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.

…Was Bliss

June, 1998

Charlie Weasley stepped into the lamplight in the entry of Grimmauld Place, his easy smile a rare sight that brought answering grins from the careworn faces clustered to greet him. 'Charlie!' Ginny hurtled past Harry, nearly knocking the young hero off his feet as she shoved him aside to get to the brother she hadn't seen for more than a year. After Charlie had finished swinging his light sister in an arc of enthusiasm, Ron rushed to his other side, and the brothers threw friendly arms around one another's shoulders to the sound of much back-slapping.

Following Ron came Molly and Arthur and the irrepressible twins, crowding a missed member of their family, talking over one another in a storm of news-trading and loud good-humour that Grimmauld Place had been distinctly lacking. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry traded amused looks in the shadows near the stairs, but Moody's blue eye was whirring wildly with his impatience, and as the seconds ticked past with no sign of ending the genial swapping of old and untold stories, he gradually cleared his gravelly throat.

'As sweet as this is, are you going to stand here all night having a bloody family reunion or do we get to know why you're here?'

Charlie gave his mother one final pat on the back and turned to Ron. 'You got my owl?'

'Obviously,' the younger Weasley waved his hand in a gesture that took in the assembled members of the Order there to greet him. 'But you were a little vague on the details.'

'Yes, well, with the Death Eaters taking over everything, I didn't want to get to specific. Any mail might be intercepted.'

'That's why we tend not to use owls,' Harry announced quietly, making his presence known. Charlie's sparkling brown eyes locked on him, and the young dragon-tamer felt a shock akin to pain rock through him. He had not seen Harry more than once or twice from a distance since the Triwizard Tournament, and this weary young man who looked like he carried the whole world on his back was not the laughing, if nervous, boy his memory supplied. His repressive childhood had aged the raven-haired wizard quickly, and he had always seemed older than his years, but now…now he had the look of a captain who had sustained too many losses, drained to the point of exhaustion, battling uphill only for the sake of the witches and wizards behind him. Harry would be eighteen in a little over a month and a half, but Charlie felt as though he were staring into the face of someone many years his senior.

'I have a force of one hundred and ten dragon keepers from all over the globe,' Charlie reported, and his spine stiffened automatically, as if speaking to a general. 'They are currently camped on a moor south of Hogwarts with their charges.'

'You brought dragons?' Ron whispered in awe.

'Yes. Hermione Granger told me that the final battle seems to be drawing near and that I should be here as quickly as possible. The dragons have been trained for battle and though I would hardly call them tame, they are ready to be added to your fighting force.'

The uneasy silence that settled over the hallway was not what Charlie had expected from this news. The dragons were the only creatures that could truly combat Voldemort's army of giants, and a cavalry of fire-breathers would give them a significant advantage – not the least because your ordinary witches and wizards, Death Eaters included, were terrified of the beasts. The second son of Arthur Weasley had expected relief, questions and strategy, but not this abrupt, peculiar pall.

'Hermione…?' Harry finally managed, and his voice sounded very distant and clipped as if it were closing off tears. And Charlie then noticed Tonks and Shacklebolt trading uncomfortable glances and Moody positively glowering from his corner.

Charlie blinked and glanced in appeal to Ron. His gaze clearly said, What the hell is going on here? His younger brother's mouth twitched in a smile that held no mirth and he mouthed, 'Later.'

Shifting awkwardly, Charlie decided to answer the partial question Harry had asked. 'Hermione wrote me some months ago that dragons would be a useful component of any fight and asked if I could train them to be battle ready. I replied that I thought it was possible.' He glanced around in bewilderment as this news apparently reached them for the first time. 'I thought…I assumed she did it at the Order's command.'

'Miss Granger does very little that the Order commands,' Moody bit out angrily, and Charlie knew he had accidently driven nails into a deep-running wound.

'Perhaps if you would listen to her, she would do more,' came a familiar, acidic voice from the back of the throng. The members of the Order parted for McGonagall to come through, and she was the only one who seemed completely unsurprised to see Charlie.

'You brought the dragons?'

'More than a hundred,' he answered, relieved that at least one of the joint heads of the Order knew why he was there.

'Why didn't she tell us?' Harry asked, and though his tone was fairly neutral, there was no denying the anger that tightened his voice. He glared at McGonagall, jade eyes icing. 'Why didn't you tell us?'

'She was under house arrest at your command when she sent the first letter, Mr. Potter,' Minerva replied icily. 'You decided not to trust her, if you will rightly recall.'

Charlie felt as if he had unknowingly dropped a grenade into a scorpion's nest. House arrest? Hermione Granger? And it was clear that McGonagall, who had always been so protective and proud of Harry, and James Potter's son, were at odds. What had happened to the Order of the Phoenix? Another beseeching glance to Ron caught his younger brother rolling his eyes, and Fred and George were trading dark looks.

'C'mon. I can tell you the basic points. You're lucky you were in Romania with the dragons,' Ron muttered as they wove through the throng, ignoring the simmering argument behind them. 'At least they only spit fire at you.'

~888~

February, 1997

Hermione did not know how long she stood in his embrace, welcoming the heat of reunion after what seemed an age of separation. Her single, coherent, individual thought was that it seemed strange for there to be two bodies in the room when their breathing rose and fell together and she could feel his blood flowing in his veins as if it were her own. A glance at the magic tangling through their limbs told her that fire, water, wind and air agreed, wrapping the physical connection of their bodies in criss-crossed layers of elements so dense that patches of their robes vanished beneath the flaring light.

The clock above them struck one tolling bong for the half hour, cracking the private cocoon of their concentration, and Snape spoke aloud, his voice sounding rough and rusted over her head, as if it were not in the habit of being used.

