Disclaimer: Not mine. Respects paid.
One is Two
June, 1998
'Sir!' The ringing voices that greeted the sound of his striking boot heels brought Snape to a halt, surveying the three younger Assassins who had stood instantly upon his arrival, feet apart and hands behind their backs in the time-honoured stance of soldiers responding to a superior.
'Redson. Rolfe. Pickert.' He nodded to each of them in turn and gestured for them to sit. They did so immediately, and he noted with the detached pride of a teacher who has done his job well that their movements were utterly silent.
He steepled his fingers in a conscious imitation of Dumbledore as he considered the young woman and two barely-older men seated in front of him. They were all of this second generation, in their early twenties and recruited after the Dark Lord's resurrection.
He had taken careful steps with the newest members of the elite brotherhood of killers under his command. They numbered a mere nine in total, and the six older members recalled the glory days of their master's first reign, making them all-but-impossible turn.
These younger ones, however...
They had never tasted true victory. The last year had been marked with some tremendous achievements for the self-proclaimed Lord of Britain, but major setbacks as well, and – due to his absence of employment – Snape had been on hand to discreetly fan the discontented whispers circulating on the tongues of the new blood in their ranks. He knew some of the murmurs had rolled from Redson's sharp wit.
It was time to see if his tenure as their teacher had ensured their loyalty to him or his supposed master.
'The battle draws nearer,' he announced suddenly. 'At Solstice, we strike Hogwarts.' Nervousness rippled through them, stringing the air between them thickly. Their saturnine leader suppressed his smile. All of them had attended the famous institution; the eldest amongst them had graduated only eight years ago. There was something...taboo...about attacking a school, albeit an almost entirely empty one, a feeling of wrongness that accompanied such an idea. And Hogwarts, with or without Dumbledore, was a formidable target – protected by more magic and illusions than anyone knew.
Magic that would prove fatal for his remaining master, if Hermione's carefully conducted research and their efforts of the past year were correct.
He took a moment to consider the faces turned up to his and continued in a slow drawl. 'Your comrades all lived and suffered through the first rise and fall, and thus know their duty. I wonder, my youngest Assassins, whether you have considered all that we are truly fighting for?'
It was not a rhetorical question, and Rolfe answered first, though cautiously. Their training at the former professor's hands had introduced all of them to a rougher side of his tongue than they had received in his Potions classroom years prior. Among his students, Snape despised fools. Amongst his Assassins, it was tantamount to a death warrant. 'Power.'
'Indeed? A vague word, for all that it is bandied about with an air of mystique. Power...How would you define "power", Pickert?'
'Control. Knowing that others will obey your wishes because it is you who wish it.'
'Good, a more solid answer. Do you agree, Redson?'
The lithe, blonde ex-Ravenclaw had been one of his most intelligent students before Hermione's star had risen and obliterated the competition. For all that she had been outshone by a Gryffindor three years her junior, Julia Redson's competence and quick mind could not be doubted.
And she, he knew, was beginning to observe the total destruction around her and to have second thoughts.
'Power is personal,' she countered Pickert's reply slowly. 'To have true power is to have control over self – both over one's actions and reactions, which you have taught us, sir, but also over one's destiny and choices.'
'Indeed.' Snape settled into a chair facing his disciples, watching the boys exchange puzzled looks. 'I have, therefore, a critical question: When we win, who will have such power?'
~888~
'-such division will prove disastrous. I admit it was…unexpected.' Harry stopped, his feet braking so fast they seemed to take root in the wood without his permission, sensing the importance of the conversation going on behind the mostly-closed kitchen door just inches from his ear.
'I couldn't agree more. When Hermione wrote to me in January, requesting assistance, I was…gratified….to think that my work might directly help the Order. It never occurred to me to refuse.' Charlie's roughened baritone, so warm and full of laughter in Harry's memories, was now thoughtful and troubled – the sound of a man who bore responsibility and was unpleasantly unsure of a decision he had made. The younger wizard felt his gut twist as he leaned into the aging door slowly, breathing lightly, knowing that every word would likely wound him, but desperate to know regardless.
'Hermione Granger did not write of the internal strife that the Order is currently experiencing, nor did your brother inform me of such.' There was a note of question in the gravelly voice – and Harry recognized the hoarse tones of Griphook, who had arrived with two aides forty-eight hours ago to add his voice to their planning.
'Bill hasn't been here in Grimmauld Place for months,' Charlie said slowly. 'As for Hermione…Harry has proven himself an intelligent and innovative leader in almost every other field of endeavour, but in regards to her…' The doubt that filled the silence pressed on Harry's chest like a boulder, his breath eking from him in hard-fought gasps and leaving him unable to draw air. 'Her every movement, each decision she has made, all the bridges she has crossed – and those she has burned – have been for him. For the Order. She has surrendered everything she loves in her life for the war because she believes it to be right, and because she made a personal choice that repulses him, he and Moody have blocked her out, refused her advice.' The sound of silverware clinking in fiddling fingers filled the next lapse of voices. 'Ron used to say he envied them their friendship – he told Mum that it was one of the only things in the world he thought truly unbreakable. Clearly, all it took was the right pressure point.'
'Her admiration for young Potter and dedication to our crusade was very apparent in the letter she sent to me only three months ago. Imagine our surprise at discovering his coldness towards her.' A beat, 'The right pressure point. It's true, then, that she's in love with the spy?' The curiosity carried no hint of accusation, and a wave of guilt, riding the tide that had already drowned him, scalded the eavesdropper with Charlie's matter-of-fact reply:
'It is.' A long sigh. 'I wouldn't want to be them for all the Galleons in Gringotts – they've been shoved between a rock and a hard place, with some of the Order nearly as unforgiving as I imagine the Death Eaters must be. I took Potions with Severus Snape for seven years and he was a right bastard in the classroom – but I took an 'E' on my Potions NEWT and I'd stake my life on his devotion to us and to Hermione. There's more to him than some of our number are able and willing to see.'
