Chapter 25

XXV.

Hermione kept dreaming she was wearing a boy's uniform in the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...and that the other students kept trying to pull her pants down. It wasn't scary, exactly, just disturbing, because she'd slap at the hand drawing her clothes down her hip, then tug her garment back up, and that hand would come out of the crowd and tug them back down again. Finally, the hand grew impatient, yanked her clothes halfway to her knees, and rudely claimed her folds with its fingers.

She woke with a gasp, tensing as she realized someone did have their fingers in the folds of her crotch. She started to grab for her wand, set on the floor at the head of the mattress, only to find that her right arm was entangled in someone else's arm, both of them stretching up underneath her pillow. That other hand batted her fingers away from her wand, accompanied by a shushing sound. The tree still twinkled with lights, the coals in the grate glowed a dim red, and the snow was swirling even more heavily past the crack in the curtains, but it was growing light outside. Christmas morning had arrived.

"Shh... Relax."

It was difficult to do that when his fingers were pumping gently into her flesh. Distracting, when those depths were distinctly hot and wet. But when he withdrew his fingers, Hermione found herself murmuring a wordless protest.

"Shh," Russel commanded her again, whispering into her hair. His fingers left her folds; a moment later, she heard him suckling her dew from his skin. "Mmmh, good..."

Hermione, eyes open with the shock of having her pyjama bottoms pulled down, felt him doing something behind her rump. He squirmed a little closer, and pried one nether-cheek up, lifting her thigh a little. A moment later, her eyelids fluttered shut and her face angled deeper into her pillow as he pressed himself into her heat. Like most males--according to everything she'd read--it seemed her husband had a morning erection. And it seemed he was determined to do something about it, too. Very determined.

Yet he didn't move vigorously. He thrust deeply, but slowly, his left hand moving around to the front of her pelvis, ensuring that he pulled her into each of his languid strokes. More than ensuring it; his fingers wormed down underneath the elastic waistband and delved between her thighs. Thrusting from the rear, stroking from the front, he brought her from a simmer to a slow boil.

The stairs creaked. Hermione stilled, heat flooding her face with embarrassment. Russel thrust deep and held himself there, motionless save for the subtle rubbing of his fingertip against her clitoris. She drew a breath to tell him to stop, but he shushed her again.

"Shh. Tighten," he whispered as the approaching footsteps reached the ground floor. It took a nudge of his erection in her depths to realize what he meant. Flexing her Kegel muscles, Hermione was rewarded by a sigh, and a faster touch from the pad of his finger. She did it again, and heard him breathe, "Mmmh, good...again; do it again..."

"Good morning!"

Hermione jumped, tightening all of the muscles in her body in shock. The almost militant greeting came from Mrs. Weasley; craning her head, Hermione spotted the older witch at the entrance to the living room, a grim edge to the other woman's disapproving expression. "Er...g-good morning."

"Again," her husband breathed in her ear. Annoyance warred with bliss, making Hermione cranky at Molly's interruption.

"Well, now that you're wide awake, you can get up and help m--"

"Go stuff a Christmas stocking in it."

"--I beg your pardon?" Molly gasped, staring at Hermione.

The younger witch's tolerance had snapped. "You heard me! It's too bloody early on Christmas morning to be so rudely awakened by a hypocrite. Only very young children get up at this ungodly an hour, and don't even pretend that you're ready to cook breakfast this early in the morning, when every other Christmas I've ever witnessed or heard tell of in the Weasley household, breakfast doesn't start until nine o'clock--and I can see the time-piece on the end-table that says it's only six-thirty! Go. Away."

"Go back to bed, ma'am," Russel added, his fingers still moving subtly under the covers. "Your husband is most likely already missing your presence in his arms...and if you don't get moving, you'll be treated to a sight and a sound you do not want to witness."

"You--I--how--well, I never!"

Hermione snorted. "Seven children, and you're telling me you 'never'...?"

An outraged gasp, and the older woman fled. Russel chuckled in her ear, resuming his slow, thorough thrusts as the stairs creaked rapidly. "How very Slytherin of you, my dear." A grinding of his hips, a swirl of his finger, and Hermione shuddered silently, biting her lip with pleasure. A buck of his hips as she tightened around him, and he breathed a tight, drawn-out, "Jane..."

She could feel each spurting twitch deep inside as he poured his seed into her, and shuddered again with the wickedness of making love on the Weasley's living room floor, early on Christmas morning.

...

In a subtle apology for being so blunt with the older woman, Hermione nudged Russel into helping her cook breakfast so that it was ready by the time the others started coming downstairs at around eight thirty. The two of them had enjoyed plenty of sleep, among other things, and staying awake after their second bout of quiet, subtle lovemaking gave her disguised partner time to wake up and settle into his Russel personality. Thankfully, the meal was accepted without question, though Molly did sniff and hmphf for a few moments, until tasting the pancakes-from-scratch and seasoned, scrambled eggs that Russel had made. She found herself asking him for recipes, and Hermione watched, amused, as he hedged neatly around his true expertise with vague replies of 'whatever smelled good', and 'just hoped I got it right...'

After breakfast, the group crowded into the living room, where all signs of last night's bed had been cleared away. George was declared the present-elf, Fred the paper-elf, and both were kept busy in the task of finding and handing out gifts to everyone, and folding and shrinking all of the wrapping paper into a compact bundle, though they did crack jokes as they did so. Hermione enjoyed the way her mum and dad watched the bits of magic with wide-eyed delight, but it was the look on Harry's face--his utter glow of happiness, and his mutterings about this being his best Christmas ever--that really touched her.

From the faint frown pinching her husband's face, she realized he didn't know just how bad Harry's other relatives had treated him, growing up. A murmured explanation in Russel's ear had him flushing red from her brief explanation of how the Dursleys had treated him. From shame, she thought, though he didn't actually say. But as she watched him, seated on his lap in one of the armchairs, since it just wouldn't have done for the kilt-clad man to sit on the floor, the tiny motions of suppressed eye-rolling and bitten-back snarks on his face faded after that.

