Down in their hearts, wise men know this truth: the only way to help yourself is to help others. ~Elbert Hubbard

The paper is before us, the pen in our hand, mere mechanical media as it seems; but the ink quickens and slackens its current, and ebbs and flows, as the tide of our emotions sinks and swells. ~George Wilson, "Paper, Pen and Ink: An Excursus in Technology," Macmillan's Magazine, November 1859

Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company. ~Lord Byron

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Emerging from the platform and trying to orient her location in the foreign city, Hermione looked up at the Champs-Élysées with a burgeoning sense of triumph. The gold lit arch and street lamp lined boulevarde glowed through the rain and her mood buoyed as she made her way down the famous street, leaving the darkness of the metro behind her. She was free, she had panicked but kept her head and now so long as she kept moving she would be fine. Feeling the rain drops begin to weigh down the hastily transfigured head scarf, she decided her first priority was to get out of the rain. For now, everything else could wait.

A short visit to a 24hour convenience mart and a marked up touristy umbrella in tow, Hermione walked on amongst the crowd and fished her mobile phone from her pocket. It was foolish to ruin her new found confidence, but she had to reach Dennis and ensure he was on route to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

The dial tone was barely audible over the traffic rushing past through the rain, and Hermione almost missed his answer.

"Hermione, you're okay?!"

"I'm fine Dennis, did you and Luna get out okay?"

"The ministry stooge basically ignored us. He asked the manager of Groomsbride a few questions and I don't think he was pleased to know he'd been doing business with a supposed fugitive, but Luna calmed him down. You know how she is."

"Where are you now?" Hermione ducked away from the noise of the main road, and spotted a small restaurant tucked into a side street, a bowl of steaming onion soup painted on the window, and a quaint window flower box spilling warm light onto the dark pavement. She sheltered under the fabric awning the best she could, and finally removed the cumbersome head scarf.

"We're just outside the muggle entrance of Passage de l'ancre, Luna will apparate me to George and then she's going to her Father's to-"

"Dennis, make sure you're not being tailed." Hermione huffed at annoyance as Dennis rambled on with who knows who possibly over-hearing.

"We're fine Hermione." His confidence seeped through the poor reception, as only a 16 year old's could. She suddenly felt weary beyond her years, and cringed to think of her own immaturity where Dennis had been concerned.

"Where are you going to go now?" Dennis now sounded less confident, and Hermione tried her best to summon the know-it-all tone she was known for.

"Need-to-know basis Dennis. I'll keep you informed. I'll be near a radio, so knock em dead tonight." Hermione didn't wait for a response and ended the call. Still standing under the dripping fabric awning, she couldn't help but smell the aromas streaming from the cozy restaurant. She tried to remember eating breakfast with Luna that morning, but drew a blank. It felt as though months had passed and her stomach and feet agreed, leading her through the dangling door, and following as a cheerful older muggle showed her to a single seat by the corner. After ordering in haphazard french, she drummed her fingers on the linen table cloth and tried to ignore the thoughts creeping up on her now that the thrill of escape had faded.

The thoughts persisted.

She smiled at the waiter flourishing a napkin onto her lap as he presented the steaming bowl of soup.

The thoughts persisted.

She tucked into the nourishing, comfort food. She focused on the savoury taste, and warm aroma.

The thoughts persisted.

Pushing her bowl to one side she finally gave in and dug through her bag for George's self inking pen. She needed a list to keep the thoughts at bay. She tore apart the envelope that housed Snape's old textbook, and glanced down at the journal he had given her. She set it on the table, staring at it bemusedly.

She could ask him for help.

Flicking open to the last entry she read the words once more.

"This journal is a means of transmitting research notes only. Kindly desist from using it as an adolescent diary of your own rambling questions."

Well then. Perhaps she had bothered him enough today. Vividly, an image of his eyes drinking in her form through the mirror came to mind. She set her quill to the torn envelope but the thoughts of where she would go, what she had to do next, and the racing logic of options had vanished.

She remembered his tall form swooping through the room. The way he had looked at her as he took the folder of research. Narcissa's insinuations. Shaking her head she buckled down and fiercely ignored the blush staining her cheeks.

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Snape nursed his fifth. Stalling the inevitable with what little self restraint he had left, he remembered he was in public, and falling down drunk or seizing was far too much notice even for a retired spy.

His finger's, itching with the temptation of reaching for the glass, demanded some other outlet and he found himself rather unadvisedly scanning through the stolen research as one might the evening prophet. With a bemused afterthought, he cast a glamour on the pages so it would resemble newsprint for anyone foolish enough to read over his shoulder.

The figures and notes swam before his eyes, and his frown grew deeper all the while. The urge to tell the insufferable twit that she had been working with pedants was overpowering. By the time his continued reading led to scoffs that drew the other patron's alarmed gazes, he knew he had to stop.

Restless hands drew from the tumbler in front of him once more, before drumming upon the ring-stained, sticky table.

He drew the notebook paired to the one he had given her from the pocket of his robes, but stalled upon seeing the blank page before him. Wine soaked lips. That diaphanous slip.

