Chapter 19: Pawn's Move Forward

A/N: The hurt-hands-as-Snape-torture thing comes from "The Pied Piper" by Vic (one of my betas) which is posted on Snapefans. Used with her permission--- we beta each other, nuff said.

For those who asked: Lady Macbeth, after killing King Duncan, went around washing her hands--- "Out, out, damned spot!"--- trying to get the blood off even though it was no longer really there. Guilt complex, basically.

The hand-thing and Severus being a little clueless without Hermione's help are vague references to the "Kanon"--- Laurie R. King's "Mary Russell" Sherlock Holmes pastiches.

The backrub-avec-"blissful"-expression scene is also to be found in a truly wonderful scene in "If We Survive" by R.J. Anderson--- go read it and see for yourself, hint-hint--- and tell her Riley sent you so she'll know I love her. >GRIN< Used with permission.

And--- the first of many such notes!!! From here on in, we start seeing more of Claudia Teasdale's Sordid Past. The dear girl bears what some may consider a striking resemblance to J.L. Matthews' Caitlin Tyler in her fabulous "Slytherin Rising" series--- a Psychotic Female Auror with a Severus Fixation. That said, the great Ms. Matthews and I have conferred and decided that Claws' background doesn't bear that much similarity to Caitlin's--- but, Psychotic Female Auror with Severus Fixation, okay, looks similar, and hey, I'm always happy to plug Slytherin Rising! And, well, Claws and Caitlin are similar creatures, even if they got that way VERY differently. (For one thing, and I will go ahead and indulge in a spoiler, since you never would have thought this if I hadn't mentioned Slytherin Rising, Claudia's "bete noir" is a very different individual from Caitlin's.... hint, hint.) So, yet another story for you all to read, though most of you likely already will have done, seeing as how it's Slythie Snapefic....

Also, Hermione's idea of Severus' life as a Death Eater (wrong in this case, might I add) was inspired by Sphinx's "Letter from Exile One Merciful Morning". Also used with permission. And, oh frabjous day! The great and glorious Sphinx is continuing her "A Decoding of the Heart"! My cup runneth over--- all of you, go read, review, tell her Riley sent you... >GRIN<

******

It seemed to take ages to get down to the dungeons; Hermione just counted herself fortunate that Severus had told her how to get into his office weeks ago.

The same wasn't true of his bedroom--- but he'd left the passageway wide open. Not a good sign.

She closed the door behind her as she ran, only belatedly realizing that if he'd closed the inner door she was trapped. Well, Esmé would just have to get her out.

Fortunately, the inner door was as carelessly open as the outer; she let herself in with a soft inquiry. "Severus?"

No answer. She came the rest of the way into the room, closing the door as she went. "Severus?"

Still nothing. The room was dim except for the salamander under Esmé's basket--- but there was a little light coming from the bathroom. Flickering candles, normally so soft and soothing, set her heart to pounding under the circumstances.

Hesitantly, she padded toward the light. "Severus?" At the doorway, she paused, indulging in a last, hopeful knock. "Severus?"

No answer. She stepped into the room.

And nearly screamed.

Severus was lying, unconscious, in the tub. The water was red. And there was what looked like an old-fashioned straight razor on the floor next to him.

She did drop her wand, the beam of light flashing crazily across the floor. "Severus... oh, God---" the old outcry of her Muggle childhood coming back to her--- "No---"

She hurried forward, appalled. Had he tried to kill himself? That was the only explanation she could think of....

A sound from the doorway made her turn. It was Crookshanks, with Esmé literally in tow: the quetxal had saved time by letting the faster cat pull her on her skates. "What--- why---"

"He doessss it every time he comessssss back from ssssssuch a meeting," the quetxal said sadly.

"What? You mean he tries to kill himself?" The thought appalled her.

The quetxal shook her head. "Not kill, no... but cut...." She looked at Severus, and while a feathered snake couldn't manage much in the way of facial expressions, Esmé looked sad. "Thisssss isssss the worssssssst I have ever ssssssseen him do. He hasssss never lossssssst conscioussssssnesssss before."

Hermione felt her hands shake as she went to Snape's side, knelt and took hold of his thin wrist. There was a pulse there, but very faint, erratic.

Fortunately the water was scalding hot; it had prevented him slipping into shock. But that same hot water was likely dilating his blood vessels.

First thing first: get the bleeding stopped. She found the cut on the other wrist, reached for her wand---

Which promptly came into her hand. "Thanks, Crookshanks." The kneazle-cat mewed and butted Snape's uninjured arm as if urging him to wake up.

Hermione tapped Snape's wrist, murmured a healing charm--- safe enough, as it had been soaking in that near-boiling water; if that cut wasn't clean, nothing was.

Now for the larger concerns--- like restoring the lost blood supply. And getting him out of the bloodied water.

She remembered reading about the Ensanguinus Charm during one of her marathon library binges--- but she also remembered Madam Pomfrey telling her it was very dangerous to do without training. You could easily burst a person's veins by increasing their blood supply too greatly. But there wasn't time to get someone else--- and besides, she didn't know how many people knew about Snape being a Death Eater.... Getting the Headmaster, assuming she could get to the Headmaster, was an option, but it would take time... which Severus didn't seem to have.

"Esmé?" The quetxal came forward. "D'you know how full he'd have filled the tub?"

Esmé slithered free of her skates and snaked her way up Hermione's leg. "About--- three inchessssss from the top."

Hermione gauged the current water level--- and blanched. Well, there wasn't any question of bursting his veins with the charm at least. "All right, feathers--- give me a little breathing room." Esmé obligingly slid down off her shoulders and back to the floor.

Hermione took a deep breath. Took Snape's wrist in her hand again. Pointed her wand at his heart. "Ensanguinus."

And waited. Felt his pulse steady under her fingers and some of the color return to his waxy face. She counted his pulse beats; when she was getting something like a reasonable rate, she murmured, "Finite Incantatum."

He looked... well, better. She'd done the most she could for the immediate problem. Now the next step: getting him out of the tub and somewhere warm--- and clean. Waking up in a pool of your own blood was something she'd only wish on the Malfoys.

But it presented a certain... logistical problem. For the first time since she'd come to his rooms tonight, Hermione registered consciously the fact that Severus was naked.

Well, it wasn't like he was in any position to protest, she told herself. And besides, fair was fair, and he'd already seen her.

She found the tub's recycling system--- strange he hadn't used it himself; she wouldn't have thought he'd have wanted to sit in bloodied water--- but then, she'd never imagined him cutting himself either....

The tub's filtering system did its work, and soon he and the water were both clean. Now for the next step.

"Mobilicorpus!" Severus's unconscious form rose from the water.

And, despite the seriousness of the situation, Hermione couldn't resist satisfying a certain curiosity.

No, he wasn't much to look at, by most people's standards. Thin verging on scrawny, with only the slightest dusting of black hair on his pale chest--- and elsewhere.... He wasn't much in that department either.

So why did she feel a strange sort of tingle starting deep inside her when she looked at him?

She smothered the thought. Stop it, Granger, this is serious, you're going to do him worse damage if you just stand there....

There were several towels, in an odd black-and-white check that reminded her of a chessboard, draped over the chains hanging in the bathroom--- that was the first time she'd noticed the decor, and she didn't spare a thought for it now. She simply Summoned a towel and used a Moving Charm to dry him off, then got it wrapped around his waist with a Holding Spell. One source of distraction removed.

She used Mobilicorpus to get him into the bedroom, pulled back the covers and got him into bed using a combination of the spell and sheer manhandling--- and tried to ignore the warm tingle that touching him sent through her.

She got him tucked under the blankets; she was surprised to see a warm thick down comforter on the bed--- she'd thought him more the rough wool blanket type. Well, at least he had a little sense.

But she wasn't sure the blanket would be enough. Briefly, she entertained the tantalizing and just slightly frightening thought of crawling under the blankets with him--- then dismissed it in favor of something more practical. "Esmé?"

"Here," said a voice at her ankle, and she jumped--- then jumped again to find Esmé half-draped over Crookshanks, who'd clearly carried her out of the bathroom. No wonder she'd managed to move so silently--- though that was a heavy weight for her cat!

"You startled me," she reproved gently, then asked, "Does Severus have any extra blankets around here?" It would be like him not to....

Esmé jerked her chin over at the wardrobe in the corner. "On top."

"Accio blankets!" Hermione turned back to Severus, one hand outstretched absently---

You know, I really don't think I can take any more shocks tonight. Because the blanket that came into her hand was furry.

"Hisssss mother'sssssss decor--- like the towelsssssss," Esmé explained at Hermione's little squeal of surprise. "Sssssseverusssss hatesssss them, ssssssso he only usssssessss the quilt--- he issss too lazsssssy to get othersssss."

"Well, like it or not, fur is what he's going to get tonight." Hermione took the furry blankets and threw them over Snape, tucked them around his still-unconscious form.

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him thoughtfully. Really, there wasn't much else she could do for him until he woke up--- except keep him company.

She stretched herself out beside him and pressed against the lump of his body under the heavy covers. Tucked her head against his shoulder, feeling the bulk of him and the sense that for once, he needed her. Oh, this is lovely....

She started to drift herself--- then jolted into wakefulness: there was one other thing, though Esmé could do it as well as she. "Esmé? Could you and Crookshanks see if there's any Pepper-Up Potion in Severus' office--- or the classroom? And if there's not, could you start bringing in the ingredients down here---"

"No," said a hoarse voice, and Hermione started upright guiltily, to find herself looking down into Snape's dark eyes.

The usual glint was dulled, but there was a hint of humor about his gaze as he said thickly, "I don't brew potions down here--- makes a mess---"

"If you were brewing the potion, I'd accept your terms," Hermione said calmly, recovering herself as quickly as possible. "But since I have to keep an eye on both you and it---"

"Nonsense--- for one thing, there's a perfectly good supply of Pepper-up Potion in my office. And for another, it is definitely not indicated for my present condition."

"Which would be?" Hermione challenged. "Madam Pomfrey told me Pepper-up Potion was a good palliative for exsanguination."

Snape coughed suddenly, turning to one side and dry-heaving. Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder in alarm; he twitched with more violence than was warranted for a simple touch-me-not.

Then he looked back at her, his eyes dull and febrile. "Surely Professor Figg, or Professor Moody--- excuse me, Professor Crouch---" his lips curled wryly--- "would have taught you how to recognize the side effects of the Cruciatus Curse?"

Hermione caught her breath, managed not to squeak. From some cold part of her she hadn't known she had, she managed a response. "Cruciatus, yes. Cruciatus combined with major blood loss, no." She looked at him, fighting a combination of anger and a desperate fear for him that left her aching inside. "What exactly were you doing to yourself, by the way?"

For a moment, his eyes snapped with their trademark glitter--- then he subsided. "A ritual of mine," he managed. "Trying to remove--- this---"

He held up his left arm--- the arm with the cut--- so that she could see where the bright red Dark Mark was still just barely visible. "Oh---" She reached out, almost automatically, to touch it.

He yanked his wrist back, angrily. "Don't--- I won't have you sully yourself by contact with that---"

She withdrew her hand, wondering what he must think of himself in that case... then deciding that, given the circumstances, she already knew. "You said a 'ritual'," she asked after a moment. "I take it that it doesn't come off, then?"

"No, child, it doesn't." He sighed deeply, bitterly. "'Some spots never come off'... no...."

He trailed off, looking miserable; she felt compelled to break the silence. "What happened? At the... the meeting, I mean."

"Don't ask." He rolled over, wincing at every movement, and she felt her heart go out to him. After a moment, he relented. "The Dark Lord... wasn't pleased. But I'm still more useful to him alive than dead--- hasn't got another operative who could get this close to Dumbledore." He shuddered, convulsively; the shudder turned into a series of pain-wracked shivers.

"They say Aveda Kedavra's the worst of the Unforgivable Curses," Snape whispered harshly. "But I'd put Crucio above it any time." He coughed. "You think I'd be used to it by now...."

She shivered at the misery in his voice... and a memory for last year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class came to her. "Here---" she tugged gently at the blankets. "Turn over--- on your stomach."

"What---" He rolled back toward her, looked up at her warily.

"We did learn some things in Defense Against the Dark Arts." She added a teasing note. "Or didn't Professor Figg ever teach you any of the non-chemical palliatives for the Cruciatus Curse?"

For a moment, Snape was silent, then he gave a dry laugh. "How in Merlin's name did Crouch--- or Figg--- get away with teaching you that?"

"We had a golem that we worked on in class. Professor Moody--- or Crouch, more to the point--- said we could practice on each other outside of class but he wasn't going to be responsible to our parents."

