Double-Edged Sword

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe is the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. Anything you recognize belongs to her. I am not making any money from this.

* Many thanks to my beta, Larilee, for her corrections, perspective and great advice! The credit for this chapter's title goes to her as well!

**Warning: Explicit sexual content in this chapter (very brief). If you don't like that sort of thing, skip to the next section when the kissing starts.

Chapter 17: Double-Edged Sword

"No. You take it!" Harry insisted, forcing the cloak into Remus' hands. "It's like Tonks said: you need it more than I do."

Remus grimaced at the reminder that he, as a werewolf, was unwelcome in many Wizarding institutions. He regarded the cloak in his hands. It was silky to the touch, but it didn't feel like cloth. More like liquid shadow, he thought whimsically. He had always been amazed at the feel of it. He gazed at it absently, his mind conjuring an image of the seventeen-year-old James Potter, disappearing beneath these very same silken folds.

The deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt brought him abruptly back to the present. "He's right, Remus. He's the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. No one will question his accompanying a Ministry Auror, even at St. Mungo's."

Remus nodded, swinging the cloak around his shoulders. He fastened it at the throat and raised the hood.

Harry smiled as Remus' head vanished. He put on his own wool cloak and addressed the spot where Remus had disappeared. "Okay, let's go!"

Remus' guffaw came from across the room.

"Very funny, Moony!" he said, rolling his eyes at the older man's prank. Now I know why Hermione felt annoyed when she was trying to talk to me while I was wearing the cloak, he thought, recalling their fourth year at school. He shook his head and followed Kingsley to the fireplace. They would Floo directly from the Burrow to the hospital.

*****

Kingsley strode confidently into the high security ward, nodding to the Auror on duty by the doors. Harry, following in his wake, with Remus quietly bringing up the rear, half expected the guard to question his presence. But he merely gave Kingsley a wordless salute and returned his attention to the corridor.

It's fortunate, Harry reflected, that Kingsley is high-ranking enough to get in here without questions. He fervently hoped that the man would emerge from this escapade with his spotless record intact. Although he had learned a few hard lessons in caution lately, he also knew that some risks had to be taken if they were to defeat Voldemort in the end. Nevertheless, he didn't want others to suffer as a result of his decisions. Especially those who were trying to help him.

As they made their way down the hall, Kingsley scanned the room numbers. "It must be the last room on the left," he said softly. "They moved him out of Critical Care the day before yesterday – I heard that it took the Healers two weeks to stabilize his condition." He halted in front of a plain wooden door. Plain in looks – but Harry soon discovered that it was secured with a complex series of wards that few would be able to dismantle.

The Auror began rapidly deactivating the security spells, prompting Harry to wonder how the Healers got past the complex security to treat Macnair. He supposed that they had to be accompanied by an Auror every time they needed to go in. At last, Kingsley reached out and turned the doorknob, stepping into the room and motioning the others to follow quickly. Silently, he re-erected several wards, ending with an Anti-Eavesdropping Spell to ensure secrecy.

"All clear," he said at last.

Hearing the sound of rustling cloth, Harry turned in time to see Remus appear to his right, the invisibility cloak balled in his hands. A sudden rasping sound caused all three men to snap their heads toward the occupant of the room.

Macnair lay on his back in the hospital bed, his narrowed eyes fixed on Remus Lupin.

"Hello, my dear old classmate," Remus mocked. He moved a few steps closer to the bed. "You seem surprised by my visit."

"Get away, werewolf!" Macnair gasped weakly.

Remus bared his teeth in a nasty smile, deliberately taking another step closer. Macnair's eyes widened as he jerked his shoulders, but he was unable to move due to the magical restraints placed upon him.

"Remus, cut it out," Kingsley warned mildly. He turned to the young man. "Harry, go ahead and have your little chat with the prisoner. I'll see that the door remains shut."

Macnair's eyes snapped toward Harry in shock. Distracted by Lupin, he had failed to notice who his third and youngest visitor actually was. Recognition dawned on the big man's face and he drew in a sharp breath. For a moment, Harry thought Macnair actually feared him, but if so, the Death Eater mastered it quickly, replacing it with an expression of arrogant hatred. "Potter!" he spat venomously.

Harry's answering stare was every bit as cold as the Death Eater's. "Macnair," Harry returned shortly.

"I'll tell you nothing, boy!"

