23 June, 1998

It took Hermione two days to completely clean Snape's laboratory, and when the job was finally finished, she stood back and surveyed the results with sore muscles and an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. The stone floor had been thoroughly scrubbed, the wooden tables waxed and polished, and new cabinets set up in a logical pattern within reach of the prep table. The cabinets weren't precisely new, as Whitlock had dragged them up from somewhere, but they were solid and spacious.

The house elf had also leveled the wobble out of one worktable and put new spikes in the timbers overhead that held up the high ceiling. The spikes held adjustable chains, from which were suspended the oil lamps scavenged from the library. What cauldrons she'd deemed worth salvaging were cleaned and racked neatly, along with all the implements that were still useable. She'd also made a list of things she thought Professor Snape might need to obtain. That had garnered her a snide comment about making lists for everything; apparently he had heard of her study guides designed to help Harry and Ron to make it through their N.E.W.T.s.

Professor Snape had taken a cursory look at her efforts and pronounced them 'adequate.' Hermione wasn't sure if she should be pleased or offended by his response, but he'd also given her best efforts in potions class an 'adequate' as well and reluctantly given her full marks for them. When the same standard was applied to the work she'd done in his lab, it was nearly a gushing appreciation.

The hard work of clearing up the potion lab had been cathartic, in a way, and the sense of accomplishment buoyed Hermione as she surveyed the overgrown garden a day later, a freshly sharpened pruning knife in hand. Although uneasy at taking any direction from her, Whitlock continued to obey his master's orders and done what few tasks she'd asked of him. Already the timid house elf had removed the drifts of several years' leaves from the garden and whisked away the rubble from the terrace. Now, as the sun rose higher in the sky and Hermione remembered another curse word every time one of the rose branches caught her bare skin, Whitlock was following close behind and gathering up the multitude of fallen branches she left in her wake.

For the first hour she saved the prettiest roses, but before long she had cut more than a hundred blooms for the house. It seemed a shame to waste them, but Professor Snape had been succinct in his dismissal of the roses for any potions needs and she would have nowhere near the quantity needed to produce an attar of roses, even if she were so inclined.

The lady's hand she had seen projecting from the mass of climbing roses was attached to a graceful if entirely ordinary classical Greek statue, nearly life-size on a marble base. The figure itself was of a woman, her carved mantle drawn about her shapely form. One bare arm emerged from those demure pleats of marble, holding out a hand as if to feel the rain or raising an offering to the wild birds. Whitlock was happy to Scourgify the statue back to her original pristine white. Hermione left an especially large white rose in the statue's hand, wiped the sweat from her brow, and went back to work.

The little house elf was also willing to place a severing charm on those branches Hermione could not lop off with her knife, although all attempts to draw him into conversation failed. Truthfully, she was not feeling all that chatty after the work she'd done so far. Avoiding the masses of thorns as she pruned back the overgrowth took a great deal of her attention, hampered as she was by the inadequate glove she'd salvaged from the pieces of leather found in the greenhouse, and the completely overdone gown she was forced to wear.

Hermione had been unable to find any shorter robes in the house to dress in, nor had she been able to convince Bitta to alter the maid's robes into something remotely more appropriate. A compromise had finally been struck with the old-fashioned house elf, and Bitta had grudgingly charmed the sturdy leftover robes into sleeveless, square-necked gowns worn over plain white shifts with the sleeves rolled up. At the end of it, Hermione found herself in possession of a wardrobe that would not have been out of place in the Middle Ages. With a long pinafore apron over the front, the worst of a day's dirt and grime was kept off her clothes.

It was past noon, by her estimates, when her stomach began to send up reminders that it had been a long time since breakfast. She paused and surveyed her progress while wiping her face yet again. A stone path beside the statue had opened into what seemed to be a secluded seating area, complete with a bench. The greenery blanketing the other side of the open area was lumpy with the promise of a matching bench, but that promise held little weight against the gnawing emptiness in her belly and the allure of a long, cold drink of water.

The cool, shimmery tone of a gong spread out through the open doors of the house, magically transmitted to the garden. A glance at Whitlock's wide-open eyes was proof that this was not something in the usual course of things at Snape Manor.

"Right, then," Hermione told him, laying her pruning knife down on the exposed bench. "I wonder what that was?"

The elf did not answer, so with some trepidation Hermione wiped her hands on her apron and went to investigate. Walking into the cool, dark interior of the house from the bright garden left her eyes momentarily unable to make out many details, but the familiar dark form of Severus Snape was instantly recognizable.

