A/N: Standard disclaimers apply: characters not mine, etc. No profit being made.

Written for the 2012 SSHG Exchange on Livejournal, as a gift for Fizzabella 1110. :-)

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." - William Shakespeare

Some enterprising soul had conjured up a breeze in the Great Hall. The gentle ruffle of cool air was a welcome relief after the stifling sweaty heat of the previous mornings. Hermione hooked a finger in the modest neckline of her robes, pulling them away from her body and enjoying a brief respite from the excessive heat that permeated the rest of the castle. The reduced population of Dementors in recent years had impacted more strongly on the nation's climate than anyone had predicted and the temperature in Scotland had skyrocketed as early as May this year. It was rather a shock to the system for those who clearly recalled the chilly springs and damp summers of years gone by at Hogwarts. It was now the middle of July and the school was blessedly, if temporarily, free of the complaints of hot, tired, irritable students and their tendency to remove inappropriate quantities of clothing at any given moment.

The staff who had opted to spend their holiday in the castle fell into two opposing camps, either spending a great deal of their time sprawled about the grounds, soaking up the heat and exposing pasty skin and knobbly knees in all their glory, or holing up in their respective quarters to fight a losing battle with cooling charms. Hermione tended to fall into the latter category, although her pale face owed more to a reluctance to leave the delights of the library than to any direct aversion to sunbathing. It would be five years in September since she had been appointed to the position of Hogwarts Librarian and nearly every day brought some new exciting discovery among the stacks. She usually found that by August she missed the presence of the students, particularly the ones who were actually interested in learning and came to the library for a more useful purpose than snogging in the reference section, but it was also rather fun to have long, gloriously open days to explore and to read. Her pile of recent finds was growing to monstrous and dangerously teetering proportions in her small office.

Well… most of the time she had the library to herself.

On a number of occasions recently, she had been thoroughly immersed in the pleasures of One Thousand and Six Point Three Unexpected Uses for Bulbotuber Pus, or attempting to keep her fingers out of the snapping reach of Moste Dastardly Concoctions, when she had felt the unmistakable prickling sensation of being watched. She had been astonished the first time to look up and see the shadowed, morose figure of the Headmaster hunched over a weighty tome in a corner alcove. Now, after several weeks of his sporadic and broodingly silent appearances, Hermione was quite accustomed his presence and found it almost comforting in a slightly horrifying way. For all that she felt at home in the school library and always had, there was no avoiding the fact that it could be bloody creepy when one was there by oneself. It was rather nice having another dedicated scholar in the room, even if it was Professor Snape.

The first couple of days, intoxicated by excitement over the completion of her latest essay for Ars Alchemica, she had tried to strike up a casual conversation with him, in the apparently mistaken belief that the Headmaster might bear more resemblance to a civil human being if there were no impertinent children around to witness the sight. He had borne her first attempt with an absolutely expressionless face, shuttered black eyes fixed on her, steady and unblinking, until she had stuttered to an unnerved halt and decided to go to lunch at ten-fifty in the morning. The following day, he had done her the courtesy of raising his head to listen to her queries as to the nature of his research and her tentative offer of assistance, before coolly remarking that unlike "the hapless fools Potter and Weasley", he was not in need of being "spoon-fed intellectual assistance like pap to an invalid". He was penning an address for a symposium, not attempting the cure for lycanthropy, and as he had not, to the best of his knowledge, recently suffered an ailment of the brain or the severance of a limb, he did not require a research assistant. If Miss Granger found herself in need of a task to occupy her idle hands, might he suggest knitting, as certain other busybodies of his acquaintance seemed to find it a satisfactory pastime?

Torn between annoyance and reluctant amusement, Hermione had bitten her tongue against several different responses, all of which would put her employment and probably her person at risk of termination, and returned to her own work. When he swept into the library a couple of mornings later, she had silently presented him with a pair of very badly knitted socks. It was the first time she had ever seen Professor Snape completely, if merely momentarily, taken aback. His long fingers had automatically closed around the socks and he had stared down at them for a moment in stupefaction. Then his eyes had snapped up to meet her mischievous gaze, a glint flickered in the opaque depths, and his head jerked fractionally to the side in salute. She had caught him watching her a few times since that display of grudging respect, although he tended to immediately return his attention to his parchment, lest she feel so emboldened as to make another attempt at friendly pleasantries.

Absently sliding a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth (too much salt; she had offended the house-elves the other day by bringing a tin of her mother's shortbread to afternoon tea in the staffroom), Hermione glanced over to the head of the table where the Headmaster was sitting in glaring silence, flanked by Filius Flitwick, who appeared to be asleep, and an earnestly chattering Ernie Macmillan. Ernie had been teaching Arithmancy for almost ten years now, taking up the position as soon as the school had been able to reopen with limited resources after the final battle. He had succeeded to the position of Deputy Head two years ago at an age of unprecedented youth, after a period of ill health had forced Professor McGonagall to stand down as Headmistress and return to teaching Transfiguration part-time. A visibly reluctant Professor Snape had returned to the head office in the absence of any other qualified or willing candidate. The bureaucratic mess that still existed in the Ministry had carried over to the education system, making administrative responsibilities at Hogwarts "a bloody nightmare", as Minerva had once confessed to Hermione with drunken candour over a sneaky sherry in her quarters. In a later private conversation during her convalescence, the elderly witch had confessed her regret that the burden had been placed on Professor Snape, as she could see the promotion bringing him little satisfaction and a great deal of dark remembrances better left buried. He had initially refused the offer in no uncertain terms and with very little civility, and she was quite sure that he would have remained unswayed in his negative had there still been any students at Hogwarts old enough to remember the first reign of Headmaster Snape.

Hermione had listened to Minerva in a pensive and rather troubled silence. She had given her former Potions master shamefully little thought in the initial blurred months after the battle, beyond expressing her surprise and relief at the news of his survival (and soundly berating Ron for his own rather callous reaction), and had spent the first few years of her new appointment giving him a fairly wide berth. Witnessing the genuine concern of Minerva, a woman who had more reason than many to hold a grudge against Snape's less honourable actions, and given what Hermione herself now knew of his history, she was rather ashamed for not making more of an effort. She didn't kid herself that he would welcome any overtures of friendship from her. She still expected to be verbally eviscerated if she so much as asked him to pass the salt. But she had started to watch him a little, became aware of his presence as more than just the dark scowl at the table. To her mild surprise, he appeared to be coping well in his unwanted role. If anything, he had seemed marginally less acerbic of late. He had shown real, if slightly patronising, interest in her private research on several occasions and had actually once held the door open for her when they arrived at the Great Hall at the same time. He had also brought her a decongestant potion when she'd had a bad cold the previous Christmas, which almost compensated for his rude demand that she remove herself to bed at once before she foisted her ailments on to the rest of his feeble staff.

If anything was likely to derail Professor Snape's so far uneventful second tenure as Headmaster, Hermione thought wryly, watching as he sawed a piece of toast into quarters with unnecessary violence, it was the increasing likelihood that his control would one day snap and he would skewer poor Ernie with his dinner fork. Hermione had always had a lot of respect for Ernie's intellectual abilities, so she wasn't quite sure how he was missing the imminent danger in the Headmaster's white-lipped silences and narrowed eyes. When he wasn't teaching or gathering talented students about him in an ode to the defunct Slug Club, Ernie was usually bustling about the corridors at Professor Snape's heels or futilely waiting outside the entrance to his office. He rarely had time to spare to visit the library, so Hermione tended to see him mostly at mealtimes, where he inevitably talked the older man's ear off, full of schemes for improvement and 'helpful' criticisms.

