Roman Holiday

Chapter One

Disclaimer: All the Hogwarts gang belong exclusively to J.K.R,
not me. And it's a sure thing I'm not making money from them.

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He was bored.

That had to be it.

Three weeks into the summer hols, and he was out of his skull
with sheer, unadulterated ennui.

Nothing was going to happen today that hadn't happened
yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.
He scanned his airy, spacious room with patent distaste.
Nothing in it was what he would have chosen.

A million places in the world to go and see, conquer and
explore. And he was stuck HERE, in this dismal place, for yet
another dreary summer in the Ancestral Summer Manse. Apart
from his bickering, preoccupied parents and the furtive little
shadows cast by the house-elves, he was utterly and completely
alone.

God, his father was cheap.

Draco cursed the centuries-dead Malfoy who had possessed the
singular bad taste to build in Lucerne - honestly, Switzerland
in the summer? - then flopped down on his bed with a
long-suffering sigh. The one good thing about having weeks and
weeks with nothing to do but stew was that he had plenty of
likely targets.

First on the list. Potter.

Potter. That freak of nature. That utter, utter prat. The
Golden Boy with the Midas touch. Never mind the rumours about
his tragic past, his tortured childhood with the Muggles.
Wasn't it enough that the whole damned school threw flowers at
his feet, the second he deigned to grace the room?

Draco scowled. Potter, the hero. Potter, the saviour. Potter,
who blithely broke one rule after another and somehow, some
way, emerged victorious with his halo intact. Besting dragons.
Slaying serpents. Laying multiple curses, dangerous, illegal
curses, on unsuspecting passers-by who were just trying to
verbally level the odds a bit.

All else aside, he owed him one for that Furnunculus Curse on
the train.

Potter wasn't the only one, either.

Weasley.

Weasley, the hanger-on. The sycophant. Trailing Potter like a
pet poodle, robes flapping above his skinny ankles. Basking in
borrowed glory. God. It made him sick.

And … Granger.

Granger. The Muggle.

Granger. The Mudblood.

Granger. The annoying know-it-all.

Granger, who'd had the gall to show up to the Yule Ball
looking like a film star at an awards show, as sleek and shiny
and powder-blue mysterious as a pile of newly-minted Sickles
fresh from the vault. Next to her, his own date Pansy had
looked about as appealing as a dressed-up Pekingese.

Draco groaned. She'd been haunting his dreams ever since.

Not that he liked her or anything. God, what a joke - could
you see his father's face if he brought her home to Sunday
dinner?

No. It'd never do.

But there was something about her. Energy. Intention. A
crackling purity of focus that consumed her every motion.

Passion. That was the word. An unrelenting, uncompromising
passion - for knowledge, truth, justice.

Granger. The Crusader. Draco could picture her in men's
clothes, in snow-white armor, dreaming dreams and seeing
visions. Faithful to the death. She had that kind of loyalty.

He thought back to the whole house-elf thing from last year.
What was the acronym again? S-P-E-W?

Lots of laughs in the Slytherin common room over that one. But
every so often it occurred to him that no one, anywhere, at
any time, had ever felt that strongly or single-mindedly about
HIM.

At which point it was time to go kick one of the house-elves
or bug his father for a new racing broom, because just about
anything else was preferable to admitting that he'd like to be
the focus of Hermione Granger's attentions, nay, affections.

He rolled over and punched his pillow. Just once. Just once,
he'd like to get Granger alone, without Potter and Weasley
there to get all bristly and heroic on her behalf.

She didn't need them anyway. She'd cleaned his clock but good,
all on her own. But when they were around, he didn't have
control of himself. Found it necessary to snarl and posture,
mostly because their very existence pissed him off so
mightily.

He'd like to catch her on her own. See if they couldn't have a
conversation.

Not that he was interested or anything.

Just curious, that's all. And didn't his father always say
that one of the marks of a strong wizard was the ability to
infiltrate enemy ranks?

Draco sat up, hugging his pillow, and grinned to himself. If
he played his cards right, he might just be able to kill two
birds with one stone. That is, spring himself from this gloomy
excuse for a holiday, and catch a little quality time with the
Mudblood while he was at it.

Where was she spending her summer again? He'd overheard her
talking to Parvati, near the end of term.

Of course.

Rome.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Two

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Hermione couldn’t believe how well her summer was turning out.

What had first promised to be an ordinary family vacation had
been abruptly derailed when Mum broke her ankle gardening. No
sightseeing for her this year, she’d announced gloomily, and
Hermione had steeled herself, disappointed, for Quiet Holidays
at Home.

But then Giulia had called, inviting her to visit, glamorous
Cousin Giulia with her flat in the Piazza del Spagna and her
zippy little red moped with the racing stripe and her
scholarship to the Film Design Institute. Please, please,
PLEASE, Hermione had begged, and listed, in writing, the first
million or so reasons why Rome was at the top of her Must-See
List.

Her trump card, the angle that finally convinced her parents
to let her go, was the summer research project she was doing
for Muggle Studies, on the Italian sorcerer Palestrina. Think
of the libraries, she’d rhapsodized. The cathedrals. The
living, breathing history!

In the end, they said yes. Of course. Mostly because they
trusted her to be sensible.

Well, screw being sensible.

Hermione leaned to the law-abiding side as a general rule, but
she wasn’t STUPID. Six weeks in Rome with her beautiful,
freewheeling college-student cousin? If they thought she was
really going to sit in the library all day, they were truly,
pathetically thick.

She wasn’t going to enlighten them.

**

Cousin Giulia wasn’t a witch, but she was up to enchantments
of her own, Hermione found out. The first day she was in Rome,
Giulia dragged her to the salon where her friend Micaela
worked as an intern. “I don’t know what you can do with it,
really,” Hermione said apologetically, fingering her hair, but
Micaela waved aside her protests and went to work with the
scissors. Forty minutes later, Hermione had traded in her
shoulder-length jungle of waves for a cleverly cut cap of
curls that made the Italian ladies in the shop twitter about
pre-Raphaelite nymphs and the cherubim on the Sistine Chapel
ceiling.

Whatever, Giulia had said. Screw the art history, bambina.
You’re hot, hot, hot, like Audrey Hepburn, like Lolita, like
Leslie Caron in a ‘50s movie. Cross your legs, unwrap a
lollipop, and watch them fall to their knees.

Hermione could live with that.

She moved on in the wake of her cousin’s flashing eyes and
brilliant laugh and dizzying perfume. Makeup. Clothes. Shoes.
Hermione got the feeling that she wasn’t quite a real person
to Giulia, as much as a breathing, three-dimensional paper
doll. But she didn’t mind.

Rome was AMAZING.

They stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, giggling
over nail polish and Italian television. Sneaked into the
movies to see big-budget Hollywood flicks, badly dubbed into
Italian. Danced for hours to American pop music in smoky,
strobe-lit clubs.

Giulia knew fascinating people: costume designers who clucked
over Hermione’s slim sixteen-year-old body and loaded her arms
down with beaded tops and faux-suede miniskirts, messy-haired
sound engineers, pop singers with soulful liquid-chocolate
eyes, fierce-looking paint-stained abstract artists and jazz
guitarists in black turtlenecks who gulped espresso and grappa
and sprawled at the sidewalk tables of Rome’s cafés, arguing
about Ginsberg and Cousteau and Rimbaud and smoking clove
cigarettes.

It was another world, and Hermione was loving it.

Playing dress-up in Giulia’s clothes and pretty leather shoes
was FUN. Flirting with the beautiful dark Roman boys who
thronged every street corner was FUN. Soon enough, she’d be
back at Hogwarts, buried beneath shapeless black robes and
that oppressive, wearying Good Girl persona. For now, let her
have her borrowed go-go boots and her push-up bra and her
spritzer of Giorgio.

If Ron Weasley could see her now, he’d choke on his pumpkin
juice.

**

Her second week in Rome, Giulia’s fashion-model boyfriend
Carlo returned from his photo shoot in Milan and invited
Giulia to the Riviera. Obviously she intended to go. She
wasn’t even particularly apologetic about it as she handed
Hermione the keys to the flat.

Take the moped, she’d said brightly. Wear anything you want
from my closet. Raid the fridge. Here - if you need groceries
or souvenirs or something - here’s some money.

And she’d held out a fat stack of crisp bills in high
denominations. Hermione assumed it was Carlo’s money; Giulia
usually kept her cash crumpled at the bottom of her bag.

She did what she was supposed to - smiled, and took the money,
and dutifully agreed: yes, she’d be fine. Yes, of course she’d
stay on in Rome and look after the plants. No, Giulia
shouldn’t worry about her.

Carlo made her Sneakoscope go off in about six different ways.
But she couldn’t tell her pretty, flighty cousin that.

So. Sixteen years old and alone in Rome. For more than a
month. With enough money to buy half of the city and still
have cab fare home - money intended to buy her silence.

Well, Hermione was down with that. She was a lot of things,
good-girl things that made Harry and Ron sneer, but she wasn’t
about to call her parents for a plane ticket back to England.
Not in a million years.

This was the adventure of a lifetime.

Plus, she had homework to do.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Three

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The Piazza di San Pietro.

Possibly one of the most beautiful places in the world. If you
were into that sort of thing.

Surprisingly enough, Severus Snape found that he was.

It wasn’t his normal holiday, mind you. Ordinarily he avoided
Muggle cities. He had a great-uncle who had left England
entirely, back in the day, for the solitary pleasures of the
American Frontier, and died without an heir, leaving his
Montana mountain cabin to his only nephew.

You could live there for the whole eight weeks of the summer
holiday and never see another living soul. It was the closest
thing to perfection Severus could imagine.

But this year was different. Summer or no summer, they were
all still on duty.

Voldemort, alive. Somewhere.

A circle of followers. Rich, influential, persuasive,
widespread.

