Thanks as always go to Whitehound, the incomparable beta.

---

“Hermione,” Ginny was saying. “Are you awake?”

The room was oppressively hot for early autumn. The steady stream of light through the windows said it was nearly noon. Hermione blinked. Her eyelids felt stuck together. Her throat was dry. A persistent, drilling pain waited just between her brows. This is what a hangover is supposed to feel like. “I’m awake,” she said. She focused on Ginny’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Tonks and Lupin came back. They say Snape’s definitely at St. Mungo’s.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” Hermione said. She swung her legs over the bed. “Thanks for letting me know.” She ran fingers through her hair. She frowned. “Why did it take them this long to find out?”

“Tonks says she changed her shape a few times, and posed as different people. That way she could be sure to get different versions of the same story. But now she and Lupin both have to get back. They say they took too much time.”

“Clever.” She stood. “Where are Harry and Ron?”

“Holed up in Ron’s room,” Ginny said. “They haven’t come out, since you said why you got sick.”

Hermione squared her shoulders. “Maybe knowing Snape’s father might have been a Holocaust survivor will give them a different perspective on him,” she said. “I know it explains a great deal, for me.”

Ginny flopped down on the bed. “Like what? Does what happened to his dad give him some sort of excuse?”

Hermione picked up a brush. “For killing Dumbledore or being a git in general?”

“Both.”

“Well, neither,” Hermione said. She pulled the brush through her hair. “It doesn’t give him an excuse. But I guess it explains…” She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and noticed how haggard she looked. The space beneath her eyes was a serious shade of lavender. “It explains why he always believes the worst about people, I think,” she said, speaking to the reflection of Ginny in the mirror. “I mean, if one half of your family was killed on the wishes of a madman, you’d probably think some awful things about the human race in general, wouldn’t you?”

“Dad was bitten by You-Know-Who’s snake, and I believe some pretty awful things about Death Eaters in general,” Ginny said tartly.

Hermione rounded on her. “Don’t tell me you’re angry with me, too. I thought you might like some company, over there on Harry’s bad side.” Ginny flinched, and Hermione’s palm met her forehead. “I’m sorry…” she said. “That came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t,” Ginny retorted. She sighed, and rested her elbows on her knees. Her chin met her hands. “You meant it, and you were right,” she said. She sounded tired. She eyed Hermione. “It has been lonely.” She leaned back, and edged herself close to the wall. She hugged her knees. “I just wish…”

Hermione took a seat beside her. “You know Harry still likes-”

“Don’t you start!” Ginny said, holding up one finger. For a moment, she was startlingly reminiscent of her mother, and Hermione bit her tongue to restrain a smile. “It’s bad enough I get it from Mum,” Ginny continued, oblivious. “She’s always on about the way she knows Harry must truly feel, and all that rubbish.”

Hermione drew breath. “But he does-”

“I told you not to start!” Ginny warned. “The truth is that if Harry still liked me, he’d talk to me. If Harry still liked me, he’d look at me.” Ginny turned away, and hugged her knees even harder. “If he still liked me, he’d stop being such a coward and let me help him with this,” she said, in a very small voice.

“But, Harry doesn’t see it that way,” Hermione said, quietly.

“Of course he doesn’t! He sees it the wrong way!”

A knock sounded at the door. “Girls, I have better things to do than defend your lunches from that ravening horde of males downstairs,” Molly said. “Get a move on.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mum. Down in a minute.”

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me!” Molly said, and Hermione heard her marching down the stairs.

Ginny turned to her. “Can Muggle mums do that?”

“All the time,” Hermione said. She stood, and offered Ginny a hand. She took it, and Hermione helped pull her up. “Harry does care about you,” she said. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t want to protect you so badly.”

Ginny’s hand left hers. “If that’s true, then why is he letting you and Ron help?” She cocked her head. “You’ve been Harry’s friends for years. Do you honestly think it’s less dangerous for you than it is for me?” Ginny moved for the door. “I know what he’s like, you know,” she said. The tone of her voice said that she spoke of Tom Riddle. “I remember. And if he wants to kill us, he’ll come for all of us, not just a few.”

She opened the door and left.

