Chapter 18

Author's Notes: For all those who are wondering, the cliffhanger at the very end of 17 is just that: a cliffhanger. You'll have to wait patiently to see when and where and what will be revealed, regarding it. As for this particular chapter--the summary says it all.

XVIII.

"Hermione!" Harry jumped up from the parlour sofa, hurrying into the hall as Hermione passed the open door. "Are you alright? Russel told us you'd been hexed by that bastard, Snape!"

Tears stung her eyes. Averting her gaze--Harry did know some Legilimency, after all, and her recent experiences were not the sort of thoughts she cared to share--she shook her head. "Rumors of my hexing were greatly exaggerated. I'll live."

He touched her shoulder, holding her back as she started up the stairs. "Hermione, something's wrong. When Russel sent that owl, and met with us, Ron and me..."

She'd already figured she'd been Stupefied for several hours, but the bastard hadn't told her he'd met with her two best friends. "Harry... I don't know what he told you, and right now, I don't care. I just had a very bad ordeal with...with Snape...and I just want to go upstairs, drown myself in some Dreamless Draught, and sleep behind the strongest wards I know. I don't want to talk about it."

"Did he hurt you?" Harry demanded, clutching her sleeve. "If that bastard laid a hand on you--!"

She'd applied some leftover Bruise Balm to the hickey on her neck; it was only half-faded, but on the side of her throat Harry had yet to see. Cutting off the latter half of her encounter, Hermione twisted the truth--Lesson Number Three--and stated, "He dug his wand into my throat and made some threats, when he caught me in his house, but I managed to silently cast a Portkey Charm and escape before anything bad happened."

Harry frowned. "That's not what Russel told us. He said you'd been hexed, that he had to rescue you."

Shite...bastard should've told me what he'd told the boys, Hermione muttered mentally. "I was caught in a spell from a book. Russel probably only told you that so you'd hate the bastard traitor as much as he does."

An icy chill washed over her even as her words left her lips. So you'd hate the bastard traitor as much as he does... Merlin, does Severus have a split personality? At the very least, does he hate himself so much for what he's done that he'd be willing to make Harry so enraged over it all, Harry would try to kill him on sight?

...Didn't he once say to me that the only way I'd be free is if I were a widow? Hasn't he implied he doesn't expect to live through this war? Dammit, I don't know the man! She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, feeling her temples beginning to ache once again from stress and confusion. And there's no one alive aside from him that I could talk to, to even begin to try! Pulling her sleeve free of Harry's grip, she started up the stairs again, pulling on the banister rail to help her tired body mount the steps.

"Wait, Hermione--you went to get the book, the one with the spell we need for the Hufflepuff cup," Harry reminded her. "Did you succeed?"

She winced. "No. Snape still has it. I'll have to go back and look for it."

Add that to the rest of your long list of things you'll have to do...

"That's too dangerous. You cannot go back alone, if there's a chance of Snape catching you again."

"Harry, the odds of anyone tricking Draco Malfoy into giving up the secret of the book's hiding place a second time is highly slim. I'm just going to have to risk going alone, that's all. But I'll take a Portkey enchanted like my--our parents' Portkeys," Hermione compromised. "One that'll activate if I'm attacked or knocked unconscious. Believe me, I'm not looking forward to being in Severus Snape's clutches anytime soon, after our last little encounter."

Since she didn't want to discuss the subject any further, Hermione moved up the stairs, leaving him behind. Crookshanks met her at the head of the second floor landing. Scooping up the fuzzy orange cat, she cuddled her Familiar. The half-kneazle cat couldn't advise her, but he could comfort her. Carrying him to her room, she shut the door behind her, and cast a keep-out ward, just in case Harry wanted to continue their conversation. Or, Merlin forbid, Ron wanted to start one with her. The last thing she needed right now was another male with pretentions of having a claim on butting into her life.

Not when her life was so confusing.

Dropping the cat on her bed, she stripped out of her clothes and pulled on her pyjamas. Sitting on her bed, Hermione cuddled Crookshanks to her chest when he head-butted her for attention. With his paws limp and his eyes half-shut, he gazed up at her with his squashed orange face, looking like the epitome of sourceless feline wisdom. Adviceless, but wise. Nuzzling the top of his head with her lips, she muttered, "What am I going to do, Crooks? How can I trust him after all he's done? How can I understand him? I don't know who he is, or why he's doing half of what he's done...and the one person who might've had a clue is dead!"

A knock made her jump. Crookshanks mrrrred in protest and squirmed out of her arms. Ron's voice came through the door. "Hermione? Are you alright? Harry told me you're back. Can I come in?"

Oh god, not a Weasley interrogation. The ache in her skull from tension leapt several degrees closer to migraine status. "Bugger off, Ron!"

"Well!" a feminine voice exclaimed softly. Hermione jumped and looked around. She finally realized it came from a portrait of some female in clothes from a couple centuries ago. It was hanging near the door. Hermione had forgotten there were wizarding portraits in her bedroom. The painted woman scolded her. "That was very rude of you!"

Hermione quickly reviewed what she'd said aloud just now, and sighed in relief that she hadn't given any identities away. Then jumped as Ron knocked again. "...Hermione? I know you're in a bad mood but...but I need to see that you're alright. Please?"

Why is my life so fucking complicated? Hermione asked herself, lowering her head into her hands for a weary moment. Pulling her curls back with a slide of her palms, she looked up again. Her gaze caught the portrait of the 1700's lady, with her lace collar and ringlet curls. Another portrait came to her, then. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

Just because he was dead didn't mean she couldn't consult with him.

"Give me a moment, Ron. I'm not decent."

Petting Crookshanks one last time, she rose from the bed. Fresh undergarments, a pair of jeans, a pink blouse and a red jumper, and she felt more human as she crossed to her door. Ron started to move forward the moment she opened it, then checked himself.

"...I'm fine, Ron, as you can see," Hermione stated dully. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, but I'm rather stressed right now, and it's nothing you nor Harry can help me with, though I do appreciate your concern. Now, if you don't mind, I have to go consult with someone."

