He didn't know why he was so surprised when she returned the next morning bearing a tray of tea and toast – she was a Gryffindor after all, and whatever their faults may be, they weren't exactly known for backing down from a challenge.

'Good morning, sir.'

He nodded once. 'Granger.'

She placed the tray down next to him, and he took a moment to observe her as he hadn't bothered to do the day before. The girl couldn't have been older than eighteen, but her face had the look of a woman several years older. Months of living in the woods had taken their toll; her cheeks had lost the last of their residual puppy fat and more, and her clothing hung more loosely on her frame than was healthy. Her eyes, too, had a newfound hardness to them and were underlined by dark circles. It was only her hair that had lost none of its infamous vitality; she'd attempted to pull it back into a neat ponytail, but several uncooperative, curly strands had fought their way free to form a fuzzy halo around her face.

She was standing next to his bed, her posture unnaturally rigid, her jaw set – the small fingers playing with the ends of her cardigan sleeve the only tell-tale sign of nerves. No doubt she was waiting for him to explode again.

'Would you like me to bring you something to read, sir?' she said suddenly, and nodded to the years-old edition of Potions Quarterly on the side table. 'You've probably read this old thing ten times by now.'

He nodded awkwardly. 'That would be welcome.' Truthfully he hadn't even touched the potions journal; it was an edition he'd read before, and from memory contained nothing worth revisiting.

'Do you have a preference in books?'

'A selection perhaps.'

'All right,' she said. 'I haven't had a chance to look through the library here yet, but I'll have a browse and see what I can find.'

'You've managed to restrain yourself this long?'

The side of her mouth lifted ever so gently. 'Hard to believe, I know. There's just been so much else going on, reading hasn't seemed like a priority. Also I'm fairly sure there's a Boggart living under one of the bookshelves.'

He ran his eyes over her face.

'Surely you can handle a simple Boggart, Miss Granger.'

Her lips twisted in a grimace and her eyes dropped bashfully to the floor. He knew immediately he'd touched upon a raw nerve.

'Actually, I've never handled them very well,' she said as her cheeks flushed pink.

He knew very well the feeling; the last time he'd been face to face with a Boggart he'd been confronted with Lily's bloodied and mangled corpse. That had been before her death, though, and he'd studiously avoided all contact with the creatures ever since. He had no idea what form it would take now, and frankly he had no desire to find out, even to the point of refusing to teach Boggarts during his year as DADA professor.

'Perhaps you should ask one of the other occupants of the house to deal with it,' he said. A thought then occurred to him. 'Who are the other occupants of this house? I know Potter and Lupin are here, but who else?'

She looked up, startled. 'I'm sorry, I assumed you knew. Well, like you say, Harry and Remus – and Teddy Lupin of course – and Ron and George Weasley – George doesn't have the heart to go back to his flat since Fred died, and … Oh!' Her eyes widened and she asked breathlessly, 'Did you know about Fred? Or the others?'

He nodded once. 'I read the casualty lists in the Prophet.'

To say he'd been shocked at learning of the demise of one half of the Weasley twins had been an understatement. Despite appearances, he'd always had a strange and grudging respect for the two young men; their grades had been abysmal, but he couldn't help but see a little of himself in their flair for experimentation.

'How are Molly and Arthur faring?' he asked sincerely.

'About as well as you'd expect,' she shrugged. 'Mr Weasley's back at work now at least – Harry and I bumped into him at the Ministry yesterday. It doesn't sound like Mrs Weasley's coping very well at all.'

He nodded. He could only imagine what the couple were going through – to lose a child at such a young age was a pain he would not wish on his worst enemy.

'Will you send my condolences when you next see them?'

He caught her dumbfounded expression before she schooled her face into neutrality once more.

'Of course,' she said.

'To Lupin as well,' he felt compelled to say. 'I was sorry to hear about Tonks.'

'I didn't think you knew her that well.'

He shook his head lightly, and his long, black hair fell forward. 'I didn't particularly, other than as her teacher and an Order member. But she was a talented witch, and a hard-working student.'

Granger nodded, then there was silence.

'The child, is he …'

She looked at him blankly, then seemed to comprehend. 'A werewolf? No, Teddy's a Metamorphmagus like Tonks. He started showing signs very early on.' Her face crumpled and for a moment he thought she was going to burst into tears. 'It's horrible to think he'll never even know his mother.'

'He has one loving parent. That's more than many get.'

'I suppose,' she said, but from her frown, it hadn't quite been the right thing for him to say. He never had been any good at this sort of thing.

