Hermione wasn't at all shocked when Snape--- on a very flimsy pretext--- gave her another detention the next class.

"I can't believe it!" said Ron as she joined the boys in the corridor. "You never get detention--- and that's twice in a row!"

Despite her resolve of last Friday, Hermione decided that the boys would believe at least part of the truth. "He seems to need an assistant with one of his experiments---"

Harry rubbed his forehead, frowning. "So why doesn't he just, well, ask?"

"Because he's Snape, that's why," Ron said in disgust.

Hermione bit her tongue hard. It wasn't exactly possible to defend the man... but she had to admit that the taciturn and near-obsessively focused individual whose lab she shared was a completely different side of their cruel and sarcastic professor. And, the truth was, she wasn't sure that Harry and Ron would understand the difference. They hadn't even been able to tolerate her for the first weeks they'd known one another.

That was the curse of being very, very intelligent. People didn't understand the difference between the frustration of trying to get a point across to a mind that just didn't get it, and genuine disdain. And sometimes, it was pretty easy to forget the difference yourself.

But she couldn't just listen to Ron put him down either. "Well, he can't exactly admit that one of the only students good enough to assist him is a Gryffindor, can he?" she asked.

Ron gave her a look. "I think you've been spending too much time with him--- some of that snobbishness is starting to rub off. Faery Queen!" This to the Fat Lady, who swung open to let them into the Gryffindor sanctuary.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you, dear," the portrait said sternly as they passed.

"Don't they have that expression in the wizarding world, Ron?" Hermione asked innocently at her friend's baffled look, while Harry tried to smother a laugh.

*****

By the end of the month--- during which she received a detention following every Potions class--- the Slytherins had begun to scent blood in the water.

"Hey, Granger," Draco Malfoy sneered as they passed each other in the hall, "detention again? Doesn't look good for your chances of being Head Girl, does it?"

"Nice to see Little Miss Perfect come down from her high horse!" said one of the other Slytherins, a girl Hermione didn't know.

"Ooh!" said Pansy Parkinson, clapping a hand to her mouth and squealing in malevolent delight--- her beady little eyes fixed hopefully, Hermione noticed, on Draco. "Maybe she figures on---" she leaned close and whispered something to Draco.

Draco pounced on whatever it was with all the speed of a snake on a lame rat. "So that's your secret, Granger--- going to sleep your way to the Head Girl's badge?"

Ron, walking next to her, would have gone for Malfoy's throat, but Harry held him back, glaring darkly at the pale-faced boy. It would be just like that Slytherin scum to arrange for Ron to get a detention for fighting over something he'd had said.

Hermione turned to Malfoy with the air of someone only noticing a rather unpleasant object for the first time. "Well, I wouldn't know--- sleeping my way into a position of power seems more a Slytherin pastime, wouldn't you say, love?" She looked from Draco to Pansy with a slow insinuating gaze, then firmly grabbed hold of Ron's other arm and the three friends swept off.

"Wow!" said Ron when he'd recovered himself. "That was dead brilliant, Hermione!"

Harry, though, looked worried. "I wonder what Snape's game is?"

Hermione shook her head impatiently. "I told you, he just needs an extra pair of hands on the anti-lycanthropy potion, that's all." She settled her bag on her shoulder. "Anyway, next week's Christmas--- he ought to be done by then, I'm going home for Christmas, and after the holidays it should all blow over."

"Oh, God!" Ron smacked his forehead, stopping dead in the hallway. "You're leaving--- but Harry and I are staying over! Do you realize what this means?"

"What?" Harry regarded him with some curiosity.

"What if Snape tries to enlist one of us?"

Hermione smothered a giggle. "Don't worry, Ron, he's only singled me out because of my top marks--- I seriously doubt he'd use a Gryffindor if he had a better option."

"Especially," said Harry with feeling, "one of us three."

*****

Though very few people would have believed it, Christmas was Severus Snape's favorite time of the year.

Not, of course, that he enjoyed any of the festivities--- the decorations and the feasting were his least favorite part of the holiday. But at Christmas, the halls of the school were almost empty. He had no classes to teach and plenty of time for his experiments--- and the early nights and cold reminded him of the best parts of his family home....

It was usually quiet at Hogwarts around the holidays--- the students took their raucous behavior outside to throw snowballs or whatever else children did. Not that he'd ever known....

Which meant that the halls themselves were peacefully deserted--- and especially the corridor outside his rooms, the Potions classroom and his office and the small suite down the hall from those rooms that was his.

A rock to crawl under. That was how he thought of his rooms in the dungeon, at any rate. It suited him, given what kind of things usually hid under rocks.

Something slimy, ugly, loathsome... whispered a corner of his mind as he flipped through the notes that he and Granger had taken before the holidays. All words that aptly described a former Death Eater.

He forced his attention back to the parchment, covered with calculations and observations in Hermione Granger's precise type-script tiny hand. Surprisingly good notes, too, near-professional quality.

But then, he expected no less. He wouldn't have used her as an assistant otherwise. No, despite the face that his subterfuge forced him to show to his students--- the assumed preference for Lucius Malfoy's lazy get--- if he had to select a favorite student, it would have been Hermione Granger.

For a moment, he allowed himself a brief guilty fantasy of what his life could have been: research, study, working with bright young minds like Granger's--- and only the best students, those worthy of his knowledge---

"Ha!" He tossed the parchment onto the desk in disgust, sank back in his chair and stared unseeing at the fireplace that he always left empty despite the cold. Worthy--- yes, worthy, of a Death Eater's knowledge! That was a bad joke. And all those little Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who thought him cruel and vicious--- they never dreamed he was doing them the greatest favor imaginable. Keeping them at a distance... and toughening them for the battle ahead. And the Slytherins, so smugly certain that their Head of House would cover for them, never dreamed that every point he gave them undeserved, every time he overlooked an error or covered up a fault was one more handicap, one more crippling of whatever native cleverness and wit they still possessed, making them that much less capable of surviving in the real world. The few of that lot with any brains at all he was careful to single out, to direct away from the cliques of baby Death Eaters that infested the Serpents' Den--- and careful not to offer them the same easy path he did the others.

Yes, at least he could serve some purpose.

As if that thought had been a signal, the fireplace sputtered and crackled--- and, almost without warning, a roll of parchment--- black on black sealed in black--- spat itself from the flames to land at his feet.

Snape regarded it with loathing. "Lucius," he muttered, "must your every act advertise your allegiance to the world?"

But the sarcasm didn't make the offensive message disappear--- not that he'd held out much hope. His fingers twitching in disgust, he picked up the roll, examined the seal.

At his touch, the black wax glowed green, the Dark Mark standing out in sharp relief against the dark paper.

Snape sighed, feeling his stomach churn. He should have known--- if Potter and his rabble didn't manage to spoil one of the few peaceful times in his life, Lucius Malfoy would. He broke the seal.

"Your presence is requested," (the invitation read) "for a holiday celebration at Chateau Malfoy tomorrow evening at 8:00. Informal; RSVP acceptance only."

He swallowed against the bile in his throat. So: there was to be a Dark Revel, one of the entertainments that Lucius and his petty follower had always enjoyed. And without their Lord's presence. The Malfoys' estate in France would be a good place for that kind of thing, too--- the French wizarding community had been too little affected by Voldemort's depredations to be as watchful as the British.

His stomach heaved again. Even in the days when he'd been a loyal Death Eater, devoted to the New World Order and the power that Voldemort offered... even then, he'd disdained the petty lusts and short-sighted, sadistic pleasures that men like Lucius enjoyed.

And it was downright humiliating how long it had taken him to realize that those cruel pleasures were far more the true face of the Death Eaters than the dark knowledge he'd embraced.

He'd avoided those gatherings in the old days--- but he had no choice but to grace this one with his presence.

RSVP acceptance only.

Meaning: you're either with us... or against us.

He rolled up the parchment with a heavy sigh, summoned his own letterhead, and scratched a response.

"Delighted, Lucius," he muttered. "As you bloody well know."

Chapter 2: A Pawn At Risk

Dumbledore hadn't wanted to let him go, but in the end, even the Headmaster was forced to admit that Snape had no choice but to attend.

So he dosed himself with every possible antidote--- his former associates had interesting ideas of humor, and not all their little jokes were confined to their enemies--- dragged his dress robes from the back of the closet where he preferred to leave them, and ordered a carriage. He could, of course, have Apparated, or used Floo powder--- but he considered it safer not to drop himself into the midst of one of Lucius' little fetes unawares. To say nothing of the fact that Lucius and his crowd would respect the pomp and the display of wealth. In that respect, at least, he could compete with any of them--- Andropolous and Snape were both old wizarding families, and he was his parents' only child.

In fact, he briefly considered using the family carriage--- then decided against it. Dealing with his mother was about the only thing that could make this holiday worse... and he knew he'd never be able to look his father in the face....

So it was a hired carriage that brought him to the door of Chateau Malfoy at exactly 8:15 by his watch--- fashionably late, his mother would have said (though his father would have insisted on a courteous punctuality).

