Golem

Chapter 9

By Lillith Janvier

Spring had yet to make a dent in northern Scotland. Paris had started to thaw, and the narcissus had sprouted in the parks, while Hogwarts, on the other hand, stood hunched, battered and cold under a North Sea storm whose wind howled and drove the sheeted rain against the school’s gray stone walls. The wizard and witch walking up the drive were grateful that the temperature was holding steady. Otherwise, they would be struggling against driving snow instead of the not much lesser evil of bone-freezing cold sleet and rain. 

As the wind caught and blew her cloak from numb fingers and out around her hunched shoulders, Hermione added the cold wet dripping down the back of her neck to her growing list of complaints. The first list item comprised her inability to cast an effective warming spell.

It was all his fault, she thought with morose self-pity and irritation.

Item, Snape won their duel.

Item, Hubert had bustled off without a word and shrunk her wardrobe, books, and papers into a leather satchel with little regard, no doubt, to how her papers were organized.

Item, she had no choice but to take Hubert’s ready-made cognac bottle Portkey into this horrid storm with Snape.

Item, when she continued to balk, Snape threatened her with Petrificus Totalis and Reducio.

Item...

“Ah-eee!” Hermione’s foot slid, and she went down hard on her right side in a slide of cold mud.

“Are you hurt?” Snape asked, reaching down to help her up.

“No, I’m just smashing.” Hermione scowled, ignored the offered hand, and lurched to her feet. She was working herself into an excellent temper and would not allow his courtesy to ruin it. He shrugged and resumed the trudge up the drive to the main entrance. She glared at his retreating back and returned to her mental indictments. This was all his fault, damn him.

Item, her right side was now frigid and soaked to the skin in wet mud.

Item, her ankle now hurt.

Item...

“Unnnfff.” She ran face first into Snape’s wet cloak, when he stopped before the steps leading up to the main doors of the castle. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped. “Why didn’t you say something? Why have you stopped?”

Snape pursed his lips, took her arm, and led her over to a covered alcove cut into the stone under the large staircase.

“I have no intention of making this visit as unpleasant as possible,” he said, drawing her under the overhang. She was grudgingly grateful for his tall stature that provided a shield against the driving rain. 

“Really? It’s been such fun, so far,” Hermione griped while squeezing out her rain soaked hair.

Snape merely looked at her.

“What are you doing?” she asked when he turned and tapped a sequence of gray stones.

He smiled briefly at her before ducking into the cavernous hallway that a sudden opening in the stones revealed.

“Follow me,” he said.

Hermione ducked into the hallway and the stones closed behind her.

“As I said, I have no intention of making this visit unpleasant,” he repeated. He turned to face Hermione. “I thought you would prefer the privacy of my rooms, as opposed to the guest quarters.”

Surprised by this offer, Hermione’s temper abruptly vanished. She thought for a moment. Snape notoriously guarded his privacy; sharing a Paris apartment was one thing, no one knew them there, and neither Avice nor Hubert would betray confidences, at least, not to outsiders. But, here at Hogwarts, he was offering her a refuge and an almost open declaration of affiliation. Her mind sputtered to a stop.

“Ummm,” she dithered. 

“Is the decision so difficult, then?” The sarcasm was gentle. He reached out and brushed a wet strand of hair from her cheek. 

“No, not difficult,” said Hermione. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m just not certain what is going on here.” 

“Perhaps we can continue this conversation in front of a fire?”

Waving his hand and causing the wall torches to flare to light, he started down the corridor. They walked some distance, before turning left past the potions classrooms and the door to his office. Hermione, lost in conflicting thoughts of pique and surprise, missed Snape’s disappearance into a gap in the stone wall somewhere beyond his office door.

“Hermione,” he called.

She turned around and saw nothing. The pique won.

Item, he disappears without a trace.

I must be up to a top ten list now, she thought, walking back down the way they came, still seeing nothing but solid stone.

“Where are you?” she asked, annoyed.

“Come back to the section of wall by the office door,” said his voice.

She backtracked again and found an arched corridor just to the left of his office door. Hermione peered down the hallway, and saw Snape standing before a heavy, black, wooden door. Carved serpents, painted and gilded in green and silver, decorated its surface.

“I have reset the wards so the corridor will recognize your presence,” he said and turned to trace a complicated runic pattern on the heavily planked door. Hermione heard a series of clicks and snaps, and watched the carved and painted serpents rearrange themselves into a new knot. Then, the door swung noiselessly open. Lanterns flared to life as they entered a wood paneled entry alcove. On one wall, black work robes hung on pegs across from a built-in bench.

Snape set down the leather satchel containing their belongings and shrugged out of his wet cloak. Entranced, Hermione watched the door close as the snakes on the inside writhed to create yet another figure. 

“Let me have your cloak,” Snape said.

Hermione decided that, despite the offer of refuge in such an interesting place, she was still irked. She peeled off the garment, mud-caked, soaked, and dripping, and thrust it at him. As he took the cloak gingerly, she felt a small, petty satisfaction at seeing mud plop onto his boots.

“The house elves will be along presently to pick them up for drying and cleaning.”

She crossed her arms and just looked at him.

He smirked briefly at her pique, before turning to trace another more complicated pattern on the smaller door. After more clicks and snaps, the door revealed a spiral staircase. Again, the wall sconces lit themselves at Snape’s entry. 

“I’ve never seen that hallway or entrance before,” said Hermione. 

“Of course not,” said Snape. “The hallway to my rooms reveals itself only to me, and now to you. Albus can see it, but he uses the internal Floo to preserve my illusion of complete privacy.”

“Oh,” she said. She followed him up the stone stairs.

They exited the staircase into a large rectangular room, and Hermione looked around curiously. School-time rumors reported that Snape lived in a dank dungeon cell with an iron cot for a bed and chamber pot for bathing facilities. The room before her had much more in common with the Paris flat than any dungeon she had ever seen.

Opposite the staircase, the lounge area stood attendance to a spectacular black marble fireplace. An ornate Celtic patterned rug in tones of black, gray, gold, and copper covered the ebony-stained tongue and groove hardwood floor. A long, black sofa faced the enormous stone fireplace, which was flanked by a large and cushy leather club chair on the right and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the left. Two more armchairs in gray suede rested on either side of the sofa. A large library table purloined from Madam Pince’s domain resided in front of the bookshelves. Scrolls, open books, a rack of phials, several glass beakers of quills, and bottles of ink covered its surface.

Snape carried the leather satchel containing her wardrobe and papers through an archway to the left of the lounge’s staircase entrance.

“Come and dry off.”

Looking longingly at the bookshelves, but feeling the cold damp of her wet right side, Hermione followed Snape into the bedroom. An enormous Edwardian bed stood against the long wall to the left of the entrance. Silver embroidery edged the sumptuous dark green duvet, and the plump feather pillows called an invitation to sink into their depths. Dark green, silver, and gold colored rugs cushioned the floor. There was no fireplace but, heat radiated from a large tiled stove that stood opposite the bed. An open door across from the entrance led to the bathroom. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Snape wave his wand, and a substantial ebony wardrobe slid towards her to make room for her now enlarged wardrobe brought from Paris.

“Feel free to use the bathroom. If you need anything, the bell rope will call the house-elves,” Snape said. He pointed to the open doorway and rope beside it. “While you dry off and change, I will order some dinner and see if Antigone is in the castle.”

Hermione, still dazed, nodded and moved to her wardrobe for some dry clothes.

“Wooo-wee,” said Rochelle the mirror. “That was some trip. Where am I?”

