Eight

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read this story in its early stages: OpalJade, Emmeline33 and RedOrchid. Your support was invaluable.

The day had arrived, and he'd come up with nothing more personal than chocolates. They were magical, yes--some changed flavours as they were consumed, and one that he had a particular interest in actually claimed to add an hour to the day, but in the end, they were chocolates, and he felt as if he'd failed some very basic relationship test.

He did not want to have to watch her open them and so he deposited the package in the sink where she left him her missives and set about dressing for the day. He doubted that Potter's dinner would be a formal occasion, and he wanted to spend the morning in Longbottom's room, making a final check of the health of Pomona's gift, so he dressed plainly. Frankly, it was not much different than being at Hogwarts for Christmas. The holiday had had no particular significance to him for years; he had no family or friends to visit. It was simply another working day, punctuated by a large turkey dinner.

So he was surprised when he heard Granger coming through the loo. She'd scooped up her gift in one arm and carried his under the other. She was dressed in a large pink shirt that she wore for sleeping, and there were slippers on her feet. Her hair was a mangled nest from having been slept on, and Snape wondered if it meant there was something deeply disturbed about him that he found the sight of her tangled hair so erotic.

"I had planned to visit the first floor--" he began before he saw her face.

It was brought home to him quite suddenly that this was her first Christmas without her parents. She had come looking for some semblance of tradition, for some small amount of pleasure in the occasion, and he sat down on the bed abruptly. "Happy Christmas," he said. This was not a phrase he was used to uttering, and he hoped that it did not sound as awkward as it felt.

"Happy Christmas," she said, and her smile was brave. "I've got you something." She held out a small package.

"I fear holiday traditions are not my forte," Snape said. It would be pointless to try to pretend otherwise, and the fact that he had no experience in such matters was not an indicator that he was unwilling to attempt them, a fact she should well know by now. "If there is some ritual to perform, you will have to apprise me of it."

She looked at him oddly. "No. No ritual. I see you've got me something as well--unless some other man has taken to leaving me gifts in the sink."

Snape gave her a look of consternation. "I should hope not."

"Well, then," she said, "the logical thing seems to be to open them."

Why was she making this so difficult? Snape wondered irritably. He was trying to humor her need for this little scenario; there was no need to make him feel like an idiot. "I was simply wondering if--" He glanced at her and saw that her eyes shown with unshed tears.

"I know. I just--now that I'm here, I realize that I can't recreate anything. It's silly."

"I am not trying to make you feel foolish."

She nodded quickly and swiped at her eyes, which had spilled over. "I know you're not. I hope I'm not making you feel badly. Oh, hell." She covered her face with her hands. "I can't believe I'm crying in your room. I'm sorry."

Snape was at a loss. He thought back to the morning of the Board of Governors, a situation in which he had been of no use. He had no skill at these things. He knew how to offer advice--solutions, perhaps; a bracing admonishment to get on with it--but there was no answer to this. Nothing to do. It was not that he did not understand that he should comfort her, but he had no experience in soothing words, nor any idea of how to begin. Was there some kind of manual that he had somehow failed to receive?

"Granger," he said and reached out to take her hand from her face. He felt terribly awkward and something like a fraud.

"It's all right. I'm fine," she said and used her free hand to wipe her face with her nightdress.

"It is perfectly acceptable not to be fine," he said and gave a slight tug to her hand. He was immensely relieved when she rose and joined him on the bed. Perhaps he was not mangling this absolutely. He put an arm around her, and she pressed her face into his armpit.

"Sometimes it is easy to forget all that you have lost," he said. "You give no sign of it, and if I have been remiss in... that is, if this is not the time to--"

She shook her head against him, and her arms crept around him and squeezed tightly. It was not comfortable, but then, he supposed, there was no need for it to be. He held her more tightly and fell silent. He could feel her tears seeping through his robes.

He thought of Potter then, just three floors away--hardly a vast, unnavigable distance. Potter, most likely, would know what to do with Granger's tears, would know exactly what needed to be said. And yet, here she was--again, though he had failed spectacularly the first time she had sought him for comfort. It was a bracing thought, a strangely thrilling thought, that there was something between them that she wanted, even when she was not interested in books or theories or snogging. He ran a tentative hand over her hair.

