A/N: Another chapter! Wahoo! Give me a holiday, and I can work wonders. Give me no holiday, I'm slow as molasses running up a hill during a blistering winter season. I am really trying to get these chapters out. Especially, since I'm going to be moving soon. Like, in February or something.

With this chapter, let's remember that this Hermione isn't our dear, angel-like, prudish Hermione from the books. She still likes to break the rules when they don't suit her, but I'm talking about hows and the whys when expressing her sexuality and needs and the uses of her "talents".

Apologies for any errors in this chapter. I'll continue to tidy up over time. R&R, and enjoy!

Next chapter, we'll see what's going on with Nat, Steve, and maybe some others.


Chapter 34: The Burrow

A secret, reads the note from Draco Malfoy. Hermione, biting a chunk out of her slice of buttery toast, smiles at the seeds she's planting.

Stroking the furry fluff beneath tawny owl's chin who is perched on her windowsill, Hermione beckons her to return to the owlery. But not before tossing the bird a fatty piece of sausage from the breakfast tray.

Getting out her pen-quill, Hermione scribbles down:

Dinner at 7:00. I will see you then.

She watches the ink bleed into the parchment and disappear. She waits a couple of minutes for a response, not necessarily expecting one so soon.

Considering her limited options for a dress, Hermione decides on a dark maroon, wrap-around dress and beige, embroidered flats. She makes a small braid in her hair and uses it wrap it around the knotted bun at the base of her skull. She checks herself in the mirror, pinching her cheeks to bring some color to them. Maroon is such a dramatic color for summer, yet it's a memorial, and she doesn't have a black dress because Madam Malkin didn't prepare one for her…because it's summer.

Unlike last night, she meets Harry down at the bottom of the stairs. He's dressed in a plain black getup resembling a suit but not quite. Robes, she supposes, is the right term.

They head to the outside Floo. She watches Harry throw the powder into the flames and announce The Burrow. Hermione follows suit, and it's just as unpleasant as all the other times she's traveled this way. When she arrives, Harry's right there, his arm is crooked and ready for her. She links her arm through his, taking in the mass of people, an astonishing number of them vibrant redheads.

In the middle of the sitting room is a round table. On top of it looks to be a portrait frame covered by a black cloth.

The Burrow is warm, crowded with bodies and steaming dishes of food accompanying the smell of old-lady perfumes and aftershave. Hermione scrunches her noses, rubbing it. She smiles kindly, dipping her chin at strangers. Her eyes eventually land on what seems to be a clock but not really. There were at least thirty hands with names intricately welded into the metal. The clock is sectioned off into seven sections: In transit, home, lost mortal peril, Quidditch, work, school, and garden.

"Ginny's fell off," says Harry, coming up beside her. He lets out a shallow breath. "When I came to tell her mother, the hand was just lying there on the floor. Molly hadn't noticed, it was so late. Imagine seeing your daughter hit mortal peril and when you finally make a move—whatever it is—it's too late. Your kid's gone."

There's a cluster of hands in the home section of the clock, one of them Harry's. His is farther away from the others, closer to the lost borderline.

She looks at him, eyebrow arched. "Did they know about you two? Her family," she asks.

He says nothing, but his facial expression and body language tell her enough. No, they didn't.

In the sitting area, Hermione spots Mrs. Weasley. She's round and yet diminished in her black robes. Her face is red with anguish. Her remaining offspring surround her. Some even kneel close to her, one even has his head on her lap, and she pets him. She recognizes him from Grimmauld Place and from the books on the war she's been reading. Ronald Weasley, best friend to The Chosen One. He's already lost a sibling. It's got to be fucking bad to lose another.

Harry, pointing to the one in her lap. "They're all taking it really hard, but Ron and Ginny were only a year apart."

A pregnant woman, exotic and dark-skinned, in a white sari with a black mesh covering and bearing red bindi between her brows, crouches in front of Ron, opening her arms to him. He goes to her, and she holds him like he's a child.

Before long, Harry leaves Hermione's side, wanting to be near the matron Weasley, and then proceeds to get caught in her clutches. Seeing people slowly make their way outside towards some tents, she joins them to get out of the enclosed heat into the open heat.

She welcomes the fresh air and the moderate breeze, and then tosses her gaze upward and then behind her. She puts her hand over her eyes to block the sun and get a better view of the house. She takes a few steps back, frowning. Huh. All right, then. Physics be damned, she supposes.

