Chapter 2: Having One's Cake

The entire Potterverse, in all its heartbreak and glory, belongs to the inimitable JKR.

Chapter 2

Hermione glanced one last time at her reflection. Her hair had been tamed into a professional-looking chignon and her navy blue robes gave just the right touch of career-minded witch. Her make up was neat, not at all overdone. Her leather briefcase carried her curriculum vitae and copies of her thesis papers for her projects in Charms and Potions. She presented the perfect picture of a qualified job candidate.

A sudden lurch in her tummy sent her flying once again to the bathroom. She retched for a moment over the toilet, before standing to rinse her mouth and brush her teeth for the third time that morning. Doubtlessly her stomach was empty now, and the nervous fluttering and distressing churning would cease.

For the briefest moment, she stood with her forehead pressed to the mirror over the sink. She had not entered the halls of the Ministry of Magic since she was carried out of it on a stretcher, after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. On that fateful day, Antonin Dolohov cast a curse at her which knocked her unconscious and kept her chained to a bed in the hospital wing at Hogwarts for longer than she cared to remember. Though she never spoke of that time, she still had nightmares about it. Considering the horrible experiences that had troubled Harry, Ron, and Severus, she had never felt that her own physical maladies had been of much significance, in the larger scheme of things.

Moving resolutely back into her bedroom, she picked up her briefcase. She wanted this job; it was a perfect position for her. She could work from home, whether at Hogwarts or Enchanté, designing and conducting her own experiments. All she had to do was show up for an interview at the Ministry. She had been able to stand her own ground in duels with armed Death Eaters – surely she could survive an interview with Percy Weasley?

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione walked out of her bedroom and marched down the stairs.

Quirk, the house-elf, finished with the washing up and began his daily patrol of his domain. He was so proud to be bound to his own family and to his own home; at Enchanté, he was not under the direction of an elf senior to him, as he had been in the house of Madam Seraphina Snape. No, at Enchanté, Quirk was in charge of the entire house and the whole family. He felt the weight of responsibility keenly and wanted nothing so much as to give satisfaction to his new master and mistress and to be worthy of his position.

After making all tidy in his master's bedroom and bathroom, he ventured into the room at the top of the stairs. What he saw there filled his elf soul with terror.

Quirk had, thus far, found his new mistress to be very kind and patient. She had only given Quirk one absolute rule, which he considered to be his Prime Directive: Never, under any circumstances, was he to move Master Snape's personal belongings without permission. Master was particular about his things; Quirk was to leave them exactly as he found them.

Mistress seemed to understand some important things about Quirk and his job. On his very first day at Enchanté, she had given him leave to look all over the house and acquaint himself with the rooms. He had eagerly embraced this suggestion, prowling every nook and cranny, every shelf and cupboard, from the cellar to the attics, and memorizing the location of every piece of furniture and every knick-knack. He knew which rooms needed a thorough dusting, which windows needed washing, and which old drawers and trunks needed to be tidied – he was careful, and observant, and he was a good house-elf!

But something terrible had happened to the room at the top of the stairs.

The old ragged wallpaper, which featured faded red cabbage roses, was gone! The walls, which had been a dingy white, were now butter yellow, and some horrid paper featuring little cavorting woodland creatures mocked him from the far wall. The dilapidated red floor runner he remembered had been replaced with a tidy hooked rug in shades of saffron.

Oh, Quirk was a bad elf!

Firmly grasping the doorframe, Quirk smacked his head against the offending yellow wall.

The sharp pain brought him back to a sense of his immediate obligations. With a frown of concentration, he pictured the room as he had seen it on his first day. When he had every detail firmly fixed in his mind, he snapped his fingers, then peeked with hopeful eyes. Relief flooded his small body. Once again, the walls were a dingy white, with the torn cabbage rose paper on the far wall and the tatty old floor runner beneath his feet.

