Chapter Five

Disclaimer: All characters you recognize are the brainchildren of J. K. Rowling. All brains and other original characters are my creations.

Chapter 5

On Wednesday evening after work, Snape waited for Hermione at his usual spot, the visitors' entrance of the Ministry, leaning against the grimy, broken-down red telephone box, but only after he applied a cleansing charm to it. After a minute, he began to pace, the master of self-control unable to contain his nervous energy. He glanced at his wristwatch: 5:01:29. Where in the hell is she? He soon grew bored of pacing and amused himself by casting color-changing charms on his clothes. His one and only Muggle suit went from black to gray to blue before he finally settled on dark brown with a tan pinstripe over an ecru shirt sans tie for a relaxed, yet suave look. Then he paced again, eager to get behind the wheel and on the open road.

Yesterday's successful lesson – entrance ramps, exit ramps, merging, lane changes – left him feeling exhilarated and confident he could take on anything she threw at him, even those dreaded roundabouts. He checked his watch again – 5:09:24 – and was considering sending a message to the missing witch via his Patronus Charm when he heard a funny noise, a combination of grinding metal and squeaky rubber. Moments later, the source of said racket – a faded blue banger – turned onto the street and stopped at the telephone box. He recognized the driver, if not the car.

"What the hell is that? A sardine tin? Where is the DeLorean?" he asked, his shoulders sagging a bit.

"Greetings to you too, Snape," Hermione chirped, her plastic grin stretching her facial muscles to their limits. "For your information, Arthur needed it tonight. He's taking Molly on a moonlight drive through the Devon countryside. This," she paused, sweeping her arm over the dashboard, "is my great-aunt Agatha's 1992 Renault Clio. I'll spare you the technical description."

He poked his head through the open passenger-side window and surveyed the interior, sneering at the worn bucket seats, stained carpet, and the bright yellow, piña colada-scented paper pine tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. "It looks like an old lady car." He flicked the air-freshener and wrinkled his nose. "Smells like one, too."

Her look of mock-mortification would have fooled even the most discerning Hufflepuff. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you have a reputation to uphold as a sexy, sophisticated secret agent. I'll just transfigure..."

"No!" he roared, running around the car to the driver's side and wrenching open the door. "Budge over, I'm driving."

Hermione had barely scrabbled over the gearstick as Snape wedged himself sideways into the driver's seat, adjusted it to accommodate his legs, and securely fastened his seat belt over his hips.

"That's the second time you stopped me from using magic on a car. There's something you're not telling me, Snape."

"There are a lot of things I'm not telling you, Granger," he whispered, his voice preternaturally rich and playful, his smirk adding to the tease. What was it about her that transformed the dour Snape into an outrageous flirt, not in the same league as the sophisticated Lucius Malfoy, but a player, nevertheless.

She eyed him warily as he tweaked every mirror, knob, button, and lever within arm's reach. "This car was manufactured for direct sales in the UK, so naturally the steering wheel is on the right. That means you'll need to operate the gearstick with your left hand. Will that be a problem?"

"Certainly not. My left hand is quite talented, in my opinion."

Hermione struggled to keep a straight face, biting her lip and turning away, peering out her window at the graffiti-covered wall across the street. "That's misspelled. There's no 'c' in wanker."

Snape couldn't help but laugh at her bawdy and well-timed non sequitur. "Are you going to give me directions, or shall I resort to a Four-Point Spell?"

She smiled as she turned to face him, not a hint of blush coloring her pale peach skin. "Let's try higher ground tonight. Head north toward Finchley."

Ten miles of stop-and-go traffic, thirty-five minutes of drive time with Johnnie Walker on BBC Radio 2 – driver's choice of album-oriented classic rock – and twenty individual steps in Hermione's turn-by-turn directions later, they reached their destination, the same as the previous two evenings, another parking lot of another school.

"If I didn't know any better, I would say you're obsessed with instructional institutions," he commented as he parked the car and kept the engine idling.

"Not at all. Schools have large car parks that are vacant during the summer months, perfect for practicing driving skills."

"Obviously," he replied drily. "And what level of hell will you have me visiting tonight?"

"You'll be going backwards, so to speak. I'm putting you through the paces of reverse, parallel parking, two-point turns, three-point turns, and u-turns."

