1In the weeks following Lucius Malfoy's death, Hermione noticed a subtle change in Severus Snape. There was nothing too obvious; he remained just as prickly, and the sarcasm still poured effortlessly from him at the least provocation. The remarks seemed slightly off center, however, as though they were prompted by reflex rather than real venom. He taught his classes as usual, giving Hermione plenty of the lower class homework to grade, but the usual backlash of criticism was missing when she failed to mark as strictly as he would have done. And during the long evenings while they pored over the reassembled translation text and the salvaged fragments of their original parchment, he seemed slightly distracted, preoccupied by thoughts he did not share with her. The more she observed, the more Hermione saw glimpses of a quiet core of pain within him, gingerly held close like an injured limb. It was an injury that would heal, eventually, but would always twinge at odd moments and ache when the weather was vile.
"Perhaps the man was exiled to South America," Hermione suggested, hoping to drag her partner's attention back to the papers lying strewn across the work table. "Maybe he was using his potions abilities to earn a living."
"Hmm," was the response she finally received, several moments later than she would have expected. "We'll probably never know. The only legacy our unknown friend here has left is this mass of scribbles." He flipped through the pages, looking for the place he'd lost when his attention wandered.
Before he found it, however, he was interrupted by a knock at the door to his private office. It was a moment before Hermione even realized where the sound was coming from; the knock was magically amplified from the main corridor's entry to Severus' office. Very few students ever braved the Potion Master's wrath in the late evening. Especially considering it was a Saturday night, and well past curfew.
One black eyebrow went up, met by Hermione's slight shrug, but Severus tossed his quill down and reached for his frock coat, hung from a nearby cauldron hook. He quickly pulled it on over his usual working clothes; a black vest over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Buttoned up with the ease of long practice, the Potion Master's persona was fully in place as he strode down the hall towards his office.
He held the camouflaged door open in reflexive courtesy as Hermione wafted through after him, then closed it. Only then did he seem to notice that she'd followed. When he raised one hand in a cautious gesture, Hermione complied and vanished from sight. Severus tugged at the wrists of his jacket once more, settling the rucked-up shirt sleeve within, before answering the knock as it was repeated.
Whatever scathing comment intended for obstreperous students died on his lips the moment he recognized the person on the other side of the door. "Draco?"
"Uncle Severus," Draco replied, entering the office with a confident step. "How have you been?" For a young man whose father had just died a rather surprising and bloody death, Draco seemed very composed and at ease.
Momentarily flummoxed by both the younger man's sudden appearance and manner, Severus shut the door behind his guest rather than respond. Silently remaining in her corner of the room, Hermione was equally surprised and not a little suspicious. Enough people with foul intentions had come onto the castle grounds in the past few years that she no longer trusted the security wards around the school to notify the Headmaster when unannounced or unplanned visitors were present. Even if Dumbledore had been notified, things could turn ugly in a very short span of time. Should Draco turn out to be hostile towards his former Head of House, Hermione could streak through the castle within moments to summon help. And she didn't care if she gave Minerva McGonagall apoplexy or not.
"I am as I have always been, Draco," Severus answered. "What brings you here?"
"Business in Hogsmeade. It went a bit longer than expected, but I could hardly come all this way without dropping in to see my godfather. Father did raise me with some manners, after all."
"Yes, of course." The comment on manners registered a moment later, and Severus collected his, for once, wandering wits. "Why don't we move this to my quarters," he suggested, indicating the archway on the far side of his office.
Draco greeted this with a thin smile and a slight bow, a courtly gesture Hermione had seen younger Pureblood wizards use towards older wizards before. Severus returned the gesture with a slight nod and led the way towards his rooms, utilizing the common route through a secondary corridor rather than the secret passageway that led through his workroom. Draco followed him with a swirl of his traveling cloak, and Hermione trailed after them both, determined not to leave Severus alone with Draco.
The boy she knew from school had grown into a man who bore an eerie resemblance to his own father; his blond hair had grown out and swept down to the collar of his dark robes, which were a midnight blue so dark they could be taken for black. Beneath he wore a vest embroidered with silver dragons that formed long points over blue pin-striped trousers; he was the embodiment of a young lord.
His demeanor, however, did not quite match his appearance or come close to the effortless grace of Lucius Malfoy. Once inside Severus' rather neglected outer room, he moved about restlessly rather than sit in the chair his host had offered.
"You're here on business?" Severus asked as he poured a measure of firewhiskey from the bottles on his sideboard.
"Hogsmeade," Draco replied carelessly as he took the crystal tumbler from his godfather. "With Father gone, there are piles of work that needs done – details that need attention." He barely glanced at his drink before tossing it back with practiced ease; a bit too practiced, from what Hermione could see. She kept her distance from the live ones in the room, not wanting her chilly aura to announce her presence, but even from across the room she could see Draco's eyes were bloodshot and underlined by heavy circles. A sloppy glamour had been applied several hours ago, but was quickly losing its effectiveness.
"You've heard about Father's death, of course," he commented casually as he drifted around the sitting room, peering at the bookshelves and looking away from his reflection in the glass-fronted cupboard. When he held out his tumbler, Severus filled it again.
"Yes. I was at the funeral," Severus answered, taking a seat in his favorite chair. "I spoke to you, remember?"