He downed the tumbler and refilled his sixth, self restraint catching up only as he raised the rim to his lips once more.

Why shouldn't he berate her? Why not verbally bombast her? What better way to re-establish the distance between them? To reiterate that he was the bastard who had taught her and nothing more. A signal to the bartender and a few gruff words delivered a quill and ink pot to his anxious hands before second thoughts delivered him from his foolishness.

The thoughts caught up only as he held the inked quill above the page, and before they could take hold a single falling ink droplet sealed his fate.

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Hermione looked up from her list struggling to phrase her most pressing concern:

WWW radio Potterwatch - find magical radio

Find a way to contact Beauxbatons

Emelda Frey - Civic affairs. Narcissa dinner invitation?

Contact Minerva (beg forgiveness for not doing so sooner.)

Buy days' newspapers

Brief kingsley.

Stretching her hand, she glanced at the still open journal before her and frowned at the ink blot that had appeared below Snape's derisive message. How had she managed to drop ink on the page that far away, with George's magical quill no less. Still puzzling it out, she stared as the ink droplet magically vanished.

Remembering to shut her mouth lest her jaw hang open, gawking in the middle of the restaurant, she waited anxiously for Snape to begin writing.

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Would magically removing the blot remove it from her pages as well? What was wrong with him? How foolish had he become? He did not want to become pen pals with the girl, he had said so himself only this morning!

No it's not pen-pals you want, is it lecher?

Snape stared in horror as handwriting he was becoming fast acquainted with flew across the page.

"Hello? Are you there?"

He could ignore it.

He could put the thrice damned book back in his cloak and be done with it.

What if it wasn't even her, but some ministry busybody?

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Hello are you there? Hermione cringed as soon as she read the words back. She should have thought of something more intelligent to say, something to keep him-

"Who chose your current hair-style?"

Hermione frowned. She didn't know what she had been expecting but it certainly was not that. He obviously wanted to ensure it was her. Constant vigilance.

"Rita Skeeter."

"So you're still at large then."

Hermione would have bristled at such a reply from him this morning, but she smiled wanly. It was concern, even if couched in scathing sarcasm. Hermione glanced back at her list and realised her largest omission- the one problem that had seemed too challenging to face. He had offered to help her, hadn't he?

"Still on the run. Do you know of any safe houses in Paris?"

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He downed his sixth in one throat burning swill.

He knew the drinking led to memories, but it had been a long time since he had so vivid an image of Albus' blue eyes twinkling at him over those damned half moon spectacles. The headmaster's old partner, Nicholas Flamel's house was only a block away. He had been a much younger man, still trailing escaped death eaters after the Dark Lord's first defeat when Albus had given him a calling card, should he need somewhere to call in and have a cup of tea.

He could tell her and be done with it. He didn't need to disclose how close he was, or how drunk. He was pretty sure the house had been secret kept, but with Flamel and now Dumbledore…gone, well he would probably suffice as the secret keeper.

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Hermione's cold soup had long been taken away now, and yet she sat perched over the journal, waiting for his response. She was being silly really. She could go to a motel. But she needed somewhere magical that hopefully had a radio.

She ignored the hope she felt and told herself that either way she would be fine. That she could cope perfectly well by herself, and being alone didn't bother her one bit.

"The Parisian headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at 52 Rue de Montmorency. It was originally secret kept by Nicholas Flamel, and I do not know if the enchantments still hold or whether that will do."

Hermione bit her lip and considered the implications. If it was an order safe house, and Flamel had been the secret keeper before he finally came to terms with mortality in her first year, then anyone who knew of its location would now be a secret keeper. Which meant Snape would be, which meant he was right, and she would now be able to find it.

But so would anyone else who knew of its location. It was a lot easier to operate without magic if she stuck to the muggle world. What if she wasted her time getting there, only to find there were wards or it was otherwise engaged?

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"Are there active wards?"

Severus eyed the bottle before him murderously. He could do it. Finish the rest, flounder around in the gutter, seize, and finally be put out of his fucking misery.

How the fuck should he know if there were wards? He had helped. He could leave and be done with it. He would rather face Narcissa now, after all he had accomplished what he had set out to do. He was drunk.

The anger left him in one fell swoop. Before his minds eye was the pleading look on the girls face as she handed him her research, and the strangled word 'please' that had spanned the distance between them. The same word he'd uttered on the floor of the shrieking shack.

He scribbled his acquiescence then rose and tucked the research and diary into his robes, before eyeing off the bottle with a decent four fingers remaining. He tucked that away too. Flamel's cupboards had been bare the last time he visited, and if Granger was still wearing the ridiculous slip he would need it.

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"I will abandon my evening and meet you there to dismantle the wards. I had not realised you weren't up to it."

Hermione shut the journal with a snap and took a deep breath. Concern couched in sarcasm, she tried to remind herself. Paying the bill, she tipped the waiter with the change and ventured outside where the cabs clogged the famous street, and the rain glowed in the gold of the street lights and head lamps. As she told the driver the address, she caught sight of the Arch de Triumph in the rear view mirror, and sat back with content at the symbolism.

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