Chapter Two

"Are you crying?"

Hermione wasn't entirely certain why she had neglected to consider that a record of Snape's experiences during two wizarding wars would be anything other than horribly sad and horribly horrifying. She had returned to his little shop directly after work on Thursday evening, armed with Dictaphone and notepad, ridiculously eager, she belatedly realised, to delve into his past. She had also neglected to use her waterproof mascara that morning, an oversight that was going to cost her.

She sniffed resolutely, if a little loudly, and attempted to muster something approaching professional detachment. "No. My eyes are getting tired, that's all. It's an odd light in here."

"You're bawling your eyes out."

Apparently she'd failed.

"Well you can't blame me, can you? This is just so sad!"

"I know that, Miss Granger," he replied a little briskly. "I lived through it, remember?"

At that she broke down completely, apologising profusely and scrubbing at her face with an already ink-stained tissue. Her best efforts to calm herself, as he brusquely ordered her to, resulted in her breathing rising to hysterical little gasps.

"I'm just... so... so... s-s-sorry! It's just... that... I hadn't... th-thought... about it... like... that. You always... seem... s-s-so calm..."

"For God's sake, Granger, go and wash your face!"

The face in the mirror was frightful. She was red cheeked, her eyes were washed out, and she was unattractively snotty. She had even managed to smudge ink on the tip of her nose. She let the tap run until the water was icy cold, splashing her face until she finally felt her breathing subside. It was hardly professional and utterly mortifying. The opportunity of a lifetime, and she had managed to foul up so completely, so early on. This was their first day together; what chance now he'd let her return again?

She felt rather ashamed of herself as she returned to the table in the little kitchen above the shop. This was Snape's story, after all. It was one thing for her to find it all so terribly tragic and romantic in her head, but it was quite another to burst into tears after he had given her the honour of placing her in his temporary confidence. He had chosen to tell her his tale so that he wouldn't have to face this kind of reaction himself. It was utterly selfish of her to get so emotionally involved when he was doubtless finding this hard enough, anyway. She could only hope that he wasn't going to rescind their deal.

He was busy at the counter when she finally resumed her seat at the table, his back to her. Hermione sat down in silence, ignoring the urge to begin blathering in apology while he was so obviously avoiding her gaze.

She chewed her lip unhappily as she stared at the papers in front of her. She had only managed to broach the first of the neatly listed questions she had devised as starting points before the rush of memories that accompanied his reply had caused her to tear up. She had no idea how she was going to cope if he ever let her continue onto the more difficult questions.

Returning to the table, he set a chipped mug in front of her. "Chamomile. It's good for the nerves," he explained unnecessarily, nudging the sugar bowl towards her. "I'd suggest you sweeten it, too. Help settle you a bit."

This unexpected kindness caused her eyes to fill again, and she gratefully accepted the scratchy sheet of kitchen roll he handed her.

"I'm so sorry," she apologised before blowing her nose. "It's very embarrassing, falling to pieces like this. I just haven't really thought about it in so long."

"Well, it's only natural that it was a traumatising experience for you. I imagine you've managed to suppress a lot of it."

"I've never really spoken about it to anyone." She'd tried to tell her parents, but she'd glossed over so many of the details in the past that it was impossible to make them understand. "At first it was all too fresh, and afterwards we were just so glad it was over that we never brought it up."

She sipped from her mug, more appreciative of the warmth and sweetness than the drink itself.

"Maybe it was unfair of me to ask you to be the one to listen to this. You were closely involved, after all." It was then that she realised that he'd made himself a mug of the buttery, floral tea as well.

"No, I'm glad you did. I'll be fine. I always feel a lot better after a good cry, don't you find?"

He looked understandably uncomfortable, and she was a little surprised when he chose to answer. "I wouldn't really know."

"Well, of course not! I'm sorry, I wasn't suggesting you were the crying type, I..."

"No, it's not that I'm especially brave or stoic – just the opposite in fact. I fear that if I were to allow myself to cry, I just wouldn't be able to stop."

Before she had realised what she was doing, she had reached across the table to squeeze his fingers. He raised an incongruously blond eyebrow, and she let go before he had the chance to pull away.

