Chapter 16: Pawns in Passing

It was nearly midnight when the impromptu feast ended, and well past it when Hermione finally managed to sneak down to the dungeons. The door of Snape's classroom was closed; she dared to slip a hand out from under the cloak to turn the knob.

It opened; but his office was locked, though she could see a dim light under the door. She turned on the Exaudio Charm. "Professor Snape?"

She couldn't be certain, but she thought she heard the edge of a snarl--- before the door came wide open.

She ducked inside quickly, pulling at the clasps of the cloak as she did so. "Severus---"

"Let's find the formalities again, shall we?" He was pacing in front of the cold fireplace, his eyes like cinders as he whirled on her. "For you, Miss Granger, have been most impertinent---"

Hermione gasped, fought the urge to cringe back against the door as he advanced on her, radiating more menace than she'd ever felt from him. "And I thought you'd gone too far merely asking me questions about Potter---" he snarled. "But no--- tonight I've seen where your true loyalties lie." They were practically body-to-body now, and she fought the strange thrill at his nearness, which coming on top of Malfoy's touch and Snape's own wrath was almost unbearable.

Perhaps he had enough self-control left to realize what he was doing to her, for abruptly he whirled away, resumed pacing. "I thought you understood what was at stake here--- the enormity of our deception and what we are fighting for---" He glared at her. "But no, the first chance you get, you throw it all away on a grand gesture, on an act that cannot help but reveal to the world where your loyalties and by extension mine lie--- on Potter!"

Hermione opened her mouth to tell him what Malfoy had said, but he cut her off. "And I, Miss Granger, I will be the one to pay the price for your little show--- do you know that? Did you think for a second what would happen to me when the Dark Lord discovered my true allegiance thanks to you and your friends?

"At any moment now---" he threw back his sleeve--- "this will darken---" he thrust his arm under her nose as he had done with Fudge--- "and I will be called to his side--- and mostly likely killed. And I have no choice but to go, Miss Granger, no choice but to maintain the charade to the last---" He choked, stumbled away, his back to her. "I can measure my life in days now--- hours: as long as it takes the news to go from Malfoy to his father to Voldemort."

There: he'd given her the perfect opening. "I spoke with Malfoy at dinner, sir," she said, dialing all the cool into her voice that she could muster. "He seemed to think I'd been the perfect pawn for a Death Eater."

Snape's reaction was most gratifying: he turned, slowly, staring at her. "What do you mean?" he breathed.

She stepped forward, toward the chairs. "Malfoy thought it was perfect," she repeated. "We showed Voldemort's return--- but carefully edited so that none of the Death Eaters except Wormtail were incriminated, and almost no one knows who he really is anyway. So you're safe, and so are Malfoy's father and the others. Malfoy thought it was the perfect ploy--- covering Voldemort's tracks while ingratiating myself with Harry--- looking every inch the loyal Gryffindor." She tipped her chin up at him. "I think that should be enough for you to work with, don't you? Especially when Malfoy tells his father that story."

She fell silent to enjoy the effect of her revelation. Snape was gaping at her, the blood drained from his face. "Oh, gods," he breathed hoarsely. "Oh, gods...." He stumbled away from her and sank into one of the chairs by the fireplace.

She followed him, puzzled. "I'd rather thought you'd be pleased with this turn of events."

"It's not that," he croaked, staring into the cold hearth. "Oh, gods, child--- for me to abuse you like that--- oh, gods... Merlin's teeth." He slumped in his seat, shivering.

Hermione said nothing; she thought he rather deserved a bit of guilt.

Finally, he looked up at her. "I am so very sorry," he whispered, just as he had that night. "So sorry to have taken out my frustrations on you--- you, who deserve nothing but kindness and respect from me---"

Hermione relented at the haunted look in his eyes. "I can't blame you for being furious," she said gently, coming to stand by his chair. "But you might have at least given me a chance to explain---"

"At least." His laugh was hollow. "Oh, Hermione---" apparently they'd mislaid the formalities again--- "You deserve so much more from me." He buried his head in his hands. "For one thing, not to have me blame you for doing something that in the normal course of events you likely would have done--- and that only places me at risk because of my own folly."

She must have made some sound, for he looked up at her. "Oh, yes, child," he said bitterly. "If I had acted with any kind of common sense and left you alone--- not had you as my assistant last term---- there would have been no reason for your actions to have any bearing on my status as a double agent." He looked away again. "No, child, the blame for any consequences I might suffer from tonight should rest wholly on my shoulders."

Thin, stooped shoulders for such a burden, she thought suddenly, a body worn with too much of a load to carry. "The blame belongs to Lucius Malfoy," she said firmly--- and, quite uninvited, crossed the space between them to sit on his lap. He started violently, but did not move to unseat her. "It's not your fault," she said firmly, resting her arms around his neck and omitting the dozen other things she wanted to say--- that she was grateful that Severus was in her life, that she wouldn't change the past if it meant not having this, wouldn't trade one night of horror in Malfoy's dungeon for the nights she'd had since.

For a moment he sat rigid as a board... then slowly relaxed under her. One arm came up to support her gently--- his hand rested on the same spot Malfoy had touched, and she felt that delicious twinge--- only it was Severus this time and he was welcome to make her feel that way.

But he didn't stroke her, just steadied her gently, breathing deeply and trembling. "I have no right to your forgiveness," he said quietly. "Neither for the first night nor for this one."

Hermione leaned in against him, feeling the warmth of his body and the soft thump of his heart against her side. Relishing it. "No, you don't," she said after a moment, then smiled against his chest as he started. "Because you've done nothing that needs forgiving--- except maybe biting my head off when I came here tonight."

