Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Ron chewed and swallowed his last mouthful of Yorkshire pudding ruminatively.

"OK, let me get this straight. You spent your Friday evening at a Potions lecture. So far, so normal. For you."

Hermione smiled at him with artificial sweetness. Ron gestured with his fork as he continued.

"Then you went out and got drunk. Less normal."

"I hadn't eaten since breakfast and I was nervous."

"I'll let you off that, then. But getting drunk with Snape? That's just wrong. I know it turned out he was on our side and all that, and I know you were never as hard on him as me and Harry were. But drinking with him? Like you're friends or something?" He shook his head decisively. "Wrong. And weird."

"But that's the thing – it didn't feel weird at all once I'd relaxed. He was really easy to talk to, and he was interested in my work, which made a pleasant change." She looked pointedly at Ron.

"I'm not uninterested in your work; it just makes my head hurt to think about it. Snape's probably one of the few people who can understand what you're banging on about - I'll give him that. Anyway, what do you two think? Surely you don't think this whole thing is normal?"

He appealed to Harry and Ginny, who were sitting across the table from them. Autumn sunlight streamed in through the windows of the Grimmauld Place dining room. The basement kitchen may have been handy to eat in, but this room was much brighter and Hermione preferred to use it when she hosted one of their semi-regular Sunday lunches.

Ginny grinned. "You're doing enough talking for the two of us, brother dear. Look, Snape was never my favourite teacher, but you weren't there during that horrendous year. Without him, Merlin knows what damage the Carrows would have done, but he managed to fool us and them at the same time. I couldn't even try to guess what sort of person he really is. If Hermione reckons he's actually a pretty good bloke to have a pint with, it's no more surprising than finding out he held a candle for Harry's mum all those years, or, for that matter, finding out he wasn't dead when you were all convinced he was."

Ron frowned. "Harry? What about you, mate? Don't tell me you're OK with it."

Harry toyed with his wine glass, running a finger around the rim. "I'm not sure. I think I agree with Ginny – I've lost the ability to be shocked where Snape's concerned. I can't imagine meeting him socially, to be honest, but that's mainly due to the fact my last conversation with him in St Mungo's wasn't a huge success. Something like, 'Um, well, really sorry we left you for dead, and oh, on that subject, while I thought you were dead I sort of told the world that you were in love with my mum.' A week later he discharged himself and that was that. Where has he been hiding, anyway, Hermione?"

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't ask. Pomona said something about a Muggle village. I'm Apparating with her from Hogwarts next Saturday. I'll find out then."

Ron shook his head again. "I still think it's weird."

Hermione sighed. "I might get there on Saturday and find out he's regretting his drunken impulse and doesn't want me there after all. Which will be fine and, frankly, unsurprising. But I agree with Pomona – he deserves better than being shut away on his own, whatever his misguided feelings on the matter are. And if I can be a friend to somebody who needs one, well, that would be a good thing to do."

Harry looked at her sternly. "This isn't another house-elf situation, is it? Hermione standing up for the helpless who actually aren't?"

Hermione threw her napkin at him. "No, you cheeky git, it's not! It's more Hermione deciding that she could do with a change of scenery and maybe a friend who can understand words of more than one syllable." She watched him flinch slightly under her glare before she relented and smiled at him gently. "I'm teasing. But my life at the moment is work and not a lot else, and Sprout was right about that at least – it's not healthy. I love you all to bits, but you two have got your boys now," she nodded towards Harry and Ginny, then raised an eyebrow at Ron. "And I'm sure you've got a social calendar I don't even want to know about. If I'm not going to end up a lonely cat-ridden spinster, I need to get my arse into gear, start making some new friends and get a bit of a life outside work. I'll admit that spending a Saturday working in Severus Snape's garden is not going to lead to a happily-ever-after in any way, shape or form, but it's something different. That's all."

She took a deep breath. "OK, rant over. Who fancies pudding? Apple and blackberry crumble?"

Ron flung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "If it wasn't for the fact we made a really crap couple, I'd marry you for your cooking. Is there custard as well?"

*

Severus heaved himself up out of the hole he'd just dug and flung his spade to one side. He wiped his hands on his jeans, then surveyed the muddy marks he'd left slightly ruefully. No doubt Pomona would have something to say about his unkempt appearance. But surely she of all people would understand that a day in the garden was not conducive to, as she so bluntly put it, 'making the best of a bad job' where his looks were concerned.

He still wasn't entirely sure why he let her boss him around so much. It was all a bluff, of course. They both knew there wasn't a hope in hell of her actually forcing him to do anything he didn't really want to do. Which rather begged the question of why he was letting her cajole him out of his self-imposed exile. For a man given to introspection, he was surprisingly reluctant to examine his motives too closely. Maybe for fear of discovering that she was actually right.

