Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended. Thank you to AdelaideArcher and Banglabou for wrangling this into submission! Part two, plus original prompt info, to be up as soon as the HTML converter decides to play along nicely.

Of Sight and Sound

I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me.

'Jane Eyre'. Charlotte Brontë, ch. 17.

Part One

It was decidedly strange, Severus thought, as he studied the movement of his hand as it swiped through the air. There was absolutely… nothing. He felt the wind ruffling his hair; the sun shining upon his face; the dampness of the grass under his feet. As he walked, the soles of his shoes made prints in the grass - a reminder. He was here: he was real, solid. Human.

He needed that reminder, or he would surely go mad. Perhaps he already was mad.

Perhaps she would know.

.

.

April, 2002

"It might work," she said slowly, tracing the rim of the wine glass with her finger. "It might work. But let's not talk work at dinner. I'll go spare."

Padma reached over the table and patted her hand, withdrawing almost immediately. "Sorry, love," she said quickly, taking in the way Hermione flinched.

"No, I am," Hermione groaned, tipping the last of the wine into her mouth. She swished the rich red liquid around with her tongue, grimacing when she swallowed it all in a too-large gulp. "You know me and touch. It's exceedingly stupid."

"You haven't gone back to the Muggle therapist?"

"No," she sighed. They gathered their bags and paused to touch both wands to the bill. It glowed a sickly green before vanishing, leaving no trace of their bland meal behind. Hermione was out of the restaurant first, and she slid on a light coat while waiting for Padma to fix the collar of her cloak. "There wasn't much point. I couldn't tell him everything, and by the end of the second session, he was frustrated enough to tell me to either be honest or leave. I left."

"Bah," her friend grumbled, "you should've told him – and then Obliviated him. He made his choice."

"Are we going to start this again?"

"It's a great case!" Padma exclaimed, jogging ahead of her only to turn and walk backwards so as to keep eye contact. She would've grabbed onto Hermione's hands if it wouldn't have resulted in fright, but she settled for flapping her fingers in the air, determined to share her determination. Hermione could only grin, enticed into conversation by her friend's excitement, though she knew she'd never give in. The witches were in Hogsmeade, having Apparated in from London to one of the smaller inns that promised a quiet evening meal and barely any staff. It was dark now, and she was missing her bed.

"Just think!" Padma was saying breathlessly. "It could even turn into a class action! There's hardly a Magical family in Britain that the Ministry hasn't touched. They've edited the minds of hundreds. "

"Closer to the thousands in this war alone. I shudder to think of the numbers for the first war – you heard Remus: the rules were off."

"Not that there were any good ones in the first place."

"Exactly right. God," Hermione laughed, "you are right. But we're not big enough. Not yet. Maybe in a few years…"

"You're sure? Really?"

Hermione thought of their tiny two-woman office atop an Apothecary in Diagon Alley. As it was, they were struggling to find the room to see the clients that paid the rent – a lawsuit of this size would cripple them financially before even reaching court. There wasn't enough to cover them until success. If there even would be a success – the idea was solid and it had merit, but it could wait. She had learnt to prioritise over the years; her sleep and Padma's sanity was as good a reason as any to decline for now.

"I'm sure," she said, nodding emphatically. They walked past a bookstore, both pausing to take in the window display. "Anything?"

Padma sighed. "No, nothing."

"Maybe it won't be in the front… Maybe they've a special section?"

"Either that or Parvati's lied to me again about her book. I don't know why she even deigned to mention it. When I tried to talk to her again last week, she told me that I had no use for her beauty charms, so why should she even tell me when the book was due to be released?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and opened her bag, fumbling around for a moment before producing a small container of after-dinner mints. "Here, have one. She just wanted to tell you – you're twins! Of course she'd want you to know. But her indignation kicked in, and now she's dangling the carrot. You've got to jump high enough to get it, that's all."

