is one place… if he'll only agree…"

She put her hand on Draco's arm, narrowed her eyes in concentration, and spun them away.


"Are you completely mad?"

Severus paused in his work and stared at Hermione in disbelief.

She shrugged and folded her arms, looking at the pipes meaningfully.

He groaned and turned back to his tinkering. As he bent over in his tight jeans, she allowed herself a brief moment to enjoy the view before hastily turning her eyes away to take in the greater view, so to speak.

There had been a few changes. Severus was branching out a little; now that he was better off, he found it easier to source most of his ingredients elsewhere, where they could be grown in greater bulk. He'd returned much of his land to its former wilder state and had started farming olives and lemons – easier to sell now that he was more accepted by the local Muggle population. They were far less labour-intensive and gave him a reasonable income; and having to spend less time on the land gave him more time for his research work.

He had published some papers on his variants of scar-accio, and was also working in partnership with some medi-wizards and medi-witches at a neonatal intensive care unit in Germany to carry out research on his experimental potion to help premature neonates thrive. He still traded and wrote under the name of Tobias Prince and, so far, no one seemed to have associated him with Severus Snape, still assumed to be dead. He wasn't so worried about being discovered since his posthumous pardon, though, which gave him greater freedom to contact the outside world. He'd contacted the facility in Germany by owl alone and had not actually met his research partners. However, they were clearly impressed enough by his background findings to accept the slightly odd arrangement.

The finished product would almost certainly make him a fortune. As Caesar and Beatrix had gone into partnership with Severus a couple of years' previously, they'd do pretty well out of it too. Even Hermione, who had a five per cent stake in Tobias Prince Inc. courtesy of the money she'd given him to set up his business in the first place, could confidently expect a windfall.

And she'd need it too. She'd got Draco into an expensive private clinic while he recovered from his bout of pneumonia. Ron would not be best pleased if he'd known how much of her own savings she'd spent trying to sort Draco Malfoy out over the years. He knew about her investment in Severus' business, but hadn't shown much interest in it – presumably he didn't expect Severus to be making that much money. She'd kept fairly quiet about the amount she'd recouped from it, especially as most of it had been frittered away on abortive addiction programmes.

Meanwhile, Severus had created an ingenious method of irrigation for his remaining plants, herbs and vegetables – and had also made the hot summers at the cottage more palatable. He had diverted the stream that cut across a corner of his land, using an intricate pattern of dams and pipes to channel it into a tank, where he could use it to water his land as required. The overflow was then re-diverted back into the stream, after going through a filter to remove any toxins. He'd have been in serious trouble with the local authorities over this illegal use of public water…if they'd known about it. He'd put a diversionary field around the structure to stop any Muggle from being able to see it.

The plus side was that Severus had built stone steps down into the side of the tank, turning it into the perfect swimming pool. He had claimed rather grumpily that he'd only done it because he was getting fed up with Hermione taking time out of the laboratory to drive down to the lake for a swim. She appreciated the gesture, anyway. He'd even cordoned off a section to create a shallow paddling pool for Rose and, later, Hugo to play in when they were younger.

Hermione had continued to visit him over the years, occasionally with Rose or both of the children, sometimes alone. Ron had never accompanied her, although he always sent his good wishes, and Severus would respond with creaky politeness. Her visits always had a purpose; she wouldn't allow herself the indulgence of a social call. Following her therapy, she'd made a decision to return to her family, to make amends to her children by not turning her back on her marriage. She felt it was the least she could do – until such time as her children no longer needed her to be at home, anyway. Severus knew that, and it would be unforgivably cruel of her to tempt him with lazy days in the countryside and romantic evenings at the Alhambra.

Instead, she'd arrive with any new equipment or ingredients that he wanted and would settle down to some hard graft on the land or, more often these days, in the laboratory. There were always ingredients that needed to be prepared – the sort of tedious and slightly unpleasant work that Severus might have once allotted to the unfortunate students who had earned a detention from him. Hermione was happy to lose herself for a while in repetitive cutting, chopping, grating or juicing. In some ways, she felt it was a just punishment for abandoning Severus in the first place…and in any case, she almost enjoyed it. It was just nice not to have to think for a while.

