Hermione went to the hospital wing because she couldn't think of anywhere else to go. She wanted to know if anybody else was dead. She wanted to have something to do. Poppy would surely have more injured to care for than she could handle alone.

The hospital wing was indeed full. Dumbledore was the only one who had died, but there were plenty of injuries. She made her way through the room, going from one to the next, while Poppy focused on Bill. He'd been mauled by Fenrir Greyback.

There was chaos when Harry told everybody how Dumbledore had died, but she just felt empty. She ran out of people to treat, binding an oddly shaped gouge from a curse on Tonks's forearm only to look up and realize it was the last thing.

"—and then Snape—and Snape did it," Harry was saying. "The Avada Kedavra."

Madam Pomfrey burst into tears. Hermione couldn't bring herself to go over and comfort her. She was too close to tears again herself, seeing the looks on everybody's faces. Lupin was in the chair by Bill's bed, sobbing. Everybody looked wide-eyed, disbelieving, betrayed.

"Shh!" Ginny whispered, though nobody was talking. "Listen!"

Poppy pressed her fingers to her mouth, quieting her sobs, her eyes wide. Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing. It was a stricken lament, terribly beautiful. It sent Hermione over the edge again, and she sat down on the floor where she'd been standing, pulling her knees up to her chest and hiding her face against her thighs.

When the song ended, Hermione felt a little better. She wasn't sure if she'd been for grieving Dumbledore or for Severus, but she knew she was done crying. She was wiping her tears away when Minerva entered the ward.

"Molly and Arthur are on their way," she said. Her entrance seemed to rouse everybody from the spell of the phoenix's lament. "Harry, what happened? According to Hagrid you were with Professor Dumbledore when he—when it happened. He says Professor Snape was involved in some—"

"Snape killed Dumbledore," Harry said. His voice was flatter each time he said it.

Minerva stared at Harry, and then Poppy was rushing forward, conjuring a chair and pushing Minerva down into it.

"Snape," Minerva repeated. "We all wondered… but he trusted… always…" Her eyes found Hermione, locking on. "Snape… I can't believe it…"

Hermione realized that she had been wrong. She wasn't done crying. Fresh hot tears were leaking out of her eyes now with Minerva looking at her like that. Sharing the betrayal. They'd had wine together in his rooms at Christmas, had tea and brandy in her office after the first staff meeting of the year.

"Snape was a highly accomplished Occlumens," said Lupin harshly. "We always knew that."

"But Dumbledore swore he was on our side!" Tonks whispered. "I always thought Dumbledore must know something about Snape that we didn't…"

"He always hinted that he had an ironclad reason for trusting Snape," Minerva muttered. She was looking at Hermione more shrewdly now. Hermione could practically feel the gears turning, no doubt remembering how Hermione had held his mind together the summer before. Wondering how Hermione could not have known after such an intimate touch of minds. "I mean… with Snape's history… of course people were bound to wonder…" She was dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tartan-edged handkerchief. "But Dumbledore told me explicitly that Snape's repentance was absolutely genuine… Wouldn't hear a word against him!"

"I'd love to know what Snape told him to convince him," Tonk said.

"I know," Harry said. Everybody looked at him. "Snape passed Voldemort the information that made Voldemort hunt down my mum and dad. Then Snape told Dumbledore he hadn't realized what he was doing, he was really sorry he'd done it, sorry that they were dead."

There was complete silence. Everybody stared at Harry.

"And Dumbledore believed that?" Lupin asked incredulously. "Dumbledore believed Snape was sorry James was dead? Snape hated James…"

"And he didn't think my mother was worth a damn, either," Harry said, "because she was Muggle-born… 'Mudblood,' he called her…"

Oh, Harry. If you only knew, Hermione thought.

"Hermione," Minerva said softly, but it was so quiet in the room that everybody heard. Hermione looked up and found her former Head of House looked intently at her. She couldn't decide if the look was pleading for her to contradict what was being said, or if it was an accusation. "Hermione, you've been in his mind…"

There was a stir of confusion, and Hermione felt the tears well up again. She was dizzy. She almost felt faint, but that was ridiculous. She wasn't a swooning damsel. Damn it all to hell.

She pressed her hands to her face, wiped her eyes, and shrugged weakly.

"I know. You're right." She took a shuddering breath. "I should have known. I should have felt it… He was very convincing, though… and Dumbledore was so sure." She pressed her fingers to her eyes and scrubbed again, wishing her vision would clear. Everything was blurry, nothing would quite focus. "I didn't press him, I didn't look… I should have looked!"

