The Last Word

The happiest day of my life was the day I got my letter from Hogwarts and found out that I was a witch. I’d always been bookish, but I’d never found a subject that interested me as much as magic, and from the day I got my letter, I read every book about magic that I could lay my hands on. The first time I saw the castle…well, I’m sure most of the other first years felt the same, but Hogwarts really is the most amazing place, and seeing it at night all lit up just took my breath away. It was even more amazing inside. I’d read about the charmed ceiling in the Great Hall, of course, but reading about it and seeing it are two completely different experiences. And the ghosts and the owls and the moving pictures and staircases - well, it was just one astonishing thing after another. I pretended not to be impressed. I acted as though my reading of Hogwarts: A History had prepared me for every possible surprise, but it took a lot of effort to keep from walking around with my mouth hanging open.

That feeling never completely wore off - it really didn’t. I still get gooseflesh when I see the Hogwarts Castle loom into view. I still tear up when I remember leaving it at the end of my seventh year, saying goodbye to all my professors there and boarding the Hogwarts Express with Harry and Ron for the last time. I still think that magic is the most interesting thing in the world, and there’s a part of me that still can’t believe I got that letter, still can’t believe I’m a bona fide witch. I can actually raise my wand and summon the power to make things happen. I still have to pinch myself sometimes.

But nothing is perfect, and it was some time in my third or fourth year at Hogwarts that I finally realized that not everything in the magical world was superior to the world I was ever-so-gradually leaving behind. I couldn’t convince Ron of that, of course. Having been raised in a wizarding family, it was all just too normal for him. I think Harry understood better though. He certainly didn’t prefer the Muggle world - how could he, given what he’d experienced with his aunt and uncle? But he did seem to agree with me that quills, while romantic in a way, are terribly inferior to even an inexpensive fountain pen. And parchment…well, it has this annoying tendency to roll up at the worst possible moment, making you lose your train of thought completely, and then the ink from the dratted quill gets all smudged, and before you know it, you’re re-writing a three-foot essay on the mating habits of hags. I could go on for days about how annoying it is to try to study by candlelight, especially when you tend to have fly-away hair. Have you ever tried to study with the smell of singed hair filling the room? And the clocks! Yes, it’s nice to know that it’s "time for dinner" but sometimes, it’s also nice to know the actual, honest-to-goodness time. Every year, I wore a new watch to Hogwarts, hoping that it would last, but all those wards of Professor Dumbledore’s did something to the battery, and I never had a single watch survive the Sorting.

Please don’t get me wrong. I still would rather be a witch who has to put up with a few anachronistic inconveniences that an ordinary Muggle any day, but those inconveniences gave me some things to look forward to during my summers at home. Electricity meant that I could glance at my digital clock in the middle of the night and know whether it would be time to get up soon. It meant that I could stay up late reading without worrying about setting myself on fire. It meant that I could write my summer papers on my parents’ computer. Of course, later I had to transfer them to parchment, but at least I found a pen with ink that looked a lot like a quill’s, and no one was ever the wiser.

I went through a rather sanctimonious period where I thought I should convert my wizarding friends from quills to ink pens and from parchment to paper. It was rather like trying to convince a House Elf to take a pay check. They simply weren’t interested and were, at times, quite offended by the effort. Witches and wizards like their anachronisms, thank you very much. Finally (I admit, I’m slow to give in in these matters) I realized that parchment and quills and all the rest of it was a part of their history, and that it wasn’t my business to change that. I had been invited into their world, but that didn’t give me the right to alter it to suit my whims.

It was only a small step from there to the realization that some of the Muggle "conveniences" were downright dangerous in the hands of wizards. Not fountain pens, of course, but a lot of electronic devices just don’t belong around lots of magic. At first I thought that they just wouldn’t work around magic, but the truth is that some of them work, just in ways they were never intended to work. The first year I was a prefect, one of the young Muggle-born Gryffindors smuggled in a small radio. It woke the entire tower in the middle of the night playing obscene rap music at top volume. Nothing I did could make it either stop or quiet down. Finally, after about an hour, the radio just burst into flames, but not before the little first-years learned a lot of new words.

All of this is why I was less than enthusiastic when Minister Weasley arrived in my office one day followed by three house elves carrying a Muggle computer.

"Ta da!" he said, beaming as the elves put the tower, monitor, and keyboard down on my desk and then melted away as only elves can do.

I peered at him from over the top of the monitor. "Well hello to you, too, Arthur."

"I’ve brought you a computer."

"I can see that." I smiled at him. It’s difficult not to smile at Arthur Weasley’s enthusiasm when he’s in the presence of a Muggle electronic device, but if I’d known what he had in store for me, I probably would have suppressed the impulse.

"It’s a beauty, isn’t it?" He ran a hand over the tower, and the rapturous look on his face made the gesture seem almost obscene.

"It certainly is," I agreed. "May I ask what I’m supposed to do with it? The wards…"

"I know, I know," he said, now stroking the monitor, giving it equal time. "No ekletricity and all that. That’s why I brought it to you. I want you and the rest of the Magical Innovations staff to start working on a way to make computers run on magic. I want one on every Ministry employee’s desk by Christmastime."

"Every employee," I repeated weakly. I adore Arthur; I always have. But his affinity for Muggle devices has never matched his knowledge of them, and the results have, on occasion, been a spectacular mess. But how to argue with him without hurting his feelings? "Arthur, I don’t think the Ministry employees want computers."

"Of course they don’t now," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "But just wait until they have them. They’ll be…what do the Muggles call it? Caught in the web?"

"Surfing the web," I muttered.

"That can’t be right," he frowned. "Surfing is to do with water, isn’t it?"

I felt a headache starting. A headache that was to last for months. Best to bring the conversation back on track.

"Arthur, even if I can get the computers to work in here, I really don’t think it would be wise to have them connected to the world wide web. The security risks would be enormous."

"Hmm." He looked disappointed, but even Arthur wasn’t willing to risk the security of the Ministry. "Well, could you fix it so that they could communicate with one another? That would be a big help. I get so tired of sticking my head in the fire twenty times a day, and you should hear Molly go on and on about the state of my collars. All that soot, you know."

"I have heard her," I reminded him. And I had to admit that he had a point - the idea of being able to communicate without using the Floo network was appealing. I still do have fly-away hair, and the less time my head spends in the fireplace, the happier I am. "We might be able to set up an intranet for the Ministry," I told him, a little grudgingly, "but I don’t know much about things like that, and I doubt anyone on my staff does either. They were all raised in wizarding families you know."

"I’ll find someone," he promised. "Whatever you need. If you and your staff can get it to run, I’ll find someone to do the…what is it they need to do?"

"Networking."

"Got it." He pulled out his wand and pulled a silvery thought from his temple and then tucked it into his breast pocket. "Must remember to put that in the proper place when I get back to my office. Drives Molly crazy to find my thoughts in the laundry."

My sympathies were entirely with Molly in that regard, but I let it pass. "OK, Arthur, we’ll get started on this tomorrow. I’ll meet with my staff then and we’ll plan our approach, and I’ll memo you with a timeline so that you’ll have some idea of when we’ll need a networking person on board."

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, giving the tower a final loving caress. I could tell that he really hated to leave the equipment in my custody.

