Disclaimer: Clearly, Harry Potter and all associated books, movies and paraphernalia do not belong to me. Many thanks to JKRowiling and others for their patience.

Catalysts

June, 1998

A knock at her bedroom door in Grimmauld Place brought Hermione halfway out of her chair before the handle turned and her former Transfiguration professor entered.

'Minerva,' she greeted the older woman with a tired, but eager, smile, the impatience a rare reminder of her true age. 'They brought it? And they're all right?'

'They did and they are,' Minerva confirmed quietly. 'The last Horcrux, though Potter has the room warded so heavily now that we have them all that none but he and Mr. Weasley can enter.' Her voice held a hesitant note buried within her obvious irritation, and Hermione sighed as her mentor dropped into the rocking chair, starting the soothing motion automatically.

'We're still pretty short on trust, aren't we?' she asked quietly.

'Potter wouldn't let me in,' Minerva replied, pulling bobby pins out of her hair, hat already discarded to the floor next to her seat, her long, grey-and-black tresses tumbling down in individual curls over her tartan robes. 'He is ill inclined to forgive you, Hermione, and to trust Severus. Or anyone who might have even the slightest leanings in your direction. He-' her mouth twisted as she heard again the young man's stumble over pronouncing Granger's last name, a habit the younger wizard had acquired from Mad-Eye Moody when he was particularly displeased with someone. But Hermione was too close to Potter's heart for him to push her out of it for spite alone, and although his words were harsh and tone flat when he spoke of or to her, Minerva could see the pain in his green eyes when he looked at his former best friend.

'He...?' Hermione picked up the dangling pronoun.

'He is insistent on his right to be pig-headed, even to the point of childishness. I reminded him that we could not do this without you. Without Severus. He replied that we had agreed to disagree on this point.' She left out the part about traitors. Her protégé had sacrificed enough without adding to her torment.

Hermione's sigh caught in her chest, pain so deep it physically twisted in her, trapping the air within. A year ago, when they had begun the hunt for the Horcruxes in the wake of Dumbledore's death, they had been a united whole, four determined young witches and wizards carrying the hope of the wizarding world in their wands and their minds. But the whole had been destroyed, and fragmentary parts were all that remained, a chasm separating her from the boy who had come to her rescue in a third-floor bathroom and stupidly jumped on the back of a mountain troll, sticking his wand up the beast's nose to save her life. What had been broken could not be restored, the trust on both sides seemed breached beyond repair. Their stumbling attempts at bridging the gap over the past month had continued to fail, tempers flaring swiftly as awkwardness replaced ease, and uncertainty, warmth. And as they set their stage for what they were planning to be the final battle with Voldemort, Harry had withdrawn from her once again, even shoving Ron aside when the third member of their childhood triad defended her.

Hermione rose, pacing, as her staunchest ally shook out her hair, massaging where the pins pressed against her scalp. The teenaged witch cursed herself, the stubbornness of her friend, her absent-by-necessity bondmate, knowing that if Harry did not come around, there could be no battle, and the age-marked face of Albus Dumbledore swam into her vision, accompanied by his steady, melodic voice. 'Your difficulties with one another must be resolved, for our defence must stand united, or fall...' He had not been speaking to her about Harry at the time, but the aptness of the phrase resounded in her mind as she spoke.

'Without his sincere trust we cannot undo the wards around the Horcruxes. He has to believe in me, we must be united...or we cannot destroy them.'

The older woman dropped her hands from her head, her wand waving a full teacup into existence before her face. She sipped the steaming liquid slowly as she gazed at her unexpected charge.

'I know.'

~888~

February, 1997

As Hermione started up the staircase towards the hospital wing instead of following Ginny and Luna into the Great Hall for tea, she heard the twin thudding of large feet behind her that told her Harry and Ron had noticed her change of course, and altered theirs accordingly – asking no questions, content to shadow her. The witch restrained a sigh.

