The Lunch with Potter

Snape cleared his migraine, and in doing so fully depleted all stocks of Diaphne's potion, in time for the meeting with the kitchen elves. He wondered if they'd show up, given it was a Bank Holiday and they'd not been at work all day, but it was they who'd selected Monday. So he went down to the kitchen at the nominated time of two pm and found Mr Gadkey and one other elf waiting for him. They were seated at one of the long wooden tables that ran parallel to the Great Hall, and they'd fixed themselves something – presumably a drink – in tall, carved cups that must have been warmed for steam issued from the brim. Fortunately the fireplace was empty today and only one of the many woodburning and gas stoves had been lit, and so while the room was cool, it was also rather dark.

"Mr Gadkey," said Snape, taking up a chair and placing it at the table on the opposite side of the two elves. "I understand this is not a working day for you, so I expect you would like to keep this brief. Shall we proceed? What are your terms?"

"Professor, you are correct, I should be at home with my family today, not a Hogwarts meeting with the teachers," Gadkey huffed. "This is exactly the sort of unreasonable expectation we've had to work under." His companion nodded strenuously.

"It was you who selected Monday, Mr Gadkey."

"You did not object to a meeting on Monday. So I presume you will be paying me and my associate overtime for today's meeting."

"Well then. If that's the case, let us reconvene on another day," said Snape, and pushed back his chair.

"Just be aware, Professor, that we agreed to keep cooking evening meals until today," Gadkey said warningly, and took a draught of his drink. "If you do not meet our terms at this meeting, then we will not be cooking in the evening from tomorrow onwards until our terms are met. Coming here today just demonstrates how willing we are to negotiate. But it is a public holiday and we are working, so our terms are overtime rates for today's meeting."

Snape briefly considered hurling the elves out by their sizeable ears and telling McGonagall they would be cooking dinner themselves for the foreseeable future. But all staff would be back on board in a week and he knew the last thing the Headmistress needed was further angst about the elves and an inability to put a hot meal before twenty hungry teachers and support staff.

"Fine. I want this wrapped up in no more than two hours and you get overtime rates only for the time you're here. Let's get started. What are your terms?"

Gadkey reiterated what had been outlined the previous Friday. From 5pm to 7:30am, kitchen elf hourly rates would need to increase from 50 sickles to 100 sickles per hour, and from 8pm to 7:30am, only twenty kitchen elves would need to be rostered to work, and this hourly rate would increase again on public holidays and only 70 elves would be rostered to work on public holidays. Further, they wanted kitchen uniforms provided by Hogwarts and they wanted more notice if feasts were going to be held, and they no longer wanted to do food deliveries as they believed this was the province of house elves.

Snape listened to these terms getting grumpier and grumpier, not least due to Gadkey's supercilious, dogmatic tone, but in large part to the ever-mounting bill this was going to represent.

So the negotiation began. With a quill keeping minutes, he bargained down from 100 sickles to 75 sickles per hour, reduced the timeframe to twelve hours, from 5pm to 5am, accepted that only twenty elves needed to be on after 8pm. He agreed to 100 sickles per hour for public holidays, but only 60 elves needed to work if the elves agreed to ensure the menu for public holidays was simple to prepare. Full uniforms were out, but Hogwarts could supply them with aprons. Notice for feasts should be easier now Dumbledore wasn't around to be so randomly generous so he agreed to that, and lastly, they would continue to do deliveries.

They shook hands. The deal was struck, and the elves downed their drinks in self-gratified way before Disapparating.

Wearily, Snape left the kitchen, grabbing an end-of-season peach on his way. Exiting the basement steps into the Entrance Hall he came upon McGonagall, walking with Madam Pomfrey.

"Severus!" said McGonagall, veering towards him. "Are you raiding the kitchen? Is there anything to eat?" she eyed his peach, part suspiciously, part hungrily.

He offered it to her. "I was negotiating with the kitchen elves, ma'am."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please, for the last time, will you call me Minerva. And how did negotiations go? I hope you were hard on them?" She pushed the peach gently back in his direction.

"I didn't think it would be conducive to good relations to force them into strike action just as the faculty arrived. We've reached middle ground."

"How much?"

"About fifteen per cent."

"You can write to the Ministry for more money."

"I will send the letter via Hermione Granger."

McGonagall laughed. "I'd be careful of that. She might come back and say fifteen per cent is an insult. So are we to eat tonight?"

"No, I'm afraid negotiations did not include tonight. I recommend Hogsmeade." He paused a moment. "Ma'am – who is the elf on their t-shirt? He's clearly significant."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Do you not know? It's Dobby! Remember the one that Potter freed? The one who was killed?"

"The Malfoy house elf?"

"About a thousand years ago…did you miss all the intervening bits? Severus, how can you not know about Dobby?"

"I can assure you it was not intentional."

"He got Potter out of the cellar at Malfoy Manor! Didn't the Death Eaters talk about it?"

"I expect they weren't best pleased about it," said Snape, relatively certain he didn't recall details about that. Voldemort would have been homicidal at the thought of a house elf coming between him and Potter. Not the sort of thing Lucius would have shared over dinner. "Well thank you for filling me in."

McGonagall's astounded stare lingered a bit, then she turned back to Pomfrey who was also staring at Snape.

"Poppy – would you like to join us?"

Madam Pomfrey shook her head as her husband was expecting her home. So McGonagall explained her presence. "Poppy was just talking to me about her new assistant. Have you met…what did you say her name was?"

"Diaphne."

"Yes. Diaphne. Oh she was there when you had your migraine that time. Do you remember her?"

"Yes…I know of Diaphne."

"Apparently Diaphne shows a lot of promise as a Healer."

"Severus," said Pomfrey. "You'll remember we discussed this. I would like for Diaphne to become qualified."

"Oh. You've talked about this," said McGonagall, a touch put out.

"Madam Pomfrey asked what would be necessary for Diaphne to qualify as a proper Healer," said Snape. "I believe her learning has thus far been through an apprenticeship but has been practical as a result. If she wants to become a registered Healer, she will need a range of NEWTs, as I'm sure you know, Ma'am."

"Aye, and oh gosh, it's quite a raft: charms, potions, herbology, transfiguration…"

"I think Diaphne is smart enough to acquire those," said Pomfrey, looking serious. "She is quite talented."

"So what Poppy was asking," said McGonagall to Snape, "was whether it would be possible for us to accommodate a mature-age student in our seventh-year classes?"

"Seventh year are, as a rule, our smallest classes. But the lessons are the most intense. Are you proposing if she can keep pace with seventh-years, she should be eligible to attain the NEWTs?"