Quirk staggered out of the room at the top of the stairs, shuddering with delayed reaction as he pictured Master Snape in a rageful snit over the ruination of this room. Leaning against the wall in the hallway, he caught his breath and thanked his good luck that he had thought to inspect the house this morning. What if the changes had been discovered? It did not bear thinking about.

His breathing returned to normal, Quirk continued down the upstairs hallway to the small unused bedrooms and caused the bedroom doors to pop open at his approach. His cry of outrage at the sight of the bedrooms could be heard from the front walk.

Severus strode up the drive from the gates of Hogwarts to the castle entrance, a scowl of concentration on his face. Hermione had seemed quite distracted at breakfast this morning, picking at her food and answering him at random when he spoke to her. Used as he was to being the focus of her attention when in her presence, he was slightly miffed by her behaviour.

A flurry of activity by the castle doors distracted him from his brooding. Several wizards and witches, most of whom he did not recognize, were loitering about the entrance, chatting with one another. Each of the strangers was wearing a name tag, bearing the words, Hello, My Name Is with handwritten names then scrawled on the badges; the inscribed pieces of paper appeared to have adhered to the robes of the persons wearing them.

Offended by the absurd name tags, he realized he had seen them somewhere before. Had not Hermione pointed them out to him at some point? Oh, yes – she had suggested that the ridiculous Muggle name tags be used during the registration process for the 157th Annual Wizarding Education Symposium. Hiring Hermione to assist him in organizing the symposium had been Dumbledore's interfering way of throwing them into each other's company; when they had allowed the Enchantment to have its way with them and rushed into a wedding and a long honeymoon, Dumbledore and McGonagall had been stuck with the job of finishing the plans for the event. Yes, today was indeed 22nd August – how could he have forgotten? The whole bloody castle would be overrun with strangers.

Abruptly changing direction, Severus headed for the courtyard and an alternate entrance to the castle; damned if he would socialize with a bunch of dunderheads if he could avoid it.

Gilderoy Lockhart sat quietly in the sitting room at Enchanté, answering a few pieces of fan mail before beginning his day's work. That young Madam Snape had ushered him into the house on her way out to some sort of appointment in London. She assured him he would be quite alone this morning, save for the house-elf; no one would be the wiser if he stole some time to sign a few photographs for his many fans.

So far, this job was going quite well. The elderly witch who hired him had paid up front, and paid quite generously, to have this small house redecorated in the finest style. She was, no doubt, dazzled by his smile and his blinding personality. The younger witch, however, who seemed vaguely familiar to him, behaved as if she were uncomfortable around him. Perhaps she was also enchanted by his good looks and felt badly about it; as Gilderoy had been informed, the young woman had been married for only a short time. Possibly she was feeling a twinge of guilt over preferring him to her new husband. Yes, that would explain everything.

The mirror hanging over the mantle lured him, as did all mirrors, everywhere, to stand before it and gaze upon the perfection that was Gilderoy. He tried a few different smiles, practiced a number of expressions of modesty, then found his attention drawn by movement on the mantelpiece. Tearing his eyes away from his own arresting countenance, Gilderoy saw a glass jar, filled with leaves and twigs, with a beetle scurrying about within; the bug actually fluttered its wings and bumped against the side of the jar, as if to attract his notice.

Gilderoy stared at the insect with some fascination. It was a curious specimen, with the oddest markings about its eyes. He had never considered it before, but undoubtedly even insects could feel the magnetism of his personality and would be drawn to him. Bestowing a kindly smile upon the bug, he went to gather his things to move to the nursery and see to the polishing of the wainscoting. There was much to be done in this house; if these strange Snapes thought that bottled beetles were appropriate ornaments for their mantelpiece, his work was cut out for him.

Retrieving his work bag, which he charmed each day to match his robes (today he was all in aquamarine), he bounded eagerly up to the nursery. What he saw when he opened the door caused him to stagger back in confusion.

Gone were the cheerful yellow walls, the carefully chosen wallpaper, and the simple, though expensive, hooked rug. Instead, the horrid room was as it had been the first day he had seen it, with tattered wallpaper, dreary walls, and seedy carpeting.