∆

When he came to, the pain was less, and a walrus-like man stared at him with great bulging gray-green eyes from a too-small chair very near his bed. He wore a three-piece suit cut entirely from leprechaun-green velvet, and the gold buttons on his vest seemed to be contemplating revolt. The two men were in a room made entirely of massive stones apparently stolen from a particularly realistic film set in the medieval period, which someone had thoughtfully decided to light only with guttering, smoky torches. Snape blinked. He was not cold or hungry, and the pain in his jaw had subsided to a dull throb. In comparison, the livid pain in his left arm—as though a swarm of wasps had burrowed under the skin—was easy to deal with.

There were grains of sugar in the walrus’ mustache, and the scent of candied pineapple in the air. “Severus?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” Snape asked.

Stupendously hairy, unruly eyebrows rose. “I see,” he said knowingly, and furtively munched another sweet.

Sweet Christ, it’s finally happened—I’ve snapped. He swallowed—oh, it was nice to do that without a feeding line—and asked: “Do we know each other?”

Those immense eyes blinked. “Well, I know you, Severus,” the walrus said. “But you no longer know me, it seems.” And then he smiled, and held out a white paper bag. “Candied pineapple?”

Snape shook his head. “My teeth still hurt.” He blinked hard, and willed his mind to start working. “Is that my name you said just now?”

“Why of course it is, Severus. You’re Severus Isaac Snape.” Again the walrus smiled, looking all too pleased with himself. “I have a mind for middle names, you see.”

“And what’s your own name?”

“Horace Bacchus Slughorn,” the walrus said. “We have known each other for years. I’m a fellow teacher of yours, in fact. We work in the same field, actually. Although of course you have a different style than I have—dialectic of pedagogy and all that, I’m what you might call a Hegelian, and you’ve always been more Socratic-”

“Potions?” Snape asked, feeling his fragile patience wear thin.

Again, the eyes went wide. “Why, yes. Who told you that?”

“Hermione Granger did,” he said, and watched the other man’s face warm up.

“Oh, the delightful Miss Granger,” Slughorn said. “She’s a dab hand at potions, a truly gifted student—she’d be the star of my little Slug Club, if it weren’t for Potter, but these are historic times we live in, pivotal really-”

“Potter,” Snape interrupted. “Hermione mentioned him, too. Is he important?”

Slughorn’s face slackened, as though he had realized something new. “Severus, before I answer that, will you be so kind as to do me a teensy favor?”

No. “What do you want?”

“Just look me in the eyes, Severus.” And, as though he couldn’t help himself, Snape found himself doing exactly that. He thought he saw the other man whisper something through his grotesque mustache, and suddenly earlier events flashed through his mind: Hermione removing his needles; the warm nervous flutter of her hand under his; the threats; his blanket being transformed; the soup kitchen; the street, where everything became one hungry, dizzy blur; and then…nothing.

In the time it took Snape to realize what was going on, and that he’d allowed yet another wizard to get the best of him, he had already taken hold of one of Slughorn’s fingers and bent it backward. “Ouch!” Slughorn said, snatching his hand away. “Honestly, you’ve always bitten the hand that fed you-” He blushed deeply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, my boy, please don’t think I’m casting aspersions on your character, or making assumptions on your innocence or guilt. Either way, it was a damnable situation-”

“If you mean the murder of which I am accused, I have no recollection of it.”

“Yes, I could see that. Like running headlong into a wall, really.” Slughorn’s fuzzy brows knit together. “Of course, convincing Moody and the others of that will be a task.”

“Why? Is the skill you demonstrated so very specialized that no one else can perform it?”

Slughorn shook his head. “No. But it is possible to obfuscate memories,” he said ruefully. “One can edit them, with the proper magic…” Slughorn appeared embarrassed for a moment, then gathered himself. “You will need a solicitor, of course. Luckily, I happen to know a few-”

The door burst open. Moody stared at them from outside the threshold. “And what business have you around here?” the wild-eyed man demanded of Slughorn.

“As interim Head of Slytherin, I am here as a representative of my House,” Slughorn said. Slytherin? Snape made a note to ask what Slughorn meant when they were next alone.

Moody clumped his way into the room. Two nurses followed him. “Why am I not surprised?” he asked. “Trust two Slytherins to start conspiring the moment they’re alone.” Perhaps Slytherins are a professional guild, or a fraternity? Is Moody jealous?

Slughorn clicked his tongue. “Oh, Alastor, there are potions for paranoia, if you’d only let me brew you one.” He reached over and patted Snape’s hand. “I can assure you that Severus and I were conspiring over nothing more dangerous than how to sneak his favorite sweet past the nurses.” He turned to Snape. “You do still favor cedar jelly truffles don’t you, my boy?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Moody. “And really, Alastor, if you could have seen my post this morning—quite full of letters from anxious students and their parents, wondering if the rumors were true—well you’d know it was my duty to stop by and confirm the matter.”

