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Eternal gratitude for JKR who continues to allow fanfic writers to play in her universe.

And as always, thank to my beta, Leigh-Anne!

25. HOME

Hermione spent an hour in the Library. It felt almost like old times, save that no Gryffindors were hovering and attempting to lure her away.

She'd quickly scanned through the Restricted Section for obscure books on Charms and Incantations. She had all the Potions resources she could ever want in Professor Snape's library, after all. She finally narrowed her search down to two books that she promptly checked out, ignoring Madam Pince's offended sniff, and hurried back down to the dungeons.

Her mind whirled with ingredients and possible incantations, but most importantly she needed a ring.

Not just any ring.

And that was the problem.

It was one thing to know that "not just any ring" would work.

It was another thing altogether to know which ring might.

XX

"We'll just pop out to The Grange," she'd said cheerfully. "It won't take long."

Of course, nothing could be as easy as that had sounded, fuck it all to hell.

She'd changed into the most disreputable Muggle clothes he'd ever seen and then insisted that he must do the same. And then she'd promptly laughed at them.

She was lucky he hadn't hexed her.

But after a bit more giggling, he finally met the standard she set, though he didn't trust her judgment at all as he shifted uneasily in the Muggle tweed jacket she'd transfigured for him.

"Believe me, this is what you should wear in the country," she'd announced. And then had burst into a new spate of giggles. "Never mind. Wear your cloak."

And so, wearing his usual dragon hide boots, black trousers and a black turtleneck jumper under his cloak, he followed behind her as she trudged up a gravel drive to The Grange.

"I believe this is where you're supposed to give the Professor Snape version of a gasp and expletive, and I'm supposed to say, 'What, this old heap?'" she said nervously as they rounded a curve and caught their first glimpse of the manor house.

He stared at what had once been a Tudor jewel but had been enlarged and "improved" until only a few architectural details revealed its origins: a bit of half timbering here, tall and narrow, multi-paned, leaded-glass windows there, and a multitude of chimneys complete with chimney pots pretty much everywhere else.

He restrained himself from gasping, expleting, or otherwise revealing that he might be impressed in any way.

Barely.

He was damned if he intended to fulfill her swotty expectations at the first sight of the family heap. "Are we going in, or do they intend to heave the bottles out the door?" he snapped.

She seemed relieved. "We're going in."

She marched up the pebbled drive to the broad front steps and stood before the huge door where she finally, after heaving in a deep breath, rang the bell.

"Oh, yes," she whispered. "No magic in front of the servants."

The door opened.

A tall, dour male with a white apron over his black trousers and shirtsleeves rolled back to expose bony wrists and age-spotted hands took one look at Miss Granger and broke into an unlikely but genuine grin.

"Russell!" She threw herself into his hug...did the girl have to cling to every male with whom she came in contact?...and the elderly man patted her back with great affection.

She pulled away and, still smiling, remembered that she wasn't alone.

"Oh, Pro...um, Russell, I am honored to present my husband, Professor Severus Snape."

Russell gave the appearance of being introduced to his young mistress's husbands on a daily basis. He gave a small, polite bow and opened the door wide, stepping aside. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance, Professor."

And before Severus could do more than nod in response, Miss Granger had him by the hand, pulling him inside.

"Your father told me that a selection of his finest wine was to be readied for you, miss...I mean, madam." Russell indicated a case of wine of varying vintages on a side table beneath an oil portrait of some previous Granger. No buck teeth were in evidence, and the hair was beneath a wig, but there was still something recognizable about the eyes....

Severus squinted, willing it to move, but it did not.

"Unless," Russell added, "you would prefer to make your own selections?"

"No, I'm sure this is fine," Miss Granger responded airily. "We'll be upstairs in my bedroom."

Severus fought to keep his cheeks from flaming as he extricated his hand from her iron grip and chose to follow her at a more sedate pace. Not two minutes in the 'heap', and she was dragging him to her bedroom! She'd have the servants' tongues wagging before they'd reached the first landing.

Everything about the place oozed privilege and wealth and a genealogy that would put Lucius Malfoy to shame. He was glad Lucius didn't know. Somehow, he didn't think that would go over well, even if Lucius were inclined to think none of it counted because it was all Muggle.

And of course Miss Granger sailed through it all with a nonchalance that chilled him. She took too fucking much for granted and had too little idea how quickly her life could go pear-shaped. How much it already had, for that matter.

By the time they reached her chambers, he was more than relieved to close the door behind them and ward it and silence it. "You could have at least let me see the wine cellar," he complained.

"Russell is far more capable of choosing wine than either of us are, I'm sure."

Well, if that wasn't insulting.

