Chapter Six

Chapter Six: In which Severus Snape gives detention, Hermione Granger visits the library, and Charlie Weasley delivers a warning.

Several hours later, Hermione rose to her feet. "Pack!" she said, tracing a neat square with her wand causing her research to fly into an organized bundle, shrink, and slide into the open maw of her small beaded bag, including, but not limited to, all twelve files respecting the Hogwarts staff. It had come as a surprise that Madam Pince and Mr. Filch were married, a tidbit found in his employment file. Hermione might never tell Harry either; he had suspected something of the sort during their sixth year at school, and he would be insufferable for having been right.

Once back in her office, she double-checked her Arithmantical analysis of the Falconworth case before sending the results to Bones in the ordinary way, by inter-office mail, far slower than a memo. Hermione wasn't above getting a bit of her own back. Then, with a wave of her wand, four Petri dishes containing wild boar tissue samples flew overhead to the temperature-regulated storage chest behind and above Hermione's filing cabinet. The small glass dishes piled themselves neatly and slid next to the vial of pale purple love potion (only one-quarter of the original amount remained, the rest having been subjected to exhaustive testing for ingredient composition).

Above her door, a small bird slid out of the whimsical wooden clock hanging on the wall. "Past time to go home," the creature chirped in its annoyingly high-pitched voice. Ron and Harry had given it to her for her promotion to Special Investigator. They had laughed until they'd cried at her reaction the first time the yellow canary had popped out of the door. With a nostalgic smile, she waved her wand and extinguished the lamps, signaling the end of another long day at the office.

She set the security spells on her office and passed through the hallway she shared with the Hit Wizards before entering the Aurory's Commons. The Commons comprised a wide expanse of space dotted with a number of cubicles, and along the walls were several doors leading to offices housing the senior department staff. Four halls cross-quartered the Commons leading away from the hub of the Aurory; the shabbiest of those led to Arthur Weasley's old department, and opposite that was the hall Hermione had just exited. The desk nearest to the lifts was the reception desk, where she logged out.

"Quiet night?" she asked the Duty Auror.

"Nothing to speak of, Hermione. Delta Squad's on stand-by." Philip Jones was a burly wizard, easily a decade older than she, but he had always been polite to her. His mother had been among those lost in the first wave of Muggle-born Registrations under Umbridge's aegis.

"Is Smith still assigned to Delta?"

"Davies had him rotated out before Christmas." He grinned mischievously. No one, aside from Dawlish, particularly liked working with Zacharias Smith, not even amiable Roger Davies.

"Where did they place him then?"

His smile grew malicious. "Omega."

"Couldn't have happened to a more deserving chap." Hermione's eyes danced with mirth. "It might even be good for him." She'd first encountered Crespy Savage, the Omega Squad leader, during her sixth year at Hogwarts, when he had been assigned to protect the school. Tonks and he had been good friends then, but his losses during the war had left him hard and unyielding. "If anyone can keep Smith in line, it'll be Savage."

"I'd like to see that," Jones replied, grinning at the thought.

Their good-nights were brief, and she stepped into the creaky lift, thankfully free of inter-office memos. When the lift stopped on the fourth floor, Hermione was surprised to see the Minister waiting. Even more surprising, he wasn't surrounded by supplicants.

His smile lit his face, even white teeth flashing against dark skin. "Hermione, it's good to see you."

"It's been far too long, Kingsley." Her smile widened with affection. "How are you?"

"The usual."

"You've become a politician."

He angled his head in a familiar way and said blandly, "I didn't only file paper when I worked for the Muggle Prime Minister. It was quite an educational experience."

Hermione laughed. "It really has been too long."

"It has, and I hear rumors about you."

Her laugh abruptly terminated. "You do?"

His big hand was warm on her shoulder. "In the past month alone, more than half of the Hogwarts' Board of Governors has sought me out to ask about you, or to ask how to influence you. Should I expect to see your resignation in Dawlish's quarterly report?"

"You know Ron and I called it quits," she answered obliquely.

His mirth filled the carriage. It was one of the most attractive things about him, Hermione thought, listening to his response.

"The two of you are like a boomerang ... you toss each other but you always return to your point of origin."

"Only if the toss is true." She pushed hair out of her face. "We're done, Kingsley. I decided keeping his friendship was more important."

"Is that why you had an interview with Vector?"

"I was exploring my options in case Ron decided to come back to MLE. I'm very glad he chose to stay where he is, especially as he's started dating Romilda Vane." Before the polite political mask dropped back into place, Hermione noticed Kingsley's mouth form into a moue of distaste. "Is there something I should know about her? Ron may not be ... that is, he's still my friend and I don't want him to be hurt."

"No, no." Kingsley hastened to reassure her. "She has a good heart, but she has a thing for heroes."

His deep flush gave him away, and Hermione remarked, "She has very good taste in wizards."

"Hermione!" he exclaimed indignantly. "She's not at all my type. I like strong women who are willing to stand up for their beliefs rather than take a back seat while their wizard goes out to fight."

