4

xWritten for my fabulous friend, Dynonugget. Rawr!

"Ms. Granger," I begin, the name sounding foreign in my mouth, "we need to talk."

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I pause. What had she said? She hadn't expected me?

"Just where had you expected me to be this morning?" The question forces itself past my tightened lips. I despise this constant stream of surprises.

"I'd assumed you'd be at the penthouse. I'd Floo-ed in to congratulate you on the piece in the Prophet's morning edition regarding your newest acquisition, but the place looked as if had been empty for a while. Neither were you at your office downtown. This was the last resort."

Snatches of words and phrases are running a marathon in my head. Acquisition. Office. Penthouse. Last Resort.

"I needed Gobbert this weekend," I say flatly, desperate to maintain an evenness in my voice.

"Ah," she says and nods her head.

"Lucius, I may have found a solution for Gobbert, although I doubt he will react favorably, at first. It may be the only way ..." her voice trails off as she shrugs her shoulders.

I sit, dizzy from this surreal conversation. One thought is droning in my brain. I trust her. But why, and why her? I cannot fathom it, she is just a Mudblood who was somehow lucky enough to survive the war; and here she is, in my study, addressing me by my first name as if we are on intimate terms. Intimate terms.

"I had thought we were going to meet at the pub on Friday when we returned from Dublin." Ms. Granger said this casually enough, but there is tightness around her mouth, as if it is an effort to make the question casual. Interesting.

When I do not respond, she stands and walks to my desk, setting down her cup and saucer. I watch her walk, her hips sway softly, and think she must be exquisite to watch dance. She possesses a natural rhythm, an inherent tempo she moves to, whether it be pouring tea or crossing a room.

I want to snatch up today's newspaper and read the article on my business dealings; I want to inquire as to her suggestion regarding Gobbert; but I don't do any of these. Instead, I rise slowly from my seat and move to stand before her.

"You said you needed to talk to me," she mumbles while staring down at my shirt. I grasp her chin and lift her face so that her gaze meets mine.

"Indeed."

Without breaking eye contact, I reach in my breast pocket and withdraw the scrap of parchment bearing her name. Her reaction is fast and furious, as if a trap is sprung. Her eyes widen, and without uttering a single word, she snatches her briefcase in one hand and my hand with her other. Pulling me after her, she strides to the fireplace. She releases my hand to fill hers with Floo powder. How much Floo powder does she need? A large pinch or two would be enough I think. While the green flame swirls, she pushes me forward while nearly shouting the word, "Penthouse."

As my body is drawn into the blaze, she is next to me. After long minutes, we slow to a stop and step from the fireplace in a well-appointed living room. Without breaking stride, she leads me to the couch where she pulls me down next to her. The last time I was led by the hand, I was a toddler. To have her do so now is inconceivable; yet here I am, docilely following behind like some boy in short pants.

"Lucius, what is going on?"

My showing her the parchment with her name on it has caused this reaction. Was it some sort of signal? What did it mean? The only fact I know for certain, the one thing I know for sure, is that I trust her. I trust her.

Taking a deep breath, I outline the events of the past three days, beginning with my coming to in a darkened alley with no memory of having been there. I relate to her my confusion as to recent – and not so recent – events and conclude with the fact that I have lost nearly five years worth of memories.

She sits quietly until I finish. I've no rational explanations to offer her, no hypotheses formulated; nothing but questions upon questions.

As if on cue, she answers my most urgent question first.

"Voldemort is dead. Harry killed him after destroying the six Horcruxes Voldemort made."

"Six?" My heart is pounding. This was wrong, very wrong.

Hermione is nodding vigorously. She places her hand on mine, as if sensing my agitation. I had noticed how small her hands were when she was leading me about, but now, I momentarily marvel at their strength. It is somehow reassuring.

"Miss Granger, there are, were, more than six Horcruxes." Had the Dark Lord succeeded in his plans, or had he been killed before he could...?

