Part Three

Disclaimer: I'm not and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

Reviews: I would love it if you would read and review! Each one I savor like chocolate cake!

A/N: And now here is my continued attempt to authentically replicate one of the best, multi-dimensional characters ever created in my own nefarious storyline!! Big love goes out to my beta, SnarkyRoxy – without her, this would be utterly out of canon, among other horrible things. She is truly the cat's pajamas!

Chapter Three

It was rather unsettling how easy it was to fall into somewhat friendly banter with Malfoy. It had started out awkwardly of course, the young wizard across from her choking several times on the now forbidden derogatory term for her bloodline. After the first few moves across the chessboard, he had tried to engage her in a discussion about the recent happenings with Quidditch. She changed the topic, not wanting to talk about anything that would painfully remind her of Ron, and Harry, and her current situation.

She mentioned the N.E.W.T.s; it would be refreshing to discuss magical theory and practice with someone of moderate intelligence. After all, she and Malfoy had been neck and neck as the most intelligent of their peers since first year. But he had plaintively ignored this dialogue, and she realized with sudden pity that he would never see Hogwarts again, let alone finish his N.E.W.T.s and study as an apprentice under a master of his chosen field. These were her dreams, and she was achingly aware that she might not make it out to see them into fruition either.

Hermione dared not to mention his Dark Mark and the self-inflicted wounds, even as she burned with curiosity. It was something completely unexpected and changed what she had always known and expected of him into something unfamiliar. He was foreign to her, and it made her more wary and guarded than she would have felt if he had been holding his wand, spitting the word Mudblood in her face again.

They had finally settled on discussing art of all things, the conversation shifting from Hermione describing the Tate and National Galleries of London to Malfoy illustrating his knowledge of the galleries of Paris, Prague and New York. She felt a pang of jealousy that he had been so well-traveled during his holidays in all of those summers away from Hogwarts. But the feeling was forgotten with the realization that he had actually spent time, voluntarily no less, in a place Muggles visited and adored. And he seemed to be enamored with it, relishing the memories with an enthusiasm that matched hers towards Arithmancy.

She realized with a start that she didn't really know this boy sitting across from her. No, no more a boy than she was still just a girl. Malfoy was a young man now, the once soft lines of childhood hardened from age and war; he resembled his father more than ever, his beauty nearly angelic, but not quite covering the cold callousness underneath. Lucius Malfoy scared her more than most, and she found if she overlooked the unkempt platinum hair and the out-of-place Muggle clothes, she was playing chess with a near-perfect replica of the feared Death Eater, Voldemort's right-hand wizard, next to the professor.

"Granger? Are you going to move this century?"

She blinked, flushing slightly when she realized she had been staring off into space for several minutes now.

"Just... thinking."

"Obviously," he returned, smirking. "Though for some reason, I doubt it was about your next move. Just take my knight, already."

She looked at him, the dizzy feeling of being lost in her own head once again taking over. He was staring at her, his wintry gray-blue eyes sparkling with mirth. She imagined he had given his Slytherin friends that same look over the years, one of uncalculated amusement in the midst of some ordinary conversation.

She was suddenly starved for her friends, hungry for the feeling of rightness, of knowing what the next day, even what the next hour, would hold for her. She needed the roughness of Ron's hand in hers, Harry's barking laughter as they shared jokes in the Great Hall at breakfast. Hermione wanted to feel safe again.

"When do you think the war will end?" The question shocked even her, and she moved back slightly, moistening her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. His eyes widened, the twinkle fading. He was looking at her hard, really looking, and she shifted, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest.

"I don't know," he whispered. He continued to watch her openly as if seeing her for the first time. The minutes dragged past, and she unconsciously took in the sounds of their breathing, the nervous rhythm occasionally pierced by the distant sound of the peregrine falcon's call drifting through the open windows upstairs.

"I used to wish for it, you know."

Hermione's head tilted with her silent question. The smile he gave her this time was humorless, almost dark. She understood then, the realization clawing into her stomach like the chilly talons of a Dementor.