The others exclaimed with interest and delight over the gifts Hermione and Russel had purchased for them. Russel even nudged her in the ribs when Harry and Ron exclaimed happily over their matching outfits. All of their own presents were good, mostly books for her, and somewhat generic gifts for him. He expressed special admiration for the ancient Egyptian translation she had gotten him, and she equally appreciated the Artificing primer he got for her, but when George plopped two more boxes into their shared laps, Hermione found herself opening an extra present at the same time as her disguised husband.

His, she held her breath over, until he drew out the sapphire blue pyjama set, spotted the heating and cooling runes at collar and hems, and laughed. He nudged her as she frowned at him, and she opened her own box. Inside was a sapphire-blue nightgown...with the exact same runes stitched along its own collar and hems.

"It's also something more than just an enchanted nightie," he murmured quietly in her ear while she grinned ruefully at the unwittingly matched gifts. One of his fingers traced the gathers underneath the high empire-waistline. "It's a maternity nightie. So you'll have room to grow...eventually."

"...And here are the final two gifts!" George announced firmly, while his twin finished demolishing the crinkly mounds of wrapping paper. He placed two large boxes in front of Hermione and Russel both, and sat back on his knees, beaming at them.

Hermione and Russel, setting the latest of their gifts aside, eyed the snowflake-wrapped presents warily. The label on the topmost one was addressed to Hermione, and it read: To: Hermione Fawkeson, From: The Weasleys, Grangers, and Potter.

She already had individual gifts from each of them. So did Russel; his had been mostly practical little things that could be handed to anybody, if their personal tastes or needs weren't known. Hers were tailored more to her bookish nature. Extra gifts from all of them combined just weren't expected. It smacked of a conspiracy, in fact. Hesitating, she finally leaned down and lifted the box onto her lap. Russel, equally curious, helped her remove the wrapping paper. Together, they opened the lid of the box, and peeled back the tissue paper.

Inside lay a dress. It had been stitched from white satin, and trimmed with panels of lace, and there was no mistaking what sort of a dress it was. A wedding dress. A carefully preserved wedding dress she'd seen before, since it was her mother's satin gown, and her grandmother's gown, and her great-grandmother's gown. Hermione looked up at the others, and found her mother all but bursting with emotion.

A knock on the front door startled them all. Ron set aside the grey suit jacket he was admiring, scrambled to his feet, and opened the door. He let in an elderly man dressed in black wizarding robes, but with a little scrap of white collar tucked into the otherwise dark neckline, and a broad-brimmed hat perched on his head, dusted with snow. A vicar. They'd summoned a vicar to the Burrow, and Harry had to have known about this in advance, to have given the aging wizard the Secret of the place.

"Reverend Dibbley," Arthur greeted him, rising and shaking the other wizard's hand. "You're a bit early, but not too terribly early! We've yet to get the happy couple into their Christmas finery."

"Well, Molly's cooking is always a draw for me, you know that, Arthur," the vicar returned, while Hermione was still trying to process what was happening. They'd been set up. Her father's enquiries of Russel last night, would he be willing to marry her in an Anglican ceremony, if he had the opportunity, Molly and Arthur's actions to keep them separated, Molly's insistence that they weren't 'properly' married yet... They'd been set up.

A glance at her parents' beaming faces drained away her anger. Even Ron looked relieved about what was happening, though not nearly as happy as Harry, who was beaming as if this was even better than any other gift he'd received, and he had received many, this day. ...They mean well, and they want to see us properly wed, and that means they want to celebrate...which means they're willing to accept Russel and myself as husband and wife.

Clearing her throat, Hermione found her voice. "Well. I suppose I should go put this on, then. I'll presume the other box is Russel's wedding outfit."

"We'll need to clear the presents from the living room," Arthur ordered everyone. "And we should get into our own finery. Ginny and Fleur will be the bridesmaids, Harry and Ron have volunteered to be the groomsmen--if you don't mind, Russel, seeing as how you don't have anyone you can call upon, exactly; they can wear those smashing new Muggle outfits you got them, too--and of course, Mr. Granger will be quite happy to give the blushing bride away. We all drew straws--the Weasleys, that is, being the ones unrelated to either of you--and Bill and Molly will get to be your witnesses on the registry papers--"

Hermione felt the man underneath her stiffen. "--Registry papers?" Russel repeated swiftly. "As in, Ministry of Magic wedding registry papers?"

"Well, yes, of course! Vicar Dibbley is a vicar in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds," Arthur explained. "You'll remember him, Hermione; he was the one who presided over Bill and Fleur's wedding, this last summer."

"That's nice, but I can't exactly sign any Ministry paperwork," Russel asserted, making even Hermione glance at him.

"Why ever not?" Arthur demanded.

"Because of the signatures."

"The signa...oh!" Arthur replied, eyes widening abruptly. "Oh, dear! I didn't even think of that!"

"Yes," Russel agreed grimly. "The signature lines are enspelled for the truth, and we can't have that entering the Ministry's registry, now can we?"

"Is something wrong?" the minister enquired, peering at Russel and Hermione. "Why can't you sign the registry?"

Everyone looked at everyone else. Hermione glanced at her husband, leaving the decision up to him. Sighing roughly, he nudged her from his lap, rising himself. "Because we're in the middle of a war, sir. If certain people on the wrong side discovered I was officially registered as married, they'd kidnap, torture, and kill my wife. I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing...but I cannot and will not put her life at risk by putting my true name into the registry."

There was more than one disappointed look around the room. Even Hermione felt a pang of disappointment aching through her. She'd always fancied herself wearing her mother's wedding-gown, even though it was hopelessly out-of-date with its Edwardian, high-necked, long-sleeved, bustle-skirted cut. They just couldn't risk it, though.