Dumbledore had called them all together and assigned them
duties, just before the end of the year. Expenses on Hogwarts,
naturally. They’d drawn lots.

And Severus had ended up with Rome.

His duty was this: dress as a Muggle, pass through the city,
keep your eyes and ears to the ground. Watch. Listen. Report
back. The Ministry of Magic was better equipped to do this, of
course, but they weren’t to be trusted, not after Fudge’s
little run-in with Dumbledore.

Snape found it easier than expected to pass as a Muggle.

Black denim trousers, tighter than he was accustomed to. Black
leather boots. Artfully damaged silk shirts in bright crayon
colors, left open to showcase gold chain jewelry.

A black leather peacoat for the nights, which could be cool
even in the middle of the summer. Sunglasses, even indoors.
His lank black hair, instantly chic as a ponytail at the back
of his head. A few days’ worth of suntan.

Voilà. Instant Eurotrash.

He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he rather liked the look. It
was … liberating. If, in the strict sense of the word, about
ten years out of fashion.

The streets were bewildering. Automobiles, mopeds, bicycles,
teeming hordes of the most beautiful people on the planet,
pushing and shoving and walking fast and laughing and talking
on their cellular phones and flirting with each other.

The only way he could handle it was to step back, to be an
observer.

He leaned casually against the side of the fountain, there in
the middle of the most famous piazza in Rome, and watched the
world go by, insulated behind his Ray-Bans. He wasn’t as
aimless as he appeared; there was a Mass about to start, over
in St. Peter’s, one of the less-well-attended midday ones, and
the choir was going to sing Palestrina.

Severus had precious few weaknesses. The music of Palestrina
was one of them.

A wizard, of course, and a fascinating one. Obsessed with
mathematics, with the sounds you could make when all the atoms
of the universe lined up and quivered into a perfect unison.
From a purely technical, dispassionate viewpoint, the music
was as close to flawless as it could be.

But Palestrina hadn’t been content to be an alchemist of sound
- he was a social crusader, too. Rather like Arthur Weasley,
Severus thought absently. Wrote as much for Muggles as he did
for the wizarding community.

More, probably. Wizards had embraced pop music handily enough
- he shuddered at the memory of the Weird Sisters - but when
it came to celestial harmony, the Muggles had them beat
hands-down.

There was magic in the music. Literally. Powerful white magic,
benevolent and luminous as sunlight, threaded down every bar
line like an invisible chain of DNA that just might sparkle if
you looked closely enough. Be you Muggle or wizard, it put you
at peace - with yourself and all humankind.

In about twenty minutes, Severus was going to forget that the
world existed for an hour.

He was looking forward to it.

A red moped zoomed past the fountain and skidded to a halt
next to one of Rome’s ubiquitous bike racks. A girl got off,
tugging her brief skirt down to mid-thigh, and Severus studied
her lazily from behind his sunglasses.

Impossible to tell how old she was, but he thought perhaps as
young as seventeen, as old as twenty. Slim body in knee-length
leather boots and a floral-patterned micromini dress. Lots of
girls wore headscarves on the little motorcycles, á là Gina
Lollobrigida, but not this waif. Just big tortoise-shell
sunglasses and an impudent cap of runaway curls that shone
like gilt under the Roman sun. He watched her lock her bike
and run lightly up the steps of St. Peter’s.

Odd. She wasn’t really dressed for a Mass.

But that was part of the beauty and mystery of Rome. She could
zip around the city all morning on that sleek little red
machine, flashing her white cotton panties to anyone who cared
to take a close enough look, then straighten herself out, run
fingers through that riot of curls, and saunter into church
like the Virgin herself.

Lots of beautiful girls in Rome. Severus wasn’t going to
pretend that he didn’t enjoy that perk, nor the fact that they
all dressed like streetwalkers.

This one stood out in the crowd, though. Severus wouldn’t mind
slipping his fingers under those panties himself, stirring up
a little excitement. Riding a moped in a miniskirt was the
closest thing to public masturbation he could think of. He
could almost feel her from here, slippery and hot and pleading
and close enough to the edge that a good sharp couple of taps
with his open hand would send her plummeting over.

He’d like to sit her on his leg, make her hump against him
while he watched. He’d like to -

Down, boy.

Don’t mingle with the Muggles. Especially not one who looks
like that. Probably has a father and three brothers with
baseball bats, dogging her every step.

Funny, though. She’d seemed to be completely alone.

**

He slipped in and took his seat in the balcony, far enough
back so that he could close his eyes and just listen without
worrying about a crush of bodies around him. The church was
less crowded than usual. Good.

A flash of floral fabric. His little sex goddess, sitting prim
and proper as was possible in that skirt, hands clasped over
her knees. The pew right in front of him, but a bit to the
left. He could see part of her face in profile. Stunning.

And familiar. Odd.

He thought he’d forget about her when the music started, when
the choir began to sing. He was wrong.

Her hands left her knees, went to the back of the pew in front
of her. She leaned forward, rested her chin on her knuckles.

Her body was stiff. Intent. Completely focused.

She’d forgotten about the world.

He drank in the look of shocked wonder he discerned from the
thrust of her jaw, the tremble of that soft mouth.

Watching her listen was better than hearing it himself.

She began to shake her head back and forth, nonononononono.
Began to bite her lip. The first tears spilled during the
Agnus Dei, and Severus felt a sympathetic ache in his chest.
She didn’t try to wipe them away, didn’t sniffle. Barely
breathed. Just sat there letting the salt run down her face in
silver streams.

When the Mass was over, the benediction said, she didn’t move.
She looked stunned. Petrified.

He leaned over the back of the pew and wordlessly offered her
his handkerchief. She nodded thanks, wiped her face, and
half-turned to give it back to him.

“P-“ Her eyes widened in shock. “Professor Snape?”

They both froze, clutching the handkerchief between them.

“Dear God,” Severus muttered, and yanked it out of her hand.

For the last hour and a half, he’d been lusting after Hermione
Granger.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Four

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“Miss Granger.” Snape wasn’t quite sure how he’d come to find
himself down the street from St. Peter’s, sipping cappucino
across the table from his brainiest student, but there he was.
Hermione herself looked rather pleased with the arrangement;
since she wasn’t allowed to use magic over the holidays, and
didn’t have room to hide a Band-Aid under that outfit, much
less a wand, he could only assume his compliance had something
to do with her miniskirt.

Which was as appalling as it was unexpected. Not that he made
a habit of second-guessing his students’ summer pursuits … but
if anyone had asked him where he imagined Hermione Granger to
be spending her holidays, he would have laid money that it
involved a lot of books and a severe case of writers’ cramp.

He knew how to deal with that Hermione, the conscientious
student, Potter and Weasley’s self-appointed protector and
tutor. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to the self-possessed,
unruffled girl across from him. She didn’t look the least bit
afraid of him.

Not the natural order of things. Not even remotely. He scowled
at her.

She raised the delicate arch of one eyebrow. “Yes, Professor?”

The table was so small that their knees were bumping. He
prayed for strength. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re
completely alone in the city?”

She nodded cheerfully. “For a week now.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” he demanded. She
rolled her eyes, then shot him an amused look under her
eyelashes.

“For whom?” She took a leisurely sip of her mocha latte and
deliberately licked the foam off her lip, never breaking eye
contact. Severus felt prickles of sweat break out on his
forehead.

“For YOU, you silly little girl,” he snapped, annoyed with
himself. “And don’t think that flirting with me is going to
change anything. You need to go home to your parents.” He
dragged a hand through his hair, leaning closer so that his
next words wouldn’t be overheard. “Lord Voldemort is on the
loose, and we’re all targets. You more than most. Being one of
Potter’s best friends and all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Professor Snape,” she said. “Do you
honestly think I’m any safer from Lord Voldemort at home with
my parents - my MUGGLE parents - than I am here?” She toyed
with one of the chocolate-chip biscotti on the plate between
them. “If I call my parents, I’ll get my cousin in trouble.
Besides, I have to finish my research project on Palestrina.
For Muggle Studies.”

“You’re missing the point.” He exhaled noisily. “You’re
underage and without a guardian. The last place you should be
is in a foreign city, roaming the streets. Especially if
you’re going to dress like that.”

“Everyone dresses like this here,” she said. “It’s the most
inconspicuous thing in the world.” She leaned back, and
Severus tried not to look at the way her little breasts tilted
up under the thin fabric of her dress. “Though I suppose I
should be flattered that you noticed. You’ve done a bit of an
update yourself.” The coquettish gleam was back in her eye. “I
never pictured you in black leather, Professor.”

Who was this minx, and what had she done with disheveled,
bookish Hermione?

He sighed, resigned. “Do you at least have a place to stay?”

She nodded. “Giulia gave me the keys to her flat.”

“Compromise, then,” he said. “We meet at noon, every day, in
the balcony of San Pietro. Miss a day, and I’ll fire an owl
off to Dumbledore so fast your head will spin. I daresay he’d
want your parents to know, as much as I do.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s the deal? I just have to
check in?”

He nodded, and she grinned at him. Perfect teeth with a
generous dollop of mischief.

“Okay,” she said. “If you’ll come to dinner tomorrow night.”

He started. “In your flat? Miss Granger, I hardly think -“

“Oh, come on,” she said. “We’re on holiday, and you’re dressed
like a mafioso. Call me Hermione.” She grinned again. “You can
still be the Professor, if you want. It’ll be like Gilligan.”

She deftly palmed the remaining biscotti, tucked them into her
bag, and blew him a kiss. “Tomorrow, at noon. I’ll give you
the address then.”

Trouble, Snape thought. Pure, undiluted trouble, right there.
Moodily, he watched her dance out the door, throw some
laughing comment over her shoulder at an obviously
appreciative taxi driver. A walking catastrophe, waiting to
happen. He should post an owl to Dumbledore right now.

