Seven Honest Answers

Seven Honest Answers

Hermione promised her parents she'd be back before dark.

She Apparated (Side-Along, but still) for the first time to the dingy house at Grimmauld Place, which was the first Secret-Kept location she had ever visited. All these firsts had her feeling wildly sophisticated, like she was seventeen, at least. Maybe Sirius would notice. He was there (his shirt was only half-buttoned!) along with Professor Lupin (who she could tell had lost weight even before he hugged her) and Mad-Eye Moody (who responded to her "not to be rude, sir, but how do I know it's really you?" as if he'd never been paid a nicer compliment). They, along with Tonks and Dumbledore, were going to represent the bride's (Professor Snape's) family, their five magics combining with hers and her Professor's to total seven, a powerful number to enhance the spell.

"Snively's lucky day, isn't it?" said Sirius. "Finally related to a handsome thing like me." And he winked. (Winked! At her!)

"And awfully modest, too," Professor Lupin said. Professor Lupin was so smart--that's just the kind of thing she wished she'd been quick-witted enough to come up with. If she'd said it to Sirius, it would have been a little like flirting.

Instead, she said, "I hear you were the one who discovered the ritual. That must have been really interesting research."

"It was something of a contribution," came a voice from the shadows. Professor Snape. He didn't wash his hair over the summer, either. "That and the de-Doxying. Who knew Black was such an indoor dog?"

Sirius' features turned cold and hard, a bit like his old fugitive posters.

"Now, Severus, Sirius. Do try for civility," cautioned Dumbledore. He produced a small bag from one of his pockets and began to sprinkle what looked like blue salt on the kitchen floor.

"Manners, Snape. Like the Headmaster says. Don't you have anything to say to your affianced?" Sirius said the last word a bit like Malfoy did Mudblood. Lupin frowned and touched Sirius at the elbow, as if to still his wand arm.

"I hope you won't return to school expecting some kind of favoritism, Miss Granger."

Not from him, at any rate. Not unless she sprouted green and silver scales all over. She almost said it. Professor Snape had been rude first, after all, and it was the kind of thing Sirius would like, only she wasn't sure it was the kind of thing she wanted to be liked for. "I assure you, Professor," she said, "I won't."

"Hermione is doing you a favor," reminded Lupin.

"Miss Granger is assisting the Order in this," said Professor Snape, "as am I."

The funny thing was, he was right. More so than Sirius and even Lupin. She hadn't agreed for his sake, but for the sake of their side. The kind of distinction that her Granddad Hugh would understand.

Moody and Tonks began to comb the blue salt on the floor with what looked like long silver rakes. Dumbledore chalked a circle around it. "Miss Granger," he said, "please come stand in the center. You others, circle around." They all did as he asked. A swish of his wand, and the chalk circle erupted in heatless, waist-high, white flame.

Sirius sighed melodramatically, a hand to his forehead. "Our gitty greaseball finally got himself a girl."

Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought she saw Professor Lupin kick him in the shins.

*

The ceremony was simple. Everyone outside the circle would ask her a question (Professor Snape, as the bride, would get to go twice) to which she must provide a complete and honest answer. The strength of the spell depended entirely upon her honesty; if she were less than forthright, Professor Snape could still fornicate (ew!) as he (or, worse, as Riddle) pleased. Dumbledore explained this was from the days of arranged marriages when it was in the interest of the bride's family to be certain of the groom's full disclosure about things like estates, debts, and prior wives secreted away somewhere.

Sirius said they wanted to be sure she could keep their precious Sevvie in the luxury to which he was accustomed.

Lupin frowned again. Moody's eye wheeled horribly. Tonks looked at Lupin. Dumbledore and her soon-to-be-fiancé ignored the lot of them.