Leaving his bag where it had fallen from his enfeebled fingers, he staggered down the hall to the other two rooms he had already refurbished. With his hastily drawn wand, he popped both doors open, then stood looking from one room to the other, his jaw slack and his mouth hanging open in a most unattractive gawp.

His brain abuzz with perturbation, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor, staring at his well-manicured hands. He remembered distinctly viewing these three rooms and discussing them first with the old lady, then with the lady of the house. He had made notes, which he diligently followed the next afternoon when he returned and magicked the new paint onto the walls, added the wallpaper, and replaced the floor coverings. Using his wand, he Summoned his bag and pulled out his notes, seeing where he had checked off the tasks as completed.

Why was there no evidence of him having made any changes to these rooms?

Gilderoy had spent many years in hospital for not remembering who he was or how to get on in life as an independent person. Once the new techniques had begun to restore some sense of self to him, he had hungered to leave the closed ward and grace society with himself again. He had been told that he had done some dreadful things, by some angry people who had confronted him once he left hospital; he had no memory of doing any of those things, however. He had been shown the books he had written, falsely claiming responsibility for feats actually performed by other people; other than admiring his own photographs on the covers, Gilderoy had never paid the least mind to those books from his former life. Instead, he embraced his new life, quickly finding a place for himself where his natural interests could flourish, in party planning and decorating. He adored his existence, his celebrity, and could not bear to think that anything could interfere with his hedonistic pursuits.

A cold trickle of fear insinuated itself into Gilderoy's mind. What if the hospital people found out he was imagining things? What if his benign gaolers knew that he had distinct memories of doing things that had clearly never been done – like decorating the Snape's nursery? Why, they would probably haul him off to the closed ward again. He would be locked up and would not be allowed to plan parties, or to attend them, with adoring witches fawning over him for his handsome face and his boyish charm. It was unthinkable! He could not permit it to be discovered!

Feeling a bit like a cat on a hot sidewalk, Hermione paced back and forth before the old red telephone box, gathering her courage about her like Harry's invisibility cloak. Lifting her chin determinedly, she stepped into the box, lifted the receiver and dialled six-two-four-four-two. She stated her business, then took the square silver badge from the coin chute and fastened it to her robes. It read, Hermione Snape, Job Interview. The floor of the telephone box then began to descend underground, into the bowels of the Ministry of Magic.

Stepping onto the dark wood floor of the Atrium, she was astounded to see that the Fountain of Magical Brethren, which had been demolished in the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort, was spraying jets of water into the air as if it had never been reduced to rubble. She realized that five years had passed since that horrible day, but it was amazing to her that no sign of physical scars from the epic battle remained; it was as if it had never happened. If only she could forget as easily.

After submitting her wand for inspection at the security desk, Hermione moved to the lifts. She knew that the office she wanted was on level three. The nervous churning had begun once again in her stomach; for some reason, she was acutely aware of being deep under the streets of London, and there was a sensation of a great weight pressing on her, keeping her from taking a good, deep breath. Mentally chastising herself for her cowardice, she stepped into the lift. It was not until the doors slid closed, leaving her trapped in the tiny, moving box, with lavender paper airplane memos flapping about above her head, that the most acute panic assailed her.

Able to breathe only in tiny gasps, with her racing heart thundering in her ears and a fine film of perspiration across her brow, Hermione closed her eyes; in her distress, her only thought was of Severus.

With the most recent O.W.L. results spread on the desk before him, Severus retrieved his sixth- and seventh-year lesson plans from his brief case and struggled to keep his mind on his work. It really never failed to amaze him that so many of the students who could not properly brew the simplest potion in his classroom managed to waltz out of the practical portion of the Potions O.W.L. with marks ranging from improbable A's (acceptable), to impossible E's (exceeds expectations), to impertinent O's (outstanding). He had taught damn few students in his career who were actually fit to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making. One notable exception had been his own Hermione...