Padma winced. "Come on, let's go. All I said was that she had the tendency to be a stupid little bint sometimes – and she does! She was bloody rude, going on about—"

"Let's not talk about it." The night had been enjoyable; she'd spent it with her colleague, the woman who had scraped enough money together with her to open up their fledging law firm the year before. Quiet nights were rare these days—mostly she was researching or writing or both—and Hermione had no desire at all to go over Parvati's latest comment about her aversion to touch meaning she was simply the cold-hearted cow that everyone already thought she was.

"Agreed. All right. Are you going to be okay Apparating? You look tired."

She shook her head, shoving a stray curl out of the way. "I'll be fine. You?"

"I've a date with a book and my bed. I'm more than fine – see, no bloke needed." Padma was still recovering from separating with Seamus six months ago; by Hermione's equation, she still had a few more months before her friend would regain her own delight for spending time alone.

The two witches waited until the way was clear before crossing the street, aiming for the spots reserved for Disapparating. It was easier to simply turn and flash out of existence wherever one found themselves, but using an official spot meant accessing a built-in charm that ensured the witch wouldn't arrive on top of a helpless Muggle.

"What are you reading?"

"Jane Eyre – again."

"Where're you up to?" Hermione shivered; the night was cool, and for a moment she could've sworn that Padma's fingers grazed her back. "Padma—love, please don't."

"Don't what?" She turned, considering Hermione with concerned eyes. "Are you all right?"

"You didn't…?" Red-cheeked, she ducked her head and avoided Padma's gaze. "Sorry. I'm tired, you're right. Take me home?"

"Of course. And, I've just arrived at Thornfield. My mysterious, dour traveller is about to surprise me on the road."

Tipping her head back, Hermione stared at the night sky and wondered how on earth it was that she'd come to be so afraid of touch that her skin still tingled from the phantom touch on her back. She shook her head and grinned, more to be kind to herself than anything else. "I bet you've got that part dog-eared, don't you?"

Padma gave a pleased little chortle. "Sometimes I'm not patient enough to read one hundred pages of exposition: sometimes, I just want…"

The witches sighed in unison before saying together: "Rochester."

Smirking, Padma offered Hermione the strap of her bag, and she looped it over her body. "Indeed. Come on. On the count of three."

.

.

The flat was dark when she let herself in. It was quiet, and Hermione stood with her back to the closed door, senses alert. It was unexplainable: odd, really. Her wards were thrumming, but as far as she could see, no-one was inside except for her. She shifted on her feet, considering whether she should call Padma back. Another flick of her wand revealed the humans inside the flat: only one, herself.

She huffed a quick breath, irritated. Slowly, very slowly, she walked around the small kitchen, years of residence and familiarity enabling her to walk by the scant moonlight shining through the window. It was as she had left it that morning: her electricity bill open on the counter, a bowl of fruit with too-ripe bananas and an off mandarin advertising her penchant for sandwiches and crisps for sustenance.

Moving into the sitting room, she cast a critical eye over the sofa and television. Nothing. Even the new DVD player she'd bought the week before was sitting under the tellie, shining and obnoxious. Nothing had been touched.

She checked her books: nothing.

The bedroom: nothing.

And then—

"Reveal yourself," she hissed, wand thrust at a deadly straight angle in the air, pointing directly at a slight shimmer in front of the kitchen sink. She was chilled with fear and her fingers felt like ice as they tightened around her wand. "Do it! Finite Incantatem!"

The failure of her spell went entirely unnoticed, for the voice that issued forth from the seemingly invisible being in her kitchen forced her mouth to open in a silent scream.

"Any further attempts would be fruitless, Miss Granger. Perhaps you should sit down," said the weary voice of Severus Snape. "It seems that I require your… assistance."

.

.

Almost four years. Almost four entire years.

It didn't feel that way. Hermione listened to him repeat the request for assistance, and realised that she had frozen, as if he were instructing her in the classroom again.