He let out a soft chuckle that was more than half a sob. "If you insist, then." His arm eased around her, still no more than a supporting pressure. "I'm too tired to argue."

"That's a first." She relaxed against him, glad that she'd had this notion. It was good, so good, to rest here against him and let her own heart rate come back to normal; to feel that everything was all right again, because she hadn't created a disaster, because Severus wasn't angry with her.

She felt a little twinge at that thought--- should a queen care so much for one man's opinion? Not likely, Granger--- remember what he said about Harry's parents? She sat up a little so that she could look him in the eye, though she rather missed that warm closeness. "I covered for us another way, too."

Snape had closed his eyes, his head resting against the chair back; he spoke without looking up. "How is that?"

"Got Malfoy thinking that the reason you'd teamed me with Blaise was to lure off Ron---" Now Snape did open his eyes, one eyebrow twitching up in a silent question. "I told him you didn't like me to be around other males, and he assumed the rest."

"Ah." Snape closed his eyes again. "Excellent work--- particularly in letting him draw his own conclusions. Most people are more likely to believe your lies if they think they've thought them up themselves."

Hermione smiled. "Slytherin thinking--- Blaise is really corrupting me." A soft chuckle made his chest vibrate against her arm--- but her words reminded her of another kind of corruption. "S-severus?"

Something in her tone must have alerted him, for he looked up once more, attentively. "Yes, child?"

"There's--- something I wanted to ask you." She couldn't meet his eyes.

"Ask, child--- there's nothing you can't say to me." His tone was so gentle it was hard to imagine that he could ever yell, all evidence to the contrary aside.

It wasn't possible to talk about this while she was sitting on his lap; she got to her feet, paced over toward the hearth. "When... when Malfoy and I were talking--- he--- he put his hand on---"

"What!" Though Snape's voice was still soft, there was a note of cold, controlled fury in his voice that beggared his earlier rage for sheer menace. "How dare--- Hermione, if he's hurt you---"

"No--- no," she said hastily, though his reaction was a little surprising. She hadn't thought he was that protective of her, not at the gut level. "He.. .he just put his hand on my back, that's all, and... when he talked to me, he... he whispered in my ear." It was harder to say than she'd imagined.

"Indeed." Snape's voice was ice. "Well, child, if he ever does it again--- rest assured that I will protect you." She heard a hint of bitter mockery in his tone. "He'll doubtless blame my reaction on my 'possessive tendencies'."

"Er---" Hermione turned away toward the fire. "That wasn't... what I wanted to ask you."

His voice gentled at once. "What, then?"

"When... when Malfoy put his hand on me, when he was... breathing in my ear... I... I---" this was almost impossible to say--- "it... felt good." She couldn't look at him. "Is... is there something wrong with me? I mean---" the words came out in a rush--- "I can't stand it if Ron gets anywhere near me, and tonight one of the Scarlattis kissed my hand and I didn't feel anything--- but--- Draco Malfoy makes me tingle? And---" she couldn't finish, couldn't tell him the way the memories of him in Malfoy's dungeon made her feel.

For a long moment, Snape said nothing. Then his voice came, soft and thoughtful. "A normal reaction, I think." She turned to stare at him; he smiled slightly. "Nerve endings are strange things, child--- the Muggle doctors are only just starting to understand the human nervous system, and we're not that far ahead of them. There's nothing 'wrong' or even strange about your reactions."

She turned back, slumping against the fireplace, weak with relief. "What, then? Why---"

"Why does having an enemy touch you make you react like a friend can't?" His voice was very gentle. "Well, first, because Weasley is your friend--- he's familiar." There was a hint of distaste in Snape's voice that she didn't like to analyze. "And, as I said, nerves are funny things--- they react to touch, not necessarily to situation. Malfoy just happened to hit a sensitive spot in just the right way." Soft sound from him, not quite a chuckle. "There are reasons why certain kinds of touches and tones are characterized as 'seductive'--- they have that effect on most people, and Malfoy, after all, is an accomplished if as yet immature manipulator."

Coming from you, Severus, that's quite impressive. But she said nothing.

"And then there are emotional factors to consider. You were tense, alert, paying a great deal of attention, no doubt, to every nuance of Malfoy's behavior, trying to sound him out--- and that made you especially sensitive to his touch---" He fell silent, and for a long moment, neither one of them spoke.

"And finally---" his voice was a soft whisper as he answered the question she couldn't ask--- "I will not deny that what I did to you--- that night--- may--- must--- have had an effect on you. That you will respond more strongly to--- conflicting stimuli--- than you might otherwise have done."

"You're nothing like Malfoy." The words came out before she could think. "Either of them. I can trust you--- I know you'd never hurt me---" She took a deep breath. "Because you never have."

"Don't give me so much credit." The words somehow managed to be soft and harsh at once.

Silence for a long moment--- then she jumped at a touch on her back, in the exact spot Malfoy had used. Snape had come up behind her silently.

"Is that how he touched you?" His voice was very gentle, kind even--- not the silky voice he'd used on her that night; the other side of it, rather, comforting and safe... but still sensual.

"I---" She couldn't think; because this was much better than what Malfoy had done. Snape's fingertips rested lightly along that sensitive space at the small of her back; they flickered in gently caressing patterns, toying softly with nerves she hadn't known were there.

He bent, putting his lips close to her ear. "Good?" The caress of air sent shivers all through her body, and she smothered a moan.

"Mmmm... yes...." This was wonderful. And she remembered suddenly that he'd promised this, promised to remind her of what he could do for her....

