Chapter 5: Rogandum

The moment Severus reached the ground floor, he stopped and let out a sigh. Immediately, he brought his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, where he applied increasingly firm pressure until–whether by placebo or not–the headache that had built up all evening began to dissipate.

Headaches were not uncommon to come upon at Hogwarts, where teaching miscreants tried his patience on a regular basis. But they had increased ever since the resumption of his Summonses, where his Occlumency shields were tested in ways they hadn't been in more than a decade. The strain meant that once he was in a space he considered relatively safe, he let the barriers lower somewhat, like piercing a small hole in a balloon to let out the pressure before it popped.

It's the only explanation, he thought, recounting the last three instances of being in Hermione Granger's presence. It was the only way he could answer while wounded without snarling, allow her to take liberties in commenting upon his appearance, and sketch this so far from elaborate plan. That and the broken rib.

His headache had reached an all time high when Granger's parents accepted his asinine Dumbledore-like socializing and began congratulating their daughter on a job well done. He couldn't decide which annoyed him more: the fact that even with cheerleading parents such as those, Granger still sought the approval of every adult in a three kilometer radius, or the fact that–a very long time ago–he had wanted his own parents, just once, to be proud of him for the tiniest accomplishment. And here the Granger girl was with parents falling all over themselves to shower her with praise for something that wasn't even real.

"Ah, Severus. Late as well?"

Severus opened his eyes, a snarl already on his face.

"Small talk, Lupin? Really?"

Remus Lupin stood on the landing, tattered robes and five o'clock shadow making him look as scruffy as ever. The full moon a few days ago had done nothing to improve his appearance. In fact, it had given him a nick on the left earlobe which still wasn't quite healed. The man opened his mouth to reply, but Severus had already turned around and swept down the hallway. He heard a huff of breath behind him, but ignored it. It was one thing to be sent on errands to collect students. It was quite another to stand around chatting with bullying bystander werewolves.

Why are you feeling bad for Granger? he asked himself. At least she has parents she gets on with. He immediately pushed the thought out of his mind. I am not going to start acting jealous of Granger.

He slipped down a narrow staircase to the basement and made for the kitchen at the end of the hall. Voices were already murmuring behind the closed door, but he proceeded without pause into the room.

"Ah, Severus," Albus said, and he had to repress a shudder at the echoed salutation. "Finally here. Is Miss Granger all settled, then?"

"Granger?" a voice called, and Severus turned automatically to see his least favorite living Marauder seated at the far side of the table. "As in Hermione Granger?"

Black tossed his shaggy head as he looked back and forth between him and Dumbledore in a way so reminiscent of James Potter that he tasted bile at the back of his throat. Severus turned back to Dumbledore and said a short "Yes." Instead of taking a seat, he stalked over to the fireplace. Despite the heat, he'd rather look into the flames than the face of that mongrel. Unfortunately, the fire couldn't also block out sound.

"What's Snivellus doing collecting Hermione Granger two weeks early?" Sirius asked.

"Severus has done so on my orders," Dumbledore began.

"Oh, I'm sure he has. Always did take a special interest in Gryffindor mu–"

Several things happened in quick succession.

Severus whirled around, wand drawn and pointed at Sirius's heart. Gasps issued from those clustered around the table. Molly Weasley clapped her hand over her mouth. Arthur Weasley sat beside her, looking tense. Tonks had half risen out of her seat, knocking her teacup to the floor with a shatter, but Kingsley had placed a hand on her elbow. Moody pinned him with both his regular eye and the off-putting globular one. None of them, he noticed, were shooting daggers at Sirius. No, all eyes were on him.

Typical.

"Finish it," Severus demanded, coldly.

Sirius glared up at him defiantly. "I wasn't going to–"

"Of course you weren't," Severus said, intentionally letting out a light snort and stowing his wand back into his pocket in a show of standing down even while his blood boiled. "I forgot. I am in the noble and most ancient house of Black."

"I'd never–" Black began.

"Then I'll thank you to keep your opinions…" Severus allowed his eyes to drift down to the table where Sirius's hands were clenched into fists. "And your paws to yourself."

Sirius recoiled as if hit. "You bas–"

"Leave it alone, Sirius," Remus said calmly, sitting down between the dog and the metamorphmagus.