It was Hermione's turn to flush. "Speaking of strong women, how's Andromeda? And Teddy?"

"They're fine. She's going to skin me alive when I get home. This is my third late night this week, and I'd promised to cut back over the holidays."

"I know what you mean."

"I heard you were at Hogwarts Christmas Day," he said, cocking his head in inquiry. "Lobbying for the position?"

She adjusted the cloak draped across her arm and covering her beaded bag, folding the heavy wool so it no longer dragged on the floor. "I don't need to leave MLE, but, now that I've given it some thought, I'm intrigued by the idea of teaching."

"The position's yours if you choose. The Board is all but euphoric at the prospect of having any of the three of you on staff; however, if you're considering leaving the Aurory because of Dawlish..."

"He's a snarling Crup to work with and you know it, but that's not what would make me take the teaching position. I've always liked Arithmancy, and I'm really drawn by the summer hours and the possibility of all that free time for research."

"You'll let me know what you decide?"

"Of course. It isn't as if I won't see you anyway." She laid her hand on his sleeve, the material smooth beneath her fingers. "You're one of the few people I'd miss."

"What about Harry? He'll be most unhappy if you leave."

She laughed. "He's already told me he'll lobby for a Northern Division of Aurors based out of Hogsmeade if I go."

Shacklebolt grinned, but his expression turned thoughtful. "That idea has some merit. It would get him out of Dawlish's way, and it would give Harry more administrative experience."

"Kingsley? What are you thinking?" Her mind raced, connecting the dots until they formed a complete picture in broad strokes. "That's why Dawlish hates us!"

"Most likely." He leaned forward to catch her eyes. "John isn't a fool, and the choice is inevitable. If you stay, it will eventually be you, but if you take the Hogwarts' position, it will be Harry."

She blinked at the unexpectedly broad expanse of future possibilities. The lift's voice chimed, "Atrium level."

Kingsley gestured for Hermione to precede him, and the sound of their footsteps accompanied them as they walked toward the dark bank of fireplaces to her left. Only two of the floo connections remained in operation this late in the evening.

Deliberately ignoring the conversational gambit he had dangled before her, she pursued her initial reason for having wanted to talk to him. "Before you go, I have a question about an Incognito file."

His eyebrows rose. "A case?"

"Too early to tell. Call it a preliminary investigation, but one of the people involved has an Incognito file, and I'd like to see it if at all possible."

"Whose file are you looking for?"

She glanced around the large room. "I don't want to say."

"Come with me." He said, and led her straight into the wall, grabbing her hand as they were about to crash into the smooth, dark wood. When they passed right through it and into a small office beyond, Hermione was astonished, and then irritated with herself for being so. "What is this?" she asked. "Office Seven and three-quarters?"

He laughed. "Ministers' privilege. It isn't accessible to anyone else, and I can only bring people I touch with me. Like Side-Along. It's sound-and-scry-proofed." He leaned against the small but beautifully crafted desk and folded his arms. "Tell me whose file you want to see."

"Irma Pince."

He frowned. "Looking for dirt on your future colleagues?"

"No! Kingsley, how could you –-"

"An Auror never ignores a resource, preferring to go into any situation armed with as much information as possible. It's what I would do." He killed her hope with his next sentence. "However, no, Hermione, I cannot give you clearance for Irma Pince's file."

"You're right. It would be foolish to ignore the available information. Most of them have known me since I was a little girl, and I know practically nothing about them."

Kingsley crossed his arms, his ministerial robes draping elegantly to show the sleeves of his pristine scarlet shirt. "Leveling the playing field will not get you a look at Pince's file, no matter how much I might approve of your diligence."

"My foremost reason for asking relates to the preliminary investigation I mentioned." While she trusted him, he was the Minister of Magic. "And I would explain if there weren't confidentiality issues involved."

"Even if you told me everything, I couldn't help you in this case. Incognito files have stringent protocols and protections, and there are several which require each Minister to take an Unbreakable Vow."

Hermione stared at him in shock. "Are you saying Pince's file is one of those?"

He spoke not a word.

"Sorry. Sorry. What I need to know isn't worth your life," she said hastily. "May I come to you if things change? I don't want to go through Dawlish for this and I can't explain why."

"My door is always open to you."

"Thank you." She shifted her cloak and bag from one arm to the other. "If you like, you can tell Andromeda it's my fault you're late."

"And you don't think that would make it worse?"

"Not at all. She trusts me."

"As do I," he said, and his smile was warm and affectionate as he escorted her out of the office.

~o0o~

Hate, long relegated to the purgatory of his own devising, flexed its icy fingers, brushing the length of Severus Snape's spine as he neared a small group of gossiping students. His reputation as a git was of such long-standing, he rarely heard any of the epithets whispered in his vicinity, the words washing over and past him as so much water off a duck's back. Yet, after four months of insidious persecution, his temper was mercurial at best. It was the third day of the new term and his attention had been pricked when he had heard his name, but his anger was roused when he paused to listen to the conversation.

