Movement

Summary: A man dreams, a phoenix flies, and a mind awakens. McGonagall looks out the window, and Dumbledore coughs.

A/N: A spiffy new quill to Anastasia, who sees what ends up on the cutting room floor - I could not ask for a better writing partner. Special thanks to Melenka for her wisdom, and to my beta Luna305 for her patience.

He raised his eyebrow in the darkness. She didn't need to see him to know that he had.

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A misty dawn was breaking over Grimmauld Place, and Severus kept his silent vigil over the woman in his arms, in the low light from the cloud circling above. Somewhere beyond it, on an imaginary horizon, the sun was rising.

Hermione had fallen asleep, hours earlier, her breath on his neck, warm, smooth, even.

Odd.

His arm had fallen asleep shortly after Hermione did, but he refused to move it. True; in his world, not being able to feel that particular arm was something of a blessing. Not being able to feel Hermione's skin was almost an even trade.

Almost.

He had never held a woman while she slept.

He had never watched a woman sleeping.

He had never felt a woman's breath on his neck, calm, satisfied, triumphant, vulnerable, and known what it was to dream, watching her dreaming, wondering what she was dreaming.

She whimpered in her sleep, and he hoped it wasn't about him.

And then she smiled, and he hoped it was.

He held her closer, deliberately tracing the graceful, complicated pattern of her hair as it lay on his chest.

He leaned his head against hers and didn't worry about his arm.

The feel of her hair on his cheek, though. That was... bothersome.

Her lips, parted, warm on his neck – also bothersome.

And the feel of her body in his arms, still half-tangled, where she had fallen, collapsed, laughing - A glorious descent... - most unnerving. He was nearly certain that the road to hell was paved with Hermione's laughter.

But... ... a pillow? he mused, turning his thoughts of her over in his mind. That will not happen agai - oh, bugger. The bloody otter. Playful. He grimaced. It would almost certainly happen again.

Bad enough that she was brilliant. Bad enough that the blood magic he had not consciously invoked – another thing to figure out later – that it held them bound in ways that were still a mystery. Another tie... Bad enough that she was water, rain in the wind.

But really, an otter? Infuriating.

Setting his thoughts to "barely tolerant," he wondered, briefly, if her patronus would change.

Probably not. It was just the kind of irritating thing she wouldn't do. No, Hermione Granger's patronus would not change. Not even if she had really fallen in...

He inhaled through his teeth. Fingernails.

Hermione was waking up. Her eyes were soft, sleepy, and...

... hungry? He chuckled, and, reaching his good arm over her, cupping her shoulder, he drew her onto him. Absent her weight, the blood rushing back into his arm flamed almost as badly as a Dark Mark call.

Waking, she was feeling. And, feeling, her body remembered, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. She still wasn't fully awake.

One arm aflame Just blood..., the other languidly stroking her back, Severus felt her remember, and laughed, low, rich, and dark.

"Do that again," she requested, not entirely politely, in his mind.

A reflex - Occlumens. His eyes searched her face, alarmed.

"I don't think that will work right now," she thought, seriously, still not quite awake.

Aloud, he said, "You are no Legilimens, Hermione."

He received an image of her looking around, as if in a room, arms open. "Beg to differ."

"How?" He half sat, leaning against the headboard, and she looked up at him grumpily before finding and settling into position that was comfortable.

She curled with her head in his lap. "How should I know? I sort of woke up in here, and all of the reference books are downstairs. Come back inside, Severus. My thoughts are getting cold."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Fine," he growled in her mind. "But rest assured we will discuss this further, later."

Her thoughts laughed at his irritation.

If it was the road to hell, and if he had any farther to fall, he had no plans to saunter vaguely downwards. A few more hours before she had to report. "Hm..."

She caught his tone. "Good morning to you, too."

"Isn't it."

"You're in that kind of mood, I see." She sounded... delighted?

"Bother."

"Yes, I rather suspect you'll find that I am." She shrugged. "Most people do."

What he wanted to think was "I am not most people," but what came through was "Skin might just be better than coffee."

Both. Both would be good.

He refused to contemplate the fact that she might be a morning person.

"I'm not. I do my best work at night."

"Really," he thought dryly.

He found the fact that when she blushed all of her did rather intriguing.

Hermione reached for a pillow, and in one lithe movement he had her on her back, hands held over her head with one hand, and the other...

"Don't even try, Hermione."

She laughed again, and then, some time not too long later, she cried his name, a challenge to the inevitable and indifferent sky.

"Glorious..."

He had forgotten that she could hear him.

They both had forgotten that Tayet could hear too.

The phoenix swept into the room, circled, and landed on the headboard, watching.

