Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated products are not mine.

Founders' Hall

June, 1998

'Enter.'

The dangerous hiss in front of her chilled her blood, even as strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm from behind, shoving the young woman stumbling through the door and into a room restored to a gleaming grandeur that came from fairy tales.

Aside from the skeletal man awaiting her in the chair facing the fire. Lord Voldemort would never be on anyone's list of Prince Charmings.

'Your fear is palpable,' said the cold voice, tongue flickering out to wet the thin-lipped mouth, tasting the air in mimicry of the serpents he so favoured. The Dark Wizard rose and the witch found herself kneeling as Lucius Malfoy jerked her down with him, hand still clenched around her small bicep tightly enough to bruise. 'You should learn to better control those Gryffindor sensibilities you possess.'

'Yes, my Lord,' she whispered, throat so dry she could barely form the words.

Silence wrapped them, until finally Voldemort spoke again, forbidding impatience lining his voice. 'I was under the impression that you had something to report, girl. I have my doubts you have come solely to endure my displeasure.'

'No, my Lord,' she said hastily, and, before the burning of her betrayal could choke the words in her throat, she added, 'Charlie Weasley has returned from Romania. With dragons for the Order.'

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. He had rumours, of course, from his contacts in the central and eastern quadrants of the continent, that several known dragon trainers had changed their programs in the past nine months – focusing recently on formation flying, teaching riders how to control and direct rapid bursts of flame, and how to treat injuries while airborne.

But to know that the force had been brought to Britain...it seemed that the Order had accelerated their plans. The battle would have to be soon, before more allies could be garnered. With his Dementors, giants, werewolves, vampires and trolls, he knew his own army to be the superior one. But if they had access to dragons, the fire-breathers already significantly weakened his advantage.

'How many?'

'I don't know, Master,' she answered nervously. 'More than fifty, I think less than two hundred.'

'Where was Severus Snape for this meeting?' The girl swallowed.

'He was there, my Lord. He had a private meeting with Charlie afterwards to plan strategy.'

The first smile of the evening made its appearance on the waxen features. Malfoy, watching his master covertly, ground his teeth. It was always about Albus Dumbledore's former employee. For the past eighteen months, it had been nothing but Snape, his unmatched loyalty, his brilliance – even his bonding to the Mudblood child and their thrice-cursed progeny had been lauded as a gift, a great stroke of destiny allowing their lord to rise even higher.

'Excellent. You have served me, and those you love, well.' The barb found its mark, as Voldemort had known it would, and the lowered head jerked violently under his cruel smile. 'Severus will bring me the rest of the information I need.'

The girl rose, her feet unsteady in her haste, bowed again and backed out of the room, her desire to put as much space between herself and the capricious lord only too plain. The vermilion eyes sparkled with humour as he watched her flee into the mildew-lined corridor.

'Do go with her and ensure she reaches her destination, Lucius. I would hate to lose another valuable resource.'

'My Lord,' Lucius murmured, tilting his blond head and allowing the fine strands of his well-kept hair to shield his face, masking the fury he knew seared in his eyes. Though he had toiled tirelessly to regain the Dark Lord's favour since his release from Azkaban, he had been unable to disturb Severus Snape's place at the powerful wizard's side, an honour his sneering one-time protégé had occupied since the Department of Mysteries had landed so many of them in the formidable prison.

The vitriolic ex-Hogwarts-professor had more defences than a fortress prepared for a century-long siege. He seemed to have no weaknesses, no pressure points, his seamless loyalty to the Dark Arts and their master proven again and again.

Severus Snape's greatest strength was that he did not care if he died, and it appeared that he did not care who else perished, either.

But every man had a weak point, and, as Lucius hurried his steps to follow the girl running away from the old mansion, he promised himself that he would find whatever it was that inhabited the heart of his rival.

And destroy it.

~888~

March, 1997

'...list of families in the United States of America, if you want to read up on them. Apparently, Americans are a great deal keener on adoption than we are,' Minerva McGonagall muttered as she thrust a hefty pile of parchment perilously close to the burning candle on one edge of her desk, singeing the underside of the bottom piece.

Hermione hastily seized the papers before the office could go up in flames, turning to her bondmate in exasperation as his unheard chuckle rippled in her mind. His expression remained so neutral, dark eyes apparently devouring the material in his hands, that she wondered how often students had written off both this man's thoughts and feelings over the past fifteen years. How many times had they sought a reaction and, seeing nothing in his face, assumed him incapable of giving one?

'Where did all of this come from?' the young witch asked, bewildered by the sheer quantity of the information her Head of House had gathered in the space of a month.

'A contact here, a Floo call there,' Minerva replied, her answer as deliberately hazy as any her husband might give. 'It takes very little to pull the correct heart-strings. "My niece is having a little trouble..." "She's a young woman with a lot ahead of her, but she simply can't abide the thought of a wasted life..."'

'Well, you're not wrong there, Professor,' Hermione muttered, shifting in her seat.

'I know.' The levity disappeared as Minerva levelled her best student a firm look. 'I do not mean to belittle the sacrifice you have volunteered to make, Hermione. It was not an easy decision and it will hurt. But, fortunately, it also plays wonderfully on people's sympathy – they tend to be enormously helpful without sticking their noses in too far.'

This time, the surprise rolling through their bond manifested on Snape's face, along with a genuine admiration. 'Such underhanded tactics,' he drawled. 'Godric Gryffindor must be rolling in his grave. You should have been a Slytherin, Minerva.'

She shot him a glare and sniffed, but Hermione had learned enough about her professor to see the glimmer in the dark blue that told her the Transfiguration professor was acting. 'Salazar Slytherin had no monopoly on brains, Severus. Or cunning.'

'Perish the thought,' he replied with a hint of a smile. 'If he had, where would Ravenclaw be?' This earned him an outright snort and a deliberate removal of the biscuit tin from his immediate reach – a futile gesture as he wordlessly floated a ginger snap into his palm.

Hermione watched the byplay from behind a half-raised sheet of parchment, her mind only half on the neatly-printed page.

The bond with her acerbic Defence teacher had long ago brought out the human being behind the sneer and full-length wool robes, but she had been startled to realize the extent to which she had never truly considered any of her professors to be people. Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, Dumbledore and the many others who been standing at the front of the classroom or filling the seats at the Head Table for her entire magical education were mere sketches of humanity. Her mind's eye had drafted severe charcoal drawings – done by a master, exemplifying all that she should aspire to be – but lacking the details of colour and shadow.

