Chapter Seven: Pagan Rede

Thank you for all your amazing comments - they have been the best Valentine Candy! :) I need at this point to thank my precious Muse, who handed me this chapter in one fell swoop and gave me one of the most enjoyable writing experiences of my life. These characters do not belong to me - they are the property of JK Rowling, and I do not make any money from this writing. I am only paid in good karma, which feels pretty darn good from where I'm standing.

In the olden times, the High Priestess would wear seven scarves, which harkened back to the legend of Salome and her dance of the Seven Veils. As she ran through the fields, with the High Priest giving chase as the great Cernunnos, she would allow him to catch her, one scarf at a time.

~Chapter Seven: Chasing the Moon, Catching The Sun...The Witchhiker's Guide to Beltane

~o0o~

"Beltane is the climax of Spring, a celebration of fertility. In ancient times it was the Beltane Rites that reconnected each year the King to the Goddess, the masculine to the feminine.

~ Unknown

The chime rang just after two o'clock, and Minerva looked up from the mountain of scrolls and parchments, grateful for the interruption.

"Come," she barked. She hoped it might be Filius with a new packet of biscuits, come to talk her into an early tea break. Instead, Argus Filch's balding head appeared as the stone steps rose to her study. He stood just inside the entrance, as if unsure of his welcome. Albus had confided that Filch had done this as long as he had known the man.

"Headmistress," he said, with a nod of greeting. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Interrupt away, Argus," she replied, removing her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. "The Board of Governors and the Ministry are pelting me with so many notes today, my study's starting to resemble the owlery."

"All wanting to get in their two Knuts' worth about the Beltane, eh?" He rasped, and made a little gesture of apology. "Well, any road up, I'm sorry to disturb you, Ma'am, but I wanted to know if you'd had a look at the pitch yet."

"What? Oh," she said, with a rueful laugh. "I keep forgetting. How is it going?"

"Well, it's looking a right treat, if you ask me, Professor," Filch replied staunchly, warming to the subject.

"Excellent! Now, if the Ministry will just stop nagging me every five minutes about the logistics of this bloody ritual, I might actually have a chance to participate in it," she declared vehemently, indicating the stacks of letters spilling over her desk.

"Well, begging your pardon, Ma'am, but you can't let these bunch of limp-wristed, big girls' blouses interfere." He nodded contemptuously toward the letters. "I don't remember seeing them down here helpin', even when you were begging for manpower during the restoration."

Minerva softened, touched at Filch's righteous indignation. "You'll get no argument from me, Argus. We who have taken care of Hogwarts will always do our duty to protect it. If they want to complain, they should have been here protecting it with us, instead of waiting until it was all over so they could tell us how to repair the blasted thing."

Filch seemed to find something fascinating on the wall behind her head. "True enough, Ma'am. But do go down and have a look when you've got the chance. It might cheer you up."

"I will, Argus. Hagrid told me about the long hours and hard work you've put in assisting him. Thank you."

He shrugged modestly. "Me old Grandad was a Wizarding farmer. I think he would've been pleased. The largest are nigh on six feet tall now and the rows are fifty yards deep. By Beltane, they'll be almost nine feet high and it'll go twice that deep, I reckon."

"It sounds splendid, Argus. I'll take a break around tea time, and have a look before dinner."

He seemed shyly pleased. "As you like. Will the Professors be rehearsin' down there tonight?" he asked, as an afterthought. "If they are, I'll make sure they've plenty of lamps."

"Professors Granger and Snape will. It'll be their last chance to rehearse their parts before the students return, and the privacy wards go up. Once school's back in session, only authorised personnel will be allowed down there. Oh, and if you see Severus between now and then, tell him to be on the lookout for an owl from the Daily Prophet. They want to interview him and Professor Granger."

"Will do," answered Filch with a nod.

"Argus?"

He paused at the steps and turned back. "Ma'am?"

"I would like you to participate in the ritual as well."

He froze, then blinked several times. "Me, Professor? But, I'm..." he coughed, and shook his head. "You don't suppose that I would be welcome?"

"You are as much a part of this little family of ours as I am. It would mean a great deal to me if you were to join us. It's a lovely ceremony."

Filch drew himself up to his full height. His eyes were suspiciously moist. Formally, he announced, "It will be my privilege, Headmistress." With a proud nod, he turned and left. She could hear his heavy boots clumping down the stairs. There goes another one with a little more spring in his step, she thought, and allowed herself a smile. Argus had been inconsolable at the death of his beloved cat, Mrs. Norris, last summer, and Minerva had spent more than a few hours working on the problem of how to pull him from his slough of despondency.

