Chapter Four

To say that their working relationship was an instant success would be a lie; she found his sometimes terse instructions to be bordering on rude, and he, in turn, found her incessant questions to be distracting. After six hours, two coffee breaks, a quiet lunch and an even more dire early evening, they had decided that enough was enough for the day. They drank their tea in an uncomfortable silence, and each pondered how the other should improve their behaviour.

"What we need is some structure for the day."

Hermione glanced up from her intense study of the pattern in the wood grain on the table and waited for Snape to continue.

"I am not used to working with anyone during research, and I do not expect to have to explain my every instruction while you assist me, but," he added when her face darkened, "I appreciate that you cannot assist me fully without knowing what it is that we are trying to achieve."

Hermione relaxed and took another sip of tea.

"With that view, I cannot deviate from my own methods, but in an evening we will discuss what we have done in the day, and if any questions present themselves during the actual brewing, then you will have to exercise patience and ask them during a potion-limited step."

"Potion-limited step?" she repeated, her brow furrowing. She lowered the mug and leant forwards, her interest smothering her frustrations.

"Some potions require either a certain amount of time to mature or for a particular ingredient to settle within it before the next step can take place; in other words you have to wait. The overall brewing time is limited by one or more steps in the potion-making process."

"I've never come across that term."

"It would have been covered in the first term of your NEWT level potions, along with the deeper intricacies of potion-brewing," Snape said while watching her face blossom as her interest waxed; it was unnerving to have her sitting so close and loving a passion that stirred him...it felt wrong in some way.

"You sound a bit dismissive of the syllabus, sir."

And that was that! Instead of practicing the restraint that he had hoped to maintain, he launched into a two-hour discussion on the mysticism behind the ingredients themselves. Talked about how the choices of ingredient were much more subtle than just chucking in something with the required property, and that the better potion masters knew how to get the very best out of a potion by selecting the best for the whole potion and the sum of its parts. It quite escaped his notice that she had moved closer and that they were exchanging keen and witty talk, and he remained oblivious to her sparkling eyes and her sweetly parted lips as she drank in his words. Indeed, it came as quite a shock when she left to make some dinner that he realised that he had enjoyed her company.

Hermione peeled the potatoes; she had never really considered the humble potato before, but as the smooth, creamy-white tuber sat in the palm of her hand, she found herself using it as a case in study. Would a different potato make a better mash? Hadn't she heard that Maris Pipers made better chips? Could she make a better meal by selecting the better ingredient? Was the right selection the difference between food being from your home or from a Michelin star restaurant? She had spent the best part of her academic life reading and learning, but she had never appreciated her education before... used that gained knowledge and put it all together. Herbology had been loosely related to potions as far as she had seen it, but the nature and care of the plants had seemed so superfluous, and the final product was what had truly mattered. She grinned at the irony that Neville Longbottom would be a better theoretical potion master than she. She dropped the potato in the pan and picked up another.

She had always known that Snape was intelligent, and Sirius had once confirmed as much, but she had never realised the depth of his knowledge or its breadth, or that the wit he had aimed at her and her friends to wound was so capable of making her laugh with delight. He had come alive during their talk; his eyes had glittered and his cheeks had flushed with colour, so much like that little boy talking excitedly to Lily in his Pensieve. The peeler slipped and grazed across her knuckle, and the sharp pain derailed her train of thought. She brought her thumb to her lips and sucked on the bloodied knuckle. Finishing the prep work, she placed the vegetables in the steamer and switched it on. After a few moments a scratching at the window finally caught her attention, and she saw an owl, looking affronted as it sat on the dark window-sill.

She hastily rinsed and dried her hands and opened the back door. The owl launched from its precarious perch and glided in through the doorway to land on the back of a chair. She didn't recognise the elegant bird as it turned wide, unblinking eyes upon her, and she approached it with something akin to trepidation. From the pouch attached to its leg, she withdrew a cream envelope, and then, as an afterthought, she dashed over to the cupboard and pulled out the first thing that could constitute a treat...some of Crookshank's cat treats. The fishy smell was slightly overpowering as she opened up the small bag, but the owl didn't seem to care and gobbled down the offered handful before silently leaving.