Her growing awareness had expanded recently to include her very-human Deputy Headmistress. The strict-but-fair professor that greeted well over a hundred new students every year at the Sorting and sternly guided the Gryffindors through their education hid the wife of the headmaster, a woman with passion and devotion to match any student in her House. The mouth that rarely smiled in the classroom cloaked a ready, dry humour that matched the sardonic wit Snape took care never to reveal in front of her peers. Sometimes, when listening to them or observing whole conversations consisting of nothing more than a look, Hermione felt as if she were witnessing an intricate dance they had memorized the steps to long ago.

And occasionally, when the younger witch was certain Minerva was unaware of being scrutinized, the softness of a mother graced the deep blue eyes. Few brought such relaxation to the lines around the professor's mouth, and Hermione was grateful that Snape was one of them.

The ancient clock on the mantle tolled gently, and three sets of eyes flickered upward, interrupting her drifting thoughts and their efficient silence. The cosy poses disappeared as the two teachers brought their gazes downwards, unabated concern scissoring between blue and black before resting on their determined partner.

'If anything happens-' Minerva started in a quiet voice.

'I know,' Hermione assured her. 'No unnecessary risks.'

'Indeed, Miss Granger,' Snape purposefully addressed his student, driving his words home. 'You excel at memorizing lessons. Let us hope this is one of them.'

Tread carefully, Hermione. He is an unknown quantity. You cannot afford to trust any appearances, no matter how flawless. Remember that he very likely knows exactly what you want to hear.

You have my word, she promised. And he did. Her education had been littered with those whose sweet or sour words had deftly blinded their students and their colleagues to their true intentions. She had learned at twelve that appearances counted for very little.

Silently, she put away the nervousness that had been building since her insistence that she meet with Blaise Zabini alone, pulled open the door to Minerva's office and started down the chilly corridor.

~888~

The door to an unused dungeon classroom swung open, and Blaise Zabini whirled mid-stride, forcing himself to stillness, as if he had not spent the past seven and a half minutes wondering if she was going to come.

'Granger,' he greeted her carefully, noticing the slow, dignified way that she carried herself into the room. Something had markedly changed about her movement in the five weeks since she had started taking her Defence, Transfiguration and Charms lessons privately. It was...statelier. Almost cautious. He had not seen her flat-out run since the morning of Weasley's poisoning, a sharp contrast to the girl who had been in a constant hurry for most of her schooling, books, hair and quills going every which way.

'Zabini,' she returned, exactly matching his neutral tone as she nodded to the boy standing near the blackboard and crossed to the dusty desk.

Ignoring the faint twinges in her back – Madam Pomfrey's books had also warned that this would be a symptom of her condition as the pregnancy progressed – she pulled out her shrunken cauldron and apothecary-stocked Potions kit. She might not be able to actually brew, but pretending that she was taking him at face-value would give away neither her hopes nor expectations of their encounter. Her bondmate had warned her against revealing too much information prematurely. Hermione's intuition told her that the aloof Slytherin presented no threat, but gut instinct had not been satisfactory for Snape and he had instructed her scrupulously for this so-called lesson.

She felt fire's curiosity prick at her guarded uncertainty, the element wondering if the half-Egyptian might pose a threat to its mistress, and the sinewy power rippled unexpectedly through her small muscles. She took several deep breaths as her hands continued to automatically lay out ingredients and tools, quelling flame's unpredictable response. Reducing the Slytherin to ashes would not be conducive to her plans.

'It was very kind of you to offer to help me,' she forayed quietly, testing ground. She met his almond-shaped, unreadable eyes and loosed the bluntness her House was so famous for. 'I wouldn't have expected you to. Being a Slytherin and all.'

'Not all of us ascribe to the mindless bigotry that you have encountered in Draco Malfoy,' he parried deftly, if slightly stiffly.

'I know that,' she replied. 'But I had no idea you took such an interest in my academics to even notice my absence.'

'The lack of constant hand-waving was a sure sign of your departure,' he assured her easily, the words out of his mouth before he could consider them. Her eagerness to offer all the answers was so well-remarked, by admiring and denigrating staff alike, that she might take it as an insult.

Instead, she burst into laughter, the sound pealing off the stone walls like a cheerful bell. 'Ten points to Slytherin for a clever retort.'

'Too bad prefects can't actually give points,' he quipped. This was going much easier than he expected. He had made her laugh, and although her initial demeanour warned him that she wasn't entirely at her ease with him, he had expected that. She had, after all, survived battles. Several of them. And he belonged to a camp that largely supported and supplied the enemy.

Mirth lingered in the crow's feet beginning to form at the edges of her eyes, but her gaze had turned appraising as she moved forward, abandoning her work station to stand across from him. 'Having dispensed with all the usual pleasantries, shall we move on to why we're here?'

The firmness to her voice as she asked that question made the young man abruptly feel as if he were standing in front of Professor McGonagall, and as he looked into her face, the features aligned into wary expectation, he knew that she was aware of his motives, and that his goal had nothing to do with Potions or any other form of academia.

It was now or never. She had already divined his purpose, though how, he could not guess. Now he would have to do that which no Slytherin in his right mind ever did – trust someone he barely knew to help him jump the gap from the serpents' nest to the lions' den.

'There are rumours-' he stopped, flicked his wand wordlessly. A streak of power displaced air and Hermione recognized the backwash of magic as it kissed her skin. Although they still had yet to commence any formal training, she was able to feel her new magic growing stronger every day, enhancing the physical world around her at odd moments. A few months ago, her body would never have noticed the physical passing of an enchantment. She shifted her right arm just slightly in discomfort, feeling her wand drop against her tucked palm. He had cast a Silencing Spell. Adrenaline shot through her as she prayed she hadn't made a mistake—

'There are rumours,' the dark boy started again hesitantly, 'of a group that Dumbledore commands. An army structured to fight the Dark Lord where the Ministry is so obviously failing.'

Hermione tilted her head, expression utterly blank. Zabini was impressed. Had the girl been taking lessons from one of his House members? This completely polite, un-cracked facade was hardly Gryffindor's norm. Where was the heart she had once so prominently displayed on her sleeve? He might have said that he thought it would rain today, for all the reaction she showed.

But it was her silence that prompted him to continue. He had to commit himself irrevocably, cutting across the grain of more than five years of carefully constructed neutrality.

'I would like to join it.'

~888~

'He simply announced it to you?' Snape asked incredulously, rising from his desk at the young woman's startling news, delivered promptly as the door to his office closed on her heels.

