Hello, my lovely readers.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who are states-side. I enjoy the American food holiday myself. :)

College is still going marvelously. Other than the jerkboy, of course. I'm at the top of all my classes, I'm going to study abroad in Italy for four weeks in the spring, and I'm looking at going to a small ethnography field school in Malta over the summer. Whoo! And... romantically things are looking up. I had a date last Friday and it went well. :)

Ok- enough about me. I'm thankful for all of you this Thanksgiving, everyone who gives validation to my writing hobby and leaves me lovely reviews. Thanks y'all.

Side note- you will have to be somewhat familiar with the memories Dumbledore shows Harry in book six for this to make sense. They go in the general order of: Ministry Bloke Meets the Gaunts, Dumbledore Goes to the Orphanage, Morfin Meets Tom, and finally, Tom at the Slug Club.

On to the story!

Chapter 39

Hermione felt something she was quite sure was a hangover when she opened her eyes blearily the next morning. She had slept in far past her normal hour- well, she had slept the same amount, she had just gone to bed at four in the morning.

The inside of her mouth felt disgusting and tasted worse, and the heaviness in her bones was combating the rolling of her stomach.

When Hermione forced herself to sit up in bed, the rolling felt worse. "Ugh," she groaned, reaching out blindly for the glass of water she kept by the bed. It was empty- probably drunk in the night- but there was a small vial of a bright red potion and a small scrap of parchment.

You had four and a half glasses of wine. Normally that wouldn't be an issue, but if I am correct this was your first time drinking alcohol. Since it was my fault, drink this.

"Gods bless you, Severus," Hermione croaked. Downing the potion was awful, but after three and a half minutes- better than the normal five to six required- the hangover potion had quelled the nausea and the headache felt considerably better. It seemed that the only thing for her mouth would be to brush her teeth, which Hermione did quickly.

It was only when she returned from the bathroom that she noticed the time- almost half past twelve- and swore lightly. She had been supposed to pick up Harry and taken them to Dumbledore to view the memories. And she was supposed to have viewed them before then.

But, if anything else, time was on Hermione's side. She could turn back, go in the morning to view the memories, then bring Harry in the afternoon.

The time stream moved around Hermione, leaving in her own room at seven thirty in the morning- with the sleeping body of her past self. Hermione crept to her own beside, drank the full glass of water, then left the room, almost tripping over the small vial full of red potion, and the note.

After a quick trip back into her room to put the potion on her bedside table, Hermione closed the door with a click and crept down the stairs. She had just enough time to eat breakfast before meeting with Dumbledore.

"I am going to cast a complicated spell on you, Hermione," Dumbledore warned, pulling out his wand. "A significant portion of this memory takes place in Parseltongue, and it is essential that you understand it."

Hermione frowned at the wand, but nodded. "Alright." The feeling of the spell washing over her was unpleasant, settling in her ears with a feeling like they were stuffed with cotton.

Dumbledore gestured at the Pensieve, nearly overflowing with the memories he had just put in it. "After you, my dear girl," he said. His voice sounded like it was coming to her from far away, a side effect of the spell.

Hermione moved forward, bending so that her head touched the silvery substance. As soon as the cool fluid met her forehead, she was tilting and falling inside.

"Your thoughts, my dear?" Dumbledore asked, steepling his fingers. He peered at her from over the rims of his half moon glasses.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes to help her think. "Well. First of all, that graveyard looked familiar. Little Hangleton's graveyard. So if Voldemort took Harry and me there last year, then that means this memory is obviously connected to him somehow. Since there was talk in the graveyard of "bone of the father, unknowingly given" I would presume to guess that Voldemort's family is from Little Hangleton."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Interesting. Continue with that theory."

Does that mean I'm right or wrong? Hermione thought. The thought that she might be making a fool of herself by being completely wrong was very uncomfortable. "The Dark Lord's real name is Tom Marvolo Riddle," she continued slowly. "There was a boy named Tom outside the window and the old man was Marvolo Gaunt, descendent of Slytherin- like Tom Riddle. Therefore, I would guess that Voldemort is somehow related to the people in that cottage- he couldn't be Morfin's son because then his last name would be Gaunt. Which leaves Merope- and that sounds right. She seemed to like the Muggle Tom, and it stands to reason she would give her son her father's name as well."

