Her help had been invaluable in setting up the Cauldron and Kettle. And he didn't have to teach dunderheaded swine any longer. Just her.

It should have been difficult. He should have been despised, he should've had to struggle against his own reputation (those dunderheaded swine were now customers, after all). Instead, she spun the story for him. Who better to buy potions from than the man who had taught most of the other brewers in the country's apothecaries? And he had war hero status. Somehow she spun that into reclusive war hero status, working his penchant for hiding from customers in the back room brewing all day—people actually lingered around the shop, filling up their baskets, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. And she was always there, sparkly and convivial, at the register, chatting with the customers, suggesting variations on their purchases, driving sales.

The world was mostly the same. The Ministry was full of idiots. The wizarding world at large still thought it was the Victorian Age. The Weasleys were redheads. The sight of Harry Potter made something uncomfortable twist in his gut.

But his world was different. He was in a bright apothecary, his own place, doing something he loved. He didn't have to talk to anybody he didn't want to. (Hell, most days Hermione was the only one he laid eyes on besides the cat-kneazle.) He had money. He had a comfortable, not-shabby, clean flat above his shop. He cooked for himself instead of trying to stomach the house elves' overly heavy fare.

"You, sir, were woolgathering," Hermione said. She was standing right in front of him, close enough to touch, grinning up at him.

She'd finally gained a bit of weight. For the first two years after the war, she'd been a starved little thing. He'd feared that the war had permanently stunted her, but she'd finally filled out properly. Mrs. Weasley liked to take credit, but Severus knew better; Hermione had crafted her own vitamin-nutrient supplement, with Invigorating Draught as a base. They'd sold the patent to St. Mungo's to use with malnourished patients. (They'd made a small fortune.)

"And you're doing it again."

"What?"

"Woolgathering."

"I don't need any wool."

"No. You've got plenty between your ears."

He glared. She smiled. (She did that a lot.)

"What are you thinking about?"

"You've gained weight."

"That's rude."

"It would be if I didn't know you spent the last eighteen months working out a potion for it."

She bit her lip. He rolled his eyes.

"You look fine, Hermione. You asked me what I was thinking about—I was thinking of the potion, and how you finally look like you're not a fugitive, and that we should use the money on the cauldrons."

"You don't want to invest it?"

"In what? The economy is in tatters. Somebody robbed the premiere wizarding bank and got away with it. People are keeping their money in their mattresses. The only businesses that are growing are the ones that cater to the day-to-day."

"What about the Muggle markets?"

"Hell no. Too unpredictable. And then you have to factor in goblin-controlled exchange rates, and track Muggle financial trends that don't otherwise affect anything…"

"Okay, okay. It was just a suggestion."

"What did you want to invest in?"

"What?"

"You wouldn't have said anything if you didn't have something in mind."

"No. Nothing. Let's get new cauldrons."

He scowled. Now he was going to have to poke around her workspace for clues. That meant venturing out to the front of the shop when she wasn't there. And that meant having to see—and, worse, speak to—people. Possibly Potter. Or a Weasley.

They'd left him alone for a year. He'd just been getting settled in his new premises when they'd begun coming around. Trying to apologize. Trying to connect.

He didn't want to hear it. It was the past. They were already connected enough.

"Have you picked them out yet?"

"What?"

"The cauldrons you want."

"What?"

"You could breed a sheep with all that wool!"

"We may want to use the money to patch the holes in your knowledge of animal husbandry."

"I don't believe there are enough books on the subject to put a dent in the sum."

She was giddy. She'd done well on a project and was reaping the reward now. Money to spend. Safe, secure, and with enough gold lining their pockets that they didn't need to worry about the poor state of the economy, the slow trickle of business.

He could breathe easy when she was like this. There were times when she was tense—when somebody came through who stirred up the mess from the war—or when she was sad. He had to treat her delicately on the days when she was sad, and it annoyed him because he didn't like her to be sad. But he did it anyway.

He'd be dead if she hadn't cared. The witch didn't know how not to care, how to let things bounce off without leaving a dent. He had half a mind to submit one of her papers to the German Consortium, except they'd probably love it. (Wankers.)

"Here."

He really was woolgathering a bit much if she'd left the room and come back while he was staring into space. He cleared his throat.

"What is this for?"

"The cauldrons."

"I thought we were going to invest the money."

"You want cauldrons."

"You want to invest it."

"You're the master. You get to choose what we do with the money."

"It's your money. Buy what you want."

"I want cauldrons," she said, and matched his glare with one of her own.