Mine Protector
Chapter 12: Dawn Comes Calling

-Goddamn that Severus Snape...- Hermione thought viciously. -Why did he have to up and decide to be agreeable? Why didn't he stew and shout and try to *force* the secret of VesClotho out of me as he would any other student?-

She rolled over in her bed roughly, and the mattress creaked in protest.

-Because he's cottoned on to the fact that you're *not* just another student...Normal students don't sneak around in the middle of the night brewing up complex confundus disguises, do they? No my girl, they certainly do not...-

She slammed a pillow down over her head.

No good. Her thoughts simply wouldn't be silenced.

Oh oh oh...the trouble she could be getting herself into. -Don't even think about it..- she ordered herself. But then again, why not? He was cunning to the Nth degree, and that was just judging him by the fact that he had re-created the VesClotho in little over a day--why, she hadn't even known such things were possible. She could button up her secrets as much as she wanted, but had no doubt that *somehow* he'd figure them out. If she could just explain herself to him, then maybe...maybe he could at least come close to understanding.

Blast him. She groaned outloud and snapped her covers a few times, irritated.

"Good God, Hermione!" Parvati's harassing voice announced itself sharply from across the room. "Could you at least use a silencing charm before you carry on with yourself like that?"

---

Hermione found that a little walk did wonders to calm her nettled thoughts. It was very early on a Sunday morning--barely 5 o'clock--and she guessed that perhaps the only creatures awake other than herself were the house-elves.

And, if all went well, Severus Snape would be awake, too.

She hadn't really meant to find herself down in the dungeons, once again poking around in the potions classroom, but here she was. This time, she had the sense to leave her dormitory in jeans, a sweatshirt, and some grubby old trainers--no way was she going to approach Snape in a nightshirt and poufy socks again, and she didn't want to be caught nancing about in her slinkiest dress robes, either.

And speaking of slinky. . .she had been unable to forget the shameless little display of naughtiness she had put on in the potion master's own living quarters. Unashamed she may have been then, but now a warm blush burned her cheeks at the memory. It had been her attempt to play the game, of course--one which she had mistakenly thought he'd been goading her towards. The black, furious eyes she'd been forced to meet when he pulled her hair back served as an unquestionable statement of his true feelings: he saw her as a meddlesome child.

-Maybe because you behaved as one in his presence?-

She fiddled with the doorknob on that led to Snape's forbidden cache of potion ingredients; he had a secret door to his quarters out in the corridor somewhere, but to search for it would be a hit and miss process. Instead, she focused on the rather hazy memory of him entering the classroom from *this* door when he had caught her cleaning up the VesClotho, which meant that the supply closet must lead to his own rooms. But the door was firmly locked, as she expected.

"Alohomora...?" she murmured half-heartedly, but there was a stronger charm keeping the door closed--perhaps he had even given it a password.

"Um...potions master?" she tried. The door didn't budge.

"Slytherin?... Slytherin Rules?.....er...Mudbloods blow?....oh bloody hell just open!"

"Miss Granger. . ." came a dry voice behind her. She pivoted around, a little triumphant. If anything, she had known that making a ruckus would alert him to her presence. And here he was, standing in the classroom's entrance with his hands on his hips, dressed from head to toe in a silky green bathrobe.

Silk? -Who knew that Severus Snape was such a hedonist?- Then again, she should have guessed as much.

"I assume you are looking for me, and not ingredients for a new wonder potion?"

"Yes, sir," she said, straightening up. "I wanted to have a word with you."

"I see. And this word would be best delievered at the crack of dawn, would it?" He asked, rearing up an eyebrow.

She almost giggled aloud, and wondered--not for the first time--if anyone else appreciated his dry humour as she did. She had, on several occasions, been forced to pinch herself beneath the table during potions class, trying to stifle laughter at one or another of his scathing, witty remarks. Sure, Malfoy and the Slytherins always chortled when Snape managed to insult Neville or Harry, but the were less aware of the subtle ways in which he insulted their own intelligence, or lack thereof.

"I took a chance that you might be awake, Professor. I hope I didn't disturb you."