'Those who fulfil the most crucial functions in an impossible situation are often crucified for their efforts,' came the Goblin's quiet observation. 'You humans are a peculiar species in this regard.'
Harry knew that if he listened to any more, he would be brought to his knees, paralyzed with grief. He backed away from the door, his face twisted with private pain, almost stumbling up the stairs, shame pouring through him with such ferocity it seemed to have replaced his blood. These men, essentially strangers to the situation, had named a flurry of emotions and contradictions that he had been wrestling with for six months.
Uncertainty was an expensive feeling that Harry could no longer afford. The year since Albus Dumbledore's plunge from the top of the Astronomy Tower had possessed a peculiar clarity – his choices made in rolling chains that he had not doubted when they had come before him, flying through the days of questing for the four remaining Horcruxes and keeping the Order intact without looking back.
Hermione was the broken link in this chain. She always had been. In a year of learning new magic, battle strategies and leadership over more than an informal group of students, his former best friend had become the stumbling block that had nearly destroyed them and might yet. The nagging at the back of his mind grew louder, re-enforced by Charlie's gentle confusion and Griphook's quiet judgment until it seemed to be pounding in him.
'Ron used to say he envied them their friendship…he thought truly unbreakable.'
'…crucified…You humans are a peculiar species in this regard.'
Was it time to un-make the decision he had defended so staunchly? He had been positive all those months ago, through layers of the penetrating agony that accompanies betrayal, that it had been the right choice, that he had made it in a desperate bid to protect the Order and the rest of those he loved. But the seasons since had proven his primary fears groundless and woven a second nightmare that grew ever more tangled. He could not afford to lose the confidence of these two factions – nor could he forget that it was Hermione and McGonagall who had taken the first steps towards bringing them into the Order to begin with.
As he reached the second floor, he automatically turned to the right, moving towards Moody's room, and stopped himself. The old Auror was an undeniably valuable ally – there was still no one in the Ministry to equal his instincts or reflexes when duelling – but his world was governed by the cold realities of a life lived during and between wartimes. The raven-haired boy who had once considered it the highest honour to be included in Alastor Moody's list of protégés knew what his self-appointed mentor would tell him – and his heart contracted with a different pain as he realized that this was not the advice he needed to hear.
For an instant on the darkened landing, his fists clenched in an unreleased confession of lonely desperation. He needed his father.
A fierce desire for a parent, a shoulder to lean against and cling to, seared through him, knotting his stomach. Before going to Hogwarts, and since Sirius' death, he had savagely suppressed this need, shoving it away from himself as a symptom of a disease that he could not indulge. But now he felt that he was at the end of a long road, unable to fight the demons howling in pursuit. Tonight, he felt just the seventeen years that he had lived, and wanted a father who could tell him whether he should stay his course or offer his apologies. Harry felt he almost didn't care which, as long as someone else could tell him the path he should be taking.
He swung left, his footsteps leading him to the violently magenta door that Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin had painted in defiance of every one of her ancestors, knowing that the last living Marauder would be behind it.
~888~
March, 1997
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock on the mantle ticked away the first five seconds after midnight, followed by the next five, and the next. The fire had sputtered down in the grate until it was no more than embers, their glow passing from coal to coal in an imitation of Muggle Christmas lights.
A brief flare brought a glint to the curls of auburn splayed across his pillow and a violent feeling of possessiveness rode through him. Settling himself gently beside her, he pulled her tighter against him, needing to feel the warmth of her limbs tangled with his, the firmness of her back meeting his chest.
Too short, part of him seemed to cry as his free hand wrapped itself in her hair again. There is no time. No time to learn, to treasure, to keep. He had never before experienced the constant pressure associated with the fear of personal loss. It was part of what made him impervious to the schemes of other Death Eaters, his life an unbroken sheet of service, without any of the vulnerabilities that plagued the rest of his fellows.
Fate had given him two people to lose at the worst possible moment. And he had found himself unable to divorce from them, no matter that all three lives swung precariously in an uncharted territory. Now – in the evenings, sitting at his desk, in the staff room, he would become unnaturally aware of the swinging pendulums, every soft tick of the brass. The clock was counting down, each hour more precious as they grew rarer by the day. Each memory carefully catalogued, a guard against a future where there would be no new memories being created.
He had never had the luxury of holding her while she slept, of studying every minute detail of her face while still. He could see now the faintest rash of freckles that would break out in the summer sun trickling across her nose and one finger came up to stroke her long eyelashes, letting them tickle his finger. He let his hand drift across her temple, finding the hollow there, before reaching the curve of her ear, sweeping hair aside as he traced the soft edge.
A trickle of muddy yellow sullied her slumbering blue state, their bond warning him that she was waking under his attentions and he reflexively withdrew his hand, wishing more than anything not to wake her.
Tick. Tock.
12:15. The later it got, the higher the risk. He knew that her friends were more observant than most of her peers, and the very last thing they all needed at this juncture was an irate Potter ready to blast him to oblivion.
Reluctantly, he resumed his attentions to her face, allowing his fingers to drift down her neck, teasing the wisps of curl there as he added his mouth, kissing a line down her jaw to find her lips.
