"How could I forget," he muttered and a dusty box flew towards him. Even dustier than the rest of the boxes. "Rosewood and unicorn hair. 11 ½ inches, flexible but not swishy," he presented Severus the wand with a flourish. It looked beautiful but so had most of the others. This was the darkest red imaginable. Almost black with only a slightly red sheen to it and as he held it between his fingers, there was a rainbow of sparks and the fizzing warmth cursing throughout his body.

This was his wand.

"I think that's it," Granger said gently and very softly and she smiled at him.

Yes, this was it. It felt even warmer than he remembered his old one feeling and much much much warmer than hers had felt. He looked at her steadily, looked through her smile and saw that she was genuinely pleased. There was something else, yes, a kind of fear or worry, but the smile overshadowed all of it.

He paid the wandmaker who seemed to be extraordinarily pleased with himself and with his new wand, stuck into his pocket (not his sleeve where he had worn his former one), he left the shop, Granger trailing slightly behind him.

"Well?" she asked and her smile was almost, but only almost, gone. "The apothecary while we're here?"

He couldn't take his eyes off her. Was he that predictable? Possibly. Or she had learned why he had wanted magic. Why he wanted to be who he had been. Maybe she understood him. But only maybe.

"I think that, yes, the apothecary," he replied and let his hand hang dangerously close to hers again. It was warm and it radiated warmth and he knew she was there. Not that he needed the protection now, but he wanted her there. And rightfully because, right at this moment, a person, a former student of his before Granger had come to Hogwarts came towards him and if he hadn't lived the past one and a half years as a Muggle, he would have drawn his wand immediately.

Prunella Mackintosh. That had been her name. Average student. Boring. Had gone on to work for Madam Malkin's afterwards.

"Professor Snape!" she exclaimed loudly and almost run the last two steps towards her. "You're back and you have a wand and Hermione Granger is with you!"

He only looked at her and was careful not to look at Granger at the moment. They always used those you liked to hurt you. They always used those closest to you.

Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to take her with him, to make her go with him. She would definitely be associated with him now and as such, clearly, just as in danger as he was.

"Miss Mackintosh," he nodded his head.

"Oh, it's Atkins these days," the woman smiled broadly. "I just saw you there and wanted to thank you."

Hufflepuff.

He arched his eyebrows.

"For saving us all. I mean I wasn't really ever terribly in danger but a lot of my friends were and I know how much you sacrificed and it is a terrible pity they took your magic. Until a few weeks ago."

"Until a few weeks ago?" Granger asked.

"Yes, don't you read the Prophet?"

He shook his head and from the corner of his eye, he saw Granger shake her head too.

"It was quite the large item, actually. Front page. The Ministry has given in to public opinion and given you your magic back," the woman simpered and he had to look over at Granger.

Granger looked just as surprised as he did and the little wrinkle between her eyes could almost be described as adorable. Almost. "I didn't know," she muttered softly and he didn't doubt a word of it.

"Will you go back to teaching as the article suggested?"

"Excuse us, Mrs, erm..."

"Atkins," she offered helpfully, smiling broadly.

"We have to leave," Severus continued and kept his eyes on Granger. She, in turn, was scanning the area they stood at and stood very still. Her wand, he saw from the corner of his eye, was drawn and she kept it ready, concealed, of course. He followed her gaze and about two dozen people were all looking at them and advancing. Coming towards them. His eyes widened a little and he knew that he had sort of unlearned to hide his emotions completely but he tried to remain mostly calm and quiet and his hand was very close to Granger's. If this was too much, he would have to try to apparate both of them out. Two dozen or more. Coming towards him. All with — smiles on their faces.

"I could just..." Granger hissed sharply by his side.

"No, wait what they want," he said, his wand in his hand tingling and fizzing and wanting to let him do magic. Wanted him to hex someone or just cast a spell. Granger's wand seemed to twitch as well.