"I imagine not." Silence for a long moment, then Snape choked softly. "You don't have to---"

"I know that." She tugged at the blankets. "C'mon. Just let me help you."

He shivered, his eyes closed... then, slowly, almost resignedly, rolled onto his stomach.

She wriggled the covers off him, exposing his back; he shivered slightly at the cold air, and she murmured a Warming Charm. "I don't know why you don't use magic to heat this place---"

"The Warming Charms all dehumidify the air to the point it's unbreathable, if they're used too long." Snape's tone was impatient. "Well, are you going to?"

"Oh, yes---" It was just that the thought of touching him again, and in such a deliciously intimate, if wholly innocent, way sent warm tingles all through her body.

She pushed the tingles away, concentrated on remembering the charms that went with the movements. Cruciatus worked on the nervous system; you had to send little jolts through the nerves, canceling the negative stimulation--- and, if possible, encouraging endorphin production, which the curse also cut off. She shook out her hands, flexed them. "Ready?"

"If you insist." Something guarded in his tone that she wondered at.

She took a deep breath.

And began.

At first she could concentrate on what she was doing--- it was a very complex set of spells--- and ignore who she was doing it to. You had to rub right down the spinal column--- little light finger-touches in soft gentle circles like a massage--- all the while sending the slight jolts of energy into the spine that would slowly filter into the rest of the nerve endings.

Yes, at first, that was enough to keep her concentration. Then she found a rhythm of kneading and "zapping", an elegant pattern that took little thought... and her mind and more importantly her body remembered just who she was touching.

His skin was lovely, smooth and just the slightest bit soft; oily, yes, even after a thorough bath--- so much for the nasty comments about his hygiene! It must just be the way his skin was. He was nothing but skin over bones and the sort of lean muscle you didn't expect to find on a man who spent most of his life indoors at a desk, but she'd felt the strength of his arms once or twice and wasn't too surprised. His skin smelled very good to her--- that harsh soap-scent mostly replaced by a musk that clung in the back of her throat and just the slightest copper-tang of blood.

She worked her hands methodically up and down his spine, feeling him relax all over as the relief of pain finally registered... and wondered, suddenly, if he'd liked touching her.

Because she liked doing this. Liked the slight movements of his body in time to her touch, liked the feel of him under hands, wanted the taste of him--- suddenly wanted very much to bend down and run her tongue around the curve of his ear. Wanted to nip lightly at the curve of his shoulder and trail her mouth down the path her hands had made....

Her ruminations were at once disrupted and intensified as he gave a harsh gasp. "Oh.... Oh...."

"What is it?" That had sounded like pleasure, but she couldn't be sure, and she very much didn't want to hurt him. He'd been hurt so much already... and it was very much a matter of pride, suddenly, to make him feel good or at least take away his pain.

"That's... incredible." His face was turned away from her, but she had the impression of an almost blissful look of relief, just from the drifting tone of his voice.

Silence for a moment, while she continued rubbing his spine. Then, softly, "Hermione... do you know, this is the first time in... years... that anyone's come so close to me?"

She caught her breath, wondering which and how many of the several senses of "close" he meant. "What do you mean?"

"No one... no one has ever... done anything like this for me." Harsh laugh. "No one ever wanted to touch me--- Mother saw to that."

Hermione almost stopped rubbing, in shock; something warned her that would be a Very Bad Idea. She couldn't think of anything to say, besides the obvious question.

Which, as it turned out, wasn't necessary. "She used to put poison in my food, at mealtimes, you know--- poison me and then sit back while I tried to figure out what she'd given me. Sometimes I'd have to make the antidote myself too, before I succumbed... I never knew which it would be... never knew if she'd even do it at all." Sharp unhappy laugh. "That's why my hair's like it is, and my skin--- the poisons even stained my teeth. I can't go out in the sun, do you know?--- I burn after only a few minutes--- unless I dose my skin with various concoctions, all of which only make it appear even oilier." He lapsed into a dismal silence.

"Isn't there--- anything you can do?" Not that Hermione cared one way or the other about his looks, but he seemed so miserable about it....

"Six months at St. Mungo's," he said. "Detoxification. Expensive and likely rather painful." Another of those bitter laughs. "And for what? So that people can get close enough to be repulsed by what's in my heart, instead of my appearance?"

Hermione couldn't contain a little squeal. "I don't think you're horrible--- in any respect."

"You haven't gotten to know me." It was said with an air of bleak finality. "Not that anyone would want to."

"And why not?" She was torn between wanting to slap him for his maddening self-loathing... and to lean down and cuddle up against him. She wasn't sure that either reaction would do any good.

"Haven't you been listening?" A little of the old sharpness in his tone. "My own mother poisoned me--- regularly. Or rather, irregularly but frequently."

"Where was your father? Why didn't he stop her?" The question came out before she could think about it.

"You see?" he asked dryly. She didn't. "I don't know, to be honest. I've never figured out why he let her... let her do so much... why it took him nine years to finally stand up to her where I was concerned." Hollow little choking sound. "I suppose it didn't seem very important to him--- not until the time I refused to play."

"To play?" Several possible meaning flashed through her mine, none of them good.

"Mother's little game with the poisons. One night at dinner--- I felt it starting to work--- alsepenia, a rather simple one to counteract, really--- and... something in me snapped, I suppose. I was just too tired. Tired of it all. So..." he sighed. "I just put my head down on the table and closed my eyes and waited.

"I remember hearing Mother hiss at me to get up, to act like an adult, and then, after a few minutes, Father said... something, I don't know what.... The next thing I knew, I was awake in my bed. I suppose Father must have made Mother give me the antidote, or done it himself." Mirthless little choke. "They couldn't have any more children, you see. I suppose Father decided I was better than nothing."

"What--- what do you mean?" Hermione couldn't quite process the enormity of what he was telling her. She could only listen in silence and promise herself that she'd try to sort it out later.

"Don't you see?" he whispered. "My own parents... Mother---" violent shudder, all over--- "I never could figure her out, you know. Never could figure out what would... make her happy with me. Sometimes something would get a smile out of her, other days the same exact thing would earn a rebuke. And believe me, I tried to find a pattern." Mirthless laugh. "She was pleased, I suppose, with my brains--- liked to show me off to her students: a six-year-old who could make better potions than they. I was good at it." Defensive note on the last words, as if he expected to be contradicted.

Hermione felt tears pricking her eyes. Poor Severus.

"She taught me curses too, you know, Dark magic, the sort of things in Esmeralda's books--- I actually learned a great deal from her. I don't think Father approved but then, there wasn't any way to tell. He spent most of his time up in his study--- away from... us." Unspoken, but quite audible to Hermione: away from me. "I used to sneak up there, some nights. We'd talk for a moment or two. Nothing much, really--- funny how I can remember every word---" he choked. "Then Mother would find me--- I swear, she must have had a Location Spell on me--- and drag me off to bed. Father---" another little gasp--- "never said a word. Never tried to stop her.

"He used to read to me at night, when I was very small. All sorts of things--- history, magic, even some philosophy. I remember most of it, isn't that odd? A four-year-old, remembering Plato. Odd thing to read to a child, I suppose, but it was what Father read. I didn't mind." Little shiver. "Mother stopped it when I was about four--- said I was too old for bedtime stories. Father... didn't argue. He never argued with her, but once, when he got me sent to Hogwarts."

"At least he did something for you," Hermione ventured, secretly appalled at the way Severus' family had treated him. But she wasn't sure he'd believe her if she said so. Wasn't sure how to express the shock and disgust without making him think it was directed at him.

Snape snorted. "Something... do you know, sometimes I wish he'd let me rot at Durmstrang?" A laugh that turned into a sob. "At least there... at least there I wouldn't have known the difference."

"Difference?"

"Between me and... everyone else. Between being used--- or useful--- and having someone...." It was almost a whisper. "Like you.

"You wanted to know why I hated James Potter?" He tuned his head to look at her; she wasn't surprised to see tears on the sallow cheeks and had to fight the sudden mad urge to kiss them away.

His lip curled. "That's why I hated him. Because he and his precious little group... they... had each other. I didn't understand at first, you know. I thought they'd simply found a use for one another. Black and Potter, they were both the type that attracts admirers--- they'd have been at each other's throats; I assumed they'd decided it was more convenient to be friends. Lupin--- an outcast---"

He didn't say it, perhaps couldn't, but Hermione, with a sudden flash of insight, thought that Severus and Professor Lupin might have a good bit in common.

"And Pettigrew--- no mystery there; a waste of space if he hadn't managed to latch on to Black and Potter. I thought that's all it was.

"I used to watch them, you know--- to try to figure out what they had, that made people like them so easily. Merlin knows how I figured it out... it took a while to realize.... But watching them together... it wasn't like the Outsiders."

"The Outsiders?" Hermione couldn't resist the question.

"The Outsiders--- our... group, I suppose. Six of us, Slytherins, on the outside of Lucius Malfoy's little Quidditch-playing set, for one reason or another. Rosier's family---" Hermione started at the name familiar to her from Sirius Black's recitation last year--- "was too poor; he was always talking about money---" Like Ron, Hermione thought with a shock.

"Kendrick and Lestrange--- nothing 'wrong' with them--- except they were a couple from the day they arrived at Hogwarts; that's not fashionable in Slytherin, you know. Falling in love is rather frowned upon." Hermione couldn't help but think of Blaise and Florian, then decided that they were both probably "outsiders" themselves anyway.

"Avery--- he was twisted, made Malfoy look like a gentleman, in point of fact, a pervert even by Slytherin standards and let me tell you that takes work." Hermione could well imagine.

"And Ellen--- Ellen Wilkes---" he choked. "I suppose she just didn't want to play the games... at least, not with anyone who might beat her at them---" He broke off; Hermione wondered at this sudden expression of pain, but before she could ask, he went on.

"And me. A prodigy, I suppose. I came here at nine--- I'd thought Father had sent me off just to get me away from Mother, but it turned out the work was easy for me, even being two years younger than the rest. The other Outsiders were quick to spot me: I was useful to them. I could figure things out, I'd do their work for them, leave them time for... other pursuits...." Another little gasp. "In return, I had... a place. People who'd let me... be with them. It was... more than I'd ever expected.

"Until I saw Black and Potter and the others... until I found out there were some people who didn't have to buy their way into friendship."

He turned his head into the pillow so that his next words were muffled, but she could still hear the anguished cry. "I always wondered what was wrong with me."

Hermione started--- though her hands kept up with the motions that by now had become automatic; she sensed on some level that it was her touch that had made him able to talk, that if she stopped, he would as well--- and that he needed very much to go on. "I don't think there's anything the matter with you---"

"Ha!" It was a vicious snort. He turned to the side, half-pushing himself up. "You don't know me--- not at all."

He sank back wearily onto the pillows, staring balefully up at her. "That night we were in Malfoy's dungeon--- you think that was the first time I'd ever done that to a woman?"

Hermione gathered herself against the shock. "Logically, I've been forced to assume that practice did in your case make perfect---"

"Perfect! Ha! Do you know what I used... that... for? Do you?"

Again, she managed to calm herself against the sting that she suspected was meant more for himself than for her. "Conditioning, I assume, like you did to me."

He made an odd little noise in his throat. "You give me more credit for skill than I deserve." His eyes closed, then opened again, looking up at her sadly. "No... I used it for interrogation. An interesting alternative to the Cruciatus Curse, don't you think? The promise of pleasure as a reward rather than the relief of pain?

"It was... highly effective with female Aurors; it got so that when we had one in captivity, the others would always hand her over to me for... extraction of information. Quite a spectator sport."

Hermione felt her insides heave at the notion. Intellectually, she'd known what it meant that he'd been a Death Eater--- but somehow, she'd always pictured him in a secret laboratory somewhere, making poisons--- symbolic, she realized, of her unconscious belief--- or desire to believe--- that his involvement with the Dark had been purely out of intellectual curiosity. That, perhaps, he'd left once he realized to what use his gifts were being put....

But now--- she fought an instinctive urge to pull away from him, to run--- but made herself stay. Whatever he'd done in the past, he'd saved her; he deserved a little consideration from her in response. And the Headmaster trusted him.

"Of course, it had some side effects that Cruciatus didn't," he continued inexorably. "The shame they felt when it was over and they realized what they'd done, how they'd betrayed their comrades under my hands---" His voice dropped to a whisper. "That's why I usually killed them after...."

