Chapter Five

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is not mine.

"Please enlighten me, Inspector. As one who regularly deals with wild creatures, do you often find it effective to run up to them and introduce yourself?"

Hermione, Thomas, and Snape had already left the abandoned storefront for a poorly ventilated conference room in the warehouse-like American Ministry of Magic. The smuggler, whoever he might be, had been locked and warded in an unused office, with no proper interview room available, and the elves, still quite asleep, were placed side by side on a long cot in another storage room. Hermione had to bite her tongue at this, as there really wasn't any other place for them.

Despite the change in location, it seemed Snape was more than ready to resume his lecture.

Round two, then. "That is certainly not what I did, Detective, and I object to my actions being characterized as such," Hermione spat back, finding that anger was indeed the key ingredient when standing up to Severus Snape. "Hell, you saw me Disillusion myself before I even walked in." Both she and Snape stood at opposing ends of an oval conference room table while Thomas was seated somewhere in the middle.

"It's true, sir," Thomas piped up, careful to look directly at Hermione. "Brilliant, really. As close to invisible as I've seen."

Snape only grunted. "Rather the point... whatever your name is," he muttered with disinterest.

"Oh, are you too important to bother to learn anyone's name?" Hermione asked with indignation. "Or is just because Thomas isn't some sort of sycophant, hanging on your every word?" It was strange how as a student she had been so disciplined, but here, as an adult, the man could slither under her skin with little effort.

"Gryffindors," Snape said with disgust, pointedly ignoring Hermione's last line of questioning. "So little respect for authority, so little sense. Ready to throw themselves heedlessly into conflict without so much as a thought..."

"This discussion of house traits has become rather tired, hasn't it?" Hermione inquired, her hands finding their familiar place perched on her hips. "It's been years since either of us has even been near Hogwarts..."

"I was in Hufflepuff myself," Thomas ventured.

"Enough! Sit, now!" This contribution came out in a grizzled roar as Stephens stepped into the room, clad once again in camouflage and hiking boots. He stood much straighter than the day before, looking far more authoritative, with his broad chest puffed out slightly and his friendly, dark eyes crackling. That was enough for Hermione, who took her seat at once. She noted Thomas cowering and Snape, looking rather put out, taking his seat with narrowed eyes.

"I was under the impression that you folks were professionals, but all I've heard from the hall is a bunch of children arguing," Stephens reprimanded, his tone firm.

"I told you from the beginning that Granger had an issue with following directions," Severus relayed lazily to his colleague, as if he found the whole endeavor rather tiring.

Instead of a verbal reply, Stephens silently slapped a newspaper down in front of Snape. Raising an eyebrow, Snape glanced at it. The raised eyebrow managed to quirk slightly as he read, but Snape made no other response. From her vantage point, Hermione caught a glimpse of the headline, "Head Auror Accused of War Crimes in Homeland."

With widened eyes, Hermione met Snape's gaze with alarm. When he didn't Disapparate on the spot, Hermione turned her stare to the door. Although she knew the charges had been buried long ago, along with Snape's empty coffin, Hermione was sure the scandal alone would cost him his job. But when the Minister didn't fly through the door demanding an answer, Hermione sighed with relief slightly, loosening her grip on her wand.

"Well?" Stephens asked expectantly, his voice quieter but his tone just as sharp. "How'd this get out?"

"Wait," Hermione interjected, throwing Snape an accusatory glance. "You already knew?!"

"Lucius Malfoy," Snape replied calmly, answering Stephens' question.

Malfoy? Hadn't she just heard someone else talking about him...?

"What?" Hermione and Thomas gasped.

"Must you two comment on my every interaction?" Snape barked before resuming his conversation with Stephens. "Lucius Malfoy is an old... friend. From the days of that unpleasantness. As far as I can tell, he's also behind this elf nonsense."

The metaphorical light bulb lit above Hermione's head. Amidst all of the verbal sparring since, she had completely forgotten about the conversation she had overheard back at Dupont Circle. The men had mentioned that "Malfoy" was the man in charge. Hermione nearly laughed aloud; apparently she was not the only one to have fallen from grace. Things must have really gone awry for Lucius Malfoy if he was involved in small-time creature smuggling.

Her amusement must have shown as Snape gave her a stern look before continuing again. "As to how he found out," he paused momentarily, "it seems among the many things the esteemed Inspector has accomplished, she is still unable to grasp concept of subtlety." Hermione's mouth flew open to protest, but a second stern look from Stephens prompted her to close it.

