Chapter Twenty-Nine

A/N: Sorry for this lengthy author's note. First off, the usual: Any fully italicized text, as well as anything else you recognize, belongs to JKR. I make no money. Secondly, I borrowed the title of the wonderful story As Sharp as Sunlight by Amanuensis (found on RS.org) in the text of this chapter. Thirdly, to those keeping an eye on canon as they read, I'm not breaking Harry's wand. He's got enough on his mind. And last, but certainly not least, I owe enormous debts of gratitude to RedOrchid, who talked me through this chapter every step of the way; OpalJade, who alpha and beta read this chapter when I was too afraid to send it to anyone; and always, always to Shellsnapelover, without whom there would be no story.

Ok, one last thing. OpalJade has drawn an amazing illustration for this chapter. See it here: http://opaljadde.deviantart.com/art/Working-Together-84217017

He woke for the second time outside Hogwarts. The first time, he had woken in the snow, and after he had processed the seemingly impossible fact that the Dark Lord had left him there--left him! If he had remained unconscious all night, he most likely would have died of exposure, and then who would run the bastard's school?--he had managed to Apparate to a point outside the Hogwarts gates. He had leaned there against the heavy wrought iron for what had felt like hours, trying to regain enough strength to stand and walk into the school. The wind had torn at his bloodied face. Voldemort had not had the whip, so he had been reduced to Cutting Curses.

It could have been worse. He could have used Sectumsempra. At least these wounds had begun to clot.

As he sat there, trying to create a shield between his face and the air with his robes, he thought. Why Albus had not foreseen this was baffling. As Potter and Hermione grew more desperate, as time passed, and their options dwindled, they would become more reckless. This seemed true to him at the most basic level, and he could not imagine why Dumbledore had not considered it. He would not wait any longer to deliver the sword of Gryffindor. They needed it now; they needed to do something productive to clear their minds and set them back upon a steady course. He did not consider how badly he needed to see Hermione, to touch her skin and know that she was safe. He had seen her fly through the air, had seen her disappear, but it was not the same--not the same as feeling her, alive and whole beneath his hands. As soon as he was well enough to travel, he was taking that sword to her. He would see his wife before the new year.

The thought gave him strength, and he managed to rise to his feet. Though he moved slowly, and the wind seemed to deny his every step, he made his way to the castle.

***

Hermione had been trying to reach Snape through the portrait, but Phineas Nigellus would only say that the Headmaster was out and had been for several days. She was afraid to try the ring again, as she had no idea where he had been when he received her message or what it had cost him to reply. Why hadn't she heard from him? Between Harry's condition and Snape's silence, Hermione was in a state of barely suppressed panic.

They had Apparated into a wooded area in the south of Wales. Harry's body had hit the ground with a horrible thump, and Hermione saw that he was not awake. Not asleep, but not awake. He babbled incoherently, sometimes screaming and sometimes laughing. She thought immediately of what he had said to her on her birthday. You weren't sleeping. At least, not any kind of sleep I've ever seen.

She had cast the Muffliato Charm and run in a tight circle around him, just large enough to get the tent in, casting their protective charms. Then she fell to her knees beside him and tore his coat open. She tugged at the Horcrux, which had burned right through Harry's shirt into the skin beneath. The blue cotton was singed and frayed around the locket. She tried to pry it from Harry's chest, but it would not budge. The thing seemed to be pulsing with a kind of unspeakable heartbeat, which was growing in rhythm ever closer to Harry's own. "Accio Horcrux!" she said, but the thing did not move toward her hand. She tried an Unsticking Charm, but to no avail. Finally, she raised her wand and aimed it at Harry's chest. "Diffindo!" she whispered, not daring to go too deep. Using her wand, she severed the locket from Harry's skin and threw it aside. She grabbed her bag from inside her coat and Summoned the Dittany from its depths. She poured a drop onto the angry hole in Harry's chest, watching carefully as it steamed and spit... and healed. She used her wand to cut away his sleeve. She thought she had seen Nagini's fangs graze too close...