"Drink your tea," he told her.

-x-

She cried again that night as she typed up her notes onto her laptop. The tea really had been thoughtful, and he had certainly been surprisingly gentle with her afterwards. Gentle. That wasn't a word she would ever have associated with him. Funny how you never saw teachers as real people, capable of a whole range of traits and emotions. It was all too easy to think of them as being two-dimensional, a bit like parents. She supposed he was a man just like any other. Maybe he sang in the shower and scratched himself when he thought no one was looking.

It wasn't really a comforting thought. Not the scratching, though that certainly wasn't something to dwell on. Admitting that Snape was human would mean accepting that he had felt every moment of pain or neglect or mistrust directed at him throughout his life. It made his survival more miraculous than she'd even considered. It was more than she wanted to consider.

She was almost glad that she wouldn't be able to return to the shop until Sunday afternoon. If she were going to do him or his story any credit, then it was obvious that she was going to have to toughen up a little, at least while she was around him.

-x-

After the intense quiet of Snape's kitchen, the noise and bustle of the Standard's offices seemed blessedly ordinary and impersonal. By lunchtime, however, she was forced to admit that her mind was still in the little flat above the shop. She wasn't daydreaming per se, but she did come awfully close. It was perhaps the first time that she hadn't been entirely focussed on her work.

Sunday afternoon found her sitting in the dismal back office, Snape evidently having decided she wasn't to be trusted to keep her composure if he allowed her upstairs. The shop was open, but the bell above the door only rang fitfully throughout the day, and for the most part, they remained undisturbed.

The questions that she'd chosen for that day concerned the timeline of Voldemort's first rise to power and the period after his disappearance. The questions were a little dry, perhaps, but it was important background information. Perhaps Hermione could have unearthed most of it from old issues of the Prophet, but she decided that it was important to hear the period described by Snape. Maybe she was chickening out slightly by leaving out any question regarding the prophecy, Snape's decision to turn double-agent, or the event that destroyed Voldemort's physical body, but there were no embarrassing tears, in itself an improvement.

She also learnt that Snape did not respond well to staged questions. She would ask about a certain topic or event, and he would talk at length, his voice slow and considered, with Hermione occasionally prompting him once he began to falter. Eventually, however, her own opinions and experiences asserted themselves, and she found herself ignoring her question sheet as the interview turned into a conversation and, at times, an outright argument.

-x-

"I don't see why the Malfoys deserve a special mention."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Lucius paid the lion's share of my medical expenses. He also paid the deposit on this shop. It will be many years until I can pay him back. Until then, he deserves my gratitude."

"Considering you made an Unbreakable Vow and, you know, did what you did on Draco's behalf, I'd say he owed you."

"It was Narcissa's request, not Lucius', though it, too, came with obligations."

"I'll say."

"No, to her."

His long fingers snatched up the Dictaphone from where it stood, largely forgotten, on the table between them and turned it off. He stared stonily at the slim recorder, and Hermione found herself wondering if his familiarity with the device had come purely from observing her, or if he had some closer association with recording equipment. It was certainly unlikely that any pure-blood would associate the narrow device with espionage, had he ever chosen to utilise one. That would be a question for another day.

Without looking up, he switched it back on and placed it on the table, and continued to speak as if there hadn't been a pause.

"She trusted me enough to fly in the face of her own sister. To disobey a direct command from the Dark Lord. She entrusted the care of her child to me. I was already aware that Dumbledore wished for me to be the one to kill him." He paused again, and when he resumed speaking his voice was pitched so low that Hermione feared the recorder would be unable to pick it up.

"Believe it or not, I had never killed before that night. Oh, I had seen murder done and done nothing to prevent it. I had hurt people, cursed people, delivered wounds that may have proved mortal, but I had never knowingly taken a life. The nearest I had ever come was delivering the prophecy that orphaned young Potter. Narcissa's request allowed it to become an act of compassion. I did what I did to save her son, not simply because I was ordered to. It very probably saved my soul."