She descended into tears again, and it wasn't entirely an act. Once her shoulders began to shake she couldn't stop them.

"This is my fault," Minerva said, twisting her handkerchief between her hands. "My fault. I sent Filius to fetch Snape tonight, I actually sent for him to come help us! If I hadn't alerted Snape to what was going on, he might never have joined forces with the Death Eaters. I don't think he knew they were here before Filius told him, I don't think he knew they were coming."

"It isn't your fault, Minerva," Lupin said firmly. His eyes were still on Hermione, though; suspicious. "We all wanted more help, we were glad to think Snape was on his way…"

Hermione gasped for breath.

Breathe, you fucker. Get yourself under control.

"So when he arrived at the fight, he joined in on the Death Eaters' side?" Harry asked. He, like everybody but Poppy, Ron and Minerva, was looking at her like she'd grown a unicorn's horn out of the middle of her forehead.

"I don't know exactly how it happened," Minerva said. "It's all so confusing… Dumbledore had told us that he would be leaving the school for a few hours and that we were to patrol the corridors just in case... Remus, Bill, and Nyphadora were to join us… and so we patrolled. All seemed quiet. Every secret passageway out of the school was covered. We knew nobody could fly in. There were powerful enchantments on every entrance to the castle. I still don't know how the Death Eaters can possibly have entered…"

"I do," said Harry, and he explained about the Vanishing Cabinet.

They spent the next twenty minutes hashing out just what had happened. The Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder that had filled the corridor when the Death Eaters emerged, stopping Ron and Neville from reacting right away. How they'd run into Lupin and Tonks, who'd already found Ginny in the entrance hall. Luna told them about waiting outside the office, rushing in and tending to Flitwick.

"Hermione was quite quick, actually," Luna said, smiling her usual vacant smile. "She knew just what to do to see what was wrong with him."

Hermione didn't look up to see who was looking at her, how many questions were playing across their faces. Damn the man's secrets. And damn my secrets to. She was beginning to feel light-headed from all the crying.

They detailed how Severus had rushed through the chaos, bringing them hope. They'd felt like they were losing. Bill was down, Neville and Lupin had tried running up the stairs only to be thrown back by the ward. Tonks had been pinned down.

"We just let him pass," Tonks said, hollow. "We thought they were being chased by the Death Eaters—and next thing, the other Death Eaters and Greyback were back and we were fighting again—I thought I heard Snape shout something, but I don't know what—"

"He shouted, 'It's over," said Harry. "He'd done what he'd meant to do."

They all fell silent. Hermione felt waves of exhaustion crashing over her. She wanted to slink down to Severus's room and sleep for as long as they'd let her. She was so cold.

"Oh, Merlin, Hermione!" Minerva said. "Poppy!"

Hermione had listed to one side and almost cracked her head on the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, putting a hand out to prop herself back up. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"No, look at all the blood," Ginny said. Ron looked green.

"What?" Hermione looked around her, but didn't see what they all seemed to be seeing. "I don't see anything."

"On your back, Hermione."

She scowled. The scars on her back were none of their business; they had no right to be horrified by… Oh.

Oh, God.

"Poppy," Minerva said again, and now the two witches had Hermione under the arms, had her on the nearest bed. Hermione tried to help, tried to crawl onto the mattress a bit. She noticed that her nail beds were blue. That was a bad sign.

Minerva sat next to the bed and held her hand while Poppy stripped her of her shirt and bra. The others reacted to her back, and Hermione wondered how much of it was reaction to the scars and how much was reaction to whatever the injury was.

"Hold tight, dear," Poppy said. "We'll have you right in a moment."

"Why didn't you say something?" Minerva asked, squeezing her hand. Hermione's eyebrows drew together. Say something about what? About Severus? About her injury? About the scars from the damn book?

Something hissed, like the first cup of water tossed over a campfire, and Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from shouting. As it was, a whimper escaped her. She hated it.

Her vision was swimming.

"Poppy," she said weakly. "I think I'm going to…"

\\

Hermione came around the next morning. She half remembered a strange conversation during which Fleur Delacour made Hermione cry even though she hadn't been a participant. Something about scars showing a husband's bravery. And she thought she might have heard Tonks propose to Lupin.

Bill and Fleur were asleep in adjacent beds, Fleur turned on her side as though she'd been watching her fiancé when she'd finally succumbed to sleep. It was very sweet. Hermione wanted to cry again, but she was too dehydrated.

I've never cried so much in my life. What the fuck?