Puzzled, she shut the door behind it and sauntered over to the table. The envelope was blank, so the bird belonged to someone she knew rather than a Ministry owl, and she slowly slipped a fingertip under the sealed edge. She let out a sigh when she recognised the handwriting, and a smile curved her lips, but as she read, her smile slipped and hot tears slid down her cheeks.

Hermione,

Harry

Her hand clenched around the pale paper, screwing it up into some distorted flower, and she felt each sentence slash at her. What was she to them? Nothing more than a walking answer to a problem they couldn't be bothered to solve for themselves. So nice of them to wonder how she was coping: how wonderful that they hadn't realised that just as she hadn't gotten in touch with them before now, so neither had they! If Ron was so concerned about her being and coping alone while he was surrounded by the Weasley clan, then he'd made a valiant effort to make sure that she was okay. And to be used as a convenient babysitter so that Harry could dispense with his duty was just the icing on the cake. After the pain, the anger surged up and flooded her, and it was so easy to become that white-hot creature; it scorched away all other feelings, fears and doubts.

It rampaged through her, ravaging her memories of her times with Harry and Ron, and as it shone brightly within her, she saw those moments in a different light. Had they ever truly cared for her, or for what she knew and could do? Even now, they sought her out to ease their woes while negating her own with the simple idea that she had always been there to help them. Her face felt hot and itched from the drying tears. Oh! She felt that she was burning! The heat was rushing through her; it flickered beneath her skin and made her heart beat unnaturally fast. It was... too... much! And it was so... remarkably... easy.

The letter erupted into flame in her clenched fingers, and the tiles beneath her feet cracked as though punched by some terrific fist. Her hair lifted from her shoulders, and static electricity crackled within the wafting strands. The steamer suddenly let out a pained scream of a whistle, and super-heated steam erupted from it, sending chopped, scalded vegetables hurtling through the air. Water gushed from under the door of the freezer only to evaporate noisily as it rushed towards her, and the fresh herbs in their little pots in the window withered and dried.

Snape had felt it in the front room, and if that magical surge hadn't made itself known then the rolling wall of heat that had hit him would have. He carefully moved into the kitchen; his skin felt as though it singed, prickling almost painfully, and his eyes watered as the heat haze attacked them. She was standing in the centre of the kitchen, her form blurred and almost lost in the mirage-like effect of her charm. He was astounded at what she was unleashing, and not so much the power behind it, but her control of it. Fear fluttered in his chest. This was no expected consequence of trauma; it was something else, something darker and far more terrifying than her lapses into fugues. If he had had the vocabulary, he may have been tempted to use the word psychotic.

"Miss Granger," he shouted, shielding his eyes and regretting the hot inhale required to make his plea. Grimacing and forced to take a few steps back, he pondered his position and realised that he had no position. Lifting his wand, he aimed it at her back, and praying to all known wizards, gods and lesser deities, he cast his spell.

"Stupefy!"

The heat disappeared as soon as she crumpled to the floor, and the loss of water from the freezer slowed to a trickle. He licked his lips and strode over to her; the tiles felt far too warm beneath the slippers he had borrowed. Kneeling next to her, he examined her peaceful and flushed face; tears that had dried preternaturally fast had left silvery tracks down her cheeks. He carefully lifted an eyelid and felt nauseous when her bloodshot orb rolled grotesquely in its socket. He collapsed against the base units, a cupboard handle digging into his shoulder blade, and he ran a trembling hand down his tingling face. This went far and above anything he was capable of handling; it was insane to think that he could help her.

oooXooo

The steady motion of the knife slicing through the shrivelfig soothed him, and he watched with intense focus how the slices, so thin as to be almost transparent, slid up the glistening blade and then limply clung to it before he gently pulled them away and laid them upon the wire rack to dry. Since putting Hermione to bed and assuring himself that she was merely sleeping, he had worked; he had attacked the task of creating usable stock with a vengeance, and after a few hours, he had enough supplies to last them the month. Bushels of drying roots and leaves hung from the exposed lathes, and various things were pickling in glass jars. It was an old habit to work until exhaustion gripped him and gave him no recourse but to sleep, and he had never needed old habits so much. The young witch had more than unnerved him, and it was only the careful and precise damage inflicted upon the kitchen that had stopped him from calling for help and fleeing.

