Mercy

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Chapter 5: Mercy

"Ennervate."

It took Hermione a while to get her bearings. She was back in the cell, and it was Theodore Nott in his dark robes standing over her instead of Voldemort. She looked down. She wasn't bound, and he had repaired the worst tears in her toga. She lifted its tattered hem immediately and saw no new marks upon her legs. This meant it had been mostly Crucio.

The theory was confirmed when she tried to sit up. A throbbing pain engulfed her body, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, drumming out a hideous, reverberating beat which swelled to a head-splitting crescendo just behind her eyeballs.

Her stomach gave the customary response.

"Evanesco," said Nott, flatly. The mess vanished, though the smell did not.

"Time? Day?" she spluttered, wiping her sour mouth on a corner of already crusted cloth.

Nott remained silent as he always did and instead grabbed her chin in his unfaltering, impersonal grip. He tipped the usual blend of potions into her mouth. She cooperated. The first time, she had sprayed it all over his face, and he had Crucio'd her almost as hard as Voldemort himself. Funny, of all the Slytherins at school, she would never have picked Theodore Nott for the Cruciatus curse – or to join Voldemort's circle. She never once saw him in Malfoy's gang and remembered him coming second to her in the Charms OWL. This was ancient history now, of course. How the new regime had changed things.

Satisfied with his prisoner, Nott turned on his heel without another word and crossed the cold, stony cell in three echoing strides. Hermione jumped as he slammed the ironclad door loudly behind him. It set off her neighbour, and through the thick, stone walls came his rasping, inhuman wail. This blended discordantly with the staccato beat of four heavy latches clicking, and the reverberating bass hum of a strong warding spell.

Nott took the lights with him, and Hermione was left in a darkness that was both soothing and terrible. She listened as his brisk footsteps echoed down the hall and faded to nothing, leaving only the whimpers of whoever – or whatever – occupied the cell behind hers.

He always did that when the jailor came for Hermione, though to date she had never heard his door open. Sometimes, when she moved herself to the wall that they shared, she could hear him there, with his rasping breaths like air escaping from a gas pipe. It had terrified her in the beginning. It reminded her of Nagini, or Harry when he had spoken Parseltongue in second year, and it had been the most evil sound Hermione had ever heard in her young, sheltered life. She had grown used to this fellow prisoner now and had even come to find his presence reassuring. She felt sure, as cliché and irrational as it was, that he was trying to communicate with her through their shared wall.

The snuffling became a little louder and more persistant.

"Yes," croaked Hermione, as loudly as she dared. "It's me."

He didn't answer. He never answered. Hermione suspected that they had pulled out his tongue, a thought that made her own feel conspicuously swollen and heavy in her mouth.

On bruised knees, she half-crawled, half-slid to the corner where she slept. Amongst the scratchy folds of the hessian rags, she sought out the thick, smooth shape of the iron nail. The snuffling followed her as she felt her way along the back wall. She traced her fingers along the soft mortar between the second and third row of stones until she found the line of deep gouge marks. She had gotten the idea from the collection of fifteen by the privy that she had found on her first day, scratched out by some pour soul who had probably slept in the same corner, used the same facilities and endured the same curses. She wondered about this predecessor, about whether she had known them and where their body was now. Her line of uneven notches was eleven long, for which she supposed she ought to be thankful. Although, to put it less pleasantly, this meant she had another four to go.

Three to go, in fact. She scratched out another mark. This made it the twelfth time that she had been back to the cell and, at her best guess, as many days since her capture. There was no way of being sure, though. They took her up to Voldemort in what she would call the mornings, though the manor was perpetually dark. Then He would question her. What were you doing with Harry Potter? What was Dumbledore planning? What secrets did the Order of the Phoenix hide? What do you know about the Elder Wand? She knew the questions off by heart. He tried all manner of curses, potions, and even a Pensieve once. Nothing worked. The answers were well and truly gone, for which she was almost grateful.

He seemed to have settled finally on Legilimency. For hours, she would endure the invasion of her mind. It was terrible to find his cold, mocking presence there, amongst what memories she had left, as He ripped them out of her, one after the other. He moved through her like a hurricane pulling up the roots of trees at random; or a petulant child, whose godlike finger dealt out life and death to a line of scurrying ants; or a dozen striking snakes, their biting heads piston-like, at once unavoidable and unpredictable.

It felt exactly like this and nothing like this.

