Chapter 14

XIV.

It wasn't until Hermione was bathing him from the mild fever he'd developed that she realized Russel had scars. The Stitching Solution and Skin Salve she'd applied had healed most of his wounds, leaving only faint, pink lines that hopefully would heal seamlessly whole, but there were older scars marring his skin, scars she knew she hadn't seen before. Hermione had certainly seen, felt, and fondled nearly every single inch of her husband's skin since their marriage had been consummated.

The colour of the scars was unusual; they were the exact same shade as the rest of his hide. Only the smoother texture divulged their outline. There was a somewhat jagged cut right next to the black lines of his Dark Mark, as if he'd tried to cut the Mark out of his skin in his youth; a semi-circle of dimpled scrapes on his calf that looked like his leg had been caught in something; a long, straight incision over where his appendix should've been--it blended into the other, fresher diagonal cuts from his newest injuries, suggesting an emergency appendectomy in his childhood, perhaps--and five long scars clustered along his back, possibly from a whipping.

His hands, once she'd washed and straightened the broken bones, had dozens of little old scars, the kind of little cuts and burns associated with a man who worked mostly with his hands, perhaps as an Artificer. Hermione had once thought that class would be like the magical equivalent of wood-shop, and had decided to not take it. Now she wished she had; the Hufflepuff cup reputedly had magical powers, and it would've been nice to be able to discern what they were, to see if any of them could help her and the boys extract and destroy that piece of Voldemort's soul.

Russel had been dozing on and off, after she'd fixed most of his wounds and dosed him with the pain reliever. He hadn't cried out, though his whole face had been pinched with pain, muscles flinching when she'd rolled him over to deal with his back. Cleaning the bedding as well as his body had stretched her knowledge of laundry spells, but she'd gotten the blood out of the duvet and the dirt out of his wounds. But when her fingers gently traced the scars on his hands, he opened his eyes.

He'd been very touchy about anything she'd done near his neck and his disguise-pendant, but now was not the time to coax him into revealing himself to her. Lying on her side next to him, though not underneath the blanket she'd restored from the basket and draped over him, Hermione stroked his dark blond hair back from his healed brow. From the feel of his forehead, his medication-induced fever had broken; unfortunately, his tan not only hid his scars, it also hid the flushed state of his skin, unless she looked closely.

Hermione looked closely, now. She was glad she'd fixed the wounds on his face well enough that there shouldn't be any scars. Whatever he'd said about being troll-ugly underneath the glamour, she didn't want to add to his self-image burdens. Marshalling her thoughts, she decided to do what Albus Dumbledore would've done, or at least what she thought he might've done.

It was a bit late to ask the late Headmaster how to mentor his last surviving spy, after all.

"Tell me what happened," she murmured. "You need to talk about it, and I need to know."

His short, thick lashes fluttered shut, but not in an imitation of sleep. Brow pinching slightly, he gave her what he could. "I went on a raid, with a couple others. We failed. I was injured, and almost captured. Two others were captured...and some of the other side died. When we got back...he...started punishing us. Sigurd...reacted badly to that."

Eyes widening, she stared down at him. Hermione hadn't realized the dragon-guardian would protect him, as well as her. The thought of the Dark Lord's fury frightened her. She watched to clutch him tight to her, but knew his flesh was still healing. Instead, she settled for stroking his face gently, soothingly. "What happened?"

"I...ordered Sigurd to stop," he admitted roughly, licking his lips. Hermione reached for the cup she'd set on the nightstand, one filled with ice-chips from the freezer, and offered him one. He sucked on it, eyes still closed. When he had swallowed, he continued, brows furrowing even more. "I... I don't want to talk about..."

"You need to tell me," Hermione murmured, cupping his cheek. His eyes opened and she stared down into their pained, pewter depths. "You know Brian would make you talk about it, and I'm no different. Bottling it up inside is only going to slowly kill you from the inside out. You ordered Sigurd to stop. Then what happened?"

"I...I flung myself on his so-called mercy," Russel admitted roughly, eyes closing again. His hand came up, clutching at the arm that had gone back to soothing his hair from his face. "And...I crawled to him as he...tortured me...and I kissed his feet... The others...I don't..."

"Tell me," Hermione soothed him, sickened by what she was hearing. Not just the torments, but the way he was struggling to keep his voice, his composure, from breaking.

"They wanted to ra...to...bring me l-low. I said I was his toy, not theirs... One of them t-tried to...Sigurd flung him away...and I kissed the bastard's feet as he c-continued to c-cut m-me..."

The last of his words escaped in a broken sob. Scooting closer, Hermione urged him onto his side, rolling him against her so she could cradle him. She stroked his back, murmuring soft, wordless sounds. There was no way she was going to make any false promises to him that it was never going to happen again, that everything would get better. They both knew different.

With his face buried in the curve of her throat, cooling her skin as they dried, she held him as he cried. He didn't cry loudly. In the quiet of the hotel room, she had to strain to hear his broken, whispered pleas, his battered frame shaking with each word.

"I don't want to go back...please...please don't make me go back...I can't do this anymore...I can't...don't make me go back...I can't take this...I can't...please..."

Crooning to him, soothing him, Hermione held Russel as his heart-achingly quiet grief spent itself. After an arm-numbing while--his head was pillowed on her right shoulder and bicep, squashing her circulation--she thought he was finally asleep. Shifting to ease herself away, she felt his arm tightening around her ribs, discovering otherwise. He didn't say anything for a while, but she didn't think he would. Hermione might've been young, but she had two best friends who were male, and knew better than to be the first one to speak after Russel's emotional breakdown. He'd view that moment as a weakness, and not thank her for drawing attention to it before he was ready to handle it.