"Professor? I heard an odd noise…"

The man turned to her, but he was already speaking to someone else. "Come through to the salon, Lucius, the rest of the house isn't fit for habitation yet."

Seven years as the man's student had left Hermione familiar with most of his expressions of displeasure, but this one was entirely new and promised more retribution than usual.

"Go back to your chores," Snape ordered coldly.

"Yes, sir," she whispered, and made to obey, but Lucius Malfoy moved to intercept her. Impeccably dressed for a fugitive, it was obvious the man had not spent the past twenty-four months in any sort of true discomfort. Hermione stopped in her tracks, keeping her eyes on the highly polished boots before her.

"Well, well," the blond wizard remarked. "So this is the keepsake Draco wanted to claim." The silver snakehead of his cane moved into her field of vision, sliding under her chin and lifting her head up. However dirty and disheveled she had been from working in the garden, she had not truly felt soiled until the man's eyes leisurely looked her over, from the sweat-dampened tendrils of hair that had escaped their plait, down to the edge of the white shift that clung to her skin above the neckline of her robes.

"She still has defiance in her eyes, Severus. Are you sure you have her under control?"

The cane drifted down, one of the teeth snagging the drawstring front of her chemise. For the first time Hermione regretted that she hadn't allowed Bitta to make the outer robes as high as originally planned as the silver fang pulled the neckline of the chemise down, revealing more of her cleavage. Malfoy smiled coldly as he watched her breasts rise and fall with her breathing, something that sped up as she shivered under his touch.

"She's sun-burnt, Severus. I would have thought you'd take better care of your toys."

With a leisurely step Snape walked over, crowding close behind her until she could feel his body along her spine. One black-clad arm went around her waist and pulled her even closer to him, while his free hand casually pressed a finger into the upper slope of her breast, watching the white circle turn pink again and again.

"Bitta," he called negligently, "Find Miss Granger a hat. See that she wears it."

"Yes, Master," answered the house elf from somewhere, but Hermione did not dare look away from the man in front of her.

Behind Hermione Granger, Severus Snape was mentally cursing fate, the girl's curiosity, and the sadistic sense of mischief embodied in one of his oldest friends, although not necessarily in that order. Lucius Malfoy, he was convinced, had been a cat in a previous existence despite his lifelong dedication to their house and all it embodied. He preferred the best things in life, loathed the necessity of putting real effort into anything he'd ever done, and had a malicious wit that enjoyed toying with anyone smaller or less powerful than himself.

From this angle, pressed up against the girl's smaller frame, looking down over her shoulder, Severus could see her as Lucius must - young, delectable breasts in the tight-fitting bodice of her robes, slightly sun-burnt and beginning to freckle. Her lips were pink and glistening, her face pinked and glowing from her exertions. He knew exactly what Lucius was thinking -- envisioning her flushed from sex, his mouth and hands on her body, her luscious mouth parted in either ecstasy or pain as he took her.

He was uncomfortably aware of the stirring that image elicited in his trousers, along with the reminder that he hadn't had a woman for some time. Standing over her like this, his sensitive nose caught the scent of roses and sunshine and her not-entirely-unpleasant perspiration, all of which combined into the aroma of warm, vibrant woman rising from her body. In his profession the sense of smell was often more vital than that of sight, but in combination they were exponentially potent. Along with that realization came another, that Hermione Granger was exactly the kind of distraction he didn't need.

With deceptive casualness, Severus slid his hand away from the bodice of Hermione's robes, moving down to grasp her wrist and lift it up. Her own hand, looking harmless and petite in his, was dirty and showing the beginnings of blisters as well as a multitude of scratches from the brambles and rose thorns she'd battled all morning. One particularly nasty scratch went across the back of her thumb, leaving a dotted line of blood.

The girl shuddered in his grip as he closed his lips over the injured thumb and licked it clean. He heard her breath hitch, and knew Lucius had heard it as well. "Gloves as well, Bitta. Go back outside," he ordered, his lips nearly touching her ear. "When you've done, I want you to bathe – thoroughly – and wait for me in my rooms."

"Yes sir," she managed, her voice trembling.

"Good girl," he told her, his voice dark and smoky and loaded with carnal promise. With a firm push the girl was sent back out the French doors and into the garden, away from Lucius Malfoy. The man continued to watch her through the opening until Severus gestured with one hand towards the salon.

A bowl brimming with roses in a riot of colors sat on the ancient pianoforte in the salon and another vase of blooms on a side table showed the results of Hermione's labors, but Lucius did not seem to notice them. His piercing blue eyes swept over the room, noting the still fine furnishings and accessories, and then lingered for a moment on the painting that hung on the wall. Severus' grandmother gave the blond wizard a bare nod of acknowledgment, which he returned, but as usual the old witch's painted eyes swept over her grandson with only a flicker of recognition.

