Cheat the Devil

Cheat the Devil, Part 2

by Leni Jess

Hermione invited him to go to her workroom while she tidied up the kitchen; he decided that since he was a guest perhaps that was acceptable. He would certainly get in her way, though he ought to learn where things went. He appreciated order, as they seemed to.

He wandered about, cataloguing excellences, wondering what had recently hung on the picture-hook above her workbench. He allowed his interest its way; whatever it was could hardly endanger him, and if it was some kind of work plan, she should not be shy about his seeing it. He fingered his wand and murmured the finding charm. That led him to the lowest, deepest drawer in a narrow set that he knew she stored parchments in.

He squatted, still faintly tickled by a feeling he should not invade her privacy. Habit, however, the need to know whatever others wished to conceal from him, was too strong. That went right back not just to his days as a Death Eater but also to the insecurities of his earliest remembered childhood.

The thing was a photograph frame, and when he turned it over vestigial good manners were swamped by a wave of rabid anger, then another of ravening curiosity.

Himself. In his classroom. Not looking at the camera - he would never have permitted a photographer there - but at the work of his students. A minatory scowl for one, a word of brief approval for another, then a smoothly threatening, "If you continue to stir, Miss Weasley, it will burn your hand." That class. So the approval had probably been for Finuala Walsh, a model student: excellent at Potions work, Slytherin, unfailingly courteous and attentive, and pure-blood. He had seen her again in Edinburgh.

The photographer must have been Mr Creevey, that irritating, obsessive, ingenious, and now dead Gryffindor, who had gone to his death using his camera to great effect for Dumbledore. Some of the later trials had resulted in convictions largely because of the pictures Colin Creevey had taken.

His wrath began to subside. No wonder she had hidden the photograph; he did not appreciate having his own privacy invaded. But why had she had it on her wall in the first place?

He poked through the drawer and was not surprised to find other photographs. What did surprise him was their number, and the order in which they were kept. Mr Creevey must have been at it for months, to get those sequences. It was seldom Severus demonstrated, especially for students in the higher classes. Had she wanted some kind of aide-mémoire? That might make sense. But why have one of the pictures enlarged, why hang it where she would see it as she worked, where it could have talked to her, had he been aware of being photographed? She might guess that, had he been aware, the frame would have been obstinately empty when she could see it.

He was still sitting on his heels, the frame in his lap, brushing through a set showing the fine detail of making, he could tell, Dreamless Sleep, when she came in. A pity it wasn't safe to use the stuff on himself.

He did not feel apologetic, and attacked at once.

"What is this, Miss Granger?"

Not phrased carefully enough. She answered with something of Potter's impudence, "A photograph, Professor."

He hissed, and put it back in the drawer, slamming it shut, then rose to his feet without using his hands, so he could stride closer and loom over her.

She didn't back away from that, either; probably she was used to people looming over her, even if they seldom had his expression on their faces.

Her own flash of temper subsided. She said carefully, "You've found the photo sets, so you know why I had them taken."

"An invaluable record of flawless preparation techniques," he agreed, choosing silky sarcasm that should have annihilated her.

"Yes," she answered seriously. "They're like a textbook."

"And that, of course, is why one was enlarged, framed, and hung on the wall - that I might supervise your work?"

There was a faint pink colour in her cheeks, now, but it had been hinted at before.

"It reminded me."

He snorted. He did not have to say she would not need a reminder.

He did say, unkindly, "If you wanted a photograph of a Potions Master, you should have one of Ross Holly; at least he's good-looking, and closer to your age."

The temper came slamming back, and the words came out, irrevocable, defiant. "I'm not in love with Ross."

He tried to cover his astonished silence with, "I do not appreciate mockery, Miss Granger, as you are well aware. Even if I cannot now punish it. I had not expected discourtesy from you."

Having said something she had not meant to say, but could not back away from, she went forward.

"You may not want it, but you can't stop it. Not discourtesy. Love. I hadn't meant you to know, that's why I put the photo away. I knew you wouldn't want it."

He refused to take ownership of the words that issued from his mouth. "How can you know that?"

They stared at each other, finally both confused to silence.

She alarmed him by stepping closer.

"If you do want it," she said, pink no longer, "you can ask. And be given."

"No."

Her expression changed, then changed again as he went on, suddenly anxious not to hurt her, but to ensure she understood it was too late for him, "After the things I have done, what I have been, I can't ask that. I long ago lost any chance of deserving anyone's love."

"Who said anything about deserving?"

That certainly sounded like Hermione Granger, tart, without being offensive.

He needed to explain how necessary it was she should forget this childish whim he would not have expected of her. She was no wide-eyed chit, empty-headed but for silly dreams. That would probably hurt her, but she must face facts she should already be well aware of, and draw the logical conclusions, as was appropriate for her nature.