But of course, she'd never had a night quite like that.

Her wand was on the table and she cast a few quick Cleansing Charms, feeling better for it. Then she flicked the usual diagnostics up, though the angle was difficult. She didn't seem to be bleeding out anymore, so she figured she would be okay to remove the bandages and have a look.

The flesh over the left side of her rib cage was red and blistered, ugly white pustules popping up between dark patches of red. A bad burn, then, and it had probably been worse last night considering she'd lost enough blood to pass out.

On the table next to her, Hermione found a mostly empty vial of Blood Replenishing Potion, which she finished off, and a squat jar of brilliantly orange Burn Paste. It was cool to the touch and left her side wonderfully numb. She Summoned a fresh patch of gauze and applied a Sticking Charm to the edges to hold it in place, then swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She stood, surprised when every inch of her didn't ache. She felt like she should ache.

Severus. Shit, Severus! He was attacked by a hippogriff. Who will see to his injuries? Who will make sure he doesn't bleed out? Please, Merlin, don't let him be lying on my kitchen table in Edinburgh.

Hermione forced herself under control, calling up her Occlumency after a few false starts. She had things to do.

Her school uniform was a wreck, so she'd be sticking with the hospital-issue pajamas. They were loose enough not to bother her side, anyway. Hermione transfigured the sheet into a loose robe, darkish gray and plain. She didn't have any shoes, probably because Poppy was trying to keep her from leaving; she just left barefoot.

First she had to check on Harry. If he was alright, next on the list was Severus. She had to get out of the school and find her husband. Half the point of going back was so that she would be able to help Severus when nobody else would, so that she would have the Occlumency skill to keep his secret even if the worst should happen.

The halls were empty. The air was dusty. The Fat Lady let her in without the password.

The common room was full of sleeping students. Friends curled up together, first years tucked in by the fireplace. Neither Harry nor Ron were there, so Hermione ascended the boys' staircase.

The boys were awake, sitting together on Harry's bed and chatting quietly. They went silent when they saw her. They looked older than she'd ever seen them, despite the bedhead.

"I'm leaving the school for a few days," she said. They were the only ones in the room, so she didn't bother to whisper.

"What? Why?" Harry asked. He'd slept in yesterday's clothes, and the sheets were grimy and smelled of salt water.

"I need to check on a few things."

"For the Order?" Ron asked, almost frowning.

"Yes," she lied. Harry looked between them, eyes narrow. "Ron, will you, er, fill Harry in?"

Ron glanced at Harry. Harry regarded them both suspiciously.

"Can we come with you?" Ron asked, ignoring the look from Harry.

"Minerva would kill me," Hermione said, almost laughing. She flicked her fingers at them, casting her usual diagnostics. They were fine. She breathed a little easier. "Send me a Patronus and I'll be here as quickly as I can. Otherwise expect me the day after tomorrow."

"Hermione—"

"—Harry," she interrupted, holding off a hand to stay off whatever it was he was going to say, but he interrupted her right back.

"—No, listen. It wasn't real."

"What?"

"The Horcrux, the one we went to get." Hermione could see it there, raw in his mind. Dumbledore had drunk a potion, a poison. He'd weakened himself and they'd retrieved a locket. But when Harry had opened it up, there had been a note inside. It was a fake.

R.A.B.

"We'll find it, then," she said, sounding much more confident than she felt. She thought she might throw up. "We'll find it, Harry. Rest now. Send me a Patronus if you need me."

She turned and left before they could ask her anything else. She heard Harry begin grilling Ron for information before she'd even made the steps.

In the girls' dorm, Parvati Patil's bed was empty. Lavender's curtains were open and she was sprawled across her bed sound asleep, tear tracks down her cheeks.

Hermione packed her things with a few flicks of her wand. She wouldn't need any of her school robes or toiletries, so she left them. She took her satchel, filled it with her books and other supplies, and dressed quickly. Jeans tucked into her dragonhide boots, a loose green t-shirt, her dark brown robe with the deep hood.

The halls were still empty when she left. Hagrid's hut was steaming slightly in the cool morning air. She tried not to think about it. She just hurried down the path, then Apparated.

The first place she went was Grimmauld Place. It was a mess; somebody had swept through it quickly, removing traces of the Order. Hermione tidied a bit with her wand, but couldn't bring herself to care much. Severus hadn't come here.

She Apparated to her flat in Edinburgh next. If Severus hadn't gone to Grimmauld, the next logical place was her flat. With Dumbledore dead, he was the only one who knew about it.