He had no idea how many minutes ticked by, how long he sat beside her, growing ever more uncomfortable and moist, but it seemed to matter very little. For whatever unfathomable reason, this was what she felt she needed, and he was determined not to make a mess of it.

Finally, she pulled her face away from his chest. The air felt cool against his sodden robes, but he would not for anything have embarrassed her by spelling her tears away. Her eyes were swollen and red, but she was trying to smile.

"Thank you, Severus. I feel... better isn't quite the word, but... cleaned out." She gave a half-hearted little laugh. "I suppose that wasn't the way you intended to spend your morning."

He said nothing, as nothing came to mind that would not make him sound like a fool. It had not been the way he intended to spend his morning, and pretending otherwise would only insult her. However, he was not sorry that she had come to him, and he hoped that his arm lingering about her would be sufficient to let her know it.

"Presents," she said at last. She handed him a small package.

He sat with it awkwardly in his hands. Was he supposed to unwrap it immediately? Who was supposed to go first?

Granger, however, had no such qualms, it seemed. She had already begun to slide the wrapping from her gift, and he watched as her face registered the confusion and disappointment that he had known would come. She stared down at the box for a few moments, reading the list of charms, and then something crossed over her face, and she looked at him, her head tilted to one side.

"Harry has given me chocolate every year for seven years," she said slowly. One side of her mouth was beginning to twitch upward into a smile. "He thinks I was deprived as a child."

"Mmmm," Snape said noncommittally.

"You asked him, didn't you? You asked him, and this is what he told you."

She closed her eyes, and Snape had the feeling it was because she was keeping further tears from escaping. He knew he should have never asked that good-for-nothing Potter for advice. He looked away, attempting to find any words with which to remind her that it was only polite to at least pretend to be pleased by a gift--that even he knew this--when he was brought back to attention by the fact that her face was inches from his.

"Thank you, Severus," she said and kissed him so gently that it seemed all other presents would be rendered irrelevant.

He cleared his throat. "You are welcome."

"This extra-hour one could be useful," she said, and finally, he allowed himself to smile.

"I had thoughts along similar lines."

"Open yours," she said.

Snape wished for a moment that he had unwrapped his as she had, because now she was watching him and he had to decide whether to be fussy about it or just rip the paper away. He opted for the latter. Inside he found a box containing two small bits of foam.

Before he could begin to decide how to handle the fact that he had no idea what she'd given him, she spoke.

"They're earplugs," she said.

"Earplugs," he repeated.

"I know you don't like Silencing Charms. I don't blame you; they're awful. They make everything feel fake somehow. But this way you can sleep while I'm up working."

He did not point out that he'd had no trouble sleeping as of late and that he hoped that this was not an indication that she planned to return to researching in the evenings. "Thank you," he said. And if he felt slightly smug that chocolates were, on the whole, more enjoyable than earplugs, he said nothing.

***

With Granger safely off to the Weasley abode for the morning, Snape proceeded to the first floor to check on the greenhouse.

Longbottom was in a state.

He had brushed the fangs of the Venomous Tentacula until its gums had bled, and it was sore and cross, waving its tentacles angrily at the magical glass. The Flitterbloom had been pruned inexpertly since last Thursday, and it looked a bit as if it had been on a bender. Longbottom was striding about the room, casting charms: adding rain here and snipping there--and he looked crazed, as if he'd been up for days. His hair stood up in muddy spikes about his head.

"Cease at once," Snape said after glancing around the room.

"Sir?" Longbottom said, freezing in mid-cast, his wand lifted and his eyes wide and surprised.

"Do you often set about destroying your Christmas gifts before they are delivered?" Snape asked. "If that is your intent, then by all means, carry on. You are doing a fine job of it."

Longbottom appeared torn between snarling and crying. "If you've come to berate me, I haven't got time," he said a bit desperately. "Professor Sprout is due to stop by at eleven, and nothing is ready."

Snape suffered a wave of annoyance and self pity. Would he be required to calm every member of the household before dinner? And what was he supposed to do with this fine mess? He could hardly hold Longbottom and stroke his hair until the crisis passed--he shuddered at the thought--but the boy must be stopped.

"What do you mean, 'nothing is ready?' Until your most recent bout of... attentions... everything was ready," he said with exasperation.

"But the Maidenglory looks limp, and I think one of the Mandrakes has started to get spotty, and I haven't had a chance to harvest all the beans from the Puffapods."

