Chapter 1

Six months earlier

Professors Burbage and McGonagall hunched over pages of parchment and piles of Muggle history texts and works of literature. They had been discussing the Muggle Studies curriculum for the coming school year, and as had become their habit, had become distracted by stories of Charity's many months masquerading as a Muggle while in hiding from Lord Voldemort.

"He actually told them that you were a witch?" McGonagall gasped.

"Yes!" Charity shrieked. "You should've seen the frightened looks on the student's faces. I thought their teacher was going to march down the hall and throttle Bernie."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I promised that I wasn't going to eat them and then we continued on with the tour of the museum."

McGonagall chuckled, and then her smile faded. "Yes, well, those children—and Bernie—have no idea how lucky they were that you were the witch they came across and not Bellatrix Lestrange."

Charity shuddered. "Yes. Thank goodness she and Voldemort have all been taken care of once and for all."

"True, true, however, just because the immediate danger is gone, we must never become complacent. Constant vigilance," Minerva McGonagall warned.

Charity nodded in agreement and they returned to the business of Muggle Studies. Charity enjoyed this new camaraderie with the acting Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The two women had always been on good terms, but their relationship had been more like that of a parent and a child; now it felt more like they were friends.

A soft knock sounded at the door. "Come in," McGonagall called out.

A *snap* sounded in the middle of the office and a small, grey-skinned creature wearing a burlap sack suddenly appeared in the middle of the table, standing on one of the stacks of papers.

"Penelope!" McGonagall scolded. "I thought you'd been practicing your room entry."

"Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor. Penelope must practice more, Professor," the small creature squeaked. Penelope was a young house elf in training. The senior house elf staff had been granted a two week holiday after all their hard work on the Hogwarts refurbishment, and the junior elves took over their duties in the meantime.

"Mister Oliver Wood is here to see Professor," Penelope said, looking down at her bare, knobby feet.

"Wood? Hm, I suppose Puddlemere's sent him here to find out which of Hogwarts' Quidditch players will be worth scouting this year. Tell him to take it up with Madam Hooch," McGonagall instructed.

Penelope beat her fist into her chest to scold herself. "Burbage. Professor Burbage. Mister Oliver Wood is here to see Professor Burbage."

McGonagall's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Oh," Charity exclaimed. She and Oliver had been communicating fairly regularly by owl post since running into each other at Snape's funeral three weeks prior, but she hadn't been expecting an in-person visit. "Penelope, will you please tell Mister Wood to wait—"

"No, that's fine," McGonagall said with a wave of her hand. "I think we've covered enough today. Do be sure to tell Mister Wood I said congratulations on being named team captain."

"Was he?" Charity said more to herself than to McGonagall as she gathered up her things. He hadn't mentioned it in any of his letters. She hoisted her pile of papers and followed Penelope to the entrance hall where the tall, broad-shouldered Oliver Wood waited. Even aside from his bulk, there was something commanding and intense about his presence, and Charity thought that Puddlemere had made an excellent choice.

"Why, hello, Captain Ollie,"Charity teased. "And what brings you to visit us lowly common folk?"

Oliver rolled his eyes and turned slightly pink. "So you've heard."

"Of course I've heard. It's not every day a Hogwarts graduate gets named team captain of a professional Quidditch team!"

"Only temporary captain, just until Fitzwilliam recovers from his injury." He shrugged modestly, and Charity couldn't help but remember the way his chest had puffed out so proudly at the mere mention of Puddlemere a few years ago when he'd only been on the reserve team. It looked to her like young Oliver Wood had done some growing up. But this thought was not an entirely happy one to Charity; everyone had been forced to grow up at an accelerated pace during the war.

"Either way, congratulations," she told him.

"Thank you, and in answer to your other question, I'm here to drop these off for your father." His grin widened as he handed her a set of tickets for Puddlemere's next home game.

"Box seats, includes a pass for the after-feast with the team. Figured your dad would get a kick out of that. There's an extra ticket in there…one for you if you'd like it."

"Thanks, Ollie. That's very sweet of you. I'll have to see what my schedule's like when the game comes around. It's rather harried around here. But you could've just sent these by owl, or had them delivered to my father's offices. There was no need to come all the way out here."

"I was in the area. And the team will be heading out on the road for a few weeks, so to be honest, I…I wanted to see you before I go." He locked an intense gaze on Charity that made her slightly uncomfortable.

But she adored Oliver, and so she brushed the awkwardness she felt aside with a joke. "You're not afraid I'm going to disappear into nowhere again, are you?"

Wood smiled, but nevertheless asked, "You won't, will you?"

"Ollie…" Charity chided. "Well, since you're here, let's get you some tea."

A loud *snap* cracked through the entrance hall as Penelope presumably went to the kitchens to prepare tea.

"Penelope!" Charity called, and the young elf reappeared. "I'll prepare the tea. You'll be busy enough practicing some other things, won't you? And I need some practice myself. Don't want to get rusty on my Muggle skills, now, do I?"