"Thus, the gentleman who escaped most likely related my presence, and Lucius determined that damage control wouldn't be amiss," Snape finished finally. Watching his lips press together, Hermione took her chance to voice what she had previously suspected.

"So, all of this, you already knew about all of this?" In the back of her mind, the thought kept circling that she could simply leave. The I.C.W. was just a governing body, after all. What were they going to do, fine her? Pshaw, let them try. She would be safely tucked away on some lost tropical island with a cocktail in one hand and good book in another. If she closed her eyes, she could see it all quite clearly...

"I'm sorry, Granger, are we boring you?" Sighing, Hermione opened her eyes grudgingly. Thomas' head was tilted slightly like a befuddled dog, and it was Stephens' turn to raise an eyebrow. Snape, of course, still looked very much at his leisure. Smugly so.

"I surmised," he answered languidly, appearing to savor this advantage. "I had heard that Lucius was in town, and then my men uncovered some paperwork that indicated he was making his visit permanent. But, to answer your question completely, no, I did not know the extent of 'all of this'."

Would it appear odd if I just slammed my head against this conference table? Hermione wondered as she processed this. And who were these 'men'? She hadn't seen another soul in the building in the past two days, aside from the surly receptionist. As if summoned by these thoughts, the conference room door finally swung open, two figures of similar height darkening the doorway. As they stepped forward, the light revealed them to be nondescript. It wasn't laziness that prevented Hermione's brain from supplying simple descriptors; it was their average state of dress, their standard-length brown hair, combed to the side in a similar manner, the sheen-less leather of their dress shoes. Their faces were dissimilar – one had a longer nose, the other's eyes were farther apart – but really, nothing which would have turned her head even momentarily.

Wordlessly, they swiftly crossed the conference room to hand Snape a written scroll before exiting. While Snape scanned the newly acquired document, Hermione turned to glance at the closed door once again, considering for the first time that this whole performance could be a part of some elaborate prank.

Rolling up the scroll, Snape said to the room-at-large, "It might be prudent at this juncture to review the facts."

Nodding in agreement, and hoping that she displayed only the slightest tone of resentment, Hermione suggested, "Perhaps you should go first, Detective. After all, you seem to be the best informed on the case." Snape eyed her warily in response, but seemed to be satisfied when she pulled out her yellow notepad, her self-inking quill poised.

"The timeline begins six months ago," Snape began, writing notes on his own piece of parchment as he spoke. "As far as the intelligence can demonstrate, Lucius Malfoy moved to the Washington, D.C. area last February..."

"I apologize, Detective," Hermione interrupted, her face still buried in her notes, "but, by intelligence you mean... "

"Property records, surveillance, 'word on the street', as they say... " Snape listed with clipped restraint. Still not lifting her head to acknowledge him, she prompted him to continue with a wave of her hand. Only later would she remember to be thankful that he hadn't magically severed it in a fit of annoyance.

"Up until this elf incident, Malfoy has maintained a low profile. So low, his residence is Secret-kept. However, with the discovery of the escaped British elf earlier this week, and a bit of consideration given to the level of logistics and palm-greasing required to maintain even a small operation of this kind, everything immediately pointed to Malfoy. No American wizard would have the reach in Britain to not only enlist sellers, but also secure the shipment of the elves." Pausing, Snape looked around the room, as if daring any of the three to ask a question.

Striking out a line from her notes, Hermione peeked up, and catching Snape's stare, she impatiently nodded, saying, "Yes, yes, you're right. It's Malfoy. One of the bumbling idiots from earlier today mentioned a 'Malfoy' before the chaos ensued. Now, the scroll... "

Snape worked his jaw, as if fighting several disgruntled insults ready to fly from his lips, and answered, "Smith and Brown have uncovered some Muggle shipping permits Malfoy obtained through the ambassadors' office. That seems to be how he's getting the elves into the country without alerting the British Ministry."

"The Muggle ambassador?" Hermione queried.

"There's an ex-pat working in the Muggle ambassador's office, a wizard. His name's Wright," Stephens answered with a thoughtful look. From the look on Snape's face, Hermione easily determined that he was not a fan of this Wright.

Finally placing her notepad down, Hermione assessed the situation aloud. "Right, then. We know half of the 'who', that being Lucius Malfoy, elf smuggling kingpin," – Thomas snorted with amusement at this – "and we know the 'how': chiefly pureblood Brits selling their elves to traders, who are shipping them through Muggle shipping channels, but the 'where', as in where the final destination is, and the rest of 'who' and 'why' still remain unclear."

