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"If you won't use Legilimens to find out if it is him inside my head, I don't know why you keep coming here at all," Hermione stormed. She couldn't forgive Snape for walking out on her three nights ago, couldn't understand how he could abandon her at her most vulnerable, unless... It might be his own cruel revenge for that night in the Shack. Was there anyone in the wizard world who was not bent on revenge? Didn't he care that she might be carrying the spirit of Voldemort within her like a germinating seed? Was he going to let it sprout before pulling it up by the roots? 

The feeling never left her, sleeping or awake, that her body was playing hostess to a presence - an opportunistic, hitch-hiking symbiant. Snape was a surgeon with a scalpel. Any time he chose, he could slice her open and take a look, and yet he preferred to wait. What for - until the thing grew and burst from her entrails like some slavering alien?

"Couldn't you just -" she began again.

"I cannot use Legilimens!" he exclaimed, so forcefully that Hermione cringed. "The Dark Lord is gone. You watched him die, a privilege I myself was denied. You're deluding yourself to think otherwise. For the last time, Hermione, he is dead." It was not often that he raised his voice with her. For the first time it occurred to her that he too might be afraid. They glared at each other. Jaw clamped, still seething, Hermione nevertheless tried to remould her disappointment into something resembling sympathy. Snape faced her, looking, she realised, not so much angry but tired and defensive.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. This whole business couldn't have been easy for him either. And he was helping: he called in to check on her; he'd made her revise her defensive spells; he'd reinforced the wards and brought her the sleeping potion. He'd lent her the Sneakoscope and the Foe-Glass she'd hung next to the back door. His visits broke up the long days and gave her someone to talk to, something to look forward to, even if he did stay only a short while. Without that she'd have gone crazy. She felt safer, more confident, less jittery when he was there. Ron hadn't bothered to show up at all.

"The Fourth Epistle," Snape reminded her at last with patronising solemnity. Letter Number Four. It had arrived by owl that morning. He had suggested that the next time one came - if it came - they should open it together. Already her name had faded from the envelope. With trembling fingers, Hermione was about to rip it open when Snape tapped her hands with his wand, shielding her, or more likely himself, from whatever itching or sneezing powder the hoaxer might have included.

"Ready?" She felt Snape's breath on her neck. He was standing behind her to read the letter over her shoulder. Never before had he been so close. For a moment she found it impossible to concentrate on the letter at all, conscious only of his presence.

A sheet of cream A5.

"Turquoise ink! The Dark Lord's trademark!" he declared.

"Is it?" The page shook in Hermione's hand.

"Were you always this gullible? No, of course it isn't. Read it."

"‘I shall mark you as my equal.' 

In her brain a high, cold, taunting voice spoke the words. The voice she had heard that night at Hogwarts. ‘I shall mark you...' 

"He's going to scar me," she cried. "Like Harry. I'll have this hideous scar right across my face -"

She whirled round, virtually into Snape's arms.

"Could you read it?" she demanded. "See, I'm not imagining things. I'm not hysterical."

His eyebrows lifted. Saying nothing, he steered her to a seat.

"The Dark Lord was renowned for his extraordinary patience. It is entirely conceivable that he might possess you, wait four years before revealing himself, and then send dainty notelets advertising the fact."

"Don't mock me," Hermione blazed. "If you and Minister Shacklebolt and Harry and everybody don't think it's anything to do with Dark magic, then why send you? The one expert on Voldemort we have. If I'm merely cracking up they could have sent the men in lime coats."

"There's still time," he warned.

"So, what's the diagnosis, Doctor Snape - delusional paranoia?"

Stooping to retrieve the plain sheet of paper from the floor where she had dropped it, Snape scowled.

"Paranoid? Oh, surely not. That vicious elf who attacked you at the Ministry - big chap was he? Aggressive? Been stalking you for months? He had it coming..."

Speechless, Hermione watched as he collected his cloak from the stand in the hall. He was doing it again - leaving her right in the middle of a crisis. Why didn't he ever stay longer and finish an argument? Maybe Kingsley only paid him by the hour, with no overtime.

"What do you do - turn back into a pumpkin?" she shouted after him.












"It is Polyjuice, isn't it? Very clever. So who the hell are you?" She'd Stunned him as he came in. Now she stood over his crumpled form, holding him at wandpoint.