If Hermione thought she'd wanted to be sick before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. She fought the shivers all over her body, concentrated on keeping her hands steady on his back. It wasn't a question now, of what he needed to tell... but of what she needed to hear. A queen--- strega--- should know the worst. "It... it was better than using Cruciatus on them, wasn't it?" she managed; that much, at least, she was fairly certain of.

Snape's smile was bitter. "That's what I told myself. That it was at least a more enjoyable death than the one they otherwise faced...." His voice dropped to a whisper. "That I was at least better than my... compatriots. Filthy rapists, they were--- I could coax pleasure out of a woman's body, even under those circumstances---"

Now the shivers that wanted to wrack Hermione's body were of a different type altogether... because she remembered just what he could do. And she had no trouble understanding how a woman would gladly give up every secret she had in exchange for more.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Avery." He said it like a curse. "I told you he was a pervert--- well, one night, when I'd finished my... interrogation, he stopped me before I could use Aveda Kedavra on my captive. 'Why should you have all the fun, Sev?'

"My brain froze--- or at least, I'd like to think it did. I... I didn't want to let him, I knew what he was like--- but there were half-a-dozen others there, egging him on--- as I said, a spectator sport--- and there was nothing I could say that would make any difference, except perhaps to earn me a dose of Cruciatus for my weakness.

"He pushed me aside and... and got on top of her...." Snape made a sound like dry-heaving; any disgust she'd had for him began to melt.

"I... I watched him. The others would have wondered if I left in the middle... but really, it was more that I couldn't move.

"It... it was appalling. I'd heard about Avery's... tastes... but I'd never seen what he liked to do---" another heaving shudder. "Do you know... she looked at me... the whole time... just looked at me. Like I'd betrayed her. Which, after all, I had.

"That was when it hit home for me. What the Death Eaters were, what I was. That I, for all my pretensions--- not just about the nature of my pleasures, mind; I'd built a whole paper castle for myself about the glories of the Dark Arts, deceived myself that the true face of the Death Eaters lay in the search for knowledge that the cowards and fools had forbidden us.

"But I realized that night that the 'true' face of the Death Eaters was no more than what I saw before me: shallow, petty, selfish gratification of base desires. That I was no better than they. Just another pervert, another twisted monster, the only difference being that my pleasures didn't have to leave the victim a crippled mess. Just dead.

"I made it through the rest of the night, somehow---and as soon as I was alone, I went straight to Hogwarts. To Dumbledore.

"I didn't do it out of cowardice--- I just thought he was more likely to hear everything I had to say before he gave me to the dementors. And he did.

"I fully expected him to dispose of me, one way or another. But instead, he offered me the chance... to be useful." Soft, lost sob. "Again.

"The Ministry, of course, didn't see things in quite that light. They put me in Azkaban---"

Hermione couldn't smother her gasp this time. Snape looked up at her, smiled slightly.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad. You see---" little laugh that choked off pathetically--- "by that point, I didn't have any happy thoughts any more." This time, the mirthless laughter made its way out. "Poor food for the dementors, I was--- they left me mostly alone.

"Dumbledore told me later that my reaction was what he used to convince the Ministry of my value--- that one of Voldemort's supporters wouldn't have been so thoroughly disgusted with himself and his life that even Azkaban couldn't further depress him.

"They let me out--- and the rest you know, more or less." He fell silent for a moment, then looked back up at her. "That's what kind of man I am, Hermione. That's the man you're sitting so trustingly close to." He turned his face into the pillow. "I wouldn't blame you if you bolted this instant--- you'd be wise to, in fact."

Hermione took a deep breath, and waited for the tremors in her guts to calm down. She'd listened to the last of the story in a kind of veiled horror.

Unlike the Ministry, though, it hadn't taken Severus' time in Azkaban to convince her.

She let her hands ease on his back into a long slow stroke, brought them to rest in that sensitive spot at the small of his back. "Why would I want to run?" she asked, her voice as genuinely puzzled as she could make it. "Why would I run from a man whose worst acts were kindness itself compared to those of his fellows? Why would I run from someone who had the strength of character to realize his mistakes and the courage to try to correct them--- not to mention the cunning to actually succeed?"

She lowered her voice and bent to whisper in his ear. "How could I respect myself if I ran?"

He shivered all over at that. Hermione debated, then decided against any mention of his time in Azkaban. He might deserve pity, but he didn't need it.

For a moment, there was silence except for the sound of their breathing. Then Snape gave a soft gasping laugh. "Oh, Hermione--- you're so young yet---" she bristled--- "to so easily think the best of me, to be so easily swayed---"

"And Albus Dumbledore's older than the two of us put together, even twice over, so that's no good," she said briskly, sitting up. "But if you'd rather wallow in guilt, don't let me stop you."

Another long silence... then his shoulders shook, and after a moment's concern, she realized that he was laughing.

"You are... a marvel," he gasped out. "A true marvel... Claudia Teasdale herself wouldn't have managed that one...." He chuckled a moment longer, then lapsed into silence for a moment.

"Hermione." His voice was the steadiest it had been all night, more like his old self. "I had no right to inflict such a confidence on you---"

"I'm glad you did." She hadn't even begun to sort out the meaning of all of it yet, but she was certain that in balance, it reflected to Snape's credit, if admittedly not unreservedly so.

"Irrelevant. You have enough on your mind--- enough that I put there---"

"And I'm glad of it." Glad to see that you're human. That you can be weak too. The thought startled her... but there was no denying the trust of it.

He shook his head slightly. "I'm too tired to argue...." He turned his head to look up at her again. "But you have done me a very great service tonight--- in more ways than one." Soft sigh, then, "And now, you'd best go up to bed--- you've had a long night."

Hermione started to obey him--- then stopped. No. She couldn't sort out her reaction--- except that something had changed between them tonight, changed irrevocably, and that when they were alone, she would no longer be merely his student. "No," she said resolutely. "I'm staying right here with you." Her tone brooked no argument.

"Hermione---" Snape tried to raise himself on his arms. She pushed him back down onto the bed.

"You said you were too tired to argue--- so don't. I'm staying here with you, and that's final." She began drawing the blankets up over him again, the Warming Charm having worn off. "I've got the Concealment Cloak and Crookshanks to get me back into Gryffindor Tower in the morning, so don't tell me about curfew. And tomorrow--- or rather today, it's morning already--- is Sunday, so I can afford to sleep in."

Severus glared up at her for a moment--- then surrendered. "All right--- I'm too tired to throw you out of here bodily, with magic or muscle." He looked around. "But this place is hardly set up for visitors--- where you think you're going to sleep?" He said it with the air of a man playing a trump card.

But Hermione had the ace. "Right here." She kicked off her slippers and stretched out on the bed beside him, nestling her head into the hollow between his shoulderblades and burrowing under one of the warm fur blankets--- not next to his bare body, leaving the other blankets and the quilt for mutual modesty. He made a startled noise at her touch. "Can you sleep like this?"

"And what if I said no?" His voice was muffled; she could feel the vibrations of his speech through the covers.

"Then I'd move a little." She raised her head. "Do you want me to?"

Thick silence for a moment--- then, very softly: "No."

"Good." She put her head down on his back again. "Good night, Severus."

Soft chuckle. "Good night, Hermione."

*****

Warmth at his back, a soft deep sense of comfort and shelter that was mental as well as physical--- a sensation strange and welcome enough to make him forget the pain in his fingers....

His fingers. The night before. Snape had to restrain himself from jerking upright abruptly, so as not to disturb Hermione.

Who was unquestionably the source of the caring warmth lying atop him. So tempting, really, just to sink back into her innocent embrace and let himself drift. Merlin knew he'd had so little of anything good....

Guilt pricked him with a pain worse than Cruciatus. Was that any reason to bury the poor girl in his personal problems? To ask her to carry the burden--- he stifled a sob--- of knowing what he was?

What had possessed him, to tell her about his life that way? To bring to her mind the images of the horrors he'd perpetrated and force her to remember that night, of all things....

Well, he knew what had possessed him. One didn't attain his level of skill at potions-making without knowing the workings of the human body. The palliative for Cruciatus was designed to stimulate endorphin production--- to replace pain with pleasure, essentially.

And he'd had so little pleasure in his life....

Certainly nothing that came from human touch. Hermione was the only person who'd ever touched him so... kindly. It had been the most intimate act he'd ever experienced.

No wonder he'd burbled at her like a baby. At least he'd had the decency not to tell her about Ellen. The decency, or the cowardice. He didn't like to answer that question.

He shifted attention from his self-excoriation to the outside world. Hermione must have shifted in the night; he didn't remember falling asleep with her hand resting under his neck like that. It almost tickled; sent a lovely warm tingling through his body, just that slight contact....

To say nothing of the warm curves of her against him. Last night he'd been in too much pain--- even for a man who was, by wizarding standards, still in his prime--- to feel anything like desire. But now, this morning, with the residual aches of the Cruciatus Curse dulled--- by her lovely hands, no less--- and even the pain in his hand faded to a ghost....

And he'd found last night that the pain in his fingers didn't interfere with his dexterity....

Merlin, no. Have a little decency, Severus. Even to think about her in that light, after what he'd already put her through.... What kind of monster was he?

He was saved from a further examination of his own evil by the feel of Hermione stirring against him. He steeled himself against her artless movements--- the softness of her hair sweeping along his back as she stretched, the way her curving body--- he could picture her naked in his mind--- arched against his side.

She didn't appear to notice; he was deeply thankful that he was still lying on his stomach. "Good morning, Severus."

"Good morning, Hermione." He fought to keep his voice steady.

Awkward silence; she broke it. "Feeling any better this morning?" As she spoke, she--- Merlin's balls--- ran her hand up and down his back. With what little of his brain was still processing coherently, he registered that she must consider it merely a friendly touch. To him it was rather different....

"I--- yes, I think so---" he started to turn on his side, remembered not to move and stopped in midmotion---

Which inadvertently trapped his damaged hand between his body and the bed, at a hideously uncomfortable angle. He snarled, biting back a curse.

"What--- are you---" She was all concern, reaching out for his hand.

Automatically, he drew back. "Nothing--- just the aftereffects of another of the Dark Lord's punishments."

He'd spoken lightly, but she withdrew at once, looking solemn. "What did he do?"

"Some kind of pain-curse on my fingers," he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. "Doesn't impair the mobility, just... hurts."

Hermione said nothing for a moment, just gave him that solemn look that he couldn't quite interpret. Then--- "Do you know what it was?"

He hadn't thought about that, and mentally berated himself for the oversight. "A form of Cruciatus, most likely--- I wasn't exactly concentrating at the time."

Hermione's lips twitched, almost playfully. "More weakness, is that what you'd call it?--- Oh, I don't mean---"

"Yes, you do, and you're right to," he countered. "I should have paid attention."

"Well, you didn't," she said. "But it sounds like... well, doesn't it sound a little like what Esmeralda did to the house-elves?"

"Embedding a curse, you mean? Very much...." His lips curved as he began to see the possibilities. "Only this---"

"Isn't hard-coded into your bones, so to speak--- a recent addition---" Hermione hesitated, then got to her feet. "Do you mind if I have a look at your library?"

"Be my guest---" He waved his unharmed hand, then fell back on the bed, watching as she roamed the room, looking purposefully over the bookshelves. He knew her well enough to know that her apparent change of subject was anything but.

In a moment, she came back with an armful--- glancing over her selections, he nodded approvingly. "The very works I'd have chosen--- well, except for the Fletcher---"

"Healing spells," she said succinctly. "This isn't either of our areas of expertise and I want to be able to put you back together if we botch something."

"An admirable sentiment---" He turned a little on his side, trying to ignore both the pain in his hand and the more... interesting... sensation rather lower. "Where shall we start?" He told himself it was another test, to see what she'd select, but in truth he had to admit that his brain was too fogged to come up with anything.

"I think---" She bit her lip, the curl of hair snaking into her mouth as she flipped pages. He waited in silence, his mind buzzing emptily around the sight of her, the incredible beauty of that intellect focused on a task, a fish in water....

"I've got it!" Her triumphant cry broke into his reverie. "Here---" she showed him the spell.

"But that's just a palliative---"

"Not if we mix it with a reverse of Esmeralda's house-elf Imperio." Hermione showed it to him triumphantly.

"If." He lay back on the bed. "Hermione, really... I don't think I'm up to this kind of complex magic. Not this morning." He closed his eyes.

She was silent for a moment--- then he felt that hand resting on his back again. "I am." Movement; her warmth near his back and her breath in his ear. "Let me take care of you, all right?"

He shivered all over, understanding dimly that she must feel she had to repay him for that night in Malfoy's dungeon... but most of his consciousness taken up by the wholly bewildering notion of being cared for. "If you insist." It was all he could manage.

