In Defense of the White Queen

Guard... Check... Mate

By Bambu

~o0o~

Chapter Four: In Defense of the White Queen

With a crack that heralded an Apparition, Severus Snape arrived in the small foyer of his cottage in Wales, the sound loud in the stillness of the early morning. He bit off a curse... the noise would no doubt awaken Hermione and he hadn't intended to scare her. He quickly flicked his wand and lit the old-fashioned oil lamp sitting on the reception table in the entry, only to hear what could have been mistaken for a sough of wind, but was instead the sigh of relief from a Disillusioned resident of the house.

"I told you no one other than me or someone with the key could enter. You have the key, and I am alone." He might have gained her trust, but Snape was pleased to see that she was being cautious nonetheless. He turned to face her, barely registering the fragrance of the fresh cut blooms in the earthenware pitcher on the small table, and realized that she wasn't dressed for sleep. Instead, Hermione was wearing a pale blue jersey pullover and casual Muggle jeans, both considerably rumpled, and her wand was held, duel-fashioned, in her hand. She was also bare-footed. His brow furrowed in what could be called concern, but he wouldn't label it. "Why were you not sleeping?"

"I was. I fell asleep in the sitting room. I didn't know you were coming. Are you... Is everything all right?"

Hermione's eyes had been huge when she'd dispelled the Disillusionment, and he watched her overall posture ease from its state of readiness. This was the first time he'd seen her since her graduation ceremony, and Snape couldn't help that his eyes were riveted to her face, physical proof of her presence in his home. The mere fact that she was here and had used the Portkey, was solid, tangible, irrefutable proof that Hermione trusted him... with everything.

Snape refused to admit that he'd missed her, thought about her, dreamed about her. But he did, he had. A rootlet of satisfaction twined deep within his soul and he ignored it. His gaze traced the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the pouting full bottom lip which was held between her small, pearly white teeth. Her eyes were tired but alert, and he searched her face for the telltale ridge of scar tissue near her jawline... and then he remembered the glamour. It was still in place. He scowled. She hadn't removed it as yet.

"I seem to be playing post-owl for your friends. It appears that they were convinced of your demise. I did not tell them the truth, but they let me take this." He hadn't missed her quick gasp or the widening of her eyes at his comment about her perceived death. As he handed her the letter from Harry and Ron, her fingers brushed his... in ever so light a touch. He shuddered in reaction, the feel electric.

He looked around the small entry of his home. The planks of the old wooden floor were gleaming in the soft light, and the wainscoting had obviously been attended to, as well. Hermione had obviously spent some of her time caring for the cottage. It had an uncluttered but welcoming feel. It made him uncomfortable and content.

"Thank you. Are Harry and Ron all right? Of course they're not. Sorry. What did he have say? I imagine..." She broke off, her voice a flustered rush of worry, and she bit into her lower lip so that it plumped between the rows of her teeth. "Sorry. Will you tell me what happened?"

It irked him that he couldn't see her real face, and he responded more harshly than intended. "In a minute. Why have you not removed the glamour?"

"I've been trying to for the past three weeks. I can't remove it. It seems that he didn't believe me when I told him I wouldn't show Harry or Ron. Please tell me if they're all right. I told them not to blindly believe... to question his authority. But this situation gives him the perfect opportunity to manipulate Harry. What are we to do?" Her tone was filled with distress and repressed anger. Then she took a deep breath, he could hear the exchange of air, calming herself. "Please forgive me. I haven't ever been alone for so long before. I think all the stress of the last few months has finally caught up with me and erupted..." Hermione slanted her eyes at him, and slyly said, "like a Longbottom potion gone wrong."

Snape almost laughed aloud at the image she'd conjured in spite of her concern for her two friends. Instead, he quirked the corner of his mouth -- a full smile on anyone else. It seemed it was enough for her to continue.

"Really... forgive me? I would like to hear what you suggest we do. In the meantime, I have tried to remove this wretched glamour since the day I arrived. I've gone through every book I own and most of those in the cottage looking for anything that would help. Honestly, it's what I was doing when I fell asleep in the sitting room. Trust me, I don't want any more tangible reminders of Dumbledore than those I already carry in my memory." Her voice grew flat when she spoke the Headmaster's name.

Snape thought he remembered the tone she'd used; it was the same one she'd used to say Malfoy's name. "Perfectly understandable under the circumstances."

Now that he appeared to have the leisure to give her condition more thought than merely to ensure her survival, it made sense that she couldn't remove the glamour easily. Dumbledore had been protecting his investment in Harry and wouldn't have taken the chance that she would figure out how to end his spell. Any additional indication of manipulation or trickery on Dumbledore's part, something the Headmaster professed to loathe... 'the truth is generally preferable to lies' ... would serve to alienate Harry, perhaps completely.

After what Hermione had told him, Snape was certain that none of the standard variations of Finite Incantatem would be successful in removing the concealing mask that had become her face and body. He knew that they needed to discuss their course of action regarding the 'mail,' and what to conceal from or reveal to her friends, but he was loathe to until after the glamour was dismantled. It angered him to see the placid, unblemished mask which hid her animated face. "Will you allow me to try?"