He frowned. Who the hell was Gilligan?

**

Draco got out of the taxi at the Piazza del Spagna, tipped the
driver, and shouldered his bag out onto the sidewalk.

He was here. Finally. It’d taken some doing.

Convincing his father had been the hardest part.

Lucky for him that Granger was in Potter’s inner circle.
Lucius Malfoy would do just about anything to be the one who
turned Harry Potter over to Voldemort.

Even if it meant springing Draco loose on the unsuspecting
city of Rome.

Finding her had been easier than expected, thanks to the very
handy Muggle invention known as the telephone. One call to
Information, another to the Granger household, where he’d
poured the charm and the upper-class accent on thick. He
smiled, remembering his conversation with Mrs. Granger. He
just happened to be in Rome and had planned to meet up with
Hermione … how tragic that he’d forgotten his address book at
home. He knew it was an awful imposition, but was there any
way ….?

Simple as that.

He rang the bell for her apartment. No answer. That was okay.
He could wait.

He smirked. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

**

Hermione couldn’t believe it.

Draco Malfoy was sitting on her steps.

Holy shit.

She was still across the street from her building. She’d just
parked the moped, and it was mostly dark by now, dark enough
so that it looked like he was having trouble reading.

Only one door in. This building was older than the fire code.

What to do?

Was Snape right, God forbid? Was there some sinister plot
afoot to use her as bait, get Harry into danger? She looked
around for other signs of evil wizards.

The street was empty, except for a couple sucking face on the
steps of the building next to hers. And old Signora Malione,
Giulia’s next-door neighbor, coming back from her evening
stroll.

No Voldy. Okay, that was good.

Well, she could handle Draco by himself. And she had to go
home sometime, right?

She grabbed her bag off the back of the moped and headed for
the steps.

“Buona sera,” she said, and his head jerked out of the book.
She leaned against the railing of the steps and cocked her
head. “Been waiting long, Malfoy?”

He did a double take. “Hermione?”

She shot him a look of fake surprise. “Oh, were you waiting
for someone else?”

He shook his head. He looked befuddled. “No. No, just you.”
His eyes ran down to her toes, up to the top of her head, then
settled briefly on the four inches of bare skin between the
tops of the boots and the hem of her skirt before returning to
her face. “Hermione?”

“You said that already.” She gave him the once-over, mentally
slapped her forehead. Her bad luck that he was cute, that he
looked tired. “Look, can I help you with something?”

He hadn’t lost that glazed look. “Um, no. I just came to see
you, that’s all.”

“Well, do you have a place to stay?” She looked pointedly at
her wristwatch.

He patted his bag absently. “I’ve got reservations. I forget
where.”

“You’re alone?”

He nodded. “You look … amazing.”

Boys.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” she said, and relented. “Look, why don’t you
come on in? You can call a cab from the flat.”

He followed her up the steps like a little lamb.

Thank God for short skirts, Hermione thought, and opened the
door with a flourish. “Make yourself at home.”

Roman Holiday

Chapter Five

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Hermione had to admit it: she was enjoying herself. Giulia had
said she’d feel like a new person after Micaela got through
with her, and it was true. The shocked look on Snape’s face
this afternoon had been enough to feed her feminine ego all
the way through puberty.

And Malfoy! She slanted a glance through to where he was
sitting on the sofa. When had HE ever had anything nice to say
to her?

You look … amazing. She smiled to herself.

This girl power was heavy stuff.

Malfoy wasn’t sentimental, though - he’d been surprised, sure,
but now he was pulling himself together. By the time she
walked back out with their drinks, he’d regained a certain
amount of equilibrium. “Thanks,” he said. He took a sip of his
soda, grimacing at the unfamiliar fizz, and scanned the room
thoughtfully. “Are you renting this place?”

Hermione didn’t blame him for being puzzled. The flat was pure
Giulia - quirky, loud, a bit mismatched, but nevertheless
compelling. An excellent example was the sofa Malfoy was
sitting on, which was covered in fire-engine-red chenille and
resembled nothing so much as a giant pair of lips.

“Borrowed,” she said. “Belongs to my cousin. She skipped town
with her boyfriend and paid me off so I wouldn’t tell my
parents.”

The same look of shock that she’d gotten from Snape. “You’re
here by yourself?”

“Hello, pot? Kettle calling.” She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Okay, Malfoy, spill. Why exactly ARE you here?”

He bought some time by taking another sip of his soda. She was
all set for him to come out with some bullshit line about
seeing the world when he gave a little self-derisive puff of a
laugh, set down his glass, and shrugged helplessly.

“Bored,” he said. “That’s it, mainly. You wouldn’t believe how
tedious my summers are.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m supposed to believe that? You’re
bored, so you came looking for me?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Malfoy. Look.”

“Draco,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Okay. Draco. First of all. Are you bipolar or something? Are
you off your medication? Because this isn’t making sense.” She
leaned forward in her chair. “You’re the most prejudiced
person I know,” she said. “You’re perfectly at home in the
wizarding world, and you hate Muggles. Why on earth would you
go to all the trouble of finding Muggle clothes, changing gold
into Muggle money - you must have made a stop at Gringotts,
for God’s sake! - just to come hang out with me, someone you
don’t like and never have, in a city infested with millions of
people that you despise?”

“Um …”

She kept going. “And why me? Where are all your friends this
summer? Couldn’t you just have sent an owl to Crabbe or Goyle
or Millicent or Pansy and said, hi, it’s me, I’m sick of my
parents and coming to visit, watch the fireplace?”

He shrugged. “That never occurred to me.”

“Oh, and it DID occur to you that I was hanging out in Rome?
Dear me, Hermione Granger and I are SUCH good friends, I must
look her up?” She frowned at him. “And how did you get my
address, anyway?”

“Called your mother.”

“You -“ She gaped at him.

**

THAT shut her up, Draco thought with satisfaction. About time
the conversation started going his way.

She had better legs than he’d imagined, but she was still a
shrew.

Face it, he told himself. She has better EVERYTHING than you
imagined.

“Look, I’m not exactly sure why I’m here,” he said. “To be
perfectly honest, I’d rather not examine it too closely. I
told my father I was here to spy on you. To see if you knew
anything about where Potter was.”

Hermione blinked. “It’s no secret where Harry spends his
summers,” she said, guarded. Draco shrugged.

“Maybe not to you,” he said, “or Weasley. But my father has a
million contacts at the Registry, including one who has access
to student records. And Potter’s name doesn’t even show UP on
them.”

“You aren’t going to get any information from me,” she said
coolly. He rolled his eyes.

“I know that … why else would I have told you?” He crunched an
ice cube thoughtfully. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I
haven’t eaten since this morning. Any chance there’s a
house-elf around this place?”

At that, she laughed, a merry sound of genuine amusement.
“Keep being funny, and I may let you hang around.” She wiped
her eyes. “No house-elf. But when I said I was paid off?” She
rubbed her fingers together meaningfully. “I’m rolling in it.
Let’s go out to dinner.”

**

She took him to a fragrant little bistro three blocks away
that smelled like a kind of heaven he’d never visited before.
There were other people waiting around in the foyer, but
Hermione waved at one of the waiters and a moment later they
were seated at a little white-draped table near the back.

The waiter’s name was Stefano. “Friend of Giulia’s,” Hermione
explained. “You like Italian food?”

Draco eyed the menu. “Mm,” he said noncommittally. His mother
was quite fond of a little Tuscan place, wizard-run of course.
Quite exclusive. He found it to be much like any other
expensive restaurant - small portions, exquisite presentation,
soft chamber music, invisible elf-service.

It was okay. He wasn’t sure it would have much in common with
this bright, noisy room full of chatter and clattering dishes
and the smell of garlic and olive oil. He sipped the fizzy
water Hermione had ordered for them and looked around,
fascinated. Laughter, gesticulation, people talking with their
mouth full. Stefano grabbed another waiter and did a quick
tango step between two tables, to cheers and applause. He
ended up, panting, at their table, and raised his eyebrows
enquiringly.

Hermione hadn’t even opened her menu. “What’s the special?”
she asked. Stefano grinned.

“For everybody else, the chicken Piccata. But that’s because
Vincenzo, he bought too much chicken on Monday. For you? Leave
it to me, I’ll bring you the good stuff.”

“Okay,” Hermione said. “Draco? You okay with that?”

The menu was in Italian, which was maddeningly close to Latin
but not close enough for him to actually read. He looked up
from it and nodded. “Fine.”

Stefano kissed his fingertips and winked at Hermione. “Don’t
you worry, cara. I’ll set you up.”

“The good stuff” turned out to be beefsteak tomatoes layered
with creamy mozzarella and basil leaves, veal medallions with
rosemary potatoes and grilled asparagus, and crusty golden
rolls that steamed when broken open. Draco had to admit that
it had his mother’s trendy Tuscan place beat all to hell.

“Keep eating like that and you’re going to split your seams,”
he told Hermione, who was tearing apart another roll. She just
fluttered her eyelashes at him, drizzled the bread with olive
oil from a decanter on the table, and bit in.

“Not to worry,” she said, after she’d swallowed. “We’re going
to work it all off later. Don’t order dessert, though -
there’s this other place I want to show you.”

**

She took him dancing.

He was a cool customer, she thought, studying him sideways
under her lashes as they walked into the club. Didn’t give
anything away, not even when she thumb-wrestled with the
bouncer.

That Marcello. He was a sweetheart.

The club, though - that had him going, and with good reason.
Euro-pop with a house beat, blasting so loud you could hear it
down the block. Three different dance floors in three
different rooms. Neon lights. Disco balls. Fog machines.
Next-to-naked dancers, both male and female, voguing on
cleverly lit pedestals.

The main dance floor was jammed. Not enough room for Barbie
and Ken, let alone two life-sized bodies. She grabbed Draco’s
hand and pulled him through an arched doorway to the right.
Better. Crowded, but not too.

