Chapter 8

AN: The usual thanks to astopperindeath, J.K. Rowling, and John Milton.

And on, methought, alone I passed through ways

Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seemed

~Paradise Lost, Book V

Severus fought his way through the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, ignoring the indignant squeaks from those who received a boot heel to the instep or an elbow to the ribs in his efforts. Anonymity had its price, he supposed, tugging his hood farther over his head, but the Dark Lord's hold in the Ministry was not yet secure enough for a Death Eater to openly move about.

It took a few minutes to worm his way to the back corner of the little pub, but he was rewarded (in a manner of speaking; the sight was no aesthetic treat) with Mundungus Fletcher, huddled behind the table, as promised. He looked like nothing so much as a weasel with boils, shifting and twitching as he tried to surreptitiously scan the room. A scared man, then; a man with something to lose.

Sidestepping a pair of goblins, who shoved their long hands inside their coats and glared at him suspiciously, Severus pulled out the other chair at the small table and slid into it. Fletcher snapped to attention, nervous eyes focused on him.

"Mr. Fletcher," Severus rasped, grating the words in his throat to disguise his voice. "I see Mr. Borgin relayed my message. You were wise to heed him." Clink went the small bag as it dropped to the table, and it pulled Fletcher's greedy gaze for a moment. "My master rewards wisdom."

"D-does he, now? Good man, good man..." The money was no replacement for personal safety, though. Fletcher's quivering was obvious even in the light of the guttering candle. Severus guessed that he had been trembling ever since ghoulish Mr. Borgin told him of the request from an ominous, and anonymous, customer. The black market had got quite a bit blacker recently.

"He rewards compliance even more. Do you have it?"

"Ye-es," Fletcher said, sliding one hand inside his coat, "but..."

"But?" Severus tapped one fingernail against the table in an executioner's drumbeat.

Fletcher gulped. Sweat shone from his brow, highlighting the white cap of each boil. "I don't want no mention of me after now, see? Your master may have piles o'rewards for th'obedient, but I'm happy with what you're givin' me now. Really, I am."

"Mr. Fletcher, my master only wants the locket. You are something he steps in and scrapes off his boot. Vanish back into the rat warren of your life, and you shall vanish from his mind. Of course," Severus added, seeing relief pass over his face, "if you so much as mention this transaction to your headlice, your name will undoubtedly reappear..."

"Right, right, yes, o'course." Fletcher hurriedly placed a small package, wrapped in brown paper and twine, on the table. It lay there, innocuous as anything that did not contain a piece of Voldemort's soul. He took it and heard a starting gurgle of protest die quickly.

"Can't blame a man for checking the goods, can you?" Severus said. "Neither of us, I'm sure, wants to deliver bad goods." The twine fell apart with a quiet Sectumsempra, and he unwrapped the brown paper as quietly as possible. No sense drawing attention, especially with the pair of goblins standing close by, pointy ears pricked.

The locket was dull and heavy in his hand. Like any locket would be. Some tiny, romantic remnant in his mind had expected an heirloom of Slytherin and a Horcrux to feel... different. More than metal. He held it in the light, turning it to inspect the engraved letters. It matched Dumbledore's description, and that was all Severus could test it for, at the moment.

"Very well. Here." Severus dropped another bag of gold to the table. Fletcher snatched up both, and they vanished into the depths of his rank trenchcoat. "Now disappear, Mr. Fletcher, for a while."

He did not need further encouragement, and with a "pop," he Disapparated. Severus stayed a minute longer, staring at the locket. He held a piece of Voldemort's soul in his hand, and he couldn't decide whether to feel triumphant or nauseated. Frowning, he rewrapped it and shoved it into an inside pocket, then left as quickly as he could.

It sat in his house like a bad smell: always there, even when he thought he'd grown accustomed to it, and impossible to get rid of. He took to rushing past the secret drawer in his chimney bricking where it sat, berating himself for being stupid as he did, and he no longer sat in the sitting room to read late into the night.

Dumbledore's head appeared over the kitchen sink a few days later, causing a coffee cup to tumble from Severus's hands to a quick death on the linoleum.

"Oh, dear," he said, peering anxiously over his half-moon spectacles. "I am quite sorry to have startled you, Severus. I keep forgetting Italy is an hour ahead of England."

Severus drew his wand and resurrected the mug with a jerk. The damned locket was making him bloody jumpy. "I've got the Horcrux, Albus, if that's why you're bothering me."

"You should have taught Divination," he replied, chortling at Severus' glare.

"But then Sybill would have had a coronary from reading Potter's death in the sludge at the bottom of a cauldron, and what a tragedy that would have been for us all. Do you want the locket?"

"Hmm." He twirled a strand of beard around his finger. "No, I think you'd better keep it. If you can get to Hogwarts, the sword of Gryffindor should destroy it, as would Fiendfyre..."

"My house works best when it isn't a pile of smoldering coals. Just a thought."

