Chapter 20

Author's Notes: Yes. I am evil. You love my fanfics anyway. ~Lotm

---

XX.

She waited, flicking her wand at the fireplace at the other end of the room to keep the magical flames burning steadily. About a minute later, words seeped through the paper in green ink. Once again, he was using a dictation quill to disguise his handwriting.

Where is he?

Not so fast, Hermione wrote back. I want something in return.

A pause, then he wrote, ...You can't be serious.

I am. Very, she added in emphasis. I want the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia. You will swear you will be alone when you bring it to me, and that the book will be unaltered in any way, in a condition that I can open and read it--and don't say I can't read it, she added. Bill Weasley says Lucrezia was a feminist; only females can read her writing, which is why you, a male, were blinded. I want the book without any spell placed upon it to yank it out of my care. You will swear these conditions to me through the truth of these rings...and I will tell you the location where Draco Malfoy is being held.

There. That was the truth. It implied he wasn't in the same location as her, without actually lying. Hermione didn't want him simply swooping into the Shack and snatching the younger wizard without bringing her prize.

You dare to dictate conditions?

Ruthlessly. I have a good teacher, husband.

Her words faded, leaving a blank page as he pondered his reply.

"Hey!"

She glanced over her shoulder. He'd rolled onto his side, but that was it. He gave her as arrogant a look as he could, though his pale cheeks were a little flushed.

"I need to use the bathroom," Draco stated baldly. "You'll have to untie my hands for that, at least."

"You can always piss in your clothes, if it's that bad," Hermione retorted daringly, though she looked away so he couldn't see the blush on her cheeks at the daring suggestion. Biting her lip, she hesitated, then wrote, The longer you delay, the more uncomfortable Malfoy's situation will get.

Her words faded. Another minute passed. She heard Malfoy squirming across the floor and flicked her wand at him, Petrifying him. He stiffened in place on his side, then rocked onto his back and lay there. The spell would wear off in a few minutes, but it gave her peace and quiet for the moment. Returning her attention to the notepad, she waited some more.

Words finally filled the page.

I swear I will bring you the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia, unharmed and un-enchanted, for you to borrow--not keep--in exchange for the safe return of Draco Malfoy, in one piece, unharmed, alive, intact, and unhexed, and that this will not be a trap set to ensnare me. Swear it yourself.

That made her smile. I swear to exchange Draco Malfoy for the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia, and that he will be alive, intact, and as unharmed as I found him--actually, in better condition; I haven't seen any injuries on him, but he was freezing when I found him. This will not be a trap to ensnare you. Oh, and you will swear you will allow me to borrow the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia for four months, in case you were sneakily thinking of letting me borrow it for only a single minute.

Bitch.

The swearword startled a laugh out of her. Bending her head over the tablet, she wrote back, Flatter me all you like; that's my addendum.

I will swear to let you borrow the book for four months if you will tell me why you need it.

No dice. Prepare to have the Aurors swarm all over your house, after they break down Draco Malfoy's mind, Hermione threatened him.

ALL RIGHT! Manipulative bitch! God, why did I marry you?

Because you made the choice to send me a chastity belt of a ring, in a war where your fellow Death Eaters rape and torture women, and selfish little me didn't care to oblige their filthy lusts. Swear I will be free to borrow and use the book for as long as I have need of it.

Why won't you tell me why you need it?

Because Basilisk-Butt would kill you. Steeling herself, Hermione added as honestly as she could, And I have recently discovered that I, too, have plans for you, husband. Swear it, or lose that fortune in books. Not even you could save them all before the Aurors arrived on your doorstep.

Bitch. As you wish. You may borrow the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia, unharmed, unhindered, un-enchanted, for as long as you wish, in exchange for Draco Malfoy, alive and uninjured, AND with the secret of my house's location intact.

Harry and Ron might know, Hermione cautioned him. Draco said he kept them out via Occlumency, but I can't know for certain. Write to me and tell me when you have the book, and I will write to you where Draco is located.

The ink faded from the page. Removing her hand, Hermione watched the sheet of paper incinerate itself, her ring resuming its normal temperature. Turning around, she faced Draco's prone body. Crossing to him, she crouched. The hex she'd cast was wearing off, making him blink.

"...You know, you really ought to take the time while you're tied up here to think about what you'll want to be doing, five years down the road. This war will have ended by then, and not in the manner that the Dark Lord hopes. He is going to lose, and he is going to die. All of his evil works will turn to ashes, all of his perverted dreams will crumble to dust and blow away on the wind. And he will not be coming back. The final battle will be coming soon, within a year or less. Where will the great house of Malfoy be, if you continue to let yourself be blinded by others' ideas, and paralyzed by your own fears?

"You're the only son your parents have, Draco. An only child. I know what that's like, how strongly your parents' hopes and dreams weigh on your shoulders. You made some bad choices...but redemption waits for you in the end," she reminded him. "Even a last-minute gesture would be worth something to your family's good name."

"When did you ever think my family had a good name?" he sneered, free of his stiff paralysis enough to speak.

"The night Harry found you crying in Myrtle's bathroom, because you didn't want to go on. The night you lowered your wand. The night you attacked me in Snape's home, where it took you several tries before you could actually bring yourself to harm me. Continue to practice your Occlumency, Draco. And learn how to pour yourself into the emotions you should be feeling, given the circumstances trapping you...but don't make the mistake of believing those are how you really feel, deep down inside. You started to think for yourself, that night in that bathroom. Don't break such a good habit, now that it's finally begun.

"Now, do you want any more hot water? Or are you warm enough?"

He looked away from her. "I'm fine."

A chime rang in Hermione's ears. She started. Draco didn't even twitch. It was one of her trap-alerts, the first of the three she'd laid down in the tunnel. Oh, crud. Harry and Ron are on their way. She had a horrible mental image of being caught between the two forces. Snape would be ruthless. Harry and Ron would be furious. And she and Draco would be caught in the crossfire. Hurry, Severus!