For a moment, she simply twisted and writhed against his touch--- those light flickering fingers that occasionally deepened their touch into a firm rub, the soft breathing against her ear, warm on sensitive skin.... Oh, this was heaven....

This his voice, still soft and low, but now tinged with a bitter remorse, flickered in her ear again, as the hand on her back smoothed into a slow stroking. "You were right about me, you know." Choky sound and sad. "You see, I am terribly possessive--- terribly selfish, it's one of my worst faults---"

"Oh, no---" she whispered, her eyes half-closed in pleasure, wanting only that he should keep touching her--- "not at all---"

"Yes, I am." His voice was insistent. "Half the reason I was so furious tonight, Hermione, was because I couldn't stand that you, as I saw it, chose Potter over me---" His free hand came up, rubbing gently at her shoulder, kneading away tension. "And I certainly couldn't stand the thought that Draco Malfoy---" slight edge to his voice, immediately smoothed--- "should ever evoke any kind of pleasure in you--- that he dared touch you---" His hand slid up her shoulder to her neck, still stroking slightly. "And I am selfish, to want to have you pleased by my hands alone---"

Oh, she couldn't breathe, her heart was going to burst. She hadn't known until this moment that he wanted her too--- nor that she wanted him to want her. Wanted him to be as fixed on her, and as powerless in the grip of that fixation, as she felt when he touched her like this.... Oh, yes....

"I have no right to be---" the remorse was stronger now--- "no man ever had less--- and yet I can hardly bear to think---"

His hand slid up along the line of her jaw, brushing over her chin; his thumb caressed her half-parted lips.

Impulsively, wanting more--- and most of all wanting control herself--- she moved her lips out to capture that seeking thumb, biting down on the nail and tracing her tongue across the pad. Lovely callus there, all ridged and rough, and strong salty taste of his skin... magnificent---

He cried out sharply as she seized him--- and then, as her tongue began its exploration, he jerked forward, violently, so that suddenly his hips were pressed against her thigh---

"Oh!" She could feel him, feel the hard heat under his robes between his thighs. And the moment's fear she had of his arousal was joined by a dawning triumph. He wants me too. He feels this as much as I do. It's not just an exercise---

Oh, yes.

She turned to him, wanting to pull him to her, wanting to feel him close---

"No---" The word was a harsh croak from a voice that had been so soft and sweet a bare second ago. "Oh, Hermione--- what have I done?"

And then his arms were around her, but it wasn't a lover's embrace, not the soft enveloping warmth she'd wanted. He gathered her to his chest with a tender fierceness that spoke more of panic than desire, held her close against him and moaned.

"I should never have touched you. Not tonight," he croaked. "I was hardly in any condition to... to treat you with the respect you deserve. I was selfish, hideously selfish, thoughtless--- I had no right to subject you to my own wants---"

"No, no, it's all right." She got her arms around him, hugged him close to her and buried her face in his chest. "It felt wonderful--- it was just what I needed to get Draco off my skin."

He caught his breath a little, chuckled shakily. "At least I've done you a little good, then---"

"A great deal," she corrected, and did not elaborate, couldn't find the words to explain how good it felt to know that he wanted her. That she wasn't merely a responsibility, or even a favorite pupil--- that she wasn't alone in the fire that lit up her veins every time he touched her.

He said nothing, just held her in his arms, swaying back and forth slightly in a motion that was unexpectedly calming. She let herself relax against him, resting her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow back down even as hers did.

It was a long time before they had both calmed; and for a little space more he held her against him, gently now, one hand stroking her arm, the other kneading firmly at the sensitive spot in the small of her back. Only now the touch simply served to loosen knotted muscles, to relax her. She wanted nothing more than to stay here forever, holding him and being held. This was the first peaceful moment she'd had in some time; maybe since she'd cried herself out in his arms after the Dark Revel.

Or maybe since before that; since their experiments in the lab before Christmas. When they'd been only student and teacher....

Make up your mind, Granger! Which do you want? Bad as Weasley, really.

Or... was there a way to have both? Was that what it meant to be strega?

Only one way to find out, isn't there? Get to the eighth square.

Even as she thought it, he spoke, his voice muffled by her hair. "Better?"

"Excellent." She rested her hands on his chest, pushed away a little, remaining in the circle of his arm. "And you?"

His laugh was shaky. "I'll... survive." A hint of bitterness came into his eyes as he drew away from her. "That's... what I'm best at."

She didn't know what to say to that; as much as she wanted to know what was behind that bleak look, she wasn't sure she could handle another emotional outburst at the moment. She felt... rather like he looked: drained, and weary.

He moved a little away from her, toward his desk. "Is there--- anything I can do for you?" His voice shook slightly. "It would be the least I could do, after the way I've treated you tonight."

"Don't." She kept her voice steady with an effort, then, inspired by the thought of what Blaise would do given a similar offer--- "Though if you're feeling generous, the least I can do is take advantage of it."

Snape laughed--- still a little shaky, but much more his old self. "My cousin is corrupting you." He turned toward one of the chairs by the fire, gestured at the other in wordless invitation. She took it; much as a part of her wanted to cuddle with him again, she really wasn't sure she could handle more of that liquid heat in her bones. He sat across from her. "Whose idea was that little show tonight?"

"Well, Blaise was the one who decided we should do something about the way everyone was treating Harry," Hermione admitted--- and did he relax, just a little, at her words?--- "but both of us did the research, and spoke with Professor Vector---"

"So that's why she was so enthusiastic," Snape remarked dryly. "I'd wondered." He sat back and steepled his fingers. "And the others went along?"