The place was, as its name implied, a castle, like Hogwarts--- or rather, like the antithesis of Hogwarts: a forbidding and imposing edifice designed, it seemed, for no other purpose than to impress visitors, passersby, and anyone else who had the misfortune to get within seeing distance of it. His carriage clipped through a massive portcullis guarding the drive; the "chateau" itself was all jagged angles and bared windows--- none of which were lit. Par for the course for a Dark Revel.

He was mildly surprised to note that there were no house-elves to attend him as he exited the carriage and ordered it to wait--- then remembered that Potter had managed to lose Malfoy his servant some years back. His lips twitched. Served Lucius right--- and for once, Potter had been deliberately useful, instead of merely being in the right place at the wrong time and getting showered with adulation for it.

Just like his father....

An appropriate set of thoughts for a Death Eater, he sneered to himself as he reached the front door. That's it, Severus, get into character... remember just how far you haven't come....

The door opened, and a very frightened-looking house-elf--- blast, Lucius still had a few servants, did he?--- examined his invitation, took his cloak and hat, and ushered him downstairs.

The dungeon. He remembered the place all too well, from previous... occasions. And--- no mistaking it--- he could hear certain well-remembered sounds echoing up from its depths as the terrified house-elf opened the door to the dungeons.

"You may go," he told the creature coldly--- though in truth its near-panic made him ill--- "I know the way from here."

The creature bobbled a nervous obeisance, then fled.

Severus carefully closed the door behind the elf, took a moment to reswallow his stomach, then descended the steps.

Into Hell.

The stench hit him halfway down the torchlit stairway: blood and sweat and sex and terror. And he didn't know what was the worst: the ungodly sounds of pleasure in voices he remembered all too well--- the terrified cries and pleading in voices he didn't--- or the occasional, sudden silences that told of worse still.

He exited the stairs to find Lucius holding court in the center of the dank stone chamber, a cluster of sycophants around him and a flagon of dragonsblood brandy in his hand. "Severus!" he called, in the too-loud voice of the drunk and sated, "So glad you could make it!"

His greeting was punctuated by a scream. Severus stepped into the room--- over a prone corpse--- and said casually, "So am I." He let his lip curl at the corpse--- he'd never been fond of this sort of homicidal debauchery; to seem to embrace it now it would destroy his disguise just as surely as if he denounced them all.

Lucius met his eyes nastily for a moment. "Oh, that's right, Severus--- you always were a spoilsport, weren't you?"

Snape held the other man's eyes for a long moment; Lucius was drunk enough that he looked away first. "You remember the others, eh? Not your old crowd, as I recall--- except---" He looked round him. "Where the hell's Avery?"

"In the back," drawled a sullen voice that matched Malfoy's for sheer overmonied indolence, "trying out that new sex-hex of his on a Mudblood---"

Mudblood. Snape thought of Hermione Granger, and his stomach, already rallying itself for a protest, did an abrupt backflip. He cudgeled it into submission with the ease of long practice and addressed the speaker. "Patricia, my dear," he drawled, "how nice to see you."

Patricia Parkinson, mother of the social-climbing Pansy, held out a bloodstained hand to him like a duchess in a drawing room. "So good to see you, too, Sevvie, dear," she said languidly. "Some of us were wondering if you'd show."

To an outside observer, it might have sounded like an idle remark, but, given the wording of the invitation, Severus knew it for a challenge. "My dear," he said, stepping forward to take her hand and bring it to his lips--- forcing himself not to cringe away as the blood smeared his mouth--- "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Though," he added, dryly, "given recent events, it doesn't seem as though I'll have to choose."

Triumphant laughter greeted that remark, and two of the other Death Eaters made room for him at the table.

Lucius laughed thickly, poured himself more brandy, and of course did not offer refills to the rest of the table. "I'm dreadfully glad to hear that, Severus," he said silkily, "be such a shame to lose you to the other side---"

"I'm not a fool, Lucius," Snape said calmly, leaning back in the chair. "Indeed---" he looked around him--- "to be frank, it's your wisdom I'd question at the moment." He flicked a hand round him casually. "Isn't this a tad... extravagant, considering the circumstances? I'd have thought it would make more sense to save the festivities for after our Lord's triumph--- when you won't have to dispose of the evidence in secret." He steepled his fingers, and looked at Lucius inquiringly.

There was muttered comment from the others--- not all of it, Severus gathered, in Lucius' favor. But Malfoy raked the group with a glance, and they subsided. "Well, I'll admit it isn't the kind of showing we'd have been able to put on in the old days," he said, swigging the brandy with the casual attitude of a man who can treat hundred-Galleon liquor like butterbeer, "only a few... playthings--- what, six or seven?" He looked around.

"Eight--- well, seven," said Patricia boredly, looking at the corpse at Snape's feet, "though it'll be six if Avery gets his way." She pouted.

"Can't have that--- the night's only half-gone." Lucius flicked a glance at Andrew Crabbe and Victor Goyle (the fathers of Draco's two goons; he was certain the Crabbe and Goyle families plotted their whelping on the orders of the Malfoys, lest one of the spawn of the latter have to survive Real Life without attendant thugs). "Talk him out of it, will you? Get him to wait a few hours, let someone else have a turn."

Malfoy's hulking thugs moved off, and Snape smothered a smile. Some things never did change.

Lucius looked back at him over the rim of the glass. "As for the ones we do have, they'll never be missed," he drawled. "Muggles are so good at producing garbage--- their own society creates throwaways for our amusement, as if it were designed for no other purpose." The evil glint in his eye said that that was exactly what he thought.

"And the Mudblood? Where do you find those?"

"Same place," Lucius belched. "You know that, Severus--- half the Mudbloods go mad, living with Muggles and no one knowing their magic's for real. Find them the same places we find the other sort." He looked up, as Crabbe and Goyle came back, looking pleased. "Took care of it, did you?" Goyle nodded, and Lucius waved his hand. "Well, then, friends, I suggest you enjoy yourselves--- before Avery gets... frustrated... enough to start looking for other playmates." His laugh was unpleasant, and the group around him dispersed in a haste born half of lust and half of fear, until only Lucius and Severus were left at the table.

Snape made to follow the others in haste, not wanting to be alone with Malfoy even in a crowded room, but Lucius' voice, silky-smooth and seductive, stopped him.

"Funny you should mention Mudbloods, Snape," he said. "I've got a little surprise for you--- 'tis the season, and all." He chuckled and got to his feet. "Come along."

Snape, trapped, had no choice but to follow the pale cold man, though his stomach renewed its protests and brought his heart into the rebellion at the thought of Lucius Malfoy's idea of a Christmas present for a man he despised.

Lucius led him down one of the honeycomb passageways off the main room, to a thick wooden door at the end. He pulled out a key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy padlock. "In here---" He grinned cruelly. "Wouldn't want the others to get to your present first, now would we?"

Snape tried to swallow, found that between the lump in his throat and the dryness in his mouth it wasn't happening. "Indeed. His heart was very loud in his ears.

Lucius swung back the door, gestured for Severus to precede him. "See for yourself."

Snape stepped into the room.

And froze on the threshold, stunned quite out of his wits.

Lying on a narrow cot in the cold, bare cell, stripped naked and bound hand and foot, and regarding him with heartfelt panic, was Hermione Granger.

It took only a second for Snape to recover himself, but Lucius was already speaking. "Draco told me you'd taken to keeping this little Mudblood after hours--- and naturally, I figured you had a good use for her," he drawled, "so I thought I'd make it... convenient... for you to... indulge."

Snape found his voice. "Are you out of your mind, Lucius?" he hissed. "For Merlin's sake, the girl has parents---"

"Who have been informed that she was unavoidably delayed at Hogwarts," Malfoy said, and added with a snigger, "which is only the literal truth, since that's where we picked her up." He sobered, regarded Snape coolly. "Don't tell me you don't... appreciate it?"

Snape got control of himself--- which wasn't easy, with Hermione Granger's frightened brown eyes boring into his skull. Thank Merlin the child at least knew he was a spy... she'd probably die of fright otherwise.

On the other hand, given her present circumstances, death might be a better option. "I've never been one to bed children," he snapped, shaking. Dear Merlin... to rape one of his own students! The thought twisted his guts. Nothing was worth doing that to a mere child... a child who trusted him... whose eyes held the same spark he saw in the mirror, when he could stand to look at himself....

And it was his fault she was here--- his own blasted stupid weakness, showing an interest in the child. His fault.

The mask of camaraderie Lucius had worn began to slip away. "No, Severus," he said quietly, "you never were--- always a spoilsport, weren't you? Never knew how to indulge yourself like a normal man, always buried in your books and your potions." Malfoy stepped closer, until his face was an inch from Snape's. "Even now, lurking in that lair of yours at Hogwarts... you're not flesh and blood, Severus, you're a mechanical contrivance." He laughed and stepped back. "Fortunately, some of us know what to do with a woman---" He turned toward the bed, and Hermione, his face a study in sadistic anticipation.

The girl's eyes widened still further, and whether it was courage or terror that had held her still until now, it broke, and she began to struggle. Lucius laughed. "How nice to be... appreciated---"

"Lucius," Snape said coldly, a sudden painful clarity sweeping through his mind, cutting off the horror-static as if he'd thrown a switch, "You're a damn fool."

Malfoy turned back to him, his eyes ugly. "What are you saying, Severus?"

