Five Quarrels (pt 1)

Five Quarrels (pt 1)

Unless she counted Quidditch--and Hermione Granger tended not to count Quidditch--she'd never really seen the boys tackle a crisis without her. She had her Grand Theory of How She and The Boys Got Important Things Done: Harry brought luck and daring. Ron could generally be counted on for sound intuitive flashes. Her provenance was efficiency, competence, and logic. At this particular moment, however, she was hopped up on the Knell potion, utterly be-twoggled, and about as useful as a Niffler with a gold allergy.

She was horribly aware of every single hair on her head and on her body. It was of paramount importance that she count each and every one of them, and that she name them, too. One, that was Altair, two, Wallabert, three, Heloise, four, Prudence... Snape--if it even was Snape--would just have to wait.

Besides, she was pretty sure that Snape didn't have anything better to do because he wasn't real. Or rather, he wasn't currently real. He was formerly real. Currently dead. She was hallucinating. Also, she was in desperate need of some serious Muggle psychotherapy; no healthy, Hogwarts-educated brain hallucinates an unclothed Severus Snape.

"Hermione!" That was Ron. Beer voice. She liked beer. "What did you do?"

She'd lost count. She'd have to start over. One, Altair, or was it Aesop? Two, Wallabert. Three? Who was three again? Well. So much for the renowned efficiency of Hermione Granger.

Her boys did surprisingly well without her (maybe she should feel bad for all those times she'd wondered how they'd managed to keep their shoes tied all those years ago when she was Petrified). Auror training, she supposed. Terribly inconsiderate of them to wait until after Hogwarts and the War when their Auror skills really would have come in useful. A pair of wand flicks secured Snape (Not Snape. Couldn't be. She and the boys were co-hallucinating. That thrice-cursed experimental potion. They were all mad. They had to get home--and fast. They needed to alert Ginny and the others--where had she put her D.A. Galleon?) in that weird, silver rope Aurors used instead of handcuffs.

Harry, wand directed at Snape's (it couldn't be Snape, but it was something. It was solid enough to point a wand at) throat, asked, "What was my Mum's nickname for her sister?"

Ron, wand directed, well, lower, asked, "Why did you give me a week's detention in second year?"

Hermione knew she really ought to participate. The boys relied on her so. She oofed, and stood, and drew herself up to her full, and not very impressive, height. "Where are your clothes, Professor?" She tried to Accio her wand. It didn't work. She gestured for it, vehemently. Too vehemently. Somehow, she wound up on the floor again. So. It seemed competence had gone the way of efficiency.

Snape (if it was Snape) spoke. "I don't believe I know you, let alone your mother or her sister."

"See? It's not really him," said Ron. "Either that, or he's lost his mind."

"As for your--" Snape paused, looked Ron over, then sneered "--question. If I wanted perfect recall of all my students' transgressions, I would Transfigure myself into a Muggle computer."

Harry, who had finally got contact lenses, brushed aside the hair he had taken to wearing long over his forehead, revealing his all too familiar lightning bolt.

"Oh," said Snape. "Potter. You're not as stringy as you once were. In that case, Tuney." He pronounced the last two syllables as if there'd never been a more loathsome word. "Now, which of you three epic lackwits is going to explain all this?"

"It's Professor Snape," squeaked Hermione from the floor. "It's really the real him. You can tell because Professor Snape never answers my questions." So what if efficiency and competence were off on a hard-earned mini-break? Logic was hanging on strong.

*

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were very good at sneaking. Renowned for it, even. If Hogwarts had offered classes in stealth, they could've sat their NEWTs third year. If anyone could successfully smuggle a newly-back-from-the-dead teacher-turned-spy-turned-murderer-turned-hero-turned-whatever the fuck he was now out of the Department of Mysteries, right under the collective noses of the celebrating wizarding world, Hermione was confident it was the three of them.

She had failed to account for several factors.

First, that Harry's Invisibility Cloak had been an essential component in the success of their numerous escapades.

Second, that Dean had Harry's Invisibility Cloak, as he was upstairs being Harry and Harry was known to never let the Cloak off his person.

Third, that a naked (don't look... don't look... don't look... oh, my... shoulders, bum, thighs, calves... turn around, Professor, pretty please), tethered, formerly dead war hero, even Stunned and Silencio'd (as per the Aurory's post-Voldemort when in doubt subdue and secure for questioning policy), is neither easily wrangled nor particularly inconspicuous.

Fourth, that when one ingests Knell's Deathspeak Draught, one regains magic well before wits.

Fifth, that her own first instinct was always to be of use.

Sixth, that her D.A. Galleon was actually quite easy to locate.

Seventh, that a message via Protean Charm, once activated, could not be un-activated, even by the great and useful Hermione Granger.