Severus allowed himself a few moments of leisure time to dwell upon his bride, calling to mind in particular her enthusiastic response to his lovemaking the night before. How had he ever been so lucky as to win a woman as desirable as Hermione?

Bast leapt onto the desk top, landing neatly in the middle of the O.W.L. scores.

"Get down from there," he commanded sternly. "You know you are not permitted on top of my desk."

Staying on her feet, Bast meowed at him plaintively, the tip of her tail flicking in agitation.

Severus frowned at her; the cat was usually quite well behaved. What the devil was ailing her? As he watched her, perplexed, Bast continued to speak to him woefully, each successive cry seeming more urgent. He reached one hand out to stroke her, to still her furor. She pressed into his touch, but continued to clamour. Oddly, as his hand caressed her sleek black fur, he found his mind to be full of Hermione – her thoughts and her feelings seemed to invade his mind. He stared at Bast, who looked him fearlessly in the eye, her own cries quieting as distressing Hermione-flavoured emotions saturated him.

Severus snatched his hand back from the cat as if he had been burned; the image of an anguished Hermione stayed with him. With jerky steps, he crossed the room, as if to flee the persistent picture in his mind. From the doorway, he looked back at Bast, who stood on the desk top, watching him.

"Is it true? Does she need me?" he said aloud, as if to himself.

Bast had only to meow her affirmation once before he rushed from his rooms, the black robes billowing in his wake.

Struggling to get a calm breath, Hermione clutched at her briefcase and waited for the interminable lift trip between floors to reach an end. Sweet relief flooded her when the lift doors opened on the fourth level; she stumbled out of the horrid lift right into the arms of Nymphadora Tonks.

"Hermione!" Tonks grasped her friend by the arms, gazing with some alarm at her pale, sweaty face. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

"Ladies' Room!" Hermione gasped. With great presence of mind, Tonks took her by the hand and whisked her around a corner and through a door into the nearest bathroom; Hermione hastened into one of the stalls and retched yet again into the toilet.

When Hermione emerged, Tonks had conjured two comfortable chairs in the lounge antechamber; she was holding a damp face flannel, which she used to carefully wipe her friend's face.

"Are you ill?" she asked.

"Just a bit of an anxiety attack, I think," Hermione said in a failing voice, falling into one of the squishy armchairs. "First time I've been back here since the battle in the Department of Mysteries, five years ago."

Tonks, who had also been injured in that battle, nodded in understanding as she settled in the chair across from Hermione. "I was in St. Mungo's for weeks. When I was well enough to come back to work, I would get all shaky every time I had to enter the building." A soft, reminiscent smile lit Tonks's heart-shaped face. "Remus was brilliant, at the time. He had these Muggle books about some kind of stress disorder. He would sit with me over a pint for hours at a time, talking about how natural it was for me to be nervous about coming into the building again."

Hermione took the flannel and pressed the cool cloth against her throat. As Tonks talked, she felt her panic subsiding; her breathing returned to normal, and her heart beat steadied. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the soft chair.

Tonks watched her carefully, prattling on about inconsequential things. "You never did say why you're here," she commented at last.

Hermione made an effort to sit up straight, opening the side zip on her briefcase and removed a small cosmetics bag. "I have an appointment for an interview on level three in ten minutes!" She began to repair the damage to her make up.

"What, the Obliviator Headquarters?" Tonks inquired with interest.

"No, the Office of Experimental Magical Solutions." She frowned for a moment, snapping her cosmetics bag closed and tucking it away. "Isn't your office on level two? Why are you here?"

Tonks shrugged. "I just had a look-in at the Werewolf Support Services." Her eyes crinkled in her engaging smile. "Are we still on for Friday night?"

Hermione smiled. "Absolutely. Our first guests!" She rose quickly. "I'd better hurry. Are there stairs I can take, instead of the lift?"

Tonks tucked Hermione's hand in her arm and led her to the stairs, beginning the trip up with her. "One floor up, then turn right. Will you be okay alone?"

Hermione gave Tonks a one-armed hug. "I'm fine. Thank you, 'Dora. You saved my life!"

