Revelations

Summary: Outside, a shadow falls, and in the darkness, light.

A/N: My thanks to Annie Talbot for the conversations that inform the deep structure of this story. As always, thanks to Anastasia, my beta and partner-in-crime, and docmara, my psych!beta, whose words lend clarity to my silences.

And as inward cracks melted back to solid stone, as far underground molten iron flowed into solid shape, re-anchoring the castle to a single, primal certainty, far above, the constant wind touched each pennant gently, a single caress beckoning them, bearing them upwards to wave, bright slashes of colour against the thin winter sky.

-------------------------

To the casual observer, nothing had changed. The castle rose in its usual way against the usual hills, the grounds rolling in their usual way to the shores of the frozen lake. Under the ice, had there been light, the waters would reflect the sky and stones that marked the permanence of Hogwarts in the usual way.

But Harry Potter was anything but a casual observer, and Hogwarts' place in his mind nothing but exact. He knew without looking the exact angles its keep, towers and turrets should form against the curve of the lake and the outlines of hills and sky, knew them as well as he knew the flecks of gold in his wife's eyes, knew which shade of gold invited which kind of kiss, to deepen to amber with burnished desire.

Walking up the lane from Hogsmeade, his attention half on the polite conversation his companion was making, his mind was open and eager for his first glimpse of his first remembered home.

But when his eyes fell on the castle, his breath hitched in his throat.

His companion heard and chuckled. "Take your breath away? It always does mine."

"Quite," Harry said, his tone affable enough, but his eyes were raking the roofline, seeking the source of his discomfiture, and he felt a slow, sinking feeling.

He couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, was causing it, but he knew the feeling well enough. Ginny was not the kind of woman to hide it when her husband disappointed her, and he had devoted the better part of twenty years to avoiding it.

And now it was exactly the same thing, only worse.

His companion's amiable chatter continued, and he tried to shake it off... perhaps his glasses... but no, he'd just charmed this pair last week.... He straightened his shoulders. Wouldn't do for the youngest-ever candidate for Minister to seem dotty.

So, although he couldn't shrug off his sense that the castle was watching him, neither his face nor his tone betrayed that anything was at all amiss. But as they neared the castle, as the chill winter shadow of the outer walls fell across his face, his stomach went cold.

----

Hermione lay held in Severus' arms – strong, safe, and deliberate.

She did not want to move.

Ever.

----

The Sorting Hat crumpled into shapelessness when it hit the floor, and the tiny ghost swooped after it instantly, her face a mirror of its wrinkled form. Before the collected Heads of Hogwarts could do more than register her movement, she had whisked it into her arms, where she held it carefully, her eyes crinkling as it lay unmoving.

"Put it down, child," Dumbledore's voice echoed in the uncertain silence.

Neville's face flickered with confusion, but he did not take his eyes off the little ghost.

Her eyes brightened as she cradled the still Hat in her arms, peering at where she thought its eyes had been.

"You must replace it for its magic to return," Dumbledore continued patiently.

Casting huge eyes to Neville, then to Dumbledore's portrait, she shook her head. Her long silvery hair flowed around her shoulders and fell protectively over the bundle of moldy cloth in her arms.

Minerva's portrait hissed sharply, remembering a ragged cloth blanket wrapped around an equally precious burden from decades before.

"Put it dow-" Albus repeated, but Minerva interrupted, "Leave her be."

From his position far above, Albus could not see his successor's portrait, nor could she see his raised eyebrows.

"Minerva," he countered.

"No, Albus. There was a time when I begged you not to abandon a small burden at a Muggle doorstep. You ignored me then; it was part of your plan. I'll not have you force your choice on her."

"Minerva..." Albus began, completely at a loss. "That was Harry. This is a Hat."

"It's a memory, Albus," Minerva snapped. "And who better to guard one of those than that wee echo of a lass? Let her hold the thing until the governors arrive."

There was a long moment of silence during which Neville had the sense that the portraits would have glared at each other, unblinking, had they but hung differently. He glanced toward the smaller ghost, whose mouth was open slightly as she looked from Dumbledore to Minerva and back.

"I don't understand, Minerva," Albus conceded finally, shaking his head.

Her voice was only slightly softer as she agreed, "No."