'Mmmmmm,' she sighed into him as she stirred to consciousness. 'This is a nice way to wake up,' she told him sleepily, giving him an unguarded smile
The words he had prepared to send her on her way vanished as she arched her back next to him, her hands reaching towards the headboard as she stretched. Tucking one hand about her waist firmly, he pulled her flush against him, finding her mouth with his own.
'A very nice way.' Her smile grew wicked as she ran her hands over the soft white shirt his students seldom saw, nimble fingers undoing the first two buttons. It was just enough for her small hand to slide under the fabric and run along his bare skin, raising goose bumps along with adrenaline. He lay her back down on the mattress, throwing a long leg over her, tangling them together as he brushed her lips again, the gentleness making it a question.
She responded with passion, parting her lips to invite his tongue, the hand under his shirt sliding up and over his shoulder, pulling him to her as if she could meld them with her fingers alone. So hot. Her palms seemed to be made from fire, sinking through his flesh to heat his blood. Dimly, he could hear her soft whimpers as she fought with his clothes, and he rocked his hips against her, instinctively answering her desire.
'Hermione,' he breathed, lifting his head just far enough to stare into the dark cinnamon eyes, forcing himself to stop. 'Hermione...do you want this? Now?' He could feel his worries spinning into her mind, his fears taking shape in flashes of imagined disaster – from Voldemort, from Harry Potter, from Draco Malfoy and most of all, from himself. Fear that she would break herself on a heart wrapped in a dense casing of pain and mistrust.
A bright white stream of assurance rushed over the gruesome scenes, dimming them like an eraser taken to a pencil drawing. Her gaze was gentle, but her voice was fierce as she replied. 'More than anything else in the world, Severus. I want you. Without the compulsion of our magic.' She brought her free hand to rest against his cheek, fingertips stroking down his jaw. 'I love you. You're difficult to the point of impossibility. You're harsh, demanding, an unyielding perfectionist, and I'm not sure a single person on the planet knows the real Severus Snape.'
She ran her hand over her belly, he felt the backwash of magic, and heard a soft bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. 'Our child. Yours,' her hot finger pressed against his chest, 'and mine. Its beating heart is proof that other things than agony exist in the world.'
The hand slid up and around his neck, bringing his mouth close enough for her to whisper into as she kissed him.
'I want you. I am Bound to you. I will walk at your side for the rest of my life. And I would never, ever change that.'
~888~
'Hermione? Hermione!'
The Gryffindor jerked and sat up in bed, squinting at her friend. 'Uhh?'
'Good morning, sleepy-head,' Ginny laughed, crossing to the four-poster. 'Ron's already gone with the others for his Apparition test. It's almost eleven. I was sure I'd find you reading up here, since you've skipped breakfast. And first period. Did you have a class?' Hermione didn't bother to restrain her groan. Even at the beginning of the term, skipping classes had hardly been her usual standard. She would have to apologize profusely to Professor Vector at lunch. Ginny was peering into the older girl's eyes. 'Are you feeling well?'
'Me? Oh...yeah,' Hermione stifled a yawn as she scrubbed at her face. 'I'm fi-' she stopped, clapping her lips tightly together as her stomach performed its current morning ritual and nausea swept over her.
'Hold on,' she gasped, bolting from her bed. 'Bathroom.' She dove inside, throwing the door shut behind her as she bent over the sink, her stomach heaving little more than water and the very early morning tea she'd shared with Snape.
Snape. Her fingers grazed down her throat as her reflection told her she was wearing a goofy smile. One she would have to wipe off before she went back out to see Ginny. Her present role most emphatically did not include giddy excitement.
The thought itself removed the smile, leaving her face with the serious, pale countenance she'd had for months. She absently rinsed the remainder of her toothpaste from her mouth, remembered to flush the toilet as a decoy, and re-entered her room.
Ginny was standing just outside the bathroom door, one hand still extended as if debating whether to break in. 'You're sure you're fine?' she asked anxiously.
'Of course,' Hermione answered, reaching for her hairbrush and pulling it through the first snarls with a grimace.
'It sounded like...like you were retching in there.'
'Did it?' she contrived to sound surprised, grateful that her stubborn hair provided such an excellent focus. Lying to the youngest Weasley had about a fifty percent chance of success – especially if the other girl was looking her dead in the eye. 'Maybe Crookshanks has a hairball.'
'Crookshanks?'
'What else would it be?'
Ginny cocked her head at her friend, frowning. Something about Hermione's blasé answer seemed off-kilter, but she neither looked nor sounded ill, and the red-head's peculiar encounter with Blaise Zabini the previous day was taking up most of her brain space. She had turned the incident over many times, trying to examine it from as many possible angles as she could without consulting either her brother or Harry. There was no guarantee that with Parkinson's latest attack, they wouldn't fly off the handle and land themselves in serious trouble with one or more professors. She knew that Snape would be only too delighted to punish the both of them, no doubt to the detriment of Gryffindor's Quidditch team.
'Something happened yesterday.'
Hermione knew from her tone that Ginny wasn't talking about Quidditch practice or an unusual lesson. Her brush paused mid-yank, and she pulled it from her hair, ignoring the strands that came away with it.
'What? Are you all right?'
'Yes...I think so,' she said hesitantly. She paused, looking for the right words to convey both her confusion and her certainty. Ginny could not fathom the motive that had caused Zabini to stand up to some of the most influential Slytherins in his year. But to further her bafflement, she also had absolutely no doubt as to his sincerity.
