A/N: Beta reading thanks to Shug and Machshefa. I've posted without my Brit picker's notes, but will make those corrections if necessary. Thanks for your patience!

Owned
by Subversa

Chapter Four

Hermione dozed on her bed, War Orphans in Wizarding Britain, 1978 to 1998 open on her chest. Luna had tucked her up and sat with her until she was sleepy. Now she opened her eyes to the morning light flooding her little room, feeling blessedly quiet. Snape had stood up for her to the Weasleys—had protected her from their overwhelming solicitude—and the emotion within her was warm gratitude. It was odd, how the prickly, taciturn Snape could make her feel almost normal.

She sat up, noting her wristwatch. It was mid-morning; she had been sleeping for an hour, in the middle of the day! She seldom slept much, and never at Grimmauld Place, yet she had done it twice in the last twelve hours. It was disorienting, but in a good way.

She went across the hall and made use of the facilities, washing her face with a flannel to remove the residue of her earlier tears. She looked into the mirror and sighed. Snape had a point, really. How would she ever look well enough for the party? She had brought no make-up, for she owned none; her chopped-off hair was impossible, and the dress robes she had stuffed in her knapsack were from her last year at school, when she'd been battling with what her mum had persisted in calling baby-fat. She would look like a child in an adult's clothes.

Something drastic needed to be done, but the very idea of it made her weary. Perhaps she could simply sleep through it all … sleep, her mortal enemy, suddenly beckoned to her with the arms of a lover. It would be fatally easy to sleep the day away … and tonight, she could go again to Snape's door … and knock.

She was so rapt in this thought that she did not hear the pop! of Apparition from within her room, and she literally walked into the two house-elves standing there. She knocked one particularly tiny elf off its feet, and with an exclamation of misgiving, she bent to help the creature up.

'I'm sorry,' she said, 'but you don't belong here, do you? You must be in the wrong place!'

The two house-elves were female, judging by their pristine pink pinafore-like tea-towels and matching headscarves, which were tied in pert bows on their heads. They dropped matching curtsies and the larger one spoke, her tennis ball-sized eyes fixed upon the floor.

'Higgy and Piggy is begging your pardon, Miss,' the spokes-elf began, 'but we is from The Sanctuary.'

Hermione stepped back. 'Is that some sort of … hospital?' she asked nervously, reaching for her wand. She would not go peacefully …

The little one Hermione had knocked over advanced and looked anxiously up into Hermione's face. 'Oh, no, Miss,' she squeaked in an impossibly high-pitched voice. 'The Sanctuary is being a luxury witch's spa. We is here to take you for the Ultimate Indulgence Spa Day!'

Little Piggy spoke with such reverence that Hermione felt the unfamiliar urge to giggle. Quashing the impulse, she shook her head. 'No, I'm sure you're in the wrong house,' she reiterated. 'You really ought to be more careful—what if I had been the type to hex first and ask questions later?'

Piggy squeaked in fear and jumped behind Higgy. 'There is no mistake, Miss,' Higgy said firmly, extending an engraved invitation.

Hermione took the heavy card, admiring the flowing script which proclaimed Miss Hermione Granger as the recipient of one Ultimate Indulgence Spa Day at The Sanctuary in Covent Garden, exclusively for witches. She had never been to a spa, but she had heard friends talk about it—she knew it was sinfully expensive.

'No, thank you,' she said, handing the card back to Higgy. 'I wouldn't care to.'

A strange interplay took place between the two elves, as Higgy looked pointedly over her shoulder at Piggy. Then tiny Piggy burst into loud sobs.

'Oh, p-p-please, M-miss,' Piggy begged. 'You is getting us in so m-much trouble! We has to bring you!'

Oh, for the love of Merlin! The creature was making such a racket it would bring everyone in the house to her room. She would go with the house-elves and decline the invitation at the spa. No one could punish Higgy and Piggy for not doing their jobs then.

'Very well,' she said. 'Let's go.'

'Higgy will just leave this here so people is knowing where Miss Hermione is gone,' Higgy announced. And dropping the invitation at the foot of Hermione's bed, Higgy took Hermione's hand, with Piggy on Hermione's other side, and the three Disapparated.

Hermione did what she could to prepare for the onslaught of strange faces in a strange place, but the room into which she arrived with Higgy and Piggy was warm, quiet, and empty, save for the three of them.