She was absolutely floored that he was still in one functioning piece.

Every barbed, acidic rejoinder from his victim seemed to bounce off Ernie's thick, oblivious skin, and the sheer imperturbability of the man had to be driving Professor Snape bonkers. Ernie never seemed to stop talking, asked a stream of questions but usually didn't wait for an answer, thought a little too well of himself in every respect, and although he meant well, was outrageously bossy and believed that he knew what was best for everybody. He was, in short, rather like the adult version of herself as a child, Hermione thought, cringing. He was exactly the sort of person most likely to get on Professor Snape's wick and it hadn't taken her long to deduce the main reason why the Headmaster was spending his summer holiday hiding in the library. Ernie had displayed the instincts of a bloodhound in tracking him down elsewhere in the castle and she supposed that even her company was preferable. She had at least learned to limit her questions, maintain a comfortable silence when appropriate, and not to interfere in other people's business unless their idiotic decisions made it absolutely necessary.

"Have you seen the inventory list?"

With a start, Hermione realised that Minerva was speaking to her.

"Sorry, Minerva," she said, transferring her gaze to her friend and setting down her fork. "Completely lost in thought. What were you saying?"

Minerva glanced thoughtfully from Hermione to Professor Snape for a moment, a slight frown creasing deeper lines into her forehead. She had not worn her illness well and was truly beginning to look her advanced age. Her body was frail and thin beneath her robes, the elegant bones of her face clearly delineated beneath papery skin, but she had still the air of capability and sturdy common sense that had provided comfort and stability to generations of students.

"The Begonia Madden estate sale," she said after a momentary pause. "Archibald Madden has finally agreed to open negotiation on the majority of his wife's collection. I've obtained a copy of the inventory catalogue and there are a number of books on the list that haven't come up for public sale in over a century. I would strongly advise perusing it with an eye to your own collection as well as acquisitions for the school. If you have any savings put aside for personal reading material, this would be the time to put them to use. Unless Lucius Malfoy suffers a malfunction of the brain and decides to let the common rabble pick apart his library, there may not be another opportunity to obtain some of the titles. The Ancient Runes of Atlantis, for instance: they only printed three copies; Begonia had one, Malfoy has another, and the third is locked securely away in the magical stacks of the Bodleian. Of course, that particular volume will fetch a price higher than the value of my family home, but many of the items on the list should be affordable."

She had caught Hermione's full attention. Since the death of Begonia Madden eighteen months earlier, every scholar and collector in Britain had been waiting for her husband to make a decision regarding her possessions. Begonia Stanfried, as she was born, had made her debut in pure wizarding society at the age of sixteen, married the equally well-connected Archibald Madden at the age of seventeen, and had spent the following one hundred and fifty years exploring every continent of the world, developing a discerning eye for antiquities and manuscripts, spending lavish sums of gold, and throwing herself into philanthropic endeavours with as much enthusiasm as she approached an archaeological dig or Amazon river expedition. Hermione had been fascinated with the woman for years. For a History of Magic assignment, she'd once written eight feet of parchment detailing Begonia's role as an undercover curse-breaker in the days of Gellert Grindelwald's reign.

She had been itching to get a first-hand look at the witch's famed library, but the grieving Archibald had apparently been too disconsolate to consider a sale. Now it seemed that she might at last get the chance. Her mind flitted to the state of her bank account. Her savings were still a bit meagre after a run of birthdays in March and April – and she mustn't forget that Harry's and Ginny's were coming up soon – but she certainly had enough to put in a decent offer on at least a few volumes. She assumed that she would also be given some leeway to purchase on behalf of the library. Almost everything in the Madden Collection would be so rare as to necessitate a place in the Restricted Section, of course. The younger students in particular could be awfully rough with the books and the number of times she'd caught a first year eating chocolate over an open volume…

Hermione broke off her thoughts in mid-grumble, appalled. God, she was turning more into Madam Pince every day… She had to make time for a weekend at the Burrow before the end of summer. A few days of being pranked by Fred, teased by Ron, sat on by multiple Weasley babies, and nagged as to the state of her (currently pitiful) love life by the eternally besotted Harry and Ginny was usually enough to cure her of any encroaching Pince-ish behaviour.

"Unfortunately," Minerva was continuing, "Archibald has made it a condition of sale that he has the opportunity to vet all potential buyers. Interested parties have been asked to make an appointment to view and I believe all of the times have already been filled. Honestly," she said briskly, rolling her eyes, "you would think the man was trying to find homes for beloved pets, not peddling old books and dusty knick-knacks for exorbitant prices. I suppose he's come over all sentimental about Begonia's things. Always was absolutely potty about the dreadful woman. She drank, you know. And flighty. Very flighty," she finished darkly.

That sounded a potentially interesting avenue of gossip, but Hermione was stuck on her previous words.

"The appointments to view have already been filled?"

"From what I understand. But I believe Severus is going to Madden House this weekend. He'll be after Begonia's apothecary supplies, I imagine. I can give you my copy of the inventory and you could mark down the items that interest you. If you wait until he's finished a meal, ask very nicely, don't breathe too loudly or make any sudden noises, and make a disparaging remark about poor Ernie while you do so, he might even bring back a few of them," Minerva said dryly.

Her eyes narrowing into a rather calculating gleam, Hermione turned her gaze back toward Professor Snape. He had abandoned any pretence of listening to Ernie's monologue and was leaning back in his chair, using the younger man's patented red silk handkerchief to polish the brass chain of his pocket watch. Ernie was still talking, but with noticeably less enthusiasm, and his eyebrows were slightly puckered as he watched the destruction of a twenty galleon, hand-stitched handkerchief from Sprogg and Stutters' Emporium (the tailors for Today's Leading Man). The Headmaster's black hair fell over his scarred cheek and his body appeared completely still aside from the lazy motions of his hands.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione noncommittally. Her lips set in a stubborn line. "I'll certainly speak to Professor Snape."

Later that morning, at exactly eleven o'clock, Hermione laid down her quill, straightened her papers, and left the library, warding the door behind her. Better to be safe than sorry; she'd had her share of mischief-makers creating havoc during her absence. A locked door wouldn't keep out Peeves, who had discovered with glee that rearranging the Restricted Section would turn Miss Granger's face an interesting shade of puce, but it would at least keep Filch and Mrs. Norris from charging in after him again. Last time, she'd returned from lunch to find the ghost sitting on top of the card catalogue, shrilly giggling while Filch chucked copies of Potions Weekly at his head and shouted obscenities. They were worse than the cheekiest of the first years.

Smoothing her robes and wishing for the hundredth time that Professor Snape would just embrace the radical idea of mufti attire in the summer holidays (scotched after he'd caught Pomona sunbathing behind Greenhouse Five in a sarong and flip flops), Hermione made her way to the Headmaster's office. The entire Tower had sustained massive damage during the Battle and had required substantial rebuilding. Much to the relief, she suspected, of its new occupant. She didn't exactly make a habit of stopping by Professor Snape's domain for cups of English Breakfast and cosy chats, but the few times she'd been in the office since her return, it had been almost unrecognisable as Professor Dumbledore's former dwelling. The comically leering gargoyle had been forced to resign its position as guardian due to irreparable spell damage. Now, an unattractively surly stone dragon stood guard at the entrance, with a habit of blowing hot steam into the face of anyone who ventured too close. It had also once managed to set fire to Ernie's trousers, although Hermione strongly suspected there had been some vindictive wand work occurring up the stairs.