Eighth, that this was the Victory Celebration, and every remaining member of Dumbledore's Army had their coins out for proud display.

And ninth, that Minister Shacklebolt was an avid gerontophile, attempting to mend his McGonagall-trampled heart with a romantic stroll through the Department with Metis Townsend, Head Unspeakable.

Hermione's first thought on encountering the pair was that she hoped Unspeakable Townsend didn't notice she'd copied her haircut. Her second was that she really ought to be a bit kinder towards the slow and the foolish, if this was the kind of brain-clutter they had to put up with on a regular basis.

"You really shouldn't pad about here naked," said Townsend, who seemed only slightly startled by the foursome's presence. She Conjured a heavy black cloak that settled around Snape's body. "It's indecent, and besides, there are delicate experiments in some of these chambers."

Hermione stared at the dark cloak on her ex-naked ex-teacher. He looked properly... Snape-ish now, instead of, well, nude.

That's when it hit her: he was back. He was actually back.

She began to shake a bit.

What had she managed to do?

"Don't worry, Hermione," said Metis Townsend. "The Veil's stable. I'd have been alerted if it wasn't."

"The Veil? Severus?" Shacklebolt stammered, sounding like Cornelius Fudge for the first time since taking office. "What in the name of Godric's gold garters is going on?"

"It seems this young lady finally decided to show up for work," the Unspeakable said and nodded at Hermione.

Until that moment, Hermione had been relatively sure the potion's effects were finally fading. Now, she questioned that conclusion.

"Hermione doesn't work for you," Ron said. "She's on that reform committee."

"She's an Unspeakable," Townsend said. Clearly, the hallucinations were clinging strong. Either that, or Snape's unexpected return was not to be the night's sole surprise. "She'd never have been approved for that Time-Turner if she wasn't one."

"Sorry," said Hermione, "but you must have me confused with another witch. The Time-Turner was way back in my third year. I'm not an Unspeakable. I do legal work. I'm up for promotion next month."

"And I trod the boards in the Music Halls. It makes no difference. You are what you are; what you were, and what you always will be. You couldn't have got into the Department, otherwise."

"The door was open. Just like in fifth year."

"The door was open to you and therefore to your companions. Just as it was that first time. These chambers are well-warded. Only Unspeakables and those in the company of Unspeakables can enter."

Maybe she was free of the potion-fog after all because that made the tiniest bit of sense. It had never quite sat right with Hermione that they'd been able to waltz right into the Department of Mysteries all those years ago. That lack of security had been preposterous, even for the disaster that was the Fudge administration.

Of course, that meant it was her fault they'd needed the Order to bail them out that night. Without her along, they'd never have been able to get in and so would never have been in such danger. She couldn't look at Harry; in a way, it was her fault Sirius died.

Just like it was her fault Snape had been yanked back from wherever he'd been all this time.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We're Unspeakables." Townsend's voice was prim. "We do not speak of it."

Sometimes, Hermione hated wizard-logic.

"I still would like an explanation," the Minister said. "Severus Snape! Alive!'

"I don't properly know what happened, Minister. It was something of a mistake. I only wanted to talk to him," she tried to explain.

"With your permission, Minister, we'd like to get him somewhere more comfortable while we sort this out."

When Harry spoke, Hermione almost didn't recognize his voice. He put all of his War Hero gravitas into it. He sounded like he fully expected the Minister to go along with his suggestions. Hell, she felt practically Imperio'd by the smooth tone, confident that everything was well under control, and she knew from experience that Harry had plenty of moments when he couldn't be counted on to know his cock from a Chizpurfle.

The Minister hesitated despite the full force of Harry's burgeoning savoir-faire.

Hermione realized that Severus Snape was much more complicated alive than dead. He had nowhere to live, for one thing. His estate, such as it was, had gone to Slytherin House. They probably had all of his clothes, too.

Ron must have been thinking along similar lines. "We'll take him to Grimmauld Place," he volunteered.

Nice of him to ask his housemates first. Also: was she the only one disturbed that they'd invited a dead man into their home? An ex-dead man. Snape, who she'd somehow managed to bring back. Snape, who neither of the boys had liked much in the first place. She looked at Harry and Ron. Could they possibly have forgotten that the last man in their acquaintanceship to regain corporeality had been a serpentine megalomaniac intent on killing them all? Apparently so.

Harry beamed at Snape. "Yes," he said, "Grimmauld Place. We'll be able to talk there."

A change came to Snape's posture. Hermione was so out of practice watching him that she had no idea what it meant.

The Minister for Magic looked profoundly uneasy.

Hermione remembered that dead Snape, while much lauded and lamented, had never been formally cleared of those pesky murder charges.

"He's with us, sir," said Harry.

Shackelbolt puffed his cheeks and looked indecisive.

