Snape never wanted to see that castle again. But he was a free man now, he didn't have to be there, and that made all the difference. This was something he did for himself, and only himself.

He'd waited until dark. Surely everyone would've gone home by now, to celebrate or mourn or both, and the castle would be empty. Hagrid's windows glowed orange, but otherwise the grounds were quiet.

There were no lights on anywhere in the castle, so he didn't bother with a Disillusionment Charm, and anyway, he wasn't such a coward that he wouldn't show his face here. Anyone left skulking about would just mistake him for a wraith anyway. Headmaster Snape, come back to haunt the school. He could come back in the fall, lurk down some dark corridor and scare the shit out of the students. Could be fun.

The creak of the door was loud against the deep slumbering stillness of the castle, like he'd woken it up, and maybe he had, he'd long suspected it was sentient, a benevolent force with a will of its own.

He'd never seen the place so empty. Not when he'd come back early from the summer holidays, or when he stayed over Christmas and went walking late at night. The castle was listening, watching him. Withholding judgment, which annoyed him, but what could he expect? That there'd be a statue of him somewhere? He would've torn it down.

Grit and broken glass crunched under his feet. They'd cleared away the bodies but the battle still clung to the castle like the moss on the stones. Here, a blood-splattered step; there, a snapped wand lying in a pile of rubble. Broken windows and burned tapestries. A crumpled blue jumper knitted with silver stars.

The stone gargoyle in front of the Headmaster's office bowed its head and let him through.

The applause from the portraits was deafening. Armando Dippet rapped a walking stick against his chair. Dilys Derwent whistled. Phineas Black called out above the roar, "All hail Headmaster Snape, the noblest of Slytherins!"

But Snape was watching Dumbledore. His eyes were bright and watery over his half-moon spectacles, and he wasn't smiling.

"My dear brave Severus," he whispered under the roar of the portraits.

Snape slapped his hands on the back of the headmaster's chair. "Don't you get sentimental with me, old man."

A few nearby portraits stopped their cheering to listen.

"I beg your pardon?" said Dumbledore, with an air of polite bemusement that didn't fool him for a second.

"You used me. You knew about the elder wand the whole time, you knew he'd go after me."

"If you would just let me explain-"

"I don't want to hear it. I've just come to get my things." He yanked open a drawer and pulled out books and papers and flasks of potion, stuffing them into a leather satchel he'd brought with him.

"I never meant for you to die, Severus."

Snape slammed the drawer shut and packed away his instruments and his Muggle records.

"I didn't think the elder wand would work against you."

Snape stuffed one of Dumbledore's silver instruments into his bag by mistake, yanked it out, slammed it on the desk.

"But he doesn't need to use a wand, does he?" he said through clenched teeth.

Dumbledore's portrait took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, just like he'd done in life when he was at the end of his tether.

"I owe you an apology, Severus."

Snape paused with his hand on a glass paperweight. Dumbledore, apologising? Unthinkable. Of course, it wasn't the real Dumbledore. Just a portrait charmed to act like him, but that made it all the more strange, when he thought on it.

"I was harder on you than I should've been. We're not so different, you know, Severus. Perhaps that was why I didn't trust you enough."

Dumbledore's words echoed back from all those months ago, from the steps of the concert hall. We're not so different, you know. And they weren't. Dumbledore could've been his father, they were so much alike.

"Yes, well. Don't worrry about it."

Snape finished packing up his things and climbed the winding staircase to his bedroom. Touching sentiments, those. But after all, he was only a portrait.

Paracelcus leapt onto his shoulders the moment he walked into the room.

"Have you been waiting for me all this time?" murmured Snape, scratching him behind the ears. Paracelcus purred and rubbed his face.

Apollo wasn't so forgiving. He glared at Snape from his perch as though his near death was a personal insult.

"Don't look at me like that," said Snape, tapping his downy head. "I wasn't having fun, you know." Apollo nipped his finger.

He packed away his books and his wireless and extra clothes. When there was nothing left to take with him, he opened the drawer where he kept his photographs and his letters from Lily.

They were Muggle photographs, in colour, taken by Lily's parents. The two of them in her back garden, Lily's arm draped over his shoulder, hot and sweaty in her cords and blouse. Sitting side-by-side on the sofa at Christmas, Snape akward and stiff in his too-tight Muggle jeans. Lily was like a reed, the way she could bend without effort, draping herself along the sofa laughing, her stocking feet everywhere.