The music was so loud that Draco could feel the bass tremble
from the woofers vibrating up through the floorboards into his
feet. All around him were bodies, sweating shaking gyrating
Muggle bodies, in a hallucinogenic mass of drum-pad insanity.

And Hermione. Hermione, still in those
pick-me-up-and-fuck-me-hard boots, paired with a floral dress
that would have been sweet, were it larger than an Ace
bandage. Somewhere between the coffee and the check, he’d
given up trying to connect the Hermione Granger he knew with
the one across the table from him. Now, he was just dealing
with the feel of her body, rubbing rhythmic and tight against
his.

The beat was in his brain, and she was in his blood. The dance
floor was so crowded that they weren’t dancing so much as
swaying in place. She twined her arms around his neck, and he
felt a sudden jolt of satisfaction flood through him.

Whatever he could possibly have been doing back in
Switzerland, this was indescribably superior.

**

“You don’t really have a hotel reservation, do you?” she
asked. They were walking back to the Piazza del Spagna, hand
in hand. She felt Draco stiffen at the question.

“Why would you think that?”

“That’s easy,” she said. “To make a hotel reservation over the
telephone, you’d have needed to give them a credit card
number.”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

“Just answer the question, Malfoy,” she said. “Do you have a
bloody reservation, or not?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“Giulia’s got a second bedroom,” Hermione said. “Why don’t you
stay over tonight? You can always get a hotel in the morning,
if you want to.”

He cast an amused glance her way. “Are you propositioning me,
Granger?”

“You wish.” She was careful not to look at him. “How much do
you know about girls, anyway?”

“First a proposition, then an intensely personal question.
Really, Miss Granger!”

“Shut up, Malfoy.” She’d turned pink. He laughed.

“I know enough about girls to know that Pansy Parkinson’s a
slut.” He tickled her palm with his thumb, delighted when she
colored and jerked her hand away. “Not so sure about you. Up
until this afternoon, I’d have figured you for virgin-pure.”

“Oh, so the minute a girl puts on a short skirt she’s
automatically a hooker? That is so shallow of you.”

“So you ARE a virgin,” he said, and grinned at the look of
fury she threw at him. “Don’t look so offended, Granger. It’s
not a crime, you know.”

“I know that!” She glared at him. “And why are we talking
about this, anyway? I offered you my second bedroom, not my
maidenhead, for God’s sake.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’d be delighted.”

They were in front of her building. She pulled out her key and
was about to open the security door when he put his hand on
her arm.

“We get inside, you aren’t going to let me do this,” he said
softly. “So let’s just get it out of the way out here.”

She saw it coming, but didn’t try to move. He bent his head,
scooped her closer with one arm at the small of her back. His
mouth was cool and firm against hers. She didn’t struggle.

He stepped back and smiled at her. Dangerous, Hermione
thought, and pushed past him.

She didn’t sleep well.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Six

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

This was Hermione’s dilemma: Should she tell Snape about
Malfoy? Should she tell Malfoy about Snape?

Or not?

She was pretty sure Snape was on business for Dumbledore. If
she told Malfoy that Snape was in Rome, it might blow his
cover … she had yet to get a really straight answer from
Malfoy on the subject of Voldemort, his father, and his own
loyalties.

If she told Snape that Malfoy was in Rome, she’d might as well
hold out her wrists for the cuffs. Her parents would have an
owl within the day, and she’d be home the day after that.

Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t a dilemma. She was just going to
have to juggle the two of them. Rome was a big city, right?
How hard could it be?

First things first. Get Malfoy out of her apartment.

She fed him breakfast, packed his bag for him, put him on the
back of the moped, took him to the nearest Sheraton, and
checked him in.

He wasn’t exactly happy, but he dealt with it.

“Is this because I kissed you last night?”

“No,” Hermione said, and was surprised to realize that she
meant it. “It’s so Mrs. Malione doesn’t worry about me. And so
you don’t get your arse kicked when your father shows up to
check on you.”

That was the right button to push, she guessed; Draco sneered,
but didn’t press the issue further. “Want to have dinner
tonight?”

“I’ve got plans,” Hermione said. “I’ll call you tomorrow,
okay?”

She kissed him on the cheek, glanced at her watch, and yelped.
Eleven forty. If she expected to make it to San Pietro on
time, she was going to have to drive on the sidewalk.

**

Snape was waiting for her when she dashed in at twelve-ten. He
didn’t look pleased.

“Annoying as you are during the year, you’re at least
punctual. Clearly the holidays don’t agree with you.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, and clutched at the stitch in her
side. “Traffic.”

He glared at her disapprovingly; today’s skirt wasn’t any
longer than yesterday’s, and she was wearing a pair of
Giulia’s high-heeled Prada sandals, leaving her slim suntanned
legs bare from thigh to instep. “Miss Granger -“

“Hermione,” she inserted. He ignored her.

“—you may consider yourself extremely fortunate that I am a
man of my word. I came perilously close to owling Dumbledore
last night. I still should.”

“I’ve been here for two weeks,” she said. “One on my own. I’m
fine.”

“Oh, the optimism of youth.” He shot her an unpleasant smirk.
Hermione studied him thoughtfully.

He was kind of sexy, in a way. Lots more fashion sense than
she’d have given him credit for. And with the hair scraped off
his face, you could see his cheekbones. Killer. And those
intense dark eyes. Yum.

Whoa, girl, she thought. Back off. The minute you start to
check out Snape is the minute you’re ready for St. Mungo’s.
Not the best idea you’ve ever had.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked quietly. “What are you
watching for?”

His mouth tightened. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’re trying to make it my business,” she pointed out.
“Besides, I only want to help. I’m a Muggle-born; no one would
suspect me of -“

His eyes flashed. “You’re a student, and one who overestimates
her powers, at best. This isn’t your concern.”

“But -“ He had that immovable, dangerous look on his face
again. Hermione let it drop.

“Fine,” she said. “Are we done?”

He considered her carefully, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“We’re done.”

“Are you still coming to dinner?”

That thin-lipped mouth curled up at one corner. “I don’t know,
Miss Granger. Can you cook?”

She tossed her head. “You’re going to have to wait and see,
aren’t you?”

**

Hermione’s dad liked to cook. Therapeutic, he claimed.

He also gardened, played the violin, read espionage novels and
got up well before dawn to brew coffee. Some of Hermione’s
earliest memories were of the two of them, sitting at the
kitchen table at four in the morning - he in his bathrobe, she
in her footie pajamas. He’d be on his third cup of coffee, and
he’d carefully pour a splash into her tumbler of milk,
ceremoniously handing her a spoon so she could add sugar and
stir.

You’re encouraging her in bad habits, her mother complained.

Nonsense, her dad would say, ruffling Hermione’s hair. The
girl couldn’t develop a bad habit if it followed her home and
slept on her pillow. She’s pure sunlight.

She loved her mom. But her father was the sun and the moon.

Friday night was their night to cook, she and he, and until
she left for Hogwarts they’d never missed a one. The Moveable
Feasts, he’d called those dinners, after Hemingway. They chose
the menu on Sunday afternoon - no spaghetti dinners, no mac
and cheese; no, the challenge was the point, the harder the
better, and once they’d gotten the hang of it they’d started
the Theme of the Week.

Food from a certain country - spin the globe and point.

Food beginning with a certain letter of the alphabet - reach
into the Scrabble bag and draw a tile. (“Q” wasn’t bad -
quiche, quail - but “X” and “Z” had been a problem).

She’d never been homesick, in all her years at Hogwarts,
except for Friday nights.

Could she cook, he asked. She snorted.

Professor Severus Snape was in for the surprise of his
lifetime.

**

Snape was surprised, all right. And he wasn’t a man who liked
surprises.

Candlelight, Billie Holiday on the stereo, a London broil that
melted in his mouth.

What was Granger playing at?

He scanned the apartment with thinly veiled disapproval.
Whoever this elusive cousin was, she had abysmal taste in
furniture.

He tried not to think about how Granger would look spread out
on that ridiculous sofa.

White against red. Soft on soft.

Stop it.

Oddly enough, they’d had a lot to talk about. She was a
talented conversationalist; much more interesting outside
Hogwarts than inside, if the truth be told. More outgoing,
more sure of herself. Nothing to prove.

It must be hard on her, he thought. Living down the ordinary
blood in her veins, day after day. Leaving behind the electric
lights, the fast machines, the moving pictures spinning
seductive stories in the dark.

The family. She spoke of them with so much affection in her
voice, but her eyes were guarded. Nothing was the same now,
that’d be his guess. How could it be?

She’d changed clothes, trading in the chic little teenybopper
mini for a full-skirted, ankle-length linen sundress, the
color of limes, that buttoned down the front and left her
pretty arms bare. She’d kicked off the sandals, too, and was
padding around in bare feet.

She looked like one of the Virgin Goddesses - Diana the
Huntress, maybe. Snape was up on his Muggle myths; he wasn’t
as provincial as he looked. Give her a bow and a silver stag,
and she’d be off into the sky.

He was oddly irritated by that thought. She had come around to
take his dinner plate, and without knowing quite why he put
his hand on her wrist. Startled, she tried to draw away. He
held on.

“How can you possibly think you’re safe here?” he asked. Her
liquid-toffee eyes widened, then iced over.

“We’ve discussed this, Professor.” She tugged again. He
persisted.

“No,” he said. “I’ve warned you about Voldemort and the Death
Eaters, and you refuse to take them seriously. But has it
occurred to you that you might be in danger, just by virtue of
being a young girl living alone?”

“I can take care of myself.” Her voice was frigid. “Let go of
me.”

He was suddenly full of something dark and unnameable. “Is
that what you’re going to tell him? The man who presses his
advantage, who decides to grab something he shouldn’t?” He
reeled her in by her wrist, captured the other one behind her
so she couldn’t slap at him. “’Let go of me’? You honestly
think that’ll do it?”

