The staff room reeked of sulphur, armadillo bile, and burnt hair. Snape would have known that smell in his sleep, and he barely managed to stifle the brittle laugh that rose in his throat. It was the sight of Professor Granger, the youngest Potions Mistress in the history of Hogwarts, that made him reconsider.

Snape began to understand why, in searching for the staircase that led to the library, he'd found himself in the hall outside the staff room. This was the second time this month the castle had gone out of its way to direct him where it believed he was needed. The first had been an ugly dust-up between two prefects. This situation seemed infinitely more complex. She was sitting in the overstuffed wing back chair by the window, his traditional place of refuge, with her hands wrapped around a huge mug of what appeared to be hot chocolate.

And wonder of wonders, she was sniffling.

Her hair had been pulled back and muscled into a chignon at the base of her neck, the inevitable few pin curls escaping around her face. Her cheeks were blotchy and her eyes puffy and red. And there was a bit of shrivelfig skin clinging to her sleeve. He crossed his arms over his chest, one hand coming to rest over his mouth as he studied her.

Severus hadn't survived years in the company of cutthroats without a keenly honed sense of self-preservation. Perhaps it was that sense that made him choose a more delicate path. "Don't tell me they've finally outdone you," he drawled, moving to pour himself a cup of tea.

"Don't bleeding start with me, Severus Snape!" She didn't even turn to look at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, just ground out the words between her clenched teeth. "I just got done taking Fergus McCreedy to the Infirmary, I have a potions lab that will take the house-elves all afternoon to set right again, and I have to find a place to relocate Double Potions with third year Gryffindor and Slytherin in just," her eyes flicked to the clock on the mantle, "half an hour. So just ... don't!"

"Oh, is that all?" Snape's eyebrows had risen as he listened to her, the long fingers of his right hand tracing the rim of his teacup. He took a sip, dark eyes taking in all the minute signs of her distress: the slightly pronounced lower lip, the cant of her shoulders, the tremble in her voice. He moved to take a seat opposite her, still doing his best not to smirk. "From the look of you, I was afraid it was something serious."

Her eyes grew wide. "You --"

"Ah, ah, ah." He held up a single long finger, admonishing her. "Before you say something you might regret later, remember that I have the largest, and perhaps most suitable classroom space for your needs. And it happens to be available this very afternoon." He took another sip of his tea, eyeing her over the top of his teacup. She was fuming, her eyes flashing bronze. He found he couldn't resist the sentiment on the tip of his tongue. "Seeing as my sixth year students are taking their Apparation Seminar today, is there something you would like to ask, Professor Granger?"

Hermione rubbed a hand across her eyes. Severus Snape was not, had never been, what she would call magnanimous. Admittedly, she'd come to learn that he wasn't as much of a bastard as she'd thought when she was a student. Time and distance had taught her that. The students still thought so, and now that she taught the same curriculum, she had a much greater understanding of his harsh techniques. Sitting across from him in staff meetings for the past few months, she'd come to appreciate his wit and sharp tongue, even as she'd been on the receiving end of his more biting critiques from time to time. After having had a beast of a professor at university, she'd realized that he was harder on her because he expected more of her. They had a tenuous mutual respect. But that hadn't changed her opinion that he was a bit of a prick. More than a bit of a prick. This overt gesture of generosity ran precisely contrary to that opinion.

She slit her eyes at him. He merely sipped his tea, his eyebrows raised in mute question. Her Gryffindor sensibilities were growling something about Slytherins. "I don't suppose that I could borrow your classroom for the afternoon." She didn't bother to phrase it like a question.

"Certainly. There are long tables available, suitable for cauldron use, if you need them. And you may use my office, if you require it."

"No, that won't be necessary." She held her breath a beat, waiting for the inevitable stipulations. He met her gaze, and she marveled at his expression. It was almost sympathetic. "I think I've had enough practicum for one day, and I can do my grading in my rooms. My intentions are to spring the chapter test on them a day early."

"You're such a tyrant, Granger. When will you give those poor dears a rest and let them enjoy themselves. They're only children, you know." He spoke the words with bone dry sarcasm, and she found herself laughing at his mock indignation.

