Chapter 13

Disclaimer: All characters and settings of Potterverse are the property of J.K. Rowling and other sundry entities. Only the plot belongs to me. I am making no money. I play in this universe for the sheer joy of it. My only payment is the kind reviews and comments of those who read and enjoy my tale. This story is canon-compliant through HBP. DH has, for the most part, been happily disregarded, especially that sappy epilogue!

Special thanks go to my beta reader, JuJuJenn. She makes sure I stay focused.

Thirteen

After dinner that evening, while waiting for the Dark Lord's summons, Snape began teaching the three of them a spell to alter the voice.

"Sounding like a friend instead of a foe may give you just enough time to raise your wand or activate your Portkey," Snape said.

Much to Snape's surprise, it was Ron who managed to perfect the spell first.

"Constant vigilance!" Ron said in Alastor Moody's gravelly voice.

It took only a few more tries for Hermione.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Hermione said in Sybill Trelawney's wispy, ethereal voice, "but you are hopelessly Mundane."

Harry finally managed it, and had Ron loudly guffawing as he imitated Percy's supercilious tone.

"Do you know how many accidents there are each year because cauldron-bottom thickness is unregulated?"

Even Snape smiled at that, but his smile turned to a grimace when he felt his Dark Mark begin to burn.

"It seems the moment of truth has arrived," he said as he picked up his cloak and headed for the door.

Hermione opened her mouth as though to speak, but Snape raised a hand.

"I'm always careful, Miss Granger. Take care of Lupin."

Hermione just nodded.

"All of you – keep practicing."

Then he opened the front door and slipped away into the night.

"Good evening, Severus," the Dark Lord said as Snape arrived before him.

"My lord," Snape said as he dropped to one knee and humbled himself before his master.

"We have an important task tonight," Voldemort said.

"As always, I am at your service, my lord," Snape replied.

"It's still a bit early to be out and about, however."

Snape tensed. He could imagine how Voldemort might want to kill a little time.

"I have something to attend to before we leave," Voldemort continued. If he'd noticed Snape's reaction, he chose to ignore it.

"You will stand there," Voldemort said as he pointed, "and wait for me."

"Of course, my lord," Snape said with a little bow of his head.

It was three in the morning before Voldemort returned. Snape had stood in the spot Voldemort had indicated, not daring to move even the six inches that would have enabled him to lean against the wall. He knew that he was being observed, whether by Voldemort or by one of his fellow Death Eaters. Either way, he knew that if he so much as lifted a foot to ease the cramping of his toes, he would be punished.

"Ah, Severus," Voldemort said as he swept back into the room. "I'm ready to leave now."

"Yes, my lord."

Because he, Snape, wasn't supposed to know where they were going, Voldemort had taken him via Side-Along-Apparition. Not content with merely having Snape hold his arm, Voldemort had insisted on enfolding Snape in both arms and holding him tightly pressed against his chest. He'd seemed to delight in Snape's discomfiture.

When they arrived at the Potter house, Voldemort waved his wand at the front door as though he owned the place and walked right in, Snape on his heels.

He'd climbed the stairs and walked directly to the room at the end of the hall, not even glancing at the nursery on his right.

Snape had figuratively held his breath as Voldemort lifted down the duplicate scabbard. This was the critical moment. If the substitution was discovered, Snape's life would be forfeit; and he wouldn't die an easy death. He doubted he'd even have the opportunity to use the emergency Portkey he'd activated before he left Grimmauld Place.

"Do you know what this is, Severus?" Voldemort had asked as he stroked the scabbard in an almost sensual manner.

"A scabbard, my lord," Snape replied.

"Not just any scabbard, old friend. This is the scabbard that once held the sword of Godric Gryffindor."

"I was not aware that the Gryffindor sword had a scabbard," Snape replied.

"Oh, yessss," Voldemort said sibilantly. "Dumbledore, the old fool, managed to keep the sword from me, but not this." He stroked the scabbard again. "No, this I kept safe along with three other relics from the founders.

"And do you know why I've kept them safe?"

"No, my lord."

"Because by possessing these relics, I prove that I am descended from all four of the founders of Hogwarts."

The fact that he possessed the relics only because he had stolen them was an irony that Voldemort had apparently chosen to ignore.

"Did you know that Potter and I are related, Severus?" Voldemort asked.

Snape quirked a brow.

"No, my lord."

"We are actually distant cousins. His line has been diluted, of course. His Pure-blood father defiled himself by taking a Mudblood to wife."

Snape kept his face carefully blank. He didn't think it would be prudent to mention that Voldemort's own father had been a Muggle – a Muggle whom his Pure-blood mother had bewitched into a doomed marriage.

"That doesn't change the fact, however, that he is also descended from the founders," Voldemort continued. "His line is most direct from Godric Gryffindor, while mine is, of course, most direct from Salazar Slytherin.