"Continue," said the Headmaster, a serious look on his face. "Go on, my dear."

Hermione frowned, thinking it over. "Tom seemed quite infatuated with Cecilia, much to Merope's dismay. I would gather that Tom took advantage of Merope and got her pregnant, and she named the child after him in an attempt to gain his attention."

Dumbledore clapped his hands together slowly. "Brava, brava," he said, his delight evident in his voice. "Excellent work, Hermione! You were unerringly correct until the last part. Merope Gaunt was not taken advantage of by Tom- Tom Riddle, in fact. Rather, Tom Riddle was taken advantage of by Merope Gaunt."

Drat it. Well, I was mostly right. "Okay," Hermione said slowly. "What happened after that memory ended?"

"Odgen returned with reinforcements and took Morfin and Marvolo away to Azkaban. Merope was left alone for the first time in her life," explained the great wizard.

"And the literature says that when witches or wizards are in emotionally or physically abusive households, magic may not flourish," Hermione interrupted. "So I'm guessing Merope's magic came to her in time, when she wasn't being terrified of her father and brother."

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Exactly, Hermione. Somehow she seduced or magicked Tom Riddle, became pregnant by him, and events transpired to leave a young Tom Riddle to be raised by an orphanage. I'm guessing she used a love potion- it would have been more romantic than the Imperious Curse."

"And Tom Riddle Senior?" Hermione asked. "What do we know about him?"

"Only that the village was scandalized by the squire's son running away with the tramp's daughter," Dumbledore said, his voice a bit mournful. "Only that he ran back to the village a few months after the wedding, telling stories about being 'hoodwinked' or 'taken in' by Merope. The villagers incorrectly assumed that she had lied to him and told him she was pregnant, trapping him into a false marriage."

Hermione sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "And Merope?"

"She went to London," Dumbledore answered. "Where she pawned her only item of value- the locket of Salazar Slytherin- to Caractacus Burke. Here."

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve in the manor of a gold prospector sifting for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly to quell her rage, her furious and white hot rage that was threatening to choke her. "Ten gallons?" she asked finally. "Is he still alive?"

"Not anymore," Dumbledore said, frowning at her. "His son now runs the family shop."

"So Merope was left alone and pregnant in London with only ten gallons," Hermione said wearily. "In the middle or end of winter, if the timing of the memory fits with the timeline?"

"Yes," Dumbledore answered. "And without her magic, I presume. If she had had it, she might not have died like she did."

That made sense to Hermione. "And how did she die?"

"Alone and in pain," Dumbledore said plainly. "Leaving her son to a Muggle orphanage. Come. Now we shall visit my own memory."

"I trust you found it rich in both detail and accuracy?" Dumbledore asked casually as they left the Pensieve. "I do find that the memories of Occlumens are far superior to those who are not."

"It was fine," Hermione replied, her head spinning slightly. I never knew that Dumbledore was a ginger. Or that his lack of fashion sense was bad even back then. "Better than the first," she amended at the look of slight affront on Dumbledore's face.

Dumbledore circled around his desk to sit in his giant chair. "And once again, Hermione, I find myself asking for your thoughts."

To her own surprise, Hermione found tears in her eyes. "His childhood was miserable," she said softly, refusing to look at the Headmaster. "Alone, all alone, in that place. His physical needs were cared for but his emotional needs were not. What resulted was a boy who- who found his magic because animals would do what he told them to and because people who made him mad would get hurt."

How a child's magic manifested itself was an important indicator of that child's home life and personality. Hermione had read about it after hearing several different stories from her classmates, none of which matched her own experiences.

A child who was well loved and relatively happy would experience accidental magic that would cure small misfortunes- deliver candy from a high shelf or fix a broken toy. A child who was lonely would call animals to them or animate their toys. A child who wanted attention or wanted to exert their own will would have experimental magic that would affect other people, in small ways or in large.

However, there was a large difference between accidental and experimental magics. Accidental magic was truly accidental- the child had no conscious control over it, no way to call it to them or exert any kind of will over it. It would not be replicable or reliable. For example, Harry, who had spontaneously Apparated himself onto the school roof when being chased by his cousin, once and never again.

