Chapter 12
The next Saturday found Hermione on her way to the dungeons for another day with Professor Snape. The evening before, he'd sent an owl to her Prefect room telling her to come to the dungeons at exactly 9am, dressed in warm winter clothing.
So that morning she awoke at 6am, showered, dried off, and stared dumbly at her reflection in the mirror, cocking her head left and right, analyzing her appearance. Her damp hair hung in half formed curls down over her shoulders and she tugged at a strand with her fingers trying to decide if she should curl it or straighten it.
Normally she didn't give a fig about her appearance, but for some reason, the notion of having to dress in warm winter clothing for her detention today had her mind a whirl with possibilities. It was mid October, so the necessity of warm clothes seemed assured, no matter what Snape had up his sleeve, but still, she wondered.
Taking her wand off the counter where she'd perched it, she pointed it at a lock of hair and set her wrist into a twirling, circular motion. As she watched, the piece of hair seemed to move of its own accord, twinning around an imaginary finger into a corkscrew. A simple charm later and the curl was dry, perfect and shinning.
She knew her hair was rather bushy, but it was so time consuming to worry about such trivial things as hair styling. Too often she just ran a broad brush through it and set out for the morning not caring what it turned into by the morning's end.
But today was different. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but it was.
Pointing her wand at another strand of hair, she repeated the process.
Half an hour later her reflection showed a teenage girl with creamy skin and a head full of light brown, corkscrew curls, with shinny blond highlights. Again she turned from left to right, this time analyzing her face. She smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth, straight and perfect. Her buckteeth now gone, Hermione's smile was very pretty; and as she allowed the smile to touch her eyes, she thought she looked very fetching when she smiled.
And then she noticed the red spot. It suddenly seemed to be a flashing red beacon in the middle of her forehead even though in reality it was nothing more than a very pale pink mark nearly in her hairline and to the left of her face. She stared at it in horror, as if her own body had suddenly betrayed her.
Throwing open the cabinets, she pulled out the jar of Madam Milken's Bump B'Gone and applied a sizable dollop to the offensive mark. When that didn't work to her liking, Hermione replaced the jar and opened up the cabinet under the sink.
What lurked in the cabinet under the sink would have stumped any boy, magical or not. Hiding in the darkness was a thing no boy could ever really comprehend--and if the truth be told, something Hermione hadn't been able to truly comprehend until just this past summer. It seemed foreign, offensive, and sexist, and yet, at this very moment, it was the key to her self-imposed drama.
From the depths she pulled out a little black bag with a tiny zipper that ran the length of it. Taking a breath, Hermione took one more look at her reflection and then pulled the zipper open.
Three dramatically horrible attempts later, Hermione's reflection now showed a very different teenaged girl. This one still had the light brown corkscrew curls on a creamy skinned teenaged face, but dramatic changes had also been wrought.
Her skin was now flawless and covered in a soft layer of light power. Her cheeks had a slight rosy look to them, while her lips were just a little redder than normal and very glossy. But it was her eyes that changed the image of a teenaged girl. Kohl rimmed and smoky, her eyes now looked, darker, older, more mysterious, and alluring. There was an Egyptian quality to the slight upsweep, and the curled eyelashes widened her eyes.
In all the young woman that stared back at Hermione from the mirror did not look like much of a teenager, instead she seemed older, wiser, and a little more daring than Hermione had ever felt in her life. As a smile passed over her face, and the corresponding image smiled as well, Hermione was pleased with the transformation.
Walking out of the bathroom, she crossed her room to the bed and sat down upon it, eager to take a break from the mirror. However, a glance at the clock gave her a terrifying jolt and she raced into action; she only had an hour to find something to wear!
"Filius, this is quite a surprise as I was under the impression the Charms conference lasted through the end of the weekend." Greeted Dumbledore as he motioned the much smaller man into his office and onto his customary pile of books he used for a chair.
The smaller man nodded eagerly, and then seemed to somber as he took his seat, his right hand going for a pipe he fished out of his robes. In a high, squeaky voice, he answered, "Yes, yes, Headmaster, quite true, but I felt I had to return immediately once I realized how vitally important this new discovery was."
For a moment Dumbledore watched him quietly as the younger wizard lit his pipe and pulled a few deep drags, the smoke emitting a faint aroma of cloves. "It's been quite a few years since I've seen you pull out that old thing, my friend, perhaps you should tell me what has finally forced it from your pocket," Dumbledore finally encouraged.
Nodding his head again, Filius Flitwick took the pipe from his mouth, tapped his index finger against it twice and then brought it once again to take another drag before resting his arm in his lap.
Immediately the mood in the room became more somber, the meeting of two friends suddenly had more purpose. Over his crooked nose, Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, but he remained silent, letting Flitwick collect his thoughts.
