I waited though wanting nothing,

then waited longer.

As if by that I might

become again

the carved and painted lure—

Its two iridescent eyes that stay always open,

its stippled gold sides, deep-orange back,

red threads attached at the gills.

I hummed with its three-pronged shine

of fish who are sweet and fat to the birds above them.

I hummed with its three injured notes to the fish below.

To all the blue-winged, handless distances

and all my blue-finned, handless lives,

I hummed

in borrowed Swedish and the iron-hiding slip of gleam—

The great strangeness still may come, even for you.

-Lure, Jane Hirshfield

Crookshanks, for all his qualities, was a rather nasty bit of work. Much to the complaints of his treasured owner, he napped in the same spot of sunlight on the highest beam of the apartment all day. Although he heard her scold him for his laziness, he couldn't be bothered to care much, since his kibble always occupied his bowl and there was always a hand waiting to pet him. He liked his spot for the obvious reasons; it was warm, high enough to irritate Hermione, and made him feel much larger than when he was on the floor. The largest reason, however, was the view. Horizontal from that highest arc of wood was a large window, allowing the half-kneazle to easily watch his beloved mistress travel to and from their home to the apothecary where she worked. He wasn't sure who she fraternized with while she abandoned him to lick off all his furballs and leave them as haphazard little gifts along the floor, but she always returned smelling slightly off.

He didn't like it. Not a bit.

To remedy this, Crookshanks decided the easiest course of prevention was to simply keep her at home. He'd dart out at the most inopportune of moments, snatching and clawing at her woolen socks at she stumbled out of the way so as to avoid trampling her beloved pest.

"Crooks," she scowled, hair catching quite brilliantly in the early morning sun, "I'll ward you out of the hallway if you don't quit. Merlin, I swear I will if you make me late one more time. I'm already running behind schedule. Professor Snape will have my head if I spoil the Felix Felicis variant one more time. It's costing more galleons than he's paying me at this point!"

The cat, being only a cat and none too concerned with the carrying ons of humans, merely meowed and settled over her shoes as she hunted around for the last parchment of notes that no matter how many accios Hermione casted, refused to reveal itself.

His owner had changed quite a bit since she plucked him from Diagon Alley some years ago. No longer was he able to cover the entirety of her legs with his fluffy form, easily batting at her toes while kneading her stomach. Her hair, which before easily resembled his own marvelously outrageous coat, finally had morphed into a smooth cascade of curls that he very much liked to capture in between his paws while she read one of her large, musty tomes. Equally, her voice had become less shrill, a welcome change to her familiar's ears. It now reverberated through the walls and floorboards of their home in a soothing cadence that was at once calming to him. He found he missed it when silence occupied its place.

But the one thing, the absolute one thing he utterly detested about this matured Hermione, was her absence from sunrise into the dark hours of the night. He was her familiar, not just a mere pet, and thus required quite a bit more attention than whomever else she was devoted her time to so ardently. At least from his perspective, this was a gospel truth.

So as she scrambled around, overturning chairs and rugs, even dumping her treasured books in a heap on the couch to more thoroughly search the floor, Crookshanks couldn't for one second feel a bit of remorse that he had hidden that vindictive piece of parchment in the gutter outside their apartment.


Hermione was having a day. A horrible, absolutely tragic, not-at-all-on-schedule, poorly thought out, very bad day. It was in fact, a new low for her. The press was having a field day over Harry and Ron's unearthing of a rather unsavory coven of dark magic practitioners in Russia, and Hermione was left in hazy London, without so much as an owl from her friends, her only information on their accomplishments from Rita Skeeter's various columns mucking up The Daily Prophet. She wouldn't have been too terribly peeved about all this, used as she was to their absent mindedness, however upon discovering that that particular coven had been harvesting an extremely rare strain of pomegranates, invaluable to a potioneers stock, had been collected and donated to the ministry rather than Professor Snape's apothecary, she was at the very least, resentful.

Oh, this wasn't even the first time they had performed such a stunt. Just three months ago, an entire five pounds of moon shells had been seized from and cave off the shore of South Africa after arresting its senile cultivator for an entirely separate issue. The aurors, not much caring for Class X ingredients, told the boys to find a dark corner to tuck it in, or turn it into the ministry for some use or the other. The boys agreeably dropped it off at the Ministry of Magic before dropping by Hermione's apartment to relay the entire story. When they told her about the moon shells, she went into such a deep shock she dropped her pan of spaghetti noodles she had been transferring from the sink to the pan.

"Do you have any inkling of how precious moon shells are!? They're practically extinct and you came across five pounds of the stuff and didn't even think to ask if I'd want it?" She shrieked, angry blotches coloring her cheekbones as she wrung her hands.

She didn't speak to them for a week after that particular incident.

Before that it was a vat of spineless coral mucus, and before that it was a basket of fertilized fire lilies, and the five encounters before those two made the list of grievances entirely too long to be understandable. Not only were those ingredients worth thousands of galleons, the look on Professor Snape's face when she dropped them off in the lab would have been worth the haggling with the Ministry if they'd allowed her to get her hands on them post tempus.