"Once a Death Eater ...." Susannah Dawlish made her dramatic pronouncement to an eager audience, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Later Snape would recall, with grim humor, that he had succeeded where Albus Dumbledore had failed. He had achieved house unity, as all four were represented in the small clique loitering by the statue of Theresa the Tolerant when he rounded the corner and advanced upon the sixth years.

"Would you care to repeat that sentiment to the headmistress?" At its most effective, Snape's voice was precise and lethal. Satisfaction twisted his lips into a mockery of a smile while he watched the students panic, and he reined in his desire to verbally eviscerate the unwitting teenager. "Fifty points from Hufflepuff, Miss Dawlish, for impertinence, and ten more for a lack of creativity. Alastor Moody used that hackneyed phrase for decades, nevertheless, I am still here."

Dawlish, like her uncle John, had been spoon-fed stories of Death Eaters at Mad-Eye Moody's paranoid knee, and she had never cared who knew that fact. The most vocal and blatantly disrespectful of Snape's current students, if she hadn't been absent over the holidays her name would have been at the top of Snape's list of probable culprits. As it was, her absence and the fact she was as fumble-fingered as Neville Longbottom around a potion protected her. However, while eyeing the group of sixth years, Snape noticed Martin Edgecombe hovering at Dawlish's elbow. Collusion wasn't beyond the little cretins' capabilities. "As for the rest of you, ten points from each of your houses for being stupid enough to listen to such drivel."

"Drivel?" Edgecombe bristled.

Snape fingered his wand and stepped into the center of the quietly grousing aggregation. He towered over the young wizard, and Martin Edgecombe's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed with some difficulty. Seeing that reaction served to calm Snape's imminent wrath, and he looked down his nose and into wide blue eyes. "Another thirty points from Ravenclaw, Edgecombe. Willful ignorance is a far greater crime than simply parroting the opinion of others."

"But you were a Death Eater!" protested Dawlish self-righteously. She jostled her neighbor to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Edgecombe.

"I was a spy, you vapid little girl." Her mouth snapped shut and Snape had the satisfaction of having silenced the entire group, most of whom were clearly undecided about his loyalties. "Until such time as you comprehend the concept, you might refrain from uttering pronouncements which prove you are a fool rather than keeping your mouth shut and allowing others to merely suspect." He held up a hand when the tall girl sputtered with inarticulate humiliation. "Detention, Dawlish. To be served with Professor Binns." She bowed her head, her cheeks red. Snape swept the rest of the clique with a repressive glare. "Get to class before I decide to give you all Detention ... with me."

They scattered like leaves before an arctic wind.

He was not pleased to remember that Edgecombe was in his next class; however, he used the opportunity to reinforce his authority by lecturing while pacing between rows of student desks, quite unlike his usual style of standing at the podium. He paused next to Edgecombe, noticing with some degree of satisfaction how the young wizard's hand shook while taking notes. Never one to forego an advantage, Snape insolently leaned against the desk. The teen edged to the far side of his bench, crowding his bench-mate in the process.

Snape suppressed an upwelling of petty exultation and continued his lecture. "No tainted creature can be trusted implicitly. They are driven by inhuman requirements and desires. Do not mistake romantic foolishness for fact. A werewolf will attack given the opportunity, regardless of their human inclinations. Centaurs, for example, are governed by laws which the Ministry of Magic has recognized as sovereign. Cross their territorial lines and the Ministry cannot save you if a Centaurian exercises his or her rights."

He straightened and then sauntered between the rows of desks, dark eyes scanning the diligent note-taking of his students. "Sanguinarians," he continued to lecture, "dependent upon which species, revenant or genetic, have negotiated treaties with several European Ministries. They do not hesitate to slake their thirst within those provinces where they have been granted immunity. Closer to home, Merpeople have a reigning monarch, and if one trespasses they are subject to Mermish law. There are reasons students are forbidden to swim in all but approved areas of the Black Lake."

After assigning an essay, Snape dismissed the class and gratefully climbed the stone steps leading to his office. Sinking into his desk chair, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Powerless to halt the progression of his intemperance, he nonetheless recognized its source. There had been no new 'gift' in his classroom or chambers for the past ten days. The temporary – for he was certain this was a momentary lull – reprieve had triggered unpleasant memories, reminding him painfully of the year Voldemort returned. The Dark Mark on his forearm had grown more distinct with each passing week, dread creeping along his spine, whispering words of death into his ear – in Igor Karkaroff's panic-stricken voice – as he had waited for the summons which would most likely end his life.

It galled him that anyone -- some child -- could evoke such a reaction in him. Not even Harry Potter had triggered this type of response , no matter how self-righteous the savior had been as a boy. Snape was a grown man, and while he was a demanding teacher, he had only bullied a handful of students during his years of authority (the aberration of the year he was headmaster aside). That he had resorted to such tactics now, almost a decade after the war ended, merely testified to the strain his stalker had created. Hating to admit the validity of Hermione Granger's statements about psychological trauma, Snape wanted nothing more than to allow his alter ego free reign and pounce on some small creature, but he beat the instinctive urge into submission.