Glancing over to the refreshment table, something with sharp teeth bites into the flesh above her ankle. Looking down, expecting to see a spider or a rodent or something, she lets out an undignified eek at seeing a naked, brown creature suctioned to her limb.

"Get off me, you fugly shit," she hisses. She dislodges the thing with a good shake and then kicks it square in the stomach with all her might. It goes sailing over several people's heads, disappearing into some far-off thatch of bushes away from the property line.

Hermione frowns at the bite mark on her leg, lifting it and uselessly batting at with her hand. She's not bleeding, and the teeth barely penetrated the skin, but that creature's mouth had to be filthy.

"Blimey." A tall, thin man comes up to her. He, too, has red hair. Behind horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes are red and swollen, his face puffy. Like he's been crying for a week, and he probably has. Still, he manages a weak smile at her. "That was impressive."

He offers her his hand, and she takes it. "Arthur Weasley. We haven't met, I don't think."

"We haven't."

"And how did you know Ginny?" he asks.

"I didn't," she supplies, truthful, but she keeps his hand in hers. Patting it. "But I hear she was an amazing Quidditch player, a genuine asset to your war. And most importantly, truly loved by all. I wish I could've known her. Even for five minutes." She smiles down at their joined hands and then let's go. "I'm here with Harry."

"That's…good. That's very good. Harry is as good as a son to me. Was a son to me for a time. He used to come around for Sunday roast, but I still see him at the ministry. He hasn't mentioned you." His brows furrow, but then he shrugs. "But he does like his privacy."

He's in mourning. His wife and friends and relatives need him, and now he's talking to her, desperately wanting to know if his surrogate son is fairing well. She feels the turmoil within him. The ache of losing another child, this one his only daughter. Yet, he's split at wanting to curl up into a ball and sob like a baby while at the same time struggling to be a man, husband, father, and grandfather to the rest of his kin.

"Yes, Harry is a…very private person," she agrees.

He gestures to the table of sweets and tea. "Please help yourself, and if you're a friend of Harry's, you're a friend to The Burrow. Come over on Sundays. We'll be happy to have you." He gives her a somber yet meaningful stare. "And get to know you better under more pleasant of circumstances."

"I'm sorry for you're loss. I really am."

His features begin to quiver, but then Remus comes up beside him, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. "I've seen you met Miss Granger. A friend of Harry's from the States."

"Miss Granger," he repeats, looking at Hermione and realizing he doesn't have a name to a face. "Is there a first name to go with that?"

Hermione sighs. "Yes," she says through clenched teeth. "But please call me 17."

"Molly won't have any of that, but I'll do my best," replies Arthur. He turns to Remus. "And you, Remus. How are you? How's Dora?"

Remus mops his brow, eyeing the drinks at the table. The corners of his eyes wrinkle, like he's strained. "Dora's taking Ginny's passing hard as you can imagine. We also had a bit of drama pop up at Andy's home. Perhaps you and I will chat about it sometime. Dora's on bedrest. It really did her in, not being able to come yesterday or today. Andy's here talking to Molly."

Hermione leaves the two men in favor of the refreshment table. She picks up a piping hot cup of tea which oddly enough, is warm on the tongue yet cools her insides. She eyes the liquid thoughtfully believing there must be some sort of cooling potion mixed in with the chamomile.

Beside her, one of the Weasley brothers—undoubtedly, given the red hair (graying a little at the temples) and resemblance to Ron—joins her at the table, miserably eyeing a slice of strawberry cream sponge cake. He picks up a plate and fork, saying to here, "Ginny loved this."

Hermione sets down her tea in favor of the same cake. Licking the cream from her lips, she nods. "It's very good."

"That's a wicked looking scar you got there." He points his fork at her apple scar, her sleeve unable to fully cover it. Thankfully, they're long enough to cover her other mark.

"You look like you know all about wicked scars yourself." She half-smiles, taking in the burns on his hands, arms, deep gash along his jawline, and a shallow one over his left eyelid.

"I'm a dragon tamer." He takes another bite of his cake before offering his calloused hand to her. "Charlie Weasley, ma'am."

She accepts it, his palms even rougher than they appear. She pauses mid-shake and eyes him with intrigue. "A dragon tamer. And what does that intel, Charlie Weasley?"