Experimental magic was more rare, and was concentrated in children with remarkable control over their fledgling powers. Although the magical core did not begin to stabilize before the age of eleven, some children were able to instinctively grasp how to flex their magic, how to divert it to their needs. These were the children who excelled in magic, who seemed to automatically know to use a wand. Experimental magic was much harder, and much rarer.

Calling animals was experimental. So was making objects fly with regularity- Hermione making her books fly off the shelves and into her hands, calling down objects from high places when she needed them. This was what had scared her parents- it wasn't once or twice that she did this, but whenever she had needed something as a child. Until about eight or so, at least, when she first realized that it terrified her parents.

But even Hermione had never used an influence on other people, the kind that the young boy in the memory did. Commanding people to 'tell the truth!` and expecting them to do so- it was a kind of mind magic. Coercing people into doing things wasn't just rare, it was practically unheard of. And slightly terrifying. It suggested a child with such a need for control over his surroundings that his magic allowed him to take hold of people's minds. That he was so dismissive of the autonomy of other children, of other adults, that he was able to do so with no compunctions.

It didn't quite sicken Hermione, but it made her uncomfortable, as it had made Albus Dumbledore in that orphanage so many decades ago.

"He wasn't quite right even back then, as a child," Hermione said haltingly. "He didn't see others as important, he didn't have respect for other children or even adults- he didn't show you any deference until you had proved that you would be useful to him if he was polite to you. Tom Riddle seems like a sociopath- he would use people until he didn't need them anymore and he would adapt himself until he was what he needed to be. And he was certain he was special and that he was above any kind of law or order."

"Why do you say that?" asked Dumbledore curiously. "I came to the same conclusion myself, but I am curious as to how you made the same leap."

Hermione snorted, shaking her head. "It wasn't hard at all. The most blatant sign- his reaction to hearing that the barman was named Tom. He dislikes having a common name, and even now that shows with his choice of alias- Lord Voldemort. It's grand, it's noble sounding, it's everything he didn't come from. And his saying himself that he had been sure he was special and different. But there was something more- how he shut down when you said that he was practicing magic that wasn't tolerated at Hogwarts. The idea that someone could try to control him was the only thing that disturbed him. Your forcing him to give back the trophies he had taken also angered him- he hated anyone exerting control over him."

For a moment the only sounds in the office was the slow breathing of the two Order members. Both were thinking, both trying to analyze what they had seen, Hermione for the first time and Albus for what Hermione was sure was the latest of many.

At last, the Headmaster spoke again. "And how do you think I handled the situation?"

Hermione frowned, biting her lip as she thought. "As well as you could have. I would be quite surprised if you didn't leave that meeting with a firm conviction that Tom Riddle was a wizard that would need to be watched and watched carefully at that. But making him give back his trophies earned you his animosity, if I am correct."

"Not outright animosity," Dumbledore admitted. "Tom Riddle was the perfect student here at Hogwarts. All his teachers loved him, all the students loved him. Here, his facade was rarely broken. I was the only one to see him as he was then. And I was the only one who saw that particular facet of his nature- his predisposition toward collecting mementos of his acts of magic and hate."

"Which is where his Horcruxes come in." Hermione frowned, rubbing at the back of her neck. "He collects things- the very idea of a Horcux appeals to his magpie habits."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Exactly. There are several more memories I would like you to see, and we are approaching lunch time. I suggest we conduct this discussion with the aid of some lunch?"

Hermione glanced at her watch, then looked up ruefully. She had gotten caught up in the discussion, the thrill of new knowledge. She hadn't even noticed that the faint pangs of hunger were thrumming in her stomach. "That would be lovely, actually."

"Well," said Dumbledore, clapping his hands together. "Why don't you pop into the next memory while I get us some food?" He scooped some of the silver substance out of the Pensieve, urging it into little glass vials. Form his colorful robes, Dumbledore withdrew another little vial, and tipped this one into the Pensieve. "In you go!"

Hermione took a breath, then tipped her head into the bowl.

A small feast of sandwiches and butterbeer awaited Hermione when she emerged from the memory, slightly dizzy. As she stumbled to her seat, she gratefully accepted the full plate of sandwiches Dumbledore offered her.

"Thanks," Hermione said quickly, stuffing her mouth with half a sandwich. Suddenly, she was ravenous.