"When you've answered the question to Severus' satisfaction, the flame will burn silver, at which point the interrogator will gift you with their part of his bride price," Dumbledore explained. Sirius snorted. The Headmaster continued, "Originally these gifts were somewhat grander, but Sirius assures me the spell will work just as well with tokens, provided you accept properly, greeting the giver by name and saying, 'I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line.' Which of course means Severus' line--we're his family in this, after all. Once we've gone a full round, you will take Severus' hands and draw him through the flames to your side. And, Miss Granger, do keep the tokens. Only by return of gifts or through mutual consent can this betrothal be broken."

Professor Snape looked more angular and sour than she'd ever seen him. Once the War was over, mutual consent wouldn't be a problem.

*

The first question was Professor Snape's. The last would be his as well. "Miss Granger. How is it that so charming a young witch is even eligible for this ceremony?" If she didn't know better, from the tone of his voice she'd have guessed he was sampling his own Sarcasm Serum. But this was Severus Snape. Being mean just because he could.

"Well, sir. I meet the requirements."

The damn flame stayed white.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."

"Severus, there's no cause to humiliate her," said Lupin.

"We already know the requirements," Hermione said. "I'm a witch. I can keep a secret. I'm a virgin."

Not even a hint of silver in the fire.

"It's the truth! I've never slept with anyone. I almost did with Viktor but--"

"That manner of detail is unnecessary, Miss Granger. I merely wish to know how it is you've failed to succumb to the questionable charms of your compatriots."

"You want me to say something bad about Harry and Ron." He could have just said that instead of going on like he'd swallowed a thesaurus. Half the reason the boys struggled so in Potions was that they hadn't worked out that coalesce, integrate, and commingle were all Snape for mix the ingredients together.

He smirked.

"You'll have to ask an entirely different question for me to do that, Professor." She wished she'd set him on fire first year and not just his robes. She wished she'd been a bit more imaginative with her third-year hex. Horrible big nose like that; wouldn't it be just tragic if everything he touched began to smell like overcooked cabbage? "Ron and Harry are my best friends. Whatever their flaws, they're both sweet and loyal and, frankly, easy on the eyes." More so than certain scowling professors. "Neither of them has any idea, really, that I'm a girl, and the side-effects of this spell means they're not likely to figure it out any time soon. So, Professor, the answer to your question is that the subject never came up, no doubt due to the questionable nature of my own charms. Satisfied?"

He said nothing. The flames flared silver. She was sure he was sneering at her--like he was much of a prize--and was glad the brightness encircling her stopped her from seeing it. Without another word, he handed her a cracked and empty potion bottle.

She took it from him, saying, "Severus Snape, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

Sirius was next to speak, butting in before Dumbledore (who looked a bit put out at the interruption) had his turn. Hermione blushed, letting herself imagine for a heated instant that he'd jumped in out of eagerness to talk to her. He winked again (though her answer to Snape's question had reminded her once more that she was a plain, awkward wren of a girl, so it was more likely some kind of post-Dementor facial tic than an attempt to win her over). "What exactly do you think of our Severus, Hermione?" He beamed and puffed up a bit, like his lungs had more fun than air in them.

"I don't think his question was very nice," she said, stalling. She was going to have to sit in his classroom for the next three years, after all.

"The git," was Sirius' emphatic reply. He was especially handsome when he was having fun, but if Ron or Harry were ever half as mean, she'd really let them have it. Still, neither Ron nor Harry ever smiled like that. After all that time in Azkaban, she supposed Sirius was due for whatever fun he could get. Besides, in a not even all that terribly round about way, the handsome wizard was rushing to her defense. Professor Snape's question did seem specifically designed to humiliate her.

She looked over at the Potions master, who stood between Moody and Dumbledore. His face looked gaunt by the white fire. Something in the way the shadows danced about made her wonder if he'd look the same way dead. His eyes were unblinking and utterly without spark. She hoped she didn't have to answer this one in much detail; if he held that expression much longer, she'd join Neville in his Snape-mares.

"To be honest," she continued, "I don't think much about him when I'm not in class. Even when we're at school. He's kind of in the background as far as I'm concerned. He's just. . . there."