Hermione resorted to such tortured similes because mere words could not describe Voldemort. He was beyond the comprehension of mortals. He simply was. There was no reason to what He did, only that He did them. Sometimes He sought out Harry's face, other times He brought forward painful recollections simply to mock her. If He liked, He would put false ones in that seemed so, so real that she screamed to drown them out. Had Harry really died like that? Had her parents really called her that? Had Ron and Lavender really...

For the most part, she tried to make herself as pliant as possible, even as He cast the Cruciatus Curse again and again and again. He saw nothing to his pleasure, and by the end, she was nothing but a conduit for his rage. Rage was self-fuelling; He would never stop until she passed out, and even then might wake her for more.

Afterwards she would be taken back in her cell to be healed a little and fed a little for the next day.

It had only been twelve days.

She would die soon. It wasn't histrionics, it was a fact. They did not give her enough to drink, and she couldn't keep any of the food down. Her throat was always parched, and the sores on her mouth had stopped mending altogether. Her hands trembled violently if she let them alone, which was a well-known side effect of too much Veritaserum. If she stayed still for too long, her nerves buzzed with the memory of old curses. When she managed to sleep, her mind seemed to drown in the seething mass of her own fractured thoughts, half-memory and half-dream.

She might make fifteen, like her predecessor, or even last another week, but Voldemort would grind her into nothing eventually. Or perhaps his patience would wear out at last and he would give her the mercy of the killing curse. In a way, it would be an almost-victory.

-O-

Ginny picked up her cup of plain water and bothered to raise it all the way to her lips before setting it down again. It made a louder than necessary rattle and caused Neville to jump. The glossy insert from the morning's paper (10 Water-Saving Tips for Your Summer Garden) slid from his face, exposing one sleepy, grumpy, glaring eye Luna, of course, did not seem to notice. Her head was still bent determinedly over The Express, scanning a page of lonely hearts' ads. Little pictures of hearts and words like "gorgeous" and "naughty" leapt embarassingly out of the sea of tiny, cramped columns.

"Sorry," muttered Ginny, even though she felt anything but.

She got up and marched to the door to squint through its smudgy peephole again. The stairwell was disappointingly empty and silent, but its concrete walls and iron railings looked extremely cool. The heatwave that seemed to set in just for them was making the flat unbearably hot and stuffy, not to mention the stale smell that was starting to build up. She had suggested that they open the window just a little bit, but had been outvoted. Stealthily, Ginny turned the door handle just a fraction clockwise–

"Gin!"

Neville was fully awake now and frowning a clear accusation at her across the room.

"I was going to leave the latch on," said Ginny through gritted teeth. It was more or less true.

She escaped into the kitchen so he wouldn't see her rolling her eyes and mouthing silent curses. She opened the fridge door, relishing the Muggle-made coolness. It occurred to her that the fridge was worryingly empty already. There was a drop of milk left and a heel of ham. The pantry was equally useless. It wasn't that it was ill-stocked, only, the stove was a gas one, and Oliver had forgotten to give them matches. Wands were out of the question, of course. It was beyond stupid that he could forget something like matches but remember to order them a paper delivery. It was always the small stuff that people made mistakes about, and always the small stuff that made a difference. Always. The need to throttle him rose in her. She filed it away for later.

"I reckon one of us will have to go out under the Cloak and get some food," she said, only half seriously.

"Ginny!" The reply was instantaneous and predictable. Neville sounded properly agitated.

"Kidding," she called back.

"Ginny!" It was Luna this time, and something in her voice made Ginny pull her face out of the icy blast of the refridgerator. She peered back around the corner.

"What?"

"I think we found it," said Neville, jerking his head at the newsprint. He wore a strange look that was between anxiety and bemusement.

Ginny slammed the door shut and practically ran across the room.

"Just here," said Luna, pointing a pale finger at a column of small ads. Ginny followed it.

"Buxom brunette, 39, seeks friendship?"

"No – the next one down."

Ginny obeyed.

"Dashing French male, seeks redheaded filly to save my world. Enjoys travelling, especially North Sea and Scotland. Should be patient - busy between work and other projects and will be severely late. Require functioning sense of caution - no rash moves, must not be seen out of house. Pax."

There was a moment of silence in which Ginny tried to meet both her friends' gazes at once and failed. Her mouth flapped open absurdly, not quite sure what shape to form.