Hermione shrugged. "We had a bit of work persuading Harry, but once he was in, nobody else was going to argue." A part of her mind wondered at his interest--- under most circumstances, Snape being interested in Harry was a Very Bad Thing. But--- "How much will you need to know?" she asked innocently, keeping her mischief under wraps with an effort. "To tell Voldemort what you made me do, I mean?"

He stared at her for a moment--- then chuckled, a deep soft surprised sound. "Child," he said wonderingly, "you never cease to amaze me."

A part of her bristled at the pet name--- how could he think of her as a child, after touching her, wanting her, as he'd done only a few moments ago?

Well maybe it was his way of reminding himself not to lose control. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

"All right---" his voice broke into her thoughts--- "seeing as you know what I'm after, tell me---"

And he hit her with a sequence of questions--- little details that she could almost see him embroidering into a tapestry of lies. She told him about designing the projector and working out their respective roles, about how Vector had helped Hermione and Blaise with the details.

When she'd finished, he was silent for a long moment, staring into the empty hearth, his fingers tapping together in a thoughtful rhythm. She couldn't help but watch; couldn't help but love the play of his hands together....

"Thank you." Again, he cut off her reverie. "This should be... quite sufficient." He scowled, but she sensed that it was directed at himself rather than her. "Though I can't forgive myself for not seeing sooner how this could work to our advantage---"

"Oh, of course," Hermione said sarcastically. "You were only startled out of your wits, thinking I'd betrayed you, and expected to be killed. Can't imagine why you wouldn't have been in perfect shape to reason out a complex plot---"

A smile toyed with the corners of his lips, but his answer was sharp. "I've been facing death since I was younger than you are, and plotting subterfuge the whole time. Surprise is no excuse--- and allowing it to be so can get one killed." He looked at her intently, his meaning clear.

Hermione refused to be intimidated. "Oh, I wasn't saying that I'd excuse it in myself," she said cheerfully. "Just in you--- and just this once."

He did not smile. "Would I could allow myself the same luxury." He stood, his expression softening slightly. "Hermione, there's something I've had in my keeping since... the holidays... something of yours, that I think... you should have back now."

Hermione frowned, puzzled, wondering what he could possibly have of hers.

"Wait here." He left the office, presumably going up to his room. After a moment, he was back, holding a small circular cloisonne box with gold trim. She regarded it curiously. "My mother's," he said, and did not elaborate. "But these---" he opened the box and, stepping close, turned it toward her--- "are yours."

Hermione looked into the box; there were perhaps half-a-dozen tightly curled brown strands of hair that couldn't belong to anyone but her--- encased in what looked like crystal. "You left these on my cloak that night," he said, with just a hint of gentle humor in his tone, "and I thought it bet to keep them safe for you."

"But why---"

"I should think your magical education had progressed more than far enough---" more than a hint of a bite in his tone--- "that you would understand why something as p--- potentially valuable---" slight stammer there; what had he been going to say?--- "should not be left lying about---"

"I know--- but why the crystal?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "Twice in one night; I'm slipping." Nothing of humor in what might have been a wry statement; they both knew he couldn't afford to let his guard down given that he was about to be summoned by the Dark Lord. "I did that so that none of them could--- get away from me; a further gesture of safe-keeping." He plucked the crystal out of the box, offered it to her. "And now I return them to you."

Hermione stared at the crystal in her hand, her mind whirling with the implications, both of his safeguarding her hairs in such a fashion--- and of his returning them to her, tonight. "Keep it," she said.

He stared at her. "Hermione---"

"No--- keep it, I mean it." She reached up and very deliberately wrapped her hand around his, curling his fingers around the little crystal, sending him the clearest message she could.

I trust you.

He stared at her, for once speechless. Then, visibly rallying himself, "No, Hermione. Not now--- it's not safe, not with what I'm going to have to do." He took her hand from his, turned it palm up, and pressed the crystal into it. "Keep them safe--- for both our sakes." She stared at him; it was as close as he'd come yet to a serious and rational admission that he had feelings for her. "And now, I think it's time that you went back to your dormitory---" His voice gentled. "It's quite late, after all, and I'm sure you need to rest."

She got to her feet reluctantly, not wanting to leave him. 'You said--- Voldemort would summon you---" He nodded, one eyebrow quirking in a question. "Would you like me to--- wait with you?"

For a moment, he regarded her in silent astonishment--- then forced a slight chuckle. "No--- I'll be fine by myself." They were at the door; he sobered. "You shouldn't feel you need to take care of me---" He looked grim, and so very sad. "That's one of the reasons I mustn't allow myself weakness, child---" He reached out, cupped her cheek in his hand. "Because you shouldn't have to take care of me. You shouldn't be subject to my--- emotional flaws---"

"I don't mind." She tipped her head back, thinking about the kind of power Blaise had, wishing she had it for herself. "It makes you human." She rested her hand on the doorframe. "And I'm glad."

They looked at each other for a long moment, then, her courage failing her at last, she ducked out the door.

*****

For a long moment, Snape stared after Hermione, too shaken inside to do anything else.

Dear Merlin, what had he done to the girl? To excoriate her so brutally--- Merlin's teeth, and with the dark bond between them! It was a miracle she hadn't crumpled at his feet. To say he was training her to be a queen was one thing, but that hadn't been the calculated cleverness of a teacher testing a student--- anything but. He'd lost control, had been so blinded by his own emotions that he'd not only failed to think of her needs, but to analyze the opportunities embedded in the situation! Stupid, thoughtless---

And then--- after....

