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Chapter 20: Separatus

Cold seeped from the dungeon floor up Severus's legs, but he didn't move. He stared into the low flames of the fireplace, but he didn't see. As his body remained numb, senses dulled to the outside world, his mind whirred.

His emotions spun, even with the girl no longer there to confuse him about what truly belonged to him and what was foreign. Anger, palpable as a marble in his mouth, was the easiest to identify. How dare she lay a hand on him, gentle or harsh? How dare she speak to him like that, an insolate child scolding her superior?

Then followed the paranoia and uncertainty, a niggling in the back of his mind which he knew would not let him rest. Weeks ago, he had thought that delving into the girl's mind would reveal the explanation for why they seemed to have a connection in both mind and magic. If anything, however, the tangle of their psyches had gotten worse by his investigation. It was as if opening the door between their minds had let out a flood, like Pandora's box unleashing disease upon the world.

And he was fairly certain that she had done what not even the Dark Lord had been able to do: broken through his Occlumency shields.

A shudder ran up his spine, spreading down his arms to his hands. He pressed his shaking fingers into his thighs, then against his pounding heart, and finally over his eyes. He was like a doctor, prodding parts of the body and asking, "Does this hurt?" Severus choked on a mad laugh.

It wasn't pain he was trying to locate and suppress. It was fear.

Sharp white fear that seemed to glow in his vision even though he covered his eyes. Bone-rattling fear that made him want to cast every diagnostic on himself that he could. Desperate fear that called for him to sever this connection promptly, even if it turned his mind inside out.

One moment he had been viewing her memories, and then his barrier disappeared and he was witnessing his own. Through her mind. It had happened so seamlessly that he didn't immediately understand what he was seeing. He had not lowered his walls. She had not cast a spell.

So how had it happened?

Mere months ago, Granger was like any other student in his classes, albeit an obnoxious swot of one. Now, he realized with a start, between brewing, defense lessons, and Legilimency, she was perhaps the person he spent the most individual time with. Had this connection pushed them together? Did it operate as a vicious feedback loop: the more time they spent together, the stronger the connection became, and the more they sought one another out? Had it just been biding its time, binding them together subtly until something managed to wake him up?

He dropped his hands into his lap. His eyes ran up his wrist, lighting upon the edge of the Dark Mark. He had thought receiving it would be one of the greatest moments in his life. It had taken less than a week to doubt it, and less than a month to regret it. His jaw clenched. And what was this connection if not, as he had told her, another mark upon him? Two masters he could barely survive; a third would kill him.

Because this connection could be nothing other than insidious. What else could have brought about such madness? Because now he could acknowledge it to himself: eyes lingering on skin, hands going where they shouldn't… These desires came naturally with the compulsion of dark magic. These were things he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in for years, and yet he had found himself in the middle of a string of these acts, not realizing when it had begun.

And to make it worse, he scolded himself. It was all for a student.

Revulsion rose up in him like bile and his hands clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. If it had just been him, he could cut the line now that he could see it, like sawing a rotten branch off a tree.

But it wasn't only him. His stomach twisted.

He'd seen what was in her head, could see that she had noticed, too. He had seen and heard her response after feeling the dark magic coursing through the potions text. The knowledge, the exposure, the time…all of it had made her comfortable enough with him to tease him earlier that evening, to confide in him, to trust him. None of that was normal.

And none of it was real.

The thought left him cold and blinking into the dying flames. He watched as they licked at what remained of a log, until the wood splintered and fell into the grate in a heap of ash.

Perhaps, she was ignorant and innocent of any malice here. She was a child, and therefore easily influenced by power she did not understand. Hell, he had been influenced. But he would not remain ignorant. He would understand this connection, master it, sever it as soon as possible.

His mind, his magic, his desires would belong to him, and him alone.

The flames dimmed to glowing embers, and the shadows of his rooms closed in. As he rose to his feet, so did his mental walls. Mechanically, he readied himself for bed: slipping out of his clothes, splashing ice cold water on his face, turning down the covers. When he lay down, he stared at the canopy above him for three seconds, then closed his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he didn't think of Granger at all.

Muscle memory took over, for it could only be years of walking the halls of Hogwarts that enabled Hermione to get from the dungeons to her dorm as images of the last several minutes flashed in her mind. Her heart was pounding hard enough in her chest that she thought it might be visible through her winter layers every time she passed under torchlight.

She didn't cry. Not as she half ran up the stairs to return to Gryffindor Tower by curfew. Not when she flung her wand holster, his Christmas card, and every essay he'd graded this year into the cedar box and then buried the box beneath her oldest jumpers in her trunk. Not when she pulled the covers over her head and lay stiff as a board, listening as her roommates prepared for bed and eventually began to doze.