"I certainly do." For a long moment, there was silence save for the scratching of a quill on paper. Then--- "Give me your hand."

Shivering, he did so. "All right---" For the first time, she sounded hesitant. "Severus, I don't know how this is going to feel---"

"That's all right--- anything will be better than the constant pain I'm likely to have otherwise." He lay with his face in the pillows; awkward position, but he wasn't about to turn over, and Hermione didn't ask.

When she began, he was very glad he hadn't.

It was wandless magic--- her fingers the only implement she was using. She traced a finger up along his thumb... and sent a wave of heat lightning through his body. "Oh!" His back arched, thrusting his hips into the bed... yes....

He barely heard her voice through the ringing in his ears. "Severus, I--- are you all right?"

Somehow, he managed to recover control of his vocal cords. "I--- yes. Just... spasms. Nothing... important. Carry on." For Merlin's sake....

And it was a good excuse for what he wanted to do--- what he couldn't help doing, as she ran her fingers lightly over his hand, muttering spellwords under her breath... and sending luscious jolts of white-hot pleasure through his body. He jerked and arched at each lightning-strike touch, fuses blowing in his mind as the hot tension built---

And released, abruptly, so that he barely even felt the last moments of the healing, just drifted in a dizzy sated haze.

At last he registered that she'd finished--- not immediately, as she didn't seem about to relinquish his hand. "Better?"

It took a moment for him to process. "Yes---" From somewhere, he summoned up enough coordination to move his fingers. Surprisingly--- or perhaps not--- they didn't hurt. "Completely. Not a hint of the curse left." He managed to open one eye to look up at her beaming face.

What he wanted, more than life itself, was simply to lie here, with her hands wrapped about his, and just drift in lazy contentment. But again, his conscience assaulted him. "What time is it?"

Hermione freed a hand to look at her watch. "Um... you don't want to know."

He sighed deeply, feeling the concern for her, the apprehension of what would happen if they were caught, prick at the edges of his consciousness. But at the moment, he was too dazed to think about it.

She might have read some of his thoughts. "I told you, I'm covered---" Mischievous grin. "If worst comes to worst, I'll tell Ginny enough of the truth to be believable--- that you had a meeting with the Death Eaters and I snuck out this morning to make sure you were all right--- and we'll sort things out from there."

He smiled faintly. She was getting good at subterfuge--- an essential skill for a queen. "All right then--- and I would say you've done your duty admirably. But now, since at the moment all I need to make my cure complete is a long soak in hot water, I'm going to have to ask you to---"

He broke off in midsentence; her face had gone flat as she looked down at their clasped hands. "What?"

She raised her eyes to his. "I should think you'd have had enough of hot water for now."

The meaning was clear. "No, I am not intending to carve any further gouges in my flesh. Does that satisfy you?"

Slight smile. "Some. But I think I'll stick around until you get out." She folded her arms, her expression brooking no argument.

And really, he didn't want to argue with her. Not when every moment with her was more joy than he'd imagined. "All right---" He gestured around at the bookshelves. "Make yourself at home."

"Thank you." With an adult woman's tact, she got up, keeping her back to him as he threw off the covers. The towel, thankfully, had managed to absorb the evidence of his reaction to her.

And a hot bath would do the rest. Not to mention giving him time to remind himself that he had no right to her. Not even to as much of her as he'd just had.

*****

The bathroom door closed; it was safe to look.

Hermione did so, sinking into his chair and staring after him thoughtfully. He was a more interesting puzzle than any of the books.

And he was all hers to solve.

If she could. If she could get past the shock and horror of the night before.

It had receded overnight, with the calming act of sleeping against him, the real physical reassurance that he was alive and all right.

And now she had to take it all in.

It made sense that he'd try to cut the Dark Mark off. She'd be likely to take a blade to her skin if she had one. But somehow, she felt there was more to it than that--- and that the more had to do with the nightmarish story he'd shared with her. She hadn't had time to think while he revealed, in those maddeningly cryptic half-phrases that were his standard means of discussing anything personal, the story of his life. Now, however, she did.

She put the pieces of the puzzle-that-was-Severus out on the table of her mind. That he'd been maltreated by his mother--- strega, no less--- and neglected by his father was one. The way his so-called friends had treated him in school was another.

But does that really justify joining the Death Eaters? said a voice in her mind.

He left them, didn't he? And turned spy. And even before that, he wasn't that bad---

Wasn't he? Abusing innocent women and then killing them?

By comparison to someone like, say, Malfoy, he's a saint. You were right last night, Granger. A brave man and one who's strong enough to face his sins.

And one so desperately alone and hurt.... She stifled a sudden sob. To be as vulnerable as he had been last night--- to blurt out the story of his past to a child---

Except she wasn't a child, not any more. And if he thought of her that way, after last night, she'd have something to say about it.

Last night, she'd been a woman to him. Someone strong enough that he could trust her and lean on her when he needed to. Strega, even. A witch with enough power that he could repose absolute confidence in her. She might not know him well--- as he said--- but she knew him enough to know that he would never have confided in her if on some level he didn't trust her.

If--- the thought went through her mind like a laser beam--- he wasn't on some level as vulnerable to her as she was and had been to him.

The thought made her sit up straighter. And now she knew why, after the initial shock, she hadn't been nearly as disturbed by last night's events as she'd have expected.

Because, by every reckoning she could imagine, she'd just moved up a square.

The thought made her smile. That much closer to being strega... to being a queen....

And he'd noticed, hadn't he? She thought back to this morning--- to his reaction to her spell. That hadn't been pain he'd been feeling, she was certain of it.

In a sense, she'd done to him what he'd done to her. They were even--- almost. She entertained a brief, guilty speculation about who she'd have had to do it in front of to upset him as badly as the night in Malfoy's dungeon had upset her, then banished the notion as unworthy of strega. Petty vengeance... and weren't there other things she wanted more from him?

She thought about how he'd looked last night, when she lifted him up out of the back. Imagined what he'd look like with his hair and teeth fixed, the greasy patina no longer covering his skin. And felt her pulse skip.

The thought startled her; if anyone had told her before last night that she'd find him attractive, she'd have slapped them. But seeing him so vulnerable--- as vulnerable as she had been--- moved something in her. And knowing that he'd needed her help.... It made her feel... powerful.

A hissing sound interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see Esmé poking her head over the lip of the basket--- and behind her---

"Crookshanks!" The cat was curled up in Esmé's basket as well--- or rather, in Esmé: the quetxal had coiled herself into a basket shape and Crookshanks was curled up inside.

"Crooksssssssssshanksssssss hasssss been keeping me warm," Esmé said in satisfaction. "He isssss very good at it." The cat purred.

Before Hermione could respond to that statement, the bathroom door opened and Snape came out, dressed in his customary black robes. He raised an eyebrow at her. "You see? No further exsanguination on my part."

"I'm very glad to hear it." Being in the same room as he was felt... different... now, just as it had after that night in Malfoy's dungeon. This time, though, she thought it might be an improvement... once she got used to it. Once she got used to not seeing him as so very powerful. He'd had such power that night in the dungeon... to see him lose that power was disorienting... but to claim it for herself was intoxicating....

His voice interrupted her reverie. "And now, child---"

Her head came up as she remembered her earlier thoughts. "Severus?"

"Yes, Hermione?" He paused in midsentence, waiting politely.

Power. She got up, came toward him. "Do you see me as a child?"

Slight start from him, then--- "No...." Flush to his face that confirmed her earlier suspicions about his reaction to her touch. "No."

"Then why do you call me 'child'?" She looked up at him, wordlessly requiring that he answer her.

He looked away. "Several reasons." She wasn't going to let him off that easily, and he knew it. "To remind myself that... that I have a responsibility to you, one which does not allow me to indulge my own... weaknesses." Failed that one miserably, didn't you? she thought but did not say. Apparently unaware of her thoughts, he smiled slightly. "And, for another thing, because the very first night, in the carriage, I used another... endearment, and you flinched."

Hermione remembered. "I'm not flinching now."

"No, you're not." Brief rueful smile. "But in truth... I do it because of all the endearments I might have for you, 'child' struck me as the least... how shall I say it?--- the least insensitive of the various constraints on our relationship."

Hermione studied him for a moment, while her mind sorted that one out and found the underlying meaning. "And if those constraints were removed?"

"Yes?" She thought she heard his voice tremble--- and she felt a flash of exultation at it. She could make him shiver in turn!

"What sort of endearment would you use for me then?" Deep shivery thrill of excitement and nerves and curiosity in a bundle in her heart. They were so close now--- she wasn't sure which of them had moved, or both.

He closed his eyes briefly, then whispered. "Sweet... treasured... cherished---" His hand came up to stroke her cheek. "Love."

Hermione caught his hand as he was about to draw back, leaned her head against his touch. "I like those better."

"Indeed." His eyes were half-slits, as if that simple touch gave him deep pleasure. For a moment, they stood there in silence, then his eyes came open, almost urgently. "Hermione, we're on dangerous ground---"

"The center of the board is like that." She took a deep breath. "Isn't it?"

He looked into her eyes for a long moment. "Yes." It was barely a breath.

She smiled--- and then, on impulse, leaned forward, stretching up on her toes, and kissed his cheek.

He started violently--- almost a virginal reaction for all his evident experience, but then she supposed he hadn't had many opportunities to be kissed. She'd have to do it more often.

Especially since it was quite an enjoyable experience. This soon after a bath, his skin was still clear of oil--- and very soft under her lips. His skin smelled even more strongly of soap than usual, but still with that lovely spicy scent underneath.

She stepped back from him after only a moment. They looked at each other; then Hermione, not wanting to risk drawing the power game out too long, and wanting very much to leave while she still had control, smiled brightly. "You tried to throw me out earlier--- hadn't I better be going?"

She rather suspected he knew what she was up to. "If you like."

"You know I don't. But really, it's almost lunchtime."

"That it is." Once more, he reached out and touched her cheek. "Hermione, there is nothing I can say or do that will repay last night---"

"Don't worry. I'll think of something." she grinned at him and felt a surge of delight as he actually blushed.

"You're becoming quite the Slytherin, aren't you? Too bad you weren't Sorted there to begin with---"

"Isn't it though?" She started for the door that led back to the secret passage--- Esmé could use the outer door and the one in the Slytherin common room, but those weren't a good idea for Hermione. And speaking of Esmé--- "By the way, our familiars seem to be getting on quite famously." It was a fair comment--- and really, she didn't want to leave just yet, even if a nagging sense was telling her that it was her best move.

Snape followed her gaze, smiling slightly at the sight of fur and feathers together. "Indeed they do. Crookshanks is welcome here, of course--- for one thing," he raised his voice, "he'll keep my feathered pest from crushing me in my sleep." An indignant hiss from the vicinity of the basket greeted that remark.

"Well, that's settled at least--- you're sure you don't mind?" She cursed herself for prolonging this--- not the act of strega, she was sure!

"Of course not."

"All right then." She forced herself to go to the hidden door.

At the door, she stopped as inspiration struck. "I'll come by tonight," she said firmly. "To collect my cat, if nothing else---" she looked over her shoulder--- "and to make certain you're not wallowing in self-loathing."

She took herself out the door without waiting for a response.

A/N Okay, gang, here it is, PtQ 20-27--- and trust me, you haven't been any more eager to get this thing out than I am! Just for the record: in the future, could everyone puh-leeeeeeese refrain from asking me five and six times when the next chapter(s) is/are coming out? It takes more time to answer those emails than it does to edit the story. Sorry to bitch, but it's a sort point. I know you love the story, and I will never object to a nice juicy content-related discussion, but saying the same thing umpteen times over really does get old.

Chapter 20: Pawn's Reflections

Somehow, Hermione managed to get through lunch without anyone guessing what was going on in her mind. As she'd expected, much of the fellow-feeling among the houses had worn off, though people were still being quite decent to Harry, who looked happier than he had in a long time.

After lunch, she excused herself from the Gryffindor group--- and was relieved to see Blaise and the Teasdales talking quite heatedly about something involving Muggle technology and money. Ron soon joined them--- relief number two--- and Harry and Ginny went off together, supposedly to practice flying. Given that Hermione needed some time to herself, she wasn't about to call them on a blatantly transparent excuse.

She went not to the library or to her room, but to the prefects' bath--- and the bookshelves there. References--- but not the academic sort. These were various low-level psych texts--- certainly insufficient for any kind of real mental "work" but enough to let a worried prefect get some idea of how to handle, or more to the point, how not to handle, a distressed student.

Hermione had consulted the books after that night in Malfoy's dungeon, but they had been far too simple--- certainly nothing on how to deal with the complex situation in which she found herself.

