Ten

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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There were only so many ways a girl could seek to calm herself, and Hermione was fairly certain that she'd exhausted them all. By seven-thirty Saturday evening, she'd dragged Ginny out to walk around the castle grounds...twice; she'd studied ahead in every one of her classes; she'd written letters to both of the boys and to her parents; she'd consulted with Vector over the equations regarding the addition of the unicorn blood; and she'd showered away any potentially offensive odors. Dressing simply and sleekly in black slacks and a black jumper, Hermione was forced to concede defeat. She had half an hour before her meeting with Snape and no idea how to keep her mind from whirring anxiously.

Truly the child of dentists, Hermione settled for brushing her teeth. She'd been too nervous to eat supper...a shock and a miracle unto itself...but it didn't stop her from finding an almost meditative joy in the gentle rush, rush, rush of the bristles across the surface of her teeth. After vigorously brushing and rinsing, she gave a slightly more relaxed sigh and regarded herself in the mirror. She cracked a wry smile at the image before her: Hermione Granger, virgin maiden.

It felt no different than simply being herself. She'd pulled back the top half of her combative mass of hair and secured it with a large clip, baring her forehead and face. The rest of the curls were already matting themselves into impressive knots down her back. She hadn't dared to use any kind of taming product for fear that even the faintest of scents would bother the unicorn, so her hair was left in all its natural glory. It strongly resembled a predatory tropical vine.

She was bare-faced, and the stress of the past few weeks had begun to wreak havoc on her skin. Staring despondently at a few angry red blemishes, she blew out a heavy sigh. Snape was already going to be faced with conclusive evidence that she was yet a girl. What did a few complexion woes matter? She flirted briefly with the idea of stealing Ginny's cosmetics but decided against it. Aside from the possibility of scent, she'd always hated cosmetics with a passion, and she wasn't about to alter that intolerance just for Snape. After months of consciously, forcefully choosing what she knew best reflected her, succumbing to that kind of insecurity would only have felt pathetic and counterproductive afterward. Let him see her for what she was. He could deal with it.

Hopefully the unicorn could as well.

Though she had ten minutes remaining, Hermione gathered up her warm outdoor cloak, draping it over her arm, and her thick red hat and gloves, exiting the room. She didn't carry a purse while in residence at Hogwarts...it was exclusively an accessory she used in the Muggle community...but she had her wallet, complete with Wizarding and Muggle currency and her identification, tucked snugly into her pocket, as readily available as her wand. She'd tried to assure herself countless times that, provided she was with him, she had nothing to fear; but in the end, her natural apprehension where the Forbidden Forest was concerned had overtaken her.

She passed few people in the hallway on the way to the dungeons, and most of those she did see merely shot her pitying looks. Undoubtedly, they thought she'd been assigned a detention with Snape. Two second-year Slytherins did smirk at her slightly, and a tiny first year grinned outright, but the others seemed to genuinely feel badly for her. There was a time when such an occurrence, given that she was Hermione Granger, would have shocked them utterly; but for weeks now, the other students had seemed to become more and more understanding of the changes she'd undergone.

After her little debacle in Potions class with the charmed knife, most appeared unperturbed by the thought that Hermione Granger would be serving detention, she thought with satisfaction. Being Hermione Granger no longer meant being the goody-two-shoes Brain of Gryffindor with no opinions to espouse other than those of her textbooks, and she found she rather appreciated the alteration.

As she approached the dungeons, Hermione quickly halted her train of thought and began to focus on her steps. When exiting his private rooms earlier that week, she'd found herself in a section of the dungeons with which she was only passingly familiar, and studious concentration was required for her to ensure that she retraced her steps properly. Breathing a sigh of relief upon catching sight of the correct door, Hermione stood still for a moment, completely motionless, and collected herself and her thoughts. She could feel the seemingly permanent pink tinge in her cheeks. The moment she stepped through the door unaccompanied, Snape would know.

It's nothing to be ashamed of, she repeat adamantly to herself.

Then she knocked three times, softly, and waited.

A moment later, the door swung open. She'd heard no words spoken aloud, and so she assumed that Snape had somehow charmed the door to admit her. Alternatively, perhaps he was lurking just beyond audible range, waiting in the faint light of the corridor and observing her entrance.

Feeling sick to her stomach and decidedly spooked, Hermione shut the door behind her and peered around tentatively. The door to his private laboratory was open, and she could hear faint sounds issuing from within. Creeping forward, she peered around the doorway. He was bent over one of the work benches, deftly slicing some kind of unidentifiable root. She leaned forward and sniffed experimentally in the direction of the bubbling cauldron to her right. Though she couldn't be sure, the particular amalgamation of scents, both calming and cloying, was suggestive of a pain-relieving potion.