She turned the key in the lock and found the place dark. She felt heavy. It wasn't just exhaustion; it was the weight of everything. There was so much to do, but none of it could be done immediately. People needed time to wrap their heads around Dumbledore's death. She couldn't whisk Harry away now. They had to see how things played out…

Hermione had a lot of information that the Order couldn't know, but it was information that needed to be taken into account when they made decisions. She'd have to be sure to be at the meetings. That wouldn't be easy after Dumbledore had kept her so deliberately separate, tucking her into the "student" box that would keep her at the school.

The sound of a key in the lock had her taking a position inside the arch to the kitchen, wand drawn. She'd put the lights out, and her other hand was gently gripping her knife.

Severus entered. He looked absolutely awful. His eyes were empty and he had the beginnings of a beard sprouting along his jaw.

Hermione put the knife back in the holster sheath, tucked her wand away and emerged from the kitchen. Severus took two steps in, holding himself stiffly, as though if he didn't maintain perfect posture he would collapse. His eyes were haunted.

"Severus," she said when the door clicked shut behind him.

He looked up at her, then collapsed to his knees at her feet. His torso curled forward. He was crying. He'd fallen to the floor, and his hands were pressed to his face. He seemed to be trying to push the emotion back in, but of course it didn't work.

"Severus," she murmured, going to her knees in front of him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. It was an awkward angle, but there was nothing else to be done. She could feel the grief and pain coming off him in sharp waves, battering her, bringing her own sadness to the forefront again. He was helpless in his grief, completely at a loss.

It was a long time before they both stopped crying. She'd run dry before he had. When it ended they were sitting together against the wall. She had her arms wrapped around one of his, her head leaning against his shoulder. He just sat there, his head tilted back against the wall, every muscle in his body clenched with tension.

"I hated him," Hermione said into the silence after a long time. "By the end of it, I didn't like him at all."

"I know," Severus said. His tone was as flat and quiet as hers. "Me too."

She tucked herself in closer to him.

"I'm still sorry to have done it," he whispered. "He asked me to do it… but I wish I hadn't."

Hermione wished she could take it from him and put it away in the Unbreakable jar in the felt bandolier, stash it next to Minerva's memory of the night she'd signed their marriage license. That wasn't possible, though. It was a foolish thing to think.

"Are you alright? Physically, I mean," she added when he gave her an empty look. His Occlumency shields, back in place after the first outpouring of grief, were beginning to fray and slip, and she could feel his emotions coming through them like zaps of electricity against her skin. He was so terribly unhappy. Guilt and sadness and fury all bubbling into one, rising like a tidal wave to choke him. She traced the lines of his face with her fingers, shuddering with her own emotions when he leaned into her touch. She cupped his cheek and pulled him down for a kiss, then wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug—there were no words for this. She could only hold him and hope that he understood and that it was enough.

"Narcisssa saw to the scratches," he said, pulling back from her and unbuttoning the cuffs of his frock coat (his teaching robes had vanished at some point) so that she could see. "Not as good as you would have done, but I didn't bleed out."

There were new scars on his forearms, wide pinkish marks where huge talons had rent his flesh. She shuddered, tracing the lines with her fingertips. He was right, she could have healed them without a trace. It was almost better to have them, though; to have evidence, a reminder.

Not that either of them could ever forget.

They sat curled up together in the hall for awhile. At some point, one of them had Summoned a bottle of Ogden's and they passed the time passing the bottle between them in silence.

"I don't think the Order will reform properly. We're fractured now. Not just you off separate, but Dumbledore kept so many things secret from everybody. Harry has his secret task. I have you as my secret. Minerva has instructions, and so do Kingsley and Tonks. I don't know if we'll be able to function properly."

"The Order will have to function properly," Severus said darkly, taking a long drink from the bottle and grimacing. It was mostly empty now. "The Dark Lord will move on the Ministry, and he will be successful. The Order will try to stop him, but without Dumbledore…" He derailed a moment there, only continuing after he'd had a bracing sip from the bottle. "And with the Ministry in his pocket and the Board of Governors under control, I will be made headmaster, as planned. I think he's going to send the Carrows to teach." He shuddered.

Hermione caught a snatch of his memory from the previous night. Voldemort, his snake-like features contorted in an awful facsimile of happiness, had laughed and laughed. The laugh would haunt Severus's nightmares and now hers.

"I really did like teaching," Severus said, maudlin now. She Summoned the bottle of white wine from the counter, opening it for herself while he worked on the Ogden's. "I had to bluster a lot teaching Potions to get the brats to take it all seriously. Potions accidents were the leading cause of student death at wizarding schools for millennia, you know. It wasn't just for keeping up appearances."