"Indeed." Dumbledore was occasionally afflicted by a remarkable deafness for sarcasm. "Well, keep it safe, in any case. We have located Helga Hufflepuff's cup, and before you ask, Severus," he added with a quiet smile, "you will not have to retrieve it."

"Where is it?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange has it in her Gringott's vault. I would, however, be indebted to you could you acquire a strand of her hair and make a Polyjuice from it."

Doable, on all counts. There was to be a major meeting next week at the Manor, and apparently Bellatrix was imposing on her sister's hospitality for a time. A hairbrush full of coarse black strands should be no problem to acquire.

"Will next Wednesday suit you?" Severus said. "The Dark Lord has summoned us on Monday night." Polyjuice stock was a staple of his small potions laboratory, as making it fresh every time took too damn long, and the Order often had need of it.

"Very well. Has Voldemort...for goodness' sake, Severus, don't wince...chosen a new Headmaster?"

"Not as of yet. I suspect next Monday will bring us an answer." Severus stared at the sink. Every likely candidate he considered brought endless problems for his plans.

Dumbledore sighed. "Patience, then, is our only option. Before I go...try not to look so pleased at the idea, there's a good man...how are Hermione and Ron getting on? Harry is quite concerned. I may let them speak later. Poor boy."

"Still alive and squabbling," he said. Hermione is a more competent duelist than I had predicted and is remarkably skilled with Dark Arts, which I pray gives you a heart attack when she boils Dolohov's blood in his veins. As for Weasley... well, who cares, really?

Dumbledore nodded. "Such is love at that age. Ah, to be young..."

Severus could not help but add, "and stupid," which earned him a stern look.

"Treasure their innocence, Severus, for all too soon it will be taken from them. Good day to you." And the communication circle silvered over, as definite as a click on the other end of a Muggle telephone line, if not quite as dramatic.

The resurrected cup met its second death against the opposite wall, leaving a dent to mark its martyrdom.

"I do not recall my innocence ever being treasured, Albus," Severus snarled at the shards. "Particularly by you."

Hot water, topped with a froth of mango-scented bubbles, enveloped Hermione to the neck. Piling her curls behind her head to form a makeshift cushion, she relaxed into the spine-soothing ergonomics of the stone tub. Despite the litany of complaints she wished to register with Dumbledore when this ordeal was over, he had provided them a heavenly bathtub.

She took her wand from its perch on the rim of the tub and cast a Levitation spell on a black-bound book sitting next to the sink; one of Snape's, it promised to be a gruesome read. It flew to her, coming to a halt at the perfect level for reading. A quick Impervio ensured that the steam would not harm it.

She had only got through two spells...one was a very nasty way of poisoning someone's food from the next room...before the door resounded with knocks.

"Ron, I'm in the bath!"

"That's nice, Herm, but Harry's shown up in the sitting room. D'you want to talk to him?"

"Harry's here?"

"I could send him in to see you, if you like, but Ginny might object..."

"Yes, yes, I'm coming. Wait a moment." In a trice, she had Disillusioned the book and sent it into the cupboard under the sink. She slid out of the bath and seized one of the cloud-like towels from the rack, wrapping it firmly around herself and securing it with a spell.

Ron was still outside the door when she opened it. He blinked at her state of dress.

"If it were anyone other than Harry, I'd call you the biggest flirt in England," he said, his smile slightly too tight for his light banter.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Ron..." She smacked his arm and strode past him to the sitting room.

"You're dripping!" he called after her.

"Do shut up, Ron...hello, Harry," she said. The communication spell hung in front of the fireplace, its shining light framing Harry's (very tan) head. She Summoned a chair and sat, taking care with the arrangement of legs and towel.

"Hi, Hermione. Lovely outfit you've got on."

She glared at him, causing him to grin. "I was in the bath," she sniffed.

"Without Ron?"

She blinked, and stared at him. "Of course without Ron. Why on earth would I be in the bath with Ron?"

The grin fell, and he flushed. "Oh... sorry, it's just... Du...I thought you two were, you know..."

"No."

"Oh."

"It just didn't work out, mate."

Hermione jumped. She hadn't noticed Ron come into the room, but now he dropped to the floor beside her chair, blowing hair out of his eyes.

"So, how's your little paradise, Harry?" he continued, as blithe as anything. It was, she thought, one of his more tactful moments.

"Sunny. Beachy. Bloody boring." Harry sighed and fidgeted, running a hand through his hair, which did nothing to convince it of gravity. "We've got a hold of another Horcrux...Slytherin's locket...and we know where the cup of Hufflepuff is."

"Just three more, then," she said, trying to sound reassuring.

"Yeah, just three more." There was the hint of a sullen pout around his lips, and a crease darkened his eyebrows. She knew the expression well, having spent most of fifth year dealing with it.

"And then what, Hermione?" he asked. "We find all the Horcruxes and destroy them, someone kills Voldemort, and us three get to hear about it afterward when they're unwrapping the bubble wrap."

"What are we supposed to do, then?" Ron said. "We can't get out of this stupid place, and I'll bet there's something keeping you over there."