Dumbledore offered her an amused smile. "Take your time, my dear. So. I shall begin, since you are rather occupied. That was Morfin Gaunt's memory of his first meeting with his nephew, Tom Riddle."

"What led him to Morfin?" Hermione asked, taking a quick sip of butterbeer. "I thought he was under the impression that his mother couldn't have been a witch."

A nod was her response. "Yes, yes. When he arrived at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle spent years trying to locate his father, any mention of a Tom Riddle in the trophy hall, in prefect records, in newspaper articles, in club records. The few people who had gone to school with him that I could persuade or trick into talking to me told me that he was obsessed with his parentage."

It made sense to Hermione: an orphan who found he was the heir to a magical gift desperately searching for any record of the parent who had given it to him. Harry had done much the same thing with his father. Hermione didn't know how long Harry had stared at the Quidditch Cups with his father's name engraved on the gold. The other piece of information also made sense- those that had known Tom Riddle refusing to talk. "Who were those that talked?"

If he was surprised by her question, Dumbledore didn't show it. "None of the cadre of Slytherins he had gathered about himself, those who would later name themselves the Death Eaters. A few Ravenclaws in his year that had shared the library with him and noted his perusal of Wizarding genealogies. A teacher or two who had signed passes to the Restricted Section. No one very close to Tom. Not that many people were close to him- for all that he was adored by teachers and students alike, Tom never liked anyone else very much. He didn't have any confidants, any true friends."

"But he knew how to charm people into thinking they were his friends," Hermione murmured, having finished another sandwich. "Anyway. How did he find Morfin?"

Although Dumbledore shrugged, indicating what he was saying was only guesswork, his voice had the quiet calm of absolute confidence in what he was saying. "I would say that he sought out what he could on the one name he had left- Marvolo. He didn't know the surname of Gaunt, only that his grandfather's name was Marvolo. I believe he discovered that the Gaunts were the descendents of Slytherin in his fifth or sixth year- right before he called the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets. This was when he shed the name Tom Riddle for good- although it was the name he was called in class, he hated it. His followers soon learned to call him Lord Voldemort."

The feeling of cotton stuffing her ears made Hermione rub them absentmindedly, reminding Dumbledore of the spell he had placed on them. "My apologies," he told Hermione, flicking his wand at her and removing the spell. "It is rather uncomfortable."

Hermione nodded her agreement. "So. He tracks down Morfin Gaunt- but for what purpose? That memory ended rather abruptly."

"Morfin was hit on the head. He woke up much later with his family ring missing- to the screams of the maid that had found all three of the Riddles dead of mysterious causes in their mansion."

Hermione took a pensive bite out of another sandwich, thinking. "So he takes the ring, then kills three people- just for being the Muggles who spawned him. Am I guessing correctly that he made a Horcrux from the ring and the death of his father?"

"Your guess would be as good as mine," Dumbledore said mildly. "And since that was my guess as well, I would say that we are correct."

Hermione shook her head. "So that was his first Horcrux. From the blood of his father."

"Actually, no," Dumbledore corrected gently. "He had made one more before that, with the discovery of his great bloodline. You have actually seen this one, back in your second year."

My second year? thought Hermione, frowning. The Chamber of Secrets? The – oh. The diary. "It was the diary," Hermione said, sighing. "The diary that Harry destroyed. Horcruxes can be destroyed by basilisk venom."

Dumbledore frowned at her. "I didn't tell you that."

"I did some research of my own," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow. "Did you honestly expect that you could tell me about some magical artifact that I had never heard of and not expect me to research it? Especially if these type of magic is going to be extremely important to Harry and the war we are fighting?"

He had no response to that, other than to sigh and give her a look of reproach. "You look far too much like Severus when you do that, my dear girl."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Thanks?"

The silence that filled the office was brief but heavy. Fawkes was dozing, or appeared to be dozing, and the portraits were not conversing with themselves but paying close attention to the discussion in front of them. After that brief and uncomfortable pause, Dumbledore gestured at the Pensieve. "Are you finished eating?"

Hermione nodded, brushing a few crumbs from the front of her shirt. "Yes. Next memory?"

"Not quite," Dumbledore said. "I wanted to tell you what happened to Morfin after the last memory we saw. Tell me, my dear: what do you think happened after three Muggles were found dead from the Killing Curse in a village where there was already one convicted Muggle hater?"

