Chapter 8: How Can the Cure Be Worse Than the Disease?

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Chapter 8: How Can the Cure Be Worse Than the Disease?

Spark. Verve. Elan. Life. To be or not to be or... somewhere betwixt and between.

Those vague words and phrases described Snape's current predicament rather well. He figuratively walked – well, glided would be a more appropriate term – amongst the living but could not be counted in their ranks, unintentionally dead, through no fault of his own, but by no means resting in peace; however, the past few months had been utterly serene since he and Hermione had come to an understanding. And with that quiescence came oodles of hours for Snape to indulge in his favorite pastimes: reading, cooking (a recent addition), and pondering life's deep philosophical questions – also a new hobby, but to his credit, the former workaholic never had any "me time" in his previous incarnation.

Yea, his was but a half-life, a cursed life, yet he had very little to complain about. His days were full of activity, although thoughtful and quiet. He quenched his voracious curiosity by reading the hundreds of books contained in Hermione's vast personal collection; theoretically, he could gain access to countless more, provided she could get her hands on them through her magical and Muggle connections.

In the evenings, he dabbled in the culinary arts, preparing for Hermione gourmet meals worthy of a Michelin two-star restaurant. He had easily exceeded the simple fare his mum had specialized in; toast and baked beans were replaced by Carpaccio of beef and lemon soufflé, tinned rice pudding by mille-feuille and fine patisserie. And in the time-honored tradition of all great chefs, he quelled his thirst (whilst toiling over a hot hob, no less) with fine brandy and cheap plonk, courtesy of Hermione's numerous fact-finding excursions, he assumed. But for all he knew, those gifts – the occasional bottle of wine and exotic spices – could just as easily have come from Marks & Spencer; he had no clue of her whereabouts on the weekends, and she wasn't very forthcoming about her progress in Operation: Resurrect Snape (to be fair, neither did she mention Project: Get Hermione Laid, but such was a subject not brought up in polite company).

And whence he had his fill of reading and cooking (and quaffing), he engaged in witty repartee and intelligent conversation with the brilliant young witch. They could discuss any topic at length from pop culture – Muggles could boast of brilliant musicians such as Elton John and The Who (they just pretended they were wizards), yet how absurd that wizarding music produced "artists" no better than Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters? – to any field of magic, both abstract and applied – if one could produce water from a wand, why not Firewhisky or another flavorful liquid? Yes, they could talk about anything... when Hermione was actually in residence, of course. Many a weekday passed with Snape's flat-mate missing in action, either consumed with Charms studies or teaching assistant duties. Many a weekend passed with Hermione running off to Merlin-knew-where; perhaps she traveled to ancient World Heritage Sites to glean the knowledge needed to bring Snape back to life, or perhaps she engaged in activities which purely benefited her own agenda.

Snape had always treasured his solitude, but even that much alone time was overrated. Some days, the silence overwhelmed him, and he found himself holding one-sided conversations with a half-Kneazle, albeit a highly intelligent, but mostly mute half-Kneazle. And that was when he mused philosophical.

He never wasted time considering the common questions that troubled most serious, deep thinkers: what is the meaning of life and why are we here? His ponderings were uniquely Snape centric: what the hell would he do with his life (provided he could be restored back to vigor) and would he behave any differently (read: better) the second time around? All this selfish thought was really quite new to him, having spent the better part of his adult years supporting Voldemort's pureblood supremacy and Dumbledore's campaign for the "Greater Good" – once again, when had he ever had time for any navel-gazing?

Apparently, The Powers That Be had determined that Snape's first life was unfinished, a work in progress with much room for improvement. While he wholeheartedly agreed with that assessment, he hadn't cared enough to ameliorate his situation – he truly hated his job, his home, his sour disposition – and frankly, some things were out of his control. If he had treated Potter with civility, if he had smiled rather than sneered but once, if he had even made an attempt to flirt with a toothsome witch – or an ugly one, for that matter – Dumbledore would have shipped him off to the Janus Thickey Ward faster than one could say, "Rabidus Domus." To be fair, Voldemort had also been a concerned employer and would surely have acted with equal speed, but his health plan wasn't as comprehensive as Hogwarts; often, Death Eater health issues, physical or mental in nature, had been solved with a hasty Avada Kedavra, leaving plenty of time for a nice cuppa.