He had spent some of the evening pondering the charred remains in her fingers, but no spell would ever repair that level of damage, and he suspected that it had sparked her outrage. He couldn't help but think that it had something to do with Potter...old habits die hard. The last slice of shrivelfig was set to dry, and the slim piece that was left, along with the stalk, was dropped into the bin beneath the bench. Straightening and wincing as his muscles protested, he cast a cleaning charm over the chopping board and knife, and then he protected the slivers of shrivlefig from contamination with a localised shielding charm. With gritty eyes that ached and arms that felt weighted with fatigue, he switched off the lamps and illuminated his way out of the attic. Work was a good balm for a restless mind, and as he slipped into the bathroom to do his bedtime ritual, he wondered if he could hold onto the mental numbness and fall asleep.

He hung his jacket up and folded his trousers neatly, and then after slipping on the borrowed pyjamas, he slid under the cool covers. His room at Hogwarts had been underground and the light within it had been magical, and once that light had been extinguished, the room had been swallowed in shadow. Here, the walls were bathed in an orange glow from the streetlamp outside the window, and the headlamps from passing cars sent row after row of marching lights across the room. He couldn't decide whether it was fascinating or annoying.

Sleep must have overtaken him at some point because he was later woken by a strange sensation. It had nagged at him for a while, and as his eyes blinked open, his mind had reeled in shock; he realised that the strange sensation was a warm body curled up against him. Grabbling for his wand, he sat bolt upright and aimed the lit tip at the slumbering woman next to him. She was lying in a ball; her hands were held palms together and under her cheek, and her knees rested against her elbows. The copious hair spilt over the mattress in soft waves, and she didn't so much as wear the oversized, lilac fleece pyjamas as be swamped in them. He closed his eyes, and once the shock dispersed, frustration settled in; he clenched his jaw and felt his teeth grind in their sockets.

She floated down the hallway; the spell he used was more sophisticated than the one Black had used to move him from the Shrieking Shack all those years ago, and as such, she was still sleeping peacefully in her curled-up pose. Having no experience in tucking people in, he carefully placed her upon the twisted sheets and pulled the duvet up and under her chin. Satisfied that she was settled and not about to launch herself back into his bed, he padded off, exhaustion haunting him until the last few steps were such a strain that he was asleep before he hit the mattress.

Sleep didn't hold him in her embrace for long before he felt the bed dip; sighing, he lumbered out of bed and, muttering under his breath, he carried her back to her bed. Contemplating placing her under some kind of bind, he looked down upon her. It was obvious from the sheets that she had experienced some night terrors, but he wasn't prepared to put up with nightly incursions. In the morning, he would make some Sleep-ease potion. As a precaution, he charmed his door locked. He never noticed in his fatigue how his hand sneaked out across the cooling sheets, seeking the warmth of her absent form.

oooXooo

Breakfast was subdued; neither spoke as they ate toast and drank coffee, and it seemed that Hermione was intently focused on some inner turmoil, and everything she did, from biting and chewing to swallowing and breathing, was done slowly and with the utmost care. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes that hardly glanced across at him declared her lack of sleep and her exhaustion; her gaze hovered between plate, mug and tabletop. He knew that he was being unfair, but he wanted her to be that annoying little know-it-all; he wanted her to be the unquenchable thirst for an answer. He knew how to deal with that.

"I was thinking that sorting through the buffer ingredients would be the best course of action for the day," he said, hoping to draw her out.

For her part, she nodded almost absentmindedly, and then her brow furrowed. "There were four buffer ingredients, but I could only see the need for two based on the ingredients." Her brown eyes looked up at him, and then with a flush, she looked down to study his chin. "I don't think that I quite followed what you were saying last night about the... spirit... of the ingredient affecting the whole resulting potion."

