Chapter Seven

Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.

A/N: Many thanks to machshefa and Subversa for alpha reading and to richardgloucester and sshg316 for beta reading.

Hermione bounded up the stairs, walked into the master bedroom, lay down on the bed, and took a deep breath. Merlin, why was she sweating so much? She stripped her shirt off and welcomed the blast of cool air against her skin. She closed her eyes, felt the plush bedspread beneath her, smelled the smells that cling to the corners of old homes no matter how hard you scrub (or charm). Tears leaked out of her eyes, and she told herself to get a grip.

Edmund is not Professor Snape. Edmund is not Professor Snape. Edmund is not...

She swallowed hard, wiped at her eyes, willed herself to remember what she'd seen. One moment, she'd been watching a ghost somehow play the piano; the next, she saw him...heard his story in the music, saw his eyes, so alive in spite of the ghostly mist, saw the Shack, saw herself watching him.

One moment, the war was over; the next, it was alive... He was alive.

She inhaled deeply, then breathed out. Breathed in, then out. In, out. In. Out.

What was she doing? Living in his home, sleeping in his bed.

"Professor Snape is dead, Hermione."

Ordering around his house elf, sitting at his piano.

"But...he can't be! A snakebite, kill a potions master?"

Minerva's eyes were so gentle. "I am sorry that you witnessed it, my dear. Truly, I am."

Conversing with the ghost of one of his ancestors, seeking out his advice, trusting him...a ghost!...just because he looked like her old professor.

"But his body...it wasn't there!"

"Who knows why Hogwarts has chosen to conceal his body? But I have been assured by Fawkes that his body has been taken, and I've no reason to doubt it."

When she talked with Edmund, she could pretend that there was no war, that Snape hadn't died, that he was sitting here, talking with her, finally respecting her abilities...the one teacher she'd been so desperate to please, approving at last.

"Let him lie in peace."

Enough.

She sat up on the bed and put her head in her hands.

Severus Snape was dead, one of too many young wizards and witches whose blood had soaked into the earth and somehow revitalised a society on the verge of collapse. For that, he...they...deserved honour, not some pathetic fantasy idealising a dark knight who could somehow fit back into the society that had rejected him.

Fantasies about him playing at the piano... about him playing for her...

She rose from the bed and walked to the bath. Cold water on her face, arms, and torso felt refreshing...gods, she was so hot. She had to focus. The bedroom had to get done today; she'd been reading and she thought she was ready, and if she didn't have the balls to start now, well, when would she get started?

She stilled a moment, realising that she'd asked Edmund to come up.

"Edmund?" she called out tentatively.

"I'm here. May I come in?" was the reply.

She Summoned her shirt and tugged it on before waving a hand to open the door. "You could have just floated through, you know." Her fist clenched and unclenched at her side. Merlin, Hermione, try and sound more like an idiot.

It was all she could do to not laugh at the look on his face, though. He looked positively scandalised.

"The way I was brought up, a gentleman never enters a lady's bedchamber uninvited," he said, his glance particularly stern.

"Well, consider yourself invited," Hermione said automatically, and she looked at the wall, deliberately not thinking about the way her heart had skipped a beat.

When she looked back at Edmund, it seemed as though he had been fidgeting with his cravat, although his hand moved too quickly for her to be sure. He was uncomfortable, though, that was certain.

"We had... rules... about who was allowed into such chambers. Rules with consequences. They are not easily bred out of a person, no matter how many years dead."

Her brow crinkled. "Did Pureblood manors have enchantments forbidding men from entering young ladies' chambers?"

Edmund looked mildly exasperated. "Have I not been saying so?"

"I...I'm..."

"Don't worry yourself, Hermione," he said, his tone now patient. "There were typically two enchantments...one, that a man could not enter a woman's chamber without her permission. Second, that he could not enter without her father's."

Hermione's eyes widened. Edmund nodded. "You grasp the wisdom, yes? Such enchantments were, interestingly enough, performed by mothers. The father's consent forbade young women from admitting their beaus, but the woman's consent forbade the entrance of men who typically had access to all areas of the manor...servants, even family members. Especially family members."