'Forgive me. You are the only thing in the world that I have wanted for myself in almost twenty years.'

She leaned back, amber eyes searching his remote face. 'Yet you were willing to sacrifice-'

'Better your hatred than your death,' he answered brusquely, jaw locking. But the long hands at the base of her spine tightened, pulling her back into him, the pressure growing almost painful.

She barely felt it, mind whirring. Only half an hour. It had taken him less than thirty minutes to once again completely turn her world upside-down, and to utterly dispel the fury and crushing weight of sorrow that had carried her through the past weeks. She felt as if she were waking fully from a nightmare, emerging from a dense fog. The items around her looked brighter, as if all the candles and lamps had doubled their output, coating the office in a shining glaze and chasing away shadows.

She was just beginning to sort through the many images, impressions and emotions that she had acquired but skimmed over while in his head, and she frantically shoved the thoughts clamouring for attention into a mental box. Later, she could sort them out and make sense of them. Now she had to focus on what she had seen last, putting away both the shimmer of undying hope and leaping joy for her new understanding, knowing that by seeing what she had, she had ruined the careful plans he had laid for her and their child's safety. And in light of this, there was only one question she wanted to ask.

'Why?'

An eyebrow arched as she did not expand on her spoken words, their connection providing him with the pictures and thoughts he needed to answer. Why had he told her, and brought many months of planning to ruin?

'Because I now know that I made a mistake in assuming that you would let anything – even our child – stand in the way of helping Potter and the Order,' he replied quietly. 'And because Professor Dumbledore, knowing our potential, ordered me to speak to you.'

With the headmaster's name, Hermione felt an all-too-familiar and yet foreign dread slam through her, settling in her legs, in her stomach, in her chest, pressing on her heart, and she hurtled into her bondmate's mind once more, seeking the reason for his consuming feeling that had transferred so easily to her-

Years of Occlumency training sprang into place, throwing her from the world of the mind back into their physical reality, gates locking on the city of his thoughts, disappointed surprise and immediate fury their guards. Do not do that again. My mind is not for you to simply enter as you wish. A surge of anger and frustration bathed her, anger at her presumption, the frustration carried over from years of enduring two men constantly besieging his brain.

'I'm sorry,' she murmured, bowing her head in contrition for her thoughtlessness.

'There are rules of politeness amongst Legilimens of great power, Miss Granger,' he replied stiffly, but without his previous flash of rage, her entirely sincere apology soothing him. 'Only the Dark Lord takes what he wants without permission. Even the headmaster is scrupulous to ask before entry.' The bitterness of irony in his voice left her with no doubt that the elder wizard's request was always granted – that Dumbledore asked knowing that he could not be denied.

'And as to the rest of your questions…' He sounded resigned now, and Hermione was startled by her own surprise at hearing this note in his voice, once again impressed by how little she knew about the man whose child stirred to life in her. He often sneered, he seldom laughed, his fury was quick to rise and his grudges slow to fade, he ran hot and cold at whim, he was calculating and hard and she had just felt absolute gentleness. But he was always confident and in control, in a classroom, amongst the Death Eaters, while love-making. She had never heard him sound…beaten.

Except in his memory of begging Professor Dumbledore for death.

'The headmaster is about to enlighten you further as to his reasons.' His black eyes flickered towards the clock, and she felt his muscles tense in preparation to back away. 'We should return to his office. He will tell you why we requested your presence tonight.'

Bafflement made a 'v' in her eyebrows. 'I thought this-' and her eyes took in the room, and his long form, '-was why you summoned me.'

'No. This is what he would call "The Curtain Raiser",' Snape replied dryly, his mouth quirking for his employer's enjoyment of strange phrases. 'This was necessary so that he could inform you of the rest of it.'

'Ensuring that we could work together before he demanded it?' Hermione hazarded a guess, her voice sounding more like her bondmate's than she knew, even as she fought an overwhelming exhaustion. Her emotions had come through the wringer and out again, overloaded both from Snape's and her own as she had walked through his mind. The idea of facing the Head of the Order – who had made it brutally clear that he thought her an adult, with an adult's responsibilities – to learn something more, made her wince.

'The sooner you know this, the better,' Snape quietly answered her unspoken whirling mood. She grimaced her acceptance at him as he finally released her, severing their physical connection and highlighting the end of their privacy.

'Thank you,' she said stalling him briefly as he reached towards the bookcase to let them out.

He glanced down at her, his arm falling in startled bewilderment, and did not need to formulate the words as incredulity poured into her. For what?

'For your honesty. For allowing me access to everything. I could sense that you wanted to push me out, and that you stopped yourself, permitting me to go much deeper than anyone else ever has, to touch the core of who you are. To open your mind so fully…' It would be difficult for anyone. From you – who has led a life of shadow for almost two decades – it is a gift beyond price.

'Those were my orders,' he told her gently, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat at her words. 'But there is no denying that you deserved every minute.' He shifted on his feet, his black eyes darkening with the intensity she had come to know during their brief liaison, and she felt her heart beat faster in response. 'I know that no amount of apologizing will undo what I have done, but I am sorry, Hermione. A gift? No. You earned it. Do you think I have been blind and deaf to your pain over the past weeks? I shared with you every morning that you awakened and wondered whether you could drag yourself from your bed, all the tears that fell at night before you slept. I know well that this,' a long finger came to rest against his temple, 'was all I could give you to save that which has become dearest to me.'

Dearest…she did not doubt it, but a shaft of disbelieving pleasure caught her, delight in hearing him say it aloud.

'Come. The headmaster is waiting for us,' he prompted her.

As he turned and pushed the catch to release the bookcase, he felt the pressure of her fingers on his forearm, her small hand resting lightly like a lady walking to court in centuries past.