And didn't that just turn the whole world onto its head? Finding out that Kreacher had been lonely and terribly misunderstood had felt a lot like vindication. After all, she'd told everyone in that house that they ought to make more effort to be nice to him. Realising after all this time that the Malfoys had not only supported Snape after the war, but actually been responsible for his continued humanity throughout . . .

Any attempts at thanking Naricssa Malfoy would probably be as awkward and as well received as the hug she had tried to bestow upon the weeping house-elf, but Hermione knew already that her annoyingly Gryffindor sense of honour wouldn't let her rest until she had at least tried.

-x-

She skirted around the topic for days before she finally worked up the nerve to ask him about Lily Evans, the girl who eventually became Harry's mum and unwittingly ended the First Wizarding War by refusing to stand aside and let a madman murder her infant son. She expected Snape to react angrily to the line of questioning and suspected he'd refuse to answer, despite the fact that he had been uncomfortably honest so far. His actual reaction, once he finally understood her mumbled question, took her by surprise.

"Oh God, not you, too," he sighed. "I really hoped that that wouldn't follow me into the afterlife. It's not easy to control extracted memories without a wand, especially when you are dying. Of course I thought of Lily. I wanted him to know that I wasn't a monster. Some of the better moments in my life were to do with Lily. I was a better person around her. I certainly didn't expect a teenaged infatuation to haunt me this long."

"But your Patronus was a doe?" she pushed.

"And? What's yours?"

"An otter."

"And are you in love with someone who has an otter Patronus? Did Weasley's Patronus change shape when you dated?"

"How do you know about that?"

"I thought the whole reason you became a journalist was to prevent the kind of twaddle one sees in the gossip columns? Now answer the question."

"No. At least I don't think so. I'm not sure he ever cast one while we were together. Mine certainly stayed the same."

"Well there we go. Patronuses are a very personal form of magic based almost entirely on emotion and emotive memories. I have no idea why mine should be a doe other than the fact they are remarkably skittish and have little common sense."

"They have dark eyes like yours, too."

"That is a frankly ridiculous piece of romantic dribble, and I shall kindly overlook it."

"Please do." Figuring that things could hardly get any more awkward, she continued. "You asked Harry to look at you. His eyes..."

"Are very like his mother's, yes. As it was, I had a whole little speech I'd been planning for months. Unfortunately, I passed out before I was even able to start it."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure she believed that, but she pushed on, regardless.

"Perhaps you could pretend to be just a little bit in love with her? It's just so very romantic."

"I have no inclination to be portrayed as a fool. Why do you think I want this book written? I died in that woman's name – surely that's enough?"

That night, she realised she had taken hardly any notes. So much of their conversation had been just that – conversation. She had sat and talked with him for hours. It had been surprisingly easy. She was already looking forward to Tuesday, when she would have enough time free to talk to him again.

-x-

The narrow stairs to the flat were hidden behind an old velvet curtain and creaked terribly. They were the last of the deliberate creepy affectations. The flat itself, though obviously belonging to a bachelor, was perfectly habitable.

The first time she'd been allowed up there, she'd been a little too on edge to take anything in. Now she looked around in interest, noting the worn, but serviceable cupboards in the kitchen and the bookshelf that extended over the door frame. She stilled the urge to stand on her tip toes to read the spines and busied herself with the kettle instead.

She was searching for a plate for the biscuits when Snape joined her. It wasn't until he accepted the proffered gingernut with a sigh that she realised just how much at home she'd made herself in the little space.

-x-

"Did it change? Your Patronus? Once you stopped needing Lily's memory to cast it?

He looked uncomfortable. "I don't know."

She frowned. "But..."

"Since Lily's memory lost its power," he interrupted quietly, his eyes fixed upon the table, "I have been unable to cast that particular charm."

"But you're free," she whispered. "Doesn't that make you happy?"

In the silence that followed, she risked sliding her hand across the table towards his. To her surprise, he permitted the contact for a few long seconds before pulling his hand away.

-x-

She settled into the chair beside the steamed up window and took a grateful sip of her tea. It seemed odd coming to Hogsmeade after so long away. The little village seemed smaller than ever and had lost much of the magic that had entranced her as a child.

