Lost Connection

Shafts of bright sunlight danced across her face as Hermione struggled to open her tired eyes. The events scheduled for the day scrolled across her mind, seemingly unending. With a groan, she pushed herself off the bed and into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes fervently, as though she were attempting to physically wipe away her exhaustion. Placing her bare feet on the plush rug that extended from underneath the four-poster bed, she glanced around the room slowly, gathering her wits about her.

Pansy, it seemed, was still sleeping; the soft murmur of snoring escaped from behind the bed curtains located directly across the room. Hermione broke into a small smile before she silently gathered fresh clothes and headed for her morning shower.

When Hermione returned, freshly cleaned and smelly faintly of cocoa butter, the room and its only other occupant remained unchanged. She gathered her purse, containing the necessary funds for the day's errands, and quietly left the room, but not before drawing the drapery closed around the windows to allow Pansy to continue to rest peacefully.

Hermione continued through the corridors and down several flights of stairs before reaching the Great Hall, where she took a seat briefly at the High Table and indulged in a quick breakfast of black tea and a honey-drizzled croissant. She failed to notice the distinct lacking presence of Professor Lupin, Professor Snape, or even the glaring absence of the Headmistress. With her mind focused fully on the upcoming events of the day, Hermione was even oblivious to Madam Pomfrey's abrupt, anxious appearance, speaking in hushed tones to Professors Flitwick and Sprout.

Normally, her curiosity would have drawn her into Pomfrey's conversation, but not even trivial gossip could catch her attention today. Setting off before her empty dishes had even had the chance to disappear, Hermione strolled through the Entrance Hall and past the heavy, battle-scarred doors, crossing the vast expanse of greenery that was Hogwarts' lawn, contentedly on her way to the Apparition point, then on to Diagon Alley to pick up the school-sanctioned supplies for the Potions classroom and adjacent private lab.

While weaving through the various streets of Diagon Alley, her feet taking her through the swiftest and most isolated paths that she had come to know by heart, she slipped in and out of the throng of other shoppers, her steps quick and light and always moving. She successfully ignored the pull of Flourish and Blotts, though it was no small feat.

Nevertheless, she finally acquiesced to popping in quickly to browse only after her official Hogwarts business was finished.

As she reluctantly passed the bookshop and continued on her path to the Apothecary, the signpost for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes caught her eye. What could it possibly hurt? As she strode towards the shop, she noticed a familiar, wispy figure standing just outside the building, idly staring through the large glass window.

"Luna?" asked Hermione as she parked herself next to her childhood friend.

"Hermione," Luna stated in a soft tone, never once looking in Hermione's direction.

Hermione turned her gaze to Luna's reflection in the vast window before them, attempting to discern whether the blonde witch's attention was held by the visible chaos occurring within the shop, or if she was merely staring at her own mirror-image. After a few beats of shared silence, Hermione offered, "Do you want to go inside?"

"Oh, no," said Luna with a serene smile. "But, thank you. I rather like watching the drama unfold from out here. That way, I can imagine the dialogue to be whatever I wish."

"Er... All right." They continued to gaze through the transparent glass in mutual silence as, inside, George and Ron scrambled around the ever-present cresting wave of customers.

After a moment, Luna piped up, saying, "He hates it here."

Taken aback, Hermione asked, "Who? Ron?"

"No, George."

"George? Why? Isn't this his dream?"

Luna's reflection shook her head. "It was, I think, when Fred was still alive. Now, Ronald has tried to take over the business bit of it, and they have a lot of arguments when they think no one is listening. I do believe George wants to just vanish from it all one day. Leave Ronald with everything and start new."

"Oh, I thought... I thought he was... I mean, he seemed so enthusiastic when Ron offered to help." But even as she said the words, Hermione realized that George did seem singularly unhappy, and his "enthusiasm" did seem to be a bit flat, in retrospect.

Luna merely shrugged.

"How's Neville?" asked the Gryffindor witch once the renewed silence started to feel a little awkward.

"Oh, he's all right." Luna pivoted gracefully to face Hermione. "And you? What is all this tension?" She waved her hand in Hermione's general direction.

"Tension? No, no tension, just... I guess this apprentice thing was harder than I imagined."

An unladylike snort erupted from the Ravenclaw's lips. "I don't believe you."

Hermione took on an affronted expression. However, before she could begin her retort, Luna continued, "You're an old soul, Hermione Granger."