"You recall, do you not, that you will continue to tend these plants after today? It's not as if you're delivering them all to Hogwarts for immediate use. The only deadline you have is the one at which you tell Pomona what you've done and show her your progress." He fingered the Flitterbloom's decimated foliage. "Perhaps you could leave the plants intact until then."

"You're right. You're right," Longbottom said, but he raised his wand again and began to direct the storm to the Devil's Snare.

Snape reached over and plucked the wand from the boy's grasp. "Perhaps I was not speaking clearly enough," he said sharply. "Stop it, before you kill everything you've worked so hard to create."

"But the--"

"No."

"No?"

"No," Snape said, more gently. "It is a fine gift. Pomona will be delighted. Allow her that, rather than forcing her to smile at your 'efforts.'"

Longbottom sighed. "All right," he said and reached for his wand.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Should I, perhaps, keep charge of it until after her visit?"

Longbottom closed his eyes and smiled ruefully. "Not unless you think my hair suits me this way."

Snape gave him dubious look, handed over the wand, and left in what he hoped was an impressive swirl of fabric.

***

Snape's first thought was that he had rarely seen such a pitiable and mismatched group of people. Potter sat at the head of the table, with Granger at the foot. To her left sat Filch, then Longbottom and Malfoy. To her right, Pomona, leaving Snape the seat on Potter's left. Lovely.

He hesitated in the doorway to the dining room. It was not as if he had not set foot in this room since taking up residence in the house, but as they regularly dined in the kitchen, he did not come here often, and his memories of it had not been written over with the mundane routines of household life. As he stood there, he could almost see Dumbledore at the head of the table with Molly at the other end. The candelabra, a rendering of two entwined runespoors, was in the center of the table where it had always been.

"Glad you could join us," Potter said, as if Snape had been late, which he most certainly had not been. Choosing not to sit around making small talk for hours before a meal did not constitute lateness.

He took a quick glance at Longbottom, but the boy seemed relatively composed, leading Snape to believe that his gift to Pomona had been well received. In fact, the woman in question had a spray of Asphodel tucked behind her ear. It looked ridiculous set against the fraying gray strands of her hair, but her smile was genuine and bright, and Snape felt... pleased that she was pleased.

Nearly the moment that he'd taken his seat, Kreacher had arrived with a platter of roasted potatoes, and Snape's momentary warm feelings evaporated. Truly, it was not unreasonable to arrive at quarter of twelve for a noon meal. They need not act as if they'd all been sitting here starving and waiting for him to arrive.

The elf was different. This thought occurred to Snape so suddenly that it seemed disconnected from all he had observed since entering the dining room, and it took him a moment to decipher it. He looked at Kreacher again. The Black house-elf had always struck him as a little mangy thing, gray skinned and drooping, but he realized that this was either not now the case or had never been so. Old, he was, but also strong, with wide, flapping ears and black, mischievous eyes.

"Kreacher, do you need any help with the rest?" Granger said.

"No, Miss. Kreacher brings the food without any help."

"But you will join us when you've finished, won't you?"

Kreacher's thin ears began to twitch, and he shuffled from foot to foot. Granger looked at him with mock severity. "You did promise."

"Kreacher did promise, Miss. But the pudding will need--"

"I'm certain one of us can see to the pudding. And I've arranged a seat just for you."

Snape looked, startled, to his right, where there had appeared a chair between him and Potter. The chair was exactly like the rest in the dining room: same ornately carved back, same faded brocade seat cover, but it was tall and narrow, and would hold Kreacher at a normal height for conversation. She must have created it, Snape thought, as he had never seen anything like it in any wizarding home he had ever visited. It was a clever little charm.

Kreacher nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, where he remained until Granger fetched him out, pushing him out the door with one hand and carrying a bowl of stuffing in the other. He bore an enormous turkey to the table and looked up at her beseechingly when he had finished.

"There is vegetables," he said.

"And I will get them. Sit down."

Snape watched as Kreacher appealed to Potter, turning and flapping his enormous ears obscenely, as if he were batting his eyelashes. Potter, in turn, looked at Granger, who was firm. Potter shook his head at the elf, and Kreacher reluctantly climbed onto his chair.

"It is high in this chair," he remarked to Potter.