"No way," was all she managed in the end. She stared at Luna, who, to her credit, did not look at all about to say 'I told you so'.

"I know what you mean," mused Luna. "I am a little disappointed. It's almost clever, but mostly silly, when he could have used the telephone or sent a letter. It's like something in a story. It's very stylish, though."

Ginny could not think of a better way to put it. A secret message in a newspaper was unbelievably stupid. That is, about as stupid as forgetting the matches. She really was going to let the Gallic git have it, when he came back. How late was severely anyhow? And what was all the rest of the cryptic nonsense?

Neville looked about as confused as she felt.

"So he's travelling at the moment," he reasoned, wearing a frown that made him look years older. "The North Sea has got to Azkaban, I reckon."

"Right," said Ginny, thinking out loud. "But why is he in Scotland? Hogwarts? Unlikely - it's still holidays."

"Could be just your usual terror and torture trip," quipped Neville rather bitterly. "He's officially a Snatcher, or whatever they're called now. Bound to be going up and down the country all the time, flushing out rebels."

"Could be," considered Ginny. "But why would he tell us that?"

There was a perplexed silence.

"Do you think..." whispered Ginny, who was beginning to feel a seed of hope growing treacherously at the back of her mind.

"I don't think so," said Luna. "He would have said something else if it was Hermione."

There was a look of such acceptance and serenity on her face that it was almost infuriating. She fixed her grey-blue eyes unblinkingly onto Ginny's brown ones.

"We really shouldn't get our hopes up," she pronounced, folding away the paper. "It doesn't help."

-O-

Snape's left forearm was burning.

It had been almost a fortnight since Granger, and he had been waiting for the call ever since, pacing his study night after night as if that would have any bearing on the Dark Lord's whims.

The Mark had been still for thirteen days, which was a disturbingly long time. He did not know what to make of it and so had forced himself to make nothing of it.

The call could have nothing to do with Granger at all, in fact. It was almost time to deliver the Dark Lord's special potion. He had finished brewing it the night before, and the large crystal vial sat on its holder on his desk, its rich, velvety depths swirling like dark blood, sluggish and sanguine.

She could be long dead. This the most rational and probable outcome, so he had reconsidered his plans in light of this. All the same, hope was a difficult beast to slay.

As was regret. He had thought to have long since weaned himself off contemplations on 'what if'. But for thirteen days his mind was clouded by the infinite, impotent permutations of alternative actions, passed out of his reach. If only he had waited a little longer and not made his move so close to the Wizarding world. If only he had taken her away immediately. If only he had cast a stronger Imperius curse. If only he had Obliviated Scabior, McLaggen and Glis. He could have taken them without too much trouble. The odds had been against him, but three to one was still significantly better than they were now.

He had been unspeakably foolish and had paid for it. Ginny Weasley, Longbottom and Lovegood had their uses, but Granger had been his centrepiece. It was humiliating. Worse than that, it was potentially devastating.

Snape tossed back his wine, pocketed the vial, pushed these wayward thoughts as far out of mind as he could, and clasped his right hand over his left forearm.

He materialised in almost the exact same place where Granger had splinched, just outside the gates of what had been Malfoy Manor only a few years ago. Dark Mark aloft, Snape strode through the barrier without hesitation. He covered the familiar path in long, purposeful strides. To an onlooker, he would appear no different than he usually did, which was the point. The mansion grew out of the distance, casting a stately shape against the darkening sky, and in no time at all he was under its ostentatious, arched portico.

The opulent doors swung open for him, and revealed a most unexpected sight.

Theodore Nott was waiting in the hall. Snape felt an eyebrow rise before he could stop it. The ranks were full of his ex-students now, but he did not remember Theodore being this way inclined. Studious, lonesome and a little conceited was how Snape remembered the boy. He had been a competent student, but offensively ordinary, with the career goal of "entering the Department of International Cooperation". He wondered how Nott had found himself here instead, and on whose recommendation he had been admitted. Only the privileged few were ever allowed into the Sovereign's private home, and Theodore had no living connections that he could think of.

"Professor Snape," Theodore greeted him with a very proper new order bow.

"Headmaster," corrected Snape, as he had to find something to say.

He gave the boy a surreptitious scan as he did so. Expensive robes, skull pin, haircut and bags under the eyes - these were all new, no doubt in honour of the new post. He wore his wand in a holder, the corner of which Snape could see hanging by his right side, just within the fall of his robes. The edge of a gauze bandage peeked out from under his left sleeve which suggested that he was very new indeed.

