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.

Ignorance…

June, 1998

The two figures stood in shadow, swathed by the black hole that was one of many pocketing Knockturn Alley.

The taller's voice was rough and low as he seized the shorter's upper arm, eliciting a gasp of pain from his victim. 'All of them? Potter has all the remaining Horcruxes?'

'I just told you he did! Let me go!'

Seemingly without effort, the first shook the second hard, nearly knocking the cloaked head against the stone and instantly halting any attempt to escape.

'Not yet. Our lord wants some questions answered. If I were you, I'd pray to know what he needs.'

'We're going to see him?' There was no mistaking the tremor coming from behind the second mask, a vocal shiver that betrayed youth and uncertainty as well as fear. The first straightened, gloating plain from the arrogant carriage of his body even though the porcelain-white face covering kept his features from view.

'Yes, I think so,' he drawled, the sound icing the second's spine. This malicious, bullying voice had been inherited, passing from father to son. The unfortunate young Death Eater cringed at the sound. She had attended school for too long with that tone, and was well familiar with what would follow it.

Pain. Simply for the pleasure of watching her writhe. And if the son was bad, surely the father would be worse.

'What else does he want? What does he think I know?' she asked desperately.

'When. And where.' His manicured hand, already fastened so tightly on her arm she could feel her fingers tingling with the beginnings of numbness, squeezed tighter yet, and she could hear the smile in his tone as her breath sucked in, tears watering her eyes. 'Our lord thinks you might have such details, given how deeply…involved…you are with Potter and his crew.'

The crack of Disapparition disturbed only the three wretched pigeons sitting above them. The hawkers of wares and wizards strolling from shop to shop, packing the Alley even at ten minutes past midnight, did not so much as turn their heads. Knockturn Alley was not a place known for its safety or its honest business, after all. People vanished hastily, for destinations malignant and benign, everyday.

~888~

February, 1997

At five minutes to eight that evening, Hermione stood facing the stone guardian outside Dumbledore's office, breathing deeply to control the heart beating so loudly she was sure it was trying to leap from its place behind her ribcage.

There is much I need to tell you. His unpredictable nature had once again shifted. Why had her presence, so plainly repugnant before, instantly become critical?

Her pregnancy. It was the only possible explanation.

But would his reaction be the one she dared to hope for – the return of her witty and passionate bondmate – or the opposite, his utter and complete withdrawal?

Fleetingly, she longed for one of her friends. One of the heaviest burdens of her secret was the knowledge that she must bear it alone. The image of Harry's horror-lined face if he knew the truth behind her depressions cured her of the desire. Better to silence her tongue – his hatred of their teacher had increased ten-fold since Sirius' death – and she was certain their friendship would not survive such a fatal blow.

As it was, it had taken all of her younger self's bossiness to keep Harry and Ron in their seats tonight. Earlier, Ginny had wasted no time in relaying the tale of her mishap and lecturing both boys for disappearing before Hermione was well on her way to class. Ron's blue eyes had darkened with distress, and Harry's boiled with anger. The Gryffindor witch did not envy Pansy Parkinson. Whatever punishment Snape had chosen to inflict, there would be more in the way of revenge.

She bit her lip as she gazed at the unmoving granite face, chiselled wings swept upwards over stern features. Her rejection of her teacher's multiple requests sounded childishly in her ears. Would Dumbledore rebuke her or would both men take her insolence in stride, an allowance for the woman they expected her to become?

'Standing there all night won't solve the problem, dearie,' the gargoyle wheezed above her.

Feeling both far too old and like a child preparing for chastisement, she murmured the headmaster's current choice of sweets, and as the guardian grated aside, she stepped from the well-lit corridor into the guttering torchlight that barely illumined the stones leading her upward.

She had been in this office many more times than most students, and outside of her Occlumency lessons, she could not recall a single meeting where good news had been delivered. The headmaster's office might feel like a sanctuary, the calm at the eye of the magical storm enveloping Hogwarts and now the whole nation, but it had always been a place of dire proclamation, of confession, of confrontation. The sense of security lent by the cosy fire and ever-present tea tray was an illusion for children and adults alike, and as the presence of Severus Snape sharpened in her mind, Hermione was sure the content of tonight's meeting would be no different.

She was at the door before she could think any further about what might be said in a few minutes, and before she could lose her nerve, she lifted her fist to knock the oak worn smooth from years of hands beating against it, and heard the aged voice say, 'Come,' as the clock within struck the hour, the bong rebounding from the stone eight times as she entered and shut the door behind her.

Her gaze briefly absorbed the headmaster seated at his desk before fastening on the slender figure against the dark of windows, the fire casting light on one half of his body and leaving the other in darkness as he stood near the sill, his back to her, hands clasped loosely behind him.

Burgeoning hope lifted its head as she gazed at him, his puzzling rescue on the stairs allowing her to unlock a chest of denied desires. As frustrating as it was, as cruel as he had been, she still needed him, still missed him, still wanted him. The simple act of looking at him still gave her a sense of completion. Fire and earth rustled restlessly. Before Parkinson's attack, she hadn't stood this close to him for weeks.