Minutes passed. Her finger heated. Standing, she moved quickly over to the dresser, pressing the smooth-surfaced ring to the tablet. His words scrawled across the surface.

I have the book you wanted. I will bring it to you, and you will take both of us to Draco.

We're both at the Shrieking Shack, first floor bedroom--hurry! she added, as she heard the mental chime of the second alarm being tripped. Removing her ring-hand, she didn't wait for the page to burn. Turning, she saw a blur of gold, and saw...Russel...lurching to a halt, a dragonette curled around his left arm, the Diary tucked under his right. Sigurd vanished as she stared at this tanned, light-haired version of her husband.

Severus Snape looked around with his lightened grey eyes, spotted Draco on the floor, noted the blazing hearth and the lack of other occupants, and faced her again. Uncurling the Diary from under his arm, he stepped closer, reached past her, and set the narrow volume on the top of the bureau, next to her notepad. A step more, and he backed her into the knobs of the dresser with the press of his body against hers.

She found herself trembling at the touch and the heat, the scent and the sheer nearness of him. Some of it was from fear, but his gaze had fastened on her lips. His hand left the book, and slowly buried itself in her curls, tilting her head back and bringing his mouth to within just a few inches of hers.. Swallowing hard, Hermione lifted her own hand, gripping his own straight locks. You can do this...you can do this... If only her heart would stop racing in her chest, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

Tightening her fingers to keep him from moving any closer, mindful that Draco was probably watching, she whispered, "This was not a part of our bargain."

"Consider it amended," he whispered back, and closed the gap between their lips. Her heart slammed in her chest, and the press of his body into hers sparked a traitorous fire in her loins. This was passion. Call it lust, call it hormones, call it severely crossed wires between her body and her brain, call it diced ham and scrambled eggs: her body still wanted his. Forcing her mind to relax its resistance at the thought of this is Snape and give in to the decision of her body, Hermione returned his kiss, tilting her head and returning each thrust of his tongue with a parry and riposte of her own.

This is Snape, her brain still tried to assert. Yes, her body retorted, and he still kisses like a sex-god. Deal with it!

She heard bells ringing, and almost ignored it in favour of continuing the kiss, but stiffened a second later in memory. Shoving him back, Hermione hissed, wide-eyed, "Harry and Ron!" Severus--looking odd as a grey-eyed blond--narrowed his eyes in wary confusion. Hermione pushed him away from her. "They're coming back! Get out of here! Now!"

Another shove pushed him back a step. A floorboard creaked...but not on their floor. The sound came from down below. Whirling, he strode to the bound youth on the floor, grabbed something out of his sporran as he crouched, and shoved it against Draco's forehead. They vanished in a rapid, swirling blur. Grabbing the notepad and pen, Hermione stuffed them into her back pocket again, then tucked the Diary under her arm and drew her wand, hearing the first of the stairs begin to creak. She didn't want to be accidentally hexed by a nervous, overly wary pair of friends.

Idiot friends, she reminded herself, as a red-haired head shifted into view through a gap in the ragged inner walls. Pitching her voice to start softly and rise in volume, hopefully to avoid startling them, she called out, "Ron, Harry, it's me, Hermione. Don't hex me."

The stairs creaked, and more of Ron came into view. He crouched and peered at her through the half-torn wall. "--Hermione? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, except I already figured it out. Is Harry with you?"

"I'm right here," her blood-brother's voice called from the stairwell. "Are you alone?"

"I am now."

Ron rushed forward at that, entering the semi-tidy wreck of the bedroom. "Oy! What'd you do with Malfoy? He was our prisoner!"

Harry followed on his heels, wand drawn and scarred brow furrowed. "Dammit, Hermione! You let him go!"

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Hermione kept the Diary tucked under her arm for the moment. "When I got here, over half an hour ago, Draco Malfoy was three shivers from entering the extreme stages of hypothermia. You two inconsiderate idiots neglected to ward the room against drafts, neglected to build him a fire, and neglected to even so much as cast a Warming Charm over the little prat. By the time you two got back, he would have been dead. Don't you dare yell at me!"

Harry advanced on her, scowling. "You let him go! We were going to get the location of Snape's home from him, and fetch that book we need!"

"--What, this book?" Hermione challenged, snatching it from under her arm. He jerked back, eyeing it warily. "Oh, yes, I could open this book and render both of you blind for at least a week, if not longer. I traded Malfoy for this book. Hostage for hostage. You see, Russel contacted me and accused me of having a hand in Malfoy's disappearance. If I hadn't been at the school to see Flitwick about examining my wand for potential Death Eater traps, I would never have put two and two together after overhearing your complaint about the tunnel from here...and you would've murdered a helpless prisoner. Being blinded for a week is no less than what you deserve!"

Both males flinched back from her angry growl. Tucking the book back under her armpit, Hermione flicked her wand, silently dropping the wards holding back the wind. Despite the still-roaring fire, the drafts that rushed through the gaps in the walls and the boarded, broken windows quickly cooled the warmth in the chamber. Ron shivered from one particularly strong draft that ruffled his mop of coppery hair. Next to him, Harry winced as Hermione extinguished the fire, leaving the three of them briefly in the increasingly cold dark.

Her voice haunted them from the shadows of the storm, wracked night. "He would have died. In the cold. In the dark. All alone. Think, next time you want to do something like this! Lumos!"

Her wand-tip glowed bright white, making both males wince.

Harry, shielding his eyes, asked in a chagrined, quiet voice, "...So how did you get the book? From Russel, you said?"

"Yes. And he's taken Draco back with him. Merlin knows what lies he'll have to spin to cover Draco's absence! If you wanted to shout to the wrong side of this war what we're doing, try taking out a full-page add in the newspaper next time!"

Ron, his own hand upraised against the light, scowled at her. "That's a bit harsh!"

