3

The powerful summer sun beat down, heedless of the young woman standing on the banks of the muddy water.

In the heat of the day, especially in the oppressive heat of a day like this one, even the murky depths of the Hogwarts Lake might do as a place to cool off. But the witch standing with arms crossed and brow furrowed wasn't interested in a cold swim, nor the rising temperature, or even the putrid smell of the shoreline's stagnant water.

Instead, her attention was focused intently on the fact of her feet. Perfectly ordinary, utterly human, covered in altogether regular skin, hanging about-or, more accurately-standing about, firm in their refusal to be anything but feet.

"Bollocks," she muttered, wincing as a petulant kick brought her bare toe into collision with a moss-covered rock.

"Charming," drawled a deep voice. Only her stiffening neck signalled displeasure at his unwelcome appearance.

"Who asked you, Snape?" she snapped, barely glancing at him over her shoulder. "I would think you had more important things to do than watch me--" She pushed over the mossy stone with a slightly bruised foot.

Fail.

Again.

"Oh, but it's ever so entertaining, Granger." He snickered. "Your pig-headed insistence on doing this alone despite reams of evidence--"

"Considering that it's you who's provided most of the so-called evidence," she huffed, "you'll forgive me if I don't jump for joy at the prospect of putting myself in what I'm sure are your vastly superior hands while attempting a human to animal transformation."

"Attempting does appear to be the operative word, now, doesn't it?"

She whirled to face him, cheeks burning.

"You're one to talk. How about you make an attempt?" She narrowed her eyes, snorting in disgust at his silence. "No? Not keen to feel your Patronus wrought solid? Well then, it would seem I have no choice but to go at it alone

He raised an eyebrow. "Considering that we're still not certain that achieving the Animagus transformation is even relevant to the anomalies, I'd rather avoid the... indignity, if it's all the same to you."

For a trice, it looked as if his indignity, and indeed, eradicating some of his presumably highly-treasured equipment would cheer her quite a bit. But the image perked her up only briefly before her expression crumpled into a moue of frustration. Like a burst balloon, air rushed from her with a sigh as she collapsed onto the brittle grass.

"It shouldn't be this complicated, and I hate that I can't figure out what's wrong," she grumbled.

He stepped closer still. Was he trying to loom over her or did being irritating come naturally?

"You're blocking my light, Snape," she grumbled, but his eyes held her fast.

"Your suffering is heartbreaking," he said. "However, it is also immaterial. I'm meant to be your partner on this project, Granger."

"Partner? Is that how you would describe your behaviour, of late?" Her voice was shrill, and she cursed the hot tears rising to choke her. "If you'd quit being so bloody difficult, maybe we could make some progress," she muttered. If he'd been difficult to work with before their visit to the node, he was simply impossible, now.

"It's what we are, Granger." He glared at her, pointedly ignoring her outburst. "Like it or not." The summer air crackled around them and she wrenched her gaze away. She'd not risk sinking into those bottomless eyes, and she didn't think she could bear it if he turned away first.

She scrambled to her feet. "Then I suppose I should get back to work and figure out why I can't manage a transformation that three fifth-years figured out. With no help."

"Granger." The sharp edge of his voice cut. "You are being intentionally obstinate."

"Am not."

He scowled, and she wondered when she'd become as belligerent and difficult as he.

"Delightful. You've progressed from toddlerhood to adolescence. My favourite."

Despite herself, her lips twitched, and she reached sullenly for the battered shoe he held between them.

Partners, indeed.

The cool air of their underground library chilled her skin, flushed after the heat of the lake and the frustration of another failed transformation attempt. He had some nerve following her, she thought. Why he thought Legilimency would increase her potential for success, she couldn't understand. And since he'd been less than convincing, supposed evidence aside, she had no intention of letting him get anywhere near her thoughts--not when memories and dreams of him lurked in their nooks and crannies.

She glanced around their shared workspace. The roomful of tables stacked with books and flashing Arithmantic calculations in process gave the bustling appearance of important work in progress. More like an illusion. It was, nonetheless, a fine space for escape when frustrated, Hermione thought as she dropped the battered Portkey onto the nearest table. She turned towards a pile of half-finished Arithmancy equations, moving as fast as she could without actually appearing to run away. There was plenty to do that required her undivided attention.

Perfect.