Learning she was pregnant had shocked the young woman out of her depression as she had instantly devoured not only every book in the library's limited selection on pregnancy, birth and early childhood, but also the thick rolls of parchment Madam Pomfrey had given her on one of her other options: adoption. She still shrank from the abortion materials shoved to one side of her trunk, not having made it past the first two paragraphs.

'Life in all its forms is precious,' she could hear her mother's sorrow-laden voice on the day they had decided to put their ill and ancient dog down. 'To take life, one must be very, very certain that it is the only way.'

But the question remained, expanding to fill most of her brain as she committed to memory recommendations for vaccinations, eating habits and exercises for mothers with their new-borns: what would she do with a baby in the Order of the Phoenix? Duty bound her to her best friend until the end of the war. And she could not imagine for an instant telling her parents. She had always found them fair and loving...but she knew both would take a dim view of her condition...especially since telling them the truth behind it was completely out of the question. And if the Death Eaters were to decide that her child, like herself, had to go...

What if abortion was the only way?

Now in urgent need of privacy to consider her options, she had become sharply aware of the constant surveillance she had been under for the past month. She was never alone, except when she was in the dormitory bathroom. As her consciousness once again looked outward instead of being consumed inwardly, she had felt Lavender's eyes on her in their bedroom. She noticed Ginny, Luna and Neville observing her during meals, and Harry and Ron were on her heels from the instant she set foot in the common room in the morning to the moment she ascended the staircase under the gaze of Ron's girlfriend.

Though genuinely touched and amazed by the solicitous attentions of her fellow Gryffindors and Luna and the changes in her two closest friends that reflected their growing maturity – six months ago Harry and Ron would never have willingly put their lives aside for weeks at a time solely to pay her mind – Hermione had swiftly tired of her inability to move about the castle without a cadre of concerned friends. And her exacerbation was increasing as she was reduced to guilty, hastily snatched moments of reading Madam Pomfrey's thick stack of parchments by candlelight behind her firmly-closed curtains.

She turned on the stairs, taking in the two forms no more than three steps below her, exasperation and intense gratitude rolled together at their questioning look, Harry's hand already out to steady her if she was coming back down the stairs. Hermione had finally noted, too, that touch had become a much more common part of their exchange, the awkwardness that had permeated Ron just the previous spring vanishing with their too-rapid aging, maturity bringing an end to the endless games of status and attraction that consume teenagers.

'I'm not made of glass, Harry,' she said gently. 'I won't break.' Her friend blinked, glanced at the hand that had risen out of habit, and dropped it back to his side sheepishly.

'Sorry,' he said with a faint smile. 'I know.'

'Are you all right? Why are we going to the ward?' Ron asked, blue eyes glittering with worry.

'We are not. I am. Alone,' she said firmly. The boys swapped looks, and the automatic way they turned to one another betrayed how often it was done. 'I'm fine, Ron, Harry,' she said, offering them a tired smile. 'I just need some potions from Madam Pomfrey to help with my nutrition.'

Two pairs of shoulders visibly relaxed, their unvoiced concern assuaged, and for a moment, affection swelled her heart to bursting at the care these two boys were taking with her, like a precious object to be handled with the greatest love. She stepped down to meet them, still shorter than both of them as she stood on the step above them, sliding one of her smaller hands into each of their larger ones. 'I really am all right.' She was dimly impressed with the steadiness of her voice as she lied. She had always been a poor inventor of stories in situations where it was necessary. But she had improved with the ironclad need to keep her secret, and though she felt that all she wanted to do was collapse in her mother's arms and cry, for her loss and her lack of guidance, she could see belief in Ron and Harry's faces.

'I'll catch you up at tea in a few minutes,' she said quietly, and though her tone was gentle, both boys heard the firmness there, and knew that she was not going to let them come with her. A moment's hesitation, and then Ron nodded and smiled his easy smile, his decision made.