The vicar snorted. "Nonsense. If you can't get married in the wizarding way, then we'll just do it with the Muggle version! Muggle law states that it is the person who gets married, not the name that's written down. A Muggle marriage certificate is just as valid as a wizarding one where the Ministry of Magic is concerned, but they do not bother to keep duplicate records...and for obvious reasons don't insist on enspelled certificates." He smiled at the staring couple. "I can nip out and be back with the Muggle paperwork in a trice, if you like, and you can take the time to tidy yourselves up while I'm gone. It's no trouble, really!"

Hermione looked up into the tanned face of the man beside her. Molly's comment about their not being 'properly married' still stung. She was an Anglican, and had always pictured a normal wedding, though she'd accepted the magical, ring-wrought version they'd undergone as just one more adaptation to the unusual ways of the wizarding world. Carefully keeping her expression open and non-pressuring, she waited for him to make up his mind, cradling the box with the heirloom gown in it.

"Go, and fetch the Muggle papers. I'll sign those willingly." He looked down at her, his mouth quirking in a wry smile. "If you don't mind the Muggle paperwork, that is."

"No, I don't mind," Hermione quickly agreed.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Go gild the lily, my dear. You know I'd wed you in a potato sack, never mind something as lovely-looking as that."

Blushing from the endearment and the compliment, Hermione hurried towards the stairs as Arthur showed the vicar out the door. Ginny, Fleur, Daphne and Molly followed, and they found themselves crowded into Ginny's room, though Molly at least unTransfigured the second twin bed back into the chair for Ginny's desk. Daphne helped her daughter into the delicate, carefully preserved gown, and Molly wielded her wand--under Daphne's nervous Muggle eyes--to tailor the dress perfectly to Hermione's figure. There were undergarments in the box to be worn with it, brassiere and knickers in white silk, sheer tights in a neutral tan. Ginny Transfigured her a pair of shoes to go with the dress, and Hermione let Fleur fuss over her hair, though she insisted the French witch incorporate the sapphire-studded hair-clip into her attempts.

The dress was the 'something old', in the old wedding rhyme; the undergarments, Hermione's mother teased her, were 'something new'. The shoes that Ginny transformed were 'something borrowed', and the sapphires in the pin were 'something blue'. And for the last, her mother supplied Hermione with a pence to tuck into her shoe, to bring her good luck for her marriage in what was apparently both a Muggle and a wizarding wedding tradition. Whether there was any magic or not in the silly little rhyme, Hermione complied, until she found herself staring at her reflection when they were finished, trepidation and excitement churning her stomach with nerves.

The dress was old-fashioned enough to look like formal wizarding clothes. Her curls had been drawn off of her face and pinned at the back of her head by the clip, and the delicate white lace covering the satin of the bodice accented the slender curves of her breasts and waist. She couldn't see any lower than that, since Ginny's mirror was a vanity-style mounted on top of her bureau drawers, but she could see that she looked beautiful from the waist up. Fleur had applied only a modicum of make-up to her face, the subtle enhancing leaving Hermione seemingly natural-looking.

Her mother hugged her from the side. "My little girl's all grown up," Daphne murmured, studying her. "You seem to have snagged a good man, despite the circumstances. I want you to be as happy as possible, whatever the circumstances are. Will you be able to be happy with him?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of all the trouble and turmoil surrounding and within her relationship. She thought also of the facets of the man she had been shown, and the truth of him that she was slowly coming to know. Setting aside her fears of how it all might come crashing down at the end of the war, if she couldn't find a way to get him exonerated at least to where he was neither Kissed by a Dementor, nor imprisoned for life, she managed a nod as she opened her eyes. "I can be happy with him, Mum. I can be very happy. He's a better man than anyone knows."

And I will cling to that like a shipwreck survivor to a bit of flotsam, until the storm waves of war pull me down to drown, or I come across the salvation of some unknown island shore...

"I shall let ze men know we are ready," Fleur promised, slipping out of the room.

Hermione took a deep breath, preparing herself mentally for the wedding ceremony.

...

"...By the power invested in me by Her Majesty's government, the Diocese of Devonshire, and the Ministry of Magic," Vicar Dibbley intoned, once their final witness, a teary-eyed Molly, straightened from the plain, non-magical paper she had signed on the end table that had been pressed into makeshift service, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Fawkeson, you may kiss your bride."

Gripping her hands, Russel tugged Hermione close. She swayed into him, lifting her lips eagerly. Clad in full Scottish regalia--in the Ferguson tartan, for lack of anyone knowing any better--he looked incredibly handsome. She'd blushed on seeing him standing there, plaid thrown over his white-clad shoulder, glimpses of his knees under the hem of his kilt, argyle socks neatly aligned on his calves, his fringe braided down either side of his head to keep the dark blond locks out of his tanned face. Longing silently to see him in his natural colouring while in such finery, Hermione accepted him in his amulet-wrought guise anyway; it was the man she was marrying, not the face or the name.

It was in that moment, kissing her husband, that Hermione acknowledged she was, just maybe, falling in love with Severus Selenius Snape. Not just with Russel. Not excluding Snape, either. With the whole, complex, complicated man that he was. It frightened her, a little. To be honest...it frightened her a lot. There was no easy way for their marriage to survive when the war ended, after all, and Hermione couldn't picture being in love with the wreck of a man thrown to the Dementors.

The wedding ceremony had passed with crystal clarity, leaving her increasingly anxious to have the matter done and officially signed, sealed, and delivered. Their kiss wasn't passionate, however, unlike last night's snog under the Snitch-carried mistletoe. Instead, it had a lot more in common with the one under the Granger's mistletoe, being a slow, tender press of their lips. When he pulled back, she wasn't sure if his smile was for her, or for the benefit of the others, but she hoped at least some of it was for her.

The warmth of his hands clasping hers, the gentle yet unhurried kiss, his absolute willingness to go through a Muggle ceremony with her, made her hope fervently some of it was for her own sake, and not for the sake of the war and its deceptions.