Needless to say, this new turn of events was grating on her. It was grating on her enough that she managed to misplace one of her arithmetic equations that just might be the key to an entirely new version of felix felicis. It was quite an astounding piece of work on her part, and had cost a pretty galleon to get as far as she had. Without her Professor, she might still be swamped in the theoretical stages and never even see her potion hit the cauldron. She was unwaveringly grateful for his tutelage and was not about to disappoint him at this stage in the game. She knew it was hard enough for him to allow her access to his ingredients and knowledge, but to proactively assist her in her own endeavors was a treasure she held close in her regard for him. It was a remarkable transformation from when they first began their journey of master and apprentice.

With the initial problem of Voldemort eliminated, the post battle scene had segued into a humdrum of relieve and frenzy. People had rushed about identifying injured and deceased, in between frantic embraces and tears of release that the great burden wizarding Britain had shouldered had finally come to pass. Hermione herself was assisting Madam Pomfrey in the Infirmary with countless bottles of dittany when Luna and Ginny flung open the oak doors and screeched about Professor Snape in the Shrieking Shack.

"Oh, cripes. Sweet Merlin I think he's still alive," Ginny shrieked, flinging back bed curtains in search of Hermione. "She's behind the last one, I believe. The nargles are hovering especially strong in that corner," Luna suggested, tugging back the curtain as Ginny continued her usurpation of every hospital bed.

"HERMIONE! Oh Cerce, Zeus and all the old gods, we are idiots of the first order," Ginny was practically running in circles, past the point of reason.

"Ginny. Ginny. Oh for heaven's sake, GINNY!" Hermione struggled to yell over Ginny's panic, "What's happened, hurry up and tell me, now!"

Ginny rushed right into Hermione's face, her mahogany eyes boring straight into Hermione, "We were looking for extra supplies in Professor Dumbledore's office. Everything was so cluttered in there we could hardly find anything we needed. Dumbledore's portrait started suggesting where things might be located and when I looked up to thank him, I noticed that Professor Snape's portrait was still blank!"

Hermione's eyes dilated and her bottle of dittany shattered upon its impact with the infirmary's floor. She immediately flew into action.

"Luna, grab that satchel over there. Ginny, levitate that stretcher and send a patronus to McGonagall. Hurry!" The other two witches rushed about as Hermione began hollering for Madam Pomfrey before practically teleporting out the door.

The rest had been history, they had managed to successfully stabilize Professor Snape until Professor McGonagall and Pomfrey arrived with healers to transfer the rapidly depleting man to St. Mungo's. The whole scene was a blur to Hermione, she was so caught up in desperately trying to save him she hardly had the energy to commit the details to memory. The only thing she remembered with absolute clarity was brushing a thick strand of his blood saturated hair out of his pallid face before lowering her mouth to his to administer muggle CPR. It was the only thing she could think to do after the conventional magic alternatives had failed. The other thing she remembered was passing his room at St. Mungo's, and promptly having a flower pot chucked at her head as he began to bellow about life debts and James Potter and his eternal bane of servitude to despicable human beings categorized as heros. It wasn't until later that night, Crookshanks thick mane under her heavy palm as she lay awake in bed that she finally put the pieces together.

"Godric Gryffindor on a stake, I've trapped him in a life debt!" She had gasped quietly into the heavy night air, at once allowing the implications of that to settle into her speeding thoughts.

It must've been the CPR that did it. Breathing literal life into another had serious magical complications she had been too frantic to consider in the moment. Looking back, she still would've done it. She regretted only that the life debt reminded him so much of the one he had just recently payed off to James Potter.

She had visited him the next day, pleased that she had not only worked out an agreeable solution, but also thought to remove any other throwable objects from the brooding Professor's grasp.

"Sir, you know very well I didn't mean to enter into a life debt with you."

He turned away from her, his greasy hair curtaining the majority of his scowling face. "You should have just let me die. I never asked your miserable lot to haul yourself and half the castle all the way back to that god forsaken shack and drag me back from my grave." He grounded out, his jaw visibly working even behind his hair.

"Professor, I'm sorry you feel that way, but I regret nothing. I'd do it again if it came down to it. Besides offing yourself, there's no way to fix your situation now and I'm prepared to offer you with an easy commitment that will render the debt annulled." She swallowed, relieved she got the whole shpiel out of the way in one go. She'd practiced for hours before she came here, and was happy her voice hadn't wavered nearly as much as she'd predicted.

He turned, his dark ebony irises locked on her petite form, and she felt herself visibly shudder under his glare. She knew suggesting a debt payment right from the get go was a gamble, but seeing as he hadn't gathered the strength to immediately hex her, she thought the whole transaction was going remarkably well. A hollow silence stretched between the pair for a minute, an hour, a day. She didn't know how exactly long his eyes bore into hers, she was only aware of the hot drops of perspiration dripping down her neck as she prepared herself to deal out the proposition.

