Midnight Comes

Saving a Death Eater

By Bambu

Author's Notes: Standard disclaimers and thanks may be found in chapter one. However, I'd additionally like to thank Lillithj for allowing me to use one of her gimmicks (although we use it in very different ways) in this chapter. It was a perfect bridge.

~o0o~

Chapter Two: Midnight Comes

Hermione averted her eyes from the mullioned windows of the Gryffindor common room, avoiding the sight of raging bonfires dotting the school's grounds where Magical Law Enforcement and Healers continued their grim tasks of succoring the wounded and tallying the dead.

Night had fallen, and she desperately needed some rest before facing the ad hoc inquest under the Interim Minister the following morning.

She glanced at the base of the boys' staircase where, a few minutes before, Harry had given her a bracing hug, thanked her for everything, and then shuffled up the stairs with Neville and Seamus following close on his heels.

Two Hit Wizards, hand-picked by Shacklebolt himself, were not to be outdone by the war-toughened youths and followed quickly behind.

Ron had already returned to the Burrow.

The Weasleys had left mid-day, and Ron's last comment –'It's a family thing, Hermione. You understand, yeah?' – had unintentionally delivered the deepest wound she'd received during the Battle of Hogwarts.

For the first time in a long time, Hermione had nowhere to go.

She wasn't a Hogwarts student, and in any event, the girls' dormitories had been damaged during the fighting. Her family home was empty, and had she mustered the fortitude to stay in the house without her parents, she simply didn't have the magical energy to Apparate that far, nor would she risk an illegal Portkey in the heightened security surrounding the school. Yet, remaining in the common room under the appraising eyes of the rest of the Hit Wizard squad was guaranteed to keep her sleepless.

Serendipitously, Minerva McGonagall arrived at that moment.

"Here you are, Miss Granger. Hermione." The older witch's voice trembled with weariness and emotional depletion; yet her posture was straight. The gash on her cheek, sustained during the fighting, had been neatly sealed. A slender scar would remain, but she would bear it proudly. "I've come to offer you a bed, or at least a place to sleep." She smiled at Hermione's surprise, and continued briskly. "My quarters are secured and I have a very comfortable sofa in my sitting room."

"If it wouldn't be any trouble, Professor, I'd like that very much." Briefly, Hermione swayed on her feet.

Ingrained habit propelled McGonagall forward before she aborted the gesture; however, her tone changed as she asked, "Is that blood?"

"Where?" Hermione quickly scanned the common room. Someone had attempted to create order from chaos: One sofa had been shredded by an unnamed jinx, and the cozy corner in which Harry, Hermione, and Ron had spent many of their happiest hours as students was a pile of splintered wood and battle debris.

"On you, Miss – Hermione." McGonagall huffed. "Your robes are simply saturated."

"Oh!" Hermione turned startled eyes toward her own clothing. Her robes were in sorry shape, testament to the near-misses and direct impacts suffered since her hastily applied Cleaning Charm in the Shrieking Shack, the right sleeve saturated with dried blood.

For a wonder, Hermione was whole and reasonably unimpaired.

It was that precise moment when her body let her know in full measure that it hurt everywhere, and she blinked to clear her suddenly blurry vision. It wasn't the same as an all-encompassing Cruciatus; nonetheless, Hermione practically staggered as a wave of pain settled heavily upon her. With one hand on the back of the only undamaged chair in the room, she steadied herself. "I – I think I'm alright, Professor."

"Yes, well, you are standing. There may be no room in the hospital wing, but you should see Madam Pomfrey nonetheless."

Dirt-encrusted fingers flew to Hermione's mouth as hours' old memories bludgered their way to the forefront of her thoughts and she recalled dragging the matron to the Shrieking Shack in an attempt to save Snape's life.

"Madam Pomfrey's here?" Hemione's voice grew shrill as question after question poured forth. "Isn't she at St. Mungo's? Why isn't she at St. Mungo's? What's happened? Why isn't she with..."

Movement in her peripheral vision reminded her they weren't alone and she abruptly stopped speaking. She turned her head, slipping one hand into her pocket and wrapping it around her new and unfamiliar wand as her eyes met the avid interest of a blue-eyed Hit Wizard across the room.