He was grateful that the surging power linking their minds first term seemed to have gone into remission with the rest of the magic. He no longer had to pour enormous energy into actively Occluding her most of the day, and the risk that the Dark Lord would sense her within his mind was greatly reduced.

It did, however, mean that the unpredictable young woman could genuinely surprise him once again.

'I just told you exactly what he said,' she confirmed.

'And how did you reply?' His feet had carried him to the sideboard, where tea could be prepared, but here shock interrupted habit, and his hands seemed to have lost the automatic coordination for the simple movements. The Head of Slytherin wondered darkly what game his student was playing, and cursed his own stupidity in overlooking the boy for all these years, assuming the disinterested child would grow into an apathetic man in the family tradition. Had any of his other charges made such a bald statement, Snape had no doubts as to his ability to instantly distil their motives.

But not Blaise Zabini. And the fact that they had another wild variable added to a rapidly disintegrating equation unsettled him. June loomed closer all the time, and there was still so much to do before his masters together dislodged him from the school that had been his prison and his haven for two decades.

'With monosyllables,' she was answering wearily, manoeuvring her way to her favourite armchair. 'It was exhausting, trying to figure out whether he was lying or in earnest.' Her hands came to the back of her neck, rubbing distractedly.

'So you don't know,' he said. It wasn't a question.

'I think he was telling the truth,' she sighed, knowing that this was not an argument that would sway Snape's opinion.

'Such resounding proof,' he snipped predictably. 'I certainly feel better about risking my life, yours and Potter's on such a statement.'

'Severus...' she warned.

'I have been having this fight with the headmaster since shortly after you were born,' he snapped, turning abruptly, bitterness clouding his vision. 'You have seen the most private corners of my mind, Hermione. Can you still claim the naïveté that Albus Dumbledore has allowed to determine his manner of death? Do not cling to his beliefs. Do not enter this battle convinced that there is good in everyone, that the universe is, at the end of the day, governed by Justice. Do not take as an article of faith that that Light has to win not by superior strategy but because it is Right. If such a balance were guaranteed, men like the Dark Lord would never have existed in the first place.'

As swiftly as it came, the hard look vanished. The quiet loneliness she had learned to read well replaced it, and his hands finally seemed to recall the simple steps for making a cup of tea, for she suddenly found a teacup and saucer suddenly hovering at eye-level. She sniffed the liquid and made a face, consigning his warning to the realm of the heard, but un-discussed.

'Doesn't the doctor ever order anything different?' she teased him quietly. He did not reply, settling for watching instead as slender fingers plucked the cup from mid-air, bringing it to her lips in an abstract gesture, the amber eyes shining liquid in the firelight.

For the whole torturous month of January, he had kept his eyes averted, consciously struggling as day followed night not to look at her, to keep his mind as free of her as possible – to prove to his master that ripping out his heart had come at little cost and even less consequence.

Now, in the quiet moments between one life and another, in the pauses gleaned from packed corridors and concentrated classrooms, his mind filled the gaps with her myriad, undiscovered little things. The way she tapped her feet on the floor while thinking. The tiny, ink-stained callus on her right ring finger. Her eager dive for her books when confronted with any question. Like pearls on a growing strand, he stored them in the depths of his thoughts, his love doubling back on itself, strengthening with each added gem.

The way she impatiently threw her hair up especially fascinated him. There was so much of it, but a deft twist of her wrist and the thrust of a Muggle pencil – which she seemed to keep on her person solely for this purpose – swept the whole mess out of her face and caused the riotous curls to fan out behind her head like the disobedient rays of a rising sun. It was a gesture simultaneously feminine and competent, the unconscious brusqueness of her manner off-setting the smooth neck it never failed to reveal.

A question pulsed in his brain, and he could feel the heat of his partner's gaze on his face as she searched it, deliberately pushing open the gates to her mind that had previously been so impossible to shut, tacitly encouraging him to continue his obvious concerns in the privacy of their bond if he wished not to speak aloud.

When neither thought nor voice filled the silence as she sipped her tea and he took up his place on the stool by the fire, she pressed. 'Talk to me, Severus.'

'What would you call what I just did?' he muttered, pulling himself out of pleasant musings. His distraction meant that all true rancour was lacking, and her quiet consumption of her astringent beverage eventually yielded the results she was seeking, the lithe figure utterly still as he stared into the fire, voice coming slowly, as if he were self-editing ideas before they escaped his tongue.

'I can not imagine what benign motive would move Mr. Zabini to say such a thing. Were I to hear the statement in a vacuum, I would assume that one of your House made such a firm declaration. Blaise Zabini may care little for the Dark Lord, for the Ministry and for the politics currently rending this castle in two, but nothing should induce a Slytherin of his breeding to openly – and honestly – plant his feet on the wrong side of his society's line.'

'Severus-' she hesitated, her free hand absently drawing circles on her belly. 'I can't tell you why I think it's not a trap.'

'All logical evidence points to the contrary,' he replied bluntly.

'I know,' she said, mouth twisting in frustration. 'But I don't want to just write him off.' Her brown eyes met his, and a stirring challenge blew through his mind before she voiced it. 'Justice may not govern the world we live in, but that doesn't mean that it shouldn't. It's unjust to make him bear the yoke of his classmates' crimes.'

'Merlin, spare me Gryffindors,' Snape rolled his eyes. 'Slytherin House, Hermione, is based on a caste system as old as wizarding society itself. It's one of the reasons that the students admitted to Slytherin are markedly different than those in the rest of the school. Whether half-bloods or Purebloods, they adhere to a much more rigid pecking order than Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. They do it because either their parents or the parents of their peers do it. As with all such hierarchies, there are 'musts' and 'mustn'ts'. If Blaise Zabini is sincere, he has just broken one of their largest taboos.'

'Hierarchies change. And not all people conform to them,' she responded instantly, stubbornness putting down roots in their shared brain. 'He's never been Malfoy's best friend – why couldn't the simplest explanation also be the truth?'

'You have no reason to believe a single word from his mouth,' Snape returned impatiently. 'I have spent the last month teaching you not only defence, but also how the enemy thinks. Your face and name have been splashed across enough press cuttings with Potter's to make your allegiances undeniable. Draco Malfoy has been carrying home tales of your unmatched intelligence since his arrival at Hogwarts. This makes your value as a war prize enormous.' He lifted a hand to cut off her objection. 'Which proves only that he is working alone. All the Death Eaters have strict orders not to touch you. But if Zabini were truly interested in joining the Order, why not speak to the headmaster? The boy has shared a dormitory with Draco Malfoy for six years – you can't expect him to come to the table with a blank slate.'