"Wait just a moment, Granger." Snape's tone brooked no disagreement. She ought to have known, she sighed.

"Why? There's nothing to discuss. I'm quite clearly incapable of making the transformation." She couldn't prevent the quiver in her voice.

"Stop. Right. There." He spoke sharply. "You will sit down and discuss this at once instead of running from me like a child."

"I'm not," she muttered.

"Then explain to me why it is that every time I mention collaborative magic for achieving the Animagus transformation, you scurry about, looking for an escape hatch? He pinned her with his glare.

Hermione squirmed.

"I just don't believe it's necessary." She refused to meet his eyes. "I'm fairly certain that Potter, Pettigrew and Black didn't use Legilimency while they were working their Animagus transformations."

"That's irrelevant. We're involved in something entirely different and you know it. Three Gryffindor fifth-years had nothing complicating their simple minds that interfered with making the shift. They were so blasted sure of themselves, arrogantly convinced that their places in the world were perfectly laid out for them, that with enough practice, they succeeded."

"Are you implying that I'm not sufficiently confident to accomplish this myself?"

"No, Granger," he growled as he made his way to where she stood in the shadow of the laboratory door. "I'm suggesting that you are far too complex to easily make the shift without a partner to focus and anchor you."

She could feel the warmth of his body as he drew near, and she shivered. The tilt of his lips told her that he noticed, and she held her breath as he closed the gap between them. "What I want to know... Hermione--" The velvet of his voice lingered on the nuances of her name. "--is what you are so desperate to keep me from seeing inside your mind."

He savoured the flavour of her name on his tongue. Years of practice using his voice and intonation to dramatic effect in the classroom made it natural to caress her with the rich sound. It was a small luxury, he admitted, an intimacy that he might escape with to warm him in the cold silence of the night, alone in his bed.

What are you so desperate to keep me from seeing, Hermione?

"I'm not desperate." But her voice was small, and he'd had far too much experience slipping between the shadows not to know that she was hiding.

He was closer to her now than he'd been since their morning on the node months before, and he felt her shiver. It wasn't hard to interpret her avoidance these long months. He'd done what he could to make it easier for her, to relieve her of the weight of the longing he could barely contain. He wouldn't have her living with unspoken worry that he desired more than she wanted to give. Walking away without burdening her with the irrational and misplaced heart of Severus Snape was the best he could do.

He had, he'd believed, no other choice. Memories of the day at the Oracle had sustained him thus far, and he'd spent weeks studiously avoiding any contact with her that might stir the sleeping dragon inside him. He wasn't convinced he could endure what he knew would only be her horror and disgust were she to see the tidal wave of yearning the node had uncovered.

But now, months after delving into the elemental currents with her, the materials he had been studying left him wondering if perhaps they'd overlooked something important. The concepts he was tackling in the manuscripts were unfamiliar, and he didn't yet feel the mastery that would allow him to apply them with confidence. But they couldn't afford to overlook anything, even a tentative possibility, not when the fate of the wizarding world was wound up in the tasks they were set.

It was only the inkling of an idea, he acknowledged to himself. Pondering the amorphous alchemy of materials set off only in their interactions, and the memory of the overwhelming power of his magic intertwined with Hermione's when they'd reached for one another in the earth's currents--these were his tentative landmarks in this unmarked territory.

It also didn't hurt that over the last few weeks, there'd been an inexplicable loosening of the fear that had lay coiled in his gut for longer than he could remember. He grew more peaceful about what had once been, what he had lost, and the unknowns facing him next. He was ready, he was hopeful. But he hadn't wanted to push her until he was more confident in his theory, but this might be his only chance. If she'd let him near enough, if she'd agree.

Besides, an opportunity to be so tantalisingly close to her was one he could not pass up.

She was skittish, and before she could slip away from him again, he brought his hand to stroke her jaw. He took a sharp breath at the white heat stirring his blood, touch stoking the unfamiliar fire in his body. One look at her flushed face and he knew. She feels it too, he thought, his heart hammering. Her breathing grew shallow, and he could barely remember what he needed to do.

He whispered, "Let me," just as she leaned her flushed cheek into the curve of his hand.

She brought heavily lidded eyes to meet his, guards down for the first time in months. He saw a flicker of wariness, but it faded and then...

It felt like a door opening, a release of warm air, and a cascade of images rained down on them both.