"Exactly," said McGonagall.

"Well if you are willing to consider it Ma'am, I would be supportive. I agree with Madam Pomfrey that she does have exceptional talent."

"Then it is settled," said McGonagall, dusting her hands. "Hogwarts will subsidise her education if she agrees to stay with the School for a period of time. I don't want her running off to St Mungos the minute she takes her Oath. Severus, can you please enrol her before school starts?"

"Certainly Ma'am."

She would be in his seventh year potions class, the one he'd always worked the hardest, expected the most from, the group he personally hand-picked for success. She had the natural ability, but did she have the staying power and the discipline? Could he be as impartial with her as the others, or was he going to be subjected to constant flashbacks of her in her tiny room at the infirmary, smiling at him and hitching up her skirts to her waist as he shut her door behind him. He felt heat rising up his neck now just thinking about it.

"Severus? Did you hear me?"

"Sorry Ma'am?"

"Minerva! And where did you want to eat?"

It was 10:08am on Tuesday 8th August and Snape was standing on the Charing Cross Station platform waiting for Servius' train to arrive from Trowbridge. Although slightly too warm, he'd worn a single-breasted black wool overcoat to look a little less conspicuous whilst amongst the Muggles, with a black leather satchel to carry items from Diagon Alley, where most of the day was planned to be spent.

As the train wheezed to a stop and passengers began to disembark, he scanned the crowds for Servius. The boy was travelling alone, and he didn't want to consider the consequences if he somehow slipped his grasp and ended up wandering about London unattended. But Servius stepped off the carriage and, as children are won't to do, stood exactly in the way of every other passenger trying to alight. But he was looking about him, looking for him.

"Servius," called Snape, heading towards him, and he was spotted. Their eyes met: acknowledgement, but no smile. Servius, who appeared to have been shelved like a mannequin since the last time Snape had seen him, so identically did he present to the first visit, hitched the strap of his rucksack a little higher and ambled towards him.

"Hi," mumbled Servius, and stared pointedly at everything but Snape. He raked his hair out of his eyes.

"Trip alright?"

"Yep. Fine."

Snape hesitated. He had said to Charity's photo that he would try harder this time, try to replicate the sort of things fathers did. He had envisaged himself putting a fatherly arm around Servius's shoulders, or ruffling his hair, or tell him why he was looking forward to him starting Hogwarts. But presented now with an embodiment of surly disinterest, he realised any of those gestures would seem ridiculous and would earn him nothing but rebuke. So he squared his shoulders and said, "Right. Then let's go."

Apart from the occasional safety caution or direction, the walk to The Leaky Cauldron was in silence. Without stopping they went straight through the pub to the wall for Diagon Alley, which Snape opened, and once they were on the Main Street, Snape said, "I have business at the apothecary and the bank, and then we can pick up the owl. Then I have a lunch appointment."

"I want to get the owl first," was Servius's instant rebuttal.

"Then you would have to carry it around all Diagon Alley in its cage."

"So?"

"Apart from the burden, it would be unsettling for the owl. Did you do any research about owl-keeping since we were here last?"

"Yeah. I Googled it."

"You what it?"

"I looked it up on the internet. You know, Google? It's better than Yahoo!"

Snape frowned at him. "The computer. I see. Well I don't know what your research told you, but my understanding of owls is that they prefer to be free and don't like being jostled about in a cage for hours. So we will get the owl last. Keep up." Snape turned on his heel towards the northern end of Daigon Alley, but Servius did not move.

"You do what you want. I'm going to see the owl."

"No. You're staying with me. You're too inexperienced to be on Diagon Alley by yourself."

"I'm eleven!"

"I know. Too young. We've wasted ten minutes on this conversation, I could have been halfway through the bank queue by now," Snape's tone was getting flinty. "Do as you're told."

"I told you! You're not my dad!" Servius's voice rose sufficiently for two witch's (carrying a wicker basket full of black kittens) to turn and look.

Snape's hand started towards his wand, but he caught himself. The effort to control his irritation made his nostrils flare and his jaw clench. "I'm not doing this again Servius. You proved your point last time. I'm not trying to be your father, I am simply being an adult in charge of your welfare. Let's…. [stilted breath] …cooperate."

The thing was, Snape's feelings on the matter had moved seismically since the last time he'd seen Servius. He'd seen photos of him as a baby and toddler. He had in his pocket right now a delightful image of him being nuzzled by his mother. He knew that Servius had been born as agreeable a baby as any, and that there was now a part of him that wished fervently he'd seen the first steps, the first words, the infant gurgle laugh. Even as he regarded pre-teen Servius now, who was glaring at him, hating him, his mouth clamped shut in defiance, he was marvelling at it. Look at that: my eyes, my mouth, I'm right there. He's me wishing I was dead.

"Let's do a deal," said Snape. "Cooperate with me, and I'll teach you a hex. Did you bring your wand?"

Servius's eyes widened a fraction. The scowl lifted. "Course. For real?"

"I am a man of my word."

The fact that Servius had brought his wand without being told to occasioned a silent, impressed golf-clap from Snape. Thank Merlin the boy took after his father and not his mother in that respect. Ollivander had been right.

"Fine," muttered Servius, allowing his scowl to return so that Snape didn't run away with himself in self-congratulatory victory. Snape kept his face carefully neutral.

They proceeded on Snape's agenda. Through Gringotts and the Apothecary (in which Snape personally stockpiled ingredients for Diaphne's potion], Servius made his dissatisfaction known in as many ways as he had at his disposal. He complained remorselessly, swore audibly, he lounged against walls, slouched, touched anything delicate, valuable or polished, fiddled with his zipper and the ties of his hood, burped loudly, scratched visibly and repeatedly, slid down hand railings and rolled his eyes so many times they would soon dislocate from their sockets. Then Snape's patience ran out.

"How is that cooperating?" Snape demanded in the street, juggling is bag full of ingredients so that he could shrink them, and also draw breath after the agonising bill.

"What?" retorted Servius, outraged. "I haven't got my owl!"

"You were awful! I told you to cooperate!"

"I did! I went with you to all those super boring places and you said if I did that I could get my owl and you would teach me a hex!"

"When I say cooperate, I mean stand quietly!" lashed Snape, though even in his own head he knew how unreasonable this was. Eleven-year olds couldn't stand quietly if their lives depended on it. "And stop rolling your eyes!"

"You roll your eyes all the time!"

Aaargh, it was true. Snape was an inveterate eye-roller. It had infuriated the Death Eaters. What else did you do when you couldn't say anything to a person too stupid to live?