“You’re in Scotland, Rochelle. At Hogwarts, my old school,” replied Hermione, smiling a bit.

“Oh, yea?” the mirror asked. “Was that the dish?”

“Yes and yes,” said Hermione. “We’re staying in his rooms.”

“Oooooh, sweetie, you move fast.”

A blush stained Hermione’s cheeks. “Just how magic a mirror are you?”

“Why do you ask? You out of clothes already?”

“Well, no, but long robes and a wool dress might be better and warmer than Parisian haute couture for this setting,” said Hermione.

“Leave it to me,” said Rochelle. “You have a preference for color? Or, shall we go for basic, elegant black?”

“Black, I think.”

“You go wash up, darlin’. You look like you’ve been wrestling pigs,” said Rochelle. “I’ll take care of everything. I suggest the violet bustier and boy shorts, and I’ll do some wool stockings with tie garters.”

“Um, okay,” said Hermione, uncertain as to what tie garters entailed. Picking up her lingerie, robe, and toiletries, she fled into the bathroom.

It was equally luxurious. The fixtures included both a sunken tub and separate shower. Hermione was rapidly forming the opinion that her former professor both required and enjoyed sensual luxury. Everything about his current life repudiated the severity of her youthful knowledge. The luxury of his rooms, coupled with the offer of refuge, put Hermione off balance. She could not imagine the Severus Snape of her youth caring so much about physical or mental comfort. In fact, the Snape of her student days had seemed to care more for the disquiet of body and mind than their comfort.

Mindful both of Madam Pince and of the waiting food, Hermione did not have time to soak in the sunken tub, so she peeled off her clothes, washed her face and hands, and brushed out her hair, which her silver snake clip wove into a braided bun at the nape of her neck. Despite the unsettling events of the evening, she was hungry. I hope the house-elves haven’t lost their touch, she thought.

“Try those on for size,” said Rochelle as Hermione returned to the bedroom. A pair of stockings with garters lay on top of the dress and robes on the bed.

“How did you do that?” asked Hermione, who picked up the soft wool stockings and accompanying ties in amazement.

“Can’t tell you all my secrets,” said Rochelle. “The Duchesse managed to give me design abilities. I’m not sure how.”

“Do you know how I’m supposed to wear these?” Hermione held up the the soft wool stockings.

“I believe they tie just above the knee,” said a smooth male voice.

Hermione whirled around with a squeak.

Severus Snape, dressed in full black frock coat and robes, leaned indolently against the bedroom doorway. While Hermione stood there gaping, he pushed away from the doorway and sauntered slowly towards her. He reached out and took the stocking from her hand. Then, he backed her up to the side of the large bed. Hermione felt the duvet’s soft cushion against her knees at the same time that Severus’ hands stole around her waist to guide her to sit on the bed. He sank down on one knee in front of her. Looking down into his eyes, Hermione’s breathing sputtered and then accelerated as his hand reached out to circle her ankle, bringing her foot to rest against his bent knee. She watched, fascinated, as his long, slender fingers rolled the stocking’s length into a small cap, which he fitted over her toes. Those same fingers caressed her skin, slowly drawing the soft warm knitted material up her ankle, her calf, and then over her knee. She gasped as his fingers br ushed tantalizingly agai nst the skin of her inner thigh.

“Hand me that tie.” His voice was soft, and she felt the warmth of his breath against her inner thigh. She dazedly handed him a length of embroidered silk to him. Hermione stifled a groan as his fingers wove the garter through the stocking around and knotted the ends so they held the soft wool in place around her thigh.

“Hand me the other stocking,” he murmured and smoothed his hand down her wool-covered leg. Hermione dangled the wool tube in front of him and he reached out to caress her other ankle. She hissed and curled her toes in reaction to an index finger run down her foot’s arch, and then her left leg was treated to the same attention as her right.

“There,” he said, tying off the second garter. “Dinner should be here by the time you don your other accouterments. Antigone and Remus Lupin are to leave for Paris within the hour. From what I understand, thanks to Mister Malfoy, the good Inspecteur Valais contacted her immediately upon entering Reginald Pince’s apartment. She would, however, like to speak with us first.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Hermione.

She slid off the bed to bump into Severus’ tall frame. His arm stole around her waist to steady her. He ran his fingers down her cheek, brushed a kiss across her astonished mouth, turned, and left the bedroom.

Hermione dropped Rochelle’s interpretation of a dress over her head. The bateau cut set off her long neck, and three-quarter sleeves hugged her forearms while the princess lines of the bodice flared into an A-line skirt that swirled around her low-heeled, ankle boots. The robes draped around her shoulders in a swish of black crepe, fastening with braided frogs along the front lapels. The full sleeves split at the elbow to fall in graceful medieval-style folds. Thus armored, Hermione felt ready to face her former professors.

Severus sat in one of the large armchairs next to the sofa, where, Antigone Pince and Remus Lupin sat sipping tea. Snape’s head turned to mark her entrance as she passed in between the lounge area and his large wooden desk.

“Ah, here she is,” he said.

Hermione smiled tentatively at the Hogwarts librarian and her former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

“Hermione, my dear,” greeted Madam Pince. She stood up and embraced her. “I am so happy to see you. I just wish it were in different circumstances.”

Hermione returned the embrace. “I am so sorry about your brother,” she said.

“Yes, it is very upsetting,” said Madam Pince. Her voice was steady, but her eyes glimmered. “I must confess though, that since Reginald was so much older than myself, I don’t know . . . I can’t believe it. We had just started to correspond again. We lost touch during the war.”

The arms that passed her to Remus shook slightly.

“It is very good to see you back at Hogwarts, Hermione,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she replied, returning his hug, and then she sat down in the twin of Severus’ chair. A tea tray of sandwiches and other goodies sat on the low table in front of the sofa.

“I have been quizzing Antigone about her brother's work,” said Severus.

“And, I have been singularly unhelpful,” Madam Pince replied. “Reginald stopped corresponding with me about his work a month ago.”

“Do you know why?” asked Hermione, speaking awkwardly, around a mouthful of sandwich.

“In his last letter, he wrote cryptically about dangerous knowledge,” the librarian answered. “He also wrote he wasn’t sure that his conclusions were accurate. He mentioned needing to do more research, and that he had applied for admittance to the Saint Vincent library.”

“Weren’t you supposed to meet us at his apartment?” Hermione asked.

“Two days ago,” she said, her voice rough, “I received an owl with a message from Reginald canceling the dinner. The message said that he had rescheduled with both you and Severus for a later date. I had no reason to doubt the veracity of the message.”

“I presume that Draco Malfoy gave you the details of the murder scene?” asked Snape.

“Yes, yes, he did,” Madam Pince answered. “He should be here soon to escort us to Paris. Remus has kindly offered to go with me.” She laid a hand on Remus’ arm. Her other hand wiped briefly at her face.

Lupin patted her hand.

“If I may impose a request on you?” inquired Snape.

“What can we do?” replied Remus. Madam Pince was staring blankly into the fire.

“I would appreciate a catalog list of the books contained in Reginald’s library, as well as any research notes you might be able to find.”

“Of course,” Madam Pince assured him. “I’ll try to get whatever information I can find.” She dabbed a hankerchief at her eyes, which were starting to tear.

“Thank you,” said Snape.

The quartet turned their attention towards the fireplace, which crackled with the activation of the internal Hogwarts Floo.

“Severus?” asked the head of Albus Dumbledore.

“Yes, Headmaster,” replied Snape.