After a few minutes, the Charms professor caught Dumbledore's eye and nodded once to himself before beginning. "This year's guest speaker was Iltimeda Shonright, a brilliant witch trained in Charms and Arithmancy," he began, his eyes never leaving the Headmaster's. "She spoke about a new charm that required a Charms Master to perform, but on just the right person at just the right time…quite an astounding feat could be wrought."
With a patient nod, Dumbledore waved his wand and produced a tea set offing Filius a cup, "Yes, thank you."
After another minutes delay, Filius continued. "The merging of multiple magical disciplines is what separates the great wizards from the good ones. The ability to intermingle the disciplines is something I know you're aware Headmaster, is very difficult--especially in a single lifetime. But Mistress Shonright is brilliant as I said, and she's found a way," he paused, not for dramatic effect, but in an effort to find the words to make this announcement more bearable. "Well, she's found a way to let the dead speak through the living--the ones that for whatever reason did not choose to become ghosts." He finished lamely, his eyes no longer able to hold those of his friend's.
Nothing more needed to be said, Dumbledore rose from his seat, his stance clearly agitated as he walked to his cabinet, unsealed the magical lock, and took out his own much abandoned pipe. He stuffed and lit it, drawing deeply the soothing smoke. Turning around, he walked back to his chair and sat, his posture tortured as he took another pull.
"The ability for the dead to speak through the living--those, who did not choose to become ghosts," he repeated, watching as Filius' head nodded at first enthusiastically, and then a bit more melancholy.
"I-I know this is hard to hear, Albus, but I thought it relevant; enough to rush back to Hogwarts to tell you personally."
Absently Dumbledore nodded, his mind racing with the possibilities of this interdisciplinary development. "Have you told anyone of this, Filius?" The little man shook his head and Albus nodded, "Good, good. This will need to be kept quiet for now. I'll send for Vector."
He rose, but Flitwick's sudden gesture caught his attention so that Dumbledore turned instead of moving towards the fireplace. "But, but, aren't you going to tell Severus first? Shouldn't he know what you're planning? I-I mean…"
But Dumbledore shook his head. "Severus has other things he needs to be concerned about right now. The mystery of Mellisson's death, of how Voldemort could have been in two places at once, has haunted him for 14 years. I dare say, we should have Vector check the charts to see if we have a suitable candidate before we mention this to him." He paused and then continued towards the fireplace before speaking again, his voice suddenly tired and pained. "Besides, I couldn't bear to see his face if Carlena couldn't find a suitable match." So with that, he took a handful of floo powder and said, "Carlena Vector!"
She was happy with her choice.
As Hermione traveled the dark and chilly staircase down to the dungeons, she thought she'd made the right choice. Feeling as if her shoulder blade length locks were too bouncy and flighty, she'd pulled her hair back into an up-twist that cascaded curls down across her neck. A few escaped her attempt to tame them, and instead floated around her face.
Her makeup was as she'd last arranged it, and she smiled to herself thinking how sophisticated it looked with her hair up. Around her was her favorite white wool coat that danced around her knees with every step she took.
At the bottom of the stairs she withdrew her wand from her left sleeve and then proceeded into the torch lit corridor. Ever since her run-in with Pansy the month before, Hermione was careful to follow Professor Snape's instructions to be wary when she traveled into Slytherin territory.
Besides, she never wanted to see that look of disappointment on Snape's face again--it haunted her.
Turning left she followed the broken cracks in the floor until they came to…a set of feet?
"Hello, Granger," came a slow drawl; one part loathing, two parts contempt, "Need someone to show you down a dark corridor or two?"
Wand tight to her body, Hermione searched the shadows and found the telltale outline of Draco's body, leaning against the cold stone of the hallway. Dressed in a dark gray sweater and matching slacks, he blended in with his surroundings almost perfectly. Absently, Hermione wondered when his corn silk blond hair had turned a much darker shade of dirty blond. Straightening her back, she prepared to match wits with a snake in his den.
"No thank you. I'm perfectly capable of finding the potions classroom on my own--I have been doing it for five years now, you know." She said haughtily, her nose going slightly into the air even as her grip on her wand tightened.
Malfoy smirked and took a step away from the wall. He was getting tall; nearly as tall as Harry, but while Harry was still gawky, Draco had developed some of the muscle tone to go with his lengthening body. Striking an imposing figure directly in Hermione's path, Draco went in for the kill, and began circling around her in a shark like fashion.
"Interesting outfit, Granger, and the make-up's a new look for you. All for detention? Only date you can get with a cauldron, then?" He smirked, coming round to stand once again in front of her. "Or someone else, hm?" He cocked his head to the right, and Hermione suddenly realized Draco was watching her to determine the truth.
Not daring to consider his words, Hermione rolled her eyes. "If you must know, Professor Snape told me to dress warmly today for detention. I assume I'll have to perform some dreadful task outside."