Standing abruptly, Snape stormed from the room, ignoring the pile of essays waiting for his attention. The hallways were filled with students leaving their final classes of the day, chattering and relaxing in the hour before they would be called to dinner, but he slipped through them like a fox in a field of maize, so quickly and so silently that he had gone before they acknowledged his presence.

When he arrived at the side door of the Filches' quarters, he was startled to see the heavy oak door open. But when he stepped inside his jaw actually dropped. Argus Filch was seated on a well-worn leather chair and placing the final pawn on the chess board set up on the small table in front of him. "Come for a game, have you?"

"The speed with which gossip spreads in this castle is astonishing. It's no wonder Dumbledore was so well-informed." Snape glared at the portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. Its subject, Hypatia, had the grace to blush. "They were never as cooperative with me. Nor have they been useful recently."

"If this one weren't Irma's favorite, we wouldn't have any in our quarters. They're a right snobbish lot. Never a help to me or Mrs. Norris," Filch said, eyeing his sleeping cat affectionately. The old tabby had curled up on the hearthrug and was basking in front of the blazing fire. Filch picked up a bottle of Old Ogden's and poured a generous three-fingers of the firewhisky into each of two glasses.

Snape withdrew his wand from the narrow pocket of his teaching robes before settling into the chair opposite the caretaker, and then gratefully accepted the drink. When he leaned back in the chair, he pointed his wand at the board and stunned the wizarding chess pieces. Fifteen years before, during the first game they had ever played, the pieces had refused to cooperate with the Squib. Infuriated by the white queen's bigotry, Snape had cast Petrificus Totalus over the entire set. Following that incident, the two men always played the Muggle way.

"Granger was right. All this waiting sets you on edge." Filch referred to the information she had imparted at Christmas and that the five friends had discussed exhaustively since. He took a drink of his own firewhisky, and then said, "Think it's a Muggle-born or a mixed-blood?"

"Does it matter? I suppose obsessive behavior is much the same in any culture. It's damned inconvenient."

Filch snorted, but made the first move of the game: king pawn to e4. "How many times have we done this, Severus?"

"Played chess?" Snape asked, his long fingers placing a black pawn in the opening square of a classic Sicilian Defense. It was an aggressive defense, but Snape liked to control the center of the board.

"Been the target for ill-mannered children."

Snape watched his opponent's move and then swiftly took the proffered pawn. "Too long and not long enough."

"Never was a truer word spoken."

~o0o~

It was three weeks before Hermione found the time to return to Hogwarts, and she was thankful the stalker's need for attention seemed to be in remission. In the interim, however, Harry had been back to scour the Forbidden Forest twice, with no results, and to interview five of the twelve students who had remained in the castle over the winter holidays, again with negative results.

In fact, Harry had planned to come with Hermione that day; however, an urgent situation had arisen and he was a member of the initial response team. He was presently in Cardiff, and it was unlikely his case would wrap up quickly.

Sparing a brief thought for her friend, Hermione bypassed the cloak room, keeping her heavy outer robes wrapped around her and carrying her broom as she climbed the main staircase. There was no need to invite a bout of malicious vandalism if someone resented her presence at the school. At the fourth floor, she was warm enough to remove her outer layer. Pausing to adjust the maroon angora jumper her parents had given her at Christmas, she adjusted her things until she no longer resembled a pack horse.

When she arrived at the library, the librarian was behind the circulation desk chastising a very small student.

"Mr. Marlowe, if you wish to retain lending privileges, then you will spend the next two Saturdays under my supervision." Pince leaned across the desk, her narrow features granting a hungry, predatory look to her posture. "Until such time as I am satisfied that you know how to handle books with the proper care, you are excused from the library."

The small boy shook like the last leaf clinging to the Whomping Willow in a storm. "Yes, but – but, I need the b-b-book for Professor Weasley's essay on C-Crups."

It wasn't necessary to see the boy's tie to correctly label him a Gryffindor. During those first post-war years, Hermione had often thought students should have been re-sorted each year, thus giving them an opportunity to belong to each of the four Hogwarts houses and explore the different aspects of their own natures; nonetheless, it was amusing when a house trait emerged so blatantly.

Pince pointed a long, accusatory finger at her victim. "I don't care whether you are taking your Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests tomorrow, young man. You damaged Here a Crup, There a Crup, and I will not have such wanton carelessness in my library. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Madam Pince." The first year wilted, but when he turned his woebegone expression in Hermione's direction, he sucked in his breath sharply. "Miss Granger? Hermione Granger?" he asked.

"Er ... yes?"

"Oh, Miss Granger!" he enthused. "Will you sign my copy of Hogwarts: A History?"

Despite her amusement, Hermione had no chance to reply as Madam Pince rounded the circulation desk, shrieking, "Sign her book! Sign her book! Have you no sense, boy? Out! Out of my library, Mr. Marlowe, and don't return until Saturday!"

