A/N: Ari: You first. TTFS: No, you. Ari: Grrr. TTFS: Together, then? "We'd like to thank the academy for giving Ariadne the summer off and corporate America for TimeTurnerforSale's spiffy new laptop." TTFS(elbows Ari in ribs). Ari: Oh, and the powers that be for not blowing my house down.
Never Doubt
Hermione entered the Great Hall, opening the door only wide enough to allow herself to slip through. Long shadows crossed the hall, leaving vast expanses of darkness, blending into pale blue stripes of moonlight. The ceiling displayed a serene sky with overcast clouds, moving easily past star clusters. A few torches crackled at the far end near the High Table, giving the Hall a cathedral-like atmosphere.
The change from day to night was startling; the serenity a sharp contrast to the nonstop activity usually inhabiting the cavernous Hall. The silence only added to the almost prayerful mood, deep, demanding attention to one's thoughts.
She turned to close the door, cringing as the wood groaned on its hinges, relief washing over her as it clicked closed.
"Are you here?" she whispered, staring into the darkness. Her voice echoed louder than she expected.
A hand was over her mouth before she could turn around, clutching her and pulling her close. She reacted instinctively, throwing herself forward and driving her elbow down, then upwards into her assailant's ribcage.
The hand was gone and she heard a sharp hiss.
Spinning around, she drew her wand to find Severus clutching his side.
"Hardly the image of the defenseless victim - are you?" he muttered, the slightest tinge of pain masked as irritation in his voice.
Hermione held her hand over her heart as she tucked her wand away. "You surprised me. Are you all right?"
A slight scowl, then an expression of secrecy as he motioned her further into the Hall and pulled her into a deep shadow. The stone wall seeped a damp, cold draft; enveloping, drawing its cloak around them.
Hermione could barely see his eyes in the dim light. It was ever changing, rising in brightness just enough to allow details, then receding as another cloud passed over the moon.
He tilted his head down, looked at his side, then back to her. "Couldn't you have just hexed me? What kind of witch are you?"
"As I'm not allowed to hex people during the summer, I took some Muggle defense classes last year. I couldn't get to my wand and so I did the next best thing," Hermione said, trying both to keep the amusement out of her voice and to avoid staring at how the moonlight was shining on his hair, tingeing it blue.
"Indeed. So you could have inflicted damage to me in the lab after all," he said, crossing his arms.
Hermione shrugged.
"No explanation?" Severus said in sarcastic wonder. "Not possible. Tell me. What stopped you?"
"It's simple. I saw it was you," Hermione said and wished that her heart would settle down. It resolutely ignored her, and, out of spite, sped up to a manic pace when he leaned forward, his facing coming into the light.
Something in his eyes inspired hope, possibilities that could not be spoken.
Before she knew what she was doing, she placed a hand on his chest and her other on his cheek. Hesitantly, she trailed her finger to his lips, lingering, his heart proving to her that he was feeling more than the reserved exterior led her to believe.
Much more.
He stood, frozen. His hand rose a fraction, then settled back to his side, reluctantly. The clouds thickened, sweeping the shadows across his face as his eyes searched hers.
A plea, but for which action was the question.
Moving her hand aside, she gently pressed her lips to his, softly kissing him with as much tenderness as she could, trying to tell him that she cared, and had for a long time. Promising. He resisted at first, his shoulders stiffening; then, in infinitely small degrees, he raised his hands and tentatively placed them on her shoulders.
Slowly, she eased the kiss into gentle caresses, moving her hand through his hair, pausing to simply hover near him. His arms reached around her, lightly at first, then pulled her closer. The friction of his palm drawing up along the fabric of her robes, resting between her shoulders, opening, pressing her against his chest. She felt him tilt his head back and his breath hitch as he swallowed, hard, then he rested his chin on her head.
A leaning movement and then his voice vibrating against her hand as she fingered his coat buttons. "Why did you do it?"
Hermione leaned back, watching his eyes for a moment, shining by the light of the moon before it disappeared behind the clouds, plunging them into the cold darkness.
Burning the memory into that deep place she kept, knowing it would be fleeting.
He watched her, waiting. His hand covered hers on his chest.
"Because I knew you wouldn't."
"No. I wouldn't." He ran his hand down her back to rest, lightly, at her waist, his fingers working a fold of her robes back and forth between them as if of their own volition.
Some question hung palpably in the air.
"I cannot say whether I am glad of it or not," he mused, his fingers still playing at her waist. "I should not be."
"I was scared for you," she offered.
"No need," he said, still thinking.
"There was need. They were going to sack you."