And she doubted they'd give her the tools she needed for a complete understanding of Snape--- actually, she wasn't sure that the entire Vienna Conference would be capable of that feat! But she was so in the dark here; she'd never dealt with this degree of trauma in another person, though she was willing to bet that Blaise had. The other girl had made enough references to Slytherin internal problems that she suspected Blaise was probably a better resource for this sort of thing than the books.

But Snape was her friend's Head of House, and this was verypersonal.

So she consulted the books. And found out... something.

The cutting... said powerlessness. Said someone who felt trapped in his own body. But it didn't... necessarily... say suicide. Which was a relief. She didn't think she could talk him back from that edge. Not yet, anyway.

But it shook her up a little--- well, a lot--- to think of Snape feeling powerless. Powerless... as she had, under his hands. And not enjoying it.

Maybe the eighth square wasn't so far away, if even Snape could feel so helpless. So needy.

And it struck her then, full-force... powerless. He was as much Lucius Malfoy's victim as she.

The thought didn't surprise her, and she realized that on some level she'd known it since that night. It had been Snape who'd touched her... but she'd sensed somehow that it had hurt him too. And it was Malfoy's fault....

Malfoy... and in Snape's case, his mother.

She continued reading.

What the books said on cutting at least made sense. The stuff on... what he'd told her about his mother... was mostly on when to report what, and she figured they were about thirty years too late for that. Lost cause there.

An emotional cripple.

She put the last of the books aside and curled up on the cushioned bench seat, one knee to her chin, and thought.

He wasn't all-powerful. That screamed itself at her. And, after sober reflection, she was glad of it. Strega shouldn't see anyone else that way, should she? Time and past for him to come down off his pedestal. And he was Malfoy's victim, and Voldemort's. Maybe even more than she was.

But what kind of man could do what he'd done? The power of pleasure.

But it was better than Cruciatus. Much better. For a Death Eater, he was downright merciful---

And--- she read between the lines of the disjointed tale he'd told her and did some hasty mental calculation--- Merlin's blood. He'd likely been younger than she was when he joined. To be a Death Eater, turn on them, and become a spy... all before he was twenty-one. Not an easy life.

Not that hers was any picnic at the moment. She indulged in a brief bout of self-pity. Though, to be fair to Severus, her life had been rather messy before he even came into it. In fact, on balance, it was much improved by his involvement. Before, she'd only had Harry and Ron for company, except for those wonderful few months of being happy with Viktor. Now she had Blaise as a best friend--- a friendship at least as close as Harry and Ron's--- and the Teasdale twins and Ginny, who'd gotten to be more a part of their group over Christmas, as if somehow the girls' shared experience of being comforted by Snape had drawn them closer.

She had fascinating things to study--- she could see why Snape had been drawn to the Dark Arts. The business of dealing with them was far more complex than the simple magic they learned in class. Not just in magical, intellectual terms, either; most of the spells labeled "Dark Magic" were that way because it was easer to use them for harm than for good. It took a very wise witch or wizard to use them in an ethical fashion--- which of course led one to the question of what constituted "ethical"....

And she had Snape. Teacher, friend... not quite lover. Not now. But something. Certainly a man--- an adult, brilliant, highly competent--- who thought highly of her abilities and respected her.

And who, it appeared, needed her as much as she might need him.

Maybe that was why it didn't occur to her to push him away, to be repulsed by him. Because the way he treated her was worth that one nightmare of a night. Because even--- especially--- on that night, he'd taken care of her, without presuming that her need for care meant she was weak or that she owed him anything. Because she could be strong for this man who had once carried her--- and that was an experience she wanted, maybe even needed.

Because, in a nutshell, what she could get from him was worth what admittedly little it had cost. Especially in comparison to how that night could have come out.

She shook her head at herself, grinning. I'm really turning into a Slytherin. Blaise would be pleased.

As if on cue, the door to the bathroom opened, and in walked the object of Hermione's thoughts. "Hey!"

"Hey yourself!" Hermione grinned at Blaise. "Thought you and Florian'd gone off somewhere."

"Nah, Cat and Ron took him off to the Quidditch pitch--- Potter and Ginny are there, and for a wonder, it appears they're actually practicing Quidditch." Blaise grinned conspiratorially.

"Will wonders never cease?" Hermione grinned. "Circe--- sex and Quidditch. Makes me wonder why we bother with teenage males."

"Too right." Blaise laughed. "Fancy a little time in the library? I'm still trying to work out that Arithmancy problem---" For the past month, Blaise had been trying to plot an Arithmantic chart that would show the different possibilities for reintegration of the Muggle and magical worlds during their lifetime. Needless to say, it was slow going.

"You might put a little time in on your other classes, you know," Hermione teased, uncoiling herself from beside the bookshelf.

"I might," Blaise said airily. "When I stop getting top marks with the work I do put in."

Hermione swatted her on the shoulder playfully, and they set off for the library.

*****

It took him some time to compose himself after Hermione left, and he couldn't help but be grateful that Esmé was well occupied with Crookshanks; he wasn't prepared to deal with the quetxal's comments on the subject of Hermione.

Bad enough having to deal with Dumbledore's. Which he'd better do at once.

The gargoyle at the door to the Headmaster's office let him in at once, which meant that Dumbledore was in. The old wizard looked up from a large tome at Snape's entrance.

"Ah, Severus. I've been expecting you."

Snape shivered slightly. "I'm sorry I didn't report to you last night---"

"It wasn't a rebuke, Severus." The Headmaster's voice gentled. "Merely a comment." He got up form the desk, coming around to the cluster of seats by the fire. "Sit---" They sat. "Have you eaten yet?"

"No--- Headmaster, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather... get this over with."

At once the Headmaster looked up, serious. "That bad?"

Snape swallowed. "Crucio."

"Merlin's teeth." Dumbledore made a motion toward him, as if to touch, then drew back. "You'd better tell me all of it."

Snape shrugged. "Not much to tell. He wanted to... discuss... the events of the other night with me."

"And he used the Cruciatus Curse to get you to speak?"

"No--- that was punishment." Snape flexed his fingers slightly, thinking about the other punishment the Dark Lord had visited on him. "But I'm still more useful alive than dead."

"Thank Merlin for that." The Headmaster regarded him kindly. "Anything else?"

"Not... really." His guts knotted suddenly as he remembered what he'd done with, or to, Patricia Parkinson. Unbidden, the memory of Hermione's innocent kindness to him floated up. The contrast made him feel even more filthy than he usually did after such a thing. Filthy, and without even the old smug wicked pleasure to soften it.

Made him realize how much had changed since Christmas. How much--- it made him start--- Hermione had changed him.

Perhaps the Headmaster noticed his response, or maybe it was only the words he'd used. "Not really? What else?"

"Parkinson... heard what I'd done with... Hermione. Wanted to... experience it for herself."

"Ah." Thankfully, Dumbledore didn't ask for details. Silence for a moment, then the Headmaster asked, "And then they... let you go?"

"Yes. I came back here...." It was suddenly too much to go on. He'd never told Dumbledore about his pathetic attempts to remove the Dark Mark; almost impossible to explain not only that, but the fact that his miscalculation had nearly left Hermione to suffer.

Not to mention what had happened this morning. No, he couldn't confess his own weakness to Dumbledore. He knew he should admit to it, but he couldn't bear to. Let me have this little patch of shadow for myself.

"I assume Miss Granger took it upon herself to come find you afterwards?"

Snape snorted. "How did you know?"

"It's in her nature. If nothing else, she's curious as a cat." The Headmaster smiled indulgently, then his expression softened. "And she cares about you."

"Merlin knows why." Snape leaned back in the chair, feeling a shaky sort of self-disgust wash over him. To care for a man who could do what he'd done to her... who, for Merlin's sake, could fly into a jealous rage because another male touched her and then do what he had done to Parkinson! His stomach roiled.

They sat in silence for a moment, with the Headmaster regarding him gently. Then Dumbledore spoke. "All right, Severus." Soft, kind tone. "I think that's enough." He got to his feet; Snape hastily followed suit, grateful for the quick reprieve.

Dumbledore walked with him to the door, stopped him leaving with a grip on the shoulder. "Severus--- there was nothing else to be done. You did what was necessary."

Looking into the Headmaster's eyes, Snape had the feeling that the man knew every thought that had passed through his mind in the time he'd been in the room. "Sometimes, sir," he said wearily, "I wonder why you bother having any of us speak in your presence."

"Oh, I'm not so all-seeing as that," the old wizard said lightly.

But Snape had been a spy too long not to recognize a diversion when he saw one.

Not that it mattered. It was rather comforting to think of himself as being useful to someone with that kind of power.

Too much to hope that he'd also been forgiven.

*****

That evening, she went to see Snape, as promised.

He wasn't in his office, for once, but the door to the passage leading to his room was ajar. She slipped inside and through the dark corridor to his lair, as she thought of it.

Snape was sitting in his chair by the cold fireplace, staring into the hearth, motionless as a statue.

Except for the tears running down his face.

Hermione's heart wrenched, and she remembered her reflections of the afternoon. A victim, as much as she was. Hurt on the inside... and with far fewer resources than she had to help him heal. She had friends, teachers, parents--- a support system.

Who did he have? The Headmaster, maybe. Esmé--- as much help as a quetxal could be. And her.

Moving silently in her cloak, she came up behind him, slipped off the silky folds. Rested her chin on the back of the chair. "Hello, Severus."

He started violently, looked around and spotted her. "For Merlin's sake, Hermione, don't do that."

She reached down to brush her fingers lightly over his hair. "Sorry." She drew back, though she rather thought the distraction might have been good for him.

He accepted the apology and the caress in silence.

She came around and perched on the arm of his chair--- really, there wasn't anywhere else to sit except the hassock. And this did put her head above his. "How are you?"

His eyes were empty, tired. "I'm... here."

An ambiguous answer if ever she'd heard one. Not that she could blame him, after what he'd been through--- but it was precisely because of what he'd endured that she wanted a little more explanation from him, just to know how well he was doing. Which, of course, wasn't strictly speaking her business... except after last night, she felt she had some stake in his well-being, as he did in hers. The thought made her feel warm, even as she worried about him.

He must have guessed how unsatisfying, even upsetting, she found it, for he elaborated. "I spoke with the Headmaster, about the... meeting. There was... nothing else to be done."

Hermione wasn't sure how to respond to that except to say, "Thank you." He'd understand she was grateful for the explanation and the effort it took.

"Hermione---" his voice was strained--- "I... you should know... at the meeting last night.... Patricia Parkinson... wanted to know what I'd done to you--- wanted to experience it for herself."

Hermione choked. "Um...." Can't say that I blame her. And what would it be like to experience... that... of your own free will? "Did you... well, did you?"

"Yes." He looked thoroughly miserable. "Hermione, it wasn't--- something I'd have chosen---"

She frowned, confused. "I know---" Which was not what was puzzling her. "Why are you telling me this? It's not like you have anything to feel guilty about---"

Snape looked rather poleaxed, then he relaxed, laughing weakly. "No, I suppose not--- it's not as though we have... that sort of... understanding."

Enlightenment dawned, and Hermione nearly fell off the arm of the chair. "But you wish we did?" She couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Snape looked up, horrified. "Merlin--- not under the circumstances, no." Wry look. "Though I must confess I've wondered once or twice how things would have been different if we'd been... contemporaries."

"Among other things." She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or sickened--- but then, hadn't she just been wishing to have the experience of him on her own terms?

Snape must have sensed some of her emotions. "Hermione, I didn't--- don't--- I'd never want to hurt you," he finished wearily, then added, "Any more than I already have."

"You didn't have a choice," she pointed out. "I suppose I ought to be flattered." She leaned against the chair back, crossing her legs to make it easier to balance.

"Besides," he said bleakly, "if I'm going to... impose my jealousy on you as I did the other night, you've every right to return the favor."

"Oh." There wasn't much to say to that. So she didn't.

Awkward silence then, neither of them knowing where to go from there. A soft hissing from the fireplace distracted them.

"Sssssseverusssss," Esmé, in a whiny mood. "I sssssstill haven't gotten my ssssssupper."

That broke the tension, and Snape heaved a long-suffering sigh. "All right, feathered pest," he said wearily. "I'm coming." He got up, moving slowly--- still stiff from the aftereffects of the curse? Likely it was--- and likely it wasn't the physical ones.

Hermione followed him to the hearth, curious--- not to mention grateful for the distraction. "What does a quetxal eat, anyway?"