Professor Dumbledore desired our accord when he called this meeting. It will save unnecessary words to show him that it has been reached. And, the second part came as an after-thought with distinctly mischievous overtones, I miss touching you.

The lithe wizard glanced down at the woman standing next to him, and his mental picture of her, already significantly altered from what it had been a scant year ago, shed the last vestiges of childhood from its frame. Through her touch, her mind running a fine stream of thought into him, he could feel the solidity of her determination, and the completeness of her comprehension and its accompanying forgiveness, under lit by love as steady as her beating heart. She had risen this morning with earth-coloured eyes telling the story of a trust betrayed, ready for and needing her independence. Now, she stood next to him not only as the woman he burned for, but with the promise of a constant helpmeet and companion, and the avalanche of emotion that filled his throat also halted his steps as he knew, for the first time since his very young childhood, that he no longer stood alone.

The bookcase slid open, and Hermione Granger and Severus Snape stepped back into the office, side by side.

~888~

'Draco.'

The blond froze as he heard his name, one foot halfway to landing outside Slytherin's common room, stone door already beginning to grate closed to seal the entrance and hide it from the untrained eye.

Lounging against the wall, not five feet from him, stood Blaise Zabini, dark skin and black robes aiding him in melting into the long patches of shadow that were the trademark of their dungeon House. Draco cursed the haste that had caused his carelessness, especially in front of this boy. Crabbe and Goyle followed orders, Pansy Parkinson was content to simper – as if he couldn't see the dreams of spending Malfoy money in her eyes as she batted her lashes – but Blaise was unlike any other Slytherin the heir to the Malfoy name knew, and he had always tread delicately around the immovable, seemingly placid boy.

Blaise had proven impervious to money, flattery, and bullying. He stood like a large boulder in a fast-moving stream of aristocratic alliances and feuds, other students eddying around him as they flowed into and out of friendships, but choosing no faction himself from amongst the many that jockeyed for power and favour with each other and their Head. Draco's repeated attempts at camaraderie had gradually earned them a decent working relationship. The pampered son of Lucius lacked the skills to build genuine friendship – he was long since accustomed to having it laid at his feet. But the money in the Zabini accounts rivalled that of Lucius Malfoy's vast holdings, and Zabini's marks had been consistently as good as and better than Draco's own. Politics and business seemed to bore the half-Egyptian, and the rising Dark Lord was no better a subject. His mother had supported neither the Ministry nor Voldemort during the first rise, nor had she conspicuously donated to excellent causes as his father had done afterward. Her deliberate aloofness indicated quite flagrantly, to those who knew what to look for, that she had no interest in buttering anyone's bread but her own, and no debt to be repaid to society for past sins.

Surreptitious whispers dropped Blaise's way during this second rise met with all the reaction of stone falling into an empty well, his blank, unruffled stare quickly quenching the desire to ask his opinion. He had floated through the year – which was proving to be difficult on followers of Light and Dark both – apparently untouched, as if there were no war outside, as if the Britain surrounding Hogwarts were the same country it had been when he had entered school at eleven years old.

He was, in short, the only Slytherin Draco wasn't sure he could convince not to turn him in to their Defence Professor for being out after curfew, which he would be as soon as he finished stepping out of the half-closed door. And though his mother had begged him to take advantage of the help his Head of House was offering him, Draco was distinctly uninterested in Snape's interference. Severus Snape held the place next to the Dark Lord his father coveted, and it was Draco's duty to earn it back for him.

'A bit late for the library. Madam Pince has closed it by now,' Blaise said idly, cleaning one fingernail. Nervousness flared in the blond, quickly masked through long practice – it was going to be one of these conversations – married to an absurd jealousy. Whether the other boy had planned to catch Draco or simply happened to be in the common room at the right time, Draco could not tell. His manner gave Draco no clues as to his intentions, and the pale-skinned boy envied Blaise's complete cool. As he flicked a bit of lint to the carpet under his feet, Blaise looked directly at Draco for the first time.

'Where are you going?' Draco saw genuine interest flash there, and a flicker of – was that worry? And why? Blaise barely knew him. But the converse was also true, and, having kept his work a secret for months, Draco was not going to tell his elusive classmate now.

'I have an Astronomy paper due tomorrow,' he lied, trying to smile casually. He was not taking Astronomy at the NEWT level, but someone had long ago coined the term when referring to a tryst. It was a mundane enough statement to be true – and personal enough to prompt Zabini to politely close the conversation.

The other boy did not take the hint. 'You have an assignment.' His tone made it clear that he did not mean academia. Draco's grey eyes widened, and he struggled to breath as all his air left his lungs in one audible whooosh. Blaise tilted his head, black eyes unnervingly steady as they trained on Draco. 'Shall I take that as a yes?'

Coherent thought had vanished along with oxygen, and as Draco sucked in the latter, he scrambled to compose his mind, which had scattered like pollen in wind. Only Crabbe and Goyle knew that he was working on a project for the Dark Lord, and even they didn't know any details. How could Blaise Zabini, whose head was always buried in a book or absorbed in playing chess – against himself – know anything about it? Or how the Dark Lord operated? Or, for that matter, that Draco had taken the Mark?

His body betrayed him as he reached the last thought and he subconsciously shifted his left arm to hide any chance that Blaise might see the tattoo, in spite of the long sleeves that half-covered Draco's pale hands. The black eyes flickered to follow the movement, and were cooler when they met the grey again.

'Tattooing is permanent, you know. In thirty years when your skin is sagging, you might not want that.'

The ridiculousness of the statement, uttered by a boy backed by the impressive orange flames in the ornate fireplace, forced a barked laugh out of Draco. 'Tattoo? It's nothing,' he bluffed. 'Just a scratch I got in Defence earlier.'

