Part Two

Part Two

Christmas Eve

Avalon's Great Hall was a riot of conflicting decorating schemes and colours, having been given over to the students to decorate as they saw fit. While one corner was occupied by a conventional snowman in a miniature, perpetual snow shower, the ceiling above it had been annexed by a student who thought a cluster of bats wearing Santa hats and tiny, gold bow ties was more appropriate to the season. The red and green of holly was jumbled together with some confused attempts of menorahs and dreidels (which were done properly on the mantel over a secondary fireplace). The whimsies of girls who did not celebrate either holiday led to, among other things, neon orange jack o' lanterns and purloined traffic cones and yards, if not miles, of purple and yellow garlands looped hither and yon. It was a bit terrifying if absorbed as a whole, but the exuberance of university students who had run the gauntlet of term exams and emerged the other side with only minor bruises was not to be denied. Still, it meant that the few who were left to celebrate the holiday on campus had a tendency to illuminate only the immediate areas that they occupied rather than suffer the full effect of Christmas gone mad.

Hermione had chosen to remain; the memory of what she had done to her parents and their consequent absence from her life had hit her rather hard with the approach of the holiday, and she had no desire to go to the Burrow and make merry. Addie, too, having no family except for some distant cousins back in Switzerland, was spending her Christmas in Oxford. To give the college elves a bit of a holiday, Hermione had proposed to the other witches that, as a lark, the Muggle-borns might forage amidst the Muggle take-aways and they could all have a sort of potluck picnic on the floor of the hall. To her surprise, the scheme was adopted with enthusiasm, and the wizards' dozen of students sprawled over piles of pillows and rugs, eating curries and pizza and lo mein in a melange that echoed the Hall's decorations and would, in anyone of greater age, have led to severe indigestion. The conversations were equally varied as Mei (final year in Charms) discussed wedding traditions and fashions with Madge (second year Transfiguration) and Eleanor (first year Mediwitch) talked healing potions with Addie. Somewhere, Hermione heard fragments of an argument that involved frogs which were to either be adhered in some fashion to the ceiling of the Defense salle or let loose in the river in a re-enactment of a Biblical plague. Hermione herself, having finished her meal, was somewhat shyly strumming carols and trying not to let her thoughts mire her in guilt and loneliness. Both she believed to be self-indulgent, seeing as how she still couldn't conceive of any alternate plans she could have implemented to keep her family safe.

She felt guilty again when she remembered Professor Snape; she might have considered him sooner if she hadn't been so self-involved. Hermione imagined that he, too, would be on campus, and she very much doubted that he would attend whatever festivities the Terranmore boys had concocted...even if they thought to invite him. Still, she dithered, having a hard time believing that he would welcome any sort of overture she might make, even if it was heartfelt rather than charitable. And the other girls certainly wouldn't appreciate the intrusion of any professor...especially Snape...into their holiday. What to do and how to do it? Hermione sighed. Why couldn't she have an easier subject for her altruistic impulses?

Perhaps... Perhaps she would simply walk over there. Terranmore had a lovely potions garden, even in winter, and a solitary stroll might suit her frame of mind better. It wasn't as though the colleges were cloistered orders, after all.

•••••

Well, she'd been right in that the potions garden was quite beautiful in the moonlight, and someone with a more poetic soul than is common amongst young men had illuminated it with numerous fairy lights. The unfortunate side to this idyllic environment was that more someones with rather more... earthy ideas had appropriated various corners to occupy with their witches. There were silencing spells and repelling spells and giggles and more intimate noises emerging from these little nooks, and Hermione was both irritated and embarrassed by the time she gave up the idea and re-emerged through the garden gate. Why couldn't these horny little beasts find someplace private in which to conduct their affairs? With an aggrieved sigh, Hermione simply set off wandering.

Eventually...and without any conscious direction of her own...Hermione found herself in the Terranmore quadrangle. The bare emptiness of the cold, stone arches around the perimeter was actually inviting to her, and after some minutes rummaging in her enchanted bag, she produced sufficient cushions to create a cosy little nest on the broad, low wall with her cloak tucked in around her and a warming spell to top it off. Some more rummaging and her bag gave up several volumes of Jane Austen and an illumination-charmed bookmark. A double-check to make certain her spells were properly in place, and Hermione began to read.

•••••

Given his track record to date, Severus was never full of what one would call Christmas Cheer and preferred to do all he could to avoid it. However, he had been unable to ignore the overtures Minerva had made (and reinforced with a few ultimatums involving some of Flitwick's nastier endeavours) and been forced to spend the majority of the evening in the company of his former colleagues. On the bright side, they all continued to apologise profusely to him, which was soothing to the ego, and had presented him with sizeable gifts as a more tangible expression of their guilty consciences. They weren't in the least imaginative, but they had the intelligence to consult Sprout, and so his laboratory would be well stocked for some time to come.

When he had endured as much as he could stand without irreparably cursing Trelawney, Severus left Hogwarts for a small monastery somewhere in... Actually, he'd forgotten where it was. But it was small, peaceful, and occupied by a small collection of monks who paid him no mind as they assembled for Midnight Mass. Severus, tangled in his own web of guilt and depression and grief, had explored numerous faiths over the last two decades, and though he couldn't bring himself to claim...or be claimed by...any one faith, he had a great respect for men like these who could devote their lives to something so benevolent and remote. Besides, the chapel was filled with a quiet serenity that soothed his nerves, and their chanting, once begun, was an almost palpable presence that solidified their community without excluding their solitary visitor. By the time the monks finished their ancient rituals, some of that serenity had even seeped into the cracks of Severus's soul, and he brought it away with him when he travelled back to the college.