She knew Severus Snape was powerful. She knew he was clever. And she knew that in all his years of being a double agent, he had probably committed terrible deeds. But she had never seen him so wild, so out of control. Angry in the Shrieking Shack, caustic with his comments in class, yes. But as he'd held her throat in his grip, she didn't know whether he wanted to strangle her or…

Heat flooded her from head to foot.

It isn't like that, she told herself. It was never like that.

Despite what Snape had insinuated. It was only the tension of anger and fear, which held similarities to another kind of tension, that made her think that. She must cast the idea out of her mind. Desire simply wasn't like that.

Think about it logically. Think about Viktor.

Viktor, who looked sullen and uncomfortable at a distance, had been the opposite with her. Their relationship had begun with his quiet questions in the library: requests to be pointed to the right shelves, polite inquiries about her family, curiosity about her studies. His touches–brief, stollen, and largely secret what with his fan following–had been gentle: a hand on her upper back as they leaned over a text, an adjustment of her loosened scarf on snowy walks, a barely-there kiss to her knuckles. When he looked at her, he saw her. He treasured her. For Merlin's sake, she had been the thing he'd miss most and been unconscious in the lake for him.

And what of Snape? His questions began as biting, direct, challenging. He'd only grudgingly offered her his arm for Side-Along when necessary. Of course her training had brought them together, but when had it all changed?

Exploring the connection, she thought. Poking it, prodding it, encouraging it. Whatever its source, it wanted them thrown into each other's orbits, wanted their exchange of magic, wanted…

But she couldn't let herself finish that thought. It was enough that the connection had wrought the damage it already had. Snape was right. It was like his Mark, something powerful and not to be trusted. If it could affect Snape, who was one of the best Occlumens of the age… She gave a little jump under the covers.

It was as powerful as Voldemort himself.

A shudder ran through her body, and resolve solidified in the form of a determined expression on her face. The only thing for it was to snip the thread. Hermione couldn't trust herself–or him–if this connection was at play. It would have to be starved, extinguished, eradicated.

Involuntarily, she flinched and cold sweat slid down her spine. It was as if the connection knew of her plans. Unbidden, memories flooded her mind: brewing in silent companionship, Snape hesitating and then pouring her a drink, burrowing into the blankets he'd tucked her into when she'd exhausted her magic.

"It felt warm," she'd said, comparing his magic to her own. "And bright and safe."

Heat flooded her cheeks as embarrassment overtook her. Embarrassment and anger that, at her attempt to reach out to him, he should scold her, should accuse her of…

"That isn't what I meant," she said under her breath forcefully. As if he could hear her from several floors away. As if willing herself to believe it.

Because the connection had brought about some good, hadn't it? For one, she had been able to tell when he was in danger; surely it was useful for the Order to know when their spy was in trouble? And she had cast excellent magic because of it. Maybe they weren't the only two with such a link. Maybe if other members of the Order had something similar, they could harness a stronger, united power against Voldemort. Whatever had happened between her and Professor Snape, that didn't void the possible good uses.

The more she thought of it, the more resolved she was: she would do what it took to understand this connection. No matter that one Severus Snape was so revolted by…certain unforeseen side effects.

I see no difference.

Almost as soon as the memory rose in her mind, she banished it. A mixture of shame and irritation swirled in her stomach. Sod him and his presumptions. She was a good person, and clever. She would sort it out, with or without his help. And until then, he could keep his outlandish accusations to himself.

Hours later when she finally did fall asleep, only Crookshanks was aware of the single tear that slid down the side of her nose. The cat burrowed closer to his mistress's side and joined her in dreaming.

Snap.

"Fucking hell," Severus grumbled, wandlessly repairing the quill for the second time in fifteen minutes.

"You're supposed to write with it, not strangle it," Minerva said from across the staff room table without looking up from her own marking.

"I can think of something I'd like to strangle," he said under his breath, scribbling a spiky letter P at the top of the essay and letting the scroll roll back on itself.

"I say, Severus," piped a voice.

"Don't worry, Filius," Minerva said placatingly. "Severus is just feeling a bit grumpy. What is it this time?" she asked, turning her sharp face on him. "First years no longer afraid of you? Observations not going well?"

He could envision her eye roll as he scanned the next essay. Mary Carmichael's spelling was only barely better than that of the previous student, Alfred Finch. He grunted, made a note, and tossed this scroll, too, aside.

"Did the Weasley twins add hair removal elixir to your morning tea again?"

"For the love—!" He broke off and slammed his hand upon the table, upsetting his inkwell. As Filius squeaked out a quick charm to right it, he turned a glare on Minerva.

"Do you live to pester me, woman?"

"Only on Thursdays," she replied, smiling faintly at him. It was the first smile he'd seen on her face in a long time. Nonetheless, he scowled and pulled the next essay toward himself.

After last night's fiasco with Granger, he had gotten barely any sleep. That morning he had set the fifth year class to work with a short command and a wave of his wand at the board, where their instructions appeared, and then he had busied himself with the seventh year project proposals on his desk, resolutely ignoring a certain Muggleborn. He was itching for a drink or a nap, but somehow the masochist in him was inclined to run aground on work when he was already irritated. Clearly, subjecting himself to his colleagues was further proof of his masochism.