Disgusted, Hermione closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I'm Apparating back to Headquarters. It'll be safer to return to the school through the Floo, given this weather. If the two of you are smart, you'll return to Headquarters, too. And stay in your rooms and think about what you nearly did. And no, I'm not sending either of you to your rooms. You're old enough, you should be ordering yourselves there. It's called acknowledging and dealing with the consequences of your actions...which is something that adults have to do."

"You're being rather, um..." Harry hedged.

"--You're being rather blunt, even for you, Hermione," Ron pointed out. "Are you alright?"

"Is there anything you want to tell us?" Harry added.

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes. "I'm just having to acknowledge and deal with some of my own consequences right now. And no, I don't want to talk about it. That would only make things worse, right now."

She felt Harry's arm wrap around her zigzag cloaked shoulders, squeezing her gently. "You know you can talk to either of us, whenever you're ready. Do you want me to Apparate you back home?"

Hermione pried open her eyes, glancing at him with quirked brows. "...What is it with the two of you and treating me like a porcelain doll, of late? I'm fine! I'm not going to break. And I'll Apparate myself home. I find I'm less likely to be dizzy if I do it myself...though your offer is appreciated," she allowed with a touch of graciousness. "I'll meet you back at Headquarters. And think about what you nearly did to Draco. If we go around doing things like that to people, how can we call ourselves the good guys?"

...

Hermione waited until she was in her bedroom, alone, before cracking open the Diary. She started with the end-leaf paper, as she sat on the bed. The runes started to glow, bathing her face in colour as the symbols shifted places, but the rings didn't twist like gears. Writing seared into view.

Avete l'occhio. Non avete la mano. Vedete tutto, ma non fate niente!

Again, she was left not understanding the meaning. Grabbing her seventh year Charms book, Hermione flipped through to the translation spell she'd located and practiced in the past twenty-four hours. Double-checking the wand-movement, Hermione cast the spell on herself.

"Omnilingua!"

Purplish light washed over her for a moment, then faded. Her eyes and inner ears itched, but Hermione refrained from rubbing. The effect would last for a day at most, as a Charm, though she could cancel it at any time. The best translation spells, the book cautioned, were rune-carved amulets; those caused no itching, though they had to be enchanted for each language individually, and this newly researched Charm was multilingual. Hermione longed to talk to the creator, to discuss theories and possibilities on how to stop the low-key but annoying itching. The words in the Lucrezia book caught her attention, however, reminding her why she'd cast the thing in the first place.

You have the eye. You have not the hand. See all, but make nothing!

What the...? I haven't the hand? I was the best in my Potions class! Turning the pages with a frown, Hermione glanced at the cramped but neatly written handwriting. She wasn't blinded, which was a relief, but the strange, brusque warning bothered her. See all, but make nothing? What does that mean?

Page after page turned. The handwriting was small, cramped, and a bit like Snape's when she thought about it, only more archaic-looking. Hermione, skimming the descriptions of the potions, charms and enchantments within, began to understand just how Dark a witch Lucrezia Borgia had been. Ruthless in a way that would make even a Malfoy cringe. Cruel enough to make Bellatrix Lestrange shiver in discomfort. There were wizarding illustrations of writhing victims, many painted in colour in a twisted parody of illuminated manuscripts. Wishing she didn't have to do anything from this book, Hermione sought the Infusio di Anima Te.

It was located about two-thirds of the way through the volume, and the list of ingredients alone covered one and a half pages. Bracing her head on her palm, Hermione read through the remaining six pages of instructions. There was only one illustration for this spell; it depicted a blond woman in a red Italian Renaissance gown seated on a terrace overlooking gardened hills. She sipped from a cup of tea as Hermione watched, and set it down...and then her and her gown, indeed all of her colouring in the ornately bordered image, slowly fading as the sun rose and set twice in the background, leaving her as grey as death in the midst of vibrant life.

At the very bottom of the entry, Lucrezia had added a comment that the poison could be neutralized with the consumption of several bezoars, but in doing so, it would create a very strong acid that would dissolve the drinker's insides, killing most of the prisoners she had experimented upon. Sickened, remembering the way how the acidic neutralization had literally polished the iron cauldron in her vision, Hermione reluctantly bookmarked the page and closed the book.

Somehow she, who valued life, had to brew a poison that either subtly or brutally stole it away. And, joy of joys, she had to find a place to do so where she didn't have to worry about poisoning anyone with fumes or accidental splashes, a place with all the alchemical equipment she needed. A place where no one would interrupt her or her work. About the only place that suited those qualifications was the Room of Requirement at the school...but Hermione wasn't about to just appropriate the room. This required going to Minerva McGonagall and explaining...well, explaining as much as she could as to why she needed the room.

Sighing roughly, she reopened the tome, dragged parchment and quill within reach, and began carefully copying down the list of ingredients, checking and double-checking her work. Since her handwriting was larger, in the interest of being easily readable, it took four and a half sheets. But when she started to transcribe the instructions, the book flared, the lettering on the page shifted, and a warning appeared before her mildly itching eyes.

This is my work! It stays mine! Take your list to the market, but write nothing else!

Warily, Hermione set her quill down. The words vanished, the text rearranging itself back into its original position. Drawing her wand, Hermione cautiously cast the Soul-Scanning Charm. "Psyscandum!"

Nothing happened. Relieved, Hermione cast Finite, just to be on the safe side, and studied her list of ingredients. She wasn't about to test the book's protective powers where magical copyright infringement was concerned. It was frightening to see just how many of the ingredients she'd need were fairly common in most apothecary shops. Only five were rare and therefore expensive.

Double-checking the instructions, she made sure the ingredients were listed in order of addition, then sat back, eyeing the sheet. As sick and twisted as the Borgia witch had been, Hermione had to concede the woman had been very progressive for her time, a proactive-feminist who was protective of her intellectual work in an era before copyright laws were known. Now all she had to do was craft an extremely complex poison without killing herself, or poisoning anyone else.