He also couldn't quite believe he would shortly be welcoming Hermione Granger into his well-protected sanctuary. He really must be desperate for company. No, he chided himself, that's unfair. You enjoyed talking to her last week. Strange but true. He'd accepted her presence after the lecture as being part of one of Pomona's interminable schemes to rehabilitate him into wizarding society without any expectation of gaining pleasure from the encounter. But Hermione had turned out to have something of the same quality as Sprout – she chatted away to him quite fearlessly, with no sign of the awkwardness or awe that he sensed in so many when they were confronted with him. She also, by some miracle, was an intelligent and interesting conversationalist. And she had been remarkably good-humoured and sensible about his inadvertent dismissal of her gender. Unlikely as it might seem, if he was to start admitting more people into his life, he could do much worse than his formerly irritating pupil.

He looked up at the clouds. Rain – never far away on this westernmost tip of Cornwall – had threatened earlier, but the wind had whipped up in the last half-hour, and the sky out over the sea seemed to be brightening promisingly. He enjoyed nothing better than a raging storm when he was cosily ensconced in front of his fire with a good book, but he preferred to conduct his outdoor activities in more clement conditions. He strolled down to the edge of his garden to look out at the Atlantic. A footpath and a scrubby hedge were all that separated him from the edge of the cliff. The ebb-and-flow susurration of the waves in the cove below was such a constant accompaniment to his life now that he rarely noticed it. There was a definite band of pale blue sky out to the west, he noted approvingly, with the sea towards the horizon even showing a slight glimmer from the sun.

For some reason, he cared that Hermione's first impression of his home should be a good one. He turned back towards the house. It was the product of some 1960s architect's fevered imagination – constructed from white-painted concrete, single-story, high-ceilinged and perfectly round, with windows banding its circumference so that the interior was bathed in light on even the gloomiest day. A more extreme contrast to the Slytherin dungeons or his depressing childhood home would be hard to find. Which was rather the point.

The house was surrounded by an extensive garden, partly lawned and partly dug over to accommodate the hardier of his plants. The more fragile specimens were located in the greenhouse, off to one side of his plot. The greenhouse had been his first addition after he moved in and was a salvaged Victorian affair, the swirling, elaborate ironwork providing a pleasing (to his eye, at least) contrast to the sleek minimalism of the house. There was also a whitewashed outbuilding. When he'd bought the property, this had been a garage with an ancient Land Rover quietly rusting away inside. Restoring the vehicle had provided an absorbing and therapeutic way to spend his first winter in Cornwall. It now ran like clockwork and lived happily outside, its previous living space having been converted to a small but serviceable laboratory.

So that was the Snape estate, as he called it ironically in his head. Apart from occasional visits to the pub in the village and his weekly shopping trip to the nearest town, this had become the extent of his world. And a very peaceful and undemanding world it had been until Pomona Sprout had erupted into it, bringing with her the irritations of his past but also a tantalising hope that maybe, just maybe, there could be benefits to interrupting his blissful isolation.

*

Hermione clutched the hessian-wrapped Snargaluff stump tightly to her chest as she stumbled a little on landing, her left hand still tucked securely under Pomona's elbow for the Side-Along Apparition.

"There we go, my dear," said the older witch cheerily as she released her grip on Hermione. "Welcome to the arse-end of nowhere."

Hermione looked around with interest. They were standing on a narrow lane, surrounded by rocky moorland. The ruins of an old tin mine stood a few hundred yards away, the brick chimney like a jagged fingerpost pointing to the clouds. A strong wind gusted around them, bringing with it an unmistakably marine tang. Spurring off from the lane in front of them was a grassy track heading downhill. She inhaled deeply, the sea air reminding her of childhood holidays and bringing with it an immediate sense of relaxation.

Pomona pointed down the lane to their left. "There's a village of sorts about a mile in that direction. In front of you we have Severus' house, the Atlantic, then nothing until America. Come along!"

Hermione hoisted her Snargaluff stump to a more secure position with both hands, then followed Pomona, who was similarly encumbered, down the grassy track. They passed through a pair of gateposts, and as they did so Hermione felt a whisper of magic brushing against her face. She stopped abruptly.

"Pomona, are you absolutely sure he'll have remembered to adjust his wards to let me through?"

"Don't be silly! Of course he has. Now, come on before I drop this thing!" She bustled ahead again.

Hermione took a deep breath and stepped forwards. She could feel the soft touch of the magic against her body briefly; then it was gone. Without taking her clothes with it, she was relieved to note.

The track inclined more steeply and took a sharp right hand turn. Hermione glanced down as she rounded the bend, watching her footing in the deeply-rutted tyre-tracks. She looked back up again and stopped in astonishment to take in the sight in front of her. The track led into a shallow semi-circular depression, somewhat resembling a large, grassed amphitheatre. At the centre was a completely round house, looking rather like the top of a lighthouse, and she briefly registered the presence of a couple of outbuildings. But her main attention was seized by the view. The edge of the garden was evidently also the cliff-edge, and all she could see was ocean stretching away to the horizon. The sea undulated in countless shades of grey and blue. In the distance, shafts of sunlight had broken through the clouds and set the water below glittering. A distant boat gave perspective, looking like a child's toy.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "I can understand why he wouldn't want to leave this place very often."