It was just her and Luna, so far. Once, she would have felt uncomfortable trying to make conversation with the younger girl, but she had come to admire her. She ran The Quibbler almost single-handedly, relying on guest writers for some of the articles, but producing many herself. She might seem unfocussed, but her work ethic had to be formidable. She simply never felt the need to show it off as Hermione would have done.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Hermione apologised, placing her bag on one of the still vacant seats.

"That's all right," the blonde girl smiled as she scooped the marshmallows from her hot chocolate, one by one. "You have a full-time job and lots of other friends. Of course they come first."

Hermione placed her chamomile tea on the table and frowned. "You're one of my best friends, Luna."

"That's a very nice thing to say." She looked up thoughtfully, her spoon suspended in midair. "You seem happier now. I was worried you weren't enjoying your work."

"Honestly, I wasn't," she admitted. "But writing is what I enjoy. I think I might finally have found my niche."

"I think you could be very good," Luna smiled. "If I could afford to hire you full-time, I would."

"I don't know if my style would suit The Quibbler."

"That's only because you don't take it seriously," Luna pointed out with unsettling honesty. "If you put your mind to it, I should think you could even find a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. They're very impressed with determination."

It was possibly the second biggest compliment she'd received in her literary career.

-x-

She rewound the Dictaphone and pressed play. Instantly, her small flat was filled with the sound of his voice. It was funny; she never really had the chance to simply enjoy the sound of him speaking when they conversed. Her mind seemed to have to whirl simply to keep up with what he was saying, let alone how he was saying it. Yet sitting there, huddled over her battered laptop, she was free to simply listen. It was almost like being back in class.

"Hate Horace? Why ever would you think that?" His voice was rich, but it was the tone she enjoyed most. He sounded intrigued and slightly amused, his dry humour finally evident to her after so many hours of listening.

"He didn't seem very focussed on potions. He didn't even want to return to teach."

"Well, it was rather unexpected for the boy to start frothing at the mouth. Maybe he was just testing Potter."

She could hear her own indignant splutters and remembered the utterly incorrigible expression on his face as he had almost grinned. Her recorded protests died very quickly after that, and she wondered if he had noticed the effect his near-smile had on her. She sincerely hoped not.

"I'd already expressed my opinion that the boy was probably receiving help from an outside source. If he hadn't been consistently outperforming you, then I would have presumed that you'd taken him under your wing in lieu of Longbottom. I doubt it was quite as touch-and-go as you were led to believe. As it happened, there was a simple antidote for the entire range of poisons that present those symptoms. It wasn't the most sophisticated murder attempt; the boy's heart really wasn't in it." He cleared his throat. "Horace had just such a vial, clearly marked, not so very far from where the bezoar was stored."

"You seem to be forgetting that he's a Slytherin. I doubt he was ever that interested in the Chosen One's brewing abilities."

They'd already wandered so far off topic that Hermione wasn't even sure what they'd been discussing, but she'd pursued the argument to the end.

"Ah, yes, the Slug Club. Surely you don't approve of such favouritism?"

"Perhaps I wouldn't, had I not benefitted from it myself. I was in the Slug Club, of course I was. It didn't matter that I was a poor, surly half-blood; it wasn't my conversation that he was interested in. He was the one who secured me a position with a brewer when everyone else in this school had written me off." His words took on that careful, precise tone that suggested he had considered this subject in detail before. "Dumbledore despised him for being a coward, but Gryffindors don't always understand what courage really is. He continued to support talented students despite their House or blood status throughout the Dark Lord's ascent and continued to support them during the first war. That is why the Death Eaters were looking for him, not his brewing prowess. He's certainly a proficient potioneer, but they already had me for that. He continued to aid his protégés after he left the safety of Hogwarts, even though he was one of the few who believed that Voldemort would return."

"He seemed very interested in those with influential relations." She wondered if she sounded quite so strident in all her interviews.

"Well, he was. In order to promote his talented band of half-bloods and Muggle-borns, he needed to make connections. He had a rather blatant way of going about it, but his methods were successful. You would have been part of his club even if you hadn't been friends with Potter. He didn't feel the need to include Draco, despite the message such an oversight sent to the Malfoys." His chuckle came through the tiny speaker as a deep, throaty rumble. "Besides, his return meant that Albus had no choice but to finally grant me the Dark Arts job."