If a new life meant turning over a new leaf, would there be an advantage to being more tolerant across the board? Not in Snape's estimation. He wouldn't waste time suffering fools and dunderheads. He might, however, extend the olive branch to those few former colleagues he deemed worthy and some well-positioned Ministry officials; such selective charm was reminiscent of Lucius Malfoy, another good contact to have depending on the post-war fortunes of that ambitious/ambivalent wizard. Mostly, Snape would mostly be concerned with his own welfare and would care not a whit for the troubles of others... save perhaps one...

So then, what he would do if he were brought back to life, as "those in charge" had intended? Could he fall back on either of his former careers?

Espionage could be a lucrative business in today's peaceful post-war climate, especially when wizarding Britain's former puppet regime was in the midst of a makeover. But for whom would he take on the role of secret agent? The Ministry? The anarchist Death Eaters? Thanks to a recent interview in The Quibbler, Potter let slip exactly where Snape's loyalties had lain, so integration into either group for purposes of actual employment or spying was highly improbable. His odds were slightly worse than a snowball's chance in hell, which he had visited briefly in his first posthumous journey outside the Shack. No, espionage was not an option.

So that left... education, a colorful metaphor in Snape's salty vocabulary, which roughly translated to FUCK, NO! Contrary to popular belief, he had no death wish the first time he shuffled off this mortal coil, so why would he voluntarily expose himself to the deadly combination of hormonal adolescents and noxious potion ingredients? Or the equally painful pairing of the aforementioned teens and their shoddy defensive skills? One poorly aimed Reducto, and... Perish the thought. Given his history of bullying students, murdering his employer, and buggering off from his last appointment, he would never be considered a model teacher, let alone a candidate for employee of the month. No headmaster or board of directors in their right mind would hire him, not even Durmstrang with their questionable ethics and "don't ask, don't tell" policy with regards to hiring "former" Death Eaters. No, teaching was out of the question.

But Severus Snape was an intelligent, resourceful, and skilled wizard. Surely, his magical talents would lend themselves to other trades or career options. How would he make a living?

Well, he had been a dab hand at the Dark Arts and the defense thereof, so perhaps a career in curse-breaking for Gringotts? The goblins were notoriously amoral and wouldn't give a second thought to Snape's flippy-floppy loyalties, but... Curse-breaking entailed a great deal of globetrotting, and Snape rather preferred sticking close to home these days – a symptom of his current "house arrest?" The inherent danger posed a problem for Snape: any old curse, jinx, or hex he might encounter could be the end of him... again. He vowed never to be cavalier about his "life"... again, not after all the trouble he had experienced in the afterlife thus far. Besides, the goblins were well-know cheapskates, and Snape didn't expect the wages to be commensurate with the high risk level of the profession.

His prospects in banking looked very dim, and he doubted the Ministry would take a chance on him, as a Dark Arts consultant or a lowly quill-pushing civil servant, unless Potter's campaign to restore the good name of Snape – had it ever really been so? – was successful. So, another strikeout on the list.

Then, what about a potion-related business? If he had an apothecary, he could sell ingredients and/or mass produce small batches of quality potions... because nothing says quality like Severus Snape, Potions master. Scratch that too. What he really meant was nothing says quick and painless death like Severus Snape, murderer of beloved wizards all throughout the UK and the continent. He could imagine the sales pitch: Got a headache? Try a dose of Severus Snape's Magical Elixir, and you'll never worry about that pesky, perplexing pain again... or anything else for that matter, as you'll likely be dead! Potions... another ticky box left unchecked.