He traced the letter with his fingers, skipping over the part about Grindelwald. He'd made his peace with it. He found savage pleasure in knowing that Dumbledore wasn't perfect either.

Lots of Love,

Lily

He folded it up and tucked it into his pocket, right next to the bollan cross.

He was almost out of the castle when he heard those shoes. He needed both arms for the cage and his satchel, his shoulder for a certain clingy kneazle. There was no way he'd reach his wand in time, and it didn't matter anyway. He wouldn't hide from her.

Minerva sucked in her breath. He had that effect on people lately, making them sound like they'd bitten too fast into a piping hot pizza bagel.

"Severus?"

"I should hope so. I pity the poor bastard who looks this much like me."

Minerva didn't smile, but then, he wasn't expecting she would.

"I thought, perhaps, when never found a body...but they said the floor was covered in blood..."

She stood two feet away from him and sized him up with that owl-like stare. Most people, he'd just deflect their appraisal, turn it back around and glower at them, but not her. He'd always let her through. They stood for what felt like hours.

Her eyes changed and her voice cracked, just the way it had when they'd duelled in the corridor. Like there were things inside too powerful for propriety.

"I don't know whether to thank you or wring your neck. Why didn't you tell me?"

He didn't know what to say. He didn't think he'd ever get a chance to explain it to her. "I didn't—I thought it best if I-"

"I could've helped you, Severus. Why did you do this?"

"I didn't think it safe-"

She strode towards him so fast he thought she might strike him, and maybe she would have, but at the last second she wrapped her arms around him so tightly she nearly sucked the breath out of him. She'd never done this before. They were about the same height and his head fit on her shoulder and he let it fall. Let himself rest.

"You stubborn little shite," she whispered, fingers digging into his shoulder, halfway between holding him and wringing his neck. She let out a long breath. "We didn't lose any, Severus. Don't think I didn't notice..."

She pulled away, keeping a hand on both his shoulders like a parent whose child has just done something brave and remarkable and incredibly stupid.

"How in God's name did you ever survive the war, Severus? Not even Dumbledore..." Her hands slipped from his shoulders. "I could wring his neck too, what was he thinking, asking you do to that?"

A bit of dust must've flown into Snape's eyes. They watered in an irritating way.

She put a hand to his arm. "Come, Severus. I think it's time we caught up, wouldn't you say?"

He followed her up the stairs.

The staff room was largely intact, probably because they'd gone back and fixed it. The wardrobe was scratched and bits of glass littered the floor near the tea table, but otherwise the room was the same as it ever was, a seventies-style anachronism of wood-panelled walls and mismatched chairs and garish red carpet. He might've just come back from holiday.

Minerva flicked her wand towards a cabinet and summoned a bottle of Glenlivet, 12 year. Not the premium stuff, but close.

"They awarded you an Order of Merlin, did you know?"

"First class?"

"Second."

"Figures."

Minerva lowered her glass and gave him a smile that said, that's the Ministry for you. "You're talking to a fellow second-class recipient. It's nothing to sneeze at."

"What about the rest of the Order?'

Minerva set her glass down and gripped the fingers on her right hand as she rattled off names. "They've named Kingsley temporary Minister-"

"A vast improvement over the last three."

"I'll drink to that. Now who else-oh, Molly and Arthur are fine, but Fred..." Her eyes delivered the bad news that her mouth couldn't.

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Snape, and he meant it. The boy was a nuisance, but he was clever enough, and their products had been a help, loathe as he was to admit it. How many times had he filled out those order forms and smirked at the thought of their faces if they'd known the identity of the mysterious Mr. Prince from the highlands?

He swirled his drink around his glass and kept his eyes fixed on a point somewhere to the left of her. "Lupin?"

"Still in St. Mungo's. They released Nymphadora yesterday."

"Hmm," he said. So the wolf wasn't such an insufferable ingrate as to die just a few months after Snape had saved him, that was something.

"Alecto is in Azkaban, did you hear?"

"About time. Amycus?"

"Dead."

A fitting end for both of them. In some strange way he was glad Alecto had lived to see the end of the war. She could be tormented by her conscience awhile, if she had one. Suffer her quiet humilations, if she didn't.

Snape shifted in his seat. Scratched the back of his head. Cleared his throat. "I ought to apologise-"

"No need, Severus. I understand why you did it, even if I didn't like it."