She could almost hear the cogs turning as she'd mulled over his words.

"He returned to fight. In his pyjamas. He battled You-Know-Who . . ."

It was a bit disconcerting, really. So much of her identity was based in what she knew and what she believed. The more time she spent talking to Snape, the less certain she became of what that actually was.

-x-

It wasn't until her stomach began to rumble that Hermione realised she was supposed to join her friends for dinner in less than half an hour. She pushed the slight feeling of guilt aside as she sent her Patronus off with a message for Harry and motioned for Snape to continue speaking.

It wasn't until the large silver stag filled the doorway that Hermione realised that hadn't perhaps been the best method of communication to opt for.

"Honestly, Hermione! We hardly ever see you anymore. That's the second night you've had to cancel. I think you should tell your boss that you need to reduce your workload."

She flushed instantly. She hadn't thought to inform Snape that she'd cancelled a previous night out because he'd had the night free to be interviewed. Glancing across the table at his pale face, she realised that he probably hadn't even listened to the message.

The silence that followed was heavy and awkward, dragging out between them until Hermione's stomach had rumbled again. Snape was up, reaching for his cloak and heading down the creaking stairs before she had chance to speak. She nearly tripped in her haste to catch up with him as he exited the shop out onto the street.

She was breathing heavily by the time she joined him in the queue in the shop next door.

-x-

The pie was as delicious as she had feared. It was just her luck to find her absolute favourite new food in a place that you had to risk being mugged to approach. The gravy had soaked through the pastry in places, causing it to fall apart at the touch of her plastic fork, letting the filling spill out onto the mashed potato.

"It feels so wrong, eating out of polystyrene while wearing robes," she mused.

"You can take them off if it would make you more comfortable," he spoke idly.

To hide her sudden confusion, she searched for another topic. "The man who served us. It was his hair in the Polyjuice Potion, wasn't it? The day you asked me to author this book?"

"Nigel? Yes, he let me borrow his face for a few hours in return for some topical cream. What of it?"

Hermione dropped her fork into the container, no longer quite so hungry. "He works just next door. How did you know that no one would realise you couldn't possibly be him?"

He grinned at her then, his black eyes twinkling with unexpected warmth. "They all knew. Knockturn Alley has a very odd moral code, but they look after their own. I'd been trading with them for two weeks before you showed up. It was a joke at the expense of those who wouldn't normally be seen dead on these narrow streets."

He looked very different when he smiled. The tired lines of his face seemed to even out to make room for the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Hermione found herself grinning back at him, unable to stop the silly smile from creeping across her face.

-x-

The look on her face must have given her away quite neatly. She'd had every intention of helping Luna celebrate her birthday, despite the sometimes unorthodox path the day could take, until she had realised that it fell on the Sunday she'd set aside for going through her notes with Snape.

"I think she might have a secret boyfriend. Always cancelling. She certainly looks like she's doing something more fun than working."

She had been scaling down her social life so that she could interview Snape. She had been taking on less at work in order to spend more time with him. Of course, it was all in the interest of her eventual career. If the book performed well, then she might have a serious career ahead of her in writing. Her articles at work were less thoroughly researched and dramatically shorter than before. Bertie had actually called her into his office to speak about her work. She had been certain that she had been about to face the sack, but instead he praised her new concise style, saying it showed a real maturity. She had felt like a fraud. She wondered what Snape's reaction would be to the fact that he finally had her writing only the allotted amount. It had driven him to distraction when she was at school. He'd probably find it hilarious.

Or maybe he'd wonder why she was letting her real work suffer. He probably hadn't considered why she was spending so much time with him. She had already had her suspicions confirmed that he was actually rather lonely. He might not have realised that she was spending more time with him than strictly necessary. He might believe that she pitied him. Worse yet, he might realise the truth.

But what was that?