Draco obviously did not remember; he shrugged one shoulder as he draped himself into the opposite chair. The level of whiskey in his glass went down at an alarming rate as he chatted about the shambles of his estate and the endless details of running the Malfoy fortune. According to his near-monologue, Draco had had to grapple with multiple levels of murky legalities – Lucius had been a fugitive from the Ministry but had never formally been convicted of any crime - - but his death had conveniently removed those bureaucratic tangles. Added to the comments regarding their mutual acquaintances and other small talk, his conversation was verging on the banal.
A first year Hufflepuff might have been fooled by the performance, but Snape had been overseeing Slytherins for decades; Hermione could tell he was rapidly loosing patience with his guest. Even she was beginning to tire of the travesty that Draco Malfoy had become. The normal veneer of sneering superiority had been stripped from him like a coat of bad wax and all that remained was a young man desperately clinging to the shreds of his life and quite possibly his sanity.
"Draco," Severus interrupted quietly. "Are you here to ask me to sponsor you in the service of the Dark Lord?"
The inane chatter ceased. Draco's mouth thinned into a white line and he nodded.
The next question was arctic in its coldness. "Why?"
"Why?" Draco repeated in disbelief. "Because I want to join, of course! For years, Father has kept me from taking the mark, always using me as his go-between for his dealings. Always keeping me out of the true service to Lord – Lord- our Dark Lord." Even with two generous measures of whiskey in him, Draco could not quite bring himself to say 'Voldemort.'
His fair skin flushed with the drink and his own outrage, the younger man's blue eyes flared, but he still looked miserable. "Father always made me stay out of things. Kept me out of things. Said I was supposed to maintain believable…something."
"The term is 'plausible deniability, but you misunderstand my question. Why do you want to join the Death Eaters – support the Dark Lord, and more than likely die in an ignoble fashion similar to your father?"
"My father died for what he believed in!" Draco objected.
"Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors die for what they believe in," Severus told him in a cutting voice. "Your father died because he pulled a wand on some Aurors in the middle of a cheap warehouse."
Draco flinched at this, but Severus did not relent. "The question becomes this, then. What do you believe in, Draco? Are you willing to die in the service of a wizard who used your father like an errand boy? Throw your life away in some stupid, futile manner while carrying out the whims of a wizard who's not quite sane? You saw what was left of Theodore Nott when the Aurors caught him tormenting the Thomas family. Don't think that you're any smarter than he was, because Nott was a clever little bastard. Follow the Dark Lord and you will likely end up the same as he."
Draco made a noise of protest, but Severus overrode him, his normally velvet voice brutal.
"Are you, a pure blood of the highest order, willing to kneel in the mud to a half-blood wizard and call him Master? To take orders without question, do whatever you're told, and be used like a Knockturn Alley whore without getting paid for it? And I do mean that literally, Draco; you're an attractive young man and you'll be forced to accept the attentions of older, higher-ranked Death Eaters. Dolohov in particular is known for working his way through the new recruits, and he loves the sound of a good scream. Are you sure this is what you want?"
With each hammering question, Draco had slid down further in his chair. When the onslaught of questions ceased, the younger man muttered something.
"What's that?"
"I don't know!" he burst out.
Giving his godson a long look, Severus carefully placed his drink on the worn flagstone floor before rising and retrieving the bottle of whiskey from the sideboard. With his free hand he dragged his vacated chair closer to its mate until he was directly opposite Draco. Still without speaking, he pulled the empty cocktail glass from Draco's loose grasp, refilled it, and pressed it back into his hands.
Reclaiming his own drink, Severus took it into his loose fingers as he settled into his chair once more and stared down at the crystal facets as though they might hold some answers. His next comments were addressed towards the whiskey rather than the young man before him, his deep voice rising from behind the curtain of dark hair across his face.
"I'll tell you what I do know, Draco. Harry Potter -- however blundering, hard-headed, and stupid he may be -- has the power to defeat the Dark Lord. He's proven it time and again; there's even a bloody prophesy about it. All the players in this sordid little fiasco know it, especially the Dark Lord. Potter believes in this war. So, in fact, does the Headmaster. And they believe they're going to win."
"What do you believe?" Draco asked in a hollow voice.
"I've been here before, Draco. I was at the Dark Lord's side, until the night he went to Godric's Hollow and set himself against the Potters. And I can see it all coming full circle, with the outcome as sure as the sun rises and sets."
"What are you saying, then? That I should turn my back on everything my father held sacred?"
"What I'm saying," Severus began carefully, "is that we Slytherins have honor, but we are also realists. I do not believe that Voldemort will succeed in his bid to take over the wizarding world. Should he actually succeed and overwhelm Dumbledore's Order and the Ministry, it will only be a matter of time before the other wizarding enclaves around the world combine forces as a matter of their own self interest and move against him.
"You are Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy. Be realistic. Throwing you life away on some grand, futile gesture is not a worthy end for a Slytherin."
Although a heavy frown still marred his handsome features, Draco bowed his head in acquiescence. He drained his whiskey once more, then held it out for a refill. Severus obligingly filled. They were silent for some time, until Severus finished his drink. He grimaced and put one hand over his right side, as if he felt a twinge, but did not go in search of his potion.
"You have the money, the birth, and the connections to become a major player in the aftermath of these wars," Severus pointed out in a quiet voice. "It would be prudent to cultivate some of your mother's friends; her social circle includes many Ministry wives. You can escort her to her social functions and drop a word here and there about your father's sad end to a sad life. It won't take long for them to start considering you as something other than your father's son. Your father played that same game for decades; you should be able to pull if off convincingly."