"Please," was her only response and she stepped closer to him.

He pointed his wand at her, and though Hermione watched his wand movements avidly, she didn't flinch. Snape's breath caught in his throat with each additional piece of evidence which proved that she sincerely placed her trust in him. The elation and responsibility crashed with equal force in his breast and suffused him with an entirely unusual feeling.

Pinching his lips together to get a firmer grip on his wayward emotional response to Hermione, Snape cast 'Revelato.'

The effect of his spell was instantaneous and encased Hermione's entire body in an aura of shimmering gold. It was apparent that the glamour had been secured to Hermione rather than cast in the manner of a filter, which was a more common method. It was clever and parasitical. Unless one knew the actual point of origin, the glamour would remain in place, self-sustaining and drawing magical energy directly from the host to maintain the façade. It would render the bearer marginally weaker, and continued use would drain the witch or wizard over time without the glamour's removal. Snape clenched his teeth. It was expedient, and efficient... and reprehensible.

Dumbledore's blatant disregard of Hermione's well-being was a further reason for Snape to be glad that he'd chosen to come to her aid. Dumbledore may have planned to remove the glamour as soon as the school year had ended, but he'd nevertheless weakened Hermione in the meantime, and she would need to recuperate from the months' long power drain. With a clarity that had struck him infrequently over the years and incessantly in the past eight weeks, Snape saw just how ruthless the older wizard was willing to be in order to hone his hero.

To the task at hand, Snape thought grimly. It was no wonder that Hermione had looked so haggard in the mirror a month before. She'd been still reeling from the loss of her parents and her own near-lethal wounding, and then the persistent, insidious drain of her magical energy had been added to the pre-existing trauma.

"I cannot remove this glamour without knowing exactly which portion of your anatomy the glamour has been attached to. It will take some time, Miss... Hermione. I suggest we return to the sitting room, which is where I assume you were when I arrived."

"It was." Hermione immediately turned to her left and Severus followed her, ducking his head under the low-lying lintel. She was easy to track, a glowing human-shaped orb, as she walked into the sitting room. She'd made it feel like a home in the three weeks she'd been in residence... a surreal juxtaposition to the certain death that awaited her beyond the borders of the cottage and garden. Snape noted that the floor was freshly cleaned, the furniture waxed and cushions refurbished, and a small fire burned cozily in the grate casting its elemental magic into the room. Hermione immediately crossed to the settee and sank into its comfortable cushions, nearly upsetting an open book that was perched atop a small tower of references she'd obviously been studying when she'd fallen asleep. Snape absently noted the evidence of her diligence even as his mind was engaged in excogitating a Dumbledorian puzzle.

The lithe Potions master paced in front of the hearth while logically reconstructing Dumbledore's actions the night the old wizard had cast the concealing glamour on Hermione. After some time, Snape barked a mirthless laugh. He knew what Dumbledore had done. It was darkly humorous and Snape doubted that it would have occurred to Hermione. Only the benefit of his years of exposure to the elder wizard's thought processes had given him the clue.

"I believe I may know where the glamour originates. Did Dumbledore touch you with his wand?"

Hermione's eyes flicked and her teeth nibbled on her lower lip; otherwise no betraying evidence of anger or confusion or frustration marred her perfect countenance. "I don't remember. Things happened very fast, and I was sort of in and out of conscious for most of that night. I don't even remember Mad-Eye arriving... too late to do anything for my parents and almost too late to save me."

"We shall strive to make Moody's timely arrival worthwhile. However, I suggest that our first step is to check your body. I suspect we will find what we seek on your torso. If you will remove to your room and disrobe, then..."

"Wait! I do remember Dumbledore leaning over me at one point. He startled me because he was so close when I woke up. My chest felt warm and then like ice. I thought it was part of the healing process. Is that what you're referring to?"

"Possibly. Your heart would be an excellent place to secure the glamour. I have left the revealing spell in place because I hope that density will be an identifying factor in determining the point of origin." Snape turned to look into the fire, presenting her with the smooth contours of his back. "If you would remove your jersey to confirm."

He heard the rustle of fabric and a soft exclamation. His initial inclination was to turn, but he stifled it. "And...?"

"I can't tell the exact location, but I believe you're correct. From my perspective, it seems that my chest does glow more brightly than the rest of my body. I think you'll need to look," Her voice became rather wry, "and you've seen me before, Prof... Severus."

He shut his eyes against the thought that this time was different than the last. Now Hermione and he were like volatile ingredients and he was uncertain of their interactive properties. More than anything else, he didn't want to find an adverse reaction exploding in his face, and knew that he would settle for them remaining inert if a positive reaction weren't to result in the end product he wouldn't allow himself to desire. With a mental grimace for his choice of occupational metaphors, Snape turned to face Hermione. Her chest did indeed glow more brightly than the rest of her body. The golden aura seemed to pulse in a dense, palm-sized patch over her heart.