Lupin looked very strange.

Sirius grinned.

Snape scowled. He seemed to be concentrating. Maybe he wanted the silver as much as she did.

"I don't go around thinking about my teachers--" She could practically hear the boys crow Lockhart's name. "--though I'm sure they're all very interesting people. I'm a student. I'm busy with other students."

"But what about Snape, Hermione?" Sirius asked. This white flame death-light wasn't doing his looks much good, either.

"Professor Snape," she said, like Sirius was Harry. "If he were a fairer teacher, I'd be fonder of him."

Finally. Silver flames.

Sirius looked a bit disappointed that his question hadn't yielded more shrewish stuff. He passed her a chipped teacup. She touched his hand an instant longer than necessary and set the cup beside Professor Snape's broken bottle. So much junk. She was starting to feel like Harry at a Dursley family Christmas. Sirius looked into her eyes when she spoke; for all his posturing, he knew this was important magic.

"Sirius Black, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

Dumbledore's question was much more diplomatic. "Would you care for a Chocolate Frog, Miss Granger?"

"No, thank you." She didn't often indulge in sweets (just because she was friends with boys didn't mean she ate like one), and when she did, Hermione preferred quality stuff: creamy texture, not too sweet and not in the least inclined to attempt escape.

Silver flamed promptly. Dumbledore unwrapped a Frog, popped it in his mouth, and presented her with the card. It was Agrippa. Too bad she'd promised not to tell the boys. Ron still needed that one.

"Albus Dumbledore, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

"Why'd your parents name you Hermione, girl?" Moody asked gruffly and without preamble. Hermione liked her name well enough and thought the accusing tone a bit rich from someone who responded to "Mad-Eye."

"They thought it was pretty," she said, and paused, hoping Sirius would agree with her. She looked around the white-lit faces; every member of the circle looked curious, maybe even a little apprehensive. It wasn't that interesting a question, nor did it have the potential, as Professor Snape's had, for salacious revelations. "Also, their first date was to 'The Winter's Tale.'"

The flame stayed white, which was ridiculous. There was nothing more to the story, full-stop.

"But why'd they do it?" Tonks asked, rapt.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

Professor Snape sneered. It was like he was under a curse. All his facial expressions--the sneering, the scowling, the smirking--were bound to start with the letter ess. Hermione imagined him simpering, swooning, slobbering, and so almost missed his curt, "How you made it through four years at Hogwarts with no understanding of wizarding culture boggles the mind."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hermione," said Lupin. "How far have you got in History of Magic?"

"Second Goblin Rebellion."

"So that's what, Muggle 12th Century?"

"Yes." Professor Binns' pace was glacial.

"Well, you've not got to this point yet, and as a Muggle-born you'd have no way of knowing it, but Shakespeare was a fairly infamous Squib."

"Nasty gossip, too," broke in Tonks.

"And he had a third nipple," said Sirius.

Lupin continued, his demeanor calm and open, just like in the classroom (she hoped Professor Snape was paying attention: this was how an engaging teacher taught). "Every single one of his plays betrayed the secrets of some pure-blood family or other. He took plenty of liberties, exaggerated here and there, and changed the names a bit--"

"Please tell me the Macbeths were the Malfoys."

"The McGonagalls, actually." That was Professor Snape. The one person she could think of who looked meaner when he smiled (smiled--there it was again, that ess). "So much for Gryffindor loyalty."

"The magical community was more than a bit put out," Dumbledore said, his voice mild.

"No one likes their dirty laundry aired in public like that," Tonks said. "The Ministry locked up his last dozen plays in the Department of Mysteries' vault before they could be performed and passed the first version of the Statute of Secrecy."

"And," Moody paused, letting silence build while the white light flickered terribly, blanching everyone's skin, "a group of powerful pure-bloods set down a Taboo. Any witch or wizard with a name from one of his plays..." Moody shuddered at the word. "...is cursed, at least in part, with that character's fate."

