Chapter 19

Author's Notes: The scene with Arabella at the supper table is one of my favourites, especially the reaction of the boys. You'll find out why, later... More angst ahead! ~Lotm

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XIX.

She didn't make it to her room unnoticed. Harry, Ron, Tonks, Violetta, Arabella and Molly were in the kitchen when she spun out of the hearth at 12 Grimmauld Place. The room reeked of cooked cabbage and sausages. It triggered a memory of a comment Russel had made, of Wormtail cooking bubble'n'squeak for some of the Death Eaters, meal after meal. Her gorge rose; it had been Snape who'd confided that tidbit of his life at Riddle Manor, Snape who'd tried to win her trust through the mediums of lies and disguise.

"Hermione!" Harry said, eyeing her with relief. "What took you so long? We were growing worried."

Clapping her hand over her nose and mouth, she shook her head as she hurried for the door, frantic to get away from the cloying, mustardy-sulfurous smell of cooked cabbage. The stink lingered in the ground floor hallway, so she rushed up the stairs. Footsteps followed her to the second floor, and Harry caught her elbow, turning her around when she was just a few yards from her door. Ron had followed him.

"Hermione, are you alright?"

She shook her head, then gulped a few breaths of cabbage-free air, and nodded instead. "I just...the smell was getting to me. It's rather strong, down there."

"It's actually a lot better than the last time we had bubble'n'squeak," Harry shrugged. "Mrs. Weasley made it, this time. Mrs. Figg always overcooks the cabbage, but this stuff is actually quite edible."

Stomach churning with unsteady emotions and memories, Hermione shook her head, hand pressed to her upper abdomen. She didn't meet either of their gazes. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry, right now."

A soft gasp escaped Ron. Looking up, she found his face mottling in a mixture of blood-loss and blood-rush. It was as if his body couldn't make up its mind whether to be pale or flushed. His mouth had sagged partway open, but after a moment he pressed his lips into a grim line and looked away. Snagging Harry's elbow, Ron tugged the other wizard away from her.

"Let her be, Harry. If she's not hungry, she's not hungry."

"But she's been acting rather weird ever since she got back from trying to steal that book!" Harry protested. Ron dragged him further down the hall. Hermione, about to turn and go into her room, grateful for the odd reprieve, watched as Ron hauled her blood-brother close and whispered something in his ear. Harry's eyes widened so much behind his spectacles, she could see their greenness even at this distance. He blinked at her, gobsmacked from whatever Ron had said, and allowed the redhead to haul him down the stairs.

There was no telling what that was about, save for one thing: whatever Ron had surmised, it was a headache she did not need to investigate. Chasing down that problem would only add to her many other troubles, right now. Whatever it was, it could wait. What she needed right now was a good, long sleep. And a way to make her brain shut up. Detouring to the bathroom, she used the facilities, brushed her teeth, then retreated to her room, locking and warding the door.

If only she could lock and ward out her own thoughts.

...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!

'Greasy git'. 'Black-hearted bastard'. 'Bat of the dungeons'. None of these are very loving appellations, wouldn't you agree?

Hermione removed her clothes, and slid under the covers. Crookshanks, sensing her distress, meowed and head-butted her. She petted him, taking some small comfort from his presence. He was the least complicated thing in her life right now, after all.

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.

The Dark Lord has known all along about my plan to communicate with you through the rings... Marvolo knows everything but the fact that the rings enforce some version of the truth.

Sounds like you have a few issues with him... Try a whole subscription...

You do know what they say about making a wizard a better man: all he needs is the love of a good woman.

Her stomach churned. These were the same circle of thoughts that had plagued her into drinking faster sips of that muscle-calming drug. Her body was calm, relaxing itself towards sleep, but her mind was not.

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.

I am going to claim you, Hermione Jane. You have lost your last chance to escape. You will be my wife...and I will not let you go...

Why?

But know you this: I have plans for you. Regardless of how either of us feel. Resign yourself to being my wife!

What plans did he have?

The spell is literally stealing your eggs the moment they become viably fertile...I can tell it's not harming you...

May I collect your virgin's blood? ... The 'bastard traitor' needs it for one of his experiments...

Rolling onto her side, Hermione pulled one of the spare pillows protectively to her stomach; Crookshanks sniffed at it, then padded down to the foot of the bed.

I would think you would know it is a man's personality that stands the test of time, not the aging of his face.

That was a new chorus in the whirlwind occupying her head; she'd forgotten that Russel--Snape--had said that, back on their so-called honeymoon.

Severus is not a man prone to lying, when it comes to his emotions... 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...

Did that mean he manufactured all of the feelings behind the personality she'd seen? Or had he used feelings that were already there? Some had been real, but she couldn't accept that all of them had been honest, and not manufactured.

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... You as his liaison can take control of the advantages of his passionate nature, by taking control of that nature as his wife... 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.

...Either I'm married to a man who honestly wants Voldiebutt dead, or I'm married to a man who is going to betray us all. I hope you don't mind if I prefer to cling to the more optimistic version of his character, since there's no way to annul this marriage.

Hermione winced as her own words came back to haunt her. The drug didn't let her muscles tighten up too much, though; physically, she was quite relaxed. Mentally was another matter. Crookshanks came back, curved around in a circle, and settled himself right in front of her face, bringing with him the tickle and warm scent of his butterscotch-coloured fur.