"Fine! Fine! But I'm telling you – eye rolling will get you into trouble with friends. Not to mention all those other things – were you raised in a barn? Next time, I want you to stand quietly, do I make myself clear?"

"You should've said that!"

"Yes! I should! Merlin, you are going to be a lawyer to boot. Right. Owl then."

Snape marched off in the direction of the Owl Emporium and Servius followed in a half-run, his face, which Snape did not see, a sudden portrait of exhilaration and elation.

After about twenty minutes at the Emporium waiting to be served, and the short-eared owl being fetched from the store room, and a large bag of equipment being explained, and the owl's Post Office registration details being confirmed and approved, including band on the owl's leg, Servius and Snape were free to leave. Servius carried the owl in its bell-shaped cage, ignoring the recommendation to cover it so that he could gaze at it adoringly. The owl was clearly unimpressed with the situation and its eyes kept widening in alarm, and it would half-extend its wings in attempt to gain balance, and then it would bob its head about looking, for an owl, quite consternated.

Servius said, as they re-entered the street, holding the owl to eye-height, "I'm calling him Tāne."

"Tāne? What's that?" asked Snape, partly listening, glancing up and down the street trying to find a clock as Potter was meeting him at 1pm. He really did need a timepiece.

"He's a god of forests and birds."

"That's not Latin or Greek."

"No. It's Maori. Tāne is a Maori god."

Snape glanced at him. Servius was poking a finger through the cage, entranced, which didn't appear to be reciprocated.

"You…Googled…that, did you?"

"Yup. I wanted to call him Artemis, but she's a girl."

Snape bit his tongue. It wasn't from a book, but at least he'd learned something.

"Right. Well now is the time for my lunch appointment. So you will need to keep yourself amused while I'm talking. You have the information from the Emporium, so I suggest you read that."

"How long's this going to take?"

"I don't know."

"When are you going to teach me the hex?"

"I don't know."

Snape had started marching again, or an approximation of it considering it was almost impossible to keep a straight line on the Alley.

"Can I go to the sweet shop?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're about to have lunch."

"Can I have sweets instead of lunch?"

"No!"

Snape sighed heavily as they reached the Leaky Cauldron. They entered the dim, smoky pub and went through to the dining room where they took seats at a table. Tom the barman was heading towards them, wiping his hands on his apron, bald head glowing under the lamplight. "Hallo again, Professor. Unusual to have you here this often. And this is the young lad again? How's it?"

Servius ignored Tom, and Snape couldn't help it – he cuffed him. "Mind your manners!" But Servius made a big show of indignation about the cuffing and Tom waved it off.

"A whisky, thanks Tom – I'll order in minute. Now what do you want to eat, Servius?"

After much deliberation and cajolery in which Servius glowered at every item on the menu, particularly if it was something that couldn't be also given to an owl, Tom said, "I have my own recipe for a cracker of an ice-cream sundae. How about that? But I wouldn't give to your owl, I hear they don't like exploding things."

Servius looked interested and Snape had given up trying to insist on anything even remotely resembling nutrition. He may has well have let Servius have sweets for lunch.

"I didn't know you served ice-cream," said Snape to Tom.

"I don't. I'll nip over to Fortescue's - no bother. Now, it was a whisky, wasn't it? Sure you don't want something a bit stronger Professor," said Tom, winking and nodding his head in the direction of Servius.

Only moments after Tom had departed, there was movement at the pub entrance and a raised murmur of excitement from the patrons in the vicinity, including a shouted: "Wotcher, Harry!"

The Famous Harry Potter had arrived.

Snape half-stood to get his attention, and Potter, seeing him, nodded, then once he'd finished shaking various hands and slapping backs, crossed the pub to join him. Snape noticed the smart, MoM monogrammed outfit he wore, the combed hair which he still wore over his brow in efforts to conceal his lightning scar. That itself had faded considerably. "Thanks for coming, Professor," said Potter, shaking his hand again. "Have you ordered?"

"Only a whisky -,"

Potter was then immediately distracted by Servius, sitting in the adjacent chair and making hooting noises at his owl through the cage that had been placed on the table. Servius's rucksack had been deposited in the seat meant for Potter, and Snape reached over to move it.

"Ah, this is Servius…" muttered Snape, knowing introductions and explanations were imminent. "Take the owl off the table – we're in a restaurant…"

"Are you picking up a student early?" asked Potter, looking puzzled.

A brilliant excuse had been handed to Snape, and if Servius hadn't been sitting there, listening all of a sudden, he may well have run with it. But Servius was – uncharacteristically – interested in what Snape had to say. It was a challenge.

"Servius is, ah, in fact…. it turns out…my son."

Potter stared at Servius. Servius pushed his hair out of his eyes and shrugged. "Worse luck, eh?"

Potter, open-mouthed, turned back to Snape, eyes almost as wide as his glasses, slowly shaking his head. "Seriously? I mean, really? I mean, really?" He forced an emphasis of delighted surprise.

Snape sat down rather heavily in his chair by way of answer.

Gradually taking his seat, Potter extended his hand to Servius, who shook it. "Hello Servius. Wow, you really do look like your Dad. My name is Harry."

"Hi," mumbled Servius, and turned back to his owl.

"Nice owl," said Potter, inclining his head towards it. Snape could tell he was trying not to stare at Servius too much. He leaned over and poked a finger through the bars of the cage to scratch Tāne's head. "What's his name?"

"Tāne."

"Nice. God of forests. Very nice."

Servius smiled at Potter, who grinned back, then the exchange being over, returned his attention to Snape. "Where have you been hiding him?" he asked surreptitiously.

"Potter, there isn't enough time in the world to explain how my life unravels. Suffice it to say, we are recently acquainted. He is starting Hogwarts in a few weeks."

Tom came through and dropped off the whisky, made a big fuss of Potter with a complimentary Butterbeer, and took orders for lunch. When he'd left, Potter said, "Ron and Hermione send their best wishes. Ginny too. Hermione really wanted to come today but I told her no. Hope you don't mind."

Snape couldn't for the life of him think why Hermione Granger would want to see him, but said, "Well…uh, thank them for me. I read how well they're doing; I'm glad Miss Granger finished her education."

"Not Ron?" laughed Potter. Snape diplomatically kept silent.

"My reasons for wanting to meet with you are…well I suppose they're personal in nature. Ginny and I are married now, did you know?"

Snape half shook, half nodded his head. The correct answer was that he'd guessed it.

"And we have a son!" he declared. Snape raised his brows in a congratulatory fashion. "James. He's two."

"That's my name," said Servius suddenly, he'd evidently been listening. "But I use my middle name."

