LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Nine

It was like nothing else on earth, Severus reflected. But if he'd had to make a comparison, the first thing that would have popped into his head would have been the Dark ritual in which he'd taken Voldemort's Mark.

Of course, there were differences, both in circumstance and in content. That spell had been steeped in age-old evil, and this one wasn't ... Severus would have hesitated to call the Fidelius, or any other charm for that matter, a 'good' spell, but at the very least it was ambivalent - raw amoral magic depending, as most magic did, on the will of the spellcaster to grant it its purpose.

No, it wasn't for that reason that he drew the parallel, but rather the similar sense of bond, of shared history transferred.

Thirty-odd years ago they'd blindfolded him and tied him down so he couldn't struggle and held a hot wand to his arm - he could still hear his own scream, smell the stench of burning flesh as they traced the shape of the Mark into his forearm. And when they'd drawn it away, loosed his bonds, it was only to shove him to his knees in front of the Dark Lord, and bid him offer up his charred skin, his fresh mutilation, in homage.

Voldemort had smiled - Christ, Severus could see that smile yet, a hungry livid thing with a terrible life of its own - and had drawn nearer. Chalk-white skin he'd had, even then, and he'd pushed up his own sleeve to reveal the parent Mark, clean and black where Snape's was red and angry. At the sight of it, a gasp went up from the encircled Death Eaters, a half-ecstatic, half-frightened sigh of excitement.

"Nearer," Voldemort had hissed. "Nearer yet, my frightened little novice." That hungry flickering smile again. "It's well that you're afraid; anyone who tells you there's nothing to fear is lying to you. But in a moment, that too will pass. This -" he held Severus' wounded arm aloft like a trophy - "transforms you from one who fears, into one who is feared. Behold."

And then he'd reached out and closed his open palm over the fresh wound, had thrown back his head and shrieked a series of unintelligible syllables into the night air ... and Severus had felt himself, for lack of a better word, invaded.

This was like that.

But where Voldemort's intrusion had been frightening and abrupt (to say the least; he'd retched for a quarter of an hour afterwards, right there in the middle of the circle, and hadn't even had the presence of mind to care that they were all laughing at him), this one seeped into him slowly, pausing politely to knock first. Dumbledore's voice was slow and sure, and Severus felt the skin of his palms buzz as the words of the incantation rose and fell, as the runes of the Fidelius began to work their way from Hermione's skin to his.

It was an awakening, as if he'd stepped into her very soul and was having a rummage-about. There was the address, of course, perched in the forefront of his conscious thought like a bird on the nest, but also other things - seemingly extraneous things, pictures and names and moments frozen in time - and underlying even the most lighthearted of her memories, a hot red river of grief and weariness and frustrated, baffled anger.

People who wish they could read minds, Severus thought, shaken by the instantaneous jolt of empathy that rushed through him, haven't really thought about what that would mean.

And then: How Pettigrew could do this and then go through with the Potters' betrayal is utterly beyond me.

It felt almost dishonest, stealing her history like this when he wasn't quite sure that she was getting reciprocal knowledge of him back in return. If anything, she seemed utterly unaware of the transfer taking place - steadied by the curl of his hands at the backs of her upper arms, she lolled in his grip, her eyes closed, looking for all the world like a prototypical swooning maiden.

Severus knew better; he'd seen the hard-headed Granger resiliency at work too many times to underestimate her now, no matter how thin she'd grown, how deep the hollows of her lovely eyes. If anyone could pull this off, it was her.

All the same, that awful sadness of hers tugged at the tattered remains of what he would have said were his nonexistent sympathies. He'd been that raw and broken, once, had felt that angry and afraid ... and had been given Hogwarts as an unassailable refuge, Albus Dumbledore as his unimpeachable ally.

And look how he'd turned out.

What's going to happen to her, if she has to do this alone?

The incantation was finished. Dumbledore, swaying out of the half-trance he'd been in, shook himself and slid into a chair, looking slightly bewildered; apparently the Fidelius was hard-coded with a mild Memory Charm directed at whoever performed it - just one more reminder that it held at least one life in its thrall, and couldn't afford to leave loose ends. Hermione was beginning to stir, her heavy eyelids trying to flutter open, her breath coming faster and shallower. Severus didn't immediately relax his grip, however.

Take care of yourself, Hermione, he thought grimly, and hoped she could hear him. I'm afraid I know how this is going to end, and I don't make much of a Sir Galahad. It's up to you to prove me wrong.

She pulled away from him, and he let her go.

**

She moved to Paris on a Wednesday morning.

Sal and Snape had already left for their mountain hideaway, and Hermione was glad. The way Snape had looked at her after the Charm was cast - as if he knew all her secrets and wished he didn't - pretty much summed up the way she felt about the whole thing, too. Much as she hated the pitying glances from all the others, somehow it was worse coming from him ... probably because he was the one person who really knew how she was feeling.

Insufferable, that.

And insufferable that those hard strong hands had felt so good, as she hung boneless in their grip in the aftermath of the Fidelius. Come to think of it, the whole process had been less than unpleasant; if it had felt invasive, it was in the most apologetic of possible ways. I'm leaving you your life, it seemed to say. I'm just making you a backup copy. Don't worry.

And that was the thing - she wasn't worried, not about that anyway. The thought that Snape might betray her had never occurred to her. He was trustworthy - no doubt about it.

But that didn't mean she wanted him around.

She'd intended to avoid his leave-taking of Hogwarts, but he came to find her in the empty classroom where she'd squirreled herself away. Just one of the fringe benefits of the Charm, she supposed, that he could find her if he wanted to, and that she'd know he was coming even before he came through the door.