The sound of scribbling quills and crackling fire once more filled the staff room. However, his peace was to be short-lived.

"What are you doing?" Minerva asked suddenly.

"Are you blind?" he asked, gesturing to the parchment surrounding him.

"I see that you're grading," she said dryly. "But why here? You hardly ever come to the staff room. Even less now that—"

"Don't say her name," Flitwick whispered, and he even pressed his hands to his face to complete the picture of anxiety. "She might appear!"

"She isn't the Dark Lord," Severus muttered.

"Could have fooled me," Minerva said, then added briskly, "But you're avoiding the subject. Why the sudden change?"

"To keep you asking questions, surely," he replied acidly. "Without your interference, I wouldn't know left from right or tie my laces myself or remember to put my pants on in the–Oh…" He feigned realization, sitting back in his armchair. "That's what I forgot!"

Minerva gave him a withering glare.

"You are a child," she said, then turned to Flitwick who was muffling a chuckle behind his hand. "Don't you encourage him!"

"If you didn't want to know," Severus deadpanned, sweeping up his essays and getting to his feet. "Then you shouldn't have asked."

He rubbed the salt of his mockery in Minerva's wound by pronouncing an overly enthusiastic "good evening," to Umbridge who appeared at the door as he left. He gave a courtly bow and shut the door behind himself.

When Hermione woke on Saturday morning, a sealed piece of parchment was resting by her head. A swooping sensation went through her stomach, and she scrambled upright, tearing open the parchment eagerly.

She had been ignored in all of class yesterday, and not once did she volunteer an answer from her seat at the back of the room. Snape had ordered them to get started almost the moment the echoes of the bell had faded, and he had sat at his desk for the rest of class shooting them hasty glances as he scribbled away, a fact she only noticed because she looked up to double check the instructions for step five as he was scanning the room. She'd ducked her head and counted to thirty before rereading the directions again.

So we just aren't going to talk, she'd said to herself bitterly, stirring her potion.

Now, she wondered whether this note could possibly be an apology. I was an arse, it might say. Let's figure out this mental thread together. Or, better yet, Let's go on as if this never existed.

Because she was starting to feel afraid. As they had been heading to lunch yesterday and Harry mentioned Occlumency, she realized that she was picking up on Snape's thoughts and emotions like Harry was picking up on Voldemort's. Were they…possessing each other? How could she possess someone without meaning to? And would Professor Snape really do that to a student?

Uh, yes, she could imagine Ron saying to her. Have you gone barmy?

You don't know who he's always been, a voice said in the back of her head. Once he was a man who wanted the Dark Mark. You don't know everything, Granger. Not this time.

She shook her head to clear it and returned to the missive. The instant her eyes landed on the handwriting, her stomach fell.

Wotcher,

Meet me at lunch. HoH office.

The note wasn't signed, but the greeting was more than sufficient for her to know the sender.

"There's no reason to be disappointed," she scolded herself quietly, getting out of bed and dressing in her normal weekend attire.

She shoved athletic wear into her bag along with her Arithmancy book. The library was usually blissfully empty this early, and there might just be a chance that Theodore Nott hadn't seized her study spot, as he had on her previous three visits. Her hand hesitated on the lid of her trunk and she eyed the pile of Hogwarts jumpers piled somewhat lumpily in the back corner.

"No reason whatsoever," she muttered, shutting the lid with a snap.

Later that morning, she was approaching Professor McGonagall's office when something shimmered by the window and advanced toward her.

"Keep walking," Tonks muttered, and Hermione only barely managed to obey, scuffing her foot against the stone floor as she half stumbled. "I'm told you know a room."

The slight emphasis on the last word was enough to tell her where to go, so Hermione headed for the nearest staircase. They passed several Ravenclaws on their way down to lunch, Hermione clinging to the side of the corridor to decrease the chance that a disillusioned Tonks would run into anyone. They walked in silence the rest of the way, Hermione long having learned that anyone could be just around the corner at Hogwarts. Feeling slightly winded–This is what I get for not training all break, she thought–she reached the tapestry of tutu-attired trolls and paced back and forth. As soon as the door appeared, she ducked in quickly.

"Excellent…" Tonks said, materializing the moment the door shut behind them. "And this has been here all this time?"

"It doesn't always look like this," Hermione said, looking around at the replicated DA room. "It changes appearance based on the seeker's needs."

Tonks turned in a circle, examining everything from the mirrors to the training dummies to the bookshelves. A wide grin spread on her face.

"Wonder if Bill ever found this…" she mused.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. We found out from a house elf."

"A house elf? Really?" Tonks said, still smiling as she looked at her. Her mouth opened in an 'o'. She began to pat her clothes. "That reminds me! I've got something for you."