Swallowing his mouthful of coffee, he nodded slowly and placed the mug on the table. "It's a difficult concept, and I admit that a certain element of faith must be adopted. It can be a very personal and instinctive process, and acquiring that faith, even with the lack of knowledge, can mean the difference between being a Brewer and a Master."

"Are you a Master?" she asked softly.

"Technically, no," he replied curtly.

She frowned and sipped her coffee, as if bolstering her courage. "But you brewed the Wolfsbane Potion."

His lips quirked up in a smile, and it threatened to evolve into a feral grin as he saw her blush and glance away. Controlling his errant humour, he dropped the nibbled piece of toast on his plate and wiped the crumbs off his fingers. "A most complex potion," he said thoughtfully, "and one well outside the grasp of many potion brewers. It was both draining and exhilarating to brew. There are institutes of learning beyond the three main schools of witchcraft, and within those exalted walls, you may develop the skills and talents to gain that honour of being called a Master. My duties did not allow for me to attend such prestigious places, and as such, I am a mere, lowly teacher."

Hermione hastily gulped down her coffee and then smiled shyly at his self-deprecation.

"Would you like to learn how to brew the Wolfsbane Potion?" he queried. "I daresay that Lupin and a few others would benefit from having a reasonable brewer close at hand."

He let out a chuckle at her choking gasp as she struggled to drink and answer him. After some spluttering, she gave a small laugh and agreed. He nodded gallantly and felt relieved that some of the colour and life had returned to her face.

oooXooo

She was a bundle of nerves and excitement, almost vibrating with academic alertness as she stood by the potions bench. While she had cleaned away the breakfast dishes, he had written the ingredients and procedure onto a piece of paper. That piece of paper was now the target of her intense focus.

"Everything that you need is in front of you; there are three potion-limited steps, and if you have any queries, you may ask then. Even without the first year of your NEWTs, the potion should be within your technical grasp, and we will see if what you've learnt to date has been retained." He glanced at the clock affixed to the wall straight ahead. "Read through the procedure carefully; take the time to set the potion in your mind and to determine how long you will need for each step. Look for the limited steps and work around them; use your time wisely." As he had spoken, her face had fallen from expectant glee to confused panic. "Relax, but keep focused." He handed her the paper. "You will work in this cauldron," he said, indicating the silver cauldron on the far left. "And I will be working in the centre cauldron."

While he heated some pure water, he watched her study the notes with great care, and as she became absorbed in her task, she relaxed into it. Several times, he thought that she inhaled sharply to ask a question, but when he glanced towards her, she was bent over the cauldron and notes with a serene expression upon her flushed face, and her eyes glittered as she worked the complex potion. He had no doubt that she would do well with the potion, even if the potion would be less effective, and he enjoyed the quiet solicitude with which she worked.

The Sleep-ease potion was complete, and he was busy siphoning off doses when he heard a frustrated sigh.

"It should be dark green," she mumbled dejectedly. She collapsed upon the stool and studied the handwritten notes fiercely. The last vial was filled and a bung rammed in the top; wiping his hands, he turned to her.

"A slight value variation is permissible." He placed the vial in the rack and peered down into her cauldron. "Ah!" he exclaimed softly while she cringed and nibbled her lip. "However, a hue variation is not... although it is a rather nice shade of purple."

And so the day continued. They worked and shared, talked and laughed. Hermione felt as though she was finally home, and Snape felt more at ease than he had in decades. After a few hours, Hermione learnt to follow instructions without the need to question; instead, she summoned up her own vast knowledge and tried to work out her own answers, and for the most part, she was successful. In turn, Snape became less taciturn and brusque, and he explained more about each step in the method. So it was that at nine in the evening, while the stars glittered down, they finally cleaned away the unused ingredients, scoured out the cauldrons and left the attic for the comfort of the front room and a cup of tea.

However, as the night wore on, Snape noticed that Hermione became more withdrawn, and that haunted expression ghosted back across her features. He had had little in the way of support from his peers, and not much more from those who were obliged to care for him, but he did recall one sunny afternoon in a detention with Professor McGonagall.