“Draco Malfoy has arrived and is in my office waiting to escort Antigone and Remus to Paris,” he said.

“Thank you, Albus,” said Lupin. “We’ll be right there.” He stood to escort Antigone into the fireplace.

“Severus,” said Madam Pince. “I’ll see what I can do about the information you need.”

Snape inclined his head.

“Hermione, I’d like to have a longer chat when I get back,” she said. “Perhaps tea some morning? I know Minerva would like to see you, but she doesn’t return until Monday evening.”

“Yes, I'd like that,” replied Hermione.

And with that, Madam Pince and Lupin stepped into the fireplace. Hermione absently munched another sandwich and stared into the fireplace after the couple had left.

“I need to consult with Albus,” said Snape. “Would you come with me? I am certain he would like to see you.”

Hermione looked up at him as he stood. “I’d prefer to stay here, if you don’t mind. I need to see what Hubert has done to all my work. And I’m starving.” She gestured to the still full tray in front of her.

Snape regarded her steadily, then he nodded. “Hubert’s shrinking spell should have an enlargement spell contained within it. Your books and papers will resize upon exiting your satchel.” He moved over to his desk to pick up some scrolls. “Call the house-elves to move a desk in for you. You can put it here against mine.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione.

“If you need me, call into the fireplace.”

Hermione nodded and pulled the bell cord as Snape left.

++++++

Sunday morning found Hermione seated at one of the tables in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. Instead of working, she stared out the leaded glass window towards the Quidditch pitch. She had not seen Severus Snape since Friday night.

Hermione felt shattered. Everywhere in the school, she saw images of her past. She felt, however, that those images belonged to someone else, and that shadow-person had nothing in common with the listless woman staring out at the Quidditch pitch. The Hermione Granger of her mental images had never been in the Malfoy dungeon. Instead, she had left Hogwarts to take a double first at Magdalen or some other college in theoretical alchemy and potions. After Oxford, that other, better, imaginary Hermione taught and pursued research either at Hogwarts or one of the better wizarding institutes. The real Hermione stared at the pitch, mourning that lost self, wishing for all the world that she could erase the last five years.

“Hermione? Is that you?” asked a familiar voice.

Startled, she turned away from the window to see Harry Potter. He rushed up and pulled her out of her chair into a crushing bear hug. In the intervening years, he had grown taller and even leaner, though not as tall as Snape, but he still had a good three inches on her. His body was firmly muscled from the years of both Quidditch and Auror training.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he said. He put her down and looked her up and down. “You’re gorgeous. Where have you been hiding?”

“In London,” she said, breathlessly. “I’m in the Department of Mysteries with Draco Malfoy.”

Harry’s face closed down at the mention of Draco’s name.

“Harry,” she chided. “He did a great deal for our side.”

“If you say so,” he said curtly. “I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk to you. I can’t believe you’re still moping in the library. Come into Hogsmeade with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied, and sat back down. “Madam Pince is due back from Paris today. I’m working on this project for the Ministry.” She gestured at her stacks of books and papers.

Harry sat down at the atable across from her.

“You haven’t changed a bit have you?” he asked. “You’re still living in libraries.”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I am.”

“Then, I must do my part and get you out of here,” he said and stood. “Com’on, it’s the first nice day in a week.” He tugged at her arm.

“Harry....” But Hermione still could not resist his hang-dog expression. He frowned in mock pout.

“There’s plenty of time, I heard Albus say she won’t be home ‘til late.” he said, cajoling. “You can see her tonight at dinner.” He tugged again at her arm.

“Okay,” she said, giggling. It was like old times. “I’ll come. Let me take care of these things and get my cloak. I’ll meet you in the front hall.”

“Where are your rooms?” Harry asked, as they walked out of the library.

Hermione paused before answering the question. “In the dungeons.”

“The dungeons?! With Snape?!” he exclaimed. “Gryffindor Tower has guest quarters, Hermione. You can’t stay in the dungeons: you’ll run into Snape down there.”

Hermione just smiled at him. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m helping Professor Snape with a project, actually.” At his skeptical look, she continued, “It’s all right, really. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

She turned to go down to Snape’s rooms.

Interesting, she thought, Harry still doesn’t know how Snape lives. It’s nice to know somethings don’t change.

Despite her initial reluctance, she enjoyed the easy camaraderie of the afternoon. They had walked and laughed like old times. She had spent a good natured hour in the Quidditch supply store while Harry had negotiated a new supply of brooms for next year’s Gryffindor team. Then, Harry had waited patiently while Hermione perused the aisles of the Tattered Parchment bookstore. She inquired about the purchase of rare books, but the clerk behind the desk only referred her Quixotic Quills in London.

“Do you want to get a butterbeer at Rosmerta’s?” Harry asked a few hours later.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “That would be nice.”

They sat down at one of the time-polished booths in The Three Broomsticks.

“Why Merlin bless me,” exclaimed Rosmerta. “It’s Hermione Granger. I haven’t seen you in an owl’s age.”

“Hello, Rosmerta. How are you?” Hermione smiled at the pub mistress.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “You up visiting? Here for the Ball?”

“I suppose so,” Hermione answered, although she had, today, conveniently forgotten about the ball.

“Two butterbeers?”

“Do you have Old Ogden’s 50 year?” asked Hermione. She ignored Harry’s startled look.

“Of course,” said Rosmerta. “You’ve taken to whisky now?”

“On occasion,” said Hermione. “Harry? It’s my treat.”

“Sure,” he said. When Rosmerta turned to get their order, Harry asked, “Whisky? Since when?”

“About two years ago,” said Hermione. “After I left Saint Mungo’s.”

There. She placed the pawn out on the board. While the afternoon had been pleasant, even fun, it had been haunted. Ron’s presence, or rather absence, was everywhere. She felt him in the Quidditch shop. He had loved that place. She even felt him in the bookstore. She could almost see him, impatiently waiting, just beyond the edge of her vision. Harry had, so far, scrupulously refrained from mentioning him, just as he had refrained from mentioning Hermione’s actions after the war. Already, she had grown tired of the holes in the conversation and the sudden silences, like when she had asked for the whisky.

They sat silently, watching the comings and goings of the pub’s customers, until Rosmerta placed two tumblers with two fingers of a pale, amber liquid on the table in front of them. Smoky fumes wafted from the liquid to Hermione’s nose. She loved the smell of Old Ogden’s. She tipped her glass and took a sip. Harry watched her with a bewildered expression.

“What would you like me to say?” he asked.

Hermione looked at him for a long minute.

“I don’t honestly know, Harry,” she said wearily. “I had rehearsed all manner of speeches and conversations.” She took another sip of her drink. “None of them seem appropriate now.”

“I do miss him, you know,” said Harry. “It’s not that I don’t. It’s that the whole thing was such a shock. But, it has been five years.”

“You’re telling me,” said Hermione. “You know I thought I saw him today, out of the corner of my eye. He always hated that I spent so much time in bookstores and libraries.”

Harry laughed. “I remember. He would stand behind you and tap his foot.”

“Or start stacking Quidditch books in my arms.” Hermione laughed with him, and then sobered. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve talked about him without feeling sick.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” said Hermione. She tossed back the rest of her whisky.

They sat in companionable silence until Harry asked, “Why did you take so long to come back?”

Hermione cringed inwardly. She dreaded answering this question, but she had started the whole thing with her mention of Saint Mungo’s. She took a deep breath.