McGonagall said, "Madam Pomfrey's needed here."

Hermione bit her lip against blurting out the truth, and when the putative headmistress laid her hand comfortingly on Hermione's injured shoulder, Hermione flinched and gasped.

"Miss Granger! You are injured. Come with me."

The intense throbbing of her re-opened wound sped Hermione's footsteps in McGonagall's wake through the portrait hole and to the hospital wing. Avoiding the worst of the castle's damage, they took infrequently used halls.

Hermione stumbled a

"You should have been seen to hours ago," McGonagall said as Hermione stumbled, keeping pace. "Why didn't Molly..." The professor didn't complete her sentence; they both knew why Molly Weasley hadn't behaved like her usual, competent self.

The rest of the short trip was made in silence.

When they reached the infirmary, McGonagall turned to Hermione. "You know where my rooms are. I don't know when I'll return, but I've adjusted the security wards to recognize you."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Yes . . . well." The older woman brushed a stain from the sleeve of her teaching robes – at some point after the battle, she'd changed from the tartan dressing gown she'd worn while fighting - then turned to meet the rapidly approaching mediwitch.

"Take care of her, Poppy," said as she departed; her attention already on the next most urgent task.

Madam Pomfrey swiftly led Hermione to an improvised examination room; the day before it had been a supply closet. The room's walls were lined with shelves, all of which bowed under the weight of medical supplies and linens.

Hermione slipped atop a transfigured bench, clenching her teeth against the sharp, throbbing in her shoulder. As if a dam had broken, the presence of all her other wounds flooded into her consciousness, until she was drowning in deferred agony.

She whimpered when Pomfrey sliced through her clothing.

"I need to expose the wound, Miss Granger."

"All right." Hermione was shocked by how thin and weak she sounded.

Penetrating blue eyes examined Hermione. "Perhaps I should have said wounds."

"I think so. I wasn't aware – I didn't feel them ... before," Hermione explained.

"That's often the case in the heat of battle." He cast her severing charm on the major seams of Hermione's clothing. "There has been sufficient time for the material to have stuck to your skin in a number of places." She pinched her lips, and then said, "This is going to sting."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Can – Is there a way to numb..."

"Not until I see what I'm dealing with."

Bracing herself, knuckles white from the strength of her grasp, Hermione said, "All right. I'm ready."

An unpleasant few minutes ensued.

When Pomfrey had finished, Hermione stood in a puddle of cloth – the former bits and pieces of her clothing.

A number of wounds had been re-opened by its removal.

Hermione was entirely too tired to care that she was standing nude in front of the mediwitch, submitting to a thorough inspection with only a single whimper when Pomfrey debrided the edges of her shoulder injury.

Once the inspection was complete, Pomfrey levitated a tray to the heights of various shelves, collecting a number of bottles, salves, and other healing paraphernalia before the tray descended to hover at her elbow. With pursed lips, she applied Burn-Healing Paste to various scorched patches of Hermione's skin and one eyebrow, used a Suturing Charm on several Slicing Hex marks.

The mediwitch talked while she worked.

"You're too thin."

Hermione opened her mouth to defend herself and Fleur Weasley, who had done her best over the past several weeks to balance the depredations of the many preceding months.

Madam Pomfrey's pointed finger gave Hermione pause.

"Don't give me that look, Hermione Granger. I know you've been evading capture for months, and you've kept yourselves alive quite remarkably." Brushing a lock of hair off her forehead, Pomfrey plucked a small brown bottle from amongst its neighbors on the hovering tray. "But now it's time to look after your health."

She handed the small bottle to Hermione. "It's a nutritive supplement. I've already given one to Mr. Potter. I'll want you both to take another dose tomorrow. I have the recipe for the potion in my files if you'd like to brew it yourself. You're certainly qualified. I want you and Potter to take it weekly until you've returned to full vitality."

Obediently, Hermione swallowed all of the mint-flavored syrup, licked her lips to get every drop, then rolled the small vial between thumb and fingers. "I wish we'd had this last winter. I've never even seen a reference to a potion like this before."