"Mr Snape, I cannot keep all the ills and terrors away from you, and I daresay that I will only ever imagine what those are, but I will be here to help you with whatever you see fit to let me help you with. Hogwarts has many eyes and ears, but here in this office, there are none save my own."

"Severus," she said softly, and her eyes seemed wide and far too focused on him for comfort. "Sometimes, all we can do is help to pick up the pieces."

Sitting next to Hermione, he wondered what Minerva had been trying to tell him; what had she suspected all those years ago? He drained the mug and placed it upon the polished coffee table.

"Despite the slight colour change and the fact that the potion would not have calmed an old and partially blind, senile house-dog, you brewed it very well." He saw her shoulders slump, and he felt a flicker of regret at his choice of humour, but then he saw her shoulders slump again and then shudder. She was laughing. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch in triumph.

She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with some inner excitement, some inner revelation. "I know why!"

He smirked and adopted his best 'unimpressed professor' expression, but his smirk slipped when he saw that his demeanour only enhanced her mirth...three days with her, and he was losing his touch.

"Do tell, Miss Granger."

"It's all about me and how I brew the potion!"

"Well done; quite the astute observation. I can see why you did so well in your lessons with a keen mind like that."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. She twisted on the sofa so that she could face him; her knees came up, and she hugged them, her socks tickling the edge of his hand as it rested on the cushion. "I mean that I brew it; I am in control of it." Her brow furrowed as she tried to summon the words to express her epiphany. "So long as I keep the same focus throughout, then the potion will be as perfect as I can make it. My pinch or handful may be different to yours, but it will always be the same for me... But there's more than that. I have to relate my measurements to the time... So the method is slightly flexible, depending upon how I work."

"Well done," he said with genuine pride. "You have just mastered the first term of your NEWT level Potions." Her grin was radiant, and he couldn't stop a returning smile. "Now that you have that piece of theory tucked safely away, tomorrow, we shall take another look at my failed potion."

Her smile slipped, and her dark gaze flew to his neck; in the dim lighting, it was difficult to see the bruised-looking flesh. Shame flared within her at her feelings of achievement when Snape was working towards saving his life. Feeling nauseous, she hugged her shins and tucked her feet under her; she had failed everyone. Images of Ron running to comfort Ginny entered her mind, and some niggling thought rose up in its wake. There was something she had to do, some task that she had been asked to fulfil...

"It's Fred's funeral tomorrow."

Snape felt the buoyant feelings of companionship sink. How easily he had forgotten that there was a world beyond this house, beyond her. He licked his lips and ran a hand over his sleek hair. The event in the kitchen made some sense; the charred remains and the black soot embedded in her skin were most likely from a letter informing her of the funeral. The Weasley family marched through his head, and his chest felt constricted; he recalled how Molly had tried to make him feel welcome at the meetings at Grimmauld Place and how Arthur made it clear that he respected him for what he did and risked. The twins stormed through his reverie, the embodiment of mischief and glee as they practiced their many arts and talents...the Skiving Snackboxes had been a marvel of potion experimentation. He closed his eyes, and the memories morphed into imaginings, and he saw them as shadows of their former selves, their spirit damaged and beaten by the suffering they were enduring.

"Then you must go," he said gruffly, emotion gripping his throat.

He felt the sofa cushion dip, and then a hand rested lightly on his arm. Surprised, he opened his eyes and turned to look at her; her face was closer than he'd expected as she leant towards him, and he was trapped in her tear-filled and desperate gaze.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

It seemed that he would rebuke her, and she felt her sense of security crumble; how daft to think that Snape of all people would care! She didn't want to weep before a man who wouldn't care that she was in anguish, and she felt foolish for accepting the illusion of comfort he represented. But then, he lifted his arm, inviting her to be held, and with a sob she fell into his arms.