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...

She shifted the spare pillow from her stomach to her head, flopping it over her right ear. Crookshanks meowed in brief protest at the thump and gust of air, but didn't uncurl himself any more than it took to lift his head. Hermione pressed down on the feather-stuffed pillow, trying to shut out that particular memory...but she couldn't.

No one could manufacture that much misery.

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...

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...

I don't want to be a widow before this war is over...

You won't be, if I can help it. Not until the war is over.

I'm alive...I'm still alive...

He'd said that after they'd made love, the night he'd been injured, as if he were a drowning man still clinging to a board as it washed upon some island shore.

I need you. More than I need healing!

Severus is not a man prone to lying, when it comes to his emotions.

I need you!

He pours himself into the mould that is needed...

I like making you laugh. I don't know why, but I do.

She'd forgotten that moment, too. The memory of him teasing her even as he recovered from his injuries didn't fade away. She didn't know whether or not to believe he'd honestly not known why at that moment. It could've been a lie; he might feel the emotions of the moment, but did that make their origins true? Did that make them true when the moment was done and he wasn't needing to feel them anymore? What really lay at the center of Severus Snape's heart?

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. 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... 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.

Love, Mrs. Snape, is the most powerful force in the universe... 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... 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.

Stop making up your mind to be unhappy with your situation, and make up your mind to be happy with it.

Make up your mind to be happy with it...

I once heard that there are two types of people: those who fall in love and get married, and those who get married and fall in love. I didn't exactly have a chance for the first one, but I think I've done the second one, by now...

Another moment of her own truth she flinched from internally, but it was followed by the memory of his own reply.

I could've settled for a marriage of circumstance with you; you're smart, and charming, and very beautiful. But it's more than that, isn't it? Our minds have meshed, haven't they? All the interests we share, intellectual pursuits, senses of humor...the passion within you that is a match for my own sensuality...

Truth was a garrulous, quarrelsome bitch.

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.

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...

You can trap more flies with honey than with vinegar... It will be up to you to gentle him, and show him that your hand, at least, will never strike him... How many times have you seen anyone willingly touch him, let alone touch him gently, with care and compassion?... If he can be brought to it... 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...

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... You must therefore lead him by his emotions to the place where you want him to be... 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.

You will harness the most powerful wizard alive...

...You must make up your mind to be happy with him.

Her thoughts were finally settling down enough for her to sleep, but Hermione didn't know if she could make up her mind to be happy with the man she had to call husband.

...

She woke abruptly, chilled inside and out. The temperature was warm, but she was alone. Rising from the bed, she slipped into the tunic-like chiton laid out for her, clasped it at the shoulders, tied it at the waist, and padded out of the whitewashed chamber. Everywhere she went, however, she was alone. And yet, she thought she heard footsteps. Corridors passed, lined with columns. A great hall with the hearth-pit in the center, a courtyard with plants arranged in pots. A series of chambers with low-slung furniture, great curving harps, shelves of scrolls and coverless books.

A glimpse of soft feathers, as she chased the sounds of retreating steps. Raven's wings. She hurried, ran faster, but the figure was always just out of her view. Until she burst onto a broad, curved balcony, and a great gust of wind tore at her garments, making her clutch at them to keep them on her body. Vast black wings spread, he leapt into the sky, fleeing her, racing into the half-clouded sky.

The wind died down, leaving her for a moment in cold shadow.

Hermione gasped, jerking herself out of the odd dream. She'd kicked the covers off as she'd slept, leaving her with only a thin sheet tangled about her legs for inadequate warmth, she saw when she grabbed her wand and cast Lumos with it. The hearth, neglected, was cold and dark. The chill in her dream was the chill in her room, yet even after flicking her wand to cast a fire, feeling its heat radiate on her skin, she still felt cold inside. Cold, and numb, like she'd spent all of her dream-time weeping. Her eyes felt sore and her nose was half-clogged; sliding her hand over her pillow, she found it damp in several spots.

Great. Crying in my sleep over something I can't fix.

You must make up your mind to be happy with him.

Shut up, Albus! Goddamned manipulative bastard!

We are only ever as happy as we're determined to be.

That voice, she couldn't tell to shut up. It was the voice of Daphne Granger. Years ago, when Hermione had been eight, she'd lost a friend who had moved away from their neighborhood. Her mother had come upon her, crying from sadness, and had reminded Hermione that she still had other friends to play with, and that her sadness could either feed upon itself, or she could break the cycle by allowing and encouraging herself to be happy again. So the young Hermione had sniffed away her tears, pasted a smile on her face, and though it took her a while to feel the smile on the inside as well as the out, she'd succeeded in bringing herself out of her own misery.

Somehow, I don't think pasting a smile on my face and grimacing it in Severus' direction is going to get him to believe me that I could be happy with him... Head in her palm, elbow on her knee, Hermione curled around her damp pillow. Crookshanks had moved to the windowsill, looking out upon the lights of the London Suburbs, leaving only a fluffy orange tail hanging down below a bulge in the curtains. Her stomach twisted, reminding her that she hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast in Poppy Pomfrey's office.

A glance at the clock on the mantel showed it was just past six o'clock. The supper hour, here at Grimmauld Place. When she, Harry and Ron were planning on spending their evenings in Hogwarts, they'd not attend, preferring to cook a quick meal closer to eight or nine, but she was hungry now. There was usually a bit of a communal meal at this time of the evening.

