LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter One

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Prologue

**

A man walked into a bar.

It sounded like the beginning of a joke, but it wasn’t.

Those who knew him well, or thought they did, would have been
surprised to see him turn in at the narrow door, sparing a
furtive glance in either direction before descending the steps
from the street. It wasn’t his kind of place, it wasn’t in his
kind of neighbourhood, and he was dressed entirely too well to
be there.

It was also on the other side of the globe from where at least
three witnesses would swear to the death that he’d been all
day.

None of that mattered. He was here to meet someone.

The place was dingy and cobwebbed and poorly lit, illuminated
only by some guttering, evil-smelling candles and a single
bare lightbulb flickering over the bar. The man nodded to the
bartender, a cadaverous skeleton of a man with sunken cheeks
listlessly flicking a grimy rag down the bar’s scarred wooden
surface, and slid distastefully past the establishment’s only
two patrons – hunched figures with averted faces, swilling
flecked liquid from dirty glasses. As he approached the deeper
shadows at the back of the bar, he could just make out the
blurred outline of a third drinker at the far table.

The shadowy figure raised his glass in greeting. The man
pulled out a chair, studied the seat carefully for possible
foreign objects, and – apparently satisfied – sat down
gingerly.

"The traps are full," he ventured at length – the end of his
sentence rising slightly, like a question. The mysterious bar
patron took another gulp from his drink.

"The exterminator is on his way," he answered, setting down
his glass. The words sounded practiced and bored, like an
oft-repeated catechism.

Formalities out of the way, both men relaxed slightly and
leaned closer toward one another.

"Have you seen the papers?"

A pause. "I have."

"Then you’ve read the article."

"Probably." Another swig from the glass; a grimace as he held
the alcohol on his tongue for a moment, then swallowed.
"You’re talking about the Muggle-born. The … scientist." This
last word carried a patina of disdain that was as thick as the
film on the bar’s only window.

The man in the designer coat nodded, his eyes flinty.

"She goes too far," he said. "For years, she’s pushed the
limits of accepted convention, flown in the face of all the
standards our society holds dear. But this …" His face twisted
into a contemptuous snarl. "This is something else entirely."

"The new project?"

"Is almost complete, according to our sources." Visible
tightening of expensively-manicured fingers on the grotty
surface of the table. "If she’s allowed to go through with it
…"

"Say no more." The second man finished his drink and signalled
for another. "We’ve our own reasons," he said, "for halting
her … research." He paused, as the apathetic bartender smacked
a second glass indifferently onto the table; when he spoke
again, after the bartender had moved away, his voice was even
lower than before.

"To what lengths?" he murmured, and his well-dressed
companion’s lips flattened into a thin, vicious line.

"Stop her," he said, the words cold and bitten-off and – maybe
– just the smallest bit eager. "I don’t care how. Just stop
her."

"It’s as good as done."

**

"Morning, honey."

Hermione Weasley, née Hermione Granger, opened one eye and
stretched lazily.

"Morning," she said, her voice rough with sleepiness, and
frowned slightly at the sight of her husband – already out of
bed and belting himself into a robe. His thick red-gold hair
was loose and tousled against the white terrycloth collar of
his robe, giving him the look of a sleepy archangel.

Mmm.

"What are you doing up already?" she wanted to know. "It’s
Saturday." Suspicion brought her head off the pillow in an
abrupt jerk. "They don’t have you working another weekend, do
they?"

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Free as a bird till Monday
morning."

"Good." Her head hit the pillow again. "So, then – where are
you going?"

"Down to the kitchen to make breakfast," he said, tightening
the tie on the robe and reaching down to stroke the miaowing
caracal at his feet. "Bagels okay with you? I’d try eggs, but
the results I got last time weren’t pretty."

"Mm. I remember." Do I ever. "Just fruit for me, thanks,"
Hermione said, and pushed herself up to a sitting position.
"And coffee."

She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Nine-thirty," she
said, wonderingly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "By our
standards, that’s positively decadent. I thought it was
earlier." She yawned. "Why am I so tired?"

"Beats me." Bill leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead.
"Couldn’t have anything to do with your late-night laboratory
hours, could it?"

She dropped her eyes. "They haven’t been that late."

"Uh-huh." He grinned. "My wife, the World-Famous Scientist.
Lucky for me that this house came with a greenhouse. If we
hadn’t put in the mini-lab downstairs, I’d never see you ...
I’d have to comfort myself with your numerous news clippings."

"My heart bleeds," Hermione said dryly, rearranging the pillow
behind her back and pretending not to notice that the bodice
of her nightgown was gaping open in the meantime – or that his
eyes had slid immediately to the shadow of her cleavage. Bill
looked hurt, then ruined the effect by flashing her another
wicked smile.

"You’re a cruel woman."

"It’s a caffeine deficiency," she said, shooting him a sly
look. "Do something about that, and maybe then you can get
yourself a good long … um, look." She wiggled her eyebrows at
him. "Seeing as it’s the weekend and all."

Bill brightened. "Hope springs eternal," he murmured, his gaze
sweeping down her body to where her bare toes peeked out from
under the sheet. "I’ll get right on that. Wouldn’t want you to
fall asleep in the interim."

Hermione laughed.

Four years married, and as much a Romeo as ever, she thought.
Everyone should be so lucky.

"No danger of that, I don’t think."

She yawned again, then started to throw one leg over the side
of the bed. "Oh – I almost forgot. I left the computer on
downstairs last night, to run that last batch of statistics.
They’ll have printed out by now; I should go see what they
came up with."

"Ah-ah-ah. Don’t move," Bill directed, and blocked her exit
from the bed hastily with his body. "I’ll get them. You stay
right where you are; you can read in bed, if you must, but
you’re not setting foot in that laboratory this morning until
I’ve had my wicked way with you."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know me too well."

"Damn skippy."

He blew her a kiss and sauntered out of the bedroom toward the
stairs, whistling, Cleo at his heels. As always, the tune was
unrecognisable.

"Love you," Hermione said softly to the empty doorway, and –
with a contented, Saturday-morning sigh – snagged another
pillow from his side of the bed.

She’d almost gotten it arranged to her liking when she heard
the explosion.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Two

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There was no funeral, not as such.

Hermione wasn't sure what she'd expected. In the fourteen
years she d spent in the wizarding world, she d never been
close enough to anyone who d died to worry about what happened
to the body.

It made sense that the Christian tradition - that
flower-swagged, oak-casketed sendoff they'd given her
grandfather Granger at All Saints, for example: incense in
choking clouds, a black-cassocked priest carving a cross in
the air and muttering Ashes to ashes, the organist playing
Bach s St. Anne organ prelude, at Gram's request, because
Grandad had loved it so - wouldn t quite fit. And it was true,
too, that she d never heard of a wizarding cemetery - maybe
some of the old families had crypts, and maybe they didn t,
but on the other hand even Harry, the beloved child of heroic
martyrs, had never been shown the Potters graves.

So wizards didn t bury their dead, at least not publicly. She
could live with that.

But she d expected something - a twenty-one-wand salute,
maybe, or a blazing funeral pyre. A sober white-draped barge
set down the Nile by moonlight. Incantations and eulogies, at
the very least. Something.

Something more than this.

She didn't know what had become of the body. That didn't
bother her as much as she would have thought; the charred,
blackened collection of carbonized bits and pieces,
oh-so-carefully assembled and presented for her identification
at the British Consulate medical examiner s office, bore such
little resemblance to the laughing man who'd winked over his
shoulder at her on his way out of the bedroom earlier that
morning, that at first sight of it she'd felt herself go blank
and shut down.

This isn't my husband. I don't know this man.

Denial -- the cushion of ignorance between What Should Be and
What Is, the psychic semicolon at the end of the clause.
Knowing what she knew now, she wished that she'd been able to
hold onto it.

But there had been the tattered remains of his robe, carefully
peeled from the mutilated body by some faceless EMT -- stained
and soot-blackened, yes, but still white terrycloth under all
the dirt and blood and viscera. And the other clues -- tiny,
heartbreaking bits of incontrovertible evidence that made
Hermione's hands shake, made her throat swell: the wreckage of
the wristwatch she d given him last Christmas; one lock of
silky Irish-setter-russet hair, still bright and mysteriously
untouched.

His wedding ring.

"I'm sorry you have to do this," the young man with the
public-school accent and the clipboard had said, apologetic.
"There aren't any dental records ..."

Of course not, Hermione thought, and had almost laughed with
the terrible dark poetry of it all. Who needs orthodontia,
after all, when you've got a magic wand?

Ironic that she, the child of dentists, should have lived to
mourn the pureblood wizard. She fingered her own wand, slim
and cylindrical in the deep pocket of her robes, and felt a
betraying clutch in her throat.

The worst thing about magic was that it couldn't fix
everything. Couldn't fix this.

Hold on, she told herself fiercely, and gritted her teeth
until her jaw ached. Not yet. Don t lose it yet.

The techie -- or was he an intern? A rookie cop? Hermione
couldn't tell -- shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "I don't
mean to hurry you," he said uncertainly. "But if you could
just give me a 'yes' or a 'no', so I can get the paperwork
started ..."

"Oh," Hermione said blankly, and took a last look down at the
mutilated corpse on the gurney in front of her.

"Yes," she said, turning away tight-voiced, teeth dug so hard
into her lower lip that she tasted blood.  Yes, it s him ..."
and inside her head, felt her subconscious screaming at her:
you re wrong, you re wrong, it can t be, you re wrong!

Can t be him. Just can t be.

It was almost a relief when the two Ministry wizards showed
up, and said they needed to talk to her.

**

The Muggle policemen had already been and gone by this time, a
matched set of world-weary, overworked Interpol gendarmes with
French-accented English who had arrived on the scene just
after the Cairo police and the medical team, wrapped her
shaking body in a woolen police blanket and hurried her away
from the troops of news reporters stationed on the front lawn,
shouting questions and hoping for scandal - if one of the
region's extremist groups claimed the crime, it would probably
make CNN, and after all business was business at the end of
the day, Hermione thought bitterly; just because she was about
to fall apart didn t mean the rest of the world felt her pain.

They had shepherded her through the coroner s office and into
a quiet room with a rickety table and some unmatched chairs
(clearly never meant to see the Public s Eye - but still,
quiet), and the younger of the two had brought her unsweetened
tea in a chipped mug.

What is your husband's work? the older policeman kept asking
her. Did you know anyone who held a grudge against him? Who
might have wished him harm?  and gravely wrote down her
answers in a tiny notebook as she shook her head: no, Bill had
worked in a bank, as a collections officer. No, he d been
well-liked. No - no one, no one who d ever met him (and here,
her composure came hard-won), would ever, ever, have wished
him any harm.

How long have you been together?

Six years - two dating, four married.

And you have both lived in Cairo all that time?

Yes.

Ah. I see.

"And you, madame," the policeman had continued politely. "What
is your work? Does it have political significance?"

Hermione shook her head.

"No," she said dully. "I'm a medical researcher. I work in an
office at the University of Cairo."

An office, the older man said, and exchanged a quick
speculative glance with the younger. He was already shuffling
files.  This office, perhaps?

Hermione eyed the manila folder he pushed across the table
toward her as if it was a striking snake.  Why   Her voice
cracked. She dug her fingernails into her palms under the
table.  Why would you have a file on my office building?

Another quick exchange of glances, hooded cop-eyes whose
message Hermione read plain as day: we d rather be out there
with the blood and guts, than in here with her.  Earlier this
morning, the younger of the two said finally, not looking at
her.  Another accident - very similar - thought there might be
some correlation - would be very helpful

Hermione wasn t listening. She d already torn open the folder.

The other people who work here, she said, wildly. Pictures of
ashes, one more terrible and desolate than the next. Pictures
of smoke and rubble and broken glass. She thought of her
office, her serene quiet office on the top floor with the
window seat and the yellow walls and the honey-thick panels of
afternoon sunshine, and wanted to scream.

Areli Ben-Nadir - she s my boss. And Friedrich - he s been
writing around the clock - and the archeaology team always
comes in early. Her lips trembled.  Was anyone  anyone else  ?


No casualties. The building was empty.

The older detective leaned over and shut the folder, tugged it
out of Hermione s nerveless hands.

Mrs. Weasley, he said.  I m very sorry to have to ask you
this question  but do you know of anyone who might be trying
to kill you?

Hermione closed her eyes.

No, she said.  No, I ve no idea.

But it was a lie.

What she d been suspecting since the moment of the explosion
was true.

This - all of this - was all her fault.

**

She d thought nothing could get worse than that.

Then she d seen the body.

And then there d been a commotion behind her, a wild rush of
red hair and large knitted handbag - my son; let me see my son
- and Hermione had turned to see Molly Weasley, white of face
and terrible of eye, three paces ahead of Arthur.

Hermione, she d said.  My God. We thought it was both of you
- the Ministry just told us; they got it wrong - oh, thank God
-  and that desperate embrace had almost been her undoing; she
could handle her own grief, but not her mother-in-law s too.

Bill, Molly said.  Where s Bill? -and Hermione wanted to say,
don t look, oh, don t look.

But it was too late.

Looking at that jumbled, charred heap of blood and bone had
been hard enough through her own eyes. Seeing it through Molly
s was almost more than she could bear.

Hermione s hands had knotted at that first glimpse, had tensed
and fisted and flown to her mouth - but Molly s opened like
starfish, and went straight to her abdomen. It was an unspoken
scream: my baby, my baby, as if the bloodied corpse, the grown
man, had never existed  as if, more than thirty years after he
d walked and talked and taken his first broomstick ride, she
still felt his death inside her body, there in the dark secret
place where he d first taken root and grown.

The worst four words in the English language: my child is dead
.

Hermione looked away, aching and helpless, and found her eyes
caught in Arthur Weasley s. Pale and disheveled, he looked -
for such a tall man - oddly stooped and insubstantial, and for
the first time Hermione could see what she d failed to notice
before: he s getting old.

He had your eyes, she said, unable to keep the words from
bubbling up and out, and nearly howled with the lance of pain
that hit her at her unconscious use of the past tense.

He had your eyes.

He liked marmalade on his toast. And late mornings in bed.

He loved me. I killed him.

Her face crumpled, and she let Arthur Weasley hold her.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Three

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The two Aurors from the African Ministry of Magic didn't look
much different from the Interpol detectives; in fact, they
were eerily similar, from their carefully nondescript Muggle
plainclothes down to their world-weary expressions. Hermione
wouldn't have known they were Aurors at all, had it not been
for their conspicuous lack of concealed firearms and -
subsequently - the wands in their wrist-sheaths, the ends of
which were just barely visible to the trained eye, underneath
their shirt sleeves.

And then, too, there was their manner - overly casual and just
a bit too brisk, like a diner confronted by too many forks at
a restaurant who is secretly out of his depth, but not about
to let anyone else know it. Hermione followed them into the
same interview room she'd visited earlier with the Interpol
detectives, sparing a last glance for the sad little tableau
over her shoulder: a sobbing Molly, her head buried in
Arthur's shoulder, allowing herself to be led away like a
child.

For Hermione, who'd never seen her mother-in-law look less
than self-assured - no matter the stimulus or provocation at
hand - the sight was profoundly unsettling, a sign that the
universe was tilting off its patterned course. She sank into
the chair that one of the Aurors held for her, hugged her arms
reflexively, and tried to focus on not losing it again.

It sort of helped that they weren't too friendly. Faced with
one more kindly-meant offer of tea, Hermione might have
buckled completely - whereas the vibe of cool suspicion that
she was getting right now, from the Ministry team, raised her
hackles just enough to distract her.

The first bit of the interview followed in the tracks of the
last: how long she and Bill had been married, when they'd
purchased the villa, the order of the morning's events. What
she'd seen from the bedroom window, in those terrible,
interminable moments just after she'd heard the explosion. It
wasn't as painful to tell the story over, Hermione realised;
in fact, there was something almost comforting about repeating
the sequence of events. With the repetition came welcome
distance, and with distance, the call - more and more
persuasive as time passed - to simply duck into it and
disappear.

She was fighting that urge. But it kept lurking at the edges
of her subconscious, nagging gently at her: give up, give in,
sleep, forget. Hermione shook her head to clear it and shifted
in her chair, vaguely aware on some level of the fine tremors
in her hands.

"I can't do this right now," she said suddenly, almost without
thinking, and the Aurors, one of them in mid-question, blinked
at her.

"Sorry?"

"I can't do this right now," Hermione repeated. The awful,
uncontrollable tears had given way to a feeling of disconnect
that was almost worse; the synapses were firing, she could
sense that, but something wasn't working, wasn't getting
through.

I need to go home.

"My husband is dead," she said, hollowly, and fought her way
to her feet. "My familiar is missing. My research - "

"Ah, yes, your research." This, from the taller and thinner of
the Aurors - ‘Bullwinkle', Hermione had mentally dubbed him
earlier. His lip curled contemptuously over the final word.
"And what would the nature of that be, pray tell?"

She stared at him, taken aback by the tone of his voice -
disapproval so immediate and strong that it bordered on
hostility. The air in the little room was suddenly charged
with tension.

"It's no secret," she said uncertainly. "You've probably read
about it in the paper, at one time or another. There've been a
number of feature articles on my work, both in the wizarding
and the Muggle papers."

"Your recent work, you mean," Bullwinkle corrected, his voice
cool and acerbic. "And quite impressive a catalogue it is,
too. Migraine remedies. Topical anesthetics. ‘Organic bone
grafts' ... whatever those are."

He sniffed. "Not a word about your current project, though. I
confess that I'm most curious to know what that entails."

Hermione didn't like his tone.

"Areli thought it'd be best if I kept that under wraps for
now," she said stiffly. "And on the Muggle side of things, Eli
Lilly felt the same. It's more purely experimental than the
other things I've attempted -- after all, everything else thus
far has just required a few modifications of a pre-existing
remedy."

Bullwinkle frowned. "Explain."

She shrugged, and felt her tight shoulder muscles creak in
protest. "Even the 'bone grafts,' as Lilly advertised them,
are just thin elastic strips of an organic ligament simulator
designed to adhere to the surface of the bone, with
time-release microcapsules of Skele-Gro in gel form, imbedded
in the weave ... it may beat their steel-plate technology, but
it's hardly groundbreaking from a magical standpoint. But the
new project is - "here, she checked herself - "that is, was -
just that ... new. If we'd been allowed to see it to
completion, it would have revolutionised certain aspects of
Muggle medicine and mediwizardry alike."

"The problem with revolutions is that people die in them,"
Bullwinkle observed sharply, and - to his credit - looked
discomfited as Hermione's eyes began to well.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Weasley," he went on, a bit
more gently. "It's just that I don't think you understand
exactly how much trouble your work has gotten you into."

"Trouble?" Hermione frowned. "But my research isn't anything
controversial," she said tiredly. "If I was working on
cloning, or genetic alteration, I'd understand ... but what I
do doesn't challenge any moral conundrums. It doesn't hurt
anyone."

"It doesn't matter if it hurts anyone or not," put in the
second Auror - this one shorter and squatter, with slightly
protruding front teeth. (Try as she might, Hermione couldn't
help but picture him in an aviator's helmet.) "Information
doesn't have to be harmful to be dangerous; all it has to be
is frightening, or unsettling."

He rubbed his forehead absently, causing a glimpse of wand to
surface as his sleeve rucked up. "Mrs. Weasley," he said.
"What do you know about a group called the Knights of the
Golden Wand?"

**

Oh, this was getting ridiculous.

Hermione, who had sunk reluctantly back into her chair during
one of Bullwinkle's chillier bits of Bad Cop Commentary, shook
her head wearily and stood up again.

"The Knights of the Golden Wand," she said, and laughed. It
was a cold sound, and an unlovely one, and it made her feel
better - more in control of herself, less weepy. "You expect
me to believe that they're in on this? That they destroyed my
office building, bombed my house, and murdered my husband, all
because of bone transplants?"

"Mrs. Weasley - "

"No." Hermione shook her head again and headed for the door.
"No, that's just silly. Nobody would make that big a fuss over
a surgical technique, especially one that can be duplicated in
the wizarding world for much less bother and cost - Skele-Gro,
as I recall, retails for about four Sickles per half-liter.
Not worth the cost of the plastic explosive alone, let alone
the manpower involved." She glared at them. "And besides, the
Knights of the Golden Wand haven't been heard from since Harry
Potter defeated Voldemort, twenty-two years ago. Don't you
think I read?"

Rocky's hand was on her shoulder. She brushed it off.

"Now, if you don't mind," she finished, more quietly, "I'm
going home to comfort my mother-in-law." A pause, as she
fought to control her shaking lips. "And … and to find my
c-cat."

Bullwinkle's voice halted her with her hand on the doorknob.

"The Knights of the Golden Wand," he said, "have already owled
the Ministry of Magic to take responsibility for this
morning's events. And have provided us with inside information
about the crimes that only the perpetrators could have known."

Hermione tasted bile in the back of her throat. Slowly,
unsteadily, she let go of the door and turned to face him.

"Indeed," she said. Deep in the lake of her grief, an ice-blue
flower of rage found itself and began to coalesce. She didn't
recognise her voice as her own. "And what, pray tell, have
they proffered as justification for their actions?" When he
didn't answer her right away, she took a threatening step
toward him, feeling her heart thunder and rush a millimeter
underneath her clammy skin.

Odd, to be so hot and so cold at the same time. So angry. So
helpless.

"Why did they do it?" she demanded, her voice cracking. The
room's only windowpane collapsed to the floor in a tinkle of
broken glass, as if crushed by a careless hand. "Why?"

A tense moment of silence, during which Hermione sagged -
frustrated, embarrassed, and utterly spent - against the
doorframe. The two Aurors exchanged clandestine glances, then
looked away.

"They've found out the subject of your research," Bullwinkle
said. He sounded tired but resigned, and Hermione realised, in
a sudden flash of insight, that she'd been wrong about him;
he'd never been angry with her, at all. "And they're prepared
to go to any lengths to stop it."

He studied her for a long moment, his lantern jaw set and
unflinching. "Someone's been telling your secrets," he said,
"and it's nearly gotten you killed. Any guesses as to who it
might be?"

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Four

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It didn’t take long for everyone to know. In the wizarding
world, word spread fast.

And once they knew, the owls came – and kept coming, dozens
upon dozens of them, from all over the globe, all with a
variation on that age-old message: We’re so sorry. We loved
him, too.

"Do I need to answer them?" Hermione asked Arthur, and he
shook his head.

"Not necessary," he said. "They know you’re grieving. They
won’t expect anything back."

They both looked over at the dining-room table, now piled high
with parchment envelopes. A few opened ones lay off to the
side of the larger stack – Hermione had started to read them,
but hadn’t had the will to continue. Nobody else seemed to
want to open them, either; but for the muted swish of
owl-wings at regular intervals, the soft click of beaks as the
messengers paused for a post-delivery snack from the bowl of
salted cashews Hermione had set out for them, the dining room
was dark and empty, a shadowy mausoleum to the dead.

The rest of the house was another matter. If their friends had
sent written condolences – and apparently that was the custom,
in the wizarding world – the family had shown up in person en
masse: Charlie, still in his work clothes, arms shiny with
burn scars; Percy and Penelope with their toddler and new
baby; Ron and a very pregnant Madeline-the-Hufflepuff, their
wedding rings still new and shiny; graduate-student Ginny with
red-rimmed eyes and a short new haircut, gripping Harry’s hand
hard. The twins, their perpetual smiles forced, their merry
eyes bleak.

The sadness was palpable, like another person at the table, a
cold damp-eyed ghost sitting in Bill’s empty chair. Even so,
the Weasleys hadn’t all been in the same place together since
Ron’s wedding – and they’d never been people inclined to
silence, Hermione thought. Wasn’t that one of the reasons
she’d been so drawn to them? Their noisiness, their volatile
emotions, their unbreakable, unshakable bond?

Somehow it seemed right that the conversation should turn away
from death to life – that Percy and Arthur should trade
Ministry gossip, that Charlie and Ron and Harry should wrangle
over the upcoming Quidditch season, that Fred and George
should be down on their knees on the living-room floor playing
noisy games with little Artie, that Penelope and Madeline
should trade pregnancy horror stories and coo over baby
pictures. Hermione, on her way into the kitchen for a glass of
water, saw Molly and Ginny deep in mother-daughter
conversation over dinner preparations and backed silently away
again – there was that bond again, that easy conversation, the
sense of grief made more bearable for being shared.

Her own parents had offered to come, on the telephone last
night, but Hermione had said ‘no’.

"There’s not going to be a funeral, Mum," she said tiredly.
"Wizards don’t have funerals. They immolated him this
afternoon, just the immediate family, and we all said a few
words and put something into the flames. I put something in
for you and Dad, too – one of the neckties you gave him last
Christmas, the blue one that he liked the best." A pause while
her father came to the phone; her mother was weeping too hard
to continue. "The ashes? Yes, I’ve got them," Hermione said,
and wondered why that sick distant feeling wouldn’t leave her.
"The Mediterrenean, I think. He loved the sea."

She herself had wanted for a brief fervent moment to step into
the flames herself, and might have made a motion to do so if
it hadn’t been for Harry’s hand in hers, for Ron’s comforting
touch at the small of her back. Just then she’d been in the
middle of the Weasleys, at the innermost point of the inner
circle, and had felt their love around her like a safe-harbor.
To destroy herself would have been to betray that love … and
so she had closed her eyes instead, and slid the rings from
her cold left hand, and tossed them into the fire.

And now, their absence made her feel so naked that she wished
she hadn’t done it.

**

She escaped up the stairs into the bedroom and closed the
door, blocking out the sounds of conversation and argument and
Artie’s high childish laughter. Someone – Ginny, probably; it
was the sort of small thoughtful thing she’d think of – had
gathered up all the visual evidence of Bill – his shoes, his
shaving cream, the pile of his clothes in the hamper – and
tucked it away somewhere where Hermione wouldn’t have to look
at it. She’d changed the sheets, too; they smelled of laundry
detergent, still, but not of memories.

Cleo was curled up on the bed in a loose, sprawling ball.
Hermione still remembered what she’d looked like as a kitten –
all dusty-grey fluff and plaintive mew, a rumbling
Marlene-Dietrich purr and a predilection for salmon paté. Now
she was full-grown, sleek and dun-coloured and roughly the
size of a half-grown Labrador retriever; Hermione had seen her
leap on more than one occasion from the open second-floor
window of the bedroom, eight feet out into thin air, and land
safely, smugly in the nearby orange-tree. No doubt it was that
same self-preservatory leap that had saved her from sharing
the same fate as Bill … by the time Hermione had reached home
yesterday, after her interview with the Aurors, Cleo had been
waiting for her in the upstairs hall.

She kicked off her shoes, grateful for the silence, and folded
herself onto the bed, tucking her knees up under her chin and
hugging her calves with locked-together hands. Her throat
burned with suppressed tears. Up till now there’d been no
respite – she’d tossed and turned all night, tortured with
visions of fire and char behind her eyelids if she closed her
eyes, and finally dragged herself out of bed an hour before
sunrise, just for a moment to herself.

Quiet house, quiet kitchen – and then, a knock at the door
before she’d even put the water on for tea.

It was Linchpin, Bill’s boss from Gringotts.

Hermione didn’t know the goblin well, but they’d had her to
dinner on a few occasions, and she and Bill had worked
together for a long time. "Hullo," she said, and stood back to
let her visitor come inside.

"We regret your loss," Linchpin had said without preface, in
that oddly formal tone the goblins took with most humans.
"Your husband will be sorely missed at Gringotts."

"Thank you," Hermione said weakly. "You’re very kind."

An inclination of the severe little chin. "I offer my own
personal condolences as well," she continued. "Bill Weasley
was – honourable. I will miss him." She reached into the
inside lapel pocket of her uniform jacket and drew out a
leather folder and a small velvet bag. "His pension," Linchpin
said, handing Hermione the passbook, and smiled faintly at
Hermione’s surprise. "Whatever is said of goblins in the world
of humans," she said, "we do not leave our widows alone and
helpless."

She held out the velvet bag. "The passbook is official," she
continued briskly, "but this is not. The department chipped
in."

Wonderingly, Hermione drew the bag open and tipped the
contents onto her palm: loose cut diamonds, a dozen or more,
brilliantly cut and sparkling under the kitchen’s overhead
light. Her jaw dropped.

"I can’t accept—" she began, but Linchpin cut her off.

"We thought of him that way, you see," she said, and to her
shock, Hermione saw tears shimmering in the small close-set
eyes. "Never a falsehood. Clear as sunlight. We were fortunate
to know him."

Loss recognises loss, Hermione thought, wet-eyed, regardless
of species. And went down on her knees to embrace the weeping
goblin.

"Thank you," she murmured finally, drawing back, and Linchpin
put her small clawed hands firmly on Hermione’s shoulders.

"We will avenge him," she said softly. "No matter the time,
the place. No matter the person. Find the parties responsible
for this, and all of Gringotts – all of the goblin world –
will rise up for vengeance. I swear it to you."

We will avenge him.

They were the most comforting words Hermione had heard yet.

**

It was a week and a half before she saw the Aurors again.

She’d kept thinking back to their first conversation, back to
Bullwinkle’s incisive, devastating question, the one that had
stopped her in her tracks: Someone’s been telling your secrets
– any guesses who? Or why?

A handful of people at the Consortium, another half-dozen at
Lilly. Herself, and Bill. Hermione couldn’t speak for the
American team, but the thought seemed slim – the Knights of
the Golden Wand, even in their heyday, hadn’t had much of a
purchase in the United States. Pure blood didn’t count for
much in the Colonies, after all, be you wizard or Muggle. And
the idea of any of her Consortium colleagues being her
betrayer … that thought was too painful to contemplate. She’d
shrugged.

"Will they try again?" she’d asked. Rocky had cocked his head
to the side.

"That depends," he said. "If their goal was to halt your
research and keep you from completing your project, they’ll
probably be satisfied, unless you begin it again. If, on the
other hand, what they want is to see you destroyed …" He
lifted one shoulder. "Then they’ll try again. Hard to know for
sure."

Hermione had digested this in silence. "So I may still be in
danger," she’d said finally. Bullwinkle nodded.

"So it seems."

"And that," she continued slowly, "puts everyone who’s close
to me at risk, as well."

Not exactly what you wanted to think about in the middle of
the night, was it?

It had been that realisation, carried with her throughout the
immolation ceremony, throughout the next few family-crowded
days of grieving, that had made her deny her parents’ offer of
company, made her send the Weasleys away. Now it was just her
in the house, her and Cleo, which was simultaneously worse and
better – better, not to see his red hair or hazel eyes on
someone else’s face every time she turned around, not to
pretend composure to keep them from worrying; worse, to haunt
the empty halls, sleep in the least-used guest room, hiding
from the ghosts of their shared life, and wake up to the sound
of her own screaming.

Worse by far than the Priestess, this. At least then waking
had been better than sleep. Now, she’d be hard-pressed to make
the comparison.

Something had to give, and she was afraid it was going to be
her.

"What do you think I should do?" she asked now, and got
silence for an answer, eventually broken by Bullwinkle
clearing his throat.

"The Ministry," he said quietly, "suggests that you leave the
country, at least temporarily, and that you maintain a certain
distance from your family – if only for their, and your,
protection." He met her eyes for a moment, holding her bleak
gaze with his own. "You’ve made powerful friends, Mrs.
Weasley. We’ve already heard from Albus Dumbledore. And from
His Royal Highness, Farouk al-Hussein of Jordan. I believe you
spent some time at his residence in Alexandria a few years
ago?"

Hermione nodded. "I knew his great-niece in school," she said.
"She was one of my bridesmaids."

"Ah, yes. The Princess Fatima." Bullwinkle shuffled some
papers in the file he was holding. "Funny you should mention
her. Have you spoken to her since your wedding?"

"On and off," Hermione said, frowning – where was this headed?
"I know she finished her degree in Amman and then went to
medical school in the States. I don’t know where she’s living
at the moment."

"Ah." Bullwinkle sucked his teeth. "Al-Hussein," he said,
"contacted our offices jointly with Professor Dumbledore a few
days ago." He looked rueful. "If the Muggle police think they
have trouble keeping secrets from the general populace, it’s a
thousand times worse for us. In this case, though, it works to
our mutual advantage."

"Oh?"

"Your school chum, Fatima bint-Hussein, is presently in
Paris," Bullwinkle said, "running a free medical clinic for
the French-Arabic community there, and living under an assumed
name, to avoid notoriety in the press. Both her apartment
block and the building which houses her facility are owned by
her half-brother Khaled, who is a silent partner in her
enterprise, and who has set up a corporation on her behalf.
Some time and effort has gone into making sure that the
identity of this corporation cannot be traced back to the
royal family – being good Muslims, al-Hussein has explained to
me, they wish to carry out their charity privately."

He took a deep breath. "Because this … blind, of a sort, has
already been established, both they and we feel this to be a
good opportunity for you – to disappear off the radar of those
who wish you harm, and also, if you wish, to continue your
research in a place where it won’t be questioned."

Hermione considered this for a moment.

"Won’t I just be putting her in danger?" she asked finally,
and Bullwinkle looked uncomfortable.

"Theoretically," he said. "If we took no precautions, you’d be
easily Located again, no matter where we moved you. That’s one
of the matters that Professor Dumbledore wished to discuss
with us. According to him – and I must say that I agree with
this – there’s really only one way to make sure you – and your
friend – are completely safe."

Hermione had the feeling she understood, but she didn’t like
it. "You want me to go into deep hiding," she said slowly, and
Rocky nodded.

"There’s not much left for you to do," he said, and looked so
hopeful that she wanted, illogically, to cry. "Dumbledore’s
even found you your Secret-Keeper."

Dumbledore’s even found you your Secret-Keeper.

There’s only one way to make sure you’re completely safe.
Hermione closed her eyes.

The Fidelius Charm.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Five

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

On a clear day, they could see Canada.

Great-Uncle Nestor had chosen his plot of property well,
Severus thought; if ever a man had wanted to remove himself
from the human race, it had been his great-uncle, and if ever
there’d been a place where that was possible, it was this one.
A hundred and twenty acres of pristine virgin-forest
mountaintop, it was warded all round its perimeter with
Weather Charms that had been in place for the better part of
the century and stocked with enough carnivorous wildlife to
eat Kansas City like a canapé … meaning that no one – and by
that, he meant no one – ever tried to breach the interior of
his sanctum. Not hunters, not fishers, not even the brash
young extreme-sports enthusiasts who haunted nearby Glacier
National Park from November till May with their designer
backpacks and space-age snow gear.

And certainly not the locals.

As far as he knew, the residents of the small town at the base
of the mountain thought their peak to be uninhabited; after
all, there wasn’t so much as an access road, or even a hiking
trail, leading up to the top. And it wasn’t like Severus had
broadcast his existence, either, in the three-and-a-bit years
he and Sal had been living there.

It was like Sal pointed out – why shop at the ma-‘n’-pa in
poky little Brush Pine, when you had an Apparation license?
Not like you’re planning to walk down the mountain, anyway,
he’d said. Why settle for green bananas, when you can get them
ripe right off the tree?

Despite the inherent good sense in this argument, Severus had
been cautious at first, only Apparating as far for their
fortnightly groceries as the big supermarket in Helena that
had the organic-produce section and the two aisles devoted to
imported specialty foods. That way, at least – he told Sal –
they could keep some decent tea in stock … innovative as the
Yanks had proven to be about a hundred other things, he just
couldn’t get behind Lipton tea bags.

But then, inevitably, came the Frivolous Side Excursions,
brought on by a seemingly innocent fireside fantasy one
blustery snowbound afternoon in February: wouldn’t it be nice,
Severus had said lazily, if he’d thought to pick up a box of
cigars, before he left town?

Mm, Sal had agreed, opening one eye. What’s stopping you,
then? I hear Havana’s wonderful this time of year.

That had been the first one – one moment snug in the
flickering firelit cabin with its snow-silvered windows, the
next gasping in the brutal humidity of a Havana street corner.
The cigars were worth it, though, and the experience opened
the door to a previously-unconsidered world of
delicacy-inspired decadence: California oranges, red wine from
French vineyards, Colombian coffee beans, Greek olives cured
in oil, vanilla-sweet cannoli – creamy and melting in their
crisp sugary tubes of pastry – brought back boxed and still
warm from a side-street bakery in Little Italy.

Books. From everywhere.

It was a sweet life, made sweeter by his ability to – in the
midst of chair-napping, or playing chess with Sal, or
crunching out to refill the birdfeeders, or unpacking the
Chinese takeout they’d called to San Francisco for – stop
everything, look at his watch, and say to himself: ah, yes.
It’d be the Hufflepuff fourth-years right about now.

Yes, life was good – and he’d known it would be, that was the
thing. Which was why he’d ignored all hints, gentle and
otherwise, to leave a forwarding address when he left Hogwarts
… and why he’d gone to such great lengths to renew the
Unplottability on Great-Uncle Nestor’s cabin.

Still, if Albus Dumbledore wanted to find you, he probably
could. Which was why it didn’t come as such a great shock, to
look up one afternoon from the delights of an open-air
vegetable stand on the Baja Peninsula, and to see him standing
there.

**

"Hullo, Albus," he said guardedly, and got a mellow smile in
return.

"Severus. You’re well?"

"Quite, thanks." Severus looked down at the tomato he’d just
picked up, examined it mechanically for soft spots, and put it
into his basket. "And you?"

I’m not going back, he wanted to say. I’m not going back to
teaching, ever again. And don’t you dare ask me; I’ve paid my
dues to you.

But he didn’t, and perhaps he hadn’t – can you ever repay
someone, after all, for saving your life?

Hard to say.

"Well enough," Dumbledore said, "well enough."

They stood looking at each other in the hot July sunshine,
surrounded by the lazy hum of insects and the rich acidic
smell of tomato vines. Severus, who had gotten into the habit
of wearing Muggle clothes around the cabin, but nevertheless
couldn’t wrap his brain around the idea of wearing them out in
public (he’d had quite enough of that in Rome, thank you very
much), compensated for the heat during his shopping
expeditions South by changing into his lightest summer-weight
robes – still black, naturally – and adding the precaution of
a white clergyman’s collar. In addition to staving off Muggle
curiosity about the rest of his clothing, this little dab of
white at his throat had the side benefit of assuring him a
sumptuous discount at Doña Elena’s produce stand; Severus had
been most embarrassed last December, when he’d stopped in on a
whim for some green chilies and had gotten home to find she’d
slipped two jars of homemade strawberry preserves into his
bag, along with a Christmas card addressed to el padre
generoso, showing the Holy Family picked out in gilt against a
blue flocked-velvet background.

Amusing, this … especially in retrospect; Sal had insisted
that he save the card, which was still taped to the
freezer-compartment door of the cabin’s refrigerator,
surrounded in magnetic poetry doodles. Now, however, Severus
found his disguise merely awkward – especially since
Dumbledore was tricked out for the occasion in beachcomber’s
drag: Bermuda shorts and Birkenstocks, covered by a violently
flowered Hawaiian shirt that reached nearly to his bony knees
and hung open in front to reveal coy glimpses of a lily-white,
gently concave chest, behind the snowy curtain of his beard.

You look like Jerry Garcia’s grandfather, Severus thought, and
heaved a mental sigh: leave it to Dumbledore, and that damned
self-confidence of his, to pull off an outfit like that one.
Mildly disheartening that it still bothered him, that the old
Headmaster could still make him feel stuffy and pedantic by
comparison, even when they’d barely said two words apiece.

"Is everyone well?" he asked finally, to break the silence.
"At Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore looked grave. "At Hogwarts, yes," he said, after a
bit of a pause. Severus felt one eyebrow shoot up; apparently,
he thought with a touch of aspersion, merely seeing Albus in
the flesh was enough to bring out his long-dormant Teacher
Face.

"And elsewhere?" he persisted. Albus shook his head.

"I can’t imagine that you’d have heard," he said, idly rubbing
a bit of tomato leaf between his thumb and forefinger, "and
it’s sad news, no doubt about it. It’s the Weasleys, Severus."

Severus frowned. "Arthur and Molly?"—and then, as Dumbledore
shook his head, a bright hard stab of comprehension nearly
made him drop his basket.

"Hermione," he said, and just the sound of that long-silent
name on his lips made a cold shiver tap-dance up his spine.
"What’s happened? She’s not—"

"Severus." Dumbledore passed a weary hand over his eyes, and
suddenly the bright loud Muggle clothes looked strange on him,
like a red rubber nose on a corpse. "Pay for your tomatoes,"
he said, "and let’s go. I need to talk to you and Sal
together."

**

"The Fidelius Charm?" Severus asked, incredulous. "Are you mad
?"

They were at the butcher-block table in the cabin’s skylit
kitchen, drinking Chianti from a straw bottle and eating chili
so heavily spiced with cayenne that even the Perlucioed
version of it was turning Sal pink around the edges.
Dumbledore spooned a bit of his onto a saltine and chewed
ruminatively, his eyes closed, before answering.

"That," he said, "would probably be a matter of opinion. But
in this instance? No, I don’t think I’m mad." He took a sip of
his wine. "We’re not the most innovative group of people in
the world, wizards aren’t," he said. "We only really change
something when we have to, when it doesn’t work anymore."

Another sip, a faraway look. "It’s always been true that the
structure surrounding the Fidelius was flawed – ever since its
inception, we’ve known it. But it was so difficult to master,
and so rarely performed, that the problems weren’t readily
apparent … until James and Lily." He sighed. "To the best of
my knowledge, no one’s used it since – not for anything
important, anyway."

"Can you blame them?" Severus asked, and Dumbledore shook his
head.

"No – it was well and truly bungled, all right." He reached
for another stack of saltines. "But apart from that individual
situation, the Charm itself was flawed. Too much pressure on
one person, mostly. That’s why I’ve changed it."

Sal, who’d been staring moodily into his Perlucioed wineglass
– he hadn’t said much, ever since they’d heard about the
attack on Hermione in Cairo – looked up at that. "Changed it?"
he said. "How?"

Dumbledore looked a bit more cheerful. "It was Miss Granger’s
situation in Alexandria last year that gave me the idea," he
said. "I confess I hadn’t given Duathor bint-Hussein much
thought in the past – she’s more historically interesting from
a Potions standpoint, generally speaking, and that’s never
been my subject – but it was deucedly clever, the way she used
that Dividing Spell. And I thought, the other day … why not
try that on something other than a book?"

Severus, in the act of pouring himself some more Chianti,
froze with the bottle tipped halfway to the glass. "Like a
Charm?" he asked, and Dumbledore nodded happily.

"Got it in one."

Severus set the bottle down heavily. His mind was racing. "So
that’s why you wanted to talk to both of us together," he
said. "You want each of us to take on half of the Charm." He
frowned. "But –"

"Yes?"

He shot a quick glance at Sal. "I thought the Fidelius Charm
would only work on a Secret-Keeper with a living soul," he
said. "Doesn’t that preclude spirits?"

Dumbledore smiled.

"It has in the past," he said. "But then—"and here, he glanced
pointedly at the other side of the table, where Sal was
swilling wine from a ghostly glass—"most ghosts don’t sit down
to meals, either, and you seem to have gotten around that."

"You can’t Perlucio a spell," Severus argued, and got a shrug
for an answer.

"No. But what that handy little charm demonstrates,"
Dumbledore said, "is that everything exists on both a
corporeal and a spiritual level." He took another bite of
chili and closed his eyes again as the bite of the peppers hit
his tongue. "And that’s the fault line along which I intend to
Divide the charm."

"Fine," Severus said sharply, a little nettled by Dumbledore’s
offhand manner. "But then, that begs the question – why us?
Aren’t there plenty of ghosts at Hogwarts? Plenty of wizards?
I’d think Arthur Weasley would be banging down the door to be
Hermione’s Secret-Keeper, along with his wife and daughter and
every one of his remaining sons. Not to mention every teacher
at Hogwarts – we all liked Bill. Aren’t you travelling a bit
far afield?"

"Bill’s not the issue anymore," Dumbledore said with a warning
in his voice, and Severus wondered, not for the first time,
how he did it – how all that facile hail-fellow-well-met
business could fade in a heartbeat to carefully-banked anger
and a rush of power that slapped at you across the table, even
as he drew it in again. "Hermione is. And you and she were …
close, were you not?"

Severus blew out a breath. "We were," he admitted. "Though I
don’t see why that –"

"Don’t you?" Dumbledore rubbed his eyes wearily. "That’s why
the Potters chose Sirius, after all, even though I offered –
he and James were so close they practically dreamed the same
dreams." He shook his head. "That’s why I never understood why
they switched … but never mind that now. The stronger the
bond, the stronger the Charm, Severus. Like a million other
things. And she loved both of you."

"How is she?" Sal asked suddenly. Dumbledore shook his head.

"Too quiet," he said. "Too thin. She’s at Hogwarts right now,
until we can get the Fidelius in place, and she doesn’t have
enough to do there. She’s not learned to grieve yet, and now
to lose not only her husband but her freedom – to be denied
even the support of her family, for fear of endangering them
…" He shrugged. "Even for a quick student, it’s a hard
lesson."

"Can’t you keep her safe at Hogwarts?" Severus asked. "It
worked for Potter, after all."

"Harry needed an education," Dumbledore said. "He needed to
know who he was. Hermione knows who she is – she doesn’t need
shelter right now, so much as she needs a purpose."

"A purpose," Severus repeated. "And what’s that, pray?"

"In the short term? Altruistic work – she’ll be a doctor in
her friend’s clinic – and the continuation of her research.
After she’s got that sorted out …"

"Yes?"

Dumbledore shrugged. "You know her as well as, or better than,
I do," he said. "Do you really think for a minute she’s not
eventually going to track them down, and make them pay?"

"Revenge?" Severus rolled his eyes. "Not a very Gryffindor
sentiment, Albus."

"We Gryffindors," Dumbledore said, "prefer to call it justice
." He took a pointed swig of his Chianti. "Are you in, then?
Sal? Severus?"

"I’m in," Sal said, and Severus, meeting the old ghost’s eyes
across the table, grimaced and conceded defeat.

"I’m in," he said. "But I still don’t like it."

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Six

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Being back at Hogwarts, Hermione found, was easier than
staying on in Cairo.

She'd had offers from everyone – you can't stay here by
yourself, come home with us. For as long as you need to. No,
really, we mean it. Her parents, the Weasleys, Farouk, Gram.
Areli, even, shattered by the loss of the Consortium but
outwardly, determinedly cheerful.

Come with us. We mean it, truly we do.

And Hermione had turned them all down, every last well-meaning
one of them, and had packed a bag for Hogwarts instead.

After all, it had been her home for the better part of six
years. It was safe, too; it couldn't be blown up or burnt to
the ground ... or even, for that matter, found on a map. And
her years there with Harry and Ron had given her better
knowledge than most of its secret cubbyholes, its hideaways
and safe-havens.

It didn't hurt, either, that in all the time she'd been a
student there, Bill Weasley had been only a handsome stranger
to her ... that it hadn't been their space in common. Oh, she
could find him if she looked hard enough – an engraved name on
the Head Boy plaque, some highly flattering graffiti etched
surreptitiously into the wall of the Gryffindor girls'
lavatory. But it wasn't like the house in Cairo, where every
knickknack, every moment, every centimetre of space and
millisecond of memory seemed devoted to and filled up with
him, to the point that the place felt haunted.

Better the ghosts you can see, Hermione had decided, than the
ones you can't.

It was the third week in July, and Hogwarts was virtually
deserted. Even the professors had scattered to wherever it was
they spent their summers, leaving behind of their number only
two of the junior staffers Hermione didn't know. The first of
these was a middle-aged witch with an unpronounceably Slavic
surname and a brusque manner, who carried her Crystal Orb
round with her wherever she went in what looked suspiciously
like an pink vinyl bowling bag. Between her natural reticence,
her thick accent, and Hermione's lessened-but-continued
distaste for Divination – it may have come in handy once or
twice, that she'd admit, but there was no need to get carried
away, after all – she hadn't had the chance to speak at length
with Madame Grnoblislavskaya, during the fortnight she’d been
there.

The second witch, Snape's Potions replacement, was more
personable, perhaps, but no less formidable. Scarcely older
than Hermione herself, she was tall and statuesque – stacked
like a brick shithouse, Ron would have said – with flawless
skin the colour of a good French roast and a musical hint of
Creole in her speech. Hermione had first glimpsed her out on
the lawns, striding barefoot back from the greenhouses with an
armful of herbs, her coronet of dreadlocks bristling like a
dangerous tiara and a naked blade with a wicked curve dangling
from the waistband of her robes … and hadn't been able to
suppress a low whistle.

Nobody skips her class, I'll wager.

Her name was Joséphine Dessources, her younger sister was a
Muggle nurse in their native Haiti, and once she'd found out
who Hermione was, she was more than eager to talk shop.

"Euralie's clinic had a shipment of your bone-graft treatments
sent over as a donation," she said now, sending a flat rock
skimming out over the lake. The Great Hall was undergoing its
yearly summer scrub, and as even Dumbledore seemed to be
making himself scarce at the moment, they were having their
luncheon outside, à deux. "She was raving about them at my
last visit; it's not so often that she gets to play with the
new toys, so she was excited about it. Someone came in with a
compound fracture and part of their wrist sticking through
their skin, and two weeks later it was as if it had never
happened."

She took a long pull from her glass of lemonade. "She was
pretty smug about it, too -- 'see, who needs magic, when
medical advancement brings us things like this?'" She smirked.
"Hah. Little does she know."

Hermione chuckled appreciatively and picked up her sandwich.
It was her favourite from her days at Hogwarts -- sweet
pickles and tuna, on pumpernickel, and the familiar schoolday
taste of it made her feel younger, not as weary.

"Glad they were helpful," she said. "Could she use some more
of them? It'd be fairly easy to arrange."

Joséphine snorted. "They can use whatever they can get," she
said, her dark eyes resting ruefully for a moment on the
sumptuous, half-finished wreckage of their picnic. "Haiti
doesn't have much of anything going for it right now. The
whole country's been somebody-or-another's petty-cash fund
since my great-great-grandfather cut his first tooth. Before
that, too, probably. About the only thing we're good at
nowadays is protesting ... though I suppose even that's a step
in the right direction; at least we know that something's
wrong."

Off Hermione's look, she flushed. "Sorry. Suppose that's the
last thing you want to think about right now."

"No, it's okay," Hermione said, and busied herself tearing off
a crust of her sandwich for the ducks so she wouldn't have to
look Joséphine in the eyes. "Comforting, really, though I
guess that's an awful way to look at it. Means it's not just
me ... and that's the way it feels, most days."

She tossed the morsel of bread out into the water, feeling –
as was usually the case, these days – on the verge of tears.
"Do you know that feeling? Like the rest of the world is so
... so happy. Like it keeps moving on, as if it’s a bus I've
missed." She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. "I
feel like I ought to be running after it trying to catch up,
but I can't be arsed. Stupid, really. I feel so out of touch."

She shrugged, suddenly ill at ease, and focussed on rolling a
stray bit of pumpernickel into a ball between her thumb and
forefinger. "Sorry to unload on you. Don't know where that
came from."

"Not a problem," Joséphine said, then grinned unexpectedly,
after a moment’s awkward silence, and shot Hermione a
mischievous look. "I don't need to remind you what my
conversational alternative is ... I could be inside that
stuffy castle right now, eating with a fork and listening to
Madam Jambalaya-Whatsit natter on about her sodding tea
leaves." She rolled her magnificent eyes. "Honestly."

Hermione managed a watery smile. English might have been
Joséphine’s second language – or third, or eighth, who knew? –
but she’d certainly picked up the vernacular quickly. "Not a
big fan of Divination, then? Professor McGonagall should
approve of that."

At McGonagall’s name, Joséphine shuddered and made a
complicated hand gesture Hermione hadn’t seen before.
Nevertheless, her meaning came through crystal-clear; she was
warding off a curse, and only half-jokingly at that.

"Her," she said, pretty face screwed up with distaste. "That'd
be the only thing she approved of, then. A bloody Mistress of
Postulants, that one."

"Oh, she's not so bad," Hermione said. Joséphine gave her a
dark look.

"Oh, no?" She tossed her head, then pursed her generous mouth
into such a dead-on imitation of McGonagall's thin lips that
Hermione nearly got lemonade up her nose.

"'Miss Dessources,'" she mimicked in a petulant, disapproving
old-lady quaver, "’I do not know what you have been accustomed
to ... previously, but here at Hogwarts we do not attend
breakfast in our dressing-gowns!’ ‘Miss Dessources, are you
aware that you are not wearing shoes?’ ‘Miss Dessources,
please refer to the Hogwarts faculty manual for basic
grounding in the proper way to wipe your arse.’" She rolled
her eyes. "As if I’m three, and not toilet-trained yet. And
not a day goes by that she doesn’t genuflect before the altar
of the Almighty Snape, my Peerless Predecessor. The man must
have been some sort of bloody god."

She studied Hermione mournfully from behind her half-emptied
lemonade. "Tell me the truth – I can handle it. She was
Snape’s lab partner back at Stonehenge Poly-Tech, he fathered
her love child in the Sixties, she’s still nursing a grand
passion for him, and nothing I do is ever going to be good
enough for her." She wrinkled her nose expressively. "I’m
right, aren’t I?"

Hermione choked on a crisp.

"Hardly," she said, snorting, when she’d regained enough
equanimity to speak. "They barely tolerated each other. The
week before their houses played each other in Quidditch, they
didn’t even speak. Professor Sprout used to have to sit
between them at the Head Table so that the stewed tomatoes
would make it from one end of the table to the other."

"Heh." Joséphine’s lips quirked up appreciatively at this,
then settled back into a becoming sneer. "Well, there must
have been a certain level of professional respect there, at
least. You’d think that he’d put the moon in a bottle on a
nightly basis, the way she talks."

Hermione, thinking of Professor Lupin’s Wolfsbane Potion,
shrugged. "In a way, I suppose he did," she said absently.
Joséphine frowned at her.

"Did you know him well?" she inquired. "You’ve got a funny
look on your face."

Hermione shook her head. "Nobody knew him very well," she
said. "Toward the end, I don’t think anybody ever really
tried."

You did. And look where it got you.

Yes, well. I won’t make that mistake again.

Brow furrowed thoughtfully over her forgotten crisps, she
stared out over the lake … completely missing Joséphine’s
speculative look and raised eyebrows. "The Squid’s going to
sunburn if it stays out much longer," she said. "We should go
tell it to submerge."

"Bet he was good in bed."

Still squinting out at the lake, Hermione hummed an absent
assent. "Hm? Oh. Yes, actually." A moment too late, she shook
herself and aimed an accusing look at her companion. "What did
you say?"

"Uh-uh. Too late to take it back now," Joséphine said, and
rolled over to lie on her stomach. "I knew it! ’Nobody knew
him very well,’ eh? Looks like someone put in some
extra-credit."

Half-amused, half-exasperated, Hermione closed her eyes. "It
was a long time ago," she muttered. "A lot’s happened since
then. I can’t think about that right now."

"Nobody’s telling you you have to," the new Potions Mistress
said. "Least of all me." Her crown of braids swung sideways.
"Would you look at that," she said, pointing. "You had to say
her name, didn’t you? You’ve summoned her. And Albus is back,
too."

Hermione glanced halfheartedly toward the castle’s front
doors. "Well, they had to come back sometime," she pointed
out. Joséphine narrowed her eyes.

"And that’s not all," she said. "There’s a ghost – I think
it’s a ghost, anyway; he’s all shiny. Hard to tell from here.
And some tall drink of water in a black robe. We’ve got
company, cherie. Any guesses as to who it is?"

Even before she looked, Hermione knew.

"Speak of the devil," she said, and mashed a hapless crisp to
bits, viciously, with her thumb. "That’s the old Potions
Master, and his attendant spirit. Snape and Slytherin … you
never see one without the other, these days. I’m surprised to
see them off their mountaintop."

"That’s Snape?" Joséphine hiked herself up on her elbows to
get a better look. "He looks repressed," she said, her dark
eyes sly. "No wonder McGonagall liked him better than me.
Wonder why he’s here?"

Damn you, Albus, Hermione thought, and destroyed another
crisp. Unless I’m dead wrong, Dumbledore’s just persuaded him
to be my Secret-Keeper.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Seven

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Magic at Hogwarts, Hermione had found over the years, tended
to be a casual thing.

Oh, some spells were more complex than others – there was no
denying that. But what she'd noticed most, as a first-year
student of magic alighting for the first time from the
enchanted rowboats, was a lack of formality in the art of
spellcasting. From the reading she'd done beforehand – as much
as possible from Diagon Alley, her textbooks and as much more
supplemental reading as she could carry away, but also plenty
from the Muggle bookstore down the street from her parents'
office – she’d expected a more rarefied atmosphere, more
sigils and runes and pentagrams, more chanting and candlelight
and mystery.

What a frightened little girl she'd been, that first day on
the train ... nattering on about the ‘simple spells’ she'd
tried at home, when in reality her wand had never been out of
the box. She'd been more surprised than either Harry or Ron
had been when that Oculus Reparo had really worked – was that
really all there was to it? shouldn’t it have been harder than
that? – and it had taken her almost the whole term before she
got used to the everyday banality of most of it. Magic was
supposed to be noble, after all, exalted ... not this casual,
taken-for-granted mishmash of Dungbombs and Leg-Lockers and
Fizzing Whizzbees.

And even then, long after she'd finally figured it out – that
in a place like this, even the extraordinary became,
eventually, the mundane – she’d kept hoping in her most secret
soul of souls, at the start of each successive term, that
there really was more to it than this – that this would be the
year when they'd finally stop beating round the bush and start
the real magic. The ceremonial circles, the chalices, the
libations and incantations and bacchanalia.

Dark rooms and golden vessels. Altered planes of existence.

It had never happened. She'd stopped expecting it to,
eventually ... real life, after all, hadn't left much room for
adolescent dreams of High Drama.

Ironic, that: now that she’d given it up as a lost cause, she
was finally getting the grand ritual she’d longed for. And she
couldn’t have cared less.

She would have gone back to Oculus Reparo in a heartbeat, if
it would have meant a reversal of the past six weeks. Give me
back my husband, she'd silently petitioned the ceiling, night
after night in her darkened room, and I'll never pick up a
wand again. I swear it.

But Death didn't bargain with mortals, and so Bill was gone,
truly and irrevocably, as if he’d plucked the wrong card off a
Monopoly board – go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass
Go, do not collect $200. No higher court. No appeal – and how
Hermione had looked for one, a loophole, a snag in the cosmos
that could have sent him back to her … pacing the halls of the
house they’d remodelled together, hands clutching and
reclutching the lapels of his most-beloved chambray shirt, the
one she’d found draped over the side of the hamper and
couldn’t bear to launder because it still smelled like him.
Halfway through the week that followed the immolation
ceremony, just before the Weasleys’ departure from Cairo, she
had even approached her father-in-law and asked, in a
trembling voice pitched too low for Molly to overhear, about
the possibility of borrowing a Time-Turner from the Ministry
... only to be completely undone by the mingled grief and
understanding in his kind hazel eyes.

"Oh, Hermione," he'd said. "If we could, don't you think we
already would have? It's against every law we have, to use
magic to meddle with the dead." His lips had trembled, but his
gaze stayed steady. "And for the best, too. Some things are
meant to be beyond us."

He'd looked so beaten at this last that Hermione hadn't had
the heart to argue with him ... she'd simply nodded and turned
away, the better to ponder the mysteries of life in the
wizarding world – and to wonder, not without a touch of
bitterness, exactly what other Cardinal Rules Dumbledore had
encouraged them to break as schoolchildren, in the interests
of winning the war against Voldemort.

Voldemort. Now there was a name no one had heard in awhile.

In a way, Hermione wished she was still dealing with him; Dark
Lord or no, he would still have been easier to fight -- easier
to hate -- than this shadowy faceless conglomerate she didn't
know, that could by virtue of its anonymity conceal itself
anywhere, in anyone. Frightening to think that they had come
so close, that they'd been in her office amid her things, that
strange careless hands had swept Bill's framed picture off her
desk, to make room for the plastic explosive ... and that try
as she might, she still couldn't think of anyone she knew who
would bear her so great a grudge.

Maybe that was the point -- after all, it wouldn't be the
first time, or the last, that ignorance and reluctance to
change teamed up to coin another sad photo caption, to sell
another paper.

But that didn't make Hermione feel any better.

She sighed now and turned back from her guest-room tower
window to the bed, where the house-elf on laundry detail had
laid out her robes for the ceremony. Even by wizarding
standards, they were strange clothes ... a thin white chemise,
adorned at the bodice with a double row of ornamental buttons
and fastening up the front with a series of small cotton-cord
loops, and a navy-blue open-in-front outer robe that fit her
passably in every respect except one – the long loose sleeves
which hung a half-metre past her fingertips and had, so far at
least, resisted every Hemming Charm she'd thrown at them.

Evidently they had some significance within the ritual, she
decided finally, and let them be.

Pulling the clothes over her head, she studied herself
critically in the mirror and sighed. The unbuttoned,
dishevelled I'm-wearing-his-clothes-today look was all very
well for a quiet Saturday morning in the lab, but it wasn't
exactly how she wanted to face Severus Snape for the first
time in six years. In the ill-fitting robe, her complexion
washed out by the dark blue colour and her arms all but
swimming in excess fabric, she felt about as capable and
self-possessed as a six-year-old clumping around in her
mother's shoes … whereas he, she had no doubt, would be as
cool and ascetic a presence as ever.