Standing a safe three feet away, she glared back at the dragon and emphatically cleared her throat. Producing the correct password no longer resulted in leaping statues and instantaneous entry; one politely waited until the Headmaster could be arsed answering his intercom. Hermione folded her arms and tapped her nails against her arm, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as the seconds ticked silently by. She was convinced that Professor Snape had rigged some sort of spy glass.

Finally the dragon opened its mouth and drawled in the melodious, skin-shivery tones that were wasted on such an utterly tactless man: "State your business."

Friendly and approachable, as always.

"It's Hermione," she said bluntly. It was always a bit uncomfortable announcing herself thus, but she was damned if she was going to encourage Professor Snape to keep calling her "Miss Granger" (or, even worse, just "Granger") in the exact tone of voice he'd used to put her in her place as a student. She'd heard him greet Minerva by her given name, so she knew he was capable of marginally cordial behaviour when he felt like it.

"I'm aware of your identity, Miss Granger," said the dragon in Snape's voice. Hermione could swear that the stone features briefly slid into a familiar sneer and couldn't help scowling in return. "I believe I asked you to explain the reason for this unwelcome disturbance."

The books. Think of all the lovely books.

"I'm sorry for the interruption, Professor," Hermione said with a complete lack of sincerity, "but I'd like to discuss something with you, if I may."

Another overly long pause ensued. Hermione's nails tapped faster against her sleeve.

"Very well," said the dragon at last and not very enthusiastically. "Enter. If you must."

The enormous spiked stone tail swept aside and the entrance to the winding staircase appeared. Hermione held aside the hem of her robes, again thinking wistfully of shorts and sandals, and climbed the steep steps. They seemed longer than she remembered from her school days, but whether that was evidence of Professor Snape's delight in distancing himself and inconveniencing people as much as possible, she wasn't sure. More likely, it was a reflection of her currently woeful state of fitness. Burying herself in books was infinitely more pleasurable than buggering about the British Isles with Harry, Ron, and a shoddy tent, but it admittedly didn't do much for the lung capacity.

She reached the top slightly out of breath and paused for a moment to look around and assuage her curiosity. She never failed to be surprised by the Headmaster's tastes in interior design. After the purposefully dank atmosphere of his Potions classroom, she'd half-expected to find the Tower draped in cobwebs and black shrouds, but instead it was a sunny, airy room, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Everything was immaculately tidy and neatly organised; it was the sort of room that she could happily inhabit herself.

"I haven't invited you up here to conduct an inventory appraisal of my belongings, Miss Granger," Snape said coolly, and she felt her cheeks grow slightly warm.

She cleared her throat.

"Good morning, Professor," she said politely.

He was seated behind his wide mahogany desk, long fingers clasped above a roll of parchment and narrowed black eyes surveying her without discernable emotion. Hermione's eyes flickered to the bowl of lemon drops on his desk and her lips fought against a reluctant smile. She had originally been astonished to see Dumbledore's custom sweet bowl on Professor Snape's desk. The man decidedly did not have a sweet tooth; she'd seen him wave away the puddings every evening for years. She'd also long suspected Dumbledore of lacing his sweets with calming agents and possibly truth serum, and she could think of few people more likely than Snape to bear a grudge against the older man's manipulations. However, when she'd absently reached out to straighten the bowl, Professor Snape had immediately smacked her hand away with a heavy book. She'd been slightly affronted, if not particularly surprised, by his rudeness, but a couple of days later had witnessed Ernie making a headlong dash for the staff loo. Minerva, in unreadable tones, had confided over tea that she had caught Severus stocking his sweet bowl with lemon drop laxatives for particularly irritating guests. The Ministry sent a bureaucratic watchdog every two months to monitor the Headmaster's progress, "bearing in mind all that occurred during his previous appointment", and so far they had one and all shared an inclination for sweets.

"May I sit for a moment, please?" Hermione asked now.

Professor Snape continue to regard her in silence, his gaze moving over her face with a rather off-putting intensity that made her itch to check for biscuit crumbs or ink stains. He fanned the fingers of one hand in an elegant, "As you will" gesture.

"Thank you." She sat down firmly on the chair directly before his desk and tried to insert a brisk, business-like note into her voice. Any semblance of pleading, whining or entitlement would earn her nothing but disdain and an undignified exit. Reaching into the inner pocket of her ridiculously sweltering robes, she pulled out the Madden Estate inventory list she'd obtained from Minerva after breakfast. Professor Snape's black eyes focused on it and she thought she saw a flicker of amusement in their depths. "Minerva tells me that you're leaving the school this weekend to travel to Madden House."

She paused, and frowned. That had come out less…efficient and more accusing.

"Indeed." Snape's left eyebrow rose in a manner that made her want to kick him under the desk. "I was not aware that I required your permission to conduct school business, Miss Granger."

"Of course you don't," she snapped, before huffing out an irritated breath. Smoothing her hands over the parchment, she tried again, more calmly. "I've been studying Begonia Madden and hoping for a chance to view her collection for years. There are a number of book titles on the sale list that I believe would be valuable assets for the school library. There are also several volumes that I would dearly love to purchase for my own collection," she added honestly, and met his gaze squarely. "I understand that it's going to be very difficult to obtain another appointment to view and I would be grateful, sir, if you would allow me to encroach upon a little of your time with Mr. Madden."

She leaned back against the chair and maintained eye contact as he considered her in continued silence. After a moment, she was annoyed to realise that she actually felt vaguely dizzy and off-centre. There was something curiously hypnotic about staring into such black eyes. They were dark, yet not truly opaque, seeming to faintly shimmer like dark, bottomless pools…

What on earth?

With a start, she blinked and sat up, rubbing suddenly damp palms against her knees. She really was starting to come over a bit unusual, dreamily gawping at Professor Snape, of all people. There were a few psychoanalysis textbooks in the Muggle Studies section; perhaps she ought to look up the effects of prolonged solitude and a lack of fresh air on behavioural patterns. And she definitely needed that weekend with the Weasleys.

"Very well," the Headmaster said abruptly, straightening in his chair. He nodded toward her scroll of parchment. "Note down which items you desire to personally purchase and which titles you believe ought to be obtained for the school. I'll form my own opinion as to the wisdom of your choices in that regard and I'll see what I can do."

He tore his gaze from hers and nodded once, clearly in dismissal. It was actually an amazingly civil outcome, considering the source. Unfortunately, she was about to well and truly push her luck.

"Thank you, Professor," she said warmly, choosing to ignore that last aspersion on her judgment.

Choose your battles, et cetera.

Besides, she fully intended to be present to argue the case for each item.

"However, that's not quite what I meant," she continued smoothly. "I'd like to accompany you to Madden House this weekend."

For a moment, Professor Snape's knuckles showed white against the wood of the desk. It was the only sign that he was at all taken aback. As she watched, he deliberately relaxed his hands and turned a scowl in her direction.

"Absolutely not."

"Why?" Hermione countered at once. "I can Apparate there separately; I promise not to speak unduly; and I'll stay out of your way as much as possible. But I can be on hand to examine the quality of the books myself, freeing up your time to look at the apothecary supplies or whatever you'd prefer to do. The students won't be back for weeks, so there shouldn't be an issue with closing the library for a couple of days." She saw him opening his mouth, his face set in uncompromisingly negative lines, and blurted out, "And I really, really want to go."

It wasn't whining, exactly, although it had sounded embarrassingly wistful.

Professor Snape looked thoroughly annoyed and uncomfortable.