She squeezed his elbow, switching bottles with him.

"I genuinely liked teaching." He sounded like he was trying on the statement for size, and looked like it agreed with him. "The students could be annoying, but in the end it was almost always worth it."

They were quiet for awhile. Hermione switched bottles with him again and drained most of the wine. She couldn't particularly taste it.

"I'm going to be torturing them," Severus said quietly. "The students. Literally torturing them."

Hermione pressed closer, situating herself under his arm so that she could wrap one of her arms around his back.

"He rewarded me, you know," Severus said after a long time. "Usually, it's sex. He gives us various women—I give them that Liquid Quickie." She smiled, pressing her face into his coat. He'd told her about the system of punishment and reward before; she'd seen his memories of standing over writhing women trying not to look as revolted as he felt. "This time, he taught me to fly."

They were both quiet for a moment. Hermione sipped her wine and noticed that his bottle was empty in his hand, so she gave him hers and Banished the empty one to the bin. He took a deep pull, making his eyes water.

"I don't like flying," she said, and he laughed.

"I'd heard that," he said. "The one thing you can't do."

"Oh, I can do it," she said defensively. "I just hate it."

"I always loved it," he said, having another drink. His voice was rough from it. "You get away from everything. Just you and the broomstick, up there with the sky."

"Exactly. Just a broomstick!" She shuddered, pressing closer. She wanted to lighten the mood, to steer the conversation to anything else. She wanted to move from the hard floor to the couch or the bed or anywhere else. She wanted to hang onto him and feel him hanging onto her. The memory of his last bruising kiss, when they'd parted and they had both wondered if they'd die before they saw each other again, was pressing on her mind. "Though, to be honest, I've ridden a hippogriff and a thestral, and I didn't cope any better with either of those. I think I might have a problem with heights."

"Or it's a control thing," he observed mildly. She elbowed him in the ribs, and they both laughed.

"We're out," she said maybe a half an hour later. They'd sat in silence, passing the bottle back and forth slowly, lost in their own thoughts. She was even closer to him now. They had their legs spread out across the hall, touching from the hip down. And she was leaning into him, and his arm was still around her.

"But I'm not even drunk yet," he said, looking at the bottle she held up between them. It wasn't a small bottle, and hadn't they been drinking white wine? This was vodka.

"Me neither." She sighed, setting the bottle aside and rolling it away from them along the floor. She felt pleasantly loose, but she hadn't lost any of the sharp edges in her brain. And that had been the whole purpose of the drinking.

She contemplated Summoning another bottle from the kitchen, but she couldn't remember what she had in there. And her ass had gone numb from sitting on the floor; she wanted to get up.

Severus was playing with her hair, twisting his fingers around the curls, separating one out, stroking it with his thumb.

"Kiss me," she said at last, turning her face up to his. He blinked at her, then complied. He used the hand that was already in her hair to guide her face, the arm that was wrapped around her shoulders pulling her around so that she straddled his lap.

His lips were soft and slightly chapped. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he teased her lips apart with his tongue. She sighed. Tongues danced, hands began to wander.

They broke apart, gasping for breath, and it could have been merely seconds or many hours later. Her thighs pressed into his, her sex right on top of his. He was hard beneath her. So hard. She dropped her head to his shoulder, trying to find her equilibrium and failing.

"Bedroom?" she suggested.

Then they were kissing again, and trying to get up. For some reason it was difficult to do both.

They stumbled to the bedroom, and he picked her up around her waist, pulling her down onto the bed. They rolled around for a minute, tugging at clothes and flinging them off the bed until he wound up on top of her. He pressed her down into the mattress. She spread her legs, knees rising on either side of his hips. He trapped her hands in his, raising them to the level of her head. She pressed up, pressed her breasts to his chest, aching for contact. He twitched and his lips left hers for a moment to trail down over her breasts, rubbing the prickle of his beard across her nipples. She moaned, trying to press up into him, encouraging him to suck, but she couldn't get the angle.

She felt his teeth at her breast; he was smiling. Teasing. Her hips jerked against him, and she squeezed his hands.

"Be still, Wife," he said, lips now brushing her neck, the underside of her chin, her lips again. She kissed him for all she was worth.

"No more teasing," she insisted, arching up into him, aching for him.