"You wouldn't have, would you?" Pomfrey replied. "It's one of Severus' own devising. He's always been on the thin side; it's that nervy constitution of his." She chuckled and shook her head. "He said he created it to avoid my mollycoddling."

She paused, her wand halting in mid-swish, a bandage froze in the act of folding itself into thirds. Pomfrey's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I do hope he'll recover."

"Has something else happened? Is he--"Hermione's fingers dug into the smooth leather of the examination table.

"No! No." Pomfrey hastily reassured her. "He's alive. However, his injuries are quite serious and that bloody snake -– pardon me –- the venom will be difficult if not impossible to counteract."

While she bandaged Hermione's wounds, the mediwitch explained that Snape had been safely and surreptitiously taken to St. Mungo's where he was being carefully guarded. "Not by the Aurors, Hermione. My friend Brian is tending him. He's a superb Healer, and Severus is in excellent care. However, we can't keep his survival a secret for long, and he'll need more protection in the long run."

Despite the small, private room, Hermione cast Muffliato.

"Where did you learn that? Pomfrey's tone of voice demanded an immediate answer.

Casting another guideline across the gap between youth and maturity, Hermione confided, "We learned a number of spells from one of Professor Snape's books."

"He gave you one of his books?" Pomfrey's eyes widened considerably.

"Professor Slughorn gave it to Harry last year..."

Pomfrey nodded her head while rummaging in her basket for another bandage. "Then Dumbledore knew about it; undoubtedly he got it from Severus."

"I don't think Professor Snape knew about it until after Draco Malfoy ...." Hermione bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably on the thickly padded examination table while being careful not to flex her shoulder.

"When Potter hit Malfoy with that dreadful hex? Was that one of –" Pomfrey nodded to herself. "It would have been. I remember Severus' school years quite clearly; I'd simply forgotten that particular spell."

"He's really brilliant," Hermione said, "and some of his spells have helped us enormously. I'll have to remember that when I talk to Harry and Kingsley Shacklebolt in the morning. I hope we can help the Professor. Harry, especially, will want him to be taken care of."

Pomfrey tsked her disbelief.

Hermione leaned forward, earnestly. "I know they've never liked each other, but Harry will do his best to protect him . . . and after today, I suspect he'll be able to make good on his word."

Hermione then winced as the mediwitch pressed the final, and largest, bandage against her shoulder blade, magically sealing it to her skin. "Don't make the mistake of thinking Potter's influence will have immediate results," Pomfrey warned.

The final battle may have been won, but it didn't mean there weren't those who might seize an opportunity to hurt her or her friends in the uncertain days ahead.

"No." Hermione acknowledged the warning. "Kingsley's influence should be enough. At least, in the beginning." Flexing and raising her left arm, she tested her range of motion, gritting her teeth as the shoulder felt as if it were on fire. "Thank you for your help, Madam Pomfrey."

Flicking her wand, the matron animated the pieces of Hermione's robes, and stitched them back in place. "I told you to call me Poppy. You're no longer a child and I think we can dispense with the formalities. Don't you?"

Hermione smiled. "I didn't want to presume, but . . . thanks, Poppy . . . for everything. You've done a remarkable job when I know you must be exhausted."

"Fortunately..." the older witch pulled a clear vial containing a fluorescent lilac liquid from her pocket, "...this has kept me on my toes. It's a short-term energizer, and no, I shan't give you any. What you need is rest. It's a wonder you're still on your feet."

Within moments, Hermione had been ushered from the examination room and turned in the direction of the faculty wing.

The teachers' living quarters were situated at the back of the castle, farthest from classrooms and communal areas of the school. As a result, the professor's rooms had escaped relatively unscathed from the insurgency.

However, to Hermione, each weary step caused her muscles to burn and her joints to ache.

Pausing at McGonagall's door, she glanced at the next door along the corridor. It led to the faculty bath. While turning in at her former Head of House's rooms was terribly tempting, there was no way Hermione was going to sleep with the stench of other people's blood clinging to her.

She shuddered.

No way at all.