It seemed to Snape he would never find gainful employment in the magical realm. He couldn't count on a Hogwarts pension – he would argue that he was forced out rather than "done a bunk" – yet he had to do something to earn a Galleon... or a pound! Yes, he would make his way by Muggle means. Wizarding world be damned! He would... he would... What Muggle jobs would he qualify for? He never attended university, let alone sat for A-level exams, so that left labor, menial, not even skilled. He briefly considered conjuring up credentials for a fancy white-collared position – book editor came to mind – but if he were going native, so to speak, he wouldn't want to taint his work with magic. Then, what exactly could he do?

He thought of his daily routine and the diversions within. Might he find avocation doing something he enjoyed? Snape couldn't imagine being paid to read, but he could pay his way as a writer. Hadn't he always wanted to create his own Potions text? It would take some finagling to find a publisher willing to work with him (under an assumed name perhaps). And after Potions, he could write about the Dark Arts, and... Two texts did not a financially stable existence make, but with fiction, the possibilities were endless. He'd read enough popular literature to know quality from chaff, but could he produce either in sufficient quantity to make a decent living?

If not, might he find a calling in his most recent obsession: cooking? Hermione was no expert, nor did she possess a sophisticated palate, but she raved about his meals, the simple ones and the elaborate multi-course feasts. Then again, she had spent months subsisting on rustic fare of nuts, berries, and mushrooms, so of course anything more complex was ambrosia from the gods. Plus, she considered Molly Weasley's family-style cuisine to be the height of foodie finesse, so Hermione might not be a reliable source with respect to culinary quality. Still, Snape could start small, gaining experience in a little bistro or pub, and then move on to bigger and better things, a restaurant of his very own. It went without saying that such an establishment would not be named in eponymous fashion. Yea, through his exhaustive musings, Snape appeared to have solved the problem of his future financial well-being.

Such was his process over the past several months: read, cook (and drink), think of what might become of him. Much of his internal monologue was guided by a quotation he'd read many years ago. 'Twas a wise man – as if fools are ever notably quoted? – who once said, "... A person just needs three things to be truly happy in the world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for."

Snape had pretty much covered the "something to do" with all that career self-counseling. The "something to hope for" was obviously his resurrection, but he expected failure there despite having a capable and persistent researcher championing his cause. Oh, how he wanted Hermione to share her findings with him, but he dared not broach the subject, wary that her pointed silence on the matter meant a lack of progress; plus, he would have been supremely disappointed to learn she had spent her free time in the pursuit of other pleasures. So practiced pessimist Snape had contingency goals: the invention of a forward Time-Turner (so his roughly ninety-eight years of "house arrest" could be densely packed into a year at most) or sharing the Shack with quiet tenants who wouldn't mind the spirit realm intruding into their daily routines.

As for "someone to love"... Some would call it avoidance, but Snape chalked it up to bad timing: the topic usually reared its ugly head come late afternoon, and rather than reflect upon the seven efficient habits of his highly fictionalized ideal mate, he chose to direct his energy into meal preparation. Certainly, a ghost could dream, but Snape had experienced enough romantic disappointment to last several lifetimes, and he had no desire to be burned again.

So rather than reflect on an uncertain future, Snape busied himself with the evening's repast, a modern twist on cottage pie made with a blend of beef and veal and topped with celeriac and potato mash, not the dull pedestrian fare his mum would trot out when his underemployed father had been fortunate to secure overtime at the mill and the resultant financial windfall had filled the pantry and icebox. Eileen Snape had been no Delia Smith... not by a long shot. Food had never held his interest at any time, lean or bountiful, but Hermione was now fascinated with it and encouraged him wholeheartedly; she went so far as to purchase utensils with insulated handles so his icy grip wouldn't unduly affect his cooking.

Snape's cottage pie soon became a top ten favorite meal for the harried student witch, and the rich aromas never failed to bring a brilliant smile to her weary face. Even though he could never enjoy the fruits of his labor, her reactions pleased him to no end – not that she would know, given his usual stoic demeanor. He assembled each ramekin with exacting precision: a layer of fragrant meat filling with chopped carrots, onion, herbs, and spices; a smear of well-drained mushy peas, one of his creative flairs; a generous topping of the root vegetable mash combined with a dollop of shredded cheddar cheese; a sprinkling of the remaining cheese on top; wipe the edges with a towel and... Voila! Fancy comfort food in single-serve portions!