Hermione's face reflected none of her inner turmoil or residual anger at Dumbledore or even embarrassment, if that was indeed what she was feeling. She merely looked into his face, her brown eyes wide, and Snape realized that she was afraid. With a moment's intuition born of real empathy, he knew that she didn't fear him... but his reaction to her scars.

Their encounter in the dungeons had irrevocably altered their relationship, but neither had been in the other's presence privately since those powerful, connective hours in front of the mirror. And suddenly, the need to discuss other matters assumed a secondary position to the shifting dynamics between them. If he was feeling off-kilter in Hermione's presence, then she must be at least as uncertain. Nonetheless, she met his gaze levelly, and he felt a ripple of pleasure that she didn't shrink from him. Until he could see her entire, expressive face, he had significant doubts about her other reactions to him.

He took three measured steps, almost as if he was calming a wild creature, and reached her side. The only relief to his austere attire was the hint of white at his wrists, and the sallow paleness of his skin in contrast to the black of his clothing. Otherwise, he was fully dressed and Hermione was... nude from the waist up, her hair in wild disarray. She'd removed her bra along with her jumper. Her torso was smooth, unblemished and beautiful.

A jittery nervousness settled deep in the pit of Snape's stomach and his groin reacted instinctively to the sight of her. His physical response was more insistent than at any time in the past month, even in the privacy of his own bed. Those few irresistible moments of manipulated gratification had been relieving but unsatisfying. They'd been built on a memory and not on the reality. But now... here... she was half-naked and glorious, enshrouded in a glowing golden nimbus of light which pulsed slightly over her heart.

When he reached her, Snape stared into Hermione's sparkling eyes. They were brimming with emotion: hope, trust, and other unnamed, unrealized feelings swirling within the amber reflections from the firelight. Softly, so as not to spook her, he murmured, "'X' marks the spot."

Her eyelids fluttered. "Sorry?"

A slight smile tugged at his lips. "It is Dumbledore's habit to find humor in the most inappropriate of times and events, and, forgive me, but I do not think that he would have been able to resist in your case. I believe the origin of the glamour is secured to the intersecting point of your scars, Dolohov's curse scar and Malfoy's. I remember that they form an 'X' over your left breast."

"Oh! That's... that's rather cruel, don't you think?"

"I think it is rather like Gallows humor, Hermione." Snape watched her eyelids flutter at his nearness, and her chin tilted upward. Her eyes met his, and he felt could get lost in her regard.

"All right. What do you need to do?"

"The beauty of the glamour in this case is that, if I cannot find the exact locus of the glamour's origin, then I cannot dismantle the charm. It is reasonable to hypothesize that the intersection of the two scars hidden by the glamour is a shrewd choice, camouflaged as it is... "

He broke off when Hermione grabbed his hand and brought it to her breast. His fingers met the smooth texture of her other hand as it mapped her scars, locating the confluence of damaged tissue, smooth to rough. Snape had touched her intimately once before, and the silken texture of her skin had lingered in his senses, a delicious reminder of something he wanted... had begun to yearn for. Her hand drew his along the jutting ridge of tortured flesh until it met the conjunction of scars, and then she dropped both of her hands, leaving his hand pressed flat to her breast.

He could feel, but couldn't see, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her breathing was a little uneven, and her heart fluttered under his fingertips. For a long moment he didn't move, didn't explore, but then as if of its own volition, Snape withdrew his hand until only his dexterous fingers, slightly calloused from years of chopping, cutting and manipulating raw potions ingredients, remained to lightly dance across Hermione's skin.

The dichotomy of visual to visceral input was incongruous and disconcerting, but he traced the ragged, jutting skin until he'd found the remains of Dolohov's attentions. That scar tissue had an almost slick feel to it, and it met the nubby peak of Malfoy's partially healed curse.

Hermione whispered, ""X' marks the spot."

Snape flicked his eyes to meet hers, and he growled, "Yes."

She closed her eyes and breathed, her voice mingled with the exhalation. He felt her words on his face, little puffs of air at this proximity. "I trust you."

The urge to kiss her was almost irresistible. Her head was arched, her neck tilted as if in an offering. But he wouldn't kiss her now. Not until the glamour was removed and he knew that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Not until he could really see her face and read her expression. Perhaps not until another time, if there was another time. They had so much else to discuss, to live through.

With his other hand, Snape raised his wand and carefully placed the tip of the slender rod on the uneven section of half-healed and long-healed skin. He allowed his magical energy to build in resonance with the magical core of his gleaming ebony wand. Hermione watched him intently, her eyes never wavering from his face. Snape closed his eyes, not to be distracted. He felt the magic peaking, ready to be tapped for his use. "Dearmo!"

Nausea punched through his gut, the magical backlash unwelcome, but not altogether unexpected. He heard Hermione cry out and his eyes snapped open. She was gulping in air in great, ragged gasps, and she remained surrounded by the shimmering gold aura of the revealing charm, but her features had altered into those of a real woman, not the porcelain mannequin he'd been seeing in class and in the Great Hall for months.