First I get some food in my stomach...and then I sit down and plan out what I'm going to do, Hermione decided grimly. The manipulative bastard is right. I'm going to have to ensnare every last scrap of what passes for Severus Snape's heart, if I'm to ensure that he's fully on our side...and that he doesn't fuck over anyone else in the course of his spying-induced duties.

She winced a little at the mental swearing; it wasn't really her. Hermione granted herself a bit of leeway, though. She wasn't feeling exactly like herself anymore. Padding to the bureau, she pulled out a set of black woolen tights, a black, calf-length skirt, and a burgundy jumper. Adding undergarments and a camisole, she donned the outfit, brushed out her hair and pinned it back with a couple hair-combs and a spell, slipped into a pair of flats, and unwarded her room. Most of the time, she preferred jeans for their ease of movement and comfortableness, but whenever Hermione needed to feel confident, she donned a skirt to make herself feel more feminine.

Right now, she could use all the confidence she could scrape together. A mirthless snort escaped her. Harry thinks he's got it bad, having to destroy all the Horcruxes and kill off Voldemort. I wonder if he'd just give up and turn Death Eater himself, if he knew his success hinged on my having to successfully seduce Severus Snape?

The absurd, morbid thought cheered her, as Hermione descended the back stairs and stepped into the kitchen. The sight of an infrequently seen red head cheered her even further. "Charlie!"

The second eldest Weasley grinned at her. He'd been in France on a mission for the Order, but now was back again. "Hey there, Hermione! I'd leap up and hug you, but I'm not too keen on meeting a guardian-dragon. I've heard they're even tougher than the real things."

She laughed involuntarily as the freckled rogue winked at her. Tonks was there, and Lupin, whom she greeted with equal warmth, though he was looking a bit wan. Moody sat next to Mrs. Figg, Molly was fussing over her husband Arthur, Bill and Fleur were at the table, and of course Ron and Harry. Ron leapt up to get her tableware from the stacks on the sideboard, and Harry quickly held out a chair for her. Bemused by their solicitousness, she sat down between Harry and Remus.

"Are you feeling up to pot roast?" Harry asked her, his green eyes anxious. "Or are you not hungry?"

Hermione guessed he was worried over how upset she'd been when she'd left and then come back home again. "I'm famished, actually."

"Oh. Good," Harry stated, sitting down next to her. "That's good."

She eyed him askance, but not for long; Charlie passed her the platter of meat slices and she picked out several well-done ones from the end. The vegetables came next, and a rich gravy that made her mouth water. The dinner conversation was light chatter about Fleur and Bill redecorating their apartment, Tonks gave a very funny recounting of an event in the Muggle Minister's office that she'd heard from Kingsley Shacklebolt--funny according to the wizarding-world perspective, which made it doubly so for Harry and Hermione, who knew how it would be seen by the Muggles--and Charlie discussed the storm he'd had to circumnavigate in flying over the Channel.

A natural break came in the conversation, and Mrs. Figg cleared her throat. Loudly. The others glanced at the aging Squib. She cleared her throat again and spoke firmly. "Someone in this household...got knocked up!"

Ron spewed a mouthful of pumpkin juice. Harry choked on a piece of potato, coughing hoarsely to clear. Hermione, her last slice of pot-roast speared on her fork, paused it halfway to her mouth to eye the deliverer of that pompous statement dubiously. Especially since Arabella Figg was staring straight at her.

"That's right, young missy!" Arabella confirmed, glaring at Hermione. "And I blame you for it!"

This time, Bill, Charlie, and Remus choked. Arthur, Molly and Tonks gaped. Hermione glanced at Ron and Harry out of the corner of her eye; they'd stopped coughing and spluttering and were staring gobsmacked at the elderly woman.

"...Me?"

"Yes! If it weren't for that orange fluffball of yours, Mrs. Spots wouldn't have been up the duff! She'd been looking a bit fat, lately," Arabella continued as a spate of coughing and throat-clearing spread around the table, napkins raising to cover smiling mouths in a rash of rumpled linen. "And when she went missing yesterday, I went looking for her. I finally found her in the attic with three little peachballs suckling on their mum--and I blame your cat for getting her in the family way!

"I'm holding you partially responsible for the welfare of those kittens. If that cat of yours is half-kneazle, then they're a quarter of it," Mrs. Figg reminded her tartly, "and they should go to good wizarding homes, once they're weaned and litter-trained."

Shaking her head slowly, eyes winced shut for a moment, Hermione wondered if the whole world had gone mad. It couldn't be just her that had the problem with reality, today. First the debacle with Russel/Snape, then the lecture from Dumbledore's portrait, Harry and Ron acting a bit odd, and now this. Being blamed for the randiness of her cat. "...I'll find them good homes, Mrs. Figg. Good wizarding homes."

"Erm...count us in for one," Arthur offered. "That's a smart cat you've got, good at chasing garden-gnomes."

"Yes," Molly agreed, firmly dragging the conversation to a slightly more decorous side of the subject, away from the taboo topic of feline breeding. "If his offspring are even half as good a mouser as he is, just one of them will help keep the little pests out of the vegetable-patch, next year."

"I zink we would alzo like a byootiful leetle chat for our apartment," Fleur decided, glancing at her husband for approval.

