Phoenix Tears, Chapter Three : Home, Sweet Home

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

As always, I want to thank my truly excellent betas, LAxo and WriterMerrin. Your help is very, very much appreciated.

By the time they had finished modifying the memories of both Susan and Terry Granger, it was past three o'clock in the afternoon. Severus felt the strain on his own magic and could tell Hermione Granger was exhausted from the dark shadows under her eyes. Following Granger's directions, Severus levitated the sleeping bodies of her parents and transported them upstairs to their bedroom. Granger remained behind, slumped on the couch, her forehead resting on the heel of her hands, her elbows propped on her knees.

Switching the Grangers' clothes for the pyjamas located under their pillows took only seconds with the help of a relatively simple spell, and Severus tucked the blankets over them with his wand and headed back downstairs. He located Granger in the kitchen, where she was rummaging in the fridge.

"Food?" she asked tiredly, pulling out a salad bowl covered with a horrifically blue coloured plastic wrap and full of leftover penne ragù. Severus grunted his assent, and Granger spooned out two bowls of pasta, heating them with a non-verbal warming charm. She poured them each a glass of water from a filter jug and levitated the lot to the kitchen table. They ate in silence. "Coffee?" she inquired once she'd finished eating.

"Black, no sugar."

Granger got to her feet, busying herself with the electric kettle and a Bodum plunger. She hovered until the kettle boiled and clicked off, before filling the pot and bringing it to the table. She looked grim.

"Slytherins are always calling me out on bad ethical choices," she remarked suddenly.

The switch from the mundane to the personal took Severus by surprise. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively. He'd called her out a few times, to be sure, but she had said "Slytherins," plural.

"Jocelyn pointed out the error of my ways, too." Hermione pressed down the plunger.

"Gryffindors often get caught up in their own self-righteousness," replied Severus, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

"Right." As Granger poured the coffee, her lower lip trembled.

He really didn't want her to cry.

"Granger," he said abruptly, reaching into the pocket of his robes. "I have something for you." He pulled out a small phial filled with a virulent green liquid, the stopper carefully sealed with wax. He put it down on the table beside her cup of coffee.

Granger's eyes widened slightly in surprise. She picked up the bottle and turned it over curiously in her hand, holding it up to the light to gauge the colour and consistency. "What is it?"

"Antivenom to Nagini's poison."

"Where did you get it?" She sounded astonished.

"I brewed it, Granger. I have some small skill with potions." She looked at him so blankly that he relented and provided a more explicit explanation. "When Arthur was bitten, a year-and-a-half ago, I managed to procure some of the venom and, eventually, to formulate an antidote. Since the Dark Lord's pet is something of an occupational health hazard in my line of work, I've been brewing it regularly and dosing myself daily. I can't supply you with enough to keep you or Potter immune for a year, in fact I can only spare this single dose. With circumstances as they currently are, it's not clear when I will next have the opportunity to make more. Once the bottle is open, the antivenom will degrade quite quickly; you will only have an hour or so to use it. It can be applied topically or swallowed. Hopefully you'll only need it once."

"Thank you," she breathed, all hint of tears having evaporated. "Actually, I have something for you, too." She leant back in her chair, twisting her hips slightly in order to reach into the pocket of her jeans without having to stand. She pulled out a flat, silver button and held it out towards him on her palm.

Severus recognised it at once, but he couldn't acknowledge that he knew what it was without revealing that he'd spied on her private conversation with Krum. Wisely, he stared at it and said nothing.

"It's a voice-activated Portkey," explained Granger. "To set it you have to put it in your mouth and speak a phrase that you're not likely to say by accident."

"You will need this more than I," Severus managed, his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Granger's mouth twisted bitterly. "The Portkey takes you home. As of today, I don't have a home. And since the whole point of moving my parents is the likelihood that Death Eaters will come here, suddenly turning up here myself is not a very sensible idea." She turned the Portkey over several times between her fingers. "You, on the other hand, may find yourself in a tricky situation and need to escape." She looked up at him, not needing to list the possible circumstances: the Dark Lord might discover his treachery, or even just tire of him; or the Order might find him. "It works even within anti-Apparation wards," she added, "or if you've lost your wand."

She was offering him an escape route.

Slowly, unbelievingly, Severus reached out and lifted the Portkey from her hand. It was warm from her pocket. "How do I set it?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Put it into your mouth with the shank between your molars and the flat edge against the inside of your cheek. Um," she hesitated. "I can wash it first, if you want."

Severus ignored her belated offer to clean it and slipped it into his mouth. He tried, and failed, not to think of the fact that she'd had it her mouth, and then her pocket.

"Now say the trigger phrase," she instructed, her brown eyes unwaveringly fixed on his own.

Severus inhaled through his nose. For a moment he considered using a line of poetry, but the sensible side of his brain decided against it. In an emergency, he would need something quick, yet it had to be a word he wouldn't say by accident. He decided on a word in Italian.