"Honestly, Granger, when do you think I'll have the need to parallel park an ice-cream van? Or negotiate a one-hundred-eighty-degree rotation on narrow village streets?"

"You're not thinking ahead. If you do well with this assignment, Daugherty might offer you others that involve motoring, like chauffeuring the Muggle prime minister or driving the clown car in a circus."

"Ha, bloody ha," he intoned. "Let's get on with this, shall we?"

Hermione responded by arching one professionally shaped eyebrow. She stepped from the car and rummaged through her beaded bag of tricks, pulling out several large pieces of conical-shaped, orange thermoplastic and placing them equidistant apart behind the car.

Snape's own brows bumped into each other, meeting over the bridge of his nose. "What the..."

"Traffic cones!" she announced with too much eagerness. "You'll practice driving in reverse, snaking around..."

Snape flinched, her poor choice of words conjuring one very unpleasant memory.

Hermione winced at her own faux pas. "Sorry, I meant weaving around the cones. It's trickier than you might think because you're depending on the mirrors to see where you're going. Whenever you're ready, Snape."

Engage the clutch, shift to reverse, release the clutch, step on the gas... Go. Although he had driven in reverse during the previous lesson, negotiating the cones added a level of difficulty he quickly mastered, arcing widely at first, then cutting close to the cones. After several passes through and around the cones, Hermione deemed him ready to start specialized turns for reversing direction.

"Before you begin, search the area for pedestrians, traffic, and other obstacles, check the mirrors and blind spots, and activate the left turn indicator." She barked orders at him, directing each maneuver as he performed it, and he didn't protest; he didn't mind at all really. "First, turn ninety degrees to the left."

When she's bossy like that, she reminds me of Minerva McGonagall. He turned left and stopped.

"Second, check traffic, mirrors, and blind spots again, then in reverse, turn ninety degrees to the right."

Only younger and with better tits. He reversed to the right and stopped.

"Third, look at your surroundings one last time and pull forward."

She could order me around anytime, especially if she were wearing something tight... in black leather... or vinyl. Oh, what the fuck! Why am I thinking like that? Is Brian right, do I need to get laid? He pulled forward and kept moving.

She ran after him, waving her arms frantically. "Snape, stop. STOP!"

The tires squealed and the car lurched to a halt as he hurriedly applied the brakes, although he was only traveling fifteen miles per hour.

She reached the car within seconds, only slightly out of breath, and poked her head through the open driver's side window, resting her arms on the door, unintentionally giving him an unhindered view of her cleavage. "Snape, are you paying attention?"

No, I was entertaining improper thoughts about you. "Yes. You told me to move forward, but you never mentioned stopping." He smirked for the second time that night, knowing he tried her patience. He had the good sense to focus on her eyes rather than her bosom, which shone like a beacon on a black, moonless night.

She responded with a smirk of her own; the hands on her hips only accentuated her affected attitude. "Alright, Captain Literal, tell me, under what conditions would you perform a three-point turn?"

He paraphrased the canonical Driving for Dummies. "If one lacks a side street or driveway, required for proper execution of a two-point turn, or if the roadway width is less than that of the vehicle plus the diameter of its turning circumference, needed for a proper u-turn, then a three-point turn is appropriate." Pleased with his answer, he looked to Hermione for validation.

Her expression was unreadable, and she remained silent just long enough to make Snape squirm. "Exactly, but next time answer using your own words, not something regurgitated from a book. Now let's take this on the road, shall we?" She collected the traffic cones, hastily stuffing them into her bag, and returned to the car. "Turn right at the exit. We'll head toward Tally-Ho Corner in North Finchley. There shouldn't be too much traffic this time of day, perfect for practice."

She directed him turn by turn, in a gruff, humorless voice, and critiqued his driving, too. "Left at the light. Accelerate three-quarters into the turn. You're drifting to the right, Snape. Stay centered."

He didn't care much for her brusque manner, but he refused to call her on it – after all, he had two more days of instruction to endure – and instead choose to break the tension with music. No matter how much he tweaked the knobs, the radio spluttered and eventually petered out, the harbinger of another troubled evening.

"Is that normal for the radio to just stop operating?" he asked.