Harry snickered, choking on his laughter. Fleur's accent made the French word for 'cat' sound like shat. Hermione elbowed him sharply and he smothered the lower half of his face in his napkin. Ron only grinned and helped himself to more potatoes as his eldest brother sighed and shrugged.

"If that's what you wish, my love."

Love. Goddamned, endearment-tossing bastard... Her food didn't appeal to her anymore. Setting down her forkful of meat, Hermione cleared her throat. "I'll do the dishes, if someone will take care of the leftover food."

Harry touched her arm, his mirth exchanged for concern again. "Are you feeling alright? I can do the dishes, if you don't want to be in the kitchen, with all the smells."

Quirking her brows, Hermione reassured, "I'm fine, Harry. Honestly, what's with you two? I get into one little fracas with Snape, and suddenly I'm like an antique china doll to the two of you!"

"--Snape?" Moody repeated, latching onto the name. "You encountered Snape?"

Stupid, stupid... Sighing, Hermione explained. "I had to get a book from his home. While I was there, I encountered Severus Snape. We had a little argument, I Portkeyed to safety, and got hexed by the book I'd used as my Portkey."

"Nobody's been able to find Snape's residence," the ex-Auror pointed out suspiciously. "It's suspected he threw it under the Fidelius Charm. How were you able to find it?"

"Russel set up an anonymous meeting with the Death Eater who is the Secret Keeper, and I went when I thought the place would be empty. Obviously, it wasn't. But I'm fine. He didn't hurt me," she reiterated, carefully sticking to the topic of her visit to 42 Spinner's End, and only 42 Spinner's End. "He threatened me and poked his wand at my neck, and that was all. I got myself out of there before anything worse than that happened. And I've already been checked out by Madam Pomfrey: I'm perfectly fine. I'm not hexed, not jinxed, and not under the Imperius Curse."

"What book were you looking for?" Charlie asked her, curious.

"Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia," she admitted. "Don't ask me why I need it; I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

Bill whistled, eyeing her warily. "That was a dangerous witch! She could've given even Bellatrix Lestrange the shudders! Why do you need her diary?"

"I told you; I can't tell you. Unfortunately, I didn't get to keep the book. It got taken away just after I'd found it."

"Well, obviously you didn't open it up," Bill muttered. "And a good thing, too; I've heard of wizards being blinded for a week, or worse, being blinded and covered in boils for up to a month, if they opened any of Lucrezia Borgia's spellbooks. They're almost legendary, in curse-breaker circles," he added as the others gave him curious looks. "It's said that Lucrezia was a Renaissance-era suffragette, in an extremist sort of way.

"The book-pages start out blank, you see," Bill Weasley explained, gesturing with his hands. "But there's a spell at the front that judges the reader, in each of her books. Males get blinded. Incompetent males get blinded and covered in boils. Females won't be blinded, but if they're incompetent...well, it's a month of the worst possible case of all-over spots you've ever seen. Only top female curse-breakers are allowed to open a Lucrezia book, and they aren't allowed to cast most of the spells inside, since they're very Dark magic...and those weren't from her Diary. I can only imagine how much more dangerous the contents of her Diary might be."

"Well, I opened the book, and I saw the blank pages, and then it cast its spell, but I wasn't blinded, and I didn't get any boils," Hermione admitted, relieved someone was willing to tell her why the book was dangerous. "I can't remember the message, though."

"Then you're very lucky," Bill praised her, smiling. "And probably one of the few witches in the world who could delve into that madwoman's secrets unscathed." His smile faded. "But I still don't see why you have to go anywhere near anything she'd written. You're not a Dark Witch, Hermione. Anything but."

Hermione shook her head. "The fewer who know, the fewer risks that word will get back to the Dark Lord. Suffice to say, it's all a part of our campaign to bring down Voldiedork."

A snerk sound startled them. It came from Alastor Moody. He snerked again, then started laughing. "Voldiedork? Ahahahahahahaha!"

He snorted loudly, dragging in some much-needed air, then guffawed again. Hermione shuddered. No, it wasn't just her. The whole universe had definitely gone mad.

...

Knock knock. "Erm...Hermione?"

She covered the stack of parchment she'd been writing her list of Plans To Pull Russel's Strings upon with a book and crossed to her bedroom door. Opening it, she found Harry and Ron on the other side. "Yes?"

"Were you, um, planning on going back there? Tonight?" Ron asked her, concern in his blue eyes. "To Snape's house?"

"No. I've got some planning to do, first. He's probably hidden it very well, too, and will be extra-vigilant regarding his home for the next few days," Hermione offered, trying to sound normal. She almost choked on the next bit, uncomfortable with lying outright to her friends. "I, er, was going to wait until Russel let me know he'd be occupied. Or maybe for a report of a Death Eater attack, in the hopes that he'd be there, or returned to...to Death Eater Headquarters."

She'd tried to say Riddle Manor; Hermione had forgotten she couldn't do so. She'd also forgotten that Snape was the Secret Keeper...and hadn't realized at the time, when Russel had told her that Voldemort's Headquarters were at his father's abandoned manor house, that Russel had stated that 'the bastard traitor' was the Secret Keeper...and shouldn't have been able to tell her the location himself, without being the Secret Keeper himself. Little signs and clues had been there all along, and she hadn't noticed them. Hadn't wanted to notice them.