"Children with wands!" she quipped, sharing a look with him. He watched the corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiled and felt a rush of warmth in his face. "It's a wonder someone hasn't already been killed this year, and it's not even Yule yet." She eyed the clock again and looked longingly at the last few swallows of her hot chocolate.

He understood her reluctance to leave the sanctuary of the staff room, and it struck him that he no longer thought of her as a student but as a colleague. "I'd suggest you have the house elves post a notice. It's a bit of a hoof between the two classrooms."

She rose and set the mug aside, charming it clean silently. Again, she scrubbed her hands over her face and then smoothed her hair. "Right. Back to it, I suppose." She turned to give him a look that he could not fathom. "Thank you, Professor. I owe you."

"Indeed," he drawled. She didn't notice the slight furrow of his brow as she left.

~~~

The DADA classroom felt strangely like the Potions Dungeon of her own school years. Particularly, she remembered the heavy velvet curtains that hung over the tall windows. There was a long wall of shelves filled with dusty scrolls and tomes, and any number of bizarre artifacts, no doubt pertinent to the curriculum in some form or fashion. The lectern was elevated to befit his height and behind it sat an impressive oak desk. The only significant difference was the dueling strip at the far end of the room, anchored on either end by pock-marked granite backstops.

While she had declined the offer to use his office, she wasn't above taking a quick peek around his inner sanctum. His personal desk was heaped with precariously balanced scrolls and tomes. She noted the potions storeroom between two overstuffed bookshelves with a smirk. Leopards never change their spots, no matter how strongly they protest the desire to. It took her a moment to realize that perhaps the familiarity she was feeling was not connected to the subject matter but rather the personality of the man himself. She pondered that thought as she returned to the classroom, closing the door of his office behind her.

She walked around the lectern and took a seat in his chair, laying her ledgers out on his classroom desk, intent on putting together the last few bits of the chapter test. She had a few extra moments, allowing time for the students to make their way here, and it was a good thing she had. Aside from her nerves already being shot from the morning's unpleasantness, she kept finding herself distracted by the smallest things. In particular, his scent. It enveloped her as she sat in his chair. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She felt like he was standing behind her and, at any moment, would descend and reclaim his place, all the while ranting at her for even daring to presume. She tucked a wisp of hair back behind her ear, trying to shake off the sensation.

Her fingers proceeded with the inevitable and illicit inventory of his desk. He kept his quills so sharp one might be able to perform surgery with them. While his lectern only had two colors of ink, red and black, the inkwell on his desk held a deep, emerald green, as well as a gilding pot that would oblige the writer with gold, silver, bronze or copper inks. His top drawer had the usual assortment of contraband collected from students, the middle drawer contained a selection of parchments and blotting paper, and his bottom drawer held a bottle of port and a flask of something that smelled suspiciously like eighteen-year old Ogden's. She was sorely tempted to take a swig, but decided against it. One could never know what a former potions master and ex-Death Eater might keep in his desk.

She also found a smallish leather-bound book--well-loved by the feel of the edges. The title was on the back of the book, in Arabic. She thumbed through the pages carefully. The text was also in Arabic, which irked her to no end. It looked like poetry. She desperately wanted to know what kind of poetry Professor Snape would not only read, but clearly cherish. She glanced at the clock. No time to cast a translation spell.

And the last thing that caught her eye was tucked in the very back of the drawer. It was an iron banded chest small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, though she supposed its original size was a hundred times what it was now. She only noticed it because it rattled and shook without her ever having touched it. She started to reach for it before her wits returned. Again, not wise to go poking about in the desk of a Dark Arts professor. Who knows what kind of creature he might have secreted away for nefarious, albeit educational, purposes.

She heard voices in the corridor and closed the drawer quickly. A flick of her wand duplicated the master test into individual scrolls as the students began to trickle in.

~~~

Snape left the staff room, black robes fluttering behind him. He was taken with a rare sense of satisfaction. It was disconcerting. Disconcerting and downright distracting. She'd needed assistance and he'd been able to provide her with that assistance. She'd seemed-- pleased. The most unsettling part of the whole transaction was that he'd been pleased that she was pleased. He was hardly accustomed to playing the role of Knight In Shining Armour, but in this case, it seemed to be The Right Thing To Do. He supposed this was what came of people who did nice things for other people. They got so wrapped up in the warm fuzziness of it all that, invariably, they stepped off a curb and were run down by the Knight Bus, or came to some other suitably ignominious demise. That thought steadied him.