He stepped out of her way, but followed her towards the back stairs. "Consult with who?"

"None of your business."

Ron grabbed her arm, swinging her around. Sigurd appeared in dragonette form, wrapped around her other arm, and the redhead released her quickly. "--Sorry...but I care about you, Hermione, and you're not happy. I want to fix that. Somehow."

She did love him, Hermione acknowledged, meeting his concerned blue gaze. Just not the way he wants me to love him. And lucky me, I went and fell in love with a man who doesn't exist, instead of one who does. Sigurd vanished again, now that he wasn't needed to protect her from grabby males. "This is one of those things that you cannot fix for me, Ron. I have to muddle through it on my own." A soft, sardonic laugh escaped her as she raked her hand through her curls again. "Call it the price and the pain of growing up. I'll be back later. I've got to go talk to someone."

"Who? Where are you going?" Ron added, dogging her heels as she headed for the stairs again.

"I'm going to the school to talk to the one person who can help me with my current problem. I'll be perfectly safe," she reassured him, guessing he was concerned she might be going somewhere where she'd be at risk of another attack.

"Who?" Ron demanded.

"None of your business, that's who!"

"I'm coming along!"

Hermione whirled on him at the top of the stairs. She wanted to shout, God, you are so thick! I don't want you along with me! , but that wouldn't have been helpful. Instead, gritting her teeth to a degree that would've alarmed her parents, the witch ground out, "Feminine problems, Ronald Bilius Weasley!" The improvisation came to her with a kernel of truth behind it, allowing her to snarl realistically, "I have to go see Madame Pomfrey about bloody feminine problems, and if you follow me, I will hex your balls off and give you bloody feminine problems!"

He staggered back a few steps from her vehemence.

She whipped her finger up, cutting him off the moment he drew breath to speak. "Not. One. Word. I'll be back later. I don't know how long I'll be gone, but I'll be at the bloody school, where I'll be bloody safe, and when I come back, not one bloody word! "

Whirling, Hermione hurried down the steps, leaving a gape-mouthed, red-faced Ron behind.

...

Seeing Madam Pomfrey was a good idea. Unfortunately, the pot on Madam Pince's mantel was out of Floo powder. That meant traveling to the Infirmary via the halls. It was an early Saturday morning; most of the students would still be in bed, sleeping in or playing games in their common rooms, and a rare few like herself had been might even be up early to cram in some study time, though most of those would be in House Ravenclaw. And it wasn't that far from the library to the Infirmary. Still, she was careful to not be seen, since even in Muggle jeans and a Gryffindor red jumper, she was still recognizably Hermione Granger. Even if she was technically now Hermione Snape.

The problem with that flawed little gem of information was, she couldn't, daren't acknowledge her married name openly. If it came out before the war was over, she could be accounted liable for anything her husband did. If it came out after...well, the easiest way to deal with the matter would be if he were dead, so that she could reveal what he'd done in the attempt to turn him into a martyr. But though it would be the easiest way--she'd be a widow, and free to do as she pleased--it was the coward's way out of the mess embroiling her. If she could understand Severus Snape's motivations, she might be able to put her mind to the task of sorting out the mess that was his life.

Because, like it or not, his mess was now her mess, as his magically bound wife.

Maybe I should make a note to ask Poppy for an anti-depressant while I'm at it, Hermione thought, rubbing at the edges of her cheekbones to try and ease the tension in her jaw that was tightening the vice of her headache. And a muscle-relaxant. Or a mallet. I'm just not sure who and what body-part I'd use it on...

The mediwitch had two patients in the Infirmary, but they were sequestered behind privacy screens, and at least one of them was snoring with sleep. Hermione made it to the older woman's office more or less unnoticed, slipping inside with a brief, soft knock to herald her arrival. She found the plump witch yawning over a cup of coffee.

Poppy inhaled sharply, sitting up as Hermione shut the door behind her. "Hermione!" she exclaimed in hushed but not unpleased tones. "What brings you here?"

"I, er... I need to be tested for pregnancy." Given how horridly wrong the rest of the last twenty-four hours had gone, Hermione only felt a small twinge of embarrassment at having to say that particular phrase aloud. It was a valid concern, after all; she'd just had sex with a man who had told her he'd taken care of their contraception needs, but who had been lying to her about a number of other things. And right now, being pregnant with Severus Snape's child was frankly the last complication in her life that she needed.

Still, it was annoying to see Poppy Pomfrey just sitting there behind her desk, jaw slack and eyes blinking every once in a while.

"Is there something wrong with your hearing, Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione prodded the mediwitch. "Or have you not learned the necessary diagnostic spells?"

Poppy closed her mouth. She swallowed, swallowed again, then drew in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry...this is just a terrible shock. You're only seventeen--"

"Eighteen," Hermione corrected.

"--Right, right...but still, you're young, and you're smart, and I'm just wondering why you haven't used a contraceptive spell or potion of some kind."

"I was relying on someone else to handle that matter, and I've discovered he's not quite as reliable as I thought." Sinking into the chair opposite the mediwitch, Hermione sighed unhappily as she braced her elbows on the desk and her forehead in her hands, fingers spearing into her hair as she pushed it back. "My life is going to hell like a goblin-cart to a bank-vault, and there's nothing I can do to stop the ruddy thing. No safe, sane way to get off that doesn't endanger others' lives as well as my own."

"Well, I wouldn't trust Ronald Weasley to know how to cast a good--"

"--It's not Ron," Hermione interjected wearily, and slid her left hand out of her curls so she could display the ring glittering at the base of her third finger. "I'm married. To someone else. Someone I thought I could trust, but now I don't know if I can, and the last thing I need is the complication of a pregnancy. I've nothing against children, and I'd like to be a mum someday, but not right now. And that's all I know, and I'm very confused, and I can't talk to anybody about any of this, because it's so fucking complicated, it's making my head hurt!"

