December 9th

Hermione put the pile of papers - which had grown by the size of one book and been unceremoniously thrust back into her hands - down on the corner of the lab table. The door closed behind her and she listened as Snape's footsteps faded hollowly away and were gone. She gave them a good minute to stay gone before she allowed herself to sink onto one of the lab stool and bury her head in her hands, sighing heavily. A good night's sleep in the Gryffindor guest rooms had not managed to fully compensate for the fact that the night before that one had been absurdly disturbed; for it was absurd to be so restless when one was returning to a place that held so many good memories and old friends. Her mind was not quite prepared to accept that those memories might contain a sub-category of unfinished business.

Ten years had passed, she was back at school, back in the potions classroom in a sort of figurative way and the potions master was clearly determined that he would be no easier to deal with than he had ever been. Rather than rekindling their friendship, she seemed within forty-eight hours to have moved from a civil, if reserved, correspondence, through one nervous coffee and a somewhat tetchy supper, to the re-emergence of the full student-teacher relationship complete with all the "Miss Granger"s and "Professor Snape"s you could want.

By tomorrow night he'll be taking house points from me again, she thought, the wry humour a weak attempt to distract herself from wondering precisely why his abrupt descent into old formalities was bothering her so.

Another tried and tested route of escape from introspection was work; Hermione took a deep breath and looked around. Clean parchment, fresh quills and ink were laid out neatly on the table exactly where she was expecting them to be. Exactly where I'd would have put them myself, she told herself firmly. Now provided with quill and paper there was no excuse for not making a start.

Carefully, she began to plot out grids; one for hair care and a larger one for skin care. Four columns gave the hair/skin types, rather more rows gave the types of product. That made a basic total of forty preparations to devise in under a fortnight. She sighed again, this time at the thought of the sheer intensity of the work, even aided - or not, as the case might be - by Snape. Ever methodical, she took a third sheet and headed it Optional Extras. Under this went the things that Snape had told Parvati that she couldn't have and then, as an afterthought, added Bath Products and underlined it twice. They might never make their way into the Ms Magic Magazine signature range, but she was willing to bet that any kind of relaxing bath oil would be a necessity for her very soon.

She returned her attention to drawing up some kind of basic plan of attack. It was likely, she thought, that although there were a lot of individual items, they would all share a common base. She shook her head in irritation; this ought to be something that she should recall. But try as she might she could not summon to mind a picture of the potions classroom complete with cauldrons of cold cream and pitcher of jojoba oil - at least not one with any basis in recalled reality. She took a fourth sheet of paper and wrote Basic Ingredients in large script. So, what were the bases they would need to make? Decoctions and tinctures should be no problem; there was always water to hand and ethyl alcohol was a common potions ingredient. Similarly with witch hazel, beeswax and kaolin. However, when it came to cocoa butter, wheatgerm oil and almond oil she paused. In general terms Snape was never usually concerned about his salves being moisturising and conditioning - only effective. In fact, she would not have been surprised if he used anti-comforting ingredients sometimes, just to make a point. None of which ruled out the possibility that in some dark and dusty recess of the potion stores, there might be some odds and ends, testament to that moment, ten years ago, when Severus Snape created something that was "of no earthly use to any creature, living or dead".

Long forgotten habit had taken her halfway to the stores, wand out ready to cast the wards that would allow her access, when she stopped dead, unsure whether to laugh or cry. For an instant - or more properly another instant - she had been back in the time when this had been her home and her right to come and go as she pleased had not been questioned, least of all by her. She felt dislocated, as she had when she entered Snape's rooms for the first time since leaving school. By all rights there should have been a change, something should have been different, unfamiliar. To come back to something left, to know instinctively when things were in their place, to be at home in a place that was not, was an eerie and not entirely comfortable feeling.

And yet it could have been last month, or last week or yesterday that she was here. The same leather chairs, cluttered table, overflowing bookcases; the same copper and bronze tones, incongruous in their warmth. Maybe there were some more odd pieces of bric-a-brac, certainly there would be more books, but she had had to physically fight the urge to take the coffee and the book and curl up in a chair in front of the stove with her notes on the floor in front of her. And maybe that was what he was trying to avoid. Perhaps that was why he had so pointedly told her to work in the lab, detached and objective. She was disturbed by the sudden tightening of her throat, and turned sharply on her heel. Wards were something to ask Snape about later. In the meantime she had a deadline to meet.

