Eight

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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"Damn it," Hermione muttered, her sweaty palm slipping once again from the slick surface of her wand. She prayed fervently that Snape, who had disappeared some time earlier, hadn't heard her.

Muttering more curses, she switched hands, took it up with her left, striving to maintain a steady cadence with her strokes. The base of the potion was coming along nicely, but as it was the fourth time she'd prepared it that evening, Hermione's concentration was flagging. Perspiration had matted her hair to her forehead, and her school blouse was adhered damply to her chest. She'd pushed up her sleeves as far as they could extend without impairing her arm movement, but she didn't dare to use a Cooling Charm in the vicinity of such a temperamental healing potion.

Once again confident with her rhythm, she ruminated on the man who'd disappeared. Snape had surprised her greatly upon her return to Hogwarts, providing her the use of his private laboratory. Hermione had been deeply thrilled at first, but the pride and novelty had quickly worn away as she'd grown to understand what a tremendous responsibility had been placed upon her shoulders. His equipment, from the tiniest, most sensitive implement to the cavernous cauldrons intended to produce vast amounts of potion, was of absolutely the finest quality. Hermione had never encountered anything of such caliber, and she couldn't imagine how many hours...and Galleons...it had taken him to amass his collection of pieces. Their combined value was, to her, incalculable, and utilizing crude scouring charms for cleansing purposes was strictly forbidden. She had to ensure that everything was kept in perfect condition.

Hermione had long since progressed beyond exhaustion. Still, she couldn't afford to lose her grip on the potion. She was within five minutes of completing the base, the fourth such sample for his inspection. Each batch of the potion had been prepared with slight variations, all according to his detailed instructions, and the samples were to be stored under scrupulously controlled conditions until Saturday evening, whereupon she would return to his laboratory to receive his final opinions and criticism.

A part of her still burned at the recollection of his words only a couple of months earlier as he'd sent her practically stumbling from his presence on the verge of despondent tears. Yet Hermione could see now, as she watched the sharply defined limit of her skills as a potion maker flash into view, just how accurately he'd had her pegged: she was no natural Potions Mistress in the making, and she was profoundly grateful for his assistance every step of the way.

Any latent disappointment over her Potions performance had been wholly overshadowed by her burgeoning skills in Arithmancy. Her already warm skin reddening with pride, Hermione recalled showing him the equations she'd begun to draw up for the next step of the process, casting the spell work over the matured potion. Professor Vector had spent a few hours with her the previous evening, and while Snape hadn't said anything to her directly, he'd graciously allowed her to fully explain the sophisticated Arithmantic operators, listening intently as she'd elaborated on the equations predicting the response of the potion and then incorporated the information into the descriptors governing his physical health. Professor Vector had declared herself thoroughly impressed; coming from Snape, agreeable, if stiff, silence seemed even more encouraging.

"It's coming along nicely, I see."

Hermione jumped, cursing again.

"Shit! One, two, three..." Having reestablished her counterclockwise rhythm, she glanced up furtively. The voice had not been Snape's. In fact, it had sounded oddly like...

"Headmaster?"

It was indeed Dumbledore, inhabiting a portrait hanging upon the opposite wall. There was no telling definitively what its original subject had been, though something related to potions or alchemy was likely, judging by the dreary background of cauldrons and cobwebs stacked along dusty brick walls.

The new tenant, who currently held her rapt attention, was perched with sprightly grace upon the edge of a well-depicted work bench, blue eyes twinkling. "Headmaster!" she exclaimed, unabashed this time.

"Good evening, Miss Granger." He was beaming at her, his spectacles slipping down his generous nose. "I must say, I was surprised to see you here, my dear. It's not every day Professor Snape can be convinced to make his private facilities available for student use."

Hermione was treacherously close to losing count of her strokes again. She began to tap her right foot softly, the worn sole of the shoe scuffling against the stone ground, in an effort to maintain her rhythm. "I had no idea you had a portrait down here, Headmaster. It's wonderful to see you!"

"Well, my portrait...my most recent portrait, that is; and it was finished only two days before my death, which I consider fortunate luck indeed!...is in Professor Snape's...Severus'...living room, you see." He smiled, adding, "But I do enjoy traveling around and getting out a bit. Severus does need someone to provide him with some company now and then."

Dumbledore's grin was almost mischievous. Hermione glanced around the room, suddenly nervous. Chatting with Dumbledore, as fantastic as it felt, was a terribly unwise idea when she was supposed to be working assiduously on the potion.