Stomach clenching, she prepared to knock again and clear her throat, but there was no need. Snape turned slowly and regarded her. His hair hung loose, and she took in its noticeably shorter length with surprise. Obviously, he'd had it cut some time earlier that day. His hands were stained with root juices, a knife still clutched agilely in one hand, and he'd left the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone. The sight of his chest began to make her sweat.

"Good evening, sir," she said in a somewhat squeaky tone, entering the room stiffly. His eyes flickered to her heavy outdoor cloak, which she had yet to don, and her simple but warm clothing. When his gaze once again moved upward, she saw him glance directly behind her at the obvious emptiness of the foyer beyond.

"I specifically told you, Miss Granger, to bring someone suitable with you this evening. Are you incapable of following the simplest of directions?" He held his hands at a distance, fingers pointed downward, to avoid staining his clothing, but somehow the tone was as chastising as if he'd reprimanded her with a pointed finger.

"Yes, sir. I understood you perfectly well, and I followed your directions." Snape continued to stare. He was going to make it painful, wasn't he?

The man appeared to suffer no physical need to blink. Hermione cleared her throat and said, "I am suitable, sir. There was no need to ask anyone else."

Silence stretched between them, and an unidentifiable expression flickered through what little she could discern of her professor's eyes. It may have been surprise, or perhaps scorn. She didn't care to dwell on it. "Very well," he said neutrally after what felt like hours, putting down the knife he'd held and murmuring a stasis spell at the bubbling cauldron. She briefly considered pulling on her cloak until hearing the way his voice caressed the soft Latin. Her body temperature rocketed instantly.

"You have brought the parchment, then, I trust?"

Hermione nodded and drew the document in question from her pocket, casting the necessary spell to enlarge it to its usual size. Of the parchments he'd placed on his desk for her retrieval earlier that week, the only one that hadn't contained potions equations was currently clutched in her sweaty palm. It was an official agreement, standard issue from the Ministry of Magic, stating that she, as the party able to commune with the unicorns, would only to accept blood if it was willingly given. Intended to act as a concrete form of legal liability should she abuse or murder an innocent magical creature, it required both her signature and that of the witness who had agreed beforehand to be present during the encounter.

She proffered it. His fingertips brushed hers for the barest moment, and she watched the crossing of their hands and skin tones. He'd always looked so pale to the students, and they'd never hesitated to announce that fact, but his skin looked darker than hers. It had a sallowness to it as though it had been denied light and nourishment for far too long to flourish in its natural state. Beside his calloused fingertips and dark, potion-stained fingernails, her hand looked feminine and almost porcelain.

He glanced it over, pursing his lips, and nodded brusquely. Pocketing the parchment, he took off at a startlingly fast clip in the direction of his living area. Hermione followed hastily, struggling to match his impressive pace.

Upon entering his living room, one hand snaked out from beneath his frock coat and snatched up the cloak lying across the back of his sofa. He headed toward the desk in the corner, presumably to sign the agreement as the witness. She kept her gaze focused on him but couldn't staunch the desire to glance quickly at the rest of the room. Dumbledore was absent from his portrait, probably wandering about the castle, unwisely startling other students. One of the two doors to the right side of the room was open, the darkness beyond calling to her. The room, or what little she could distinguish through the shadows, looked to be too great in depth to be a normally sized bathroom. It must have been his bedroom.

She looked back at him...quickly enough, fortunately. The expression on his face suggested he'd been preparing to reproach her for woolgathering or gazing inappropriately at his private belongings. Delivering a harsh nod in the direction of the exit, he pulled on his cloak with a slow deliberateness, the knuckles of both his hands straining to white. As usual, Hermione deduced that he had to be in nearly debilitating pain. She wondered if he was ever free anymore.

Taking his gesture as a cue, she preceded him yet again, retracing her path and leading the way back to the main dungeon corridor, whereupon Snape increased his lengthy strides and matched her pace. It took him barely three hastened steps to catch up to her, and Hermione had the irrational desire to mutter something uncharitable. At five feet five inches, she'd always considered herself respectably average for a female, but he made her feel impossibly tiny...and inconveniently slow...at times.

As they passed the Potions classroom, Snape wordlessly held up his left palm as if to signal her. Taking it as an indication to stop, Hermione waited while he ducked in. Surmising that he was checking for any illicit visitors, she waited patiently until he'd double-checked the locks and the warding spells. The difference between the meager hindrances she'd faced in entering the library and the immense impediments he'd just placed on his classroom was staggering. Frowning, she became fully convinced that someone had been lessening the library's wards to accommodate her.