"The war was a story at bedtime, a fairy tale weaved by my parents and continued by their friends. I thought I understood it all. The pure-bloods would rule like they were meant to. It was simple, really. We were the masters of this world; Muggles and Muggle-borns were of inferior blood."

She felt the heat in her face, the anger causing her arms to uncross, hands in tight fists by her sides, pressed hard into the fabric of her sundress. A sharp retort stung the back of her throat, burning to be released on the blond wizard in front of her. But his next words held her back.

"I didn't know how wrong I was. There's a difference, you see, between that ideal fairy tale of being better than everyone else, being the chosen master race and that of actually having to kill to achieve it. I couldn't...."

Malfoy's jaw twitched, and he tore his gaze from her, staring hard at the chessboard. She continued to look at him, speechless with what he had revealed to her.

"I couldn't kill him," he finished, his voice low. "No more than I could kill you."

A million questions rushed through her mind, swarming in a mass that was nearly painful as she tried to focus. She wanted to ask him about the Mark, about his father, about what had happened that night Dumbledore had been killed by the professor. She knew now he was on the run, hiding from Voldemort.

But Snape knew where he was. He knew and still Malfoy was alive. He had saved her life, and now she was here, in the "safe house" with Malfoy. From what she had gathered from Malfoy earlier, Snape was with Voldemort right now, his knowledge of them sequestered in a place hidden by the skilled Occlumens. It made no sense.

Unless he was still a spy. But that was impossible. Snape had killed Dumbledore.

Her fingertips caressed the white rook before lifting it, her little finger hooking the black knight in question as she moved forward across the board. She set Malfoy's piece on her side of the coffee table next to the others.

"Perhaps you should tell me more," she spoke softly, glancing up at him. He eyed her warily, his face seemingly aged by ten years after their heavy conversation.

"You're safer if I don't. Anyway, Severus wouldn't appreciate it."

"Do you answer to him now?"

"He is my godfather, Granger. Not to mention I owe him my life. He saved me from the monster I could have become and the monster I was so willing to worship." He was looking down at the chessboard, pointedly ignoring her again.

"Speaking of which, where is Professor Snape?" she asked. Malfoy was still focused on the game and started to reach for one of his bishops when her stomach growled.

He looked up, his surprised expression quickly changing to amusement. "Hungry?"

"We've played this game for several hours now, haven't we?"

Malfoy leaned back, digging through the front left pocket of his jeans. Her lips quirked up slightly as he pulled out the pocket watch; the timepiece looked like an antique and was almost comically out of place in his current Muggle mode of dress. "I suppose we missed tea. I thought Severus would be back by now."

Hermione frowned. "Do you think he's all right?"

Malfoy grunted, flipping his watch closed and pocketing it. "He's with the Dark Lord, Granger." He didn't need to add that he thought her question was stupid; his tone was rather direct in its intended interpretation.

She stood, her knees popping with the sudden movement after being bent for hours, her sundress swirling in a wrinkled mass around her. She felt the anger build again, the feeling of being kept in the dark while her world had been so wretchedly fractured causing her emotions to spike.

"We can't just sit here and play chess all day, Malfoy. There is a war going on out there...."

The winded, crackling sound of an Apparition caused the words to die on her lips. Malfoy shot to his feet next to her, his wand out. Wandless, but not without her reputable forethought, Hermione grabbed the rusted, fairly bent fire poker that had been leaning against the weathered mahogany of the fireplace; she had noticed it several hours ago at the beginning of their game and now brandished it as a weapon. Both stood, side by side, staring towards the kitchen, waiting in silence.

The Death Eater stumbled more than walked into the entryway between the kitchen and living room, leaning heavily on the doorframe. Hermione's heart thudded painfully against her ribs, the sweat cold at her brow even as courage swelled through her, causing her to tighten her hold on the fire poker. She heard Malfoy speak, but his words were like an echo, nonsensical as all of her focus burned on the cloaked wizard across the room from them.