"Fenice," he said clearly. Then he extricated the Portkey from his mouth with finger and thumb. It was damp with his saliva, and he felt slightly foolish.

"Phoenix?" asked Granger.

"Yes," he replied, pulling out his handkerchief and fastidiously drying off the flat silver disk. He avoided her eye.

Taking her wand in her hand, Granger conjured needle and thread and moved round the table to stand next to him. She laid her wand down and took the Portkey from him. He felt inordinately relieved that he had wiped it. "Hold still," she instructed as she undid the top couple of buttons of his frock coat and slipped several fingers inside his collar.

He froze. "What are you doing?" he hissed. His voice was soft, but his fury was palpable.

"I'm sewing on the Portkey so that it stays in contact with your skin." Granger had temporarily stashed the needle between her lips, and she spoke out of one side of her mouth. "I'm not sure how many frock coats you have, but I suggest you wear this one continuously and just make frequent use of cleaning charms. Otherwise the Portkey will be useless."

He felt the slight chill of the metal Portkey against his throat as she slipped it into place.

"Don't move," she warned as she removed the needle from her mouth and began to stitch into the fabric of his coat. He could see the needle in his peripheral vision at the end of each stitch as she pulled the thread tight. He could feel all four fingers of her hand pressed against his neck as she held the button in place. Her breath blew softly against his cheek as she leant forward, intent on her task; one of her curls brushed his face.

Something was caught, almost painfully hard, in his chest. He thought it might fade once Granger moved away from his immediate proximity, but it didn't. It stayed throughout the rest of the afternoon as he watched her sort through the accumulated belongings of her parents' lives, packing their bags for the trip to Australia and concealing all sign of her own presence throughout the last eighteen years. It stayed as he wandered the aisles of the small gourmet supermarket-cum-greengrocers two blocks from the house, looking for something to cook for dinner. If anything, it only got worse as he scowled down at a simmering pot of seafood stew with fennel and ground hazelnuts, and realised that he was trying to impress Granger with his cooking.

Granger, as it turned out, was very much impressed. She sighed appreciatively as she mopped up the last of her second helping with an edge of bread, "That was absolutely delicious."

Severus changed the topic. "What do you have left to do?"

"Not much. Just the food in the kitchen, I think."

It was late. They hadn't started eating until eleven, but if Granger really did only have the kitchen to do, there was plenty of time. The Drs Granger were due to wake at five a.m. and set out for the airport soon afterwards. Their passports, magically modified to display their new identities, and two international tickets sat ready on the end of the counter. Granger had emptied her childhood savings account and spent most of the money on the flights. Catching her eye across the table, Severus encouraged his companion back to her task with a single raised eyebrow.

"Alright," she huffed, pressing her hands flat on the surface of the dining table and levering herself to her feet.

Severus had allowed Granger the privacy to sift through her parents' effects, but he felt no such compunction with regard to the contents of their kitchen cupboards—after all, he'd rifled through them once already in the process of making dinner. With both his and her energies focused on the project, they made short work of separating the perishables from food that could remain in storage.

"I'll take these with me to the Burrow," remarked Granger as she stuffed the first of several cardboard boxes full of foodstuffs into a small beaded purse. "Molly won't say no to some extra food." She took a last look around the room, her eyes pausing momentarily on the passports and tickets. "I guess we're done."

"Good," replied Severus, twisting his wrist to check the time on his watch against that of the kitchen clock. "Time enough for you to catch a couple of hours sleep before we leave."

Granger sucked in a deep breath. "I don't think I could. Now that I've emptied my room . . ." She trailed off.

"Sleep on the couch, then," he responded, turning from her desolate face and striding up the few stairs that separated the kitchen from the front room.

A few seconds later, Granger followed. Plonking her beaded bag down on the coffee table with a disproportionally loud thud, she sat gingerly on one end of the couch. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

Severus pulled the latest issue of Ars Alchema from an inside pocket as he folded his long limbs into one of the armchairs. "I was planning to read you a bedtime story," he drawled.

His sarcasm drew a reluctant chuckle from his companion, and, as if the brief bout of laughter had decided her, she finally turned and lay down on the couch, a cushion tucked under her head. The main lights were off, leaving only the reading lamp beside the chair in which Severus sat. He could feel her looking at him, and he forced his eyes to move across the page as if he were reading, though he took nothing in.

"I wish you would," she said suddenly, interrupting the awkward silence.

"You wish I would what, Granger?" he replied irritably, turning the page.

Her response was barely louder than a whisper: "Read me a bedtime story."

It took several seconds before Severus could breathe, but when he could, he huffed out his breath into a long sigh. Rolling his eyes, he flicked back several pages to find the beginning of the article. He looked up and caught her eye briefly before resolutely turning his gaze back to the words before him. He took a deep breath.

