Breathing deeply, Hermione inhaled the scent of the shampoo she was rubbing through her tangled tresses.
Rosemary and mint. Lather, rinse, repeat … repeat, repeat, ad infinitum.
It had taken two applications of shampoo just to work her fingers through the snarls to her scalp. A third finally loosened the last of the dried blood that had stubbornly clung to her hair. The fourth and fifth washes were just because she didn't think her hair would ever feel clean again.
Plus, it gave her time to collect herself. Sooner or later, she would have to leave the bathroom and face him, and she didn't know if she could, not after everything that had happened.
She had stopped crying, only to realize she was sitting on the floor of a steamy shower clutching a very wet Severus Snape. Backing away to the farthest corner, she had just stared at him, wondering how in the name of Circe she had gotten herself into this situation.
An embarrassed-looking Snape had cleared his throat, averted his eyes and said, "I will leave you to it, then." Standing up, he had quickly stepped out of the shower and closed the glass door behind him. The steam had obscured her view, but she could see his form as he toweled off his dripping hair and clothes and exited the room.
It was then that she had noticed she wasn't wearing anything but her knickers and a dingy sleeveless undershirt. She had vague memories of losing it over the amount of blood on her clothes, but she hadn't realized that she'd stripped practically naked right in front of him.
Shame burned fresh in her face and she scrubbed her hands vigorously through her hair again as if to wash away the memory. Swallowing the lump that formed in her throat, she blinked her tear-filled eyes and tried to focus on what to do next.
Ever the list-maker, she set forth cataloging everything she knew for sure about her current circumstances.
Fact: Harry and Ron are dead, as are the rest of the Order members.
Fact: I am not dead, and neither is Severus Snape.
Fact: Voldemort is alive and victorious.
Fact: All of the Horcruxes have been destroyed, which means Voldemort is mortal.
Fact: I have no wand.
Fact: Snape brought me here. (Note: Find out where 'here' is.)
Fact: Snape has not harmed me. Yet.
Fact: ….
Having run out of facts, Hermione turned her attention to murkier issues while she worked conditioner through her hair.
How does Snape know what we've been doing these past few years? Did Dumbledore really ask Snape to kill him? Is it possible that he's been on our side all along? Can I trust him? Of course, the bigger question is whether I even have a choice.
She rinsed a final time, enjoying the luxury of a hot shower in spite of her current dilemma. Merlin, it's been forever since I've had a good washing up. Cleansing charms can't hold a candle to running water and real soap.
Reaching over, she turned the water off and stepped out, really looking around for the first time. The bathroom was fairly basic – pedestal sink, linen closet, window and a large walk-in shower. No marble and magical faucets here, she mused. If it weren't for the never-ending hot water, I'd assume this was a purely Muggle house.
She grabbed a towel from the rack and started to dry off, wincing as she brushed past her left shoulder. That's right, someone got me with a hex, she thought, before twisting around in front of the mirror to take a look. The skin was blistered, raw and oozing, but overall, the damage was fairly minor – nothing a few applications of Burn Paste couldn't treat.
Raising her eyes back to the mirror, she studied her reflection. The past three years had been difficult in so many ways, and it showed in her face. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of too many sleepless nights. Hollow cheeks were testament to hungry days. A small scar at the edge of her lower lip and a much larger one across her neck were souvenirs of a dark time in the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange – as was another set of scars on her arm, which still hurt, though not physically, whenever she happened to think about them. An oozing cut just above her right eyebrow was the newest mark. Reaching up to touch it, she wondered idly if Snape had any ointment that could heal it without a scar.
Of course, the passage of time had also altered her looks. No longer an awkward teenager, she had grown into her features and could almost be considered pretty, in a tattered, half-starved sort of way, she thought with a cynical shake of her head. Her hair was a tragedy, like always, but even it had matured and, when clean and managed, hung in heavy curls down her back. Factoring in her extensive use of the time turner back at Hogwarts, Hermione figured her actual age to be close to 22, but her eyes told the story of someone much older who had seen and done things no one should ever have to see or do. And that brought her right back to where she started … the brink of tears.
She and the boys had often dreamed of what life would be like when the war ended. On their best days, they envisioned a world where everyone survived intact – whole, healthy and happy. Evil had been vanquished, and all was well in the wizarding world. Everyone got married, had babies and lived happily ever after.