"He'll be with a pair of top Aurors at Grimmauld Place," Ron said. He looked at Hermione, smiled, and added, "Not to mention a newly-revealed Unspeakable." And the Harpies second-string Chaser, an apprentice painter, a twitchy owl-trainer, and a Healer-in-training with a crush on Percy Weasley, most of whom had attended Hogwarts under the grim Headship of Severus Snape and none of whom, she imagined, would be the bit least pleased at his sudden appearance at the breakfast table. Hermione upheld the proud tradition of Unspeakbles by not actually speaking that bit.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Harry asked.

Hermione could think of a few possibilities, actually, including but not limited to: the man's re-emergence had done irrevocable harm to the life/death continuum, and they were in for all kinds of trouble; the man was a new kind of Inferius and under orders to kill them all; the man had done something Dark to claw his way back and would have to do more Dark things to stay here; the man had crossed back with the shades of Riddle, Lestrange, and Macnair, et al. inadvertently along for the ride; the man was mad from his time Beyond and on the verge of unleashing all kinds of chaos; the man was none too pleased at being back (the incomparable Lily Potter remained Beyond, after all) and was planning to off himself at the next opportunity, leading to all kinds of uncomfortable questions.

The Minister shifted.

Snape, for his part, struggled hard against the spells he'd been hit with; his dark eyes flicked back and forth between Shacklebolt, Townsend, the boys, and Hermione.

"Let them go, sweet-pea," said Metis Townsend, "and then let's wander some more."

"Very well," the blatantly besotted Minister acquiesced, and he offered the Unspeakable his arm. "I hereby release him to your care." He waved a lazy hand. Harry grinned. Saved by the Minister's libido! Circe's cuticles, Harry got away with everything, didn't he? No wonder the Slytherins were so resoundingly bitter back at school.

Hermione looked at Snape. He, in turn, just looked sour. Hermione had no idea if that sourness was due to the prospect of accompanying them, or to his general discontent at being bound and under guard, or to some understandable disorientation at finding himself once more in the company of the living. It might also just be the slant of his face.

Something in her softened. Just the barest bit. There were very few people who she liked to see unhappy, fewer still if she discounted those who'd died and those locked up in Azkaban. "It'll come out right, Professor," Hermione said. Odds were good that it actually would, provided there was no malignant magic to his unexpected comeback, and that he really was just plain old Snape--contemptuous, absolutely, but not actually contemptible. After all, Shacklebolt had said released, not remanded and care , not custody.

"Go. Get some sleep. Come back tomorrow," said Metis Townsend. "Bring your project with you."

Hermione guessed that meant Snape. Her project. Ha! She looked at him once more. Now there was a readable expression. If he wasn't seriously ticked off and itching to hex them all to Cornish Pixies, then she'd start stealing socks from house-elves.

"Ron? Harry? Let's just go home."

"You don't need a Healer or anything?" Ron asked. "You were pretty out of it back there."

"I think the potion's worn off," she said, "but we might want someone round to check if he's all right." If they were going to take him in, they might as well do the thing properly.

"We're going to loosen the ropes and end the Silencio, Professor," Harry said. "I'm sorry we did that in the first place. Instinct, you know?"

Professor Snape did not look remotely understanding. Hermione gripped her wand tight, just in case.

"There's plenty of spare clothes for you at home, too," said Ron.

The ropes dissolved. Snape drew himself to his full height. The way his robes fell, there was no way to guess he wore nothing at all underneath. He cleared his throat. At that exact moment, they heard footsteps. Many, many footsteps. Someone (George? Neville?) called out, "We got a signal to meet down here. What's going on?"

"Oh, no," she whispered. "The D.A. I used the Galleons. That stupid potion! I thought we'd need their help."

Harry, Ron and Snape had no time to respond. What was left of Dumbledore's Army appeared on the scene, coins glowing and wands drawn. Snape stared. At Neville (bug-eyed), Hannah (giggling nervously), George (grim-mouthed), Ginny (fiery through and through), Terry (quaking slightly), Lavender (slack-jawed), Michael (blatantly tipsy), Anthony (squinting his one remaining eye), Padma (trying to hide the fresh love-bite she'd got from someone at the party), Parvati (still holding a champagne glass), and Luna (perfectly nonplussed). He looked from Harry to Dean-as-Harry, from Ron to Justin-as-Ron, and from Hermione to Susan-as-Hermione. "So this is Hell, then," he muttered.

*

Hermione was not looking forward to being known as the Girl-Who-Brings-Sour-faced-Gits-Back-From-The-Dead. It had been an accident, for one thing, and she was too much of a perfectionist to want her mistakes made public. It would also make her a jolly big target for any sore loser pure-blood who wanted her to replicate the experiment's results...but with the unlamented, but not in the least forgotten, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not to mention the step-back it would be, healing-wise. Their world had lost so much. Lost so many. They would all break a little more if the space between the living and the dead began to look tantalizing and bridgeable.