He wondered if she was going to leave soon; the tell-tale twinge in his neck was beginning and he knew he would need to take something for the pain, but he was loathe to do so in front of her. He was taken aback when, suddenly, the girl pulled a folded piece of parchment out of her pocket.

'I almost forgot,' she said shyly. 'I've come up with a design for some posters and I wanted your approval before I go plastering them all over Diagon Alley.'

Already? Well, he had to give the girl credit for efficiency. Not that he should have expected anything less from Hermione Granger; the girl was nothing if not an overachiever. He scanned the poster – the layout was simple enough, and he was grateful she'd relied on judicious use of text rather than pictures of his face. Aside from an instinctive horror at the idea of his photograph plastered all over the busiest wizarding thoroughfare in England, it was a prudent move – he was well aware his face wasn't one that generally inspired sympathy.

'They'll do,' he said, shoving the parchment back at her.

The pleased gleam in her eyes made him wish he could show a little more enthusiasm for her project. He almost pitied her; the deluded girl still genuinely thought he had a chance, and that handing out a few leaflets would make up for his killing one of the most respected and beloved wizards of all time.

'I was thinking, too,' she continued, 'we should set up an interview for you with Xenophilius Lovegood.'

His eyes snapped to her face.

'The Quibbler?' he said, horrified.

Her expression was apologetic as she shrugged her shoulders. 'Well, The Prophet will hardly print anything in your favour. And Luna's a good friend, I trust her father. Anyway, he sort of owes us.'

He shot her a questioning look, but she just shook her head.

He could see Granger's reasoning, of course. He dimly remembered an interview with Potter a few years ago in the magazine that had done very well, so perhaps the idea wasn't quite as ludicrous as it seemed. Still, did he really want to trust his story to a conspiracy nut like Lovegood? Did he even have a choice in the matter?

He let out a resigned sigh. 'Fine.'

'Brilliant,' she said. 'I'll owl Luna. I was thinking Friday, is that all right?'

He gave her a withering look and said, 'I have no other plans.'

oOo

Hermione was just finishing off her letter to Luna when Ginny turned up.

'Harry around?' the pretty redhead asked, her voice more lacklustre than Hermione was used to.

'Still in bed I think,' said Hermione absently before putting down her quill. 'How are you doing?' She hadn't seen Ginny since Fred's funeral.

Ginny gave a weak shrug and took a seat opposite Hermione. 'Up and down. Mum's still in bits most days, and sometimes I just have to get out of that house or I feel like I'll go mad. Do you think it'd be all right if I stay here for a few days?'

'Of course it is, Ginny. I'm surprised your mum okayed it though – you living with Harry without adult supervision,' Hermione said with a grin.

'She didn't actually,' said Ginny, shamefaced. 'I haven't told her I'm here. Though I doubt she'll even notice. These days she spends half her time manically baking Victoria sponges and the other half crying in bed.' Hermine reached across the table and grasped her friend's hand; Ginny shot her a grateful smile. 'Anyway,' she continued, 'Bill, Fleur and Charlie are all still there. I've asked them to cover for me should she ask where I am.'

Hermione chuckled. 'Well, don't expect me to stick around when she comes in here brandishing a broomstick – if your mum knows I had a part in this, I'd never hear the end of it.'

'Yeah right,' Ginny said with a snort. 'You're one of the saviours of the wizarding world. You couldn't do a thing wrong according to my mother – and she just loves you now that you've finally started dating dear Ronald.'

Hermione felt herself flush. Her relationship with Mrs Weasley had always been a little strained ever since Rita Skeeter's slanderous articles about her supposed treatment of Harry in fourth year. She was glad the older woman had come around in the end, but there was an uncomfortable pressure in knowing Mrs Weasley's current goodwill was likely reliant upon Hermione's continuing to date her son.

'So,' Ginny said lightly as she reached for a clementine from the fruit bowl on the table and tore into it; Hermione sensed a sudden change of direction in their conversation. 'Harry told me what you're doing for Snape.'

Hermione made a non-committal sound; from Ginny's tone, she wasn't quite sure how this conversation was going to go. As a distraction, she signed off her letter to Luna before sealing it in an envelope.

'I don't know how you can bear to look at him, let alone talk to him.'

Hermione looked up sharply. 'He was on our side!'

'Didn't seem that way to me,' Ginny said with a nonchalant shrug. 'I dunno … if you'd been at Hogwarts last year I have to wonder whether you'd be so forgiving now.'

'Was he so bad?'

'He was more horrid than ever! Always giving out detentions, constantly trying to sabotage the DA meetings we were holding. And you should have seen his face when he caught us trying to steal the sword. I honestly thought he was going to kill us on the spot, Hermione.'