There were scratches--two of them, long and red. But they had barely broken the skin. She touched the Vita Secundus where it rested in the pocket of her denims. Not yet. Not until Snape told her that there was no other choice. She smeared a few drops of Dittany over the scratches and watched as they healed. If he did not emerge from this nightmare state, if it worsened... well, then perhaps. But not yet.

Once she was satisfied that Harry was safe and healed to the best of her ability, she removed the tent from her bag and laid it on the forest floor. She aimed her wand at it, and it sprung open, tent posts driving themselves into the ground. She levitated Harry inside and placed him in his bed, pulling the blankets up over him by hand. He whimpered and struggled against her touch, but she persevered.

"Harry," she called. "Harry!"

"No," he muttered. "Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Harry, it's all right, you're all right!"

But still, he did not stir. It was then that she pulled out the portrait and called for Snape, and Phineas Nigellus had given her his enigmatic answer. Where was Snape? Where was help?

***

Snape collapsed through his office door and crawled to the desk, pulling himself up onto his knees. "Black," he whispered. "Have you heard from her?"

"I have," Phineas Nigellus said.

"And?" Snape could not keep the impatience from his voice. Once he knew, he could begin to heal himself.

"She has been calling for you on the hour all night. I have grown weary of her pleading. I am a Headmaster, Snape, not an owl."

"Forgive..." Snape struggled into his desk chair. "Forgive me. There was an incident. Would you please contact her?"

"You will need medical attention before you can begin speaking to anyone," Dumbledore said sharply. "Attend to your wounds immediately, Severus. You are in no condition to be walking about."

"Dobby!" Snape called, and the house-elf cracked into his office. "Potions... please. My stores. Blood Replenishing Potion, Dittany... quickly."

The world seemed to be swirling in and out of focus. Hadn't this all happened before? Dobby had been sent for potions. Soon he would attend to the Headmaster's hand. Then, there would be something about Hermione...

He opened his eyes to see Dobby dancing nervously from foot to foot. "I is bringing the potions, Headmaster."

When Snape reached out for the bottles, Dobby recoiled. Ah, yes. He was starting to remember where he was.

"Thank you," Snape whispered and tipped the phial of Blood Replenisher down his throat. His head began to clear.

"I'm going to sit here for a moment longer, Dobby, and then I'm going to go into the bathroom to attend to my wounds. If you would be so kind as to bring me some soup from the kitchens?"

Dobby hesitated, but Dumbledore spoke up. "Headmaster Snape asked for soup, Dobby. I also think a bit of tea?"

"Yes, sir," Dobby said and was gone again.

Snape stood slowly and inched his way to the bathroom. He grasped the edges of the porcelain sink to brace himself and looked into the mirror. His face was a mess, but it was nothing Dittany wouldn't take care of. And he had never been in the running for any beauty contests anyway. He used his wand to ease droplets of the Dittany from the bottle and smear them over the jagged gashes on his face. Instantly, the skin began to knit together, even in the places where it looked desiccated and frayed by the harsh winds. He rolled up his sleeves and touched the viscous liquid to his arms and hands. Better. Much better. There was a single large slash across his chest; it had gone right through his heavy damask robes. He carefully peeled the fabric away and sealed the wound with his wand. He did not want to overdo the Dittany, and he would not mind a scar of this size so long as his clothes covered it. A tiny portion of his mind spoke up to insist he deserved it.

He should have asked for pain reliever. The residual blooming headache of the Cruciatus was beginning, and his chest still ached. But perhaps the food and rest would be enough. He did not want to ask anything more of house-elves more apt to take orders from a portrait than a living Headmaster.

When he returned to the office, he settled once more at his desk, dropping his head into his hands and trying to rub away the pressure.

"Perhaps you would like to tell me what has happened?"

"Perhaps you would like to tell me what business they had in Godric's Hollow?"

"Godric's Hollow?" Dumbledore said quickly. "I certainly did not--that is, I did not expect them there until Spring."

"Then the Dark Lord is beginning to understand Potter better than you do, old man, for he expected them there. He was waiting."