Young Mr. Marlowe fled, moving as fast as the Crups he was supposed to research.

Hermione barely contained a laugh, but she was sure her amusement was written across her face. "Hello, Madam Pince."

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger. I received your owl." The slender librarian had as much difficulty as her guest in restraining her mirth. After a moment, however, she said, "If you would follow me? While I'm quite aware you know the way to the Restricted Section there are rules for visitors."

"I understand." Hermione shifted her broomstick from her left hand to her right, and followed Pince through the aisles. She breathed deeply. Hogwarts' library was unlike any other, including the Ministry's archives. The familiar smells of old leather and fading parchment were unique, as was the slightly astringent odor of preservative magic. However, this library was redolent with the unique smell of the Quidditch pitch, student bombazine, and damp wool, not to mention the tang of youthful hormones which added a certain piquant quality to the entire aroma. It immediately conjured to mind some of her happier teenaged moments. "Thank you again for granting me the privilege."

"My pleasure," Pince replied. By then they had reached the Restricted Section, differentiated from the rest of the library by a complex working of Net and Entrapment Spells Hermione had never seen before. "We've tightened security since your day. We call this," Pince said slyly, as the magical netting disintegrated into glittering dust before her wand-work, "The Granger Repel-Net."

Hermione blushed. "That's so harsh!"

Pince was unable to repress her snicker, but her hand covered her mouth, and her small black eyes danced with amusement. She whispered, "I can't let the little beasts know I have a sense of humor. They'd take dreadful advantage. Not that some don't already."

"Yes, there's always someone wanting to know more about some things."

"And a very few who wish to know about everything." Pince eyed the younger woman with something like approbation. She preceded Hermione into the narrow aisle, ignoring a particularly aggressive book whose anchoring chain rattled threateningly. The librarian stopped at a small bookcase set apart from the rest of the magical volumes and scrolls. Pulling a dusty specimen from the third shelf, she waved her wand over the book to clean it. Hermione could make out the gilt lettering on the spine, Horace. "Here you are, Miss Granger, just as you wished."

Quickly, Hermione crossed to the small desk standing against the stone wall beneath a narrow Oriel window, and draped her winter robe over the back of the single chair, leaning her broomstick in its folds. Then she accepted the Epodes and reverently studied the aged tome. "Thank you, again. I'll just be over here, shall I?"

"That will do. Come have tea when you're finished. It's been quite some time since I've seen you, although if rumors are true, we might have more frequent opportunities in the near future."

Hermione smiled. "It's a distinct possibility, and I'll look forward to it."

The loud sound of a book being dropped on the floor thinned Pince's lips. "If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course."

Pince departed swiftly, but Hermione noticed, with some degree of nostalgic affection, that the librarian plied her wand as she went, dusting, securing, and re-shelving three books before she'd left the Restricted Section proper.

Within twenty minutes, the Epodes had yielded its bounty: a rudimentary recipe and a single sentence to add to the small but growing list of clues in the discovery of Snape's tormentor. "Strix feathers are useful in love potions." was the sum total of Horace's wisdom.

She jotted a note about strix feathers being a constituent of the Love Philtre, which left three unidentified ingredients listed in her private analysis. The other components had been fairly standard, and their concentrations had been roughly equal: rose petals, apple seeds, and pomegranate juice. None of which would engender the potion with enough coercive properties to use in tracking the brewer by way of Snape's ingestion.

Placing her little beaded bag on the table, Hermione stuck her arm in it up to the elbow. While she was no longer plagued by incessant nightmares or irrational fears, her wartime experiences had nevertheless instilled in her the desire to be prepared for the unexpected. She operated on a plan for the worst and then forget about it basis. Thus, it wasn't easy to find the Ministry references she'd packed amidst three changes of clothes, emergency funds of both Muggle and wizarding currency, toiletries, a healing and potions kit, a sleeping bag and four days' worth of pre-packaged food.

When Hermione returned the beaded bag to the pocket of her heavy outer robe, she had added four books to the table. Metamorphoses in addition to the Liberalis work, and she had copies of Boios' Ornithologia, a book by Ovid (whose title had been worn away by time and careless handling), and a copy of Hercules Furens, although why the Roman playwright Seneca's work should have appeared as a result of her archival search for Sanguinarians was beyond her knowledge at present.

Dipping her quill in the blue ink she preferred for taking notes, Hermione opened the first aged book flat on the desk. Its leaves fanned in an arc, golden light shining approximately a third of the way through the text, and when the pages settled, her reference appeared in raised and illuminated lettering. Unlike Hogwarts, a search in the Ministry's archive activated a latent spell used on each and every piece of reference material the Ministry put into circulation. A smile graced Hermione's face every time she watched the spell work.

An hour later, she had amassed several pieces of information regarding strix, also referred to as strige or striga, and less frequently strigoi. Her interest had been piqued, and she would have to verify her translation of the text as her Latin was merely serviceable. However, according to Liberalis, a striga was that which cries by night ... a harbinger of war and civil strife to men. Just reading the sentence had caused a frisson of unease to course down Hermione's spine. She had lived through enough civil strife to last a lifetime and hoped the reference was allegorical rather than literal.