He dropped his hands from her body. It was too intimate, too assumptive a gesture. A quick 'Finite' later and Hermione stood before him in all her woebegone glory.

Her features were softened by the glow of the fire, but he could still see the dark circles under her eyes and the hollow of her cheeks from the glamour's parasitical leeching of nourishment from her body. Snape's eyes were fastened on the ugly, ragged scar that bisected her torso, tracking its course from below and behind her ear, across her throat and spiraling down her chest, cresting her breast and wrapping around her too-prominent ribs. It was blood red, a harsh reminder of all that she'd lost in this war not of her making.

He'd seen her once before like this, but it had been a reflection. He had only felt the real, warm, living woman. She was as breathtaking as he'd remembered. Snape didn't realize how long he'd stared at her, when her choked voice broke into his reverie, his building need to touch her more intimately, to protect her, to possess her... to claim her.

"I'm hideous, aren't I?"

"No!" Instantly Snape raised a hand to cup her cheek, her unblemished, but tired little face. Her eyes were filled with tears and it occurred to him that his respectful distancing had sent the wrong message. "No, you aren't hideous. You are battle-scarred... as am I. It is not something to be ashamed of, Hermione. You are... you are a courageous and intrepid young woman, and I have long found you lovely."

Her breath hitched and she stepped toward him, her head tilted further. "Truthfully?"

"Yes."

She leaned into him, her breasts brushing the roughened texture of his frock coat, her eyes were wide and vulnerable, her lips pursed and inviting. "Severus..."

He was completely undone.

Instinctively, without plan or thought, he pulled her to him and tasted the sweetness of her mouth... her entirely willing, eager lips. His left hand threaded between her arm and her body, encircling her, his right arm wrapping around her shoulders. His hands became entangled in her long, unruly curls, brushing the soft skin of her back beneath the thick strands of her hair. His left hand found the waistband of her jeans, and the rough ridge of scar tissue which disappeared beneath the denim. His fingers stroked the scar as she arched into his kiss, opening her mouth to his implicit request. Their tongues tentatively met, flicking to taste, then twining to mate. She tasted of peppermint and sleep, and he wanted her fiercely.

With a breath of a moan, Hermione was tugging him closer, enthralled, and enchanted. Other considerations, other priorities were irrelevant in the tender eroticism of the moment. Snape had never been so bewitched by a kiss, and he had never seen her so pliable, so completely amenable to his caprice.

His erection throbbed in a reminder of what his baser desires were, and his mind conjured images of what he wanted to do with Hermione. Now, his body demanded. It was insistent. Now. The rising, urgent need broke Snape from participating fully in the kiss... reining in his need before it could escalate into something he didn't want to contain. His insecurities surfaced, intruding the thought that perhaps Hermione was reacting out of sheer gratitude for his assistance. He didn't want her if her desire stemmed from a sense of obligation, even as he repelled the urge to take her in any way that she offered.

That dose of reality chilled Snape's ardor more quickly than a summons from the Dark Lord. But if this was to be the only willing kiss he ever received from Hermione, then he would savor every last second. Languorously he ended the kiss and, with a chaste brush of lips across hers, he pulled back slightly. The weight of Hermione's torso told him that she had relaxed into his embrace. She was arched back over his arms like an offering, her throat bared to his gaze, his need. Her arms dangled at her sides as if she'd forgotten what they were for, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts showed how affected she'd been by the intensity of the moment. He rejoiced with the evidence of her desire. This was no grudging affection on her part; instead, she was an altogether willing and supple woman waiting for his... their mutual pleasure.

With a groan that seemed to originate in his groin, Snape buried his face into the base of her throat, kissing, nibbling, suckling the roughened texture of her scar. She'd been damaged in the face of her loyalty and sacrifice, and it made her more desirable to Snape... more like him.

At last Hermione raised her arms, and the tall wizard felt the caress of her hands, one flat against his shoulder blade, pressing him closer, the other threading through the slick hanks of his hair, and he cursed the ancestors who'd contributed their genes to his unlovely looks. He leaned back only to find her brown eyes staring at him.

Hermione's hand, which had threaded through his hair, now cupped his cheek, and tentatively her slender fingers traced his mouth, his thin lips... a bequeathment of another awkwardly designed ancestor.

A log shifted in the fireplace and it brought reality crashing back to the forefront of their minds. He stiffened, fearing that she might realize what she'd just done and regret it. He almost expected her to run from the room, or to turn like a wounded animal, snarling and snapping.

She did neither.

Instead, Hermione straightened, her hands dropping from his face and back to rest on his forearms, where his hands were resting lightly on her hips. His eyes widened slightly as he realized that her right hand was resting above the Dark Mark, the stain on his character and soul. The actual tattoo was covered by cloth, but they both knew it was there. She had known since the end of her fourth year, and yet she showed no trace of consciousness to its existence. A little, persistent ember of hope refused to die in Snape's heart.

