Chapter 7

It was not going to be easy – of that Hermione was certain.

Oh, the spell was easy enough, pleasant, actually, if cast correctly, and it was almost guaranteed to work. There were several instances of its successful implementation over the ages, but the complexity of its preparation often offset the benefits of its successful execution.

And it would take some very complex preparation.

And Severus Snape still needed to agree to undergo the spell.

And there was worrying mention of side effects.

She would approach him tomorrow.

No, she wouldn't. Tomorrow was Valentine's Day and Harry and Ginny were having a party.

Yes, she would. Harry and Ginny's parties were always very boring.

No, she wouldn't. Draco and Blaise were going to be at the party.

Yes, she would, Severus was probably sitting alone in his cottage with his cats, and nobody deserved that fate.

No, she wouldn't, she was within a hair's breadth of becoming just like Severus (only without the cats – perhaps this spring she should get a kitten) and needed to get out more. Ernie Macmillan had given up on her, but perhaps Neville would be up for some "fun."

Plus, she could pick Neville's brain about what happened that fateful night.

"It was terrible, H'mione," Neville slurred at her.

"I'll bet it was," Hermione smiled brightly and took a sip of wine. "So tell me exactly what happened."

"Well, it was af'er the dust had settled, I found Draco sitting on one of the big fallen stones, muttering to himself.

"I as'ed him what the matter was, an' he said that he couldn't find P'fessor Snape anywhere.

"And I said 'why'd you want to find him?' And, Hermione," Neville leaned close to her, placing a careful hand on her knee, "he looked up at me an' there were tears in his eyes."

Hermione glanced over at Draco, who was drinking happily with Blaise. The two were apparently celebrating.

"I didn' believe it," Neville continued, "Draco fucking Malfoy, the ferret, actually crying, not 'cos somebody'd taken his broom, or anything like that, but 'cos someone he'd cared about was missing.

"His parents were arguing over in a corner of the Great Hall with Kingsley, and Draco said to me 'c'mon, Longbottom, you'll help me find him.' What was I going to say? That's when we saw you and Ron, an' I asked you where P'fessor Snape was."

Hermione nodded, remembering suddenly that Neville had asked her. She and Ronald had been in the middle of a rather intense snog at the time, Ron begging her to help him, help him heal, help him forget. She shuddered.

"And you said," Neville brought her back to the present, "you said that he was in the Shrieking Shack. Well, Draco grabbed my arm and we ran off. My gran saw us, and when I told her we were looking for Professor Snape, she followed us!

"Strangest sight I'd ever seen," Neville laughed into his drink.

"And then what happened?" asked Hermione.

"Well, we arrived at the Shack and there was blood everywhere." Neville's expression sobered as he took a drink.

"An' there he was. Jus' lying there. His eyes were closed, and there was this sort of smile on his face. Like he was at peace.

"An' Draco started to be sick. Gran took one look at him an' said, 'So typical of a Black. You're just like your great-grandmother.' Well, that brought Draco to his senses, and we hurried over and there was this faint pulse.

"Gran took over and started healing him – just waving her wand like, like she was mad. And then told me to apply a poultice that I'd . . . well, I'd grown a bunch of rhumphia migoralis earlier in case we needed it, you know, with the Carrows and their detentions . . . and if there was any bleeding. So I walked right up to him and muttered an apology and slapped it on there, all the time thinking he was going to rise up and hex me, and Draco, Gran and I Levitated him down the tunnel and out onto the grounds.

"We laid him out and Gran took off her fox-fur and wrapped it around his neck. And then she tapped it with her wand and spun away. I guess it was a Portkey. Later she owled me and told me that he'd died, despite all that we'd done. I guess it wasn't enough."

Neville looked down at his fingernails, black from the dirt he spent his days in.

Hermione put her hand on his shoulder and noticed that Draco had drifted over.

"We did what we could, Granger, Hermione," Draco said. "Long- Neville and I owed him so much more. Me, because - well, the oath and all that, and Neville . . ."

"He was protecting us," Neville murmured. "And if we could bring him back . . ."

Blaise sat on the other side of Hermione, reaching across her to squeeze Neville's knee.

The four of them sat in silence as confetti hearts rained down from the cupid buzzing about the ceiling like a trapped dragonfly.

Hermione left soon after. Neville had decided that he and Draco would celebrate the life of Severus Snape by getting as drunk as they possibly could.

Hermione decided that she owed her friends the favor of granting their wish and Apparated to Long Higgleton.

"You have to physically connect with your heart's true love," she announced to a sleepy and ill-tempered Snape as she shoved her way past him into his sitting room.

"Miss Granger, should I begin with the fact that it is one o'clock in the morning?" Snape asked acidly. "Or should I begin with the fact that you reek of alcohol? Or perhaps I should inquire what in blazes you are blathering on about?"

"Incendio." Hermione stirred up the fire. "It's only half-past-twelve," she replied, "and I reek of alcohol only because Charlie Weasley spilled it down my top trying to look at my breasts."

"Not a comfort." Snape stretched out his hands to the fire. Hermione took the opportunity to notice he was not, in fact, clad in a ratty grey night shirt but instead was wearing pajama pants, a bathrobe and nothing else.

And nothing else.

"Anyway," Hermione continued, "I found out last night that you basically have to physically connect with your heart's true love. Magic is initially passed down from mother to child – the process is part of gestation, nurture and nature – it then is released, fully, as the witch or wizard sexually matures."

"Yes, Hermione, I realize that magic is glandular. Why do you think we begin to educate when we do? And what does this have to do with me?"

"Well, there's a theory that it isn't the glands that do it, but the connection between the child and the mother. The sexual maturity thing is a safety precaution. A magically precocious two-year-old would be pretty dangerous."

"Teenagers are not much less so."

"Granted - but there is some research into increasing magical strength, and it turns out that it's a bond between two adult wizards or witches that fosters the strength of the individual's magic."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When a witch and a wizard bond, it increases their magical ability as individuals and as a couple. If the bond is one that's true and right, there's really no stopping them or their offspring. James and Lily Potter are an example. Harry's the most powerful wizard around, and it's all because he was the product of a union of such powerful love – " Hermione stopped short, realizing what she'd just said. Snape, thankfully, did not react.

"Go on, I know I'm going to regret this." Snape sat down in the wingback by the fire.

"Er, well, research shows us that one can, for lack of a better term, reengage one's magic, if it's been faltering, by bonding with someone who would be best suited to one. It reinforces that bond of well, love, and respect and affection and all that . . ."

"So I have to find a witch or wizard and ask them if they're a good match and then have sexual congress them?" Snape eyed her disbelievingly.

Hermione blushed. "Ye– no, not – well, yes."

"And did you give any thought to how that might be accomplished?"

"Well, er, yes."

"And?"

Silence filled the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the loud ticking of the clock on the mantel.

"Well, I did some calculations, and . . ." Get on with it, Granger, if it were done when 'tis done, 'twere well it were done quickly; the least he can do is scream at you.

"And?"

"And according to the Arithmancy and the Runes, and, oh, Merlin, I even called a Muggle psychic, you're supposed to, er, well. . ."

"What, Miss Granger?"

The words came out in a rush.

"You're supposed to shag me."

AN: Not mine, no money; and thanks and praise to Subversa for making this readable English and Lulabelle72 for the prompting. They're simply fabulous!