Teach her a lesson. Make her see reason.

Touch her. Who cares why?

**

Hermione couldn’t breathe. Her arms were behind her back, her
wrists held in a deceptively gentle grip that she couldn’t
break. “Let go,” she repeated, and hated that her voice
cracked. He’d been positively nice all through dinner - why
was that soft voice scaring her now? “Please.”

He laughed, and the sound wasn’t even remotely amused.
“’Please’? My dear Miss Granger, that’s the word men dream
will fall from your lips. It’s not likely to make them stop.”
He yanked, and she tumbled onto his thighs with a squeak. The
next minute, he’d turned her over his knee. She tried to kick,
but he was well out of range. “You can take care of yourself,
eh?” he mocked. "I’d like to see you try now.”

She struggled on his lap, pulling helplessly at her arms as
his free hand found her ankle and began slowly, tantalizingly,
to slide up her calf, taking her skirt along with it. God. Why
hadn’t she ever noticed that Snape had muscles before? Those
damn professors’ robes, covering up a multitude of virtues.
Every surface of his body was hard as rock, and his grip on
her wrists felt like a vise.

His other hand had reached her knee. “Do something, Miss
Granger,” he whispered. “Fight me off. Save yourself. Better
do it quick.”

She felt cool air on her thighs and realized he’d flipped her
skirt up to her waist. “You bastard,” she whispered, and heard
him laugh.

“What, Granger? No screams?” She heard the clink of silver
against china and a moment later felt metal against her skin.
He was cutting off her panties. She started to shake.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

“You’d better tremble, you brat,” he said silkily. “If I can’t
get you to board that plane any other way, maybe I can beat
some sense into you.”

**

She was soft and white and flawless, squirming against his
thighs like last night’s fantasy made flesh. “Go to hell,” she
spat, and that made it perfect, the vitriolic icing on his
angel food cake.

He raised his hand and brought it down, and she froze in
shock. Not so much as a startled gasp escaped her; she was too
surprised.

She hadn’t thought he’d do it.

His handprint bloomed on her skin like sunset on snow. He gave
her another one to match. And another, just because symmetry
was overrated.

She was still wriggling, but not as violently. “Given up, Miss
Granger?” he murmured. “I thought you more … resourceful than
that. Or can it be that you’re enjoying yourself?”

**

Hermione gritted her teeth. No way was he going to make her
cry.

The bastard.

She felt him stroke the welts he’d made, felt those long,
strong fingers ease farther down and insinuate themselves
between her thighs. She tried to clamp off his access, but it
was too late - he was already in. He made a soft little sound
that she couldn’t decipher.

Evil delight, probably.

**

This was interesting, Snape thought. Two things were becoming
rapidly apparent here: first, Hermione Granger had never been
spanked before, and second, she liked it. She had a miniature
rainforest between her legs.

He probed just a little further into the slick welcoming
vortex of her and heard her moan.

**

Hermione didn’t know what he was doing now, but she wasn’t
sure she wanted it to stop.

Pure delight, wet slippery oh my God shooting stars fingers my
God what is he doing with his fingers didn’t even know that
was between my legs building building oh God just open up just
let him do it oh God oh God …

Another sharp smack. Another. Another. Faster now, probably
harder, she didn’t care.

More fingers. She wanted more of the fingers.

“Please,” she gasped again, and he didn’t mock her for it this
time, just pulled her up and spread her out across his knees
and let her bury her head in his shoulder, let her scream and
beg and clutch at him while those magical, knowing fingers
stroked her to the moon and back again.

**

Time passed.

Severus was fuzzy on the details, but at some point they’d
moved from the dining room chair to the red sofa. Hermione was
still on his lap, her arms around his neck, her face turned
into his chest.

He felt rather like a father cradling a daughter out of her
nightmare. Except that, in this case, he’d BEEN the nightmare.
In any case, she continued to cling to him, and he continued
to hold her.

“You -“ Her voice was rusty from tears and muffled against his
shirt. “You had one thing wrong.”

He had to steady himself before he spoke. “What was that?”

She turned her face up and caught his eyes with hers. “If I
hadn’t trusted you, you never would have gotten so close.”

He flushed. “I meant to frighten you,” he said. “Only to
frighten you.”

It was as close to an apology as she was going to get. She
nodded.

“It worked.”

**

The minute he was gone, she dragged herself to the telephone
and dialed the Sheraton. Draco picked up on the second ring.

“Draco, it’s Hermione,” she said. “We need to talk.”

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Seven

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

She’d sounded funny on the phone, sort of earnest and
businesslike, no-nonsense - the way he imagined her talking to
Potter and Weasley, when she was explaining their homework -
but also too high-pitched. Talking too fast. A knife-edge of
panic underneath the words.

Clearly, there’d been some sort of Event that he’d missed out
on.

He had a feeling he was about to get filled in.

He opened the door to her knock and stepped back to let her
pass. She ignored his unspoken invitation, remaining in the
doorway. “I need to know something,” she said. “I need an
honest answer from you.”

He started to make a wise-ass comment - she seemed to inspire
that in him - but stopped the words before they formed. She
was white-faced and wild-eyed and deadly, deadly serious.
Crack a joke now, and he might end up with tentacles on his
face again, the Ministry be damned.

“Come in and sit down,” he said. She shook her head.

“Later. Tell me first,” she said, her voice shaking. “Are you
loyal to your father? To Voldemort? Or are you loyal to
Dumbledore?”

Of all the questions she could have asked him, that was the
one he was least prepared to answer. He decided to stall, and
put on a manufactured scowl. “That’s your question? You woke
me up at one a.m. to ask me if I’m a Death-Eater?”

She had the grace to drop her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I
know it’s rude. But I need to know.”

Their eyes held for a long minute - his measuring, hers wide
and too-bright. Finally, he pushed up his sleeve, held out his
arm.

No mark.

“I’m not loyal to Dumbledore,” he said. “But I’m no killer.”

“The things you’ve said -“ She broke off. He shrugged.

“We can’t all be Golden Boys, Granger. Can’t all be heroes.
The rest of us muddle along and say things we don’t mean.” He
turned suddenly pensive. “Diggory. He was decent, and I liked
him. I didn’t mean what I said on the train. I didn’t wish him
any harm.”

She gripped the doorframe. He was surprised it didn’t crack,
that’s how hard she was digging in. “And me, Draco? Do you
wish me harm?”

“What kind of a question is that?” He was annoyed now. “Of
course I don’t. Though I may rethink that answer, the next
time you come beating down my door in the middle of the night
to shout accusations at me.” He frowned as she pushed past him
into the room. “Hermione, what the hell is going on?”

She started to sit on the bed, saw that it was unmade, and
sank into a chair instead, putting her head in her hands. “Bad
day,” she mumbled. “Very bad day.”

“Does this have something to do with your dinner plans? Your
date?” Draco dropped into the chair next to her, started to
touch her arm, and thought better of it. “Did something
happen?”

“Date?” She laughed, a short derisive sound that made the
hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “No date.”

Except for the Billie Holiday and the candles. Hermione,
you’re an idiot.

Stupid, incurable romantic. You thought he was too.

You trusted him.

You trusted yourself.

Oh, God. Don’t think about that now.

“Snape,” she said aloud. “Just Snape.” Draco looked puzzled.

“Professor Snape?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “What’s
he doing in Rome?”

Hermione stood up abruptly and started to pace. “That,” she
said, “is the million-dollar question.” She raked her fingers
through her hair. “Whatever it is, he wants me far away from
it, and he’s trying to scare me back to England.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Scare you?”

She snorted. “In the creepiest way possible. I can’t figure
out if he wants me gone so I won’t spy on him, or if he’s just
got some professor complex about me wandering around the city
by myself.” She stopped pacing and stamped her foot. Draco
half-expected the floor to crack. “Either way, he’s a
bastard,” she said. “And I can’t BELIEVE that I’ve been
defending him to Ron and Harry for the last five years. The
pervert.”

“Pervert?” Draco frowned. “Granger, are you going to tell me
what happened tonight, or shall I assume the worst?”

She shot him a dark look. “Don’t assume the worst,” she said
tightly. “That, at least, didn’t happen.”

“What did?”

She considered him for a moment. “If I show you something, do
you promise not to turn into a boy about it?”

He laughed. “Granger, you say the sweetest things.” She
flushed.

“Sorry. No insult intended. It’s just that it’s … well, rather
personal.”

“Show me,” he said, and she closed her eyes, as if praying for
strength.

**

She’d changed out of the apple-green linen and into plain old
jeans and a big cotton shirt that Giulia had probably stolen
from Carlo. The shirt hung almost to her knees; she could have
slept in it. Not looking at Draco, she peeled her jeans down.

“What were his words again? Oh, yes.” She stripped her panties
down her legs and kicked them away. “I believe he wanted to
‘beat some sense’ into me.” Rage was bubbling black and
hateful inside her, all mixed up with a serious case of guilt
with a side order of shame. This little striptease was making
her feel better, though. Something she’d initiated. Something
she’d started, something she could stop. Recklessly, she
reached for the hem of her shirt.

“Don’t,” he said, almost gently, and she paused.

“What? Don’t you want to see the gory details?” She laughed
harshly. “Last I checked in the bathroom mirror, there were
two or three distinct handprints. Bright pink. Very fetching.
If you like your marks a little darker, of course, there’s a
patch of lavender on one side that’s quite attractive …”

“Don’t,” he said again, and she sat down weakly on the bed as
if she’d been deflated, drawing her knees into the shelter of
the shirt.

“I told him I could handle myself,” she said dully. “And he
proved me wrong. I couldn’t stop him.”

You didn’t WANT to stop him, a little voice in her head said.
She ignored the voice, and filed that thought under Things
Never To Tell Another Human Being.