For all I know, there wasn't even a trial, Hermione thought grumpily. "So he was sent back to Azkaban?"

"That is correct," responded Dumbledore. "With a full and boastful confession, all three deaths on his wand, and a trial that lasted all of fifteen minutes."

If it hadn't been for Kingsley's tutelage in the many biased and unfair twists of the Wizarding legal system, Hermione might have been surprised. "At least there was a trial. At that age Tom Riddle was skilled enough to implant a fake memory that strong into Morfin?"

"It probably wasn't too difficult," Dumbledore said, stroking his beard in thought. "Yes, yes- I suppose Morfin had harbored fantasies of doing exactly what Tom had done to the man who had left his sister. But even at such a young age, Tom Riddle was ridiculously talented. So talented, in fact, he gained the attention of the head of Slytherin House, a teacher named Horace Slughorn."

The name sounded familiar to Hermione in an odd way. "Why do I feel like I've heard of him?" she asked Dumbledore.

"You might have, from Severus or anyone else who went to Hogwarts in the time before Severus was the Potions Master here at the school," admitted Dumbledore. "He is also rather famously connected to everyone and everything. Here, at Hogwarts, he had a small club of the most talented students in any subject- his own Potions, Charms, Quidditch, Transfiguration... Any student who shone in anyway was invited to his Slug Club."

It sounded gross, but Hermione knew better than to say so. It was rather clever and beautifully Slytherin... a teacher, taking advantage of his post at one of the best schools of magic in Europe to cultivate relationships with the promising members of the future generation. "So I'm assuming Tom Riddle was in this Slug Club?" Hermione asked, already sure of the answer.

"Correct once again, Hermione," said the Headmaster. "And this is a memory of one such meeting. After you, my dear."

The first thing that Hermione said after they sat down once more was her first observation from the memory. "He had the ring," she said, her words spilling on top of each other. "He had already killed his father, why did he have to ask about Horcruxes? Nothing about the memory felt right. The fog- the voice- whoever gave that to you altered it."

"Of course Horace altered the memory," said Dumbledore serenely. "He gave a young Voldemort information about some of the darkest magic known to man- he is ashamed and doesn't wish for anyone to know about this. So, when I forced him to give me this memory, he altered it as best he could. I believe Severus taught you how to create a false memory- Horace Slughorn has had no such training."

Hermione sighed, folding her arms as she leaned back in her seat. "So. We don't know what information Tom Riddle got from Slughorn. How did you get the memory?"

Dumbledore chuckled as he answered. "I slipped a special little potion Severus brewed me into some candied pineapple- it makes people more open to suggestion. It wasn't quite strong enough- I got the memory, but not the entire story. Which is where Harry is going to come in."

So he's going to use Harry again, Hermione thought wearily. And I find myself thinking it might be a good thing, especially if this memory contains something important. "I'm assuming you are going to use his habit of collecting important people by dangling Harry in front of him like bait?"

The Headmaster frowned. "I'm hoping Harry will be able to use his charm to persuade Horace to part with the memory on his own. Of course, after I had taken the memory, I erased the giving from Horace's mind."

Well... that's not too bad. "Alright," Hermione said after a moment. "So we have a teacher who gave Riddle information about Horcruxes. But why would he need more information about them after he had already made one?"

"That is what we need to find out," Dumbledore said solemnly. "That is the last memory I have to show you today. Bring Harry with you tomorrow morning. He will need to view the same."

The Safe House was empty when Hermione returned. A note on the counter from Cedric told her that he was eating dinner with the Weasleys and an invitation had been extended to her if she should want to join them. The news made a small grin slip onto Hermione's face- she was alone in the house, and the solitude let something like calm wash over her.

There were no eyes to watch her, no ears to listen, no minds to judge. It was just her and the old house, and perhaps the house elves puttering around somewhere. Both house elves alternated with the Hogwarts kitchen, so there was even the possibility that they were not there as well.

Hermione let her fingers trail on the banister of the staircase as she ascended to the second floor, where her bedroom was tucked into a corner. A noise reached her ears- it was her own humming.

Slowly Hermione changed, taking the time to firmly tie her hair back out of her face without magic. She took her cleaning kit and descended once more, going down a level farther to the practice room.