"That's quite forward thinking, for Purebloods."

Edmund snorted. "If you think incest produces undesirable results in Muggle children, you should see what happens when the family is magical."

Hermione thought of Merope Gaunt and shuddered. "Did all Purebloods...?"

"No. But the Prince family, for its many faults, has never tolerated that particular perversity in Masters of the manor."

"Comforting."

"You should take a look at the dungeons and talk to the ghosts of servant girls before painting a rosy picture of this family. Its regard for its own daughters is not indicative of its regard for others' daughters. Or sons."

Hermione swallowed hard. "I..." She paused. "Dungeons?"

He bared his teeth in a rather feral grin. "Frightened?"

"Interested, actually." She pretended not to notice that Edmund's jaw almost hit the floor, and reminded herself that eighteenth century ladies no doubt had not discussed such things with men. "You mentioned ghosts?"

"They've moved on, but there was one who haunted the kitchens when I was a youth. My... father tried to prevent her from talking with me. He was afraid it would poison my family pride."

"Did it?"

"I'm sorry to say it didn't. I didn't have much regard for women at the time."

"And now?"

"I do. But we've strayed from the subject. You asked me up for another reason than to discuss my family's perversities, I believe."

"Yes," she said, relieved for the change of topic. "I would like you to help coach me through the first renovation."

Edmund quirked an eyebrow. "I do not recall any mention of coaching."

She gave a small smile. "Moral support, then."

He appeared to lean against the bedpost. "Tell me the first step."

"I listen for the slight vibration that indicates the..." she searched for the word "...thrum of the manor's energy. It's like hearing a rushing river. Then I cast a spell to amplify the sound so I can better lock in to the manor's energy."

"Close your eyes and do so."

She closed her eyes. She'd been practising this; it was almost like meditation. Once she locked in to the centre, she locked in and cast the spell so that the sound of the manor's energy was audible.

"Very good," Edmund said. "It's listening. Now focus on the room you want to change."

"I've already centered my energy on the master bedroom and adjoining bath, with particular emphasis on the rooms' structure, insulation, windows, and portal."

She heard him murmur "Excellent," and her body shuddered at the word as she lifted her wand. She had come to prefer wandless magic, but a wand was needed to focus the amount of power she was directing. The harmonising of her magical energy with the manor's, the power needed to direct her will within the manor's will, required a synergy unlike any she'd ever managed on her own.

She felt her wand begin to vibrate as she fully tapped into the manor's... source, for lack of a better word, and she held on for dear life as the manor's energy flowed in the general direction of her will. Her eyes were tightly shut, and she felt like she was on a roller coaster.

The vibration lessened gradually, easing her down, and when the flow of energy ceased, it released her so suddenly that she crashed to the floor, her eyes finally opening.

"Don't get up right away. Take your time. Breathe."

She closed her eyes and relaxed into the floor, completely spent. How long she lay there, she didn't know.

"Miss will be needing tea and toast." She opened her eyes and saw Pip with a tray, suddenly realising that she was on the bed. She sat up against the headboard, exhausted.

"Miss needed to be comfortable," Pip said, snapping his fingers so that the covers crawled around her body, wrapping her in a cocoon. He set the tray on her lap. Grateful, she reached for toast and gulped down tea without a care for the heat.

"How was it?" Edmund asked. She looked up sharply, having nearly forgotten that he was there. He stood near the doorway, eyes watching her intently.

"I...I was holding on for dear life. I'm amazed I kept the magic in this room. It wanted to spread, and I barely had the energy to contain it, let alone dictate the designs, the ways it improved the room."

"Time for that later," Edmund said softly, and Hermione finally looked around the room to see what she'd accomplished. The floors had been stone; they were now a burnished mahogany. The two windows were new, and one had been transformed into a bay window. The room was rich with color...crimson and green so dark as to almost be black, silver and gold threads weaving through the room seamlessly. She could see into the bathroom...the claw-foot porcelain tub had been refurbished, and the floors were marble. Indeed, in the two rooms, only four-poster bed remained unchanged.

