Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the immeasurable genius of JK Rowling; I just like to borrow them and play with them.

A/N: As you will no doubt realise, there is something a little different about this chapter... further explanation at the end.

Chapter 17

Severus Snape glanced down at the bushy head that had somehow worked its way against his side. Its owner was leaning fully against him and emitting soft snores, exhaustion from the night's events finally taking over.

He didn't know what had possessed him to remain still when she had first shifted closer to him on the couch, nor what part of his brain had been giving orders when he'd put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer still.

It occurred to him that perhaps his brain hadn't been the part of his body giving the orders at all. He pushed that thought away quickly, cursing himself for letting his mind wander to such an end. What was he thinking? Her parents were upstairs and the Headmaster could arrive at any moment, possibly through the fireplace in the lounge room rather than the Arrival Room upstairs.

Carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping girl, he extricated himself from his position, lowering her gently to lay fully the couch. She murmured something unintelligible, but did not wake. He frowned, magicking a cushion under her head so she wouldn't wake with a stiff neck, and she shifted, wrapping her arms more tightly around her torso.

It was cold, he decided, even with the fire still burning. He glanced around the room looking for something suitable to transfigure into a blanket, but came up short. It wasn't surprising that the room was so barren, given how much time he did, or rather didn't, spend there.

Sighing, he pulled off his frock coat and transfigured it, draping the resulting blanket over Hermione's sleeping form. She was still snoring softly, a lock of hair which had fallen over her face shifting with each breath. He reached out to brush it aside but pulled his hand back quickly before he made contact.

What am I doing? he thought, turning away from the girl and striding into the kitchen. He rummaged through the disused cupboards until he came up with a very old, half-empty bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. A search for a suitable glass resulted in nothing, so he poured a small measure of the liquid into a coffee cup, knocking it back in a single gulp.

It was probably foolish to start drinking at a time like this. Another meeting with the Dark Lord was imminent, and he still felt slightly nauseous from both the Apparition and the spell residue that had passed through his body as they left the Granger's. If they had hesitated for a fraction of a second the Unforgivable would have hit him. As it was, the spell passed through the space he had occupied, and the residue that clung to the last particles of his body to leave the house left him with reduced side effects of the full spell. He wondered that Hermione hadn't expressed discomfort, too. Perhaps he had managed to shield her from the brunt of the curse. Though, with the confusion of emotions she was no doubt feeling after the events of the night, it wasn't surprising she hadn't noticed she was feeling physically sick. He glanced through the half-open door, and could just make out the top of her bushy head over the arm-rest of the couch. She was still asleep.

The realisation of just how surely and subtly the Granger girl had worked her way into his life was startling… and disturbing. Growing up in a small family, Severus Snape had never been one to wish himself surrounded by a lot of people. The raucous corridors and loud Slytherin common room at Hogwarts had been a shock for a young boy used to solitude and silence, and he had taken refuge in the library from his first day onwards.

Now, as a man, he sought solitude for different reasons. He had made the mistake of openly displaying his feelings in youthful exuberance, and had paid dearly for it, as had the recipient of his affections. He had vowed never to allow someone so close again, lest they suffer the same fate. He had enough innocent, nameless blood on his hands without that of people he knew adding to the stains.

And yet this girl – or young woman, though he didn't dare acknowledge that fact in case his thoughts led him astray - had worked her way into his life so unexpectedly, he'd risked all tonight... and not even to save her, only people who mattered to her, yet meant nothing to him.

Did he truly care about her enough that he had acted to save her from the emotional anguish of losing her parents? As much as it disturbed him, it was true. In saving her own life, he could have told himself he did it out of his own selfish need... but that need had not required him to save her parents... Muggles.

He had hated Dumbledore for forcing them to work together, and hated her for her easy acceptance of the situation. He didn't want an assistant and he most certainly didn't need a nursemaid. So, in his usual manner, he had sneered, snarled and insulted her at every turn, waiting to throw down her wand and storm from his laboratory, swearing to the Headmaster that she couldn't work with such a cruel, unpleasant git.

She hadn't, though; she'd taken each insult in her stride. Like the determined Gryffindor she was, she'd chipped away at the persona he had carefully constructed, so gradually that he had hardly noticed until the first time it lay shattered, the last shreds of it torn away by a healing hand and soothing touch late one night in the Headmaster's office. It had unnerved him how easily she had deconstructed his shields. Was he so touched-starved that a simple outreaching of kindness was all it took to break him?