Professor Burbage took Wood by the arm and led him to the kitchen, where a battalion of junior elves seemed not at all surprised to see her; she'd become something of a fixture in places where other professors rarely set foot. She went to her personal cabinet filled with Muggle ingredients and pulled out tea bags and wafer cookies. She pointed her wand at on one of the faux oven burners and set a tea kettle full of water on it to heat while she arranged the wafers on a plate.

Oliver pulled up a stool to the counter and sat down while he watched her work. "So, you won't be serving chocolate today?"

Charity's eyes flew up to him and she blushed. He'd sent her three small boxes of chocolates when he'd been playing Quidditch in the French countryside the week before. "I would gladly serve your delicious chocolates…if there were any left."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, "Did you share with the other staff, then?"

Charity's blush deepened.

"You ate them all yourself?" Oliver blurted.

Charity nodded and then immediately launched into a flurried defense. "They were amazingly good, Ollie. So smooth and rich—I've never had anything like it. And…and, well, my appetite has been a bit dodgy lately and for the last week the only thing that's really seemed appetizing to me were those chocolates, and so…I ate them. All of them."

"Carb loading, eh?" Oliver chuckled. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't laugh. I'm just surprised that someone as little as you could consume such a massive amount of calories in such a short amount of t-ti—er, change tactics, Wood—look, I'm glad you tried them all, because I want to ask you a question."

"What's that?"

"Which were your favorite?" He leaned forward on both elbows and peered expectantly at her.

Charity leaned back from the counter and narrowed her eyes. "Why does this question sound far more important than it ought to?"

Oliver gave her a sly smile. "The woman who owns the chocolate shop says you can tell a lot about a person by the chocolates they prefer."

"Really? Tell me more," Charity coaxed, and young Wood, never one to play it close to the vest, spilled it all.

"If white chocolate is your favorite, it means you're very sweet. If you prefer dark chocolate, it means there's more to you than meets the eye, and if you prefer chocolate with nuts, well then, you're nuts."

Charity laughed and said, "I liked them all equally."

A huge grin burst across Oliver's face. "That's exactly what she said you'd say."

The tea pot screamed its whistle and Charity bustled over to take it from the heat. Then she poured it into the tea pot on her tray, which Oliver lifted and carried to a table in the empty Great Hall. As they sipped their tea he surveyed the place and sighed.

"Memories?" Charity asked.

"Yep. Lots of good ones. Lots of stupid ones too. Ah, it's so true that youth is wasted on the young."

Charity snorted and almost spit tea all over herself. "Oliver Wood, exactly how old are you now—eighty?"

"Twenty-two," he answered.

"Still a puppy."

"Oh yes, and you're so ancient. You're only five years older than me."

Charity nodded and the corners of her mouth turned down. "True. Sometimes I forget that. I feel so much older…with everything that's happened. Feels like I've already lived a lifetime." And there it was—the ache for Snape. She'd gone almost two whole hours without it twisting her insides; that had to be a record.

Oliver reached across the table and laid his hand on hers. "It's over now. We made it. Everything will be good again; you'll see."

Charity could only nod as tears filled her eyes. Everything would be good; life would go on, but it would all be without Snape. He'd been ripped away from her too soon, taken before their story was complete, and now she felt lost most of the time. She went through the motions just fine, but that was all they were. Motions. There was little feeling or purpose behind them. She only wanted to get through each day so she could go to bed and dream of Snape.

The worst part was, she had no one to talk to about the entirety of her grief. She still worried about sullying Snape's reputation if word got out about the nature of their relationship. After his death, he'd finally found acceptance and honor in the wizarding community, and Charity would not be the one to take that away from him.

"Thanks, Ollie." Charity wiped her tears. "And thank you for coming to visit with me. Despite this," she said, waving her wet napkin, "this has been one of the more pleasant afternoons I've had in a while."

"I'm glad of that." Oliver said and stroked his calloused thumb over her the back of her hand. "You know that I'll be there for you whenever you need me. Just send me an owl…and I'll send you some chocolate straightaway."

Charity's face brightened. "Oliver Wood, you are an absolute gem."

They finished their tea and returned the tray and dishes to the kitchen. By then it was time for Oliver to leave if he was going to make it back in time for the extra evening practice he'd scheduled. "The team could use some work on its night play," he explained. So Charity walked with him to the entrance hall and they'd said their goodbyes-but only after Oliver extracted a promise from Charity that she'd try to join her father at the next home game.

As Charity made her way back to her room, she passed Filch perched precariously atop a tall ladder. He held a broom, extended all the way up, and a rancid smell filled the air, making Charity feel slightly queasy.

"Mr Filch, what are you doing?"

"Stinking them out," Filch snapped back.

"Found more skitchers?" Charity asked. After the goblins had completed their guild work and exited the castle, it was discovered that the wooden trimmings around Hogwarts were infested with wood skitchers, tiny little creatures that burrowed holes into woodwork and often annoyed the residents with their high-pitched humming.