The door was unlocked and Hermione slipped into the staff facilities quietly. Torches flared to life along one wall, illuminating the spacious room, reflecting off gilt-framed mirrors lining another.

Unsurprisingly, the room was empty.

Nevertheless, Hermione cast Homenum revelioto confirm she was alone, then she secured a Colloportus around the entry.

Half the size of the Prefect's bath, this room was far more luxurious. A multi-colored variety of plush towels was stacked neatly atop a small chest near the capacious tub, and six vanities nestled between seven highboys lining one wall, four of each bore house insignia. Hermione presumed those were for the private use of the Heads of Houses. Unlike the Prefects bath, this one – which could seat four or five people comfortably – had a single faucet.

Hermione crossed to the recessed pool and tapped the faucet's downspout with her wand. The pipes coughed and spluttered, echoing in the otherwise silent room before water poured forth in a steaming cascade.

A soothing floral scent perfumed the air.

Hermione twisted her hair into an untidy knot atop her head, slipping her wand into the mess to hold it in place. The grimy shoes she'd worn for months went flying as she kicked them off before shucking her robes and stepping from the material as it fell into a pile atop the warmed stone floor.

Ruefully, she noted the numerous healing marks and bandages covering her skin, from bandaged right knee, to the bandage on her left elbow. The worst, of course, was her shoulder injury, but that she couldn't see without a mirror.

Hermione shrugged, aborting the gesture halfway.

It hurt too much.

Briefly, she reconsidered her choice to bathe.

The water was steaming and fragrant. She was two footsteps from submerged bliss, seconds from her first real bath in months.

She made her decision, and raised her left leg to tug her filthy sock from her foot.

A slender gleam of light drew her attention to her ankle.

A smudge, she thought, but it was too shiny.

Looking again, Hermione's stomach lurched and her heart raced as her exhausted adrenal glands managed a fresh influx of stimulant. Now that she was focusing her attention on it, she could feel the hum of magic emanating from the silver strand's location.

Frantically, Hermione grabbed for her wand – the wand they'd captured from Bellatrix – swirled it, and called out, "Lumos!"

Even as bright light flared from the walnut tip, Hermione's hair tumbled into her face, and she pushed it from her eyes.

Dropping to her right knee, she lowered the wand toward the shiny strip of silvery blue which completely wrapped her left ankle as if it had been painted there.

Her weary mind flailed for an answer.

No Dark magic had registered during Pomfrey's diagnostic, nor could Hermione recall being hexed in the foot during the fighting.

Carefully, she cast two Dark Arts revealing spells Fleur Weasley had taught her during her recent stay at Shell Cottage.

The results were negative.

Hermione's relieved sigh was loud above the sounds of the magically filling bath.

She briefly considered and dismissed the idea of finding or waking McGonagall; Harry was asleep, Ron and the Weasleys had left, and anyone else Hermione might have adjudged trustworthy were either dead – her mind wailed at the loss of Tonks and Remus – or on the brink. Snape.

The thought of her former professor clued her in.

The shiny anklet was identical in color to the memories which had poured from him in the Shrieking Shack.

Could this be one of those memories? Might she have acquired it when Snape had first been wounded? Or even later, when she'd returned with Pomfrey to save him?

With minimal reluctance, Hermione touched her finger to the silvery substance.

It was slick and impenetrable. There was no give, no purchase for her to wedge a fingernail beneath, much less a wand.

If it was one of Snape's memories, then she hoped to return it. Until such time, she would be careful of the precious memory.

Unexpectedly, Hermione shivered; the room's chill reminding her of her naked state.

She would still bathe, but cautiously.

Hermione sat on the edge of the bath, hooking her left foot, ankle, and calf above the ledge, resting it on the stone lip of the pool. Then she lowered herself onto the second step.

She inhaled deeply, savoring the rosemary and white birch scented water, and after several minutes, tension released from long-abused muscles.

When she yawned so widely her jaw popped, Hermione proceeded to scrub herself clean – with extra care to the area around the bandages at shoulder, wrist and knee. Before washing her memory-marked foot, she braced herself at an angle, and then scrubbed the unblemished skin.

