Disclaimer: All of the usual statements apply here.

Thanks go to Melusin for her beta-work.

Chapter 2: Midnight Mass.

Hermione survived the Ministry Christmas party and Harry's annual Butterbeer and mince-pie bonanza relatively unscathed. (Harry, Ginny and Ron chose to blame her birthday temper on the stress of seeing the Forest of Dean again.) She sent Bob a lengthy commentary on Muggle Obliviation and memory modification during the 20th century as a present and received an official Downing Street Christmas card in return. Her Dad approved of Bob, but her Mum had rather fancied Christopher and referred to the (former) MP for Bootle as the 'Ginger Strumpet'. Still, a daughter who got a Christmas card from the Prime Minister was not to be sniffed at, so she packed the card and took it with her to show it off to her parents.

After taking a good look at a photograph of the Grangers' new back garden, Hermione Apparated almost silently to Devon on Christmas Eve. Mr Granger was standing on the back lawn admiring the night sky when his daughter appeared. He didn't even flinch, and she loved him dearly for it.

"Here's my girl," he murmured as he enveloped Hermione in his Daddy hug and kissed the top of her head.

"Hello, Dad. How have you been?" she asked.

He smiled at her.

"Surprisingly well, actually. I'd go as far as to say that things have been busy in a very good way, and you can't ask for more than that. Come on, I'll give you the tour."

Hermione lit her wand so they could have a good look at the empty vegetable patch, the garden shed and the compost heap, and then they made their way around to the terrace at the front of the house. It stood in a row of ten similar homes, built on the side of a little valley. A mixture of rolling pasture and winter cropping interspersed with patches of woodland, farmhouses and high, Devon hedges stretched out before them until a dark strip of conifer plantation topped the opposite side of the valley. To the left, the lights of Slapton Poppleford shone, and a meandering river could be glimpsed through the trees. Moonlight glittered on frost and water and cast long, sharp shadows.

"Beyond that hill is the sea. We're sheltered from the coastal weather here, and apparently most of the tourists use the bigger roads and bypass the village, so it's peaceful all year round," explained Mr Granger happily.

Entering the house through the front door, Hermione kissed Mrs Granger, stowed her handbag in one of the bedrooms and dutifully admired the new curtains, the Grangers' smart en-suite bathroom and the open fire. Her father poured sherry, and they both retired to the sitting-room while Hermione's mum finished cooking the dinner.

"It's beautiful, Dad. I'm glad you seem to be settling in okay."

"We are settling in just fine. We've even met a decent neighbour, and your Mum is going to be in the village pantomime."

"Oh, no! What part has she got herself?"

"Sleeping Beauty's wicked fairy godmother. She's been practicing her evil cackle since she was cast."

"Good grief! I am sorry."

Hermione's father laughed heartily.

"Don't be. The walls here are reasonably thick, and she's happy. Plus, when she's at rehearsals in the village hall, I'm in the pub. She pops in for half a cider afterwards and gives me a lift home. You'll come and see her, won't you?"

"I suppose I'll have to, or I'll never hear the end of it. When is it?"

"Spring half-term. If you come down on the Friday, I'll take you to the pub for dinner, and we can get tickets for the Saturday night performance."

Hermione shuddered dramatically. She'd never really grown out of squirming with embarrassment when her mother indulged in exhibitionist behaviour.

Dinner was so nice that when Mrs Granger announced that they would be attending midnight mass in the village, Hermione couldn't be bothered to grumble much. She supposed that some brisk moonlit walking and some carolling would be a good idea as the next few days would be littered with turkey-based cuisine and her dad's lethal version of Christmas pudding. Hermione's mother watched her out of the corner of one eye and was quietly smug about the lack of protest.

A single bell, proudly tolled by the septuagenarian churchwarden, rang rather irregularly from the Church of Saint Boniface's squat, square and genuinely ancient Norman tower. The body of the church was small and smelt of mouldy hymn-books, hot candle wax and boozy breath. It was absolutely packed, owing to the fact that pub closing time coincided nicely with the start of midnight mass and that belting out a few carols usually sounds like a great idea when you're full of Christmas spirit (and beer).

A little blonde choirgirl managed to warble her way through the first verse of 'Once in Royal David's City' without mishap, and the mostly sozzled congregation enthusiastically joined in for the second verse.