Before he could speak, however, Hermione said in a slightly breathless, low voice. "I should be thanking you for all of your help: for finding me that night, for listening to me grieve for my parents, for sharing your private safe house, for protecting me, for... for letting me believe that I'm not grotesque, for helping my friends. And I do thank you... it's difficult to express what exactly... how much I feel. But honestly, in spite of everything we need to talk about, the only thing I can think to say at this moment is that I've missed you."

He started at her admission. Initially, he thought that her words exemplified her underlying response to him as gratitude and his hope had begun to wither. But then she'd said three magical words: I've missed you. He'd never before had those words spoken to him with sincerity. Yet still he doubted. After all, Hermione had been alone for three weeks. Her solitude would have been more than enough for her to have grown lonely and missed anyone. It was difficult to believe that she'd missed him in particular.

"Missed me? It is loneliness. You miss your friends." Gods, he sounded like a first year Hufflepuff, whinging because he hadn't gotten his way. Nevertheless, he couldn't tamp down the spurt of pleasure that her words had caused.

"Of course I miss Harry and Ron and I'm worried about them... about what to do and how to help them considering that I'm so isolated. We can talk about them in a minute. This is more important right now. Is it so strange that I would miss you?"

He stared at her. Of course it was strange that she'd miss him -- that she wanted to talk about him instead of instantly strategizing to the benefit of the Boy Wonder. It was an almost unbelievable sentiment. Years of persecution and distrust rose within him, laying waste to the intimate moment they'd just shared. He scowled at her.

Some providential twist of fate seemed to reign, and Hermione interpreted his look correctly. Perhaps it was the greater understanding she'd gained from Snape's confession a month before, perhaps it was the recognition of a kindred, wounded soul. Snape would never know, but what she said to him startled him.

"I don't mean that I've missed seeing you in class or in the Great Hall or at Order meetings – those few that we were allowed to attend. I've missed you, the man I met that night in the dungeons, standing before the Mirror of Disenchantment. The man who shared confidences with me. I think the mirror revealed more than this..." her hand traced the roughened skin of her scar, and Snape was astounded to realize that she was still almost naked in front of him... that she hadn't scrambled to find her clothing. His eyes instantly moved to her chest, to the knotted, disfigured nipple of her left breast. His erection pulsed in primal reaction, reminding him that it hadn't forgotten her semi-nude state, and Snape's eyes snapped back to Hermione's, his cheeks flushed.

"You feel gratitude."

Her eyes flashed, her lips tightened and her chin tilted in that belligerent manner she reserved for lecturing her friends and Longbottom. If his emotions weren't wound in such a state of tension, and fearful hopefulness, he would have laughed. He'd never thought to be the recipient of the bossy side of her nature.

"You are so exasperating! Yes, I'm grateful. Who wouldn't be? You listened to me and you confided in me. I have no doubt that you've saved my life by letting me live here... in your private home. But that's not what I mean. I have missed you, Severus Snape, the meticulously demanding taskmaster, harsh critic, and self-sacrificing spy; the man who has saved my life on more than one occasion; the man who has saved my best friend – even though sorely tried. I've missed the man who allowed me to believe that, although I was damaged and disfigured, I was desirable and precious. The man who, even now, causes my heart to race and my stomach to do flip-flops. I've missed you, Severus."

She stepped into him once more, this time without any outward sign of sexual intimacy, and wrapped her arms around his chest, nestling her face against the placket of his coat. Tentatively, with the understanding that something between them was synthesizing, he encircled her in his arms, hugging her as fiercely as she embraced him, feeling her bare skin under his hands. The deep, silky admission was wrenched from the depths of his soul, "I have missed you as well, Hermione."

Her contented sigh blew through him as a spring breeze gusts across a meadow, every strand of grass bending to the greater strength of the more powerful element. In such a way did his own body react to the witch in his arms, as if every filament of his being bent in acknowledgment of the truth of her words and her affection.

They stood embraced for long moments, the fire dying to embers and the room turning chill. The rising gooseflesh Snape could feel under his fingertips sent the message that Hermione was growing cold, and he remembered that she was half-nude. Tucking her head under his chin, strands of her wayward curls tickling his neck, he spoke, "I think you should dress and read your letter. I shall tend to the fire and we can speak when you have finished reading. I would like to discuss the situation with you."

Reluctantly, Snape released Hermione, ignoring the fact that his arms felt empty. He'd liked the feel of holding her against him.

For the next several minutes Snape rebuilt the fire, Hermione re-dressed and read by the light of the gas lamp and the house was quiet. Snape chose the most comfortable of the armchairs and propped his long legs on the low-lying table in front of him, adjacent to the settee where Hermione was curled up. She had a thoughtful expression on her face, and his heart leapt at the realization that he could see her... the mask was off, and he could really look at her again. Hungrily, he watched the thoughts pass across her features. Even though he had been appalled by Dumbledore's deception, intellectually he understood why the old wizard had cast the glamour on Hermione. She was too open, too honest for sustained trickery.

Her voice interrupted the dark line his thoughts were following. "What does Harry mean, 'Apparently, we're waiting for some sort of sign before we go on the offensive?' What sign is Dumbledore waiting for?"

