Author's Note: I have finally managed to divide the remaining story up into chapters, so at last I know exactly how much farther we have to go. There will be 29 chapters in total, so we are just over two-thirds of the way through the story at this point.

Also, I know that many of you are anxious for a bit more romance at this point (and trust me, I sympathize)—all I can do is to ask for your patience. This story still has a few twists and turns left in it!

And thank you again for all of the lovely reviews. The overwhelmingly positive response to this story has been truly surprising and gratifying to me.

—~—~—

Hermione woke the next morning to an owl tapping insistently at the glass of her window. She was disoriented, and for a moment she could not remember where she was. She cast her mind back to the last thing she remembered... and then sat bolt upright in bed. Snape. She'd been with Snape. She looked around; this was definitely her own room. But how had she got here? She threw off the bedclothes and inspected herself; she was still in her school uniform, but her robes had been removed and hung neatly to the side.

House elf, she thought. Only a house elf would be so meticulous.

She must have fainted. The last thing she remembered was Snape pushing into her mind again and thinking to herself that he could bloody well kill her before she'd admit to him that she'd had enough. She wondered if her collapse had given him a good fright at least, and hoped rather vindictively that it had.

The owl glared at her through the glass.

"Sorry," she said to it, even though she knew it couldn't hear her. She opened the pane and let it fly in to deposit a rolled-up scroll. She was just about to tell it that she was sorry she didn't have any treats when it flapped off again. "Well, fine then," Hermione said to its back as it went. It must have come from nearby if it didn't need any more of a rest than that. She unrolled the note. The words on it were written in a tall, spiky hand:

Miss Granger,

Continue to practice. No lesson tonight. I have an errand. Do not attempt to meet me afterward.

—SS

As soon as her eyes reached the end of the note, the ink turned red and flowed together on the page, running off the ends into little showers of sparks and leaving nothing but a blank white paper in front of her. "That's fine," she said to it. "I was going to throw you in the fire anyway. In fact, I still might."

She wondered what errand Snape was going on; likely he was off to see Voldemort again. She hadn't inquired as to the progress of their plan lately, although she supposed there was nothing much to report. Either the potion was working or it wasn't, and there would be no real way to tell which it was until someone invoked Finite Incantatem on Voldemort. Only a week and a half left. If she'd felt bold—and stupid—she'd have started crossing off days on a calendar to mark the time. As it was, the knowledge of exactly how long until the potion became effective was constantly in her mind. She wondered if it were the same for Snape.

Continue to practice, he'd told her. As though she had any idea of what that even meant.

Why aren't you more angry with him, she asked herself. You should be furious.

She turned this over in her mind, analyzing it. I trust him, she thought. She trusted him not to hurt her unnecessarily. As bad as last night had been, she'd known she could leave at any time if she chose, and he wouldn't have stopped her. But that still didn't explain why she wasn't more angry.

Come on, she thought. You know why. And if you had half the brains that people say you do, you'd have admitted it to yourself ages ago.

It's because you want him.

It was the first time she'd allowed herself to even think it. Not that it made any difference, she told herself. She'd keep it tucked into a deep, hidden corner of her mind. She needn't even worry about Snape prying it out of her against her will; she could snow him out if he tried. He wouldn't find out, and she'd eventually manage to forget about it, so it was really completely irrelevant. Not worth thinking about. Except as an explanation for why she wasn't more angry at her professor for his behavior the night before.

Practice. Wednesday mornings were free for Hermione; she usually skipped breakfast in favor of getting additional studying in, but Arithmancy could wait for now. She sat on her bed, folded her legs into a lotus position, and breathed in deeply.

She would first remember exactly what it was like to walk to the dungeons, every nuance, every detail. She would remember it exactly (she heard Snape's voice in her mind saying you must be precise) and when she had it in her mind, perfect to the last detail, then she would re-create it, replaying it in her mind again and again until it was familiar as an old glove. Until she could summon it on command. Until it was as real as the room in front of her.

She had three hours until her next class, and she intended to use every minute of it.

—~—~—

Later that afternoon, Ron accompanied Hermione on her way to the Potions classroom. She'd expected him to be full of elbow-nudging and innuendo about the upcoming Ball, but apart from a lackluster "Ready, Hermione?" and "Nice weather, innit?" he hadn't had much to say. Odd, she thought. She wondered if something were wrong. It occurred to her with a pang that this was quite the role-reversal for them. Usually Ron was the one concerned because Hermione was being cold and distant.

Oh, Ron. You deserve better than I've given you.

She was glancing at him sidelong, trying to gauge his mood without staring directly at him, when she ran straight into a looming figure garbed in silver-starred robes.