There he was, focused on a tricky equation, sooty hair tied back to reveal the proud lines of his profile, the determined set of his jaw. Here, absorbed in his reading, and there, bursting with energy as he tested an idea with mortar and pestle and the raw power of his hands and materials.

He lingered, breathless, over the memories she'd secreted away and felt a glorious flood of hope, like the watering of seeds that he'd long believed too dry and desiccated to take root.

Not sure what he sought, he was nonetheless certain when it appeared.

Tucked behind a wall of craggy rock, blue sky caressed a mirrored lake. On the rocky shore lay a tarnished cauldron, parched and empty. Next to it sat shards of driftwood split by the sharp edge of a silver axe. Between the two, brown eyes wide with indecision, stood a small, white tiger.

Snape hesitated as he stood on the shore, stagnant air heavy around him. He had the uncanny sensation of having been here before, but that couldn't be, not inside her mind. He looked at the cub as she watched him with lazy familiarity. After a long moment, she arched her back into a languorous stretch, as if loosening her sinuous body after a long sleep.

All at once, a bone-deep understanding of what he must do washed over him. Raising his hand towards the water, he revelled in the visceral connection between the flow inside of him and the shimmering lake.

It wasn't only the water that he sensed. He could hear the cauldron singing in his blood. Its austerity and stoicism were painfully familiar as it lay, abandoned, its value too often defined only by what it held. But he would bring it what it needed; now he could. The most important part of the cauldron, after all, was the hollow space within. A wave of his hand righted the cauldron and filled it with the clear water until it spilled over to wet the rocks below.

The cub watched the parched rocks grow slick with the overflow of water. A few steps forward brought her to the cauldron, the sweet water a blessed gift. And as the tiger bent her graceful head to drink, Snape could feel Hermione's body fill with an energy that he only now noticed had been scarce. Through the filter of her mind, he felt the liquid stretch of her muscle and sinew; the shifting of bone and tendon as her body seemed to melt.

And transform.

Into a sleek, white tiger cub.

Hermione-the-cub stood at the feet of the tall man, paws scrabbling for purchase on the slippery stone floor.

Cold.

The Hermione mind in its tiger body dimly registered the fact that she had transformed, that she was cold, and that a source of delicious heat was directly in front of her. A niggling detail tugged at the human inside the tiger like a piece of yarn that might be fun to chase, but she couldn't be bothered when her paws felt like ice. Instead, she scooted forward, sliding a bit, and rubbed her furry face against the black form in front of her.

Mmmmm... Warmmmm.

The Hermione mind in the tiger body took note that, apparently, tigers purred.

It also took note of the sensual power of the hands that reached down to scoop her up. It was okay to let the hands lift her, they wouldn't let her fall. The sinuous hands stroked her, ruffling her crystal-white fur and sending her into rapturous bliss. There was a warm mouth murmuring something into her ear, puffs of breath sending tingles through her blood.

She could focus only on the rhythm behind words she could scarcely understand; but Hermione-the-tiger recognised melody and so she hummed along, bringing her body in line with his, lying against his chest, her soft head tucked under his chin. She shivered at the deep vibration in his chest and nestled closer, enjoying the sensation of his lips against her silky fur. It had taken such a long time to get unstuck, and she was so very tired.

Yes. You purrrrrr.

Now he was moving, she thought distantly; his gait brisk, and she sleepily thought that he must be full-grown, a confident tiger.

No, not a tiger.

He was a wizard.

She was a tiger.

Wait, no, she wasn't a tiger, she was a witch, but now she was a tiger.

Agitated, she twisted in his hands.

But the long fingers stroked her and he was making the most lovely soothing noises and murmured something that might have been, "Stop thinking," before she finally fell asleep, nestled in his embrace.

She woke, disoriented, in his arms.

Distractedly, she noticed that she had arms now, too.

Transformed back, then.

With a jolt, she noted their position, sprawled together on the library couch, her

body pressed against him; his arms wrapped firmly around her even as he slept. She wrestled with the battle now raging inside of her. She'd not soon forget nights spent dreaming of being in precisely this position, and gifted now with these moments, she'd prefer not to waste them. So many weeks of distance--initiated by him but, she admitted, perpetuated by her even after he made overtures to repair the hurt he must have known he'd caused.

She sighed and ran her hand along Snape's shoulder, eager fingers stroking a lock of hair that had escaped the queue that usually held it away from his face.