"Succinct, as always," Snape drawled sarcastically. However, Hermione would not be goaded into another argument.

"All that's left, at least for the moment, is to interview our witnesses," Hermione concluded.

"I will lead the interrogation of the smuggler," Snape declared definitively. He was leaning forward in his seat, his chest hovering over the oak conference table, and his chin jutted out, his dark eyes set to intimidation mode.

Deciding that this would only be reasonable, Hermione conceded, replying, "All right. It's probably best I interrogate the elves anyhow. But all interrogations must adhere strictly to I.C.W. treaty law."

"Of course," Snape agreed, a smirk of victory curling his lips.

It had taken two hours for the interrogations to be completed. First, Hermione had watched as Snape questioned the oafish smuggler, and then she tried her hand at extracting information from rather drowsy elves. Despite the difficult nature of the interrogations, there were some revelations. Among them was one that had nothing to do with the case, but with the interrogator.

Perhaps it was his Death Eater past, or maybe the threats of Veritaserum and pet poisoning made during her schoolgirl days that had Hermione convinced that Snape would seek out the information he required by less than legal means. What she had forgotten was that voice, the very hypnotic tone he had trained his deep baritone to inflect, as well as his knowing stare, one that had nothing to do with Legilimency and yet still had you convinced that he was actively probing your mind. Watching him work was very... fascinating, to say the least.

Of course, even these tools were less than necessary when your witness was as forthcoming as 'Eddie', the smuggler, had been.

"Yeah, it's all Lucius Malfoy's scheming," he had related freely, relaxed in the interrogation chair as if he had only been invited to tea. "I don't really give a flip about house-elves one way or the other, but the money he was putting up to mind the buggers, well, certainly couldn't turn that down, could I?"

One would think being stunned and bound would leave someone at least angered at his treatment, but Eddie seemed to roll with it, appearing quite pleased to have the room's attention.

"'Course, they're a bit vicious. Probably should have asked for more in light of this recent injury." Then he had displayed to his audience his left index finger, tiny, rounded indents dotting the circumference. Snape had had no patience for a discussion of war wounds, especially those of such little significance as elf bites.

"Could we please keep our attention on the task at hand?" he had commanded, carefully avoiding Eddie's outstretched finger.

"Yeah, okay," Eddie had agreed, retracting his outstretched arm. "Well, let's see. We usually picked up the crates from a warehouse in London and then Apparated with them to an air-o-port or whatever. There's a bloke there that takes care of it. Something about artwork, don't know the details. Anyway, me and one of the other guys would then catch a Portkey from there to here and pick up yesterday's shipment."

From that statement, it occurred to Hermione that Lucius Malfoy was in fact throwing quite a bit of money at this problem. From paying the lackeys to paying off the Portkey office, quite a few hands were already in the cauldron. That was not all that was revealed, however. As to the recipients of the elves:

"Housewives, you know. Ex-pats over here to start over after the war; American wizarding wives who can't trust Muggles with their kids, a bunch of rich types really. Have to be, I guess, 'cause as far as I know, Malfoy's charging an arm and a leg."

And where did he think the elves were now?

"Haven't a clue. Hardly saw Malfoy myself. Owls and such usually drop by with a sack of galleons, and self-incinerating notes told us where to drop the elves. Can't say I was overly worried about it, either. The money, you know."

Well, if not where, how many? How many elves are being trafficked?

"I don't know. I'm sure there's other blokes involved that even I haven't seen. I... I suppose over about a hundred in my experience."

Satisfied with the information yielded, the group moved on to the elves, who proved to be far less helpful, but quite a bit more difficult to control. Once awakened, the group had gone into full-on panic and hysterics; it had basically been Flora times eight. However, after Thomas had very loudly exclaimed at the 'filthy' state of their closet prison, they, like Flora had, threw their concentration into cleaning every surface.

Unfortunately, all Hermione could get out of them was much of the same. Each had belonged to an ancient pureblood family who saw canning the family elf as a major part of their new PR campaign. If anything, it told Hermione that this was no great secret, at least among the elite, and despite the fact that owning an elf had become a major faux pas, much of wizarding Britain still didn't care about their treatment.

Now the team was left to figure out how to answer the remaining questions.