XXXXXXXXXX

She was gratified to find that old habits did not fail her, and once engaged on a task her mind obediently shoved all other unwanted noise conveniently off her conscious radar. By the time that the bell rang signalling the end of morning classes, she had managed to sketch out a rough plan of a basic hair care range, with some alternatives and variations. Not only that, she feeling decidedly peckish.

Lunch at the top table was always slightly less relaxed than dinner; friendly chat was punctuated with shop talk and the silent understanding that there was an afternoon of work ahead. Feeling a little bit of an oddity amongst a staff that was clearly "at work", she was reluctant to disturb an earnest conversation between Minerva McGonagall and Ermengarde Sprout which seemed to be about some new administrative requirement. Moving in the direction of Snape, with a vague idea that she might talk to him about wards and access, she suddenly found herself being gently, but firmly, seated in the empty seat next to the DADA teacher - what was his name? Ferdinand? No, Peregrine, that was it, Peregrine Queroz. Distinguished as the first person to return for a second term in office since - well, probably since records began.

Although, she thought loyally, Remus Lupin would have come back if he'd been allowed to.

Now, she was being graced with a smile and hand that was pouring her a glass of water.

"Unless," he said, with a slight incline of the head, "you would prefer wine,"

She smiled in response.

"Not at lunchtime, thank you. Not if I want to get any work done at all this afternoon."

Another smile.

"Ah, you too. Tempting as it would be to sleep through the afternoon, I suppose I really should prevent my over-enthusiastic pupils from destroying themselves and possibly sections of the castle."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I think you probably should."

He looked mournful.

"You're right. It's not the guilt you understand; I just couldn't handle the paperwork."

That made her laugh out loud. And take a good look at him for the first time. She hadn't really been aware of him the night before. Tired from her broken night and the journey, the excitement of reunion fading, she had only been conscious of him as a graceful presence, bidding her a soft and charming welcome to Hogwarts; something of a contrast to her reception by Snape who, for some reason, had made a point of coming to the station especially to be chilly and ungracious.

He was bigger than Snape, she thought - wider shoulders and fuller of face. Dark hair neatly cut, dark eyes with an amused glint, olive skin and good cheekbones. And more, he didn't seem inclined to indulge in the lunchtime chatter but rather to prefer paying attention to her, never being too intrusive, but always seeming interested in her replies. After an early encounter with Snape followed by a solitary mornings work, an inconsequential but charming conversation was just what she wanted. It also managed to supply a goodly amount of information about Professor Queroz. No, he hadn't been to Hogwarts; a private college in Segovia. No, he wasn't Spanish, but Portuguese, sent to study in Spain by his parents. He had one brother and three sisters, all magical. He couldn't explain how he had managed to survive to return for a second year as the

DADA teacher, he could only put it down to luck and the fact that no one better wanted the job.

Hermione tried not to wince at that; if Snape had still wanted the job it hadn't been a very kind thing to say. Then again, it may be that Queroz didn't know about the traditional wrangling over the job. Or perhaps Snape had given up applying for it. Incipient afternoon classes prevented her from exploring the matter, however, and the thought got lost as the school geared itself up for the rest of the day.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was well after the end of class when Snape finally put in an appearance in the lab and Hermione was engrossed in devising a set of complementary skin care products. It had occurred to her that it would be useful if they were could be made cross-compatible, so that one could, say, take one from the combination range and combine with with another from the dry or normal range. Needless to say that substantially increased the complexity of the task. She was so taken up in her charts that Snape's entrance made her jump.

He glared at her startled yelp, and swept across the room without speaking to her. Her explanation died on her lips and she tried to remember whether this was a day with a particularly awkward combination of classes. She didn't think so, but then his timetable could have changed in ten years. Perhaps he had a headache. She remembered those only too well.

Before she could ask he had picked up some of her papers, scanning her preliminary ideas. His only reaction was a series of grunts, from which she could deduce neither approval nor disgust. It was time, she thought, to assert herself.

"I've made a list of the base preparations that we'll need. We need to check against the supplies and order in the right quantities of what we'll need."