The others cheered and applauded when they were introduced as Russel and Hermione Fawkeson. Molly whipped up a luncheon while more gifts were pressed on the couple, gifts of a housekeeping nature, and the vicar regaled them with humorous tales of previous weddings, some of which had been pulled off a bit less smoothly than this one had passed. But Vicar Dibbley did beg his leave of them after an hour, saying he had one more wedding to prepare for that day. Once again, Arthur showed him to the door. This time, however, more than just a few flakes of the still-falling snow swirled their way inside. An owl flew through the doorway, too.

Charlie caught the owl as the vicar Disapparated from the front stoop with a sharp pop. It didn't take the beast-handler more than a few moments to extract the message tied to the owl's leg. Passing the note to his eldest brother, he carried the owl to the perch that had once been reserved for Errol, the ancient owl who had finally passed away that autumn, and had yet to be replaced. It was too cold and snowy for the bird to be sent back out again without a bit of food, warmth and rest, according to the freckled wizard.

Bill's gasp caught everyone's attention. Hermione, once again seated in Russel's lap, looked up to see the eldest Weasley son with a face so pale, it made the pinkish lines of his scars stand out on his face. Molly eyed her son warily. "Bill? What's wrong?"

"It's...it's Percy. He's at St. Mungo's, in their critical care ward. He was attacked at the Ministry last night." Bill lifted his gaze from the paper. "Mrs. Figg sent the note; the portrait of Everard heard the commotion of the battle, and he told Dylis and Phineas, and Phineas told Mrs. Figg, who pretended to be the Ring of Truth and sent a message to the Aurors. She says she didn't know who was involved until Dilys told Phineas as soon as she figured out who the victim was, who in turn told Arabella, which is why we didn't know. They...the Healers couldn't recognize him, at first."

Molly's breath caught in a sob, her hands covering her lower face. Arthur quickly cupped her shoulders, comforting her. The decision was made swiftly by him, with no objections from the others. "Then we'll go to him, as soon as we can. Children, go get your traveling cloaks on; Mr. and Mrs. Granger, if you don't feel comfortable coming along--"

"We're coming," Jeffrey reassured him. "Your son is in trouble. That's reason enough to lend our support."

"Thank you."

Hurrying upstairs, Hermione flicked her wand, using the same spell her husband had used on her before to slither out of her wedding gown now. Scrambling into jeans and the purple jumper Molly had knitted for one of her presents as Ginny entered the room, she donned the spare cloak Ginny tossed at her. Hermione met the younger witch's anguished gaze. "He'll be alright, Ginny. He just has to be."

"He's a prat. A total, pig-headed prat," Ginny muttered roughly, her brown eyes wide with anxiety. "He's too obnoxious and pompous and stubborn to die...right?"

All Hermione could do was hug her friend briefly, and urge both of them out of the room.

...

The man suspended by several spells a foot over the hospital bed wasn't easily identifiable. Someone had tried to incinerate him, on top of his other injuries. Glowing runes in various colours flickered and shimmered over his skin, which glistened with healing salves, but the prognosis was grim. Hermione stared through the glass at the seared wreck that was Percy Weasley--identified by a parallel scar on his foot, one of the few places on his body that had escaped the blackening of the rest of his skin--and worried for his life. Beside her, Russel was a grim, silent figure, almost Snape-like in his stance, save for the deep worry and remorse showing in his grey eyes, softening his visage.

Arthur escorted Molly out of the ward. The attending mediwitch cancelled the protective spells layered around them, and Arthur let his sons envelop their mother in their arms. With slow, weary steps, he crossed to where Hermione and Russel stood. She saw her husband flinch as Arthur stopped in front of him, though the movement was subtle. Wringing his hands, Arthur Weasley took a moment to speak.

"I know...I know this wasn't your fault. That you had no warning. I know you would have told us, had you known," he murmured in quiet tones.

"Arthur, I swear I didn't know--"

"I know," the older wizard repeated, lifting his head and looking into Russel's eyes. "But he was found in the stairwell leading down to the tenth floor...and the Department of Mysteries had been broken into. We need to know what they stole, and why."

"I'll find out whatever I safely can," Russel promised.

"Thank you." Arthur wrung his hands, glancing through the window at his middle-born son. "They don't know if he'll make it, the burns are that bad. They're going to try to brew the Eiterubrenner Salve, but they're having trouble trying to find a supply of buggane liver bile. The bugganes are locked fast in their hill-burrows at this time of the year, and they don't have anything fresh enough to use on hand."

"They don't n--they don't know if they can get any?" Russel corrected himself, his tone changing from impatient to inquisitive. Hermione glanced at him, wondering what he knew, what he'd been about to say.

Arthur shook his head, his gaze fixed on his son's badly burned face.

"I have certain contacts. I'll see what I can do." Snagging Hermione's hand, Russel pulled her away from the critical care ward. "We'll try to be back soon."

"...Do you have something in mind?" Hermione whispered, following him downstairs, past the public Floos that were reserved for emergency visits. He didn't stop until they were outside, around the corner, and hidden in an alleyway. Wrapping his arm around her, he Apparated them to a familiar location: 42 Spinner's End. A slash of his wand started a brief fire, a toss of Floo powder turned it green, and he pulled her through the whirling emerald flames, emerging in his private quarters at Hogwarts. "You know where there's a fresh source of buggane bile, don't you?" she asked as he led her towards the door out of his suite.

"You don't need fresh buggane bile. There are other ways to achieve the same results." He paused before opening the door to the short corridor between his quarters and the rest of the school. Turning, he faced her. "I need you to get my sixth-year potions book. I have some notes in there from something...from something my mother once taught me. I don't want to rely upon my memory. I'll get the bile and everything else we'll need, and meet you in the Room of Requirement. Try not to be seen."