His light brown eyes brighten and then just as quickly, dull. He lowers his gaze from her, frowning at his slice of half-eaten cake before picking it up and poking his fork at it. "Maybe I'll tell you about it some other time. You're a friend of Harry's?"

"Mmhm."

"He hasn't brought a girl around since…" His frown deepens, and he wrinkles his freckled brow. "I don't think he's ever brought one home since the divorce."

A flicker of disappointment washes over his face, and Hermione considers that she's got a strong, physically imposing older brother of the murder victim who's showing interest in her, and he's not wearing a ring. She won't count out Draco, just yet, but there's no denying that Charlie Weasley is an even better and fresher candidate in killing Soo-jin for her.

"You know, he's been a very good friend to me. Kind of like the brother I never had but always wished for," she says.

"If you need another, I have five—" He cuts himself off, his features stricken. "Four. I've got four. Um…" He runs a hand down his face, his middle finger and thumb rubbing his eyes. "If you'll excuse me."

Hermione finishes her tea and cake before following him back inside the house. She sees him go up the hazardous-looking stairs, and over the talking of the other visitors, she hears a door close. Several minutes tick by before she's confident enough no one will see her sneak up the stairs. Each cracked wooden plank groans beneath her weight. There are several doors she comes too, all of them closed and no one answering her knocks. On the third one, she strikes gold. He opens the door, bottle of something or other clenched in his fist.

"Look, if Harry sent you up here—"

"He didn't." She invites herself inside the room. The scent of dust and vacancy is strong. A childhood bedroom. He hasn't been here in a long time, and she closes the door behind her. They're in the dark now, just the two of them. There's no light, lamp, or candle except a small sliver of daylight coming through the thick curtain over the window.

"I want to be alone," he tells the floor planks between them.

She takes the bottle from him and sets it on the dresser close to them before cupping his face. His five o'clock shadow prickles her hands.

"I don't think you should be," she whispers.

And like that, she sees something visibly snap behind his eyes. His hand comes up, wrapping around her upper wrist. His thumb presses into her apple scar. He pulls down her arm and uses it as leverage to back her up and then twist it behind her back. He presses her front against the door. Hermione's instinct is to fight off this kind of advance. She had pictured a quickie on top of his dusty childhood sheets or herself straddling him on the chair at his desk. She could still encourage those ideas, but Weasley seems to like this more, and she wonders when the last time he's had sex with a woman who wasn't a prostitute.

The skirt of her dress is rucked up, and her underwear is yanked down to her knees. His fingers are touching her, finding that spot in two seconds. Not a timewaster, this one. He presses and rubs, and she reaches down with her free hand to hurry herself along. He must not like that because his free hand grabs her wrists and slams it against the door. He mutters something under his breath, and she finds that her hand is stuck to the wood.

Penetration alone takes time for her. Even when stimulating her g-spot. Her eyes close, and she focuses on his ministrations.

"Harder," she tells him.

He reaches around her front and slides his hand down the slope of her dress and beneath her bra, pinching her nipple. The fingers inside her slow and the strokes not as deep before pulling out of her to tap lightly somewhere else, circling there.

"No," she hisses.

"Don't talk!" He shoves his fingers back inside her cunt, taking on a new passive-aggressive pace by stroking her spot maddeningly slow.

When her climax finally comes upon her, it's satisfying as a sigh of relief because that part is finally done, and she didn't love it and couldn't even be bothered to pretend to. With her arm still twisted behind her back, he uses his other hand to lower his own trousers and enters her. He's thick, and she could've gone for better, juicier foreplay. For the last several months, it's only been her own hands and Nat keeping her company.

Weasley's pace is steady as it is brutal. He does allow her another climax-which is a little better than the last-before pulling out and finishing himself off with his hand.

As Weasley rights his trousers, she pulls up her underwear and shoots him a glance over her shoulder. She almost asks if he feels better (because clearly what just happened was about his needs alone), but the question dies on her lips. He looks worse than he did down at the refreshment table. He stalks over to the bed, plopping down, a cloud of dust billows out from him. He put his head in his hands and starts sobbing. It's a frustrated and furious kind of cry. She brushes his mind and is hit an unbearable kind of sorrow as well as self-loathing.

Good. He's not a great lover, and he should be ashamed.

Hermione kind of regrets sneaking up here now. No, she didn't force him to fuck her, but she knew what he wanted and dismissed what he needed—which is to be alone—, feeling the danger in being Soo-jin's bitch outweighing his mourning.