I glanced at it all again and noticed something missing. "Just one more thing," I said. "Did it come with a mouse?"

"Er, no. I guess not. This is everything that was in the boxes," he said, looking concerned. "Oh, well, here." He drew his wand then and conjured a small field mouse, offering it to me by the tail. "Will this do?"

"It’s perfect," I assured him, taking custody of the small creature. "Thank you."

"Anything you need, Hermione. Just let me know." He returned to his office then, leaving me alone with one new computer and one bewildered mouse. I can still picture that shiny new computer sitting on my desk, waiting for me to bring it to life.

I had no idea that it would bring me to life as well.

§§§§

They got their wish.

I had spent the summer creating a magical power source – like a Muggle battery – that would be connected to the computer using the existing electrical cord, which had been altered to serve as a conduit for magic. The cord now functioned something like a wand, except instead of directing magic out, it drew magic in, powering the computer. The beauty of it was that it could be used for any Muggle electrical device. The only alterations necessary would be to the number of spells used in the power source, and those calculations were simple once you’d worked out the initial formula. The power source itself had been fashioned out of clay, which was hard enough to withstand some rough treatment but porous enough to accept the spells. A certain amount of in-service training would be necessary to teach the Ministry employees to refresh their own power sources, but that could easily be accomplished before my Christmas deadline.

I admit it – I was proud of myself and proud of my staff. They stood there, Amy, Joyce, and Bryce, and smiled at the Minister and his friends, not realizing that everyone save the Minister himself was hoping that the whole project would blow up in our faces.

Which it did.

Literally.

In hindsight, of course, I wish I hadn’t let Arthur do the honours, but I’ve always had a weakness for pleading Weasleys - a fact which Ron used to great advantage during our Hogwarts days.

"Please, Hermione. May I?" Arthur was practically delirious at being so close to the beloved computer again.

"Certainly, Minister," I said confidently. "Just put the plug – that’s the part with the little metal prongs – into the small slits in the power source."

"Here goes!" The Minister knew exactly how to plug something in; of course, he probably has a hundred Muggle electrical devices hidden away in or around the Burrow. But the minute he touched the plug to the power source, I heard a crackling sound.

I barely managed to say, "Uh oh," when the computer exploded, showering my lab with twisted metal and shattered glass and starting several small fires, including one at the hem of Arthur’s robe.

The wizards Arthur had invited were all doubled up with laughter, and had I not been busy containing the fire, I would have hexed every one of them.

"Impressive, Arthur," Auror Pillstocking gasped.

"Gives new meaning to the term ‘flaming redhead,’ doesn’t he?" the Assistant Minister said, gesturing at Arthur and roaring at his own joke.

"Er, well, I’m sure Miss Granger and her staff just need to work out a few more of the details," Arthur answered, once the laughter had died down a bit and the flames had been reduced to smouldering embers.

I appreciated his defence, but the truth was that I didn’t have the first clue what had gone wrong. I had tested that power source on a number of other Muggle items, and it had worked perfectly. It made no sense for it to suddenly malfunction in that way, and if I had thought there was the slightest possibility of it, I wouldn’t have allowed the Minister to be the one to test it. What I wanted more than anything just then was for Arthur and his band of merry men to get out of my lab so that I could clean up the mess and start over.

For I would start over. I had thought it was a stupid idea when Arthur first dumped the computer on my desk, but now I was committed. I had devoted my entire summer to that project, and I wasn’t quitting until electronic owls were flying all over the Ministry building.

Finally, I got rid of everyone with the exception of my staff, and the four of us stood looking at the smouldering ruins of what used to be a pristine new computer.

"Well, that was…interesting," Bryce said, his mouth twitching a little.

"I’m sure it’ll turn out to be something really simple," Joyce said hopefully.

"Yeah, like…well, I guess I don’t really know," Amy said, "but simple."

Just then, as if it were intentionally mocking us, the largest chuck of debris exploded further with a series of loud pops.

"Shut the hell up, Sparky," I snarled.

My staff stared at me for a moment – whether because they’d never heard me swear before or because I had been reduced to snapping at inanimate objects, I wasn’t quite sure – and then we all threw back our heads and laughed until tears ran down our faces.

§ § § §

 "Shut the hell up, Sparky," quickly became an office catchphrase, something my staff threw back at me anytime they didn’t like what I was saying – which was often, since I tended to say things like, "Let’s skip lunch today and get in some extra work on the project," and "Could you read this book over the weekend and see if it has anything in it that might be helpful?" They told me to shut the hell up twenty times a day, and they called me Sparky, but they did everything I asked them to and more. I was technically the boss – the Department of Magical Innovations had been my idea, and the Minister had allowed me to create it according to my specifications and to hire my staff without any restrictions from higher-ups. So I was the boss, and we all knew it, but I preferred to work as a team, and the informality didn’t bother me as it might have other department heads. We were all within five years of being the same age, and we all knew the ins and outs of one another’s personal lives – or rather, I knew about theirs, and they would have known about mine had there been anything to know. Dining alone with one’s cat doesn’t make for exciting water-cooler conversation.

It was Bryce who finally hit on the solution to the problem with the computer, and it happened quite by accident. He had spelled the power source the night before, trying a slightly different combination of spells this time, but none of us really expected the results to be any different from what they had been before. He came in the next morning, planning to test the power source on some of the smaller Muggle appliances we kept on hand, but first he fixed a cup of coffee and told Joyce, Amy, and me about the spectacular row he’d had with his partner the night before. Bryce and Derek had a relationship that was renowned for having the highest of peaks and the lowest of valleys, and the previous night had definitely been a valley night. Heated words had been exchanged, certain breakable items had been thrown, and it had ended with Bryce’s clothing being tossed out of a window. He was now staying with his mum and dad, a situation that did nothing to improve his mood. We listened sympathetically and offered what little advice we could, which in my case tended toward inanities like, "Oh, it’ll work out." Honestly, what did I know?

Eventually it became clear that Bryce’s personal problems weren’t going to be solved over a cup of coffee in the middle of the lab, so we all turned to our business for the day. He reached for a nearby toaster and plugged it into the power source, and then we all heard a familiar crackle. Bryce jumped out of the way just in time as the toaster blasted off, slamming against the ceiling and then crashing to the ground in flames.

"What did you do?" I asked, as we all came rushing forward to stare at the latest casualty.

"I didn’t do anything! I swear. I tested practically the same combination of spells three days ago, and it worked fine."

"Well, we need to look back over your notes and find out exactly what the difference is," I said, pointing at the toaster’s remains. "Obviously, something is different."

"I wonder," Amy said thoughtfully.

"You wonder what?"

Amy tended to be the most reserved of my staff members, and she had that look that said she was worried she was about to say something stupid. "Well, I wonder if Bryce’s mood has something to do with it." She winced as she said the words, as if she was expecting us all to burst out laughing. Instead, we all just stared at her. It did seem a little ridiculous, at first, but honestly, we had eliminated every other possibility. "I mean, he and Derek were happy the other day, and the power source worked fine, and now he’s upset and angry, and I’m just wondering if maybe he’s giving off some kind of negative magical aura that’s being absorbed into the power source and causing it to malfunction."