Things got slightly less dignified during the sermon. A couple of the local lads, who had enjoyed the pub immensely and bellowed their carols with gusto, were feeling the effects of their final, hastily swallowed pint of lager. They shuffled out of their pew without mishap and tiptoed outside for a quick pee. Having decided that the deep shadows at the back of the church would be appropriately discreet, the noise of two healthily emptying bladders and the accompanying conversation could be dimly heard over the vicar's gentle meditation on the joy of Christmas.

"Thus the birth of God's long-awaited redeemer was introduced to a darkened, weary, and exhausted world—"

"—Did you pull Cheryl, then?"

"Not yet. Wish I had though, she's got lov-er-ly tits."

"Careful, mate! You shouldn't say, 'tits' in a graveyard."

"Alright then, she's got a lov-er-ly arse—"

"—and this amazing story of hope and love fills us with joy to this day."

Hermione's father snorted indecorously while her mother emitted a tiny squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth. Hermione bit her bottom lip and stared up at the rafters for a moment or two. When she dropped her eyes to the front of the church, she noticed a pair of broad shoulders, quite obviously shaking with suppressed mirth, three pews further forward.

The shoulders were covered by a nice black jumper. Cashmere, by the look of it. The very clean collar of a white shirt emerged from the neck of the jumper. Above that, a neatly barbered male neck could be seen, rising into a glossy mess of black locks along with two barely visible but obviously neatly positioned ears. For some intangible reason, the combination of muscle, tendon, bone and hair that knitted together to form the upper rear view of the silent giggler was extremely attractive, and Hermione wondered why she hadn't spotted it earlier. Forgetting all about Cheryl's admirer, she eagerly waited for the next carol to see if the rest of the rear view was as good.

My oh my. It definitely was.

As she only had a handful of church appearances to her name since she'd caught her first train to Hogwarts and had never been confirmed, Hermione didn't take communion. Neither did the mystery man, so she didn't get to see his face, even in profile, before the service drew to a close. All around them people beamed at each other and began to exchange Christmas greetings. The candlelit atmosphere was filled with Goodwill towards All Men, and Hermione was suddenly very glad she'd come because she could wish her gorgeous giggler a happy Christmas and then introduce herself without seeming too desperate. Then her mother ruined things by introducing her to some of the village's oldest inhabitants.

"Mrs Baker! Merry Christmas! This is our daughter, Hermione."

"Hello, my love. That's a funny name! Happy Christmas to you. It's nice to see some of you new people showing your face to the village, though your mother certainly isn't backward with coming forward. Where've you come from, then?"

"Oh, I live in London, actually."

"Well I never! I've got a grandson who lives in London. Perhaps you know him?"

"Um, what's his name?"

"Timothy. Timothy Baker."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I haven't met him."

Mrs Baker eyed Hermione with tangible disappointment and moved on to a satisfyingly lengthy critique of the choirgirl's solo verse with a friend. Another wrinkled face appeared.

"Miss Anning! How are you?"

"As good as can be expected with two eight year-old hips in an eighty year-old body. Who's this young lady, then?"

"This is Hermione, our daughter."

"Come down for Christmas, have you?"

"That's right, Miss Anning. Happy Christmas!"

This earned Hermione an approving smile. She felt she was getting the hang of villagey things rather well.

"Not thinking of moving here, are you? We could do with a few nice young people like you."

"No. I work in London, you see."

"London, eh? My great-niece works in London, too. Do you know her?"

"I shouldn't think so. It's quite a big place."

"Well, I'll tell her to look out for you, anyway. Hermione's not a name you hear often, is it?"

"No, it's quite unusual... That's very… kind of you."

Nutters.

After thanking the vicar for the service (he seemed entirely oblivious to the disturbance during his sermon), Hermione and Mr Granger began to follow the crowd towards the door of the church. Behind them, Mrs Granger's voice rose to pantomime cackle volume.

"Severus! I was hoping we might see you here. Happy Christmas!"

"Angela. You knew perfectly well I'd be here because you asked me in the Post Office last week."

For the third time in her life, somebody who was supposed to be dead clearly wasn't playing by the rules. All the nerve endings in Hermione's skin seemed to prickle as adrenaline flooded her system – which seemed an extravagant response given the apparent haziness of the dead/alive divide in the wizarding world. She slid her hand into her coat pocket and felt for her wand as she turned to look down the aisle of the church and found Severus Snape standing right next to her mum.