Harry, bless his instinctive soul, understood; he'd spent the bulk of his life staring down that gap, after all. He paused only an instant before speaking. "The Ministry's had him in hiding since the War; there are plenty of Death Eaters out for revenge."

The group appeared to swallow this.

The excessive champagne they'd also swallowed was likely a factor, as were the boys' trust-us-we're-Aurors grins.

Weirdly enough, only Luna was skeptical (if the bubbly made the rest of them trusting, it had the reverse effect on her). "Why's he back now? You haven't caught any one new."

Ron and Harry looked a bit stumped.

"He's working for the Ministry," Hermione improvised. "For the Auror Office. Deep undercover. He's been investigating... ah... rumors... about... Fenrir Greyback. There've been a few sightings in the Yukon. He's just here to give his report and to... ah... catch up with old students." The more she spoke, the less credible she felt.

"The rumors were only that," Snape said, following her lead. "But the local shamans have promised to keep watch."

"So why'd you call us down here?" asked Luna.

"Miss Granger did that in error," Snape said.

So much for keeping her mistakes under wraps. His spying instincts were to blame, she supposed. Build trust with truths about small things in order to get away with big lies. His spying instincts, coupled with his natural inclination towards taking her down a peg or so. Dying had not improved Severus Snape much, especially if she dismissed the pre-cloak ogling as entirely the fault of the hallucinatory Knell potion, which it unquestionably was.

"Hermione was a little drunk," lied Harry.

Hermione fumed. Death had left Severus Snape unchanged, but it might well improve Harry-bloody-Potter. "I wouldn't have made the mistake if I'd had full possession of my faculties!"

"Hermione's still a little drunk. We've been celebrating with our... um... mate, Severus," said Ron. "He's been in hiding for the last few celebrations and so never got to properly raise a glass."

"But we've raised a few too many," said Harry. "So we're leaving, now. He's... ah... only starting to come out of hiding, and we think it's best done gradually, you know? So don't go telling, alright?"

There were murmurs of assent.

"And do remember what happened to Marietta," Hermione warned. "By now, we're all a bit too grown up for spots."

The black-clad man beside her let out a quick breath. If the black-clad man beside her weren't Snape, she'd be pretty sure it was a laugh.

*

When they entered Grimmauld Place (sans Ginny and the fake trio, who returned to the party to maintain cover), Snape flinched. He stared down the long entryway. No Moody voice sounded. No desiccated Dumbledore rose up. Hermione had painted the hallway a good sunny yellow, and they'd hung one of Dean's better landscapes.

"The spell's been gone for years, sir," Harry said. "A whole lot's changed here, actually."

"He, er, it, always backed right down for us," said Ron. "What'd it do when you actually showed up here?"

"Offered me Muggle sweets and twaddled on about the magnificent force of love." Snape turned his cold gaze to Harry. "I assume the folderol about Greyback meant you wanted to wait for some privacy before bringing me up to date?"

The four of them should find somewhere quiet to sit and talk, somewhere easily defensible should Snape prove other than what he seemed. Hermione had a feeling they were in for a late night. The kitchen would do. The men followed her there. One door and no windows meant Snape would have to fight his way, wandless, through the three of them if he tried to bolt. It was near perfect, actually; Snape wouldn't know where they kept the Floo powder, and they'd warded the room against Apparition and Disapparition last year after a series of unexpected visitors sent Justin briefly to St. Mungo's. They settled round the polished table.

Snape looked Harry up and down. "You're alive. I can only shudder and conclude you botched it somehow, and that he's still out there." The man rubbed his left arm. Hermione sat near enough to him to see the skin. Pale, smooth and unblemished, save where it was shot through with vivid veins. She watched the pulse in his wrist. She fought the absurd desire to take that wrist between her thumb and forefinger to count the beats, just to be sure he was real. Good thing it was Severus Snape who'd returned: a dour man whom they respected when all was said and done but hadn't known well enough to like, or to mourn as anything other than could-have-been. If it had been someone like Tonks or Fred, she doubted their hearts could've born the joy.

"Harry killed Voldemort, Professor," she said. "He's been dead six years."

"Like you, actually," said Ron. Dear Ron. Sometimes she wondered if she loved him despite his lack of tact or because of it. Now was not one of those times. She loved Ron despite. Most definitely despite.

"Dead?" Snape asked.

"Yes," said Harry. "You both."

"I knew about me, Potter, as my consciousness exceeds that of a Flobberworm. The other... Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Wrong, sir?" Harry asked.

"Yes, wrong. Troublesome. Perturbing. Incommodious."