An awful, cold feeling spread through her. She'd expected this sort of thing from the wizarding public, yes, but not from someone like Ginny. 'You don't believe him? You think he's hoodwinked Harry somehow?'

Ginny leaned in conspiratorially. 'Don't you think there's even a tiny chance he might have done?'

'No!' said Hermione hotly. 'And I can't believe you'd even think that. Harry must have told you about what he saw in Snape's memories.'

Ginny nodded, her eyes hard. 'Yeah, and he also told me that Snape didn't want anyone at the Ministry to see them. Don't you think that's weird?'

'He's a private man.'

Ginny shrugged, unconvinced. 'I'd just feel more comfortable trusting him if I'd seen the memories for myself.'

'More comfortable trusting Harry, you mean,' Hermione said resentfully.

'Well, he was under rather a lot of stress when he saw them,' quipped Ginny, 'preparing to face Voldemort and everything. If Snape had tampered with his memories I doubt Harry would have been in the right state of mind to notice.'

Hermione could barely believe what she was hearing. If the person closest to Harry couldn't even believe what he had to say about Snape, then what hope was there? Oh, she could see things from Ginny's perspective, of course she could; Hermione had never actually beheld Snape in full Death Eater mode – there'd been a gap of nearly a year between witnessing him flee from his office on the fateful night of Dumbledore's death and watching him bleed out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. Would she feel differently about Snape if she'd been at Hogwarts this year? It wasn't a question she'd ever pondered before.

'I understand your hesitation, Ginny,' she said carefully, 'I really do. But I've spoken to Professor Snape a few times now, and I think if you'd seen him like I have there's no way you'd ever doubt him. Oh, he's still rude,' she added at Ginny's sceptical look, 'and deeply unpleasant when he wants to be, but he's not evil.'

'You really trust him?' said Ginny. 'He always been so cruel.'

'Is that a crime? Look, I'm not saying I like the man, but he was furious with me for saving his life – that's not the reaction of a man hedging his bets.'

Ginny wouldn't quite meet her eye, and Hermione was about to ask how many others Ginny had spoken to who felt the same, but she was stopped by the appearance of her best friend and her boyfriend. Bringing her mug to her lips to hide the angry flush in her cheeks, she watched as Harry sidled up to Ginny and kissed her sweetly on the head. Ron took a seat next to Hermione and helped himself to a cup of coffee and four slices of toast.

'Morning,' he said through a yawn.

'Good morning,' said Hermione. 'Sleep well?'

'Yeah, not bad,' he said as he started spreading a thick layer of butter on his toast. Then, catching sight of his sister and Harry canoodling across the table, he turned away with a grimace and said, 'What are you up to today? Did you want to go out this morning? We could explore Muggle London or something.'

Hermione felt a pang of regret. 'I can't, sorry, I've far too much to do. I've got to copy these posters' – she gestured to the parchment spread out before her – 'and I said I'd go through the library and sort out some books for Snape. Ooh that reminds me.' She smiled sweetly at him. 'You wouldn't want to deal with a boggart for me, would you?'

She couldn't help but laugh when Ron puffed out his chest in a demonstration of protective, male pride. 'Sure, Hermione. Boggart. No problem.'

'Thanks,' she said, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

Half an hour later, Hermione was chewing her fingernails and listening to the sound of snapping pincers and yelps coming from inside the library. After an age, Ron appeared at the door, his face as white as a ghost, his hands shaking.

'All sorted,' he muttered, then shook his head disbelievingly. 'The things I do for you, honestly.'

oOo

'How do you feel about Muggle fiction?' the girl said, stepping into Severus's room behind a floating tower of books almost as tall as she was, and carrying a tray of toasted cheese sandwiches.

'It depends,' he drawled. 'Are we talking classic literature or boddice rippers?'

She blinked owlishly at him, before – ever so slowly – a small grin played on her lips, and for a flash Severus knew what it was to be the kind of man who made pretty girls smile.

'I'll put back the Jilly Cooper then,' she said, and with a flick of her wand, the pile dropped to the floor. She picked a tome from the top and handed it to him. 'I was thinking more along the lines of Dickens actually.'

'I enjoy Dickens,' he said, inspecting the copy of Great Expectations.

'You've read him before?' she said, leaning back against the desk. Oh good God, was the girl settling in?

'I have,' he said, eyeing her cautiously. 'Does that surprise you?'

'It does actually. I didn't see you as the type.'

'I do have some appreciation for Muggle culture,' he said with a frown. 'I was raised in that world after all.'

