He knocked, that evening.

When Hermione said come in, Professor Snape was still only a disturbance in the air as the door opened and closed and the bolt shot home, but still: he'd knocked.

It was an improvement.

Snape removed Harry's invisibility cloak with one smooth gesture. Not for him Harry's habit of forgetting half-way and hovering around as a disembodied head. That was far too undignified for the man who had never attended a single class dressed with anything less than the strictest formality.

He was dressed that way now, the dull black of his jacket a contrast to the slight lustre of his robe and the spotless white linen just showing at his wrists and neck. "Professor Granger."

Hermione matched his expressionless tone. "Professor Snape. To what do I owe the pleasure, this evening?"

"Your students' essays."

She shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm grateful for your help, but I can't in all good conscience allow you free range to shatter their self-esteem and destroy their confidence."

"There is nothing more dangerous in your classroom than misplaced confidence." He had not moved from the door, and Hermione realised he was waiting for her to offer him a seat, which was also, as far as she was concerned, an improvement.

A small and petty part of her wanted to leave him standing uncomfortably by the door, to make it as clear as possible to him that he was an interloper now in this room that must be so familiar to him. The idea of you in Slytherin …

If she hadn't been aware that he was in less-than-perfect health, Hermione might have done it. Instead she sighed and drew a chair closer to her desk with a wave of her wand. "Do sit down, Professor. Would you like tea? Or —" She checked her watch. "Something stronger, given the hour?"

Snape seated himself. "Thank you, no. Am I to understand that you are refusing my assistance?"

"You are." Hermione thumbed the edge of her stack of marked essays. "I've taken your advice, as much as I can, on spending less time on each essay, but I'm not comfortable with the … the unkindness of many of your comments."

He laced his hands together, elbows on the arms of the chair. "And as a teacher, you must avoid discomfort at all costs."

Hermione felt herself flush. "That's not what I meant."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Then you should be more precise in your expression, and ensure you say what you mean."

"You first," Hermione snapped.

"I always say what I mean, Professor Granger."

"The idea of you in Slytherin House is horrifying," Hermione mimicked. "Why not just say, there's no place for Muggle-borns in my House."

For just an instant, Hermione thought she saw Snape's eyes widen, the reflection of candlelight in their deep black flaring slightly. "That was not what I meant," he said. "Do you still, after everything, believe it to be even plausible that I subscribe to the idiocy of pure-blood prejudice?" He leaned forward slightly. "Lily Potter shared your background."

"Some of my best friends are black," Hermione shot back.

Snape settled back in his chair. "I chose you to succeed me in this office," he said, clipping each word. "Which makes it exceedingly likely that you will, eventually, become Head of Slytherin House, as that position is traditionally associated with the Potions Master."

"Oh, you think I'd be a good Head of House to a House I'm not worthy of being a member of?" Hermione scoffed.

"You would have been a credit to Slytherin House," Snape said quietly. "And I am confident that, when time has passed, and the old attitudes have washed away, you will be an exceptional Head of House. Contemplating how difficult it would have been for you, had you been sorted into Slytherin in your first year, and how difficult it would have been for me to keep you safe from your fellow students in that House, is, however, horrifying."

Hermione blinked at him. "Oh," she managed to say at last. That's bloody brilliant, that is, you dolt. 'Oh'. "I thought — I mean, I misunderstood you."

Snape's lip curled. "Clearly."

Hermione threw her quill down in frustration. "Why do you do that?" she demanded. "Say something nice and then be horrible again?"

His eyebrows went up. "Nice?" he asked with frosty disdain. "I was merely speaking the truth."

His expression gave Hermione no clue to how he meant her to take that. "I wish I was a proper Legilimens," she said impulsively. "Then I might have some idea of what you actually thought."

"Even with great natural talent, I very much doubt that at your age you could have acquired the level of skill to make that possible."

"No." He fooled Voldemort for years, after all. Hermione smiled ruefully. "And I don't. Have natural talent, I mean. For either Legilimency or Occlumency."

"I recommend you improve your grasp of both," Snape said. "A little Legilimency in the classroom can stop a great deal of trouble before it starts — and you never know when you might find a student in your classes who is a naturally gifted Legilimens." He paused, and then said in a tone of studied neutrality. "I can teach you, if you wish."

Merlin's pants, never! The thought of Severus Snape prowling through her thoughts made Hermione's palms sweat. She could imagine the contempt with which he'd view the memory of her day-long crying jag after that first disastrous conversation with her parents once she'd returned their memories — or any of the times, in the first months after the war, when she'd tried and failed to make herself look at the word carved into her arm — or her and Ron's first fumbling attempt at sex —

"You should bear in mind that whatever memory has you looking so embarrassed, Granger, could potentially be exposed by a sufficiently talented student," Snape said dryly.

