DISCLAIMER: All characters seen here are the exclusive property of JK Rowling. She's the genius, I'm the fangirl who can't resist playing with her creations.

Chapter 5

"Those lovely links with humanity are broken. We are doomed to be solitary."
-Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

The money arrived promptly, although the banker looked askance at them when they attempted to retrieve it. Severus found himself obliged to perform wandless Legilimency--on a Muggle, no less--in order to convince the man that their nonexistent credentials and identification were, in fact, more than adequate. It was far more difficult than a simple Confundus or even the Imperius Curse, and he felt rather ill by the end of it.

Still, they had the money.

When this was accomplished, they went directly to a small second-hand shop and located some clean Muggle clothes. The proprietress of the shop was an ancient woman, who seemed never to have quite got over her disappointment that post-war fashions had eventually gone out. She looked indignantly appalled every time one of them had the temerity to touch a garment.

They didn't linger long over their selection. As soon as they had overpaid for their clothes and Hermione had made some sort of apologetic comment implying that they'd been the victims of some practical joke, they fled. Severus heard the woman muttering something about gypsies as they went out the door.

"We ought," he said, when they'd got safely away, "to have got some sort of scissors."

"Scissors?" She shot a puzzled look in his direction.

"Your hair is, to put it bluntly, a disgusting rat's next. I expect to see animals come crawling out of it and onto your shoulders at any moment."

She blinked in surprise, and then pulled a face that turned her, in his mind, from a woman back to a rebellious teenager in one fell swoop. "Look in a mirror yourself," she said waspishly, even as one of her hands strayed up to feel her hair.

"I have no need to do so, I am perfectly aware that my state is, most likely, almost as lamentable as yours."

"Well, you're going to need to make yourself presentable before you meet my mum and dad."

"A fact of which I am already aware, Miss Granger." He noted the look of surprise she gave him, but did not analyze his feelings on seeing it. "On that note, I suggest that we locate a place to change our clothes."

0 0 0

That place turned out to be a toilet in a dark and smoky pub. Hermione, when she understood his intention, went immediately through the door, shutting and locking it behind her.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

What happened instead was that Snape stuck his arm in the door and prevented her from closing it.

"What do you think you're doing?" She tightened her grip on the door as he tried to push it open. He was weak, as was she, and neither gained much by the struggle.

"I am joining you, Miss Granger," he said through gritted teeth. "I have already made it clear that we will not part company until we are safely ensconced in your mother and father's home."

"I'm changing my clothes!"

He finally managed to gain enough leverage to push the door open and slip through it. Before she could stop him, he'd closed and locked it. "I will turn my back."

She scowled at him. When this had no effect, she pulled her clothes from the shopping bag and, giving in to an impulse, shut off the lights.

Darkness engulfed them immediately, strangely safe and comforting. Snape said nothing, but she heard the rustle of another bag as he drew out his own set of clothes.

As she changed into her new things, she wondered at the fact that, less than twenty-four hours since their escape, she'd gone almost completely back to feeling like an awkward student in his presence. The dark helped, a little, but she bitterly wished that he had just been willing to let her go in and change alone.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked, when they had both become silent.

"Yes."

He turned the light back on. Hermione blinked, and then squeezed her eyes shut and kept them that way. It wasn't a particularly bright light, but after even a little time back in the dark, it was as painful to see as if she were looking directly into the sun.

"Put these on," he said, pushing something hard into her hand.

She ventured to open one eye and look to see what it was. Sunglasses.

"Where did you get these?"

His eyebrows went up just slightly. "I purchased them with my other clothes. For a pupil as apt as you were at Hogwarts, you are unbelievably unobservant."

She bit her tongue and put them on, trying to ignore the dozen injured retorts that sprang to her mind. She did have to admit, she wished that she'd thought of buying sunglasses. They were a blessed relief.

"You must do something about your hair," he said. Even with the sunglasses hiding his eyes, his look of revulsion was unmistakable.

"How much time have we got before the train goes?"

"Roughly an hour."

She itched her arm, which was irritated by the oversized and rather scratchy jumper that she was now wearing. "What do you propose that I do about it, exactly?"

He shrugged. "Cut it."

She picked up their soiled clothes and shoved them into her shopping bag angrily, then jammed the whole mess into the garbage. "I'll just nip over to the salon then, shall I? Should I try a new color, as well?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she could hear, faintly, the sound of his teeth grinding. "A new color would not go amiss, if we are to be in hiding, but no. Come with me."