"Glad you approve," responded a male voice, and the 'he' in question appeared from a nearby building, which Hermione belatedly recognised as a greenhouse. "Good to see you again. And you, Sprout."

Hermione made a swift mental adjustment in response to her erstwhile Potions master's current appearance. From his muddy wellingtons, through his ripped jeans, to his faded black T-shirt (The Ramones? Seriously?), he looked like he spent every day outdoors. It was almost impossible to reconcile the relaxed man in front of her with the angry, pale figure who had haunted the Hogwarts dungeons. It was like one of those optical illusions that kept snapping in and out of focus.

Pomona beamed at him, proffering the Snargaluff stump she was carrying. "I would hug you, my dear, but I don't want to set this thing off. Where can we put them down?"

"Use the bench in the greenhouse for the moment," replied Snape, leading the way back in. Hermione entered the humid, fragrant glasshouse and deposited her stump onto the indicated surface with a sigh of relief. It was heavier than it looked and had held the exciting prospect of shooting aggressive tendrils at her if she'd jostled it too much.

She looked round her again. The greenhouse was considerably smaller than the ones at Hogwarts, but was still a fair size. A multitude of plants, Muggle and magical, covered most of the surfaces and a good portion of the floor. Some sort of vine was trained through the internal ironwork overhead and trailed leafy shoots down to almost touch the tops of other plants growing up.

"A lot of these spend the summer outside, but I've brought them in ready for the winter," explained Severus. "The climate down here is relatively mild, but we get more than our fair share of storms."

"I'd imagine you get an impressive view of them – it must be incredibly dramatic," observed Hermione, slightly enviously.

"Oh, it is. Which apparently suits my tendency towards the over-theatrical," responded Snape, raising an eyebrow at Sprout, who beamed back, then clapped her hands together.

"Right-o," she said heartily. "Time for some work. Severus, where are you planning on planting the stumps?"

"I'll show you. I've dug a couple of holes already, but wasn't quite sure how deep they needed to be."

The two witches followed Severus round towards the front of the house. A large area was dug over, although there was little sign of anything growing at this time of year. At the edge were two holes, each about three feet deep. Pomona surveyed them, head on one side.

"Not bad. They could do with going down a bit further, though – we'll need to pack the bottoms with plenty of compost before the stumps go in. Chuck me that spade."

Severus obliged, saying, "I'll dig if you like."

Pomona waved a hand at him. "Don't be silly. It'll be quicker if I do it. More years of practice." She paused then, looking briefly at the implement in her hand before fixing Hermione with a wicked grin. "I always say men are like spades, you know, girl."

Severus groaned. "Please, Hermione, don't encourage her."

Hermione smiled sweetly at him before responding. "Go on then. I've think I've got to hear this."

Pomona stuck her tongue out at Snape, then continued. "Grasp 'em firmly by the shaft and they'll do whatever you want!" Hermione felt herself blush as Pomona lowered herself into the hole with a cackle of laughter.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," commented Severus, raising an eyebrow at her flushed face. "You'll need to develop an immunity to indecency if you're planning on spending time with Sprout."

Sprout snorted from the depths of the hole as soil flew from the blade of her shovel. "I'm not indecent, boy. I'm earthy."

"Literally and metaphorically," observed Hermione with a chuckle as Sprout half-rolled out of the completed hole and transferred her attentions to the other one.

*

Three hours and what felt like several tons of soil later, Hermione stretched out in a chair with a sigh of relief. The sky had suddenly darkened, and the rain, light at first, had started to fall so heavily that they'd fled inside. Severus had pronounced himself delighted with the work they'd completed and insisted that they call it a day, which had come as something of a relief. Hermione was aching in places she'd forgotten existed, and she'd have to soak the blisters on her hands when she got home. But the Snargaluffs were safely planted, they'd dug over two of the smaller beds, and shrubs had been cut back and mulched. Something like that, anyway. She'd been very much the skivvy that afternoon, happy to just follow the instructions issued by Pomona and, to a lesser extent, Severus.

The latter had insisted that the two witches make themselves comfortable in the living room while he made tea. With no argument they'd settled down into armchairs by the fireplace, now filled with a crackling fire thanks to a swift flick of Pomona's wand. Despite the glowering clouds outside, the room was well-lit by the windows that stretched along one curved wall. The house was bisected by a central corridor that ran from front door to back, with all of the rooms opening off it. Hermione guessed that the others would be formed like this one, with three straight walls and one curved. She was reminded somewhat of the Lovegoods' home, but the similarity in shape was where the resemblance ended. While that had been all vivid colours and chaotic clutter, this was calm and clean. The living room was sparsely furnished - just three armchairs and a low table near the fire. The walls were painted a soft cream and the floor was bare, bleached wood. It could have been austere, but Hermione found it restful. There were no pictures, but with the glorious view out to sea from the windows, who needed art?