Actually, she practically scrambled into his arms. Her head rested against his shoulder; one arm reached round and clung to his chest like a Tentacular vine and her thighs pressed up against his. He let his arm fall to press against her back, his hand hesitating as it searched for the least provocative place and finally settling on her shoulder. His free hand, which had been tucked between his thigh and the sofa arm, came up and gently stroked her hair as it tumbled down his chest. She was warm and trembled against him, and he heard those strange, stifled, keening sounds that he recalled all too clearly from his stay in Azkaban.

"I cannot keep the anger and the terrors away from you, and I daresay that I will only ever imagine what those would be, but I will be here to help you with whatever you feel fit to let me help you with."

At his words she let out a great howl and squeezed him. "I can't control it... It comes up and it takes over, and I can't think, and it won't stop, and I don't know what I do." She wept and mumbled into his shirt. "I do things... don't I? You said that I destroyed the kitchen, and I must have done something yesterday because I was exhausted, and I had black on the palm of my hand."

"What do you remember about yesterday?" he asked.

She stirred and hiccupped a few times. "I got an Owl off Harry saying that Fred's funeral is on Friday, and it made me so angry."

"Why would it make you angry?" He could feel her tension rising with the memory, and he gave her a brief, supporting hug while he continued to caress her hair.

Why had it made me angry? she thought to herself. Was it the lack of consideration that they had shown? Was it the idea that I'm around just to ease their troubles and solve their problems? Could it be that she'd enjoyed the pleasant cocoon of being in the house with Snape and that letter had rudely interrupted and dragged in the real world, thus ruining her illusion? She gripped him tightly, letting her thoughts and doubts circle in her head, knowing that she had that anchor by her side.

Sniffling and with her cheek pressed up against his chest, feeling his heartbeat and soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, she pummelled and bullied her mind until she had some sort of answer.

"I wanted to hide away from it, and that letter spoiled it, not because it reminded me that there was so much going on out there, but because I'm supposed to be there. It's always been us three together."

She shifted away as she spoke, and Snape felt a bizarre sense of loss, a feeling that was compounded by her words. She wanted to be with them, he thought bitterly. His hand dropped to his lap, and the hand that had held her shoulder slipped as she had moved and now rested between her shoulder blades. She was looking at him with a strange expression, as if she was wondering what she was doing by his side, and he felt stinging bile rush up. But this was about her, and not about him; it hadn't meant to have been about him at all. She needed her friends, and the idea that she should be with them when they needed each other was perfectly acceptable.

"There is nothing shameful in wanting and needing an escape from the horrors and strains of it all," he said carefully, seeing her eyes widen as he hit upon one aspect of her ordeal that she may not have immediately latched onto...guilt! "I doubt that there is anyone who can live day by day without having somewhere to hide away from time to time."

She sobbed out, and her shoulders shook. "But I can't..."

"Can't what, Miss Granger?" he demanded with more force than he intended.

Tears dripped from her chin, and her lips trembled. "I can't see them like this."

"Like what?" he queried more softly, and yet more urgently.

"I can't cope with it, sir," she replied in a whisper. "I can't control it, and I'm scared that I'll do something, but I want to be there." She clutched at her hair and tugged harshly on it; her eyes squeezed shut against the world.

Snape watched her intently, saw how her knuckles were white as her fingers wove between her hair and pulled on the thick strands. One day wouldn't hurt.

"There is a way that you could be calm tomorrow; I can brew a potion that will reduce the intensity of your emotions."

Her eyes flew open, and she stared at him. Her hands fell from her hair, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt that his lungs were squeezed as he considered what he was doing. But one day wouldn't hurt.

"Thank you," she said in an awed whisper, and then she hugged him, her cheek pressing against his.

Snape pulled the door closed; Hermione was asleep in her bed, tucked in and deep in the Sleep-ease potion that she had swallowed eagerly. He walked slowly up to the attic; his stomach roiled threateningly and a cold sweat swept over his body. What was he thinking? As he flicked on the lamps and stared into the empty maw of the cauldron, he wondered why he was risking so much for her. One day, experiencing the larger portion of her pain, hate and anger, wouldn't hurt. He comforted himself with that mantra, and he made the Displacement potion.