"Of course," she answered with know-it-all conviction. "It's eleven years old, and parts do wear out."

As if on cue, the instrument panel flickered, gauges and meters fading in and out, the next sign of impending doom. "You can't tell me that's normal."

"Erm... not usually," she said, her confidence dimming like the dashboard lights.

Then finally, the engine stopped, died really, as did the entire electrical system. Luckily, Snape drove cautiously, at least five miles per hour under the speed limit, and the car coasted to a stop on the nearly deserted A road, coming to rest on the hard shoulder and out of harm's way.

Hermione hadn't heard such creative profanity since that one morning at Grimmauld Place when Mad-Eye Moody had awoken to find his prosthetic eye had become Crookshanks' favorite new toy.

"Granger, don't you know anyone who owns a late model car in good running condition?" Fortunately, the darkness of the car hid his sneer.

"Spare me your drama. I'll call RAC for a jump start." She rummaged through her bag once more.

"Don't bother," he drawled. "I've read all about it, and I can do it."

"You know, it doesn't reflect poorly if one calls for breakdown service." She pulled out her phone, flipped it open, and began to press the buttons. "I pay good money for it, so I might as well use it."

Snape pulled open the door with a violent jerk and jumped out. "I said I can handle it," he growled through gritted teeth, punctuating his statement by slamming the door shut.

Hermione followed suit, exiting the car in a huffy snit. She snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into her magical handbag, where it thumped against the traffic cones. "Fine, have at it," she replied, her frosty, clipped tones a contrast to the warm, sultry evening. She conjured a camp chair and, placing it to the side of the car, plopped into it, as gracefully as one can when flopping onto a rickety canvas-and-aluminum folding chair. "I only wish I had a beverage to enjoy while I watch the show."

Snape couldn't let that comment slide, but he had neither the time nor the mental capacity to formulate a scathing retort, so he fixed her with a withering glare, which probably went unnoticed in the waning light. He propped open the bonnet, popped the boot, and pulled out the jumper cables, relieved to see that great-aunt Agatha was responsible and prepared for any eventuality – a first aid kit and road flares, too – just like Hermione. Now all he needed was a driver willing to give him a jump.

The traffic was very light that evening, indeed non-existent, for not a single car had passed or approached them since the breakdown a few minutes earlier. What if there were no more cars coming or going? Or even worse, an available car with an unwilling driver? Would he resort to using an Imperio just to avoid a call to RAC?

He actually began to ponder that option until the lights of an oncoming car breached the horizon. He stepped into the road a bit and held the cables above his head, letting them sway in the gentle summer breeze; it wouldn't be dignified for him to use the patented Granger arm wave to get the driver's attention.

The driver caught view of Snape in his headlamps and slowed down. He drove across the median and stopped on the shoulder, facing the broken-down beater, an older version of his 2002 Clio. A young man – he seemed barely out of his teens, sporting a prominent spot on his sparsely haired chin – stepped from the vehicle. "Good evening, miss, sir. Need a jump, do ya?" he asked.

Obviously. Snape resisted the urge to dangle the jumper cables in front of the young man's eyes. Instead, he smiled tightly and replied, "Yes, please."

The good Samaritan popped the bonnet on his car and propped it open. "I've never done this before. Just got my driving license, as a matter of fact."

"Congratulations," Hermione chirped and smirked from the comfort of her chair, apparently pleased with Snape's choice of inexperienced driver.

"Not to worry, I know exactly what I'm doing." As he executed each step, he recited the instructions he'd memorized. "Connect the positive clamp to the positive terminal of the dead battery. Done. Connect the other positive clamp to the positive terminal of the starting battery. Done. Connect the negative clamp to the negative terminal of the starting battery. Done. Connect the other negative clamp to the engine block – or other metal surface – of the disabled car; this acts as a ground." He said that in his most professorial tone. "Ensure the cables are clear of moving parts such as fan blades and belts on both cars and step away from the vehicles. Done. If you would be so kind as to start your car."

The young man returned to his car and turned the ignition. The engine jumped to life, but Hermione had no reaction to the noxious noise, unfiltered by the open bonnet. Her eyes followed Snape's every move, attentive, but with a hint of malevolence.

"Watch this," Snape directed, his boastful imperative meant for Hermione's ears alone. He reached inside the car and flipped the key and... nothing happened.