"But you were able to--"

"Dumbledore," Snape said gravely. "They were nearly caught tonight. If Miss Granger had not had misgivings and contacted me, they surely would have been caught. Voldemort's connection to Potter remains strong. He is beginning to understand the boy, and God help us if he becomes even more adept at doing so. I am taking them the sword of Gryffindor."

"Severus, be reasonable. You've had a shock, it seems, and your wounds have been extensive. Eat. Then we will discuss what comes next."

"I will not hear argument, Albus. They need purpose and direction. They need to feel that help is coming from somewhere, that there are answers to be had, or they will act ever more foolishly in their desperation. I am going. As soon as I am well enough to travel, I am going."

***

She lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night. Sleep would not come. It was dark, and it was quiet, but her mind would not calm, would not cease its wandering over the familiar questions that had no answers. How would they find the remaining Horcruxes? Why hadn't she heard from Snape? Headmaster Black had contacted her in the early morning hours after they had escaped from Voldemort and told her that Snape had arrived at Hogwarts, but she had heard nothing in the days since then. She rolled over on her bunk and tried to focus her attention on the sound of Harry outside, shifting occasionally, breathing, turning pages. That was real. That was Harry. She needed to sleep.

Since the nightmare of Godric's Hollow, she had taken to opening the bag and rummaging around in it whenever she told Harry where they were setting up camp. It made her skin prickle to realize that the whole thing could have been avoided had she and Snape been comparing notes, and she did not intend to keep their location from him anymore, even if it did seem highly unlikely that the Death Eaters were planning a trap in the Forest of Dean. And there was a tiny, unspoken wish behind it, that if he knew where she was, he would come.

When would he come? They needed that sword, she knew. Harry had not been the same since he had woken from his delirium. From his words, she gathered that he had spent the hours drifting between Voldemort's mind and his own. She wondered how much the Horcrux had had to do with it, how close it had come to possessing him entirely. Since that night, they had never worn the thing for more than two hours at a time. Sometimes, without asking one another, they would hang it from the end of one of the bunks, where it seemed to watch them like a large, malevolent eye. The thing was getting stronger. When she looked at it, the word 'feeding' sprang to her mind. He would not discuss it, nor would he speak with her about what had happened in Bathilda Bagshot's house. Whether that was because he was ashamed that he had led them into a trap, or because they had not gained anything of use in Godric's Hollow, she did not know, but he was silent and moody and snapped at her when she tried to plan. He often took the first watch of the night and told her to go inside and sleep, and more often than not, he stayed out long past his watch, waking her as the sun came up. He was beginning to look pale and bruised. Perhaps he feared sleep. They needed that sword.

Hermione heard an odd rustling outside the tent. It sounded as if Harry had just stood up. Perhaps tonight he would give in to sleep and ask her to take the watch. It was just as well--it hadn't looked as if she would be sleeping that night anyway, and she hoped that some rest would improve his temper. But the crunching footsteps she heard were moving slowly away from the tent, not toward it. Was he leaving her? Where was he going? How many steps until she was invisible to him, and he could not find his way back if he tried?

She swung her legs out of the bed and stepped into her shoes. The night was frigid, and she ran toward the tent flap with her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. She ducked out of the tent onto the small patch of ground that remained inside of the enchantments, looking frantically around. She opened her mouth to begin screaming for him, though that would do no good if he had truly left. He would not hear her no matter how loudly she called. She remembered that he had the Horcrux--he'd had it, on and off, since dinner. Was it possible that the thing had tricked him, had made him think--

When her ring burned, a startled squeal escaped from her mouth. Perhaps there was a trap in the Forest of Dean--now Harry had been lured away, and Snape was warning her too late--

She slid the ring from her finger and read the message in the moonlight.

Drop your wards.

She stared inside the circlet, her heart racing. Drop your wards. Had he, was he-- Did she dare obey?