That stupid watery thing in his eyes again. Snape glanced away and Minerva, most mercifully changed the subject.

"So what's next for you? I suppose I could offer you a teaching post-"

"Haven't I suffered enough?"

Minerva smirked at him over her glass "You weren't half bad, you know. I confess that your high pass rates never failed to surprise me."

"Is that supposed to be a complimenent?"

"Even a backhanded compliment is more than you deserve, the way you kept me in the dark for a year."

He'd had that coming.

"I don't suppose it would help if I told you the Dark Lord could read minds?"

Her shudder wasn't visible, but he sensed it going through her anyway, could see it in the way her mouth thinned. "And I suppose you have a stronger mind than most?"

Her tone was flippant but her words were laced with accusation. That he didn't trust her, that he thought her mind too weak to withstand the Dark Lord's incursions. Which was sort of true, admittedly, but there were other reasons—other things that kept him away from her. Reasons even he didn't entirely understand. Snape shrugged as if to say, who knew how he'd done it?

"Perhaps I should've guessed it," said Minerva. "I remember that you and Lily were friends. Though I didn't realise you were so close."

Because they'd kept it hidden. And then they weren't. Snape sipped his drink and Minerva knew him well enough to change the subject.

"So teaching is out, apparently. But you're still young, you know. You could do anything you like, almost."

Which was his whole problem, really. All that blank space to fill. And he had no idea how to do it.

"And-" Minerva cleared her throat and adjusted her sleeve, about to get personal, something they didn't do that often-"Perhaps that might include finding a companion? Might be a nice change, after all those years alone."

Snape gripped the wet glass in his hand and mumbled a barely audible maybe. He felt as though she'd read his mind somehow, found out about Graihagh.

"Well," said Minerva, fixing her eyes on him. "If you wish to disappear, let's say, your secret is safe with me. But I think Harry deserves the truth, don't you?"

"Perhaps," said Snape. Perhaps he did. Perhaps she was right about everything. He didn't know.

Weeks passed, one day fading into the next until they became an indistinct blur, Saturday no different from Tuesday, Mondays that could've fallen in June or July or even August for all he knew. He glanced his grocery receipt every other week, marked the start of summer, and then lost track of the days altogether. He didn't take the Prophet, or any other paper.

Graihagh wrote to him once, after she got back home. And then she didn't write at all.

He'd go for walks in solitary places. The moors in north Yorkshire, the rugged beaches off the coast of Scotland, the deepest corners of the Forest of Dean. He'd disappear into the Muggle world, to Tesco or Aldi for groceries, to the swings on the playground, the Muggle bank where he deposited most of his money. He didn't foresee many trips to Diagon Alley in his future.

He'd gone to the cinema once, on a whim, but it reminded him so much of Graihagh he had to turn around and go home. Not a day went by he didn't think of her. He'd lie in bed and imagine what it'd be like with her head on his bare chest. Pretend she was in the sitting room reading with him in the evenings. Picture the way she'd look when he found an interesting specimen, how she'd hold it close to her face and examine in from every angle, with the slow, methodical eye of a potioneer, and they'd understand each other perfectly, the way they did sometimes. He was in exile among strangers and she spoke his language. She was a warm bed on a cold night, a meal shared around the table.

He missed her so much it was like grief.

He couldn't see himself living a normal life. He didn't know how he felt about sex. But maybe that didn't matter. Maybe they could work around it somehow. They couldn't be lovers, perhaps, but they'd always be friends.

Graihagh stepped out of the fireplace and brushed the ash off her robes, vanishing the dust so it wouldn't dirty the carpet.

Owain had left his equipment to her and the shop to his son, who asked her to stay on, but she only lasted a few weeks. Owain was everywhere, his voice rambling on and on in the back of her head as she chopped and measured and stirred, his gnarled hands always in her peripheral vision. The floor would creak and she'd think it was him, coming back from the store room with more ingredients, or some strange new creature to show her.

She'd put in her notice and taken a job in Port St. Mary, some fifteen miles away, in a tiny shop with only one other potioneer. Graihagh didn't drive and she hated Apparition, so on a lark she put in a request to connect her parents' house to the Floo Network, using the fireplace in their lounge. She never would've gotten away with it in the UK, but the woman behind the counter was a customer from Owain's shop and she'd simply winked and stamped the paperwork.