He paused in the grand corridor of Hogwarts, contemplating his options. He had essays to grade, but they were in his office and a certain Potions Mistress had commandeered that. The Library, perhaps. He'd taken four steps down the stair before it began to reconfigure itself. He sighed and kept the pace of his descent. In the tedious shuffle of staircases, he found himself a level above where he began, instead of a level below. As soon as his boots hit the polished granite floor, the staircase twisted away.

Snape crossed his arms, waiting for another staircase to appear. None did. "So that's how it's to be then?" A warm breeze ruffled his robes in answer. It seemed the castle wished him to be in his classroom, interlopers be damned.

~~~

Professor Granger's students had trickled in late, as was to be expected. She still took house points from a few of them, just to keep up appearances. It seemed the events of the morning had been quickly--and in some cases, quite vividly--recounted to her charges. In a perfect world, the tale of horror and woe would have kept them dutifully subdued, out of respect for the frazzled nerves of their teacher. She glared at Marcus Lindley as he came through the door. The young Gryffindor deflated a bit, but kept the mischievous grin. She had no illusions about living in a perfect world.

"Take your seats, please. Quickly. Quietly." Her tone was brusque, brooking no discussion. McGonagall would have been proud, Hermione thought to herself. A Slytherin girl with long black hair opened her mouth to speak, but Hermione cut her off. "No, Miss Patel, there will be no need for the text today. Ready a quill for the chapter test." A chorus of groans was her response. "Would you prefer a mass detention for the lot of you? I hear Mister Filch has a nasty set of dungeon gutters he needs help cleaning out, hmm? I didn't think so. You have the whole hour to complete the test. If I hear one word from any of you, you'll all be up to your noses in seventeen species of slime mould."

She watched each of them settle into the desks, trying to decide where to sit. There was a bit of consternation as students tried to take the seats they usually occupied during their DADA classes. She turned away just in time to catch Professor Snape slipping through the doors and closing them gently behind him.

She cocked an eyebrow at him and then rolled her eyes as several of the students gasped in unison. The sound made him grin and it was a fearsome sight indeed. She didn't turn, merely spoke aloud in a voice that filled the room. "Seventeen species of slime mould. Now get to work." Snape dipped his chin to her. She felt her cheeks flush. An age and a day ago, she'd berated him for his own teaching methods that seemed to be more based on terror than actually imparting any knowledge. To have him in her own classroom, well, it seemed a bit surreal. To be teaching in his classroom was beyond surreal. She raised her chin and gave him an imperious look.

He spread his hands and simply walked to his desk. He narrowed his eyes and saw her tidy little fingerprints all over his wards. Even the bottom drawer. The corner of his thin lips crooked upwards. He glanced up at Professor Granger.

She was watching him with a wary eye. "Forget something?" She slipped her wand into its sleeve holster and crossed her arms.

"No, not at all. It occurred to me that you probably haven't seen this month's Ars Alchemica."

She crossed between him and the desk, dropping her voice. "Perhaps that's because the school's subscription is still in your name and is still being delivered to your office, mm? Which is odd, considering you haven't taught Potions in how many years now?" She ensconced herself in his chair, glancing up at him as she busied her hands. His scent, warm and masculine, filled her nose and mouth, tickling her throat, making her want to inhale deeply.

"Six years," he murmured, slipping past her into his office. The sight of her sitting in his chair unsettled him. On the one hand, he'd invited her into his classroom. On the other hand, she didn't have to take to it so readily, did she? Snape moved to his desks, shifting his grading to one side to reveal the stack of periodicals. He found not only the Ars, but a few other texts that she--as Potions Mistress--would no doubt have some strictly professional interest in.

Was it too much to expect a spot of deference? She had been his student, after all. She'd done detentions under his careful scrutiny. In fact, he remembered she could clean a cauldron without magic like no other student he'd ever had. The sudden and wholly unexpected image of the current young Professor elbow deep in a tub of hot soapy water assailed him. In his mind's eye, her white work shirt was water-logged and clung to the curves beneath.

That would not do. At least not for now. Perhaps for later, he thought. It occurred to him that she'd long since ceased considering him an authority figure. Perhaps that was for the best, especially if she were to maintain discipline in her own classroom. Perhaps that was why she dared not balk at his presence.

He rested his hands on the desk and pondered that thought. The line of his mouth twisted into a frown and his eyes narrowed. Any student watching him would have thought him to be brooding on something distasteful, or perhaps they might have mistaken his intent expression for one of anger. In truth, he was considering something he'd never considered before. The thought that he might fancy Miss Granger.

"Nonsense," he muttered, collecting the publications into a stack and setting it to the side. He'd come here to grade papers. If she wanted them, she could come and get them herself. He sat down in his chair and drew a quill with a sharp motion, pulling a stack of scrolls towards him.