He had been at Hogwarts for nearly a week, and Hermione had
managed, for the most part, to avoid him. As large as the
castle was, this had still taken some doing – more than once,
she’d eaten in the kitchens, rather than risk sharing his
table – and on one occasion, she’d seen him walk into the
library in just barely enough time to slide her book off the
table and slip behind some convenient shelves.

"Why don’t you want to talk to him?" Sal had asked over the
chessboard two nights ago, and Hermione had only shrugged.

"I don’t really know," she said. "It’s not just him, if that’s
any consolation. I’ve been avoiding most everybody I know. It
helps me keep my head clear." She shrugged. "If you hadn’t
come floating through my bedroom wall, I’d probably be
avoiding you, too."

An understanding nod, then a few moments’ silence while Sal
studied the board. "Bishop to row five," he said finally, and
then leaned back in his chair. "You sure your head needs to be
clear just now?"

Just the tone of his voice – gentle, absent of judgment – had
tears starting to Hermione’s eyes. "Don’t start, Sal," she
said wearily, and swiped at her eyes. "No, I’m not sure. Of
anything. But seeing anyone who knew me then … knew him …
makes me think about it. And it’s so much easier right now
when I don’t have to." She stared at the chessboard,
struggling to make out the pieces with blurred vision. "Pawn
to bishop five," she said, and Sal’s bishop glared at her.

"You know he’s letting you win, right?" it croaked, then
submitted with elaborate patience as Hermione’s pawn took off
its head. Hermione’s lip trembled again.

"See?" she said. "Everyone’s so … nice. Unnaturally so. Do you
know, even Peeves brought me flowers from the greenhouse the
other day? Peeves!"

Wordlessly, Sal dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and held
it out, looking a little nonplussed when Hermione’s fingers
slid right through it. "Sorry," he said. "It gets harder and
harder for me to remember I’m a ghost." He pointed his wand at
her dressing-table and floated a box of tissues over to her.
"If it helps," he said, gaze tactfully averted as she blew her
nose, "I don’t think Severus has ever sent a woman flowers in
his life. And he’s probably not likely to start now."

"No," she admitted. "But seeing him’s worse than seeing anyone
else, regardless."

"Why?"

Hermione hesitated. "Because the thought of even talking to
him feels … disloyal," she said finally. "That’s why."

Sal raised an eyebrow. "You’ve had an owl from Draco," he
pointed out mildly. "Did you feel the same way about that?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. But that’s different."

"How so?"

Hermione knew exactly where the difference lay – in the
pea-sized diamond solitaire on Gabrielle Delacour’s small
capable hand. Hard to feel guilty about an owl from Draco when
she and Bill had had dinner with them, just a year ago –
Draco, the new CEO of St. Mungo’s, deep in talk of renovations
and reform, and Gabrielle, her spot at Oxford assured, her
cottage by the sea a fantasy no longer. Just about the only
bone of contention between them had been the lack of a wedding
date – she wants her picture on the cover of Forbes first,
Draco had said dryly – and as long as that dinner had lasted,
reminiscence and laughter long after the cognac was gone,
after the dessert plates were empty, there hadn’t been so much
as a buzz of leftover chemistry.

As it should be, she’d thought at the time. Hard to explain
that to Sal, though – that Draco was safe because she knew she
didn’t want him, and that Snape was dangerous because she was
afraid she still might … but more than that, even, because she
would have chosen him first, all those years ago, if he’d
given her the choice.

Awful feeling, that, a sizzling acid burn of guilt over the
evisceration of her grief, like being eaten from the inside.
Helpless, a breath away from sobbing, she dug her teeth
savagely into her lower lip and tipped over her king.

"I’m sorry, Sal," she said tightly. "You’re being very kind,
but I just can’t talk to you right now."

After that encounter – a painful reminder of just exactly how
close she was to the edge – she hadn’t left Gryffindor Tower.
Now, she ran a brush mechanically through her hair, raised her
wand to administer an Anti-Red charm to her eyes, and let it
drop again … at this point, cosmetics were superfluous, and
her hand was shaking too hard to continue anyway. She slid her
feet into a pair of ballet flats and set her jaw.

By this time tomorrow, she’d probably still want to avoid
Severus Snape. And he’d be the only living wizard on the
planet who’d know how to find her.

Head high, teeth gritted, she headed for the door.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Eight

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There was at least one reason why the use of the Fidelius
hadn't been more widespread, during Voldemort's reign of
terror, and it was this:  to all but the
spectacularly-powerful few, performing the charm successfully
was as near to impossible as made no difference.

The Potters had been very lucky, Severus thought, to have
Albus Dumbledore so firmly in their corner.  At the time it
had been performed for them, the Fidelius had been so obscure
and off-the-beaten-path that Voldemort might never have even
considered it as an option, without Pettigrew's assistance.

Leave it to Potter and Black, those perennial chuckleheads, to
screw up such a sure thing ... and, in the process, to
besmirch the reputation of a perfectly good incantation with
their own stupidity.

Shaking his head, Severus turned left into the library and
proceeded straight back past the periodicals until he reached
a series of three slightly smoke-blackened landscapes in
chipped gilt frames.  Their humble appearance didn't fool him
like much of Hogwarts' artwork, they concealed a door, and
this secret entrance in particular was topped off with an
extra level of precaution:  if he hadn't been already cleared
for entrance, the paintings wouldn't have even been visible to
him.

The middle of the triptych depicted a gently rippling pond
surrounded by trees; on the right, a brace of ducks flushed
themselves wearily out of the painted bushes on his approach.
The hunter in the painting on the left didn't even muster that
much effort; he was eating a sandwich, his bow and arrows
discarded in the grass behind him.  His Weimeraner was asleep
on its back at his feet, its smoky grey paws paddling absently
in the air.  Severus leaned a little closer and thought he
heard it snore.

"Tally-ho," he said, and got a reproachful look from the
hunter in reply.

"Can it wait?" he wanted to know.  "I'm on my luncheon break,
see."

Severus made an impatient sound in his throat.  "I'm rather in
a hurry," he said.  "Official business for the Headmaster."

The hunter didn't move.

"Only it's meatball today," he said, a note of obstinacy
creeping into his tone as he proffered the half-eaten sandwich
for Snape's inspection.  "Usually it's ham and cheese, so it
doesn't matter   I can set it aside, see, and come back to it
with naught amiss.  But the Warming Charm only lasts so long
... and besides, the minute my back was turned, old Hastings
here"  here, he jerked his head toward the dozing Weimeraner
"would be off with what's left, and no mistake.  It's that
fond he is of meatball."

He took another defiant bite.

"Look," Severus said   exasperated, but determined to be
reasonable.  "You've been sitting around all morning with
nothing to do   you've got the easiest job in the castle.
Probably no one asks to get into this room for a good six
months at a stretch.  Your whole day is a luncheon break."

"'Tisn't either," the hunter retorted, stung.  "The
Portraiture Union says that luncheon starts at twelve-thirty
and lasts forty-five minutes.  I'm not obligated to resume my
duties until one-fifteen, and that's not for another ten
minutes."

He glared at Severus.  "I rather fancied a stroll up to the
West Tower today," he said sulkily.  "Pug Nelson and I often
share a fag or two of a fine afternoon, before we go back to
our shift."  A self-righteous sniff.  "It's our right, see."

Severus, who hadn't been in what could truthfully be termed a
good mood to begin with, had heard just about enough.

"Bugger your rights," he snapped. "And the Portraiture Union.
And while you're at it, bugger your meatball sandwich, too.  I
care bugger-all for your sodding precious luncheon break; I've
already given you the password, which is the only part of this
bloody insanity that is either my responsibility or, indeed,
my problem."  He bared his teeth at the startled hunter.  "And
if this door doesn't open within the next six seconds, I will
make it my personal life's goal that your tranquil little duck
pond here is taken down and put into storage"   he paused for
effect   "and replaced with that Acromantula family portrait
Hagrid commissioned for Aragog last Boxing Day."

A tense silence followed.

Then:

"Well, if you're going to be nasty about it," the hunter said,
sounding aggrieved.  "Don't know why you feel you need to go
around threatening people.  Not like I ever did anything to
you."

Muttering under his breath, he carefully wrapped the remains
of his sandwich in a napkin and stowed it in a metal lunch
pail, then pulled himself creakily to his feet and reached
behind him for his bow.  Notching an arrow to the string, he
pulled it taut and let it sail; obediently, the ducks
fluttered out from behind the bushes, the arrow caught one of
them in mid-flight, and the entire triptych of paintings slid
up toward the ceiling, revealing an open doorway.

The dog growled at Severus as he went through.

He ignored it.

**

Behind the door was one of Hogwarts' so-called spellcasting
chambers, indistinguishable from an ordinary classroom only by
the heightened level of security at its entrances and its lack
of furniture or windows.  Severus happened to know that the
self-renewing wards that protected the castle and grounds were
cast from this chamber, and that the Order of the Phoenix had
held its wartime meetings here.  And that back in the darkest
days before Voldemort's fall, a certain few of the Aurors in
Dumbledore's inner circle had held special Apparating
privileges that allowed them to bring the wounded or hunted
straight into this chamber, and then through the back
passageway into the school infirmary.

Like most of the other rooms in the castle, the floor and
walls were stone.  The walls were free of adornment   there'd
be no prying portrait-eyes to carry tales of what happened
here to the rest of the school   and to the naked eye, there
was no hearth.  This was in fact a fallacy; even as Severus
swept the hem of his robes through the closing library door,
Albus emerged from what appeared to be a solid wall and began
to shake the soot from his beard.

"Ah, Severus," he said cheerfully.  "Early as usual.  I didn't
see you at breakfast."

"I had a tray sent up," Severus said shortly, and sucked his
teeth with temper.  "I don't suppose," he went on, "that you
had anything to do with the artwork in the castle becoming
unionised?"

"Ah, so you've met the Woodsman," Dumbledore said brightly.
"Charming fellow, isn't he?"

Oh, it was no use.  "Charming," Severus agreed through his
teeth.  "Simply charming."

The wall belched again, and two house-elves emerged into the
room at opposite ends of a small wooden folding table.  A
moment later, a third elf followed them with an armful of
glassware and parchment, and began to arrange the items he
carried on the table.  Severus glanced expectantly at the wall
behind him.

"Where are the others?"

"Mr. Slytherin was just behind me," Dumbledore said.  "He
should be along at any moment.  Hermione I haven't seen today;
she wasn't at breakfast, either.  I'm afraid she hasn't shown
much of an appetite, as of late."

She hasn't shown much of anything, as of late, Severus
thought, least of all her face.  Once   just once   he'd
caught a glimpse of her, crossing the Entrance Hall a few
mornings ago as he came up from his old suite of dungeon rooms
... but he hadn't even gotten the chance to greet her.  Merely
the sound of his feet on the steps and she'd jumped, skittish
as a slapped kitten, and abruptly ducked around a corner.  He
hadn't even seen her face, and wouldn't have known it was her
if it hadn't been for those unmistakable toffee-coloured
curls.

Given all that had transpired between them, he couldn't say he
blamed her.  Still, it was a shock to see her come through the
library entrance now and hesitate on the threshold
hollow-eyed, thinner than he'd remembered her, and hugging her
torso with her arms inside the flowing sleeves of the ritual
robes.  Her wary stance struck him like a physical blow; the
Hermione he'd remembered hadn't been particularly cautious of
anything, least of all him, and now she looked hunched,
diminished, and just a bit lost.

"Hermione, my dear.  There you are."  That was Dumbledore
his voice low and warm, his body language reassuring.  "Come
in, come in."

Dutifully, she took a few steps toward the centre of the
room.  "Good morning, Professor."  Her eyes flicked sideways
to Snape's.  "Severus."

"Good morning," he returned, deliberately biting back the
title that was second nature to him   Miss Granger wasn't
quite accurate, at this point, and Mrs. Weasley seemed
unnecessarily cruel   and had to drop his gaze before her
terrible bleak stare.  Any pleasantry he might, against his
own nature, have felt inclined to proffer   How have you been?
Did you sleep well?  Ready to disappear from the face of the
earth?   faded, unsaid, in the face of what he saw in those
eyes.

He'd expected the grief, he'd expected the wariness, and he
could certainly understand the lack of resignation   this
wasn't a loss, after all, that she should be expected to
immediately accept.  But burning below all that was a
conflagration of rage so hot, so thinly contained, that to
look at it full-on was to feel a crushing hand at his throat.

He knew that feeling well   had wrestled with it in the middle
of the night for more years than he cared to contemplate.  But
he'd never expected to see it in Hermione Granger ... in
truth, had never thought her capable of it.  Had never seen
her confronted by anything that her prodigious intellect
hadn't been able to wrap around, or explain away.

She was coming apart at the seams.

And he was about to help send her away from everything she
loved, everyone who might be able to help her.

Bloody hell, Albus.  I hope you know what you're doing.

He opened his mouth to say something   what, he wasn't quite
sure yet   but she beat him to it.  "Here's Sal," she said,
her voice flat and emotionless, her head turned to watch the
old ghost approach through the solid wall.  "That's all of
us.  Let's get this over with."

Wordless, grim, unsmiling, they took their places in front of
the table.

**

The Division of the spell was, as it turned out, the easier
part of the charm.

Arms tucked inside the sleeves of her robes, Hermione watched
Dumbledore load his quill with the prepared Encryptoink,
watched the by-now-familiar address appear on the blank
parchment in his elaborate, curlicued handwriting:  48 Rue des
Arènes.

For the sake of Itmana's safety, she'd requested to live in a
separate building, in a different arrondissement, and
Dumbledore had obliged:  Itmana's apartment and the clinic,
according to what he'd told her, were situated on the
northernmost edge of Paris, in the crumbling lower-class
neighbourhood of Goutte d'Or where a majority of the city's
Northern African immigrants lived and worked.

Hermione suspected that he'd taken some time and trouble in
securing her own digs   a tony Left Bank address snuggled on a
quiet side street in the Latin Quartier, in between a
photography museum and one of the city's two surviving Roman
ruins, a 15,000-seat amphitheatre-turned-public-park called
the Arθnes de Lutθce.  Paris' only major mosque was a mere
block away, as were the Institut de Monde Arabe and the
Jardins des Plantes ... he'd gone to some effort so that she'd
feel at home there, she knew, and knew also that she ought to
feel grateful.

She didn't.

Not grateful in the slightest, just disillusioned and bereft
and angry ... angry enough that she wanted to jostle his elbow
as he peeled the words from the page into a petri dish, angry
enough to knock the table over and stamp on the glassware
until it splintered under her feet.  Angry enough to pummel
the tall dark wizard next to her with both fists and hurl hot
bitter words in his carefully-blank face:  this is all your
fault.

It's your fault I married him.  Your fault he's dead.  Your
fault I didn't love him enough.

She closed her eyes, bit down hard on her tongue.  Irrational
much?  Don't blame Snape; he's only doing you a favour.

Christ.  She was going mad.

"Divisio appari spiritum," Dumbledore was murmuring, and
Hermione watched a tangle of ghostly letters and numbers
separate themselves from their heavier, sludgier cousins in
the dish and hover at eye-height in the still close air.  This
was Sal's cue, apparently   he drifted forward and spoke a few
words in a language Hermione couldn't place, his wand held
aloft.  The ghostly words aligned for a moment   48 Rue des
Arθnes, again, shimmering in midair   then crumpled and
blurred, until they could no longer be read.

Sal reached out with his wand to gather them together, and
they adhered to his wand like filings to a magnet.  A moment
later, they'd vanished.

"Reuni totalis," Dumbledore muttered, blue eyes gimlet, wand
pointed at the inky muddle in the petri dish.  The distorted
letters stirred and twitched, but didn't realign.  He nodded,
apparently satisfied, and extended one long crook of a
forefinger toward Hermione.  Surprised, she stumbled forward.

"Cloak off," he said quietly, and she obeyed numbly, fumbling
with the hook at the neck and letting the navy-blue robe pool
at her feet.  The air in the chamber was stifling and too
heavily perfumed with the incense sticks he'd lit beforehand,
some giddy choking scent that made her head spin, made it a
relief to be free of the heavy robe.  Something magical in
that stuff, all right, no bones about it   but then, "Your
arm," he was saying, his wand sprouting a fine sable brush-tip
even as he grasped her wrist, and before she could realise
what was happening, he'd dipped the brush into the sludgy ink
in the dish and was painting on her bare forearm.

It wasn't just the address he was painting   no, it was more
complicated than that, great loops and whorls of writing in a
language she couldn't understand, something ancient and almost
pictographic.  His hands were liver-spotted with age but
rock-steady, and as he went on, her brain began to flashbulb
with glimpses of information   colours and numbers and scenes,
scraps of dialogue and baby pictures and little movie clips in
which familiar faces ebbed and flowed:  her parents, the
Weasleys, Harry and Ron, Gram.

Draco, Snape, Sal.  Bill.

Friends, family, lovers.

He's painting me my life.

The other arm now, and now she began to understand   it wasn't
just her location he was encrypting, but her history, too.
Her connections, her beloveds, everything she held dear ...
every joke she'd laughed at, every secret she'd ever wanted to
keep.

A half-page of parchment was in front of her face,
unexpectedly   "Read this," Snape said tersely, "out loud"—and
Hermione, half-fainting by this time, began obediently to
sound out the unfamiliar words.

"Again," he whispered in her ear as she finished.  "Over and
over.  Keep going."

His arm was around her bare shoulders, he was holding her up,
and she was too dizzy to hold onto her anger, at least for the
moment.  She started the series of words over again   did they
mean anything?  And if so, what?   and felt a frisson of
something electric rush up from her fingertips.  The runes on
her arms seemed to buzz, and the sensation grew more intense
as she read, great flashes and jolts of power clamping the
painted-on ink to her skin, engraving it into her until her
very blood and marrow seemed to run with it:  this is me, this
is who I am.

And then they took the parchment away, and held up the blue
robe for her so she could slip her arms back inside, and once
it was on the heat seemed as if it would drain her away, so
heavy was the fabric, so weak her spine.  She was sweating
hard, damp and sticky with it, the chemise a second skin by
now   but the ink wasn't running, curiously enough.  She ran
curious fingers over the skin of her arms, up inside the loose
sleeves, and brought them away wet but unmarked.

I've been branded.

"Hold on to me now."  Snape again, so close that his lips
brushed her ear, voice so gentle she almost forgot to be sad.
"Hold on," he said again, "and don't let go."

His hands slid inside her sleeves, up up up over her sticky
forearms to her elbows, his flesh damp and fused instantly to
hers.  She felt his hands grip her triceps, and swayed.

"Tight," he reminded her.  "Don't let go until I tell you."

And then Dumbledore took a deep breath, and began to chant.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Nine

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was like nothing else on earth, Severus reflected. But if
he'd had to make a comparison, the first thing that would have
popped into his head would have been the Dark ritual in which
he'd taken Voldemort's Mark.

Of course, there were differences, both in circumstance and in
content. That spell had been steeped in age-old evil, and this
one wasn't ... Severus would have hesitated to call the
Fidelius, or any other charm for that matter, a 'good' spell,
but at the very least it was ambivalent - raw amoral magic
depending, as most magic did, on the will of the spellcaster
to grant it its purpose.

No, it wasn't for that reason that he drew the parallel, but
rather the similar sense of bond, of shared history
transferred.

Thirty-odd years ago they'd blindfolded him and tied him down
so he couldn't struggle and held a hot wand to his arm - he
could still hear his own scream, smell the stench of burning
flesh as they traced the shape of the Mark into his forearm.
And when they'd drawn it away, loosed his bonds, it was only
to shove him to his knees in front of the Dark Lord, and bid
him offer up his charred skin, his fresh mutilation, in
homage.

Voldemort had smiled - Christ, Severus could see that smile
yet, a hungry livid thing with a terrible life of its own -
and had drawn nearer. Chalk-white skin he'd had, even then,
and he'd pushed up his own sleeve to reveal the parent Mark,
clean and black where Snape's was red and angry. At the sight
of it, a gasp went up from the encircled Death Eaters, a
half-ecstatic, half-frightened sigh of excitement.

"Nearer," Voldemort had hissed. "Nearer yet, my frightened
little novice." That hungry flickering smile again. "It's well
that you're afraid; anyone who tells you there's nothing to
fear is lying to you. But in a moment, that too will pass.
This -" he held Severus' wounded arm aloft like a trophy -
"transforms you from one who fears, into one who is feared.
Behold."

And then he'd reached out and closed his open palm over the
fresh wound, had thrown back his head and shrieked a series of
unintelligible syllables into the night air ... and Severus
had felt himself, for lack of a better word, invaded.

This was like that.

But where Voldemort's intrusion had been frightening and
abrupt (to say the least; he'd retched for a quarter of an
hour afterwards, right there in the middle of the circle, and
hadn't even had the presence of mind to care that they were
all laughing at him), this one seeped into him slowly, pausing
politely to knock first. Dumbledore's voice was slow and sure,
and Severus felt the skin of his palms buzz as the words of
the incantation rose and fell, as the runes of the Fidelius
began to work their way from Hermione's skin to his.

It was an awakening, as if he'd stepped into her very soul and
was having a rummage-about. There was the address, of course,
perched in the forefront of his conscious thought like a bird
on the nest, but also other things - seemingly extraneous
things, pictures and names and moments frozen in time - and
underlying even the most lighthearted of her memories, a hot
red river of grief and weariness and frustrated, baffled
anger.

People who wish they could read minds, Severus thought, shaken
by the instantaneous jolt of empathy that rushed through him,
haven't really thought about what that would mean.

And then: How Pettigrew could do this and then go through with
the Potters' betrayal is utterly beyond me.

It felt almost dishonest, stealing her history like this when
he wasn't quite sure that she was getting reciprocal knowledge
of him back in return. If anything, she seemed utterly unaware
of the transfer taking place - steadied by the curl of his
hands at the backs of her upper arms, she lolled in his grip,
her eyes closed, looking for all the world like a prototypical
swooning maiden.

Severus knew better; he'd seen the hard-headed Granger
resiliency at work too many times to underestimate her now, no
matter how thin she'd grown, how deep the hollows of her
lovely eyes. If anyone could pull this off, it was her.

All the same, that awful sadness of hers tugged at the
tattered remains of what he would have said were his
nonexistent sympathies. He'd been that raw and broken, once,
had felt that angry and afraid ... and had been given Hogwarts
as an unassailable refuge, Albus Dumbledore as his
unimpeachable ally.

And look how he'd turned out.

What's going to happen to her, if she has to do this alone?

The incantation was finished. Dumbledore, swaying out of the
half-trance he'd been in, shook himself and slid into a chair,
looking slightly bewildered; apparently the Fidelius was
hard-coded with a mild Memory Charm directed at whoever
performed it - just one more reminder that it held at least
one life in its thrall, and couldn't afford to leave loose
ends. Hermione was beginning to stir, her heavy eyelids trying
to flutter open, her breath coming faster and shallower.
Severus didn't immediately relax his grip, however.

Take care of yourself, Hermione, he thought grimly, and hoped
she could hear him. I'm afraid I know how this is going to
end, and I don't make much of a Sir Galahad. It's up to you to
prove me wrong.

She pulled away from him, and he let her go.

**

She moved to Paris on a Wednesday morning.

Sal and Snape had already left for their mountain hideaway,
and Hermione was glad. The way Snape had looked at her after
the Charm was cast - as if he knew all her secrets and wished
he didn't - pretty much summed up the way she felt about the
whole thing, too. Much as she hated the pitying glances from
all the others, somehow it was worse coming from him ...
probably because he was the one person who really knew how she
was feeling.

Insufferable, that.

And insufferable that those hard strong hands had felt so
good, as she hung boneless in their grip in the aftermath of
the Fidelius. Come to think of it, the whole process had been
less than unpleasant; if it had felt invasive, it was in the
most apologetic of possible ways. I'm leaving you your life,
it seemed to say. I'm just making you a backup copy. Don't
worry.

And that was the thing - she wasn't worried, not about that
anyway. The thought that Snape might betray her had never
occurred to her. He was trustworthy - no doubt about it.

But that didn't mean she wanted him around.

She'd intended to avoid his leave-taking of Hogwarts, but he
came to find her in the empty classroom where she'd squirreled
herself away. Just one of the fringe benefits of the Charm,
she supposed, that he could find her if he wanted to, and that
she'd know he was coming even before he came through the door.

It should have annoyed her, but instead it made her feel
secure - about to throw herself headlong into the unfamiliar,
it was nice to know that some things, at least, she could
predict.

"Hullo," she said, and looked pointedly at the tiny suitcase
he was turning over and over between his fingers, as if it was
a worry stone. "Are you off, then?"

He nodded. "Just after luncheon. I'm sorry to interrupt your
work-" this was an uncharacteristically gracious, face-saving
formality, as it was painfully apparent that she'd been
sitting for the better part of the morning with her head in
her hands-"but I rather suspected you'd be eating in your room
today, and I wanted to give you this before I went."

It was a silver cuff-style wristwatch, perfectly plain except
for the face - a thumbnail-sized piece of tigereye, polished
to a mirror shine. Hermione regarded it warily.

"It's lovely," she said, but made no move to take it from him.
Snape sighed.

"The timepiece function is secondary," he said, as if that
ought to explain everything, and looked annoyed when she
continued to stare at him blankly. "It's a Portkey, keyed to
my Montana cabin. The mountain's Unplottable - you'd never
find the place otherwise. It's in case you need anything."

He flipped the face of the watch open to reveal a case free of
traditional clockworks and a plain metal button where they
ought to be. It was strangely grooved. Curious despite
herself, Hermione leaned over to look.

"Odd," she said. "That almost looks like the impression of a-"

"-thumbprint?" Snape nodded. "It is. It's yours. No one else
can use it."

Hermione goggled at him, torn between outrage and admiration.
"And exactly how did you manage that?"

"Winky," Snape said succinctly. "She took a wax impression
while you were sleeping last night. Headmaster's request," he
added as she opened her mouth in protest. "The last time he
performed the Fidelius, people ended up dead. So he's being
especially careful of you."

Hermione sighed, resigned but unsurprised, and took the watch,
careful not to touch the hidden Portkey as she clicked the
case closed. "This is very kind of you," she said stiffly. "I
hope I haven't made you feel beholden. You've done quite
enough as it is."

He shrugged, already halfway across the room and heading for
the door. "It's no trouble. Keep yourself alive, and we'll
call it even." A shrewd look back over his shoulder. "Oh, and
Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"When you've found out who did it," he said softly, "don't go
after them by yourself. Call us first."

Stricken, throat blocked, she could only nod.

And by that time, he'd already gone.

**

Paris in July was hot and dusty and humid, which - considering
that she'd spent the last seven years living in Cairo - made
Hermione feel rather at home.

It was also half-empty. That didn't surprise her either; the
one other time she'd visited the city, during one of those
Hogwarts summers with her parents, they'd come as part of a
surprisingly cheap tourist package and quickly discovered why:
during the hot summer months, all of Paris that was able
packed up and went to the Riviera. Restaurants kept
abbreviated hours, the smaller of the shops closed up
outright, and the Champs-Elysées, during the rest of the year
one of the world's most fashionable promenades, was all but
deserted, abandoned to the straggling groups of disconsolate
tourists, mainly American and Japanese, who'd just found out
to their dismay that Coca-Cola went for four euros a bottle in
every café in Paris  and that it was never, never served with
ice.

Given the present circumstances, Hermione didn't mind.
Suitcases Reduced and stowed in her only Paris-presentable
handbag, a mid-sized Coach clutch she'd gotten for her
birthday nearly ten years earlier, she kept walking north from
the secluded little alcove in the Jardin des Plantes that
she'd Apparated into, found the street sign for the Rue des
Arènes, and resolutely turned left, dragging the yowling Cleo
after her on a leash.

"I know, I know," she muttered. "It's undignified. Only
another minute, all right?"

The building probably held about six flats. Hermione's was a
garden apartment, spare and white and simply furnished, with a
view of the street through the kitchen windows and a glorious
panorama of green lawn opposite; the public park that housed
the Arènes de Lutèce was literally a stone's throw from her
back door.

She dropped her handbag on the nightstand in the bedroom,
knelt to free the hissing Cleo from her hated collar, and
straightened up slowly. Such an unfamiliar place, so bare and
quiet - Dumbledore had probably arranged to rent it furnished,
to save her the trouble of Transfiguring everything. To
Hermione, it looked like a room one might see in the better
sort of residential hospital  soothing, inobtrusive, vanilla
and while its quietude spoke to her bruised soul on a certain
level, at the same time she couldn't help but think longingly
of the house in Cairo: cheerful, cluttered, bright.

The bed, at least, was satisfactory - firm, without feeling
like a hotel mattress. Hermione gave it an experimental
bounce, then drew her feet up underneath her and hooked her
arms around her knees. In this position, her forehead could
just rest comfortably against her kneecaps; rolling up like
this made her feel less vulnerable, better armored.

Of course, this had its downside  she'd found herself losing
time this way, rocking away an hour or more, finally
detangling to find that the afternoon had gone without her.
Still, it seemed a safer alternative than facing the outside
world again  or, for that matter, the jumble of personal items
in her suitcases.

She tightened her grip on her knees - and would have fallen
into that uneasy oblivion again, if it hadn't been for the
muted sound of piano chords. Hermione's head came up, and she
frowned - she knew that progression, didn't she? - and then,
as a bass began to slap and a drumset to rattle with the
delicate sound of brushes on a hi-hat - her feet hit the floor
with an asymetrical rhythm that felt almost predestined.

Yes. She'd know that sound anywhere. But that begged the
question - where was  ?

Her answer came a moment later, rich and full-throated and
mellow, and in surprisingly good French: "Quand il me prend
dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose  "

There were tears in her eyes, but Hermione was smiling as she
rounded the corner into the flat's parlor, the only room she
hadn't yet seen, and saw that indeed she hadn't been hearing
things - that amid all these pale eggshell walls there was at
least one bright, unmistakable, larger-than-life mural.

Thank you, Albus.

"Maxie," she said, wiping her eyes. "Guys. What are you doing
here?"

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Ten

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Hey, sugar," Maxie said. "Long time no see."

She was as commanding and vibrant a presence as ever, her hair
marcelled into a chic new Josephine Baker bob, her dress
spangled with a swingy layer of fringe. Hermione sank weakly
into one of the parlor chairs, noting as she did so that Ol’
No-Name’s string bass had seen some polish, and that Lester
was sporting a new beret.

"I can't believe it," she said. "I haven't seen you since ...
since the wedding reception. How on earth did Dumbledore talk
you into moving to Paris?"

Maxie tossed her sleek head.

"Wouldn't say he talked us into it, exactly," she said. "Can't
anybody talk you into something you're determined to do in the
first place. We came to keep you company, sugar."

"Oh."

Hermione frowned. "I'm glad," she said finally. "Really glad.
But ... don't you think you'll get a bit bored here? That's
why you didn't come along with us when we bought the house, if
I remember correctly."

"We didn't come with you then," Maxie corrected, "because you
newlyweds needed your space. Had nothing to do with us being
bored." She raised one eyebrow in an expressive, wry salute.
"And there was no way in hell we were going to let you trundle
off to Paris on your own, not after we got the news. Bad
enough the poor girl's lost her man, I said to Dave, and they
expect her to go traipsing off to the City of Lights with no
more to keep her company than that ill-tempered wildebeest of
a cat? Unbelievable."

She shrugged. "Besides, I've always liked the accordion. And I
needed some new shoes."

Dave, the pianist, looked up from his newspaper.

"We were sure sorry to hear about Bill," he said to Hermione,
and directed a repressive glare at his lead singer. "And just
as glad to find out you were all right. Don't mind Maxie – she
talks too much."

It was the longest speech she’d ever heard him make.

"No, she doesn't," Hermione said, her eyes wet. "Not at all;
you’ve no idea what a relief it is. No one's just come out and
said it like that, almost since it happened."

She managed a watery smile. "I'm so glad to see you. All of
you."

"Well, it's mutual, sugar," Maxie said, and reached out to
clasp Hermione's cold hands briskly with both of hers. The
contact was reassuring and motherly – Maxie didn't look that
much older than she did, Hermione thought, but she certainly
had the big-sister shtick down pat.

"Now, you run out and get yourself something to eat –
something fattening," she appended now, looking Hermione
critically up and down. "You look like you could stand a crêpe
or two ... or ten, if it came to it. And the boys and I have
some rehearsing to do. It's going to take that mountain lion
of yours an hour or so to stop being offended and come out
from under the bed, anyway, so you'd might as well get out and
have yourself a little stroll."

Hermione felt like protesting – glad to see her or not, Maxie
could be distressingly peremptory – but she knew when she'd
been had. "Yes, ma'am," she said meekly, and headed for the
door, not pausing even when Maxie shouted after her.

"And put some lipstick on! You're in Paris!"

**

And just like that, Hermione found herself out the door, at
the corner of the Arènes de Lutèce and the Rue de St.-Hilaire,
and staring blankly at the intersection in front of her, as if
the decision to turn right or left was the hardest choice
she'd ever make. To turn right would take her back the way
she'd come, to the great botanical park of the Jardin des
Plantes, whereas left would lead her onto the Rue St.-Germain,
into the heart of the busy lively Latin Quartier itself, and
eventually to the Seine.

Not a particularly dangerous decision. But it seemed, at the
moment anyway, impossible.

She thought back to her summer in Rome – how she'd spurred
Giulia’s little Vespa into one ill-considered turn after
another just for the sheer joy of the ride, caring little for
her eventual destination – and sighed. It shouldn't have been
possible for a split-second's-worth of tragedy to turn that
fearless adventurer she’d been as a girl into a woman
trembling over the choice between right and left.

But apparently that was Fate's joke of the month.

It was the sight of a tiny bookstore on the corner that made
her mind up for her. Lunch from a crêpe-stand, then, and a
sunny afternoon with a book, back in that little tucked-away
corner of the park that had so thoughtfully concealed her
Apparation.

And if she was retracing her steps, rather than going forward
... well, then, what of it?

The St.-Germain could just wait.

**

The bookstore was small and jumbled with books in no
particular order and sandwiched in between a tiny brasserie on
one side and a fruit-and-vegetable stand on the other. After
some consideration, Hermione bought a softcover espionage
novel – she’d read it already, in English, but reading it in
French would be good for her language skills – and a small bag
of clementines, stopped in at the café for a stuffed baguette
and a bottle of Perrier, and headed for the parc, mildly
amazed at her own accomplishment.

It surprised her even more to reach the park entrance, at the
corner of Cuvier and St.-Hilaire, and realise she didn't want
to stop walking – despite the sticky warmth of the afternoon,
the meandering tree-shaded path leading into the heart of the
jardin was cooler than the street and fanned by a light
breeze.

Nice that this was so close to the apartment. Hermione awarded
Dumbledore a couple of mental brownie points for Perspicacity
in Real Estate, switched the shopping bag containing her
picnic to the opposite hand, and kept going – past her little
alcove, past a knot of pre-teenaged rollerbladers, past a
couple of senior citizens sunning themselves serenely on a
bench and throwing baguette crumbs to the birds, despite a
posted notice asking them not to.

Straight ahead of her was a scrubbed-stone building –
seemingly too shiny and new, despite its nineteenth-century
architecture, to belong with its surroundings – proclaiming
itself to be the Grande Galerie de l'Evolution. Thanks, but no
thanks, Hermione thought, with a glance at the queue of
tourists by the main entrance, and kept walking – there were
some older, dustier buildings a little further on, surrounded
by magnificent flowerbeds, that didn't look nearly so crowded.

"Museum Nationale d'Histoire Naturelle,"she read from a
placard as she got a little closer, and saw from the fine
print that she had her choice of four different disciplines –
paleontology, mineralogy, entomology or paleobotany – each
housed in its own building. Small wonder that the tourists
were passing this one by; all the same, it was bound to be
more interesting than puzzling through the French translation
of a spy novel she'd already read in English – and besides,
those hothouses behind the Botany building looked like a
Potions-researcher's wet dream. Hadn't this whole park been
originally devoted to the cultivation of medicinal herbs, back
in the day?

She was sure she'd read that somewhere.

Well, lunch first, anyway. She found a likely patch of
shade-dappled grass underneath an ancient chestnut tree and
unwrapped her baguette jambon with a little sigh of
pleasurable anticipation – the casual
eat-it-standing-or-take-it-with-you Paris café food was one of
the things she remembered most vividly from her first
schoolgirl visit all those years ago. Hard to believe that
just cold ham and buttered bread could taste so good.

I should have gotten wine instead of fizzy water, she thought,
biting off a crusty, chewy mouthful and closing her eyes in
pleasure as the flavours married on her tongue.

And then, the inevitable one-two sucker-punch – grief and
guilt – that seemed to follow her every genuinely happy
thought these days: Oh, Bill. I wish you were here.

Lost in sudden melancholia, she didn't see the young man
approaching her tree until he was right next to her.

"Excusez-moi, madame," he said politely, and Hermione jumped.

"What is it?" she snapped, startled and annoyed, speaking in
English out of habit before she'd had a chance even to think
of the French words – and was surprised to see his face clear.

"You're English," he said with apparent pleasure. "I thought I
knew you! I just can't think of why."

His tone was mild, almost diffident, his face open and
slightly bewildered. "I'm sorry if I'm wrong, miss," he said.
"But haven't I met you somewhere before?"

He was wearing gardening gloves, Hermione noticed, and khaki
trousers with slightly sprung knees, as if he'd been kneeling
in the dirt. And something about him did look familiar, though
she couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly it was.

As she didn't answer, but continued merely to stare at him, he
flushed and gave her a funny one-shouldered shrug – a gesture
she'd seen so many times during her school days that it had
passed out of mere character recognition and into the realm of
parody. Only one person she knew had that particular nervous
tic; now that she’d tagged him, she thought, it was amazing
that she hadn't seen him, right away, for who he was.

Stammering, he got up to go, and she grabbed his hand.

"Neville," she said, and grinned when his eyes shot back to
hers. "Neville Longbottom. My goodness, you've changed ... no
one's heard from you in years. You look terrific."

He blushed again.

"Thanks," he said. "And you're right, of course – I'm Neville,
true enough." He frowned. "We must have met at school. Sorry –
I'm hopeless with names, always was. I don't remember yours at
all, much as I keep thinking I should."

It must be the Fidelius, Hermione thought, and smiled at him
again.

"Don't beat yourself up," she said. "It's not you, it's me.
You can trust me on this one."

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Eleven

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Harry Potter and he had at least one thing in common, Neville
had noticed. While all the other boys in the second-year
Gryffindor dormitory read comic books for fun, the two of them
read photo albums instead.

Maybe no one else noticed; Neville, maybe to make up for his
general ineptitude elsewhere, often saw things other people
overlooked. In any case, the battered little leather-bound
book in Harry's nightstand drawer marked him as a kindred
spirit – which was why when other people murmured about him
behind his back for one reason or another, Neville generally
kept his mouth shut.

There were some things that even being a Quidditch star
couldn't buy you back.

Neville's album wasn't really his, it was Gran's. But she'd
given it to him when he left for Hogwarts ... after all, he'd
been through the whole thing, beginning to end, every night
since he was two.

He didn't remember his parents, not really. Not as they'd been
... before, anyway. How could he? He'd only been a baby. And
though he'd dutifully made his regular visits to the stuffy
little room in St. Mungo's – first with Gran and then, after
she passed on, by himself – he secretly didn't think of the
slack-jawed man and muttering woman in the hospital beds as
his parents at all. His real parents were in the book: feeding
each other wedding cake, sprawled contentedly on the sofa with
their faces close together and their fingers entwined,
tickling him – Infant-Neville, Longbottom Crown Prince – to
make him laugh.

He was their only child, so there were lots of baby pictures –
not just special-occasion portraits, but ream upon ream of
everyday snapshots. He liked to watch his mother doing
mum-things: feeding him, changing his diaper, giving him a
bath. Liked to watch her hands ... slender and graceful and
soft-looking, with the big family heirloom diamond
half-covered in pablum or suds. Sometimes, if he looked hard
enough and long enough at those hands, he could almost
remember how they'd felt.

Almost.

"What's wrong with them?" he'd asked Gran once – a long time
ago, when he was still too small to know better, and had been
frightened by the look that came over her. "What happened?"

"Voldemort," she'd said grimly, her dark eyes flashing, her
voice cracking but defiant over the forbidden name. "That's
what happened. And don't you forget it, either. Don't you go
falling in with the wrong sort, once you get to Hogwarts. You
do your parents proud."

Neville had nodded, timidly; he knew from experience that this
tended to be the safest response to outbursts of this nature.
"Will they ever get better?" he ventured presently, and Gran
had laughed, a bitter thin sound that didn't suit her.

"Not likely," she said. "Much as we can do these days,
nobody's figured out how to regrow brain cells yet." She
seemed to be talking to herself, more than to him. "Once the
connection's cut, it's gone forever. And he knew it, too—"
there was that bitter, scathing tone again—"he knew it'd be
far worse to send them back useless, than to send them back
dead. Bastard."

Neville, by this time recognising all the warning signs of a
full-on diatribe when he saw one, kept his mouth shut.

But he didn't forget a single word she’d said.

It was ironic that he'd been so hopeless at Potions, when it
was the subject he'd been most excited about at the outset.
That was his aunt's doing – pretty Aunt Lila, his mum's
younger sister. He'd spent a summer with her, the year he was
ten, in her tidy country-lane cottage with the big garden
around back, and she'd taken him round and showed him her
cuttings.

"What's this one?" he'd asked, pointing to a scrawny little
tree in an earthenware pot, and she'd obligingly come over to
bend down beside him.

"That's a ginkgo sapling," she said. "You can make a potion
from this that will help improve your memory."

"Really?"

Neville, wondering, had traced one shiny leaf with his
forefinger. "Would it help Mum and Dad, then?"

Instantly, he knew he'd said something wrong.

"Oh, sweetie." Sudden tears in the big grey eyes that were so
like his mother's. "It’s so good of you to think of them. But
I'm afraid they're a bit ... just a bit beyond that now."

"Oh." Neville looked around him at the riot of colour, keeping
his gaze down so he wouldn't have to see her fumble with a
tissue. "Can anything help them? Ever?"

"Not that we know of."

Aunt Lila took a long time clearing her throat; when she went
on, her voice was steadier. "But they discover new things
every day," she said, her voice determinedly cheerful. "Keep
your Herbology and Potions marks up at school next year,
Neville, and you just might be the one who figures it out. If
anybody can do it, you can."

It was nice of her to say that.

And he’d learned enough from the plants in her garden that he
was ahead of everyone else in Herbology his first year –
Herbology, his favourite class, that warm and alive-smelling
hour in the steamy sunny greenhouses, potting soil and
fine-ground bone meal familiar friends under his steady hands.
No pressure to perform, out here; no schedule, no hurry. It
paid to take your time, to be gentle and thorough. It feels
like I’m a doctor, he’d said once to Professor Sprout, as they
disentangled bound roots together after class, and her round
wizened face had lit up in understanding; they were in accord,
there.

If only, Neville had thought despairingly, night after night –
if only Professor Sprout taught Potions, too!

But instead, there was Snape – Snape the sarcastic, the
scathing, Snape the cruel. Snape, the boggart in the closet –
the monster under the bed, the inevitable embodiment of
Neville’s worst nightmares.

And there was no use going over all that old history again,
not when Neville’s chronic misadventures in the dungeons had
ceased to be even a running joke and had passed into the
dubious realm of Hogwarts folklore. Even with the best of
intentions – the positive thinking, the meticulous
preparation, the hours of nightly studying and extra practice
with … with the smart girl, Harry’s friend, what was her name
again? – even then, every passing hour of that class had been
worse than the one before it, and Neville had slowly, surely
come to this hopeless conclusion: he was never, never going to
be able to cure his parents.

I’m sorry, he’d whispered that night to the photo album, in
the privacy of the hanging curtains. I’m sorry, Dad. Mum. So
sorry. I just can’t do it. And they’d smiled back at him from
the book as they always did, blind and unknowing … younger and
prettier than the blank-eyed residents of Room 35’s twin
hospital beds, maybe, but no more real, no more whole.

After that, he stopped trying, mostly.

It had come as a pleasant surprise to find that life wasn’t
like school – that you could pick the one thing you liked to
do and were good at, and form your whole life around it. His
high score on the Herbology NEWT and a glowing recommendation
from Professor Sprout had gotten him into a apprenticeship in
the Florida Everglades. From there, he’d landed a spot in a
prestigious journeyman’s programme in Fiji, working with
underwater plants and helping to restore a pollution-damaged
coral reef. He'd been recruited straight out of that programme
to Paris, to head up the new Division of Tropical and Marine
Plants in this, one of the finest botanical gardens in the
world.

And somewhere along the way, he had looked down at himself
with a sort of vague surprise to find that months of daily
snorkeling and tramping through thigh-deep swampland had
trimmed his waistline and given him muscles where he hadn’t
used to have any – oh, not big bodybuilder muscles like he saw
on the lifeguards at the beach, but a kind of lean toughness
that, combined with his gardener's tan and the
thinned-down-but-still-angelic English-choirboy face he hadn’t
yet managed to lose, added up to a total package he’d never
thought to aspire to.

He still felt like the old Neville underneath.

Even now, with his bachelor flat in Montmartre and his dream
job, even under the appreciative sidelong looks from the
passing demoiselles who sauntered in giggling flirtatious
packs through his gardens, part of him still expected Crabbe
and Goyle to materialise out of nowhere and shake him down for
pocket money, still expected Ginny Weasley to pretend not to
see him coming across the dance floor toward her. Still heard
Snape’s spittle-flecked whisper, harsh in his ear: idiotic –
moronic – useless – a failure.

It had taken almost all his courage to approach the girl under
the chestnut tree.

He probably wouldn’t have done it, familiar as she seemed, if
it hadn’t been for the book; she had a novel propped open on
her knees, expertly holding it steady and turning pages with
one hand while the other fumbled with the cap of her water
bottle, and something about her profile as she looked down at
it made light bulbs go off in his brain: I know her – I know I
do. I've seen her do that a million times if I've seen it once
.

She just stared at him for a minute or so after he spoke,
though, and his resolve began to falter –close up like this,
she looked less familiar. Less like a schoolgirl, more
grown-up. He coloured under her steady look, shrugged and
mumbled something suitably apologetic ... and then, to his
surprise, saw her face light up with recognition and a very
real pleasure as she said his name.

Funny.

The way she grabbed his hand, the things she said – we haven't
heard from you in years; you look terrific – made it seem like
they'd been not merely acquainted, but good friends. Why,
then, couldn't he think of her name?

He was embarrassed, but she shrugged it off and said something
else that struck him funny – it's not you, it's me. Odd ...
why would she think that? And then she told him who she was,
and before he could grasp the knowledge it slid out of his
memory again, like wet garden hose through slippery hands, and
he found himself, to his own bewilderment, saying, "I'm sorry.
I don't know anyone by that name."

She looked baffled for a minute, and then somehow deflated, as
if she'd just gotten bad news she'd been expecting for awhile.
So that's how it works, then, she mused to herself, and turned
back to him, her eyes just a little bit too bright.

"It doesn't matter," she said, though it was clear that it
did; he just didn’t know why. "We were friends, that's the
important thing. You do remember that, right?"

He nodded, mostly because she looked so desperate to have him
agree with her, and she smiled, visibly relieved.

"You can call me Kate," she said. "It's after my mother, you
know."

"Kate," he repeated, and frowned – that wasn't the name he
wanted to put with this face, for some reason.

But he let it go – she was so pretty, this mysterious Hogwarts
girl, so fine-boned and melancholy and at the same time eager;
glad to see him in a way that wasn’t like the giggling French
girls’ frank sexual appraisal, as much as it was like a
drowning man eyeing a life preserver.

A connection, that’s what she wanted. Well, Neville could
understand that – after all, he’d been an Englishman in Paris
for the last year and a half, hadn’t he?

She was still hanging on to his hand. He gave it a friendly
squeeze before dropping it and smiled reassuringly.

"So, Kate," he said. "Are you new to town, then? Or are you
just visiting?"

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twelve

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They had a lot to catch up on.

He took her through the botany building and back to those
hothouses she'd been so interested in earlier – and with good
reason, she could see now; from her first sweeping glance,
this collection looked as definitive as any she'd ever seen.

"This is brilliant," she said in a low voice, as he led her
into yet another greenhouse of rare ferns. "And you say it's
wizard-run?"

Neville nodded.

"Well," he said, shrugging, "you didn't think they kept the
place open on the 30-franc admission fee, did you? This garden
is one of the major suppliers of arcane botanicals to the
world wizarding market. Supports itself three times over."

"Huh." Hermione scanned the sunny, humid room with interest.
"Fascinating. Most of this stuff I've never seen before,
unless it's dried and in a jar."

Neville laughed. "Most people haven't." He shot her a curious
look. "What did you say your work was, again? I know you told
me, but I can't remember."

Hermione's smile faded.

Apparently, it wasn't just her name and address that was
protected, but her profession as well. "I'm a ... a
mediwitch," she said, figuring that was as close as she was
going to get to the truth without activating the Charm.
Neville looked pleased.

"Oh," he said, beaming. "Oh, then you must see this ... we've
just got in some new varieties of kelp."

He was already moving back toward the main building, talking
as he went. "Fascinating plant, kelp. They say the potential
medical uses are endless." He ducked his head
self-deprecatingly. "Though you probably know more about that
than I do. I just grow the plants, I don’t stew them."

A wry glance over his shoulder. "Potions, as you probably
remember, was never my subject."

"You weren't that bad," Hermione lied, and laughed when he
snorted.

"Yes, I was. You're too kind." He shrugged. "It'd be different
if I had it to do over again. After spending three years
sidestepping alligators and another eighteen months fending
off sharks, the thought of Snape doesn't hold as many terrors
as it used to."

He slid his palm lightly under her elbow to guide her along,
and Hermione let him. Clearly, she thought, this was a man
who'd found his calling – he was in his element, more
confident than she'd ever thought to picture him.

She was happy for him – how could she not be? this was Neville
as she'd never imagined him, Neville at Maximum Potential –
and yet, as he showed her through a door with an electronic
security lock and down a clean-swept corridor into a series of
spotless white-tiled laboratories, she had to fight a wave of
jealousy so strong it nearly buckled her knees.

Just a few short weeks ago, she'd been this happy, this
optimistic, this fulfilled. And now all that happiness was in
ashes at her feet.

Watch out, she wanted to warn him – wanted to take him by the
shoulders and shake him until that excited naïve look
disappeared from his face, until he couldn't help but listen
to her. You think it's forever. You don't know how quickly it
can disappear.

Life changes fast. You play the cards you're dealt.

"Kate? Are you all right?" He touched her shoulder
tentatively. "Kate?"

Belatedly, she shook herself back into the present. "Hm?"

He was frowning down at her, concern in his eyes. "You looked
a bit fierce for a moment there," he said, and shot her a
self-deprecating smile that belonged more on the Old Neville
than on the New. "You're sure I'm not boring you, then?"

"Boring me?" Hermione shook her head. "Not in the least. I'm
just a bit lagged, I'm afraid. I just got into town today – I
haven't even unpacked yet."

"Oh."

Neville nodded understandingly.

"I shouldn't keep you, then," he said. "Though I was hoping –"
his eyes slid to the floor – "I was hoping that you’d let me
take you to dinner sometime, to welcome you properly. I don’t
know if you like Vietnamese, but there’s a great little—"

Oh, Christ, Hermione thought, panicked, and held up one hand
to cut him off. "Neville," she said, and then paused – what to
say? "Um, Neville, I …"

He didn’t seem to hear her. "Or maybe just a drink …"

"I can’t –"

"Or some coffee or something—"

"Neville. Neville, don’t. Stop."

It came out too loudly. He looked at her, startled, then
flushed.

"Oh, God, I’m sorry," he said, that telltale shoulder of his
creeping up apologetically. "That came out completely wrong;
you probably think I’m trying to hit on you, and that’s not –"
He trailed off miserably. "I mean, not that I don’t think
you’re … I mean … Oh, hell."

"Neville," Hermione said, and put her hand on his arm. There
weren’t any words, really, except for the truth – whether or
not he’d absorb it, or remember it, it was all she could think
of to say. "I was married," she said baldly, and watched his
head snap up at the terrible, wavering urgency in her voice.
"Up until a month ago. And then he—" she gulped—"well, you
see, he – he’s …"

"Yes?" he said, looking confused. Hermione felt herself
starting to unravel.

Bad idea.

It wasn’t any use – she could stand on her toes and shout it
into his ear, and he’d still have that same perplexed, baffled
look on his face a moment later, as every bit of real or
pertinent information she’d given him about herself hit the
Teflon shield of the Fidelius Charm and splashed harmlessly
away without penetrating.

And if he wasn’t going to remember, she wasn’t going to say
it.

"I just can’t, that’s all," she said tiredly, changing tacks,
and saw the seeming rejection register in his wide grey eyes,
where her earlier words hadn’t.

Shit.

"I’m awfully sorry, Neville," she soldiered on miserably.
"I’ll come see you again sometime soon, I promise. But I … I
have to go now."

"Oh," he said. "Okay." Nothing but concern on his face. "I’ve
upset you. I’m really sorry. If you’ll wait a minute, Kate,
I’ll walk you—"

She was already halfway to the laboratory door. "No, that’s
okay—"

"—home."

By the time she reached the front gate of the museum, she was
running.

**

The Montana evening was clear and cloudless and just beginning
to show stars. Outside, the first strain of the nightly
coyotes’ antiphon echoed distantly from farther down the
mountain; inside, the gentle whuffling sound of ghostly
snoring drifted out from where Sal was dozing over his book.
Severus, at the moment, was feeling more attuned to the
wildlife.

She was crying in her sleep again.

It hadn’t registered the first night after the Charm had been
performed – she’d still been groggy, he guessed, riding on the
wave of whatever magic had fondled its way into her brain and
not yet found its way out. The night after that, though, he’d
heard her all the way from his mountain refuge – and the night
after that, and the night after that; heartbroken whimpering
that grated in his head like ground glass.

He didn’t notice the connection so much when she was awake –
which made sense. From what he’d seen, she was keeping her
subconscious under lock and key, during those hours of the day
that she had control over it. In the night, though, her grief
was a wandering ghost.

And it was keeping him awake.

Severus made an irritated sound in his sinuses, unfolded
himself from his chilly seat on the porch swing, and went in
to make himself some tea. Bad enough to share Hermione
Granger’s subconscious when they were both asleep – then, at
least, he only ended up with nightmares. And he’d been living
with nightmares for most of his adult life. But when he
happened to be awake for it – that was a problem of a
different magnitude.

He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall – seven-thirty
here, which meant it was past three in the morning in Paris.
He’d been hearing the crying in his head for about an hour and
a half; apparently, Hermione hadn’t been in too much of a
hurry to get to sleep.

Small wonder.

He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and tipped his head sharply
to the side – right, then left – grunting in satisfaction as
the tight muscles of his neck groaned, then relaxed slightly.
In the depths of his brain, a girl moaned. He cursed.

No way he was going to get to sleep without outside help, not
with this racket going on. He turned off the kettle just
before it could whistle – no use waking Sal up – scooped loose
tea into a strainer, and set it to steep. The cabinet above
his head held the bottle he was looking for – small, unmarked,
made of old-fashioned brown glass, it looked like it should
have contained vanilla extract.

It was Dreamless Sleep.

He uncorked it, gave it a sniff to make sure it hadn’t gone
off, and was about to tip a measure into his tea when Hermione
moaned again. He froze.

Wait a minute.

Why should I take the potion, when she’s the one who needs it?

He hesitated, his hand still holding the bottle half-tipped
over his mug, then resolutely turned it the right way up again
and recorked it. Sal was still snoring.

This’ll be a quick trip. And then maybe we’ll both be able to
get some sleep.

Jaw set resolutely, he Apparated.

**

The first thing he noticed was that she hadn’t unpacked – the
bedroom was as tidy and sterile as a nun’s cell. Even in the
meager light from his wand, everything glimmered white – the
walls, the painted wooden furniture, the bed linens. Severus
looked around, but didn’t see so much as an opened suitcase. A
quick glance inside the open clutch purse on her night-table
explained the mystery of her missing personal items – the bag
held a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and two toy-sized trunks.

Interesting.

She cried out again, knuckled savagely at her eyes in her
sleep, and reluctantly he turned his gaze on her. The bed was
sized for two, and from the state of the linens, it looked as
if she’d started out in the middle, then rolled to one side,
leaving just enough room for one tall slender man to slip in
next to her. As Severus watched, she flung out an arm across
the empty expanse of mattress, her face contorting. He
swallowed hard, but couldn’t get rid of the lump in his
throat.

Just wake her up. Wake her up, give her the damn potion, and
get the hell back to Montana, where you belong. Don’t stand
here staring. It’s like a rape.

Tentatively, he reached across the empty side of the bed,
planting one knee on the edge of the mattress to steady
himself, and grasped her outflung hand. "Hermione," he said
softly. "Hermione, wake up."

She didn’t wake up, but her fingers tightened on his hand.
Severus, alarmed, tried to tug away. Her grip didn’t loosen.

"Hermione," he murmured again, unable to keep the urgency from
his tone. "Wake up. I can hear you screaming a continent away.
Your grief’s deafening me."

It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

She rolled in her sleep, back over to the side where she’d
been settled before, and took his hand with her. "There you
are," she murmured, her voice sleep-fogged, as she tucked his
arm around her waist and held it firmly in place with your
own. "Jesus, you’ve got cold hands. Where’ve you been all this
time, anyway?"

"Uh –"

"Missed you. Dreamed you weren’t here."

"Hermione …"

"Shhh. Tired now. Go to sleep."

In her too-large flannel pajamas, with her hair tousled over
the upturned collar, she looked too fragile to be believed –
but her grip was iron. Severus lay rigid on the bed beside
her, trying to maintain a decorous inch of space between their
bodies, and was utterly thwarted as she snuggled happily back
against him. His mind was racing.

She thinks I’m her dead husband. She thinks I’m Bill.

Merlin’s balls. This is sick.

But she wasn’t crying anymore, either.

Severus wedged his free hand between their bodies and down to
his side, until his fingers brushed the end of his wand.

She looks so happy. So peaceful.

She feels so good.

It’s been a week since I had a decent night’s sleep.

He closed his eyes.

Just another minute.

Just another minute and I’ll go.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirteen

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
It was raining when she woke up.

The air had been humid and close when she'd gone to bed, even
as late as it had been, even with the bedroom window open.
Hermione had considered a Cooling Charm, but decided against
it, mostly because she'd left her wand in the other room on
the sideboard next to her key, and couldn't be bothered to go
and get it.

But sometime during the early morning hours, the wind must
have shifted; it was still damp, but cooler now and smelling
of the Seine, that loamy, vaguely-fishy river smell of earth
and sluggishly flowing water. And it was raining – not hard,
but steadily. A spatter of water glittered on the floor under
the open window.

Hermione sighed and swung her feet out of bed.

It wasn't a bad bed, she supposed, skirting the puddle on the
floor cautiously and reaching up to pull the sash closed.
She'd certainly slept more soundly last night than she had at
any point during her recent stay at Hogwarts; smoggy and
polluted as it was, maybe there really was something to be
said for Parisian air.

She'd had the dream again, of course. Fidelius Charm or no
Fidelius Charm, this particular phantasm had trailed her
faithfully from Cairo to Gryffindor Tower, like some
malodorous stray, and seemed determined to take up residence
in the City of Lights as well. By this time, Hermione had
despaired of ever getting rid of it; a month of bad dreams,
psychically speaking, is worth about a year of anything else,
and in those wide-eyed metallic-tasting moments just
following, when her heart still pounded
Cask-of-Amontillado-like at the prison of her chest and the
shadows of her surroundings flapped menacingly at her
subconscious, it seemed as if she'd never slept the whole
night through in her life.

The dream never varied, nor did its accoutrements. There was
always a long hallway – rather like a hotel corridor – studded
with doors. An unsettling shuffle of footsteps trailing her
passage, but with nothing to show for them when she turned to
look back. And her own scared barefoot self, naturally –
panicky and nauseous – clutching her borrowed dressing-gown
closed and racing frantically from door to door, wrenching
each open in turn and calling, Bill, Bill!, in tones of
rapidly rising hysteria ... until there was only one door
left, at the very end of the hall.

She always knew she shouldn't open it, and she always did
anyway. Behind it was his face at last, beloved and sorrowful
and accusing: You're too late; why did it take you so long?
Why didn't you warn me?

And then the explosion – hot, vengeful, devouring – that
rocked her into sweaty, sobbing wakefulness.

Awful. And inevitable.

Except that it had changed halfway through, this time – in the
middle of her desperate race from one door to the next,
there'd been a most unexpected hand sliding into hers, and
she'd caught and tugged it and it hadn't let go.

Jarringly familiar, that hand. And a whisper to go with it,
gently reproving: I can hear you screaming a continent
away.Your grief is deafening me.

Sorry, she'd wanted to say, immediately contrite – wasn’t it
bad enough that he was dead, after all, without her tears
tugging at him from beyond the grave?

