“What are you doing, Mione?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

Hermione brandished the silver box and cloth. “Polishing, of course.” she huffed.

“Why not just do it magically?”

“I am. But this needs a lot of care.”

Harry stared incredulously at the unlovely object, heavily dented and nearly black with tarnish. “Why’s it so important?”

Hermione frowned, working meticulously at a seam. “Because it’s the one thing I managed to keep from both Voldemort and Dumbledore. Nipped it from right underneath both their noses.”

“Madwoman. Alright, I’ll bite. What didn’t you want them to have?”

Hermione beamed brilliantly. “Professor Snape’s soul.”

---

Harry turned green. “You mean, that thing’s a Horcrux? Hermione!”

But the girl shook her head vehemently. “Not at all. Similar idea, I grant, but this isn’t an object infused with Professor Snape’s soul; it’s an actual, physical manifestation of it.” Harry merely looked confused. Hermione sighed. “This,” she stated, holding up the battered box, “is his soul. 100% pure. If a little shop-worn,” she added sadly, applying herself to its cleaning once again.

“’A little shop-worn’?” Harry gurgled, green again. “That’s like saying Voldemort’s a bit naughty.”

Hermione glared at her friend. “It just needs a little looking after.”

---

“May I see it?” Harry asked after a long silence.

Hermione regarded him dubiously. “I don’t know, Harry… I don’t even know how aware he is. He might not like being passed around like a party favour.”

“C’mon, Mione, I’ve got his ruddy memories on my shelf. I just want to, you know, check. It’s not like I’m going to parade him ‘round Hogsmeade and charge ten Knuts a look.”

“Well…” Still uncertain, Hermione nevertheless set the polishing cloth aside and cautiously held the box out. “Careful, then.”

Harry grasped it, then yelped, dropping it back into Hermione’s anxious hands.

---

“The bloody git bit me!” Harry blew on his heat-reddened hands where Snape’s soul had scalded him. Hermione set the box carefully on the table before hauling her friend to the sink.

“I guess that answers… well, several questions,” she said shakily as she stuck his hands under cold water. “He is aware— up to a point, anyway —and… well… he still doesn’t like you very much.”

“But he likes you?” Harry riposted, glancing side-wise at his friend.

Hermione shrugged uncomfortably before fetching burn paste from the cupboard. “It’s— Why— Well— It’s only a bit warm when I handle it.”

---

There was a feeling beneath her fingers when she held his soul, almost like a pulse, a heartbeat… which she wasn’t about to mention to Harry. Somehow, it seemed even more… personal… than that silver-filled flask, and she’d not expose Severus— or herself —that way. He must feel humiliated enough already, trapped here as a brass-bound silver box.

But she couldn’t let him go as he was.

His guilt, his regret, every soul-crushing blow… all manifested as tarnish, scratches, and dents.

Hermione’d be damned before letting him go like that. He deserved better, even if only from her.

---

Harry watched Hermione as rubbed her rag over a stubborn patch of black; she’d picked the damned box up again almost the millisecond she’d finished tending his burn. She was so focused, so intense…

He didn’t like it.

Harry took it for granted that Hermione knew magic he didn’t; she could probably take his soul out and juggle it single-handed along with three or four others if she liked. He also took it for granted that she wouldn’t touch Dark magic… not without bloody good reason.

But this… obsession… To him, it smacked of Enchantment of the most alarming sort.

---

“I don’t even know what to ask,” Harry confessed, keeping his gaze sharp.

“I’m not sure I know how to answer.” Hermione settled Severus’s soul-box solidly in her lap so she could look back at her friend. “It’s… complicated, but…” Hermione paused, trying to order her thoughts. “Professor Snape was… tied— chained —to Voldemort through the Mark and to Dumbledore through his Vows. He’d’ve spent eternity tugged back and forth between the two.

“He didn’t deserve that. I’d read up bindings of those sorts. It’s a bit Dark, but when he… died… I used that energy to break his chains.”

---

Harry had gone from green to simply feeling sick. His friend— his Hermione —had used death magic. Well… it wasn’t as though she’d killed Snape, and she had used it to rescue his soul…

“But that was before we knew…!” he exclaimed.

Hermione nodded, eyes focusing on the silver incising. “Before you knew,” she whispered. “I knew. I watched, and I listened, and I knew.” A hot tear dropped onto the box.

Harry was ready to knock that bloody box out of Hermione’s hands when a memory— a memory of a memory —flooded through him.

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

---

When Harry spoke again, his voice was quiet. “How did he…?” His hand gestured at the box.

“Something went wrong,” she explained. “A misspoken word, maybe, or the wrong angle of my wand; I don’t know.” Hermione gave her friend a wry smile. “I don’t make a habit of practicing soul magic.”

He chuckled weakly. “Thank Merlin. So… what now? You can’t keep him, you know.”

“Of course I know that, Harry! He’s not a pet or a knick-knack, for heaven’s sake!” Her exasperation reassured him somehow. “I’m just… trying to help him heal before sending him on his way.”

---

Impulsively, Harry launched himself at his friend, enveloping her in a bear hug. “That’s our Mione,” he grinned. “Heart big enough for the whole world— including a few reprobate Aurors-in-training.”

Hermione laughed, hugging him back. “No, I’m not cooking dinner tonight,” she teased. Harry mock-pouted.

“I’m off to Ginny’s, anyway,” he said, extracting himself. “Just… be careful, alright?”

She smiled. “I cheated two powerful wizards out of this prize, Harry; I won’t let anything happen now— to either of us.”

Harry returned a lop-sided grin. “Crooks’ll keep an eye on you for me.”

A childish gesture was her only answer.

---

A.N.s: So one day, I says to myself, I says, "Self, I feel like a drabble between projects." And myself replies, "Sure, Self, but I have no plot." So I tells myself, "Well, let's pick a challenge at random and come up with something for a drabble or two." And myself says, "Alright. Looks like we've got 'theft.' That gives me an idea." And I says, "Sounds good. Two or three light drabbles should take care of it."

That was forty-three drabbles ago. On Nov. 23, according to my computer. Famous last words… But (unlike some _other_ projects) it's complete; I'll post it in four chunks. The title is from the lyrics of 'Portobello Road' ('Bedknobs and Broomsticks'), and it all began with the alliterative line, "I stole Snape's soul," which I unfortunately had to modify.

As always, tokens dropped in the little box are much appreciated.