At five thirty, he popped it into the oven, as he was expecting Hermione to arrive at precisely five past six – she had a long journey from the Charms classroom to the Apparation point outside the school gates – and at that time, the pies would be rested and at the perfect temperature and consistency with a luscious brown crust of melted cheddar; this dish made for excellent leftovers the next day and after, but nothing compared to a hot out-of-the-oven meal. At five forty-five, he uncorked the wine, a nice Chilean Syrah with gentle, sweet tannins; he knew this because he had nipped a tiny sample earlier while cooking. And at four minutes after six, he pulled off the ruffled gingham apron protecting his ghostly form, poured two glasses of wine and carried them both to the foyer; he then waited for the familiar jingle of keys... that didn't come. At ten past six, he returned to the kitchen, gracefully lowered himself upon a dinette chair and poured himself a second helping of wine. He constantly swirled the goblet, staring at the wine tears streaking the glass, deliberately avoiding thoughts of where she could be, what she could be doing... and with whom.

Between the third and fourth servings, he inadvertently let his guard down, and a horrific image intruded, unbidden, upon his drunken reverie. Hermione... naked... splayed across a heavy oaken table in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library... succumbing to the charms of a handsome, yet faceless suitor... her notes on Snape's resurrection carelessly strewn across the floor as they pumped... and thrashed... and gasped... and moaned... and...

What the fuck? How can that bushy-haired, bossy, insufferable know-it-all be front and center in my idle fantasies?

He shook his head violently, hoping to dislodge the unwelcome image from his skull and the equally unwelcome arousal of his second brain. He poured yet another glass of tangy Chilean Syrah and mentally ticked off all the magical and culinary uses for ginger root– and a few other commonly used spices – as he waited...

By the time that familiar jingle of keys rang out, the bottle was empty, as were both wine goblets, the ghost chef was more than a bit soused, sitting sourly at the kitchen table, and the cottage pie was ice cold, having been placed in the refrigerator hours earlier by a safety-conscious Snape – he might have been brassed off, but he wouldn't endanger Hermione's health by feeding her room temperature, bacteria-laden food.

From the foyer, she dropped her book bag and called out, "Hi, Severus! Dinner smells fabulous! Cottage pie, right? I'll be there in a moment. What a day I had. You won't believe..."

Silent seconds ticked away as Hermione arrived in the kitchen and surveyed the scene, looking like the proverbial deer in the headlamps. Snape swore he heard a penny drop when she finally spoke. "Oh, Severus! I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea of the time."

He took oh so long to stretch his limbs and twitch a quick strained smile, which seemed to speak for itself in passive-aggressive fashion. "You're late? I hadn't noticed. I've just been stuck here all day, slaving over a hot hob so dinner would be ready when you were supposed to arrive home." Expressionless face back in place, Snape actually said (in typical sarcastic fashion), "Ever hear of Tempus? I hear it's all the rage with busy, yet punctual witches and wizards."

The already contrite Hermione held up her hands in surrender. "You're right, Severus. I should have sent my Patronus or Floo-called to tell you I was detained."

This would have been sufficient apology for a reasonable living being or spirit, but Snape was too soused and too suspicious to let it go. "Detained, of course," he repeated, slurring ever so slightly. "I'm used to your absences on the weekend, but on a school night...? Whatever could have detained you?"

Slowly, infinitesimally even, the temperature in the flat dropped, although it was moderately warm outside for a late April Scottish evening. "Not that it's any of your business, but I was marking first-year essays so that I'd be freed up this weekend. Those first years are either infuriatingly laconic or agonizingly verbose, as I'm sure you remember." If Hermione thought pedagogical commiseration would lighten the mood, then she was dead wrong.