The only thing that kept him from retorting was that he had no doubt it was true. His knowledge of Muggle wine was less than limited. It was only the assurance that her father's cellar was so stellar that had piqued his interest in the first place.

And now that he was in her bedroom...

A treasure trove of Hermione Jane Granger Snape awaited his exploration.

"Erm, this is it," she said unnecessarily, with a general wave of her hand.

And of course, the first thing that anyone would notice about her bedroom (other than the fact that it was half the size of a Quidditch pitch) was how positively green it was.

He smirked. He grinned. He almost...not quite, but almost...laughed.

The counterpane on her bed was dark green quilted velvet. The draperies hanging around the French doors that led out to a balcony? Also dark green. The walls a pale shade of fern. The floor was a dark, wide-planked oak, but the worn, Persian carpets had the only Gryffindor red in the room, and even that was offset by liberal use of green along with gold, brown and cream.

"I like green," she said with a glower.

"What's not to like?" he asked silkily, walking over to pick up a stuffed lamb from its place on her pillow. A lamb! Could she get any more Hufflepuff?

She snatched it away from him and almost seemed to hug the thing as she carried it with her through a door into an adjoining chamber.

He took the opportunity to peruse her bookshelf. Muggle science books...some but certainly not all aimed at children...dominated the shelves. A burner of some sort and vials of powders and an assortment of beakers sat on a small table as if they'd only been used the day before.

When she emerged again, he looked up startled from a shelf of vintage Jane Austen novels. So, she had a romantic streak. Not that he should be surprised....

She stood before him, her hair a wild Gryffindor mane, eyes huge in her thin face, wearing an indecent fluttery floral frock that ended inches...inches!...above her knees.

She looked all of fourteen years old again, if that.

All long legs and school girl body and ridiculous flowers and...and like she was wearing a girlish nightgown, not something to be worn in public, and certainly not mixed company, and most certainly not within site of Lucius Malfoy, who would likely rape her on the spot.

"This would be perfect," she said...

He growled.

"...except that it's for summer. I don't have anything for this time of year. I'm usually in school robes at Hogwarts."

"You will not go to the Malfoys' with your legs exposed like a common trollop from Knockturn Alley."

Her mouth flew open and for once, she appeared that she might actually be speechless.

"Surely that's not what one would wear to a proper tea..." he continued.

"It's called a tea dress. Which means, in short, one would wear it to tea." She tilted her nose in the air in disdain. "However," she added with a wry shrug, "it's a couple of years old and not really what a married woman," she hid her face but he could almost swear she was blushing, "would wear to a proper tea...." She sighed. "Let me see what else I can find."

When a knock sounded at the door, Severus looked up from the bottom shelf and its amazing collection of books on comparative religion...comparative religion?...and saw that she either hadn't heard or expected him to see to it, like he was her bloody house-elf.

He braced himself, lowered the wards and opened the door.

Russell stood with some sort of portable telephone in his hand.

"Lady Granger, sir," he said politely.

Not knowing what else to do, Severus took the telephone gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and said, "Thank you."

And shut the door.

And stared at the instrument in his hand.

XX

Having put her jeans on, Hermione struggled back into her boots. At the sound of the knock, she sighed deeply.

It hadn't taken Russell long to let her mother know she was here, had it?

By the time she emerged from the small dressing room, Professor Snape stood in the middle of the room staring at the telephone in his hand, clutching her prayer book in the other. She honestly didn't know which struck her as more absurd.

She relieved him of the phone. "Hello, Mummy."

"And what are you doing at The Grange when you know we are in town until Christmas? Not avoiding me, are you?"

"No, Mummy, I'm looking for something to wear for a special occasion."

Her mother's voice changed abruptly, growing much more tolerant and possibly even interested. "Really, darling? What kind of 'something' are you looking for?"

Hermione glared at Professor Snape, pushed the button for the speakerphone and put it on the table. "Severus," she said awkwardly, "asked me to dress as if I were going to have tea with the Queen."

"Good heavens! Why on earth does he want you to look like a frump?"

Hermione stifled a giggle at her mother's words and at Professor Snape's highly offended reaction as he curled his lip and looked down his hawk nose at the offending telephone.

"I'm sure he doesn't realize that's what he was asking for."

He sniffed.

"Then tell me, what is this occasion and who is hosting it?"

"It's tea, and, erm, it's being hosted by Narcissa Malfoy. You don't know her."

"Why does that name sound familiar?" her mother asked sharply.

"Possibly because... she would have been my mother-in-law if Professor Snape hadn't married me, first." Hermione winced.

"And the man wants you to look like a frump. Brilliant."

Professor Snape winced.

"I don't think he actually intended me..." she began, watching color rise in Professor Snape's cheeks. "But, I've been looking through my closet and..."