He'd been there the previous night; of that, Hermione no longer had any doubts, though she didn't see how it would be possible to determine whether his visit had predated hers or if he'd walked in to find her already there. In either case, he'd observed her closely enough to take note of her reading material and make his own furtive contribution.

A cold thought seized her. Had he known, watching her as she eagerly devoured the books, that she was a virgin herself and hadn't had need of anyone's assistance? Would he have assumed that, had she asked for another's involvement, the suitable party would have accompanied her?

His expression when she'd revealed that she had deliberately come alone suggested otherwise, Hermione thought firmly. There had been a flicker of something across his features; she simply didn't know him well enough to interpret it. Perhaps it had been triumph; he might have assumed that no boy would want her and merely been pleased to have his suspicions proved correct.

Watching his broad back as she followed him out of the castle, Hermione was forced to compartmentalize her emotions regarding her professor. One portion of her brain, fully convinced that he had assumed her a virgin and actively considered her immature and unattractive, felt dangerously close to crushed. The way in which he carried himself, unflappably self-assured despite the constant pain, only added to her glumness. The other girls at Hogwarts could protest all they wanted, but Hermione wasn't blind: she'd seen the way they would glance at him, surreptitiously, as he stalked past. She wasn't the only one who drank in the sight of him, his imperiousness, with considerable pleasure. What woman wouldn't want him?

The other part of her brain, in which she cherished her admiration and passion for him as a blossoming entity, brushed aside her thoughts and reminded her that his opinion of her did not matter. He might deem her a chubby know-it-all Gryffindor, unattractive and intolerably annoying, but it wouldn't stop her from admiring him still.

For the next hour, Hermione did just that as they traveled in absolute silence. She followed the Potions master across the cold grounds, floundering through snow drifts and hissing at the icy wind penetrating her cloak, and into the Forbidden Forest. As their steps progressed across the varying terrain and led them deeper into the wilderness, she found that her trepidation gave way to a sense of awe. His pace was rapid and virtually silent, the set of his shoulders consistently confident. He clearly knew his way, and she was not so frightened by her surroundings that she couldn't continue to admire his form as they walked.

Finally, just when Hermione was becoming convinced he'd secretly Apparated them to an endless Siberia, Snape ground to a halt and turned to face her. Her breaths came rapidly due to the laborious process of trampling through snow, and exhaling clouded the air between them with vast puffs of condensation. The rise and fall of his chest was impossible for her to discern, but two elegant lines, as haughty-looking as the man himself, issued from his nostrils as he breathed, and his cheeks were visibly flushed even in the faint moonlight. At least she wasn't the only one finding the going difficult.

"The unicorns tend to return to spend the night," he began, lecturing in his smooth classroom monotone. "I have already consulted with Hagrid; he deemed this the most promising area."

Their steps had ceased in the middle of a clearing of considerable size given the usual density of the Forbidden Forest; the perimeter of trees surrounding them circumscribed an area of perhaps sixty or seventy feet in diameter. Peering curiously at the trees, Hermione could distinguish neither color nor shape through the darkness strung between them. The effect was one of being snugly hemmed in, and she didn't find it altogether that unpleasant. She could understand why the unicorn population might find it a comfortable and reassuring location in which to spend the night.

Her attention was drawn back to her professor as he lifted a hand, pointing toward a particularly thick copse of conifers to their right. "I shall wait in there," he said simply. "The unicorns will not approach if I am visible nearby."

She felt her throat grow tight and a brief, uncomfortable silence fell. The unspoken thought remained between them: the unicorns wouldn't show themselves if any man were visible nearby.

"You cannot cast a warming spell," Snape continued, his tone sharper. "They will feel least threatened if you sit down and remain quiet. If and when one enters the area, do not make any sudden movements, and never draw your wand."

He was repeating virtually word for word the text of the book he'd left for her in the library. Hermione searched his eyes, but there was no embarrassment or recognition to suggest that his actions the previous night remained on his mind. He was as skillful and impenetrable an actor as he was a spy.

"When the unicorn approaches you, it will pause momentarily. You need to beckon it forward. The best way to do so is to nod or move your leg. They are most comfortable lying against you and will likely head toward your legs." The legs in question were currently freezing and nearly numb; Hermione absently hoped she'd be capable of bending them to sit in the first place. "Once it has made itself comfortable, it will give you a sign that it is willing for you to draw blood. Every one is different; I cannot tell you definitively what it will do.

"Use these to extract the blood." Reaching into his pocket with hands clothed supplely in black leather, he withdrew and handed to her a small knife, his forefinger gently touching her gloved hand. At the moment of contact, his touch seemed to burn through both layers of thick material and into her skin.