For a moment she thought he hadn't heard her. Then she thought he was ignoring her. But as she was about to repeat herself he spoke.

"Why haven't you already done that? I assumed I wouldn't need to oversee the basic steps."

She gritted her teeth.

"I don't have the passwords to disable the wards to the storeroom. For some reason I thought that that might cause me some difficulty."

He looked at her strangely, as if he was somehow disconcerted by her words. Odd, she thought, it wasn't that sharp.

"You already have them," he said eventually.

She blinked.

"I know what they were ten years ago. You're surely not telling me you haven't changed the wards in ten years?"

He made a movement that could almost have been diffident.

"After the fall of the Dark Lord there was little need to change on a regular basis. I selected a set that were familiar and have retained them."

She simply nodded; she needed some time to process that snippet of information. As if he felt the need to reclaim the initiative, he added:

"Speaking of not changing things, do I deduce from this that you are still using products designed for teenage problem skin?"

That took her breath away momentarily. She had been there barely twenty-four hours and he was already picking at her life. A stray idea from the afternoon presented itself. She smiled sweetly.

"Interesting you should raise that, Professor." She gave his title a slight stress. "I've been thinking that it wouldn't be a great deal of extra work to widen this range to include products for men. More emphasis on herbs and the pharmaceutical properties, but it would be basically the same."

Snape's expression was edging close to outright horror.

"A range for men? Men don't use this sort of thing."

"They're very popular amongst Muggle men," she replied innocently.

"Oh Muggle men", he sneered.

"Oh yes. Some even go to beauty therapists for manicures and facials. And waxing," she added gleefully.

"Miss Granger, nobody will be interested in ... stuff ... for men," he hissed.

"Tell you what," she said brightly, "how about if I write to Parvati and suggest it and we'll let her decide?"

XXXXXXXXXX

The following morning Hermione arrived in Snape's rooms, brandishing a viciously pink sheet of parchment and feeling decidedly, if childishly, victorious.

"She likes the idea," she announced without preamble.

Snape's glare could have boiled water.

"So," she added, "it's a good thing that we've got you to test the line out on."

December 10th

Saturday morning dawned with the clear brilliant light of December, slicing into the room with icy fingers and waking Snape without mercy. He blinked, grimacing, and wondered, not for the first time, why he hadn't chosen to draw the curtains last night.

He swung out of bed, shivering faintly in the chill air of the dungeons and waking fully with the tremor. The view from the windows reminded him of why he didn't draw the curtains as he looked out over a landscape bejewelled by frost, sparkling blue-gold in the dawn.

A thick grey dressing-gown served to take off the chill as Snape padded through into his living room; it was Saturday, no lessons and blessed freedom, but the first order of business would still have to be coffee. He put the coffee pot together quickly, deft hands twisting the water-filled base together with the upper chamber and setting the whole on the stove. He lingered for a moment, warming his hands in the heat radiating from the cast iron, a heat that had yet to defeat the chill of night. Either the house-elves had been slow in restoking the stove that morning, or night had been chillier than expected. No matter, it would warm soon enough and, in the meantime, there was an unexpected pleasure in being wrapped up against the chill that woke him.

It was not until Snape was half-way through the second cup of coffee, settled in a chair by the stove and reading a copy of Ars Alchemica that seemed to have escaped his attention, that the pleasant half-sleepy Saturday morning mood abruptly evaporated.

There was nothing in particular that reminded him but, from one word to the next, between two sips of coffee, dread replaced reverie with a cold greater than anything the night had called up.

Saturday. The staff-old boys Quidditch match. The old boys. Potter.

As if on cue, he heard someone moving about in the laboratory; the walls were too thick to hear through, but a few subtle charms years ago had ensured that he would hear if anyone entered that room whilst he was elsewhere. Hermione had also woken early, it seemed. Miss Granger, he reminded himself. It was safer that way.

So much for peace and solitude. He suppressed an urge to hurl the half-full coffee mug at the wall; it would be a waste of good coffee and, besides, he wasn't entirely certain whether the old wizard down in Somerset who had made the mugs for him was still alive, let alone still working at his surprisingly lucrative Muggle hobby. It would be a shame to lose a good piece of stoneware to a fit of temper over students he didn't even like. Former students. Regardless, they were not worth the mug.

