Chapter 27

XXVII.

Hermione twisted onto her back, staring at the photograph in her hands. That diffident wave, the solemn little smile, the sepia tones leeching colour from the girl seated on the steps of the school... "What House was your mother in?"

He grunted, briefly glancing at her as he flicked through the pages of the volume in his hands, Advanced Herbology & Magical Horticulture. "What did you say?"

"I asked what House your mother was in. You know, when she went to Hogwarts."

"Ravenclaw. She was a disappointment to her family. Most of them were Sorted into Slytherin."

"What happened to your extended family?" she asked, curious. "On both sides, that is."

"My father was one of three. His father died in the Korean War, and my paternal grandmother struggled to make ends meet, running a restaurant until she died of a heart attack some fifteen years ago. His sister...rumor had it my aunt was pregnant with some sod's child; she was disowned by the family, and left the country. Their youngest brother worked at the mill alongside my father, until it was shut down. But he got a job shortly thereafter, whereas my father did not, and that split them up. Last I heard, he was a cabbie in London, but that was over twenty years ago."

"And your mother's side of the family?"

"Only child. Her parents died shortly before the Dark Lord's original rise to power. Potions accident, or so the investigators say. There weren't many immediate cousins. Not on the Prince side. Some on the Nikatea side--they're a Grecian wizarding family, but we haven't exactly stayed in touch."

"You must have been lonely, growing up on your own. Didn't you have any friends, before Hogwarts?" Hermione asked.

The muscles in his jaw tightened for a moment. "...Just one."

"Who?"

"More like 'what'," he corrected.

That intrigued her. Sitting up on the pile of pillows lining the hide-covered grotto, Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees. "What did you consider to be your friend?"

Slanting her a sidelong look, he narrowed his grey eyes. "You're not going to let this subject drop, are you?"

"Nope."

An aggravated sigh, and he confessed, "My cat." At her expectant look, he expanded. "I was five. She was a stray, a half-grown kitten. I...called her Ms. Kitty."

Her mouth twitched. Hermione struggled to control her mirth, adopting a solemn, sober expression. She didn't want to insult his sense of masculinity. Men could be so touchy about such things. "Ms. Kitty? Was that her full name?"

"Ms. Kitty...Fantastico--I was five," he emphasized as she unsuccessfully smothered a giggle. "And we'd just taken a trip to Majorca for the holidays." His face stiffened with suppressed emotion; it took the witch a few heartbeats to realize it was sorrow. "She stayed with me until I left for Hogwarts. Father wouldn't let me take her, and Mother concurred, since she was just an ordinary cat. Not suitable for a wizard's Familiar. Mother told me she fed her for a little while, but Father put a stop to that, and she returned to being a stray. I never saw her again."

Hermione couldn't stop herself; she shifted close and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, frowning at her.

"What do you think I'm doing?" she quipped, holding him closer.

"--I don't need your pity! " he snapped, pushing at her arms.

"Lesson Two," Hermione retorted as she clung to him. "Any time, anywhere, any how, any why! If you can make love to me on a carpet in Minerva's study for no damned reason, I can hold you for a perfectly good one!"

Twisting in her arms, he bore both of them back onto the pillows, sprawling over her. With his hair curtaining out most of the light of the lamp he'd lit, it was hard to see his face. But she could see enough to notice his expression wasn't as irritated as it could have been. "...Jane, it was a long time ago. I don't need comforting for something I recovered from years ago!"

"If it still hurts, you still do." Lifting her head from the cushions, she kissed him. He started to respond, then pulled back, grimacing. Hermione frowned. "What?"

"It feels wrong." He rolled off of her and sat up, rubbing his arms. "Like my mother is still here. When she..."

"Go on," Hermione encouraged him softly, propping herself up on one elbow.

"When she found out what I'd done with my sixth-year pin-money, she took one hundred points from Slytherin."

"What did you--oh," Hermione finished, remembering what he, as Russel, had told her about himself, early in their relationship. "Going to the brothel, you mean."

"She caught me confessing to it in the middle of seducing someone."

"Ah. Um...how many at the school knew she was your mother, at the time?" Hermione asked, curious.

"The Headmaster, Madam Pomfrey, some of the staff...virtually none of the students. Mother said it would be better for me that way. That I would endure less hazing from the others." Again, she saw a muscle working in his jaw. "We exchanged gifts, of course. Her birthday, Christmas, my birthday...but not in person. It wouldn't have been proper."

This time, when Hermione sat up and wrapped her arms around him, he endured it without trying to push her away. She suspected he didn't want to deal with her inherent stubbornness. Not wanting to push the matter, she held him for a few moments, then leaned back, though she kept her arms looped around his shoulders. "Your mother's birthday is in September, you said?"

"The 29th."

"Ten days after mine," she murmured thoughtfully. "So...when is your birthday?"

He glanced warily at her. "January 9th. Why?"

January 9th. That was only a couple weeks away. Hermione shrugged, wondering what she could do between now and then. "Well, I should get you a birthday present, shouldn't I?"

"You don't have to get me anything."

Sensing he was about to push her away, in more than one manner, Hermione leaned her forehead against his, keeping her arms looped around his shoulders. "Don't make me come up with a Lesson Eight about this. Tell me what you want for a gift--better yet, tell me what you can safely have, wherever you go. I don't want attention drawn to anything I give you, whenever you have to go back there."

She didn't have to say Riddle Manor. Didn't want to say it, either. His gaze dropped between them, to the hands on his kilted lap. He pushed up his sleeve after a moment, displaying the abalone-and-gold bracelet girding his wrist. "I believe this could be considered a gift."

Biting back the words that it was only supposed to be a loan, Hermione mustered a smile. A shift forward, and she touched her lips to his in a brief, dry salute. "Done. Now, how about something less tangible? A gourmet meal? A trip to the Muggle cinema? Me, belly-dancing in some scarves and a thong?"