The moon appeared from behind a shredded cloud for a moment, and she saw his lips twist in a dry smile. "I've faced worse." And will again, soon. "How did you get here?"
"Prefects' rounds. After Professor McGonagall left, and after everyone in the Tower was asleep."
"Were you seen?"
"Not even a ghost."
"The Board of Governors left an hour ago; still, we don't have much time."
"What do you mean?"
"After tonight, Hermione, we will be watched, constantly. Every student. Every teacher. Every portrait – all of them will be watching both of us for the slightest hint of impropriety." His tone grew bitter. "There is nothing small minds enjoy more than to have 'known it all along.' And there will be enough of that prattle without prior evidence; we must not give them more."
Hermione nodded.
His hand remained at her waist.
"At least we weren't punished," she said, then hastily added, "except for those fifty points."
"Which were rightly for Potter and Weasley, so I shall not retract them," he said. "I wasn't sacked, no, and I shall be very surprised if you don't continue as a prefect – although I shall rail against it in the staff lounge, of course. But we will be punished, all the same… The whole school knows now, or will by morning. Are you prepared for the whispering, for the taunts, for the horrified looks of your classmates and the other teachers? I assure you I have endured worse…" His tone changed as he looked at her face in the shadowy moonlight, "… but never for such a cause as this."
Almost reluctantly, as if he were losing some great battle, he drew her into the folds of his robe. "Never for such a cause as this."
Hermione found herself held so gently, so protectively, that she was awed. For a while they stood nearly motionless, aware of the feeling of the other, so close, warm against the empty chill of the deep shadows and slanting moonlight of the silently echoing Hall.
Closing her eyes and feeling the rough fiber of his robes against her face, Hermione found the courage to ask the question she'd wanted to ask since earlier, the question others had asked since, the question to which his public answer wasn't enough. "Why did you do it?"
He closed his eyes and sighed. "In the lab, you mean?"
She nodded.
"I had no time, Hermione."
"You could have just… slapped me, or something."
"No, I couldn't."
"Because Harry and Ron - " she felt his arms stiffen at the boys' names, but kept on " – because they would have hexed you, and the magic would have… ?"
"Partially. I am the Defense teacher, after all, and know that Potter, at least, has impressive reflexes. Which would have been my next answer, had the Board of Governors pursued that line of inquiry."
"It would have satisfied them, I think."
"But it doesn't satisfy you?" he asked softly, and something in his voice made her look up to see the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.
"You did say 'Partially,'" she observed, a slight shyness overtaking her as she realized she was seeing, for the first time, an expression of tender amusement on his face – and that it was for her.
"I would never willingly raise a hand to you, Hermione," he said quietly.
She blinked, and looked at him questioningly, "But - "
"There is always a 'but' with you, isn't there?" he said, the crinkles around his eyes deepening.
She nodded, raising her chin slightly, and said, "But you told the Board of Governors that there should be no difference between - "
"Among acts of violence?" He sighed, drawing her closer, and resting his chin on her head, a few strand of her hair catching along his jaw. "There should be no difference in the punishment, Hermione, but there is in the crime." His voice sounded strangely hollow.
It took her a moment to realize that what she heard in his voice was experience.
"It need not concern you now," he said, after a moment.
"Now?" she asked softly.
"Someday," he replied. "But not now."
She looked a question at him.
"Tomorrow we will have to endure the punishment without having courted the crime." He looked at her, his eyes taking on a calm awareness that made her skin come alive.
Tracing a finger along her jaw, he murmured, "When I told them I would not ravage your innocence, Hermione, I was not being completely honest. I will not take it, but I will have it – if it is offered."
His words on her skin.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her breath caught in her throat as he ran his hand up her side, drawing her robes with it in a shimmering glide of fabric that he then let fall as his hand moved slowly up her back, to her neck, smoothing her hair aside, his palm firm but gentle on the side of her head, exposing her skin to his breath and the promise of his lips hovering, a small warmth that grew chill with each breath and then warmed again as he exhaled slowly.
And his hand trailed down her neck, catching her collar as he smoothed it downward between to her shoulder, coming to rest on her hip, a warm curve over her robes. He leaned into the feel of her, holding her closer, more deliberately.
He lowered his head down next to hers, hovering, his breath shuddering, on the fraying edges of control.
His voice so low it was barely above a whisper. "If you should offer it, Hermione, I will be honored beyond measure, and I will accept. No matter what happens, never doubt that. Never." He drew another breath, more ragged than the last. "But I beg you do not make me that offer tonight."
She marveled in the complexity of his gaze – a balm, a panic; serenity and steel.