At this Draco smiled, "Yes, something dreadful I'm sure." But the way he said it, the haughty tone to his voice, made Hermione think he didn't believe her.
"Yes, now if you'll move aside," she trailed off as to her surprise, Draco did indeed move; taking up position against the wall again, one knee bent, foot against the wall as he leaned back, his eyes watching her.
She moved past, her fingers twitching against the wood of her wand.
"Granger," came the sudden call from behind her; and though she didn't turn around, she did stop. "The eyes are a good touch, makes you look older, more mysterious," the smirk was back in his voice. "More like a Slytherin."
Not wanting anything more to do with Malfoy and his confusing dialogue, Hermione continued down the corridor to the potions classroom. Taking a deep breath, she pocketed her wand and then checked her watch, 8:58am, she was a little early. Snape liked people either early or on time.
Hermione entered the classroom and was slightly taken aback. On the chalkboard at the front of the class, a collage of letters were written. Some were big, other small, some overlapped, while others were just scattered around the board barely touching. Looking around, she approached the head of the class. By this time, Snape was usually in the room, but instead the room was empty, everything just as it should be--except for the chalkboard.
Curious, Hermione walked up to the board and tapped her wand on it, "Rigoritus!" Instantly, the letters began to move around the board. Some flip flopped, while others did a crazy jig, while still others maneuvered right through each other, all in a mad dash to get to exactly where they were supposed to be.
When the message was decoded, Hermione read it.
Ms Granger,
I regret I was unable to meet you in the classroom as I am making arrangements for our departure. Please go to the fireplace and floo yourself to my quarters.
S. Snape
Floo to his quarters! She'd been there before of course, but to actually go there of her own free will, well she just couldn't! It was improper, indecent, just, well, just plain…
"Snape's quarters." She said clearly before the tugging, whirling sensation happened in the pit of her stomach. She didn't even remember moving towards the fireplace.
Stepped out of it quickly, she braced herself on the high mantelpiece as she drew in deep breaths of air. She hated wizard traveling methods.
"Hermione!" Came a sickly sweet voice from behind her, and Hermione turned just in time to see Spike latch itself to her leg trying desperately to hug her. "You came back! You came back!"
Hermione giggled and bent down to scoop up the childlike familiar. "Of course I came back, silly." She said smiling all the while scratching the pink teddy bear just behind its left ear. "How have you two been," she asked.
Silver eyes turned gold, and the carefree teddy bear suddenly took on the stiffer persona of Bubbles. "We were quite well," it paused, then said, "until you arrived."
"That's no way to speak to our guest."
His voice was smoke and darkness; hidden mysteries and black magic. He could stop a room with just his voice, but as Hermione's eyes darted across the room, she suddenly realized the sight of him could as well.
He was leaning against the door jam, his shoulder and hip hitting it, while his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk played across his lips. The sweater he wore was almost black, but Hermione could see that the true color was closer to the darkest green she'd ever seen in her life. He matched it with midnight black slacks that were pressed and lined to perfection, while a pair of smart black shoes finished it off.
His hair was freshly washed and still damp at the ends; pulled back with a tie, a few shorter front pieces softening the look. In his arms he carried a long black wool coat, and Hermione had a feeling that if he were to put it on and button it, he'd look exactly as he did when he taught potions--tall, imposing, and striking.
In her arms Bubbles coughed, and Hermione felt heat flood her cheeks as she realized she'd been staring unabashedly at Professor Snape. Bubbles squirmed, "I'll take a picture for you, you stupid girl, it'll last longer," it said, managing to get free of Hermione's grip and jumping to the floor.
But just as it hit, gold turned to silver, and Spike was back, its indignant voice even more shrill as it raged at its partner. "You are so rude, rude, rude, Bubbles. Pretty, Hermione was scratch, scratch, scratching us behind our left ear and you made her stop with your meanness! You need to be punished! Punished, punished, punished! Into the potty!" And with that, the tiny bear began to race around the wing-backed chair to get to the privy through Snape's bedroom.
Snape's bedroom.
Hermione shivered.
So did Snape.
At the last possible moment, Snape bent down and snatched up the waddling teddy bear, cradling it in his arms as he walked the rest of the way into the room. He draped his long coat over the back of the chair, then indicated Hermione should take a seat on the couch opposite. She nodded silently, sinking onto the couch and trying very hard not to stare.
He was absolutely gorgeous--when had that happened!
"We need to wait for the portkey paperwork I filed with the Ministry to come back. Once we have clearance we can be on our way." Came that smoke filled voice again, but Hermione was too afraid to look up; too afraid she'd start staring again, so she just nodded and pretended to find her hands very interesting.
She heard shifting around, and couldn't help but look up. Across from her, Snape had settled into his chair, his ankle resting on his opposite knee as he absently scratched Spike's head and watched her watching him.
