Disclaimer: Not mine, all the characters and the world belong to our dear Ms. Rowling.
A/N: Two updates in (almost) one year! Who would have thought…? I know that's not the best track-record, but I am working on it, and I very much hope that the fourteenth chapter will be following hard on the heels of this one. For those still reading and reviewing this piece, thank you so very much for you continued patience while I slowly stitch it together. I hope that everyone enjoys this chapter!
The Best-Laid Plans
June, 1998
The hand that gripped her upper arm had thick fingers and ragged cuticles around uneven, yellowing nails. It was a hand that should belong to a man like Mundungus Fletcher.
But regardless of the unfamiliar shape and size, the fingers bruising her bicep sent ice splintering through her nerves as only one man could. The Death Eater who had shackled her.
'Mister Malfoy,' she murmured, throat suddenly dry as her body went cold, all sunlight sucked from the day. She was in the middle of Ottery St. Catchpole's teeming Muggle market on summer's morning, shopping for breakfast items. The crowds around her abruptly became too bright, too cheerful, too innocent. In their midst stood a man who would murder any of them without disturbing a single hair on his head...and they simply jostled past him, as if he were no more worthy of notice than anyone else.
'Kind of you to do our breakfast shopping. Our lord has a few...questions...he wants answered.'
'Now? But I can't...I'm expected back!' she squeaked, trying to wrench away from her squat-looking captor.
Lucius tightened his meaty, Polyjuiced fingers cruelly. 'If you attract attention, girl, so help me, they'll find you in pieces.' He jerked her around to face him, ensuring that whatever panic she expressed, he'd be the only one to see it. 'Your shopping will simply have to take longer than usual. You know our master – he hates to be kept waiting.'
Keeping a hand on her elbow in the parody of an escort, he directed her into an empty alley, swept his arm around her, and Disapparated.
As they appeared in front of the nightmare house that had grown all-too-familiar, the rough-neck, wharf-rat disguise Lucius had used to sneak up on her in town vanished. He grew taller, shed his greasy brown hair in favour of the pristine white-blond of his true appearance, the fingers on her arm elongated and thinned.
But they did not lessen their pressure as she was marched upstairs, basket still in her free hand, eggs radiating the faint warmth from the summer sun that Apparition had not dissipated.
The lithe figure rose as she entered a room straight from the finest Victorian houses, lipless mouth curling as she bowed, Malfoy's hand firm on her back, forcing her down.
'Rise, child,' Voldemort bade her almost gently, coaxing in the voice that haunted her dreaming and waking hours. 'I have heard a rumour of Goblins joining the Order of the Phoenix. I wish to know who, and when, and where.'
A carton of strawberries levitated from her basket and the lord eyed them critically, finally plucking one and sending the rest to Lucius with a flick of his fingers.
Red juice dyed his fingertips crimson, a parody of the warm season's delights. 'Tell me.'
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A knock on her door met the dawn light just now streaming through her windows of Grimmauld Place and brought Hermione's head up from the journal she was translating. Prior to leaving Hogwarts, she had only had the time to deal with a few, crucial passages Dumbledore had passed to her regarding the taming of the Elemental Magic she and Snape had triggered so unexpectedly.
In the months since they'd discovered and recovered the second missing Horcrux, there had been precious little that she'd been allowed to do other than spend hours with her books. As a girl, Hermione had liked to do nothing better than curl up and read – in her father's armchair, in bed, in the library's cosy corners. After discovering the joy of doing her own research in a makeshift Potions lab in the Burrow two summers ago, the young woman had cultivated a dream of spending her life on reading and experimentation once the war was over.
The irony of having her wish granted so precipitously was not lost on her. It had never occurred to her that her uninterrupted time would come at the cost not only of her friends, but the respect of nearly everyone she had spent her magical youth yearning to become.
Carefully returning her bookmarker to the ancient text and casting a shield over the volume to repel even the motes of dust glittering in the morning's first rays, she crossed to the door, skipping the floorboard that always creaked, and opened it quietly.
Ron stood in front of her, copper head gleaming from the sun streaming through the skylight, cup of black tea flooding steam into the morning air. She smiled in simple, genuine delight to see him standing there. He had done his best to stand by them both these last, trying months – and even though Harry had needed him more, Hermione hadn't felt abandoned by him.
'Morning,' he greeted her, and wrapped her in a one-armed hug as he held the tea away from them, boiling liquid sloshing against the sides.
'Morning,' she replied, but her smile had become tentative as she saw beyond the former Keeper's large frame to the slighter man she still loved like a brother – and feared she would never speak to or laugh with again.
'Hermione…' Harry was at a loss for words. There seemed to be new lines cut in his friend's face, a previously unnoticed grace about her movements, and a nervousness at seeing him that scored fresh wounds in his heart.
And while his brain dithered about what to say and how to say it, his body moved without his consent. He stepped forward as Ron deftly moved back, reading Harry's intention as the boy-general wrapped his best friend in a strangling embrace.
'I've been such a pillock, 'Mione,' he whispered raggedly in her ear. 'I'm so, so sorry. I can't…I don't…' His words had lost their coherence, but he felt her relax into the fierceness of his hold, and the warmth of fire mingled with the rich smell of earth to accept his apology in a language that surpassed spoken assurances.
Harry and Hermione felt the longer reach of their staunchest supporter enfold them both, and for a long moment, they stood together as the triad they had once assumed they would always be, and were now taking steps to ensure they would be again.
Flamma and Terra spiralled around them enthusiastically, caressing all three faces wet with unfelt tears. The raven-haired wizard gazed down at the amber-and-cocoa eyes of his best friend, truly accepting the elemental charge and its attendant power for the first time.