"I'm saying," Snape said coolly, gliding past him, "that you're about to waste the best opportunity imaginable." It made him sick to think about it--- about twisting a child's heart and soul--- yet the worst that he would do to her tonight was better than the best she could expect from Malfoy. I'm sorry, Hermione.

Lucius regarded him with mocking skepticism. Snape spread his hands. "It's so simple," he said, tauntingly. "Why have a few moments' pleasure... when we can have the perfect pawn?"

Now Malfoy looked interested. "What did you have in mind?" he asked. "The Imperius Curse?"

Snape snorted. "Oh, Lucius, Lucius, you're a simple-minded brute sometimes, you know that?" He looked the other man in the eye. "You know a great deal about the pleasures of power... but you lack the subtlety to recognize the power of pleasure."

Lucius' eyes narrowed, then widened in comprehension. "Perhaps I'm not as simple as you think, Severus," he said. "Why don't you show me?" He leaned back against the wall, shoving the door closed with one hand, and regarded Snape expectantly.

"Oh, I intend to." And he turned back to the bed... and Hermione Granger.

Who stared up at him with dawning horror in her eyes.

His back to Malfoy, he let the mask slip a little--- a very little; he didn't trust the other man as far as he could throw this castle without magic. But it was safe, for a moment, to lock his eyes with those horrified, innocent ones--- Trust me, child? Please--- for both our sakes?

For a moment, they stared at each other--- no, she was too terrified, too traumatized already---

And then a miracle happened.

She tore her gaze from his, looked past him at Malfoy. And, shivering horribly... subsided onto the bed.

Snape smothered a sigh of relief, fixed the mask onto his face again, and shot a look over his shoulder at Lucius. "You've made my job easy, Lucius," he said. "Now, do me another favor--- don't interrupt."

Lucius snorted. "All right, then." Not a pleasant sound... but Snape could read him better than most: Malfoy was curious, and his curiosity and cruelty both would hold him silent.

Satisfied that Malfoy wouldn't ruin his efforts, he turned back to the girl.

And turned up the silk, dialed a caressing, commanding warmth into his voice, a kind of cruel, half-mocking tenderness, a parody of a lover's tone... yet just sincere enough that her senses would register it as something welcome. "That's right, girl," he breathed, coming to sit next to her on the bed. "That's right... I'm the lesser of two evils, aren't I? That's a start." He brushed his fingers over her forehead, felt the pulse at the soft sensitive flesh of her temple. "And you want to make me happy, don't you? You know what will happen if you don't?"

She swallowed--- her throat most likely as dry as his--- and nodded, once, shivering.

"Yes... there's a good girl." He brought his fingers down over her eyebrows--- the ridges of hair silky-soft under his touch--- and coaxed her eyelids closed. "That's better, isn't it?"

She nodded again, though it hadn't really been a question.

Snape paused, his hand resting lightly on her face, her shallow breaths warm on the hollow of his palm.

He drew a deep, slow, breath.

I'm so sorry, child....

And began.

*****

Hermione Granger had never been so frightened in her life.

She didn't remember much about the kidnaping--- one moment, she'd been crossing the barrier between Platform 9 & 3/4--- then next, she was here, in this room.

With Lucius Malfoy standing in front of her.

She'd stood her ground, bravely as she could--- but it had done her no good. With a word, he'd put her under the Petrificus Curse--- and with another, stripped her... then bound her to the bed using his own hands.

At which point, she'd fully expected to be raped, but he simply left her tied up there, to await her fate.

She'd lain there in the darkness, her mind conjuring up ever more gruesome scenarios for that fate--- deciding that whatever else happened to her, she wasn't going to give Lucius Malfoy the satisfaction of breaking her. Whatever he did, she had to stay sane... to survive... this: to survive, and escape, and try to get him punished for this. It was a grim thought but--- like Sirius' memory of his innocence--- it was something to hold onto.

And then the door had opened, and Malfoy returned... with Professor Snape.

Snape. She hadn't been certain whether to be relieved or terrified still more. She knew where Snape's loyalties lay... but neither of them could afford to let Malfoy know that.

Which meant that there was absolutely no way out of the nightmare... except to trust him, and hope that he knew a way out of this. Even if it was just to kill her, and see to Malfoy's punishment himself--- which she was certain he would.

She thought of his countless cruel remarks, of the times when she and her friends had been certain he meant to kill them or worse... and realized that Snape was probably perfectly willing to sacrifice her for what was unquestionably the greater good. She could only hope he'd have enough mercy to make it as quick as possible.

She could hardly stand to listen to the conversation between him and Malfoy--- too appalling to hear herself discussed like a piece of meat--- but her heart almost stopped when Malfoy began to come toward her.

She saw the cold horror on Snape's face, for just a second--- and then his expression hardened into a silkily vicious mask.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she just barely made out Snape's words--- until a phrase sounded in her mind like a siren.

The power of pleasure.

Oh, God. What was he going to do?

And then he turned to her, his back to Malfoy, his face in shadow.

And the icy mask slipped--- just a fraction.

She couldn't look away from the dark eyes locked on hers. From the pleading in them--- and the remorse.

Of a sudden, she remembered the night in the Potions lab, and his finger tilting her chin up so that their eyes met, and words of praise that she'd never expected from him.

She heard his voice again: "You have an eye for intrigue--- though apparently not the discretion for it."

Time to learn. To keep her promise to herself.

She steeled herself, and deliberately looked past him, at Malfoy... then back to those dark and desperate eyes.

And, fighting against the panic in every nerve and muscle, made herself relax.

Snape said something to Malfoy... and came and sat beside her on the bed.

His nearness made her tremble, of a sudden, this obscene casual intimacy. She wanted to cover herself, to run, to hide....

And then he spoke.

His voice was silky-soft, and quiet, and there was something in it that wormed its way under her skin and started to play with her tight-strung nerves, caressed them with something that was a threat and a promise in one. She found herself mesmerized by it, as if it were a silken thread leading her out of the labyrinth of terror in which she'd found herself.

And all the while, his dark eyes locked on hers, with something that was at once a plea and a promise.

It was a distinct relief when his long fingers brushed over her eyelids, closed them for her. Now there was only that voice, that wonderful, terrible voice....

And then he began to touch her.

His hand slipped from her face, down to her throat, as his other hand came to rest on her opposite shoulder. His hands were warm, a welcome contrast to the chill of the dungeon; his touch was firm but very, very gentle... almost as if he thought she were made of glass.

Which wasn't too far from how she felt--- fragile, breakable, as if one wrong move would shatter her. She shivered under his touch, her whole body harpstring taut.

And then, slowly, easily, his hands slid lower--- firm strokes, his palms flat against her sides as he traced them down her ribs to her waist, to her hips, to her thighs---

"There," said that promising, threatening voice, "that's better, isn't it? Nothing to fear...."

Unspoken: yet.

His hands came back up her sides, leaving trails of warmth in their wake, making her shiver as they moved and lean into the warmth. This time, when he reached her shoulders, he traced his hands up her arms, bound over her head, his fingers flicking lightly into her hair, then brought his hands back down again to her shoulders, down her sides, then up.... One hand came to rest on her stomach, rubbed a warm circle, before continuing back up her ribs.

And all the while, his voice caressed her, in half-understood whispers, threatened pleasure and promised pain.

Her whole being narrowed to that touch, that wasn't pleasure and wasn't pain, that was simply there, and to the voice, guiding her and coaxing her--- she'd never thought his voice could sound like that, never imagined the safety and warmth of his long fingers, and it terrified her and shamed her to be so vulnerable. She tensed with every stroke of his hands, her body wound in knots---

And then, suddenly, a spasm shot through her, a violent seizure like the ones that sometimes wracked her on the verge of sleep, ripping through her bones and startling a little shriek out of her.

In its wake she was limp on the narrow bed, like a puppet with its strings cut.

And he laughed, in that silky terrible voice, and murmured, "Felt good, didn't it? Better now?"

She couldn't help but nod. Because she did, because somehow the worst of the shame and the fear had melted with that shudder and she was weak with relief.

He chuckled again, the sound seeming to touch places on her body that she'd never known were there, and murmured, "That's only the beginning...."

And then his hands resumed their gentle progression along her sides... but with a difference. Now his fingers trailed along her flesh in a whisper of touch, as he left her sides with little flickering caresses, teasing, tempting, promising.... He was coaxing feeling out of spots that she hadn't imagined were this sensitive, warming her chilled skin inside and out....

And it seemed really no time at all before she was arching into those caresses, rubbing herself against his hands, whimpering softly as those wonderful fingers explored her body....

Quite intimately at times--- deft delicate flicks under her breasts, a teasing fingertip brushed over her inner thigh, then quickly withdrawn--- and at times no more than a friendly petting of her thighs or arms or stomach, so that she didn't know when suddenly the warm pleasant stroking would spark into real delight. She could only twist under the caresses and try to guide those hands to the places that wanted touching, could only beg for more....

Sometimes, he obliged her... sometimes. Other times he simply laughed, in that silken voice, and scolded gently, so that she lapsed back onto the bed and tried to hold herself still--- anything, anything, to keep him touching her and pleasing her....