"Reception Theory: Potions and the Magic of the Recipient," he began, "by Tamberlina Tatters. Old wives tales, myth and anecdote relate frequent instances of involuntary immunity to potions applied with malicious intent, yet outside the realm of fiction and fable, the phenomenon is difficult to trace or track with any accuracy. Were the phenomenon to exist, it would, by definition resist the repeatability necessary for the application of scientific method. How can you build a control group against maliciously applied potions? How does one categorise 'malicious intent'? How, indeed, can a subject be deemed to act 'involuntarily' . . ."

Within minutes, Granger was fast asleep. Once Severus was sure she wouldn't wake, he closed the journal, one finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. He let his eyes rest on Granger's sleeping form, noting the small movements of her breathing, the soft sheen of her curls in the dim light, the angle of one foot as it dangled off the couch; it wouldn't do to waste a moment of this night reading.

At quarter to five, he woke her. She moved slowly, bleary with sleep, but gathered her shoes and her beaded bag without fussing. Slipping on her shoes, she followed him to the front door. As silently as possible, Severus and Granger slipped out into the street. Crossing the road, they walked towards the end of the block, where they stopped at a convenient bus stop. From there they could stand and watch the house without raising suspicion.

Within moments, the lights came on. Knowing the layout of the house, Severus could imagine the Drs Granger—or, more accurately now, Wendell and Monica Wilkins—fumbling through their morning ablutions, making breakfast, tucking the tickets safely into their hand luggage. Granger's attention was fixed on the windows, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest as she shivered slightly in the chilly early morning air. He knew she must be imagining the same scenario. Almost too quickly, a cab pulled up in front of the house, honking once on the horn to announce its arrival.

The front door was thrown open, and golden light spilled out onto the front step. Wendell, once Terry, wrestled the bags down the short flight of stairs and into the back of the waiting taxi. Monica, once Susan, locked up. He could hear their laughter and excitement as they climbed inside. As the cab swung past the place where he and Granger stood, he caught a glimpse of two smiling faces.

Granger looked grim. "Well," she said, in a flat voice, "that's that. Let's go."

"Wait," he said suddenly, his long fingers closing round her upper arm to hold her back. Her eyes swung up to stare at him, her pupils huge in the dim early-morning light. She was so close, and his attention was caught by the way the clumps of her lashes arced away from her eyelid.

"As a very last resort," he said, "my home can be found at Spinner's End. I will modify the wards so that you can Apparate right in, but be warned: other Death Eaters are frequent visitors. It would not do to arrive there unless you truly had no other option. Do I make myself clear?"

Granger nodded. "Th-thank you, sir," she stuttered. She looked honestly taken aback.

"Good." Severus gestured towards her parents' house with his chin. "Come along, then."

Without speaking again, they walked back across the road, pausing only for Granger to mail a letter to her cousin at the postbox, and she let them through the front door. They climbed the stairs to the master bedroom and went in. Granger tapped the mantle with her wand, causing a Disillusioned jar of Floo powder to pop back into sight.

She turned and looked at him then, both hands gripping the beaded bag tightly enough that her knuckles gleamed white. "Thank you, Professor, for everything," she said awkwardly. Briefly, she bit down on her lower lip before thrusting one hand forward. "Good luck," she added.

Severus took the proffered hand. "You, too," he replied, and foolishly imagined pressing his lips to the soft hand cradled in his; he imagined kissing her lips. Abruptly, he let go. "Hurry up," he ordered, jerking his head towards the fireplace in an unmistakable gesture of dismissal.

Granger nodded. Her lips pressed together into a thin line. She looked just like her mother had in the moments before they modified her memory: worried, yet determined. She turned and grasped a handful of Floo powder. Severus conjured a fire.

"Good bye," she said, in the moment before she threw in the powder, then, "The Burrow!"

She stepped through and disappeared. Severus refused to let himself wonder whether he would ever see her again. Instead, he busied himself dismantling the Floo connection. Then he Apparated away.

The soft pop as Severus reappeared in his living room at Spinner's End woke Draco with a start. The boy was fully dressed, and the lights were all on; he had clearly fallen asleep at some point during the night.

"Calm yourself, Draco," drawled Severus as the groggy boy fumbled for his wand and squinted into the bright light in an attempt to see who had just arrived.

"Severus," he sighed in relief, sinking back into the couch and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I was worried about you."

Severus sneered in lieu of a response, but Draco's eyes were closed again, and he wasn't likely to notice. Perhaps there is hope for the boy yet, thought Severus.

"There's a letter for you," added Draco suddenly, sitting up straight and opening his eyes. "From Mother."