It was Snape. It had to be. No one else could work the ring; no one else even knew the ring was there. Her hand fell to her pocket where her wand stuck out. She grasped it and swung it in a high arc over her head. Golden light spilled from its tip as the enchantments melted away and left her standing there, exposed, a small, thin girl next to a flimsy looking tent in the middle of the woods.

She looked out at the edge of the clearing, where the trees grew denser. The snow was thinner on the ground there--it rested mostly in a thick canopy in the tree tops. Darkness seemed to radiate from the ground. She could not see, could not make out--

But there he was, emerging from the shadow of the trees, his black cloak swirling in the wind. Had he always been so tall? For a moment her heart seized in her chest. Had she forgotten his face so easily, the way he moved with such liquid authority? He walked toward her slowly as if afraid that she would bolt, but she was frozen in place despite the icy wind that bit through the weave of her jumper and stung her skin below. She could not look away.

***

She stood there, beside the tent, unmoving. She was thin, so much thinner and harder than he had remembered, and her hair was longer and somehow dry looking. The wind swept it from her face, and the moonlight behind her illuminated the frayed tips, making her look as if she was surrounded by a nimbus of light. Her arms hung at her sides now, and her wand was held loosely in one fist. She did not raise it or aim it at him, but waited, just as he had remembered; she waited for him to come to her.

He came to the edge of where her enchantments had been, where he had seen the golden light pulse and fade. There he stopped and took her in, this calm warrior--her thin jumper, the dirty denims, and the way she stared at him as if she could never stop looking. When was the last time someone had looked at him? He felt a hard knot of muscle between his eyebrows release, though he had not been aware that it had been pinched. Her face was so open--he searched it for any trace of hatred or mistrust and found nothing there but her wide brown eyes and her lips, slightly parted, the corners hinting at something that was not a smile but a welcome.

She did not speak, but he did not blame her, for suddenly he could think of no words but her name.

Slowly, she raised one of her hands, offering it to him, as if to help him inside the circle.

"You should..." he croaked, "you should ask a question."

She nodded gravely. "What did you take from my parents' luggage?"

"Your picture," he whispered and took a step forward, but she shook her head.

"Now ask me."

What could he ask? Something welled up inside him and threatened to choke him. He suddenly felt afraid that he might die before he got the chance to touch her.

"What is your surname?" he asked.

She did not answer, but slipped suddenly inside his cloak, her arms threading around him, her face pressed against his chest. He leaned down over her, to protect her from the wind and to embrace her more completely, his arms pinning her to him, one hand burying itself in her hair. "Snape," she whispered. "Snape." And he did not know whether it was an answer or a greeting or just a sound her heart was making, but he did not care in the slightest. She knew him. She knew.

***

He was nudging her toward the tent, and she knew that they needed to go there to get out of the cold and the open, but to do so would be to let go, and she could not let go. She shook her head from side to side where it was pressed against the heavy, black wool of his robes.

"Yes," he whispered. "Inside."

Finally, she broke away from him and ducked inside the tent, looking over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure he was following, that he was still there. When she rose, he was right behind her, and she lit her wand in the dimness.

"You came."

"Did you think that I--?" There was something about his face that was different. There were new scars, yes, faint new lines among the familiar ones, but that was not it. The quirk of his lips was the same, the planes and hollows of his cheeks, the curve of his nose... but something was different. He looked like someone who had been in pain for so long that he no longer knew how to relax his face--that somehow endurance had burned its way into his features. She reached up and touched him hesitantly.

"Stop. I knew you would come."

She rose onto her toes as he leaned down toward her. Her eyes sought his and held them firmly as his lips crashed down onto hers. She grasped his shoulders, and his arms tightened around her as their kiss deepened. She was breathing him--the sharp, familiar smell of his skin, his hair as it brushed her face; She was light-headed and spinning with him. She had waited, yes, but she had not known what she was waiting for. For planning and working were forgotten. She had waited for him.