Snape did not turn to face her. He acknowledged her presence only by the tensing of his fingers, and his deliberate aloofness irked her, bringing back all her fears and the pain of the last eight weeks. Delicate optimism died as her features tightened and she dragged her eyes from his black-clad frame and fixed it on the headmaster's tired but lively blue eyes and dark purple, flowing robes.

'Professor Snape summoned me here this afternoon. You wanted to see me, sir?' she opened politely.

Dumbledore stiffened automatically at the careful courtesy of her tone. The rigid control betrayed great misery, and the flat way she pronounced his name left little doubt as to the cause. Madam Pomfrey was correct – they had to remedy this situation.

Tonight, if possible.

'Indeed. Thank you for your promptness,' he smiled gently, and waved his hand, the silver tea service rising at his command and floating towards her. One small hand came up to accept as he continued. 'It is Professor Snape who needs a word with you. I thought that perhaps, my office being one of the few places in Hogwarts where I can guarantee a lack of prying eyes and ears, this would be an ideal location.'

She sipped the honeyed tea, amber-shot eyes wary as she purposefully did not look to her bondmate. The witch offered him no openings.

'How are you feeling?'

'Better, thank you,' she replied formally.

'Severus told me about Miss Parkinson's uncalled-for display earlier,' he continued, and there was no mistaking the genuine concern drawing his eyebrows together. 'You have suffered no ill effects?'

'No,' Hermione answered. 'I think Parkinson got more than she bargained for.' The contempt in her voice was so strong she blushed, and added more quietly, 'Sir.'

The old wizard sighed. 'Yes...I heard about your rather...unexpected reaction.' Sadness sharpened in the blue eyes. 'I fear we have done you no services, allowing this segregation to divide and conquer our hallways.'

Hermione merely shifted in her chair, unable to feel ashamed of her defence or her attitude. None of them had directly provoked Pansy's new, aggressive mood this year and she could not summon guilt for protecting herself.

As the silence grew strained, Dumbledore inhaled deeply and decided to concede to her obvious wish and go straight to the point. 'You can, doubtless, surmise my reason for calling you here, Miss Granger, but I will state it for clarity's sake.' His eyes cut towards Snape at the window, but she deliberately kept her glance on his wizened countenance, refusing to follow his lead. 'The two of you together hold the keys to the greatest power the Order possesses. It is my firm belief, from my rather extensive research regarding your – ah – unusual...circumstances, that you can turn the considerable magic you now command to the use of the Order and the destruction of that which Harry Potter and I are seeking.' He cleared his throat. 'There is, however, a major flaw to this plan, which I am sure you can also guess.'

His blue eyes shimmered with power and an endless compassion as he gazed at the woman in front of him, a student too young to be asked to carry the burden he was asking, a woman too old to refuse her duty once it was laid before her. He knew he was counting on her to be the person she had been before the relationship with her tempestuous partner had interrupted her life, and prayed that the bitterness that had become the filter for her world would not keep her from doing as he expected. He had always admired her courage and resiliency through the long years of informal, dangerous training she had endured at Harry Potter's side. Now, he would test both. He leaned across his desk, features carved with sincerity and continued quietly.

'I – the Order – need you both. But we need you as a team, not as separate items at the table. Your difficulties with one another must be resolved, for our defence must stand united, or fall, and your magic, while formidable individually, is unique when combined. I am more than willing to accept part of the blame for your predicament – and I apologize with all my heart for my greater sin, which was permitting you both to deal with so great a trial on your own for so long.'

Formality faded as earnestness replaced it. 'Severus does not deserve and is not asking for your complete forgiveness, Hermione. But it is unfair to lay all of the blame at his feet. We both – he and I – have erred here. So I am asking you to listen. For the sake of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, grant us mercy instead of justice, and open your mind to what he has to tell you. You might be surprised at what you come to understand.'

Hermione sat, straight and stiff in her chair, her throat closing with fury at such blatant manipulation. How dare the headmaster pull out that card, knowing that she couldn't decline when it was about Harry, about the Order…

There is much I need to tell you.

Another glance at the studiously cold man with his back still to her and Hermione quashed her urge to refuse yet again. The tenderness in his thoughts today, the cruelty of his dismissal after Christmas, the desperation of his confession at the Riddle house...two and two were not making four.

And if their Raw Magic could make the difference that Professor Dumbledore seemed convinced of...

Curiosity mastered anger and she tilted her head in acceptance. Relief made a plain appearance in the face above the snow-coloured beard, but when she opened her mouth to ask a question, his hand came up, stalling her.

'I beg you: listen first. We will have all the time we require to talk afterwards. My private sitting room is behind the third bookshelf. Severus knows how to access it. Please – use that. It will keep...snooping eyes, and ears, from disturbing your talk.'

The portraits of many headmasters and headmistresses looked faintly mutinous at this clear refusal to satiate their boundless nosiness, and their eyes followed greedily as Snape reluctantly strode to the third shelf, pulled seven volumes off, apparently at random, and watched it swing back. He turned and locked eyes with her for the first time since she had entered the office, one hand held out in a gesture of courtesy that seemed a grotesque parody under the circumstances, his face utterly unreadable.