He was going to have to tell her why he was not entitled to love, before she found out, and withdrew it. Taking Slytherin advantage did not generally work with a Gryffindor for long, and would not, with her.

Better a small hurt for both of them now than a deeper one later, if she went on with this folly.

"You may have been spared the details, in view of your youth and sex," he said coldly, the only way he could talk about this. "But you know I continued to be a Death Eater until the day the Dark Lord was defeated. You should be able to imagine some at least of the things I did to sustain that role."

He flung the words at her like stones. "Murder. Not just of Aurors pursuing us. Of wizards who would not support us. Of Muggles, for no reason but sport. Of Muggle-borns, to express our hatred and contempt and fear, though no one admitted that. Interrogation, with violence or with potions that destroyed as surely. Torture and rape of prisoners, whether for information or for pleasure. Not just those who had offended us, or would have, given the chance, or could. Women, children, too. Anything that forced obedience from the reluctant, created terror, or even a moment of hesitation, in the opposed or uncertain."

She was breathing as harshly as he, but she interrupted. "You say 'us' and 'our'. But you were not his. That ended long ago. You did all that not for itself, but for the rest of us, because the Headmaster asked you. Because you were placed to spy for him, for us, as no one else was."

"My motives made no difference to those who suffered."

That was the real bitterness. That, and remembering the constant calculation of what it might be safe to do to end or alleviate suffering, especially since the answer had come out more and more strongly, 'Nothing'.

"No," she agreed steadily. "You could not help them and you could never have helped them. You could have died with them, of course, as unpleasantly. It might have made you feel better, briefly, if you were distressed enough, to declare against him. Where would that have left the wizarding world? Professor Dumbledore might have found another spy -"

"He did," Severus snapped, "though of course I never knew who they were."

"Did you ever find out?"

He nodded, seeing where she was going, but allowing her to get there.

"And could any one truly have replaced you? Given the same information to those who opposed him, the same warnings, weakened the right potions where possible, denied the availability of Veritaserum - I've seen you do that, remember? - offered the misinformation that would be accepted?"

"No. It makes no difference. Being a spy in some wars might not be so bad, perhaps, but in that war - Miss Granger, if there is a hell, I am bound for it. Once I gave myself to him, there was no way back. There was only the chance to keep others free. No matter how many I was able to save, there were far too many I helped to destroy, or failed to help, because it would have risked my life, my position."

She persisted. "You made a very bad mistake. You realised that, and did your best to mend it; you left him. If the Headmaster had not asked you to spy for him, and you felt so guilty it seemed the only thing to do, would you ever again have done more than give students detention?"

She shook her head. "You've been paying ever since, and Professor Dumbledore has allowed you, encouraged you, maybe, to believe you owed it. Certainly he let you think you owed him."

"I did! Where else could I have sheltered? Who else would have been able to protect a former Death Eater?"

Tartly she said, "He got his money's worth. Teacher, spy, maker of potions to order. And a load of guilt to drive you to do whatever he wanted even after the war was over, won, the accounts ruled off with all debts paid."

"You should not love someone like me." They could argue about repentance and repayment for ever, but that was not what was important.

"Like you? A man who understands he has done wrong and works tirelessly to correct it, risking his life and sanity in the doing? A master wizard who should be creating potions, rather than teaching basics to children whose ignorance and lack of interest he can't deal with? A man who, disliking children, takes unlimited pains for those placed in his particular care?"

"Much care I took for you," he snapped.

"You were on display the whole time; because you were a good spy you could not be a good teacher. You took care enough for Harry, however sincerely you hated him then, over and over, and for me when it was needed. The only children it was safe for you to take proper care of were your Slytherins. I've come to see they certainly needed someone's care. They had it from no one but their Head of House."

Wearily he replied, "So many of them children of Death Eaters, how else could I act?"

Perhaps she intended to talk him to death. She was as bad as Lucius, but at least Lucius seldom tried for altruism.

She shifted her approach, perhaps seeing, as he did, that they were exchanging opinions, not convincing each other.

She looked him in the eye. "I don't particularly want to hear your war stories, Severus; they would be almost as dreadful to me as they are to you. But if you want to talk about that time I will listen. And I will love you, and go on loving you."

Deliberately she added, "You could love me, if you let yourself."

How did she know that? Did she know how true it was, and how sickening he found it, that someone like him should even wish to love a brave clean creature like her?

Was this why he had been pleased to be calling her by her given name, while he went on saying 'Potter', rather than 'Harry' as invited? He should have noticed, and realised not just that it was a mistake, but what it meant. Perhaps she had noticed, and understood. He had been careless, but he could hope it was not too late. He would just have to go on saying no. Potter might help to persuade her of her recklessness. If he could bring himself to speak of any of this.