"Indeed," he droned, still itching for a fight. Morbidly curious about her regularly scheduled disappearances, he had the perfect opportunity to discover just what the hell she did on the weekends, but he wasn't about to reveal his apprehension. It's not as though he could distract Hermione from her hypothetical lover... if that were the case. No, he had to shift the onus onto Hermione spill her secrets. But what angle to employ? Hmmm... "Planning another weekend away from home?" he asked, sneering for all his ghostly worth.

The mood turned figuratively icy yet again. Hermione stood rigid in posture, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I'll be away again. And what's it to you? I thought you liked your peace and quiet."

"I do cherish it greatly, and while your frequent absences have no impact on me, of course..." He cast a glance about the kitchen, grasping for a suitable excuse to disguise his motives, and his eyes fell on the feeding dish of her cherished, infernal half-Kneazle. "Your familiar is another story. His caterwauling would wake up the dead if I didn't attend to his needs. Perhaps you'll consider staying put this weekend, if only to give me and your neighbors the chance to regain some hearing."

She waved him off with a dismissive hand. "Pah. You could let him out to fend for himself. He's an excellent mouser and very independent."

The pet in question sauntered into the kitchen just then, turning his bottle-brush tail – along with his backside – to Hermione and winding around Snape's vaporous ankles... and purring. Snape found the vibration distracting, and he wriggled his feet and dislodged the creature.

"If you insist." With his pet-in-danger angle clearly not working, Snape changed tactics. His former spy eyes, sharp and speedy, scanned the wary witch from frizzy follicles to frayed footwear. "But you might still consider staying at home this weekend. Your familiar's well-being is of no concern to you, but what about your own?"

Her brows knit in confusion. "My well-being? What are talking about? I feel fine."

"No doubt the caffeine in your afternoon tea has kept you going, but look at you," he said, flapping his hand in her general direction, as if making a fashion critique. "You're peaky. The shadows under your eyes are so heavy Pomona could grow Atropa belladona there. And if it weren't for me and the house-elves, you would be underfed, malnourished, and rumpled looking."

"Ha!" she cried, fisting her hands on her hips. "You're one to talk. Your appearance wasn't much better when you were alive. You're as pale now as you were then."

He couldn't argue with that. Death hadn't improved his looks one bit, but at least his hair wasn't an oily mess. He dared not attack her coiffure, especially when she seemed one insult away from hexing him; the wand in her pocket was spontaneously emitting delicate red sparks at that point. Snape needed a new course of action, but if she held no regard for her own health, what would jump start her bleeding Gryffindor heart? Cold prickles imbued him, a warning he was about to enter awkward territory.

"Certainly I'm not the only one who's observed your lack of care," he said not unkindly. "Your friends are worried about you, Hermione, but you're too busy, too preoccupied to notice. Potter's owls go unanswered. You never bother to Floo-call anyone. When did you last speak to Weasley?"

If Snape thought he was approaching dangerous ground before, her expression confirmed his arrival. Soft brown eyes hardened, plump lips blanched white, and her previously wan face flared bright red.

"The night his pale, freckled arse walked out my bedroom," she answered, her voice deadly quiet.

How he wished he could take his words back, but... in for a penny, in for a pound. "That being said," he continued, imperiously waving his hand, "it is obvious that you are not yourself, making poor decisions and acting irrationally. You're overextending yourself between the apprenticeship and these weekend jaunts, running off to Merlin-knows-where with Merlin-knows-whom..."

"You ungrateful bastard!" she roared as she stalked toward him, sparking wand in hand. "I have no social life to speak of. All my free time is devoted to finding the means to resurrect you! I spend every bloody weekend holed up in dusty libraries, musty monasteries, and claustrophobic mausoleums, looking for a spell, a potion... something, anything that will bring you back to life. If you think I'm... gallivanting about with some bloke... that this is all about... "

Snape might have been stone cold dead, but he could feel the hot waves of anger rolling off Hermione. He had definitely chosen the wrong tack... again, but there would be no apology on his part. When faced with aggression, Snape did what he knew best: he returned it in kind, matching her gimlet glare and surpassing it with a sneer. "Well, if you had simply shared the details of your whereabouts, we could have avoided," he paused, ineffectually flicking her wand away from his person, "all this."