Unbidden, his pulse began to race at the thought of her soft skin under his hands, the nearness of her body and those sweet soft little cries she'd made, the lazy delighted arching and twisting of her body under his hand. That pleasure hadn't been feigned, or even tainted with fear. She'd enjoyed his touch, wanted more from him---

And that was the worst thing of all. He couldn't allow himself to condition her in truth, no matter what lies he told Malfoy. He had no right to her---

Yet, dear Merlin, he could only wish he had. He hadn't been dissembling, much as it shamed him to admit it, when he'd told her he was possessive, selfish even. Not something he'd expected to find in himself; certainly he'd never felt that way about Ellen--- the mere thought was laughable!--- and there had never been anyone else to feel it for. Well, Claudia Teasdale, maybe, but she had been a child when he'd first met her--- and therefore off-limits; by the time they renewed their friendship she was already quite attached to William Weasley.

No, he hadn't known that about himself until Hermione had spoken of enjoying Malfoy's touch. The hot rage that surged through his veins had astonished him; only Sirius Black and Potter had ever managed to infuriate him to that extent.

It shouldn't surprise you, he mocked himself. After all, what else do you have in your life of any value?

That was the crux of it; the crux of his whole stupid weakness this night. Hermione was really all he had to care about---

Which made it all the more heinous that he'd treated her so callously.

He'd been weak--- weakened; by fear for his life--- another new emotion--- by the thought that Hermione had betrayed him, and most of all by the thought that she herself was at risk. It was cold comfort knowing that he would have stopped if she'd wanted him to--- because he knew that he could make her want him. She knew what he could do to her; it wasn't very likely that she'd refuse a chance for more.

No matter how she'd feel about it afterwards.

Thinking about that was his job--- and he'd abrogated that responsibility tonight.

He could only hope that fate would spare her too much damage from this night.

Not least because he couldn't be certain he'd be around to heal her.

Another wrinkle; he'd never cared much before if he lived or died. There simply hadn't been much to recommend life to him.

But now... someone needed him. Needed him, in particular. No substitutes possible.

Was that why you did it? Why you used the trick you did on Malfoy? Because you knew what you'd be to her?

Because he was tired of being alone.

He felt the tears prick at the edges of his eyes; despair bitter as their salt. How could he have let himself sink so low?

And he couldn't afford any more weakness. Not now, with his Dark Mark likely to burn at any moment. Couldn't afford it for Hermione's sake. He needed to rest--- he'd hardly eaten any dinner; he couldn't afford not to sleep.

That thought got him to his chambers; got him bathed and into bed.

But lying there in the darkness... it couldn't keep the tears back at last.

*****

The next day, Voldemort called him.

Hermione had come to Snape's office just after dinner--- to find him wearing a long dark cloak and holding a steely mask.

They looked at each other for a long moment; there was no need for words.

Then Hermione--- fighting an instinctive revulsion at the sight of the Death Eater garb--- went to him.

He stiffened in shock at her arms went around him; she had to fight not to recoil at the slippery smoothness of the cloth that felt like snakeskin.

"Don't." His voice was harsh. "Hermione--- I cannot bear it." He drew back from her; she stepped away, trying not to shiver at the rejection. "I'm sorry." Softer tone, but something hard underneath it and dangerous. "But I can not afford to--- accept that. Not now. Not when in a few moments I will stand before---"

"Don't say it." He opened his mouth, no doubt to reprove her for her weakness; she beat him to it. "You had your moment of weakness; let me have mine."

For a moment he seemed about to argue; then his eyes softened slightly. "You have a point--- fair enough." He drew the hood of the dark cloak over his head.

"May I--- may I wait up for you?" The words were out before she could censor them.

He smiled slightly, arrested in the act of putting on the mask. "It will likely do you little good," he cautioned. "These... affairs... can go on all night--- sometimes longer." Something must have shown on her face, for he stepped forward, brushed her cheek with his hand. "But I will send for you when I return---" his lip twisted--- "for one thing, Voldemort and his spies here will expect that." He did not elaborate, and she had to fight the guilty thrill that went through her at the thought of what else they would expect him to want of her. "Does that suffice?" The playfulness in his tone fell flat.

"It will have to, won't it?" She bit her lip, then added, "I won't insult you by telling you to take care."

"Thank you." The slight twist of his lips said that he understood her meaning. "Now, off with you--- to the library and more mischief with my cousin."

She forced the smile she knew he wanted, turned away so that she wouldn't have to see him wearing the mask.

Chapter 17: The Black King

You couldn't Apparate from Hogwarts, of course; one of the aspects of the place he found the most charming. It gave him a good excuse for any delay in arriving at the Dark Lord's side.

He took one of the school carriages down to Hogsmeade, fighting an eerie sense of deja vu as he remembered another night when he'd taken a carriage out of Hogwarts... to attend another such meeting. Drumming his fingers on the armrest of the carriage seat, he felt the old familiar pain surge through his arm anew. One of Voldemort's little tricks; an extra reminder if one of his Death Eaters didn't come when called.

Hard as he tried to make it otherwise, his thoughts kept going back to Hermione. Folly, when in a few minutes he would be facing the Dark Lord--- and he was already on thin ice in that quarter, tolerated only because he was more useful alive than dead.

Much as he was to Dumbledore.

And to Hermione? The thought shamed him. It should be irrelevant to him; it should be her well-being that concerned him and not her feelings for him. But he couldn't help but remember the defiant tenderness with which she'd come into his arms, a bare few moments ago---

No. He mustn't think of that; mustn't think of her with any affection, or even of her affection for him. Think of the night before, of hot shameful desire--- if you haven't the strength of will not to think of her at all..