Malfoy sat down next to her. “My father hits me,” he said
quietly, after a long silence, and she looked up, startled.
His mouth was a thin line, and he looked like he’d regretted
saying anything.

“Why?”

His shoulders moved imperceptibly. “Who knows?” He shot her a
world-weary sideways look. “There’s always a reason. But it’s
never the REAL reason.”

He looked so sad, so resigned, so reluctant to be pitied.
Hermione felt her instincts kicking in, that Need to Mother
thing that she’d managed to subdue for the last two weeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and laid a hand on his arm. He didn’t
shrug her off.

“Yeah, well.” He smiled at her, a bittersweet twist of his
lips. “Must be a Slytherin thing. Marcus Flint’s girlfriends
are generally quite adept with ice packs and pancake makeup.
And I pity the girl who goes out for an evening stroll with
Crabbe.”

Long silence.

“Draco.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

He slanted her a glance. Little-girl lost, sitting there in a
shirt three sizes too big, knees drawn up to her adorable
chin. He thought about all the nasty things he’d said to her
over the years, couldn’t find words for an apology, and took
her hand instead.

“That depends,” he said. “Do you snore?”

Roman Holiday

Chapter Eight

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Two a.m. They were lying side by side on their stomachs, heels
kicking in the air. There was a soccer game on the television,
muted. They weren’t watching it.

“Are you going to go home?” Draco asked. Her eyes snapped up
to meet his with such raw anger in the soft brown depths that
he flinched.

“Are you kidding?” She snorted. “Let that miserable old …
Scrooge …” - here Draco looked puzzled, but she didn’t notice
- “cheat me out of the most fun I’ve had in my life? I think
not.” She gnawed absently on her right index fingernail - an
old bad habit from childhood. “What I need,” she mused, “is
for Snape to THINK I’ve gone home, without actually going
anywhere.”

“Home,” Draco repeated. “Or maybe … somewhere else?”

Hermione considered this. A smile tugged at the corners of her
mouth.

“You mean, send him off looking for me,” she said slowly. “On
a wild goose chase.” She grinned. “Malfoy, sometimes I like
the way you think. How would we do it?”

He’d leaned off the bed and was rummaging in his suitcase. “We
can figure the details out later. This should help, though.
Here, catch.”

He tossed her what was unmistakably an Invisibility Cloak, and
laughed at her look of astonishment. “What? Only Potter can
play with the cool toys?”

She gaped at him. “How long have you had this?”

“Since I figured out how Potter’s disembodied head appeared in
Hogsmeade, third year,” he said, looking a bit sour. “Lucky
for you that you weren’t in on that little prank. I still owe
those two a handful of mud to the face.” He paused, looking
thoughtful. “Each.”

She tried, with only moderate success, not to laugh. “Admit
it, Draco. You’re no angel, either.”

He shot her a look of choirboy innocence. “Why, Miss Granger.
Whatever can you mean?”

Hermione gave him the hairy eyeball. “You’re awful,” she said.
“You say the most appalling things to them, and about things
they can’t help.”

“Such as.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Well, take Harry for instance. He
can’t do anything about his … famousness; he was only a baby!
And Ron’s awfully sensitive that his family doesn’t have any
money.”

“We all have circumstances that we can’t help,” Draco said.
For a moment, he looked almost bitter; then he rolled over,
propped his cheek on his elbow, and smirked at her. “Of course
I go for the easy shot; it’s so little effort, and the
reaction’s so … satisfying.” The smirk widened into a
persuasive, aw-come-on-it’s-funny smile. “Take that Mudblood
crack I throw at you all the time, for instance. You have to
notice that Weasley’s far more offended by it than you are.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed. “You’ve been insulting me for
five years, just to get at Ron?”

“Of course,” he said. “It’s so easy. You must know he’s in
love with you.”

“In …” Hermione’s mouth, which had just closed, fell open
again. “You’re joking, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t pretend you don’t see it,” he
said. “He was so jealous of Krum, two years ago, that his face
turned green every time the two of you walked by. So relieved
that you broke it off, last fall, that you stayed home and
studied for your O.W.L.s instead of going to Bulgaria over the
summer. I heard him talking to Potter about it.”

Hermione didn’t know what to say. “But - but I don’t …”

“Don’t feel the same way?” Draco looked her over, amused. “Not
surprised. Nevertheless, speculation is rampant. Half the
school is waiting breathlessly for you to either put him out
of his misery, or dash his infant hopes and make a play for
Potter.”

“Harry???” Hermione shook her head helplessly. “Now that’s
just silly.” She scowled at him suddenly. “Malfoy, you’re so
full of it. No one’s wondering about my love life. I’m hardly
the Class Beauty.” She paused. “Now, if I was Parvati, maybe.
Or Lavender…”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He let his eyes drop to where her bare
thighs disappeared into Carlo’s shirt. “You’d be surprised how
many admirers you’ve collected, Granger.”

Hermione snorted. “Name one. I dare you.”

He cut his eyes away, then looked back at her. She was
surprised to see him looking rueful and a bit embarrassed.

“Well, there’s me.”

**

At her flabbergasted stare, he frowned and waved his hand
dismissively. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not
Weasley, and I’m not Longbottom, and I’m not going to sigh and
make moon eyes at you behind your back.” He gave her a tight
little half-smile. “We’re not a love match, you and I. Can’t
be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t look at you in Potions and
want to hex your robes off.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him. “You idiot,”
she snapped. “What makes you think I want your high-and-mighty
attentions?”

“You let me kiss you.”

She ignored that. “You just as good as come out and say that
I’m not worthy of public acknowledgement, and then you expect
me to fall at your feet? What do you want, a lollipop for
honesty? A sympathy shag?”

“Oh, you’re worthy,” he said, and she gaped at him. “It’s not
that.”

“You’re a big, fat liar, Malfoy,” she said. “It’s no secret
that you hate Muggle-borns.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Look, Hermione,” he said. “I was
a prejudiced, narrow-minded little prat when I got to
Hogwarts, no denying it. But I’m not stupid. I see what’s in
front of me. It’s obvious that you’re the most talented witch
in our class, just like it’s obvious that Longbottom and Goyle
should have snapped their wands in half years ago and gone to
join the Royal Army.” He paused for breath. “But if I took you
home for dinner, my father would kill you. And then he’d make
me wish he’d killed me, too.”

“You’re really afraid of him,” Hermione said slowly. Draco
made a derisive sound in his throat.

“Hell, yes, I’m afraid of him. Death Eater. Voldemort’s
second-in-command. More money than the Ministry. More power
than Fudge.” He shook his head wearily. “If I started dating a
Muggle-born, he’d pull me out of school and I wouldn’t see
daylight until that goddamn mark was stamped into my arm and
it was too late to go back.”

He shot her a glance that was almost angry. “You don’t get it,
because you aren’t in that incestuous little Slytherin circle.
Crabbe and Goyle aren’t my friends. They’re only hanging out
with me because their fathers want to curry favor with mine.
If I put one foot out of place, the details will be on his
desk in half an hour.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I get an
inheritance from my grandmother when I turn eighteen. Until
then, I’m powerless.”

“Your mother …?”

“Never looks farther than the newest diamonds,” he said,
sounding tired. “Takes some kind of prescription potion from
her pet medi-wizard. For headaches, she says. Addicted, most
likely.”

Hermione studied him sympathetically. He had turned his face
away, and his shoulders were trembling with suppressed
emotion. She slipped her arm around him. He flinched, but
didn’t draw away.

Sadness was coming off his body in waves, a crushing
desolation that made her lip tremble in sympathy. She wished
he was being sarcastic right now, even cruel. It was so much
easier to handle.

How to cheer him up?

“Draco,” she said. “We’ve got a whole month. In this beautiful
place. If we can figure out how to send Snape off to Namibia
looking for us, we can still have ourselves a really good
holiday.”

He twisted back around to look at her. His eyes were still
bleak, but he managed a hint of a smile. “Namibia, huh? And
here I was thinking of the Arctic Circle.”

**

Snape hadn’t slept well.

Check that. He hadn’t slept at all.

He’d told her the truth last night. He’d only meant to scare
her. The fact that the situation had gotten so out of hand,
the fact that he’d lost control, made him sick to his stomach.

He’d had an apology all prepared for when they met in San
Pietro today. And then she hadn’t come.

Now it was nearly two o’ clock in the afternoon, and he was
knocking on the door to her flat. Mentally he rehearsed his
carefully prepared speech, wincing to himself as he got to
words like “inexcusable” and “never my intention” and “deeply
regret”.

By the time he got to the end, she still hadn’t answered the
door. He knocked again, louder.

“You look for Hermione? She not home,” a voice said behind
him. Severus jumped. Turning around, he saw an old woman in
support hose and a headscarf, carrying a basket of groceries
and beaming at him good-naturedly. “She leave this morning,”
she said in clear but broken English. “Give me the key. The
boy she with, her cousin, he say they go to visit friends. In
…” - she searched her memory for the unfamiliar name - “oh,
si. Bangkok.”

Severus frowned. From what he’d gathered, Hermione’s cousin
had been a girl. “In Bangkok,” he repeated. She nodded. “Tell
me, Signora -“

“Malione,” she offered, and offered him her free hand. He
shook it perfunctorily.

“Signora Malione,” he repeated. “This boy she was with - did
he have dark hair, rather untidy? A scar on his forehead?”

She looked blank. He gritted his teeth and tried again.

“Red hair, then?” he asked. “Freckles?”

She shook her head. “No, no,” she said, waving her hands. “All
white. Hair, skin, eyes, all pale.” She grinned at him. “Very
English, no?”

Severus was getting a bad feeling about this. “Signora,” he
said. “Did you happen to notice a ring on his left hand? Heavy
silver, shaped like a snake? Emerald eyes?”