She pulled a crisp white envelope out of a pocket from an inside pocket of her robes. Shaking her head as she did so, she handed it to Hermione.

"It can wait until after our session. I was also told that the assumption will be yes unless you send out further communication. Feel like an owl," she laughed. Then her expression turned serious. "Now, what do you know about self-defense?"

An hour later found Hermione on the floor winded with what she was sure would be a dozen bruises scattered over her body. Tonks had run her through several different types of attacks, and Hermione had tried to fight off or disable the woman from the front, back, and side. She'd rarely succeeded. At least the Room had the decency to conjure a mat for their practice. Next to her, Tonks took a long drink of water and then smiled.

"You're not too bad, you know," she said.

"I'm terrible," Hermione contradicted.

In one attempt to get out of Tonks's hold, she had hooked her foot around the back of the woman's leg and tried to bring them down, but only succeeded in falling herself and twisting her ankle. They had had to pause their practice so Tonks could heal it. She considered getting up, felt a twinge in her side, and changed her mind. Instead, she settled for turning her head in the pink-haired witch's direction.

"Where did you learn all of this? Is it part of auror training?"

The woman gave a short laugh. "No, but it should be. Rogers wouldn't have a broken leg right now if he realized that a wizard's only weapon needn't be a wand. My dad taught me. Muggleborn," she added when Hermione raised her eyebrows. Then she lowered her voice and said gruffly, "'No daughter of mine is going to go out into the world to fight bad guys without knowing how to defend herself!' Confused the hell out of mum, but it has been valuable."

Hermione finally peeled herself up off the floor and took the glass of water the Room had generated for her. After a long drink, she asked, "How are you so good at this, given–"

She broke off and was thankful that the heat in her face from exercise disguised her slight embarrassment.

"Given what a klutz I am, you mean?" Tonks's hair grew brighter and she smiled. "With self-defense, you have to be really focused on what you're doing. It's like being a Metamorphmagus. When I'm changing my features, I don't really make mistakes, because I'm being so intentional."

"Mind over matter?" Hermione asked, grateful Tonks hadn't taken offense.

"Something like that." The woman nodded. "Listen, I have to head out if I want to be on time to–well, you don't need to know about that…"

She trailed off, and Hermione felt certain she did want to know what work Tonks had to do, but also knew that she couldn't be told anyway. So instead of pressing her, she asked, "When can we meet again?"

"Two weeks?"

Hermione nodded.

"Same time, same place," Tonks said, getting to her feet. She jerked her head to the door. "I'll meet you in the corridor."

As Tonks laid her hand on the door handle, she turned. "Listen," she said, and looked around the room, as if wary that even here someone could overhear them. "Is there any message you want me to pass on to someone…outside?"

Hermione blinked at her, then felt an immediate rush of affection for this woman. Tonks couldn't be much older than herself. Freckles danced across her nose, and her brilliant hair probably made others think her younger than her years. She felt a kind of sisterly tenderness for her, and wondered–when she was Tonks' age–what she would be like. Would she still be able to joke and take being flipped onto her back with good, patient humor, or would the stress of the war overwhelm her? Would the war be over? Or worse, she thought, would it still be going?

She thought quickly of those she could enquire after. Was Mr. Weasley fully recovered? Was anyone else on Order business taking precaution after his and Bode's attack? Was Sirius–whose empty stare at her in the kitchen she dreamed about sometimes–coping? Were her parents still safe? This last question she would have asked Professor Snape about, but seeing as they weren't talking…

But no. Asking questions was all the more likely to draw attention to herself or to people she was worried about. Plus, wasn't no news good news?

"No," she said. "Thank you, Tonks."

"The attacks will be on the rise," Black said, frowning down at the week old paper. It was well-worn, as if he had read it repeatedly and then folded or rolled it and shoved it into a pocket.

"No shit, Sherlock," Severus said to his chair's arm.

The cackle he had heard echo from Bellatrix's mouth around the Malfoys' drawing room yesterday had caused the hair to rise on the back of Severus's neck. It was with a mixture of triumph and reverence that the prisoners were welcomed by the rest of the Dark Lord's followers. The celebration went on into the early hours of the morning, hundred-year-old elf-made wine flowing from the Malfoy cellar like a river, canapes floating around on silver trays, and more than one couple disappearing to the higher floors the drunker they became.

In the middle of it all, the Dark Lord lounged, having given a speech about the greatness of their vision, the necessity of their accomplishments, and the proper unity that could now be instated for wizardkind. Severus wasn't stupid enough to believe that he was the only one who had picked up on the undertone of revenge near the end of the speech before they were all sent off to enjoy themselves properly.

"A foretaste of future pleasures to come…" the Dark Lord had concluded.

