The Ties That Bind

Severus did not bother to carry Hermione out of the castle. He had only done so on the way because he did not want her to find help elsewhere. Now that he had the ridiculous book, she had little choice about returning with him. She would think it was some form of punishment – and she would be partly right – but he was much more concerned with his magical signature being found in her chamber, not to mention the possibility of being seen leaving her room.

At the moment, she was phalumping through snowdrifts behind him, likely in a huff. She'd spent the better part of her life that way, and he could not blame her for it. The world was full of irritations. The more intelligent and aware one was, the more obvious and insulting other people's willful ignorance became. From the first day at Hogwarts through to the end, she had aggravated him. Only now did he understand why. They were far too much alike for his comfort.

She bounded past him, having at last figured out the mechanics of being a cat. She cleared the stairs in a flying leap and landed softly by his door. It had taken her very little time to find her feet.

He shook the snow off his coat and onto hers. She shook her head and then the rest of her body, returning at least some of the flakes to him. He shooed her inside, hung his coat on a peg by the door, and gave himself over to making sense of an entirely nonsensical philosophy of magic.

Nine hours later, his head was pounding, and he would rather have gouged out his own eyes than re-read the convoluted arguments between the author's first and second personalities. Severus had identified a third and strongly suspected a fourth lurked around. He had no intention of digging deep enough to find it. He stood and stretched.

Hermione looked up at him.

"No solutions to be found tonight. Even I need to sleep." He left her staring at the banked fire.

He awoke with her curled at the foot of the bed. He had no reason, nor yet proof, that she had ventured from that corner of the mattress, but the thought persisted as he dressed and returned to the chore of creating a proper spell to free Hermione from her furry confines. First, he would feed her the second tin of kippers and perhaps remember to eat something himself.

Severus talked to himself as he wrote the spell, a comforting habit he'd held in check during his long career as a spy. At least he did not contradict himself the way the source material did. He had drawn diagrams and charts in an attempt to make sense of the "instructions" Hermione had followed. Or, rather, not followed exactly. Her ability to self-transform with only half a spell showed remarkable talent and strength. Perhaps one day he would tell her so, but he doubted it. He would most certainly admonish her to read all the text in the future. Important things could hide in poetry.

At last, he called her to him. She glanced at the windows in the library, turned around, and walked into his bedroom. No amount of cajoling could get her to return to the larger space, which told him she thought the spell would not work properly there. He did not know her reasons, but as she had done at least half of it before, and he had not, he placed a small table near the door and loaded it with the necessary components.

He sprinkled her liberally with rose water, mostly because he knew it would irritate her, but also because he was about to transform her into a witch who had not bathed in days. She reacted by shaking off the liquid, spraying drops across his walls and coverlet. It was entirely like a cat. He moved quickly through the physical steps, even though he believed them to be for show alone. Hermione watched him with a faith that was almost palpable.

"Vincula Irritum!" A disturbing spray of color shot from his wand and landed like embers in Hermione's fur. She did not seem bothered by them, but neither was she changed. He should have known the spell to break a forced bond was too simple. She had, after all, chosen to bind herself in the shape of a cat. Either that, or the spell had been negated by the enchantment he had worked into the collar.

He turned back to the table and flipped through the pertinent (if any of the drivel could be so called) pages. "Perhaps some version of Fiat Tibi."

"Perhaps you should have more confidence in your own abilities," Hermione said.

"Then I should be entirely unbearable, rather than obnoxiously competent, and foolish young women would not dare to presume upon good graces I'm widely believed to lack." He closed the book and turned to face her.

His focus narrowed to a place just over her shoulder, a safe place where she did not stand dressed only in the worn shirt he had cast off earlier. The only other choice would be to turn away, which might indicate that his reaction to her was that of a man to a woman rather than a cantankerous teacher to a young witch who was, quite obviously, no longer a child.

"Would you be so kind?" she asked, as if he should know what sort of kindness to show her.

"I thought I had been," he replied gruffly.

She sighed, then did it again. "I missed the ability to do that," she said. "For years, a deep sigh was the only thing that kept me from strangling the people around me."

He did not tell her that actually strangling them would not have been at all satisfying. In fact, he said nothing at all, merely kept staring at the wall without seeming to. He had become very good at not seeing things he wished to avoid remembering.

"I hate to ask one more favor of you, but would you mind terribly transforming this shirt into something else?"

"Such as?"

"Such as anything that won't cause a scandal when I leave your private quarters wearing it." She kept her voice neutral but he sensed her amusement.