“It was all just too hard to take,” she said. At his confused expression, she continued. “The sympathy, the disappointment, I don’t know. I hated it. It made me feel like I was a terminally ill person about to die. And, then at the inquiry after I killed them all, everyone’s disappointment, it was too much to bear.”

“What should we have done? I wanted to help, but you just turned away. You had gone cold and numb,” Harry said. “We were worried about you. Then that sudden rage was so unlike the person that we, that I, had known. I thought maybe something had happened to you. Like, you had turned Dark. It happens, you know.”

Hermione stared out at the cold dusk. The ever-so familiar black nimbus of fatigue returned to cloud her mind and drain the energy she needed to try and explain how she had felt. She knew she owed Harry an explanation. He needed to understand why everyone’s sympathy had not comforted, but had rather suffocated her. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Harry looked at her curiously, but Hermione could only shake her head. Harry was trying, she gave him credit for that, but even he depressed her now. She wanted Snape’s brusque and matter-of-fact, plain dealing.

“It’s late. Don’t you have to be at the High Table?” she asked, instead of addressing Harry’s unspoken questions.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “But I’d still like to hear what you think.”

Hermione nodded.

They stood and despite Harry’s protests, Hermione laid a few galleons on the table. They left and walked back to the school.

Back inside Hogwarts, Hermione turned to go down to the dungeons. Harry reached out to touch her arm, stopping her flight.

“I really enjoyed our afternoon,” he said. “I also think we should talk some more about,” he paused, unsure of what to say next. Hermione just looked at him. “I really do think we need to talk more about Ron.”

“I know we do,” said Hermione. She reached up to kiss his cheek and turned to leave.

“Don’t you want to go into dinner?” he asked.

Hermione, however, was thinking about the night Ron died. She remembered Harry’s shocked and horrified face looking down on her and Ron’s body. Anguish washed through her mind and blocked out any of the residual comfort from the afternoon’s outing. Suddenly, she wanted to rage at Harry. She wanted to cry and complain and protest the injustice of it all. Instead, she stayed quiet.

“Hermione?” Harry's tone was gentle.

“What? I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”

“Dinner? The High Table?” he asked again. “I’m sure the elves can set another place.”

“Oh, dinner...no, no thank you, I’m not hungry,” she said. “Listen, thank you for this afternoon. I’m glad we had a chance to talk.” Hermione ducked around him to start for the dungeons. Harry barely opened his mouth before she cut him off, “No really, I’m not hungry.”

She walked numbly past him and the open entrance to the Great Hall keeping her eyes firmly in front of her.

“You cannot hide forever,” Snape’s low, silky voice mocked her from just beyond the doors. A shadowed alcove by the door his his tall, black-clad frame. Hermione winced and stopped. Her brown eyes glanced at his sour expression.

“I’m not hiding,” she said.

“I looked for you in the library,” he drawled, and stepped into the light. “I thought you were going to help Antigone sort though her brother’s papers.”

“I went to Hogsmeade with Harry,” she said. “We had a good time.”

“Indeed,” said Snape in the soft voice that terrified the students. “Good evening, Potter.”

Hermione felt Harry come up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Snape,” Harry acknowledged in a brisk tone.

“I believe it is time for dinner,” he said. “Perhaps you can convince Miss Granger to join us?”

“She said she wasn’t hungry,” said Harry.

“I see,” said Snape. “You ate in Hogsmeade then?”

Hermione shrugged off Harry’s hand. “I’m not hungry,” she said again. “I’m going to my rooms.” Ignoring Snape’s narrowed eyes, she stalked off towards the dungeon staircase.

Once she reached the hidden corridor, Hermione allowed herself to break down. Her shriek filled the stone space and echoed through the dungeons. Hermione, breathing in gasping sobs, slid down the rough-hewn wall and curled up on the cold floor. She lay there, panting and hiccuping, riding the anguish and rage. Then, as quickly as those emotions had bowled her over, they were gone. She stared, feeling empty and washed out, at the opposite wall.

How long have I been sitting here, she wondered. She quickly stood up. It would not do for Snape to come back from dinner to find her sitting forlornly on the floor outside his rooms. She scrubbed at her cheeks, hoping to erase the dried tears. Standing, she let herself into Snape’s rooms.

She plopped herself into the leather chair and stared blankly into the fire. She barely registered the crackle of the Floo activation.

“Hermione?” queried the voice of Minerva McGonagall. “Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Oh good,” Minerva said. “I’ve returned early and have Antigone here in my rooms. We’ve missed dinner. Are you interested in a quiet meal?”

“I -I,” Hermione stuttered.

“Come on, child,” said Minerva. “Severus said you haven’t had dinner and he’s occupied with Albus for the evening.”

“Okay.” Hermione gave in, but before leaving, she washed the remains of her tears from her face. “McGonagall’s rooms,” she said, threw a bit of powder, and stepped into the fire.

Professor McGonagall’s rooms occupied several floors of one of the castle’s four towers. Hermione stepped out of the fireplace to see Minerva and Antigone seated at a dining table. The house-elf had just laid a savory chicken soup at three places, and Hermione’s stomach rumbled when her nose inhaled the wafting aroma.

“My dear,” Minerva greeted her. “You look splendid.” She rose from the arm chair at the head of the table, and embraced her.

“Thank you,” said Hermione, and sank into the comforting embrace of her former professor. “I must say, Professor, you look wonderful also, but I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow night.”

“Antigone sent me an owl from France, and told me about your return,” she said, and led them over to the table. “And, call me Minerva. Surely we needn’t return to the formality of your school days.”

“Oh, no,” said Hermione. “But I must admit, I was unsure of my welcome.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” chided Minerva. “You are always welcome here, but I can understand your reluctance. Severus told me had to drag you here under threat.”

Antigone laughed. “Now, you exaggerate, Minnie.” Hermione’s eyes widened at the diminutive of her formidable professor’s name. “Don’t pay attention to her teasing, Hermione. He only said that you were not eagar to come back.”

“I can understand the hesitation,” replied Minerva, ignoring Antigone’s chiding. “I understand you spent the afternoon with Harry? How was that? Strange, I expect.”

Hermione remained ever in awe at Minerva McGonagall’s ability to dive directly into the subject at hand. She never wasted time with platitudes, not when important things needed to be discussed. Hermione felt the tense coil in her stomach start to relax as she related her afternoon’s activities. After some time, brandy in front of the fire replaced dinner. Antigone told stories about her brother including the recounting of a favorite birthday present--a first edition of the history of Morgaine le Fey. Minerva asked about Hermione’s career as an Auror and reminded her that she needed to look into continuing her studies as soon as her project with Severus was completed.

“I must say, my dear,” said Minerva. “I’m so happy to see you active again. I’m also happy to see that Severus is involved with the investigation as well. It does him good to work outside the castle.”

Hermione had told them about the murders and the books.

“Indeed, Minnie,” Antigone concurred. “He was starting to grow mold down there in that potions’ lab.”

Hermione giggled, as did the other women at the image of a moldy Severus Snape.

“Although, I must admit,” said Minerva. “Were you not around,” she pointed at Hermione, “and were I thirty years younger...”

“Yes,” sighed Antigone. “Those eyes... But I’m just not his type.”

Hermione was stunned. She had never thought that Snape would even have a type.

“No,” said Minerva, not realizing her former student was undergoing an epiphany. “Neither one of us is. We’re not nervy enough for him.”