"Professor Snape!" someone from the crowd shouted and even more seemed to gather. Wizards and witches and their children. All moving towards him, coming too close for comfort. He was only a person who had bought a wand. And they all smiled and seemed rather — happy — to see him. Why should they be? Weren't they supposed to kill him on sight? He had killed their figure of the light. He had done unspeakable things. He had let the Carrows torture children. Children! Children, for fuck's sake. He had children under his care and they had come to harm. He had allowed that. And those people let their children now close to him. Smiling. Smiling. Why?

"What's happening?" he asked Granger softly.

"I told you they were demonstrating for you. No lynch mob here," she said but her voice sounded rather strained.

"Professor Snape, will you run for the Ministership now?" another one from the crowd shouted and suddenly, a red-head emerged from it. A red-head he knew and had cursed more than once in his life. Granger's posture slacked a little now and she seemed to smile at the Weasley.

"Erm, I have no idea what kind of title is appropriate now," said the Weasley. George. Grinned. Lifted his hand. Towards him.

"Just call him Snape, it'll do fine," Granger joked by his side.

"Mister Weasley," he said steadily and rather slowly, gingerly and carefully, he took George Weasley's hand.

"Thank you," George Weasley said and grinned lopsidedly. "My parents wanted to come visit you as soon as they heard from Harry that you lived back in your own home still but we all managed to persuade them."

Severus shook his head. "Excuse me?"

The Weasley laughed. "You see, my father...no, it's a long story and it's better I don't tell you all of this here but we just want to thank you. Hermione never said a word but Teddy mentioned you the other week and Mum is just a dab hand at finding out what others don't tell her. And they want to thank you," he shrugged. "I suppose I can do it just as well here. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not thanking you for the loss of my ear," he chuckled. "Nor for...well, but the big picture. We were all wrong and..."

"Stop," he said immediately. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't deserve their thanks. He didn't deserve it at all. He didn't want it. He wanted to...he wanted to go back home and to Eleanor and Draco and the things he knew. Not this mob, shouting 'We want you for Minister, Professor Snape.'

He wasn't a professor anymore. And he certainly couldn't be fit to be Minister of Magic. He was marked. Marked.

Granger made a sort of shushing noise towards Weasley and he suddenly nodded, understandingly and shook his hand once more.

"Look, I will tell Luna to run an article. She owes me for...erm, last night," he grinned and the tips of his ears went bright red. "Nothing special. You know, just saying that the Ministry gave you your magic back and that you just want to be left in peace. She can write this nicely. I know she can. She's wonderful, don't you think? A bit weird but I love that about her..."

"You and Luna?" Granger asked breathlessly.

"Erm," Weasley blushed. "Yeah, but you know, just for the last few, erm, three months, two weeks and eleven days or so. So we're still keeping it a bit quiet. But...I can do that."

Severus arched his eyebrows. "Make sure you tell her to write that it wasn't the Ministry who gave me my magic back."

"Snape!" Granger exclaimed loudly, enough for the crowd around them to be silent for a moment.

"She did? Really? Hermione? Really? You? Why did the Prophet then...?"

"Come over to Grimmauld Place tonight and bring Luna and I'll tell you. Not here," Granger shook her head quickly and the crowd, according to her quiet words, came closer still. Closing in on them, really. He stiffened again.

"I will," he glanced over his shoulder, "Look, I think you should..."

He was stiffening. He was feeling uncomfortable. She knew that as soon as they had left Ollivander's with his new wand and there were people coming towards him. He disliked the crowds and she had realised that. Obviously, he knew it too, or why else would he keep his hand so close to hers? They were barely touching, but she could feel the warmth from his hand and, despite everything, she enjoyed this. She would have to have this, keep this. Forever. It was possibly all she could get from him even if he seemed to be so forward. It was nothing more than a dream. She didn't want him to be nice to her at all anyway. It was too confusing and she had already made a mistake while being so confused about it and she regretted her thing with Ian. Much.

Still, somehow, she felt responsible for him. She had brought him here. She had apparated him there. She had been the one who had given him the magic back and she was the one who had made it even possible for him to be there.

His hand was so close and George smiled so encouragingly and she just grasped his hand, feeling him, for only a second, squeezing her hand before she focused on her apparition.