"Lord Volde – the Dark Lord, he won't be pleased. Scrimgeour as much as told me I was expected to join."
"You would be, but I will mention to the Dark Lord that I've a plan to use you in the public eye. We'll groom you to inveigle your way amongst the Ministry supporters, where you'll learn all their secrets from gossipy wives." Severus' lip curled in self-deprecating humor. "Make a habit of inviting your impoverished godfather for dinner now and then; I'll pick up the useless gossip from you and you can hear all the latest stories of ineptitude amongst the Dark Lord's followers."
Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I could do that. Mother hasn't really taken Father's death well. She could use getting out more."
"Excellent notion. You might also consider courting a few young ladies; the thought of trying to get you married might bring her out of her depression."
Draco made a face, but for the first time the corner of his mouth twitched in humor. "She'll be all over the social registry with a fine-toothed comb. Merlin help me if she starts in with Pansy Parkinson again."
Severus shuddered delicately. "If that happens, it might be wise to expand your selection. There are a number of young ladies who've come through Hogwarts in the last few years who would be excellent choices. Their pedigrees are not up to Pansy's, to be sure, but that would be in keeping with your new image."
A shoulder shifted. "I suppose I could date a few half-bloods. I might even bring myself to date a Mudbl… a Muggleborn witch. That would show the old cats."
"It couldn't hurt," Severus allowed. "But only if she were a truly exceptional witch, of course."
A snort of laughter greeted this. "Too bad Hermione Granger isn't around any more. She was certainly a cut above." A thoughtful frown creased his brow, making the wave of blonde hair shift; he tossed is aside impatiently. "Wait, I forgot. Granger's still here, isn't she? Her ghost, at least?"
"I'm sure she's around here somewhere," Severus answered, his ebony eyes sliding over towards the corner Hermione often occupied during their evening conversations. "But you'd be hard pressed to find a witch, pureblood or Muggle-born, that was her equal."
He raised his glass in a silent toast, not sure if she were invisibly eavesdropping as he suspected she might be. It was directed towards the wrong corner, but Hermione was still touched by the compliment. She was even more touched when Draco copied the movement, although his wry expression lacked his godfather's seriousness. "Crabbe and Goyle would go starkers if they heard you say that," he observed.
"Flobberworms have better sense than those two imbeciles. Which brings me to another thought. You still maintain some influence over those two idiots, and I think your leadership among Slytherin House during your school years may give you some influence among your peers. If you wish to save some of your more foolish friends, you might gradually enlighten them to the futility of following the Dark Lord.
"But above all else, Draco, do be careful. Very careful. If you cannot sway them with a few well-placed words, neither agree nor disagree with them. Give them money if you must; but allow no one to bring the Dark Lord's business to Malfoy Manor. You must be absolutely spotless when the purges come and believe me, the Ministry will be merciless when they feel free at last to punish the Dark Lord's followers."
"What about you?" Surprisingly sober, Draco sat up and stared at his godfather. "What are you going to do?"
"Me?" Severus peered into his empty glass, swirling the viscous dribble in the bottom. "I set myself on this road when I was younger than you are now, Draco. That is a decision I will stand by, no matter what the cost. And it will cost, in the end. I've little hope of surviving the Dark Lord's downfall."
Draco had no response to that; indeed, he looked as if he'd been hit by a bludger he wasn't expecting. It was a rather more humble man who made his excuses a few minutes later, apologizing for imposing so late in the evening. He took his leave with a grateful handshake, telling Severus that he was invited for dinner the following week.
After he'd gone, Severus turned to the empty room and called out softly. "Miss Granger. Hermione? Are you here?"
From the opposite side of the room, Hermione materialized and gave a half-hearted wave. "Right here."
He gave her a long look. "You heard everything, then?"
"Yes."
His level gaze was unusually penetrating, and without thinking she obeyed a compulsion to draw closer to him.
"I would ask something of you," he stated, and with a mental shake Hermione realized Severus had attempted to use his Legilimency skills on her. That magic was useless, but the fact that he'd even attempted was a virtual signboard to his anxiety.
"You don't want Dumbledore to know about Draco," she guessed.
Severus appeared relieved. "No. The last thing I would wish for my godson is that he be set on the same disastrous course I have taken. The Headmaster… I know he would seek to bring Draco in under his…sheltering wing." Hermione was sure Severus had been thinking of 'stifling' rather than 'sheltering.'
"I won't say anything," Hermione assured him. If nothing else, being a ghost had taught her to watch and observe rather than directly attempting to influence anyone. She had learned, after much experience, that most people were difficult to dissuade from dangerous behavior when they believed in what they were doing. She had her own doubts about Draco's trustworthiness, and feared that Severus may have endangered himself by being so candid with the younger man, but it was his choice to make just as it was his choice not to inform the Headmaster of Draco's lack of loyalty to his father's cause. "Besides, I don't think Draco would deal well with the Professor's management style."
This comment elicited a snort from the Potions Master. "No, the Headmaster would drive Draco to drink even more than he does now."
A flick of his wand sent the glasses back to the sideboard along with the decanter of whiskey. The house elves would deal with them later. As he did so, Hermione made herself useful by pushing his chair back to its usual place.