"I'm not sure that would be worse," Hermione said. Snape's eyebrow went up to dangerous levels, and she said hastily, "Alright, yes, I know that would be worse. I just don't like the thought of …"

"No-one enjoys having the privacy of their mind invaded," Snape said, "even when the aim is only to teach how to best resist such invasions in future." He paused. "If your objection is to me specifically, I believe that Auror training still includes instruction in both Legilimency and Occlumency. Potter or Weasley could assist you." He gave a thin smile. "Although not as effectively as I. But I see from your expression that you prefer inefficiency to accepting lessons from me."

If he had been anyone else, Hermione would have thought there was a trace of hurt in his voice. She bit her lip. "Professor … Harry's told me about — about learning Occlumency from you."

"An experience I assure you I enjoyed even less than he," Snape said. "It was a matter of great importance and greater urgency. And I …" His gaze shifted away from her. "My patience, in those days, was not at its greatest."

Hard to imagine that it could have been. Still, it was an admission of fallibility Hermione wouldn't have expected from Professor Snape. Even so, she couldn't shake a deep reluctance to expose her own moments of weakness or inexperience to the supremely composed man sitting across from her. "I'll consider what you've said," she temporised. "How is your arm? Has it improved any more?"

He brushed the place on his left arm where the curse lay beneath the sleeve with the fingers of his right hand. "No better. Nor any worse." He produced a small bottle from somewhere within his coat and leaned forward to set it on her desk. "Two drops, morning and evening. The taste is … distinctive, I'm afraid."

Hermione picked it up. "Thank you."

"I wondered if you would be willing to share your research notes. There may be other improvements to be made."

"Of course." Hermione pushed the stack of essays aside and hunted through her papers. "They're here somewhere."

His lip curled. "If that is your idea of a filing system, Professor Granger —"

She cut across him. "It isn't. I was looking over them again this evening. Here."

Snape took the parchment from her and for a moment Hermione thought he was going to make a snide remark about her handwriting, which would be a bit pot-kettle if you ask me, but he rolled up the parchment without comment. "And your marking?"

"I should be done soon."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I will leave you to your penance, then, Granger."

"It's not penance," she said, already reaching for the next in the stack of papers. "It's part of the job. And stay, if you'd like. There's a new issue of Potions Quarterly on the bookshelf there, if you haven't seen it."

Snape stood, and prowled over to the bookshelf she'd indicated. "Marking essays someone else has offered to take responsibility for is penance," he said dryly. "Although I find it hard to imagine you could have committed sins grave enough to require such extravagant atonement as twenty-four second-year essays on the uses of asphodel."

Hermione smiled, and matched his tone. "That may say more about your imagination than it does about my sins, Professor."

Selecting a volume, Snape paused, his lips twitching as if he were trying not to return her smile. "Speaking of imagination. You will find that it needs a magical object of some kind."

Hermione blinked. "What does?"

"Your quest," Snape elaborated, taking his seat again. "It needs a magic object."

"Oh, you mean, for the McGuffin?"

He regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment. "Since you are now speaking in terms unknown to me, I must conclude that either you do not require my participation in the remainder of the conversation, or that you are attempting to manipulate me into admitting ignorance by asking you to explain." He raised his book, and said from behind it, "Both are exceedingly ill-mannered, which is hardly surprising coming from a Gryffindor."

Her mouth open to shoot back a blistering reply to his slur against her House, Hermione paused. With careful parsing, the first sentence was simply a very Snape-like way of asking what is a McGuffin? "A McGuffin — it's a Muggle term, from film-making. It means, well. An object that drives the plot by the protagonist's desire to possess it."

"Like the Maltese Falcon."

She gaped at him an instant. "Exactly like the Maltese Falcon. I didn't know you watched Muggle films."

"I don't."

"Then how …?"

"Apply your fine, if not often focused, mind, Granger."

She stared at him. "John Houston was a wizard?"

"No. Arthur Edeson." He narrowed his eyes at her blank expression. "The cinematographer, Granger. How can you — oh, I see."

"You see what?"

"You haven't seen the film since your magic came in, have you? I mean, at a cinema, not on the television."

"No."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "You should. So, your McGuffin. What should it be? Something that can't cause harm when they inevitably try to use it."

"How do you know they'll try to use it? Harry and Ron and I never tried to use the Philosopher's Stone."

"If Potter had been going to use the Stone, he wouldn't have been able to find it. And that's not my point, Granger. The Philosopher's Stone was a real object that a real Dark Lord really wanted. This is a game."

"It has to be something they'll really, really want to find. I mean, we didn't so much want to find the Philosopher's Stone to stop you stealing it." He raised his head and she went on hastily, "That's what we thought. At the time."

"I know," he said disdainfully.

"I'll have to go to the Library and do some research. It has to be something relatively harmless, small enough, and either easy to get or already at Hogwarts."