The door from the hall opened with a slight creak, and Severus entered, three mugs levitated in front of him. He lowered them safely onto the table, then dropped himself down into the empty armchair between Hermione and Sprout.

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour. I hope you both like rabbit. One of the local farmers was selling them in the pub the other day, so there's a casserole in the oven."

"You cook?" blurted out Hermione in amazement.

Snape narrowed his eyes slightly. "Of course I can cook. I can brew a Draught of Living Death with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back – a rabbit casserole is hardly taxing."

"I'm not surprised that you're capable of cooking, just that you do. I didn't really have you down as the domesticated type."

"Oh, there's no end to his talents, Hermione," interrupted Pomona. "He's a dab hand with his household spells as well. And he's good with an engine. I do like a man who gets his hands dirty."

"Yes, we all know that," observed Severus drily. "You and Sebastian the under-gardener were the subject of some uncomfortably explicit gossip while I was at school."

Pomona snapped her fingers. "Sebastian! That was his name. I was thinking about him the other night, actually. And I thought we were so discreet – I didn't realise any of the students knew."

Snape snorted. "People in glass houses shouldn't shag at night with the lights on. Lucius Malfoy saw you and took a quite unpleasant delight in describing the scene in great detail."

"That boy always was an odious little shit. So glad he's finally been locked up."

There was a pause in the conversation as tea was drunk and tired limbs were stretched out. They'd all left their boots by the back door, and Hermione amused herself briefly by comparing socks. Pomona's were as darned as her hat was patched. It seemed a safe assumption that she'd never mastered the Transfiguration spell that could invisibly mend clothes. Hermione's own were sensibly dark blue and thermal – a property she had particularly appreciated that afternoon. Severus' pair was a defiantly non-sensible shade of red and looked distinctly hand-knitted. She looked up at his face then, to find he was studying her with an unreadable expression. She felt herself begin to flush slightly under his scrutiny.

"Great socks," she said hastily, breaking the moment. "Is knitting another of your hidden talents?"

Severus' face relaxed into a half-smile, and he gave a soft huff of amusement. "I must confess it's a skill I have never felt it worthwhile to acquire." He stretched his legs out straight and considered his feet.

"These were a gift from an elderly lady in the village: the pub landlord's mother, in fact. I gave her a salve to ease the arthritis in her fingers, and she knitted me half a dozen pairs of socks as a thank you. They're all equally garish but bloody warm, so I'm prepared to overlook the lack of sartorial elegance."

Sprout snorted inelegantly. "Yes, because you take such notice of your appearance generally. How old is that dish-rag of a T-shirt?"

"Pomona," responded Severus in a tone of exaggerated patience. "I've been gardening. In the company of two people who have known me for far too long to be care what I look like. If, Merlin help me, you ever set me up with a woman, then you can fuss about my appearance. Besides, you're hardly an example of immaculate tailoring yourself."

"Maybe not, but I have other assets," retorted Pomona, widening her eyes suggestively.

"So does Severus," protested Hermione. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Oh, bugger. I may as well finish what I started. "I think you're a bit hard on his looks, Pomona."

Severus looked at her evenly. "Don't feel obliged to take my side, Hermione. I have looked in a mirror, you know."

"You're as unobservant as she is, then."

"Well, don't let me stop you. I'm intrigued to hear this litany of my so-called assets. I suspect it may be short."

"Not at all. For a start, Pomona says your arse is great, though obviously I haven't looked. The rest of your figure's fine as well – plenty of women go for the long and lean type. Your eyes are quite strikingly unusual – very few people's are that dark – and you've got extremely good eye contact. Must be all that Legilimency. You've got lovely hands, and you're good with them, too. That can be a great turn-on – seeing a man using his hands to do something practical can get a woman thinking about what else he could use them for. You've got a smile that takes twenty years off you when you actually use it. Your voice is like liquid silk, even though sometimes what you're saying could do with a bit of work. Is that enough or shall I continue? Obviously, you need to bear in mind I'm not a woman, I'm an ex-pupil, so I'm a purely neutral commentator."

Severus eyes had progressively narrowed in suspicion as her list had grown longer, but at that last remark he threw his head back with a bark of laughter.

"I have no idea if you really meant any of that, but I suppose you deserve a little revenge."

"I meant every word, actually. The revenge was in seeing you squirm as I said it all. Oh, I forgot; you've got your own hair and teeth as well, which is always a bonus in a man your age."

Severus turned to their other companion. "Pomona, will you remind me again why you think it's such a good idea for me to have friends? I'm not sure this is having the desired effect on my self esteem."

Pomona patted his hand with a smile. "She thinks you're getting forgetful as well, I'm afraid. She thought you might not have remembered to change your wards for her."

"Of course I remembered. One naked witch on my doorstep this century was quite enough." He looked at Hermione. "Not that I don't think you'd be a more welcome sight without your clothes than Pomona. Though obviously I haven't actually thought about you without your clothes. Not that I don't think it wouldn't be a pleasant thing to think about, and there's no reason why I shouldn't, but... I'm going to stop talking now before I make matters worse."