The boys blinked. Ptolomy's toenails. All she needed was Neville beside her, haplessly trying to disjoint a salamander, and it'd be the dungeons all over again.

"I don't know what you mean," said Harry.

"I was dead," Snape said, as if explaining a tediously simple concept.

"Yes, you were," Hermione agreed right away, lest he start rattling off more synonyms.

"I am now alive once more."

"We'll probably want to test that hypothesis under controlled circumstances at the Department," she said, "but a cursory inspection indicates that yes, you are."

"So I'll ask again. What's wrong? What looming calamity did you revive me to stave off?"

The ego on that man!

Ron and Harry looked at her: always willing to let her field the tricky questions. Snape studied her, too, waiting for an answer. She'd have to check his current appearance against his Pensieve looks, one of who knows how many tests they'd do at the Department to make sure Snape actually was Snape. The firm set of his lips looked different (determined, rather than pinched and joyless), as did his unwavering gaze (engaged rather than cold). The difference was a question of expression more than physicality, but still a bit suspect. He'd worn a rotation of roughly three facial expressions back at Hogwarts: bored, livid, and supercilious.

"Well," Snape asked. "Why have you brought me here?"

Somehow, Hermione knew now was not the time to complain about an aching ring finger. "You see," she said, "it wasn't strictly intentional."

"You told Kingsley you'd made a mistake."

"Minister Kingsley. And yes, I did."

"Yes, you told him so, or yes, you made a mistake?"

"Er, both."

"I see."

"It was a good mistake, though. Like Muggle penicillin."

"Or like Every Flavor Beans," Ron added. "If Bott hadn't dropped his tuna melt into the Beanerator all those years ago, all we'd ever have is boring flavors like banana or marmalade."

"I see," Snape repeated.

"We're glad you're back." Harry beamed, stood, and bounded towards Snape.

"Do not think of embracing me," Snape said. A vaguely ill look flashed briefly across his stern features. Hermione wondered if this was Snape's general Harry-distaste shining through or if he, like her, found Harry in mawkish mode fairly objectionable.

"Yeah, Harry," Ron said, "no hugging. 'Specially before he gets some clothes on."

Harry sat back down, called for Kreacher, and asked him to track down some clothes for Snape. A gummy grin stretched across the aged elf's face when Harry explained that the professor was a friend of Good Master Regulus.

"Good Master Regulus?" Snape asked. "What do you lot know about Reg?"

"He was a hero," said Harry. "Just like you."

Typical Harry over-simplification. Accurate though, when all was said and done.

Snape looked thoughtful. "That explains what he was doing with the rest of us."

"Us? You mean there were other Death Eaters who turned?" Hermione felt a sudden rush of cold; it was almost like drinking the Knell potion again. The Wizengamot had convicted at least a half dozen of Voldemort's followers who claimed at trial to be wartime saboteurs. "Who?" she asked, Summoning parchment and quill.

"Reign in your activist impulses, please, and rest assured I know of no other spies. I meant it explains what Regulus was doing with the rest of us... Beyond."

Hermione looked at Harry and then at Ron. She knew she wasn't the only one feeling chilled.

Silence built. Finally, Ron spoke. His voice was tight and very small. "Did you see my brother there?"

A strange softness came to Snape face...another expression she'd never seen before. He swallowed. She watched his Adam's apple bob. "Time was not... distinct. Nor are my memories. There was a general sense of well-being, coupled with a series of images, none of which account for a full... How many years did you say?"

"Six."

"None of which account for a full six years."

"What images?" Harry asked.

Snape frowned. Hermione expected some scathing permutation of mind your own business, Potter.

"I remember the snake," he finally said, and massaged his throat. Skin stretched smooth over the notch at its base, over tendons and veins, running taut and unmarked to the strong line of his jaw. No bite marks. No scars. "I remember Potter's eyes, which turned into Lily's eyes--"

Everyone in the room held very still when their former teacher spoke the name of Harry's mother.

"--which turned into Lily's voice--"

Everyone's posture relaxed the second time he spoke her name; Hermione couldn't explain why, but it felt as though they'd passed through hostile waters and had settled on some peaceful shore.

"--admitting, finally, that if she'd just got off her high Hippogriff and accepted my apology, dozens of people need not have died. Then Potter--not you, boy, your progenitor--came over to shake my hand."

"Couldn't have been Harry, anyhow," said Ron, "as right after you died, he was off with Dumbledore."

"With Albus?" Snape asked.

"Long story," said Harry. "We'll get to it."

"Harry, Ronald, please stop interrupting."

"There was a soft, silvery fog, and eventually Regulus was there. Sirius, too. Reg rolled his eyes and said, 'I told you so'. Then Fred Weasley--" Here, Snape nodded at Ron, whose expression was very strained. "--swirled into existence and told Sirius to pay up. He'd lost the bet fair and square, and Black--he had this rucksack all of a sudden--counted out fourteen clementines. I'm shocked the cur even knew how to count so high." Snape paused.