Moody’s wild eye flared. “Rumors?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Alastor, it seems the news has got just a teensy bit outside the Ministry’s control,” Slughorn said, in a way that reminded Snape incongruously of someone’s overly sympathetic grandmother. “Nurses are such terrible gossips, you know,” he added.

Moody’s face flushed badly. He whirled on the two nurses standing behind him. They wore ugly lime-green smocks. Both flinched visibly. “Is this true?” he asked. “Have you two tarts been talking?”

The nurses’ jaws both fell and Severus understood that Slughorn had led Moody into a grave tactical error. The taller of the two women thinned her lips. “Well, we’ll certainly start doing so now,” she said, and swished out of the room with her co-worker in tow.

“Shit!” Moody cursed. He pointed at Slughorn. “You. Out. Now.”

Slughorn merely folded his fat fingers. “I can only be ordered out by a member of the hospital staff, Alastor,” he said. “And being that I’m awfully good friends with Mr. Dowse, I don’t think that’s very likely.” He smiled pleasantly.

“Mr. Dowse?” Moody growled.

“Co-chairman of the hospital’s Board of Governors, along with Mrs. Purge,” Slughorn answered. “Didn’t you know? We went to Hogwarts together. He was my lab partner, in Potions. I daresay he’s done very well for himself.”

Moody looked as though he wanted to throw something—probably Slughorn, and preferably out the door. “Nice being so connected isn’t it, Slughorn?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes, rather,” Slughorn answered, and offered another of his pleasant smiles. He arched one bushy eyebrow. “Now, shouldn’t you be running along and plugging up that nasty little leak in your security?”

Moody’s eye shifted to Snape. “You’re not getting out of here, you know,” he said.

“Where else would I go, you witless dickhead?” Snape asked. “Is your head so far up your own arse that the word ‘homeless’ means nothing to you?”

Slughorn beamed, and patted Snape’s hand. “So nice to have you back with us, Severus,” he said.

∆

Lunch was good, if quiet. Molly frequently attempted to engage them all in conversation, but with Arthur, Tonks, Lupin, and Professor McGonagall all off at work, her efforts went only so far. Fred and George filled the gap by talking about their latest invention—“Snafu Seasonings: guaranteed to destroy any dish!”—but Harry and Ron seemed to take only a polite interest. When they had cleaned their plates, both boys mumbled something about a game of Quidditch and promptly left the room. Fred elbowed Hermione as they left. “Don’t worry—up in the air, we can get something out of them.”

Hoping that Fred and George would have better luck than she had, Hermione trudged up the stairs and proceeded to scavenge the Weasley attic for information on memory magic. She had a hard time imagining that Molly and Arthur wouldn’t have simply sold back their old books, but it was worth a try. However, the room proved almost un-navigable. She suspected that all the things Molly had asked her children to “tidy up” over the years had magically found their way to this crowded, dusty space to be promptly forgotten. For a moment she lifted her wand, intending to clean things up, only to realize that there was literally no more room left to place anything in the meantime. Magically shrinking things only helped a little, and she worried about permanently damaging some of the older items. She was happy to find a book called You Know More Than You Think You Do: A Witch’s Guide to Infant and Child Care. It was written by one Healer McCoy, and had a very enlightening chapter called “Your Child’s Developing Brain.”

Despite the obvious gender bias of the title, she was well-immersed in the chapter when an owl tapped at the attic’s lone window. Standing up and brushing the dust from her jeans, Hermione opened the louver and allowed the owl inside. It promptly dropped two items at her feet. Perching on the windowsill, it gave her a wide, unblinking stare that suggested she find treats quickly. “I don’t have anything,” she said. “I’m sorry-”

-at which point the owl dove for a mouse cowering between two boxes, and made a hasty departure.

Hermione blinked at the sudden absence of the owl, its former presence evident only from the two items at her feet and a single feather floating slowly to the ground. Crouching, she picked up the two items. One was a letter from Professor Slughorn, enclosed in a cream-colored envelope inscribed with deep green ink. He had even affixed it with a personal seal. The other was a special afternoon edition of The Daily Prophet whose headline read: “SNAPE CAUGHT: HOGWARTS MURDERER IN UNPLOTTABLE WARD.”