She could, however, adjust their position, if he was awake enough to hold her. Rolling carefully onto her back, she eased him over so that he half sprawled on her. That made him shift enough to get his head off of her arm and onto her shoulder; in exchange, he drew his leg over hers a little, pinning her in place. A nuzzle of his cheek into her shoulder made her brush her lips against his forehead. He relaxed when she did it again, warm, limp, and heavy. Her hand, once the feeling came back to her arm, stroked his back through the blanket draped over his healing frame.

They hadn't made love, the last time she was here with him; it had been the wrong time of the month for her, and Hermione had felt too miserable with her menses to even try. Russel had said he was taking care of the contraception, and it had been a relief to see that his measures were working, but a disappointment all the same that they couldn't do anything. In just a relatively short period of time, he had taught her to revel in her sexuality, not shy from it.

Instead, they'd cuddled on the couch, reading The Hobbit in turns, and then Hermione had requested a 'fellatio practice session', which had made him laugh, but she'd wanted to do something nice for him to make up for the fact that she wasn't in the mood. They'd had an enjoyable time of it, too; by the end of it, Hermione had rendered him speechless, though definitely vocal. She'd even managed to quip that it was the closest she'd get to fulfilling her 'Head Girl' duties, startling him into helpless laughter.

He was helpless now, but not with laughter, unfortunately. Minutes passed. A deep breath let her know he was still awake, though she was growing sleepy. His voice rumbled softly from his throat, his breath warming her throat above the collar of her jumper, as Russel resumed his tale without prompting.

"Afterwards, he told everyone he trusted me more than he trusted the rest of them, because of what I'd done, subjugating myself to his sadism. He asked me...he asked me why I'd done it..." Russel stopped speaking for a long moment. Hermione waited patiently for him to reveal what he'd said. Finally, he continued. "I told him I craved the immortality that he'd gained, that I wanted to learn whatever he could teach me. That he was my fucking role-model." A dry sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. "Not quite in those words, of course..."

"He told me to clean myself up. I told him I'd drag myself off to my wife, and use my injuries to rouse her soft-hearted compassion and worm myself deeper into her trust and affection, and thus worm myself deeper into the secrets of the other side. He told me that, when I'd healed, I was to come back and take my place at his right hand."

"Supplanting Snape," Hermione observed quietly, ignoring the ache in her chest that said he'd succeeded in his invasion of her heart, tonight. There were times when she wondered what his motives really were, even when he was being blunt about what he was supposedly doing to her. "That's quite a coup, for you."

Again, that dry sound escaped him. "I'm now in an even better place than that bastard traitor ever dreamed. Marvolo trusts no one completely, but he believes I worship the very ground he fouls. If I'm careful, I might even learn how he managed to keep himself alive, when he should've been thoroughly dead."

Hermione carefully blanked her mind as she said, "Whatever it is, I'm sure it's very dangerous to know, especially if he doesn't want you to know. I don't want to be a widow before this war is over."

A twist of his head, and he pressed his lips to her throat. "You won't be, if I can help it. Not until the war is over."

That was an odd thing for him to say. But before she could do more than frown thoughtfully, let alone comment on it, he shifted higher on the bed with a groan of injury-taxed muscles, and sought her mouth with his own. One of his hands tugged impatiently at the hem of her jumper, pulling it free of her jeans. Pushing it up out of his way, he cupped her bra-covered breast, massaging her flesh.

"Russel...your injuries," Hermione managed to say as his lips nibbled along her jaw-line, heading for her ear. "They're still healing..."

"I need you," he growled. "More than I need healing. Out of your clothes, now!"

He didn't normally growl orders at her, but he had instilled in her a Pavlovian response to his touch, to his kisses, to the scent and the feel and the taste of him. It had been too long since their last encounter. She could feel how wet she was growing...how wet, if she were honest with herself, she had been since the last of his injuries had sealed and been cleansed, leaving her with the naked sight of him. Squirming out from under her husband, Hermione stood by the side of the bed and wriggled out of her clothes. His hand touched her, brushing against her stomach, stroking the curve of her hip as she undressed, palming a breast when she bent over to remove her jeans and knickers. Once naked, she pushed him back from the edge of the mattress.

"Lie on your back," Hermione instructed him.

Russel complied, tucking one hand behind his head. The blanket had fallen far enough askew that his penis jutted in full view, thick and red, waiting for her. His other hand feathered over his scrotum, then ghosted up onto his shaft. The delicate touch made his flesh twitch. Climbing onto the bed as she watched him, Hermione supplanted his fingers with her tongue and mouth. Where he touched lightly, she devoured firmly. But not for very long; all she wanted to do was get him damp, and gauge his excitement. From the salty seeping at the tip of his prick, he was quite ready.

Rearing up, she straddled him carefully, letting him adjust himself so that he aimed into her quim. Balancing on the balls of her feet, she sank onto him. A sigh of satisfaction escaped her; the sick, serpentine bastard who had tortured him had not spared her lover's genitals, but neither had the damage been irreparable. Her position was awkward, and would play ruddy hell with her knees after a while, but she didn't want to put any pressure on his injuries. Just because the skin was intact and all his bones were in place didn't mean the flesh under the surface wasn't still tender. If only she were light enough...

Wincing, Hermione slipped off of him, ignoring his surprised grunt and his grasping hands. Rummaging through her clothes, she grabbed her wand and brought it back with her. There wasn't an exact Charm for what she wanted, not that she knew of, but she was fairly certain she could alter one of the spells she knew to suit her needs.

"...Semobilim!"

She lifted off of the bed in response to the sizzle of energy that raced over her flesh. Smiling, Hermione drifted over his body, then held herself in place as she crossed her legs. Russel stared up at her, surprised by her magical maneuver. Bending over, holding her ankles, she concentrated until she lowered into place. No fool, he quickly repositioned himself, and sighed as she sank onto him.