No, that wasn't it. Anyone else's touch wouldn't have affected him so. There was just something about this young Gryffindor, something intangible that made him take a second look at her, attempt to look beyond the insufferable know-it-all he had always proclaimed her to be.

When he did look, he saw someone like himself, in a way, yet also completely different. Her yearning for knowledge matched his own, and he'd been pleasantly surprised to realise her intelligence went far beyond being able to recite the set textbooks. He'd have realised it sooner, of course, had she not been a Gryffindor. He recognised now that her over-enthusiasm had been borne from a need to fit in, to prove herself in the world in which some were still telling her she didn't belong.

Unlike him, she had a close-knit group of friends. Instead of setting her apart, her bookish attitude endeared her to them, and their loyalty to one another knew no bounds. How different might his own life have been if he'd had friends such as them... such as her?

She considers herself to be your friend, he reminded himself, wondering how it had come to that. It was his own doing, really. Once he'd gotten over his initial frustration at her refusal to be phased by him, he'd actually taken it upon himself to teach her. Potions was a compulsory subject and most of the dunderheads neither wanted nor deserved to be there. Why should he not take pleasure in teaching one of the few students who actually wanted to learn?

The incident with Goyle had frightened him as much as it had her, and again, he'd tried to blame her association with him for the conflict. The Headmaster wouldn't hear of them parting ways, though, and out of concern for her safety, he'd agreed to allow her to use the secret passage to the lab via his quarters. That had been his undoing. It had given her a way not only into his work, but also his life, and she had taken it as a sign of his acceptance.

Surprisingly, she understood his sarcastic sense of humour and returned as good as she gave. The cauldron explosion and the retaliatory Canary Cream incident in early December had been the first time he had laughed – really and truly laughed – in a good long while, and it was disquieting to realise how much he was enjoying her company.

It was then he began to push her away again, only this time it wasn't because he didn't want her near him, it was because he did. She was frequenting the lab more and more often, even on days outside their arranged schedule. The final straw for him was when he found himself looking at the clock and listening for the soft click of the door as she let herself into his sitting room; the rustle when she hung her cloak on the peg, and the quiet greeting as she entered the lab.

He took her to visit the moonfilly that night. She had proven herself to be both prudent and capable. She would need to know how to collect the ingredients, if he could not do so himself.

A mention of his Dark Mark was all it took to bring reality crashing back down. He'd allowed her too close, taking her on an expedition to meet a creature that he'd promised solitude, showing her a side of him he never wanted anyone to see. He didn't need an assistant, a companion, a friend, and what he wanted was immaterial. She was too intelligent and useful to risk getting any closer to him, he decided, quashing the voice in his head that told him he cared about her too much to put her at risk.

He'd lashed out verbally, and for the first time in a long while she'd taken his words to heart. He broke a set of crystal phials when she left; shattered a shelf of beakers when he found himself listening for her again the following day. She didn't come, and he thought he'd finally succeeded in driving her away. The sense of loss was tangible.

That night, after the Dark Lord had forced his own potion down his throat, was the first and only time Severus Snape would ever applaud Gryffindor loyalty and bravery. She had ventured into his chambers even after such harsh parting words from him the previous day, purely out of concern for his well-being. His feeble attempts to push her away that night were no longer out of concern for her safety; he'd resigned himself to the fact that she was there to stay. Her cool hands and gentle voice made him set aside his reservations, giving in to her ministrations with only half-hearted protests. It had been a long time since anyone had shown concern for his injuries, let alone a wish to heal them. Perhaps in this little Gryffindor, who was brave enough to venture back into his lair after his abhorrent behaviour, he had discovered a true and loyal friend.

The following morning had been awkward; in the daylight, he berated himself for both his physical and mental weakness the night before. Their argument after he found her asleep in his sitting room had been heated, but if the truth was known, he had argued with her more out of embarrassment than any real desire to continue pushing her aside. He hated anyone seeing him in such a weakened, helpless state as he was the previous night, but she had handled the situation with grace and compassion, and known when to step back and give him space, though she'd remained nearby.

He'd finally given in and admitted aloud what he'd been trying not to acknowledge for weeks; she truly was the kind of person he could consider a friend... he did consider her a friend. The smile that broke out on her face at his admission gave him an uncomfortable ache somewhere in the middle of his chest, in a place he thought he had starved into permanent numbness.