He broke away a moment later, a hand reaching down to line himself up. She moved her hips to meet him, her freed hand finding a hold somewhere near his ribs, trying to pull him to her faster. He resisted, settling in slowly, his dark eyes finding and holding hers. She took one long breath in, filling her lungs as he filled her and sighed when he was in, stretching her.

He began to move slowly, rocking his hips against hers. They took it surprisingly slowly. There was no urgency, no desperate thrusting together, nails digging into skin. He was gentle, tender. He kissed her, and she felt herself melting.

She lifted her knees to change the angle, squeezing him with her inner muscles. He flexed, shaking, beginning to move faster, push harder, slide deeper. They were breathing raggedly, gasping in time with their movements.

He let go of her hand and crashed down into her, no longer gentle. Their chests pressed together, her legs wrapped around his waist. Skin on skin everywhere. He propped himself on his elbows beside her head and kissed her, tongue and cock probing in syncopated rhythm. He rolled his hips, and began to hit that certain spot within her, driving her closer and closer to oblivion.

She moaned his name as she came. He gave one last grunt, which turned into a long, pleased groan as he exploded inside her.

They lay together after, him pinning her to the bed with his body. She didn't care in the least. He was warm and real, anchoring her to the moment. He smelled like potions ingredients, Ogden's, and sex. His skin was sticky with sweat, as was hers.

"The beast with two backs," she said, laughing. He was still inside her, limp now. Her legs were around his hips, beginning to cramp, but she held him there anyway. He hadn't moved his elbows. His face was buried somewhere in her hair, and she could hear him laugh, too. Then he kissed her, and she melted all over again.

She felt oddly empty when he pulled out, rolling off her to lie on his back beside her.

\\

Hermione woke a few hours later, judging by the brightness of the room. She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Admonishments from her Healer training in France returned to her, lectures on the bad combination of Blood Replenishing Potion and alcohol. She had possibly the worst hangover in her life, and she hadn't even got to be properly drunk first.

Wandlessly, nonverbally, Hermione Summoned two vials of her favorite hangover relief concoction, closing her eyes when the spell made her head throb.

"Here," she mumbled to him, taking the opportunity to press her hand to his pectoral to get his attention. His nipple pebbled nicely beneath her fingers.

She closed her eyes and lay back, giving the potion a moment to work. She reflected on Blood Replenishing Potion. It was useful, life-saving even, but it was hell in combination with so many other remedies. Not badly reactive, life-threatening. Just uncomfortable, inconvenient.

When her head didn't feel like it had a crowd pounding on it with sledgehammers anymore and the light filtering through the curtains didn't pierce her eyes like flaming knives, she sat up.

"Oh, that's nice," Severus said beside her. He sat up, too, the empty vial closed in his fist.

She smirked at him. He looked like a wreck, but more of a hungover wreck than the emotionally overwrought wreck from last night. His stubble had filled in and could almost be called a proper beard. A short, somewhat tufty beard, but a beard nonetheless. His hair was sticking up in every which way. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he was too pale. He looked amazing; he looked groggy and shagged out.

She didn't even want to think about what she probably looked like.

"Good morning," she said, smiling up at him and stretching. The stretch brought her closer to him, and her thigh might have not-accidentally brushed his half erect cock. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"It's mid-afternoon."

"Good afternoon, then," she returned. He smirked at her almost fondly. It made her heart beat faster.

He bent down and gently captured her lips with his. The man could seriously kiss. He was all sliding lips and gentle, probing tongue. He put a hand around the base of her head at the top of her neck, long fingers tickling along her scalp as he did, and directed her head this way and that.

The moment was finally broken by her bladder. "I need to pee," she announced, a little angry about it. It was perfect there in bed. Warm and cozy; they were nestled in an impossible tangle of blankets, and she had no idea where the pillows had got to.

His low chuckle followed her to the bedroom door, sending little shoots of pleasure along her nerves.

She checked her burn after she finished in the loo, finding it much less awful than it had been the last time she'd looked at it. The blisters were gone but it was still pink and red, tender. She went to the kitchen and retrieved the Burn Paste from the cupboard, then Severus applied it for her, mouth set in a grim line.

"Who cursed you?" he asked as he finished, washing the leftover paste off his hands.

"I don't know. I didn't even realize I was hurt until I fell over."

He scowled darkly and made her sit at the kitchen table while he made them tea and toast for breakfast-cum-lunch.

She left after an hour of drawn-out conversation broken up by lovely kisses. She didn't want to leave, and he didn't want her to go. But she had a lot of explaining to do for the Order, and they would be expecting her at the meeting that would surely take place over dinner.