Without conscious thought, her hand went up to touch her hair. She fidgeted in her seat, looking away and then looking back, each time realizing that Snape's eyes had not once moved from their target--her.
She cleared her throat, hoping that would help, but Snape continue to stare at her, his fingers working softly at Spike's fur. Giving him a smile, she looked back at the fireplace, and then turned back, again only to see him watching her.
Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. Opening her mouth to ask something, anything to break the atmosphere, she was immediately cut off when Snape spoke.
"You look lovely today, Hermione."
The movement of her eyes was slow as, in her shock, she raised them to lock with Professor Snape's. Heat rose in her cheeks, and as she watched, his eyes seemed to grow wider, larger, more illuminating until she thought she could see her own reflection in them.
Suddenly, she turned away, the weight of that stare more than she could bear. Her eyes traveled the room, while her heart felt a sense of disappointment that she had not acknowledged his statement.
Biting her lower lip, she looked towards the fireplace and watched the flames. After what seemed like an eternity she looked back at him, offered a weak smile, and then said, very softly, "Thank you." He nodded.
A faint tapping came from the only small ceiling window in the room, and Hermione looked up to see a small brown owl, no bigger than Pigwigeon tapping at the glass. At a rustling sound, she turned back in time to see Professor Snape raise his wand and open the window. The little owl zoomed in, circled their heads once, and then dove for the back of Snape's chair. Once on the back, it shifted down to the arm, and then presented its leg where a small roll of parchment was tied.
Without dislodging Bubbles, Snape removed the paper and indicated a forgotten biscuit on a tea tray for the owl. As the bird took a bite and then left out the open window, Snape unrolled the scroll and read the contents. Nodding to himself, he rose and crossed the room to a waste paper basket before extricating a broken quill.
He turned back to Hermione, "The ministry has approved the portkey, shall we go?"
Nodding, she rose, her hands immediately going to smooth out the imaginary wrinkles of her snow-white coat. She watched Snape perform the complicated portkey charm and blinked when the broken quill suddenly flashed brilliant green.
Walking over to him, her hands didn't know where to go. At first they were in front of her, then her sides, back in front, and finally, behind her back. When she looked up, Snape was smiling a bemused smile at her. "Are you ready?" She nodded again, taking another step towards him, now no more than a foot between them. His smile suddenly changed from bemused to something different, something darker as his left hand reached out and took her by the elbow, dragging her closer, the broken quill now pressed between them.
The next thing Hermione knew, his voice was whisper soft and so close to her ear she could feel the heat of his breath stirring her hair. "You just have to touch it, Hermione."
Suddenly a swirling feeling happened in her mind. Light became softer, emotions stronger, reasoning more fuzzy. She felt the tug to be close to him all consuming, the desire to be next to him undeniable. She wanted him, needed him, had to be closer, had to touch him, needed him to touch her in kind.
The room was too small, the space between them too large, and Hermione found her chin tilting up, her eyes locking with the darkest black she'd ever seen. She drew in a deep breath, her eyes widening at the smell of him before drifting to half-mast over the intoxicating aroma of sandalwood and sage. On her own, she brought her body flush against his; the quill pressed between them as her hands went up to his sweater, fisting the material. Her breath caught, her chest constricted, and her cheek fell against his sternum, her body fitting and molding itself against him in an unconscious desire to get closer to him. Beneath her ear she could feel his heart beating, not wildly, no, it beat just slightly faster, slightly stronger, with sureness and vitality--it beat with passion, just as hers did.
The hand that was once at her elbow snaked its way up her arm. Long fingers played against the wool of the jacket, and tantalized her with their barely there feeling. The hand slid up over her shoulder and then came to rest against her neck. At first it pressed against the softness of her turtleneck sweater, then, as if it had to be closer--needed to be closer--fingers slid over her hair and then back down along her neck, moving the sweater out of the way and bringing flesh to meet flesh.
Both shivered.
Hermione pressed even closer, her fingernails biting past the sweater into his flesh.
His own fingers pressed into the muscles at her neck and she moaned, feeling him stiffen against her.
The quill hit the floor soundlessly, and then two hands were around her, too arms pulling her tightly against a tall male body. The new hand was beneath her coat, and her breath caught as that hand dipped low over her bottom and then slid back up; the flesh of his hand coarse against the soft smoothness of her lower back.
She exhaled sharply, her hot moist breath filtering through the sweater.
He shivered and moaned.
Hermione shivered and moaned.
Every part of her ached, every muscle turned and burned with this all-consuming need. She moved against him, desperate for his assistance, desperate for him to help her with this growing longing that raced through her blood and pooled low in her body.
His fingers flexed and Hermione mewed, her right leg sliding forward, her hip bumping against something solid and yielding. Above her, he drew a deep and sudden breath, his face low and against her neck, his breath sending shivers straight to her spine.
"Hermione…"