'You were sick during Defence today,' Blaise parried, and Draco felt ice coat his stomach as if he had swallowed snow. He would have to pay much better attention to this classmate of his. Blaise observed and remembered entirely too many things that didn't concern him.

'Are you stalking me?' The question was meant to be light-hearted, a joke, but it was a clear miss, even to Draco's own ears, and he winced at the genuine worry he heard there.

'Of course,' Blaise deadpanned, and Draco gave him a long look, wishing for the discomfiting, penetrating stare that Dumbledore had mastered years before, unsure whether the other boy was returning falsehood with falsehood or telling the truth. The impassive face observing him gave away nothing.

But he had a job to do, one that would not get done if he wasted his time locked in a conversation that was more like a dance, and memories of the Dark Lord's whispered threats to his mother prompted Draco to complete his exit without bandying more words with his slippery housemate and step outside the common room. 'See you,' he tossed off, the casual dismissal sounding awkward as it filled the air after their not-entirely-friendly half-conversation.

As the stone slowly eclipsed the world draped in green and silver from his view, he could still see Blaise, standing at ease and motionless, black eyes locked dispassionately on Draco, lounging with one shoulder against the granite wall worn smooth from a millennia's use of posturing and threats.

~888~

Hermione stopped short as the bookcase slid closed behind them and not one, but two heads syncopated in their turn towards the couple emerging from Dumbledore's private room. The young woman's hand suddenly felt heavy where it lay on her bondmate's sleeve, for there was no mistaking that Minerva McGonagall's sharp blue eyes had fastened on it instantly before moving up to her student's face.

The seventeen-year-old witch tensed, ready for an explosion of indignation and righteous fury that would put her Head of House's previous lectures to shame, and found herself holding her breath as the expected impact never came.

'I'm not going to berate you, Miss Granger,' McGonagall said, and there was warmth in her quiet tone. Her eyes turned to her colleague, growing minutely colder as they did so. But his black orbs were fastened in turn on Dumbledore, something like betrayal igniting in them as he voiced the question their rigid posture had already asked.

'What is she doing here?'

'I recall you urging me last term to speak to Minerva, Severus. After much thought, and considering the position Hermione will be in, I decided you were correct.' The headmaster's beard quirked upwards, indicating a smile as he gestured to where Hermione's hand had impulsively tightened on Snape's arm, her fingernails whitening with the pressure of her grasp. 'I do not think you have to hold onto him so tightly, my dear. Neither of us is going to rip him away from you.'

Hermione blushed, embarrassed, and forced her fingers to relax, though not release. She returned her attention to her Transfiguration professor. 'Did you – how did you know?' she altered the question halfway through asking. It was quite clear that McGonagall was not at all shocked by the relationship between student and teacher that was not what previous appearances would suggest.

'I was present when Albus discovered your…connection…last spring,' McGonagall responded.

A memory shoved its way to the forefront of Hermione's mind, and frustration with her own stupidity swamped her. She had run to McGonagall when Snape had first been Summoned to Voldemort the previous term, had reacted violently to the torture inflicted upon him…and McGonagall had asked no questions, but instead offered exactly the right advice, instructing her as if she knew precisely what was occurring…

And the young woman felt an unexpected, vast sense of relief coloured instantly by disappointment and resentment as she recalled the many nights she had sat, rocking herself on her bed as tears streamed down her face, aching loneliness and the suffocating need for a confidant eating at her, knowing that she could not speak to Lavender or Ginny or Luna, terrified of McGonagall discovering her secret, forgetting in her grief that the older woman had already betrayed herself. 'You knew…the whole time?' she asked slowly.

McGonagall sat up straighter in her chair, knowing the wave that was about to break over her, accepting Hermione's anger as the consequence of her silence. After all, she had argued with her husband on this same subject not long ago, trying to impress upon him Hermione's need for a sympathetic ear, for an older woman's advice.

'You knew.' The stillness was deafening, condemnation loading the two words. 'I wanted…I needed help, Professor. If you already knew…' the rest went unspoken, and Minerva bit the inside of her cheek to control the water that flooded her eyelids at the baffled pain in her student's voice, and the words that went unspoken but were, nevertheless, clearly heard. Why didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you help? Hermione Granger, unable to speak to the women who traditionally guided their daughters and protégés through the treacherous waters of the heart, had desperately needed a mother and a guide, and Minerva could have been – should have been – both.

'Albus told me not to. We agreed that the fewer people implicated by scandal, should it break, the better.' A beat, and then her quiet, 'It was the wrong decision. I apologize, Hermione.' No one present could doubt the sincere sorrow in her gentle voice, or the regret that loaded every syllable.

And, even as the petulant cries that the headmaster couldn't understand and McGonagall should have known better than to obey him welled in her throat, the younger witch choked them. Callous though it was, strategically speaking, Professor Dumbledore had been correct. The last thing Hogwarts needed was to lose Snape, Dumbledore and McGonagall all together, which surely would have been the consequences had one of her classmates seen or heard the wrong thing. Like everything else, Hermione's heart – broken or whole – had to take second place to keeping the wizarding world secure. Especially this bastion of learning with its untrained and unprepared children.

'There was no right decision,' Hermione answered seriously, and McGonagall closed her eyes against the ten years added to that steady voice. 'I cannot fault you for choosing to attend to the responsibilities you have to so many others, or your obedience to our general.' The young witch turned her attention back to Dumbledore, who had winced as she deliberately pronounced the title he had never been formally given. 'Have you ceased to be worried about someone finding out, sir?'