On the darkest days, when news would filter over the Wizarding Wireless about some minor skirmish or another that had left so-and-so dead or maimed, they would talk about the high cost of victory, and how each death would be avenged on that final day when they would take down Voldemort once and for all. The "ever after" would be more bittersweet, to be sure, but it would still come to pass.
Never, not once since they first heard the names Voldemort, Tom Riddle, Death Eaters, Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange, had they ever considered a future where the Order failed … where Dark banished Light and the only ever after, if you were lucky (or not lucky, however you want to think of it), was a life lived under the thumb of a maniac and his minions.
We were arrogant fools to think this couldn't happen.
Shaking her head in anger, Hermione decided that there was no more delaying the inevitable. She finished drying off and turned to find her beaded bag, which contained extra clothing, toiletries and basic first-aid supplies. She stopped in cold shock to see that her bag and her clothes were gone, everything except the sodden vest and knickers she'd taken off and thrown into the bin after Snape left. That bastard took my things!
Opening the linen closet in a panic, she searched for a dressing gown or some spare clothing, but there was nothing but sheets and towels. Without a wand to transfigure something more modest, and dead-set against putting on her wet and filthy underclothes, she had no choice but to wrap herself in a sheet, toga-like, and head for the door.
Bracing herself for the humiliation of asking Snape for help, she opened the door a crack and peered out into the hallway. Looking left and right, she realized that he wasn't nearby. She was just about to call for him when she happened to look down. There, at her feet, was a pile of cloth. A set of robes! Snatching them up, she shut the door and put them on. They were far too big, but anything was better than a sheet.
An odd thought crossed her mind, and she stepped over to the window and lifted the blinds. It was dark outside. It must be the middle of the night. Sunrise seems so long ago. Tentatively, she reached out to open the window's latch, only to feel the intense tingle of magical wards. Of course. This is Snape we're talking about.
Dropping the blinds, she walked back to the door, opened it and stepped out into the dark hall, which had a door at one end and a door across from the bathroom. Turning left, she stepped quietly toward the dimly lit room ahead of her. When she reached the doorway, she paused, entranced by the sight.
Snape was facing away from her, one hand braced against the fireplace mantle and the other resting against his hip. His head hung down as he stared at the glowing flames, seemingly lost in thought. His feet were bare and he was dressed in his usual black trousers. His white shirt was untucked and rolled up at the sleeves. She had never seen the man looking so … human. It unnerved her.
"Erm …"
At the sound, Snape's head snapped up and he turned toward her, quickly schooling his features into a bland expression. "Miss Granger."
"Professor."
"I trust you are feeling … better."
"Oh. Yes. Thank you for … erm … the robes." She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then started again. "I feel I should apologize for … before. My behavior earlier was—"
"Expected. And forgiven. You had quite a shock. And, as you are aware, the more … unusual … effects of Wiggenwald Potion are well documented. You need not be concerned."
She blushed to the roots of her hair as she recalled some of the things she had said before the potion's effects faded. "Oh. Right. … Well, thank you anyway." She dropped her eyes and fiddled with the overly long sleeve of her robes. "Erm, I was wondering if you have my things. I need my bag. Please."
"Of course," he replied as he gestured toward the tea table, where she was surprised to see his wands still sitting from earlier in the evening. Next to them sat her bag, her message Galleon and a few odd scraps of parchment … everything that had been in her pockets. "I took the liberty of disposing of your clothing. I assumed you would not wish to wear it again."
Looking at him uncertainly, she stepped forward toward the table and reached for her bag. Her hand hovered over the wands for just a moment, but she fought the urge to arm herself. He could have taken them back while I was in the shower, but he didn't, she reasoned. Maybe he trusts me. Perhaps I should return the favor.
Gathering up her belongings instead of a wand, she turned and saw him studying her intently. After meeting his eyes, she nodded and made her way back to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.
/
Severus let out a ragged breath. After leaving Granger in the shower, he had come back out to the living area and used his wand to dry himself off and sort out her things. Her clothing was beyond ruined, so he simply vanished it after removing the contents of her pockets.
The bag, now that had been an interesting discovery. It was rather small and oddly impractical, with its beaded design and dainty strap. Why in the world did she carry such a thing while traipsing all over the country with two idiot boys? But upon picking it up, he heard a rattle, as if great stacks of things had toppled over and shifted. Finding it warded shut, he cast a few spells and determined that it was charmed to be vastly larger on the inside than on the outside. Very clever, he noted with approval before setting it aside.