He had been stunned to receive a Christmas present from her, let alone one so thoughtful and practical. It wasn't merely a courtesy gesture on receipt of his present, but a genuine gift from one friend to another.

And then there had been the summons. Unwelcome, though not unexpected. The Dark Lord took particular pleasure in disrupting holidays, destroying families in the little time they spent together during the year.

His blood had run cold as Lucius had outlined his plan; win the girl's trust by slaying her parents, and having him rescue her from certain death at the last minute. How many times had he stood in the circle of Death Eaters, listening to such plans, and done nothing. How many times had he stood by while the masked men cast the Killing Curse on innocent Muggle-borns and their families? Was tonight any different?

As far as his work for the Order was concerned, no. Another attack, another unlucky family lost to the Dark Lord's regime. It was unfortunate but necessary, since their only spy couldn't risk exposure by sending a warning.

He couldn't explain what had prompted him to act so irrationally. He hadn't given a thought to how he would explain his actions to Dumbledore, let alone the Dark Lord. The only thought in his mind was that she would be hurt - emotionally, if not physically.

He would have just let it happen to anyone else; he could deal with his own demons, the dark looks, the cold shoulders and the constant mistrust from his colleagues. The thought of seeing her weighed down with guilt and grief, though, was something Severus Snape didn't think he could handle. It was only in that moment he realised she truly was his friend. He risked his life daily, but for whom but a friend would he discount explicit orders from both his masters, putting himself and their very cause in jeopardy to save her from hurt?

It had been an unthinkably stupid act, he realised, dropping his head into his hands. Dumbledore would understand his motivations for acting… he hoped. The Dark Lord was another story. As if on cue, his Dark Mark began twinging uncomfortably, signalling that his master was aware of his actions and would be expecting an explanation in the near future.

He sighed, poured another inch of Firewhisky into the coffee cup, and slugged it back in a single gulp as he heard the whoosh of the Floo in the next room signal the Headmaster's arrival.


Hermione woke, disorientated for a moment, before realising she was curled up on the couch in the sitting room of Snape's house. It was still dark outside; the only light and warmth in the room was coming from the fireplace, where a lone log was crackling quietly and glowing a deep orange, throwing sinister shadows across the room.

Sitting up, she found herself ensconced in a soft, brown blanket. She frowned. Where had that come from?

Thinking for a minute, the conversation with the Potions master came back to her. She remembered her eyelids becoming heavier, and sleep finally taking over. Had she been dreaming when she'd leant into him and he'd placed his arm around her shoulders? No, because she could still smell the earthy scent of his robes, and recall the vibration of his voice as he spoke.

The fear she'd felt earlier in the evening and the concern for what would happen next - to herself and her parents - had taken it's toll. The comfort of a warm body next to her had made her feel safe, and allowed her exhaustion to overcome her worry. I must have fallen asleep on him, she thought, mortified.

Turning back to the present, she heard low voices coming from beyond the kitchen door. She could hear Snape's low baritone speaking urgently, and the unmistakable sound of the Headmaster's voice respond.

Standing up, though still wrapped in the warm blanket, something made her creep quietly across the room to the door rather than allow her footsteps to announce her presence. The voices became clearer, and she peered cautiously through the gap in the door.

Both teachers were seated at the long, low kitchen table. Dumbledore's back was facing the door, but Snape was sitting in profile, dressed in shirt-sleeves, his head in his hands.

Hermione glanced down at the blanket wrapped around her shoulders again, and brought a corner of it to her nose. No wonder she could still smell his scent. The blanket was his frock coat. He must have transfigured it after she'd fallen asleep. She wrapped it more tightly around herself, smiling slightly.

The kitchen was lit by a single candle in the middle of the table, which spluttered as Snape raised his head and exhaled a deep breath. The light threw most of his face into shadow, and the dark smudges under his eyes startled Hermione. She wasn't the only one who was near-exhaustion after the events of the night, and she wondered if the Potions master had slept at all. It was unlikely, knowing him as she did.

"Dammit, Albus," Snape said, "you assured me she would be in no more danger working with me than she already was as a friend of Potter's. I must have been a fool to believe our association would go unnoticed."

"We don't have any reason to believe she wasn't already a target," the Headmaster reasoned. "Don't try to use this as an excuse to discontinue working with Miss Granger, Severus."