Eyes squeezed shut against the prickle of frustrated tears, Hermione heard Poppy rise and come around the end of her desk. She found herself enveloped in a warm, motherly hug as the mediwitch knelt beside her, the kind that she couldn't go to her own mum for, right now. It allowed her to cry, and receive wordless sympathy. The portrait of Dumbledore might be able to give her advice, but he wouldn't be able to wrap his arms around her and give her the physical comfort she needed.

But all tears had to come to an end, and she'd cried more than enough in the shower, earlier. Sniffing, Hermione moved and Poppy's arms freed her from their embrace. The school nurse handed her a box of tissues to clear her nose. Rising, Poppy patted her on the back. "You just sit here and wipe your face, and I'll go check on my charges for a moment. Then I'll be back and give you an examination. Just think back on when your last few menses were, and whether or not anything was different in recent months from what had happened before you started being sexually active, alright?"

Nodding, Hermione let her leave without protest, mind already at work on the problem. When the mediwitch finally came back, she bustled over to the fireplace and ordered two breakfasts through the Floo connection to the kitchen. Appreciating the courtesy, Hermione shrugged as Poppy rejoined her. "Nothing's different, that I can tell. I've had two periods since...since things started. The last one ended five days ago, and it was...normal. The normal amount of pain, the normal amount of bleeding, the normal amount of bloating, the normal level of irritability...just...normal. Everything's been normal."

"Ah. Does normal include spotting between periods?" Poppy asked Hermione, who shook her head quickly. "Well, I do have to ask. Alright then. If you'll stand up, I'll transfigure that chair into an examination table, since I doubt you'd want to do this out in the rest of the Infirmary. I'll start with a general diagnostic, too, to make sure there aren't other factors that might have to be taken into consideration."

Hermione stood, then sat and lay down at the nurse's instruction. She wanted to clasp her hands over her stomach, felt the urge to wring them in nervousness, but forced herself to clasp them behind her head instead. Coloured lights sprang up over her body, lights she hadn't seen since Dolohov's curse had struck her. Lights she'd first seen when she'd accidentally turned herself into half a cat with a mismanaged dose of Polyjuice Potion. Eyeing the rainbow-jumbled hues, she noted with worry the increase in certain orange hues.

"You're definitely stressed, emotionally. And mentally. But not physically." Poppy flashed her a cajoling smile. "You might not trust this fellow to cast a proper contraceptive charm, but I'll bet he's worth the risk, in the sack."

Hermione flushed red. Some of the orange glows increased in size and intensity. "...Something like that."

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to embarrass you," the mediwitch apologized. "I'm trying to treat you like a fellow staff-member, since you're no longer a student, and, well...the lady professors and I all natter on about anything and everything when we're doing these sorts of exams, without sense or sensibility, since we all know each other very well. About the only one who doesn't have a sense of humor when it involves her biology is Madam Pince..."

"It's alright," Hermione found herself saying, face still very hot. "Um...yes, he's a really good lover. But...he shattered my faith in who I thought he was, so I'm stressing over that, right now. It's made the whole thinking-about-sex thing very stressful, because that's complicating the matter."

"Well, you've never struck me as the sort of witch who can separate her loins from her heart and her mind," Poppy summed for her. "So of course the dichotomy of it is causing you stress. But other than that, you're in perfect health. Now, if you let the stress continue to build and affect you, then you won't be in perfect health for long, so the sooner we can get the stress taken care of, the better-off you'll be. How recently did this stress occur?"

"Last night."

"Mm. Then we have a good chance of nipping it in the bud. Do you want to talk to me about it? As a licensed mediwitch, I am capable of giving a certain level of counseling up to a point, and it will be held confidential."

Hermione shook her head, staring at the ceiling. "I can't talk to anyone alive about it. I don't know how effective talking to the portrait I have in mind will be, but he's the only one I can talk to, right now."

"...I see. Well, have a nice, long talk with this portrait-person. Even if you're just rambling at an image that grunts and nods every once in a while, it could help grease the wheels of your own mind in turning and churning out a suitable solution. Just don't pick the first solution to your problem that comes to your mind, without examining that solution from all angles, and contrasting it with other possible solutions, so that you can find the best one. Which may or may not be the easiest one."

"Trust me, I've already discarded the simplest solution," Hermione muttered.

"Which would be?" Poppy asked, banishing the diagnostic charm.

"My dear, beloved husband dying. One way or another."

A near-soundless whistle escaped the nurse. "Sounds like you have a few issues with him."

"Try a whole subscription. Dumped in my lap without any warning," the younger witch joked morbidly. "Mind you, part of it was my own fault... I did go searching for the answers to questions I thought I was ready to handle, only I wasn't ready. Now everything's bloody complicated. Pardon my language."

"You're not a student anymore. I can't assign you a detention or take off House-points for foul language...and there aren't any minors around, waiting to be corrupted," Poppy pointed out reasonably. She paused to cast another charm, then added, "But if you want to know some really good swearwords and obscenity-laden phrases, just get Pomona Sprout drunk. Trust me, when she's in her cups, that woman has a vocabulary that could make a venomous tentacula wither!"

Strangely enough, that made Hermione giggle, and made her feel a little better. Maybe it was just the absurdity of the conversation, or more likely the absurdity of thinking the Head of Hufflepuff, of all Houses, being that coarse and crass, but she felt a little better. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, by the way. For treating me like an adult."

"You've always been rather mature and calm for your age, whatever age that was at the time," Poppy told her, dissolving the golden figure-eight drifting horizontally over Hermione's torso and casting another spell with a few muttered words. "At times you could be as silly as the next schoolgirl, but I always knew you'd be able to make the transition to maturity and adulthood with greater ease than most of your contemporaries. You're managing well enough so far...though I should tell you the greatest secret of Adulthood, since you're ready to hear it."

"Oh?" Hermione enquired. "What's that?"

"It's a hell of a lot easier to be an adult if you've got a support system of family and friends to lean upon, once in a while. If you'll pardon my own language," Poppy added, prodding the glowing symbols now floating over Hermione's lower abdomen. "Huh...how strange..."