A black-gloved hand reached up, darkened in patches by what looked like blood. Instead of slipping into his robes for his wand, he was reaching upwards for his mask, a fine tremor to his hand as he pulled the silvery disguise from his face.

"Severus," the name came out in a relieved rush from Malfoy, the younger wizard pocketing his wand. He started towards the professor, concern on his face. "You've been hurt."

He was relatively unchanged from his days as her professor, Hermione noted absently. His skin was still pallid, his hooked nose casting a shadow over thin lips pulled into what she had wondered sometimes to be a permanent frown. His black eyes were the most striking feature of his pale face; they shone like pure onyx, but were fathomless, engaging their viewer with an unmatched intensity. He could read minds with just a look; his intended target only had to be drawn into the spell of his eyes.

The silver mask slipped from fingers, clattering against the weathered, wood-planked floor. Snape leaned heavily against the doorframe, hunching slightly. His black gaze shifted from Malfoy to her, and then back to Malfoy.

"The Dark Lord is... displeased."

She watched as Malfoy hurried next to the older wizard, slipping one arm under his and around his back to support him. She stood still, feeling a mixture of uncertainty and unwanted concern for her former professor as Malfoy led him to the couch facing the large fireplace.

"Merlin, Granger! Don't just stand there. Come here!"

She was so lost in the moment she didn't spare Malfoy the scowl he deserved for barking any sort of order to her. She moved dazedly around the blue couch, walking past the coffee table with their unfinished chess game and stopping behind Malfoy. Malfoy was murmuring something to her old professor, which he in turn answered, the words Dark Lord, battle, and pursuit the only ones she could make out. Malfoy's pale fingers were working the clasps on the heavy Death Eater robes while Snape shakily pulled the ominous hood back from his black, greasy shoulder-length hair.

"Do you plan on actually brandishing that weapon, Miss Granger? Or are you trying to determine its uses in metallurgy?" His silky, low voice, tinged ever so slightly with pain startled her into moving backwards a step. Malfoy whipped around, his innocuous expression shifting to dark annoyance.

"Bloody hell! Drop that fire poker and get your arse over here," he growled. Anger burned through her, simmering slightly when she saw the fear in his cold gray-blue eyes. Malfoy was scared. It suddenly occurred to her that the professor might have actually been hurt quite badly.

She set the fire poker down next to the coffee table, walking over to the couch and kneeling down next to Malfoy. Snape was staring at her, his black eyes so intense she unwittingly looked away, her attention back on Malfoy. The blond wizard's wintry gaze was shifting from the blood splattered across Snape's torn black frock coat to the subtle shudder of his gloved hands. Hermione realized that Malfoy was assessing his injuries. Snape was wounded; she wasn't anywhere near as skilled as a mediwitch, but she recognized the residual symptoms of the Cruciatus curse, not to mention other curses and hexes he may have suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his fellow Death Eaters.

Malfoy jerked to his feet and, without a word, turned and dashed out of the living room into the dark hallway beyond.

"Malfoy!" Her enraged exclamation of his name went unanswered, and she exhaled sharply, turning back to Snape.

He was still staring at her, his expression unreadable, though obviously in the realm of something unpleasant. She opened her mouth to speak and then pursed her lips, the words failing in her throat. He was a traitor. He had killed Dumbledore. But he had saved her life, for whatever reason. And it wasn't within her to just let him suffer from his injuries while she sat and watched.

"Sir, I don't have a wand," she said, her voice soft and hesitant. He scowled.

"I don't remember asking for your assistance, Miss Granger," he snapped, his tone still low and uncompromising. She frowned.

"I don't believe I gave you a choice, Professor," she shot back, moving closer to where he lay, spread out in a half-reclined position on the couch. His expression had shifted again, and if they were back in Potions class, she would have taken it as a warning. Oh, it had been a long time since she had actually feared him; however, she recognized danger when she saw it. But her world had irrevocably shifted in the past forty-eight hours, and they had not been professor and student for quite awhile now. She wouldn't back down.