Other than a little scrap of Lord Voldemort's fetid soul, of course.

Joy.

...

Mine...

You are mine, Russel Fawkeson. However long you live, wherever you may go...whoever you might be...you...are...mine.

And she bit the inside of his thigh possessively, pushing her finger up into his rectum, probing for his prostate gland...

Hermione jerked awake, sweating and trembling. Crookshanks protested in a sleepy grumble when she sat up, twisting further onto his back next to her pillow, barely visible in the sodium-orange city glow shining through the partially open curtains. Shuddering, Hermione braced her elbows on her knees and her forehead on her palms, wishing she hadn't remembered that fervent vow. A vow she'd made to her husband.

A vow she'd made to Severus Snape.

I believe that a man or a woman can change, if they conscientiously strive to change.

You're a fucking hypocrite, Hermione, for resisting your situation. That's what you are. A fucking hypocrite.

Flopping onto her back beside her cat made Crookshanks meow crankily again, his eyes narrowing and his ears folding flat. He looked cute with his paws dangling to either side of his chest and belly, but cranky. Apparently he was unhappy that his silly human was bouncing all over the bed at an hour when she should be peacefully asleep.

She knew exactly how he felt, being cranky at herself, too, but unfortunately her ears hadn't been able to fold down since her second year.

...

This time, Crookshanks went flying with a rrowr of surprise, leaping off the bed as Hermione woke with a scream. For one still moment, she sat upright on her bed, eyes wide and unseeing, then she collapsed over her knees, crying. Two nightmares in a row. This one was far worse than the other had been, though.

She'd been tormenting Severus Snape in her dream, wearing fine, rich clothes, real jewels that outshone the cache she'd found in the junk-room back at Hogwarts, seated on velvet and gilt furniture, while he groveled and wept in filthy tattered rags, begging for a Knut.

It had been a nightmare, the kind that stabbed her in what she thought was a soft, tender heart for most of the creatures of the world, wizarding or otherwise.

Another scrap of memory surfaced.

Who else can I trust, if not my most beloved wife?

She was crying even harder from that mocking memory when her bedroom door flew open. He'd said that to her in trusting her with his Gringotts funds. It wasn't the question of him being trustworthy or not that tormented her. In the end, she couldn't control what he did or didn't do, only influence to a degree. It was the thought of herself not being trustworthy that tormented her each night.

Warm hands grabbed her shoulders, shaking her gently. "--Hermione! Hermione, wake up! What's wrong?"

It was Harry. She must've awakened him with her scream. He wasn't the only one in her room, Hermione realized as she struggled to control her sobs. She'd summoned Ron, too, sinking onto the foot of her bed with a concerned frown, though he was careful to not touch her. Molly and Arthur peered at her, standing behind Harry in their dressing gowns, and Tonks had shown up in the doorway wearing a cropped teeshirt and flannel pyjama bottoms, her coloured hair spiked with sleepiness but her eyes awake and alert, her wand gripped in her hand.

For one distracted moment, Hermione realized that Tonks finally looked like a competent, dangerous Auror. Then her breath escaped her in a shuddering gasp and she choked on another bout of crying for a few moments, while Harry awkwardly rubbed her back and Molly summoned a box of tissues, tutting and fussing over her. Slowly, her crying eased and her emotions calmed...until Hermione realized that she had people who loved her, who cared enough to rouse from their sleep and comfort her when she had a nightmare.

No one cared about Severus Snape, now that Albus Dumbledore was dead.

Her heart, always tender towards others--her campaign for the better treatment of house-elves was only one example--had been fighting her head, which knew the terrible things the man had done. She had to be an adult, to be cool, detached, in control...which she'd been interpreting as strong, distant, cold, even ruthless. She had to be strong; there was no getting around that one...but she would have to find a way that wasn't cold. She didn't want to be cold.

Dumbledore had said Snape had a passionate nature, but it could equally apply to herself. And it wasn't in her passionate nature to be as cruel as she'd been in that dream. Held in Harry's arms as he sat on the edge of the bed, blowing her nose on yet another tissue, Hermione sniffed and accepted that. It was a dichotomy: she didn't want to be ruthless, but she would have to be, just to be able to deal with a ruthless man. Strength does not equal cruelty...there are ways to be strong without being emotionless. My emotions do not make me weak...

Molly was ushering her son and husband out of the room, now that Hermione had calmed down. Harry lingered long enough to urge her onto her back, murmuring, "D'you think you can sleep now, Hermione? I'd stay, or maybe Tonks could, if you need company. Maybe a light? Nothing too bright; you do need your sleep, right now."

Hermione sniffed and wiped at her face with a fresh tissue. "...A light would be good."

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, tossing the dirty tissues into the wastebasket between her bed and the vanity desk, before turning up one of the gas-lamps. Tonks left, leaving the door ajar as he sat back down beside Hermione again. "You know, your nightmare?"

"I...I didn't like the person I was, in the dream. Cold and cruel towards someone. A terrible person."

That made Harry chuckle, and he awkwardly kissed her on the forehead. "You could never be cold and cruel towards anyone, Hermione. It just isn't in your nature. Bossy, yes. Authoritative, yes. Study schedules up one side and down the other, yes," he teased her, rumpling her hair, "but you're not by nature cruel."

"I hope I never am," she agreed quietly, thinking about his words. Bossy. She could do bossy. Bossy was strong, without being cruel...

He gave her a lopsided smile and patted her shoulder. "You'll make a great mum, you know. Whatever happens, with the war and all, I'll help you through this. We all will. The little one will have so many honorary aunts and uncles--

"--The little what?" Hermione asked, sitting up again. "Harry, what are you blathering about?"

Green eyes blinked in uncertainty. "Your...you know...that you're going to be a mum. You're pregnant."