Severus blinked and returned his attention to Headquarters. There were so many latecomers that Snape, initially confused at the low numbers upon arrival and out of preference for simplicity, had chosen to sit at the long kitchen table. Fifteen minutes later, he had regretted his choice, as occupancy at the table swelled to capacity. Lupin was on his left, Tonks on his right. He had the disquieting feeling that Tonks was sneaking him looks over the duration of the meeting.

"We need to be ready," Lupin interjected before Sirius could retaliate. "If needed, I can–"

"Thank you, Remus," Dumbledore said, raising a hand. "But you are even more needed among the pack."

Lupin slumped slightly in his seat. He had returned to London for the meeting on the guise of visiting an ill friend, but Severus knew Dumbledore would throw him back into the fray the moment the meeting adjourned. The werewolf's facial hair had grown out substantially, though he had only been living among Fenrir's group for a month. The man's weary eyes stared long and hard at a whirl in the table while the conversation continued before he let out a barely audible breath, took a drink of his cold tea, and looked up at the rest of the members. He watched the meeting dispassionately from his seat. On his right, Severus heard Tonks shift in her chair.

"If anything happens in Diagon Alley, Albus, I'll be ready."

This from Bill Weasley, who was sat almost at the opposite end of the table from Severus. He examined the redhead. Regardless of the silly earring, even he could admit that Bill was skilled in dueling and strategy. Over the years, he had heard professors praise his classwork, and had himself entrusted some tasks to the Head Boy in his final year.

"Absolutely not!"

Typical, Severus thought with a snort, watching Molly Weasley's face turn quickly from pale to pink to a dull red.

"Molly…" Arthur said patiently.

"He's just–"

"Twenty-five years old, mum," Bill said quietly but firmly.

"Still," Molly said, turning to Albus. "You can't expect one man to head off a full blown attack if the Death Eaters are bold enough to attack a place like Diagon Alley!"

"That is why I've suggested making certain capable additions–" Bill began.

Severus's gaze latched onto the Weasley matriarch who huffed out an impatient sigh. His eyes narrowed.

"The Order is not–"

"That's quite enough," Dumbledore interrupted. "Membership in the Order is, of course, always being considered," he said placatingly to Bill. "I invite anyone who has made further connections for the cause to send their candidates to me for screening. Don't forget that even Squibs can be an excellent resource, all the more-so since they would be least suspected. And Molly, you know I would never expect a single person to take down our enemy alone."

Bill nodded solemnly and Molly sat back in her chair, somewhat mollified. Severus's eyebrow twitched.

"Thank you, Bill, for offering your services. I will be arranging miniature tasks forces to cover certain areas as needed, and you will all be notified by the end of the week to which area you are assigned," Dumbledore continued. "I do not expect Voldemort–"

Half the table flinched. A small shock like electricity buzzed up Severus's arm.

"–to arrange anything in the near future, but we will be prepared."

How many times have I heard that before?

Severus let his gaze wander the table, taking in the body language of the other members. Arthur was politely attentive, if still a little too pale in his recovery. Tonks's mouth was set in a grim, determined line. Lupin's resignation practically wafted from him like the hazy hot air of a mirage. And, past him, Severus locked eyes with Black. The man was staring straight at him, dark eyes shrewd and calculating, as if he should like to bore holes into his flesh.

The rest of January flew by. Hermione applied herself diligently to her work, continuing her routine as rigidly as possible, excepting, of course, her meetings with Professor Snape. When she found herself running out of ways to say that she was busy in French and instead writing that the weather was making her sad, she put her journaling project on an indefinite hiatus. She met with Tonks on another Saturday afternoon, at the end of which the woman suggested she look into wandless magic.

"I know you're still a fifth year and that isn't standard curriculum until sixth," she'd said, tossing Hermione a towel to wipe the sweat from her face. "But I can't tell you the number of times it's come in handy."

"Of course," Hermione said, nodding. She didn't need telling twice–and now it really had been twice–to know that the more tricks she had up her sleeve, the better.

"Tonks," she said suddenly, calling back the woman as she was about to leave. The woman turned, and the shadows under her eyes looked even deeper out of the direct light at the center of the room. "Are you… Are you alright?"

While today's lesson had progressed similarly to the first one, Tonks had interspersed her instructions with far less joking and pleasantries. Her instructions had been direct, if not clipped, and she gave far fewer notes of encouragement whenever Hermione failed–which was often.

Immediately, Hermione wanted to take her words back. No woman ever felt alright when asked if she was alright, especially not when she could pick up that the subtext was: "You don't look well." She fully expected Tonks to plaster on a fake smile and assure her that everything was fine. It's what Hermione herself would have done. But instead, Tonks shrugged.

"There's a war on," she said simply. "See you in two weeks?"

Hermione half nodded, then immediately shook her head. "Er…could we do three?" she asked. "Only, it's Hogsmeade coming up."

Tonks's face froze, then a shadow of the typical Tonks smile emerged. "Ah, Valentine's day. You've got plans. Of course. I'll send an owl, then."