Nodding, Hermione returned to the hearth, as he slipped out the door. She didn't Floo herself outside the school, however; during the two weeks she had attempted the Anima Te on her own, she had dumped her cauldrons in the junk-room...and while there, had taken to perusing the books in that little mammoth-hide grotto, the collection with all the crib-notes. It was there that she'd brought Severus' sixth-year Potions textbook, since it seemed to make sense to her to store his margin-scribbled ideas with all the other graffiti-marked tomes.

"Hogwarts, Seventh Floor Illusions Classroom," she asserted firmly, casting the powder onto the embers leftover from their arrival. They flared green after a moment. Stepping through, she hurried out into the hall, paced agitatedly until the door opened, and slipped inside. Hermione glanced apprehensively at the cauldron simmering to one side, then firmed her concentration. It took a couple moments to order her mind, but the door she wanted appeared on the far wall, summoned by the strength of her will.

For a brief moment, Hermione idly wondered if the Room of Requirement responded best to wandless magic, since that was essentially the manifestation of a witch or wizard's firmly concentrated will. She didn't linger on the thought, however. Drawing her wand, she cast her Self-Levitation Charm and rose up over the debris of the ages, orienting so that she could reach her target. Swooping over, then down, she landed in a crouch, entering the cushion-lined grotto.

The book she wanted was in the middle section, slightly to the right around the circular, makeshift space, since she'd arranged the texts alphabetically by topic. Kneeling as she reached for the right book, she knocked over one of the tins holding various bits of jewelry. Hermione hesitated over cleaning up the spilled gewgaws, but her innate tidy nature wouldn't allow her to leave a mess in this hide-covered place. Even if the rest of the cathedral-sized chamber was a maze of discarded items, this one space was as organized as any place in a junk-room could get.

Scooping the necklaces and bracelets back into place, she tossed in a few rings and a hair-clasp. And froze, blinking. Digging into the mess, she extracted the clasp, staring at it. Fumbling at the back of her head, Hermione removed the one holding her hair back from her face, and compared the two. She hadn't imagined what she'd glimpsed. They were identical. Both made from the slightly heavy feel of white gold, both moulded in swooping, curved lines...both dotted in tiny sapphire chips.

This was his mother's missing hair-clip. This grotto had once belonged to Eileen Prince, who had become Eileen Snape. But something about that bothered her. Frowning, Hermione eyed the two clips. How could Severus have known that his mother had two hairclips, and that he couldn't find them in her belongings after she passed away, unless she'd had them as an adult? Which would have been after she left the school at the end of her seventh year...

Unsure what it meant, Hermione finished tucking everything else back into the biscuit tin, grabbed Severus' book, then grabbed the wizarding photo of the girl sitting on the steps of the school, waving diffidently every so often. If it was his mother, he'd be able to identify her in the photo, surely. If not, then she might be recognized as one of his past students, and perhaps whoever was the pack-rat for this little grotto could be linked to his mother's hair barrette somehow. She liked having mysteries tidily solved, after all, and this was a mystery to her.

Severus arrived a short time after she returned to the laboratory, two baskets of ingredients dangling from his hands. He set them on one of the worktables across the room from the simmering, spell-warded Anima Te, and held out his hand for the book. Hermione passed him the two barrettes instead. He blinked, frowned...and lifted his brows.

"My mother's barrette... You found the second one? Where?"

"In the junk-room. There's this grotto-thing, made out of what I think is a mammoth-hide," Hermione admitted. "There's little bits of jewelry in tins, and a whole collection of books with notes scribbled in the margins. And...this." Holding out the photo, she let him take the frame from her hand.

His tanned face tightened. At first, she thought it was anger, but the hand holding the hair clips caressed the edge of the frame gently. "Mother... I had wondered what happened to her collection. The majority of her jewelry and a small number of her books weren't in the boxes of her things that were turned over to me, after she died."

"I don't understand," Hermione stated, studying him. "Why would she store her things here, long after she left this school?"

He looked up at her, his jaw muscles flexing for a moment. "She was the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, in my seventh year."

Hermione frowned at him, confused. "...But, I've looked at the long line of teachers that have served the Defence post. You're the only Snape that was ever listed."

"She separated from my father in my fifth year. He died in my sixth year, in an automobile accident." He looked away from her, admitting the details tersely. "There were debts. He had drinking problems, gambling...he hadn't worked in a few years. She came to the school and asked Albus to hire her. He had long suspected the Defence position was cursed, but most of the teachers wound up unable to do more than one year at a time for non-lethal reasons, though most of them were less than happy, overall--Quirrel was the only one who managed two years as the Defence teacher here, though they weren't consecutive. The first time, he received enough money from an inheritance to allow him to take the next year off and travel on a research trip. We all thought it was the first positive thing to happen to a Defence professor in a long time...but he met the Dark Lord on that trip, as you know.

"Mother didn't care about the temporary nature of the job; it would pay the creditors, and allow her to close the house for most of the year, saving even more money. She'd gone back to using her maiden name after Father died; you may recall the name 'Professor Prince' on the rolls of past Defence teachers."

Hermione blushed a little. "I thought I read 'Professor Pince' on that list, actually," she informed him. "I thought it was some relative of Madam Pince's, at the time."

"Thankfully, I am not related to that sourpuss. Not by at least five generations, if not more," he returned dryly.

"How did your mother pass away?" Hermione asked, unable to help her curiosity.

"She was murdered."

Hermione covered her gasp with her hand.

He nodded, confirming that she'd heard right. His face was grim, and as pale as his enchantment-tanned skin would allow. "It was the weekend before I left the school, just after having taken my N.E.W.T.s. She'd gone home early to open and freshen the house over the weekend...and to meet her lover. I never knew who he was, but she'd meet him every few weekends or so. She went home that Friday night...and early Saturday morning, I was called into Professor Slughorn's office to be confronted by Albus, and an Auror. The Auror had seen the Dark Mark cast over my mother's house, and Albus confronted me, telling me he suspected I had done it, as no one could say where I was, that night.