“Nervy?” said Hermione, not really realizing she had spoken. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“Why not?” Minerva asked. “You certainly seem to have a stabilizing influence on Severus. He seems more relaxed now. I still remember him as a student--always in motion, never settling, eternally wanting to know why . . . Not unlike someone else I know.” Minerva peered at Hermione, who shifted uncomfortably. “Why I remember...”

The evening wore on into remembrances of Snape’s student days, and those being compared and contrasted to Hermione’s own tenure as a student. Minerva finally threw them out at a late hour, and Hermione, feeling much improved, shuffled down to the dungeons. She went to bed alone.

+++++

Hermione spent Monday and Tuesday in the library with Madam Pince, sorting through what was left Reginald Pince’s papers. Snape continued to come in late and leave early. She never saw him when she went to bed or when she woke, but she presumed he slept on the other side of the large bed, as her nightmares stayed away and in the middle of the night, she found herself curled up against his side.

“This seems like your last year here,” remarked Antigone. “Remember all those books you requested for your Transfiguration project? Not to mention that Potions project.” She waved her wand, and books rose from a crate on the floor and arranged themselves on an empty shelf.

“I thought I was going to drive you batty with all those requests,” said Hermione. She and Antigone smiled in memory.

Hermione frowned as she consulted the scroll in her hand and matched it against the books on the shelves. According to the catalog list that Madam Pince found among the papers in Reginald’s bedroom, his library should have numbered some one hundred volumes.

“Well,” said Hermione, looking at the recovered volumes. “Your brother’s books appear to have gone the way of the others. Most of the listed volumes are missing.”

“I am afraid so,” said Antigone. “Was there anything in particular you and Severus thought he had?”

“Well, according to the list,” Hermione ran her finger down the scroll, peering closely at the minute script, “your brother had a copy of Brunschwig’s Vollkommen distillierbüch, and he’s made a strange notation about a coded commentary in manuscript form.”

“Hmmm,” said Antigone, peering over her shoulder. “I remember a box of papers covered in various languages. They looked like a collection of papers he had discarded. When I was quite young, however, we’d trade coded messages using Greek and other languages. He always liked those games. That stack of paper might be the commentary.”

“Did you keep them?”

“Oh, of course,” said Antigone. “They should be here tomorrow along with the crates of his furniture. I did not bring them with the books because they did not look particularly useful, and French owl freight is horribly expensive.”

“Well, then I guess we wait for the crates,” said Hermione. She rolled up Reginald’s scroll, and ran her fingers over the spines. The recovered books represented nice copies of the main wizarding texts, but had no real value to Hermione’s inquiry. “What will you do with these texts?”

“I was trying to decide,” said Antigone. “The Hogwarts library has many copies of each of them.”

“Would you mind if I took them?” Hermione asked.

“Don’t you have copies? If I remember correctly, you left us with quite a personal collection.”

“Yes, I did, but I discarded the bulk of them after the war.”

“Indeed?” Antigone’s eyebrows rose in query. Hermione refused to look up from the copy of Moste Potente Potions that she was flipping through. “Although I imagine it would have been hard to keep them around with your negative experiences of the wizarding world. It still infuriates me, what happened to you.”

Hermione looked up at the vehement tone of her friend.

“Oh yes, I gave Albus and Harry a piece of my mind,” said Antigone. “I just couldn’t believe they let you leave like that with no word whatsoever.”

“They didn’t,” said Hermione. “I’m the one who did the leaving.”

“Whatever for, dear? Either Minerva or I would have taken you home to recuperate.”

“I couldn’t stand the sympathy,” said Hermione bitterly.

“Sympathy?” asked the librarian. “Or were you too afraid to tell them the truth? Didn’t want to disappoint them, did you? I expect you were surprised by the rage and the power it generated. Albus was good at dealing with male rage, but in women, it always surprised him, but then, he’s not perfect.”

Hermione nodded, surprised at the librarian’s intuition.

“I remember Ginny Weasley when she had her troubles her first year,” Antigone mused. “I found her sobbing in the Restricted Section the first few days of her second year. Arthur and Molly, both, had been utterly at a loss that whole summer. Albus told me she wouldn’t stop crying.”

Hermione looked questioningly at the librarian. “Ginny?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I told her to pull herself together,” she answered. “I told her she wasn’t the first woman, nor likely the last, to be used by a man. If she didn’t get on with her education and learned how to defeat him, that he’d win. I told her that was the only way to quiet his voice.”

Hermione looked sharply at the Librarian.

“Oh, yes,” confirmed Antigone. “She heard his voice until the last. The magic in that diary didn’t die when Harry Potter destroyed it. She heard Riddle’s voice until he died.”

“I never knew,” said Hermione.

“I know, no one knew. She was too afraid to tell anyone. She was scared they’d think she was weak, I expect. I told her it was rubbish. The voice and image would only go away if she confronted it.” Antigone leaned against the shelves. “Minerva and I kept an eye on her from then on, but she seemed to pull herself together.”

Hermione shuddered, thinking of hearing Voldemort’s voice.

Seeing her reaction, Madam Pince patted Hermione’s shoulder and gave her an understanding smile before moving away to help a student. Hermione turned back to her own papers. Antigone’s conversation gave her much to think about. The image of a green bottle set on a Louis XIV end table flashed in her mind, and she briefly wondered if the day of his death really had silenced Tom Riddle’s voice.

Hermione spent the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday morning in the library, staring in frustration at her books and papers. Reginald Pince’s manuscripts and other papers were held up at the Ministry. Antigone had hotly mentioned something about Dark Arts and a grandmother before marching off in search of them. Staring at her practice encryption squares, Hermione felt like she had the edge pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but couldn’t find the pieces to complete the interior. She had all manner of names and hints of magic, but she still could not see how they all fit together. The key, she knew, lay in the coded diary. She knew how the Vigenère squares worked, backwards and forwards, but she was no closer to finding the mysterious keyword. She had not found any further discussion of Eleazar’s supposed equations detailing magical energy, and she was not any closer to filling in the missing years of Prague history.

“Urgh,” she said and put down the scrap of paper she had found in Reginald’s office. She had identified the symbols as Renaissance versions of the symbols for arsenic, platinum and potassium. Identifying the symbols had not, however, brought her any closer to the reason why they had been on a piece of paper in Reginald Pince’s office, nor had she been able to tie those particular symbols with the names Thaddeus or Valais.

“Hiding again?” asked the voice of Ginny Malfoy.

“No,” Hermione answered. “I've merely been banging my head against this book.” She looked closely at her friend. Ginny’s eyes were rimmed with blue-gray circles. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Ginny looked at her sharply.

“Antigone told me you had nightmares up until the end.” Hermione explained. “And, Severus gave you a bottle of Dreamless Sleep in Paris.”

“Ah,” said Ginny. She sat down opposite Hermione’s chair, and rubbed at her forehead. “I still have nightmares.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione.

“Why?” Ginny looked wearily at Hermione. “It’s not your fault.”

“I guess I haven’t been much of a friend in the last few years,” Hermione answered.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Ginny. “You did come to the wedding after all. Harry’s still not talking to me or Draco.”

“That’s true, I did.” Hermione smiled. “Do you want to talk about the dreams? The nightmares?”

“No. I’m just as fond of sympathy as you are,” said Ginny.

“I know,” Hermione said. “But, I’ve been talking to Antigone. She seemed to understand how I felt about that also. She also hinted that I wasn’t the only person who’d been hurt by the war. He was your brother, after all.” She smiled ruefully at Ginny. “And, believe it or not, I’m getting rather tired of all the numbness.”

“Yes, it can be tiring,” agreed Ginny. “This isn’t a conversation I want to have in public, though. Are you staying in Gryffindor Tower?”