“Oh, hell,” she muttered, and slowly made her way downstairs.

∆

“Mum, it says that Moody called a nurse a tart,” Ginny said, looking at the second page of the special afternoon edition.

“Surprise, surprise,” Hermione said. “Twitchy little prick.”

“Hermione Jane Granger!” Molly said, putting the teapot on the trivet with more force than strictly necessary. “There is no need for that kind of talk.” Molly pointed her gaze at Hermione. “You should know by now that referring to a man by his genitalia is no better than a man using dirty language when describing a woman’s…gifts.” A healthy blush infused the older woman’s face. “And at any rate, it’s just too cruel to Moody. He felt the need to point a wand at you. The man obviously hasn’t any balls at all.”

“Good one, Mum!” Ginny crowed, and punched the air.

“Too right, Gin,” Fred said, striding through the door and snatching two biscuits before his mother could say otherwise. “Who knew she had it in her?”

“Fred Weasley, you leave those biscuits alone,” Molly said from the kitchen.

Her son quickly crammed both in his mouth and asked, spewing crumbs as he did so, “what was that?”

George, Ron, and Harry piled into the kitchen before she could answer. “We saw the paper,” Ron said. “The twins get it delivered.” He eyed Hermione. “Looks like you didn’t have to blab to Rita Skeeter after all.”

“I wasn’t going to blab, Ron, I was going to strategically disseminate information.”

“That’s blabbing,” Ron said. He looked up at his mother. “Is Dad coming for tea?”

“I imagine not. Your father’s office is probably just as concerned with the contents of the afternoon edition as we are.”

As though intending to thoroughly disprove her theory, Arthur’s head appeared in the fireplace. “Everyone got the paper?” he asked, by way of introduction.

“Sure thing, Dad,” George said.

“And Hermione got a letter from Slughorn,” Ron added, twirling the unopened envelope between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ron, do I go through your mail?” Hermione asked, snatching it back.

“It’s a good thing she doesn’t. I hear Lavender writes some pretty purple prose,” Fred said.

George rolled his eyes. “That was poor, even coming from you.” He looked at Ron. “Get it, Won-Won? Lavender? Purple prose?”

Arthur cleared his throat audibly, and Ron was forced to bite back his reply. “Do you have any idea why Professor Slughorn would write to you?”

She shrugged. “Probably just planning Slug Club activities for next year,” she said.

“The timing’s too perfect,” Harry said. They were the first words he’d said directly to her since last night. Even as he said them, he looked away. “I think you should open it,” he said.

“I think Harry is right, Hermione,” Arthur said.

How and when exactly did I lose the right to open my personal mail in private? Heaving a sigh, Hermione slowly withdrew her wand. “Don’t worry,” Fred said. “He’s probably just declaring his undying love for you.”

“What a comforting thought,” Hermione said, and tapped the envelope.

Dear Miss Granger,

I hope that this summer has proved a peaceful one for you and yours. How are your summer studies progressing? This season in the life of a Hogwarts student is an important one. I do hope that you are giving the proper thought to your future. Naturally, I will assist you in any way I can.

At present, however, I have need of your unique assistance. If you could please call on me at the Galloping Gourmand in Diagon Alley, at the hour of noon tomorrow, I would be very appreciative. Please RSVP as soon as possible.

Hopefully,

Horace B. Slughorn, Professor

“Hopefully?” Fred asked.

“Unique assistance?” George echoed.

“It does sound a little odd,” Arthur said. “Don’t reply to his letter until I’ve returned home, Hermione.” And with that, he vanished from the fireplace, before Hermione could say that she planned on answering her own correspondence on her own time and no one else’s.

“That fat old coot fancies you, ‘Mione,” Ron said.

Hermione smiled. “Of course he does, Ron. Professor Slughorn has the best taste in everything.”

Fred and George exploded in laughter, and the distinct sound of Molly’s smothered giggles could be heard from the kitchen. “That was brilliant,” Ginny said, just as Ron said: “That was foul.” Harry, however, seemed unmoved.

“We’ll have to come with you,” he said. His voice had an odd flat sound to it. His lips perked up with the barest hint of a smile. “I think some Extendable Ears are in order.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Harry, even if Ron is right—and that’s a big if—I think I know how to handle Professor Slughorn.”

“He’ll be too distracted by food to do her any harm anyway,” Ginny said.