Hermione smiled at him kindly. "Well done. I may not know as much about spades as Pomona, but I do know one thing. When you're in a hole, stop digging."

*

Severus closed the front door with a long sigh of relief and raked a hand through his hair. Peace at last. Until next Saturday, when they'd be back to, in Sprout's words, 'Make that excuse for a greenhouse look like less of a disgrace to Herbology'. The disruption had been worth it, though. The Snargaluff pods were vital for his research, and the garden was partly prepared for the winter.

Sprout's company was always entertaining, anyway, as long as it was in smallish doses. And Hermione seemed to take her cue from the older witch, her attitude towards him becoming more confident and playful as the afternoon had progressed. His mental image of her from her school days was a blurry one of bushy hair, an irritating desire to be right all the time, and an even more irritating tendency to fulfil that ambition. All three of those elements were still present, though the hair had been today mostly confined to a plait, and he could now recognise her intelligence and drive as qualities rather than faults. Her eager questions as she'd slaved away in the garden evidenced an undiminished desire for knowledge, and she was certainly not afraid of hard work. He'd noticed the blisters on her hands and made sure she left with some of his comfrey salve.

One thing remained a mystery. She'd grown up into a not-unattractive young lady. Although no great beauty, her figure was shapely, her features pleasant to look at, and her eyes shone with intelligent curiosity. So why on earth was she choosing to spend time with him? Sprout must be even more persuasive than he'd given her credit for.

*

His Saturdays remained disturbed for the next month. They fell into a routine of afternoons in the greenhouse spent re-potting, trimming and carrying out what other maintenance jobs Pomona thought were necessary for his allegedly neglected plants, followed by supper around the kitchen table.

Hermione still showed every appearance of actually enjoying herself, and he noticed with approval that she had lost her desk-bound pallor. She'd confessed to him that she was rediscovering the pleasures of spending time outdoors and trying to make sure she made time for at least a short walk every day. He was beginning to suspect that he wasn't the only one for whom Pomona had a rehabilitative agenda.

*

On the third Saturday in November, Hermione arrived in the lane at the usual time. After that first week she'd been able to Apparate herself and meet Pomona there. Today, though, there was no sign of the other witch. She wound her scarf more tightly around her neck, then burrowed her hands back down into her pockets as she waited. The wind today was coming from the North, bringing with it a sharp chill.

"Hermione!"

She turned towards the sound of Severus' voice to see him striding up the track towards her, long black overcoat billowing in the wind. Pomona was right about his flair for the dramatic, however unconscious, she thought fondly.

"Hello," she replied with a smile as he approached. "No sign of the noisy one yet."

He reached her side. "That's why I came up to meet you. I had a message from Hogwarts earlier, saying she can't come today because she's ill."

"She's never ill!" exclaimed Hermione, surprised.

"My thoughts exactly. If I was a suspicious man, which naturally I'm not, I would say this was a less than subtle plan to get us to spend time alone. Our friendship is obviously not developing rapidly enough for her scheming mind."

Hermione chuckled. "I'm afraid I think you may be right. Look, would you prefer it if I went home? Without Pomona imposing our company, you could spend your afternoon how you want."

On another man, Hermione would have interpreted Severus' resultant expression as nervousness.

"I do have plans for the afternoon that don't involve gardening, but they do involve you. If you wouldn't mind staying, of course."

"I'm intrigued now. Of course I'll stay."

Severus face broke into a surprisingly boyish grin. "Excellent. Come on then – I've got work for you. No blisters today, I promise."

"That'll make a pleasant change!"

Side by side they walked back down the track. Instead of turning towards the house or greenhouse, as Hermione had expected, Severus led the way to the little white-painted outbuilding. She'd assumed from its appearance it was a garage or shed, but as he flung open one of the large front doors, she realised it was a laboratory. She laughed.

"Do you know, this was the one thing I always wondered about this house. I knew you must have a lab somewhere, but couldn't work out where it was."

"You could always have asked, you know. I'm not that scary."

Lights came on along the length of the interior as they entered, and Severus closed the door behind them.

"Welcome to my lair."

There was a long bench along each side of the room. The left-hand one had cupboards below and neatly ordered rows of glassware on the work-surface. The right-hand one had a couple of stools pulled up to it, and the surface was obscured by a seemingly chaotic spread of papers and parchment.

Approaching more closely, Hermione could see these were covered in writing, diagrams and equations.

She turned back to look at Severus. "Your research?"

He nodded. "Exactly. You did say when we first met that you might be able to help with some of the calculations. I trust I'm not imposing by..."

"Not at all!" Hermione interrupted. "I'd love to help. I've been hoping you'd ask, but thought maybe you were just being polite when we discussed it before."

"Polite?" repeated Severus.

"Well, yes, it does seem a little unlikely, doesn't it?" Hermione said with a wry laugh. "Anyway, fire away. What are you researching, and what can I do to help?"

Severus gestured towards the stools, and they both sat down.

"The main aim of my work is to find a way to heal curse scars."