"Ah yes, you assumed that I would be kept awake all night marveling at your potion-making genius...is that it?" He rotated on his hips a little, glaring at her.

"No," she replied, her voice cool. "I just know that temporary insomnia can be a side-effect of VesClotho. Though it should pass in a few days."

He looked a little surprised at her words. "How did you discover what the side-effects are?" he asked, curious.

Now it was her turn to be surprised. She had assumed he had put two and two together and was fully aware of her own VesClotho consumption, but apparently, he was not. But she didn't have to say anything now--the arrogance that drained from his facial features left no doubt that his math skills were undergoing a sudden improvement.

"You made the potion for yourself," he said, his voice dry with realization. She merely nodded, and he stiffly gestured for her to follow him into the corridor.

He stopped in front of an innocuous stone wall, significant only for the fact that it featured a small torch mounted up high, near the ceiling. He gazed at her warily, then turned to the wall and said "Brandywine" in a low tone. At that, the stones tumbled away noiselessly, like a waterfall of dominoes until there was nothing but a small entrance in the space where they had been. He ducked down and stepped through, but she found herself unable to follow, standing slight and trembly as if the wall opened on to the edge of a canyon. -Once you step in, there's no going back- she thought, and a little bit of fear fluttered around in her chest, though it was somewhat tempered by her own rising excitement. From the other side, Snape bent down and looked at her inquisitively, then finally extended his hand so that it reached across the stone barrier between them.

She took hold, and with a slight lurch he pulled her through.

---

Though he hadn't realized it at the time, Snape had spent most of the night as if preparing for a visitor. He had showered somewhere around 3 o'clock in the morning; sleep seemed out of the question, and he had hoped the warm water would relax him--instead, he left his bathroom fresh and oddly invigorated. With a few waves of his wand, he set about tidying up the quarters: sweeping aside potion odd and ends, straightening pillows, running a dust-cloth over the woodwork. He slipped into his most luxurious robe and slippers, then heated the teakettle until it chuffed mild steam. Without much thought, he set up two cups and saucers on the tea table, then pulled up two high-backed chairs, placing them so that their occupants could face one another directly.

-What odd behavior you're displaying, old man...- he thought absently, polishing a spoon against his sleeve. Then he remembered that he *wasn't* old. Not anymore.

In a way, he supposed what she had given him was a gift; how many other people got to re-live their youth and vigor again? Not many, he supposed. On the other hand, he had no idea how long the effect would last, and he was beginning to hope it would wear off soon. It was disconcerting. . .not feeling like himself. Or, in this case, feeling as he did ten years ago. Interestingly, it had been just over ten years ago that he had taken on his current teaching position at Hogwarts. And before that. . .well, before that there had been the death-eaters.

As if in response to his thoughts, the dark mark pulsed faintly.

-Yes Mister Riddle. . .you need not remind me of your presence. I am quite aware that you are watching me. . .-

He wondered, vaguely, if it was feasible to brew more VesClotho and drink himself back to the age of 20. If it were possible, he might be able to finally rid himself of the dark mark altogether. At this thought, he added a heavy dollop of scotch to his teacup.

Before the earl gray had finished steeping, he heard a mild scuffling from somewhere beyond his stone walls.

-Excellent timing, Miss Granger . . .-

When he pulled her through the entrance to his rooms, she looked around as she had never seen the place before. Her eyes traveled to the massive fire, up along his bookshelves, stopped briefly at the slightly ajar door to his bedroom, then finally settled on the tea table. Snape was slightly amused to realize that she was the first person, other than Albus Dumbledore, to set foot in these rooms at his invitation. And twice in the space of a few days, at that.

"Is that for us?" she asked, acknowledging the teakettle.

"It may as well be," he said thinly, pouring tea into both cups. He kept the scotch-infused one for himself, passing her the other. Without asking, she added a generous splash of Dewer's into her own. Her facial features were set in a serious, nearly grim arrangement that failed to relax even when she downed half of her drink.

"I've come to give you answers," she said, her voice oddly formal.

"Have you?" he said, as if he were awaiting no such thing.