"Are you--that is, does it bother you?"

"Kreacher is not bothered by the height of the chair," he said pointedly, and Potter looked away.

The meal, while sometimes a bit surreal, could not be considered exactly boring. Malfoy harangued Potter constantly throughout it, pointing out that as host, he had not cooked the meal, set the table, or polished any of the elaborate silver that now adorned it. Potter retaliated by hissing, "Shut it, Malfoy," periodically, which struck Snape as oddly reserved.

Longbottom gave an excruciatingly long treatise on the amount of dragon dung necessary to grow a Venomous Tentacula, a dicey period during which the plant had contracted and then overcome powdery mildew, and the first harvest of its fangs. Pomona listened to each word of Longbottom's speech, nodding and gasping in the appropriate places, but even she looked slightly vacant, as if she'd left the table in her mind and was thinking of other things.

What was interesting, Snape thought, was that no one spoke up about it. Malfoy did not loose an attack of brussel sprouts onto Longbottom's person, Granger did not kick him subtly beneath the table, and he himself did not suggest that if Longbottom wished to discuss the excrement of dragons, it would be best done away from the dinner table. All of them seemed bound, if not to appreciate Longbottom's topic of conversation, at least to tolerate it.

When Longbottom appeared to have finished, Snape struggled mightily for something to say that might turn the conversation away from Herbology. But before he could think of anything appropriate, Malfoy said, "So, I hear that the construction is moving along quite quickly at Hogwarts."

Everyone snapped immediately to attention, though Snape might have tested the water of Granger's face for a moment before turning back to Malfoy.

"You did? From whom?" she said. "I haven't been in the last week."

"That's the word at the Aurory anyway," he said, looking vaguely smug now that all eyes were on him.

"Do you think it's a bad sign?" Granger said.

"I doubt it," Snape replied. "More likely, they've received word to continue rebuilding the castle according to the original plans. Your proposal, accepted or not, would not require any structural changes to the building."

She looked vaguely mollified--more so when Potter added, "It probably made your ideas more attractive to them, Hermione, that they wouldn't have to wait."

Snape glowered. That had been exactly what he had been trying to say.

"Well, I, for one, will be glad to get home," Pomona said. "Not that your hospitality hasn't been wonderful, Harry, and I'm grateful to you. But I'm just itching to get back to my greenhouses. Especially since Neville has made me such a lovely start for them. I'm trying to look on the bright side. I can't count how many times I wished I could change something--move the water plants to greenhouse three, for instance--but then I'd think, oh, but it would be so much work, and everything's so well established here. Now I'll be able to."

"What has become of Peeves?" Filch asked, and Snape's head whipped around. Filch's voice was as gravelly and harsh as he remembered it, but it seemed an age since he had heard it last. Though he saw Filch about the house from time to time, they had rarely exchanged more than a nod.

Granger looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry to say that Peeves is well and has been inhabiting the dungeons. He's driven the construction wizards mad, of course, moving supplies around and pestering them with his nasty little songs."

Filch nodded as if he knew that he didn't have the kind of luck that would have seen Peeves ejected from the castle. "The ghosts as well?" he asked.

"They're about," Granger said. "Most of them, anyway. The Grey Lady hasn't been seen since the Final Battle."

"That's too bad," Longbottom said at the same time as Malfoy said, "She always gave me the creeps anyway."

"What do you think happened to her?" Potter said.

"She did whatever she was supposed to do, I suppose," Granger replied. "Whatever was keeping her tied to the earth. Perhaps she moved on."

Snape did not know what Granger was referring to, but there were those at the table who did, it seemed, as a somber mood seemed to envelop them all. There was nothing but the sound of chewing for several long minutes.

"Peeves once locked me in a closet," Filch said suddenly. "It was magic he used, and I couldn't undo it. I yelled myself hoarse for a day waiting for someone to come and let me out."

Granger looked pained, but Longbottom laughed. "He dropped a pot on my head in Herbology once," he said. "Knocked me clean out. We had doubles with the Slytherins that year, and someone just shoved me under a table. I came to a couple of hours later staring at wads of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum and wondering where in hell I was."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, dear!" Pomona exclaimed, but Longbottom shook his head and rubbed it ruefully as if it were still tender. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Just part of the Hogwarts experience."