Her first impression was a blend of aromatic air, lightly humid warmth, peacefully trickling water, and blissful pink: Pink walls, soft pink rugs, a large padded table swathed in thick pink towels, an inviting pink squashy armchair, and an elaborate table of refreshments on a pink linen cloth. A small table betwixt the table and the chair bore intriguing bottles and pots of unguents, creams, and potions, all meant for her.

'Where is everyone … else?' Hermione asked.

'No one else, Miss,' Higgy said, whilst Piggy led Hermione to the armchair and knelt to remove her socks and trainers in favour of velvet-soft slippers. 'This room is for Miss Hermione only, for the full day.'

Piggy began to slide the shapeless grey cardigan down Hermione's arms, and for a moment, Hermione considered resisting her. Then Higgy paused before the refreshments, and her hand hovered in the air. 'Champagne, tea, or juice, Miss?'

With a sigh of acquiescence, Hermione responded, 'Champagne,' and felt the cardie slip from her shoulders, like responsibility … or misery.

The day was blissful, the first full day approximating peace she had known since before the war. At times it seemed there was music in her pink shell, and at other times she was sure that she was bathing in cathartic silence broken only by the trickling water and the murmurs of her attendants. She was bathed, massaged, left to doze; she had her legs waxed, her skin exfoliated, her nails on hands and feet tended and polished, and finally, her face made up. At last, seated comfortably in the armchair with a perfect cup of tea in her hands, she blinked when Higgy conjured a mirror before her and asked, 'Is Miss having an idea of what to do with her hair, or shall Higgy take care of it?'

Hermione sipped her tea and regarded herself with a curiously dispassionate eye. Her face was thin and pinched, but the house-elf had made her up skilfully, emphasising her large brown eyes and the shape of her lips. The usual bruised-looking shadows about her eyes had been relieved by a bit of sleep and careful use of cosmetics. In the light of her near-presentable face, her hair was a frightful mess. Months before, in a moment of angry despair, she had taken up her desk scissors, which were neither terribly clean nor strictly sharp, and she had whacked her hair off in large, uneven clumps. It had grown out a bit, but was shapeless and limp.

'Do as you like, Higgy,' she said. 'I'll have another cup of tea—and take the mirror away, please.'

When she Apparated into her room at Grimmauld Place, Hermione caught sight of herself in the mirror. The house-elf at The Sanctuary had fashioned her hair into a boyish chop, lightened the tips, and scrunched it into stylishly ordered disorder. With her nicely-done makeup, there was an elfin quality to her appearance—perhaps she would not frighten the party guests, after all.

The lethargy which usually plagued her seemed to be in abeyance, banished by a day of complete serenity, bodily pampering, and tempting nibbles. It was as if, in some way, those pursuits had been restful, whereas another endless day of lying about in bed and dreading the evening to come would have been tiring.

Then she saw the dresses which were hanging on the front of the wardrobe, and she went forward to inspect them. One was Christmas red, traditional wizarding dress robes, not unlike those worn by Molly Weasley the year before at the Order holiday open house. Hermione knew by looking that the robes would be three sizes too large and would weigh heavily upon her shoulders.

The other dress filled her with quiet pleasure. It was made of a satiny ice blue fabric that shimmered and stretched beneath her fingers. The high neck and long sleeves would cover her fearfully thin clavicle and bony arms, while the clingy material would emphasise her slenderness and what womanly shape she possessed. She found that she wanted to wear it.

She shed her trainers, jumper, jeans, and socks, and allowed the dress to slide over her body. In her knapsack, she found her only party shoes, black evening sandals. Lips pursed in concentration, she took up her wand and Transfigured them to satin, then tweaked her spell until the colour exactly matched her dress. She slipped the shoes onto her freshly pedicured feet and walked out of her room without once bothering to check herself in the mirror.

From the second floor landing, Hermione saw Snape, pacing the carpet runner in the first floor corridor outside the sitting room. At the sight of him, her very breathing seemed to ease. She knew he would be present tonight—all of the Order would be present tonight—but just seeing him made her feel more confident. Then he looked up, as if he could feel her eyes upon him, and in the space of a moment, everything changed.

He stood tall and slender in impeccably tailored dress robes, his ravens-wing hair sweeping his shoulders, his Order of Merlin, First Class, glinting upon his breast. When his eyes found her upon the stairs, for the veriest moment, there was a softening of his expression, then his usual mask was in place once more. Hermione's heart beat faster, her hand suddenly slick upon the banister, and a strange sensation shuddered through her, leaving her with trembling legs. Mounting the steps two at a time, Snape reached her and steadied her with a firm grip upon her shoulders.

