Polyjuiced!

Since it's been a while, here's a quick recap of what happened so far:

An injured Hermione wakes up to find that Snape has rescued her after she was captured by Death Eaters during a raid. It turns out that, as far as Dumbledore's death is concerned, Harry (as usual) didn't get his facts right. Since Voldemort has ordered her dead, she can't return to the Order without exposing Snape - at least not as Hermione Granger. But for the moment, she is too weak to worry about that, anyway.

Now, on with the story:

***

It was hard, getting used to Snape as a nursemaid. Not only was she still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that he was not actually as thoroughly nasty as she had believed, he was also her former teacher - and a man. Sick-care was much too intimate at times for her to feel comfortable with him as the caregiver. More than once she looked away in embarrassment, blushing a furious red, wishing she were anywhere else.

Yet she had to admit that he was surprisingly good at it. Oh, he didn't have a lot to say, and when he did speak, nothing had changed - he was still the same sarcastic, acidic, short-tempered man she had known. No pleasant, encouraging bedside chatter from him.

But she slowly discovered that, while his tongue remained as sharp as ever, his hands were competent and astonishingly gentle as he took care of her. He handled her matter-of-factly, with a minimum of fuss. Hermione appreciated that more than she could say.

The second day of her stay at Dumbledore's place -- and really, if nothing else, the painting of the frolicking kitten on the wall of her room would have been conclusive proof that this house was not originally decorated by the dour Potions master -- Minerva McGonagall stopped by for a visit, bringing with her some of Hermione's clothes and a substitute wand.

"So, how are you, my dear?" the older witch asked, sitting down on the chair next to her bed.

"Better than I was," she answered with a wry smile. At least at this point Snape didn't have to feed her any more - she could manage a spoon on her own. "I'll be fine."

"I'm glad to hear it..."

Hermione looked sharply at Hogwarts' headmistress. Minerva seemed distracted, discomfited.

"Did everyone...?" Hermione hesitated, dreading the answer to her question. "During the raid when I was captured - did everyone else make it out all right?"

Minerva relaxed a bit. "Yes, they did," she answered with a quick smile. "There were a few minor injuries, but nothing Poppy couldn't fix." Her face grew serious again. "As far as anyone knows, you were the only casualty. Ron and Harry are still holding out hope that you've only been taken prisoner. They aren't quite prepared to give up yet. But as far as everyone else..." She let her voice trail off.

"They think I'm dead." Looking down at her hands, Hermione was quiet for a while. Voldemort wasn't known for showing mercy to his captives. The bodies of some of his victims had never been found, so it couldn't be ruled out that there might be some captives locked away in a dungeon somewhere, but for the most part, once someone was taken by Death Eaters, that someone didn't make it back.

Minerva's voice faltered. "It's been...horrible, not being able to tell them that you're alive. They are...devastated. But I simply can't afford for Harry to find out. Voldemort could reestablish his link to him at any time, and you know as well as I do that when it comes to Harry, Remus and Ron can't be trusted. They would tell him if they knew." Hermione could see her swallowing hard. "It isn't worth the risk to Severus' life."

Hermione nodded. "I understand." She faltered. "Would you mind telling me - how did you find out? That he was - is - still on our side?"

Folding her hands on her lap, Minerva leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "It took me weeks to feel comfortable in Albus' office," she said. "It seemed...sacrilegious, to take over what had been his space for so long, to clean out his drawers, to put away his things. It was bad enough having his portrait there, reminding me of all we had lost. It's a mere shadow of the real Albus, that portrait, but when he did finally wake up - he slept for nearly a month; I guess he must have been worn out, poor man, and small wonder - he told me to look in a certain, hidden drawer in his desk. When I did, a small package materialized. He must have Charmed it so only I could find it.

"It contained two items. One was a glass bottle, filled with his memories. The other was a sealed letter, containing a long list of advice and instructions, from where to procure the best sherbet lemons to understanding his filing system.

"Near the end of the letter, he told me about Severus. That he wanted me to know that no matter what had happened to him, Severus was not to blame. He told me to look at the memories in the bottle and to then make up my own mind based on the evidence. That he needed me to trust Severus, even if for obvious reasons his true allegiance had to remain a secret." She smiled a quavering smile at Hermione. "So after looking at the memories...well, they left no doubt in my mind. I decided to contact him. I don't know what the Order would have done without him over the last three years."

"The rest of the Order hates him..."

There was a pained expression on McGonagall's face. "I am quite aware of that. But no one can know, Hermione. His life would be forfeit at even a hint of suspicion. He only told you because under the circumstances, there was no other choice. - You are trained in Occlumency?"

"Yes. It's part of Auror training."