When catastrophe struck, it was her hair's fault.

Tilting her head back to rinse the shampoo from her matted hair was a miscalculation. Exhaustion disoriented her and she tumbled into the deeper part of the pool.

Her ankle -- with its silvery blue attachment -- followed the course of Newton's Law and was immersed before Hermione could recover her balance.

"No!" Her chest heaved in a convulsive sob.

Snape's memory strand floated off her skin, thinning and spreading itself across the surface of the water as it turned the bath into an actualized Pensieve.

Before she recovered her bearings, Snape's memory filled her consciousness, embracing her in the totality of her immersion. She could no longer feel her real life surroundings, the warm water of the faculty bath, or the chilled skin of her drying shoulders.

In fact, she was no longer in the faculty bath.

Instead, she was in a circular room. One she recognized. She had been there earlier that day with Harry and Ron, when the portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses had congratulated Harry on his accomplishments.

Hermione ignored a momentary twinge of bitterness that her sacrifices – and Ron's -- hadn't been mentioned at all. Also unmentioned were the many who had suffered for the cause, and to Hermione's mind, none as dearly as the man they had believed dead in the Shrieking Shack.

In this memory, however, Voldemort's appointed headmaster was seated at his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork. Lank hair framed his face, highlighting the sallowness of his skin and the prominence of his Romanesque nose.

"Snape!"

Hermione whirled, recognizing the voice.

Phineas Nigellus Black's sneering countenance slid into view, pushing Dilys Derwent from the center of her own portrait.

"I beg your pardon, Phineas," she said, affronted. "You could have asked for frame space."

"Bugger off, you silly cow! I have a report to make."

Huffing, the former headmistress slipped from her portrait.

When Black looked out at Snape, Hermione suddenly remembered her nudity. One arm flew across her breasts, the other acting the part of a fig leaf, her face heating with embarrassment. She glanced at Snape; he had set his quill down and was rising to his feet.

Hermione scrambled behind a guest chair as Snape walked past her – he might not know she was there, but it was extremely disconcerting when he was close enough for his robes to brush her feet.

Naturally, he didn't register her presence at all, and the conversation regained her attention.

"Don't get your robes in a twist, Phineas. What is the nature of your report?"

Black sneered. "That stupid boy has left."

"Which one?" Snape demanded.

"Weasley."

"The wretch!" Snape scowled, pacing a circuit on the thick rug in front of his desk. "Potter needs him. What about --"

"The Mudblood?"

Several of the other portraits gasped in outrage, and Snape whirled to face Black, his eyes narrowed, flags of anger flying high on his cheekbones. "Do not use that word!"

"Still pining for your one true love?"

Faster than Hermione could track, Snape's wand was in his hand and pointing at the portrait. "If I didn't need your information, Phineas Black, you would be transfigured into a coat rack and placed in the Hufflepuff Quidditch shed . . . permanently."

The former Slytherin headmaster rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. The girl is still there, but she's sobbing her heart out."

Snape traced his lips with his forefinger. "Yet another who plants their affections in fickle and undeserving fields."

"I didn't think you liked the Mu--- Miss Granger."

"Liking has nothing to do with recognizing that she is instrumental to Potter's survival." Snape resumed his pacing, the lines in his face as deep as if they had been chiseled into his skin.

Hermione stared at him, mouth agape.

Snape asked, "What of Potter? Is he, too, sobbing his heart out?"

"He hasn't said a word in hours. I think he's gone to sleep."

Suddenly the room began to blur and spin. Before Hermione panicked, it righted itself.

Once again, Hermione was in the headmaster's study. Only this time it was early morning and it was stormy outside. Lightning caused a strangely nightmarish strobe effect in the large room; otherwise, nothing appeared to have changed from the earlier memory.

Snape's head rested in his hands, elbows digging into stacks of parchment atop the desk.

After a moment, Hermione moved closer to him, slightly shocked by her own daring. It might only be a memory, but she was still naked and in a room with a grown man – one who'd never been kind to her.

As she neared the desk, a house-elf popped into sight, weighed down by the tray he carried. Snape's head snapped up, and Hermione gasped.