'After you, Miss Granger.'

Hermione didn't move. She hadn't been alone with him since he had thrown her out of his office, and in spite of her conflicting hopes and desires, was reluctant to be so now. She shot a swift look at the headmaster.

'Sir, would you-'

'I think it would be better for you to hear this privately, Hermione,' he said softly, and again, the compassion in his eyes spilled over, slightly calming her sudden nervousness. 'But I will be right here, should you need anything, or want to leave.'

She nodded, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and pushed herself out of the armchair as she snapped them open again, vaguely surprised that her legs supported her as her stomach writhed with anxious dread. 'Thank you, sir.'

Without further hesitation, she walked through the hidden door and into a small space furnished only with two armchairs and a small, dark wood tea table. The rest of the room was lined with shelves, and she could feel the power of the wards crackling around them as her eyes automatically skimmed some of the titles, her innate need to learn untamed even in light of her purpose for being there.

She heard the click that indicated the shelf-door had closed, leaving her completely alone with her ex-lover, and as she turned to face him, she was surprised to find her crippling agony and panic suddenly evaporated, replaced by a rock-solid strength that came from somewhere within. She was here as part of her fight for the Order, for Harry, for her place in the magical world she had embraced at eleven.

And the child. A child he had at least enough feeling for to protect. Optimism spread her irresistible petals in Hermione's heart once again. Even if he thought her no more than the dirt beneath his boots, if he was willing to be the father to this child...

Six weeks ago, she had left his office knowing that something within her had died, never to return. She recognized now that it had been herself. The girl that had drawn each breath with his every movement had been laid to rest, and an enormous sense of freedom flooded her with her comprehension, surpassing even the anger and grief of the past months to settle in her abdomen, just above the foetus.

'You were never dirt beneath my boots,' he said quietly. 'Even when I thought of you only as my student and Potter's best friend.' She gave him a tight smile, one that did not touch the confident, but wary, brown eyes.

Her detached regard made him feel fidgety – an impulse he had not suffered since before his graduation from Hogwarts. His hands returned to their military position behind his back to keep them still as she studied him as though he were one of the pickled specimens in his office. He had seen the weight of abrupt certainty settle in her eyes, the absolution granted by her sudden acknowledgement of a task greater than both of them and his heart swelled with pride for the woman she was becoming in spite of him, and pinched as he witnessed her comprehension of that which he already knew – that he had no place in her world. Shadows could not exist without light, but light shone independent of darkness.

'What happened with Parkinson today?' she asked abruptly. She wanted to have the facts before he tried to explain anything to her. 'I saw your wand spraying water – but Aguamenti could not have put out elemental fire.'

'It didn't. My water element contained your Flamma – much to my relief. You were attracting far too much attention to yourself – something you should be focussed on not doing. But you looked-' magnificent – 'terrifying.' A brief image jolted into her mind, and she was seeing herself through his eyes. The witch had to admit she was intimidating. Her hair flared violently, making her whole head look like liquid flame as the fire surged forth from every patch of skin, reaching to wrap a panicked Pansy Parkinson in its fatal embrace.

Her eyes were wide when she met the black again, seeing the licking edges of molten orange nearly engulf her classmate. 'I almost...if you hadn't stopped me...'

'Your outburst today confirmed something we should have thought of before. The power we contain is lethal. The headmaster was in deadly earnest when he said we must learn to control it and turn it to a useful end.' His flat pronouncement was harsh, and he shifted slightly as he modulated his tone. 'I used my wand to cover my elemental magic because it would not do for Donald Parkinson, your classmate's father, to hear of any unusual connection we share. There are too many lives at stake if the wrong student divines the truth.'

Connection we share...so different that the brutal dismissal he had given her recently. 'I' had become 'we' again.

'What is that connection, sir?' she asked him boldly, one hand spreading across her belly.

A long exhale, the fathomless look that thrilled and chilled her simultaneously. 'That is what we are here to discuss.'

Her eyebrows raised, inviting him to continue. Snape shook his head. 'It is too much to use language to explain what I must – nuances of meaning,' his eyes went to the bookshelves, unable to meet hers, 'emotions, are lost with words. Do you wish to view via Pensieve or direct link?' She blinked at the unexpected question, but quickly caught his meaning. Memory, not words, would provide his explanation.

'Pensieve? Where you can filter your thoughts?' she snorted softly. 'Legilimency, sir.'

'You do not need Legilimency to see into my thoughts, Miss Granger,' he retorted, voice remaining soft and relatively gentle. 'Simply the removal of my shields. Still...' he extended his hand, palm up, his meaning clear. 'I suggest you give me your hand. Skin-to-skin contact will ensure the best connection.'

Hermione stretched out her small fingers, but hesitated as they hovered over his hand, fire, water, air and earth snapping lazily between them, a miniature storm of magical light brewing as she spoke. The feeling of his body against hers earlier that day had affected her more than she cared to admit, and she wondered if voluntarily touching him now would snap her self-control. 'If I feel you hiding anything, I will withdraw.'