Tonks made a moue and rolled her eyes. "Good luck! I'll see you Friday!" Then she turned and continued up to the next level.

Straightening her back, Hermione turned right and walked down to the door proclaiming Office of Experimental Magical Solutions. Stepping into the office, she found a harassed-looking young man with fiery red hair labouring over a pile of parchments. He looked up at her entrance, and Hermione had no difficulty recognizing Percy Weasley.

Percy, the third Weasley son, had risen quickly in the Ministry at the beginning of his career, by aping the opinions of his immediate superiors. This tactic had worked well for him, until he broke with his family and openly declared that Voldemort had not returned, and that Harry Potter was a lying, attention-seeking head case. When this declaration turned out to be wrong, he began to be shunted from one office within the Ministry to another, never rising and never staying in any position for very long. It was discovered that Percy was an excellent workhorse, but that his people skills left a bit to be desired.

Hermione had felt quite a bit of sympathy for Percy while he was still a student at Hogwarts; his desire to be at the top of his class and to follow the rules were goals with which she could identify. It was not until he left school and displayed his inglorious arse to one and all that she began to dislike him. Even though he had reconciled with his mother and was on speaking terms with his father, his siblings continued to treat him with distrust and disdain. She found herself stiffening as Percy stepped forward with his hand outstretched, saying, "Hermione!"

The imperious lift of her eyebrows would have made any Snape proud. "Mr. Weasley," she answered him, nodding her head and ignoring his hand.

Percy stood doubtfully surveying the haughty young woman before him – she reminded him of someone, he just couldn't put his finger on who it was. He couldn't see why she had to be so unfriendly, but he had best treat her respectfully; the office Head wanted this witch for the research staff, and there would be hell to pay if Percy made any mistakes in this recruitment.

"The Head is right through here," he told her, stepping to the open doorway behind his desk. Hermione could see a larger desk against the wall in this second room but there did not appear to be anyone sitting there.

Percy rapped on the doorframe, saying, "Madam Snape is here."

There was a soft exclamation, then a very smartly dressed young woman came into view. Hermione stared for a moment at the other girl, whose long curls fell neatly about her shoulders, before saying, "Penelope Clearwater?"

The Head of the Office of Experimental Magical Solutions came forward with a friendly smile, her hand outstretched. "I wondered if you would remember me! Yes, Healer Clearwater now, actually. Please, come in and sit down."

Hermione advanced into the room and sat down in an armchair, thankful to be off her feet, which were still feeling somewhat unsteady. Healer Clearwater turned to Percy. "That will be all, Percy. You may go to lunch, now."

Turning from him in a gesture of dismissal, the Head returned to her desk. Neither woman spared another glance for Percy Weasley, though the quiet closing of the outer door alerted them to his departure.

Hermione tilted her head fractionally in the direction of Percy's desk. "Didn't you and he ..."

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Yes, at school. And can you believe that he dropped me when he went to work at the Ministry? I was taken on as an Apprentice at St. Mungo's, and I thought that we would carry on with our plans to be married – then he decided it was 'not a smart move at this time in my career, Penny' – what a prat!" Her quick smile was infectious, and Hermione found herself smiling back. "And now I'm his boss. It's perfect, really."

Hermione remembered that she was there for a job interview, and she reached for her briefcase. "I've brought my CV, Healer Clearwater, as I thought you might need it..."

Penelope interrupted her. "Please, Hermione, call me Penny! We don't stand on ceremony in my department. And put your CV away. I know you, I know your reputation, and I've read your course thesis. This is very impressive work."

Penny opened the leather folder on her desk and removed Hermione's paper. "Would you be interested in continuing this line of research? We are still trying to find proper remedies and treatments for the Cruciatus Curse and other types of spellwork that affect the body systems in similar ways."

Hermione sat forward. "Yes. I think we need to pursue the theory of nerve regeneration, taking the starfish as an example, and attempt to duplicate the process by the use of a potion."

