Cheat the Devil

They offered to let him lie in on Sunday, but Severus found himself curious, so he had said he would accompany Hermione to the nearby street market where old furniture was for sale. He only faltered slightly when he discovered that meant rising before five o'clock, and going without breakfast: they needed to be there by six, she explained, before those dealers who frequented the market bought everything worth having.

She had a short list of furniture she wanted for their home, and went most Sunday mornings. They pointed out the various pieces around the place acquired in this way, relatively inexpensively, save for their labour in restoring them and making them useable. Severus understood they could not afford antique furniture except on this basis, and that only pieces the traders could not be bothered to work on themselves went for sufficiently low prices.

He thought the furniture worth the trouble, since they had taught themselves the skills. Their mismatched armchairs had been handsomely re-upholstered to look as if they belonged together. Their Liberty-style dining table and its chairs, found separately, Potter said they had worked on for a month of free evenings. There were smaller pieces: a very old court cupboard Potter used to display the fruit and herbs he bottled and pickled experimentally; Hermione's narrow chest of drawers in her workroom; the long hall table opposite the head of their stairway - all happy finds that they had willingly slaved over.

Potter announced that he would take the chance to sleep in, before he was called on to start cleaning and refinishing and probably repairing whatever piece of furniture she brought home. Later he took Severus aside and asked him not to leave Hermione alone.

His eyebrows flickered into a frown. "Don't you trust these Muggles, though you live among them?"

"There are thieves in any busy crowd," Potter said.

After a moment he added, "She's not from around here, and her accent tells everyone that. So does mine, but it's familiar, to a degree. Some people resent us. And some think we have no right to use the market. They don't realise she's only trying to furnish our home as her parents did theirs. Maybe they think she wants to go into business in competition with the regular dealers, I don't know, but she's been harassed a few times. It wouldn't happen later in the day, when the tourists and people from other parts of London come, but you know Hermione: she won't miss the best bargains because other people want to hog them. Keep an eye on her, please."

Of course Hermione would not refrain from doing what she thought to be her right, to buy in open market, and wait until it was truly open, and safe for her.

"I will."

The sun was up when they set off, but barely visible through overcast that drizzled a chilly rain. Hermione pulled on her cloak, and suggested he transform his to something more like the coats Muggles wore, putting it on over the clothing he had been at such pains to buy.

"You're wearing a cloak."

"I bought it at the Military Disposals shop over near Brick Lane, and it looks it. It's a French horse-gendarme's cloak, cut down to fit me; I added the lining and trim myself. That's the kind of place a lot of people round here buy truly solid wool garments, not in the West End at fifty times the price. Your cloak, Severus, looks like something the villain in a pantomime might wear."

Severus did not bother to ask what that was, but flipped through the magazine she showed him, and decided to use as his model a picture of a long, black coat with wide skirts, slit up the back. It had lots of buttons, which would enable him to cover up as he liked to do. Reading the caption told him it was oiled cotton, light, but waterproof; that sounded acceptable for summer rain wear.

Hermione admired the garment, then took the belt out of his hands, fastening it in what she told him was the current fashion. He rolled his eyes at the thought there could be fashions in something so serviceable as the belt of a coat. Reluctantly he allowed her to unlatch some buttons and rearrange the set of the collar.

It occurred to him he was becoming very comfortable with the idea of having her hands on him. 'Better than nothing; take what you can get,' a small voice told him.

They walked for several blocks, but the market's position became obvious as the streets clogged with cars and small trucks; most of the shops were already open; and there were people already leaving with chairs over their shoulders and some incredible pieces of junk clasped in their arms.

Severus stared at a small woman forced to peer around the enormous glazed pottery demijohn she was somehow carrying. "What will she do with that?" he had to ask.

Hermione shrugged. "Clean it up, put it in her hallway, and stand tall weeds in it? A couple of stalks of Queen Anne's Lace, maybe, cut on a Sunday afternoon drive into the country? Or silk flowers from Taiwan, if she has no imagination. Or stripped willow branches." She added, maliciously, he thought, "Painted to match her front door, perhaps."

Severus flinched, and asked no more questions about what he saw. Any decorations in their warehouse stood in equally honest plain vases, but were freshly cut leafy stems and branches from Potter's nursery, for the most part. Potter only grew flowering things if the flowers were for use in potions. The few flowering plants in glazed pots on the living floor were Hermione's.

The market itself astonished him by its space. Not just the couple of long streets lined with stalls open or sheltered by canvas or shiny blue stuff on metal frames, the stalls filled with furniture piled high and everything from painted metal bathtubs to what looked very like a sole elephant's foot. Between the two streets there was about half a block where once, surely, buildings had stood, the ground now crudely covered with some crumbling black stuff. There some traders had rather larger areas available to them, and a lot of dirty old furniture to which, Severus thought, Sirius Black would not have given houseroom in 12 Grimmauld Place in the worst days of the war.

He tried to conceal his dismay as he asked, "You're going in there?"

She glanced over. "No," she said crisply. "I don't want a fifties lounge suite in Genoa velvet, or anything from that period. My mother likes some of the more original designs from then, cleaned up, but I don't. Come further along, Severus."

He stuck close, forced to it by the crowd and the noise, and soon took her hand, so as not to lose her. The first time she stumbled on a misplaced cobble he put his arm round her shoulder; she moved closer. They still had cobbles here! He had not seen them outside Diagon Alley. How ... convenient. His hand tightened for a moment.

