Past

'Remove your hands from my person,' he snarled reflexively, trying to grasp the thundering train of thoughts that seemed to have utterly vanished. The details that had occupied him mere seconds before – including the brief but unnerving and instantly-fading sight of himself as a ghost in the corner – were suddenly and totally unimportant. There were two far more pressing questions:

Why was Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter and thorn in his academic side for five years, sitting with him practically in her lap? And what in the name of Hell's Seven Circles were they doing in a bed?

The girl's eyes widened in a familiar and bizarrely comforting gesture of alarm. At this closeness he could see that the dull brown colouring he had given his (admittedly vague) mental picture of his student was incorrect. The irises were two-toned, the darker chocolate ring on the outside giving way to a lighter, almost copper-coloured circle around the pupil.

He was staring, the inconsequential detail having fully occupied him. He struggled to pull himself away completely, only to feel searing pain near his abdomen as his body twisted with the violent impulse. His gasp betrayed him, and small hands were on his shoulders, a quiet voice in his ear.

'...broken ribs, sir,' came the soothing cadence, breaking a wave of agony. 'I'm sure you shouldn't make any sharp or abrupt movements.'

An absurd desire to relax into that voice, to let it carry him, tightened every muscle in his lean body and caused a second spasm to tear through his just-mended ribcage.

'Hands. Off.' The menace hissing through gritted teeth was unmistakeable, and he was dimly pleased when the warm palms vanished, leaving two round, cool spots on his shoulders. He felt the mattress sink and rise as weight shifted and heard her feet rustle against the carpet.

'I apologize, sir,' her chilly voice said from over him as he laboured to breathe, still bent double. 'It was not my intention to cause you such discomfort. Professor Dumbledore has asked that you remain here to heal. I will ensure you are not disturbed.'

Footsteps squashed the thick rug, a hand turned the latch, hinges creaked quietly and a quiet thunk marked the closing of the door. Snape collapsed backwards, sweat curling the lank hair sweeping across his forehead.

Sleep claimed his maimed body before he could dwell on the stinging hurt in her last sentence, or the myriad complications of being here under orders.

888

11:08 AM, August 2nd

'Professor-'

'Miss Granger, I have no idea why it is that the Headmaster insisted on quartering me here. Rest assured that I have no desire to endure your "company".'

888

7:23 PM, August 2nd

'If I have to repeat myself, girl, I will hex you the instant I find the strength. Get out.'

'You haven't eaten for two days, sir.'

'A deliberate decision, believe me. Assuming the quality of your cooking matches that of your potions, my stomach would not survive.'

888

4:42 AM, August 3rd

'You've been coughing for an hour, sir. Drink this.'

'I hardly need a child to play nursemaid.'

'Professor Dumbledore disagrees. And you woke me. I would like to sleep peacefully at some time tonight. The Blood-Replenishing Potion is on the side table.'

888

3:28 PM, August 4th

'What is it this time, Granger?'

'Believe it or not, sir, I am responsible for you. You will eat this. I would hate the Headmaster to come back here and discover you died of stubbornness.'

'That would be a blemish on your perfect record, wouldn't it?'

888

6:45PM, August 5th

'I got this for you, Professor.'

'I neither need nor want your pity.'

'It isn't pity, sir. I just thought of it.'

'I suppose the appropriate thing now would be to weep with gratitude?'

'A simple "thank you" would have sufficed. But don't worry. I didn't expect to get one.'

888

10:42 AM, August 7th

'That was a lot of breakfast, sir. Did you get enough?'

'Yes. Where did you find this book you gave me?'

'It was in Flourish and Blotts. I didn't want you to be bored while recovering. Is it good?'

'It's...passable. I – thank you.'

'You're quite welcome.'

888

12:30 PM, August 8th

'Why do you have so much Blood-Replenishing Potion?'

'I was injured in the Department of Mysteries. St. Mungo's wanted to be sure I would recover fully.'

'I...I had no idea your wounds were so extensive.'

'They weren't. Dolohov used a Slicing Hex on my chest. Other than that, I was lucky.'

'I would not call that luck. Why are you wasting your medicine on me?'

'"Waste" is a relative term. I have enough to spare, sir. And healing you could never be counted as squandering it.'

888

8:10AM, August 9th

'This was delivered via owl at six o'clock this morning. What is it, sir?'

'Alchemia.'

'The Potions journal? I thought you had to be on an exclusive list to receive that!'

'One's name is submitted when one achieves one's mastery in the subject, Miss Granger.'

'Oh. Of course. Sorry, that was...Wait – show me the table of contents!'

'I don't see what could possibly-'

'Your name! You're published!'

'Naturally. You didn't think my entire academic existence was limited to dunderheads in dungeons, did you?'

888

9:56 PM, August 10th

'Why counter-clockwise stirs?'

'To ensure that the ingredients merge completely. Mixing in one direction gives a potion layers, almost like the strata in mountain rocks or in the air. Most potions are functional in such forms, but one of the many marks of a master is perfection in the blending. Some draughts, like Wolfsbane, are so sensitive if you fail to stir it in the opposite direction, it is ruined.'

'Why didn't you ever tell us that in class?'

'To become a Potions master is difficult and demanding work. To the unpractised eye, the exact art of Potion-making is identical to following any recipe in the Joy of Cooking. This lack of passion largely produces useful, but uninspired, potions. To cut the wheat from the chaff, to determine those who might have the talent and the inclination to pursue the science as a career, all masters deliberately leave out certain details. True understanding of how various substances react will lead the gifted to the correct conclusion without help.'