"It's not a matter of Apparating to the Highlands for a couple of hours," he said coldly. "Archibald Madden is being absurdly difficult about the entire enterprise. Potential buyers are required to stay overnight, in this instance on Friday, so he can poke his bloody nose in and weed out the unworthy. As if I wanted to adopt his snot-nosed brats, for Christ's sake, rather than offer perfectly good coin for an eighty-year-old jar of Cerberus eye jelly. The man ought to be sectioned straight into the Mental Deficiency Ward and his property seized in bulk, although that bloated sapskull Shacklebolt would likely confiscate the real prizes to gather dust at the Ministry."

Overnight? Hermione caught at the word with dismay, completely ignoring the rest of the diatribe. She'd had plenty of practice at selective hearing while dating Ron, who could somehow pepper every conversation with usually irrelevant Quidditch metaphors. All night alone in a remote country estate with a short-tempered Professor Snape and a bereaved (and frankly, possibly batty) widower?

And the most impressive book collection outside of the magical Bodleian.

"That's fine," she said decisively, trying not to sound too like a martyr. "I don't mind staying there on Friday night. I didn't have any plans anyway, other than double-checking that Flourish and Blotts have all of the class texts in stock."

That was just leaving herself open to one of his snarky remarks on her lack of a social life, but he seemed oddly distracted. Unconsciously echoing her earlier movements, he tapped his nails against his arm and eyed her with a strange mixture of irritation and…apprehension?

"As delightful as I'm sure it would be, Miss Granger, to have the pleasure of your company for a long and otherwise isolated visit," he said with horrible sarcasm, "I fear I must graciously decline."

Hermione held back a snort at the idea of him doing anything graciously. Frustration overcame her short supply of patience and she completely forgot to whom she was speaking for a moment.

"I wasn't exactly suggesting a naughty weekend away in the country, sir," she retorted, and then came to an abrupt halt as they stared at one another, equally appalled. "Er…"

The Headmaster glared at her, a tinge of red sweeping his high cheekbones.

"I apologise," she said stiffly. "That was inappropriate, Professor; I'm sorry. I'm just asking you to consider my request. Please."

There: all the p's and q's. He could stop goggling at her like a stuffed halibut now. It had been a very unprofessional retort, but surely it didn't call for him to look quite so…nauseated.

The subsequent awkward pause was stretching into mortification territory when he suddenly jerked his head at her in some semblance of a nod.

"I'll consider your proposition," he said coolly, with what she considered a very unfortunate choice of words.

"You will?" She tried to downplay the scepticism in favour of gratitude, which was a bit beyond her at this point. Really, she suspected that both of them just wanted her to get the hell out of his office.

"I'll inform you of my decision this afternoon."

He looked pointedly from her to the stairway.

Class dismissed.

She nodded, was unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't further prejudice him against her company, and turned to leave. As she placed a foot on the upmost step, her eyes caught on a flash of green wool.

Badly knitted lime green wool.

For the space of three breaths, she stood still, staring in surprise at the terrible socks she'd given him, neatly laid out flat on the mantelpiece as if he was getting in early for Father Christmas. She hadn't given the cheeky gift a second thought since that afternoon in the library; if she'd stopped to consider the matter at all, she would have assumed they had long been consigned to the bin or immediately and unceremoniously incinerated.

Shaking off her strange stupor, Hermione shook her head and trotted down the stairs at precarious speed.

It wasn't as if he was wearing them, for God's sake.

He'd probably forgotten that they were even there.

In that immaculately ordered office.

Oh bugger it. I need a cup of tea.

And obviously some professional help.

By the time Professor Snape made an appearance in her own small office and startled her into spilling an entire bottle of ink ("If you're quite finished, Granger…"), it was almost time to close up the library and head to the Great Hall for the evening meal.

"I've considered your request," he said, leaning against the doorframe and disdainfully watching as she siphoned blue-black ink from a stack of student identification cards.

At least he'd left off the references to her propositioning him, praise be.

"And?" she asked, laying down her wand and straightening the clean documents. She directed her gaze to his face, willing away a bizarre and totally inappropriate urge to blush.

He met her confronting look, his own expression enigmatic as ever. A tiny muscle ticked in his jaw and a flicker of…something passed over his face.

"You may accompany me," he said, and held up an imperious hand against the spontaneous outbreak of her smile, "under certain strict conditions. You will conduct yourself in a manner appropriate of a member of staff at this school. You will defer to me in decisions regarding library acquisitions. You will keep any adverse opinions to yourself and you will not engage in any foolhardy behaviour, tedious chatter, or giggling."

He spoke the last word as if giggling were a sin on par with some rank act of deviance, but Hermione was admittedly a little affronted.

Who did he think she was, Lavender Brown?

"When have I ever been a giggler?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes at him.

"And you will refrain from disrespectful repartee," he finished smoothly.

"Is that all?" she asked sweetly, folding her arms across her chest.

Humour flickered in the black depths of his eyes.

"For now," he said. "I reserve the right to amend the conditions should you prove additionally tiresome in an unforeseen manner."

The books. Think of all the lovely, lovely books.

"We'll depart from the Apparition point outside the school gates at two o'clock on Friday afternoon. Pack lightly, dress appropriately, and do not be late."

Before he turned to sweep out of the room like a departing matador, there was something in the entirety of his manner – his body language, his look, a change in the timbre of that unsettling voice – that seemed a little…odd.

She couldn't put her finger on the reason, but she suddenly felt vaguely unsettled.

Even the prospect of a day spent fondling rare books failed to soothe.

"It's bloody fr-freezing!"

Hermione stood in the curved driveway of Madden House, submerged up to the laces of her lightweight brogues in snow. Snow. Bloody, buggering snow in July. She had seized upon the excuse of a professional excursion to wear her smartest robes, which had the benefit of being more seasonally-appropriate than her teaching robes by way of consisting of considerably less fabric. They were hardly salacious…although one might have thought otherwise by the way Professor Snape had momentarily reacted, the disapproving git…but at least avoided the customary feeling that she was walking around in the heat of summer wrapped in a blanket.

However, right at this moment, she would gladly dive headfirst under a pile of actual blankets and wouldn't say no to a mug of cocoa and a hot water bottle, either.

Snape, attired as usual like a Victorian undertaker and looking horribly smug and warm, threw her an exasperated glance.

"I warned you to dress appropriately. If you took that to infer that you ought to show up in the middle of a blizzard with your…wares on display…"

Hermione reflexively closed her fingers around her wand and drew in a deep, infuriated breath, which had the unfortunate effect of inflating her wares to dangerous proportions.

The Headmaster's attitude of bored cynicism came to an abrupt end.

Her cheeks crimson, Hermione ferociously glared.

"Obviously, having not realised that Madden House is apparently in bloody Narnia, I thought "appropriate attire" meant not arriving in shorts and sandals."

"One might have thought," Snape returned silkily, casually rolling his wand over his fingers, "that as you've apparently been researching the damned fool of a woman for years, you ought to have known that Begonia Madden harboured nostalgic delusions about the days she spent looting from Antarctica and Russia, and placed extensive charms on her property to simulate a perpetual state of winter."

Yes, one might have thought she ought to know that. Always furious at evidence of shoddy research, Hermione wasn't sure whether she was crosser with him or herself.

Although her current desire to dropkick a very sturdy snowball right into his prominent nose might be something of a clue.

Snape sighed heavily and patronisingly.

"Are you a witch or are you not, woman?" he asked dryly, sounding disturbingly like Ron, a fact of which she almost informed him, since he would likely find it a more wounding punishment than being pelted with frozen water. "Cast a warming charm, for God's sake."