That serenity vanished abruptly when he found Miss Granger slumped against one of the columns near the entrance to his rooms.

Years of shocks had habituated him to dealing with matters silently, and only the sound of his running feet on mud and pavement and the slight schh of drawing his wand accompanied him as he rushed up to find...

...that the cursed girl was only asleep.

At that, a lengthy stream of invective escaped his lips, remarkable for its relative quiet and its creativity. As the minutes passed, his voice rose in volume, and as he was describing some anatomically impossible and likely illegal acts with a camel's mother, his glare hardened. She was still asleep. Fast asleep. And the only redeeming factors of the situation were that she had obviously taken the precautions of warming charms so that she wouldn't freeze to death and that she held a book in her lap, which implied that she hadn't meant to fall asleep there on his doorstep. Still muttering imprecations, Snape began shaking her by the shoulder; perhaps she had cast silencing spells as well, so that random idiot voices would not disturb her. Well, he was not a random idiot...a purposeful one, perhaps? snarked his brain...and if she should be such a silly child as to fall asleep outside in freezing temperatures, then she deserved whatever he had to dish out.

But matters would not be that simple, and how could he expect them to be with his history?

All of his shaking and prodding...he resisted the temptation to slapping or even casting a stinging hex...produced very little result. Eventually, Granger did open her eyes, but they refused to focus properly, and the twisting of her expression indicated that she was still caught up in her dream. (It could have been her reaction to seeing him upon awaking...it was the sort of reaction he expected...but he was very familiar with feeling that expression of helpless horror she was wearing.) Dimly, she seemed to recognise him, and relief and joy flooded over the terror. "Professor Snape, oh my god, you're alive!" And with a sob, she threw her arms around his neck.

And nearly knocked the both of them over.

And she promptly fell back asleep. Leaving him, Severus Snape, in an awkward and damned uncomfortable sort of half-bow with a full-grown girl hanging off his neck. He shoved her arse back onto the masonry just to get her weight from doing something unspeakably painful to the scars on his neck. His invective became much more pointed and a little repetitive, for which he may be forgiven, as he was distracted by the struggle to breathe through the mass of fine wires that seemed to be more conscious than their owner and currently trying to suffocate him. He resumed his attempts to waken the girl with double his earlier force, only to discover that her current state was more accurately described by the word 'coma' and that her grip strength was at least twice that of the giant squid when given a longboat to play with. Reduced to simple growling as well as kneeling on the damned cold and damp stone paving, Snape wished that he could square simple, cold-blooded murder with his conscience. It would have made his life so much easier. As it was, he was reduced to more complicated, more humiliating solutions to his problems.

Drawing his wand again (he'd sheathed it when he realised that she was sleeping, not deceased), he first used a slicing hex to hack off that appalling hair. (She might have been glad he was alive, but her hair had quite a different opinion about it. And if she whinged that badly, he'd give her some damned Hair-Be-Here in the morning.) Then he cast a levitation that had her bobbing in the air at the right height for him to stand like a normal human being, or at least, like a normal Snape. Two options offered themselves to him: he could return her to Avalon, which would necessitate traipsing across the two colleges, likely (knowing his luck) under the eye of all the remaining undergraduates, and attempt to find her rooms. Which could (again, knowing his luck) be anywhere from in college to the outskirts of Muggle Oxford. He knew she had a roommate, but he'd never asked her name, so no luck there. And he'd still have to figure out how to waken the girl sufficiently to detach her carcass from his neck without breaking or dislocating anything in either of them. (Could she have had a vampire in the family some time back? Vampires couldn't reproduce after a turn, of course, but newly-acquired vampirism could have some odd effects on family [especially descendants] and close friends, particularly if said vampire continued to live at home.)

The whole idea sounded tedious. And unnecessary, considering that his rooms were only a few staircases away, were far more private, and far better equipped. A simple bottle of Pepper-up poured directly down her throat might answer the situation, and he knew precisely where to find his own vials. And if she went into hysterics upon discovering her location? Well, he'd simply enjoy the show as his well-deserved entertainment. Gathering the girl in his arms to keep her limbs in safe proximity (annoying if she smacked her leg into the stone banisters and fractured it), Snape resumed his interrupted journey home.

•••••

Hermione awoke on Christmas morning at the precise point when her body hit a very solid floor. Blinking with confusion, she stared at the dark wood she had landed on and beyond it to fuzzy-looking rugs of colours she wasn't quite prepared to process yet, as she was too occupied in trying to reconstruct her evening and thereby extrapolate precisely where she was, how she'd gotten there, and why she had fallen from her bed.

The last question was the easiest to answer: her bed was a sofa, very nice looking with comfortable cushions, but narrow. Her friends had informed her that she had a habit of settling in for the night, staying in the exact same place and position, and then rolling over abruptly exactly one hour before she woke up (assuming she woke naturally, as was her wont, rather than with the offices of an alarm clock). Apparently, she had settled and she had rolled...with the obvious result.