'Oh. Professor?'

'Yes?'

'Did you mean what you said about dinner and my potions?'

'Don't you still have Minerva's essay to do?'

888

1:34PM, August 11th

'I really want to know, sir. Am I hopeless in Potions?'

'Do you cause your cauldron to explode an average of six times a year?'

'Well, no-'

'Then you are not hopeless.'

'You know what I mean.'

'You brewed Polyuice in a bathroom at the age of thirteen, Miss Granger. Why do you need me to tell you what you already know?'

'Because you're the only teacher who never has.'

'If I say it, will you drop it?'

'I'll try.'

'You're the best mind I've had in Potions since I started teaching. Stop relying so much on the textbooks to have all the answers and you could be quite the accomplished brewer.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'I'm already sorry I told you. Take that ridiculous grin off your face.'

888

6:29PM, August 11th

'You made it all the way around the room without running out of breath!'

'Do not fuss as if I am a baby learning to walk.'

'I'm glad you're feeling better, sir.'

'So am I. Perhaps now I can persuade the Headmaster to allow me back into my quarters so that the rest of my summer will be spent in peace.'

'You've been reading in bed for the past ten days!'

'And answering the never-ending questions of the nosiest Gryffindor ever to pass through Hogwarts.'

'Sorry, Professor. I had no idea your summer holidays had a word limit.'

'Indeed. One I fear I passed within the first twenty-four hours in this room.'

888

11:17AM, August 13th

'Is there anything your parents need? Potions that I can brew for them?'

'I doubt it. They're quite accepting of my status as a witch, but I don't think they'll ever really feel comfortable with many things about our world. Miracles in a bottle amongst them. Why do you ask?'

'I do not like a debt unpaid, Miss Granger. And while your cleverness and the Headmaster's ingenious wards have kept them unaware of my presence in their house, I am here, nevertheless. Were they to desire anything, I would be bound to supply it.'

'What if I require something?'

'Happily, the duty does not extend to annoying students.'

'I'm hurt, Professor.'

'Most reassuring. You smile too much. I was beginning to fear I'd lost my touch.'

'You have, sir. There's something about seeing you in a white tee-shirt that damages your vampiric image.'

888

10:15AM, August 14th

'Thank you...Miss Granger.'

'Hermione, sir.'

'It is not appropriate to address you so casually.'

'Professor, you have slept in my room and in my bed for the past two weeks. Please...at least when we're not at Hogwarts, let me be something other than your student.'

'What would you rather be?'

'Your protégé. Your friend?'

'That is not possible. It is too dangerous.'

'For whom?'

'For both of us. No matter what we-'

'...'

'...Finish what you were going to say.'

'No.'

'Please.'

'It is irrelevant. Students are not "friends" with their professors. Thank you, Miss Granger, for your discretion and your hospitality. I am indebted to you and yours. If you are ever in need of assistance, allow me to fulfil my debt.'

888

A persistent tapping at the window brought Hermione from a light sleep to full wakefulness. Scrambling from her four-poster bed, she threw open the drapes, wondering who had been sent something at six o'clock on the first morning of school.

The owl winged through the window the instant the witch opened it, hooting at her gracefully as she shivered and hastily locked it again. The second day of September, and already the wind bore the freezing promise of the coming winter.

A heavy parcel was attacked to one leg. She reached for it, frowning as she noted that it had no address. The bird had selected their window, therefore the package must belong to either herself, Lavender or Parvati. 'Is this for Parvati?' she asked the owl, extending her hand towards the curtain-swathed four-poster. Quick as a flash, the bird's beak darted forward and sharply pecked her hand.

'Ow!' she hissed, nearly dropping it. "You don't have to gouge me to get your point across!" The owl blinked its yellow eyes with absolutely no sign of remorse. Carefully, Hermione considered the plain brown wrapping, the rectangular shape and the weight. It was almost certainly a book. Therefore, the logical answer was...

'Is it for me?' she gestured to herself with her now-bleeding hand. Her silent companion cocked its head at her, which she chose to interpret as a positive sign. 'Okay. I'm going to open it,' she warned, fingers inching towards the Spellotape. The bird didn't move as she slit the tape and peeled back the coarse paper.

The gift was a textbook. One of the many she had already purchased – and a battered one at that. Advanced Potion-Making. Curiously, she flipped it open, wondering why anyone would send her such a beat-up old volume. But as the pages fell open, she gasped.

It was covered in tiny, cramped handwriting, abridged instructions and improvements littering the recipe she had selected at random. Hurriedly, she flipped through the rest of the book. Every page had extensive scribbling in the margins – disagreements with the uses of equipment, with instructions, with ingredients. Whoever had doctored this book had poured a great deal more thought into making potions than she ever had. Eagerly, she opened the front cover, hoping to find the name of her unexpected benefactor. She was to be disappointed.

This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince.

888

He did not allow her to see the smile that torqued his mouth as he studied her Draught of Living Death. Both of her textbooks lay open, the crisp pages of the Flourish and Blotts copy lying partially-buried beneath the scrawled-on pages of his old book as she cross-referenced instructions and jotted notes in her own.

Her work, always well beyond that of her peers, now sparkled crystalline and perfect, steam streaming upwards in pale blue from the lavender concoction.

'Well done,' he rumbled appreciatively, pleased to be able to acknowledge her efforts for the first time since he had started teaching. She smiled instinctively at the praise, then noticed his gaze dropping to the scribbles on the tattered and yellowing sheets. With almost guilty haste, she reached to close it, only to have a long finger settle on the page, arresting her movement.