After the war, Argus had seemed uncertain of Severus' friendship, not to mention his loyalties, and had kept his distance. Time and circumstance had helped mend the rift, and it was gratifying to see them play the occasional game of darts together at the Broomsticks.

She allowed herself another smile for Severus. Before lunch she had asked him to her study to discuss the ritual. Far from the resentful, reluctant wizard who had been dragged kicking and screaming into the High Priest role two months before, he was now clear-eyed and alert. Elegantly sprawled in one of the guest chairs, he had been relaxed, almost enthusiastic...well, as enthusiastic as Severus Snape could be about anything nowadays. Even his voice had regained some of the deep, beguiling cadence of old.

And while he would never be anyone's idea of sweetness and light, it seemed to Minerva that he looked more content than she had seen him in years. He carried himself with quiet confidence, and it was all she could do not to leap up onto her desk and dance a reel.

Minerva eyed the scrolls that littered every square inch of the surface. "Correspondence before dancing," she chirped with feigned alacrity, and reached for the one closest.

"The next time you decide to crawl down my neck, you'll be in for a squashin'," Filch grumbled with a shudder, as Rita changed from her Animagus form. "I could hardly talk to the Headmistress with you climbing all over me. Gave me the willies."

"Hphmm. Next time try getting somewhere near a bar of soap. I've got about three weeks of your grime under my nails," she hissed back.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "But you heard her, didn't you? They'll be there tonight. Meet me in my quarters at ten o'clock..."

Rita drew herself up to full height. "You'd better be right about the time, Filch, or I swear I'll..."

"You'll what? Rumble me? Where will that leave you, Rita?" he glowered at her with narrowed, sharp eyes. "When have I told you wrong, eh? When have I give you inaccurate information? If you call me out, I'll do the same. It's all for one, one for all."

Rita snapped, "Don't play games with me, Filch. Especially not ones I invented."

"Then don't be surprised when the rules change," he bit back. "Now, you just be there at ten o'clock. I'll get you onto the Quidditch pitch. "

"I'm telling you, dearie, you look like a dream. Trust me."

"Oh, shut up, you," she muttered to her mirror. "I still haven't forgiven you for not telling me I had my robe caught in my knickers. It stayed that way for three classes before Pomona yanked it free for me."

The mirror snickered unrepentantly, and Hermione seriously rethought the repercussions of blasting it into seven years' worth of bad luck. Most mirrors were charmed to offer suggestions and support. She truly believed this one had been charmed to deliberately make her look bad. And it was a terrible liar when it got caught.

Finally she settled on checking to make sure she had nothing between her teeth (five minutes of brushing), her hair wasn't going to turn into a giant pygmy puff the moment she left the castle, and her new underwear looked deadly. The bra and knickers were a gorgeous peacock blue, and the saleswitch threw in the matching suspenders and stockings for free. Even so, she took a moment to chide herself for taking so much care with underthings that were not even going to be seen.

Hermione dropped her robes over her head, making sure nothing got caught. A glance at the clock told her she had enough time for one final read-through. She picked up her now decidedly ragged copy of The Witchhiker's Guide, and turned it to Chapter Seven. Sebelius Slunt was not the most eloquent writer, but he did have a coarse, earthy quality to his prose that made for enjoyable and interesting reading. Never had it been so prevalent as in this portion of the ritual:

The Priestess (Hecate) will run, and the High Priest (Oak King) will give chase. One has to ask oneself at this point who is running after whom. There are some experts (Brockhurst, Finsdale and Pertwee: Ancient Rites and Rituals, 1878, for example) who believe that the act of running itself allows Cernunnos and Hecate to enter the physical plane using the bodies of the Priest and Priestess. In any case, it never hurts to cover the basics.

Coven notes: If your High Priest and Priestess fancy one another, don't expect them to come out of that field any time soon, especially if they're in good physical shape. I often advise Covens to bring books and a picnic for this portion of the service. And for Merlin's sake, be patient! You don't want to interrupt the God and Goddess going at it, do you?

This was the final part of the ritual Hermione and Severus would perform exclusively together, and the one she was most nervous about. Closing the book, she tried to visualise what would happen. She and Severus would cast the magic circle, and invite the others inside. The chanting and dancing would begin. Drums would beat a steady, driving rhythm, and while the others danced, they would both disappear from out of the light and safety of the circle. She would run, and Severus would catch her, and then they would...well, that was the twenty-thousand Galleon question, wasn't it? What would they do?