"And when we tested the computer, the Minister had brought all those Department heads in who were hoping we would fail," I said slowly. "They would have been giving off a negative aura too, wouldn’t they?"

"You know, that actually makes some sense, in a weird way," Bryce said.

"But assuming that’s the case, what do we do about it?" Joyce asked. Joyce is the practical one. It was one of the main reasons I hired her.

It was a good question, and fortunately it had a simple solution. Within three days we had figured out that by applying a magical glaze to the clay we could seal it sufficiently so that random negative magic wouldn’t be absorbed. It made it a little more difficult to refresh the power source, but that seemed like a small price to pay for the privilege of not having my computer hit the ceiling every time I walked in with PMS. We tested the new power source with a new computer (just the four of us this time, without informing Arthur), and it worked perfectly. We danced around the lab together, conjured some champagne and drank until we were silly, and then I gave everyone the afternoon off.

I had no one to go home to besides a cat, and his romance had progressed to the point that he was spending most of his time on the balcony next door. So I was still at my desk, grinning like a fool at nothing in particular, when a young man suddenly stepped into my line of vision.

"Something funny?" he asked, returning my smile.

"Not particularly," I answered. "Just having a really great day. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I hope I’m not going to ruin your day." He handed me a roll of parchment. "I’ve just been reassigned to this department. Apparently you’re going to need someone to do some networking?" He said this last as a question, as well he might – very few people were aware of what my department had been working on these last months, and most wizards would think networking was to do with fishing.

"I sure do!" I said, obviously surprising him. "Can you start tomorrow?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess so. I can start today if you want me to."

"Good. Have a seat and I’ll tell you all about it. Oh, but first – what’s your name?" Apparently I’d had more champagne than I should have. I wasn’t coming across as the impressive young department head at all.

"Peter Marsh," he said. "And you’re Miss Granger, right?"

"Hermione," I corrected. "I assume you’re Muggle-born, if you know something about networking."

He nodded. "Always was mad for computers. My dad does consulting – setting up networks for small businesses, that sort of thing. Used to help him in my summers home from school."

"Hogwarts?" I asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yes." Further conversation revealed that we had actually attended Hogwarts at the same time, though since Peter was a Ravenclaw and five years my senior, he was hardly in a position to remember me. I’m not a raving beauty now, but I have come a long way since I was twelve, thank fortune. We didn’t either of us remember the other, but it didn’t matter now. We were both adults, and five years matters little to adults, and even less to witches and wizards, who tend to have much longer life spans than the average Muggle.

We spent the afternoon discussing the project, the progress that had been made and the work that lay ahead, and by the time we stopped for breath, Peter was as excited about the project as I was. We realized that it was long past time to go home, and so we left together and decided to get a bite to eat.

The next months were a blur of long days, and the dinners with Peter grew more and more frequent, until we were dining together practically every night. It was a month before he first tried to kiss me, and I was shocked, at first, and then when I got over the shock I found it quite pleasant. I always have been the last to know in these matters, but it occurred to me that his assumptions weren’t unreasonable given the amount of time we were spending together. Once I stopped to think about it, I realized that I actually liked him very much. He was nice-looking in that way that doesn’t stop traffic but which grows on you the more you get to know him. He had dark hair that he kept very short, and I could tell that if he let it grow at all it would be even curlier than mine. His eyes were a soft hazel and he had a crooked smile that was quite endearing. All in all, I could have done a lot worse – and have – and that autumn was a happy one for me despite the insane hours we were working as we set up the network, readied all those computers, and conducted training sessions with mostly resentful witches and wizards. An office romance isn’t a great idea in the general run of things, but given the hours I was working, it was an office romance or none at all. I chose the former.

Sometime in late October, Harry and Ron stopped by my lab. They were both Unspeakables by then, both decorated war heroes, and yet when they were together they still gave the impression of half-grown Labrador Retrievers. I adored them both – still do - but when I watched them giving each other playful shoves and making adolescent jokes, it simply boggled the mind that they were objects of deep respect in the wizarding world. In my eyes, they were still fourteen, and I always cringed to see them in the lab because they were so rambunctious, so incautious, so disrespectful of the dangers associated with my work. I was in my office, but I heard Ron’s voice booming through the echoing lab.

"Where’s ‘Mione? We’re here to check out the new boyfriend." I felt my face flame and hid my head in my arms. Maybe they wouldn’t find me.

"Well, don’t look at me," Bryce said. "There’s the lucky guy over there."

One ear was peeking up over my elbow, and I heard Peter say hello – a little hesitantly – and then heard Harry and Ron introducing themselves. I gave in to the inevitable and went out to greet them myself.

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed, giving me a hug. "Haven’t seen you in ages. Does Arthur ever let you go home?"

"Once or twice a week," I joked. "Long enough to shower and change, and then I’m right back here."

"Well, it doesn’t sound like it’s been all work," Ron said, giving Peter a suggestive look. I felt an immediate urge to swat him over the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

"Shut up, Ron." He ignored me of course. He always does.

"So, can you two break free for a drink tonight? Maybe grab some dinner?" he asked. "If you’re going to be seeing this guy, it’s our job to check him out. No offence," he added to Peter.

"Oh, honestly, Ron!" I was seething. "It most certainly is not your job to check Peter out. I don’t know what your job is, but I’m pretty sure my love life doesn’t fall under the purview of the Department of Mysteries."

"Well…" Harry started.

"Don’t say it!" I warned.

"We’d love to go to dinner," Peter interrupted. "Do us good to get out of here early for once." He looked at me and smiled. "What do you say?"

"Fine," I said, mustering up my most long-suffering tone of voice. "Just don’t hold me responsible for the behaviour of these two prats once they start drinking."

We had a lot of fun that night, to my very great surprise. The boys were reasonably well-behaved, and Peter didn’t seem over-awed by the fact that he was dining with the Minister’s son and the-boy-who-lived-and-defeated-Voldemort. That night stands out in my mind because I remember thinking, after Peter brought me home and kissed me thoroughly, that my life was pretty wonderful. I had a boyfriend for the first time in…well, let’s just say it had been a while. But I had a boyfriend who was great, and he got along well with my friends. I had no reservations about taking him home to meet mum and dad – they would love him, I knew. He was smart, fun, good-looking, and we had the same interests.

Things were perfect.

§§§§

We began testing the network in November. Computers weren’t on every desk, by any means, but they were on more and more of them as the month progressed. My staff and I had the first ones, of course, so that we could test the network amongst ourselves, but Arthur Weasley was next in line, and he was practically orgasmic as I gave him his first tutorial. He caught on quickly, of course, as most eager-learners do, and soon my e-mail account was flooded with messages from “aweasley.” Peter had set my account name up as "Sparky," proving that his sense of humour wasn’t much more evolved than Harry’s and Ron’s. It was no wonder they all got on so well.

By late November, each department of the Ministry had at least one networked computer, and Arthur asked Peter to begin expanding the network to certain offices outside the Ministry with which he need to be in contact. So Peter was dispatched to Parliament, St. Mungo’s, Azkaban, and finally to Hogwarts. His work kept him away, and I missed him, but as he brought each place online he would send me an e-mail letting me know that he was finishing up and would be back soon. It was early December, and he had been at Hogwarts for a week when I decided to e-mail him myself, just so he’d have one waiting when he brought Hogwarts online.