Well, that was explained, but whose couch was it? Sitting up, Hermione looked around to find that the room she was in was wholly unfamiliar, but much to her liking. Three of its six walls were entirely taken up with shelves, and with only one or two exceptions that were filled with curios, every shelf was stuffed with books in a library that was of such variety that it was obviously personal. There were massive leather folios, glossy-spined hardbacks, loosely-bound collections of papers, some pigeonholes that fit their resident scrolls precisely... all different shapes, sizes, and probably content, though she could only make out a few titles from here (though she also recognised the distinctive purr of The Practical Witch's Book of Comfortable Householding Spells that Padma had recommended ages ago). A fireplace, hedged round with all sorts of practical and magical cautions, occupied a fourth wall and crackled merrily with heat. A small, decidedly old copper kettle dangled securely from an iron hook and arm very close to a battered, brown leather armchair and a solid, square table upon which rested a tea chest and single service as well as an nondescript, but tempting book. The fifth wall bore a floor to ceiling tapestry of medieval figures frozen in a tableau whose subject she didn't recognise: a woman, bearing a sheaf of wheat and supporting an older woman, while a prosperous sort of man stood a bit apart, bearing a shoe in his hand. Beautiful and interesting, but obviously alluding to a story that she didn't know or recognise.

The sixth wall was plain, painted a foresty green and looking a little... hollowed. Before it, Hermione saw with interest, was a wooden podium with pages laid upon it and filling its niche. A violin lay on a stand nearby. She remembered, now she put her mind to it, that she had been reading in Terranmore's quad. Had she then found the mysterious violinist? Had she introduced herself to him or furthered her acquaintance with someone she already knew? What had happened that she couldn't remember?

There was a moment of a little less than panic. Had she gotten drunk? Had something in the Avalon spread been spiked? Had someone given her a potion? She had a little trouble believing that someone with so inviting a room could have nefarious reasons for bringing her here, but then, something could be distorting her perception to create a space in which she would be comfortable. Hermione smacked her hand against her arm and was somewhat comforted to find her wand still in its place. She sighed. Being poisoned was a bit far-fetched nowadays, but not beyond of the realm of possibility. Still, there could be a perfectly ordinary sort of explanation to her presence here that would make all her conspiracies seem absurd. She grimaced slightly in concluding that the assumptions that would be immediately made in a romantic comedy were pretty much out. No fervent swain indulging in drunken antics or vile seducer indulging in more... disgusting... activities would dump her on a couch, fully clothed (and armed).

"Miss Granger."

Hermione stared, owl-eyed, and now very much aware that she was sitting on the floor, mussed, rumpled, and surrounded by a sea of blankets. And her neck was cold. "G... good morning, Professor."

He smiled, thin-lipped and as self-satisfied as a cat, standing in a doorway she hadn't noticed before. "I trust you slept well?" The question was silky, smug, and barbed; he was enjoying her confusion.

"I..." she stopped, uncertain of the proper answer. "I... guess so?"

"It was certainly a deep sleep," he continued. "I quite despaired of you ever regaining consciousness." He had moved, and his hands were busy now, casting a wordless spell to fill the kettle and swinging its arm to position it over the fire.

"I'm sorry to have been a nuisance," she replied in a small voice, feeling once more ten-years-old and wrong-footed.

"As you should be." Agile fingers plucked up the chest and deftly ladled leaves into the pot. "I am no longer accustomed to finding strays sprawled across my doorstep, Miss Granger, and oddly enough, I expected you to have something resembling common sense, which was a mistake on my part."

Why was it so difficult right now to remember that she was a woman grown?

"It would appear that you are more than capable of being as thoughtlessly adolescent as any of your puerile companions. Did you have a bit of a tiff with your chosen Weasley? Molly throw you out for corrupting the non-existent morals of her little boy? Or was it merely that Daddy refused to buy you the ridiculously expensive broom you wanted for Christmas?"

I see no difference.

•••••

Oh, damn.

And damn again.

It would seem he still possessed the unerring ability to find a person's sore spot and poke it with a sharp, rust-covered stake.

Damn it. He'd wanted to make the girl squirm a bit, which she richly deserved for falling so deeply asleep in a public space where anything could happen to her. (And, all right, for that appalling display of somnolent emotion, too.) But his last remark had leached the colour from her face, and her eyebrows had done that squiggly tilt that made him feel like he had punted a small animal across the room...which, despite the rumours, was not his wont. Hell, her eyes were going all watery, too.

He'd missed something. Or forgotten it, which amounted to the same thing and really wasn't all that surprising; most things from the first month or two of recuperation were hazy at best.