"Professor Dumbledore!" she gasped, when she looked up and recognized the wizard she'd just collided with. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there!"

The headmaster chuckled and said, "Why yes, I'd gathered that, Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley," he said with a nod to Ron. Ron, flustered, said, "Er... hi, Professor," his face clearly broadcasting his worry that he was in some sort of trouble.

But instead Dumbledore smiled at Hermione with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Might I request your company briefly, Miss Granger?" She opened her mouth to say that she had a class, but then closed it again, realizing that the school headmaster likely knew this already. Indeed, Dumbledore told her, "Don't worry; I'm sure that even Professor Snape can do without you for one class period. Mr. Weasley, you will tell the Potions master where your classmate has gone?"

Ron nodded and shot a questioning look at Hermione. She shrugged slightly in return, as though to say I have no idea. He said, "Er... later then, 'Mione," and headed on his way to the dungeons, casting a look back over his shoulder at Dumbledore and Hermione as he went.

"Come along to my office, if you don't mind," Dumbledore told her, pleasant as always. Hermione was stricken with the thought that Snape's plan—that their plan—might have been discovered by the Order. She could think of no other reason that the headmaster would want to meet with her. Occlumency, she thought, and hid all thoughts of what she and Snape had been up to behind a white layer of snow in her mind.

At the entrance to the headmaster's office, Dumbledore said, "Atomic fireballs," and the gargoyle swung open to let them in. Hermione followed him up the winding stairs to the familiar portrait-lined office, where Fawkes the phoenix observed them sleepily from his perch. She took a seat and waited for the headmaster to speak, clasping her hands together in her lap to still her nerves. Perhaps it was just some Head Girl business. But Professor McGonagall is in charge of that; that can't be it.

Professor Dumbledore opened a drawer of his desk. "Lemon drop?" he asked her. She shook her head politely.

"No thank you, sir."

He popped one into his own mouth. "I find them delightfully restorative."

His brilliant blue eyes focused on her. She felt, as she often did in his presence, that he could see everything about her, could see straight through her. He must know everything, she thought to herself. He's Professor Dumbledore. He must! But if he did, he'd surely have told the rest of the Order, and Snape would know. Surely.

"Miss Granger," he said, "you have had quite an interesting year, have you not?"

She paused before answering, feeling as though this were some sort of well-set trap. "Sir?" she said.

"That nasty business with the Death Eaters last month, for example."

She'd nearly forgotten that Dumbledore had been there when it happened. He'd been the first one that Snape had called. She relaxed slightly; maybe that's all this was about.

"Oh. Well… yes, Professor, that was certainly… unpleasant. But I think I've managed to put it behind me. I'm concentrating on my N.E.W.T. studies now, actually. Did you ever find out how the Death Eaters got into Hogwarts?" She heard herself babbling, talking far too much, but Dumbledore made no reaction other than to pop another lemon drop into his mouth. Hermione's eyes followed it; it did look awfully good now that she thought of it, but she felt it was too late to ask for one now.

"Professor McGonagall and I have not been able to find the source of their entry—nor of their exit, for that matter," he told her, regarding her with those piercing blue eyes. "It is a matter of deep concern for all of us, although the fact that we have had no further incursions suggests that perhaps it was a singular means of entry, one that cannot be repeated."

"I see," Hermione said. Dumbledore produced another lemon drop and offered it to her wordlessly. Her eyes flickered to his face, but his expression was inscrutable as always. Well, what the hell, she thought, and took the offered sweet. "Thank you, sir."

"Miss Granger," he said, "is there… anything you'd like to tell me?"

She froze briefly, then pasted an inquisitive look onto her face and said, "I'm not quite sure what you mean, Professor."

"Anything at all. Anything… unusual going on in the castle lately. Anything that you need help with."

She thought, he knows, but then thought, if he knew he wouldn't be asking. She suddenly wished that he did know. She wished that she didn't have to bear this burden alone, that she could get the help of the Order, that she could just tell someone what she'd been through. It was Professor Dumbledore, after all. He could be trusted. Surely, if no-one else, he could be trusted.

The words balanced on her tongue, on the very edge of spilling forth. And then she remembered Snape's voice, asking Can I trust you? She'd told him yes. She'd told him yes, he could trust her.

I'm sorry, Headmaster, she thought.

"Professor Dumbledore, I've just been so busy with studies and getting ready for the Ball. I haven't noticed anything amiss. Do you want me to keep my eyes open?"

He said nothing for a moment, then with a nearly-imperceptible sigh said, "Yes, Miss Granger, I would like that."

After a hesitation she said, "Was that all, sir?"