He had started to return his wands to their rightful places on his person, but something made him stop mid-action and return them to the tea table. Let her see that I'm still unarmed. It may help pave the way for our discussion. A discussion I am not looking forward to having, especially after that little incident in the bathroom.
He wasn't sure who had been embarrassed more, him or her. What in the seven circles of hell had he been thinking? Well, obviously, you were not thinking, you idiot. Acting like a barmy Hufflepuff. You would have been better off leaving her alone with her emotions than ending up holding a sobbing, half-naked witch on the floor of a shower. Who did you think you were, Albus bloody Dumbledore, the Great Comforter? No, you looked like some lecherous old man, trying to cop a feel.
But then she had come out of the bathroom – with wet hair and pink cheeks, wearing a robe that was five sizes too big – and thanked him before apologizing for her behavior. Not only that, but she had also passed up the chance to pull a wand on him, even though she was obviously tempted to do that very thing.
Hermione Granger is turning out to be quite the surprise, Severus thought before turning toward the kitchen. It was pushing midnight, and he was certain she was as tired and hungry as he was. They would eat and address the most pressing issues now, and then– provided she didn't find a way to hex him first – they would both get some rest.
Merlin knows we need it, he though, pressing a weary hand to his tired eyes.
/
Hermione exited the bathroom feeling a little more like herself. She'd found her toothbrush and scrubbed away the lingering taste of potions and vomit. Then, she'd dug out her hairbrush and set to work. It'd taken ages to work out the tangles but the job was done. Her hair would take forever to dry without magic, but that was the least of her worries.
She'd been unable to find the Burn Paste, and without a wand she couldn't summon it. She also couldn't enlarge any of the shrunken items in her bag – namely her heavy trunk with all of her clothing. So, still dressed in the oversized robe and sporting a tender shoulder, she followed her nose to the small but well-appointed kitchen, where she found Snape standing over the cooker stirring a pot of soup. Off to the side was a platter of simple sandwiches and some sliced apples.
"Miss Granger. Please, have a seat. We need to talk, and we might as well do it over a meal."
She sat down in the nearest chair and watched as he poured two bowls of soup and brought them to the table on plates. A negligent wave of his hand caused the sandwich platter to follow, along with two large glasses of water.
Sitting down, he gestured for her to begin. "Eat. You will feel better if you do."
Doubting that, she nonetheless picked up her spoon and dipped it into the brothy beef soup. They ate in silence for several awkward minutes before she set down her utensils and glanced up at the mystery sitting before her. He looked awful, like he hadn't slept well in weeks. Stubble dotted his chin. He probably hasn't stopped moving for two days straight, she mused.
"What is this place?"
He lifted his eyes to hers, finished chewing and wiped his mouth with a napkin before answering. "I imagine you have quite a few questions. I will attempt to answer them all completely but know that I am bound by magic to protect certain information. Do you understand?"
She nodded, and he continued. "We are at a safe house created for me by Albus Dumbledore before he died. He knew that my position as a spy was dangerous and could be discovered by the Dark Lord or his followers at any time. He thought it best to give me a well-stocked retreat to which I could escape if necessary. It was intended as an action of last resort. I have not been back since we set the wards several years ago. However, the situation, as it stands, seemed to suggest it was time to pay a visit."
"Have you been discovered?"
"No," he said, although she rather thought his tone implied 'not yet.'
"And where exactly are we?"
"Someplace familiar to you, I expect," he said with a slight smirk. "The Forest of Dean."
Of course. I can't seem to escape the forest. She sighed heavily. At least it's not a tent.
"How can I trust you? This?"
The smirk vanished from his face and he appeared to ponder the question before replying. "That is the million-Galleon question, is it not? I do not blame you for not taking me at my word. That would be stupid, and though you may be many things, stupid is certainly not one of them. But Veritaserum is also out of the question, because it was I who brewed all of the potions in this house. Therefore, how can you trust that I haven't compromised it in some way?
"I would offer to show you my memories, but again, you know my skills with Legilimency. I have been able to fool the Dark Lord himself for more years than you've been alive, which means I could show you anything I want you to see, and you would never be able to tell the difference between lies and reality."
Her eyes widened in recognition of the words uttered by Lucius Malfoy in the Department of Mysteries so many years ago. How can he know that?