Whatever spell he put on her hand to stick to the wood is gone. Dragging the chair of his desk close to the bed, Hermione sits down, several inches of space between their knees. She eyes the faded poster above the twin bed, pursing her lips. Her studies from last night spring to mind. "You know," she starts, "the Chudley Cannons really do suck ass."

His crying stops abruptly. He pops up his head and stares at her, wide eyed and damp-faced, his jaw unhinged.

"Excuse me?"

She crosses her legs, leaning forward. "Don't get me wrong. They had their moment, but they're just not good anymore. After the 70's they just kind of…" She whistles a pitch from high to low, moving her hand down an invisible curve. "Went downhill."

"They rank 11th—"

"Harlem Shuffle is better." Hermione eyes her nails thoughtfully before buffing them needlessly on her dress. She then winks at him, smirking. "Thought I might be biased."

"Harlem bloody Shuffle isn't even bleedin' real Quidditch, woman," he hisses.

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward. "You will call me, ma'am."

He rubs his hands over the tops of his trousers, appearing abashed and a bit confused. He nods jerkily, scratching the back of his neck.

"Good." She relaxes in the chair. "Not all of us have a Valmai Morgan. We have to improvise."

"Valmai Morgan." Weasley sneers. "That old hag doesn't have shite on my baby sister, ma'am. Morgan scored ten her first game with the Harpies. Well, Ginny scored twelve—"

Hermione places a perfect mask of incredulity on her face. "Bet that was a sight."

"—in the bloody rain! There was lightening and midway, it started hailing. My sister's the best out of all of us when it comes to Quidditch, ma'am." He swallowed thickly and looks away. "When it came to anything, really. She was brilliant."

"And so young, too, when she got recruited, right?"

He nods, opening his mouth to undoubtedly give her more details, but Harry interrupts them by barging through the door. His eyes bounce from she to Charlie and then groans, closing his eyes, and shaking his head. "For Christ's sake, woman."

He charges into the room, grabs her by the arm—and she lets him—and drags her out of the room, back down the stairs. "Nice speaking to you," she calls to Charlie over her shoulder.

He waves at her before she closes the door behind her. "See you, ma'am."

"I can't leave you alone for five minutes." It's not until they're outside, that Harry whirls around and asks, "What'd you do to him? Ma'am? Ma'am?"

Her brow quirks. "Nothing."

"That's a load of piss."

He looks down at the arm he grabbed, seeing the deep red marks that looked much like they came from a finger. The man closes his eyes, sighing. "Tell me you didn't let him take you like a common whore."

She narrows her gaze. He knows about Charlie Weasley's carnal peculiarities. Interesting. But as the Patriarch Weasley said, Harry's like a son to him. Harry and Charlies are like brothers. They probably know a lot about each other.

"I wanted to comfort him," she says. "And teach him some manners."

"In no universe would you comfort anyone like that you've known for two minutes unless it benefited you in some way."

"He made me come twice," she offers.

Behind his green eyes, she sees the cogs working, his mouth setting into a grim line. "I don't now what you're playing at, but Charlie. He's not…" Harry appears troubled, and his voices drops. "He's not good to women. I've only seen him be decent to his mother and Ginny."

"It's not all about decency—"

"It's about respect," he hisses. "I told you about my first gig. Well, after that, I got called over to work a few cases in Bucharest. I got to know Charlie better than I ever wanted to. If you're planning to manipulate him, it won't work the way you want."

Hermione knows she could break Charlie Weasley given time. He already ma'am-ed her. If she failed, she'd be a shame to the Red Room. To her training. Men were the simplest and basest of creatures. Some like to think themselves more complex, more feral than others, but they're not. Once she broke him down, he'd be all hers to build back up to her liking. The trouble is…Hermione's not sure she's got that kind of time.

Suddenly, Draco Malfoy seems promising again.

And she is having dinner at his place tonight.

"Don't suppose you've seen your friend Dean, have you?" she asked, changing the subject.

They both look around, trying to spot his tall, lean person amongst the crowd.

"I see Seamus," says Harry, nudging his chin. "Looks like he's talking to Ron. Can I trust you won't have sex with anyone else while I go talk to him?"