Penny pursed her lips. "But didn't Professor Fleagle in Romania run a series of experiments attempting to duplicate that phenomenon, back in the 1980's?"

"Yes! But Fleagle used diced black hellebore, which made his subjects violently ill. If one uses an infusion, the purgative effects are retained in much milder form."

The two young women were promptly immersed in a conversation ranging far and wide over the possible efficacy of potions in various applications. They were thus involved when the outer office door opened violently, hitting the wall with a thud.

Severus erupted into the Office of Experimental Magical Solutions with his heart in his throat. Even running to the Apparition point in Hogsmeade and from the Apparition point at the Ministry, it had taken him too damn long to find Hermione.

Seeing her sitting hale and whole in the office sent a wave of relief through him that caused him to sag momentarily against the door frame. The look on her face, when she turned and saw him there, was worth more to him than a dozen pay rises.

"Professor Snape!" Penny exclaimed. "How nice to see you. Please, join us."

Severus tore his gaze from Hermione's radiant eyes and advanced into the inner office with some measure of decorum. "Miss Clearwater, good morning. I trust I don't intrude? Hermione had asked me to meet her for lunch."

Hermione bit her lip and saw Penny struggling to keep a straight face; apparently no one was going to comment on him throwing the door open as if he expected to find his wife being held hostage by renegade research staffers.

"Of course you don't intrude, Professor. Hermione and I have been talking shop, and we lost track of the time."

Severus stopped behind Hermione's chair and placed his large, warm hands on her shoulders. As soon as he touched her, an influx of peace stole through her; she felt an immeasurable satisfaction in knowing that the current ran both ways, soothing his emotions as it soothed hers. The exigencies of the morning had left her unnaturally vulnerable; though she was sitting in a job interview, she felt an instinctual desire to escape into him. Her focus was slipping; it was time to bring the interview to a close.

Standing, Hermione held her hand out to Penny, who clasped Hermione's hand between both of her own. "I've wanted you for this job ever since I found out you were both qualified and available," Penny told her. "From my point of view, all that remains is for me to inspect your premises, so that I can requisition the equipment you'll need to begin working. Is there a time that would be convenient for me to visit?"

Hermione smiled excitedly. "We're having friends over for dinner on Friday night, Penny. We'd love for you to join us – we can tour the lab before dinner. Do you have a – friend – you'd like to invite?"

Penny gave her a conspiratorial smile. "Oh, I'm between 'friends' right now. If you have no objection, I'll bring Percy. He can use a little extra detention."

With an agreement to meet at Enchanté on Friday evening, the young women parted company, and Severus led his wife out of the office. Looking about him for the nearest alcove, he moved her down an unused hallway. After casting a Concealing Charm to divert inquiring eyes, he pulled her safely into his arms.

"What happened?" he murmured into her hair.

Hermione clung to the folds of his robes. "It's the first time I've been back here since Dolohov cursed me in the Department of Mysteries," she admitted to the buttons of his coat.

Tipping her face up to search her eyes, he demanded, "Why did you never mention that, Pet? I could have come with you."

Her lips trembled a tiny bit. "I thought I'd be all right. It seemed silly to be afraid of something so stupid. It's only feelings, after all – not real danger."

His face darkened. "Never say that feelings cannot cause fear, Hermione. We both know it isn't true." He held her against him again, revelling in the soothing effect their presence had, each on the other.

"How did you know?" she asked.

His lips twitched. "A little Bast told me."

"What?" she asked, with a little choke of laughter.

"Bast came to me as if somehow, she knew. When I touched her, I could feel your panic and your fear. I came as quickly as I could."

"Oh, Severus."

The catch in her voice betrayed the emotion she was trying so hard to suppress. Hearing the longing and the need and knowing that it mirrored his own, he kissed her, uncaring that they were two well-known adult people snogging in the hallways of the Ministry of Magic.

"Let's go home," he growled into her ear, nipping her earlobe with his teeth.

Even in her befuddled state, Hermione remembered that Gilderoy Lockhart was at her home. "No – can't we – isn't there..."