Satisfied, Minerva nodded. "So I can trust you to keep his secret. You do need to realize that it will be...terribly hard to go back. No one can know. You will have to continue to let them think you are dead, to look at their grief without being able to tell them who you really are..."

"I know," Hermione said in a small voice. "But it can't be forever?"

"I hope not," Minerva said fervently. "I think this war is drawing to a close - just a hunch in my bones." She patted Hermione's hand awkwardly. "Let's hope I am right."

.-.-.-.

Snape was frequently gone for hours at a time, presumably to the Dark Lord's side -- Hermione did not dare inquire too closely. Often, he would look bone-tired when he returned - his face strained and even paler than usual, his limbs weighed down with weariness.

Maybe it was a result of her Auror training, of learning to look for the hidden nuances when talking to a suspect or informer, but over time, she learned to read him better, to pick up on subtleties in his voice and expression, in the process becoming more aware of how hard his life was, how precarious his situation.

As a result, guilt came flooding in swirling eddies. All of a sudden, every ugly thought, every time she had suspected him, every time she had cursed him over the last few years, every time she had stolen from him or set his robe on fire during her time as his student, came back to haunt her.

She should have been able to figure out the truth - there had been so many hints, so many clues...

"I should have known," she burst out wretchedly, the first evening she was able to get out of bed and, leaning heavily on him, make her way to the living room. "I mean, you had just saved Dumbledore's life, when his hand was cursed.... How could I have believed that you would actually...? But Harry saw...anyway, I'm so sorry...."

He looked down his long nose at her, a distant, unreadable expression on his face. "I knew when I killed him what to expect. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

Somehow, that didn't make her feel any better.

His lips curled into a sneer. "Come now, Granger. Even someone of your supposed genius can't be expected to figure out something that eluded the rest of the Order."

Yet the rest of the evening went surprisingly well. She told him of her life since they had left Hogwarts -- about living with Harry, Ron, and Remus in the Black house. She liked living in London, and Harry didn't charge her rent. Harry worked for the Order full time, but she, of course, was at Auror Headquarters most of the day. It still was a sore spot with Harry that she had managed to get accepted into the Auror Corps and he had not. But while they had been off -- .

She hesitated.

With a dry smile, Snape supplied, "...hunting Horcruxes?"

"You know?"

He nodded. "Of course."

Of course. The information that had led them to Hufflepuff's cup - that must have been him.... She flashed him a quick smile before continuing.

Well, anyway -- while they had been off hunting Horcruxes, she had taken along N.E.W.T. level texts and had studied and practiced, and at the end of what would have been their seventh year, she had sat for her N.E.W.T.s and passed.

"I got an O in Potions," she told him with a smile.

"What did you have to brew?"

"Blood-Replenishing Potion."

He nodded. "Quite tricky...do you know that the properties can be enhanced by adding a teaspoon of turmeric immediately after adding the leech juice?"

"Really? I would have thought that the turmeric would counteract the..."

Before she knew it, they were knee-deep in Potions theory. When she went to bed an hour later, she smiled a disbelieving smile at the thought that she had just immensely enjoyed spending the evening with Severus Snape. Stimulating conversation was hard to come by at Number 12, Grimmauld Place -- as much as she loved them otherwise, Harry, Ron, and Remus' usual conversation revolved around the Holyhead Harpies' new Seeker's trademark maneuver ("The Allen Cut"), Franz Anton's mesmerizing performance for the Austrian National Team during the last World Quidditch Cup, and the fact that the Cannons had been utter fools to trade O'Hara to the Pride of Portree.

After almost two years in that testosterone-laden household, she knew more about Quidditch than she ever cared to. It was wonderful for once to talk about something actually interesting...

.-.-.-.

Two days later, when he had once again gone out of the house, she had finally made it to the living room under her own power. She had been extraordinarily proud of herself when she, with a short groan, settled herself on the sofa. Smiling, she imagined the surprised look on his face when he came through the door and saw her there.

He would be pleased, of course - that much closer to being released from his responsibility for her. She wondered what he told Voldemort as to where he was spending so much time. He had told her that his own house -- he apparently didn't normally reside here -- was closely watched. Where did they think he was, then? Undoubtedly, he had thought up a convincing story...

When she heard the door open, she looked up with a smile. But the reaction that she had expected -- the raised eyebrow, the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth -- didn't materialize. He was pale as a sheet, taut as a bowstring. When he saw her, he stopped still.

"Miss Granger." His voice was as wooden as his expression. The smile dropped off her face.

"Sir? What is it?"

He didn't answer. Taking his Death Eater robe and mask from where they were still draped over his arm, he slowly, deliberately, hung them in the coat cupboard. He closed the door of the cupboard with exquisite care. She watched him briefly close his eyes, then walk over and sit down on the sofa next to her.