"Yes," she continued. "I know you're wondering why I have been taking VesClotho..."

-Taking? As in more than once?- Snape struggled to hide his astonishment. Until that very moment, he hadn't an inkling why she had been mixing and self-administering such a strong potion, but now dread flooded him, full force. He realized that the girl sitting across from him could be anyone--perhaps someone working for Voldemort, like Barty Crouch. But if that were the case, why would she chewing that ripe bottom lip, struggling for a way to confess to him? If she were one of Voldemort's, wouldn't he already be on the floor, his entire body coursing with the red agony of 'Crucio'?

"Your reasons are your own," he said, finally.

She smiled a little, but remained steady. "You're just saying that because you want me to spill the beans on my own volition. . . but that's okay. I don't blame you. We're I in your shoes, I'd be suspicious, too."

It was a struggle, but he met her eyes directly. "Should I have reason to suspect you?" he asked, still expressionless.

"Yes, you have reason to suspect me." She tilted her head and studied him a little. The light from the fire was playing across her features, and behind that youthful complexion he thought he glimpsed someone older. . .someone familiar. "But you don't have reason to fear me," she finished.

He laughed outloud; a hearty rolling that he hoped disguised his own sudden bout of anxiety. "Fear you? Don't be such a silly girl. What I *fear* is that you are about to step into quite a wasp's nest of trouble. Whatever you've been up to, I imagine it warrants far more than a simple detention."

She sighed heavily, then drank deep from her teacup. "I see you're not taking me seriously," she said, looking as if she had anticipated such behavior from him.

-Don't lose it now Snape. Remember the spider and the fly. . .you'll have to use honey if you want this one to talk. . .-

"I'm sorry," he said, lowering his head in what he hoped was a contrite gesture.

Unfortunately, she looked unconvinced. "Don't patronize me," she said softly, trickling a little more scotch into her cup, then, after a moment of thought, added another splash to his. "Surely you have noticed that I'm not an ordinary sixth year student? Think back, Professor. Work past the clouds that obscure you memory and I think you'll come to realize that you've known all along."

"Known what?"

"That I'm not who I seem to be." With this, she gazed at him almost sorrowfully, as if her heart might break if he did not see what she wanted him to. He felt something like a corkscrew turn in his chest; there it was, that nagging feeling of recognition. A sense that he had known her somewhere before. And even as he studied her sweetly pleading face, the dark mark tingled slightly, just enough to make tea lap over the edge of his cup.

"That, Miss Granger, is obvious," he replied coolly, dabbing at the spilled tea with the cuff of his robe. "You're brilliant at every subject, your moods change as if at the turn of a knob, and you're Gryffindor's new star Quidditch player. Clearly, there is more to you than meets the eye. Now just tell me who you are and why you've decided to make hobby of harassing me."

"I don't want to harass you!" she snapped, and he saw some of that fury flare up in her eyes. "I'm trying to confide in you . . . if you took me at all seriously you would see that!"

The fury was replaced by a hint of frustrated tears. He could see her abdomen hitching, as if she were fighting valiantly not to cry on the spot. The internal tugging returned, this time one of rising guilt; he was playing games and she was not. She had approached him on an even playing field and he had, without shame, given her the usual derisive run-around.

"I apologize," he said, sincere this time. "Tell me what you want, Miss Granger, but please don't make me play guessing games. I haven't the strength to do so at such an early hour, and on so little sleep."

"Did you try a bath?" she asked, and in seeing his puzzled look added: "I find that a bath helps with the insomnia."

"I took a shower," he admitted.

She shook her head. "Not the same. You have to fully immerse yourself in warm water."

Her words conjured up a vivid picture of her standing tip-toe at the edge of a whirlpool bath, fully undressed and dipping her foot in the bubbles to test the water temperature. Dabbing his brow, he tried to wipe the erotic vision away. "Why do I have insomnia anyway?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

"You're metabolism has been altered," she said, and his mind failed to wrap around the unfamiliar scientific term. "Your internal chemistry is now as it was ten years ago; it will take awhile for your body to fully adjust."