"Let us start with this," he said before sliding a narrow box across the table toward her.
Still unsure what to make of him, she hesitated in opening the box. He promptly rolled his eyes, reached a pale hand across the table and opened the box for her. Wands! There must be a dozen of them!
"I am no Ollivander, but I suspect there is a wand in that box that will fit you well enough for now. And while you try them out, tell me what happened to your wand."
She reached for the first wand, a beautiful rowan wand with runes engraved along its handle. She swished it experimentally, but it felt all wrong … squishy, somehow, as if the magic were somehow being forced through gel.
The second wand, made of ash, was better, and she conjured some tiny yellow canaries, which flew around the room while she spoke. "Snatchers. They found me near the edge of the forest, just before I met up with … with you."
The birds suddenly squawked and disappeared in a poof of feathers, so she picked up another wand – holly – and tried to transfigure her empty soup bowl into a teacup. It turned into a tea tin instead. "Scabior was the leader's name. He had two others with him. It was the same bunch that picked us up in this very forest two years ago and sent us on a little vacation to Malfoy Manor."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "And how did you escape them without a wand?"
"I can thank Vol- You Know Who for that. He called them back just as things got really tense. I was lucky. Well, except for this," she said, pointing to the cut on her forehead. She decided leave out the bit about the Centaur for now.
Several more wands were tried and rejected in silence before she selected a rich mahogany wand, carved with interlocking circles in a repeating pattern from handle to tip. Gold sparks shot out the end as soon as she picked it up, causing her to smile slightly. "This one will do nicely, I think."
She turned the wand on her robes, which shortened and tightened into a perfect fit. Aiming at her head, she dried her hair, which fluffed up and nearly tripled in volume. Pressing her hands to her hair, she tried to flatten it some, embarrassed by the way Snape's eyes widened and his lips quirked up in a half smirk. "Sorry. It never really behaves without a good bit of work."
Looking at the assortment of wands left on the table, she decided to change the subject, "Where did you get these wands?"
"Here and there," he said evasively, earning him a raised eyebrow. Refusing to elaborate, he instead sat back in his chair a bit. "Now, I have it on good authority that you are in possession of a portrait, one Phineas Nigellus Black, former headmaster of Hogwarts. Is this correct?"
Surprised once again at the information he possessed, she simply nodded.
"If you would, please extract him from that clever little bag of yours, and I will provide proof of where my loyalties lie."
The portrait! Of course! How could I have been so stupid? Black could have overheard anything we said while we were on the run and reported it right back to Snape! The dirty little Slytherin never once said anything about Snape being on our side!
She tried to hide her irritation before opening the bag, reaching in up to her armpit and extracting a portrait the size of a deck of Exploding Snap. She set it on the table, and resized it with a tap of her new wand. It was empty.
"It appears Headmaster Black is away from his portrait for the moment," she said.
"How fortunate for us that I am the current headmaster." He reached his hand, which bore the headmaster's ring, toward the frame. Placing it on the corner, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Before long, the sour-faced Black shuffled into view.
"What is the meaning of this, Severus?" Black asked. "Where is the girl? This is her frame. How did you get it? Is she dead?"
"Your concern for my welfare is touching," Hermione said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
"There you are. And don't be silly, girl. I do not care either way, of course. I am merely suspicious of anything that is not as it should be. And so I ask, are you quite well?"
"As well as can be expected, I suppose."
"And you, Severus? Tell me what is happening. All of the portraits are very concerned about the state of Hogwarts. We have not seen you in two days, and there has been quite a disturbance in the wards and halls of the castle. We have been under attack, and now the school is overrun with Dark wizards!"
"I am aware. It is time, Phineas. Would you please invite Albus into your frame for a moment?" Snape said.
The painted man's mouth dropped open in shock. "It … it's time? Do you mean to say that … you've retreated to the cottage? With Miss Granger? Oh, this is very bad. Very bad indeed."
"I would agree. Time is of the essence, so if you will …"
"Of course, of course." Black practically ran out of his frame.
Hermione's eyes met Snape's in shock, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't. Is it possible that we've all been wrong about him for all these years? I guess it's time to find out.
A/N: We've reached a turning point in this story. Next chapter will show whether Hermione can be convinced to trust Snape. We'll find out more about where things stand ... and what might come next. Thanks for sticking with me!