"Don't point that thing at me." Rubbing his head, Snape sat up groggily. "You've got to learn to moderate. That Stupefy would have felled a troll."

"Don't change the subject. I'm not stupid. You're always having to go away. You never stay longer than an hour. If it's not Polyjuice, what is it?"

"It's not Polyjuice," he said, hauling himself to his feet, still dizzy from the spell. "If you must know, it's -"

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong... 

"Hermione! Hey, Hermione, it's Ginny. Open up, I know you're in there."

Snape and Hermione stared at each other aghast. Then, grabbing him by the arm, she hustled him along the hall, through the kitchen and into the sitting room.

"Stay in there, whoever you are. I'll get rid of her."

Ginny bounced in bearing an enormous wicker basket.

"Golly, you took your time. He's not here, is he, your Mister Inky?" She broke into a whoop of laughter. "Poor Ron, he does get some funny ideas. As if you'd ever... Sorry I've not been before but we had the Wasps semi-final and then we were ‘away' against the Tornadoes ... Look, I've brought you fruit and absolutely masses of chocolate - got to get your priorities right - and some back copies of the Quibbler. Time for a cuppa?"

She was busying herself in the kitchen before Hermione could pretend it wasn't convenient.

"Who is he then, your mystery man?" asked Ginny, agog but definitely fishing and probably on a mission for Ron.

"Oh, him. Just some electrician come to read the meter. That's what Muggles do. So we know how much to pay for the lights and so on."

Ginny would have preferred a more juicy explanation.

"Boring! Trust Ronnikins to get the wrong end of the stick. So, how are you?"

Mumbling excuses about catching up on her sleep and how good it was having time to read novels, Hermione set out the mugs. Then she asked about Ron. At this Ginny's face clouded.

"He's... Hermione, I'm sorry about this, but he seems really happy. He's living back at Mum and Dad's - home cooking and all that - and he says splitting up with you is the best thing that ever happened."

"Ron doesn't want a wife, he wants a chef." Hermione forced a laugh.

"He said that having one Harpy in the family was enough," Ginny went on. "That you were impossible to live with."

"I pride myself on it."

They both giggled. It brought it home to Hermione just how long it was since she'd had any fun. Choosing one of the biggest bars of dark chocolate from the basket - even chocolate was Dark these days - she broke off several squares.

"This is the life!"

"It's good to see you looking more like, well, like the old Hermione," said Ginny, grinning. "The way Ron talks, you'd think you were certifiable. And you have been getting a bit scary recently, you know, what with the executive dressing and the hair and everything."

"What's wrong with my hair?" Hermione pounced.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I just prefer it the way it is now, more casual. You must admit your Ministry image can be a little... severe."

"It's called ‘smart', Ginny. It's how people look who work for a living."

They each took another square. After a while Ginny asked,

"You haven't lost that clip thing Harry gave you?" 

"Oh, you know about that, do you? No, it's here somewhere. Do you want it back? I felt awful accepting it when he'd bought it for you."

"Didn't buy it." Ginny spoke through a mouthful of chocolate. "Found it at Hogwarts. If you ask me, it'd been confiscated from some student, but Harry's got this daft idea that it belonged to his mother."

"You'd better have it back then." Hermione began rooting in her handbag amongst the keys and pens and lipstick.

"No, you keep it. Just don't lose it. Oh, before I forget, Ron asked me to collect some box or other that belongs to Dennis Creevey."

Finally, the real reason for Ginny's visit. Hermione almost choked. The C-V was in the sitting room with Snape.

"I'll fetch it. You sit there and finish your tea."

Brushing away Ginny's offer to help, and making furtive gesticulations to Snape to stay well out of sight, Hermione levitated the heavy box from the room. Her friend was curious.

"What in Merlin's name is it?"

"You'll love it," Hermione assured her, "if you like Quidditch."

"Talking about Quidditch..." Ginny launched into her second favourite subject after Harry. It was another hour before she left, taking the C-V with her.