A dry, sardonic sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. "Not in here. My mother's presence lingers too much for that sort of thing."

"Not to mention, I'd likely whack myself on the candle-stands and chairs," she muttered, glancing up at the underside of the hide. "...Do you suppose that really is a mammoth-skin?"

"How the fuck should I know?" he muttered. Snagging a small stack of books, he caught her hand in his and tugged her towards the opening, crawling that way. "Come. It's getting late."

Following him, Hermione found the junk room had shifted shape. A fireplace burned merrily where a china cupboard should have stood. Freeing his hand, he cast Floo powder into the flames, then caught her wrist again, pulling her into the flames. "Snape's quarters."

They spun through the Floo connection, stumbling out onto the hearthstones just as the lamps lit themselves, responding magically to their presence. The sitting room was cold. So was the bedroom. Released, she flicked her wand at the bedroom hearth, igniting a blaze in the coals laid in readiness by the house-elves that tended this half-forgotten place. It would take a while to get the chamber warm; under the covers was probably the best place to be, in the meantime.

Ducking into the bathroom, she used the facilities, found a toothbrush and scrubbed her teeth, washed her face, and debated Transfiguring herself a set of pyjamas. Somehow I doubt I'd stay in them for very long, she thought, amused. That man does have a lusty appetite... Shivering from more than just the cold, she padded back into the bedroom. The disgusted look her now dark-haired husband was giving her made her choke on a giggle. She'd forgotten her little short-sheeting trick. Caught by it in the attempt to climb into the bed, one bare leg angled awkwardly under the covers, he had been reaching for the wand on the nightstand when she had entered the room.

Tapping the bed, he stood as the sheet slithered back into place. His dark eyes pinned hers with a familiar, professorial glare of annoyance. "Do you think that is funny?"

She flashed him an unrepentant grin. "Yes. Mainly because you were there when I short-sheeted the bed, Severus...and even I forgot I had done it."

He grunted and slid under the covers, successfully this time. "The house-elves probably only change the sheets once a month, or whenever they air the bed."

Shedding her clothes, Hermione hurried under the covers as well. The cotton sheets were cold. Shivering, she grabbed her wand from the nightstand on her side of the bed, and prodded the covers. "Pellelinteum! "

Smooth white cotton rippled and became fuzzy white cotton. Severus gave her a bemused look. "Tell me you didn't invent that spell, too?"

"Good heavens, no!" Hermione muttered, dropping her wand on the small table before snuggling the covers up to her chin. The sheets were still cold, but they warmed much faster, now. She squirmed close to him, pressing her flesh against his to share body warmth. "No, Professor McGonagall taught it to me, back in third year. I was complaining about how cold I was at night. For about two years after being petrified by that basilisk, I had a lot of trouble handling cold weather."

"I trust you've recovered?" Severus enquired, nudging her onto her side and snugging his longer frame behind her own, spooning with her. She could feel his shaft hardening, prodding her a little.

"Yes. She taught me some Transfiguration tricks, and I asked Professor Flitwick for some warming charms...oh!" The squeak escaped her. Cold fingers had wrapped around her leg, burying themselves between her thighs. "Couldn't you warm those up, first?"

A chuckle escaped him. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"I'd rather feel something warmer, down there!"

Withdrawing his hand, he slid it the other way around, underneath her thigh. A lift, a scoot, and a prod of his flesh against hers made her squeak from a different reason. The angle was a little wrong, until she squirmed and tilted her hips a little more. That allowed him to slide inside, using short, teasing strokes. It was much like Christmas morning, only they were lying on their other sides this time.

Well, not quite like Christmas morning; Hermione didn't feel the need to consign her voice to hard-won silence. Neither did he. The quiet crackling of the fire was quickly surpassed by panting breaths, hungry moans, and lusty cries. Limbs entangled as positions shifted, lips and tongues bathing skin. Soft flannel rubbed against smooth skin that turned sticky with sweat as the space beneath the covers grew warm from their exertions.

It ended with him collapsing in a warm, heavy weight, her middle name a whisper panted against her jaw, the rasp of his stubble marking her cheek. She didn't want him to move; keeping her arms and legs wrapped around him, Hermione held him in place when he started to leave her. Nuzzling him, she focused on the after-play, not wanting the good feelings to end just yet. They kissed for a few moments, but he extracted himself, removing her arms as she tried to keep him with her.

"I have to use the lavatory."

Disappointed, Hermione let him go. Bracing her head on her palm, she contented herself with watching his naked backside pad towards the bathroom door. Pale and scarred, it was still a fine view, in her opinion. The bathroom door closed, and she started to pull the covers higher, cooling down without his presence beside her...but the bedroom door opened silently. Groping for her wand with one hand, the other pulling the bedding higher, Hermione froze at the sight of the tea-cozy clad figure creeping into the room. It wrung its spindly fingers, its pointed ears flattened much like a cat's in its unhappiness.

"M-Mistress McGonagall demands your presences, Miss," the house-elf whimpered. "She is furious with M-Master Snape--"

Snatching her wand from the nightstand, Hermione Transfigured the top sheet into a velvet gown, scrambling out of the bed even as it wrapped itself around her. The bathroom door was thick; it didn't seem that Severus had heard the creature. Charming her shoes to follow her, Hermione hustled the house-elf out into the living room, shutting the door as quietly as she could. Implications crashed together in her mind, tangling with the question of how badly Minerva was going to react to realizing just who Russel was.

"How did she find out?" Hermione hissed, stepping into her shoes as the Charm wriggled them onto her feet. They weren't entirely comfortable without socks, nor the dress without undergarments, but she wasn't going to pause to find her knickers if she had to do damage-control immediately.