'Sure.' His hand on Harry's arm signalled their second, more reluctant friend, and copper and raven heads descended the stairs rapidly, vanishing through the doors that were thrown open to allow late afternoon sunlight to stream over the stone. Content that she would be able to speak with the medi-witch about her condition alone, Hermione hurried up towards a place she had spent far too much time in during her years at Hogwarts: the hospital wing.

'Madam Pomfrey?' She was surprised by the steadiness of her voice as she called for the matron. The nurse came hurrying out of her office at the far end of the ward.

'Miss Granger! What can I do for you? Sit down, dear,' she added, waving to a bed and snapping her fingers to bring a half dozen instruments to float alongside her in mid-air. 'Are you feeling all right? The headmaster tells me you've been eating and taking those vitamins I gave you.' Her wand was already waving, the smoky forms of diagnostic spells coalescing and dissolving in front of the young woman in a series of answers to different, unspoken queries, magic coming from the older woman's wand faster than speech could carry it. The greying witch nodded with satisfaction at the boost in her patient's digestive tract before turning to study Hermione's immune system.

'Much improved, much improved,' she murmured to herself. Her basic concerns assuaged, she asked, 'What else do you need? Different food? We can put in a word to the house-elves, if you would like. Do you want more rest? Given your condition and your excellent class work, a few words to Albus would allow you to drop some classes if you wish, or merely delay them a year, since the baby is due next September.'

'No, thank you,' Hermione said, slightly flustered by the barrage. 'I mean – about classes, I already know I'll have to drop some of them if I carry the baby to term...'

She stopped, her 'if' twisting in the air, took a deep breath and continued. 'I've been thinking...with duties to the Order and to Harry, I don't know if I can...can raise a child in such an environment.' A suffocating pain threatened her words, and she could hear unshed tears in her voice as she forced herself to speak. 'I was wondering...could you tell me something about abortion?'

The medi-witch sighed, Summoning a chair to sit in as she squarely faced her patient. 'Have you read what I gave you?'

Hermione shook her head, unable to smile at the irony of answering this question in the negative. 'I can't read about this. It's so...precise. So clinical. There's no intimation of feelings – of what the mother can expect to feel,' she swallowed, 'or the baby...'

'Not much is known about foetuses at this stage,' the nurse warned her quietly. 'I cannot tell you what it would "feel" if you chose to abort. But you have a point about the material. It is rather dry, isn't it?' She cleared her throat and shifted slightly in her chair.

'There is a series of potions – twelve in all, administered over twenty days – that will shed the foetus with very little pain or inconvenience to you as the mother. Naturally, you will bleed, but it will be like a rather heavy period. Unlike Muggle doctors, there is no need for any kind of invasive procedure.' She smiled sympathetically as Hermione winced. 'I say this not to be callous but because it is true, Miss Granger. But as for the emotional side...'

She took a deep breath. 'I do not know a single woman who has not regretted, at one stage or another, making this decision. For some it is fleeting, lasting no more than a few days or a week. For some it lasts some months. A very few end up believing they made the wrong choice – and it haunts them the rest of their lives. Likewise, I have known women who immediately break down, those who seem fine for some weeks or days, and those who fall apart much later – on what would have been the child's first birthday, for instance. But I have never heard of anyone who has chosen to abort and been unaffected. Make no mistake, my dear. The child is part of you – and you already know that. If not your waking mind, certainly the heart and body preparing itself for the baby.

'You make a very good point about your duties to the Order, but consider – you also have many allies, many options when it comes to raising your child. If you truly believe you cannot care for it yourself, think of the people who might. The obvious choice is your parents – though I do not know them. Another who springs to mind is Molly Weasley.'

'Also an Order member,' Hermione countered.

'Yes, but one who tends to be a homemaker instead of a warrior. The role she plays in our resistance is much better situated to child care.'

'But in essence, the problem is the same,' the young witch said, frustration bleeding into her voice. 'I dare not give this child to Muggles – even if my parents would agree to take care of a child conceived in my sixth year at school.' The bitter self-mockery in her tone caused the medi-witch to close her eyes. The prefect should be too innocent to feel such fury, especially directed inwards. 'Nor could I ask Molly or any other Order member. The baby would still be in the middle of the war – my parents could never protect it should Voldemort's cronies come crawling, and the rest of the Order are in the same danger I am.'