His audience leaned forward, rapt. Hermione felt privy to something extraordinary, both the tale itself and the fact that Snape's speech had such an uncharacteristically high information to insult ratio. Some things could only be spoken of with sincerity, she supposed, even for Severus Snape.

He continued, "The whole plane had the feel of a very disorganized and very lazy summer party, one to which I'd been known to have lost the invitation, which made the other guests all the more pleased I was able to attend after all." He paused. He seemed to be speaking not for their sake but for the sake of actually saying the words aloud. "Charity Burbage was there at one point. She slapped me, hard, but then said she knew I couldn't have acted otherwise, and that things were right between us so long as I didn't cheat at croquet, which leads me to believe at some point there was croquet, though I have no memory of it. We played cards often. No one would bet against Alastor because he still had that eye. Nymphadora won a dozen grapefruits off Potter, who, naturally, sulked. Lupin's nostrils flared when he bluffed. Regulus and I were the only ones with decent poker faces. I remember Black dealing for seven card stud, and then I saw a thin, bright, silver thread. I don't believe anyone else noticed it, which was odd considering how it glowed. I'd never seen anything like it. It looked... alive. I checked my hand. I had a pair of Aces--hearts and spades, if it matters--and I felt... torn. I wanted to play that hand, and I wanted to follow the thread. From my presence at this table, I would hope even you three can deduce which course I opted for."

For once in his life, Ronald Weasley hit upon the only appropriate verbal response. He whispered a reverent "Wow."

A crack sounded, and Kreacher appeared, thin arms carrying the "clothes of brave Master Regulus for the friend of brave Master Regulus." The clothes in question were a pair of 80's-era acid washed jeans and a soft t-shirt, whose faded words asked If They Can Send a Muggle to the Moon, Why Not Send All of Them?.

Snape looked at the garments like they were unscourable cauldron scum. He gestured at the jeans. "Tell me those faddish monstrosities aren't back in fashion."

"I think these are Regulus' actual clothes, Professor," said Harry, and Kreacher bobbed his gleeful, sparse-haired head, bowed, then cracked out of sight. Harry waved his wand, and the jeans turned a more palatable dark blue.

"Mind you put them back later," Ron cautioned. "You don't want to put Kreacher off his cooking."

"I'm sure we can Transfigure something you like better," Harry said, meaning Hermione could Transfigure something he'd like better. Neither of the boys were much good with sartorial charms, except for the odd Denim Darkener, and that, she suspected, was only to disguise how rarely they did the laundry.

"It matters little," said Snape, rising to go and change. "What I do want is to hear about the War."

*

Harry and Ron did most of the talking, which freed Hermione to study Snape. Considering how strange it was that he was here at all, it shouldn't have seemed all that much more strange that the man would put on Muggle clothes without complaint, that he'd sit and listen to the boys without sneering or interrupting, or that he'd be so drawn in by their account that he'd lean forward, elbows resting on the table. But it did. It seemed... un-Snapely, if that was even a word. Before, he'd done little more than veer from cool to stern to hostile. The Snape at their kitchen table was far too earnest. Far too interested.

This had Hermione far from at ease.

She shook her head. She was being unfair. Paranoid. A bit like Harry before he up and decided Snape was the bravest of all brave men. Naturally, Snape would be interested in the War. She would be, too, if their positions were reversed.

Of course, she'd have questions about how she'd returned, too, a subject about which Snape didn't seem the least concerned. Severus Snape and his silver string (she'd make him repeat that account under Veritaserum back at the Department), as if that was explanation enough. The man seemed to accept his return as his due. The man assumed they'd hauled him through the Veil because they were desperate for his help. The man was in for a surprise on that count. Except for a tiny finger issue, which could've been resolved with a simple I don't want to marry you either, and besides, I'm dead and so well out of the running; now please go away and leave me to my poker game, they were managing perfectly well on their own, thank you very much.

When Harry explained about Riddle's Horcruxes, Snape didn't look horrified or even all that surprised. Hermione knew that he'd killed (and she knew thinking that way was unfair; he'd had to, and everyone--even, apparently, the Potters and Professor Burbage--accepted that). What if he'd borrowed one of his Master's spells to make the most of a bad situation? The Knell potion wasn't meant to bring anyone back; her research and calculations hadn't even hinted at the possibility. But her calculations hadn't factored in the potential consequences of something--a Snapecrux?--tethering him to this plane, giving him opportunity to cross.

"How many?" he asked.

"Seven," the boys chorused as one.

"I take it that wretched ring...?"

"Yes," said Harry, "and the diary back in second year, Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Ravenclaw's diadem, Nagini--"

"Really? A live animal?"