Harry and Ron mistook her wincing, for Harry reached out and touched her arm. "It's okay, 'Mione. We'll find another way to do what we need to do."

"Yeah, you've had a rough time of it, the last twenty-four hours," Ron pointed out. "Why don't you just take a few days off to recover? The war's not going anywhere, for the moment."

The urge to protest that any delay in resolving Voldemort's demise meant more innocent lives would be harmed was a strong one, but Hermione seized on the opportunity they gave her. She needed peace and quiet, and most importantly solitude, in which to think her way through her situation. If they thought she needed a couple days off to recover from her encounter with Snape, well, she did, in a way.

"I think I'll do that. Thanks."

Patting her arm, Harry added, "You just rest, Hermione. Eat when you can, and if you need any potions or anything, Madam Pomfrey is just a Floo-call away."

Nodding, Hermione closed the door. She stood there for a moment more, wondering what was up with the solicitous behaviour. It wasn't important, however. Shrugging, she returned to her vanity-table-turned-desk. She had more important things to concentrate on, like her list of ways how to handle her husband.

Scheme after scheme had already been crossed off her list. The problem was, he was too smart and too wary to be deceived, tricked, duped, conned, led around, or beguiled. Sighing as she stared at her list, Hermione rubbed her forehead, wondering if any of this was worth it. At this rate, the only thing I'll have left will be the truth...

I will be telling them that I am attempting a mild seduction to distract you... I hope you don't take offense at my efficiency... given that I'm honestly interested in flirting with you physically. I do hope that, by being honest about it, you'll be able to keep a clear head on the morrow...

He'd seduced her very successfully, Hermione realized with more than a touch of chagrin, by telling her he was going to do so. Under the guise of 'needing to pretend to do it'. Honesty, but with a disarming twist. She was too smart to think that he would be fooled by the exact same trick. So I have to come up with some other way of presenting the truth to him that'll disarm him long enough for it to work...assuming I can bring myself to do it. I'm not a deceptive woman by nature, and I'm not a hard one, either. This will take at least a little bit of both.

About the only thing she had going for him was that he wouldn't really be looking for deception from an 'honest, forthright Gryffindor'. That was a Slytherin specialty. The man had been Head of Slytherin House for a good sixteen years, after all. Yes...I'd have to be deceptively honest, and aggressively forthright, so that he wouldn't see the deception for what it really is.

There was only one more problem standing in her way. Two, really, if she counted her reluctance to get near him right now. That would just have to be set aside. No, the other problem was that she had no idea how to go about distracting him with the truth.

Crumpling up the much-abused sheet, Hermione incinerated it with a sigh. Folding her arms, she laid down her head. Why do I want to chase after him, anyway? Why do I have to be the one to tie him down? He says he's working to bring Lord Voldemort down. Isn't that enough?

How long she rested there, trying not to think, Hermione didn't know. But some while later, the base of her finger rapidly warmed. Jerking her head up, she stared at the ring. Words were forming on the scaled surface. Cramped words. "Sigurd, you are summoned."

The dragonette spilled across her desk, presenting her his flank in anticipation of her need. The words were larger on his hide than on the ring. Snatching up her quill, Hermione wrote down the address portion of the message.

33 B Crooked Dog Lane, London...unless you think it's a trap, and not a handful of endangered lives.

Cynical bastard...though he's right to be cynical. But he brought it on himself! ...Didn't he? Her head hurt, even with the relaxing effect of the drug still in her system. She wrote 'Death Eater Attack' and 'Ring of Truth' on the paper, folded and enchanted it into a flying memo addressed to the Auror's Department, and left her room to Floo the Ministry.

It did occur to her that this might be a trap for the other side, but she doubted it. A man ruthless enough in his quest to kill his colleague and employer, a man who had no doubt been his friend, would not risk derailing that quest. She hoped.

Molly was in the kitchen, directing Harry in the practice of one of her multiple-dishwashing charms, cajoling him in the proper wand-movements needed for the most efficient use of his power. Hermione ignored both of them, stepping up to the hearth. Grabbing a pinch of Floo powder, she cast it on the low, crackling flames and muttered the address she wanted. Pitching the airplane into the flames, she watched as the folded paper soared into a tight spiral and vanished, drawn rapidly from view.

Let them handle it, she thought, turning away as the greenish flames died back down. My life is tough enough, right now.

She saw the worried look Harry gave her, but didn't want to deal with lying that nothing was wrong. Thankfully, he didn't stop her as she retreated back up the stairs. Maybe she should take a couple days off, let her battered heart and mind rest and rejuvenate. She was strong enough to bounce back from just about anything, if she put her mind to it.

You must make up your mind to be happy...

Damned voice. Wish he would stop haunting me like this...

...

It wasn't until late the next evening that she remembered something important. When her wand had been stolen from her, she'd read something being done to enchant or hex it in some way. She'd forgotten about her paranoia, foolishly. Now, she didn't know if Snape had hexed it or not. A glance at the clock in her room showed it was too late to go to Ollivander's...but not too late to visit Filius Flitwick, Hermione decided. Surely a serious wand-collector like him would know if there was something dangerous about her wand.