"If someone would answer the blasted door, I wouldn't have to," Hermione said through gritted teeth, glaring up at the door in question. Why had she thought this would be a good idea, again? "Unless you're going to tell me that Begonia Madden's passion for a cold climate extended to her interior decorating as well?"

Snape merely twitched an ironic brow at her.

Git.

"Anyway," she said mulishly, "warming charms never work that well. It's not the same as really feeling warm. I always think the sensation is more like having a mild fever than curling up in front of a roaring fire."

She hadn't seen the remotest flicker of his wand, hands, or features, but before she had finished speaking, a feeling of such delicious warmth and comfort swept over her, it was as if she'd been wrapped in a hug, thoroughly snogged, and fed hot Belgian chocolate all at the same time. She blinked, and shifted her feet. Even her shoes suddenly felt more comfortable.

"What on earth was that?" she asked blankly.

Whatever spell he'd cast, it was as superior to a standard warming charm as French champagne was an improvement on a bottle of cheap plonk from Tesco's.

"Cutis de ovibus. Roughly translated as 'skin of the sheep.' And there's no need to look so horrified. No lambs were harmed in the making of this spell. It merely gives the impression of being attired in fleece, so do not entertain fantasies of a Society for the Protection of Ewe Welfare. SPEW part deux, if you will."

The words were spoken with such customary bite that she almost missed what he'd said. As it registered, she bit her lip and scowled at him, trying desperately hard to feel annoyed rather than amused.

Severus Snape cracking jokes. Who would have thought?

It really was as if they'd entered some sort of parallel plane mid-Apparition.

The sound of echoing footsteps finally sounded behind the large wooden door and Hermione turned, smoothing her features into her best "Hello, how are you? Please let me at your books" face. As she did so, her right shoe hit a patch of black ice and she stumbled, futilely grabbing at the doorframe as she started to fall. Before the incident could come to an unceremonious and painful conclusion, however, strong fingers wrapped around her elbow and hauled her back to her feet. Catching her breath, she glanced up at Snape, who was staring fixedly at the door.

"Thank you," she said.

He ignored her, keeping his eyes trained ahead, but didn't release her arm until she was entirely steady in her stance.

The door swung open and a small man with a dandelion puff of white hair stood beaming at them. He was dressed in a pair of Muggle trousers, held up on his wizened frame by a pair of fraying braces, and had carelessly pushed up the sleeves of a well-darned shirt. Round spectacles, uncannily reminiscent of Harry's glasses, perched at the end of a veritable beak that made Snape's own hooked nose seem positively retrousse by comparison.

"Good afternoon, good afternoon! Welcome! So sorry to keep you waiting; I'm afraid I was up to my elbows in chopped onions. I do hope you like beef. Let me see now… Mr. Snape, and this lovely young lady must be Mrs. Snape? Do come in."

Hermione immediately felt herself blush again.

For God's sake. She was usually as prone to the maidenly flush as she was to compulsive giggling. It was as if she could feel the strings of her lovely, well-ordered life slipping out of her control this week. Suddenly she was living in an Enid Blyton book. Topsy-Turvy Land. If Snape started being pleasant, she was going to run screaming for the snow-topped hills.

To judge by his currently sub-arctic tone, pleasantries were not high on the Headmaster's list of priorities.

"This is my subordinate, Miss Granger."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Somehow, with one seemingly innocuous sentence, he managed to insinuate that she was usually to be found scrubbing floors or peeling potatoes, and had been let out of the scullery for a treat.

Although… She eyed him with interest. She wasn't the only one who had reddened. There was a distinctly pink tinge to his cheeks again.

"Come in, come in!" Archibald Madden repeated jovially, standing back to let them enter, an offer Hermione accepted with more haste than politeness. Despite Snape's ingenious charm – and for such an irredeemably snide bastard, he did possess a rather brilliant brain behind the permanent sneer – she still had no desire to linger in an artificial blizzard. The house was like a living snow globe.

"Your wife must be freezing," the ancient wizard said, beaming at them as he closed the door. He blithely ignored Snape's exasperated rejoinder and gestured toward the naked calves of the "wife" in question.

Hermione, unwilling to risk offending the man who was currently in possession of Moste Ancient Texts of Pompeii, smiled at him weakly as she straightened the hem of her robes, which suddenly seemed more immodest than they had on leaving Hogwarts.

"No, no," she said unconvincingly. "I'm quite comfortable, thank you."

"Excellent, excellent. Leave your bags here; I'll deposit them in your quarters shortly. Shall we have a quick tipple in the drawing room before I show you to the library and antiquities room? You know what they say: it's five o'clock somewhere!"

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and hurried away, airily waving them in his wake.

"He seems awfully…chipper," Hermione murmured to Snape as they followed somewhat warily. "I thought he was supposed to be devastated by his bereavement. I was half-expecting black armbands and shrouded windows."

She looked around, surprised anew by the Maddens' décor. She had assumed that the home of ardent collectors of antiquities would bear some resemblance to the interior of a museum or old-fashioned curio shop. As opposed to the interior of a Muggle IKEA store. Apparently the Maddens' tastes in personal furnishings centred about stainless steel, glass, and brightly hued leather. It was Ron's dream home. His current flat was the tighter budget incarnation of this state of joyous plastic modernity.

"The man is swilling hard liquor at twenty past two in the afternoon," Snape returned, not quite quietly enough. "I would venture to suggest that might have something to do with it."

Well, quite.

"Of course, it's entirely possible that the man is simply a halfwit," he continued flatly, examining the supremely contemporary hallway with a look of utter disdain. "It's been my experience while teaching that the more mutton-headed the student, the greater the attraction to the cheap and shiny. I expect that imbecile Weasley lives in similar surroundings."

She was not going to give him the satisfaction of giggling.

She compromised with a muffled snort.

Heaven.

She had died and gone to Book Heaven.

"Severus," she said, holding up a battered, gold-bound volume with reverently gentle fingers. "This is a first-edition copy of the Incan Potions Compendium. I thought the last one had been destroyed in the seventeenth century during the Great Fire. I can't believe this."

Her voice was pitching a little high, she felt a bit giddy, and her clothing and arms were streaked with dust (apparently Begonia Madden had believed in keeping her finds very authentic; Hermione had previously opened a book on Ancient Egyptian wand lore and encountered a dessicated scarab carcass), but she hadn't enjoyed herself so much for ages.

Severus looked up from the wide library desk where he was studying the contents of at least three hundred labelled bottles. His eyes rested on her for a moment where she knelt among teetering stacks of exorbitantly expensive ink and paper.

"I know," he said simply, for once completely without malice.

And she knew that he did know. In this, at least, Severus Snape was a likeminded soul. For a long silent moment, she just smiled at him and enjoyed the sensation of sharing a wonderful experience with someone who truly got it.

The past few hours seemed to have passed in seconds. It was like being granted free reign to touch and hold anything in the British Museum or the most restricted library stacks in Oxford. Total bliss. Well worth the increasingly awkward experience of mid-afternoon cocktails with a verbose Archibald. The elderly man had gulped down flagon after flagon of a steaming golden concoction that smelled so potent it had irritated Hermione's throat from a distance of five feet. He had continually pressed equally exotic drinks on his guests as well, much to her consternation. She never really drank much beyond the odd glass of red wine and had no desire whatsoever to get sozzled in this situation. Severus had seen her dismay and unexpectedly come to the rescue, surreptitiously charming her glass to convert its contents to water upon refill. If he hadn't performed the same trick with his own glass, the man had an ability to hold his drink that Grawp would envy. His voice was as crisp and melodious as ever and his reflexes remained sharp enough to catch a falling table lamp when she suffered a malfunction of the elbow. Apparently she was developing a latent clumsy streak.