"Not anymore," said Ron.

"Nagini," Harry continued, "and, er, me."

"That one I knew about, thanks to Albus' hints," Snape said, rubbing his own forehead. "I take it your camping trip was an ongoing effort to locate the others?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"So your actions weren't as haphazard as they looked from the other side?"

"Actually," Hermione said, "they generally were."

Harry glared at her before continuing the story. Something in his posture reminded her of first-year Harry: nervous, out of his depth, eager to please. Echoes of how he carried himself around Remus, Sirius, and Dumbledore. Around anyone who'd had close ties with his parents. She watched Snape's face to see if he'd noticed. He was the only one alive with significant memories of the Potters. If he was up to something, Harry's devotion was something he could use.

Hermione had to calm the fuck down--and fast.

She had to check her Knell calculations for the probability of lingering paranoia.

This was Snape.

He was on their side. Or at least he had been, back where there were any sides to speak of.

And he couldn't be up to something, not yet. He'd only been back a few hours.

Harry recounted what happened the night he left the Dursleys.

Snape said he'd like to see George at some point. He had regrets about the ear.

"We saw in the memories how it would've been worse for him without you," said Harry.

"Besides," said Ron, "he says in a way, he's glad it's gone. It stops him from seeing Fred when he looks in a mirror, you know?"

A pained twist came to Snape's mouth.

Hermione hadn't really cried since that long-ago morning with Ron in the hotel. She'd teared up exactly twice: the first time in her parents' dental chair, and the second when she heard George make that pronouncement. Was it that much of a stretch to think Snape would feel the same?

It shouldn't have been. Not if she was as kind a person as she liked to think she was.

Ron and Harry had invited him into their home, and (a few disasters disregarded) their instincts were generally sound. The boys seemed to trust him, now. Maybe she should try to do the same; after all, she'd done so before. Perhaps it was just ingrained habit; Hermione was bound to disagree with the boys about Snape, whatever their stance.

"What happened the night they took the Ministry?" Snape asked.

They, he said, not we.

She shouldn't feel so on edge.

The man had proved himself time and time again.

The Knell potion had been horrible and disorienting, but it hadn't felt in the least Dark. If there'd been something untoward about Severus Snape's sudden arrival, she'd have noticed. Failing that, the boys would've noticed. The Minister would have noticed. Metis Townsend or Dumbledore's Army would've.

Snape interrupted Harry to say it was good they'd Confunded at the cafe instead of killed. "It gave me the chance to set them all on a hare-brained Hinkypunk hunt. I told Voldemort that you three'd done the same thing to Lockhart a few years back, due to a wand malfunction. I told him, to find Potter all he'd need to do was track down the right backfiring wand. He wasted weeks trying to find every broken wand within a thousand miles, and as an added bonus, all his followers significantly underestimated your little threesome's wandpower and control."

On a number of occasions (both drunk and sober), Harry, Ron and Hermione had regretted not having a chance to thank Snape. Now he was here, sitting at their kitchen table, dropping the facts of what he'd done to help casually into conversation. A simple thank you seemed insipid. For the first time in ages, Hermione felt a bit shy. The boys continued their telling.

Snape smiled when they told him what they'd found out about Regulus. Another new Snape expression. His former smile looked smug. This one looked content.

Snape scowled (now that was familiar) when they told him how Umbridge had got her toady little hands on the locket.

He told them Voldemort had been in a towering fury after their chaos at the Ministry, and that the Order's protection spells on Grimmauld Place had reduced Yaxley to little more than a gibbering puddle of goo.

He commended her for taking Nigellus' portrait with them when they abandoned number twelve. He'd have had a devil of a time getting the sword to them without it.

Perhaps it was her standard reaction to praise, but Hermione began to warm to him a bit more.

Only a little bit more and only for a little bit. Because when the boys got to their adventures in the Forest of Dean, Harry and Ron actually told Snape what happened with the locket. They told Snape. Snape! What they'd held off telling her for over six years. The stupid, secretive little prats. As if she'd have minded hearing Ron could be a jealous git--as if she didn't know already. It was one thing to trust Snape; it was another entirely to share things with him they never had with her. Just because he asked. Just because he happened to be back from the dead. That was no kind of credential, especially as the back from the dead thing was largely down to her. She'd had to help the boys fight a Troll to get this kind of acceptance.

Harry and Ron prattled on, their explanations excitable and dovetailing. Snape nodded, taking it all in. She remembered back in first year when the boys first started including her. It took her a while to get used to their conversation. The interruptions. The way they finished each other's sentences. She'd felt so glad to be a part of it; she felt she finally had a place in the magical world.

Now Severus Snape had a place with her two best friends, at least for the moment, and no one had even asked her.