She slowed down, and Severus learned what patience was, as she made her way from stall to stall in the fine rain, sometimes silent, sometimes talking briefly with the stall-holders who spoke in a friendly manner. Some seemed to know her.

One man said, laughing, "Miss Hermy! You've come back for my pair of jardinère stands!"

"That I haven't," she retorted. "They're awful, Mr Simons, and you know it. You should knock five quid off and sell them to the first tourist you can catch."

"Have to get up early to catch you," the man agreed. "Nothing I can sell you, then?"

"Do you have any jardinères? I want two or more big ones, china, or glazed pottery."

"Nah. No garden pots today. Drop back next week; I'll see what I can get you. No obligation to buy."

She smiled and agreed and moved on.

"Will you have to buy whatever he offers you?" Severus murmured.

"No. If he finds anything I'd want - and he has a good idea, Harry and I bought that big yellow basin I have the lily and the goldfish in from him, as well as the set of pots in the kitchen that Harry has different chilli bushes in - he could find another buyer, no trouble. If I'm lucky I'll get here first, though he might hold them until seven for me if he's feeling reckless."

A small Bangladeshi woman engaged in a spirited attempt to sell her an enamel-inlaid brass tray on a table frame. Only after Hermione had refused for the third time, with no sign of impatience, did she say, in an accent indistinguishable from that of those Severus took to be locals, "Your Harry wanted a mortar and pestle."

"He did, but not those tinchy little ones, Amina. Something you can really press down with."

"Aha! Got a set a couple of days ago. Not new, but it's brass, so all you have to do is clean it up; it'll come up good."

She brought out a solid brass bowl, quite unornamented, but beautifully shaped, with its commendably solid matching pestle. Severus thought from its weight and shape that the set was quite old, but Harry would use it in the kitchen; it was big enough that Hermione was unlikely to need it in her workroom, unless for pulverising beetle cases.

After some ritual bargaining Hermione bought it at a little below asking price; Severus was convinced she could have made that offer at least five minutes earlier and had it accepted.

When he complained, after he had surreptitiously shrunken the things so they would fit in his coat pocket, she murmured, from where she stood in front of him, shielding what he did, "No, if I'd tried to get down to it like that Amina would have kept to her original price. It's the bargaining she wants. It's a skill, and she likes to see customers display it."

Severus decided not to roll his eyes; his eyeballs might get tired before the morning was done.

Five stalls and two conversations later Hermione stopped and said, reluctance in her voice, "That desk looks good."

When he managed to identify which piece attracted her, Severus agreed. Its grey timbers no longer had any polish; the drawers lacked handles; there were scratches, and one burn. From listening to her and Harry explain their repair work processes, however, and from seeing her examining other pieces of furniture this morning, he understood they could be smoothed out without damage to the usefulness of the desk. He thought one leg might prove to be wobbly; she murmured agreement without moving her head, and without changing her slightly doubtful expression. Severus concluded she did not know this dealer, or perhaps thought he would overcharge if she showed the interest he knew she felt.

Eventually she had to move into the narrow pathway between pieces to examine it more closely. Severus stayed where he was; he could not be much help to her in deciding whether to buy it, or in bargaining for it, if that was wanted here.

The scruffy young trader came round from his stool behind a card table, tossing his cigarette, still burning, into a big china platter.

"You want that piece, miss? Fifty pun', to you."

"Nonsense," Hermione said flatly. "I might give you twenty, if it's solid and free of worm. I need to look at it. Bring it out of there, please."

She backed away before she was trapped between the fellow and his stock. Severus frowned. He had not seen her do that before.

It was interesting that the man did not at once reject her offer, so far below what he had demanded. Was he 'trying it on', a phrase Severus had already learned?

Hermione spent the next ten minutes ignoring the trader, inspecting the piece thoroughly, ignoring the mizzle, while he stood by scowling, at first glancing towards his cigarette, then giving up and watching her as if he thought she planned to steal a dowel, or a worm.

She said flatly, "The cross-piece between the two back legs has been replaced, badly; it's been nailed on, not even glued and screwed. There's no worm, but the whole piece needs taking apart and re-glueing; there's no surety the dowels are intact. The central drawer lock has been broken out. All the drawers stick badly. This burn, right in the middle, will be hard to fix without scraping too deeply. I'll give you fifteen."

"Bit o' candle wax'll fix the drawers, miss," the man said. "Can't take just fifteen; you'd have to give me thirty at least. You can afford it."

Severus was not surprised that Hermione stiffened, before she said coolly, "It needs a lot more than candle-wax. You won't sell it to a dealer, not with that back strut and the mess the nails made of the legs. Seventeen."

Finally Hermione said, "Twenty."

The trader clearly thought it her final offer, and said, "Cash on the nail-head, then." He added with evident spite, "Can't give you the lend of a trolley."

"On the nail," she agreed, producing the money.

When she turned to move the desk further into the road the young man leaned forward, shoved her cloak aside with a quick brush of one hand, while the other dived in to pinch her thigh, hard, from the yelp she gave.

Severus moved forward, his way to the man blocked by both the desk and Hermione. She did not wait; she turned and stepped into him, her knee lifting. His yelp was louder; he fell back against yet another piece of furniture, then, losing his balance, slid sideways and into Severus's reach. Severus doubled his fist and used all the force of his shoulder to drive it into the man's belly, just below his ribs.