Rustling in the crib behind them brought all three back to the attic of Grimmauld Place. Hermione let a real smile curl her lips and light her eyes. There was much to figure out and to understand before all could truly be accepted and forgiven. But Harry Potter, the determined, marked boy she had come to love her very first year in their world, was in front of her now, and they would mend.
'Harry,' she said, taking his elbow and leading him towards the crib where dark eyes were opening and identical, if vague, smiles were cracking on the twins' faces. 'Allow me to introduce Astyanax and Andromache.'
888
June, 1997
The candles scattered in a semi-circle around her flared as Hermione focused, eyes closed, on the internal flame that she had gradually coaxed, through weeks of practice, out of isolated bursts of unconstrained magic and into becoming her partner, welding it with the wand-art she had begun learning at eleven to change her magic. It was rather like taming a Hippogriff. The magic studied by the wizards and witches of the Ang'guin Weyr lived up to the name they had given it. Fire and earth did not respond to orders or commands, nor would they consent to funnel neatly through the length of wood she had always thought indispensable in her adopted world. In place of a tool she used, she felt a distinct sense of shared ownership that permeated and flowed through the four elements that had graced them at birth and emerged with the consummation of their bond. She and Snape were their vessels, and by that same token, the enormous power granted by Raw Magic was a prize given to the humans who had surrendered to its pull. Learning to ask and receive, to take and to give from the foundational magic that laced the globe, was an art lost a thousand years ago when Hogwarts had been born.
The easy, fluid motion she used to reach both within and outside herself, fire streaming down her arm to meet pulsing strands of flame flowing to her fingertips from the thick candles around her, was a movement that belied hours of practice and months of meditation.
A rustle of water. The kiss of wind.
She could feel her bondmate's presence behind her, could feel the chill of water that laced his being, the polar opposite of the fire tumbling a few inches above her hands. She could feel the elements readying to strike, magic massing together behind her and over her head. The Gryffindor witch could feel fire and earth constantly now from dual sources. They were a bedrock within her, lending her strength and confidence. But they were also everywhere else. What she had initially thought to be merely an increased sensitivity to magic had evolved into something entirely different. She was aware of the heat in the air around her, the warmth that came from other bodies, the stones underfoot and the earth under them, living, breathing, and gently shaping the world.
As her school-trained magic had shifted to align itself with her now-expressing native gift, she had found herself attuned to the passage of magic in the air. Like a finely-tuned instrument acquiring thousands of radio waves, a low level current of magic constantly danced across her skin as her peers practiced and her professors perfected technique. The magic of the wizarding world shared a closer link to its origins than anyone now living suspected.
The biggest shock had proven to be her classmates. Spells, hexes, curses, potions, and even Arithmancy equations carried emotional and elemental tails their casters never noticed. Every time a wand was used in any of her classes, Hermione could track the faint magical signature.A detached part of her brain marvelled at the rest of her kind. How could they work magic in a world with this perception denied them? How had she?
Lost in her musing, she nearly allowed Snape to catch her. He attacked, and water was slicing towards her, freezing as it came down—
With a fluid movement, she swept upwards, regaining her feet as Flamma poured itself into her Shield Charm. The strike dissipated as she parried, sending hexes guided by earth and fire, her wand lying forgotten on the floor.
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In Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sat in their long-staked-out chairs by the large fireplace. Midsummer was fast closing on them, and the wood sat unmarred in the grate, not to be set aflame until the next September or October.
Lavender Brown perched on the wide arm of her boyfriend's chair, Ginny curled into Harry's side, the wide armchair roomy enough for witch and wizard. Neville, Dean, Seamus and Parvati were pressed together on the couch, with both Creevey brothers adorning the ends, third-year Dennis' slim legs dangling over the floor.
They formed a close-knit circuit, heads bent together in a fierce discussion. There were more people involved than Harry had counted on, but all had been members of the DA the year before, and there was no reason to exclude their input on the current subject: Snape had taught Hermione an extremely difficult and advanced technique in their private lessons, and just last night, she had told Harry and Ron that she had reached proficiency and wanted to teach them.
The broody wizard had been grimly delighted by the suggestion. He hadn't trusted Snape for years – the overheard conversation his Defence professor had been having with his Slytherin rival at Christmas had merely cemented a long-cherished suspicion. Anything they could use against Snape, especially tools he, himself, had handed them, was a welcome addition to their battle.
'…the DA started again?'
'I've been wondering why we stopped,' Neville admitted candidly. He slipped a hand into his robes and pulled out the Galleon Hermione had enchanted for them eighteen months ago. It glinted gold in the afternoon sunlight.
'The Slytherins have been giving some of us good practice,' Ron said, giving Harry and Ginny even stares. The couple glanced at one another, and then back at the group clustered around them, refusing to comment.
'We just haven't made the time,' Harry admitted. His index finger went to his scar, rubbing the old wound reflexively even though it never ached any more. 'But I've been working with Dumbledore…and I think we should recall everyone.'
'What's happened, Harry?' Dean was leaning forward.
Harry exchanged weighted looks with Ron and Ginny. The siblings tilted their heads in encouragement, and the boy-turned-hero took a deep breath. 'I can't tell you everything. But I can say that Malfoy has been working on a secret project this year. A project related to Voldemort – and the Death Eaters. I'm positive he's been given a deadline. By the end of this month, he will have to have done whatever it is he's doing. And when that happens, the school will need protection.'
'You want us to provide that,' Parvati said quietly. It wasn't a question, but Harry confirmed it with a nod.
'There's no one else to do it,' Ginny pointed out. 'Dumbledore's been gone half the time this year, and there are only a few Aurors posted to the school.'
