Chapter 5

Thanks for your patience and to the wonderful astopperindeath for hers.

Chapter 5

Assaying by his devilish art to reach

Illusions as he list, phantasms, and dreams.

~Paradise Lost, Book IV

Hermione marched back through the forest. Determination to get the painful deed done with was all that kept her feet moving forward. Avoiding Ron was going to be impossible and avoiding the subject when she encountered him was more so. Best to state the facts as clearly as possible and then spend half an hour in a screaming match. This would be followed by a week of sulking and then, hopefully, reconciliation.

Of course, if any previous fights of theirs were indicative, the sulking could go on indefinitely. There was no Harry here to mediate arguments and try to talk them out of their separate corners.

"Oi! Hermione!"

A Weasley-shaped bird whizzed by over the treetops, turned a rapid loop-the-loop in midair, and shot back towards her. She hadn't even noticed the trees thinning and giving way to the meadow in which the cottage stood.

Ron dropped to the ground and dismounted. The wind had tousled his hair into a red bird's nest, and he was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

The last time he'd been this happy was right after he'd won the Slytherin Quidditch match last year. His ebullience then had only been interrupted by Lavender and her voracious snogging.

"Back from your walk, then? How was it?" he asked. He took her hand and clasped it, rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

"I wish you'd at least stuck around this morning, Hermione," he continued, as she stared at him, too miserable even to object to the physical touch. "I mean, what with us, well, you know..."

He flushed slightly and waggled his eyebrows. The smile never waned.

To deliver that blow now, when he was so happy, was a measure beyond her capacities. He was still her friend. Maybe a letter or a quiet talk later that evening would suffice, but she could no more tell him of her mistake now than she could kill him.

She smiled weakly and squeezed his hand before pulling away.

"Yes, Ron. Yes, we did."

New tactics swirled in her mind as they walked back to the cottage. She did go so far as to slide her hands into her pockets before he could seek them out again.

She kept quiet through lunch, murmuring, "Mhmm" and "Really?" when it seemed appropriate. Immediately after the dishes had been set to washing, she immersed herself in a cup of coffee and a stack of books, setting them up like a barricade between her armchair fortress and the world. Ron passed through soon after, whistling. He paused by her chair to kiss her on the cheek before continuing on his way. She waited until the shower was running to drop her book to her lap and stare at the hearth.

His physicality, she realized, was his way of acknowledging the change between them. He didn't have to ask her questions; they'd had sex and therefore were in a relationship. No inquiries to her about her feelings were necessary, for wasn't that simply the way things worked? The possibility of nuances, of levels, of having a different idea of things, did not occur to him.

Not that she had expected anything else, really. Hermione sipped her coffee, relishing the bitter taste.

Two cruelties lay before her: tell him now and hurt him, or wait to tell him and hurt him anyway.

No choice, really. Sighing, she picked up Dueling and Defense: A Practical Guide, by Rapierre LeFou and began to read about dueling etiquette. The delicate and subtle art of dueling is not a fight, but a dance...

"I do not wish to."

"Nonsense, Severus. You will."

"It's not a case of unrequited hate, Albus. Both sides are fully reciprocating."

Too late. Scruffy black hair replaced a white beard, and smiles containing iron-clad beneficence gave way to something bordering on a scowl.

"Potter."

"Professor."

Damn those eyes of his. Severus tried to focus on what he could see of the tomato vines in the background.

"How are Ron and Hermione? Sir?"

"Still alive at last sighting. I make no guarantees."

"Make sure nothing happens to them."

"That's the plan, Potter. They shall remain sequestered and wrapped in cotton wool until such time as Professor Dumbledore sees fit. This has been drilled into your skull before, or has the lovely Mediterranean air pulled it out of you?"

"I'm concerned about my friends, Professor. People I care about."

Severus's fingers itched to throttle the adolescent snideness out of him. "Touching, Potter."

Potter glared at him before vanishing from the mirror. Dumbledore reappeared to give Severus a weary look full of reproach.

"I should not have to remind you, Severus, of how it hurts to be terrified for the ones you love. Good day to you." With that, the mirror went blank.

But in a way you do have to remind me, Albus, Severus thought, slashing the mirror to wisps of sliver. It's a tug on the leash, ensuring that it is still connected to the collar at my throat. A collar of red hair and green eyes and pleading with someone I hated.

Growling to himself, he reached for the glass of firewhisky sitting on the coffee-table and downed it in one swig. It burned away his resentment for the time, clearing his head to the task at hand.

Severus picked up a quill and a length of parchment and began to write a curriculum outline. After all, just because he was using dueling training to trick Granger didn't mean he was going to go about it badly. She was infinitely more useful if well-trained.

The coffee in her mug trembled as Ron's bedroom door slammed shut. Hermione stayed utterly still, staring resolutely at the bricks in the fireplace as she had all through Ron's ranting.

"...did you think it would be a fucking experiment or something? Are all the boys you've shagged variables to be plugged into some bloody Arithmancy equation?"