'My desk after class, Miss Granger.' He did not say it angrily, but she swallowed nervously nevertheless as he strode away to make scathing remarks over Ernie MacMillian's cauldron.

'Sir?' she said tentatively, standing in front of him as the rest of her classmates filed out. She used the opportunity to study his face. He had always been sallow, but the first few days at her house this summer, his skin had been positively grey with blood-loss. He seemed at ease now, his faint natural colouring having returned to normal, along with the sinuous gait that had been a limp the last time she saw him.

The black eyes flashed towards the door, saw it close, and focussed on her. 'The book, Miss Granger. Kindly return it to me.'

Her eyes widened with surprise, then she shook her head in mute denial. 'No, sir. I would rather keep it. It's so useful – I think whoever wrote it is a genius.'

His lips curved in a genuine, if small, smile. 'You are a bit premature in jumping to that conclusion, but nevertheless, I thank you.'

It took approximately five seconds for the Knut to drop. Return it...'You?' she asked, a breathless quality of excitement creeping into her voice. 'This was your book?'

'When I was taking precisely the same class you're in now.' He extended a long hand.

'Please, Professor-'

'No, Miss Granger. I had it delivered to you to make a point. Every single one of these potions can – and should – be improved upon. But you should not merely follow the instructions that I have written down, as you should not simply follow those in your book. Invent your own. You have had twenty-four hours to see how it's done.'

Pleading double-toned eyes met his, but Snape merely waited, hand outstretched. With a low sigh, Hermione reached into her bulging schoolbag and withdrew the weather-beaten volume, reluctantly setting it on his palm. 'Thank you. Dismissed.'

As he watched her let herself out, his last class for the day silently taking their seats, the Head of Slytherin tucked his old text under a stack of parchment, wondering at the uncharacteristic impulse that had caused him to send the owl yesterday morning. The instincts he had trusted for his survival for many years were all screaming at him now.

He had worn the iron chains of certain servitude all his life, and the uncertainty she brewed in him had been eating him for the past three weeks.

Fawkes had delivered him directly to his dungeon office from the Granger household in mid-August, and Snape had blown a long sigh of relief as his fingers found the aged wood of his desk, creeping blindly over the quills neatly lined in one corner, the ink bottles stacked in an orderly row exactly as he had left them six weeks ago.

For the first terrible moments after realizing his mistake with Bellatrix and Narcissa, he had been convinced that he would never see this place again. Much as he loathed what he did at Hogwarts, there was no denying that the castle's chilly stone was more his home than the ragged trappings at Spinner's End had ever been.

But his surroundings, after the initial surge of recognition, had seemed colder than previous years. Emptier. A faint regret – one that had grown stronger with the passing weeks – had wafted through him, and he had searched for the cause, stopping short when he realized what he was suddenly missing. The sound of turning pages. The whisper of curtains being drawn aside in the morning as she entered, throwing a warm room open to fresh light and air. The smell of coconut-cream shampoo mixed with the strawberry-scent that had positively soaked the sheets of Hermione Granger's bed.

And her voice. Bright, inquisitive, often sparkling with laughter at some known or disguised amusement.

He had opened the trunk his employer had clearly gathered for him sometime over the past two weeks and lifted the spellbooks out by hand, thrusting them violently at his desk and revelling with each heavy slap! as leather met wood.

For two glorious weeks of summer, he had wakened from the nightmare of his own existence to live someone else's life. He had been simply Severus Snape, enjoying the unexpected gift of intelligence and pristine conversation, the interests of a mind that, while not nearly as disciplined as his, was equally clever. For the first time in nearly twenty years, teacher, spy and soldier had all ceased to exist.

'Your protégé. Your friend?'

He had never before wished for such things. Apprentices would be worse than students – he would be expected to spend even more time with them. And friends...since Lily Evans had walked away from him at the age of sixteen, he had never had a friendship that existed independent of his work for either of his masters. All those he had counted as his mates during childhood would now be hunting for him, and his fellow teachers had always kept him at a respectful distance that suited everyone involved.

But for a few, shining moments, standing in the bedroom of a young woman aged well before her time, that which he had done without his whole adult life had been offered to him. By an infuriating, superior, rash and, above all, Gryffindor, girl. And his tongue had slipped, betraying how ardently he wished to accept.

He could not tell her. Could not allow her to foster any such false hopes. Some dreams could not be forged into reality. He was traitor, a wanted man, and she was already a staunch companion of The Boy Who Lived. He could not endanger her for the weakness of a few selfish moments. The Dark Lord was nothing if not tenacious – and vengeful.

888

The coconut smell warned him who he had given permission to enter his office, and he nearly snapped at her to leave. He had regretted his decision to prompt her two weeks ago with his old book. She now peppered him with questions, verbally and scrawled at the end of her homework. They were intelligent, eager and curious, and he had found himself looking forward to seeing the door open on her class, to saving her essays for last – rewarding himself by relaxing with the research she prompted him to do, though he never replied with complete answers. Mostly, he directed her to the library, turning her questions back on her.

Don't get involved. Don't get attached. Don't let yourself care. The mantra that had built his narrow path for a harrowing two decades haunted him as he felt it slipping away.

And now she stood in front of him, watching him with the serious face that he had truly looked into for the first time on a summer morning at just past midnight. He could feel her assessing him, weighing the teacher before her now against the man that had slept in her childhood home. He sat straighter in his chair, feeling it mould around him, as if the seat he had occupied for so many years could re-cast him in the part he had played.