'And Hermione has a bit of research she's been doing to help us train,' Ron added. Cued by the missing third of the trio's name, two heads turned to the massive clock ticking over the mantle. 'Speaking of which, we're due to meet her in the Room of Requirement in twenty minutes. Who's in?'
A rapid, fleeting and entirely wordless conversation took place between the ten seated students, after which Harry and Ron rose purposefully and, flanked by their fellow House-members, exited Gryffindor Tower in search of their training ground.
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Hermione swallowed the last of her bitter, medicinal tea, carefully placing the delicate china on the silver tray. Her mouth twitched as an index finger ran over the slender handle. The many facets of her bondmate intrigued her – it seemed every opened cabinet and unlocked door revealed another piece of his fluid personality. The complete, pristine Chinese tea service was yet another peculiarity that dotted the landscape of Severus Snape. If asked, she would have assumed that he drank out of any mug that came to hand. But the full complement of cups, saucers, teapot, sugar pot and milk pitcher of flawless porcelain were clearly cherished, and the way her professor's fingers played over the raised pattern of detailed grapes and vines betrayed their regular use.
Raising tired but exultant eyes to the clock ticking softly over the marble mantle, the young witch suddenly shot from her chair, wincing as her twins kicked in two distinct thumps and her back twanged, reminding her that they did not enjoy abrupt movements.
She placed a hand on her swelling belly, visible now when she removed the protective glamours, sending a silent apology to her protesting children. 'I have an appointment I have to keep,' she told her bondmate. The intensity of her private study in Defence Against the Dark Arts was finally yielding fruit. Yesterday, she had managed to repel and re-direct every single one of her bondmate's attacks without resorting to elemental means.
It was time to teach Harry.
'Indeed.' He stood as well, his own exhaustion from working with their elemental magic obvious in the languid looseness of his limbs – a state of relaxation he did not allow himself in any other setting. 'Zabini?' The eyes she was just now learning to read glimmered with concern, enhanced by the vague disquiet that vibrated along their bond.
She shook her head. 'No. Not this time. We talked a bit yesterday. This is…something else.'
Her evasiveness startled him, and his frown cut a deep 'v' between his brows. 'Hermione…' he started.
She shook her head. 'It's something with Harry, Severus.' Snape's mouth twisted at the fate that had forced all of them into the awkwardness of living in a world where even distribution of knowledge could be a fatal flaw. Hermione certainly didn't know all of what he knew – and she had insisted on keeping some of what she was actively researching with Potter from him. It unsettled him, but he couldn't deny that it was a just precaution. Dumbledore was adamant that Potter seek the Horcruxes independently of Snape's knowledge about the pieces of the Dark Lord's soul – making secrecy not only desirable, but a necessity.
'Exercise caution,' he finally said, allowing a long hand to reach out and gently caress the robes stretching over their children. Hermione kept her eyes fastened on his face as the taciturn spy allowed his walls to crumble briefly, his expression of wonder and contentment mirroring that of any soon-to-be-father as he felt his son and daughter beating their fists and feet against the walls of their cocoon.
His other hand came up to stroke her face, and the precocious witch felt her heart fill to overflowing at the tenderness in his touch, cherishing the man he hid under layers of intellectual and emotional isolation, a man that emerged only for her, the man he could have been for others if fate had been kinder.
His heat-hardened fingers danced around to the back of her neck, soothing her wild hair out of the way as he brought his mouth down in re-affirmation of the attachment they shared—
—the wards around his office ignited. Someone had just entered the dungeon classroom he had held sway over until this year, and they would be at the door to the outer office in less than a minute. Snape cursed softly, allowing his mouth to brush her forehead before placing distance between them. An abrupt gesture to the hidden door that emptied into the corridor was her wordless dismissal and she tilted her head in silent acknowledgement, smiling at his impatience in spite of the sudden adrenaline rush that had left her breathless, and the burning longing he had awakened.
The corners of her mouth faded as she watched her bondmate retreat into the armour that had kept him safe over the course of two wizarding wars. Warmth disappeared, shutters slamming closed in the dark eyes, making them onyx in place of velvet. The lines good humour had cut in his forbidding countenance were blurred and replaced by their cousins, those carved by his harsh tongue and scathing rebukes. As he turned, his back straightened and his robe billowed. His public mask of condescending indifference was complete – and he did not spare her a glance as he strode back into the restrictions life at Hogwarts had given him.
She ducked behind the tapestry and into the hall.
888
'All right, Hermione?' Ron asked as the wild-maned witch rushed through the narrow door of the Room of Requirement.
She smiled at him in answer, but her mouth transformed into an 'o' of surprise when she saw the number of heads turned in her direction. Every single member of the DA from the previous year was present with the exception of Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecomb, and their absence was more-than-made-up-for by the presence of a half-dozen students that hadn't joined under Dolores Umbridge's reign of terror.
'I thought this was going to be you, Harry and Ginny,' Hermione murmured.
Her raven-haired best friend read the shock on her face and quickly crossed to her. 'I know we talked about it just being us. But Neville overheard us talking today and said that the whole DA should really be given a chance to learn it. Even though it's practically the end of term already, I have to agree – the more of us who know advanced defensive magic, the better.'
Hermione swallowed nervously. 'That will be your task.' Her bondmate's words from months ago when they had commenced learning Mirror Defensive Spells echoed in her mind, along with his warnings about their difficulty. Her own experience of taking slow weeks to reach even a basic proficiency boded ill for the majority of her peers now crowding around them. Harry had the requisite power, and so did Ginny. Ron would develop it. But as for the rest…
The effort required wouldn't hurt them, and at the very least, it would allow them all practice with their non-verbal shield spells. Though none of them yet knew it, Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore were steering them all down a path that ensured Hogwarts' closure at the end of the year. They would need what they had learned from Harry to survive.