"Do you think Draco will be able to stay clear of Voldemort's attention?" she asked.
"I believe so. If anything can come of Lucius' death – I doubt he would approve of his son's decision, but that's beside the point – I would hope that Draco will learn to think for himself before it's too late. That's a lesson that was very hard for me to grasp… but I for one am very relieved to know that he will not be taking the mask of a Death Eater."
"I'm glad," Hermione said vehemently. "I won't lie, I thought he was a pretentious wart in school – but I'm very glad he's not going to be a Death Eater."
"Your friends will be safer," Severus said with a faint sneer.
"I'm not worried about my friends, I'm glad for Draco's sake," she emphasized. "He asked me about death, once. I don't think he needs to learn any more about it first-hand. And we both know that's exactly what would happen if he tried to go up against Harry, or Ron for that matter."
"Of course," Severus replied, mollified as he remembered to whom, exactly, he was speaking. "There's enough death in this world. And though I'm loath to admit it, you're right. He wouldn't survive a duel with any member of the Order."
&&&&&
"We're still missing something," Severus growled as he ran his fingers through his hair, uncharacteristically disordering it. A chuff of derisive scorn was the only answer, but it was a sign of his own exasperation that he did not take offense at the sound.
Days and even weeks had passed with little more progress on the Phoenix Tears potion than the night they'd made their breakthrough with the golden cauldron. No matter what substitutions or ratio changes they made to the components, the resulting blend was no better than a second-rate healing potion available at any corner apothecary in Diagon Alley. With each unproductive evening, Hermione felt their search was becoming more and more a pipe dream; a way to keep themselves occupied while wasting a great deal of money on ingredients that could have been better used elsewhere.
Seated on one of the high stools behind his work table, Severus no longer even bothered with his formal robes or the heavy frock coat he normally wore. Moments after retreating to his private lab each night, he would shed his outer layers down to his white shirt and black vest. Now and then he would even remove his boots, padding across the flagstones in his stocking feet.
Hermione also showed signs of their frustration; her long curls were escaping their conjured clip and floated in gray tendrils around her face like slender anemones drifting with the tide of her movements. Not that she'd moved much lately – she currently floated on a level with Severus' workbench as she had for the last several hours. Flat on her back, her feet crossed neatly at the ankles and arms folded across her waist, she listened with half an ear as Severus read out sections of the translation.
In between discussions – she did not think they quite qualified as arguments – Hermione mulled over the concept that she just might have formed an attachment to Severus Snape. An unnatural attachment, some would call it, considering she was a ghost and he was alive. However, there was no denying that the brilliant, bad-tempered, talented man seated on the other side of the table was the closest thing to a soul mate she could imagine. And despite the questionable disposition of her own soul, she knew she would give it up gladly to spend the rest of her existence exactly as they did now.
She was brought back from her mental wanderings as Severus declaimed another line of Latin. In his deep, rolling baritone voice it sounded impressive until Hermione mentally translated it.
"I really don't think I need to know the details of his dyspepsia, Professor. Honestly, this seems like he wrote down every stray thought he had. It's like sifting through an overfull pensive."
"It was your idea to start over at the beginning," he reminded her.
"Yes, but I doubt that this section anything to do with the potion. He specifically said just a bit ago he had eaten jugged hare for dinner. That would give anyone a belly-ache."
"Agreed." With a fresh daub of ink, Snape crossed that particular phrase off his copied parchment.
They were unable to agree on the meaning of several lines regarding the zodiac, falling stars, or mythical beasts, and moved on to a comment on the geometry of beehives.
"Would honey have any effect on the potion?" Hermione asked.
"It might taste better," Severus admitted. "Honey has some antibacterial properties, but in a solution allegedly as powerful and instantaneous as the Phoenix Tears potion, it shouldn't make any difference."
"Hmm. Read that line on falling stars again. Maybe it's a clue about a specific breed of bees."
"Fiery serpent falling from the heart of heaven," he read aloud.
"Fire," she mused. "Fiery heart. Heat." She sat up abruptly, her robes drifting around her in uneasy eddies. "Hang on. You said this cauldron was goblin-made, right? Just how many goblins do you think were running around South America five hundred years ago?"
"That would be none, Miss Granger," Severus answered, one hand picked at the nib of his pen, a bad habit Hermione often despaired of as it left his fingertips black and spattered ink on the parchment.
"Exactly. So our unknown dabbler here would have been using ordinary, Muggle-crafted gold. It's a sure bet it was pure gold at that, so a lot softer than ours. So how hot can gold get? Before it melts, that is?"
"Just under two thousand Fahrenheit, as I recall, though I'd imagine it loses any structural integrity long before then."
"And even a wood fire can get close to that, so he couldn't possibly have put it over a fire like we have." Severus nodded, agreeing with her reasoning so far though he had no idea where her reasoning was leading. "So - if our friend didn't have a goblin-made cauldron, how did he heat up his potion?"
Snape leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply through his nose as he thought. "He would have heated something else and dropped it into the cauldron. It's a common method for heating a liquid in a vessel not meant to be put over flames."
"Something like a meteorite, maybe?"
Severus blinked at her, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "A what?"
"A meteorite, Professor. A falling star, trailing fire through the skies."
As was their habit when working together, Severus immediately began to worry the problem from the opposite direction. "Why not anything iron?"