Hermione shrugs one shoulder. When he's out of sigh, she goes back to the refreshment table, this time deciding on a more savory item, the chicken and ham pie. There's got to be some kind of warming spell on it because it's steaming hot. The crust is flaky and buttery, and the filling hearty and fattening. A little much for a humid, summer day.

About to take another bite of food, she yelps in surprise when, again, she's bitten on the ankle. Another thing has clamped its jaw on her. Unlike the other, it doesn't let go with a good shake. Sharp teeth tear at her skin, scraping the flesh raw before blood begins to trickle down into her shoe.

"Little fucker," she curses under her breath. She sets down her plate, wrenches the stumpy, wriggly thing from her limb.

"Language, young lady," said a matronly voice.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder to see Mrs. Molly Weasley standing a couple of feet away from her. Her expression was somber, yet not near as distraught as it had been a little while ago. An army of children of various ages run up beside her, all giddy and smiling faces. Isabella is one of them, though her smile isn't near wide as other children's.

"I suggest you give this one a good toss," says the woman.

"Throw it, throw, throw it," all the children but Isabella chant, though she is bouncing on her feet to the beat of their requests. Her little hand reaches for her grandmother's who takes it, squeezing the tiny appendage.

"Chuck the gnome hard," says a boy of about eleven or twelve. At the word hard, his blue hair turns a vibrant red, the shade not unlike many of the family members around him.

Huh.

"And chuck it far," says a strawberry-blonde girl about ten or eleven, her accent French.

Two girls young, likely sisters, with red hair and their hands clasped join the other children. The oldest of the two turns up her nose, cants her hips, and says in a tone beyond her age, "If you're going to participate in something so utterly juvenile, you must make it count."

The younger girl bobs her head up and down in agreement.

"Uh…" Hermione grimaces. "You know, I'd rather just…" Snap its little neck and be done with it. "Shoo it away."

Hermione's not Natalia. She doesn't cave for children.

"Please," says Isabella in the tiniest of voice. Her brown eyes widen manipulatively, and her barely-there smile melts down into lip-protruding pout.

The others gape at her. "That's the first thing she's said all week," says the blue-to-red haired one.

Mrs. Weasley eyes become wet and shoots Hermione with a pointed, expectant stare only a ferocious mother and grandmother could achieve. It's so powerful, Hermione sees little reason in further delaying the inevitable.

"How far do you think I can throw it?" she asks the kids, forcing her tone to sound light and playful.

"Right before the meadow!"

"No way. Didn't you catch the way she kicked that one before? She'll go farther."

"I suspect she'll get it deep into the meadow!"

"For Godric's sake," says another child, his grin impatient and mischievous. He's got the same, milky chocolate skin tone as Isabella. Unlike riotous curls like hers, his hair is braided tightly to the base of his skull. His round brown eyes glinting of mischief and delight. "Just throw the bloody thing already."

"All right. Here we go." She grabs the creature—gnome?—by an ankle, lifts it, twirls around a few times to gather momentum, and swings with all her might. She, Mrs. Weasley, and the children watch the gnome soar through the air, high above the meadow towards six makeshift Quidditch goal posts. It passes cleanly through one of the hoops.

To go along with the mood, she strikes a pose. Fists on her hips, legs apart, chin slightly tilted upwards. Mrs. Weasley and the kids stare at the goal post the gnome passed through, and then in unison, turned their gazes back to her, jaws unhinged.

"Mother of Merlin," whispers the boy with the braids.

"Ta da," Hermione says awkwardly, cursing herself for getting carried away, and then points towards the house. "I'm going to just go."

Harry breaks through the crowd, grabs her wrist and waves at Mrs. Weasley. "We've got to go now. Bye. Love you all."

"Harry James," clips Mrs. Weasley, causing Harry to falter in his steps and turn around abruptly to face her. "Did you bring this beautiful and incredibly talented young lady to The Burrow and not introduce her to me?"

The woman's chin trembles perfectly as do her lips. Harry sheepishly scratches the back of his head. "You know how it is, Mum," he grumbles.

Mum? He really is part of the clan.

Mrs. Weasley marches up to them and roughly pats Harry on the cheek. "We'll have words, you and I, later."

Hermione sees him visibly swallow. "Yes, ma'am."

The woman turns to Hermione, staring at her like it's the first time. She starts at the bottom, taking her in from toes to head and then back down. Her nose slightly wrinkles at the hem of Hermione's dress, and the younger woman gets the impression the other doesn't care for the length.

"How did you meet Harry?" she finally asks.