~~~

She waited for him to emerge again, her fingers toying with her quill. He didn't. After a long five minutes, she gave up and decided he'd only come here to defend his territory, not to keep her company. Bastard, she thought.

Fifteen minutes in, the students had taken the point from her icy glare and had applied themselves to their chapter test. She'd adapted one of his old tests, so she knew it would take up to the very last minute of the class to finish. If they wasted a moment, they risked not finishing in time and they knew it. She reluctantly admitted that this was a good class for that sort of thing. She spent the next half hour doodling an outline for lesson plans not due till after the holidays. He still hadn't returned from his office.

Fine, she thought. I guess I'll just have another look.

She reached down with a blind hand and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk again, her own curiosity drawing her back to investigate the book of poetry. Keeping her eyes on the class, she fished in the drawer and felt her hand close around the iron-banded chest.

Hmm, she thought. She drew it out into the light. A flurry of hushed whispers echoed from the back of the room. "Mister Lindley, Mister Winter," she growled, rising to her feet to glare at the boys. "Five points from Gryffindor. Now keep your eyes on your own work."

She waited until they had put their heads back down and turned toward the thin light of the window, intent on examining the chest more closely. She felt a breath of hot air from below, and looking down, she saw the black pit beneath her feet.

~~~

He finished his grading near the end of the hour. She hadn't come looking for him, and he didn't know why that should irk him even more than her easy familiarity with his classroom. He stabbed the quill back into its rest. He found his hands arranging the stack of publications. She still might enjoy them. And it would give him an excuse to collect them later. Oh bollocks. He really did fancy her, didn't he. How completely pathetic. He stalked out of his office, dour as ever, and froze.

She was standing beside his desk staring at the stones beneath her feet. Her eyes were the size of saucers and her face had gone bone white. One hand gripped the edge of the desk as if her life depended on it. In the other, she held the miniaturized trunk in a death grip. It took him half a heartbeat to realize what had happened and to act.

He strode around the desk, coming as close to her as he could while still maintaining a safe distance from the grasping tendrils of the spell. He set the texts down gently, silently cursing his own carelessness.

"Professor, listen to me very carefully." He kept his voice low. None of the students had noticed anything was amiss and he intended to keep it that way. "What you have in your hand is the most insidious boggart I have ever had the pleasure of studying. It does not limit itself to simple fears, as you by now have no doubt discovered. I want you to look at me. No, don't look at it. Look at me."

His voice was warm and low. In the distant part of her mind that wasn't frozen in abject terror, she marveled at the gentleness of his tone. She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his gaze. When she spoke, her voice was a strangled whisper. "If I move, I'll fall."

Bloody hell. This was much worse than he expected. There was no Riddikulus to cast against a fear of heights. "You're not going to fall. I won't let you. But I need you to concentrate. I need you to use that brilliant mind of yours for a moment. Can you do that for me?"

"I can't..." She could barely manage a whisper. Fear was crushing the air from her lungs. It was utterly irrational, but what had been a niggling fear of heights now seemed to have been magnified ten thousand-fold. She'd never mounted a broom because of it. She could barely manage a simple Quidditch game, as even the lowest levels of the stands tended to be many storeys above the pitch. Just watching Ron and Harry playing had been a bit of a trial. And now, to her eyes, the ground seemed to have dropped away, leaving her standing on a tiny precipice beside the desk, overlooking a fathomless abyss. She could feel the gravel slick beneath the soles of her shoes, could feel the edge threatening to crumble away at any moment, pitching her forward into thin air. She gasped and looked back down.

Snape bit back a sharp command. He took a deep breath and made a show of opening the Ars Alchemica to a certain article, trailing his finger down the page as he spoke. He had to keep his words conversational, calm. It was imperative that the class not realize what was going on and feed the boggart with their own trepidation. Not knowing the depth of her fear, he realized that her life may depend on it. "Hermione, I need you to look at me. Look at me. Let me see your eyes. Please."

She'd never heard him use that word, and that alone might have been enough to drag her gaze back to his.