Hermione, however, moaned. She'd read in one of her more recent romance novels about this position, though the woman had been on her back with her hips partially in the air. It was everything the book promised it would be, for the curling of her body, the tilt of her hips, it place her vagina at a sharp angle to his penis, ensuring that he rubbed against her grafenberg-spot. A slow assertion of her mind, and she rose up and down, letting him cage her hips with his hands so that she didn't rise too high. Losing contact would not have been nearly as much fun as this.

After a while, she gave up directing the rise and fall of her body, and just concentrated on letting him pull her down onto him at the rate and force he wanted, rising up with each rebound. She bit her lower lip, not wanting to cry out and obscure any of the sounds he was making, by it. There wasn't any sexier series of sounds in that moment than the panting little grunts and whimpers of him bucking up into her slick, tight flesh, the thumping of his groin against her buttocks and thighs, and the wet suckling of her body tightening around his shaft in pleasure as he withdrew and plunged again.

There was no pressure on his body, save that of his own pleasure. There was plenty of pressure on hers, but it was all either the angle, the grip of his hands, or the mental stress of not guiding her hovering body into slamming into his. Tight keening sounds escaped her throat with each stroke as he pulled her down.

Unable to stand it anymore, Hermione shifted her position, dislodging his arms as she dropped her legs to the bed on either side of his frame. Canceling the spell with a gasp, she rode him on hands and knees. His hands swept over her sweating skin, and his voice over her nerves.

"Yes, yes...ride me...fuck me...ride me! Harder!" Fingers bruising her hips and thighs with remarkable strength, he thrust up into her downstrokes. Freeing one hand, he slotted his fingers to either side of her clitoris, and pinched. Hermione yelled as her orgasm crashed through her, dragging a groan from him. "Mmmh, good...mmmh, good! Yes--yes--come for me! Come--oh, god, Jane, Jane, Jane!"

Gasping her name rhythmically, he pulsed inside of her, warm and wet and shuddering with the force of his own climax. Trembling, Hermione sank over him, careful to brace most of her weight on her elbows and knees, letting only her loins press down around the twitchings of his, her breasts rubbing gently against his chest, and resting her forehead as lightly as she could on his shoulder. His hands stroked her back heavily, sweeping down and up, clutching now and then before resuming each stroke.

Fingers delved into her curls, lifting and turning her head. The kiss was unskilled, just a mashing of lips, a nipping of teeth, a puffing of breath, but with it came a ragged whisper. "I'm alive...I'm still alive..."

He kissed her again, calming down enough that their lips could tease and play with a little more sensuality and grace. It wasn't a prelude to more, but rather an extension of what had happened. When Hermione shifted off of him and lay down by his side, he turned to face her, still kissing her, exchanging soft, soothing touches with her. But it wasn't arousing. It was comforting.

Finally, he slumped back into the pillows with a groan, ending their after-play. "I think...I need more Bruise Balm...and more painkiller wouldn't be amiss."

Nodding, Hermione drew the blanket over his body, then padded around the bed to the side that had the nightstand with the bottles cluttering its surface. Russel caught her wrist as she sat on the bed to study the labels. Glancing down at him, she found his grey eyes staring into hers with a strange expression, not quite lost, not quite thoughtful, and not quite shuttered.

"Thank you."

Somehow, she didn't think he meant the shag. But since drawing attention to it might send him into a masculine shell of defensive reticence, she merely nodded and picked out what she needed, measuring a small dose of each potion. He drank from the spoon, and grimaced. Aware that he was awake and no longer fevered, Hermione gave him a couple ice-chips to suck on to clear the sour taste of the Bruise Balm and the bitter flavour of the painkiller.

"Do you think you're up to eating something?" she asked him. "You need to replenish what you've lost."

Russel smiled at her, his grey eyes gleaming with amusement. "Are you offering to cook for me?"

"Well, you've done all the cooking so far; I've only done the cleaning-up," she pointed out.

"Ah! You just want to get out of having to set the table and wash the dishes." A sigh heavy enough to be mocking, and he lolled his head on the pillows. One arm lifted and drooped the back of his wrist over his forehead. "I suppose I could eat something...if what you fix won't poison me..."

"--I owe you a whapping with a pillow for that," Hermione scolded him as he laughed silently. "If you weren't still injured, I would." Removing herself to the kitchen nook, she started rummaging through the cupboards, seeing what was available. "I'll have you know I'm quite good at cooking things. If you don't mind them cooked the Muggle way. I'm slowly learning Molly Weasley's ungodly number of magically made meals, which she sometimes cooks when there's an Order meeting, but she also cooks for far too many at one time, and it's not always easy to cut down large recipes for just two people. Are there any cookbooks in here?"

"No; I tend to just throw things together, based on what's available," he replied. She heard him grunt and peered past the bathroom corner in time to see him stuffing pillows behind his back. Glad he wasn't hurting himself with anything more strenuous, Hermione turned back to her perusal of the cupboards.

"I prefer cookbook recipes, myself. It's just like Potions-making, that way. Follow the instructions to the letter, and you come out with a consistent product every time. Though it only matters for presentation and texture in most cases, if you dice the potato, or grate it..."

She was pulling vegetables out of the refrigerator half of the icebox and setting them on the chopping board when he spoke again. "I advise you to not let the bastard traitor hear you saying that about his 'art'."

A glance showed his hands lowering, no doubt from the act of making air-quotes. "What, that Potions is like cooking? Or cooking is like Potions?"

"That it's just following a bunch of instructions," he corrected her as she took out a pot and set it on the stove, turning it on and putting a small dollop of butter in the bottom. "Do you really take everything you read in a book at face value, with no deviations whatsoever?"