'I doubt it,' the nurse answered. 'The rest of the Order doesn't go charging off with Harry Potter every time he sees a red flag. But,' she continued swiftly, cutting off whatever argument the Gryffindor was preparing to make, 'I understand what you mean. You did read about adoption, I assume?'

Hermione nodded, frowning. 'I got the very distinct impression that it's not a common thing to do.'

'In wizarding society, it isn't. But that doesn't mean it can't be done.' Madam Pomfrey levelled the young woman a serious look. 'However, I will stress again that I strongly recommend speaking to the father.'

Hermione's jaw locked at this repeated suggestion, but the medi-witch was as tenacious as any of her friends. 'You are certain he does not want the child – but perhaps his parents or family friends could offer a more palatable solution than yours or members of the Order. Or,' she leaned forward to capture one delicate hand, squeezing it lightly, 'you might be pleasantly surprised to find that you're wrong – that he's very invested in the well-being of his offspring. Fatherhood changes men, Miss Granger. Sometimes in utterly unexpected ways. I urge you to give both him and yourself the chance to find out.'

~888~

Ron glanced sidelong at his younger sister as they meandered around the lake, snow crunching under their boots. Her brown eyes were simultaneously cheerful and burdened – the flashing red of a robin taking wing bringing a smile to her lips, the tangle of clouds overhead causing it to fade.

The youngest two of seven, barely sixteen months apart in age, their natural affection had blossomed from an early age. Far from Harry's worries that dating his sister would infuriate his best friend, Ron had been delighted to see them walking hand-in-hand around the Burrow's barely-tamed garden that summer, and anxious when his sister had come to him with tear-swollen eyes to tell him that it was over. The Keeper was pleased with his best friend's constant and renewed affections, and the lift it had wrought in Ginny's moods. But it did mean that their long sibling talks, once so common, had become an increasing rarity.

'You and Harry doing okay?' he finally asked.

Ginny hissed a long sigh. 'I would love to say, "yes". But that wouldn't be to whole truth. Does he love me? Yes. Do I love him? Absolutely. But he told me before Christmas that he had to let me go, that he didn't want me endangered by fighting against You-Know-Who with him.'

'As if he could stop you,' Ron snorted. His mother's fierce side, so often submerged beneath the mother-hen exterior, ran undiluted and unchecked in his sister. She had proven herself a powerful witch – and her gift with Charms and Transfiguration was rapidly proving invaluable as Hogwarts slid more towards being a battleground and less of a schoolyard.

'Since then, he's been...it's difficult to say. We both know that this is our war as well as his...but sometimes...since the Riddle house...he can be so cold, Ron, so distant. So terse and – when he's holding me, half the time I feel like I'm melting into him, like we're puzzle pieces made to fit just so. Perfect. But the other half, it's like embracing one of Mum's wooden spoons, he's so hard.'

'Even with Hermione getting better,' Ron mused. In fact, as the witch's improvement became noticeable, her precocious magical abilities rapidly returning, the Boy-Who-Lived was swinging the other way, like a karmic pendulum exacting its due.

'His focus on her is also...unsettling. I'm not jealous,' she quickly assured her brother, who had raised both red eyebrows. 'I know that they treat each other like the brother and sister they never had. But it's hard to know that, right now, Harry is talking to Hermione, not me, about his last meeting with Dumbledore.'

'Nor me,' Ron pointed out, mouth twisting as he swallowed the acid taste of envy. When he had been younger, it had occasionally overwhelmed him. But they could ill afford childish tantrums now. 'They'll tell us later. Tonight. Or when they've found something.'

'I know. I keep hoping to find a way to show him that I'm not – we're not – going anywhere, no matter how hard he pushes.'

'We will,' Ron reached one long arm around his sister and hugged her gently. 'He'll snap out of it.'