When they had discussed this all those weeks ago, it had been simple. She would leave the circle and run a few yards into the darkness. He would 'catch' her, they would return to the circle, and go through the remainder of the ritual. Afterward they would head back to the castle, have a drink, compare notes and that would be that. But that was before he had knelt before her naked form and kissed her. That was before she had bathed him in an enchanted wood and brought him off. That was before she knew the truth about Lily.

She bit her lip thoughtfully. What was really going on between her and Severus Snape? Hermione knew now she wanted him. And she had a fairly good idea that he fancied her a bit as well. The night they had come to their new, rather enjoyable understanding, she had dared him to catch her. Had he taken her seriously? He was the most maddening wizard...she still didn't know what he was truly thinking most of the time. Sometimes he seemed as transparent as glass, and sometimes the machinations of his brilliant, convoluted brain were beyond her formidable powers of comprehension. He swathed himself in his own set of veils, each one hiding some part of him that he didn't want seen in the harsh light of ridicule. Getting a read on Severus Snape was the toughest thing she'd ever done, and she'd brewed Polyjuice potion at age twelve.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" she moaned into the room. "I might as well put on my granny knickers and my old cotton sports bra and pin my hair into a bun for all the High Priest and Priestess hanky-panky we're going to get up to."

"Don't be idiotic, witch," the mirror chirped. "You're gagging for a shag and if you're talking about that ugly wizard who was in here the other night, he looked even more desperate than you!"

Hermione stuck her tongue out at her own reflection and stalked out of the room, vowing to have a new mirror installed before the end of the week.

As Hermione came within sight of the Quidditch pitch, she froze in shock. Green was everywhere. It stretched as far as she could see...past the tall spectator stands, around the perimeter of the pitch, up to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and down to the backside of the castle. It was dense and tall and inviting, and when Hermione realised that this was where she would be running, she broke out in goosebumps. The entire area had been transformed into a massive cornfield.

As she drew closer she heard voices weaving through the restless leaves, men's voices, like Severus' and...

"Harry? What on earth?" She raced toward her dear friend, who greeted her with open arms.

"Hermione! I was hoping I'd get to see you while I was here!" he exclaimed, enveloping her in a tight hug. He gave her a kiss for good measure. With a mock stern frown, he added, "Now, I've been told by Ginny to give you a good telling off for not coming 'round during Christmas. Consider yourself told."

"Duly noted, and properly chastised. I'm sorry I didn't make it; after 'The Ron Thing'..."

"Yes, well, 'The Ron Thing' is the reason you're not being chastised by Howler," he added. "And I'm not to leave Hogwarts until I get a promise you'll come soon to Grimmauld Place for a visit."

"As soon as Beltane is over, of course I will. But what are you doing here in Scotland? I thought you weren't due to join us for a few weeks yet."

Harry answered, "I dropped by to speak to McGonagall. Since I'm lighting the Balefire at the end of the ceremony, I wanted to make sure I had the proper instructions."

The three of them walked toward the middle, down a long, narrow corridor between one section of stalks and the next. In spite of her best friend talking about Ginny and the boys and work and family, Hermione found her attention wandering. The wind sloughed through the leaves, a rustling, crackling sound, and the smell of new corn was all around them, fresh and musky, a masculine scent that at once soothed and excited her, because it seemed to connect her with the tall, intense wizard walking silently by her side.

It seemed to take ages to reach the centre; as they walked, Harry whistled in admiration. "It's extraordinary, isn't it? I have to admit, the first thing I thought about was the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Talk about déjà vu of the worst kind."

"I know. Me too." Only one other person beside Hermione truly understood how awful that night had been for Harry. The poor boy had innocently run into a maze, hoping to win a shiny cup and a few Galleons, and stumbled out of it bearing the news that the foulest, most fearsome Dark wizard known to mankind had been reborn.

"McGonagall told me she was worried that a lot of people would be reminded of it, so she decided to make it a cornfield instead of another type of maze," Harry replied. They eventually reached the centre of the pitch, a large, brightly-lit clearing where the actual Beltane ritual would take place in its entirety.

Hermione nodded toward the dead centre of the circle, toward a five-foot wide divot rounded out in the dirt. "There's your spot." This was where the large bonfire would be lit when she and Severus returned from the hunt. "This is where we'll dispel those old connotations once and for all."