'Well, good.' She nodded to the pile. 'There's a few wizarding biographies and some Potions texts in there, and I picked out a few Muggle novels I thought you might like. You know, for a family with a history of prejudice against Muggle-borns, the Black library has more than its fair share of Muggle literature.'

He snorted. 'You'll find such hypocrisy is not uncommon among many of the established pureblood families. Even Lucius Malfoy has the complete works of William Shakespeare at the Manor.'

Even as he was speaking he realised his error, but by then it was too late; her entire posture tensed at the mention of Lucius. Severus could have kicked himself; he knew she'd been held captive at Malfoy Manor only a few months prior. He did not know the details of what had occurred there, but he doubted they'd been welcomed with tea and crumpets. Almost as soon as he'd noticed the flash of pain across her pale face, however, it was gone again, and in its place was a countenance of stone that reminded him painfully of himself.

'Forgive me, I—'

'It's fine,' she said, tugging absently at her left sleeve.

He returned his focus to the book on his lap, determined to steer the conversation back to safer waters. 'I confess I haven't read any Muggle literature since my student years. My mother used to read Dickens to me when I was young.'

'That's lovely,' she said with a small smile. He shrugged a shoulder. Heavens, what had possessed him to confess such a maudlin thing? Too much bedrest must have addled with his faculties.

'I've found not many witches and wizards appreciate Muggle literature,' she continued. 'It's a shame.'

'They aren't trained to. Even if most wizards aren't actively hostile to Muggles, they can't help but see their culture as containing nothing of interest to ours.'

'I've noticed that,' she said thoughtfully. 'Even Mr. Weasley – give him a light bulb and he'll be entertained for hours, but he couldn't tell Tolstoy from Tchaikovsky to save his life.'

'A little harsh perhaps. Plenty of Muggles couldn't either,' he said, thinking of his father in particular, who had often sneered at his son's preference for reading in his room over aimlessly kicking a ball around with the other boys on the street.

'Fair point,' said Granger. 'It wouldn't be a bad thing, though, for the Muggle Studies curriculum to focus more on Muggle culture rather than entirely pointless things like how to wire a plug.'

'I wasn't aware you'd taken Muggle Studies.' He distinctly remembered seeing the list of OWL results from two summers ago; he'd paid close attention to the girl's, and had been irritated to discover her Charms and Arithmancy scores had been as high as his record-breaking Potions one. He was almost certain Muggle Studies hadn't featured on the list, however.

'I only took it for one year before I—' The girl's eyes widened, and with a stab in his gut, he knew what her next question was going to be. He braced himself. 'Professor Burbage! Do you … Is she …'

The memory of that night last summer at Malfoy Manor came flooding back, and without the use of his magic there could be no Occluding to keep it at bay. He found he could not meet Granger's eyes, he was too focused on controlling his breathing as a sense of creeping panic spread through his chest. His own brush with Nagini had made the memory of what had happened that night even more horrific than before, if it were even possible.

'Dead,' he uttered.

Granger's breath hitched. 'How?'

'Horribly.'

Her hands were gripping the side of the desk where she was perched. 'Voldemort?'

He gave a curt nod. 'Killing Curse. He …'

'Yes?'

He shook his head. 'It's best you don't—'

'Tell me,' she urged quietly, and something shifted in him – he willed her to see the remorse he felt, the shame, the self-disgust. He'd watched so many die at the Dark Lord's hands, so many nameless faces that they all seemed to blur into one incoherent mass, but the memory of his former colleague floating above a long ebony table, begging him to help her … it would haunt him forever, he was certain. When he'd gone home that night he'd vomited all over his living room carpet, and he hadn't been able to stomach anything more substantial than tea for two days.

'After he killed her, he … he fed her to the snake.'

She made a strangled noise and brought her hands to her mouth.

'I wanted to help her,' he continued, 'she begged me … but there was nothing I could do.'

For a moment he thought she was going to approach him, from the way her body seemed to twitch. Tears filled her brown eyes.

'I'm so sorry,' she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Bile rose in his throat, his stomach churned. He knew there was no hope of eating the sandwiches she'd brought him now.

Clearing his throat first, he said, 'I'd prefer to be alone if you please.'

This time she didn't hesitate. 'Of course.'

He watched her cross the room, her chestnut hair swinging behind her as she reached the door. She was about to cross the threshold when he caught sight of the pile of books next to the bed, and the memory of Potter's words came back to him: There's not many who genuinely care about what happens to you. Don't push away one of the few who does.

His mouth was open and he was forming the words before he was even aware of having made the decision.

'Thank you for the books.'

She turned back to him and smiled softly, making no effort to hide the tear tracks on her cheeks.

'You're welcome.'