Severus blinked. He must have slipped in during their spat unnoticed. He shouldn't be unnoticed. Not by me. Still, Severus turned around and faced the flames again. Chairs creaked as everyone settled themselves carefully back into their seats.

"Thank you, Minerva," he heard Tonks murmur, and a clink of china told him her cup had been repaired.

"Now then," Dumbledore said, as if nothing had happened. "Hagrid has already embarked upon his journey and Dedalus is on duty, so this should be everyone. Kingsley, do proceed."

While Kingsley reported on movements within the Auror office, Severus scraped his thumbnail slowly back and forth over the ledge of the mantle. He was aware already of the guard in the Department of Mysteries, and he couldn't help but feel a singular gratitude toward his double agent work. It alone was to thank for his not being put on guard rotation over the Summer by either side. The Dark Lord had expressed his frustration, both verbally and magically, at Severus's lack of use in the task of accessing the prophecy, as if Severus's role in relaying what he overheard so many years ago was completely forgotten.

Then again, perhaps it was. Severus wasn't quite sure how stable Voldemort's mind was after a decade of disconnection from a body. He flexed the muscles of his right forearm and felt a tender strain, the remnants of the broken arm he'd received at the last meeting.

The flames softened at the edges as his vision blurred. With one heavy blink, he realized that between ingredient inventory, summonings, and apparating back and forth between Hogwarts, Manchester, and London, he'd been up for thirty-six hours.

"That brings us to plans for Harry's removal from his aunt and uncle's," Dumbledore was saying, and Severus clued back in. "Certainly after his birthday, but no later than mid-August."

"I'd like to volunteer for the mission, Albus," Lupin spoke up at once. Then he added in a smaller voice, "Provided I'm well."

"Alastor?" Dumbledore inquired, looking to the end of the table positioned closest to the corner of the room.

Mad Eye nodded with a grunt.

"Me too!" Black added.

"Color us surprised," Severus muttered under his breath, daring a glance to the table.

"Sirius…" Dumbledore said, a low warning in his tone.

"I'm his godfather," he insisted. "It's my duty to make sure he's safe."

"You're a wanted fugitive, Sirius!" Minerva's voice rang out, tinged more than usual with her Scottish accent as she pinned the animagus with a look of exasperation. "It's your duty not to get yourself locked up again before the boy even gets here."

"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said shortly. Sirius slouched back in his chair and scowled, arms crossed over his chest. The corner of Severus's mouth closest to the fireplace curved upwards. "Other volunteers?"

Half an hour later, a team and rough plan were put together. Kingsley passed around a new guard rotation. Sirius watched the pieces of parchment hungrily as they skipped over him. Severus caught his eye after Sirius stopped tracing their progress. He smirked long enough to watch a scowl etch itself onto Black's face before making for the door. He was less than a foot from it when Minerva seized his elbow.

"Severus, good to see you," she said.

Severus raised an eyebrow at her as she steered him out into the hall.

"That's the first time anyone's ever said so," he said, then narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"

Minerva fixed him with an expression that was simultaneously innocent and calculating. "I have to want something in order to salute you? My, aren't we paranoid."

"It saves lives to be paranoid," Severus muttered as they ascended the staircase.

"Sound like Alastor, you do," Minerva said, pinching the corners of her mouth together as if to suppress a smile.

"You take that back," Severus growled, but it was without heat. "The day I jump about on a wooden leg sniffing milk bottles for poison with half a nose, I personally give you permission to Avada me."

Minerva jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then turned to him as they reached the door.

"What was Albus doing having you escort Miss Granger to headquarters?" she whispered.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Severus hissed, crossing his arms over his chest and eyeing the heavy curtains drawn around Walburga Black's portrait.

"Oh, I certainly shall." The accent reemerged. "While I'm pleased she's with us and safe, I shudder to think what her poor parents must be feeling. I doubt this is what they bargained for: sending their daughter off to school and still only seeing her half the time on breaks." She frowned. "I do suppose, though, that it is for her own good."

Severus said nothing.

"Well," Minerva said, focusing again on Severus and giving him a thin smile. "See you."

She placed a hand on his shoulder before slipping out the front door. Severus eyed the stairs leading up to the first floor.

When did their lives get so tangled, he wondered.