"They suspected me of being a Death Eater, you see."

"I know you didn't do it," Hermione murmured immediately, firm in her conviction on that point.

The look he slanted her way was shuttered, inscrutable. "I had already taken the Mark. I didn't want to believe them; the members of Death Eater families weren't being targeted. Not unless they actively tried to betray someone to the authorities, but I didn't even think at the time that her lover was one of them. I demanded to see her body, and the Auror told me she'd been...used, repeatedly, before being murdered. He demanded to see my arm. I...showed it to him, and...things were discussed...and..."

Hermione frowned softly at him. He seemed to be having trouble speaking. Patiently waiting, she watched him searching for words. Finally, they came to him.

"I couldn't forgive the Dark Lord for what he had allowed to happen, and I have tried to learn who killed her, who harmed her, ever since. But there were too many raids, and too many secrets..."

Something in his confession nagged at Hermione. It came to her after a long moment of thought. "I don't understand. If you were already a spy for Dumbledore that early on," she surmised, since that seemed to be the logical conclusion to this confession of his past, "why were you spying on him and Trelawney, the night she suffered that prophecy about Harry?"

"I cannot tell you what happened, that night." At her skeptical look, he scowled at her. "I cannot tell you! Accept that fact, and drop the subject! We have a potion to make, if we're to save that total, self-righteous hoser dying of third-degree burns back at St. Mungo's. Now, start chopping the comfrey leaves into quarter-inch slices."

Hermione concentrated on her requirements, conjuring a knife-block as he thumped open his old Potions text, flipping through the pages. The Canadian slang he'd used reminded her that he was still in his Russel persona. She'd grown used to the foreign slant to his speech, and hadn't paid attention, but when he said things like that, it stood out.

Her hair threatened to slide forward. Reaching for the barrettes he had set on the table, she pushed her fringe back from her face, clipping it over each temple to keep the wayward locks out of her face. He glanced her way as she did so, but said nothing. Some of the tension between them eased, however.

...

Three hours after their departure, they returned to St. Mungo's. Mounting the stairs to the fourth floor, they reached the waiting room for the critical spell-damage ward. A Healer was talking somberly with Arthur, while Bill held a quietly crying Molly. The others all looked rather shell-shocked. Hermione found herself hurrying after Russel as his strides lengthened.

"--just don't have enough time to do what we'd need to do. His burns are just too bad," the mediwizard was saying.

"He's still alive?" Russel asked the green-clad man.

The middle-aged wizard gave them a regretful look. "Not for long. We tried brewing the potion he needs, but it failed."

"Try this." Pushing the lidded pot into the Healer's hands, Russel nodded at it. "Eiterubrenner. Fresh-brewed."

The man peered through the glass lid. "It's the wrong colour. Eiterubrenner is orange, not purple."

"Ignore the colour, and apply the salve. You have nothing to lose, but your patient's life." The Healer hesitated. Russel added impatiently, "If you do nothing, he will die. If you apply this, he just might live. The choice--and the responsibility--are now yours."

The Healer looked down at the pot, then up at Russel again. Hermione, placing her faith firmly in the man at her side, added a quiet, "Please, trust him."

"If this hurts my patient--"

"--It's Eiterubrenner, you medical hoser," Russel drawled, his accent thickening. "Of course it's going to hurt him! The point is that your patient is dying. The cure for his burns lies in your hands. Move."

Jerking back almost as if that final word had been Imperio, the Healer stared at him a moment more, then stepped up to the door of the ward. The duty nurse cast the necessary spells to prevent infection or contamination, and the green-clad Healer passed into the chamber beyond. Arthur moved up beside Hermione and her husband, peering through the window at the silently floating figure of his son.

"Is that really...?"

"Yes. Don't ask me how I got the bastard to brew it. Just...consider it my Christmas gift to your son."

"The bastard?" Arthur wanted to clarify.

"Snape."

As quiet as their conversation was, someone outside of the three of them heard that name.

"Snape?" Harry hissed, jolting out of his chair, his hands fisted at his sides. "He went to Snape for a cure? That kilted bastard is going to poison him!"

"Harry!" Hermione snapped, stepping quickly between the two males. "I trust Russel. I trust him with my very life. I would trust him with your life. And I certainly trust him with Percy bloody Weasley's life! No matter whatever else he may have done, Professor Snape is a Potions Master--you certainly trusted the words of the Half-Blood Prince when it came to saving Ron's life!" she asserted. Harry flinched at her vehement reminder. "If anyone could brew a cure in time to help Percy, yes, it would be Snape, and you need to stuff a Christmas stocking in it!"

"I'd trust Snape, with Percy's life," a voice interjected. Everyone's eyes shifted to Ron's pale, pinched face. "I wouldn't turn down any help he gave, as a Potions Master. I wouldn't turn my back on him, either, but if it saved Percy's life, I'd take his help any day."

A muffled sound, rising from a deep moan, drew their attention to the windows. The Healer was applying the salve to the now writhing, screaming figure thrashing against the levitation spell holding him over the bedding. The duty mediwitch drew the curtains. Hermione caught Harry as he threw himself at the door, wanting to barge in there. He pushed forward with his greater strength, until Russel took over, manacling the younger wizard's arms with his own.

"If he is screaming, then the salve is working, Harry!" Russel told him forcefully. "Eiterubrenner draws the dead and irrevocably damaged cells to the surface, even as it forces the body to repair and replace that which it destroys. That includes any nerve cells! Which is more important to you, Harry? Your blinding hatred of Snape, or your concern for Percy's life? I have more cause than anyone to hate that bastard, including you--and I still fetched the Healers that salve to spare Percy's life!"

Harry struggled to shrug him off as Percy screamed hoarsely on the other side of the curtained glass.