Snape dressed with speed, paying perfunctory attention to the basics - a skincare range for men, he remembered with a snort, splashing water on his face - ridiculous. Buttoned into his Professorial persona, he strode out of his rooms, pausing only to rip the day from Dumbledore's grotesquely cheery Advent calendar. One day less. That was all that could be said about it now.

A couple of long, irritable, strides brought him into the laboratory. The stove here had not yet been lit - the house-elves were not permitted to disturb his working area unless he specifically requested them to do so. Hermione hadn't yet bothered to light it; her breath came in curling translucent clouds, swirling in the dusty sunlight as she bent over the endless pieces of parchment scattered over the table in front of her. A small flame under a nearby cauldron was all the heat in the room.

A flick of a wand and the stove against the wall flared to life; Hermione jumped at the sudden crackling and the crack of expanding metal as a rush of hot air leapt in the chimney.

"Sev - Professor," she said after a moment, staring at him. She visibly gathered herself together. "Good morning," she added, turning back to the parchments.

"Is it?" he muttered under his breath. "You're in here early," he said aloud, moving closer and looking over her shoulder at the scribbling and charts that covered the parchment.

"Umm," she murmured absently. "I needed to check some things over and wanted to get it out of the way. I doubt I'll get much done once the gruesome twosome are here, and with Parvati coming today I wanted to make sure that we were as far ahead as possible."

"Miss Patil is coming today?" asked Snape, recoiling. A pink tinge to his day; all he needed to make it perfect.

"Well, she hasn't said so, but I would be surprised if she didn't." Hermione looked up at him. "She is married to Oliver Wood, after all, and he's certainly going to be here. I assumed she would come with him; it didn't seem an unreasonable assumption."

"No, I suppose not, Miss Granger." Snape frowned as Hermione glared at him. What had he done now? By his standards, that had been a pleasant comment.

"Are you going to help, Professor, or are you simply going to stand there?" came the biting question. Now Snape knew he'd done something, but what ... then memories of chocolate cravings and tears came to him. Perhaps - well, perhaps. He decided that retreat was the wiser option.

"I have duties to see to, Miss Granger. I will, no doubt, see you later." He swept out of the laboratory, removing himself from female hormones; he had had quite enough of those to last a lifetime. He thought he heard Hermione swear as he left but he wasn't certain; given his memories of this particular time of the month, it was entirely plausible.

He prowled the outer reaches of the castle for an hour or so, avoiding the more populated areas, scowling and taking out his bad mood on any hapless students that had the misfortune to be taking shortcuts. No doubt the school legends of the vampiric Potions Master would be augmented but, so long as it eased some of the frustration and irritation, he wasn't remotely concerned. In fact, anything that increased students' dislike and fear of him, and consequently improved their concentration in lessons, could only be for the good.

Eventually even his prowling had to come to end and, as he ran out of obscure corridors, he made his way down towards the castle entrance. Dumbledore would no doubt be looking for him, making sure that he didn't extract himself from the match; worse still, he might send McGonagall or that moron, Queroz, to look for him.

A few staircases - some more co-operative than others - later, Snape had arrived reluctantly in the castle entrance hall. The space was generally busy on a Saturday morning, with the older students coming and going to Hogsmeade and the younger students milling about aimlessly, chattering.

This morning made most Saturday mornings look like an oasis of calm and tranquillity. The chatter assaulted Snape's ears from several staircases above, raising and swooping in a flurry of pitches and volumes, all mingling into an incomprehensible cacophony as Quidditch players and assorted hangers-on all sought to catch up on a decade of news in mere moments. Potter, Weasley, Wood, more Weasleys, and still more inglorious former students, all talking together. He gritted his teeth and strode down.

Snape's arrival in the hall did little to mute the noise; admittedly, the volume fell in his immediate area as he made his way through towards the staffroom corridor on the far side of the hall; he was looking for sanctuary, or as close to it as he could achieve on this day. Behind him followed the usual whispers as former students came to the conclusion that he had not changed. Fools; why should he have changed? It never ceased to amaze him that his students seemed to believe that the fall of Voldemort would have somehow made him into Albus Dumbledore, or something equally unlikely.

