Chapter Four

A/N: Much thanks to my brilliant beta, Bambu345.

Disclaimer: The attitudes expressed on the respectability of specific sexual acts are those of the characters, not the writer. Ditto for the culinary choices, which should not be taken as a recommendation of greasy takeaway for either nutritive or romantic purposes.

It was a George evening, and George evenings were always good. The twins had never been able to resist the allure of performing to an audience, and even without his sidekick (now that Fred wasn't around to argue the point, George always insisted that Fred had been the sidekick, "and any comedian worth his salt can manage without a sidekick"), George rose to the challenge of entertaining a sullen, resentful, retired Potions master with verve and flair. Well, verve anyway. Hermione had put strict limits on his flair after the incident with the Flaming Florescent Farts. Ex-Death Eaters, it seems, respond instinctively to flashes of green light with rather strong counter-curses, even when those flashes are located on the arses of unsuspecting, bushy-haired, young women.

Outside of a small, drab little house at Spinner's End that looked precisely like every other drab little house on the street, not to mention every drab little house on the next street and the one after that, Hermione cast a detection charm at George.

"You don't have to do that, you know. I promise I haven't brought anything inflammatory."

"You mean besides your wit? And what, pray tell, is this?" she asked, Levicorpusing an odd-looking, lumpy object out from under his shirt collar.

"It's to help me hear, that's all. Really, Hermione, you can trust me."

She did not deign to dignify that claim with a response, simply lowering the suspicious item to the ground beside the door and covering it in both a containment field and a Do Not Notice Charm before knocking.

Severus opened the door with a peculiar expression on his face. It was ... feral. "Do come in."

Hermione entered cautiously, her eyes immediately latching onto the short, balding man standing behind Severus. He was oddly dressed in an old-fashioned suit that didn't look quite right for a Muggle, but wasn't clearly wizard-like either. "You have company? I didn't realize. We could come another evening."

"Not if it means we don't get to wrap our mouths around this takeaway you've brought," George declared, coming in behind her and taking the bag out of her hand. "Did you remember the extra-spicy vindaloo?"

"Of course I did. And the chicken korma for Severus. I'll just put the naan in the cooker to reheat, if we're staying?" She looked to Severus for confirmation.

He still had that feral look. "Certainly. Dr. Thistlethwaite is just leaving." As Hermione headed through the sitting room to the kitchen beyond, Severus ushered his guest to the front door and bade him a polite, but utterly unrevealing, farewell.

"Doctor?" Hermione queried as Severus followed George into the kitchen.

"No. Potions master. Or mister. Those are the only titles I answer to these days."

She glared at him briefly before sorting out the foil boxes, peeling off the cardboard lids to reveal steaming curries in greens and reds and yellows, assorted fried morsels, and fragrant rice. There was enough food for half-a-dozen hungry mouths; with only three, Severus would have leftovers for days. "You know what I meant. Who is Dr. Thistlethwaite?"

"I was not aware that I was required to report to you on my social life," Severus replied, his enjoyment of her discomfort evident by the sneering curl of his upper lip.

George grinned until Hermione glared at him, whereupon he fetched the plates and began setting the table. They were old and cracked, and one had a chip out of the rim, but Severus had flatly refused to let Hermione replace them. Without being certain of his reasons, she had been hesitant to force him to abandon what might be cherished mementos. Maybe even of his dead mother.

"I was merely asking," said Hermione snappishly. She turned away, towards the cabinet where the mismatched glassware was kept, wondering when exactly Severus had managed to acquire a social life. Perhaps Dr. Thistlethwaite was a medical doctor, or a non-doctorly imposter brought in expressly to confuse her.

"Indeed." Severus stepped in front of Hermione. "Allow me. I prefer not to spend the evening repairing broken dishes."

It was only then that she noticed her hands were trembling.

As they ate, George told the story of a witch who had brought her two nieces into the shop, ostensibly to buy them each a treat. The witch, it seems, was more interested in trying to treat herself to a newly decorated, if slightly damaged, war hero than in watching over her charges. By the time she managed to tear herself away from George's devastating charms, the little dears had managed to set off an entire carton of Exploding Envelopes, which had, in turn, set off half a shelf's worth of Sputtering Spinners. As soon as she chased down one naughty bit of baggage, the other would find her way into the Canary Creams or Spotting Smarties or Chin-wigging Choccies until neither of the girls was recognizable for all the odd appendages, feathers and blotches they were sporting. When the witch finally got her charges under control, she turned to George to ask why he hadn't bothered to help.