"If the heat method and type of iron didn't matter, this mess would have worked already. We've been stirring it with every kind of ladle." Her brow furrowed in thought, Hermione floated, legs crossed, in a cloud of ghostly robes. "I do remember reading somewhere that a meteor falling through the atmosphere is subjected to so much heat that it forms a crystalline structure inside."
"The use of crystals is a minor but important part of alchemy," Severus added. He sat up abruptly. "Wait a minute. There's a section of the manuscript that goes on and on about finding sweet gum wood to burn."
"Yes – but I thought you decided it didn't matter what kind of heat source we used."
"I did, but we presupposed the idea that the pot would be heated up. If we put the meteor in the flames, it would coat the meteor with trace elements from the wood."
"Balsam from sweet gum was used by the Aztecs as a medicine," Hermione added, her gray eyes glowing with the satisfaction of a puzzle coming together at last. Across the desk, Severus' black eyes snapped with the same excitement.
"Exactly. So, we require a supply of sweet gum wood and a meteorite. How big, do you think?"
Hermione shrugged. "Bigger than your fist, small enough to fit in the pot," she answered practically, although she was nearly buzzing with excitement. "I'll fetch your raven – you make out the order."
"It's late, Hermione," he reminded her, even as he searched for fresh parchment. "I'll write out the orders and send it in the morning."
She made a noise in the back of her throat in frustration, but agreed. "All right. And you should go to bed directly afterwards. I'll clear this mess up."
"Very well. Thank you," he added absently as the quill scratched across the parchment. "I hardly wish to give you another reason to fuss at me."
"Good. You're too old to tuck into bed, but I'm sure the Headmaster would do it for me if I asked nicely."
Severus attempted to ignore her, although he shuddered slightly.
"Done," he announced a few minutes later. "I'll send these in the morning, and tomorrow night we can finish creating the base for the third years' classes. It will likely be a few days before these are delivered, and I want to use that time to its best advantage."
All right," Hermione agreed, carefully replacing the few books back on their shelves and returning those items they'd used that evening to their proper places. "Sleep well, Professor. Pleasant dreams." Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize what she'd said. Pure shock and fear held her immobilized until she heard Severus make a disparaging tsk.
"Really, Nanny Granger. That is pushing things a bit far. Next you'll be bringing me a glass of warm milk."
Relief flooded her as Severus continued to cap his inkwell and seal the letters, completely oblivious to her anxiety. He obviously did not attach any significance to her comments. If he remembered any of his dreams, he did not associate her with those fragmentary images.
Not trusting her own mouth, Hermione kept silent while the man pottered about his lab, picking up his belongings and taking his leave with an absent-minded 'good evening.' Once he'd left, she slumped over in relief and shook her head. 'What kind of an idiot are you?' she muttered to herself. 'Do you want to get caught?'
Finished with the clearing up, Hermione left the darkened lab and her unanswered questions behind. The cool, serene alcove at the top of the staircases was dark and welcoming, but provided no more answers for her than the dungeon had. Peering out over the grounds of the castle, Hermione felt trapped for the first time since she'd awoken to her afterlife of a Hogwarts ghost. Her gaes, however, were not the boundaries of the locale she haunted, but the man who was oblivious to both her interference with his nightmares and the fact that her regard for him was not as one-dimensional as he assumed.
&&&&&
As it happened, Severus was far too optimistic in his estimations. Several weeks passed before the alchemist's supply could track down a meteorite; he paid the exorbitant price without a quibble. On the other hand, the order sent by international owl to Venezuela went unanswered. A quantity of balsam was bought from the local apothecary house, but at the last minute a delivery elf wearing a battered vaquero hat appeared with a shipment of sweet gum wood from the cloud forests of South America.
Hermione carefully prepared the ingredients one more time while Severus laid a fire by hand and lit it with a blast from his wand. The chunk of expensive, irregular iron went in the center of the fire as all the other bits went into the gold cauldron, installed on a cold, unlit burner stand. They waited together, not speaking, until the thinner edges of the meteorite began to glow with heat and the wood fire collapsed under the weight of the metal.
Hermione's nerves were humming by the time Severus lifted the hot meteorite from the coals with a pair of gold tongs and carried it to the cauldron. The Potions Master appeared serene, but the fine lines around his eyes bespoke his own tension. Hermione held her non-existent breath as the meteorite plunked into the soupy potion.
It sizzled madly as it sank into the depths, sending up a cloud of bubbles that further obscured the opaque solution. A rapid boil ensued almost immediately, and then a golden light began as a glimmer at the bottom of the cauldron.
The glimmer abruptly exploded into a blinding burst of colors, trailing fireflies and Catherine wheels through the room. This lasted for several long moments, and then almost as quickly as they began, the fireworks subsided, leaving the golden pot glowing from within. When Severus peered cautiously into the cauldron, nearly bumping heads with Hermione, the potion had become a clear iridescent swirl of colors with the meteorite lying in the bottom.
With the same golden tongs, he fished the meteorite out and laid it on one of the empty trays used earlier to hold ingredients. The rainbow liquid separated from the iron nugget and ran into the corner of the tray, leaving the meteorite a dry, shapeless blob, while the potion itself beaded like mercury and rolled merrily around the inner rim, practically inviting someone to poke it and see what happened.
Only the discipline of years allowed Severus to keep his hands to himself; instead, he reached for the much abused Nauga hyde synthesizer and slashed it once more. The Phoenix Tears, when he ladled on a small dollop, oozed immediately down the length of the cut until the wound was entirely coated. Nothing happened for a moment.