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the shift of perception like the swing of a pendulum in her mind, and she swayed toward his solid bulk, absorbing the sensation of his tightening hands through the fabric of her dress. He was a man—a man—not simply a former teacher, an Order member … not even just the source of inexplicable comfort. He was male—muscle, bone, and sinew—testosterone and temptation.

'Are you all right?'

Warm breath, fragrant of spearmint toothpaste, fanned across her cheek, and she forced herself to open her eyes. 'Yes,' she answered, striving to gather her scattered thoughts.

He loosened his hold and looked her over critically. 'You look quite well,' he said judiciously. A faint smile touched his thin lips. 'Rather thin and fragile, of course, but the new hairstyle gives you a gamine cachet.'

Hermione flushed with pleasure. 'You like it?'

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and began to lead her down the steps. 'Indeed.'

At the sitting room doorway, he released her and urged her forward, leaving her to the mercy of the assembled Order members—still, she could feel him at her back. And when she had endured all of their raptures at her appearance, even going so far as to gently repulse Percy Weasley's ponderous attempts at gallantry, she turned from them to face Snape.

'I can do this,' she began.

'Yes, you can,' Snape responded firmly.

'… if you stay by me,' she finished.

He studied her face for a moment, then inclined his head in acquiescence. 'If you wish it,' he said.

Shacklebolt stepped up then and touched Hermione's shoulder. 'Shall we go down, Chief Trustee?' he inquired pleasantly.

'Of course, Minister,' she said, and reaching for Snape, she was relieved to have her hand placed again on his arm.

He was true to his word, remaining unobtrusively at her back as the guests were welcomed into the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, long-since relieved of its Fidelius Charm. Hermione smiled and shook hands for an hour, allowing Kingsley, on her left, Arthur, on her right, and Snape, at her back, to answer questions and give explanations, whilst she endured the crush of humanity. When the bell ceased to ring, announcing new visitors, the receiving line dispersed to join the guests in the ground floor space which had once been a ballroom. Hermione hovered in the doorway, listening to the music from the wireless, seeing Tonks between Charlie and Remus, flirting with them both, Ginny and Luna with Neville, who was also entertaining Hannah Abbot, and exhaustion settled over her like a blanket.

'You were a trouper,' a voice whispered from behind her.

'I didn't disgrace the Order?' she murmured in response.

'By no means,' he assured her.

She turned and looked up into Snape's face, letting her eyes travel its angles and planes, fascinated with the sharp line of his jaw above the dark cravat he wore. She knew an instinct to curl up inside of him, to absorb the stolid safety of him. 'Come up with me,' she said.

'You may go up now, if you wish,' he said, as if he had not heard her invitation. 'Percy Weasley is coming this way,' he added.

Hermione did not want to leave him, but even less did she want to deal with Percy. Turning away, she hurried up the steps to her room. Safely inside, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed on her bed. She was asleep almost instantly.

When she awoke, all was in darkness, and for a moment, she was confused. Where was she? She felt uncommonly well, which was certainly not customary.

'Lumos!' she said, and in the light from the tip of her wand, she saw the stuff of her ice blue dress. Then the memory of the night—of Snape, of what she now knew about him—slammed into her consciousness, and her heart tripped into a galloping rhythm.

Disregarding her shoes, she crept out into the darkness of the sleeping house and climbed up the stairs. From the top step, she saw the light beneath Snape's door, and she surged through the ward keyed to her DNA by the strands of her hair he had collected. In three strides she was at the door, and her hand closed about the knob and turned.

It was locked.

Shite!

She drew back her hand to pound the door, wishing she had the physical strength to smash it to bits, but she could not force herself to let her fist fly.

Why didn't you knock? he had asked. I would have let you in, he had said.

Hermione sagged against the door, her cheek pressed to its rough surface, and tears trickled down. Why couldn't she knock? Why?

She could feel him on the other side of the door; she was sure he knew she was here. Why wouldn't he open the door, if he knew she was standing here, needing him? Why?

The comfort and confidence of the day gradually leached out of her, as if falling with her tears, and her usual misery resumed its rightful place. Slowly, she slid down Snape's door until she huddled on the floor in her fancy party dress. After a time, she heard his step, and she saw beneath the door as the shadow of his body paused there.

Then the light went out, and with it went the last of her hope. Now all was quiet, save for gasping Hermione, silently sobbing her desolation.