Relations between Snape and I continued on the way they had begun: sarcastically and rudely. I swear that man brought out the very worst in me. Which is only fair because it was clear my very existence on Earth was an offense to him.

In my own defense, I had attempted to call a truce the morning after his arrival. I had just come downstairs after my morning physical therapy exercises, looking for a bit of breakfast before I took my morning walk. Snape was in the kitchen, cooking God alone only knows what—it smelled so bad I tried not to look.

"I'm really sorry about hogging the bathroom yesterday after you got here."

"There is no reason for us to speak to each other," he informed me coldly. "If you're not here to clean or cook, I have no use for you."

Well, alrighty, then.

I crossed to the cabinet, grabbed out a box of cereal, hoping to douse it with milk and get the hell out of there before I succumbed to the temptation to empty my last remaining milk on his head.

"Will you be pounding on my ceiling every morning, or was today a special treat? A welcome of sorts?"

Apparently the ban on speaking was only to apply to me, so I shrugged, put my finger to my lips and whispered, "No talking. Remember?"

His eyes narrowed with irritation, but he continued anyway, "I thought you were herding pigs up there, but I guess there's just the one of you."

Ooh, direct hit. That stung. Which was kind of stupid, considering how much weight I'd lost after the accident, but no woman likes to be called a pig, even by an ignorant goat-screwing fuckwit.

Even so, we might have actually recovered from the morning's insult-fest if I hadn't said that last bit out loud.

Fortunately, Snape wasn't around a lot that first week or two. Especially since our next few exchanges didn't improve much. Other than in refining our ability to sling insults, that is. I occasionally got the feeling we got away with so much because neither of us was entirely sure what the other was really saying, although by context and tone alone, it wasn't good.

When he wasn't around, I felt bad for my part in it. But that usually lasted only as long as his first sneer. And once or twice, not even that long. I'd asked Molly about him just after he got there, but she was carefully diplomatic and just gave me his work history, that he was Potions Master at Hogwarts. And then she explained what that meant.

Which is really the only excuse I have for one evening blurting out, "Jesus Christ, you're a fucking Potions Master! Shouldn't you be able to cook?" when his dinner was particularly noxious smelling.

It was one of the rare occasions when I fired the first salvo and his eyes widened briefly before he settled in for an evening's battle.

"Since you declared your uselessness on that score the first night, I have little choice."

"It's not rocket science, y'know."

"Which no doubt explains how house elves--or youself--can manage it."

House elf, my ass. I did know what that was! (I'd asked Molly after hearing the expression while Arthur and Remus were visiting.)

"So basically, you're saying you're dumber than a house elf?"

He glared even more, then evened out his expression and slung, "I simply haven't had the time for such trivialities. I have work."

Low blow. And he knew it. Dammit, how he knew it was beyond me because it wasn't like we'd had any long conversations about how I hated not being able to work, but he knew it.

Left with no more ammunition to fire than, "Oh, yeah?!?" I turned my back on him. From the fridge, I removed the thawed chicken breast I was planning for dinner. Usually I would filet the breast, but tonight I took out my annoyance at Snape on the breast with a tenderizer. I stopped long before that did the trick, but I did want something left to eat.

He watched me as I worked, which was unusual. Most nights he couldn't escape my company fast enough. Not that it bothered me. Well not much anyway, since most nights I couldn't escape his company fast enough. When I removed the breast from the skillet and deglazed the pan, he actually stood and crossed so he could watch me.

"Why did you do that?"

"What? Pour the broth in?"

He nodded.

"I'm making a pan sauce. The broth helps remove the bits that stuck to the pan when I cooked the chicken and that will flavor the sauce." I reached for the bottle of cooking wine and was surprised again when he handed it to me. "Thanks."

There was dead silence in the kitchen while we both stared carefully at the pan. When the sauce had reduced enough, I turned off the burner, added a bit of butter, stirred, tasted it, added some seasoning and then pulled veggies out of the fridge for my salad. While my back was turned, Snape had left the room.

Shit. Did we just have an actual conversation? I checked my forehead for fever. I felt fine, so it must be Snape who was sick.