Disclaimer: the same, as per usual. Bugger.

A/N: I should say now that I've written enough angst in my time, and you might have noticed that this story thus far has a lighter tone to it than others I've done. That's very intentional, so do not go A over T if you notice a fair whack of humour and/or Ginny's pregnant hormones taking stage in this chapter. There will be a bit of angst given the pairing we're dealing with, but nothing too heavy. Perhaps that might make these two lean towards OOC, but perhaps not. My personal view is that the idea that the characters will stay the same after a major war is bollocks, so let's have a bit of humour, shall we?

Also, I have a new laptop hence the few days between chapters. It's a gorgeous thing, but bloody tiny and much more techy than this old girl is used to. 'Scuse any mistakes - the screen is 11 inches, need I say more? *squints*

ananxiousreader - hello lovely! Possibly 10 chapters? I'd love to be able to reply properly - have you got a username thingy so I can message you? In fact, I wish everyone had usernames because I really wanted to write to you Angelus and make a Slytherin-esque innuendo about salivating. Cough.

From the spike in reviews for the last chapter, dare I say that you are all quite ready for some proper interaction between these two? Hmm. Well, I was going to have a bit of correspondence but Severus has a mind of his own ;-) You'll notice a lack of place names, now, as I trust that you all remember where they are after a few chapters of reminders heh heh.

Chapter 3: Restart

Mean old levee, taught me to weep and moan

It's got what it takes to make a mountain man leave his home

Led Zeppelin

.

"Dear Professor; thank you for taking the time to write to me. As it happens, I do have something to say-"

"Oh, yes," Hermione nodded eagerly. "That's good, Ginny - a bit too direct for me, though, but we can work on it. What else?"

Ginny's innocent smile should have been more than enough of a warning, but the older witch's head was bent over the parchment as she tried to formulate a reply and thus missed it completely. The Weasley took a deep breath in and continued, barely able to keep the sly tone from her voice.

"I do have something to say – there is something that I require your assistance on. It is a personal matter, and one that I would greatly appreciate some advice about. If you have the time, perhaps we could meet and discuss it? This coming Saturday would be fine for me, 7 o'clock, the location being between my thighs-"

Hermione mouthed the words as she wrote them down, then squawked indignantly. "Ginny!" A quick glance to James in his highchair painting his face with avocado showed the boy was none the wiser, and she turned back to her friend, her cheeks a furious shade of red. "I'm not bloody well writing that!"

"You should," said Ginny, utterly unrepentant. "He's the only man that could ever match your intellect and interests, and besides, you need a good shag. You really, really do."

"And you say this with the physical evidence of your own far more satisfactory love life quite literally sitting here in my face."

Unperturbed, Ginny rubbed a laughingly smug hand over her belly and shot her son, now managing to eat a few mouthfuls, a fond smile.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione tossed the pen aside for the moment and tossed the still waiting black owl an apologetic grimace. It was no use – no matter what she wrote, nothing seemed to quite convey what she actually wanted. Which wasn't helped by the fact that she wasn't particularly sure what she wanted in the first place. Closure, for one, of course, but surely she could put on a brave face and have a chat to one of the Healers at St. Mungos instead of chasing down one of the most difficult men she'd ever encountered in her life.

Hermione also wanted to simply see the aforementioned difficult man, which was possibly (probably) something that was never going to occur. If Severus Snape had not set foot anywhere near Hogwarts for the last five years, then there was no likelihood of him just 'popping by' for a visit. And would he even want to see her? She had no excuse bar the nightmares that filled her mind every night, and she wasn't about to detail those on parchment when she hadn't seen him in years.

The nightmares themselves were not even particularly bothersome to her – yes, she woke from them regularly, but they were so engrained into her life that it had become somewhat acceptable to dream of the dying man. That being said, if anyone could rid her of them, the man himself could.

There was also the sense that Professor Snape would not wish to receive demands from her – no, if anything, he would toss any letter that contained the word 'want' into the fire. At least, that was what she would do in his situation. To be honest, Hermione could remember at least three letters that had been immediately incinerated while she was living in Australia; one from Ron, the two others being invitations to Ministry events. Her opinion on the Ministry hadn't changed, at least - they were more than welcome to simply sod off. Ron, on the other hand... she sighed and turned her mind back to the Professor.