Once, he drew his hand along her body, tracing a straight line from the tip of her nose down between her breasts past her navel, pulling away, bit by bit, so that she was forced to arch her back to maintain that delicious contact. And he laughed, and murmured, "A puppet on strings...." And did it again, and she felt vaguely that she ought to be ashamed, but she couldn't stop herself from rising to meet that touch....

And then, just when she was drowning in the ever more intimate pressure and pleasure of his hands and his voice--- both abruptly went away.

She cried out in the silence, the sound torn from her throat, and he chuckled. "Want more, do you?"

"Yes, oh yes...." She could barely recognize her own voice.

She felt movement, and then his face was very close to hers, his breath warm and smelling of mint and lemon. "What would you do," he murmured--- cruel parody of intimacy--- "if I asked, hmmm? If I promised you..." a suggestive purr, "more?"

She sobbed aloud. "Anything... anything...."

A long pause, during which she shivered and shook with frustrated want. Then, very softly, ice and silk to her ears.... "Open your eyes. Look at me."

Something told her she shouldn't, it would be a mistake... but the promise and the threat were there, and the thought of those hands was enough to overcome sense.

She opened her eyes.

And it was Snape's face above her, which she hadn't wanted to think about--- Snape, the sarcastic, the cruel; the greasy-haired and hook-nosed; her professor, for Merlin's sake....

Her professor, whom in the last weeks she'd come to admire, and for a minute here and there to like.

Whom she'd never be able to look in the eye again.

She turned her head to hide from him--- and that was a bigger mistake, because there was Lucius Malfoy leaning against the wall, his pale face flushed and his eyes avid and cruel.

She gave a little cry and buried her face in one arm, closing her eyes against everything.

And a gentle hand stroked her neck, moved lower to her chest in a warm caress.

She shuddered, and couldn't look up, but that warm feeling was back, reminding her what those hands could do... if she did what he wanted.

"Look at me," he ordered in that silken voice. The hand slid lower--- then stopped, drew away from her straining body. "Look at me."

Slowly, shivering inside, she turned her head, opened her eyes.

He looked back at her, his eyes intent on hers, the mask firmly in place, that little warm glint in his eyes that might be concern and might be something else altogether....

And his hand moved, with unerring instinct, to a very sensitive spot.

He lingered there for an instant, then drew back. "You liked that, didn't you?"

She gasped, nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Say it." That silky-smooth voice brooked no defiance.

"Yes. I liked it." Oh, dear God, she was going to die of shame.

His fingers played over her body again, and, helpless now under his touch, seeking the pleasure as much to escape from this horrid reality as for itself, she twisted up under the caress. It was good, so good....

He chuckled wickedly. "And that?"

"Yes." Don't let him stop, please don't let him stop....

Please let me die, now.

"You want more...." Another lingering caress, the most intimate yet, drawing back quickly before she had a chance to register more than the moment's flash of shameful pleasure. "Don't you?"

She sobbed aloud. "Yes, oh, yes...."

Gentle fingers caught her chin, turned her head. "Look at me when you say it. Look me in the eye and tell me...." He caught his breath. "Tell me you want me."

No, no, why was he doing this? She couldn't say it... and yet--- flash of shameful shock--- it was true. She did want him, wanted those hands and that voice, had never wanted anything more in her life....

"I want you---" flash of insight, she decided to say it before he could make her, let this one small act be hers to control--- "I want you, P-professor Snape."

His eyes widened at that--- for a moment, the mask seemed to slip a little, revealing something she couldn't fathom---

And then it was back in place and he laughed, that deep and silken caress. "Good girl," he said softly. "Very good indeed...." Flash of the black eyes. "I think that deserves a little reward, hmm?"

And then his long fingers trailed over her body, stroked down over her stomach... and moved lower.

She arched against the pleasure, rubbing herself up against that light soft touch that teased and promised... and this time, she kept her eyes on his.

"Good girl," he murmured again... and then the caresses deepened in their intensity, weaving a warm cocoon about her that protected her from the fear and the horror that she knew was just on the edge of her awareness, and she gave herself up to it gratefully, because it was safe, because it was a welcome alternative to the horror and the fear. And she let herself yield to the deft fingers bringing a pleasure so intense it was painful....

Suddenly, it was pain, as that caress became a pinch, and she yelped and shivered--- but the pain was almost good, was a relief after the intense delight, and she looked into his eyes and saw the knowing glint and knew he had done it on purpose.

And then for a long time he touched her that way, and now it was truly maddening, because she never knew when the exquisite pleasure would suddenly sharpen into pain, and she sobbed and cried and begged for some relief.

But she never looked away from his eyes.

After a time, she didn't want to, because those eyes caressed her like his hands did, a probing, knowing touch that reached something deep inside of her. And the look in them--- that lingering hint of kindness beneath the glitter--- was like a silken thread and she knew if she followed it, it would lead her to safety.

And slowly, the world blurred into the dark eyes that raked her with caresses and the deep silken voice and those deft knowing fingers that brought her spiraling steadily upward to a kind of delight she had never imagined....

And then all her senses exploded, waves of ecstasy ripping through her body like lightning, and for one shining moment there was nothing but pure physical delight and release---

And then the waves receded and took her with them, down into a dark safe place where there was only warmth and peace....

*****

Snape wiped his fingers on the mattress, took a deep breath, thankful for the cold air and the torchlit darkness.

He touched Hermione's neck, felt for a pulse, careful to keep the contact impersonal, mindful of Malfoy's eyes on them. The blood beneath his fingers moved in steady waves; she was fine, then, simply overwhelmed by the sensations.

For which favor much thanks. It was better for her to be unconscious, safely in Morpheus' care, while he bargained their way out.

He looked up at Lucius, the mask he'd made of his features feeling stiff, fevered. "A few more sessions of that," he said lazily, "and she'd slit Potter's throat herself if I told her to."

Lucius pushed himself indolently off the wall. "I'd say you have the little Mudblood pretty well under your command as it is," he said, then added, with a sneer, "I wouldn't have imagined any woman, even filth like that, could say she wanted you with a straight face."

Snape regarded him coldly, but inside he felt a bleak sort of exultation. That had been a cruel gambit to play with the poor child--- but clearly it had proved his point to Lucius: Hermione was completely under his control. "I suppose your bedmates put up with your sadism then, in exchange for your pretty face," he sneered, "or is it your money?"

Lucius' face contorted in anger--- then, suddenly, he laughed. "That's the difference between us, Severus," he said snidely. "I don't give a damn what a woman in my bed wants... as long as she does what I want."

Snape felt his stomach heave, but he kept the sneer fixed on his face. "After tonight's... demonstration... you still say that?" he laughed. "You are a brute, Lucius, do you know that?" Before Malfoy could respond, he added, "And now, I hate to rush off--- but it would be as well for my purpose if little Miss Granger wakes up somewhere more welcoming than this---" he waved his hand around the dank dungeon. "So, if you'll excuse me, Lucius---" He touched his wand in its concealed pocket, muttered a series of charms--- and Hermione was quite abruptly dressed in her school robes. He flicked the wand at her, and she rose into the air, hovering above the bed.

Lucius gave him a long thoughtful look. "You'd better go out the back way," he said finally. "The others won't think as much of your... purpose... as I'm beginning to."

Snape restrained himself from doing a double take by main force of will. "A Malfoy? Impressed? The world will surely crack in two with shock."

But he didn't refuse the hand Lucius held out.

Nor could the rising tide of guilt and self-loathing chewing his guts alive entirely obliterate the twinge of satisfaction he felt. He'd known this little show would be exactly to Lucius Malfoy's tastes... even if the man couldn't quite bring himself to admit it.

But he only gestured for his host to proceed him out of the chamber. "Lead the way, then."

Author's Note: Those of you who have read J. L. Matthews' "Slytherin Rising" will immediately note the "abusing someone to save her life" parallel. I swear upon my dubious Slytherin honor >VEG< that I had the notion courtesy of the Cherryh/King gestalt, but JLM's fic is wonderful in its own right--- go read it (when you're done here, of course ;>).

~*~*~

12/20/2001: Further update -- Hermione is now eighteen for CMA reasons. As you will see below, it was NEVER in a million years my intent to make this story child-pornography.

That said, I do have a huge problem with a legal system that allows things like teenage boys being made the guardians of their underage wives (yes, this happens, in the US, I know of at least one case myself!) but forbids something like Pawn to Queen to be written/posted.

Due to recent events involving Ms. Rowling's perfectly reasonable statement that she does not approve of anything resembling kiddie-porn being written about her novels, I have increased Hermione's age, first to seventeen, now to eighteen. The original adjustment to the age of seventeen was actually supported by canon, as several of my readers were quick to point out to me before the age-of-consent issue ever came up, and I had planned to make that adjustment anyway. The second adjustment required further finagles on my part but I have made them in order to be in compliance with applicable law.

That said, when I wrote this story, I had been under the impression, supported by my British friends, that the age-of-consent for sexual intercourse in the United Kingdom was sixteen, not seventeen; the age-of-consent in the area where I'm writing is sixteen. It was never my intention to write this story as child pornography.