He took her by the arm and opened the door. He was too weak to really pull her, but he retained enough strength in his grip to convince her to let him lead her across the pub to the bar.

"Have you got," he said, in a tone far more casual and in an accent far more Northern than she could possibly have imagined coming out of his mouth before, "any scissors?"

The bartender raised his eyebrows. "What for?"

Snape jerked his head towards Hermione. "She's a bloody mess."

"Got that right," said the bartender, wiping his hands on a grimy towel. He tossed the towel on the counter and disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a pair of wet, somewhat rusty scissors.

Snape took them and wiped them on the towel. They left pink streaks, and she could smell the faint, iron-tinged scent of red meat.

They went back to the toilet, where Snape locked the door again.

"You aren't seriously proposing to cut my hair with those, are you?" She stared at the scissors, horrified. They were filthy, and looked blunt.

"I most certainly am. Shut your mouth and sit still."

"You can't!"

"I most certainly can, and I will. Allow me to remind you that we do not have an infinite amount of time in which you can engage in self-indulgent, vanity-driven histrionics. Take it from me, Miss Granger: your hair, as it is right now, is a total loss."

With that, he gathered her matted, filthy hair into a clump in his fist, gave it a slight, experimental tug, and then cut it off with one single chop.

The sound of the scissors, after years and years without a real haircut, brought tears to her eyes, which she had to struggle to hide. The slight thump of her wadded-up mass of hair hitting the outside of the garbage and falling to the floor was worse.

She expected him to leave it at that, but he didn't. He continued to cut, until her hair was short and spiky all over, and not entirely unpleasant to look at (or, it wouldn't have been unpleasant if it hadn't been so awful to look at herself with virtually no hair). She stared at herself in the mirror as Snape began, with greater difficulty, to cut his own hair. The grease and dirt that had made her hair so ugly when it was long served now in place of a styling product, and kept it in straight, stiff spikes. Had she not spent years lamenting its unmanageable bushiness, she wouldn't even have known her hair was curly.

He made short and rather messy work of his own hair, washed his face and hands, and accompanied her back to the bar, where he returned the scissors. The barkeeper accepted them with raised eyebrows, but said nothing. Instead, he turned around and returned them, still covered with tiny bits of brown and black hair, to the kitchen.

"Anything else?" He looked at them with vague interest, apparently trying to gauge exactly how wise it would be to pry into the affairs of a tall, dark, seedy-looking man and his silent and acquiescent female companion.

Snape had removed his sunglasses, ostensibly to polish them, but really (or so Hermione guessed) to stare menacingly at the bartender. Capture had not made him less intimidating, Hermione decided. Instead, it had imbued him with a sort of desperate air. He looked like a man who had just escaped from prison, possibly after serving time for murder. She would have liked to say something, but there was nothing to say; and, she found, she didn't want to have anything to say. It was easier to just be quiet. Being quiet meant she didn't have to think, and after so many months with almost nothing to do but think, it was a relief to merely have to act.

"A coffee, I think," said Snape, when his sunglasses were perfectly clean and were once again perched on his very crooked, very large nose. He glanced at Hermione. "Two coffees."

"I don't drink coffee," said Hermione in a whisper, as the bartender, apparently willing to keep his questions to himself as long as there was money being tossed onto the counter, went to find two cups. His shuffling gait and his careless housekeeping reminded her strongly and suddenly of Aberforth Dumbledore. She wondered if that had something to do with Snape's sudden, newfound hostility.

"You do now," he snapped. "I do not intend to let you sleep until we are in Oxfordshire. Drink the coffee, Granger."

The bartender returned, with two cups full of what Hermione supposed must be coffee, but which more closely resembled very thick, very foul-tasting black paint. Snape drank his down in two swallows and didn't appear to notice the taste. Hermione made a valiant effort but got only three sips down before she was overcome with nausea and had to stop.

"That's disgusting," she said, whispering again.

"Drink it anyway."

"I'll vomit. I can't."

He scowled, giving a vigorous swipe across his chin to catch any coffee that might have dripped into his beard, and then stood up. "Very well. You will stay awake without aid."

"Fine, as long as I don't have to drink any more of that."

He took her cup and finished what she'd left, wiping his beard again and then standing up without further ceremony. They left without another word.

0 0 0

Hermione was asleep, her head rocking slightly against the window with the motion of the train. Severus raised his hand to wake her for the fifteenth time in as many minutes, and then put it down again. As far as he could tell, there was nobody else magical on the train. Granted, it was difficult to be sure without a wand, but one could generally sense at least a faint trace of magical signature.