Still, he would not apologise, even if he knew how to set about it. Silence fell, alleviated only by the crackling of the fire and the burbling of the kettle as it prepared to boil. Glancing at the tray, Severus noticed the single cup and knelt to fetch the other from its storage-place under the table. The old, solid Brown Betty and its accompanying mugs had belonged to Granny Snape, his only relative with any redeeming qualities whatsoever. She'd given the set to him when she'd moved into that nursing home in Cardiff (where she still ruled the roost even in her nineties, sharp old bat that she was), saying he was the only family she knew who had anything like the proper touch for a cuppa. She'd made him swear never to brew any of that namby-pamby green muck in it, or she'd come back to haunt him, alive or dead. Sometimes he was tempted to do just that; he wouldn't mind her company. One of the most intelligent women he'd ever known, having made only the one mistake, she admitted, of marrying his grandfather. Long since dead...and Severus had his suspicions on how; Granny'd given his first lessons in plant-lore...he'd made her life a misery and continued to cast a pall over it in the form of Severus's father. She described both men as 'half-witted wankers.' But Severus, she assured the boy, had inherited her brains. Unfortunately, allowing for the difference in sex, he felt he'd also inherited her luck, and his mother's, in love.

And Granny's sharp tongue, without her sense of the appropriate.

The water boiled, and Severus filled the pot. A side-long glance, and he saw that Granger had folded the blankets and set them and herself primly on the couch. She stared at the floor, a dire sign for a girl who, he knew, ought to be craning her neck in the direction of his books.

Granny'd probably get a kick out of her.

He shut that thought down quickly.

The tea was ready. He poured. "I..." he began, "I do not make merry at Christmas, Miss Granger, but I hope a cup of tea will at least improve the morning." Granger gave him a weak sort of smile and accepted her cup. After a sniff and a moment's consideration, she added a tiny splash of milk to the Scottish Breakfast.

Granny would approve.

•••••

What were you supposed to do, Hermione wondered, when you imposed on a person...whom you knew, but only under some very odd conditions and definitions...who then severely (but unintentionally) hurt your feelings and then offered you tea?

What could you do but accept the tea?

Hermione had done her apology. He hadn't, but then she didn't really have a right to demand one. Allowing for some descriptive liberties, she deduced from his comments that she'd fallen asleep while reading last night and he'd been unable to wake her. She'd put herself and him in an uncomfortable situation, and she knew how he reacted to uncomfortable situations. And he wouldn't know about her parents; very few people did.

That bit about corrupting Ron was kind of funny. They'd tried some more kissing after... well, after. Nice, but not exactly mind-blowing. Molly caught them at it once, and from her overreaction, Hermione would've thought that the Weasley matriarch really had no idea where babies came from; she had been positively Victorian! The one up-side was that Ron had had to look seriously at their relationship, and under the shadow of wedding bells, he'd cooled off rapidly. Friends forever and nothing more, thank the Great Wizards.

But that was then. This was now, and she was in Severus Snape's library, and she had slept there, and he was offering her spiky hospitality, and she hadn't the least idea how to behave. Should she break the silence? How? What did you say under these circumstances? Good morning, merry Christmas...except you've just said you don't do merry Christmases...thanks for having me over in spite of yourself? I wish I'd bought you a present, but I didn't think of it and I've no idea what you'd like? I don't want to intrude, but I will anyway and ask you about the violin?

"The tea is very good; thank you." I wish I had something sensible to say.

"You're welcome."

"I'll go after this. I don't want to impose any more than I already have."

He looked ever so slightly startled at that, then his lip twisted in that familiar way. "Of course," was all he said.

"You're welcome to visit later," she blurted. "Addie and I are going to have a dinner, just the two of us. We can easily make it three."

He snorted. "She would not want my company any more than you do."

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it!"

"Don't practice social courtesies on me, Miss Granger. I find them pointless, tiresome, and prone to nasty conclusions. You do not like me. You do not want to like me. You ask because it is the means by which you may clear your overactive conscience. Don't. You have apologised; that is sufficient. I only ask that you refrain from repeating the performance."

Hermione set her chin. "We've had this conversation before, Professor. And I won the last time." He stared, outrage in his face, before beginning to chuckle. In response, Hermione relaxed and grinned. "Honestly, sir, I am being sincere. But if you want self-interest, I can say that I'm only inviting you so you can meet Addie so she can convince you to take her on as an apprentice."

His hand waved dismissively, and he regarded her steadily for a moment. "Honestly," he mimicked, "why are you here, Miss Granger? Why did you make me tuck you into my couch rather than cosying up in a proper bed with your friends or family?"

The young witch took a gulp of tea, fortunate that it had cooled. And she began to tell him why.

•••••

He felt sorry for her.

To Hermione's mind, it was the only possibility, and yet, it was woefully inadequate. Severus Snape might conceivably feel sorry for people, but in her observation, he had yet to base his own conduct on pity...for anyone, including himself.

And yet here she was, carting Addie and their Christmas dinner and her guitar and her cat onto Terranmore campus under the eyes of the few undergrad wizards remaining, all of whom were intent on making juvenile comments. She was tempted to turn them all into toads. (Trite, but as a little girl, that had been the first spell she'd looked up just as soon as she could.)

He was waiting for them at the entrance to the tower. He greeted Adelheid with brief courtesy and guided them through the layers of wards that guarded his rooms. Hermione knew better than to believe him paranoid.

Adelheid looked about her with approval once they reached the kitchen. "Very good," she declared of the clean, new counters, good-sized fireplace (magical society did not yet believe in kitchen ranges) and ice-charm box. "Larger than ours, a proper kitchen."

"Of course," said Snape, giving her one of those lifted eyebrow looks. Hermione decided he was amused.

"You wanted the space for your lab," she reminded her roommate. "We couldn't fit both."