But she hadn't said sorry, she hadn't, because even if he
shouldn't be there, he was ... and it was too good, too
tempting and weak and bittersweet to fall back into the old
routine: one arm wrapped around her waist, warm breath
ruffling the fine hairs at the back of her neck, complaints
about his cold hands that really weren't complaints at all,
given the number of times those cool knowing fingers had gone
sliding down her body over the years to spin her into
half-drowsy, half-dizzy delight.

For a second or two she'd wanted that, had ached for his touch
like a raw nerve. It had been so long ...

But he didn't stir, and she didn't press the issue – after
all, this cuddling was nice; she'd missed this, too, nearly as
much or maybe more. And then, too, he'd held her so sweetly,
so safely, so like Bill and yet so not that even in sleep,
even in the absence of the nightmare, she was still grieving
for him.

Hermione wasn't sure which was worse: to wake up screaming
with good reason, or to wake up happy... and then remember.

Luckily, it was now a moot point for the next sixteen hours.

She stepped back from the window, leaned over to retrieve her
toothbrush from the satchel on the nightstand, then bit down
hard on her lower lip as her gaze came to rest on the rumpled
sheets of the unmade bed she'd just left.

That’s funny.

It was the far side of the bed that had caught her eye – the
unslept-in side, that should have looked untouched. But the
sheets were disordered there, too, and the pillow still held a
clear, unmistakable dent.

That she could explain away, odd as it was; after all, she had
been a restless sleeper as of late. It wasn't so impossible to
believe that she'd rolled from one side of the bed to the
other, during the course of the night. What was less
explicable was the presence of the quilted red comforter, now
lying like an untidy bloodstain against the white sheets.
Hermione rubbed her eyes and sank slowly to a sitting position
on the edge of the bed, trying to corral her racing thoughts.

It had been far too hot last night for blankets; she'd gone to
sleep covered in nothing but a sheet, at which point that
particular comforter hadn't even been on the bed, but folded
neatly on top of the window seat on the other side of the
room. And while she was prepared to believe a bit of tossing
about, the thought that she might have made an unconscious
trip across an unfamiliar room and back for a blanket without
waking up in the process was a bit more of a stretch. At the
very least, she'd have trod through the water on the floor.

She laid a shaking hand on the far pillow.

It was still warm.

The immediate supposition to be drawn from the circumstantial
evidence -- he was here; he came back to me -- swept over her
like vertigo. She fought the dizziness grimly back and
scrubbed at her eyes with both hands.

Impossible. No ghost could have moved that blanket. You got
cold in the night and went sleepwalking, that's all.

But the pillow is warm—

Because you've been lying on it, stupid. Don't get hysterical.

But he was here! I heard him. I – I felt him.

Wishful thinking. That's all. She curled her hands into fists
and glared speculatively at Cleo, who was lying on the window
seat right where the folded comforter had been, one paw over
her eyes in blissful feline slumber. "Did you see anything?"
she demanded, and got only a slow, contemptuous blink in
answer; even if she could speak, Cleo seemed to say, wild
horses couldn’t make her.

Cats. It figured.

Make the damn bed, Hermione, she told herself. And get out of
this room before you drive yourself insane. You've got work to
do today.

Slowly, uncertainly, but with immense determination, she began
to refold the comforter.

**

The Latin Quartier in the rain was wet and grey and shrouded
in mist, like a Brassaï photograph. Hermione ducked into a
café for a cup of tea and – after a moment of guilty
indecision – a croissant, then consulted her shiny laminated
map of the subway and walked the few blocks over to the
Luxembourg station to catch the train to Gare du Nord.

The Métro was surprisingly uncrowded, probably due to the
season. Hermione took a seat in front of some tousle-haired
college students with backpacks and listened to them chatter
in casual, companionable Finnish until they exited at Les
Halles. From there, the train went express to Gare du Nord.
Hermione gathered her bag a little more closely to her side –
she’d heard more than one warning about the proliferation of
pickpockets in this part of town – and dug in the pocket for
the written directions to Itmana's clinic as she trudged up
the steps into the open air of the Arabic Quarter.

Here, she noticed as she turned to walk west toward the
Boulevard des Barbés, there was less of that sense of a city
on vacation – probably because the residents of this
neighbourhood couldn't afford eight weeks in Provence or Nice
or at the Riviera. Despite the rain, the tiny shops lining the
street were all open and bustling, and the quarter’s
population seemed to be out in full force. Hermione dodged a
runaway ball kicked by one of a group of ragged-looking
children in the middle of a game of street soccer, edged her
way around some indolent-looking young men lounging in the
awning-covered doorway of a tenement building, and nodded a
greeting to the two women dressed as domestics, their black
hair uncovered but severely tied back, who were about to cross
the street to the Métro station.

"Excuse me," she said in Arabic, and bit back a smile at their
twin expressions of shock that this milk-pale Englishwoman
should speak the language of the neighbourhood. "I'm looking
for Yasmine Fayed's clinic. Can you direct me?"

At the sound of the name, their faces cleared. "Doctor Fayed?"
one of them said. "Straight ahead, two blocks down on the
left."

Closer than she'd thought. Hermione nodded her thanks and
paused in a doorway out of the rain to fumble in her bag for
the letter Dumbledore had given her.

It was in this letter of recommendation from Farouk that she'd
first become Dr. Kate Billings, and ceased to be Hermione
Granger Weasley. Knowing that Itmana wouldn't recognise her
dulled most of the prospective excitement she might have felt
regarding their reunion; nevertheless, Dumbledore assured her,
Farouk had laid enough groundwork with his great-niece to
assure Kate Billings not only a job at the clinic, but also
sufficient credentials to land her a research facility at the
nearby British Hospital.

Of course, that was assuming she even wanted to try to
recreate the ruined research project. Ironic, Hermione
thought, that a process intended to extend and improve life
had become so closely tied in her own mind to destruction and
death.

But that was terrorism for you.

She found the letter, took just one more second to breathe in
the familiar Cairene aromas of mint tea and roasting lamb that
carried over from the little restaurant across the street, and
strode resolutely on toward the clinic.

Even if you've lost your direction, she reasoned, you can
still keep going forward. At least it gives your feet
something to do.

As philosophies went, it was a pretty shallow one -- she'd be
the first to admit it.

On the other hand, it was all she had left.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Fourteen

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Hermione hadn't been sure of what to expect from Itmana's
clinic. The slightly seedy locale didn't seem a likely match
either for Itmana herself or for Khaled's share of the
al-Hussein millions, and it begged the question: just how
undercover had her old friend decided to go, in her new
venture?

The answer, as it turned out, was 'just enough'.

The clinic was a simple storefront marked with a modest sign,
but the waiting room Hermione found when she stepped through
the door was comfortable and scrupulously clean, presided over
by a gimlet-eyed, dour-lipped gargoyle of a receptionist from
a desk that faced the windows. The corner opposite the door,
as if to cancel out the Gargoyle’s grim expression, was
stocked with brightly painted wooden toys and a low bookcase
full of children's books; some coffee-skinned toddlers were
happily stacking blocks while their parents chatted and kept
an eye on them from the nearby phalanx of chairs.

Despite the relative earliness of the hour, the room was
nearly full. Hermione, flushing a little under the weight of
so many curious eyes, gripped her letter more tightly and
approached the receptionist's desk.

"Bonjour, madame," she said, feeling rather as if she were
about to ask Madam Pince for extra borrowing privileges. "Je
m'appelle Kate Billings. Je voudrais parler á Docteur Fayed,
s'il-vous-plaít."

The Gargoyle didn't look up from her filing.

"Doctor Fayed is busy," she said in flat, unaccented English
which made it painfully clear that Hermione hadn't been
fooling anyone with her careful schoolgirl French. "If you
want to see her, you'll have to wait your turn."

"Oh. But I'm not here for treatment," Hermione persisted,
taken a bit aback by her dismissive tone. "I'm the new doctor.
I have a note of introduction from her uncle. I'm supposed to
start work today."

The Gargoyle looked unimpressed.

"Mademoiselle," she said coldly, "I don't care if you’re the
Duchess of Windsor, you have a note from Jacques Chirac
himself, and you're here to paper the walls in gold leaf.
Doctor Fayed will see you when she's finished with her
patients, and not a minute before." Face fixed in a permanent
bureaucrat's scowl, she yanked open a file drawer and
grudgingly produced a photocopied form. "Here. You can fill
this out while you're waiting."

The old Hermione would have protested. The new Hermione,
recognising a lost cause when she encountered one and lacking
the psychic energy for the battle of wits that dealing with it
would have required, merely shrugged and took the paper.

"Thank you," she said inanely, and was about to claim a seat
when the door next to the desk opened and a man walked in.

He was tall and dark and more good-looking in his
Western-style casual clothes than Hermione had remembered him.
Granted, her view might have been coloured by the
circumstances under which they'd met – the first time she'd
seen him, he'd sworn at her and knocked her down, and during
the subsequent glimpses she’d caught over the next few days,
he'd been stricken and white-lipped, twisting his hands
together like a reprimanded child under the subtle torment of
the Contrition Curse.

Now, however, he looked cheerful and full of purpose, and he
smiled when he caught Hermione's eye.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, after a quick assessing
glance at her bare ring hand, and raised one enquiring,
elegant brow. "Forgive the intrusion, but you look very
familiar to me. Have we met?"

So charming! Who’s he, and what did he do with that racist,
elitist pig who bloodied my lip? Caught off guard, Hermione
hesitated, then noticed the fulminating look the Gargoyle was
sending her way and thought – why not?

"Actually," she said, "we have. I'm rather well-acquainted
with your uncle. He was a mentor of mine while I was studying
medicine in Alexandria."

Technically, this was a lie. So – naturally – he believed it
immediately.

"Ah, of course," he said, and brightened even further. "You'd
be Dr. Billings, then. My uncle's written to say you'd be
coming." He bent charmingly over the hand she’d offered him to
shake and brushed it with his lips. "He mentioned that we'd
met as well, come to think of it. I should be shot at sunrise
for forgetting a face like yours."

"Don't take it personally," Hermione said, feeling a hot blush
beginning to ride her cheeks, and made a mental note to
practice her Paeniteo at the next available opportunity; if
these were the results one got from it, it was well worth the
price of the bandwidth. "I'm used to it by now. It happens a
lot."

He swept her with an admiring glance. "Impossible," he said
gallantly; "I'll never believe it." He turned to the Gargoyle.
"Sylvie, this is Dr. Billings. She's here as Dr. Fayed's new
associate. Dr. Billings, the incomparable Sylvie. We'd be lost
without her."

"A pleasure," Hermione said weakly, and extended her hand
across the desk. The Gargoyle regarded it sourly but made no
move to touch it.

"Likewise."

"Sylvie will see to your paperwork," Khaled said – plucking
the form blithely from Hermione's other hand and returning it
to the desk, oblivious of the Gargoyle’s deepening scowl. "Let
me show you around. Yasmine's swamped this morning; one of the
nurse-practitioners is out with the 'flu, and we've been
overwhelmed all week. She'll probably want to put you to work
immediately."

At last, a purpose in life.

"That's fine," Hermione said, hoping she didn't appear too
eager, and preceded Khaled through the door he held open for
her. Beyond it was a short grey-carpeted corridor lined with
lilac-painted doors. One of these was ajar; Khaled knocked
softly, then pushed it farther open.

"Doctor Fayed?" he said. "Do you have a moment?"

A brief exchange in rapid Arabic, a moment's pause, and Itmana
emerged into the corridor, trim and brisk-looking in a white
lab coat over blue jeans, her thick black hair cut close to
her head in a sleek, chic cap.

"What is it?" she said, sounding impatient, then frowned as
she noticed Hermione. "Are you the med student they promised
me last week from the British Hospital? Because you were
supposed to be here three days ago."

"Um. Actually," Hermione began, then closed her mouth again as
Khaled interrupted smoothly.

"This is Kate Billings, Itmana," he said in a low voice. "We
both met her at the fundraiser in Alexandria last summer,
remember? Uncle Farouk wrote a letter telling us she was
coming."

Itmana's creamy forehead creased, then resmoothed itself. "Oh,
thank goodness," she said, and turned back to Hermione with an
outstretched hand and an apologetic smile.

"Sorry to be abrupt. We've been unbearably short-staffed; you
couldn't have picked a better time to show up. It's lovely to
meet you again." She scanned Hermione's business suit
anxiously. "Oh, crap. Are you just here for an interview
today? Or can I put you to work?"

"I'd love to get started," Hermione said truthfully. Itmana
beamed.

"Oh, good. Call me Yasmine; my uncle explained all that,
right? We're keeping a very low profile. Security reasons."
She jerked her head over her shoulder. "My patient's waiting
on me. Khal—that is, Zarif—will show you around and get you
settled into an examining room. I'll fill you in on everything
else after we break for dinner. Welcome aboard."

Hermione grinned as Itmana disappeared into the examining
room. Khaled raised one eyebrow.

"She's amusing, sah? And a little scattered. But a very good
doctor, I assure you."

"It's not that," Hermione murmured, but kept the rest of her
thought to herself: She hasn't changed one bit.

For some reason, this made her feel better.

**

She'd given a bit of thought over the last few days as to how
she was going to pull off posing as a Muggle doctor. Between
the efforts of Madam Pomfrey and Snape, she'd picked up a fair
bit of practical training in medipotions, and she knew her
healing spells just as well as anyone else who'd been through
six years of Charms with Filius Flitwick. But beyond her
biological and chemical pre-med lab work, what she knew about
non-magical healing wouldn't get her through a weekend of CPR
training, let alone a charade of this magnitude and scope.

Worrisome, this. But hardly insurmountable. She followed
Khaled around the tiny space, nodding and smiling at what
seemed to be the right moments and filing away as much
information as possible in the meantime: patient files,
supplies, small locked-room pharmacy in what had probably been
a broom closet before the clinic moved in.

"Are you ready?" he asked finally, after installing her in the
little examining room next to Itmana’s. She gulped.

"Sure."

Five minutes later, her first patient came into the room.

He was wiry and small-boned, probably fifteen or sixteen years
old. His left arm was held against his skinny torso by a
makeshift sling, his thin face creased in pain and
apprehension. He didn’t have a file, and declined to start
one; Hermione figured he just didn’t want to give her his
name.

"Cassé?" she inquired, gesturing toward the injured arm. He
nodded.

"Oui, madame."

That was about as far as they were going to get in French,
Hermione decided, and switched over to Arabic. "How did it
happen?" she asked, and he shook his head shyly; either he
couldn't say, or he simply didn't want to.

Par for the course, she thought, and gestured for him to come
nearer.

"Let’s see your arm," she directed, carefully sliding the
knotted end of the sling off his skinny shoulder to reveal the
rest of a faded, none-too-clean tee shirt, and gently ran her
hands down the length of his bare, discoloured forearm,
feeling instinctively for the break. In the few moments she’d
had in between Khaled’s departure from the room and the
patient’s arrival, she'd implemented Secret Weapon Number One:
a Replica of her wand she’d Charmed into the shape of a latex
glove. Presently, she was wearing it on her right hand. As it
neared the fracture, it sent a faint buzz singing up her arm.

OK. Here goes nothing.

She clasped the injured area gently, eyeballing the angle of
his arm to make sure it was properly aligned, and muttered the
appropriate Healing Charm in an undertone, hoping he'd take
the unfamiliar word for something she was saying to herself in
English. The glove vibrated again, but the boy didn't flinch.
Under her hand, the bone reknit with a barely audible click.

Yes, Hermione thought, triumphant – now how easy was that? –
and took a step back.

"Is it broken?" the boy asked again, his eyes apprehensive.
Hermione shook her head.

"No. Just sprained," she told him, and could have groaned when
his eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"Sprained? That’s all?"

"Mm." Half-panicked, she cast about for something suitably
technical to say and came up blank. "Go easy on it for a few
days," she finished lamely. "Keep it elevated. Ice wouldn’t
hurt."

Her patient looked unconvinced.

Cautiously, he clenched and unclenched his fist, then looked
at her wide-eyed. "You fixed it." Hermione, rattled, bit her
lip.

"That’s what doctors do," she said, and pasted on a brilliant
toothpaste smile. "You should be all set. Come back in a few
days if it’s still uncomfortable. You’re fine."

Clearly, he didn't believe her, but the borrowed white lab
coat she wore carried enough built-in authority that he simply
nodded. "Merci, madame," he said, and sidled out, looking more
nervous, if possible, than he had on his way in. Once he was
gone, Hermione swallowed hard.

Oops.

You were a better liar when you were eleven.

Good thing there were no windows in this room. The reception
desk was probably being dive-bombed this very instant by
indignant owls from the French Ministry of Magic ... and if
there was such a thing as poetic justice in the world, one of
them would see fit to take a dump in the Gargoyle's bouffant.

Heh.

Unaccountably, maliciously cheered by the mental image this
summoned, Hermione readjusted her gloves and poked her head
resolutely into the corridor.

"Next," she called to Khaled, and set her jaw at a more
stubborn angle.

She'd get the hang of this yet.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Fifteen

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"So," Itmana said, and sliced a lamb croquette in half.  "Any
questions?"

Hermione, unsure of how to respond, tore off a piece of bread
and took her time selecting a dipping sauce from the
assortment on the table.  She had about a million questions,
truth be told, but they weren't things she could easily
inquire about without looking like she didn't know what she
was doing.

Not that she hadn't managed fairly well, given the
circumstances.  She'd had two more broken bones, and had
improved upon her initial technique by healing the break but
then also splinting the bone; superfluous, of course, but it
seemed to reassure the patients.  Then, too, she supposed it
probably did stretch the bounds of belief to come in with a
shattered kneecap and walk out with not so much as a cast to
show for it.

Let it not be said I couldn't learn from my mistakes.

The half-dozen sets of inoculations she'd given were more
straightforward; Itmana's supplies were well-labelled, and
while finding a vein wasn't always the easiest thing in the
world, her patients had submitted with good grace to her
fumbling attempts.  Luckily, she didn't have to deal with the
impossible task of writing prescriptions; this clinic, Khaled
had told her that morning, dispensed most of its drugs
in-house, and employed local muscle - two gigantic
Bluto-lookalikes named Ahmo and Maxim - to make sure that the
neighbourhood's local suppliers didn't get any bright ideas.

So far, Hermione had made good use of surreptitious Summoning
Charms, added to knowledge gleaned from her patients' files,
to find what she needed to in the little closet-sized
pharmacy.  This wouldn't always be her responsibility; once
the clinic's in-house pharmacist got back from his vacation,
Khaled had assured her that he'd take over that aspect of
things.

Personally, Hermione thought it less nerve-wracking to puzzle
it out and go find it for herself, than to be under the
pressure of having to come up with a written name on the
spot.  But she'd deal with that when the time came.

Less complicated but more frustrating had been the minor
complaints:  bronchitis, ear infections, and a half-dozen
children with headlice - luckily, no venereal diseases or
abortion-seekers today, as Hermione hadn't a clue how to
handle that, magic glove or no magic glove.  The lice had
responded admirably to a Banishing Charm - she'd dispensed the
shampoo and fine-tooth comb anyway as a followup, since the
patients' mothers, clearly familiar with both diagnosis and
treatment, seemed to expect it - but she'd had to fall back on
Muggle remedies for the sinus-related issues, as she didn't
have her own medipotions with her.

Aha.  Now there was a good question.

"How do you feel about homeopathic treatment?" she queried
from around her mouthful of bread.  Itmana looked surprised,
then shrugged.

"My training didn't cover it in depth," she admitted.  "Why?
Are you a specialist?"

"After a fashion," Hermione said, thinking guiltily that if
Poppy Pomfrey were listening in on this conversation, her
eyebrows would have all but disappeared under her overstarched
wimple.  "Do you think that's likely to be a problem?"

"Frankly," Itmana said, spearing another croquette, "you could
practice voodoo and I wouldn't bat an eyelash, so long as it
works and your patients get better."  She gestured expansively
with her fork, an old habit of hers Hermione remembered fondly
from Cairo, and grimaced.  "Nobody's exactly beating down the
doors to offer us any competition, in case you hadn't
noticed.  We're the only Arabic-speaking clinic in town,
unless you count the ritzy little private hospital over next
to the Institut de Monde Arabe that caters to the diplomats
and the literati.  Which I don't.  And while socialized
medicine is wonderful if you're a citizen of the European
Union, you'd be surprised at the shoddy way the big hospitals
treat immigrants - particularly if they're Arabs, and
particularly if they're poor."

She leaned across the table, lowering her voice meaningfully.
"We exist to level the playing field a bit, and obviously
we've got the money to do it; still, it's been very difficult
to find qualified nurses who speak the language and who are
willing to come all the way up here to work in this
neighbourhood, instead of staying at one of the big hospitals
nearer the center of town.  And until Uncle Farouk found you,
I'd just about despaired of finding another doctor to take on
some of my workload.  Under those circumstances, I'd say that
homeopathy is the least of my concerns . . . and even if I did
have an informed opinion about it, which I don't, I trust my
uncle not to send me a nutcase.  If he says you're a good
doctor, I'm not going to argue with him."

She popped the remainder of the croquette into her mouth,
washed it down with a swallow of fruit juice, and spread her
hands questioningly in Hermione's direction.  "Does that
answer your question?"

"Perfectly," Hermione said, cheering inwardly, and sat back to
enjoy the rest of her dinner.

Tomorrow was going to be a whole lot easier than today had
been.  But before she went home tonight, she needed to stop
and make things right with Neville.

**

"A wizarding marketplace in Paris?" Neville said.  "Of course
there's one.  I'm surprised no one told you before you came."

Hermione had spent most of the subway ride back to the Latin
Quarter trying to think of a plausible excuse for her
behaviour the previous afternoon, and hadn't had much luck.
Fortunately, Neville hadn't demanded an explanation from her,
but had merely accepted her fumbling apology and offer of a
conciliatory drink with quiet equanimity, and then gone to
change out of his gardening clothes and lock his office.

"Everyone gets a bit rattled now and then," he'd said.  "You
don't owe me any explanations, Kate."

That had been earlier - much, much earlier.  Now, it was ten
o' clock, and they were sitting at a scarred wooden bar,
peering at each other through a choking cloud of smoke and
drinking beer of dubious lineage that Neville assured her was
superior to any wine on the list - or rather, Neville was
drinking it.  Hermione had taken one tentative sip of hers,
pushed her mug emphatically in his direction, and started
ordering Cosmopolitans.

The name of the bar, amazingly enough for a pub in the heart
of Paris, was 'Connelly's Corner'.  There was a game of darts
going on in one corner and a game of dice in another.  The
place was packed with college students - French and Not French
in equal parts.  And the bartender spoke both French and
English with a decided brogue.

Next stop, Brigadoon, Hermione thought, and stared muzzily
into the depths of her third martini.  "There are a lot of
things no one bothered to tell me," she said meaningfully.  "I
mean, you'd be shocked."  She took a none-too-ladylike gulp of
her drink.  "And besides, you never know, do you?  I mean,
take Cairo for instance.  You'd have thought that out of all
the other cities in Egypt, it would have had wizarding shops,
and instead everything was in poky little Alexandria.  For all
I know, the Frogs might have decided to put their Diagon Alley
in the middle of the royal sheep-paddock at Versailles.
Underneath a fountain or something.  You know."

Neville laughed.  The beer didn't seem to be affecting him
much; obviously, Hermione thought, he'd learned more than
mulching techniques during his internships.  "Oh, it's much
more poetic than that," he said.  "It's at Les Halles."

"Les Halles?"  Hermione frowned at him.  "But they moved the
market at Les Halles to the suburbs," she said.  "Didn't they?
I read about it in the guidebook.  Some urban-planning
nightmare or other.  Mum and I got off the Métro by mistake
and got lost there, when we vacationed here a few years back,
and there's nothing in that part of town except for this awful
glass-and-steel shopping mall and some ugly overpriced
apartments from the 1980s -"

Neville was grinning.

"They moved the Muggle market, sure," he said.  "The magical
Les Halles is still alive and well, believe me.  You just have
to know how to get in."  He checked his watch.  "All closed
for the day by now, of course.  We stock an herb-shop there
with cuttings from the Museum greenhouses, and that's open
from six to two - my friend Jean-Jacques takes over a shipment
of plants before the sun comes up, just large enough to fill
the day's needs, and most everything sells out by ten a.m.
You can still find what you need after that, but things tend
to be picked over."  He sipped his beer.  "Some of the other
shops stay open until seven or eight, though.  Depending."

"Makes sense," Hermione said, and mentally resigned herself to
another day spent dispensing amoxicillin for colds until she
could get her hands on some Pepper-Up.  A bit depressed by
this, intending just to finish her drink and go, she was
distracted from the dregs of her Cosmopolitan - and from
Neville's continuing commentary on Parisian tastes in magical
greenery - by a bright curl of flirtatious laughter coming
from the direction of the door.  Curious, she looked round to
see what had caused it, and saw a young couple at a table by
the pub's open front windows.

Tourists, most definitely.  Probably American, from the
accent, and their backpacks and casual clothes pegged them as
students.  Hermione figured they were probably staying in one
of the two nearby youth hostels - lovers without a private
room to go back to, stealing kisses in a café over a shared
bottle of cheap wine - and sighed with a touch of wistfulness,
and more than a little envy.

She remembered that look of shared confidences, of jokes held
in common.  She'd once leaned across a restaurant table just
that very way, thrown back her head in laughter and curled one
hand affectionately over her lover's.

Her husband's.

She'd looked that young.  She'd felt that happy.

Her grip tightened on the stem of the martini glass.  Neville
was still talking, but she'd stopped listening.

I wish . . . oh, I wish . . .

That was Angst Girl, whimpering her familiar refrain.  And
chiming in with her weary rebuttal was the Voice of Caution,
who these days had taken to calling herself the Voice of
Reason:  Stop that.  Where's a wish going to get you?  You'd
be just about as likely to dream him back into existence.  And
we all know how likely that is.

You'd be just about as likely to dream him back.  At that, an
image from last night's dream, unremembered until now, rose up
from Hermione's subconscious, vivid as a clip of film:  You're
snoring in my ear, she'd murmured, and had jostled his arm
lightly to wake him.

Not the most romantic vignette in the world, granted.  But it
had been familiar and reassuring nonetheless, at the time -
Bill had always wrapped his arm around her waist like that,
had always started snorting in her ear at the height of her
beneficial REM cycle, and had always woken just enough, when
she shook him, to yawn, grunt an apology, and turn over to
spend the rest of the night on his other side.

Funny that she didn't remember getting that reaction from him
in her dream.  As a matter of fact, if she recalled it
correctly, last night's phantom-Bill had said 'Ouch!' - in
response to that gentlest of love-taps! - and had grumbled
something about how she'd wanted his arm there in the first
place, on her own head be it, and who was she to talk about
making noise in her sleep, anyway?

But he hadn't turned away from her.

It was odd, Hermione thought, but at that instant, as seen
through the admittedly fuzzy lens of lapsed time and partial
inebriation, her dream lover hadn't sounded very much like
Bill at all.

Ridiculous, said the Voice of Reason - and for once, her voice
sounded less tight, more sympathetic.  He sounded exactly the
same.  You're just starting to forget, that's all.

Forget?  Hermione bridled.  How could I ever forget?  How
could I possibly?

People do, you know.

Not me.  I remember everything.  Everything!

Liar, said the Voice calmly.  Even as you sit here, you're
losing information.  How could you not?  Who can keep six
years inside their head inviolate?  Memories get fuzzy; that's
why we love them so much.  And the longer you go on, the more
they blur.  That's life.

No.  No, you're wrong!  Hermione shuddered, and felt the stem
of her glass crack under the desperate crush of her fingers.
Whether she was cut or not, she couldn't say; her whole body
felt numb.

I won't forget.  Never, never, never.

"Kate, are you all right?"

Neville, looking worried.  Hermione swallowed hard and forced
her head to move in the semblance of a nod.

"Fine," she lied.  "Just tired, that's all.  I'm going to call
it a night."

"Sounds like a good idea," he agreed.  "Want me to walk you
home?"

Hermione shook her head.  "I'll Apparate.  Thanks anyway."

"Oh - okay."  Neville shrugged.  "Well, then, I'll see you
around.  Sweet dreams."

"See you," Hermione echoed, and carefully set down her broken
glass on the bar, avoiding the bartender's reproachful look
and biting back bitter-tasting laughter as she rose to go.

Sweet dreams?

Fat chance.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Sixteen

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Parisian wizarding market at Les Halles turned out to
have, in addition to the fresh herb-stall Neville had
mentioned, an extremely well-stocked shop specialising in
ready-made potions, and a bookstore with an impressive section
on mediwizardry. Hermione took immediate advantage of both,
and began to feel better about her job as the long hot days of
August slid by.

Still, the vast quantity of things she didn't know that she
should have known was daunting, to say the least. Her research
work at the Consortium had been one thing   there, if she'd
found her knowledge or skills lacking in some way, there had
been ample time to remedy the lack at her leisure. Here,
learning on the job was like jogging with a gun held to your
head   exhilarating, perhaps, in a purely adrenal sense, but
scary as hell and hardly to be recommended.

She bought a manual on magical diagnosis and committed it to
memory. She Replicated a few boxes'-worth of latex
wand-gloves, and got better and better at recognising the
anxious telltale tingle in her fingertips that meant something
was amiss. She requested from Khaled the kinds of cases with
which she was comfortable, and took advantage of slow days to
observe Itmana at work. On the occasions   fewer and fewer
now, thank goodness   when she had no idea how to proceed with
a patient, she called Itmana in from the next room for a
second opinion, and grimly stored away what she learned for
future reference.

At least once a day, usually more often than that, she was
lonely and frustrated enough to curse Farouk, Dumbledore, and
the Fidelius Charm itself for contributing to what seemed at
those moments to be an impossibly overwhelming situation.
Mostly, though, it felt good to be preoccupied, and even
better to be busy with something this productive.

She spent her evenings, those first few weeks, feverishly
absorbing medical texts   both magical and Muggle   and
listening to Maxie and the band rehearse. Gradually, however,
Paris began to exert its siren-call on her; her inner
Daredevil had been much-subdued by the events of the past few
months, but wasn't, after all, quite dead yet. Eschewing the
city's major tourist attractions for now   plenty of time for
that later   she limited the majority of her ventures to the
immediate neighbourhood: Tuesday and Thursday afternoon coffee
with Neville, near-daily shopping expeditions to the local
bakery and produce stand (as much for the nod and smile from
flirtatious Émile or crusty old Madame Mugler as for the bread
and fruit), study sessions in the nearby ruins of the ancient
Roman amphitheatre, her readings about gastrointestinal
disorders and compound fractures punctuated by the
conversation of picnickers and delighted shrieks of
rollerblading youngsters.

Though her family had never been devoutly religious, and
Hermione herself hadn't been to church in years, she hesitated
one Sunday morning on her way to the local patisserie at the
doors of the gargoyle-guarded, delightfully Gothic Cathedrale
de St.-Severin, and then ducked inside. She'd been back for
Mass twice since then, feeling at once out of place and oddly
comforted by the cadenced flow of liturgical French, the
standing and sitting and confidently-murmured responses, wine
and bread and I believe, endless litanies of redemption and
immortality and faith.

She took Cleo walking in the Jardin des Plantes. Caught a
Saturday-morning puppet-show at the Luxembourg Gardens. Helped
deliver her first baby.

On the nights when loneliness threatened to overwhelm her, she
took refuge in Dreamless Sleep; most of the time, however,
cautious of addiction, she slid between the sheets without
benefit of its guaranteed chemical slumber. Sometimes she
slept through the night. More often she was plagued by the
customary nightmares of doors and halls and ticking clocks,
and on those occasions her dream-lover came to her, muttering
half-resentful lullabies in her ears even as he rocked her
back to oblivion.

The more often she dreamed about him, the less he resembled
Bill: he didn't smell like Bill, he didn't say the same
things, he didn't lie in the same position, he didn't touch
her the same way   or indeed touch her at all, unless she
demanded it of him. His hands felt smooth and well-kept when
she managed to entwine them with hers, without the
archaeologist's calluses that had roughened Bill's fingers.
And they never, never strayed, not even when her dream-self
sighed and murmured and tried to tug them southward to those
bits of her that hadn't been touched in far too long.

Sorry, my darling, he'd murmured, his whisper hot in her ear
even as he hastily disentangled himself. But I've lost enough
of my soul to you already. I'm not prepared to commit the
unpardonable for a moment of sweetness.

Bill would never have said something like that   not even in a
dream, not even dead. No, her night visitor had a touch of the
ascetic about him, Hermione decided   soft hands and
self-denial   and began to refer to him in her own head as
Monsieur le curé, a name which stuck for good when
twelve-year-old Patrice Brodin, recently returned from
vacation with his family to the flat next door, happened to
mention that the former occupant of Hermione's apartment had
been a priest.

"Really," Hermione said, intrigued. "And where is he now?"

"Il est mort, madame."

"Dead?" Hermione demanded. "Are you sure? How?"

Her only answer was a supremely-French,
characteristically-adolescent shrug; Patrice's friend Henri
had just arrived by skateboard, bearing a dripping cardboard
dish of glace au chocolat in each hand, and her informant,
though undoubtedly schooled by his mother to unfailing
politesse, was clearly eager to be elsewhere. Reluctant but
resigned, she waved him off and retreated to her cool white
bedroom to process this fresh bit of news.

This explained a lot. On the other hand, one had to wonder how
ghostly hands could feel so warm   or how a ghostly head could
leave such a plainly corporeal dent in the pillow next to
hers.

Don't examine it too closely, the Daredevil whispered. Your
husband's dead, your own mother doesn't remember that you
exist, and you don't have a single three-dimensional friend
who still calls you by your own name. You don't want him to
leave, too, do you?

No, Hermione thought, half-anxious at the very idea. She
didn't want that.

**

September slid away bit by bit, like water through carefully
cupped hands. The tourists departed, footsore and laden with
packages and film cartridges; the Parisians returned,
sun-bronzed and rested. School began, and the cafés of the
Latin Quartier overflowed far into the night with
fast-talking, intense-faced students, punctuating their
arguments with short terse gestures that made the smoke from
their unfiltered Gauloises swirl in irritated arabesques
around their heads.

Hermione, on a whim, purchased and inscribed a small tower of
postcards and sent them off signed from 'Kate', not really
expecting replies but flushed with the idea of at least making
contact, and was delighted to hear back a few days later from
the irrepressible Joséphine Dessources: I can't for the life
of me think who you are, she wrote, but the way my brain
works, that's hardly surprising. You've got gorgeous
handwriting and you're in Paris, you lucky thing; I hate you
already. Shtup a starving artist for me, will you? And have
some peach crêpes while you're at it.

Hermione complied on the crêpe issue but declined the art
student. She did, however, write back.

His name was Marcel. He left charcoal stains on my sheets, for
which I'm holding you personally responsible, as, judging from
his canvases, I don't think he'll ever be famous enough for me
to market them profitably. And I prefer strawberry to peach.
How are things at Hogwarts?

The reply arrived by owl the next evening, just as Hermione
was unlocking the door of her flat: You just had to rub it in,
didn't you? Old McGonagall took one look at me, the year I
started working here, and tried to make me sign a morality
clause. Nothing doing, naturally, but even so, nobody's
getting any action in this place except for the
eternally-libidinous students. The esteemed Herbology and
Charms professors did invite me to join them for revelry of an
unspecified nature in the south greenhouse last Midsummer's
Eve, but I declined that particular opportunity for debauchery
I didn't like the look in Sprout's eye. For a short fluffy
chick, she's sort of scary.

Hermione, startled into a giggle, kept reading.

My esteemed predecessor stopped by a week or so ago to see
Albus. Now there's an interesting prospect in the
Shag-A-Dessources Sexual Sweepstakes   if he were bound and
gagged, that is. He may have pretty eyes, but those dark
broody guys give me a wiggins. I can't get into men whose mood
swings are worse than mine, and I'd say that His Eminence
definitely qualifies on that count.

Hermione   torn between amusement, suspicion (what the hell
was Snape doing at Hogwarts?), and a brief surprising jab of
what felt like but couldn't possibly be jealousy   shook her
head and scanned the last paragraph.

So tell me   are we good enough friends for you to invite me
for the holidays? I'm damned if I'll look at McGonagall's sour
old mug over my Christmas pudding this year. And I've no
desire ever to meet Albus under the mistletoe again, thank you
very much. He may be the greatest living wizard in the Western
world, but he sure can't handle his eggnog, and if he lays
hands on my tush one more time, he's going to be missing some
fingers when he takes them away again. Suffice it to say that
I need a change of pace, posthaste; if you're in the mood for
company, I'd most definitely be up for some girlish hijinks
and Joyeux Noël, Paris-style. Let me know.

"Hang on a minute," Hermione instructed the nervous-looking
post owl (Cleo had just padded into the room, and was taking
rather more of an interest in the proceedings than the bird
found strictly comfortable), and rummaged for pen and paper.
Why wait for Christmas? she scribbled, almost giddy with her
own reckless impulse. Come for the weekend, why don't you? Any
weekend. I'm so lonely here that I can't live with myself.

She peeled the owl a tangerine, sent it off with a stroke of
its fluffy feathered head, and wandered back to the music
room, still holding the letter and frowning to herself. The
band, huddled around a rickety wooden table that had recently
appeared next to the piano in the mural's background, didn't
look up from their card game. Maxie recapped her bottle of
nail polish and smiled in Hermione's direction.

"Afternoon, sugar. How was business today?"

The question was by now a time-honoured ritual. Hermione
folded herself into the room's most comfortable chair and
cracked her knuckles leisurely.

"Let's see. Pretty slow, actually. A sprained wrist, a couple
of pre-natal exams, two cases of ringworm, an appendicitis,
some work physicals, a broken nose ..." She thought hard. "Ah.
A three-year-old who'd stepped on broken glass. Responded
beautifully to that new Suturing Charm; I doubt that there'll
even be a scar. And three cases of hepatitis A. Itmana had a
couple, too. We suspect bad shellfish from the nearby market;
Khaled went over after lunch to ask Mehmet where he's been
buying his mussels." She switched on the torchière lamp next
to the chair. "Did you lot get any practicing in?"

Maxie rolled her eyes. "Are you kidding? They've been playing
Hearts since yesterday after breakfast. You couldn't shift
them from that table if Count Basie himself showed up and
tried to give them a downbeat."

Hermione laughed, then thought about the letter in her hands
and grew sober again.

"I got a letter today from my friend Joséphine," she said.
"She says that Snape was at Hogwarts recently."

"Oh?" Maxie studied her nails. "Is that news?"

"Sort of." Hermione shrugged, unsure of how to put her
uneasiness into words. "He and Sal keep themselves pretty
secluded these days; it's really unlike him to go visiting
without a good reason. Before he agreed to be my
Secret-Keeper, he hadn't been back to Hogwarts in three years.
And now I guess I'm starting to wonder if he and Dumbledore
don't know more about Bill's ... well, about the murder, than
they're telling me."

"It's possible," Maxie said, toying thoughtfully with the cap
of her nail-polish bottle. "Though on a certain level, it
ought to be reassuring that your Secret-Keeper's keeping
secrets   even if they're from you. Means he's well-suited to
the job, n'est-ce-pas?"

Hermione nodded reluctantly. "I suppose," she said. "Just
makes me edgy, that's all. I haven't been sleeping so well.
Bad dreams." She frowned. "Maxie?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You haven't happened to see a ghost in the apartment, have
you?"

Maxie's eyes went sharp. "A ghost?"

"It's probably nothing," Hermione said, embarrassed. "But in
these dreams ... well, I've been having a visitor. I thought
he was Bill at first, but he's not   lately, I've been
wondering if he's even a dream. He feels more real than that,
somehow. And just the other day Patrice told me this story
about a dead priest who used to live here. I was just
wondering if you'd seen anything, that's all."

"Dead priest?" Maxie shook her head. "I haven't seen any
ghosts around the place at all, sugar. But now that I know
you're looking, I'll have the boys keep an eye out." She
lifted one thin-plucked eyebrow. "And as I recall, there's a
portrait of St. Bernadette living in the flat above us. I'll
find out if she knows anything about resident clergy in the
building."

Hermione, relieved, scooped her study text off the coffee
table and flipped it open. "Thanks, Maxie. That's nice of
you."

"Any time, sugar."

But that tight, assessing look was back in Maxie s expressive
dark eyes.

"Yeah," she muttered to herself, long after Hermione was
absorbed in her studies. "I'll ask around."

It sounded like a threat.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Seventeen

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You know," Itmana had said over lunch a week or so ago, "this
holistic-health thing of yours is really going over well."

The clinic had just closed for the evening, and they were
sprawled, exhausted, on chairs in the waiting room, devouring
the brown-bag lunches they hadn't had time to properly address
earlier.  Cautiously pleased at this news, despite sniffs of
contempt from the Gargoyle (now managing to look deeply
disapproving while simultaneously organising her desk,
watering the spindly ficus next to the filing cabinet, and
putting on her jacket), Hermione had sipped her orangeade to
hide a sigh of relief.

"Oh?"

"Mm.  That stuff you've been giving out for colds, for
instance - I think you told Julien it was an infusion of
majorica?  The peppery stuff, smells like cloves?"

Julien was the clinic's pharmacist-on-staff, recently returned
from his vacation in Nice.  Hermione nodded.

"Well, he's had six patients asking for it in the last four
days.  He wants to know if it can be dispensed without a
prescription, so he can keep some in stock in the pharmacy."

"Sure," Hermione said without thinking.  "Just give me a
chance to brew some more."

"Brew?" Itmana laughed.  "In a cauldron, I presume?"

Hermione smiled uneasily to hide her slip and decided to try
for levity.  "But of course,"she said lightly.  "The open
flame's crucial to the process - no electric range will do.
And if you try to make it in a saucepan, it'll make the
macaroni taste funny for months."

"Touché."  Itmana grinned and leaned forward over the table.
"So," she continued.  "Where are you getting your herbs,
anyway?  Do you have to import them?"

Hermione, back on more familiar footing with this question,
shook her head.  "I've got an old school chum at the
paleobotany museum in the Jardin des Plantes," she said.  "He
keeps me fairly well supplied.  There's not much he doesn't
know about medicinal plants."

"Really."  Itmana looked intrigued.  "I'd like to meet him,"
she said.  "I bet there are lots of people in this
neighbourhood who would come to a lecture on homeopathy, if we
sponsored one through the clinic … just about every
self-respecting housewife in the Goutte d'Or has a vegetable
plot on the roof or at least a windowsill garden.  Herbal
remedies are right up their alley."  She took a bite of her
curried-eggplant sandwich and regarded Hermione expectantly as
she chewed.  "Think he'd be interested?"

"I don't know," Hermione said doubtfully, thinking of quiet,
self-effacing Neville volunteering to give a lecture and
mentally predicting his likely response:  not a snowball's
chance in hell.  At Itmana's disappointed look, however, she
shrugged and pasted on a more hopeful expression.

"Guess it never hurts to ask, does it?"

**

Neville, by his own admittance, was a reluctant public
speaker.  Ever accommodating, however, he had agreed to
discuss the possibility over Saturday-night dinner, and now
the four of them - he, Hermione, Itmana, and Khaled - were
slurping oysters at an outside table of an Art-Deco brasserie
in the Opera Quartier (called, rather optimistically in
Hermione's opinion, Les Grands Capucines, after the bustling
boulevard facing its stained-glass windows) - or rather,
Hermione and Khaled were slurping oysters á deux, relatively
unimpeded by the need to speak.

They wouldn't, Hermione thought ruefully, have gotten a word
in edgewise if they'd tried.  Itmana and Neville had spent the
first five post-introduction minutes of their dinner staring
dumbstruck at each other across the table, another five racing
through the obligatory business that was the initial object of
the meeting, and were now - having successfully navigated the
treacherous Tell-Me-About-Yourself Conversational Rapids -
happily ensconced at the far end of the table, trading
horrendous-spring-break-in-Miami stories (probably, ironically
enough, the one experience they held completely in common).

Apparently, Hermione mused, Itmana was still a sucker for
Sensitive Guys - a weakness she'd readily admitted to back in
the steamy no-secrets schoolgirl haven of the hammam - and
there was no question that Neville pretty much had the market
cornered on that particular brand of masculinity.  He was
giving back as good as he got, too - the lure of those dark
dancing-girl eyes was considerable, after all.  And while the
conversation had remained relatively casual so far, at least
in terms of its topic, their body language had violins and
palm-trees stamped all over it.

Well, I didn't see this one coming.

The upside to this unexpected love connection, of course, was
that neither of the smitten parties seemed much interested in
the hors d'ouevres.  Hermione tossed back another oyster,
washed it down with a swallow of table wine, and caught
Khaled's eye over the top of the bread basket.  He tipped his
head slightly sideways in his half-sister's direction, pulled
a comical face, and raised his shoulders in a wry shrug.

"It's her mating call," he murmured, leaning toward her across
the table.  "The minute she says, ‘I know exactly how you
feel' … that means coffee and liqueurs right there.  Should
she follow it up at any point with ‘That's remarkably
sensitive of you', it's an automatic invitation back to the
flat to see her etchings.  After that, the only way the poor
guy can possibly screw it up is by arguing politics with her."

Hermione laughed, but felt a wriggle of protective concern for
Neville send up a tiny flare from the general direction of her
conscience.  "And how often does this happen?" she inquired
casually, tearing apart a piece of baguette.  Khaled
considered this.

"It's only happened twice, as far as I know.  Before now, I
mean."

The flare fizzled and died.  "Oh.  I see."

They shot a covert glance at the other side of the table,
which went unintercepted; Neville might as well have thrown up
a Barrier Charm right through the middle of the flickering
candle centerpiece.  Itmana was flushed and bright-eyed and
swilling wine as casually as if it were root beer; "that's a
fascinating point," she said now to Neville, her voice low and
earnest, and Hermione and Khaled snickered uncharitably.

"Tell me now," Khaled said, "for the sake of my brotherly
concern.  This Longbottom fellow - he's an honourable person?"

"Completely," Hermione averred, shooting an anxious glance at
the starry-eyed party in question.  "Not a hint of the drageur
about him, if that's what you're asking.  I've never seen him
look like this."

"Excellent."  Khaled leaned back, withdrew a stylish flat
wallet from his inside jacket pocket, and nonchalantly flipped
a stack of hundred-franc notes onto the table.  "Then let's
leave them to it and seek our fortunes elsewhere tonight.  Do
you gamble at all?"

"Gamble?"  Hermione's eyes went wide; of all the questions he
could have asked, this was hardly what she'd expected.  "Um.
Not really.  I mean, we used to play Expl—I mean, Snap—for a
penny a point, back at school.  But that's about it."

"Ah.  Well, that's a start."

Khaled grinned.  "This isn't my favorite part of town," he
mused.  "Too touristy, and I'm not particularly a fan of the
theatre.  But since we're here …"  He jerked his head in the
general direction of the multiplex cinema a block or so away.
"There's a private casino in that block of buildings, and
their restaurant serves a better dinner than anything you'll
find on the street.  And I'll teach you how to play baccarat
afterwards, if you like."

"Um."  Hermione bit her lip.  "Sounds lovely, Khaled.
Really.  But—"

"You look very British when you're worried," he teased.
"Don't get nervous.  It's a bit glittery, I grant you that,
but it's not the den of vice you'd expect it to be.  Come on -
it'll be fun."

It's not the casino that's got me nervous, Hermione thought.
It's the fact that this started out as dinner-with-friends and
is turning into a date.  She swallowed hard, about to object,
then took another look at him and relaxed a little.  The light
of love was noticeably absent from his eyes; particularly when
contrasted with the earnest, soft-spoken Neville, he looked
exactly like what he was -  a charming, bored princeling
anxious for diversion.

And baccarat did sound exciting.  And very … well, French.

"Okay," she said.  "Lead the way."

**

They turned right, toward the Seine, and strolled down the
boulevard, companionably arm-in-arm to avoid being separated
by the heavy foot traffic.  This part of Paris juxtaposed the
banal with the sublime, the glaringly modern with the ancient
- the Opera-Comique and Church of the Madeleine snuggled up on
the same block with Burger King and Copy Cop.  The multiplex
cinema was crowded with lines of moviegoers; Hermione glanced
at the marquee and was surprised to see it advertising mostly
Hollywood films.

They crossed the street at the next light - "it's right here,"
Khaled said, pointing to a limestone building in front of
them.  Hermione blinked - the only eateries she could see on
this block were McDonalds and Pizza Hut - but trotted along
next to him anyway, mystified but willing to go along for the
ride.  He walked past the fast-food joints and turned the
corner to the building's side-entrance - ah, this was better,
a modest sign advertising a Chinese restaurant - but they went
past that too, through a single unmarked door in the side of
the building … and then Hermione understood, and caught her
breath.

She'd read about this, about the hidden courtyards of Paris -
now that she was inside, what had seemed like an impenetrable
block of stone was revealed as its true self:  a fortress
surrounding a garden.  More carved wooden doors, these flanked
by close-faced men in dark suits.  When they saw Khaled, they
nodded.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur.  Madame."

"Bonsoir, messieurs."

One of them opened the door, and they walked through.  Beyond
it was a curving staircase, lushly carpeted in crimson; as
they emerged onto the first landing, Hermione caught a glimpse
of the casino - shimmering, rococo, chandeliered, more like
the Dauphin's drawing-room than the gambling den of her
prurient fantasies - and had to hold back a gasp.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"  Khaled didn't pause.  "One more
flight," he said; "we'll see all this again after dinner.  I
refuse to gamble on an empty stomach."

The restaurant was on the top floor, as bejeweled and
resplendent as anything below it and yet somehow cheerful,
brighter and more bustling than Hermione would have expected.
They were shown to a corner table by a smiling maitre-d',
after which food and wine appeared almost instantly, without
benefit of wine list or menu.  Hermione ate what was put
before her - what seemed like dozens of tiny elegantly-sauced
portions, a biteful of this delicacy, a thimbleful of that,
her fork hardly touching her plate before it was whisked away
and replaced with something else.  "Is this the tasting menu?"
she wanted to know, and Khaled - placidly forking in his
uncomplicated plat of steak-frites - laughed.

"No," he said.  "It's two things, really.  First of all, I
never bring women here, so they're out to impress you.  And
secondly, you're an anglaise.  They're trying to show you how
it's done."

"You know these people pretty well, don't you?"  It was more a
statement than a question; they'd had three waiters hovering
round their table since they sat down, and more than one of
them had lingered for conversation.  Khaled nodded.

"I come here a lot," he said.  "Up in the Goutte d'Or, Itmana
and I don't use our real names, or flaunt our real cash, or
pretend to know anything about our real bloodlines … in fact,
we're not even brother and sister, but just Yasmine and Zarif,
doctor and administrator.  Which is freeing in one sense, I
suppose - I can do a lot of things as Zarif that I'd never
have contemplated as Khaled - but on the other hand, it can be
wearing, too.  I used to visit this place back in the days
when I didn't have a secret identity, so there was never any
question of trying to preserve anonymity here.  It's still
just about the only place in the city where I can use my real
name."

Oh, God, Hermione thought, startled.  I know just how he
feels.  I'll be inviting him to view my etchings next.

**

She didn't, though.

They'd finished dinner, played a few rounds of baccarat in the
gilded little casino, and that had been that.  Much to her
surprise, he hadn't even tried anything, had merely kissed her
cheek and put her in a cab.

"Bonsoir, Doctor," he'd said.  "See you at the office on
Monday."

The perfect gentleman.  And now she was curled up in bed,
staring into the dark and hating herself because for just a
minute there, she hadn't wanted him to be.

It had nothing to do with Khaled himself.  It wasn't as if she
wanted to date him, after all.  But for just a moment, as he'd
leaned down for that friendly farewell cheek-press that was as
natural on the streets of Paris as breathing, she'd felt her
whole body tighten and thrill with his nearness.

It's been so long.  So goddamn long.

And after the longing came that ultimate of mood-killers,
guilt:  at least you're still alive.

Yes.  Alive.  And drying up from the inside out.

Damn it, Bill, I miss you.

Her right hand slid up her knee in a parody of a lover's
gesture, hesitated at the apex of her thighs.  More heat -
yes, yes, yes, insisted her expectant body, while her brain
balked:  you know this makes you twice as lonely afterwards,
right?  And you'll have that dream again, too.

I know.  But it's either this or Dreamless Sleep.  And at
least this isn't addictive.

More than one kind of addiction, chérie.  Don't kid yourself.

You think this is what I want?  You think I'd choose this?

I'm just saying, that's all.

In the end, she did it anyway - mostly because her hand was
right there, and the bottle of Dreamless Sleep was on the
bathroom counter, well out of arm's-reach.  It was pretty much
like she'd predicted:  a few moments of pleasure, more grim
than guilty, the welcome novocaine jolt of orgasm, and then
pain, so crippling and intense that she shook with it -
because no matter what the scientists claimed, sex was about
more than just chemicals and proximity … and because she was
reduced to foraging for scraps, when once she'd been a queen.

The scariest thing of all, she thought, head buried in her
knees, is that two hours ago, I thought I was happy.  How can
I fight this thing off, when I can't even see it coming?

It was her last thought before she slept.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Eighteen

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You're going to Paris again tonight, aren't you?"

It was a pleasant, breezy evening, illuminated by the
beginnings of a glorious sunset and underscored with a
tranquil soundtrack of calling loons from the nearby lake.
Severus had moved a card table out onto the porch; ostensibly,
they were supposed to be playing chess, but the game wasn't
really going anywhere. The dreamy lassitude of the Montana
evening had infected even Sal's normally-competitive chessmen;
on the sidelines of the board, a black pawn who'd finished
reassembling her splintered torso was now allowing her hair to
be brushed and rebraided by her white counterpart.

They'd had a late lunch and weren't particularly concerned
with eating another meal, though the tin of chocolate-coated
caramel popcorn Severus had bought on impulse last week at a
specialty confectioner s in Chicago had accompanied them to
the porch, and was now - inexplicably - several inches
emptier. There was a curious, not unpleasant residue of sugar
on his tongue. His hands were sticky.

"Maybe," he said. "It depends."

"On what, exactly?"

Sal's tone was mild and noncommittal, but Severus had to fight
the urge to squirm, nevertheless. He didn t know how the old
ghost had found him out, but his nocturnal visits had been
common knowledge for more than a week now, and it was making
him feel unaccountably guilty. "On whether she starts crying
again," he said shortly. "What else?"

"My mistake," Sal said pleasantly. "And here I was thinking
you only went when you couldn t stay away.

Severus glared at him for a moment, gripping his queen so hard
that she squeaked in protest, then set her down again and
dropped his eyes.  That too, he admitted.  But mostly it s the
other. If you could hear her

He made a face.  I think you got the better end of the
bargain, when Albus divided up that charm. Why couldn t I be
the one sleeping soundly through the night? It s more in your
line of work anyway, haunting is. He knew he sounded petulant,
but he didn t care.  And if she caught you at it, she d be
more inclined to be forgiving. If my Apparation skills ever
fail me, I ll carry the scars to my grave. And it might be a
short trip.

Sal rolled his eyes, exasperated.

It s not as if you don t have a valid pretext for dropping in
during broad daylight, he pointed out.  I don t know why you
re bothering with all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense in the
first place. You are her Secret-Keeper, after all, or one of
them, at any rate. And you can offer her a brand of comfort
that I can t; you re the only living person on the planet who
remembers the poor girl s name. He studied the chessboard for
a moment, then looked up without making his move.  I imagine
that she d be rather glad to see you, Severus, if you stopped
by for tea. She must be terrifically lonely.

I shouldn t be so sure of that. Severus stared out across the
scrubby little postage-stamp front lawn of the cottage toward
the encircling phalanx of trees. It was that most magical of
hours, when even the dubious charms of the crab grass were
gilded like a Fabergé egg by the setting sun, and for some
reason it made him think of Hogwarts and that long rolling
expanse of manicured hill that stretched from the front doors
all the way down to the lake.

Nostalgic, Severus? Get a grip on yourself.

She s fashioned a whole new identity for herself, he said
slowly.  Even her flat doesn t look like a place she d live in
- there s nothing of her former self in it; you ve never seen
such a drearily vanilla collection of rooms. He linked his
arms moodily around his knees.  And from the bits I catch of
her comings and goings - I don t hear much, but I can usually
pick up on her state of mind, anyway - she seems content
enough.

He selected a kernel of popcorn and ate it slowly, his brow
furrowed.  She doesn t seem to have any trouble at all being
Kate Billings, he said finally.  It s only when she remembers
who she is, in fact, that she really seems sad. Frankly, I m
not sure that helping her remember her old life is really such
a kindness.

Nor is it a kindness, Sal pointed out acerbically,  to feed
her delusions by letting her think that her dead husband
visits her in her dreams. Get your head out of your arse. He
scowled.  Merlin knows that the two of you have enough
communication problems between you to Obfuscate an army of
star-crossed lovers; I ll be the first to testify to that. But
this is not the time, Severus!

His wise old face was strained with worry and as serious as
Severus had ever seen it.  That child is about to lose
herself. The whole universe is trying to convince her that she
doesn t exist. He looked grave.  And you re the only one, I m
afraid, who can persuade her otherwise.

They sat in silence following this low-voiced outburst, both
more upset than they would have cared to admit, and watched
the flame of the sunset curl into cinders and slowly wink out.
Severus was the first to break the uneasy silence.

Blame Albus, he said, his voice edged with something that
might have been bitterness, might have been simply
resignation.  His one great weakness is his faith in mankind;
he s forever looking at me and seeing what I could have been,
and not what I truly am. I m the last one he should have
entrusted her to, even if he ll never admit it.

Perhaps, Sal said.  Perhaps not. His earlier censure had
mellowed now into a kind of speculation that Severus found
even more unsettling.  You could do worse, he pointed out,
than to try to live up to Albus s expectations of you. Haven t
you ever wondered exactly what it is that he finds so
eminently worthy of redemption?

Good question.

Severus had, in fact, spent hours contemplating that very
mystery. But that had been a long time ago, and his
speculations had grown weary and stale with repetition without
ever arriving at a plausible conclusion. Now, the question
just irritated him.

If I spent all day trying to suss out what was on Albus
Dumbledore s mind, he muttered,  I d be as daft as he is.

Forget Albus, then, Sal said, catching his eyes with a
pale-grey gaze that was - coming from a man you could read the
newspaper through, anyway - surprisingly steely.  Are you
going?

Severus sighed and tipped over his protesting king.

I m going, he said through gritted teeth.  Just let me find
my wand.

**

He took the Apparation in several steps; it was a long way
from Montana to Paris, and trans-Atlantic jumps were difficult
enough without being two thousand miles away from the near
coast when you made the leap. Beside that, the stops gave him
a chance to focus his mind and wind down from what had been,
for the two contented bachelors that he and Sal usually were,
a most-heated discussion.

That child is about to lose herself. Get your head out of your
arse.

Was he really overestimating her? As he winked into existence
on an Atlantic City boardwalk and looked around for a
salt-water taffy stand, Severus thought back to the last time
he d caught a mental glimpse of her during the day. Usually he
didn t hear dialogue, unless she herself absorbed and repeated
it mentally; in this instance, he d caught both the
conversation and the glimpse of a face, thin and wiry and as
streetwise as a sewer rat s.

Doc! the teenager had yelled, and detached himself from the
group he was loitering in to dash across the busy street to
where Hermione was standing. Hey, Doc. Take a look at my arm.

Hermione, surprised, had hesitated, then shifted her bag to
her other shoulder and palpated his skinny, rather grimy
forearm gently in one hand. Good as new, she d said. How does
it feel?

Like it never happened.

The kid shot her a sly look. I ll tell you my name, he d said
in conspirator s tones, if you ll tell me how you did it.

She had stiffened. I don t know what you re talking about.

Like hell. You put your hands on me and the bone went back
together. That s some mad mojo you got, Doc. He leaned in a
little closer. I owe you one.

You don t owe me anything, Hermione said crisply. Just stay
out of fights, okay? Especially if the other guy s got a big
stick.

The street kid, already poised to sprint back toward his
compadres, grinned over his shoulder.

You re okay, Doc. Peace out.

Severus had felt her reaction to the exchange across three
thousand miles and a six-hour time change: glowing with
achievement, lit up like a scoreboard. Peace out, she d
repeated to herself, and laughed to herself as she
reshouldered her bag and continued on toward the clinic.

Easy to see that she loved her job. Harder, he admitted, to
reconcile that happy, cautiously confident woman with the girl
who wept almost nightly in his arms.

Which one was real? And did it matter?

He didn t know. But one thing, at least, seemed obvious: this
charade couldn t go any farther. This was the night that he
had to wake her up.

He wasn t looking forward to it.

**

The soft sound of her weeping drifted in from the bedroom as
he Apparated into the parlor, laden with bags, and laid down
his parcels. Severus winced; this was always the most
unpleasant bit, to hear the proof of her unhappiness both
outside his head and in. He tossed his outer cloak over a
chair, shook back his disheveled hair, and headed for the
doorway.

Not so fast, bucko. Hold it right there.

The voice, a rich creamy contralto, startled him so that he
spun round and knocked his elbow rather nastily on the door
frame as he went for his wand. Gripping the injured joint, he
glared into the darkness.

Who s there?