Hermione, about to tell an in-depth and fantastical tale that would have Molly Weasley eating out of the palm of her hand, grins cheekily but is interrupted by Harry who grabs her again. He tugs her out of the older woman's clutches, and they set off towards the house.

"We'll be over for Sunday. I promise," he says. "I'll tell you then, but I need to go. I've got…work."

He shoves her into the Floo, throws the powder at her feet, and she's back at Nott's estate. The warm, gritty flame burns her wound, and she gets out of the way, so Harry doesn't land on top of her. Once he appears, he grabs her shoulders, shaking her.

"What. Is. The. Matter. With. You?"

Calmly, she removes his hands off her. "You wanted me to come with you. You didn't want to be alone. In your words, you wanted me to get a feel on Dean Thomas. Immediately, upon arrival, you leave me to fend for myself. Big mistake. Aren't you aware that I'm kind of a sociopath? There's no Dean. Just me and a lot of sad, clueless, vulnerable people along with an excellent spread of the finer cuisines England has to offer. A bored, former spy's paradise. What did you think was going to happen? That was I going to stay in the corner looking awkward if not invisible?"

"Let go of my arms."

Hermione complies, and Harry sucks in a pained breath of relief when she releases him.

"I may have been careless by flexing my strength, but I think I made a spectacular first impression with Mum and the rest of the fam."

Her glares at her. "Sit down," he orders, his tone gruff. "Let me get a look at that bite."

Her mouth twitches before twisting into an enlightened smirk. Going over to the nearest patio chair, she sits down and raises her leg. Harry kneels in front of her, removing her shoe. From the pocket of his trousers, he takes out a cloth small vial of something. With his wand, he a sprays water from the tip onto the wound, only to find it's already closed when he wipes her ankle dry.

"I heal fast," she tells him.

"We won't need much then." He sprinkles a bit of the liquid on the now shallow bite marks, and she watches the thin skin above her ankle bone become smooth. He shakes out the cloth with a flourish and tosses it over his shoulder. "Now I'm no Healer Malfoy, but I did all right."

"You could give it a kiss, you know?" Her voice becomes sultry, and she lowers her lashes. "Just in case."

He drops her foot and stands. "You're candy coated poison," he tells her. He surprises her by caressing her jawline with an open palm. "I bet you even taste good going down."

"If you wanted to really find out." She nips at his thumb, and he jerks his hand back like she burned him. "I probably wouldn't deny you."

She's denied so few already. Why start now?

He stares at her, a flush darkening his cheek. Hermione recalls Natalia's tale of attempting to seduce Barton not far into her turncoat status and how she failed. Never had she failed in persuading a target, happily married or not. How much of a fuss would Harry put up if she decided to be proactive? It could be fun to find out. He seems the type to easily fluster when his guard's down.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes, and I appreciate it." Harry rubs both hands over his flushed face.

Nott is leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pocket, cigarette pinched between his lips. "Remus may've cancelled, 17, but Severus didn't. Go get a head start on the excuse you'll make about destroying your cauldron."

She makes no move to leave. In fact, she situates herself more comfortably in the chair, swinging her bare-footed leg over the other, bouncing it languidly. "And to give you a head start. Soo-jin talked to me yesterday about memory spells. If I ever performed them. She forced an answer out of me, and it was…" She smiles sourly. "Unpleasant."

Harry bristles at the news, and Nott casually drops his cigarette, digging the smoking fag with the sole of his shoe. Unbothered.

"You didn't say anything last night," says Harry.

"Last night? You mean after that quaint gathering at your undeserving Noble House of Black." Nott arches a brow. He rolls up the cuffs of his shirt. "Is there something going on between you two I should know about in case it fucks up everything?"

"I think she's going to have me start modifying memories," Hermione says, chewing her bottom lip. She then admits, "I've done it before, but just a couple of times, and I got lucky I didn't create lasting damage. My work was not amazing. It's like…" She tries to find the right words. "It's like whittling a tiny figurine with a machete. I need a gentler touch. Soo-jin, at this point, may not care if I accidentally damage any of her foes in the name of her cause. She's not going to bother teaching me right now."

Harry lets out an aggravated sigh. "I'm sure you could get in contact with your old Hit Wizard buddies. They're damn near pristine in their delivery of memory charms, aren't they?"