"It seems that those involved only know bits of the entire chain and are paid enough to be satisfied with that," Hermione reasoned as she thumbed through her notes, the thin pages crinkling loudly. "I suppose that is trafficking 101, but no help to us at the moment."

"That Wright bloke from the Ambassador's office might know a bit more, though," Thomas pointed out. "He did arrange the permits after all."

"He'll be next, then," Hermione replied before glancing over at the suspiciously silent Snape. Sighting the sneer of distaste gracing his features, she added, "Oh, if you're all right with it, of course, Detective."

"I'd prefer not to..."

"Then Thomas and I can just..."

"I will make the arrangements for tomorrow morning," Snape concluded unhappily. What it was that Snape detested so about this Wright character remained a mystery, but Hermione was eager to find out.

"All right, then," Stephens said, rubbing his hands together. "You guys can call it a day, then. I'll worry about what to do with the witnesses, but you guys get some rest. Good work!" Then turning to Snape, he added in an undertone, "I'd watch out around your apartment. You know those crazy news people will do anything for a story."

"Oh, I am well aware of that," Snape muttered as he left the conference room.

Hermione found herself, as she did during most free moments this week, lying across the queen-sized bed in her hotel room. Too exhausted to bother, she still wore her business attire and her feet hung uselessly over the edge of the bed, her black pumps hanging precariously from the tips of her toes. Closing her eyes, she returned to her lost island fantasy. It didn't have to be a fantasy, though. She had, after all, a few months' worth of vacation time banked. Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she knew that wouldn't happen. It was easier not to take vacations. Those just left too much time to think about... well, things, and she hardly required that.

A tap on her window disrupted the fantasy. Figuring it was a missive from the I.C.W., she sat up begrudgingly, rolling her shoulders slightly and shaking her head to release some of the tension nestled in her neck. Another insistent tap came at the window and Hermione grumbled.

"Yes, all right. I'll just be a moment." Flicking off her shoes, she shuffled barefoot across the velvety soft carpet towards the window. Unhinging the locks, she wrenched open the heavy window with a heave, ducking as a tawny owl flew in and landed primly on the bed. Hermione had half-expected a pigeon, given their sheer quantity in the city, but took the scroll tied to its leg nonetheless. Finding an old packet of cashews in her purse, she offered it to the owl, but with a haughty hoot the owl turned away and took off through the window once more.

Settling herself back on the bed, Hermione unrolled the note and began to read. About thirty seconds later, she wadded up the note and nearly chucked it out the open window. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself, internally, that she was being irrational. She was, of course, thrilled that Harry and Ginny were having a baby...over the moon, really. And they already wanted her to be the godmother, which was such an honor, especially since she hadn't been the most... reachable friend the last couple of years. And it really only made sense that Ron be the godfather. And, look, he's got a new girlfriend. Well, good for him.

The only outward sign of Hermione's irrationality was when, with the crumpled note still clutched in her fist, she slipped her black pumps back on, ran a hand haphazardly through her unkempt hair, and left her room en route to the downstairs pub. It was only after she had strode purposely up to the bar and seated herself on one of the plush, red pleather barstools that she noticed that she currently shared the bar with her chief antagonist at the moment, Severus Snape. Well, she certainly wouldn't let that impede her.

"Snape," she greeted succinctly, twisting towards him on her stool. For his part, Snape simply grunted before taking a swig of his beer, a dark, murky liquid.

Unconcerned with his nonverbal response, Hermione queried, "What are you drinking?"

Turning the glass, Snape replied, "Guinness." Indeed, the Guinness logo was printed on the revealed side of the glass. Considering the glass for a moment, Hermione outwardly shook her head. Nope, that just wouldn't do.

Unclenching her fist, she let the ball of paper rest idly on the counter before reaching for a laminated drink menu. Honestly, she didn't recognize most of these, not in the habit of frequenting bars, but she prepared to order as the bar tender approached.

"Glass of red wine?" he asked, recognizing Hermione.

"Not tonight, no," replied Hermione, still browsing the drink menu. "But tell me, what is your strongest drink? I suppose it's all a bit subjective, but I would appreciate your opinion." The bartender considered her for a moment and then a toothy grin spread across his face, teeth crooked and yellowing.

Lovely teeth, Hermione thought wryly as he caught her eye.

Leaning forward slightly, he said in a breathy whisper, "I've got some Firewhisky in the back, if you're interested." Pulling slightly away from the close proximity of his face, Hermione glanced over at Snape, who merely shrugged. Taking that as a sign that the man probably wouldn't poison her at least, she nodded.