'Then you will see a great deal that is irrelevant, and probably many things you do not like,' he warned.

'You are a Death Eater and the Dark Lord's Master of Assassins. I expect most of what I see I will not like.' An unexpected lance of pain seared through him at her factual labelling of his grim reality, but he pushed it away. He was what he was, and they had both always known it.

'As you wish,' he conceded. This invasion of his privacy was unprecedented, and he was cringing at the necessity of allowing anyone, especially the witch he had worked so hard to protect, to see the whole of the inside of his mind, baring her to the consequences that would follow if his blood-eyed master ever knew. But he had pushed her over the edge of reason and past the age of bargaining. There was only unconditional surrender left if she was to be convinced of his sincerity.

Lifting her brown eyes to his black, Hermione dropped her hand onto his, the ends of her fingers grazing his wrist-

-and without conscious thought, without the need to push or seek or pull, she was within that which had been previously completely denied her: his mind.

It was neatly ordered, like her own, partitioned into sections of thoughts that made it something like a maze to navigate. After months of receiving emotions, impressions and thoughts at random intervals and more often than not by mistake or a lapse of his concentration, Hermione eagerly traversed the passageways of Snape's brain in an orderly fashion, exultant in the knowledge that she did not have to hurry – that he would not suddenly re-erect his shields and throw her out, her curiosity ignited by the abrupt gesture of openness that was so unlike him.

Flickers of many moments impinged on her consciousness as she travelled, all mental doors opened so that she might sift through them at her leisure. The first images to solidify as she passed the periphery of his thoughts were those of her professor as a tiny boy; sitting with his slender mother, his father's hand raised over him, the after-pain of a belt lash. Her fury at the grown man did not extend to this tiny, meter-high version of him, who even at four seemed to have shed all his baby-fat in favour of the sharp planes that formed his face now, and her pity and compassion washed over child-Snape, her heart aching against her will for the confusion she sensed in him.

But she did not linger there. The passages of the labyrinth seemed to draw ever inward, like roads leading to the centre of a city, and his early boyhood hovered on the outer fringes. Next in her line of vision stood teenager Snape – laughing with friends, furious at James Potter, blasting Sirius Black against a wall in the Charms corridor – but though her mind registered curiosity about people she knew and events that looked similar to her own school life, she did not stop, a more pressing need driving her towards the present. She brushed over his discovery of Remus Lupin's lycanthropy in the passageway under the Shrieking Shack, a dose of terror burning through her as she saw the wild wolf through his memory, a beast snarling at the end of a long tunnel, the light from Snape's wand glittering violently in the creature's eyes. Mouth gaping wide as Lupin bounded towards him, a tight hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards – the dark tunnel morphed into a memory of the safe, spacious headmaster's office that was forever tied to this overwhelming fear. Hermione could feel the layers of resentment and anger focused like a windstorm on this instant, withstanding two decades of life as boy-Snape stood, disbelieving, before Dumbledore, who told him that Sirius Black, who had deliberately sent him to his death, would not be expelled.

The darkness of young Snape's emotions jumped her to another night, and his present-day mind supplied the time frame: the end of his sixth year – and she was with him as he knelt on a decaying hard wood floor that she recognized as the Riddle house, swearing his allegiance to Voldemort. Her body winced as she once again felt the burning of the Mark on his skin as if it were being tattooed on her own arm, unable to look away as Voldemort's wand traced the pattern on Snape's skin, consecrating him as a member of the grisly brotherhood.

The remembrances on the heels of the pain from the Mark were a jumbled mass of magical purges performed in coarse, black fabric and smooth, white masks. She felt his hands run over many weapons, Muggle and magical, made of wood, metal and hemp, and her fingers twitched with the feelings of rough and sanded, icy and thick as she witnessed flashes of his learning to kill silently and creatively, excelling in assassination as he had at everything else...

...and now he was kneeling in the office they had just left, Death Eater mask discarded on the plush, richly-coloured rug, an odd patch of white interrupting the vibrant greens, reds and blues.

'I have told you all I know. Kill me, Headmaster. Please.'

'I will not. If you wish to atone for your crimes, Severus Snape, you cannot take the coward's way out...' And Hermione recalled vividly the madness in his eyes when Sirius Black had called him a coward in the Shrieking Shack three years prior, and felt that she had gleaned a vital, if small, piece of information about this man whose soul was fused to hers.

And the years whirled together, moving her deeper into his thoughts as news of Voldemort's collapse reached him, as he and Dumbledore discussed the avenues of the Dark Lord's certain attempt at regeneration, as Harry Potter was enrolled at age eleven. She could feel his mind bucking with the intrusion of her penetration, the effort that it took for him to keep it open to her, to welcome her instead of seeking to expel her as he had always done to both of the men who had long grown used to simply taking what they wanted from his brain. But though they ached to snap closed, the shields built from nearly two decades practice of Occlumency remained at bay, and Hermione found it in herself to feel gratitude to him as the enormity of his self-restraint poured over her. Here, there was nothing left to hide, nothing he could attempt to keep from her without also losing his last chance to speak to her, and while his hand had been forced by Dumbledore, he had made his decision – even though it was the hardest of his life.