"Good," he crooned. "Very good. Now listen to me. I need you to let go of the box. I need you fling it as hard as you can against the dueling backstop." She paled visibly as he spoke. "Hermione, I need you to find that Gryffindor courage. I know you can do this. Your rational mind knows that there is no possibility of you falling. But you have to let go of the box or the fear will... Never mind. Just fling the box for me." Snape eased closer to her, drawing his wand.

He could feel the edges of the boggart's spell, seeking around it for another mind to draw into the illusion. Perhaps he could confuse the creature, make it take him as a target. No, the beast had it in for him since he'd caged it successfully. The last thing he needed was to be disabled long enough for it to escape into the walls. No, he needed her to do as he instructed.

"If I let go, I'll fall," she said. The thin sound of her words relayed her complete and utter certainty in that statement.

Snape's mind raced. There was no clever solution to this problem. His dark, intent eyes met her imploring gaze. "Do you trust me, Hermione?"

She met his dark gaze and the moments of the final battle flickered in her memory. He'd saved all of their lives countless times over. He'd almost died for them. Of course she trusted him. Why should he even have to ask? She managed a small nod.

"Good," he murmured. "I swear to you, I will not let you fall. Now, give it a good one." He gestured with his wand.

"Fling the box?"

"Yes. Fling it. As hard as you can." He nodded in the direction of the dueling backstop again, giving her a reassuring smirk.

She nodded back and took a few shallow breaths, followed by one deep one, her arm trembling as she raised it. He felt the spell intensify as the boggart tried to save itself. She must have felt the same, because he saw her pupils dilate and watched her set her jaw. That was the Hermione he knew. Not so Ravenclaw when it came down to the wire.

She threw the chest as if it were an Unforgivable leaving the tip of her wand. Harder even than she'd thrown Ron's ring. There was a moment when gravity seemed to take hold of her, when her body became lead and she felt herself slipping over the edge. Her knees buckled.

True to his word, he was there to catch her, his voice steady as he blasted the chest into nothingness. The resulting explosion filled the chamber of the classroom, rattling the windows and rocking the bookshelves. Flames licked over the granite backstop, singeing the tapestry on the far wall. The entire class reacted like a herd of frightened deer, desks scraping as some of them stood, the rest staring from their seats, ready to bolt. It wasn't as if unexpected explosions were uncommon in the Potions classroom, but it was expected that actual potions-making was a prerequisite of said unexpected explosions. Someone's quill floated to the ground.

Snape's arm held tight about Hermione's waist, steadying her as she found her footing. His lips were so close to her ear, she could feel his breath when he whispered, "Now laugh."

Later she would wonder if it was sheer relief or the giddiness of being so close to death and emerging unscathed. Perhaps it was the improbability of being so close to him, of feeling so--safe--in his arms. Perhaps it was merely the bizarre expression on his face, but in that moment, it seemed the perfectly logical thing to do. A giggle bubbled up from her chest and escaped her lips, followed by an honest guffaw. His own chuckle was dry but rich. He withdrew a half step, his hand resting in the small of her back, his thin lips quirking upwards as she waved him off, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. The students watched the smiling Head of Slytherin and their Potions Mistress with more fear than they had the explosion.

There were footsteps in the hallway and Professor Vector stuck her head in the door. "Everything alright?"

Severus nodded, sheathing his wand, taking a step back to rest one hip against the desk. He crossed his ankles and rested his long arms over his chest, one hand covering his mouth. His shoulders were still shaking. Hermione nodded as well, wiping at her cheeks with the palm of her hand. The sight of Severus and Hermione laughing together seemed to mollify Professor Vector. She gave them both a long hard look and withdrew, shaking her head. She'd always known potions fumes could do strange thing to a person's mind.

After a long, awkward moment and the silent recitation of Verdesante's seventeen principles of distillation, Hermione managed to catch her breath. She drew her wand and tapped it twice sharply on the desk. "Time's up," she intoned. "Quills down. Class dismissed." The herd groaned and gathered their books, some frantically trying to scribble a few more lines. The scrolls started snapping shut, rolling up tight and floating to the desk at the front of the room.