"Which," said Dumbledore, "explains your brief stint as a statue."

"I've read all the plays," said Moody. "Even the ones at the Department. You've got to know what you're up against. Steer clear of jealous men, young lady, especially if they fixate on their friends. Constant Vigilance!"

Everyone jumped.

Clearly, she needed to say something more. The flames weren't yet silver. "My parents had no clue, obviously. They're Muggles, you see. And I'm not too worried. The worst of it, the statue bit, is behind me. At least they didn't go to Hamlet. Jealous boyfriends I can handle, but if I were an Ophelia, there'd be nothing for it but to go crazy, hand out a bunch of plants, and drown."

"Do not speak that way of Odile Knell," came Professor Snape's voice, colder and fiercer than it had been third year in the Shrieking Shack. And no wonder. Odile Knell's work established Potions as a serious discipline rather than haphazard home-brewing. By the age of twenty-two, the witch had perfected Veritaserum and was well on her way to inventing a draught that would allow her to converse with the dead. She drowned collecting Swan-of-the-Marsh Lilies--rare, night-blooming flowers associated with clarity of vision.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "I had no idea that's where Ophelia came from. I meant no disrespect. I didn't even know about Shakespeare 'til now. That's the truth, and you know it. I'm speaking in the circle."

Silver flashed.

Moody handed her a handkerchief. She pinched it between thumb and forefinger and only at its barest corner. She was ninety-eight per cent sure she'd seen him use it to polish his eye.

"Ma--Alastor Moody, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

Tonks just asked if Hermione wanted to see her change noses.

"If you wouldn't mind terribly. I've never met anyone with your particular skill set before."

"Do Snape's!" Sirius called out.

"Can't you do something more interesting?" Hermione asked. "Can you go cross-species, like a trunk or something?"

She didn't look at Professor Snape--he might have taken her request the wrong way, and then she'd really get it--and she didn't look at Sirius--what if he thought she was siding against him?

Tonks complied with a spectacular Toucan beak just as the flame went silver, then gave Hermione a Butterbeer cork.

"Er, I don't actually know your name. The Headmaster introduced you as Auror."

She mumbled something.

"Sorry?"

"Nymphadora."

Hell, at least it wasn't Shakespearean. "Nymphadora Tonks, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

Professor Lupin smiled at her. If he was still in contact with Dumbledore, maybe that meant he'd come back and teach someday. After Crouch-as-Moody, they were due for someone actually on their side. Lupin looked briefly at Sirius, then asked, "Any idea what Harry'd like for his birthday, Hermione?"

Sirius' face came alive.

"I don't know, really. I hate shopping for Harry."

At this, Professor Snape looked mildly interested.

"He's so grateful for any little thing. I always feel so bad. His uncle's horrible to him. His aunt, too." Dumbledore looked pointedly away; Snape, weirdly, looked a bit like Lavender when she was eager for a bit of gossip. Hermione continued, "He never had a proper present before Hogwarts, and they treat him like their personal house-elf all summer."

In the silence that followed, she realized that the heatless white flames were soundless as well. Sirius looked punched in the gut. She wasn't sure anymore that he was entirely stable (who would be, after Azkaban?), or really the best person to fancy (as if a person can help who they fancy), but she was absolutely sure he loved Harry.

"Usually I get him something to do with Quidditch."

Snape muttered something about puffing up the arrogant boy further.

"Look, if you'll just let the flames go silver, I promise I'll give him something lousy for Christmas, like a homework planner. Ron, too."

The flames burnt silver.

Lupin presented her with an old button. She felt sad just thinking of all his threadbare shirts.

"Remus Lupin, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

*

It was Snape's turn again. Hermione felt ill. With the right question, she'd have to reveal that Harry still had the Map. Or that they really had stolen from his stores. Or that they were the ones who'd sent Malfoy that bag of ferret feed anonymously through the school post. Or, worst of all, she'd have to share that horrible first-year conversation when she and Ron had to explain to Harry about sex. His aunt and uncle hadn't told him anything except: you-keep-your-eyes-off-the-neighbor-girl-and-your-hands-above-the-sheets.