She was barely aware of her hand touching him as she explored within. She felt his loathing spike as Harry's name was announced at their first Sorting and her gawky friend, wearing James Potter's face, took his place on the stool, hat slumping over his eyes. She felt his irritation turn to anger at Harry's carelessness with the mountain troll and with Hagrid's baby dragon, Norbert, and Hermione felt a chill as she reached the root of his rage – not hatred, but a twisted sense of caring that had nothing to do with Harry personally and everything to do with the fact that Snape knew that this eleven-year-old child with a penchant for trouble was the wizarding world's last, best hope for peace.

Determination struck her solidly, and she was experiencing his mounting sense of pressure as he tried to keep Quirrell from the Philosopher's Stone. Fear for the nearly thousand students under his care rolled over her next, and she was standing over a Petrified Mrs. Norris, Colin Creevey with his acrid, burnt film, Justin Finch-Fletchley and her second-year self, looking cold and dead in her bed in the hospital wing. She felt a curious emotion added to the balance of fear as she looked through her teacher's eyes as he gazed at her form, arrested permanently in a gesture of surprise. A fleeting, grudging admiration tinged Snape's rising need to discover the cause of the attacks, and Hermione suddenly knew that in spite of his cruelty to her and his genuine frustration with her dangerous antics, he had always appreciated her intelligence.

Third and fourth year kaleidoscoped through her mind in a series of snapshot images, seen briefly and then fading, a string of mild emotions rolling with them, so swiftly it became a jumbled mess inside her mind, but Hermione did not stop to untangle it. So far, she had seen much that she could have guessed at, and was seeking something new. Something closer to home. Something that had occurred in the past six to eight months.

And as she rounded another corner in the maze of his thoughts, she began to find it. She saw herself through his eyes, lying in his storeroom, blood seeping from her head to stain the stone, felt his worry. But this time, knowing what to look for, she could feel the ignition of attraction, the subtle shift from the dutiful concern of a teacher transforming to the deeper caring for someone who was more than a student as her memory-self opened her eyes and stared directly into his.

His fierce fight with his growing attraction to his student took her down roads lined with self-castigation. She watched him grading papers in the office she knew too well, only to reach hers, see her name in her neat handwriting at the top of the parchment, and slump forward in his chair, the tips of his fingers pressed against his face, nails pressing crescents into his skin. She felt the rawness of his jealousy tied to a waterfall of mental pictures of her with Ron Weasley – holding hands as they walked to dinner, as they sat outside together, his long legs stretched out as he leaned indolently against her in the spring sunshine, as they laughed together walking to class, as he leaned over to brush his mouth against her cheek. Hermione, watching herself, realized that none of the indecision that had torn her in two at the time appeared on her face, that to her professor, she had looked completely happy, enthralled by her first boyfriend, content, exuberant, joyful. As she rolled forward, reaching for summer and the Burrow, she wished fervently that her feelings had been what Snape had assumed – she looked so happy in them – and knew that her mind, open to him as his was to her, was telling him that his impressions were false, that even as he had been consumed by envy for Ron, her reluctant desire had already turned to him.

She resisted the temptation to re-live their time together in the makeshift potions lab at the Burrow, but there was something different about these recollections. They seemed to call to her, beckoning her forward, summoning her to look, the attendant emotions heightened, the moments seeming brighter, more detailed. Her query at their peculiar, luminous quality turned into an answer almost instantly: these were moments he prized, memories he held precious to the point of sanctity, and Hermione's anger at him, already shaken by his openness, took a further blow and began to crumble, confusion at his contradictory behaviour taking its place.

Why? she asked.

Watch, came his silent reply.

And now they were back at Hogwarts, the strain of their magical bonding growing to the point of pain, and Hermione was surprised anew at the toll it had taken on both of them – at the dullness of Snape's skin as he shaved, at the delicacy of her appearance. For it was after the summer, away from Molly Weasley's sumptuous dinners and constant mothering, that she had begun to grow thinner.

A flicker of amusement touched her as she watched him beseech Dumbledore to send her away until the end of the war – the same request she had made of the headmaster at a later date – and he was denied as she had been.

The headmaster's aging face was replaced by Voldemort's cruel features, and she stopped fully to observe, sensing that she had reached a crucial moment in her search.

'Bonded?' he hissed, red eyes flashing furiously. 'My dear, faithful servant, how could that significant detail have possibly slipped your mind?' Hermione felt the weight of Snape's failure, and her bondmate's fear of repercussion – not against himself, but against her. Voldemort's wand was trained on him, the world narrowed to the fire in his nerves, to the screams he could not contain...

...and he was on his feet again, listening dully as the Dark Lord dictated his life. 'When the child is born, bring it to me.'

'As you wish, my lord.' Fury blazed through her anew, hardening her softening thoughts. How dare he so casually promise their child to his master?