"I beg your pardon, Headmaster," continued Theodore, curling his slightly stubbled top lip. "The Dark Lord is expecting you in the library."

This was more like the Theodore Nott that Snape knew - somewhat entitled and a great admirer of his own subtlety. It didn't warrant a reply. Snape stepped past the boy and made his way up the familiar staircase.

To his irritation, Nott's eager trotting footsteps followed close behind.

"I take it this is about Hermione Granger, Headmaster?"

That did get Snape's attention. Turning, he gazed down to find Nott wearing an expression more insufferable than the aforementioned Granger and Potter combined. It claimed confidence and suggested that its owner at least thought he had the upper hand. It was also the sort of expression that on the Dark Lord's servant did not often foretell longevity. He had thought Nott smarter than this. He allowed the silence to brew.

"It's no secret to me, sir. You see, the Dark Lord entrusts his household needs to me. I'm in charge all our prisoners and ... pets."

Snape could feel the corners of his mouth threatening to travel upwards. Household needs meant he had had his recommendation from Rabastan. It was an interesting choice. Lestrange no doubt was desperate enough to take the first halfway competent volunteer he could find. The position was an envied one, but far from desirable in Snape's experience. Or Lestange's. Or, indeed, anyone who had served him long enough to know of Peter Pettigrew. All the advantages of pillow-talking the Sovereign aside, one couldn't escape the cold, hard fact that the Dark Lord's domestic servants did not last. He pitied Nott. And Lestrange, who would no doubt get a little of the splatter for recommending the unfortunate boy.

"How admirable," he pronounced, hoping that Nott would leave him soon.

"Between you and me, sir, we'll be cleaning out her cell today. I didn't think she'd last this long, to be honest. They usually don't you know. She must be terribly important."

His attention peaked, but Nott's face told him plainly that he did not know for sure one way or the other, which did not advance Snape's position one iota. His sudden candour and ingratiating affability was more interesting. He couldn't see why Nott was telling him this in the first place, nor what he could possibly want in return. He studied the boy's face a little more closely, and found there the tiny, flickering expressions of curiosity and avarice.

The fool was fishing for information himself.

"I'm quite amazed that the Dark Lord has kept her alive, here, all this time," he continued. "They say Granger was travelling with Potter and Weasley during the Rebellion. I almost wonder what..."

"Nott."

He had to put an end to it then. The conversation had somehow taken a sudden turn into treasonous territory.

"As pleasant as it is to chat, I am expected by the Dark Lord. No doubt He will be most displeased to hear that I kept Him waiting for such a...frivolous conversation."

"Frivolous, Sir? "

"Quite frivolous. I don't consider for a moment that you were seriously questioning the wishes of the Dark Lord. Nor, I'm sure, were you seeking privilege to my business with Him."

He fixed the boy with a stare that he hoped would serve as adequate warning. The colour drained obligingly from Nott's face as the message sunk in.

"No. It is quite clear that this has been nothing but small talk. I, however, have urgent business with our Master. As your erstwhile headmaster, I congratulate you on finding such an august position so soon out of school. May you keep it well."

He didn't wait for the answer, though he hoped the warning would do something to help preserve the boy, and made his escape up the remainder of the staircase. His feet seemed to take him towards the library of their own accord, even as his mind threatened to take flight. He pulled it back to earth with some effort and took one last breath before knocking on the ornate, ebony door.

"Enter," came the sibilant rasp of a command.

The door caught on something as he pushed it open. He looked down and saw, with an inward jolt, that it was Granger.

She was lying sprawled at his feet where she had obviously fallen, or been thrown. Her skinny arms were akimbo, like the legs of a buckled spider, and her face obscured almost entirely by that mess of dyed hair. The short toga that barely covered her broken body was crusted with dark brownish stains which made her skin beneath seem even more pale and grey, here and there blossomed with purple welts.

He had already resigned himself to it, but something in his stomach clenched at the sight. Her life was worth something, he was sure, though he knew not quite what.

Then he noticed the feeble rise and fall of her chest, barely perceptible. She was not dead, merely dying. It was a difference that could mean the world. He tore his gaze away as his staring did nothing to help.

Aside from Granger, who did not count, he and his Master were alone. The Dark Lord was sitting in an armchair by the fire, looking almost relaxed, indulgent, uncoiled.