"'Well, I couldn't, could I?' I told her, cool as you like. 'Too busy totting up your bill.' It was over thirty Galleons, too. Biggest sale of the day, that."

"I don't expect you'll be enjoying any repeat business from that particular young lady," Severus commented, his mouth still twitching at the corners with suppressed amusement at George's description of the children's antics.

George shrugged nonchalantly. "Business is good. Besides, I don't much care for the hero groupies. Find them a bit annoying, really. Don't you?"

"I wouldn't know."

It was difficult to tell if Severus was sneering at the concept of groupies or his own lack of social contact, but Hermione chose to ignore the ambiguity. "You could, if you wanted to ..."

"There is nothing out there I want," he said firmly, cutting off her all-too-common effort at convincing him to investigate the possibilities offered by the outside world.

It was George who broke the tension, suggesting, "Except a good vindaloo now and then, of course."

After a barely noticeable pause, Severus conceded the point. "True. But I have Miss Granger to bring me that."

Hermione snorted. "That seems to be all I'm good for these days, fetching and carrying."

Severus sat back in his chair. "And how is Mr. Finch-Fletchley these days?"

Hermione's supervisor in the Department of International Magical Cooperation was Jason Finch-Fletchley. Unlike his younger brother Justin, Jason was a pompous arse. Hermione was his first underling, and he wanted to be certain that his move into management was widely known. In pursuit of which goal, he made a habit of sending Hermione on useless errands to places where she'd be seen to perform tasks that involved mentioning his name.

With a hint of a blush, Hermione replied, "I suspect he may not be sending me to the Owlery again any time soon."

"No?"

"I ..." She stared at her plate as she confessed, "When I went to collect his post, I may have called him 'Finch-Felching' by accident."

"NNNGGG?"

Both Severus and Hermione looked up in alarm as George squeaked. Then he found his breath and began roaring with laughter. "That's brilliant, Hermione," he gasped. "That'll teach the little blighter."

As Hermione's blush deepened to a bright red, Severus asked, "'Felching'? I'm not familiar with that term."

At that, George became so convulsed with mirth that he was beyond words, and Hermione was forced to answer. "It's a Muggle thing; it's to do with sex."

Severus' eyebrow didn't quite quirk, but it did twitch. "Have the Muggles discovered a new way to do it?"

Hermione's blush wasn't fading in the slightest. Of course, with the way she was shifting in her seat, it might have been from the exercise. "No, of course not. At least, I don't think so. I wouldn't know."

As George fell out of his chair, Hermione glared at him. "It's something men do with men," she explained. "With tongues and ... bottoms."

"Ah. A form of Aberforthy," Severus replied with a smirk.

It was Hermione's turn to be confused. "Aberforthy?"

"Deviant sexual behaviour. I trust I do not need to explain the origins of the term to you."

"No. Of course not. Though the term 'deviant' is a bit strong, isn't it? I don't think one should judge such things."

"Miss Granger. After twenty years acquaintance with the Lestranges, I believe I am fully qualified to judge what is, and what is not, deviant."

She nodded slowly, conceding the point.

...

The mystery of Dr. Thistlethwaite was revealed a few days later when Hermione received an owl from the doctor, suggesting they meet.

She went to see him in his offices, an elegant suite of rooms in a fashionable district of London. A set of framed certificates confirmed what his stationary indicated: that Everard Thistlethwaite was a certified clinical psychologist. She didn't bother to ask why a wizard had chosen to get Muggle qualifications, instead getting straight to the point by asking him what he thought they had to discuss.

He came out from behind his polished mahogany desk to shake her hand before inviting her to sit in one of a pair of upholstered, rosewood armchairs. "Mr. Snape engaged my services to evaluate his mental stability, including reporting my findings directly to you," he explained, taking the other chair.

Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. The chair was deceptively comfortable, making it difficult to maintain a state of tension, but she managed. "I see. And?"

"And I find him to be in a reasonably sound mental state."