'I was never overly concerned in the first place, Hermione. Severus' sense of discretion is rather…developed…as I am sure you have noticed, and you are not the flighty type of girl to go about creating scenes that would endanger the two of you. But I have found that failure to take precautions in even the smallest of matters – binding Sirius' house-elf Kreacher to complete silence, for instance – can have colossal repercussions. No – it is not that I am more or less anxious about that than I have ever been about the public learning of your bonding, but simply that another problem has outweighed my initial judgment on the matter.' He cleared his throat, and gestured to the two unoccupied chairs in front of his desk. 'Please, Severus, Hermione, sit down.'

Still slightly nervous, Hermione settled herself between her two teachers. McGonagall reached one veined hand over to touch her shoulder, and the clear signal of support and apology sent warmth through the young woman. She smiled quickly at her teacher in acknowledgment that she understood McGonagall's decision, and also that it had not been one lightly made.

'Is this about the Horcrux, sir?' Hermione asked boldly as the headmaster shuffled items on his desk. The blue eyes met hers sharply, and he asked:

'Harry has spoken to you, of course.'

'Yes, Professor.'

'It is, in part. There is also this peculiar power that you share with Severus. Given the unexpected nature of your self-defence today, I trust I don't need to waste breath exhorting you to learn as much about this magic as you can. I know that it will take a great deal of personal time to conduct the necessary study – and I consider all of us fortunate that both you and Severus are nothing if not consummate researchers.' Her nod signalled her assent, and the headmaster's gaze shot between the two adults seated to either side of her.

'As I said, I have recently had cause to review some of my choices regarding the war effort, and as we are bearing down on a crisis point, I have determined that a change in my approach is necessary.'

His eyes were unusually solemn as they looked over his desk, and sorrow consumed them as he gazed at McGonagall.

'This year, both Tom and I have set events in motion that, I believe, will come to a climax in June. Following this, I expect the war will erupt in all the bloodshed that has heretofore been kept down to a few isolated events. Hogwarts, in all likelihood, will be closed next year, for the Order will need all of the able bodies it can get to end the conflict as swiftly as possible – and the school in session is a prime target for the Death Eaters to attack.

'Unfortunately, I will not be here to guide you after this school year and so I need capable lieutenants – people who know my plans, to take my place as leaders of our defence.'

'Why…?' McGonagall started, and the quiet quality of personal devastation in her voice made Hermione glance at her sharply.

Dumbledore took a deep breath, and the sadness radiating from behind the spectacles that usually gleamed with knowledge, kindness or madcap fun increased. 'I'm dying.'

The room went dead still. Hermione would later swear that the clock had ceased ticking off seconds as the three people sitting across his desk stared at the headmaster, premature grief swamping them. Though he had known for months, Snape felt a mantle as heavy as chainmail descend over him at hearing the words spoken so finally. They had plans. They had schemes. The elderly wizard had designed his own snare so the world could continue.

But Albus Dumbledore would not.

McGonagall spoke first, and her student was sure she had never heard so broken a sound. The firm, fair Head of Gryffindor sounded like her heart had been ripped from her chest and ground into the dust.

'Albus…you…how?…Why didn't you tell me?'

And the dreadful cracking of her voice at the end told a whole story in and of itself, which Dumbledore's next words confirmed.

'I'm sorry, my love. I thought it would be better for Severus if no one else knew.'

'Severus…?' Minerva had not followed her husband's thoughts in this jump, and Snape winced as he faced his colleague, praying that the genuine affection they felt for one another would survive the next five minutes. He cleared his throat, easing back the sorrow to allow himself speech.

'The headmaster is suffering from a curse that was placed on the Peverell ring. When he destroyed the Horcrux dwelling therein, he activated the magic. It is slowly poisoning him, and there is no known or findable cure.'

'You told me that it was not immediately fatal,' she said quietly, voice stressed and low. She had expressed the worry that her husband was dying only two months ago when speaking to her younger colleague, but to hear it spoken so finally – a reality instead of conjecture, tightened her throat, making her next words difficult to say. 'You said that Severus had time to find a solution, a cure, even if it took years.'

'We no longer have years, but he will give me a solution, in a way.' Dumbledore dropped his eyes, hands re-arranging some of the papers on his desk idly. When he lifted his gaze again, he changed subjects. 'That is the first problem, and the one of my own making. However, we have a second issue to deal with – the one that Tom has created. He has branded Draco Malfoy, and sent the boy here with a specific task to be completed by the end of the year.' A long pause stretched before Dumbledore's quiet voice finished the statement. 'Killing me.'

Through a haze of grief and instinctive anger at the young Slytherin who had caused her six years of trouble, Hermione thought, Harry's right. Malfoy is up to something. The knowledge that Harry's obsession of their first term was not groundless did nothing to comfort her. Still…Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald and was the only wizard Voldemort feared. A stuck-up Slytherin bully who was still in the throes of puberty could not be more than a laughably pathetic annoyance to him.

'Surely Malfoy is not a threat to you, sir?' she ventured hesitantly. 'I mean, he's not a problem for Harry or Ron or me, and we don't have one tenth your power.'

'There you are wrong, Hermione. The three of you are plenty talented and powerful. But you are correct in your assumption that Draco on his own would not cause a problem. The trouble is in the confluence of events, my own waning magic, and the need for Harry to step out on his own.'

He turned his blue eyes on Hermione. 'You are aware, by now, of my search for the Horcruxes that Tom Riddle made.'

'Yes, sir.' Her lips twisted in annoyance. 'But I can't help you yet. The library has nothing on the subject.' This characteristic frustration brought a genuine smile the old wizard's eyes. Before he could speak, the young witch straightened in her chair, forehead wrinkling. 'Horcruxes? Plural?'

'Unfortunately, yes. I believe there is more than one.'