'Yes, but even Malfoy is still intact,' she shot back. 'Still worth taking risks to protect. Isn't that why you're-' she stumbled. The intervening weeks had not blunted the pain nor the fear that Professor Dumbledore's revelation had bred in them both, and every time it was mentioned, she found her tongue scrambling around it.

'Draco may not yet have all of Lucius' savageness, but never doubt that cruelty, like the platinum blond hair and grey eyes, runs in his blood. And even if Zabini is telling you the truth, if he joins the Order...what coercion will he find himself subjected to from his immediate peers? What tortures from their parents?'

She blanched at this previously unconsidered condition, but tenaciously held to her point. 'We need allies. We both know the Order's situation now, and it's about to take a turn for the worse. Zabini's potential goes both ways. It should be reasonably easy to keep his involvement in the Order a secret until the end of the year. And then after that...' She shrugged expressively. Hogwarts would close. His proximity to his Slytherin peers would vanish, and with it, the dangers associated. He could join the Order full time.

'After that? It will be that much easier for him to simply "disappear" should the Dark Lord so wish,' Snape rebutted harshly. 'Use the brain we both know you possess. To make a child vanish from Hogwarts is no simple trick – a large part of the wards around the castle pertain only to the population under nineteen. To dodge all of them successfully takes time, skill and knowledge. But once you depart the grounds, anything becomes possible. All it takes is a single pointed finger. Once suspicion has been pinned on him, my master would find your worship of justice laughable. The whisper of Zabini's allegiance to the Order is enough to condemn him.'

A twist of sadness laced with icy wind twisted in Hermione's chest, and she realized with a start that the Head of Slytherin's hesitation stemmed not merely from his deeply untrusting nature but also from an acute concern. She knew that her surprise washed through the open bond connecting them, because the thin mouth relaxed slightly as he met her eyes.

'No matter what I say or do in the classroom, Hermione, I have never relished the prospect of those I teach falling to the Dark Lord. Whether they take his Mark or die at his wand, it is a tremendous waste of life.'

Her reply was derailed as the fire roared, changing from brilliant orange to neon-green, and Albus Dumbledore's deeply lined face popped into existence, beard trailing on the carpet. 'Excellent,' he announced, his eyes twinkling with the good humour that seldom failed outside his office. 'I hoped I would find you both here.' The sky-blue gaze cut from one to another. 'Am I interrupting?'

'In a timely fashion, as always,' Snape answered blithely. 'Miss Granger has just finished reporting to me on her meeting with Mr. Zabini.'

'Indeed?' His incisive gaze sharpened further, and the young woman held his intensity, even though she felt an itch of discomfort under the penetrating stare. To her great surprise, he did not press for details, but merely asked, 'In that case, will you permit an old man to further intrude? I fear my knees are no longer content to be pressed against hard stone for great lengths of time.'

'Do we have any choice?' the dark wizard replied, and slid off his stool. A moment later, the full – if cramped – form of the headmaster was spinning into view, draped in robes of midnight-blue. He stepped smartly from under the mantle, straightening and wincing as something in his back audibly popped.

He swept the last bit of ash from his silver beard and vanished it with a wordless Evanesco before turning to Hermione, still curled in her armchair. 'I apologize, my dear. I care very much about the results of your appointment with Mr. Zabini, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to suspend the pleasure of hearing them for the time being.'

'What have you found?' Snape asked instantly, sweet and milky tea extended in one hand. Dumbledore chuckled as he took the proffered cup.

'And you accuse me of omniscience?' he teased lightly.

'You would not consign something so potentially critical to the future unless there was something else even weightier that occupies the present. Minerva mentioned a few weeks ago that you were working on decoding one of the journals of the Ang'guin Weyr-'

'It seems that I should warn my wife about spoiling my surprises,' the older wizard sidestepped the question, but the sparkle suffusing the blue betrayed his undimmed delight as he drained his beverage in one long drink.

'She is correct, as are you. The journals of the Ang'guin Weyr have not revealed precisely what I hoped they might, but they did point to a rather interesting starting point.'

'What kind of a starting point, sir?' Hermione asked eagerly. Since the incident with Pansy on the stairs, she dreaded having another outburst – one when her bondmate would not be so readily at hand to contain the escaping elements. Her reaction to Zabini's spell today had reinforced her impatience.

'Not so much a 'what' as a 'who',' he replied maddeningly, and she could tell that Dumbledore was enjoying drawing this out. His audience were two of the castle's most voracious learners, and dangling a treat this size was a dangerous pastime. Either one of them might hex him from sheer impatience.

Snape's face said as much, for before the scathing remarks could burn his ears, the elder wizard lifted his good hand and continued. 'The term "Raw Magic" was apparently very much in dispute when the Ang'guin Weyr was recording its journals, and applied to many more branches of our art than I realized. As a result, the old powers have not died out as completely as most historians of the subject are given to believe. A thousand years ago, the last of those able to control such magic without a conductor died from an unknown illness. But not before one of them discovered a way to keep their world from collapsing – by making less capable wizards and witches able to reach the heights of magic the most powerful had obtained.'

'How?' Hermione's voice was breathless with anticipation, she was leaning forward in her chair. Even Snape felt his temper reining under the almost literally spellbinding effect of Dumbledore's storytelling.

'A length of wood, seamlessly grafted around a core of that which has innate, natural, magic.'

'Wands,' Snape murmured, hands steepled in front of his mouth.

'Just so. The magnificent power once directly controlled by wizards has been channelled into everyday use by the wands we wield. But of course, the vast majority of our kind, while gifted with using their wands, cannot actually make them. A wandmaker needs a connection to the earth, and through that connection, one with the lives of those who provide the cores. Obviously, a gift beyond his talents with the instruments he creates.'

He paused expectantly, and was not disappointed as dots connected in identical constellations. 'Ollivander,' the pair whispered together.

Dumbledore smiled, eyes glittering like a teacher preparing to lavish praise on a precocious student. 'Precisely. True makers of wands express at least one facet of the talents denied most wizards and witches. I suspect our dear supplier Mr. Ollivander has one of them.'

~888~

'Fancy a little Gryffindor walking all the way down here by herself with no classes to go to. I wonder what she could be doing.'

