Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I play with them as I like, but alas, they are not mine. Neither these charcaters nor this world in general belongs to me, or anyone not named J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author’s Notes: I want to thank my incredible beta, Pigwig, once more.

As they ascended the stairs, Van Helsing/Lockhart mouthed on and on: promising to have her carriage up and running by noon, could she come back to visit sometime, and my, she was a pretty one. Snape ignored him, of course; by morning, they should be out of here, or at least well on their way. Fortunately, tomorrow was Saturday, so even if this thing ran on real-time, they would have the weekend.

Following ‘the idiot’ (as Snape had now dubbed him), they turned left into a long corridor full of doors and suits of armor. Stopping at the first door, he motioned for Snape and Hermione to stop as well.

“Now, Dracula, I believe this is your room, is it not? The lady shall stay in the next over, while I stay on the other side of her,” ‘the idiot’ said, gesticulating wildly.

Looking pointedly at Snape, Hermione said, “Her flesh is sweet,” before turning to walk to her own room. She looked one last time to see if Snape had gotten the message before closing her door with a soft click.

‘The idiot’ was apparently waiting for Snape to move into his own quarters before he would adjourn to his. So turning sharply, Snape shut his door with a satisfying slam.

Looking around, he was glad to see only one bookshelf in the entire room. The rest of the room consisted of the usual furniture; there was a double bed (‘No coffin?’), two nightstands, a wardrobe, and a single chair in front of the fireplace. Thinking there may be something less extravagent in the wardrobe, he made his way over.

Apparently it was between this high-neck, lace thing he was wearing, or a silk dressing gown, black. ‘Well, that certainly has potential, and it’s black to boot. Maybe I really am this anti-hero,’ he thought while stripping. He hoped he had something on under this, but of course if not, that shouldn’t be a problem either.

Hermione had entered her chambers confident that Snape had understood her message; that was the key, after all. Who knew how long they’d be stuck here if he didn’t understand, or use it.

Looking around for the first time, she saw everything she expected. There was a large bed, opposite a fireplace, draped in pure white linens. It looked fluffy and inviting. Then, of course, two nightstands, a wardrobe, and a chair between the fireplace and the wardrobe. There was also a large window seat, on the sill of the only window. Reaching the wardrobe, she found the only thing inside to be a white dressing gown, made of silk. It was soft and luxuriant.

After quickly changing, discarding her dress in the chair, she made her way to the window, wondering if Snape was changing, too.

Changed, and onto his next mission (getting through that bookshelf, and onto the ‘good stuff’), Snape walked over to the shelves. First he pulled one end, then the other, and finally the top, to no avail. ‘Alright, it seems to be a push,’ he thought. But pushing proved fruitless as well.

While changing, he had already looked everywhere for his wand; not finding it in his clothes, the wardrobe, or the nightstands, he had assumed no magic was allowed. ‘They probably don’t want me hexing ‘the idiot’s’ dangly bits off.’

He remembered some bookshelves in some novels he read moved when a book was pulled, so he started at the top.

With books scattered all around him and the room looking very much like a house-elf’s worst nightmare, Snape concluded that the book avenue was not the right way either.

‘Fine, bloody bookcase, you’re separating my libido from what it wants the most, and consequently, my frustration with you is the only thing keeping my robe from tenting,’ he thought to himself. He would have screamed it out loud if he was absolutely positive Hermione wouldn’t hear him making an arse out of himself.

‘Neither pushing nor pulling worked. There was no secret book to pull. Perhaps one of the books offers a clue?’ But one quick assessment of the books that had fallen open told him that was pointless; they were empty.

Thinking of the entrance to his own chambers through his office, he reminded himself that he opened his own bookshelf (second on the right) with a password (currently ‘appealing apprentice’; maybe he really was becoming a ponce). Perhaps that would work as well?

“Dracula.” Nothing.

“Van Helsing?” Nothing.

Wracking his brain for anything remotely possible, Severus caught upon a few more possibilities.

“Blood.” Nope.

“Vampire.” Not it either.

“Hermione.” It was a long shot, he knew it, especially since he wasn’t sure the book knew her name; ‘the idiot’ just kept calling her m’lady.

Fine, he had one more, said in perfect Transylvanian accent, “I vant to suck your blood…” He definitely didn’t think that would work, but anything was worth a try.

He paced for five more minutes, wondering why Hermione had never mentioned a password to him, or how to get into her room at all, except through the bookcase. He traced their steps from the beginning of the night, lingering a while on their kiss, to right before she had stepped into her own room. She had said something there; at the time he hadn’t known why, but now he was positive it was the password.

“Her something is something…” He tried working it out out loud, hoping that when he got it, the bookshelf would open on its own. ‘I’m a vampire, something is sweet.’

“Her neck is sweet.”

“Her blood is sweet.” ‘Bloody bookshelf has a mind of its own.’ He was getting to the point of wanting to attempt a wandless hexing.

‘Okay, I’m a vampire that is desperate to get in that room to devour that rosy flesh…’ He almost smiled to himself.

Turning fully to the bookshelf now, he clearly enunciated, “Her flesh is sweet,” and watched as the empty shelves slid aside, revealing a rectangular doorway in the wall.

Stepping through, he saw her. His exact opposite in nearly every way. For everything black in his room was white in this one. She sat on the window sill, lightly dozing in her white dressing gown. Her rosy cheeks countered his sallow ones; her beautiful, flowing, curly (if a bit frizzy) hair countered his lank, too dark, stringy (if a bit greasy) hair. As she opened her eyes to gaze upon him in the moonlight, he saw the warmth in her eyes, and hoped his normally cold ones reflected the warmth he now felt.

“You got my hint,” she said, stifling a yawn with the next breath.

“Well, it took me a while. I must say, you may not want to look in there, lest you start lecturing me about house-elf abuse.” She was smiling, and he was pretty sure that if she didn’t stop, he’d be smiling soon, too.