"I...wait, what?"

Luna didn't offer an explanation, and Hermione was not surprised. "Isn't that what everyone says to everyone else? 'Oh, you're an old soul,' like it's supposed to explain everything." She couldn't hide the cynicism from her voice.

Another peaceful smile spread over the blonde witch's face, unfazed by neither the tone nor content of Hermione's statement. "I expect it's said a lot," said Luna, her gaze returning to their reflections, "as it's harder to find a young soul."

Against her best wishes, Hermione found herself drawn toward this new facet of the conversation. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"They aren't very common; it's rare to see even one in the span of just a lifetime."

Mentally kicking herself, Hermione asked, "And how can you tell which is a young soul?"

Luna's eyes met mirror-Hermione's. "There are many stages, of course, just as in a lifetime, there are varying ages of people who you encounter. All are not classified just as a child or an elderly adult," she said in a professorial tone, though it did not seem condescending, but rather kind and soft. "Your soul, for instance, is younger than my own." She stated it in a way that did not leave Hermione feeling childish or disdainful, but surprisingly interested. "As Professor Dumbledore's is older than the Headmistress', just as yours is older than, say," she paused, momentarily, as though searching for an example, "Professor Lupin's."

"But how do you know that?"

"Younger souls tend to make greater mistakes in their lifetime," Luna declared simply, as though it needed no further explanation.

"What was Professor Lupin's mistake?"

"He's backtracking now, trying to replay his greatest regrets in order to smooth them over. But that isn't how it works, and you know that, just as I do."

Hermione rather thought Luna's reasoning was growing more cryptic, but she could not resist asking further questions. "So, the older a soul is, the less mistakes we make in life?"

"In a way, I suppose. The older our souls are, the greater the knowledge and understanding we have of how things flow. The mistakes we do make are small and insignificant, in the larger picture. The younger the soul is, the more catastrophic and chaotic the life, as they appear to just stumble through it. Much like a toddler, I guess."

"And so Remus, after making some mistakes, is trying to right them, and that makes him younger than me?"

Luna slid a penetrating gaze toward Hermione, oblivious to any intentional or unintentional sarcasm and doubt. "In a way."

"So, then, Tom Riddle would be a young soul, by your definition?"

"No." Luna's voice had become more dream-like, high and lilting and weightless.

"No?"

"No, he wouldn't say he made many mistakes. His soul was a corrupt thing, and I think it's obvious he had no major regrets."

"Other than not achieving immortality."

"Of course."

"So... then Professor Snape would be a young soul?"

Luna immediately turned to face Hermione, her bright blue eyes alight with excitement, her face positively beaming with pride, as though Hermione had just discovered that the Earth was, indeed, round. "He's the only young soul I've seen, at least in this lifetime." Her eyes grew slightly larger as she stared off blankly into the distance just above Hermione's left shoulder. "I bet this is a strange world to him."

"Er... right." It was all Hermione could think to say.

Luna's eyes gradually became clearer as she returned her attention to her former classmate. "He's lucky to have you to show him the way."

Hermione blinked, utterly speechless. Her throat felt constricted and dry, and she found she could not hold Luna's gaze for a second longer. "Right," she croaked as soon as she could regain control over her vocal chords. "Right. I have to...I mean, I came to see..."

Luna leaned forward slightly and smiled conspiratorially at the flabbergasted witch before placing her hand consolingly on Hermione's left shoulder. "I'm sure Ron will be pleased to see you."

Hermione waved goodbye before dashing into the shop, putting as much distance between herself and the intrinsically perceptive Ravenclaw as humanly possible.

***

Pansy Malfoy sat in deep contemplation upon the crimson duvet, the articles of the hidden shoe box now lay in disarray before her. When she had first awakened, now three hours earlier, she had spent a good twenty minutes thoroughly reprimanding herself for the gluttony of rest she had enjoyed. Once finished, she searched the room for any hint of her new roommate, anxiety warring with relief that the witch in question had clearly exited some time before.

As it was far past the breakfast hour, and lunch had been a distant four hours away, Pansy had decided the security of her present isolation would be ideal for her to return to her correspondence. And now, three hours later, a parchment lay neatly before her, its siblings now littering the bed in a mass of crumpled forms, evidence of several attempts to convey her message in the most neutral way possible. A rare technique of using statements and facts without leaking subliminal or subconscious material from the writer must be employed when one is a Slytherin. Even more so when one is communicating with another Slytherin, where all sequences of letters and words instantly become transparent and telling, and when any and all dialogue could be twisted to suit an unknown, and often unintentional, purpose.