She'd only used it for a couple charms, but that didn't preclude it from being a Portkey, or enchanted with a hex that would trigger under certain circumstances...like trying to defend herself from her husband. She wouldn't put that past him. Sighing, Hermione tucked it into her pocket and hurried down the back stairs.

Arabella Figg and Alastor Moody were in another clinch. Wincing, yet happy for them, Hermione cast Floo powder into the hearth and stepped across to Madam Pince's office. For once, the older witch was there, busy working on cataloguing what looked like a stack of new reference texts. A storm raged beyond the diamond-paned windows of her office, and there was a distinct chill in the air, despite the roaring fire. The librarian sniffed down her long, thin nose at Hermione for the interruption; the younger witch muttered an apology and exited the chamber.

There were still students in the Library; there was still half an hour or more to curfew, and they were taking advantage of it. Hermione hadn't bothered with a plan for concealment, and she was in jeans and a jumper, a distinct contrast to the students still in their school uniforms. Heads looked up, and eyes widened in recognition. Cursing herself silently for her impatience when she could've waited just a little longer, she hurried past the study desks as quickly as she could, heading out into the halls.

It was icy enough in the castle, she could see her breath. Shivering, Hermione moved faster, since she didn't want to risk casting a warming charm on herself until she knew the verdict of her wand. There was a little-used stairwell near the Infirmary that would take her up close to Professor Flitwick's quarters. She had just reached the alcove for it, glancing behind her to make sure she hadn't been seen by anyone else, when she spotted a gleam of red hair. Wanting to see Ginny, even if only at a distance, Hermione ducked around the edge of the stairwell opening, then peeked out.

It wasn't Ginny. It was Ron, half-carrying a limping Harry. Their hair and their cloaks were dripping wet; they must've been out in the storm. Hermione frowned. She hadn't realized Harry and Ron had left the house, but then she'd been sequestered in her room, alternately trying to think up ways to control Severus Snape and trying to not think about anything, in maddening cycles where when she'd tried to think, she came up with nothing, and when she tried to not think, she couldn't silence her mind.

What are they doing here?--Well, obviously because Harry's been injured, but why is Harry injured?

Her ears strained to listen as Ron grunted something, assisting Harry to the entrance of the Infirmary. "Almost there, mate... At least now you know how I felt after Sirius bit me.

"That tunnel is too bloody long to walk, when you're hurt. And the storm certainly didn't help matters..." Harry muttered, freeing a hand to push open the door. "I could use a warming potion, if nothing else."

She wanted to go up to them and ask what they'd been up to, who had attacked them. But if there was trouble, she might have to use her wand, and Hermione needed to know it was alright, first. Turning away, she hurried up the steps. First the visit to Flitwick, then a visit to the Infirmary to see if her friends were still there, and she could find out what was happening.

Flitwick was in his quarters, when she knocked on the door. He was still in his teaching robes, and not the dressing gown with the ascot, thankfully. Letting her in, he offered her a steaming cup of tea, as hard clattering sounds hit the window. "...Dreadful night, really! We haven't had an ice-storm like this since '85. You're shaking terribly, young lady. Haven't you cast a Warming Charm yet?"

"No, Professor, I haven't cast any charms, yet," Hermione demurred, shivering as she cupped the tea-heated porcelain in her fingers. "And I forgot to bring my cloak. I wanted to consult with you about my wand."

"Your replacement wand?" he asked in his squeaky voice. "Is there something wrong with it? And help yourself to an afghan; my grandniece crochets them for me; lovely girl, left Ravenclaw House two years before you entered the school. They're self-enspelled for warmth, and very pretty."

She covered herself with one of the zigzag blankets, grateful for the heat radiating from the blue-and-copper zigzag pattern. "No, sir; it's my original wand. I, um, well...the second one got broken, but I managed to re-obtain the first, only it was in the hands of the Death Eaters, and I'm afraid it might be...booby-trapped. It's too late to go to Ollivander's, so I thought of you as the next best authority."

Drawing the wand, she handed it over. He accepted it by drawing his own wand and levitating the carved vinewood. "Yes, you were right to have it checked. There was a time, shortly after I began collecting wands in duels, when some of my opponents tried to trap their wands against being taken from them. I spent two days in St. Mungo's, before I wised up and started scanning my prizes for latent hexes and the like. I'd say I'm just as good as Roland Ollivander, when it comes to searching for tampering..."

Halting the wand in front of himself, Filius began chanting spellwords and tapping her wand with his own, making mystical passes and causing coloured lights and symbols to glow. Hermione sipped her tea, enjoying the warmth spreading through her body. The process took longer than she thought; Professor Flitwick even went so far as to clear a spot on his coffee table, marking runes and a warding circle, and using that to enforce whatever spells he was casting. She wished she could do what he did, and tried to study the magic being used, but it was very advanced Charm-work, with a heavy slant towards Artificing. Once again, Hermione wished she'd taken those classes in her third and later years.

Finally, he hmmed, then sighed. "Well. It was booby-trapped. But someone neutralized most of the tampering, and did so recently. They weren't at my level of skill, though the hex was rendered inert--a nasty one, which would've trigged had you gone up against anyone wearing the Dark Mark while it was in place if it had still been viable, but it was still there. I've removed it for you, and there's no other signs of danger," Filius told her, picking up her wand from the table and handing it to her with a stretch of his short body. "If anyone who knew that particular spell had gotten their hands on your wand, they could've reactivated it with less than half the effort it would take to cast the original."