"We'll see about that, won't we?" Harry answered evenly. Three cautious steps brought him to the bedside. In a show of defiance, Macnair tuned his head away; obviously, he did not intend to cooperate. "If you tell me what I want to know, it will be simpler and less painful – for you, that is," Harry observed conversationally.

No answer.

Harry sighed. He hadn't really expected the man to be accommodating, but he'd felt that he should at least try to reason with him. Okay. On to plan B. "Remus, do you have the serum?" Harry asked, extending his hand.

Macnair's head whipped around as Remus handed a small vial to the young man. "You can't give me Veritaserum," he rasped desperately. "That's illegal!"

"It would be illegal," Harry agreed pleasantly, "if this were Veritaserum. It's not. This," he informed the Death Eater, holding the murky brown fluid aloft, "is Lingua Solva. Completely legal to obtain and use. I'm surprised that it's not more widely administered, but then again, there are those pesky side effects to consider."

"Eat shit, Potter!" Macnair swore loudly. "You can't make me swallow that. If you try to force it down my throat, you'll be wiping it off your face!"

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Macnair," Remus chimed in. "We can and will make you drink it." In one smooth motion he drew and raised his wand. "Stupefy!"

Stunned, the Death Eater flopped back against the bed. Harry forced his mouth open and poured the Lingua Solva in as Remus pinched his nose closed. Reflexively, the unconscious man swallowed, then took a gasping breath. "Enervate," Remus said casually.

Macnair's eyes opened slowly, appearing unfocused and dull. Harry grabbed his chin, forcing Macnair to look at him. "A year and a half ago you stole a collection of Hufflepuff artifacts from Ollivander. Tell me what you did with them," he demanded.

"Took them to my house. Hid them," he answered in a voice as listless as his gaze. "Figured I should let them cool off a while before trying to sell them."

"Where are they now?"

"I sold the trophies. The Galleons made my father real happy."

Harry exchanged an anxious glance with Remus. "What happened to the necklace and the cup? Did you sell them too?" he asked with trepidation.

"Couldn't," he answered. "We tried to pawn the necklace, but no dealer would touch it. Too easy to identify, they claimed. Tried to break it up – sell the diamonds separately, but we couldn't break the protection charm on it. That damn Hufflepuff bitch must have been smarter than we thought," he remarked acrimoniously.

"We? Who else is involved?" Harry probed.

"My sister."

"What about the cup?" Remus interjected. "Where is it?"

"My home. The Dark Lord ordered us to keep it safe and hidden, at all costs."

"He knows you have it?" Harry blurted loudly. "How?"

"Legilimency. Last year. I was thinking about what to do with it and he saw it in my mind," Macnair elaborated.

"He didn't take it from you? Wasn't he angry with you?" Harry questioned rapidly.

"No. He was pleased that one of his followers had it. He said it was stolen from him many years ago – thought it was funny, ironic, he said – that we had stolen it back. He ordered us to make sure it stays put, out of harm's way."

Harry exchanged an elated look with Remus. Finally, they knew the location of the cup! "Where in your house..."

The Death Eater groaned loudly, interrupting Harry. Abruptly, he turned his head and began retching violently. Harry and Remus quickly backed away from the bed.

"That's all you're going to learn from him, Harry," Remus informed him. "After the sickness passes, he'll be able to resist the potion's residual effects."

"All right. Let's get out of here," Harry decided, signaling Kingsley to take down the wards.

When Remus was safely hidden beneath the invisibility cloak, they slipped into the hall. As Kingsley closed the door on the still-heaving Death Eater, a gloating feminine voice rang out behind them. "Well, well, what have we here?"

Harry spun rapidly, coming face-to-face with Rufus Scrimgeour – accompanied by none other than Dolores Umbridge, a satisfied smile spread across her toad-like face. Harry's stomach felt as if it had dropped into his feet. For the space of a dozen heartbeats, no one spoke.

Harry finally gathered his wits enough to speak. "Good day, Minister," he intoned formally, electing to completely ignore the woman by Scrimgeour's side.

"This time, you have gone too far, Mr. Potter!" she whispered venomously. "There is no justifiable reason for your unauthorized presence here! I will see that you are prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law!"

Time to be the Chosen One, Harry decided. He drew himself up to his full (and now taller-than-Umbridge) height and regarded the squat woman with derision. "No justifiable reason, Madam Umbridge? Really? Have you forgotten that Voldemort is my mortal enemy? I have more reason than anyone to seek information on his doings from one of his followers!" A spiteful part of him was satisfied to see the repugnant woman's twitch of fear at the Dark Lord's name.