...which is how Hermione found herself half dressed and fully engaged in amorous intrigue with her own husband in a London hotel room.

"Don't you think you could at least try to look as if you're old enough to be married to me?" he chided, kicking the door closed and tossing his robes in the general direction of a chair. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, moving his body against hers as if in a dance.

Hermione cast him a sidelong look from beneath half-lidded eyes, an expression guaranteed to drive him mad. "But don't you enjoy it when the porter gives you those envious looks and wonders what you do or say to lure young women to your bed?" she purred, slipping the robes over her head and letting them drop, unheeded, to the floor.

Severus advanced on her menacingly. She retreated, making a fetching picture in her matched bra, knickers, and suspenders hooked to sheer stockings. "All this finery for a job interview?" he taunted, trapping her with the high hotel bed abutting the backs of her thighs.

Hermione tilted her face up to his, letting him see the smouldering in her eyes and her kiss-bruised lips, tender from being violently snogged against the wall in the Ministry of Magic. Holding his gaze, she began to unbutton his fly.

"No, all this finery was actually for your pudding after dinner tonight. If you eat it all up now, whatever will you have for afters?"

"No toying with me, Madam Wife," he said, and unceremoniously tipped her onto the bed, taking matters in hand as he shifted the thoroughly damp knickers to one side and prepared to enter her. "This is what you call having one's cake and eating it too."

An hour later, her eyes fluttered open to see Severus looking down at her, his cheek propped on one hand.

"What?" she asked him softly, gazing at the crease between his brows.

"I thought you were in danger – I was afraid you had been taken from me."

She reached to smooth the creased skin and allowed her fingertips to lightly trail down the hooked nose to the thin lips, held now as if he were in pain.

"Nothing will take me away from you," she murmured.

"You're mine." The voice held a note of finality, as he gently turned her, spooning up behind her, one long fingered hand snaking around her body and between her legs.

"Yours," she agreed languorously, wriggling her bottom invitingly against him.

"You belong to me," he informed her, entering her from behind, the last word a groan.

"Yes," she responded, as he began to rock her, his free hand deserting the juncture of her thighs to roam her breasts.

"Only mine..."

"Only..." she breathed.

"Always mine ..."

She could only agree, enthusiastically and repeatedly.

Reaching under the bed, Hermione retrieved the missing stocking and sat down to put it on. On the other pillow, Severus drowsed, the shoulder length black hair in total disarray, the white sheet only half covering him, leaving a line from his right shoulder to the top of his right foot bare to her eyes. With determination, she turned her eyes from him, though she wanted nothing more than to plant a trail of kisses from the arch of that foot to his jutting hipbone...

"Severus."

He stirred and reached for the sheet.

"Severus." More loudly, this time.

One eye opened. "It's called sleeping, Pet. Come sleep."

"It's three o'clock, Severus. Don't you have to speak at the Symposium dinner?"

This time the sheet went over his head with muttered words.

She stood and picked up her robes. "No, I'm not coming over there. You'll never get up, if I do."

She pulled the navy blue robes over her head and stepped into her shoes. When she turned to look back at him, he was propped up on his elbows, watching her.

"Dumbledore can stand in for me at the dinner, Pet. I don't want to leave you alone when you're upset." He scowled at her.

She gave him a soft smile from a safe distance across the hotel room. "I'm fine now. I'd forgotten about it, actually. You gave me something else to think about."

One eyebrow arched. "Come back to bed and I'll do it again."

She put her hands on her hips. "Thinking pretty highly of yourself this afternoon, aren't you?"

A dark chuckle greeted her words. "Well, I've had my cake..."

With a gurgle of laughter, she backed toward the door. "And now you're going to... Severus Snape, you are incorrigible! You've got to get back to Hogwarts. I'll see you tonight."

She had to admit that his command of Apparition was impressive. Before she could open the door, he pinned her to it with a sultry kiss.

"Last chance, my little cake," he murmured in a provocative baritone.

