Chapter 4

Thank you's going out to JK Rowling for her world that we get to borrow and my beta Elizabeth for being a wonderful editor!

* * *

Snape's stomach growled loudly then, reminding him how small the piece of bread Hermione had given him the day before had really been. He had been a long time without a true meal.

"Oh! You need food!" Hermione exclaimed, jumping up as though prodded with something sharp. "How could I have forgotten food?" She flitted out of the room and returned a few moments later, carrying a tray with a full breakfast. Wordlessly, she removed his restraints.

"Don't eat more than you can stand," she warned as she set the tray on his lap. "If you eat too much on empty, you'll be sick."

"Thank you, mother," he sneered, tearing off a piece of a croissant with his teeth. He proceeded to eat the breakfast with no regard to how he looked or where the crumbs fell.

Watching him, Hermione felt a stab of pity for the man who had once been so respected and composed. It shook her to the core that living on the street for just four years could do this to him.

After a while, he became aware of her eyes on him and, without looking up, snarled, "Do you always scrutinise your test subjects as they eat, Miss Granger? If so, I do hope that they are fonder of you than I am."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Most of my 'test subjects' aren't so nasty without provocation," she returned, rising and going to stand by the window. "It's just that . . . I hate to see the teacher I respected most reduced to begging in the streets," she said quietly as she looked out on the quiet rows of grapevines.

Snape didn't answer; he was not accustomed to displays of emotion, however small. He had based his life and work upon stoicism and a total lack of concern for himself. It was an entirely new concept that someone should pity him. New, and disturbing. It unnerved him, so he responded in the only way he knew.

"Miss Granger, would you do me the immense favour of shutting the hell up?"

She turned around to stare at him for a few seconds somewhat uncomprehendingly. He met her stare with an unreadable expression of his own. Then, her nostrils flared and her eyes wide with anger, she marched straight out the bedroom door, slamming it hard enough to make the rafters shake.

Snape watched with mild surprise and found another emotion weighing on his shoulders. This one not so new, but one he hadn't felt in a while, nevertheless.

Guilt.

* * *

Hermione, fighting back tears of mortification, practically flew down the stairs and out of the house, sprinting her way to the Apparation point on the road and disappearing with a loud crack.

She reappeared in the shadow of a deserted awning outside a bakery. She knew it was still in Lyon, but it was a district with which she wasn't familiar. She still felt tears in her eyes, and she found that she didn't care. She just needed to think.

How dare he talk to her like that?

All right, yes, she had been remiss in not giving a decent meal before now. Perhaps hunger made him surly. But, honestly, all she had done was to express her sadness at his current pitiable state. Was he really so proud that so simple a sentiment as that could set him on his ear?

He had spoken to her as though she were an errant child ... like she was annoying him with inane prattle.

"How dare he!" she huffed again.

Hermione rushed into the bakery and in her anger snapped out an order for a croissant and coffee before sitting in a corner table and resting her head in her hands. Only then did it occur to her that she had left Snape unrestrained, the door unlocked. Oh, well. The bastard could run away and drown in the Rhône for all she cared.

Her order arrived and she began to eat sullenly. She did not really need the black coffee to wake her up, as Snape had seen to that by rowing with her. But, her head felt all muddled, and she hoped the caffeine would clear her thoughts. She liked her coffee dark and strong, unlike most of the English tea-drinking society.

With a sigh, her thoughts returned to Snape again. She shouldn't have expected that he would be any different than when she'd known him in school. She shouldn't really expect anything but snark from him anyway; she was holding him against his will, after all. But did he have to go out of his way to make it seem that she was the last person on Earth he wanted taking him off the street? Like she was so odious to him that he'd rather starve than receive help from her?

She snorted into her coffee. "Who knows I probably am that odious to him."

As to how he had come to be here ... well, she could guess how Snape had escaped from the Shrieking Shack; her sharp skills of deduction had picked up where her decimated memory had left off. After she had saved him, he had Obliviated her, probably with her own wand. Apparently, he'd had no wand.