The creature wrung its hands. "Lissy was told...was told to tell the Headmistress if M-Master Snape ever returned, and I is supposed to check for dusting, M-Miss, when I is hearing noises in the bedroom--"

"You did your job. I'll tell 'Master Snape' what he needs to know. Now go back to the kitchens." Grabbing Floo Powder from the pot on the mantel as the house-elf vanished with a pop, Hermione cast it into the living room hearth. "Headmistress' study, password...Peter Rabbit."

Hurrying through the emerald flames, she spun out onto the carpet where her husband had ravished her earlier. Right into Minerva, who from the shouting she interrupted was having an argument with Albus. The Scottish witch was in her dressing gown, a nightcap covering her dark, greying hair, her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes all but emitting sparks like a wand, she was that furious-looking.

"Miss Granger--"

"--Mrs. Snape," Hermione corrected her sharply. If Minerva knew Severus was on the premises, the younger witch knew she had to protect her husband...and assert her right to do so. The older woman gasped, hand going to the base of her throat. Gritty powder caught Hermione's attention. Familiar, gritty powder, the same powder that dusted her own fingers. "...Just what do you think you were going to do, Minerva?"

"She was going to Floo-call the Aurors." That was from Albus. Hermione's hand snapped up, her wand holding the Headmistress at bay. "I've been trying to tell her that Severus is still on our side, but she stubbornly refuses to be convinced."

"You're married to him?--Severus is Russel? " Minerva gasped, hand rising from her throat to her mouth.

"Surprise." It was a dry quip worthy of the former Potions Master. In fairness, Hermione had to allow, "--I know I myself was surprised, when I found out. More than surprised. That time I came here, demanding to speak with Albus...I had just found out, myself. It took me a while to get used to the idea," she admitted. "But you will, too."

"But--he killed Albus! "

"And I still have absolute faith in the boy!" the portrait of Albus Dumbledore asserted firmly. "Minerva, if you call the Aurors to arrest Severus, you will destroy our sole source of insider information on Lord Voldemort's movements!"

"He killed you!" Minerva snapped, switching from gaping at Hermione to glaring at the former Headmaster. "Or had you forgotten that part?"

"I have forgotten nothing. Have you forgotten that Russel has been passing Hermione vital information? Have you forgotten that, through his guise as a kilted Canadian, Severus has been able to save more than a dozen lives? I remind you that it was thanks to Russel's warning about the impending attack on Harry's birthday-party that made the Weasley twins think of protecting their home with the Fidelius Charm, which in turn made you think of protecting this school with that very same Charm!" Albus paused, letting that piece of hammered logic sink into the woman's brain. "Minerva...there are reasons for everything, in this matter. Including reasons why we need to continue to keep this information a secret, and reasons for why I cannot tell you anything directly, other than that the boy still has my absolute, unwavering trust!

"I am asking you to continue to place your trust in me. And in Hermione," he added, tipping his silver-maned head at the younger witch.

"Why in her?" the Headmistress demanded.

"Because she is his handler. His liaison. He is her responsibility to monitor and control, and I ask that you place your faith in her ability to do so."

Before she could answer, a blur of colour snapped in the study, resolving itself in a kilt-clad, blond wizard with a golden dragonette clinging to his arm. Grey eyes flicked over the tableau of the angry Headmistress, the tight-lipped wizard in the portrait, the mock-sleeping denizens of the other paintings, and his grim-faced wife. Before he could draw a breath to ask what was happening, his former colleague rounded on him, railing at him.

"How could you?" She charged at him, heedless of the dragonette hissing at her. "You bastard!"

"--Sigurd, stand down!" Hermione snapped. The last thing she wanted was Minerva McGonagall being bitten by the guardian. The dragonette flinched but vanished, even as the resounding crack of a palm striking a cheek echoed through the office. At least Minerva hadn't gone for her wand, though she did pound on his chest until he grabbed her wrists, subduing her with minimal struggle.

"You bastard..." Sagging in his grip, Minerva started sobbing. The wizard holding her looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Hermione gestured with her arms, catching his attention. "Put your arms around her," she mouthed, gesturing again. "Hold her." His return look was dubious. Hermione lifted six fingers, gave him a pointed look, and repeated herself silently. "Hold her! "

Visibly uncomfortable, he complied, releasing his colleague's wrists and gingerly wrapping his arms around her. Minerva collapsed against him, thumping him in the chest twice, but mostly she just shuddered and cried. Looking like he would rather be anywhere else, he held her until her sobs subsided, patting her back awkwardly now and then. Until she punched him, making the disguised wizard oof at the impact.

Lifting her head, Minerva glared at her former fellow teacher, and thumped him again. "Bastard!"

He caught her wrist, preventing her from hitting him a third time. "Enough."

She glared at him, then stepped back, wresting her arm free. Moving back out of reach, she turned and attacked Hermione verbally. "--And you! I trusted you! I trusted you enough to give him access to this school!"

Torn between being defensively angry and needing to calm the other woman down, Hermione planted her hands on her hips. "I would advise you to not say anything you would regret later, Minerva--and I speak from experience. I was just as angry as you were, when I initially found out. But I'm not going to let either of you make the same sort of asinine mistakes that Severus and I did! Both of you are adults, and both of you were friends and colleagues. And both of you are still on the same side," she stressed. "Behave, or be silent!"

It was a testament to how far she'd come from being a mere student, that neither of them objected to her demand. Her husband slanted her an inscrutable look, but he didn't protest. Neither did Minerva, apart from a heavy sigh and a brief, irritated glance.

"That's better," Hermione muttered. That triggered Minerva into flipping her hand at the kilt-clad source of her current problem.

"Yes, but what do I do with him?"