"Besides, aren't you the one who must kill Voldemort? To fulfill the prophecy and everything. I'm sure that's been factored in to Dumbledore's plans, Harry." Hermione tugged at her hair, staring at Harry's stormy mien. Not that she blamed him in the least. It was very tempting to try to follow Severus back into the real world when he left her on Thursday. This place, paradisiacal as it was, abraded her nerves. Prudence and safety were all very well, but she fretted under the ignorance that had been forced upon them.

"Right. Good thinking, Herms. As usual." She hoped it was a smile tugging at his lips.

He glanced over his shoulder, face darkening again. "I have to go. Apparently someone wants to talk over me again." The frustration was back in his voice, and when he returned to her and Ron, it was back in his face.

"All right," Ron said, smiling a little. "We'll get through this."

"I know. Thanks, guys." With that, the mirror turned off and vanished.

Ron rubbed his hand over his eyes and turned a worried expression on Hermione. "He's going to blow his top soon."

"Don't I know it," she replied, catching her bottom lip in her teeth and tugging.

"You're going to have no lips by the time this war is over," he said, a joking reproach in his crooked smile. Always the jester, there to lighten the mood, if only so they didn't go insane from the tension.

Shaking her head at his levity, she ruffled his hair before heading back to the bathroom. Mulling in hot water helped her think.

But a thought stopped her in the doorway to the hall.

"Ron," she said, picking her words as though they were apples at a market, "I think I can get us both out of here for the battle, anyway."

"What?"

She didn't turn back to him, fixing her gaze on the stone wall.

"I think I can, but you have to trust me. You might not be inclined to follow me, but you have to if you want to get out to fight."

"Hermione, what are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you now because I'm not sure. But if it works, you have to believe me." It was Snape, after all. Surely he would bend the rules, or at least be persuaded somehow...

"I guess. Yes. I mean, I trust you, Herms. Your plans don't usually get us in trouble."

She smiled. "Thanks, Ron."

The bath was a retreat now, and she sank into it and the book with her mind on nothing more than her lesson with Snape, two days hence. Dark spells swirled in her eyes, but she pinned them down.

Thursday morning came with the weather sickeningly perfect, as usual. Birds twittered their harmonious cheeps in the trees as she walked to the creek, making her consider pitching her apple core at them. She settled for tossing it into a ditch for the deer to eat (if they ate.)

The clearing was empty when she arrived. Or, she corrected herself, drawing her wand and pressing her back to a tree, it appeared empty.

Two minutes. Nothing but her breathing and the birds tickled her ears, and only a butterfly passed her.

Carefully, she slid her rucksack, heavy with Snape's books, to the ground and sat down beside it to wait. She glanced at her watch, confirming that Severus was five minutes late.

He arrived three minutes later. His customary scowl looked etched into his face with acid. It deepened when he saw her.

"Good morning, sir," she said.

"Hmph." He crossed his arms and looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.

She tried something else. "I've brought your books, Professor." She patted the rucksack. "I read Murder Mowst Foule and the French one, Le Morte Varie, though it took three different translation spells to really get all the nuances, and I still can't pronounce some of the Middle French very well."

He tapped a long finger against his bicep, eyes narrowing. Hermione decided to shut up.

"Choose a spell and cast it. Use common sense in your selection."

"Because there is such a dearth of common sense in my mind," she quipped, rolling to her knees to open the rucksack. Thinking for a moment, she pulled out Le Morte Varie.

"What the fuck have you done to my book, Granger?" His voice was sharp, dangerous, and she fought the urge to quail under it.

"Put sticky notes in it, sir." She found the marker she wanted and opened to it, reviewing the heavy Gothic text of the spell. "They help with later reference, and before you ask, they're entirely removable." Glancing up at him, she raised her eyebrow at his scowl. "Since when do I damage books?"

He growled and looked away. Smiling to herself, Hermione stood and drew her wand.

There. That boulder would do nicely.

She stared at it, trying to look past the hard granite to the molecules which composed it. It was not a solid mass, but a paused fluid. The French words of the spell slid from her tongue, r's rolling perfectly from practice, and she felt the incantation take shape in her wand. It hummed, it throbbed, it grew warm in her hand as the power built within her.

This wasn't a pleasure like the other one. This was pulses more than an explosion. Each time she moved her wand and the rock twisted like bread dough, another gentle ecstasy moved over her, making her groin ache. She found herself wrenching the rock into complex knots, trying to heighten the effect, but each wave only faded to leave her wanting more.

"Enough," she heard, and a spell cut through her own, ending the pleasure like a cold shower. Only the knowledge that Snape was there kept her from thrusting her hand into her knickers on the spot and rubbing an orgasm from her needy clitoris. Every twist in the former boulder was a reminder of her frustration, and the multitude of loops in the knot that tied it around a nearby tree recalled the very close and very male presence of Snape.

It occurred to her, as she turned to him, that hers were not the only hands that could, hypothetically speaking, of course, end up in her knickers.