"I didn't know that was possible."

"There's a difference between something being impossible and us simply not knowing how to do it yet."

"True. Why curse scars, if you don't mind me asking? I assume it's not for Harry's benefit."

"Ha, bloody ha. No, strangely enough, it's not. I started thinking about it when Pomona began berating me about my appearance."

He tugged down the collar of his black shirt to fully expose a patch of gnarled skin at the juncture of neck and shoulder, the uneven ridge a permanent token of Nagini's attack. Hermione mentally slapped herself for being so dim.

"This was never going to be one of my better features," continued Severus, releasing the collar back to its normal position. "I was resigned to that, and to my sundry other mementoes of those delightful years. But I began wondering exactly what it was about scars caused by Dark magic that rendered them resistant to normal healing. After all, it can't be any intrinsic property of the particular spell used, can it?"

He looked at Hermione enquiringly, and she sensed this was a test. Trying not to sound like her thirteen-year-old, just-swallowed-a-textbook self, she replied. "No, because Dark magic is defined as much by the intent of the user as by the nature of the spell used."

Severus inclined his head approvingly. "Precisely. Do you know what spell was used to sever George Weasley's ear?"

"No. I know it was you that cast it, though. I assume you didn't actually intend to hit him."

Severus gave a humourless laugh.

"You're right. I was aiming for Yaxley, but he moved at the last moment, and I hit George instead. As my intent at the point of casting was distinctly Dark, the ear was irreparably lost. The spell I used was Sectumsempra."

"But when Harry used that on Malfoy, you healed the wounds."

"Which proves my point. When Potter cast the spell, he had no idea what he was using and no intent to cause real damage. Somewhat ironically, his usual witlessness worked to Malfoy's benefit. The lack of Dark intent made it possible for me to heal the wounds on that occasion. So in looking for a cure for curse scars, effectively what one is searching for is an antidote to physical damage caused by ill intent, rather than a specific counter-curse. I surmise that regardless of the curse used, there is a common type of damage shared by all wounds from Dark magic."

Hermione frowned slightly in concentration. "So presumably the first thing you need to do is determine the precise nature of that physical damage."

"Indeed. Now, most magical activity relies on the general mutability of matter. Transfiguration, Charms, Healing, Potions and, naturally, curses: all of these, at the most fundamental level, are just different ways of changing one thing into another, or changing the properties of an object. My hypothesis is that Dark magic can actually result in a loss of this mutability, leaving scars that cannot be Transfigured or Healed. A curse scar is resistant to any physical change."

"That makes sense. So any antidote needs to restore that ability to be changed, and the scar can then be healed by conventional means."

"My thoughts precisely. My research has been focused on potions that might have such an effect. I've started by looking at those that have an extreme transformative action on the body. Polyjuice, Ageing Potion and the like have the dual purpose of breaking down the natural physical order of the body and replacing it with a new one. What I need to do is isolate the elements of those potions that result in the initial breakdown and attempt to devise a method of recombining them to generate a more complete disruptive effect."

Hermione nodded. "You're aiming to break up the scar totally before the flesh can be healed. So how far have you got?"

Severus pulled the closest pile of papers towards him. "It's a significant task. The main problem is that the potions I'm looking at were all devised hundreds of years ago, and most of the research that went into them is long gone. So I'm having to start from scratch to identify which of the constituent elements have which effect, how they work in combination and so on. And these are not simple potions. I've got a list of around a hundred components to analyse, and then there will be vast numbers of possible new formulae. I've made a start, but it's going to be a long process."

"Which is where I come in."

"That's what I hoped. What do you think?"

"No problem."

Hermione felt a familiar thrill of excitement at being set a new challenge, but tried not to let too much of it show in her face. She pulled her stool in closer to the bench and looked at Severus with a business-like expression.

"Right, pass me a quill, some parchment and your list of components. Have you got a copy of The Arithmantic Dictionary of Elements?"

"Yes, I have. I'll get it for you. Would you like some tea as well?"

"That would be perfect."

*

Two and a half hours later, Hermione dropped her quill on to the work surface with a sigh. Severus looked up from his writing, concerned.

"Problem?"

She smiled at him. "No, it's OK. That was an expression of contentment rather than annoyance. I've done the preparatory work, but I need my computer for the rest. I've got to input all the data, write a couple of analysis algorithms, then leave the program to do the number crunching. By next weekend I should have some likely solutions for you."

He was slightly shocked. "And that's it?"

Hermione looked at him directly, eyebrow raised. "Hardly 'it'. This is the culmination of several years of bloody hard work on my part. I may make it look simple now..."

Severus held up a hand to stem her complaint. Nice one, silver-tongue. "I didn't mean it that way," he began in a conciliatory tone. "I'm just amazed at how quickly you're going to be able to complete work that would have taken me months. I'm impressed – very impressed."