"Your first name is James?" said Potter incredulously, looking from Servius to Snape.

"I didn't name him," retorted Snape. "Less flapping ears, Servius. Grownups talking." Then he couldn't quite believe he'd referred to Potter as a grown up. "Congratulations."

Potter smiled self-deprecatingly at the hopelessly utilitarian acknowledgement.

"Anyway, my point is, when you become a parent, you start to think a lot about your own parents, right? You start to think about how they did it when they first had kids, you wonder about how they felt, and you start to appreciate what they did for you. Except for me, though, it just made me angry. I listen to Ginny, I see Ginny with her parents and how great Molly and Arthur are as grandparents and how much Molly says to Ginny about when she was a little kid. And I'm still angry about what happened to my parents. I'm still angry about the Dursleys, and the more James grows, the worse it seems to get. And then I started to get angry about you, too."

"I see." Perhaps Tom was right – was there anything stronger than Firewhisky? Listening to Potter, Snape realised he'd barely thought about his own parents since Servius had arrived on the scene. He simply didn't have a file referenced as parenting, let alone with his own parents in it. He'd largely defined his own childhood as a survival marathon.

But zeroing in on Potter's final sentence, Snape looked up and saw that the green eyes had taken on an edge.

Tom returned at this point bearing a magnificent multi-coloured bowl containing a small mountain of ice-cream, extravagant toppings including small exploding balls on the top, even two sparkler type fireworks. While Servius's eyes enlarged enough to contain it all, the owl became agitated.

Potter stood and grabbed a coat he'd draped over his chair, which he placed over the owl's cage. "Those exploding things will scare Tāne, Servius. This is kinder. You can take it off again when you're finished."

Servius nodded, and with a mouthful of ice-cream smiled his thanks at Potter. Snape watched the easy, informal connection that seemed to have formed between the pair, not in the slightest surprised that Potter was a natural father, gifted at it.

When he'd sat back down, and taken a long drink from his beer, Potter had relaxed again. "Professor, until a couple of weeks ago, you were believed dead. What I'd seen in the Pensieve, you know, from you – it raised more questions than answers, I had a thousand questions - for years - which I thought would never be resolved. Things not even Dumbledore could or would tell me. Can I ask you some things? I mean, it's up to you if you don't want to say -,"

"Glad you understand that, Potter."

"So it's okay?" Potter's expression switched from earnest and appealing to reflective. A quick glance at Servius confirmed the boy was absorbed in his dessert. "Then I'm going to start at the top. When I was at Hogwarts, I mean, from eleven, same age as Servius – why did you make the hate so personal? I wasn't my Dad. And you knew the responsibility I was carrying, you knew about that long before I did. Why did you let your baser instincts get the better of you?"

Aghast, Snape spluttered on his latest sip of whisky. He'd thought he'd been prepared for some questions, but this was a sword between the shoulder-blades. "Right. Now listen, Potter. We've both been through a lot. We fought on the same side. We both got closer to Voldemort than was strictly healthy. I needed eight years on my own to come to peace with it, so why would you want to go raking over those old coals?"

Potter wasn't giving up. "I'm looking for some closure, Professor. I could go for hours and hours of Muggle counselling – which I can't because how can I talk about my life with a Muggle? – but it wouldn't help anyway. I have too many questions. How could a counsellor help me come to terms with the fact that I had a highly influential teacher in my life who was charged with my protection, but who went out of his way to humiliate, degrade and victimise me? My parents weren't there, my guardians demonised me and you – you were meant to look out for me, for the love of my mother, and yet I felt nothing but hatred from you. From the first class. You never explained why. I'm scared about all this anger I have. It's not fair on James. It's not fair on Ginny either."

Snape's blood had chilled and he stared hard at the table in front of him. The first potions class with Potter, the presumption he'd acted on that the boy would be arrogant, the decision to knock him off his pedestal at the first encounter: he'd filed it all away, oh so casually. The arrogance had rested entirely and exclusively with Snape. He'd appraised Potter as 'doing alright, seems fine' and surmised that no lasting damage had occurred.

"What are you looking for? What do you want from me?" This whole meeting, he was starting to conclude, had been a bad idea. He wondered how he had ever gone about his life during those years at Hogwarts thinking he'd never be asked to explain himself.

"If you loved my mother so much, why did you hate me?"

Snape understood that Potter was referring to the memories he'd seen in the Pensieve. What the boy had collected in the flask, and later looked at, had been somewhat indiscriminately released – it was as if Snape had simply dropped on him a photo album containing a life's-worth of photos, hoping Potter would be able to search it and find what he needed. There hadn't been time, he hadn't the energy to filter anything. Apart from anything else, Snape had been ready to die – it hadn't seemed that important at the time if closely guarded secrets were finally allowed some light. Snape hadn't seen the memories that had been collected, he didn't know exactly which ones Potter had seen. But he guessed Lily had been in there.

"I thought I was dead, Potter," said Snape, barely audible, never sure when Servius was listening. "You were never meant to know about…about that."

Snape glanced at his son. The lad was immersed in his dessert. "I wonder if this is the right time, Potter?"

Potter heaved a sigh and sat back in his chair. "Perhaps you're right. I didn't know we were going to be joined by…by…" He tilted his head in Servius's direction.

"Perhaps another time?" The words came out strangled; he never wanted another time.

"Would you be willing?"

"No. Willing is not a word I'd choose. But since you know half the truth, it wouldn't be fair for me to withhold the rest. I've become very familiar lately with the sensation of only knowing part of things."

Their meals arrived, and Snape and Potter began to eat. Strangely, it wasn't an uneasy atmosphere. There was so much history between them, so many unexpected parallels, that they were more like distant relatives now. They were old guards coming together.

"How are you finding parenthood?" Potter asked presently, when Servius - having consumed his ice-cream at an indecent speed – had wandered off to show his owl to some Post owls.

Snape was still reeling, but he gathered enough wherewithal to respond. "I wouldn't say I've had enough time with him to have described our relationship in those terms. He refuses to acknowledge I'm his father and I regard him as a student I'm obliged to care-take."

"Does he live with you? How did it all happen?"

"No. He's been raised by his grandparents. They're Muggle. And since I know you're burning to ask, I'm not telling you who is mother is."

Potter looked at him askance, then after swallowing a mouthful said, "Was it…Professor Burbage?"

Snape didn't answer but frowned furiously.

"Sir, we all saw it. You were much nicer for a while. For a bit we thought you were making Remus Lupin sick and we thought that must have been making you happier. But then we saw you with…Professor Burbage."

