Chapter 4
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt?
Th' infernal serpent…
Paradise Lost, Book I
At eight o'clock in the morning, Hermione's wand started spinning on her beside table, emitting a series of whistles, which, upon close listening, proved to be scales in G. With each thirty-second interval, the volume increased.
It took Hermione a few tries before she successfully slapped her hand down on her wand, silencing the Sonne Matine charm she'd set on it. She sat up, brushing grit from her eyes, and blinked at the sunny scene outside her window. Birds tweeted cheerfully from the small cherry-blossom trees in the garden as butterflies feasted on the hydrangeas.
Another day in paradise. Huzzah.
When Hermione moved to slide her feet to the floor, she winced. Her inner thighs were a little tender; there was also an ache inside her, a soreness where there should be nothing.
Oh, no…
She clapped a hand to her mouth, as though stopping herself from voicing her next thought would somehow make it less painful.
I had sex with Ron. Oh, sodding hell.
She clasped her hands together, twisting her fingers as she gnawed at her bottom lip. This was not good. This was really, really not good. Having sex with one of your best friends when you did not reciprocate his romantic feelings was bad enough. Doing so when you were the only two people living in a small house was worse.
Doing so only because you were bored… This cut entirely too close to the label "scarlet woman" that Molly Weasley had hinted at two years ago. Granted, it was not Hermione's intention to toy with Ron's affections, but that was exactly what she had just done. He had told her how he felt and she, though she said nothing about requited emotions, had followed a course of action that certainly would not disenchant him of the possibility.
All because she had wanted something interesting to do. Because she was curious.
Ron might be a bit of a twit at times, but he did not deserve this. Hermione cringed at the apology she would have to make, and soon, if there was any chance of fixing this situation. Time to think, prepare, and consider was needed, and doing so alone was a must; fortunately, it wouldn't be hard. Ron generally didn't wake until ten or so, and he was used to her going for solitary walks that often lasted until noon—it was a ritual that had developed over the weeks.
There was a smear of blood on the toilet paper, but aside from the slight soreness that accompanied every movement, there was no other sign that she had lost her virginity the previous night. Hermione took a rapid shower. She felt… not dirty, no; she was ashamed of some of her actions, but not of losing her virginity. Confused and guilty. Hot water didn't erase the feelings, but it took some of the evidence away.
As she brewed coffee and inhaled a bowl of cereal, Hermione considered the one choice she'd made last night that she didn't feel bad about: lying to Ron about her virgin status. When he'd asked her, it had been instinct (good, honest Hermione Granger instinct, she thought with a grim smile) to tell the truth, but something stopped her.
If I'd told him the truth, he would have… stopped? No, she amended, as she placed the dishes in the sink and set them to scrubbing themselves with a wave of her wand, but he would have made an event of it. It would have made sex even more important to him. The Weasleys were good people, but a bit old-fashioned in some of their thinking. Their reactions to Ginny's love life were proof enough of that. No doubt Ron believed a good girl only gave up her virginity to a boy she loved (whilst in no way holding himself to the same standard). If he'd known, her apologies today would be even harder.
But there was also the plain, simple fact that her virginity was her own to do with as she pleased. Some part of her didn't want Ron to be able to tell people that he had "taken it." It wasn't his to take.
Practicality over old-fashioned Victorian romance every time. She smiled for a minute as she stepped out the door and paced quickly through the garden, but the sight of her tea mug from last night, still sitting on the bench, sobered her. Her views on virginity aside, she owed Ron an explanation and an apology, and she needed to remember that.
Hermione mentally scripted her apology to Ron on her way to the forest. Like everything else she wrote, it received an outline, rough draft, edits, rewrites, and final polishes. She was at the stream by the time she'd finished it, and she'd been muttering it to herself, trying to get the sound of it clear, down to the last inflection.
"… and I'm truly sorry—hm, no, not enough… I'm deeply sorry if I misled you. You're my friend and you deserve, wait, no, you've earned better treatment. Mkay." Hermione paused in her soliloquy to ponder the effect her speech could have as a whole.
With no sound, no incantation, no warning, she was smacked off her feet and into the ground by what felt like a block of solid air. Before she could catch her breath and scramble to face her attacker, her wrists and ankles snapped together, and black, vine-like ropes wrapped tightly about them. More ropes snaked around her head, gagging her even as she opened her mouth to scream.
Panicked, she fought her bonds, squirming on the ground. She rolled over and nearly broke her nose on the toe of a polished black boot.
Severus watched, idly twirling her wand between his fingers, as Granger came eye-to-toe with his boot and froze. Her head whipped up, and he looked down into very wide brown eyes. A muffled noise that might have been an attempt at a scream came from behind the ropes covering her mouth.
Much as he would have liked to loom above her and gloat for a time, he had to act quickly if he was to salvage anything of her trust. Not even know-it-all Granger would think clearly when ambushed and bound by a man she no doubt believed to be a murderer and an enemy.