The sticky-sweet, nasal voice of Pansy Parkinson brought Blaise Zabini to full alert, yanking him out of his brooding. He had not yet managed to leave the classroom where he had met Hermione Granger for their alleged Potions practice. He wondered how long it would take her over-protective bodyguards to come running and idly twirled his wand in his fingers. Given their tempers, he was sure it would be a case of cursing first and asking questions later.

But Pansy's 'trouble' voice brought him to his feet. She never could resist a target – any target – and these days, the trend of the whole House was to pick fights instead of waiting for them, epitomizing the worst of their name.

Whoever her opponent was, he couldn't make out the reply, simply a quiet murmur. Probably one of the girls, then. Gryffindor boys carried their bravado before them like a shield.

His hand was on the cool brass doorknob before he hesitated. As the well-advertised future Mrs. Malfoy, Pansy carried more weight with their peers than most, which he couldn't have cared less about. But the worrying thing was that she also carried more weight with their parents, even with Lucius' current disgrace as an established Death Eater and Azkaban escapee.

Granger had made him no promises. His Head of House was quite likely one of the enemy. He had never liked the pug-faced girl, but he had also never once deigned to interfere in her life.

The sound of magic striking stone broke his internal stalemate. Throwing open the door, he dove wand-first into the corridor, rolling into a somersault as a jet of yellow streaked where his head would have been.

'Blaise! Come to join the fun?' It was not Pansy's voice. A swift glance towards the other end of the hall revealed four of his Housemates closing on a pale girl with wavy red hair. The hard, competent look she tossed back at him confirmed his suspicions. Ginevra Weasley.

'Actually, I came to advise you against this,' the half-Egyptian replied, flicking his wand to block the next spell streaking towards the Gryffindor witch. 'Snape's office is just in the next hall.'

'No worries there. What d'you think Silencing Charms are for?' Pansy sneered. 'Five against one,' she mock-pouted at Ginny, 'and no one to intercede.'

Sending an ironic thanks to Snape for their many lessons in wordless magic this year, Zabini sent a Stunner to slam Theodore Nott against the far wall. The unconscious boy's eyes remained wide open in surprise as Pansy's dark blue narrowed.

'I think you'll find that the odds are slightly better than that,' the dark boy countered quietly, joining a startled Ginny where she stood. 'Two against three a better match?'

Daphne Greengrass curled her lip contemptuously. 'Blood-traitor bewitched you, Blaise? You've always been so fastidious...it's unlike you to sully yourself.' Her shield barely rose in time to deflect Ginny's hex, and as it was, the lower portion of her calves erupted in boils.

'Oww!' she shrieked, batting at them with her hands and moaning. 'Ohhhhh – make them go away! They sting!'

'You can find the counter-curse yourself,' Ginny answered in disgust. 'Have fun with that. My brothers invented this one.'

'There are a lot of people who will be unimpressed by what you've done today,' Pansy said flatly as Anthony Goldstein began to back up slowly. With Nott down and Daphne huddling against a wall crying, he was clearly interested in nothing more than quitting the scene.

'No more than those who will condemn you, Parkinson.'

'And many who will praise him,' Ginny's voice cut across their threats cleanly. 'I told you I would think again before attacking.'

'Really?' Parkinson strode forward, coming close enough for her whisper to carry in the hallway. 'Hogwarts is the only place in the world, Weasel, where you are kept safe by old-man-Dumbledore's golden seal. And that's not going to last forever.'

Ginny neither blinked nor backed away. 'Thanks for the unnecessary tip. Though, oddly, I don't see him here now. And you're still not doing...anything.' She favoured the Slytherin with a cold smile as Parkinson pulled Greengrass to her feet and curtly ordered Goldstein to levitate Nott. Their mismatched steps had faded into the dungeons before the red-head turned to face her unexpected ally.

'Thanks,' she said hesitantly, the shadow of suspicion prominent in her eyes. He was suddenly struck by how slender she was. Tall for a girl, confident in her manner and graceful on her broomstick, he'd always had the impression that she was much bigger.

'You're welcome.'

'I don't suppose you'd tell me why you took my part against your classmates if I asked?'

'Not right now,' he replied seriously.

She cocked her head curiously, exposing her porcelain-white throat. 'I didn't think so.'

'I'll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower,' he offered.

'So that we can reverse positions and I have to protect you? I'll pass.'

'To make sure they won't try again. I don't know what it is, but they have something to prove this year. And they're spoiling to make an example out of someone from Potter's gang.'

'Yeah, I'm getting that. Hermione. Me. Thanks for your help,' she said, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder. 'I did come down here for a real reason, but I'm thinking that maybe I'll wait until tomorrow.' Her dark brown eyes met his, concern overtaking distrust.

'Be careful. They probably aren't too happy with you right now.'

A Gryffindor giving him advice on how to deal with Slytherins. The world really had turned inside-out. 'I'm sure they aren't. I'll walk you back to the Great Hall.'

Her mouth opened, as if she might object, but she merely shrugged and turned her steps back towards the stairs that would take them to afternoon tea.

~888~

'But, Headmaster...' Hermione trailed off, excitement instantly stifled in her effort to remember something critical. Something about the aging wandmaker...

'Ollivander has disappeared,' Snape completed her half-formed objection. 'The Dark Lord is quite displeased with his abrupt departure.'

'As well he should be, if Tom is as obsessed as I suspect,' Dumbledore chuckled.

Obsidian eyes caught the blue and held. 'Is there any reason for my master to be aware of the connection Ollivander has to Raw Magic that you have discovered?'

'I can't think of one, no,' the elder man replied seriously. 'But wandlore is amongst our oldest disciplines, and one of the few continuing in the modern world, and we both know that he is smart enough to add that sum and at least investigate.'

'However, we now face the same problem,' Snape added impatiently. 'If we have no knowledge of his whereabouts-'

'He is no longer located in Diagon Alley,' the headmaster interrupted cheerfully. 'That does not mean that I am not aware of where he is.'

'Headmaster...' The professor's teeth were gritted, and a hot flow of impatience was surging in Hermione's mind.

'You really must learn to exercise some patience, my boy,' Dumbledore observed dryly. 'Why do you think I have been delaying all these weeks? As a matter of fact, Mr. Jeremiah Ollivander is seated in my office right now.'

He had scarcely finished the sentence before the fire blazed green with Floo powder, and Snape was stepping towards the flames. An ancient hand thrust out to stop him.