She nodded in recognition, and he felt his heart sink.

Malfoy.

Signora Malione bid him ‘addio’ and went into her flat. He
sank down on the steps, barely noticing that she’d gone.

Why Hermione would go anywhere willingly with Draco was a
mystery to Snape. He suspected, however, that last night’s
events had more to do with it than not.

He closed his eyes. One more thing for him to feel guilty
about.

The bigger question was this: what was Draco doing with
Hermione?

Draco wasn’t evil, Severus didn’t think. Lucius Malfoy hadn’t
yet managed to drag his son over the edge with him. On the
other hand, he couldn’t see Draco willingly sharing so much as
an espresso royale with a Muggle-born witch, much less
whisking her away on a tour of Southeast Asia.

The whole thing reeked of coercion, or at the least, deceit.
And it was a sure thing that the heir to the Malfoy fortune
wasn’t in Rome without his father knowing about, and
approving, the excursion.

Dammit, Hermione, he thought in exasperation. I thought you
had more sense than this.

He sighed and rubbed his temples. Short of owling Dumbledore,
the only thing to do was find Lucius Malfoy and shake the
information out of him.

Sweeping a glance to make sure no one was watching him, he
turned on his heel and Apparated.

**

“Think he bought it?” Hermione murmured into Draco’s ear.

They were huddled underneath the Invisibility Cloak on the
stairs, a scant meter away from the step where Snape had sat
down. It had been very difficult not to giggle.

“Hard to say,” Draco muttered back. “But I think so.”

“Well, then.” Hermione stood up, careful to remain draped, and
pulled him with her. “I think we’ve got a city to see, don’t
you?”

They sneaked down the back stairs, piled onto the moped, and
were off.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Nine

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First things first, Hermione said, and Draco agreed with her.
Now that she was out of Giulia’s apartment, he needed to
switch hotels.

Just in case.

They found a quiet little pensione a block off the Spanish
Steps, in between the Piazza Berberino and the Piazza di
Spagna. Just around the corner from the apartment, and only a
couple of blocks from the hotel. Still, a Lifting Charm would
have come in handy. He said as much to Hermione, and almost
got his head bitten off for his trouble.

“Right,” she said. “We’re on the lam from Snape, and you want
to bring the Ministry swooping down on us? I’d rather not,
thanks.” She winced as the handle of her suitcase dug into her
palm and set it down heavily. “Thank God I packed light - I’ve
got half of Giulia’s last-season closet in this bag. Probably
saved her a trip to the Goodwill. If they have Goodwill in
Rome.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, but he kept his
mouth shut.

The pensione was a modest little building tucked between two
larger ones. “Ah, studenti!” the owner beamed at them, and
they nodded warily - yes, they were students. And - yes,
indeed, Inglese. English. However did he guess?

Just to be on the safe side, they signed in as Neville
Longbottom and Millicent Bulstrode, writing as illegibly as
possible. The pensione’s desk pen was rather leaky, and Draco
managed to obliterate most of both of their signatures with an
artful sweep of the side of his hand.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, he declined the owner’s
offer of a handkerchief. They lugged their bags up to the
third-floor suite, dumped them in the middle of the floor, and
were drawn immediately to the French doors opening to the
terrace.

Terra-cotta tiles. Geraniums in pots. A little metal-and-glass
table and two rickety iron-lace chairs. Beyond that, the
Eternal City was spread out for them like some sumptuous
buffet. “What do you want to do first?” Hermione asked him,
and he shrugged.

“You’re the expert on this town,” he said. “I’m the tourist.
You tell me.”

She nibbled the tip of her thumb thoughtfully. “Well, what
kind of a tourist are you?” she asked. “What do you want to
see? Great art? Great music? Graveyards? Battlefields? Or do
you just want to get some coffee and watch the world walk by?”

He swept her a measuring look. “If I told you what I want, you
wouldn’t believe me.”

That got her attention. “You’ll never know until you say it,
will you?”

“True.” He picked at the spots of flaking ink on the side of
his hand, met her eyes with a cymbal-crash of challenge. “What
I want,” he said, “is to see something extraordinary.
Something amazing. But that’s not all.”

She was starting to look amused. “What else?”

“Nothing magical,” he said. “Show me something made without a
wand. Something unbelievable.”

The amusement vanished from her eyes, replaced by a look he
couldn’t begin to fathom. “Okay,” she said. “But we’d better
eat first. And bring the Invisibility Cloak.”

**

They boarded Giulia’s motorino and rode south and west to
Vatican City. The dome of San Pietro cast a long shadow over
the piazza; Hermione parked the moped and pulled Draco away
from the church, toward the entrance to the Vatican Gardens.

They stopped at a sidewalk cart and bought lunch: big
rectangular pieces of intaglio - thin crusty pizza that folded
over on itself like a book - and ridiculously overpriced soda,
and walked while they ate through a lush fairyland of flowers
and gnarled old olive trees and gurgling water that fell,
sparkling, into moss-guarded rock pools. Everywhere they
looked, something sprang up to surprise them - an old stone
wall, a bit of column or portico, an ancient marble curve of
waist or thigh or shoulder. Hermione put the last bite of her
pizza crust on what looked like a crumbling balcony railing,
now twined with vines. The moment she moved away from it, a
thin brown cat vaulted to the top of the rail, seized the
crust, and flowed away into the flowerbeds without a backward
look. Hermione laughed.

“The feral cats of Rome,” she said. “They’re a legend.
Everyone feeds them. Look closely and you’ll see them
everywhere.” She brushed her hands briskly on her skirt. “We’d
better go back. It’s going to close in twenty minutes, and I
want to slip in before then. You’re not going to believe
this.”

“This,” of course, was the Sistine Chapel.

Hermione had been already, with Giulia, who sneered at Vatican
City as a tourist trap and claimed she’d seen enough
Michelangelo on T-shirts to last her whole life; why should
she stand around rubbernecking at some dusty old ceiling when
all of Rome waited to embrace her? Thus, it had been a short
visit. Touristy or no, it was enthralling.

The idea of being there unseen, invisible to the human eye,
while the crowds of camera-carrying, sunburned sightseers
milled around like sheep? Pure intrigue.

The notion of cuddling up to Malfoy under the Invisibility
Cloak wasn’t a bad one, either. Come to think of it.

They ducked behind a clump of olive trees, near the entrance
to the garden, and pulled it on. Walking was a bit awkward at
first - Draco wasn’t used to sharing - but once Hermione’d
pulled his arm around her waist and gotten them into step
(outside feet first, then inside feet together), they were in
business.

She turned her head slightly toward him as they slipped past
the tour guide into the nave of the chapel. “Look up,” she
hissed in his ear, and carefully, so that the hood of the
cloak wouldn’t fall, they tilted their faces toward the
ceiling together.

“Oh,” he said, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob in reaction.
“Oh, Jesus, Hermione. Someone painted this?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. He shook his head.

“By themselves? Without a wand?”

“Yeah.”

He took a few steps backward, farther into the chapel, and
swiveled in his spot, dragging Hermione with him. “No
broomstick,” he said wonderingly. “No flying carpet.”

“Scaffold,” she supplied. “Four years, flat on his back,
dripping paint into his eyes. His assistants said he was so
tired he’d fall asleep with his boots on.”

Draco shook his head. “Four years.”

“Yeah.”

She was so near, he thought. So soft and warm and fragrant and
female. His arm fit around her waist as if magnetized there.
Her hair smelled like apples and brushed against his face like
silk. If he had four years to do anything he liked, he’d spend
a good bit of them getting his fingers tangled up in that
hair.

They were in the very center of a crowded room, surrounded by
tired sightseers and apathetic tour guides and perhaps a few
faithful worshipers at the altar of Art, distinguished by
their ink-stained fingers and sketch pads and the frustrated
glares they directed at the loud-voiced tourists.

They were wrapped in shadows, in silence. They were completely
alone.

“Granger,” he said, and the word slipped from him like a
caress. Her eyes jerked up to his.

“Yes?” It wasn’t really a question.

“I’ve been lying awake for a year and a half now, thinking
about this,” he murmured. “You make me ache for you. You make
me doubt myself.”

“Oh …”

Soft little exhalation. Surprise? Acknowledgement? Dismay? He
didn’t know, but he felt it, that sweet puff of air, powered
by her intention, and it melted the last of his reserve.

He bent his head, and saw her close her eyes in welcome.

“Ow!”

They went tumbling, just managing with the last of their
concentration to keep the Invisibility Cloak pulled over them.
Hermione landed on top of Draco and twisted her head to look
at where they’d just been standing.

“What the -“ A balding, portly man in Bermuda shorts and a
tightly stretched polo shirt that just barely contained his
belly was staring around him, looking angry and bewildered.
His Nikon bounced against his stomach with every move. “Who
did that?”

Draco and Hermione were barely a foot away from him. If he
stepped back, he’d trip over her outstretched leg. Slowly,
slowly, she drew her knee up toward her body, realizing as she
did so that Draco was on his back, she was straddling him, and
that despite their precarious situation, he was enjoying
himself thoroughly.

Bermuda Shorts caught sight of a distracted-looking art
student standing a few feet away and stomped over to him
belligerently. A heated exchange turned into an argument,
turned into a scuffle. Five more minutes and a couple of tour
guides, and the Sistine Chapel would have an International
Incident on its hands.

“Get up,” Hermione hissed, and the two of them, clutching at
the cloak, scrambled to their feet. “Let’s get out of here!”

They got as far as the entrance nave. People were streaming
by, back to their hotels and their tour buses, talking about
dinner and concerts and what time their planes were leaving.

They didn’t hear any of it.

“Keep quiet,” he hissed, and then he kissed her, the kind of
kiss that made her want to dive into him and swallow him
whole, all at the same time. Hot and forceful and every good
kind of scary there was. Like it wouldn’t ever stop. Like the
world would end if it did.

