Sparks Fly Upward

A/N: The first scene in this chapter is dedicated to tinibeth, who was the first to recognize something. My profound thanks to Anastasia and Indigofeathers, who generously beta'ed this chapter.

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But who, I ask you, who will be loyal to Hermione? You? The Ministry?"

Something in his tone brought Minerva's eyes to his, and in them she found the answer to his question.

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Feeling himself dismissed for the first time since the defeat of Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore looked out over the Forbidden Forest and found he had nothing to say.

Nothing at all.

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For the first time in twenty-two years, Hermione found herself consciously debating whether or not to go to the library.

She glanced at her window – the crack was back, wider than ever, and, although the room was warm enough from the fire she had augmented with the crackling blue flames she had perfected so long ago, the draft was catching her hair at odd moments, sending shivers along the back of her neck.

Distracting.

Then, too, she had a nearly overwhelming urge to go back to bed. She was not tired – on the contrary; her skin fairly hummed with energy, and her focus seemed sharper than usual – but there was something she'd been dreaming, something dark, and warm, and important. Dangerous, comforting, and...

Home

... and she wanted it back.

Hermione finished her tea and smiled slightly at her reflection in the mirror, as though the reflection remembered the dream, too.

A draft caught the back of her neck, and she shivered again, the skin on her neck, on the back of her arms freshly alive.

Well, no time for this now. Her research awaited her, and the morning was getting on.

Hermione stood straight through the arms of the little ghost, who'd been standing behind her chair, leaning her head on her shoulder.

She knew the teacher couldn't feel her embrace, but when she saw the teacher smile, she couldn't help herself.

The reflection of the tiny ghost replaced Hermione's in the mirror, and the ghost sat in Hermione's chair.

Watching herself very seriously, she started undoing one of her long, silvery plaits.

In the blue light of Hermione's trademark fire, she was exactly the color of moonlight.

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The passage of an hour found Hermione sitting at her customary table in the library, but the usual sound of her quill scratching sharply on parchment was absent.

Hannah hadn't noticed, at first, what was different about the morning, but after hearing no sound from the professor's table for a half an hour, and working up her courage for fifteen minutes more, she peeked around a long bookshelf to make sure the professor was, in fact, still there.

Hermione was sitting just outside of a shaft of sunlight, her quill held ready in her hand, the sunlight warm on the brown feather.

While Hannah watched, Hermione twirled the quill first one way, then the other, stirring dust motes to swirl spiraling upwards in the sunlight.

As unusual as it was for the professor to be unable to concentrate on her work, Hermione was unperturbed. She had spread her parchments and research materials on the table before her, as always, but the dust motes in the sunlight caught her eye as they traveled upward, and her mind followed, and the soaring stone arches overhead sent her thoughts unwinding...

And as her mind stepped aside and her thoughts wandered backward, the interlocking stonework of the library ceiling became a canopy of branches...

... and the branches swayed darkly in a rush of wind, an abyss of shadows backlit by the moonlight arcing through the sky, outlining each individual black needle with a piercing clarity that was almost too sharp to bear...

... and she turned her eyes away from the moonlight to the depths of eyes whence no light ever shone, and at once she was safe, restrained, hidden deep within a pool of midnight silk, held fast, firm in the insistent, brushing cadence of the palest skin...

The twirling of her quill slowed, and stopped, and in the shadow just beyond the reach of the sun, Hermione's lips curled softly as the sparkling dust drifted lazily toward the recesses of the ceiling.

Her smile startled the librarian, who found she had been holding her breath.

Having no idea what it was she was watching, but absolutely certain that she didn't understand it, Hannah eased herself quietly backward, out of the professor's line of sight.

And backed solidly into something that ought not to have been there.

"Madam Abbott," Severus said politely.

Hannah squeaked and turned to see her former Potions master leaning casually against the bookshelf.