"Why, you impertinent little witch," he snarled, moving up on his elbows, his black eyes pinning her. Her breath caught, but she ignored the sudden uneasiness, her Gryffindor sensibilities taking over. With the same courage that ran through the heart of her House, she reached forward, the fingertips of her left hand brushing against the buttons at the collar of his frock coat. She needed to see his wounds. Maybe with wandless magic, she could help him.

Snape grabbed her wrist with frightening speed, jerking her hand away from his clothing and, in turn, pulling her closer against the edge of the couch, nearer to him. The sudden movement caused her breath to catch. Her eyes went wide and her free hand clenched against the worn fabric of the couch as she stared at him. His gloved fingers tightened a fraction around her wrist, and she couldn't help the small gasp at his action.

Snape's already black eyes seemed to darken. His gaze shifted across her face, moving from her large brown eyes, the flush of her cheeks, drifting past her parted lips to the edge of her sundress, the bodice visible from where she was pressed flush against the couch.

"Pray tell, child, what on earth are you wearing?" he asked in a whisper, his voice barely audible to her. She blinked, thrown off kilter by his 180-degree change in conversation.

"It was... um, the Muggle clothes, sir, are all rather out of date."

"Why did you not let Draco Transfigure this... this dress for you?"

Laughter bubbled out of her throat at the idea. "Do you honestly expect me to let Malfoy voluntarily point his wand in my direction?"

A shadow of what could be considered amusement flickered across his eyes so fast she was certain she had imagined it. He tugged at her wrist, and she moved in response to his unspoken request, shifting up to her full height on her knees. Snape was staring at her again, and she fought the instinct to stir under his gaze.

His free hand slipped into his parted Death Eater robes, and he pulled out his wand. Before she could protest, or protect herself in any way, he was whispering an incantation, the magic swirling through the air, sliding around her, touching her. She felt the shift of fabric, the sturdy roughness of the sundress replaced with the cool softness of brushed velvet. The feel of it against her exposed flesh was disconcerting; the magic slid like silken hands across her bare thighs, up her belly to cover her breasts.

She was still shaking with reaction when he pulled away. In place of the calf-length patterned sundress, she was covered in violet; the dark velvet dress fit her snug around the torso, numerous buttons forming a line down the front to the hem where it brushed her ankles. From the gathered waist, it flowed around her like an errant cloud, shimmering more like silk than the velvet she felt against her skin. It wasn't sleeveless like the sundress, but the bodice edge dipped below her collarbone, and she itched with the sudden childlike response to cover the pale, freckle-covered flesh never seen before by her professor.

"Sir?" Her voice this time was soft, unsure, and she was suddenly annoyed at her own weakness.

"Your garment, Miss Granger, was painful to me. Even if you chose not to let Mr. Malfoy... help you out of your predicament, you cannot expect me to suffer under your visual torment."

She blinked, absorbing his words. If she were back at Hogwarts, if her world hadn't changed so drastically in the last twenty-four hours, she might have given him a sharp-tongued retort. As it was, Hermione Granger was lost. She had known this man in front of her since she was eleven years old, but then in reality, she really didn't know him at all. Her feared but respected professor, a wizard who had been scorned and ridiculed by so many even while working as a spy for the Order. The one who had killed Dumbledore.

"Why did Vold-" she paused, moistening her bottom lip, "-the Dark Lord curse you, sir? After all that you have done for him?"

He grunted, turning slightly on the weathered cushions as his long fingers shakily worked on the buttons on his dark frock coat. "I am no different than the others, Miss Granger. Even in my esteemed position as of late, I still suffer under the Dark Lord's wrath."

She reached out to help him with the task of undressing, and he smacked her hand. Skin smarting, she jerked back, biting her lower lip. She watched as he pulled himself free from the heavy black frock coat, pushing it back to expose the white shirt underneath. Blood soaked through in odd shapes on the thin fabric, and she was sharply reminded of her own wound, the slicing hex now just a dull ache against her left side.