Hermione tilted her head at Harry, ceding her worries to his leadership and allowing herself time to force the lump in her throat to dissolve as she steadfastly pushed her morbid thoughts from her mind.
Everyone's eyes were still on her. She realized that although their former leader had called them all together, she was their teacher today. Her mouth dried nervously, but she quelled her anxiety. This was not the Riddle House, the Department of Mysteries or even her exams. It was the DA, and she owed them her best. 'Partner up,' she ordered. 'This is called a Mirror Spell, a non-verbal form of magic that not only protects you, but turns your enemy's spells back on them…'
With the same conscientiousness that they had employed in obeying Harry's instructions the year before, her classmates and the younger years broke into pairs, spacing themselves throughout the room in a wide pattern they had learned through practice – and some from violent experience. When most had assumed duelling stances – some few being quickly corrected by Harry and Ron – Hermione began to explain a magic she could only hope would save their lives.
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'Last one of the year, my boy, and seeing as how Quidditch season is over – and that lovely girlfriend of yours bagged the Cup for Gryffindor in your absence – you can't possibly have a conflict this time!'
Horace Slughorn chortled, so pleased with his logic, and himself for finally having cornered the elusive Gryffindor Seeker, that Harry couldn't think of a single objection to offer before the Potions Master was waddling away, ignoring Ron as he had done so steadfastly all year, and leaving both wizards dumbstruck and seething in the corridor.
The only part of the year left were exams – classes had finished. There were two weeks remaining until the end of school. And Slughorn insisted on having a last dinner. Harry had to physically bite back his revulsion. The idea of breaking bread with the likes of Cormac McLaggen – who's whole world consisted of his narrow, self-focused desires and was completely out-of-step with the escalating war – and Blaise Zabini – who was roommate and friend to the boy who had turned the whole of Gryffindor's sixth form upside-down this year – was unbearable to the point of actual pain.
'We should go,' Hermione said quietly as she approached them, keeping their agreement to meet after their last class. 'And we should get him to invite Ron.'
The blue eyes of the youngest Weasley son widened in alarm at her suggestion. Amongst the many signs of his rapidly expressing maturity was Ron's sanguine acceptance of their professor's fame-focused blindness. 'You and Harry are welcome to keep the privilege of those dinners to yourselves,' the tall wizard assured her.
'I thought they were a waste of time?' Harry bit at her, irked by the fact that he had been so neatly snared. There was little chance of his getting out of going unless Dumbledore requested his presence. He knew he could ignore the invitation, but the sheer rudeness of that didn't sit well with him. And as Slughorn was both the ex-Head of Slytherin House and someone the Death Eaters had actively tried to recruit, Harry was hesitant to insult him for a mere few hours of time.
'Why are you so keen on this one?' Ron asked, frowning thoughtfully. Hermione glanced around the long dungeon hall, and shook her head.
'Not here.'
Glancing at each other over her head, the boys took an arm each and steered the much-shorter witch into an empty classroom.
Hermione explained. Ron's face was a picture of unflattering disbelief – mouth open and all. Harry's green eyes narrowed to slits with displeasure.
But they agreed.
888
Hermione was at her sink, studying the dark circles rimming under her eyes. They were gradually growing less prominent as sleep and diet slowly improved, fading from the stark purple-black of bruises to the shadows that had haunted her all six years at Hogwarts.
As she withdrew to give her teeth a final scrub with her toothbrush before snuggling into her soft bed, she felt the faint tickle of a command hovering at the back of her thoughts, straining to reach her.
The plastic toothbrush clattered into the porcelain bowl as she grasped for the mental thread. Even with improved control, her bondmate seldom attempted to communicate in words – the exceptions being if they were standing in the same room.
Even so, as she focused, honing on the mental voice like a radio seeking tuning, she caught the simple order. Professor Dumbledore's office.
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Hermione gazed up into the face of the unmoving guardian that had stood so unwavering in front of the Headmaster's Office for a millennium.
She had re-dressed as hastily as possible after catching her bondmate's command, casting longing looks at her bed. Strenuous magical exercise, lack of caffeine, and her body's need to nourish the twins left her struggling to keep her eyes open by dinner. Today, meeting with both her bondmate and the DA meant her exhaustion hadn't even been allayed by her usual half-hour nap between the end of classes and the evening meal.
It was now eleven o'clock at night, and a solemn sorrow, an indescribable weight, had settled just below the young witch's sternum as she gave the password that moved the gargoyle aside to reveal the twisting staircase within. What awaited her at the top of the stairs was the pronouncement that would set in motion the destruction of the final trappings of her childhood – and the abandonment of the institution they all so deeply loved.
Opening the door, she found her three professors already present, fatigue cascading from the older trio as they turned to greet her.
'Hermione,' came both the baritone of her bondmate and the alto of her Head of House.
'Minerva. Severus. Headmaster.' Though her Transfiguration teacher had invited Hermione to use her first name, and she had earned the right to use Severus', Albus Dumbledore retained the vestiges of the pedestal she had placed him on as a child at her Sorting. To address him informally would be to surrender the shreds of that child.
'Albus—' McGonagall swung back towards her husband with the clear intention of pursuing whatever Hermione had interrupted. She was stalled by the rare, gentle hand of her colleague on her shoulder.
'Minerva…there is no other way.'
Her pinched-lipped, angry retort was stalled as Dumbledore met his student's eyes. 'I have found a Horcrux.'
She nodded, once, all-too-aware of what that meant. 'Where? When will you get it? And how?'