Severus forced himself to make small talk, apologizing once more for the state of the house and lack of a decent sherry while his guest seated himself, carefully draping the tail of his expensive robes over his chair. Bitta appeared with a tea tray and a paltry offering of last night's pudding dished into small custard pots.

"So, old friend," Lucius began, with an air of one meeting an acquaintance at the park, "how is your life of leisure, now that you've escaped Dumbledore's sticky grasp?"

Severus repressed a sigh of impatience. It simply would not do to just ask Lucius what he wanted. That wasn't the way Pureblood society, especially Slytherins, interacted. Privately wishing it were possible to bore someone to death, Severus spent the next little while relating the painfully detailed travails of setting up his laboratory and the research he intended to perform. Lucius Malfoy was one of his oldest friends, indeed had once been his only friend, but a long time had passed since they had actually spoken to each other without the underlying sense of verbal fencing.

Eventually, Lucius circled closer to the heart of the matter and mentioned that he had received a notice from one of the Dark Lord's supporters within the Aurory. Severus nodded minutely. It wasn't a great leap of logic to guess that a supporter of the Dark Lord was gathering intelligence from inside the Auror ranks. Indeed, it was that very possibility that had formed his decision not to approach any of the Order members within the same organization. Had he done so, it was likely he would not be breathing now.

"Scrimgeour tells me that the Ministry is asking some difficult questions. Various elements want to know where you were while Dumbledore was scampering away." A thin smile, which could almost be classified as sympathetic, crossed Lucius' classic features. "You should likely expect someone in an official capacity to appear soon, asking you those particularly sticky questions."

"Hmm," was all the reply Severus made. "It's good of you to be concerned, old friend. I am in your debt."

He was no such thing; Lucius wanted something, and Severus was not surprised when the blond man's gaze drifted casually to the roses displayed around the room.

"It might prove awkward to have a house guest during the next few days. I thought I might offer some alternate accommodations for your... company."

This time it was Severus' turn to smile thinly. "You would offer, Lucius? Or did Draco express his devastation at having left school so suddenly? Surely he has classmates other than Miss Granger he'd rather have visit him.

"At the risk of sounding juvenile, Lucius, tell your son it's Finders Keepers. I found the girl, and I'll keep her. I've no intention of sharing any time soon, if at all. Your son can console himself with other pursuits."

Displeased but not surprised, the corner of Lucius' mouth turned down with distaste. "I told the little fool you wouldn't, but he's unused to being denied. His mother always indulged him too much. He performs well enough, as long as I keep my eye on him, but the moment I send him off on his own he disappoints."

"He seemed competent enough at Hogwarts," Snape's voice was carefully noncommittal.

"Again, he was under your supervision, Severus. Though if you'll remember, any time he antagonized Potter, Draco ended up on the losing end. He and his friends, they've none of them the kind of drive you and I had."

"You do the boy a disservice," Snape protested mildly, the revulsion of defending Draco Malfoy disguised by sipping on his tea. "He showed a promising desire to dominate his classmates."

"Ambition is one thing," Lucius told him. "Ability is another. Your toy Mudblood, dare I say it, shows more raw ability than the boy." Disappointment drew his handsome features down into a frown. "Hybrid vigor, I suppose. She must have a wizard by-blow in her history somewhere."

"I wouldn't know," Snape said with a deliberate leer. "I haven't asked."

To his surprise, Lucius threw his head back and laughed, sounding like the young man they'd both been years ago, before the Dark Lord's first defeat when they'd been comrades in arms, fighting for a cause dear to both their hearts. "It's good to see you enjoying yourself, Severus. I've missed our old talks."

"You should come by more often," he answered without thinking. "Or perhaps I could drop by Malfoy Manor. After all, I haven't seen Narcissa in quite some time."

At the mention of his wife, Lucius Malfoy's expression turned bland, but Severus was adept at judging his friend's reactions and knew a sour reaction lay behind his pleasant response. When they first cemented their friendship, Severus had been more than adept at the Dark Arts, but hopeless at the social graces. Lucius had taken the socially inept young man under his wing and taught him the rules of etiquette and the ways of the Pureblood high society.

The student had long ago surpassed the master in reading behind the innuendo and sly comments among their peers; despite his current financial circumstances the Snape family was one of the oldest in Britain and still retained some prestige. For some reason, the mention of his wife had annoyed Lucius, and much more than the apparent shortcomings of his son. Severus had never been fond of the icy blonde witch Lucius had contracted with, but they still treated one another with the deference due their respective places and had never quite come to drawing blood.