Not, of course, that such a thing made it any wiser to relax. It would just be better if she were quiet.

After he'd cut her hair, she'd insisted on stopping to buy toothbrushes and toothpaste--a ridiculous extravagance, especially when her parents were dentists and could surely provide her with an endless supply of dental hygiene products in a mere six hours--and cleaning her teeth. Twice.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, which were slick and still tasted distantly of mint. She'd insisted that he brush his teeth as well. What she had actually said was that if he didn't have the courtesy to stop breathing through his mouth, the least he could do was make an effort to see to it that his breath smelled slightly less intolerable.

His suspicions had been confirmed. Hermione Granger was a harpy. He pushed back against his seat, stretching until he heard his vertebrae give a satisfying series of pops. He'd suspected it for quite some time, given the snippets of arguments he'd caught across the Great Hall, or echoing down corridors, or through the walls in Grimmauld Place. She liked to browbeat, and she liked to lecture, and she worked herself into fits of righteous indignation over things that were, in Severus's opinion, an utter waste of his time and hers.

The train lurched, and her eyes snapped open.

"I wasn't asleep," she said, attempting to hide the exhaustion in her voice.

He ignored her.

It began to rain. She stared out the window at the passing countryside, her breath fogging the glass. They were accustomed to long hours of silence, and neither of them spoke.

The light outside began to dim, until they could see their reflections in the window. Hermione raised her head slightly, and, though she was still wearing the dark glasses over her eyes, he imagined that he could see her staring. She looked remarkably different, so different that he was still not entirely sure that he really was sitting beside Miss Granger and not some other malnourished wastrel. Her cheekbones were sharp, and her slightly baggy jumper only emphasized her skinniness, rather than hiding it.

She put one hand to the side of her head. "I didn't know you could cut hair."

He shrugged indifferently and opened the packet Draco had given them, removing the remains of the loaf of bread and breaking it evenly in half. Almost evenly in half.

He gave her the bigger half, from force of habit.

"My father was a barber," he said, when he'd eaten a bite. "Not an illustrious trade, nor one that ever held appeal for me, but I was required to work in his shop every day until I left for Hogwarts, and every summer until I became of age. In the latter portion of that time, he occasionally required me to stand in for him when he was ... indisposed."

She looked directly at him for the first time, and he could see her eyebrows above the sunglasses and the quizzical wrinkle of her forehead. "You worked in a barber's shop?"

"Even if it is merely a mnemonic trick to help you retain information, Miss Granger, it is unspeakably tiresome when you continually repeat everything you hear."

"I'm sorry." She took her own sunglasses off, inspecting the bread he'd given her. "It's just ... I think of all the things you could have said about how you grew up, that's the last I would have expected."

He sneered at her. "What you would or would not have expected is of precisely zero interest to me. Nor, in fact, is there any legitimate reason for my youth or any other part of my personal life to be of interest to you."

She had opened her mouth to eat a morsel of bread, but she closed it without taking the bite and looked at him, annoyed. "On that, I'm afraid you're wrong. My mum and dad are going to want to know at least a few things about you, and it isn't uncommon to ask questions about where someone grew up, or what they do, or--or things like that. You may as well tell me a few things, or make some things up to tell me, at least. I don't care if it's the truth, but mum and dad have been through enough this year. I'd like to make this as easy as possible for them."

Severus snorted, amused. "I hardly think that oiling the social gears will do anything to ameliorate a situation in which they are forced to give refuge to their escaped prisoner-of-war daughter and her former profes--"

"Well I do," she snapped, "and as I'm the expert on the subject of my parents--or closer to being an expert than you ever will be, anyway--I think that, for once, I'm the one who can be giving a few of the orders."

"For once?" His voice dripped with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

"What's that supposed to mean?" They had been speaking in whispers, but her voice started to rise slightly now.

"I have no reason to explain myself to you, especially not if you are going to shriek like a banshee when I attempt to discuss it."

"I didn't shriek like a banshee."

"You did, as a matter of fact. What are you doing?"

She had fished out the blanket Draco had given them and wrapped herself up in it. "I'm cold. I want to rest."

"We change trains shortly."

"Fine." She didn't move.

"Therefore, it might be wiser to stay alert and rest on the next train."

"I'm cold. I'm not going to sleep."