As the bartender hurried away, Hermione said, to no one in particular, "A bottle of Firewhisky in a Muggle bar."

"He's a squib," a familiar baritone replied. So he's deemed it bearable to speak to me.

Anxious to keep the conversation going, Hermione noted, "He's got an English accent."

"He moved here during the first war, as many ex-pats did."

Before Hermione could reply, the bartender had returned, looking strangely eager. Unscrewing the lid, he asked Hermione, "Would you like it over ice?

Giving the bottle a decisive appraisal, she answered, "Neat."

The bartender lifted an eyebrow, reaching under the counter for a clean glass tumbler. Filling the glass a quarter of the way, he pushed it towards her, waiting to see her first sip. Disappointingly for him, it was not so much as sip as a glug as she downed the contents in one go. Her throat burned as she choked the alcohol down, but refusing to cough, she clenched her jaw together.

As she felt the sensation slowly die, she allowed her jaw to slacken. Hoarsely, she requested more. Clearly displeased, the bartender poured her another glass before leaving Hermione and the bottle to attend to the other patrons.

"I do believe he intended for you to savor that," Snape commented from her left.

"Yes, well, I'll have to savor this glass, I suppose," Hermione replied moodily, taking only a sip this time.

"What is it, Granger? Discouraged by your poor showing today?" Sighing, Hermione shifted in her barstool again.

"It's got nothing to do with today, thank you very much. I'm not even sure I have anything to be ashamed of on that account. If you weren't such a bloody control freak..."

"Look who's talking," he grumbled as she took another, much larger sip of her drink. "All you've done is relentlessly harp on about I.C.W. protocol while doing whatever you like without any consideration for..."

"Me, inconsiderate? You've practically lied to me from day one. Really since seven years ago when you supposedly DIED!" Hermione paused. That last bit came out quite loudly.

"Well," Severus continued, in a much lower voice this time, as if controlling his own volume might affect hers, "if it isn't today that has you knocking them back with abandon, what is it?"

Hermione snorted. So, now he was concerned? With a poke of her finger, the balled-up note rolled unevenly towards Snape. Unraveling it with a look of curiosity, Snape scanned the note, his obsidian eyes dancing back and forth as her read. Finished, he placed the note down on the counter and slid it back to her.

"Jealous, then? They've all got their lives together and you're here drinking with your most detested professor?"

"No." Yes.

Snape hummed lowly and took a slow sip of his drink, as if thinking something over.

"Tell me, Granger, why is it that you are here, drinking with me, and not there, celebrating new life and keeping Mr. Weasley company?" The look he gave her told her that he didn't want to hear about the elf legislation. So she asked him a question instead.

"Tell me, Snape, why is it that you are here, drinking with me, and not six feet under?" It might have been an insensitive way to ask, but Hermione was just tipsy enough at this point not to care.

Snape glared at her at first, looking like he might just up and leave at that moment, but then relaxed slightly.

"Fair enough," he ground out, looking very much like part of him was still fighting to keep his survival a secret.

"Fawkes," he finally stated.

"Fawkes? The... the... phoenix?" Even though she had asked the question, Hermione still hadn't anticipated having this conversation while halfway pissed. "So he, er, flew away with you or... "

"No!" Snape exclaimed in frustration. Hermione considered that he too might be regretting the venue of this conversation. "His tears." Snape paused to sigh. "Actually, I'm not absolutely certain. I had certainly taken precautions, anti-venom and the like. I had guessed I might have to face the snake, but I knew it was all worthless compared to the Dark magic in its venom. I had expected to... By the time it happened, I had lost so much blood that I was in and out of consciousness. His presence is really all that I can remember. It seems someone retrieved me, though."

"On Harry's orders," Hermione added quietly.

"Yes," Snape agreed hurriedly, "and they took me to St. Mungo's. Whoever they were, they were discreet and so was the Healer. None of the other staff were aware of my occupancy. My blood supply was replenished, my wounds were healed, and once again, I'm not certain of Fawkes' role, but not a trace of the venom was left in my body. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough that I could leave. I procured a dose of Polyjuice Potion and took the first Portkey out of the country. I landed here."

Hermione emptied her glass once more, and with sly glance towards the bartender in the back of the room, she reached over the counter for the bottle and poured herself another drink. So after all of that, it had been a bird, a wonderful, magical bird that had saved him. Not in the right frame of mind to consider this properly, she let out a snort of laughter.