"… I – I won't, of course," she said, her voice sounding distant through the pounding of her heart, "but - "
The corner of his mouth twitched.
" – but can I ask why not?"
Something in his eyes changed. In any other man, it would have been hope, but where there should have been hope, she saw something else entirely.
"I'm not arguing," she said quickly, daring to bring her hand to his cheek. "I'm just - "
"Because we did not court this crime and you are still my student."
"Oh," she said. Then, again, more softly, "Oh, of course."
He did not need the moonlight to see that she was blushing.
He closed his eyes and brushed his cheek against her palm, and instinctively her hand moved into his hair, bringing his lips to brush softly against the inside of her wrist.
She seemed to feel that one touch everywhere. And feeling the night slipping away from her, from them, she tentatively drew his face toward hers, her hand hesitant, her eyes determined.
"Don't," he said softly, even as he found his eyes closing, felt himself drawn nearer, his hands moving through her hair, gentle on her face -
"One more kiss," she whispered. "Just one."
He breathed her whisper into his own. "One."
One kiss - an unbearably brief, endless sweetness, hidden in the deepening clouds in the shadowed Great Hall in the deeper darkness of his cloak, a forbidden solace of being that began in lightness, softness, deepening at once to the feel of his hands on her face, on her shoulders, arms around her, fingers splayed on her back, dragging her toward him, her fingertips soft on his face, smoothing each angle, each plane, each texture in her hands drawing him closer, permanent, each breath, touch, movement bypassing conscious thought straight into timeless, endless memory.
"Hermione," he groaned, finally, holding them both still, resting his forehead, bent, against hers. "Hermione."
She closed her eyes against the air that was already cooling around them.
He kissed her once, gently on the forehead, and forced himself to loosen his arms. She looked up and saw that his eyes were fathomless – with hope, despair, or… love? … she couldn't tell. A long look, a long silence, then, with a catch in his voice, his voice almost pleading: "Never doubt, Hermione."
By the time she found her voice, he was striding out of the Hall, the mask of his purpose redrawn on his posture.
"Never," she echoed, her voice too loud as he rejoined the darkness beyond the doors.
She didn't know if he'd heard her.
-----
The next day, she learned from Professor McGonagall that she would not lose her prefect's badge.
In the next weeks, she only saw him in class and at mealtimes. No hint of impropriety could be detected in either one of their faces, words, or postures. And everyone, from Peeves to Mrs. Norris to Professor McGonagall, kept a sharp lookout.
For the next two months, Hermione served detentions with Professor Flitwick, and Harry and Ron seemingly couldn't enter Professor Snape's classroom without losing 30 points from Gryffindor – points which Hermione quietly earned back from Professor McGonagall for exemplary performance of her prefect's duties, in exactly the right number to ensure that Gryffindor remained down by 50 points precisely.
And at the end of those two months, Severus killed Albus Dumbledore.
-------------------------
Hermione sat stiffly in the darkening kitchen, trying to pay attention to what her mother was saying, but not absorbing a word. Her mother's voice moved through her subconscious mind, filtering to the forefront, then back, the thoughts overrunning her words.
Him. Why? Was it all a lie?
"Hermione?"
Her mother was leaning forward, lowering her head in an attempt to catch Hermione's gaze. A concerned expression darkened her face, the lines around her eyes deepening.
"Yes?"
"You're not listening. How is it that your headmaster was murdered? Hermione, I'm sorry, but your father and I - we feel you should stay away..."
Again, she let her thoughts override her mother's voice.
Hermione then felt herself stand, stride to the front door and announce in a removed voice, "I'm taking a walk."
A light misting rain fell, giving the dusk a strange, ominous feel. Hermione allowed her mind to analyze the events, the hows and the whys, and, finding nothing, an open question. She hunched her shoulders up around her ears, and pushed her hands further into her pockets. Watching the pavement, she occupied her mind with the cracks, recording how much they varied in length as she walked.
Walking with no destination in mind for what seemed hours, Hermione returned to her house in a more distraught state than when she left. As she approached, a strange looking owl sat on her mailbox, its head swiveling around, searching. When it caught sight of her, it hooted at her impatiently, as if ordering her to hurry up.
Looking the owl over, Hermione mumbled, "Definitely not a school owl."
The owl glared at her and ruffled its feathers, as if insulted. It thrust its leg out proudly, regarding her with a disdainful eye. Clearly, it had better things to do than to attend to her and her assumptions about its origin and quality.
Opening the parchment, she found only two words in familiar red ink.
"Spinner's End."