"Or…she could dazzle Severus and then let it be known to him Soo-jin's planning to scramble unsuspecting folks' brains. He might relent. She can use the house-elves for practice."

Hermione frowns at him, imaging their bony knees knocking together in terror as they stand before her, unready yet forced to suffer her unrefined techniques.

"She's not going to practice on the house elves," says Harry, sneering. "Jesus, they're practically kids."

"They're older than me," argues Nott.

"What if she kills them? Bubble practically raised you and think what Soo-jin would do if she and Ripper died under your care. You've already lost Lilo, mate. And you did brilliant not showing how much you cared, but I know you well enough that—"

"17 will use the elves, Potter," Nott inserts coldly, his eyes slit.

Potter is silent for a moment, turning to face the maze. "She can practice on me," he finally says, not seeing the satisfied smirk spreading across Nott's face.

"Noble House of Black, indeed," Nott says. "You went to Weasleys'. Was Thomas there?"

"Seamus was."

"And?"

"Either he's a good liar or doesn't know shit."

"Or Thomas isn't a part of it. C'mon, mate. It's Dean. He's a good bloke. You're insulting him by even thinking he's dabbling in this shit."

Harry doesn't reply, continuing to dramatically glower at the maze.

"And I hate to drudge up bad memories, but your gut feelings haven't always been right. Think of Sirius-"

"I was fifiteen. Jesus, Nott!"

Nott sighs, massaging his neck, a flicker of shame on his face. "And how was Isabella?"

Harry shrugs, his jaw still clenched. "She had her cousins." He turns to face Nott, apprehensive. "And, uh, with the exception of Charlie, all the Weasley siblings want her. I'm sure there will be a kerfuffle about it this coming Sunday over roast."

"I'm her godfather. It'd be a dishonor to Blaise if I let anyone of those Blood-Traitors—"

"He married one."

"Out of the goodness of my heart, I'm giving Mrs. Weasley closure by letting Isabella stay with her for the rest of the month, but at the end of the day, I'm her legal guardian. Unless any one of them want to sue for custody—"

"They will," Harry simply says.

Hermione picks up her shoe and shuffles into the house, changes her clothes. Snape, in fact, does show up early. In fact, he's already there inside the house when she's making her way to the staircase. She planned to change out of her dress, but his stare is moderately expectant, hinting at sinisterly annoyed. He gestures to her ruined cauldron and the scorch marks left on the table, saying nothing.

Snape himself is over another cauldron, this one he brought. There are grayish plumes of smoke billowing out of the cauldron beneath him. His own station is impeccably clean. He's been here for a while then. Long enough to clean up his ingredients.

"I need to learn how to properly modify memories," she tells him. "And to block Soo-jin from invading my mind."

He says nothing, only continuing to stir in a gentle folding manner before taking a ladle and dipping it into the cauldron. He pours a humble amount of lilac liquid into a goblet and sets it down on the library table. She drags her feet over there, pinning him a look of distrust.

"I really don't think our answers are going to be at the bottom of this cup." She brings the rim up to her nose, taking a sip following a prompt cough.

Tastes like a concentrate of black licorice and salt water.

"Drink it all," he orders.

"This is for my brand, right?"

He dips his chin.

She swallows everything, her eyes burning. "Oh, God. That's...um. Powerful?" Her eyes slide to a chair close by. "I think I need to sit." Her knees buckle, the goblet falling to the floor, and she ends up crawling to the seat. "Is this...normal?"

When she manages to get her ass on the cushion, she notices a mildly perplexed expression on Snape's face.

"No, then?" Her finger tips feel cold. Numb, even. She struggles to ruck the sleeve of her dress to expose her brand. "It still looks the same."

Snape brings the goblet from the floor with a sweep of his wand. He fills it again before hesitantly offering her more.

"Are you sure?" she asks, wincing. Her legs are freezing. Goosebumps erupt all over her body. Her teeth start to chatter. "I don't...I feel sick. Like my body's shutting down."

"Drink another," he says.

"A-Are you t-trying to k-kill me?" She laughs.

"In a way." He gives her a meaningful stare. "But trust me. You don't want to be aware in the slightest for what's going to happen."

Exhaustion hits her like a freight train, she can't even respond or even hold up the cup. Snape has to bring the rim to her lips. The moment she swallows, the world around her blends together. Her eyelids become heavy, and she's dimly aware she's falling off her chair. She's gone before hitting the floor.

To be Continued...