He closed his eyes, trying to find his balance, wearied beyond speech by this incredible attack, something he had never expected.

Then she found yet another means of attack.

Her hands slid beneath his robes and locked behind his back; she rocked her body gently against him, with immediate effect; and because her mouth could not reach his she set it to his neck instead, just above the close-fastened collar of his robes.

He wondered if he had whimpered, then decided, no; it had been a groan. Bad enough. Her hands slid further up, still pulling him hard against her, while his hung taut at his sides. If he touched her, he might not push her away.

Her warm breath against his throat as she whispered his name was another attack, another incitement to surrender. Perhaps he should have listened to Albus; it had been so long, and he was vulnerable as any needy creature was.

"You do want this," she whispered. "Let go. Forget it all."

He could do that, if she gave him enough. For the little, little while, and a short time after that.

And just maybe it would shut her up, as nothing else could.

He bent his head and lifted his hands to touch her.

She made an impatient sound and brought her hands out from under his robes. He missed their smoothness on his shoulder blades, in the hollow of his spine, caressing even while they gripped, but he had little time to regret the loss. First she freed the top few buttons of his robes, then, while one hand slid inside, the other came up behind his head and pulled him down so she could reach his mouth. He had limited himself to exploring her narrow back, her firm waist, the surprisingly lush hips, hardly pressing at all, but feeling her through her thin summer clothing with a vividness that captured his attention.

Now her mouth on his and her hand moving over his chest distracted him from the feel of her body; his hands fastened on her hips, drawing her against him.

He could imagine as much as feel the heat of her as she allowed it, parting her thighs and pressing closer. He could feel the softness of her breasts, and the increasing tautness of her nipples, even through his robes. Perhaps he imagined that, but it seemed real. Her mouth opened over his, then she nipped his lower lip.

Did she think he was a standing stone, able to bear all this without wanting more? Everything she was doing convinced him she wanted this, though she made no attempt to encourage him directly; she did not touch his cock. She did not need to. He wanted to rub himself between her legs, heating himself and her. He wanted inside her mouth. He wanted to strip off that thin blouse and handle her breasts, moulding them, seeing how tight he could make her nipples, seeing them change colour, flushing with blood.

He settled for tightening his grip and using his tongue to suggest she part her lips further for him.

She murmured something into his mouth. He hummed against her lips, then began to explore the depths, not caring what she wanted to say so long as it was not 'No,' or 'Stop.'

One of her hands was curling and uncurling on the back of his neck, tangling in his hair, the fingers sliding up to his scalp, pressing. Like a contented cat. Her other hand was trying to open his robes further. She wasn't getting on very well there, and he wanted her touching his flesh, able to explore below the level of his collarbones, though her fingertips dipping into the hollows there and in his throat felt delightful.

It was increasingly frustrating, pressing his rising cock into her belly instead of where it belonged.

Something had to be done. He forced himself to shift his hold, gripping beneath her arse, lifting her, moving the few steps necessary, to set her on her work table, fortunately still free of cauldron and potion ingredients.

That was better. He edged between her opened thighs, pulling her into him, and pressed directly into that marvellous heat, rubbing against her.

One of his hands could hold her there while the other helped her with buttons, much more skilful at the task than she, even though it had been a long time.

Still kissing eagerly she shifted her hands to his chest, exploring skin, finding the small patch of hair between his nipples, fingertips brushing through it, maddening him, before her hands separated further, one to each nipple. His breath caught as she took hold between finger and thumb, gently, but without hesitation, rubbing, squeezing. He thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, capturing hers, to signify his approval.

Now she could make her way wherever she liked within his robes, so he could wind his freed hand in her hair, holding her head in place, tilted back to just the right angle.

After a while she pulled free, gasping for breath. He let her, not sorry to breathe unimpeded himself for a moment, then took the opportunity to use his mouth to tell her what more he wanted.

"Wrap your legs around me, hold me."

She did that, while he went back to kissing, this time the vulnerable arch of her throat, wanting to hear her. She made soft little gasping sounds, while her feet moved, bumping distractingly against his thighs. He realised she was toeing off those heavy Muggle shoes with their fancy shaping and different coloured strips of leather and cloth. One dropped, then the other, then one of her heels was digging into him, just above his arse. She wrapped her other leg around his thighs, using it to pull him even closer.

Much better. Would she let him take off her blouse? She wore nothing under it, but he wanted to feel her breasts perfectly, not shrouded in cloth.

He bit the side of her neck gently, then slid his mouth over the tender skin, pausing to lick the pulse, before he tried to push into the opening of her blouse. One of her hands came round to help him, unfastening her own buttons much more easily than she had his.