The little speech had some calming effect on his nerves; he was able to make it the rest of the way to Hogsmeade without those weak incriminating thoughts creeping into his mind.

He got out at the outskirts of the village--- the last thing he needed was some curious or more likely terrified villager to see him in his Death Eater garb.

One of the powers of the Dark Mark was that it directed the Apparation of a wizard wearing it. Once the Dark Lord touched a Death Eater's Mark, the next time he--- or she--- Apparated, they'd show up at the Dark Lord's side, until such time as their Mark faded. Needless to say, that wasn't an unmixed blessing; he could almost spare a moment of pity for Igor Karkaroff, who'd been forced to flee using more mundane means.

Almost pity. At the moment, the predominant emotion in his heart was a desire to be wherever Karkaroff was--- if not somewhere safer. For one thing, if he'd fled when he first learned of the Dark Lord's return, Hermione never would have been hurt---

Stop it. You can't afford any thought that will mark you for what you are. Not tonight.

He steeled himself.

And Apparated.

*****

It was the cellar of a Malfoy estate again; this time, their manor in England. He checked a sigh of relief; the Dark Lord would likely have use Chateau Malfoy if he'd intended anything truly vile... unless, of course, that was what he wanted Severus to think.

It was dark in the room where he'd arrived, but he could see a sliver of light in one corner; as his eyes adjusted, he made out the line of a door.

Well, that was likely all the invitation he'd get. He went to the door, half-afraid that he'd simply been imprisoned. But, no, it opened with a touch, and he went into the next room.

His first thought was that this wasn't going to be quite as bad as he'd feared. There were only a handful of Death Eaters making up the circle before him: Lucius Malfoy, Patricia Parkinson, and Jeremiah Avery.

Then the circle parted to admit him, and thoughts of relief fled.

In the middle was a small thronelike chair. And in the chair was Voldemort.

As long as he'd served the Dark Lord or pretended to, he'd never gotten used to the red eyes and the reptilian appearance. Even had Snape been one of those fortunate souls who'd found some reason to love their lives, he'd not have wanted immortality at that cost!

There were precious few people who could look at him without disgust as it was.

It was impossible to tell the Dark Lord's mood from his face; the other three were watching him avidly.

Snape graced them with a familiar sneer. Come to watch me meet my downfall, have you? To his astonishment, Patricia Parkinson actually flushed as his eyes met hers--- though she didn't look away.

Voldemort's sinuous voice broke into his thoughts, commanding the attention of the room. "Come forward, my Death Eater."

Snape knew the ritual. He came to the edge of the circle, prostrated himself before the Dark Lord.

Silence for a long moment; he could not speak until Voldemort bade him rise. And the others were keeping their own counsel.

"Rise." He lifted his head, knelt back. "On your feet." He stood, taking a place in the circle opposite the Dark Lord, Parkinson and Avery to the left, in shadow, Lucius to his right, beside Voldemort.

"Lucius came to me with an interesting tale," the Dark Lord said in his sibilant voice. "Several interesting tales, actually.

"He told me that you had been... practicing your old skills, Severus," Voldemort looked up at him coolly. "That you were conditioning a Muggle girl to serve you as your spy on the Potter boy.... Very amusing, for one who seems to serve two masters to create a spy of his own...."

Snape remained silent; anything he said would only further damn him in Voldemort's eyes. And what would happen to Hermione if he were killed?

The Dark Lord, however, did not appear annoyed. "A rather ingenious use of your hidden talents... Ellen Wilkes would no doubt be pleased... she was your teacher in those arts, was she not?"

Snape bowed his head, fighting the blood rising to his face and the knot of sick in his stomach. "Yes, my lord."

"An excellent plan, yes.... And then Lucius came to me with another story, and Patricia with him... a story of your little spy, and Potter.... How Potter told his entire school of my return... how they all flocked to his side, even---" he glanced around at the others--- "the children of some of my faithful servants---"

Snape had the satisfaction of watching both Parkinson and Malfoy bite back protests; sour satisfaction, but it was something.

"They told me that your Muggle plaything had apparently managed to prevent the incrimination of the Death Eaters--- and of your traitorous self...." The Dark Lord paused, waiting for an answer.

Snape felt his knees go weak. "Yes, my lord---" he fought to keep form choking--- "It seemed an appropriate diversion, to say nothing of a means of convincing Potter that his little friend is still loyal to him---"

"A 'diversion' that had the unfortunate side effect of uniting the school, however briefly, and of informing those children--- and therefore at least some of their parents--- that I have returned." Voldemort's voice was still soft, and all the more terrible for it. "A 'diversion' that seems to serve the cause of that Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore far more than it does our own...."

"In the short term only." Severus hoped he didn't sound too desperate--- no more so than any Death Eater facing his Lord's displeasure might. "They are children only, they'll soon go back to their petty rivalries--- and in the long run, that girl can hand us Potter---"

"Yes... and his other friends.... Slytherin friends, or so Lucius and Patricia tell me...."

Snape thought fast. "A means of purifying Slytherin House, no more--- to weed out the Muggle-lovers and bring them forward, so that they can be destroyed along with Potter---"

"Very good, Severus.... You almost convince me." Snape's heart felt as if it had relocated into his stomach. The Dark Lord rose from his throne. "You almost convince me that you aren't playing both ends against the middle, making certain that you're in a position to slink off the field on the winning side. Almost." Voldemort was circling him, drawing ever nearer.