"Hello, Severus!" said Hermione's dad. "Have you been in the pub?"

Snape's dark eyes lifted from Mrs Granger to Mr Granger and then widened as he noticed Hermione. The line between his eyebrows deepened, and a muscle in his cheek fluttered. Just as quickly, the frown was gone, and Snape was chatting to Mr Granger, both hands shoved into his coat pockets.

"Yes, I have. I had a wonderful evening watching the Matthews boys vie for the honour of groping Cheryl Pugh."

Hermione's father grinned.

"This is our daughter, Hermione. Hermione, this is Severus – the neighbour I mentioned."

While Mr Granger was speaking, Hermione and Snape eyed each other carefully. Hermione realised that under his winter coat, Snape was wearing a v-necked black cashmere jumper and a white shirt. For an insane moment, she wondered whether anybody would mind if she banged her head repeatedly on the back of the nearest pew. She decided that, under the circumstances, acting as normally as possible might be safer.

"Hello, Severus. Pleased to meet you."

Snape's right eyebrow jumped, and for a moment his eyes shone with appreciative amusement.

"Likewise, Hermione. Welcome to Slapton Poppleford."

Hermione couldn't prevent a bubble of ever-so-slightly hysterical laughter from gurgling out of her throat.

"It is a ridiculous name, but it's Anglo-Saxon so we must not complain," drawled Snape. "How long are you here for?"

"I'll be back in London for New Year."

"Good, good. We don't want you getting bored in sleepy old Devon, do we?"

"Oh, I only got here this evening, and it's already been quite exciting."

"Really? I can't imagine why. Only just the other day, I was telling your parents how much I enjoy the peace here. It's a real treat to be able to walk freely around the English countryside with nothing to disturb me. I was terribly relieved to be able to leave the rat-race behind, you know."

Hermione gazed up at Snape's face. His expression was inscrutable.

"Yes, I can imagine," she replied. "It must be nice not to be at a lord and master's beck and call."

Although his mouth remained impassive, Snape's eyes began to shine again in the most disturbing manner.

"It's very nice indeed. I'm quite at home here."

"Getting to know my parents well?"

"We've only met a few times, but they seem friendly."

A flood of electric light and the shuffling of shoes on flagstones indicated that the church warden wanted to tidy up. The four of them sprang to help the old man, collecting service booklets and bright red copies of Hymns, Ancient and Modern while blowing out all the candles.

Justifiably wary of Obliviation or worse, Hermione watched Snape loping around the church until he had an ungainly but apparently weightless pile of books wedged under his chin. In the blink of an eye, he had them neatly stacked on a shelf behind the font before politely helping everybody else to deal with theirs. He was still slim and pale, but he didn't look anything like the gaunt, edgy, scarecrow of her childhood. Shorter hair had thankfully banished the sulky adolescent demeanour, and middle-age suited his face as much as Muggle trousers suited his arse.

As they left the church, Angela Granger grabbed her husband's hand and marched off at a rate of knots, towing him behind her. Hermione watched in dismay as she was left alone, in the dark, with Severus Snape – who was busy casting Muffliato and walking far too slowly for comfort.

"I can understand them not bringing you up in conversation, but how come they don't know who I am?" exclaimed Snape.

"They were scared shitless of sending me off to Hogwarts in the first place. I didn't think that telling them about creepy teachers would help!"

"Don't they know about the war?"

"I modified their memories and sent them away when… when things got really bad. The state of their bank balance after ten months of travelling around Australia was a handy distraction afterwards. They know who Voldemort was, and what he stood for. They know I hate camping. They know that things are better now. Do you want to explain the rest to them, or shall I?"

"Merlin, no!"

"Fine, then. I could have sworn I watched you die from a snake bite during the Battle of Hogwarts. Did all the guff you told us about stoppering death actually have some basis in truth?"

"No, that was mostly just for show. The ability to cast Imperio on Lucius Malfoy, dose him with Polyjuice Potion and force him to use Legilimens to gain access to particular memories of mine was definitely not, 'guff'. I ordered him to pass on the information – no matter what – if he saw Potter and made him return to Riddle in my place. Then, I simply used Polyjuice to assume Lucius' form and kept searching for Potter myself. It worked perfectly. Lucius was such a wreck that Narcissa didn't mind very much, and I think Draco was slightly relieved."