***

Pain. Pain was what he felt when he touched her; sweet pain that began where his fingertips delved beneath the neck of her jumper to the skin below, pain that seared a path from his lips down deep into his chest where it burned and crushed his heart. Why was there no charm to stop time or kill him here and now? This was a feeling too large for him, and now that he had known it, he could not un-know it, not deny it, not do anything but yield, and he did not know how to yield--

Her fingers were unclasping his cloak, and he heard it hit the ground with someone else's ears. All he knew was the brush of her warm and slightly chapped lips over his, and the texture of her tongue as it probed his mouth. He drew her in closer, trying to anchor himself against her, but she was stepping back to begin unfastening his robes.

He should protest, he knew. He should protest, but he could not. It was not desire that stopped him, though he had no word for it but desire. It was something more primal than desire, something too potent to be described. He simply knew that he must give in to it. So he took the hem of her jumper and eased it up over her waist, over her arms--and she ducked out of it, her skin so pale and smooth. He reached for her, bent his face and rubbed it against that skin, trailing his lips over the collarbones that stood out so sharply in the wand light.

She brought her hands up between them and went to work on his buttons, but it was too much, too far away, and so he locked his mouth to hers and yanked his shirt out of his trousers, undoing the buttons from the bottom up until their hands met in the middle. She shoved the shirt back over his shoulders, and he made a kind of wild, flapping motion as he threw it to the ground. When the skin of her breasts pressed up against his bare chest, he uttered a guttural sound of gratitude.

She pulled back and stared at his chest, raising her fingers to trace the angry pink of the new scar there. She pressed her hand flat against it. She opened her mouth to speak and then seemed to think better of it and simply rested her forehead against her hand where it covered his heart. Then he nudged her, and she turned and moved toward the bed, unfastening her denims as she went and stepping out of them. He followed her, almost blind with an ache he had never known. He removed his trousers, and she motioned him to sit. She shoved the bedding aside, and it released a scent he knew intimately--the smell of her, but also the pungent aroma of fear and sweat and tears and waiting, and he helped her push it away as she climbed astride him. As she sank down onto him, she let out a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from some secret place inside her, a sigh that sounded to his ears like relief. He shifted beneath her slightly, rolling his hips and seating himself fully within her.

"Hermione," he whispered.

"Yes." It was not a question but an answer, and he buried his face in the soft skin of her neck, nuzzling and nipping her, his hands coming to rest on her hips, guiding her motion. They were barely moving, barely rocking together. Her thighs clenched in time with the gentle press of his hands.

"Look at me."

One hand rose to her lower back, and he began to ease her forward and then back, creating a swirling rhythm between them. Color bloomed over her skin, traveling up from her breasts up into her hairline. She leaned back slightly against his hand, and her eyes locked in on his. Without meaning to, he began to slip into her mind, and felt the odd tingling sensation of her presence in his own. He tasted the heavy, thick layers of her arousal and found beneath it something else, something that made him gasp. He tore his eyes from hers and grasped her firmly in his arms, pulling out of her and rolling her onto the bed.

"Severus?"

He loomed above her, kneeling between her legs. He looked at her thin, heart-shaped face, the sprawl of her curls across the pillow, her questioning eyes, memorizing her. In a moment, he would plunge; in a moment, what was true would be true, undeniable, and he would seek and find her there with him. They would climb together and then it would be over. But for this second, this moment before, as they hung here on the precipice, he would know that he had looked into her mind, and she had stared back into his, and they were truly naked now.

***

He looked at her like someone who had been struck dumb with wonder, who had waved his wand for the first time and seen an elephant erupt from it into the parlor. In his mind, she had seen what she had known, what she had guarded with inattention and neglect, what she had treasured by keeping it in dark and secret places. She was glad; her face hurt with gladness, but it was dangerous, too. This thing between them was as sharp as sunlight; it had an edge that could cut, and she knew they would have to be very careful now. But here in the dark of the tent, alone, they could ride it like a wave. They could drink at the well of it and be sated.

She urged him toward her, took his hips into her hands and lowered them to hers. He rested his forehead against hers and shut his eyes as he sank into her. Her arms slid up under his and clutched his back, and he caged her shoulders with his hands as he began to thrust more deeply.