He wasn't sure what sounded the alarm. At first he ignored it, content as he had not been for a long time, hands and mouth working busily, showing her what he wanted, being given it generously, finding out what she liked, giving that in turn, looking forward to the glorious burst of sensation her body promised.

At last he realised. She learned fast, she wanted to please him, but there were some things she was not doing. He had not pressured her, enjoying the slow build of sensation, not yet wishing to hurry, or not so much that he had no other alternative. He had been misled because she wasn't afraid, she was curious, she was enjoying this as much as he was. He had thought her curious about him specifically, as her interest seemed to be. But unlike him, she hadn't done this before, not, at least, what they were coming to, and in spite of her willingness she didn't fully know what she was doing.

The alarm bells rang frantically. Everything bade him stop. His responsibility as her teacher that still hung round him like a ghost of the past. The caution that had through all those years of doubling kept his sexual interactions to a minimum, or at least limited him to people whom he knew would not use what they did together against him, whether he trusted them or not, whether they were true allies or not. Even a faint awareness that to rush now could ruin what he might yet have.

Severus closed his eyes even more tightly and wondered how much more damned he would be if he took an ignorant virgin at her word.

She sensed the change.

"What is it?" she whispered against his throat, no longer kissing and licking.

It would be so easy to go on. No.

"Stop, Hermione. Before it's too late."

He lifted his head, used his hold on her to move back from her a little, though he could not bear to separate fully from the sweet promise, not yet.

"Too late for what?"

She couldn't be that ignorant.

A little impatient now, he said, "I want to lay you down on the bench, take off the last of your clothes, and have you."

"And I want you to." She scowled at him. "What's stopping you?"

"You haven't done this before."

She looked relieved. "Is that all? Everyone has to start sometime."

Her logic would be the death of him.

"Not necessarily with me."

She took a deep breath, then she demanded, "Severus Snape, are you having a crisis of conscience now? Why? You must see -" she blushed very faintly, "you must see I want that too."

"You don't know what you're doing."

That ready temper escaped, so surprising a contrast to her business-like manner dealing with potions and planning and wizarding politics.

She snarled at him, "Teach me, then, if there's something I need to know, if you can't just show me. Tell me what to do."

He took a deep breath and stepped back. Aware of his dishevelled robes hanging off his shoulders, he pulled them up and started buttoning.

"You're stopping for that?"

She shoved her hair back with both hands and made no move to pull her blouse back on, or to fasten her light cotton trousers. She sat there, naked from the hips up, pink breasts and pointed nipples trained on him like a Hit Wizard's wand, her thighs still parted, glaring at him, clutching the bench as if to prevent herself from leaning forward to scratch or slap. On top of everything, she was offended with him.

He might have known it would be a mistake to reach out for what he wanted, even if it was offered to him.

"Yes," he said flatly. "This is not something to rush into."

Some treacherous part of his mind was wishing he had not found out until afterwards, when it would have been too late; he would have had no option but to go forward and do everything he could to please her as well as himself. He had thought he had rooted out all impulse, all recklessness, nearly twenty years ago.

Now he not only had to say no; he had to persuade her to accept it.

She looked at him, clearly controlling her desire to share her opinions with him. He stood her scrutiny unflinching. If he could meet the Dark Lord's eyes, when obliged to, surely he could return her assessing gaze.

At last she said, "Very well. We won't rush."

That wasn't the response he had expected. It didn't sound as if she was going to wrap herself up again and put herself back in the box to wait for someone more suitable. It sounded, in fact, like a warning. At the thought of being ambushed the next time she thought him vulnerable, he nearly closed his eyes. He did tighten his lips to hold in the plea for mercy. There was no such thing, even from a warm-hearted former student who claimed to love him.

He would like to believe that, but she made no secret of her opinion that he had paid his dues and was entitled to his freedom. Now he had to wonder if she was willing to seduce him into taking it, intended as a kindness, but a cruelty she did not understand. She wanted him, but did she love him, after all? Would she use her body to free him, and his to assuage her curiosity, having found no one better? More likely, having found no one willing to leave her and move on. Because he was needy, was she taking advantage of him, thinking, in her ignorance, that it would not matter to him to be used, so long as she gave him fair measure?

Perhaps he should explain that, too, but he felt too sick at heart to do so. He was learning, more and more, how much he wanted what she offered. If she didn't want him as much, it would be worse than useless to take her gift, an apple that would create its own poison in the eating. And yet, and yet, Hermione Granger did not lie...

"You should think carefully what you are doing, what it will mean, and not just for this one time."

He did allow himself to say one thing. "I am not interested in casual liaisons. I suspect you would not be either; you are not that kind of person. I want more than to have you now, Hermione. I want everything you have and are. As I would give you all I am, if you would value that. I don't want to accept less, and don't wish to offer less. So think."