"Did it work?" the young man asked, shouting above the din.

"Not yet," Snape bellowed. He waited a few minutes, allowing the starting battery to charge his lifeless one, then tried again.

Hermione watched intently as Snape turned the key once more and... nothing happened. In the gloaming, he couldn't see her evil, self-satisfied grin.

Snape motioned for the young man to kill his engine, pulling his finger across his throat, never touching the left side of his neck. He walked to the other car, snatching away the cable clamps and slamming down the bonnet none too gently, and sneered at it, his thin, pale lips demonstrating undeserved disdain. "Obviously, your car and specifically its battery are defective."

The young man's face fell. "Maybe your jumper cables are defective," he shot back.

"Thanks for nothing." He dismissed him with an imperious wave before turning his back to the well-intentioned stranger and walking away.

"Piss off, arsehole." The young man added a hand gesture of his own – the two-fingered salute – which went unseen unless Snape did indeed possess eyes in the back of his head as many a teacher boasted to have. "Goodnight, miss. Good luck with the car." Then he backed up quickly and sped away, leaving Snape in a tiny cloud of dust, barely reaching mid-leg.

Snape Evanesco'd the dirt from his trousers and shoes before he stepped into the road again, attempting to flag down another car so he could repeat his folly... ad infinitum, if need be.

"Please get out of the road, Snape," she beseeched him. "I'm calling RAC."

He stood firm and in the middle of the road. He waved frantically at an oncoming car, overriding his self-control, but his efforts were all for naught as the car passed him by without even slowing down.

Hermione leapt from her seat and grabbed his arm, dragging him back to the relative safety of the shoulder.

He twisted, easily escaping her grasp, and hissed, "I can do this. I just need..."

"It's futile, it doesn't matter how many times you try to jump start the battery, it's obviously old and not holding a charge," she tried reasoning with the stubborn Slytherin. "Or maybe it's the failure of some other electrical component."

"Fine." He stomped off into the gathering gloom as she placed the call.

"Hello, I'm in need of roadside assistance. Last name is Granger, first name is Her...Yes, I called for service two days ago... Hey, I've carried this coverage for over six years, and this is only the second time I've needed breakdown service... I know for a fact my coverage has no restrictions on the number of times I call for roadside assistance... I'm glad you see it my way... Something's wrong with the electrical system. My companion tried to jump start the battery, but it didn't work... No, I'm not in any danger, at least none that I can't handle," she said, searching about for her broody, wayward pupil. "We're about half a mile northeast of Finchley on the A598... Yes, Ballard Lane, that's right. Thirty to sixty minutes is marginally acceptable... Thank you, ma'am. Good evening to you as well." She closed the clam shell phone with a satisfying click and returned to her camp chair. "Too bad dirty looks can't be seen over the phone."

"Indeed," a disembodied voice answered. "But I'm certain your sarcasm came through loud and clear."

Snape moved from the inky darkness beyond the shoulder to stand beside Hermione. He conjured an exact replica of her chair, then lowered himself into it with his usual grace. He still needed to shrug off those last few layers of moodiness, so he fidgeted, flicking imaginary lint from his trousers and smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his suit coat. Perhaps one snarky jab directed at Hermione might set him right.

"Your self-control is utterly amazing tonight, Granger. I'd fully expected you to be engaged in the Gryffindor 'I told you so' dance by now."

"I think you mean my 'insufferable know-it-all' strut."

Finally, the last traces of his irritability evaporated, and he could laugh at her self-deprecating humor, even if it were directed at him in part.

Then they fell into silence, lasting for mere minutes, but of course it felt like an eternity. They could speak so easily when it came to magic or work – to the degree their Unspeakable's Pledge of Secrecy would allow, of course – or their new common interest, motoring, so why did it feel so awkward to sit side by side, waiting, on a breezy summer night? It felt as if a family of Cornish pixies were practicing cartwheels in his stomach. Did he need a legitimate excuse to talk to her, or could he fill the empty spaces with small talk?

He was jostled from his musings by a rustling noise: Hermione stowing the mobile back in her purse, this time placing it gently amongst her many possessions. Snape watched her closely, intrigued by the intricate magic woven into her ubiquitous beaded bag.