"Excuse?" Snape exclaimed. "For crying out loud, Albus, the girl was a wands-width away from being murdered! It's a bit late for excuses, don't you think? The Dark Lord knows she is working closely with me and is determined to use our association to his own ends. If she must continue working with me, at least tell me why you're so insistent about pushing us together."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Severus," the Headmaster said.

"Don't try to play innocent with me, old man." Hermione was startled at the tone with which Snape was addressing the Headmaster. "I've been around you long enough to know there's more to this than what you're telling me."

"I merely saw an opportunity and I took it," the Headmaster said mildly. "I think we have more pressing matters to discuss at the moment, such as how to keep Miss Granger's parents out of danger, and how you will explain your actions to Tom. Has he called you in the last few hours?"

"Yes," Snape said, absent-mindedly rubbing his forearm through his shirt. "It has not yet become unbearable. He has realised I will have been tied up for some hours, explaining the situation to you. For the moment he is just reminding me that he's not happy and will be wanting his own explanation soon."

Hermione felt a sense of renewed terror at the thought of Snape returning to explain his actions to Voldemort. His former master would be furious. Would he even bother to listen to any explanation, or would he kill his wayward servant on the spot? From what she'd read and heard, Voldemort's impulse control was not spectacular, and when angered, who knew what he would do?

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness overcame her, and she reached out to grab the doorframe for support. Her arm bumped the door and it squeaked on its hinges, announcing her presence to Snape and Dumbledore, who had been sitting in momentary silence.

She stepped into the room, still grasping to door for support, trying to look as though she hadn't been standing and listening for some time.

"Are you quite all right, Miss Granger?" the Headmaster questioned, looking at her concernedly.

She felt Snape's gaze on her as she made her way around the table slowly, sitting opposite the Headmaster.

"I was feeling sick earlier," she murmured, "but I thought I was just a bit overwhelmed by the whole situation. Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"I think not," replied Snape. "More likely you are suffering the residual effects of the curses we very narrowly avoided."

"I avoided," she countered dryly. "You weren't so lucky."

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow at Snape, and Hermione realised he hadn't told Dumbledore everything that had occurred.

"Nothing permanently damaging," he said, giving Hermione a dark look.

"Hmm," said the Headmaster, frowning at Severus before he looked back to Hermione. "Perhaps something to drink may help?"

She eyed the bottle of Firewhisky on the table and glanced back to Dumbledore, one eyebrow raised.

"Something a little lighter, I think," he said. "Would you care for some tea?"

She shook her head. "Actually, I'm not sure I could keep anything down right now," she said, lowering her head into her hands.

"A Stomach Calming Draught won't help, unfortunately," Snape spoke up again, "although sleeping will have helped it. You should be free of any nausea in a few hours."

"Why is it that I'm affected and you're not," she muttered, and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Who says I'm not?" he returned. "I merely decline to display my afflictions for others to take advantage of."

There was a sneer in his words, but Hermione took no offence. She forgot, sometimes, how good he was at hiding things.

Some things, she corrected, for at that moment, Snape hissed and grasped his arm, standing abruptly.

"I have to go," he bit out through clenched teeth. "He's getting impatient. I daren't anger him by keeping him waiting any longer."

The Headmaster nodded.

Snape glanced at Hermione before turning to leave the room.

"Sir, wait!" Hermione said suddenly, jumping up from the table. The blanket fell from her shoulders and the Potions master paused in the doorway. She crossed the room to stand in front of him, aware of the Headmaster watching the scene with interest.

"I..." Snape was watching her warily, and she realised she should be careful what she said in front of Dumbledore. "I just wanted to say thank you and... I hope it..." She sighed, and extended her hand to the Potions master. "Good luck, sir."

Snape eyed her contemplatively, before he clasped her hand briefly in his own.

A moment later, he was gone.


To be continued

As you've probably gathered, this is the first time I've used Snape POV in this story. I decided it was time for him to have his say on some things, and there are events taking place in the story from now on that are not done justice merely from Hermione's POV. Please let me know if you like the change or not!

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. The next chapter is completely written (and already posted on OWL – see my profile page for the link) but it won't be posted here until after July 10th, since I'll be away from home and without internet access until then.

A couple of people have reviewed or emailed me regarding problems reading the next chapter on OWL – the higher (R) rating of the next chapter requires you to be logged in. Please make sure you type your email address correctly on the registration page, as you need the activation email that will be sent to complete registration and continue reading. If you are still having trouble, see the 'Help' link at the bottom of the main page, or click the Contact link for further assistance.