Oh, she'd always known that he'd lived – they all did. She'd gone to look for his body with Harry not long after the end of the battle, but though it hadn't been there, a silvery doe had greeted her friend soon after. Even to her, it nuzzled her palm and nodded once, and she understood easily that it was over for Snape: he was finished, and he wasn't coming back. She entertained the thought of his exit for weeks, wondering whether he was off on some island turning his sallow skin swarthy, or tucked up in a quaint cottage somewhere remote, somewhere cold. The Prophet resurrected the story every six months or so; many claimed to have seen a familiar flash of greasy black hair around a corner, or his grim and dour face one of many in a crowded street.

Nothing really seemed to fit, though. And now she knew why. Except that she didn't, not really – all she could grasp was that he was here, Disillusioned, in her tiny, messy flat.

"Strange," she said hoarsely, aware of her own voice echoing. "Bizarre. This is very, very bizarre." There wasn't even the solidity of his body to make her feel less crazy for talking to what looked like an empty kitchen.

"Why don't you sit down?" he prompted, and she, numbly, acquiesced.

He was real, and he wasn't. That was as much as she could deduce without going mad. She sat on the sofa and stared at the space where his voice was coming from; from shock, or some other nefarious emotion, she still hadn't even lit the candles. Sitting in the dark like this, on her own with an almost invisible former teacher somewhere in front of her, Hermione was inclined to think she'd fallen asleep somehow and was living in either a nightmare or a very strange daydream.

"I still don't understand," she said tiredly, grabbing at her curls. She tugged, searching for something to keep her mind present rather than running off again. With a purposeful flick of her wand, the room flooded with warm candlelight. "You're here, but… and you're… God. This is ridiculous. Why are you here?"

She fancied that he shrugged, for his voice as he answered sounded… lost. "I have exhausted every other avenue."

"Have you? Truly?" Surely that was a lie – she shouldn't even be an option. The Snape she had vaguely known in the past would never have even considered her. "I don't believe you."

"Oh." His baritone voice was flat; dull. "Well, you might be right: it was a slight embellishment. A slight lie."

"Are you… quite well?" In the head, she added silently, grimacing.

"I'm not off my rocker, if that's what you mean."

"I'd understand if you were – off your rocker, that is. You're invisible."

Snape sighed, and there was a creaking sound as he sat down on her coffee table. She thought about being rankled at his choice, but the only other place was next to her and that sent a shudder through her. As it was, she could squint and make out the outline of his body – thin and tall and stooped – but nothing else. It was the best casting of the spell that she had ever seen. Bizarrely, her interest was piqued by this show of talent, and Hermione leant forward with elbows resting on her knees and stared.

"Not invisible," he muttered and then he sniffed once, twice, then sneezed. "You've still got that cat, haven't you? Of all the bloody researchers in the world…"

Hermione chuckled and banished the cat hair from the sofa; he did not thank her, and she hadn't expected that he would. "Not invisible? What are you, then? Because unfortunately, you can't actually be seen, unless that's somehow escaped your notice."

She bit her lip when he didn't reply – his frustration was positively tangible. "Sorry," she mumbled, Summoning a notepad and a pen. "But really… why me?"

"Granger…" He must've put his head in his hands, because the shimmer bent over slightly, and she could almost sense the coldness of the spell. "If we're going to do this," he said finally, roughly, "you should go and put the kettle on. Or tell me where it is and I'll do it." After some thought, he cleared his throat and said in a tone she couldn't decipher: "I'll do it. You're sitting there looking like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh, God," she moaned, pushing her body off the sofa. "Don't do that again. It wasn't funny. You're not funny."

But she snorted nonetheless, bemused rather than anything else, when he only answered with a thin, "But it got you moving now, didn't it?"

.

.

"Tell me again. I can't even get my head around it."

He was too weary to insult her, though he was still not fond of repeating himself. Leaning back on the chair that she'd Transfigured from a pillow, Snape crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers. "I have told you enough," he said gruffly. "You know enough now to tell it all back to me."

Unperturbed, Granger stood and began to pace in the narrow space behind her sofa and where the kitchen began. It was a small flat, but homely; books were stacked everywhere, and though the grey carpet was dull and scuffed, she'd covered most of it with a red rug that was soft under his boots. The kitchen was dated, and the paint on the walls had seen better days. It was the sort of place that he might have even chosen for himself, if he were young, penniless and employed nearby. He scoffed, annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, and focused on her again.