For the greater good…

Whatever Hermione had expected from moving into the secret headquarters of an underground resistance operation, this certainly wasn't it. She gave the candelabra she had been polishing a final look and then, satisfied, added it to the far end of the dining room table.

Upon the night of her arrival, she had slipped away upstairs, following the sound of cheers and boos, to find Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George engaged in a game of Exploding Snap. The four of them had looked up at her as the door had opened and emitted everything from squawks to squeals.

"'Mione!" Ron had exclaimed, gaping up at her with singed eyebrows and soot on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," Hermione had said, putting one hand on the doorframe. "I'll just go then, shall I?"

"No, no!" Ron had protested, while the twins had rounded on him with "You git!" and "Tactless!" and "Can't believe I'm related to you."

It wasn't until Hermione turned back to the group with a smirk on her face that they realized she was joking. Ginny had jumped up to grab her arm and pull her into the circle, and they had answered every question they could about the house and their Summers. They'd told her about the meetings, too, which no one had been allowed to attend.

"You're not in the Order!" Ginny's impression of her mother was so spot on that Hermione laughed despite being sure she didn't want to be anywhere in the vicinity if Molly Weasley ever saw it. "But that's okay, really, because look what Fred and George have made."

"I don't know about this," Hermione had found herself saying, examining the fleshy string in her palm.

By the time they'd gone out to hall, the meeting had already started breaking up. Still, they lowered the extendable ears and were pleased to catch a small bit of conversation.

"What was Albus doing having you escort Miss Granger to headquarters?"

The voice of Minerva McGonagall came out through the other end of the extendable ear. Hermione looked up to find all of the Weasleys staring at her. Ron's mouth was slightly open, Fred and George's brows were raised in identical looks of surprise, and Ginny had tilted her head to the side curiously.

"Snape?" Ron hissed. "Snape brought you?"

"Shh," Ginny said, punching him on the shoulder.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Snape sounded surly and uncooperative. Hermione could almost imagine the scowl that must have been on his face. It was weird to picture him so, she thought, after the strange meetings she had had with him earlier that day.

Professor McGonagall had continued.

"–what her poor parents must be feeling. I doubt this is what they bargained for…"

Hermione swallowed hard, noticing dimly that the four siblings all found something else to look at. Ron picked at the banister and Fred examined the string of his extendable ear as if he'd never seen it before. The conversation ended shortly thereafter. Hermione was the last one to pull the string away from her, having listened to the door snap shut after a second set of quiet footsteps.

Why had it been Snape? she wondered a week later, picking up a tea tray and dipping her rag in Madame Glossy's silver polish. And why had she been taken so early? So that she could be brought here to clean with the others? That answer felt uncomfortable in her head, like a puzzle piece that didn't quite snap into its spot as one expected it to.

The other thing that troubled her was trying to write letters to Harry without being able to say much of anything at all.

"He sent me another one last night," Ron muttered, as she and Ginny joined him at the side table where Mrs. Weasley had just set down sandwiches and a flagon of pumpkin juice. Mrs. Weasley had just left the room in search of Fred and George, but she had a habit of popping into rooms unannounced almost as frequently as the twins themselves. Granted, she didn't literally pop like they did.

"Me too," Hermione said sadly, tearing the crusts off of her sandwich in small pieces. "I just don't know what else to tell him. I can tell he's angry. I'd be angry, too. Seeing, well…" She raised her brows significantly at the two of them. "All that… and then being left out of the loop."

"But it's not our fault!" Ron said, draining his cup. "The way he writes, you'd think I was the one making him sit around with the Muggles."

Hermione huffed. "Ron, of course he doesn't think that," she said, trying to be patient. "But just imagine if it were me and Harry off in some secret house not telling you what plotting was being done against your worst enemy while you had to live with your Aunt Muriel."

"I'd go spare." Ron shuddered. "But it's not like we're actually planning any of these things. We're not allowed at the meetings."

"We know that," Hermione said. "But he doesn't."

"Tell him Dumbledore said so," Ginny said suddenly.

"What?"

"If he trusts Dumbledore and it makes him calm down, then you don't have to be stressed," Ginny said. "And…if it doesn't, then he'll have someone else to be angry at," she finished brightly.

"Hey, that might work," Ron said around a bite of sandwich.

"But I don't want him to be angry at anyone," Hermione protested.