His lips twitched in amusement, and she dropped her eyes and stared at his boots. She had caught a glimpse of tight-fitting black riding leathers, and blushed.

"Intriguing morning, isn't it," he drawled.

"P-professor Snape, sir," Hannah stammered, blushing harder.

"Is something amiss, Madam Abbott?"

Hannah's mouth went dry, but she managed to choke out, "No, sir, nothing. Good morning. What are you doing – I mean, is there something I can help you with, sir?"

"Oh, I doubt that, Madam Abbott. I doubt that very much indeed." Severus' eyes gleamed with just enough amusement for her to see.

And Hannah suddenly found that she was urgently required in her office, with the door closed.

Locked, even.

When he heard the tell-tale click, he smirked, but his satisfied look was soon replaced with one of still, patient hunger, and he stood for a long moment in the shadows in contemplation of Hermione's smile.

Soon, her smile deepened, and his muscles tensed, and the pain in his hip shot a bolt of heat into the base of his spine.

Still smiling, she lowered her eyes from the ceiling to return his gaze.

Calmly.

And her damned lock of hair chose that moment to fall, and it fell through the sunlight, scattering the gleaming swirls of dust motes into sparkling spirals that fell softly on her small, smooth hand, holding a feather still against the naked parchment.

And his mouth went dry, tasting of dust and bitter lemon.

"Professor Granger," he said, stepping from between the bookcases.

She looked up at him and nodded, her hair still unfettered, trailing through the light. "Professor Snape," she said quietly.

"May I join you?"

"Of course."

He eased himself into the chair across from her and inhaled sharply as his belt dug into his bruise.

She looked an involuntary question, and he replied, "The legacy of your... offer."

Her eyes deepened. "The stair edge?"

He nodded, easing back carefully.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He leaned his arm across an empty chair, absently rubbing his thumb against a finger.

In the brief silence that followed, she watched that movement.

"And how is your research progressing this morning?" he asked blandly, tracking her eyes.

"Fine."

Severus cocked an eyebrow, and the corner of Hermione's mouth twitched. "No, not fine. I can't seem to get started."

He nodded once, not taking his eyes off her.

Forcing her gaze away from his hand, Hermione looked out across the snowy grounds to the silently swaying green-black firs standing in the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Dark, even in the sunlight. Always dark, except at last or first light, if the sun caught them properly. Darker than the sky, even when there was no moon.

Hermione shook her head, and the errant strand of hair fell across her eyes. She blew it aside, and turned to Severus, sitting quite still before her. Quietly, she asked, "What's the most important thing you've ever done?"

A flicker in his eyes betrayed his surprise at her question. "Important to whom?"

She shrugged. "To the world, I suppose."

It wasn't what she'd wanted to ask, he knew, but he answered regardless. "Killing the Dark Lord's mortal body."

"And since then?" she asked, ruffling the edge of her quill with her fingernail.

Severus shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his leathers crinkling almost silently in the hush of the library.

At the sound, Hermione's fingernail stopped, then started again.

"My work." He spoke almost dismissively, as if the subject was of little import, but his eyes were alert, absorbing every nuance of her movement.

Hermione nodded, apparently absorbed in the way the edge of the feather separated, then rejoined, and she slowed her finger. "Research?"

"Initially. For the last several years, though, the journal."

She glanced up, and her finger paused. "Journal?"

"I edit a research journal," he said, his voice sounding distant in his ears, his eyes still fixed on her fingers, waiting for the motion to start again.

She set the quill down, and he squelched a fleeting disappointment. "You're telling me that the most important thing you've done since Voldemort is the ruthless eradication of the misplaced comma?" Her eyes flashed a challenge.

He looked at her coolly. "I have seen to it that work of the sort that others might find too dangerous has found its audience, Hermione."

"Ah." She paused, but did not pick up her quill. "Which journal? I've not seen your name on any of them."