~~~

Snape remained, motionless, waiting. He watched her with a hawk's gaze as she folded her class roster shut with shaking hands. She gave each of her charges a reassuring nod as she assembled their scrolls. Their eyes were wide but their mouths were kept blissfully shut. He'd have to remember that: random detonations in the classroom to keep them on their toes. The last student took far too long to leave but finally, they were alone. The moment the door closed, he was reaching for her again.

Hermione thought this was odd, and then realized it was a very good thing as her knees gave way a second time. He guided her to his chair and took a knee next to her, his hands folded around hers, trying to still the shaking. It occurred to her, from a great distance and not for the first time, that his fingers were impossibly long. His skin was warm, his hands lightly calloused. "My apologies, Professor," he murmured. "Apparently I don't know how to secure a simple boggart."

"That..." Her voice hitched, and it took conscious thought for her to breathe. "That was no simple boggart."

"I know. I know and I'm sorry. It should have been contained by cold iron." He tipped her chin up and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "This is where I make a snide remark about curiosity killing the cat, but I hesitate to do so."

"By all means," she said. Her eyes studied his, her smile thin but genuine. "I think I deserve it."

"Nonsense," he said, meeting her gaze. He'd never had occasion to notice her eyes until this moment. They were such a vibrant shade of chestnut. Her hands felt tiny in his grip. "You didn't disgrace yourself in front of your class. Nothing is permanently damaged. Well, save for the boggart. An unfortunate but necessary loss."

"I am sorry, Professor. I was reaching for your book of--poetry." The truth sounded downright absurd when she voiced it aloud.

"The Rubáiyát?"

"Yes, I suppose so. The chest just found its way into my hand. Is that what it is? Omar Khayyám?"

"Yes." He sounded vaguely put out. "Nosy Nellie."

She pursed her lips at him, her eyes regaining that dread Gryffindor twinkle. "I am sorry. And I'm very glad you--I mean I'm glad that you--were here. Thank you." Her words tapered off, her cheeks coloring quickly.

Snape dropped his eyes to where he still held her hands. "I'll just add it onto your account, shall I then?"

"I suppose so. I suppose I must be deep in debt to you now." She seemed mesmerized by the gentle caress of his thumb, tracing a circle against the back of her hand.

"Yes, I suppose you are." He looked up at her with eyes drawn down to slits. "So, the truth behind your hatred of Quidditch reveals itself."

"I'm sorry?" She wrinkled her nose at him. "What do you mean?"

"I believe I have discerned why you never took to a broom. I had previously thought it because of your, mm, Muggle upbringing."

"What, you think I prefer Man U to the Chudley Cannons? Please."

"Well, aside from the obvious reasons." He found himself smirking, his eyes again resting on their joined hands. There was an odd fluttering sensation behind his sternum. Which was utterly ridiculous. Severus Snape did not get butterflies. Obviously, something had to be done. "Tea."

"Oh yes." Her exhalation made the fluttering in his chest flare lower in his anatomy, into something startlingly raw and hungry. "Tea would be excellent."

Snape stood, his countenance resuming its familiar frown, and helped her to her feet. "Yes. Tea," he repeated, his voice all business, his hands clasped behind his back. His thoughts were momentarily preoccupied with the loss of her touch when he felt her hand on his lapel.

"Thank you again," she whispered, standing on her tiptoes to brush a gentle kiss against his cheek. "Now, Professor, we shall go in search of tea."

"Mm, yes. Tea." He watched dumbfounded as she collected her books, holding the door for her as she smiled up at him.

~~~

The stairs carried them quickly back to the hallway outside Professor Granger's office and there was a decidedly contented sigh in the corridor as the last stone banister twisted away.

"Did you hear that?" Hermione asked, her fingers resting lightly on his arm.

He considered glancing behind him but thought better of it. "Just keep walking, Professor. Don't encourage the architecture."

~ Finite Incantatum ~

Fanfic authors work for nothing but reviews. If you have enjoyed this story, please give generously.

---

This story now has a sequel: Landing