Snape knew the answer to her question, but hesitated before telling her the truth. However, in this place, after such a momentous shift in his relationship with Hermione, he would not prevaricate. Perenelle's cottage was the only place in the world in which he was himself, and he refused to betray his private soul even to offer Hermione platitudes for comfort... he doubted they would work in any event. "I believe that Dumbledore is waiting for the Dark Lord to break me."

Hermione's gasp was a balm for his inner, carefully Colloportus'd, despair, her face utterly stricken by his admission. She quickly rose from her seat and knelt in front of him, her hands resting on the length of his legs. Her huge eyes glittered with emotion, "No... please not that."

Snape leaned forward slightly, warmed by her evident distress, to touch her hand, lightly, delicately. "We know that Albus will sacrifice any except those he deems most beneficial to Potter's survival. The Dark Lord is growing... all right, all right... has grown impatient with my inability to deliver Potter to him. I do not think that I have much longer. Until the start of the new school term perhaps, but no more than that. If I have not delivered Potter by then, my usefulness will have ended for both sides."

"No! You can run. You can hide... here with me. There has to be another way. A way that spares your life... and Harry's."

Touched beyond measure at this indication that she did feel more for him than mere gratitude as she'd professed earlier, and even if it was coupled with her concern for her friend, he was, all the same, a pragmatist. "Hermione, we both know that the probability of our surviving to the end is unlikely. The day the Dark Lord breaks into my mind, he will know where to find Potter. I have a Portkey charmed into one of the buttons of my robes, and I have spent years conditioning my reflexes to react in that life threatening instant... when the Dark Lord's attentions are too much. It will be the last thing I do... using the Portkey to reach Dumbledore. He will know that the attack is imminent, and will gather the Order. Using that Portkey, they can reach the Death Eaters within minutes. Can you really see Dumbledore wasting time attending to me when he needs to prepare Potter for the final fight?"

She said nothing; her face, sans glamour, was more than capable of expressing her horror and her sorrow

"I cannot see it either, no matter how much we might wish it were so," he said wryly. A palpable silence descended between them, unbroken save for the breathing of the witch, the wizard and the fire.

He could tell by watching her expression that Hermione understood the realities facing them... him.... He wished fervently, passionately, that their timing had been different. That he'd discovered her sooner, or she'd been older, or that the Dark Lord had endless patience, or that Harry had already obliterated the malignant taint that threatened the wizarding world like a cancer. But wishes were futile, and rarely... never before... had his come true.

That Hermione was in his home and trusted him with her well-being was more than a wish come true. She was a wish he'd never made... there had been too many obstacles in their path: age, inequitable position, loyalties. Those at least no longer seemed to matter, ironically due to the circumstances that had brought them together. Hermione was no longer a child by any stretch of the imagination... that had been wrested from her beginning at age twelve when, encountering true evil, she showed a maturity beyond her chronological age. They were no longer student and teacher, and with Dumbledore's judgment weighing against her, Hermione had been able to show her personal loyalties: Harry, Ron, and, most surprisingly, him.

After a time, he spoke, "If you wish to reply to Potter's letter, I will see to it that it is delivered without being traced."

"Are you staying the night? I'll make up the bed for you."

"There is no need, Hermione, I am quite comfortable here."

"Severus... sleep with me." What was in her heart was plain on her face, the flush of her cheeks, and tremulous quiver of her mouth, and he knew that sleep was not the only thing that would happen between them if he accepted her offer.

"I cannot." He watched her recoil, but he pressed on, "I would dearly love to sleep in my bed with you, but I will not take advantage of you this way, Hermione. Later... if I survive and you still want me, then..."

"Please, Severus, there is so little I can do to help you from here. At least let me hold you while you sleep." Her face was an odd mixture of youth and wisdom, yearning and comprehension.

Snape felt the emotion tightening his chest, constricting his lungs. "You have helped me more than you know. You have trusted me to see to your safety, and entrusted your livelihood to my honesty. No one else has ever done as much, willingly. Hermione, there is one last thing you should know. If I am..." He paused for a long beat; time ticked past and he found the words. "If all is lost, then you will not be in danger. I have made arrangements with my solicitors, and the cottage is yours in the event of my death. The magical wards and charms on the house and grounds will safeguard you. They are keyed to ownership. I have altered the Fidelius Charm in such a manner that, the moment my brain is no longer capable of keeping your secret, the knowledge of your whereabouts will be expunged from my memory and the ownership clause of the contract will be enforced. You will be safe, I promise you."

Her eyes were like warm beacons in the low light of the room, and her whisper was loud in the quiet room. "I don't know what to say."

"You do not need to say anything. The fact that I have been able to protect you when others would not has been more reward than you can imagine."

"Thank you. It seems so insignificant. Please, please be safe and come back. I will be here..." She didn't say the final word, but his heart heard it anyway. She would be waiting for him... later.