Hermione's eyes read and re-read the short phrase until she realized that the owl was still watching her. Walking quietly around to the back door of the house, the owl ghosting silently behind her, she let herself into the dark kitchen, leaving the door open behind her.
Lumos, she muttered, reaching for a glass to get some juice for the owl.
It sat on the table and glanced at the juice, then appeared to scowl at her.
"All right, I believe you're his," she said softly, her eyes falling on a note in her mother's handwriting on the counter.
"We've gone to bed, dear - we'll talk in the morning. Don't stay up too late.
I'm worried about you. Wake me if you want to talk.
Love, Mum."
Hermione held the note from Professor Snape – No longer – in one hand, the note from her mother in the other.
The owl looked at her impatiently.
Hermione crumpled both notes in her fists and moved as quietly as she could for the bookshelves in the hallway, where she pulled out a travel atlas and ran her finger down the index until she located Spinner's End near Manchester. She replaced the volume carefully and went back to the kitchen.
"Well, owl," she whispered. "I can get to the street, but you'll have to take me from there."
The owl looked for all the world as though it had taken her far too long to come up with the right answer. It might have been a trick of the wand light, but she could have sworn it raised an eyebrow at her.
The owl preceded her into the dark car park outside the kitchen, and waited while she quietly latched the door.
She concentrated,
Destination, determination...
The owl landed on her shoulder and dug its talons in, hard.
... Dratted owl! She glared at it, sure it had drawn blood, and started over.
Destination, determination...
-----
With a soft Pop! she appeared in Spinner's End.
While the rain on Hermione's street had cast a dismal pall, it created a veritable scene of utter despair on Spinner's End. Nothing could convince her that anyone normal, or even on the lighter side of darkness, called such a place home. The very architecture exuded a presence, a long-abandoned power; as if decay were a poison that could change stone or brick.
She had almost forgotten the owl until it shifted its talons on her shoulder. A soft sweep of a wing across her face and the owl took flight, sinking low, then high, to land on a lamppost. Hermione slowly walked onto the pavement, staring up to where the owl sat. It puffed its feathers out in irritation before shaking the rain drops in a fine spray, disturbing the rhythmic rainfall.
The owl suddenly screeched at her, throwing its wings out to full span and beating them wildly. It held onto the lamppost with its talons and cried over and over, glaring directly at her.
Hermione stood under the dim light, staring up at the distressed owl. It stepped around so it could lean down, continuing to cry out to her. The beating of its wings caused the lamppost to sway, moving the light in a rocking motion over the pavement.
Its eyes bore into hers, as if the fact that its message was not getting through was causing it physical pain.
"What is it?" she said, holding her hands out, the rain soaking her coat sleeves, gradually darkening the fabric. She had kept her wand out, figuring that in such a deserted place, no Muggle happening by in such a place would think her strange.
The rain fell out of the dark and through the light, giving the illusion of speed as she stared up at the frantic owl.
Sweeping her coat to the side, the wind surged as if in sympathy with the owl's cries. She looked at the houses, sure that its noise would awaken anyone still living there.
Nothing stirred.
Hermione dropped her hands to her sides and twisted around to look back down the street. A movement caught her eye, low, around a rambling hedge, then it was gone, a shadow rocking in the wind.
The owl fell silent.
Her mind had barely registered the sound of a cloak before her world went black. Her throat was caught in the crook of someone's arm, and a hand gripped her mouth with such force it was impossible to create a sound.
Her wand, somehow she had lost it. She struggled to somehow get her arm free...
A feral snarl in her ear commanded, "Don't."
She was dragged backwards, covered in heavy, black wool.
Her coat sleeve snagged on something. Rough brick, her mind supplied. The rain beat on the cloak, a muffled vibration.
Spun around and shoved up against the wall, she felt her coat catch against the uneven masonry and get dragged up her back. She tried to twist her head to the side, but the hand returned, hard fingers gripping her jaw tightly. The air under the cloak was rapidly becoming hot.
He was breathing hard, his chest pressed up against her telling her his heart was beating wildly too, yet his exterior demeanor remained calm.
She opened her eyes wide, trying to see his face. To confirm what she already knew.
Only the passing glittering of his eyes in front of her, a brush of hair against her cheek as he lowered his head to hers. His hand passed lightly down her side - hesitantly - distracted.
Hermione froze and the hand over her mouth slowly loosened - then disappeared.
An overpowering presence pushed to the edge of her mind, where it wavered, almost apologetically, as if awaiting permission.
"They are here. Quiet."
A question in her mind. She wanted to ask, but didn't know how. The image made her ill to even think of it.
It couldn't be...
An answer before she even attempted the question...
"The Dark Lord."