None of the books, however, were a fount of information. Seneca the Younger was practically useless, and Ovid's work, which remained unnamed because the text was badly damaged and barely legible, had one highlighted section claiming that striga are warned off with Arbutus and placated with the meat of pigs. She had immediately thought of the wild boar; it could be called a pig, and certainly in Ovid's time it might have been so.

When she replaced the Horace, a thick tome on a lower shelf caught her eye. As she withdrew Pliny's Natural History from the shelf, she wondered if the book hadn't glinted to draw her attention. Its beautifully preserved state shamed the Ministry's care of the Ovid.

Sliding back into her seat, Hermione opened the book, her fingers turning the yellowed pages with delicate reverence. Magical intervention had kept it from becoming brittle, but she was careful nonetheless. It took her another hour to discover the only reference to strix. According to Natural History, strix suckled their young, and, more importantly for Hermione's further research, strix was the genus name for owls.

"Oi, Hermione!" called a hushed voice. "You in there?"

"Charlie!" Hermione rose from her chair, meeting him in the narrow aisle. They exchanged a brief hug, and she noticed that this time he didn't smell of fresh dung. Instead, the crisp scent of snow, smoke, and broom oil clung to his coat and tickled her nose. "How did you know I was here?" she asked, keeping her voice low.

He, too, spoke quietly. "Harry sent an owl this morning saying you'd both be here, but I haven't seen him."

"He was sent to Wales this morning and couldn't get away. How did you find me?" She stretched then, feeling her joints and sinews pop, and her spine realigned after having sat for so long.

Charlie's grin was infectious. "Where else would you be?"

"Fair enough." She grinned at him in return. "I haven't seen you since Boxing Day. How've you been?"

After checking the nearest stack, Charlie moved a foot and leaned his shoulder against one of the bookcase's bracers. "All right. I've been coaching the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They've a fair shot to win the house cup this year."

"Isn't that cheating?" She asked, waggling a finger at him.

He smirked, entirely unrepentant. "Nothing in the rules against teachers supervising practice."

"I don't think supervising is quite the same as coaching." Hitching her thigh over the edge of the desk, she rested on half her bum.

"What?" he asked with an ersatz innocence which strongly reminded her of an earlier time and twin brothers covering up a monumental prank.

"I expected better of you," she chastised. "You can't give one house an unfair advantage over the others."

He snorted. "It's not as if Flitwick doesn't have Cho Chang coming every other weekend to chat up the Ravenclaw Seeker."

"She doesn't!"

"Young Davies can't think straight when she's around." He ran a hand through his short hair, dislodging several droplets of snow-melt. "I think she'll hurt Ravenclaw's chances more than she helps, even if she is playing professionally."

"Is she? I didn't realize."

"She's flying second string for the Harpies."

Hermione laughed a little maliciously, even if it was unfair, but she had never liked the way Cho had treated Harry – as some sort of replacement or her ticket to instant celebrity – especially that last morning after the final battle.

"Bollocks!" Charlie sprang forward, and drew his wand on the narrow book which had prodded his shoulder painfully in an effort to escape its shelf. Hermione laughed quietly at his predicament, and he gave her a look that promised retribution even as a spark from his wand resettled the book in its place. All he said, however, was, "If you're staying for dinner, I'll walk with you to the Great Hall."

"Dinner? Is it that late?" Hermione glanced through the window and realized it was quite dark outside. She capped her bottle of ink and gathered her things. "Here, put this back." She handed the Pliny to Charlie and pointed to the short bookcase.

"Yes, Professor Granger," he teased as he obeyed her command. "Are you going to take the Arithmancy position?"

She tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "If I do, Ron can return to the Aurory if he chooses."

Charlie crossed to the small desk where she was packing her beaded bag. "I suspect ickle Ronniekins likes his present income too much to give it up."

"I think you're probably right." Her smile was a little wistful. "Over the past six months, I don't think I've seen him wear the same thing twice." She carefully didn't say that six months before was when she and Ron had broken off their relationship.

Charlie retrieved her broom from where it leaned against the wall. And while he ostensibly examined its condition, he spoke. "It was harder on the younger ones than on Bill or me. We were the first to go through school. Dad's always made a decent salary, but it was stretched thin by the time Ron and Ginny came along. Ron got the blast-end of the Skrewt because he was the sixth son, so he got second and third-hand things. Ginny, being the only girl, had it easy."

Hermione stopped packing, one arm lost in the depths of her beaded bag. She said softly, "I remember."

"Percy hated being poor as much as Ron. The twins didn't even notice." He shook off the momentary pang reminders of Fred caused any member of the family. "Sorry."

"I quite understand." She resumed packing, tucking her quill into a magical pouch, enspelled to protect and preserve her quills' delicate conditions. It was a minute or two before either said anything, and then it was Hermione who broke their impromptu memorial silence. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you like teaching?"