"And we eat in the Hall; yes, I know." Adelheid waved a dismissive hand. "But today we feast. Let us get to work, so that we may feast sooner."

Hermione grinned, and she saw Professor Snape unbend so far as to allow the corners of his mouth to curl upwards. He also, to her shock, spelled up his sleeves to the elbow. She fought the urge to stare; now that she thought of it, she'd never seen anything more than his hands from the wrist down and his head from the neck up. Well, there had been the Dark Mark, but that was all she'd seen at the time; the fact that he had an arm to put it on had been an insignificant detail. But he did have arms, fairly nice-looking, masculine arms with black hair on them, and it made him seem so much more... human. Not, she thought as she tried to articulate precisely what she meant, simply an embodied intelligence, which I think is what he tries to make people believe in, but a proper human, with blood and bone and muscle and a... a heart. A heart that had pumped out his blood all over the filth-laden floor of the Shrieking Shack, leaving it to pool and mix with the dirt and muck to become crimson-tinted sludge. Hermione closed her eyes and focused on breathing the clean, herb-scented air of Professor Snape's kitchen. Real life, normal life. Life. She didn't notice, as she turned her attention to scrubbing potatoes, that she was singing, nor did she see the odd look Professor Snape gave her, nor the hushing gesture Addie gave him. She didn't hear the words.

"'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free..."

•••••

Dinner with Granger and her roommate was surprisingly... tolerable. Adelheid proved to be a serious young witch with a little twinkle in her eye that, thankfully, had nothing of Albus's doddering slyness to it. She didn't natter on incessantly, and fascinatingly, her obvious respect had nothing of the fear he had spent twenty years instilling in the native-born students. She also knew her way quite well around a kitchen, which boded well for her skills in the laboratory. If he did find that he required some sort of assistant, he would certainly keep her in mind. For that matter, he realised as he probed his thoughts, he'd had sufficient faith in Granger's judgment to consider her sight unseen. (Not that he would have accepted her, but she would have made the short list of candidates.)

Over the course of the afternoon, they cooked, each to his or her own set of tasks, while Granger's beastie settled in front of the fire to watch the silly human rituals. The goose didn't take as long as it might have...Molly, mother hen that she was, had sent the bird over mostly cooked, then spelled into stasis...and there were potatoes and some sort of vegetable thing Adelheid concocted and pigs in a blanket and his personal contribution, the Yorkshire pudding, just as Granny forced him to learn how to make it. Severus had never dared to experiment with that particular recipe, and judging from its reception, he didn't need to. Granger insisted on a proper hot chocolate to finish off, and by that time, he was mellowed enough not to argue, not even for the sake of personal principle.

He rather expected the two witches to excuse themselves once dinner was done and the dirty dishes untidily stacked by the sink for the distraction of the house elf, but the three of them were deep in a debate about certain transformative potions and their intersection with transfiguration, which all seemed loath to abandon. Severus found that instead of merely outwaiting them, he needed to excuse himself in order to take his potion. He returned, and the debate continued on for some time.

The discussion wandered, and by the time Adelheid did excuse herself, Severus was forced to stare at the skies outside; the sun had long since set, and the moon told him it was far later than he would have believed.

Granger had become more and more comfortable as time passed, if he were to judge by her body language. She'd begun properly seated with her feet on the floor and her back straight. She'd slowly listed to one side to lean against the arm. Then her shoes had come off and her feet tucked under to curl her into a comfortable little ball at her end of the sofa. And now that her friend had left, Hermione showed no inclination yet to leave, and indeed, stretched out to take over the empty space.

She was a very pretty young witch, he thought, watching the amber sparking in her hair when the candle flame hit it the right way. Did she have any young wizards dancing attendance? They had good enough eyes, he'd daresay, but that independent intelligence of hers might very well repel the silly morons with the effectiveness of an insect potion. Wizards, young or old, had a tendency to prefer breasts to brains in a witch. But given his situation, he'd come to value intelligent companionship wherever he could find it; it was an incredibly rare commodity and offered to him even more rarely. And here it was in a witch twenty years his junior.

•••••

The candlelight was kind to him. It softened his stark lines and glowed gold against skin that looked sallow in the sun. His hair drank the light in and held it close. His eyes were a little intense, perhaps, but his expression was as close to pleasure as she thought he'd ever come.

She wasn't sure what to do now. She'd missed the chance to leave when Addie had, but for some reason, she'd preferred to stay. She'd offer to play if she thought he'd appreciate the music. She'd ask him to play if she thought he'd oblige her...and if she had the courage. But as it was, she was here on his couch (and Crookshanks was on his hearth), and they were looking at each other. Her one reassurance was that if he wanted her to go, he'd evict her, verbally and/or bodily. But then, she couldn't really fathom why he'd allowed her to remain this long. Feeling sorry for her would surely only last so long, particularly with Professor Snape. Which must, she thought and warmed at the idea, indicate a substantial level of approval. What alarmed her was the next one: If we were at Hogwarts, there'd be a magicked sprig of mistletoe somewhere about.

She nearly lunged for her guitar.