Think, came his command, and she could hear the impatience searing his voice. Had I said something to make him doubt my loyalty, I would not have survived the encounter. And you...he would have brought you and your significant power to his heels in one manner or another.

Hermione bit down on her uncharitable response. There was no denying that Voldemort seldom took 'no' for an answer, but...his memory stopped as she demanded, Then is it true or not? Will you give him our child?

I would sooner hand him my soul.

The fervent promise shocked her, and she felt a spring of possessiveness flowing over her, winding around her tightly. There is little enough in this world that is mine. As long as I draw breath, he will never lay a hand on you. Or the child.

Memory continued. The dark-haired wizard was in his office once again, ink spreading over a hapless sheet of parchment, his mind not on his grading as the black blot grew ever-bigger, but on her, on the face that she could see clearly in his mind's eye, on the debate that sickened him and thrilled him all together. Water and air snapped around him, answering his emotional turmoil and Hermione felt again the jolt of longing and pure desire they engendered, the blistering need for her that Snape felt, the dim knowledge that without consummation, madness would eat them both alive. She felt him weighing the consequences, and the terrible certainty with which he made his decision.

His existence and her safety depended on his obedience to Voldemort. Harry Potter and the Order's needs, too, dictated his choice. Harry could not win if Snape disobeyed, for deliberate refusal to comply would result in his death, and Harry needed Snape to complete the task he was being given by the headmaster. And neither Snape nor Dumbledore knew what would happen to Hermione if her bondmate died. Her immediate reaction to his being tortured, however, boded ill for any more drastic measures, and Snape was unwilling to court her physical destruction, even as he knew he was setting in motion events that would force him to purposefully break her heart. Hermione heard herself draw a deep breath as she finally knew that he had planned his cold, aloof withdrawal from her from this moment. The hurt wrenching at him had been balanced on the scales with the needs of the many, and he had made the choice he always made: to serve the interests of the larger world.

...they were in the greenhouse, and she felt for the first time the undiluted strength of his love for her, so strong she ceased to breathe as it bathed her in incandescent light, a healing balm and a request for forgiveness at the same time as she saw herself through his eyes, and knew that the adoration in them had been sincere.

You are so beautiful, the sentiment echoed in both past and present as Hermione looked and present-day Snape watched her looking...

...she was lying in his desk in his office after their second time, her confusion and hurt at his sudden withdrawal teeming in the back of his mind, and she felt his resolve nearly buckle as he turned to her again once he was fully dressed, appreciating the wildness of her hair, the rapidly-fading brilliance of her eyes as his hard words pushed her away after their love-making, forcing his own detachment, knowing that if the Dark Lord looked into his mind and saw love there, they were both lost...

...he was kneeling again in front of Voldemort, the lord delivering a tongue-lashing for Snape's failure to impregnate her...

...she was lying in the prefect's bath, having fallen asleep, and she could taste his tears as they silently made their way down his face. His wonder submerged her as he admired the slender lines of her limbs, the dip of her back where it curved to meet her bottom, the smoothness of her unbroken skin, the curls of her hair, wet with the scented water, one hand stroking from her shoulder to the base of her spine. Immense sorrow followed as he heaved himself out of the bath, dressed and gazed at her again, still resting. 'I am sorry, Hermione,' he whispered. The tenderness in his remembered voice made her wish she had been awake – she had heard this tone only a few times, and never when pronouncing her name.

...they were picnicking in the Forbidden Forest, and in a curious twist of feeling, Hermione felt an affection of a more innocent kind suffuse her as she observed her professor beforehand, spy and teacher vanished, replaced by a man who genuinely desired nothing more than to please her. The picnic basket was wrapped clumsily in a blanket on his desk as he stood worrying over whether she would like it, no more knowledgeable on this front than any boy her own age. The next image was her leaning against the greenhouses, and Hermione was struck, both by her own thoughts and by Snape-of-the-past's thoughts at how old she looked, and how tired, like a woman with at least three times her years, and not like a schoolgirl any longer. She felt his step falter as guilt at having been part of the process that aged her so quickly gnawed at him. But she knew, too, that while he intellectually accepted her status as his student, since that summer he had not been able to truly see her as such, and that this woman had long replaced the girl.

A shaft of self-hatred splintered through her next, and she was watching as he wandlessly, wordlessly, countered her contraceptive spells for the first time. One mystery explained. It had nothing to do with old magics, simply his will. But why had he waited? Why not during their cold encounter in his office?

This was my excuse, he told her directly, in a voice both his own and not his own, much gentler than she had ever heard him speak either out loud or in the privacy of their connection. The only way I could touch you, the only way I could spend any time with you. As long as you were not pregnant, the Dark Lord could not fault me for being with you, or deny the need brought on by the bonding magic.

Her only answer to this was another, deeper level of unvoiced understanding as she kept going, a mere few layers of labyrinth from the centre now, and Hermione moved faster, eager to see the core, to fill in the painting that was taking definite form...

...she was standing in a patch of late autumn sunlight with Ginny Weasley, gold and amber glinting from the sun-made highlights in her hair and she could feel his heart ache as he paused in his step on the staircase, above them, unheeded as he observed her...