Her jaw dropped. She was speechless...for about three seconds. "...I'm WHAT?!"

Harry flinched, and Tonks came hurrying back to the doorway at Hermione's shout. "What's wrong?"

"Ron figured it out," Harry offered as Hermione gaped at him. "The nausea from the smells, having to go see Madam Pomfrey about...erm...feminine problems, how odd you've been acting and feeling lately."

Hermione closed her gaping mouth. She licked her lips, then opened them again. "--Harry James Potter-Granger, I am most definitely, assuredly, confidently, without a single doubt in mine or Madam Pomfrey's mind, NOT pregnant! ...You go tell that imbecilic roommate of yours that I am not stupid enough to get pregnant in the middle of a gods-be-damned war! OUT!"

Flushing bright red, deeply embarrassed, Harry mumbled an apology and escaped as quickly as he could. Tonks lingered in the doorway, grinning. "...Wotcher, 'Mione! You might wanna 'pologize to him in the morning for scorching his tail so badly."

Hermione rubbed her hands over her still damp face. "Gods, they're all imbeciles. All men are idiots of the highest degree!"

"Yeah," the older witch agreed, ambling over to the bed and plopping down beside Hermione with a bounce, "but we love 'em anyway." The pink-haired witch snorted. "Any woman could've told 'em you've got bloke-troubles, not baby-troubles. Take Remus, for instance. The man folds his clothes when he puts them in his laundry hamper. His dirty clothes! Mind you, he ain't got much, so he takes care of it, but...it's dirty clothes!

"And he's terrified of me getting pregnant. I think it's a good idea to not get knocked up while there's a war on, myself, but he's worried I'd have a little baby furry pop out of me, what with Bill liking rare meat and all just because that bastard bit him in his human form--we'll not even touch the tender lovemakin', which is nice, but sometimes a girl likes it rough an' randy, too," Tonks added candidly.

She eyed the open door, and flicked her wand at it, closing the panel, then dropped her voice to a low murmur.

"It's actually nice, having a girl my age who's getting some, too. I can't imagine this sort of girl-talk with Molly or Arabella, y'know? But...erm...don't you just love it when they nip you with their teeth? And a little love-spank on the flanks?" She shivered, sighing and smiling. "Makes me think o' some naughty teacher-student detention-spanking. I think I really missed out, not getting' to see him as a professor..."

Hermione stared at the other witch for a moment. Then her mind cracked and she started laughing and sobbing at the same time. She was in a bloody teacher-student scenario! Or had been in one, with those blasted 'Lessons'... Tonks shifted closer and wrapped her arms around Hermione, hugging her.

"There, there... Y'know, you and I are in like positions. Remmy can't visit as often as I'd like, given his work with the pack, and you have to wait for when Russel has a few moments to spare. My bloke's constantly in danger of being ripped apart by Fenrir, yet he longs to tear the bastard's throat out for what 'e did to 'im. And your bloke's in the same position with the Basilisk Bastard. We're terrified out of our wits for our men-folk, an' we can't do a think t' help 'em, except give 'em all the love we can. Erm...assuming you love your bloke," Tonks amended. "You did seem to have that happy woman-in-love glow about you, 'til the past few days."

Hermione choked on a sob. She'd been in love, alright. Up until she'd had her illusions shattered.

"Hey," Tonks soothed her, rubbing her back. "You don't stop lovin' him, you hear me? Or if you don't, start. Love's the most powerful thing in th' world. My Remmy's lookin' better, now that he has my love to anchor him. He says he doesn't want it, that he's afraid he'll hurt me...but I say what's the difference, if I gain a fuzzy face an' pointy teeth through a scratch, or through my own shape-changin'? I'm with him, and that gives 'im the strength to keep goin' on. It gives me strength, too, knowin' he loves me.

"I'm terrified of losing him, but I know what my life was like when I didn't 'ave 'im. Love is worth the pain. Love is worth whatever pain you have to suffer, whatever risk you have to take, just to know even one gentle touch from your lover, eh?" Tonks wrinkled her nose as Hermione pulled back and stared at her. "...Sorry. I'm not very good at waxin' poetic. But that's how I feel, even if it sounds stupid."

Love is worth whatever pain you have to suffer, whatever risk you have to take, just to know even one gentle touch from your lover.

It hurt. Hermione felt it like a stab to her chest. The truth hurt. Rubbing at her sternum, she sniffed to clear her nose. "No, it's not stupid, Tonks. It's the smartest thing I've ever heard... Thanks."

"You don't look too happy," the Auror pointed out. "Are you sure about it?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. You just helped me resolve a problem I've been having."

"--Bloke troubles," Tonks agreed sagely, catching on to her meaning. A squeeze of Hermione's shoulders, and she released the younger witch. "Can you get back t' sleep, now?"

"I will, in a little bit. I need to sit and think for a while. Plan strategies on how to deal with my 'bloke-trouble'," Hermione added, gesturing at her temple with a finger. It occurred to her belatedly that she was making the sign for 'crazy' by doing so, and laughed involuntarily.

Tonks grinned at her. "That's th' spirit! ...I know a spell or two for Transfigurin' lacy things out of your tidy-whities, if you ever want th' chance to hex that Russel fellow of yours between the eyes. Blokes can't think straight, when your knickers are naughty."

"...I'll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Tonks."

"G'night, Hermione." Rising, she left the room.

Hermione sat on the bed for a while, then rose and settled herself at her vanity table. Picking up her quill, she found a scroll, and wrote sideways on it in two lines of large, neat lettering, Love is worth whatever pain you have to suffer, whatever risk you have to take, just to know even one gentle touch from your lover. Picking up her wand, Hermione enchanted the scroll, stretching it out and fixing it to the wall over her makeshift desk, removing and supplanting the forest landscape painting that had been hung there.