"Think!" Russel ordered him. "In the final battle, if you see the bastard and the Dark Lord before you, which one do you go after? Think very carefully on that one, Harry. Do not let yourself be side-tracked by trying to high-stick the wrong asshole in the cup!"

"...In the what?" Harry asked, frowning in confusion. At least he wasn't struggling towards the closed ward anymore. Percy screamed again, and he tensed, but he didn't fight either of them.

"High-sticking in the athletic cup. It's a hockey thing," Russel dismissed impatiently. "Think of it like a Bludger to the family jewels. Prioritize, Harry. Snape the bastard can wait for another day. The important thing right now is the Dark Lord...and saving Percy's life."

Again, that moaning, keening yell rose from within the private room. Harry tensed again, then slumped, shoulders sagging. "I feel so helpless..."

"We all do, when we have no way to stop what's happening," Russel murmured, meeting Hermione's gaze over her blood-brother's shoulder. "Sometimes, all we can do is follow our orders, whether or not we like them, and wait for the results to unfold. And pray that we're doing the right thing."

Percy's screams punctuated the silence following his words.

...

The Healer came out of the room roughly twenty minutes after the last of the screaming, the crying, and the audible whimpering died down, an hour or so after the first of the salve had been applied. Stripping off his protective spells, the ward-nurse opened the curtains. The figure inside still hovered over the bed, but he was no longer a blackened, crusted horror. Pale pink skin greeted their gaze, blurred at the waist by a privacy glamour, but the only things that touched his flesh were the spells keeping him a foot above the covers, cushioning his body from any undue friction or pressure.

He was completely bald, and freckleless. Molly, sniffing into her kerchief, peered through the window at the recumbent figure. She finally nodded. "...That's my son. I'd recognize his profile anywhere, even if...even if he's like that."

"His hair will grow back," the Healer reassured them quietly. "And in time, when it is safe to expose his skin to sunlight, his freckles will come back, too. Right now, however, his flesh is too new, too sensitive to expose to bright light. He'll have to stay in the isolated ward for a week, and then wear spider-silk, combed cotton or lambs-wool, and stay completely covered up for at least a month afterwards, if not longer.

"Thank you," the Healer added, looking over at Russel, who had seated himself between Hermione and a potted plant. "Whatever that salve looked like, it worked exactly like Eiterubrenner. It saved his life. I'd like to see the recipe that was used."

"I can't guarantee I can get it for you, but I'll see what I can do," Russel returned calmly.

"Can we see him now, sir?" Arthur asked the Healer.

"Two at a time, and not for long. He's unconscious from a painkiller, and will stay that way for several more hours...but the presence of our loved ones can be as much a panacea as any mediwizard's tricks, even if we're unconscious."

Hermione stood as the Healer nodded to them all and departed. She wasn't high on the list of who got to visit first, but it felt good to stand and stretch. Russel stood as well, wrapping his arms around her while her own were in the air. Something in her stomach fluttered as she hugged him back, making her gasp and pull back. He frowned at her, and the fluttering, tickling sensation happened again. Hermione pressed her hand to her lower abdomen, below her belly button.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just...felt something."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Molly stiffen, staring at her. Arthur stared, too, his mouth drooping a little in astonishment. Bill frowned, while the other Weasleys, her parents and Harry all looked confused...and the duty-nurse beamed at her.

"Congratulations!"

"Congratulations?" Hermione repeated, eyeing the mediwitch askance. "For what?"

"You're glowing! Is this your first flutter, or your second?"

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, confused.

"Did you feel a flutter about a handful of days ago, dear?" the mediwitch clarified. "Low in your stomach?"

Hermione remembered a strange fluttering feeling she'd felt the night she and the man at her side had resumed intimacies. "Well, yes, but..."

"Of course, I'd have to cast a diagnostic spell to be sure, but I'd say you're going to have a bundle of joy coming along 'round about the middle of September," the mediwitch informed her merrily.

Bundle...of...

Arthur nodded at Hermione and Russel. "I'd say she's right. I've seen 'the glow' seven times on Molly, and you're definitely glowing, young lady. Erm...congratulations."

An anguished moan escaped Ron, seated a few chairs away. He clutched at his hair, his elbows on his knees. "I did not need to know that!"

Harry glanced between his two best friends, his scarred brow furrowed. "...I thought you said it'd be stupid to get pregnant during a war! Merlin's undershorts, Hermione! I thought you had more brains than that! Didn't you do anything to avoid it?"

Russel drew a breath to speak, but Hermione beat him to it. "My intimate life is none of your business, Harry James Potter! If I am pregnant, than I am pregnant. Deal with it! And before the two of you twits go all mental on me again, I am not a delicate piece of china that has to be coddled and pampered and kept out of the bloody fray! I will be an active participant in this war!--And that goes for you, too!"

Russel flinched back from the finger she jabbed at his face. He lifted his hands placatingly. "I wouldn't dream of holding you back from whatever you want to do, Jane. I'm not that stupid."

"You're just going to let her risk herself, and the life of your child?" Ron demanded, lifting his head from his hands. "You're going to let her go up against the Death Eaters while she's pregnant?"

Russel arched a sandy brow at the younger wizard, giving him a quelling look. "Your ideas about the fragility of a pregnant woman are antiquated and insulting. Jane is more knowledgeable and powerful than you are in many areas. She is also wearing a betrothal ring forged by the great Elizabethan wizard, John Dee," he stated baldly. "So long as she is wearing my ring and carrying my child, Sigurd will do everything within his considerable powers to protect both of them. Up to and including deflecting the damage from hexes and curses he cannot counter, transferring them from her to me via the rings.

"The power of these rings have not been tested against the Killing Curse, but family legend does speak of the Cruciatus Curse being deflected onto the husband, sparing mother and unborn child," he recited as Hermione stared at him, undone by the revelation of his 'plan' for her. No doubt it wasn't the only reason, but if he was speaking the truth... He continued briskly, scattering her thoughts once more. "Jane is now heavily protected defensively, without any curtailing any of her abilities offensively. To withhold her from a confrontation would not only be redundant, but an utter waste of her spell-casting abilities."