Voicing her thoughts aloud, Hermione tapped her index finger on her thighs as she mulled it over.

"I mean really," she said slowly, "I found him, tried to heal him myself, botched it up, took him back to Poppy, then didn't let him go until he was stable! He probably thinks of me as the same basket case that I was then."

Ginny shook her head and pushed a fresh cup of tea towards her waiting hands. "Rubbish. You are unequivocally wrong about that, Hermione. We both know that he stayed with you when you lost consciousness – he did not leave your side, not even when Madame Pomfrey threatened to glue his bollocks to the chair. Do you really think that he thinks that way about you? I don't even think he's said or written one word to anyone in England except for McGonagall, Pomfrey and now… you."

Hermione snorted into her cup of tea, glad for the large rimmed cup that hid most of her blush. She did remember the episode with the glue; at the time, she'd been so mortified at Professor Snape seeing her in such a state for so long that she'd barely been able to look at him after she woke up. Even six years later, it still brought a flush of shame hurtling through her to imagine the man, barely recovering from his own life threatening injuries, sitting at her bedside. It had taken four days for her to wake after spending the best part of eight days before that cemented to his body. She had clung to his hand like it was her life support – when Poppy asked every few hours why, she couldn't even answer.

Now, Hermione understood that it was pure shock after seeing him in such a state, but there was no reasonable explanation she could give as to why the Professor, who had done so much for them but also to them, was the one that she found herself unable to leave. It could've been Ron (perhaps it should've been), or anyone, really. But after everything, all of the years he'd spent fighting, it was to end for him like that? On the floor of a dirty old shack? There was no fucking way she wouldn't have gone back for him. It could have been that her emotions were all over the place, and they were… she had her suspicions that his injury was simply the last straw.

"Do you know how long I stayed on his bed for?" she asked Ginny quietly, not wanting to go any further but not knowing how else to say just how torn up she was about the whole thing. Ginny shook her head.

"Over a week," Hermione admitted with a wince. "In the end, Poppy enlarged it and began to treat me, and Minerva had to resort to telling me that she'd owl Rita Skeeter and tell her that I was looking to hook my talons into yet another victim. That was the only thing that got me to stop holding his hand. Do you really think that any man would want to see a woman that crazy?"

"None of us were in our right minds," Ginny reminded her sternly. She was silent for a long moment and Hermione squeezed her hand as she watched her friend's face fall into a pensive expression, signifying that she was thinking over how she'd slept with her mother every night for weeks after Fred's funeral. Shaking her head minutely, the redhead shrugged. "Harry barely said a word for months, remember? It took Auror training to really get his head back on his shoulders. Even now, he's asking for another child and then another and another, so James has a tribe around him and doesn't ever have to be alone. And Ron still immerses himself in work or women or both. I don't even know the last time I've seen him completely sober outside of work hours, Hermione. No one, and I mean no one, thinks anything at all of what happened with you both after you found him."

Hermione only realised she'd begun to cry when Ginny silently handed her a tissue, and she rubbed her face to clear her cheeks. Every word was true – there was no one who had been left unaffected. Short of returning to Australia, where even there the community had had losses, there was no denying that in England she would be faced with daily reminders of the war. Glancing down at her scarred arm, the word 'mudblood' still clear, she nodded in agreement.

"You're right, of course. I know you are. You know…" she broke off and swallowed, "I'm still having the same dreams."

"The same? The same dreams?" Ginny frowned, raking a hand through her straight hair. "The same ones you mentioned four years ago?"

Hermione nodded again, avoiding Ginny's persistent gaze. "The same ones."

"Then that settles it, doesn't it?"

"Settles what?"

"Grab your pen – don't give me that look, I know you prefer them over quills. Grab the pen."

It was with relief that Hermione smiled and gathered her writing utensils again, listening to Ginny's suggestions and rewording them in her mind. And when she looked at the neat words on the parchment, her resolve strengthened and she folded it up, handed the owl another treat and carefully attached the letter to its leg.