...she walked through the door to Slughorn's party on McLaggen's arm, and she felt the sand-blasting of his envy and possessiveness from the safety of a corner where he sipped water, even as he admired her bouncing ringlets, and the way she looked in the dark, rich green of her heavy, formal dress robes, the style much more sophisticated and adult than the lighter ones she had worn two years prior to the Yule Ball...

...she felt the silky snarls of her hair gliding through his fingers, the Room of Requirement lit by the pale yellow light of early morning to reveal the bedroom that it had become for them in the wake of the party. From her place within his mind, Hermione knew that he was gazing at her with a completely unguarded expression, happiness and sorrow weaving together in a bittersweet tapestry as she heard some of the wishes that he had not been able to keep himself from feeling, and the unshakeable conviction that they would never come to pass.

Memory-Hermione stirred, she felt a great reluctance belonging to her bondmate, and then another spell passed his lips, and a formless shape of silver shot to hover over her belly, revolving there slowly. Hermione recognized it from her reading as a diagnostic spell, specifically for pregnancy, and abrupt understanding of why the burning need for him had vanished with the coming of Christmas crystallized. This was the precise date of her conception. She felt his wash of fierce, instinctive joy. Mine, his mind sang over her and their child, only to be submerged by despair as he pushed the fantasy away and slipped from the room almost too late, his sleep-filled name resounding in his ears as she woke calling to him.

Hermione recalled that morning with a clarity that tore at her, and knew that Snape could see what she could, her complete, lazy contentment just before waking, their bond telling her that he was still in the room, and her disappointment as she felt him vanish, the sheets still smelling of him and of them as she rose, washed, dressed perfunctorily and returned to Gryffindor tower to pack for the holidays, the afterglow of her happiness lasting through packing and distracted goodbyes.

Now she was gazing up at the dilapidated front of the Riddle house, dread drowning her as Snape ascended the uncared-for lawn...

...they were standing in a meeting of Death Eaters, Voldemort's Circle of Pure-Bloods, eleven in number following the demise of Peter Pettigrew, standing at full attention as their lord delivered commands. His mind supplied the date once again: December twenty-third, five days after she had left Hogwarts for the holidays. Hermione listened carefully, attention absorbed by the skeletal figure next to the hearth. From the apprehension of Snape's mind, she knew that this memory contained the last piece of what she needed to know, the final details of the plan her bondmate had devised over two months ago.

'Potter's Mudblood, Hermione Granger, you all know her?' Voldemort hissed sibilantly. The question was greeted with nods and murmurs of affirmation from several Death Eaters.

'Would you like to see her taken down to size, my lord?' sniggered Antonin Dolohov, his birch rod rolling idly in his hands. Within an exhale, Dolohov was thrashing on the floor, screaming under Voldemort's wand, the curse murmured so automatically that Snape had not even heard it leave his master's mouth. The lord lifted the polished yew almost casually.

'Don't interrupt, Dolohov, it's rude,' he ordered lightly. 'Thank you, however, for bringing me straight to the point. In point of fact, I do not want her 'taken down to size' or 'disposed of' or 'handled' in any way.' The entire room stood straighter, stiffening with their lord's unexpected instruction, a curiosity that none dared voice lacing the air as eyes darted back and forth, seeking in one another an explanation for this abrupt reversal of policy on a known priority target.

'The Mudblood is carrying something that is valued beyond price and extremely precious to me. This must not be damaged. You will not touch her. You will not hurt her. You will not engage in combat if she is present. Until further notice, you – all of you and all the Death Eaters under your command – are under orders to protect her. Help her if you are present and she needs it, defend her if you think it necessary.' His red eyes fastened on Lucius' slate-grey. 'Warn your children off her. Your son, Lucius, has been particularly provocative in the past. I think he should have enough to occupy his time now without Mudblood-baiting, but if he still taunts the girl, order him to cease. Immediately.'

Behind Snape, Bellatrix Lestrange's confused, raspy tones took the place of the cold voice when he paused, and she hesitantly asked, 'My lord, does the girl take precedence over Potter?'

'In what way?' Voldemort queried.

'If we are in a position to capture Potter and she is there-'

'Then you leave them both alone. You have all studied this girl and what we know of her habits and character. You know that if she senses one of her friends in danger, she will do what she can to help them, which might endanger my prize. Nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is to disturb her. She is now more important than your children, than your spouses, than your lives.'

Bafflement loaded the air following the completion of the lord's pronouncement, and Voldemort, sensing it, smiled indulgently, his thin mouth curving in a cruel expression of ruthless amusement. 'Come now. I never give orders without good reason. Do not worry that I have gone soft and become a Muggle and Mudblood lover like Albus Dumbledore. In due time, this edict will be repealed and the girl will be fair game like the rest of them.'

The smile vanished. 'But until that time, anyone who so much as startles her will have earned my severe displeasure.' His deliberate emphasis made it quite clear that the unlucky perpetrator of this crime would pay a high price in blood, and there were swift nods of acquiescence and understanding from all assembled.