Harry glowered at him. "You sound like you planned this in advance!"

"--I repeat, Harry James Potter-Granger, that my intimate life is none of your business," Hermione asserted, re-gathering her wits. "Besides, we don't even know if I really am pregnant! And if I am, it's my own business, and Russel's, and no one else's! It's also hypocritical! I remind you that your own mother was pregnant while smack-dab in the middle of the last war, and she still fought against Voldemort!"

Russel's breath hissed through his teeth. The others flinched. Hermione stiffened; she hadn't meant to say the name aloud in her husband's presence.

"...Sorry. Look, I'm going to go back to Hogwarts, and I'm going to let Poppy examine me. If I am, I am; if I'm not, I'm not. So what, if I am? It's not the end of the world," she pointed out pragmatically. "Women have been doing this sort of thing since the dawn of our species--and I will not be coddled and wrapped in tons of cotton-wool! Now, if you'll excuse me, since Percy has stabilized and can't have too many visitors, I have an appointment to make. I'll be back to visit with him later. Russel, if you'd like to come along, you'd be welcome."

"I think I will." Nodding to the others, he joined her in heading for the stairs. He waited until they were descending the steps before speaking again. "That was...rather bluntly managed."

"Our situation is complicated enough without them sticking their wands into the cauldron," she muttered. "Russel, is what you said true? About Sigurd deflecting hexes onto you?"

His face tightened; she could tell he didn't want to answer, but he did. "Yes."

She almost asked him if that was part of his 'plans' for her, but bit back the words at the last moment. Instead, she offered a hesitant, "...I'm sorry."

"It was my choice. I could have given you a second contraceptive at any point. Or myself. And it was your choice to go through with our bargain. I still have plans for you," he warned her, opening the door at the bottom of the stairwell. "Your protection is only one of them."

...

They had to wait for Madam Pomfrey to return from the Christmas Feast, but there was no one in the Infirmary other than themselves, and the school nurse was alone when she bustled into the ward. A surprised smile lit up her face as she spotted Hermione sitting on the edge of one of the beds near her office door. "Hermione! Merry Christmas, dearie--you're not injured, are you?"

"Merry Christmas. Apparently, I'm 'glowing'," she returned dryly. The school nurse spotted the wizard next to her, and Hermione quickly made the necessary introductions. "Russel, this is Poppy Pomfrey, mediwitch and Hogwarts nurse. Poppy, this is Russel Fawkeson...my subscription."

Russel's eyes narrowed briefly in confusion at that, but Poppy laughed. "Sorry, dear; it's a private joke. You've got a lovely young wife, here. Make sure you treat her well, alright?" Poppy returned her attention to Hermione, taking on the brisk manner of her profession. "'Glowing', you said? Well, stretch out on the bed, and I'll cast the diagnostics. Do you want him on this or the other side of the exam curtain?"

Hermione felt a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with 'glowing'. "It's his choice," she decided. "Though I don't know if he'd do lamaze classes with me."

"Lamaze?" Poppy asked as Russel left the bed long enough to snag a chair and bring it over. Since there was no one else in the ward, she didn't pull over the mobile privacy curtain.

"Muggle breathing exercises for controlling labor pains."

"Muggles always do things the hard way. Now, just relax and let me do my wand-work over you..." Flicking the slim cedar shaft, Poppy cast one of the spells Hermione remembered from before. Bright-coloured energy leapt up from her body, forming softly pulsing columns of light. The result was immediate. "Well, you're definitely pregnant!" A flick of her wand, and she added, "Implantation was less than half an hour ago, too. Add nine months... You'll be due around September 24th. Of course, babies come on their own schedule." A third flick, and Poppy smiled at her. "The baby is in excellent health, though it's not even really a fetus just yet, let alone a proper bun in the oven. Let's just check Mum's health, too...

"...Excellent! You're in fine fettle, my dear," the mediwitch informed her, canceling the spells. "I'll write you up a list of books to read, symptoms and changes to expect, what activities can be done up to what point, and so forth. Of course, you can do just about anything you normally could, up until the last month or two, then you'll feel as big as a heffalump and as graceful as Hagrid after a night at the Hogs Head.

"I would be extra careful in handling certain potions ingredients, though," she added, helping Hermione upright on the edge of the bed. "Always wear protective gear or use anti-contamination spells with anything that could be absorbed through your skin. And wash thoroughly afterwards, before either of you touch each other. It's important to not mess with the health of the embryo."

"Can you tell us what the gender is?" Russel asked quietly. "I'd like to know."

"Not until the sixth week. Speaking of which, you should go for a check-up every two weeks, Hermione, just to keep an eye on things as they progress. St. Mungo's has a registry of licensed midwife-Healers you could consult. I could do it, too, if you like, though my obstetric skills are a little rusty," Poppy shrugged. "We do try to discourage the students from that sort of thing."

"I think I'd like that. Coming here to see you," Hermione clarified, standing.

"Then I'll expect you in two weeks. If you experience any nausea, especially in the morning, nibble on a couple of saltine crackers, or dry toast. Weak tea at most, too, until you're feeling better. And watch out for those cravings!" Poppy chuckled. "When my sister had her little girls, she would crave avocados smothered in maple syrup, of all things! Now, how is your Christmas going?"

"Fairly well, all things considered. Um, Percy Weasley got caught in an attack on the Ministry, but he got some Eiterubrenner Salve in time," Hermione added, glancing at her husband, "and is expected to make a full recovery. It put a bit of a damper on things for a little while, but he'll be alright."

"That's good to know."

"How has your Christmas been?"

"Blissfully quiet. Not even a sniffle among the staff, for the last three days," Poppy related chattily. "Though Rubeus did look like he was coming down with something at supper, tonight. Either that, or he'd slipped something into his pumpkin juice to make his nose look that red..."