----

"So, Minerva, any idea who it's to be, then?" The Board of Governors was filing into the Head's office, and Harry's companion from the lane chuckled as he adjusted his robes and sat.

"I'm afraid not," Minerva replied pleasantly.

The small ghost and Neville withdrew further into the curtained archway that led to the Head's private quarters.

"Larger hands than yours, eh?" The school governor chuckled. "A wizard this time, is it?"

Minerva sniffed and held her hand up in her portrait frame.

"Ah, take your point. Doesn't narrow it down much, does it?" He glanced around the office. "Where did you say it was?"

Minerva's eyes narrowed, but voice remained even. "The ring is in Madam Pomfrey's possession, as is customary."

The Bloody Baron drifted down a few feet. "The Healer does not wish to leave Professor Slughorn unattended. If you will excuse me, I shall relieve her and inform her of your arri-" He was through the floor before he finished speaking.

"Professor Slughorn?" Harry inquired of Minerva's portrait. "Is he ill?"

"Quite, I'm afraid."

"Is it... Is he..." Harry glanced at her, and she nodded, confirming what he left unsaid.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, dropping his eyes and fingering the edge of his robes. "If Madam Pomfrey has no objections, I'll stop in after the meeting, then, to say..." He swallowed. "To say goodbye." He looked at Minerva with the small hope that he had misread her nod.

"That would be good of you, Potter," Minerva said softly.

Harry sighed, and the conversation turned to inconsequential matters whilst they waited for the Healer to bring the ring.

----

"-vernors have arrived, Madam Pomfrey." The Bloody Baron emerged from the wall and hovered at a considerate distance.

He needn't have concerned himself with her temperature; she was bending over the still-bleeding hand of the tall, serious ghost, who, backlit by the deeply angled light from Slughorn's small window, was nearly invisible. She shook her head, still mystified, and the ghost dropped its hand and hovered at the window.

Turning to the Baron, Poppy nodded. "Thank you. I shall attend them directly." A quick flick of her wand and her hands were washed clean. Smoothing her apron, she felt the ring, heavy in her pocket, and nodded.

----

There in the darkness, all he could feel was her skin.

All he could smell was her hair.

And all he could taste was her blood.

He exhaled slowly.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

And the Darkness would speak with Hermione's voice. The corners of his eyes tightened. "Nothing."

But the way she held herself changed. "What?" she asked again.

He did not know what she had done, but he seemed to feel the bones of the castle resonating firmly, deep underground, as she spoke.

"Temptation. Nothing more." Even to himself, in the darkness, his voice sounded hollow.

She tensed. "Temptation? To do what?"

Chuckling darkly, he drew her body more securely against his. "I have no designs on your soul, Hermione."

In the darkness, she smiled sadly. "Then what is it you want?"

His lips a hot trail down her throat, a sweep of hair against her collarbone. "To help you push."

"Push?" She ran her hand under his hair.

"Your temptation is not gone," he murmured, his lips against her skin. "Merely pushed aside." Another movement, another sweep of hair. "For now."

She drew a shuddering breath as his movements drew the blanket down, replacing its warmth with the chill of the air. She reached for his shoulder. "Severus, I don't want to leave."

He closed his eyes. She doesn't mean you, Snape.

Her voice a tight whisper: "I wish I didn't have to."

Then don't. But he said nothing. His motion ceased, and he held himself very still.

"I wish I didn't have to kill him, I mean."

He had expected that, but his heart tightened anyway. It was worst when they used his hope. Then, Damn it, Snape. Focus.

"I have to go."

He opened his eyes slowly, but in the underground chamber, the darkness was complete, and he could not see her.

"Soon, yes," he agreed smoothly, his tone betraying nothing.

"How long will it... will what we did ease the temptation?" she asked.

"Ah," he said, easing himself to his back, not releasing her fingers. "That varies, depending."

"On?" Her voice was tight.

"On how long it has been."

He felt her confusion before she spoke.

"Been... ? Since?"

He turned his head toward her. "For you. Since you last..."

"Since I... oh." Then a muttered, "Damn."

"Hermione?"

"So it depends on frequency of sexual contact, then?" Her voice was brisk.

"Yes," he said cautiously. "Satisfaction breeds temptation, Hermione. There is no breaking the cycle. One may merely interrupt it."