The only reason she could think of that would explain his lack of wand was that it had rolled away and slipped through a crack somewhere. He hadn't had time to find it, so he had fled without it. And then a string of unfortunate events had brought him here.

"Bad day?"

Hermione looked up and saw a handsome man smiling down at her, a look of concern about his expression.

She smiled weakly. "No, just thinking," she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee and wincing.

He chuckled sympathetically. "Looks like a bad day to me. And, in my experience, the best thing to do on a bad day is talk to someone."

She looked at him for a few moments in disbelief. She didn't know this man, and he was offering to hear out her problems? Her first reaction was to be suspicious, her second to ignore it. She had her wand right in her pocket. She could whip it out in a moment. She would be fine.

Slowly she nodded. "I suppose you're right. Please, have a seat. I'm Hermione," she added.

"Anton." He smiled again, and she couldn't help but be charmed. "That is an unusual name. Unusual, but lovely."

"Thank you. It's English; my parents thought they were being clever . . ."

* * *

Ron closed his suitcase with trepidation. He had packed enough for a week, more if he wore his underwear more than once. Molly had strictly warned against that, but he was a big boy...no, a man, now. He could do what he wanted with his tightie-whities.

Ginny stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed and expression doubtful.

"Are you sure you've got everything you need, Won-Won? You're not renowned for your infallible memory."

His ears turned red and he glared at her. "Shut it, Gin. I'm fine. You're sure you did the scrying right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, for the last time, I did the scrying right. She's staying in Lyon! You'd better study that little French dictionary of yours, Monsieur Stupide," she said sarcastically, knocking on his bright red head.

"Cut it out, Gin! You're making me nervous," he muttered, swatting her hand away.

"Fine, fine, I'll leave. Just don't make a fool of yourself . . . not that I dare to hope."

He scowled as she left the room and picked up his bags, checking that he had them all, and Disapparated.

When the darkness disappeared, he found himself in the shadows just outside a nice hotel. Taking a deep breath, he entered through the spinning glass door and greeted the man at the counter.

"One . . . room . . . please," he said slowly, trying to sound out the words in French as best he could.

The concierge laughed. "We speak English here, too, monsieur," he assured him as he handed Ron a pen for the guestbook.

Ron reddened, but signed his name, and the concierge smiled and led him to the elevator and, at last, his room.

Ron left his luggage as it was on the bed, stopping only to fish out a scrap of paper he had stuffed into the pocket of a duffel bag. On it was written the address of the house where Hermione was ostensibly staying.

With fear in his stomach and an indescribable weight in his heart, he set out to win back the girl he loved.

* * *

Snape groaned for the umpteenth time since Hermione had left.

This time, it was for his stupidity in not taking off immediately. She would probably be back any minute, ready to curse him as soon as he set foot out of the house.

And still he sat there like an idiot, when he should have taken his chance the moment she was gone.

With his luck, she might curse him for staying as well.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs put him on alert, and he braced himself for whatever he was about to get.

The door opened, and...

She was smiling.

That in itself was odd, but then his eyes travelled down to her arms, which carried several brown packages.

She closed the door with her foot and unloaded the packages on the sofa, opening them all with her wand and tossing each at him in turn.

Long black trousers. A black turtleneck. A flowing black cloak. Black socks. Black shoes. Black . . . boxers?

For the love of Merlin, he'd had no idea he used to wear so much black.

There were still a few more packages of different shapes and sizes which she was unwrapping more carefully.

With the first, she came over to him and pulled his shirt up without so much as a word; he didn't protest, though he watched her with some unease. She was holding a long tube of something; she squeezed a bit onto her hand. The stuff was bright yellow.

Oh. Bruise-healing paste.

He winced as she gingerly rubbed the stuff over his purple-tinged ribs, but felt the pain receding quickly as the paste was absorbed into his skin. By the time she had finished, the bruises were already beginning to fade.

The next bottle she unwrapped was a dull reddish colour, which he recognised as Blood-Replenishing Potion. He probably didn't need much of that. All the same, he obediently let her pour it down his throat. He glared at her heavy-handedness, though, just for good measure.