"Reason, certainly," interjected Scrimgeour, "but not the right. Unless..." A sly expression crept over the Minister's face. "Unless you wish, at last, to officially ally yourself with the Ministry."

Harry glanced at Kingsley then looked down, considering the likely consequences of accepting or rejecting the Minister's offer. His brain kicked into high gear. I could twist this to my advantage: get Kingsley out of trouble as well as squeeze some concessions from the cagey old bugger. "If you agree to forget this incident, I will meet with you to discuss how I might be useful to the Ministry," Harry suggested.

"Minister, no!" Umbridge objected in an outraged voice.

"And," Harry added, raising his voice, "please include Robert Ogden in the meeting, as we will be discussing some conditions I have involving his department."

"That is acceptable," Scrimgeour agreed.

Harry scratched his chin thoughtfully for a few moments, deliberately displaying the white scars carved across the back of his hand. "One more thing, sir? As a courtesy to me, I ask that Madam Umbridge NOT attend."

"Certainly," Scrimgeour assented gruffly. "Well, Harry," he said with forced pleasantness, "there's no time like the present, is there?" Taking the young man by the elbow, he steered him down the corridor, leaving Dolores Umbridge to glower futilely at their retreating backs.

By the time the incensed woman came out of her reverie, Shacklebolt was long gone.

*****

A bare hour later, Harry was seated in front of the Minister's desk, with the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Robert Ogden, III, to his right. He smiled slightly to himself. How ironic, he thought. Here I am, a seventeen-year-old wizard, closeted with two of the most powerful men in the Ministry of Magic, about to negotiate!

After the introductions had been made, Harry got right to the point. "Minister, Mr. Ogden," he said, looking at each man in turn. "You want me to cooperate with the Ministry – to be the Ministry-sanctioned 'Chosen One', isn't that right?"

Scrimgeour assented warily, eyes fixed on the young man before him.

"I want it understood that I'm not doing this for personal gain – either now or in the future. I do eventually want to become an Auror, but I would rather be accepted into the training based on my merit like any other candidate. I also want it understood that I won't do this simply to further anyone's political aims." His eyes slid sideways toward the Minister, then snapped back to the man who was the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. "I will only do this for the sake of public morale: to give the wizarding population hope."

Ogden nodded his understanding. "What are your conditions?"

"There are two. First," he said, addressing the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, "your department has to agree to release any suspects that you're holding without conclusive evidence. This business of arresting and jailing people without evidence or a trial has to stop." Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes dangerously and opened his mouth to reply, but Harry raised his voice and kept talking, overriding any potential objections. "That kind of thing undermines our justice system; people will eventually lose faith in law enforcement if you keep it up! For example: there's no real evidence that Gaspard Goyle is a Death Eater. He just has the bad luck to be related to one."

Ogden nodded fractionally. "Yes, although guilt by association has netted us a few prizes, it often goes horribly wrong." He met the Minister's eyes briefly. "Remember Aaron Whitby, Rufus? His close friendship with the Caldwells landed him in Azkaban – he didn't last a month with the Dementors – just wasted away. It was later proved that he had absolutely no connection to He Who Must Not Be Named," he finished grimly. Scrimgeour scowled and leaned back in his seat, realizing that Ogden would side with Potter on this issue.

"Second," Harry continued, turning to the Minister, "you have to convince the Wizengamot to abandon all alliances with the Dementors. Their true allegiances and appetites are painfully clear at this point. They are nothing but foul, evil creatures and must never be involved with the Ministry of Magic again!"

"You ask a great deal, Harry Potter. What makes you think we value your help so highly that we will give in to these 'demands' in exchange for it?" Scrimgeour asked shrewdly.

"Because," Harry drawled, "I really am the Chosen One."

Seconds ticked away as the two men, shocked into immobility by his words, stared wordlessly at him.

Scrimgeour recovered first. "So you're saying... there really is..."

"...A prophecy. Yes."

"You're.... who told..." Ogden stuttered, seemly unable to form a coherent question.

Harry took pity on him. "I have heard the prophecy – heard and seen it – in a Pensieve. There's only one person who can destroy Voldemort: me. I am your only chance."