•••••

The hour grew late, then later. Hermione played softly, and Severus listened. There were the expected songs: traditional carols and a few that must be more modern. She also seemed to have a penchant for Celtic melodies, and one or two Latin-sounding ones snuck their way in. Her voice was nice to listen to...lower than her speaking voice, somewhere in the alto range...if only partially trained. Her playing was far better; in between songs, she admitted that her parents had sent her off to lessons as soon as she could pick up an instrument, though they had consulted her on what instrument it should be. Her junior guitar, she admitted, still held pride of place at her home; Severus said nothing, but he could hear the pain in her voice at the mention of her parents.

He said nothing because he envied her that pain. His only feeling upon the deaths of Eileen and Tobias had been a draining sort of relief.

His childhood instrument had ended up smashed during one of his father's withdrawal sessions. Tobias had always been more violent in those brief periods off the bottle than on. When he'd learned that it was borrowed, and therefore could not be pawned, Tobias had asked what bloody use was it, then, and turned it into kindling. Severus had had to sort out a slew of odd jobs and to filch any number of ingredients for brewing the kinds of potions a twelve-year-old wasn't supposed to know about in order to repay his teacher the loss. Miss Lewis had been very kind about it, though. But then, she'd known very well what sort of father Tobias Snape was.

He said nothing of this to Hermione, only that his violin had been irreparably damaged and subsequently destroyed. She winced visibly and returned to her playing.

•••••

The fire was low. Not from any lack of fuel, but from the spell that was meant to remind him that it was very late and even bad wizards should get some sleep.

He didn't want to sleep; he wanted the evening to continue indefinitely. It was Christmas, and the sort of spell that had created the little bubble of serenity would vanish once he sent her home and retired to bed. He would wake up in the morning, and they would return to that slightly stiff, somewhat formal relationship of ex-professor and ex-student. Just now, he was a cat in a window's sunbeam, inching across the floor to absorb that warmth just as long as possible.

Hermione didn't seem to want to leave, either. Her fingers had grown tired, naturally, and her voice a little scratchy. He'd thrust a new cup of tea at her, this time an herbal blend that didn't fight the gobs of honey he poured in. She'd accepted it, sipped, and though the mug had masked the half of her face, he'd been able to see the smile narrow her eyes. He'd very tentatively...and very minutely...smiled back. He'd begun talking...though what about, he didn't really know...and she'd listened. Perhaps he'd mentioned his plans for the coming term.

But now the fire was low. Her hair was dark in the dim light. Had she ever realized how expressive her eyes were? They were large now and slightly bewildered, and she looked so much the child that his heart sank in his chest. He knew where it would have him go; he was too old not to know. But Hermione belonged to another sphere, one of youth and energy and optimism, one that had never been his and certainly held no place for him now, except maybe for the tiny, well-defined niche of mentor, or honorary uncle at best. Which was as it should be. But it was one that he knew he would never be content to remain in, should he even be so foolish as to try.

He had tried, with Lily. In the end, he had only succeeded in making himself miserable and her dead.

Hermione was not Lily, but that was almost worse. She would give and give and give. He knew he could make her idolise him...it would be so very simple, for she was so very young and cerebral and easy to understand...and though she would still be Hermione, she would make herself over into something that would impress him, win his approbation. Perhaps she would not love him, not in the way that he could allow himself to love her, but she would define herself by her relationship with him. And then he'd probably do something to mess it up after he'd spent all the time messing her up.

Let still the woman take an elder than herself; so wears she to him...

Bloody Shakespeare.

•••••

The room was dark, and beyond the small circle of firelight, shadows clustered heavily. Hermione found herself dreading the thought of venturing beyond that small, safe circle, even just to the wall, let alone venturing further and out into the night. It was silly, but here it was so nice and warm and comfortable and, well, safe. Having been screwed up to the sticking point for so long, she hadn't realised just how constantly she felt the necessity of wariness. Even in the first few days of Hogwarts, it had been the childish malice of Draco and the other Slytherins that had kept her looking about her and aware of precisely where her wand was. And then the war, of course, had made it a matter of life and death. It wasn't any more, but the habit of 'constant vigilance!' remained, except for...

...except for here. In this place. With this man.

That concept was a bit frightening, but it was... an internal uncertainty. She wasn't afraid of him. Hermione knew that she was safer here and now than she had ever been...or ever would be anywhere else. It was the yearning to cement that feeling by being as close to him as was humanly possible that unnerved her. She remembered mooning after Ron (and, if she were being honest, that dreadful bit involving Lockhart, too) and it had never involved these intense physical sensations, which weren't for sex, necessarily, but for the feel of him wrapped around her, solidly present against her back or for his arm around her shoulders while she curled up against him with her cheek against his chest. Hermione was just shy of the reality, and was pulled to complete it like iron filings near a magnet.

And all this for Severus Snape: her teacher, her tormentor, her cipher. One of the last men on earth she had ever even considered building a relationship with. And yet she couldn't turn the feelings off, not now, nor (again to be honest) did she really want to. Except that he was old enough to be her father, if only just, and he was a man of honour. (A non-traditional code of honour, maybe, but one he rigidly adhered to.) He might consider a friendship with her, but anything more? Hermione imagined he'd see it as a betrayal of some sort, possibly of Lily (the man had practically worshipped her), possibly of his position of trust (even if it was over a year and a half gone).

Her tea was all drunk up.

A small sigh and she curled up into a ball, looking wistfully at a possibility in human form from across the tops of her knees.