The knife was a striking piece of workmanship, exquisitely carved and positively glowing in the moonlight. The combination of its own natural luminescence and the soft reflection of the pristine snow surrounding them made it mesmerizing in its beauty. He also placed into her hands a small glass vial, its base and stopper made of the same radiant material. Hermione became breathless as he transferred it to her, his finger remaining in contact with her palm.

"Take only a small amount; the potion will not require much in order to stabilize it. The creatures heal quickly, but they are unfortunately fragile by nature, and we have precious few of them left."

Hermione stared at him in amazement, thinking that it was the most compassionately expressive remark she'd ever heard the man utter. His irises were their usual unfathomable black, but there was a sadness to the curve of his lips that suggested he felt deeply for the animals.

As though realizing he'd stepped widely out of character, Snape drew his hands away sharply, leaving hers suddenly bereft and cold despite her gloves and the implements. "I will wait," he said brusquely, "in the trees across the way. I cannot say how long it will be. I sincerely hope you have more patience than the majority of your insufferable Housemates."

She sighed, steam gusting from her mouth, and resisted the urge to roll her eyes as he stalked away. His natural grace was somewhat impeded by the snow, and she could see his shoulders tighten reflexively. He'd probably realized belatedly how ridiculous he'd looked.

Shaking her head, Hermione moved to the other side of the clearing and seated herself beneath a small tree. Snape was insinuating himself between the trees directly across from her, and before long his face and cloak had blended flawlessly with the environment. Tucking the two implements into the pocket of her cloak, she arranged herself in a cross-legged position and rubbed her palms against her upper arms with powerful strokes, seeking to warm herself. She was in for a long, cold wait.

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Time seemed to take on a trailing quality in the silence of the forest. Perhaps only thirty minutes had passed; perhaps it had been hours. Whatever the duration, Hermione had little comprehension of it. She lay comfortably against the tree, her shivering having long since ceased and become an all-consuming numbness. She felt oddly detached from the cold of her body, however, preoccupied as she was with regarding the trees around her and wondering about Snape.

The knowledge that he was likely staring directly at her was beyond unnerving. At first, the urge to fidget had nearly driven her mad. She'd compulsively rearranged her legs and cloak, rubbed her hands together, bitten her lip, adjusted her hair, and sought to identify constellations in the shockingly clear sky above her. When she realized how much her knowledge from Astronomy had lagged in the years since she'd had the class, Hermione grew frustrated with herself and fidgeted even more.

With every movement, she was increasingly aware of his presence. He was stony, patient, and frustratingly observant, she knew. He would be sitting there solidly...or perhaps standing...just as he always had at Grimmauld Place, unmoving and immovable. He would be watching and cataloging each and every act of her childish fidgeting.

She was torn. The only source of contemplation that had ever allowed her to truly retreat within her own mind was him, yet waiting for the purest and fairest of magical creatures while indulging in distinctly impure thoughts about her teacher felt somehow blasphemous. Inevitably, fidgeting gave way to fretting. Hermione fretted, scolded herself, and fretted some more, completely caught up in berating herself mentally.

When it first emerged into the clearing approximately twenty feet to her left, Hermione was struck dumb by the creature's majesty. All thoughts of Snape evaporated instantly. She could feel the cold air rushing into her mouth, agape as it was, but it took her a few moments to regain the powers of thought necessary to close it. She couldn't tell if it was a male or a female, but it looked large enough to be a young adult, based on the pictures she'd encountered during her research. It walked with the lightest of steps, seeming almost to float across the ground. Its soft coat and magnificent horn were more effulgent than the snow around them.

Her heart began to race; her palms perspired. She was suddenly aware of her bulkiness, her humanness, in comparison to the delicate creature. Hermione forced herself to maintain eye contact with it, hoping her expression was serene and inviting. In truth, she felt anything but. Her brain had become muddled by insecurity and self-doubt; she felt certain that she would somehow repel the beautiful animal and send it into terrified flight.

When it came within six feet of her, the sudden reversal of her mindset was extraordinary. Instantaneously, Hermione felt beautiful and tranquil. She felt wonderfully, completely free of hatred, fear, anxiety, and jealousy. There was nothing to the world but her body and the unicorn's, and they shared a mutual flow of energy that her Muggle brain could only compare to an electrical circuit. She could actually feel the magic flowing from the creature and entering her. Her body reveled in it, complemented it, radiated it back toward its partner. When the creature paused before her, Hermione exhaled a contented breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. Fuzzily recalling Snape's words, she gave a gentle nod and moved her left leg forward slightly. It was no longer numb and stiff; the warmth suffusing her body was amazing.