"Actually, she's quite omnivorous," Snape said. "Fruit, nuts, meat--- she's learning to eat it cooked---" Hermione fought a shudder.

"I wonder how she'd feel about sushi?" she asked, and Snape shot her a dirty look as Esmé looked up with interest.

"We'll never know," Snape said firmly. "I shudder to think what the house-elves would come up with."

Hermione laughed, then looked down at the bowls on the hearth--- and did a double-take. "Severus...?"

"Yes?" The tone of his voice was an unmistakable warning.

Which Hermione chose to ignore. "Esmé doesn't have Lenox food dishes." The three round bowls with the same bone-colored china that her own mother used only for special occasions.

Snape gave her a long-suffering look, while Esmé looked hurt. "It's all she'll eat from," he explained ruefully, then tapped the side of each bowl once. One filled with chunks of apple, pear, and oddly enough, pomegranate, a second with gobbets of raw meat, and a third with milk.

"Isn't that a bad idea near the salamander?" Hermione asked, looking at the milk. "I wouldn't want it to spoil---"

"The dishes have preserving charms on them," Snape explained, heading back to his chair and sinking into it wearily. "Besides, she'll eat too fast for it to have time to." He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes.

For the second time that night, Hermione was struck by how vulnerable he looked. "Severus?"

He didn't open his eyes. "Eh?"

"Would you like me to--- sit with you a while?"

The offer seemed to startle him; he opened his eyes and looked up at her, almost nervously. "I'm afraid I won't be much company---"

"That's not what I asked." She waited, and after a moment, he nodded quietly.

"All right then." She pulled out her wand, and with a flick of her wrist, floated the hassock over to the side of his chair. She curled up, resting her head on the armrest. It was a surprisingly comfortable position.

Made even more so by the light brush of Severus' fingers through her hair. "Thank you." He drew back after a moment.

And then for a long time they sat together in silence, not touching, just... being.

It was the most peaceful feeling Hermione had had in a long time.

She might have drifted off, resting there; certainly it was quite some time before she left, taking a protesting Crookshanks with her.

*****

It was rather a good thing that Hermione had gotten a little peace and quiet, she reflected the next day, because life got busy--- in a mundane and student-ish sort of way.

The OWLs were almost upon them, which meant that even Hermione's less scholarly classmates could be found in the library, poring feverishly over textbooks. It was fortunate that they'd gotten everyone's animosity toward the "Slyffindor Seven", as they'd come to be known, out of their system, as the library was no longer a private sort of meeting spot for their group.

The exception to the general fifth year hysteria was, of course, Blaise, who, having studied in a slow and measured fashion for the OWLs over the last few months, refused to obsess. "Hermione, we've been practicing since before Valentine's Day," she said casually when the subject came up. "Besides, I can recite most of the spells by heart---"

Ron shot her a disgusted look. Even he and Harry had settled down to revise instead of talking about Quidditch with the Teasdales and Ginny. "It's all very well for you," he shot back. "Your family has plenty of money---"

Blaise looked up at him, suddenly cold and dangerous. The others looked at her with trepidation; Hermione, who'd never seen Blaise "go strega" before, was fascinated. "Are you implying that I'm intending to live off my family's earnings rather than succeed in my own right?"

Ron quailed. "Er--- no," he said hastily.

And, just like that, Blaise turned off the focus. "Good," she said brightly, and picked up her copy of the Financial Times."Just checking."

*****

All too soon, Easter vacation arrived--- too soon, because the fifth years had a massive workload over the holidays. Hermione was worse off than everyone else, because she and Snape were still working on the cure for lycanthropy.

Even that felt different, after the night he'd come back from his meeting with Voldemort. A subtle difference, maybe the result of her imagination, or just her own change in perspective. But there, nonetheless. She didn't blink at his sarcasm any more, and it didn't feel strange to call him Severus. There was still a lot she could learn from him--- was learning from him, about potions and curses and survival. But having once seen him so weak and vulnerable, she couldn't go back to feeling that way herself around him. Not completely.

He noticed it too; the sarcasm got more and more infrequent. They talked to one another more like colleagues now, or at least as she imagined university students did with their professors.

Not that he didn't still spring some surprises on her. The first night of the Easter holidays, she came down to find Snape clad in what could only be described as outdoor robes--- thick sturdy, and somewhat frayed. She regarded him in dismay.

He smiled thinly. "It seems that we're lacking an essential ingredient for our experiments."

"And that would be?" She crossed her arms and waited.

He paled slightly. "Unicorn's blood."

Hermione stared at him. "Say that again, I don't think I heard you right."

A grim smile. "You did--- though it's not what you think. There's a way of collecting the blood of the unicorn that does minimal harm to either party--- though, of course," he added sarcastically, "this method greatly reduces its potency--- the Dark Lord, for instance, wouldn't have been able to keep himself alive with blood collected by the harmless method."

"And that would be?"

Snape took a deep breath, leaned back against one of the tables. "It's actually similar to some of the ancient Muggle legends about how to trap a unicorn. The hunters--- or collectors, in our case--- go out into the woods where they believe a unicorn is to be found, including in their party a virgin woman. The woman finds a spot in the woods and sits, waiting--- you can speed the process by reciting any of several charms--- until a unicorn comes to lay its head in her lap.

"The Muggle legends---" he sneered--- "always have the hunters close in for the kill at that point. Wizards, knowing better, take another course.

"Or rather---" thin smile--- "witches do, specifically the maiden witch holding the unicorn's head in her lap. If she asks the creature honestly and for a good cause, it will, of its own accord, slice its own flank with its horn---" Hermione smothered a gasp--- "and allow her to collect the blood. Incidentally," he added, "the unicorn's horn will usually fall off thereafter, to be regrown--- it's one of the sources of the horn we use in potions-making, though unicorns do shed them regularly."

Hermione was only half-listening. "So you want me to ask a unicorn to... cut itself... for our potion?"

"In a word, yes."

"Can't we get it... some other way? I mean, I'd have to think that it's available commercially---"

"Actually, it's not. Unicorn blood is, for obvious reasons, a Class A Non-Tradeable Good---"

Hermione mentally slapped her own forehead. "Of course--- there'd be no way to determine how the stuff was acquired---"

"Well, it can be done, but it's by no means an exact science. And unicorn blood procured through lethal means is a Dark substance, no matter the intentions of the user--- I'm told the damning effect is rather less if one's intentions are honorable and one uses it in ignorance of the creature's death, but the substance itself is still tainted."

"Not what we'd want at all." Hermione sniffed. Their research had hit a standstill in the last week--- she'd known they'd needed something to complete the potion, but she hadn't been able to come up with anything that had the requisite properties. Snape had sent her away for the week, insisting that he'd figure something out. And it appeared that this was his solution.

"Why unicorn's blood?" she asked, stalling for time, trying to wrap her mind around the concept.

Snape made an impatient noise. "Think, Hermione---" since the night he'd come back from meeting with Voldemort, he'd invariably called her by name--- not 'child' but not any other term of affection either. She wasn't sure what to make of that. "What are the magical properties of unicorns?"

"They're creatures of true goodness," she began. "Their natures don't allow for any impurity---" She started to make an off-color comment, stopped as the implications hit her. "Oh!"

"Yes, 'oh,'" Snape mimicked her. "Go on---"

"You mean, that the blood--- the essence--- of a unicorn will drive out the Dark essence from a werewolf?" Hermione asked.

"Exactly--- at least, that's the theory." He looked down at the parchment on the table beside him, which contained their working notes. "Given the direction we've been taking with this, I should think it would give a werewolf the same basic powers as an Animagus--- the ability to turn into an animal at will, without the cost of lupine madness."

A thought occurred to her, regarding the only werewolf of their mutual acquaintance. "Severus?"

"Yes?"

"That's a very generous thing you're doing."

Snape startled, blinked rather bemusedly--- then shook himself. "Nothing generous about it," he snapped. "In the first place, it's the easiest course to take---" he softened a little into dry humor--- "and in the second, given that I nearly turned into one myself, it strikes me a suitable sort of revenge."

Yes, Hermione thought--- giving the powers of an Animagus to a creature such as he'd almost become would appeal to him: a kind of metaphysical turnabout of the torment Sirius Black had once tried to inflict on him.

Snape shook himself, as if he felt he'd said too much. "And now, if your conscience is quite at ease with the notion of collecting the final ingredient---"

Hermione fought a smile. That was Severus for you; she was almost glad to hear him snap like his old self. "It's been appeased," she said amusedly.

*****

It was never pleasant in the Forbidden Forest, and even less so at night. Hermione found herself creeping a little closer to Severus than she'd normally have done. If he noticed, he didn't say anything; and truth to tell he didn't look all that happy himself.

They found a quiet clearing, and Hermione settled down, with Snape's cloak under her to keep her legs off the chilly ground--- thoughtful gesture, that, and unexpected. She whispered the charm he'd shown her. And waited.

But not long. After only a moment, a unicorn came out of the trees, and stood, framed in shadow.

Hermione gasped softly, putting a hand to her mouth. It was truly beautiful--- more so than the one that Professor Grubbly-Plank had brought for their class last year, because this one was here of its own free will. Its pure white coat gleamed pearlescently, and its horn shone like silver in the moonlight.

It tossed its head, snorted softly--- and came to kneel before her.

Hermione couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, as the unicorn bent and sniffed at her face and neck.

It drew back, and the sad and sensitive look in its eyes touched her heart.

Then, very slowly, the creature laid its head in her lap.

For a moment, Hermione forgot why she was there, forgot Severus concealed in the trees behind her, forgot everything--- except the sense she'd carried in her heart for months. The slight nagging feeling, a question more than a certainty, that that night in Malfoy's dungeon had left some stain on her soul. Not that it should have. Not that any of it was her fault. She hadn't for a moment believed it to be. But she'd wondered if other people would see it that way....

But clearly it hadn't--- at least, nothing that would offend a unicorn. Which was saying something.

She felt tears start in her eyes, trickle down her cheeks. And bent over the unicorn's head and hugged it tightly.

The creature turned its face and licked gently at her cheeks, drying the tears. And for a long moment, she stayed like that, just holding the unicorn, until her arms hurt from the strain.

She let it go, sitting up and wiping a hand over her face. And remembered her task.

"I ask a favor," she said to it, feeling horribly ungrateful, after what it had just done for her. The unicorn turned one liquid silvery eye on her. "I need--- your help---"

And before she realized what she was doing, she began telling it everything: about Remus Lupin, what a good professor he'd been and how he'd had to leave because everyone had found out he was a werewolf. About the potion she was working on to cure lycanthropy.

And about Snape--- how Sirius Black had almost turned one of his own best friends into a killer, just to get back at him. How he was trying so hard to make this potion, to settle the old debt. And, in a voice that was barely a whisper, how Snape had saved her from Lucius Malfoy, and what he'd suffered. She wasn't sure why she added that last, only that it seemed terribly important, somehow.

And through the whole recitation, the unicorn lay unmoved and unmoving with its head in her lap.

But when she'd finished, it raised its head--- very carefully, so as not to hurt her with its horn.

And nodded, unmistakably.

And turned its head to its flank.

Silver on white--- then suddenly, a flash of red. Hermione fumbled for the bottle at her side, hastily, not wanting to waste a drop of the unicorn's precious gift.

The crystal flask was cunningly designed, with a magical sponge at the opening to catch every drop of blood without absorbing any, letting it drain into the bottle. She held it against the unicorn's side until the flask was filled.

She drew it away and sealed it with a quick motion, then reached for her wand, intending to heal the wound.

The unicorn shook its head, then bent and touched its own nose to the wound.

Which healed, instantly. Hermione gasped again, amazed.

The unicorn turned back to her--- was that a hint of mischief in its eyes? And, without warning, leaned forward to rub its cheek against hers.

She gasped at the feel of something cold in her ear--- then the unicorn drew back, bent its head--- and left its horn in her lap. She could see, as it lifted its head, where a new one was already growing.

The unicorn bowed its head to her, then got to its feet and cantered away through the darkened woods.

Snape came out of the trees; he helped her to her feet and retrieved his cloak. "Well, that's a good night's---" he began--- then stopped, looked more closely at her. "My word."

"What?"

He reached out a hand, pointing at--- but not touching--- her right earlobe. "The unicorn left you a bit of a present, it seems."

Hermione reached up automatically, her fingers finding something hard and cold--- something that warmed when she touched it. "Oh!" She started to pull on it---

"Wait!" Snape's voice was sharp. "Not here--- we'll go back to the dungeons; you can look at it there."

*****

It turned out to be nothing more or less than an earring--- a blood-red, opalescent jewel in the shape of a teardrop, lighter on the edges, deepening at the center.