"You are perfectly capable of taking care of it yourself."

"That may be true, but as the last spell I cast on myself did not work out well, and I'm having a hard enough time standing on two legs at the moment, I would really, really appreciate it if you would do the honors. Also, you may have noticed that I have no wand."

He finally looked at her. A flick of his wand and the thin shirt became a rather sturdy dress that covered her from neck to ankles. He was fairly sure his grandmother had worn something similar.

She gave a shaky laugh. "How good of you to make sure I am completely shrouded." She took one step, then pitched forward.

He caught her before she hit the floor and without thinking scooped her up as though she was a cat. A much larger cat, but still manageable. He laid her on the bed.

"I believe I have almost reached my limit of endurable humiliation," she said.

"I doubt that," he answered automatically.

"Do you hate me?" There was nothing pathetic in the question, merely curiosity.

He did not reply immediately. She would not trust a quick answer. "My feelings about you have varied, but I have never hated you."

"Are you still determined to make me suffer for this?" She waved her hand in a vague gesture that was meant to encompass her entire misadventure but instead highlighted the fact that she was stretched out in the middle of his bed. The severity of her gown made her not one whit less appealing.

"Whether you suffer or not will be up to you, but yes, I expect you to keep your part of the bargain."

"The negotiation was a bit one-sided," she complained.

"I was not the one in need of assistance," he countered.

"True." She took a calming breath. "Will it be terrible?"

"Most likely," he replied honestly. "But it will wait until you are done with your studies and I with teaching."

She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "I can accept that."

"You already have." He gave her his hand and helped her to stand.

She grew steadier with each step. "Will you tell Professor McGonagall about this?"

"Did you wish me to?"

Her eyes held the same panic she'd exhibited when faced with the cage. "No!"

"Then it shall remain between us." He let go of her hand but walked beside her to the door. "And I will keep that inane book to ensure it does not fall into the hands of another foolish student."

"I knew I made the right choice, coming to you."

He let the familiar mask of cold indifference settle into place and said nothing.

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, for everything."

"Get out." He turned away. A whisper of wool over ancient wood floors and the door closed behind her, the latch catching with a dull clunk.

He spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to eradicate the smell of roses from his bedroom. In five years, or ten, she would come to discuss his terms. If she still intrigued him, he would devise a different lesson. If she did not, or if she failed to return to him, he would release her. In the meantime, she would cease to exist for him.

After she returned his coat.

*************

Hermione crawled into her bed, the scent of roses clinging to her hair and skin despite a long bath. She lay her head on a pillow wrapped in soft, black wool and smiled. He would be furious over the theft, though she would protest that she had only borrowed it to keep her warm on the way back to the castle. She would bring it to him in the morning, but she would sleep on it tonight.

Her fingers traced the edge of her jaw, just as he had when she was a cat, then down along her neck – where she found a delicate collar of silver links. When she could not locate the latch by touch, she went to her mirror. No closure revealed itself. Neither was it affected by any release spell she knew.

"He collared me," she hissed. For a moment, the mirror showed the specter of a cat.

She slipped on her soft boots and grabbed his coat. When she jammed her hands in the pockets, she discovered a neatly folded piece of paper in the left one. Her stomach turned at the sight of his measured script.

Dear Fluff,

By now you will have discovered my gift to you. I strongly suggest you leave it in place. Removing it will restore your feline form, and I am not certain I could devise another in time to keep you from losing yourself. You were fortunate I had on hand the necessary elements for this one.

I shall continue to research your problem, though I expect this particular challenge to take years. I encourage you to contemplate what I might find valuable enough to trade for a permanent remedy. Negotiation is far more enjoyable when both parties have something to offer.

She clenched the paper in her fist, then smoothed it out again to read his final words.

Do feel free to ask Professor McGonagall for assistance. I am certain she will have many opinions on the matter. I would be pleased to discuss it with her, should you desire.

In the meantime, wear it well, learn many things, and try your best to avoid French booksellers.

Your once and future master,

S

Hermione picked up her wand, removed every crease from the letter, folded it neatly, and popped it in her bag.

She took off his coat, laid it on the bed, and transformed it into a lovely purple cloak, just her size. He had, after all, told her to keep and wear his gift. If he had wished to have his property back, he should have been more specific. She picked up the two dozen buttons that had clattered to the floor. Those, she would return.

She got back into bed, extinguished the candles, and began to catalog the many ways she could repay the 'kindness' of Severus Snape.