•••••

He could offer her a bed. Not his, naturally, but the couch could be made more comfortable than he'd had the inclination for the previous night.

But that might obliterate her reputation. Last night was understandable, but a second night, and one where her roommate knew of her location, might very well cause a maelstrom of gossip. Adelheid might very well be trustworthy, but it would only take one careless comment or even another student's presence in the wrong place at the wrong time. His reputation couldn't be much worse than it already was, but hers was still good.

It was late; he should send her off.

Walking her back to the dormitories would be unthinkable.

He didn't want her to go at all.

Silence had fallen, and though he could feel her eyes on him, he kept his own gaze resolutely on the fire. His feet felt as though he'd planted them in the fireplace itself; excusing himself for the oral potion and the neck salve had been simple enough, but he felt absurdly self-conscious about baring his feet in front of her and sticking them in a cauldron. Not, he thought, biting his lip, that he didn't have fairly nice feet. Normally shaped, toenails in good order, decent bit of hair, no warts or other nastinesses to disgust the ordinary observer. He'd just never thought of showing his feet to anyone, not since he'd grown out of the childish habit of pottering about the house in his nightshirt.

A bolt of pain escaped from his foot and shot up his calf, forcing a grunt of pain from deep in his throat.

"Se... Sir, are you all right?" She unfolded herself from the couch and crossed the intervening space rapidly.

"I'm fine," he answered shortly.

"You're fine," she repeated, and her mouth twisted wryly. "You're so fine, in fact, that your lip is bleeding. Rather profusely," she added. He lifted the back of his hand to the area in question, only to discover that she was right. The minor pain had pulled his concentration away from his feet, but in the moment of shock, he'd reactively bitten straight through his lip. With an amused look of exasperation, Hermione pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against the wound. Anxious for her to keep her distance, Severus quickly moved his hand to replace hers, and he quite clearly saw her shiver from the brief contact. "I... I'm sure you have the proper antiseptic and healing potions. Are they in the bathroom cabinet?"

"I'll get them," he mumbled, with some idea of doing his feet at the same time. But when he tried to stand, a thousand rust-covered nails rammed themselves into his soles, and the sound that emerged as he collapsed ungracefully back into the chair was far more audible than a mere grunt.

"Severus!" she exclaimed, and then her wand was poised in her hand and she was crouched beside his chair, her eyes searching his face.

He swore, briefly but inventively, before panting out what he needed her to do. She sheathed her wand, and the panic reverted back to exasperation. A stream of grumbling trailed behind her as she stalked out, primarily, so far as he could make out, concerned with the stubborn, pig-headed, idiotic stoicism of the male creature. Of course, her language was far more colourful, and it might be that she knew quite as many swear words as he did.

"This," she informed him tartly, "is becoming ridiculous. I'm beginning to believe you need a keeper." Her hands were gentle as they unfastened his boots and pulled them from his feet.

"Are you volunteering?" he drawled, an eyebrow lifting.

"And if I said yes?" she snapped back. "Honestly! Do you think I like the idea that you've been sitting here in pain for the past several hours? Do you think I wouldn't understand if you have to excuse yourself, or if you ask me to leave?" She drew off his socks, and he tried not to hiss with the pain and humiliation. "Would it help if I showed off my own collection? It's not as extensive, naturally, but I can tell you it's still pretty damn painful if I forget to take my medicines like a good little witch." She lifted his feet over the cauldron, and he half-expected her to drop them in and let them bang against the bottom, which he probably deserved. She didn't, of course. "I'd expect you to know as well or better, Severus Snape. Whatever else you are, I've never thought of you as an enthusiastic masochist." He shrugged, uncomfortably reminded of some of the scoldings he gotten from Minerva over the years (mostly dating to the period when he, too, called her 'Professor McGonagall'). She glared, hands on her hips, for a brief moment before turning her attention to the hole in his lip. She said more, or he thought she did, but she didn't seem to require an answer, and he, with the lessening of pain as well as her proximity, was increasingly preoccupied with such matters as the curve of her mouth and the intense focus of her great, pansy-brown eyes. And there was her hair, too, with a life of its own. She had yet to make mention of its dramatically shorter length; did she like it, or had she simply not noticed? Here and now, it beckoned to his fingers. He could, if he wanted to, delve into the mass, cup the back of her head, and tug her into a kiss. Gently, he thought, so as not to frighten her any more than the idea already would.

Severus closed his eyes, locked the thought away somewhere behind them.

•••••

Hermione finished, looked at his closed face, and sighed. "What times do you have to take your potions?" she asked, not really expecting an answer, and astonished when he recited the list. His voice was drowsy, but knowing him, she had no doubts of its accuracy. He might lie...this was Severus Snape, after all...but under the circumstances, it seemed a bit silly. She made a mental note of the schedule.

At a bit of a loss, Hermione glanced around the room. It was a nice enough room, she thought, but one definitely furnished with the idea of company in mind; there were a few more chairs and sofas...nice, but not too nice, and not too numerous...and the decor could best be described as British non-committal. Dark wood, neutral colour palette, neatly arranged books in neatly arranged rows. A table with a few decanters and glasses on it. And judging from the wards that fairly bristled about the fireplace and nestled at the base of the doors, the porcelain vase on the mantel would contain Floo powder. A public room. A very different room from the one he had tucked her into last night. His library. Her lips tugged themselves into a grin. In a romantic novel, he would have had the chivalry to put her in his bed (he did sleep in a bed, didn't he?) and taken the couch himself. She doubted that he'd felt that generous, assuming that there weren't even more wards and spells in his bedroom that she might have fallen afoul of.