"What does she look like?"

Hermione sighed and, avoiding Professor Snape's eyes, said, "She's quite beautiful."

"Is he in love with her?"

Hermione choked, and again, could only stare as the color so recently attained drained from her husband's cheeks.

"No!" she said. "At least...I mean, no!"

Oh, dear. She thought Professor Snape might be about to do a little wandless hexing of his own, and as she was the only victim handy, she felt more nervous than she cared to admit.

"Hermione, go into my room and into my closet and get my Chanel wool."

Hermione pumped her fist and grinned. Her mother's closet. Yes!

"Yes, Mummy," she answered demurely, already on her way into the corridor.

"And my kid boots."

"Yes, Mummy." She was absolutely skipping down the hall.

"And whatever jewelry you think appropriate."

Yes!

Narcissa Malfoy wasn't going to know what hit her.

XX

"How do you propose we take the wine without using magic?"

She stared up at him, clearly not having considered that complication.

"I'm not leaving it here," he said firmly.

"Russell," she called down the stairs, "would you please call us a cab?"

XX

"This is preposterous," Professor Snape said, "wasting money on a cab when..."

"Shhh," she said. "We're not going far."

They arrived at the village train station, and Hermione slid out of the back seat, leaving Professor Snape to hoist out the case of wine as she paid for their ride.

"Follow me," she said and headed around the corner of the station to a dark shadowy corner. "We can Apparate from here," she said.

"Then grab my arm," he answered. "We aren't returning to Hogwarts, yet."

Astonished, she did as he said, felt the sickeningly familiar tug behind her navel, and swallowed back her distress until they landed quite firmly in a dark, dusty, dismal room she'd never seen before.

"My family estate," he announced with a sneer. "Spinner's End."

He put the wine on the floor and, with a wave of his fingers, brought light to the room.

She saw his reticence, his embarrassment, and didn't know what words to say to relieve him. Until...

"You've got electricity?"

"It is a Muggle home, yes."

"That means...oh my!" She quickly scanned the room, saw the door that looked like it most likely led into a kitchen, and took off.

"Miss Granger!" he called after her.

It was a truly awful kitchen. It was old and even smelled. The floor looked like it hadn't been cleaned in yonks, and a thin coating of grease layered the cooker and even the fridge.

And in the corner...

She literally jumped up and down in glee.

She whirled, bumped into a very disgruntled Professor Snape, grabbed him and kissed him. "You've got a washing machine!"

A half hour and a quick Apparation to and from Hogwarts later, she was ensconced in a chair in the corner of the sitting room, reading the Charms book she'd brought from the library while the ancient twin tubs swished and clanked away in the kitchen, hot water and soap doing a number on the red sheets and white shirt, and she couldn't have been happier in a mansion.

Professor Snape was off digging around in a room upstairs. She hadn't wanted to follow him or to appear too nosy. He clearly was uncomfortable with her being there at all, though she couldn't imagine why, since he was the one who'd brought her there, after all.

She'd skimmed half the book when she heard him coming back down the stairs and trained her eyes on the faded page in her lap. When she'd suffered under his glare as long as she could possibly tolerate it, she finally raised her eyes to his and asked the question that had been hammering in her mind since she'd realized the incongruity. "How did a Pureblood wizard end up with a Muggle house?"

From the expression on his face, she should have let the question keep hammering.

"Quite simply. Tobias Snape was a Muggle."

"But you're...you're not Pureblood?"

"I am Pureblood."

She sat there, mouth open, and then closed it.

Well.

There weren't many ways around that except the obvious. "He wasn't your father."

"He was my legal father."

There were so many things she could say and none of them at all helpful. Finally, she said the one thing she could say with utter sincerity. "I'm glad you have a Muggle house." She blushed and went back to her reading.

XX

Insufferable know-it-all.

Well, for once, she hadn't known anything, had she?

Fuck.

He pushed out of his chair and went to the kitchen to check on the washing. Washing! What would she have him doing next?

He'd used a long-forgotten spell of his mother's to shorten the length of time it took the twin tub to do its work. It was spinning now; within five minutes they'd be able to return to Hogwarts.

He looked around the dingy kitchen with something that felt close to despair. How on earth could such a place bring such a smile to her lips? It was pure, unadulterated joy, nothing less, that he'd seen when she'd flown into his arms and bestowed him with a ridiculous kiss, all over a washer that was old when he was a boy.

All so that she could keep her ridiculous red sheets.

Her ridiculous soft red sheets.

And the shirt, of course.

He mustn't forget the shirt.

The spinning grew louder, and then with a heavy clunk, began slowing. Before it had totally stopped, Miss Granger had appeared at the door, her eyes wide. "It's already finished?"