"I... Yes, I'm sure," she said distractedly. Snape had a habit of appearing as though a smoke-like apparition, and she fully expected him to materialize beside her at any moment, livid with her for her moment of inattention.

Dumbledore, watching her closely, suddenly let forth a hearty laugh. "Don't worry so much, Miss Granger. He will not mind us talking...provided you're keeping close track of your progress, that is. Are you nearly finished?"

"Yes, I'm just about done." She completed the final bout of stirring with the proper hand movement, effective but considerably more clumsy than Snape's demonstration had been a few hours earlier. I'll never be able to do this as well as him, she thought, holding the vision of his dexterous fingers in her mind. His fluid control over his hands was a combination of years' worth of practice and the innate talent of which he'd spoken.

It took her a horrifying several seconds to realize that she'd voiced her thought aloud. Dumbledore chuckled. "Nor should you feel it necessary to do as well as Severus, my dear. He has had years of practice. Speak of the devil..."

"You have finished." It was not a question. Snape strode into the room, his movements graceful as ever, but she could see the tension he held, predominantly in his shoulders and jawline. An hour earlier, he'd disappeared behind an ornate tapestry hanging on one of the walls, which she felt certain separated his private rooms from the laboratory. As they'd entered the laboratory through another door, she couldn't be certain as to the room's location in the castle or the identity of its neighboring spaces. Truthfully, Hermione had been so shocked by her unexpected admittance to his private work space that she hadn't yet managed to expend much thought on what lay beyond the tapestry.

Now, indulging herself fleetingly, she found that her speculations ran toward the old-fashioned. The tapestry itself was a strikingly intricate work of deep greens and golds, so thoroughly decadent that she'd initially had trouble imagining the ascetic Potions master brushing past it on a regular basis. Contact between his forbidding dark uniform and the almost sensuous array of color and texture the tapestry presented seemed staggering. Beyond it, she decided, his rooms would be equally surprising, perhaps equally sensuous.

It was not a thought she could afford to dwell upon much longer. Snape had wasted no time in approaching the large cauldron and examining the final result for himself. She watched, fascinated, as he leaned forward, the stiffness in his features only just perceptible through the few loose strands of hair brushing his face. His brows were knitted together tightly, and she carefully avoided eye contact, choosing instead to examine his hands where they lay supplely at his sides. He'd seemed more relaxed after her return from the holiday, and she found herself hoping that with the absence of the students and the blissful peace and quiet, he'd finally managed to acquire what verged on a decent night's sleep. He certainly needed it, if his records even managed to brush the surface of his years of insomnia.

Hermione studiously banished all thought of his medical records, returning her gaze to his face. Finished with his cursory examination, he straightened, and their eyes met with an almost audible click. She felt a shiver of what might have been anxiety or excitement.

"It appears acceptable." His tone was quieter than that of his usual classroom manner but no less peremptory. "Decant it and place it with the others. I will attend to the cauldron."

"Really, Severus, I'm sure Miss Granger can handle the cauldron," Dumbledore called with a bemused expression. "You fret too much over those things."

"They are irreplaceable, Albus." Snape's voice deepened, verging on a growl.

"I am well aware of that, dear boy, and we both know that no one will take more diligent care of them than Miss Granger. How is your school year coming along, my dear?" he continued, this directed at Hermione, who had followed Snape's command and was headed toward the nearest work bench with a small vial of the decanted potion.

"Very well, uh, sir. Thank you." She'd suddenly realized that it was rather inappropriate to refer to him as being a headmaster when he was no longer in possession of the position. She hardly thought Headmistress McGonagall would have been affronted, but it felt wrong nevertheless.

Snape, seemingly sensing her discomfort, gave the portrait Dumbledore a meaningful look.

"You may call me Albus, my dear. I do suppose I should be calling you Hermione. We are past the formalities by now, surely?"

Snape was concentrating on his cauldron, scowling. Hermione stood motionless by the work bench for a scant moment, marveling at the progress they'd made that evening. Under his careful direction, she'd managed to successfully brew...four consecutive times, nonetheless...the most sophisticated potion of her academic career; and while she knew now that the delicate art of potion making was not where her talents lay, it had still proven to be a tremendously thrilling experience. All exhaustion had vanished. She felt elated, impelled to move forward.