It seemed he'd dropped off; his head listed slightly to the side and a soft hussh-sshush of air gave voice to slowed breathing. Hermione seated herself on a nearby ottoman and watched his sleeping face in the firelight, amusing herself with the thought that his nostrils really were large. The word 'enormous' came to mind, but that was probably unkind. After all, they were hardly his fault. Her eyes travelled down. He still wore high-collared robes, though they were not as tight as they had been at school. Probably to keep the pressure from his neck. His shoulders were thin; thinking back to her memories of his memories, she thought they always had been. Chest in proportion, arms indiscernible as he favoured long, loose sleeves. His hands were curled upon the chair arms, long and long-fingered, perhaps larger than she would have expected? Scarred, too, but nothing that appeared extreme; Addie's hands had some of the same marks from years of knives and rogue ingredients. There was a funny one she'd never noticed before, a squiggly magenta line that circled his thumb like a child's ring. It made her smile to see it, and she hoped it was as benign as it looked. Before her brain could veto the idea, her hand stretched out to trace it.

In a flash, his free hand slammed down on hers with enough force to make her wince. Instinct tried to snatch her hand back, but it wouldn't budge under his grip. Hermione looked up in time to see ferocity melt from his face, transforming into a very brief confusion and then a quirk of resignation. "Granger, did you never actually pay attention to the school motto?" He relaxed visibly, but his hands didn't move. Dry, and the tips of his fingers were a little cool. Hermione's mouth opened and closed as she tried to formulate something that didn't make her sound like a complete idiot. The endeavour became absolutely impossible when he smiled, a smile of honest amusement without his innate mockery or cynicism. "Of course not," he answered himself. "You spent your entire Hogwarts career learning how to tickle the dragon without getting irrevocably maimed."

His thumb was moving. Back and forth. At each brush, a frisson tingled up her arm.

He continued. "And now the war is over, and Hermione Granger is still seeking dragons."

"Did you ever think," she asked, "that maybe it's one dragon in search of another?" He stared at her. It was her turn to smile, and hers was broad. "After all, I've never been a damsel in distress, have I?"

He snorted. "You were what Granny Snape would have called a holy terror. Even as a child," and here his thumb stilled, "you were never anything less than formidable."

"There you are, then."

"You're still a child, Granger."

"I'm not a child, Snape," she parroted back at him. "I'm a young woman, old enough to know my own mind and make my own mistakes, however smart or stupid they may be."

"And I'm old enough to know better than to foster those mistakes."

"Why would it have to be a mistake?" Hermione cried, exasperated. "What would be wrong about it? Who would be hurt?"

"You would," he shot back. "I hurt everyone I touch, Granger, and even if I didn't, you'd change. You haven't grown into yourself yet," and here she scoffed. "You haven't," he insisted. "You trust me farther than you should; trust me when I say this. You are young, and associating with me, you would choose to become something closer to me. I would not do that to you."

"Severus, that is what people do! You change and are changed by everyone you meet! That's life! And what would be so wrong in becoming close to you? You are a good man. And this is from someone who knows your past, Severus Snape. I had your fucking memories in bottles on my shelf! The war is over, Severus; you've completed your penance! I want to be part of your life! I want the option to choose you!"

"You'd choose this?" he hissed, yanking at his collar and baring a neck that bore great, dimpled masses of scar tissue, mottled in grotesque shades of black and ashen grey. "And this?" He shook his sleeve back, and the ghost of the Dark Mark lay there, quiescent, but of a grey not far different from the shades on his neck. "This is someone you'd model yourself after?"

"Yes!" she shot back, so quickly that he was taken aback. Tears started in her eyes, and his image blurred. Gathering up her courage, she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around that thin chest. "Please, Severus. Please."

"What do you want of me?" and his voice was plaintive. Absently, he pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped her face.

"As much as you will give me," she sniffled, looking up at him. "Day by day."

"Gods," he said feelingly, allowing his head to drop to hers. "You're as screwed up as I am, aren't you?"

"But first," she added, "I want you to give me my hair back, you bastard."

---

ANs:

I love Granny Snape.

Severus's tapestry is a representation of the Book of Ruth. I can't really say why, except that growing up, Queen Esther was my Biblical hero(ine), but when I was older, I appreciated more Ruth's quiet strength and courage.

The Shakespeare quotation is from Twelfth Night. The Count tells his young attendant that because men have short attention spans, they should marry younger women, who are more adaptable than the men themselves. This comes after the boy (actually a cross-dressing Viola) has been dropping hints like mad that she fancies him, an older man. Needless to say, for the Count the penny doesn't drop until the final scene.

The only specific song in this chapter is 'Simple Gifts,' a Shaker hymn. A version has been added to my youtube playlist. I didn't have any particular carols or Celtic music in mind, but I can always recommend the Irish & Celtic Music Podcast if you're curious; I've been listening to it for years.