'What are they, sir?' she pressed, all eager scholar.

'I fear it is my fault you are having no luck with the library, my dear. Horcruxes represent the Darkest of magic, a side of our birthright tied to rituals so old that they should have been lost with the rest of such magics. I won't be encouraging other young people to follow Riddle's example – and so all of those books have been removed from our shelves, even from the Restricted Section. My apologies.

'As to what they are... To put it succinctly, Horcruxes are pieces of a human soul, divided from the original body and stored inside an object. I believe that Tom made six Horcruxes during his first rise to power. Two have been destroyed, leaving the world with a potential four that must be eliminated before he can be permanently stopped.

'This is only my theory. I know that both the Peverell ring and the diary given to Ginevra Weasley her first year were Horcruxes. Everything beyond that is conjecture. Harry Potter is currently trying to discover something that I hope will tell me whether I have guessed right or wrong as to the total number of times Lord Voldemort has split his soul.

'Tom, naturally, does not like what I am doing, and so I have become his primary target. I think he underestimates you, Hermione, and Ronald Weasley, as he has always brushed Harry aside. He believes that, because of your youth and relative inexperience, you will be incapable of continuing the search for the pieces of his soul without me. He is mistaken, but that works to our advantage.

'I believe I am close now to locating another piece of his soul, assuming that the object in question is what I think it is. Before the end of the year, I expect to find a third Horcrux and receive an equally awful hex,' here he shook the sleeve that covered his blackened hand, 'for my pains. A second curse added to the first will speed my end considerably, and in a very painful way. Draco Malfoy will find it within his magical capacity to kill me at this time.'

'Then why don't we-' Hermione started.

'Surely the boy can be removed-' McGonagall began. Both stopped, each woman indicating the other should speak first. The older witch's silence held longer, and Hermione turned again to the headmaster, puzzlement in her face.

'Why don't you let a team from the Ministry destroy it, sir? Or Auror Moody? Or Bill Weasley, as a Cursebreaker from Gringotts? The Order and Hogwarts need you too much, Professor, to risk you on that. Can you not send professionals for it when you find it?'

'Thank you, Miss Granger. I couldn't have put it better myself,' McGonagall nodded approvingly. But laced with her mild words of praise, Hermione could hear real desperation and hope. 'In the meantime, we can have Draco Malfoy removed from Hogwarts. If we explained the situation to Poppy, I'm sure she would write a note for a grievous illness that requires him to be sent home immediately.'

Dumbledore smiled gently at both of them, shaking his head. 'Draco must remain here. If we send him home, Tom will kill him, and possibly his mother as well.'

The words so what? rose to Hermione's lips, but she kept the uncharitable thought at bay, vaguely ashamed that she could wish such a fate on her classmate, unpleasant though he had been for the entire time she had known him. Her Transfiguration professor had no such compunction.

'This sounds more callous than it is intended to, but Albus, I frankly don't understand. You are far more valuable to the safety of Britain and the winning of the war than Narcissa and Draco Malfoy.'

'On that point I think time will prove you incorrect.' Dumbledore leaned across his desk, and Hermione had the impression, in spite of his smooth voice and unchanging features, that these words were the most difficult he had spoken in many years. He did not look to her as he spoke, but the blue eyes remained locked on her Head of House, as if Snape and Hermione had ceased to be present.

'I am the only one who can go for this next Horcrux, though I think I will take Harry with me. There is a pattern emerging as to Tom's desired hiding places – each piece of his soul is stored somewhere deeply connected to his psyche and personal history, which it has taken me more than fifty years to piece together. No one else would know where to find this, or be capable of figuring out the wards that surround it, and I do not have time to train someone else to take my place. I have made it my business to study Tom Riddle intensively for the past decade, and I believe I am beginning to understand how he thinks.'

He shifted then, and his gaze opened to include the other couple in the room. 'As to your question of actually destroying this Horcrux and the ones that come after...Hermione, that task will unfortunately be left to you, Severus and your friends. I expect that simply breaching the wards to reach this one will mostly finish me off, and certainly make me incapable of performing any real magic. But even if I could, I doubt I – or any of the Aurors or professional Cursebreakers – could fully destroy this one.

'I think he made six, as I already said, and two of them – the diary and this ring, have been destroyed. These two are, incidentally, his earliest, pre-dating the other four by nearly twenty years – if we believe his known murder record. It is my belief that these two were essentially for practice. They were imperfect in their creation and the hexes that guarded them were weaker. I think the other four, if they exist, are different. The second group of Horcruxes were made from a perfected technique, and thus are flawlessly sundered. I am guessing that these pieces of soul are much stronger and that the magic defending them is far more complicated. In all likelihood, they exist in tandem with one another. Based on Tom's obsession with old magic and the Dark Arts, I think it highly probable that he has warded them in such a way that all four must be physically located in the same place in order to destroy them.

'What this magic is, I cannot say. I have to translate the journals of the Ang'guin Weyr so I have plenty of conjecture, but very little fact. Severus has been bequeathed the books containing the relevant information, as well as my extensive notes on the matter, and upon my death they will appear in your house at Spinner's End – it will save you unnecessary time and trouble,' he told the younger wizard. Snape nodded jerkily.

'I still don't see any proof here that you need to die, Albus. What does Malfoy have to do with any of this?' McGonagall demanded.

'He lacks the hardness of a killer. His solitary attempt so far – the cursed necklace that Miss Katie Bell unfortunately touched – was so weak that I think it's clear his heart is not in it. Tom knows this as surely as I do. Draco has been given a task he cannot follow through on as punishment for his father's failure in the Department of Mysteries. But Tom did not hinge all of his hopes on a seventeen-year-old turning over a leaf that none of us think he has. There was a second plan set in motion by his mother, as Tom knew there would be. Narcissa requested help from another source, someone to watch over her son and to complete the task ordained for him if he should fail, as everyone knows he must.