Hermione smiled, somewhat apologetically. "Sorry. I'm a little too used to people dismissing my work because they don't understand it. Even my colleagues at the Ministry are over the initial surprise at what I can do and just take it for granted now. They're used to how rapidly I can turn things around and only think to comment if I've not done something fast enough for them." She rolled her eyes and gave her head a brief shake of frustration.

"I thought you enjoyed your job?"

"Oh, the job's great – I love the challenge and the numbers and the sheer beauty of creating solutions from a mass of data. It's the numbskulls I work with that are the problem."

"I can sympathise with that."

Hermione's face broke into a broad grin. "Thought so. You've been my inspiration for years, you know."

"Dare I ask in what way? I can't imagine it's anything good."

"When someone's really annoyed me, I think 'What would Professor Snape have said?'. I've come up with all sorts of impressive insults thanks to you. I don't always use them, but even thinking them can be quite therapeutic."

Severus felt unreasonably flattered.

"It's good to know I inspired at least one student, albeit in a rather unintended manner. Can you remember any examples of the gems of abuse I've inspired?"

"Let me think.... 'Don't bother waiting for inspiration to strike – your brain offers far too small a target.' That was for Meadows, in the Novel Potions Unit."

"Ouch. Did you actually say that to him?"

"I did indeed. He nearly cried. I think it was the shock as much as anything. Most people think I'm such a nice girl." She emphasised the adjective savagely, with a falsely sweet smile.

"I don't," Severus responded, without thinking.

Hermione looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed. "Bearing in mind your susceptibility to foot-in-mouth disease, might I suggest you choose your next words really carefully?" She pointed a warning finger at him.

Severus picked up Hermione's discarded quill and stroked the soft length of the feather while he mentally framed what he wanted to say.

"'Nice' is a particularly insipid word," he began hesitantly. "And you're anything but. You're highly intelligent, a hard worker, funny, kind and strangely easy to talk to. Much as it pains me to admit it, Pomona was right to force us into each other's company. I've grown to very much value your friendship."

His eyes had remained fixed on the quill as he spoke, but now he dared to look up. Hermione was regarding him with a soft expression in her brown eyes. She stretched out her hand across the table and took his lightly.

"You've become important to me as well."

He moved his other hand to rest on top of hers, and they just looked at each other for a few moments. He felt an absurd urge to draw her closer, to... What? Kiss her? Don't be ridiculous.

"I won't tell if you won't," she said softly.

"Tell what?" he responded, slightly alarmed at the possibility of her possessing a hitherto unrecognised gift for Legilimency.

"Tell Pomona she was right," she elaborated. "We'd never hear the last of it."

He gave a short laugh of relief. "No, that's very true. We'll keep it to ourselves. If you agree, though, shall I put her off for next Saturday as well? We can go through your results in peace then."

"Sounds like an excellent idea."

They exchanged another smile, then Severus realised he was still holding her hand and released it somewhat reluctantly.

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, as you're being so helpful I suppose the least I can do is feed you. Are you hungry?"

"Starving. It's amazing how many calories thinking can burn off. Good job, really, or my arse would be the size of one of Hagrid's pumpkins."

"Your arse is fine," he said unthinkingly. Again.

She looked at him with what seemed to be affection. "See? You can be spontaneously charming. Sort of."

*

Severus served game pie for supper. Hermione was hugely impressed, but he felt honour-bound to confess that this time his culinary skills were not responsible.

"It's courtesy of Mary Trembath from the farm down the road. In exchange for some cough linctus for her twin boys."

Hermione looked at him somewhat quizzically over the rim of her wine glass. "You're not as isolated here as Pomona makes out, are you?"

He shrugged. "It's not possible to live somewhere like this and not get at least partly drawn in to the community. I may have turned my back on wizarding society, but even I can't shut out the whole world."

"So what do your neighbours think you do for a living? Or don't they ask?"

"You've never been in a Cornish pub, have you?" he replied with a snort of laughter. "They ask, believe me. I've told them I'm a writer who also dabbles in herbal medicine. They're used to artistic types round here, so now the initial curiosity's worn off, they leave me to my own devices. Company's there if I want it, but there's no pressure."

"How did you end up living here?"

Severus thought briefly, undecided as to how much to reveal. Hermione, appearing to interpret his hesitation as reticence, added hurriedly, "You don't have to reply if you don't want to. Sorry, I was just being nosy."

Severus shook his head, decision made. "No, it's fine. It's just not something I've talked about, even with Pomona. I was working out how to articulate my thought processes."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "Once the initial delight at being alive wore off, my weeks in St Mungo's were not a pleasant experience. The treatment was uncomfortable, but that was perfectly bearable, and I was very grateful to receive it. The problem, as so frequently happens, was with everyone around me. I was subjected to the whole gamut of human emotion, courtesy of my never-ending parade of visitors. This ranged from the barely concealed disdain of those who thought I was a cold-hearted killer, to the undeserved plaudits from the equally deluded individuals who felt I was some sort of romantic hero. Potter informing me that he'd enlightened the whole world to every aspect of my often regrettable past was the final straw. I refused entrance to anyone except hospital staff for the rest of my stay."