The older men winced slightly at his open pronouncement of the evil wizard's name. But, again, Scrimgeour was the first to regain his composure. "Dumbledore," he murmured. "It was him, wasn't it?" he asked, directing a piercing look at Harry.

Harry merely dipped his head in silent acknowledgement. "That's all I can say about the prophecy," he stated firmly. Raising his head, he looked Scrimgeour squarely in the eye. "I will make you a promise though: I will do what I can to help the Ministry. And when the time comes, I will destroy Voldemort – or die trying," he finished grimly. He took a deep breath. "Do we have an agreement, gentlemen?"

"We do," Scrimgeour said, rising to extend his hand to Harry. They shook hands solemnly, sealing their promises.

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

The late-January sunshine fell across the parchment in Snape's hands. 'The Impenetrable Potion: conceived and prepared by the illustrious Morgan la Fey' the scroll proclaimed. Snape scoffed as he threw it down on the table. An impenetrable pain-in-the-arse is what it is! Snape thought derisively. He was irritated. More than irritated, actually. Extremely frustrated was closer to the truth. He had run into one dead end after another, the result being that he had made little to no progress toward completing the potion. He wished that he could bin the whole, ruddy project, but that was impossible. The Dark Lord wanted this potion, and what the Dark Lord wanted, he generally got. In any case, he expected his followers to endure any and all difficulties to procure their master's desires.

Initially, Snape had made a great deal of headway, translating and decoding the Morganian Scrolls, then beginning the actual brewing process. Between Hermione's innovative idea of grating the ironwood root (to increase the infusion speed) and his own brainwave regarding the proper type of minced dragon heart (Chinese Fireball), they had corrected the problems with the base. The resulting solution displayed all of the required properties: a rich cobalt-blue color infused with iridescent flecks. Beautiful, really, but not good enough, as it was only the first phase of the potion.

When he had begun the second phase in mid-December, he had stopped allowing Hermione to work with him on the project. He had several reasons for this. First, the preparative techniques were quite complex, requiring a higher level of expertise than any secondary school student could have reached. Second, the ingredients were rare (read, expensive and difficult to procure) and he couldn't afford to waste them. And third, the Dark Lord had ordered that the potion's name, purpose and potential existence be kept absolutely secret. Hermione was just bright enough to infer the effects of even so complex a brew if she were to be made privy to the entire ingredient list. She was also well-able to reach the conclusion that it would be used against the Dark Lord's enemies. That would put a serious crimp in the Dark Lord's plan to use her as a lure for Potter. Accordingly, he had begun assigning her some of the advanced N.E.W.T.-level potions to brew during her lab sessions. This was perfect, as it both kept her otherwise occupied and allowed her to learn the material that seventh form students typically needed to master. He also increased the complexity of the wards on his laboratory notebook, knowing that it would be disastrous for her to uncover the information it contained.

Now, nearly six weeks into the second stage of the brewing process, January was running out (along with Snape's patience), and he had still not found a remedy for the potion's instability. He knew that there was a fundamental incompatibility between the strengthening base and one of the latter phase components, but could determine neither the faulty ingredient nor the exact reason for the unsuitability. Damn it! They should interact properly! he fumed for the hundredth time.

Always prickly, his temper had become irascible. He had categorically refused to discuss the potion he was working on, but Hermione was certain that it was the source of his ire. She began cramming all her tutoring sessions with him into the span of time directly after breakfast as he was least likely to explode before he worked on his mystery project. She avoided interacting with him in the lab altogether. Evenings were more bearable as they were the only times he seemed to unwind.

Their evening relaxation was furthered by Rabastan Lestrange, who had resumed his visits during the second week of January (once his shoulder injury was fully healed). He stopped by a couple of times each week, usually bringing a bottle of wine, a new star chart or an interesting piece of gossip from the Wizarding world. And although his visits were always welcomed by the inhabitants of the cottage, both Hermione and Snape were careful to avoid giving him any hint of their involvement. Snape had cautioned Hermione that their physical intimacy, were it known, would make both of them vulnerable to maneuvering and stratagems within the Death Eater ranks. It was simpler and safer, he had asserted, to keep their relationship hidden.