"Thank you, Professor." Accepting her wand, Hermione stared at it. There was only one person who could've removed the spell. But why would Snape want to do so? Surely, if he neutralized it, he knew it would harm me if I harmed him with this wand? Why give up such a strong defense? Unless it was such a nasty hex, it would leave him without a contact for the attack-warnings he's given...

"So, what have you been up to?" Filius enquired politely. "Any progress on destroying the you-know-whats?"

"I have to find a book with a potion, brew the potion, and let it steep in the cup for two days," Hermione confessed. "There's only one book in the world that has it, as far as I know...and that book is--"

Her finger burned. Glancing down, she saw the scales patterning her ring melting into blankness. Familiar with this oddity, Filius levitated a quill, ink-jar and notepad onto the coffee table for her. She had the notepad and pen she had gotten into the habit of carrying around with her in her back pocket, but the gesture was appreciated. Filius gave her a curious look. "Your mystery correspondent is calling again, I take it?"

Nodding, she braced the notepad against her lap with her ring-hand, and watched as copperplate words scrawled across the page.

What have you done with Draco? Where is he? If you think you can force the Secret of my home from him for your friends to--

No! Hermione wrote back quickly. I've done nothing to him! I don't know where he is, so don't yell at me!

Frozen pellets of rain clattered against the square panes of glass filling the narrow windows of Professor Flitwick's sitting room. She looked up reflexively at the windblown sound, shivering...and connections formed themselves in her mind. Ron and Harry, dripping wet. Harry, injured. A talk about a long walk, a tunnel, and Sirius Black.

There was only one place the two wizards could take a prisoner and be safe, but unseen. They'd somehow conned into a meeting, fought, kidnapped, and Apparated with Draco to the Shrieking Shack. And she'd bet their prisoner was still out there.

Snape was scrawling something else, the start of a threat. She scratched out his words with her pen and wrote her own underneath. Shut up. I've just realized what's happened to him. I'll take care of it. But you OWE me for rescuing the prat!

Setting down the quill and the notepad, Hermione nodded to Professor Flitwick. "Thank you for the help with my wand. I've got to go rescue someone, or I'd linger; I do enjoy your hospitality."

"You don't have to go outside, I trust?" Filius demurred.

Hermione grimaced. "I'm afraid I do. I'd ask you for a cloak, but..."

"Oh, just Transfigure the afghan," he dismissed, flipping a stubby, age-gnarled hand at her. "Use the Paenulum spell Minerva teaches her fifth-years. That shouldn't interfere with the warming-charm."

"Thank you, sir."

"Please, call me Filius, Hermione. I'm not your teacher. Though I wouldn't mind being your mentor," he squeaked, rising with her as she tapped the blanket, changing it into a blue-and-copper felted wool cloak. "Even I will eventually retire from this place, and it would be lovely to have a competent Charms Mistress to take my post, you know," he tempted her.

Smiling, Hermione fastened the cloak around her shoulders. "I'll keep that in mind."

Ice rattled against the windowpanes as the gusting storm winds changed direction once again.

...

When she slipped and fell for the fifth time, Hermione felt her ankle twist, adding to her bruises. The stone-lined path down the sloping hill to the Whomping Willow was coated with ice, as was nearly everything else. Even she would've become a shambling ice-mound, if she hadn't enchanted herself with protective spells against the foul weather. Poking her wand at her ankle, she recited the charm for sprains, glad she, Harry and Ron had studied such things.

Still, when her ankle healed, Hermione didn't get back up for a few moments, breathing heavily. It was tough, forcing her way through the storm. She'd tried her Self-Levitation spell just outside the doors of the school, but a gust had thumped her forcefully into the stone frame of the archway, negating that idea. If she'd had more practice at flying in bad weather, even if only on a broom, she might've risked it, but it just wasn't feasible.

Lifting her wand, she let the bright white light of Lumos beam into the darkness. Everything looked different, coated with a gleaming clear layer of ice, and fringed with the deadly-looking teeth of icicles. Branches had snapped off under the heavy weight of all that frozen water, forcing her to cast the Deflection Charm more than once. For the moment, the storm wasn't too bad, wind-wise. It was just horridly slippery.

It took her a few moments to realize the ice-coated tree not fifty feet from her was the Whomping Willow. Its limbs had curled in upon itself, giving it a very knobby, stubby look, but with them lashed tightly to its trunk, they wouldn't break off from the weight of the ice. It did, however, render the normally ferocious magical plant harmless. She hoped. Picking herself up, Hermione made her way carefully down to the base of the tree, warily studying its curled-and-coated limbs. It didn't even quiver.

A glance down found the opening to the tunnel sealed over with ice. Aiming her wand, wincing as the wind and the half-frozen rain picked up again, she melted the opening, then slipped--literally--down into the narrow cavern below. Wincing, Hermione rested for a moment at the bottom, mentally adding yet another set of bruises to her battered bum. But at least there wasn't any wind or rain down here to plague a weary traveler. Pushing to her feet, she left the opening behind, her face feeling almost warm now that she was underground.