He had a vague idea of what she was describing, and found himself impressed at her acute knowledge regarding the potion's side effects. Indeed, she must have spoken the truth when she had claimed to be its inventor. "And how long will I. . .be like this?"

She studied him carefully. "The effects will begin to wane in three months. Coming out of the potion can be difficult. . .the confundus effect reverts in your own body. You may experience stress and paranoia," she explained.

He had another brief vision of her, this time her face was twisted in pale anger, and she rose up on the balls of her feet to fling a glass beaker in his direction. More tiles clicked into place.

"When you attacked me the other night. . .you were coming down off the potion, weren't you?" he said, and he marveled that they were now having a calm discussion about those strange events.

"Yes," she nodded carefully. "Normally I come to school with a full year's supply of VesClotho on hand. . . this year I was out of fairy-lash, and was forced to brew the potion in your classroom. I knew it was a risk, but I was risking more if I let the potion wane from my system. It was only a matter of days before someone noticed a difference."

"Such as noticing your true age?" he asked, managing to hold back the deluge of questions that was pushing at the back of his throat.

"That and other things," she said. At the obscure reference he flashed her an irritated look, and she clarified: "My true age is nearly 23. Not too much of a physical difference there. I was more concerned that I would be recognized."

He was unable to contain his suspicions any longer. "Recognized as who? Is yours a face I should know? I keep feeling that I should." Checking the level of accusation in his tone, he continued: "Why are you at Hogwarts? What is it you want?"

She shrugged slightly, as if what she wanted was menial. "I'm here to help Dumbledore. . .to learn from him, and to use what I learn to protect others."

Despite the fact that he had swallowed quite a bit of scotch by now, Severus felt his skin ice over slightly. "Protect? Who are you here to protect?"

She met his eyes. "Harry Potter."

"I see," he said coldly. Dull anger washed through him as he realized that Dumbledore had, once again, gone behind his back regarding the Boy Who Lived. Now this girl, Hermione--or whoever she was--claimed to be working with the headmaster to *protect* Harry Potter. Add to that the betrayal of hiring Black, And Severus felt he'd been thoroughly double-crossed. "And how is it you *help* Potter, exactly? By assisting him in his dangerous high-jinx, time and time again?"

"If I assisted him in 'high jinx' it was only to ensure the boy's own safety," she said firmly. "He regards me as a friend, not a person of authority. I can't order the boy about and expect to keep his trust, now can I?"

He begrudgingly thought she had a point, but didn't say so. "You say you feared you'd be recognized," he began, changing the subject. "Is that because I and others know you? Are you someone who works for the ministry?"

She laughed bitterly at his suggestion. "No, I am not with the ministry. I tried to enroll into the Ministry's Aurorship program, if you want to know the truth, but Fudge was more interested in oogling my breasts."

-Sounds like classic Fudge...- he thought, but kept it to himself.

"Dumbledore took pity on me, I suppose," she said, her fact rapt with memory. "He told me I could train as an unregistered Auror here at Hogwarts, under the condition that when I was finished, I join his circle as an Unspeakable."

"You ridiculous girl," he said, unable to withhold himself. "Don't you know enough to never accept a deal that has 'conditions'?"

"Don't *you* know enough?" she retorted, starting blatantly at his robed arm, at the spot where the dark mark was.

"I do now," he said through gritted teeth. "But you are young and talented, why sign yourself away to a life of servitude?"

She laughed without mirth. "Funny, Dumbledore said the same thing when he spoke to me after my Ministry interview. Unlike you, though, he saw there was no way to change my position on the matter. I wanted to be an Auror, and he offered me a more stable road to reach my goal."

"And are you yet an Auror?" he asked, realizing that her skills--physical finesse, mental brilliancy--had all along been indicative of someone destined to fight the dark arts.

"Not quite. I still have both my eyes, don't I?" she said, indicating one of her fluttering eyelids. "Speaking of which, my real eyes are green. Did you know that?"

"No," he replied, looking into her decidedly greyish eyes.