This wasn't the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, her failed campaign to make house-elves' lives better. Hermione acknowledged and gave up on the idea of freeing house-elves, since most were happy to serve, though she'd never give up on her campaign of encouraging others to treat them better. No, this wasn't anything like S.P.E.W.; this was a far more personal campaign, and it was one she daren't lose. This was a goal large enough to stop the conflicted arguing of her heart, body and mind: the salvation of her husband's soul.

...

"Goddamnit!"

She was a coward, and a failure.

Flicking her wand, Hermione stopped the meltdown of her third cauldron, disintegrated the ingredients that had caused the problem, and scrubbed the air inside the heavily warded work-area with cleansing charms. She was taking every precaution she knew: heavy protective clothing, the Bubblehead Charm to provide her with clean air, wards to contain any possible explosion, meltdown, acidic reaction, toxic cloud, whatever. She'd even carved herself a translation amulet so that her eyes wouldn't itch while trying to read the instructions. Following every single step in the book, researched over and over, practiced mentally in advance, double-checked to the point of having memorized the ruddy thing--and she still read directly from the pages to be absolutely sure--and every single time she got to this point, just three days into the brewing process...the ruddy flipping cauldron melted. That was the failure part.

And she still hadn't reached out to her husband, though he'd sent her two more Ring of Truth warnings in the past two weeks. She hadn't done anything to start her campaign of how to handle and manage Severus 'Russel' Snape. That was the coward part.

Dropping onto the lab-stool the Room of Requirement had provided, along with everything an alchemist could wish for in this willpower-summoned room, Hermione accepted her fate. She couldn't brew the Anima Te. She knew that Lucrezia's Diary allowed her to see every last step of the process; the locking-spell told her she could see everything...but she could brew nothing. There was something she was missing, some essential knowledge she just didn't have.

She wasn't a ruddy Potions Mistress.

Severus Snape might not 'have the eye', but she was fairly certain even Signorina Borgia's spell would admit that he had 'the hand', when it came to brewing. Hermione sat in thought for a while, working on a solution to her problem. She had to cure her cowardice in facing him again, if she wanted to cure her failure in brewing the soul-poisoning tea. Once she'd convinced him--somehow--to help her, she would need some sort of place to sit and read the steps of the spell from, like a podium, where his gaze wouldn't accidentally fall on the pages and blind him.

A podium with an angled partition-wall, facing out into the room so that she could watch him work. Maybe even help him. She wasn't incompetent when it came to potions. Far from it. She just...she just didn't have the knack for potion-making that he did. Her expertise lay in the field of 'foolish wand-waving'.

Sighing, she extinguished the flames under the half-melted cauldron with a flick of her wand, and scoured its twisted, slumped surface with another charm. A hard bit of wishing, and it vanished, consigned to the junk-room version of this place, along with its two predecessors. She'd have to go out and buy a new one...and that thought led her to the great question of where Severus would help her brew the ruddy potion. Certainly not in Death Eater territory, and not at the Burrow or at Headquarters. The Shrieking Shack was relatively neutral territory, but it was hardly a clean environment, and they'd have to bring in all the equipment they needed, and endure a very cold, blustery winter in a building that trembled with each gust and leaked like a sieve.

The best place, really, was right here at the school, in the Room of Requirement. There were a couple of problems with that, however. For one, she'd have to convince Minerva to allow 'Russel' access to Hogwarts. Somehow, she didn't think Minerva would want to allow him onto the grounds without knowing his true identity, and Hermione was dead-certain she'd never allow Severus Snape to set foot on the grounds ever again. And the other consideration was, she didn't think Severus would be all that happy to set foot on Hogwarts property, either. Hermione chose to believe he wasn't happy about having to kill his former employer, his confidante. She was fairly sure he'd have several unpleasant memories to fight, in coming back here.

That thought led her to a startling one. Eyes wide, Hermione stared blankly across the room. And what will he do for employment, after the war is over? Assuming...oh, god, how can he be employed? He's still Public Enemy Number Two... Unless...we're in a war. Soldiers in a war have to kill, and are ordered to kill; they're ordered to do whatever it takes to stop the enemy. Once the war is over...they're not hauled into a trial for murder.

It's a slim defence, but it's the only one he's got. I don't want to lose him to a Dementor's Kiss, just because everyone hates him for what he's done, without knowing why he did what he did. She paused for a moment as a new thought struck her, then winced in pain. ...Oh, bloody hell. I've got more interviews to give to Rita Skeeter...

She was never going to be rid of the beetle-Animagus journalist. Yellow journalist, at that. Paparazzi journalist, even. Oh, stuff it, Hermione. Insulting the woman isn't going to get an article written. A whole flurry of articles. The Truth of The War. Drag the story out of Harry, and the other Order members, and you could have a whole Special Edition of the paper...

It would probably come down to that, but that dragged up another pain of her situation. Harry and Snape. They hate each other. God, he was a consummate actor, being so nice to Harry at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour that day... I'm going to get caught in the middle of that mess, she acknowledged grimly. And they will fight over me. They'll demand that I choose one or the other of them.

Damn.

She was swearing a lot more these days, even if mostly only in her head. With honest provocation, admittedly, but if her mother could hear her thoughts, Daphne Granger would be reaching for the extra-strong mouthwash, the stuff that burned and tasted nasty. Sighing, Hermione acknowledged that she also had to start planning where she and Harry would be spending the holidays, now that she'd thought about her mother. Ron had bubbled with enthusiasm for his opportunity to spend his time at the Burrow, now a very safe haven, thanks to the Fidelius Charm. It would probably be a good idea to close down and ward her parents' house against intrusion over the holidays, and have them share the Weasley's hospitality...

But first, she had to convince the Headmistress to allow 'Russel Fawkeson' onto the school grounds. Standing, Hermione tucked the Diary into her book-bag and headed for the exit, confident that the Room of Requirement would hold all of the ingredients she'd purchased safe until her return. She'd need a new cauldron, though...