He looked exhausted and ill.

"Oh, Professor," she murmured in dismay.

"Kreacher has brought Master Snape his breakfast."

Hermione spun to face the house-elf.

"I didn't ask for breakfast." Even Snape's voice – that precise instrument of invective – bore the results of his stress, breaking on the last word.

"No, sir didn't." Kreacher snapped his fingers and the parchments beneath Snape's elbows were whisked into a tidy pile at one corner of the desktop. "Master will need to be strong to face what is coming."

"What do you mean?" Snape asked sharply. "What is coming?"

Unaware of Snape's scrutiny, Kreacher replied with unaffected aplomb, "Harry Potter is coming, and Master Snape must be prepared."

"Where is he?" Snape demanded. "Where is Potter?"

Kreacher's shoulders bowed. "Kreacher knows not. Kreacher cannot find him. Harry Potter must summon Kreacher to his side."

"And are you for or against him, elf? As I recall, you were most recently fawning over Bellatrix Lestrange's feet."

Orb-like eyes fixed on the headmaster, and Hermione recognized a reproving glare when she saw it.

"Do not play games with me, wizard," Kreacher said. "We know where your loyalties lie."

The chair fell backwards with a crash as Snape leapt to his feet, wand raised aggressively. "Who is we?" Snape shouted. "And where do your loyalties lie?"

The old house-elf straightened to his full diminutive height, his hands – gnarled with age and long years of hard service – clenched in tiny fists. "Kreacher stands with . . . with Harry Potter. Master Potter is helping Kreacher avenge Master Regulus."

Snape stared at the house-elf for several hard thumps of Hermione's heart.

"How utterly ironic," he said, at last, "but I believe you're telling the truth."

"Kreacher would not lie to Master Snape. Kreacher sees how carefully Master Snape walks his line. Kreacher learns from Master Snape."

Throwing back his head, Hogwarts' headmaster uttered a harsh bark of laughter, then flicked his wand to right his chair. His tone was sardonically amused when he spoke. "Put the tray here, Kreacher. It seems I have an appetite after all. Is there more you can tell me? When did you last see Potter? Was Granger with him?"

The old house-elf wrung his hands, saying dolefully, "Master Potter and his friends left the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black together. It is said in the kitchens they went to the Ministry of Magic."

"They were there." Snape's eyes glinted with malicious glee. "They wreak havoc wherever they go. It's a wonder they haven't been captured yet."

The house-elf bobbed his head. "Kreacher hasn't seen Master Harry or the others again, and I made such a lovely bit of steak and kidney pie, but" – his eyes narrowed and the nervous wringing of his hands ceased – "that nasty wizard, Yaxley, arrived and spoiled everything."

Snape nodded as if adding pieces to a half-worked puzzle. "Were they prepared?"

"Master Harry had his father's cloak, and the Mud- Muggle – the girl had her bag – never without that bag, she was."

"And Weasley?"

Kreacher scoffed, and then Snape asked, "Did Miss Granger take any books with her when they left?"

"Take? Was she stealing?"

Snape waved his hand dismissively, and muttered, "It had to have been her. Neither Potter nor Weasley would consider it."

Kreacher stood respectfully at attention, leaning slightly in the headmaster's direction as if to catch the merest pearl of wisdom dropping from his thin lips.

Snape added milk and sugar to his tea before taking a drink. When he finally set his teacup back in its saucer, he asked, "Did Miss Granger bring any books with her to Grimmauld Place?"

Kreacher snorted. "The girl was always reading one book or another. She spent most of her time in the library."

"A number of those books were mine," Snape said, quietly, thoughtfully. He reclined as far as the chair's tolerance would allow, steepling his hands with elbows resting on the leather arms. "Granger would've found several of them useful, and if she's taken them with her, I consider it a worthwhile loan."

He straightened, his black eyes alighting on the wizened house-elf. "Are you able to return to the house without being captured?"

A crafty expression brightened Kreacher's face. "Unless Master Harry forbids me, I can go anywhere."

"Excellent. I want you to see if Miss Granger took – er, borrowed – a certain book. Check the house for Secrets of the Darkest Art."