She smiles, but there is a hint of gravity about her cinnamon-colored eyes. I realize I don't know what I've shared with her in the past, but I've revealed information I hadn't previously. I don't know what the implications are going to be.

"Harry was a Horcrux, as well. He hadn't quite figured it all out when he died." Before I can speak, she rushes on, "Don't worry, Harry didn't really die. Well, he did, but only for a moment. Voldemort had cast a curse that technically killed Harry, but only long enough to release the bit of Voldemort inside him. It was really Voldemort that destroyed his own Horcrux. Trust me when I say Voldemort was completely human, or as human as he was going to be, when Harry finished him off."

I fall back against the couch, pinching the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to stop the thumping in my head. I am sick with relief. I take a deep breath, hoping to expel the tightness in my chest, and slowly, my heart stops its vicious pounding. I cannot stop the images as they stream across my consciousness: Draco, Severus, the Dark Lord. The Horcruxes.

I lurch forward, looking around for my decanter of Scotch that I know to be somewhere. Spotting the small side bar, I summon the decanter and a glass resting nearby. I pour myself three fingers, needing to bolster my slightly fragile countenance.

Through this, Ms. Granger has not moved a muscle, not uttered one word, and for that, I am grateful.

I clench my jaw as the liquid hits the back of my throat, thankful for this slight reprieve from explanations for the moment.

I settle against the couch once more and turn my gaze to the woman sitting next to me. She meets my eyes steadily, but takes a deep breath, as if her nerves, too, need tending.

While there is much I need to know – the state of my business affairs, my position in the Wizarding world, the location of my journals, there are more pressing questions I need answers to before I can move on and rebuild the life I seem to have lost.

Yet, I am able to put all of my questions aside when I look into Miss Granger's, Hermione's, eyes. Have I noticed this in the past? In the hour since I've clapped eyes on her, I've noticed her legs, her rhythm, her hair. But it is her eyes that draw me.

To steady myself, I break my gaze and take a look about the room. I don't remember an inch of this room. Do I sleep here? Do I live here? Do I entertain guests here?

My glance returns to the woman beside me. She fits in this room. I feel as if she belongs here. In my mind, I see her passing through the rooms, her hand brushing the back of the couch, bringing in a tray from the kitchen. I have no memories of this place or this woman, but I know her. Deep in my soul, I acknowledge that this Muggle-born, this woman, is important in my life, somehow. I do not know how I know this, but just as surely as I know my birth date, I know this woman will fill my arms perfectly. My mouth will fit hers as if they were made for each other.

I have an overwhelming need to test my instincts. I lean forward to set my glass on the low table in front of me. Her eyes follow my movements, taking in the deliberation of my actions. I turn to face her, my hands running up her arms to settle on her delicate shoulders. I draw her slowly to me, her eyes searching my face, perhaps for some dawning of recognition. She does not pull away. I lower my head slowly, giving her the opportunity to escape, but she does not. She meets my mouth with her own. And as my mouth fits over hers, an electric shock shoots down my spine. Suddenly, she is not close enough. She must sense how I feel, for she opens her mouth under mine, letting my tongue sweep past. My senses reel from the taste of her.

Her lips are soft and pliant, molding to my own. Her tongue seeks mine, and an erotic duel begins. I want to taste every inch of her mouth; her lips, her tongue, the inside of her cheek. My tongue runs over the flat surface of her teeth before lightly skimming the roof of her mouth. She moans softly, bringing me sharply to my senses.

I break off abruptly, still gripping her shoulders. I am not free to do this. I have had women outside of my marriage, but not this woman. This woman is more.

I gather myself mentally. I need to remain focused on my immediate concerns, not the suddenly uncomfortable tightening in my trousers.

"Miss Granger," my voice contains a bit of a rasp, but is still functioning, "did Severus Snape survive the war?"

A huge thank you to my fabulous beta's, Wildcatcdc and Sc010f, for their numerous talents.