(That said, I have never understood the point of "magic ages"; in my own perfect imaginary world, everything would be based on developmental stage, not chronology. There, got that off my chest. Moving on.)

Chapter 3: The White King

Once in the carriage, Snape floated Hermione onto one of the bench seats--- but kept his wand out.

"You'll forgive me, Lucius," he said to the air, "but I don't much fancy putting on another show for you tonight." And he cast the strongest Privacy Charm he knew.

There, that ought to deal with whatever listening enchantments Malfoy had put on the vehicle. He hadn't bothered to protect against them, going in, as it might have been useful to let Malfoy--- or Voldemort--- see and hear him afterwards. He could have given them quite a show....

If he'd been alone. At the moment, Hermione Granger's sanity was vastly more important to him than embellishing his deception.

He found a lap robe in a compartment under the seat, drew it over her gently, then settled across from her as the carriage started to move.

She was still out cold; powerful reaction she must have had....

As if that thought had been a signal, he began to shake all over, writhing as violently as she had, under his hands....

Oh, God. Under his hands... that soft warmth moving under his touch, and her little moans of pleasure and want, the way she'd said his name....

Unbidden, his body reacted at the memory--- reacted as it had in that miserable little room in Lucius Malfoy's psychotic excuse for a cellar. Waves of heat coursing through him, and that solid and localized ache that he hadn't felt in nearly two decades....

What he'd said to Malfoy was true: he wasn't one for bedding children. He'd never even thought of looking at a student. Hermione hadn't been beautiful to him--- except, perhaps, in a detached and academic fashion, an aesthetic awareness of a loveliness as much a matter of mind and spirit as flesh--- in the classroom, even after evenings spent in one another's company. She certainly hadn't been beautiful to him lying helpless and terrified bound to that cot in Malfoy's dungeon--- his strongest desire then had been to cover her, to shield her from the horror in that place and spirit her away.

But--- Merlin help him--- when he'd begun to touch her, in that infinitely careful knowing fashion he'd learned when he was younger than she was, when the fear had shuddered its way out of her body and she'd begun to relax under his ministrations, to take pleasure of him... then she had become beautiful to his starved eyes.

He leaned his head on the wall of the carriage behind him and closed his eyes as the memory swept over him. Hermione, melting and yielding under his hands, her head thrown back and her lips--- fuller and redder than normal--- just slightly parted to allow the soft moans to escape them.

He'd wanted to kiss her. To cover her face with kisses and taste her lips and feel them open to him, to brush his mouth over the sensitive places that his fingers had discovered, to have the various tastes of her skin on his tongue.... He could only thank whatever powers might have spared a moment of mercy for him that such tender intimacy was completely out of the question, that the cold manipulation he'd planned required nothing less than the appearance of complete detachment as he used her own wants to bend her to his will.

And another memory, that encompassed everything he felt about that evening. Hermione, her eyes on his, whispering in a voice shaky with something he wanted to call desire, "I want you, Professor Snape."

The contradiction was painful. Words a student should never say--- a microcosm of the whole situation.

And more. She had read his mind perfectly, had played his game to the hilt. This inexperienced, innocent, guileless little Gryffindor... this child, in the most nightmarish situation imaginable (well, no, his mind insisted, the scene down the hall would have been worse, but it was still horrific) had outplayed a Slytherin at a Slytherin's game.

If it had been playing. Which was a different kind of nightmare, for them both....

Merlin's bones. What kind of a monster was he, to want her, after that?

And it was his fault she'd been subjected to it, his and his alone. Malfoy had thought of her because he, blind, selfish fool that he was, had made the grievous error of showing an interest in a student outside Slytherin. And in Malfoy's twisted paradigm, such interest in a female Mudblood meant only one thing....

Or rather, it would mean only one thing for a true Death Eater. Tonight had been both a reward and a test.

And this child had paid the price for his weakness.

Oh, Hermione.

What in Merlin's name could he say to the girl when she woke? What could he possibly do to heal the damage that he had done to her--- done out of necessity, but done nonetheless?

And how could ever atone for the unforgivable crime of the longing that coursed through his very bones?

He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

*****

It was very warm, cozy, under the blanket, and her body felt quite deliciously relaxed, and she wanted to revel in the feeling....

Except that something horrible hovered at the edges of her consciousness, the sort of something that one usually only found in nightmares....

She shied away from that thought, pushed it to the back of her mind, and stretched---

Her feet bumped into something hard. And, come to think of it, the smooth leather under her cheek felt nothing like her bed either at home or at school....

She sat up, letting the blanket slide off her shoulders.

She was in a carriage, clopping along at some speed.

And sitting across from her, raising his head from his hands at her movement, his lank hair falling into his eyes--- was Professor Snape.

She opened her mouth to ask what was going on... and then she remembered.

Mr. Malfoy's sneering face and the ropes holding her hands above her head--- Snape's eyes on her, pleading and promising--- his soft caressing voice and warm hands... and the pleasure....

The horrible moment of looking into his eyes and knowing that she could never, never face him again, not without thinking of that moment... not without wanting what she now knew he could do to her. And then his hands making her forget--- for a while--- and bringing merciful delight and oblivion....

She pressed her lips together, but not before the first sob managed to escape. The tears started to creep down her cheeks and she couldn't get enough of a breath with her lips clamped shut but when she parted them to breathe the sobs got out, and she couldn't look at him and so she dropped her head into her hands to hide---

"Sweet---" She couldn't help but flinch at the endearment, so close to something a lover might say, and he looked away, then back. "Child." That she could stand, with its careful establishment of the barrier of age and role. His voice was soft, low, but there was none of that cruel tenderness in it--- only something infinitely sad and remorseful, that drew her out of hiding from sheer startlement.

"Y-yes?" It came out between a gulp and a hiccup.

He drew a deep breath and through the tear-haze she saw that his eyes were very dark and sunken in their sockets like a skeleton's. "I cannot apologize for saving your life---"

He reached out, brought one hand toward her face, and she wanted to flinch away but a part of her remembered that this was not his fault and so she stayed still as his long fingers curled around her jaw. "But that does not mean," he said hollowly, "that I am not aware of the very great harm which I have done you."

For a moment, she couldn't speak--- because she never would have expected such compassion from him... and because the touch of his hand, gentle and impersonal and even brotherly as it was, evoked guiltily delicious memories of what that hand could do to her... for her....

She gasped, the tears burning dry in her eyes--- and his eyes on hers widened slightly and he pulled away, leaned back in his seat and looked at the curtained window. "I am truly sorry," he said finally, in a low voice devoid of anything but despair.

She couldn't find the words, could only curl up tight in her seat and never mind the dignity of an almost-adult, tonight she felt more like a child than she ever had in her life--- and try to sort thoughts.

They wouldn't sort; they just jumbled together in a heap of vivid sensations and emotions, until all she wanted to do was hide. And her own body wasn't a shelter any more, wasn't the safe place to hide that the lump she'd made of herself wanted to be, because he could touch her and draw her out and make her feel only what he wanted her to feel....

Except that she had wanted it, had wanted the warmth, had wanted the exquisite escape from fear and horror that his touch offered, had wanted the delicate deft control he took of her and the raw powerful pleasure. She had yielded to him and welcomed him because there was no other option in that place; but a nagging little voice asked the question she didn't want to think about--- would she have wanted it if there had been another way?

And however much she might try to fight it, the answer was yes.

Something warm and heavy settled over her, and she started violently; but it was only the blanket, coming to rest over her shoulders and curl itself around her. She poked her head up over the hem and saw Snape, holding his wand; wisely, he had used magic to cover her, rather than touch her himself.

They regarded each other for a moment, solemn and uncertain; then he spoke.

"Child--- Hermione--- if you believe me about nothing else regarding this night, about nothing else as long as I live, believe this: you have no cause to feel shame for what took place tonight. You conducted yourself---" his lips twitched--- "with a courage that Godric Gryffindor himself would envy, and a cunning beyond the wit of most Slytherins." He held up a hand when she would have spoken. "And yes, I know that your response to me was not artifice; nor should it have been. Your... reaction... was the best one possible under the circumstances, as I believe you will see once the immediate horror of the occasion has a chance to fade." He seemed about to continue, then to think better of it. "You are in no condition for an involved discussion of... tonight's events, nor do I expect you to be. But...." He seemed to struggle with himself, then added, "rest assured that I will do all within my power to heal the wounds I left tonight." He looked away, biting his lip, as if revealing that much of himself had hurt.

Hermione was surprised to feel an almost vicious satisfaction well up inside her. She had revealed far more of herself to him tonight than she had ever wanted to--- it was only right if he had a few awkward moments along the way!

He got himself under control after a moment, looked back at her. "You should sleep again, if you can," he told her. "When we get back to Hogwarts, I'll take you to Dumbledore---" A bleak look crossed his face. "He should know of this at once."

A quick shot of calm went through her at the thought of Albus Dumbledore--- followed by a shock of shame. "I don't want---"

A flash of that all too familiar glitter in his eyes silenced her; tonight it was lightning in her stomach and she flinched. Immediately, his eyes softened, though that bleakness lingered. "Child," he said gently, "the only one who should be ashamed of tonight's events is I."