It was both psychologically and physiologically draining, and more than once Pansy had wished she had been sorted into Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, where language was just that: language. No hidden meanings, no accidental leaking of one's true thoughts or loyalties spilling forth onto a physical sheet of parchment that could be kept, read, used in the present or future to hold her accountable for something she never intended to share. How she envied her brash roommate in this sense. How she wanted to write simply what was on her mind without the need for subtlety, without the necessity of defining each word separately before committing it to eternity in unforgiving ink. The wrong synonym and all her work up to now could disintegrate before her very eyes. She could be revealed, exposed, by simply arranging letters to form a single, thoughtless, utterly insignificant word that would broadcast (to any self-respecting Slytherin) her raw emotions.

She reread the letter for the ninth time, reassuring herself that it was completely devoid of any unwittingly informative factors. Satisfied that the message had a flat effect, lacking in any suggestive material or personal voice, she sealed it magically, being careful to include a faded Muggle newsprint clipping which cried in big, block lettering "Newly Orphaned Boy Survives Murder-Suicide Tragedy" underneath a still, faded photograph of a young Severus Snape, no more than twelve years old.

Pansy had read and reread the article in rapt attention, its contents describing a suspicious encounter between Snape's father and mother – the mother, Eileen Prince, beaten violently to death by one Tobias Snape, and his death following mere moments later by a knife wound to the chest. The paper had deemed it a suicide, but as Pansy stared into the dead eyes of the child in the photograph, she had a strong feeling that it would be far too convenient for the murdering bastard to stab himself in the heart. Far too suspect to believe that, as the newspaper claimed, a self-righteous fuckwit that routinely beat his wife within an inch of her life would, inexplicably, be too overcome with remorse at her subsequent death (by his own hands) to continue living. Not when the paper reported a nauseating amount of both fresh and long-ago acquired wounds on the child as well: broken bones that had failed to heal properly, horribly infected cuts lining the young boy's body, as well as fresh, gaping, blood-gushing wounds inflicted by the same smooth, razor-sharp blade that served as the father's weapon of choice for his assumed "suicide." No, a man that monstrous, that evil (and here, in her mind, she did not want to mince words), would never have taken his own life, just as Voldemort himself would never have entertained such a notion.

As she stared into the child Snape's cold eyes, and the tiny smile playing on the edge of his lips, she knew, knew he had taken his father's life that night. And the Muggles surrounding him, the authorities and the press, were all fooled. He was just a boy, after all, and who could think such a small, thin, scrawny thing could be responsible for extinguishing a life, even if it had been (and she believed with all her heart that it had been) a form of self-defense? Or an act of vengeance against the sudden demise of his mother?

She felt an odd surge of pride, a new-level of respect for the man she knew today, surpassing even her existing wealth of respect, as well as a surprising need to protect the boy that appeared so fragile, so confident in his own perception that he was beyond help, beyond saving, that boy that gave her a hint of a smile in the photograph. A smile that seemed even slightly forced, the more she stared at it, as though he was playing at the idea of becoming a sadistic sociopath, but lacked the ability to truly shut out the fear and remorse that clearly showed in his expression. The upward tilt of his brow, the hardening of the jaw that would otherwise be soft and relaxed on the face of an unfeeling murderer.

Just a boy, trying to isolate himself from all emotion, attempting to alienate those around him – a talent he later honed to an adept skill.

Could Muggles really be this blind? Could they not see the need this child had for support? Could they really just leave him, without a care, into the "trusting hands of an elderly grandfather with the surname Dumbledore"? Did they not even attempt any sort of research of his existing family? Did they never come to check on him, later?

And did Snape really live at Hogwarts, under the cold, appraising eye of the late Headmaster? Or did Dumbledore leave him to his own devices, washing his hands of the boy early on? Dumbledore, a Gryffindor through and through, only served to fuel the division between the Houses; at least, he was the major factor that caused herself and her fellow Slytherins to perceive that Gryffindor House contained nothing but a ragtag group of individuals who would do anything to be awarded with praise, even if it meant sending their own to become meaningless casualties in wars that they had created and spun to the public so that they always landed on top.