“No,” said Hermione. “But I know just the place. Follow me.”

Ginny looked at her questioningly but followed her friend out of the library and down to the dungeons. As they passed the potions classroom, they heard Snape’s voice chastising the latest in a long line of cauldron-melters.

“Hermione?” asked Ginny, as she watched her friend disappear into the stone wall next to Snape’s office.

“It’s all right,” said Hermione. She stuck her hand out to pull Ginny into the hidden corridor.

“What . . .” asked her friend and then she saw the snake carved door. “Oh my, what have you been up to?” Ginny’s eyebrows rose and a broad smile spread across her face.

“Nothing, actually,” said Hermione, blushing.

“You’re joking? You haven’t slept with him?”

“Um, no . . . not in the sense you mean,” said Hermione. The door swung open and she led Ginny through the entry alcove and up the stairs.

“You know,” said Ginny, walking over to look through the windows at the sun starting to set over the lake. “I always thought he lived in the dungeons, not over them. You remember the stories we heard?”

“Yes, I do.” Hermione was rummaging around in the cabinet by the bookshelves. “Ah ha! I knew he had to have something.” She pulled out a dusty bottle of Pinch and two glasses.

“Forget my nightmares,” said Ginny, accepting a glass of amber whisky and sitting down on the sofa. “What gives with the sleeping or not sleeping with Severus?”

“We sleep in the same bed, but nothing happens,” said Hermione. At Ginny’s disbelieving look, she said, “It doesn’t. Except I don’t dream when he’s there.”

“Do you want it to?” Ginny asked.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, honestly. “At this point, I’m just happy that my nightmares have been nonexistent. Which brings me to this, why do you need Dreamless Sleep?”

“I still hear his voice, especially this close to the anniversary of his death,” Ginny said. Then, she drained her glass in one swallow. She coughed and wiped her mouth. “Bloody hell, how old is that stuff?”

“Don’t know,” said Hermione. “It’s good though.” She poured more into Ginny’s glass.

“You know I was a spy in Malfoy’s mansion don’t you?” asked Ginny.

“I thought so,” said Hermione. “All we were told was that you had been captured and Imperio’d to turn against Harry.”

“Yes, that was part of the cover,” said Ginny. “I even have a Dark Mark on my left shoulder as proof.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She had no idea of what Ginny had really done during the war. All she knew was the “official” story.

“Well, about two or three months before the final battle,” Ginny continued. “I heard through Draco and through snippets of Voldemort haunting my brain that there was to be a pivotal Death Eater gathering in Malvern.”

At the name of the site of her capture, Hermione’s face was shocked. “You knew about Malvern beforehand? And you didn’t say anything?”

“I did,” said Ginny. “I told Severus.”

“But?” Hermione’s face showed the effort of her thoughts. “Ron said he heard about some Death Eater activity in the area, but nothing like what we walked into.”

“Severus reported back that he had spoken to Ron about Malvern and that Ron, in-turn, asked him about rumors of a potion,” said Ginny. “From what I understood, Ron had picked up information about particular potions ingredients from interrogating a captured Death Eater.”

“I knew they were raiding potions suppliers,” said Hermione. “That’s what we were looking into at Malvern.”

“Then, I found out from Severus,” Ginny paused to refill their empty glasses, “that Voldemort wanted him to make a particular potion of his mother’s.”

“A power absorption potion?” asked Hermione.

“Yes,” confirmed Ginny. “About that time, Draco overheard Lucius talking about the final battle, that, finally, they had found a way to beat Harry and Dumbledore.”

“Did Severus make the potion?” asked Hermione.

“Yes. Yes, he did,” said Ginny. “After Ron’s death, he told me that Dumbledore, Harry and Ron all met with him and decided that he needed to do what Voldemort had asked.”

“Oh, no,” said Hermione.

“I know,” said Ginny. “We didn’t have the final piece of information. We didn’t know that Voldemort was going to use a third party.”

“But Ron did,” said Hermione. “He knew that Voldemort wasn’t going to drink that potion.”

“Exactly,” said Ginny. “We think he found out through interrogations. From what I understand, he had cracked Otis. Voldemort didn’t share everything with every Death Eater, that’s why Severus didn’t know he had found a way to absorb power through a third party.”

“Ron was supposed to go out alone that night,” said Hermione. “But I insisted. I chided him about his lack of potions knowledge.”

“I don’t think he knew until the very end about the mechanics of the potion,” said Ginny. “I think he was thinking of chess. He wanted to castle the king.”

“Just like the game our first year,” murmured Hermione.

“He put himself in the position of the black king,” said Ginny. “Severus told me that when he found out about Voldemort’s final plan. He fixed the potion to provide for Voldemort’s death at the same time Ron died. They conferred while Ron was holed up in Malfoy dungeons. They both thought you had been killed.”

Hermione looked bleakly at Ginny. “Oh gods . . . the idiot.”

“That’s not the worst,” said Ginny. “I knew, I knew what they meant to do when you were captured, but I couldn’t get the information out. I heard Voldemort in my mind when he gave Lucius, MacNair, and Sinclair their orders.”

Hermione and Ginny were both crying openly now. Tears ran down Hermione’s cheeks and Ginny’s breathing came in choked gasps.

“Once they had . . . you know . . .”

“Raped me?”

Ginny nodded. “I told Severus and he got you out. I was trying to get Draco away from his father.”

“I remember,” said Hermione.

“I saw you, Hermione,” said Ginny. “I saw you kill Ron. I felt him die at the same time I felt Voldemort die. I still see them. I hear Voldemort’s voice, screaming. I felt Ron’s blood drain away. It was . . . was . . .”

Ginny shuddered and turned to sob into the sofa cushions. Hermione wrapped her arms around her friend and they both slid sobbing to the floor.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ginny repeated. “I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t save him. I was too late.”

“I know,” said Hermione. “I know. Damn him and his need to sacrifice himself. Why didn’t he say anything? We could have figured something out.”

“I always thought he spent too much time at chess,” said Ginny.

“He did the same thing our first year,” said Hermione. “Sacrificed himself.”

“I know,” said Ginny. “He told me all about it.”

Worn out, they eventually regressed to sniffling and hicupping, and then proceeded to drink the rest of the scotch.

Ginny held up the empty whisky bottle. “Is there another? We seem to have run dry.”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “Check in that cabinet over there.” She waved vaguely in the direction of a glass fronted cabinet.

“Really, mes belles,” said a French accented and highly amused voice. “Surely you have had enough?”

Two pairs of bleary brown eyes rose in unison to see an impeccably dressed Duchesse de Crillon, a stoic Hubert, and a smirking Draco Malfoy looking down at them.

“Oh, hello,” said Ginny. She rose unsteadily to greet her husband, who caught her as she stumbled over the legs of the armchair next to the sofa. “Have you brought another bottle?”

“I think you’ve definitely had enough,” drawled Draco. “Come, my love, let’s get you sobered up. You have an official dinner tonight, or did you forget?”

“I’m not going,” said Ginny, petulantly. “I’m tired of dinners.”

“Hmmm,” said Draco. After a brief incantation, he swung his wife up in his arms. “Avice, I’ll leave the Conseil folder on Severus’ desk. You’ll tell him?”

Avice nodded. Draco carried a still complaining Ginny from the room.

“But I can’t leave now,” Ginny protested, as Draco walked out of the room. “I haven’t found out why Hermione hasn’t slept with Severus.”