There was something so horrible in that despair, something sickening about it, and her intellect took over where her emotions left off. "Well, I rather think Lucius Malfoy ought to have a hard time looking in mirrors, too, don't you? Only he hasn't got the conscience to be ashamed of his own face."

Snape regarded her in astonishment--- then he laughed softly. "You are a marvel, child," he said, his voice very gentle and just the tiniest bit--- she thought--- impressed. It warmed her deep down--- and then she wondered why she cared what he thought, after tonight.

Then he reached out and brushed his fingers through her hair, and she didn't have to wonder, because her body knew his touch and wanted it, and she tipped her head into his hand before she could think about it.

He let his fingers linger a moment, then drew back. "Rest," he said gently. "We'll be there soon enough."

And there was nothing that made more sense to do than to lean back on the soft seat and curl under the blanket and try not to think.

*****

She must have managed to doze off, which was a miracle in itself, for the next thing she knew, the carriage had come to a complete stop. "What?"

"We're home, child," said Snape's voice, still in the gentle dispassionate tone. For a moment, she tried to make sense of that in her mind--- home was her parents' house outside London--- and then he clarified, "Hogwarts."

She sat up, pushing the blanket back, and tried to shake the sleep from her brain and her thoughts into some kind of order.

One of the thoughts that shook out was, He thinks of Hogwarts as home. She wasn't sure exactly what that meant or why it even occurred to her, but she filed it away for future reference.

Snape waited, with his customary impatience either taking leave for the holidays or well-hidden, then got to his feet and opened the carriage door.

A wave of cold air swept over her and she shivered. "I haven't got a cloak."

Snape muttered something that would have lost a Gryffindor student twenty points if they'd said it in his hearing, and she cringed. Hastily, he said, "That was most emphatically notdirected at you, child---" He took off his cloak, swept it around her shoulders before she could protest. "Here."

"But---" She bit her lip on the question, suddenly not wanting to argue, feeling that a protest was more than she could manage at the moment.

"You're in shock," he said, not unkindly, "or you should be--- and that wants warmth. I'll be fine," he added, as she tried to frame a response--- then, with a kind of bitter sarcasm that seemed directed at himself, "you certainly shouldn't waste your concern on me."

Remembering the chill of the Potions lab, and the fireplace that was always cold, even in the dead of winter, she had to believe him--- but she wondered at the bitterness in his voice.

"Come, child," he said, his voice dispassionate again and gentle. "We should see Dumbledore--- he's probably waited up," he added in a dark undertone.

They were across the dark courtyard and almost inside the great doors of Hogwarts before the substance of his remark penetrated her fogged wits. "Why would Dumbledore be waiting up for us?"

Snape looked down at her with something like approval. "Very good--- I hadn't thought you'd catch that." The doors opened at his touch and they went in. "The first reason is because he knew about the... invitation---" his tone made the word into something foul, and she couldn't help but agree--- "that I'd received, and I'm expected to report to him." He took the cloak from her, draped it over his arm. "The second is because I'd be very much surprised if he weren't aware that you'd been taken."

She nodded; she'd always been convinced that there wasn't much in the wizarding world that Dumbledore didn't know about.

Again, they were several corridors deep into Hogwarts before she could frame her next thought. "What kind of invitation was--- I mean, what did Mr. Malfoy--- I mean, I don't think even Lucius Malfoy's stupid enough to come out and say he was inviting you to rape one of your students---"

She broke off in midsentence, because Snape had stopped dead in his tracks and was staring at her. "Child, you are a true marvel," he said in a voice tinged with awe. "An absolute wonder. After what you've been through---" he broke off, shaking his head softly, continued walking. "The event, child," he said in a normal tone of voice, dry and didactic, "was called a Dark Revel---" his lip twisted--- "basically, an opportunity for Lord Voldemort's followers to get together and indulge some of their more depraved pleasures." His eyes were dark and hollow and cold. "Even when I wore the Dark Mark with pride instead of loathing, I considered those... homicidal orgies... an abomination." She cringed at the loathing in his voice--- a disgust and hatred that she sensed was as much for himself as for the acts involved.

She said nothing more, and he certainly didn't seem inclined to talk, and they made their way to the door of Dumbledore's office in a silence that was neither tense nor companionable.

He let them into the anteroom of the Headmaster's quarters (the password tonight, Hermione noticed with a little flutter in her stomach, was "dark chocolate", disturbingly apt), then stopped, turned to her. "Child, it would be adding insult to the very grave injury I have done you to ask if you are 'all right'," he said, "but... can you manage to stay by yourself for a little while, while I speak to the Headmaster in private?"

She wondered what he'd do if she said no, then decided not to think about it. She really didn't want anyone knowing any more about tonight than they had to. "Yes," she said simply.

"Good." He touched something on the wall, and a series of torches flared into life.

There was a huge spiral staircase doing a fair imitation of an escalator, and, beyond it a small alcove, not even a room, that held a few chairs and a fireplace. Snape went to the fireplace, tapped one of the huge stone dragons on either side of it--- and the statue came to life, turned its head, and blew into the fireplace, leaving a cheery blaze before it returned to its moribund state.

"Wait here," he said, sweeping past her toward the spiral escalator. He stopped by her side, caught up his cloak and draped it gently around her shoulders, without comment, then headed up the stairs.

When he'd gone, it was like someone had sucked all the air and the warmth from the room. Hermione stared after him, astonished by the panic that crept into her mind at his leaving, the need for his nearness, that she never would have expected....

But he was gone, and she had to wait here for him. And at least she had his cloak. She wrapped it tightly around her and went to the most comfortable-looking of the chairs, a huge piece with wings that actually looked capable of flight, and curled up in its upholstered embrace.

Snape's cloak was snug around her shoulders; she shivered and wrapped herself tighter in its folds, that felt almost like arms around her, cuddling her and soothing her....

Oh, God. She lowered her head onto the arm of the chair--- not a long drop, the chair was quite big enough for someone Hagrid's size to be comfortable in--- and began to cry.

****

Snape let the spiral staircase draw him higher, even as his stomach sank ever lower.

He couldn't drag his mind way from the moments in the carriage when she'd responded to his touch--- Merlin's bones! Had anyone ever reacted like that when he touched them? Yet he knew it wasn't her idea at all, was only his own manipulation and perhaps her desperation that made his touch anything better than repulsive to her.

Who in her right mind would want--- me?

The stairs brought him to the door of Dumbledore's study--- which opened at his touch. The Headmaster most certainly did expect him, then.

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" he asked, his voice coming out a hoarse croak--- as if in penance for the silken tones with which he'd abused Hermione.

"Severus?" came Dumbledore's voice--- no mistaking the outright worry there. "We have a situation."

"Hermione Granger." He came into the study, to find Dumbledore pacing in front of the fireplace.

The Headmaster stared at him. "How did you--- is she---"

"She's downstairs." He closed the door, stood by it, feeling appallingly as he had on those occasions in his student days when he'd been called up here to "discuss" some infraction of the rules.

Dumbledore heaved a great sigh of relief and sank into his chair by the fire. "Thank Merlin." He rubbed his face roughly. "Where was---" He caught sight of Snape's face and waved him into a chair. "Sit, man--- you look---"

"Worse than usual?" Snape asked bitterly, taking the offered chair.

Dumbledore's face softened. "That wasn't what I was about to say, Severus, and you know it." He made a gesture with his wand, and two large snifters of brandy came to rest on the table between them. "Have a drink."

Snape wondered if it were the same vintage as Lucius Malfoy had been drinking. "I couldn't," he said thickly. "Headmaster---"

"Severus, as much I need to hear your report, I think I had better see to Miss Granger first---" He rose from the chair.

"That's--- part of my 'report.'" At the hollow ring in his voice, Dumbledore turned back to regard him, the normally merry eyes dark with concern and startlement.

Dumbledore moved slowly and deliberately back to his chair. "What do you mean?" he asked, in a quiet voice that only a fool would mistake for softness.

"Lucius Malfoy kidnaped her," Snape said wretchedly. "Brought her to the Dark Revel---"

"Merlin's teeth!"

"--- as a present for me." He sank back in his chair and regarded Dumbledore miserably.

The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, took several slow, deep breaths. "You don't mean---"

"Yes." Snape ran his fingers through his hair, dragging it out of his face. "His... offspring had told him I'd been keeping... Miss Granger for an unusual number of detentions lately---" he'd told Dumbledore about using her as an assistant with the anti-lycanthropy potion--- "and, Lucius being Lucius, he made... assumptions about my 'true purpose' for the girl."

Dumbledore was very silent for a long moment, then he said softly, "What did you do?"

Snape opened his mouth to speak--- nearly gagged, his stomach managing one last rebellion. He swallowed convulsively, closed his eyes. "What I had to. Used what... Ellen Wilkes---" strange how it was still hard to say her name--- "taught me." He added harshly, imagining Dumbledore's disgust and revulsion. "It was that, or let Malfoy have his way with her."

"I know." He opened his eyes in shock at the wealth of compassion in the Headmaster's voice. "I know you wouldn't have hurt one of your students that way for anything---"

"Ha!" The sharp sound startled them both. "You give me too much credit, Headmaster," he said bleakly, feeling the awful confession force its way to the surface. "I enjoyed it," he croaked. "Having her under my hands... wanting me...." The last two words were a harsh whisper, and he hid his face in his hands. "She's a child, for Merlin's sake--- a child---"

"Actually," Dumbledore said dryly, startling him, "technically, she's not."