'Was there something you wanted, Miss Granger, or are you waiting for me to have some kind of divine inspiration?' he asked dispassionately. He could not summon the snide tone that formed his second skin. This girl had seen past it already – it would be an exercise in futility to turn it on her now.

'You invited me to ask you for help if I need it, Professor,' she started hesitantly.

'Such assistance must remain within the limits of reason,' he qualified instantly.

'I believe it does.'

His hand turned gracefully, gesturing for her to continue. 'I wish to take extra lessons with you in Defensive magic. And I want to include Harry and Ron.'

Black eyebrows hit his hairline in unflattering disbelief. 'Limits of reason, Miss Granger. Surely you jest.'

'Do I look like I'm joking?'

The double-shaded gaze he had noticed with disturbing frequency was completely serious. The professor shook his head, wishing he had never made her such a promise. 'I do not think that would be advisable.'

'Why not, sir? Your position as a spy has been completely compromised.' At his faint start, half of her mouth lifted in a smile. 'Professor Dumbledore told me what they found in your house, Professor.'

'He should not have given you that information,' Snape said, his stiffness completely genuine.

'I believe he felt I had earned some measure of confidence,' she replied smoothly. 'And all of this is beside the point. You no longer have to curry favour with Voldemort – but your service with him makes you an invaluable resource when it comes to surviving battles with the Death Eaters. And, as you have spent so many years protecting us already, why not teach us how to do it ourselves? It would save you a great deal of work.'

Imminently Slytherin. He felt a flash of approval and ruthlessly squashed it. 'Indeed. However, the endurance required to put up with Potter and Weasley might test my limits.' Even as the words slipped through his lips, he heard the lightness in his tone and wondered at himself. Yes, there was more about life that was more pleasant now that he no longer feared the burning of his Mark. But not that much.

'They will behave. I will ensure it.' There was steel in that voice, and he was abruptly grateful not to be one of the two boys under discussion.

Voluntarily enduring Potter and Weasley? But the girl had a point. And if she could get Potter to swallow the reflexive hatred that had jumped from one generation to the next, there was much he could teach the boy. 'Then I believe you have crossed the one and only insurmountable barrier.'

This was probably a terrible idea. But the training he could offer them was invaluable. And he suddenly found himself with an unacknowledged, but very personal, stake in her survival. 'If you can guarantee me that Potter and Weasley will take instruction as men, not as tempestuous children, then I will.'

A smile stretched on her lips. 'You'll really teach us?'

'I just said as much. Ten points from Gryffindor for your expression, Miss Granger. I may change my mind.'

888

'Why Snape, Hermione? You know he hates us.'

'Professor Snape. And the feeling is entirely mutual,' he heard her counter dryly. Contrary to his customary policy, the Potions master had permitted himself to be a few minutes late to their scheduled meeting. Old habits died hard, and he was deeply curious about how Potter really felt about being strong-armed into these lessons. It had taken him less than forty-eight hours in her house to learn that Hermione Granger's powers of persuasion were not limited to a honeyed tongue. Her hexes were formidable. He had little doubt that two-thirds of the so-nicknamed "Golden Trio" had been all but forced into coming.

'We're taking lessons with him because his...position...gives him unique knowledge. Tonks is a great teacher, but Professor Snape has first-hand experience that she'll never get.'

'Yeah, because she was smart enough not to get a bloody skull tattooed-' There was the heavy thud of a book on flesh, and a strangled, high-pitched yell from Weasley.

'Occlumency lessons were a disaster,' Potter continued gloomily, and Snape felt his gut tighten. Had the boy told them about his snooping, the humiliation he'd found floating in the Pensieve?

Hermione's quiet question erased that fear and dosed him with a small measure of respect, to be added to the stock begun with Potter's leadership of the DA. 'You never did tell us anything about that. What was the real reason behind his decision to stop teaching you?'

'Private problem, 'Mione. Sorry.'

'Then it shouldn't get in the way now.'

'But Snape can hold a grudge,' Weasley's voice piped up again. 'We've known that for years. And he does pick on Harry more than anybody else-'

'For the same reason that the press continually splashes his name all over their front pages, Mr. Weasley,' Snape announced his presence, gliding around the corner. All three teenagers drew up tightly, tension stringing through them palpably, like a switch had been thrown to activate an electrical current.

'Professor,' Hermione acknowledged him quietly. Harry and Ron jerked their heads at him too late and murmured, 'Sir' in obedience to their friend's fierce glare.

'Your hide had better be thick, Potter, if you wish to outlast the Dark Lord. Consider this lesson number one: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." A children's rhyme that nevertheless holds a grain of truth. The Dark Lord will hurt you in any way he can find – and he has a better understanding of your psychology than you think. Follow me.' They followed him out of the empty classroom, curiosity increasing as they strode towards the main entrance hall and out the doors.

'Where are we going, sir?' Hermione asked.

'Questions are to be asked at the end of the session and it is my discretion as to whether I answer them.' He knew his tone was harsher than she deserved, but his mind had suddenly supplied the memory of this bright voice in the streaming sunlight of a new summer day, and a sense of breathless homesickness briefly swamped him. His strictness forced it back to the corner from whence it had come. 'I do not indulge in senseless chatter while working, Miss Granger, and I expect you to remember that.'

The September evening brushed cool on their faces, the dew already gathering on the grass smearing against shoe soles and robe hems as they crossed the great lawn.

'We're going to the Quidditch pitch?' Potter asked incredulously as the six hoops became dimly visible as shadows cutting circles against the stars.