"I want--" he murmured, "I want... all the way in."

A shock of pure desire surged through her, and she arched to meet him, to bring him completely inside her. Her knees doubled up at her shoulders, and he used the weight of his chest to brace them and shifted his hips back and forth, edging, plunging, fighting his way in. When he rested fully against her, he rocked, pulsing his pelvic bone against her clit until her hands scrabbled for purchase against his arms, and she threw her head back and let the sensation arc from his skin to hers, the sweet friction that seemed to come from everywhere, and Hermione closed her eyes and gave herself to her husband and took him in return.

***

He had thought he would feel diminished now that she had taken the last of his secrets, but instead he felt deeply quiet. He was curled around her, his chest pressed against her back, their legs entwined, the tops of his feet pressed against the soles of hers. For a few moments, he was able to look around the tent as he had been unable to before, when his need for her had been too strong to allow him to perceive anything but her familiar, longed-for presence. So, this was where she spent her days. That was the chair she sat in when she spoke to him; these were the walls that bore the changing shadows of the endless hours. He was grateful to see them, to know them, so that when he returned, he could picture her here. He reached up and fingered her hair and brought a chunk of it to his face.

When she spoke he could feel the rumble of her voice in his skin.

"How long do we have?"

He sighed into her hair. Where had this woman come from, this woman who did not beg for impossible things, nor complain of the few they had?

"An hour more at most. The sword of Gryffindor must be taken under conditions of valor, as I'm sure you know. I buried it in an icy lake. My Patronus is guiding Potter to the spot."

"Your Patronus! Brilliant!" she said, and he could hear the smile on her lips.

"My Patronus," he agreed. "I--I am aware of what you heard about my Patronus, Hermione, and--"

She pressed back against him firmly. "There will come a time when I will want to hear all you are willing to tell me about your life before we married, but we have limited time now, and I think we should talk about the Horcruxes."

His arms tightened around her briefly before he released her. He felt almost light-headed with the magnitude of what he had been given. He had joined his life, however briefly, to a woman he could trust, a woman whose priorities matched his own. "I assume you have notes?" he said, quirking an eyebrow at her as she rose and began to dress.

She smiled at him. "Naturally."

He rose and began replacing his own robes as she dragged her handbag across the floor. She lit a lamp with her wand and conjured a table beside the bed. From the depths of her bag she pulled a sheaf of parchment and several books, which she spread before them.

He sat beside her, his thigh resting against hers. "I take it you've worked out that the sword will destroy the Horcruxes?"

"Yes," she said. "Because of the basilisk venom the blade contains. I haven't the slightest idea why Dumbledore failed to reveal that to Harry before we set out."

Snape glowered. "Dumbledore seems to think that Potter should be given time to work these things out on his own."

She shook her head, and he thought he saw anger in her eyes. "Does he know that you're here?"

"He does. I cannot say that he was in favor of it, but as he is made of naught but canvas and pigment, he could not stop me."

"How much does he know?"

"As yet, he does not know that I have determined the nature of your mission. I simply told him that I felt Potter would begin to behave in ever more foolhardy ways if he were not given the sword, given something to go on."

"And about..."

"About what?"

"About us?"

"Ah. Well, you heard him the other night. He suspects."

"I'm sorry. Is he terribly angry?"

"He is enigmatic as always. I sometimes think he is waiting to see how the war plays out, so that he can take credit for the good and deny any knowledge of the bad."

Hermione turned to look at him, and he saw that she was measuring his meaning, deciding which category he thought their situation fell under. He leaned against her slightly.

She turned back to her work and unrolled a bit of parchment, running her hand down the list of bulleted points there. Snape pulled the parchment until it sat between them and leaned in more closely to examine it. He felt, as he looked, an odd and fleeting sense of loss. It would have... it would have been nice to work with someone. Someone bright. Someone organized. He could not see himself sitting down to a meal she had prepared, but he could see this, the way she would make notes in the margins of his work, the way she would dice while he stirred. But that was not worth thinking about.