"I can count," Snape said dryly, his trademark sarcasm at least standing him in good stead. "She's fifth year, Headmaster---"

"Her birthday was sixteen years ago, granted, but she's actually eighteen." As Snape stared, Dumbledore got to his feet, walked across to the claw-footed desk and drew out a sheaf of parchment, brought it over to him and held it out. "Read."

The parchment was bound by a ribbon bearing the Ministry of Magic seal; Snape slipped a nail under it, unrolled it... and stared. "You're joking."

Dumbledore managed a ghost of his usual warm smile. "She is rather overzealous, isn't she? I've seen a few students add extra months to their lives with the aid of a Time-Turner, but Miss Granger's the first to get herself two years out of it in only three terms--- not even Claudia Teasdale managed that much. And Hermione was already one of the oldest in her class." He sobered. "Since she was underage at the time, the Ministry had to document the extra months very carefully--- but if you'll read through the time-charts, she is a legal adult, Severus--- she's lived eighteen years." The Headmaster's expression was grave. "So you can put your conscience to rest on that score at least---"

"Oh, yes," Snape said bitterly, "I can console myself that at least I abused an adult woman, rather than a child---"

"You had no choice," Dumbledore said impassively. "As you pointed out, better yourself than Lucius Malfoy."

There was silence in the room for a long time, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Then Dumbledore spoke again, in a more businesslike tone, "I thought those techniques were only designed for interrogation---"

"And conditioning," Snape said, not looking up. "'The power of pleasure,' as I told Lucius. Told him I'd turn her into the perfect pawn--- a creature who'd betray her own closest friends, meaning of course Potter, in return for my touch."

"Ah." Again, silence, while Snape could only feel his own skin crawling with self-loathing.

A soft note made him look up: Fawkes, the Headmaster's phoenix, had come swooping into the room. Settling on the back of Snape's chair, the bird began to sing.

It was like soft cool water flowing over the slimy disgust in his soul, washing the worst of it away. He closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair, and let the bird's voice soothe him, as unworthy of such comfort as he was.

There was silence when the phoenix ceased, then "You see?" Dumbledore's voice came like a counterpoint to the bird's healing song. "Even Fawkes doesn't consider you guilty. You did what was necessary to save that young lady; what you felt or feel about those actions is irrelevant unless you allow it to interfere with what you must do."

Snape felt the knots loosen in his guts. Dumbledore wasn't one to mince words and if he'd considered Snape to be in the wrong he would have said so.

"You know far better than I what kind of care Miss Granger will need if she's going to recover," Dumbledore continued impassively. "And I expect you to provide it."

The suddenness of that command made him start violently. "Headmaster---"

"Yes, Severus, I know what I'm asking of you." Dumbledore's voice brooked no argument--- then softened. "Consider it your penance, my friend--- that's a logic I know you understand."

He shivered at the memory the words called up. Sitting in the office Dumbledore had kept at the Ministry, and an offer of atonement.

"You're a double-agent, aren't you?" Hermione's words to him. That had been his first penance; this, his second.

He rather thought the first would be easier. This child... had come to matter to him, even if it was no more than his sense of responsibility, a conscience awakened late in life, that made it so.

A conscience, and his own selfish want.

Merlin help the poor girl.

"And now," Dumbledore's voice broke in on his bleak reflections, "if you have nothing more to report---"

"Not much." He gave the Headmaster the names of those at the Revel, added, "Avery appears to be up to his old tricks---" he'd been famous for sex curses at school, to the point that, pureblood though he was, there wasn't a girl even in Slytherin who'd allow herself to be caught alone with him by the time he left--- "and Patricia Parkinson had enough blood on her hands to suggest she'd been washing them in it."

"Very likely," Dumbledore said hollowly, and Snape shivered inside at the sound. Childish as it was, he'd found that he somehow needed to believe in the Headmaster's omnipotence, to believe that here at least was a place for something like the safety and certainty that he'd never known as a child.

Perhaps Dumbledore could read his mind, or perhaps--- sin of sins for a spy--- he'd allowed something of those thoughts to show on his face, for the older man's expression firmed and strengthened. "In that case," he said, "I think it's time you brought Miss Granger up."

Time and past, probably. "All right." He got to his feet, headed for the door.

"Severus." The Headmaster's voice stopped him, and he turned. "Remember what I've said--- that young woman's journey out of a dungeon has only just begun, and you're the one person who knows the way back to the light."

The notion of himself having any understanding of light, or warmth, or humanity, let alone enough to rescue a badly wounded womanchild, was nearly enough to draw a laugh from him, but he only nodded. "I understand," he said quietly.

And went out the door.

*****

Hermione looked up as a pair of soft footsteps drew near. "Child?"

His voice went through her, a blot of warm soft lightning, bringing with it relief and apprehension. She brought her head around, all too aware of the tearstains on her face. "Yes?"

"The headmaster wants to see you." He came closer, into the warm glow of the fire, and his eyes widened slightly at the tearstains.

Then, before she could frame a comment, he'd dropped to one knee beside her--- which put his head a little below level with hers--- and reached up, brushing the tears from her face with one long finger.

The touch sent a warm jolt through her body, and she quivered. "You have done nothing to be ashamed of, child--- remember that." He stroked her cheek lightly with the palm of his hand, then rose gracefully to his feet and held that same hand out to her. "Come?" It ought to have been a command, but the uncertainty in his tone made it a question.

She put her hand in his--- felt the spark snap between them.

God, she wanted to pull away... and she wanted to melt into his touch. But she steeled herself against both... and clasped his fingers firmly.

He looked at her in some surprise, then smiled, ever so slightly, and drew her ahead of him up the moving stairs.

She'd never been in Dumbledore's office before, but Harry had described it, so she knew what to expect. The portraits of the Headmasters past, she noticed with some concern, were all awake, despite the late hour, and regarding her with worried expressions.

So, of course, was the current Headmaster, who smiled at her kindly and rose to his feet as she entered. "Hermione," he said gently. "Severus told me... what happened."

She couldn't forbear a glance in Snape's direction; his face was expressionless, though not--- quite--- cold.

Dumbledore waved her into a seat before the fire. "Sit, child, and---" a flicker of his wand; she hadn't noticed until now that he was holding it, and a tray with three steaming mugs of hot chocolate appeared--- "have some of this."

She wrapped numb fingers around one of the mugs and sat; it was only then that she realized she was still clutching Snape's cloak about her, like a child with a favorite blanket. She blushed and ducked her head; when she raised her eyes, however, Dumbledore winked at her, kindly.

"It's all right, Hermione," said the Headmaster, then, with a glance at Snape, added, "I don't think Severus will mind if you hold onto his cloak for a bit longer."

Involuntarily, she glanced at Snape; he shook his head slightly, and lapsed into a chair in the shadow of the fireplace, his face hidden in the drakness. She stared at the long fine hands resting on the arms of the chair--- the only part of him visible--- fascinated and repelled by her own memories. "It's fine," came the silky voice out of the darkness.

She thought she saw Dumbledore start at the sound of Snape's voice, but she couldn't be sure; by the time she'd got her face around to look at him, his expression was once again firm and kindly.

"Hermione," he said, bringing her attention back to him. "I think you had better tell us how Lucius Malfoy managed to get hold of you."

"I'm n-not sure I rem-m-member very much, sir---" she stammered. "I wasn't exactly... th-thinking clearly."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snape shift restlessly in his seat, but Dumbledore spoke first. "Just tell us what you can, then," he said, and leaned back in his chair, regarding her with a kindly gaze.

Under those friendly twinkling eyes, it seemed easier to speak, and she found the words spilling out of her, at first in a thin trickle, then a gushing torrent, and she found herself recalling little details she hadn't known she'd registered--- the words of the spell; "Third-Party Apparation," Snape muttered under his breath, "the Kidnap Curse,"--- and a host of other little details. Dumbledore listened intently, sometimes asking a question or two that she found helped her to remember rather than disrupting her train of thought.

"And then he and P-professor Snape came into the room," she said--- and saw Snape shift, saw Dumbledore motion him to silence, and then it was impossible not to let the words out--- "I thought M-mr. Malfoy was going to--- to--- rape me, but Professor S-snape stopped him, and then he sat down next to me... and then there just wasn't anything else there but him," she finished, and let her head droop.

There was silence in the room for a long moment, after she'd stopped speaking, then Dumbledore spoke. "Severus told me what happened in that room, Hermione," he said gently, "and you needn't relive it again if you don't want to---"

At the words, her entire body shuddered spasmodically--- because she did want to, God and Merlin both help her--- and she looked up and was suddenly, powerfully and terrifyingly aware of both men, as men, that she was small and powerless and female here in this room, and she had to fight the urge to tuck her knees to her chest and hide in her own body.

A soft liquid note sounded in the air--- and Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, came to sit on her lap--- an oddly catlike behavior for a bird, she thought, and thought it again when Fawkes rubbed his head against her hand. There was something comforting about Fawkes perched in her lap, and she felt some of the tension in her ease as she stroked his beautiful red-gold feathers.