She shrugged and started peeling the onion she had selected. "Mum says that, in baking, you have to be precise because it's very much like chemistry; you have to get the proportions just right to get the muffins or the loaf to rise. Otherwise it might collapse, or be leaden, or rock-hard. Like Hagrid's tea-cakes," she shuddered delicately. "I do like Rubeus Hagrid, and I consider him my friend, but I don't like his cooking. As for the rest of it...I suppose that, once you've mastered the basics and the essential knowledges, knowing how something might react when combined with something else, you can start experimenting.

"But potion-making is far more dangerous than making, say, a stir-fry," she offered as she worked. "A stir fry has a basic format, a bunch of chopped vegetables thrown into a hot pan with a little oil, cooked until tender, and seasoned with asian flavours, such as coriander, curry, soy sauce, teriyaki, and so forth. And of course, some meat. But the most dangerous part of it is not cooking the meat thoroughly, or not trimming out the bad spots in the vegetables. And there are hundreds of variations you can make in a stir-fry. A potion is far more volatile!

"And..." She hated having to confess this part, but Hermione made herself go through with it as she began mincing the onion. "And, frankly, I have more of a knack for cooking than I do for potion-making. I read a little bit of Professor Snape's sixth-year Potions textbook. I didn't want to admit it at the time, but the man was a genius at figuring out really good alternatives to textbook methods. Some of them were short-cuts, some of them were safer techniques...

"I don't like what he did, and I cannot condone it...but I wish sometimes he was still a teacher." Hermione paused, then added as she dumped the onion bits into the pot so they could start sauteeing, and started peeling cloves of garlic, "But only if he got a personality transplant, first. Potions is dangerous, yes. Take two of any of a wide number of ingredients and put them together in the wrong way, and you'll have an explosion, meltdown, burn, toxic cloud, or some other form of disaster or injury. Safety needs to be dented into the heads of the students, over and over. But Professor Slughorn managed to do that and keep a genial personality going."

With the garlic finished, she starting next on the carrots, peeling and slicing them.

"I suppose his hatred of Muggle-borns, and of Gryffindors, and the stress of being trapped in his situation, having to lie to his employer, lie to his colleagues, even lie to himself, all of that could've made anyone bitter, even sour. And dealing with spoilt, idiotic children whose minds were more on Quidditch or their girlfriends or boyfriends, or on wanting to goof off and play would've taken its toll on any teacher after so many years. But it would've been far more effective for him to have toadied not only to the Slytherins, but to the other Houses as well. Merlin! If you could see Slughorn doing it!" she exclaimed, moving on to the broccoli head, slicing off the florets and dropping them into the pot with the onion, garlic and carrots. A brief stir of the pot, and she continued paring bits of greenery into the mix. "He collects people like Professor Flitwick collects wands! And he sits like a fat spider in the midst of a web-work of connections.

"At first I was kind of wary of what he was doing; he ignored Ron mostly because of Ron's poverty and lack of family connections, and didn't even stop to think that Ron's got a sharp mind when he bothers to use it. And he wanted to get Harry into his web-work, too, because he's the ruddy Boy Who Lived, but Harry doesn't really have that many connections outside of the Order, if you think about it. At first, I went back to see if Slughorn was trying to use the people around him for nefarious means, but no, he just likes being a busybody, or rather, an I-know-somebody. And after a while, I realized that I might be able to use his connections, too, so I kept going back.

"Unfortunately, that put me in the path of Mr. Ornery Octopus, Zacharias Smith," she rambled, adding cauliflower florettes to the sizzling mix. "At first his attention was flattering; he was the first boy who'd paid any attention to me since Viktor Krum's visit, but the kisses kept getting demanding, and he'd grab me when I wanted to stop, and I didn't like that. I don't like being grabbed."

"I'll keep that in mind," Russel offered as she moved to get out the summer sausage she'd seen in the fridge.

"I'm sorry. I'm babbling all over the place, aren't I?" Hermione apologized. "It's just...in the summer, I'm used to helping my mother and father make dinner, and we'd talk about all sorts of stuff while doing so. It was our way of catching up, after being apart for so long each school year."

"Go on; I am paying attention," he soothed her. She leaned past the corner of the bathroom far enough to give him a smile, then stirred the pot. His voice floated to her, light with curiosity. "What are you making anyway, a stir-fry?"

"Nope. Soup. Vegetable."

"If you plan on adding chicken, the only kind I'm aware of in this place is a couple tins of chicken meat on one of the shelves. I don't really like tinned chicken. I prefer fresh."

"Then why did you stock the cupboards with tinned chicken?" she countered, cutting off a thick section of the summer sausage.

"I thought you might like it."

"Actually, we're having summer sausage and vegetable soup. Diced and fried with the vegetables to impart flavour and seasoning, since I didn't see many herb-jars in the cupboards."

"Well, it's not like it's my own kitchen," he muttered.

"Do you have a nice kitchen?"

"I'm living in Riddle bloody Manor, at the moment. The place was all but abandoned for many years Well, there was a caretaker, but Marvolo the Magnificently Stupid went and killed the poor sod. Substandard Muggle appliances, grime and neglect--oh, and Wormtail's cooking--urgh!"

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him shuddering. "I'm surprised you aren't having the bastard traitor do all the cooking."

"It's 'beneath' him," Russel mock-sneered. "Though it would be a far sight better than boiled everything. That, and I don't think Marvolo would trust a Potions Master of the bastard's caliber in his kitchen, preparing his food. Of course, he gets fine foods catered from his followers' house-elf-run kitchens. The rest of us get stuck with bubble'n'squeak."

Hermione wrinkled her nose in sympathy, dumping in the last of the sausage and giving everything a good stir. "The sausages aren't too bad, but I hate the smell of cooked cabbage. Mrs...uh, Weasley cooks with it, sometimes." Way to go, Hermione, you almost mentioned Mrs. Figg... "Not too frequently, thankfully, but there are nights when I'm tempted to Apparate out to the nearest fast-food restaurant."