Even after the door shut behind her, Hermione stood rooted to the spot, the expression on Tonks's face still clear in her mind. Something about it had seemed sad.

Apart from the chill in the air, the day was perfect. And really, Hermione thought, it didn't even feel chilly once one had not only walked all the way down to the village but also climbed a hill. She approached the cave in which she, Harry, and Ron had met with Sirius when he was hiding in the countryside last year disguised as Padfoot. A pale blue ribbon hung off a low tree branch steps before the entrance. She untied it and advanced into the mouth of the cave, only slightly wishing her wand holster was on her arm instead of buried in her trunk.

"'Ermione, 'ello."

She greeted Fleur, who was dressed today in dove gray. The cave was…well, a cave. A few sticks were scattered around, and the floor was scuffed from years of animals taking shelter from the rain. Fleur had conjured two small spheres of light, which gave off a small but warm glow. She held out the ribbon.

"I presume this is yours," Hermione said.

"Ah, non," Fleur said. She retrieved her wand from her cloak and tapped it upon the bow. Immediately, it transfigured into a small cloth coin purse of the same color. "Open it."

Hermione loosened the drawstring, reached inside, and closed her fingers around something cold. She withdrew a slim glass vial, clinking it against what seemed like half a dozen other vials in the process. It was crystal clear with the faintest carvings of feathers etched into its surface. Inside the vial was a swirl of pale blue mist.

"Fleur," Hermione said, pulling her eyes away from the wisp of memory with effort. "This is beautiful magic."

"I am not being 'ired at Gringotts for nothing," Fleur said with an air of authority. Nonetheless, she gave a pleased, if proud, smile.

Hermione replaced the vial, tightened the cord on the bag, and tucked it safely into an inner pocket.

"Thank you, Fleur. Really, you don't know how helpful this is."

"I don't," Fleur said. "But I may guess. And that ees why I want to give you something else."

"Oh?" Hermione looked around, as if a magical item was hidden in one of the shadowy corners.

"It ees advice."

Hermione stopped looking and fixed her attention on Fleur. Though the woman's beauty did not affect her the way it did Ron or Harry, her Veela blood gave her countenance a striking gravitas in the low light. Hermione became all too aware of her less than stylish Muggle jeans and knitted hat.

"If you are doing what I theenk you are doing, you are going to need more than mere memories," Fleur said, eyes darting between Hermione's. "You are going to need to know 'ow to manipulate them, and to do so requires mental training."

"Fleur…" Hermione interrupted. She was saying too much, but Hermione couldn't think of what more to say. After a pause, Fleur continued as if she had never been interrupted.

"If you are not already familiar with the practice of Occlumency, you must begin. And you must research memory. Seeing those—" She nodded her head at Hermione's pocket. "—and rattling off facts will not be sufficient. Any meestake is visible to those who will be looking for it."

For the first time in months, the heaviness of all that she was embarking upon weighed on Hermione's shoulders. All the secrets, all the projects. She took a bracing breath.

"I understand. Thank you."

Your assignment is Hogwarts and the surrounding area. This includes the Hogsmeade visit. Happy Valentine's.

Severus had snarled, first at the contents of the note, and then with pain as the parchment burst into flame with the sound of a phoenix cry.

Bloody Albus and bloody Valentine's and bloody poor judgment pissing off Minerva, because after his display in the staff room, she hadn't so much as sniffed in his direction. No way in Hades would she swap him duties.

He doubted very much that the Dark Lord would orchestrate an attack on the village. Yes, he was stronger with his followers free, but he was still biding his time before making obvious moves. With much of the wizarding world buying the Prophet's take on Potter's insanity, it would be the height of foolishness for the Dark Lord to make his return clear. Not before he had what he wanted.

But really. Hogsmeade?

He grumbled internally as he followed flocks of students out of the main entrance and paced up and down the streets of the village. Red and pink bunting hung from shop windows, packs of girls giggled and whispered together, and the weather held out long enough for several couples to walk arm in arm past him like an incessant reminder: Look how happy we are. And what do you have?

Even Potter had found himself a date. Severus had snorted when he saw the boy enter Madame Puddifoot's with the Ravenclaw seeker. He himself had spent exactly five minutes in that tea shop as a teenager and had amassed enough embarrassment to last him the rest of term. He had been in third year, and Lily had begged him to check out the shop.

"Just to have a look, Sev," she had said, eyes bright and smile already wide, knowing he would acquiesce.

They had walked in, had a bucket of heart-shaped confetti dumped on them, and attempted to order a pot of tea before Sirius Black and James Potter entered with a Hufflepuff twin on each arm. The short blondes were looking around the shop and giggling to each other.

"Looky look who's having a date," Black had said, voice something irritatingly close to sing-song.

"Ah, Evans…" Potter sauntered to their table. He lowered his voice to a mock whisper. "Weren't you aware? He doesn't exactly swing in your direction, if you know what I mean."