She was the same, with only a small set of exceptions. Her hair was still horrid and huge and wild—even wild was too kind a word, really—and she was of average height, and thin. The robes she wore were tailored differently to the norm, though, for they looked more like a long sleeved dress than anything else. She didn't billow and neither did she sweep around as she moved; the robes were snug on her arms and coloured a plain, dark brown. They weren't awful on her either.

Severus narrowed his eyes. Her face bore some differences; there was a very faint line between her eyebrows, and slight shadows under her eyes. Her lashes were darker—enhanced by some Muggle means, going by the way black was beginning to smudge in the corners—and her skin was more tanned than he remembered. That being said, he was measuring her against the girl that he'd catalogued as a teacher and spy when it'd been his job to do so. That memory didn't seem to apply to her anymore; she was certainly different enough in her personality to think rather than blurt.

"You healed yourself," she was saying, pausing every so often to have a sip of tea from the huge mug in her hand. He nodded, more from instinct than anything else, as any action other than speaking was close to pointless given she couldn't see it.

"You healed yourself—and one day I'd like to know how, because truly I thought you were dead when we first left you—and waited there in the Shack. You waited until you felt the Dark Mark burn." She looked over at him, her eyes focusing on a spot beside his head. Disconcerted, Severus grunted in agreement.

"It burned, and you screamed, but nobody heard you. And when the colour began to fade into the silvery lines of old scars, you knew that he was gone. You knew that Riddle was dead."

He liked that: Riddle. She said it bossily enough for him to know that she would take no shit from anyone about referring to the monster so bluntly.

"Yes," he allowed. "I knew he was dead."

"But you didn't know about Harry."

"I knew nothing about the fate of anyone. Not at that point," he reminded her quietly. He was fast losing his patience. "If you are quite finished…"

"Well, I'm not," she snapped, hands on her hips. In smart-looking robes and with the pose she was holding, he was discomfited at the realisation that she was a woman indeed. No girl was this; if anything they were equals now, and the weight of her irritated gaze was so heavy that he scratched at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with her ineffectual scrutiny.

"Indeed," he muttered, lapsing into silence.

Granger drank her tea and resumed her steady pace. "You Disillusioned yourself and waited for as long as you felt it was safe to do so. You left the Shack, but did not go to Hogwarts."

"Quite."

"Why?"

He scowled. "The Dark Lord was dead. What was there for me to go back to? I did not wish to return to the castle – and for that matter, I never wish to return again."

Granger tilted her head to the side and he reckoned she was filing that comment away in a box that she'd analyse later. "And then you went to Spinner's End to retrieve your belongings. You sent your Patronus to—to—" She closed her eyes and opened them, looking resolute. "—to Remus Lupin. He did not answer. You then sent one to Shacklebolt, who knew enough about your loyalties thanks to Harry's speech, that he was able to tell you that it was done. After that, you sent a nonverbal message to Harry as a courtesy—though, between you and me, I think you just wanted to ensure you'd get some peace and quiet—and then contacted Kingsley again to confirm that you were off."

"Quite."

"Did you ask Kingsley not to reveal that information?"

Bemused, he shook his head. "No, but Shacklebolt keeps his own counsel on most matters. As is wise."

She gave a low chuckle that intrigued him. "Probably true. And so we've come full circle?"

"In a way."

"No, not in a way," she said, crossing the small space. "You haven't told me what on earth went wrong! You haven't told me why you're here of all places, with some idea of me fixing it! Professor," she said exasperatedly, "what is wrong with you?"

He looked down at his Disillusioned hands and sighed. "I have absolutely no idea."

.

.

She could only flop down onto the sofa. "If you don't know what's wrong, then what exactly are you expecting me to be able to do? I'm only going to say this once, but you've years on me when it comes to research and knowledge and—"

Snape snorted; she deduced that he'd moved from the Transfigured chair to beside her on the sofa, and she flinched, unable to stop herself. He was silent, until he wasn't.