She met his eyes. "I will think. About all of it. But I would like you to promise to think too; not to run away."

"Run away!" He was trying to protect her from the mistakes of ignorance, all the painful mistakes he had made, and she thought he wanted to run?

"I am ignorant, not stupid, Severus. When did I ever do anything lightly? I will keep my promise, but I want yours."

He bent his head slightly. "You have it. I will see you this evening, then."

Not waiting for a response, he turned and left, hastening down the stairs, wishing he could get rid of his hard-on, wishing to be as far from her as possible, as fast as possible, wanting to kill something, wanting a distraction. It would need to be powerful. He couldn't have all those things. He took another shower and brought himself off quickly, detaching himself from the process as best he could, then dressed.

He would go and see Ross. St Mungo's would be bound to offer him something else to think about besides Hermione Granger's soft, warm body and her hard, cool mind, blazingly attractive even to a man who had been offered her body and had refused it against his liking. No. Enough of that.

* * * *

Hermione straightened her clothing and chose a simple task while she conquered her mix of irritation and fear and unsatisfied desire that ached worse than ever, thinking long and hard, as he had said, though not exactly about the topic he had wanted her to consider.

He might be confused; she was not. Perhaps he thought it unfair of her to try to seduce him when he thought himself an inappropriate partner for her, but it was plain he was afraid of much more than that.

Perhaps the best thing would be not to rush him, but not to back off, either. She was confident she wanted him, and not just for immediate pleasure. It was a relief to know that he didn't value that greatly either. Thinking of how desolating it would be to make love with him a few times, then never see him again unless they had business to transact, enabled her to understand what he might fear. There seemed to be a great deal she needed to convince him of, besides her being an adult and knowing her own mind and having thought about what their alliance might require of them both.

So she would be there, she would express her confidence in him and in herself, however hard that might be, and she would even try not to pressure him too much. Patience, courtesy, and persistence. That would get her much further with Severus than crying for what she wanted like a spoilt child, or snatching at it, like a greedy and thoughtless one.

* * * *

Meeting that evening was difficult for both of them.

Hermione had confessed to Harry that she loved Severus and believed he might love her, but that he was both wary and convinced of his unsuitability, as well of his general unworthiness. Harry had not even tried to look surprised.

He helped to keep their talk on a professional level. Without that, Severus might not have spoken at all. Talking about his day with Ross, and the discussions he had had with several Healers, who took his return to the hospital as a signal to re-open negotiations for his services, gradually eased all of them.

Severus had been truly distracted by the discovery that he and his work were valued, and valued enough that even the kind of contract Hermione had with some of their fellows did not frighten them off.

The elderly and eminent Dr Lambourne had brightened considerably when Severus outlined the terms he was prepared to work on.

"A much better idea, Professor Snape! I can handle those fellows in admin, believe me. They should never have run away with the idea that they control research, either mine or that of anyone I commission. Bring on your contract; come on Tuesday, if you would, when I have free time, and we can discuss thoroughly what I would like you to do."

Harry said, on hearing of this, "You'd better go to see Mr Howard. This eminent gentleman sounds as if he might even be equipped to take advantage of you."

Severus sneered on principle, but he suspected there was truth in that.

Hermione left the sitting area and came back with a small slim box which, Severus discovered, provided the Muggle version of fire-talk. Much more comfortable, if it worked, he thought, watching her curl up in her armchair, punching little buttons, then starting to talk into it. He could not hear the rest of the conversation, but she referred a couple of questions to him, then asked if an appointment the following afternoon, Friday, would suit. Severus nodded.

As she set the box aside Hermione said, a trifle smugly, "It usually takes a week to get an appointment with him if you go through his secretaries, but we amuse him, so he made time tomorrow." She added, "I think he might be frightened of his granny still, a bit, too. Do you want one of us to come with you?"

While he would have preferred to avoid being alone with her, he knew he had to conquer that, especially as she was willing to help him to some independence of Albus.

"I would appreciate your assistance," he said coolly.

Hermione asked, "Do you have Muggle clothing you can wear in the street, Severus? We need to take the tube into the City; it's better not to wear robes, and a cloak in this weather would look even odder."

This was something Severus had managed to avoid so far, but if he was to go among Muggles, he had a duty to blend in.

"No," he answered glumly. "I suppose tomorrow I should get some."

"You could transform your robes, model them after Harry's clothing, perhaps, but you might prefer something a bit more formal. He or I can take you shopping; it needn't take long."

Severus looked at Potter's current garb: a soft red cotton tee-shirt and trousers of faded blue, unironed, worn with the shoes so many Muggle-born children wore at school; he knew they were called 'running' shoes, though he seldom saw them run. He didn't fancy the shoes; the shirt was close to immodest; but the trousers might be acceptable, if adults wore them to business appointments. Trying not to give offence, he asked about that.