Vaguely he heard sounds of alarm and indignation, ignoring them for a moment in favour of watching the trader gasp like a stranded fish, then moan, his hands fluttering between his legs and his diaphragm. So Hermione had been tall enough to get him where he lived. Good. A pity he could not kick the man as he deserved; he was down, and the people crowding round might disapprove.

Severus reached out and plucked Hermione from among the furniture, pulling her where his body sheltered her from the men closing about them, asking quickly, softly, "You're not hurt?"

"I'm livid," she snapped, "but I'm not damaged, though I suppose it'll bruise."

""Ere now, what'd Billy do, miss?"

"Took liberties," someone else observed.

Another man sniggered. "'E wants to watch it, that's the second girl this week got him in his wedding tackle."

"Thought she was alone, with Harry not here," the Bangladeshi woman asserted, drilling her way through the crowd of larger men to Hermione's side. Severus thought it wise to allow her to approach, though he kept a hand on Hermione's shoulder, stroking gently, unobtrusively, feeling her stiffness slowly subsiding.

"You okay then, Hermione?" The shrill voice was suddenly soft.

"Thanks, Amina, I'm fine." Hermione added dispassionately, "I'm not sure Billy is, though; Severus hit him hard."

"So long as he didn't bang his head too hard on the cobbles, he'll live," the woman said callously. "His wife's boyfriend should've given him one like that before he made off with her; might have made Billy think before he reached out for another woman."

The crowd was drifting off again, going back to business. No one seemed disposed to help the trader to his feet, so he clawed his way up the table.

The short, solid fellow from the stall over the way lifted one end of the desk. "Where you going with this, missus?"

Severus hastily took the other end, saying, "I can carry it for her."

"Big crowd; better someone helps you to the corner," the man said briefly.

Severus nodded, and beckoned Hermione up beside him with a sharp jerk of his head; the trader must know his fellows.

Once off the main market street the trader left them, with thanks from both, and Severus pulled Hermione close against him, asking, "Were you frightened?"

"Just angry." She smiled wryly up at him. "He hardly compares with Death Eaters."

"The same mad dog viciousness," Severus said flatly. "You should stay away from him; he disliked you before, didn't he? He'll hate you now, for shaming him, I suppose he'll see it."

"It's not worth it," she agreed, then smiled with satisfaction. "I did get the desk."

"I'm not sure that was worth it either; all that fuss for twenty pounds' worth of damaged wood?"

"Limed oak," she said placidly, "and the strut is too, however badly attached. Harry will get the nails out for me, fill the holes, fit new dowels when he reassembles it. Once I scape the gunge and the worst of the marks away, then sand the wood down and wax-polish it, it won't look damaged, believe me. The other locks are all right; I can get new keys, and buy a new lock for the middle drawer. There are specialist shops. It will be beautiful when we're finished, pale, and elegant, but good for long use."

Severus sighed. Clearly she thought her new desk worth being assaulted by the man who sold it to her. Potter was right; she needed a keeper.

He hoisted the desk to his shoulder, careful the drawers should not slip out. "Home?" he asked.

"Yes," she agreed, then added, "but we pass Albanesi's; I'll get bagels for breakfast, we can get lox and cream cheese next door."

Severus sighed and followed her, glad the rain had stopped at last.

Later he agreed the food was worth stopping for; it was delicious with the smoky tea she made and served to the three of them, where they sat around the new acquisition.

All she had said to Potter about the trader was, "Billy Biggs was his usual nasty self, but I don't think he realised how easily all the damage could be fixed. He's not actually afraid of work himself, I don't think."

Severus allowed himself to glance at Potter and lift his eyebrows, then watched Hermione concentrating on what interested her, the necessary repair work.

Later he said to Potter, "You were right to tell me to stay close to her."

Potter's eyes lifted to his face, brows twitching together.

"She did have trouble?"

"A brutal pinch from that fellow she bought the desk from." He added with satisfaction, "I knocked him down, but only after she'd put her knee into him hard enough to double him up."

"Perhaps I'll do something about him."

Severus found himself saying, "Perhaps you won't. His neighbours seem to know what he is, and not to think much of it. You might be wiser to leave him to them. He's done it to other women."

Then he too scowled. This forgiveness idea could go too far.

Potter relieved his worry by grinning ferally and agreeing, "We live here; we should follow the neighbourhood rules. Don't worry, Severus; much of this sort of thing and someone will do him over properly one dark night with no witnesses, or none prepared to talk, at least."

Later Severus found himself learning to strip wood with water-based solvents and fine steel wool, and discovering how hard the century and more of polish and dirt and Merlin knew what was to get from all the tiny crevices in what he had thought a quite simple piece of furniture. It was surprising how enjoyable it was, working with the two of them, occasionally touching Hermione, quite by accident of course, as he reached for a fresh piece of steel wool, or rinsed one in the bowl of water before brushing off the scurf of runny mess the solvent created.

It was almost as restful as making a familiar and worthy potion. To be doing it in congenial company was rare, and pleasing.

By lunchtime the desk stood on a pad of old newspapers, still glistening slightly from the damp, all surplus water carefully wiped away, and he could look at their handiwork with satisfaction while Harry worked in the kitchen.

"In a day or so Harry can start taking it apart; there'll be more gunge to get off then, but it's essentially clean now. Thank you for your help, Severus."

He was able to say truthfully, not with a guest's politeness, "I enjoyed it."