Snape remembered the goblets of Wolfsbane, the glares from the Gryffindors. Did they honestly think he was slowly poisoning a work colleague right under Dumbledore's nose? And now Lupin was dead, his child orphaned, all the Marauders dead. He recalled Lupin in his DADA classroom, confessing almost, that there might have been a time, once, when he and Snape might not have been enemies. Lupin, too, had been a broken boy in search of friends.

With immaculate timing, Tom came to their table with the bottle of Firewhisky. "Top up, Professor?"

"Please," whispered Snape, lifting his tumbler. Potter watched closely. What he saw, interpreted from Snape's face, only he knew.

When Tom had left, Snape raised his glass.

"Potter – you've mentioned Professor Burbage, Lupin. We've outlived them, rightly or wrongly. I – I wish I hadn't. To those who gave their lives."

Potter raised his beer silently. Then he murmured, "I am so sorry about Professor Burbage."

Snape took a searing sip of the whisky to quell the spasm of his heart. He needed to shut things down, he was not going to show this weakness to Potter. What do you remember, he wanted to say, what do you remember about her and I? But if he asked that, he would be beholden to tell Potter what he remembered about Lily, or rather, why he'd never been able to give up Lily.

He wondered if, wherever they were, Charity and Lily could have coffee together and compare notes. Charity would shake her head over his handling of Servius, and Lily would shake her head over his handling of Potter. The poor motherless boys, entrusted to him. Worse luck, Servius had said.

Snape raised his glass again, and forced his eyes to meet Potter's. There were Lily's. Would her eyes have softened at the corners like his? Darkened a shade from the effort of living and sleepless nights? "And to your parents," he said. "Who gave you to…who gave you to us."

Potter tried to say something but couldn't and gulped down some beer instead. After, he muttered, "That means a lot to me. Hearing you say that."

"Your father and I were never going to be civil. But if James did to Servius what I did to you…" Snape couldn't finish. He couldn't explain himself, and yet the idea that a man he loathed, but had to trust, would be given license to treat Servius despicably, without explanation, without intervention. And he knew Charity would be the same – why had he reasoned it was justified because he'd loved Lily?

Potter had taken off his glasses and wiped his eyes roughly. "Sir…my question was, how are you finding parenthood? And I can tell you this: parenthood is finding you."

Their meals were finished, they were on the dregs of their drinks and Servius was starting to get bored, pestering Snape to let him go exploring Diagon Alley by himself.

"Have you got all your stuff for Hogwarts?" Potter asked him, staring at Servius again and unconsciously shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

"I can't take my Gameboy or anything," replied Servius. "Just a bunch of books and a telescope."

"And your owl."

"Yeah. Tāne."

"And a wand? Have you got a wand?"

Servius withdrew his wand from his rucksack and handed it to Potter, who admired it greatly.

"When you get to Hogwarts, they'll teach you to ride a broom."

"That's mad," replied the boy, but he was curious.

"And you'll see animals you thought were only in books."

Servius was finding it extremely difficult to continue looking scornful. His expression was breaking up, like clouds after rain.

"I rode on the back of a Hippogriff," Potter told him. "It was outstanding."

A carefully constructed aspect of disinterest was fabricated onto Servius's face, but it was obvious he was storing the word Hippogriff away to research later.

Just then, a person arrived in the dining room fireplace in a swirl of green. Servius jumped. "Don't worry," said Potter. "That's how people get around in our world. Haven't you used the Floo yet?"

Candace Peacock stepped out of the fireplace. "Harry!" she said, upon seeing him. "Taking a long lunch? Afternoon, Professor Snape."

"One of the few perques of being the boss," said Potter.

"Your timing is perfect," said Snape, standing. "Servius has his owl, has eaten enough ice-cream for several London boroughs, and seems about ready for his afternoon nap."

"I don't have naps!" shot back Servius.

"Hello Servius," said Candace and bent to admire his owl. "Shall we get you to the train?"

"Isn't Mr Snape taking me? I mean…Ma said I could call him Mr Snape if I wanted."

Snape's eyebrows rose. "Well…I'm not disputing your grandmother, but I'd prefer not to be called Mr Snape."

"Call him Dad, eh?" said Potter, nudging him a little.

"You haven't taught me a hex! You promised!"

Potter burst out laughing. "Already?! Shall I warn the Ministry to ignore a raft of underage magic alarms?"

"Professor?" said Candace inquiringly, her eyebrows arched. "A hex?"

"He has a talent for them. You told me: he did the stickfast hex intuitively."

Servius seemed gratified with this assessment. "Can't you take me to the train…?" He couldn't bring himself to use the word Dad. "And you can teach one to me."

Candace did not intervene, and Snape, looking at her said, "Very well."

"Can I have a few minutes with you, Professor, in private?" said Candace, and Potter indicated he was happy to sit with Servius.

Candace led Snape though to the adjoining pub and said, "When I was with the Burbage's this morning, they wanted me to pass something on to you. There have been plans made for Christmas. Charity's ex, Jason: his parents live in Spain. They've invited the Burbage's, and Jason and Holly. But not Servius. They thought he would be with you this Christmas."

"They're rejecting him?"

"I don't think it's as simple as that. But the family are trying to reconnect…Professor, I think it would be a good idea to spend some time with Servius this Christmas, over the holidays."

He glanced over at his son, talking conspiratorially with Potter. He remembered the Christmas's Potter had spent at Hogwarts, shunned.

"Yes. I see. Yes. I will make arrangements so that he doesn't need to learn that he wasn't invited to Spain. Can you communicate that to the Burbage's before he arrives home this afternoon? I don't want him thinking he's not wanted."

Candace smiled at him. "I'd be delighted to do that. I'm sure he'll have a better Wizarding Christmas anyway."

He wasn't sure how, but Snape would see to it.

Meanwhile, as Snape and Candace were talking, Potter said to Servius: "So. You'll be learning how to make magic potions with your Dad. Are you looking forward to that?"

"No."

Potter laughed. "Nobody warned me. I must admit, I hated your Dad's classes."

"Can't you make magic potions?"

"Actually, turns out I could. Not at first though. Your Dad was very strict."

"I think he's horrible."

"Oh, hey," said Potter, with a gentle frown. "You hardly know him. He's actually…well your Dad's a…"

"He made soap come out of my mouth."

Potter burst out laughing again, and nodded. "Your Dad's different. He's…I think he misses your Mum. I'm guessing that when you get to know each other, you'll be best mates. No one can teach hexes better than him."

Snape walked Servius back to the train station. The proper screening sheet for the cage had been put over Tāne, and instead of trailing behind him, Servius kept pace with his father. This, of course, necessitated a short trot every fifth step or so.