Professor Snape looked at her. He didn't look cruel for once, just curious.

"Why did you agree to participate in this, Miss Granger?"

Easiest question of the day. She quoted Granddad Hugh. "There's evil in this world, sir. You've got to fight that evil with all you have, or all you have is nothing."

Instant silver.

She started to trust him, truly and not just because Dumbledore did, in that exact instant. He understood. He didn't need anything more.

Wordlessly, Snape passed her a single dragon-hide work glove, a hole worn through at the thumb.

"Severus Snape, I humbly accept your gift and with it the gift of your Line."

She didn't like him, not even a little bit, but she trusted him now, without question.

She took his hands and drew him through the flame to stand beside her in the circle.

*

True to her word, Hermione was home well before supper.

Dumbledore had her Transfigure a sweet wrapper into a lock-box to double check her Trace was off. No reprimanding owls appeared. She put the glove, button, cork, handkerchief, card, teacup and bottle in the box, locked it, shrank it, and tucked it away in her school trunk.

"Do your best not to dwell on your connection to Severus," Dumbledore said.

"It's going to be weird."

"Not if you forget. At least as much as you can." The word forget had a bit more weight to it; it fuzzed in her brain like a non-sinister Imperio.

Though her parents invited him, the Headmaster declined to stay and dine. He'd promised to join Hagrid.

Hermione smirked (all that time with Snape--it must be contagious). Her parents' cooking was much, much better. She could smell bread baking.

After dark, she freed Rita. She bound her with a wand oath. The older witch raised a questioning eyebrow, a paltry attempt at intimidation, especially considering Hermione had spent her afternoon with Severus Snape. She offered no explanation as to how she'd got around the restrictions on underage magic. Far better to have an adversary assume she was terribly powerful as opposed to merely clever.

The reporter Disapparated from the garden, and Hermione was alone in the twilight. She heard her parents laughing inside the house. They had the radio on and were singing off-key. In peacetime, she'd have thought, how embarrassing. But for now, she listened a moment, smiling, before going in to join them, her head full of protection spells and obscure charms she would research further in the morning.

*

War came at her then. Came at all of them. Too fast and too messy and too wrenching to be neatly distilled into key lessons. The girl who did that already seemed impossibly young. The girl she was now still learned lessons, and plenty of them, but those lessons were too complicated to be succinct.

Umbridge came to Hogwarts, and from the way she took the old toad on, Hermione learned a good deal about strategy.

Sirius died, and from the way Remus mourned, Hermione learned a great deal about love.

She did think of Snape then, of their situation. Maybe if Dumbledore's forget had been less emphatic, she'd have remembered McGonagall wasn't the only professor in the Order. If only she'd had Harry go to him...

Once school started up again, she was going to ask the Headmaster about that forget.

She forgot again by September.

Lavender ran after Ron, and Hermione learned more than she ever cared to about envy.

Ron dropped Lav-Lav, and Hermione learned more than she cared to admit about relief.

Then suddenly those lessons seemed very small. Because Dumbledore died and Hermione learned more than she thought possible about betrayal. She thought about Snape then. Oh boy, did she ever think about Snape. Her a-fucking-fianced. If only they'd done the ceremony the traditional way. What she wouldn't give for the chance to force seven honest answers out of his fork-tongued, fuzzy-toothed mouth.

At the funeral, she watched Lupin and Tonks, and that was a lesson in moving on.

She also watched Harry and Ginny, and that was too sad to be a lesson at all.