She grinned at him. "So you do enjoy some things, Professor?"

He responded, "There are other things I am thinking I might enjoy, too," and wiped the grin away entirely.

"Don't tease," she whispered.

"Not teasing. May I join you in your workroom after lunch?"

"Yes," she answered, speaking very softly, as if to avoid frightening away some timid animal.

"Not rushing, but not too slowly, either," he promised. "Perhaps I can help you. I think you can help me."

She smiled then. "Yes, Severus, I hope so too."

* * * *

It was strange to accompany her to her workroom not even pretending that they would be discussing potions. It began to seem there would be plenty of time for that.

Severus did not try for a conventional embrace; neither of them needed a stiff neck. Once the door was closed and he was sure she was, indeed, inviting him, he picked her up and set her on her main workbench again.

She smiled at him and reached out to unbutton his shirt. No robes to get out of the way this time, but hardly fewer fastenings. He waited until she had his shirt pushed back, and was looking at him, consciously exploring, testing his reactions. He let her do that for a while, enjoying the feel of the small, strong hands, wanting her to touch every part of him.

He gripped her waist and pushed between her legs, feeling them wrap around him at once. Then he slid his hands under the colourful tee-shirt she wore, letting his palms and fingers mould around her body, touch her skin, enjoy its silky coolness, knowing she would not be cool for long. His hands moved up her back, cupped the delicate wings of her shoulder-blades, slid down her spine, before one hand pushed below the waistband of her jeans, fingertips reaching for the softer flesh, pressing into the enticing crease at the end of her spine.

No light cloth trousers through which he could feel her this time, but the soft cotton top was very easy to remove. She ducked her head out of the round neck as he pulled it free and tossed it aside, then caught his hands. He frowned, wondering if he was going too fast, but all she wanted was to undo his cuffs, then to pull his shirt away and send it after hers.

At last he had to kiss her, but he set his mouth to one breast rather than to her lips, enjoying the instant murmur of response, then the shudder as he licked around her nipple. His hands were behind her back now, supporting her, and she arched over them, tipping her head back. He could see the wild curls falling free, and shifted one hand, twining it in her hair, holding her in that position, before he moved to her mouth. Sweet and willing, yes; and soon more than that, eagerly exploring the depths of his mouth with her tongue as he was doing to her.

Hermione could use both hands to explore his upper body, and did so with increasing confidence, returning again and again to the spots she marked as especially responsive, finding them almost as quickly as Lucius had once done, so long ago. He moaned softly into her mouth as she scratched gently at his nipples. They were becoming increasingly sensitive, almost too much so, but he would not ask her to move her hands for worlds, or to end that kitten-like pleasure and pain stimulus.

He thought about lowering her to the bench and getting rid of their trousers. Robes were much less trouble. Then he thought how hard the wood was, and how uncomfortable she might be once his weight pinned her down, even though the bench height was almost perfect for him. He freed his mouth, sighing into hers, kissed his way over her cheek, then blew moistly across her ear. She shivered, and her hands clawed into his hair, trying to get his mouth back on hers.

"Bedroom," he said indistinctly, drawn back despite his resolution to give her every care.

She made a questioning sound.

"Bedroom," he repeated, more firmly. If he could barely control himself, why should he expect her to be able to do so?

"Bed softer," he added, by way of explanation.

She understood that; she sighed, and her fingers eased their grip.

It was no bad thing, he decided ruefully, that she should have this chance to draw back. From the way she shivered, and clung, hands and body and limber legs, and sometimes made little whimpers that sent his temperature skyrocketing, she wasn't used to this. He didn't want to overwhelm her; she should be wholly consenting.

He sighed too; Severus Snape again, trying to be responsible again.

Her hands stroked down over his hair and shoulders, then she eased back from him, though not far. Just enough to let them both think, perhaps.

Her hands linked loosely round his shoulders, and she rested her head against him.

"You'll come to my bedroom?"

"Gladly," he said, unwontedly frank.

"Shirts."

"Oh. Yes." Having been reminded, he was not anxious to meet Potter half naked, with Potter's equally bare best friend tucked into his arm.

She seemed to know. "Harry's busy. He had nursery planting and harvest records to update, remember?"

She made a long arm for their clothing, and could not reach. His arm was longer; he passed over her shirt, and stepped back from her, at last, to pull on his own.

Afterwards, he remembered little about getting upstairs to her bedroom, and only later looked at the room consciously, having been focussed entirely on her; but it seemed she remembered.

Teasingly she said, "Maybe it was self-consciousness. You carried me in your arms, Severus; I'm sure you don't do that often."

Rather dryly he answered, "The last person I picked up was Lucius, to get him onto the flying carpet, if we don't count the actual battle. Are you sure I did that?"

She edged closer to him. "Do it again and see if it feels familiar?" she invited.

He found himself smiling, and got off her bed, sliding one arm under her hips and the other going round her just above her waist. She promptly put her arms round his shoulders and tucked her head into his neck.

"Like this."

"Very good," he said appreciatively, and hugged her hard enough to make her yip.

"Does your memory need prompting about what came next?" she enquired.

"I remember that very well. It was very memorable. But we could do it again, to make sure I don't forget."

Hermione chuckled softly; it tickled his neck.