He clung to her and she clung to him. They clung together and she liked his hand in hers. She didn't think it would ever happen again and she tried to memorise everything. The veins at the back of his hands. His thumb resting against her thumb and each finger entwined with hers. His hand was still warm and soft and calloused at the right places and so strong and steady.

She had, unconsciously, not apparated to his garden but in the middle of his living room which she remembered quite well despite the fact that she hadn't been in there quite so often.

"Sorry," she said immediately. "I aimed for your garden," she smirked. This was getting too tense. Even for her own taste. "But you know what my apparating-skills are like."

He hadn't, yet, let go of her hand and he came to face her, still holding on to her.

"Yes, they are excellent," he replied without the slightest mocking in his voice and this, despite her trying to lighten her mood. This was getting too much for her. Truly too much.

"Look Snape," she said, wrenching her hand from his, and deciding, for once, on the entire truth. All that had been bubbling inside of her right now was coming to the surface. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing but I don't like it at all. Just leave me be. You wanted to...you wanted me to come along and I just did but please, Snape, please, just...you have to know...and I..." she shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. "Don't..."

She turned around, away from him and was ready to apparate away, from the middle of his living room but his hand in hers — in hers — stopped her and he spun her back to him, spun her basically into his embrace and she fell against him.

"I don't think I want you to go," he said throatily and both his arms went around her and he looked down at her just as she looked up. "I really don't want you to go now, Granger."

86. Slip of the Tongue

A type of speech error is commonly described as a slip-of-the-tongue, which often results in tangled expressions as such a long shory stort (for 'making a long story short') and the thine sing (for 'the sign thing') or word reversals, as in use the door to open the key and a fifty-pound dog of bag food. This type of slips is also known as a Spoonerism, as the Rev. William A. Spooner an Angilcan clergyman at Oxford Universit, who was renowned for his tongue-slips. Most of the slips attributed to him involve the interchange of two initial sounds, as when he addressed a rural group as Nobel tons of soil, or described God as a shoving leopard to his flock, or in this complaint to a student who had been absent from classes: You have hissed all my mystery lectures. Using this typoe of interchange of forms for comic effect, Oscar Wilde switched the words work and drink to produce the memorable work is the curse of the drinking classes.

(Yule, 1996)

"I don't think I want you to go," he said. "I really don't want you to go now, Granger."

Hermione doubted she heard him correctly. Hermione doubted her own hearing but those arms around her, those hands on her back and those fingers stroking her left little doubt. Was he still messing with her? Was he still toying with her?

If she had any knowledge of human nature at all, if she could trust herself to read even the unreadable Snape enough — she would have to say, no, he didn't toy with her. There was honesty in his eyes, and a burning something she couldn't identify. She wanted to look away, she really did but it didn't work. The moment she wanted to avert her eyes, there was a new aspect to his eyes. A browner shade of black? Bigger pupils? She wasn't sure what she had seen but she had seen something. Or maybe, it was just the thumb rubbing over her spine.

"Snape, why...?" she tried to ask and her voice sounded broken even to her own ears.

The next second, or maybe the next millisecond, she couldn't see his eyes anymore. The only she saw were...no. Nothing. Her eyes were wide open but...

There it was. Suddenly, his hand in her hair and he pulled her head closer and the next moment, the next blink of an eye, there was a strange feeling on her lips. No, not strange. Warmth. Pressure. Insistence. There was nothing else.

Snape was kissing her and she found herself with her eyes wide open clutching at him and holding him and she was, just the blink of an eye later, kissing him back and her eyes were closed and there was only fire and light and music and pressure on her lips.

She didn't understand but she didn't want to. Understanding it would mean...no. She wanted to stop thinking. Snape was kissing her. That was all that mattered. He was kissing her with strength and abandon and...it felt dreadfully wonderful.

There was something about the way she looked at him. The way she seemed to want to memorise what his eyes looked like. There was something irresistible. Something he couldn't and wouldn't fight against. Spectacularly wonderful and horrifyingly scary. He didn't know which but he knew how to break the pressure and he had to do it. He felt compelled to do it. He couldn't resist. Not this, not offered like that. Not invited like this.