"What?"

"Well, you're not pregnant, which I'm sure is a relief given the situation you're in.."

Hermione relaxed with a sigh against the padded table. She closed her eyes, ignoring the prickle of tears in them. "It is."

A popping noise made Hermione open her eyes. A school house-elf had appeared. It placed the tray of two breakfasts on the desk, then vanished again. Poppy waited until it was gone before speaking again.

"...But you are under the influence of a spell I've never seen before. It's...well...it's not affecting your fertility in the standard contraceptive ways," Poppy hedged, flicking her wand and prodding at more of the symbols, which were esoteric and unreadable when seen from the horizontal view Hermione had of them. "I'm not quite sure...ah! Sweet Merlin," the mediwitch breathed, staring at the newest group of symbols. "Is that even possible? "

"What?" Hermione asked, growing agitated. "What's going on?"

"Well, as far as I can tell, everything is functioning perfectly normally, except that your ovum have been enchanted to...to go elsewhere the instant they ripen and pop out of your ovaries. The spell is literally stealing your eggs the moment they become viably fertile. This level of mediwizardry is beyond my own expertise--I can tell it's not harming you," Madam Pomfrey quickly reassured her. "Far from it; the charm used to remove the ovum is incredibly gentle on your body, far more so than the standard potions and spells for such things. But I've never seen a contraceptive spell of this kind, before. You've had no side-effects whatsoever?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. Everything has been perfectly normal, like I told you."

"I'd love to be able to cast this sort of spell on some of my randier charges," Poppy muttered. "The contraceptive potions I normally dispense for careless young witches have side-effects that can range from mild nausea to vomiting, dizziness to lethargy. With this one...there's no side-effects. You're just rendered sterile while it lasts."

"Great. Something else I have to confront my dear husband about," Hermione muttered, shifting one arm so that it covered her eyes.

"Who did you marry, anyway, if not Ron Weasley?" Poppy asked her. "I always thought you and he would get together, given how you always acted around each other."

"I can't tell you." Hermione let her forearm slide to the top of her head, sighing.

"Pish-tosh! I'm a keeper of many secrets," the mediwitch told her, touching her arm to encourage her to stand. "What's one more?"

"Because I can't tell you?" Hermione retorted dryly, sitting up. She rested a moment, sighing. "It's too complicated to involve anyone else, Poppy, and that's all I can say. Do you have anything for a headache?"

"I've all manner of possets and draughts for headaches, including tension-based ones. In fact, I've gotten rather ahead of my stock, now that...well, now that Professor Snape is no longer among us. He used to get dreadful headaches every few weeks, almost like clockwork."

Hermione felt her face twisting at the mention of his name, and felt her teeth trying to grind together. Forcing her jaws apart, she asked, "Well, can you just hand me one? I've got to Floo up to see the Headmistress, as soon as I'm done here."

"Right. It'll be just a moment..." Bustling out, she left the younger witch alone in her office. Hermione unTransfigured the chair, restoring it from its temporary use as an exam table. Poppy came back with a vial of red liquid. "I hope you don't mind cinnamon-flavoured. I've got to use up the older stock, and that's what...well, it's a flavour that doesn't clash too badly with the medicine. Take small sips of this over the next half hour or more," she instructed Hermione. "Try to make it last as long as possible, otherwise you'll be flat on your arse if you drink it in one go, and Minerva will have to scrape you off her floor and pour you into a guest bed or something. It'll work at keeping your muscles from clenching for up to two days, too, which hopefully will give you enough time to sort out your, erm, subscription problems. And eat some breakfast, too, to cushion the impact of that potion."

Smiling wryly, Hermione accepted the bottle and sat at the desk. "Thank you, Poppy."

"You'll owe me a pint down at the Three Broomsticks, come the holidays," Poppy warned her as she also sat down. They dug into their breakfasts in companionable silence for a few moments, then the mediwitch idly asked her how her treatment of her mystery patient went, and Hermione took a sip of the potion to calm her headache before relating the news.

When they were down to crumbs, Poppy rose and crossed to the hearth.

"Here, let me Floo you through to the Headmistress' office. You'll need the password for that; someone tried to break in via the Floo from one of the other teachers' hearths, the portraits threw a fit, and she had to password-protect her Floo from even her fellow professors... I'm pretty sure it was one of the Slytherin students, but they've been an even more closed-mouthed lot than usual, since the end of last year...

"Thank you for your help, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione muttered.

"It's in the job description, young lady. Well, off you go, then!"

With a toss of the powder and a call of the destination and the password--something about haggis tasting great with treacle, which Hermione's brain refused to process fully--Madam Pomfrey sent her spinning through the grass-green flames.

"...wants me to allow the Board of Governors access to this school, and I don't--oh! Hermione," Minerva McGonagall exclaimed, hand going to the base of her throat. "You startled me, my dear."

"I'm sorry if I was interrupting anything, Professor," Hermione apologized, absently dusting soot from her clothes. "I, erm, just came to have a private chat with Professor Dumbledore, if I could."

"Well, I was just complaining about that pushy politician, Scrimgeour. He wants the Board of Governors to have free access to this school, to come and go as they please, and I'm worried that some of them are still under the influence, if not necessarily the outright control, of the Death Eaters!" Minerva muttered. "And I've got an Inverted Hogsmeade day to supervise, and it's only just after breakfast, and already I've got a headache the size of that squid out in the lake."

"I've got one, too," Hermione admitted, holding up the vial of cinnamon-flavoured painkiller. "I'd be willing to share the potion Poppy gave me for it?"

Minerva glanced at the bottle, studied the red contents, and sighed roughly. "Give me a measured dose, girl, or I'll be liable to chug that thing straight down, and then you'd have to scrape me off of the floor. And I cannot afford to be...distracted, however pleasantly...right now."