She often tried to coincide her visits with times when she knew Caesar and Beatrix were also visiting him, feeling that there might be safety in numbers. Severus had extended his cottage a little, adding a small en-suite guest room for such visits. Even if his friends weren't staying with him, Hermione would usually eschew the guest room for her own tent, which she'd put up in a shady corner at the boundary of his land – as it was the usual magical one, complete with bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, she was able to be quite independent.

By dint of some effort on both parts, they'd eventually managed to regain their previous friendship, although there were certain topics that they were very careful to avoid discussing. She'd never raised the subject of Severus' destructive and potentially abusive temper. It wasn't that she didn't think it needed addressing, but the topic was too raw for them both.

It saddened her that, by continuing to cut himself off from society, he wasn't given the opportunity to get help and treatment for some of his psychological issues, which obviously went back years. It was his decision, though, and she'd been very careful never to ask anything of him over the years, feeling that she really didn't have the right.

Which made it even odder that she was standing here now, asking him for a really big favour.

He was still bent over, using his wand to ease off the problematic valve that was halting the stream's flow into the tank. Occasionally, she heard the odd muttered comment along the lines of "bloody woman, must be absolutely bloody mad…"

Eventually, he straightened up, facing her. She looked at him and tried to suppress a giggle at the sight of his greying hair, currently sticking up in sweaty spikes. He still kept it shorter but with a floppy fringe that usually fell over his forehead – it suited him, minimising the severity of his beaky nose and making him look younger. In fact, she found it downright sexy.

Her amusement must have shown in her face, as he rolled his eyes and pushed a hand through his hair. "OK. Laugh it up. So tell me why you think it's a remotely sensible idea for me to host a drug addict?"

"Because it's Draco Malfoy?"

"Is that a question or a statement? Come on, we might as well conduct this conversation in some comfort."

He left her in the kitchen preparing icy lemon drinks while he had a quick shower. When he emerged in clean clothes, rubbing his hair dry, she carried their drinks over to the table and chairs on the bougainvillea-shaded terrace.

She sipped her refreshingly cold drink and sighed at the view of the hills as framed by the scarlet flowers of the bougainvillea. God, she missed this place.

Whenever she was here, it didn't escape her attention that this might have been her home, her garden, her view. Theirs. And yet…and yet, she loved her life in Britain too – her beautiful home near the sea, walks along the shingled beaches with Rose and Hugo, the fascinating little bookshops, the coffees with Luna, the family dinners and weekends away with Harry and Ginny and the kids, even her job at the Ministry, working to make life fairer for house elves and Muggle-borns…

Could she have given all of that up for a life of anonymity in rural Spain at the tender age of nineteen? Living as the wife of a wanted man, in constant fear of discovery? Yes, she'd have had Severus and they would have been deliriously happy at first, but she would have been of limited use to him – she was no potions expert - and she might have grown bitter and thwarted by her lack of purpose. And there would have been no children, either. Also, if she had stayed here, would Harry have ever succeeded in clearing Severus' name? She sighed – she would never know.

Severus came out onto the terrace, rolling up the sleeves of his red shirt. He looked much cooler and had also taken the opportunity to shave. She knew that he often went for weeks without bothering if he was alone – in fact, he'd had quite a bushy beard when she'd visited him last year. It had suited him… but then, to her highly biased eyes, almost any look seemed to suit him.

He sat down and gave her a wry look as she passed him his drink. "OK, tell me."

She described Draco's current situation – his decline into addiction to wizarding narcotics first of all and then, when they no longer gave him the buzz he needed, to Muggle street drugs. The abortive detox programmes; the failed attempts by Neville and Hagrid to keep him on the straight and narrow; her role in rescuing him whenever he hit rock bottom.