"You are a researcher."

"A lawyer," she corrected primly.

"That, and a researcher."

"Well, I suppose…"

"And you have access to—"

"Oh." Hermione threw a glare in the general direction that his voice came from. The shimmer suggested that he'd stretched out his long, lanky legs in front of him. "You came here and frightened the life out of me, because you want my access card to the Ministry l—"

"Not the Ministry library, girl," he growled, the sneer on his lips positively audible.

Still, her ire grew. "Don't patronise me," she said quietly, staring at her knees. "Do it again, and whatever this is, is over."

He might have grunted in acknowledgement, but she couldn't decipher it enough from the sound of the kettle that was boiling again.

"You are…" he began, shifting with such exaggeration that she could feel the cushions sink, and thus she knew that he had swivelled to face her, "…the only person who, to my knowledge, has access to come and go at Hogwarts. It is there that I must go."

Confused, Hermione dragged her hair back into a bun that barely held. "But I thought you said—"

"I know what I said," he muttered. "I do not wish to go, but I must. Surely you understand the difference."

She blinked, puzzled. "I'm not the only one who can come and go at Hogwarts. I just happen to be one of the rare outsiders that has permission to use the—oh."

Snape made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"You want access to the library?"

"Inasmuch as I want access to my old books," he answered. She frowned, rankled at the lacklustre tone to his voice. As a teacher, Snape had spoken with a masterful command over any subject; even his insults were colourful, varied. Yet here he was, at a disadvantage, and barely batting an eyelid – at least she suspected he wasn't. Still, she was rather of the mind that a dull and weary Snape was more interesting than anything else she might have been spending her time on otherwise.

"Your old books are in the library?" she asked, making her way back into the kitchen for more tea. On a whim, she grabbed a plate and emptied out a biscuit container from the cupboard. She set the plate onto the one tea tray she owned, and sent it over to the coffee table. It was peculiar indeed to see a ginger snap float through the air and disappear, presumably into his mouth.

"It's the only place they could be. Or rather, they'd be in the one place that I can't seem to get access to."

"You've been there before?"

"What do you think?" he said snidely, and another biscuit disappeared. "The Castle still recognises me. But Irma bloody Pince doesn't."

"You're kidding," she demanded, returning to the sofa. "That's all this is? You need me to get into the Restricted Section for you? You could've asked anyone!"

"Not anyone," he said simply. "You weren't wrong the first time."

"Weren't wrong the first time," Hermione muttered to herself, snagging a mint chocolate biscuit. "Weren't wrong… You do want to visit the Ministry library! You dangled the carrot and got me intrigued enough to take you in, didn't you?"

His silence spoke volumes.

.

.

For that first, fascinating night, sleep did not enter his thoughts. He was consumed with watching her; after years of being unseen, unheard, unobserved, Severus found himself transfixed by the sight she made. She seemed used to going without sleep, but then he remembered that it was Friday and she could make up for it during the weekend. During his own years of travelling after the end of the war, he'd often slept in the day. It was certainly easier to disguise his movements in the dead of night.

He lounged on the sofa—she couldn't really see him, so he was free to recline like a sluggish Pasha—and watched her work. There was no real reason for him to still be here, but he felt oddly reluctant to draw attention to it. She was bent over the kitchen bench, perched on a stool that must've been comfortable because she hadn't moved in an hour. Every so often, her hands would flick a page over, or she'd hum pensively to herself. Inevitably, she'd turn around to him and grumble, "I just cannot believe that you placed the spell on yourself, and then couldn't lift it! Why?"

It was a waste of breath to answer; he often didn't.

There was a small stack of books beside her. Throughout the night, they'd zoomed out of a room at the end of the hall. Her study, he presumed, though she hadn't given him the option of going inside. This new Granger was cautious and private; he didn't mind.

"I believe," he said slowly, quietly, "it has something to do with the venom."

"Well, yes," she responded, setting down her quill. She glanced at him with a blankness to her face that looked rehearsed. "That is probably the case. Why are you here, again?"

"You don't actually have to do anything. Just get me the books I need."