'The where I will leave Harry to tell you, and also the how. As of yet, we don't know—'
'You intend to take Potter—' Snape's growl was cut off by McGonagall's equally sharp:
'Albus! You can't be serious about—'
'Harry's not a child, Professor.' Hermione met the startled, dark-blue gaze of her Head of House. Hogwarts' premier student had always been scrupulously attentive and respectful of her teachers – flouting rules only when she could justify her actions. She had never deliberately interrupted one before.
'None of us are,' she continued with quiet confidence. Her professors had not been treating her like a child – or a student – for months. She had shouldered an adult's responsibility at age twelve by solving a riddle that sent her best friend forward to meet Voldemort, and stepped into the self-proclaimed lord's direct line of sight by her unusual relationship with his spy.
'Thank you, Miss Granger,' Dumbledore said, his blue eyes tired and twinkle-less, 'for reminding us all of that truth. She is right.' His aged fingers tapped a parchment that had still-glistening ink scrawled at the bottom. 'This denotes Harry as your partner in leading the Order, Minerva – as an equal, not a student. And it is vital – if he is to recover the remaining three on his own – that he understands the way that Voldemort thinks, the feel of his magic, the depths to which he is willing to go to protect these pieces of his soul. Harry goes.'
'When?' Snape grated, clearly displeased and also plainly aware that there was nothing any of them could say to change their employer's mind.
'A week from today.'
Silence. Again, Hermione could hear the ticking of the clock as the tiny, gold second-hand moved in its rigid circle, counting down the beats of the headmaster's life.
They all knew it. A blue pair of eyes met and held, and as onyx met amber, the younger wizard and his bondmate rose, not needing a dismissal. 'Good night, Minerva, Head…Albus,' Snape said, and his voice was rough with a grief that would never find expression.
Hermione's own throat had closed so tightly she could not utter a sound. A bow of her head to her headmaster and his wife had to suffice before she stepped onto the staircase and into Snape's waiting arms.
They spoke no words as the stone stairs carried them downward, and even the merged world of their minds was numbly empty, a dry desert crackling restlessly at the edges, waiting for the imminent storm.
His grip on her tightened as they neared the exit, and the world in which mutual dislike and disdain were their cover.
'You need to spend this week preparing Potter – and the rest.'
'And our lessons?' she asked.
He shook his head.
'Am I not to see you at all before…?'
The contraction of his hands around her thickening waist, the feeling of his nose buried in the top of her head gave her the answer.
She did not protest. The time for such dramatics was past. Given her choice, she would spend every waking and sleeping moment in his presence, treasuring their explorations of mind, magic and body. But it was not hers to decide – and even if it were, she could never be so reckless.
Tilting her head back, her mouth turned up in invitation. He captured her full lips with his thin ones, allowing her small, sweet tongue that still tasted of toothpaste to tease his that carried the remnants of coffee. The passion that had been forced down, untapped, poured out with their fear, their uncertainty, and their grief, fusing in the crucible of their purpose and their burden.
Snape shuddered, a release of distress and guilt, his arms contracting about her so tightly they felt like lashes binding her ribs, and drew back slightly. The wavering fire of the torches flared, throwing sparse illumination on his features as he gazed down at her, obsidian eyes travelling slowly over her face as his hands moved reverently over the planes of her body.
His fingers completed their circuit in their favourite place – on her belly. His eyes burned as they stared into hers, reflecting the orange-yellow sparks of the wall sconces.
Without a word, he stepped backwards, releasing her, opening the gargoyle and exiting in a single fluid motion.
Tears, hot and spiky, pricked at the corners of Hermione's eyes as she watched him stride down the corridor and disappear around a corner.
He had bid her goodbye.
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The next week passed in a strange combination of time slowed strangely – the hours between lunch and dinner stretched for a lifetime – and time that vanished without ever being used. She glimpsed her bondmate briefly – seated at the staff table, billowing through the hallways, chastising erring students from all Houses. Making himself increasingly unpopular. Making the break cleaner, his leaving easier, when the time finally arrived.
They had DA practice every day. She meditated, bending fire and earth to her will, every morning and evening.
And every night, as she wriggled under her light blankets, the heavy comforter long-since stored away for next winter, her brain supplied, unbidden, the shrinking number of days they had left.
Tuesday night, they had their final dinner with Horace Slughorn.
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As his end-of-the-year farewell gift, their rotund Potions professor had invited each of the members of his Slug Club to bring a guest. True to the plan they had concocted, Hermione invited Ron, Harry spoke to Lavender, Ginny brought Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbottom got Parvati Patil. The invite-list had been made deliberately to keep perceived slights and shifts of favouritism at a bare minimum, while still packing the dinner with a large number of Dumbledore's Army.
Blaise Zabini entered the large, opulent office alone, a fact instantly noted by one witch and two wizards, through swiftly-raised eyebrows were all that greeted this unexpected boon. Another pair of eyes noticed, and chocolate-milk-brown met the almost-black gaze of the half-Egyptian with frank curiosity. Zabini acknowledged Ginevra Weasley and their brief, one-time camaraderie with a faint curve to his thin mouth.
McLaggen entered with a fourth-year witch who was hanging on his every word. His loud bluster went ignored or, at best, coolly recognized by his fellow Gryffindors. The rest of the club entered in pairs, drawing out seats and exchanging meaningless congenialities about exams, the weather, and the rapidly-approaching summer.
Dumbledore's Army was sprawled along a line of chairs, occupying fully a third of table, keeping their conversation determinedly light, even as the occasional awkwardly-thrown arm or re-adjusted leg told the careful observer that each had a wand sheathed and strapped to a limb under their robes. At Harry's order, they were purposefully disregarding Hermione's foray to the other side of the House line – the first such move she had made in so blatantly public a space.