'Tell me, Potter, can you see?' Snape needled. A mutter answered in the affirmative. 'Then learn not to use your tongue quite so much. I know that Professor Tonks is now teaching you wordless spell-casting. Apply the discipline to the rest of your life as well.' He could feel the seething of the younger wizard's untrained mind, broadcasting resentment and sighed silently. What on earth had prompted him to accede to the girl's request? If it were a matter of just teaching her...

'Tonight's lesson will be a combination of new technique and showing me what you already know, so that we can develop a useful course of study. A critical skill while fighting a battle is to be aware of not just your enemies, but also your allies. Many of the tactics that you use will depend on the terrain in which you are fighting,' he started quietly, stopping at the edge of the field. 'This is a wide open area. You have no cover, no natural lines of defence, and very little that you can Transfigure, levitate or animate. I will be fighting all three of you. The first to neutralize the opposite team wins. All legal curses, spells, and enchantments are allowable. I trust it almost goes without saying that Dark magic is forbidden.'

The older wizard glanced down at his pupils, eyebrow raised in a silent invitation for questions. The boys had wrapped their fists around the wands in their pockets, gazes trained on the darkened field before them, already cataloguing assets and weaknesses. He met the brown eyes last. They were sparkling with a smile that did not touch her lips. 'Thank you,' she mouthed.

He jerked his head away from the face that continued to walk through his daydreams and nodded at the flat, empty space before them. 'Your head start is sixty seconds. At the end of that time, I will begin hunting you.'

888

'Sir?'

'Out with it, Miss Granger,' he murmured from the cauldron simmering in one corner of his classroom. 'If you ever find yourself at a loss for a question, be sure to inform me.'

She ignored his commentary, weathering it indifferently, like a buoy in rough waters. 'Sir, is Draco Malfoy a Death Eater?'

He froze, still stooped over his work, hands halfway to the glistening surface of the potion he was brewing. It took him a full minute to straighten his spine, vertebra by vertebra, and pin her with a thunderous look, eyebrows drawing together over his large nose in a deadly glare.

She swallowed. Hard. She had learned a few of his facial expressions that summer. The mild manner he had brought to their few extracurricular lessons so far had vanished and the nightmare of his worst professor persona stood before her. The look he turned on her now was one she had only seen directed at Harry – and Sirius Black.

'Where, you silly, stupid child, did you stick your bushy head to hear about that?'

To her credit, she did not cry, though her lower lip twisted with the effort to control her filling eyelids at his sudden savagery. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was quieter and higher than usual, but steady.

'Harry's been...Harry followed him. On the train. And heard him bragging...and he does seem really distracted this year. He barely insults even me, and that's not like him.'

'Not everything revolves around you.' The coldness in his voice frosted the room, curling around her heart.

The black eyes were utterly unfathomable. The young Gryffindor suddenly had no desire to plumb their depths. Their nascent affinity, sometimes bordering on affection, had completely disappeared. She turned, her shoulders hunched against him, an inadequate physical protection from the rain of insults and abuse she expected to hear.

Suddenly, with such startling clarity it stopped his breath, he was seeing another witch, a different woman, turning her back on a man who daily caused her pain, her slender body unable to withstand years of wearing from fists and tongue-

Mother, he bleakly acknowledged the long-dead Eileen Prince. And as Hermione Granger's shuffling steps took her to the door, he felt bile rising in the back of his throat. His father had crowed at his ability to reduce a witch to such a state without magic. The only man he had never wanted to be...

'Miss Granger.' His voice cracked on her name, grief and self-disgust wreaking havoc on his control. He found that he didn't care – as long as she left his presence free of that half-step, the walk of a victim tentatively skirting a treacherously vicious master.

'I apologize,' he said quietly. 'My reaction was...inappropriate.' She had turned back to him out of respect, but her back grew no straighter. He groped for the words he had never told anyone. The only person he had been willing to beg for forgiveness had completely thrown him aside. In the years since, he had been in his knees only once to genuinely plead his case – and that had been in front of Britain's most powerful wizard.

'I assumed...Don't play with fire, Miss Granger. It has a nasty tendency to burn. You may tell Potter the same.'

'You've spent the last two months teaching us how to fight fire,' she answered quickly, her confidence cautiously returning as he hadn't resumed yelling.

'A large part of what I have taught you is how to avoid it,' he parried quietly.

'You haven't answered the question, Professor,' she pressed bravely, meeting his glance once more.

He gazed into the open, trusting cinnamon eyes and found his smooth lie of reassurance evaporating. He could not tell her a falsehood. 'Is Malfoy a Death Eater?' she pressed, stepping closer to him, as if knowing her proximity would be his undoing.

'Yes.'

'Is he doing something at Hogwarts this year? Something out of the ordinary?'

His confession almost felt programmed. 'Yes.'

'Then we have to stop him.'

'The Headmaster and I are dealing with it, Miss Granger,' he warned her, stepping backward and intentionally returning to his work. 'Please trust the adults to handle this situation.' The dark eyes met hers once more, emotionless in deliberate complement to his colourless voice.

'I do not want sixteen-year-old children getting in the way. Do not mention this to Potter.'

888

'Shield Combustion Charm, Miss Granger? That is rather advanced,' Snape said quietly, handing the young woman a cup of tea.

'Thank you,' she answered smugly, tucking her stocking-clad feet under her in her armchair.

It was late November, and his exclusive trio of students had just succeeded in winning their game for the very first time – capturing and disarming him after two hours of cat-and-mouse in the forbidding mountains above Hogsmeade.