"They are. And my hair color..." she lifted a coil of chestnut hair from her shoulder and studied it. "...is closer to *your* color. Coal black."

"Coal black," he repeated tonelessly. Was he supposed to be getting something from this?

She pitched towards him, staring at him in a discomforting way. "Now that you know my hair is black, and my eyes are green. . . look at me again. Tell me who sits before you."

He felt compelled to return her stare. Her features were open, filled with something nearing exuberance. He studied her heart-shaped lips, the chin that was just a tiny bit too sharp. "Black..." he murmured, trying to imagine her hair as anything but brown.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "You're on the right track."

"Black?" he said again, this time as a question. And with that single word, all the missing pieces fell into his lap, nearly knocking him backwards. He gaped at her, amazed that he hadn't seen the truth that was before him all along. It seemed so *obvious* now.

"Helena Black?" he asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

She said nothing. Confirmation was useless at this point; surely she could see realization in the sudden tension of his body. He had never seen her look at him with such gratitude...such warmth. As if in saying her true name, he had broken a deadly fall she had taken. Clearly reveling in his loss of words, she tipped forward even more, until her face was less than a foot from his.

"Thank you," she said, her breath catching. Then, beyond all reason, she brushed her lips against his own.

It was an awkward kiss, overflowing with strange, adolescent shyness. They were both bent forward with their hands stowed in their laps, like two proper ladies at a tea party. It was a kiss given in a moment of uncontainable gratitude--not one born of any emotion resembling lust or love.

But without even realizing he was going to, he brought his fingertips up to the back of her head. He burrowed them through the thickness of her hair and touched her neck directly. At that, a little trill sounded from her throat, and she parted her mouth, intensifying their contact. Encouraged, he ran his tongue along the cleft just under her top lip, feeling her own tongue brush against his--hesitantly at first, then eagerly, as if a hunger was building within her.

Warmth enveloped him like a glove; his skin felt suddenly tight and raw. In a burst of desire, he twined both hands through her hair, pulling her towards him rather roughly. She landed half in his lap and brought her own hand to the side of his face, where it trailed up and down his jaw-line, her mouth still tugging at his bottom lip. Her other hand snaked into the opening of his robes and stroked his bare chest; she paused at his left nipple and thumbed it lightly, eliciting an inner groan from his body.

-Helena? *Helena Black*?...- His mind raced with memories of her--the quiet Ravenclaw, an orphan. The girl who had claimed her parents had been murdered by Voldemort.

"Helena. . ." he murmured against her lips, and momentarily tightened his embrace.

-Helena? Hermione?... But now she's...Hermione?- In a lustful glaze, his mind was trying to re-assert some semblance of order. A flood of memories overtook him, Helena and Hermione overlapping in his head disturbingly, dizziness rising in him out of fear now, rather than passion. He thrust her rudely from his lap, breaking contact entirely.

Away from him now, she looked at him dazedly, her mouth still achingly moist. He forced himself to look elsewhere.

"Miss....Granger" he began, finding himself unable to call her anything else. "This is not a muggle cinema; you are not an ingenue who can breeze into this curmudgeon's life and soften him up."

"But. . ." she paused, and he waited for her to counter with something like 'you started it first'. ". . .Severus," she said, her voice husky. "I have no interest in *softening* you up." With that, she glanced pointedly at his lap, where evidence of his physical arousal was still blazingly visible.

He looked at the ceiling, a soft clicking sound thick in his throat. "Please, just leave me. I think I will try to sleep now."

She was clearly unhappy, but beneath her frown a hint of concern for him showed--the last thing he wanted from her. "Very well," she said, rising up from her chair. "I will see you in class tomorrow, *Professor*."

She left, and in doing so he was forced to bite back all the questions he had for her, all his inquiries as to how she had come here, and why--of all people--she had chosen to confide in him.

**********************

Okay, so we aren't quite in need of a rating upgrade yet. For those of you who have been asking about the pairings in this story, all I can say is I write with no "pairing" goal in mind--I like the characters to surprise even me in that particular area. But...there *will* be steamy action for our main girl....either Snapeish or Siriusly or possibly both. Stay tuned...