Hermione turned to Edmund. "This all costs money. This isn't... this can't be transfiguration..."

"The manor is obviously ecstatic to have something to do. I'd say it's showing off for you. And don't worry about money; the manor has stores of magical investment...hundreds of years, in fact...which easily translate into such renovations. It's more akin to an alchemical process than transfiguration. The marble sink won't just disappear one day. Not to worry."

"It looks so... rich. Do all renovations look like this?"

"No. Perhaps the manor is grateful to be appreciated after so many years of neglect," Edmund said, staring at a window.

"But..."

"Hermione. You've given the manor as much as it's given you here. You've put new lifeblood into its stores; you've invested some of your own energy in this place. That is powerful...I'm not sure you realise how much the manor values those who take the time to do this." He paused, arching an eyebrow. "Surely this isn't a game to you?"

She was incensed more quickly than she would have thought possible. "If you weren't a ghost, I'd slap you. Just because I don't fully comprehend all the Pureblood stuff doesn't mean I don't value this."

Edmund chuckled. "She has pluck."

"And you have some nerve. You're dead, Edmund. Dead. You have no right to ask after my motives here." She instantly regretted her words, but then, he didn't look as though they had even landed.

"True enough, Miss Granger," he said casually, and he walked out of the room.

She leaned against the headboard with a thunk, trying to make sense of what had just happened, but found that she was too tired to think, too tired to feel, too tired to do anything but lie down and rest.

**

Edmund did not visit the next day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

So she did what she knew how to do: work. The parlor was renovated, magical plumbers and electricians were called, and by the time a fortnight had passed, every bathroom had been finished and the halls and many rooms found their lighting much improved. Hermione exhausted herself...too busy to spend time with her own thoughts, too spent to even dream.

Hermione was in the Portrait Hall, almost finished with a relatively simple floor renovation, when a voice startled her out of her focus.

"You fancy him, don't you?"

Surprised, she lost focus for an instant, and was thrown out of the manor's river, as she'd come to call it, so harshly that she fell to the floor. Breathing heavily, she looked at the portrait responsible.

"You could have picked a better time to chat me up, Charlotte."

Charlotte grinned, obviously pleased with herself. "I know."

"You know that none of you have spoken to me since..."

"Since I told you about Hyacinth Grey, yes. We're none too fond of Mud..."

"Charlotte," several voices admonished.

Hermione wasn't certain who had spoken on her behalf. "Thank you," she said, completely bewildered. She looked at the smug blonde. "Why are you deigning to talk to me?"

"Angry?"

"The renovations take a lot out of a person. I was almost finished," Hermione said through gritted teeth.

"It's not as if you can do things to me. You're not Mistress," Charlotte said, prancing about her portrait, fixing the position of the tea tray.

Hermione gave a menacing grin. "But there are knives in the kitchen."

A gasp resounded in the hall. "You wouldn't!" Charlotte said.

"Oh, I would," Hermione replied, walking up to the portrait so that she was almost nose-to-nose with Edmund's great-whatever-aunt. "I am a Mudblood, after all. What possible value could Pureblood portraits have for me?" She leaned in even closer. "Try me."

Charlotte's lip quivered.

"Now. Tell me why you interrupted my work."

Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. "Well, he hasn't been by in a while. And you were working like a woman possessed."

"Which only means that I was focused."

"You miss him," Charlotte said. "You are either working or moping. Pip is quite beside himself; he doesn't know what to do with you."

Hermione glared. "I do not mope!"

"Why do you miss him?" Charlotte asked, tilting her head.

"I...I don't...I..." Hermione sputtered, but then tears started trailing down her cheeks. She wiped them furiously. "I don't miss him."

Charlotte gave her a look that suggested otherwise.

Hermione put her hands on her hips and looked down at the floor, letting her frizzy curls cover her face while the tears flowed.

"I miss him, all right?" she said, not looking at any of them. "I miss his company. He knew a lot about this place and I'm having to... to guess at some things, and I don't like guessing. I want to know, but he's not here to tell me, and he could make me laugh, and he kept me company during the day, and when I was with him, I didn't feel so alone and, my God, he's a ghost, something is desperately wrong with me."