The routine movements of cleaning and sharpening her knives added to her calm, which Hermione found quite odd after all she had learned over the course of a single morning.

Now that inhuman face she had seen in the graveyard had a history, a past, parents, grandparents. He had been well liked in school, raised in an orphanage, the product of a loveless marriage. If she had just seen the memories with no context, Hermione herself might have felt bad for the boy she had seen stretched out on a steel framed bed in a sterile orphanage.

No- she did feel pity for that boy. Something about the way he had held his head, proud but scared, how he had been so sure that the director of the orphanage was having him institutionalized. That was a boy who knew what he had been doing was wrong, was bad, and he had just been waiting for someone to stop him. Waiting, just waiting, to be put away, to be locked away somewhere where he couldn't hurt anyone.

Tom Riddle had known from a young age that he was different in a bad way, that there was something wrong with him, that maybe he shouldn't want to hurt people or he shouldn't be able to hurt people in the ways he was capable of.

It created a small cold space in Hermione's calm, that disturbing knowledge. Tom Riddle, the child, had disturbed her greatly, and yet she still felt sorry for him. Why? Did she relate to him on some level she didn't even want to admit to herself? He had been an awful creature in that orphanage, young and terribly dangerous even then.

Even now, Hermione thought savagely, packing away her cleaning kit with slow movements that had no connection to the storm of feelings that felt like they were ravaging her insides. As soon as she stood Hermione swept in the motions she had practiced over and over again until they were flawless, to even Severus' exacting standards. She hadn't been good at knife fighting right away- but she had learned to be good at the forms. Severus had even remarked a hundred times that she had best wish that her opponent hadn't learned the same forms she had because then every combination she made would be known to them.

Severus. She wanted to talk about this, about her conflict, but if there was one subject that was taboo between her and Severus it was the Dark Lord. He was never referred to as anything else, just 'the Dark Lord.' The Dark Lord was displeased, he punished, he planned, he rejoiced. Severus spoke about him in the monotone of report delivery, or on the rare occasion, with spitting rage.

It was times like this Hermione wished she had a friend that was just her own, that she could share things with. She wanted what Harry and Ron had, an easy understanding that could sink into depths untold alarmingly fast.

Hermione was well aware that the relationship between her and Ron was taunt and barely formed. From the beginning there had been a quiet and shared knowledge that Ron's cruelty had almost cost Hermione her life. It had been there in Ron's eyes when he made himself the knight, it had been in hers when Ron had been dragged into the Shrieking Shack by a large black dog.

They were bound together by Harry Potter. It was as simple as that. They did homework together, they joked (sometimes cruelly) and there was an odd love that came with familiarity. If something happened to Ron, Hermione would be sad. If he disappeared from her day-to-day life, she would miss him. She held some affection for him, he held some affection for her.

But with Harry there was an complicated network of guilt and blood debt and love and resentment. Ron had put her life in jeopardy; Harry had jumped on the troll's back. Harry had saved her from being friendless, he had given her his friendship and Hermione had returned it tenfold. In those first years, before everything had been complicated by secrecy, she had harbored a strong and desperate affection for Harry James Potter.

This fellow child who had been through so much- losing his parents, living with awful guardians, learning that there was a Dark lord out for his blood- was so quiet, so unassuming, so kind. He had decided that Hermione Granger would be his friend and she had been slotted seamlessly into their group.

And then she had freely chosen to leave normalcy behind for his sake. To protect him, to win the war. There was resentment there, Hermione knew, resentment and thanks and guilt.

Her muscles had started to burn long ago but now sweat was dripping into her eyes, Hermione closed them, trusting her knowledge of the room to avoid bumping into anything. It was just the thump of her heartbeat in her ears and her own ragged breathing.

Harry Potter wasn't even Harry Potter, it seemed. In the scar on his forehead lived a portion of an awful soul, the soul of that boy who had been proud of hurting people and animals not the boy who had saved a girl from a troll.

She had to find a way to save him.

Her own life had been wound around Harry Potter's for too long. Messy black hair and green eyes made her chest do funny things- she didn't want him hurt, she didn't want anyone to hurt him, she wanted him to succeed.

So, eyes closed, she just fought against her invisible enemies, felling them one by one.