"Once I gain control of the Ministry and of Hogwarts, I will see to it that the ideals of my greatest ancestor will become the standard. Only those who are worthy will be allowed to develop their magic. Undesirables will have their magic bound. Never again will a Mudblood be allowed within the walls of Hogwarts, and Half-bloods will have to prove themselves before they are admitted. Sub-humans will be neutralised. Werewolves, centaurs, goblins – all will be eliminated. We'll keep the house-elves, inferior creatures though they are, because at least they are useful. They also understand and accept their proper place – under our boot heels!"

Snape had heard this all before ... ad nauseam ... but he nodded in all the appropriate places.

"It will take time to bring all my plans to fruition; I have taken steps, however, to insure that I have all the time I need. In three or four generations, no one will even remember the name 'Harry Potter'!"

"Yes, my lord."

Voldemort finally finished his litany of self-aggrandisement.

"Come, Severus," Voldemort said. He opened his arms, and Snape stepped into them.

Apparition requires intense concentration, and uses a lot of magical energy. It soon became apparent that while Snape had been standing at rigid attention for five hours awaiting his master's return, Voldemort had been sleeping, or at least resting.

They spent the next hour Apparating from one bleak and isolated destination to the next until Snape was even more exhausted than he had been and was completely disoriented.

Voldemort had never bothered to learn how to Apparate without making a sound. Or, as was more likely, he didn't feel the need to move about silently.

In fact, Snape decided after a particularly thunderous arrival, he seemed to be trying to make as much noise as possible.

They stayed on the freezing moor only a few seconds before Voldemort decided they were leaving. Snape couldn't keep from wincing in pain as they Apparated once again with a loud, reverberating crack.

When he opened his eyes, he was astounded to discover that they were once more standing in front of the Potter house in Godric's Hollow.

"Perhaps I should just leave this here after all," Voldemort said. "The wards are impressive. I have to give the old fool his due; when he set the Fidelius Charm, he made it a strong one. I would have gotten through anyway, of course, but I doubt anyone else would be able to."

Snape knew what response was required of him.

"Your skills are beyond compare, my lord," he murmured.

"Yes, I know."

Once again, Voldemort waved his wand and moved into the house as though it belonged to him.

Once again, they went up the stairs, down the hallway, and into the study. Voldemort hung the scabbard in the same place he'd taken it from more than two hours earlier.

He turned and left the room. Snape followed.

Just before they reached the top of the stairs, Voldemort paused and looked into the nursery.

"No ... not there," he murmured. "This is the place it should be."

He spun on his heel and retraced his steps.

He took the scabbard down again and brought it into the nursery.

He placed it in the crib and drew the rumpled blanket up, smoothing the pale blue wool over the scabbard as though tucking in a sleepy child.

"I'll be back," Voldemort crooned. "When the time is right, I'll be back to reclaim you."

He straightened and looked to Snape who had stationed himself just outside the doorway.

"This is where it will end, Severus," he said. "This is where I will finally fulfil the prophecy. When the time is right, he will come here to me. He will come to this house – to this room and 'the Boy Who Lived' will live no more!"

"That will be a glorious day, my lord," Snape said.

Voldemort approached Snape, trailing a long, thin finger down his cheek.

"And will you be by my side on that glorious day, old friend?"

Snape willed himself not to flinch away from that cold, disgusting touch.

"Of course, my lord," Snape replied as he bowed his head slightly. "It is my honour to serve you."

Voldemort glanced at the window and sighed. The very first pale pink fingers of dawn were beginning to colour the eastern sky.

"It's really too bad we don't have more time. I do so enjoy receiving your ... service."

Snape flushed, and Voldemort smiled his haughty, condescending smile.

They left the house only moments later.

As soon as they stepped outside the wards, Voldemort turned to Snape.

Snape steeled himself to step into Voldemort's repulsive embrace once more.

"Although I know how much you enjoy being close to me, Severus, I find I'm rather fatigued. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to find your own way back."

"As you wish, my lord," Snape said.

"Do your best to hide your desolation."

"Every moment away from you is a desolate one, my lord," Snape said as he dropped to one knee and lifted the hem of his master's cloak to his lips.

"Would that all my followers were as faithful as you, old friend," Voldemort said, and with another loud crack that had Snape grimacing in pain, he was gone.

Snape reached deep within himself to gather the energy he needed to Apparate back to London.

"I'm so bloody tired I'll probably splinch myself all over the Bristol Channel," he muttered to himself.

And then he drew a deep breath and disappeared without a sound.

Snape was nearly stumbling with fatigue when he arrived outside the wards around Grimmauld Place.