A thought occurred to her, and she managed to get it out around the nervous lump in her throat. "Professor Dumbledore, sir--- what about my parents? They expected me home---"

"Lucius took care of that," Professor Snape said harshly. "At least, he told me that he did---" He looked to Dumbledore for confirmation.

The Headmaster nodded. "Yes--- they've been informed that you were detained unavoidably and for an unspecified length of time." His eyes were very kind on hers. "So, Hermione, it's up to you--- would you like to go home for the holidays? I can arrange transportation?"

For a moment, the thought of being safely at home with her parents sounded like a promise of paradise, and she opened her mouth to say yes---

Then snapped it shut again. To spent the entire holiday acting normal, as if nothing had ever happened--- she hadn't told her parents about Voldemort, about any of the adventures she'd had, from finding the Philosopher's Stone to being Petrified by a basilisk to catching Rita Skeeter in her Animagus form. She'd promised herself that she'd tell them--- after she graduated, when they wouldn't yank her home. Her parents had had some excitement in their lives--- her mother's exploits at university had been her favorite bedtime stories when she was a child--- but nothing like this. Not to mention the fact that she was safer here, under Dumbledore's protection, than she ever could be at home.

And if she went home--- her eyes strayed to Snape, of their own accord and against her will--- she wouldn't see him until after the holidays. The memory of that cold empty feeling when he'd left her downstairs echoed in her mind.

"I--- I'd like to stay," she said, pulling her eyes back to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster's expression was very gentle and understanding. "All right, Hermione."

Again, silence, then Professor Snape said, in a voice as kind as she'd ever heard him use, "Perhaps it's time for Miss Granger to go back to the girls' dormitory---"

And she felt her body go limp, because he'd said just the right words--- she didn't know what she'd have done if he'd said "bed" or anything else, but with that little turn of phrase he'd subtly put a privacy wall between them, respecting her modesty even if she had none left after tonight.

Except that she quite suddenly didn't want that space, didn't want to be alone in the darkness without his voice and his hands between her and the memory of Lucius Malfoy's lewd sneering face. Her head came up of its own accord and she opened her mouth, not knowing what she'd say---

"Not just yet, I think, Severus," Dumbledore said before she could stammer out a comment. "There are still a few more matters we need to discuss--- after which I will leave Miss Granger in your--- care."

She realized with a start that the Headmaster had almost said hands which was funny... except that it wasn't. Sort of morbid humor, like a Canary Cream that turned you into a cockatrice.

Snape subsided back into his chair. "Very well."

Dumbledore turned back to her. "Are you aware of the... subterfuge which Professor Snape employed to prevent Malfoy from assaulting you?"

The power of pleasure. Snape's silky, caressing voice flowed over her and inside her, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. "I--- don't know," she said finally.

Silence again, then Snape said, very gently and quietly, "To put it baldly, child, I convinced him that you were more use to us as a pawn---" though she wasn't looking at him, she could feel his lip curl--- "a love-slave, if you will."

She raised her head and stared into the shadows that surrounded him, not certain she understood. "I convinced him that I could... condition... you to be the perfect tool for Voldemort's supporters. That, with time, you'd do whatever I ordered you if offered the proper... reward."

"I think that deserves a little reward, hmm?" Again, his voice came back to her, and the memory of that "reward", and she shuddered convulsively with remembered pleasure and want.

She forced her body back under the control of her mind, forced herself to look straight at him. "Can you?"

The bald question caused Snape to sit up straight in his chair; Dumbledore, she noted, was regarding her with some interest.

"I thought so, earlier," Snape replied after a long pause. "But now I begin to suspect that controlling your mind would be beyond the capacity of any mortal man." His tone was dry, sardonic... and wholly approving.

And, she thought, wholly undeserved. Because right now, she rather thought she'd betray everything she held dear just for another caress from those hands.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, gently, and both of them--- no mistaking it--- jumped. "I think," he said quietly, "that we have an opportunity here---" he looked from one to the other, slowly and steadily--- "the details of which I leave it to the two of you to determine."

Hermione stared at him, not understanding. He looked back at her, met her eyes. "Hermione," he said gently, "tonight you have shown a courage that Godric Gryffindor himself would envy. And above all other things--- remember that there is nothing to be ashamed of in your feelings." He paused, shot an inscrutable glance at Snape, then got to his feet. "Severus?"

Snape seemed limp, sitting in the corner in the dark, but he drew himself to his feet. "Very well," he said faintly.

"In that case," Dumbledore said, some of the twinkle back in eyes that were mostly shadowed, "my eyelids await their nightly inspection--- so I'll leave you to it, then." And he swept off, into the darkness that shrouded the rest of the room.

Hermione stared after him, feeling rather adrift. She'd more than half expected Dumbledore to, well, wave that wand of his and fix it.

Fix the strange shameful longing she got in her bones when she heard Professor Snape's voice or thought about it. Take away the horrible memories of Lucius Malfoy and the wonderful and terrible ones of Snape. Let her go back to being... happy.

Snape sighed softly and stepped out of the darkness, drawing her attention back to him at once. He came to stand by her chair.

"I will confess," he said in a low despairing voice, "that I had hoped that Dumbledore would have... a more definite remedy for the injuries I've done you." He sighed again. "But it seems that that is to be my task...." He looked down at her, deep into her eyes. "If, that is, you can stand to... put your trust in me?"

She met that gaze, the eyes which were no longer cold hollows but pools of warm aching remorse. "Yes."

He held out his hand to her. "Come, then."

She stared at the long thin fingers... then for the second time tonight, wrapped her own about them.

He looked at her in solemn silence for a moment, then drew her to her feet, and they left Dumbledore's office together.

*****

From the shadows, hidden by darkness and a well-timed Invisibility Charm, Albus Dumbledore watched as the ill-assorted pair departed his office.

Have I done the right thing? He could not escape the questions of his conscience, any more than poor Severus could.

And, like Severus, he could find no other answer. There were too many variables here, not least of them being Voldemort, and the opportunity to add yet another flourish to their manipulation of his plans. Having him believe that Snape was still loyal--- and capable of creating such a pawn--- was highly useful.

And there was Hermione to consider. The child had lost her innocence tonight, for all that she hadn't been violated in the usual sense. A chance to reclaim some sense of control over her own destiny, to be of use--- possibly critical use--- in the struggle against Voldemort... that could heal her more thoroughly than "protecting" her--- taking away still more of her control of her life.

Yes, whatever conventional wisdom might say, the last thing Hermione Granger needed after tonight was to be treated like a child. She wasn't, any longer--- she couldn't go back, only forward, like any chess pawn. And, like any chess pawn, she had the chance to become a queen.

In fact, despite her shivers and startles, Dumbledore had the feeling that little Hermione Granger was in a better way emotionally than Severus.

He'd been in a better mood the night after the Triwizard Tournament, when he'd returned from Voldemort's side. Not only had the Dark Lord subjected him to the Cruciatus Curse--- as punishment for his disloyalty--- but, all unknowing, Voldemort had given him a worse punishment still: that night, Snape had seen Peter Pettigrew at the Dark Lord's side--- and learned once and for all that Sirius Black, whatever his crimes against Snape (and Albus was willing to admit that the young man had some cause for grievance there) was innocent of the Potters' deaths. He'd bene in agony--- though it was hard to tell whether he suffered more from the knowledge that he'd almost condemned an innocent man to the Dementors' Kiss, or from learning that Black was innocent.

But even that paled in comparison to his reaction of tonight. No, Albus had only seen Snape worse than this once: the night he'd come to turn himself in, renouncing the Death Eaters and betraying their secrets.

In exchange he'd asked... nothing. He'd simply told Dumbledore everything that he knew and then sat waiting for his fate, like a puppet with its strings cut, wholly indifferent.

Tonight he hadn't hit that state of indifference, thank Merlin; no, he was actively remorseful... and so loathing of himself that it wrenched Albus' heart to think of it. Never mind he'd had no other choice.

And yet that very agony, that remorse, was the brightest glimmer of hope that Albus had seen in a long time, where Severus was concerned. He'd watched the younger man withdraw into himself, gone to ground like a wounded animal, rebuffing all human contact--- yet, to Albus' eyes, that had seen a great deal of the world and what humans could do to one another, starved for it. Afraid of attachment and needing it and deeply convinced that he didn't deserve it.

Well, he had no choice--- that formidable sense of honor that had driven him to risk his life opposing a cause to which he had once committed himself in error would not allow him to give young Hermione anything less than whatever she needed.

And unless Dumbledore was sorely mistaken, it would turn out to be exactly what Severus needed as well.

Cold calculation, of the moral knife's-edge involved. Any logical, ordered system of ethics would demand the opposite of what Dumbledore was permitting. Yet this situation was anything but normal; exceptions had to be made, based on the needs of those involved.

He'd once given Harry Potter and Ron Weasley Awards for Special Services to the School for an act that involved breaking nearly every school rule in the book, and risking their lives into the bargain. Yet that act had been for the greater good. He could do no less tonight.

And with that thought, he headed for his bed... where he knew he would find little rest, no matter how carefully he inspected his eyelids.