"You leave him to me," Hermione stated arrogantly. Internally, she was amazed at her own temerity, but externally, merely lifted her chin a fraction of an inch. "I'm his handler; that's my job, and I take it seriously."

A snort from her husband made both women glance his way, then dismiss him. It drew those sandy blond brows downward in an irritated scowl, but neither Hermione nor Minerva were impressed. Minerva tugged her dressing gown tighter over her flannel nightshift and folded her arms. "Well. Can you prove you've got him under control?"

Hermione gestured at him, keeping her eyes on her former Head of House. "--He's behaving and being silent, isn't he?"

"Only because he wants to be," the Headmistress scoffed. "Give me a better proof than that."

"Take off your amulet." Her words were aimed at her husband, though Hermione did not remove her gaze from Minerva. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his hands rise to the back of his neck, then lower again a moment later. Minerva glanced at him, frowning softly as his skin lightened and his hair and eyes darkened.

"...Is that how you've been disguising yourself? Pigmentation alteration?" she asked him.

"Yes."

"And do you really obey her commands?" At his nod, Minerva frowned. "Why are you so compliant? That's not the Severus I know."

"She is my wife, and the mother of my child." He flashed a Russel-esque smile, though there was a tight edge to it that didn't quite warm his dark eyes. "I was taught to never argue with a pregnant woman."

Only by sheer willpower did Hermione keep from choking at that.

The impatient look Minerva gave him was accompanied by crisp tones. "For whatever reason you're doing whatever you're doing--and don't think for a minute that I've forgiven you for what you did last spring--do not think for an instant that I will permit anyone to share with you the secret of the Order's Headquarters. You may have gained access to this school, but you will not gain access to the members of the Phoenix."

Folding his arms across his chest, he retorted, "I don't want to know the Secret of your Headquarters. I didn't want to know the Secret of this School! The less I know about your efforts in this war, the better off you'll be!"

"--Play nice!" Hermione interjected as Minerva drew a breath for her own reply. She softened her tone. "I have come to terms with his position in this war, Minerva. You will, too, given enough time. I suggest we go back to what we were doing, and leave you to think everything through. I also suggest you think carefully about the Creeveys, and Mr. Lubbock, and all of the other would-be victims that his timely warnings have helped to save since he seemingly defected to the other side."

"Albus--"

"--Albus can explain his position for himself," she cut the older woman off as gently but firmly as she could. "Now, if you don't mind, it is late, and Severus and I were in the middle of something when your house-elf came calling."

Lifting the stone-strung ribbon back into place, Severus fastened it, letting it bleach his black hair and midnight eyes, darkening the sallow pallor of his hide. "I give you my word, Minerva: the students of this School are as safe from me as they were when I was a teacher. More so, since they will not feel the lash of my tongue."

A deep breath, and he smiled at her, his eyes grey, his skin tanned, his hair dark blond. Minerva narrowed her own eyes at him, seeing him make the transition from Severus to Russel. "...Who are you, Severus? Was the man I knew all these years nothing more than an act?"

Hermione waited, too, curious to know the answer.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a humorless smile. "Only somewhat. I am a bastard in temperament, Minerva, for all I was legitimately conceived." He glanced at his young wife, letting his gaze slide down to her abdomen for a moment. "But I'm trying not to be such a surly bastard. When I don't have to be. Goodnight."

"--Oh, Russel, one thing," Albus interrupted as the kilted wizard reached for the Floo-plot near his portrait. All three of them glanced up at his oil painting. "I almost forgot. Poppy has a pamphlet in her storeroom waiting for you; I think you'll know the one I'm talking about when you see it. Fascinating stuff; you really should have a good, thorough study of it, soon."

Nodding curtly, Russel cast the greyish-green power on the coals and pulled Hermione in after him. "Infirmary."

Madam Pomfrey's office was empty, when they emerged. It was still very early in the morning, earlier than most of the staff and students cared to rise even if it weren't a holiday. Russel tapped his wand on the storeroom door as Hermione waited, arms folded under her breasts to support them, thighs feeling sticky from the moisture that had seeped out during the argument in the Headmistress' study. She hadn't noticed it at the time, but now that the crisis was over, she could feel the combination of their mutual pleasure working its way out of her flesh; a cleansing charm wouldn't have been amiss, though she figured she would wait until they returned to his quarters, and take advantage of his bathtub, or perhaps the shower.

It didn't take long for him to disable the wards; it took longer for him to find whatever it was Albus was talking about. Four minutes after he entered the storeroom, he came back out again, a booklet tucked under his elbow. Several taps of his wand on the panel to reseal the shelf-lined chamber, and he turned back to her. A glimpse of the cover showed it blue and white, with a red cross in one corner, but it wasn't until he Floo'd them back to his hidden quarters that she caught a glimpse of the title: Basic First Aid and CPR Certification Training Manual.

Hermione frowned in memory. Didn't Poppy say something about a CPR pamphlet, back when he'd been systematically tortured by the Dark Lord? I wonder why she has it, and why Albus wants him to read it?

Not that she would object, of course; she might even study it herself. Just because they were wizards and witches didn't mean they couldn't study and use Muggle medical techniques. Of course, the exception of Arthur Weasley's troubles with that snake-bite in her fifth year came to mind, but the failure of the Muggle stitches to take hold had not been a failure of the medical technique itself, but rather the result of an anti-coagulant property of Nagini's venom that had been difficult to counteract.

Making a mental note to borrow the booklet for herself, Harry and Ron to study at a later date, Hermione slipped out of her shoes in the bedroom, Transfigured the gown back into a sheet and Charmed it back onto the bed, and joined her husband under the covers. Then climbed back out again, padding for the shower with a muttered explanation at his curious look.

Sticky thighs and flannel sheets didn't cohabit very well...but husbands who followed their wives into the shower stall apparently did.

...