'You think so? Gin, if you've been holding on to something since yesterday and you're not sure about it...' she trailed off, then, 'And Ron and Harry...was it Harry? It was, wasn't-'
'No, it's not him. But I can't tell them,' Ginny cut her off with a flip of her head. 'Ron is my big brother. He feels like he has to protect me all the time, no matter how much I learn or how often I prove myself. And Harry...Harry's under a lot of stress. This Horcrux thing, whatever it is, and his extra lessons with the headmaster...'
Not to mention his unquenchable curiosity about Draco Malfoy, Hermione thought. The pinched pain of guilt washed through her. How long had it been since she'd taken the time to properly talk to Ginny? Days? Weeks? Since Ron's poisoning? Ollivander's visit yesterday had only taken up three hours, but it seemed to have put a lifetime of distance between the months and years before and this morning. She felt as if she'd been wrapped in a cocoon and then wakened after weeks of hibernation to find herself missing critical details.
'Then what is it?' she asked gently, crossing to her bed and patting the duvet, settling back as Ginny sat down next to her.
'Parkinson attacked me yesterday.' Hermione sucked in her breath, worrying cutting a furrow in her forehead. Her Elemental Magic had leapt to her defence against the vengeance-driven Slytherin. But Ginny had no such in-built protection.
'I was on my way back to the Potions classroom to get my scales when she stepped out into a corridor with Daphne Greengrass, Anthony Goldstein and Theodore Nott.'
'Four of them?'
'Yep. Four of them. I wouldn't worry about facing any of them one-on-one, and maybe even two-on-one, but four were odds that I couldn't beat.'
'Obviously you did. You're sitting here instead of occupying a bed in the hospital wing. And why didn't you report it?'
'And make things worse? Parkinson could have killed you on the stairs last month. Snape was furious with both of you. And it doesn't seem to have changed a damn thing.' She shook her head and continued. 'I wasn't hurt. Why bother involving teachers? The most important thing is that I didn't deal with it on my own. I have no idea what Blaise Zabini was doing in an empty classroom before tea-time yesterday, but he heard them and charged out.' Lighter brown eyes held their darker counterparts. 'To defend me.'
The chocolate eyes went almost comically round. 'Blaise Zabini? Helped you?'
'My reaction exactly. And I still have no idea why.'
Hermione suddenly smiled, surprising the younger girl. 'I think I might.'
~888~
'What does it feel like?'
A smile, bright, assured and wholly unlike any expression they'd seen on Harry's face for months, split his mouth. 'Excellent,' he replied confidently. 'Really excellent. Right...I'm going down to Hagrid's.'
'What?' Ron and Hermione swapped looks of pure alarm, the latter's eyes dropping to the golden liquid that had now been re-sealed in its vial. Did they have the wrong potion?
'No, Harry,' she gripped his shoulders, bringing his eyes to meet hers. 'You've got to go and see Slughorn, remember?'
'No. I'm going to Hagrid's. I've got a good feeling about going to Hagrid's.'
'You've got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?' Ron said slowly, as if speaking to someone who had suffered a severe concussion.
'Yeah.' The shimmering sheen of his Invisibility Cloak emerged from his trunk. 'I feel like it's the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?'
'No,' his best friends replied in blunt unison.
'This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?' Hermione asked, snatching the bottle from Harry and holding it up to the light. She hadn't forgotten the love-potion-poisoned Chocolate Cauldrons. For a Chosen One, the holes in Harry's security could swallow battleships. 'You haven't got another little bottle full of – I don't know-'
'Essence of Insanity?' Ron suggested.
Harry laughed easily, and both of his friends studied him with increasing alarm as he swung the Cloak over his shoulders with a practiced gesture.
'Trust me. I know what I'm doing. Or at least...Felix does.' So saying, he pulled the garment over his head and vanished entirely. The dormitory door opened a moment later and they heard quiet steps begin their descent.
'I reckon we'd better go after him,' Ron said. 'It'll look pretty strange if the Fat Lady opens by herself.'
'You're right,' Hermione said, blinking. 'But it just occurred to me – Felix makes you lucky. It doesn't necessarily follow an agenda. What if Harry is setting out to do something else entirely?'
Ron swallowed at the unwelcome thought. 'You mean like-'
'Draco Malfoy,' Hermione finished the question flatly, worrying darkening her eyes.
The Keeper was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. 'I don't see that we can do anything at all except ride it out. He's taken the potion – and he's better than us at defence anyway. If we tried to stop him, we'd lose the fight. He knows how serious this is. We have to trust that he's not going to put Malfoy above You-Know-Who.'
'I guess we do.' A shared look of uncertainty betrayed their fear that such trust would be unfounded. Hermione sighed. 'Come on. He's waiting for us.'
~888~
'It worked?'
'Perfectly,' Harry answered, green eyes grim.
'Then why-?'
'Because it's worse than I thought, Hermione. A lot worse.'
'How do you-?'
'Miss Granger.'
Snape's cold voice interrupted from behind her, and Hermione straightened visibly in her seat. Bondmate or no, certain tones still brought her eager, desperate-for-approval little girl to the fore. She saw Harry's eyes get wintry even as Ron shifted subtly, fingers sliding along her forearm and squeezing comfortingly.
'Yes, Professor?' she turned to him.
'Professor McGonagall apologizes for having pressing business during your Transfiguration tutorial today, and,' his sneer grew more pronounced, 'has saddled me with your presence during the next hour and a half. Your period with her starts in ten minutes. Do not be late.'
He billowed toward the Great Hall doors and Hermione let out a long breath. 'You'll have to fill me in on getting the memory out of Professor Slughorn later, Harry. Looks like I've got a long morning ahead of me.'
'Don't let him get to you,' Ron murmured, worried blue eyes studying her face for any indication of distress.