Six months ago, the removed wizard would have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that he would one day be proud of James Potter's son. But a reluctant, astonished pride was what he was coming to feel for all three of his private pupils and their performance. He had long since surrendered to his admiration of Hermione Granger – his only battle now was the daily fight not to let it show – or deepen. But Potter's ingenuity surprised him, and Weasley's innate courage shocked him. The heavy reliance his employer had on these three and their chance to stop the Dark Lord was gradually beginning to make sense.

'Potter cast the charm, didn't he?'

'Of course.' She shrugged, sipping her brew. 'Harry is obviously the most powerful of us, which makes him the best choice.'

'Do not underestimate yourself,' Snape cautioned her mildly, seating himself across from her.

A flip of her hand. 'I'm not. But I think it's clear that there's no contest when it comes to raw power. I made Polyjuice at thirteen and Harry learned to cast a Patronus Charm. You can draw the conclusions yourself.'

'Where did you find it?'

'In Advanced Defensive Technique. We used the Room of Requirement to practice it a bit.' Another sip, and then she set her porcelain cup on the small table next to her chair, feet hitting the floor as she leaned forward, changing the subject.

'On my last essay, you wrote that I could find information about Ancient Runes and Curse-binding Potions in Bleak's Anthology. But I haven't found the book, not even in the Restricted Section.'

Snape allowed a smug smile to touch his mouth. 'Naturally. Bleak's Anthology is one of the many texts banned at Hogwarts.'

Irritation flashed. 'Then why recommend it?'

A crook of his finger brought a tiny, ancient tome sailing off the shelf behind her and into his hands. 'The Headmaster has not censored my private collection, Miss Granger.' He extended the volume, which she eagerly took, settling back in the large chair to read.

He watched her hair fall forward to frame her face, casting it mostly in shadow as she delved into the book without further conversation. Contentment washed through him in a moment stripped of context, narrowing his life to this room, to the young woman seated across from him, to the fire cracking in the grate and the heat of the porcelain under his fingers. Following a life devoid of such moments, he found them increasingly addictive, snatching the minutes from his real life like a junkie greedy for his fix.

They had started this tradition more than a month ago, the first time she had been hurt during their extra lessons. Side aching under the blast of a head-on Stinging Hex, she refused to go the hospital wing. 'You'll have to explain why,' she had gasped. 'And that's precisely what we want to avoid.' He had sighed, agreed to give her the antidote himself, and intended to send her on her way with chocolate and an admonition to rest.

But she had questions regarding her schoolwork, and he found it impossible not to answer when she asked. They had torn open Potions journals, textbooks and his old notes, laying them on the floor of his private study as they cross-referenced, debated and discovered. He discarded his teaching robes when he had made their tea, ignoring the informality of his manner and their interaction, forgetting that this was exactly what he had denied her that summer.

It was past one when they had both glanced at the clock and scrambled to their feet, drawn upright by the instant awkwardness that replaced the ease of their interaction. They knew what it would look like to anyone who saw her leaving his office at such a time.

And the fact that the assumption would be wrong brought him no peace of mind. It did not change his growing struggle against the desire that would make such a supposition correct.

He covertly watched the fire dancing on her cheekbones as her eyes devoured the pages, her mouth the only dynamic part in her still body; opening in an 'o' of surprise, repeating a complex concept in a whisper, thinning when reading an application of magic she disapproved of.

Why hadn't he said no, the next time she had asked? How had he allowed this to become habit, despite all his best instincts? After decades of carrying a torch for a dead love, how had this girl – barely more than a child – sailed into his world and persuaded him to put it down?

888

'Miss Granger?' He called her name softly in the silence of the laboratory, not wishing to startle her if she was still working.

Getting no response, he entered the small side room that he had so rashly given her a key to forty-eight hours prior, slowly pushing the door open.

His searching glance found her sprawled across her table, a Stasis Charm freezing her concoction as she slept, back twisted into an awkward position, rising and falling in even strokes. Hesitating in the entrance, the professor slowly stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind him.

He strode to his sleeping student slowly, his booted feet moving noiselessly over the cold floor until he was level with her experiment, reading her hastily scribbled, scratched-out and water-damaged notes upside down. He had given her the task of researching the effect and possible undoing of the curse Gryffindor Katie Bell had inherited from that damned necklace. True to form, she had devoted every free minute during the past two days to discovering what she could.

Twenty years of habit had vigorously opposed this display of trust, the permission and means to invade the only part of his world that had been off-limits to two masters for years.

Curing the Bell girl is a priority, his rational mind supplied a reason for his madness. But that wasn't the real cause – and he knew it. Disasters – physical and mental – had plagued the halls of Hogwarts for as long as the castle had existed. It was an expected risk with teens and magic. No matter how desperate the situation, he had never allowed anyone inside the lab before.

No...what he wanted was to see her hands where his had been, watch those small fingers running along the tables he had worn smooth with years of working. He wished to see her prints on the jars of ingredients he had stacked around the walls, to feel the signature of her magic when he entered the room, as surely as he could smell the coconut of her shampoo.

To give them both some measure of what they wanted, knowing that it was not all that he desired but unable to take any more – and damning himself for the fanciful thoughts that ambushed him when sleeping, when grading, when she sauntered into the Great Hall with her friends.

'Your protégé. Your friend.'

She could be a protégé...a maddening, disorganized, fascinating one. The sheer quantity of space her notes required meant that her thoughts needed ordering, and the parchment could do without the punctures of exclamation points...but...