On the way, Snape taught him the sneezing hex. He chose it because it was simple, might be possible for Servius to inflict without needing his wand, and would not be so unusual in the Muggle world that anyone would suspect anything. Plus, it was actually a good self-defence hex: it was very difficult to carry on doing anything while overcome with sneezing.

"You say: Steleus," instructed Snape as they walked. "It's called an incantation, then you use your wand – and that's what makes the hex happen. You can practice it at Hogwarts when you get there."

Servius had been listening closely. "Steleus!" he announced determinedly, and whether he intended it or not, Snape wasn't sure, but a person walking behind them sneezed.

Snape, astonished, first checked the person behind them – a man in a business suit who looked confused – and then at Servius. The expression on the boy's face made Snape's heart skip a beat: a smile from ear to ear that virtually dazzled – a smile that lived in Snape's heart, one he'd never been able to resist – and the eye not concealed behind a flop of black hair was sparkling.

"Steleus!" said Servius again, and two teenage girls, coming towards them arm in arm, both sneezed identically. They looked suspiciously at Servius, seeming to make a perplexed connection, but Servius kept his head down and kept walking.

"Servius, that's enough," said Snape quietly, flabbergasted, but a chuckle rumbled up from somewhere deep, and his hand found its way to the top of his son's head and he ruffled the hair.

The remainder of the walk to the station was in silence, unless the odd objecting hoot could be counted. On the platform for the train to Trowbridge, Snape and Servius stood awkwardly, conscious that a brick had been knocked off the wall between them and unsure as to what action should be taken. At length, Snape cleared his throat and said, "There will be holidays for Christmas. I have said to Ms Peacock that you will be spending them with me."

"What? No way! I'm going home for Christmas."

"I can assure you that you will have never had a Christmas of the like at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade."

"Christmas at school?" Servius looked appalled. "Uh-uh, I'm going home."

"It has already been decided. I am your father and I have sent directives about where you'll be for the holidays."

"Well you can un-direct them because I'm telling Ma and Pa I don't want to spend Christmas with you at the dumb-arse school." Daggers filled the air between them. "You don't need to wait with me, I know which train to catch." Servius turned, showing his back to Snape, lifting the sheet to check on his owl.

The brick had been restored, the wall was intact and Snape hardened. He imagined a scene – Servius stumbling across his grandparents packing for Spain, explaining to him that he wasn't invited. His half-sister was, his grandparents were – but not him. The son of a strange man they didn't know, the black sheep. "We'll be Christmasing together, and that's final," growled Snape. "And I am staying here until you get on the train."

On Thursday, a late summer storm closed its iron-grey, cold cloak around the Scottish Highlands. Swept in on the tail of the languid, lazy heat, it punished the gasping moors with hail and flash-flooding, flushing feral sheep from their hiding spots and herds of deer, the males with velvet straggling on their new-season antlers, hurried into the protection of forests and copses.

Inside Hogwarts, the top storey and the turret rooves were no match for the pounding rain, and water gushed over gutters, leaked through gaps and holes in the tiles, and soaked through unpointed mortar between the stone so that whole interior walls seemed almost wet to the touch.

McGonagall, Snape, Filch, Hagrid and three builders were rushing from room to room on the seventh floor, at the top of the towers and other spaces closest to the rooves and captured leaks as best they could with magicked funnels and stoppers, placed old-fashioned buckets beneath drips and rescued valuables from water-damage.

The activity was positive in one respect, in that some items long since believed lost were rediscovered, including an ancient grandfather clock that told time in years as well as hours, two forgotten tapestries, one portraying giants helping Merlin build Stonehenge, and a walnut case holding twenty-two unidentified wizards hats. One was believed to have been owned by Salazar Slytherin.

As Snape was in the middle of rolling up valuable Persian rugs in Room No. 3 of the seventh floor, Diaphne burst through the heavy oakwood door – it having taken almost her entire weight to force open – and stood in the entrance, soaked, dripping, her skirts spattered with mud, her damp hair lank and bedraggled, her chest heaving with the effort of having run seven flights of stairs.

"Professor," she breathed, and her eyes were somewhere between repudiation and relief. "We are meant to be…"

There was a builder in the room with Snape. At the sight of a damp, heaving, flushed Diaphne, her wet clothing clinging to every curve, her skin pink with exertion, he stood upright and stared openly, his tongue all but lolling.

Seeing this, Snape also got to his feet and frowned darkly at him. "You! Carry on here! You're not being paid to stand and gape!"

The builder gave him a peevish look but returned to his task, while Snape went to Diaphne's side.

"The Wicce!" Diaphne entreated in muted tones, before he'd even stopped walking. "We are supposed to see her today."

"Now?"

"When, then? She's expecting you!"

Snape glanced back at the builder, kicking the rug, and he sighed. "You're right. Let me tell the Headmistress. This rain…," he waved his hand generally then left the room, Diaphne following at a distance.

To the rumble of distant thunder, Snape used his wand to create a Custodio shield from the rain as he and Diaphne slipped and slid down the path, past a drooping, dripping Whomping Willow, to the Winged Boar gates from which they side-along Disapparated to the Wicce's infirmary.

The infirmary was located on an island in the Hebrides, west of The Minch, on a stubborn, swollen outcrop of stone; a single, moribund molar in a jawbone of rock, barely resisting the lure of the sea. It bore an old lighthouse, long since abandoned, plain in comparison to its contemporaries along the turbulent coastline, but who didn't benefit from an upward promontory, affording it eminence and stature in the eyes of old ship Commanders, wrestling the gales with nought but rudder and sail. It had been painted white, but the paint was chipped and flaked and all but lost to the grey stone beneath, and the glass of the lantern room was broken and missing in parts.

The keeper's quarters that were adjoined to the lighthouse were equally modest and unremarkable, except that they had been converted, under a Muggle repelling charm, into a healing centre and infirmary. It was run by the Wicce, and she had a small staff of witches who healed and rehabilitated lost, broken and destitute types who, for whatever reason, didn't make it through the department store doors of St Mungos. Sometimes it was because the patient didn't want to go to St Mungos – this was often the result of having dabbled, unsuccessfully or incautiously or – indeed, illegally - in the Dark Arts. Sometimes it was because St Mungos was impractical – getting a patient from the Scottish Highlands to London, even if apparition was possible, could be an unwelcome risk. Sometimes the patient was stumbled upon by one of the witches – such was the case of Severus Snape, and, currently, two Muggle fishermen, presumed drowned, who'd been dragged out of the Atlantic onto the witch's broom and bedded, cosseted and rejuvenated by two adoring young Healers, to each of whom the fishermen had proposed several times, having become resistant to the idea of making their miraculous lives and whereabouts known back in Muggledom.