She had apologized only for any inadvertent misleading on her part, but getting him to see any side but his own was impossible. Eventually she had shut down, simply repeating "I'm sorry," when he stopped for breath. Screaming, she decided, was a show of weakness, a loss of control. She was tired of losing control.

And she didn't want to give him the idea that he had upset her. It might fool him into thinking that she regretted her actions, rather than their consequences. She would wait, calm and focused, until he had burnt out his anger and could see reason.

At least I'll have Snape to talk to, she thought, reaching for the coffee. It was warm and soothing, washing away the anger and hurt Ron had left her with. Sighing into the steam, she placed the mug back on the table and stood. She avoided the edge of the table as she stepped over to the nearest bookshelf; previous carelessness in that area was evident in a fading bruise on her shin.

This bookshelf yielded exactly what the other ones had: nothing more on dueling. She had quickly read and cast aside LeFou's book, as it reminded her strongly of Defensive Magical Theory. She would simply have to face Snape next week with her wits and what she remembered from the second-year Dueling Club and the DA.

There was a dearth of Dark Arts books as well, Defense Against or otherwise. Hermione set her hands on her hips, glaring at the spines. It was passing peculiar for Dumbledore to have ignored such books, especially during a time of war.

Ignored, she wondered, deigning A Spell for Every Occasion close enough for her needs and pulling it off the shelf, ignored or withheld?

Another question for Snape. She considered writing them all down, but demurred when she pictured Snape's face should she draw out a list of questions next week. Shaking her head in exasperation over the men she had to deal with, Hermione went to her reading.

She spent most of the following week reading and making notes of anything that seemed remotely useful. A list of all the spells she knew was created Saturday afternoon after drinking slightly more coffee than usual. She spent Sunday and Monday selecting and re-copying the ones that could conceivably be used in battle.

Only twice did she run into Ron, their mealtimes having mysteriously become out of sync and all other hours spent in separate rooms. The first time was as she stepped out of the bathroom after a shower. Ron saw her towel-clad form, went red as the Gryffindor banner, and ducked back into his room before she could venture more than a smile.

The second time was actually more embarrassing than the first, but for her rather than him.

By Monday, Hermione was in the habit of checking the broom shed to see if one of the Comet Two-Sixties was gone. This would, of course, signal that she had the house and garden to herself for the foreseeable future.

This morning, it was still there, but it had company.

Ron hadn't noticed her, of that she was sure, but the sight of him slumped against the wall with his fist pumping over his cock was not one that left her mind quickly. She couldn't help but wonder, as she fled down the flagstone path to the cottage, whom he was picturing as he groaned to the empty shed.

By the way he went red the next time they bumped into each other in the hall (fully clothed), she was sure it had not been Lavender Brown.

The memory still lingered on Thursday when she hiked into the woods to meet Snape. Hermione shuddered and tried to focus on birdsong and leaves. It would not do to duel with Snape while distracted by wanking Ron.

"At last."

Granger smiled cheerily at him despite his rude greeting, padding over the mossy ground to where he stood under the apple tree.

"Good morning, Professor," she said. A curl had escaped her ponytail and she brushed it out of her eyes, blinking up at him in a manner entirely too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for his liking. It would be just his luck if she was a fucking morning person.

Growling inwardly, he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"By arriving you have agreed to undertake this task. You continue now at your risk," he said.

She blinked under his glare, but her voice was calm.

"I understand, Professor."

No, not really, Granger, but it will do.

Now he could begin. With care to making the movement unstudied, he began unbuttoning his frock coat, caressing the black buttons as he slid them through their holes. It was the subtle things, he knew, that lasted with women; a certain glance or movement or intonation in the voice. All it took was one detail to linger in her mind as she lay alone in bed and he had a foot in the door.

He undid three buttons before speaking.

"Miss Granger, where do you normally keep your wand?"

She frowned, and he saw her right arm twitch toward her back trouser pocket. It was all the answer he needed, but she clearly didn't recognize the telling movement.

"In my back pocket, sir, unless I'm sitting or lying down, in which case it usually goes on the couch or table next to me. I tried keeping it in the front pocket, but---"

"You should not keep it in your pockets at all." Button, this one at his navel. Her eyes flicked to the white tee-shirt he was wearing underneath as it peeked from beneath the black wool.

"In your pockets," he continued, "it may be lost, stolen, or broken. It is clearly visible and completely unsecure." Next button at the waist. With any luck, the silver on his belt buckle would catch her eye.

"Observe." With that, he undid the last button, which lay over his groin, and slid his coat off, presenting his left arm for her inspection.

"Oh. I see," she said, peering at the leather-and-elastic contrivance on his forearm. Two slim straps held a wider piece of leather against the back of his arm; it ran from elbow to wrist, ending just inside the joints. His wand was held by three loops of black elastic, its handle stopping just short of the back of his hand. She studied it, muttering her analysis aloud.