~0~

Severus was prepared to throw the note in the fire; his wand had coaxed the flames to roar even as Moonshadow sailed in smoothly through the open window. At least he'd intentionally forgotten to include any details of the black owl in his missive to her - Miss Granger never need know that his bird was named after a Cat Stevens song, after all.

He stared at the writing for a long time, not even reading it, just familiarising himself with the curve of her 'a's and the old fashioned way she wrote the 'p' in Snape. An image popped into his mind of the young, bushy haired first year, obsessively labelling each of her workbooks in her archaic cursive and judging by the letter in his hands, she'd kept up the style of writing long after her school years. Suppressing a chuckle, he left the short letter on the kitchen bench, went to make a coffee then sat back down by the fire.

Was there a reason why he had written to Granger, of all people? He didn't owe her a life debt, though he had expected to. In fact, for the first time in his life, Severus did not owe anyone anything. Perhaps it was that, he mused... He had no obligation to write to her, there was no one breathing down his neck to force him to make contact. He had made the decision on his own time, purely to establish some form of connection with the witch that had saved his life and almost lost hers in the process. And it may surprise her if she was ever made aware of it somehow, but for all his faults, he liked to think that he was a man of honour. Corresponding with her, if she wished it (which apparently she did, judging by the speed of her reply), was a drop in the ocean compared to things he had been forced to do in his life. He could allow himself this.

It was pleasant to have the distraction of thinking about someone other than himself. His years of looking inward had been needed, almost desperately so, but it was calming to ponder why she was still called Granger and not Weasley or Longbottom, or some other name that he would have to probably conjure up out of a pensieve, going by how little he knew (or cared to remember) about the current magical standing of her year mates. That being said, when he began to wonder why she wasn't even a Krum, he bent his head with renewed determination to focus on the actual letter.

"Professor Snape," the letter began, forcing another rueful chuckle out of his mouth almost immediately. He'd have to correct that. With a smirk, he conjured a red pen and made a neat slash through his title, unable to stop a snort when he pictured her inevitable indignation. She would get the message - he had not been a Professor for six years.

"Thank you for writing to me - and pass on my thanks to your beautiful owl. What an impression he made! I can't remember the last time I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of a black owl."

'Gods, she hasn't changed a bit!' he thought with an amused shake of his head. He made a mental note to procure some more treats for Moonshadow on his next trip into Dublin.

"I'll cut to the chase, Professor. I do not wish to disturb you, nor do I want to pester you - if you read this letter and throw it in the fire, I'll understand."

Impertinent little chit!

"I would like to know if you are well, after all of these years. I find myself wondering from time to time how you are, perhaps more often than I should.

Regards,

Hermione Granger."

'More often than I should.'

"What the fuck does that mean? More often than she should..."

Severus downed his coffee, disregarding the burn to his tongue from drinking the still too hot liquid too quickly, and stalked out the front door. A quick fumbling in his pocket produced a cigarette and a Muggle lighter, and it was only when he was halfway through it did he begin to process his thoughts. Not that he had many thoughts, bar the one that was running through his head like the Hogwarts Express. That after six years, the woman (girl? Young woman? What was she now, anyway?) that had lived in his dreams was now about to haunt his waking hours, too.

Would he ever be granted reprieve? Was it not enough that he had left everything and everyone, giving himself the peace he desired but also making their decisions for them - that he would go, and they would not have to decide what to think about him? Oh, he had been to the ridiculous balls and occasions during the first few months after the end of the War, but as soon as Minerva had reluctantly agreed, he'd up and left for Ireland. Fuck the balls, fuck the occasions and fuck the whole sodding War. He did not wish to be a hero - not when he couldn't even sleep at night.

He took another long drag of the cigarette, staring out at the sea and waiting for the waves to take his thoughts away.

They did not.

Forcing out a sigh, he vanished the cigarette stub with a wave of his hand and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans before heading back inside, resigned to being honourable for one last time. He had backed himself into a corner, but there was certainly something to be said for it being a corner of his own making.