To: sparky@ministry.gov.uk

I read the message twice, and then I double-checked the address and realized my mistake. I had simply typed the address, rather than pulling Peter up in my address book, and I had left out his middle initial. His address was pjm@ministry.gov.uk and I had written to pm@ministry.gov.uk, whoever that might be. I didn’t know and didn’t want to know, but after fuming for a few minutes, I decided to write back, just to give the ill-mannered person a piece of my mind.

I hit "send" before I could think the better of it and instantly felt very childish, but it was too late to take it back. I reached for the directory of Ministry employees and skimmed through the M’s to see who my unpleasant correspondent might be, but the only P.M. I knew was Peter. There was a Pricilla Mossimer in Improper Use, but somehow it was difficult to imagine anyone named "Pricilla" being as nasty as the person who had written to me. I put the directory away. It didn’t matter, after all.

The next day I received the anticipated e-mail from Peter, telling me that he had gotten Hogwarts online and making plans for when he arrived home. I smiled, both at the thought of getting together with Peter and at the mental image I suddenly formed of Albus Dumbledore, his beard swept over one shoulder to keep it out of the way, hunting and pecking away at the computer whilst sucking on a lemon drop.

The smile faded when I saw that the next message was from the mysterious "P.M."

Oooooh! That man - whoever he was - made my blood boil. I knew I should just toss that message in the virtual trash and forget about the whole thing, but there has always been something in me that demands the last word, and from the simple fact that our exchanges had gone on as long as they had, I suspected that this man was the same. It was a challenge, at first – nothing more. A challenge to see if I could have the last word.

I hit "reply."

§ § § § 

Peter arrived home two days later, and at dinner that night I almost asked him who P.M. was. He would have known, of course, or could have found out just by checking his notes. I told myself that the only reason I didn’t ask was that it didn’t matter. I hadn’t seen Peter in weeks, and why should I waste our precious time together asking about some insufferably unpleasant man whose path had mistakenly crossed mine on the information superhighway (or minihighway, rather, since our network was rather limited). That made perfect sense, but in hindsight I know it wasn’t the real reason I didn’t ask.

The real reason is that in only a few short days, I had learned to look forward to the daily e-mail from P.M. and the inevitable bloodletting that followed. In addition to needing the last word, there is some recessive part of me that is attracted to unpleasantness. I can’t explain this, but I point to Crookshanks as a living, breathing example. Why else, when I walked into a store with all manner of lovely familiars, would I have emerged with Crookshanks? He’s mostly nasty, even to me, and not especially attractive as cats go. But he’s terribly intelligent, and he gets this look on his face when I’m talking to him…it’s as if he understands every word. He’s revolted by most of it, but I’m sure he understands.

So I was enjoying the unpleasant stranger and enjoying the fact that he was a stranger. I had been intrigued by his comment about explosions, but I hadn’t asked him point-blank what department he worked for. I could think of several that dealt with explosions fairly regularly, and I spent some time in pleasurable contemplation, wondering which of those departments he might be with. It was a lark, nothing more, and certainly nothing I needed to bother Peter about. And if I had bothered Peter, the mystery would have been solved, and much of the fun would have gone out of the thing when I realized that my mystery man was an overweight, balding accountant up in the Department of Fiscal Affairs. No, on second thought, they didn’t deal with explosions much up there, but I’m sure you take my point.

For the time being, I was content to look forward to our daily e-mails, and gradually, we sniped a bit less and got to know one another a bit more.

Well, I’d been given a number of clues in that message, but I couldn’t put them together in any shape that made sense. Very few of the Ministry departments actually worked on Christmas. Yes, it was a Muggle holiday, but there were many Muggle-borns at the Ministry and many other witches and wizards who had adopted the more commercial aspects of the day. With the exception of a few Aurors, the Ministry was virtually vacant on Christmas day. Perhaps he was an Auror…that would fit with the explosions and with his concerns about department downsizing. But the head of that department was about as far from being a child-at-heart type as it was possible to be. No, it didn’t quite fit.

 I once again set my musings aside. The mystery was fun, after all. I didn’t need to know.

§§§§

Christmas came and went, and Peter and I both survived the meeting of one another’s parents. Actually, the visits went quite well, though I wouldn’t have wanted either one of them to go on any longer than they had. When we came back, the parental blessing seemed to confer permission to Take Things To the Next Level, which meant that I had someone besides Crookshanks to eat breakfast with most mornings. If, occasionally, I had the niggling thought that Peter and I didn’t really talk about much besides work, I was able to shove it aside when I ran through my mental checklist:

Smart. Check.

Attractive. Check

Gets along with friends and parents. Check.

In addition to those major points, he also didn’t seem to mind that I went around most of the day with a quill stuck in the messy knot of hair on my head or that I was an obsessive housekeeper who frequently washed his glass before he had finished drinking out of it. No, I could be myself with Peter, and he seemed to like me all the same. It was comfortable.

It was probably sometime in late January that I began to feel slightly guilty for not having mentioned my mysterious pen-pal to Peter. P.M. and I had continued to write every day - or every work day - and now I was telling him things I hadn’t told anyone else. Silly things, much of the time, and frequently he laughed at me, but they were exactly the kinds of things that Peter and I never talked about, and somehow, that made me feel as if I were doing something I shouldn’t. There was never a breath of romance between P.M. and me. He knew of Peter’s existence from the very first letter, of course, and never even hinted at anything improper. But still, there was an intimacy between us that I’d never felt with anyone else. It was an odd intimacy, built on seemingly meaningless bits of personal trivia that, when strung together and taken as a whole, weren’t meaningless at all. I knew that he had enjoyed vacations on the coast as a child and abhorred broccoli in any form. He knew that I had a secret weakness for chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream and took long baths after a particularly stressful day.

We continued on that way, trading bits and pieces of our lives, and eventually I could no longer pretend that the mystery man didn’t matter. I felt a frisson of pleasure each time his address appeared in my inbox, and I frequently smiled the whole way through his messages. Some days, we bounced messages back and forth five or six times, and I found myself dashing from the lab to my office almost hourly, just to see if I had mail. No, it was impossible to pretend he didn’t matter, but I did manage to swallow my guilt and convince myself that it was so completely innocent that there was no reason to mention it to Peter.

At work we had moved on, finally, from the computer project, and everyone except Peter was now devoting their energies to other things. Bryce and Amy were hard at work developing a new kind of ink that could be charmed so that it was visible only to a certain designated recipient, and Joyce and I were working on modifying a complicated invisibility spell so that witches and wizards of average ability would be able to use it. These were the types of projects for which our department had been created, yet after the massive push to bring the Ministry online, they seemed a little dull to me, and I found I wasn’t enjoying my work as much as I once had.

It was mid-April, and I was in the throes of these professional doldrums, when I received the owl from Professor Dumbledore. (Apparently, he was among the wizards who had not embraced the convenience of e-mail. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.)

I read the parchment twice and then realized that my hands were shaking slightly and put it down on my desk. A teacher… A teacher at Hogwarts. I’d never even thought of such a thing, partly because it seemed like the teachers there would all be there forever. Even the Defence position had been held for years by Professor Callahan, a former Auror who had taken the position just before the war began.