But then, the Slytherins had flaws as well, and Pansy struggled with accepting the fact that not all Gryffindors are carbon copies of Dumbledore, even if they did follow him in blind faith, just as not all Slytherins were mirror images of Voldemort, even if some followed him in blind faith.

Pansy never bought the ridiculous propaganda that Voldemort spewed forth, and she knew she was not the only one. However, existing within a House full of influential children of highly dangerous and unhinged Death Eaters, she, like Snape, had to play the part to survive and ensure her family's survival. And she played it well.

Her life lessons were simple to understand: never trust anyone, never speak until every word and possible construed context had been thought out beforehand, and avoid Gryffindors at all costs, especially the ones wielding power.

She really wished she had been sorted into Ravenclaw.

Though, she had to admit, even reluctantly, that Hermione had surprised her, had seemed (so far, her mind quickly supplied) to transcend the stereotype, had even begun to question her faith in Albus Dumbledore himself. So, perhaps, this feminine member of the 'Golden Trio' did not trot along faithfully behind the other members of her pride. Maybe, in fact, she could see the farce for what it was, even if in retrospect, and was able to stand up as an individual. And maybe, just maybe, she could see through the role Pansy had been forced to play, was still forced to play, and could become a strong ally in the near future.

Pansy dearly hoped so.

Until then, Pansy quickly cleaned up the bed and replaced the cardboard box in its cubbyhole in the worn wardrobe, pausing only to give one final glance around the room to assure herself that no remnant of her impending subterfuge was left carelessly behind. She then strolled through the thick door, her feet almost subconsciously leading her to the Owlery.

***

Dead, yellow grass crunched under the weight of her footfalls as she made her way across a small lawn toward the little house she had hoped to never again see in her lifetime.

Unexpectedly finding herself on the eroding porch, she straightened her robes before beginning a brusque knock, praying to the gods that be that she would not find him here.

Here. Surely he wouldn't still live here? What obscene level of self-hatred and self-disgust would drive a man to live here, after all these years?

There was no response.

A heavy burden shifted its weight on her shoulders, feeling a bit lighter. No, he wouldn't live here, of course not.

But she knocked again, just to be certain.

And closed her eyes.

Because she knew he was here.

Because she knew he'd come back here.

Because she knew he'd live here, of all places.

Because she knew she couldn't look him in the eye, not even when she heard the obnoxiously slow creaking noise that signalled the opening of this door. This daunting, unforgiving door; this thick piece of wood that mocked her, judged her, reflected back to her all the past monumental mistakes made when she stood before it those handful of times, so long ago. She had nothing new to present to it, could reveal no fresh evidence to exonerate her for her past crimes, and deep inside she felt she deserved its harsh judgement, deserved his harsh judgement...

But she couldn't face it.

And when his voice finally penetrated her thoughts, she heard not the gruff tone simmering with rage, but only a shaky, plaintive pleading as he said, "McGonagall?"

She shook her head, and though her eyes were squeezed as tightly shut as possible, she covered them with her left hand, as though it were an additional layer of protection. "No," she whispered to no one in particular. Both hands now shielded her face as her body began to tremble.

His caustic tone was now laced with concern when he repeated her name, but to her ears she only heard a small boy's voice, high-pitched and taut like a wire, calling out for her, begging her. She was oblivious to the fact that she was physically sinking, slumping.

But she felt his arms, the twin powerful forearms that hooked underneath her shoulders and held her even as her body seemed to become liquid, lacking any strength to become anything but a limp mass of useless muscles.

She struggled, slightly, while within his grasp as he delicately pulled her inside.

Silent sobs wracked her slender frame as he helped her to sit upright on the deteriorating settee. Tears fell at an increasing pace, littering her robes with splotchy wetness, as he slowly backed away, his hands still stretched out as if to catch her if she abruptly fell.

Still, she did not open her eyes.

Deeply human sounds were wrenched from her pursed lips, intent on escaping. He didn't know what to do, so he only stared at her, wishing to feel as he usually did in such a scene – removed, distant, aloof. Instead he felt overwhelming waves of concern, of fear, and a strange pain deep within his chest and abdomen that grew each time she made those odd noises. Like tiny screams of pain and grief that were muffled, swallowed, and then regurgitated; sounds that were too powerful to be silenced.

He sunk to his knees on the worn carpet, his hands resting on either side of her atop the cushions of the settee. He navigated his way closer to her, his head turned up as he attempted to catch a glimpse of her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her face, anything.