"That bag is truly a work of art, Granger," he said, complimenting her handiwork.

"This old thing? It's seen better days," she said dismissively.

"Yes, stylistically, it's gaudy and shabby, totally inappropriate for most occasions, but I was referring to the excellent charm work saturating the fibers."

"Undetectable Extension Charm," she said, sitting up a bit straighter.

"It's very impressive, and given its current condition, I assume you've had it for some years." She nodded slowly, and he continued, "Quite remarkable, indeed, to maintain its power for that length of time."

"I created it just before I went on the run with Harry and Ron, late summer of 1997. That whole experience put me off camping, probably for the rest of my life."

"I suppose camping is meant to be an enjoyable diversion, but if Potter and Weasley were your only companions, that could make solitary confinement in Azkaban seem like a five-star hotel." His knee-jerk reaction to the names Potter and Weasley naturally would be sarcastic, but if he were to examine his feelings, he would find hints of annoyance and jealousy there.

She laughed, a rich throaty laugh, and he could see her beaming face, even through the faint moonlight. "Where has this funny man been hiding?"

"During the Hogwarts years, I kept him chained in the dungeon for his own safety. The Dark Lord certainly would have killed him, for he had no sense of humor, and sarcasm went right over Dumbledore's head. Now they are dead, and the funny man is free to roam at will."

Something he said – dungeon, Dark Lord, Dumbledore – dimmed the light in her eyes, her bright smiled dulled by some distant association.

"I didn't intend to... if you don't want to talk about it..." he began to apologize, uncertain of her willingness to talk about what she'd experienced during the last year of the war.

"No, it's okay. I never talk about it because nobody ever asks. It's the proverbial elephant in the room. But if you read The Quibbler, then you know what happened. But you knew what happened because you were there by proxy. Had I realized that Headmaster Black leaked every scrap of conversation to you, I would have been a lot less loquacious."

"Retired spies are entitled to a bit of fun every once in a while," he said, throwing in a wink instead of his usual smirk. "I'll admit Phineas Nigellus is one cantankerous, sarcastic bastard who does not suffer fools gladly, but without him, I would never have been able to provide what little help I could. And he wasn't all that forthcoming with details. Yes, I knew what was happening, but I didn't know how you were."

"No, and I didn't share any of those personal details in my interview with Mr. Lovegood either, just dates, locations, and actions." She paused a moment, seeming to compose herself, her breathing deep and audible. She looked off into the distance as she spoke.

"In a nutshell, I felt cold, hungry, and tired physically, although there were plenty of times we stayed put in one place and did absolutely nothing. Intellectually, I was challenged, exhilarated, and exhausted; researching took a lot out of me, but it was a genuine thrill when we discovered some tiny bit of minutia that led us to another Horcrux. And emotionally... well, I probably felt every emotion known to man and a few as of then undocumented ones. Mostly I felt anger, fear, despair – a veritable feast for a Dementor, had there been any around. There were very few moments of happiness. I don't particularly like to think about that time, but it's so much easier to talk about it now." She breathed a heavy sigh – of relief, perhaps – and turned to look at him, a curve to her lips and a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

She had revealed very little actually, but the point was she had opened up to him, and this surprised Snape. Women never voluntarily shared personal information like that with him, but then, neither did men. His dark façade – in mood and dress – usually put people off. But Hermione was different. She was not afraid of him. She had just spoken to him as if he were a lifelong friend, like Potter or Weasley. Could she be interested in him like that? As he entertained that foolish notion, the pixie family in his digestive tract seemed to be acting up again.

Snape realized if he wanted to know Hermione better, he would have to open up to her as well. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and began his tale.

"I've never told anyone – save for a portrait – what happened during my tenure as Headmaster. I've never spoken of it with Brian, either. My year at Hogwarts was a bed of blasted roses compared to yours on the run, but it was the most discomfited I'd ever been in my life, and trust me, I'd been in many a tense, unpredictable situation. I had food, shelter, a decadent bed – 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and a feather bed – and the company of hundreds, yet I have never been more alone, not one living soul willing to talk to me. I couldn't eat or sleep despite all the material comfort that surrounded me."

He paused a moment, squirming a bit in his chair and pulling at the cuffs of his suit jacket.