As Archibald became increasingly…jolly, he had waxed poetically at great length about the sanctities of his late wife. Albeit with a disconcerting habit of referring to her in the present tense while staring over Hermione's shoulder, which had started to give her prickling paranoia that the ghost of Begonia Madden was present and watching the vultures circle over her possessions. As his reminiscences became increasingly personal and a smidge maudlin, she had caught Severus rolling his eyes. Severus Snape, of all people, mocking the evidence of prolonged sentimentality over a lost love. Pot, meet kettle.

Archibald had finally assuaged her itching impatience to see the library and after showing them to the enormous, stately room, had cheerfully left them there with barely a backward glance. For a man who had been so adamant on vetting potential buyers that he'd insisted each sale take the form of a country house party, he seemed awfully blasé about letting them poke about his priceless collection.

She was starting to think he must just be very lonely.

Her sympathy had been rather shamefully overshadowed, however, by the almost orgasmic experience of standing amidst the Begonia Madden Collection. A huge number of the books were astronomically out of her price range and a great deal more already bore glimmering sigils on their covers that indicated they had been sold and were pending delivery, but even to have the experience of seeing them, let alone touching and reading… She could happily have holed up in that room for weeks and had already lost thirty-minute blocks of time intending to peruse "just a paragraph". Once or twice, Severus had called her attention to an item of particular note, but for the most part he had just left her to it. Whenever she had torn her nose from a book to reluctantly close the cover and reach for the next treasure, she had caught sight of him, holding glistening vials to the light, performing diagnostic spells, muttering to himself and jotting down notes in his spidery handwriting, and generally looking as relaxed as she'd ever seen him. At some point in the past hour, he'd become "Severus" and she'd become "Hermione", without prior thought and almost without her notice.

"Look at this," he said now, brandishing a vial of viscous pink fluid.

She got to her feet and joined him at the desk, peering at the object in his hand.

"What is it?" she asked, interested and immediately searching through and discarding various possibilities in her mind. "It's the consistency of unicorn blood, but not the colour. That particular shade of pink…" Something stirred in her memory from her long school evenings reading Potions textbooks in bed, while Lavender and Parvati muttered to one another over fashion magazines. "Some sort of insect?" she hazarded.

"Flitterbug blood," he confirmed, giving her a look of genuine approval. "It's a core ingredient for Felix Felicis, but flitterbugs are notoriously difficult to catch and it takes at least three hundred insects to siphon even a drop of blood. I've never seen such a large quantity; there must be a good hundred drops here."

His breath fanned a loose curl against her cheek as he spoke and Hermione suddenly realised how intimately they were positioned. She was actually pressed against his side, her breast was flattened against his upper arm, and she was close enough to see the faint flicker of lines at the crease of his eye and the emerging shadow of beard on his jaw.

As she awkwardly froze where she stood, he turned to look at her questioningly. The action brought his mouth bare millimetres from her own, and he blinked, his slightly startled gaze locked on hers. His body seemed equally immobile; she was fairly sure he was holding his breath. A faint sheen of dark brown began to warm the blackness of his eyes and her clasped palms suddenly felt clammy.

Good God, what was she doing?

Some latent warning bell sounded in her brain and she stepped back abruptly. Without looking at him, she knelt back down by her safe fortress of books and reached for a new title, noting with distant wonder that her hands were shaking a little.

"Do you know what time dinner will be served? I don't want to keep Mr. Madden waiting," she said lightly, inwardly astonished at how normal her voice sounded, considering that she felt as if her world had just been knocked off-kilter.

Topsy-Turvy Land, indeed.

She was losing her mind.

He was her bloody boss.

He was Severus bloody Snape.

Determined to be a coward in this instance (bugger the Gryffindor bravado; it usually led to injury or making an arse of oneself), Hermione kept her gaze firmly on the book in front of her. For an agonising ten seconds (she counted), there was neither reply nor movement; then Snape spoke in a blessedly familiar acidic tone.

"Do I look like the bloody butler? If the man hasn't passed out in an alcoholic stupor by now, I expect he'll tell us when it's ready."

And at that moment, perfectly on cue and such a welcome interruption that Hermione would have kissed him if she hadn't decided to never let anyone near her lips again, ever, Archibald Madden burst into the room, enthusiastically banging an old-fashioned dinner gong and probably deafening his nearest neighbours five kilometres away.

They would eat beef bourguignon, Archibald would talk to his deceased wife over Hermione's shoulder, Sev…Snape would probably scowl at her over the epergne, and then she could escape to bed and compile a list of titles for purchase. Tomorrow she could choose her books, he could pick his jars of body fluids, and they could go home to the nice, spacious castle. The castle that was full of sane, rational people who could talk her down from what was obviously the manifestation of a quarter-life crisis. Or a one-sixth-life crisis, really, given the average life expectancy of the British witch.

It was going to be fine.

It was so not going to be fine.

The plush double bed loomed up at her like something out of a nightmare or film noir. The room was luxuriously furnished, but in keeping with the architectural period of the house, it wasn't exactly generous in proportion. Almost every inch of floor space was taken up by a garish piece of modern furniture. They had already ascertained that every item had been strongly reinforced with anti-decay, anti-removal, and anti-transfiguration wards, so there was no hope of altering the bed into two singles or transfiguring a second mattress. There wasn't even room for someone (probably her, since she didn't see Snape as the parfit chivalrous knight type) to bunk down on the floor, unless she could somehow assume a twisted yoga pose that involved sleeping balanced on one buttock with her legs around her ears. She had never been the athletic sort.

The only place to sleep in their room was the bed. The shared bed.

The door banged open, making her jump, and Snape swept in with a filthy look on his face.

"The bastard has locked himself in and isn't answering his door," he said, before she could ask. "And there are personal signature wards on every other bedroom door, which would take hours to break and likely to considerable damage to the property. Even the living areas are locked down. In a belated show of intelligence, Madden apparently has some conception of adequate security measures, despite his appalling laxity in leaving strangers alone with his possessions. Perhaps if you had attempted to join me in correcting his assumption as to the nature of our relationship, instead of smiling inanely at him like a halfwit, he would have assigned us separate quarters. As it is, the only place to sleep is here, the bathroom, or the hall."

Oh, bugger.

"I'll sleep in the hall," he said flatly, and she blinked in surprise.

Chivalrous after all, apparently.

She meant to squash any qualms over manners and ignore the nagging echo of her mother's voice about putting oneself out for the comfort of others. She fully intended to be selfish as hell, given how uncomfortable he would be sleeping in the freezing hall, chirp a "Right, then", and crawl under the nice warm covers.

Instead, to her horror, she heard her own voice say with extreme firmness, "It's far too cold to sleep in the hall. We can both stay in here. We're not silly kids and it's a big bed. Plenty of room for two."

It was not a big bed. It was actually quite small for a double. But he would probably say –

"Very well," Snape said after a long pause, his tone unreadable.

Damn.

Two of the longest hours of her life later, Hermione still lay awake, staring up at the ceiling and wishing she were just about anywhere else. Including, but not limited to her father's dentist chair, shopping for clothes with a squabbling Fleur and Ginny, or on the run with Harry and Ron. She had never actually shared a bed with anyone, even platonically. Her relationship with Ron had never got that far and the few…experiments she had indulged in at Oxford had actually taken place during the day, one time memorably in a deserted archive, which just proved the depravities of which she was capable when she over-imbibed. Growing up an only child, she had become accustomed to her own space and privacy. It had been very difficult to get used to sleeping in the Hogwarts dormitory, but at least she had been able to put silencing charms around her cubicle. It seemed a bit rude to just sit up and hit Snape with a silencing charm now.