"I do," he said and straightened one of the twigs on Hermione's broom. "After the war, I wanted to be closer to home, and I've discovered how much I enjoy working with the students. Even the most hormonal aren't as touchy as a Hungarian Horntail in season." She giggled at his wry expression. "The best part is the summers when I visit Romania. That freedom gives me the best of both worlds."

Hermione replaced the last reference, Metamorphoses, into her bag, saying thoughtfully, "I am honestly intrigued by the idea of coming here to teach, even though I've never considered it before. I would enjoy working with you and Minerva, and I think I'd like having Professor Snape as a colleague."

"Snape?" Charlie dropped her broomstick, and as it fell from his fingers, the built-in security charms kept it hovering above the stone floor. His expression darkened. "Do you remember what I said on Boxing Day?"

Hermione let her bag fall from her fingertips, regardless of the rarity of its contents, and she spoke in an angry whisper. "And do you remember how I reacted?"

"Look..." he held up a broad, calloused hand, "...aside from what he did to George's ear, I have nothing to hold against the wizard personally. I know it was an accident. However, he has all the affability of a hippogriff, and the temper of a basilisk. Don't underestimate him."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I'll grant that he was an ogre when I was at school, but considering his situation, can you really blame him?"

"No more than I blame a dragon protecting its clutch."

"See," she said triumphantly, ignoring the stubborn expression on his face, or the fact that his color had risen to give him the appearance of being tanned rather than freckled. "Charlie, we've all changed. Some more than others. Honestly, he's been perfectly pleasant when I've seen him these past few weeks."

He loomed over her, reminding her how stocky a man he was, because he seemed to block any light from the nearest torch. "And just why have you been seeing Snape so often?"

Not one to back down, Hermione pressed the digits of one hand against his chest and pushed. Charlie back-pedalled until his thighs hit the edge of the small desk. "Try using a different tone of voice with me, Charles Weasley," she said, softly, dangerously.

"Sorry." He raised his hands in a placating gesture. Hermione eased off, but she cocked an eyebrow expectantly. Finally, he asked, "Has the Board of Governors insisted you do multiple interviews for the position?" Before she could reply, he said angrily, "How could they do that? It's you!"

Hermione relaxed, warmed despite her irritation at his defense of her, and considered her reply before answering him. "While my visits have been partly about the position, I've also wanted to put some old memories to rest. Except these past few weeks, I haven't been back since that first anniversary."

Charlie nodded, then retrieved her broomstick; however, the torchlight cast shadows across his face, shielding his expression. "Perfectly understandable then. Just be wary with Snape. I know Flitwick and Minerva trust him, but I think their judgment might be colored by their guilt."

Hermione's jaw dropped, but then she gathered her wits. "What an awful thing to say!"

Pressing his advantage, he stepped away from the desk. "He's a dangerous wizard, Hermione, and he isn't well-liked."

Her cheeks heated and she narrowed her eyes. "Those same charges could be leveled at me. I've been called ruthless, and I wasn't particularly well-liked when I was here either."

He scoffed, "That's entirely different."

"How?"

"You were never a Death Eater." He balanced her broomstick on its point, simultaneously delivering his verbal one. "You never killed anyone."

"You – I – don't know that for certain. A lot of people died during that last battle, Charlie, and I fought just as fiercely as anyone."

"Stop rationalizing, Hermione. The circumstances are entirely different and you know it."

She picked up her beaded bag from where she'd let it fall, closing its gaping mouth before tucking it into one of the pockets of her winter robes. "I dislike seeing people judged unfairly."

He smiled then and tugged her thick braid. "I know you do, but you need to remember Snape isn't particularly nice and very few people like him."

"I've noticed," she said, remembering Pomona Sprout's reaction.

"It's not only Sprout. Hagrid doesn't speak to Snape when he visits, and Rolanda goes out of her way to avoid him."

She slanted a glance in his direction. "And how do you treat him?"

"Like a colleague, not a best friend."

"Good. I would be quite put out if you acted like a git. He's suffered more than anyone I know for his mistakes, and his heroic efforts –"

Charlie groaned. "Don't make him a project."

She glared at him. "And don't treat me as if I'm a simpering idiot."

"All right, all right." He lightened the mood by raising her broomstick as if it were a shield. "It would be great if you decided to teach here. Snape's really the only problem, but he keeps to himself mostly, so you wouldn't have to choose sides."

As she took a last look at the small shelf she'd perused so thoroughly a question rose in her mind. "You're the Care of Magical Creatures professor. What can you tell me about strix?"

A gasp drew Hermione's and Charlie's attention to the front of the Restricted Section. Madam Pince was standing there, her face drained of color. A long-buried memory struggled to make itself known in Hermione's mind. "Are you all right, Madam Pince?" she asked, alarmed by the older woman's stricken expression.

Charlie took two steps toward her, his arm outstretched. "Irma?" he asked.

The older witch shook her head. "No. Yes. I'm all right. I've just – just ...." Her hands clutched each other. "Miss Granger, I won't be able to have tea with you today. I have a ... a meeting and I'm afraid I'll be late as it is. You'll have to leave now. I can't leave the Restricted Section unsecured."