I ll ask the questions around here, if you don t mind. A
pinpoint of light flared as a match was struck; a moment
later, the room was suffused in candlelight. In the mural on
the parlor s long wall, a tall cappuccino-skinned woman with a
rather impressive bosom replaced the lighted candle in a
candelabrum on the piano, then crossed her painted arms and
fixed him with a challenging stare.  Maxine Winter, she said
by way of introduction.  My friends call me Maxie. Play your
cards right and you might work your way up to it. She reseated
herself on the stool by the piano.  Severus Snape, I presume?

Severus nodded.  The same, he said crisply, brain racing as he
tried to think of where he d seen her before.  You were in
Cairo, he said at last.  The night we defeated Hatshepsut.
Singing Duke Ellington. He studied the mural - rickety card
table, deserted piano and trap set, string bass on its side in
the background like a reclining woman.  Where s your band?

Elsewhere, Maxie said shortly.  And now that I ve satisfied
your curiosity, why don t you satisfy mine? What the hell are
you doing here?

Even on the best of occasions, Severus balked at trading
verbal badinage with the artwork. With Hermione s weeping
echoing in his ears like angry surf, he simply didn t have the
energy to be duplicitous.  She keeps crying, he said, his
voice low and almost accusatory.  Can t you hear it? I can -
from the next continent over. And I can t bear it. That s why.


She doesn t know it s you.

Merlin in a catsuit, how many times was he going to have to
repeat this conversation today?  I know, he snapped.  She
thinks I m Bill Weasley. Well, I m not, and I can t be, and
believe you me, I d bring him back in a heartbeat if I could,
if it meant I d be able to get a decent night s sleep. But
that s never going to happen. I don t like this any more than
you do.

She doesn t think you re Bill.

He frowned, the wind taken out of his sails.  She doesn t? But
that first night - she said - she called me -

Give her some credit, Maxie said without heat.  She slept
with the man every night for six years, didn t she? She ought
to know when it s him and when it s not.

Then she- Severus felt fear and relief spiral through him in
equally dizzying parts.  Then she knows it s-

No. Maxie looked at him hard.  Though possibly that should be
remedied before the sun comes up. She readjusted her snug red
skirt about her bare knees.  She thinks you re a priest, she
said, and smiled grimly as Severus gaped at her.

She thinks I m what?

The last occupant of this flat was a priest, and he died
while living here. Maxie rolled her eyes.  She found out from
the kid next door, and it s got her thrown off track. She
thinks she s being cuddled by the ghost of m sieur le curé,
and she s having a hell of a time rationalising the fact that
her phantom lover leaves a warm dent in the pillow to mark his
passing.

She lowered her voice to a meaningful whisper.  I don t know
what your intentions are, she said.  Though if Albus
Dumbledore chose you to be her Secret-Keeper, I m willing to
believe you don t mean her harm. But this has to stop. She s
half-mad with grief already, and this bedroom charade isn t
exactly conducive to sanity. You want to come cuddle her out
of her nightmares, fine. Be my guest. But for God s sake, tell
her who you really are. This is getting ridiculous.

Severus had had enough.

Don t you think I would if I could? he hissed.  Believe me,
Apparating into other people s beds under false pretenses isn
t on my Top Ten list for this evening s preferred activities.
If I thought for one moment that she d accept comfort from me,
I would certainly offer it to her. But I m the last person
Hermione Granger wants to see in Paris. The minute she finds
out who her  ghost really is, all hell is going to break
loose.

Damn right it is.

The voice came from behind him. He and Maxie exchanged
panicked glances, then spun as one to face the doorway.

They d been so intent on their argument, Severus realised,
that they hadn t noticed when Hermione s crying had stopped.
It was hard telling how much she d heard from the door; from
the white, strained look on her face, she d heard enough.

Miss Granger, he said weakly, and saw her jaw clench.

Professor Snape. She wrapped her arms around her thin torso,
trembling against the door frame in an attempt to keep her
voice even. It shook anyway.  What a  pleasure.

Ruthlessly, he swallowed the apologies that tripped to his
tongue; it wasn t going to help either of them for him to fall
apart too, no matter how defensive he felt.  You d better sit
down, he said, wincing at the cold edge in his voice.  I m
afraid I owe you an explanation.

That you do, she said, her voice as icy as his.  But I m
afraid I don t want to hear it. Get out.

This, Severus hadn t expected.  What?

They re small words, Professor. Not much chance you can
misunderstand them, even as thickheaded and disregarding of my
feelings as you obviously are. Get. Out.

He took a step toward her.  Hermione-

No! She was shaking with anger, her eyes blazing.  You -
degenerate. You - pervert. You - you sneak. You betrayed me.
You lied to me.

Hermione, listen. I never meant

Go away. Her voice was harsh, the end of each word on the
point of breaking. He d never seen her eyes so cold, so dead.
I never want to see you again. Just  go  away.

She had slid down the doorframe to sit on the floor, and was
huddled into a trembling pajama-clad ball, head buried in her
knees. Severus took a step toward her, and was halted by a
warning shake of Maxie s head.

Not now, she mouthed, her dark eyes almost sympathetic as she
took in the look on his face.  Not yet. Just go. She ll come
round.

Severus wasn t so sure of that.

But he left anyway.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Nineteen

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

For the first half hour after he left,  Hermione didn't move.

After that, she started breaking dishes.

And finally, when muffled thumping from the ceiling indicated
that her plate-throwing party had woken the upstairs
neighbours, she curled up in the parlor chair, heedless of the
shard-littered floor or the ugly, seeping gash in her left
palm, and cried herself hoarse into a needlepoint pillow.

Cleo had been solicitous for the first act of this impromptu
mad scene, but had retreated to the relative safety of the
bedroom when crockery started to fly.  Maxie, on the other
hand, watched the whole embarrassing débacle calmly from her
stool by the piano, not offering either encouragement or
censure.  It wasn't until Hermione's sobs died down to
intermittent, exhausted hiccups that she finally spoke.

"Looks like that's been brewing for a while.  Feel any better?
"

"Not really."  More ashamed of her tantrum than she cared to
think about right now, Hermione wiped her eyes on the hapless
pillow and fumbled for her wand.  "Reparo," she said dully,
and watched the fragments of stoneware around her scurry to
click themselves together so that she wouldn't have to meet
Maxie's eyes.  "Just foolish.  And sick - I always give myself
a tension headache when I cry."

Maxie studied her manicure.  When she spoke, her tone was
deceptively casual.

"Ever get this mad at Bill, sugar?"

"No," Hermione said immediately, then reconsidered.  "Well,
once.  Maybe.  Mostly we didn't fight."

Maxie hummed in agreement.  "Not much of a fighter, was he?"

"Not at all."

Hermione tucked her feet under her and leaned her head back
against the chair. "He couldn't stand it," she said softly.
"Neither of us could ... it just felt so awful."  A faint,
unwilling smile of reminiscence curved her lips.  "Plus, Molly
made us promise each other, the day before we got married,
that we'd always make up our fights before we went to sleep.
She was pretty stern about it, too."

"His mama, she's a good person," Maxie said.  Hermione nodded
fervently.

"I miss her."

Just saying it made her want to cry again.

Three little words, encompassing a truth so great and terrible
that she hadn't even realised it until she'd said  them, and
by then it was too late, it had already been unleashed - and
it felt awful, like a glacier was breaking loose inside her
body, big chunks of ice tearing away from each other under a
hot river of pent-up tears.  "I miss her so much.  And Arthur,
and Ron and the twins,  and Harry and Ginny ..."  She swiped
at her streaming eyes.  "And oh, Maxie, I m-miss my mum."

Four months of loss and grief and desolation were bubbling out
of her, and she was powerless to stem the flow.  "She - she
wanted to c-come to the funeral.  She and Dad.  And we'd
already had it, and so I told her -" she gulped - "I told her
not to come, and she cried.  She loved him so much.  And now
..."  She swiped gracelessly at her streaming eyes.  "And now
she doesn't even remember me.  No one does; it's as if they're
all dead, too.  And I never said g-goodbye.  To anyone.  No
one told me it would be like this.  I didn't know, Maxie."

"What didn't you know, honey?"

"That it would feel so horrible," Hermione whispered
miserably.  "That I'd miss them like I do.  That they mattered
so much.  That I'd want so badly to take it back."

A pause, as she grappled for a tissue from the box on the side
table; two honks, as she blew her nose, sniffed, then blew it
again.  Maxie, in the meantime, was looking thoughtful.

"You could," she said.  "Take it back, I mean.  It's not
irreversible, you know."

"I know."

Hermione was silent for a moment.  "But what then?" she asked
- quietly, as much to herself as to Maxie.  "Does that make it
all better?  No.  It just means that I become a liability to
everyone I love, yet again."

Her voice, already rough from crying, cracked under the weight
of her bitterness.  "Don't stand too close, don't say too
much, don't stay the night ... because if you do, you just
might walk through the wrong door at the wrong time and take a
little piece of Death that's meant for me.  I can't go back to
that.  Can't stand to have any more blood on my hands."

Her palm, in fact, was still bleeding, but she didn't notice.
"Can't go back," she repeated.  "And can't go on, either -
can't seem to bury Hermione Granger, whoever the hell she
still is, and get on with being Kate Billings.  So where does
that leave me, Maxie?  Who does that leave me?  Paintings and
ghosts and Severus-goddamn-Snape, that's who."

She shook her head wearily.  "No offense."

"None taken."

Maxie shrugged.  "I know where you're coming from, sugar.  I'm
a good listener, maybe, but I can't do much for you in the
three-dimensional hug department."  She tilted her handsome
head to one side.  "But that does beg the question - why run
off your Secret-Keeper, when he was offering you exactly what
you've just told me that you want?  You don't really think
he's a pervert, do you?"

"No," Hermione admitted.  "It isn't that."

"What, then?"

"It's hard to explain."  Her cut had begun to clot; nervously,
she scraped at the edges of the new scab.  "But mostly I think
it's a case of too little, too late."

"Sorry?"

Hermione pulled a face.  "There was a time," she elaborated,
"and not so long ago, either, when I would have given anything
to have that from him - and not like this, not out of
neediness or loneliness.  I would have chosen him.  Over
anyone else.  Over the world.  And he didn't want me."

She set her jaw hard against tears; it was one thing to cry
because she didn't have a mother anymore, but she'd wept
enough over Severus Snape, and that ship had long since
sailed.

"Or rather, he did.  But not enough to change anything, or
give up anything, or make a declaration, or admit that he had
feelings for me.  He might as well have picked me up and
dumped me into Bill Weasley's bed kicking and screaming.
That's how much I wanted to stay, and how much he wanted me to
go."

The cut was bleeding again, which seemed an oddly fitting
accompaniment to her monologue.  Hermione imagined these
memories to be just like that - a long-infected sore, oozing
out poison now that she'd finally ripped off its crust.  "So I
went," she said defiantly.  "I went running to Bill, and I
never looked back.  And I loved him - I did, more than
anything, more than I thought I could.  But I didn't love him
f-first—" here, her voice faltered -"and now he's gone, and I
keep thinking:  what if I hadn't chosen him?  What if I hadn't
let Snape run me off?  Because if I hadn't married Bill, he'd
still be—"

"—Gonna give yourself an aneurysm if you don't stop
'what-if'-ing," Maxie said sharply.  "It's not your fault
Bill's dead.  Don't throw acid on the memory of your marriage
like that - you loved each other and it didn't last forever,
that's all.  You think he would blame you?  He was happy every
minute he had you."

At Hermione's stricken look, her voice gentled.  "Not your
fault," she said again.  "And not Snape's either, though I can
see why you'd be tempted to lay at least some of the blame at
his door.  You're both innocents in this."

"Innocent," Hermione repeated, and laughed - a bitter, hard
little sound like china shattering on stone.  "Somehow, I
don't think that word applies.  To either of us."

"That," Maxie said, "is where you're wrong."

They fell to silence, and waited for the sun to rise.

**

Given Hermione's current mood, Joséphine Dessources' arrival
in Paris on the following Friday afternoon was a welcome
pick-me-up.  I'm getting a hotel, she'd written, so I don't
wear out my welcome.  And so I can accommodate my queue of
inevitable shagging partners without being a pest.  It's been
entirely too long since I got laid - so polish up your dancing
shoes and make us some reservations.  I'm warning you now that
I've been under Minerva-Rule far too long for my own sanity;
don't be surprised if I eat my salad with my fingers and pass
wind in public until my internal equilibrium reasserts itself.

Heh, Hermione thought, cheered by the letter's saucy good
humour, and went to look through her closet.

There wasn't much there; she'd left all of her dressy Muggle
clothes in Cairo, along with the contents of the house.  The
house itself was already sold - Hermione had put it on the
market at the same time she went in to see Linchpin and change
over the name on her accounts - and she honestly didn't have
any idea where their personal items were … everything had been
packed up while she was at Hogwarts, courtesy of the Malfoy
house-elves, and put into storage.  And while she wore Muggle
clothes every day in Paris, she'd more or less adopted
Itmana's uniform of lab-coat-over-blue-jeans.

Well, she hadn't gotten top Transfiguration marks for nothing,
she decided, and took out her wand.  The result was a
knee-length linen sheath in basic black, dressed down by way
of a white cashmere sweater tied round her shoulders.  She
added shoes and a bag, poked in pearl studs, and admired her
reflection - not bad, not bad at all.

That sense of self-satisfaction lasted until she saw
Joséphine, sitting at the bar of La Bilboquet with a
parasol-topped daiquiri in hand.  Hogwarts' Potions Mistress
was wearing a cherry-red leather minidress and a generous
coating of body glitter and very little else, unless you
counted the spike-heeled sandals and the lip gloss.  Her
headdress of braids was twisted up atop her head and secured
with a studded red leather dog collar; a handful of hopeful
admirers were eyeing her over their drinks, gathering courage
for an approach.

I look like the Queen Mum, Hermione thought, wide-eyed, then
squared her shoulders.  Oh, well - too late for reinvention
now.

"Hey," she said, touching Joséphine's shoulder and sliding
onto the free bar stool next to her.  "How are you?  Sorry, I
didn't get the dominatrix memo."

"Kate.  Sweetie."  With a naughty wink, her friend drew her
into an embrace.  "Just feeding the fantasy vibe.  Don't
panic," she murmured as she pressed first one cheek, then the
other to Hermione's, then gave her - to Hermione's intense
surprise - a not-so-brief kiss on the lips before drawing
back.  "There's a table of Japanese businessmen over there
with a serious case of lesbian fetish."  She looked Hermione
up and down.  "Just come from the cotillion, did we?"

Hermione, blushing pink to her hairline, rolled her eyes.
"Well, you know me," she said lamely.  "Always the
conservative one."

Not true, whispered her subconscious.  You flashed a bit of
thigh, too, back in the day.

Way back in the day, you mean.  Twenty-five-year-old widows
shouldn't try to squeeze into the same skirts they wore when
they were seventeen.

"Conservative?"  Joséphine laughed.  "I seem to remember that
you had your moments.  Come on, drink up.  I'm buying."

"Un kir, s'il-vous-pläit," Hermione said to the curious
bartender, and wriggled her way more firmly onto the
barstool.  "So - how's Hogwarts?"

"The students are fine."  Joséphine drained her daiquiri,
tapped her glass to signal for a refill, and crossed one bare
shapely thigh over the other, causing two students in black
turtlenecks on the other side of the room to slump back in
their chairs and raise her a toast.  "The job is fine.  Madame
Haggis, on the other hand, is unbearable."

"You don't mean McGonagall."

"Who else would fit that awful name?  Ah, merci beaucoup."
She sucked pensively at the toothpick-tip of her new
daiquiri's paper umbrella.  "Not a day goes by," she said,
"that I'm not taken to task by that woman.  And over silly
things."

Hermione sipped at her kir.  "Such as?"

"Oh, you name it, I've been dressed down for it.  Sunbathing
on the lawn.  Wearing shorts under my robes.  Braiding ribbons
into Albus's beard - when he's the one who wanted me to do it
in the first place!"  She shrugged and took a gulp of her
drink.  "None of which," she said, "compares to what happened
in Hogsmeade a couple of months ago."

"Really."  Hermione snickered at the dark look on her friend's
face.  "Do tell."

"Well."  Joséphine twirled the little umbrella absently in her
fingers.  "I don't know if they were around when you were
there.  But there's a shop in Hogsmeade, called ‘Weasley's
Wizard Wheezes'.  Sells joke wands, trick candy, that sort of
thing.  You know it?"

Hermione felt a clutch in her chest.  "I know it," she said.
"Fred and George Weasley were two years ahead of me in
school."

"Ah.  Well, then, you'll understand."  Another shrug.
"Admittedly, they're a bit younger than I am.  But they were
never my students, now, were they?  And they're most
definitely of age."

Hermione choked on her kir.

"Are you meaning to tell me," she spluttered when she finally
could speak again, "that you slept with the Weasley twins?
Both of them?"

"Well - given the chance, wouldn't you?"  Joséphine lifted her
eyebrows in the parody of a reasonable expression.  "It's not
every day that a girl gets to double her pleasure … now, is
it?"  She sipped at her drink.  "It's not as if we didn't know
each other - I've been working there for three years now.  Was
a consultant, in fact, on a couple of their newest projects.
And then, they've both been so down lately."

There was that clutch again.  Hermione leaned forward, trying
not to seem too eager at the promise of news.  "Down?"

"Oh, didn't you hear?  Very sad, actually.  Their older
brother died in a freak accident earlier this summer.  He
lived in Cairo, I think."

Hermione swallowed hard.  "Freak accident?"

"They're saying it was Muggle terrorists," Joséphine said.
"That he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Too
bad, really."

"Did he leave anyone behind?"  Hermione knew it was a bad idea
to ask, but she couldn't seem to stop herself.  "Any … family?
"

Joséphine looked puzzled.  "Well, his parents and his brothers
and sister," she said.  "Big family, the Weasleys - you
probably remember.  But I don't think he was seeing anyone at
the time, no.  Word is that he was a cursebreaker.  Longtime
bachelor."

She leaned one elbow on the bar.  "Anyway, I thought they
could do with some cheering up - and Merlin knows how the
Great Haggis found out, but she did.  It's a wonder I wasn't
booted out on ethics charges."

"A wonder," Hermione repeated numbly.  Joséphine gave her a
sharp look.

"You okay, sweetie?  You're looking a little pale."

"Hm?  No.  Fine.  I'm fine."

"Looks like you could use some fresh air."  Joséphine slid off
the stool and stretched theatrically, which had the dual
effect of sending her already-brief hemline sliding north and
causing the nearby table of Japanese executives to spill their
drinks.  "Come on," she said.  "Aren't we going discothéquing?
"

"You tell me," Hermione said, fighting for composure.  "Are
we?"

"You bet your derrière, sweetheart.  I haven't seen a real
city in months - it's a real soul-sucker, that job."
Joséphine plucked a wad of euros from her glitter-slathered
cleavage, peeled off a couple, and tossed them on the bar.
"Come on," she said again.  "Let's find the loo before we go,
so I can fix you up a bit.  We're never going to get past the
bouncers at Les Bains with you looking like that."

Managing a wan smile, Hermione clutched her bag more firmly
and followed her.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It wasn t as much fun as she d thought it would be.

Hermione, feeling itchy and exposed in the black Lycra
minidress Joséphine had charmed her into, pulled irritably at
one of its cutout shoulders and scanned her surroundings
dubiously from her corner by the bar. Les Bains - once a
bathhouse in the grandest of nineteenth-century traditions,
now one of Paris trendiest and most outré of nightclubs - was
packed to the gills with people and rocking on its foundations
with the force of the world-pop technobeat reverberating from
the clusters of strategically placed speakers. Now that she
thought about it, it looked and sounded a bit like the clubs
she d frequented in Rome, first with Giulia and then, later,
with Draco.

And - as she recalled - she d enjoyed that experience
thoroughly. So why wasn t she having a good time now?

Because it s no fun getting hit on if you re not interested,
the Voice of Reason informed her frostily. Because you don t
really belong here anymore. Because there isn t any bloody
point to it.

Bonsoir, cherie, someone murmured at her left shoulder - the
third time so far she d been thus accosted.  Ça va?

She flicked him a quick glance - a man she didn t know,
wearing tight PVC pants and too much black eyeliner - then
looked away, embarrassed. Her two previous admirers had taken
her lack of reply as a hint and faded into the jostling,
gyrating throng; this time, however, she wasn t so fortunate.

V lez vous danser? he persisted - then, with a leer:  Baiser?
Hermione shook her head, embarrassment flaring into annoyance
as he muscled in a little closer and continued to stare at
her.

Va te faire foutre, she said, summoning up the most insulting
French she knew and delivering it with a sneer worthy of a
street punk from the Goutte d Or. Her would-be Romeo flushed.

Je t emmerde, he spat, already half-turned to go.  Quelle
allemeuse!

Well, that summed it up nicely. Hermione took another sip of
her seltzer - now gone warm and flat from the suffocating heat
in the room - and sighed.

If I really was Kate Billings, I d have said yes. Or I d be
over there shaking it right next to Joséphine, and would have
avoided the whole thing.

But I m not her. And I don t want this - at least, I don t
think I do.

As if summoned by the thought of her name, Joséphine appeared
from the centre of the crowd, her glittering skin damp with
perspiration. One hand held a plastic cup of what looked like
rum and Coke; the other was towing in its wake one of the
darkly beautiful, indolent-looking young men who seemed to
populate every street corner in Paris. He was wearing
Joséphine s dog-collar around his neck.

Hi, Joséphine said breathlessly, tipping her head toward the
dance floor.  This is crazy, isn t it? How are you doing?

Fine, Hermione said, leaning in closer to make herself heard
over the din.  Just had a visitation from a truly scary
incarnation of Captain Latex. Told him to fuck off and got
called a cock-teaser for my trouble. She cast a glance at
Joséphine s companion.  Looks like you ve had better luck.

His name s Marc, Joséphine informed her, draining the remains
of her cocktail.  Dishy, isn t he? Great dancer, too. Come on
- come join us.

Hermione hesitated, then shook her head.  No thanks, she said.
I d rather watch.

Kinky.

Ha, ha, ha. Not that kind of watching. Hermione, sensing the
opportunity for a graceful early exit, rolled her eyes
good-naturedly.  Go ahead - you know, do your thing, don t
worry about me. I ve had a long week; I m going to call it a
night. I ll meet you for lunch at your hotel tomorrow, okay?

You sure?

Absolutely.

You re a sweetheart. Joséphine leaned forward and gave her a
friendly buss on the cheek.  One o clock, okay? No earlier.

Have fun.

She watched Joséphine tow her pretty boy back to the dance
floor with a touch of wistfulness, then set her half-empty
seltzer back on the bar and surreptitiously hauled her Spandex
in the direction of her knees.

Had enough. Time to go.

Part of her, the deep-down still-young part of her that had
boogied till dawn at a Roman discothèque and loved every
minute of it was disappointed. The rest of her was guardedly
sympathetic, even as it shoved itself resolutely through the
crush of bodies.

Sure, this wasn t her scene - and any move that took her away
from Captain Latex, in her opinion, was bound to be a good
one. Even Pretty-Boy Marc wasn t really her style. But how
nice it would be, she thought, to have him as an escape - to
be Joséphine or someone like her - to have problems you could
get away from, problems that didn t keep following you around
no matter where you went, like angry strays demanding to be
fed.

How nice to lose yourself in someone else s arms, someone else
s lips. How depressing that she d stood there for an hour and
a half and turned down all her takers without a second
thought.

The truth was (she realised as she wound her way through the
dancers, past the plunging pool in which a small crowd of
lunatics were ruining their haute couture, and out into the
cool quiet night), that though the desire for sexual release
became a more acute physical craving with every night she
spent alone, the thought of sleeping with a stranger was even
more repugnant than that of celibacy. She still held the
memory of her last night with Bill, gripped like a jewel in
her closed hand - how, then, could she settle for drunken
groping with the first Philippe or Henri who propositioned
her?

He d thrown back the sheets that night and spread her out on
them, then closed her eyelids with his fingers and gone out
onto the balcony, bringing back bright handfuls of hibiscus
blossoms straight from the tree to strew over her naked body.
Here, he d whispered, sprinkling petals from her neck to her
knees. This is what you feel like - this is how soft you are.

Moonlight, warm breeze, bruised flowers - could there be
anything more romantic? She d fairly held her breath as he
slid over her, crushing the petals between them and releasing
the scent into the humid air.

And then, just as his lips dipped the final inch of empty
space to touch hers, they d discovered the biting ants.

Half an hour later, after they d stripped the bed, fumigated
the bedroom with a Cleansing Charm, and showered, they d
gotten back to their unfinished business - giggling, playful,
pinching each other in ticklish places and no longer much
inclined toward the pretty words they d started out with. No
doubt if they d known it was the last time, Hermione thought,
it would have been different; as it was, it had been sharp and
quick and breathless - horseplay as foreplay - and as she
recalled, neither of them had said very much at all.

Except for their goodnight ritual, of course: love you, love
you too, sleepy mumbled words to drift off by. She d thought
nothing of them at the time. Now, they were still haunting
her.

She ducked into a darkened doorway and pulled out her wand.
Finite Incantatem, she said - the spike heels Joséphine had
charmed her into were a bit much, for a walk this long - and
sighed with relief as her cramped toes relaxed into the
roomier confines of her comfortable old loafers. Freed of her
cotillion pearls, her crevice-breaching Spandex, she slid her
hands into the pockets of her blue jeans and headed for home.

She wished she could slip back into her old life half so
easily.

Love you. Love you too.

That was what had held her back tonight, she decided. Not the
noise, not the crowd, not the slick Eurotrashy boys, not even
the Voice of Reason shrieking maidenly warnings in her ears. A
few simple words, rather, that she d heard every night for six
years, and that she feared she d never hear again.

It d be easier, you know, mused the Daredevil, not to be you
any more. What s stopping you from being Kate, instead?

Dangerous argument, that, and one that had cropped up in her
thoughts a hundred times since last week s Snape-induced
breakdown. I thought, the Voice of Reason said firmly, that we
d agreed not to talk about this.

You may have agreed. I didn t. The Daredevil paused
meaningfully. Well? No dead husband, no dark past, a job you
like, people who like you. What do you say?

Somehow, she d reached the bridge. She gripped the railing and
looked down at the Seine, reflecting back the lights of the
city like a shifting black mirror. Her thoughts were as dark
as the inky water, and moving twice as fast.

Think about it. No one would miss you. No one would even know
you d gone. And it s such an easy charm, Obliviate is.

Definitely easier, Hermione thought, than either of her
alternatives. Reversing the Fidelius put everyone she cared
about in the at-risk category - something she, having now
experienced one loss, wasn t emotionally prepared to do. And
going on as she was was beginning to feel like tempting
madness.

But Obliviate

Sensing her wavering, the Daredevil pressed its advantage. You
could walk away from all of it. You could fall in love. You
could be happy again.

One word, and you d have a whole fresh start. Aren t you even
tempted?

Hermione clung to the railing of the bridge, her head
whirling.

Tempted? Hell yes, she was tempted. No more pain, no more
tears, no more breaking dishes and crying to portraits and
walking home alone in the dark? Sounded like a good deal to
her.

And all she d have to give in exchange was a name no one else
remembered.

Bill, the Voice of Reason reminded her, alarmed. Obliviate
yourself now, and his killers walk free.

Bill s dead. You re alive. Why torture yourself? What can you
change?

She was crying by now, but didn t notice.  I don t know. I don
t know.

You hate Memory Charms. You promised you d never perform
another one - remember?

That was a long time ago.

A promise is a promise.

Fuck promises - decide! Is your life worth keeping, or isn t
it?

That was the million-euro question - the one that had been
lurking in her subconscious ever since she got to Paris, the
one she hadn t been able to ask until now. And now that it had
finally dug its way up to the surface, she felt paralysed by
it, choked by it, able only to clutch at the bridge rail and
cry into the Seine - salt water falling into fresh, whether
for Bill or for herself she didn t quite know.

Maxie would know what to say, but Maxie was a ten-minutes walk
away - too far, when she d sunk to her knees, when Apparation
meant a near-certain splinch and even pulling herself back up
to her feet seemed an insurmountable task. Somewhere in the
back of her head, she heard people passing, was distantly
aware of their curious glances. No one stopped.

She shifted and heard the whisper of latex in the inside
pocket of her lab coat, a glove-wand left over from the day s
work. Too easy to pull it out, too easy to snap it on and feel
the tingle of it worm up to her elbow.

One word only  and so much easier to say it than to drag
herself to her feet, to carry herself through another lonely
night of grief. Her gloved fingers slid up to her face,
fluttered at her temples.

Easy. So easy.

And if she hated herself for giving up, it was - after all -
only for a moment.

Goodbye, Bill, she murmured - then, almost as an
afterthought:  Goodbye, Hermione.

A second later, her world turned to peace in a crackle of gold
light.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-One

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He knew what she was going to do the split second before she
did it – and though he took the Apparation in one jump
(rashly, like a much younger man, cursing himself for a
million kinds of inobservant idiot), he got there a heartbeat
too late to stop her.

She was lolled against the railing of the bridge, head at an
unnatural angle, eyes closed. Unconscious, not dead, though
he'd had to look twice to be sure. Insensible. And smiling.
The Portkey he'd given her glittered around her wrist;
apparently, she hadn't even thought to use it – either that,
or she'd thought about it and decided not to. Severus felt his
heart sink.

Oh, Circe. Hermione, you stiff-necked little idiot, that
Gryffindor pride of yours is going to kill us both.

A pair of camera-carrying tourists were huddled around her,
murmuring fearfully to each other. When he appeared at their
shoulders, they moved aside for him gratefully.

"A priest! Doug, ask him if he speaks English," the woman
prompted her husband in a tense whisper. Snape smiled grimly.

"All my life, madam," he snapped, and saw the
beleaguered-looking Doug put away his phrasebook with a
relieved slump of his brawny shoulders. "How much did you see?
"

"We were just taking pictures," the woman said uncertainly,
put on the defensive by his sharp tone. "Of the Eiffel Tower.
From the other side of the bridge." She jiggled the expensive
Nikon dangling from her scrawny neck on its custom-made strap
as if it could vouch for her innocent intentions. "Weren't we,
Doug?"

"There was some funny light," Doug offered. "Like static
electricity, kind of. Creepy. And then she just ... fell
over." He looked worried. "D'you think we'll have to contact
the U.S. consulate? There's not going to be an investigation,
is there? We're only here for two more days."

Tourists.

"Leave her to me," Severus assured him brusquely, striding
forward to gather the unconscious Hermione in his arms. She
was lighter than he remembered her, and distressingly cold to
the touch. "I'll take her home – I know her family. Nothing to
worry about."

But he was worried – so much so that the moment he was out of
sight, he Apparated the rest of the way to her flat. As he
deposited her limp form onto the parlor davenport, Maxie –
dozing on her stool – sat up with a gasp.

"What is it? What's happened?"

"Botched Memory Charm," Severus said succinctly. Maxie closed
her eyes.

"She didn't."

"She did."

Shocked silence, then: "Oh, the poor lamb. Where did it
happen? When?"

"Ten minutes ago. Pont de Sully. Tourists found her." He'd
already stripped off the lab jacket to check her pulse. Steady
and strong, thank Merlin, and no knot on her head to indicate
that she'd bumped it when she fell. But her eyelids weren't so
much as fluttering.

"She seemed so happy earlier," Maxie said blankly. "Dressed up
and smiling for the first time in ages. She was going out to
dinner with that friend of hers."

"The doctor?"

"No, the other one. Her friend from school – I don't remember
her name. She was just here for the weekend."

Severus didn't know who Maxie was referring to – what she was
saying didn't make any sense, really, as no one from Hogwarts
had any idea that Hermione Granger existed. Frankly, he had
more pressing worries at the moment.

"Happy?" he repeated, incredulous. "She hasn't been happy
since the day it happened. She's just gotten better at hiding
it, that's all." He leaned closer, slapped her cheek gently.
"Hermione? Hermione!"

Nothing.

Behind him, Maxie twisted her hands together anxiously. "Is
she going to be all right?"

"Who knows?" Severus, furious with himself all over again,
pushed himself to his feet and began to pace. "There's no way
to tell until she wakes up. One thing's for certain, though –
a regular-strength Memory Charm wouldn't have knocked her out
like this. I imagine she's Obliviated a bit more than she
meant to."

"It’s not like Hermione to fumble a spell," Maxie said,
doubtful. Snape shot her a dark look.

"No," he said. "It’s not. But then, that's just the problem,
isn't it? We're all so accustomed to her strength that we've
overestimated it – myself most of all. I should never have
left her alone."

"You were here," Maxie pointed out. "She sent you away."

"Yes, well, I shouldn't have let her, should I?" Dropping to
his knees again, he took the white-faced girl on the sofa by
her limp shoulders and gave her a shake. "Come on, Hermione,"
he muttered. "Wake up, will you?"

"Why not let her sleep?"

"Because we won't know what she remembers until she does – if
she remembers anything at all, that is." Snape sank back on
his heels and swiped a weary hand across his eyes. "Taking her
recent state of mind into consideration, it's entirely
possible that she miscalculated – or simply lost control of
her own power – and wiped out her memory completely. And
reversing a self-Obliviation is a hundred times harder than
undoing the same charm performed by any other wand. Short of
Avada Kedavra, it’s hard to think of a more drastic means of
self-mutilation."

Maxie digested this, nodded, and sank weakly onto the piano
bench. "Can it be reversed at all?"

Severus shrugged. "If she's still got part of her memory, we
might convince her to reverse it herself," he said. "That's
the safest way to do it. If, on the other hand, she doesn't
even remember she's a witch – and that’s a distinct
possibility – well, then, we have a problem."

"What about Albus?"

"Under ordinary circumstances, he'd be my first pick." He
squeezed the cold hand dangling off the edge of the davenport,
willing it to squeeze back. It didn't. "The Fidelius Charm
complicates things, though. In order for him to perform the
Reverso successfully, Sal and I would most likely have to
break the Fidelius first. And you'll pardon me if I'm
reluctant to do that – the moment we lower that barrier,
she'll be in danger once again from those who tried to kill
her before, and in no condition to defend herself, should we
be unable to restore her memory."

Maxie shuddered. "That’s the worst case scenario, right?"

"More or less." He rolled his eyes. "Give me time, and I could
probably come up with something more spectacularly horrific."

"Don’t. That’s quite bad enough." She frowned. "So what do we
do?"

Severus studied the unconscious girl on the davenport for
another moment, then sighed and blew out his breath.

No easy answers. The Story Of His Life.

"For the night, at least, I'll take her home with me," he
said. "What happens after that depends on her state of mind
when she wakes up."

Maxie looked troubled, but nodded. "Keep me posted."

Already stooping to settle the unconscious Hermione against
his chest, he turned and gave the worried mural a brief, bleak
smile. "Of course."

A moment later, they were gone.

**

She rose from dreamlessnesss into the sensation of flying, or
at least of being elsewhere – warm air changing over to cool,
a rangy shoulder beneath her cheek, the detergent smell of
clean linen. Somewhere in the periphery of her vision, a lamp
flicked on, staining the insides of her eyelids scarlet and
gold. She turned her head away with a frown, and a moment
later the light dimmed to a fainter, less intrusive glow.

"Hermione? Are you awake?"

Hermione? Who’s that? Uncertain, she didn't answer, and after
a moment of expectant silence, the two voices that had been
murmuring together started up again. One was cool and kind and
worried; the other carried a lick of impatience at its edges.
She was pretty sure that it belonged to the man who'd been
carrying her.

"I don't know what to do," he was muttering. "Do we tell
Albus, do we take her to Hogwarts, do we break the Fidelius?
She should be awake by now; a Memory Charm isn't supposed to
put you in a coma, for Merlin's sake. Perhaps Poppy should
look at her. I'm not much of a mediwizard."

"Wait. Let her sleep if she wants to. She'll wake up soon
enough."

"I blame myself."

"Don't."

Her throat was dry. Why was her throat so dry? What was the
Fidelius? Who was the impatient-voiced man, and what did he
blame himself for?

For a moment, she tried to remember – then gave up with a
grimace; outside that lovely soap-bubble of blank white calm
she was floating in was something dark and ugly that she
instinctively shrank from. If the man who blamed himself was
part of that, she didn't want to know.

"I think she's waking up. Get her some water."

Water! Yes, please. She opened her eyes, blinking in the dim
light from the shaded lamp. A bearded man with grey eyes
smiled at her.

"Ah, there you are." When he moved, she could see the pattern
of the wallpaper through his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

She blinked again, to make sure her eyes weren't playing
tricks on her. They weren't. "I can see right through you,"
she announced, and saw his smile grow fixed.

"Indeed. Well, goes with the territory, you know. That's what
happens when you're a ghost."

"A ghost," she repeated, and studied him more carefully, a bit
incredulous at her own detachment. "How interesting. You must
be dead, then. How did you die?"

"That's not important right now." The ghost regarded her
gravely. "Do you know who I am?" he inquired. She frowned.

"Your name, you mean? No."

"Ah." He looked away, but not before she saw disappointment
cross his face. "I see. And you? Can you tell me your name?"

There were no names at all in the soap-bubble, least of all
hers. Ordinarily, she imagined that this would bother her, but
right now it didn't seem all that important. "I don't have
one," she informed him cheerfully. "Shall we make one up for
me?"

"No."

This, from the doorway – the impatient man had returned with
her water. Hermione took it from him and sipped it, studying
him over its rim. She couldn’t see through him; where his
companion was transparent, he was impenetrable – black
clothes, lank black hair, unreadable shadowed eyes. He looked
tired and irritable and – from where she was lying –
impossibly tall.

"I know you, though," she said, and grinned at him when his
head swivelled sharply toward her. "You hum under your breath
when you walk. And your shoulder smells of sandalwood."

She meant it as a compliment, but he didn't look pleased.
"Indeed," he said sharply. "And my name?"

She could sense that the answer was important to him. She
hated to disappoint, but try as she might to find it, there
was no file folder in her head with his face on it.

Come to think of it, there weren’t any file folders at all.
The first niggles of worry began to knock on the windows of
her subconscious. She swallowed hard.

"I don't know," she said softly. He stared at her for a
moment, his narrow, intelligent face tense with frustration,
then turned abruptly and disappeared without another word into
the next room. She bit her lip, hurt tears prickling behind
her eyes.

"He's Severus," said the ghost quietly into the tense, weepy
silence that followed the dark man's departure. "And I'm Sal."

"Severus. Sal." More dark fingers of memory, pushing at the
edges of her bubble. She ignored them. "And who am I, then? Or
don’t you know?"

He was quiet for a long minute before answering. When he
looked up, his lined old face was pinched and sad.

"That's up to you," he said. "Who do you want to be?"

Yet another question she couldn't answer. Unable to look him
in the eyes any longer, she placed her half-empty water glass
carefully on the nightstand by the bed.

"I have a headache," she said, feeling that baffled prickly
feeling intensify, and turned her face away. "I can't talk any
more."

He didn’t argue with her.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Two

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When she woke for the second time, the sun was shining. And
the dark-eyed man named Severus was sitting in the armchair
next to her bed.

He was reading – something thick and dusty and bound in
ancient, scarred green leather – and didn’t notice at first
that her eyes were open. She took advantage of his
preoccupation to study him covertly: did she know him, or
didn’t she?

Hard to say.

He wasn’t handsome by any means – the nose was too beaky, the
mouth too stern, the eyes so heavily shuttered that if she
hadn’t seen that flash of furious disappointment in them last
night, she’d have thought them to be verging on blank. Still,
she found herself studying the lean angle of his jaw with
hungry, inexplicable fascination. Wonder who he is. Wonder how
he knows me.

She did remember this: it had been dark and cold. She’d
fallen, and her cheek had felt the cool abrasion of stone, and
somewhere above her a voice had been twittering, harsh and
nasal, with vowels so lateral they’d might as well have been
striped red, white and blue: Don’t get too close, Doug. She
might … have something.

She would have taken offense at this, if she hadn’t been so
utterly bewildered – where was she, exactly, and how had she
gotten there? More pressingly, where was she supposed to go
now?

She’d been falling deeper and deeper into the empty pit of her
memory, trying to uncover her address, when he had come for
her and carried her away. There’d been some more low-voiced,
tense conversation after that, as well as a fair bit of
jostling about against his shoulder – but none of that
mattered, because wherever she was right now, whosever bed she
was lying in, he’d brought her here, and she hadn’t had to
decide.

She thought she might be half in love with him, for that
reason alone.

The notion made her snicker, very softly, to herself, and he
roused from his reverie at the sound, carefully marking his
place in his book with a velvet ribbon and laying it aside on
the nightstand. "Good morning," he said, turning toward her.
"Did you sleep well?"

She nodded – actually, she had – and that strange panicky
feeling she’d had of being chased by shadows last night had
faded with the sunrise. "Very well. And you?"

He shrugged, as if sleep was the least of his worries, and
looked her over with a speculative little crease between his
eyebrows. "And you’re feeling all right?"

"Good as new," she assured him cheerfully, then bit her lip –
perhaps that hadn’t been the best choice of words, under the
circumstances. "A bit hungry, maybe."

"That, at least, I can fix," he murmured, that troubled look
clearing a little but not disappearing entirely. "What do you
take for breakfast?"

A flutter of anxiety, as she searched her mental database for
food preferences and found it empty. "Oh, I’ll eat anything,"
she assured him breezily. He scowled at her as he rose from
his chair.

"Indeed."

It sounded like a threat.

**

She took advantage of his absence to explore her surroundings.
The room in which she’d slept was large and sunlit and
panelled in some unvarnished pale wood – pine, probably – the
colour of wheat fields. The chair he’d been sitting in, on the
other hand, was so dark a hue that it looked almost black,
polished to a high shine, and upholstered in cordovan leather;
it looked as if it had been dragged into the room kicking and
screaming from some other century altogether.

Its matching ottoman was on the other side of the room, by the
door, and held a neatly folded pile of clothing she recognised
as her own. Flipping back the duvet, she saw that she’d been
favoured with the loan of pajamas – not hers, as the sleeves
hung well past her fingertips. Who exactly had wrangled her
into them, she wasn’t sure, but it was a fair guess that she
hadn’t stepped into them under her own steam last night. And
the ghost couldn’t have done it – could he?

That left Severus the Dark. A feathery little shiver unfurled
in her stomach at the thought of those long slender fingers
deftly doing up her buttons. She ignored it as she slid out of
bed and went looking for the bath.

By the time she’d finished her shower and put her own clothes
back on, he had returned with her invalid’s breakfast on a
tray: mucilaginous oatmeal and weak herbal tea, enlivened
marginally by a meticulously peeled and quartered navel orange
and a lone multivitamin. As she had caught the distinct aromas
of spiced toast and frying bacon from the next room, she
privately thought herself rather hard done by; nevertheless,
she ate what he’d brought her dutifully, pretending not to
notice that he was watching her over the top of his coffee
mug.

This silent scrutiny continued even after she’d gulped the
bitter dregs of her tea and pushed away the tray. She squirmed
uncomfortably, casting about for conversation.

"The other man," she said finally. "The ghost. Sal, I think it
was. He told me that your name is Severus."

He nodded, but didn’t elaborate. She frowned – she’d have to
be a bit bolder, apparently, if she wanted to pry information
out of him.

"Last night, you called me Hermione. Is that my real name?"

At this, he drew a quick breath, then closed his eyes as if
something pained him. "So you really don’t remember," he
murmured to himself, then opened his eyes to meet hers. "It’s
yours," he said, "if you still want it."

"If I still want it?" She frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

A flash of pique crossed his face, more quickly hidden but no
less disconcerting than the anger she’d seen from him last
night. "I mean," he said, the words clipped, "that you seemed
to find yourself well rid of it last night. I’d think
carefully before claiming it again."

She didn’t know why he was angry, but she wasn’t going to ask,
either – her curiosity didn’t extend that far. "It’s sort of …
old-fashioned, isn’t it?" she mused, in an attempt to lighten
the mood, and was gratified when he let out a startled, rusty
laugh.

"Oh, I don’t know. To some, I suppose."

He sent her another searching look, his momentary mirth faded
now to what looked curiously like regret. "Speaking for
myself, I always thought it was rather lovely."

Oh, Hermione thought, surprised, and then: Exactly how well do
we know each other, anyway?

She might have gained the courage to ask that question aloud,
given another minute to regroup; as it was, he’d already
turned away, seemingly regretting his admission.

"While you were asleep," he said, twisting back toward her
with a slim leather-bound book in his hands, "Sal and I took
the liberty of obtaining a series of photographs designed to
stimulate your memory. You may or may not recognise any of the
people and places in these pictures, but it may be worthwhile
to go through them, regardless." He passed her the book. "Do
you feel up to the task?"

She nodded, and he reached over to turn back the front cover.
"This one," he said. "Do you know these people?"

It was a picture of three children, two boys and a girl, about
twelve or thirteen years old by her guess. "This is me, isn’t
it?" she asked, stabbing her forefinger toward the short pale
girl with the overabundance of bushy brown hair. He nodded.

"It is. How did you know?"

She almost lied, just to please him, but couldn’t bring
herself to do it. "Bathroom mirror," she confessed. "I’m about
twice this old again, and my hair’s different, but my face is
the same."

"Ah." If he was disappointed, his carefully modulated tone
didn’t betray it. "And the others?"

She studied the two boys in the photo – one tall and thin,
with bushy red hair and freckles, the other small and slight,
his forehead marked under his mop of black hair by a curious
jagged cut. She’d already figured out that it was more or less
hopeless to search for names in her empty-echoing head, but
she tried anyway before giving up with a shrug. "No. Sorry."

"Does it pain you to look at them?" he inquired. She shook her
head.

"No. Nothing hurts. It’s just very … blank and white, on the
inside." She tried for a smile. "Feels like an empty flat,
like a room without any furniture."

He didn’t smile back. "Try the next one."

She already knew that it was no use. But it seemed so
important to him that she turned the page anyway.

**

He couldn’t watch this anymore.

Severus schooled his features savagely into blankness and
forced himself to focus on the wall behind her head. Beside
him, Hermione turned to a photograph of Hogwarts under heavy
snowfall and let out a quiet sigh of surprised pleasure. He
wanted to snatch the album from her hands and burn it to
ashes.

He and Sal had been up all night, and the photo album was the
best plan they’d been able to come up with, short of trying a
Reverse-Obliviate that might do more harm than good. It had
been a faint hope, but it had been hope, and now it was
dashed. She’d looked right at Potter and Weasley, her
childhood confidantes, and hadn’t known them; she’d turned
blithely past a photograph of the man who’d been her husband
without so much as a hum of appreciation.

Her memory was gone – and along with it, all remaining
vestiges of the strong, confident young woman who Severus had
loved. The girl she’d left in her place – smiling, tremulous,
eager to please – was a poor substitute indeed; he wanted to
take her by her pretty shoulders and shake her until that damp
mink aureole of Corinthian curls fell out of her vacuous
little head. Don’t you know what you’ve done? he wanted to
demand. You were supposed to be invincible, unshakable, the
light that wouldn’t die. You’re a Gryffindor, for Merlin’s
sake.

Guilt kept him silent – guilt stronger than his anger, guilt
heavy on his tongue like a mouthful of blood. If she’d failed,
he had just as surely failed her.

I was to have been the keeper of her flame, he’d told Sal last
night, too tightly-wound and miserable to sleep. And I let it
go out. I might as well have put a knife through her heart.

"I don’t know any of these people," she said now, laying the
book aside and looking up at him uncertainly. Severus
swallowed hard.

"The castle," he said carefully. "Does it seem familiar to
you? Like a place you might have visited?"

She shook her head. "None of this looks familiar at all," she
said. "There are lots of pictures of those two boys, though.
They must have been friends of mine."

"Friends? You were inseparable for six years," he said –
sharply, without thinking. She paled.

"Will they be worried about me?"

He shook his head. "You needn’t worry on their account," he
said, searching for a suitable explanation when she shot him a
questioning look. "You were … estranged."

"Oh."

She was quiet for a moment. "What about the – the others? In
the other photos?"

"The same," he said coldly, and dropped his eyes to the duvet
so he wouldn’t see her lips tremble.

"Everyone?"

She sounded so lost that he thought his chest would explode.
"Everyone except for me."

"Oh."

From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for the album
again, then let her hand drop just shy of its mark. "I
suppose," she said slowly, "that it’s lucky for me that you
found me, then."

He couldn’t take it anymore.

"Oh, yes, you’re ever so fortunate," he snarled, hating
himself even before her eyes widened and brimmed. "They’re
envying you to the ends of the earth, lucky girl that you are
to be saddled with a Galahad like me. Ever so chivalrous of me
not to have left you lying mindless in the streets of Paris.
They’ll be shipping me my medal any minute now."

He ended his outburst to find her staring at him
speculatively. "What?" he snapped, and she shrugged.

"I thought at first that you were angry with me," she said.
"But it’s yourself you’re angry with. Why?"

"Because I didn’t see it coming until it was too late." He
glared at her. "And don’t let yourself off the hook so
quickly. Just because I despise myself right now doesn’t mean
I don’t despise you, too."

She blinked. "Despise me?" Her tone was more curious than
hurt. "Why? What did I do?"

Severus took a deep breath, his anger suddenly eclipsed by a
sick sort of weariness. "You haven’t asked, he said, "how you
came to lose your memory."

"Oh. I didn’t imagine that you knew." She frowned. "Do you?"

"Yes. But it’s difficult to explain." At a loss, he spied her
wand lying on the nightstand and held it out to her. "Do you
know what this is?"

She ran one hand through her curls, bewildered. "It’s a
stick."

Severus closed his eyes and prayed for strength. "It’s a wand
," he corrected. "A magic wand. To be specific, it’s your
magic wand."

She blinked again. "That would make me …"

"A witch. Too true." He returned the wand to the nightstand.
"Ring any bells, does it?"

She shook her head. "Not so far. But I don’t see what my being
a witch has to do with my memory loss."

He stared at her for a moment, more heartened than frustrated
– that cool, equivocal little voice had reminded him just now
very much of the Original Hermione. "You did it to yourself,"
he said softly. "You’re under a Memory Charm that you yourself
performed. That’s why you can’t remember who you are."

Her eyebrows shot up; he’d managed to shock her. "Why would I
do that?"

"That’s a longer story still."

Her chin came up sharply. "I have the time."

Good point, Severus thought, cheered slightly by her steady
voice, her determined logic in the face of the unexplainable.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe there’s more of you left in there
than I’d thought.

He pulled his chair a little closer to the bed, took a deep
breath, and began.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Three

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Why she believed him, she didn’t know, because the story
seemed outlandish, unspeakable, cobbled together from the
disjunct remainders of a thousand sensationalist genres. But
believe him she did – that flat, almost irritated delivery
wasn’t the discourse of a man desperate to convince, which
made it all the more convincing.

And then, she just couldn’t imagine him telling lies.

Still, bits of his monologue sent her eyebrows skyrocketing.
She’d been a witch? Enough for pause even there. But then –
she’d been to witch school, what passed for witch university,
she’d gone up against some kind of Evil Witch Überführer and
won, she’d become so well-known for her controversial medical
inventions that she’d had to go into metaphysical hiding from
a cadre of magical assassins?

Unbelievable.

And sort of cool, too, if she thought about it from the right
angle.

For every question she had – and they were legion – he, and
the voluble ghost Sal, had an army of backup details … so
many, in fact, that Hermione felt overwhelmed by information.
Photos from the album littered the surface of the duvet: here
were her best friends zooming around on broomsticks after a
strange, sunken-looking ball; here was an assortment of
redheads in front of a pyramid, one of whom she’d allegedly
married; here was an enormous shaggy brown bear of a man,
hugging her younger self and wiping an errant tear from one of
his kindly beetle-black eyes.

She shuffled through the loose photos again until she came to
the one of Bill Weasley with his Head Boy badge. "This is the
one?" she queried, and Severus nodded.

She stared at the picture again, frowning. "How long were we
married?"

He sighed impatiently – she’d asked this question before.
"Four years."

"And he died. He was murdered."

"Yes."

The boy in the photo shot her a warm, flirtatious smile, and
winked. Hermione studied him for another minute, then set the
photo aside with a shake of her head.

"I can’t remember."

Severus the Dark made an unpleasant sound in his sinuses. "Not
surprising," he said sharply, "considering the lengths to
which you went to rid yourself of the memory."

Hermione frowned at him.

"Look," she said. "I understand that this Memory Charm thing
wasn’t exactly a stroke of genius on my part. But if I was as
torn up by the whole thing as you say I was, you’re being
considerably less than sympathetic."

"It wasn’t worthy of you," he said, a bit sulkily. She frowned
again.

"Funny you should say that. It implies that you thought highly
of me, and so far you’ll pardon me if I don’t see too much
evidence of that."

He blinked, and she got the distinct impression that she’d
surprised him. "Then you don’t remember much about me,
either," he said finally. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"That rather goes without saying, don’t you think? Get over
yourself. And while we’re on the topic, here’s one more
question: why you?"

Sal, whose pale grey eyes had been flicking back and forth
during this verbal volley as if he was watching table tennis,
cleared his throat meaningfully—"I’ll just be getting the
luncheon ready, then, shall I?—" and floated hastily toward
the hall. Neither Hermione or Severus paid his exit the least
attention.

"What do you mean, why me?"

"This protection thing," she said impatiently. "Me going into
hiding. The Fidelius Whatchamacally. Why you?"

He swallowed. "Why not?"

Hermione gestured toward the stacks of photographs at her
knees. "Why not the black-haired boy with the scar, if he’s so
powerful as you say? He was supposed to be my best friend,
right? Why not the Headmaster?" She met his eyes and held them
challengingly. "I mean, I know you tutored me in Potions, but
what makes you so special? There’s not a single picture of you
in this book, nor does anything you or Sal have told me
indicate that we were especially close. So how did you get
picked to be my Secret-Keeper?"

He looked reluctant. "I haven’t told you everything—"

"—A-ha!—"

A repressive glare. "—but I suppose there’s no avoiding it,
now you’ve asked." He looked angry and embarrassed in equal
parts. "You’re quite right – there were literally dozens of
people to whom you were closer than you were to me, in many
respects. Potter and the Headmaster among them." He dropped
his gaze. "But you and I were—are—linked. In ways you and they
aren’t."

Her eyes widened as she pondered the implications of this.
"Linked," she repeated.

"Yes."

"Lovers, you mean."

The muscle underneath his right eye twitched violently.
"Briefly. Intermittently." He sighed. "Yes."

Hermione studied him with renewed interest. "You don’t seem
very happy about it."

"Nor would you, if you knew the details." When she didn’t
react to this, but continued to gaze at him expectantly, he
cursed under his breath and dug in his pocket. "I was going to
save this for later, but we’d might as well get it over with
now. Do you recognise this substance?"

She studied the little phial of pearl-coloured liquid
curiously. "No. What is it?"

"It’s Illuminata," he said. "It’s a potion from the Middle
Italian Baroque, lost for many years under obscurity and heavy
encryption. You cracked the code near the beginning of your
sixth year at Hogwarts; if you were doubting your magical or
intellectual capacities before, this should reassure you. It
was a remarkable accomplishment."

Why did she get the distinct impression that he’d not told her
that before? "Thanks," she said. "What does it do?"

"It shows whatever it touches in its best light," he said. "It
has healing properties, too, though we’re not yet sure what
its limits are. Here."

He inverted the tiny phial over his forefinger, then reached
out and dabbed the drop of luminous fluid over the abrasion on
her right cheekbone. Hermione felt the sting of the scrape
ease, and put her hand up curiously to feel the cut. It was
gone.

Wow.

She took the phial back from him and held it up to the light.
"What else does it do?"

"It’s what you’d call a multipurpose," he said. He wasn’t
looking at her. Her eyebrows shot up in sudden realisation.

"It’s an aphrodisiac?"

"No." There were bright spots of flush in his cheeks. "Yes. I
mean, sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

He looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet,
which was probably indeed the case. "In its brewing stage
only," he said tightly. "I was your … advisor … on the
project. We were unaware of its … incendiary properties."

"Huh." Her lips curved up, ever so slightly, at the corners;
she had the feeling that he was hardly ever flustered, but it
looked rather good on him. "Cradle-robber."

At that, his head came up sharply. "I hardly think – I assure
you – I mean, that was hardly the intent—"

"Oh, relax." Hermione’s impression of her own life thus far
was climbing steadily – a bit bizarre, maybe, and of course
very sad about the handsome redhead in the Head Boy picture,
but on the other hand, it beat out stenography and a flatful
of cats by a long shot. "So," she said. "What ended it?"

He rubbed one hand over his eyes. "There wasn’t much to end,"
he said, his voice tired. "A handful of encounters, no matter
how explosive, doesn’t make a relationship. And you and I,
even setting the age difference aside, were hardly compatible
at that point. You were well rid of me."

"I dumped you?" Somehow she couldn’t imagine that.

He shook his head. "I ended it. Because you should have, and
you wouldn’t."

"Oh."

Curiouser and curiouser. Hermione hadn’t satisfied her prying
instincts on this topic, not by a long shot, but something
about the set of his mouth told her she shouldn’t press him
further, at least not now. Probably it was easier to get the
scoop from the ghost anyway – he seemed to like to talk. She
glanced back at the thimbleful of glass-encased Illuminata in
her hand. "So," she said brightly. "Does this miracle potion
bring back memory?"

He scowled. "It’s possible. There’s no definitive research on
the subject. Though under the circumstances, I wonder if you
really want your memory restored."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it," he snapped. "You’ve been crying yourself to
sleep for the last four and a half months. Twenty-four hours
ago, you were bordering on suicidal – in fact, let’s take out
the ‘bordering’, considering how wrong Memory Charms can go if
you’re not in a proper state to perform them, and believe me,
you weren’t and you knew it, too." He scowled at her. "You
didn’t seem to think then that your skills and knowledge
outweighed the demands of your personal misery, which on a
certain level is understandable but on another makes me want
to wring your neck. I never suspected that the Hermione
Granger I knew would take the easy way out; you’re a
disappointment to your own brain."

He pushed himself off the foot of the bed, where he’d been
sitting, and began to pace. "I suppose it never occurred to
you," he said, "that you were the only living person who still
remembered exactly what it was that had pissed them off in the
first place?"

"Who?"

"The Knights of the Golden Wand," he spat. "The group that
ordered your execution in the first place. Some research
project of yours set them off – they wanted it stopped so
badly that they’d kill you to make it go away. Four months,
and you never started it up again? Four months, and you never
thought of revenge? Four months, and you killed your only
chance at real retribution with a single ill-considered charm?
"

He stopped suddenly and turned toward her, his face so
austerely, bitterly sad that it caught her breath. "I expected
anger from you," he said softly. "I never expected you to keep
your pain to yourself. How very Slytherin of me – and how very
Gryffindor of you."

She wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but the look in his
eyes went straight to her heart. "I mustn’t have been so much
of a researcher," she said shakily, "if I never wrote it
down."

His breath caught at that. "What?"

"Well, you know," she said, toying nervously with the edge of
the duvet. "If it was so important, wouldn’t I have kept
paperwork on it somewhere? Somewhere else, I mean? Rather
careless of me, don’t you think?"

He had gone very still and very white. "Rather," he said
slowly. "And rather uncharacteristic, at that. I hadn’t
thought of that."

The tense silence that followed was broken by cheery whistling
from the hall, followed by a levitating platter of sandwiches
and accompanying pitcher of lemonade. "Lunch!" Sal announced
from the doorway, settling their intended repast on the
bedside table and tucking away his shadowy wand in a pocket of
his robes. "How do you feel about BLTs, young lady? English
bacon. And beefsteak tomatoes all the way from the Garden
State. Severus stepped out especially this morning."

"Sounds lovely," Hermione said. Severus, breaking out of his
reverie, turned around to blink at her.

"Mm," he agreed absently – then, apparently making up his mind
about something: "How do you feel?"

She exchanged a wary glance with Sal. "All right. Why?"

"Hurry up and eat, then," he said, and poured her a glass of
lemonade. "We’ve got work to do this afternoon."

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Four

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Neville Longbottom was worried.

It wasn t just that he hadn t seen Kate for three days, though
that was unusual enough. It was that no one had seen her - or
heard from her, for that matter. And though he d never known
her well at Hogwarts, they were good enough friends now for
him to know that she had a relatively concrete schedule, and
that she stuck to it like white on rice. It just wasn t like
her to disappear without letting someone know - if anything,
she cultivated her friendships with the conscientious,
half-worried affection of an orchid grower - and yet it
appeared that she d done just that.

Come to think of it, she d been acting funny all week. First,
she d stood him up for their customary Thursday afternoon
coffee, leaving a terse message on his voice mail that she was
working late; then, she d failed to stop by the Museum s
herb-stall at Les Halles on Saturday morning to buy her next
week s potion ingredients. To Neville, who knew quite well
that she only bought enough for a week at a time, this was by
far the more troubling of the two incidents.

And now it was Sunday afternoon, the time she usually stopped
by the clinic to set up for Monday morning s appointments, and
Itmana had just called him at the Museum office on his mobile
phone to ask if he d seen her. Considering that she d been
carefully avoiding him, and he her, since their affair had
ended in the middle of September, this spoke volumes about the
level of her concern.

It s not like she s scheduled to work today or anything, she
d said, her no-nonsense words just failing to mask the note of
worry in her tone.  But it s odd. You haven t seen her,
either?