She could hear him breathing. And he kept moving. She was in bed with Professor Snape, and he kept breathing and moving.

Oh Gods, this is awkward.

Why won't he go to sleep?

Why can't I go to sleep?

Apparently their companionable afternoon with the collection had been the ecstatic peak before a rapid decline into the excruciatingly uncomfortable. Archibald had got them through any embarrassing silences at dinner by chattering non-stop from the mulligatawny soup until the chocolates and liqueurs. It had been impossible to feel impatient, though. She had been right; he was very, very lonely. She had seen it a great deal as a teenager when she'd been dragged along on home visits with her mother, who would do minor dental procedures for housebound elderly patients. Many of them had been widowed, were either childless or never saw their families, and could go weeks at a time talking to nobody. Given the opportunity for human interaction and conversation, they would chat about everything and nothing for hours.

Maybe there was nothing quite so terrible in the world as true loneliness.

Trying not to make a sound (ridiculously, she kept half-expecting him to dock house points from her for unconscious sighs or unattractive night attire), Hermione turned her head on the pillow and looked over at Snape. There was enough moon- and starlight in the room that she could make out the inky fall of his hair against the other pillow and see the rough stubble around his mouth. He lay quietly on his back, one arm resting across his chest, the ropy muscles covered with pale skin and a sparse scattering of black hair.

Just as she had earlier that day, talking to him among the books and artefacts, she suddenly felt as if she was seeing him as a man. Just a man, without the trappings of rank, authority, and his icy protective demeanour. Towards Severus, the man, as opposed to Professor Snape, the objectionable git, she was discovering she could feel…things. Warm, disconcerting things.

Averting her gaze back to the ceiling before he could catch her gazing at him like a besotted sheep, Hermione sighed. Her eyes slowly focused on the night sky above. Her poor opinion of Archibald Madden's guest accommodations had dramatically improved when she'd finally been able to tear her attention from the tiny double bed to notice the ceiling. It was entirely comprised of non-reflective glass, like a giant skylight. It was like sleeping in the Great Hall at Hogwarts or outside directly under the stars, but without the horrendous camping affiliations. The conjured snow clouds had cleared and all above them was a glittering blanket of stars. She had never been flexible enough for yoga and her mind was too impatient for meditation, so lying flat on her back under a starry sky had always been the closest she had come to true relaxation. Her dad had been the same, she remembered suddenly. Since she was a very small girl, they would lie in their small backyard at night, well into the dewy evenings of autumn, until her mother would call them to bed in exasperation. She wondered if perhaps he was looking up at the stars now, before remembering that it would be lunchtime in Australia and feeling a bit silly.

"What's the matter?" Severus asked suddenly, startling her so badly that she actually answered honestly, instead of offering a polite disclaimer. There was an appalling unsteadiness to her voice.

"I was just remembering when I used to look at the night sky with my father. I…I miss him."

I want my mum and dad.

For a moment, Severus was quiet and then he spoke again, his words very quiet and measured.

"Minerva informed me of the situation with your parents. I understand that the memory alteration spells proved to be irreversible. I'm very sorry, Hermione."

Such a simple sentiment and yet somehow more effective than the long effusions from other well-meaning friends.

"Thank you," she said huskily. She concentrated on breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth until her eyes stopped prickling. "I just…it's hard to know that they're out there and they aren't ever thinking of me. They don't remember me. They don't…they don't love me."

And the oddest thing about this, lying in a bed with Severus Snape in a strange Highland manor house, was that it didn't feel odd at all to be saying such things to him. She might never speak on the subject again, but here in the living snow globe, in the dark in Topsy-Turvy Land, she could say anything without fear of judgment.

Or…or maybe it was just him, after all.

"In many ways, magic is still just an illusion, a cover over the truth," Severus said eventually. She could hear him shifting a little, perhaps uncomfortable with the unfamiliar effort to comfort. "Even if they don't consciously remember you, Hermione, somewhere inside, they know you. And I believe that there is a… deep and abiding contentment in having loved where love is worthy. For the remainder of your parents' lives, they will feel your presence even if they cannot recall your face."

Oh.

For once acting on pure instinct, no lucid thought in her mind, Hermione reached over and clutched his hand where it lay on his chest, threading her fingers through his.

After a moment, his other hand came across and rested gently atop hers.

He was gone by the time she woke up the next morning, a fact for which she was profoundly thankful, as she thought he was highly likely to suffer from a severe case of morning-after-emotional-bonding sarcasm. She needed a hot shower and a very strong cup of tea to put up with Severus's less attractive qualities. She had slept surprisingly well, though, waking up only once in the night when the room became a little chilly and she'd barely had time to rise to surface consciousness before she'd felt a hand tucking the blankets higher over her shoulder.

After her shower, she changed back into her lightweight dress robes. They would be heading back to actual summer weather that afternoon and she wanted to avoid the teaching robe sauna effect for as long as possible. She made her way down the main staircase in search of tea and had just passed the open door to the drawing room when a banshee screech echoed from the rear wing of the house and almost gave her a heart attack.

What the bloody hell was that?

The cry came again, this time lengthening into a mad broken laugh worthy of Mr. Rochester's oppressed wife in the attic. Hermione yanked her wand from her pocket and was trying to determine the direction from which it had originated when a flash of movement caught her eye. She took an involuntary step backward, her bare leg collided with something moving and hairy, and as evidence of how many years it had been since she'd been involved in anything more violent than a tussle with Sybil Trelawney over the last chocolate biscuit, she fired off a stunning spell without thinking.

Fortunately, her aim had been absolutely crap and the spell glanced off the frame of a hideous seascape rather than blasting Archibald's old ginger tomcat unconscious.

Oops.

"I suppose that abysmal display is testament to Potter's skills at teaching Defence," Severus drawled, and she spun around to find him leaning against the drawing room doorway. One brow had risen in a sardonic arch and he was watching her with the level of professional disapproval he usually reserved for the likes of poor Neville.

"So my reflexes are a little rusty," she retorted, refraining from pointing out that he had also been her Defence teacher and the Ministry-sanctioned one, at that. "I haven't actually had to Stun that many people in the past few years. Flagrant abuse of the students tends to be frowned upon, I'm sure it would surprise you to learn. However, I'm quite prepared to give it a little more practice," she said, pointedly raising her wand.

His eyes gleamed and he straightened away from the door.

"By all means," he said, almost purring. "Clearly you wouldn't be safe from attack without the sheer dumb luck of Tweedledum and Tweedledee."

The blast of her second spell, a Jelly Legs Jinx charged strong and sure by sheer annoyance, exploded off his lazily conjured shield charm.

"Adequate," he said coolly, tilting his head to one side. "Providing that your assailant is the size of a house and obliging enough to remain utterly immobile."

After her third attempt (the Tarantallegra jinx, chosen for the sheer amusement potential) missed him and ricocheted off a Chinese dragon vase, Severus dropped his coolly sardonic air, berated her for endangering herself (à la the "imbecilic Potter") by use of "asinine, childish spells", and reverted to full teaching mode of barked orders, crushing criticisms, and personal insults. Only the fact that in between the bloody rude, ego-flattening comments, he seemed genuinely concerned that she still be able to protect herself, regardless of whether they were technically in a time of peace ("doesn't exist") allowed her to grit her teeth and submit to the instruction.

Well, that, and the fact that she would apparently never be too old to want to pass a test.