For his part, Severus had been instructed to lay low, relax. He'd retrieved the things he wanted from his home at Spinner's End and suggested she burn it down as a token of solidarity with the Order. And also so that Voldemort didn't make the hated place any worse in his memory than it already was.

"Do you want to come with me?"

"To watch the house burn? Of course I do," he said, kissing her good-bye again. "But there might be witnesses. I can't be seen."

"I know. You're right."

She did up the buttons on her robe—the brown one with the good hood; it buttoned over her torso and fell in pleats to her knees, and the sleeves were close to her arms, buttoned like Severus's frock coat—and pulled up the hood so that her face would be hidden. There might be witnesses, like he said.

"I will be cross with you if you die before I see you again," she told him. She was trying to be light, flirty, but the words hurt to say. He smiled fondly, though, and that made it worth it.

He'd kissed her again, hands stroking down her arms, and she'd left.

She checked the houses and flats she'd used while she was Turning, reinforcing the wards and looking for anybody loitering suspiciously. She considered telling the Order about the houses, but decided it would be better to keep them as a backup plan for safekeeping Harry.

And then she arrived at Spinner's End. It was as awful and dreary as the first time she'd been there. The breeding Dementors didn't help, either; there was cold mist clinging to the roads and buildings like a particularly insubstantial mold.

She didn't go inside; Severus had come and taken what he wanted—books and a few photographs, the important documents he didn't keep with him at Hogwarts. Instead, she took a breath, squared her shoulders, and got to work on the wards. She was familiar with his protections, and they'd been keyed to let her in. It didn't take long to bring them down. Looking around once—the neighborhood was deserted—she cast the Fiendfyre.

It spewed away from her, burning away the mist, heating the air. It made her hair fly back, crackling dryly. Her side, where she'd been burned so recently, flared with heat uncomfortably, but she ignored it.

The Fiendfyre careened into the front door, sending it splintering. The splinters had burned up before they hit the ground. The fire spread from the inside out, then. There were wicked shapes in the flames, but she couldn't quite pin them down, identify the forms. Little flame demons, maybe, climbing the walls and rolling themselves up in the dusty curtains.

The roof caved in, and she heard the first siren. She had maybe five minutes, then another five before the Aurors and Obliviators arrived. She would be gone in three.

The house was a fireball. The air smelled of burning wood and wire, melting plastic and rubber, hot brick. When she couldn't see the bones of the house through the flames anymore, she began subduing the fire. That was the hardest part. The Fiendfyre took on a life of its own, racing on, eating through everything in its path.

She was sweating when the Fiendfyre finally winked out. The house was a smudge of ash between its neighbors. The Aurors would arrive and see that the fire was too destructive, too precise to have been natural. There would be an investigation—maybe more of one than there had been before, considering Dumbledore was dead and Voldemort was taking over the Ministry—but they wouldn't find anything. There was nothing to find because there was nothing left.

Hermione Apparated to Grimmauld Place, but it was empty. There was a note on the front door directing her to the Burrow, and she turned again and Apparated to Ottery St. Catchpole. The wards had been set wide around the Burrow, and she could see many humanoid shapes moving around inside the house as she made her way across the field to it.

Moody accosted her the moment she stepped through the door. He slammed her to the wall with his forearm, wand in her face. She went rigid, not reacting. She clenched her fists at her sides.

"Samantha Barnes," he growled. "Always awfully cozy with Snape, weren't you?"

She opened her mouth to respond, but he jammed his wand tip into her cheek. She closed her mouth and tried not to glare.

"And look at you now." He scoffed. "Some dragon. You should've killed him. Instead, you flirted with the traitor."

"He played us," she said. She would not hex him. She wouldn't.

"Yes, played." Moody sneered. "Did you open your legs for him? Let him play you?"

"Alastor!" Minerva cried from the other end of the hallway.

Hermione opened her hand at the last moment so that she slapped him instead of punched him. His magic eye rolled in its socket. She would've popped it if she'd hit him with a closed fist. (Or at least she hoped she would've popped it; that would've been gratifying.)

While the former Auror reeled from the physical strike—wizards never expected an attack from hands or feet, even when they were constantly vigilant for an oncoming hex—she kneed him in the groin and relieved him of his wand. She stood over him while he tried to recover, pointing his wand at his face.

"Do not speak to me," she ordered, voice low and flat. She dropped his wand next to him and walked away. Familiar faces poked around the doorway at the other end of the hall, trying to get a view around Minerva.