It suddenly struck him that Hermione had not, apparently, made that mistake. Perhaps it was their sporadic correspondence over the years or, perhaps, the fact that she knew him rather better than her peers. There was no 'perhaps' about it, he thought whilst he worked his way through the crowd. As he reached the staffroom door, he realised that there was little to be surprised about in the knowledge that Miss Granger had not expected him to have changed.

He had his handle on the door of the room, about to open it, when his luck ran out.

"Professor?"

He had hoped that Hermione was wrong, had hoped neither to see pink nor hear that brittle false brightness.

"Ms Patil," he acknowledged.

"I'd like to see what you've developed so far; you have been working on the line, haven't you?" She had clearly got over any fears or dislike of talking to him, clearly. Ambition - or perhaps it was greed - overcame many things. A pity. The last thing he wanted was to have this conversation, particularly here, where anyone could hear and now - or later - ask Ms Patil exactly what it was that she had been talking to the dread Professor Snape about.

"I suggest you go down to the Potions area, Ms Patil. Miss Granger is still working in there, I believe. She can answer any questions that you have. Good day."

He opened the door and slipped inside before she had a chance to reply. He felt no particular remorse for having sent her down to Hermione; this had all be Hermione's doing, after all, he felt. It would also give her a useful target to snipe at if she was in the temper that he recalled accompanied the chocolate craving and tears.

December 11th

Hermione put down a glass flask on the workbench with rather more vigour than she had intended. A weekend that had promised to be rather pleasant, all told, was turning into one long source of annoyance.

It had begun the previous day with the early morning encounter with Snape. It wasn't that he had done anything intrinsically out of character. Far from it. He had swept in, peered at her work with the air of someone confronting something both unstable and highly explosive, loomed a little and then rapidly excused himself when challenged to provide some constructive contribution to the exercise.

Absolutely no surprises there.

Except that he was the one who was so damned precious about the sanctity of his processes; you would think that he would take a little more interest in them. She wondered wearily why she had ever agreed to come here. Most of all she wondered what mental aberration had ever possessed her to think that Snape had an accessible or even helpful side to him.

A case in point was the proprietorial visit from Parvati Patil. Hermione had absolutely no doubt at all that Snape had diverted her down to the dungeons to avoid the necessity of dealing with her himself. Her ex-schoolmate - school-friend was fast becoming a massive overstatement - had arrived just as Hermione was finishing up for the day and looking forward to an afternoon catching up with her friends in The Three Broomsticks. Parvati had required detailed explanations and samples of the main proposed lines, together with an outline of the suggested male range, and refused to be deflected by the thought that Hermione might have wanted to spend her free time elsewhere.

"Oh you know the boys," she had said airily. "They'll just be spending the afternoon talking about tactics and game play and stuff. Much better that we leave them to it and get on with this."

Only the dinner bell halted the relentless questioning. Arriving in the Great Hall, Parvati fluttered over to Oliver Wood - "Ollie, darling..." - leaving Hermione nursing a sick headache and feeling only slightly less drained than she had after the Ministry debriefings following the fall of Voldemort.

Snape had already been seated at the High Table. She pointedly ignored him and sat next to Peregrine Queroz, who, within minutes of her settling down, had commented that she was looking tired, she was obviously working too hard, she needed to take a break and she absolutely had to promise him that she would be at the Quidditch match the following day. If Snape was scowling at that, she made certain not to notice it.

So there she was on a crisp Sunday afternoon in December, wrapped up warmly and waiting for the match to begin. By common consent all the visitors were seated in the staff stands. It wasn't that they couldn't have all sat with their old houses, but the ten years between 18 and 28 were particularly long ones, especially for a generation that had fought a war in the meantime. She had only just arrived; the morning had been spent alternately working and fuming about the fact that "duties" had apparently once more prevented Snape from providing any useful input. His absence had meant, yet again, that she had been unable to do more than exchange brief hugs and hellos with Harry and Ron.

Of course, long experience told her that it was pointless to expect sensible conversation from any of her friends on the morning of a Quidditch match. That, however, was not going to stop her from blaming Snape for the situation.