'I believe it would be more advantageous for him to come here, Severus. Please, allow me.' His head disappeared into the flames, and Hermione shivered, averting her eyes. She had watched Harry converse with Sirius this way last spring, but nothing could change the visual disconnect of seeing someone's head simply vanish while the animate body remained behind, gesturing in rhythm with unheard words.

The groomed white beard swept back out of the fireplace, and Dumbledore straightened, this time cracking his neck. 'He will be down in a moment,' he announced comfortably. The instant he said it, the second whirling shape in five minutes began to grow, and the aged proprietor of Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands was ducking from under the mantle.

'Quite a smooth ride you have in this school, Albus,' he said softly. 'Not at all bumpy like the Alley Network.'

'I find that the standard of teaching drops if my colleagues are afraid of being rattled to death in a fireplace,' Dumbledore replied easily. He was at the sideboard, deftly scooting Snape aside as he reached for the kettle. 'Tea, Jeremiah?'

'Please.' The silver eyes that Hermione had not seen since coming from his shop, clutching her brand-new wand at the age of eleven, were trained on her, studying her impassively, as if she were a unique specimen to be catalogued in every intimate detail. The intensity of his study made her uncomfortable.

'Hermione Granger. Vine wood and dragon heart-string. Ten-and-three-quarters inches. Flexible – but not too much so. If I believe half of what I hear, it has been serving you well.'

She ducked her head in a nod of uncertain gratitude as the shining gaze shifted to her bondmate. 'Severus Snape.' The silver shone, as of the irises were glowing. 'Blackthorn and phoenix feather. Thirteen inches. Stiff as a new-hewn board. An adaptable combination...but perhaps not enough to include the new facets of your talent?'

'The headmaster intimated that you might be capable of leading us down that path yourself,' Snape responded, surprising Hermione with the quiet respect in his tone. The simmering impatience that had threaten to tumble over his employer had by no means vanished, and she could feel the iron discipline ruthlessly squashing his desire to pick up the smaller wizard by the front of his robes and shake answers from him.

'Leading? Good heavens no, Professor.' Ollivander gave a reedy laugh. 'Observe.' He held up his palm, blowing into it gently. For a moment, nothing happened, and then a faint, gilded tornado ghosted upwards from his palm. Snape felt Ether stir within him, responding to the nearness of a match. Gold snapped curiously from his fingertips and he hesitantly lifted his hand, repeating Ollivander's blowing gesture.

The result was like a falcon trying to play with a moth. Wind gusted eagerly from the Slytherin's body, tearing down his arm and bursting out in the radiant lines of a whistling breeze. In an instant, it had completely encircled Ollivander's demonstration, batting at the small storm. The papers on his desk were fluttering madly, anchored by a sorely-tested Sticking Charm, and even the full ink bottles had begun to inch perilously towards the edge.

The aging wandmaker smiled. 'As you can see, my technique will be insufficient for you. Thank you, Albus,' he said, accepting a bronze-rimmed teacup with his other hand. 'Imagine trying to control a roomful of dynamite with an Aguamenti and you'll get the general idea of how effective I can be as a teacher.'

'But Severus did make something just now,' Hermione argued, watching the wind slowly dying down, the sound of flapping parchment ceasing. 'For the first time.'

'Wind reacted to wind. What he made was uncontrolled. Without purpose. Without need. Not a particularly useful thing to have produced,' Ollivander countered. 'I cannot teach you. What Albus did was convince me to show you the place where you can learn.'

'Did I?' Dumbledore asked pleasantly. 'I seem to recall a conversation along rather different lines, Jeremiah.'

'You know better than to insist upon something so ridiculous as the blind leading the blind. This would be a worse insult – the blind leading the seeing. No, Albus,' a stick-thin finger waggled in front of the headmaster's nose. 'You know nothing of this magic. I know next to nothing. I will lead your horses to water – but they must ford the stream themselves.' The peculiar regard came their way again. 'Forgive the unflattering metaphor.'

'What place?' Snape asked, pursuing the relevant point.

'The Nexus,' Ollivander replied simply, as if this provided sufficient explanation.

'The-?'

'Nexus? Where?' Dumbledore pressed, cutting off the young wizard. 'I was unaware that we had one in Britain.'

'Why, Albus, you surprise me. With your penchant for owning all kinds of rarities most wizards would kill for and that remarkable brain of yours, I was sure you would have guessed by now,' the wandmaker answered, and Hermione nearly laughed aloud at the total delight on Ollivander's face. It was a rare day that anybody pulled one over on Albus Dumbledore, and after suffering from his manipulations this year, she was gratified to see an utterly stupefied look on the usually knowing features.

'What better way to encourage young, untrained and weaker magic to develop than to put the wielders directly over the source?'

'Source?' Snape tried again, with equally little success.

'Hogwarts. It's – it's underneath the school, isn't it? In Founders' Hall, the birthplace of the institution-' a swift glance from blue to silver eyes, confirming the truth, and it was the eldest wizard's turn to act with precipitous haste. He was out the wooden doors of the office before the rest of them had risen.

Ollivander's quiet laugh was the only answer to greet two puzzled faces. 'I suspect your dear headmaster has a theory that he had set out to confirm. Let us follow him.'

~888~

Their first several hundred yards merely took them deeper into the dungeons, torches still dancing merrily at their regular intervals.

Hermione focussed on moving silently. She had allowed the two men to leave before her, Disillusioning herself before following. To be seen in the company of her spiky Defence professor would have required an explanation, but one that easily fell within the bounds of the believable. She had no wish to stammer her way through the lies that would be necessary if any of her peers saw her with such an eccentric pair.

But as they advanced, her attention was increasing drawn to their surroundings. The stone floor started slanting gently downwards and the granite blocks that comprised the make-up of the school's floors, walls, and ceilings got larger. Ducking under an arch that tingled with magic in the wake of Dumbledore's passing, the walls around the trio grew rougher, eventually giving way to tunnels that looked as if they had been chiselled out of natural caverns, the stone around them darkening to a grey that was almost black, torches giving way the light of two wand tips. There were no portraits, tapestries or any other form of the decoration that positively saturated Hogwarts' upper levels.