"Oh. How flattering."

"I think it is," he said honestly, shrugging.

She bristled. "Are you really of the mind that I'm still looking for your approval? That you can just flash into existence and I'll help immediately, because all that's been missing from my life is a: 'Well done, Miss Granger'?"

Her impersonation of his voice was completely incorrect. And more importantly—though he acknowledged it was strange to consider her impression of him as more important; try as he might, that was how his mind ordered it—she was wrong. "No. You don't need my approval. Who am I? No-one."

.

.

Who am I?

She didn't know how to answer. Anything truthful would give her away: that she still sometimes dreamt of him requesting her collaboration on something, anything, and praising her efforts. That she still sometimes heard his voice reciting sections of her court arguments, then twisting them until they sounded far better than they were. And still, she sometimes used him as the main inspiration for how she was living her life: on her own terms, and alone.

Not that Snape had been on his own terms—she wasn't naïve—but more so… how he'd left, and how he'd taught. His intelligence had been far clearer to her than the other teachers. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, for example; she knew they were smart, knew they were near the top of their field. But Snape…

After his disappearance, she'd tracked down the articles he'd submitted to various research journals over the years. There was a plethora from the decade before they'd arrived at Hogwarts; of the years since, perhaps a handful. Nothing at all after 1995.

Every single word written by his hand sparked something within her. His arguments struck flint and steel in her soul; in him, she felt she had found a kindred spirit. It had always been bittersweet, that she had discovered this connection to him at the same time as knowing that he had gone.

And now, he was here in her tiny flat, muttering to himself—and, she supposed, to her—about ingredients and potions and other things to try. It was utterly surreal. She couldn't see him; she could only hear his voice listing option after option.

She wondered what he looked like now, four years after she'd last seen him drowning in his own blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. And then she wondered why on earth she was even considering such a thing: Padma was intelligent, but it wasn't like she was hell-bent on kissing her.

And when had she even thought about kissing the invisible man in her flat?

When had kissing even come into it at all?

Hermione made her excuses and headed straight for her bedroom. She knew that she was getting drawn into his web, and she wasn't sure that she was even all that opposed to it.

.

.

He slept on the sofa for a few hours. When she emerged from her bedroom, she stood stock still in the kitchen. "Where are you?"

Deciding that it would not be prudent to mention that her hair was even more dishevelled—and thus even more endearing—after her sleep, Severus stood and loudly cleared his throat. "Here."

Their eyes met; she couldn't have known, but he drew in a ragged breath and put a hand on his heart. How long since anyone had seen him? Not just with their eyes, but truly seen him?

Granger must've sensed something, because she stayed where she was, and looked.

Her eyes—after much study, he decided they were the same brown as the dark, wooden teacher's table in the Great Hall—stayed with his. She breathed in once, twice, then licked her lips. He was surprised to realise that he broke eye contact with her to watch the movement of her pink tongue wetting her mouth.

"Where are we going today?" he asked her, blinking away the dryness in his eyes as she turned and headed for the icebox.

"I thought we'd start at the hardest spot."

"Ah."

She threw a small grin over her shoulder. "Sorry. But, you know, it's better to get it over and done with."

"Rip the plaster off," he put in blandly, inwardly groaning at the stupid statement.

Granger rolled her eyes and poured milk into two matching mugs before adding in a spoonful of coffee for each. "Remember: we talked about this. You're not funny."

"Am I tagging along?" he said instead, eyes flicking down to where her old, too-large pyjama shirt reached her smooth looking knees.

"Do you need to? Am I going to be able to know your books on sight?"

He grimaced and mumbled a thanks for the coffee. She watched him drink the first sip with a silly grin on her mouth. "Sorry," she laughed, rubbing at her forehead. "But it is rather amusing, watching the cup go up in the air and then down again, and not even be able to see you drinking it."

"Yes, well…"

"Sorry," Granger repeated.

"It's all right." He took another sip, then blurted, "Thank you for assisting me."

When she choked on her mouthful of coffee, he laughed for the first time in years.