Harry gave her a fierce hug. "I know we will," he said. "And I'm proud to be part of the ceremony. It's apparently a real honour, like being chosen to light the torch in the Muggle Olympics."

"Quite correct," Severus replied. "Lighting the Beltane fire is the ultimate symbol of light banishing darkness. I think the significance of you being the Firebringer will not be lost on the Wizarding world."

"If I pull it off, that is," Harry said, with a smile. "It's not really something that can be practiced. I only have one chance to get it right on the night."

"I shouldn't worry about it that much, Mr. Potter," Severus replied, his tone laced with irony. "The consequences for banishing the darkness aren't quite as dire now as they were the last time this space was appropriated. I think you could be forgiven if you took a couple of running starts at it."

Harry laughed. "That's true." He gave Hermione's hand a squeeze. "In any case, I saw the Professor as I flew over and stopped by to say hello and wait on you to arrive. And now that you have, I'm leaving." He added with a wink, "Have fun, you two, and I'll see you in a few weeks' time."

"Give Ginny and the kids my love."

"Will do. Now, do I have your promise you'll stop by?" He gave her that sweet, boyish smile that melted the years away. "I won't be able to go home, otherwise."

"You have it. Go home with a clean heart."

Harry shook Severus' hand, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. "Thanks for the advice, Professor." Severus nodded by way of acknowledgement, and he and Hermione watched as Harry mounted his broom and flew from the pitch with the same easy grace that had made him Hogwarts' youngest Seeker seventeen years before.

They waited until he was out of sight before Hermione queried, "Advice?"

Severus busied himself with unpacking his hold-all. "A small matter. Nothing of consequence."

Hermione didn't reply. She knew enough to know that Severus Snape would tell her if he deigned it pertinent. If not, a team of centaurs wouldn't drag it out of him. She contented herself with a final consultation of her notes. "I say we just practice our lines, set the circle, and see how we go."

Severus nodded. "Once we leave it, we must return together for the next step." He smirked. "I trust you're not planning some great display of hide-and-seek skills. I don't relish a broken ankle from stumbling around in the dark."

"Heavens no! Not at all," Hermione replied, too quickly and shrilly to her own ears. "I'll just trot a few meters into the field, let you catch up, tap me on the shoulder, and then we'll come back and do the remaining bit."

"Good," he replied, then turned back to his hold-all. Hermione watched silently as he produced a small box and enlarged it. Within it sat the crown of the Oak King. Like the circlet Severus had worn for her purification ceremony, it was wreathed with beautifully burnished leaves in various shades of green. This one, however, also boasted a rack of stag antlers two feet long.

With great dignity, Severus lifted the crown and placed it upon his head. His dark hair gleamed, reflecting the leaves in his crown. With a whispered spell and some tasty wand-waving that looked neither foolish nor silly, he transformed his regular clothing into a long robe of deepest green. It was trimmed with chocolate-brown fur at the edges of the openings and the cuffs. "This is actually what I'll wear after we return from the hunt, so to speak." He carefully removed it, and folded it into his hold-all. He rose from his task and faced Hermione.

A soft noise escaped her lips before she could stop herself. He was bare-chested: the ropey, wiry frame that she had so carefully bathed looked carved from white marble in the soft lamplight. Intricate blue-black celtic knots were drawn tattoo-like on his biceps; a spiral started at his left nipple and radiated outward, ending at his collarbone. He wore an intricately engraved gold torc around his neck, and a leather-and-fur breechclout at his waist. A wide leather belt encircled his hips, and his feet were clad in tall boots the colour of deer hide. He looked magnificent, and so powerful Hermione felt chills run down her spine. Magic radiated from him in intoxicating waves.

The sound that had come from her lips caused his smirk to curve into a credible semblance of a genuine smile, and with sincere admiration, she finally found her voice enough to reply, "I think you look beautiful, Severus. I'm... Merlin, I'm at a loss." She cursed for acting like a seventh-year with a hard crush. "I'm sorry. But you see..."

"Hermione," he said, his tone almost pitying, "I appreciate your appreciation, but it seems a bit unfair for me to bare all and you to stand there buttoned up like one of Knappogue's Druids. We've both seen one another naked by now." His glittering eyes softened. "I assure you I'm not dreading what I'll see."