Snape and Diaphne Apparated outside the entrance to the infirmary and were almost blown off their feet clear of the rock, into the deafening roar of the frothing sea. The storm was wilful this far off the coast, unrestrained and defiant, and tantrumed all around the island with nothing to throw about but the salty foam from wild waves.

The door of the infirmary was wrenched open and Diaphne and Snape bundled inside, slamming it shut behind them. The wind howled mournfully at the confiscation.

Standing there to meet them was the Wicce. Imperious and matronly, she stood straight and tall, enrobed in damask of bronze and claret, with a silk scarf around her hair and had her arms crossed as if they were teenage lovers late coming home. "Diaphne. Professor. You are lucky to have made it here."

They were soaked, windswept, their voices had been robbed of them by the gale. Overcome, Snape simply nodded. The Wicce took out her Mandrake wand and waved it across them, and they were immediately dry and revived.

Snape remembered the infirmary well, having spent eighteen months in the care of Diaphne and the Wicce, exclusively for the first three months, then at intervals thereafter, taking increasingly longer trips away from the rock as if he were a recuperated creature being returned to the wild. He kept coming back, even after released, because of the calming, steadying, undemanding ambience of the infirmary – the trauma took much longer to heal than his wounds – and also, if he were honest, because of Diaphne's welcoming, uncomplicated arms, the warmth of her bed, the sensation of being wanted without question when she took him under the covers.

They made use of him. Snape's vast knowledge of potions, healing herbs and the experience he'd gained helping in the Hospital Wing was quickly tapped by the Wicce, and before long the pair worked companionably in running the infirmary. He felt it repaid the debt, somewhat, for their having saved his life.

But Snape – he is a complex man, even if he needed respite for while – and he soon became restless for diversions and challenges. Like an untamed bird, he began to morph into his blackwinged, soaring adaptation and took to the Hebridean skies, circling once above the lighthouse rock, then disappearing into the clouds bound for destinations only he knew of. And one day, he never returned.

The Wicce, however, seemed unsurprised to see him today. She was a formidable sorceress and Snape had a respect for her ability only succeeded by Dumbledore. Much of his decision to roam Europe in search of Dark Arts had been excited by his learning from her, and he understood completely why Tom Riddle had been drawn to her.

She led the pair from the entrance parlour, along the centre aisle of the infirmary – clean and bright, even in the lamplight which was necessary on such a gloomy day – past several patients in various stages of recovery in their beds, and through into the adjacent workrooms. These were for the purposes of cleaning, cooking and storage. Beside these rooms was a wooden staircase, and at the foot of it, just before ascending, it was possible to discern moaning, wailing and erratic yelling, emanating from hidden-away places, perhaps from the unlit rooms at the end of austere corridors, Snape never found out. They were the ones driven mad, or born mad, or made insane by dark magic and who couldn't be repaired, completing their existence as permanent residents in the care of the Wicce. Snape despaired at the sound of them, half morbidly curious, but mostly afraid, scared to witness a fate he felt he so, so easily could have met.

Having climbed the stairs they finally reached their objective – a room along an upper corridor, to which she opened the door and admitted them, following herself and shutting the door firmly behind.

This was the Wicce's office and consultation room, although it was far from typical. The Wicce did not subscribe to modern, scientific medicine or treatments. In fact, she was even a bit suspicious of what they did in St Mungos. Her rooms revealed a study and dedication to pagan and ritualistic healing, ancient healing magic deeply rooted in nature and otherworldly origins.

From the image of the storm raging outside her one small window, Snape's eyes scanned the room, re-living his times in here. The shelves of bottles, flagons, copper boxes, pots and tins, the sheaves of herbs, the dangling ropes of garlic, hops and seaweed, the array of various animal parts, indescribable mummified objects and a full human skeleton suspended on a stand. The ceiling displayed a map of the constellations, and only a square of empty space remained on her wooden desk, every other inch bearing books, jars, candelabra's, inkpots, scrolls and goblets. At the foot of her desk was a metal bucket containing a dark swill of foul-smelling liquid, a stirrer sticking out of it. Snape was careful to keep a distance from it.

The Wicce was lighting stubs of candles. She flicked her eyes to him once and said, "Diaphne tells me, Professor, that you have been suffering migraines. They are not, of course, migraines. It is brain injury. Sit."

Snape took a seat in one of the leather padded chairs in the room, Diaphne took another.

"They've been getting worse, Wicce," said Snape. "They occur predictably when I use my memory – specifically when I try to remember or have memories of my time with Charity. Diaphne told me that there was a ritual in which my memories have been erased. Was it Memoriam Delens?"

"It was. So you told him, Diaphne?"

The Wicce had come to Snape's side, and with a discreet twist of her wand, the chair he was in tilted back. She reached above her and cranked down a Gaslamp that was affixed to an extendable arm and turned up the light inside it.

"Aunt, I felt under the circumstances -,"

"Were it anyone else, I would have been furious," responded the Wicce, her expression seeming to be on the verge of it anyway, "but given it is the Professor – there is not much left for him to learn about us, and I trust, Professor, in the last years you've been away that our secret has been safe?"

"I haven't breathed a word."

"You accepted the terms of the ritual, Professor. You were aware at the time of the risks. You wanted to proceed anyway." The Wicce was laying her hands on his forehead, top and back of his skull, temples. She had the firm, practised hands of someone who had performed similar movements a thousand times, her fingertips able to read things invisible to her eyes.

"I have read that the risks…the side effects…can be fatal?"

"In rare cases. Rare cases." She placed over her right eye some kind of optical instrument and brought Snape round to face her. "I need to look into your pupils, Professor, I need to see through to the cerebellum."

He sat still while she examined both eyes. She smelt faintly herbal, earthy.

"It was a while ago now…ten years or so? But I do remember the ritual becoming difficult because you were resistant. Your Occlumency was too sophisticated. And I was forced out of a Legilimens; I don't like it when that happens. Did you feel much troubled in the days following the ritual?"

"Yes. It was very painful. But it passed and then I felt relatively normal for years."

"Voldemort was in your head a lot. He's not gentle. Did you have headaches when he performed Legilimens?"

"Yes. Often."

The Wicce breathed heavily out of her nostrils and pulled off her optical device. "There is damage, Professor. Nerve cells destroyed, neurotransmitters can't perform properly. I can see a type of scarring which might be causing some bleeding I'm not sure. It is as if when you use the part of your brain for storing memories you are tearing brain cells, and undoing damaged tissue. My fingers picked up damage around here -," She reached around and touched the back of his skull, close to where it connected to his spine. "I can't give you a prognosis, but it is unlikely it will heal itself."