"Hm... well, I suppose it's hidden this way, since most wizards wear long sleeves, and it doesn't look as though it will fall out. But I've heard wizards who carry their wands up their sleeves place them on the inside of their arm, so why is yours on the outside, sir?"

"It's easier to wear and less obstructive."

"How so?"

She always wanted proof, this one. It wasn't a bad trait, exactly, but it was bloody annoying sometimes.

"You might enjoy having the inside of your elbow constantly poked, but most people do not." He bent and straightened his arm, demonstrating the freedom of movement. "Discomfort is distracting. Distraction is death."

Her mouth formed a neat "O".

"Your body matters in war, Granger." In so many ways, you poor, pretty girl. "Remember that."

From a pocket of his coat, he took a similar contraption and handed it to her. It was not dyed black, as his was, but was simple brown leather. "Spell it to fit and then we'll begin. Do not let me catch you putting your name or any foolish decoration upon it."

A snort of disbelief escaped her, though her concentration on her Shrinking Spell did not waver.

"I'm not stupid, Professor."

"We shall see. Ready?

"Er, I did have some questions for you, sir," she stammered as he swept past her to take a position several meters away, "regarding Headmaster Dumbledore and Harry."

"Later! Now, a test run. Nothing harmful this round, though I doubt you know too many damaging spells. Begin!"

Predictably, she bowed.

Lockhart will get more people killed...

"Expelliarmus!"

Head over heels she went, into a shrub. Catching her wand as it fell, Severus sauntered to her struggling form.

"Rule number one: anything Lockhart says is stupid. Anyone who believes otherwise is also stupid. Get up, Granger. This is war, not second-year playtime."

With a groan, the girl got to her feet. Her hair was now bushy in both senses of the word. She grimaced as she extracted a twig and some leaves.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "There weren't any books in the cottage except LeFou and he concurred with Lockhart on bowing before duels."

"Duels, yes," he snarled, thrusting her wand at her, "which are poncy, dancing-about, mine-is-bigger contests for ego-stroking. What I am teaching you is fighting, and it is not polite. There are no rules except to survive."

"You might have said so." Glaring at him, she snatched the wand from his hand, giving it a quick going-over, presumably to check for sabotage.

"Come. Again."

With a last mutinous look, she turned to move away.

"Electrois!"

A thin bolt of lightning streaked from his wand to singe away a chunk of her hair and send the rest of it crackling into a cloud.

"What the--?"

"Never turn your back on an enemy!"

"Why you...Rictusempra!"

He blocked her spell easily, but there was force behind it. Not surprising, if the brilliant flush of anger across her face was any indication. She didn't let up, either, sending a Stinging Hex immediately after it. He dodged instead of blocking to allow himself a retaliatory hex.

Three more attacks each and she was sent flying into the creek. She had held out fairly well, he thought as she emerged, spluttering, from the water. But then, he hadn't been throwing even half his abilities at her, a decision he'd made after much thought. When she inevitably got cocky, he would have something in reserve to show her how much she truly did not know.

"What was that spell you used two rounds ago?" she asked, wringing out her hair onto her soaked tee-shirt. "The one with the bright orange mist?"

"A Poison Air curse," he said, making a mental note to try to aim for the creek with all future force spells. Her wet clothes draped in a lovely manner.

"Oh! I read about that in fifth year. It was invented during World War One by wizards working undercover in the army, to replicate the appearance and effects of mustard gas," she rattled off, eyes shining like a Labrador that had brought in the morning paper. Her wet clothes seemed to be forgotten in favor of spouting drivel.

"It was invented by Brigadier Malat Mosphère---"

"You know," he said, blissfully silencing her for a moment, "I don't need to teach you dueling."

"Sir?"

"You can bore your opponents to death with useless information."

"Useless, sir?" Her eyes narrowed, and she planted her hands on her hips, jerking her chin obstinately. "I was going to say that the spell can be easily evaded by use of a Bubble-head charm or, barring that, a handkerchief over the mouth and nose, which is useless information, I'm sure, if you're feeling suicidal that morning."

"Hmph."

Smiling a little, she commenced magically drying herself off, one article of clothing at a time.

"If we're at a pause, sir, I have some questions for you."

He lifted an eyebrow. There was an assumption behind her tone of being guaranteed to get answers.

"You're in no position to demand information, Miss Granger---"

"Actually, I feel I am." Finished with her drying spells (she had, for some reason, ignored her dripping hair), she crossed her arms and looked up at him, radiating self-righteous innocence from her wide brown eyes.

"To withhold information from me is to place me, and thus my duties, in jeopardy. I need to know everything possible about the current situation if I'm not to make mistakes out of ignorance. As a spy, sir, I'm sure you're aware of this precaution."

The problem with know-it-alls was that they were so bloody often right. Molars in Severus' mouth ached as he clenched his jaw.

"If you must."

She grinned, and he steeled himself for the interrogation of a lifetime.