As he passed through the wards and trudged up the pathway that led to the back door, he reflected that it was at times like this that he most missed his house at Spinner's End, mean and simple though it had been.

Although there were a few Ministry officials and Aurors who knew where his true allegiances were, he was officially a wanted man. The Ministry had warded him out of his own house and frozen his account at Gringotts. Minerva, of course, had been forced to terminate his employment, so Hogwarts was closed to him, as well.

That meant that other than his retreat in the Himalayas, which really was too far for everyday purposes, Grimmauld Place was the only location he could move in and out of freely.

Not that he had anyplace to go, he reflected ruefully.

Oh, he could visit Knockturn Alley once in a while because it was so corrupted and overrun with Death Eaters and other supporters of the Dark Lord that not even the Aurors went there unless they had no choice. And when there was a raid planned, Mad-eye or Tonks always managed to warn him to stay away, so it was relatively safe. He could occasionally visit Lucius or another of his so-called brothers, but after the abuse he'd suffered at their hands, he was understandably reluctant to be in their company.

He entered the kitchen, moved through the house and went up the stairs to the second floor bathroom. He used the facilities, thankful that he'd taken a shower the evening before, and that the bloody bastard hadn't done more than run a finger up and down his cheek. He always had an urgent need to shower after most of his encounters with his master – once he vomited, of course.

Although his students wouldn't have believed it, Snape had always been fastidious in his grooming. He had, unfortunately, inherited his father's fine, thin hair which tended to become oily very quickly, in spite of frequent shampooing.

The only time he'd ever been less than scrupulous about his personal hygiene had been during a misguided attempt to discourage the Dark Lord's attentions. He'd gone several days without showering or washing his hair.

Voldemort's nose had wrinkled in distaste, but he'd said nothing. He'd merely cast a Body-Bind Curse and then a cleaning spell. Unfortunately, the cleaning spell he'd cast was one generally used to remove burnt food particles from pots and pans that had been left too long on the stove.

It had taken nearly two weeks for the deep scrapes and abrasions to heal.

He'd never neglected his toilette after that incident.

He left the bathroom and moved down the hall. He fully intended to go straight to his room and fall into bed, but as he neared Remus's bedroom, he noticed that the door was ajar, and there was a soft spill of light coming from within the room.

Snape decided that he should check on the injured man. It was just about time for him to have another dose of the potions, anyway.

Snape pushed the door open quietly.

Remus was leaning back against a pile of pillows and appeared to be sleeping. The young witch sitting in the chair by his bed, however, was quite awake.

Hermione jumped to her feet and rushed across the room. Just when it seemed she was going to throw herself into his arms, she halted.

"Are you all right?" she asked in a soft whisper as she glanced over her shoulder toward the bed.

"Has he had his latest dose of the antibiotics?" Snape asked, ignoring her question.

"About ten minutes ago. He just fell asleep."

"He's been awake all night? He'll never recover if he doesn't rest."

"He couldn't sleep. We sat up all night talking. I finally slipped a dose of a sleeping draught in with the rest of his potions.

"Are you all right?" she repeated.

"The bloody bastard took great delight in leaving me standing for five hours and then dragging me back and forth across the continent, but other than a headache and exhaustion, I'm fine. He didn't discover the substitution."

"Do you need a pain reliever? I put a bottle of the ibuprofen in the bathroom."

"I've already taken three."

"You should get some sleep, then," she said.

Snape noted the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes.

"You should take your own advice," he said. "I see Potter and Weasley haven't lost any sleep worrying about my welfare."

"They sat up with Remus and me until after one o'clock," she said. "I finally insisted they go to bed."

"You should have gone to bed, as well."

"I will now that I know you're back safely."

"If you sit up keeping vigil every time I'm called away, Miss Granger, you'll lose a great deal of sleep," he said with a scowl.

"It's my sleep to lose, isn't it?" she said with equanimity.

And then she turned and headed for the stairs that led to her bedroom on the upper level.

Hermione was dragged from sleep when a hand crept over her waist and cupped her breast, the fingers pinching uncomfortably through the thin cotton of her nightshirt.

"Wha ... wha ..." she mumbled as she tried to twist away from the unexpected assault to reach for her wand.

"Calm down, Hermione," a husky voice whispered in her ear. "It's just me."

The clutch of fear she'd experienced as she awoke faded quickly when she recognised Ron's voice, but it was replaced by anger just as quickly.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed as she pushed his fingers away from her breast.

"We had a date, remember? I'm just getting you in the mood."

"If you think twisting my nipple off is going to get me 'in the mood', you've got another bloody think coming!"

Ron was immediately contrite. He moved his hand slowly over her stomach and then her breast in a soothing manner.

"You know I'd never hurt you, Hermione. I just like touching you."

He was spooned behind her on the narrow bed, and Hermione could feel his erection.