I haven t, Neville said, and heard Itmana sigh.

You know, this is going to sound strange, she said.  But do
you know, I can t even find her address? Or her telephone
number at home. She s got one of the clinic s beepers, of
course, but I ve rung it about a gajillion times and she hasn
t rung me back. And I ve just gone through Sylvie s files,
looking for her home number, and do you know, it s all
smeared? The oddest thing - the rest of the information is
clear as church bells, but it s as if someone spilled coffee
on part of the page. I can t make anything out. And she s not
in the city directory, either. She paused.  You don t happen
to have her address, do you?

Neville felt a cold finger of prescience slide down his spine.
I can narrow it down, at least, he said, trying to sound more
confident than he felt.  Don t worry - I ll go try and find
her right now.

Another sigh, this one relieved.  Thanks, Nev. Call me when
you ve found something?

“I’ll call you even if I don’t,” he promised, and rang
off.That icy feeling of dread was still fingering the back of
his neck; he sat motionless at his desk for a moment, then
slowly pulled out his wallet.

He’d asked her for her number, that was the thing. Ages ago.
And she’d given it to him without a second thought, neatly
jotted in pencil with her name at the top. When he’d taken it
out of his wallet a few days later to call her, however, he
hadn’t been able to read it - oh, the name Kate was clear
enough, but the numbers had shifted into obscurity.

He’d kept it anyway - Merlin knew why. Now, he extracted it
from his wallet and laid it carefully on the desk, face-up. It
looked just as Itmana had described Kate’s
employee-information form - coffee-stained beyond
identification. But how, he wondered grimly, had it become
stained, when it’d been safely tucked away in his hip pocket
this whole time?

Magic, that was how. Stupid of him not to think of it before.
He drew his wand and tapped the little card thoughtfully.

“Purgare,” he murmured, then frowned - the word ‘Kate’ had
grown clearer, and the card itself whiter, but the stain
hadn’t budged. Clearly, a Cleansing Charm wasn’t the ticket.

Hm. Clarification, maybe? “Chiarisca,” he tried, with no more
result. “Riveli? Traduca?”

Ah. That last had done something, at least. He plucked a
magnifying glass from the center drawer of his desk and peered
closely at the card. The coffee-stain illusion had lifted, all
right, but the numbers were no more readable; they were
shifting on the page so quickly that Neville registered their
movement mostly as a blur.

Holy crap, he thought, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure how
she’d done it, or why for that matter, but the girl he knew as
Kate Billings was hiding behind a clever, complex layer of
magical wards. And that made her disappearance all the more
worrisome. Tucking the card back in his wallet, he stood up
and fumbled for his jacket.

He didn’t know who was looking for her, but he was going to
try and get there first.

**

His Location Charm turned up blank, just as he d
half-suspected it would - either the wards she d erected
around herself had blocked it, or her location was
Unplottable, he wasn t sure which. Magical options exhausted,
that left common sense. He turned right out of the Jardin des
Plantes onto the Rue St.-Hilaire and headed toward the Latin
Quartier, lower lip caught between his teeth.

He knew she lived around here - was fairly sure she d even
told him the name of her street, once upon a time. Hard to say
whether it was the magic or his own less-than-photographic
memory that kept him from recalling it now. But there d been
something else  something else she d said. If only he could
remember - ah. Ah, yes. Not the address, just a throwaway bit
of conversation. They d been talking about travel, as he
recalled, and she d said something about Rome: That city
changed my life. Someday, I ll go back. And then: The view
from my terrace reminds me of the Colosseum. Makes me a little
nostalgic sometimes.

For an old Roman garrison, Paris didn t have too many telltale
ruins left. Some statuary, yes, a couple of roomsful of
artifacts in the Louvre, the crumbling remains of the
Gallo-Roman baths in the Musée de Cluny. But the only place in
Paris that Neville could possibly imagine as reminiscent of
the Colosseum was the Arènes de Lutece, a scant couple of
blocks away.

Bingo.

The Rue des Arènes was only a hundred metres or so up on his
left. He broke into a jog.

**

It was a tiny street, shaped like a boomerang and taken up
mostly along one whole side by the entrance to the park. What
had been a crisp, cool day was now sliding into clear chilly
evening, and the picnickers had mostly given up; the park was
deserted except for a group of youngsters with skateboards -
probably local - making the most of the last few moments of
daylight and empty space before their mamans called them
inside for the night. Neville stood at the top of the block of
steps that led down to the ancient arena itself and cast a
searching glance around. There couldn t be that many
apartments facing the park; probably the easiest way to narrow
down his options was to take a stroll round the top perimeter
and see how many terrace doors lay within his line of sight.
Still, he hesitated - peering into windows wasn t likely to
ingratiate him with the local residents.

And then he saw her.

She was definitely a witch, and he d have known that even if
she hadn t simply appeared from nowhere on the other side of
the steps; energy and power rolled off her in waves he could
feel even from this great distance. At first, he saw her only
as a silhouette against the dying light - then, as she ran
lightly down the steps, the details of her appearance came
into greater focus: Egyptian-princess profile, waist-length
fall of tiny braids, brief orange slip-dress barely encasing a
body that made his mouth go dry. To the openly gaping teenage
boys on the arena s ground level, she must have looked like an
Olympian goddess descending from the ether.

Bonsoir, she said, and they blinked at her as if star-struck.
One of them, taller than the others, with a dark narrow face,
took a bold step forward.

Bonsoir.

Je recherche mon amie Kate Billings, the goddess continued.
La connaissez-vous?

Neville, suddenly more suspicious than entranced, felt his
hands fist inside his pockets. The tall boy thought for a
moment, shrugged, then let his eyes drift down her body.

Je ne la connais pas. Est-elle aussi jolie que vous êtes?

His friends snickered. The goddess rolled her eyes.

Vous ne pourriez pas me manipuler, mon fils, she drawled, and
Neville felt a smile tug the corners of his mouth despite
himself at the teenager s crestfallen expression. The group of
boys, enjoying their ringleader s humiliation in true
Lord-of-the-Flies teenage fashion, laughed again. One of them
- younger, smaller, blonder - shrugged and stepped forward
hesitantly.

I know a Kate, he offered in slightly accented English.  She
lives somewhere near me. I can't remember where. Maman might.
A mischievous look at his sulking friend.  And she is pretty.
He jerked his head in the direction of the street.  I have to
go in for dinner soon anyway. I ll ask.

"Merci." She shot him a dazzling smile. "I'll be around."

The park was almost completely dark by now; with a last
wistful look back, the boys began to drift off. Neville waited
until the last one had disappeared, then strode purposefully
toward her.

"It won't do you any good, you know," he said. "He won't
remember; he isn't allowed to. And why are you looking for
Kate, anyway? What do you want with her?"

She shifted, the fingers of one long elegant hand toying with
her brief hemline. Ten to one she had a wand holster strapped
to her thigh under that handkerchief of a dress, Neville
thought, and tried desperately not to think about how
heart-stoppingly sexy that was. Her eyes on him were cool and
suspicious and just a teensy, flattering little bit
appraising.

"Who are you?" she wanted to know. "And what do you mean, he's
not allowed to remember?"

"Just that." Neville fought back the urge to flex his hard-won
biceps. "And I might ask you the same question; I'm a close
friend of Kate's, and I don't recall seeing you around
anywhere."

"We're friends from school."

"Hogwarts?"

A flicker of surprise crossed her face. "Maybe. What's it to
you?"

His wand was out and pressed to her throat before he knew he'd
done it. "Liar."

Her fingers came up to pry at his. Those Nefertiti eyes were
flashing like black fury; he'd managed to really piss her off.
"Watch who you're calling a liar, Slick."

She smelt like his favourite, most exotic greenhouse -- an
earthy, green, medicinal smell that had nothing to do with
perfume. Neville wanted to fall to his knees and beg; instead,
he sneered at her. "What other word do you have for it?" he
demanded. "I was in the same year as Kate at Hogwarts, and you
weren't one of my classmates -- you weren't even there at the
same time. Believe me, I'd have remembered."

That got a low, husky laugh out of her. "Come to think of it,
Slick," she said, "I'd have remembered you, too. But you
misunderstand me. I never studied at Hogwarts. I teach there.
I'm the new Potions Mistress. Kate and I met at university."

Neville stared at her, dumbstruck, then dropped his wand hand
to his side. "Figures," he muttered, embarrassed. "If I'd
known that you would come along after Snape left, I'd have
Anti-Aged myself years ago. Of all the rotten luck ..."

"Not a fan, eh?" The goddess was looking distinctly more
friendly now. "Well, you're one of the few. Wish you'd have a
word with the Great Sour One on my behalf." She flopped down
on the nearest step and crossed her legs at the ankle.
"Joséphine Dessources, at your service. And you must be her
friend from the Botanical Gardens, the plant expert.
Longbottom, right?"

"Call me Neville." Cautiously relieved, he joined her on the
step. "So -- you haven't seen Kate either, right?"

Joséphine made a dark sound of assent. "I'm just in town for
the weekend," she said. "Last I saw of her, she was leaving
Les Bains last night. Said she was tired, and that she'd see
me at one o' clock at my hotel." She glanced at her watch.
"That was six hours ago. Thought I'd better look her up. Got
this far on the say-so of this postcard."

She held it out, and Neville took it curiously. It was a
picture of the park on a sunny day; on the blank side, Kate
had written, "My backyard. Don't hate me for my real estate."

"Let me guess," Neville said. "She wrote her number down for
you, and you can't read it. Right?"

"Must've spilled something on it," Joséphine admitted. "How'd
you know?"

"You didn't spill anything," Neville said, and dug out the
card in his wallet. "Look at this. I thought it was a coffee
stain, too, until I ran a Translating Charm on it."

Joséphine studied the rapidly shifting numbers on the card for
a moment, then let out a low whistle. "Impressive," she said
at last. "Looks like our friend Kate doesn't want to be found,
doesn't it?" She passed the card back to him. "Odd, though.
She wrote to me first. You think she acts like a girl who
wants to hide?"

Neville considered this. "No," he said finally. "No, she
doesn't. Not at all." He frowned, struck by a sudden new
thought. "Think Kate is her real name?"

"The truth? Now that I think about it, no. I don't." Joséphine
frowned. "And I bet she hates that. If she's hiding, I'll bet
my last jar of Skrewtskin that she doesn't want to be."

They sat in contemplative silence in the falling dusk.
Joséphine was the first to speak.

"Well," she said, "that blond kid must be a closer neighbour
than he thinks, to remember her at all. I say we stake out his
apartment building for suspicious-looking magical types. What
do you think?"

Neville was peering up at the top of the arena.

"I think," he said, "that we've just been saved the trouble.
Look at that, would you?"

Joséphine followed his gaze to the row of young fruit trees
that marked the rim of the half-buried amphitheatre. There was
just enough light still on the horizon to make out a shadowy
dark figure emerging from their cover and slipping stealthily
in the direction of the street.

"Snape," she said, sounding as bewildered as Neville felt.
"What the hell is he doing here?"

"Not sure," Neville said grimly. Blood was roaring in his
ears. "But one thing I do know: I've been wanting to jam a
wand into that bastard's balls for more than half my life. The
fact that this situation gives me reasonable leave to do just
that is getting me a little bit hot." He glanced inquiringly
over his shoulder. "Are you with me?"

Joséphine looked mildly surprised at his vehemence, then
laughed. "Am I ever," she said. "Lead the way, Slick."

Wands out, mouths set in determined lines, they started to
climb.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Five

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Severus was in a hurry.

The whole situation made him itch. But on the other hand, even
Self-Obliviation hadn’t done much to interfere with that
admirably galling sense of Granger logic. She was right –
being Hermione, she most likely would have kept extensive
written notes of her research, and being Hermione, she
probably would have saved them, too, even in the aftermath of
a mind-numbing, breakdown-inducing personal tragedy.

The question was – where?

Either in Paris or in Cairo. And for his money, he was leaning
toward Cairo – after all, Bill Weasley had been a Gringotts
employee, and there really was no safer place in the world,
unless you counted Albus Dumbledore’s sock drawer. Hermione
was bound to have an account there, either under her own name
or under her pseudonym, and what made it especially handy was
that she didn’t need proof of identification to access the
vault, only her key.

Of course, there was the matter of finding and retrieving said
key – which had warranted a change in their after-lunch plans;
she was still back in Montana, while he’d taken over Niffler
duty in Paris. Since she hadn’t had the key on her person,
reason followed that it had to be somewhere in her flat. And
then – as Sal had pointed out – there was that great buggery
cat of hers to contend with; either he’d have to contrive
somehow to bring it back to the cabin with him, or someone
would have to stop in on a daily basis to feed it. When asked,
Hermione had said that she’d rather have it with her. All that
might change when she saw how bloody huge it was, but in the
meantime he’d have to deal with it.

And then, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of telling that
lip-trilling, chain-smoking bodyguard of a painting –
two-dimensional, maybe, but no less formidable for that – the
bad news; left unprompted in an empty room with her own wand,
her brilliant young charge would be more likely to scratch her
back with it than attempt a conjuration. Just more proof that
Hermione Granger was capital-T trouble, regardless of whose
identity she was assuming at the time, and that he’d have
saved himself a triple-Motrin headache by not inviting Albus
back to the house for chili and strange propositions, that
afternoon among the Baja tomato vines.

All that was moot now, though. She needed him, and she had
nowhere else to turn, so – Merlin help him – he was bound to
do what he could to help her. At least she seemed as quick a
study as ever; in the quarter-hour between the end of dessert
and his departure for Paris, Sal had taken her out into the
back yard and started to coach her on basic wand technique.

Just before Severus had Apparated, he’d seen a stick of
firewood rise shakily to the level of the cabin’s windows and
hover, and had heard a ghostly but exultant whoop. All
distasteful aspects of his current duties aside, part of him
just wanted to get back home, as quickly as possible, and see
how far she’d gotten in his absence.

Sooner begun, soonest done.

He muttered a perfunctory Alohomora at her terrace door and
ducked inside, inwardly cheering when he saw the sign propped
on the rickety painted table next to the upright piano:
Severus – out on a gig. Leave a note if it’s important. –Maxie
.

Better and better.

The caracal flattened its ears and hissed at him from the
doorway, which made him feel much less guilty for what he was
about to do to it. "Petrificus Totalis," he said, then stepped
over its prone, splay-legged body into the hall. Hermione
hadn’t added much in the way of a personal touch to the flat
in the months she’d lived here, he noticed; some people did
more nesting than this in their weeklong holiday rentals.

No matter. He was here on a mission, not to redecorate.

He transferred the neatly stacked contents of her bureau into
a trunk he found in the closet, Reduced the loaded trunk, and
pocketed it. There – now maybe he could reclaim his own
pyjamas. Just one more thing now, as a precaution: "Accio
research!" he murmured, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Must still be in Cairo. I assumed as much.

"Accio vault key," he revised, and allowed himself a slight,
satisfied smirk as one of her nightstand drawers rattled, then
shot open. The key chunked into his hand like a softball
thrown underhand. He put it in his pocket next to the trunk.

"Now for the cat," he muttered, "and it’ll be done with."

"Not so fast, if you please."

Startled, he spun around to face the doorway – stupid, stupid,
stupid, why had he ever turned his back to an open door? He
was getting soft in his old age – his eyes narrowing as he
recognised the speaker.

"You," he said. "I remember you; you’re that cheeky little
witch who’s managed to make an absolute muck of my storeroom
in less than half the time it took me to get it properly
organised. What are you doing here?"

"We might ask you the same thing, Professor."

Another miscalculation on his part; there was a wand pressed
to the back of his neck. How had that happened? "Drop your
wand," the voice behind him directed, and Severus let it
clatter to the floor. There was something familiar about this
second voice – shaky, charged, oddly determined – but he
couldn’t quite place it.

"What business do you have in Paris?" the wizard behind him
demanded. "And what have you done with Kate?"

Severus relaxed slightly at this: Ah. Not enemies, outraged
friends. "I assure you," he said stiffly, "that Miss Gr—ah,
Billings, is far safer in her present location than she would
be here. For what it’s worth to you."

If he’d meant this to be consoling, he’d missed the mark.
Joséphine Dessources’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and in
response, the wand-tip dug more insistently into his nape.

"What do you mean, far safer?" his assailant demanded. "What
danger was she in before? And what do you know about it,
anyway?"

One of the dubious benefits of having lived through his
particular chequered past, Severus reflected, was that he’d
gotten the recognition of danger down to a science. Forget
that simple-minded fable about the Lady and the Tiger – put
him into a room lined with doors, ten of which opened to
certain death and one of which was the exit, and he’d choose
the safe door every time. Danger vibrated at a high,
immediately distinguishable frequency to those who knew to
listen for it, as did madness and rage – and try as he might,
he wasn’t picking up those signals from the man holding the
wand.

If anything, he’d say that his unseen adversary was afraid of
him.

Rather reassuring, really. Ten to one, he was a former
student; after all, he had called him ‘Professor’, a title
Severus was no longer entitled to. Severus took a deep, low
breath and shifted into Teacher Face. It felt a little stiff,
but it would do.

"Enough questions," he snapped, and brought his hand up behind
him without turning, to seize the wand. As he’d expected, the
grip on the other end of it trembled reflexively at his tone,
then slackened. "Who wants to know?"

And then, twisting around to look: "Oh. Longbottom. I should
have known that this day could only get worse."

**

"So," Hermione said. "How well do we know each other, anyway?
Well enough that you’ll tell me secrets?"

They were taking a break. For not having been at it very long
– the three hours in between one o’ clock and four had flown,
just like that – they’d gotten a lot done; according to Sal,
they’d touched on most of the Charms she would have learned in
her first year at Hogwarts, and a fair amount of the
Transfiguration as well.

"You’re a quick study," he’d said at one point, watching the
beetle she’d just conjured from a button scuttle down the
cabin’s back steps toward the safe obscurity of the yard. "But
then, it’s not like you need teaching, as much as just
reminding. Behind the Memory Charm, all this is second nature
to you."

"Think it’ll help me remember?" Hermione queried, and watched
his ghostly shoulders rise and fall in a shrug.

"Could be. Not sure." He pulled a face. "You did a real number
on yourself, girlie, that’s for sure. But keep going like you
are, and you’ll be as skilled a witch as ever in no time."

"You’re a good teacher."

"I am, rather, aren’t I?" He’d had such a self-satisfied look
on his old face that she’d laughed. "Was always handy with
Transfiguration and Charms. Hexes, too, though I’ll let
Severus take over there; studying the Dark Arts is always more
satisfying if you’ve got a body to study them on." He squinted
slyly at her. "Imagine you won’t need much reminding in that
department, either. History being what it is."

Hermione decided to play dumb. "The Dark Arts, you mean?"

He laughed at the hot flush riding her cheeks. "No."

Which had gotten her to thinking. The problem with thinking
was that it raised a bunch of questions she should have been
able to answer but couldn’t – luckily, Sal didn’t seem to need
much prodding to make him talk.

"Well?" she prompted again, and he cut his eyes sideways
toward her. They were gleaming with humour.

"Depends on the secret."

She took a deep breath. "I already know that we were lovers,"
she said. "He and I, I mean. But he seemed pretty anxious to
change the subject. I didn’t get many of the details."

Sal laughed. "Bold as ever," he said approvingly. "Well, what
is it you want to know?"

"Everything," Hermione said, and meant it. "I mean, I look at
him and he’s so – I don’t know. Closed off, I suppose that’s
the word for it. Suspicious. Was he always like that? And if
he was, how did I ever get past it?" She looked away. "It’s
just strange. He doesn’t seem the sort. He doesn’t seem my
sort. But when we look at each other –"

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound strange."

Sal just raised one eyebrow. Hermione fidgeted, embarrassed.
"Well, I wonder," she said. "Was it just the potion? Or was
there more to it than that?"

Her cheeks were hot, and she couldn’t look at him – though out
of the corner of her eye, she could see that he was studying
her, his pale grey eyes intent and shuttered.

"Not just the potion," he said finally. Hermione frowned.

"You’ve got the same look on your face as he did," she said.
"Like you’re wondering how much you should say, but you don’t
really want to say anything at all. And here I thought I could
count on you for the real scoop."

Sal hesitated.

"It’s not a matter of the real scoop," he said. "There’s more
to it than that."

"What do you mean?"

"Basically," he said, "that it’s not what you should be
thinking about right now. You’ve got more on your plate than
the renewal of old acquaintances. You’re looking on the
romance shelf, when you ought to be over in the mysteries."

"I don’t follow."

Sal closed his eyes, pursing his thin colorless lips. "You
loved your husband, Hermione," he said tiredly. "You don’t
remember him now, of course, because there’s no one here now
to remind you of your life together. But whoever killed him
threw a rock into your pond that’s still making ripples; you
were a witch who prided herself on her knowledge and her
skill, and you sacrificed both of those on the altar of your
grief."

He wiped one hand across his lined brow. "If you want your
identity back," he said, "you’re going to have to take the
grief back, too, and deal with it the way you should have in
the first place. Jump-starting an old love affair is just
going to confuse an already cloudy issue – and if I may be so
bold, that’s the last thing either of you needs."

Hermione, stung and shamed by his words, drew her knees up to
her chin on the wooden deck chair and wrapped her arms around
them. "You’re right," she muttered. "I didn’t think of it that
way. I didn’t think at all."

"He loves you," Sal said quietly, and met her look of surprise
with his own steady pale gaze. "He hasn’t ever stopped. But
the two of you have never had a moment together that wasn’t
stolen from someone else. Before you go to him, first lay your
ghosts to rest."

She dropped her eyes. "Okay."

"And while you’re at it," Sal said, "you might give a bit of
attention to this."

He waved his wand, and a thin, battered book skidded across
the porch railing toward her. Hermione picked it up curiously
and squinted to make out the title.

"Reclaiming the Magic: My Life in My Own Words," she read,
then looked up at him questioningly. "What’s this?"

"It’s a memoir," Sal said shortly. "Wizard named Phineas
Sturbridge. Cocky little bastard. Died about two hundred years
ago."

"Phineas Sturbridge?" Hermione frowned. "Should I know that
name?"

"No reason why you should," Sal said. "This book was
self-published and only disseminated within a small circle of
Sturbridge’s followers. The fact that we found one at all was
a happy accident; they’re not to be found at any reputable
bookseller’s." He paused. "Severus told you about the Knights
of the Golden Wand, right? Well, this is as close as they have
to an unofficial handbook. Sturbridge was the leader of their
movement for nearly fifty years. The movement was never the
same after he died – not even under Voldemort."

"Oh," Hermione said, and stared at the book as if it might
bite. "Oh."

Sal, who had started for the back door with their empty
iced-tea tumblers floating along ahead of him, paused in the
doorway and looked back.

"The old adage is a lie, you know," he said. "Revenge is very
seldom sweet. But sometimes it’s necessary. I’ll leave you to
it."

The door closed behind him. Somewhere in the depths of her
subconscious, a dark finger of anger uncurled and beckoned.

Barely hesitating, Hermione opened the book and began to read.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Six

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They d both told her now, independently of one another, that
she was clever. And though Hermione might have expected the
kindly old ghost to pad the facts a bit in deference to her
self-esteem, she didn t imagine that Severus Snape had ever
flattered anyone in his life.

Still, she was half taken aback by the surge of relief that
hit her when she started to read, and realised how easy it
was.

Spells were one thing   old information half-remembered, her
wrist veering into the sharp slippery curve of the swish-flick
before her brain could think of the proper words to accompany
it. Rather, she thought, like finding yourself on stage at a
piano recital, playing a piece you d memorised years ago and
hadn t touched since: accurate, maybe, or at least accurate
enough to bear out their story   she was a witch, right enough
but nevertheless uncomfortable in that accuracy, as if her
skill could at any moment turn on her.

Reading, thank goodness, wasn t like that at all, but pure
second nature. Hermione could picture herself as that
buck-toothed little girl from the photo album, curled
oblivious in an armchair with Great Expectations open on her
lap while the dark-haired man Severus had identified as her
father beamed proudly down at her: reads like a fish swims,
that one. Chip off the old tooth.

That mental image was so clear, so photographic, that it
brought her up short. Was it speculation, or genuine memory?

She couldn t decide.

She paused, waiting for another scrap of recollection to
escape the locked box of her brain and float to the surface,
but her inner airwaves stayed stubbornly silent. Sighing, she
turned back to Reclaiming the Magic.

It wasn t very well-written. Phineas Sturbridge might have
been a charismatic leader, but his memoirs consisted mostly of
personal vignettes, seen through the rose-coloured spectacles
of hindsight; Hermione thought that if she read I realised,
even then, that I was destined for greatness one more time,
she d abandon her endeavor and put the bloody book through a
window.

The interminable, self-congratulatory rambling was laced
throughout with what she imagined Sturbridge had thought of as
his political message: Muggles, he maintained were not only
inequal to wizards, they were something less than human. A
witch or wizard who intermarried with the nonmagical, he
declared, was to be held in contempt   rather as if he or she
had set up housekeeping with the family cat   and as for
Muggle-born wizards and the offspring of mixed couples,
Sturbridge claimed them the most insidious and dangerous of
all, recommending that they be   oh, lovely   drowned at
birth.

Hardly an original thinker, is he? Hermione thought, and then
immediately thereafter   I wonder how I know that. Frowning
over the conundrum of her damaged memory, she didn t notice
Sal approaching until his clammy, arctic shoulder accidentally
passed through hers.

"You re looking fierce," he said, hastily removing his chilly
self to a greater distance. "What do you think of it?"

Hermione rubbed her arm absently to bring warmth back into it.
"What do I think of it?" she repeated. "I ll tell you what I
think   it doesn t make any sense. That s what."

He studied her with unabashed interest. "It s a harsh message,
I ll grant you that. He wasn t a pleasant man."

"True," Hermione said. "But it s not that."

She was pleasantly surprised to feel a resonant click inside
her head, rather as if her Inner Logician had finally yawned,
stretched, and downed her first cup of coffee. "It s him. He
doesn t seem smart enough to come in out of the rain on his
own, never mind inspire some secret cabal of assassins to
annihilistic abandon. Half this book is his own rubbish, and
the other half is rubbish he s borrowed; I know I ve read some
of it before, I just can t think of where."

"That bit," Sal said, "was old news a thousand years ago. It s
been borrowed and re-borrowed since the dawn of time   who
knows where these things start?" He paused for a moment,
apparently deep in thought, then shrugged to himself and
turned to her, pale eyes alight with speculation. "And you re
absolutely right, by the way. Sturbridge wasn t one of the
century s great minds by any stretch of the imagination,
merely a passably eloquent hack whose brand of vitriol
happened to appeal."

"Mmph." Hermione, dissatisfied with this   whether or not it
was true, it certainly wasn t encouraging   flipped through
the remaining chapters of the book, rifling the edges of the
pages with a careless thumb. "Doesn t seem fair, does it?"

And then: "Hold up a minute, Sal. What s this?"

"What s what?"

She was staring at the inside back cover of the book. "There s
something inside the binding. Look."

He floated over to peer over her shoulder. "I think it s just
badly glued, Hermione. Hardly a masterpiece of bookmaking,
this."

"No." She was industriously picking at the corner of the
flyleaf with her thumbnail. "I don t think so. See, if you
look really closely, you can see there s something written
here. It s been glued over."

Sal frowned. "Could be," he said. "More likely, they recycled
part of an older book to make this one. Wouldn t be the first
time, you re talking about an amateur press after all. No
standards, really."

"Sal." Hermione huffed with exasperation. "Look at this."

The glue, stiff and brittle with age, gave way. Hermione
lifted back the false flyleaf to reveal the page underneath
it. "No writing," she said, disappointed. "Just some sort of
strange little symbol. Looks like a publisher s mark. Never
mind."

"Symbol?" Sal frowned. "What s it look like? Let me see."

Hermione held up the book so he could examine the flyleaf more
closely:

[mark]

"It s like a little doodle," she said. "Not hand-drawn,
though; it s definitely a printer s mark. Suppose it means
anything?"

"I ll say," Sal said, and sat down in the deck chair next to
hers, as heavily as could be expected of a man without a
corporeal body. He looked shaken. "This is odd," he said. "
Really odd. You do manage to find the mysteries, don t you?"

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose. What is it?"

"If you remembered anything from your Arithmancy classes, you
d know," Sal said. "This symbol is the physical representation
of ever number set presently known to mankind: rational,
irrational, and transcendental. It s said to depict a basic
understanding of the construction of the universe. See, here?
You ve got the side, the diagonal, and the circumference, all
in one neat little package. It s a sort of geometrical
primer."

Deep in the fuzzy parts of her brain, something stirred and
unwound. "Go on," Hermione said slowly. "I ve heard this
before, I think. Just remind me a little."

"Irrational numbers have been around since Pythagoras," Sal
said. "And while the modern Muggle considers the concept of pi
to be relatively new, the fact is that transcendental
mathematics was discovered and used by the ancients. They d
never have gotten the Pyramids standing without it." He
paused. "It s only the covert removal of the Alexandrian
collection, under the guise of a fire, that cut off this
knowledge temporarily from the Muggle world   and of course
they discovered it again, eventually, though I must say it
took them long enough. This symbol s as old as the ancient
Sumerians. Older, probably."

Hermione studied the blurry outline of the figure with renewed
interest. "Is it magical?"

"Depends on who you ask. And when you ask it."

She frowned. "Explain."

Sal leaned back, warming to his tale. "Mathematics was heavy
stuff in the medieval world," he said. "Galileo himself   not
a wizard, mind, just an extraordinarily perceptive Muggle
was excommunicated for his scientific discoveries, merely
because they contradicted the body of belief that had grown up
around Biblical canon. Considering how powerful a hold the
Catholic Church held over life and death at that point and
time, it s no wonder that knowledge of this sort was
suppressed and kept secret for as long as it was."

"Even among magical folk?"

Sal snorted. "You re a child of the modern age," he said.
"People of learning don t find it fashionable any longer to
believe in anything they can t see; even when we in the
wizarding world slip up and let our powers manifest in public,
we aren t taken seriously by the greater culture around us.
They re not looking for us, and they don t want to believe
what s right in front of them. But the Muggle world and the
magical weren t always so far separated. Back then, everyone
believed in witches, in demons, in the unseen struggle between
Good and Evil. That s what made it so dangerous to be
magical."

He shrugged. "The notion that one could build a cathedral,
based on the geometric principles contained in that simple
collection of shapes   to the uninitiated, uneducated
observer, that came as close to magic as it did to heresy.
What you knew could get you killed   at least if other people
knew that you knew it."

Hermione shook her head. "I follow you so far," she said. "But
having read this book, I find it hard to believe that Phineas
Sturbridge could make change for a Sickle, let alone
understand transcendental numbers. What s a complicated
mathematical symbol doing in his memoir, of all places? And
why did someone go to the trouble to put it in, then paste it
over?"

"Good question," Sal said, scowling pensively in the direction
of the woodpile. "I think you re right   it s a publisher s
mark. Though why it s been concealed all these years is a
mystery to me, as well." He thought for a moment. "Seems to
me," he said finally, "that whoever financed the printing of
the book must have used this symbol to represent their
organisation. But like I said before, it s an ancient and
relatively universal pictogram   if civilisation has one
common language, it s the language of Number. Narrowing it
down s going to be a piece of work."

I thought the Knights of the Golden Wand had their own money,
Hermione thought, and had just opened her mouth to say as much
when a light flicked on inside the cabin, distracting her.
"Looks like Severus is home," she said, catching a glimpse of
a dark figure as it swept past the window. "That took a while
didn t it? Thought he said it d be a short trip."

"I seem to remember that, too."

Sal grinned as the cabin s door opened and Severus came toward
them, scowling. "How was Paris?"

Snape s lip curled. "Complicated."

One long-fingered hand swirled behind him in an eloquently
irritated arabesque. Hermione wondered why, then found her own
question answered in short order when two more figures   one
tall and feminine, in a short orange dress; the other
sandy-haired and grimacing   blinked abruptly into existence
on the cabin s steps. "Oh," she said aloud, and smiled
tentatively at the newcomers. "Hi."

"Kate," the young man said, and hurried over to her. "Are you
okay? Are you sure you want to be here?" He slanted a dark
look at Severus, then leaned a little closer to her and
lowered his voice. "He s not   beating you or anything, is he?
"

Severus stifled a gargle of outrage. Hermione blinked.

"I m fine," she said blankly. Above her, the pretty woman in
the miniskirt sighed.

"Of course he s not beating her, Neville. He may be in dire
need of a personality transplant   no one s denying that   but
he s not a complete slimeball." She planted her hands on her
hips and stared down at Hermione. "You haven t the first clue
who we are, have you, honey?"

"Sorry," Hermione said, and decided to venture a guess.
"Friends of mine?"

"Glad to know someone realises that." The woman rolled her
eyes and turned to face Snape, who was looking aggravated and
smug in equal parts. "All right, fine," she said, shaking back
her mane of braids. "So you were telling the truth   or at
least some of it. But you re not going to get rid of us that
easily."

She grinned and shot Hermione a conspiratorial wink. "I, for
one, smell a mystery   and until it s solved, I m staying.
Plus, it s gorgeous here."

She turned her back on the sputtering Severus and extended her
hand to Hermione. "Joséphine Dessources. We re old school
friends, in case you re fuzzy on the details of our
acquaintance. Can t wait to catch you up. Is there a Floo
somewhere handy? I need to call Albus and tell him I ll be
delayed a few days."

"Straight inside, first door on the left," Sal said. He was
suppressing a smile. "And you, Mr. Longbottom? Shall we have
room service make you up a bed?"

Neville didn t look happy.

"I d rather eat slugs than stay a night in his house," he
said, glowering at Snape. "But until I m satisfied that Kate s
really all right, I m not going anywhere."

"Oh, good," Sal said, hoisting himself off the deck chair. "It
s a house party! I ll just go set out the canapés, then."

Through all this, Severus hadn t spoken. Judging from the look
on his face, Hermione wasn t sure she wanted him to.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Seven

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The cabin was finally quiet.

Its original inhabitant hadn’t been much of a Company Man; the
little building would have strained to hold three, if one of
them hadn’t been a ghost who – still mindful of the mild
arthritis he’d had in his corporeal joints, once upon a time –
preferred to do his sleeping in a reclining armchair.
Accommodating two more guests of the three-dimensional sort
was even more of a stretch.

Hermione wasn’t sure, but she thought Snape had taken himself
off to the hammock in the back yard, leaving Neville to
arrange himself as best he could on the living room’s
diminutive loveseat. His own bed he’d left to her, under the
proviso that she share it with Joséphine; it was definitely
large enough to sleep two comfortably, but now Hermione was
having trouble nodding off.

She plucked her watch off the beside table and glanced at it
blearily. Twelve-fifteen. On the other side of the bed,
Joséphine let out a sigh and snuggled her pillow closer. Even
with her braids tied up in a kerchief and her face scrubbed
bare, she was the most elegant woman Hermione had ever seen.
Which was just the tiniest bit depressing. Judging from the
way she and Neville had been eyeing each other over Sal’s pot
roast tonight, Snape had gotten the sleeping arrangements
wrong. Of course, that would have left Hermione stuck with the
loveseat – and charity only extended so far.

Not that box springs and feather down did you any good when
you couldn’t sleep anyway. Yawning, she threw her legs over
the side of the bed, dodged the recumbent Cleo, and headed for
the kitchen, being careful to step over the squeaky board in
the hallway as she edged past the parlor door.

As sleep aids went, she would have settled for a glass of
water and twenty minutes of Communion With Nature from the
front porch steps. Instead, she got Severus Snape, sitting at
the table in full Bat-regalia as if he’d never intended to
sleep at all, and brooding into a juice tumbler half-full of
some dangerous-looking dark amber liquid. He looked up as she
came in.

"You’re still wearing my pajamas."

As opening lines went, this one was fairly random. Nettled by
his accusatory tone, she struck a deliberately defiant pose
and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

"Want me to take them off?"

His eyes flickered for a second at that, but he didn’t rise to
her bait. "I did bring you your own things, you know."

Hermione immediately felt foolish.

"Sorry," she said, chastened. He shrugged.

"Don’t be sorry. Just wear your own clothes from now on."

There was a high spot of colour on each sharp cheekbone, as if
he thought he’d betrayed something by his reaction. He turned
away abruptly, swirled the syrupy-looking liquid in the glass,
and took a gulp. "Can’t you sleep?"

"Not so much." Hermione gestured toward his heavy black robes.
"Looks like you didn’t even try."

Instead of answering her, he took another drink. "I was about
to leave, actually."

"Leave?" Hermione raised one eyebrow. "For good?"

He sucked his teeth and shot her a narrow look. "No."

"Can I come along?"

Silence, as he drained the glass and set it down with a
heavy-sounding chunk. "It’s on your behalf," he said finally,
standing to rinse the tumbler and put it on the drying rack by
the sink. He didn’t look at her. "I don’t see how I can stop
you."

She decided to take that as a ‘yes.’

**

Their destination was Cairo, a city she allegedly knew – or at
least had known – by heart. She didn’t recognise anything
straightaway, but it did feel more comfortable than she would
have supposed to edge her way down its crowded mid-morning
sidewalks after him.

"Where are we going?" she asked, and Severus paused mid-stride
to look back at her.

"Gringotts. Wizarding bank."

"Oh." That made sense. "We’re looking for my research, then?"

Another half-exasperated glance. "We’re looking, at this
point, for anything we can find."

Hermione shut up.

They plowed through the heaving morass of closely-pressed
bodies around them and ducked into a blessedly cool little
storefront with drawn Venetian blinds over its dusty windows.
Inside the small space was a single battered desk, manned by a
man in a red turban and a melancholy monkey holding a tin cup.
The man nodded to Severus, who gave him a nod in reply and
then dug in his pocket for his wand.

A murmured word, a flash of light, and the monkey was
transformed, before Hermione’s astonished eyes, into a
free-standing door frame with a shiny tin knob. Another nod to
the red-turbaned guard, already pulling out his own wand to
effect the reverse transfiguration, and they walked through
the door frame and straight into Gringotts Cairo.

Seeing ghosts didn’t really prepare one, Hermione thought, for
processing the idea of goblins. Oddly enough, she wasn’t
alarmed by the guards at the bank’s entrance; their diminutive
height, paired with their crisply pressed bush khakis and
their severe expressions, gave them a bizarre sort of dignity.
The goblins in the teller’s cages wore blue uniforms and were
even more severe yet. It was to one of these that Severus
presented a small silver key.

It became apparent, as soon as the teller checked the number
engraved on the key, that this was not to be a routine visit.
A slight widening of the eyes, a pursing of the thin lips, and
the goblin backed wordlessly away from the window and back
behind an opaque glass screen. Severus and Hermione exchanged
perplexed glances, but didn’t have time to do much more than
shrug at each other before the goblin was back again, this
time accompanied by what was plainly its superior.

This newest goblin was dressed in a severely tailored Muggle
pinstriped suit and smart black leather pumps. Tasteful silver
hoops bracketed the tip of each pointy ear. Her voice was low
and gravelly.

"Follow me, please."

They trailed her across the grand Art Deco lobby and through a
plain frosted-glass door marked STAFF ONLY in English, Arabic,
and what Hermione could only assume were goblin-runes. Through
the door was a narrow corridor lined with offices. The goblin
shepherded them into one of these, gestured for them to sit,
and took the chair opposite them, behind a meticulously
polished teak desk.

She regarded them for a long moment before speaking, during
which Hermione fought the urge to fidget under her searching,
beady-eyed stare. Finally, the goblin sighed, rose from the
chair, and held out her hand across the desk.

"Mrs. Weasley," she said. "My name is Linchpin, though I don’t
imagine, given recent events, that you’ll remember me. You
late husband worked in my department."

Beside her, Severus tensed. He looked, Hermione thought with a
quick sideways glance, as surprised as she herself felt.
Linchpin, on the other hand, seemed completely unruffled by
their confusion and dismay.

"Never fear," she said drily, dropping the hand Hermione had
been too shocked to take and reseating herself primly behind
the big desk. "Your protection charm hasn’t failed you – yet,
anyway. And your secret is safe with me."

Hermione swallowed hard. "Then … how …?"

A faint, rather superior smile quirked the corner of the
goblin’s thin mouth.

"Your diamonds," she said. "You didn’t think we would send
Bill Weasley’s widow out into the hands of would-be murderers
unaided, did you? We’ve been watching you. And the day the
Fidelius Charm, even Albus Dumbledore’s Fidelius, stands
against a goblin-made tracking spell, is the day I hand over
my keys and go back to the mailroom. We’d hardly be successful
bankers if we couldn’t find people when we needed to – now,
would we?"

Her eyes dropped pointedly to the bare vee of skin at
Hermione’s throat. "We’d have been able to keep even closer
track of you, had you decided to actually wear one of them;
that was the point, you know. Even so, their presence in your
jewelry box in Paris gave our Department of Employee Records
enough to go on so that we could locate you. We’ve been
wanting to contact you – and I daresay we would have too, in
relatively short order, if your Secret-Keeper hadn’t whisked
you away in such a precipitous fashion."

At this, Hermione glanced quickly at Severus, who was looking
carefully blank. Clearly, his body language suggested, this
was her conversation, not his.

"You needed to contact me," she repeated slowly. "Why? Is
there some problem with my account?"

Linchpin shook her head.

"Not your account," she said, as though it were obvious. "Your
instincts."

"Sorry?"

"Your instincts," Linchpin repeated patiently. "Specifically,
your survival instincts." She swiveled to face Severus and
tipped her horn-rimmed spectacles to a sharper angle. "You
have told her, I presume," she continued, "that that Memory
Charm was just about the most ill-advised stunt she could have
pulled?"

Severus didn’t react. Hermione, however, scowled.

"Why do you care what I do, anyway?" she demanded, and
Linchpin turned to face her, her small black eyes blazing with
sudden ire.

"Because," she said icily, "I remember your husband. Even if
you don’t. He was mine to command, and therefore mine to
protect – a task at which I failed." She studied her bony
hands somberly. "Now, he is mine to avenge – an undertaking I
accept out of remembered friendship at least as much as duty,
if not more. I told you once before that we take care of our
own. And you, as his widow, are under the Gringotts umbrella
as well, like it or not."

Her eyes narrowed. "I must say that from what I knew of you,
Hermione Granger Weasley, I expected you to prove more help
than hindrance in the matter. You gave up your greatest
advantage over your attackers – fifteen years of magical
memory and skill – in one foolish moment of self-pity. I had
thought better of you."

Hermione bristled, then wilted under the goblin’s penetrating
black stare.

"It was weak of me," she admitted. Linchpin softened slightly.

"I understand your grief," she said stiffly. "But weakness is
no longer something you can afford to indulge. If you are ever
to reclaim your true name, ever to face your old friends
without a barrier of lies between you, you must first bring
Bill’s killers to justice. Your Fidelius was not meant to buy
you a permanent alias, just a bit of breathing room. Do you
understand me?"

Hermione nodded.

"Perfectly," she said, then paused, brought up short by a
sudden new thought.

"You were going to contact me in Paris," she said. "That must
mean you’ve found something out about the murder. What do you
know?"

Linchpin smiled. The smile was not altogether pleasant.

"Now you’re thinking," she said. "We may indeed have
something. You know that a militant group of pure-blooded
wizards calling themselves the Knights of the Golden Wand have
claimed responsibility for the crime."

It was a statement, not a question. Hermione nodded.

"Well," Linchpin said with a trace of satisfaction, "though
the identity of the Knights may be secret, the location of
their money is not. They hold an account at Gringotts London,
and we’ve been monitoring it."

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. "And?"

"And a review of their accounts for the past few hundred years
or so," Linchpin said, drawing a thick file toward her on her
desk, "brings to light a very interesting pattern. They’ve
been receiving large but irregular infusions of cash from one
of our Nameless accounts."

"Nameless?"

"A financial version of Unplottability," Severus said. It was
the first time he’d spoken since they’d entered Linchpin’s
office. "No name on the account. Expensive to maintain – if
I’m not mistaken, the bank charges a hefty monthly fee for the
privilege of anonymity – but undeniably useful, for those who
for one reason or another wish their finances to remain
untraceable. Voldemort had several such accounts – probably
still does, if one of his erstwhile minions hasn’t taken it
upon himself to clean them out."

He steepled his fingers in front of his face and frowned
pensively through them. "There’s a password, though, if I
remember correctly. Some sort of sigil or pictogram, in
addition to the key. Takes the place of a name."

"Really." Hermione leaned forward. "What about this account?"
she wanted to know. "What’s the mark? If it’s okay to ask,
that is."

"It’s not," Linchpin said, and smiled that cold satisfied
smile again. "Goes against every non-disclosure policy we
have." She reached for a quill, dunked it, and scraped off a
blot of excess ink. "But …"

"But what?"

The goblin was scrawling something laboriously on a bit of
spare parchment. "But the non-disclosure policy be damned,"
she said, and smiled, tight-lipped, at Hermione’s surprise.
"Wizards say that goblins have no loyalty," she said. "But
that is untrue. Our loyalty is to our own, and it is
unshakable. Here."

She pushed the parchment across the desk to Hermione. "There’s
the mark," she said, and Hermione gasped.

The circle was a tad lopsided, the square approximated, the
central X a bit askew. But the mark on the parchment was
identical to the printer’s mark she and Sal had discovered not
twenty-four hours ago in Phineas Sturbridge’s autobiography.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Eight

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It had been a long time since Neville had taken a day off.

After all, when you had your dream job, vacations seemed sort
of superfluous. He couldn’t honestly think of anything more
pleasant than the back greenhouse in the Jardin des Plantes –
sunlight, potting soil silky between his fingers, the smell of
plants, sharp and green as the distillate of life itself –
even if it was nice to sleep late for once. And if he had felt
moved to find a temporary change of pace, Severus Snape’s
spookily quiet mountain cabin in Montana would hardly have
been his first choice.

It wouldn’t even have made the top hundred.

Still, the situation had one intriguing, brassy bright spot.
He finished the last of his orange juice, rinsed out his glass
in the sink, and went to go find her.

She was stretched out in the back yard hammock, drinking a
conjured margarita and flipping idly through one of Snape’s
back issues of Ars Alchemica. She was wearing faded low-rise
blue jeans worn white at the knees and a tight, fuzzy red
turtleneck jumper, and her braids were in glorious disarray
around her head; with that slight faraway curve to her mouth
and one hand in suggestive repose on the upper curve of her
thigh, she looked like the wizarding version of a soft-core
centerfold. Neville could see the caption now – Potions
Mistress on Holiday – and imagine the next page in his head,
something shamefully kinky with a cauldron and a Binding
Spell.

The thought made him blush, and it was at that instant that
she chose to look up.

"Neville. Hey." She laid the magazine to one side and shifted
her long expanse of invitingly-arranged body to leave room for
him on the hammock. "Join me?"

The jumper had ridden up, revealing a small silver ring in her
navel. Neville fought to keep his eyes off it. "Um. Thanks."

"You look like you’ve gotten a little too much sun."

He shook his head, blushing even more wildly, and dropped
gingerly onto the empty side of the hammock. "Orange juice,"
he lied. "It always gives me a flush."

"Jeez." She shot him a knowing, naughty smile and trailed one
fingertip down the bridge of his nose. "You must have really,
really sensitive skin."

He flushed hotter and turned his face away. "Guess so. Where’s
everybody else?"

"Kate’s off with Snape to try and find some research paper
that may or may not be in Cairo – I saw the note they left for
Sal on the kitchen table. They must not be having the best of
luck … they left in the middle of the night, and they aren’t
back yet." Lazily, she checked her watch. "Almost eight hours
now, by my count. They must have stopped for lunch."

Neville, who readily admitted to naïveté but wasn’t after all
blind, had seen enough industrial-strength steel-cable tension
pass between his friend and his former professor last night at
dinner to have his own ideas about what might have delayed
them. He kept them to himself. "Oh. And Sal?"

"Caught the morning fireplace to Hogwarts," Joséphine said.
"Said something about needing to do some research. From what
he said, he’s got a personal library the size of Oahu stashed
somewhere in the subdungeons. Couldn’t bring it all with him."
She grinned at him. "Guess it’s just you and me, Nev. Whatever
will we do with ourselves?"

"Um." He’d been a million times more comfortable with her when
he’d still thought she might be villainous. Now that he knew
the truth, his comfort level was eroding rapidly; mild
flirtation with strangers was one thing, and his brief affair
with Itmana had been another, but Joséphine Dessources had all
the hallmarks of a major-league player, and he wasn’t sure he
was ready to step into a batting cage with her, even if she
did look like expensively-packaged sin and smell a million
times better. "Not sure. Scrabble?"

She laughed. Neville swallowed hard.

"What?"

"You’re funny, that’s what."

He was used to having girls laugh at him. "Oh. Right."

"And sweet. Don’t get all huffy." She did something with her
hips that brought her body into closer contact with his.
"Don’t know what it is about you – normally, I’m afraid, nice
guys just don’t do it for me. I’m a bit at a loss."

Now it was his turn to laugh. "You? At a loss? Now you’re just
trying to make me feel better."

"No, I’m serious." She smoothed her braids back and met his
eyes with a gaze more forthright, for once, than flirtatious.
"You’re interesting. You look like the kind of guy who’d
rather eat slugs than get into an argument, but you would have
taken me apart back there in the park, when you thought I was
after Kate. And you’ve got the biggest case of Snape-phobia
I’ve ever seen – and believe me, I’ve seen a few; my older
students started out with him, after all – but you’re sticking
here, instead of running back to Paris."

Neville shrugged. "So?"

"So, it’s impressive." She tipped her head to one side, a move
that made her look younger, less sure of herself. "Most people
have one vibe, you know? You’ve got six or seven, and they’re
all fighting with each other. I never know whether you’re
going to be a marshmallow or a tiger. Keeps me on my toes, and
it makes me wonder …"

They were so close that he could feel her breath on his cheek,
sweet with lime and heavy with tequila. His heart was thumping
out a Code Red with every breath he took, but he couldn’t seem
to move. "Wonder? Wonder what?"

"Well, a couple of things." She edged a little closer, so that
when she spoke he could feel her lips move against the
hammering pulse in his throat. "Which it’s going to be at
first. Which it’s going to be at the end. And what it’s going
to take to make you … change."

As invitations went, this one came with a car and driver and a
bottle of champagne. Neville brought up the hand that wasn’t
wedged between their bodies to touch her face – and then it
was as if his body suddenly realised where it was – hey, those
are legs, those are tits, there’s a mouth to kiss and oil to
drill, get moving, boys – and took over from his brain.

With a muffled groan, he pushed her over on her back, angled
one knee across her hips to hold her where he wanted her, and
buried his mouth in hers.

**

"Here we are," Linchpin said, and flung the door of the vault
wide open. Severus waited for Hermione to enter the room, then
followed her with a distinct feeling of relief – Gringotts
Cairo protected its vaults with a rabbit warren of tunnels,
sand traps, and carefully-placed Sphinxii, the effect of which
was distinctly vertiginous. He rather wished now that he
hadn’t had that last finger of Old Ogden’s.

"Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley had all the things from your
house boxed and stored here," Linchpin said now. "They’re in
the room to the left; all your personal effects and savings
are to the right. I’ve other business to attend to; I’ll leave
you to it, shall I?" She handed Hermione a tiny silver bell.
"Ring this when you’re ready, and one of the guides will come
down to see you back up."

"Thank you," Hermione said, pocketing the bell. Linchpin
nodded curtly, snapped her fingers, and vanished.

They stood among the neatly-boxed remains of her old life and
stared at each other, unsure of where to begin. Finally,
Severus forced himself to break the silence.

"Right," he said. "You go one way, I’ll go the other. Let me
know if you find anything."

She nodded numbly and – much to his surprise – took the left
doorway toward the household effects, leaving him to deal with
the treasure. He stared after her for a long second, then
turned in the other direction.

All the same to him, wasn’t it? Still, very strange.

He opened a box, trying unsuccessfully to shake the feeling
that he was snooping, and got to work.

**

The earth was moving, and it had nothing to do with the fact
that they were in a hammock. Neville tore his mouth away from
hers and gasped for air.

"Steady on, Slick." Her eyes were glittering, her mouth
swollen as she fought her way to a sitting position and
stripped the red jumper over her head. "Where’s my wand? I
want to throw up an Obfuscus."

His eyes had reattached themselves to that tiny, glittering
bit of silver in her navel. "Your what?"

She laughed shakily and made a grab for the little
glass-topped table that held the dregs of her margarita.
"Never mind, I’ve got it. Just hold still, okay?" Moments
later, she dropped the wand again. "All right, that should
hold the unintentionally curious at bay. Now, c’mere – I want
to see what’s under that shirt. Oh, very nice."

Her brassiere unhooked at the front and fell to the side.
Neville felt all the blood in his body battle its way to his
groin. Joséphine looked momentarily smug.

"Pretty, aren’t they? Had them done at the same time as the
belly button. Go on – you can touch them."

He reached out tentatively to give the little silver rings a
gentle tug – and immediately shuddered, as the same sensation
reverberated through his own nipples. "Oh, my God."

"Didn’t I mention that? They’re enchanted." Joséphine guided
his hand down her abdomen. "Everything I feel, you feel too.
Go on, then."

He stroked the belly ring with a worshipful forefinger and
felt an answering tug in the depths of his guts, a little
electric thrill that nearly doubled him over, small unseen
hands touching parts of him he hadn’t known he had. His palms
were buzzing with desire, his blood leaping with it. "Oh, God
," he said again, biting his lips. "I don’t – I can’t. I
didn’t know."

She should have looked triumphant – how many times must she
have gotten this same reaction? – but instead she looked
shaken. "Jesus, Slick," she said now. "You’ve no idea, have
you? It comes back around again, see? You vibe me, I vibe you.
Bloody incredible." She pulled his hands up from his sides,
pressed her naked breasts into them. "You can’t believe the
energy you’re throwing off – now, pinch them, will you? Hard."

How the rest of their clothes came off, he hadn’t a clue.
Wonder what it feels like for the girl – well, they’d all
thought about that at one point and time, hadn’t they?

He was going to die. Smiling.

She sank down on him, grinding her torso into his, and he
yelled with the sharpness of it, paper-cut slash of the
nipples and the hot spreading connection underneath, as though
they’d been welded together with the force of their fusion.
She groped for his hand, dragged it down her belly.

"One more," she gasped. "With your fingers – no, just these
two – there. Feel it? Now."

All he felt was hot and wet; it wasn’t immediately clear to
his trembling fingertips which slipperiness was the silver
ring and which was just her. He rubbed anyway, and felt an
answering rush of heat inside him, a giant clenching fist
squeezing tighter and tighter the faster he rubbed. Above him,
Joséphine was making sounds like a taxiing airplane gathering
speed for takeoff; it should have been funny, but he just
couldn’t think with that part of his brain right now.

He’d had sex before, but this was new, this was a bloody
revelation and he wished it wouldn’t ever end. There, there
was the ring, he’d managed to catch it between his fingers
now, and what happened when he tugged on it made both of them
scream – yes, yes, again, again! So nice not to have to wonder
whether she was having a good time, though there wasn’t really
room in his head for that … and then she did something with
her pelvis that caught that bit of charmed metal hard between
them like a tiny, sizzling donut-shaped brand, and as Neville
gave it up and poured himself into her with a final whimpering
burst of electricity, he forgot to think of anything at all.

They cried and shook and held on to each other – to think I’d
given up on witches, Neville said wonderingly at some point,
and got a trembling laugh out of her in response. It wasn’t
until they’d pried themselves apart, a quarter-hour later,
that they noticed the sky.

"Where’d the sun go?" he asked, frowning a little, and
Joséphine shook her head.

"That’s not the sky," she said. "The Obfuscus is a type of
Barrier Charm, right? We’ve fogged it over."

It was true.

**

It was amazing, Severus thought, how going through a couple’s
savings account could tell you so much about their marriage.

It wasn’t so much the money, though there were telltale
details in that, too – separate piles, separate accounts, but
also a box of gold in the middle marked ‘College Fund’ in
Hermione’s neat script. It was the other things they’d found
it worthwhile to put in the vault – the deed to the house, a
binder full of passwords and careful notes on various magical
locations where Bill had worked, some tissue-wrapped handmade
infant clothes that Severus supposed Molly had made once upon
a time and saved from the sure destruction of the hand-me-down
circuit. A thin folder containing the originals of Hermione’s
patents; a scrapbook full of press clippings; their marriage
license.

He plucked a dried sprig of lavender from one of the small
bundles of tissue and unfolded it gently, marvelling at the
worksmanship – this wasn’t the work of a woman overwhelmed
with children, but a new bride’s labour of love, as delicate
and carefully stitched as a wedding gown. He pictured the two
of them – mother-in-law and daughter-in-law – cooing over baby
clothes, and felt a hard bright stab in his gut; it was hard
to imagine a more vivid or painful reminder of what Hermione
had lost, the day of Bill’s death.

They’d brought Hermione’s jewelry box with them that morning,
for safekeeping in the vault, and she’d set it down off to one
side of the pile of gold. He hesitated, then opened the lid.

There was her infamous sapphire pendant, the twin of which was
probably still sitting on Albus Dumbledore’s filing cabinet
collecting dust. There was the silver charm bracelet, and
there was the jade scarab he’d given her when she left
Hogwarts. The wristwatch wasn’t there – apparently she was
still wearing it – but a quick look inside a small black
velvet bag revealed the loose diamonds with the goblin-made
tracking spell on them. He glanced over his shoulder, then
tipped them hastily onto his palm.

Get one of them out of the box, Linchpin had murmured to him a
few minutes ago, and put it in a setting. Make her wear it.
This thing won’t end easily, and we can’t help her if we don’t
know where she is.

He chose one of the smaller diamonds – the biggest was nearly
the size of his thumbnail, but he wasn’t doing this for the
sake of aesthetics – then replaced the rest of them and stowed
the little bag neatly back in its velvet-lined compartment. He
was just about to close the lid of the box when a gleam of
gold caught his eye.

It was a man’s wedding ring, plain yellow gold worn shiny on
its outer edge by wear and blowing sand. It was slightly
flattened, as if by forceps; Severus swallowed hard and tried
not to think about how they’d gotten it off Bill Weasley’s
dead finger.

Focus, will you? There’s no research here; it must be in her
half of the vault.

He closed the box, tucked it into a corner, and went to go
find her.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the vault, a
stack of papers around her like a sacred circle. She didn’t
look up when Severus came in.

"Did you find anything?"

She flicked her eyes up at him, then back down quickly to the
document she was holding. "The research? It’s over there – I
set it aside."

He picked up the pair of black binders she’d indicated, then
studied her closely. "You’re sure this is right?"

"Seems it." She shrugged. "There’s a whole set in that filing
cabinet over there, all marked by date. These are the most
recent, and the only ones with a photocopy of the patent not
clipped to them. I glanced through, but it didn’t make much
sense to me."

Severus nodded. "Ready to go, then?" He indicated the papers
surrounding her. "What’s all this?"

"Letters," she said shortly. He frowned.

"Letters?"

She looked up and held his eyes, and he could read the shock
and weariness on her face. "I don’t remember this at all," she
said slowly, "but apparently Bill and I wrote letters back and
forth, when he was out on assignment. Not sure who saved them
– whether it was him, or whether it was me – but they’re all
here, both sets. I’ve been going through them."

Oh, God. He felt his face align into automatic lines of
sympathy, then wiped them off again with considerable effort;
no one liked to be pitied. "I’m sure it’s interesting
reading," he said neutrally. "You were both gifted writers, as
I recall."

She shrugged this off. "I can’t believe it," she said, and he,
recognising that high note of impending tears in her voice,
sank warily down next to her.

"Can’t believe what?"

"That I’ve been through all these," she said, "and I still
can’t remember."

She swiped at her eyes. "You should read them. This man,
that’s dead, and this woman, that was – that was me … well,
they had a relationship. They were goddamn fucking in love. I
don’t know them – either of them – and I’m still all weepy
from it; it’s like some Tragic Doomed Epic, reading this and
knowing how it turned out in the end." She smoothed her thumb
over a crease in the letter she was holding. "But it’s just a
sad, beautiful story to me – I can’t really remember it."

Cautiously, he handed her his handkerchief. "Do you want to?"

She put down the letter and wiped her eyes with shaking hands.
"I don’t know," she said finally. "I just don’t know."

**

When they left the vault, Severus noticed, she took the
letters with her. But neither of them mentioned it.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Twenty-Nine

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Early on in her visit to the mountain cabin, Hermione had
discovered the treehouse.

The original owner of the property, Snape’s Uncle Nestor (or
so she’d been told by Sal), had constructed the treehouse in a
huge live oak a few hundred yards into the forest that
surrounded the cabin.  He’d used it for birdwatching, for
conducting certain of his
slightly-illegal-by-Ministry-of-Magic-standards weather
experiments, and for keeping an eye out for any trespassing
Muggle foolhardy enough to wander onto his land despite the
layers of highly unpleasant wards he’d thrown up around his
own little private slice of Paradise.

As one might expect from a magically-constructed edifice, it
boasted creature comforts its Muggle counterpart probably
wouldn’t have been able to muster:  skylights, climate
control, primitive-but-usable plumbing.  The small main room’s
focal point centered around a battered, cozy reclining
armchair and a bookcase made from unfinished planks, stuffed
with paperback espionage thrillers and do-it-yourself
home-repair primers.