Now she was frightened. This wasn't normal behavior for him -- he usually kept physical distance unless contact was utterly necessary.

"Sir? Please say something?"

He finally raised his eyes. "I'm afraid I have... bad news. Ronald Weasley was killed today. A trap."

She gazed at him without comprehension.

Ron. Her once-upon-a-time boyfriend, until they had mutually decided that Quidditch obsession and bookwormishness did not complement each other. Ron, with his boisterous enthusiasm. Ron, who had been one of her best friends ever since her first year at Hogwarts, both before and after the boyfriend episode. Funny, flame-haired, freckle-faced Ron. He couldn't be dead. Snape must have him confused with someone else.

"No." The word came out in a cold whisper. "No." With a choking little cry, she drew back from him. "No. You must be mistaken."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Slowly, the realization of what he was telling her started to percolate through her consciousness, small roots of grief worming their way through her mind. "No." With it came anger. This was senseless, pointless...

"Why didn't you stop them?" The words came hard and scorching. "Were you there? You never liked him, did you? Did you help them kill him? Just another reckless Gryffindor?" She turned on him angrily as her tears started rising, her hands tightening into fists. "Did you enjoy it? Watching him die?" Somewhere deep down inside she knew she was being unreasonable, but right then it felt good to lash out, to hurt him back, the way his words had hurt her. And she was hurting him; she could see it in the expression of his eyes, could see it in the fine lines of pain around his mouth.

"I did not know." He held her off by her upper arms. "I did not find out until too late..."

But she was past caring. "You should have found a way..." She was sobbing now. And then, just as quickly, the anger crumbled away, leaving raw agony. And she knew that the accusations she was throwing at him were capitally unfair, and yet he just sat there, his expression stiff and drawn, taking it, and it was worse than if he had flared up and defended himself.

"I am sorry." She repeated it again and again. "I'm so sorry." Sorry for Ron, for herself, for what she had just done to him. And he was here, and she needed someone, anyone; this was hurting too badly, and so (how exactly, she could not later remember) she ended up leaning forward and crying against his chest, lost in grief, ashamed, not knowing what else to do.

For a moment, he sat there quietly, and then, very slowly, his arms went around her, as if he was expecting her to shrug them off, and when she didn't, they wrapped closely around her and held her tight.

She couldn't have said how long they sat there like that, she crying wildly against the heavy cotton of his robe, he sitting still, not saying or doing anything other than simply holding her, letting her cry.

When the first wave of grief died down and the tears came more quietly, she still didn't let go. There was, at the edge of her awareness, the realization that she was comfortable here; that she was glad of the feeling of his arms around her, strong and reliable; that the faintly medicinal smell of him was comforting and familiar. A small part of her mind wondered how and when that had happened, and the rest of her was merely glad that it had, that she didn't have to be alone right now.

.-.-.-.

Some time later, when she was mostly cried out, spent and headachy, grief dully throbbing like an aching tooth, she slowly straightened up. He released her immediately, quickly dropping his arms. She cast a quick, sideways glance at him -- there was an odd expression on his face, a mixture of pain, awkwardness, and a touch of...longing? Fear?

When he saw her look, his face quickly changed back to the normal impassive mask.

"Let me give you a potion to help you relax and sleep," he said as he sat up as well, his voice carefully modulated. "You need to rest."

She leaned heavily on him as he helped her back to her bedroom, letting him care for her as if she were a child as he settled her into bed.

"I know that it wasn't your fault," she repeated awkwardly when she handed back the potion vial as he pulled the blanket up over her. "I shouldn't have said those things."

He cast her another closed glance. "You were understandably overwrought. I did not hold the words against you."

Maybe not. But she knew that she had hurt him. She reached out and quickly covered his hand with hers. For a second, the odd look she had seen earlier flitted across his face again.

"Thank you," she said softly. She felt the potion beginning to work, her limbs growing heavy, her mind feeling floaty and unfocused. Reality faded away, as the draught he had given her for the moment pushed the ugliness and pain of her loss towards the edges of her consciousness. "And do forgive me, please. You've been...good to me. You're a good man, Severus Snape."

And realized with fuzzy astonishment that she meant what she had said. "Really, not a bad sort at all," she said, feeling sleepy and dizzy and relaxed. She put her hand against his cheek. "You're hard to get to know, you see...but I think I might like to.... You have very nice eyes...." She smiled. "I like it when you talk to me...talk to me some more...."

"You don't know what you are saying, Miss Granger." There was a strained note in his voice. "It appears the potion was too strong for you."

"Hermione," she said with a yawn as her eyelids started to droop. "You should call me Hermione, Severus..." Her voice trailed away as she fell asleep.