Seven

Early August, 1998

"You brought her here? Severus, what were you thinking?"

"She wanted to come, Minerva," Snape replied, refusing to rise to his colleague's bait as he tucked the comatose Hermione into a comfortable chair on the lawn beneath a spreading oak. The birds chirped merrily overhead. "There, Miss Granger, now, if you decide to join us, at least you'll be comfortable. There is a book beside you if you get bored, and I will have one of the boys bring you some pumpkin juice or water if you prefer."

"Severus, she can't communicate with us – how could she possibly want to come?" Minerva demanded impatiently.

"She expressed her wish before she slipped into this current state."

"And you Floo'd with her?"

"The Floo at the Burrow is large enough. I assure you, no harm came to your prize student. If you'd spent any time in the infirmary, you'd know that."

"Severus, I don't like..."

"Like what, Minerva?" Snape snapped, straightening, leaning heavily on his cane. Flooing with Miss Granger's weight halved had been challenging enough, but he'd managed not to fall or to drop his burden. He was proud of that.

"I do not like the fact that you chose – without consulting me, I might add – to..."

"Minerva!" Molly called from the patio. "Will you help me with the treacle tart? Winky has put too much vanilla in it, and it tastes terrible!"

"Coming, Molly," Minerva called back. To Snape she said, "Believe me, Severus, we will discuss this later. At length."

"I'm shaking in my dragon-hide boots," Snape snarled back.

Minerva pursed her lips and stalked into the house.

"Ignore the old cat, Miss Granger," Snape said, conjuring a comfortable chair and a blanket. "Instead, you and I will attempt to enjoy the antics of your friends." He nodded towards the sky as the surviving Weasley children, Harry Potter and one or two others swooped over the lawn in an informal game of Quidditch.

Hermione said nothing.

"You're supposed to be out enjoying the party," Minerva chided her friend.

"I am, dear," Molly replied, handing Minerva a glass of sherry and settling comfortably into a deck chair on the sunny patio.

"By meddling with the treacle tart?"

"What treacle tart? Sit, dear, and let's have a nice chat."

Minerva perched primly on her chair.

"Minerva, if I'm being forced to relax, so should you." Molly's voice held a note of warning.

"Well, I have been run off of my feet lately," Minerva admitted.

"And you're worried." Molly took a sip of comforting sherry.

"There's been so much damage, Molly. So much hatred."

"I know, dear, remember?"

"Yes, I'm sorry – but I dread the reopening of the school."

Molly took another sip of sherry – it was a nice vintage – and after a few glasses, she found, the house didn't seem quite so empty anymore.

"I'm sure. Is the entire faculty returning?"

"I've asked Horace to return to fill the Potions position, but I have yet to hear from him. The Defense Against the Dark Arts position ... I don't know what do to about that. Severus has reapplied, but we may end up canceling the course for the year. Many on the Board of Governors feel it is for the best."

"Heavens to Nimüe! Why?" Molly refilled her glass.

Minerva shook her head when offered the bottle. "Well, they don't feel it's strictly necessary anymore, all things considered, and given the history of the past instructors, many of them feel that it's simply not safe for the students."

"Many of the students could teach the course themselves," Molly snorted.

"Many of them did, in essence," Minerva admitted. "Albus always did inspire that sort of loyalty. Unlike some." She looked pointedly at the pair beneath the tree. Ronald swooped down to the ground and approached them awkwardly.

"Is there any improvement?" Molly asked.

"No. But he won't leave her side. The Aurors are getting impatient – Kingsley doesn't say as much, but I know that he's under a great deal of pressure to bring Severus in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"Of course, I've not given him up yet. According to Albus' portrait, the school owes him that much, but now that he's developed this ... relationship with Hermione, I don't know how much I can allow."

"Oh, yes? More sherry?"

"Thank you." Minerva allowed her glass to be filled. "I don't like it, Molly – but I was so distracted those first few weeks after, well, everything, that I barely even noticed he was awake and healing. Poppy said that Hermione, when she was compos, helped to heal him. It was she, after all, who insisted that he might still be alive."

"Yes, Ginny did mention that."

"But by the time I even noticed he was awake, Hermione had deteriorated to such an extent that I haven't actually been able to speak with her. And then he'd taken it upon himself to help Poppy care for her."

"He's very attentive."

"It's not right, Molly. He has spent the last seven years snarling and belittling her and Potter – and now this? He's up to something."

Molly looked out at the pair, now a trio, as Ron continued to talk to the unresponsive Hermione. Snape assiduously read his book, ignoring the boy.

"Bill told me that her states of unconsciousness are lasting longer and longer," Molly said.

"And he won't leave her side," Minerva replied.

"What is it that is bothering you, Minerva?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What is truly bothering you about them? He's not caused her any harm, has he?"

They watched as Ron patted Hermione awkwardly on the arm and walked away, broom dragging in the dust. Snape had put his book aside and seemed to be glaring after him.

"No." Minerva paused. "But I don't trust him, Molly. Not after all that he did."

"Such as saving my daughter from the Carrows? Protecting my son-in-law-to-be from Death Eaters?"