For countless moments, Hermione stood her ground, towering over the seated ghost, countering his steely expression and topping it with flared nostrils, dilated pupils, and heaving bosom. Then she blinked, her fierce expression wavering, and she backed up a bit and stowed her wand in her pocket. Breathing an exhausted, thoroughly undramatic sigh, she said, "I don't want to fight anymore. I-I..." Her flesh and blood hand hovered above his ethereal one, ready for contact, when she seemingly thought better of her efforts to placate the testy ghost. "I just want to eat dinner and forget about today."

"The pies are in the refrigerator," he offered tersely, coolly, still irritated with the outburst he had prompted. Upon observing her suddenly rigid posture, he softly added, "You'll want to use a moderate warming..."

"I know how to magically reheat food, Severus," she interrupted, her tone huffy and haughty. "Am I not the Charms expert in this flat? Or have you changed your mind about the foolishness of wand-waving?" She imperiously waved him off and headed toward the refrigerator. If inanimate objects could talk, the aforementioned appliance would have screamed bloody murder when she yanked it open and grabbed one lovingly prepared individual serving of cottage pie from within. The combination of her bad day and bruised ego must have dulled her common sense, for she applied the Warming Charm to her meal while she held the ramekin in her hand, and...

POP! The incongruous mix of hot food and cold ceramic reacted poorly, and the dish promptly exploded, sending bits of cottage pie halfway across the kitchen; most of it, however, remained in her hand, burning the delicate skin of her palm.

"OW! Merlin's shriveled testicles, but that hurt!" she cried, shaking off the morsels of ground meats, vegetables, and mash.

In an instant, Snape snapped out of his sour mood and inebriation and jumped to her side. "Let me see please," he gently requested. He wiped her proffered greasy hand with a wet towel and then examined it closely. He applied a kind of ghostly first aid, blowing soft, icy puffs of air upon her crimson hot skin. "I'll say one thing about your apprenticeship," he began, cooling her palm with feather-light caresses, "your swearing has become quite creative since spending so much time with Filius."

Her face reddened even as her hand healed, and she pulled away. "Thank you," she whispered almost inaudibly. The warm glow – of friendship? – was shattered when her babbling began. "I'm so sorry I ruined your beautiful dinner, Severus. Would you look at this mess? I really need to clean it up..."

"Hermione..." He spoke calmly as she scurried about the kitchen.

"Evanesco Edulium. Pinus Odorata," she chanted while flourishing her wand, and the colorful remnants of her supper disappeared into thin air, leaving the kitchen spotless and smelling like a pine forest.

"Hermione..." He tried to impart a firm, yet gentle tone of voice, like the time he had convinced Hagrid not to crossbreed a honey badger with an eagle in an attempt to promote house unity.

"Reparo!" she shouted and twirled her wand with careless flair, as though her loud voice alone could magic the baking dish whole again; regardless of the mechanics behind it, the porcelain shards coalesced in a cloud of white above her head, and the repaired ramekin fell neatly into her outstretched hand. "Have I missed anything?" Her eyes darted around the room, and she spied the empty wine glasses. She pointed her wand at them, and as her mouth prepared to say the magic words, Snape intervened, this time using his most authoritative, student-intimidating voice, the one reserved for serial cauldron melters.

"Hermione! Stop babbling and casting housekeeping charms."

Her frenzied cleansing came to an abrupt halt, and she collapsed into the nearest chair. "Sorry about that. You know how I can get when..."

"Yes, I know very well," he said, his smooth, honeyed voice back in action. "And now that I have your rapt attention..." Snape slowly lowered himself into the chair next to her while he plotted. Their earlier conversation (read: argument) was an unmitigated disaster on the magnitude of an Occlumency lesson with Potter. He needed a kinder, gentler approach. Attempting to appear avuncular, he forced his features into a pleasant expression of compassion and support – at least he hoped it looked affable because he hadn't felt his facial muscles ever since Voldemort's fucking snake had cozied up to him. "It is time we have a...," he paused and shuddered, trying not to be repulsed by his inner Hufflepuff, "talk, Hermione."