Minerva's eyes widened, and Hermione spun. She just had time to cast a wandless shield, holding her hand out as if to physically ward the spell off. The red light of a Stupefy absorbed into the shield with a metallic clang.

Minerva pushed around her, wand in hand, shouting at Moody. Hermione stood where she was, hands at her sides again. She felt empty. She focused on her Occlumency for something to do, strengthening her shields; she wouldn't let him rile her again.

When the shouting died down, Hermione turned and walked into the kitchen. Most of them were pretending not to have heard the altercation, which almost made her smile. Or it would have made her smile if she had left herself feel anything.

"Nobody thinks—what he said," Tonks said, her tone aiming for reassuring but falling horribly short.

"It's just that you always sat down at the far end of the room by him, is all," one of the twins said.

"And he'd talk to you. Without even needing a direct question to pry it out of him," the other twin said.

Hermione nodded. "I was his Healer," she explained, because she'd have to explain it eventually or they wouldn't trust her even after they knew she wasn't Sam Barnes. "I was supposed to watch him. Not just to keep him whole so he could keep…" She cleared her throat. "I should have noticed. I should have known."

Damn all these secrets to hell. Fuck you, Dumbledore. You asshole.

"Somebody should go watch his house," Mr. Weasley suggested. They had all taken seats in the sitting room. Hermione chose an armchair close to Minerva because she really needed an ally.

"Don't bother," Hermione said, surprised at the despondency in her own voice, the flatness of it.

"What?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Why not?" Minerva asked at the same time.

"I went there this morning. He wasn't there." She looked at Moody, sulking by the empty fireplace. "I burned it down, like a good little dragon."

"Oh," said Mr. Weasley.

"Well," said Minerva.

The next hour was awful. When it came out that Sam Barnes didn't actually exist, that she'd been Turning through time and Minerva and Snape had been the only ones to know, all hell broke loose all over again.

Moody shouted about lies. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked devastated. Lupin was shocked.

"Dumbledore instructed me to stay at Hogwarts. To keep Harry safe."

"So that's why you're here, then," Moody said nastily. She turned a cold look on him and was gratified that he quickly looked away, going quiet.

"I don't think he should go back to his aunt's house," she told Minerva. "The Death Eaters will have a general idea of where he is. Snape knew. It will be a nightmare trying to get him out again. We should bring him to a safe house."

\\

It was late into the night when they returned to Hogwarts. Nothing had been decided. Everybody was too emotional following Dumbledore's death. It had only been a day. They were afraid, and they were acting like it. Moody's lashing out at her was just the most obvious manifestation of it.

Hermione followed Minerva to her office, and they sat together in silence for a long time.

"I thought we were friends," Minerva said at last. Hermione looked up, thinking for a moment that Minerva was questioning Hermione's friendship, but the Transfigurations Mistress had an introspective look on her face. She was talking about Severus. "I knew there was darkness in him. I knew that there were things in his past that I didn't know about. But I never thought…"

Hermione kept quiet. She couldn't speak about this, not to Minerva. Instead, she grabbed the other woman's hand and held on. Minerva squeezed her fingers back.

"What happens here now?" Hermione asked at last. "What happens to the school?"

"We've stopped all the lessons, postponed the exams," Minerva said, grabbing the topic with both hands and hanging on. "Students will take O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry in August, the rest we'll sort out next year.

"Parents have already been in collecting their children. The Patils left almost as soon as the fighting stopped. Seamus Finnegan had a row with his mother in the Great Hall over breakfast; he'll be staying for the funeral, and she's not happy about it."

Hermione wondered what her own parents would think. She knew they'd started getting the Daily Prophet after New Years. They'd never said, but it came across in the tone of their letters, the things they were careful not to say.

"Is there anything I can do to make things easier for you?" Hermione asked. She felt useless. Adrift.

"Just keep Potter out of trouble," Minerva said, smiling even though she sounded exhausted. "We have quite enough going on without his deciding to go off and track down Snape himself."

Hermione laughed aloud at that. The very idea of it.

The laughter died quickly.

A/N: The original draft of the first half of this chapter was much more maudlin—there was a dawn-out conversation about sin and vice (the murdering the pair of them have done, and the drinking), but it didn't really move things forward. So instead, they handle their grief by getting roaring drunk and fucking. Sorry?

In other news, I'm back home now and the vacation was excellent. I got an idea while I was on vacation, and it stuck in my head so I ended up rewriting about a third of this story (hence the delay in posting). You can expect this to be back to the two-a-week schedule until further notice.

Cheers!

—M