Percy finally recovered enough to give his report on what had happened. He surprised his family by asking to speak not only with them, but with other Order members as well, to let them know what had happened. Violetta, as investigator-in-charge, agreed to let him go home to the Burrow before speaking, since he refused to talk while at the hospital. Hermione, remembering what had happened to that one fellow in the restricted ward, the one that had been strangled by a Devil's Snare cutting, thought it was wise of him to wait until he was elsewhere. Russel wasn't able to attend, nor could Charlie, but Hermione was there, along with Ron, Harry, Ginny, Moody, Bill, the twins, Tonks, and even Minerva.

Swathed in the softest fabrics, with most of his face covered by a balaclava and his hands tucked into gloves to keep his tender skin from burning, Percy cradled a cup of warm tea as he spoke. His voice had been healed by the Salve, but it was rough with emotion. Molly and Arthur sat on either side of him, giving him their unconditional love and support, even though all knew he'd been a prat for the last few years.

"It was...Christmas Eve. I...I didn't have anything better to do," Percy added as casually as he could, though he fooled no one in the room. "So, I went to my department in the judicial level, to get some paperwork done. I realized I had some case files that had to be delivered down to the Department of Mysteries--they have a mail drop next to the door, with a lid that can only be opened by someone authorized, and I was authorized four months ago. So I took the stack downstairs.

"I said hello to some of the portraits on the ninth floor. They were tutting at me for working on a holiday," he explained diffidently, hoarsely. "And then I descended the steps, walked up to the box, and lifted the lid. Just as I set the files in the bin, I realized something wasn't right. The door to the Department was slightly ajar."

He ducked his head a little. Molly had drawn the drapes to further protect his skin, so it was a little dim in the Weasleys' living room. But despite the lighting and the balaclava that covered most of his hairless, pink-skinned head, Hermione was fairly sure he was blushing.

"It's never ajar. It has a closing and locking charm on it. If it was ajar, then someone had broken the enchantment. I...I almost went in. But then, I remember...what happened to Father. I was brave enough," he quickly clarified, as if wanting to reassure them that, prat or not, he was still a Gryffindor, "but I wanted to get word to someone, anyone--even the portraits would do. So I ran for the stairs. I guess I was too loud, or maybe they were coming out. They caught up to me at the turn in the stairwell. I screamed, but one of them threw up a Silencing Charm. I don't know if I was heard. That's when they...got me."

"You were heard, Percy," Minerva reassured him. "Everard was visiting one of the portraits at the Ministry on that level. He was the one who raised the alarm. The arrival of the Aurors chased away your attackers, but not before...well, they reached you before it was too late, though we're all horrified at your suffering."

The others nodded, and Percy looked down at his teacup. Alastor cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. "Describe these assailants of yours, boy."

"They were cloaked and hooded--I didn't recognize anyone, or anything. There were three of them. One was short and kind of fat. And I think he was wearing silver gloves, which I thought was rather strange. One of them was very tall and thin, almost like a Dementor. I knew he wasn't; I was afraid, but...but not cold. Not sunk in despair, like that one year on the Hogwarts Express. But very tall, and very thin. He had a bit of gold on his hand," Percy added, gesturing vaguely with one gloved hand. "Wrapped around it. I'm not sure what it was. A bit of ribbon, or maybe a chain... It was looped several times; I remember that. The third was...ordinary, I guess. A little on the tall side, but not that much above average.

"It was the third one that attacked me. I think..." He hesitated, frowning in thought. It was strange, seeing the scrap of skin above his eyes wrinkling faintly; without any eyebrows, one could hardly tell he was frowning at all. "I think the third might've been a female. The other two I'm fairly sure were male, but I don't know about the third. That one attacked, and...everything turned into pain."

"Thank you," Violetta stated, glancing at her dicto-quill for a moment. "You've managed to recall a number of details that should be useful to us. But...given that it was the Department of Mysteries that was broken into, Professor McGonagall has agreed to loan us the use of her Pensieve, to see if we can view your memory of the incident for ourselves."

Percy nodded. "Sure. If you think it'll help."

"It's quite easy to use, Percy," Minerva explained to him, summoning the bowl and the small side-table on which it had been placed. "You think very hard of the incident in question--start with your trip through the halls and down the stairs, and as you touch your wand to your temple, imagine pushing the memory outward on that side of your head. It should cling to your wand and allow you to extract it.

"You will feel very strange as you do so, because the memory is literally being extracted from your head...but you're only actually extracting a copy of what you knew; you won't forget what you saw, though the memory will be suppressed for a little while as it recovers. It won't hurt a bit, I assure you," she added at Percy's worried look. "Your thoughts will also remain your own. It will only extract a copy of the objective, physical record of your experiences--sight, sound, smell, taste, touch--but not the subjective record of your emotions or thoughts."

Nodding, he touched his wand to his forehead--a replacement purchased earlier that day from a selection brought to him at the hospital by Roland Ollivander himself before his discharge ...and checked afterwards for jinxes or traps by Alastor Moody--and extracted a thick, silvery mist. Hermione watched as Percy dropped the mist into the stone-carved bowl. Harry had described the phenomenon to her, but it looked very strange, like Percy was trying to pull a thick, gently wafting mass of cobwebs out of his head.

Nodding at her companions, Violetta gestured for Moody and Tonks to follow her. All three of them reached inside the rim with their non-wand hands. White light shone up at their faces, which took on an arrested look, almost as if they'd been Stunned. After that, it was a matter of waiting and watching.

An idea crossed Hermione's mind. Rising from her seat next to Harry, she eased around behind the others, and stooped over Minerva's shoulder. The Headmistress was still a little stiff around her, but it had only been a few days since the incidents in her study. Touching the older witch's shoulder, Hermione whispered in her ear. "...I wish Russel were here to see this for himself, but he was Summoned. He might've been able to identify the people in the memory."