'Zabini.'
'Granger.' He took a sip of water and graciously handed her an untouched glass.
'Thanks.' She drank in a mirror image of his motion. 'About our independent study…there's an offer open, if you want to talk about it later.'
His almond-shaped eyes did not flicker from hers, though she knew he was as aware of the number of Gryffindors present as she was. A tilt of the aristocrat's head was all the reply she got. It was enough. She retreated to the other side of the room as Slughorn entered and genially invited them all to sit down.
The Gryffindor witch allowed her mind to wander through the meal. A lifetime's habit kept her fork moving between plate and mouth, and years of engaging in verbal play allowed her to seem attentive to the conversation without ever really listening. Hermione let the subjects wash over and around her. Part of her marvelled at the frivolity – who could plan to go griffin hunting, or Loch-Ness-monster-seeing with Voldemort's star rising so swiftly? – and another part of her envied their innocence. Even their own excitement of the coming summer – Bill and Fleur's approaching wedding – seemed surreal and unlikely. In twenty-four hours their world would come unglued, as the impossible occurred and the war escalated. And none of them, not even the copper-headed siblings gently teasing Neville, or the scarred wizard politely listening to another improbable Lovegood tale, were aware of it.
'…and of course I'll be having a big do at the beginning of next year.' Slughorn was making a final toast; chairs were being pushed back from the table. 'Have a good holiday, everyone!' he waved them out, shaking hands and slinging an arm jovially around some shoulders – including Harry's.
'Write if you need to, m'boy! I'm immensely looking forward to your final year at NEWT level!'
'Thanks, Professor,' Harry replied politely, surreptitiously shifting so that the wand bound to his left forearm wouldn't jab his teacher.
Zabini had already set off at a casual pace in front of them, his leisurely stroll allowing time for half the Gryffindors to shortcut through tapestry-hidden corridors and get ahead of him – ready to cut him off at the juncture where this hall joined the large atrium just outside the Great Hall. It was the place where the four Houses split to wind their way into their separate quarters. That made it the best place to trap the Slytherin without arousing the suspicions of any of his Housemates who were inclined to pay heed to portrait gossip.
Hermione, Harry, Neville and Parvati formed the rear, while Ron, Ginny, Lavender and Luna hurried ahead to overtake him.
Zabini was almost to the stairs that would lead him downward into his dungeon common room, when three Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw seemed to blossom from the stone in front of his eyes, and stood directly in his path.
They said nothing, and though their stances were alert, they didn't thrum with the expectation of attack or defence as Gryffindor's Keeper jerked his head at an empty classroom. Turning warily to obey, the darker wizard saw the remainder of the crowd coming up behind him. He opened the door, and, as courtesy dictated, waited while Hermione and then Ginny sailed through it. A rapid look towards the remaining girls told him they weren't coming, as Harry and Ron gestured for him to follow them.
When the door snapped shut, and a Silencing Charm had been placed on it, an audible sigh raced through the room, and the tension eased somewhat. Wondering what he had done to earn himself the presence of Potter's entire, if informal, inner circle, Zabini found himself facing a very serious pair of brilliant green eyes.
'Hermione says you want to join the war against Voldemort. Why?'
'Wanting to save the world isn't a good enough reason?' The slightly sardonic tone to Zabini's voice was not lost on his peers.
'Not when your mates include Malfoy,' Ron said icily, his blue eyes pronouncing dismissal.
'Wait – Ron…I think he's telling the truth,' Ginny objected. She studied the proud, scornful face, the dark eyes that masked emotion. The face of her unexpected rescuer in a hallway several months ago. 'He…helped…me. At the time, you wouldn't tell me why. Now I want to know. Why did you defend me against your Housemates that day?'
The Slytherin's dark eyes cut to Hermione, but she merely returned his glance inquisitively.
'Helped against – what happened?' Ron asked quickly, a note of anger creeping into his voice.
'Nothing terrible, Ron—'
'Your sister was attacked. By Pansy Parkinson and several others from my House. I was near. I offered my assistance in repelling them.'
'Why is now the first we're hearing of this?' Ron irately demanded of his sister, at the same time that Harry pressed:
'Why did you do it?'
Zabini sighed. 'I had just finished speaking with Granger for the first time. I know that Gryffindors like actions to prove words – and it seemed a good time to begin.'
'And the reason we should accept that this is genuine and not a deliberate ploy to sell us out is…?' Harry asked dispassionately.
The wizard he was interrogating favoured him with a searching look. '"Slytherin" is not synonymous with "mindless bigot", Potter, no matter how much some of my Housemates provide evidence to the contrary. There are any number of us who have no wish to have tattoos carved in our flesh. What most of us lack is an escape route that doesn't condemn our families. I decided to forge one.'
Harry studied the boy standing unruffled and at ease in a room full of potential enemies. The years he had spent at informal war with Draco Malfoy – from childhood spats to full-out adult battles – urged him to Obliviate the Slytherin, walk out the door, and pretend this conversation had never taken place.
But his gut instinct told him Zabini was telling the truth. Hermione and Ginny both believed him. Abruptly, and a little absurdly, jumbled pieces of the lyrics of the Sorting Hat's song at the opening of his fifth year nudged to the forefront of his thoughts. '…Have the Houses been united, as they once were meant to be…Condemned I am to split you…we must unite inside her, or we'll crumble from within. I have told you, I have warned you, let the Sorting now begin.' And the worry he'd never been entirely able to shake – no matter how many chats with Dumbledore he had, the knowledge that he, too, could have been part of Slytherin House…
Would he question the part-African if Zabini were in Ravenclaw? Or Hufflepuff? No. The honest answer instantly presented itself, and with it, his reply.