She felt that her guilt was written plainly on her face. She used all of the Occlumency tricks she'd learned from Snape to hide her thoughts and calm her heart and stop the blush from reaching her cheeks, but this was Professor Dumbledore, and she suspected he could easily see through all of these tricks and diversions. Even though his face betrayed nothing.

"That is all, Miss Granger. Good luck with N.E.W.T.s—and, of course, the Ball." A hint of twinkle had returned to his eyes.

"Yes, sir," she said, and with some relief stood and took her leave. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized that she'd been in Dumbledore's office so long that she'd missed the entirety of Potions class. She wondered if Snape had worried, and then she nearly laughed. Snape, worrying about her. Not bloody likely.

—~—~—

It took all of Snape's self-control not to go and find Granger, drag her out of whatever class she was in, and demand that she tell him what she'd been doing in Dumbledore's office. When Weasley had told him where she was, his stomach had lurched.

Dumbledore had been probing him for information—subtly, but unmistakably—for weeks now. He must have decided that pressing Granger would prove more fruitful. He'd bring her into his office, offer her a sweet, try to get her to reveal the entire plan. And how could she not, after the hell she'd been put through lately? The hell that I've put her through, Snape thought. She'd be desperate for someone to reach out a hand of comfort, and Dumbledore was well-practiced at playing the part of the understanding uncle. She's not hard. Not like I am. Not like a Slytherin. She'll crack.

On some base level, he knew this was not fair. He'd seen how hard she was with his own eyes. Still, though. She'd proven she could withstand torture and punishment; could she withstand—had she withstood—kind words and a shoulder to lean on? He stifled his gnawing need to know. There was no way to contact her, not while she was surrounded by friends. It would have to wait until later.

Much later. He did, after all, have an errand to run.

—~—~—

After dinner that evening, Snape stood before the tall mirror in his quarters, inspecting the invisibility charm he'd cast over himself. It was the same one he'd used to carry Granger back to her room the night before. It wasn't perfect; there was a faint blurring when he moved, and if someone stared at him long enough, they'd be able to make out his form. But it had served his purposes last night, and would do so again now.

He knew that Bellatrix would have demanded a report immediately from Draco on his progress with Granger. But Snape had been keeping an eye on the boy—owls, house elves; he had his ways—and Malfoy hadn't left the castle. Ergo, Bellatrix must be coming to him instead.

At a recent Order meeting, Dumbledore had proposed the theory that the Death Eaters had gained entrance through a one-time ruse of some sort. Snape thought not. No, Bellatrix had some way into the castle; he was sure of it. He was equally sure that Malfoy planned to meet her tonight. The boy been furtive and quiet in class that day. Nervous. He'd nearly dropped his wand into his cauldron when Snape brushed past him a bit too closely.

Lucky I even let you have that wand back, after what you did with it, boy.

Malfoy and Lestrange would meet tonight; that was certain. The only question was where and how. It was a continuing source of irritation to Snape that he could not figure out how she was getting in.

The invisibility charm had settled onto him; only the slightest distortion was visible in the mirror, like heat rising from a paved road on a hot day. In the night-time gloom of the castle, even that would be nearly undetectable.

A moment later the door to Snape's private quarters opened, seemingly of its own accord, and then closed again with a solid resonating thud.

—~—~—

Snape's count of students coming in or out of the Slytherin common room stood at seventeen, and as yet he remained completely unseen. He stood a short distance away from the door, watching for Malfoy. Malfoy could, of course, be using Polyjuice potion or some other such disguise. But Snape had a practiced eye at detecting that sort of spell. And at any rate, common sense told him that Malfoy would not be entering the common room, which ruled out ten of the students; neither would he be in a pair or a group, which ruled out the other seven.

A lengthy period passed during which no-one entered or exited. The exhaustion and sleep deprivation of the past few days wore on Snape; he was well-practiced at ignoring bodily discomforts when necessary, but nonetheless his irritation grew by the minute as he was forced to stand in silence and wait. The hour was late, and the common room had to be nearly deserted by now. He wondered if perhaps he had read Malfoy incorrectly after all. Perhaps tonight was not the night.

But he would continue to wait. He must discover the means by which Death Eaters were entering Hogwarts. At any moment, Voldemort might decide that he wanted Granger brought before him personally, see her writhing and twisting in agony right there in front of him. He'd send his Death Eaters to retrieve her, and they'd get in the same way Lestrange had got in. So he had to find out. Had to know.

Because you're willing to torture her endlessly yourself but can't stand the thought of someone else doing it instead.