Hermione concurred. Lestrange may be Severus' friend, Hermione rationalized, but that doesn't mean he would stay quiet if he knew about us. Just the thought of the other Death Eaters knowing about her and Severus frightened her beyond reason. They would undoubtedly label her 'slut' or 'whore', and while that would be humiliating enough, her real fear was that her perceived promiscuity would make her a target for rape or torture. So, in Lestrange's presence, she addressed Severus as 'sir' and he called her 'Granger'. They never touched or used any other gesture or phrase that denoted intimacy. In truth, this was not too difficult, as their liaison was confined to the bedroom anyway. Severus was not a man given to casual touching, and he was definitely not one to use endearments.

Finally, on Candelmas Day, Snape discovered the underlying reason for the potion's instability. Late that morning, he had uncovered new information in the Morganian Scrolls: an endnote, laboriously translated and decoded, specified that salamander blood from animals of the family Sirenidae must be used. He had been using standard potions-grade salamander blood derived from the fire-loving variety. Sirens, he soon discovered, were aquatic and gilled, and these traits, apparently, made all the difference. Their blood would be compatible with the base – he had only to procure it and the Dark Lord's potion would be finished in a matter of weeks!

When he joined Hermione for lunch at the kitchen table, she saw at once that his temper was improved. In fact, for Snape, he was almost buoyant. This meant, of course, that he lacked the scowl that had been an almost constant feature lately. And the snarling tone that she had (nearly) learned to ignore was gone as well. He was polite. Hermione was floored – for about five minutes. Then she began to grin at him in response to even the most mundane comments.

"What, pray tell, is so amusing that you feel compelled to smile in that idiotic fashion?" Snape asked. Although the words were as acerbic as ever, they were belied by his amused tone.

Hermione giggled. Snape rolled his eyes in response. This had the effect of provoking her to burst into open laughter. Snape tried to scowl, but managed only an unconvincing glower. Finally gaining control over her unruly sense of humor, she posed a question of her own. "You finished your potion, didn't you? That's why you're in such a good mood!"

He was instantly serious. "I have told you numerous times that I can't and won't discuss any aspect of what I am working on."

"Yes, I know. But admitting that you succeeded doesn't entail telling me anything."

Snape sighed. "You are a persistent and bothersome little wretch," he said with only a trace of annoyance.

"Yes, but I'm right, aren't I?"

"Partially," he admitted at last. "I've not actually completed the work, but at this point it's only a matter of time."

"That's good then," she voiced softly, letting the matter drop. What did it matter what he was concocting? She was just relieved that he was past the rough spots.

Lunch passed pleasantly for Hermione, as did the rest of the day. The atmosphere in the cottage was more relaxed than any time in the past few weeks and she luxuriated in the easy feeling. In fact, for the first time in a week, Snape took her on an extended after-lunch ramble in the woods. It was overcast and gloomy, as was typical this time of year, but nothing could dent her lightened mood.

When Snape emerged from his lab later that afternoon, he noticed that a single candle had been placed in each window of the cottage. He scowled in confusion, then he remembered the date. He sniffed derisively. Nothing, not even clouds on Candelmas Day, will bring an early Spring to this climate! Entering the sitting room, he saw that Hermione was curled into a corner of the sofa, studying her Transfiguration text. He sank into a nearby chair, noticing that she was reading quite a bit ahead of the lessons they had been practicing. Big surprise! he thought sarcastically. "Is this your doing?" he asked aloud, waving a hand toward the candles illuminating the windows with a soft glow.

"Yes," she responded with a nod. "It's rubbish superstition, but the candles look pretty anyway."

Snape was silent, but privately agreed with both parts of her statement.

Correctly interpreting his silence as assent, she went back to her reading with a slight smile on her face. They sat together in the comfortable quiet, he thinking, she reading. Eventually, she put her book aside and stared thoughtfully into the fire. "Severus," she said after a few minutes, "do you remember the morning after the first time we slept together?"

"Of course," he answered, wondering where this was going.

"You asked me why I wanted to be with you – if I was just lonely, remember?" He nodded and she continued talking. "At the time, I knew there was more to it than that, but I couldn't define my feelings."

Snape sat up straighter, suddenly wary at the prospect of discussing 'feelings'.

Hermione, however, didn't seem to notice. "Well," she said hesitantly, "I know what it is now."

"And?"

"It's trust. I trust you, Severus," she asserted in a soft but definitive voice. "Since the day I was captured, you've protected me. You've tutored me and shown me consideration. I'm not just filling a void in my loneliness – you've earned my trust."

For a few moments, he was suspended in a bubble of shock. This was it – what he had been working toward for the past six months – to gain her trust for the Dark Lord to use. But for the first time, the success of one of his stratagems brought him no sense of triumph. He felt sick: a sinking, twisting sensation in his gut.