All in all, a not-uncomfortable retreat – if you remembered to
bring a sandwich and a thermos of tea, you’d be good for an
entire afternoon.  But it wasn’t comfort Hermione was after
right now, as much as privacy – and that, the treehouse
offered in spades.  Glancing behind her to make sure no one
had noticed her slipping out of the house, she wound her way
through the thick foliage that all but obscured the narrow
path to the old oak, clambered up the ivy-hung ladder nailed
to the treetrunk, and locked the trapdoor entrance behind her
before seating herself on the hooked rug in front of the
armchair and tipping out of their protective wrapping the
letters she’d taken from the Cairo vault.

They were neatly folded – many in their original envelopes –
and meticulously filed in chronological order.  Of those
without envelopes, some were single sheets of parchment that
had evidently been owled back and forth, round-robin style, in
a single afternoon, filled with alternating bands of her own
neat script and Bill’s more careless handwriting; reading
them, Hermione could picture a dispirited post-owl, flapping
wearily from office to office and back again with yet another
witty one-liner of a reply.

And then, of course, there were gaps in time – two weeks,
three weeks, a month – between the more substantial
correspondence that marked Bill’s frequent business trips.
Reading through these paper ghosts of the life she no longer
remembered was, for Hermione, like peering through a two-way
mirror into the past.

What was it Snape had said?  You were both good writers.
Well, that she wasn’t disputing – nor could she deny that she,
the Hermione she no longer was, had been madly in love with
Bill Weasley, and he with her.  Even the most banal of their
written exchanges – do you want chicken or beef for dinner
tonight?—why don’t you surprise me?—were woven through with
mutual affection and respect, as apparent as sunlight behind
coloured glass.

Passion, teasing, tenderness – it was all there.  They’d been
a regular Baucis and Philemen in the making, from the looks of
things:  that most elusive of Hollywood mirages, the
eternally-fortunate Lucky In Love.  Hermione studied the
picture of Bill that she’d filched from the photo album,
imagined those bright eyes closed forever, and shivered.

Creepy.

It had been cloudy since they returned from Cairo, drizzling
halfheartedly for the past half hour or so, and was now
threatening to rain in earnest.  Hermione glanced at her watch
– a quarter hour until Sal had dinner ready; if she wasn’t
there by then, he’d be cross – and began to gather the letters
back into the ribbons that had confined them.

If she hadn’t dropped the last one in her hurry, she wouldn’t
have noticed it at all – on her initial rustle-through, she’d
presumed it to be just a stray empty envelope with her name on
it in Bill’s writing.  Now, however, she gave it a closer look
as she picked it up, then froze.

Not only wasn’t it empty, it hadn’t ever been opened.

Strange.

Disbelieving, she turned it over and pried at the seal of the
envelope with one fingernail.  The glue didn’t budge.  She
flipped it back over and stared at her name again.  A cold,
prescient finger of mingled anticipation and dread had tangled
in her intestines and was slowly stirring, stirring,
stirring.  She bit her lip, then shifted her attention back to
the other letters.  The rataplan, rataplan of cold rain had
begun to hit the glass of the skylight.  She didn’t pay any
attention.

This one had been on the bottom.

This one had been last.

This one had been saved – never opened, then?

Or never sent in the first place?

Her heart was racing, her mouth as papery as if she’d just
sprinted up a hill – or turned a corner and found a mountain
lion waiting for her.  Come to think of it, maybe she’d prefer
the mountain lion.  Even through the sealed envelope, this
letter was whispering to her – I know things, I know things
you don’t know – and there was no telling what untold dangers
might fly out, once she actually read the thing.

It must have been Bill, then, who’d saved all the letters.
Why would he go to all the trouble to write it and seal it,
but never give it to her?

Good question.

Numbly, she crossed the room and turned up the wick on the
kerosene lamp, then sank cross-legged into the comfy old
recliner with the letter on her lap – the weather, the
impending dinner hour, and Sal’s inevitable displeasure
forgotten.  The cold, bitter tang of adrenaline still sat
heavy on her tongue – why? she asked herself fiercely, why are
you so guilty, why are you afraid?  It’s addressed to you,
isn’t it?  It’s yours.

She traced the letters of her name with one finger, drawing
out the process as if it mattered, as if it would change the
decision she’d already made, the decision that was – since
Time immemorial – inevitable; even before Pandora, after all,
sealed boxes had been made solely to be opened.

Feeling like a backhoe operator at an archaeology dig, she
took a deep breath and ripped open the flap.

**

Hermione, the letter read:

Two years today – can you believe it?  You’re asleep, and I
ought to be.  Think there was too much rum in the cake; I’ve
got indigestion and I can’t be bothered to go downstairs for
an antacid.  Or maybe it’s just deep thoughts.  Hard to tell
the difference, sometimes.

You’re snoring.  It’s really, REALLY loud.  Funny how I never
notice it when I’m asleep, too.  Between you, me, and Cleo, we
must sound like a monster truck rally.

I was just remembering today something I heard Mum say, just
before we got married – remember, I took that weekend and went
to the Burrow, to clear the rest of my things out of the
attic?  It was a night like this one … I was supposed to be
sleeping, but couldn’t, and Mum and I stayed up talking.
Can’t remember most of it, of course, but this one thing’s
stayed with me – she said:  “Having a marriage license doesn’t
automatically turn you into a mind-reader, you know.  You want
to know what she’s thinking, you’re best off asking her.”

It’s true.  Almost three years with you – two with my ring –
we eat the same cereal, we share the same bed, and parts of
you are still a puzzle to me.  I like it, mostly, don’t
misunderstand me.  I wouldn’t change you for anything.  But
there’s this one thing that’s been bothering me.

It’s silly.  It’s so small, and I’m sure you’ve no idea you’re
doing it.  But even right now it’s happening – you get this
look sometimes, when you’re sleeping, this utterly beatific
look, this smile.  The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
And then when you wake up – just for a second, before you’re
properly awake – you see me, and you look a little bit
puzzled, like I’m not the one you expected.

Told you it was stupid, didn’t I?  But it bothers me, and I’m
not sure which is worse:  that I don’t know who it is that’s
putting that smile on your face, or that I’m afraid I might.

You never told me about him, but I figured it out anyway.  Not
till it was over, of course – I’m not that quick.  But I saw
the looks on both your faces, that night in Alexandria, and
you’ve never looked at me that way – like I was devil, angel,
hope, despair, all four – love and grief and loathing all
rolled up in one messy Gordian knot you’d have to cut through
to kill.  Sometimes I’m jealous of that.  Mostly I’m glad –
glad that what we have isn’t that conflicted, that shadowed –
glad that you can love me, and not regret it.

But it makes me think about him, which is something I never
did much before I knew that you’d been together.  And the
conclusions I reach aren’t comfortable or nice ones, which
also bothers me – you know that you’re my stars and moon,
Hermione, that I wouldn’t give you up for anything, but I also
can’t help but think myself greedy.  Family, friends, love –
all my life, I’ve been so fortunate.  And I stole his only
jewel, to give my already-rich crown a centerpiece.

How lucky I am to have you.  And how lonely he must be.

Without realising she did it, Hermione muttered something
under her breath, then plucked a tissue from midair and wiped
her streaming eyes.

There was only one more paragraph.  She swallowed hard, trying
unsuccessfully to dislodge the tennis ball that had
mysteriously sprouted in her throat, and turned back to the
yellowed page.

I wonder if it would comfort him, to know he’s still in your
dreams?  So selfish of me, to begrudge him that unconscious
corner of you between sleep and waking.  But I am not so
divided, you see.  And despite my mother’s advice – I’ll never
know what you’re thinking until I ask – I find myself
reluctant to do that.

If you are dreaming about him, I think I’d rather not know.

--Bill

**

No wonder he didn’t give it to me, Hermione thought, and
refolded the letter with cold but steady hands.

It was dinnertime.  And after that, she and Snape had
unfinished business.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty

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Severus wasn t exactly thrilled with the state of his
household, upon returning from Cairo. For one thing, he had
two guests too many, and they weren t his favourite people on
the planet by any stretch of the imagination. Worse - for a
couple of urbanites circumstantially stuck in the sticks -
they looked irritatingly content, nay, blissful. He thought he
knew why, too - Joséphine Dessources might play her romantic
cards close to that capacious, well-defined chest of hers, but
Longbottom s discretion came harder won; he had the stunned,
disbelieving air of a man who had fallen asleep in the
Catskills, á là Rip van Winkle, and woken up in Caesar s
Palace.

That - that look of shocked, I
m-going-to-wake-up-any-minute-now-somebody-pinch-me-please awe
- that was the most annoying bit of all. If Severus couldn t
act on his own desires, it was a sure bet that he didn t want
anyone else getting laid, either.

And then there was Sal, who had returned from Hogwarts much
more subdued than was ordinarily his wont - apparently his
research hadn t gone as well as he had hoped. Severus,
worried, had broken a lifelong habit of feigned indifference
to inquire after him ("Everything all right, then?") and
gotten only a terse nod in reply. Even making dinner -
normally the pinnacle of Sal s day, made even more euphoric an
act of gastronomic theatre now that he had an audience of four
- hadn t cheered him up. Now, from the tiny broom-closet
Severus had painstakingly Expanded into a laboratory, he could
hear the piqued sounds of deliberate crashing; Sal was taking
out his annoyance on the washing-up.

Disturbing to his equilibrium as all this was, it was nothing
compared to his concern over Hermione - as always, she d
managed to worm her way out of the sideshow acts and onto
centre stage. She d been silent on the way out of Gringotts,
made herself scarce before dinner, and had only shown up
halfway through the pudding course, rain-soaked and red-eyed
and bearing along with her carefully-guarded packet of letters
a look of chin-jutting determination he knew only too well.
Clearly she d made a decision of some sort, and it was all he
could do, after the morning s events, not to jerk her away
from her caramel flan and demand to know what she was
thinking.

As it turned out, however, he hadn t long to wait for
enlightenment. There was a knock on his study door, a
perfunctory pause, and then she slipped into the laboratory,
wary and watchful as a child ghost. For a moment, she might
have been a first- or second-former, and he back in his
immaculate dungeon classroom, cynically awaiting her
inevitable, earnest queries about whatever it was they d
covered that day - could he recommend any additional reading,
would he mind if she followed up with an experiment of her own
using similar ingredients as substitutions, might she possibly
add another scroll to her report?

He thought about the responses with which he d greeted her
overtures, nine times out of ten, and smiled grimly to
himself. Perhaps it wasn t such a tragedy that some memories,
at least, were presently beyond her reach.

"Do you have a moment?" she asked, snapping him back to the
present. He slipped what he d been working on out of sight
underneath a splayed-open Brewer s Journal of the Alchemical
Arts, put on a look of long-suffering, as if he hadn t spent
an impatient half-hour waiting for precisely this
interruption, and sighed.

"Apparently."

She shut the door behind her, eyed him uncertainly, opened her
mouth, and closed it again. Severus arched one eyebrow.

"Shall I say  Once upon a time? " he queried nastily. "Maybe
that would shake something loose in there."

Bastard, her gaze said, but she didn t look nearly so
apprehensive now. "I ve spent the afternoon going through Bill
s letters."

"And?" His eyes dropped to the envelope in her hand. "You ve
come for show and tell, I suppose?"

"This one was unopened," she said, turning it over and over in
her fingers as if it was a talisman. "I read it for the first
time today." A deep, steadying breath. "It s about you."

This rattled him a bit, though he wasn t about to show her
that. "How random. I can t imagine why."

Her head came up with a snap, and he saw with a start that her
eyes were blazing. "You didn t tell me everything."

Oh, yes, he thought - now this was vintage Hermione, not the
first-former anymore but the self-assured,
not-even-remotely-intimidated-by-him harridan she d been after
her adventure in Rome, cutting right through all the niceties
and directly to the matter at hand. "No?"

"No." She thrust the envelope under his nose as if it
contained a death warrant. "You haven t even come close."

Severus regarded the envelope warily, but made no move to take
it.

"Miss Granger," he said in his most repressive, professorial
tones, "if you feel yourself kept in the dark, perhaps it s
time for me to remind you once again that you brought all this
on yourself. Your ignorance of your own personal life is
hardly my problem, now is it?"

She flinched, then rallied sufficiently to glare at him.

"As if I haven t had that pounded home to me enough already
today," she said irritably. "Look - I m not trying to saddle
you with the responsibility for this mess; I m well aware that
I got myself into it all on my own. I just want to understand,
that s all."

When in doubt, play dumb. "Understand what?"

She shrugged impatiently. "Anything. Everything. It s hard to
explain. Here."

She was waggling the envelope under his nose again. Severus,
overcome by foreboding, took it reluctantly. "What s in it?"

"Just read it, will you?"

He would have recognised Bill Weasley s handwriting even
without a signature - the only child in that family to possess
talent, creativity and inclination for the subject all three,
he d been one of Severus  best students. Somewhere in his
files, he still had one of Bill s essays, a neatly-crafted
little gem on the various uses of powdered willowfine. It had
been that rarity of written student assignments - a pleasure
to read.

Somehow, he didn t think he was going to be so lucky with this
sample.

He read it through twice, then took his time refolding it. It
took him two tries to get it back in the envelope. "Why did
you show me this?"

If she was surprised by his shaken tone, she didn t show it.
"I thought you should see it."

He felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. "Why on earth
would I want to? It s got nothing whatsoever to do with me."

"Liar." She swept the letter off his desk and held it
protectively against her body. "It s got everything to do with
you, whether you choose to admit it or not. And I want to know
if it s true."

"I m hardly the man to tell you," Severus said harshly. "Bill
Weasley s the only one who could have answered that question
with any degree of accuracy at all. And you ve managed to kill
even the memory of him. A bit late to be curious now, don t
you think?"

She paled at the deliberate cruelty of this cut, but didn t
back down. "I know he thought it was true," she said steadily.
"But I want to know if it really was."

Her voice shook a little on the last word; she bit her lip to
steady herself, and leaned a little closer. "Was I in love
with you?" she wanted to know. "Were you in love with me?"

Bloody hell.

**

There were probably millions of ways in which those two
questions could be asked, Severus mused. Hermione Granger
chose to ask them looming at him over the top of his desk,
small hands fisted firmly atop the reading he d been set to
begin that afternoon and hadn t gotten to, nostrils flared and
brown eyes narrowed to gimlets: the truth, said those eyes, or
the consequences. You choose.

Incongruous as this might have seemed to the casual observer,
it reminded Severus so strongly of the pre-Obliviate,
pre-Fidelius Hermione that he could have cheered. He didn t,
of course - mostly because there was another voice taking up
space in his head at the same time. This one was his own, but
so excited, so charged with urgency that he hardly recognised
it: you let her walk away once before, it said, and look what
s happened - the gods threw her back in your lap. You have her
damaged now, when you might have had her whole. Are you going
to let it happen again?

It wasn t easy arguing with that logic, but he tried. This isn
t the time. Or the place. I might not even be the man.

You keep telling yourself that, but the proof is standing
right in front of you. When are you going to admit that it s
meant to be, and take what s yours?

"Now," he said aloud, surprising himself. Hermione frowned at
him, more out of bewilderment than irritation.

" Now?  What s that supposed to mean?" She scowled, wiping
hair out of her eyes. "Not to spell it out for you, but I was
rather hoping for a  yes  or  no ."

Severus barely heard her for the rushing of blood in his ears.
That long-buried devil s-advocate bit of him, scenting
victory, pushed harder: You caused all this, in a way. Here s
your chance to make it right.

"What a pity," he said thoughtfully, reaching out to grasp her
by her shoulders. She goggled at him, stunned.

"What? What s a pity?"

He came out of his seat and yanked her a little closer - oh
yes, this felt good, this felt very good indeed, and she felt
good too, glorious mess of hang-ups and pheromones and
world-class contradictions that she was. What a pair we are,
eh?

"Limiting yourself to  yes  or  no ," he said, and was
astonished to feel his facial muscles stretching into the
largely unfamiliar territory of a full-out grin. "When there s
such a world of possibilities in between."

He bent to kiss her, and she let him do it.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-One

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At first, Hermione was too surprised to react.

"Was I in love with you?" she'd asked -- "were you in love
with me?" -- but for all her boldness, she'd never in a
million years expected a straightforward answer from him,
oblique sarcastic creature that he was. What a surprise it had
been to see him shaken, to see the seemingly-impregnable mask
that he maintained so fastidiously crack at last into a
wicked, genuine smile. Almost frightening, seeing the flash of
teeth behind those perpetually-tight lips; why, he's not so
scary after all, whispered her subconscious, making her blush.

Then she'd blushed anyway, but for other reasons.

He had her yanked hard against the front of the desk, and
under normal circumstances she'd have said it was damned
uncomfortable -- hard wooden edge, pelvis tilted at an awkward
angle, calf muscles straining to tiptoe and hands fluttering
at her sides like tame birds uncaged: free to fly, but unsure
of where they wanted to go. His own hands weren't so
indecisive. One was tangled in the curls at the side of her
head; the other had her by the upper arm, probably hard enough
to leave a mark.

For the first few seconds of the kiss -- brief, but clarion --
she was aware of all this, not only the physical indignity but
also the sheer incredulousness of the situation in general;
what the bloody hell was she doing, kissing this moody
mercurial stranger of a man who up until now hadn't seemed
even to like her very much, and who, when taken apart feature
by feature, wasn't all that attractive to begin with?

And then, she remembered him.

It was odd. Certainly she hadn't any more information in her
brain than usual, regarding him; she'd still have been
hard-pressed to recall a single one of his lectures, and from
all accounts she'd sat through those twice a week for six
years. Probably she'd also picked up other, more personal
knowledge of him along the way, in the course of their
acquaintance, and she didn't have that at her disposal now,
either.

What she did have was a visceral, physical pull, hot and
liquid, shooting up from cervix to brain stem in the space of
one single volcanic heartbeat: Relax, her body was telling
her, I know him, even if you don't. And though, in the bits of
her memory still remaining to her, there wasn't a single
recollection of her ever having had sex, with anyone, somehow
the rest of her was managing to function admirably all the
same. Hermione fought her way through a jumbled collection of
sensory input as her body recalibrated itself -- loosening,
tightening, shivering, swelling, oh Jesus, oh Christ, oh
bloody, bloody hell -- and barely managed to keep herself on
her feet.

If this was standard pre-coital arousal, it was pretty damn
frightening.

He broke away from the kiss to mutter something incoherent,
then grasped her by the shoulders and hoisted her bodily onto
the desk. His Brewer's Journal came loose from its cover;
papers went flying; an entire bell jar full of
freshly-sharpened quills crashed to the floor ... and he
didn't so much as flinch, merely slid her toward him until her
legs dangled off his side of the desk, stepped into the cradle
of her body, and with a satisfied sound in his throat --
half-hum, half-growl -- bent to kiss her again.

("Did you hear something?" Neville asked from two rooms over,
poised on the brink of what was a rather similar pursuit.)

("No," Joséphine said.)

("Oh. All right then.")

Neither Severus nor Hermione noticed the small, faintly
metallic rattle of platinum against wood laminate, in the
ensuing fracas. As her hands finally travelled up those lean
black-clothed sides to lock around his neck (ah yes, sighed
her body, that's the ticket, all right), a plain silver band
housing an extraordinarily brilliant stone chittered away
across the polished floor, where it eventually came to rest
beneath a cabinet of glassware in the room's remotest corner.

They didn't even look up.

**

For a second, she'd stood uncomprehending in his embrace --
not protesting, exactly, but hardly an active participant
either. Then, something had changed.

She'd made some small exhalation of a noise -- ah, maybe, or
oh. And then -- not that there were words for it, exactly --
she'd sort of ... melted into him, that whole brittle,
tightly-held little body of hers going suddenly slack and
willing, her mouth opening, greedy under his, as if to prove
that old chestnut: there were more kinds of hunger than just
the one.

If he'd been in his right mind, he might have wondered what
caused the abrupt shift in her demeanor. But he wasn't, and so
he didn't -- just took her by the first bit of her he could
reach and hauled her up and across, heedless of the mayhem he
was causing to his carefully-organised desk. When he finally
had her where he wanted her -- fingers clasped behind his
neck, ankles sliding shyly up the backs of his thighs to twine
together at the small of his back -- he hesitated scarcely a
second before diving right back in.

She was everything he'd been dreaming about since the night
he'd finally walked away from her all those years ago, back in
Cairo: heated, shuddering, pliant, the Right Woman in the
Right Place in the Right Frame Of Mind. Her eyes were shut,
her breath fast and high. When he paused to shift position,
she moaned and tugged at him until he guided her mouth back to
his. She was trembling like a fever patient.

It never occurred to him that at least part of that trembling
was due to fear. He was too lost himself.

("Why don't you just find another woman?" Sal had asked him
once. "Prime of your life, and you're holed away up here like
Saint bloody Augustine. What gives?")

("Don't know.")

But he did, he did know, and that was the sad part, the
pathetic level of misery to which he'd sunk, just before their
dance had begun: with Hermione had come the Illuminata, and
with the Illuminata an unforgettable moment of complete and
perfect happiness that he'd never known either before or
since; even now sometimes, alone in the dark, he punched his
pillow restlessly and drifted back to that night on the chilly
stone floor, swimming through warm lemon-scented steam while
she wrapped herself around him and made him forget everything
he'd ever wished he couldn't remember.

At the time, he'd attributed his momentary happiness to the
potion, not the girl. Now, nearly ten years later, he wasn't
so sure.

He broke the kiss and trailed his mouth down her jawline to
her throat before she could protest. Kisses were all very
well, but now that he'd actually gone and snatched his coveted
cupcake, he was determined to do more than lick off her icing.
Backing up a pace, his hands wrapped snugly around her
denim-clad backside, he sank back into his chair, grateful for
once for its lack of arms, and pulled her astride him.

It had been like this the first time, or nearly -- he on his
knees on the floor, she pulling up her robes with frantic
hands to clear the way between them. This was better, though:
more comfortable, more convenient.

More ... possibilities.

He palmed his wand -- miraculously still in its holster on his
belt -- and muttered a Cushioning Charm, then eased her back
so her shoulders were supported by the edge of the desk. She
murmured a vague protest, then sighed in surrender as his
hands found her breasts, and let her head loll back into the
illusion of a pillow.

Once, he'd subjected both of them to slow, pleasurable torture
by peeling off her clothes by hand. Tonight, he couldn't wait
that long to see her naked. He threw a Locking Spell at the
laboratory door -- rash of him not to have done that in the
first place -- then muttered "Divestio!" before laying his
wand aside.

She lay straddling his lap, head thrown back against the desk
so that all he could see of her face was that proud little
chin, crowning an upthrust curve of throat. Her arms were
thrown to either side of her; as he bent his head to nuzzle
her breasts, she gasped and clutched at the sides of the desk.
He latched onto one, drew hard, and watched her head snap
sharply up.

"Oh, God," she said at the sight of his mouth on her. "Oh, God
."

"Good?" He set his teeth in, just a little, just enough to
make her whimper. "Better?"

"Oh, God."

She couldn't seem to find any other words. Must've been the
ten years she spent in the C of E, before she came to Hogwarts
, Severus thought, amused, then brought himself up short at
the look in those wild brown eyes. Her body was one thing --
to be perfectly frank, her body was squirming slow circles in
his lap like the Welcome Wagon made flesh. But her face?
Riding the fine blind edge of panic.

Wait a minute.

"Hermione," he said, and clamped his hands on either side of
her hips, to still that slow, maddening grind of softness
against him. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She bucked against the restraint of his hands. "Oh, God."

"Hermione?" He gave her a shake. "If you're not all right,
you've got to tell me now -- while I can still stop. Do you
hear me?"

"Don't stop. I'm okay." She sounded as if she'd been running,
breathless and a bit disoriented. Her eyes were still closed.
"I don't want you to stop -- you can't, I think I'll die if
you do. It's just --"

"Yes?" He couldn't hold her back any more, had to let her
resume that slow tight-circling rub that seemed to be keeping
her sane at the same time it drove him mad. "It's just what?"

"It's just --"

Her hips jerked up, then back; with every subsequent pass,
they were getting farther and farther away from Dress
Rehearsal, and near and nearer to Opening Night. A good shove,
a better angle, Severus knew, and he'd be in, he'd be at home
plate, he'd be kissing angels and hearing harps. From the look
of her, Hermione knew this too -- and it was scaring the hell
out of her.

"It's just," she gasped, "that I can't remember ever doing
this before."

Severus froze.

**

A tense, still moment passed in which neither of them moved,
neither of them spoke. Then:

"I don't want you to stop," she said again. She was leaning up
on her elbows now so she could look him directly in the eyes;
Severus took in that unflinching gaze above those high pale
breasts, and thought automatically of Manet's Olympia. "I want
... oh, God, I want all sorts of things. How could I have
forgotten this?"

She was breathing more easily now that she'd made her
admission -- looking more intrigued, less panicked. Body got
ahead of her brain, Severus hypothesized, and sent his thumbs
grazing in a slow experimental half-circle along the satiny
surface of each inner thigh. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Was it always like this?" she wanted to know. Flattered, he
felt his mouth twist up in a quick, cocky half-smile.

"I don't know about always." He let one thumb trace its way up
her mons, enjoying her reflexive shudder. "We've never kept it
going long enough for there to be an always. Right now,
there's only a so far."

"That's just ... that's just semantics." He'd found what he
was looking for with that questing thumb; she squeaked, then
let her head collapse abruptly back onto the desk. "Jesus
fucking Christ," she said to the ceiling. "I don't know my own
body."

"You always were a quick learner, thought," he murmured.
"Ready for Lesson Two?"

Almost before she'd finished nodding, he was sliding into her.

**

Who knew, Hermione thought fuzzily, that the age-old game of
Train and Tunnel would feel so damn good?

She had her breath back a bit now -- thank God he'd noticed
something amiss, during that scary roller-coaster ride up and
over the desk, and brought her back to the ground, because she
hadn't had the will or the inclination to hit the brakes
herself. still, this was better -- and even more mind-blowing
in a way: one hand riding the swell of her hip, the other
still involved with a procedure which would henceforth be
referred to as That Thing With His Thumb, her insides
expanding under his gentle intrusion like silk elastic. Magic,
the way that happened. And such small movements, everything so
slow and measured that her body couldn't have run away with
her again, even if she'd wanted it to.

Of course, at this point she thought she rather wouldn't mind
if it did.

She propped herself up as best she could against the side of
the desk -- much more comfortable, incidentally, than it
should have been; what was that about? -- and watched him ease
her up and onto him again. His eyes were intent, his
cheekbones stained with twin pinpoints of bright pink flush,
his hair an unholy mess around his face. His teeth were dug
savagely into his lower lip, reddening and swelling it from
its usual pale line; all in all, Hermione couldn't help but
think the transformations an improvement. Sex becomes you, she
wanted to say -- did you know that? -- and almost laughed out
loud at her own presumption, before he changed the angle of
that stroking thumb and turned her giggle into a gasp.

"Severus," she choked out, and he turned those glittering
black eyes from the spectacle of their joined bodies to her
face.

"Yes?"

"Not to complain ..."

The eyes grew wary. "What?"

" ... but could we possibly go any faster than this?"

The wariness cleared, and he laughed -- actually laughed! --
before deliberately sliding her off his lap and holding her
just out of reach, so she could feel the tip of him just
barely nudging at her. "Impatient, are we?"

"Very," she agreed fervently, not seeing any reason to
dissemble. He laughed again.

"How impatient?" Wicked, wicked look in his eyes, my God,
Hermione thought, how could I ever have thought him hard to
read? "Why don't you show me?"

Obligingly she squirmed against him, huffing a little in
frustration when the angle and his hard-clamped hands didn't
let her get anywhere. "Tease," she complained, and for a
moment he grew solemn again.

"My apologies. It's been so long--" here, he shrugged
self-deprecatingly -- "that I'd thought to draw it out a bit."

"No complaints," she assured him, breathless -- and a bit
stricken as well, that her careless comment had wiped that
pleased, self-satisfied look from his face. "But ... there's
always next time, right?"

She'd intended for him to smile at that, but he didn't. "This
is the next time," he said. "And I've waited eight years for
it."

"Oh."

For a moment, she stopped squirming -- there was something
awful and brutal about the simplicity of that statement that
transcended laughter, transcended even sex itself. It seemed
crucial that she acknowledge it, before they went any farther.

"So Bill was right, then," she said, and brought up both hands
to push the tousled black hair off his face, so she could look
him in the eyes. "You do love me, don't you?"

**

The question knocked the breath from him.

The first time she'd asked it, twenty minutes ago, it had been
a challenge. Now, it was a shy certainty; he'd laid down one
card too many, and now she knew his hand.

What was to be gained by further evasion? He paused, thinking
of all the emotional detours he could construct, then simply
nodded wearily instead.

"Yes."

She studied him for a long moment, then leaned up to brush his
mouth with hers.

"I want my memory back."

He goggled at her. "What?"

"You heard me," she said. "I want to remember."

He was still hard against her thigh; without breaking eye
contact, she reached down casually to grasp him and slide him
back into the tight clutch of her body. Caught helplessly
between fresh confusion and renewed arousal, he frowned.

"Why?"

She cocked her head to one side and regarded him quizzically,
as if the answer to that should be obvious. "So I can say the
same to you," she said. "And know that it's the truth."

He couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he pulled her
closer instead and started to move. If he hadn't known better,
he'd have thought he smelled Illuminata.

Definitely not the potion, he thought. It must be the girl.

After that, he stopped thinking at all.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Two

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hermione awoke amid blue flannel sheets to a chilly, fog-grey
morning. Severus was nowhere to be seen.

Huh, she thought, glancing around the room. Could have sworn
this study didn t have a bed in it last night. And that it
wasn t this big. And then: And he claims he s no good at
Transfiguration, the liar. No wonder he gave up his bedroom so
readily.

But such ruminations were minutiae, given the bigger picture.
She yawned, stretched, and snuggled back into her pillow with
a small, satisfied sigh.

She felt good. She felt damn good.

In her head, Memory raised a warning finger, poking a hole in
her pink cloud of afterglow: Jump-starting an old love affair
is just going to confuse an already cloudy issue, Sal had said
a few days previous. Before you go to him, first lay your
ghosts to rest.

Oops, Hermione thought, then shrugged mentally. What does it
matter when it happened? He loves me. He said so.

Speaking of which -- where is he?

Obviously she wasn t going to be getting back to sleep anytime
soon, no matter how comfortable this mattress. Sighing, she
flung back the duvet and started looking for her clothes. They
were in a neat pile on a chair near the desk, anchored by her
wand; without really thinking about what she was doing, she
gave it an absent twirl, swish-flicked, and murmured  Purgare!


A Cleaning Charm, she knew automatically, and only afterward,
surrounded by the faint baby-powder aroma of fabric softener,
thought to wonder: had she covered that one with Sal, the
other day? Or not?

It was beginning to be damn annoying that she couldn t
remember.

Blue, she said, almost severely, to the red button-down shirt
on the chair  they had done colour changes, that much she was
sure of  and smirked in satisfaction as the shirt obediently
morphed from crimson to cornflower.

Good enough.

She threw on the clothes and went to go find him.

He was crouched over the kitchen stove, murmuring something
into the ring of blue flame around one of the front burners.
As she got a little closer, Hermione saw a tiny severe head
sitting comfortably  if incongruously  atop the flame, and
caught the glint of corporate silver hoops.

Floo s all right for most things, Linchpin was saying,  but
not secure enough for this. I think it s important enough that
you d better come in to the office.

Severus frowned and ran one long-fingered hand over his rather
stubbly chin.  Isn t the risk of being overheard just as great
there?

Linchpin sighed.  Point taken. Her head swivelled to survey
the kitchen.  Have you a proper hearth, at least? I don t
fancy trying to Floo through  through this.

There s a fire in the parlor. Give me a moment and I ll
Unblock it for you.

Her head withdrew, and he turned off the burner. Hermione
cleared her throat from the doorway.  What was that all that
about?

He turned, half-startled, then  seeming to remember himself
gave her a slow, heavy-lidded smile.  Good morning.

She felt colour rising to her face.  Good morning.

He looked oddly gratified by this exchange, as if it d gone
off better than he d expected.  Did you sleep well?

Fine. She gestured toward the stove.  What did she want? Has
she found something?

A raised eyebrow.  Apparently. She s coming over in a moment
to tell us what it is. I was about to go and wake you. He
paused in the doorway to the parlor, stooped, and kissed her
deliberately on the forehead.  Excuse me. I have to Unblock
the fireplace.

Wondering fingers on her brow  she might have expected last
night s heart-stopping sexuality from him, but not necessarily
the little niceties of romance  she stepped automatically
aside and let him pass.

**

We have a name, Linchpin said without preamble.

It was to her credit, Severus thought, that she managed to
maintain full professional dignity while sitting cross-legged
on the floor of a treehouse; if she d thought it odd to Floo
into an seemingly-isolated mountain cabin, only to tiptoe past
the doorway of the only bedroom and out into the damp-dripping
woods, she hadn t indicated as much.  Don t get too excited,
she added now.  He s been dead for several hundred years. We
think.

Sal snorted.  What good does that do us, then? he muttered,
sounding surly. Severus thought he knew the reason for his old
friend s grumpiness-of-late, and it had little to do with
unsuccessful book-hunting; close to half a century of goblin
wars had left him naturally suspicious of Gringotts
pointy-eared employees, and he d been less than cheerful ever
since they d come back from Cairo the other day with news of
their new alliance.

Linchpin looked down her pince-nez at him, her small close-set
eyes steely.  I chose to think it rather valuable information,
she said coldly, then turned back toward Severus and
Hermione.  My best researchers uncovered the name in the bank
s archives; it s circumstantial, of course, but the mark used
on the Nameless account isn t particularly common, and it
coincides with one he used on personal correspondence. She
looked half-disgusted, half-smug.  We ve been telling people
not to write down their identification runes for centuries,
but do they ever listen? No.

What s the name? Hermione asked, but Sal had already floated
resentfully around behind the goblin and was peering over her
shoulder.

Alain de Fondant, he said, looking thoughtful.  That wouldn t
be the pirate, would it?

Linchpin s claws tightened reflexively on her paperwork.  The
pirate, yes, she agreed. Severus frowned.

The name sounds familiar, he said.  But I don t remember why.


Well  Linchpin began, but Sal beat her to it.

Fascinating story, he said   do allow me, won t you?

The goblin nodded reluctantly. Sal smiled.

The de Fondants were an old Norman wizarding family, he said.
Alain s father  Bertrand, I believe it was  was only the
latest in a long line of court magicians, which was nice work
if you could get it. Meant interacting with the Muggles, of
course, which most of us had stopped by then  but the money
and the perks were worth it, if you didn t mind a certain
amount of inherent risk. Bertrand de Fondant was the favoured
necromancer of one of the French princes  I forget which one
exactly. Married one of the Devereaux girls, I believe. Had
one son  that s Alain. He shot a challenging glance at the
frowning goblin opposite him.  How m I doing so far?

Linchpin pursed her lips.  Go on.

Well, Alain was being groomed for the trade, Sal continued,
winking at Hermione.  Had things turned out differently, he
would most likely have been a court magician just like his
father. But Bertrand was a Templar knight  there were more
than a few of us, you know, in the Order; too much money and
power tied up in it to resist completely  and the Templars
were heavily into piracy at that point. One of them, another
undercover wizard, asked to take on Alain as his cabin boy,
and Bertrand agreed.

Hermione, who had been silent up to this point, shifted back
against the bookshelf and wrapped both hands around her
blue-jeaned knees. Severus tried not to notice how this
movement played up the inner curve of her thighs in the snug
denim, and failed miserably.

What happened then?

Two things, really, Sal said.  One, he got a taste for the
piracy business and liked it; started to work his way up
through the ranks after his original term of apprenticeship
was up. Wasn t such a bad job, being a Templar pirate  they
were a pretty democratic lot, all told  and besides, having
magical ability just sweetened the pot. Rumour had it that
before Alain docked for the last time, he d figured out how to
Apparate not only himself, but his entire ship. Made a pile of
money at it, whether it s true or not. He lifted a pale,
shaggy eyebrow.  And then, King Philip lowered the boom on the
Templar movement, and Bertrand got caught in the scuffle.

You mean--? Hermione was wide-eyed, caught up in the story.
Sal nodded grimly.

Tortured and executed, he said.  Tout de suite. Had a real
grudge against Muggles after that, I ll wager. He jerked his
ghostly head toward Linchpin.  Or isn t that where all this is
headed?

Not a bad guess, Linchpin said neutrally, and shuffled the
papers on her lap.  Shortly after Bertrand s death, our
records show simultaneous withdrawals from Alain de Fondant s
private accounts and deposits to the Nameless account marked
with the symbol I showed you earlier, in matching amounts.

Circumstantial, Sal muttered. Linchpin fixed him with a look.

Less so, she said,  the higher the numbers go. And these were
rather high, even by today s standards. She adjusted her
spectacles with one clear-lacquered claw before continuing.
Not long after that, the same Nameless account began funneling
money to a number of pureblood-supremacist groups. One of
them, a select international cabal of pureblood wizards
calling themselves Les Choix, corresponded with de Fondant via
this anonymous account more regularly than did the others; our
research seems to indicate that he may have possibly been a
member, or even in a position of leadership within the group.

Les Choix, Hermione said thoughtfully.  Are they the same
thing as the Knights of the Golden Wand, then?

Linchpin shook her head.  That s what s interesting, she said.
Les Choix closed their account with us at nearly the same
time that Alain de Fondant withdrew the considerable personal
funds remaining to him. She slanted a wry glance at Sal.  I
imagine Mr. Slytherin can take the tale from here.

Not much to tell, Sal said, but his pale eyes were alight
with reminiscence.  Mystery of the century, though, that s for
sure.

Severus, who knew Sal s Storyteller Face when he saw it, hid a
smile with the pretense of a yawn.  Well? he inquired, in
tones carefully modulated for the proper level of ennui. Sal
grinned at him.

King Philip of France, he said,  declared the Order of the
Templars to be heretics in January of 1308, at which point all
their property  far exceeding his own, might I add; the
Templars were the principal financiers of all Europe for
centuries  became the property of the Church and Crown. Along
with the landownings and armies and such, there was the fabled
gold of the Paris Treasury, which Philip made a play for but
never found. He leaned back, unwittingly floating a few inches
off the floor as he became more involved in his story.  The
Muggles have all sorts of wild theories about what might
possibly have happened to all the money. None of them true, of
course. In reality, the Templars got wind of the impending
disaster and all the gold was handed over to de Fondant, who
was to put it on a ship and get it out of Europe.

Three guesses as to what happened, Severus murmured
sardonically. Hermione, who had been wrapped up in the story,
jumped at the sound of his voice.

Take the money and run, she said softly, then looked
surprised at herself. Sal nodded.

Exactly.

Hermione looked at Linchpin.  And it never showed up again?

Not at Gringotts, Linchpin said drily.  All three of them
disappeared within the same day  de Fondant, Les Choix, and
the gold. And none have been heard from since.

**



LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Three

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Shipwrecked? Hermione suggested. Severus shook his head.

Someone s still accessing the Nameless account, aren t they?
he asked.  Must be, if they re financing the Knights of the
Golden Wand  that particular little group of nasties hasn t
been around but three hundred years or so. He focussed in on
the worn shag of the carpet, frowning hard.  There must be a
de Fondant descendant running around loose somewhere.

Well, if there is, Linchpin said,  I d certainly like to get
my claws into him. She shrugged, self-deprecatingly, when the
other three turned to look at her.  The French Crown wasn t
very good at hanging onto its winnings, back then, she said.
Not long after the fall of the Templars, we acquired the
mortgage on most of those properties  including all
outstanding debts attached to them. Counting interest, there s
probably close to ten million Galleons due in back taxes by
now.

A pensive, faraway look crossed her face; for a moment, she
seemed lost in fantasy.  Whoever brings that bit of recovery
income in to the Advisory Board  well, let s just say she
could choose her own office.

You sound like Gabrielle, Hermione thought to herself, then
blinked.

Who s Gabrielle?

Shaking her head, she struggled to catch up to the
conversation that had gone on without her.  What about Muggle
banks? she asked.  Could he have taken the money elsewhere?

Linchpin frowned.  We don t think so, she said.  We tend to
keep track of other institutions large deposits, and there s
nothing around that time to suggest that de Fondant put the
money anywhere at all. Not to mention that the disappearance
of the Templar fortune was at least as big a Muggle scandal as
it was in the magical world  more, probably. Everyone was
looking for it. Either he was clever enough to keep it awhile,
then deposit it a bit at a time, under an assumed name   here
she looked dark, as if the very idea were reprehensible   or,
as we suspect, it s buried somewhere, and warded heavily
enough that no one s ever found it.

The goblins Holy Grail, Sal murmured. Linchpin looked sour.

Something like that.

Now there s a secret, Severus said slowly,  that someone
would kill to protect.

After that, no one could think of much of anything to add.

**

Fascinating as all the pirate-treasure business was, Severus
had more pressing matters on his mind  namely, the contents of
the binders he and Hermione had brought back from Cairo the
day before. Arriving back at the cabin from their impromptu
treehouse summit, only to find Neville and Joséphine drinking
coffee at the very back-porch table where he d hoped to spread
out his papers, did nothing to dispel the urgency of his mood.

Aren t you expected back at Hogwarts? he snarled at
Joséphine. She rolled a sip of coffee around in her mouth,
swallowed leisurely, and grinned up at him.

I m heading out this afternoon.

It wasn t the answer he d been expecting; as such, it took him
a bit aback.  Oh. Well  good.

One slim dark finger was tracing its way coyly up Neville s
forearm.  Both of us are, actually. We figured we d spend the
weekend together in Paris before I m due back in classes
Monday. She shot him a guileless look from beneath those thick
dark lashes.  Besides. We ve imposed long enough.

Well, as long as you realise it, Severus said  but found it
difficult, under the circumstances, to hold on to his
customary sneer. In fact, the prospect of getting his quiet
house back  sort of, anyway  mollified him enough to go away
and find somewhere else to put his binders for the moment.

Sal was in the kitchen, cohabitating with a half-empty bottle
of Perlucioed Pinot Grigio and recklessly marinating chicken
breasts in some runny concoction that smelt strongly of curry.
Hermione, who d beaten both of them back to the house, was
cross-legged on the Transfigured bed in his study, already so
deeply engrossed in a book on Memory Charms that she didn t
even look up when he opened the door.

That left him the comfortable armchair in the parlour, which
wasn t, after all, such a bad place to tackle a spot of heavy
reading. Severus watched her bright head bent over the book
for a moment longer, perhaps, than was strictly necessary,
then backed quietly out and closed the door behind him.

The fact that last night had happened, and that she was still
here, was a miracle he couldn t afford to think about. Not
just yet.

The binder proved to be more distraction than even he could
have hoped.

**

As a student, she d been a tireless researcher and a
meticulous, if not always inspired, logician. As she d gained
confidence in her subject, during those later years at
Hogwarts, he d noticed her sense of inquiry expanding beyond
the borders of the Restricted Section and venturing into the
Unknown Beyond; the Illuminata project had turned out to be
the culmination of this, catapulting her abruptly from the
category of Talented Student out into the real world  Cairo,
the Consortium, patents and grants and all the white-coated
fame and infamy that came with that implied territory.

Had she known, Severus wondered, the degree to which her
experimental forays into magical-Muggle relations would
threaten the unseen hands that held the reins? Had Areli
warned her of the dangers she d face, farther down that
glittering garden path?

Or had she been so dazzled by her pretty office and her
handsome young husband and her villa in the suburbs that she
hadn t thought to ask?

Even she didn t know the answer to that question anymore. He
decided to quit thinking about it, and opened the binder
instead.

The first document was a print copy of an email, sent from an
Eli Lilly address. Like all the other papers in the binder,
she d filed it carefully in a transparent plastic sleeve:

**

Hermione

Sales are up fifteen percent from last quarter. You re making
me a very happy man  not to mention one who might just be able
to comfortably educate his children, after all. I m having
Marjorie send you the latest stack of interview requests and a
copy of the findings from the AMA s Skelegel trials. She ll
also be calling about the trade show in August  it s in
Cincinnati this year. We d like to do a booth, and your input
is always welcome.

Speaking of the trade show  not to mention the current market
does the Consortium have anything in the works that might be
applicable for Alzheimer s? We d like to be able to announce
that we ve got something in field-testing  it s turning into
such an epidemic that they re doing a focus group on it this
year.

And you know I m the money man, but it s not just that. Sarah
s mother was just diagnosed last month. And it s getting
harder and harder to find anyone whose family isn t affected
by it somehow, these days.

Let me know. Take care.

--Brad Conlin

**

Alzheimer s? Severus tapped the glossy page thoughtfully with
one forefinger  only an American, he thought, would have put
such personal information in his business correspondence, and
managed to pull it off  then turned to the letter in the next
sleeve. This one was handwritten on lilac-coloured lined paper
in a round feminine hand, and dated a month later to the day:

**

Dear Hermione

I know I ought to call and tell you this, but I just can t
stand to talk to anyone right now  not even you. You remember
how vague Gram was that weekend in March when you came to
visit? Well, she s seemed tired lately, not herself  you know,
sort of forgetful  and finally your father convinced her to go
for a checkup. Dr. Wallace had her take some sort of test in
the office, and then he ordered a CAT scan  and I can t even
write it down, it s too upsetting, but we had wondered about
it when you were here last, and it s that awful thing we were
afraid of.

You should call her. Your father and I have been taking turns
going to see her every few days, but she seems depressed and a
little hostile, and she s not eating at all. If anyone can
cheer her up, it s you and Bill.

Hope work is going well. Call if you need to talk.

Love, Mum
**

Oh, Severus thought, a sinking feeling in his chest, and
glanced instinctively at the closed door to his study. It was
a long moment before he turned to the third page.

This one wasn t dated  it was a sheet from a legal pad, folded
in half, with a few lines on it in Hermione s writing:

**

Memory performs the impossible for man by the strength of his
divine arms; holds together past and present, beholding both,
existing in both, abides in the flowing, and gives continuity
and dignity to human life. It holds us to our family, to our
friends. Hereby a home is possible; hereby only a new fact has
value.

Without it, all life and thought were an unrelated succession.

--Emerson

**

The ink was smudged in one place by a round water-stain the
size of a small grape. Severus closed his eyes.

Ironic, he thought, that the book she was presently reading
was one she d probably read before.

And even without going a step further in the binder, one
mystery, at least, had been permanently solved for him: it was
suddenly very, very clear why someone had sent an assassin to
stop the completion of her research.

Headaches came and went. Bones broke  and were healed. But to
make the past live again, to reveal old and well-hid secrets
well, that was dangerous work indeed.

He turned to the next page in the binder with a slightly
shaking hand.

**

LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Four

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After reading the first three pages, his curiosity had been
equalled only by his dismay. By the time he’d plowed through
the first binder, six hours later, he was shaking. The
activity around him – lunch, a game of Crazy Eights in the
kitchen, Neville and Joséphine’s farewells – didn’t even
register.

He would never have thought of this. But if it worked …

She’d done her background research on Alzheimer’s – one whole
section of her notes had been photocopied articles – and found
that however the disease began, whatever triggered it, the end
result was the same: the patient’s formerly healthy brain
cells were crowded out by masses of sticky brown plaques and
choked by cancerous black tendrils of some Devil’s-Snare-like
substance referred to as ‘tangles’. From the looks of it,
Muggle researchers had been scrambling for some kind of
chemical combination to counteract the intruders, either
before or after they occurred; whereas Hermione, making one of
her customary leaps of inter-disciplinary logic, had simply
isolated the unwanted material and begun to experiment with
Vanishing it.

In the beginning, her Evanesco had worked rather too well –
she’d tended to Vanish the remaining healthy brain cells along
with the plaques and tangles. I keep throwing the baby out
with the bathwater, read her frustrated memo to Areli, after a
month of fruitless experimentation on brain tissue Replicated
from the one donated cadaver the Consortium had managed to
score. But then, a scant few days later, she’d gone back to
Step One – tissue-staining, a technique that the Muggles had
used for a century – and had discovered that the foreign
matter absorbed her organic vegetable dye in a way that the
healthy cells did not. From there, the next challenge had been
to suspend the Vanishing Charm in the stain solution without
triggering it immediately – a tricky bit of charm-work that
she’d figured out, if the dates on the ensuing correspondence
could be believed, in the space of one day and two sleepless
nights.

What followed were color transparencies, tucked into their
plastic sleeves; the untreated brain with its messy, choking
knots of stray fibers, juxtaposed with its ‘after’ picture: a
bit ragged in places, but miraculously free of impediments.
Next had come the first round of animal trials, and the
eminently practical question of how to administer the
treatment, now that she had it, without inadvertently
Vanishing anything she didn’t want Vanished; it was one thing
to spray her Evanesco concoction all over a disembodied brain
on a glass countertop with a plant mister, and quite another
to get it into a living human being without the human being in
question coming up missing a digestive system.

In the end, Severus read with a raised eyebrow, it was
Christmas at the Burrow that had provided Hermione with her
Eureka Moment – Bill had given Arthur Weasley a Muggle camera
with a timed shutter, and they’d all been obliged to pose for
far too many photographs before Arthur ran out of film and
started to take the camera apart on the kitchen table.
Time-release! Hermione had emailed Areli excitedly, that very
night. You’re the Charms expert; do you know if there’s
something we can do to it to slow the reaction down a bit?

Another round of experiments later, they’d added two more
enchantments to the mix: not only the slowing-spell (basically
a weaker version of Impedimenta), but a Compass Charm as well,
designed to guide the potion north (or, in this case, straight
up) and – more importantly – keep it there. The rest of it was
window-dressing: stabilisers, flavor agents, colouring.
Severus stared at the last page in the binder, a mock-up of a
prospective trade-magazine advertisement (Vanesca – the one
that works), and whistled to himself; the finished product
came not in pills, but in a tiny packet of trendy gel-strips
designed to melt on the tongue. Faster to the bloodstream that
way, he supposed; even so, that little metal box with its bold
purple stripe didn’t look consequential enough to warrant all
the trouble it had caused.

Which just went to show you that appearances were deceiving.

Impressive, he thought, and picked up the second binder. The
first page – again, a photocopy of a letter – made his blood
run cold:

**

Hermione—

It was great to see you and Bill the other day, even if we did
have to talk shop half the time. I spent yesterday afternoon
paging through back issues of Healer Horizons and didn’t find
anything remotely resembling the sort of work you’re doing;
mostly, the patients on the Fourth Floor aren’t treated in any
substantial way at all, if you want to know the truth. Bettina
Thrush has charge of them, and ought to be sainted for it –
most of them have been tucked away up there for years. As for
whether or not spells gone awry cause the same sorts of
neurological damage that Alzheimer’s does, I really couldn’t
say. I suppose if you wanted to run that test on any one of
them – a cat-scan, did you call it? how funny – Lockhart would
be the obvious choice, as he’s got no family to protest it and
Dumbledore’s paying his bills. If Areli can clear you some
space and equipment, I’ll take personal charge of getting him
out of St. Mungo’s. Bettina never asks questions.

Dinner was great – we should do it again soon. Gabrielle sends
her love.

Yours, Draco

**

She didn’t confine this to the Muggles? Severus thought,
half-horrified, half-admiring. No wonder they were calling for
her blood. He turned the page, but only half-saw the results
of Lockhart’s CAT scan – an otherwise healthy brain overrun
with sticky, silvery threads. The rest of him was wondering:
Does it work? Could it possibly?

He figured he knew where he could go to find out.

**

Ten minutes and a Location Charm later, he was standing in the
frosty late-autumn remains of a lush English garden, shivering
in the chilly evening air and wondering exactly how upset
Hermione would be, if she ever found out he’d done this. He
glanced down at his customary black robes and grimaced; for
this bit of subterfuge, they wouldn’t do. He muttered a few
words, made a face at the Muggle business suit he’d magicked
himself into, and headed for the front door. It opened on the
first ring.

"Yes?"

He nearly flinched from the steady-eyed gaze in front of him;
it might have been housed in an elderly woman’s body, but it
was heartbreakingly familiar – those were Hermione’s eyes,
right down to the colour, shape and gleam of cool speculation.
"Mrs. Granger?"

"Yes."

He had to be sure. "Martina Granger."

She smiled. "Yes, dear. How can I help you?"

"I’m from the University of London," Severus lied, "and I’m
doing a follow-up study on an experimental medication for
Alzheimer’s disease. According to my records—" he glanced at
the binder, as if for corroboration—"you were part of the
study. Could I ask you a few questions?"

She studied him for another moment, then flashed that
surprisingly-young smile again and stepped aside. "Come in,
Mr. …?"

Severus thought fast. "Black," he supplied. Martina inclined
her head.

"Mr. Black. Come in and sit down."

She installed him at the kitchen table and offered him
almond-paste macaroons on a bone-china plate, then – despite
his remonstrances – put water on to boil for tea before taking
the chair opposite him. He had the opportunity to study her as
she moved, and did so: she was in her late-seventies, he’d
say, with thick grey-streaked black hair drawn tidily back at
her nape by a black ribbon and the high-torsoed carriage of a
dancer, only slightly stooped by age. Her movements were
precise and unhesitating as she scooped loose tea into a
tea-ball and poured the water from the kettle to the teapot;
if she’d ever been halting or confused, ever been less than
the mistress of her universe, he’d never know it to look at
her.

"Now," she said, dropping into the chair and squeezing a twist
of lemon into her cup. "Mr. Black, was it? What was it you
needed to know?"

Hermione’s eyes again, gazing out at him from that
faded-but-elegant face that must have been breathtaking, once;
this was a woman who would be beautiful until the day she
died. Severus, stalling, took a sip of his tea.

"The study," he said again. "My records show that you were
diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s, a little less than
three years ago, and that you chose to take part in
experimental trials for a memory-enhancing drug called
Vanesca. What was your experience with this medication?"

Martina Granger laughed, chose a biscuit, and bit into it.

"I had been slowly losing my mind for nearly six months," she
said, "before I finally gave into my daughter-in-law’s nagging
and went to the doctor. Honestly, I didn’t think anything of
it, except that I was getting older – what’s that Roger Bacon
quote again? ‘Old age is the home of forgetfulness’?" She
picked up her spoon to stir her tea, dropping her eyes as she
did so. "Well, it wasn’t just senility, as it turned out, and
my doctor told me at the outset that there was no cure. He was
so firm on that point that I would never have thought to go
looking for alternative medication; I went home and cried and
threw things, and then settled down eventually to wait to be
taken over."

"How did you find out about Vanesca?" Severus prodded. She
shrugged.

"My son and his wife are dentists," she said. "I assume they’d
gone to some medical convention or other and heard about the
drug trials that way – I really don’t know. I never had to
visit a hospital or see a doctor – I just remember getting a
call from my daughter-in-law, Kate, on the subject. She came
to visit a day or so later … she, and a younger woman. A
scientist, I suppose, or an intern. Lovely girl; I don’t
remember her name now. Could have been my granddaughter, she
was so young." Another sip of tea. "She gave me a little
purple packet full of gel strips – I remember thinking that
they looked like breath mints – and told me to take one a week
until they ran out. That’s all there was to it, really."

She smiled ruefully. "I remember …"

"Yes?"

"Well," Martina said, "it was rather amazing, really. I’d had
this low-level headache for months, it seemed, and two minutes
after the first strip dissolved on my tongue it was gone. I
felt so – light-headed; it was unreal. And then –" here, she
laughed – "my daughter-in-law asked me where my keys were. And
I knew."

Severus digested this. "Any side effects?"

"None at all," Martina assured him, and leaned over the table
to whisk away his empty cup. "Another cup of tea, dear?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Thank you."

She was in the act of pouring it when she suddenly stopped and
set down the teapot. "Yes," she said. "One side effect. If you
can call it that. It’s more like a memory lapse, and it’s odd,
because I remember virtually everything else."

Severus took his half-filled teacup. "What is it?"

"Wait a minute," she said, "and I’ll show you." She was
already pushing back her chair, disappearing into the next
room. A lamp flicked on, and Severus could see from his seat
at the table the far wall of the parlor, decorated with framed
and matted theatrical posters and photographs of a young
dark-haired woman in elaborate costume. Must have been an
actress, Severus thought, then was distracted from his view as
Martina came back into the kitchen, bearing a photograph
album.

"It’s the strangest thing," she said. "The scientist I told
you about? She must have been a family friend – she’s in all
these photographs. Here – look." She pushed the open album
across the table toward him.

He tore his gaze away from the double rows of happy Granger
family snapshots, each containing a smiling Hermione, and met
Martina’s eyes. "Yes?"

"I keep thinking I should know who she is," said her puzzled
grandmother. "But I just can’t think of her name. Isn’t that
odd?"

Severus could think of nothing to say.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Five

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Sal,” Hermione asked from the kitchen doorway, “where’s
Severus?”

Sal, who had just finished stirring orange essence and maple
sugar into a block of cream cheese, was now attempting the
fiddly task of sandwiching the resulting mixture between
candied pecan halves, without actually touching either. It
required a steady hand and a killer Levitation Charm, from the
looks of it, not to mention more patience than Hermione
herself possessed. “Sal?” she prompted again, and he shrugged
without looking around.

“His study?”

“I’ve been in there all afternoon.”

“Treehouse?”

“Just checked.”

“Backyard?”

Hermione sighed. “If he was any of those places, do you think
I’d be standing here asking you?”

Sal’s wand slipped, and a stray pecan ricocheted off the wall,
a scant inch from Hermione’s left ear. “Sorry,” he said,
looking unrepentant. “He’s probably off somewhere, then. I
haven’t seen him.”

“Thanks anyway,” Hermione said, and ducked hastily out of the
kitchen before he could decide to Levitate any more groceries
her way; Sal hadn’t been his usual sunny self for the last few
days. The big chair facing the fireplace in the parlor was
empty. She decided to claim it.

The book on Memory Charms hadn’t been particularly inspiring.
Once a self-inflicted Obliviate was cast, according to the
scant few paragraphs she’d found on the subject, it was
notoriously difficult to undo. Caution - only a fully-trained
witch or wizard should attempt this!!! the footnote had read.
Unqualified individuals who perform this spell run the risk of
doing themselves permanent, irreversible mental damage!!

Which sort of left her out in the cold, Hermione thought -
she’d clipped through the first- and second-year textbooks
Severus had brought her, and was getting fairly consistent
results with some of the more advanced charms in the back of
the third-year text, but she wouldn’t call herself
‘fully-trained’ or ‘qualified’ either one - not at this point,
anyway. And for every skill she felt she’d mastered, something
else cropped up that didn’t feel quite right; ‘it’s as if I
get only so far, then hit a wall,’ she’d complained to Sal the
other afternoon, and indeed that’s how it felt - as if some
shadowy, immovable presence was standing in the way of her
progress.

And then, it couldn’t be the same, relearning it all now …
could it? It had to be like what they said about languages -
the younger you started, the easier it became to attain
fluency. Hermione kneaded her temples irritably and cursed
herself for a million kinds of fool. You had to have known,
she told herself, what it would mean. You had to have known
what you’d be giving up.

Even though she’d been told enough to get a fair picture about
her recent past - about Bill, about the Consortium, about the
tragedy and the Fidelius and those bleak starved days in Paris
- it was hard to imagine being desperate enough to do what
she’d done. If I had it to do over again, she thought, would
it be the same?

Impossible to say.

What she did know was this: she was tired of being an
amnesiac. It had been comforting at first - like a rebirth,
like stepping off a seashell onto a beach free of expectations
or inconveniently complicated emotional detritus. And this
place? Like a womb itself, comfortable and cut off as it was
from the outside world. But the more she heard about her - the
pre-Kate Hermione, her former self - the more she wanted to
reclaim her lost territory. And that look in his eyes last
night (You do love me, don’t you? - a cautious nod and a
guarded Yes) only strengthened her resolve.

She’d wanted to pry further, but she hadn’t dared. Secrets
there, she thought - shared history he hadn’t wanted to get
into, and probably for very good reason. If you knew
everything there is to know, his eyes had said, you wouldn’t
be asking. You wouldn’t even be here.

Her wand was in her pocket. She toyed absently with it, then
tucked it regretfully away again. Too big a risk; too
uncertain a result. Behind her in the kitchen, Sal was singing
- something jaunty and improbably bright about a rose, a fair
maiden, and going off to war. Hermione smiled in spite of
herself, and half-turned to get a better look at him.

A glint of metal caught her eye; a black three-ring binder lay
open on the floor by the chair. She hadn’t noticed it before,
but she recognised it now; it was one of the volumes they’d
brought back from Cairo, open now to the second or third page.
Curious, Hermione lifted it up and turned it round to read the
label on the spine: Vanesca, it said, and below that, 2 of 2.

Well, that solved one mystery, at least: wherever Severus was
right now, she’d lay odds that Binder 1 of 2 was with him.
Pity, too - now that she’d finished the Obliviate book, she
would have liked to dive into these.

Could it hurt to start halfway through? She hesitated, then
opened the binder again to the first page. A letter, she saw,
addressed to her - this did seem to be a trend, didn’t it,
forever re-reading her own mail? She scanned the note and
frowned.