The Safe House was curiously empty when Severus arrived. The lights were off in the kitchen and there was no fire roaring in the sitting room. When he checked Hermione's room it was empty- but her cleaning case was missing. So she was in the practice room. Severus felt a light smile slide on to his face at the prospect of maybe sparring with her.

When he slipped off his shoes at the door and entered, Hermione was practicing the knife forms he had taught her with her eyes closed. He watched her critically, frowning.

"You're getting sloppy, my dear," he said sharply when she nearly misplaced her foot.

Hermione hadn't heard him come in- she did misplace her next move and she fell, a comical expression of surprise on her face. "Shit!"

Despite years of practice, Severus could not keep the smile from his face, nor the laugh that rose from his chest. The glare she sent him made him laugh harder.

"It's not funny, Severus!" Hermione snapped, but she had a grin on her face too. "That hurt!" She stood gingerly, rubbing her bum.

He gave her a wicked smirk. "Want me to kiss it better?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up to the top of her forehead. "And if I said yes?" She walked toward him, sheathing her knives in one smooth motion.

When she came close enough to touch, Severus hooked an arm around her waist and drew her in. She smelled like hard work and clean sweat, evidenced by the beading of perspiration at her hairline. He bowed his head, wrapping his arms around her. Hermione's arms slipped around his neck, and she looked up at him, a playful smile on her face. It changed quickly to a surprised expression as two large hands cupped her firm bottom, caressing it lightly.

"I'd say you would be getting in over your head," Severus whispered, lifting her up and gently pressing her to the wall so that they were almost eye level.

Hermione gave him a throaty laugh. "I'd say you were probably right," she admitted ruefully. "But you can give me a kiss anyway."

He did so carefully, stroking the side of her face. When Severus pulled away, there was a small smile on Hermione's lips. It was a warm feeling to know that he had put that there, that he had made her smile, the kind of feeling that rose from the belly to spread in the chest.

"How did your meeting with Dumbledore go?" he asked. "Is he still mad about the stunt you pulled with Potter?"

He almost regretted asking when the small smile fled, to be replaced with a frown. "Not exactly. He shared information with me- so much information, Severus. I'm not completely sure, but I think he is a bit relieved to be finally sharing it with someone, to get a second opinion. He always plays his cards so close to his chest... it must get lonely to be the only one who knows everything sometimes."

Severus snorted. "He gets off on it. He likes being the wise one with the plan."

His answer was a quick kiss on his lips, and Hermione slithering out of his arms. "Maybe. And you? What did you do with your day?"

His arms felt empty. "Plenty," he drawled, folding his arms to lessen the feeling. "I went to see Draco."

Her eyes widened and she copied his stance unconsciously. "Do tell."

Severus looked around, frowning. "Not down here. Let's go up to your office." He crossed the room to the door, opening it for her. "After you, my dear." That particular pair of words had been slipping from his mouth with alarming frequency lately.

Hermione smirked at him, fluttering her eyelashes dramatically. "Why thank you, love."

"Pet names don't suit you," he told her, closing and locking the door. "Or me."

"Nonsense," Hermione said, her eyes dark in the room. "I love it when you call me your 'dear.' So don't stop."

Oh? Duly noted. Severus grinned- he couldn't help himself. "Let's get up to your room. I have a lot to tell you."

And so ends Chapter 39.

The next chapter, just a heads up, will be most of the day from Severus' perspective- his meeting with Draco. (I love that scene by the way- some good writing of mind if I do say so myself).

Here is your excerpt:

"The Dark Lord is the consummate Slytherin," Severus said quietly. "You, not even of age, had no chance of seeing his long game. You could only see half the board."

Draco glared bitterly at his godfather. "And you could see it all?"

Severus gave him half of a wry smile. "The benefit of playing both sides."

On the life side, as I said, things are looking up. It's kind of funny- out of the total of four Rwandan exchange students at the school, I've been kissed by one, taken on a date by another, and a third spends half his time in my rooms as he's my roommate's crush/friend. It's funny how things work out that way.

Next update probably won't be as long a wait, as my Christmas break is coming up in only three weeks! Chapter 42 is done (and whew- it's steamy. It needs the M rating, no doubt) but I haven't begun work on 43 yet. Give it time, please- I have finals which are looking grim. Expect a Boxing Day chapter!

Thanks for reading and please review. I read each and every one of them and adore them all.