Just as Hermione opened her mouth to comment, the edges of the wound reached for each other like long parted lovers and knitted together into a seamless whole. The hyde defied any attempt to discover where the slash had been. In fact, the previous scars, ones that had resisted both potions and mending spells, gradually faded until the hyde was as soft and flawless as the finest glove or boot leather.
With reverent fingers, Severus stroked the solid hyde, but even his sensitive fingers were unable to find the scars of their previous experiments. He looked up to see Hermione tilting the tray from one side to the other, watching the iridescent droplets skate across the surface. A smile of absolute wonder lifted the corners of her gray lips.
While she was preoccupied, he reached for the ladle once more and stirred it through the thick liquid. And then, ignoring the training and every good habit that had been drilled into his head since he first lit a cauldron, he reached for the mug he'd been drinking tea from earlier.
"Don't you dare," Hermione ordered sharply. "We need to test it…make sure it's safe."
"It's right," he told her softly. "You know it. I know it. This is the moment a Potion Master lives for, Hermione. Even if you no longer draw a living breath, you're as competent as any Master I've ever worked with. And you know this is right."
Torn between the pleasure of his compliment and the fear of his testing an untried potion, Hermione paused. "All right, you can test it. Just wait a moment."
In a flash she swept over the table to the notebook where they'd recorded all their experimentations. She flipped to a fresh page, uncapped the ink, and carefully logged the results of their latest experiment. The mended nauga hyde was noted before she turned a critical eye on the Potions Master.
"Right then. You're about 65 kilos, I think?" That went down in the book, along with his current age and the fact that he suffered from advanced Braxdyce Syndrome. "Very well. Measure out a gill – in a clean beaker, if you please," she chided as he reached for the tea mug again.
That earned her another snort, but he obeyed, pouring a precise half-cup into the glass container. The fluid sparkled like a liquid rainbow in the glass as he sat down at the table opposite Hermione. With a slight salute towards her, he drained the glass. She noted the time and waited.
"Well?" she asked after the clock ticked over one minute.
"It's an odd sensation," he replied, his eyes focused on the far wall. "I feel hot. Like a volcano is about to erupt."
"You need to tell me these things," Hermione reminded him, her quill scratching in the quiet dungeon as she wrote. "Any light-headedness?"
"No. Just a pressure, here," and he put his hand over his right side where he'd often felt twinges after drinking or otherwise taxing his liver and digestive system.
Duly noting the symptom, Hermione glanced at the clock again. It made a faint tick as it clicked over again.
"Anything else?" She glanced up in time to see Severus' head lurch forward suddenly as he slumped over.
It was fortunate the chair he sat in was one of the more uncomfortable wooden varieties useful for interrogating students; the bare, hard arm checked his body as he lolled to one side, a faint sheen of sweat popping up on his sallow skin.
In a flash Hermione flew over the desk and crouched at his side. "Professor? Severus! Are you all right?" His head lurched back as his hands groped for the supporting arm of the chair, and deep gasp for breath was his only answer. His eyes, when he opened them, blinked rapidly before locking with hers.
She was caught in his intense gaze, but was aware that his face was flushed, the skin over his cheeks and forehead beading with an unhealthy sweat that even her nostrils registered as pungent and unpleasant. His scalp became damp with the same oily perspiration while his eyes, still locked with hers, began to tear up with thick droplets that oozed over his eyelashes at the corners, gumming them yellow. Suddenly he lurched forward again, doubled over with a deep rattling cough of excessive phlegm that made him hack and gag as he cleared it out into a hastily fumbled handkerchief.
The coughing fit subsided, allowing Severus to clear the gunk from his eyes with a clean corner of the linen square balled up in his fist.
"Do I need to Floo for Madame Pomphrey?" Hermione asked nervously. Severus shook his head and remained huddled over in his chair. He coughed a few more times, but his breathing remained even. Other than looking uncomfortable and very unappetizing, he seemed to be in no jeopardy.
After another minute, Severus took a deep breath and let it out with a resigned groan. "I need a bath," he announced in a disgusted voice. A bit unsteady, he rose to his feet, holding his arms away from his body in an attempt to keep the sweat-stained shirt away from his body. The tailored linen had been snowy white only moments ago, but now hung in wet, yellow and salt-crusted drapes from his shoulders.
"I'm not leaving you alone," Hermione warned.
"Adding voyeurism to your hobbies?" was his caustic response.
Hermione huffed at him, even though she knew he was being deliberately annoying to stop her hovering over him. "I'll wait outside your bathroom," she warned.
He gave no sign he had heard her as he left a trail of shoes, socks, and shirt between the doorway of his private rooms and the door of his bath. Hermione caught a glimpse of his pale back as he shut the door, and she was left to pace back and forth outside while she listened to him grumble to himself over the sound of running water.
He was remarkably quick about it; although she heard rather more than she expected when he apparently had the sudden urge to use all the bathroom facilities, not just the tub. The gurgling toilet flush was soon followed by the tub draining, and a moment later the door opened with a faint puff of steam. Hermione was confronted by a barely concealed Severus Snape, who was hastily wrapping a dressing gown around himself.
"Hermione!" he barked. "The blasted mirror is fogged over. What do you see?"