That in actual fact she was the one who was lonely? Not for friends or colleagues, but for the special companionship that it seemed only he could provide? The endless hours of talking and sitting and just being with someone, one special person. That it was fascinating watching the vicious teacher she remembered and the romantic hero she had imagined occupying the same space. Watching them evolve into an entirely new person. A person she knew to be brave and vulnerable, stern and gentle, arrogant, yet, woefully unaware of his true worth and a whole slew of other wonderful, frustrating juxtapositions that...

Holy crap.

She really hadn't seen that one coming.

Fancying him had been one thing. Admiring him for his bravery in the war was completely acceptable. Even the fierce gratitude she felt for being the one he had chosen to open up to – even if simply because he required a writer – she still felt incredibly touched that he had chosen her.

But this thing that she felt churning away under her ribcage . . .

However would she be able to face him, now that she knew that she was falling in love with him? Not with the memory, or the tragic hero, or even – thank God – her old teacher, but the man she had been planning to go and see tomorrow rather than going to one of her oldest friends' birthdays?

Well, she wouldn't go. She hadn't arranged to go and see him, not properly. So he had grown used to her just dropping round whenever she had a spare couple of hours, but there was no real reason for him to expect her. She would owl him and let him know...

But owling him would suggest she had been planning to go and see him. He might think that she felt the need to apprise him of her whereabouts. Which was just silly.

She would go to the party, and she would see Snape on the Thursday like they had planned.

-x-

"Hermione! It's so wonderful to see you," said Luna, handing her a cupful of what Hermione optimistically hoped was punch. "But really if you'd rather be with your boyfriend, I wouldn't mind at all."

"I don't have a boyfriend," Hermione protested. Her new self-awareness made her almost painfully aware of the fact.

The birthday girl studied her quietly for a moment. "Well, of course you don't. Now try your drink. It's a medieval recipe meant to raise the spirits and balance the humours."

"It actually works," interjected a rather flushed-looking Ginny, pausing to hug Hermione before refilling her glass. "Though that may have more to do with the fact that it appears to have fermented than any alchemical properties."

Hermione took a seat on one of the blankets that had been spread on the grass, enjoying the late spring sunshine and listening to the lazy conversation as it flowed around her, glad that she had come. Since school had ended, it was rare for so many of them to assemble in one place. It was lovely to see just how far Luna's social circle extended these days, so different from the odd, lonely girl she remembered from Hogwarts. All of them had changed.

She nattered quietly with Harry and even managed a friendly, if brief, chat with Ron before both boys headed off to paddle in the stream at the bottom of the meadow. It was rather lovely to stretch out and enjoy the sunshine. She'd kept herself cooped up indoors a lot recently. Maybe Snape would agree to having their next interview out in the sunshine? Surely there was someone left on Knockturn Alley who hadn't donated a strand of hair to Snape's campaign for anonymity? She'd rather it was someone a little less wrinkled than Nigel, though maybe the thought of him and his topical cream would help to rid her of this one-sided obsess...

She stopped herself, guiltily. What would her friends say if they found out that the hours they believed she was at work, she was not only interviewing Snape but daydreaming about him, too?

-x-

Thursday afternoon she tidied her desk, submitted her corrected copy for its final edit, and Apparated home. Normally, she would have gone straight to Snape's house, but it had been a long, airless day in the office, and she felt the need for a shower first. That she spent more time than usual fixing her hair and reapplying her makeup was simply because she felt like doing so.

It took longer than usual for Snape to answer the door. He didn't answer the first knock, and she became worried that he might have had an accident brewing. Tonight was their prearranged time to meet, after all. Finally, after the third knock, the door opened and he scowled down at her.

"Oh. It's you."

The coldness of his greeting took her carefully light smile and crumpled it. "Is this a bad time? I thought you were expecting me?"

"So I was," he mumbled. "You'd better come in."

For the first ten minutes, she was convinced he had somehow been alerted to her feelings for him and had come to regret showing her any kindness that might have led her on. He seemed utterly repulsed by her. She was almost in tears by the time she came to pack away her quills.

He escorted her to the door, his face as black as thunder. She sniffed resolutely and dug deep inside for her best professional smile.

"Thank you so much for your cooperation. The publisher will send you a proof as soon as it's bound."