He ripped his bread in half and had another bite. It was still relatively fresh, and quite good. Granger pushed her glasses (which were slipping) back up the bridge of her nose, crossed her arms, and stared at the floor. Or, perhaps she had closed her eyes and was trying to sleep. He couldn't really say. He didn't honestly care, as long as she got up quickly when they changed trains--or if there was an emergency.

0 0 0

They changed trains in Coventry. It was quite dark on the platform, and the air was chilly. The darkness didn't bother her, but the chill did, and she wished that he hadn't turned into such a git when exposed to sunlight. All that she really wanted was to draw a bit closer to him for a bit of warmth. Well, that might have worked with Severus, but it certainly would never happen with Snape.

They had nearly an hour's wait, but Snape refused to linger inside, or to let Hermione wrap herself in the blanket while they waited.

"I'm cold," she said, frowning at him.

"You should have bought warmer things."

"I did buy warm things, but I wasn't planning on standing outside on a train platform at night."

"You should have. You knew we would be traveling."

"I thought we'd wait indoors!"

"We are in hiding, Miss Granger," he snapped, his voice a vehement whisper. "I prefer to stay in the dark, where we are less likely to be seen."

"Can't I have the blanket, at least?"

"You may not. A blanket of its ... properties ... is one thing in a deserted field or on a train where it is not difficult to be relatively certain that others of our kind are not present. It is another thing entirely when one is in a public place and attempting to avoid notice by those who might be looking for it."

"You're still holding it. What's the difference?"

He shrugged. "My godson packaged it in such a way as to make it less noticeable if it is kept contained."

"What's that supposed to mean? Did he do some sort of Notice-Me-N--"

Before she could finish the question, he'd clapped one hand over her mouth and drawn her further back into the shadows, making a shushing noise into her ear. She froze instinctively, her heart beating faster as fear twisted like a knot in her belly.

After a moment of silence, she heard it. Wings. Rather large wings, in fact. Those had to belong to a bird far larger than any that would generally be seen flying around a railroad station.

She'd nearly managed to convince herself that it couldn't be an owl when Snape tightened his grip and pulled her even deeper into shadow. It was too late, though. The bird had seen them, and it flew directly at them, landing on the edge of a bench and hooting softly as it held out its leg.

They both stared at it.

"Are you going to take it?" whispered Hermione, staring at the small roll of parchment tied to the owl's leg.

For answer, Snape reached one arm past her and, with his long, dirty fingers, removed the parchment. The owl took off immediately, without so much as another click of its beak. Soon, they couldn't hear even the beating of its wings.

Snape hadn't opened the parchment yet, but was looking in the direction that the owl had taken off in, frowning.

"Was that Malf--" she started to ask, but again, he covered her mouth.

"Do--not--say--his--name," whispered Snape. "Do not say any word concerning those matters when you have no way to determine who might be listening. Yes, it belongs to that family."

He unwrapped his fingers from her face again, and she frowned, licking her lower lip and tasting blood. He'd been rough, and the dry skin had cracked painfully. "Are you going to read it?"

Instead of answering, he unrolled the parchment and squinted at it. A moment later, he stepped closer to one of the small circles of light cast by the lamps on the platform and held the parchment up.

"It says," he said, crumpling it up in his hand, "that our escape has been discovered, some--" he stopped for a moment, calculating "--three hours ago. The ... courier had difficulty locating us, but our helper's father is not pleased."

"It says all that? He must have tiny handwriting."

He raised one eyebrow. "Not in general, and not that it matters, but yes."

She wrapped her arms around herself to keep out the cold. There was scarcely an ounce of fat left on her body, and the chill seemed to be settling into the deepest parts of her body. She had a sudden, terrible thought about Dementors, and took a step closer to him. Hostile or not, Snape was better than nobody. "What are we going to do?"

"We are going to board the train and continue on to Oxford, and thence to Abingdon."

"It's a long walk."

"You are certain that their identities remain unknown?"

"I certainly haven't told anyone."

"That means very little, but it is something. I suggest that you telephone them to meet us at the station."

"I'll go now, then. There's just enough time, and it's better than waiting ages for them to get themselves into the car. Mum's late for everything."

0 0 0

It took her five minutes to call, by which time it was time to get on the train and continue the last leg of their journey. It was beginning to get late, and his energy was flagging, but his vigilance didn't slip as he guided her onto the train and into her seat. He doubted very much that they would be molested on a train full of Muggles, but if Lucius was Minister, it might well happen. Lucius was a consummate manipulator and planner, but he was not above the heavy-handed use of Obliviators if he had them at his disposal and really, really wanted what he was after.