Her momentary excitement vanished abruptly when she took note of Snape's apparent struggle to move the cauldron. Trying not to be too obvious, she returned to his side and said in a measured tone, "May I help, sir?"

For what felt like eons, he remained silent. Then he spoke abruptly. "Yes, though I warn you that it is quite..."

Hermione staggered under the sheer mass of her half of the the cauldron and gasped.

"...weighty. I did warn you, Miss Granger."

"I'm sorry, sir." She was fighting not to pant.

"Begin moving toward that bench." He nodded toward the expansive work bench containing her vials, and she did so, their progress across the floor steady but painstaking. When she felt the firm pressure of the work bench against her left leg, she mumbled, "All right," and Snape said in a tense voice, "On the count of three. One, two, three..."

They hefted the enormous cauldron and set it upon the bench. It made a satisfying thunk that reverberated throughout the small room. Hermione noticed for the first time that the woolen sleeves of his frock coat had been pushed up, baring the ropy veins and painfully deteriorated muscles of his arms. The bones of his wrist jutted, and she mentally filled in the parched skin with strength and sinew, imagining the texture of the fine black hairs against her fingertips.

She forced herself to look away, and he stiffened, his gaze fixed almost malevolently on the cauldron. At his full strength, he would not have needed help, she thought. Of that, she was certain.

"I'll put away the ingredients, shall I?" Her tone came out gentler than she'd intended, and she hoped he wouldn't find it downright motherly. Their eyes met, and he nodded. He'd restrained his hair at the nape of his neck in the same style he'd worn the day of his unanticipated visit to Vector's office, and in the shadows of the laboratory, the planes and angles of his face seemed especially strong. She caught her breath.

"I will have to accompany you." He moved away incrementally, and she exhaled, praying he hadn't heard it. "These particular ingredients belong in my private store room."

She nodded and began gathering the small, precious packages stacked neatly upon the table, glancing over at Dumbledore's portrait. He smiled at her and pointed a finger in the direction of the tapestry wall, disappearing at a casual stride out of the frame. Slightly confused, Hermione returned her attention to Snape, who had gathered the remainder of the jars and packages and was heading toward the tapestry as well.

He stood aside and lifted a long finger, motioning for her to precede him. She murmured a thank you, wondering if her nervousness had strangled it beyond recognition, and walked ahead. The tapestry was impossibly soft and silky, a torturous experience against the flushed skin of her cheeks and forearms. She was headed, she thought with finality, toward his private rooms. Not for the first time, Hermione cursed her complexion, just as fair as Ginny's and even more traitorously expressive. She hoped that he would be unable to see the anticipatory blush suffusing her face in the faint light.

She found herself at a small junction of sorts. To her right, a dark stone hallway receded beyond visibility; in all likelihood, it led toward the main corridors of the Hogwarts dungeons. Directly ahead, a low stone archway served to accentuate the dancing shadows and firelight cast by the few torches lining the walls. Her view was unimpeded by door or curtain: it was Snape's sitting room, as elegant as she'd imagined and even more decadent. Hermione caught a fleeting glimpse of expensively bound texts stacked on several end tables and rich cherrywood furniture, warm and masculine. The thrum of magical energy...powerful defensive and alarm spells recognizing their master's presence...was palpable in the air.

Snape remained directly behind her, and she turned questioningly to her left. He nodded, and she heard him mutter a soft string of unidentifiable words. They were close enough for his breath to warm the nape of her neck, setting her nerves instantly on edge.

The imposing metal door she'd been regarding slid aside to reveal his private store room. Hermione walked in and placed her armful of ingredients on the simple table in the center of the room, careful not to disturb the sheaf of parchments already upon it, lined with ingredients and numbers. Looking up, she gasped delightedly. In the small, circular room, its shape reminiscent of Gryffindor Tower, the shelves seemed to extend to mountainous heights. The ceiling had been enchanted similarly to that of the Great Hall. Accurately reflecting the current time and weather conditions, the smoky black sky was streaked with pale cream-colored beams of moonlight. They lit up the room with just the right amount of brilliance, rendering the small, precise labels on each and every jar easily readable.