'Ok.' Harry ran a hand through midnight-black hair, met Ron's light-blue gaze decisively, saw his best friend's acceptance, and hardened his resolve. 'We'll need to meet as soon as school is out. But before that, there's something we really need to know…'
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Climbing into bed that night, Hermione's internal countdown clock struck zero.
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Wednesday evening saw all the sixth years and many others clustered together in the common room, tables awash with parchment, books, quills, ink and snacks provided by the ever-eager House-elves to assist in preparing for the last of their exams. The younger years were elsewhere – mostly outside near the lake, enjoying the mid-summer sun that would not set until well after ten o'clock and curfew.
Hermione was ostensibly revising, as she knew was expected of her, but her eyes flew to the portrait hole every time it creaked open. Would Dumbledore deliver his summons through a student, as usual? Or was the graveness of the situation such that Professor McGonagall would come for him?
Her gaze travelled over the boys she loved so dearly, and felt a smile curl one corner of her mouth. A far cry from the lax students they had been just a year prior, both were studying intently, the majority of their focus on layers and layers of parchments holding Herbology and Potions notes. The loss of Snape's text meant that Harry's Potions work had suffered accordingly, and Transfiguration, Defence and Charms were wand-heavy subjects. Between DA practice and pitched battles with the Death Eaters, their wand-work was in better form than Hogwarts had seen from sixth years in decades.
Flipping a parchment around to squint at all angles of a plant diagram they'd drawn in Herbology, Harry didn't seen Jimmy Peakes until the Beater was standing right next to him.
'I'm supposed to give this to you,' he told his Quidditch captain, handing Harry a rolled-up parchment. Heads came up from books, and Neville and Seamus stopped practicing their non-verbal spell work.
'Thanks, Jimmy,' Harry said, his tone of voice a casual dismissal. He unrolled the narrow missive.
'It's from Dumbledore!' His eyes met Ron's with a fierce excitement as the whole table leaned in. 'He wants me to go to his office as quick as I can!'
'Blimey...you don't reckon...' Ron trailed off, well aware of the whole sixth year's curious ears. But not all of them knew the actual objects of Dumbledore's quest. 'He hasn't found...?' He let his raised eyebrows complete the thought.
'Better go and see, hadn't I?' The green eyes were almost feverishly bright as Harry stood; forsaking his books and the notes he'd been copying, ink still glistening as it soaked into the parchment.
'Harry – be safe,' Ron warned. The other wizard's mouth twisted slightly, but he jerked his head in acknowledgement. The red-head turned his attention to his other best friend, who was watching the Seeker with water in her eyes and pain on her face.
'Hermione?' he queried gently.
His voice jerked her back, erasing the expression that made her look both old and sad, returning to placid calm. 'What is it?' he pressed.
'What's what?' she returned. 'It's nothing, Ron. I'm just worried about Harry, that's all.' She turned her attention firmly back to her Arithmancy text, leaving the youngest Weasley son, once again, with the distinct impression that she was hiding something.
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When the portrait opened again to admit him, only Ron and Hermione were still seated at the table that had previously held most of the year. As the Fat Lady swung forward with a faint creak, both heads snapped to Harry, like Basilisks scenting prey.
Hermione half-rose from her chair in unconscious protest of the violent brightness to Harry's eyes and the almost-frantic swiftness of his stride. There was more here than a hunt for Horcruxes.
'What does Dumbledore want?' she asked, knowing she was expected to. 'Harry, are you ok?' She seized his arm as he made to go past her. He tossed her a tight grimace that was meant to be a smile as he shook her off and continued past her up the staircase to his dorm. His answer was taut and terse:
'I'm fine.'
'D'you think—' Ron was on his feet now, too, and staring after their best friend, his freckled face puzzled and worried. 'Should I follow him?'
'He'll be back,' she whispered. Her gut was churning. Knowing what was about to happen was, if anything, worse than the many misadventures they had shared in ignorance. Dumbledore was spending his last night alive taking the raven-haired wizard in search of a piece of Voldemort's maimed soul, and those left behind had to be ready to reconstruct the world he was taking with him.
The thunder of feet on stone warned them, and Harry came hurtling back down the stairs, the shimmering material of his Cloak streaming behind him, the familiar parchment of the Marauder's Map clutched in his right hand, a strange lump in his left. This time, the hand Hermione held up to forestall him wasn't necessary. He jerked to a halt before them, breathing hard, the wild expression of excitement and anger from moments before slightly banked. 'I haven't got much time. Dumbledore thinks I'm getting my Invisibility Cloak.'
'Why, mate?' Ron interjected quickly.
Green eyes flashed triumphantly. 'Horcrux. He's found one. We're going to get it.'
Ron let out a low whistle, an echo of his friend's excitement flaring to life in his blue gaze. 'Now? Are we—?' the red-head gestured to Hermione and himself, but Harry was already shaking his head.
'No. You need to be here. On my way to Dumbledore's office, I met Trelawney on the seventh-floor corridor.' He paused here as eyebrows shot up, and the three exchanged apprehensive glances.
'The Room—' Hermione started softly.
'—of Requirement,' Harry finished grimly. 'She'd been thrown out of it. She heard someone celebrating – and then she said everything went dark and she was tossed out.'
'Malfoy,' Ron said flatly, glancing at the wild-haired witch now biting her lower lip. For once, Hermione did not object. They were right – and it was too late, now, anyway, to change what would happen.
'You see what this means,' Harry continued seriously. It wasn't a question. 'Dumbledore won't be here tonight, so Malfoy's going to have another clear shot at whatever he's up to. We know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here...' Hermione found herself holding the frayed, blank map that had accompanied them through Hogwarts for nearly four years. 'You've got to watch him.'