A slight twitch of the older witch's head formed a nod; encouraged, Hermione continued.

"However...if I went in there, and saw what happened...I might be able to describe who Percy saw that night. Or even show him my own second-hand memory of it, via Legilimency," she offered. "If he knew who to investigate, it might help us all figure out why they were there, that much faster."

The Headmistress' mouth tightened a little, but she nodded curtly. Satisfied she had a promise of compliance, Hermione made her way back to her seat. Harry leaned in close as she settled back into place, murmuring in her ear. "What was that about?"

"I want to witness it for myself, so I can tell Russel in detail who or what to look for," she returned under her breath.

He frowned briefly, making her worry about how much or how little he might trust the man he knew only as Russel, but Harry finally nodded. "That's a good idea," he whispered. "I can't completely trust anyone who was one of them, even if he's a spy for our side. Not after what the last one did. But he would know who they are better than we would. I'll take whatever information we can get."

"Harry..." Hermione wasn't quite sure what to say. She groped for the right words. "Harry, he's my husband. And you're my brother. Either you accept him as your brother-in-law, and deal with the fact that he's now a part of my life, just as much as you are...or you're going to tear me apart."

He started to reply, but the trio at the bowl stirred. Tonks, predictably, had the roughest re-entry of her consciousness back into her body. She jerked backwards, tripped, and sprawled on Fred and George's laps. They grinned and helped right the clumsy Auror, muttering quips about how lucky a bloke Remus was, though they quelled and fell silent under the glare of their mother. Violetta merely extracted her hand. Moody came back to himself with a shudder, and a rub at his magical eye.

"...Damned bowl. I couldn't see anything with this eye. Whatever that tall one had in his hand, I couldn't tell what it was, other than a bit of chain." He shrugged, almost sheepish in his confession. "Wasn't my memory, so I couldn't see through anything. Couldn't even rotate my eye properly. Damned nuisance."

"I would like to have a glimpse myself, if I may," Minerva requested, catching Violetta's attention. "And I think Hermione should, too, so that she can discuss the matter with a certain fellow a number of us know."

Percy was the only one who looked puzzled at her veiled reference, but Hermione could understand why Minerva was being discreet. He might've been a Weasley, but he wasn't an Order member. Yet. Hermione hoped he would finish coming to his senses, after this attack. She could wish the attack hadn't happened, to spare him the pain of it, but it had, and maybe he would stop being such a prat.

"I'd like to see, too," Harry stated. Violetta studied Hermione and him, and nodded her permission.

"Don't I have a say in this?" Percy asked, as Hermione and Harry started to move forward. "Why should they get to see my memories?"

"Don't be an idiot, boy," Moody warned him in a growl. "You're in it up to your singed scalp-line, and these are the people who've been trying to put a stop to the sort of villains who attacked you. The least you can do now is cooperate, and let 'em get on about their business! We'll discuss what we've seen after they're out."

"But..." Subsiding, his hairless, pink brow wrinkling in bafflement, Percy swallowed his objections. Joining Minerva at the edge of the little table, Hermione made room for Harry. She thought, glancing at Percy, that Moody's statement accurately summed up just how much of a royal prat the former Head Boy had been, divorcing himself from his family for so long. Minerva cleared her throat, and Hermione quickly extended her arm with the other two. Together, they touched their hands to the surface, and let the swirling mist draw them down and inward.

...

Falling through the silvery light, Hermione found herself abruptly standing in the Ministry of Magic's equivalent to a cubicle maze. Holiday decorations lent a festive but somewhat tired air to the chest-high walls, garnished along their tops with tinsel garlands and the occasional miniature tree or magically suspended mobile of ornaments and crystalline snowflakes. Orienting herself, Hermione noticed Minerva and Harry first, then spotted Percy Weasley.

He was gathering his files with a pinched expression. It took her a moment to realize it was unhappiness. Grim, un-seasonal unhappiness. Pity twisted in her heart, but annoyance did, too. Even if he was a figure to be pitied, separated from his family on Christmas Eve, all alone with no one to help him celebrate, he had brought this part of the mess of his life upon himself. All by himself. Maybe he'll wise up finally, and admit that his family and the Order were right all along.

It would take a courageous man to admit he was wrong, however.

Percy, files in hand, started navigating his way out of the maze of desks. As related, he stopped to chat, and blush, with the portraits lining the outer wall of the office area and the hallway beyond, embarrassed at having to defend his presence at work on that particular night. Reaching the stairs, he lifted a hand from the files to wave goodbye to the last cluster of paintings, including the visiting Everard, and pushed open the door, twisting to enter the stairwell.

Hermione felt compelled to follow him. She knew it was the magic of the Pensieve, having researched the phenomenon. Witches and wizards had a sort of sixth sense aura about them--it occurred to her belatedly that this was the sixth sense her husband had mentioned earlier--and this sixth sense permitted them to be unconsciously aware of their surroundings for the distance that their other five senses encompassed. But it did have its limitations. Anyone viewing a memory in a Pensieve had to stay within that radius, meaning primarily within sight and sound of the central figure of that memory.

Something occurred to Hermione. She stopped on the stairs to chase down the threads of the idea forming in her brain. A tug at her body forced her to continue downward, but she didn't enter the corridor beyond. Instead, she tucked herself to one side of the door in the stairwell and waited, thinking hard.

Anyone within sight and sound of the central figure of a Pensieve memory... All wizards and witches have an innate, unconscious sense of their surroundings... You can enter a Pensieve and look at things not within the direct line-of-sight of the central figure, and still make sense of them, so long as they're within the ambient greater aura... How was it that Albus Dumbledore always seemed to know things? Did he ever...? Snorting, Hermione dismissed that line of thought; it was a dead end. He probably just used the paintings in the school to keep abreast of all the Hogwarts gossip, and his friends and associates outside the school...