Her own head slowly descended, until, forehead against forehead, she let her hands drop onto her lap and then...

...weary, waterlogged, russet-colored eyes locked with his own.

Streams of warm tears forged a new trail as they trickled from her cheek onto his own; though neither noticed.

Her cracked, pale lips mouthed the words, "I'm sorry."

Their mutual gaze did not waver.

She repeated the words, this time with sound.

Neither blinked.

He didn't respond. He had no inkling of what to say, what to do, or if he even could say or do anything in that span of timeless moments that strung together, stretching out between them in silence.

Some time later, though it could have been seconds or hours for all they knew, she said, brokenly, "I'm so sorry, Severus." She drew in a shuddering breath, but did not break eye contact. "I was blind. And, and I think...no, I know that I chose to be blind."

He swallowed. Loudly.

"It's, it's probably of no real significance to you now, but I want you to..." another deep, gulping breath, "...to see that I can see now. I can, I do truly see." Her bottom lip quivered. "This is not about pity!" she cried out in terror as she watched his eyelids slowly descend. Closing her out.

In a much calmer tone, she pressed on. "It's about my mistakes. It's about me, begging you, if not for forgiveness then for you to know that, that I, that I..." She stuttered before cutting herself off momentarily. She desperately wanted to look away, to pull away, to run away, but she fought against these instincts, feeling as though he at the very, very least deserved to watch her suffer through this. She owed him that, and so much more.

Pressing her palms gently against his cold cheeks, she flashed him a weak smile as his eyelids once again raised, and those dark eyes were once again locked with her own. "I need you to look at me when I say this, Severus," she whispered softly.

"It's too late for this," he hissed, though his tone lacked any venom. He tried to pull away but she held him firmly, unrelenting.

"No," she replied, her voice strengthening, yet her tone still consoling. "I wasn't there for you..." She stopped abruptly at the sight of his upper lip curling into a warning sneer, but then pushed on, "I deserve whatever you want to say, whatever you want to do, because although I always thought of you as the son I never had, I behaved like the most atrocious mother. I pushed you away, I looked the other way, I, I abandoned you, Severus." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes as her face grotesquely contorted in the universal shape of one trying desperately not to cry.

His nose and brow scrunched up in disdain. "What do you want from me, then? Acknowledgement of your disgusting display of self-pity? Or for me to just forgive you? Why would I forgive you..."

"Severus," she pleaded.

"Let me finish," he hissed. "Why would I forgive you? For what reason do you need forgiveness?"

Minerva's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "For, for aband..."

"Oh, right, for 'abandoning' me," he spat out in derision. "How do you abandon someone who never sought your help in the first place?"

Her lips parted as though about to speak, but he continued, effectively cutting her off. "How do you abandon someone who never needed you? Never wanted you? Never asked you for help? Never believed you capable enough to help?"

"What are you saying?" she whispered in a fragile, beseeching tone.

Now it was his hands snaking up around her, gripping her face tightly, pulling her head forward even more, until they were touching nose to nose. His voice was even, steady, and viciously cold and mocking as he stated, "What I'm saying, Professor McGonagall, is this: I never needed you. I never wanted your help. I never saw you as anything other than what you are: a weak, easily manipulated, emotionally-driven whore of Dumbledore." His breath felt like ice on her face.

He broke away from her then, roughly.

She shook her head again, sadly, and when she spoke next, it was with tenderness so sincere, concern so authentic, that her words penetrated Severus' emotional armor with ease. "Young man, I know this game, this skillful evasion tactic of yours, far better than you give me credit for. You think by hurling obscene words at me, I will give up? No, look at me, Severus. You can't force me to hate you."

He interrupted, petulantly, with: "No? You seemed to have no qualms hating me for murdering..."

She winced at the memory, but quickly recovered. "Let me finish?" she asked with a smile, easily parroting his words from earlier. When he made no reply, she continued, "I never hated you, Severus, though I will never doubt that it may have seemed that way. When I looked at you, during that year and the dark year yet ahead, I hated myself, for the exact reasons I've already outlined."

He laughed bitterly. "You think you were such an important factor in my life that you alone shaped the man you believed I had become?"