He paused and drank the last of his wine, acutely aware of Hermione's rapt attention. "In those days of blissful quiet, I realised something. For the first time in my life, I could actually do what I wanted. I didn't need to listen to any more infernal bleating about duty or honour or even Potions lessons. I'd nearly died to make sure Potter got his moment of glory, and I felt I'd damn well earned a peaceful retirement. So I took it. I discharged myself and found a quiet little cottage to rent as far away from Hogwarts as I could. Which was a couple of miles away from here, as it happens. I found this place when I was out walking one day, and that was that. Wizarding society successfully eschewed. Until Pomona bloody Sprout decided to make me her new project."

Hermione re-filled both of their wineglasses. "Pomona doesn't have any real power over you, though, does she? You could very easily bar her totally from your property."

"I took the path of least resistance. I'm still trying to work out why. Maybe I'm mellowing in my old age."

"Approaching senility, more like," Hermione responded with an impish smile. "No, I think all this time on your own has let you work out who you really are, as opposed to what others think you should be. And, now you know, you're confident enough to let the rest of us find out as well."

"Interesting theory. I didn't know you dabbled in psychology. Have you tried it on yourself? Do you know who you are?" he challenged.

"I've always known who I am." Hermione smiled somewhat wistfully. "The tricky bit for me has been to learn to accept it instead of trying to be what I'm expected to be."

"Weasley?" asked Severus with an unusual flash of insight. He was rewarded with a bright smile and a sharp laugh.

"To be fair, I don't think Ron had any idea what he wanted me to be. I certainly didn't really know what I wanted from him. We're still great friends, but that's not quite enough. I knew it was over when he went away for three weeks for work, and all I felt was relief at having the house to myself."

"Possibly not the stuff of romance novels."

"Quite. When he got back, he asked if I'd missed him, and I said, 'To be brutally honest, no.'. In response to which he laughed and said he hadn't missed me either. So we hugged and that was that. Definitely a damp squib."

"And you're holding out for someone who sets off fireworks?" Severus asked, picking up the reference to their conversation in the pub.

Hermione looked at him good-humouredly. "Something like that, yes."

Severus raised his wineglass towards her with an ironic smile. "I wish you every success in your search."

Hermione clinked her glass against his. "And don't you give up on finding happiness, either."

They drank, eyes never leaving each other.

*

Severus insisted on walking Hermione back up to the lane at the end of the evening.

"Goodnight, then," she said, with a warm smile. "I've had a lovely time – thank you."

"It's been a pleasure. And thank you again for agreeing to help."

Since that first drunken farewell after the lecture, they had confined themselves to verbal goodbyes. But tonight, on impulse, she stepped towards him, and he opened his arms and enveloped her in a warm hug. She returned the embrace, savouring the feel of his hard, lean body against hers. Then her brain caught up with her senses. She moved away from him, slightly reluctantly, and they exchanged another smile.

"I'll see you next Saturday," Hermione said.

"I'll look forward to it. Take care. Don't work too hard."

*

With a soft 'crack' she was gone. He headed back down the track towards the house. He knew it well enough that the meagre light from the moon was sufficient for him to find his way.

He entered through the front door and closed it behind him softly, expecting to feel the usual relief at having his peace and privacy restored. But it didn't come. Instead, for the first time in many years, he felt alone.

*

Hermione slumped onto her bed with a sigh. Her head hurt from too much thinking. Not from the intellectual exertions of the afternoon. No, that had been fun. But from trying to work out just what was going on with Severus. Well, not with Severus, exactly. With her and Severus. She knew what he wanted from her. Friendship. He'd been surprisingly eloquent on the matter earlier, and she'd been touched by his self-conscious elucidation of her value to him. However, he'd also made it clear in the pub that he couldn't forget the fact that she was his ex-pupil.

Unfortunately, she was beginning to feel she could only too easily dismiss the fact that he was her ex-teacher. He was just so different from the man she had known at school. Because, of course, she barely had known him then. The broad brushstrokes had always been there to see – the intelligence, the intolerance, the intensity. But so much had been hidden or just not allowed to develop. His loving loyalty, his sense of humour, his capacity for simple acts of thoughtfulness. And, however much he fought it, his need for companionship. It hurt her to think how much of himself he had denied for so long.

Every day she spent with him, he seemed to reveal a little more. And the more he revealed, the more she liked. She laughed inwardly at the suggestive imagery. She was fairly sure if he started revealing himself in that way she'd like it as well. It was surprising how much her opinion of a person's physical attractiveness could be coloured by her opinion of his personality.

Her ponderings were interrupted by a tapping at the window. She ran over to let in the barn owl that was knocking on the glass. The snowy little creature flew in gracefully and alighted on the headboard of her bed, holding its foot out for her to take the message. She unrolled the small piece of parchment and, with mingled surprise and excitement, recognised Severus' assured, angular hand. Her heart dropped, though, as she read the message.

Sprout gravely ill. Floo to Minerva's office at once. Severus.