Hermione laughed. "Yes. I know. No, I don't. Oh, sod it." She took a steadying breath, and raised her wand. Her robes shimmered, then transformed into seven long multi-coloured scarves, interwoven around her body like a toga. Watching his face was an education in and of itself. His smirk faded, and his eyes first widened, then lowered to half-mast. His lips parted, and his sharp, wicked tongue darted out to moisten them.

Hermione had never felt more exposed. "Does this meet with your approval?" she retorted, unable to keep her smile from growing.

He nodded solemnly.

Severus raised his wand, and in a broad, graceful sweep of his arm, he conjured a golden, glowing circle that encompassed the entire centre of the field. Words poured like honey from his throat as he intoned, "I draw this circle in the names of Cernunnos and Aradia."

Hermione repeated the gesture, and soon a silver band encircled the golden one. Her voice shook a little as she answered him. "Now it is time for the Oak King to take Our Lady and make her his own. No longer will she be the Virgin Huntress and Maiden. She is now to be Hecate, the Queen of Elphame. But first..."

She faced him, and her throat went dry. He took a silent, careful step toward her, his intense, concentrated focus burning her like the sun through a magnifying glass. Her face flushed hot, and a shiver rolled down her spine all at once. Gone was any reverence or self-consciousness; Severus Snape was watching her with pure, pagan lust, and she felt it like a molten knife spearing into her very core. Hoarsely, she finished, "But first he must catch her."

His breathing quickened, and the same dark flame she had first noticed that long ago night in the Great Hall ignited in his eyes. "Are you, Hermione?" he ventured softly, taking a step nearer. "Are you a Maiden?"

Hermione's knees almost buckled at his whispered words, and she gasped, "No. But right now, I wish I was. For you," she added, unable to prevent the longing in her voice.

Severus took yet another step forward, and somewhere deep inside Hermione knew she should move as well, but her feet were glued to the spot as if they'd been spelled there. He seemed to grow taller, broader, stronger, and she quivered with anticipation. Oh, Merlin...

"Run, witch," he growled, and his step brought him within touching distance. His voice was charred with desire, and she could feel his breath against her face. "Run, and if I catch you..."

Hermione turned and sprinted toward the cornfield as fast as her legs would carry her.

She galloped hard, feeling the corn leaves slap against her face as she flew past. As she ran, a sudden, happy feeling welled in her breast, and her insecurity left her. She felt as if she could run for miles. There was something so primitive, so primal, about being wanted enough to be chased by a man she wanted as well, and it filled her with wild, unfettered elation. It bubbled up from her chest until she laughed from the sheer erotic thrill of it.

She ran several more yards and paused, listening for Severus, but she could hear nothing but the rustling leaves.

Suddenly, a hand caught at her arm, and as she leapt away, she felt one of the scarves unceremoniously yanked from her body. She danced away from him with a little squeal of pleasure and surprise, and turned around to see what he would do.

Severus stood still, his chest rising and falling like bellows. He was holding the white scarf, and as Hermione drank in the sight of this pagan beauty of a man, he brought the scarf to his face. His eyes fluttered closed as he inhaled deeply, and when they opened again, they caught hers in a blaze of lust so powerful, it nearly knocked her off her feet. He let the scarf slip from his long fingers, and as it floated to the ground, he laughed, a dark, beautiful sound. "Run, goddess," he purred.

Hermione ran.

She ran like a wild creature, her heart full of joy and pleasure and crazed excitement. Severus was fast and strong and tracked her like a true hunter, giving her legs when he got too close, closing in when she grew too confident.

She flew with wings on her heels, laughing, darting away from his long reach, but he was swift to strike. The purple scarf was caught almost casually, and before it hit the ground they were off, speeding through the night with the thoughtless grace of male and female, hunter and prey, god and goddess.

Breathless, she could hear his laughter as he ran by her side, keeping up, but unwilling to end the game too early. Hermione was fast, but he always outwitted her. Blue, then green, then the yellow scarf was stolen and won, and still they ran, laughing and taunting one another like children.

She heard the thunderous sound of his heavy boots in the next row, slightly in front of her, and it sounded like the hoof beats of a powerful stag. She feinted one direction, then doubled back, screaming with joy as the orange scarf was torn from her body.

She turned back on herself, then changed her bearing once again, trying to prolong the final chase. She was tiring, but this dash through the darkness with a laughing, teasing Cernunnos at her heels was the most thrilling thing she had ever experienced. She spun in a full circle, laughing with the rapturous feel of freedom...

And crashed straight into the arms of the god.