Snape said all the right things. That itself was suspect. This wasn't her insecurity talking, no, absolutely not. It was an impartial observation. Before, Severus Snape had never been the least bit pleasant or accommodating.

He said her revealing Harry at the Lovegood house without question saved Xenophilius' life.

He said he hadn't heard what happened at Malfoy Manor, but that they'd weathered it with impressive fortitude and presence of mind.

He said only foolish Gryffindors would even think of breaking into Gringotts, and that only the three of them could possibly have got away with it.

He wouldn't meet their eyes, though, when they described the browbeaten appearance of Neville Longbottom. He didn't seem surprised to learn about the Hogshead passage or the Room of Requirement hideout. His frowned when they told him what happened to Crabbe. His frown deepened a bit more with every fallen friend they named.

Of the countless people to whom they'd given their account of the War, Severus Snape was the only one who asked no questions about Harry's temporary death in the Forbidden Forest. He nodded as if that whole episode actually made sense. Perhaps it did once one had personal experience of the Beyond.

Just after they recounted Voldemort's final, fatal confrontation with Harry, a flushed and prickly Ginny arrived.

Snape stood, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Ginny, for her part, acted like Snape wasn't there at all.

"You three should be happy to hear I covered for you. No one suspects a thing." Her voice was terribly cold and somehow tired, too.

"Thanks, Gin," said Ron, who after a lifetime of living with her should really have been better at reading Ginny's tone.

"Justin's crashing elsewhere, if you care." Ginny said. "He didn't really feel like being around."

"Okay," Harry said. He, at least, seemed to know he was in trouble. They were in trouble. Hermione was willing to bet a week's pay the Potters were headed for a serious row.

"Dean's not coming home, either, not tonight."

"So he was right about scoring, then?" Harry asked. Perhaps she'd been too quick to credit his perceptiveness. "Harry Potter on Victory Day, right?"

"Not. This. Victory. Day."

Hermione would never tell Ginny so--especially not when she'd steamed herself to a right temper--but the youngest Weasley reminded her a good bit of the family's matriarch.

"And Susan?" Hermione asked evenly, hoping to diffuse things a bit. Until they knew exactly what was going on with Professor Snape, it was in their best interest to present a united front.

"Went home with Percy."

"Bloody hell," said Ron. "I hope he doesn't still think she's Hermione."

"That's the least of this household's problems," Ginny said. "I thought you were going to talk to him. Just a few words to clear that ring thing up. What the hell is Severus Snape doing in my kitchen?"

"We were just telling him about the War," said Harry.

"War stories! I could give you War stories! Neville could give you War stories that'd have our Headmaster halfway to Azkaban. How could you, Harry? Why him? Why now?"

"Ginny..."

"Six years, Harry! Six years of it's-wrong-to-use-the-ring-and-the-dead-don't-want-to-return. Six years and now--"

"I didn't--"

"Why him?"

"It wasn't--"

"Why not Fred?"

Beside her, Ron made a choking sound. Ginny looked at him, and in an instant she was sobbing. Raw, hysterical wartime sobs. Ginny let Ron put an arm around her shoulders, but she beat her fists against Harry's chest when he tried to embrace her, and when Hermione approached, the goblets on the shelves began to shatter with angry wandless magic. Hermione's heart did a sullen, pained little thwump, but she backed away. Best give Ginny the space she needed, even if her stomach clenched like it always did with rejection. Hermione slipped out of the room, the sound of Harry's "Ginny, please, listen, Gin" in her ears.

Snape followed. He loomed tall over her in the narrow hallway. "At some point, we must speak about how I came to be here."

"Yes. We do need to have that conversation." She felt tired to the marrow. Ginny's outburst carried throughout the house.

"Now, though..." He paused. "Sentimental though it sounds, I should like to watch the sunrise."

He went out onto the front steps. She went upstairs to her bedroom. From the walls, Sirius' old bikini pictures--the ones she'd hit with an Erised-esque spell--showed a series of comfortable looking beds. Hermione didn't climb into her own, although she was exhausted. She stood at the window, looking down at Snape. If asked, she wouldn't be able to say if she was watching him because she wanted to keep tabs on him or because she was afraid he'd melt back into nothing. Snape sat on the top step. He looked east towards the park where all those years ago Death Eaters had been posted to catch their comings and goings. The park was much less shabby now; the Muggles were gentrifying. Hermione had lived through nights far more terrifying than this one. Longer nights, grimmer nights, nights that were stranger and more exhausting. Still, she'd never ended a night in quite so improbable a manner, staring down at Severus Snape while he watched the London sky turn from black to grey to mauve.

---

Thanks to the incomperable Melusin for taking the time to beta.

Thanks also to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

The characters aren't mine. The concept is not mine. If you think any of this is mine, you belong in St. Mungo's, which is also not mine.