Hermione met his gaze, completely unruffled. 'Professor Snape has long lost his ability to cause me anguish.' A lie, though the pain he can cause me is for reasons you would never want to know or even dream are possible.
'You seem almost...at peace with him in some way,' Harry remarked, spiteful jade following their professor until the door had closed, eclipsing him from view. The glance he turned on her was thoughtful. 'After how he treated you last term, I'd've thought you'd hate him.'
'Why?' she asked, deliberately rising with her last piece of toast in hand. Whatever her bondmate had in mind, it wasn't going to be helped by her friends sitting and analysing them. 'I have private lessons with him now, and he's never anything but professional.'
'Just...be careful around him,' Harry bid her, leaning across the table to capture her hand before she left. 'Remember what I heard between him and Malfoy.' The eyes behind the lenses adopted a haunted look and he squeezed her hand. 'I don't want anything to happen to you.'
Unexpected tears welled in her eyes and she blinked hastily to banish them even as her mind whispered, Too late. 'Nothing's going to happen,' she assured him in a quiet voice, then tossed a look at the massive clock hanging over the doors of the hall and smiled, deliberately breaking his grip and the melancholy. 'Unless, of course, I'm late. In which case, I can't guarantee that he won't be putting Gryffindor in the minus column for House points.'
~888~
'Hurry,' Snape bade her curtly, locking his office door behind them. 'Professor Slughorn has done us a great favour. His...dislike...of rising early means that there are no Potions classes first period.' He didn't trouble to hide the scorn in his voice. Hermione didn't waste breath or thought defending the portly man. He had chosen not to give in to Voldemort, so she could credit him at least that far, but his "collection" of clever and well-connected students turned her stomach. Fashioning an elite of any kind was a dangerous game – their current political situation made that obvious.
As they left Snape's office, her shorter steps rapidly putting her a few paces behind him, the witch suppressed a sudden, strange urge to giggle. The swift, secretive walk into the caverns leading to Founders' Hall reminded her of Saturday mornings during her first few summers in between Hogwarts years. With her magical training, her mother had also decided it was time for her only daughter to learn other arts – mainly cooking and cleaning. So in the early mornings, Hermione had taken to almost silently emerging from her room, sliding over the carpeted stairs to the main floor, and curling up in her father's study with a book. She would stay there, enduring a growling stomach, until one of her parents discovered her and turned her out to help with breakfast.
Eventually, Hermione realized that she actually cared very little about the extra work, but the peacefulness of the routine stuck with her and had carried over to Hogwarts as well.
Mason-carved stone gave way into the nature-made tunnels leading to the entrance, and then they were through what looked like a solid rock wall, wands flaring in the gloom as the steep stairs fell away beneath them. The doors carved with the intricate symbols of their gift rose before them, swung open to their lightest touch, and admitted them into the vast beginnings of the school overhead.
'It's impossible to tell how often Minerva will be this understanding about our need to master Elemental Magic,' Snape said shortly as he strode towards the great round tables, already stripping off his over robe. 'She has a great deal of faith in your ability to sail through your Transfiguration exams, but, like Filius, she is also seeking to push you further than NEWTs require.'
'If necessary, we could use some of my Defence lessons,' Hermione said speculatively, settling her bag next to his clothes on the Slytherin-draped cloth. He turned to her, both eyebrows raised in a deceptively neutral expression.
'So kind of you to offer,' he replied softly. 'Without so much as thinking about consulting your teacher. Especially since you've long since exceeded the need to practice the complex magic behind defence like Mirror Spells.'
'Severus, that's not what I meant.'
'Defence is, without a doubt, your single most critical subject at this time. A little more respect would be prudent.'
'We have magic that dwarfs anything seen in the last thousand years,' she challenged.
'Unpredictable, unmanageable and unknown power. To date, not particularly useful. I would not reach for my elements in a fight. I would reach for my wand. As long as this remains true, I expect you to practice traditional defensive technique.'
'I didn't say we should replace all my lessons-' Her frustration with her prickly bondmate cracked her voice and she stopped. 'Sorry. Let's just...try this again.'
A short nod, and they seated themselves, kneecaps touching to allow the four elements to course through both bodies evenly as Ollivander had suggested. Hermione struggled to put away her aggravation, knowing that it would only unbalance her and make her unable to find the white-hot source of her magic within.
Even without his presence, she could hear the words of the aged wandmaker rolling in her mind, the low, steady cadence of his voice helping her focus her breathing, sliding inwards.
Find your centre. Search for the focal point of who you are. What do you see there? What parts of yourself are naked to you and what yet remains veiled? What do you feel? Let the gift of your magic caress you, let it guide you...
~888~
Flame danced over laughing Earth, her gilded greens and golds catching the edge of fire and turning it into a thing of live beauty. Hermione smiled, watching it wrap over and around itself, redoubling to include her. It was hers to command, all of it, from the first spitting sparks to their dying embers. How had such control remained a mystery when it permeated her being? Flamma fired in her synapses, Earth rippled in her muscles. She had but to extend her mind.
Sunlight warmed her skin, and she instinctively turned her face towards it, opening her eyes.
Her gasp brought Snape's eyes snapping open to see a miniature ball of sunlight rising between them, just over their heads. Heat inundated them, the warmth of a star added to the already hot underground.
Ice frosted the ground around her, steaming as it met the fierce warmth of the tiny sun.
How is it that two days ago we produced practically no sign of power, and now it's-
Easy? he completed the thought wryly as lacy patterns skated across the floor in growing circle. Like drawing one's breath. Hermione breathed deeply with his thought and felt the touch of Ether, the kiss of rain, the whisper of fire and the dampness of earth.