Obligingly, Hermione found a quill on the older witch's desk as they retreated to it, and Transfigured a small spoon. She measured out a tiny dose for her former Head of House, and watched as Minerva sipped at it slowly, making a face at the sharp cinnamon taste. She took a sip herself, enjoying the spicy flavor, then asked, "Headmistress, you said something about an 'Inverted Hogsmeade Day'? What is that about?"

"Oh, the merchants down in the village were bemoaning the loss of Hogsmeade weekend sales. I've arranged to have carefully screened goods sent up from the shops that the students patronize the most--Honeydukes being at the top of the list, naturally--and I've bribed the other teachers into serving as shop-clerks, since we can't have every John and Jill Employee having access to a Secret-Kept school." Minerva sighed and rubbed at her temple, then took another taste of the red liquid coating the spoon in her hand. "The shopkeepers have all sent up catalogs to circulate through the four House common rooms, and the students have the opportunity to request in advance what they'd like to see. We even have a few house-elves and Professor Trelawney overseeing a corner of the Hall that's been turned into a version of Madam Puddifoot's tea parlour, and the butterbeer is carefully regulated for third-years and older.

"It was quite popular last month... Come, tell me what you and your two friends have been up to; your visit to Hogwarts comes with a price, you know," Minerva commanded her, gesturing at of the seats at the edge of the room. It obligingly slid over to the end of her desk, within comfortable conversing range.

Seating herself, Hermione took another sip. Her headache was disappearing and her tense muscles were relaxing, but she didn't need to take any chances. "Well...we've uncovered the need to brew a specific potion and use it in a specific way, to further weaken the Dark Lord."

Minerva's black brows rose in surprise. "--You intend to poison him? That's a suicide mission!"

Hermione shook her head. "It's an indirect thing, and I can't explain how it will work, but it will...except that when I tried to get my hands on the book...I failed."

"Where is the book now?"

"Um, in the hands of your former colleague," Hermione confessed.

"Oh, dear."

She nodded, confirming the older witch's unsettled expression, and used Lesson Number Three to her advantage. She might still be mad at her so-called husband, but she wasn't going to be like Harry and discard the man's teachings. Those lessons weren't the sort she could afford to ignore. "That's one of the reasons why I need to have a little chat with your predecessor. To know how he might react if I went after the book and we encountered each other again. And...um...given how sensitive and delicate the discussions will be, I'd like to ask you if you could request that all the other Headmasters and Headmistresses take a walk for a little while. Perhaps patrol the castle through its portraits?"

One of the wizards around them snorted; Hermione didn't know which one, but she did hear a distinctly muttered, "--Reduced to a bloody prefect?"

The current Headmistress gave the portrait in question a quelling look over Hermione's shoulder, then focused on the younger woman. "That's a rather tall request. All of the portraits here have vowed to hold strictly confidential any conversations overheard in this chamber."

"Well, I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore about my...about my husband," Hermione added, uncomfortable with the subject. "It's not the sort of conversation I'd feel comfortable discussing if there were others around to hear it, not even if they'd taken Unbreakable Vows to not discuss it with anyone else."

"...I see. Is there something I should know about, regarding Russel?" Minerva asked her perceptively.

"I need to talk to Albus," Hermione repeated. "He's the only one who might hold the answers to the questions I seek."

"Hermione...can Russel be trusted?" Minerva wanted to know. "Is he on our side?"

"He wants to destroy the Dark Lord, as much or more as any of us." She almost didn't feel like herself, stating those words calmly when she wanted to scream and cry, and shout that Russel the Deceiver was Severus the Murderer. Instead, she took another sip of the potion Poppy had given her.

"Alright, then." Rising, the stately witch faced the images hung on her walls. "Ladies, gentlemen, take a one-hour break. Go patrol the other paintings, go watch the children being rambunctious, go chatting with your other portrait-companions, if you have portraits elsewhere in the wizarding world. Hermione, you will stay here with Albus' portrait until we return. I don't know who tried to break into my office, since they were wearing an Invisibility Cloak, but I don't want this place left unguarded, even with a separate password for the Floo. Consider it the price for the privacy you seek."

Inclining her head in agreement with the bargain, Hermione watched Minerva shrug into the outer robes of the Headmistress of Hogwarts, and leave the study. The other Headmistresses and Headmasters made their way out of the frames of their portraits, passing through each other's spaces as they, too, vanished from view at the corners of the rooms. Within a minute or two, Hermione was left alone with a mock-dozing, purple-clad version of a storybook Merlin.

She set the vial of red headache potion on the desk and looked at the remaining occupied painting. Long silvery bear, pointed cap, runes and stars and moons stitched in glittering thread on his robes, and half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. With his bearded chin propped in his hand, his elbow on the padded armrest of his chair, he looked like he was peacefully dozing. Napping. Blissfully asleep, like some doddering old granther tucked into a hearthside armchair.

Hermione knew better.

"You should've told me."

He didn't move.

"You should've told me who Russel was."

He didn't 'wake'.

"You should have told me!" Rising from her seat as she shouted the words, glaring at her former Headmaster, Hermione cast several scrolls and papers off of Minerva's desk, though she was careful to not knock over the vial. She regretted the mess even as she made it, being naturally tidy and respectful of others' property, but it felt good for a moment to be wantonly destructive. Unfortunately, Albus only continued his sham of sleeping. Grabbing a ribbon-bound scroll, Hermione flung it at his portrait.

It missed, of course, but the clatter of it hitting the wall, then falling to the floor and bouncing made him crack open those oil-painted eyes. Some trick of the artist's brush had captured the gleam that made his blue eyes twinkle when he was happy, but his expression was somber as he finally gave her a reply. "...Is Lord Voldemort dead? Did you see it with your own eyes?"

"No. Not yet--but Severus Snape will be, if I don't get a straight answer out of you!" she snapped. "You should have told me Russel was your murderer!"

Lifting his head from his palm, Albus looked down at her soberly. "Miss Granger...Mrs. Snape," he acknowledged, "...if Severus should die, I will need to be informed of this fact by an eye-witness. However, I hope most earnestly that you will help to stay his killer's hand, not be his killer If you kill him, you might escape Azkaban, given how public opinion currently runs against the man...but I assure you, if Severus Snape dies, most of our hope for winning this war will die with him. The most important tool in a war is knowledge, and he is a tool that I have hidden in the enemy's own hands."