"If you can manage it again so soon. You were talking, before, about being so much older than me, I wasn't sure -"

He snorted, squeezed her again, and said firmly, "I'm a wizard, girl; for these purposes I'm not so very much older than you are. What's the point in living for two hundred years or so, if you have to do without this for a hundred and more?"

Not a point of view he could recall having expressed before, but he had expected to live alone through whatever time he had left, as he had always done. The prospect of a wizard's long life was at last attractive.

Severus tossed her back onto the mattress and followed her down, and soon her impertinent tongue was being used for other things.

This time he urged her to mount him, when they both seemed to be ready, and was at first breathlessly amused by her wide-eyed interest in the different feel, the new perspective. His amusement faded as she rocked slowly, luxuriously, shamelessly using his body for her pleasure. This time it might be easier to wait. It was delicious to be teased like this, to be confident his lover wanted his pleasure as well as her own, and to feel her confidence in his willingness.

When he felt he could wait no longer he gripped her hips and seized control from her, thrusting up vigorously, enjoying first her moment of surprise, then her enthusiastic response to the change of pace.

Hermione was even closer than he had thought. Her head went back, her body arched, so he had a glimpse of the wonderful bow of her flesh poised over him, before she cried out and shuddered, melting into pleasure. He pulled her down against him to enjoy the feel of the whole of her trembling against the whole of him. She tried valiantly to keep up her rhythmic movements, pushing towards him as he thrust into her, for the few seconds left before his own climax hit.

Afterwards he reflected with smug satisfaction that while Miss Granger took a student's earnest interest even in having sex, the observer in her had been utterly swamped by the joyful, unthinking lover.

She cuddled up against him then, suddenly tired out. He held her close, glad to be able to enjoy this too, where he had usually been obliged to part in haste from such lovers as he had had. This was different, real, permanent. She was his, and he was hers, and things could only get better. He sighed, drifting into a light sleep.

At some late hour Severus rose from the bed, planning to fetch some food from the kitchen. When he found a tray outside the door, with a platter under a warming charm, he wondered, just for a second, if he was embarrassed that Potter knew perfectly well what they were doing. No, he decided, bending down to retrieve it. He had been made welcome here; this was part of it.

He carried it back to the bed and woke the best part of his welcome, and fed her pieces of chicken and fresh green peas, in between eating quite hastily himself, fascinated by the shaping of her lips as she took the peas from the fork he held. He put the fork down and started feeding her by hand. She lost interest in peas and chicken and sucked gently on his fingers.

Before they were done there was wine spilled on the sheets, but Hermione was as quick with a wand as he. It gave him ideas, though. He poured a little from his glass onto her left breast and licked it up. She gasped at the cold and wet, and then again at the wet warmth of his tongue.

Later Severus decided there were almost certainly many other very interesting ideas to explore, experiments to conduct. Tomorrow night, perhaps, he thought, sated once more, and curled up in her sheets, spooned behind her.

He woke once from nightmare, and found her hands stroking, petting, and heard her soft voice murmuring. For once in his life he drifted back into sleep, instead of needing to wake fully. She would hold the nightmares at bay, or, if not, he could hold her, and be comforted, assured of having all he needed.

* * * *

Approaching the kitchen for breakfast, Severus could hear the voices, not loud, but tight with tension. He hesitated, but the deeper voice wasn't Harry's; not deep enough, and it rose and fell in swoops, as his never would. He did not think of retreating. If someone was annoying Hermione, he might need to be saved from himself.

Then he heard, and stopped, stunned by the words rather than by the recognised voice.

"How can you do this? Aren't I your boyfriend?"

There was an indrawn breath, but the passionately angry voice swept on. "Are you crazy? What did he do to you, to make you think this? You hate the greasy git, just like all of us! You won't let me move in, but you'll invite him into your home? Your bed? I don't believe it. What has he done to you?"

Of course she would have a boyfriend, someone her own age, someone innocent, if stupid. Why had he thought he could have her, and everything else he wanted? Why had she let him think it? Two sweet nights, and no more, amounted to worse than nothing at all.

She screamed something incoherent, obviously quite as angry as her real lover, and something broke, something clattered, and there was a startled exclamation.

He turned to go, then swung back. Someone should tell her she couldn't save even one wizard with lies. He'd forgotten her compulsion to rescue the world's waifs. She must have seen him as another, but did she have to lie to him, even to the point of making love - no, having sex with him?

He rounded the kitchen cupboard wall, to see Ron Weasley standing before the stove, eyes starting, freckles standing out on pale skin. Weasley's hand was on his reddened cheek, half hiding what must have been a good smack. He had earned it; he had no right to criticise whatever she chose to do. Well, perhaps to resent her going to another man, and one he certainly still hated, though she and Potter had both convinced him that was over, for them.

She was much shorter than Weasley, but she stood in front of him radiating aggression, pressing into his space, while he leaned further back over the stove. There was almost certainly something of Potter's simmering there; he'd better be careful. She'd make him clean it up if he knocked it over. The stray thought created no warmth in the cold that was settling back over him.

If he had stayed in his dungeon, not tried to break out of his closed circle, he would not be so cold now. He could go on living without her, or partly living; if what she had offered wasn't real it would not have warmed him for long.

"Hermione."

She whipped round, and Weasley looked appalled; he managed to shuffle even further back. Some Auror the boy would make, if he still couldn't stand up to a glare he'd known for seven years.

"It's wrong to lie to people, Hermione," he said as gently as he could, trying to keep accusation out of his voice, "even to do them good. It never helps, but I know you meant well."