Quick as a flash, Potter flung his hand in Severus's direction, hitting him with a second cloud of heart confetti. Pink in the face, Severus retorted, "Talking about your best mate?" and jerked his head at Black. "Or should I just say 'mate'?"

"Oh, let's leave, Severus," Lily had said, jumping to her feet in indignation. "I'd say you lot can have our table, Annie, Diane." She nodded to each of the girls. "Except I expect Potter's head won't leave the rest of you with much space."

Severus had scrambled after her and, halfway to the door, collided with a strawberry and cream monstrosity being delivered to a table. As cold cream melted down his neck, the laughter of the entire shop—two boys' louder than all the rest—had echoed in his ears.

Now, Severus came back to the present as a figure stomped out of the shop. It was Potter the younger. The boy stood still for a moment scowling at the drizzling rain before shoving his hands in his pockets and taking off down the street.

Severus raised a brow.

Trouble in paradise?

He followed Potter at a distance, weaving in and out through the crowd, until the target slipped into the Three Broomsticks.

Ditching your date for another? Not very noble.

Severus slipped down an alley, intent on entering through a side door, and had just rounded the edge of the building when he came face to face with two students who were taking the meaning of the holiday to heart.

"Gibbs! Blatchford!"

The two students—Andrea Gibbs, sixth year Ravenclaw, and Jason Blatchford, seventh year Hufflepuff—sprang apart. The girl had the decency to blush, red staining her cheeks and fanning upward to her dark roots. She smoothed her hair frantically and couldn't decide whether it was better to look him in the face or avoid his gaze altogether. Jason, lanky with dirty blonde hair and usually something of a golden retriever disposition, swallowed heavily. A spot of dark lipstick was smeared by his mouth.

"Professor Snape," he said, stepping forward slightly and partly blocking Andrea from direct view. Severus's eyebrow twitched at this. Loyal. "We apologize, sir. I take full responsibility—"

"And I take twenty points, each," Severus said. "Be sure I don't make it double and get out of my sight."

"Yes, sir," the pair murmured, and quickly fled.

He was growing soft. In previous years, he would have taken fifty. Shaking his head, he ducked into the Three Broomsticks. He didn't have to look far, and in fact almost retreated entirely, having come upon Potter and Hagrid talking in a corner directly in front of him. Snape slunk into the shadows and endured the dregs of their conversation, which included, of all possibly cheery topics, the fact that they were both orphans.

Hagrid has got to pull himself together, Severus thought, leaning further back and attempting to melt into the coat rack.

The half giant did leave a few minutes later, and Severus had just turned to go, having watched Potter sit and look around listlessly for long enough, when a voice called across the room.

"Harry, over here!"

His stomach lurched. He could see her arm and the cloud of her humidity-expanded hair. Potter visibly brightened and slipped through the busy pub toward her. So this was why Potter had left his date? So he could see Granger instead?

My, my, Potter. Two dates in one day?

Severus scoffed and turned to go, his insides molten.

Yesterday's rain had washed away the remnants of the January snow, so Hermione headed down to the greenhouses after a leisurely cuddle with Crookshanks and late breakfast in the Great Hall. After reviewing possible project topics, Hermione had decided not to reach for an obscure, advanced plant to study, but for the sake of her sanity and time had settled for cultivating a stronger dittany plant if she could. Dittany was sold in tiny quantities, because it already packed a fair punch, but she suspected that the demand for dittany would greatly increase over the next few years, and she didn't have a Malfoy- or Potter-sized vault from which to draw funds.

That the memory of healing Professor Snape's back had given her the idea was no reason to toss out the project.

The ground was a bit sodden, but she entered greenhouse five relatively unscathed. Professor Sprout had allotted the students a few plots at the back. As she pulled off her scarf in the balmy heat, she gave a little jump.

"Neville!"

The boy looked up from the stool which he had drawn near to his own plants. He had his scarf and outer robe off, but a pair of dragonhide gloves were on his hands.

"Hi, Hermione. What're you doing here?"

"Same as you, I expect," she said, dropping her bag onto a bench and rummaging through it for her Herbology notebook. She also retrieved a pen from its depths before bringing another stool to Neville's side. "How's your project going?"

"Oh, it's fine, fine…" Neville looked down and gave a little jump. His venomous tentacula had wrapped a tiny tendril around his finger. "Oh no, you don't." He delicately peeled the plant off of him, then slid his stool back a foot.

Hermione's brows rose. "That's a sixth year plant, isn't it?"

A half smile spread on Neville's face. "Yeah, I know. Bit advanced. But I have a theory…"

And Neville launched into an explanation about how he wanted to domesticate the plant and make it docile to its owner's instruction.

"You can't teach an old dog new tricks, right?" he said. "So I started from the beginning. Andrew just sprouted his first tentacle yesterday."

"Andrew?" Hermione asked.