His snort was over-loud in the deserted library. "Do you honestly imagine that any self-respecting publication would wish to be associated with my name?"

Hermione brushed her hair behind her ear. "A pseudonym. Of course." Her hand stopped, and faint color rose in her face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said again, his voice roughly gentle, and it danced over her skin, and her flush deepened.

At the sight of her blushing, her hand poised, directionless, Severus's mind slipped back to the night before, to the feel of her hand on his collar, on his skin, and his mind filled with her startled breath...

... as her skin flared to life beneath the demanding strength of his hands, her body falling beneath his as he leaned over her, leaned her back, the warmth of her flaming through the impossibly thin nightgown, thin enough to whisper away under the flickering torchlight in the empty stone stair...

... and in the library, Hermione's hand poised, and the faint blush of her skin...

Innocent... tainted... vulnerable...

... and in his dream... Hermione swathed in inky silk beneath the tree-shadowed sky, trapped, willing, desperate, rising, arching at his command, her sharp, wordless cry tearing at his control, driving the trembling darkness deep within him to break in endless, aching thunder...

"So the journal you edit is in Potions, then?" she was saying.

Journal? Snape blinked once, slowly. Ah. Yes. He said nothing.

"I'm afraid I don't follow that field..." Her words trailed off, and the look she shot him was at once trapped and relieved. "Of course," she breathed slowly, her voice scarcely above a whisper, "that's how you're so familiar with my... oh." Her skin grew cold, but her blush deepened.

Severus' hand twitched, but he mastered the urge to reach out to her, to trace the limits of her blushing skin. "Your work might not have seen publication otherwise, Hermione. Did you never wonder what happened to the former editor?"

"I didn't pay much attention; I assumed she had retired."

"So she did, but her retirement was not without certain... incentive."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly, then tightened. "The Ministry?" she asked flatly.

He nodded.

She looked at him skeptically, and he felt her retreat. "Isn't that a bit paranoid? They don't have any control over independent publishing, Severus."

"Don't be naïve, Hermione. There are always means of persuasion; controlling the actions of another is a simple matter – it merely requires the possession of knowledge."

"Knowledge," she repeated, but her mind was racing. "Persuasion"? "Possession"? Which conversation is this? And images of long pale limbs under blanketing silk flooded her thoughts, and she was suddenly conscious of her heartbeat sounding quietly, insistently, in her throat. Unconsciously, her hand fell to her collarbone.

Giving no outward sign that he was aware of her reaction, he continued, "Most people do find the Unspeakables somewhat unnerving."

She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head slightly. Reaching a touch too carefully for her quill, she asked, "So why did you take it on, then?"

He chuckled darkly. "Perhaps they find me unnerving – it is not outside the realm of possibility. No," he began, leaning back slightly, "I don't fear the Unspeakables, Hermione." He shrugged. "In any case, the Ministry prefers to ignore my existence."

Hermione nodded, and her eyes fell to contemplation of her hands. She knew more of that than she wanted to.

Without realizing it, Severus leaned slightly closer. He knew her mind, knew that it would seize the crumbs of the mystery he had laid out before her. Far better the mystery of an unanswered question than dwelling in her own troubled relationship with the Ministry.

And he knew he would see the realization form in her mind before she said a word, so he waited, watching her eyelashes flicker as her logical mind came back to the fore.

"So..." she began.

Here it comes...

"So... so you took the editorship because... because of my work?" She looked up at him through the shaft of falling sunlight.

"Yes," he said smoothly.

Something deep within her core tightened, although in pleasure or fear, she could not tell. "Why?" she demanded quietly. "Because it was dangerous?"

"In part."

Hermione stared at the blank parchment before her as if reading her next question on it, and slowly her quill started to twirl again.

Severus waited patiently.

Still looking at the parchment, Hermione asked, "How did you figure out that I... what I did?"

"I was your teacher for six years. Your theories were never without a practical catalyst."