Hermione groaned and blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Well,” said Avice. “That would be an interesting story, I am sure.” She bent down to help Hermione up. “Perhaps she will tell me?” She smoothed Hermione’s hair out of her face. They turned towards the bedroom and came face to face with Snape.

“Tell you what?” asked Snape. “And why is Ginny Malfoy drunk at six in the evening?”

“Because we,” Hermione held up the empty bottle, “drank all your whisky.” She giggled and draped her arm over Avice’s shoulders.

“It appears the young ladies were clearing the air,” said Hubert.

Snape looked puzzled, then anxious.

“You two run along,” said Avice. She waved off Snape’s and Hubert’s offers of help. Avice half dragged and half walked Hermione towards the bedroom. “I shall sober Hermione up.”

“But why?” Hermione asked. “It was very good scotch.”

Now instead of looking anxious, Snape was trying very hard not to laugh.

Hermione looked up at him owlishly as she passed, supported by Avice. “Why haven’t we . . . ?” The question went unasked as she stumbled, on Avice’s arm, into the bedroom.

Hubert turned towards Snape, who regarded him in puzzlement.

“I have brought the bottles for the fête,” he said.

“I suppose we should get them stored,” Snape replied. With a long look at the bedroom entrance, he led Hubert out of his rooms.

Avice propped Hermione up by the bedpost and took out her wand.

“Bois pas,” she said and waved her wand counter clock wise.

“Ohhh,” Hermione groaned. She rubbed her aching forehead. “How much did I drink?”

“A goodly amount,” said Avice. She opened her black leather satchel and took out two phials. “Here. These will help.” She handed one of the phials to Hermione.

Hermione sniffed at the iridescent potion within, which smelled faintly of almonds.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It will ease the headache,” said Avice. She continued with a wave of her hand, “Drink it all. Do not worry. Unlike those of my nephew, this will not taste poorly.”

Hermione tipped the marzipan-flavored contents into her mouth. She liked Avice’s potion much better than Severus’ gunpowder concoction. Her headache and fuzzy mouth disappeared immediately. Avice handed her the second phial containing a tangerine-colored liquid.

“What’s this one?” asked Hermione.

“It will re-hydrate and restore you,” said Avice.

Hermione poured the citrus flavored liquid into her mouth. She felt warmth course throughout her body as the rest of her hangover seeped away as the potion took effect.

“So, what was that about not sleeping with my nephew?” asked Avice. She bent to put the empty phials back in her satchel.

Hermione’s face blanched. “What?”

“Regina’s last question before she was gallantly swept off by the ever so charming Monsieur Malfoy,” Avice commented. She sat down in one of the wing back chairs set in front of the tile stove. “I recognize that wardrobe.” She pointed with her unlit cigarette, then dipping her head, she lit it with the tip of her wand.

Soothed by the aromatic smoke, Hermione sat opposite Avice and sighed. “I do sleep with him,” she said, “in a manner of speaking . . .”

Avice’s eyebrow went up in a familiar expression of skepticism.

“I sleep in his bed,” said Hermione. “And that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “And why are my sleeping arrangements suddenly so interesting?”

“Well, if it does not bother you,” replied Avice. She stubbed out her cigarette and shrugged. She stood and smoothed her skirt. “You will find Severus in the wine cellar, just beyond the potions classroom. I believe I will see if Albus is free.” She left without further words.

Hermione sat and stared at the bed and wondered what it would be like. What would he do? What would she do? She already knew from the nightclub in Paris that he would not be satisfied with her passivity. Her other lovers had not minded at first, not Severus, she thought. He would demand something from her. She would have to participate, maybe give up some of her tightly wound control. The image of her body actively entwined around his would not go away. She felt the heat start in her belly and slowly ripple up to her head, out to her fingers and down to curl her toes. Without realizing exactly what she was doing, Hermione rose and left Snape’s rooms. She ran her hand along the rough stone wall as she walked past the potions class room. Once she passed the classroom, she saw light spilling onto the stone floor. An archway she had never noticed before opened onto a set of wooden stairs that descended into a cavernous room furnished with bottle-filled racks and l arge casks stacked on th eir sides. A large wooden table set with six chairs stood in the main corridor between the bottle racks and casks.

Hermione walked slowly the stairs and over to the table. Snape, his black frock coat and linen shirt both unbuttoned at the collar, sat in the tall backed chair at the end of the table. A book, an open bottle, and a pear shaped glass with a measure of pale gold liquid sat in front of him. Watchful and glinting in the candle light, Snape’s eyes watched her as she approached.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “Is all this from your vineyards?” She gestured at the bottles and casks.

“Some,” he answered. “Most of it was here before I came.”

“Oh.” Hermione reached the right hand chair to where he was sitting. “What is that?”

“A white burgundy,” he replied. Hermione’s eyes followed the movement of his hand as it lifted the glass to his mouth. She focused on his lips as they sipped a portion of the liquid. Hermione’s tongue unconsciously stole out to lick her lower lip.

“May I try?” she asked, a small catch at the end of the question. She shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze.

“That depends,” he said. “What do you know about wine?”

“Nothing, other than I know I liked the wine at Algiers,” she answered. “What can you tell me?”

“You must understand that drinking wine is not a matter of merely sipping a beverage. If one is to appreciate the true character of the vintage, all the senses need to be engaged.”

He rose and brought pear shaped glass down from the cabinet and set it on the table. He gestured for Hermione to sit down.

Snape drank the liquid in his own glass then tapped it with his wand, fetched from up his jacket sleeve. Water filled the glass part way. He swirled the glass and then dumped the contents into a drain in the stone floor.

“Since the experience at Algiers stands out in your mind,” he said, “we will follow that order here, starting with the whites, which on the whole tend to be younger and crisper than the reds. Whites,” he explained, “with the exception of champagne, should be consumed fairly quickly.”

Snape waved his wand, and four bottles floated their way to the table from various parts of the cellar.

He took the first, tore off the heavy, green-painted foil, and gave it to Hermione. “The snake around the column is the de Crillon coat of arms.”

“Is there a Snape coat of arms?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, a snake coiled on an open book,” he replied. His eyes smiled at her. But Hermione was distracted from his gaze and turned her attention to his hands. They untwisted the network of capped wire that held the cork to the bottle. Then, he gently palmed the cork and slowly twisted it from the green glass. Hermione heard a soft, low pop as the cork came free.

Still mesmerized, Hermione stared as he tilted the bottle to pour a shimmering stream of barely-tinted, pearly gold liquid into her glass. Eagerly, she reached for the glass, only to have Snape catch her hand in a gentle, warm grasp before it could take hold of the glass.

“Remember,” Snape said. He turned her hand palm up and placed a kiss in the center. Hermione felt the barest nipping of teeth and a spark up her arm and down her spine before he returned it. “Wine is not only for the sense of taste.”

Hermione watched him take her glass and swirl it around, causing the liquid within to burst with bubbles.

“Here.” He handed her the glass. “Tell me what you see,”

Hermione swirled her glass. She watched the bubbles rise up and burst at the surface. Something caught her eye--the bubbles swirled and turned, changing color in a spectrum of pearly shades from cream to pink to blue to lavender.

“The bubbles,” she exclaimed. “They change color.”

He nodded. “And the aroma?”

Hermione brought the glass to her nose, inhaled deeply, and sneezed as her nose filled with bubbles.

“If I may, my dear,” he said dryly. Hermione, rubbing her ticklish nose, looked at him as he swirled the glass and passed it under his nose.