Lucius took his leave shortly thereafter, and once Severus had seen his guest out of the house he returned to the breakfast room and sought out his itinerant gardener. He noticed the evidence of her industry from the border of amputated branches stretching out towards the path. Within the central bank of rosebushes, he found Hermione still toiling away at some mass of greenery, her movements sluggish and mechanical.

He's gone," Severus called.

The girl glanced up, nodded and carefully placed her knife down on the stained marble bench. Moving slowly, she stood and made her way towards him, weaving slightly from side to side on the leaf-strewn path.

Severus frowned at her. "Are you unwell?"

"I'm hungry," she admitted. "What time is it?"

"Late for lunch," he admitted, noting her color with some concern. Her cheeks were red, but the rest of her face was alarmingly pale. The thick plait down her back had loosened to the point of uselessness and the wild curls were dark and damp as they clung to her neck.

"You are suffering from heat exhaustion, Miss Granger," he informed her shortly.

One hand, clad in a tattered dragonhide glove, waved negligently. "I just need some water," she murmured.

She plodded past him, swaying, and although he was sure she would faint and he'd be put to the bother of catching her, she continued into the house under her own power. The moment she approached the breakfast table Bitta appeared with a tray of cold fruit, small sandwiches, and a carafe of water. The elf made a scolding noise as the girl attempted to lift the carafe and took it away before it could be spilled, pouring it into the waiting glass. Hermione's hands shook badly as she tilted the glass back and drained it.

Still fussing, Bitta got her unwelcome charge seated and served with a few choice morsels from the luncheon tray. An unanticipated sense of responsibility nagged at Severus as he watched the exhausted girl – no, young woman – pick listlessly at the food before her. She did not look up as he cleared his throat.

"When you've finished here, I expect you to take a bath and go to bed. You look terrible."

"Yes, sir," she answered, in the most subdued voice he'd yet heard from her.

No further words were exchanged while Severus helped himself to a sandwich and surreptitiously made sure his companion ate enough food to restore her overtaxed body. For a Gryffindor, her dissembling this morning had been excellent. She had maintained her subdued demeanor and continued her labors until informed the danger had passed. Any other student would have lost patience and come to see if the unexpected guest had left rather than carrying on, almost to the point of causing herself damage. Perhaps Lucius was correct. The girl had promise, as long as her hand wasn't up in the air.

25 June, 1998

As Lucius Malfoy had predicted, two days later another visitor arrived at Snape Manor, announced by the silvery gong and then an impatient fist pounding on the solid door. The master of the house descended to the entry hall as Whitlock admitted an Auror in official robes.

"You need to beat that elf more often, Snape," the man declared in greeting. "He might be more punctual in opening the damned door."

"My elves do as they are told," Severus returned sharply, "and they don't let any riff-raff in the door until they're told."

"Right, then. I'm Phillip Pennifield, from the Auror department. I'm here to ask you for an official statement regarding the attack on Hogwarts."

"Are you?" he drawled, giving the man's uniform a significant glance. "I would never have guessed. Please, come into the drawing room."

Pennifield did not rate an offer of tea, although he was shown to the same chair Lucius Malfoy had occupied two days earlier. He commandeered the low table for his notes and began asking questions while a Quick Quotes quill scratched busily across the parchments.

In a bored voice, Severus relayed his official version of the attack on Hogwarts. He had been busily restocking his storeroom in preparation for the end of term exams while his student assistant readied ingredients for the next day's classes. After catching a glimpse of Death Eaters running through the hallways, he had decided that discretion was required, and promptly took a back entrance out of the school.

"Are you sure they were really Death Eaters?" Pennifield asked with a smirk.

"I didn't stop any and ask for identification, if that's what you mean," Severus retorted.

"This... student assistant. Was she Hermione Granger, by any chance?"

Severus frowned. "Yes," he allowed, watching the quill skitter across the parchment, leaving behind black trails of his words.

"Don't suppose you know where she's got to, do you?" The auror's voice was casual, but Severus was instantly wary.

"You see," continued Pennifield, "she's listed as missing, and her parents have lodged a protest at the Ministry, so my supervisors are hoping you've got her here at your home."

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, wondering if Malfoy Junior had been petulant enough to spread rumors to the wrong people.

"Oh, the Ministry has its sources," was the blithe answer.

"As a matter of fact, yes, my apprentice is here. I was worried for her safety, considering everything, and thought it best to bring her along."

"You were contacted by the Ministry several days ago. Why didn't you volunteer this information at the time?"