"He killed you!"

"I still trust him completely."

Hermione's jaw dropped. For a moment, she couldn't find any words, and then they came to her, words which seemed utterly appropriate, for all she wasn't normally the sort to shout them at anyone. "--You're fucking barmy! You've lost it! You've gone round the bend of your own portrait frame!--Did they install your portrait backwards?" Hermione demanded, incredulous. "He killed you, Albus! Cold-blooded murder! And now I'm supposed to trust him? I'm supposed to let him touch me? Sure, he says through the ring that he wants to destroy the Dark Lord, but the man will clearly do anything to achieve that goal! What kind of a victory is it, if he's out there killing off our own side left and right?

"How can I trust a man whose motivations I don't know, and cannot understand?"

The look Albus gave her over the top of his painted reading glasses was a chiding one. "Young lady, if you are to be our only spy's liaison, you are going to have to learn how to motivate him. And you will have to do it yourself. Do not rely upon what he thinks are his reasons for doing what he does. Frankly, the man got a few wires crossed somewhere along the way, and cannot always see what's right in front of his face. You will have to lead him where you need him to go."

Hermione paced in the space between Minerva's desk and the Headmaster's portrait, agitated. "How can I lead him? I don't understand him! I'm afraid of him! I'm afraid to encounter him again," she added truthfully, rubbing her upper arms.

"Hermione, there is nothing to fear--"

She whirled on him, glaring up at his purple-clad figure. "--He forced me! I'll grant you it wasn't rape in the traditional sense, where I was battered and beaten and left for dead, but I said no and he still had his own way with me!"

"Yet he did not actually harm you, did he?" Albus probed perceptively.

"He slew my trust in him!" Hermione retorted, fists clenching at her sides. "I trusted Russel--I fell in love with Russel! And now I find he's a cold-blooded murderer who has lied to me repeatedly, and who betrayed my heart! He says he'll do anything it takes to bring down Moldybutt, but how can I trust him to do so in a way that doesn't betray everything the good side of this war stands for? How can I trust a man whose motivations I don't know, and cannot understand? How can I trust a man whose whole heart isn't on our side?"

Dumbledore stayed silent for a long while, gazing down at her as he considered her demands. Hermione paced again for a minute or two, feeling her tension creeping back through the effects of Poppy's brew. She took another sip, mindful of the mediwitch's warning not to overdose herself. As enticing as the idea of making the world go away for a day or two in a drug-hazed oblivion might seem at that moment, she knew she needed to keep her wits about her.

Finally she flopped down into the lightly padded chair Minerva had offered her.

"...Are you finally ready to listen with an open mind?" Albus enquired calmly after a little more time had passed.

"--I don't know about 'open'," Hermione quipped darkly, then sighed, "but I'm ready to listen. He broke my trust, Albus. I find I cannot condone the path that he chose."

"And yet, if he had not tread upon that path, he would not be in such a trusted position within the enemy camp, these days," the deceased Headmaster reminded her. "Allow me to paint you a picture of Severus' worth to Marvolo, Hermione. Severus was not the most trusted of Death Eaters, when he first joined. He knew more about the Dark Arts than most, true, but he wasn't as cold and ruthless as the rest. A hurting, spiteful, angry-at-the-world child who had learned it was safer to lash out at others first, rather than to wait to be lured in and betrayed by those he thought would be his friends. His talent for potions gave the Dark Lord ideas about the service that Severus could be put to, and his coming into this school to spy upon me under the guise of a teacher was his chance to prove himself to Riddle.

"When Severus delayed in returning to the Dark Lord after his resurrection, it was out of a deep reluctance to return to a life and a philosophy he no longer wanted to follow. But he went when I asked him, because he knew it was necessary, and because I could motivate him. That delay cost him some very fancy footwork to keep the Dark Lord's faith in him. In killing me, from what I have heard, Severus is now Riddle's right-hand man. Thus he is now in the perfect position to know all, and report whatever he safely can. But holding that right-hand position comes at a very high cost," Albus reminded her. "Merlin knows what he's had to do to maintain that position. I'm not saying I condone whatever he did to you that you did not like. I'm saying you must understand him, and the stresses of his position...and how very necessary maintaining that position is."

Hermione remembered with chagrin the state Russel...Severus...had been in, after that one raid had failed. After he'd had to prove himself, and had proven it by subjecting himself to the punishments of a sadistic, inhuman madman. She remembered with a flush of shame for having forgotten the way Russel--Severus--had cried in her arms, begging almost soundlessly to not have to go back again. To not have to do such things, just to keep his place among the enemy. So much fear, and loathing. Such utter reluctance...I can't help but wonder how anyone could manufacture such angst, such depth of emotion? Did he lie about that, too? Or was it the truth? "How much of what he showed me of his heart as Russel was real, and how much of it was a lie?"

"Severus is not a man prone to lying, when it comes to his emotions," Albus returned. Hermione started; she hadn't realized she'd spoke aloud. Dumbledore nodded his head slightly, confirming her hearing. "He cannot display emotions he does not feel; not easily. His passionate nature is too intense for that. Instead, he has learned to harness his emotions. His Occlumency skills are second to none, because of this. Whatever he's thinking, whatever he's doing, he's feeling that moment with a level of sincerity that most others mistake for honesty. It is the truth, but it is his own truth. He pours himself into the mould that is needed, at times. This allows him to lie to Riddle by twisting that truth to suit his needs."

Lesson Number Three, Hermione thought bitterly.

"It also helps him that the darker emotions come to him more readily than the gentler, lighter kind. Darker emotions that Riddle can more easily understand. But make no mistake; his 'lighter' emotions are just as strong as the darker ones, and carry just as much weight in the moulding of the man's mind. This is both an advantage and a disadvantage," Albus lectured her. "Severus is used to concealing the disadvantages of his emotional nature, and he is accustomed to turning them into strengths instead of flaws. But, with my guidance, you as his liaison can take control of the advantages of his passionate nature...by taking control of that nature as his wife."