Potter said placidly, "Everyone wears them these days. Oh, not businessmen, or lawyers in their offices, either, but you won't startle Mr Howard if you wear jeans. Researchers don't have to comply with the same sort of dress rules followed by people who need to impress the customers."

Severus could see the sense of that. He said tentatively, "Some wizards wear formal Muggle garb - I remember Fudge did - but your 'jeans' look more comfortable, and they're modest enough. Can I get a shirt of some kind with long sleeves, that buttons up to the neck?"

Hermione was laughing, and Potter grinned too.

The boy explained, "If Fudge ever went out among Muggles in the sort of gear he used to turn up at Hogwarts in, he would have been stared at much more than if he'd gone out in your plain black robes. Those, at least, might be worn by someone who belongs to some odd Eastern religion or something, or some charitable association, dressed up for an occasion. Lime green striped trousers, no way. Don't take Fudge as a model."

"One of you had better come with me, then, to ensure I make no errors of judgement, though I'd prefer plain black clothing any way."

Potter said, "You go, Hermione, and see if you get find him a shirt that isn't black."

She responded, "In high summer it's going to be more difficult to find a shirt that is black."

Later Severus transformed his robes to shirt and jeans, using some of Potter's rather more respectable clothing as a guide. Hermione said his boots were acceptable.

Shortly after they set out, she took his hand.

When he looked at her askance and tugged free she said calmly, "That's the third person who's nearly run you down, Severus. You need to learn to play pavement tag better."

Reluctantly he let her guide him down their street, across two other equally busy streets, until they reached the underground station. It was squat, dirty, but with a kind of tired majesty, all the same, covered as it was in red tiles, rather than made of worn brick like almost all the buildings they had passed. He watched while she pushed coins into a machine which spat out two slips of paper, then obediently followed her through the turnstile, giving up the ticket at once, and then retrieving it from yet another slot.

"I suppose it disappears into a slot at the other end?"

"Yes, unless you have a return ticket, or a weekly; then you get it back. Don't lose it, Severus; if an inspector finds you without a ticket, it can be very expensive. They don't just want the price of a new ticket; they assume you're trying to cheat and fine you accordingly."

Severus nodded obediently and stuffed the ticket into his shirt's breast pocket, following her into a lift several times the size of their goods lift. At the bottom he could see platforms, and curving walls at a distance, on each side. Hermione steered him, pointing out the direction signs.

When they reached the shop where he was to buy clothing he felt exhausted already, from the press of people, from taking in all the information she gave him, from the noise and fumes of traffic.

They came out with two pairs of jeans, only one of them black, since a second was not available, and several long-sleeved shirts which she assured him would not need to be pressed, if they were hung up as soon as they were washed.

Trying them all on in a tiny closet inadequately curtained was awkward, but Potter had already demonstrated zips to him, showing him how not to get caught uncomfortably in the teeth. Parading before Hermione for advice on whether the clothing fitted, since the mirror in the closet was so close he could not judge, might have made him feel very awkward indeed, if she had not been so calm about it. She explained that she usually helped Harry buy clothes, after the first time he had come home with a shirt of what she described as 'absolutely the wrong colour for his eyes'.

He said triumphantly, "Then I'm right to dress in black."

She answered, "Bor-ring," and talked him into shirts in khaki, and Slytherin green, as well as one with a very unobtrusive dark grey check.

She had said he could wear a tie if he wanted, but they were not comfortable in summer, and not necessary, so he had allowed her to lead him to what she called 'casual' shirts which he could button up high, or not, as he chose.

After that she obliged him to buy underwear. He protested that his own would serve, until she reminded him that the jeans fitted closely, unlike robes, and his own might be uncomfortable. He did not ask where she had found out what wizards wore under their robes. The range of things Muggle men could pick from was interesting, though he was horrified by some of what she showed him, like the red garment that might, perhaps, just cover his genitals. Fortunately she did not expect him to wear that kind of thing, and assured him that what he chose was respectably conservative; from the texture he thought they would be comfortable.

Earlier he asked her what he should do about his hair; did Muggles wear it long as so many wizards did? Considering the Muggle-born boys turned up at Hogwarts with quite short hair, for the most part, he suspected not. She said hair length was a personal choice, these days, but suggested he tie it back with a leather thong she produced from a kitchen drawer. Somewhat self-consciously he had washed it again that morning, wishing to look as good as possible while she was guiding him around Muggle London and taking him to see their lawyer. He did not wish anyone to think his appearance disgraced her. There was nothing to be done about his teeth, but he did not smile often, and usually did it with closed lips. His nose was perfectly respectable, and incomparable for looking down at others.