As Hermione watched the small group disband within Snape's mind, feeling his sense of grim, joyless satisfaction of a job well done, numbing waves of both disbelief and total comprehension crashed over her. This had been the centre of his decision, his wager that Voldemort would issue these orders as long as she had something he wanted, placing her under the protection of the two most powerful wizards in Britain for almost a year. Buying time for Harry to find this elusive Horcrux, for it to be put to some use...purchasing her life at an excruciating cost.

Snape was kneeling again at Voldemort's feet as the last of his fellows filed out, and Hermione could feel the hard wood as if her knee were folded against it.

'Ensure that she is safe at Hogwarts. Take no chances...perhaps she could be removed from the more volatile classes? I recall that Potions was always potentially hazardous.'

'I will see to it that nothing touches her,' Snape promised, and Hermione could hear the sincerity in his voice as well as his mind, perhaps too much so, for Voldemort gazed into his servant's eyes, scarlet poring over the contents of Snape's mind and replied sternly.

'Do not attach yourself to the girl, Severus, or the child. Don't allow yourself to forget that they belong to me.' Voldemort's meaning and threat were clear, and Hermione felt her bondmate wall off his fear as he broke eye contact by bowing again and acquiescing smoothly.

'Of course not, my lord.'

Voldemort's smile returned. 'You have done well.' A pale hand descended on Snape's shoulder in an almost fatherly fashion, and Hermione was surprised to hear genuine pride and…was that affection?...in the lord's next words. 'I know that sharing your bed with a student – especially one of Muggle parentage – was reprehensive to you. But I am grateful for your obedience. When I have the child, you will be granted whatever you wish.' And the same bleak sense of duty fulfilled made Snape's footsteps heavy as he inclined his head, murmured his thanks, and strode from the room. He had only one more job to do...

...she jumped forward to the memory of her face as she burst through the doors and into his office, features shining with eagerness, eyes bright with anticipation. She cringed at the excitement that emanated from every fibre of her being. She knew the reception she was about to receive and was unable to change the past, to alter watching her heart break again.

But Hermione felt, too, his un-dampened rush of pleasure at her presence, a moment of bliss on seeing her again for just an instant before he steeled himself to carry out his orders, to completely sever his emotional attachment to her, to do what he must, regardless of the clamour in his blood to pull her to him, to touch those pliant lips with his own. She heard his mental mantra: She is your student, and felt it fail him, felt his arms nearly rise from the desk where they seemed to rest so carelessly to embrace her...

Nevertheless, he spoke his words in his hard, unyielding voice, suffered the scouring storm of her rage, hatred, self-loathing and misery and endured her slaps. Hermione felt her cheeks stinging with his as her hands connected with each side of his face, the force of her blows jerking his head from side to side. And under the avalanche of two severe sets of emotions, Hermione felt again his satisfaction, the same as listening to Voldemort give the orders for her protection, though it cleaved his heart in half to feel the weight of her pain. Her bondmate was finished. His lord would never know how deeply Snape loved the Muggle-born witch carrying Voldemort's sought-after treasure, and her heart would have iced against him by the time he carried out Dumbledore's wishes, saving her further pain. Without her trust, he would have no access to the child, and her rapidly growing skill at Occlumency would ensure that he did not even know the time and date of its coming. After its birth, his only offspring would be spirited away from the violence of warfare by his bondmate, Voldemort's plans for the infant and its mother ruined...and all while Severus Snape followed orders.

Hermione had moved past memory and sensation into the inner sanctum of the mind, the core of his being, unexpected understanding enfolding her warmly. Here, thought transcended the limitations of syllables and sounds and simply was, floating in pure, raw, emotional form. Love and terror bathed her in equal parts, accompanied by a maelstrom of pride, worry, adoration, admiration and wonder. And she heard the same quiet, peculiar voice that he had used before, a voice utterly controlled and at the same time completely abandoned, as his feelings for her took solid shape between them, shared by both minds.

Does one thank the sun for rising everyday? No. But without it, all life on earth would wither and die. Nor does one express gratitude to the moon for the ocean tides, but without her, the seas would cease to move. You are the air I breathe and the earth that supports me, the reason for my living and the agent by which I survive. My love for you is my most valued pain, and your safety is my solitary concern. You are my Laili, my Goddess, my Holy Grail, my beloved forever beyond my reach. And so you must remain.

It was my intention to force you and the baby out of his hands, away from the war in any way I could. It seems that I did not know you as well as I should have, to not know that fighting at Potter's side would always come first for you, that we must both remain with him if we are to succeed.

I am sorry, Hermione. I know I cannot say it enough, but I am sorry.

And in the next breath, she was staring into his black eyes, his hand clasping hers so tightly her unfeeling fingers were crushed together. His silent testament echoed between them, filling them both, the words he could never say aloud overflowing her heart.

Flamma whistled and Ether tugged her upwards. Surrendering herself to the total understanding that had filled her, she tilted her head back, reaching for him as his mouth crushed over hers, the magic of their binding singing in their blood.