He would not say goodbye. He turned away, his robes swinging loose over his Muggle clothing, and made for their breakneck staircase.

"Severus! Wait!"

No footsteps running after him, but as he reached the stairhead he heard her angry-cat hiss, "Hands off, Ron!"

As he clattered down the stairs, getting away from her at a speed just short of what would send him tumbling, he heard the snap of magic behind him. So she'd pulled her wand on the boy. He was far too young for her, but she'd chosen him; she'd just have to train him thoroughly.

He also heard Potter, who always popped out of the woodwork when anything unusual happened. He had realised days ago that Potter would probably be on a war footing for the rest of his life, just like himself.

"Hermione, what's the matter? Ow!"

She had lost patience with him too. He'd better hurry; he didn't want to listen to her argue and justify. She would go on for ever, sure she was right, maddening brat, unlikely angel, but not his.

As his own wand opened the man-high door set in the big warehouse doors, tall as castle gates, he paused for a moment. He'd been too impatient to use the keys they had given him, but a lifetime of caring for security above anything else held him on their doorstep long enough to transform his robes into the long-skirted black oiled cotton coat. Luckily he was wearing those jeans she had picked out a few days ago. It also made him turn and relock the door, before he strode down the street towards the tube station.

A long walk, Salazar take all the Muggles who infested these streets; but his own training, far more than his hosts' insistence, ensured he would not Apparate out of here where he might be noticed. Certainly not on their doorstep, where it might make trouble for them. They had meant to be kind.

* * * *

Harry pulled Ron away from the stove even while he still gripped Hermione's left wrist.

She kicked him, but he held on.

Harry let go of Ron to grab her shoulders and grip hard for a moment, though he didn't shake her. She hated that, so he never did it.

She didn't wait for another question.

"Ron has managed to convince Severus he's my bloody boyfriend, and he has first dibs."

She glanced sideways at Ron, who flinched from the promise of retribution.

Harry released her. "Then get after him. He can't Apparate out of here. Do you want me to come?"

"No, but I must catch him before he gets somewhere quiet that he can."

"Take my broom."

She exhaled at yet another delay, hurrying towards the stairs.

Harry called, "Catch him if you can. If he does get away, come back. We'll both Apparate to Hogwarts, he's sure to go there."

She ran down the stairs quite as fast as Severus had. She had listened to that light patter feeling sick, her pulse crashing in time with it. Now she was able to pursue him she didn't feel so frantic. Severus had long legs; perhaps Harry was right about the broom.

She grabbed it from its cupboard near the front door and left that swinging behind her. The wards would keep the place safe enough until Harry closed it.

In the doorway she mounted the broom. She muttered a quick Disillusionment Charm, hoping it would work on witches on brooms as well as on hippogriffs and other magical flying animals, and, since the immediate street area was clear, shot up.

Harry's broom was alarmingly light and responsive, but she managed to straighten it out just above the second floor, bending low over it, gripping it with anxious hands. Muggles seldom looked up, and most of the windows at this level were painted blind, in some weird desire for privacy for workshops and the occasional small office. Thank Merlin for the cushioning charm, or she'd be likely to fall off, as well as so stiff from gripping with all her body that she wouldn't be able to stand up when she landed.

Her eyes searched the street as she flew. She hoped Severus was planning to use the underground. Whenever they left the warehouse with him that was how they had gone.

Yes! He was almost halfway there already. Oh please Merlin, let him not slip down the stairs before she caught up. Would he wait for the big creaky lift, as they always had, or run down the hundreds of emergency stairs, like descending a spiral into hell?

She urged the broom on faster, no longer frightened of anything but not getting there first.

She passed him; like the hurrying Muggles, he didn't see her. Only his height and his long hair differentiated him from them, all preoccupied with the idea of being somewhere else as soon as possible.

She whipped round the corner of the tube station building, its once-glowing deep red tiled walls smeared with dirt and graffiti, into the side alley blocked by an opportunistic storehouse, itself half a century old. She grounded the broom abruptly in a disused entryway barred by a gate. The indent provided just enough shelter for her to land, gasping, almost tumbling into the wall before she straightened out. Sliding her wand down her sleeve into her fingers, she muttered the shrinking charm and slipped the broom into her back jeans pocket. While Harry would probably forgive her if she lost it, he wouldn't be happy.

A quick look, then she darted back, trembling. Severus mustn't get away, and mustn't know she was here in time to turn and flee from her. He would flee, she knew; he had invested too much hope in the promises she had made him to be able to face her once he thought them broken, or never truly meant.

Half a minute in hand to control her breathing. Merlin knew what she would say.

She stepped out, then ran across the wide front entry, dodging the tradesmen and workroom girls the lift had just disgorged. She ran right into Severus, gasping, hearing him gasp, then gripped the lapels of his coat, looking up into the burning black eyes.

It was probably better he should be angry; if he had looked distressed she might have started crying, which would not earn her any tolerance. Get in first, before he tried to paralyse her with the sting of that silken, terrible tongue.

It proved to be quite easy.

"I love you."

That certainly halted him. His hands were clutching her shoulders, preparing to push her away, but he froze, then shuddered.

"No. He said ..."

"Ron's an idiot," she snarled at him. "He tries that on every few weeks, hoping we'll weaken and give him a bed so he won't have to go home to Molly and Arthur." For good measure she added, "You're an idiot, too! Didn't years of spying teach you not to jump to conclusions, look at all the evidence before acting?"