He stepped back a bit and dropped to one knee, which placed them, if not on equal ground, at a closer proximity. As a conciliatory gesture, he placed her wand down on a flat stone between his foot and her face. Her eyes flicked from the wand to him, narrowing in puzzled wariness.
"Miss Granger," he said, "please note that I have not killed you, nor have I done you any harm. I suggest you analyze this and deduce a logical explanation."
She frowned and blinked at him, probably confused by his curt, matter-of-fact tone, but he could see her considering the situation. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and some of the tension went out of her muscles. She almost certainly did not trust him, but she looked prepared to listen to him now that she knew she was in no immediate danger.
He cocked an eyebrow and received a slow nod in reply.
"Miss Granger," he said, "I am going to release your bonds, on the promise that you will not scream, flee, or attack me. Take it as given that if you attempt any of those courses of action, you will find yourself back at my feet in the same situation you currently inhabit, and I will be much less inclined to be amicable in further dealings. Is that understood?"
Nod.
Satisfied, but still alert, Severus stood up. He stepped back to give her room to rise before pointing at her with his wand—she flinched—and intoning, "Liberatus."
The ropes unwound and vanished with a crack. Granger seized her wand and scrambled to her feet. He could see her muscles quivering. Humans are animals, and fight or flight instinct will always direct their actions when under stress. Promise or no, if he made one wrong move she would run. And while having her gagged and bound had a certain appeal—especially the gagged part, he thought, as her mouth opened and questions poured forth—it would not make for a trusting beginning.
"Why are you here? How did you get here? Why the bloody hell shouldn't I hex you into next week?"
He snorted at that one. "As if you could."
She glared at him and stuck out her chin. "If I remember correctly, I did hex you once, and that was three years ago. Just think how much I've improved since then."
Damn. His lip curled at the memory of being Disarmed and knocked out by three fucking teenagers.
"But you're alone now, Miss Granger. Do you really think you could so much as scratch me, when I'm fully prepared for an assault?"
Petulant silence answered him. He smirked.
"Sensible of you. Now, as to why I'm here—,"
"Did you kill him? Whose side are you on?"
"Listen—"
"Show me why I should listen to you, Professor."
"I shall if you shut up!"
Her eyes widened again, the tautness returning to her muscles.
Severus clenched his teeth. She doesn't know any better, he reminded himself. And if she had professed unconditional faith in me, I would have called her a damn fool. He had to force back the anger, bite down the bile in his throat, if he was to keep from frightening her into running. Deep breaths, sucked in through his nostrils, gradually turned the boil into a simmer. There would be ample time to yell at her in the months to come, but first he had to keep her with him long enough to convince her of his constancy to the side of Light.
When he felt it was safe to speak, his voice came out cold and snarling.
"You want some proof of why you should listen to me, girl? You need the evidence shoved in your face, as always? Fine!"
He whipped around and raised his wand, ignoring her gasp. With a flourish, he sketched a glowing oval in the air before him; a sweeping wave filled it in with silver. A mirror now hung there, reflecting his angry visage and, if he adjusted the angle a touch, Granger's white face and clenched jaw. He needed her to be able to see the mirror, without being easily seen from within it. A quick tilt to the left and up fixed the problem.
The silver rippled as he tapped the tip of his wand against it and said, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!"
An incoherent splutter came from behind him. No doubt she thought he was playing a sick joke, attempting to commune with the dead, and a grisly scene was in store for them both.
When Dumbledore's wrinkled, kindly, and most of all, living face appeared on the mirror, Severus heard a faint gasp.
"Severus? Is everything all right?" Dumbledore peered at Severus over his half-moon spectacles. His crooked nose looked rather sunburned and, upon closer inspection, the familiar spectacles had a tint to them. Apparently the Headmaster was enjoying his holiday on the sunny beaches of Italy.
"Perfectly well, Albus," he replied. "I simply wished to inform you that Miss Granger and Weasley seem to be thriving. In fact," he continued, a sudden bout of spite urging him to new depths, "I would recommend limiting the amount of sweets the house-elves send, as Transfiguring the clothes to make them larger only works for so long, and we will not be able to re-measure Miss Granger should she run out of trousers that fit."
Her squeak of indignation was music to his ears.
Albus gave him a stern look. "Your concern is touching, Severus," he said, in that completely nonsarcastic tone that plumbed the depths of dry wit. "Well, if there's nothing more to report, I shall return to my novel. Highland Moor Passions, it's called, and I must say the gentleman on the cover is a beautiful specimen, though the kilt is not very flattering. Good day."
With a last nod and a smile, Dumbledore's face vanished from the mirror. It returned to its silvery default appearance. Severus slashed through it with his wand, and it dissipated into the air like fog burning off in the sun.
"He—he's alive?"
"Yes, Miss Granger. Alive and well." But not for long, if you cooperate.
Severus glanced over his shoulder. He wondered if her eyeballs would fall from her head if she widened her eyes any further. They seemed to take up the entire upper half of her face.