"You lost me there, Severus. What does any of this," she fluttered her hand about, "have to do with sex? I've already told you I'm not seeing anybody. You know, I may not be experienced, but I'm well versed in the mechanics. My mum gave me Our Bodies Ourselves when I turned twelve." Apparently, the pathway between her brain and vocal chords was experiencing a slowdown at that moment.

Sex? Why is she blathering on about sex? Once again, the shocking image of a bare Hermione – writhing beneath an equally bare wizard – violated Snape's mind, and the little blood that remained within Snape pumped in opposite directions, half settling in his nether regions, the other half to his cheeks. Could a ghost visibly blush?

He bit back the brutal remark on the tip of his tongue – adjectives such as hairy-palmed and self-polluting would have left him feeling even more uncomfortable – instead focusing on Hermione's sallow skin and dark-circled eyes. "No, the talk wherein we address your insanely full schedule, lack of focus, and declining health."

A tinge of pink colored her cheeks, and she turned away. "Well, Filius..."

"Is a fair task master and cannot be blamed for your dearth of free time. No, this is your doing, Hermione. You spend every weekend traipsing all over this godsforsaken planet in search of a "cure" for my spirit-bound state. You're running yourself ragged with all this research, but I see no benefit for you unless you enjoy world travel together with sleep deprivation." He leaned forward and briefly placed one icy finger upon her chin, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "Hermione, when does it end?"

Mandibular lip, meet maxillary incisors. She fought to control her shuddering breath and quavering voice. "I made a promise to bring you back to the world of the living. And not everyone is motivated by personal reward," she paused, swallowing with apparent difficulty, "or guilt. Right, Severus?"

"Indeed," he intoned, his face without expression. He didn't want to continue the conversation with that awful word, guilt, still echoing in his head. Oh, how he hated unpleasant emotions... or any emotions, for that matter. However, she needed help, and he was the only one who could provide it. So he pressed on. "It seems you haven't found the solution to my problem... yet."

She shook her head, but her eyes glowed with fiery determination. "I refuse to stop until you are flesh and blood again. But... no... none of my research has yielded anything that would apply to your specific situation."

"I see. Hmmm...," he said, tapping his index finger upon his lips and staring at the scrubbed pine table as though his very life depended on it, which could prove true if some obscure resurrection ritual called for intense scrutiny of soft knotty wood. Now was the delicate moment, the time to gain access to the details of her research. He leaned forward. "I'm certain you've missed nothing, but perhaps a review of your findings by a second pair of sharp eyes and an intellect matching your own...?"

"Well...," she hedged, chewing on her much-abused lip again, "I didn't want to burden you with this. Or give you hope, only to snatch it away if..." She couldn't finish the sentence, instead flapping her hands aimlessly again, a new annoying habit Snape disliked as much as her lip gnawing.

He sighed wearily. "Trust me, Hermione. I'm more than prepared to accept failure, although my inner eternal optimist hopes for success," he stated, adding a reassuring smile, which in all likelihood appeared as a twisted grimace. "My offer to help was sincere, and..."

"Accio notes on resurrection," she said with unbridled enthusiasm, jumping up just in time to snatch the flying object before it cut through Snape's vaporous body. Hermione gingerly placed the well-worn hardback notebook on the tabletop and twitched it perfectly centered before pointing her wand at it.

"I'll review it tomorrow, and then we can discuss..."

"Engorgio!" The thin book grew and grew and grew in every dimension to become an enormous tome roughly the size of a female adult warthog, its cover riddled with stains, scratches, and gouges – travel wear, no doubt. The sturdy pine kitchen table groaned under the weight.