Looking into her eyes, he saw her absolute honesty. He had been more successful than he ever could have anticipated at the beginning, gaining not only her trust, but her companionship. In a sudden, rare flash of self-awareness, he realized that he valued it. Valued her. Her trust in him, her acceptance of him, even her reliance on him were all integral to his own satisfaction.

"What is it, Severus?" Hermione asked gently, as he continued to stare wordlessly.

He couldn't answer. It was too late to stop her from being used as a pawn. That was already underway. After all, he knew where the Dark Lord sent the memories that were extracted from him. But no matter what happens, he vowed to himself, I will not allow any harm to come to her. I will protect her as I promised, even if HE is displeased. Rising abruptly, he stepped in front of her and pulled her to her feet. Even the thought of his Dark master didn't diminish his resolve as he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was deep and fiery, leaving them both panting for breath when they broke apart. "Hermione," he finally managed to articulate in a hoarse whisper, "I need to have you, right now." In answer, she pressed her lips to his in a soft kiss and took his hand. He led her upstairs and shut the door behind them. Amid frantic kisses and ardent caresses they undressed each other, both feeling an inexplicable urgency. Severus backed her to the bed, falling down on top of her when her legs hit the edge. He nestled between her thighs and, taking her mouth in a possessive kiss, thrust inside her. He felt a burning need to make his vow aloud to Hermione, but didn't trust himself to speak. Instead he locked eyes with her, his gaze blazing with repressed emotions as they moved together. Her moans spurred him on, faster, ever faster, each thrust becoming a silent promise: I will not fail you; I will protect you; no one will hurt you.... Until all thought was obliterated in the feeling of her inner muscles clenching around him, drawing his orgasm over him like a swelling wave.

*****

Hours later a house-elf knocked on their bedroom door: Rabastan Lestrange had come for a visit. Snape went down at once. "I'll come down in a bit," Hermione told him, needing a little time to think before facing a third party. She felt a little disconcerted by Severus' intense reaction to her earlier admission. His eyes, as they coupled, had held something she had not seen there before: a force of nature, a fiery presence that she could not name. It was not the passion of sexual ardor; that he had shown often (and she was certain she had done the same). She couldn't escape the feeling that something had shifted between them, but she didn't know exactly what it was. It was puzzling, and Hermione Granger had never encountered a puzzle that didn't intrigue her. After a while, she splashed her face, ran a brush through her hair and joined the men.

Lestrange leaned back into the comfortable sofa, sipping the drink in his hand. Where, he wondered, is Granger? At that moment, he heard footsteps on the stairs and she descended into view. Ahh, lovely, he admired, following her with his eyes. As usual, in his role as 'the friendly pure-blood,' he stood to greet her graciously. She responded in her typical pleasant manner and moved to take a seat – in the furthest chair. Opting not to notice, he sat and began making pleasant conversation. He was distracted for a moment when Severus summoned an elf to get the girl a drink. For a second, he saw an odd expression cross his friend's face as he looked at Granger. But the next moment it was gone, replaced by his customary impassivity. Perhaps he had imagined it. As the evening progressed, his sense that something was off returned. There was an undercurrent between Severus and Granger. It was not negative, but it was there. Something had changed in their dynamic. Hmm, has Severus finally shagged the witch? he speculated. He'd had his suspicions at times over the past months, but Severus was always so smooth, revealing little that he did not wish others to know.

Rabastan was not as crafty as Severus, nor as powerful, but he was a keen observer. He set himself to the task of unraveling precisely what was going on between Granger and his friend. He would watch carefully each time he visited. He was confident that, eventually, he would have enough clues to nail it down. And if that proved inconclusive, he would simply confront Severus with a sexually explicit comment: his friend's spontaneous response would tell a great deal.

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

"Stand, my servant," Voldemort commanded in an unnaturally-high voice. Lestrange rose but kept his head bowed respectfully. This was one of the things he liked about the man: he was modest, never projecting arrogance or an inflated self-image. "You have a report, Rabastan?"

"Yes, my lord," Lestrange answered. "The scouts in London have noticed an increase in Auror activity. On four recent occasions, Aurors have arrived during or directly after our activities. We believe that the Ministry has a new method to detect Dark Magic."