"How was work?" said Emma when she walked into the kitchen. She was strapping Breeshey into her high chair while her dad dished out spaghetti bolognese.

"Not bad," said Graihagh. She took the chair next to her sister and opened a jar of mashed peas, scooping up a spoonful and coaxing it into her mouth. "Come on, you." Breeshey kept her lips closed and blew raspberries.

"She's shaping up to be as stubborn as her sister," said her dad.

"That's my girl," said Graihagh as Breeshey spat out a mouthful of peas. She was so absorbed in feeding her she barely ate her dinner.

Her dad glanced up at the clock. "Isn't Cate getting in at seven? It's five to."

Graihagh shoved a forkful of noodles into her mouth and wiped her face. "Shit. I wasn't paying attention." She shot out of her chair. "We're going to pop over to Milo and Fynn's, so I might be late."

"Send him our love. We'll stop by to see him on Saturday."

Cate was already waiting for her when she showed up at the Portkey arrival point, but she was so used to Graihagh being late for things she didn't say anything about it.

"How've you been?" she asked as she dropped her holdall and threw her arms around Graihagh's neck.

"Oh, you know. Taking things one day at a time."

Cate pulled away and slung her holdall over her shoulder. "Ha, my therapist tells me that too. What does that even mean? And did you ever notice how they answer every question with another question? Like, I don't know, you're the one with a psychology degree, you tell me."

Graihagh smiled. "I've missed you."

"Missed you too. So Milo's home?"

"Just last week."

"And?"

Graihagh wished she had better news, but they were lucky to have him at all, really. "Well, you know. It was a lightning curse that got him. Not everyone survives."

Cate adjusted the strap on her bag and they started down the street. "Well, I suppose that's true. I just hope it isn't too bad."

Milo was staying with Fynn at their flat in the wizarding district, above the quill shop. The rent was cheaper that way, and there'd be fewer awkward questions if someone were to walk in at the full moon and find a wolf sleeping on the floor.

Fynn answered the door in ripped jeans and a Pogues t-shirt, calm, serious, steady. "He's just lying down," they said. "But he wants to see you."

The three of them stepped into the lounge.

"How is he?" said Graihagh.

"Well, he'll need to keep seeing a Healer once a week and he's got some nerve damage, ringing in the ears, things like that. They think he might see some improvement though."

"God, I hope so. Here." she reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of Wolfsbane. "Made this today."

"Cheers," said Fynn. They set the bottle on the coffee table and reached into their jeans pocket.

"Don't you dare. Just look after Milo for me, alright?"

"You know I will."

Fynn led them to the bedroom, where Milo was lying on the bed they shared. His books were stacked on the nightstand, probably sorted alphabetically, and his clothes had been folded into a neat pile on the chest of drawers, next to a messy heap that could only be Fynn's.

"Hey," said Graihagh, kneeling down beside him and placing a bottle on the nightstand. "How've you been?"

"I've been better," said Milo with a slight grimace.

Graihagh tapped the bottle. "Brought you something for the pain. You can take it up to six times a day. I made it from rattlesnake venom."

"Cheers."

Graihagh twisted the cap off and poured him some.

"And I brought you something," said Cate, pulling out a pair of what looked like Omnioculars. "These are from the final, Laos vs. Bulgaria. The whole match."

"Oh, I've been wanting one of these," said Milo, and his face smoothed over as he turned them in his hands. "Thank you."

"Next world cup we're going," said Graihagh. "You owe me a campsite, remember?"

"Hope so."

He sounded so bloody resigned about it, like it was the future was some dull task he needed to grit his teeth and get through. He never would've been in this mess if Graihagh hadn't gone off without telling him. If she hadn't gotten involved in Rowle's plans. If she hadn't nearly turned them into murderers. Everything would've been better for him if she wasn't involved.

"I'm sorry, Milo," said Graihagh. "If I hadn't made you come looking for me..."

"Graihagh," said Milo, setting the Omnioculars down. "Do me a favour and shut up."

"What?"

He propped his pillow up on the headboard and leaned against it so that he was half-sitting. "I loved rescuing all those Muggle-borns and going after Rowle. It was bloody amazing. I'd do it again."

"Even if-"

"Yes."

He meant it too, she could see it in his face,the brave, stubborn idiot. She squeezed his hand. "I'm so fucking proud of you." Milo squeezed back.