And, although the Wizarding world at large believed that Lucius Malfoy had reformed, Severus Snape did not. This made Severus a prime target. The only thing that Death Eaters hated more than a turncoat was Harry Potter.

Granger's head drooped more than once as the train made its way to Oxford. It was a short journey, less than an hour, but Severus couldn't relax. He spent the better part of the trip looking over his shoulder and watching for Death Eaters, or Snatchers. The Snatchers had been Lucius's bloody stupid plan in the first place, and he would, no doubt, bring them back if given half a chance. Severus didn't consider them to be Lucius's best idea.

Hermione woke up when the train began to slow, shifting in her seat and running her fingers through her short, spiky hair. The action made it stand up on end again, which Severus felt made it look rather better.

She glanced in the window, running her fingers through her hair again. "It's--it's not bad," she ventured, her voice quavering slightly.

"Your enthusiasm overwhelms me."

"I've never had my hair so short before."

"Any idiot with a pair of scissors can cut hair."

"If your father was a barber, why do you keep your hair so--so--well, like it is?"

Had Severus been a hag, he would gladly have given her the Evil Eye. "I am not obligated to imitate my father in anything, Miss Granger, nor is it any of your business whether I do or not. I thought I had made this sufficiently clear already, but it is evident that I have not."

The train slowed until it came to a final, shuddering halt. Hermione ignored him in order to press her face to the glass--looking for her parents, he supposed.

"You will not be able to see them in the dark."

They stood up, and she went back to fiddling with her hair. "I just--I'm not so sure this was a good idea. I don't want to endanger them."

"You endanger them by being their daughter. Stop fidgeting."

She stopped touching her hair and wrung her hands nervously instead. Severus took her arm and led her off the train, his eyes scanning constantly for anything suspicious.

But, in spite of his fears, they made it safely to the platform. Hermione stood still, scanning the few, scattered groups of people that stood there, until, apparently, she saw the two she was looking for. He prepared to stop her from speaking if she should be so stupid as to address her parents as mother and father, but she didn't. Instead, she broke into a run, forcing him to run after her.

They stopped, both panting heavily, in front of a rather pleasant-looking middle-aged couple. The man was tallish, with glasses and rather large, very straight, very white teeth. The woman was somewhat thin, and reminded him inexplicably of Molly Weasley, although he could not identify any specific similarity between them, unless it was the determined set of her jaw. He did not need to ask who ran the Granger household. No wonder she found the Weasley family so endearing.

"Hello," said Hermione, when she had caught her breath.

"My God," said Mrs. Granger--no, what had she called them? Wilkins--"your hair."

"I'm sorry," said Granger, chagrined. "It wasn't my--there really wasn't a choice, you know. Oh! I need to introduce you. This is S--"

"Tobias," said Severus sharply, before she could get his name out. "Tobias Pince."

Her father's forehead creased thoughtfully. "Not related to that librarian, are you? Used to send letters to Herm--"

"Shut up," Granger hissed, her eyes going wide and fearful. At least she'd got the message.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We need to get to the car. It's too cold to stand here and chat. Helen is cold," said Severus, choosing a name off the top of his head and taking her arm, rather more solicitously than he had last time.

"Of course," said her mother, taking the hint. "I'm Monica, dear. Monica Wilkins. My husband is Wendell. So sorry that Her--Helen didn't make that clear. Social graces aren't exactly her strong point."

"Thanks," said Granger, rather petulantly.

"You're so skinny," said her mother. "What on earth have you been doing?"

Hermione didn't answer until they'd got into the car and were driving. "We've been in prison."

"Prison? You don't mean Ass--what was it?"

"Azkaban," said Severus, sniffing disdainfully. "And no, she doesn't. Prisoners of war."

The car ride continued as smooth as ever, but Wendell Wilkins's knuckles went very white around the steeling wheel as he gripped it harder.

"What exactly do you mean by that?" asked Monica, her voice rather too polite.

"Don't be thick, mum," said Hermione.

"Hermione Jean Granger, I am your mother--"

"And therefore you're capable of not being stupid. He means we were prisoners of war, just like he said."

Wendell checked the mirrors on the car. "Do you mean Death Eaters?"

Severus frowned. "Yes."

"I see. Incidentally, who are you, actually?" He saw Wendell's eyes in the mirror, looking at him. He wondered how much Granger had told her parents about her so-called exploits over the years. He imagined it must be quite a bit, given their blasé attitude about this latest one.