'I think I know,' he admitted as the orb ascended, shedding light over an ever-expanding area. 'Why the elements are responding now and not before.'
'And?' Hermione prompted him when he hesitated.
'We have returned to them the energy that we already used. Our first trial, after consummating our relationship, was Neville Longbottom. We released the magic and averted a disaster – but then we had to build up more.'
'Sex,' Hermione said quietly.
'Precisely. We did, and then you defended yourself from Miss Parkinson. I discharged mine by controlling yours. But then we didn't...re-charge the power, so to speak.'
'Because the first time we've had sex since Christmas...'
'...was yesterday morning.' He watched her face, glowing with pleasure at the memory, excitement for their breakthrough and her petite star.
'Gryffindors.' The word had very little bite, his largely neutral tone betrayed by the softness of his eyes. 'One step of the journey and you act like you've reached the highest peak. Don't get ahead of yourself, Hermione. We don't know the first thing about real control.'
His perpetual dourness had no effect. 'We have an awfully good start.'
~888~
'Hermione Granger?'
Hermione lifted her head from the stack of books she had spread all over the library table, resisting the urge to sweep several of them into her bag and out of eye-view. Little was recorded about the Order of the Ang'guin Weyr and very little more about Raw Magic in any form, but due to Ollivander's remarks regarding Blood Magic, Dark Magic and Love Magic, she had pulled every book off the Hogwarts shelves containing a trace of information on these still-popular branches of the art. Dumbledore's thoroughness meant that there weren't many, but the determined girl would take what she got. Voldemort had probably melded one or more of these watered-down magics with modern technique in the creation of his Horcruxes and their guards. To undo them...
'I'm Christina Clearwater,' she continued awkwardly as Hermione's brain took it's time emerging from labyrinths of thought. 'I think you know my older sister?'
Hermione blinked, frantically flipping through her memory. Clearwater, Clearwater...Percy Weasley's bright-red face and ears burning in embarrassment flashed in her mind and she nodded suddenly. 'Penelope? I wouldn't say I know her. I've seen her,' the Gryffindor offered.
'I was wondering...she said – everyone says – you're really smart. Could you help me?'
Hermione drew a deep breath, reluctantly studying the work splayed haphazardly across the library's largest table. She couldn't leave any of it lying out for people to find. The best possible conclusion would get her suspended, the worst would hazard a guess at the truth. The existence of the Horcruxes was hardly common knowledge, and as March had rolled through April and half of May, she had been feverishly searching to discover whether Voldemort's desire to have a seven-part soul was feasible. Hopefully the how-to guide would also helpfully include thoughts on their destruction and the way to identify and destroy the four missing parts of the Dark Lord's soul. Harry had told her that Dumbledore suspected both Slytherin's lost locket and Hufflepuff's golden cup to be amongst the items, leaving them with two unidentified objects to locate.
'It won't take very long...I'm sorry for interrupting, but I don't know who else to ask.'
The researcher firmly bit back her sigh. She was a prefect...and she couldn't deny her help to anyone who asked for it.
'Of course,' she answered mildly. 'Let me clear up.' A quick glance at the clock told her that they had fifteen minutes to nine. 'It's nearly curfew,' she said, nodding towards the timepiece.
'It will only take a few minutes. I just need someone with enough magic to actually do what has to be done.'
Weighing the books in her hands, Hermione debated which ones to take with her. She could get away with checking out one or two of them, but she'd never pass Madam Pince carrying the whole stack. There were certain combinations of books not allowed out of the library, just as students were not allowed to grow specific combinations of plants in the greenhouses.
Selecting two, she waved her wand to send the others back to their places. 'I thought we weren't allowed to do that,' Christina said, awed as the volumes neatly slotted themselves back in place.
'We're not, but you're in a hurry and we haven't got a lot of time. Besides, Madam Pince didn't see, so no harm done.' She took the two volumes to the librarian, receiving a short nod and a clipped, 'Good night, Miss Granger,' before exiting the doors.
'Where are we going?'
'The seventh floor corridor.'
~888~
As her foot hit the top stair leading to the seventh floor, Hermione felt her breath coming in rough rasps, heartbeat fluttering in her neck. She winced as her back reminded her that at five months pregnant, she wasn't as small or as light as the glamours made her appear.
Christine glanced back at her anxiously. 'You okay?'
'Sure,' Hermione summoned a weak smile. 'Too many books, maybe. And not enough time exercising.'
'Well, we're almost there.' She set off at a brisk walk down the hall. When she turned and came back, the Gryffindor tried to quicken her pace. She didn't think she was moving that slowly-
But then Christine doubled back again, whispering something very hard, and comprehension dawned.
'The Room of Requirement,' Hermione murmured, even as a plain wooden door rippled into existence.
'Very good, Granger,' came a cold sneer, the door swinging open to reveal the pointed features of Draco Malfoy, wand extended.
'As promised,' Christine announced, eyes now blazing with a coldly brilliant certainty as her wand joined Malfoy's.
'Well done,' came a third voice. Through her initial volt of disbelieving, panicked fear, Hermione recognized Marietta Edgecomb, the word sneak still scrawled across her face.
The outnumbered witch subdued her instinct to run, forcing her brain to begin clicking through escape options. Drawing her wand to fight was impossible. She already had two wands against her and she hadn't even reached for her weapon. She also had no way of knowing what kind of damage a misfired spell would do to the foetus.
'Don't even think about it,' the Ravenclaw traitor purred comfortably, watching Hermione's dark eyes dart towards the stairs. 'Three wands against...none? You're not even going to draw?'