But to teach Charms at Hogwarts…

Well, I let my mind run with that thought for some little time, imagining myself in my beloved library again and picturing the little first-years learning to swish and flick from my example. I saw the castle, that regal and temperamental pile of ancient stones with its ghosts and its portraits and its shifting staircases. I realized that though I’d been gone for years, there was a sentimental part of me that still thought of Hogwarts as home.

But…

The list of "buts" was really quite long. My job, for starters. The Minister had allowed me to create my own department. Could I really just walk away from that? And then there was my staff - the staff I had hired and worked with for years. And of course, Peter. I was in love with Peter, wasn’t I? All of those things were sensible reasons to stay. Harry and Ron, too, though I didn’t actually see them often. But I had friends in London - people my own age.

Whereas Hogwarts was a world apart. There was no apparating in on a whim, so I would be there with only the teachers - those same teachers who had seemingly been there forever - and the students, who obviously couldn’t be my friends, no matter how much I might like them.

 I made up my mind to owl Professor Dumbledore back and decline, and then an hour later I changed my mind and decided to hear him out. It went like that, all day long, and I stayed distracted until Bryce finally threw me out of the lab. "Get out of here, Sparky. You’re a menace today."

He was right. I was making all sorts of idiotic mistakes. I went and hid in my office, and on a whim, I opened my e-mail and sought an unbiased opinion.

It was little more than an hour later that I received my reply.

I read the message, and it was then that I knew.

I knew, but I resisted the knowledge – grabbed my mental shovel and attempted to bury it deep in my subconscious where it had been, perhaps, from the very beginning. My conscious mind had formed a clear mental image of my mysterious correspondent. It’s funny how you can do that, based just on letters. I imagined a man, slightly older than myself, a faceless beaurocrat tied to a Ministry desk. I had started with that one assumption – that this man worked at the Ministry somewhere - and it had coloured our correspondence, influencing the way I read each message and interpreted each "clue" to my mysterious correspondent’s identity. But it was hard for me to reconcile the beaurocrat in my head with the image of a man orphaned by life, with nowhere else to turn, making his Ministry department his "family." It was possible, I supposed, but it seemed very unlikely.

I realized then that the entire tone of his message had suggested that he and I were in different places – not working in the same building at all. "You do have friends and family there…" he had said. "This is where I have chosen to stay…" There had been nothing in the message that conclusively gave him away, but an alarm had been triggered, and suddenly clues he had given me all along made perfect sense.

As I re-read the message, the voice in my head sounded different, yet familiar. It was a voice that had once struck me as sinister, had called me a stupid girl, had been cruel to me and even worse to my friends. The voice in my head was as low and silky-smooth as ever, but now instead of sounding sinister it seemed intimate and confessional, soothing me like a caress. The faceless beaurocrat of my imagination gave way to a haunted man with sallow skin, gaunt cheeks, and glittering black eyes. It should have been frightening, given my real-life experiences of the man, but the months of our correspondence had added a layer of understanding, and instead of being frightened, I felt the stirrings of sympathy…and something else.

No.

It wasn’t possible. Surely no one should have to confront this much reality in one otherwise normal workday. It simply wasn’t possible that I had…feelings for Severus Snape, my once-despised potions master.

Potions master.

P.M.

Shit.

I had truly been an idiot. I had gotten the first message from P.M. the day before I found out that Hogwarts had been brought online. How was it possible that I had never thought that my electronic pen pal might be at Hogwarts? Or had I thought of it and simply resisted the knowledge?

More to the point, now that I’d had this exceedingly uncomfortable epiphany, what was I going to do about it?

I sent the message on its way and then turned my mind to the next problem. I had taken the following day off work to meet with Dumbledore, so I was going to have to go ahead and tell Peter about it. I wasn’t much looking forward to the conversation.

That night, we had dinner together at my place, which had practically become "our" place given the amount of time that Peter spent there. It took me until dessert to work up my nerve, and then I finally brought up the subject, taking care to sound as casual as possible.

"I got an owl from Headmaster Dumbledore today."

"Really? Is he having trouble with the computers?"

I smiled at that. "I have no idea. He didn’t mention it if he was. I rather doubt he uses them enough to know."

"You’re probably right. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and all that."

"I’d hate for the Headmaster to hear you calling him an old dog." I chuckled at the thought.

"Well, I sure wouldn’t do it to his face," Peter agreed. "So, what did he want?"

"Um, he was offering me a job."

"Really? Well that’s a compliment. What job?"

"Charms. Professor Flitwick is retiring."

"Wow. Hard to imagine the place without him. He’s been there forever," Peter said. "So did you let him down easily?"

"Er, no, actually. I’m going tomorrow to meet with him to find out more about it."

Peter stared at me and put down his ice cream. "I assume you’re joking."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "No," I said slowly. "I’m not joking at all. Does it sound like I’m joking?"

"Hermione." Peter rolled his eyes, and for a second I itched to scratch them out. I was livid and not entirely sure why. Yes, Peter was being a condescending git, but he wasn’t thinking anything that I hadn’t thought myself when I first got the owl. Burying myself at Hogwarts would be career suicide, and I knew it well. But it was my decision, and somehow lately I’d been making fewer and fewer decisions on my own. Suddenly, I was feeling suffocated by the fact that Peter’s toothbrush was in my bathroom and his spare robes were in my closet. When, exactly, had that happened? Had we actually decided something, or had it happened so gradually that we both just assumed it was the direction we were meant to go? Whatever it was, it didn’t feel right at all.

When I spoke again, my voice was deadly. "Peter, please don’t speak to me as if I were a child incapable of making my own decisions. I am simply going to find out more about the Headmaster’s offer. Once I have all the facts, I will make my decision."

"You’ll make it," he snapped. "What about me? Do I get any say in this?"

"I would have thought you would want me to choose what would make me happiest." Ok, that was fighting dirty, but he had it coming.

"Not when it means moving to Scotland! Or had you forgotten that part of it?"

 "No, Peter," I snapped. "You seem to think I’ve suddenly become a complete imbecile, but I have actually managed to remember that Hogwarts is located in Scotland. You, on the other hand, seem to have forgotten that we are a witch and a wizard. You could apparate to Hogsmeade in about five seconds. You act like I’m expecting you to walk the whole way."

"Come on, Hermione! You can’t actually believe that things will be the same. Has it never occurred to you that not a single member of the Hogwarts staff is married? Don’t you think there might be a reason for that? I stayed there for a week in November and nearly lost my mind with boredom. The youngest person there other than the students is Snape, and you sure as hell don’t want to hang out with him."

 Well that was a well-aimed shot, even if Peter had no way of knowing it. I wasn’t about to admit it, of course. To do that would be to confess…well, everything. And I was having enough trouble digesting "everything" myself. There was simply no way to properly explain to Peter that Snape was a big part of why I was going to Hogwarts the next day. I did want to learn more about the job, but I also wanted to know if the ease with which Snape and I communicated via e-mail would transfer at all to a face-to-face conversation.

"Peter, it is ridiculous to worry about this right now. I haven’t even met with Professor Dumbledore yet." I was attempting to sound soothing, but apparently it wasn’t working.