Hermione chanced a glance at her instructor. The fabric of his frock coat rustled hypnotically as he strode forward and set his burden on the table as well. "There is no further need for you to stay, Miss Granger. My organizational system is unique, and I prefer to see to it myself." A brief flash of disappointment surged through her. Learning his filing system would have been nearly as fascinating as having the opportunity to examine the many exotic specimens lining the walls.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." She felt dazed. Somehow, she'd survived the evening intact and managed to produce the first stages of an unimaginably potent healing potion. Basking in the charmed moonlight, suppressing the urge to close her eyes in bliss, Hermione thought with sudden, sharp clarity that his relief and her apprenticeship were drawing deliciously within her reach.

"There is one more issue that must be addressed, Miss Granger," he said quietly as she turned to leave. She'd never heard that particular tone in his voice before. For Snape, it was almost apprehensive. She felt both excited and frightened.

"Yes, sir?"

"I trust that Professor Vector has already spoken with you about the necessary modifications of the potion in order to accommodate your upcoming spell work. There are certain ingredients I simply cannot procure in this climate, during this season, while ensuring adequate freshness and potency." His voice resonated, echoing above their heads.

"Yes, sir. She mentioned that you were looking for possible substitutes. I'd be happy to help if you think further research is necessary..."

"I have found but one," Snape interjected smoothly, "and I cannot obtain it for you." His fingers deftly maneuvered jars and vials, and Hermione watched him as he scrawled on the parchments upon the table. His inventory, she could see, was flawlessly kept and always updated.

"You will find the necessary papers on the desk in the sitting room. I will expect you here Saturday evening at eight o'clock with someone suitable."

"Someone suitable, sir?" He'd turned his back toward her, but she still strove to remain expressionless while wondering if her ability to collect potions ingredients did not meet with his exacting standards. She couldn't recall having ever done so in his presence. Did he want her to bring another student? Someone whose natural talents for Potions exceeded her own?

He turned briefly back to the parchments and took in her confused expression. His eyes were darker than the walls around them, impossible to read. "The papers, Miss Granger," he said simply.

Perplexed, Hermione turned on her heel and walked toward his sitting room. Though she'd seen him mount the steps of the ladder he used to reach the upper shelves, no sounds issued from the store room. He was silent, as usual.

She followed the flickering torchlight through the stone archway. The room was generously sized but seemed smaller due to the abundance of furniture, books and parchments. Several wooden doors, all closed, were set into the wall on her right, probably the bedroom and bathroom. Past the large fireplace and comfortable sofa, a desk rested snugly in the corner. It was totally surrounded by shelves of books.

Hermione was distracted for a moment by the sight of Dumbledore, whose large, magnificent portrait hung just above the mantel of the fireplace, indisputably the centerpiece of the room. Depicted in the Headmaster's office suite, he looked comfortable and eminently in control. Smiling kindly, he offered her a small salute with a lemon drop. "Come to collect your wages, my dear?"

Hermione laughed, her gaze alighting on the desk. It was impeccably kept, and a small envelope, unmarked, lay at the very edge. "Professor Snape has done me an enormous favor by volunteering for this project, sir. He hardly owes me anything."

She opened the envelope and scanned the contents of the top page as Dumbledore observed. Potions calculations met her eyes. Book work had always been her forte where Potions class was concerned, and it took only a moment for her to recognize the significance of the words before her. The only suitable alternative for her healing potion was the blood of a unicorn, willingly given, mutually consented upon, nonviolently collected.

Her face grew hot. A suitable person, indeed. Snape wasn't concerned about her ability to identify and collect potions ingredients; he wanted her to report to his office that Saturday with someone who could commune with the unicorns living in the Forbidden Forest and accept the gift of blood, someone who was female and a virgin.

She had a painful flash of Ron and Lavender entangled in Ron's bed, followed by the recollection of Harry and Ginny molded together over the supper table at Grimmauld Place, lips meeting, Ginny's hair brushing his cheek. She was, to the best of her knowledge, the only virgin remaining among her female friends. It wasn't as though she'd ever had many in the first place.

She walked out of the room with an unidentifiable feeling in her stomach. It wasn't embarrassment, precisely, but when she exited into the foyer and sought to escape, Snape was right there beside her. She caught the slightest scent of the potion ingredients lingering about him, and her abdomen constricted almost painfully.

"Eight o'clock Saturday, Miss Granger." She refused to let him see her natural reaction to his voice, but it was suddenly difficult to convince her feet to move her body farther from his. There was no escaping it: the idea of what he would feel like, pressed against her and into her, dogged her thoughts.

"Good night, sir." She turned left and headed into the darkness, praying that it would lead her toward an exit and the safety of the labyrinthine dungeons. It did.