No, but...there is a way to capture that sixth sense awareness for a Pensieve to replay...so there has to be a way for a witch or wizard to tap into it consciously, since it can be heightened into the subconscious range for other spells, too...

Biting her lip, Hermione quashed the urge to yank herself out of the Pensieve and go chase down Filius Flitwick. Stop wool-gathering, Hermione, she chided firmly. You've already got that Protean-Forging Charm problem to work on, and no time in which to apprentice yourself to the Charms Professor, until this war is over. In three months' time.

The door, partially shut, burst open. Percy scrambled up the stairs, shouting for help. A spell sizzled past; Hermione flinched and watched the middle-born Weasley son glancing back over his shoulder fearfully. A second spell smashed him into the back wall of the landing. Bolting up the stairs herself, she hugged the railing, even though she knew the spells hexing the redhead couldn't touch her, wouldn't harm her. Whirling to the next set of steps, she spun around and sat down, peering back down the steps as the hooded, cloaked figures charged up the steps.

Well, the fat one and the average-one swarmed the wizard they'd caught. She saw a glint of silver, alright...but only on one hand. Peter Pettigrew. That didn't bode well. The other figure, Hermione recognized after a moment only as a pale-skinned female, but one with a flattish chest. It was the shape of her wrist and the placement of her hips in relation to the length of her torso, stooping slightly as she reached the landing, that told Hermione it was a female who was hexing a now screaming Percy. The woman didn't use any verbal spells, which was impressive.

Standing up a little, Hermione ignored the craning, peering faces of Minerva and Harry. Instead, she focused on the tall wizard that had stopped behind Pettigrew and the witch. Squinting, she peered at the chain wrapped around his hand. It was not thin, nor delicate, but not bulky, either. It looked like a normal chain. Leaning over the railing, flinching but doing her best to ignore Percy's shrill screams, Hermione peered closer at the loops. It was a long chain, that much was certain, for it looped around his hand--

...

--Hermione lurched back into herself, blinking down at the white mist. The memory had ended, ejecting her automatically from the stone bowl. The chain looped around his hand several times. I think I saw at least six lines of gold, which halved is three times... That's a long chain to loop around someone's neck. I think it would hang to their navel...

"Well. I think we all saw the same things," Alastor grunted. "A silver hand, not a silver glove. That's that bastard, Pettigrew. The chief hexer...I'd say a female."

"Nah, it looked more like a male, t' me," Tonks offered.

"He had short fingernails, not long ones," Harry added, nodding.

Hermione cleared her throat, and held up her hand, displaying the short-trimmed nails she possessed. "Not all females have long nails, Tonks. I'd have to agree with Moody. It was a flat-chested female."

"Minerva?" Alastor asked her. "You've got the most experience with robed figures."

"Female," she stated with only a moment of thought. "Possibly Bellatrix Lestrange. But...possibly Melissa Nott."

"Melissa Nott?" the re-activated Auror next to her grunted. "...Yes, I could see that. Didn't know she had it in her to be that cruel. That efficient, but not that cruel. But the woman in the memory seemed a bit skinny. I thought Mrs. Nott had a bigger girdle than that."

Percy, Hermione noticed, looked very uncomfortable at this frank discussion of his attackers' aptitudes for torture.

"Who was the tall, thin fellow?" Violetta asked, looking at the others. "And what was he holding?"

"There's any number of amulets and talismans strung on chains," Alastor grunted. "They smashed a lot of things down there, mostly in the Experimental Artifacts section. Don't know what good it'd do 'em to take something out of the Department, though."

"Why is that?" Harry asked.

"We don't work down there, obviously, but the Aurors do know some of the security measures," Violetta informed him. "They've got special enchantments on the Artifacts, down there. If you don't know the exact counter--and it's different for every single item--if you try to take it out of the Department of Mysteries, the wards in the front chamber will scramble the magic, and render the object useless. It's a new requirement for all items being made or stored down there. Aside from the Prophecies, of course." She smiled humorlessly. "About the only change they felt necessary for those was to construct sturdier shelves."

Hermione flushed right alongside her blood-brother. It was their fault so many Prophecies had been smashed in the battle at the Ministry a year and a half ago. She cleared her throat. "I take it that, with so many smashed Artifacts, it'll be hard to catalogue what's merely broken, versus what's outright missing?"

"That's why we still don't know what they took," Violetta confirmed. "That's also why it's taking so long. Even Unspeakables take vacations, and we haven't been able to recall all of them, yet."

"What about the Imperius Curse?" Ron asked. The others blinked and looked his way.

"What do you mean, Ronald?" Minerva asked.

"What if someone got a-hold of one of these Unspeakables, and put Imperio on them? Or even two, or three," he offered. "Imperius to question them, Obliviate to hide the evidence they were ever there, taking advantage of the holidays to hide their tracks long enough to find out who knew which counters to what Artifacts...and then they nab the Unspeakable they need and put them under the Unforgivable just long enough to break in, snatch what they want, and then wreak some havoc on the rest of it so no one knows what they grabbed. Another Memory Charm, and they're home free," Ron completed the scenario. "Have you looked at a list of all those who were unaccounted for around the time of the attack?"

Violetta, Moody and Tonks exchanged looks. Alastor cleared his throat. "I'm glad you're on our side, boy... We'll look into it."

Something was bothering Hermione. She moved back to her seat by Harry, and spotted Molly's knitting basket. Picking up a skein of yarn, she unwound a bit, looped it around her hand six times, marked her place with a pinch of her finger and thumb, and made the measured length into a necklace, thinking idly. The result dangled to her navel, as she had suspected. It was also a vaguely familiar length, but her brain was still puzzling out something else in the whole matter. She needed to talk to Severus. Unfortunately, he had been Summoned, and she didn't dare interrupt his own meeting.