"You’ve lost your mind," he snapped. "Leaving the Ministry for Hogwarts would be the biggest mistake of your life. You’re a fool if you even consider it."

There are certain things one simply shouldn’t say to me, and calling me a ‘fool’ definitely falls into that category. Peter wouldn’t have known that, of course, because Peter didn’t really know me at all, and suddenly that was perfectly clear. I was so angry that it was actually hard to form words, and when I spoke it was in a voice that was just barely above a whisper. "Did you just call me a fool?"

"You know what I meant, Hermione. Of course you’re not a fool. I just can’t for the life of me imagine why you’d bother following up on this."

"Peter, I don’t think this is going to work," I said slowly.

"What are you talking about?"

I made a sweeping gesture that took in him and practically everything else in the flat. "Everything. Us."

"You’re breaking up with me over this? Hermione that’s…" He broke off just in time. Apparently he’d learned his lesson about calling me names, but his meaning was perfectly clear. Now I was both a fool and crazy.

"Let me ask you something, Peter. What’s my favourite colour?"

"What?"

"What’s my favourite vacation ever? What did Mum always fix me for dinner every year on my birthday? How did I break my arm when I was seven?"

Peter looked like he was ready to snatch me up and hand-deliver me to St. Mungo’s. "How should I know? You’ve never told me any of that."

"You’ve never acted the least bit interested," I said sadly. "All we ever talk about is computers and work and…well, that’s pretty much it."

"It’s called having a common interest, Hermione. Most couples think that’s a good thing."

"I’m sorry. It’s not enough for me."

"I can’t believe you’re serious about this." He looked stunned and a little angry, but not, I thought, terribly heartbroken. I didn’t feel heartbroken in the least, and that, more than anything, told me that I was doing the right thing.

"I am serious," I said. "I think you should go now."

His face turned rather unpleasant then. "What about work?"

"What about it?"

"You’re my boss. Does this mean I’m out of a job?"

I was stunned. Outraged. Did he really think I would…? "I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing. You really don’t know me, do you?"

"Apparently not," he snapped. "Apparently I don’t know you at all."

He began gathering up his things then, moving erratically about the flat and snatching up one item after another and then finally leaving without saying another word, slamming the door behind him.

I sat on the sofa for a few moments letting the silence of the empty flat wash over me. I spotted a pink rose in a bud vase – something that Peter had brought me two days before. It was looking a bit bedraggled now, which seemed quite fitting under the circumstances…and yet something wasn’t quite right. I reached for my wand, and a second later the rose was both bedraggled and black.

There. That was better.

I had to smile a little at my own foolishness, and then I went to run a bath, deciding that the day had been more than stressful enough to warrant it. As I sank beneath the froth, all I could think of was how grateful I was to be going to Hogwarts the next day.

§§§§

I slept better than I probably should have, under the circumstances, and what dreams I had were not unpleasant ones involving my row with Peter but instead featured my former potions professor, who seemed to morph back and forth between his own sneering self and the faceless man I conjured in my imagination during the months of our correspondence. It still seemed rather impossible that the two could actually be the same, but I was determined not to leave Hogwarts without finding out for sure.

I dressed with care, both because this was a job interview and because I hoped to be seeing P.M. that day and wanted to look my best. (And yes, I still thought of him as P.M. fully half of the time, rather than as the real man I now believed him to be.) So I took some extra time with my hair, taming it and leaving it long rather than piling it on my head, and chose my nicest work robes. I was never completely satisfied with what I saw in the mirror, but then, I never am. Finally, I decided that I looked as good as it got for me, and that would have to be that.

I apparated to Hogsmeade and walked to the school, feeling the old thrill as I passed through the gate and the castle suddenly filled the horizon, dominating the view with her odd blend of solidity and grace. At that moment I wasn’t thinking of Snape or jobs or anything except how much I loved Hogwarts and how much a part of the place I still felt. I stopped for a moment, just to take her in, and a years-old grief was resurrected as I caught sight of Hagrid’s old cabin at the edge of the forest. I wondered briefly if anyone was living there now, and then I gave myself a shake and moved on. I had an appointment, after all, and it wouldn’t do to keep the Headmaster waiting.

The castle was quiet when I passed through the massive front entrance, and I knew that class must be in session. I made my way up to Dumbledore’s office, feeling silly as I uttered the password he had given me, which was "milk duds".

"Miss Granger." Dumbledore met me at the door with a warm smile and a very furry kiss on the cheek. "How wonderful to see you again."

"It’s good to see you too, sir," I said, taking the seat he offered me. "I was very surprised to get your owl."

"Well, I confess that I’m feeling encouraged by your prompt response," he said with a smile. "I hardly dared hope you’d be interested, but you are very much my first choice for the position, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try."

"Don’t you want to…well, interview me?" I asked, surprised. "Am I really the only person you’re considering?"

"The job is yours if you want it," he said simply. "I arranged this meeting so that you might interview me, if you’d like, and I would like you to meet with Professor Flitwick during his free period after lunch so that he can answer any questions you might have about the classes themselves."

"Wow." I sounded silly, I know, but I was astonished that Dumbledore had that much faith in me when he hadn’t seen me in so many years.

The Headmaster chuckled. "You were a memorable student, Miss Granger, as I’m sure you know, and I’ve followed your progress in the years since you left. I have no doubt that you would be a tremendous asset to our staff."

It was impossible not to be enormously flattered, and as Professor Dumbledore and I talked, I realized that the job itself really suited me. The money wouldn’t be quite as good as what I was then making, but I also wouldn’t have the expense of maintaining a flat. I wouldn’t have Professor Flitwick’s responsibilities as a Head of House, so all I would have to concern myself with at first was preparing for my classes. The longer we talked, the more excited I got, and before I knew it, it was time for us to go to lunch, and I’d kept the Headmaster talking for two hours.

I had been so engrossed in the discussion about the position that I had temporarily forgotten about seeing Snape, but once Professor Dumbledore mentioned lunch, I realized that I was within minutes of seeing him and immediately became a ridiculous mass of nerves. We walked together down to the Great Hall, and I was sure my heart was pounding hard enough for everyone in the castle to hear it. My near-hyperventilation couldn’t possibly have escaped the Headmaster’s attention, but even a man as famed for omniscience as Albus Dumbledore couldn’t have guessed the reason I was so anxious.

Still, he gave me a reassuring smile as he escorted me through the doors to the Great Hall and toward the High Table. "Everyone will be delighted to see you," he said.

"I’m looking forward to it," I murmured, my eyes already searching for a lean dark figure.

He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t there, and I sagged with both relief and disappointment, but my nerves calmed somewhat as I greeted my former teachers, all of whom received me with enthusiasm. Professor McGonagall insisted that I take the seat next to hers, and I was in conversation with her when I heard Professor Dumbledore ask where Professor Snape was that day. I’m afraid I didn’t do a very good job of concealing my interest in the answer, which came from Madam Pomfrey.

"There was an accident in his lab this morning," she said with a sigh. "Another exploding cauldron. I have three Hufflepuffs in the infirmary, and I expect Severus is cleaning up the mess."

"Ah, well, all in a day’s work," Dumbledore said philosophically, "I trust the students suffered no lasting harm?"

"No," Madam Pomfrey assured him. "They’ll be fine by evening."