Snape stepped over Granger's body and approached with caution.

"My Lord." He bent to kiss the edge of the Dark Lord's robe and took the opportunity of having his face hidden from view to regain his composure.

"Rise."

There was a faint rattling in the hiss of his Master's voice. He noted the small furrow on the Dark Lord's translucent brow, the glittery quality in His red eyes, and the almost imperceptible hardness of the top lip. All of this pointed to a less than ideal mood, and there was no one else in the room the share the blame. It was a poor position to be in. He wondered if he ought to have brought Nott along as diffusion.

Snape put all of this out of his mind, and applied himself to the official business. He reached into the folds of his robes and withdrew the vial.

"My Lord, I bring the elixir," he said, offering it forward with both hands.

The Dark Lord's took it with his delicate, skeletal grip. His cold fingers brushed Snape's own and he stifled a tremor. For a moment, the Dark Lord examined the potion, turning it over in the light. It was red as blood, as viscous as honey and swirled in a sluggish spiral within the bottle. It had been brewed perfectly. All the same, Snape felt his body grow tense. The Dark Lord was mercurial; who knew what standards He expected today.

"Perfect," pronounced the master.

The servant breathed again.

The Dark Lord placed the vial onto the table by the fire, and then fixed His red eyes upon Snape's black ones. The silence which followed him seemed to stretch on forever. To speak or not to speak. Everything was wagered on the answer.

"My Lord, you require another service of me?" Snape's mouth felt dry when at last he did break the silence.

"No need to look so nervous, Severus..." said the Dark Lord, smiling at him in a way that was anything but reassuring.

"I have called you tonight for another small matter... and to give you just reward in return for such excellent service as you have rendered, and for so long."

"A small matter, My Lord?" Snape paid no heed to the honeypot at the end. He paused, considered, and decided to risk it. "I gather it concerns the Undesirable Granger?"

"Astute," hissed the Dark Lord. "It could not have escaped your notice – clever man that you are – that I have had her for an unusually long time. I will admit that this friend of Potter, this base Mudblood, has proven difficult."

Snape swallowed. It was not one of the words that he preferred to hear from the Dark Lord's lips.

"Difficult, My Lord?"

"Difficult, Severus. Very difficult indeed. There is certain information I require from her... Potter's quest for Dumbledore, the secrets they kept..."

This was hardly news. The Dark Lord had been obsessed with the 'quest' since Potter's death. It took Snape several months to realise that he meant something other than the Horcruxes. It did not entirely surprise him; Dumbledore had always been the king of deception, and towards the end Snape had sense something deeper himself, at times. The portrait had not spoken a single word since the final battle.

"I have questioned her, I have taken possession of her mind, and yet her secrets elude me."

Snape frowned at this. Could it mean that the girl had not broken, in all this time? Granger did not have a temperament for Occlumency, even if she had had the chance to learn it whilst on the run.

"Oh no, Severus. She has given me all she knows. She has yielded every inch of herself to me."

"Then... I'm not sure I understand, My Lord."

"It has been expunged."

The Dark Lord pronounced these four words slowly, with deliberate venom. A silence followed in which the chamber seemed to reverberate in the aftershock of the utterance.

Snape's mind began to work. Pieces he had long held, isolated and useless, began to slip into place, and the forms that grew from them raised more questions than he was comfortable with.

"Someone has erased her memories," postulated Snape in a close impression of an even voice.

"Sharp as ever, Severus. Yes, someone has stolen her secrets already. She has no memory even of the culprit. It was... elegantly done."

There was esteem even as the furrow on his brow deepened and his reptilian gaze grew hard with cold fury.

"I will find him and he will feel the wrath of Lord Voldemort. But that is not what concerns me tonight, Severus. No... What concerns me now is the girl. And so I seek your counsel. Tell me, would I be better served to give her death or to hold her for a little longer?"

The Dark Lord leaned back against the chair, his fingers intertwined, and let his gaze fell heavy upon Snape's shoulders.

Snape's mind was tumultuous now. Possibilities churned and foamed under the agitation of such a mass of new information all at once. Old doubts and new questions surfaced and connect briefly, and all the answers for the moment seemed to pivot upon Granger. A vague outline was beginning to sketch itself, and he could see in what direction he must try to steer, though the way was hardly smooth...