As luck - or otherwise - would have it, the first person that she saw when she got to the top of the stands was the Potions Master himself, sitting in the row behind Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. He was noticeable firstly for the fact that he was one of the few members of staff not actually playing and, secondly, for the fact that the only free space on the benches was immediately next to him. In fact, it appeared that the rest of the spectators were uncomfortably bunched up in an effort not to be within his personal ambit.

Sighing, she made her way forward. Glancing around she spotted the familiar red heads of Fred and George Weasley. Fred rolled his eyes in the direction of Snape and George made cheerful throat-cutting movements. Smiling back, she squeezed past another seated figure, dressed in a black cloak, but readily identifiable by the cerise fur collar trim and matching hat. One delicate hot pink clad hand was laid on her arm as she passed.

"Hermione, darling, how's the work going?" Are you sure you can spare the time to be here? came the clear subtext.

Her smile became forced.

"It's going fine, thank you." No thanks to you, she mentally directed at the back of Snape's head.

By the time she had settled herself next to him her acknowledgement was curt in the extreme.

She set her gaze forward, determined to enjoy the match, and ignore Snape as far as possible. She felt a movement beside her, almost as if Snape were extending himself to speak to her, but if he had had anything to say, it was drowned out by the roar as the "Old Boys" team flew out of the dressing rooms.

The line up was, in some ways surprising. There had obviously been a concerted effort to be as even handed between the houses as possible. Oliver Wood and Ginny and Ron Weasley represented Gryffindor. She saw Cho Chang and Roger Davies from Ravenclaw and Jonas Summerby and Zacharias Smith from Hufflepuff. There were no Slytherins. Slytherin House had suffered the heaviest of the losses during the war; many of its better players were dead or, like Draco Malfoy, simply missing.

She wondered, briefly, how Snape felt about that. Beside her she felt another movement and then heard him mutter under his breath.

"A team of seekers. How inspired."

So we can rule out a sentimental outpouring of regret then.

It was true, though, that many of the players would not be retaking their old school positions. Ginny was Seeker and Oliver Keeper. Zacharias Smith remained a Chaser, but he was joined by Cho and Summerby. Ron had moved from Keeper to play Beater together with Roger Davis.

She was fighting an odd melancholy at the sight of her old schoolmates back out on the Quidditch pitch, when a second roar announced the staff side. The identities of the players had been kept a secret, and had, naturally, led to prolonged and, occasionally lurid, speculation. She was, in some ways, surprised that Snape wasn't playing; she knew that he was competent on a broom and was well versed in the rules. Perhaps his involvement stemmed more from house rivalry than from genuine interest. Or perhaps it was something to do with the lack of Slytherins on the opposing team.

The staff team were now doing a circuit of the ground. Hyacinth Hooch, to no one's surprise was leading the team and playing Beater. Hermione thought that she paused fractionally in front of the staff box, and wondered - smothering her first laugh of the day - whether Hooch was still trying to flirt with Snape; she fought the desire to look at Snape to gauge his reaction. Next to Hooch flew the other beater, Professor Vector, followed by the three Chasers, Professors Sinistra and Queroz and, much to Hermione's astonishment, Madam Pince, the librarian. Professor Sprout took up the position as Keeper and above them all zipped tiny Professor Flitwick, the staff seeker. As he passed the staff stands Peregrine Queroz caught her eye, and she could have sworn that he gave her a swift wink.

The noise dimmed a little and the voice of the commentator boomed out.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," - it was Lee Jordan, Hermione suddenly realised - "please put your hands together for our very special celebrity referee" - there was snort from her right at this - "Mr ... Harry ... Potter!"

The stands erupted as Harry flew out into the arena. He did, Hermione thought, have the grace to look somewhat embarrassed at both the introduction and the crowd reaction. If Snape made any further comment it was lost in the noise.

Harry flew to the centre of the ground, Quaffle in his hand. He spoke a few words to Madam Hooch and Oliver Wood, then he threw the Quaffle into the air and blew his whistle.

The game was, she reflected, almost as interesting for the personalities as for the play. She was used to the effect that the game had on the likes of Ron and Ginny, but it was bringing out a competitive edge in the staff that she hadn't seen before even allowing for her unusually close knowledge.