"Did you know he died?" she said. "Rowle?"

"Yeah, Fynn told me." Milo released her hand and stared up at the ceiling. "Sometimes I wonder, like...what if I...you know?"

The fear was too big, too deep for words, but if Graihagh knew anything, it was that the soul in front of her was intact and whole.

"You didn't. It was a battle, it was self-defense, he would've killed you."

Milo leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. "That's just it though. If I'd found him sleeping or just sitting around or something, I still would've done it. And maybe that matters, you know? That I still would've done it. That I wanted to do it."

Graihagh understood him. She would've done the same thing.

"Well, don't dwell on it now." Something she could've said to herself as much as him.

"Yeah."

She ruffled his hair. "Love your face."

"Love you too, cunt."

Graihagh snorted and rubbed his scalp, and Cate wrapped him up in a hug. "We'll let you get some rest now," she said, and they passed the kitchen, where Fynn was stuffing towels into the laundry basket without folding them. Kindred spirit, she did the same thing.

Graihagh squeezed their arm. "Better fold those," she said, smiling. "I wouldn't want you two quarreling your first week back."

Fynn grinned and pulled the towels back out. "Right you are. I'm on it."

They'd be alright, those two.

Graihagh and Cate were side-by-side with their backs against the headboard, their stocking feet together.

"We were supposed to sell the house but Adrian keeps stalling," said Cate, opening a bag of Nik Naks. "And now he's ringing and sending letters just about every day. I think he expects that I'll just show up and apologise."

"Prick. Is there anything you can do?"

Cate stuffed a Nik Nak into her mouth and offered the bag to Graihagh. "I don't know. So far I've just been ignoring them, but..."

"You're scared?"

"Yeah."

Graihagh squeezed her hand. "Anything you need, just tell me. If you want to stay here with me do it. I might be getting a new flat soon."

Cate rested her head on Graihagh's shoulder. "You know what's really stupid?"

"What's that?"

"Sometimes I still wish it'd worked out." She stopped, waiting for the scold, the indignant huff, but Graihagh just listened.

"The good times were so good," Cate went on, and her voice had lost its shame, its plea for understanding. There was no need for that, not between them. "I really thought he'd stop. Sometimes he'd have this breakthrough and realise where he'd gone wrong, and I always thought, great, this will be the time and everything'll be wonderful. But then he'd change again. Like someone flipped a switch. I could see it coming but I couldn never stop it."

Graihagh rested her head against Cate's. "None of that was your fault."

"I think maybe that was the best part about leaving. Being able to think straight again. I was so convinced I was the awful one."

Graihagh rubbed Cate's foot with hers. "There's nothing awful about you."

Cate fished out another handful of Nik Naks and gave the bag to Graihagh. "What about you? How've you been?"

"I'm okay," she said, which wasn't really true. She thought Severus might've contacted her by now, and the thought of him filled her with a sick shaky feeling that was almost like grief. But more than that, her counselor was dredging up things from her past that she'd wanted to forget, sessions that got so intense she almost walked out.

Accept the things you've done, he kept saying. Like it was that easy. Like she'd just bounced a cheque or something stupid like that.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

Cate wiped a bit of grease off her fingers. "Do you really need to ask that?"

"Well it's just...I owe you an apology. A huge one."

"What d'you mean?"

She closed her eyes and breathed out. "We found this key. Our fifth year."

"You don't have to do this," said Cate, shifting her position so she was sitting up.

Graihagh sat up and faced her. "No, I want to. If it's okay with you."

Cate's voice was wary, but gentle. "Go ahead."

"There was a slip of paper with a spell that could bring back people who'd stored part of themselves in these...objects, I guess, I'm not really sure how it worked. Rowle asked me for help." She'd have to mention Milo at some point, but she wanted to minimise it as much as she could. "He had this dagger that could cut anything and it wouldn't leave a trace."

She could feel Cate's shock, but she couldn't look at her.

"We needed...something from an enemy. We were going to go after McCulloch. You remember him? He went after Milo all the time."

Graihagh squeezed the duvet, kneaded it in her fingers. "I made Felix Felicis and Polyjuice potion for them. We had this plan-God, I don't even remember the details. But we were going to get him and escape to London. And then we'd bring back this wizard."

Cate leaned forward and squeezed her hands together, like it was happening in real time and she couldn't take the suspense. "It wasn't-him?"