Hermione gaped at him. Is he suggesting what I think he is...? She couldn't even bring herself to put a name to it.

"If you want to ensure that he throws his whole heart into our side of the war-effort, you are going to have to ensnare his heart," the former Headmaster told her bluntly.

"You can't be serious!" Hermione protested, gobsmacked by what the late Headmaster was instructing her to do. "You're asking me to...to..." No, she couldn't say it aloud. Not easily. She tried again. "I don't even know if I want a heart like his tied to me! He's a cold-blooded killer!"

"As I recall it," Albus countered mildly, "he was actually rather upset at the time. Furious with me, in fact. I'd say that raised his blood to at least a decent bathwater temperature."

"--How can you make jokes at a time like this?" she demanded, shoving out of her chair so that she could pace the patch of study floor in front of Minerva's desk.

"On the contrary, my dear; this is the perfect time. The situation you are in is neither as somber nor as dreadful as you are imagining," the old wizard dared to chide her. "Stop making up your mind to be unhappy with your situation, and make up your mind to be happy with it."

"He forced himself on me, sexually--claimed it was his conjugal right!" Hermione snapped, face burning with the admission, but too upset to care at the moment. "How can I be happy with that?"

Albus regarded her somberly. "...Did he hurt you? Did he physically harm you? We'll set aside the status of your agitated emotions for now."

The gentle question brought a lump to her throat. Swallowing it down, Hermione forced herself to be honest. "Not...not really. He was quite...considerate." It took effort to get that part confessed. Effort, and a very hot collar. She paced again. "I know it could've been worse, I know he could've brutalized me, ignored my own needs--but I told him no! Even a wife has a right to say no!"

"Why did you say no?"

The question startled her. Hermione blinked up at the deceased Headmaster on the wall. "...Why? Because he was Severus Snape!"

"How was that any different from him being Russel?" Albus challenged her. For a moment, his obstinate blindness dumbfounded her, leaving her briefly speechless.

"Because...because I loved Russel!" she finally exclaimed, finding the words that needed to be said, even though it hurt her to admit how much of a fool she'd been. "I fell in love with him, and it was all a lie! Russel was kind, and funny, and charming--"

You wanted a charming man. I gave you one. You wanted a spectacular lover. I gave you one. You wanted someone to love. I gave you one! His words echoed in her mind. Hermione covered her ears in frustration, but it didn't shut out the memory of Severus Snape's baritone voice demanding to be heard. I, I, I...

Severus Snape had given her those things. Manufactured or not, in disguise or not, he had done those things for her. Tears stung her eyes, seeping onto her cheeks. "No...no, I don't want..." Her whisper became a low, rough verbalization of her pain and confusion being reluctantly resolved. "I don't want to admit that they're the same man. Because every time I think of Snape, I think of him killing you, and of him scaring me, and of him being the black-hearted bastard who was a living hell as a teacher, the greasy git, the bat of the dungeons...and Russel wasn't any of that. He had me fooled!"

"I rather think he has himself fooled," Albus offered idly. Hermione wasn't deceived; Professor Dumbledore never did anything idly, alive or dead. She looked up warily and the silver-haired wizard in the portrait continued. "Despite the influence of his past, despite the things he must do at the present, Severus still has a great deal of potential within him. The potential to be a far better man. I suspect that, if you felt love for Russel, he has a great deal of potential within him; you are not an unperceptive woman," Albus allowed, folding his hands in his lap. "And you do know what they say about making a wizard a better man: all he needs is the love of a good woman."

"Urgh!" Turning away in disgust, Hermione pressed her hand to her stomach. "I cannot believe you just said that!"

"Well, most cliches are true at their core, Hermione. My meaning, however, is simple enough: Severus is an emotional man. You must therefore lead him by his emotions to the place where you want him to be," Albus instructed her. "I assure you, he is human enough to want to be loved. But he doesn't believe he deserves to be, and he has very little experience with being treated with love.

"'Greasy git'," Albus parroted back to her, making her flinch, then flush with shame. She'd never really used those words before now. When her friends had disrespected the man back when he'd been their teacher, she'd normally been the one to defend him, or at least give him the respect he was due. The Headmaster continued, watching her as he recited the hateful words calmly. "'Black-hearted bastard'. 'Bat of the dungeons'. None of these are very loving appellations, wouldn't you agree? And how many times have you seen anyone willingly touch him, let alone touch him gently, with care and compassion?"

She scoffed the notion with a sharp exhale, folding her arms defensively across her chest. "You're trying to tell me that Severus Snape, cold-blooded--fine, lukewarm-blooded killer," she amended under his pointed look, "--would be a better person if I just hugged him more often?"

"For a start. Of course, you'll want to be a bit more subtle about it than just walking up to him and embracing him, at first. The man has the deeply seated suspicious nature of both a Slytherin and a decades-long spy. I suspect that, however you uncovered his true identity, Severus' own sense of trust in you was just as badly damaged by it as your sense of trust in him as Russel." He quickly held up his painted hand, forestalling her protest. "Try to remember when you deal with him that he is in a very precarious position. One where trust is nigh-impossible.

"If you fell in love with him, I suspect it was because he trusted you enough to show you facets of his emotions that he wouldn't normally show to anyone. He might've lied about some of it, perhaps even lied about loving you back, if you'd confessed your feelings to him at some point before his unveiling," Albus allowed, "but the potential in the man to be so much better than he thinks he can be is still in there, waiting to be mined and processed like a precious ore. You know how fiercely he hates; you have seen it in how he has transferred his hatred of James Potter onto young Harry. If he can be brought to it, he will love with equal ferocity...and if you can harness that, you will harness the most powerful wizard alive. Voldemort, you see," the old wizard reminded her, "has one great flaw that I have observed in him over the years. He does not understand love, and thus does not understand the vast power that those who love can harness.