"Course I found more skitchers. Where there's one, there's thousands. Goblins did this on purpose," he spat.

He stretched his skinny arm as far as it would go, and the ladder shifted. Charity rushed over to hold it steady.

Filch was a Squib. That meant he was born into a magical family but had no magical ability. He was essentially like a Muggle, but was different because he grew up around wizards and witches and knew all about magic. Charity wasn't sure about Filch, but she knew that most Squibs were able to detect magic and see magical beings that Muggles couldn't. So Squibs were essentially misfits no matter which world, magical or non, they tried to assimilate into. It irritated Charity to no end how snobbish the magical community could be when it came to Squibs. So even though Filch was a nasty old grump, Charity tried to be kind to him.

"Why don't we trade places, Mister Filch? I can see you've been at this for a while and you must be tired. My arms are still fresh."

He glared down at her, but then lowered the broom and rubbed his shoulder. "Guess it couldn't hurt to rest my arm a bit. But make sure to douse 'em good. I don't want all my hard work wasted because some pretty little witch doesn't know what she's doing."

While he struggled his way down the ladder with the broom, Charity surreptitiously slid her wand out and up her sleeve. She'd douse them alright—with magic, but Filch didn't need to know that. She didn't see any harm in letting him think that it was his solution of…whatever that stuff was that did the job.

She made her way awkwardly up the rungs, carrying the useless broom that Filch had passed off to her. As she ascended, she began to wonder if perhaps getting in such close proximity to the stench wasn't such a good idea. The higher she went, the more lightheaded she felt. After taking a shallow breath through her mouth to settle her stomach, she positioned her hand just so on the inside of the broom's handle. She aimed the contraption at the ceiling molding and thrust forward with a quiet murmur. "Flipendo."

A high-pitched screeching raced along the ceiling, and then about fifteen feet down the hallway, small, spider-sized critters fell to the ground and lay limp.

"Hoo-hoo!" Filch cheered. "Nothing like turpentine and fermented algae to do the trick. Who needs magic?" he practically sang to himself as he hobbled down the hall and swept the deceased critters into his dust pan.

"You may want to drop them into your bucket of, er, solution, just to be sure," Charity said. She'd only knocked them down, and although the fall to the stone floor likely killed them, she couldn't be sure.

Filch frowned. "Of course I'm gonna drop them in the bucket. Do you think I'm new at this?"

Charity continued knocking skitchers down to the floor. She and Filch eventually moved the ladder further down the hall, and Charity climbed up to the top again with no complaints from Filch. The up and down movement along with the prolonged stench made Charity more lightheaded than ever, but the job was just about finished, so she didn't want to give up.

"It's been a long time since we've worked together like this, hasn't it?" Charity commented. "Before the Triwizard tournament; do you remember?"

Filch merely grunted in response, so Charity returned to working silently, with her thoughts going back all the way to when she first became a professor at Hogwarts almost four years earlier. As the junior member of the staff, she'd been assigned to work with Filch to clean up the halls. She'd hardly known Snape then. Her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember what it was like to not be in love with him. She couldn't.

She could remember what it was like not being with him. And she could remember not knowing that a man called Severus Snape even existed. But she couldn't remember what it felt like to not love him. As she reflected further, she realized that she didn't want to remember that. And she wondered which would be worse—loving Snape but not having him here in this world, or having him here and not loving him. Both were wretched. She wanted to love him, and she wanted him here. Now.

She banished more skitchers to her left and then turned to get the other side, but she must have turned too quickly, because the nausea and dizziness she'd been fighting off overtook her. She gripped onto the ladder to steady herself and wait for her equilibrium to return, but her vision remained blurred with dark dots popping along the periphery and closing in until all she saw was black. She heard the broom she'd been holding clatter to the ground and Mr. Filch shout. The last sensation she felt was her fingers slipping from the top rung.

.

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Author's Notes

In order to be able to keep up with a regular update schedule (every 2-3 weeks), the chapters in this story are likely to be a bit shorter than the chapters in its predecessor. I hope you don't mind. And if anyone paid attention to the shenanigans I pulled on my "Survivor: Vampire Island" story and is afraid I'll go months between updates, fear not. For I have entered into a trade agreement with my good friend, Metropolis Kid whereby I agree to update one chapter of this story for every chapter he updates of his sequel to "Such a Quiet Thing to Fall," his wonderful Star Wars/Hellsing story. His new story is called "Knowing Normal's Hard to Fake" and is off to a fantastic start. If you like Star Wars at all, you should definitely check both of those stories out.

Something I could use help on in this story is with Britishisms. I adore them and would like to pepper them throughout the story, but not being British, I'm afraid it will sound false if I try to hard. So if you are British and if as you read along you seen any good opportunities to work in a British phrase, please do let me know!

Thanks for reading and thanks for reviewing!

-LiLa