'Regardless of whether I die from the Avada Kedavra or the poison spreading through me, I will not live to complete the necessary task of discovering all of the remaining Horcruxes. By giving Draco Malfoy this task and forcing Narcissa's hand, Tom has ensured that my death can put us much closer to ending the war. Someone must be left behind who is capable of getting Tom to tell the Order where the last pieces of his soul are, for without their destruction, the wizarding world will simply be stuck in a cycle of war and attrition, unable to truly rid ourselves of Lord Voldemort. We don't have time for someone to spend the next five decades assembling the puzzle that I have been piecing together. And Narcissa Malfoy has, unwittingly, handed us exactly what we need by seeking help for her son from the person she chose to be his guardian.

'Killing me, the only wizard Tom has ever feared, is proof of loyalty indeed. Enough proof to become the most trusted servant amongst his many. I pray enough to learn what Harry and the Order need to know.'

A moment before Dumbledore spoke his next words, Hermione felt her bondmate tense next to her, dread and apprehension flowing into her in spite of his shielding, and she knew what the headmaster was going to say.

'Narcissa asked for Severus to swear an Unbreakable Vow to finish what her son has started. After I find this Horcrux, he will fulfil his oath.'

~888~

His hand hovering over the black rook who was quietly insisting that he should be moving the knight instead, Blaise sat, thinking. And not about his game, much to his pieces' dismay.

At age eleven, Blaise Zabini had arrived at Hogwarts and been sorted into Slytherin as somewhat of an enigma, a reputation he had deliberately enhanced over the past five and a half years. The tight, closed-off world that most of his peers inhabited was one he had never visited, his mother remaining aloof from the petty skirmishes of high society and the all-out war between the old money of Britain and the ruthlessly inventive, mixed-blood, rising class of Nuevo riche. As most of his house mates belonged to one class or the other, this newcomer with flawless bloodlines, deep pockets and a quiet, confident magical skill who ascribed to neither had been greeted with a mixture of wariness and eagerness, those eager to befriend him or belittle him making themselves known over the course of his first weeks.

But he had found himself genuinely uninterested in most of them. The Crown Prince of their House was a spoilt child, and Blaise had found he felt little other than contempt for Draco Malfoy and his hangers-on, his bully-boys and simpering soon-to-be fiancée, if rumour were to be believed. As they shared classes with the other Houses, young Blaise had begun to fiercely regret being Sorted into Slytherin. He had not met a Hufflepuff he thought had the brains to fill a pea, but many of the Ravenclaws had piqued his interest and so, ever since she had bested them all in Transfiguration during their first lesson and continued to take the top marks in every class, had Hermione Granger.

Never one to hold with convention, as a first year he had sought an opportunity to speak to her, ignoring the traditional rivalry that separated Slytherin and Gryffindor. But after that Halloween, she had been attached at the hip with Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and an undeniable political figure, both in the world outside Hogwarts and inside the castle walls, where his private battles with the son of a notorious Death Eater were common knowledge. Being seen in her company had suddenly become a declaration of loyalty to something and someone else, a commitment Blaise's family had avoided making for decades, and so he had withdrawn that unvoiced hope and kept to himself, engaging in polite conversation with his housemates when it pleased him, sitting with a book propped open or at his well-used chessboard when it did not. The checkerboard of black-and-white had proved a more impenetrable defence than any shield charm, and it had not taken his fellow students long to learn that they could not disturb him – and that there could be some nasty hexes involved if they tried.

His mother had been adamant since he had been old enough to understand even the barest sketches of political life: stay out of it. Empires rise and fall, but the gold behind them stays the same. Be the money, not the emperor, and you will ride tidal waves of glory and ruin like a seagull in an ocean storm – unaffected by howling wind and torrents of rain, while ships of state splinter against stone.

But now…

Draco was not a friend, but the pallor of the boy's face, the silencing spells around his bed that betrayed nightmares, the grey eyes that alternated between mania and listlessness had been preying on Blaise's mind. His mother's ingrained lessons had kept him from truly looking for the past year, wilfully blinding himself to the world gradually disintegrating into chaos – but when Draco had stepped into his compartment on the Hogwarts Express that autumn, the dark young wizard had experienced a shaft of unease so acute it was almost physically painful, and try as he might to brush it aside, the easy indifference that had draped over him like an invisibility cloak for his whole life had vanished. The son of Lucius and Narcissa had always been pampered and arrogant, two behaviours Blaise could dismiss as unworthy of thought. But for those qualities to vanish in the space of a summer, to be replaced by this uncertain, fearful, pressured young man had abruptly brought the war to Blaise's attention in the worst way. It was no longer just something that the Prophet used to sell papers and engender hysteria: it was destroying people he knew, pulling down the lives of those around him not brick by brick but like a bulldozer levelling buildings.

And Draco wasn't the only one. The entire, growing, Potter crowd had also shifted, ranks closing around the suddenly-silent Granger and the brooding, depressed hero, radiating a toughness born of battle experience and a cynicism that came from watching others die. Most of the sixth and seventh years had matured abruptly as the war continued to accelerate, and Blaise was finding himself unable to reconcile his mother's attitude with the world around them. The wealthy might always float, but how much blood flowed underneath them, and how much of it might they have prevented?

Fingers drummed the marble board, the ignored pieces looking to him for instruction, his rook's carved face vaguely hopeful that it might not get moved after all. After a moment of listening to his nails click on polished stone, Blaise pushed himself up from the table, abandoning his game.