Again, Hermione imitated his actions. Intoxicating floral and fruit aromas rose from her glass. “Lavender, rose, peach and some sort of berry ,” she recited. “How do you do that?”

“Never mind that now. How does it feel?” he asked.

“Feel?”

He reached over and dipped his fingers in her glass and then ran them along her lower lip. Hermione felt the slightly rough pads of his finger tug against her skin. That sensation was followed swiftly by the feeling of thousands of tiny bubbles bursting against and tickling her lips. Her tongue snaked out to capture some of the bubbles. He dipped his fingers again and repeated the procedure. Her tongue swept along the tips and captured the bursting bubbles that just hinted at the taste.

“It feels . . .” Her eyes met his and she fell into their inky depths. Severus’ fingers dipped into the wine again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them, glistening, come closer and then she felt them, running soft and slow down her neck and around to trace the line of her collar bone before coming to rest in the indentation at the base of her throat. She closed her eyes, almost fell out of her chair as the small tickling bubbles followed the warmth of his fingers.

“Ohh.” Her whispered moan echoed in the taut silence of the cellar.

“Now, Hermione,” Severus whispered, “taste.”

His hand wrapped hers around the glass and slowly brought it to her lips. He tilted the glass and the slightly chilled liquid within bumped against her lips. Hermione opened her mouth and allowed the wine to spill over her tongue. With her eyes still closed, she rolled the champagne around her mouth. The collision of taste, aroma, and sensation intoxicated her brain. She could taste the bubbles’ colors and flavors. The color pink burst into the aroma of rose. The lavender was followed swiftly by peach and...the berry, she thought, was raspberry. Somehow, the flavors and aromas and different senses blended together into a complete experience, the likes of which Hermione had never known. As the scents and flavors faded, Hermione opened her eyes to see Severus watching her intently, waiting for her reaction.

“That’s . . . that’s . . .” Words failed her.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are the first to taste this new vintage.”

“You made this,” she asked. “Didn’t you?”

Severus inclined his head.

“It’s wonderful,” she raised her glass to take another taste. She closed her eyes again as the sensations washed over and through her. As they faded, she heard Severus get up and move over to the cabinet.

She opened her eyes and saw him opening another bottle. Influenced by the experience of the champagne, Hermione’s eyes roved over his tall form. Her fingers itched to finish unbuttoning completely the black, wool frock coat and white shirt to find his chest, remembered from brief glimpses and dreams.

Hermione wondered what he would do if she walked over to the cabinet and pressed her mouth to his. She watched his hands twist the cork from the green glass. She loved his hands with their long and tapered fingers. She wanted them on her. Before the voice of doubt could intrude, Hermione rose from her chair and walked over to him. Severus, upon seeing her move, stopped uncorking the bottle, and set it on top of the cabinet. He stood still and quiet in front of her, hooded eyes looking down into hers. Hermione raised her hand and traced the line of his jaw up to his neck where she tangled her fingers in the silky stands of black hair. She curled her hand around his neck and pulled his head down to hers.

“Hermione,” he whispered.

“Hmmmmm,” she murmured before touching her mouth to his.

All rational thought fled Hermione’s brain when she met Severus’ mouth with her own. She moved her lips over his, nibbling and nipping. Her other hand came up to clench in the fabric of his jacket. Severus’ arms went around her shoulders to pull her closer to his frame. At the same time, Hermione’s mouth opened at the touch of his tongue. She snuggled closer into his tall, spare frame. His mouth lifted and he stared into her eyes while one hand stroked her cheek.

“I . . . I,” she stuttered. “Please.” She pulled his mouth back down to hers and slid her tongue past his lips. Her hips thrust instinctively against his body. She felt his erection press against her belly.

Severus broke away again, “Are you sure?”

“Please,” whispered Hermione. She ran her mouth along his jaw line. When she reached his ear, she nipped at the lobe.

Severus cupped her cheek in his hand and turned her mouth back to his. He walked her backwards until she felt the ridge of one of the casks against the small of her back.

“I want you to touch me,” she demanded.

“I will, sweet, I will,” he said, and kissed his way down her throat.

His hand worked on her robes. She felt the heavy crepe slide down her shoulders and a warm hand cup her breast. Her nipple hardened under the gentle caress of his circling thumb.

“Oh, my . . .” Hermione gasped.

Her arms tightened around his neck and her leg rose to try and circle his hips. The hand that had clutched at his jacket started on the buttons. Working quickly, she slipped the last ebony button from its hole and ran her hands over the skin of his chest. He inhaled sharply. Enboldened, she lowered a hand and caressed the hard length of muscle pressing against the front of his trousers.

“Hermione,” whispered Severus. “Slow down, we have plenty . . .”

“No,” she protested. “I want . . . I need . . . Now.”

She backed away from his embrace and reached under her skirt to pull off her knickers. Severus’ eyes followed the scrap of lace. Hermione looked into the pure heat of his gaze and her tongue slipped out to moisten her lower lip.

Severus groaned and pulled her back into his arms. His mouth came down hard on hers. Hermione’s hands went to the buttons of his fly. She slipped her hand in to grasp the hot, smooth skin of his erection. She stroked her hand up and down the length of his penis. Her thumb circled the satiny head.

Severus groaned. “Hermione, love, stop, I will not be able to . . .”

“Then don’t,” she interrupted. She braced her back against the large cask and her legs circled his waist. She rubbed herself against his hard length.

“Merlin’s balls,” he swore. Unable to resist the sensation of her wet heat, his hands steadied her hips as he thrust into her. “Gods, you feel . . .” He ground his hips against her open legs.

“Ooooohhhhh,” Hermione exhaled at his first thrust. She felt uncomfortably stretched by his entry. Her hands clutched at his shoulders and she buried her head into the junction of his neck and shoulder. Her legs, which were already wrapped tight around his waist, tightened even more and she ground her pelvis against him, as her inner muscles clamped down around his erection.

“Hermione,” he said. “Sweet, not so tight.”

Hermione forced the muscles of her thighs to loosen, but it was too late. Snape withdrew and thrust back into her, once, twice. She felt her flesh yield to the friction. He withdrew and thrust a third time. His arms tightened around her, he groaned in her ear, and his entire body stiffened as he climaxed.

Hermione slumped against the wine cask and tried to ease herself away from his embrace. She dropped her legs from around his waist and was instantly aware of a slick and sticky fluid sliding down the inside of her thighs. Disappointment washed over her. Her past boyfriends--more like one night stands--were right. She was not any good at this sort of thing. She stared past Severus, who was planting small kisses against her neck.

“Hermione,” he said. His baritone voice firm. “Look at me.”

She shook her head and refused to meet his eyes until his fingers came under her chin to tilt her head up. She finally met eyes.

“Mignonne, I am sorry,” he said and kissed her. “I tried to slow our pace, but you felt exquisite.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I’m just not very good at this.”

“On the contrary,” he countered. “I think you are very good at . . . this.” He took her gesturing hand and kissed each finger. “It occurs to me, however, that you require a slower and more involved approach.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand was stroking her throat, his thumb rubbing softly along the line of her collar bone.

“I think,” he said, punctuating his sentence with a kiss along her jaw, “you will understand, when you try the reds.”

Author's Notes:

1. Thanks very much to Crow and Hecate for the help with this chapter and the previous chapter. They are so patient with my version of English grammar. Without them, my writing would read more like a bad translation of the French.

2. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed at witchfics.org, fanfiction.net and WIKTT. I am still amazed that my story garners such support and praise. Having this much fun should be outlawed.