A spot of blood on the ground alarmed her; from patterns of footprints marring the dust and dirt of the tunnel floor, she guessed Harry had rested here for a moment. She knew he would be alright in Madam Pomfrey's care, but it did remind her that the two kidnapping twits might try to come back out here to interrogate their prisoner. The last thing she needed was Harry and Ron coming upon her as she was trying to free Draco from their clutches. Casting a trip-alert charm, she continued on down the tunnel, pausing twice more to cast alert-spells that would let her know when her friends were drawing close.

The last one was placed at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the trapdoor into the Shack. Mindful of the last time Draco Malfoy had been bound and supposedly helpless, Hermione entered the freezing-cold, wind-whistling building cautiously, wand drawn and ready for anything. He wasn't on the rubbish-strewn ground floor, but then she hadn't expected that. Mounting the stairs to the first floor, Hermione peered cautiously through the damaged walls, and saw a silver-wrapped, black-garbed bundle. A shivering bundle, with a very pale face and bluish-tinged lips.

"Shite!" The twats didn't even light a fire for him!

Snapping her wand at the hearth as she hurried forward, Hermione enchanted a blazing fire into it, then slashed her wand at the walls, cutting off the gusting drafts with warding spells. Draco had jumped at her expletive, and now was shivering hard enough to knock his pale head against the floor. His eyes, squeezed shut against the cold, popped open as she cast a Warming Charm directly on him.

She couldn't just Portkey him back to Snape's home; there was no guarantee anyone would be there to receive the badly chilled wizard. Sending him to Malfoy Manor was also fraught with risk; if there were Death Eaters about, his condition, captured and freezing, might be seen as weak. Hermione could guess all too easily how they'd tear into him like a pack of feral dogs smelling fresh meat. Grey eyes stared up at her, several shades lighter than Russel's had been when she'd tended to his injuries. Pity welled in her heart for the trap Draco was in, pity and compassion.

Using her wand, she Transfigured a tempered-glass teapot out of a bit of broken windowpane, and purified a couple icicles from the same broken, boarded window into drinkable water. Transfiguring non-edible items into food never really worked for sustenance, so she just tapped the water-filled pot with a heating spell until its contents steamed, turned a smaller shard into a mug, and brought both over to the still-shivering wizard. She almost unbound him, but knew he wasn't helpless. Instead, she hauled him into a sitting position, braced his back against an upraised knee, and fed him sips of the warm water until the last of his shivering eased, then twisted to set the mug down.

"Why are you being k-kind to me?"

The whisper startled her. It was defensive, but not angry, not sneering. Looking back at the bound wizard half-propped in her lap, Hermione selected her answer carefully. "Because I'm the better person. Not a better witch than you're a wizard, because this isn't about magic. Not because I'm a Muggle-born and you're a Pureblood, because that doesn't mean anything in this situation, either. And not because I'm a Gryffindor," Hermione stated bluntly. "Two idiot Gryffindors trapped, bound, and left you here to freeze to death while they went to take care of their wounds, without stopping to think about how pissant-poor the sieve-like walls of this place would keep out the freezing cold of an ice-storm. For which I will personally ream their arses."

"Why d-do you care?" he demanded defensively, scornfully. "I'm just the platinum prat, a damned Malfoy!"

"Because I do. For no reason, no rhyme, other than I can't stand to look at someone suffering when they don't need to. That's what makes me the better person."

"Then why don't you unt-t-tie me?" he asked her, shivering inside his magic-heated Death Eater robes.

"Because compassion does not equal stupidity." Hermione drew in a breath to add that she'd be summoning Snape to fetch him, and realized she didn't know if her so-called...if her husband had told the others yet that she knew his true identity. There was also the question of whether or not Ron and Harry were going to be going after the book, if Draco had told them where Snape's house was located. She decided to pursue that line of query instead. "Did you tell Harry and Ron where Snape's house is located?"

He snorted and looked away.

"Did you?"

"I've been practicing Occlumency," he managed to drawl loftily, or as loftily as one could while bound and helpless. Pale grey eyes slanted sharply in her direction. "So don't even think about trying to pry other secrets out of my mind."

"I don't need any of your secrets, Draco. Not today." No, what she needed was that book, and a way of getting it without endangering her two best--if dunderheaded--friends, and without having to fight her husband for it. She was fairly sure he'd hidden it away by now, perhaps behind some nasty protective spells that only he could get through. If she had something to blackmail him...with... She looked at Draco again. "Do you want more hot water?"

His reply was disdainful. "--No. The accommodations and hospitality of this place are dreadful. Is this Weasley's home?"

"Stuff the attitude, Draco. You're not in a position to play Lord of Slytherin anymore. And it's the Shrieking Shack. Lie here and be quiet, if you don't need anything," she ordered him, shifting his upper body back down onto the floor.

"I need to be free!" He jerked at his bonds as she moved away, drawing the notepad and pen she still kept in her back pocket. "You can't keep me here forever!"

"I'm not going to. I'm going to trade you for something I want."

He snorted, a soft sound of disbelief. "Don't count on dipping your filthy Mudblood hands into the Malfoy bank vaults."

"I'm not after your money, Malfoy." Unsure how to make the thing work, Hermione moved out of easy hearing range, over by a battered, dusty dresser, and touched her thumb to the ring. "Severus Selenius Snape," she whispered, and felt the carved gold warm around the base of her finger. Resting the notepad on the dresser, she held it in place with her ring-hand, and watched the scales fade away. As she'd hoped, the tablet was now ready to communicate. Draco is safe.