He'd broken through, she thought ruefully, and he was right. Despite her resistance, he'd persisted. The wizard who held her close even in his sleep hardly resembled the one who left her alone to piece together the wreckage of a magical connection and power she'd believed a treasure belonging to them both. She wondered what had wrought the changes in him over these long, lonely weeks, and what else she might have missed from behind her fortress walls.

Silent moments passed, and she dozed again. And then, from the twilight of half sleep, she felt him reach for her, felt his hands cradling her head and the touch of his mouth to hers, searching, tentative, and then exploding with unleashed need.

Maybe she was dreaming again, she thought fuzzily, as his fingers tangled in her hair. She lost herself to his kiss; his lips, ravenous, insistent as he devoured her and filled her at once. Her body swam with desire, hot in her belly, melting at the touch of his hands and the sound of his voice as his moan of pleasure took shape.

"Hermione," he rasped. The longing in his voice shot through her in a way even his passion could not, pulling her from sleep and shattering what little remained of her detachment.

It felt like a dam collapsing, the weight of restrained sorrow at once unchecked; her body shook as months of unshed tears flooded her, spilling over at last.

His arms were still around her, she realised, and she had the confusing impression that he was trying to soothe her. His hands stroking her hair, whispers of words she could barely understand, and she felt momentarily calm again, just as she had as a tiger in his arms.

Animals, he can comfort; humans baffle him.

"I'm all right," she murmured, embarrassed, trying half-heartedly to move from the circle of his arms. "Don't concern yourself with me, I'm fine." She struggled to regain control of her emotions but couldn't free herself from his grasp. "Please let me--" she whispered.

"Wait, Hermione," his voice was rough, but he released his grip on her. "I'm sorry--" She was confused by the anguish in his tone."

"Sorry for what? For kissing me?" The edges of her words curled with acid, and he flinched.

"For kissing--"

"Never mind. I know the drill."

"The--What?" He rubbed his eyes, confusion evident in his voice. "Don't walk away, Hermione."

She shook her head, but her voice was lodged in her throat.

"Please..." She saw what that one word cost him and paused. He brought tentative fingertips to her lips--still tingling from the pressure of his mouth on hers. Her throat tightened at the naked longing in his eyes. "Would you deny... this?"

"You did." The words burst from her of their own volition.

"I did what?"

"You denied it, you walked away as if I... as if what we'd ... what we experienced at the node was nothing special, that the whole thing was some silly field trip you agreed to in order to humour me," she said tightly.

He hadn't made a move to respond, and she rushed on before she lost her courage.

"I know that you didn't touch me then, didn't kiss me," she faltered. "But you might as well have done, the way it felt. To me at least," she whispered. The tears hadn't stopped flowing. They were like a river of their own and having been set free, would not easily be contained.

"I..." he hesitated, a look of abject shock on his face. "Nothing special?" he echoed.

She snorted. "I believe we are done here, Miss Granger," she echoed, his words of that morning still slicing through her like a hot knife.

He flushed, and she again moved to rise from the chaise and make what she hoped would be a dignified exit.

"Hermione, wait," he said. "Please."

Perhaps it was the pain in his voice, or possibly the fact that his body burned with heat that she never felt from him even in the rare moments when they'd worked side-by-side. It called to her, a siren's song to fall back into his embrace and be warm again. She waited for him to continue, struggling to keep from sinking into the pull of his body and the memory of his fingers tangled in her hair.

"I thought it was the enchantment of the node--" he said quickly, not meeting her eyes. "It frankly never occurred to me that--" He gestured to her, to him, mutely tracing the invisible bond that she'd felt since that day. "--that this was anything more than a magically induced illusion. My illusion." He looked up and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I thought that my... desire for you was my thrice damned heart wanting--again--what it could never have.

His admission hung in the air between them and she held it to her, gingerly, as if it might shatter if she gazed at it for too long. And then she saw his need, his rising fear, and found words again.

"It didn't feel like an illusion to me." She caught his eye, and he watched her warily. "Feeling you--your magic--that day was like finding something that I didn't know I'd lost. When we both came back to ourselves, before..." Her voice hitched and she closed her eyes, struggling to regain her footing. "I felt as happy, and whole, and alive as I'd ever felt." She opened her eyes once more. "And then you just... left," she said flatly. And fell silent.