Severus went back to their home in his new black jeans and the grey check shirt, to grow accustomed to them. He was glad to transform his robes back to their normal appearance, but did not change out of the Muggle clothing.

After that he somehow joined her in her workroom, and watched while she worked, carefully keeping his distance, until he forgot that in the interest of discussing with her the details of the experiment she planned for that day. When Harry called them to lunch they were both wearing the silk head-coverings and the softly clinging masks that allowed them to both breathe easily and see clearly through, and he had bundled his hair under the scarf to keep it uncontaminated for the afternoon appointment.

The third trip on the underground was less stressful, and what she called the City surprisingly different looking from their home district, or the place she had taken him shopping. These streets were much wider, the pavements better kept, the buildings tall, some imposing, some merely vulgar, most in dull shades of grey in something she said was concrete rather than stone. She followed that up with a quick explanation that concrete was a man-made material, though nothing like brick or tile. Again this was more information than he needed, but he thought it might be hard to tell what ignorances could betray him.

Her lawyer had his offices only a few floors up on a lift very different from those he had travelled in so far. Severus thought that soon he would be walking beside her in a waking dream, hardly able to take in his surroundings any more, they varied so much from what he was used to in the wizarding world.

The lawyer himself, however, seemed much like a normal person: shorter than Severus, but nearly as lean, in surprisingly rumpled clothing, though it was otherwise much like what all the men down in the street had worn. His teeth were whiter, but almost as crooked, his nose nearly as impressive, and his curling hair, threaded with grey, hung untidily around his ears. He was both polite and cautious, but he relaxed when Severus asked Hermione to stay for the discussion. Wary of strange wizards, perhaps; sensible man.

Mr Howard said nothing about magic, or potions, or wizards. He referred to 'the product' and 'the specialised processes' and 'your clients', and had some advice to give about retaining ownership of 'said processes' which Severus suspected was good.

Severus said, however, "I don't wish to make these, ah, products myself, once they have been refined enough for satisfactory regular use. If I retain ownership, how can I avoid having to do that?"

This led to a lucid explanation of manufacture under licence, which sounded sensible, and would guarantee Severus a continuing income, though the initial fee would be less. Mr Howard agreed he could simply sell any particular process to the person who had asked for a product to be developed, but recommended against it.

He added bluntly, "If you own it, you have control of what is done with it afterwards. No one can redevelop it, and possibly change it for the worse, without your consent." Less positively, he said, "Miss Granger assures me that including such a requirement in a contract with such clients as hire you would not be unusual."

Hermione agreed that her Healers had accepted such a condition, though the need to give permission had not, of course, arisen yet, and if her creations were all they should be, was unlikely to do so for some years.

When they came away with a contract format rather different from that she used, which incorporated rather more stringent conditions, Severus was surprised no one asked for money, though Hermione had earlier placed a carefully wrapped parcel on a side table in the lawyer's office. Mr Howard had unwrapped it at once to reveal some strange looking purplish root vegetables, and offered sincere thanks. That looked like one of Potter's goodwill gifts, the salsify, he supposed, not payment.

"Come, Severus, people in the wizarding world send bills for later payment all the time!"

"Only if I've ordered something by owl," he said. "Don't you pay when you buy services, as we did this morning for goods?"

The journey home was filled with an explanation of the Muggle arrangements for cash and credit, the concept of a credit card, and the information that many different businesses competed to provide financial services. Gringotts had its drawbacks, but it also had a sterling reputation, and a desire to maintain it; the idea of having to choose from unknown managers someone to look after one's money, and hope they would not lose or make off with it, was worrying.

Once more Severus went to her workroom without thinking whether it was a good idea to do so. Eventually he had to ask her what was the tune he had heard her humming occasionally over the last few days; she had started to do it again, over and over, while stirring gently and precisely. Without looking up from the cauldron, she shook her head. He could see she had not known she was doing it, so he hummed it back at her.

She went a little pink. He was surprised she should be unconsciously humming a song that she thought improper, then she explained, concentrating on her potion.

"It's a wartime song. It's very old, an American song, I think, from their Civil War. The words I know, though, are from the Muggle First World War, early this century."

"So why do you sing it? and what do you mean by 'a wartime song'?"

"Muggle wars make songs as well as dead men, though wizard wars don't seem to - maybe because in our world there's no such thing as a common soldier. This one - it's sung by one of those men who was thrust into battle whether he wished it or not; he wants it to be over. He's looking forward to being rude to the people who tell him what to do, as he wouldn't dare to while the war is on."

She was being very coy about the words, so he insisted. Then it was his turn to fall silent.