Ginny's brown eyes flickered, and he knew that she didn't buy his confident tone any more than he, himself did, but she did not contradict him and instead allowed their talk to turn to Quidditch and the Order as they completed their circuit of the sluggish water.

~888~

'Have you ever heard of Horcruxes?' Harry asked, rubbing his scar. It was his habit when he was thinking of Voldemort, and Hermione wondered if touching his forehead heightened their connection, or whether it was simply an ingrained gesture.

She was sitting on his bed, the door to the boy's dormer locked and warded. She frowned, cocking her head, his faint smile at her unfocussed eyes going unnoticed. The wizard could almost see the thick, thin, old, new, leather-bound and cloth-lined tomes of the Hogwarts' library flickering across her mind's eye, discarded one by one as she mentally reviewed the contents and found them lacking.

'No. Not a single reference,' she said slowly, and her eyebrows drew together. Logically, she knew that there were many disciplines that couldn't possibly receive a mention at Hogwarts – the wizarding world was too vast, and seven years too short a time, to explore all of magic. But in six years of exhaustive research she had never even come across the term. 'What are they?'

'I don't know,' he said in exasperation. 'I – Professor Dumbledore showed me a memory of Voldemort talking to Professor Slughorn.' At her alarmed look, he hastily clarified, 'Voldemort as a boy, you know, when he was a student here.' She relaxed and nodded at him to continue. 'Unfortunately, that's pretty much it. Voldemort asked him about Horcruxes and then something went funny – the headmaster said the memory had been tampered with – and Slughorn denied knowing anything about them.'

'But neither of them mentioned what a Horcrux was for? Or what branch of magic?'

'I guess Dark,' Harry said with a shrug. 'The tampered memory was...frightened. Very. He was obviously scared of Dumbledore seeing the real thing.'

'Horcruxes...' She hesitated. She was no closer to making up her mind about her baby than she had been a week ago when she had learned of her condition – and still flatly unwilling to speak to her bondmate, regardless of what Madam Pomfrey suggested. She should be researching that, not picking up yet another project...

But Harry's private lessons with the headmaster were directly related to defeating the Dark Lord – and she was grateful for her friend's full-focus, for the snap in his jade eyes that told her he was here-and-now, not nursing one of his many waking nightmares or obsessions. If this Horcrux could be any help at all, she needed to know what it was.

'I'll go to the library,' she told him, putting on a smile. 'I'll get a note for the Restricted Section if I have to.'

Harry sighed in relief, realizing with a jolt of guilt that he had expected her to volunteer, known that she would set aside whatever else she might have to do.

'What would I do without you?' he said, and though it was meant to be light-hearted, both heard the sincerity of the question.

'Complete your own inquiries,' the witch told him cheerfully. Carefully lifting her backpack and allowing Harry to help her with the second strap, she started for the portrait hole.

~888~

'Well?' The aging voice interrupted his spinning thoughts the instant Snape's head lifted from the Pensieve.

'A Horcrux,' the younger man murmured, partially to himself. 'Unsurprising.'

'"Unsurprising?"' Dumbledore repeated incredulously.

'Yes. It's clear that my master survived his first fall – a thing that is impossible for any mere mortal. Ergo, the only conclusion to draw is that he is more – or less – than fully human.' The dark wizard sighed, first-finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Of course, immortality has always attracted him, and the creation of Horcruxes is not so difficult, if one is willing to take that first, soul-altering step.'

'Murder.' The flat word rang in the room.

'Murder of a specific kind, Headmaster. The power to create such an object lies in killing the harmless. It thrives on the rush of destroying those who have not earned destruction. Souls will not split for noble intent or necessary devastation. Self-defence or defence of family are perfect examples. One could not make a Horcrux from such events, even if they do result in the attacker's death. I believe warfare is also exempt. To make a Horcrux, it must be a deliberate execution from beginning to end – starting with the selection of a needless victim – and the victim's inability to stop you.'