She gave his shoulder a tiny shove, slipping to the side and getting the door open. He responded with an amused sneer, folding his arms across his chest and standing naked in front of the partially opened door.

"You're dangerous," she said, slipping into the corridor.

"That's the nicest thing you've said today," came the wicked reply, before the door closed between them.

Hermione Apparated to the bottom of the drive at Enchanté, amidst the carefully cultivated box hedges provided for that purpose. With a dreamy smile on her lips, she began to wander up to the house, replaying the stolen hours in the hotel room as she walked. Before she had taken five steps, she heard what sounded like the cry of a house-elf; her eyes flew to the facade of the house, and she was horrified to see flashes of light, gold and red and purple and blue, illuminating the upstairs windows. Pulling her wand, she raced through the front door and into the foyer.

"Quirk!" she called, looking right and left for the elf, but she did not see him. Dropping her briefcase on the foyer table she stopped and listened; she could hear voices, one human and one elf, one uttering threats, the other speaking incantations. The elf was Quirk – was that Lockhart shouting spells aloud?

Swiftly climbing up, she turned into the room at the top of the stairs and found herself viewing the field of battle. Quirk stood before the door in an aggressive attitude, his hands raised to cast his wandless magic. Lockhart was backed up against the far wall, having just cast a charm which turned the walls of the room a lovely shade of yellow. Before Hermione had time to admire the paint job, Quirk snapped his fingers, and with a flash of silver light, the walls were a dingy white once again.

"Quirk!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing?"

Quirk jumped as if he had been shocked and turned to face Hermione with a fierce look of determination.

"This bad man is changing Master's house!" Quirk said hotly, throwing Lockhart a look of abject loathing. "But Quirk is not letting him, Mistress! Quirk is fixing Master's house back just the way it was!"

Hermione dropped to her knees, on eye level with the indignant house-elf, and spoke to him very kindly. "Oh, Quirk – I am so very, very sorry."

Quirk frowned a bit, taking a step away from Hermione.

"What is Mistress saying?" he asked fearfully, as if the solid ground beneath his little elf feet was turning to quicksand.

"I asked Mr. Lockhart to change some things in the house, Quirk. Things like the colour of the walls, the wallpaper, the carpets – even some of the furniture. But he is not going to touch Master's personal belongings, such as his papers and his books. Those things, along with Master's clothes and his wand, are the things you are not to move, Quirk. But Mr. Lockhart is only doing what I asked him to do."

To Hermione's consternation, the little house-elf seemed to sag in upon himself and he burst into tears. "Quirk is a bad elf! Oh, Quirk is so bad!" Before she could stop him, Quirk ran head-long into the doorframe, neatly knocking himself out.

"No, Quirk!" she cried, but he was already unconscious on the floor.

"I'll move him," Gilderoy said solicitously, moving forward with wand-arm outstretched.

"NO!" Hermione was on her feet and between Gilderoy and the fallen house-elf before he could advance three steps.

"I – I'll take care of him Mr. Lockhart, thank you. Please continue with your work," she said as politely as she could, levitating the elf and moving him ahead of her out of the room and down the stairs. The last thing she needed was for Lockhart to be disappearing all the bones in little Quirk's body, or some other "helpful" act.

After tucking Quirk into his small bed in the room adjacent to the kitchen, she made her way back upstairs again. Lockhart was not in the room at the top of the stairs now, but she could see the changes he had made. She stepped onto the hooked rug and gazed at the cheerful yellow walls and the delightful wallpaper with the frolicking woodland creatures. To her left was a cot, varnished white and decorated with stencilled animals that matched the wallpaper. To her right was a rocking chair, softened with cushions in shades of cream and gold. Next to the chair was a small bookcase, before which Hermione knelt with a wondering, "Oh!" On the shelves of the bookcase resided beautiful new copies of every one of her favourite books from her own childhood library.

What a lovely nursery awaited her unborn children here at Enchanté.

With a loving pat on the bookcase, she closed the door on the room at the top of the stairs and went down the hall to see what Lockhart had wrought in the other bedrooms.