"A hole in your bathrobe," she replied evenly, pointing to the moth-sampled shoulder of the garment, where a pale circle of skin shone through the small opening. The comment earned her a glare, but she ignored his temper as she inspected his face. Pure astonishment kept any further smart remarks from forming.
His skin, usually sallow at best and occasionally yellow as old ivory when his liver was misbehaving, was as fine grained and pale as fresh parchment. The heat from his bath had brought a faint tinge of pink over his high cheekbones. His eyes, outside the dark iris, were missing their usual haze of bloodshot capillaries. In wonder Hermione inspected his hair, still damp, but the individual hairs stood out from his scalp as though waiting for a breeze to toss them about. She giggled, mostly in relief, at the idea of Severus Snape's hair wafting in the breeze like a Renaissance knight's.
His dark eyebrows frowned at her, but the fine skin around his eyes were missing their usual dry crinkle; he looked as though he were no more than his mid-thirties rather than over fifty.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel… fine," he answered, and her smile brought the same scowl to his face. "What do you expect me to say? That I feel better than I have in years?"
"Do you?"
"Yes," he admitted truculently, pulling his robe straight. "My back doesn't hurt. My side doesn't hurt." One hand went to his right side, where his liver and gall bladder had been causing him almost constant pain. "Nothing hurts, actually. And I'm hungry," he added.
"You? Hungry? What is this world coming to?" Hermione teased. Severus Snape lived on coffee and little else; he had never once expressed a desire for food in her hearing, and seldom had an appetite when she insisted he eat.
"Yes, hungry. I'd kill for a roast beef sandwich. With horseradish." He appeared confused, as though he didn't quite believe the words that had come out of his mouth.
"All right. You Floo the kitchens for dinner and I'll fetch the notebook," Hermione proposed.
He nodded and reached for the Floo powder as she faded through the walls, taking a shortcut to the laboratory. The food arrived by house elf while Hermione jotted down the dramatic results of the first dose of Phoenix Tears Potion brewed in a thousand years. Severus tucked in to the sandwiches immediately, and had wolfed down the first before the first page of notes was completed.
"It seems to me that the potion was purging your body of all toxins," Hermione posited, one of his quills poised over the parchment. The notebook was shaggy with notes and copied references stuck in every which way, but was charmed to add new pages at the back whenever needed. Hermione could see they'd be filling up many more pages before they were done.
Severus nodded as he chewed. "Exactly. Pores, respiratory system, tear ducts, the lot."
"Digestive system?" she asked tactfully, and he agreed without embarrassment.
"That, too. Everything."
Hermione checked the clock. "It's been an hour, now. Describe your physical state."
"I feel full," he announced, tossing down his napkin over the empty plate. A few scattered crumbs were all the evidence that remained of two thick sandwiches and a plum tart. Ron Weasley was the only person she'd ever seen eat faster than the man in front of her.
"What else? Any headache or dizziness?"
Waving a hand in denial, Severus poured a full glass of water and downed half of it. "Nothing like that," he asserted. Appearing almost bonelessly relaxed, he leaned back in his chair and turned his attention to his body's condition. "My joints are all pain-free. Muscles feel relaxed." A huge yawn hit him. "I'm sleepy," he mentioned.
Hermione stared at him over the notebook. "No."
He nodded, and another yawn cracked his jaw. "I am. Dead tired, suddenly."
"Severus Snape, I've never seen you sleepy in the entire time I've known you."
"I've always taken those damned stimulants for the Braxdyce. They've been purged from my system."
"Are you all right without them?"
He tried to speak the affirmative, but another yawn robbed him. "I should be. If not, I can take them in a few hours. If the Phoenix Tears has worked as we hoped, it should have cured the Braxdyce."
"Professor, you can't assume that it has. And I'm still not sure it was wise to test it on you before we'd tried a rat or something. You could still have a reaction."
Severus gave her the same slightly exasperated look that he used when accusing her of 'Nanny' behavior. "Yes, and the castle could collapse and kill us all in our sleep. If either of those happen, you can say 'I told you so' and then show me how to thrash Peeves; I've wanted to do that since I was a First Year."
"That's not funny!"
He had the grace to look apologetic. "I beg your pardon. I know how you dislike jokes regarding death. I can only plead fatigue, and ask that you overlook my lack of tact. Goodnight, Miss Granger."
"Goodnight, Professor," she replied as he rose from his chair and moved towards his bed chamber. Near the doorway, he stumbled slightly, but called out that he was fine and she was not to fuss.
He left behind a silence that settled like deep-fallen snow in the room, broken only by a small 'pop' as a house elf appeared to deal with the dishes. The creature let out a squeak upon seeing Hermione sitting at the table, but hastily bowed. Hermione gave the elf a reassuring smile before turning invisible, allowing the creature to get on with clearing the dishes while she wandered around the room.
'He'll be fine,' she told herself once the elf had gone, taking the dishes and the crumbs. 'Nothing in the original ingredients was remotely toxic; even if did him no good at all, it shouldn't have done him any harm.' Returning to the log book and making notes kept her occupied for a bit longer, but after an hour Hermione could no longer resist the urge to look in on Snape. Even as she told herself it was for the sake of documenting how well the potion helped him sleep, she knew it was a feeble excuse. Her only concern was that he was alive and well, and not suffering from an unforeseen reaction.