"Only reasonably? So he's not completely sound." Her chin lifted as the beginnings of a triumphant smile softened the tension lines on her face.

"Miss Granger, may I ask how many of your acquaintances who experienced the recent battle you would consider to be completely sound? Mr. Snape is as well as could be expected. He is certainly no danger to himself or to others. I understand that is your primary concern, is it not?"

"The primary one," she replied suspiciously.

"Then you agree that there is no reason to continue to monitor his condition?"

"That, Dr. Thistlethwaite," she replied, very carefully pronouncing his name without lisping or otherwise embarrassing herself, "is my decision, not yours. While Mr. Snape may be 'as well as could be expected', I have other concerns beyond his mere survival. He is far too valuable a member of the wizarding community to be allowed to languish in isolation and misery."

"You surprise me." If he was surprised, it didn't show.

Hermione wondered if his bland demeanor and pleasant expression were natural, or if psychology departments offered courses in looking unflappable. If they did, she would consider taking one; it was a very unsettling tactic. "Do I? Did he lead you to expect an ogre? I'm not a cruel woman, whatever he may say."

"Actually, he says very little of you, other than that he wishes you would release him from the terms of the directive. No, I am surprised to discover that you respect him."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why should you?"

No question that tactic was taught in psychology courses. "Dr. Thistlethwaite, I am not your patient, nor am I paying you to assess me," she replied impatiently. "If you want to play games, find another toy. I'm not interested."

The annoyingly serene doctor replied calmly, "Perhaps you would be willing to explain it to me. Mr. Snape is clearly enraged by the situation. Why do you insist on the parole?"

"Because otherwise he would lock himself in his house and never see anyone," she snapped. "You didn't see him before. I may not have professional qualifications, but I know when someone is seriously depressed. He's starting to get better now. It's a really good sign that he engaged you; it's the most proactive thing he's done since the war ended. But he's not recovered yet, not properly. If I abandon him now, he could backslide." She wondered vaguely why she had started caring what the doctor thought. There was nothing he could do to undermine her authority in the situation, but it suddenly seemed terribly important to convince him.

"Even though he resents you for it? You do realise how angry he is."

"It would be difficult to miss."

The doctor sat back and nodded sagely. "I see."

Sage nodding was one of those irritatingly superior behaviors that tended to make her skin crawl. "What? What do you think you see?"

"I see that you have chosen to trade his good opinion of you for his well-being."

At that, Hermione laughed. "His good opinion of me is not on offer, nor is it ever likely to be. His well-being is all I can hope for."

"Perhaps. I'd like you to try something. Go visit him on your own."

"What would be the point? He sees me all the time. He needs to be around different people, to realise that he's not alone. You should have seen what happened with George; he very nearly smiled. When Minerva comes, they reminisce for hours. And when ..."

"Yes, yes." The doctor cut her off. "I'm sure they all do him a world of good. But just now, you are his nemesis. I think you should give him the chance to face you on his own for once."

...

It felt very strange to be standing on the doorstep of the house at Spinner's End by herself. It would be the first time she was alone with Severus since he'd stopped staring out of windows and started actually participating in civil conversations. Given the chance to speak to her without an audience, what would he have to say? Would they find anything to talk about besides how much he resented her presence?

From Severus' lack of surprise, she knew that Dr. Thistlethwaite had warned him she might come alone.

"Chinese this time?" he asked, sniffing delicately at the aroma emanating from her bag.

"Pork fried rice, steamed dumplings, crab Rangoon, sesame chicken, hot-and-sour soup, and mushroom chow-mein."

"I'll set the table."

As they ate, she mentioned that her supervisor had received a letter addressed to him as Finch-Felching. In familiar handwriting. Handwriting she'd seen expressing displeasure and disdain in the margins of a hundred corrected Potions essays.

"Handwriting can be disguised," he replied nonchalantly.

She chose to allow him that little canard. For the moment. "It's all over the Ministry now; everyone's laughing at him."

"Have you been blamed for this circumstance?"

"Well, no," she conceded. "But that's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

She thought a moment. "I suppose it is. And thank you."

In the silence that followed, as he failed utterly to acknowledge her thanks, she tried desperately to come up with a topic of conversation. Asking, "Have you read anything interesting lately?" was the best she could manage.