"Sir, I- I'd like to keep this between us. It's nobody else's business how you came to be alive and they should consider themselves lucky to have you here," she sighed, rubbing absently at her damp neck, feeling his eyes practically set her on fire with their angry heat. "I know I haven't completed my Seventh year of Hogwarts, and I know you'll be recovering for quite some time. But all the same, I'd-" Hermione felt her stomach practically bottom out as she forced the words from her mouth, "I'dliketobeyourapprenticeandlearnpotionsfromyou."

She winced, and waited for his response. He merely sat under his white bedsheet, arms crossed and looking for all the world like unearthly Hades on bed rest. Professor Snape's silence continued, simply content, apparently, to study her from across the room. His mouth puckered and his brow creased, deft fingers flitted up to stroke lightly over his two-day scruff as he appeared to weigh the pros and cons of her request. Hermione bit her lip and tucked a frizzy strand of hair behind her ear, twisting her shirt in her hands and trying not to look as nervous as she felt. How is he so easily able to unnerve her, even from a hospital bed?

"I mean, of course it would be on your terms. I would never presume… I would never encroach upon… I, well, I would consider the debt repaid after I achieve my Mastery with your leadership and I would be happy to draft a-"

"Miss Granger, please, do shut up for a moment." He said, without a trace of a sneer, to her surprise. "Bring me that pad of parchment," he said quietly, his face firmly set in such a way that he appeared to be preparing to go through something most unpleasant. She scrambled to retrieve the paper from the stand and hurried to his side, her fingers brushing briefly over his clammy ones as she struggled not to resume her babbling. Reaching into her bottomless bag before he could ask, she plucked a black quill from its depths and handed that over as well.

"Quick-Quotes Quill," she said, her voice shriveled into a whisper in light of his decision. His face remained passive as he took that, too, from her trembling hand. Her heart raced in her chest as he began to dictate the rules and conditions for her apprenticeship. To start in the summer following her seventh and final year of Hogwarts, she would learn all, witness all, and obey all that he ordained to her, and she would willingly submit to his authority until her Mastery was obtained. The details were drafted, the binding spell glowing golden over his spidery scrawl before he brandished a small hand-blade from under his pillow, cutting a small incision in the tender flesh of his elbow before instructing Hermione to do the same.

"Do as I say," He commanded, his voice lowering to something harsh and low as he wrapped his arm from hand to forearm around hers.

"If you'd be so kind as to drop any Occlumency shields," he rasped, tugging her form closer to his to smear their blood between them. She shook like a leaf, barely registering what he said and then hastening to do as instructed. Their eyes locked, and she was aware of his magic throbbing around them, crashing over her own and willing it to submit to him.

"Repeat after me." He whispered, the room around them darkening as golden ropes of light wrapped around their hands.

"You cannot posses me, for I belong to myself," he began, pausing until she shakily repeated him before continuing on.

"But while we both wish it, I give you what is mine to give.

You cannot control me, for I am a free person,

But I shall serve you in the ways a Master requires,

And the knowledge will taste sweeter coming from your hand.

I pledge to you that yours will be the name I answer to under this vow,

And the eyes into which I cannot desist.

I pledge to you the first drops of my success,

And the first drink of my glory,

I pledge to you my magic and mind, equally in your care,

And tell no outsider our grievances.

This is my apprenticeship vow to you.

This is a bond of equals."

Their bodies shuddered as the weight of the ancient magic settled over them, a mantle of responsibility and trust suddenly thrust upon apprentice and master as the contract sealed itself and promptly burst into flames.

Professor Snape sighed, abandoning her hand and letting their wounds stickily peel apart. He didn't bother to cast a cleansing charm, simply muttering "Leave me. Now." before rolling away from her and burying his dark profile into the down pillows. Hermione stood at his bedside, still entranced by one of the most spectacular forms of magic she'd witnessed in her young life, before gathering her quill and whispering a quiet "Of course, Master," before scuttling out of his room.

From that day, Hermione resolved to work harder than she had in any of her studies before to prepare and perform for her Master. She was determined to never once make him feel regretful of his easy agreement, or to remind him of his debt to her.

The lost opportunity to gain such priceless ingredients from Harry and Ron for Professor Snape, combined with the up and coming missing arithmetic equations was enough of a boon to cause poor Hermione Granger to descend into a fit of panic as she continued to rush about her small apartment, her long held fears of disappointing her Professor rearing their ugly head.

She still hadn't found that stupid parchment paper, and now her meddlesome cat was making a point for groom himself over her dragonhide boots, probably knowing full well that kneazle hair was completely corrosive to almost any potion. She groaned, at a loss for what to do, and twenty minutes behind schedule, grabbed her spare pair from the closet before sprinting out the door, down the stairs, and around the corner to apparate out of sight to her Master's elusive lab.

Hermione's apprenticeship vows are a modification of Celtic marriage vows. I do not own anything here that belongs to the Harry Potter World, not even the beloved half-cat-half-kneazle on a warpath to dissuade his owner.