The Dark Lord paused, considering this news for several seconds. "Compile a complete list of all the spells my followers used during each incident," he ordered. "Give it to Lucius Malfoy. He is to identify all the motifs that were utilized and determine the common theme for the collective incidents. Then we will know which category of Detection spells the Ministry is using." The skeletal wizard spun on his heel and began pacing in front of the fireplace while he thought. "Tell Malfoy I want his conclusions in two days – along with his recommendations for countering the Ministry's strategy."

Two days? Lestrange thought in amazement. That's not much time, considering the scope of the job. Apparently, the Dark Lord was still making his displeasure with Lucius' past failures clear. Lestrange waited patiently as his master continued pacing; it was not permitted to leave the Dark Lord's presence before you were given leave. As he waited for his dismissal, he allowed his mind to wander. Thinking of the elder Malfoy reminded him of Draco. The whelp had done a fair job so far in his search for the Ministry informant among their ranks: he was interrogating the newer Death Eaters, as they were the most likely to get cold feet. Thank Merlin, the senior members of the circle are above reproach in that respect. He remembered all too well when many had believed that Severus was unfaithful to their master. Hmmm, Severus... what is he up to with Hermione Granger? I'm certain he's bedding her – lucky him – she's an attractive package, that one....

"Rabastan!" the Dark Lord hissed suddenly.

Lestrange started, seeing the Dark Lord standing directly in front of him and looking into his eyes. "Yes, master?"

"I have seen a most unlikely picture in your mind! Tell me," he demanded, "do you truly believe that Severus is bedding the Mudblood, or is that just idle speculation on your part?"

There was no lying to the Dark Lord: he always got to the truth – and punished those who were dishonest with him. "I do believe they are sleeping together, my lord," he replied softly.

"What evidence do you have?"

"There were several little things, master," Lestrange explained. "It seemed to me that his protectiveness of Granger has increased and there is a slight change in her manner as well, from respect toward him to deference for his opinion. I also noticed that both of them seem reluctant to leave me alone in the same room with her." He smiled sharkishly.

"But the final clue came when I suggested to Severus that Granger would be a willing bed partner for him. His face became like windows in a stone wall: windows with shutters inside. To most, it would convey nothing, but I have known Severus long enough to interpret that expression, my lord. Invariably, it means that you have come upon the truth, but he will not discuss it."

Lord Voldemort drew his thin brows together in a momentary scowl. "It is good that you have given me your honest observations, Rabastan. Your loyalty is commendable. I must consider what to do with this information, although I believe it will be very useful indeed. Leave me now!" he ordered.

As soon as Lestrange had left him alone, a terrible smile overspread his features. The beginnings of a plan were already taking shape in his mind. Yes, Severus was right; Granger will prove very useful to me after all.

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Unconscionably Long Author's Notes:

1. The Dark Arts Outsmarted: A book mentioned in OotP (Chapter 18: Dumbledore's Army) No author is given in canon.

2. Lingua = tongue, solvo = to loosen

3. Aaron Whitby: Made him up! He is a relative of canon character Kevin Whitby (a Hufflepuff student).

4. Remember the Impenetrable Potion? We haven't heard about it for quite a few chapters. In case you forgot: It is an ancient and obscure brew that, when prepared correctly, would act as an unbreakable shield. Voldemort wants it for his eventual showdown with Harry.

5. Candelmas Day is derived from the pre-Christian pagan celebration called Imbolc. It was held on February 2, half-way between the Winter solstice and the Spring equinox. According to tradition, if the day was sunny, the second part of Winter would be harsh (and conversely, if the day was overcast, the rest of Winter would be mild). On Candelmas, early Christians distributed candles and put them in windows to counterbalance the darkness of Winter. Candelmas, of course, is the origin of Groundhog Day in America (the Germans, who transplanted this holiday, watched badgers to see if they detected their own shadow).

6. Salamanders of the Family Sirenidae (Class Amphibia) are strictly aquatic and are native to North America. They are nearly legless, having only two small front limbs and resemble eels.

7. Finally, another Lord of the Rings quote, this time uttered by Rabastan Lestrange in the final scene of this chapter. "His face became like windows in a stone wall: windows with shutters inside." This is a contraction from a longer passage in The Two Towers (from the chapter entitled Treebeard) wherein Treebeard is describing Saruman to Merry and Pippin. The complete passage is: "His face, as I remember it – I have not seen it for many a day – became like windows in a stone wall: windows with shutters inside."