Preemptively, he pinched the bridge of his nose purely out of habit. "Hermione, don't take this the wrong way, but... What the hell is that?" he asked, his voice on the verge of whinging. "Did you copy every necromancy text ever published?"

"Well...," she began, gently caressing the book's careworn spine, "I used a Keyword Search Spell – erm... my own invention, actually – looking for any references to resurrection, return to life, reawakening, et cetera... You get the picture. Then I used a copying spell so I would have the exact wording found in the books."

"It's huge! Lifting that monstrosity would give Hagrid a hernia. Ghosts have limits, you know. It would probably take the entirety of my spirit containment period to read it."

"I like to be thorough, and you're exaggerating," she said in earnest.

"Thorough, yes, but this...," he paused, pointing a pearly-gray finger at the voluminous volume, "is beyond that, approaching impossible. To say you are an overachiever is an understatement."

"Thank you... I think," Hermione replied cheerily, seeming pleased with Snape's backhanded compliment. "We could start reviewing tonight, if you wish." She literally bounced with excitement, squirming in her chair and beaming brightly.

He shook his head, and her buoyant, light mood promptly deflated. "We shall not be reviewing tonight," he said gently. "You shall retire for the evening, as you've endured a long, tiring day." Hermione nodded in agreement, disappointment clearly seen on her fallen face. "And I...," he paused theatrically, punctuating the silence with a lung-deflating sigh, "shall begin the daunting task of scrutinizing your notes... in the morning when I am refreshed." Snape didn't truly require sleep or rest of any sort – he would not reveal that to Hermione – but he remembered, with painstaking detail, her pedantic nature in writing essays, and he expected reading her notes would be taxing on his gray matter even when he wasn't pissed or irritable. "Now, off to bed you go." Wearing his most austere head of house face, he shooed her from the kitchen.

She dutifully obeyed his instructions, but not before she nicked a biscuit from the pantry, brilliantly executed with a wandless, wordless spell. From the hallway, she turned around and winked at him. Any residual tension from their earlier tiff melted away and was replaced with a more companionable feeling... or perhaps something more.

"If I were able, I would deduct house points for such cheek, Miss Granger," he warned, his tone more playful than acerbic.

"I know I can't have any pudding if I don't eat my meat, but you sent me to bed without supper," she mirthfully mocked, waving the illicit Jammie Dodger about in a teasing manner.

"You appeared more weary than hungry," he answered mechanically, but his eyes twinkled like that other recently dead headmaster who shall go unnamed. "As a consolation, would you like me to tuck you in and read you a bedtime story?"

"Do you know any fairy tales?" she asked, playing along with his unusually blithe spirit.

"Sadly, all I know are ghost stories," he replied, his jovial mood still apparent in his humor.

"Maybe another time, then. Goodnight, Severus," she called out as she ascended the stairs.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he bade her aloud, and as he retired to the library-cum-lounge, he whispered, "sweet dreams," abandoning her research – his potential salvation – to the kitchen gods, hoping for a miracle.

A/N: Yes, I did it again, made a song reference. Just wait until next chapter; you'll think you died and went to pop culture heaven... or hell, depending on your tastes (insert wink here).

For your information, the kitchen god, Zao Jun, the most important of the domestic gods, is celebrated in Chinese and Vietnamese cultures. And the wise man with the nifty quote is Tom Bodett, American author, humorist, and radio personality.

For those who like their spells translated:

Rabidus Domus = crazy house

Evanesco Edulium = vanish food

Pinus Odorata = pine scented

Non-UK readers may not be familiar with Delia Smith – I know I wasn't until Proulxes brought her to my attention. Think of her as the British Julia Child, or Martha Stewart without the orange jumpsuit.

And speaking of Proulxes, my lovely and extremely talented friend created gorgeous artwork inspired by a tender scene in this chapter. Copy and paste the following link into your browser to check it out: http://proulxes.deviantart.com/art/Ghostly-First-Aid-409462993?q=gallery%3AProulxes%2F42121468&qo=4

Next up: Hermione recounts her journeys and her findings, coming to a (not so) surprising conclusion.