Five years ago, he had strangled his faint wishes of friendship with Hermione Granger, consigning her to a world that he would never join.

Now she would prove his gateway.

~888~

The door to Dumbledore's office, for all its weight, shut nearly silently on Snape and Hermione's heels, and McGonagall was moving even as the latch clicked into place. She came round the desk, throwing aside the dignified cloak she maintained for others as she seated herself on her husband's knees, searching the blue eyes for some hint that all he had just told her was a lie, that he would not be leaving her to face the impending years alone...

She did not find it, as she knew she wouldn't. He had been completely serious as he outlined why his death was necessary, what it would accomplish, and the steps she and Hermione would have to take in securing the Order following his demise.

The logical part of her brain understood the whys and wherefores, but the crying of her heart lodged in her throat and prickled at her eyelids, and underneath the vast pain of knowing he was dying was the roaring anger that he had not told her until now – and that he had chosen to tell her in front of Severus and one of their students.

'Why didn't you tell me before? When you cracked the ring and knew Severus could not cure you properly?' she whispered hoarsely, her tears preventing her vocal chords from working properly.

He sighed heavily. 'When I first destroyed this piece of Tom's soul, I was unaware of the plan he had set in motion. I truly thought that I did have time – although Severus' prognosis for my recovery has always been bleak. Later...later I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know, Minerva. I was…I wanted to protect you,' he murmured, his good hand rising to remove the pins from her bun. 'I didn't want to cause you more pain than you will already suffer.' He blew a long breath. 'And I was afraid you would stop me.'

'I still might.' She snapped to keep her tears from spilling, felt herself fail, and the salt water begin to fall . 'I don't know if I can bear to watch you go where I can't follow.'

'Do you think,' he said quietly, and his voice was easily as croaky as hers, 'that I want to go? That I want to leave you and Hogwarts and Harry behind? But I have been as bad as Tom in many respects, Minerva. Severus. Harry. Hermione. Even you, I have directed and used to fight. I cannot remain in my ivory tower, untouched, as my soldiers – many of them children, children I will gladly die to protect – fight and fall. Not when my death can accomplish so much at once.' He was drawing his gnarled fingers through the black-and-grey locks that fell to her waist, the habitual motion soothing both of them.

'I am old, Minerva, and tired. It is time, in more ways than one. Do not grieve too much, my love. We have shared forty years here that I would not trade for another day on my dwindling calendar. Death is no more than a temporary separation, after all, and when it is your turn to pass through the veil, I will be waiting for you on the other side.'

~888~

Hermione walked steadily down the curving stairs leading to the gargoyle entrance, not looking at the man whose step perfectly matched hers. Her mind felt unexpectedly empty, as if the vast amount of information it had processed in the last hour and a half could not all be handled at once, and so none of it would be.

But there was one subject that could not be delayed. 'There is still the child,' she said quietly as they reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand on his arm to delay his exit.

'I know,' he said, grief still washing through his voice. 'I had hoped...but now is not the time.'

'No,' she agreed. She felt hollow, burned out. It was too much to know and certainly too much to feel.

'Tomorrow?' she ventured wearily.

'Will Potter and Weasley's nosiness survive another night when you disappear, unexplained?'

Hermione grimaced. 'You gave me a detention tonight – the only mysterious thing about that is how soon you have let me out. We need to decide. Soon, Severus.'

'Agreed.' A heartbeat's hesitation, and then he stepped forward, closing his arms around her gently, allowing her to push away if she wished. A feeling of intense gratitude warmed him as her limbs slowly relaxed against him and she rested her head on his chest, listening to the gentle thudding of his blood. He resisted the urge to tilt that head back and meet her full mouth with his thin one. Passion had come first – but that stage had been completed, the fires banked by fulfilment of their magics' demands, and there was too much he needed to learn about this witch as a person. For all his knowledge of her body, his actions had proven that he knew next to nothing of her heart.

'Tomorrow. Come to the Potions classroom at the end of the night – after nine.' He knew they should fabricate a story, sketch the lies they would provide to his curious colleagues and her sympathetic peers, but he couldn't summon the effort. He would resume his role tomorrow.

Instead he breathed deeply, the contentment spreading through him an entirely new, seductive emotion. For the first time, he cradled her without guilt, knowing that he had no ulterior motive, that this was not a moment of stolen honesty he would later have to deny. She knew the whole score, and though his fears for her life and his child's had increased ten-fold, trepidation was now wed to relief.

He wished that he might stand forever in the darkened entryway, holding Hermione for their rest of their lives, never returning to the world of the battlefield and the classroom.

But whatever gods existed had never granted his wishes, and they weren't going to start now. When we step outside, it will be as it has always been.

Of course.

A hesitant note entered Snape's thoughts, and he spoke aloud, pulling away from her just enough to meet her eyes in the dim light. 'Keep Potter away from Draco. He is not nearly as subtle as he thinks in following him. In spite of the headmaster's belief that the Draco will not carry through with his plan, he is getting desperate, and in his haste and panic, he is getting dangerous and unpredictable. We cannot afford to lose Potter because he happens to be following Draco and prompts him to make a potentially fatal mistake.'

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, and he brushed a strand of hair away from her face, an expression composed of pure tenderness softening the hard angles of his face, the mobile mouth, the black eyes.

'I cannot say it often, but that does not change the truth. I love you, Hermione. For the days that I have not said it, and the many that I will not be able to in the future, remember. I love you.'

The delighted smile that spread across her face could have outshone the sun, and she placed both hands on his cheeks, savouring the rasp of his day-old beard under her fingers as she gently tugged his face down to meet hers, the brush of her lips granting him what he had denied himself.

'I know,' she whispered as she withdrew.

And the gargoyle moved aside to re-admit them to their world.