Her finger heated. Breath catching, Hermione quickly tossed the yarn back into the basket, lifting her left hand. Words scrawled themselves out of the scale pattern. She could turn the ring to read it more easily, but couldn't remove it. The trick was needed, as his message wrapped around the ring a couple of times.

I am unable to return for ten days. Take all precautions when adding water. Do not stir.

She caught Harry peering at her ring. His brows rose when he noticed her staring at him. "What's up with him?"

"I don't know," she murmured back, nervous at the thought of having to handle the current stage of the Anima Te on her own. She had until early morning to figure out how to negate any potential curse that the Diary might afflict on her efforts. It looked like she had another consulting visit to make with Professor Flitwick.

...

"...Yes, this should be very helpful," Hermione murmured, closing the book on thwarting curses in her lap. She set it aside and picked up her teacup. "There was something else I wanted to discuss with you."

"Yes, my dear?" Filius prompted her, flicking his wand to enchant the teapot to refill his cup. A gesture in her direction, and she held out her own for a refresher.

"Well...I was thinking earlier today, about the 'sixth sense' that permits a Pensieve to contain a record of anything within a mage's aura to be witnessed by anyone viewing the Pensieve recording. I was wondering if there was a way to make that sixth sense conscious, instead of subconscious or unconscious? To be actively aware of one's surroundings, even if they're not in direct line-of-sight?"

"I'm afraid that particular ability has eluded many a Charms researcher," he informed her. "But there have been some books published on the subject--the Pensieve was actually a side-effect of sixth-sense research. A brilliant young lady in the thirteenth century, who went on to be the Charms instructor, wrote an excellent treatise on the subject." Setting his teacup aside, he abandoned his chair in favour of the wall of books that lined one side of his sitting room. A swish of his wand, and he lifted himself up to a shelf near the top in a graceful but odd climb of the air, his toes and heels rocking as he rose.

"Sir...Filius," Hermione corrected herself as he floated back down. Six years of polite, admiring respect was hard to get past, some days, even if she did have permission to call him by his given name. "What spell did you use, just now?"

"Saltara. I learnt it in my second year, here. That's how I became such a good dancer, actually. I had to learn how to be, to use the spell," Filius explained, descending much as he had risen. Tap-dancing, Hermione realized, for all his shoes made no sound as he descended the unseen steps he had climbed. "Would you like to learn it? Just because you're not height-challenged doesn't mean it's not useful to be able to climb into the air every now and again."

"Actually, I came up with one of my own," Hermione confessed. Setting down her teacup, she drew her wand. "Semobilim! " Rising up half a foot, still in a seated position, she smiled as his eyes widened. A bit of thought, and she swum upwards, straightening and twisting slightly so that she faced him. "It takes effort; if you don't think about moving, you just sort of hang there, but then it's sort of a safety feature, isn't it?"

"Marvelous! Marvelous, Hermione!" he praised her, clapping his hands. Descending to the floor, he cancelled his own spell, set down the book he had fetched, then looked up at her. "What was that word again? Semobilium? And the wand movement?"

Hermione brought herself down to the floor as well. "The exact same as for Mobilicorpus, except for an inward flick at the end. Finite Incantatem. ...Semobilim! "

Again, she rose off the floor. Clearing his throat, Filius practiced a few silent swishes, mouthed the words, then cast the spell himself. "Semobilim! --Oh-ho! I did it! I'm floating! And none of that tedious tap-dancing!" An experimental, thoughtful frown, and he moved up, then sideways. "...Wonderful, simply incredible! There's a bit of a learning curve for figuring out how to control the movements, but a disciplined mind shouldn't have too much trouble... How far have you tested this spell, Hermione dear?"

"Um...a few times. Including in an...intimate experiment with another, equally enchanted participant."

It took a few blank, uncomprehending blinks for the meaning in her words to sink into his brain. A soft gasp, a blush, and a cough cleared his throat, though not his embarrassment. "Er, well...yes, I suppose something like that would be...rigorous in testing the safety parameters. Even at your most...rigorous, when you weren't consciously thinking about moving, you just...hung there?"

"Well, there was some movement, but it was basically all in the same area of space--could we change the subject, please?" Hermione asked, blushing fiercely. He nodded and gestured down at the chairs. Floating back down, she cancelled her spell at the same time he released his, and they settled back into their seats.

"This is a marvelous spell! Testing must be done on it, of course, to see how long the spell lasts, how much of the witch or wizard's energy it expends, how safe it is... Safer than a broom, I'd imagine," he chuckled, working his way through the ideas her Charm had triggered, "though probably not nearly as fast. Oh, but this would make a wonderful hedge against falling off of a broom or a carpet! Assuming, of course, that a first-year could cast the magic. It feels a bit advanced for that, though...perhaps a fourth-year spell? Yes, most students wouldn't have progressed far enough in their Charms work to be able to handle it before then... Except for you, of course. You could've probably handled this one back in your second year!"

Hermione smiled at his praise, lifting her teacup again.

"Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick stated, surprising her with the formality, "I feel it is time, and past time, to tender an offer to you to take you on as my apprentice in the exciting field of Charms. And I must insist that you accept! This one spell alone is simply remarkable in its scope! There's no telling what else you could come up with."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Well...I also came up with an All-Stop spell, the other day..."

Fixing her with a fierce look from under his bushy silver brows, Filius commanded, "Explain yourself, young lady, and leave nothing out!" He paused abruptly, his bearded cheeks tingeing pink above the hairline, and backtracked verbally. "...Er, that is, provided it's nothing terribly intimate in nature..."

Choking on a giggle, Hermione complied.