"No," McGonagall said solemnly, her fiercely bright eyes watching him intently. "No, I did not hate myself because I thought I was so important to you that I caused you to take that Mark. I hated myself because I wasn't important to you, because I never attempted to have any major role in your life, though I wanted to. It was only my own selfishness and pride that kept me just in the peripheral of your life. And I hate myself for doubting you, because I did. I doubted you as a boy, as just a child, pleading your case before myself and Albus when you were assigned to detentions for crimes I now know you were not a part of. Every time I doubted you, every single time, I came face to face with the consequences – of which I deserved – of not believing in you. But I didn't learn from that, I ignored it, and found reason to doubt you again.

"From your first day in school when I doubted your intelligence in my class and believed false accusations claiming you cheated, to the year after Albus' death, when I doubted that you were capable of love, of caring, of justice. When I doubted you could ever have been on our side. And even the in the aftermath of the war, when I doubted your strength and power of will to ever survive. But you did. And every time you proved your intense loyalty, your passionate veracity, your inherent Light that shines so blindingly bright, it casts pale shadows over all the others I had ever perceived as heroes – every time, Severus, I would stand in awe, as though it surprised me. And every time, I would look at you and simultaneously feel a love and respect for you that surpassed far beyond anything I had ever felt before, and a deep, biting hatred for myself, that I should ever allow myself to be surprised at your bravery, your loyalty, your honesty. It was always there, for me to see, but I refused to look. Time and again, I refused. So, let me tell you once more, young man, I never detested you. Even when I doubted you the most, I couldn't find it within me to hate you. All that abhorrence, all of that revulsion is, and has always been, reserved only for myself."

He stared at her, and for a single moment, his expression was open and registering both shock and disbelief at her words. But in a blink of an eye, his features returned to the familiar blank, inscrutable mask that revealed no thought or emotion.

McGonagall, however, did not fail to notice the subtle clues that had flashed across his face, indicating his reaction to her words. "Severus, I cannot change the past, I can only show to you my overwhelming remorse that I will always feel, will always live with, and it is a burden that I have and will carry without complaint. Please understand that I know nothing I do now will ever, ever change or make up for what I have done. I will never attempt to 'make it right' and think that somehow it would erase the damage that has already been done. I can't ignore or forget my past actions, and I would never expect you to." She slowly rose to her feet and closed the distance between herself and Snape, carefully and with measured, gradual movements, so as not to startle him, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling his body stiffen and tense under her embrace.

"I'm not really asking for forgiveness," Minerva whispered into his ear, "I don't think I can ask for that as I'm not even willing to forgive myself, but I am trying to tell you that I am deeply regretful, and that I've always loved you. A love that has only grown deeper over the years, despite how I've behaved." She felt the familiar sting of oncoming tears but refused to allow them to stop her. "I love you, Severus Snape, and nothing will ever change that, least of all you."

She stood on her tiptoes and pulled him downward to allow her access to his forehead, where she placed a motherly kiss. She reluctantly released him, looking up into his eyes for the slightest hint of emotion, but he revealed nothing.

Undeterred, she smiled weakly and started off toward the door, pausing only once she reached her destination to turn to face him. He was still in the same position, the same location, as she left him, staring into the space she had recently occupied. "Severus?" she asked.

His head slowly turned in her direction, his expression still unreadable.

"I'm going to be checking on you during this time of forced holiday, and before you start debating me on that point, it's not negotiable, and I'll be checking on Remus as well. If I am unable to pull away from Hogwarts, I will send one of your apprentices here in my stead. I assume that by the appearance of several cauldrons currently weighing down your kitchen table, you are refusing to rest as I requested. So, should you need any supplies from your lab at the school, feel free to ask – and I mean ask – your apprentices to retrieve the items for you." She shot him a look that openly dared him to refute her. When his only response was a petulant mumbling under his breath, she couldn't hide her approving smile. "And should you need anything else, anything, Severus, please contact me."

And then she was out the door, leaving him feeling slightly violated, a bit angry, a small part vindicated, and completely, utterly confused.

Author's Note – Huge, huge thank yous to two outstanding betas that stepped up to help me with this: sbrande and shellsnapeluver! Without you two, this chapter would still be a lumpy, icky mess of bad grammar and punctuation, topped with a big, stinky pile of "suddenly"s. I cannot thank you enough!

And to the readers – thank you so, so much for sticking with this story! Chapter twenty is being written now, so it should be updated within the next few weeks... *and*... there will finally be some real lemons! I promise it will be worth the wait!