There's only one person who can help me convince Professor McGonagall to allow Russel past the Fidelius Charm, Hermione acknowledged as she padded through the night-quiet halls. And that's getting Professor Dumbledore on my side.

Harry and Ron were down in the library, chastised by her lecture over the Draco incident and feeling guilty enough to be studying more defensive and offensive spells with a diligence she'd only seen them apply willingly right before their end-of-year exams. Maybe they were finally growing up. She knew she was, though the whole process was proving hard to manage, and painful to endure.

"Winnie the Pooh, and Tigger, too," she recited at the stone gargoyle entrance to the Headmistress' study. Minerva had finally given up and used passwords that her prefect students could remember, names from children's books that were popular in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. The stone creature grated aside, allowing Hermione to step onto the upward-spiraling stair. She heard a clock chiming midnight as she rapped on the door to McGonagall's study. There was no answer, so she tried the doorknob. It was unlocked, so she stepped inside.

Lighting a few candles, Hermione approached the portrait of Dumbledore. He was napping in his armchair. She was tempted to use the same painting-zapping spell that Professor Flitwick had used, but settled for speaking instead. He was probably just shamming.

"Professor Dumbledore? Professor Dumbledore! Professor!"

He jolted awake, blinking and wiping at his eyes. Maybe he'd really been asleep. She didn't know if portraits had to sleep, or not. "...Hermione, my dear! What brings you by at this hour?"

"I need...I need Russel's help, in brewing a potion in the Room of Requirement. You know why. But I need to convince Professor McGonagall to allow him access to the School grounds...so I need you to speak up for him, to vouch for him without letting her learn of his identity. You know the why of that, too."

"Yes. Yes, I do," he agreed soberly. "Is everything...alright...between the two of you? Have you given my words some thought, then?"

"I've given them some thought," Hermione admitted. A mirthless sound escaped her, and she dragged her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. "I've given it a lot of thought."

"...And?" he prompted her. "If you didn't have a project in need of his assistance...?"

"I've found a reason to deal with him. A motivation to make me want to handle him, as his liaison," she admitted dryly. "And as his wife. Unfortunately, if and when we win this war, everything will be torn apart at that point in time. Either he'll be a fugitive, or he'll be a prisoner, and probably given the Kiss. It's not exactly a happy future to look forward to, is it?"

"Just have an eyewitness tell me so as soon as Lord Voldemort is dead, and I pledge I will do my best to help out at Russel's trial. But enough of that subject. Isolde? Isolde!" His voice woke the portrait of a stately, grey-haired woman in a mid-nineteenth century gown a few frames from his. "Isolde, would you be a dear and go into Minerva's room to wake her for us?"

Nodding, the woman exited her painting, traveling through several others as she left the study. It didn't take long for Minerva to arrive, clad in a thick velvet dressing gown wrapped snugly over what looked like a floor-length flannel nightgown, her grey-streaked black hair braided under a flannel stocking-cap. She headed straight for Hermione, who was standing near Dumbledore's portrait.

"You have news?"

"A request. The potion I'm working on... I need Russel's help," Hermione admitted, wincing at the blunt baldness of her request. "So I'm asking you if you could please give your permission for him to come onto the school grounds. There really isn't anywhere else that's safer to brew this potion than in the Room of Requirement. Not without buying a ton of equipment that the Room could just conjure for us."

"If you need a second pair of hands, then why don't you just ask Ronald, or Harry?" Minerva challenged her skeptically. "They already have access to the school! There's no need to allow a spy into Hogwarts, even if he is on our side. Not when the Dark Lord could read his mind and use him to spy upon us! I see no reason to compromise the safety of our children!"

"Albus can vouch for him," Hermione protested, glancing up at the portrait on the wall. And gasped as she caught the elderly wizard poking one forefinger through the circle made by the other touching his thumb. "--Headmaster!"

"--Albus!" Minerva shouted at the same time, her hand going to the base of her throat. She looked for a moment like she was staving off a heart-murmur, then swallowed and cleared her throat, while the unabashed wizard folded his painted hands in his painted lap and smiled benignly. "Well! Well... If...if that's what you need him for... I cannot believe you just--! I'm speechless! For shame!"

Hermione wanted to hit her former Headmaster for the crude gesture. Then hug him for the brilliant why-it-has-to-be-Russel idea. Then hit him again anyway, for embarrassing her like that. "I was trying to be discreet about what is needed, Professor Dumbledore," she hedged tersely. "That was very ungentlemanly of you!"

"Perhaps, and I apologize for shocking and offending you...but sometimes it's better to draw someone a picture of an actual hedge, than merely beat around the bush?"

Hermione's face flamed again. Minerva cleared her throat once, twice, and on the third time got it working again. "...Very well. I'll have a note from the Secret Keeper readied for you in the morning. Make sure on your life it is only delivered into Russel's hands, and that it's destroyed as soon as he reads it. There'll be a spell for that on it, but I want you to guarantee it."

"You can trust me to take every precaution, Professor," Hermione reassured the older witch. "If I could think of a better way around this problem, I wouldn't be asking for it."

...

She had the letter, safely tucked into her pocket. Hermione still didn't know who the Secret Keeper of Hogwarts was, but that was fine by her. The safety of the students was paramount, and though she would have Sigurd to protect her from physical harm, if she were captured, Voldemort could still attempt to read her mind before the dragon spirited her away. It was better for her to not know.

But she couldn't summon him to Hogwarts to receive the letter. And Headquarters was no better. Both were Secret-Kept; he wouldn't be able to find either place. Hermione briefly considered the Shrieking Shack, but the weather was still miserably cold. They'd have a white Christmas, too, unless a thawing-snap occurred in the next week or so. It was snowing at the moment, adding to the inch of grainy white currently covering the ground up in that corner of Scotland, or it had been when she'd Floo'd out of the Headmistress' office.