A wealth of understanding passed between them wordlessly, and Snape marveled that in such a short period of time he'd come to care for this young witch above all things, even his own life. In a miracle worthy of an epic tale of heroism and sacrifice, it seemed possible that she truly cared for him as well. Snape's lips thinned against the temptation that was almost more than he could control. "Write your letter, and let me get some sleep. I must be at Hogwarts for breakfast, even during the summer."

In the light of the fire and the rapidly approaching dawn, Snape was able to see snatches of the letter she wrote to her friends. Her eyebrows were drawn together in deep thought, her teeth nibbled on the end of her quill as she paused between paragraphs.

Dear Harry and Ron,

I'm dreadfully sorry that Hedwig was unable to deliver your letter and you were worried about me. I'm safe and well. My Secret Keeper is someone I know and trust, and maybe the fact that Hedwig couldn't find me will ease your fears. If she couldn't find me... no one could. Please don't worry...

Snape found his eyes growing heavy as he listened to the sounds of Hermione breathing and the scratch of her quill as she wrote to her friends.

The library here is very good and I've been reading some interesting books... don't laugh, Ronald.... I know that I can't be with you in person, Harry, but I can still help you...

Hermione Leviosa'd a fresh log onto the grate, and Snape drowsily watched the flames leap and cavort with the fresh tinder. Rarely had he felt so content. When the idyll ended, he would be thrust once more onto the spine-chilling, narrow path of the double agent. But for the time being, brief as it might be, he could rest and watch Hermione and read snippets of her lengthy missive, and pretend.

Use Bill, Ron, tell him it's for chess... but get these four books: The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, The Book of Five Rings, by Musashi Miyamoto, The Prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli, and Lessons of History, by Will and Ariel Durant. READ THEM. I know they're written by Muggles, but they're worth it. They will help. I'll have some more suggestions the next time I write. In the meantime, pretend this is NEWT revision and let me paraphrase...

The aroma and warmth of the fire and the rhythmic scritch of the ostrich quill lulled an exhausted Snape to sleep in due time. He was no longer awake when Hermione finished her letter as the sky pinked with the distinctive shade that heralded a new dawn. He didn't know when she sealed the envelope and placed it on the arm of his chair, under his hand. And he didn't stir when she curled up on the floor at his feet, resting her head against his knees, but when he awoke – his internal clock rousing him at six – she was sound asleep, her head almost in his lap, one of his hands resting in her unruly hair. His heart pounded as he extracted his entwined fingers from her curls, and ever so lightly stroked the surprisingly soft strands of mahogany.

In what was to become a weekly ritual, Snape carefully levitated Hermione to the couch, draped a blanket across her, and kissed her forehead before he left.

They never again spoke of the precariousness of his position or the fact that each week might be his last, nor did she ask him again to sleep with her. But they spent one night a week in each other's company, devoid of the trappings of their public personas, for, in truth, the Mirror of Disenchantment had catapulted them beyond superficialities. In the cottage, Snape was able to be the man he wished to be, free of misconceptions and distrust. During these nights, Hermione read and answered her letters from Harry and Ron, sneaking glances at Snape whenever she thought he wasn't looking. Snape, in his turn, watched her almost incessantly from the moment he crossed the threshold of the cottage and during their discussions of Dumbledore's strategies and frustration over the fact that Harry was no longer the pliable tool the old wizard had expected or intended.

Snape and Hermione never ventured beyond the foyer or the sitting room. That was to be saved for later... if they had a later. After his second visit, Hermione always had a meal laid out on the coffee table, waiting for his arrival. After the third week, she included a small tray of healing potions and unguents to ease his residual Cruciatus symptoms. He never arrived at the same time as the previous week -- it wouldn't do to be too predictable in case anyone was keeping track of his whereabouts.

It was Elysium, and Snape knew it, but it kept him sane.

Hermione recuperated slowly. Her intrinsic magic had been drained almost to the point of burn-out by the parasitic glamour and the incomplete healing of Malfoy's curse scar. Snape charted the slow process; the deep circles under her eyes faded and the hollows of her cheeks filled in. As time passed, her grieving process seemed to reach a new level. She missed her parents, but the shock and trauma were no longer acute. She read voraciously, assessing strategies and arcane bits of magical lore from her own books, the books Snape brought her, and the eclectic library that Perenelle Flamel had bequeathed Snape along with the cottage. Hermione's letters to Harry and Ron were lengthy and filled with the abstracted information that she'd gleaned from her various resources, applying her 'books and cleverness' to the practical application of keeping her friend alive.

Snape basked in the pleasure of her company, and her bitterness seemed to leach from her with each passing week of continued safety and a return to health. The hours they spent together represented an existence he had never aspired to, yet wished was possible, and he clung to the façade of normalcy with a fierce longing that never left his heart. After her letters were written, Snape and Hermione spent hours talking about what later could mean. She talked of coming out of hiding and finding work in Tranformative Charms. He talked of retirement, solitude and independent potions research. Snape marveled at her maturity. She was like a sharply honed blade that had been annealed through the forge of lethal experience and through being the only child of well-educated parents. Their intellectual wrangles were invigorating, and their fanciful plans to redesign the grounds, including room for a potions garden and a kitchen garden, were soothing. Flowers were something upon which Hermione refused to compromise, insisting that it wasn't a real garden without daffodils, roses, and irises.