'I'm sorry the curse wasn't something nastier,' Hermione replied archly, her blithe tongue at odds with her adrenaline-sped heart. 'A bit more debilitating than a few spots that could be covered over.'
'A few spots?' she snarled, and her wand-tip glowed with unreleased anger. 'Do you have any idea what it's like to wake up in the morning, every morning, to this face?'
'I wouldn't be able to look myself in the eye either, if I'd sold out a group of friends.'
'As fun as it is to listen to this cat-fight, I have things to do,' Malfoy's voice sliced like iced silver through their animosity. 'I've waited a long time to get my hands on you, Granger. There's a job for you to complete.'
'Do the words 'over my dead body' mean anything to you?' she answered coldly. 'What twisted your sick mind into thinking that I would ever help you with anything?'
'Very simple.' His wand flickered, and she felt, with a new sensitivity born of Elemental Magic, a Silencing Charm slide over her skin and anchor itself at either end of the hall. Then he turned the wood on Christine.
'Crucio.' She dropped to the floor, elbows, knees and forehead scraping the stone as she screamed, writhing, fingers clutching at the granite until they ran with blood.
'Stop!' cried Marietta. Malfoy ignored her, eyes studying not the victim thrashing under the curse but the one watching with horror.
He lifted his wand to allow Christine's screams to be replaced by sobs. 'So, Granger. The words 'over my dead body' produce a viable alternative. It's a shame Weasley didn't snuff it, but you're an eligible choice. Do the job – or Potter finds your remains in front of the Fat Lady tomorrow morning.'
~888~
The hospital door slammed open, hitting the wall like a shot from a cannon. Madam Pomfrey jerked upright from her examination, but her scolding stilled as she met the eyes of her two invaders. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley wore identical expressions of white-faced fear.
'Madam Pomfrey – Hermione-' Harry couldn't seem to make the rest of the words come.
'In bed number three. Sleeping, Potter. Don't disturb her.'
As the raven-haired boy darted to the bed in question, Ron looked to the nurse. 'Will she-'
'She has been extraordinarily lucky,' the matron told him soberly. Luckier than we could have hoped. 'She will suffer no permanent injury.'
'Did he do this?' There was no mistaking the loathing in the red-head's voice as icy blue eyes studied the gashed visage of Draco Malfoy under her fingers.
'As yet, Mr. Weasley, we have absolutely no idea what actually happened. It could have been an accident,' she lied deftly. The marks of vicious magic layered both of her patients – Granger and Malfoy had clearly given as good as they'd gotten. How the young woman's child had survived the confrontation, the medi-witch truly didn't know.
'Forgive me for saying I can't believe that,' Ron said flatly, glancing down at the blond with undisguised hatred.
'What you believe is irrelevant, Mr. Weasley,' she said, not unkindly. 'The headmaster will be sorting this out when they both awaken.'
Ron knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he nodded stiffly and moved to join Harry at Hermione's bedside. There was a livid purple bruise spreading on her pale face from her left temple to her jaw line, already shrinking under the effects of a healing salve. Suddenly, vividly, Ron felt as if he were thirteen years old again, staring at his Petrified best friend. He reached out to grasp her hand, almost surprised when he felt warm, loose fingers instead of the chilled stiffness wrought by the Basilisk.
'I think she's trying to beat your record for most time spent in the hospital,' the Keeper said, trying to lighten the dark mood rolling from his friend in palpable waves.
'What did Madam Pomfrey say happened?' Harry asked in a low voice, ignoring the joke and reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind Hermione's ear.
'She didn't. Said it could have been an accident.'
'And Voldemort could decide to become a hermit in India,' the other boy spat incredulously. 'An accident? When it's Malfoy?'
Ron's free hand gripped Harry's shoulder. 'I know you're angry,' he said in a low voice, 'but keep it down. She also said that Dumbledore'll sort this out when they wake up.'
'Right,' Harry snorted. 'Dumbledore. Because he's been so willing to talk about Malfoy before. He's never believed me when I've talked to him about it.'
'This is hard evidence he can't ignore, mate. You know Dumbledore. He just hates to think the worst of people. But now he'll do something about it, because he'll have to.'
Harry shrugged moodily, and the boys stood in silence, considering the sleeping witch so important to both of them.
The infirmary door blew open again, and once more the matron lifted her head in irritation and said nothing. Severus Snape's strides ate the length of the ward, and though he tossed a glower at the Gryffindor boys standing their vigil, he held his silence until he reached the bed containing Malfoy.
'Will he recover?' he asked brusquely, jerking his chin towards his student. She had never seen the onyx gaze look so much like stone, hard and flat.
'He will,' she confirmed. The black eyes never left his Slytherin's battered form. 'If you could brew more of the Clotting Draught, both Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy need it,' she prompted.
The bright hardness of diamonds glittered in his face as he looked at the nurse, seeking confirmation of the questions he would not ask. 'They will be fine,' she answered.
'And the other girl?'
The matron took a deep breath. She had too many years of experience in a wartime environment to deny the effects of Cruciatus manifested on Christine Clearwater. 'I have no idea what occurred, Severus, and she, too, will make a full recovery, but we have a much greater problem on our hands than healing.'
Forcibly cutting off a sigh, Snape murmured, 'I know. The draught will be ready in two hours. I will bring it up to you.' He paused by Hermione's bed, looking at the two boys.
'Ten points each for being out after curfew. I suggest you return to your common room where you belong. Now.'