She thought about a nice, safe, public meeting place, like the ice cream parlour. But what they had to discuss wasn't meant for prying eyes and straining ears. In the end, Hermione could really only think of one place to go to bargain with the man. The hotel-room. Back to the scene of their last, non-consensual encounter.

The kiss in the Shack was nothing, compared to that.

He still had to pay for forcing himself on her. Kind-hearted or not, quest-driven or not, the man had to understand--the man had to be taught--the lesson that, when a wife says 'no', she meant 'no'...and that the meaning of 'no' had to be respected. So she stalled a little while longer, culling through some of her books for any hexes or charms that might be able to help her with that lesson. It wasn't until she'd cracked open the Diary in desperation and flicked through its pages that she found something she could use.

Reading all of it, down through the fine-print, Hermione memorized the spell, practiced the wand-movements and the pronunciation and inflections, and made sure she knew how to cancel the hex, too. It wouldn't do her any good to teach him a lesson, if she couldn't undo the damage done so that he could prove later that he knew how to behave himself. Lucrezia Borgia had been an evil woman, but there was no doubting she was a feminist, and a genius. Hermione now had the perfect way of controlling her husband, the next time he got out of line...if she could get up the nerve to use it.

She did think about just handling the matter via the rings, but she couldn't guarantee that he would be alone, that way. Unless he was physically in the same room as her, she had no way of knowing who might be reading over his shoulder. Somehow, Hermione didn't think it would be so easy as saying, 'I need your help in brewing a really complicated potion,' and him saying, 'Alright'. He knew she needed the Lucrezia Diary for a potion within its pages. She'd have to reassure him she would keep the book hidden from his direct view at all times, since she would have to give him verbal directions on what to do, thanks to that anti-copying problem.

Still, it took her quite a bit of time to prepare herself for going there. And it took her quite a bit of courage, too. It was almost lunchtime, in fact, before Hermione got the courage to actually Apparate herself to the kitchenette-hotel room. Banging into the place, she opened her eyes, squeezed shut along with the rest of her body--and grabbed frantically for her wand.

Severus was already there, seated at the table, and he was grabbing for his wand, too.

They faced off at the same time. Neither had cast a spell, but both were tensed to do so. Hermione blinked and took in his appearance, black frock-coat and trousers, black hair, sallow-pale skin. Give him professorial robes, and he could've been seated at his desk in his classroom. But he didn't have essay-scrolls in front of him. Instead, it looked like he'd been working on a jigsaw puzzle.

Apparently there were parts of Russel she'd seen during his performance that were honest parts of Severus, too.

He didn't lower his wand, but he did curl up one side of his mouth as he took in her blue blouse and darker blue jumper, her omnipresent jeans and comfortable trainers. She couldn't tell if his expression was a smile or a sneer, though. Probably the latter, given the way he addressed her. "Well. What do you want, wife?"

Hermione steadied herself mentally, fortified herself with a breath, and laid her offer on the table. So to speak. "I was going to summon you here, but as you're already here, well, that's just convenient, isn't it?"

"That depends on what you need."

"Your potions expertise."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Taking a risk, Hermione lowered her wand. He studied her for a long moment, making her nervous, but finally lowered his, too. "Go on."

She wasn't quite sure where to begin, now that she was facing him so unexpectedly. "...What, exactly, did the Lucrezia Diary say to you, when you first opened it? Before it blinded you."

"It was in Italian. I didn't exactly have the chance to memorize the matter, before I was blinded," he reminded her tersely.

"Well, it won't blind me, because I'm a fellow female...but while I can read the potion's instructions, I'm lacking in some essential knowledge, some knack to potions-brewing, and I can't get any further than the fifth step of the process. The Diary says I have 'the eye' but not 'the hand'. You might not be able to see the pages with any safety, but if you don't have 'the hand', then no one in Great Britain does. Probably no one in all of Europe now alive, either," Hermione admitted. "I want you to make the Anima Te. I'll read you the instructions, since there's a spell against anyone writing them down, but I can't do it on my own. I can't ask anyone else to try; there's too much danger from an accidental poisoning at several steps along the way. I've been working under several very strict security measures as it is."

Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms and crossed his legs, regarding her with an arched brow. "So, the know-it-all needs the greasy git's help? How badly do you need my assistance? After all, if the brew is that dangerous, you're asking me to lay my life on the line for this draught."

Hermione wasn't about to promise him anything. She might as well enspell herself so that she was bound naked to the bed for him. Instead, she wielded the one weapon she was sure he couldn't counter. "This potion is absolutely necessary for destroying the Dark Lord. If you want to succeed, you will help me."

"So you say."

"So I know. And do not ask me why it will help. If he reads the answer in your mind, he will kill you," Hermione reminded him. "This is the next step in the process of weakening him, and it will take months to complete. If we do not do so, we will not be able to defeat him. There is no way to get around this task. The sooner you agree, the sooner we can get started. As for risks...I'm asking you to take the exact same risks I'm willing to take. Risks that I've already faced three times before. Do you help me? Or do we lose the war?"

He didn't budge. Her best logic laid on the line, and he didn't budge. Apparently her best wasn't enough for the bastard.

"Not good enough," he murmured, studying her with an unnerving, calculating stare. "Try again."

Bastard. Arching a brow, Hermione faced him down. "...You want to negotiate? Fine. Tell me what you want. We'll see if it's acceptable, or not."

Unfolding his body, he rose from his seat at the table. Two deliberate strides, and he stopped within a foot of her, towering over her with his height and his dark attire and his presence. Hermione forced herself to bravely stay where she was, to not even sway back. The last thing she wanted to do was let him think she was weak.

"What do I want?" he murmured, staring down into her honey-brown eyes, pinning her with his obsidian-sharp gaze, "I want you..."

She could live with that. Her mind and her heart were finally able to agree with her body on that one. Until he continued.

"...to bear my child."

Blackness flooded her senses, washing away the world beneath her feet.