She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. "Why are you being so . . . cooperative?" she asked cautiously, stoppering the vial and putting it aside.

He pulled himself up into a sitting position, which didn't hurt as much as he had thought it might. "I have . . . realised that what you intend to do for me is more for my own good than anything else. And while I despise nee...requiring aid from anyone, I assume that you will let me leave as soon as I am back to full health," he finished, grinding the words out.

More even than he hated accepting help, he hated explaining himself. And it infuriated him that he was, effectively, at her mercy.

Her eyes were wide as she slowly nodded. Taking her wand out again, she began healing his slight fractures as she spoke. "That's right . . . but I also want your word on something." She looked up at him.

"And what is that?"

"I want you to give me your word that you will at least try to make a better life for yourself." She was embarrassed to say it; she knew that he scorned her, scorned anyone who told him what to do. She expected him to sneer at this, but it was worth a try.

He considered this for a moment. "Very well. I don't have to make an Unbreakable Vow, do I?" he asked sarcastically.

To her surprise, she chuckled. "No. After all, we don't have a witness." As she finished mending his bones, she remembered something that had been at the back of her mind for a few hours. "Why don't you have your wand, Professor?"

His lip curled. "Miss Granger, how much do you know of wandlore?"

She shrugged. "Not much. There isn't a great deal of definitive work on the subject."

He laughed without mirth. "Yes, a lack of textbooks must have thoroughly discouraged you." He cleared his throat before continuing. "I'm sure you can guess that, having been a Death Eater, I have done things with my wand of which I was not proud."

She nodded gravely.

"About one year before the war, I went to Ollivander to see if there was anything that could be done to prevent my wand from being used again in the instance of my death. You see, a wand that has performed Dark Magic such as mine would have easily begun to corrupt anyone who as much as touched it. Obviously, I went to him in disguise.With the war drawing near, I could not afford anyone knowing things about me that were none of their business."

She cleared her throat and began to raise her hand, but quickly dropped it. Old habits die hard.

"I thought that Ollivander remembered every wand he has ever sold. How would he not know it was you?"

He glared at her. "Of course I cast several glamours on my wand to ensure that he did not recognise it. May I go on?" he snarled in annoyance.

She nodded meekly.

He sighed and continued. "Ollivander told me that there was a spell that would, in the event of my death, make my wand dissolve. I was, with some difficulty, able to extract the spell from him, and I left immediately to cast it. When I lay in the Shrieking Shack that night, as you knelt over me, I was as good as dead. My wand evaporated into nothing in the pocket of my robes, and I was forced to flee without it."

Hermione's lips were set in a tight line as she finally understood.

"You never bought a new one because, by the time it was safe again, that would have been proof that you were still alive. And you didn't want anyone to know that."

"Indeed."

The silence was thick between them for a few moments, each contemplating what Snape had said.

"Once you're well again, I'll help you buy a new wand."

Snape's head snapped up to stare at her in mild disbelief. Slowly, so slowly, one corner of his lip curved up until it was a satisfied smirk because he wasn't disposed to smiling.

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

* * *

Ron looked at the quaint little house, at the vineyards that stretched on behind it, and he could see why Hermione had chosen to stay here.

With a sigh, he knocked on the front door, three sharp raps that he hoped would be heard. He was on the verge of knocking again when the door opened to reveal an elderly man about the same height as Ron. He smiled and, presumably, asked what Ron was here for . . . in French.

Not trusting his French, Ron stammered, "Uh, Mademoiselle Hermione Granger?"

"Oh, oui, oui!" the old man exclaimed, beckoning him inside. "Un moment, monsieur."

Ron leaned against the wall of the foyer as the man climbed the stairs, knocked on a door, and spoke rapidly. In the midst of it he caught the words "très, très rouge!" To his surprise, a string of French, just as fluent but in Hermione's voice, answered. His heart picked up and his ears began to tint red at the knowledge that she was so near, as they always did when he was nervous.

He nodded to the man when he came down and wandered off into another room, and waited with his gaze fixed at the top of the stairs.