Snape growled. "Did you even understand a word of that, or are you already too drunk?"

"No, no," Hermione protested. "It's just, I've felt so guilty over your death all of this time. When I found out what Harry, Ron, and I would be doing that year, when I knew that Nagini would be a factor, I attempted to find some way to at least delay what might be inevitable. It wasn't easy; of course, no normal healing spells would work against her attack. But while preparing for Bill and Fleur's wedding, I found Mr. Weasley's medical records. Truthfully, it seemed it was jumble of spells and counter-curses and potions that eventually healed him, and there was no way I could do it all and have enough time to save anyone, but I knew enough for there to be a fighting chance."

Here she let out a deep breath, if only because she couldn't bear to cry at this moment. "So when I saw you there in the Shack... well, I didn't know... I... and then I guess Fawkes came along... and... " She couldn't continue. Instead, she took another sip of Firewhisky.

Throughout the entire explanation, Snape sat perfectly still.

He probably thinks I'm mad, Hermione reasoned as she placed the glass down. Would he be wrong? She had been nothing but erratic this entire trip. Breathing in and out deeply, she attempted to at least sound sober.

"I suppose that's my roundabout answer to your question," she finally said. "I've spent the last seven years trying to block out that single year, possibly even just those ten minutes of you there, bleeding out on the floor. At the detriment, it seems, to my personal relationships."

"My death?" Severus echoed, appearing skeptical. "You're not married with little redheaded Weasleys running about because of me?"

"Well, that's not just because of you... certainly helped it along, I suppose," Hermione answered thoughtfully. "And it's not just your death I've been running away from. My parents are off in Australia with no memory of their past life, all to save them from Voldemort's wrath. I'm not sure I feel quite as guilty about that, truth be told, but I can't bring myself to go there and fix it, either. They certainly wouldn't look at me the same after that."

They sat quietly for a few moments. It was awkward, both of them being so emotionally naked.

"I can understand the need to hide, to compartmentalize the past," Severus offered.

"You would," Hermione replied with a slight smile. "I guess I've gone and mucked it up though. Showing up here and throwing it in your face again." Severus actually smiled at this.

"If our interactions over the last couple of days are any indication, I believe the hostility is mutual."

"They'll know now, though," Hermione pointed out apologetically. "All of wizarding Britain will know. Harry will kill me for not writing him right away."

Snape nonchalantly finished his beer. "Know that you've died for a valiant cause, then." Hermione blinked, watching a ghost of a smile grace Snape's lips, if only for a couple of seconds before disappearing again.

Drumming her fingers on the counter, Hermione asked, "Is this the part where we agree to let bygones be bygones?" Severus only nodded stiffly.

Stretching in her seat, Hermione dug through her purse, leaving a tip she hoped was suitable but she was a bit too out of sorts to check it properly. She stepped off the stool, stumbling slightly on her heels as she went.

"Perhaps I should help you to your room," Snape offered, concern crinkling his features. Her immediate impulse was to refuse, but with the way her feet seemed to be completely uncoordinated with her other movements, she gave in.

"Yeah, okay, thanks," she replied as he wrapped an arm around hers, steadying her stance. As they walked up the stairs, Hermione leaning heavily on him as her legs seemed unwilling to support her weight properly, she found herself ensconced in his scent again. Something about the hint of soap and peppermint just seemed so cleanly masculine. However, she might have been leaning against him far more than necessary, because he cleared his throat loudly once they reached her floor.

"The room number?" he asked.

"Yes, oh, it's, er, oh, I really can't remember, but it's that door," she replied, more flustered than intoxicated as she pointed to the third door down the hall.

Upon arriving in front of her room, Snape managed to unlock it wandlessly before helping her inside. Leading her to her bed, he left her seated on the edge, staring up at him.

As he stood over her, he looked a little unsure of what to do.

"I'll be all right," she assured him, slipping her feet from her shoes and kicking them off before lying across the bed.

"Right," he said, turning to leave, but she caught his hand. Just holding it there, she admired its rough texture and the way she was sure it could swallow hers quite easily. He made another sound above her, reminding her she had stopped him for a reason.

"Thank you," she said simply, releasing the hand and nestling into her pillow. Though she didn't see him leave, she did hear his muffled footsteps, followed by the soft thud of the door closing behind him.

A/N: Thank you to my hardworking beta, justine 34, and my equally hardworking Brit-picker, magicalpresence, for their corrections and suggestions.

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