Mentally flipping the pages of Hogwarts, A History, Hermione wondered why this part had been so assiduously left out. From the dry words of one of her favourite tomes, one would assume that the school ended with the dungeons where she had taken Potions for so many years. There was no mention in the text of the rabbit warren they were now weaving through, ducking right and left as Ollivander steered them, the headmaster still so far ahead they couldn't see him. She realized she was shivering when a rash of goose bumps broke out from shoulder to wrist, and in front of her, her bondmate stopped, the many layers of his professional clothing offering him no protection against her physical reaction, and the response it triggered in him. Snape deftly unfastened his over-cloak and turned, eyes scanning the black hallway. 'Miss Granger? I believe it will be quite safe for you to remove the charm now.' A moment later, the young woman appeared a few feet in front of him. He silently extended her the garment.

You will not be cold?she asked hesitantly.

I live in these dungeons. Take it.

Hermione crept forward gratefully, reaching for the heavy wool with a shy glance at the tall wizard, doing her best to ignore Diagon Alley's wandmaker and his curious glance. 'It will be more comfortable for both of us if you are not shaking to the bone,' he answered her look aloud with his patented logic, but a shadow of warmth brushed through both eyes and mind, and she could feel his eyes drop to her belly, worry for her well-being extended to the growing life there.

She swung the heavy cloth around her, the unexpected weight almost pulling it from her shoulders as frozen fingers fumbled with the ornate clasp. Even through her numbed nose, she could smell him as the folds layered around her. The threads of the cloak were permeated with his sweat, his soaps, the ink that stained his fingers, and the constant clash of potions ingredients, so many and mixed she would have been hard-pressed to name a single one.

As silver caught on silver, securing it about her shoulders, she suddenly heard Lavender's bright voice. She had heard the other girl confiding to Parvati how much she loved wearing Ron's cloaks – literally wrapping herself in his smell. Though Ron had blushed so hard when he heard this that his ears had gone bright red, Hermione had noticed that her roommate never seemed at a loss for one of her favourite garments.

Lavender was right. The feeling of being submerged in her bondmate brought an unnamed peace and a sense of belonging, of rightness. As long as her life included this assault of scents-

'Your cheeks are still pale,' he murmured, one finger hovering under her eye, reluctant to touch under the scrutiny of a stranger.

'I'll be all right if we hurry,' she said quietly, aware that she was grinding her teeth together to keep herself from chattering. Her body was warmer, but her neck and face still stung with cold.

'How much farther, Mr. Ollivander?'

The older wizard closed his eyes, as if seeking their destination with an unnamed sense. 'Perhaps a few hundred feet,' he finally answered. 'I hope Albus has waited for us.' 'Then let us cross the distance quickly,' Snape urged him, and the shorter man immediately set a pace that kept Hermione at a jog to keep up. Two hundred yards later, they made the right turn demanded by the unyielding rock to meet another open arch, the rough stone softened with an almost-undisturbed blanket of dust. The corner that the headmaster's fingers had brushed retained a perfect imprint – as if the undisturbed centuries were recording the impertinence of his passing.

Dumbledore stood just inside, sweeping sleeves nearly kissing the ground. 'Ah, Albus. So good of you to linger,' Ollivander said cheerfully, crossing the threshold.

'Hogwarts has a magic that obeys its own rules – some of which vast quantities of time spent wandering around after midnight have allowed me to learn,' the headmaster assured him, though his blue eyes glittered with impatience at their tardiness. 'Only the current Head of School, and those who accompany him, can enter this part of our grounds. And as I will shortly be in need of your assistance, waiting seemed the prudent thing to do.'

'A wise precaution, all things being equal,' the wandmaker agreed. He gazed into the yawning dark of a low-ceilinged, narrow passage. 'Shall we?'

'By all means.' Both Snape and Dumbledore had to duck their heads to fit into the tiny space, just wide enough for them to walk single-file. Behind them, Hermione heard the grating protest of stone-on-stone as the entrance sealed itself away from prying eyes, leaving them only the light of their wands as guides on the treacherously slick slope. As the low ceiling closed over her head, Hermione felt pressure bearing down on her, on all of them, and was suddenly reminded of another black hallway...a single-lane road ending in a door to disaster...

She shivered as the polished obsidian marble of the Department of Mysteries replaced their present, coarse path. Dolohov's vicious smile as he loosed the curse...Lucius Malfoy's icy voice as he bent her neck back in Diagon Alley...'Beg, bitch,'...the pallor of Harry's face and Ginny's numb whisper... 'Ron's been poisoned...'

It was likely stumbling into a nightmare, only to find the current too strong to resist as memory leapt callously from fear to terror to pain. The witch blindly reached behind her, seeking the comfort she felt hovering there, grasping for the long-fingered hand that rose to clasp her shoulder in an impersonal touch appropriate for the teacher he was.

It is a ward, a guardian of this space. The memories it recalls are not part the present. Fight its power. Anchor yourself. You are at Hogwarts. Nothing here will hurt you...came his quiet encouragement through the warm palm squeezing against her back.

She shook her head against the unwanted memories, as if she could spill their silver sheen across the dark floor. By a conscious force of effort, she focussed her eyes on the irregular rock guiding her ever-downwards. Left, right, left, avoid the one-foot hole, is that an ash widow web on that wall? What could a spider eat down here...? Her mind supplied steady, stream-of-consciousness chatter, subduing the tension that had rushed into her blood.

As soon as the panic began to fade, the soothing hand on her shoulder fell away. Though her skin prickled as cool air replaced warm flesh, she did not turn to her bondmate. Instead, she kept her gaze on the majestic train of Dumbledore's deep blue robes and glowing wand-tip, glancing down to keep herself from slipping on the granite as they marched deeper.

The figure in front of her stopped abruptly, arms flung wide in warning. Peering under them, the witch could see a sheer angle dropping away before them as the slope gave way to carved stairs that spiralled into the dizzying dark. Their uneven blackness shone dully, as through they had been made when the world was new – crafted for a god, or as a passage between worlds. A short pause, and then, carefully setting one heeled boot in front of the other, the headmaster continued their descent.

As the sole of Hermione's foot landed on the first stair, a pulling sensation took up space in her abdomen, just above her child, urging her to hasten as much as she dared on the precipitous steps. The tickling heat she had come to recognize as Flamma woke suddenly, tugging impatiently and making her wish that she had wings so that she might fly to their destination.

Wanting. Seeking. Needing. Desire. Hunger. Home.

Behind her, she could feel the pressure Ether and Aqua were exerting on her bondmate, the same sensuous yearning filling his blood. It was both like the madness that had burned in them first term and wholly different, consuming in its intensity, the focus entirely new. It was not the lean body she was so aware of, or even the presence of Severus Snape as such, but the blaze of magic that had wrapped itself around his essence.