At last, she appeared. She looked more beautiful than he remembered: Her hair, still a bit frizzy as always, framed her face with its tangled curls. She was dressed in a casual but flattering ensemble of a white T-shirt and jeans.

When she saw him, however, her expression turned to something between shock, horror, and irritation.

"What are you doing here, Ronald?" Hermione asked levelly, crossing her arms.

"I-I came here to tell you how I feel," he stuttered, still in awe of what he had let slip through his fingers.

She looked on the verge of rolling her eyes, but seemed to think better of it and instead took his arm and pulled him outside and around the side of the house.

She was unaware that Snape now had a perfect view of the two of them from her bedroom window, and he, being a Slytherin, was not above eavesdropping.

"Ron, I thought I made myself clear back in England," she began, keeping herself a few feet away from him.

"You did, 'Mione, but . . . I'm not willing to let you go."

Ah, a lovers' spat? Snape thought wryly as he watched the exchange.

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was a bit unsteady now.

Ron got down on his knees, his hands clasped in a beseeching gesture. "I'm so in love with you, Hermione. Since you left, I've realised how much you truly mean to me. I can't live without you, I just can't. Please, give me another chance!"

Hermione covered her face with her hands, shaking her head from side to side. "No, Ron, just no. I'm sorry that you feel that way, but I have moved on. I'd like it if we could still be friends, though," she said gently, pulling him to his feet.

He rubbed his hand over his face, unable to believe that he had still failed to plead his case to her. He was willing to offer her his whole life, his heart, his everything, and she was denying him. Something inside him, something already hanging by a thin string, snapped.

He moved toward her and clamped his hands tightly on her shoulders. She tried to shrug his hands off, but he was gripping her so tightly that his nails dug into her shirt.

"Hermione, I love you! I love you!" he yelled as he shook her violently.

Snape growled and sprinted from the room. He reached the pair in seconds and grabbed Ron roughly, throwing him on the ground where the redhead lay dazed for a moment.

Hermione pulled out her wand and, shaking, she cast the Incarcerous spell. Within seconds, Ron was tightly bound in magical ropes, though he continued to struggle furiously. When he saw Snape, however, his eyes widened in horror.

"Is this who you've left me for? Snape?! He's supposed to be DEAD! What the hell is going on?"

"Silence, Weasley! Nothing of the sort has happened. And for the love of Merlin, stop shouting or someone will come to invest..."

"MURDER! HELP! MUR..."

"Stupefy!"

Ron was silent.

Finally.

"Okay, what are we going to do about this?" Hermione asked, panting with exertion.

Snape groaned quietly. "I won't have him knowing about me, Miss Granger. I don't trust him to keep my secrets."

"I don't, either." She sighed. "I suppose we'll have to modify his memory, like you did mine." She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Ron's forehead. "Obliviate."

Instantly, she was inside his mind. Everything was black for a moment, and then it was filled with colour and light and sound, all jumbled together in a confusing mess of senses and memories. Hermione searched through it; everything seemed to be placed haphazardly, but she was able to locate the memories she was looking for.

She erased the part where Snape tackled Ron, and replaced it with the image of a burly man who must have worked in the vineyards, to make feasible his sudden appearance. She added in the man punching Ron a few times in the face, partly out of spite and partly to explain the unconsciousness, and then faded the new memory to black.

She allowed her mind to return to her own body and glanced at Snape sheepishly.

"Could you, um, hit his face a few times? I added on a little . . ."

"Certainly."

* * *

Ron awoke on a bench; it was dark and it was cold. His head felt as though it had been pounded by several hammers and then dunked in cold water. He moaned and rubbed his temples; his next instinct was to look for his wand. Good, it was still hidden in the inside pocket of his coat.

He tried to remember how he had gotten there, on the bench in the dark and the cold, and vaguely recalled Hermione, and . . . attacking her, and getting clouted by a big, angry man.

He moaned again in despair and slapped his forehead, then hissed at the fresh sting.

There was nothing for it now. Hermione couldn't forgive him after this, and his entire trip had been a waste.

He trudged back to the hotel to get his things, and as he walked, he wondered what he was going to do now.

And then it started to rain.

Just bloody great.