Neville shrugged. "Yeah, that's his name."

Hermione laughed. "Neville, a venomous tentacula isn't a puppy. It's..well…venomous. Isn't it in its nature to be aggressive?"

"Oh, sure," Neville agreed easily. "I'm not trying to turn it into a puffapod. I just want it not to attack everything it sees." His eyes lit up. "Do you know how many herbologists are strangled or maimed by their plants each year?"

An image of Bode sitting in bed and watching helplessly as Devil's Snare crept toward him entered her head. "I have an idea…" she said slowly.

"Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven!" Neville announced, half bouncing on his stool with enthusiasm. "I mean, it isn't a hundred, but half of those are from venomous tentaculas alone! If they can be bred to be calm around their owners, not only will witches and wizards be safer, but it will be far easier to extract potion ingredients from them. They're not too bad when they're a few weeks old, but imagine a full grown one."

Hermione flipped open her notebook and began rifling to find her chart.

"So what are you doing to make it…calm?" she asked.

Neville went pink in the face.

"Uh, loads of stuff…" He trailed off.

Hermione paused in her rifling, curious. "Such as?"

Neville kept his gaze fixed on his plant, which was waving its solitary tentacle through the air as if searching for something new to grab hold of.

"You know, talking to it… and, uh…singing…"

"Octopus's Garden?" Hermione deadpanned.

Neville looked up. "What?"

"Wildflowers?"

"That's a…song?"

"I Heard It Through the Grapevine?"

"Come on, Hermione," Neville said, face flushing. "Be serious."

Hermione adopted a swotty air that would have made her first year self jealous. "I," she said solemnly. "Would never joke about garden songs."

And then she finally cracked. A few giggles slipped out of her mouth. When Neville's lips twitched and then he joined in, she laughed harder, knocking her notebook to the ground and clutching her stomach. With her laughter, she felt something release, as if her entire body had been one tense muscle for days and was finally relaxing.

"Okay, fine," Neville said when they had regained their breath. "It does sound a bit ridiculous, but I read some articles about singing to plants helping them grow this Summer and thought I'd try it. Thing is, it was in a Muggle article. Sounded like magic to me, so I thought, 'What if it is magic?'"

"It's an interesting theory, Neville," Hermione acquiesced, a half-smile on her face. "If anyone could tame Andrew, I believe it would be you."

He beamed next to her and they fell into silence as they made notes. Hermione leaned forward to examine her three dittany plants. One was her control using the standard Hogwarts soil, another had been planted in rocky soil similar to that of Crete where the plant was originally found, and one was both in the rocky soil and a magically produced sphere of dry heat. She added notes on plant height and spread, as well as leaf diameter and number, then cast a handy spell she had discovered third year that ran similar to a diagnostic she had received from Madame Pomfrey. The diagnostic wrote out additional readings in midair, which she copied down into her chart.

"How was Hogsmeade?" Neville broke the silence.

"Good," Hermione said, adding a measurement to her chart and thinking with some pleasure about the Quibbler article to be released. "Wait, weren't you there?"

"Oh, I, uh…"

Neville's face once more turned pink and he busied himself with poking around needlessly in the soil in front of him. Hermione set down her pen. A quill was far too obnoxious to use when doing hands-on work.

"Neville?"

Neville was still, then let out a sigh.

"I asked someone to go with me," he admitted, staring at his hands. He took a breath. "And she said no."

He looked up at her and managed to force a smile for a couple of seconds before it fell.

Hermione's heart panged. "Oh, Neville. I'm sorry…"

"I just had this…this feeling, you know? I thought the signs were there. I know we don't know each other that well, but…well, that was the point of the date, wasn't it?"

"Maybe she just wasn't feeling well." Hermione cast her eyes around them, seeking ideas from the soft green glow of light in the windows or the round clay planters. "Or she had classwork to catch up on. Or…"

Neville fixed her with a wooden stare. "She said she was meeting someone else."

"Oh."

He lowered his head. "Meeting someone else on Valentine's, so probably that means she's with someone else."

Hermione opened her mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say that would be reassuring right now. Instead, she settled a hand on his shoulder.

I wish I could make him feel better. The thought flitted through her head, and then another followed. What if I could?

Concentrating on the way she had felt when she had touched Snape's Mark, she tried to imbue warmth and calm into her touch. She remembered the feeling of peace and scrambled to catch the thread of her magic and pass it through to him. Neville's face and posture didn't change.

"You're a good guy, Neville," she said, willing the sentiment to travel through her hand to him. "Any girl would be lucky to have you."

Neville hummed and jerked his head, then rose to his feet. Hermione's hand slipped down to hang at her side.

"Thank, Hermione," he said, voice a little higher than usual. "I…I think I'll go get some lunch."

The boy collected his things and left the greenhouse, head hanging somewhat morosely all the while. Hermione looked down at her fingers, a frown on her face. It hadn't worked.