In the end it took him six days to make the decision. He took up smoking again, then gave it up twenty four hours later, and took to walking around Galway City in the last hours before dawn. He took Conan's daughter Maebh to a pub she wanted to try out in Oranmore, then promptly regretted it when the industrialised side of the town reminded him too much of Cokeworth. It was to her credit that she ended the evening earlier than she normally would, and when she kissed his cheek in farewell he turned his head and felt the softness of her lips on the corner of his mouth; he treasured the smile that followed, but still found himself woolgathering until the early morning hours, mulling over why he still didn't feel a thing. It could still be Lily, of course... the beautiful, red haired phantom of his youth who he had measured all women against until the fall of the Dark Lord. After the victory, reality set in and he was hit with the understanding that it wasn't her, not his Lily; it was him. So he knew that at least it was his own butchered self that was the cause of it all.

Come Thursday evening, he was buggered and fell into bed with not a small amount of relief. The next morning, he spelled the first thing he found lying around, shrunk it, then tied it to Moonshadow's leg. He could only hope that Hermione Granger still had her wits about her, or else his direct method that was always welcome with Minerva and Poppy might just fail spectacularly.

And then he waited, thinking she might take a week or so before finding the time to take him up on his hesitant offer - not that he even knew what he was offering. A cup of tea at least; it was the British thing to do. He was completely unaware that he would be waiting a far shorter time than he expected.

~0~

"I've had enough for now, thank you," Hermione said politely, waving away the bottle of wine. Lavender shrugged and topped up her own glass, while Ginny made a 'tsk'ing sound under her breath.

"Let me live through you, Aunty Hermy," she said with a wicked grin. "It's not Friday afternoon if wine isn't involved!"

"Oh gods," Hermione moaned and let her head fall onto her arms that were folded on the table. "It's only been a week and I'm already buggered. Tell me why I opened the apothecary in the first place?"

"So I could pay my rent?" Lavender offered, drawing a sarcastic snort from Ginny.

"No," the redhead countered, "it's so you can put your brilliant mind to good use for a few good years, fill up some vaults at Gringotts, then retire with gold up to your eyeballs."

"Australia was so much easier," Hermione complained. "I had a flat, I didn't own the shop so at least I didn't have to do any paperwork, and I could research whenever I wanted. Now it's all my bloody responsibility. Although, Lavender, you never mentioned just how good you are at keeping the books. At least there's that taken care of."

Preening, Lavender shrugged her shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance. "What can I say? Working with a friend my own age has reminded me of how skilful I truly am. Gods, did either of you even see my last boss?"

"Master Warnes? Never with my own eyes," Ginny said thoughtfully, then snapped her fingers in the air with a peeling laugh. "Merlin, he was in the papers wasn't he? He's that git that got caught trying to slip a love potion into McGonagall's fire whiskey!"

"No!" Hermione gasped then eagerly refilled her glass with a howling laugh. "Not McGonagall? Gods, she would've smelt it from five feet away! Did she string him up by his bollocks? Isn't he nigh on prehistoric? He must be fifty years her senior, at least."

"Fifty five," Lavender confirmed with a gurgle of laughter. "So, you can imagine that I wasn't working at my best level. It was a relief to have him fire me; I just couldn't do it myself. He was always so sad - even sadder after she transfigured his arse to have the face of a frog!"

"Well, at least I'm a slight improvement," Hermione said with an impish grin. "But really... I'm going to go home and sleep for the entire weekend, and then can we all talk about this on Monday? Ginny, can you come in?"

Ginny had invested a third of the cost of the business, and had elected to stay a silent partner. Not that there was anything silent about the youngest Weasley to begin with, but it was a relief for Hermione to have someone that was involved with her, yet still left her the reins.

"I can, but James'll have to come."

"Oh, bring him!" Lavender clapped her hands. "There's a corner of the shop that will look perfect once we transfigure a few cushions and rugs and toys. He'll love it. Anything too dangerous is kept on the higher shelves, anyway."

"Right, well that's agreed then. I need to work out how to be able to research coupled with dealing with everything in the shop," Hermione explained pensively, tapping her fingers on the wooden table in between mouthfuls of wine. "What we really need is another set of hands - not on the floor, Lavender, don't give me that look - but someone to make the potions so I can divide my time between the Arithmancy side of things and research. It's all right for now, but there's going to be a point where we can't go any further, surely? Not without someone else's help."