"Fast-food may be fast, but it isn't food. That stuff's not healthy for anyone."

"It smells slightly better than cooked cabbage," she pointed out.

"Cabbage shouldn't smell or taste bad, if it's been cooked right," Russel informed her. "Unfortunately, most people overcook it, and that's when the sulfides come out and ruin the flavour. But that smells delicious..."

"Well, it'll be a few more minutes before I pour in the water, and a few more after that to bring everything to a boil for a minute or two," she told him, taking a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer half of the icebox. Pouring some in, she stirred again, listening to the sizzle and smelling the meaty aroma as the sausage browned. "No potatoes, no noodles...any crackers in the cupboards? I didn't see any."

"None. There's bread in the fridge," he pointed out.

"I'll make toast, then."

"Warm, if you please."

That reminded her of their toast-argument, that first meal together in this room. "It's supposed to be cold."

"Warm."

"Cold."

"I'm an invalid!" he mock-decried, drooping his wrist over his forehead again. "You're supposed to coddle an invalid! Nice, warm toast would make me feel so much better, I just know I'd heal quickly..."

Unable to help herself, Hermione laughed. "Alright, alright! Nice warm toast to go with your soup. Mind if I actually put water in the pot first, so that it'll be soup?"

"Well, if you absolutely must," he mock-fussed, making her laugh again. Russel's warm baritone caressed her from the far side of the studio suite. "I like making you laugh. I don't know why, but I do."

"Thank you. For making me laugh," she amended. "And I like it when I make you laugh, too. There's not enough laughter in the world, right now. I think that makes it all the more special."

"I think that's the main reason why I like doing it, too," he agreed, and smiled at her when she glanced back at him.

...

The golden, double-handled cup of Helga Hufflepuff sat on the library table between Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Once again the three of them were stuck. October had turned into November, and now November was threatening to turn into December. The search for a spell to destroy a soul had taken them through the entire Restricted Section, to no avail. As feared, there just weren't any spells Dark enough to do the necessary deed. Not in the books found in the Hogwarts library, at any rate.

This time, however, they weren't alone. Seated on a stack of textbooks so that he was more or less at the same height as the others, Filius Flitwick, Professor of Charms and Head of Ravenclaw House, also sat with them. Hermione had convinced the others to let him in on their planning sessions after the third fruitless week had passed, in the hopes that he would be able to contribute to their quandry. So they had met every third night with him, since his other duties and his need for sleep had to be taken into consideration. Flitwick's silver-bearded chin was propped in his hand, echoing Ron's stance, though his expression was more thoughtful than glum. Harry and Hermione echoed each other on opposite sides of the table, with their chins on their forearms, slouched down so that they were essentially eye-level with the cup.

"...I'm out of options," Filius finally sighed. "I made some discreet enquiries with the new Defence teacher, but he's strictly defence, not offence, and hadn't any suggestions."

"I heard the previous one had a whole bunch of Dark Arts texts," Ron muttered gloomily. "But I'll bet the Ministry confiscated all of Snape's things, after he ran out of here."

"Actually no. They couldn't find his quarters," Professor Flitwick informed him. That lifted all three ex-students' heads.

"They couldn't find his quarters?" Hermione repeated, dumbfounded. "But...didn't anyone know where those quarters were, while he was still here?"

"No. I suspect they were placed under some rather powerful yet subtle deflection charms. Possibly even the Fidelius Charm," Filius offered. "If you'll think about it, have any of you ever heard of a student breaking into Professor Snape's quarters to pull some prank on him? Remember, this was a man hated by most everyone outside of his own House. You'd think someone would've attacked his sanctum in retaliation for his nastiness, but not a single whisper of it ever reached my ears--and I've been a teacher at this school for more than twice as long as he ever was."

"You're right," Ron admitted with a thoughtful frown. Harry, shifting his cheek into his hand, eyed him as Ron continued. "Not even Fred and George ever claimed they'd broken into his quarters. And they did admit to...um...that is..."

Professor Flitwick chuckled. "Oh, go ahead, Ronald; the Weasley twins are beyond the reach of my jurisdiction, now. Whose quarters did they break into, and what did they do?"

"Professor McGonagall's, to see if she, um...wore tartan-plaid knickers," Ron mumbled, red-faced.

"And did...no, no, I don't want to know that. I don't need to know that. That witch is intimidating enough as my employer," Filius muttered, shaking his head.

"I didn't want to know, and the prats went and told me anyway," Ron complained.

Harry lifted his head from his palm. "You never told me that!"

Ron shuddered delicately. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

"But now I'm curious--"

"No, Harry. You do not want to know."

With that flat yet emphatic rebuttal, the conversation was closed. Hermione dragged it back to the topic at hand, which was still resting between them on the polished, age-darkened table. "Well. We're back at square one. We can't get into Snape's quarters if..."

Her voice trailed out as a memory crossed her mind. Something Russel had said to her. Something about, if I needed more books to research the Protean-Forging Charm idea, he would find a way to sneak me into Snape's home... Did he mean here at the school? How would he know where it was, or how to get into it? How could he get into it right now, with the whole school protected by an unknown Secret-Keeper? And yet, he mentioned it to me in our writings through the rings, so it has to be true...

"Hermione?" Harry asked her. "Are you alright?"

"Just thinking," she dismissed, not wanting to reveal what those thoughts were. It was awkward at times, keeping so many different secrets from so many different people. If it were the same secret, or the same person, it would be so much easier, but it wasn't. I think I understand why Russel is so up-front about what he's supposed to be doing with me. It's so much easier to tell the truth, when you know the person hearing it can handle it. Or at least, forgive it.