He was pointing towards the coffee table, and Severus leisurely summoned the scroll that lay where the younger man was pointing. He cracked the wax seal, embossed with the Malfoy coat of arms, and scanned the missive. Since he had saved Draco's life the previous week, he'd had a similar letter each day. Narcissa was at pains to demonstrate the continuing depths of her gratitude. This time, she'd been thoughtful enough to include the information that a meeting was scheduled for three p.m.

Forewarned is forearmed, he thought. That gave him all of the morning to catch up on sleep.

The expectant, attentive look on Draco's face caused him to scan the message once more. Surely he had a letter, too? He shouldn't be waiting on information via one . . . On the second read through, his tired mind picked up the subtle inferences of Narcissa's prose: she'd thanked him for his continual support of her entire family. Without a doubt, then, the Azkaban break out was scheduled for that afternoon. Since Draco's failings had done nothing to endear the Malfoy family to the Dark Lord, Lucius might well become the newest whipping boy on his release. Severus bit back an urge to sigh. He was going to eat something, and then he was going to sleep.

Severus concentrated on the ring of his boot heels against the stone floors (which, in a melancholy kind of way, reminded him of Hogwarts) and his Occlumency shields: the number of Dementors swarming throughout the building was oppressive, and he couldn't very well conjure his Patronus in his present company. One of the few human guards scurried by his side, a scrawled list of cell numbers clutched in his hands. Behind them were a handful of Dementors and an equal number of freshly-liberated Death Eaters—not that the guard realised they were in the process of being liberated. He was operating under the mistaken impression that Severus was escorting the lot to the Ministry to appear before the Wizengamot. Fool, reflected Severus idly. As if one official would be sent to escort eleven prisoners.

"Here we are, sir," wheezed the guard, peering at his list. "This is the next one: Stanley Shunpike."

"Stanley Shunpike is no Death Eater," replied Severus dismissively.

"Well, I wouldn'ta thought so, either. Cried for 'is Ma, 'ee did, when they brought him in. But 'ee's on the list. All the Deaf Eaters, you said. You can't pick an' chose."

Severus paused for a long second, considering the options. "Very well."

The guard unlocked the door with a key from the heavy ring that hung at his waist. Once the door was open, two Dementors floated in and encouraged the inmate out into the corridor to join the group of prisoners who stood patiently behind Severus.

"Next?" inquired Severus irritably, once Shunpike had shuffled into position.

"Lucius Malfoy," was the reply. "Next door along."

"I'll go in this time," responded Severus, surprising even himself with the proposition.

The guard looked sceptical, but merely shrugged. "You're the boss," he commented as he held the door open.

Automatically, Severus cast Muffliato as he stepped into the room. He wanted neither the guard nor any of the other Death Eaters to overhear their conversation. Lucius was slumped against the far wall and nearly unrecognisable. His hair was so dirty and matted that its natural colour was indiscernible; the prison robes so shapeless that his distinctively svelte silhouette was hidden from view. As Severus approached, the prisoner glanced upward.

"Severus," he said, in a fair approximation of Lucius' usual debonair tones. "How lovely of you to drop in once again."

"Once again?" queried Severus, one corner of his mouth twitching. So, Lucius has been hallucinating my presence?

"You really are making quite a habit of stopping by. I'm sorry I've no refreshments to offer you this time, you really should come on Tuesdays, instead."

Severus felt a pang of pity for his long-time friend. "I've come to take you home, Lucius."

"That's what you always say." Lucius brushed back his matted hair from his face in a parody of his typical gesture. "I do hope you've come alone this time. I really didn't appreciate Potter's presence."

"Potter? What on earth was he doing here?"

"Don't ask me, Severus, you were the one who brought him." Lucius looked pained. "Then you had the temerity to say that you'd betrayed us to the Order."

Severus laughed at that, the incongruous sound echoing eerily against the stone walls. "Please, Lucius. I'm a Slytherin. If I were to betray you, I wouldn't tell you about it. Surely you recognised that as a figment of your imagination?"

"I could only hope."

Severus reached out a hand. "Come on, Lucius," he urged, "let's go."

Lucius swatted at Severus' outstretched hand as if his own would pass through it. When, instead, they connected with a thud, he did a double take, staring up at Severus with unnaturally wide eyes.

"Come on," said Severus again, "I promised Narcissa you'd be home for tea."

"You're—" Lucius broke off. He tried again, "You're real."

"As ever."

Tentatively, Lucius reached out and took Severus' hand. He staggered slightly as Severus pulled his emaciated form upright. He hesitated at the door, half turning back towards Severus who stood just behind him.

"I hope you've scheduled a shower before tea: I have no intention of entertaining Narcissa in this state."

Severus raised one eyebrow. "You'll have to take that up with the Dark Lord, but in my opinion, he'll be as happy as the next person to see you cleaned up: you're far from fragrant in your current state, my friend."

Lucius stood a little taller before facing forward once again and stepping out into the corridor.

A / N : Well . . . what do you think?!?!?