"I don't mind." Hermione draped her cloak over her arm as Charlie jauntily perched her broomstick on his shoulder. "I'm sorry to inconvenience you. Are you sure you're all right, Madam Pince?"

Pince wouldn't meet her eyes. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. Hurry along, if you please. I mustn't be late."

Before Hermione knew it, she and Charlie had been escorted from the library, and the circulation desk had been left in the hands of the current Head Girl. Madam Pince had disappeared, and the memory of a vaguely similar encounter slipped into the murky depths of imperfect memory.

"Shall I escort my future colleague to the Great Hall for dinner?" Charlie asked as they strolled down the corridor.

"Making a dry run, Miss Granger? Attempting to assert your authority before you've become a member of the staff?" Snape's voice preceded his presence, and Hermione turned around to greet him with a smile.

"Hello, Professor. Happy New Year. Having a quiet beginning of term?"

He drew abreast of the friends, inclining his head in his colleague's direction. Charlie nodded curtly in reply as Snape addressed Hermione. "The eye of the storm, I assure you."

"I certainly hope not, else I should jettison my potential career change."

Snape snorted. "Considering the length of time it's taking you to decide, I expected to read a paper in the annual edition of Arithmantica expostulating on the fourteen methods of determining a life change."

Charlie gaped and his cheeks reddened, but his mouth snapped shut when Hermione laughed. Then she said, "When I write such a paper, I'll be sure to send you a copy."

As they rode a little used staircase toward the body of the school, an older Ravenclaw, stranded behind them when the staircase had shifted, asked Charlie about the dragon reserve in Wales. While Charlie answered at length and with some enthusiasm, Hermione impulsively said to Snape, "Not to tempt fate during this 'eye of the storm,' but you might consider sprinkling dried Arbutus at the perimeter of your chambers, office, and classroom."

"Arbutus?"

"Yes. It's an evergreen which mostly grows in the Mediterranean, and it has red fruit, roughly the shape of strawberries. It's commonly referred to as the Strawberry Tree and is also found in North America, where it's called a Madrone." Snape narrowed his eyes and she flushed.

"Are you an eidetiker?" he asked unexpectedly.

"What? Oh. I was never tested for it, but it's possible. I remember practically everything I read."

He outlined his lips with his index finger, as she'd seen him do countless times when she was his student and again at Christmas; it signified deep thought. Snape was silent and Hermione respected him enough not to badger him. Behind him, Charlie said, "I'll be happy to write a letter on your behalf Sommers," just as the narrow staircase came to a halt.

Sommers headed toward his house common room, clearly interested in relieving himself of his books before dinner, while Charlie, Hermione and Snape descended the main stairs leading to the Entrance. Cliques of students clumped together waiting for the Great Hall's doors to open for the evening meal, and many heads turned at the sight of such an unusual group of adults.

"That's a Stormwind 2005, that is!"

Hermione sourced the exclamation to a group of Slytherins. It wouldn't have mattered much, except there had been a general lull in conversations at that moment, and as a result, everyone in the Entrance Hall heard the comment. A swell of rumor and innuendo rushed into the awkward silence like a wave crashing to the naked shore.

"Only Aurors fly those!" another voice said in a sort of hushed awe.

"Maybe she's come for Snape?"

"That's Hermione Granger, that is!" piped up young Mr. Marlowe from amongst a sizeable group of mixed-house second years. "She was doing research in the library."

Hermione smiled at the boy, and his face glowed with happiness. His group of friends instantly plied Marlowe with questions, and one of the other boys jabbed him in the side. Embarrassed, Hermione said, "As much as I'd like to enjoy your hospitality, Charlie, Professor Snape, I have several things to do this evening and I hadn't planned to remain in the library quite as long as I did."

"Coward," Snape said, so softly no one but Hermione heard him as he stepped onto the stone slab of the school's entrance hall.

She flushed and glanced at him through her lashes. "I'm afraid I'll strew the ground with lumps of coal if I stay."

For her pains, and to the astonishment of the others, including Charlie Weasley and Septima Vector – who had just arrived from the dungeons deep in conversation with Horace Slughorn – Severus Snape, feared ex-Death Eater and former greasy git, laughed with unfeigned amusement.

"What the hell?" Charlie asked.

"Inside joke," Hermione replied as she retrieved her broom from him and ignored his astonishment. "I really must go, but thanks for the invitation, Charlie." She turned toward the tall man at her other side. "It was nice seeing you again, Professor. I'm sure we'll meet again soon."

Of all unexpected things, she thought she might have seen a dimple flash in his cheek, but he simply said, "Good evening, Miss Granger." As she stepped toward the great oak doors opening to the dark Scottish night, he added, "All that fuel could start a real fire."

She opened her mouth to reply, but saw he had already greeted the headmistress and Potions master, and Charlie stood staring at Snape's back, a scowl marring his handsome face.

~o0o~