It should have annoyed her, but instead it made her feel secure - about to throw herself headlong into the unfamiliar, it was nice to know that some things, at least, she could predict.

"Hullo," she said, and looked pointedly at the tiny suitcase he was turning over and over between his fingers, as if it was a worry stone. "Are you off, then?"

He nodded. "Just after luncheon. I'm sorry to interrupt your work-" this was an uncharacteristically gracious, face-saving formality, as it was painfully apparent that she'd been sitting for the better part of the morning with her head in her hands-"but I rather suspected you'd be eating in your room today, and I wanted to give you this before I went."

It was a silver cuff-style wristwatch, perfectly plain except for the face - a thumbnail-sized piece of tigereye, polished to a mirror shine. Hermione regarded it warily.

"It's lovely," she said, but made no move to take it from him. Snape sighed.

"The timepiece function is secondary," he said, as if that ought to explain everything, and looked annoyed when she continued to stare at him blankly. "It's a Portkey, keyed to my Montana cabin. The mountain's Unplottable - you'd never find the place otherwise. It's in case you need anything."

He flipped the face of the watch open to reveal a case free of traditional clockworks and a plain metal button where they ought to be. It was strangely grooved. Curious despite herself, Hermione leaned over to look.

"Odd," she said. "That almost looks like the impression of a-"

"-thumbprint?" Snape nodded. "It is. It's yours. No one else can use it."

Hermione goggled at him, torn between outrage and admiration. "And exactly how did you manage that?"

"Winky," Snape said succinctly. "She took a wax impression while you were sleeping last night. Headmaster's request," he added as she opened her mouth in protest. "The last time he performed the Fidelius, people ended up dead. So he's being especially careful of you."

Hermione sighed, resigned but unsurprised, and took the watch, careful not to touch the hidden Portkey as she clicked the case closed. "This is very kind of you," she said stiffly. "I hope I haven't made you feel beholden. You've done quite enough as it is."

He shrugged, already halfway across the room and heading for the door. "It's no trouble. Keep yourself alive, and we'll call it even." A shrewd look back over his shoulder. "Oh, and … Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"When you've found out who did it," he said softly, "don't go after them by yourself. Call us first."

Stricken, throat blocked, she could only nod.

And by that time, he'd already gone.

**

Paris in July was hot and dusty and humid, which - considering that she'd spent the last seven years living in Cairo - made Hermione feel rather at home.

It was also half-empty. That didn't surprise her either; the one other time she'd visited the city, during one of those Hogwarts summers with her parents, they'd come as part of a surprisingly cheap tourist package and quickly discovered why: during the hot summer months, all of Paris that was able packed up and went to the Riviera. Restaurants kept abbreviated hours, the smaller of the shops closed up outright, and the Champs-Elysées, during the rest of the year one of the world's most fashionable promenades, was all but deserted, abandoned to the straggling groups of disconsolate tourists, mainly American and Japanese, who'd just found out to their dismay that Coca-Cola went for four euros a bottle in every café in Paris … and that it was never, never served with ice.

Given the present circumstances, Hermione didn't mind. Suitcases Reduced and stowed in her only Paris-presentable handbag, a mid-sized Coach clutch she'd gotten for her birthday nearly ten years earlier, she kept walking north from the secluded little alcove in the Jardin des Plantes that she'd Apparated into, found the street sign for the Rue des Arènes, and resolutely turned left, dragging the yowling Cleo after her on a leash.

"I know, I know," she muttered. "It's undignified. Only another minute, all right?"

The building probably held about six flats. Hermione's was a garden apartment, spare and white and simply furnished, with a view of the street through the kitchen windows and a glorious panorama of green lawn opposite; the public park that housed the Arènes de Lutèce was literally a stone's throw from her back door.

She dropped her handbag on the nightstand in the bedroom, knelt to free the hissing Cleo from her hated collar, and straightened up slowly. Such an unfamiliar place, so bare and quiet - Dumbledore had probably arranged to rent it furnished, to save her the trouble of Transfiguring everything. To Hermione, it looked like a room one might see in the better sort of residential hospital … soothing, inobtrusive, vanilla … and while its quietude spoke to her bruised soul on a certain level, at the same time she couldn't help but think longingly of the house in Cairo: cheerful, cluttered, bright.

The bed, at least, was satisfactory - firm, without feeling like a hotel mattress. Hermione gave it an experimental bounce, then drew her feet up underneath her and hooked her arms around her knees. In this position, her forehead could just rest comfortably against her kneecaps; rolling up like this made her feel less vulnerable, better armored.

Of course, this had its downside … she'd found herself losing time this way, rocking away an hour or more, finally detangling to find that the afternoon had gone without her. Still, it seemed a safer alternative than facing the outside world again … or, for that matter, the jumble of personal items in her suitcases.

She tightened her grip on her knees - and would have fallen into that uneasy oblivion again, if it hadn't been for the muted sound of piano chords. Hermione's head came up, and she frowned - she knew that progression, didn't she? - and then, as a bass began to slap and a drumset to rattle with the delicate sound of brushes on a hi-hat - her feet hit the floor with an asymetrical rhythm that felt almost predestined.

Yes. She'd know that sound anywhere. But that begged the question - where was …?

Her answer came a moment later, rich and full-throated and mellow, and in surprisingly good French: "Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose …"

There were tears in her eyes, but Hermione was smiling as she rounded the corner into the flat's parlor, the only room she hadn't yet seen, and saw that indeed she hadn't been hearing things - that amid all these pale eggshell walls there was at least one bright, unmistakable, larger-than-life mural.

Thank you, Albus.

"Maxie," she said, wiping her eyes. "Guys. What are you doing here?"

**