For the first time in weeks, Harry spoke directly to Ginny. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he said. “You didn’t see him before school started last year. Dumble-” Harry stumbled on the Headmaster’s name, and swallowed audibly. He took a deep breath. “He’s just clever, that’s all—too clever. When I first met him, he was hiding out in other people’s houses, and they didn’t know about it. He was taking advantage of them. At the time it just seemed odd, but now…” Harry shrugged. “He can edit his memories, too. And I think he knows a lot of important people.”

“And he’s a Slytherin,” Ron added.

Hermione re-considered the letter. Could Slughorn really be all that bad? She had never found him to be deceptive to others—more self-deceptive than anything else, really—but he was power-hungry. He liked having friends in high places. Perhaps it was a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps those friends liked having a sycophant. Could Slughorn be just another Wormtail?

“We’ll never know until we learn more,” she said, answering her own question, and realizing the inherent obviousness of her words a moment after uttering them. She looked at Harry. “I’m going to answer the letter with a yes.”

Ron frowned. “Dad told you to wait.”

Hermione folded her arms. “How often do you listen to your dad, Ron?”

“Hermione, this is important!” Harry insisted. “We don’t know what Slughorn is planning!”

“And we won’t, until we give him a chance to tip his hand,” she said. “For that matter, I don’t think he’s really planning anything. He’s too lazy.”

“Point,” Ginny said.

“Don’t worry so much, Harry,” George said. “We usually take our lunch around noon. There’s no reason not to visit the Galloping Gourmand, is there?”

“None at all,” Fred answered. “In fact, you three could pretend to be meeting us. We can all keep a lookout together.”

“That won’t look obvious at all,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Just think of us as chaperones, Hermione,” Fred said. He reached over and tousled her hair. “We can’t have some smarmy old Slytherin lecher getting fresh with you on the first date, can we?”

Hermione reached up to try fixing her hair. “It isn’t a date,” she muttered.

“No, just a bloke asking a girl out for lunch,” George said. He grinned. “Perfectly harmless.”

Molly breezed by with a tea towel over one shoulder. She leaned down to give Hermione a one-armed hug. “Try to order something expensive, dear.”

The blue plate special had never sounded less appetizing. “Right,” she said.

“And try not to slurp,” Fred advised. She picked up a biscuit and hurled it at him.

∆

Just before they were to leave for Diagon Alley, it occurred to Hermione that Slughorn’s wizarding-celebrity radar might go off the charts if he were to even sense Harry’s presence. Harry refused to be left behind. After much argument, they decided to disguise him as yet another Weasley via the magic Arthur had used to color her hair only two days before. “You might want to fetch one of Ron’s jumpers,” she advised. “Just keep your head down.”

“Should I wear my glasses?”

“If you actually want to get any food into your mouth, yes. Hmm.” Thinking for a moment, she Transfigured his normal glasses into a high-fashion pair she had seen once in a Muggle magazine. They were decidedly un-Harry-like, and did the job beautifully. With a pinch of Floo powder they were at their destination with time to spare.

“I’ve never heard of the Galloping Gourmand,” Hermione said, peering down the Alley.

“It’s new. Probably stepped in to snap up Fortescue’s business after it closed,” George said.

Fred pointed. “I think that’s it. See the sign with the pig riding a horse?”

“It looks right,” Hermione said. Moments later they had arrived. The Galloping Gourmand was a bustling place with an outdoor terrace featuring tiny wrought-iron tables. It exuded the smells of garlic, old cheese, and olives. She turned. “It’s best if you go in ahead of me,” she said. “I can sit outside here, where he’ll see me from the street. If you sit inside, you can watch me through the window.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked.

“Harry, if Slughorn so much as smells you, I won’t learn anything more from him,” she said. “You’ll have to hide yourself.”

Ron grinned. “You’re getting really good at this whole sneakiness bit,” he said.

She smiled. “Would it ruin my reputation if I told you how nervous I am?”

Fred gave her shoulder a pat. “Of course you’re nervous. You’re on a date with a teacher.”

Before Hermione could hit him, he had ducked away toward the door. The others followed him. “Good luck,” Ginny whispered before heading inside. Hermione watched them go, and saw a pretty young witch seat them with a clear sightline of the window. Sighing, she sat herself. A young wizard gave her a menu, and she informed him that she was waiting for someone else. While waiting for Slughorn, she decided on her lunch choices. She felt a momentary pang looking at the prices—and fervently hoped that everyone was content simply ordering from the dessert menu. She decided on a salade nicoise with mineral water, and continued waiting.