"When this lousy war is over,
No more soldiering for me;
I will put my civvy clothes on.
Oh how happy I will be...
No more putting in for leave.
I will kiss the sergeant-major;
How he'll miss me, how he'll grieve."

She was looking at him now, though she continued stirring with a steady hand; she had decided to push her unconscious challenge.

"You think that's me?"

Gently she answered, "I think you've served your time, Severus, and can honourably move on to take up your own life again, control it yourself."

Trying to avoid thinking of that he asked, "The original words?"

She shrugged. "A sentimental ditty about going home. It wasn't long before soldiers wrote their own words to it.

"You are not the only person who's sorry for the things he did, trying to end the war. Do you think Harry's sorry for nothing, ashamed of nothing? He seldom says anything, but he regrets many things, and having killed Voldemort is not least of them, however necessary it was to do. Do you think Harry should pay for those regrets until the end of his life? Never forgive himself, never be forgiven?"

"No! He was a child when the prophecy was made. He never chose..."

"He chose to fulfil the prophecy. He could have let Voldemort kill him, and keep himself free of wrong-doing, whatever that would have meant for everyone else. He chose to be a soldier in the war, Severus, though he had no choice about being caught up in it. Did you choose everything that led you to join Voldemort? Before you found out what that meant, and decided to draw back, whatever the cost to you? Didn't a lot of that happen to you, unavoidably, like Harry's choices? Why are you different? Because you were a few years older when you decided what to do about it?"

"I understand," Severus said at last.

Later he said, "I live with guilt, waking, sleeping. Twenty years of it. It will never end."

She had set aside the cauldron; he vaguely hoped she had not abandoned her work mid-task, ruining it, but he could not remember what she was doing just now.

Forcefully she replied, "You can end it. Only you. You don't need to continue to shoulder it, but you must decide. No one can do it for you. Were you waiting for Professor Dumbledore to say you had paid enough, and were free again?"

That didn't seem very likely to happen. Perhaps he should trust his own judgement and make his own decisions about how to repay, instead of letting Albus choose.

"Thank you. Excuse me. I need to think."

"There's no one in the nursery just now, if that would help."

He nodded, and walked up the stairs, letting himself into the cool, part-shaded, part-sunny glass enclosure on the rooftop. The green silence worked its magic. He wandered through the aisles, careful not to touch any of Potter's plants, but looking at them, allowing what she had said to work, while the surface of his mind assessed the health and growth of what would become Hermione's work materials. Slowly he settled into calm and at last into a tentative acceptance that perhaps he was free after all.

* * * *

Severus was not surprised that Potter and Hermione worked much as usual on Saturday. Given how much of her time in particular he had taken up this week he would not have been surprised if she worked on into the evening, too, but she did not.

Instead, after dinner she suggested they take coffee and wine up to the nursery and sit among the herbs, relaxing in the scented air.

Potter came too, but after a while he murmured, "I think I'll fire-call Draco," and excused himself.

He said tentatively to Hermione, "I hadn't realised they were on fire-calling terms."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "After the three of you worked so hard to save Lucius Malfoy? You know what Harry's like, he will take responsibility for people." She smiled. "He wants to know how Mr Malfoy is, of course. He and Draco usually talk for ages; Draco doesn't see many people. Though he does see you, doesn't he."

"I go to see them," he agreed. "Albus doesn't like it, of course."

Her lip curled. "Ungrateful of him, considering how much information Mr Malfoy gave him."

Severus shrugged. "He thinks Lucius would never have done so if the Dark Lord hadn't turned against him."

"True, I'm sure," she agreed dispassionately, "but not an excuse. No doubt he thinks Mr Malfoy lucky to be alive. That the pardon squared all debts."

Severus snorted, but then he changed the subject. He never liked to think of Albus's ingratitude, or what it might signify that he and Harry Potter had had literally to threaten the Headmaster to get even that belated and reluctant help for the renegade Death Eater.

Abruptly he asked, "You haven't changed your mind?"

Then he was appalled, realising what his discomfort thinking of Albus and Lucius had led him into saying.

She didn't pounce. Instead she answered calmly, "No, I haven't. Whatever you imagine, Severus, I've had plenty of time to think about it. It's you who needs to consider, and to decide that you're entitled to have what you want."

He took a deep breath and told himself not to be a coward. Not to leave all choice to Albus. To admit he needed as well as wanted her, and that, however young she seemed to him, she was adult, and had always been thoughtful; she would know what she wanted and needed too.

"I do want what you offer me," he said slowly, "but there is still a great deal I must think about."

"There's no point in rushing you," she responded.

He let out an almost inaudible sigh. So she would be patient. Admirable woman. When she tired of patience she would, no doubt, let him know, but for now he could try to adjust what he felt, what he thought, to this new world.

* * * *

TBC