She turned to spin away.

"Wait!"

She caught herself in time, the momentum causing her to stagger. "Yes?"

"Perhaps I might see – perhaps you would be so kind as to let me see each section as it is completed? I am still a little apprehensive about so much of my life being made public . . ."

Her eyes narrowed. "You hired me for my professionalism," she snapped. "Please have a little faith in me."

"I do," he admitted. Something about his response made her regret her tone, and she found herself relenting.

"Of course you'd want to see it. I'll bring you my chapters once they're ready to be seen."

-x-

It was a hard book to write. She wanted to present the truth as unfettered as possible, yet she felt it her duty to paint Snape as she had come to know him: brave, honest, and above all, honourable. She didn't wish for the darker parts of his history to become sensationalised, but neither did she think he wished them to be brushed under the carpet. Rewrite followed rewrite as she found she could not write about him without it sounding like romantic drivel or to be so emotionally removed as to sound like the instructions on a DVD player.

It was impossible to write it as he had told it; it was all too coloured by her personal experience. Instead, she chose to write it as she had heard it, the story of a man in an impossible position. A man who somehow balanced petty cruelty with great nobility.

It was also rather surprising how demanding the actual writing proved to be. She wrote for a living and was used to working quickly, yet framing a book was entirely unlike producing a series of articles. Her work hours were pretty flexible, provided she produce quality material within an allotted time frame, but eventually she conceded defeat and requested a sizeable chunk of her annual leave in order to work uninterrupted. At least there was no need to look for an interesting angle with this story – she was utterly fascinated by the man's past and just knew that others would be, too. Until the Standard had arrived, most people's knowledge of either of the recent wars had been gleaned from the Prophet, and even the least discerning reader must have noticed the Grawp-sized holes in their reporting.

Every couple of weeks she would visit Snape to hand over her chapters. Had she not been used to the brutal editing process at the newspaper, she doubted she would have been able to let him see her unfinished work, but the only comments he ever made were when he felt that a topic hadn't been covered in enough depth or he felt that her interpretations of the other characters – Dumbledore, Malfoy or even Voldemort – were a little off.

"No one ever realises how funny the Dark Lord could be. Of course, during the second war it was all killing and Crucio, but the first time I met him, he was utterly charming. He could hold the entire room captivated or have them in stitches. It's one of the reasons so many people were willing to follow him. He was incredibly handsome before he lost his original body, and he had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. Time and again, he would make time to go and talk to the outcasts who came to hear him speak. He had a way of making you feel special. For many of us, no one had ever taken the time to treat us like that before."

-x-

Staring at the bound proof with its plain black cover, Hermione wanted to cry.

She was immensely proud of herself; how could she not be? How many people, witch or Muggle, got to see their work published at such a young age? She had already made Flourish and Blotts' pre-order bestseller list. Or rather, Snape had. His publisher had already mentioned that they might have other projects lined up for her very soon and that she could well become a household name in biographical and historical writing. It was wonderful.

It was also one of the saddest days of her life. Probably the saddest day since the war had ended, at any rate. With the book completed, there was no more reason to go and visit Snape. Yes, she would see him at the book launch, and there were various publishing functions to attend, but never again would she have the cosy, informal time spent at his kitchen table drinking tea and just being able to talk to him.

She had told him enough about herself for him to write her biography, had he so wished. She couldn't think of anyone who knew so much about her. Her parents had never understood much of what she had told them about her magical life. Ron and Harry, though she loved them dearly and they loved her back, had never had any interest in her Muggle experiences. Snape knew about her disastrous pony-trekking experiences, her love of films, and had even listened to her recount her primary school discos to the point where he could probably do all the moves to the Birdie Song and the Agado.

She would miss having someone to talk to like that.

Strike that. She would miss him.

-x-

She had only ever been to Muggle book launches before, slightly underwhelming affairs on the top floors of the local Waterstone's bookshop. A reading, a signing, maybe a glass of fizzy wine. A photographer from the local paper and a few people from the industry.

Which, it turned out, was nothing like a magical book launch. The crowds that had attended Gilderoy Lockhart's book signing, even including the innocent shoppers who simply wished to purchase their children's school books, paled in comparison with this.