Sighing roughly, Harry picked up the cup. "I wish this weren't a Hufflepuff artifact. Then I could just crush it without a second thought. What I desire more than anything else right now is to put an end to the piece of soul that lies within this thing," he muttered grimly, "yet Hermione could be right, that crushing the cup won't actually destroy the soul that lies within, and if that is the case, then I'd be ruining this artifact and robbing the House of the Badger of a valuable keepsake. It's sort of a 'to be or not to be' situation, isn't it?"

With another sigh, he set down the cup.

Ron's hand shifted, touching Harry's shoulder before his fingers left the nearest handle. "Hang on," the freckled redhead offered. "You said, the thing you desire most is... Wasn't there that mirror--you know, the one that showed me as Head Boy, and with the Quidditch cup, and outshining all of my brothers? And you said you saw your family in it?"

"Yes!" Hermione interjected, excitement growing in her. "You said, Harry, that you got the Philosopher's Stone out of the Mirror of Erised because you desired most of all to find it, but did not want to use it! And that was how Professor Dumbledore had hidden the thing--that it would only come out of the mirror to the one who wanted to find it, but not use it." She looked at Filius, seated beside her, and explained, "If we could find the Mirror of Erised, and wished with all our hearts to find the best way to destroy all of the Horcruxes, then we just might see what we desire!"

"You'd have to concentrate very hard," Filius Flitwick squeaked in warning. "If that isn't your absolute deepest desire, you're not going to see what you think you want to see."

"But we could see it, if we did desire it," Harry emphasized. "All we have to do is find it!"

"Ah. There's 'the rub', in our 'to be or not to be' moment," the Head of Ravenclaw pointed out. He shrugged as the other three looked at him, folding his arms and rubbing his bearded chin. "I have no idea where Albus hid it. That was five and a half years ago, after all. It could've been moved since then."

"Would the Headmistress know?" Hermione asked.

"Doubtful. Possible. I don't know. I do know she went to bed in a foul mood, tonight. That pushy Minister of Magic was trying to nose his way onto the school grounds again. She finally blew up in his face and said that she had no way of knowing that he was the real deal or not, and stormed out of the Three Broomsticks muttering something about politicians and torture implements. She's a bit more volatile than Albus ever was, but she does care about this school. And she's an able administer...and I wouldn't want to be the fool who woke her up for something like this."

"What...what about Dumbledore's portrait?" Harry asked reluctantly. "In the Headmas...in the Headmistress' office? Wouldn't he know?"

"It is true that, when a headmaster or headmistress leaves the school, through death or retirement, their portrait will know everything that they knew, right up to the moment that they left...but I'd wait for morning, for this request."

"Professor, we can't wait for morning," Harry reminded him. "Professor McGonagall specifically asked us to not wander the halls of the school during daylight hours. We're only allowed to be here after curfew, so that no one knows we're using the library for our research."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that is a consideration. Well, come along then, and put on that Cloak of yours."

Hermione looked at him askance. "Why?"

"Well, to hide yourselves in the corridors, like you did that night you ran into me!" Filius returned.

"I meant, why, when we can just Floo from Madam Pince's office to the Headmistress' study?"

"Oh! Well, I suppose so, though I get dreadfully dizzy, spinning around in the fireplace like that... Right, then. Ronald, put the books away, if you please. And don't, for the love of Merlin, tell Irma that I was sitting on them."

Ron bit his lip to hold in his laughter as the Charms Professor hopped down from his chair.

It didn't take long for them to whirl through to Minerva McGonagall's study. It had been tidied a bit from when Albus had occupied it, but not too much had changed. The only notable addition was the portrait of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, with the dates of his birth, the years he had been headmaster, and his death inscribed on the plaque at the bottom of the frame.

He was sleeping, of course, or perhaps sham-sleeping, as many of the portraits tended to do. Filius waited only until Ron had stepped through as the last of them, and aimed his wand at the painting. A tiny blue spark spat from his wand with just a flick of his wrist, impacting on the frame and giving it a good shake.

"Huh--what?" Jolted awake, for it seemed he had really been asleep, the image of the former headmaster peered down at them. A single candle illuminated the chamber, not providing much in the way of light. "Who's there? Show yourselves!"

"Ceraluma." Filius' charm lit the tapers in a pair of wrought iron candlestands that flanked the fireplace. That provided a bit more in the way of light. "Hello, Albus," he asserted as firmly yet genially as his squeaky voice would allow. "We're here to ask you about the Mirror of Erised."

"What do you want with that old thing?" the portrait wizard retorted, frowning at them. His gaze fixed on Harry. "You're not planning on wasting your lives away in front of it, are you?"

"No, sir," Harry returned. "We need it to see if we can find the last of the Horcruxes, and exactly how to destroy them."

"The last of the Horcruxes, you say? Haven't had much luck in finding any of them, have you?"

"Haven't had much luck?" Filius snorted. "You did the ring, and Harry did the diary, and now they'd done the locket and the wand--my precious Rowena Ravenclaw wand, which was almost destroyed! And now they've found Helga's golden cup, but none of us want to destroy the cup and whatever magic it's supposed to hold, just the soul trapped inside of it."

"Only there's no spells to be found in any of the Hogwarts books that'll destroy just a piece of a soul, and not a whole item," Ron pointed out. "So we thought we'd peer into the Mirror and see if we could see what we desired most: the way to put an end to the Dark Lord."

"Hm. Clever. Unfortunately, I put several spells on the Mirror of Erised, concealing its location. I cannot tell you where it is. But I can tell you that you need only desire what you require, and the way to it will be shown."

All four of them eyed Dumbledore's portrait askance.

He flipped a painted hand at them. "Now, go on! Minerva was in an awful temper when she retired, and it won't cool down until she's had a good, uninterrupted night's sleep. Remember: desire what you require, and the way to it will be shown."