With that, we all returned to our meals and our conversations, but I gave mine little attention, focussed as I was on the absolute necessity of seeing Professor Snape. My initial relief had waned and disappointment had taken over, and I made up my mind that there was simply no way I was going to leave Hogwarts without seeing him. Professor Dumbledore looked positively mystified when I excused myself early from lunch and told him I wanted to take a walk by myself. "Just to relive old memories," I said.

"Certainly, my dear. Please come and find me when you’re finished and we’ll continue our discussion." He gave me a slight frown over his glasses, and I was grateful to him for not asking questions that would be uncomfortable to answer.

I practically ran from the Great Hall. I didn’t know if Snape had a class after lunch, but I wanted to have a few minutes with him before students came streaming in. I made my way down to the dungeons and stood behind his door. My hand was shaking as I pressed it open.

He had dealt with most of the mess on the ground and tables and was pointing his wand at the ceiling, scowling as he cast one cleaning charm after another. My school days came sweeping back to me, and I felt a pang of regret for whatever pupil had caused the accident.

He caught sight of me in his peripheral vision and stopped what he was doing, but if it were possible for his scowl to deepen, it did. Not a promising beginning.

He looked different - better than the last time I had seen him, which had been at the tail end of a war that was hard on everyone, but perhaps hardest on Severus Snape. Since then he had gained weight, and his cheekbones were no longer as pronounced as they had been, though I saw a few lines on his face that I didn’t remember seeing there before. There was also the glint of a few silver hairs, but the hair was cleaner than I remembered it, and on him the grey had a softening effect, lending texture to the sweep of black against his face. It appeared that he was taking care of himself. He certainly didn’t look pleasant, but he looked healthier and more vital than he had when I had attended school there.

"Good afternoon, Professor," I said.

"Miss Granger." His voice was cold, formal. "May I help you?"

"I, uh, just wanted to say hello." A look of deepest scepticism followed this pronouncement. "I had lunch with the staff. You, er, weren’t there."

He glanced at the ceiling. "Obviously not. As you can see, I’ve been dealing with the daily disaster."

"Another explosion?" I ventured a smile, despite the fact that it was like smiling at a stone gargoyle.

He didn’t bother to answer. "Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe that you missed my company at the lunch table so much that you had to come all the way down here and seek me out. I am short of time and still have much to do. What, pray, is the real reason for your visit?"

"I’m visiting Hogwarts to discuss the possibility of taking the Charms position when Professor Flitwick retires," I said. His eyes widened slightly – the first real reaction I’d gotten from him – and I guessed that he hadn’t known Professor Dumbledore had arranged an interview that day.

"I wouldn’t think you’d be interested. I heard that you had a promising future at the Ministry."

"I do, I suppose," I said. "But I have a…sentimental attachment to Hogwarts. A…friend…encouraged me to meet with Professor Dumbledore and learn a bit more before I make my decision."

As a schoolgirl, I would certainly have missed the faint stiffening of his posture and slight narrowing of his eyes. Back then, I was oblivious to such subtleties and terribly susceptible to dramatic gestures. It is, I think, one of many reasons why I never understood Severus Snape, a man whose reactions were often as subtle as the changes in the delicate potions he brewed with such skill. He taught me to tell at a glance the difference between a potion to which a single Lacewing has been added and one in which the Lacewing has been omitted. He could tell from across the room if a cauldron was about to edge past a simmer and into a boil which would threaten his ceilings. His life imitated his art, which was one of quiet precision and softly murmured incantations. With Severus Snape, if you failed to pay attention to the smallest of details, you would miss the man entirely.

But I was paying attention, and I knew from those minimalist gestures that my message had been received and understood, and now we stood before one another unmasked. My heart was pounding again now, and I’m sure I looked every bit as flustered as I felt, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of him as I waited to hear what he would say to me. I was hoping for a reunion of sorts, perhaps a good laugh over the whole thing.

What I got was more trademark Snape coldness. A slight clearing of his throat and then, "Why, may I ask, was it necessary for you to come down here and tell me all of this?"

I knew then that my trip had been in vain.

"It wasn’t," I said softly, shaking my head. "I’m sorry to have bothered you."

I turned to go, and I think that was the moment when I realized how much this had meant to me - all of it, from practically the first message we’d exchanged right up to that moment when he sent me away.

I truly hadn’t realized.

I had deluded myself into thinking I was in love with Peter, and all the while I had been falling in love with someone else, someone who obviously didn’t feel the same way.

Even then, I thought he might stop me. Might say my name. If it had been a movie, or one of Mum’s romance novels, that’s exactly how the scene would have played. But Severus Snape is hardly your typical romantic lead, and he didn’t say a word.

 I reached for the handle of the door, and just before I stepped across the threshold I spoke without turning around. "Thank you, Professor. You’ve made my decision an easy one."

§§§§

This is my story, so I’m going to pass over the dreariness of going back upstairs with a shredded heart and meeting with Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick, discussing the position as if I actually had any intention of taking it. I had to promise to think it over, of course. I had given him every impression that I was interested that morning, and I couldn’t very well come back from a brief walk and just turn him down flat. So I said all the right things and thanked him and Professor Flitwick for their time, and then I walked to Hogsmeade and apparated home.

Home was fine, and Crookshanks was happy enough to see me, but the lone toothbrush hanging in my bathroom reminded me that I’d made a disaster of things with Peter. Now that I knew working at Hogwarts was out of the question, I suddenly remembered why office romances were a bad idea. Facing Peter at work the next day was going to be a nightmare, and the worst of it was that the rest of my staff would probably be on his side when they found out I had actually considered leaving them.

I’d managed to completely screw up two jobs in one twenty-four hour period. Surely that was some sort of a record.

I let Crookshanks out onto the balcony for his evening rendezvous and then sank onto the sofa, reaching for my wand to summon a wineglass and a bottle. I rarely use magic for things that I can do myself, but at that moment, getting up off the sofa required more effort than I felt capable of putting forth.

Two hours later, it really was beyond my capabilities, and when I awoke the next morning I was still on the sofa and still in my clothes, with nothing but a headache and an angry cat to show for it.

I dragged myself to work, somehow, and flew past Bryce and Joyce, who were already in the lab, with only the briefest of greetings. The fact that they didn’t chase me into my office and find out what was wrong suggested that Peter had already told them at least that portion of the debacle in which he was personally involved.

That theory was confirmed when Amy came cringing into my doorway. "Uh, Hermione? Peter asked me to tell you that he would be doing some work down in Law Enforcement today – making some repairs to the network, I think."

"Fine." I waved my hand at her dismissively. I doubted the network needed any repairs, but hearing that he had the good sense to stay out of my sight left me feeling slightly more charitable toward Peter.

"How did your interview go yesterday?" Amy asked quietly. My annoyance with Peter flared anew – did he have to tell them everything? – but I could understand why she wanted to know. We were a tight group, and any one of us leaving would matter to all. But how to answer her question?

"The interview itself went well," I said. "But I think I’ll be staying here. I just wanted to have all the facts before I made my decision."

She smiled at me, and I felt that I would be forgiven my treachery by at least ¾ of my little staff. Of course the unpleasantness with the fourth member was considerable, but maybe after a little time apart, we could at least manage to be civil. It was something to hope for, anyway.