When he worked free of the last button of the white undershirt, she couldn't help but gasp. On the areas of his lean, pale torso not smeared with blood, she could plainly see the scars of his battled past, encounters she could only imagine with Voldemort, other Death Eaters and those things still unknown and unnamed.

"Professor!"

"Do not call me that, girl! I ended my torture as your professor the day I killed the old man. You'll watch your mouth."

She stared at him, lips parted in a mixture of shock and anger. It was one thing to listen to Harry painfully describe the death of the Headmaster and the ultimate betrayal of the Order's deepest spy. It was another to actually hear her former professor dismiss the act so flippantly, so callously it was if he had slapped her across the face.

He had killed Dumbledore. He was a murderer, a traitor. But he had saved her life.

Without really giving thought to what she was doing, Hermione reached forward again, her fingertips skimming across his bare, injured chest. When he didn't fight her, she closed her eyes, all of her concentration focused on the battlefield of flesh under her hands.

"I remember last night when you healed me. It was a complicated spell, sir, something I've read about but never seen."

"Hmm," his reply was short, but soft. Her eyes remained shut as she felt the transition of skin made hard by scar tissue, to the stickiness of drying blood.

"Teach me and I'll help you," she whispered. His laughter was dry, lacking any humor, and she opened her eyes, once again confronted with the fathomless midnight of his stare.

"You'll always be the insufferable know-it-all, Miss Granger. Even captured as you are now, staring ultimate death in the face, you still hassle me with questions. You silly little girl...."

"I'm trying to help you!" She wrestled forward to stand, but his gloved left hand shot out, grasping her jaw, stilling her on her knees.

"Do you even realize the seriousness of your situation? Last night you were split open like a pumpkin, left to die like Miss Brown. If my Lord had caught you, your fate would have been much, much worse. You are but a pawn, child, surrounded by the enemy's knights with no king to save you."

Her angry retort was lost as Malfoy appeared in the entrance, his hands filled with vials of different colored potions. He paused for a moment in the doorway, his gaze flittering across Hermione and the violet, velvet gown.

"Felt like dressing up for tea, Granger?"

"Shove it, Malfoy."

He smirked at her briefly before walking into the living room and kneeling down next to her in front of the couch. Malfoy handed one vial filled with a dark red liquid to Snape first, his attention drawn back to the remaining six vials in his hands even as Hermione's gaze shifted between him and her former professor. The older wizard had downed the medicine and she watched, speechless, as Malfoy handed him another vial without looking up.

"Give Miss Granger the pain potion, Draco."

"Severus...."

"Don't argue with me, boy."

Without further discussion, Malfoy turned and shoved the small amber vial to her. She glanced at Snape, but his concentration was on the platinum haired wizard kneeling beside him. She took the tiny bottle, uncorked it, and swallowed the bitter tasting concoction in one gulp.

"That which you know is inside you; nothing has left, nothing has changed. I have taught you well, and you will carry on without trepidation, Draco. The blood is nothing but for the mind. Say it now," Snape whispered, his silky voice so low it was nearly lost in the stillness surrounding the trio. Her glance shifted from Snape back to Draco; the Slytherin appeared hesitant, almost nervous. She watched curiously as he slipped the remaining two vials into the pockets of his dark jeans.

"Severus, I don't know if I can...."

"Silence! The girl next to you would not hesitate, but for the lack of her wand. I saved you for a reason. Faith, boy, I have faith in you."

Malfoy's mouth pursed momentarily before his face appeared virtually expressionless. He pulled out his wand, his free hand flexing instinctively over Snape's naked torso as his eyes closed in concentration. Hermione watched, transfixed, as the blue light cascaded from his wand, swelling to encompass her former professor's injured body.

"Viscus Pariter."

The healing spell came out with determination and hesitant strength from Malfoy. She found herself staring at him; it was a blunt reminder, again, that he was no longer just a horrible pure-blood prat and she was no longer just a Muggle-born girl. They had started on opposite sides of a war begun before either of them were born. And the man before them, glowing in the residual burst of magic, was perhaps the most significant piece of it all.