She licked her lips. "But… Harry saw you perform the Killing Curse on Professor Dumbledore, and we found his body at the foot of the tower. No one could have survived Avada Kedavra; even if he did, if you had missed or something, the fall would have killed him."
Severus stepped to a nearby tree and leaned against it. Arms crossed over his chest, he prepared himself for a very long inquisition.
"Potter saw a flash of green light subsequent to my saying 'Avada Kedavra.' As you know, the Killing Curse—and all the Unforgivables—requires great force of will to be carried out successfully. Without the true desire to kill at that moment the spell is cast, the curse is merely words. I spoke the incantation, and then used a nonverbal spell that produced green light combined with a strong Levitation spell to move Albus from the tower. I can't tell you exactly how he escaped, but I did place a broom on a window-ledge several stories below. Presumably, he slowed his fall and used the broomstick."
She nodded. He could see her running the story through her mind, seeing if all the facts lined up, which was exactly what he expected her to do. What he counted upon her to do, in fact.
"And the body… a golem? A Polyjuiced corpse? I mean, is it possible for Polyjuice Potion to transform a corpse, or would you have to administer it to a living person and then…" She trailed off, flushing at the accusation she was on the brink of throwing at him. Or Dumbledore. He wasn't sure which would have horrified her more: that a man she thought to be dead had killed someone and presented them as his own corpse, or the man who she, up until now, believed to have killed the other man had performed the murder and enchantment for him.
"A golem; clay, before you ask, and it required two months to perfectly sculpt it to look like Albus. No, I will not tell you which books contain the procedure for creating golems," he added, as her face lit with an all-too-familiar manic curiosity. She deflated slightly.
"Do you now trust me, Miss Granger? I do not wish to stand here going over every detail of my considerable alibi. If we have determined that I am on your side, then I shall move this conversation forward."
She cocked her head, considering him for a moment longer, and then nodded.
"I think I trust you, Professor."
"Good. Now," he continued, taking his weight off the tree and stepping closer to her, "you will return to this place next week, at the same time. Bring your wand. And do not tell Weasley of our meeting." With that, he turned and began to draw the outline of a doorway back to Spinner's End.
"Why not? And what are you and I going to be doing?"
He snapped around to glare at her. She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
"I have a right to know that, Professor. I refuse to allow you to take me completely by surprise each time we meet."
"I shall be teaching you dueling, Miss Granger," he snarled. "And Albus doesn't want Weasley to know that you've been selected to be trained as Potter's bodyguard, should you end up in battle next to him. Apparently it would hurt Weasley's precious feelings, so Albus wants to keep the situation as sugar-coated as his sherbet lemons. Satisfied?"
Her jaw dropped. "Me?" she squeaked. "But what about the Aurors? Or Professor Dumbledore? Or you, or one of the teachers—."
"I will explain further next week, now shut up and go back to the cottage. Behave normally and keep your mouth shut, Miss Granger. For," he said, stepping close to her and leaning in, "if I so much as suspect that Weasley knows of this, I will Obliviate both of you. And I make no guarantee to be delicate about it. You can be useful to this war, but do not delude yourself about being essential to it. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," she said, quietly.
He sneered at her white face. With a flick, he completed the spell and stepped through the doorway to the ramshackle town beyond.
The glowing door closed behind Snape with no more sound than a gentle breeze, cutting off her view of him and leaving her mind whirling.
Hermione reached out for a nearby apple tree, arms shaking, and sagged against its solid wood. Confusion, fear, and an odd sense of triumph warred inside her mind.
Triumph, she realized, because her over-thinking the situation had been correct. Dumbledore had tricked the world again. Snape was not a murderer.
And she had been right to wonder and question.
Of course, in his typical swirling-robes-and-sneering-face manner, Snape had left more questions than answers. Hermione drummed her fingers against the tree trunk, picking at a rough spot in the bark with a nail.
If Snape could contact Dumbledore, could he also contact Harry? Or, she considered, teeth tugging at her lower lip, were they in the same place?
Now that was an interesting thought. The safest place in the world was generally regarded as wherever Albus Dumbledore happened to be, particularly if no one was going to be looking for said place, on account of Dumbledore being "dead." Where better to stow Harry, the Boy Who Lived? And by the sun-kissed look of the headmaster, it certainly was no place in England. Even better for hiding two faces that were instantly recognizable in the British Isles.
Well, she could posit her theory to Snape next week and see if he deigned to answer. Until then, she would comb the books in the cottage for any information on dueling. With any luck, Ron would notice the multiple nearly-empty coffee cups and rumpled attire and divine that she was in full research mode.
Hermione paused in her thoughts. For an instant, her fingers stilled on the bark of the tree.
Smack!
Leaves quivered in time with the stinging throb in her palm. She'd slapped it against the tree like punctuation to her thought—a visceral exclamation point.
Ron.
Damn.