"There is an easier alternative," Snape said, and raised his eyebrow when she didn't catch on. "Granger, just make something up. Think about what sort of bright, shiny magical object would have been irresistible to you three when you were eleven."

"Oh!" She didn't even need to think about it. "A book that contains every other book you ever want to read —"

"Irresistible to all three of you." Snape's tone was dry.

"Oh." She frowned. "That's harder. We didn't really have much in common, you know. I wanted nothing more than to learn everything in the world I could, Harry was Quidditch mad, and as much as Ron was keen on it, his real passion was chess."

His eyebrow went up. "Weasley? Chess?"

She nodded. "Yes, and he's really good at it. I mean, he might even be great. Quite a lot of people think he's going to be the youngest Supreme Great Grandmaster ever."

"Ronald Weasley?"

"He's not an idiot, you know. He never was." Her tone was sharper than she'd intended.

"Then he was doing a remarkably good impersonation of one in —"

"He was terrified of you, you git!" She realised her voice was raised and struggled to moderate her tone. "We all were, but Ron and Neville were too petrified to be able to think, let alone learn!"

Snape shrugged. "Not very Gryffindor of them."

"Oh, for —" Hermione threw up her hands. "Nobody doubts that you're brilliant at brewing, but as a teacher you left a lot to be desired."

"Yes, because fair and caring teachers are exactly the sort of people Dark Lords seeking world domination trust implicitly to carry out their orders."

She shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't get to use that excuse. Of the things in your head that you had to be worried Voldemort would see, not being an utterly unfair bastard in the classroom would have to rank right at the very bottom."

"And the things in your head, Granger? Or Longbottom's? Or Draco's? Or any other student in the school with no Occlumency protection who might find themselves in the hands of a Death Eater?"

"When we started school, there were no Death Eaters. Voldemort was gone, as far as —"

"Everybody except Albus Dumbledore and myself believed."

"Oh." Her anger deflated.

"Indeed." He turned a page. "It didn't hurt, of course, that I genuinely found Potter's self-satisfaction odious."

"He wasn't like that," Hermione objected. "Not at all."

One dark eyebrow lifted. "Which of us, Professor Granger, is the Legilimens?"

"Which of us, Professor Snape, met Harry without more baggage than could fit in the Hogwarts Express?"

His gaze lifted from the page and met hers, expressionless. "Be careful, Granger. You are treading dangerously close to subjects you know nothing about."

"And you're wading right through them if you're trying to tell me you know Harry Potter better than I do," Hermione retorted. "And don't try to pull the infallible Legilimens routine on me — I might be lousy at it, but I know enough to know it isn't like reading a book. It's particularly unreliable when your own emotions are — "

"Firmly under control, I assure you," Snape said, but he looked back at his book as he spoke.

Liar. If there was one thing Snape had struggled to be around Harry Potter, it was firmly under control. Deciding it was wise not to press the point, Hermione cast around for a change of subject. "How about something that gives House points?"

"Pardon?"

"For the quest. How about something — a magical object — that gives the owner House points?"

Snape looked into the distance, eyes hooded. "Too implausible," he said at last. "If such an object existed, the staff would soon notice the discrepancy."

"Then a way of earning House points, more easily. A book with answers for classes and exams —"

"Those already exist," Snape pointed out. "They're called textbooks, and every student has a great number of them."

"An invisibility — not cloak, ring or something. An invisibility ring."

"The deception would be exposed an instant after they located it, and, inevitably, tried it on."

Hermione folded her arms. "Well, then, you come up with something."

He raised his eyebrows. "Granger, this is your quest."

"So you can't think of anything, either," Hermione said smugly.

He gazed at her expressionlessly for a moment. "An object that attracts any Golden Snitch in the vicinity," he said at last. "Worn, or carried, by a Seeker, guaranteeing victory on the Quidditch field."

"Not everybody plays Quidditch," Hermione objected.

"No, and it's extremely unlikely that one of your three troublemakers would be the Seeker for their House," Snape said. "However. Everybody watches Quidditch, and cares about how well their House does." He looked back at his book, and went on in a tone of profound boredom, "And it provides a moral dilemma, which I believe any any decent quest requires."

"Whether to use it to cheat, or not?"

"And, if they choose to cheat, on whose behalf. I believe they are not all in the same House? And then, whether to tell the Seeker of the team they choose what the object does, or to deceive him or her."

Hermione nodded. "A Quidditch Ring. Or necklace. Or glove. The Quidditch Glove. No, that doesn't sound right. The Quidditch … the Quidditch Key!"

.

.

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Author's Note: There is, in chess, no such thing as a Supreme Great Grandmaster. However, as the youngest Muggle chess grandmaster achieved that rank at 12 years old, I have created new accolades for Wizarding Chess to express Ron's excellence at it.