Snape sighed, the sound hushed but thick with resignation. His body seemed to sink further into the worn blue cushions, his hooded black eyes shifting between the two teenagers in front of him.

"Hogsmeade?" Malfoy's one word question startled Hermione, and her attention shifted back to the white-blond wizard.

Snape answered him with a slight shake of his head. "Burned to the ground. Eleven villagers lost their lives. Three students, including Lavender Brown, were killed."

His black eyes caught hers. "No one of concern to you, Miss Granger. Potter and Weasley escaped."

She swallowed the lump in her throat that she hadn't realized had formed. Harry and Ron were both safe. Involuntarily, tears burned at her eyes, threatening to spill.

"Why? Why did you save me? I don't understand. And Malfoy. Why didn't you bring me to Voldemort?" She ignored the quick look from Malfoy, shaking her head sharply, the thick braid at her back swinging with the movement. "Aren't you supposed to kill me?"

Snape grunted. "Don't make me wish to do so, Miss Granger. I have my reasons, which are of no concern to you. Don't be such an ungrateful little witch." He paused, his gaze shifting across her face. She fought the instinct to squirm, the beating of her heart elevating as his black eyes drifted from her mouth, past the bodice of her velvet gown to her hands which were pulled into fists at her side.

"In the grand scheme of things, you know nothing. And while I know you won't, it would behoove you to listen to me, girl. If the Dark Lord ever acquired you, you would be subject to torture, rape, and other unpleasantness before your death. As much as you doubt it, you are better off hidden under my care."

Hermione was immobile for a moment before the sigh escaped, and she rolled back to rest on her heels. Malfoy was still staring at Snape, and she watched the older wizard as his eyes became more hooded, his face relaxing. She had recognized the spell from last night, and knew his body was healing and recovering, and soon sleep would take over and assist him in returning back to his normal state.

"Though I want to finish our game, chess would be bad right now. Grab a book, Granger. Anything you can't open is something of the Dark Arts, and you shouldn't bloody well be reading it anyway. So Severus says."

Hermione tore her gaze from where Snape had fallen into a potion-induced sleep back over to Malfoy. He was staring at her with an indecipherable look on his face and she frowned.

"Since when do you care what a Mudblood does, Malfoy?"

His cold gray-blue eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet in one quick movement. She looked up at him from her kneeling position next to the couch; she could have jumped to her feet, but at that moment, she sensed the dare. If he were to hex her now, wandless and at his feet, it would lower his honor as a powerful wizard in both of their worlds.

"You think you know everything, Granger, and you're wrong. Severus is not what you think he is, and I've changed from what I was. If you want to remain the same mouthy Gryffindor chit you were in school, so be it. But it just makes you as stupid and as commonplace as the rest of them."

She watched as he turned and walked over to the far wall, lined as it was with meter high stacks of Snape's books. He was ignoring her, scanning the ancient tomes with undivided interest.

"Why did Professor Snape save me, Malfoy?"

His fingers paused on an ancient, brown leather covered text, and he turned, staring at her from across the dark living room.

"Maybe he needed you alive." Malfoy pulled the book from the top of the pile, his attention back on the tome in front of him. "Did you ever think about that, Granger?"

She watched, silent, as the blond-haired wizard pulled the large book from the stack and pushed past her angrily, heading up the lone staircase.

Hermione looked back at her former professor. He was sleeping soundlessly now in front of her, sprawled out half-naked on the worn blue couch. Her brown eyes shifted from the harsh features of his pale face, moving to his ashen, scar-ridden chest.

Without forethought, her fingertips traced the planes of his torso, mapping out some unbidden spell across his flesh. The feeling caught her again, and the emotion nearly choked her, the tears pooling in her eyes.

"Why?" Her voice came out in the barest of whispers. "Why kill him? Why help me? I don't understand."

I don't understand, I don't understand, I don't understand....

Silently, the tears rolled down her pale, freckled cheeks as she pulled away from the sleeping form of Professor Snape.

For now, she would read. But as always, she would come up with a plan.