She released his hand, and he heard her fists clench the sheets, felt the blankets sweep aside as she swung her legs off the bed.

"My wand," she muttered, and he heard her moving around the chamber.

"Hermione," he said, in his tone a growing awareness.

"Where's my wand?"

A thump as she bumped into his desk.

"Could you please provide some light?" Her tone was clipped.

"Of course." But as he rose to comply, she made a small noise of discovery, and across the room a light flared.

He sat, leaning back on his hands, and watched her, his eyes alert as he tracked her movements, resting on the curve of her waist, the smooth lines of her shoulders, the fall of her hair on her skin.

He forgot to breathe until he found himself staring at the handle of his wand as she held it before him. "Here," she said, keeping her eyes averted.

Raising his hand to accept it, he glanced down.

The sheets were black, and his hand was red.

He froze.

She glanced at him through her hair, and followed his gaze to his hand.

Blushing furiously, she muttered, "Evanesco," and the blood vanished.

His hand closed around her wrist as his eyes sought hers. "Hermione."

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it," she said, the words coming in a rush.

His grip tightened more than he intended, and she shook her head.

The sweep of her hair across the blackness of her robes released his voice. "If I had known, I would not have been as..." He could not finish the sentence truthfully, and his voice trailed in the shadows.

"As what? You did what you had to." Her voice was calm.

"Indeed," he nodded, but his heart would not stop beating strangely.

They looked at each other briefly then her eyes grew steely. "I don't have much time," she whispered, a hint of her voice echoing hollow in his chamber, and he released her wrist.

Picking up her shoes, she took a step toward the bed but hesitated, returning instead to the desk, using it to support herself. "It's quite all right, Severus. It had to happen sometime." Bending to slip on the second shoe, she paused. "Best not before now, considering what I might have done."

"Indeed," he said again, his face impassive as his eyes reflected the light from her wand.

"I appreciate your willingness to... for this arrangement," she said, her voice betraying a tremor of fear as the enormity of the task that lay before enfolded her in a heavy, wavering fog.

But from across his chamber, his voice curled around her, refusing to admit the distance she was erecting between them. "It suits me."

Her eyes were wide as she looked at him, but slightly glassy, and in one fluid motion he stood, balanced, poised to react should she panic. "We can discuss the details afterwards." His words were neutral, but his voice stayed soft. "Clarity is paramount, for now."

She nodded, turning away to lean on his desk. She forced herself to draw an even breath, then another, forced her eyes to focus, to trace the wood grain of the worn desk and the curling edge of the parchments that rested there.

And her eyes fell on the topmost parchment, covered in childish hand, and she read, I think he likes her.

Her breath caught, and her eyes flew to his face, and she saw it was true. Her hand rose to where he had bitten her, and she dabbed at the wound.

He could not read her expression, so his motions toward her were wary. "Your neck, Hermione. I was perhaps..."

"A bit avid," she finished for him. A hesitation; a shadow of a smile. "I didn't mind."

Her voice was so low he barely heard her, but at her smile, a tendril of warmth licked at the base of his neck. Raising his wand arm slightly, he offered, "Shall I heal it for you?"

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head.

A strand of hair caught in the blood on her neck, and he inhaled sharply, his fingers closing reflexively.

"Leave it," she said, turning to face him fully.

He looked a wordless question at her, and she smiled.

Soft.

Slow.

Ancient.

His breath caught and held in his throat.

"I didn't mind," she said firmly.

In the time before breath, beyond wish, bare beneath the falling blade of "Yes," her lips brushed his, and she reached for the door.

----

A ghost Harry didn't recognize hovered before him in the torchlit corridor.

Unconsciously pushing his glasses higher on his nose, Harry asked, "Excuse me... could you direct me to Professor Slughorn's chambers?"

The ghost regarded him sorrowfully.

Harry swallowed, and nodded. "I know. I... I've come to say goodbye."

The ghost gestured him toward an archway.

"Thank you," Harry said politely.

He was halfway toward the archway before he registered what he had seen. Blood? He turned, but the ghost was gone.

He headed down the passageway the ghost had indicated. He couldn't remember if wounds continued to bleed after death; his home was new, far too new to have any ghosts. I'll ask the Bloody Ba-

A door opened beside him, and, for the first time in two decades, he stood face to face with Hermione Granger.