"Yeah, well," Ginny said, putting her empty plate back on the table. "You can't really control that, can you?"

The next day, she was standing on a chair in the dining room to reach the dusty, cobweb covered light fixtures when Fred and George apparated into the room. Ginny, who had been in the process of handing Hermione a rag, grabbed Hermione's arm to steady her as she almost jumped off the chair in alarm.

"You idiots," Ginny scolded when Hermione had found her balance again. "You could have hurt her!"

"Sorry," the twins said simultaneously, not looking sorry at all.

"You've been summoned," Fred said to Hermione.

"What?" She blinked, still dangling the immaculate rag in the air.

"To the basement," George added.

"Someone's got detention, someone's got detention," they sang in unison, grabbing each others arms and spinning around in tight circles.

"By who?" Ron asked, bewildered.

"It's 'whom', Ronald," George said, tilting up his nose and adjusting imaginary glasses.

"Oi, don't let mum see you doing that," Ginny said.

"Why not?" Hermione asked, stepping down.

"Tell you later," Ron muttered darkly. He took the rag from Hermione's hand and cast a warning look at George while he climbed onto the chair. Bewildered, Hermione turned to go.

"Good luck," Fred called after her. "Try not to lose any points!"

As she walked down the hall, wiping her hands on her jean-clad thighs, she heard a chorus of "someone's got detention" start up again. A moment later, she heard a shrill, oddly high pitched yell. Hermione had turned around and drawn her wand from her sleeve—she'd discovered a slip knot worked better for her purposes—but then she heard laughter.

"They're only spiders, Ron!" George called.

"Only spiders?" Ron shouted. "Only spiders?"

Hermione shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips, and slipped down the stairs before Mrs. Black could begin yelling.

Poor Ron, she thought, wondering whether he would ever overcome his fear of arachnids.

Distracted, she was walking through the kitchen door and laying eyes upon a shape at the table before she remembered her reason for coming down. Professor Snape sat hunched over the table and staring into a mug of tea. Or at least she hoped it was tea. Her eyes slid to the drinks cabinet on the other side of the fireplace.

"I do not make a habit of drinking in the presence of students."

His voice, roughened as if from yelling, made her jump. He had not looked up from his cup. Instead, he peered at it for a few more moments, then raised his cup and drained it. Finally, he looked at her. Hermione straightened her spine.

"Sir, I've been meaning to ask—"

But he stood so abruptly that she took a step backwards and faltered. He strode toward her and, before she could say anything, was past her, robes whipping around the door as he went.

Hermione stood, blinking in stunned silence. If he was the one who had summoned her, then why was he leaving? A whisper of fabric reached her ears. Snape had returned, long white fingers curled around the doorframe, and a scowl on his face.

"Are you coming or not?"

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the hallway again. Hermione almost tripped as she hastened after him. He led her into the further recesses of the house, past rooms she suspected had once been used for storage, until they were met with a simple dark door. This far back, the house must be expanded by magic. Or maybe we're under the garden.

Snape raised his wand as they entered and pale blue orbs of light popped into the air, revealing a low square room, most of which was taken up by a long table bearing a simmering cauldron. Around the other three walls were counters and shelves. The room may have once been well suited to polishing or mending household objects. Instead of cleaning supplies, however, a row of cauldrons stood along the back counter with vials of all sizes on the shelves above. The shelves on the left bore jars with all manner of potions ingredients inside. Each jar was labeled with the spiky scrawl Hermione had become accustomed to seeing on her essays. The shelves on the right side of the room were bare, save for a handful of vials filled with bright blue potion.

"Sit."

A stool slid itself out from underneath the table. Hermione walked toward it slowly and dutifully sat. Snape approached the table from the other side, plucked something shining and white from a jar, and began crushing it with a mortar and pestle. With little else to do, Hermione watched him. His mouth was set in a thin line which curved down on one side. The tension in his hands she understood, as he ground bits of unicorn horn smaller and smaller, but his elbows and shoulders were stiff, too. His eyes–now that was something. She couldn't tell whether they were focused on the potion ingredient, watching carefully for when it was finally the right consistency, or whether they were hazy and unfocused. Clearly he wanted something from her, but what?

Not for the first time, she cast her mind back to the last evening of term. For days after, she thought the whole episode had been a dream, albeit a strange dream.