Nineteen Muggle owners dead...Katie not Muggle-born...curse is universally applicable...Charms? Arithmancy? RUNES! Curse-binding Potion? Tourmaline for countering nerve disruption? Bloodstone = unstable heart?

His finger lingered on the text. The words curled under his skin close to her face, the full mouth slightly open to blow warm air on his flesh, and he wondered if he dared touch her smooth cheek, the shadowed curve of an ear, half-buried in the messy mane she never took time to manage. Her eyelashes fascinated him next, elongated by the black shadows they cast on her skin. Despite the importance of the work her exhaustion had interrupted, she looked peaceful, completely unburdened and at rest, as if she would wake to a world where Voldemort was little more than the bogeyman of a vague dream.

The sigh of her breath as she tilted her head slightly met the faint echo of his yearning in the silent air, and Snape swiftly withdrew his hand. A quick transfiguration produced a forest-green blanket where his over-robe had been, and he carefully draped it over her, ensuring that his hands did not brush any part of her body. She was seventeen, an adult-by-law who was still a child under his care.

He shut the door soundlessly and left the torches burning behind him.

888

As Arthur Weasley stood to give his Christmas Eve toast, the Burrow's fireplace flared green. The shadow that whirled out of it stood pale and panting, as if he had run a marathon. The clipped words he uttered shot panic through his listeners.

'Death Eaters. Hogwarts.'

'What? Now?' Harry shot to his feet, sending his chair crashing against the wall and loosening dust from the ceiling beams, but no one so much as flinched.

'Yes. Now,' Snape answered hoarsely.

'Who's there?' Arthur's wand was in his pocket as he moved towards the fireplace, deadly determination in his face.

'Nowhere near enough of ours. I would estimate that better than half of the Dark Lord's army is there already.'

A string of fluid cursing sounded from the mouths of a half dozen people, including the mild patriarch. 'Molly, alert Alastor. Remus, if you wouldn't mind coming with me-?' he turned to the werewolf for help, and found himself facing a table full of sons who had risen as well.

'We're coming,' the twins announced in unison.

'I'm not letting you go by yourself, Dad,' Bill said firmly.

At another time, on a different day, there would have been an argument. But every second wasted here meant the deaths of children, and none was voiced. 'Fine. Let's go,' Arthur replied impatiently, and stepped into the green flames. Three of his sons followed him, along with more than half the celebrants, but as Harry Potter reached the fire, a long hand shot out to catch his arm.

'Where, exactly, do you think you're going, Mr. Potter?' Snape hissed as Order members continued to stream through the fireplace and vanish.

'To fight, sir,' Harry answered, and though his voice was sharp with anxiety, those still assembled heard the lack of animosity and looked up.

'Out of the question.'

'We have to! The Death Eaters are there – and there're still students at Hogwarts,' Ron protested indignantly.

'A situation that hardly gets solved if more students throw themselves into the fray. The Dark Lord is not there. Nor is he going to appear tonight. Stay here, Potter. The world needs you alive.'

'But we can't sit and do nothing!' Harry snapped, jerking his arm away from his professor angrily.

'That is precisely what you are going to do.' Ebony eyes swept from green to blue to brown. 'You will stay here. All three of you.' The mutinous look in the young man's face deepened, and Snape sighed. To the astonishment of the few people still at the table, the hand moved to settle on Harry's shoulder in the gesture of a father.

'This is not a request, Potter. I have spoken no more than the truth, and, as your superior in the Order as well as your teacher, it is my duty to see that you remain out of harm's way. I know what the prophecy says about you. I know that your Gryffindor nature cannot abide the thought of sitting on the sidelines. Nevertheless, for the good of the wizarding world, that is your job tonight. I cannot be efficient as a soldier if I am worrying about you. Neither can anyone else.'

The younger wizard's stiff posture began to slacken, and bitter understanding replaced the anger in the green eyes. 'Yes, sir,' he replied neutrally.

'I am not under-age,' Hermione announced, shaking back her curls. Even as her two best friends rounded on her, Snape pinned her with a glare.

'You will stay here, Miss Granger. You might be of age, but I still outrank you, and those are my orders.'

'But I-' she stopped, unable to continue. She didn't know how to say that she wasn't sure she could stand hours of waiting and pacing, her eyes glued to the Floo connection until his return. She couldn't give voice to the storm of helplessness that closed her throat when she imagined he might not come back. There was no way to tell him that she would rather fight, and die, if necessary, as long as she could stand by him on the battlefield.

'No buts,' he responded, and something must have shown in her eyes, because his voice turned gentle. 'Your help will be needed here when the wounded start coming through.' His eyes darkened in bleakness. 'Because they will be coming.'

'Severus? Are you returning? The last have gone through and I need to use the fire to speak with Alastor,' Molly Weasley interrupted gently.

'I am,' he said. A small hand touched his sleeve, detaining him as he started to turn back to the mantle. His gaze followed it up an arm to a sorrow-filled, earnest face. So many things to tell her. So many things he wanted her to know. The student he had not stopped himself from falling in love with, the woman he might never see her become.

Time was moving. Molly Weasley was waiting.

'Be careful. Sir.'

She let him go, and he ducked under the old marble to re-enter darkness.

888

'We're lucky it's Christmas,' Ron said grimly, wiping his hands on a towel and smearing the white with liberal streaks of blood. 'It would be much worse if they'd gotten in during term.'

'Yeah,' Harry whispered, his stomach knotted. In a separate room, hidden from the rest of the frantic activity at the Burrow, lay the body of Albus Dumbledore. Neither boy had been able to bring themselves to look at him as Minerva McGonagall had carried him through, face soaked with tears. Neither wanted to make the nightmare a reality by gazing on the crumpled face, by touching the dead limbs.