"It is that aspect of Severus' passionate nature that you must take advantage of, and draw out of him. And the way to approach him is through your own rights as a wife. I suspect he will be feeling much like a beaten dog at this point, inclined to snap and growl and perhaps even bite, since to his way of thinking, his trust has been abused." Hermione snorted, but Dumbledore continued. "I know, I know... He put his trust in you when he was pretending to be Russel, and I can glean the idea that his revelation as Snape did not go very well. Thus he will be feeling very protective, since exposure as a spy, even to his own side, is a very dangerous thing. It will be up to you to gentle him, and show him that your hand, at least, will never strike him."

She snorted in disbelief.

"Love, Mrs. Snape," Albus chided her, "is the most powerful force in the universe. It can wrought changes where no other emotion, no other treatment, can alter a single speck of a situation--are you familiar with the Greek legend of the Sun and the Wind?"

His abrupt change in topic confused Hermione. She shook her head. "No. Why do you mention it?"

"It has a great significance to your situation. One day, the Sun and the Wind were chatting with each other when they spied a cloaked traveler wandering a road not far from the shore. The Wind, being boastful of his strength, challenged the Sun to a duel. He proposed that they find out who was the stronger of the two, by seeing which one could remove the cloak from the traveler's shoulders. The Sun accepted, and suggested that the Wind should go first," Albus recited. "And so the Wind drew a great breath and blew upon the traveler. His cloak flapped and almost came off, but he caught the edges and wrapped it around himself. The Wind blew again, and blew even harder, and he clung harder, and no matter how hard the Wind blew, the traveler just wrapped himself tighter in his cloak, thwarting all efforts to make him lose it by force.

"The Wind finally gave up, and the Sun came forth to have his turn. He did nothing impressive, just merely shone down upon the traveler, and in time the traveler eased his grip upon the edges of his cloak. The Sun continued to shine, gradually growing brighter and warmer as he rose higher in the sky, until the traveler's face began to sweat...and finally, the traveler unclasped his cloak, removed it from his shoulders, and slung it over his arm, from the need to be cooler as he walked." Looking at her over the tops of his half-moon spectacles, Albus added, "This is the same moral as is found in the saying 'you can trap more flies with honey than with vinegar.'"

Hermione lowered her gaze. She knew that saying, and she could see the silver-haired wizard's point with his story. Reluctantly, but she could see it.

"You, Mrs. Snape, are in the perfect position to put a martial ring through your husband's long, thin nose, and in a position to not only do so, but make him enjoy the process, and even eagerly anticipate the thought of being led around by it. If you do your job as his wife correctly. We need Severus Snape fully on our side. You are his handler, as his liaison with the Order. That is your responsibility, now. You must tame him to the touch of your hand, both literally and figuratively. You know what you must do, in order to achieve this task.

"And I remind you, Hermione, that if you don't want to be happy with this situation, then I can guarantee you will be unhappy...and if you are unhappy, your husband is perceptive enough to realize you are unhappy, and will not believe in the sincerity of your efforts. If you want him to believe in you, so that he can believe in your cause--and he must, for you to succeed with him--then you must make up your mind to be happy with him. Try focusing on all the things you liked about Russel, and coax them back to the surface in the stubborn man." Propping his elbow on the armrest of his painted chair, the former Headmaster rested his cheek on his palm, closing his eyes. "...I suspect you have a lot to think about, for now. I'll give you some privacy in which to do so.

"Remember to stay here until the others return. I suspect whoever broke in here last time would not hesitate to try again, if they thought this suite was unguarded."

She did have a lot to think about. Too much to think about, but too many emotions raging through her to think coherently. Distracting herself, Hermione restored the papers and scrolls to Minerva's desk while her emotions settled, then paced as she further calmed and ordered her mind. When she thought she could think logically and calmly, she flung herself down into her borrowed chair. Then lunged to her feet, needing to do something active.

The one thing that could soothe her were the books lining the double-staircase arcing up either side of the Headmistress' desk. She perused the titles, touched the aging spines, breathed in the musty scents of leather and paper and parchment, and that was when she finally relaxed enough to allow herself to think about his words. To think about her situation. To think about her responsibilities in this war.

When Minerva returned shortly before lunch, the Headmistress found the other portrait occupants had quietly returned and settled themselves back into their spurious naps. And she found Hermione seated on the third step of the right-hand staircase, a lost look in her unfocused eyes. The younger witch's body was twisted so that her head and shoulders could rest against some of the tomes on the shelves, and her arms were wrapped around her stomach, one hand clenching the now emptied bottle that Poppy had given the younger witch.

Hermione had been doing a lot of thinking, while she was gone.

Concerned, the older witch drew near, stopping at the foot of the steps. "...Hermione? Are you alright?"

A shuddering, deep breath, and the chestnut-haired witch stirred to life. Blinking, she focused on the Headmistress. "...No. I'm not alright. I've been shaken, not stirred. Dumped in a blender with the button set on frappe. Told I'm a witch, and that all the odd things that have been happening around me are because I can do magic, and now the world I thought I knew was no longer going to be my world.

"No, right now, I'm not alright. One day, I will be. I'm going to cling to that hope, for now," Hermione added as she pushed to her feet. "Thank you for the privacy, and the use of your study, Minerva."

"Will you be going straight back to Headquarters?" Minerva enquired, concern lacing her voice as she followed Hermione to the hearth.

"Yes. Straight to my room. I've got quite a bit of thinking to do."

"Is there anything you can tell me? Anything I can do?"

Hermione shook her head. "Nothing useful, at this point in time. Maybe later, when I've sorted it all out. Thank you," she repeated, taking a handful of power from the pot on the mantel. Belatedly, she offered the vial. "Could you pass this back to Madam Pomfrey for me? And thank her for the potion? I think it's the only thing keeping me from flying apart, or breaking from sheer tension, right about now."

Bemused, Minerva accepted the vial, and watched as the young woman vanished in a verdant flare.