He stretched his long legs out, gulped his drink and gazed at the horizon in apparent boredom, but she knew him well enough by now to know that he was taking in every word.

When she finished explaining her reasoning, he was silent for a few minutes. She forbore to interrupt, knowing that he needed to think it through.

Finally, he sighed, putting his empty glass down. "Why should I care?"

"Severus Snape would have cared. The Malfoys were your friends, once. He is your godson, after all," she pointed out.

He gave a dry laugh. "Yes, he was Severus Snape's godson. You said it yourself. I've not gone by that name for ten years. Why should I abandon my anonymity now?"

"I can't make you – I can't force you to," she replied, cautiously. "But it might just make a difference to Draco."

"Perhaps more to the point…why should you care?"

She tried to avoid those dark, all-to-perceptive eyes. "Perhaps I understand him a little. Yes, I know – he made my life hell. I should be happy that he's suffering. And yet…I'm not. How can I be, when – when it - ." When it could so easily have been me, she thought, but didn't say.

She didn't need to. His gaze softened, understanding her without words. He knew of her struggles, the depression, the therapy - all of it. She couldn't hide it from him of all people.

"Maybe I feel a duty of care," she confessed.

"And you think I should too? Because he was my student, my protégé?"

"Was he?"

He sighed again. "In a twisted way – yes. I was certainly expected to keep an eye on him. Lucius expected it of me."

"And he was actually a good student – to you. Wasn't he?" She looked at him intently.

He met her eyes with some surprise. "You saw that too? I assumed you hadn't been able to see beyond the arrogant little git who liked to play his teachers up and make life difficult for all Gryffindors."

She smiled. "It was quite hard to see beyond that, yes. But, I suppose you might say that I always had an eye for the good students in each subject. My rivals for the top marks, I suppose. And Draco often scored top marks in Potions. At first, I thought it was just nepotism – and, in any case, it became very clear that I couldn't expect a decent mark from you," she added, teasingly. "But then I realised that he did have a talent for Potions. An instinctive ability that I would never be able to master, no matter how hard I studied. So I guess it made it easier for you that your 'star' student also shared your passion?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to suggest that he shared my interests," Severus pointed out. "He was a lazy little bugger – always was. I used to feel sorry for Narcissa for having such a shiftless son."

"But anyway, when I was trying to work out what to do about Draco, it came to my mind that there was something that he could aim for – something that might give him a means of supporting himself. Something to give him a reason for overcoming his addiction. Half the problem is that he can't see the point of getting clean. And he could work for you, couldn't he? Earn his keep?"

"It's not quite that simple, though, is it? I mean, once an addict, always an addict. He's going to have to deal with that temptation for the rest of his life. And setting him loose in a laboratory with access to all sorts of narcotics…?"

"You could manage that though, couldn't you? Use protective spells to keep him away from the toxic stuff until he'd got through withdrawal? All I'm asking is that you offer him somewhere to live – just for a few weeks if you like. Just to get him away from any temptations. Right now, we can't keep an eye on him for long enough to get him past the difficult time – he just slips away. Here he wouldn't be able to do that. He doesn't speak Spanish, he doesn't know the country at all, and he wouldn't have the money or ability to get very far."

Severus was silent. He stood up and walked over to lean on the railing.

"There's another thing," Hermione said, quietly. "If – if there's anyone he respects, anyone he cares about – it's you. He's estranged from his father and despised by his old Slytherin friends. He resents my involvement in his life. But you… if there's anyone who might able to get through to him, to make him see it through… it might be you."

Severus didn't respond. Hermione ran her eyes over his lean back, trying to work out by the tense set of his shoulders what his answer might be.

"There's something you might not have considered."

His voice was so quiet that Hermione wasn't immediately sure she'd heard him correctly.

"My temper." He kept his back turned to her. "You, of all people, know how dangerous I can be."

Hermione couldn't think of anything to say.