"Most of the staff – those that remained from Dumbledore's tenure – despised and distrusted me; why would they support me after what I'd done? That broke their spirits. They didn't dare challenge me. Only Minerva had the balls to speak to me. And the Carrows, of course, but I didn't want to be in the same room with them, let alone talk to them. Dark Lord groupies, almost as bad as Bellatrix. And just as blood thirsty, too.

"They lacked her wariness, but made up for it in ambition. They completely reinvented the curricula for Muggle Studies and Defense to meet the Dark Lord's specifications. I'm surprised they didn't rename them Muggle Maligning and Offensive Dark Arts. Yet I worried more about their detentions than their classroom activities. Students returned bruised and battered, some injured so badly they needed Madame Pomfrey's care."

Should I really be telling her all this? What will she think of me? Why do I care what she thinks of me? He stared far into the distance, focusing on absolutely nothing, just to avoid the discomfort of eye contact.

"But the students especially loathed me; even the Slytherins kept their distance. You won't be shocked to learn the Gryffindors were especially defiant. Quelling the student rebellion kept me busy. I had to find creative ways to discipline the repeat offenders; they might have been permanently disabled if they had been subjected to the Carrows' cruelty more than once. The trophy room never shined so brightly before that year. Slughorn was in charge of too many detentions; he ended up with enough bubotuber pus to rid all the UK of teenaged acne. But there were limits to my imagination, and I ran out of acceptable 'cruel and unusual' punishments. I could never take the easy route and resort to using Umbridge's special quill because I promised Albus I would protect the students at all costs."

Finally, he turned to look at her, and in the dim, almost moonless night, he could see understanding in her eyes.

"That damn portrait," he growled. "No living human would voluntarily speak to me, but that thing wouldn't fucking shut up. I tolerated it only because I was lonely, plus it endured my occasional ranting without complaint. How else was I supposed to let off steam? It wouldn't do for the Headmaster to be seen using the Giant Squid for target practice. And of course, Albus was still pulling strings from beyond the grave. You wouldn't believe how much of his unfinished business I attended to. Defeating the Dark Lord would have been a lot simpler if only Albus had trusted someone – anyone – well enough to reveal all his secrets."

Hermione nodded solemnly in agreement. "No doubt. I still can't believe he expected Harry to hunt for – and destroy – all those Horcruxes without giving him full instructions. He's lucky I figured out the connection between the goblin-wrought sword and the basilisk venom. Seriously, the war would have gone on for years before Harry would have puzzled that out on his own."

"Indeed."

He might have reverted back to one word sentences again, but what he'd just accomplished was monumental, so outside his comfort zone. He had revealed personal information and discussed his feelings – with someone other than a disembodied brain or an oily rendering of Albus Dumbledore – and the world hadn't come crashing down around his ears. Even the damn stomach-pixies had disappeared, replaced by a comfortable flutter in his belly. He felt so relaxed, in fact, a yawn escaped from his mouth without his permission. Dammit! Why must my body betray me at the most inopportune moments?

"Oh, are you tired?" she asked, her tone an odd blend of concern and playfulness.

"No, I'm not tired," he replied, his smile strained as he maintained his cool in the face of embarrassment. "A yawn doesn't always indicate a state of tiredness or sleepiness or boredom. Sometimes it is merely the body's attempt to bring more air into the lungs and expand the alveoli."

"Thanks for the physiology lesson, Snape. I officially relinquish my title of know-it-all to you."

"I wouldn't dream of it. We'll share the title," he said, smirking, feeling he'd won that argument. "And speaking of physiology, how can you stand working the midnight shift? Doesn't that wreak havoc with your internal clock?"

"Not at all. I got used to the schedule rather quickly. I work when most people are asleep, take care of my business – shopping, appointments, tidying up – in the morning, and sleep during the afternoon."

"Perhaps the most important question is why do you work those hours? To the untrained eye, it appears as though you prefer the midnight shift because it's quiet, less disruptive. But I see a witch trying to avoid... something... a person or... persons? Why are you hiding, Granger? Surely you haven't become a hermit at your age?"

"What's wrong with that?" she challenged. "You have been antisocial for a good portion of your adult life."

"Yes, but I'm genetically predisposed to that. You don't have an excuse for that sort of behavior."