Flourish and Blotts had been magically extended to such an extent that the bookshelves seemed to be lost in the distance. The graceful little gallery had been stretched to fit a long, velvet-draped table and seats for Snape, an unexpectedly large entourage from the publishers, and various Ministry officials. Glowing orbs of light floated serenely over the crowd, and every spare space seemed to have been piled high with copies of the book.

It had taken Snape a lot of deliberation to finally decide on a title, she knew. The almost painfully self-explanatory sign above his shop had convinced her that the flowery, alliterative or punning titles so favoured by the publisher were unlikely to appeal to him. Triptych: A Political, Personal and Martial History of the Recent Wizarding Wars suited him somehow, as did the plain black jacket with its silver title.

She had become so used to seeing him hiding beneath a potion or with that ridiculous yellow hair that the memory of his normal appearance had faded to a vague recollection of crooked teeth and black robes. It didn't really sit with the man she had been spending her afternoons with, and she was slightly apprehensive about how he might appear that night.

Hermione took a seat at the end of the long table and listened to the noise welling up from the crowds below. She had been aware that the book was eagerly anticipated, but she hadn't expected such an overwhelming response. It was the first even vaguely academic record of recent wizarding history – she should know, having tried crosschecking the details she was less familiar with in the other titles already on the market. While tome after tome endlessly re-examined the details of the Goblin Wars, no serious historian had considered discussing the events that had only recently turned their world on its head. Even Grindelwald's exploits on the continent had yet to receive any real attention. The lack of twentieth century studies had dismayed her, but something told her that the crowds cheering below were less interested in the academic merits of the volume than in the little-seen man himself.

When Snape finally made his entrance, the noise escalated so suddenly that she almost spilled her champagne. He allowed himself to be escorted to the middle chair and gazed impassively down at the crowds below before sparing a brief glance in her direction. Hermione attempted to muster something akin to a conspiratorial grin, but he had already looked away by the time she hitched the smile onto her face.

After that, the rest of the evening passed in a rather uncomfortable blur. She had stood to be introduced, but despite a few catcalls from her friends in the crowd, she was given a polite smattering of applause before the attention of all present focussed back on Snape. He'd spoken, beautifully and politely, of course, but with none of the warmth or humour she was used to hearing. The crowd didn't seem to notice.

Once the formal part of the evening was over, they headed downstairs to mill with the crowd. Feeling rather overlooked, Hermione contented herself by drinking rather a lot of champagne and dutifully chatting with members of the press, most of whom she was going to see at work tomorrow anyway, and explaining continually about the confidentiality agreement that had stopped her from telling anybody beforehand. Bertie had been unable to attend, having been previously invited to a great-niece's birthday party, and given her parents' preferred state of wilful ignorance, they had yet to learn that the book, with its stark portrayal of the realities of war, even existed.

She made one last concerted effort to make her way towards Snape when she noticed him looking especially bored, but was elbowed aside by a blonde witch at least eight inches taller than herself. Looking up, she realised that many of those now vying for the man's attention were similarly statuesque women, all glittering in beautiful robes. She could hardly blame them; the Snape on display tonight – clean shaven, his hair back to its intended colour, and dressed in flowing dark grey robes with black trim – looked amazing. There was no chance of his ever being pretty, but there was something so compelling about his dark looks and that rich voice. She'd been foolish to think that she was the only one who would notice.

She sighed, grabbing another glass of champagne as it floated past. She'd made a conscious decision to dress conservatively, not wanting to draw any attention away from Snape. Now she simply felt dowdy. To think she used to long to blend in with the crowd. She didn't remember being overlooked hurting quite this much.

A loud giggle suddenly erupted from one of the women by his side, and Hermione realised she didn't want her drink after all.

Leaving her glass next to one of the rapidly diminishing piles of books, she said her handful of goodbyes and slipped away unseen.

A copy of the final book was waiting for her at the flat. Turning it over in her hands, she found his curiously unanimated picture glaring at her from the back cover.

She placed it face up on the coffee table and headed to bed.