She had just produced a shield charm that Severus grudgingly deemed "acceptable", when the hideous laughter rang out again, closer this time. The impromptu exam had put the demonic cackling completely out of her mind.

"It's coming from the library," she said, dropping the charm and rushing to catch up with Severus as he strode in the direction of the sound. The laughter became increasingly loud and increasingly creepy as they approached the door to the library. Severus, wand at the ready, flung open the door and Hermione peered around his outstretched arm.

There was a moment of silence as they took in the sight of Archibald Madden sitting down to tea with a cackling, pop-eyed, phosphorescent wraith, then:

"Oh, for the love of…"

Severus swore, lowered his wand, and eyed the scene in disgust.

Hermione gaped as Archibald rose to his feet, red-faced and stammering, while the awful, skeletal apparition of his dead wife remained curled up on a foot stool by the fire, glassy eyes unblinking and giggles leaking from a ghastly fixed smile.

"Is she an Inferius?" she asked, appalled. The penalties against any and all practice of the Dark Arts were so stringent now that creating Inferi meant a straight pass into Azkaban.

"As I seem to recall you memorising the textbook definition of Inferi," Severus said dryly, ignoring the slightly hysterical explanations of Archibald, "you ought to be well aware that that is not an Inferius. It is, however, a Simulacrum, which is still a branch of Necromancy magic and thus deemed verboten by our upstanding arbiters of law and order."

Throwing off the shock of seeing a very zombie-like and very naked version of an intellectual idol, Hermione took comfortable refuge in Encyclopaedia Mode. A Simulacrum, she recalled, was the conjuring of an apparition in the likeness of a deceased party. It was not a ghost or poltergeist, as it contained no trace of soul magic; nor was it a form of the Dark Arts, as it required a specimen from the previously living body such as hair or saliva, but did not appropriate the corpse as did the creation of an Inferius. A Simulacrum could neither communicate nor respond to stimuli, but tended to emit a piercing noise that resembled a human giggle.

Except that the word "giggle" implied a sound of life and joy. The spine-creeping laughter spoke of nothing but death and…wrongness.

Muttering a deprecation under his breath, Severus strode forward with intent and Archibald all but leapt in front of his…companion.

"No!" he shouted in pure panic, clutching at the Simulacrum.

"Put down that abomination," Severus said flatly, "and get out of the way. You've been an absolute fool to practice Necromancy with strangers present in your home. If someone had summoned the Department of Magical Deviancy, you would now be drinking water from a prison cistern."

"You don't understand," Archibald said brokenly. "A hundred and fifty years. Over a hundred and fifty years together. I don't know what to do. You can't take her. Please don't take her. Bea," he said helplessly, clutching at the awful wailing thing. "Bea."

"Oh God, this is terrible," Hermione whispered, horrified, as she clutched instinctively at Severus's arm. "Severus – don't –"

She hardly knew what she feared; but he simply shook his head, gently detached himself from her, and went to the side of the shivering old man. A mere twist of his wand and the laughter permanently ceased.

Then he reached out a hand and clasped Archibald's shoulder.

They all stood in silence for a long time.

Hermione closed the door to Minerva's office and stepped back out into the corridor. The elderly witch had been in charge of the school during Severus's short leave of absence, so Hermione had stopped by upon their return to explain why they were a good five hours late. She would have been very surprised if it had occurred to Severus to do so himself; however, since he had just gone to a staggering amount of effort to comfort a desolated old wizard and track down a decent grief counsellor from St. Mungo's (and particularly when she knew he considered counsellors to be charlatans in a superfluous occupation), she wasn't feeling overly critical about his lack of professional courtesy. She had returned the inventory list to Minerva and indicated which volumes she had marked for purchase, but explained with only minimal regret that the sale could wait until Archibald was better equipped to deal with business matters.

She had also confided in Minerva that she had got along rather well with Severus during the excursion. Very well, in fact, overall. She had no idea what was going to happen next, but she knew what she would quite like to happen, and had no intention of engaging in shady, clandestine behaviour that always resulted in stress, mortification, and inevitable discovery. She liked to know where she stood in any relationship, particularly those of the…non-platonic variety. "Romantic" didn't seem quite the appropriate word. Although as he had already managed to offer soul-deep comfort by starlight, he might prove her wrong in that respect.

Minerva had been utterly speechless for a moment.

"Good heavens," she had said finally. Then: "Good God!"

Subjecting Hermione to a thoroughly evaluating stare across the desk, she had eventually nodded once, briskly.

"Not entirely inconceivable," she had decided, before suddenly smiling. "That elucidates one puzzle, at least. I've been wondering why Severus has lately become so enamoured of the school library."

Hermione had stared at her.

"He's avoiding Ernie," she'd said slowly.

"He has a perfectly good office in which to avoid anyone he likes," Minerva had responded dryly. "He's also capable of crushing poor Mr. Macmillan with a well-placed sneer. Frankly, speculation has been wild in the staffroom as to how the poor boy is still in possession of his limbs. The school librarian, however, rarely ventures far from her books…"

Oh.

Oh.

Lost in increasingly pleasant thoughts, Hermione had just walked past the Room of Requirement when a large hand grabbed her by the shoulder.

There was nothing wrong with her reflexes this time.

A moment later, she stood staring down in dismay at a thoroughly Stupefied Ernie.

"Oh, bollocks."

At least there were no students or faculty about to bear witness to…

"Outstanding."

She stopped, turned, and cast Severus an exasperated look. He was standing a few feet behind them, a tall and impressive figure in his black robes, and he was actually grinning.

"An 'O', without reservation," he continued, eyeing Ernie's prone figure with malicious satisfaction. "Solidly executed and a quite brilliant choice of application. A rare moment of pride in my otherwise objectionable teaching career."

"Oh, shut —" The complaint was lost against his lips as his mouth came down on hers, hard. She took her own advice and gave up any attempt to communicate with words. Sliding her hands about his neck, she felt the cool slip of his black hair against her fingers and twisted the inky strands about her knuckles. His teeth grazed her upper lip as he drew back for a moment to look into her eyes, before cupping her head in his palms and again angling her mouth under his. Their bodies strained toward one another, the sounds of harsh breathing filled the quiet corridor, and neither of them spared the remotest thought for the unconscious body of the Deputy Head at their feet.

Finally, he lifted his head, his hands still cupping her jaw and tangling in her dishevelled curls. The ribbon restraining her plait had given up the fight somewhere around the moment he had introduced tongue to the proceedings. Struggling and failing to catch her breath, Hermione caught hold of his lean waist to retain her balance.

Her knees were shaking, for God's sake.

"Supper in my rooms at eight," he ordered without ceremony, before leaning forward and catching her mouth in another rough kiss.

Was there anything at which the man wasn't skilled? She suspected the answer was going to prove a resounding negative.

As the sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner, Severus disentangled his hands with visible reluctance. He glanced down at Ernie once more, eyes gleaming, and raised her hands to his lips in a brief salute before departing in a dramatic swirl of black…and lime green?

Hermione was still staring after him when Neville appeared at her side, a stray fern frond hanging from his ear like one of Luna Lovegood's novelty earrings, and stared down at Ernie in astonishment.

"What on earth happened?" he asked blankly, then caught sight of Severus heading toward the far stairway. His face brightened. "Merlin's balls, did he finally snap? I think this is my day in the betting pool."

He peered more closely at the departing Headmaster.

"Good God," he said blankly. "Is Professor Snape wearing neon green socks? That's a bit sprightly, isn't it?"

And Hermione gave in and started to giggle.