In the dark bedroom, Severus Snape lay motionless under his coverlet, still wrapped in his moth-eaten bathrobe. His breathing was deep and even, without the slight snores she usually heard, and he lacked the usual restlessness that previously characterized his sleep. Here, in the intimate blackness of his sleeping chambers, prudence was rapidly losing the battle with her emotions.
Even as she told herself to be sensible, a part of her longed to find the unguarded, open man within his unconscious mind. The brief, timeless moments she spent in his dreams allowed her to see a part of him no one else had ever been privileged to see. And while she dreaded the idea Severus might discover her trespassing, a part of her wished, however vainly, that she would someday see that part of him in his conscious behavior.
Hovering near the bed, Hermione struggled one last time against temptation but, ultimately, was helpless to resist. She settled over his sleeping body and allowed herself to be drawn down and in.
At first, a hard-edged reality was difficult to find; the dreamscape of Severus' mind flooded past her at a breakneck speed. Hermione was carried along with the tide of images and sounds and sensations, where she drifted without direction or comprehension. A sense of urgency caught at her, and she called out.
"Severus? Where are you?"
A voice answered, and when she turned Hermione caught sight of his tall form striding towards her, the black trousers and white shirt he wore in his dreams standing out against the maelstrom.
"Where have you been?" Severus demanded, seizing one of her hands and pulling her towards him. "I've been calling you and calling you."
"You have?"
"Of course I have," he told her, as though it made perfect sense.
It did, Hermione supposed, more than a little relieved. If he had unconsciously been using his Legilimency skills while asleep, it could explain why she felt compelled to join his dreams. Or it could all be codswallop, and she had no more self-control than a fifth-year Hufflepuff on her second date.
"Are you feeling all right?" she questioned him, rather than dwell on her own lack of discipline.
"I feel wonderful," he declared with a sly grin. "Almost as wonderful as you look."
Hermione snorted at his blatant flattery. His grin only widened, and she was struck by the confidence in his easy manner. For once he was not frantic or harried; his clothing was neat and his dark hair pulled into a sleek tail at the nape of his neck. The careworn lines around his mouth had disappeared with the crooked smile that sat easily on his thin lips.
"Come on," he demanded.
"Where?"
"Anywhere. We need to do something. Anything."
The landscape around them changed and became an open courtyard Hermione vaguely recognized from the grounds somewhere around Hogwarts. The castle had several hidden courtyards, most of which were forbidden to the students but had been found by those more adventurous explorers with mischief or romance in mind. This one was large, with a fountain in the center, though the water had dried up long ago and the basin held only crisp autumn leaves. Old trees, gnarled and stunted in their cramped space, ringed the open area. Moss grew in nubby lines between the same ancient gray stones that made up the majority of the castle, the sharply carved lines softened by age and weather.
"Now what?" she asked playfully.
"Dance with me," he ordered.
Even as she opened her mouth to protest, Severus pulled her close and twirled her around. In the trees, the birds twittered and occasionally trilled a few notes, but he seemed to think it was music enough for his purposes. With surprising grace he pushed and pulled her from side to side. As with most dreams, the intent was enough and Hermione found herself following his lead through a complicated quadrille without actually knowing what she was doing.
Her robes flowed into a more formal, old-fashioned design, low-cut and tight across the bodice with extra flounces near the hem. With a bit of concentration, she was able to make them deep blue, a welcome change from the monochromatic gray that she was reduced to as a ghost. With a flourish and a boyish grin, Severus held out one arm. The white shirt he wore rippled into a full-cut garment more suitable for Sir Nicholas than the buttoned-down Potions Master.
Hermione could not help laughing as she followed his steps around the fountain in the center of the courtyard.
"What's funny?"
"You look like a pirate," she told him.
"Aye, lass," he replied in a horrid attempt at an accent. This got him another laugh, and as she pivoted under his arm once more, he swooped down and kissed her.
Laughter fled as she concentrated on the feel of his lips on hers, the wiry strength of his arms around her. Pure physical sensation was as unfamiliar to her as the leap of arousal that made her heart pound.
"I don't have a heart," she murmured against his lips. "How can this-" Hermione was interrupted by another kiss, and she gave up trying to impose her own sense of truth on this dream. Like all dreams, it lacked a certain amount of focus or true substance, but the feel of his body against hers was real enough. It did not matter how they suddenly came to be in a canopied bed rather than the stone courtyard. All that did matter was the warmth of his kisses and the urgent voice in her ear.
"I need you," he murmured. "Hermione…"
Her name. He'd said her name. A surge of emotion clogged her throat, threatening to drown her with the feelings she'd repressed. "I'm yours," she told him feverishly. "Anything you need from me, Severus. Anything."
The next few moments were a blur of images, the sensation of hands on her naked breasts and elsewhere; the weight of him sliding between her thighs; a sense of their bodies fitting intimately together. It was fast, and overwhelming, and just a little confusing as they strained against one another, but she cried out in ecstasy even as his deep voice called her name out once more, thick with desire.
"Hermione!"
Hermione abruptly found herself floating over his bed, mystified, every inch of her body tingling and thrumming with longing. Below, the man on the bed turned over, snorting softly as his breathing changed. Stunned beyond words, Hermione was torn between outrage, relief, and the urge to burst into inappropriate giggles at the stereotype of men who fall asleep right after sex.
But following those emotions was the simple, bittersweet truth that could no longer put off. She was deeply, hopelessly in love with Severus Snape.