Mutiny setting his thin lips, Harry opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by the nurse. 'Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley. Professor Snape is correct. You, especially,' she added sternly, eyes fixed on Harry, 'should not be out after curfew. Please let him accompany you back to Gryffindor Tower.'
Glaring at their stone-faced Defence professor, the boys reluctantly allowed themselves to be led out of the infirmary and back to their dormitory.
~888~
It was midnight by the time Snape returned, draught decanted into two large bottles. The matron took them gratefully, pouring out a small measure to place by each bedside. He felt a faint tickle along his bond and turned automatically towards the bed where he knew Hermione lay, though he had intended to inquire about his Slytherin first.
'She's been asking for you,' the nurse told him blandly, dark grey eyes neutral.
'Indeed.' He did not take a single step in his bondmate's direction, studying Poppy Pomfrey's deliberately expressionless face as she went about checking her other two patients. He had long suspected that she knew the identity of the child's father, but the circumspect witch had never mentioned it to him – or to anyone else that he knew of.
With a deep breath that betrayed his trepidation, the Potions master approached the bed where Hermione lay. Potter and Weasley's presence had kept him from checking on her before, as it had kept him from flying into the infirmary and dismantling Lucius' son, Vow or no Vow.
The bleeding signals of distress, flushing their connection with violent orange, had alerted him to the fight three hours ago. Seated in his dungeon office, his heart had jumped with adrenaline, sending him to his feet and nearly out his door before he realized the bleak truth: he was too far away to help her, and his panicked arrival could possibly spell his death warrant. The desperate images coupled to fear and fury told him that her attacker was his erring student, and he had no doubt that Draco would take rich pleasure in denouncing his professor to the Dark Lord.
He had instead thrown the lock on his door as an extra precaution and seated himself next to the empty fireplace, struggling to find his centre even as flickers of her battle consumed him with worry. Silently reaching for the core he had come to recognize over weeks of mediation, he sent his half of their elemental gifts in search of their mistress, urging them to lend her their wild strength. They had had little luck so far in utilizing one another's elements, but he disregarded their failures as he poured the power into their bond, a stream of turquoise water laced with silver wind, praying that it would be enough to protect her from the dangerous younger Malfoy.
He winced as he gazed down at her still-purple left temple, though he knew that by morning both the pain and its disfigurement would have vanished. Abruptly, he felt a flash of gratitude to her Gryffindor friends. If he had seen her before the healing potions had come so far in their effects...
He had felt the fight end, felt his bondmate lose consciousness under immense pain. His vision had reddened, a rage he hadn't felt in decades shaking his limbs. The once-spoiled heir to the Malfoy name had nearly cost him everything. Nails biting into his desk until wooden splinters drove themselves into his fingertips, Snape had struggled to regain the control of which he was so proud. By the time the red had cleared, seven minutes had passed. Seven minutes in which he would have killed the boy, had Draco been present. He had not lost control like that since the raid seventeen years ago when he'd killed his father.
The bubble that had welled up to break his fury, a peaceful pink-ish blue from his child, had wordlessly assured him that mother and child were all right.
It was all that had kept his steps measured and calm as he made his way to the hospital wing, all that had kept him from hexing everyone who had crossed his path on the long route from underground.
Now she was breathing freely, the peace their baby has assured them of visible on her smooth features, and as his hand snaked out to brush her cheek, hers came up to trap it there, cinnamon eyes opening.
A shaky breath, a trembling smile. 'I was worried you wouldn't come.'
'I had potions to deliver,' he replied stiffly. His bondmate ignored the spoken excuse, feeling his relief at seeing her mend so quickly.
'I got lucky,' she admitted, her mouth twisting.
Hearing their low voices, the nurse bustled over, giving Hermione a professional smile touched with affection.
'How are you feeling?'
'Ach-ey,' the young woman admitted, shifting slightly and wincing, 'but I'll live.'
'Luckily for young Mr. Malfoy,' the medi-witch said with a rare touch of acidity. 'Miss Granger, the first thing I did when you were brought in by Filius and Minerva was check on your foetus. It gave every indication of being healthy, but I'd like to check again, make sure that none of the medication is having a negative effect.'
'Can it?' Snape asked quickly.
'Anything can,' Madam Pomfrey replied calmly. 'In all our thousands of years of giving birth, we have yet to understand a great deal about the creation of life. I do not, however, anticipate any complications. May I?' she asked Hermione.
'Please,' the Gryffindor answered earnestly, watching the medi-witch wave her wand.
'Good,' the elder witch muttered after a half-dozen almost-silent incantations. 'Everything appears to be normal. As a last check, I'd like to hear its heartbeat.'
Snape caught his breath, biting down on his possessive inclinations. Since the first time Hermione had shown him the spell, he'd asked her to perform it many times, almost unable to credit his ears with hearing the life of his child. Of course the school matron would use such a spell in performing her duties.
A last whisper, and a drumming filled the silence. But it was out of cadence. Dread shafted through their bond as they tossed fearful glances at each other, then turned their combined intensity on the frowning nurse.
'What is it?' Hermione asked, stomach churning.
'I don't know – I didn't expect-' Something like comprehension lit her face. 'Unless...' Another spell, and two clouds of smoke rose from Hermione's womb, twining together. The matron looked absolutely dumbfounded.
'What is it?' The same question in Snape's voice had a deadly bite.
'Your children are fine. It appears that the attack knocked their heartbeats out of sync.'
'Children?' The parents echoed her stunned pronouncement.
'Children,' she confirmed. 'Twins. A boy and a girl.'
A/N: The scene where Harry actually takes Felix is also lifted directly from "Half-Blood Prince". Thank you for reading!