"Blast!" and "Oh, dear" ricocheted off of each other in their minds.

They winced.

Tayet trilled. It was a glorious morning, and she felt like flying.

Launching herself off of the headboard, she aimed for the cloud.

Thud.

"Squerk!"

Tayet landed on the bed between them, looking embarrassed.

They both erupted in laughter in each other's minds.

Tayet did an avian impression of Severus' most intimidating scowl.

They laughed harder.

"Well, it's not the way I expected that to happen..."

Severus arched his eyebrow.

"You laughing, inside my mind." Hermione stretched. "Still. It is rather an amazing feeling."

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Accio buttons. Reparo. Severus looked out the open window to the garden where Tayet was practicing gliding, apparently oblivious to the mist that rose outside the garden wall.

So far she had shown no signs of wanting to venture further than the garden, for which he was obscurely grateful. She had executed one or two acrobatic dives that had put a lump in his throat. Damn bird's feathers barely have the ashes off them, he grumbled to himself, and already she thinks she can play Quidditch for England.

Tayet zoomed through the window to chatter a trill at him, then zoomed out again.

Severus snorted, bemused. He considered his frock coat for a moment, then set it aside. It was rather a touch warm for wool.

Summoning another mug of coffee, he turned a chair around and sat at the table, leaning his arms on the chair back. He drew the stack of parchments to him and, sipping his coffee, began, dispassionately, to consider the problem of how to destroy the inanimate Horcruxes.

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"I assume that is your report, Miss Granger?" Minerva looked up from her work, then peered more closely at Hermione. There was something different about the girl.

Hermione swallowed. "The location of the fourth Horcrux, and..." her voice came out scratchy, and she finished very quietly, "... and the next name." She handed the parchment over and stood, waiting. I can't look. I have to look. I don't want to -

Minerva inhaled sharply, once, and dropped the parchment on her desk. Instinctively, she looked to Dumbledore's portrait. He was snoring softly.

"You're..." Minerva's throat was dry. "You're sure?"

"I – I'm afraid so, Headmistress." The title was another thing entirely in this office.

"Well," Minerva began, her voice a shade off from its usual brusqueness. "That's a bit... unexpected. But - " She cleared her throat and glanced out the window, toward the Quidditch pitch, seeing something older than today through the diamond panes. "Yes. Well."

Hermione looked at the floor, at the wall, at the Sorting Hat sitting, quiet, on the bookshelves.

"The connection?"

"I'm sorry?" Hermione asked.

"The connection between me and Hufflepuff's cup, child," Minerva said, her tone even more clipped than usual. "If I am to... hm..." she swallowed. "Forgive me. If I am to function in this capacity, I should like at the very least to know why."

Hermione thought, irrationally, that were it not for the fact that the headmistress' eyes were bright, one might have thought she had just caught four First Years out of bed after hours.

"The connection. With Molly and the locket, you said it was 'motherhood.' What is it this time, Miss Granger?"

Hermione could not look at her. "Marlene."

Minerva sat back, weakly. "What did you say?"

Hermione glanced at the headmistress. She had gone nearly transparent. "Marlene. It was her... them... that he... Voldemort... in order to... " She couldn't finish.

Minerva stood and walked haltingly to the window. Quiet for a moment, she watched the pennants flying over the pitch. How often I've remembered... "She loved Quidditch, you know."

Hermione glanced up, nervous, wishing she could decide what to do with her hands.

"My daughter. She played for Gryffindor with Potter. James."

"She was in a picture. Mad-Eye had it - "

"Yes. She was in the Order." Minerva swallowed, leaving her memories reluctantly and returning to the present. Turning to face Hermione, she almost smiled, almost apologetically, and said, "You still haven't told me the connection."

"Headmistress, I... I... Minerva... "

Minerva drew herself up straighter. "It's all right, child. Whatever you have to say can but sting, in comparison."

Hermione hesitated, but said, "I believe that the connection is... well... failure. Specifically, a failure of protection."

Minerva's hands twitched, and she stared at Hermione.

Dumbledore's portrait shifted in his sleep.

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, unwilling to look away.

After a moment, the headmistress' proud bearing seemed to deflate. "Yes," she said to herself. "I could not protect any of them. Marlene, her husband, my... my grandchildren." She returned to her desk somehow older than she had been a moment before. Gathering her wits, she continued, "I tried, of course, but - " she reached for her quill and the stack of parchments she had been working on when Hermione arrived. "But I failed." The quill paused. "Of course. That's obvious, isn't it."

Hermione watched as Minerva McGonagall transformed slowly back into her usual professorial demeanor and said nothing for several minutes.