Madam Pince, for example, had an intent, almost predatory look on her face as she skilfully maneuvered her broom, catching the Quaffle and passing it forwards to Sinstra or Queroz, evading the best effort of Cho or Jonas or Zacharias to stop her. Flitwick was moving nearly as fast as the Snitch itself and Hooch was playing Beater so hard that Hermione was beginning to suspect her of Slytherin tendencies. There was clearly no quarter asked or given.

But the star of the match, from Hermione's point of view, was Peregrine Queroz. Her eyes followed him around the field as he ducked and dived and passed, magnificent in his Quidditch robes, the hinted athleticism obvious now. A quick scan across the stands showed that she wasn't the only female admiring the scenery; many of the girls across the houses were watching him intently. For a moment, she forgot Parvati Patil, and the bad-tempered man by her side, and just enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching someone doing something really well. It didn't hurt that that someone was rather attractive and extremely charming either.

She found herself applauding wildly as Queroz scored for the fourth time, bringing the score to 80-40 to the staff.

Harry was now beginning to look as hot as the players as he followed the actions, calling foul on Hooch and Vector on more than one occasion. Above him, Ginny was clearly having her work cut out marking Professor Flitwick, who had the advantage of size and was using it for all it was worth. However, it was Ginny who saw the Snitch first, and simply went for it in her fastest flat out dive. Flitwick spotted it a fraction of a second later, but that fraction of a second was all that Ginny needed. That, and a shameless sideswipe to her old Charms professor, gave her the time she needed to wrap her hand around it, clinching the game for the "Old Boys" 190 to 80.

Deafening noise filled the ground once again, for although the students enjoyed a fierce game of Quidditch, what they really liked was to see their teachers lose.

In front of Hermione, Albus Dumbledore stood up. Immediately, the noise dropped. Hermione couldn't see whether it was due to a charm or pure force of presence. One enhanced by the other, she suspected. A wand touched to the headmaster's throat made his voice audible to everyone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, that was one of the finest matches this school has seen. There is only one thing that can follow such an event." He paused theatrically. "High tea in the Great Hall."

This time the cheer was accompanied by the sound of stampeding feet climbing over benches and thundering down the stairs back towards the school buildings.

Hermione had no very great desire to get caught in the crush - it wasn't as if there was any risk that the food would run out, after all - so she decided to wait until the worst of the rush was over. Dumbledore and McGonagall passed her - probably in order to impose some sort of control on the hordes, she thought - and the box went quiet. Had she given the matter any thought she would have assumed that Snape had also left, so she was startled when he stood up next to her.

"Professor," she said, to cover her surprise, "I thought you would have been down in the Great Hall by now."

"Really," he said shortly. "Given that I cannot apparate on school grounds and that you are in my way, I am at a loss as to how I could have managed that."

His tone rekindled her annoyance, not that it had ever really been extinguished.

"You could have climbed over the seats," she suggested tartly.

"I do not clamber over furniture like some kind of primate, Miss Granger," he returned.

That was all it took. She turned to face him, hands on her hips.

"How long is this going to go on?" she enquired.

"How long is what going to go on?"

"This." She gestured widely. "Let's see. Four days ago I was "Hermione". Now it's "Miss Granger" and "Professor Snape" like I was one of your pupils." She watched him blink at her tone. She carried on, driven by frustration and confusion. "And you were the one making such a fuss about your processes and what have you. When are you going to come and do something to actually help out rather than swan in and out and make sarcastic remarks? We have a tight deadline, if you recall, and the whole purpose of me being here is to make it easier for us," she stressed the word, "to meet it."

His face went rigid.

"The school term is not yet over. I have a house full of pupils for whom I am responsible. I have classes to teach and homework to mark. I have detentions to supervise, and other general school duties. Forgive me for failing to be at your beck and call in between times."

She took a deep breath and gritted her teeth. From somewhere in the recesses of her memory she recalled his habit of attacking, to distract her into temper and away from the point she was trying to make. Not this time, Severus, she thought

"OK, I see that you're busy. But that doesn't explain why you don't want to use my name." She tried a smile. It felt forced. "And it feels a little awkward to be calling you Professor Snape again after all these years."

She could detect no flicker of a response.

"I'm expected in the Great Hall." He brushed past her. "If you will excuse me."

She watched his retreating back, suppressing the desire to scream. He hadn't called her anything that time. She wondered whether that was better or worse.