A raised eyebrow did constitute acknowledgement, though it wasn't much of a contribution to the conversation. Without a word, Severus rose from the table and walked out of the kitchen. Hermione was despondently gathering their plates and cutlery, certain that the evening had been a complete failure, when he returned and thrust a parchment at her.

"Read this. Pay particular attention to the section on infusion techniques." He gestured her into the sitting room and took over clearing up the dinner things.

The article described a fascinating new approach to stabilizing potion ingredients. It was very rough, with entire sections that were only sketched out in the vaguest of terms, but Hermione was thrilled to realise that it was in Severus' handwriting.

The next hour was spent in an animated discussion of his theory. Hermione was so caught up in the discussion that she was caught off-guard when the grandfather clock in the front hall chimed ten o'clock.

"I should go."

Severus studied the bookshelf across the room, as if her presence or absence was of no matter to him.

"Before I do, there is something I would like to ask you."

"You've never needed my permission to pry before," he replied in a bored voice.

She chose to ignore the provocation. "Why did you engage Dr. Thistlethwaite? You know that the decision is mine alone."

"I am well aware of that fact. There is no need to rub my face in the power you hold over me." He no longer sounded bored, though his anger was controlled.

"Then why?"

"Because, Miss Granger, it has occurred to me that you might, conceivably, be a person of integrity."

At that moment, she was glad that he was not looking at her. As her initial outrage at the multiple-levels of implied insult faded, she was forced to admire the cleverness of his tactic. "If I ended the parole, would you let me continue to visit?"

She had nearly given up on his ever responding when he asked, "Why?"

Because I worry about you when I'm not with you. Because I think you need me, even if you don't agree. "Because I enjoy your company." That was true too.

At that, his head snapped toward her, his eyes staring intently into hers. They stayed that way long enough that she began counting her breaths, wondering if he would ever break the silence.

"If you do not make a nuisance of yourself. Shall we say ... no more than once a week? Wednesdays, perhaps?"

...

Ordinarily, she made a point of bringing someone else along every second week – it wouldn't be fair to Severus to expect him to get by with only her company – but this week was special. After months of reading and discussion (with Hermione) and experimentation, and then weeks of writing and editing and rewriting and more discussion (still with Hermione), Severus had submitted his article on potion stabilization to Ars Alchemica a few weeks earlier. She had just heard that it had been accepted for publication. This was not a moment she was going to share with anyone.

As had become their habit when it was just the two of them, he cooked.

On her first visit after ending the parole, she had entered the house bearing his favorite curries and headed straight for the kitchen, only to be brought up short by the sight of a platter bearing a perfectly roasted chicken surrounded by potatoes, carrots and parsnips.

"I am capable of providing for my guests," Severus had sneered before taking the bag from her and guiding her to the dining room where the table was set with bone china, elegant crystal and fine linens. A snide comment about the unhealthful nature of greasy takeaways had made her wonder whether he had simply disposed of all the extra food she had so carefully left for him over the previous months.

It had been his suggestion, that long ago evening, that it would be acceptable for her to provide the meal on those occasions when she found it necessary to bring along other guests. Something about not being "obligated to feed the masses". She rather suspected it had more to do with enjoying the occasional korma. If there were other implications, she would not consider them.

To celebrate the occasion of his first post-war publication, she had brought a bottle of wine, and they toasted his accomplishment. As the hour grew late, she reluctantly began to make a move. "I should leave," she said, sitting perfectly still in the second leather armchair, the one that matched his and had mysteriously appeared in his sitting room the week after she'd ended the parole.

"If you wish."

If? Time stopped. "Is there an alternative?"

"Don't be obtuse, Miss Granger. It doesn't suit you."

Time reluctantly ticked on, but only because it had somewhere better to be later. "Less obtuse than disbelieving. The only possible alternative to leaving would be to stay."

"If I recall correctly, you are unreasonably enamoured of possibilities."

Time danced a fandango. "It is still getting late."

"Then you should go to bed."

Time smiled a little smile and left Hermione alone with Severus. "Will you show me where it is?"

He stood and offered her his hand. As they walked together towards the bedroom, he muttered, "I suppose this means I've missed my chance to hex you into oblivion."

"I suppose it does."