"And yet, turncoat or not... I still find you far too useful.... There are not many of my Death Eaters who could get as close to Dumbledore as you have, Severus... I suppose it requires a certain weakness on your part, a certain foolish sentiment, for even that old fool to believe in your... redemption...." He stopped, right in front of Severus. "And yet... I cannot allow such treachery to go unpunished...."

Severus knew what was coming, felt the bitter horror and the old familiar wretched resignation flood his bones....

"Crucio."

*****

It took a long moment for him to register that the pain had finally stopped; a longer moment before he dared hope that it would not begin again. His whole body was one solid knot of agony.

As from a great distance, he heard Voldemort's voice. "That is enough, I think.... you have already endured more than many... more than that fool Auror Longbottom and his wife... but then, you are a Death Eater, after all."

Ordinarily, Snape would have managed to produce a purely mental retort to that rhetoric. Right now, he could only curl on the cold stone and hope helplessly to be left in peace. Let me hide... let me crawl under my rock and lick my wounds....

"No, mere simple pain is not the answer," the Dark Lord said, and Snape's insides wrenched with panic. "No... I think another lesson...."

Whispering of robes on the floor; boots in front of his face. He tried not to cringe as Voldemort knelt beside him.

The Dark Lord took one of Severus' hands in his. "Yes...."

Snape fought a sob more of horror than of pain as hot pinpricks burned themselves into the joints of his knuckles, as little bloody dots showed themselves on each fingertip. He knew better than to beg... but this was the worst thing imaginable.

He'd always prided himself on the deftness of his touch, the dexterity of his hands. And now... oh gods, no....

"There." The Dark Lord dropped his hand abruptly and stood. "The next time... it will be both...." He looked down at Snape. "You will still have the use of your hand... it would not be in my interest to cripple you... but I will let you find your new... limitations... for yourself." He looked away. "I am certain that Patricia will be happy to assist you...."

Sound of Voldemort's footsteps moving away, a whispered, "Come, Lucius...." And then he was alone... with Patricia Parkinson and Jeremiah Avery.

More footsteps; then Avery was kneeling by his head. "Severus--- old friend---" the jocularity didn't fool him in the least, despite the pain-tremors still coursing through his body--- "Up to your old tricks, are you? Never could understand what Ellen saw in you---" His laugh was unpleasant. "Always did want to get under her robes---"

Snape forced a wheezy laugh, to make his next words sound more of a joke than they really were. "She had better sense than to let you near her---"

Avery's laugh was unpleasant. "Guess she wanted a nice young plaything--- you were what, thirteen?" He looked suddenly hungry. "And now you've got yourself a little Mudblood to play with--- why didn't you invite me along?"

"Conditioning." Severus managed to sit up. "The rest of you always did underestimate the power of pleasure."

"Well, I don't." Patricia Parkinson, on his other side, almost purring. "Come on, Severus... wouldn't you like to give a little... demonstration? For your friends?" She was quite close to him; he could smell the strong female musk rising off her.

Her voice sharpened. "And you heard what the Dark Lord said... wouldn't you like to know how much you can still do? Instead of---" scornful toss of her head--- "risking your conditioning of your little Mudblood? Wouldn't want to fumble there, would you?"

His stomach heaved as it finally penetrated his aching, befuddled wits what she was asking. "You want... that?" he asked, his voice rasping.

"Oh, yes---"

"Yeah." Avery's eyes were febrile. "Just like that night, remember, Sev? With that one piece---"

Oh, yes, Snape remembered. Remembered Avery's grunts as he savaged the woman that Snape had just finished interrogating--- "the power of pleasure" indeed; until that night, he'd considered it more merciful than using Crucio. Considered that it put him above rutting animals like Malfoy and Avery, who thought only of sating their own bloody lusts....

Remembered the bitter, nauseating realization that he was no better than they....

Under other circumstances he might have talked his way out of this, tonight--- a time when his wits didn't feel like trying to cup water with spread fingers, when every nerve in his body wasn't screaming for mercy and his heart didn't beat with an unaccustomed fear for himself that stemmed mostly from his fear for Hermione.

"All right," he said harshly. "If that's what you want."

Snape stretched Parkinson out on the floor and slowly unbuttoned her robes while Avery watched, avidly. He was very thorough--- more so, in a way, than he'd been with Hermione, certainly far rougher, far less concerned for the pain that the pleasure could bring.

And, at the end, when he had her screaming helplessly and pushing up under his hands in manic abandon--- he turned to Avery. "Finish her off," he said. "But make it quick--- none of your usual bloodletting---" he sneered down at Patricia, so lost in what his hands were doing that she probably didn't even hear him--- "I feel filthy enough just from touching her."

Avery snorted. "Don't worry--- wouldn't want her after me when she comes to---" And he came forward, hitching up his robes.

Snape rather thought it was the first time in Avery's life that he'd ever coupled with a woman who was in the throes of climax herself. Too much to hope he'd develop a taste for it.

At least his hands still worked properly, pain and all. Though he rather suspected he'd be emulating Lady Macbeth for the next month or so.

Some stains wouldn't come off.

Chapter 18: Bishop's Defense

It was well past midnight by the time Snape got back to Hogwarts.

Reaction had set in, the pain almost worse than it had been when he was actually under Voldemort's curse. Then, and for the rest of the evening, he'd had adrenaline to counteract the worst of it. Now that welcome cushioning was gone, leaving him shaken, weary, agonized, and most of all nauseated--- and that last wasn't wholly from pain.

Monster. Filth. Death Eater scum. Go hide under your rock. He imagined he could still smell Parkinson's scent on him--- disgusting sourness, god, how could Avery stand to---

How could he stand to, more to the point. How he could have done that.... Merlin's heart, but he felt filthy. Shaken.