He nuzzled her neck and rubbed against her. He moved his hand down to cup her mound through her knickers.

In spite of being angry and exhausted, Hermione felt herself beginning to respond.

"Don't need these, do we?" Ron murmured and began tugging on her knickers. Hermione turned onto her back and lifted her hips to allow him to slide them down her legs.

Ron pushed her nightshirt up, exposing her breasts.

"So pretty," he murmured, and then he bent his head and drew a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently.

Hermione felt a jolt of pleasure radiate outward from her belly. She moaned softly.

Ron moved over her, covering her body with his. He fumbled between them, freeing his cock from his y-fronts, and guided himself into her.

"Bloody hell," Ron said in a ragged voice. "You feel so good."

Hermione concentrated on the gentle friction as he moved in and out of her. She moaned again and thrust her hips upward against him.

Far, far too soon, however, he began to drive into her erratically, his breathing becoming irregular.

"Wait, Ron," Hermione said in a frantic whisper. "Slow down!"

"Can't. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come," he panted.

Two more quick thrusts and he spilled into her. He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her neck as he drew in great gulps of air.

"Get off me, you prat! I can't breathe!" Hermione said as she pushed at his shoulder.

"That was bloody brilliant," he wheezed out as he rolled off her to flop down on his back beside her.

"Well, I'm certainly glad one of us enjoyed it."

"You mean you didn't ..."

"No, I didn't."

"Well, I heard you moaning. Something must have felt good."

"It did feel good. That doesn't mean I was ready for it to end."

"I couldn't help it. You're just too sexy for me to hold back," Ron said with a cheeky grin.

"No, Ron, I'm not 'too sexy' – you're too selfish!"

Ron scowled at her. "What do you mean by that?"

Hermione sighed. "Never mind. If you don't know, I'm not going to try to explain it to you – again."

Ron got out of bed and reached for his wand.

"Oh, I get it; you're still thinking it's my fault you're frigid!"

Hermione felt her temper rising, but she forced herself to speak calmly.

"You just keep on believing that; I'm too tired to argue with you," she said as she picked her wand up from the bedside table and cast a cleansing charm on herself before she pulled her nightshirt down.

"Well, I didn't tell you to sit up all night waiting for the greasy git to get home," he sneered as he used his own wand to cast a similar charm on himself before he pulled his y-fronts back up.

She couldn't hold her temper this time.

"Just get out, Ron!" she snapped. "Along with the emotional capacity of a teaspoon, you have all the sensitivity and compassion of a wounded hippogriff."

"I'm leaving," Ron said as he pulled on his jeans and a tee shirt. "My mum'll be here any minute anyway; it's nearly time for breakfast. We can talk after."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Not even insults could distract Ron when he had food on his mind. Maybe if she put a piece of chicken between her legs he'd concentrate on her long enough for her to be able to respond. She shook her head. The way he ate, it wouldn't take him but a few seconds longer than it took him now. Maybe not even as long, depending on how hungry he was – and he was always hungry.

"I'm going back to sleep, but I do have one piece of advice for you," she said as she adjusted the covers and plumped her pillow.

"Yeah? What?"

"The next time you crawl into a woman's bed, you could at least take your socks off!"

She turned onto her side, settled her head down, and closed her eyes.

"What's wrong with socks? It's bloody December, and my feet were cold," Ron explained.

"Go away, Ronald."

"Aren't you going to have breakfast?" Ron asked.

"I'd rather sleep than eat," she mumbled into the pillow.

"Not me, I'm starving. I'll see you at lunch."

Hermione didn't answer, and Ron Apparated back to the bedroom that he and Harry shared.

Hermione tried to fall back asleep, but Ron's fumbling attempt at lovemaking had aroused her just enough to keep her awake and on edge.

With a sigh, she reached down and touched herself. She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the good feelings she'd had when Ron first entered her. She thought of her lover touching her, slowly and sweetly, arousing her and taking the time and effort to make sure she was satisfied.

It was just as she was falling asleep, after she'd brought herself to a shuddering climax, that she realised that the man in her fantasy didn't have red hair, but black. And the eyes gazing into hers, encouraging her to come over, hadn't been blue, but a deep, intense black.

Author's note: This story was written in response to the Post DH Challenge on The Petulant Poetess.

I chose prompt #5: Harry touches his scar; it hasn't pained him in 19 years. He

hears hooting, rolls over in bed to see Hedwig sweeping in the open

window at Privet Drive, and realizes that his 17th birthday isn't far

off. Go for it... a new seventh year for the lot.

I've basically begun my story where Half Blood Prince ends. This is the way seventh year and beyond might have gone; even, dare I say it – should have gone!

Additional Author's note: My special thanks to Sampdoria. With her permission, Ron has left his socks on!