'You know more about this than I would have wished, Severus,' Dumbledore said hoarsely, blue eyes glossed with tears.

'I know more about it than I want to, now.' A cynical twist of his mouth. 'But I am the Master of Assassins – a dangerous occupation – and I once researched with the intention of splitting my own soul.'

Dumbledore's eyelids fluttered closed, but he had to confess that he was not entirely shocked. Severus Snape was a brilliant wizard, one who had received precious little from his peers and his professors. He could not feign surprise that the young man had been tempted to follow in Riddle's deformed footsteps.

Snape's long fingers fluttered to the cracked ring lying on Dumbledore's hand. 'Is that what that was?'

'Yes.'

'Then you have already handled this complication. You destroyed the Horcrux, Potter will destroy the body. As the prophecy demands.'

'Unfortunately, no. I have set Harry the task of finding the undamaged memory. I fear, given this ring and another piece of evidence stuck under my nose some years ago, that Riddle made more than one.'

Snape stared, dread congealing in his gut. How many more? How many years would it take to rid the world of his Dark master? 'More than one? Is that possible?'

'I suspect that when you are as powerful and as hell-bent on your own mutilation as Tom Riddle became, many things that saner men would not dream of are possible.'

'And their destruction?'

Silence, as if the headmaster were struggling to put half-congealed thoughts into words. 'I think your bond to Hermione Granger may provide part of the key, if not the whole thing. At Samhain, I glimpsed how obsessed Riddle has become with the older rites and magics long lost to humanity. This is no more than a theory, but there's no denying the sheer, innate quantity of ancient power you now control between you.'

'We don't control it. Headmaster, we have no idea how it works. Only that it seems incompatible with wand magic, and releases itself with very little warning.'

'Then we will have to determine how to master it, and soon. Speaking of which,' he switched tracks so quickly that Snape knew there would be no steering the discussion back onto its original course, 'have you made any progress with our Miss Granger?'

Snape dropped his eyes, unable to soften his harsh tone and unwilling to let his employer see his frustration. 'No. I have attempted to speak to her four times, and she has flatly refused. If you want this...confession...to take place, I fear you must arrange it.

'It's not a confession, Severus,' Dumbledore murmured, pained. 'It's an explanation. One we both owe her – not just you, my friend.' He shook himself. 'I will send her an owl. And in the meantime, of course,' his ruined hand swept broadly, taking in the office, the Pensieve and somehow the whole of the last hour, 'this is purely confidential.'

'Of course.'

~888~

'The Mudblood seems in a better mood these days,' Daphne Greengrass muttered to Pansy as they packed their bags from their Transfiguration NEWT.

The pug-nosed Slytherin turned her head to watch Hermione Granger deep in conversation with Professor McGonagall, the Head of Gryffindor obviously pleased at her favourite's return to form. Pansy scowled. The Mudblood improving, while Draco remained cold and distant as ever...

...and she still hadn't made up for last term, when the bitch and her bodyguards had put her, Crabbe and Goyle into the hospital wing...

...and the previous spring, for that disaster in Professor Umbridge's office that had brought Professor Snape's scorn pouring over them...

'Hey, Granger,' she sneered as the class reached the stairs, scattering for their next lessons. Potter and Weasley had already departed for their common room, leaving the Gryffindor alone to head to Arithmancy. Hermione turned, startled, to find herself facing the Slytherin's wand.

'What do you want, Parkinson?' she asked warily, subtly shifting her wand in her sleeve. Stone staircases were no places to duel.

'I owe you,' the other witch replied, voice saccharine. 'For all the lovely trouble you've given me recently.'

The hair on the back of Hermione's neck stood to attention. Pansy was in earnest, and the Gryffindor had no desire to fight battles. What would a curse, even a simple one, do to the baby?

'Make it up to me some other time,' Hermione heard herself say coolly. 'I'm busy now.'

'I don't think so!' Parkinson snarled, and drew her wand across the air, slashing as she cried, 'Diffindo!'