With that, he snuggled back in his chair, closed his eyes and relaxed, by all appearances going back to sleep.

"'Desire what you require.' What a crock," Ron muttered, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. "Even his painting's barmy...Madam Pince's office!"

Hermione wasn't so sure. She hung back, gesturing for the others to go first. When Harry vanished after Flitwick, she didn't reach for the Floo Powder. Instead, she looked up at Professor Dumbledore's image.

"...Sir?"

He cracked open an eyelid, peering down at her. "Did you need something more, Miss Granger?"

"About your riddle--"

"I have said all I can say." He closed his eyes again.

Hermione lifted her hand to her hair, pushing it back from her forehead with a sigh. She had something else she wanted to ask, so she switched subjects. "About Russel, Professor..."

"Who?"

"Russel," Hermione repeated, and felt her stomach sink as he gave her a blank look. "Russel Fawkeson? ...Rorik Ferguson? Oh, please tell me you've heard of him! He's your spy, your other spy! The only one who was left, after Prof...after Snape...did what he did, sir," she finished awkwardly. "Surely you know him?"

"Hm. I can't say the name is familiar, but I do know all of my spies. I think I know the man to whom you refer. Describe him, if you please."

She bit her lower lip. "Um, well...he wears a glamour-pendant, which he's never taken off. But...he's about this high," she gestured, holding her hand level over her head, "and he has light brown hair down to about here...and an all-over tan, grey eyes, longish nose... Oh, he has scars. Those I think are real, though I don't think the tan or anything else is. A cut next to his Dark Mark, scrapes on his right leg, nicks and burns on his hands--"

"--Yes, I know him," the painting of Albus admitted, dropping the earlier charade of confusion. "What of him?"

"Is he really on our side?" Hermione asked, heart thudding in her chest. Lifting her hand, she showed him the ring. "He gave me this to communicate. It's a betrothal ring. I wasn't supposed to put it on, but...circumstances forced me into it, and now we're, um, married."

Dumbledore's brows shot right up, and more than one of the headmasters and –mistresses around him snorted with surprise in their supposed sleep. Apparently they had awoken earlier but had feigned disinterest so that they could eavesdrop. Clearing his throat, he asked her, "Married, you say? Happily, unhappily, indifferently...?"

She blushed, thinking of the way Russel made her feel. "Happily, more or less. I mean, we like...um, playing board games, and reading books, and...things..."

"I'm not so old I don't remember how pleasant 'things' could be, Hermione," the portrait of the wizard on the wall offered, clearing his throat. "Do you like him?"

"Yes. He's very intelligent, and he can be quite charming, when he lets himself go." She wasn't quite sure why she put it like that, but Albus was nodding, agreeing with her. "So...anyway, he said that communicating through these rings forced each of us to tell the truth, but Ron says there are spells to get around that sort of thing, and I don't know what to think, or how much to trust him, or even if I can."

The fire flared green, and a moment later a red-tousled head poked through it. "--Oy, Hermione, aren't you coming?"

She blushed. "In a moment, Ron. I'm almost done, here."

He gave her a dubious look, but withdrew his head. The flames died down, ceasing their greenish glow. She looked up at the former headmaster again. Albus regarded her soberly. "You want to know if you can trust him."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see the ring."

Hermione hesitated, then moved close to the wall, standing on tiptoe and stretching up her arm. "I can't take it off; he says it's stuck on there permanently."

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore peered at her finger for a long moment before replying. "Hm. Is that what he told you?"

"Er, yes," Hermione admitted, sinking back onto her heels. She stepped back so that she could look up at him comfortably gain. "Is there a way to get it off?"

"Aside from death? I cannot say for certain. If that ring is the one I think it is," Dumbledore added. "Tell me, does it conjure a guardian when you're in trouble?"

"Yes!"

"Is that guardian a dragon that can talk, and is named...Sigmund...Siglund..."

"Sigurd?"

"Yes, Sigurd!--I do know that ring, Hermione," Albus told her, asserting his confirmed knowledge. "In fact, I knew it and its match long ago, for I knew the last couple to wear it. Mind you, I know Russel by a different name than his current alias, but then I knew his great-grandparents, back when I was much, much younger. Rickart, and Claire. Those were their names....

"That ring," he asserted, shifting forward in his painted chair, "is a very special ring, one of a fairly unique pair. It and its match were forged in the heat of dragon-fire, as well as by tool and spell. Both were forged at the same time, originally crafted from the same broad band, then split in twain...and at every step along the way, or so Rickart told me, the rings were quenched, not in water, but in Veritaserum. There is absolutely no way for anyone to completely and successfully lie, if they communicate through rings that were quenched in Veritaserum. Or so Rickart boasted to me. And I never heard differently, when I researched the matter.

"Assuming these rings were indeed the ones quenched in Truth Potion, you only have to get a straight answer out of your husband via the rings, and you will know whether it's a truth or a lie. Of course, the truth can be bent and bowed and knotted to quite some degree of complexity, and thus wielded indirectly to some degree," he cautioned her, "since it's not the same as three drops of Veritaserum laid upon the tongue. But you can guarantee there will be some kernel of truth in whatever he imparts to you through that ring. It might have a bit of a spin on it, but it'll still be some variation of the truth.

"Now, if you don't mind, Ms. Granger, it is late, and I am not mindful to risk waking Minerva anytime soon." Shutting his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, looking quite stubborn in his determination to pretend to go back to sleep. Until he cracked open one eye and added, "Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. I do hope you find a way to keep both of you alive, survive the aftermath of the war, and have the sort of happy family life both of you deserve."

"Thank you, Professor."