Something she said made him relax slightly; the grip of the hard hands eased. He might not shake her, but she would certainly have bruises. No matter. She could take it out of his hide later.

He was not fully convinced, probably not of anything. His face went, not blank, but thoughtful. He would have learned long ago not to look as if he was concealing his reactions, and thinking something over was an authentic Severus Snape reaction to almost any surprise.

"Why would he carry on like that, if you've given him no right to expect your loyalty?"

Yes, he might not care too much if she had slept with Ron - though he must know she'd had no one but him - but keeping faith, that was important.

Rather more gently she answered, "He has a lot of growing up to do, Severus, even now. It probably would have been better if his parents could have made him an allowance until he finishes at the college, turfed him out of the nest. As it is, Molly tells him what to do, the college trainers tell him what to do, he cadges meals and beds wherever he can from his friends and colleagues, and doesn't have to take any responsibility except for his study."

She couldn't help adding acidly, "That's enough of a job of work, perhaps."

She saw his lip twitch, as that struck a chord for the teacher in him.

"Harry and I decided, right at the start, we weren't going to let him opt out of looking after himself by coming to stay with us, as if nothing had changed. After two years, he'd still rather fight that than work out how to get a place of his own, where he would be on his own. He doesn't want that. Probably the twins will let him move in for his last year. George said the other day Ron would be busy enough with his studies that he'd want to be away from Molly ragging him about what to do, and they might get a bit of work in the stockroom out of him for his board. They're not going to give him houseroom if he's only going to use it to party on, though.

"Now is that quite enough about Ron? He's our friend, he always will be, and you're going to have to get used to that; but never in any world could I imagine taking him as a lover, or even a boyfriend!"

She leaned into him. "I told you whom I wanted for a lover."

Uncertainly he said, "Maybe you just want a teacher. You're ambitious..."

"If you think I'd pay for anything with sex, Severus, and pay you, you're not thinking straight. If I didn't want you, why should I, for a minute, put up with your snarks and smirks and sulks and silences behind a book?"

That seemed to strike a chord too; he relaxed a little more.

She added, "I can get teaching, though it's not as good as yours would be. You -"

A rough jostle from a shoulder and a blow to her thigh from a toolkit interrupted her. Severus drew her quickly into him, sheltering her from the new crowd. It must be almost eight o'clock.

The ticket collector called over, "Take him elsewhere, girlie; we don't rent our wall-space by the hour."

There was no actual malice in it, but she flushed all the same, and felt Severus stiffen as well as saw him scowl - well, scowl more deeply.

"Come on," she muttered. "Come home."

He had been moving, but he stopped dead at that. She sighed. Too soon.

"Come and have a cup of coffee and a roll in Albanesi's, then. We have to talk somewhere, Severus!"

When Mr Albanesi brought their coffees, black for Severus and cappuccino for her, he seemed pleased by the sight of her hand over his on the table, and the way they were leaning towards each other across it, though Severus was still rather stiff.

"Bring your fellow here again, missus. About time he showed up, should be able to keep Biggs in his place."

Mr Albanesi blithely ignored the fact that she wore no ring. In this part of London, alliances were often more a matter of mutual agreement than contract, for people who had been driven away from places where they were excluded from the protection of laws and contracts. Sticking with alliances was also valued.

She said softly, as Severus's scowl returned, "Billy at the market on Sunday, remember?"

"The one who thought he could handle you and get away with it."

There was satisfaction in his voice; he was undoubtedly recalling the pleasure of finishing what her knee in Billy's groin had started.

"So that wasn't the only time?" Clearly he was thinking about scowling again.

"No, and it wasn't the first time I'd pushed him off, either, though he always tried to kiss me, before; I don't think he'll try again."

She grinned at him, pleased herself at the memory of Billy sprawling on the damp cobbles, then doubling up, one hand clutching his genitals and the other pressed into his diaphragm, crowing rather than breathing. Someone had taught Severus seriously dirty fighting as well as fast wand-work. A benefit of a life as a Death Eater, perhaps.

That single hard blow had earned Severus more approval than he was aware of. The local shopkeepers and traders, knowing she hadn't been brought up here, doubted she could look after herself. She needed a man. Though they respected Harry, a friend wasn't the same; at last she had her own man. This wasn't Hermione's view of how the world should be organised, but if it made life here easier for Severus she wouldn't complain.

She explained, "Billy's wife ran off with a dot com salesman a couple of months ago, because he roughed her up too often. He's been looking for someone to cook and clean and keep him happy in bed ever since, and for a while he's fancied me; he thought I had money."

Severus would neither know nor care what a dot com salesman was, but he seemed to think that an appropriate response to misuse.

He raised his eyebrows at her. "And have you?"

Hermione shrugged. "Billy probably has a lot more than I have, if he knew it. We just do different things with what we have. He'd never buy books, or antique furniture for his home, no matter how much cleaning up it needed; only mugs do that. We buy wine, not whisky, and he thinks I loaf around all day while Harry keeps us with the market garden."

At least he was talking, now, if not of what she wanted him to talk with her about. On the other hand, that look of satisfaction had been decidedly personal.

"Severus, forget about Ron. Try to trust me."

He took a deep breath, then reached his free hand for hers, brushing the half-eaten roll out of it.