"He's Severus Snape," said Hermione at once. Severus winced. "He was my--"

"Potions teacher," interrupted her mother. "Yes, I remember. Bit uncreative to steal the librarian's name, I think." She twisted around in her seat to look back at Granger. "It really was the sweetest thing, you know. Only you would make such good friends with the school librarian that she'd write to you over the summer."

"Mum!"

"Oh I'm sure he knew about it. Teachers talk about that sort of thing, you� know."

"I didn't mean that."

"Well, it was uncreative. And Tobias is hardly a common name, if you didn't want to draw attention to it."

"Monica, really," said Wendell in a mild voice.

Severus looked from the father to the mother and back again. Amazing, really. It was like the Weasleys without the ridiculous ginger hair.

"Tobias is my first name," he said, not really sure why he was bothering to explain. "Severus is my middle name."

"Why don't you go by Tobias, then?"

Hermione slouched lower in her seat, covering her face with her arm. "Mum, please."

"It was also my father's name," he said, coldly.

"You wizards certainly do go in for unusual names, I've noticed. Well, not all of you--Harry and Ron are both quite sensible, and so are Arthur and Molly, for that matter. But really, that Headmaster for instance--Albus Dumbledore? What kind of a name is that?"

"Monica," said Wendell again, his tone firmer this time, "leave the man alone."

"I was only asking."

"Anyway," said Wendell, sounding falsely cheerful, "how long do you think you'll be staying?"

Severus scratched his beard and wondered idly if there was any way that Hermione and he could have picked up lice from one of the dirtier Death Eaters. "Indefinitely."

"Oh lovely," said Monica. "It's been ages since we've had Hermione home for any real length of time."

"Mum, dad," said Hermione quietly, "can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can, my love," said Wendell, turning the car onto a side street.

"Have you--have you heard from the Weasleys lately? Or anyone?"

"Not since we visited in the summer, darling, and got the house all set up. You know how those things go. People are busy with their own lives, and things get so hectic."

"Oh. I thought they might have let you know about--about me going missing."

Monica sniffed. "Our experience is that people never let us know you're in trouble until after the danger has passed."

"And you haven't heard anything about Ron or Harry?"

Wendell stopped the car in front of an empty lot. "Should we have? Severus--I hope you don't mind if I call you Severus, as we're going to be living together for a while--if you'll just read this, I'd be obliged."

He passed Severus a small piece of paper, the size of a business card, with an address written on it. As soon as he'd finished reading it, the lot changed before his eyes, until it held a modest house and garage, inside of which Wendell now parked the car.

"I--they told us that Ron and Harry are d-dead," said Granger in a very small voice. "I thought maybe if they were, someone would have maybe--perhaps they would have called or written or something."

"Oh, darling," said Monica. "I'm afraid we haven't heard a word. The Weasleys still haven't got a telephone, but we can write tonight. The local post is useless, but Molly told me that there's a Wizarding post exchange in Oxford, and we can have daddy go over first thing in the morning and owl."

"I'm afraid we can't," said Severus, closing the car door behind him as they all got out. "If Weasley really is dead, there is a good chance that the rest of the family has been killed as well, or else that they are being closely watched and monitored. To attempt to contact them would be to completely jeopardize the protection and anonymity that you have here. In fact, you should not even use the post exchange."

"Isn't there any way we can get news?" said Granger, dismayed.

"For the time being, it would be most unwise to contact anybody magical at all. That," he said coldly, "is the very definition of being in hiding, Miss Granger."

"Well then," said Wendell, his pleasant tone now sounding somewhat forced, "you must be quite tired. Let's go in and show you to your rooms, shall we? Yours is the same of course, Hermione. Severus, if you'll just follow me, it's up the stairs and first door on the left. Monica's just put fresh sheets on and laid out some towels for you." He led the way, showing Severus into the guest bedroom and gesturing vaguely around it. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you," said Severus stiffly, unsure of exactly what one said to the parents of an ex-student who were now offering to hide one from Death Eaters in their guest bedroom.

"We'll just leave you to get settled in," said Monica.

They shut the door, leaving him alone in the room. He heard footsteps, and then the opening and closing of a door. Granger's room, it appeared, was directly next to his.

He turned off the light and stretched out on the bed, more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling before. As he fell asleep, he heard a muffled noise of tears, and the gentle voices of Granger's parents, evidently making an effort to comfort and reassure their daughter.

His last conscious thought was that they were fools for thinking that such a thing was possible.