Her eyes snapped instantly to his. "My work has always pushed the limits of theory, Severus."

Fire, he thought, unbidden.

"Pure theory," she insisted. In her eyes, an unbanked anger; she gripped the quill tightly –

He watched her hands, fascinated –

– and tighter, her knuckles whitening –

– and his lips parted slightly –

– until it snapped.

As he forced a veneer of icy calm into his eyes, a wild thought: We're going to kill each other.

Ignoring the unnatural angle of the feather in her hand, he summoned his most practiced tone – the ironically civil sneer she remembered all too well. In her ears the scathing echo of her childhood: "You've always pushed the limits of theory, yes, but only by leaping from one point of practical application to another, usually years beyond your ability to truly grasp, let alone master." His eyes flicked once to the broken quill, and back to hers, for a moment too long.

For an instant, she was his student; in the next, she saw the nothing she wanted before her, lurking patiently in his unfathomable eyes.

It was hers for the taking. All she had to do was reach –

And he wanted to reach across the table and wrench her hair free of its knot, to draw her body to him through the dusty light.

No. His breathing measured, he resting one hand casually on the table, he continued conversationally, "That was the signature flaw in your work, Hermione – often the only one, but there, nonetheless."

She fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest by focusing on the silky, jagged edges of the broken feather she still held.

Before her thoughts found words, he continued, "Always, that is, until your work on Horcruxes. In the Dark Arts, your thinking has been flawless, from the beginning."

"Flawless"? She blinked. From him? But even as one corner of her mouth was curling in private satisfaction, she realized the public implications of his words, and whatever smile had begun vanished instantly. "So everyone knows, then."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Everyone?"

She gestured impatiently. "You know what I mean."

"Other than the Unspeakables, Minerva, and myself, only Poppy knows, and she only knows a piece of it. You know quite well that few have the wit to understand the true revelation of your research. Or the desire."

The word hung suspended in the swirling dust between them.

"You do," she said.

He nodded, deliberately looking away. Good, Hermione. Now ask me why.

"Why?"

Dark amusement lurked his eyes. "Because it interests me."

"Not just theoretically." It was a statement, not a question.

"No. I assure you, Hermione, I share your flawed insistence on the practical – theory is fascinating, to a point, but ultimately frustrating unless it leads to a real, tangible result. If you cannot touch it, it cannot touch you. And then, I ask you," his voice deepened, "what is the point?"

They regarded each other carefully through the dust, and she did not speak.

"I wished to test my theory, Hermione."

She turned his words over in her mind. "An audience of one, then. You."

"Yes."

"Flattering..." she said.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Which, of course, begs the original question, Severus."

He blinked.

And in her own best classroom tone, she reminded him, "My thinking is important to the world how?" She smiled at him, if anything, too sweetly, and allowed her eyes to glint with self-satisfied amusement.

His eyes boring into her, he unleashed the truth. "Your work defies the world, Hermione – at its foundation, at the darkest level of its assumptions of sweetness and light. A world that betrayed you, that continues to betray you, for your loyalty to its best-kept secret: that allegiance to the light requires a blindness that is, perhaps, the deepest darkness of all."

Hermione examined his words inwardly. "For such is the state of the faithful murderer's soul."

"A subject that interests me." He leaned into the dusty light between them. "Deeply."

Slowly, she raised her eyes to his, and slowly smiled – a smile at once triumphant and despairing. "So much for the world, then. A pity."

"Indeed." And his smile answered hers – wiser, less wistful, but the same smile, nonetheless. "And you, Hermione..." he asked quietly, "what is the most important thing you have done since you murdered the Dark Lord's soul?"

Something in Hermione remembered what she had lost, and, as she searched the eyes of the man before her, his eyes filled with their own emptiness, and she knew he remembered losing the same thing.

Far earlier, and far more publicly, but in the end, they were both sitting in the library.

And the words were out before she could stop them: "I touched you."