"Tell me everything. When did you learn about the Horcruxes?"

"Dumbledore began to tell Harry about the Horcruxes last year, around the time that we were married. He believed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had split his soul six times, leaving the seventh piece inside his body. At that time, two of the Horcruxes had already been destroyed: the ring and the diary."

Snape nodded at her, and she continued. "Dumbledore said that the Dark Lord," she winced as she uttered those words, and he nodded again, "liked to choose items that had particular value to him, to his way of thinking. He suggested that Harry look for things that belonged to the four founders of Hogwarts."

"I see," he said. "And do you know what the remaining Horcruxes are?"

"Not all of them," she said, "which is what has been slowing us down. We know that the ring belonged to Slytherin, and we have a locket that was also Slytherin's. That was what we went to the Ministry to retrieve. Dumbledore also believed that the snake, Nagini, is a Horcrux. But that leaves two more that we don't know."

The snake, Nagini. Suddenly, the rest clicked into place in his mind. There will come a time--after my death... There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake... When Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.

"What?" she asked. "You know something." How was it possible she had learned his face so well? No twitch of his muscles should have betrayed him, and yet, she knew. He would not lie to her.

"Hermione, I do not know how to tell you this. I have not wanted to tell it."

"Tell me."

"Potter is a Horcrux." Inwardly, he chastised himself. Must he always be so blunt?

"But--how can that be?" she said, her voice rising slightly in pitch. "Dumbledore said there were six, that Vo--He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wanted a seven part soul!"

He tried again more gently. "Before your sixth year... before your birthday, when Dumbledore returned to the school with the cursed hand, he told me the reason that he had wanted me to brew the Vita Secundus."

"Harry," she said, uncomprehending. "For Harry."

"For Potter, yes. Because he believes that Potter will have to go to the Dark Lord willingly, will have to be killed by his hand, or the Dark Lord cannot die."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't understand."

"The scar, the connection between their minds, the Parseltongue... it is the bit of Lord Voldemort in Potter that creates those things. Dumbledore did not tell me about the other Horcruxes. I am sure that he feared it would be discovered in my mind before you were able to find and destroy them. He cautioned me that Potter must not know, must not be told until the last moment."

"And he meant for you to tell him?"

"Yes. He told me that when the Dark Lord begins to fear for Nagini, it will be time to tell Harry. He believes that Potter must die by the hand of the Dark Lord and no other. That was the reason for the Vita--he must live long enough to face him."

"And be killed." Her face was waxy and immobile.

"I know you will not believe me when I tell you that I was--I am--equally horrified. I do not have much in the way of comfort to offer you, but there is this: you have proven to be a skilled and resourceful partner to Potter. If he reaches the Dark Lord without the use of the Vita, you will still have it; the life it contains will still be available. You can administer it then."

"And if not? Who will kill him if Harry is dead?" she said, her voice flat and affectless.

"Whichever of us is left alive to do it."

She sat so silently that he began to be afraid. Her color was rising.

"I apologize for not telling you sooner."

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus. When would you have told me? You didn't know what we were doing. Merlin's fucking balls! The things he asks of you. When this is over I am going to hit that portrait with the strongest Reductor Curse in me."

Snape snorted. "That would be quite a curse." He knew that in turning on Dumbledore, she was coping in the best way that she knew how; this news must have stolen much of the hope she had left, and he was deeply sorry to have had to tell her. But it seemed now that the only way forward was together. There was so much to hide already. He could no longer dissemble with her, and the thought of sending her out to do Dumbledore's work without explanation, as if she were some sort of drone, was abhorrent to him.

"But you see... yes? You see why the others have to be done first? Why he cannot know?"

"Of course, I see. And it is all the more urgent that we get it done quickly. I must keep Harry safe until then."

"Exactly. Now, do you remember when I was summoned last Christmas?" Snape asked.

"Yes."

"I learned that night that the Dark Lord had hidden something in Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts."

"Oh!" Hermione said, taking up a quill and beginning to write, but Snape stopped her hand with his.