"I believe, My Lord, that she should be kept alive," he answered, at last.

"Oh?"

It was impossible to see whether the Dark Lord anticipated this answer, or how he judged the notion. He pressed on blindly.

"There might yet be a way to reverse the damage. It is nearly impossible to remove all traces of a memory. The smallest detail remaining might be enough to breed the whole again. If this...information...is of importance, then hope of its retrieval would die with her."

The Dark Lord regarded his most loyal servant over steepled fingers.

"True. Her secrets are of great value to me. And yet... It is of greater importance still that they remain secret to all but myself. I could not risk their discovery by my enemies..."

"But consider, My Lord, who now remains to oppose you? And who could hope to unlock her mind if you yourself could not?"

It occurred to Snape that this was in contradiction with what he had just said, but the blunder went unnoticed.

"Yet I fear I have kept her too long already. I fear that Theodore Nott already perceives an importance... Who could I hope to trust with her? Not all of my servants are as seasoned or as loyal as you."

And Snape knew the right course. He licked his dry lips and met his Master's gaze square on. He allowed his mind to linger over Granger's scrawny, insentient body, to graze over certain possibilities.

"My Lord, perhaps I might bring up the question of my reward..."

He had pitched the right tone. The Dark Lord's thin lips pulled back in his version of amusement. When he spoke, it was with a perverse indulgence and a little enjoyment, like watching the antics of an old, loyal dog.

"I had forgotten your tastes, Severus. How you must have starved all these years. Yes, I see the similarities now... The colour of the hair, the shape of the face... Though this one is less fine a creature, wouldn't you say?"

"One Mudblood is much the same as another in my experience, My Lord."

This remark earned him a rattle of a laugh. Nothing was more terrible than the Dark Lord's mirth. Except his rage, of course.

"Well said, Severus. Very well said. And yet even beasts may differ in their worth."

Then the Dark Lord took out his wand. Snape's instinct was to flinch, but the tip passed over his shoulder to point at Granger's body.

"She will die today, Severus, in her own manner."

The Elder Wand drew an elegant spiral. Snape watched, unable to look away, as the changes took effect. The red hair turned less lurid, straightened, and became smooth and soft. The limbs grew longer, more willowy, and under the short toga curves filled out...

With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Snape realised what was happening.

"No one must know, Severus. Only you. Remember that. I expect those who have served well to continue doing so."

The bile rose in his throat. But he swallowed it and thanked his master as he should.

The Dark Lord graced him with another hideous smile.

"Go now, Severus. Go and enjoy your reward."

Snape could not remember what grovelling things he had said, nor what bows he made, or even how he had managed to get Granger out without Nott witnessing. Only that he was suddenly at his own doorstep, with the girl floating in the air in front of him, his heart hammering, and his stomach absurdly churning to its own rhythm.

He tried hard not to see her, or at least not to look. It was difficult. He counted off the things he had to do tonight, the innumerable things he would have to do over the next few weeks, the permutations that this new event would bring to his already written and rewritten plans, and exactly how fine the tolerance was between success and dismal failure.

It was like a twisted dream, a nightmare borne out of an imagination that was so much darker than his own. Even his house seemed to mock him. He opened three doors before finding a spare room that actually had a bed in it. It was a four-poster. He laid Granger's insentient body in it as carefully as he could manage, drew the curtains shut at once, and backed out on legs that barely obeyed him.

They carried him unthinkingly down into the bowels of the house, where with fumbling fingers he found a vial of something useful on the crammed shelves. He leaned against the cold basement wall, in the half-dark, with his eyes shut, waiting for the sweet-tasting draught to do its work.

It whispered such truths in his ear. The time for mourning the mistakes of the past was in the past. Wearing his heart on his sleeve like a Gryffindor would add nothing. He had been given a second chance, and a second chance was a debt to be repaid. He would find a way, as he had always done. He could not argue against its wisdom.

Coaxed by the draught's cool fingers, his mind came slowly back to life. He had beaten the odds which had been much against him. Despite everything, Granger was still a pivotal piece. The pivotal piece, and she was in his possession at last.

There would be no more mistakes. Tomorrow he would have make his first move on her. Already, it began to fill out in his mind. He had just the thing.

-o-

Author's Note : For those that were looking forward to seeing Hermione again, ta da! The real HG SS interaction will be in the next chapter, which is both meaty and coming soon(pinky swear).

As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.

-Zhangers