Snape was most impressed. "A unicorn-gift is a very valuable talisman," he said quietly. "Wear it with pride--- and, if you consent, I think we should see the Headmaster about this tomorrow."

Hermione didn't mind in the least. If anyone would know about magical artifacts, it would be Albus Dumbledore.

*****

They met outside the Headmaster's door the next morning. Snape raised an eyebrow at her. "Now we begin the usual guessing game to see which sweet the password is," he said dryly--- when the door swung open rather abruptly.

"Or not," Hermione said innocently, and preceded Snape up the stairs.

The Headmaster was at his desk, looking over some scrolls. "Ah, Hermione, Severus!" he greeted them, setting the scroll aside. "What brings the two of you up here so early on a Saturday?"

"You might tell us," Severus said dryly, "since your door let us in without a password."

The Headmaster smiled benignly. "But of course--- I've keyed it to the two of you, in case you should have need of my ear."

Hermione exchanged a glance with Severus, who was looking distinctly irked. Snape, however, said nothing, merely gestured for her to take one of the chairs by the fire.

Hermione cast an enquiring glance at the Headmaster, who only nodded. She took the chair and Snape sat opposite her.

"You haven't answered my question," Dumbledore chided gently.

Snape and Hermione exchanged another glance; Hermione didn't really want to start---

Stop being a fribble, Granger! she scolded herself. And start acting like strega! "We were out in the Forbidden Forest last night, sir," she said, "because we needed unicorn blood for the lycanthropy cure, and the only humane way to collect it---"

"I'm familiar with the process, Hermione," the Headmaster said gently. "Go on."

"Well, after the unicorn gave me its blood, it rubbed against my cheek and left---" she pointed to her earlobe--- "this."

The Headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. May I see it?"

"I'm sorry, sir--- it won't come off." They'd tried to get it off, last night--- it seemed fastened to her skin. Which made her wonder what her mother would say when she came home with a blood-red teardrop hanging from one earlobe (she was fairly sure Mum wouldn't have minded a matched set).

"Interesting," said the Headmaster again, and he came round the desk to study her ear at closer range, peering over the tops of his reading glasses. "Well... I presume Severus told you that a unicorn-gift is a very powerful talisman?"

"Yes---"

Dumbledore drew back to regard her earnestly. "Hermione--- I don't wish this to sound harsh, but--- did anything else pass between you and the unicorn, other than the request for blood?"

Damn him anyway--- then she was shocked at herself for thinking such a thing. But really, did the Headmaster always have to read everyone's mind? "Well, actually---" And she told them about her reaction to the unicorn, and about what she'd told it to convince it to part with its blood.

When she was done, Snape looked very pale, grey even, and his eyes were dark with misery. "Hermione, I am so very sorry---"

"It wasn't your fault," she said firmly. "Seeing you the other night after... your meeting... would have convinced me of that, if I hadn't already known it. You didn't have a choice."

"Very wise of you," the Headmaster said quietly. "Which I think was what the unicorn saw in you, Hermione, that moved it to grace you with that gift. A token, not so much to remind you that you were not at fault, but to demonstrate that fact to the rest of the world: an incontrovertible symbol of your own---" slight smile--- "purity of heart, as old-fashioned a concept as that may be."

Hermione touched the teardrop. And smiled. That made sense. And it helped, having something like that to point to. Except---

"What's Draco going to say when he sees this?" she asked, a sudden pang of fear knotting her guts. Across from her, Snape looked stricken--- confirming her fear that Malfoy, as a scion of an old wizarding family, might very well recognize that kind of magical talisman for what it was--- or at least, where it had originated.

"I wouldn't worry too much about that," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "I think you'll find that your talisman shows itself--- and its powers--- only at need."

And with that, he shooed them off to breakfast.

*****

The collection of the unicorn blood meant a return to the lab, and to more mundane magic. Hermione spent her days in the common room and the library studying for the OWLs, her evenings well into the night in Snape's lab, and slept when she could. Which wasn't much.

To Hermione's relief, the Headmaster seemed to be right about the talisman; at least, no one commented on her new ornament. Which was a good thing, as she didn't have the energy to come up with an explanation--- much less to research unicorn talismans, which she very much wanted to do. But that would have to wait... until she had time....

By Friday, Hermione was practically blind with exhaustion as she slipped into the Potions lab. "Severus?" Her hands shook on the clasps of her cloak.

"Hermione---" Snape came forward at once, helped her with the cloak and took it from her. "Are you--- never mind, absurd question." He handed her onto a seat. "Merlin's eyes, you can't have been studying that hard--- you certainly don't need it---"

"But the OWLs---" Hermione protested around a yawn---

"Are not worth killing yourself over," Snape said firmly, then did a double-take. "It's our experiments, isn't it? You've spread yourself too thin--- and it's my fault---"

"Not yours--- I could've told you off---" Hermione said, smiling wryly.

Snape snorted, meaning that he couldn't find anything to contradict her but didn't want to concede. "Well, you may not hold me responsible, but I do, at least partially--- I should not have asked you to work with me until you were through with the OWLs---"

"Which won't be until the end of term, and I'm your assistant---"

Snape waved a hand. "I shouldn't have kept you to the schedule I did, then. Enough. I'm going to make up for my mistake--- come with me."

She followed him, too sleepy to protest, into his office, watched as Snape went to the desk and unfastened a series of locks, finally came up with a small bottle. "Ah---" He brought it over to her. "Sleeping Death--- three drops should suffice."

"Severus---" She marshaled her reserves of energy--- "What are you talking about?"

"You're pulling the same stupid stunt I did my fifth year," Snape said matter-of-factly. "Namely, wearing yourself into such a state of exhaustion that you won't be functional after you finish the term. Unless you want to spend the last week of your fifth year under the care of Madam Pomfrey, I suggest that you allow yourself to get some rest now."

Hermione smothered a giggle. Only Severus could make a reprieve sound like a punishment. "All right--- give me the dose, I'll take it up in my rooms---" After a few hours of studying, that is.

Severus, apparently, divined her intent. "And if I send you off, you'll just use the time to study, instead of sleep---"

"Which is my privilege---" It was the first time she'd directly set herself against him, opposed his authority--- a test of the nature of their relationship. Too bad it had to come when she was too tired to see.

He started to bristle, perhaps out of habit--- then stopped, his face smoothing out. "Hermione, you took care of me, over my protests, when I needed you to. Let me do the same for you."

Hermione considered for a moment. Really, what would it hurt to get a little rest? "All right---" She couldn't resist another dig. "Though if you expect me to kip in here, I don't see that it'll be very restful---" the armchairs weren't exactly what you'd call comfortable.

"Easily remedied." He tapped one of the chairs, which abruptly Transfigured itself into a chaise longue. "Better?"

She had to laugh. "Very much so." She settled on the chaise, let him measure out three drops of the potion onto her tongue.

And almost immediately, felt her eyelids begin to droop. "Severus?" she managed, feeling suddenly vulnerable.

"Yes?"

"Sit with me?"

"Of course." The last thing she felt before dropping off to sleep was his hand gently stroking her hair.

A/N: There's a reference to Sphinx's "Letter From Exile One Merciful Morning" in this chapter--- specifics at the end!

Chapter 21: Pinning a Queen

Easter.

Festival of rebirth. Celebration of spring. Sacred to the goddess Eostre.

Not one of Blaise's favorites, to be honest. But she'd been raised a devout follower of the old religion, she'd keep the traditions the same as her mother did.

When she looked back on that spring, she remembered Eostre's festival as the last peaceful time.

*****

The night before, the "Slyffindor Seven" as they'd come to be known, were, as usual, in the library. The fifth years (Blaise a notable exception) were studying for the OWLs; Ginny and the twins were along for fellowship's sake--- and Blaise was reading the Financial Times.

Which annoyed the what-for out of Ron, but he liked Catlin too well to say anything to Blaise. Who had to admit she enjoyed his discomfiture.

However, some things were more important. When the clock chimed nine, Blaise stood and stretched. "Well, that's it for me--- I've got an early morning ahead of me."

Ron looked up, scowling. "What for?"

"Don't be a prat--- tomorrow's Eostre's festival. You know, rites of rebirth---" Ron looked blankly at her. "Weasley, youre family's old pure-blood, don't tell me you don't celebrate the rites."

"Well, not enough to get up at the crack of dawn," Ron said resentfully; Catlin put her hand on his arm.

"Neither do we," she said soothingly, then looked at Blaise. "Meaning don't come knocking on my door first thing in the morning---"

"Nor mine." Florian rubbed his eyes. "I fancy having a bit of a lie-in, thanks."

Blaise sniffed. "Fine--- forget your roots, see if I care!" She gathered her things and started to leave.

Hermione stopped her. "Forgive me for not being as well up in wizarding culture as I might be," she said, "but what's the occasion?"

Blaise grinned. "All things considered you really should know--- and since the rest of this lot aren't interested, we might as well take ourselves elsewhere." She slung her back over her shoulder. "Walk with me?"

Her Gryffindor friend clearly didn't fancy a trip to the dungeons, so they took the long way around, while Blaise explained about the pagan festival of rebirth--- and how the Christian conquerors had corrupted it for their own political purposes. "Speaking as a Slytherin, I have to admire their felicity at power plays--- I mean, look at their influence on culture, the art that's been created in the name of that religion--- but really!"

Hermione, however, appeared to have something else on her mind. "So that's why there's no church in Hogsmeade---"

Blaise stared at her, fighting to make her gut remember that her friend was Muggle-born and couldn't be expected to understand. "Church in Hogsmeade! I should think not! Remember what the Christians did to us in the Middle Ages? Think how some Christian groups act toward women still--- won't find strega in that lot, even if witches did practice their--- religion." She found it hard to call Christianity a religion instead of a political movement. As a Slytherin strega, she could admire its secular power, its wealth and its ability to influence the minds of the masses. As a sixteen-year-old feminist pagan witch who'd been forced to attend church and Sunday school for the first decade of her life in order to keep up appearances for her father's Muggle associates, she found the whole thing sickening.

When she'd complained to her mother, Claire had smiled enigmatically. "Power structures feel a lot different from the bottom than from the top, don't they, love?" she'd said gently, and Blaise hadn't needed any further explanation to understand why her mother had permitted her to be exposed to the Church. Being strega meant being responsible with one's power--- or at least, it should. And as far as Blaise was concerned, Christianity was a good example of how not to be responsible with your power.

Hermione's contrite look mollified her. "I'm sorry--- I didn't realize---" She sniffed. "Especially with slime like the Malfoys around--- they don't seem to think much of women, any more than a lot of Christians do."

"Yeah, but they don't cross strega, either." Blaise couldn't fight a bit of smugness. "Not a wizard alive with any sense that would---" she lowered her voice. "Even the Dark Lord left us alone--- the Teasdales are one of the few families he didn't go after, and that's because of the twins' mum--- Beatrix is strega, and so's her cousin Lucinda--- couple others too, I think. And he didn't think it was worth the cost to go after Mum either." Blaise couldn't help but grin; her mother was a truly formidable witch, and Blaise reckoned there wasn't a much greater compliment she could have than to be compared to Claire Clemens/Snape-Zabini.

"Wow." Hermione clearly shared Blaise's admiration. "But how could they be that powerful--- people say Dumbledore's the only wizard---" She stopped. "The only wizard. I see."

"True enough." Blaise grinned smugly, then relented; after all, her friend was likely to become strega, and she deserved to know the truth. "Besides, there are certain limits on strega's power." She paused, trying to think how to explain it. "Are you familiar with the Greek concept of 'moira'?"

Hermione frowned. "Doesn't that mean 'fate'?"

"Sort of. It's more like 'lot'--- as in, your lot in life, your... destiny, those things which are yours and yours alone. For some people it's family, for some it's work--- whatever."

She took a deep breath. "That's where strega's power is greatest. Within our moira--- yeah, we can rival Dumbledore. Beyond the moira, we're powerful witches, but not that powerful."

Hermione looked keenly interested. "What constitutes someone's moira?"

"That depends. It's really what's most important to you--- and more than that, those things that are so much a part of you that you wouldn't be you without them. Your life's work, certain loved ones---" she thought of how she'd feel if someone went after her mother, and felt her blood boil. Yes, Claire was part of her moira, as she was of Claire's.

Hermione looked thoughtful. "So what Professor Snape said was true---" She broke off suddenly, looking embarrassed.

"About what?"