"I heard of someone who claimed to have kissed Peeves," Malfoy said. "The rumor was that there were years when Peeves was too busy... erm, keeping busy... with some student to cause much trouble."

"Oh, my God," Granger said. "Can you imagine? No, wait--don't! Don't imagine! It's too horrible."

Snape had, in fact, heard the same rumor during his own school years and suspected that it was just one of those unshakable legends that haunted the castle as surely as the ghosts--as Peeves himself--did. So he was surprised when Filch said, "There were a couple years when Peeves was quiet." He said this with the air of a man remembering Eden.

"When?" Snape asked.

"Yes, when?" Pomona echoed. "Before my time, surely? I don't remember Peeves ever behaving."

"Oh, sure you do, Pomona," Filch said. "It was during the time when Hagrid was a student. Truth be told, I suspect that boy was keeping Peeves as some kind of pet. Always was good at calming things, that Hagrid. Bollocks at giving detention, though."

Snape had the unfortunate mental picture of a young Hagrid and Peeves, locked in some sort of unholy embrace, and he coughed and took a deep drink of his wine. Come to think of it, he had no idea what had become of Hagrid and made a mental note to ask Granger about it.

"The food is excellent, Kreacher," Potter interrupted, seeming to want to end any further speculations on the subject of Hagrid and Peeves. "Top notch."

There was a general murmur of agreement while Kreacher writhed uncomfortably in his seat. He beamed briefly around the table, stabbed at some carrots on his plate, and finally muttered, "Kreacher is glad you is liking it."

It occurred to Snape that Kreacher's diction became decidedly more house-elf like when he was angry or embarrassed. He wondered if Walburga Black had given her elves elocution lessons.

"Actually," Potter said, "since we're all here, I'd like to say thank you to all of you."

Snape cringed inside. Was this going to turn into some maudlin little speech about how much they'd all grown and contributed? Merlin spare him.

"You've all done more than your share in making this place a worthy boarding house," he mumbled. "The gardens, the library, all the daily repairs and meals made by Kreacher and Mr. Filch..."

"Notice how none of that has a bit to do with you," Malfoy said. "What is it exactly that you do around here, anyway, Potter?"

"And especially Hermione, who has given so much of her time to ensuring that this house is a safe place where people can find a home."

"Again--" Draco began.

"Malfoy," Potter shouted, throwing his fork down onto the table. Incidentally, Snape felt oddly relieved at this outburst. Potter's little speech and quiet tolerance of Malfoy's barbs had been making him nervous.

Potter made an exaggerated show of looking around the room. "If I'm not mistaken, this is not Malfoy Manor. It's my house, my money that buys the food and the books and the seeds; my influence that keeps this house unplottable and the press off our backs."

"Oh, so it's a monetary contribution," Draco said. "I'm glad you cleared that up."

"For fuck's sake," Potter hissed. "I admitted every one of you. I handled every scrap of the paperwork involved from having the Manor officially condemned to things as simple as changes of address."

Draco looked slightly stung at the repeated mention of the Manor. "We haven't had a new resident in months," he said archly. "How have you been keeping yourself busy?"

Snape watched this exchange with some interest. Draco had insisted to him that there was no malice in the verbal sparring between him and Potter, but at the moment, both of them looked flushed and dangerous.

"Well, I'd hoped not to have to say this in the middle of Christmas dinner," Potter said, glaring daggers at Malfoy. "But I'm stepping down. So you won't have to worry about what I'm doing or not doing anymore, Draco."

Malfoy smiled nastily. "Funny how that follows the news that Hogwarts will soon be reopening," he said. "The prospect of vacancies to be filled have you ready to scarper?"

"Yes, that's it exactly," said Potter flatly. "How well you know me."

"Boys," Pomona said.

"Wait," Longbottom said, "are you closing the house?" And Snape was slightly dismayed that this had been his first question, too.

"No, no, of course not," Potter said. "The Foundation is set up to provide for this house in perpetuity--even in my absence. And as Malfoy is so fond of pointing out, the house is hardly going to fall down without me. I'll still live here, anyway; I'll be around if something comes up. I'll just have less time on my hands."

Malfoy looked at Potter with barely concealed interest. "Staying on, then?" he said. "Afraid you'd miss us too much?"

Potter gave him a strange smile in response. "Whatever would I do without your constant, well-meaning attempts to get me to better myself?"