"Draco is the only other one apart from you who has done his Mastery in Potions so far. Everyone else is either employed, rich enough to fart around and not work again or just plain unavailable..." Lavender winced. "I don't see him wanting to work with us. He'd be whining about 'sodding Gryffindors' all day."

"Not if he's being paid well," Ginny said shrewdly. "You forget that his family is only just getting by now. He doesn't have the money to be pretentious. And isn't he married now? I think he'd surprise us."

Hermione nodded slowly, then popped a square of chocolate into her mouth. "We don't have to make any decisions for a few months. I can brew and research for now while we're getting started, then we can revisit all of this once it all picks up."

"Good point," Lavender said with a nod, then cast a quick tempus. "So... it's officially six o'clock. Anyone for vodka?"

"I'm the only one in this room apart from you that can say yes," Hermione reminded her, shooting Ginny an apologetic smile, "but say yes I shall! Only one, please. I have to be able to Apparate without splinching myself. Half of my things are still in boxes above the shop and I should get started on pretending to unpack them."

"S'alright," Ginny said, patting her arm. "There are rooms in this house that haven't been opened in years and won't be until I can manage to find a time that I'm not either pregnant or breastfeeding."

"Which won't be happening for at least fifteen years," Lavender crowed, returning with two shot glasses. "Although I do envy you. I'd love a child. And a husband, I guess. But a child first."

"I don't think that that's what you intended to say," Hermione said dryly, cocking an eyebrow. "How much wine have you had?"

"Most of the bottle," Ginny put in with a wink. "Doesn't matter, you're both staying here tonight anyway. You can unpack tomorrow, Hermione. Take some time to relax tonight."

"Oh, I shall," she said vehemently, covering her gag at the harsh taste of the liquor with a cough. "I can almost feel the bath I'm planning on taking. I've got some extra bottles of the calming oil we made yesterday Lavender, one for each of us! As long as James doesn't wake, we can all have pomegranate scented baths for as long as we want tonight."

"Gods," Ginny rubbed the back of her neck and groaned appreciatively. "I can't think of anything better right now! Oh - Hermione, were you expecting anything?"

"Hmm? Erm, no," Hermione answered, turning to see a very familiar looking black owl gently tapping its beak on the sitting room window. Suddenly all of her nerves had returned - she had half hoped that the Professor had decided to just chuck the letter into the fire and forget all about her request, yet here his owl was, eyeing her in a way that seemed remarkably similar to the way Snape's black eyes would narrow in on her in class.

"What do you think he wants?" Lavender whispered as Hermione walked towards the window before pushing it open and frowning in confusion at the small leather pouch tied to the owl's leg. She untied it carefully, then directed its attention to the treats on the windowsill, but this time the owl simply hooted and flew away.

"It seems that he doesn't wish for me to reply," she muttered glumly. "Pity - I was actually looking forward to what he had to say."

She opened the strings on the pouch and sat down at the table again, laughing shyly when the two other women moved their chairs closer.

"I don't believe it! That smug bastard!" she exclaimed between laughs when she unfolded her own letter that had been shrunk and stuffed into the pouch. He hadn't written anything, only striking a harsh red line through 'Professor', as if she was a student again. "At least he has a sense of humour."

"What else is in it?" Ginny peered into the pouch, then held the bottom and shook it over the table, her eyebrows popping up immediately. "A Muggle pen?"

"A pen?" Hermione reached for the object. "Maybe it's a joke? I can't think wh- oh!"

The last thing she thought of before she disappeared in time with a nauseating tug on her navel was that she should have thought to change out of her crumpled purple work robes before touching the unauthorised portkey. And, perhaps, she should have checked what the damn pen really was in the first place.

Regardless, it wasn't long before she found herself standing knee deep in mud in the pouring rain, in the middle of nowhere, slightly tipsy and absolutely freezing with no sign of civilisation no matter which way she looked.

"What the bloody buggering fuck is going on?!"