Draco - what an odd name, and unfamiliar to boot - though from
the way he’d written they’d obviously been friends. And
'Gabrielle sends her love’ - confirming that she did indeed
know a Gabrielle, she just didn’t know how, or why.

“St. Mungo’s,” she said aloud, peering at the letterhead and
trying to make out the address through the blurry photocopy.
“Huh.”

A hospital of some sort, evidently, and this Draco Malfoy must
be its Head of Operations. Maybe they’d been in school
together? She didn’t know. In any case, he’d been kind enough
to furnish her with a test subject - Lockhart, whoever he was,
some poor unfortunate dependent on the Headmaster’s goodwill.
She turned the page and read the caption: here were Lockhart’s
CAT-scan results, subtitled Male Subject, 46 - Unsuccessful
Memory Charm, and a photo underneath: what had to be
Lockhart’s brain, plumply healthy in all respects except for
the web of sticky, slickly shining grey candy-floss that
covered it.

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

That’s what it looks like. That’s what I did to myself.

And - this with a rising note of hysteria - and I knew. I knew
what it was, I knew what I was doing to myself. And I felt bad
enough to do it anyway - to think this was a better option.

Heavy.

Shuddering, she flipped to the next page. This one was an
original, not a photocopy: heavy lavender stationery, still
faintly perfumed with violets and written in a looping,
studied hand:

**

My dear Miss Granger - or should I say, Mrs. Weasley? -

Words fail to express my gratitude for your efforts on my
behalf. I am told that you are the developer of the marvellous
little potion that restored my memory; I, of course, could
have achieved similar results, being a bit of a crack hand at
Potions myself, had I only been in my right mind. Very clever
of you to have figured it out for yourself; congratulations
from your former professor and mentor are very much in order!

Now that my convalescence is ended, I shall naturally be
writing a memoir of my ordeal in the bowels of the Pit, in
order to bring hope to the similarly afflicted and provide a
suitable account of my triumph over this terrible tragedy. You
needn’t fear, however; I’ll be sure to give you credit where
credit’s due!

Fondly,
Gilderoy Lockhart

**

Torn between a gasp and a chuckle at the sheer audacity of
this, Hermione turned the page again and found her reply,
faithfully catalogued for posterity on Consortium letterhead:

**

Dear Mr. Lockhart,

Thank you for your note; I’m glad you found my product
satisfactory for your purposes.

You are, of course, entitled to write anything you wish about
your experiences at St. Mungo’s, but do keep in mind that the
experimental product Vanesca was given to you in strict
confidentiality, and that disclosure of the existence or
nature of this product in any public forum will result in
immediate lawsuit. To this end, the Consortium requests that
any forthcoming manuscript be submitted to its legal team at
the above address, prior to publication.

Best of luck with your future endeavours.

Sincerely yours,
Hermione Granger Weasley

**

Ha, Hermione thought, and had already turned to the next page
before it hit her: she’d come up with a product that cured
memory loss, that reversed Obliviate, that essentially solved
her present dilemma … and she had no idea how to recreate it.

If irony on that grand a scale wasn’t already illegal, it
certainly ought to be.

She paged through the next section of the binder - mostly
correspondence to and from Eli Lilly, her Muggle distributor,
regarding the results of the field trials. The next page to
catch her eye was a photocopy of a brief teaser article,
clipped from an American medical trade journal: Lilly in Field
Trials for New Alzheimer’s Med. Following it were a series of
terse e-mails: Brad, it wasn’t supposed to be public yet! -
and Conlin’s reply: It has to happen sometime, right? What are
you worried about?

And then, there it was - Gilderoy Lockhart’s
return-to-the-public-eye interview, in a splashy two-column
Daily Prophet article. This one wasn’t a photocopy, but
yellowing newsprint; Hermione stared at the smug, preening
face in the moving photograph that accompanied the article and
felt her stomach do a back-flip.

The article was full of the same self-serving pap she would
have expected from the man who’d written the purple letter at
the front of the binder. She noticed, however, that he’d taken
her warning to heart and not mentioned either the Consortium
or the product Vanesca by name.

He had, however, mentioned her.

It was sandwiched in between a couple of self-congratulatory
paragraphs, and it was only a fleeting reference: “Mr.
Lockhart, please tell us how exactly you overcame your sad
condition? Our readers want to know!”

“I’m not at liberty to reveal the secret,” he’d said coyly.
“But I will say that even in my weakened state, I had been
working closely with Hermione Granger, a young protegée of
mine from my days as a professor at Hogwarts. I never gave up
hope, you see, that my memory would eventually be restored.”

“How brave,” the reporter had sighed.

“How disgusting,” Areli had penciled in the margin. “Honestly,
Hermione, we ought to sue him just for being tasteless.”

Hermione turned the page. The Lockhart article wasn’t as funny
to her as she knew it should have been; she felt faintly sick,
and heavy with dread. There were only a few more pages left in
the binder - she was near the end, now.

**

Hermione, Draco had written,

Well, he’s a waste of space, but at least it’s not my space
he’s wasting anymore. Shall we try again, maybe with a couple
of more deserving candidates? I’ve got the Longbottoms in
mind, actually - if this stuff works on Obliviate, it might
work on Crucio-induced damage, too. Frank’s mother was their
legal guardian, up until recently, but she’s recently
deceased. I’m trying to get in touch with Neville; he’s the
next of kin. Does anyone have any idea where he went after he
finished at Hogwarts?

**

I don’t know, she’d written back. Once you find him, we’ll get
that ball rolling. I think that’s a great idea.

**

And then there were no more letters.

Hermione noted the date on her last bit of correspondence -
June 19 - and had to stifle a moan with the back of her hand;
one thing she remembered asking, early on in her stay at the
Montana cabin, was When It Had Happened - what day, what hour?

The twenty-second of June, they’d told her. At nine in the
morning.

Three days before, she’d dashed off that offhand little note,
her whole life in front of her, and stashed it in her binder …
not knowing or guessing that she’d never fill another one of
those empty plastic sleeves, that in less than a week her
house of cards would be ashes in her hands. Hermione bit her
lip, and shuddered, and let the cool smooth plastic of the
sheet protectors ripple through her fingers like the sigh of a
ghost.

It wasn’t until her hands touched something lumpy that she
realised the binder wasn’t quite empty, after all.

The last page wasn’t a sheet-protector, she discovered,
looking down; it was bisected into four smaller pockets, the
kind of specialty sleeve designed to hold photos, or CDs, or
liner notes. She’d been very thorough, it seemed - and not
only in terms of organisation.

Each one of the four pockets held a tiny white box with a bold
purple stripe.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Six

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was nearly midnight when Severus Apparated into the cabin’s
small back yard, carrying with him one of Martina Granger’s
photograph albums and a plateful of leftover macaroons. All
the windows were dark, and the moon was half-clouded over;
lacking a free hand with which to reach for his wand, he
fumbled in the gloom for the door handle and hissed under his
breath, startled, when something furry and Dalmation-sized
brushed the backs of his knees.

He yelped, almost dropped the plate of biscuits, and righted
himself hastily against the door frame. Another nudge and a
plaintive yowl – "oh," he said, nonplussed and relieved in the
same breath, "it’s you."

Cleo regarded him steadily for a moment with those unsettling
grey-blue eyes, then produced a complicated rumbling sound
from the depths of her creamy throat and swiped meaningfully
at the closed door. Severus frowned.

"What are you doing outside?" he wondered aloud. "Doesn’t she
usually let you in, nights?"

Having lived familiar-free for nearly as long as he could
remember – being a Death-Eater with a pet made you a walking
target for unnecessary emotional distress, and after that he
hadn’t bothered, it being easier to just use the school’s owls
when he needed something posted – having Hermione’s caracal as
a houseguest had taken some getting used to. Not only could
that long sleek body spin from zero to sixty in a nanosecond,
in any direction it chose, but the brain attached to it was
crafty and quick and so self-serving it bordered on evil. Cleo
opened cabinet doors, raided the refrigerator until Sal, in
frustration, warded it, and wasn’t above twisting the faucet
handle in the bathtub with one of those deftly taloned paws to
get herself a drink, if she felt the water in her bowl wasn’t
sufficiently fresh. She was not, however, capable of working
the latch on the back door – and after the second afternoon,
when she’d clawed a pillow to bits and strewn the wreckage of
it all over the dining room, merely out of boredom, Hermione
had taken to letting her outside in the morning, and calling
her in at night.

This seemed to be a satisfactory arrangement, though Severus
had noticed that the birds were – understandably – more
cautious of the feeders than they’d been previously, and that
the woodchuck who lived under the porch hadn’t poked his head
out for a while. Cleo herself spent most of her time stalking
rabbits, out in the woods, but showed up unfailingly at dusk
for food and brushing. The fact that she was still outside
wasn’t a good sign; uneasy, Severus opened the door and let
both of them into the quiet house.

The door to the master bedroom stood ajar. Severus peered
inside: empty. The kitchen, too, was deserted; opening the
refrigerator, he saw an untouched layer cake, lavishly studded
with cream-cheese frosting and candied nuts, and a covered
dish with condensation still pearled inside its glass lid. He
didn’t bother to find out what was inside it.

No one had touched Sal’s masterpiece of a dessert, and that
wasn’t a good sign either; he’d had that carrot cake before,
and even if you weren’t a closet hedonist (thank you very
much, Sybil) it was hard to pass up. He couldn’t imagine
they’d waited to eat just because he wasn’t there – especially
not this long. Macaroon plate still in hand, he stalked down
the hall, nearly tripping over Cleo in the process, and flung
open the door to his deserted study.

"Lumos!"

His desk was clear, except for a neatly closed black binder in
the very center. There was a note on top of the binder. He
pounced on it.

**

Severus, it read:

If you’ve already read the second binder, then you’ll know
exactly where I am, and exactly why I’m there. If not, I’ll
save you guessing; I’ve gone to Paris to talk to Neville.

If I’m back before dawn, it means I couldn’t get him to
believe me. If I’m not, it means we’ll be at St. Mungo’s the
moment it opens tomorrow morning. And if this is the case, as
I hope it will be, what I have in mind to do will require that
my way be smoothed with Draco Malfoy, as I imagine he won’t
have the faintest idea who I am. Could you meet us there?

Don’t worry about me. I feel fine; better than I have in
months. And Sal’s with me.

--Hermione

**

How? was his first thought, then – Of course. She must have
found a sample. The binder fell open to the back page: three
slim white-and-purple boxes, one empty sleeve. Severus cursed
automatically, then grinned; if her first thought was to go
Apparating off to Paris in search of a mystery, it was a
pretty fair bet that her little memory-potion had served its
intended purpose. He couldn’t think of a single more
characteristic thing she could have done.

He set down the plate he was holding, sank into his chair, and
started to read from the beginning. Twenty minutes later, he
was still stuck on Draco’s final letter, reading and rereading
and polishing off the biscuits without realising exactly how
many he was eating.

This was all beginning to make a frightening amount of sense.

Trust Lockhart, he thought savagely, to give away a secret
that wasn’t even his – and in the most tasteless, appalling,
self-serving way he possibly could have. I shouldn’t have
settled for Expelliarmus – I should have killed him when I had
the chance.

Pity there were so many witnesses at the time. Not to mention
that Minerva would probably have gutted him on the spot, if
he’d dared to use the Avada Kedavra in front of her precious
Gryffindor guppies. Slightly amused by his own turn of
thought, he shook himself and turned back to the matter at
hand.

Was Hermione on the right track? He thought it was a good
possibility. No one cared, after all, whether or not Golden
Boy Gilderoy had his memory or not, save for a handful of
deluded, starry-eyed spinsters with too many cats who still
believed, against all evidence to the contrary, that he’d ever
known the first thing about Doxy exterminations. No – though
that ridiculous interview had most assuredly put the Knights
of the Golden Wand on Hermione’s track, something else
entirely – something much more crucial than the welfare of one
egomaniac popinjay – had signed her death warrant.

Whether that ‘something’ had anything to do with Frank and
Alice Longbottom or not was another matter. Severus finished
the last macaroon and drew out his wand, tapping it
thoughtfully against the polished surface of his desk; he
needed to confirm a suspicion, and wasn’t sure how to go about
it.

Floo, he decided finally; it’s faster. "Hogwarts staffroom,"
he said to the hearth, tossing in a pinch of green dust, and
poked his head through the smoky, sulfurous flames onto
another continent.

Six a.m. here – or thereabouts – and he half-expected the room
to be empty; hard telling how much she’d slowed down, since
he’d been away. But no, there she was – a lone straight-backed
figure in green, grading essays and sipping tea at her
accustomed corner table. From this angle, she might have been
a young woman still, and he her half-admiring,
half-intimidated student.

Some things never change.

"Minerva," he said, and the straight back went a shade
stiffer.

One moment of surprise – that’s all she ever would allow
herself – then she turned, her lips thinly pressed together,
and shattered his Time-Turner illusion. "Severus. What an
unexpected pleasure. Shall I summon the Headmaster?"

"No, you’ll do," he said, smirking as her eyes narrowed.
"Before Draco Malfoy took over St. Mungo’s, Minerva – who
owned it?"

If the question struck her as odd, she didn’t betray it. "He
bought it from the Ministry, I believe," she said guardedly.
"His fiancée – the little Delacour girl; she’s apparently
quite good with numbers – brokered the deal."

"Oh?"

She warmed to her theme. "You must remember, Severus – or were
you already gone by then? The Daily Prophet ran all those
editorials on the evils of privatisation; made it into a bit
of a scandal, or tried to, anyway. Not that it did much good.
The Ministry had never been able to run it at a profit; they
were glad to be rid of it. They gave old Maxim Hustlethwaite
the choice of moving into the Transportation department or
retiring, and he chose retirement. He paid for a celebratory
round at the Leaky Cauldron; I remember Hagrid talking about
it." She cocked her head to one side. "Why?"

Severus had already ducked back into his study and was shaking
ashes from his hair, fired with new purpose. "No reason," he
said aloud, pulling Draco’s letter from its protective plastic
sleeve. "Used to belong to the Ministry, did it? Glad to get
rid of it, were they?" The letterhead was still crisp in his
fingers; she’d used photocopies for some of their
correspondence, but this one was an original. Good. "Let’s
just see," he murmured, picking up his wand again, "how many
copies of this are floating around loose. Priori Replicatem!"

The letter twitched in his fingers, then glowed bone-white. A
moment later, one silver-gray, shadowy replica detached itself
from the original and rose to hover, shimmering, in the air
above it. Grimly triumphant, Severus ended the spell and sat
back heavily in his chair, thoughts racing.

No mechanical means of reproduction would have tripped the
Priori – there might be a hundred photocopies of it, somewhere
in the Consortium’s vaults, and he wouldn’t know about them.
But then, the Consortium had embraced Muggle technological
conveniences in a way that most wizard-run businesses didn’t;
he was willing to bet that no-one in the St. Mungo’s
administrative office used anything but Replicate.

And he was willing to wager every future minute of his happy
retirement on the chance that someone in that very office had
made a clandestine Replica of Draco’s letter – and to no good
end.

These, then, were the pressing questions that remained. Who
was the Ministry’s mole at St. Mungo’s? Who was the mole’s
employer – the former Death-Eater/Golden Knight/pureblood
supremacist arsepucker, presumably in the Ministry of Magic,
who’d yet to be unveiled at trial?

And what did Frank and Alice Longbottom know, that made their
continued insanity a point worthy of murder?

At least as troubled as he was intrigued, he pushed the open
binder away to the far side of the desk and reached again for
Hermione’s note. Here, at least, was good news unalloyed – the
girl he remembered, all determined forward motion and
righteous fervor, as if the miracle potion in the little white
box had stripped her of hesitancy at the same time it restored
her memory. Impossible to tell whether she’d been struck again
by her old grief, or if the new development in the mystery had
focussed her energies solely into vengeance. Impossible, as
well, to tell what she was thinking, or what she felt – or
even if he had a hold on her still, now that she knew once
more exactly who he was, what he’d done.

Time enough for that later, he decided, and extinguished his
lamp. Sleep first. Then murder and mystery.

Love could wait. After all, hadn’t it always?

He went to claim his own bed, for the first time in weeks, and
found Cleo sprawled atop it, spread-eagled and purring. When
he tried to shoo her off, she opened one chilly grey eye and
hissed at him.

Women, he thought, and retreated to his study.

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Seven

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She had only hesitated for a moment, back at the cabin, before
popping open the lid of the Vanesca packet and thumbing out a
single dose. The gel strip itself was a peculiar shade of
greenish lavender, shot through with faintly glittering
striata.

Pretty, she’d thought, and then snorted at herself for
thinking it; after all, this little purple thumbnail of
ephemera, according to the documents in her lap, was powerful
enough to give her her life back.

You didn’t particularly like your life, remember? said a voice
in her head, small and rusty with disuse. Went to great
lengths to get rid of it, as I recall.

Well, yes, admitted its counterpart. But things were different
then.

Different? How?

Well, for starters, said the second voice, a trifle
defensively, I thought I was all alone.

Aren’t you?

A pause. No, said the second voice, smug now with reclaimed
certainty. He loves me. He said so.

Hermione blinked. Well, she thought, good to get that
straightened out, then.

And clinging to that last happy thought – he loves me – she
stuck out her tongue, and carefully laid the strip of Vanesca
atop it.

It tasted herbal, medicinal, unpleasant. She swallowed
reflexively, half-gagging with the sharp green bite of the
infusion’s rosemary topnote. A moment of dizziness, another –
this one longer – of nausea.

And then the nausea cleared, and she remembered herself.

There was no physical sensation as such, just a silent Eureka
Moment that shuddered through her psyche like a faraway
earthquake. She sat for a stunned instant, as if pinned to her
chair, then – unable to shake off the eerie sense of not
belonging to her own body – reached over to the side table and
palmed her wand.

Immediately she felt safer – and strangely, unnaturally calm.
The room seemed to hold its breath as she scanned it,
considering her options.

Finally, she focussed in on a spindly, sick-looking ficus tree
next to the far window, in between a tapestried ottoman and
the Edwardian writing-table where Sal did his crossword puzzle
every morning. Most of the houseplants were thriving specimens
of lush good health, but Sal had inadvertently walked through
this one a few days ago, on his way in from the garden, and
given it a mild case of frostbite from which it had yet to
recover. "Arborius Reparo," Hermione murmured, and watched the
furled leaves flare and lift. Her success left her flushed
with satisfaction, but utterly unsurprised.

She hadn’t doubted for a second that it would work. It’d been
months since she’d felt that certain – about anything.

It felt damn good.

The Vanesca binder was still open on her lap, the sample box
she’d opened clutched in her left hand – the one not holding
the wand. She started to slide it back into its plastic
sleeve, then thought better of her impulse and pocketed it
instead.

She needed to talk to Neville. And what she was about to tell
him would require a bit of proof.

**

She was pretty sure that Snape would meet her at St. Mungo’s
in the morning, if she asked him to – just a little side
benefit of being back inside her own brain; her newly
reclaimed self-knowledge, extensive as it was, paled in
comparison to the mountain of tantalizing, contradictory
things she’d just remembered about her old Potions Master. Not
only that, but he’d tipped his hand the other night – in
characteristic ungracious fashion, perhaps, but even his
surliness was reassuring; better a grudging declaration,
Hermione figured, than one too glib.

He loved her, and he’d loved her seven years ago, and he
probably hadn’t ever stopped. And for once, there was nothing
barring the way between them – no Draco, no murky
teacher-student dynamic, no protestations of Innocence vs.
Experience. No Bill now, either, unless you counted the memory
of him.

Which possibly she should.

She sat dry-eyed in the big comfortable chair, summoned up the
image of her laughing red-haired husband, and felt grief sweep
through her like hard rain. A month ago, she’d buckled under
its weight. Now, she grimly rode it out – and then sat
white-knuckled in its aftermath, wondering how the very
situation that she’d found unbearable that night beside the
Seine should feel so different now.

I thought I was lost, then. But I had no idea how much more
there was for me to lose.

Light-headed at the thought of her near miss with oblivion,
flushed with purpose and an odd, cautious sort of … optimism,
was it? Maybe … she put down her wand, banished thoughts of
Severus Snape to the ‘Later’ category in her Upper
Subconscious, and went to write him an explanatory note. Sal
met her in the office doorway.

"Dinner’s ready," he said. She shook her head.

"Don’t have time. On my way to Paris."

"Paris?" He floated a couple of inches closer, frowning.
"Whatever for? And how exactly were you planning to get there?
" When she didn’t answer right away, only shot him a tired
smile, his eyes widened.

"No." He peered into her face. "Yes." And then: "Really? How?"

"Let’s chalk it up to happy coincidence," Hermione said,
fishing the packet of Vanesca out of her robes and holding it
out to him. "Guess what my secret research project was all
about?"

For being the complicated saga that it was, it didn’t take
very long to fill him in. When she was finished, Sal whistled
under his breath.

"Well," he said, "this trumps the stroganoff and the carrot
cake. Go write your note – you’re right; Neville should be
brought into the loop, and it’d might as well be sooner than
later."

He looked positively luminous, lit from within by some
deeply-banked, ghoulish excitement. You’re turned on by this,
you old sneak, Hermione thought; you just love a mystery,
don’t you? – and had to suppress a snicker at the immediate
knowledge that she’d thought that exact same thing at least a
hundred times before.

"You’re plotting something," she said. "What is it?"

Sal smirked.

"That you’re in need of a reconaissance man," he said, "and
that I’m uniquely qualified for the job. "I’ll meet you at St.
Mungo’s in the morning; in the meantime—" he cracked his
knuckles and shot her a serene smile—"I’m going to pop off and
rifle some papers, just to see what floats to the surface."

He may know his way around a cheese soufflé, Hermione thought
a few moments later, ransacking Snape’s desk drawers for
parchment and quill. But Betty Crocker he’s not.

Darkly amused by this thought, she left the note on the desk,
grabbed her jacket from the hook in the corner, and went to
reclaim her wand from the parlor.

She couldn’t wait to Apparate again.

**

"Let me get this straight," Neville said, frowning. Clearly,
Hermione thought, he’d decided she was insane; blinking and
scruffy-haired, still yawning from being dragged out of bed,
he wore the beleaguered, put-upon expression of a man
determined, against all provocation, to remain reasonable.
"You’ve suddenly got your memory back, thanks to some miracle
potion you invented yourself – you’re hunting a mysterious
band of international killers who tried to blow you up to stop
you from marketing it – and you think you can use it to cure
my parents?" He shook his head. "Kate, this isn’t making much
sense."

Of course it’s not, she thought, irritated. Only one word in
ten that I’m trying to say is getting past the Fidelius. This
is nuts.

"Neville. Listen to me." Hermione put her hand on his arm.
"There’s a lot about this that’s … um, that’s too complicated
to get into right now," she said. "But this is the most
crucial bit. Your mum and dad – I think they know something,
something important."

"Like what?"

She sighed. "I don’t know. But the very day after Draco
suggested them for my research – that’s when the accident
happened. It can’t be a coincidence."

Neville frowned again. "Draco," he said slowly. "Wait a
second. You mean Malfoy?"

"Of course, Malfoy," Hermione said, casting her gaze
ceilingward. "The C.E.O. of St. Mungo’s. What other Draco do
we know?" Not liking the mulish set of his jaw, she forged
ahead without meeting his eyes. "The potion – the Vanesca – it
worked on Lockhart. He thought it might help your mum and dad,
t—"

"—Malfoy," he repeated, cutting her off. From the sour look on
his face, Hermione guessed that the Redemption of Draco,
wondrous as it had been, wasn’t a miracle Neville was prepared
to accept. "That … swine. That pointy-chinned albino freak. No
wonder your office got blown up; he was probably the one who
lit the fuse."

Hermione hesitated. "No," she said. "He didn’t. I know."

"How do you know?"

"I just know, all right?" As explanations went, this one took
the big blue ribbon for Lame and Unconvincing, but it was the
best she was capable of, on the pitiable amount of sleep she’d
managed in the last forty-eight hours. "Look, Neville, I know
you and Draco didn’t get on at school—"

"—Didn’t get on? He and his goons tortured me for years!—"

"—but I find it impossible to believe that in all the time
your parents have been at St. Mungo’s, you haven’t figured out
that he’s on our side now," Hermione soldiered on. "And
whether or not he’s involved with this doesn’t signify at the
moment – the facts are that I was all set to find you and get
permission to run some tests on your parents, and practically
in the next heartbeat my office was lying in splinters all
over greater Cairo and I was on the run."

She grabbed his hand and tugged until his eyes reluctantly met
hers. "Haven’t you ever wondered why the Death-Eaters went
after them, Neville? Don’t you think there’s probably more to
it than just spite and bad luck?"

He blinked, then looked away.

"Maybe," he said, chewing on his lower lip. "But on the other
hand, Kate – it’s my experience that bad luck and spite are
usually enough." His normally-sweet face was still set in
stubborn lines. "And yes, I know that Malfoy’s outwardly
respectable now. But his father was too, remember, and look
what he was up to all along."

"Draco isn’t Lucius," Hermione pointed out. Neville nodded.

"I know. But I’m still not sure I trust him to have my
parents’ best interests at heart."

"It’s worth a try, I’d say."

This from Joséphine, sleep-sultry and looking like Afterglow
Personified in a red satin dressing gown with marabou trim. Up
till now, she’d been too preoccupied with the sample box of
Vanesca to join in the conversation; now, she held one of the
gel strips up to the light and peered through it thoughtfully,
her dark eyes sharp and speculative despite her tumbled
appearance. "Think about it, Slick," she said quietly without
looking at him. "It’s been twenty years since it happened, and
no one’s been able to cure them. No one’s even offered."

"I know," Neville said. "But—"

"So." Joséphine flicked him a deceptively casual glance. "For
two decades, your mum’s been collecting bits of paper in a tin
can. What do you care who’s involved with this experiment, if
there’s a chance she might get better? How can it hurt her
more than she’s already been hurt?"

Neville looked stricken, then considering. "I take your
point," he said. Joséphine squeezed his hand across the table.

"Think about it, that’s all." She rubbed the strip of Vanesca
between her thumb and forefinger, then sniffed the abraded
surface critically.

"I expected magical ingredients," she said to Hermione. "But
this is just a neutral base of herbs, isn’t it?"

Hermione nodded. "It’s all in the enchantments," she said. "A
Suspension Charm –"

"Clever." Joséphine scraped the gel strip absently with her
fingernail, then held the scraping to the light.
"Triple-charmed. Unbelievable."

"Thanks."

"Designed for Obliviate, did you say?" She was prodding the
remains of the strip with her wand now, her eyes intent on the
series of small violet sparks rising from it. "How did you
intend to modify it for Crucio?"

"I’m not sure," Hermione said, fascinated by the dexterity and
offhanded skill apparent in this casual field diagnostic.
"That’s why I need the X-rays – to find out what I’m dealing
with."

She turned her attention to Neville, regretting once again the
barrier of the Fidelius that prevented her from telling him
everything. "I promise you," she said. "I’m on the level. I
wouldn’t lie to you."

"I believe you," he said, grey eyes uncertain. "I’ve just got
some questions, that’s all."

"Come to St. Mungo’s with me," Hermione said, "and I swear to
you, you’ll understand everything once we get there."

**




LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Eight

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He woke up gradually these days, which was a luxury he’d never
afforded himself before – even as a small child too young for
Hogwarts, he could remember opening his eyes into startling,
immediately lucid clarity, zero to sixty in a flat split
second. That he felt fuzzy right now, that the stain of pink
dawn through his closed eyelids made him want to pull the
covers over his head and disappear underneath them, seemed
like a good sign.

And then he smelled coffee.

"You’re late," said the Love of His Life in dulcet tones, and
made sure he’d opened one eye and knew that the mug was two
inches from his nose before she adroitly snatched it away
again. "In fact, you’ve never been so late. You’ve set a new
standard for lateness."

"Urrrrrgggh," Draco said, and frowned blearily up at her. She
was damp from the shower and dressed for work in a two-piece
suit of charcoal-grey wool, her long golden curls twisted
savagely into a French knot but already starting to escape
from it as they dried. By mid-afternoon, he knew, they’d have
worked their way free entirely, and she’d have resorted to
pulling them back in a heavy ponytail – not exactly conducive
to the severe corporate image she was after, and she kept
threatening to cut them off, but so far she hadn’t done it.
Draco wasn’t sure whether this was due to his begging, or
merely because it suited her nefarious purposes to look more
cute and cuddly than she really was.

Some women would have complained about being underestimated at
work. Gabrielle merely took advantage of it.

Another one of the million reasons he adored her.

"Coffee," he said hopefully, opening the other eye. She went
on as if she hadn’t noticed.

"You could write a book on lateness, that’s how late you are.
Confessions of a Modern Hibernator." She took a sip of the
coffee, stepping adroitly back just as he made a calculated
lunge for the mug. "Ah-ah-ah. Rip Van Malfoy: How I Slept
Through My Twenties. Not a sip until you’ve got both feet on
the floor."

Feigning obedience, he swung his legs out of bed, then ignored
the coffee cup she set down on the nightstand and went for her
instead, grabbing her at mid-thigh level and falling back on
the bed, triumphant, with her sprawled on top of him. True to
her nature, she didn’t even squeak in protest, just adjusted
her position and grinned down at him.

"I’m not going to kiss you until you’ve brushed your teeth,
you know," she said, and then put the lie to that statement by
applying her lips to his earlobe. She smelt of soap and
cinnamon toothpaste. She was going to have to put her hair
back up again.

She was a better wake-up call than coffee any day.

Draco tangled one hand in the unruly mass of curls at her nape
and rolled with her. His free hand was already making free
with the buttons of her blouse. "So," he said, his words
muffled by the deep, pale curve of her neck. "How late am I,
exactly?"

Gabrielle gasped and arched up into his searching fingers.
"Um. Not too late. Come to think of it."

Generalities were unlike her. Suspicious, he stopped kissing
her throat long enough to crane his head toward the clock
radio on the nightstand. "How late," he inquired, "is ‘not too
late’?"

She’d hiked her skirt up to her waist, grasped him with small
but certain fingers. The diamond solitaire on the fourth
finger of her left hand caught a stray beam of morning sun and
flashed a rainbow in his face. "Does it matter?"

She was too good at this, Draco thought, and sank back into
the pillows as she pushed him over on his back again and threw
one leg over his hips. The warm dry fingers stroking his cock
gave him a last friendly squeeze of encouragement, then
withdrew. The next moment, he was in paradise.

"No," he said on a half-sigh, and pulled her down against him.
"No, I suppose it doesn’t."

Behind his head, the time changed over to 7:00. But the alarm
didn’t sound.

She’d thought of everything.

**

After that, he figured his day could only go downhill. From
the look on his secretary’s face when he Apparated into her
office, he was afraid he was right.

"You have visitors, Mr. Malfoy," she said, using the same tone
of voice for visitors that she might have ordinarily reserved
for rampaging sewer trolls. Draco raised one eyebrow.

"Did they say who they were? What they wanted?"

Bettina – grey of hair, straight of back, possessed of a
retired husband, a meek-voiced son named Anthony, a
daughter-in-law to whom she referred as That Tramp, and six
beloved, much-petted grandchildren – shook her head. "They’re
in your office," she said, lips held in a flat, disapproving
line. "They said you’d know them when you saw them."

A surreptitious peek through the window leading to his inner
sanctum confirmed this as a true statement – mostly. Draco
sighed, and felt his orgasm-induced Extraordinary Good Mood
morph into a sort of wary incredulity.

Snape. And Slytherin. That much was figurable, though what
they wanted at St. Mungo’s, or with him, he’d be hard-pressed
to say. But who were the two women with them? And – he peeked
again, ducked back against the wall, rubbed his eyes –was that
Longbottom? What was he doing in there?

Surreal. He turned back toward Bettina, not bothering to hide
his puzzled frown. "They didn’t say anything to you?"

"The ghost," Bettina said, "was here when I arrived. Inside
the office. I caught him looking through the filing cabinet."
Her eyes narrowed. "I’ll wager he didn’t expect me here an
hour before opening – now, did he?"

"Really." Draco whistled under his breath. "And?"

"And I threatened to call the Ministry and have him
exorcised." She sniffed. "That’s when the others showed up.
One of them – the man with the dark hair – was most rude. I’m
not at all sure I shouldn’t call the Ministry, Mr. Malfoy."

"Um." Draco closed his eyes, thought longingly of his vacation
– still three weeks away, and not getting closer fast enough
to suit him – then wearily opened them again. "Don’t call yet,
all right? I’ll try to sort it out."

Downhill, he thought, and headed for the door. Definitely
downhill.

**

If he was confused before entering the room, what he felt ten
minutes after sitting down at the table would have qualified
him for a private ward on the Fourth Floor. "One more time,"
he said to Snape, and was surprised to see Snape turn on the
young woman he’d introduced as Kate.

"Do you see?" he snapped at her. "It’s no use."

Draco, accustomed to seeing recipients of that tone and look
turn the colour of pistachio pudding and quail in their boots,
wasn’t prepared to see this Kate – ah, Billings, was it? –
tilt her chin at a more pugnacious angle and stare Snape down.
"Try again," she hissed at him. "If it doesn’t work, it
doesn’t work, and we’ll move on to Plan B. But let’s try to
avoid that, shall we?"

"If what doesn’t work?" Draco wondered aloud, and Joséphine
Dessources – Hogwarts’ new Potions Mistress – laughed.

"Don’t mind them," she said. "Lovers’ quarrel."

Draco’s eyes popped.

Lovers’ quarrel? Excuse me? Since when has Snape been getting
laid?

What’s going on here?

He sent Neville a hard look. There’d never been any love lost
between them, granted, but on the other hand, neither had
Longbottom ever been known to lie. Slytherin common-room
gossip had him pegged as too stupid – whether or not that was
true, Draco had never quite figured out. "Longbottom," he
said. "Explain to me what this is about, will you? I’m lost."

"The bottom line is this," Neville said. "Kate thinks she
might be on the trail of some new treatment that can cure my
parents. She wants to run some tests – Muggle tests – on them,
and I’ve agreed to let her do it."

He regarded Draco warily. "We’re telling you about it first
because Kate needs to move them, temporarily, to a Muggle
hospital in order to perform the tests. And—" he swallowed
once, nervously—"because no one else can know about it. It has
to be a secret from the rest of the staff."

"Secret," Draco repeated. "See, that’s the part I don’t
understand. Why does that matter?"

"It matters," Kate Billings said sharply, "because the last
time you and I spoke about running tests on the Longbottoms,
an extremist group found out about it, blew up my laboratory
and killed my husband. We’re trying not to have that happen
again."

"What?" Draco shook his head, unsure of whether to be angry or
just incredulous. "The last time we spoke? What last time we
spoke?"

Angry was winning – which was good, because it felt better to
be angry than to be confused. "I’ve never seen you before in
my life. I’ve never spoken to you in my life. Before nine o’
clock this morning, I didn’t know you existed. What the hell
are you talking about?"

"She’s talking about these," said Sal from his seat in the
corner of the room, and floated a stack of documents down the
table toward Draco with a wave of his wand. "From your files,"
he said. "You’ll find the pertinent memos in the Longbottom
and Lockhart folders." A faint smile. "Thought you might need
a bit of convincing; that’s why I showed up early."

Draco caught the stack of papers and shuffled through them,
teeth caught on his upper lip. "These? They’re all blurry," he
said, frowning at them. "They must be bad copies. I can’t read
a word of this."

"It’s proof," Sal insisted. Draco smiled thinly.

"Not if I can’t read it, it’s not."

More whispering, at this, between Snape and Ms. Billings – his
head shaking emphatically, her hands tracing the air in small
tense circles, like well-trained doves. "Look," she said
finally, loud enough for Draco to hear her. "I’m aware that
it’s dangerous – who knows that better than I do? But it’s
worth it – we’re onto something here, and if the cover’s blown
it’s blown; I can handle myself now. Just do it, all right?"

She turned toward Draco, eyes still sparking with argument and
intention. She’s right, he thought fuzzily; I have seen her
before.

But where?

"The fact is," she said, "My name isn’t Kate Billings at all."

"Really?" He shook his head, puzzled – vaguely aware on a
certain level that Neville and Joséphine looked as thrown by
this as he did. "Then who are you?"

A sigh from Snape, and then he stood up – face pale and set,
eyes burning out of the black holes of their sockets like dark
lamps, like visionary’s torches. He had Kate by the shoulders,
Draco noticed, in a grip far too firm to be quite comfortable,
and wondered why she didn’t flinch away – why she didn’t look
surprised.

"Hermione," Snape said, and the lights seemed to flicker in
response to his voice. He took another deep breath.

"Hermione Granger. That’s who she is."

Draco’s mouth fell open.

Downhill, he thought for the third time that morning.
Definitely downhill.

And then, everyone started to talk at once.

**



LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Thirty-Nine

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A million things happened at once, some of them completely
unrelated to the matter at hand. Such is the way of the world.

Among the pertinent:

Martina Granger, in the midst of her morning crossword, froze
with her pen halfway to 13 Across (Negates strongly), set it
down on the table, then shook her head slightly as if to clear
it and took another sip of tea, engulfed by a sudden strong
urge to look through her photograph albums and – just as
suddenly – utterly mystified as to why she’d given her
favourite one away to that strange young medical researcher
who’d come round to interview her the other night.

You’re getting old, Martina, she told herself, amused, and
took the time to spread her toast with marmalade before
returning to the crossword, and the answer she’d been about to
write: denies.

A silver photo-frame on the Weasleys’ mantel, housing the
image of a smiling red-headed boy in Hogwarts robes and a Head
Boy badge, shimmered for a minute and then realigned, its
shiny surface now home to four engraved words instead of two.

(The new inscription: Beloved Son And Husband.)

The man who had walked into a bar – not presently wearing his
trench coat, but rather a pair of blue-and-white-striped
cotton pajamas – frowned and murmured in his sleep.

At a desk in a hidden office, far underneath the city of
Cairo, a goblin smiled and raised her coffee-cup in silent
salute.

And Bettina Thrush – once the longtime caretaker of the Fourth
Floor, now careening toward an increasingly-more-comfortable
retirement as the grateful Mr. Malfoy’s personal assistant –
heard him gasp a familiar name – "Hermione?" – and froze with
her ear still pressed to his office door.

A tense few minutes later, she had ascertained exactly which
patient folders were missing from her meticulous files, and –
grateful for once that Mr. Malfoy had put in phones, to
supplement the old Interoffice Floo – was flipping hastily
through her Rolodex for an international number she hadn’t
dialed for at least six months.

"Sophie," she said, hand cupped over the mouthpiece. "Bettina
here." A pause, and a grim smile.

"You’re going to want to alert him," she said. "It’s about to
happen again."

**

By lunchtime, the necessary paperwork was completed and locked
in Draco’s office safe, and the thrill of reunion was rapidly
giving way to the need for stealthy haste. A letter had been
owled to Dumbledore, and Neville and Joséphine were back in
Paris, the better to place a series of wards on Hermione’s
flat in the Rue des Arènes. Best to go ahead and break Sal’s
bit of the Fidelius, they’d all decided, and put the address
back into the public domain; that way, they’d have forewarning
the minute the Knights of the Golden Wand picked up their
trail.

Draco had stayed behind at St. Mungo’s to make a few calls to
the nearest Muggle hospital regarding the loan of the
equipment they’d need for the tests, to re-establish contact
with Areli at the Consortium’s new offices in Cairo, and to
arrange a safe-house for the Longbottoms. It wouldn’t do, he’d
pointed out, for their test subjects to go missing, or worse,
while they got all their ducks in a row.

Sal, whiskers bristling with unholy excitement, had taken
himself off to the Fourth Floor to stand guard in the
meantime.

And Hermione herself, despite initial protests that she could
be doing a million more useful things elsewhere, was back in
Montana, with Snape.

They sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in wary,
all-too-knowledgeable silence, and ate the reheated beef
Stroganoff that Sal had intended for last night’s dinner.
Hermione kept her eyes carefully averted, and noticed that
Snape did the same. Once, they both looked up at the same
time, and their glances met and held with an almost-audible
click; in the next instant, they’d both flushed a guilty brick
red and ducked back into their lunch.

She wasn’t sure how to name the feeling that kept creeping
over her when she looked at him. The cool objectivity that had
been hers while her memory was lost – wherein he’d been just a
man, albeit a darkly intriguing one, with whose body her own
had reacted in incendiary and unexpected ways – had vanished
along with the cloud-cover of the Obliviate. Now that she had
herself back again, she’d lost her handle on him.

On the other hand, he didn’t look any more comfortable than
she felt. Which was its own form of consolation. She watched
him stab a strip of green pepper with his fork and swirl it
around in a stray pool of cream sauce, then consume it –
adroitly, but with scant evidence of enjoyment. He’d been
wearing the same faintly-aggrieved expression since they’d
arrived back at the cabin.

Part of her found this endearing. The rest of her, recognising
it for the evasion it was, was drumming its metaphorical
fingertips on the table … and gathering its courage for a
frontal assault.

"What do we do now?" she asked finally, more to break the
silence than in any real expectation of an answer. He looked
up, shrugged, and stabbed another slice of pepper.

"Wait."

"For what?"

Another upward flick of his eyes, this time with a hint of
annoyance. "For something to happen," he said, laying down his
fork. "For Sal to find the papers he’s looking for. For
someone to breach the wards on the flat in Paris. For Draco to
locate the machines you need, and deliver them somewhere safe
so you can get started with your research."

Hermione considered this new thought with interest. "Mm.
Cairo, do you think?"

Severus snorted and jerked a thumb toward the kitchen doorway.
"Hardly. My study, more like." He picked up his water glass,
contemplated its depths, and set it down again untouched.
"More’s the pity. Merlin knows it was bad enough having
Longbottom himself sleeping on my sofa, without having to play
nursemaid to his vegetable parents now as well."

Hermione glared at him. "It’s unfair to call them that," she
said. "They came by their condition honourably."

A twist of his expressive mouth. "A fact which doesn’t change
the condition itself – now, does it? Don’t play
politically-correct with me, Miss Granger; it’s a game I’ve
never been able to abide."

I’d forgotten, thought Hermione, how much he pisses me off,
most of the time. How could I have blocked that out? "Not Miss
Granger," she said, clenching her jaw so tightly that she
could feel the muscles tick in protest. "Mrs. Weasley. In case
you didn’t remember."

"Oh, I remember, all right." A faint, deliberate smirk.
"Though I think you, of all people, are rather ill-equipped to
lecture me on issues of memory."

This, as well-timed a verbal dart as he’d ever aimed, was
delivered in his most satiny of whispers. Hermione remembered
this tone of voice rather well; she could hear it now,
floating down the corridors of her subconscious in delightedly
malicious echoes from the Potions classroom: Ah. Miss Granger
– how unexpected. A pause for the Slytherins’ obligatory
snicker. Do enlighten us, won’t you?

Detention – that was another word she associated with this
tone, yes … that, and his cruellest cut of all: I see no
difference. At the time, Hermione-the-schoolgirl had assumed
he found genuine pleasure in tormenting her, and reacted
accordingly. Now, with so much water under the bridge that she
might have died and reincarnated herself in the interval, she
merely rolled her eyes and waved the sarcasm away.

"Nothing wrong with my memory now," she said, in as mild a
tone as she could muster, and answered his suspicious glance
with an innocent look: who, me? "Everything’s coming through
quite clearly – and it’s not as if the new’s pushed out by the
old, either." She took a sip of water. "Take two nights ago,
for instance. I remember quite a lot about that."

He went very still. "Do you, now."

"Indeed," Hermione said, feeling suddenly reckless. "A tall
dark stranger made me a declaration. Not the sort of thing a
girl forgets."

A muscle ticked in his cheek. "Some things are better left
unremembered."

"Train’s left the station on that count, don’t you think?"

That had come out more shrilly than she’d intended; sarcasm
made for thin gilding on an urgency this great. Hermione
wanted to look away from him, but didn’t dare.

"So," she said. "Did you mean it? Or not?"

**

He stabbed a chunk of beef and put it in his mouth without
answering her, presumably to buy himself a few seconds’
thinking time; Hermione could almost see the wheels turning
behind those dark, implacable eyes as he chewed, swallowed at
length, and took a deliberate sip from his water goblet.
Finally, he met her eyes and shrugged.

"I find," he said, "that life is short enough as it is,
without cluttering the air with words I don’t mean." Another
pause; Hermione thought him about to continue, but he only
clamped his lips together and settled back in his chair.

Typical.

"Well?" she prompted, impatient, and immediately wished she
hadn’t as his carefully-blank face arranged itself into
more-familiar, more-sardonic lines.

"Well, what?"

Only one way out of this hole, Hermione decided, and picked up
her conversational shovel with gritted teeth. "Well, what do
we do about it?" she asked, knowing even before the words were
uttered that they’d be greeted with a contemptuously arched
eyebrow and another one of those Gallic shrugs.

They were.

"Why should we do anything about it?" He was toying with the
heavy sterling handle of his coffee spoon, his long steady
fingers tracing the intricate scrollwork of the design while
his eyes, cool and shuttered, never left hers. Hermione let
out a little huff of annoyance, and saw his gaze spark with an
instant of speculative humour.

He’s playing with me, she thought, and curled her lip at him.

"That’s an excellent question," she snapped. He bit the inside
of his cheek, presumably to suppress a smile. "And stop
smirking at me! This isn’t something to laugh about!"

Immediately he sobered. "No, it’s not, is it," he said, and
his voice was so uncharacteristically gentle that Hermione’s
mouth fell open. "But you’ll forgive me if I take what humour
I can from the situation. We were at a similar crossroads some
years ago, you and I – need I remind you how that turned out?"

"It’s not the same," Hermione said, her throat burning. Snape
sent her a long, level look.

"Isn’t it?" The coffee spoon clattered to the table; neither
of them glanced at it. "Look at me," he said,"—really look at
me, Hermione, and see what’s there, instead of what you want
to be there. And then, if you’re able, take a long hard look
at yourself, and tell me – regardless of the passage of time
and the events that fill it, are that woman and that man
really well-suited to each other?"

Hermione stared at him, stony-faced, for a long tense moment,
then dropped her eyes to the table.

A basket of Sal’s five-grain dinner rolls sat, as yet
untouched, at her elbow. She chose one, split it, buttered it
methodically, set down her knife – then drew back her arm and
threw it at him. It hit him in the middle of the forehead,
butter side first, and bounced.

"Look at you?" she asked, incredulous. "Look at you, and see
what’s there? You utter, utter bastard. How dare you
condescend to me?"

Later, she’d wish for a camera; the sight of Severus Snape
sitting speechless and open-mouthed at a butcher-block kitchen
table with butter all over his forehead would have fetched
unheard-of amounts at silent auction. Right now, however, she
was on a roll.

So to speak.

"You think I’m some whinging little romantic?" she demanded.
"You think I don’t know exactly who and what you are? All
personal interaction aside, I sat in your class for six years,
and if that didn’t give me an inside handle on your less
commodious aspects, I don’t know what would. You’re an
autocratic, self-indulgent, inflexible prick of a human being,
and I’ve known that all along."

He opened his mouth. She threw the other half of the roll at
him.

"No, don’t." Somehow, she was on her feet, her napkin sliding
off her lap into a disconsolate origami puddle under the
table. "It’s you who doesn’t know me. If you did—"

"—Oh, don’t I?" He pushed back his chair and glared at her
from across the table. "Let’s not forget who’s had a direct
line in to the Granger Subconscious for the last four and a
half months, shall we? I’ve seen more of what goes on in your
grubby little brain than I care to, believe me."

"That being the case," Hermione snapped, "I’m surprised you
didn’t see the Obliviate coming. Or is it just that you like
me better when I’m out of my mind?"

For a moment, utter silence – and then a deafening crash, as a
rather heavy kitchen table went careening across the room and
into the opposite wall. Hermione, mouth already opened for the
next volley, froze in mid-breath, took one look at the wizard
advancing toward her with his wand out … and then turned and
ran.

She got as far as the kitchen doorway.

**

Last Tango in Paris
Chapter Forty



━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

She'd never turned tail and run from him before, and for a
moment it caught Severus off guard.  After he'd gotten over
the mild shock of it, though, he found it rather exciting; he
felt like a cat who'd just flushed a mouse.



A predatory thought, to be sure.  But, he reminded himself,
this Hermione wasn't the damaged piece of Dresden he'd been
coddling back into sanity one trans-Atlantic night at a time,
and she wasn't the blank-eyed cipher of a girl he'd found
crumpled like used-up tissue paper at the banks of the Seine.
This was the real Hermione, Hermione magnificently returned to
her lovely, clever, bad-tempered self.



And she'd just thrown butter at him.



The way he saw it, all bets were off.



“Petrificus Totalis,” he said lazily to her retreating back,
and watched it stiffen in outrage even before the curse hit
it.  She thudded to the floor face-up (Petrificus victims
always landed face-up for some unknown reason; back in the
days when he'd had frequent occasion to use it, he'd often
wondered about that), her legs still extending into the
kitchen.  Add a pair of shiny red shoes, Severus thought, and
you'd have the makings of some very fine literary irony
indeed.  He pocketed his wand again, crossed the room to the
paper-towel dispenser, and took his time wiping the butter off
his forehead.



She was glaring daggers at him.  He let her do it.



“Excuse me,” he said now, leaning over her, and managed to
extract her wand from her pocket without really touching her.
There were wizards in the world who wouldn't have hesitated to
cop a feel, given the same circumstances, but he didn't want
to put himself in that category, even accidentally.
Obviously, Hermione had already figured this out; she looked
angry beyond the telling of it, but not the least bit
frightened.  Severus pocketed her wand, picked up the nearest
of the fallen chairs, turned it to face her, and straddled it
casually.



It was odd, but he wasn't the least bit angry anymore.  “
Finite Incantatem,” he said, and watched her surge to her feet
like a small, furious wave.



“You sick fuck.  You bastard.  You … you flobberworm.  You
disgust me.”



Flobberworm?  Severus grinned.  “Oh, you can do better than
that, can't you?”



Hermione bared her teeth at him.  “Give me my wand back, you
dragon dung,” she promised him, “and you'll see how much
better I can do.  You worthless, spineless, gutless,
dickless—“



“—Hermione—“



“—bastard son of a Jarvey hairball—“



“—I've changed my mind,” he interrupted, and she paused,
mid-tirade, to look at him as if he'd gone mad.



“What are you talking about?”



“You,” he said.  Things were suddenly very clear.  “You're
even more of a shrew than I remember you as – and you were
rather impressive even then.  We're better-suited than I
thought.”



She gaped at him.  “A shrew?  You throw the Full-Body-Bind at
me when my back is turned, take away my wand, and suddenly I'm
a shrew?  You bloody, buggery stoat of a human being.”



“—And to set the record straight,” he continued, “I do not
like you better when you're out of your mind; I found your
post-Obliviate self an irritating milksop—“ here, Hermione's
mouth dropped open, then shut again with a snap—“with precious
little to say for herself.”  He let his eyes flick up to her
face – half-baffled, half-furious – then down again.  “Even
considering your present state of utter raving lunacy, you
vicious little harpy, I prefer you with your memory intact; it
means I don't have to be careful of you anymore.”



“Careful?  You've never been careful of me,” she shot back.
“Ever.”



Severus sighed, pushed away his chair, and stood up.



“I've never been anything but,” he said.  “But that's all
going to stop.  Right now.”



**



Halfway around the world, a file cabinet opened and spat out a
folder.  In the folder was a form, and on the form an address,
neatly written in a clear round hand.  The form passed from
one hand to another, and was duly studied by the owners of
both.



“She's not there any longer,” one of them said.  The other
shrugged.



“Let's look anyway.”



**



Somehow, they'd ended up kissing.  Hermione figured this was
weak-willed of her, considering that he was a soap-scum
bastard who didn't have a shred of human decency to be found
anywhere within a three-meter radius of his cold black heart.



On the other hand, hadn't this whole argument started because
she'd wanted to kiss him in the first place?



The ends justified the means sometimes, even if you were a
Gryffindor.  She sighed against his mouth, not bothering to
conceal the shudder of pure female satisfaction that ripped
through her when his tongue touched hers.



“Well, go on then,” she gasped when they finally came up for
air.  “Don't be careful.  I want to see if I can tell the
difference.”



“Be careful what you wish for,” he growled, and then kissed
her again – harder this time, as if to prove his point.
Hermione, entering into the spirit of things, nipped his lower
lip – perhaps a bit harder than she'd intended – and was
mildly gratified to hear him hiss in reaction.  “That,” he
said against her mouth, “was uncalled for.”



“Oh, yeah?”  His hands had found their way under her jumper,
which was making sentient thought difficult.  On the one hand,
Hermione thought fuzzily, using the term wandless magic in
this context was a bit of a timeworn cliché.  On the other –
who cared?  “What are you planning to do about it?”



Tradition, of course, dictated that the banter of Act One
should pay off with horizontal calisthenics in Act Two, and
this encounter was no exception; how they managed to manouevre
out of the doorway and down the hall to the bedroom was a
mystery, but there they were regardless, tumbling across and
down into softness and immediately reentangling themselves
again, like two extension cords left alone in a dark desk
drawer.  “Divestio,” Hermione gasped, and then frowned and
opened her eyes when nothing happened.  Snape was looming over
her, looking amused.



“In a hurry, Miss Granger?”



“Give me back my wand,” she panted, and he shook his head.



“I don't think so.”  She'd rucked his hair into an untidy
nimbus around his head, and he had that self-satisfied look
that she'd only seen him wear in situations identical to this
one.  It made her weak in the knees.  “As I recall,” he purred
now – good to know that the Voice of Pain has an occasional
positive connotation, Hermione thought – “this works the best
when you don't even have the use of your hands.”



She made a wild grab for his wand hand.  When that didn't work
out, she settled for both sides of his collar.  “Don't do
that,” she said into his ear.  “Not this time, anyway.”



A considering look.  “Why shouldn't I?”



“Because,” Hermione said, and heaved him over onto his back.
“I want to be able to touch you.”



**



“Draco?  It's Joséphine.  Guess what?”



Draco blinked.  “Already?” he said.  “I thought it'd take them
at least two hours.  They're better connected than I'd
thought.”



“You bet, sweet cheeks.  Wards are going off like a four-alarm
fire; Slick and I are about to go investigate.”  Joséphine
popped her gum.  “Thought you'd want to know.”



“Thanks.  I'll tell Sal,” Draco said.  “If they've already
tracked down the apartment, I don't imagine it'll take them
long to act on the Longbottom angle.  We need to move fast.”



“I'd thought of that,” Joséphine said.  “We've already been on
the Floo with Albus; if you don't have a better place in mind,
he's offering us the secured wing of the Hogwarts infirmary as
Testing Headquarters.  You have any objections to that?”



Draco chewed on his upper lip.  “No,” he said, “that's fine.
We'll go ahead and move them, then.”  He frowned, struck by a
new thought.  “Should someone let Snape and Hermione know?”



“We'll fill them in,” Joséphine promised, “and meet you there
– just as soon as we've taken a peek at the apartment.  Half
an hour, tops.”



“Sounds good.  I'll see you then.”



**



He was like the horse from Jingle Bells, Hermione thought:
lean, lank, and doomed to misfortune.  As such, the black
robes suited him – if you were into that sort of thing, that
is, which she figured she was merely by default for sleeping
with him and then coming back for more.



He shouldn't have looked like much of anything naked – just a
scrawny, forty-something Ichabod Crane of a man, fish-belly
pale and not getting any younger.  Certainly after six years
of snuggling up to Sex-On-Fins Weasley, Hermione thought,
Severus Snape should have suffered by comparison.



From a strictly aesthetic angle, she supposed he did.



None of that mattered, because the old fascination was still
there – strong and eager enough, in fact, to make Hermione
wonder if it had ever left.  She put her mouth on his shoulder
and drew hard, delighted to raise a strawberry birthmark on
that white skin … and half-haunted by yet another old memory:
Snape holding her curls away from her neck and banishing his
fingerprints from her skin, one by one.



The recollection of it sent a liquid shudder reeling through
her, and she fought it by picking another pristine patch of
torso and sinking in her teeth.  We like to leave marks, both
of us.  I'm not sure that's such a good thing.  But it felt
good – he felt good, sinewy and tense and deceptively strong,
a cauldronful of banked coals shifting and hissing under her
fingertips.



When she touched his cock, it felt hot enough to burn her
hands, leaping like flame in a velvet slipcover.  She kissed
him there, wanting to feel that heat sear her lips, then
closed her eyes and sank down on him without preamble – oh
God, it had been so long since she'd done this, all those
years and lives ago in a moonlit dungeon, cold stone on her
knees and heated, shuddering man closing her in everyplace
else.  Gobbets of dragon's-breath in the chilly room, frosting
the air above her.  Hands on her head like a frantic
benediction.



It felt good to do it another way, to hold him down on the bed
with elbows and knees and the weight of her body across his
legs and to lose track of the passage of time.  Somewhere
above her head, he was starting to make noise – yes, she
thought, exultant, yes, go right ahead and do it, say it,
amazing the sounds we make against our will, when pleasure
drags them from us.  Amazing that I can do that to you.



“Hermione,” he gasped, and she flicked her eyes up his body to
meet his gaze.



“You made me a declaration,” she said, and felt him tremble
under her hands.



“Do you want to know if I meant it?”  A thread of laughter in
his voice.  “If so, I congratulate you on your excellent sense
of timing.”



Hermione's lips twitched.  “That's a ‘yes', then.”



“You undo me,” he said simply, and Hermione felt her throat
clog.



“I have a declaration of my own,” she whispered.  Snape shook
his head.



“Not now,” he said.  “Tragedy's never far.  And too much
happiness tempts the Fates.”



Typical of him, Hermione thought, to rain on my drama parade.
“What, then?” she queried tartly, and he grinned at her – had
she ever seen him smile like that? she wondered, full out,
with all those teeth showing?  If she had, she couldn't
remember it.



“Finish what you started,” he said, and took her by the
shoulders to haul her up.  “That's good enough for now.”



**



“Well?” Neville wanted to know.  “Everything okay?”



Joséphine grinned at him.



“Peachy,” she said.  “How about you?”



“Did you tell them?”



She shook her head.



“Left a note.”



“Oh.”



“Come on,” she said, smiling to herself, and took his arm.
“Let's go.  I want to meet your Mum.”



They went.



**




Last Tango in Paris
Chapter Forty-One
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They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.



This had been going on for awhile.  Initially it had been
accompanied by comfortable silence.  Now, the silence wasn't
so comfortable.  Still, Severus figured that for his money,
Hermione could be the one to break it.



She didn't disappoint.



“So,” she said, eyes still trained on the ceiling.  “This is
strange, isn't it?”



He knew exactly what she meant, but decided that in this case,
feigning ignorance was the better part of valor.  “How so?”



“Well,” she said.  “Usually at this point we've quarreled
already about what a Bad Idea This Was and how we're Not Well
Suited, and one of us has gone off in a huff.  We're a bit in
uncharted territory now, don't you think?”



He considered this while pretending that he wasn't looking at
her – though why he was pretending, he hadn't a clue.
Something to do with testosterone, no doubt.  “I imagine that
between the two of us,” he said, “we could manufacture a
quarrel rather handily.  If you feel it's necessary, that is.”



This made her chuckle – a creamy, dreamy sound deep in her
throat which had the portion of his anatomy that he'd
heretofore considered to be completely sated sending up a
flare of newfound interest.  “I imagine we could.  Though this
is rather nicer.”



That it was.



Severus stretched, letting his arms fall in a lazy curve above
his head, and found the fingers of one hand somehow,
inexplicably, linked with hers.  “I wouldn't become accustomed
to it, if I were you,” he said.  The feel of her palm against
his was like a body blow in miniature, almost too pleasurable
to stand.  “The niceties of social converse, I regret to
admit, have long escaped me.  Despite the pleasure of the
company, that's a fact which is unlikely to change.”



She chuckled again.  Her hand had wriggled free of his grasp
and was now engaged in five-pronged electric tracery up and
down the inside surfaces of his fingers.  “And here I was
hoping we could read some Rod McKuen and start a dream journal
together.  Darn.”



Severus didn't have the slightest idea who Rod McKuen was, but
he knew when he was being got at.  Oddly enough, he found the
whole idea rather endearing; gentle raillery of this sort was
a delicious novelty he'd never thought to taste – the
chocolate Napoleon of afterglow, encased securely behind plate
glass in a shop that never seemed to be open while he was
passing by.



Now that he'd got a taste of it, he wanted to gulp it down
whole.



Patience.



“Trollop,” he murmured, and captured her hand again.  Palm to
palm again – now, if only he could remember the incantation he
had in mind … Ah,  yes.  He murmured it, and felt the side of
her leg bump his as her body arched and her heels slid apart.
Hermione cursed and jackknifed up.



“What the bloody hell was that?”



He didn't let go of her hand.  “Shhh.  This takes
concentration, you know.”



She was glaring at him with bone-deep suspicion; it did his
heart good to mutter that powerful little word again and watch
her pugnacious expression take a direct hit.  Surprise warred
with indignation and curiosity and bone-deep desire in those
intelligent dark eyes; he watched her pupils dilate as the
pleasure threatened to swamp her, saw her dig her teeth into
her bottom lip and fight it for all she was worth.
Magnificent.  Breathing hard through her mouth, she struggled
up onto one elbow and frowned at him.