Malfoy smirked. "Why don't you tell us what you're going to be doing before we decide whether you'll be bettering yourself."

Potter glanced at him and then back at the table. "I'm going to be studying healing at St Mungo's," he said.

"That's wonderful, Harry!" Granger beamed at him from across the table, looking--to her credit, Snape thought--only slightly panicked at the loss of her housing director.

He thought it over, pushing carrots from one side of his plate to the other. St Mungo's was not a completely unsuitable choice. It required one to be passably good at a number of things: Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Dark Arts Reversals--without having to excel at any one thing. And it would appeal to Potter's world-saving instincts.

"I'm sorry to have blurted it out in the middle of Christmas, Hermione," Potter said.

"No, it's perfect," Granger replied. "We're already celebrating." She raised her glass. "To Harry."

Snape felt that a single toast to Potter in his lifetime was a toast too many, but he looked around the table and saw every glass held aloft, even Malfoy's. He thought of the shock that Granger had just received and wished to make things no more difficult for her than was necessary.

"To Potter," he said and raised his glass.

***

The pudding having been lit, extinguished, doused in hard sauce, and consumed, the residents of the Augurey retired to the sitting room for brandy.

The sun was setting outside, and Kreacher had lit a fire in the grate, and the room seemed warm and somehow forgiving, as if they all had permission to be their best selves, at least for the moment.

Granger Summoned mince pies from the kitchen and patted the sofa next to her for Kreacher to sit down. Snape sank into the armchair to her left.

"Did you have a happy Christmas, Kreacher?" she asked.

Kreacher twitched his ears. "Kreacher has never celebrated Christmas before," he said, "and Kreacher does not know if you are his friends or his family, but he is glad that you was liking his food, and he likes this Butterbeer." This answer seemed to satisfy Granger, who sat back in her chair with both hands wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. She closed her eyes briefly, and a small smile played around her mouth.

Pomona stood at the makeshift bar by the fireplace. She caught his eyes. "Drink, Severus?"

"Indeed. Ogden's, if it is available."

A glass came sailing overhead, and he caught it deftly in his palm. The first sip warmed him and loosened the tension at the base of his neck.

Potter and Malfoy were setting up chess in the corner of the room. A tentative peace seemed to have settled between them. Their bickering was now of the friendly variety and chiefly concerned who was going to whip whose arse at chess.

Filch sat alone in a ladder-back chair beside the makeshift door to Potter's office. Without quite knowing that he was about to do it, Snape rose and crossed the room to him. "I wonder if you are aware," he said, "that there are potions that repel poltergeists."

"Can't be," Filch said, not quite looking at him. "Kind of trouble I had with Peeves, Dumbledore would have given 'em to me years ago."

Snape thought this over for a moment and decided that one more lie for the old man's sake would not condemn him to hell any sooner.

"The potions are experimental," Snape said. "Likely the Headmaster did not wish to raise your hopes with something that might fail."

Filch appeared to consider and then accept this. "But you'd be willing to try?" he asked.

"I would," Snape said. "Assuming that you would consider it to be worth the effort."

"Dumbledore was attached to the little bastard," Filch said doubtfully. "Never wanted to have him sent away."

"Dumbledore was a man of odd tastes," Snape said.

Filch nodded. "Truth be told, I don't think I could go back if your potions don't work." He said this as matter-of-factly as he might have reported the weather, but the gravity of the statement--Filch had lived nearly six decades at Hogwarts--rattled Snape.

"'S only natural that the students dislike me. My job is to keep them out of where they shouldn't be and to keep their fancy magical toys out of the corridors. Most of them never realize I'm a Squib. But Peeves... I always felt like with Peeves it was personal. Breaking things he knew I couldn't fix, chattering at me all bloody night long, knowing I couldn't so much as Langlock him, torturing Mrs Norris... That time with the closet--I think he meant to leave me there."

"I'll begin the potion directly," Snape said.

"I'd be much obliged," Filch said.

They lapsed into silence. Snape listened to the sounds of clashing chessmen and the murmur and buzz of conversation in the room. He watched the firelight as it danced on Granger's face, illuminating her expressions as she chatted to Pomona and Longbottom.

Malfoy gave a shout of triumph as he took one of Potter's knights, and Snape closed his eyes. Bizarre as it might seem, he was home.