He whipped out his wand and levitated the damp sheets out of the rinse tub and into the air and to the middle of the room. With a murmured incantation and a flick of the wand, he had them spinning in midair until they were dry. Another flick, and they folded themselves.

"Open your arms," he ordered her and watched as she accepted the neatly folded sheets and shirt and drew them close to her and inhaled.

"Oh!" she said, clearly delighted. "They smell like lemon!"

"Indeed."

XX

Upon arriving back in the dungeons, Hermione practically flew across the stone floor to the bed with her bundle of linens. She was about to rip the hated white sheet from the bed when his voice stopped her.

"That will have to wait."

She turned and looked at him expectantly.

He stood by the fireplace, staring into it, his face hidden beneath the curtain of his hair.

"It won't take long to..." she protested, giving the white sheet a tug.

"Miss Granger." Her name was a command, and while part of her wanted to rebel against his tone, another part was aware of something deep and urgent that compelled her to obey.

She sat on the edge of the bed, fresh linens forgotten.

"First, I've made arrangements for you to receive extra tutelage in the art of wandless magic."

"Why can't you teach me?"

"Because," he snapped, "there aren't enough hours in the day for me to give you as much attention as you seem to need."

She felt as if she'd been slapped.

"And it just so happens that we have a tremendously skilled mistress of wandless magic here at Hogwarts whose schedule is less demanding than mine..."

That left out Professors McGonagall and Sprout, both of whom had their own Houses to look after. Vector? No, please no. Trelawney? Ridiculous. Her mind raced through the possibilities.

"Madam Hooch will be expecting you after breakfast tomorrow."

"Madam Hooch! You've got to be jesting!"

"I am not," he snapped, glaring at her.

"And...I'm supposed to be brewing advanced potions for you after breakfast..."

"This takes precedence."

"But, it's not fair!"

"Don't speak to me of fair," he sneered. "I am the last person to complain to if you think your life is unfair, wouldn't you think?"

"But you're the only one who gives me challenging work, and now you tell me I can't even do that?" She felt like throwing a hex at him but judiciously kept her eyes on the floor on the off chance he might not notice.

"In case you've forgotten," he said in a velvet sneer, "your little tea party tomorrow is not just an occasion to dress up in Mummy's clothes and jewels."

She leapt to her feet, enraged.

His black eyes drilled into her, and she glared back at him, refusing to back down. "Indeed," she sneered back at him with a toss of her hair.

"You will be on display for the Dark Lord, and need more preparation than I can give you alone. Tomorrow morning, you will spend with the one faculty member in this castle who actually harbors us no ill will at this moment, and you will show her the respect she is owed. You will not assault her with questions about her skill and her history with that skill because that is her story to tell, if and when she chooses to tell it. Suffice it to say that it is not something that is bandied about lightly."

Hermione swallowed back the questions that were already jumbling in her head, fighting their way to be first.

"Afterward, you and I will take lunch here, alone, and at that time I'll reveal the things you should know before undergoing the afternoon's tea with our friends."

A chill ran down her spine at that single word and all it represented.

"And thus, if you have no more comments or questions, I'll go make my rounds."

And since she couldn't ask what she really wanted to ask..."Please hold me and make me feel safe again,"...she nodded bravely and returned to her Charms book.

She had her own work to do.

She dragged the book with her into bed...the bed with the despised rough sheets. She plumped the pillows and brightened the tip of her wand, the better to read by. There had to be a charm or potion or incantation that would help her, there just had to be.

She knew she'd be asleep before he returned, even though it was cold and the sheets harsh. She would sleep so that she couldn't be blamed if she ended up curled against him again.

She felt her cheeks blaze with embarrassment.

How carelessly she'd pressed herself against him for warmth and comfort and safety without considering what it did to him. She'd awakened each morning with the hard evidence of his morning erection too prominent to ignore, but that was normal for males, wasn't it. She'd read all about it...oh, she could just hear him sneering at her over the fact that she'd read it in one of her fucking books, that it was normal and that it had nothing to do with sex, not really, and so she'd politely pretended not to notice, even as she pressed against him....

But things had changed. She knew with a thickening of her pulse what she'd been doing to him now, and felt shame, and tried to stay on her own side of the bed so as not to add to his torment, and did her research, determined to find a way to eliminate it....

And so she drifted off to sleep, her book splayed across her lap and her wand still in her hand, propped up in the bed that was more home to her than the home she'd lived in for the first eleven years of her life.

And when she awoke to the icy blackness of night in the dungeons, she felt his breath on her shoulder and his arms around her...

And sighed in the deepest contentment she'd ever known, because it wasn't her fault.

And she snuggled deeper and fought against sleep, just so she could soak up the sensations of being safe... at home... in his arms.