"I thought I could. You've always been so serious. But you've always wanted to help people, too, even house-elves, for Salazar's sake, idiot girl! What if - what if that was all it was? I thought you meant to free me from Dumbledore, from all the traps, and then let me go my own way. If that was all, I might as well stay at Hogwarts. At least if I stay my Slytherins will have someone looking after them, and I have my Potions workroom, with all the ingredients I ask for. I ... don't want to be alone, Hermione, any more than you say young Weasley does."

She chose to be tart with that confession. "Where would I be if I went to bed with everyone I thought needed help? Do I sleep with Harry? Ron? Neville? The house-elves?"

He flinched at that, and an expression of strong distaste settled on his face for a moment, before he accepted her logic. She didn't care to imagine house-elf sex either, but she couldn't repress a giggle at his revulsion.

She drove it home with, "Up to my eyebrows in useless males, that's where I'd be."

"Define useless," he said, slyly enough to make her flush.

He held her hands more tightly for a moment, then released her and sat back, picking up his coffee cup. Back to normal, or wishing her to think so.

She rescued her roll and chewed on it, glad to be putting something more into her hollow stomach. Anxiety like that before breakfast was very bad for the digestion.

"Very well," he said, when they had finished. "I'll come home with you. But there's a lot we need to settle. Just not here."

"No," she agreed, digging in her pockets for pound coins.

She didn't think he would be willing to let her get too close to him yet, though, so she decided they ought to take the long way round.

As well as paying for their breakfast, she bought two loaves, and fished out the fine mesh string bag that lived in her back pocket ever since she moved in to the warehouse.

"Ah, you're a good girl, don't like the plastic any more than I do," the baker said approvingly, tipping the two paper bags into the open netting for her. "Bad for fresh bread. Don't you want an extra loaf for your man, though?"

It was true they normally bought bread two loaves at a time.

"Severus? Another sourdough, or white bread? Something else?"

"Not that stuff full of grain you had Saturday," he said firmly. "I'm not a hen. Wholemeal?"

He took the bag from her, and did not seem surprised to see it expand in a way quite unnatural to a Muggle when on the way back to the warehouse she added a bunch of beetroot and some onions and potatoes to it.

"I'll just get sour cream, for the borscht, and milk," she said quickly, ducking into a shop labelled 'Dairy', which sold a remarkable array of cheeses.

Severus browsed the counter thoughtfully, and asked her to buy some of the fresh cheese that he had eaten with oatmeal biscuits in Minerva's rooms for years. She found a packet of those when he told her; they seemed to have been made in Scotland, so perhaps they would taste like the ones Minerva's Squib cousin provided.

Slowly they headed for what she hoped he would learn to think of as home, while she encouraged him to think what he might like for dinner besides the beetroot soup.

"If Potter cooks, doesn't he choose?"

"Harry will cook anything you give him a recipe for, but his aunt taught him plain British cooking - very plain. He's quite happy to hear suggestions, this early in the day, any way. I don't help him a lot in the kitchen, but at least I can make sure he doesn't have to plan all the menus. So can you."

Severus was unsure what their budget would cover, and his stock of Muggle money was almost exhausted. He would have to go back to Gringotts soon. "Chicken?"

"Pork, maybe, with that soup, if that's all right?"

He nodded. She supposed that Severus would eat almost anything, after years of living at Hogwarts.

By the time they reached the front door Hermione had quietly summoned another pair of string bags and carried them, with a lighter load than his, but evenly balanced, and Severus seemed to accept that he was a member of the household rather than just a guest.

There was no sign of Ron. Giving Harry a chance to get him out of the place, to shove him off to his first class of the morning, had been another reason to do the food shopping just then. Harry was in the kitchen when they came in. Normally he would have been in his study at this hour, straight after breakfast.

He smiled at the supplies.

"Catering for a week? Good, that saves me doing it."

He took the bag Severus carried.

As he distributed the contents around the cupboards, with Severus watching carefully, which pleased her, Harry asked calmly, "So you're staying? Great. Welcome to the Pearly Gates."

Severus looked startled.

"This isn't really Cockney country, that's even further east. But close enough that we called the business for the district."

Hermione took pity on her lover's ignorance. "You know the way Tonks talks? Most of it's affectation. Her dad learned to speak like everyone else, at Hogwarts. But he's from the East End, and one of the things costermongers - people selling fruit from street barrows - still do there, on special occasions, any way, is dress up in suits covered with mother-of-pearl buttons. Mostly, nowadays, pearly kings and queens collect for charity. When I told Harry about that, he said we should call this place Pearly Gates, since the original Cockney boroughs aren't too far down the river."

Harry sighed. "It's a very bad pun. The gates of heaven. If only the heaven of independence. It won't mean anything to a wizard, so we made the business name a bit different."

She saw Severus smile wryly. "It has a meaning, Potter. The Dementors show us wizards have souls to be saved too, even if we don't believe in miracles."

Harry shivered, but he said quietly, "Yes, we're much the same as Muggles, really. Magic is probably just another gene, or mutation."

Then he smiled. "If you don't know about that sort of thing, Severus, you and Hermione are going to have some wonderful after-dinner discussions. She'll keep you in extra reading for years, just as she does me."

Severus said deliberately, "If I am to live here, among the Muggles, with you, then I need to learn about them. You keep a distance, but you don't keep yourselves completely separate, so I won't be able to."

In a murmur he added, "There may be something to learn from them."

* * * *

TBC