He closed his eyes again. "Don't forget to have someone tell me when Lord Voldemort is dead. Someone who witnessed it personally, if you please. I wouldn't want to miss hearing such big news by hearing it from someone who wasn't actually there."

Nodding, Hermione pinched some of the Floo Powder from the pot on the mantel and cast it into the flames. There were still some tiny doubts in her mind, but they were now reduced to the meager size of, '...is Dumbledore lying to me?', and were therefore dismissable. With her trust cemented in Russel, Hermione Floo'd back to the others. It was time to start discussing how to bring him into the arms of the Order.

If something ever happened to her, she wanted him to be able to call upon the others, and not feel quite so alone.

...

"'Desire what you require, and the way to it will be shown.' That is the single most stupid clue I have ever heard," Ron muttered. Professor Flitwick had gone to bed after an hour of cogitating on the riddle, leaving them alone in the library once more.

"A pity the Maurader's Map doesn't show objects, only people and chambers," Harry muttered.

"It doesn't always show chambers," Ron reminded him. "Remember last year, and your obsession with Malfoy's disappearances? It never showed...Merlin's purple undershorts!" he exclaimed, startling both of his friends. Hands slapping to his forehead, Ron pushed back his red hair, staring at the cup Harry had put back on the table between all of them. "Require! The Room of Requirement! If we go to the Room of Requirement, and desire a...a corridor that leads to the room where the Mirror of Erised is located--!"

Harry snatched the cup off the table, stuffing it into his bookbag and pulling out his Invisibility Cloak in its place. "Let's go!"

"The Cloak doesn't really fit all three of us," Hermione warned them. "Not anymore."

"Well, we can't leave anyone behind," Ron reminded her pointedly. "If we all go, that's three chances to stand in front of the mirror and get it right, trying to desire a vision of how to kill the Horcrux in that thing."

"Here, give me a moment," Hermione countered, pulling a sheet of paper out of her own bag. A few taps of her wand squared the sheet, and enchanted it to fold itself. When it had finished moving, it was a paper crane. Another tap of her wand, and it glowed blue. "Portus... There. Now it'll take us to the seventh-floor corridor. Harry, check your Map. We don't want to run into Mr. Filch."

"Right." Digging it out of his bag, Harry tapped the complex folds with his wand. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

Ink spread across the sheets, reminding her of her communications with Russel. Hermione made a mental note to talk to the other wizard about getting her hands on Snape's library of Dark books, if this didn't work. Checking the map, Harry nodded.

"All clear. Filch is on the second floor, under the Astronomy Tower. Ready?"

They all took hold of the crane, and Hermione spoke the triggering phrase she had silently imbued into the Portkey spell. "Requiring desire!"

They yanked sideways and up, the rooms of the school blurring around them. A jolt and they landed in the corridor. Exchanging looks, the three started pacing, focusing as hard as they could on requiring a room that would connect them to the location of the Mirror of Erised. On the third pass, Harry spotted the door.

"Hey--here it is."

Ron nodded for him to open it. Harry turned the knob, pushing the door open. A short corridor lay beyond, and an age-worn door lay beyond that. Nodding, the scarred wizard entered first, leaving the others to follow. Hermione closed the door behind them, following Ron, who lit his wand with a silent flick of his wrist. Hesitating only a moment, Harry gripped the second knob and turned it, too. The room beyond, illuminated by braziers that sprung to fiery life overhead, was a cluttered mess.

"I know this room!" Harry looked back at them. "This is where I hid my sixth-year Potions book. Or rather, Snape's book."

Hermione's attitude towards that book had changed, recently. Then, she'd had the attitude that it was dangerous, like Riddle's diary. Now, she realized it was a way to peer into the mind of one of their enemies. "Show me where you hid it."

"Hello, we're here to find the Mirror of Erised," Ron reminded her.

"Yes, well, I want to see the book, too. Harry, where is it?" she repeated.

"Now you think the book is valuable?" Harry asked, raising his brows. "You didn't want me to have anything to do with it, earlier!"

"Oh, stuff it, Harry. That was then, and this is now, and I'm a lot less of an idiot now than I was then."

"I heard that!" Ron quipped, and hastily dodged the back of her hand.

"I need to see the book, Harry."

"Alright, but only because we'll have to go exploring for the Mirror, anyway," he agreed. "Assuming that book's even in this version of the room. If we'd gotten in here the regular way, I'd know for sure, but this was probably the only way we could get into the right version for the Mirror of Erised... Um...this way," Harry directed her, heading into the towering piles of broken furniture and discarded objects. "Look for a stuffed troll."

"Urgh," Ron muttered. "They're ugly enough before taxidermy. Why would anyone want a stuffed one?"

"There it is!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing through the debris. The ugly mug of a troll had been imprinted on her memory her very first Halloween at this school. The very day Ron had insulted her, sending her into the girls' bathroom to cry, only to be attacked by a mountain troll, and the very night the two boys had become her best friends, helping to rescue her from the monster. She could spot a troll from a thousand paces on a foggy day, practically.

They had to backtrack twice through the maze of junk to find the right spot, then Harry turned, oriented himself, and hurried down a side-path. Stopping in front of a freestanding cupboard with a blistered look to its scarred, burnt wood, he opened one drawer, then another, and finally reached behind a cage with a half-mummified skeleton in it, extracting a familiar textbook. Handing it to her, he jerked his head at the rest of the room.

"There, you have the book. Now, let's find what we came here for," he ordered her and Ron. "It'll go faster if we split up."

"Red sparks for trouble, green if you find the Mirror. Merlin alone knows what's hidden in here," Ron muttered, eyeing what looked like a piece of carapace from a blast-ended skrewt perched on a broken desk not far away.

Reaching the juncture by the stuffed troll, they oriented themselves, chose three different directions, and started picking their way through the narrow, twisting pathways winding through the debris.