When this most subtle transformation was complete, and Minerva spoke again, it was with the voice of the head of the Order of the Phoenix. "Have you any idea yet what the destruction of the Horcrux will entail?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Or its location?"

"It's... um, it's here. At Hogwarts - in the Trophy Room."

Minerva looked as though she'd eaten something particularly sour. "Presumably it is Transfigured?"

Hermione nodded, apologetically. It was a particularly nasty irony. "Probably Tom Riddle's Award for Special Services to the School; possibly his Medal for Magical Merit."

"I shall call Alastor in and we shall examine both." Damn you, Riddle. A flinty resolve grew in her eyes, revealing a fierceness of which Hermione was both a little frightened and, obscurely, proud, seeing another facet of what made the older woman a true Head of Gryffindor. Minerva continued, "He does have a crude sort of pointed predictability, Hermione. That becomes clearer with each new bit of information, and hinges with the findings of others, and with recent developments."

Developments? Startled, Hermione asked, "Is Harry okay? The Weasleys?"

"There was a minor altercation last night in Hogsmeade – the Aurors received a tip regarding plans to attack an unknown target, and made several arrests. Based on your analysis so far, I think it is possible – probable – that the planned attack was aimed at me."

"Professor McGonagall, do you believe that Voldemort knows we know about the Horcruxes?"

The older witch sighed tiredly. "I wish I knew, Hermione. I devoutly hope he does not."

"It's uncanny."

The headmistress nodded. "Indeed." She eyed Hermione speculatively. "You had no knowledge of last night's events when you arrived this morning?"

Last night's events. Oh, gods, not another one of these conversations, Hermione thought, panicking slightly. Not now.

Minerva saw the girls' cheeks flush slightly, saw her breathing rate increase. "Hermione, I am well aware that you have a contact of whom you will not speak."

HELP, Hermione thought frantically at Dumbledore's portrait.

He didn't move.

"And I understand and respect your desire to keep your association and the nature of your interactions a secret," Minerva continued.

This is so not happening.

"But, child, I must warn you, again, about the Dark. You are in very real danger of seduction."

This last warning completely overwhelmed Hermione's acting ability. Blushing furiously, she stared at her feet.

"Whereas I will not press you for information as to his – or her identity... " Minerva was watching Hermione closely, and her blush deepened slightly at the word "his." "...it would be most helpful to the Order were I to have some idea, at least, of the position your source enjoys."

Position?! Hermione's thoughts reached out wildly for balance. She concentrated on her breathing, knowing that the actual information Minerva was requesting was crucial, indeed.

"I believe, Headmistress, that my... ah... source is positioned quite close to..." Bloody hell! Her brain provided the phrase "the top," but she absolutely refused to speak those words for fear of losing her composure completely.

Dumbledore's portrait coughed in his sleep, and Minerva looked up hopefully. Still asleep. Oh, Albus. We have much to discuss before I join you on that wall... Wake up, wake up.

But Dumbledore's portrait continued snoring, smiling as though he were having a rather pleasant dream.

Turning her attention back to Hermione, Minerva said again, "I understand. You trust the information – or, in this case, the lack of it?"

Hermione nodded.

The headmistress weighed the merits of her earlier suspicions regarding the source's identity. Yes, very likely young Malfoy; probably through his family connections. The information will be erratically timed, then, but reasonably reliable. Aloud, she said, "Very well. A position of strength, then."

Hermione gulped.

"That will be sufficient for all but the most sensitive purposes."

Hermione wished devoutly that this interview would end. Without moving her head – she was terrified that she would do something, say something that would betray... well, everything – she searched Dumbledore's portrait with her eyes. One eye screwed itself more firmly shut than the other. A wink?! Oh good gods!

"Headmistress?" she ventured.

"Yes, of course, you will wish to return to your research."

Hermione said nothing. It seemed the best course.

"It is absolutely crucial, Hermione, that you not overlook even the smallest detail."

Hermione nodded.

"Very well." The headmistress hesitated. "I will not speak with Molly until you know more about what the process is likely to entail. Do please be careful."

Hermione nodded, and turned to leave.

"Hermione, I - " There was a strange note in Minerva's voice, one Hermione had never heard before.

Hermione turned.

"Thank you, child." The voice of a mother.

Hermione's eyes filled with sudden tears. "Minerva... I'm... I'm so sorry," she said, her voice ragged, but firm.

Minerva nodded. She'd heard the force, the fierce commitment in the girl's tone. And – perhaps – something that was almost... Protective?

Sighing, Minerva reached again for her work. War made them all older than they should be. Even the children. Especially the children.

When the scratching of her quill reached his ears, Dumbledore's portrait peeked through his eyelashes at his successor. Masking a sigh behind another snore, he closed his eyes again.