Six weeks later, on a warm, soft July night, she sat with her parents on the couch where they'd taught her to read. With their full consent and understanding, she looked into their minds and, with a tap of her wand, spooled up the thread that her childhood wove through their memories. She bound up every slight hint of Hermione, starting with the opening lines of the first play her parents saw together: "If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia..." She spoke the words aloud. When this was over, she would go to them, speak the rest of the speech and their true memories--first the play and its character, then the girl they named for her--would unspool intact. Her parents' eyes clouded, confused. "On your first date, you went to see Hamlet," she whispered, and kissed them each on the right temple, exactly on the spot where moments before she had pressed her wand.

She left her childhood home; Harry left his.

Moody died, and Hermione learned that death got more shocking with familiarity, not less.

Ron left them, and as a lesson that was unspeakable. She and Harry went around like a cart with square wheels.

Ron returned, and she learned that forgiveness, like many important things, comes slowly, but that it probably matters more because of it.

Then Malfoy Manor. Gods above, no lessons there. Just pain, hot and twitching and enough to reshape her bones.

The deaths were coming faster now: Dobby. Fred. Ohgodohgodohgod. Remus and Tonks. Colin. Cho. Ernie. Professors Vector and Sinistra. Alicia. Lee. Augusta Longbottom. Seamus. Snape. Harry too, for about three and half minutes.

And then it was over. They ate sandwiches, and it was strange that sandwiches still existed.

*

She and Ron had sex for the first time the morning after Fred's funeral. She'd spent the very last of her Building Society savings on a hotel room in Muggle London; he couldn't face The Burrow just yet, and they both wanted to be as far from Hogwarts as possible. There was no awkwardness to their movements or their joining, a function, she supposed, of being aware of each other (for good or ill) every day for the past seven years, and of what tips Ron picked up as youngest of five very appealing brothers (Percy, though he'd come 'round right in the end, would never fully qualify). It was. . . lovely, actually, which she hadn't expected at first go. She looked at the freckled constellations of his face and neck and chest above her, and though Hermione never went much in for that Divination rot, she knew her future was spelled out there. They were beautiful together, and even if Ron didn't last all that long, he got her quite thoroughly off three times, twice before and once after. In the stillness that followed, they held each other and cried: he for the first time in the War, she for the last. Then they scrubbed each other's backs in the Enlarged tub and made plans. They weren't going to be like Harry and Ginny, whose future they could see (Hades, even Trelawney could see) clear as any Muggle film: a cheerful, chaotic cottage brimming with cheerful, chaotic children named for the dead. No, not them. Marriage and children eventually (three, said Hermione, because look how well you and me and Harry did, navigating childhood like strands in a plait; nah, two, said Ron, so no one gets lost in the middle), but first they were going to travel. Atlantis, Bali Hai, Roswell. Every last bit of the magical world they'd given so much to save.

"Suppose I'll wind up more like Bill than Dad," said Ron. "What I always wanted."

"More like yourself," Hermione corrected. "Pass the shampoo, please."

No more tents, though. They were going to stay in hotel rooms. Or, on warm nights, free under the stars. They were going to have epic spats and smashing make-up sex. They were going to drink foreign beers. Learn foreign magics.

"You could write books about it," Ron said. "Harry 'n I always understood better when you explained."

"Gadding about and writing things down. That sounds like a very Lockhart plan."

"Most charming smile, eh?"

She smiled. She actually felt charming the way Ron looked at her.

He smiled back and Summoned a pair of drinking glasses. He filled them with tap water. "We'll toast again with stronger stuff," he said, and kissed her. "But I don't want to leave this bath just yet." He handed her a glass, then ran his hand down her side. It came to rest at her waist, and warmth thrilled through her, knowing just what that hand could do.

They clinked glasses.

"To the Lockhart plan."

"Ronald, Lockhart was a fraud."

"To living the life of Lockhart then, only for real."

All hail Melusin and Bloo, my most magnificent betas! Without their input this chapter would be too light on commas, too heavy on caps, confusing, and generally an unfunny mess. Any tendency it has towards messiness at this point is entirely my own fault.

Thanks to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

The characters aren't mine. The concept is not mine. If you think any of this is mine, you belong in St. Mungo's, which is also not mine.