"What about George's ear? Or allowing the Carrows to be at Hogwarts at all?" Minerva demanded, turning in her chair to address her friend. "He's always been a coward, Molly. He failed the Order. He failed us all. I'm extending my protection over him solely on the grounds that Albus twisted my arm."

Molly was silent. Minerva continued. "And now, he's using her. For what I don't know, but when I find out..."

"Minerva," Molly interrupted the flow, "I think perhaps you need to, for once in all of this, give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Haven't you had enough sherry? Or have you completely forgotten about your son?"

Molly looked stern. "That was unfair, Minerva. There isn't a day goes by that I don't think of Fred, that I don't look at George and Arthur and Bill and Charlie and Ron and Ginny and want to weep for what's become of my family. But what's done is done. And if anybody knows anything about it, it's me. We've lost too many, dear, made too many enemies, suffered too much, to allow any more."

"Molly, I just don't think..."

"That's the problem, Minerva; I'm not sure you are thinking."

"Molly!"

"All you're seeing is the Slytherin Headmaster, appointed by Voldemort. And believe me, when I look at him, it's hard not to see anything else. But..."

"But what?"

"But, I don't know, Minerva – I'm not clever like you – but I think that perhaps we've lost too many friends already."

"You're right, Molly, you aren't clever. Perhaps you'd better leave well enough alone."

"Perhaps," agreed Molly. "But perhaps I know more than you think."

The sun began to slip from the skies, and the Quidditch players landed and began to troop up to the house. Molly ticked them off in her mind: Bill first, then Charlie, George, Ronald, Ginny and Harry with their hands clasped. Behind them came Fleur, pale hair bound at the nape of her neck. Molly narrowed her eyes. If the girl wasn't pregnant now, she would be by the time the summer was out.

Finally, a few yards behind the laughing, chattering, hungry group, Severus Snape came slowly, gently bearing Hermione in his arms, wrapped in his black jacket (for the evening had turned cool), her curly head pillowed on his white-clothed left shoulder as he leaned heavily with his left hand on his cane. Molly surmised that he had cast a spell on the girl to reduce her weight – she couldn't see him Levitating her behind him up the hill.

On Severus' face was a look of abstract concentration.

Severus Snape was hiding something; Minerva was right about that. But whatever his motivation, his attachment to the girl was genuine. Molly sipped her sherry – her second, or was it her third? It didn't matter; nobody would notice. Not as long as the food was on the table and the house was still standing.

And it dulled the ache in her heart.

"You're welcome to stay, Severus," she said to the dark man as he approached. "Winky made enough food for a legion."

A brief smile touched his features as he shifted his burden.

"Thank you, Molly," he said before he stepped over the threshold. "I appreciate the opportunity to consult with Bill."

"You are welcome to dine with us, too," Molly muttered at his back. Some things did not change, she noted. The man was still as awkward as a bat bogey.

Hermione woke with a start; she'd been dreaming the most splendid dream about a field and a spreading oak and a man with a velvety voice reading to her about curse breaking before a ginger-haired boy came over, somewhat awkwardly, to say hello.

"Ron," she whispered in the darkness of her room.

Rolling over and squinting at the Muggle clock, no it's just a clock, she saw that it was almost two in the morning.

"Hell," she grumbled. "It was such a nice dream."

Dr Gupta had warned her that she might dream of her fantasy word now that she was starting to sort out what was real and what was not.

"It will help," he had told her, "if you write down what your dreams are when you can remember them. Also include your reactions to them. This will help us document the incidents and allow you to make a better recovery."

Ever dutiful, Hermione thrust the duvet back and switched on her bedside light. The shadows in the room sprang back. Chewing her lower lip, she reached for the pad and pencil that sat by her bed.

The Burrow, she wrote. A summer afternoon – August, perhaps?

Minerva was present as well – she is still angry with him for his actions this spring. She doesn't trust him.

Hermione paused. She vaguely remembered the argument that had accompanied her arrival at the Burrow, but something was niggling at her consciousness: something that wasn't about Severus at all, although he'd been present. She resumed her writing.

Ronald and the others were playing Quidditch, but he flew down to see me after I'd been settled.

I'm glad he's not real, she wrote vindictively, because if he was, I'd make sure that he'd not be able to sit down or stand for at least a week!

Suddenly it felt as if a great weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. She blinked and looked down at the paper.

I'm glad he's not real.

And that was it. The act of writing those words seemed to ease him away from her. Where before there had been a lanky, long-nosed boy with light blue eyes and a quicksilver grin, there was just a memory, fast fading, like the memory of a daydream from childhood.

I did it. Ron's not real. I'm not crazy, and I'm healing. It's a small step. But it's one step closer.

"Thank you, Bill; this is most helpful."

"Anytime, Severus, I'm glad that we found this. The Unde Orieris Curse hasn't been used in a hundred and seventy years, but it seems to have the effects we're looking for."

"It's not much," Snape said, lowering himself carefully onto the chair at the now-cleared table. His neck and leg were throbbing.

"It's one step closer, though," Bill pointed out. "One step closer to knowing."

Suddenly, a scream rent the air.

"Ronald! What – Minerva! Arthur! Come quickly! Ron's disappeared!"

AN: Not mine. No money. Thanks go again to Subversa and SavineSnape for their tireless assistance!