Slughorn was precisely seven minutes late, and he huffed apologies as he struggled to fit himself into one of the tiny, delicate chairs. “I do apologize, my dear,” he said. “Have you ordered?”

“No,” she said. She watched him lightly dab his bald pate with a monogrammed handkerchief before opening the menu. “I thought it best to wait.”

“And a good thing, too—I was about to tell you to order whatever you would like, as it’s on my bill.” He smiled.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, sir,” she said. “I brought Wizarding money just for this occasion.”

“Then by all means, please do buy yourself something nice in the Alley, but do not buy it here,” Slughorn said. His eyes twinkled then, and for a moment she wished for Dumbledore’s presence. She doubted she would be more comfortable at a lunch with the late Headmaster, but it would mean he still lived, and that in itself would make the world seem like a better place.

“Think of it as a thank-you gift, Miss Granger,” he was saying. “Without your quick thinking and derring-do, Professor Snape would be in quite a different spot, I think.”

“You’ve seen Professor Snape?”

“Oh yes. As I explained to Alastor, I’m rather chummy with the co-chairman of the board up at St. Mungo’s, Mr. Dowse. We were lab partners, and all.”

Hermione made a mental note to go through records at Hogwarts as soon as possible to confirm this. “You’ve seen Mr. Moody as well?”

“Unfortunately,” Slughorn said, sniffing. He smiled again. “Thankfully, not all Gryffindors are so narrow-minded.” He raised his glass, and Hermione felt mildly horrified to notice herself blushing.

She cleared her throat. “Is Professor Snape well?”

Slughorn twisted his glass by the stem. It left faint indentations in the white table linen. “That depends on what you mean by ‘well,’ my dear,” he said. His voice was quiet. “You may be gratified to know that his pain is gone, at least.”

“You’re right. That’s very good news.”

Slughorn nodded contemplatively. “Of course, his mind…” Just when he trailed off, the waiter arrived to take their order. Slughorn spent almost ten minutes dithering between two wines to go with his salmon stuffed with spinach and mascarpone cheese. Meanwhile, Hermione resisted the urge to prompt him to continue his sentence. And by the time she had finally convinced Slughorn that no, she did not want any wine, her patience had reached its limit.

“Has he truly forgotten everything?” she asked.

He blinked for a moment before answering. “It’s impossible to say.” He shifted uncomfortably. “As I suspect your friend Mr. Potter has already told you, editing memories is possible, if not very easy. Severus—Professor Snape—is a very intelligent man, and possessed of a strong will. If he wanted to block out certain portions of his memory…” Slughorn shrugged. “The one man who knew most about Professor Snape’s abilities is now lost to us.”

“I take it you tried Legilimency?”

He had the grace to sputter. “Well, I… I mean to say, I couldn’t very well… I knew Moody and the others would do so eventually, and I wanted…”

“You did it.”

Sadly, Slughorn nodded. “Yes.”

Hermione felt her fury take a new direction. “Did you even ask him, first?” When he shook his head, she barely restrained herself from throwing her glass of water in his face. “How could you?” she asked. “The man was just in hospital!”

“I had to know!” Slughorn said. “Can you imagine what it’s been like for me, being the Head of Slytherin after the attack? Every wizarding news service in Britain wants to know if I’m breeding a real den of vipers up at the school. They want to know my allegiances—they doubt my allegiances.” He drew a shaky breath. “Miss Granger, I must remind you that the very fact that I could even peer into Professor Snape’s mind is evidence that his mind is fundamentally different. The man I know wouldn’t have allowed me in for a second, and he would have thrown me across the room the moment he felt me trying.”

“So you waited until his magic was gone to try.”

Slughorn sipped his water. “Yes,” he said. “And I daresay you would have done the same, in my position.”

“I wouldn’t have gone tramping about inside his head!”

Slughorn eyed her skeptically. “Mightn’t you, if your friends’ lives depended on it?”

She squirmed. “That’s different.”

“How is it different? Is it somehow better for you to protect your friends, who are of an equal standing to you, than it is for me to protect my students, who do not have the years of experience that I benefit from on a daily basis?” His huge eyes bore into hers. His face had, if possible, become even uglier. “Every day I receive the same owl, Miss Granger. And every day, the letter he bears is the same. Do you know who sends it to me?”

She shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Narcissa Malfoy. Do you know what she says?” Again, she shook her head. “She asks me where her son is,” Slughorn said. “She asks me how I cannot know if I am the best-connected wizard in all of Britain--because that is the reputation I have built up.” He grimaced. “And now I’m paying for it.”

Poor Narcissa. For a moment, Hermione tried imagining losing a husband and a son. For her, it would feel like losing both Harry and Ron, although her mind shied away from assigning any role in particular to either of them. In the intervening silence, their food arrived. Mechanically, she set about unfolding her napkin and spearing pieces of hard-boiled egg and salted tomato. “Do you think he did it?” she asked.

“I know he did,” Slughorn answered, seemingly needing no further explanation. “What I do not know is why. And so long as Severus’ mind is a brick wall, I’ll never know.” He sliced through his salmon. “Of course, the Ministry will no doubt employ some of their best people trying to pick his brains.”

If Snape’s doing this on purpose—if he’s Occluding—he would have thought of that already. “And if that doesn’t work?”

Slughorn paled slightly, and took a sip of wine. “A Dementor,” he said.

Hermione went cold. “Meaning an automatic prison sentence?”

“Effectively,” he said. “Ostensibly, it would be to detect if he had any good memories left, which would indicate the presence of other memories in general. Dementors can always sniff past Occlumency. It’s Animagi they have trouble with.”

“But I thought all the Dementors had gone to…him.”

“True to their form, they left a straggler behind. Let the Dementors never be faulted for their sentimentalism.”

Hermione looked at her tuna. It was sashimi-grade ahi tuna, with a jewel of red flesh at the center of the cut. She found her appetite to have completely abandoned her. “Why did you ask me to lunch?” She narrowed her eyes at Slughorn. “In your letter, you said that you needed my help.”

“I do,” he said. “Or rather, Professor Snape does.”

“I think Professor Snape needs everyone’s help,” she said.

“Too true. However, there is a serious dearth of individuals willing to assist him, as you can well imagine. And while he may have lost his memory, Professor Snape remains nobody’s fool. He would like you to help him choose a solicitor.”

Her brows knit. “Why aren’t you helping him with that?”

“I volunteered my services of course, but he says that he wants someone who can make all this a bit more sensible for him.”

“A Muggle-born, you mean.”

Slughorn nodded. “You’ve hit upon the point exactly, Miss Granger.”

She folded her arms. “I know nothing about choosing a solicitor, Professor Slughorn.”

“I beg to differ. You know how to recognize talent, if your choice of friends is any indication. And you were the first to defend Professor Snape. Choosing his solicitor should be easy for you. Simply find the one who will work as hard for a fair trial as you would.”

She arched an eyebrow. “How many candidates can there possibly be? I can’t imagine that solicitors are beating down his door for the opportunity to represent him.”

“On the contrary,” Slughorn said, dropping two scrolls on the table. “You’ll find cover letters and resumes in those,” he said. “One of them is Narcissa Malfoy’s solicitor. She has volunteered to pay his fees, too.”

“Snape can’t choose someone like that! Why not admit to being a Death Eater pawn and have done with it?”

“You see, Severus was right to ask you after all.” Slughorn smiled, and raised his wineglass to her.

“That doesn’t mean I’ll do a good job! What if I pick the wrong person?”

Slughorn leveled his gaze at her. “Miss Granger, your professor needs you. Will you help him, or won’t you?”

Her lips shaped the word “no.” She took a deep breath. When she closed her eyes, she saw Professor Snape in his hospital bed—thin and bald and frightened, a shadow of his former self. And she felt his hand circling her wrist as he pulled her out of harm’s way, despite his weakness. But he’s not my teacher anymore,
one part of her thought. So why did he help you, said the other. If he doesn’t even know you, then why did he protect you? Can you really leave him to the Dementors? What would the Headmaster do?

“I’ll help him,” she said. And she hoped that Harry had not heard her.

---

I apologize for the way this chapter is so long and, well, plot-ish. More SS/HG in the next one. Really.

Also, there are a couple of references in this chapter that some of you may have recognized.

Healer McCoy’s book on child-rearing is a nod to Dr. Benjamin Spock’s ever-popular book on infant and child care. Spock and McCoy, get it?

The Galloping Gourmand is a play on “the galloping gourmet,” which is what television chef Graham Kerr is sometimes called.