Kreacher instantly popped out of sight.

Snape speared a sausage, and the room blurred.

Hermione's thoughts were nearly as blurry as the surrounding environment.

Amidst the confused whirl, a glimmer of satisfaction radiated from a single thought. She had made the right choice in trying to save Snape.

When the Pensieved memory settled once again, Hermione stood in a large and comfortably furnished bedroom. Upon inspection, she realized it was Snape's and he was in bed.

Hermione's opinion of Snape had evolved over the years with each new and sometimes confusing revelation. Until earlier that day, she had never really considered him as a man. Yet, standing naked in his Pensieved memory, she was confronted with a new paradigm as she stared at the man leaning against his pillows with a book propped on his knees.

Snape was thin, and shiny black hair dusted across his pectorals, narrowing to a point at his abdomen. Hermione's fascination with slender trail of hair was abruptly interrupted as Phineas Black's voice called from the other room.

"Snape! Snape!"

Snape shouted, "In here."

"They've been taken!" Phineas Black slipped into the painting hanging across from Snape's bed, color leaching from the landscape to form his intrusive body and face. "

"What?"

"Potter and the others," Black said urgently, "they've been captured."

"What!" Snape sat bolt upright. "When? Who took them?"

"Greyback and his misbegotten gang of Snatchers."

Hastily, Snape leapt from the bed. "Shite!" he swore when his feet landed on the cold stone floor.

"I'm trapped in Granger's bag," Black said.

Snape sprinted to his armoire, the door opening to his need and a set of robes levitated toward him. He grabbed the fabric with one hand, prepared to drop the flannel Pyjama pants he wore with the other, and then he stopped mid-action.

Black said helpfully, "They're being taken to Malfoy Manor."

Snape swore more creatively than before. His shoulders slumped.

Hermione noticed his knuckles were bloodless against the black cloth his hands gripped.

"I can't leave the school," he said heavily, dropping his robes across the back of a tufted armchair. "Did Greyback get all of them, Black? Potter? Weasley? And ... and Granger?"

"Yes. All of them. But that little witch is a clever one. She hexed Potter before they were apprehended. He's presently unrecognizable."

"Bollocks! It's too soon." Snape commenced pacing an oval path on the rug at his bedside. "There's nothing I can do from here."

"I have no portrait at the manor," Black said, "but I might visit my niece in the morning room."

Snape raised his head to look at the portrait of his Slytherin predecessor. "Let me know what you learn."

Black disappeared from the landscape, but Snape continued to pace, his stride quick and ceaseless.

After a few minutes, Hermione was emboldened to slip closer to him. He was still considerably taller than she, but at close range, she noticed his hair was wet from a bath and his eyes glittered like black diamonds as he calculated the intelligence he'd been given. "Escalate the time table . . . Weasley'll be useless . . . loses his head when his emotions are involved . . . Granger . . . at least she's learned to think on her feet."

He whirled, reached for his robes once again, and grabbed his boots from the floor.

Pensieve mist whirled around Hermione, leaving her shivering in the now-cold bathwater.

Her eyes stared at the Hufflepuff armoire, glazed and unfocused.

Hermione's teeth began to chatter, and she scrubbed her face with her hands. She had no idea how to reattach the strand of Snape's memories, but couldn't remain in the tub indefinitely.

Cautiously, Hermione stepped from the water.

Luck was with her.

Like quicksilver coalescing, Snape's memories slicked across the surface of the tub encircling her left ankle as if it had never been dislodged.

Hermione sighed deeply with relief.

While dressing in a set of self-sizing, dark green robes she found in one of the unmarked highboys, Hermione considered the memory strand. Perhaps it had gravitated to her because of content; all the memories related to her in some way or another.

A smile curved her lips as she towel-dried her hair. Snape thought she had learned to think on her feet.

By the time she felt the tingle of McGonagall's security wards in recognition, Hermione was practically asleep on her feet. The previous forty-eight hours had exhausted her. When she closed her eyes, the only image she saw in her mind's eye was the naked torso of Severus Snape leaning against the headboard of his bed, reading a book.

~o0o~