Entering the sitting room with an apology on her lips, Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. Snape was lying on the sofa, asleep. And sprawled across his chest like a ginger mohair jumper, was Crookshanks. The gentle rise and fall of Snape's breathing was matched by the cat's throbbing, self-satisfied purr. With typical feline perversity, he had deliberately sought out the cat-hater and was now glorying in his conquest. Forgetting that an hour earlier she had been accusing the man of being an impostor, Hermione gazed at the pair, fondly at first and then with a twinge of guilt. It was unlike Snape to sleep ‘on duty'. Perhaps he was still suffering from the effects of the Stupefy. Not anticipating an attack this time, he had taken the full impact of the spell and had hit the floor hard when he went down.

She crossed the room, half-expecting him to share the cat's instinctive reflexes and wake at her approach, but he slept on. Crookshanks merely yawned and stretched out a soft paw, pin-sharp claws flexing.

"Don't wake him, Crooks," she whispered, bending down to give the cat a stroke. "Oh, you silly puss - keep still..." 

One of the claws had snagged on Snape's scarf. As she unhooked it she was startled to see spots of new blood on the dark silk. Telling herself that she was still disentangling the cat, she eased the scarf down and away from Snape's neck. Two button-hole scars covered the old puncture wounds, not fully healed as she would have expected after all this time, but cracked and seeping.

Oh, you poor man, she thought, letting the fabric fall back. No wonder you always look so tired. 

Evening was pushing through the wards and creeping into the house, bringing darkness and an autumn chill to the room. It was long past the time when the effects of Polyjuice would have worn off. Hermione lit the fire, then stood watching her sleeping visitor, uncertain whether to wake him or let him rest. The glow of the flames lent a deceptive warmth and colour to his pale cheeks. A strand of dark hair, which had slipped forwards across his nose and looked tickly, lifted with each breath. She was tempted to brush it out of his face, but she didn't want to disturb him.

In the kitchen she rinsed out the mugs. Catching sight of her reflection in the Foe-Glass she had to agree with Ginny; she did look a mess. ‘Casual' was putting it tactfully. Perhaps she should do something about her hair. It wasn't worth plaiting it, though, not so near to bed time; a pony tail would have to do.

Not that it would make any difference to Snape. Over the past couple of weeks he had seen her at her worst - screaming, sobbing, hysterical - so there was little point in trying to impress him. However sarcastic or patronising he might be, he always treated her with professional propriety. Never once had she felt threatened or at risk with Snape - not in that way. He'd never tried it on or made a move, though he'd had plenty of opportunities. Perhaps she should be feeling insulted.

Snape woke with a loud sneeze that sent Crookshanks leaping for cover. He sat up, smacking pale cat fur from his jacket and blinking in the sudden brightness as Hermione switched on the lamp.

"That's why witches usually have lucky black cats," she said.

"If that animal crosses my path again, it won't be lucky." Snape sniffed. "You should have woken me," he grumbled. "What time is it?"

"Nearly nine. I'd ask you to stay for supper, but I know you have to go," she said, helping him into his cloak.

Heavy-eyed, he regarded her with deep suspicion.

"You've changed your tune. If this is some scheme you've cooked up with that Weasley girl..." There was a raised, reddish mark on his forehead where the Stunner had hit him. He touched it, grimacing. Then his hand slid to his throat, checking, adjusting the scarf. "About before... It's not Polyjuice, it's -"

"I know," interrupted Hermione, shepherding him out. "I've worked it out. It's some other potion you have to take. I'm sorry. It's none of my business. I shouldn't have been so nosey."

"It's never stopped you before," he muttered.

At the front step she put a hand on his arm.

"Are you sure you're all right to Apparate?"

The gentleness of her tone surprised them both. Snape looked at her now, seeing concern in her upturned eyes, and on his face was an expression of... outrage.

"Where did you get that?" he asked harshly, wrenching her round so that her back was towards him. His fingers fumbled in her hair and Hermione realised he was undoing the dove-shaped clip. Lily's clip. When she had pinned up her pony-tail she hadn't given it a second thought. But how cruel of her, how insensitive to wear it when Snape was there. 

"It was a present from Harry," she said, pulling away. "Get off me. Here, have it if you must."

A sad, choking groan seemed to lodge in his throat as he pressed the wooden carving to his heart.

"No, no, no," he moaned, clasping it to his breast, rocking it like a dead baby, and stumbling blindly out into the road as though he neither knew nor cared where he was going.

"Snape, come back inside," she called. "You're not well. Come back."

She ran after him, but it was too late. He had gone.    

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