This halcyon time was the most precious of any in his life. He vacillated between longing for the summer to never end, relieved that he had no teaching duties to interfere with his weekly visits to the cottage and Hermione, and a need for the terrible waiting to be over. He continued to be summoned by the Dark Lord each week, and, for his pains, each time he was punitively inspired with varying degrees of intensity. Dumbledore's extensive Legilimency sessions following Snape's summonses and prostrations before the Dark Lord were almost as debilitating as any caress of Voldemort's curses.

Snape attended every Order meeting, careful to maintain his churlish manner and sharply sarcastic tongue and adamant in his resolve to never remain afterwards for a meal. He never spoke to Hermione's friends about what had happened between them in the library, neither confirming nor denying that he was Hermione's Secret Keeper. The Order members in general still believed Hermione to be dead, and none of the three who knew better disabused them of the notion. But Ron's and Harry's attitude toward their former teacher softened slightly, imperceptibly, and he recognized their efforts to keep up the façade of the caustic relationship that seemed to be theirs. The lank-haired spy noticed, if no one else did, that Harry's and Ron's verbal jousting no longer had the bite of distrust and loathing.

Harry especially seemed to grow more pensive and quiet as the summer progressed. He retained some of his boyish mannerisms, dragging his hands through his unruly hair, but in other respects he'd become a man. The wizarding world's hope for the future no longer shouted Dumbledore or the older members of the Order down when he was frustrated, and he kept Ron's temper in check, as well. Instead, Harry and Ron would determinedly challenge certain strategies as unsound and question many of Dumbledore and Moody's recommendations. Dumbledore was finding that the weapon he'd forged had become a double-bladed sword. It cut sharply in both directions, but the aged thaumaturge began, with feigned grace, to allow Harry to have some input into the decisions that would decide his own fate.

As far as Snape could tell, neither Harry nor Ron had succumbed to the combined efforts of Ginny and Mrs. Weasley, and it was obvious that the youngest Weasley had been kept ignorant by her brother and her would-be lover about Hermione's being alive. Snape was surprised by this exclusion.

Hermione's supposed death had been handled over the course of the summer by the various members of the Order with myriad reactions, and he'd been relieved that his participation in her safety was so readily concealed. Next to Harry and Ron, Molly Weasley's and Minerva McGonagall's reactions had been the most aggrieved. Snape had found it exceedingly difficult to maintain his secrecy in light of Minerva's lined and tired face. She'd seemed to lose heart after Dumbledore's pronouncement of Hermione's 'loss', and Snape had been hard pressed not to reassure her, but he wouldn't erode either Hermione's or McGonagall's safety. If he survived, Snape would willingly let his colleague hex him into the following week. Until then, he maintained his silence and earned McGonagall's censure when he'd sneered, "How fortunate for us not to have to endure the sophomoric pronouncements of a precocious witch."

Remus Lupin's reaction had been profound. The werewolf had blanched at the news of Hermione's presumed loss and he'd retreated to his room after the meeting, in a similar but quieter manner than Harry. The next time Snape had seen Lupin, Snape thought the man had aged a decade. Tonks had smothered Lupin with her attentions until he'd snarled at her, "Leave off, Nymphadora!" She had left him alone until he'd apologized.

Molly continued to express her sorrow by mothering Harry more than ever, which had only served to annoy her son and daughter. But Albus Dumbledore, who had professed his great distress, and had initiated a couple of desultory 'searches' and mentioned that he was certain Hermione needed time 'away from the wizarding world now if she has survived,' turned his speculative gaze upon Ginny Weasley and suggested that she might want to 'be there for young Harry, he'll need his friends now more than ever.' Ginny had taken the Headmaster's words to heart, and while Snape didn't doubt the sincerity of her care for the young savior, there was a calculating... something to her manner that bothered him. Snape hoped, perversely, that she wouldn't be successful in her bid for Harry's affections. Each time he'd had that thought, he derisively decided that he was growing soft when he most needed his wits.

Arthur Weasley's reaction to Hermione's 'death' had been the only one which had truly taken Snape by surprise. The Weasley patriarch had shown the intelligence that most discounted by immediately turning to give Snape a measuring look when Albus had voiced his opinion that Hermione was beyond their assistance. Thereafter, Snape found himself under the ginger-haired wizard's scrutiny on more occasions than he was comfortable with. That Arthur turned that same speculative look on Albus Dumbledore elevated him in Snape's eyes. Snape assiduously avoided any direct conversation with the perceptive Muggle enthusiast at the Order meetings. And every week, after those meetings, two letters would be left for Hermione in the library, hidden under Harry's copy of 'Hogwarts, A History' which he'd received from Hermione as a graduation gift. The letters were not to be found the following day, but in their stead was a response, written in elegant, copperplate handwriting.

In this fashion their lives continued until the very last week of August when Lord Voldemort's patience had indeed run out.

~o0o~