At least he was home. At least he could crawl into his subterranean lair, like any other disgusting slimy thing....

The mark still burned on his arm--- red now, instead of black: he wasn't being called, just... reminded.

As if I need reminding. Not when every inch of his body was shot with a combination of sharp pains and dull throbbing aches.

That was the worst part of the Cruciatus Curse, he thought vaguely as the carriage came to a halt outside the doors of the castle. It got round all the body's defensive mechanisms, the little cutoff switches that muted pain when the body couldn't bear any more. It took years of practice--- rather like wild beasts learning to kill--- before one could use it to its limits, gauge a victim's reaction so precisely as to cause the maximum amount of pain without bringing madness....

Merlin's blood. At the moment madness would be a welcome alternative to being what he was.

He staggered out of the carriage, not sure his legs would hold him. He had to report to Dumbledore... but not now. He couldn't. Couldn't.

He managed, slowly, to stumble his way down to the dungeon--- were there always so many steps?

Stop sniveling, you little fool. The words came in his mother's voice. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't experienced the Cruciatus Curse before.

At least there was something his mother hadn't done to him, though. Not that the poisons hadn't hurt enough. But at least they had antidotes. He knew that much, only too well.

Well, there were treatments for the aftereffects of Crucio. Nothing that would work if it had already crippled your mind, but still. He knew those as well; had used them the last time he came back from a meeting with the Dark Lord.

Those thoughts carried him as far as his rooms, then left him with nothing for company but the pain.

Well, at least he could give into it now. He staggered into the bathroom, turned on the floodtap that would fill it almost instantly with blood-heat water. Best cure he could think of that didn't involve a second party. There were nerve-deadening potions he could use--- strong, strong painkillers--- but he was wary of those; highly addictive, and had some tendency to blunt the wits as well over the long term. Not what he needed.

There were a few things he could put in the bathwater, though, that would help. He shuffled to the cupboards, fumbled around--- his wits were too addled to remember his own organizational system....

There it--- he stopped, his gaze arrested by the black case lying next to the bottle of topical Numbness Potion.

Yes... a better cure for the ache inside by far....

The potion forgotten, he picked up the black case and made his way back to the now-full bath, slid into the water.

And opened the case.

There, lying on Slytherin-green velvet, was a bright, sharp, old-fashioned straight razor. The kind used in Muggle barbershops.

This one served a far more serious purpose.

He recalled, with a bitter pain, what he'd once told Claudia Teasdale. "Do it like a Slytherin--- with planning, and cleverness...."

She'd found her peace in adding a mark. He could only find his in removing it....

Or trying to.

He turned over his left arm, stared with loathing at the skull and serpent burning there.

Disgusting. He was disgusting. Maybe the reason he couldn't get rid of it was because deep down... he really wanted it.

Like he'd really wanted to do what Ellen had had him do... what he'd done to those Aurors... to Hermione... to Parkinson.

Hermione.

For your sake.

Or maybe he just hadn't cut deep enough.

He lifted the razor.

And began.

*****

Esmé was scared.

Severus hadn't even noticed her when he'd come back from the Dark Meeting. That wasn't like him. Not even the night of the last one. He'd just gone straight to the bathroom.

To.... She shivered all over, feeling her feathers puff up. She didn't like what he did on those nights. Humans weren't supposed to make cuts in themselves. But hers did. When he was upset. Dirty inside. As if the blood could wash away the taint.

He would come out soon, though. He always did.

Yes. He would tie up his wrist and come out to bed and drink one of his nasty potions and she would curl up on top of him and hiss him to sleep. He always did that. He would come out soon.

Wouldn't he?

But he didn't.

Esmé knew she'd earn a rebuke if she bothered him. But she had to see for herself.

She slithered into her skates--- so much easier to move about now, thanks to Hermione--- and made her way to the bathroom.

Severus was slumped in the bath, one arm hanging limply over the side. His razor--- not the everyday one he used for removing the night's growth of prickles on his face, but the special one--- was lying on the floor beside him.

He didn't look up at her entrance... and skates were noisy.

Esmé hissed in panic. "Sssssssssseverussssss!" No response. "Sssssssssssssseverussssssssss!"

Nothing. What was wrong with him?

Blood. A person could die if they lost too much. Esmé's feather's fluffed again. She skated over and put her tongue to his wrist.

There was a pulse... but it was faint, unsteady. He was dying.

Her person was dying. What could she do?

Esmé writhed in frustration, the skates making it hard to move....

The skates.

Hermione.

Severus wouldn't like this. But if she didn't do it, he wouldn't be around not to like it.

Esmé set off for Gryffindor Tower as fast as her skates could carry her.

*****

Despite Severus' reassurances, Hermione hadn't been able to sleep. She'd simply curled up in a chair with one of the books he'd lent her, deciding that if she was going to be awake, she might as well put the time to good use.

So she was still up when Esmé came sneaking into her room--- led by Crookshanks, who was clearly responsible for getting her in.

"What is it?" she asked the quetxal, her nerves knotting up. "Is Severus---"

"Come quickly!" the quetxal wailed. "Sssssseverussssss issss hurt!"

Hermione was out of her chair so fast she might have Apparated. "What--- did the Death Eaters--- did the Dark Lord---"

The quetxal hissed. "Not eksssssssactly...."

Hermione didn't care. "Where is he?" She was stuffing her feet into her slippers and grabbing her Concealment Cloak from under her pillow and her wand from the bedside table as she spoke.

"Hisssss roomsssssss."

Hermione took off as fast as she could, leaving the pets behind.