"Oh, child," a voice said. She sounded older, wiser, and more compassionate than Charlotte. Hermione looked around, and then heard, "Here at the end of the hall."

She walked to the end, to the grand portrait shrouded in shadow. The woman in the portrait had always been so silent that Hermione had been irrationally intimidated by her, but now she looked down at Hermione with eyes so kind it seemed impossible there had ever been a menacing bone in her body. She was seated in a throne-like chair and was dressed in a rose-colored gown that spread almost the entire width of the frame. Jewels dripped from her neck, her bodice, her wrists, and a simple gold diadem contrasted with her flowing white hair.

"Is there a particular reason you are drawn to Edmund?" the woman asked.

"I..."

"Answer me true, child," the woman said, smiling.

"He... This is so embarrassing." Hermione fidgeted with her shirt, looking at the floor.

"Many young people have confided in me over the years. I promise you, I've heard stranger."

Hermione chuckled in spite of herself. "He reminds me of Professor Snape." She couldn't look at the portrait. "Professor Snape was..."

"I know. What reminds you of him?"

She sighed. "His...everything," she said, feeling some relief at being able to admit the resemblance. "He looks identical to Professor Snape, and his personality... some mannerisms he has... I mean, obviously Edmund is much nicer than Professor Snape, but I have to think, if not for the war... I don't know, I'm sorry, I'm babbling."

The woman looked at her kindly. "Have faith, child."

Hermione looked up just as she saw the portrait close her eyes. "Wait! What's your name?"

She opened her eyes. "Anna." She smiled and then resumed her restful posture.

Have faith. Hermione had no idea what that meant.

Severus stared at his fireplace and moped. He hadn't been to the manor in a fortnight. Good riddance, he had thought that day in the Master Bedroom. He had only meant to inquire as to the seriousness of her commitment, and she'd flown off the handle at him. He'd been surprised at her impertinence, at the reminder that he was dead, that Hermione fucking Granger would stoop to such insults. The fact that he was alive was irrelevant; it was the principle of the thing. Women, honestly.

He swirled the whisky in his glass, watching the firelight that was caught in the glass. He would not go visit her again. He absolutely would not. Loneliness was far preferable to having to deal with an insolent girl. Then again, she had an effect on his disposition that he didn't understand. Without her...without visits to the manor, he corrected himself...he'd fallen into a state of particularly surly behavior. Jack had said as much at work today, and Severus had threatened to fire him on the spot. Really mustn't go about threatening the security of Jack's job too often; enough failure to follow through would ruin any chance he had of striking the fear of God into the man.

A part of his mind reminded him that paucity of time at Lyonesse had never particularly affected him one way or the other, and that perhaps it was the current tenant that was so affecting him (and causing such a depletion in his supply of booze), but really, that was all irrelevant.

This is what Severus told himself.

He poured himself another glass.

**

At two in the morning, he stumbled through his fireplace into the library at Lyonesse. He hadn't dressed the part nor bothered with the blood-masking draught, and the fires in the library practically roared their approval. He Disillusioned himself and made his way up the stairs to the Master Bedroom, where he stood in the doorway, intoxicated by whisky and recklessness and desire for the woman lying underneath the sheets.

Severus stood there watching her for Merlin knows how long, and he was nearly dozing off against the doorway she called, "Who's there?" He opened his eyes to find her sitting up in bed, camisole askew, eyes darting about the room. He stood still in spite of being startled; those years in the bondage of his masters counted for something, he thought.

"Pip?" Hermione called, looking about the room. She bit her lip and then said, "Edmund?" Her eyes looked so hopeful, so damn hopeful. After another moment, she lay back down and covered herself, and the look of disappointment on her face nearly split his heart in two.

He left in haste, half regretting his drunken excursion and half rejoicing in what he had seen. At least, he could rejoice now...Merlin only knew what his sober self would think in the morning.

A/N: Extra thanks go to the lovely Subversa for letting me install her in a portrait.