The jade of Harry's eyes darkened as he ruthlessly held Hermione's chocolate gaze, 'And you've got to watch Snape, too.' Again, she offered no protest, mutely accepting his orders. 'Use anyone else you can rustle up from the DA. Wake our whole year. Dumbledore says he's put extra protection on the school, but if Snape's involved, he'll know what Dumbledore's protection is and how to avoid it – but he won't be expecting you lot to be on the watch.' As he said the last, his thin mouth twisted in an expression of hatred that so mimicked Snape, Hermione's breath caught in her chest.
'Harry—' She wanted to warn him, console him. But her tongue failed her, and he turned away impatiently.
'I haven't got time to argue. Take this as well.' The peculiar bundle of pale-green knitting was thrust into Ron's hands, who turned it over, frowning.
'Thanks. Er – why do I need socks?' he asked.
'You need what's wrapped in them. It's the Felix Felicis. Share it between yourselves and Ginny too.' He hesitated, wondering if he should send Hermione upstairs to bring his girlfriend…no. She would insist on going with him, and he would willingly step in front of Voldemort's Avada Kedavra before he would allow that to happen. He owed it to the Weasleys to keep her safe. He swallowed the lump that was fear he would never touch her again and said: 'Say goodbye to her for me. Dumbledore's waiting.'
'No!' Hermione said sharply as he made to swing his Cloak over his shoulders and disappear. 'We don't want it, you take it, who knows what you're going to be facing?'
Harry wasn't remotely tempted by the little bottle that could guarantee this night's work a success. He would only be able to concentrate with Dumbledore if he knew those he loved at Hogwarts were protected by the powerful potion Slughorn had brewed.
'I'll be fine, I'll be with Dumbledore. I want to know you lot are okay...don't look like that, Hermione,' he said as she swallowed convulsively, the fear in her eyes enhanced by a sorrow and a compassion he would have to seek the reasons for later. He reached out, tucked one of her many stray curls behind an ear – and found himself hugging her with all his might.
'Be careful, Harry James Potter,' she whispered fiercely. 'I'll kill you myself if you don't come back.' All three smiled wanly at the threat as Ron and Harry clasped firm hands.
'Take your DA galleon. Heat it if you get in trouble. We'll find you,' the Quidditch Keeper advised.
'It's in my pocket. I'll see you later...'
The Cloak was on, he had disappeared from view as they had seen him do so often before, the portrait opened once more…and he was gone.
Witch and wizard locked eyes. 'I'll wake our dormitory,' Ron said heavily. Hermione nodded.
'I'll change my galleon to call the DA.' As her tall friend took the stairs two at a time to rouse the boys, she spread the Marauder's Map on the table that had held innocent homework only an hour before.
'I solemnly swear I am up to no good…'
888
The Slytherin common room was empty, the only movement the emerald fire in the grate, flames licking soot-darkened stone even in late June, the dungeon House forever cold.
The sound of hurried footsteps rushed over the carpet, and the once-sleek blond head of Draco Malfoy came racing from the mouth of the stairwell leading to the boys' dormer. He moved with a frenetic, unchecked speed, his usually composed face a story of triumph, dread and anxiety as he tossed a swift glance around the silent space and proceeded to the door.
'Draco.'
The Malfoy heir halted abruptly at the sound of that voice, reining a string of stinging invective he longed to loose on this intruder, turning slowly on the spot as he wondered which curse would be most effective to bind his roommate to silence.
'Blaise,' he returned stiffly.
'I would advise against doing this.' For a heart-burning moment, the platinum blond wondered how his aloof, disdainful classmate had discovered what he was doing before dismissing the flash of fear. Most of his year knew he was performing a task for the Dark Lord – his arrogant assurance earlier in the year had guaranteed that – but even Crabbe and Goyle hadn't been told what.
'Since we're trading un-asked for opinions, allow me to give you one,' Malfoy returned coolly. 'Keep your head down and stay in bed tonight and none of this will bother you.'
The half-Egyptian shook his head. Malfoy tensed. Cursing one's own Housemates was generally considered bad form – and in Slytherin House, could amount to a declaration of private feuding between powerful families. But if Blaise tried to stop him, he would have no choice. The Dark Lord was depending on him. And his parents…
'This is a school, Draco.' Blaise jerked his head towards the dormitory stairs where the rest of Slytherin – most of them younger – slept, oblivious. 'We shouldn't bring them into this.'
The doubts Malfoy had struggled to keep at bay crowded around him at these words, threatening to overwhelm him…The brittle strokes of his mother's last letter intruded on his vision, keeping remorse at bay. 'I made a promise. I have a duty.' His wand came up, unwavering. 'Do I have to curse you to do it?'
Almond-shaped black eyes still on his grey, Blaise shook his head in the negative. 'Good.' The wand went back into Malfoy's pocket, the stone door grated open, and he strode into the corridor without a backward glance.
Reaching into his own deep pocket, Blaise pressed his wand to a golden coin given him by a Gryffindor witch with mahogany tresses. It heated, and the numbers on the coin morphed into words.
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Many floors above him, Hermione felt the burn of a galleon in her robes as Ron hastily organized the defence, the Fat Lady thrown open wide to admit those from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff hurrying to join them.
The message was not unexpected, but the words felt like ice cubes sliding along her spine and into her stomach. He's coming.
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A/N: Thank you all for reading! As usual, please leave me a note to tell me what you thought. For the parts that were recognizable as Rowling, the conversation when Peakes gave Harry the note from Dumbledore and when Harry came back from seeing Dumbledore, are lifted from HBP, pages 539-540 and 551-552, British edition.