"The owl from the Ministry simply asked that I make myself available for giving a statement at some later date. I communicated my willingness to do so. I was not aware that sheltering my apprentice was a crime, nor that she was listed as missing. If you're here to take a statement, please do so. If you have a charge to make, I suggest you get a senior Auror to do it properly and cease fannying about with vague insinuations."

Pennifield chuckled rather than taking offense. "No need to worry about that, Professor. Though I must ask you why you haven't sent her home?"

"She is a Muggle-born," Severus answered with as much pomposity as he could muster. "She simply would not be safe at her family home."

More scratches occurred as the Auror used a separate quill to make additional notes on the pages. "May I speak to her?" he asked absently.

"Of course," he replied, not fooled in the least. "Let me just fetch her."

Fortunately, Hermione was easily found in the kitchen, surrounded by soap making paraphernalia on one of Bitta's work counters. The elf herself was maintaining a monologue of complaints while Hermione ignored her.

"Come with me, Miss Granger, and by all that's holy keep your mouth shut," he ordered.

Wide-eyed, Hermione had no choice but to accompany the professor, considering the frighteningly strong grip he took on her upper arm as he marched her towards the drawing room. Once she had been introduced to the Auror, her further participation was obviously not necessary as Snape answered most of the questions put to her and cut her off the few times she did attempt to speak. The long fingers around her arm would surely leave bruises as they squeezed tightly each time she opened her mouth.

Auror Pennifield eventually gathered up his parchments, vanished his quills back into a pocket and gave her a genteel bow as he excused himself. Still caught in a death grip, Hermione had no choice but to follow Snape as he saw his guest to the door and made sure he'd left before finally releasing her.

'We're doomed," Hermione said in a hollow voice, rubbing her arm gingerly. "If that's the caliber of Aurors the Ministry is relying on to defeat Voldemort, we might as well give up now."

Snape made an impatient noise. "That was a Death Eater, Miss Granger. One of the more recent acquisitions, and eager to flex what little power he has."

She looked at him, startled. "Oh. I should have known, I suppose. He certainly didn't seem very concerned."

"Yes. Oh," he mocked her. "I could have brought you in here with a leash around your neck and he'd not have batted an eye. His report will read exactly what it should read."

"Won't someone higher suspect something? Kingsley Shacklebolt is still an Auror, isn't he?"

"Yes. But Shacklebolt doesn't have enough influence to override McTavish or his bullyboys like Pennifield. And you forget that few in the Ministry knew I was – am – a Death Eater. To most, I'm simply a horrid teacher. Dumbledore saw to it I was never accused of supporting Voldemort during his first rise."

"Wait a minute. You knew he was coming today? Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was none of your concern," Snape told her shortly. "I handled it."

"You handled it," Hermione repeated in disbelief. "How was I supposed to know how to handle it? I had no warning."

A scowl creased Snape's face, one that had made students cower for years. "You forget yourself. This is my business. It's not necessary..."

"The hell it's not! How stupid do you think I am?"

"Not stupid, Miss, Granger. Naive. Dangerously so."

"I wouldn't be naive if you and Dumbledore would stop hoarding your information like a goblin with his gold," Hermione retorted sharply.

"It isn't necessary for you to know..."

"Yes it is!" she cut him off yet again. "It IS necessary! You need to let me know what you're planning. I'm not saying you should tell me who you meet or where you go when you leave me here alone. But you do need to let me know what a kind of a situation you're setting up before you thrust me into it.

"Whether you want to admit it or not, Professor, I'm involved in this – this – whatever it is. And if you don't let me in on things, I'm going to get us both killed because I don't know what's what!"

Severus glared at her and inhaled sharply, most likely to shout at her.

"Or more likely," she continued darkly, "you'll be killed and I'll be passed around like a bottle of Old Ogden's."

The breath left his chest like a balloon deflating, and the majority of his indignation went with it. Damn, but he hated someone making a devastatingly good point.

"You are correct," he admitted heavily. He took another breath, straightening his posture and returning to the cool demeanor that served him so well. "It seems I owe you an apology, Miss Granger. I'm accustomed to working in shadows... This is a new situation for me."

"So you'll talk to me?" she questioned hesitantly.

"Yes, we'll talk. At dinner, tonight. I have several things to accomplish yet today," he added, tugging at the cuffs of his frock coat, "and if I'm not mistaken your soap may be seizing even as we speak. If Bitta hasn't thrown it all out, that is."

Only habit kept him from shaking his head at the sudden 'eep' she made as she bolted for the kitchen to rescue her concoction from neglect and Bitta's uncertain mercy.