The weight of memory enveloped her again and she wondered if it might be merciful this time and bury her entirely. If she sank into the ground, giving herself up to the earth as an offering, perhaps he would let her go. Absorbed in thought, she almost missed the sound of his voice, low and deliberate.

"I have been known... that is to say, it must be acknowledged--" He paused to clear his throat. "--that I have--" He peered at her from under his eyelashes. "--under extreme duress, of course... been known to use rather... poor judgment." He looked up. "At times."

She gaped at him for a moment, untangling what he'd said. But the pressure in her head and the tingling in her chest built...

Until finally, peals of laughter burst from her, unrestrained.

"At times?" She repeated. The tears on her face ran hot with the absurdity of this, of him, of them.

To his credit, she thought, dizzy from laughter coursing through her, he stayed alongside her as firmly through the laughter as he had through the tears.

What sort of man utterly disregards the evidence of his own eyes and all his senses? She looked at him, his body rigid like a coil ready to spring at the slightest sign of danger. This man, trapped for too many years, cloaking himself beneath thick layers of darkness. Skilled as he was in subterfuge, he could still miss what was right in front of his nose.

She wasn't much better herself, she realised with a grimace. When had she started to shut herself away and suppress what used to come naturally? When had she cut herself into pieces and hidden away the most vital parts of herself?

Lost in thought, she missed the cautious smile that flashed across his face.

"Working on a stubborn knot, are you?" he murmured.

She smiled. "I am."

"Care to share the puzzle with me?" he asked, cautious.

They had shifted to sit side-by-side on the chaise, a whisper away from touching. He looked so uneasy, she thought, like a cat pushed from his perch one time too many, now wary of trusting its sanctuary. Deliberately, she took one fine-boned hand between her own, tracing the graceful lines with her fingertips. The shiver that ran through him thrilled her.

"I've just been thinking about why it is that we expect independent pieces of a puzzle to operate smoothly on their own when they were intended to work in synchrony."

He raised an eyebrow. "That's what you were thinking about?"

"Well," she said, blushing, "more about secrets, and fear, and isolation--" She paused,

abruptly remembering the damage caused by Dumbledore's penchant for keeping vital pieces of information to himself. The tight expression on Severus' face reminded her that he, too, had been used as a piece in a much larger game.

"Yes, well, I suppose we can both agree that sharing information is preferable to not." His tone was guarded, as if she might blow his world apart with a word.

"Indeed. And it would appear that you and I have suffered the consequences of not putting that adage into practice." She caught his eye, tension stretched taut between them.

It took only a heartbeat for him to absorb her meaning. Visibly, his body relaxed, and she could finally breathe again. Eyes glittering, he seemed to remember that he still had his hands wrapped around hers. As his thumb moved to stroke the smooth skin of her wrist, she thought that perhaps breathing was overrated.

"We have," he murmured. "So then, might you have particular empathy for the oblivious actions of a novice in the art of clear communication who misread a rather important... exam question," he said softly.

Breathless, caught in the intensity of his black eyes, it took a moment for his words to penetrate.

"Exam?" she echoed, confused for a moment.

"Yes, and a vital one, at that," he whispered. I hope that I shall have the opportunity to revise the fateful exam." His lips brushed her ear, and she shivered.

She cleared her throat, stalling. Had she ever seen Severus Snape... playful? She gasped at the sweep of his mouth on her ear, and down the sensitive line of her neck. Playful and seductive. She could work with that. If she could just concentrate...

"I do believe that revision may be appropriate here." She worked to steady her voice as she turned to bring her mouth to his jaw, brushing her lips over his beard-roughened skin--hoping against hope that she was reading him correctly. "Though I think it would be helpful to first embark on a bit of review. Better to take the requisite time to prepare before leaping in again to such a daunting exam. Don't you agree?" She held her breath. Waiting.

"Yes, indeed," he murmured. She could feel his breathing quicken in the thick silence as she sighed in relief. Her lips were soft against his neck, and she revelled in the rising power between them, the staccato of his heartbeat like a storm breaking. "I should be quite displeased to fail this exam... again." And this time, his voice was richer, more confident.

She smiled and nipped at his earlobe, earning a soft yelp.

"Just imagine what you could achieve with the proper tutoring," she murmured.

Of the many things she was learning about Severus Snape, Hermione thought, the various ways in which she could make him laugh might shape up to be one of her favourites.