'Seamus said that Malfoy did it,' the red-head murmured, eyes straying to the dining room door and the hall their Deputy Headmistress had taken the Headmaster down.

'I can't...I can't believe it,' Harry replied brokenly. 'I can't believe he's – it's Dumbledore. I keep waiting for him to walk in and announce it was all some terrible joke...'

The feeling of something warm in his hand, the smell of chocolate filling his nose. 'Drink, Harry,' said Hermione's soft voice. He obeyed.

When his green eyes cleared of tears, he was gazing into her smudged and concerned face. 'Has everyone else made it back?'

The way her eyelids fell closed as she swallowed convulsively gave him the answer. 'Alexandra Riggs,' the witch answered in a whisper. 'She's a Ravenclaw – encountered the Death Eaters somewhere near Ravenclaw's common room.'

'They killed her,' Harry completed the story hoarsely, letting his own eyes close against tears.

'Yes. But other than her, and...and the Headmaster, and-' she swallowed, willing her nauseating fear to disappear, '-and Professor Snape-'

The jade orbs slammed wide open. 'Is he-'

'I don't know!' The anguish in her cry made a confession of the feelings she had denied for all the months of the past term. 'Everyone else has come back. But he's...there's been no word,' she finished dully, glancing about. The main floor had become a full-blown triage centre. Every set of linens, sheets and towels were in use. Any cloth that could be used for bandages had been claimed. Ron and Harry were both shirtless, having ripped theirs to staunch the wounds sustained by professors, Order members and their peers.

'He's an amazing wizard, Hermione. I'm sure he'll be fine.' Hermione could hear the lie in Ron's voice, but threw her arms around him anyway as the blue eyes sought hers, willing her, at least, to believe it.

'Malfoy killed Professor Dumbledore,' she murmured in his ear as he stroked her back soothingly. 'If he can do that-'

'He can do anything,' Harry finished grimly. Ron scowled at him.

'I'm trying to be of comfort here,' he hissed.

'We have to be realistic,' his best friend responded flatly. Two sets of eyes flickered to the only clock in the Weasley household that actually told the time, hanging next to last year's old calendar. It was nearly one in the morning. Snape had arrived more than three hours ago to warn them about the attack, and the last survivors had come through the fireplace more than thirty minutes prior. Every ticking second brought them farther away from his chances of survival.

'Could we go after him?' Ron asked them both in a low voice. 'It's getting quieter here – Ginny's already slipped off to bed, and so have some of the others.'

'We can't get through the fireplace,' Hermione told him as she stood up, her shoulders slumping as she steadied herself against the table. 'Professor McGonagall drew an Age Line and spelled the Floo – anyone under eighteen can't get through it from this side.'

'They really wanted to keep us out of this one,' Harry muttered, idly twisting the wand in his pocket.

'Professor Snape was right,' she choked out quietly. 'We would have made it worse by our presence.'

'So...in that case...bed?' Ron suggested, jerking his head at the stairs. The candles hovering around and over them were dimming as the uninjured streamed towards their make-shift beds and the few deputies that Madam Pomfrey had hastily appointed moved amongst the mattress-strewn floor.

'Yep. Hermione?' Harry turned to her as she didn't move with them.

She cast a last glance at the fireplace, where the flames still glowed their natural colour. She could hear the second-hand on the wall behind her. Tick. Tick. Tick.

'Yeah. I'm coming.'

888

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was now only a few minutes to three a.m., and Hermione Granger tiptoed through the maze of restlessly-sleeping Order members and students that littered the dining room and parlour floors of the Burrow. Near the window, she could make out the Hogwarts Matron dozing lightly and she expertly skipped over the creaky wooden boards to station herself next to the banked fire.

As she approached, she could feel the pressure of the Age Line rejecting her, making sure that she kept a distance of more than five feet from the glowing coals. A note of irrelevant worry struck her – would Snape make it through the Floo if the fire wasn't actually burning on the receiving end? – before she remembered Harry's trip to Knockturn Alley and his emergence in a darkened grate.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

She hadn't been able to sleep, turning over and over in her bed next to Ginny. She had to know. If the sun rose before her professor returned, she would dismantle the Age Line and go after him herself.

What if he was bleeding to death right now? What if they could have saved him, but hadn't? What if he were lying trapped somewhere, breathing the last of his air and praying for a member of the Order to arrive-?

It was ten after three when something began to whirl into view in the fire. Heart lodged in her throat, wand clutched in her hand, Hermione waited for the figure to stop spinning, preparing herself for the visage of a Death Eater-

The newcomer straightened, stringy black hair shadowing his face, his thin mouth set in a ruthless suppression of pain as he limped from under the mantle. His black cloak hung tattered and torn from lop-sided shoulders and crimson bloomed from both cheeks.

But he was alive.

Time crystallized, freezing around her as the breath she had tried to choke rushed out of her in a strangled sound of disbelieving relief, and she felt herself moving, tears salting her lips.

'Miss-?' His hoarsely surprised whisper was all that escaped before he stepped across the Age Line and found himself holding an armful of Gryffindor witch.

The heat of her night's worrying met the collapse of the self-control he'd struggled to exercise for months. She felt his hands slam against her ribs, tearing her from the ground, his shaky breath against her nose, brushing her cheeks-

In a rush of adrenaline, of barely-contained despair and wildly unleashed hope, his mouth met hers in a bruising kiss, both seeking nothing more than to devour that which they had feared lost.