"Is there a cure?" Diaphne asked urgently, her anxiety clear in her voice.

"I have heard that having access to the removed memories stops the memory function trying to search for it, stops the constant flexing. It doesn't heal it, but it helps manage the symptoms."

"Diaphne's potion helps a great deal."

"It addresses the pain. A premium inhibitor."

"Where are my memories, Wicce?" asked Snape softly, looking into her dark, inscrutable eyes. "Charity is…dead. I have a son. I can't teach with these migraines. I need to restore the memories."

The Wicce made a surprised grunt and Diaphne exclaimed: "You have a son?"

"She was pregnant when we performed the ritual," said the Wicce. "I remember. And now she is dead. I am very sorry for you, Professor. And so, the unborn child was yours all along?"

"That means your son would be eleven?" said Diaphne. "You didn't remember she was pregnant?"

"The memories will help me understand what went on. People tell me things, I have bits, items…my son doesn't know why I wasn't there for him."

The Wicce raised the back of his chair again and cranked away the gaslight. Then she went to behind the desk and sat down in her own seat, one that had been wrapped with reindeer skin, and picked up a quill from an inkpot. She began to write. "I don't know where the memories are, Professor. There were instructions you wrote for yourself to secure them away. I always recommend that the patient store the memories rather than destroy them, which is often the request in a fit of pique."

"They were put in a Witch's Bottle," Diaphne said, although he already knew this. "The bottle is sealed with wax, the memories can't escape. Wherever you put the bottle, the memories are in it."

"I've looked for them," he said, defeatedly. "I can't find them. There was the battle. Could they have been destroyed somewhere in the castle?"

The Wicce and Diaphne both looked at him silently, Diaphne's face one of anguish on his behalf.

The Wicce moved her mouth a bit, in what Snape ultimately decided was meant to be a smile. She had never been the affectionate type. "Professor, under normal circumstances, I would obliviate you after our consultation today. But…despite my better judgement…I trust you. Plus, I think your brain needs to avoid any further interposition. Here: this is the recipe for the pain inhibitor potion. Good luck finding your memories."

Snape stood and took the piece of parchment. "Thank you. But, Diaphne is at Hogwarts and has free access to the brewing room. She has been making the potion perfectly."

"No. Diaphne won't be returning. She is needed here." The Wicce put her quill into its cap stand in a final gesture.

Diaphne jumped to her feet. "What? No, I work at Hogwarts now."

"I need you here, Diaphne. Your mother approves. Imogen can't leave now."

"No! I want to live in Hogsmeade! I have a proper job!"

"I gave you an apprenticeship, Diaphne. Now is the time to put it to work." The Wicce's voice was rising slightly. Like all learned, wise people, it took a while to bring to the boil. "Why do you not think this is a proper job?"

"You can't force me!" yelled Diaphne, and Snape realised he'd never seen her looking like this, he'd never seen her angry before. Flags of colour rose to her cheeks, her eyes were intense. It seemed, in retrospect, that a predilection for anger would have been there all along – nobody with her passion existed only on a benign plane.

"I do not wish to force you," replied the Wicce. "But your parents expect you here. They need assurance."

Diaphne was opening her mouth again and, judging by her expression, about to babble something foolhardy, so Snape raised his finger to his lips and hushed her. "Wicce," he said, in his most composed and authoritarian voice. "It has been agreed by the Headmistress and myself that Diaphne shows the aptitude and talent to become a qualified Healer. She is to be offered a place in the senior year at Hogwarts and acquire her NEWTs, enough to take her Oath if she wishes. Hogwarts will subsidise her attendance if she continues, at the same time, to work in the Hospital Wing. This is a rare opportunity. I can hardly believe you, or her parents, would deny her this chance."

The Wicce, who had been listening to Snape stonily, switched her eyes to Diaphne. "You wish to qualify as a Healer?"

Diaphne's eyes had widened and the anger had evaporated. "Yes, Aunt. It would be a dream come true. Madam Pomfrey has been discussing it with me." She turned her gaze on Snape, her gratitude glowing.

The Wicce tutted and turned away. It was enough for Diaphne to cross the short distance of floor and throw her arms around Snape's neck, and then she kissed him directly on the mouth. For a second, he was frozen, but then, remembering the feel of her lips, he instinctively responded and his whole being suddenly flared with desire.

She kissed him only a second too long. But then she was gone. She slipped free.

The Wicce had seen and tutted again. "She was always dizzy about you, Professor. From the first."

He looked at Diaphne. There was nothing else in the world he would have looked at just then; if she'd been a thousand miles away he would have looked for her. His body wanted to see the object of its desire, the thing that had just electrocuted it.

She smiled at him, but it appeared ingenuous, delighted, as if the kiss had been wholly spontaneous and innocent.

As though through a tunnel he heard the Wicce speaking. "I will talk to your parents, Diaphne. Return for now, look after the Professor. I will see which others in the Coven may want an apprenticeship."

Snape thanked the Wicce while Diaphne hugged her aunt and then he followed Diaphne out of the office and back along the length of the infirmary to the entrance. The storm had lost some of its vigour, but it still poured outside, lightning still flashed on a green-tinted horizon.

Diaphne took his hand and pulled him out into the rain. He gazed at her, in some kind of heated trance. "Ready?" she asked, acting quite ordinarily, and he nodded. Together, they Disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts.

The rain pounded down on them as they stood there. It was slightly chilled, but steady, a simple act of precipitation and gravity now. Snape looked at Diaphne and, again, she smiled at him, her eyes bright, her hair soaked and flattened. "I'm heading home," she said, glancing towards Hogsmeade. "I'm not walking in this though!" She then laughed, and waved her wand, indicating her intent to Disapparate.

Snape could not help himself, his instincts had taken the helm. He grabbed her at the waist and pulled her up to him, then found her lips and kissed her hard. After a moment he heard her groan, then her arms folded around his neck and she was kissing him back. He felt her fingers entwine in the hair at his nape, pulling him towards her. It was sweet, so warm and soft and sweet and control was being lost from his head to a tingling, pervasive heat down below.

She broke away and held his face in her hands while she kissed him on his rough, unshaven jaw, smooth cheek, lips again. "Do you want to come to my place?" she uttered.

"Oh yes," he mumbled in reply, the words not being issued from any place where approval was normally sought.

And so she Disapparated him back to hers, for hours, while the rain fell.