"How will you explain--?"

She blushed slightly. "Oh, yes. You're right. But that is very helpful."

"I will try to discover what it is and if there is any way I can get it for you myself."

"No," she said. "Don't."

"What? Why not?"

She traced her finger across his chest, indicating the scar. "You have enough jobs; this one is mine. I won't have you risking your position over this. I can do it."

"'Over this,' you say, as if it is a triviality! Hermione, the war depends upon--"

"Do you think I don't know what I've been doing? I know what those Horcruxes are."

Her tone gave him pause. There was so much about the months she had spent on the run that he did not know, so much that he did not have time to ask. What did she know of the power of that Horcrux? What had it already cost her? So many times, she'd risked her life, her sanity, for this. Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her again, to claim this witch, his partner, with his mouth, but there was no time for that, and so, he tried with words. "I have every faith in you," he said.

She nodded and smiled a bit ruefully. "If you found out what it was--without endangering yourself, of course--I would be glad for that information."

The corners of his lips turned up in return. "Of course."

"There is one last thing," she said, riffling through her parchment once more. "Do you recognize this symbol?"

She pointed to a crude symbol that she had drawn on the page. It looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a vertical line.

"I do not. What is it?"

"I don't know. Dumbledore left me this book in his will," she said, holding up The Tales of Beedle the Bard. "This symbol was in it, drawn above one of the stories. I saw it on a tombstone in Godric's Hollow. Peverell was the name on the stone. It didn't feel like a coincidence. Harry mentioned that it might be Grindelwald's mark?"

Grindelwald's Mark? What in Merlin's name? How Dumbledore expected her to unravel all of this without help or outside sources was utterly beyond him. "It is not a coincidence, to be sure, though I do not know the mark or what it means. But the Dark Lord has spoken often of Grindelwald in the last several months. At one point, I believe he mentioned wanting to pay him a visit in Nurmengard."

"Harry said that Xenophilius Lovegood was wearing the symbol on a chain around his neck at Bill and Fleur's wedding."

Snape shook his head and gazed skyward for a moment. "I cannot believe that I am about to suggest it, but perhaps you should go and see the bizarre Mr Lovegood. You know his daughter, I believe?"

"Luna, yes."

"My only warning is that he has been awfully staunch in his defense of Potter. But I have heard no rumblings about him from the Death Eaters as yet. And Dumbledore did put faith in the oddest souls," he said sardonically. "It might be worth your time."

"I'll raise it with Harry."

"Good. I will see what I can discover on my end."

They sat in silence for a moment, side by side in the lamplight, and her hand crept into his, and her fingers nested with his own.

"Dumbledore is a fool, and he wastes your talents," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Still, I don't like the danger it puts you in to know all this."

"The danger is no more and no less than it was before. As Dumbledore pointed out to me recently, there were already secrets I would have died to protect. I would rather keep yours."

She closed her eyes and squeezed his hand. He looked at her for a long time, memorizing her in case he should not see her again: the way her lips turned up slightly, even in repose; the sooty fringe of her eyelashes against her skin. This was one thing that could never been taken from him. No one else would ever see her in this exact moment.

"Hermione, I think I should--"

"Yes, I know," she said quietly. "Will I see you again? Before the end, I mean?"

"I don't know," he answered. He wished he had the strength to lie to her. He wondered if she knew what she meant by 'the end.'

"Severus," she said, and he knew she was about to thank him. That would not be allowed.

"No," he whispered. And he slipped an arm around her and drew her in. And leaning down and taking her face in his other hand, he kissed her as thoroughly as he was able; he pressed their secrets into her mouth.

When he could release her, he looked into her eyes and whispered, "Do you remember when I told you not to repeat our plans back to me? That things said aloud are harder to hide?"

She bit her lip and nodded. Her eyes were looking dangerously bright.

"Good," he said. "I will be in touch." He rose. If he did not leave now, he would not be able to leave.

"Be safe," she said. "Above all things, stay safe." And she turned away as he began to spin, as if she could not bear to watch him go.