"Well, after he dressed down Harry and Ginny for absolutely nothing on Valentine's Day, I asked him about it--- and he said... He said the reason, or one of the reasons, he'd hated Harry's father so much was that Harry's mum could've been strega, and he reckons that Voldemort couldn't have survived a head-on confrontation with strega."

That was a new wrinkle, and one Blaise liked... though her mother had certainly never said anything of the kind, and Mum wasn't one for modesty--- not in the makeup of strega, really. "Don't know about that, but the Dark Lord sure didn't think it was worth bothering us--- though I reckon he might've been waiting until his power was secured to come after us."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, then spoke again. "You said... strega's moira is her loved ones."

"Partly." Blaise wondered where this was going.

But not for long; Hermione was after all a Gryffindor. "If I were strega, would... would Voldemort stay away from my parents?"

Blaise blinked; she hadn't thought about what it must be like for a Muggle-born, with the Dark Lord gaining power again. "I... don't know," she said slowly, not wanting to give false comfort. "He's always stayed away from the families of strega when she opposed him--- but they were adult witches, my mother and Bea Teasdale. I don't know---" she gave a feral grin. "But if you feel even half as strongly about your family as I do about mine--- and you were strega yourself--- he'd live to regret messing with them."

They shared a feral grin--- then Hermione asked, more gently, "You really are close to your mother, aren't you?"

Blaise couldn't help but smile. "That's a way of putting it--- more like in awe. She's done so much---" Blaise broke off, curiosity replacing her automatic urge to brag about her mother. "Why do you ask?"

"Nothing--- it's just, sometimes I wish my mother were a witch, too."

Blaise nodded, understanding, knowing she didn't need to say anything, that anything she said would likely hurt. And being very grateful she wasn't a Muggle-born.

Both girls walked along in thoughtful silence for a moment, then Hermione spoke again. "Thanks for explaining about the holidays, though--- I mean, most Muggles usually go to church at least on Easter and Christmas, I wondered why no one, and I do mean no one, here wanted to go to church even then."

Blaise grinned. "Take it you're not all that religious yourself, then?"

Hermione grinned. "Not really--- we went on the holidays and whatnot, but my parents really did bring me up a freethinker."

"Good for them." Just about anything was better than Christianity--- and Blaise had to admit that her own faith was more than a little self-serving: belief in a strong female deity who wanted Her daughters to be strong fit right into strega's self-concept. Especially when strega was a smart and smart-mouthed Sicilian Mafia princess--- or rather, princessa, a la Machiavelli. And Harriet Rubin, who'd coined the term. "Mostly, if we get any serious Christians--- and you can bet Slytherin doesn't--- they get things explained to them fast, and most of that kind go home over the holidays." She grinned conspiratorially. "At least, until the rest of us have time to corrupt them---" Hermione looked shocked, and Blaise backpedaled. "I'm not talking about human sacrifice, silly--- though, on second thought, I wouldn't much mind having Malfoy under the knife---" Hermione giggled--- "just about the fact that most of Christianity is not very nice to us--- I mean, really, if nothing else, magic mimics most miracles--- if I wanted, I could take a stroll across the Hogwarts lake, without being the offspring of a deity."

"So it's political, then?"

"That's the nature of the beast." Blaise shrugged. "And believe me, being raised with a Catholic father--- and I do mean Catholic, Sicilian style--- and, well, my mother, I've seen the politics of it. Really, our being pagans is political too---" and the rest of the walk was spent discussing the political advantages of polytheism from a feminist perspective.

*****

What with the impending OWLs, that was the last serious conversation Blaise and Hermione had during break. Blaise, fairly confident that her own excellent memory and even more formidable capacity for extrapolation would get her through the OWLs intact, took to going on walks by herself through the hallways. Florian, of course, would have come if she'd asked, but Cat was stuck to Ron's side like glue, and Blaise knew better than to make Flor choose between her and his family. That was a good way to break up a relationship, especially in Slytherin.

She spent a lot of time up in one of the hallways near the South Tower--- there was a random set of bookshelves here, with all sorts of interesting texts, everything from fiction to philosophy (sometimes one couldn't tell which was which). There was a cozy armchair there, too, which suggested that she wasn't the first person to use it as a private reading nook. She told Hermione about it; the other girl swore she didn't dare distract herself with non-revision reading until after the OWLs, though, so Blaise had the space to herself.

Until the night Malfoy and his goons came to pay her a visit.

They stood in front of her for a full minute before she deigned to notice them--- and then only because Malfoy cleared his throat.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" She wasn't too worried, just annoyed: what she'd said to Hermione was true--- no wizard in his right mind would dare bother strega.

"Just to--- talk." Malfoy stepped away from his pet thugs, coming close, trying to trap her in her chair.

"Last time I looked, talking didn't involve invasions of personal space." She looked coldly up at him, put just a touch of strega-sense behind it, the attitude of a queen on her throne.

Malfoy felt it, she could tell; for a moment, he backed off--- then it seemed to anger him. "This kind of talking does." He leaned close enough that she could smell his breath--- mint; she was surprised he bothered. "C'mon, Blaise--- don't tell me you don't get tired of that Teasdale puppy---"

"Speak plainly, or get out of my face." She got her hand around her wand, hidden by the chair.

"You're a power-player, Zabini---" to his credit he backed off a little. "Don't tell me you can't see the advantages---"

"Of what?"

"You--- and me---"

"Don't make me laugh." She turned back to her book, radiating go away.

A hand gripped her arm, bruising. "You'll pay attention when I'm talking to you---"

She tapped her wand. "Relashio." He stared as his hand came off her shoulder with the force of her spell. "Is that how your father treats your mother?

"That's none of you business---" Draco, unaccountably, flushed.

"Oh but it is." Blaise couldn't resist playing with him--- she was, after all, strega. "After all, if you want me to take the spot Parkinson's always after, surely I should know how a Malfoy wife gets treated?"

Draco sneered. "Who said anything about wife, Muggle-lover---" And suddenly his wand was out--- and he said, "Expelliarmus" a fraction of a second before she did. Her wand ended up in Goyle's hand.

This was getting serious. Blaise glared at him coolly. "Give that back." She strove for the tone her mother took with some of her father's ruder guests.

"Not until we're done with our--- chat." Malfoy invaded her space again, trapping her in her seat. "And since you're going to be difficult---"

He snapped his fingers, and his two goons came forward.

Blaise cursed under her breath. But she had another weapon in her arsenal. She concentrated, felt the power of strega, of knowing what she was and what her rights were. "Stop. Now. You're Slytherins--- you should know better than to attack strega."

Both the thugs stopped, shaking their heads. Blaise felt a surge of triumph.

And Malfoy laughed. "Ah, yes--- strega...." He moved closer, his hands on the arms of the chair. "Well, get this, 'queen of witches'--- not all men will fall at your feet when you snap those pretty fingers."

This was a reaction she'd never seen--- her use of her power seemed to infuriate him rather than lulling him. Blaise was beginning to panic.

Malfoy snapped his fingers, and his goons came forward. She glared at them, and they stopped--- Malfoy looked over his shoulder. "Don't be absurd, you two, it's three on one---" He looked back at Blaise, and licked his lips. "Yes... that's going to be... interesting...." The thugs got hold of her arms, pinning her to the chair.

Blaise felt the first genuine fear she'd known since her mother had given her that necklace. Wasn't the power of strega supposed to stop them in their tracks--- no matter what? "I said let go."

"And I say, hold her." Malfoy was breathing in her face again, his hand on the buttons of her robes. "Yes--- hold her----

Blaise trembled, feeling the medallion on her chest, a cold burning weight. Circe, Morgana, and Lilith, look with favor upon your daughter, your disciple---

But nothing happened--- and Malfoy slowly began undoing the buttons of her robe.

And Blaise's control snapped. Blind anger, terror, a deep sense that this must not happen, that it was wrong--- all of it expressed in two panicked words: "Get away---"

And, quite abruptly and involuntarily, they did.

Blaise stood very still, not daring to move, and looked at the unconscious forms of her attackers. She'd cast Stupefy on them--- and without a wand.

Any other time, she'd have been delighted--- downright smug, in fact.

At the moment, all she wanted was to be sick.

She started to go fetch her wand--- then found that she couldn't bring herself to go that near Goyle.

Fortunately, she didn't have to--- as she held out her hand, the wand leapt into it.

Second piece of wandless magic in as many minutes, Blaisie. You should be proud. But all she felt was numb. Sick. Dizzy.

Without even thinking, she took off at full speed, not having a destination in mind.

Though she wasn't surprised to find herself at the end of her headlong flight in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

It was a good place to hide. And the company was perfect for her mood.

Moaning Myrtle looked up as she came in. "My goodness, but you look upset," the ghost said gleefully. "What's happened to you?"

"Let's just say I'd rather face a basilisk."

She locked herself in one of the stalls, with Myrtle fluttering ineffectually around her. And let the sobs come.

*****

After they left the library, Hermione decided to find Blaise before going to bed. The two friends hadn't had much time to talk lately, and Hermione found she rather missed the other witch.

Which meant a bit of a search--- and Hogwarts was a large castle. Still, she wasn't one of the two best Arithmancy students in the school for nothing. (Not that she couldn't have borrowed Harry's map, but it was a matter of pride.) A quickly thought-out spell and a few Latin derivatives later---

"What in the world?" Why her friend would be in Moaning Myrtle's toilet....

But that was where she was. Hermione set off, mystified.

*****

Hermione pushed the door to the toilet--- and heard a sound like an abruptly stifled sob. "Blaise---"

Dead silence. "Blaise, it's Hermione----"

No answer--- then a bolt of bright red came at her from nowhere---

Hermione tried to dodge it--- but it slammed into her. "Argh!"

But, except for a slight tingling, she felt nothing.

And then Blaise, pale and cold-faced, near-expressionless, emerged from Moaning Myrtle's stall. "It is you--- I thought for a moment---" she shook her head, looking confused.

"Blaise, what happened---"

The other girl just stared at her, shaking her head slightly. Wobbling.

Hermione knew when she was out of her depth. "Blaise, c'mon, let's go see Professor Snape---" Snape would know what to do, she was certain of it. As far as she was concerned, Snape was the resident trauma expert--- not least because he'd dealt with so much of it himself. And Blaise certainly looked traumatized.

Her friend seemed to agree with that plan; she let Hermione come close, but when they started to move toward the door, Blaise pulled back sharply, shaking her head more vigorously. "I'm not going back out there---" It was almost a growl.

Hermione froze, uncertain again. "All right," she said slowly. Then, "Will you be okay here, while I go get Snape?"

Blaise took a deep breath. And another. "Yes."

Hermione went, as fast as she could.

*****

Snape had been expecting Hermione that evening--- after her one night's sleep, she'd pronounced herself fit to keep up with her schedule, and all evidence suggested that she was somehow managing, even without a Time-Turner.

But he hadn't expected what he got. She came bursting into his office, sans Concealment Cloak--- in fact, without any attempt at stealth at all. "Hermione, for Merlin's sake---"

"Severus---" her voice was low, desperate, a contrast to her flushed face. "Please--- you have to come with me. It's Blaise--- she's barricaded herself into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom---"

FLASH. For a moment, it wasn't Hermione's curly hair and the Potions classroom, but Bill Weasley's carrot-top and the Restricted Section of the library--- "Severus, it's Claudia, in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom---"

"She attacked me---" Hermione and the remembered image of the eldest Weasley spoke as one. "Please, Severus, I think something's happened---"

"You think, do you?" Echo of his words that night as well. He got to his feet, willing himself to be calm, to focus. This couldn't be the same thing, it couldn't---

But if Potter had decided to emulate his godfather, then "Boy Who Lived" or not, Snape was going to hang the wretched upstart by his own entrails from the Astronomy Tower. Possibly without wholly removing them from his body first.

******

It was the same scene, plus twenty years or so.

For a moment, on entering the room, Snape wasn't sure if what he was seeing was now or then. Dark hair and a pale face with feral eyes, a wand raised, in an attack that to the mind controlling it was only a defense---

He forced himself to control, to the present. One of them had to be sane. "Blaise--- Blaise, cousin, it's Professor Snape---" then, discarding formality altogether in the name of filial bonds--- "Cousin Severus." He let the bathroom door fall closed behind him, only peripherally aware of Hermione dogging his steps. "It's me, cousin."

"Blaise---" Hermione.

His young cousin turned toward her friend's voice, starting to relax. "Hermione."

"I told you I'd bring him, and I did---" Slight hitch in Hermione's voice. "You can cast the True-Shape charm on us again, if you want."

Blaise stood up straighter. "Reckon I do."

The red light hit them, tingled and faded. "Better?" he asked her gently, reassured that at least she was able to dis