Amy left me then, and I turned on my computer and automatically checked my mail.

Six messages, five of which were from Arthur, and none of which were from P.M. I couldn’t remember the last time I had checked my e-mail in the morning and not found a message from P.M. waiting, and suddenly I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. It was all I could do not to put my head down on my desk and cry. I had been so focussed on our disastrous real-life meeting that I had completely forgotten how much our e-mail correspondence meant to me, and now it seemed that I had lost that too. I had somehow managed to make a disaster of virtually every aspect of my life. All I needed now was a huge row with Harry and Ron to make things absolutely perfect.

I spent at least an hour staring at that computer, checking my e-mail repeatedly, and still nothing arrived from P.M. I was getting increasingly angry – how could he treat me like that and then retreat into silence? How dare he, after all that we had shared in the last four months?

Finally, I decided that I would be the one to break the silence. It didn’t sit entirely well, but if he didn’t respond – and I fully expected that he wouldn’t – I would at least have the satisfaction of having had the last word. It was something, anyway.

To my very great surprise, I received a response almost immediately.

 I went to hit "reply" and then thought the better of it. Yes, I usually like to have the last word – that’s what got me into this mess to begin with – but occasionally, silence gives one the upper hand. At that moment, I rather liked the idea of him waiting at the Three Broomsticks, unsure of whether I would actually come. His third-party apologies had been nice, and I did feel an unexpected flare of hope, but I still thought a little revenge was in order.

So I would go, but I’d be a little late, making him sweat just a bit. Lunchtime at Hogwarts was at noon, so I’d go at 12:15. I thought that after the way he had treated me, fifteen minutes of uncertainty would do Severus Snape a world of good.

It was anticlimactic – and that’s putting it politely – to arrive and find that he wasn’t there at all. Was it possible that he had come and gone? There was really no way to be sure, other than asking Rosmerta, and that didn’t really appeal. No, he’d said he would eat lunch there, and no one can eat lunch at the Three Broomsticks in 15 minutes. Perhaps he’d just been delayed. I took a seat in a corner with a view of the door, and I waited. Rosmerta came over and welcomed me back to Hogsmeade, and then she brought me a complimentary glass of wine.

"Your friend must have been delayed," she said sympathetically. "Are you sure I can’t bring you something to eat?"

"No, thank you," I said. I had a hard knot in my throat that told me I was about to cry, and I decided I’d prefer not to do that in the middle of the Three Broomsticks. "I think I’m just going to go home."

She gave me a sympathetic look – I think she had an idea that this was more than just a casual lunch date – and left me to my empty table. I drained the last of my wine and decided to stop into the loo before apparating home.

I accomplished what needed to be done there, and then, in one of the more prosaic moments of my life, I walked straight out of the loo and into Severus Snape, literally bouncing off of him. I would have landed in a heap at his feet if he hadn’t reached out and balanced me with strong hands.

"Once again, you manage to surprise me, Miss Granger," he said, and I think it was the first time in my life I saw the severe lines of Severus Snape’s face soften into something approaching a smile.

"The feeling is quite mutual, Professor," I managed, even though at that point my surprise, not to mention embarrassment, was so profound that I hardly knew if I was speaking English. There should be a word stronger than ‘blush’ to describe what was happening to my face just then.

"I was just going to have some lunch." The dark eyes watched me carefully. "Would you care to join me?"

It’s probably clear by now that I can be trusted to manage virtually anything except my own personal life, which should be kept as far out of my hands as possible. Instead of saying, "Yes, I would love to have lunch with you," I idiotically decided to exact revenge.

"I was actually just leaving."

Again, those small, tightly managed responses that only the very attentive would ever see. His jaw tightened slightly, and he gave a small nod. "Good day, then, Miss Granger."

He turned to go, and I was torn between collapsing in a sobbing heap in front of the loo and apparating directly home to magically remove my tongue. It’s no wonder, really, that the only successful relationship of my life had been conducted via computer. The minute I let myself start talking, the explosions began and I spent the rest of the day putting out fires.

"Professor." Time to start swallowing some pride, Hermione.

"Yes?" He stopped and looked at me, his face unreadable.

"I’m sorry," I said. "That was petty of me."

It was the first open acknowledgement of this game we were both playing, and I was unsure of how he would respond. We had taken refuge in our anonymity, and now it was time to strip it away, to see if there was any chance that Hermione Granger and Severus Snape could be to each other what our e-mail counterparts had been. I held my breath.

"There was an accident this morning," he said softly. "One of my Slytherins was hurt at Quidditch practice. She’ll be fine, of course, but I had to go to the infirmary, fill out the paperwork, notify the parents – all of that."

I smiled. "Is your lunch invitation still open, Professor?"

"Of course." He smiled slightly – just a little turning up of the corners of his mouth – but it left me feeling warmed through and practically giddy with relief. Unfortunately, when I get giddy, I have those same old problems with my mouth. Things just fall out without being filtered through my brain.

"You look good," I blurted, and then I blushed again and put my face in my hands.

I was relieved to hear a chuckle, and when I dared a peek at him he was still smiling. "Thank you, I think," he said. "I might be more flattered if you didn’t sound so surprised."

"It’s just…when I saw you last, at the end of the war…"

"I understand," he said, and I knew that he really did. "I’m glad to have that time behind me, as I know you are. How is your friend Potter, by the way?"

"He’s doing well. He and Ron are both in the Department of Mysteries now – two of the Aurors Arthur reassigned. They still act like idiotic boys around me, but apparently they’re good at what they do, whatever it is. I think Harry likes the fact that his work is top secret now – it can’t ever make the papers."

He nodded and seemed about to say something more, and then he changed his mind when a middle-aged witch pushed past us on her way to the loo. "Let’s sit down, shall we?"

We found a table and Rosmerta hurried over to take our order, knowing that neither of us would require a menu. She gave me a look of screaming curiosity, and I knew it took every bit of tact she possessed for her not to ask me point blank if Professor Snape was actually the "friend" I had been waiting for.

Once she was gone, we seemed to have lost the thread of our previous conversation, and for several moments we both devoted rather more attention than was actually necessary to sipping our water and arranging our silverware.

"So," he said finally. "Tell me about your job at the Ministry."

I did so, relieved to be handed a subject I could usually discuss without making an idiot of myself. I began with the formation of my department and ended with the recent computer project and the challenges of establishing the network and training witches and wizards to use the equipment. "Peter has handled the network, of course - you may have met him when he was working at Hogwarts. The rest of the staff and I have done the training and handled the thousand other details. The worst is over now though, and we’ve begun moving on to other projects. Only Peter is still working with the computers full-time."

"This Peter…out of curiosity…what’s his last name?"

"Marsh."

"Ah." He looked away then, obviously embarrassed. "So he’s the…er…"

"He was," I said, emphasizing the second word.

He met my eyes again then. "What happened? Or shouldn’t I ask?"

I smiled and shrugged slightly. "It just wasn’t right," I said. "I think I’d known that all along, but when he heard I was considering the job at Hogwarts, we had a row and it all just ended there. I can’t say I’ve been very sorry about it, except for the mess it’s made of things at the office."

"Are you still considering the position at Hogwarts?" He seemed to hold his breath.

"It’s looking more appealing