"Nightmare, more like," she could imagine Ron saying if she had told him.

But Professor Snape hadn't been nightmarish. Other than the very real pain he must have been in to put himself at the mercy of a student's help, there was nothing that had frightened her that night. Embarrassed her, yes, that was much more the case. Even now, she felt heat rise in her face as she recounted the tears she'd broken down into. But Professor Snape had not been a beast about it. He had given her his handkerchief.

And that was her proof. Proof not only that it wasn't a dream, but that Professor Snape was truly, deep down–perhaps very deep down–a good person.

"We have a proposition for you," Snape said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. He was wiping off the end of the pestle, getting every last speck of powder into the mortar.

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap. "We?"

"The Order," Snape said shortly.

She tilted her head, curious. "What kind of–?"

"Wait."

Snape held up one elegant finger, then tapped the cauldron with it. Immediately, the bubbles breaking the surface slowed. When only a couple of bubbles broke the surface every few seconds, he slowly poured in the powder, stirring as he did so. When all of the powder was incorporated, he slid the stirring rod out of the cauldron. The stirring rod was completely clean.

"How did you–?" Hermione began.

"Trade secret."

Hermione couldn't help the humph of an exhale, which made her bangs flutter. Snape's mouth twitched, and then he pulled out a stool and sat, leaning with his elbows on the table. Under his piercing gaze, she fought the urge to fidget.

"The proposition is this," he finally said. "The Order is offering to provide you training in various fields–do not interrupt," he added when she opened her mouth. He continued. "With the possibility of assisting in…projects…that would be suitable to your skill set."

He paused, looking over her right shoulder. Hermione, uncertain whether this meant it was acceptable to speak now, waited for another moment, then inhaled.

"In return…"

Hermione choked on her aborted words.

"The Order would like…information."

"They…want me to do research?" Hermione asked.

Snape shook his head minutely. Hermione felt like she was in some spy book her father liked to read. She tried to think like a John le Carre character.

"Information on…" Not what, Hermione suddenly realized. "Who?" she asked, a twisting sensation in her stomach. She had a pretty good feeling he was going to say…

"Potter," Snape said, as if it were obvious.

Hermione opened her mouth to object, to say that she would never talk about Harry behind his back, and then she shut it. "What kind of information?" she said instead.

Snape stopped looking over her shoulder and made eye contact with her once more. He lifted his chin slightly as he appraised her.

"Not a great deal that cannot already be easily observed in classes and the corridors," he said lightly, though he seemed to be forcing the words out. "But we'd prefer it if we had one year where we knew ahead of time that he was charging off into danger, not finding out about it hours later, his having reemerged from the bowels of the school or our having chased him down ourselves."

"You want me to spy on him," Hermione said, heat stirring in her stomach. She wasn't like Snape. She couldn't keep her voice free of accusation and incredulity.

"We want him safe," Snape said simply.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, but he only looked back with a clear, unbothered expression. Dumbledore, she believed, did want him safe. The Weasleys, certainly, and McGonagall. Snape wanted him safe. There was proof enough in that: the countercurse he cast during Harry's Quidditch match first year, trying to get not only Harry but the three of them away from Sirius and Lupin in the Shrieking Shack, and Hermione suspected many other times that she'd yet to properly examine.

"Mood swings," Snape had continued. "Anything out of the ordinary, anyway, for a heart-on-his-sleeve Gryffindor."

"Why mood swings?"

"Where there's smoke…" Snape said, raising a brow.

"There's fire," she continued under her breath.

Snape nodded. "Yet, after last year, we can't wait around until the fire shows up. We need to know when the wood is being assembled. You understand?"

It wasn't a perfect analogy, but yes, Hermione understood.

"When you say training…" She noticed that something in Snape's frame seemed to relax. "What would that entail, exactly?"

Snape stared at her, then smirked and raised a hand, waving it with a flourish over the table between them.

"Potions?" Her eyebrows rose.

"Among other things."

"But why? I mean," she hastened to add, when his eyes had narrowed stormily. "I don't understand. How does making potions help the Order?"

Snape stood from his stool and picked up the stirring rod again. "Did I forget to mention?" he asked. "The other part of the deal puts you at a five-question maximum each day."

As he began stirring again, Snape seemed pretty pleased with himself. Hermione, however, was not amused.