Ironic that Granger had both provided the means for the success and the potential means for failure. She'd discovered the firedrake potion—oh, he was the one who'd seen the possibilities for its use, but it was her invention, her discovery—but she'd also driven him to utter distraction. And even if Lestrange believed that Granger hadn't met the conditions for the curse, she'd certainly got reports from faithful Draco that something seemed… amiss between the Potions professor and his most avid student.

Of course she knows the girl sucked my cock, Snape thought, avoiding thinking about the details too closely. She knows her curse was solid and tight. She knows that even Cruciatus wouldn't break it.

His head snapped toward the door; it was creaking slowly open. The student emerging from the common room was indeed Draco Malfoy; tonight was to be the night after all. The blond boy's head swiveled from side to side as though he were being hunted; seeing nothing but the familiar environment of the outer hallway, he emerged completely from the common room and headed for the stairs. Snape gave him a short lead, then followed in silence.

—~—~—

Snape realized Malfoy's intended destination almost immediately. He was an idiot not to have guessed it earlier. Draco was, of course, heading straight for the seventh floor and the Room of Requirement.

The Room of Requirement had been a gaping hole in Hogwarts' defenses for a long time. A room that could hold anything you needed it to, could be anything you needed it to be—it wasn't hard to imagine someone finding a way to use it to get contraband in and out of the school. And so Malfoy had... or rather, so Lestrange had. Snape doubted rather seriously that Draco was capable of coming up with anything so clever.

He narrowed the gap between himself and Malfoy as they approached the door. The boy paced in front of it once, twice, three times, brow furrowed in deep thought, and then the door swung open to admit him. Snape moved close behind to follow him in; the door closed again so quickly that he nearly caught his robes in it.

He stood on the roof. Or perhaps an illusion of a roof… but no, he felt a damp night breeze. They were on the roof of Hogwarts. A low stone wall ringed the outside perimeter of the "room," but otherwise they were completely open to the air. Snape could see the familiar rolling hills curving away from the school, the lake, the Whomping Willow. The lights of Hogsmeade were visible in the distance. They were undeniably standing atop Hogwarts.

Draco must have told the room that he needed open sky above him.

Very clever. Snape grasped instantly what they'd done… yes, even now a dark figure approached from the sky on a broomstick, silhouetted by the thin light of the crescent moon behind her. She rode side-saddle, both legs perched to one side of the broomstick. An elegant, refined technique; one that she'd undoubtedly been taught as part of her upper-crust childhood.

No Death Eater could even attempt to land on the roof of Hogwarts; powerful wards protected it. But this wasn't really Hogwarts' roof; it was only a facsimile. Real sky, real air, and a real place to land. But not a real roof. Genius, really. He should have thought of it himself.

Snape drew further back into the shadows. Lestrange—for indeed, it was she—dismounted with surprising grace. In a single feline gesture, she lowered her broomstick to the ground and approached Malfoy. The boy attempted a sullen, disinterested expression, but visible fear diffused from him. Snape could nearly smell it.

The Death Eater, hair wild, clothing torn and tattered, leaned close so that her face nearly touched his. She spoke in a hissing whisper that carried clearly through the rooftop air.

"What do you have to report, boy?"

He avoided her gaze, pleading, "Bella… it's impossible. They must know something is up. She's never alone. I've been watching her around the clock, and any time she leaves Gryffindor Tower she's with one of them."

Her lip curled, baring her teeth. "These are not my concerns, boy. We need information from her. I thought you'd enjoy this assignment; I thought you'd rise to the occasion."

Draco blanched. Her implication was clear: this was a chance to prove himself among the ranks of Death Eaters. Failure would not be looked well on by the Dark Lord, and Draco had spent enough time in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor to know quite well what happened to those that displeased Lord Voldemort.

"But Bella, what am I to do?" His voice rose at the end to a whine. Snape thought of Granger, and how she had borne far worse without complaint. Unless she's spilling the contents of her head to Dumbledore right now. He grimaced and ignored the thought. No more distractions.

Bellatrix hissed at the boy. "Use my map. Use your head. Think of something. If you can't do it, then I will. She and your precious Potions professor are hiding something," she said, spittle flying from her mouth, "and I will find out what it is."

Draco flinched and said, "Yes, ma'am." His pale skin was nearly luminescent in the faint moonlight.

"We will meet again on Sunday. Here. Do not disappoint me."

"No, ma'am."

She chucked him under the chin in a grotesque parody of familial affection, and then with a snap of her fingers, she retrieved her broomstick and was off again, no more than a distant dark outline within seconds.

Snape watched, still and silent, as Lucius Malfoy's son sank to his knees on the hard tiled roof, covered his face with his hands, and dissolved into great wracking sobs.