"Don't I? What about seeing the gory details of my failed love life splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet? Or fighting off glory-seeking wizards who want nothing more than to say they've dated the famous war heroine Hermione Granger. Or my well-intentioned friends who think it's unnatural that I'm alone, so they try to fix me up with some 'nice' fellow from work."

"Just because you and Weasley were thrown together through extraordinary circumstances doesn't mean you were destined to remain together forever."

"Well, aren't you Mr. Cynical."

"Romances sprouting from extreme situations rarely endure. You and Weasley are too disparate in intellect, temperament, and character. I could see that when you were students. I can see it now when you are adults."

"I know everyone says the secret of a successful relationship is starting with friendship, but we are polar opposites. And the other thing everyone says is opposites attract. It's pure rubbish. I mean, would you think it a good idea to set me up with someone who is generally pleasant, but with a short fuse and a large, interfering family? His interests include chess, Quidditch, and raucous evenings at the pub, playing darts. His future wife must love children... and lots of them. Well, Harry and Ginny seem to think it's a grand idea."

"I've never had the urge to play matchmaker, but if I did, I would never put the two of you together."

"Why not?" she asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"Because you're too smart for the likes of a Gryffindor," he said, a spurious grin accompanying the compliment.

"But I am a Gryffindor too," she protested, failing to find the flattery hidden under his insult.

"Really? I think you exhibit more Slytherin traits of late," he said, their recent negotiations still fresh in his mind.

"I'm obviously biased because I've spent so much time with Ronald. Aside from our shared history at Hogwarts, we have little in common but Harry and Ginny. I like books and quiet evenings at home. I can't cook and I hate flying. The one thing we could agree upon was children should be raised by their own parents, not some surrogate."

"That's revolutionary thinking for a wizard. So Weasley was prepared to stay at home while you joined the work force?"

"No. He expected me to stay home and raise our hypothetical children. He likes the idea of hearth, home, and family, but he has too much fun in the outside world, playing Auror with Harry after his professional Quidditch career as a second-string Keeper ended.

"I love working. I always wanted to establish my career before getting married and starting a family, a small one at that, no more than two children. I still plan to have that someday, just not with Ronald Weasley."

"I have every confidence that you will have it all, as they say, Granger." He puffed a wistful sigh and peered into the distance, noticing a pair of teenagers loitering across the road.

"Long ago I thought I might have those very same things, a wife and family."

"But I thought you hate children."

"I hate other people's children, but I would like my own, of course."

"Well, it could still happen. You're young for a wizard. I know this witch who would be perfect for you..."

His reddened face signaled fury rather than embarrassment. He'd had enough of well-meaning, meddlesome people to last a lifetime, and in this his second life, he could find his own damn witch if he so desired.

"Absolutely not. I forbid it."

She laughed, patting his hand. "I'm kidding, Snape. If I won't allow my friends to make matches for me, I certainly wouldn't do that to anyone else." Neither seemed inclined to pull their hands apart, but the rough sound of a large engine drew their attention away from each other, causing them to break contact.

Moments later the RAC van appeared, its headlamps flooding the scene with harsh light. The driver parked in front of the broken-down car, then jumped from the van, his clipboard in hand.

"Good evening, Miss Granger, McFly. Oi, where's the DeLorean?" asked the familiar-looking shaggy-haired, gangly, coverall-clad mechanic.

"Erm, our friend Arthur needed it tonight. He's taking his wife for a moonlight drive through the Devon countryside," Hermione explained, using the same response she'd given Snape just hours before.

"Nice. She's one sweet ride, eh?" Lloyd commented, peering down at his paperwork. "Says here you've got an electrical problem. I'll try to jump start..."

"That won't be necessary," Snape interrupted. "I've tried that to no avail. The car needs service at a proper garage."

"All right, McFly, I'll tow her into town. You two can wait in the van while I hook her up." He readied the car while Hermione and Snape packed up their camp chairs and settled into the van once again.

"There's something wrong with that mechanic. Why does he insist on calling me McFly after I clearly stated he'd mistaken me for someone else?" Snape wondered. "It can't be a short-term memory issue because he remembered your name well enough."

"Well, first, although you corrected him, you never gave him your name, and second... I'll tell you later."