Whatever their goal, they were rapidly closing on it. The tug became an ache. Light of lights. Beginning of beginnings. Home...

And as suddenly as they began, the stairs came to an end, leaving them standing before a sheer, unbroken wall of rock.

Dumbledore's back was to them as they halted, sleeves sweeping like massive wings as he hastily ran his wand over the stone, his silent 'Tergeo' draining centuries of dirt from the surface. Dust crystals flashed in the wand light and slender lines began to scroll over the granite as if sketched by an invisible hand.

While the pattern was emerging, Flamma began singing in Hermione's blood, the doubled impatience of a longing made that much more painful by the nearness of its goal. Guided by the magic that bent her to its will instead of obeying her commands, she stepped forward, ducking under the heavy woollen sleeves of her headmaster to plant her palm firmly in the middle of the curling contours. Dumbledore jumped away from the wall as crimson fire flared in the rock, the arches of the ancient symbol enflamed and revealed by her touch.

As she spread her fingers in the upper left quadrant, flame exploded in recognition, blistering through her with single-minded fierceness. Emotions so primal they seemed almost without name swallowed the bonded pair whole, their frail human frames shaking as cascades of magic poured through every nerve.

Her body locked, shoulders drawn back, knees rigid as fire tore through and around her, searing her muscles, burning her eyes. Rebellion rose in her as she struggled with the pain of consecration, her literal baptism-by-fire. She had not asked for this terrible, unchecked, incinerating power. She did not want it. Her body, so fragile, so human with its flesh, blood and bone, was not conditioned to the harshness of a magic that had shaped the world. It could not contain this rage—

Let yourself go with it. Fight it and it may devour you. She could barely make out her bondmate's mental voice through the inferno, feeling only that fire was claiming him even as it cleansed her...

Let yourself go...she willed her clenched muscles to relax, bidding her body to melt into the flame, to let it scorch every surface it could touch, purifying her. As the strain disappeared, Flamma gentled, and she could feel the flow to and from the wall, giving her intimacy with the foundation stones themselves.

The element snapped its warning, the respite brought by connection with the wall swiftly fading. 'Water!' she gasped as the deep, blood-coloured flame licked her skin. Synchronized with her cry, Snape's long form reached the wall, bony fingers stretched out to splay across the upper right section of the ancient design.

The wizard gasped, stiffening as the element of water came streaming through him, the magic previously rejoicing in its freedom funnelling through him with such force that Hermione felt her breathing grow ragged, her lungs dampening with her partner's. Water raged through him, overflowing the bounds of his body, drowning him and marking him. By an effort of sheer will, Snape made himself relax into the deluge, floating instead of fighting. The elements had proven to be too strong to deny, whether gift or curse. If he did not give in to it, water would occupy his body by force. The blue-green strands of magic surged down his arm in one thrust, through his hand and into the rock. The waves ignited in cerulean curves, throwing relief on the dimmed sign of Terra beneath it.

'Ether,' they breathed, or thought, or felt, in unison. Snape blindly brought his left hand, still shaky in the aftermath of water's fury, to rest on the lower-left symbol. Like the zephyr that had carried him into the greenhouse months ago, the free-flowing element lifted him from his feet, dangling him above the rough floor. His only contact with earth the granite he gripped with his fingers, Ether flowed greedily into the dark surface, his body the conduit as it caressed the stone. As the balls of his feet found the pressure of ground, the curving swirls of the pattern caught the shimmering gold of wind, tangling eagerly with the crimson magic boiling above it.

'Terra.'

It was her turn again, and Hermione did not know whether she felt fear or relief. Flamma had nearly flayed her bones. But her right arm lifted effortlessly, finding the grooves illuminated by Aqua in the final quadrant of their joining.

Earth's greeting was not like that of the other three. Instead of an eruption, a placid wave rose from the very base of the young woman's spine, submerging her body slowly, as if she were entering a warm pool one step at a time. It layered over itself, pitching and reclining, power inching towards its goal, passing her shoulder blades...creeping into her upper arm...pushing past her elbow...tingling at her wrist...tip-toeing out her fingers...

Brown and green added their hues to the brilliant display, the circle of Earth cutting through the corners of her siblings, including them all in her embrace. For an instant, Hermione twisted to look up at her bondmate, hands still firmly planted on the stone as they drew shuddering breaths, sweat curling the wisps of hair around her face and tickling between their shoulders.

When their eyes met, their minds blew open. It was so instant, so complete that the wizard was uncertain where he began and she ended. Here, there was no peeling of layers as was required in Legilimency. There was no search through labyrinthine corridors. There were immediate memories of reading books by flashlight under a rose-patterned quilt...a dormitory draped in red and gold...a child's adoration of Minerva McGonagall...the brutality of the shock of her pregnancy...

Another mind bubbled in. And shattered his world.

It formed no words. It had no thoughts. Colours were its only indicators – violent splatters of unbridled emotion. It was laughing, saturating his mental landscape in a yellow the tone of fresh-spun sunshine. There was no fear, no anxiety, only fullness, a pure eagerness for life that he had never before felt.

It was not Hermione. He knew the nuances of her thoughts, and though his mate's mind shared some part of these pristine feelings, they were eclipsed by the effort of living through a war.

The happiness that frolicked around the corners of his brain now was married to the wind breezing in his blood and the water rolling in his nerves, the fire burning in Hermione's bones and the earth shifting in her muscles. The elements and the source of this nameless joy were inextricably linked.

When Hermione's vision cleared, she discovered that she was still staring into ink-black eyes – but the gaze held little of the man she knew. Heat had replaced cold, wonder – cynicism, joy – pain.

'Freezing. Like sewer tunnels,' she remembered Harry's flat criticism. 'I don't think he even knows how to smile.'

His life has given him so few occasions to show such a face...and many to hide it, she thought in silent reply to the memory of Harry's bitter mouth.

But even though she had known for months that Snape's hard facade cloaked a depth of passion few possessed, nothing could have prepared her for seeing the dumbstruck look on her lover's face. He looked as if a narrow door had opened, not onto the broom closet he expected, but into a vast world of unexplored and untouched beauty.

'That was-' he hesitated. The halting, uncontrolled baritone was nothing like the polished one he used on his students.

'Our child.' The mass of feeling that did not touch her voice soaked their connection, pride and hope...and sorrow.

And threading through it, humming with its own power, came the purple hue of a world before sunrise, an unsullied, excited elation, and a burst of love that exploded on the horizon of both brains in a brilliant, orange nova.