"No. Someone different."

Graihagh examined a loose thread in the duvet. She'd upset her, of course she had, and she couldn't stand to see it. She kept her eyes on the bed. "I was supposed to double as Milo and stay in the common room. I almost did it. But that's when I heard your voice."

And Severus, telling her not to. Telling her she didn't have to do it.

"I went to stop them. Milo-he had the dagger. And then he set it down. McCulloch walked past and then-"

Graihagh rubbed her eyes, but they were wet anyway. "I should've known. You were both in the choir, I should've..."

Cate inched closer.

"So Milo dropped the dagger and Thorfinn picked it up. And then..." she was losing it now, she could barely speak-"I knew you were coming. So I jumped in front of him."

Cate pulled her close and Graihagh buried her face in her shoulder.

"I know you did. I saw you. I know."

"I'm so sorry. I can't stop thinking...what if I hadn't jumped in time..."

Cate pulled away. Her face was so blurry Graihagh couldn't read her expression.

"You haven't seriously been dwelling on it this whole time have you?"

Her voice was so incredulous, indignant even, Graihagh was bewildered. She wiped her face on her sleeve. "What?"

"That was like, what, twelve years ago? You almost died for Circe's sake. You would have if Snape hadn't showed up at the last second. You really need to just let that go already."

Graihagh laughed, a giddy, breathy little thing; she was still unbalanced. "You mean that?"

"Yes. I do." She clicked her tongue. "You daft 'apeth."

Graihagh laughed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve and they fell back onto the bed, side-by-side, staring up at the ceiling. Graihagh had bought enchanted stars from Hogsmeade her third year and they lit up the room like the Milky Way. She flicked the light off so they could watch them.

"Will you be alright?" asked Graihagh.

"I'll be just fine. I'm sort of looking forward to just being on my own again, you know? Besides, I've got a really good vibrator."

Graihagh snorted. "If I'm trying to sleep and I hear that thing going off, I'm chucking you out of this room." She wiped a bit of salt off her fingers. "What kind is it, by the way?"

Cate smacked her with a pillow and Graihagh snatched it from her and clutched it to her chest.

"We should go out to Smeale Beach and go stargazing," she said.

"Want to do it now?"

"Sure, why not."

They sat up and Graihagh was digging in a pile of clothes for her cloak when the bollan crossed burned against her thigh. She couldn't help it. She squealed.

"What is it?" said Cate, who'd paused with her denim jacket halfway on.

Shit. What was she supposed to tell Cate? She couldn't lie to her.

"This can't leave the room, alright?"

"Of course."

She listened for noises in the hall, as though there might be someone listening in, but of course there wasn't. She lowered her voice, just the same. Old habits, and all that.

"Severus Snape isn't dead."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I saved him and brought him to his house in Cokeworth. No one knows but me, I think. I gave him something so he could contact me." She pulled her half of the bollan cross out of her jeans pocket and held it up.

Cate studied the glowing letters, her mouth incredulous, eyes excited from this shocking revelation. "Swear down?"

"Swear down. We were-well, we're sort of friends."

Cate's mouth curled into a smile. "Sort of friends? You mean you had a thing going on. Why else would he contact you at eleven at night?"

"Okay, we had a bit of a thing going on."

"With Severus Snape. Of all people." Cate shook her head as though to say, there's no accounting for taste, but Graihagh knew she was teasing. "Bit formal, isn't he? 'Perhaps we could arrange a visit.' Yeah right. If he isn't pacing his bedroom waiting for a reply I'm a Pygmy Puff."

Graihagh laughed and put the bollan cross back in her pocket. "Well, he'll have to wait just a bit longer."

"Oh, hey, you're not staying just for me. You've already booked next week off work, haven't you?"

"Come off it, I'm not just going to leave you here. He can wait."

"I heard the way you squealed when you got that message. I can come back. I'm just across."

Graihagh sank down on the bed and clutched the wool blanket Severus had given her. Sometimes she curled up with it at night. "Well..."

In the end they compromised. Graihagh would stay with Cate for three more days, then she'd take a Portkey to Cokeworth while Cate stayed behind and visited with Milo and Graihagh's family. That would give her five days with him, four nights.

She threw on her cloak and crept out of the house with Cate, a giddy moonstruck lover on a gorgeous autumn night.