He turned his head suddenly, eyeing her, his face carefully blank. "Isn't that so? You don't talk about it – we don't talk about it. But it's there – between us. It's always been there, hasn't it?"

Hermione swallowed and gave him a brief nod.

"You see, I… I'm not fit to be around people. You wonder why I've never taken the opportunity to come back? I could have come back. I could have been part of your life again. Set up a laboratory on the south coast, so I could at least be near you, even if we never - ."

He broke off and shook his head, as if he was trying to dislodge an unhelpful, possibly destructive, idea.

"But I … I've proved that I can't be in society again. I'm damaged, Hermione. Damaged beyond repair. There's no way back for me – not now. You were right to get out when you did – no, I mean it -," he raised his hand to ward off her instinctive denial, "– if you had stayed with me, back then, I might have hurt you. My dark moods… Even Caesar and Beatrix – they probably know me better than anyone except you – and even they know when to back off; when to let me alone for a few days. If Draco was living here, and he was challenging my boundaries, my patience - ," he shakes his head. "Do you really think you could trust me not to lash out at him?"

"Back at the unit - ," Hermione cleared her dry throat and tried again, "– back at the unit, they always told us how important it was to be honest to ourselves. Not to be too proud to admit that we were victims. It's so…hard to admit that we have weaknesses. We're adults; we're supposed to know it all, so how can we be so weak? So affected by the behaviour of those around us?"

She leaned forward, intently. "You're afraid of what you might do to Draco if he angers you? I don't think you need to be…but there may be a way…"

She stood up and walked towards him, slowly. He leaned back against the railing and watched her approach, his face as blank as before… but there was something in his eyes. An old pain…

"There was something we did, back in therapy," she went on, lightly. "Something we were made to do – as a group. I hated it. It made me feel so vulnerable, as if all my layers had been stripped away – as if I'd been laid bare for everyone else to despise. But – you know what? It didn't make it go away, not completely, but it minimised it, in some way. Made the barrier less difficult to get over. Just – just acknowledging it – seeing it plain. It's not an end to it, but it is a beginning."

"Hermione, I don't - ."

She interrupted him, moving to stand right in front of him. "I'm going to try something, Severus. No funny stuff, I promise. Just… just let's try this, you and I. I'm going to say something – tell you something that I've never told anyone outside of therapy. And you have to reciprocate. That's the rule."

He made a panicky half-step back, but she took his right hand and placed it over her heart, her eyes gazing deeply into his. "My name is Hermione… I was tortured and almost killed. I was once so afraid of facing the cold facts of reality that I married a man I didn't love enough. And now I am committed to a marriage that should never have happened in the first place. And my greatest fear is that I don't love my son as much as my daughter."

Her voice choked slightly on the last words, but she smiled. "There. I've said it. Now it's your turn."

He hesitated for a moment, and then took her right hand and placed it over his heart.

"My name is Severus… and my greatest fear is that I have the potential to be an abuser… like my father before me."

He tried to loosen his hold on her hand, but she pressed it against him, not letting up.

"And he abused you."

"Hermione, please – I can't - ."

She dug her nails into his shirt. "Say it," she demanded, her eyes burning into his.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "And he abused me."

"How?"

"He – he hit me. And he – he…" He kept looking into her deep brown eyes and they centred him, making it easier to go on. "He kicked me. He broke my ribs once. He..." He stopped, fearing that if he didn't, it would all come out and he'd never be able to stop. Never be able to get rid of the pain and fear…

She kept her hand steady on his heart. "And he shouldn't have done that."

"No," he agreed. "He shouldn't have done that."

"Because you didn't deserve it."

"I didn't deserve it."

"And… you are not your father."

Once more, he hesitated, but her glistening eyes wouldn't leave him. And he saw nothing there but love. Love and acceptance.

"No," he agreed. "I am not my father."

The hand clenched into his shirt once more, and he covered it with his own; clasped it tight against him. Their eyes were locked. And she smiled at him, as a large tear rolled down her cheek.