“This is from the Pronouncements of Eros again, isn't it?” she
demanded.  “I looked for that book, you know.  For years.”



He laughed.  “I'll wager you did.”



Oh, those mutinous eyes, the irresistible sulk of that mouth –
all clichés aside, she really was more beautiful when she was
angry, Severus thought.  Sharper edges.  Darker angles.
“What's that supposed to mean?”



“It means,” he said, capturing her free hand, “that you won't
find that particular volume in Flourish and Blotts.  It's part
of an, er … private collection.”



Her eyes went from stormy to speculative in the space of a
single heartbeat.  “Yours?”



“Perhaps,” he said, and fed her another hit.  “Does it matter?
”



“I'm going to find it,” she gasped – eyes closed, lips parted,
the very picture of sweet surrender gift-wrapped and tied with
a bow.  “I'm going to find it, and I'm going to pay you back
in spades, Severus Snape.  See if I don't.”



“Promises, promises,” he said, feeling that unfamiliar,
unsettling smile creeping over his face again, and swung her
over on top of him.



I could get used to this, he thought, and then:  And Merlin
help me if I do.



**



They were both a bit embarrassed to discover that Joséphine
had been and gone and written them a note without so much as
registering on their collective radar.  For Hermione's part,
anyway, the embarrassment lasted until they got to Hogwarts.
At that point, she forgot about Snape completely – for the
moment, at least – in favour of the toys Draco had brought
with him.



“An MRI?” she said, goggling at it.  “You scored an MRI?”



“Wasn't that what you wanted?”



“Well, yes,” she said.  “But I didn't think you'd actually get
it.  Christ – it's massive.  Where'd it come from?”



The corners of his mouth quirked, and for a moment she saw a
trace of the arrogant little boy he'd been when she first met
him.  “I have my sources.”



“Uh-huh.”  Hermione stroked the top of the scanner with one
reverent forefinger.  “Have you tried it out yet?”



Draco shook his head.  “You're the expert.  We've been waiting
for you.  But Dumbledore says it'll work.”



“Wow.”  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snape roll his
eyes and sidle toward the exit with a throwaway look over his
shoulder that said:  Later.  She hesitated, then turned back
toward the machine.  “Just – wow.”



“Um.”  Neville, looking slightly less nervous now that Snape
had left the premises, came a step closer.  “How does it work,
exactly?”



“Magnetism,” Hermione said absently, already absorbed in the
manual.  “And radio waves.  It's complicated.”



“Does it … does it hurt?  Will they feel it?”



“They'll be fine.  It doesn't hurt.”  Hermione walked around
the machine, marvelling at how space-age shiny and out of
place it looked, in this austere, high-ceilinged room of
ancient hand-hewn stone.  The power cord was untouched, still
coiled and held with a twist-tie; nevertheless, when she
flicked the Power button, the scanner lit up like the Starship
Enterprise.  Two kinds of magic in this room right now, she
thought, and she'd be hard put to rank them one above the
other on the chart of Cosmic Miracles.  “Just don't bring
anything metal anywhere near it when it's on.  It's got a
couple thousand times as much gravitational pull as the Earth
itself.”



She'd meant this to be reassuring, but Neville didn't look
convinced.  “I hope it doesn't scare them,” he said
doubtfully.



“Easy, Slick,” Joséphine murmured, patting his shoulder.
“We're going for the greater good here, remember?”



But he still looked worried, and Hermione – remembering the
tragedy that had been Gram at her most vague, remembering all
those tearful telephone conversations with her mother about
missed appointments and temper-flares and small everyday
failures, eggshells in the sponge-cake and alum instead of
sugar in the tea – put a hand on his arm.  “Don't worry,” she
said.  “It can wait.  But I would like to meet them now.  If
you don't mind.”



His face cleared.  “Oh.  Okay.  Sure.”



**



The Hogwarts infirmary was perhaps one of the only rooms in
the castle that had no artwork at all on the walls – probably
a good thing, given the propensity of the paintings toward
idle chatter.  There was, however, a secret door toward the
back, ingeniously disguised as a window – if you looked at it,
you saw the curve of lawn, a sliver of shimmering water, and
in the distance, the hoop of one blurry Quidditch goal,
sticking up from the rest of the landscape like a soup spoon
buried handle-first in the sandbox.  Turn the handle and say
the password, however, and you found yourself not in midair,
as you might have supposed, but in another hospital ward, this
one windowless and shadowy and lit with torches high off the
ground.  Keep going through this one, through the series of
tunnels and connective passages that led away from it, and you
got to the room where Albus had put the MRI scanner – the same
room, Hermione realised, in which they'd performed the
Fidelius Charm.



A bit odd, that – but at the same time, fitting.  She followed
Neville and Joséphine through a short stretch of corridor and
into a small locked room that made her blink when she walked
into it, it was so bright.  Someone had obviously gone to a
great deal of trouble to make it look cheerful and welcoming;
two of the four walls were lined with Charmed windows,
streaming sunlight and fresh air and making the sunny yellow
curtains flutter with warm breeze.  The floor was covered with
a hooked rug; the two single beds, with bright quilted
comforters.  Two rocking chairs undulated lazily in front of
the windows.  One of them was occupied, and it was toward this
chair that Neville was headed now.



“Dad?” he said.  “Dad, I've brought someone to meet you.”



“Don't want any,” Frank Longbottom said without looking up.
He was turning his hands over and over, carefully passing
fingers under palm under fingers in a studied, intent little
gavotte.  “Haven't got time.”



“Dad,” Neville said, sinking to his haunches in front of the
chair and stilling his father's hands with his own.  “It's me.
Neville.  This is Hermione; she's a … a doctor.  She's going
to help you with your memory.”



“Got to finish first,” his father said.  “Got to leave the
stragglers.  Can't catch up yet.”  He darted a mulish glance
up at Hermione and Joséphine.  “Ladies first.  No time for
nonsense.”



Hermione hesitated – then, at an encouraging nod from Neville,
held out her hand for Frank Longbottom to shake.  “It's nice
to meet you, Mr. Longbottom,” she said.



For a moment, he frowned at her hand – thoughtfully, as if he
just might take it after all.  Then, he turned away.



“Carrots,” he said to the Charmed window.  “Not a kitten in
the bunch.  Strangers, every one.”



Neville sighed.



“Okay, Dad,” he said.  “We'll leave you alone.  I'll be back
later with some lunch, alright?”  He patted his father's
hunched shoulder, then shot Hermione a weary smile.
“Sometimes he's better than this,” he said.  “The move's been
pretty hard on him – on both of them.  Come on – come meet my
mother.”



But Alice Longbottom was sitting cross-legged on the floor,
picking intently at a stray tuft of the rug, and wouldn't look
up even when Neville called her name.  “This and that,” she
said, sounding irritable.  “And the other.  No news, no news.
Not now.”



“What do you think?” Neville asked, once they were out of the
room, and Hermione shook her head.



“It's been awhile since I looked at my books,” she said.  “I
want to read over a few things again.  Did Albus say where he
put them?”



Neville hesitated, then nodded and dug an envelope out of his
pocket.



“He left you this,” he said.  “Said you'd know what to do with
it.”  Hermione ripped open the flap, tipped the contents out
onto her palm, and laughed in spite of herself.



It was the key to Elysium.



**






LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Two

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Elysium.



It looked much the same as it had the last time she'd left it,
except that the expandable chaise was its narrow, uninhabited
self instead of a single bed containing one
pissed-off-but-still-pretty ex-boyfriend.  Hermione took a
moment to dwell on that memory – blundering wet-eyed through
the darkness of the after-hours library, up till all hours
muttering to herself and plowing through that awful
deconstruction of Veritaserum by some imbecile whose name she
couldn't remember (Razorstrap?  Razorscruff?), what had she
been thinking? – then shook her head, dropped her bag on the
nearest counter, and went to examine the bookshelf.



Not much change here, either – lots of these books she
recognized from their Illuminata-research days, though there
were one or two interesting-looking new titles on the casting,
prevention, and treatment of the Unforgiveables.  Beyond this
section (if you could call it that), Dumbledore must have
assumed that she was bringing her research with her – either
that, or this little venture was farther out into uncharted
territory than she'd previously imagined.  Hermione thought
longingly of her old office at the Consortium – high-speed
Internet access, shelves of pertinent books, a five-minute
walk from the University of Cairo's medical library – then
shrugged to herself and started unpacking.



At least she still had her notes.



The thing was, as successful as the whole Vanesca episode had
been, Crucio and Obliviate didn't have very much in common …
she didn't think, anyway.  The whole rationale that made her
little purple strips work both on Alzheimer's disease and
botched Memory Charms was the same one making most of her
prior research useless now.  No ugly black morass of tangles
here, no sticky silver web to isolate and Vanish like an
unwanted stain from a tablecloth – until she saw the
Longbottoms' MRI results, of course, she couldn't be sure, but
from what she'd read Hermione rather suspected that Crucio
wouldn't leave behind much physical evidence of itself at all.
As far as she could tell from her research, there wasn't
even a specific part of the brain responsible for feeling pain
… which meant that she didn't have any idea where to start.



In fact, the more she read about the brain, the more
overwhelmed she felt.  Here was a subject that the Muggles had
studied for centuries, and had just now gotten to the place
where they could admit they didn't know a whole hell of a lot
about it, beyond the fact that mostly it worked, and that when
it stopped working, one or more of a million fascinating kinds
of internal drama took the stage and refused to break for
intermission.  Muggle neurospecialists had managed to document
the behaviours, they'd even isolated the parts of the brain
responsible for different functions, but in terms of what
could actually go wrong and how to fix it, they were still at
sea – their treatments too broad and clumsy and intrusive,
like someone trying to fix a pair of eyeglasses with a monkey
wrench.



And then there were the wizards, who were still in denial
about the whole thing as far as Hermione was concerned.  The
milder of their head-cases they tolerated or ignored – was
there really any other explanation for Mundungus Fletcher? for
Aberforth Dumbledore? – and the more severe, they
incarcerated.  Very nineteenth-century.  If anyone had ever
tried to treat a Cruciatus victim by magical means beyond the
usual côterie of comfort-charms and sedation spells, Hermione
thought, they certainly hadn't written down anything useful
about the experience afterwards.



Or maybe it was that they had tried, and nothing had worked.



Well, that's why she was here, right?  To bring a new
perspective to the situation?  Hermione flipped her notebook
open, poised her ball-point pen over a fresh sheet of lined
paper, and started to re-read her notes, yet again, with an
implacable eye.



There had to be at least a bit of a connection.  She just
hadn't seen it yet.



**



By the time Sal floated through her wall to inform her that
she was missing dinner, she still hadn't found the link she
was looking for.  “Don't ask,” she said without looking up.
“It's not going so well.”  Sal shrugged and came over to peer
over her shoulder.



“Left-hemi damage,” he read from her notes, ”equals depression
and melancholia.  Right-hemi damage equals unconcern and lack
of self-awareness.  What's a ‘hemi'?”



“Hemisphere,” Hermione said.  “Half of your brain.”  Her neck
and shoulders were stiff from hours of hunching over her
books; she rotated her head slowly, suppressing a yelp as her
hair brushed Sal's arm and promptly stood itself on end.
“Move back a little, will you?  You're so close you're making
my whole left side go numb.”



“Sorry,” Sal said, levitating himself to a cross-legged
position atop the table.  “So what's the significance of the
two halves?”



Hermione flipped a couple of pages.  “Well, the left side is
supposedly the side that handles logic and decisions,” she
said.  “And it's also the side that governs speech.  The right
side's more emotional and creative, but nonverbal in its own
right.  Parvati and Lavender were always reading books about
trying to Get In Touch with it.”  She shrugged.  “Anyway, if
one side's damaged or routed out or whatever, it affects the
balance between optimism and pessimism.  Doesn't help me much
with the Longbottoms, really, but it does sort of explain
Lockhart.”  She paused.  “And Snape.”



Sal laughed.



“Speaking of whom,” he said.  “He asked me to tell you that
he's gone back to the cabin to pick up some books he left
behind.  He'll be back tonight.”



“Oh.  Thanks.”



A wicked sideways look.  “Took the two of you long enough to
get Joséphine's note, didn't it?  We thought you'd never make
it here.”



“Don't start, Sal.”



He ignored her.  “Oh, I do like a happy ending.”



“Happy ending?” Hermione rolled her eyes.  “Who's got a happy
ending?  There's a bunch of mysterious pureblood-supremacist
creepos out there somewhere who'd like nothing more than to
see us six feet under.  Until we've dealt with that, let's not
jinx ourselves.”  She gave him a hard look.  “And weren't you
supposed to be researching that angle of things?  What've you
come up with?”



“Not much,” Sal said.  “Until recently, that is.  Your goblin
friend in Cairo's managed to track down a rare-book trader who
claims to own the original log-book from de Fondant's pirate
ship.  I'm off to Cairo tonight to swindle him out of it.
Thought I could sweet-talk my way into your vault, if there's
any more research you need from it.”



“Oh.”  Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I
think I'm all set.  Thanks.”



“Suit yourself.”  He stretched, unfolded himself from his
lotus position in the middle of the table, and shot her a
wink.  “I'll be back sometime tomorrow.  Tonight, if I get
lucky.”



“Have fun,” Hermione said absently, already reaching for her
bag and starting to rummage through it.



She'd just thought of something.



**



He hadn't really forgotten a book.  He just didn't want to be
there for dinner – either with Hermione or without her.



Dine with her privately, and the faculty would wink and nod –
publicly, and the whole of wizarding Britain would be on the
Floo within half an hour:  Emeline, you'll never believe who
that clever little Granger girl's gone and harnessed herself
to.  Or maybe he was assigning himself too much significance?
Either way, it was bad enough to be here without having to
endure a cartload of asinine gossip in the bargain.



And if, as he rather suspected she would be, she was
determined to work through dinner – well, then, he'd just as
soon pop home and avoid the Hogwarts social scene altogether.



It was just dusk by the time he'd walked down to the school
gates and prepared to Apparate, which meant that the bright
late-morning glare of a Montana mountain in sunlight made him
blink and stumble a bit.  Still, the cabin itself was cool and
dim and quieter than it'd been in months.  No Sal, no
Hermione, no liplocked Longbottom or dilettante body-pierced
Boadicea of a Potions Mistress.  Even Cleo was at Hogwarts –
probably dining on half of the Forbidden Forest by now,
Severus thought, and smiled as he pushed open the door of his
study.



Ah.  Solitude.



He reclaimed his chair with a little sigh of satisfaction and
set the corner hot-plate to glowing with a flick of his wand.
Tea, and a little reading perhaps.  It wasn't as if he was in
any hurry to get back; Hermione was bound to work far into the
night, tucked away in her little library bolthole, and
comfortable as the castle guest-rooms were, he'd just as soon
not get sucked into well-intentioned but inane catching-up
with Filius or Minerva – or, Merlin preserve him, Albus.



No, he'd just stay here and play bachelor for the evening.
The kettle was on the verge of whistling; wonder if there's
any carrot-cake left, Severus thought, and went to go and see.



There was.



Licking a stray dollop of cream-cheese icing from his thumb,
he set down the cake plate on his desk and started over toward
the kettle, tea-ball in hand.  The kettle was shrieking.  He
turned off the burner, stooped to take the canister of loose
tea from the cabinet under the hot plate, and found his eye
caught by a stray bit of sparkle.  Cautiously he edged the
ring out from under the cabinet and picked off a bit of lint
that had adhered to it.  It sparkled serenely up at him,
warming to his palm.



Bill's diamond.



What was it Linchpin had said?  Get one of them out of the box
and put it in a setting.  Make her wear it.



Which would have been all well and good, Severus thought,
closing his hand over the ring and hauling himself to his
feet.  If he'd given it to her when he meant to … before she'd
stormed into his study and insinuated her way into his lap,
before she'd melted a little purple strip of remembrance
across her tongue and taken back her memory with clutching,
resolute hands.  Back then, in the post-Obliviate days, a
diamond might just have been a diamond – even coming from him.




Now, he knew better.



This thing won't end easily.  And we can't help her if we
don't know where she is.



He hesitated for a moment, then slid the diamond into his
pocket and took out the canister of tea.



Later.



**






LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Three

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Hermione read until her eyes burned and the torches guttered,
then fell asleep over her notes in the big comfortable
armchair by the fireplace and didn't wake up until the
house-elf – one she recognised from her schooldays; his name
was Meech, if she recalled correctly, and he'd been
particularly disapproving of S.P.E.W. – tapped her on the
shoulder.  He'd just built up the fire again and moved her
scattered books carefully to one side on the table, to make
room for a covered platter.  The platter smelled like
breakfast, Hermione thought, and rubbed her eyes ruefully.



Must be morning.



“Thank you,” she said.  Meech bobbed a short bow, but didn't
speak.  Most of them didn't, really, come to think of it.
Dobby was a renegade in more ways than one.  Hermione wondered
briefly where he was and what was keeping him, that he hadn't
come to see her yet, then shrugged, uncurled herself from the
chair, and stumbled over to inspect her breakfast.



Rashers and eggs – the former crisp to breaking point, the
latter sunny-side-up and goggling at her like bulging yellow
eyes.  Hermione pondered the thought of Transfiguring them
into scrambled, which she much preferred, then decided it was
too much trouble and ate them as they were.  She was just
pouring herself a second cup of tea when Sal came floating
through the bookshelf, a Perluceoed parcel under his arm.



“Morning.”



“So I'm told.”  She pushed the teapot toward him.  “Have you
eaten?”



He eyed the remains of her breakfast with a skeptical eye.
“I'll pass.  Find anything interesting since we last spoke?”



“Actually, yes.”  Hermione pushed back her plate and reached
for her notebook.  “I wasn't getting anywhere with the
hemisphere approach,” she said.  “So I went back to the issue
of memory.”



“And?”



She tapped the notebook with the flat of her hand.  “And I've
got a theory.  Which will be put to the test the minute I've
taken a shower and figured out a little bit more about the MRI
scanner.  I don't want to take the time to go into it now.”



“Fair enough.”  Sal nodded toward the ghostly parcel now
floating a half inch above the table.  “Jackpot,” he said.
“Take a look, why don't you?”



Obediently, Hermione drew her wand.  “Finite Incantatem,” she
said, wincing as the parcel retangibilised and thudded onto
the table, causing her tea to redistribute itself over her
breakfast plate, the majority of her notes, and the underside
of her bare forearm.  “Ow!  This had better be worth it.”



“Oh, it is.”  Sal floated a little nearer.  “Got to hand it to
that Linchpin, she's a clever creature.”  He frowned.  “Maybe
too clever.”



Hermione, nursing her injured hand, rolled her eyes at him.
“You just don't like goblins.”



“You're expecting me to deny it?”  He flicked his wand hand,
sending the book's protective covering of oilcloth spinning
across the table.  “Read the whole thing last night,” he said.
“And quite a tale it was, too.  Bit of a disappointment in
one sense, though.”



Hermione was already peering at the tiny, crabbed French
script.  “How so?”



“Well,” Sal said.  “Couldn't have been the last log, could it?
Otherwise it'd have been on the ship when it disappeared,
and we'd never have gotten our hands on it in the first place.
This one's an earlier log – just earlier, judging from the
dates.”



“So the voyage isn't listed here.”



“No.”  Sal lifted his wand slightly to turn another page.
“But look at what is.  Fascinating little route they've got
here, and as regular as the Sunday papers, too.  Operated out
of the French port city La Rochelle.”



“La Rochelle,” Hermione repeated.  “I've been there – once, a
long time ago.  With my parents.  Not much to it now – though
we did go down to the Old Port, which was interesting.”  She
frowned at the page.  “Well, if de Fondant wrote this himself,
he must have had a quill like a scalpel.  I've never seen such
tiny writing in my life.”



“I'll summarise,” Sal said drily.  “La Rochelle's the
principal port, but de Fondant made regular runs to Greenland,
the Eastern border of what's now the U.S., and Mexico.  But
this—“ he flipped to the last page—“this is the most
interesting bit of all.  Look at the date.”



Hermione did.  “Christmas Day,” she murmured.  “1308.”



“Exactly.”



“That's just a few weeks before Philip excommunicated the
Templars and tried to raid the Treasury.”



Sal rocked back on ghostly heels.  “Can't get anything past
you, can I?”  He looked smug.  “So.  Take a look at that last
page, and tell me where the ship was headed next.”



Hermione scanned the page, hesitating now and again to puzzle
over an unfamiliar word of French.  “You're kidding,” she said
finally, and heard Sal chortle.



“Not on your life.”



Alain de Fondant's final voyage, if his logs were to be
believed, had been to Scotland.



If the Templar treasure existed, it was buried practically in
their own back yard.



**



Tempting as it was to get sidetracked by pirates and Templar
gold, there was business at hand.  And if she didn't do it,
nobody would.  Hermione finished her breakfast, mopped up the
puddle of spilled tea underneath her plate, and went to go
find Neville.  This wasn't difficult, as he was in the first
place she looked:  seated next to one of the narrow
quilt-covered beds in the Longbottoms' private ward, feeding
his mother porridge with milk and carefully wiping dribble off
her chin between bites with a gaily printed tea towel.  “Hi,”
he said, flicking her a quick glance as she came in.  “I'll
just be a bit longer.  I don't think she wants much more.  And
I've already done Dad.”



“I need to talk to you about the MRI procedure.”  Hermione
cast her eyes about the sunny little room.  “This may not be
the best place.  Some of it's – um, tricky.”



“Oh.  Right.”  Neville poured more milk into the porridge
before refilling his spoon.  “Josie said you'd probably want
to do that today.  She was reading the manual that came with
it, all last night.”  He insinuated the spoon between his
mother's slack lips and tipped the porridge out of it in a
gesture both practiced and gentle; watching it brought a lump
to Hermione's throat.  “She wanted to talk to you about the
whole thing, actually.  Moved all her morning classes to after
dinner, so she could help out.”



“Oh – really?”  Hermione blinked.  “That's nice of her.”



“Yeah.”  Neville gave his mother's chin a last thorough dab
with the tea-towel, kissed her unresisting forehead, and stood
up.  “She's in the room where Dumbledore's keeping it.  I'll
meet you in there in a minute, okay?”



Joséphine was indeed already in the MRI room; when Hermione
came in, all she saw was a pair of shapely stockinged feet,
hanging out of its end.  “Trying it out?” she asked, amused,
and Joséphine came sliding out, braids askew.



“Something like that.”  She looked uncharacteristically grim
as she clambered out of the tray, swept the manual off its
side table and proffered it to Hermione.  “Have you read this?
”



Hermione nodded.  “Once.  I was going to go through it again
before we started.”



“Mind if I ask you a personal question?”



“Mm.”



Joséphine leaned closer.  “How the hell are you going to get
them to do it?”



“Well, that's the thing,” Hermione said.  “That's what I had
to talk to Neville about.”



“They've got to hold still,” Joséphine said, “for thirty
minutes straight.”  She consulted the manual, flipping madly
through page after page until she found what she was looking
for, and stabbed her finger at a paragraph.  “There.  There's
a little red dot or something they've got to keep their eye
on.  I didn't see it when I went in, but that's because it
wasn't turned on.  But it's imperative that they don't move
much of anything at all, for the whole half hour, and I'm not
sure if either one of them can do that.”  She slapped the side
of the gleaming machine.  “You heard this thing when it's
turned on?  It sounds like a rocket launcher on speed.  Minute
we turn it on, they're going to flip out.”



“Silencing Charm?”



“Would take care of the noise, sure,” Joséphine conceded.
“But not the claustrophobia or the movement issue.  Even
people who are in their right minds sometimes have big
problems with these things – let alone someone who doesn't
understand, and can't be told.”



She had a point.



Hermione chewed on her upper lip.  “Neville,” she said.  “I
was rather hoping he'd calm them down …”



Joséphine was already shaking her head.



“Maybe a little,” she said.  “But he doesn't have any real
control over them, Hermione.  He does better than anyone else,
but it's because he's so goddamn nice.”  She lowered her
voice.  “Which I love him for.  But I'm not so sure Slick's
going to be an asset in this case.”



“What do you mean?”



“Too soft-hearted,” Joséphine said.  “Think about it, chérie –
what's going to happen the first time we fire this baby up?
Frank's going to go spastic.  And Alice …” She shrugged.
“She'll probably wee herself, poor thing.  And if I know
Slick, which I do, the minute that happens he's going to shut
us down and march them right back to that sunny little yellow
sickroom.  Where'll they'll stay, to the detriment of not only
your research, but themselves as well.”



Hermione considered this.  “You're probably right,” she said.
“So what do we do?”



“Well,” Joséphine said, “that's the thing.  See, I've got an
idea.”



**



By the time Neville joined them, they were deep in the middle
of a trial run – Joséphine at the controls and Hermione
staring up at the little red dot, sandwiched into the machine
as neatly as the filling in an éclair.  Apparently standard
M.O. dictated that the subject of the test wear protective
headphones, but they'd decided to experiment with the
Silencing Charm instead.  So far, so good.  Staring at the red
dot made her feel like she was developing tunnel vision, and
her eyes felt dry, as if she'd forgotten to blink, but she
wasn't otherwise uncomfortable.



Joséphine had a point, though, she thought.  The Longbottoms
weren't going to like wearing that clamp on their heads.  Or
being shoved into this big, faintly-vibrating machine like a
loaf of bread for the baking.  And from the bevy of twitches
and tics she'd observed in them just in the few instances
they'd met, she wasn't at all sure they could lie still enough
to let the scan work properly, even if whatever Joséphine had
in mind could keep them from panicking.



Which just went to show that she'd underestimated her friend's
resourcefulness.



“Everything okay?” Neville asked when she came sliding out a
few minutes later.  Hermione nodded and pasted on a smile.



“Fine,” she said.  “No worries.  They're going to be just
great.”



He looked doubtful.  “It's sort of – close – in there.  Isn't
it?”



“Bigger than it looks,” Hermione lied, and shot Joséphine a
warning glance.  A moment later, the Potions Mistress had
disentangled herself from the bank of controls on the opposite
side of the room and was flowing toward them, oozing
sensuality.  Preoccupied as Neville was, he still couldn't
help but watch her walk.



“Hey, Slick,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss – brief, by
Hermione's standards, but searing.  “How was breakfast?”



“Good,” he said, brightening.  “They're getting used to the
new room, I think.  They ate a lot more today – both of them.”



“Excellent,” Joséphine said, and draped one arm around his
shoulder.  “Don't look so nervous,” she said into his ear.  “I
was just over there at the controls, remember?  This thing
works like a charm.”



“It looks like a torture chamber.”



Joséphine arched a brow.  “And Hermione looks like she's been
tortured?”



Neville bit his lip.  “Well, no.”  He was peering at the
interior of the MRI scanner again.  “But I can't imagine
either Dad or Mum doing this.  I think it's really going to
frighten them.”



“Neville, relax,” Hermione cut in, grateful to see that
Joséphine already had him by the elbow and was dragging him
gently back from the MRI.  “Joséphine's going to give them
some Calming Compound, just before.  They'll be fine.”



This was a lie, of course – anything that sedated the body
would sedate the brain as well, and they needed the
Longbottoms at full capacity for the scan.  Still, it seemed
to calm Neville down a little.  “You're sure?” he said.  “It
won't upset them?”



“They'll be just fine,” Joséphine repeated, backing him toward
the door.  “Look, Slick,” she said, sliding her hands up to
his shoulders.  “If anyone's going to be upset by this whole
thing, I think it's you.  Why don't you go ahead and bring in
your dad, then go and wait with Alice until we're ready for
her?  If anything's going to get her panicky, it'll be not
knowing where Frank is.”



His eyes widened.  “I hadn't thought of that.”



When he was gone, Hermione let her breath out in a long sigh
and sank into the nearest chair.  “Whatever this plan of yours
is,” she said, “I hope it works.  Neville's not going to be
happy if we send his dad back traumatised.”



“Trust me,” Joséphine said.  She was relaxed and smiling – one
hand in her pocket, the other toying absently with the end of
one thin braid.  When Neville reappeared with his father in
tow, she took Frank Longbottom gently by the hand and helped
Neville settle him in a chair.



“We'll take it from here,” she said, and kissed Neville
swiftly, hard on the mouth.  “Go make your mother comfortable.
I'll see you in forty minutes or so.”



For a moment after he was gone, neither of them said anything.
“Well?” Hermione said finally.  “What now?”



“Hang on,” Joséphine said.  “Give me a second.  I've never
done this before.”  She swallowed hard, straightened her
robes, and went over to kneel in front of Frank.  “Sort of
risky, when you put it in context,” she said.  “But hey – all
in the name of science, right?  And Slick's worth it.”



Hermione didn't like the sound of this.  “Joséphine—“ she
began.  “What are you—“



But Joséphine had already raised her wand.  “Hang in there,
Dad,” she said, and took a deep breath.  “Imperio!”



Hermione's mouth fell open.



**










LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Four

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"Are you completely insane?" Hermione hissed. Joséphine just
grinned at her.

"Probably."

"Merlin's jock strap, Joséphine. You can't just go around
casting Unforgivable Curses on people! We're at Hogwarts!"

"For a good cause, isn't it?" Joséphine pocketed her wand
calmly and folded herself into a chair. "And calm down. If
Albus was going to come rushing in on us for casting a little
Imperius Curse, he'd have done it six minutes ago while I was
still thinking about it. That man's got a positively eerie
sense of prescience."

Hermione ran both hands through her hair, gave Joséphine a
fulminating stare, and dropped her face into her palms. She
suddenly had a headache. "But it's illegal."

"Seems to me you've done a fair bit of that yourself, in your
day," Joséphine said, and had the effrontery to wink. "You
wanna bake a cake, chérie, you've got to break a few eggs
first. N'est-ce-pas?"

Hermione was far from mollified. "That doesn't make it right,"
she said, wishing she didn't sound so much like the
self-righteous little first-year she'd once been. How many
times had she had this same conversation with Harry and Ron?
And even back then she'd been able to see their logic, that
was the hell of it - that however honorable it was to hold to
the rules, there were always a million excellent reasons not
to. "Plus," she said, raising a triumphant finger at this new
thought. "We don't even know what Imperio does to the brain.
It could skew the results."

"Maybe," Joséphine said. "But I doubt it." She nodded toward
the stack of books at the end of the table next to Hermione.
"I read the same stuff you did, last night. Memory loss points
to damage in the hypothalamus, right? Free will's a little
trickier - far as I could tell, the Muggles haven't figured
out which lobe to tickle to take away your personal autonomy.
Seems to me that where the Imperius is concerned, we're
looking at a little less physiology and a little more rock 'n'
roll." She shot Hermione a sly look. "There is still such a
thing as just pure magic, you know. All multi-million-dollar
indications to the contrary."

Hermione wasn't sure she bought this line of reasoning
wholesale, but the clock was ticking and Neville would be back
in less than half an hour. "Well," she said, "I guess we'll
find out, won't we?"

"That's the spirit." Joséphine unfolded herself from the chair
and walked over to where Frank was sitting. "Hey, Dad," she
said, and smoothed a wisp of flyaway grey hair back from his
face. The look on her face made the tight lump in Hermione's
chest ease a bit; flippant words aside, this woman was all
tenderness now. "Bet you're feeling pretty good now, aren't
you?"

Frank Longbottom nodded. Joséphine smiled at him.

"Good," she said. "Now I want you to do something for me, all
right? Relax."

"All right," Frank said. His voice had that hollow, slightly
forced tone that Hermione remembered hearing from the late
Lucius Malfoy half a lifetime ago, but his face looked
strangely young and unlined, freed from the assortment of tics
and twitches that generally plagued him. Looking at him, one
got a glimpse of the Auror he'd been as a young man - but for
the blankness of his stare - handsomer, younger, more like
Neville around the mouth. Hermione thought of Bellatrix
Lestrange, of what might have been If Only, and had to swallow
a bitter rush of anger and regret as she moved forward. When
she spoke, she didn't recognise her own voice.

"What would have happened, do you think," she said, "if you
simply asked him to remember?"

Joséphine shrugged.

"First thing they tried at the Ministry, I imagine," she said.
"Once they figured out they were dealing with Crucio and not a
botched Obliviate." She straightened Frank's collar with fond,
deft fingers. "In retrospect, I suppose it's a good thing that
they couldn't make him talk."

Hermione blinked. "Why?"

"Because if he had," Joséphine said, her dark eyes fixed and
distant as she stroked Frank Longbottom's thinnning grey hair,
"he'd have been dead years ago." She shook herself, caught
Hermione's eye, and shrugged again. "Anyway. Are you ready?"

Hermione hesitated, then nodded. "I'm ready."

*****

"Severus? Severus, where the Hades are you?"

Sal emerged from the outside cabin wall into Severus' study
headfirst, looking - for a man who theoretically couldn't be
out of breath because he didn't have any breath to begin with
- remarkably harried. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"
he wanted to know. Then, taking a closer look: "Oh. Nice
rock."

"Thank you," Severus said. Sal ignored his tone of Heavy
Irony.

"Now - put it away, will you? We have to talk."

Severus pocketed the ring, sucking his teeth with impatience.
"Oh, we do, do we? And why is that?"

"Because," Sal said. "I've figured out where de Fondant's
final voyage ended."

"Really."

"Yes, really." Sal flicked his wand in the direction of the
corner lamp to turn it on. In its brighter glow, Severus
noticed for the first time that Sal had been carrying a stack
of Perluceoed ledgers, which now tangibilised with a pop and
thudded heavily to the desk, missing his elbow by a scant
half-inch. "I knew it was Scotland from the ship's log," Sal
continued. "But the rest of it's due to hard work or blind
luck, I'm not sure which."

"Luck," Severus murmured. Sal wagged a ghostly finger at him.

"Don't be so sure. I've been halfway around the globe and back
today for interviews. Cashing in favours with my fellow
spirits, mostly."

Severus smirked. "Whoever said 'dead men tell no tales'
obviously didn't have your contacts."

"Obviously," Sal said, and hovered expectantly above the desk
in front of the stack of ledgers. "Well, go on then," he said,
fairly vibrating with impatience. "Read!"

Severus sighed.

"You know you just want to tell me," he said. "So why don't
you save me the eyestrain and put yourself out of your misery?
"

"But-"

"Sal. Spill it."

The old ghost looked sulky. "Spoilsport."

"Now, Sal."

"All right, all right." A dramatic pause. "It's just an
educated guess, of course."

"While I'm young, would you?"

"Hush," Sal said. He was positively glowing, Severus thought -
nothing illuminated Salazar Slytherin like the delivery of
previously-withheld information. "From what I found out today,
I'm fairly certain that the treasure is buried under - get
this - Rosslyn Chapel."

Severus blinked, surprised despite himself. "Really."

"Would I lie to you?" Sal preened and settled himself in the
middle of the desk. "It makes so much sense," he said. "And if
we'd had any doubt about the Templars being up to their
eyeteeth in the whole mess, this sort of clinches it, doesn't
it?"

"Mm. Looks like, doesn't it?" Severus, unable to resist any
longer, flipped the top ledger open. It smelled like smoke,
old paper, and the memory of mice. Lovely stuff. He peered for
a moment at the tiny script, then pushed it aside in favour of
conversation - this really was big news. "Well, then," he
said. "You've been around longer than anybody else I can think
of, and this is right up your alley. Who do we know who's
connected to the Earl of Roslin and that ingenious little
curse?"

"That," said Sal, "is the thousand-rupee question." He was
fidgeting with his wand, which was emitting tiny sparks of
pale-grey energy. "I've been thinking about that most of the
afternoon. Haven't come up with anything. Food might help -
I'm starving."

Severus lifted an eyebrow. "Is that possible?"

Sal ignored him. "Is there any carrot cake left?"

"No. I had the last of it for tea." Severus thought for a
moment. "But if it's sweets you want, there are still some of
those sugared pecans in the refrigerator."

Sal made a face. "Sorry," he said. "Alain de Fondant's all the
candied nut I need for one day, thanks ever so."

Severus chuckled appreciatively at the pun, then froze. "Wait
a minute."

"What?" Sal, halfway out of the study, turned back at the
doorway. "What is it?" he asked again. "You've gone dead
white."

"Candied nuts," Severus said slowly. Sal shrugged.

"My little joke," he said. "You know - 'fondant.' It's Frog
for 'candy'."

"I know that," Severus snapped. "I'm way ahead of you - you're
slowing down in your old age."

"Hey."

"Think about it, Sal." He pushed back his chair, pounded a
fist on the desk with such force that his quill jumped in its
holder. "Think about it. We're idiots, both of us - we should
have seen this months ago. Who do we know with a surname
that's a synonym for 'candy'?"

"Merlin's balls," Sal said, and turned even paler than usual.
"It's Fudge, isn't it?"



LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Five

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Fudge, the arch-villain.



An odd thought, to be sure.



On the other hand, now that Severus had thought about it for a
moment or two, it was impossible to be too surprised.
Self-styled Leader of the White Hats or no, it had long been
clear to anyone with the eyes to see it that the agenda
Cornelius Fudge promoted was generally his own.



Still, being a self-serving prat didn't make you necessarily
evil.  “I wouldn't have thought him clever enough to pull off
a stunt like this one,” Severus said under his breath, then
added:  “Wonder why he got involved at all?”



“That's easy.  Family, isn't it?”



Sal had unearthed a tin of Danish biscuits au beurre from some
previously-undiscovered cache in a far high cabinet of the
kitchen, and was now systematically dunking them in his
Perluceoed tea, one after another.  Between the two of them,
Severus figured they'd eaten half the tin in under an hour.



“Well, yes,” he conceded.  “If you're talking about the
treasure, that is.”



“Among other things.”  Sal levitated another half-dozen
biscuits across the table toward his own plate.  “It's my
guess that he inherited more than he'd bargained for, when he
got his hands on the Templar treasure.  You get the money, you
also get the problems that came with it.  Trouble is, it's
hard to turn down one without giving up the other.”



“True.”  Severus considered this.  “And in this case – seeing
as it's Fudge we're talking about – I imagine that even if he
had wanted to give up the treasure, he'd have been afraid to
say anything to the goblins.”



He licked sugar from his fingers.  “He always was a little
wanker when it came to other species, even back at Hogwarts.
Didn't even like house-elves.  How he ever managed to stomach
an alliance with the dementors, I'll never know.”



“To be fair,” Sal said, “Gringotts might have been just a tad
cranky, when they found out exactly who'd been sitting on
their missing millions for all this time.  They've been
looking for it for centuries, you know.  And then, they're not
the only ones – half the wizarding world and a fair number of
Muggles have an interest in the Templar fortune.  If I were a
pudgy little number-cruncher who'd fallen up the ladder and
found himself in this situation, I'd be a bit nervous myself.”



Severus acknowledged the sense of this with a spare nod and
reached for another biscuit.  “Makes sense,” he said.  “What
I'm having more trouble with is the idea of Fudge as a
hardcore supremacist.”



“Really?  Doesn't seem like such a stretch to me.”



“Well, I can see how his sympathies might lie that way
covertly,” Severus said.  “Perhaps.  But I knew Fudge in
school, remember?  And while he's not … thick … exactly, he is
rather lazy.  All this business about the Nameless account and
the money-switching seems like too much effort to me –
especially for a cause he doesn't support wholeheartedly.”



“Well—“



“—And let's face it.  If he'd supported it wholeheartedly,
he'd have been a Death-Eater like the rest of th—“ he
swallowed hard, “—I mean, us.  And he wasn't.”



“True enough,” Sal said.  “But the Nameless account is a lot
older than Fudge himself, right?  And who had a better reason
to hate Muggles than de Fondant, when their King and Church
tortured and executed his father?  Seems to me that he must
have set that account up back then, once he'd buried his
treasure and set his army of skeletons round to protect it.”



“Army of skeletons?”  Severus frowned, then brightened.
“That's right – I remember that bit of the curse now.  Used to
be famous; there's even a poem about it somewhere.  Irma
probably has a copy in the Restricted Section ...”



“Focus,” Sal ordered, wagging his finger from across the
table.  “Worry about the book later, all right?”



“Right.”  Severus took a swallow of now-tepid tea.  “I do see
what you're getting at,” he said.  “You think de Fondant
laundered a bit of the Templar money that he didn't bury,
possibly through Les Choix, or through his pirating contacts,
and used it to seed the Nameless account.”



“Yes.”



“And that the account, in turn, has been funding this series
of assorted nasty little extremist groups down through the
centuries.”



“Makes sense to me,” Sal said.  “Should be simple enough to
check Linchpin's records and verify the dates, but I'll wager
it all checks out.  That sigil on the account – the one that
first turned up in Sturbridge's autobiography – that's a
Templar symbol if I ever saw one.  No one else was nattering
on about irrational numbers back then, that's for damn sure.”



“So when Fudge inherited the fortune—“



“—that grim little bit of philanthropy had been going on for
hundreds and hundreds of years,” Sal finished.  “And it was
easier for him to just keep the payments going—“



“—than to interfere, and risk making Gringotts curious.”



“Exactly.”



They stared at each other, then dropped their eyes and reached
for the biscuits at the same time.  “It's true,” Sal said.
“Live together long enough, and you do start to think alike.”



Severus grimaced; this was more accurate than he'd have liked
to admit.  “Now who's not focussing?”



“Anyway.  Rather brings us up to the matter at hand, doesn't
it?” Sal cocked his head to the side.  “I've got my theory, of
course.  But you go first.”



“Well.”  Severus sipped his tea, made a face, and muttered a
Warming Charm at it.  “After Phineas Sturbridge died without
fulfilling any of his grandiose promises, the Knights of the
Golden Wand all but disappeared.  There was a brief violent
resurgence in the forties, after which public outrage drove
them underground again, not to be heard from until Tom Riddle
took the reins.”  He took another sip.  “At that point, Riddle
was – in the eyes of the Ministry watchdogs, at least – still
just another fringe lunatic heading up a pack of similarly
misguided imbeciles.  Nothing special.  With me so far?”



“Mm.”



“Until he got a lot more powerful than he was supposed to.”



“Ha.”  Sal nodded speculatively.  “Well said.”



Severus jerked his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.



“You were in seclusion back then,” he pointed out, “but I
wasn't.  I remember Fudge from school and directly afterwards,
and he was a Ministry sycophant such as hasn't been seen
before or since.  Puts Percy Weasley's little episode a few
years back well in the shade.”  He toyed with his teaspoon,
his face going grim.  “He might not have been far up the
ladder at that point, but he certainly had aspirations for
upper management – and Voldemort's rise would have been a real
threat to that.  There must have been Aurors investigating the
Death-Eaters' financial situation – must have been; that's the
way these things work.  And if anyone had found out—“



“Ah.  I see.”  Sal peered into the biscuit tin.  “Damn.  No
more sugar pretzels.”  He hesitated for a moment, then turned
away from the tin.  “Possibly this would tie things up too
neatly,” he said, “but somehow I doubt it.  Could those
investigating Aurors have been Frank and Alice Longbottom?”



“It would certainly make sense, wouldn't it?”



“I wonder what they found.  And how.”



“Not to mention,” Severus said darkly, “who was really behind
their attack.  In light of all this, I'm inclined to think it
might not have been Voldemort at all.”



He drained his tea, grimacing at the mouthful of soggy biscuit
crumbs at the bottom of his cup.  “Probably not even the
Longbottoms would know that, though – even if Hermione does
manage to restore their memories.  Pity, too – because without
hard evidence, we can speculate from here to the end of the
world and still never put Fudge behind bars.”



“Who would know, I wonder?”  Sal frowned.  “Bellatrix herself?
”



Severus shook his head.



“She had to know it was a doomed mission,” he said.  “He was
already gone by that time, or believed gone, anyway.  She
would only have acted on what she believed to be direct orders
from him.”



“You're probably right,” Sal said.  There was an odd look on
his face.  “But there is one person who'd know, isn't there?”



“There is?”



“Oh, yes.”  Sal's eyes were narrow, and he was grinning; he
had that unholy glitter about him that always made Severus
wonder if some of the more salacious Slytherin legends might
not be true, after all.  “At least one.  I'll wager he knows
everything there is to know.”



Severus paled.  “You're not thinking of—?”



A long, shocked pause.  “You are.”



“And by now,” Sal said, “I'd be very surprised indeed if he
didn't feel like talking.”



**






LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Six

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“You’re joking, right?”

The three heads in front of her – jet-black, snow-white,
pearl-grey – shook as one. Hermione sighed, leaned forward in
her chair, pushed aside a pile of research so she could put
her elbows on the table, and swiped her knuckles over her
aching eyes. “This is insane, and so are the three of you.
After all the trouble that … that creature caused – and it’s
only sheer dumb luck that got him into the sapphire – you want
me to deliberately let him loose again? I don’t think so.”

“Under ordinary circumstances,” Snape said, “we’d be inclined
to agree with you.” He exchanged a quick glance with Sal, as
if to say: See? I told you so. “But if our hypothesis is
correct, and Cornelius Fudge has been funding the Death-Eaters
since their conception, then I think the risk is justified. It
means the whole Ministry, or at least its governing body, is
corrupt and has been for years—“

“—which of course we knew anyway,” Dumbledore cut in, “if
you’ll pardon the interruption, Severus. But nothing has ever
been proven, and no one’s been in the position to bring
serious charges before now.” He fixed Hermione with that
steady blue gaze (still strong and clear enough to make her
forget that the rest of his face had aged fifteen years around
it when she hadn’t been looking) and lifted a shaggy eyebrow.
“Cornelius Fudge isn’t an evil man, I don’t think,” he went
on. “But he’s a weak one, and sometimes that’s worse. And I
won’t always—“

He broke off, and Hermione finished his sentence in her head:
I won’t always be around to keep an eye on him. “Agreed, and
agreed,” she said, wishing he didn’t look so thin-skinned and
ancient. “But let’s not forget, this is Voldemort you’re
talking about freeing. If this backfires, it could set us back
fifteen years.” Her hands were cold, and she tucked them into
her armpits to warm them. “You didn’t see him, back then,” she
said, “but I did. And what I saw scared me. What’s to stop
him, once he’s free, from slithering off and reforming his
evil playgroup again?”

“We are,” Sal said, looking rather pleased at the prospect.
“Besides which, this is the right thing to do, Hermione. Don’t
you want to know the truth?”

“If she doesn’t,” Joséphine said from across the table, “I
certainly do. But what makes you think he’s going to tell it
the way it happened?” She shrugged. “I mean, being evil and
all.”

“I’ve thought of that as well,” Dumbledore said, and sent
Hermione another searching Wedgwood stare. “All we need you to
do is Release him, Hermione. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Hermione thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” she
said. “But if Voldemort’s going to walk us down Memory Lane,
we shouldn’t be the only ones to hear it. Neville’s got too
big a stake in this not to be there.”

“I’ll get him,” Joséphine said, pushing back her chair.
“Anybody else?”

Hermione nodded.

“Harry,” she said, careful not to meet Snape’s eyes. “If
anyone has a right to ask questions, it’s him.”

Nobody argued with her.

*

According to Sal, it would take a day or so to renew the
Binding Charms on the dungeon room where they’d kept Malfoy.
This suited Hermione just fine, as she and Joséphine had been
up all night poring over the results of the MRI scans and
hadn’t slept in nearly two days as it was. “Feel like we’ve
gotten anywhere with this?” she asked now, stacking books into
neater piles and gathering glossy photographs into a manila
folder. Joséphine shrugged.

“Sure,” she said. “We know what we don’t know. Good place to
start.”

Hermione laughed. “True.”

“Tell you this, though,” Joséphine said after a moment. “It’s
not just a matter of removing scar tissue, is it? There’re
whole big chunks gone missing.”

This was the truth they’d been trying not to talk about all
night – the deep grooves and divots in the corteces of both
scans, as if something malevolent had sprung its claws and
raked great swathes of tissue from the outer surfaces of the
frontal lobes. Prolonged intense pain could cause irreparable
damage and scarring to the cortex – or so said the books – but
this was something else entirely, or at least looked like it.
Hermione sighed and pushed her chair in closer to the table.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said. “Just not right now. I’m dead
on my feet.”

Joséphine hummed in agreement, paused at the door. “Get some
sleep. You look wrecked.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Hermione glanced at her watch: six o’ clock. Dinnertime. The
minute she stepped outside the library, she’d be caught up in
the bustle and chatter of students headed to the Great Hall.
There was a spot saved for her at the Head Table, she was
certain. And the food would be excellent – rich, filling, far
too much of it.

Not tonight, she decided, and sat down on the little
expandable chaise nearest the fireplace. Ah, that was better –
the most comfortable bed she could remember, actually. There’d
been more than a few nights, her first year or so in Egypt,
when she’d gotten herself off to sleep thinking about this
bed, this fire, this womb-like room that closed around her
like an unblemished eggshell, warm and translucent and
unbreachable. Meech the house-elf had brought in a tray of
fruit and sandwiches earlier that afternoon, the remains of
which were still on the coffee table next to the chaise.
Hermione lay back, peeled an orange, and had barely finished
it before sleep came tugging at her eyelids.

Hands still sticky and fragrant with orange-oil, she closed
her eyes and let herself fall. When she woke up, Snape was
beside her.

‘Beside’ wasn’t the word, actually, as much as ‘on top of’ –
he was leaning over her, one hand tangled in the short curls
at the back of her neck, the other snuggled possessively into
the dip of her waist. “Oh, did I wake you?” he murmured
against her lips. She could feel him smiling. “How clumsy of
me.”

She shifted her head on the pillow – that’s funny, there
hadn’t been a pillow there when she went to sleep – and did
her best to muster a grumble. It came out a sigh instead. “I
thought you’d gone back home. I didn’t think you’d come here.”

“Funny thing about that,” he said, trailing his lips across
her right cheek and pausing just near enough her ear to make
the inside of her head buzz when he spoke. Hermione felt every
erogenous zone on her body tighten and pulse. “All that
warding tired me out – didn’t feel like making the trip, after
all. I must be getting old.”

The hand at her waist was sliding south, which made it hard to
think. “You sweet-talker, you,” Hermione managed, and felt
certain susceptible bits of her turn into pudding when he
chuckled and nipped her earlobe.

“Oh, that’s not the only reason.”

“No?”

“No.” Somehow he’d turned her head to fit more comfortably
under his, slid those magic lips back to hers. “My bed in
Montana’s covered in cat hair.”

She’d almost forgotten, Hermione thought, how good it felt to
laugh and be kissed at the same time. That clever bit of
wizardry presently happening between her legs didn’t hurt,
either. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Do they?” He cupped the back of her neck more securely,
twiddled the fingers of his other hand, and hummed in
satisfaction as she writhed underneath him. “What do you
think?”

“I think,” she panted, “that if you want to catch up with me,
you’d better hurry up.”

He didn’t move. “Oh, you go on,” he said against her mouth,
and sent her over the edge with his kiss and those clever
guitar-pick fingertips. “Don’t worry on my account. I imagine
I’ll be along later.”

*

It was funny, she thought afterwards, how careful they both
were not to say the words, even while they picked each other
apart at the seams – how even as he turned her inside out and
threw himself after her, that the unspoken tenderness
vibrating between them could feel so delicate, so sharp-edged
and ephemeral. Too much happiness tempts the Fates, she
remembered him saying, and had a brief clear-eyed vision of
Bill, the last night he’d been alive, squeezing her hand in
the darkness and yawning.

Love you. Love you too.

This wasn’t at all like that – or was it?

“Lift up,” Snape was saying now (another funny thing – she
might call him ‘Severus’, sometimes, but she’d forever think
of him as ‘Snape’), and she felt something cool and smooth
graze the small of her back, heard a muted click under the
covers as he brought his hands together at her abdomen. “All
right.”

“What’s that?” she asked sleepily, and felt his arm snake
around her shoulders.

“Nothing. Sheets were rumpled, that’s all. Chafing me.”

“Liar.”

“Yes, well.” He didn’t budge. “Go to sleep. It’s late, and I’d
rather like to be up and away before Potter and Weasley decide
to come bursting in here at sunrise for a ten-year reunion.”

She frowned into the darkness. “They don’t have a key.”

“You’ll pardon me for my lack of confidence in that
reassurance.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake. You could at least try to be civil to
them, after all this time.”

“I could,” he agreed. “And a hippogriff could fly out of my
arse and stay for afternoon tea, too. But I don’t think either
of those things likely to happen.”

She yawned. “You never know. Maybe we’d better tell Meech to
bring up some extra scones, just in case.”

“Go to sleep, Hermione.”

“All right,” she murmured, and nestled a little closer to him.
“But only since I haven’t got anything better to d—“

Silence.

*


LAST TANGO IN PARIS
Chapter Forty-Seven

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

As promised, Severus was up and out of the little library
cubbyhole before dawn, only to be hit with an overwhelming and
somewhat novel lack of immediate purpose as he stood in the
hallway outside the library, squinting in the dim light from
the pair of torches around the corner. The corner itself was
the same as ever - same ancient footworn flagstones, same
beveled-glass windows in the door, same scarred wooden bench
with a nick out of one corner where Peeves had dropped a suit
of armor on it, Severus' third year at Hogwarts.

For a moment, he just stood there and let the history of the
place wash over him. Then he grimaced, shook himself, and
headed for Dumbledore's office.

As he'd expected, Dumbledore was in - and Sal was with him,
both of them bending over the walnut-sized sapphire on the
desk. "Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said, straightening up.
"Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"Not yet, it's not." Curious despite himself, he drifted over
to the desk and touched the sapphire with the tip of one
finger. "Nothing," he said, half-wondering. "You'd never
know-"

"Ah."

"We thought the interrogation room in the dungeons'd be best,"
Sal said. He was using his wand to sift through the crystal
bowlful of Bertie Botts' finest on Dumbledore's desk; a tiny
rattling cascade of beans rose and fell within the bowl,
pausing occasionally to hemorrhage a crimson bean into the
pile by the ink blotter. "I only like the red ones," he said,
looking up to find Severus watching him. "What?"

"You know that the cherry ones and the cough-syrup ones look
exactly alike, right?"

"I'll take my chances."

"You do live on the wild side," Severus said, and turned back
to Dumbledore. "Have those rooms even been used since the last
time we were in them?"

"The house-elves are airing them now."

"And there's no way he can escape?"

Dumbledore hesitated, then laughed. The laugh was short and
humorless and didn't sound like him at all.

"I've found, Severus, that Fortune is tempted by the
absolute," he said. He'd picked up the sapphire and was
rolling it between his fingers like a worry stone. "Let's just
say - it's unlikely."

"Fair enough."

***

As it turned out, Dumbledore required his assistance in a
Potions capacity. Severus spent a pleasurable three-quarters
of an hour in his former classroom, stirring a simmering
cauldron and reviling the delicious Professor Dessources'
lamentable organizational skills, then funneled the results
into the cleanest bottles he could find - washed, he dared
say, by him, back in the day - and lugged them down to the
subdungeons.

The house-elves had already aired both the cell where they'd
held Malfoy and Sal's cozy adjoining suite, laying a fire in
the latter and bringing in extra chairs to accommodate the
expected crowd. There was coffee on the sideboard, Severus
noticed. And Danish. He rolled his eyes, but didn't say
anything - it was so like Albus to turn an interrogation into
a tea-party that at this point it didn't bear mentioning. That
new puppy they'd brought in to teach Defense against the Dark
Arts was nowhere to be seen, he was pleased to say, but a thin
grey-robed figure was already in the containment cell,
methodically sweeping his scarred wand over the mortared
cracks between the ancient stones.

Remus. Severus set down his bottles, pulled out his own wand
and stepped through the misty wall to join him.

"Lupin," he said by way of greeting, and looked sideways at
the disciplined line of pale-green sparks trailing out of his
old schoolmate's wand. "What's that? Not a Containment Charm."

"That comes later," Remus said, not looking up. "Over the top
of this. Albus thought it likely he'd know how to counter it,
so he wants a double layer of something else under it." He
finished his row, dropped his wand, and turned to face
Severus, surreptitiously shaking a cramp out of his hand.
"I've almost finished. You've got the Veritaserum?"

"I have."

Lupin nodded. "It goes in those," he said, pointing to a row
of cauldrons in the opposite corner. "Minerva's idea. She'll
be along any minute to do the Transfigurations."

"I'm here, Remus," Minerva said from behind his shoulder. She
had the bottles of freshly-prepared truth serum tucked
underneath one bony arm. "Severus. The pleasure's mine, I'm
sure. Might I trouble you for a moment? We're behind
schedule."

Biting back a smile - there was a bit more grey in the hair,
maybe, but otherwise she hadn't changed in the slightest -
Severus followed her over to the row of cauldrons. "What's all
this about?" he wanted to know. She shrugged evasively,
suddenly irritable.

"I've a nephew who married a Muggle, you know."

He hadn't. "Oh?"

"Silly girl. Bright but lazy. Lives in Yorkshire."

"Ah."

Minerva waved her wand at the empty cauldrons, which slimmed
and heightened and squared off around the corners. Another
wave, and Severus saw each of them sprout a false bottom, a
foot or so above the floor. "I spend the holidays with them.
Sometimes. They always ask, but I don't always go."

"Does this charming little story have a point, Minerva?"

She shot him a quelling glare, and Severus was surprised to
see a faint tinge of pink at the apex of each aquiline
cheekbone. "They haven't any idea what to get me as a gift,
ever," she muttered. "Load of plastic nonsense, mostly. Or
face cream, as if that's going to do me any good at this
stage. But Albus was puzzling over how to get the Veritaserum
into ... well, you know, into him, and it made me think of
something Claudia sent me for my birthday last year."

She produced a small plastic object from a deep pocket of her
robes, and held it out to him. "Oh," Severus said. "I've seen
those before."

Actually he had one in the bathroom, back in Montana. It was a
tiny bottle of scented oil that dripped into a motor-driven
diffuser. They'd never been able to agree on the scent - Sal
liked the apple-cinnamon, he the pine - and usually they ended
up with the cinnamon, since Sal cared enough about the issue
to cheat at Rock Paper Scissors, and Severus was generally too
amused by this to protest.

"Electric, isn't it?" he said now. "Supposed to plug into the
wall."

She tossed her head. "I'm not Professor of Transfiguration for
nothing, Severus."

True, he thought, screwing in the Veritaserum bottles to the
top compartment of each cauldron and watching her set fan
blades turning below it. Whatever else you said about her,
Minerva McGonagall was still at the top of her game. "Careful
with that, Minerva," he said now. "A minute more of it and
we'll start being brutally frank with one another."

She snorted, but stopped the fans all the same and turned her
attention to creating vent grilles on the top and sides. "At
this point, Severus, I'd welcome an excuse."

He would have come back at this with some witty retort or
other of his own, but she was busy turning her improvised
diffusers into wall sconces, and he didn't want to disrupt her
concentration.

Besides that, Potter and Weasley had just come in. And
Hermione was with them.

***

They'd all been weeping, he saw at a glance - Ron and Hermione
the most - and Harry had his arm round her protectively. For a
moment, they might all have been schoolchildren again; he even
got a jolt of the mingled annoyance and outrage that they'd
always brought out in him. And then she looked up and saw him,
wet-eyed and pink-cheeked and lovely as she'd ever been, and
smiled, and the illusion was shattered.

Real pleasantries, of course, were out of the question. For
the sake of that smile, however, he forced himself to step
back through the wall and walk over to them.

"Potter," he said. "Weasley."

They nodded. And then the four of them stood there uncertainly
until Albus wafted over to them, beaming like an addled baby
seal and brandishing the coffeepot. Ah, Severus thought. So
that's why he ordered the pastries.

Hermione squeezed his hand encouragingly. Behind her, he saw
his erstwhile Potions replacement slip in, towing Longbottom
with her like a besotted toy balloon.

Remus and Minerva had finished their preparations. Severus
watched Albus dig in his pocket and bring out a teardrop of
shimmering ocean-blue, set it carefully on the floor of the
containment chamber and murmur over it for a moment. He
emerged with a serene look on his old face and a glitter in
his faded eyes that didn't match.

"Ah," he said. "Everyone has a seat, yes? Do try the cider
doughnuts, they're particularly good today." He plucked one
from the tray, sank into the armchair Sal had been saving for
him, and took a bite. The room sank to stillness.

"Remus," Dumbledore said. "Would you be so kind as to raise
the barrier?"

The wall of grey mist shuddered, then righted itself at a
word, clear and hard as the heart of a diamond. From the other
side, Severus knew, it looked as solid and stony as the other
three. Albus took another bite of his doughnut.

"Lovely," he said. "The diffusers, Minerva?"

The candles in the four corners of the cell flickered to life,
only the slight flutter of their flames betraying the movement
of air beneath them. Severus caught Minerva's gaze and raised
an admiring eyebrow. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"Thank you, Minerva," Albus said, finishing his doughnut, and
began to inspect his beard for crumbs. When he looked up
again, he was looking at Hermione.

"Miss Granger," he said. "I believe the floor is yours.
Whenever you're ready."

It wasn't until she dropped his hand to reach for her wand
that Severus realised she'd still been holding it. The wand
rose to the height of her waist, trembling slightly. Without
thinking, he wrapped his arm round her waist, taking part of
her weight onto himself, and felt her steady herself as she
took a deep breath, then let it out again on a single charged
word.

"Libero!"

A wash of blue light. The sapphire rocked and chattered on the
stone floor.

Lord Voldemort was free.