Hermione gasped, throwing herself sideways as the curse whistled past her and she felt the wonderful warmth of her wand slide in her fingers as she flicked her sleeve. Diffindo was only for objects. To use it on a person-

'Expelliarmus!' The wood flew from her hand, and the Gryffindor scrambled, seizing the banister and fighting panic. No first-year fight, this. The other girl was aiming for real injury-

Feeling as if her hearing were suspended somewhere above her, Hermione dimly heard three voices collide in her ears. 'Necto Terra!' came Parkinson's violently triumphant cry, married to a 'What the hell are you doing?' as Ginny sprinted towards them from her class and mixed with a terrifying bellow from the foot of the stairs.

'PARKINSON!'

The Gryffindor felt the slippery tongue of wand-magic reaching for her as Flamma erupted and buried the Slytherin's spell. Hermione's skin flared with brilliant orange fire, tendrils snapping towards her antagonist hungrily. Consume. Eat. End, it hissed greedily, eager to conquer this threat to its mistress.

Cold doused her, and elemental anger rebounded into her, shaking through her limbs as fire was thwarted by water, the air around her hissing with steam. She spun on the balls of her feet, hands fisted and lost wand forgotten as she sought the source of interference-

Her bondmate had gripped her upper arms, steadying her as she reeled, the end of his wand jetting useless liquid, fire long extinguished.

Still yourself. I will take care of it. The child...a gentle warning flitted through her mind, and Hermione felt herself sagging against the narrow chest as immediate exhaustion chased on the heels of surging adrenaline.

'Professor-' Pansy was stammering as she stared into the coldly furious gaze of her Head of House. All the indulgence he had lavished on her for six years had transformed into icy disapproval, his thin mouth set in a taut line.

'Parkinson started it,' Ginny announced, having skidded to a halt next to her friend, and reaching for the arm that Snape had released.

'She did, Professor,' Ernie Macmillian was quick to add, swallowing nervously as the fathomless black turned on him.

Without looking down at the girl clutching him for support, the scathing voice added, 'Stand up, Miss Granger. You have legs. I suggest you use them.'

Embarrassment flushed the pregnant witch as she lifted her forehead from where it had fallen over his heart and quickly stepped away from him, into Ginny's embrace, which tightened as if afraid that Hermione would fall over.

'Fifty points from Gryffindor for an unseemly display. I also think a detention is in order for brawling publically,' said Snape, obsidian eyes glittering as he met his bondmate's gaze for the first time in weeks.

Dumbledore's office. 8:00. There is much I need to tell you.

The fierce rebellion she had offered him each time he had tried to speak to her had flown completely, and she inclined her head a fraction in acceptance, defiant refusals foregone in the face of her tiredness and a new, vibrant emotion reminiscent of hope.

Pansy started to breath in relief, only to find the unwelcome attention returned to her. 'And Miss Parkinson, I believe you and I have a great deal to discuss. My office. Now.' His voice had dropped to its most vicious, and Slytherin's princess paled visibly.

'Giving you a detention? That's bloody unfair!' Ginny snapped as the black robes flicked out of sight around a corner.

'What kind of magic was that? That fire spell – and totally wandless!' Terry Boot enthused, flashing an incredulous grin. 'Parkinson looked like she wet herself!'

'Ask questions later.' The youngest Weasley's brusque tone discouraged the curious from pushing their luck as she steered her friend away from the rapidly-gathering crowd. 'How do you feel? Gryffindor common room or the hospital wing?'

'What? I...I'm fine,' Hermione replied, trying to pull herself back to the stones beneath her feet, struggling with an overwhelming sense of unreality as the red-head's hand on her shoulders directed her towards Gryffindor Tower.

I love you.

'...enjoy sharing my bed with a Mudblood...'

I will take care of it. The child...

Snape knew about her pregnancy, and if she trusted the understated tenderness in his voice...

He cared for it.

And though she cursed her ever-hopeful heart, she could almost feel it beating a new tempo.