If the creature could have smiled, she felt sure, it would have; it nearly bounded forward, seating itself happily against her crossed legs, its head resting against her left thigh. She was struck abruptly by its youthful sprightliness and wondered if it was younger than she'd initially judged it to be. Whatever its age, the contact between its body and hers brought tears to her eyes. Hermione wondered if the feeling in her heart was the sensation new mothers felt upon first touching their newborns. The love and purity of the moment were indescribable.

At first, she thought she might have imagined it, but she hadn't: it was tenderly prodding her with its left leg. As slowly and cautiously as possible, Hermione reached into the pocket of her cloak and withdrew the vial and knife. She feared that the creature would bolt at the first sight of the blade, but it remained calm and steadily held forward its leg. She wondered if she ought to say something to begin the ritual, but the silence and understanding between them felt sacrosanct.

Forcing herself to recollect in full the directions of the texts she'd read, Hermione recited to herself as she placed the knife against the unicorn's lovely coat. She placed only the barest amount of pressure, drawing it slowly across the minutest possible distance. The creature did not flinch. Liquid silver sprang into sight, seeping from the wound. Though she'd been fully expecting it, Hermione could not suppress a gasp. She placed the vial beneath it, poised to catch the precious drips.

When a third of the vial had been filled, she realized with terror that she had no idea how to staunch the bleeding of the wound. "I'm sorry, I..." she began to whisper, but the moment she withdrew the vial, the wound began to miraculously knit itself closed. She stared in astonishment. Where seconds earlier there had been a divide in the supple flank, there was now an unblemished expanse of virgin white.

"Thank you," she murmured, tears still brimming in her eyes. The creature rose effortlessly to its feet and made a small sound, something like a horse's nicker, gentle and inviting. She lifted her right hand and drew it tenderly across its beautifully arched neck and back, marveling at the impossible softness. The creature's eyes were a deep, limpid black, regarding her with obvious pleasure.

They remained connected for a moment, and then it nuzzled her hand briefly and drew away. She watched it exit the clearing in the direction from which it had come, moving with untroubled steps that gave no indication she'd shed its blood. Relieved and overcome, Hermione gave in to her needs, and the tears rolled freely down her face.

She hadn't noticed Snape approaching, but suddenly, he was before her. His lips were set in a strained line, and his fingers were twitching lightly as though he longed to take the vial from her but didn't know how she would react. Hermione knew she had to look a complete, and possibly hormonal, mess. She could feel her hair frizzing about her head, and the salty tears left tracks across her flushed skin.

"Miss Granger?" he said finally. She felt a brief urge to laugh. The uncertainty in his voice was somehow so completely and utterly male, as though he was baffled by the violence of her emotional reaction.

Hermione was still enraptured, her mind flowing unchecked in all sorts of crazy directions. She saw herself as Snape must have, sitting beneath the gray trees, the virgin maiden, young and beaming and filled with a new understanding of the world. "It must be what having a baby feels like," she heard herself say aloud in frank wonderment. She hadn't expected him to flinch so openly.

"I'm sorry," she said, searching his face. "Did I say something that offended you?"

He didn't reply, but he reached out a hand and helped her to her feet. She'd shed her gloves prior to the unicorn's arrival, not wanting the feel of unfamiliar fabric to spook the animal. At some point, Snape had done the same. The result of the contact between their skin was immediate and electricrifying.

He felt it too, she thought, watching his eyes dilate until they became orbs of the deepest uninterrupted black. She had no idea how to describe what had passed between them, but her body thrummed at his proximity.

She was the first to break eye contact, and just as soon as she had, he dropped her hand and turned. "It is late," he said simply. His voice had regained its superiority and detachment. "We shall return to the castle immediately. You need rest."

"No, I don't," she assured him, sighing contentedly. "I've never felt better, Professor, honestly. I'm not at all tired."

"The magical exchange that just occurred will fatigue you," he replied evenly. "It is only a matter of time."

Hermione walked behind him with vigor in her steps, no longer feeling the cold. She recalled that one of the older texts in the library had mentioned several ancient magical cultures for whom the acquisition of unicorn's blood was considered a rite of passage undertaken by young women before their marriages. It was essentially a gift, given by the young woman to her new lover, who would then gift her in return, though the text had not specified in what manner.

In any case, the book had been correct in its assessment of one thing: emotions she'd never known she held had been roused and brought to the surface. She was aware of her body in a way that seemed, ironically, to be decidedly sexual. She felt emboldened, alluring, feminine. Throughout the entire trek back to the castle, Hermione's thoughts remained sublime.