"Shit! In the Shrieking Shack, Riddle even said you, er, he sounded like Lucius. Was that you in the Great Hall after the battle?"

Snape pocketed his wand and nodded smugly.

"Does anybody else know?"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt is aware of my continued existence. He… viewed the evidence, disposed of Lucius' remains and pardoned me as soon as he officially gained power. The choice to stay mostly incognito is partly personal preference and partly ingrained habit – my work doesn't require public appearances and, as far as I was aware, the nearest magical being was thirty miles away in Ottery St Catchpole."

"You never did want any credit, did you?"

"I'd rather you didn't try to analyse my motives. They seem… immature, in hindsight."

Hermione wondered if it was possible to make Snape cringe.

"Rather sweet, though. If a little unhealthy."

Snape grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Apparently, anything was possible.

"Rather adolescent," he muttered. "And, thanks to Dumbledore's constant poking and prodding, very unhealthy indeed. I seem to have an innate ability to behave in an embarrassing manner, which is probably why I can cope with your mother. Have you seen her practicing her pantomime lines?"

"Not yet, no. Is it very bad?"

"On a scale of one to ten, I'd say it's horrendous."

"Are you going to Obliviate me?"

"It's tempting, but I suppose you'll be turning up again at some point. Perhaps you can convince me not to."

Hermione sighed. What could she use to strike a deal? Ah, yes.

"I'm being paid by both the Ministry and the Muggle Prime Minister for the same job."

Snape actually laughed.

"Feathering your nest?"

"Rather nicely, in fact."

"Kingsley did exactly the same thing when he was an Auror pretending to be a Muggle secretary. You either have nothing to worry about, or you should be very careful indeed. I'm not certain which. If we both keep quiet, I suppose it would be mutually beneficial."

"Good. Just remember that if you hurt my parents, I'll kill you."

Snape halted mid-stride and turned to face Hermione.

"Your parents are perfectly safe with me."

"Promise?"

He reached out and offered his hand to shake. Hermione hesitated for a moment and then took it. In contrast to her chilly fingers, his grip was warm, dry and strong.

"I promise. Happy Christmas, Hermione."

Hermione stared up into Snape's face and tried to suppress a visible quiver of excitement as she realised that, for the first time in years, she was about to start fancying the pants off a man who existed outside the pages of a book. Snape was sexy. She wanted him closer so she could check the smell of his hair and body. She wanted to find out what the rest of his skin felt like. She was almost certain that if he kissed her, large quantities of excitement and lust would be generated. The sense of relief was so overwhelming that for the moment she completely forgot to consider what the object of her affection might think about it all, or whether he was, for example, married with three children. She felt vindicated. The Gobi Desert that represented her love life was not her fault after all. It really had just been a case of never coming across the right sort of bloke. Obviously, it didn't help that the right sort of bloke was perfectly happy to let wizarding society believe that he was dead.

Obviously, if the right sort of bloke had a habit of reading people's minds while they stared at him, the thoughts running through her head were stomach-mincingly embarrassing.

After a few moments had passed, Snape gently let go of Hermione's hand, surreptitiously pulled his wand from his pocket, gave it a flick to cancel the anti-eavesdropping spell and turned down a tiny lane, disappearing into the shadows. She stood for a moment, thoughts tumbling through her brain until a little burst of nervous energy made her jog to catch up with her parents.

"Well, darling, you seemed to be getting on very well. What were you talking about?" Angela immediately asked.

"Oh, nothing much."

"I knew it! We've found you a man."

"Mum! Don't be silly. He-he-he… wouldn't be interested."

"Well, you'll just have to make an effort to get him interested. He's terribly dishy, and he's simply crying out for a girlfriend."

"He's older than me!"

"He doesn't look more than forty. And you're not getting any younger, are you?"

"Mum!"

Notes:

Schools in the UK usually have an Autumn, Spring and Summer Term. Half way through each term, you used to get a week off, called 'Half Term'. Nowadays, the poor sods going to school in Devon only get a long weekend.

No offence to anybody's church is intended. This is an accurate account of the way things are in at least one Westcountry village.