He bore her back against the wall, one of the few parts of it
that wasn’t covered in fresco, and plastered his body up
against hers. God, she kissed like a siren, all soft and
yielding and whimpers in her throat and great rolling body
tremors, the heat of her like some secret Amazonian forest
glade, like July sun turning the rain on the grass into
instant steam. He humped against her and felt her spread her
legs instinctively, slide her heels a couple of inches apart
and clamp onto his hips with her hands to steady herself. He
stifled a groan.

“Tutto č andato, Francesca?” one of the tour guides called
from inside the chapel.

“Si.” Francesca was a little closer. “Sto andando bloccare i
portelli. Ciao, bella.”

“Ciao, cara.”

Hermione stiffened in his arms, pushed him back slightly.
“Malfoy,” she said. “We’ve got to hurry. They’re locking up.”

He thought it would kill him to pull away. “Okay then,” he
growled. “Let’s go.”

Not caring about the sound of their feet on the stone floor,
the puzzled look of the guard, they gathered the Invisibility
Cloak around themselves more tightly and bolted for the exit.

Their unfinished business was going to have to wait just a
little bit longer.

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Ten

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“Severus,” Lucius Malfoy said. “What a pleasure. I hope you’re
well?”

“Very. Thank you.”

It felt good to be back in proper wizarding robes again, after
weeks of black leather. Visiting Malfoy Manor wasn’t such an
unalloyed pleasure, unfortunately. Lucius Malfoy may not have
headed Snape’s list of People to Avoid At All Costs Unless
Absolutely Necessary, but he was certainly in the top five.

Confrontation was out of the question. This was a situation
that required a certain amount of stealth.

“What can I do for you?” Lucius asked, and Severus took
another sip of tea before answering.

“Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, really,” he said. Malfoy’s
eyebrows rose.

“Do tell.”

Snape let one corner of his mouth curl up self-deprecatingly.
“It’s a Potions matter,” he said. “Poppy Pomfrey owled me
yesterday to tell me that her medical supplies are quite low.
Apparently the students were more accident-prone than usual
last term.”

Malfoy smiled politely. He was starting to look impatient.

Good, Severus thought, and took another sip of tea.

“Nothing terribly dangerous to make, of course,” he said.
“Though some of it’s tricky. But I’ve a rather full slate as
it is. I was hoping that Draco might be interested in some
extra credit. One of my most gifted students. I could use an
assistant for a few weeks.”

“Decent at Potions, is he?” Lucius drummed his fingers on the
arm of his chair. “One of his few satisfactory marks, I’m
afraid. If his Transfiguration mark doesn’t improve next year,
I’ll have to consider enrolling him in that Squib
correspondence course.”

“He’s quite bright,” Severus murmured. “And he shows promise
as a duelist. Gave our … friend … Mr. Potter a run for his
money, a few years back.” Okay, he thought. Lucius was looking
suitably flattered now. He drained his tea. “I hate to
impose,” he said smoothly. “But it would be a great help. Do
you think it’s something he might consider?”

“I’m sure he would,” Malfoy said. “If he was here.”

“Ah.” Snape allowed his face to look mildly disappointed.
“Visiting friends, then.”

“Not exactly,” Lucius said, and leaned forward as if to share
a confidence. “If you must know, he’s doing a bit of research
himself this summer. Came quite out of the blue. I was
beginning to despair of him as a proper Death-Eater.”

Snape started to reach for his empty teacup, then stopped
himself. “Research?”

“On Potter’s location,” Malfoy clarified. “He seemed to think
he could get the information from a friend of hers.
Bushy-haired little Muggle-born.”

“Miss Granger,” Snape said softly. “I see. Admirable.”

Well, this was unexpected. Lucius Malfoy wasn’t what one would
call an open book, but Snape wasn’t a tenured professor for
nothing. He’d heard every lie there was, good and bad, and
this wasn’t one of them. He’d just been told everything Lucius
knew.

So Draco was on his own. The question was: why?

And what was in Bangkok?

**

Snape was gone. Lucius Malfoy looked grim, his eyes travelling
around the sumptuous, elegant drawing room of Malfoy Manor.

He’d long been a collector of gadgets, particularly
perpetual-motion gadgets. Such a thing didn’t exist in the
Muggle world, of course, but a simple charm could make the
most unlikely gizmo run for years on its own power. The Malfoy
collection was superb; all onyx and marble and sleek chrome
steel. He had at least fifteen of his more interesting
specimens artfully displayed on a side table in this very
room.

He was only looking at one, though, an unprepossessing
flattened oval of polished basalt dug from the ocean floor and
buffed to a linoleum shine. Normally it sat motionless on the
table; should anyone remark on it, he passed it off as a
misplaced paperweight and threw it at the nearest house-elf.

The moment Snape had begun to speak, it had started to spin.
It was just now, twenty minutes after his departure, beginning
to slow.

The Silent Sneakoscope, and very cleverly disguised, too. If
Lucius said so himself. He sipped his tea and continued to
study the slowly revolving rock, his mouth going flatter and
his eyes colder by the second.

A Potions assistant, indeed. Hanging around with that old bat
Dumbledore hadn’t done much for Snape’s facility with
storytelling. He’d once, as Lucius remembered, been quite good
at it.

It was fairly clear that his loyalties didn’t lie with the
Death-Eaters any longer, and yet he wasn’t singled out during
meetings, either for questioning or for punishment. Lucius
resented this on a certain level; he also understood
Voldemort’s clemency perfectly.

If there was one thing that was genuine about Severus Snape,
it was his hatred for the Potters - both brave, doomed, dead
James and his cocky, precocious brat. If anything brought him
back over to the side of Darkness, it wouldn’t be Lord
Voldemort who pushed him over the edge. Not with Imperius, and
not with Cruciatus.

It would be Harry Potter.

Be that as it may. It occurred to Lucius that Draco had
pitched this trip to Rome not in the drawing room, but in his
own bedroom. Far away from the Sneakoscope.

His mouth tightened yet again. Was his son lying to him? It
had seemed so plausible, his story. Simple manipulation of a
Mudblood. Information gathering with a hard edge of violence
beneath it - clearly Draco had a score to settle with Hermione
Granger. It was something Lucius himself, or any other
intelligent, eager future Death Eater might have thought to do
at Draco’s age.

And it was exactly what you wanted to hear, he thought grimly.
The little bastard played you. Ten to one that Snape knows
he’s in Rome already. What’s he up to with that buck-toothed
little mongrel?

He hurled his teacup at the opposite wall, feeling a little
better as the porcelain shattered against the damask
wallpaper. “Clean that up,” he barked at the house-elf who
hovered nervously in the doorway, and shoved himself up from
his chair.

His son. His heir. His own image, looking back at him from the
cradle on up.

Conceived in an exquisite act of violence. Raised with the
heavy cold hand of money and privilege and expectation.

Destined for sacrifice. The Son of the Most Worthy, Voldemort
had said, and Lucius had carried that with him like a secret
badge of honor. His son would bring down the Muggle-lovers and
the Mudbloods. His son would purge the world.

His. And he would be honored for it, be placed at the right
hand of the Dark Lord, finally rise and be counted and be far
above the idiots and incompetents who huddled in their dark
circle, giggling at the thought of Muggle-baiting and
whispering their dirty little stories from ear to ear.

He stalked into the front hall and slung a cloak around
himself. If his son really was in Rome, he wouldn’t be there
for long. As for the little whore he was cavorting with?

He could think of a couple of uses for the little Mudblood,
all vastly entertaining.

And what better way to draw Potter out of hiding?

He smiled once, very coldly, and Apparated.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Eleven

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

They emerged into the afternoon light, blinking. The crowd had
begun to disperse; Draco took a quick look around to make sure
no one was looking their way and yanked the Invisibility Cloak
from around their shoulders. Hermione stared at him as if
transfixed.

“Oh, God,” she said, and sat down hard on the stone steps.
After an awkward moment or two of towering over her, he sat
down too.

“What?” he demanded. She laughed, a little shakily.

“It’s just bizarre,” she said. “Up until this vacation, I’d
have figured you and Snape for the last two people on earth
who’d want to touch me. Then last night, he cops a feel - and
you and I do more kissing in 48 hours than I’ve done with
anybody else in the last year and a half. It’s like I’m not
even me anymore, like I’m my own evil twin. Doppelganger
Hermione, the Slytherin Magnet.” She shot him an apologetic
look. “No offense meant.”

“None taken.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “You don’t kiss
like you’re new to it.”

She blushed. “Krum,” she said, and he nodded. It made sense.

He broke the short silence that followed with a heavy sigh.
She looked at him enquiringly, and he made a what-can-you-do
gesture with his hands. “Not like this is my most shining
moment, either,” he said. “I mean, what does it matter if I
don’t hate you, if you don’t hate me? What if we do hit it
off? What good does it do?”

“Your father,” she said quietly. He tilted his head in assent.

“Him, yes. And the Slytherins, yes, though to be perfectly
frank I could care less about what they think. Inbred,
simpering idiots, the lot.” He glared at her. “You’re the one
who should worry, Granger. You’re the one with the pack of
friends, real friends, the twin bodyguards who’d see me burn
in the street before they’d spit on me. You’re the brains of
their outfit, the voice of restraint. You keep them from
sending themselves up in flames. You think they’re going to
like the thought of their chaste goddess swapping spit with
the son of a Death Eater?”

She laughed. It was the last thing he’d expected.

“What’s so funny?” he snarled, and she slid her palm down his
jawline in a sudden, playful caress.

“You are,” she said. “Playing at being a bad boy, when your
heart’s beating time with the Age of Chivalry.” The laughter
faded from her gaze, and he found himself caught in those
perceptive caramel eyes. “Don’t worry about Harry and Ron,”
she said. “Or about my precious Gryffindor reputation. We’re
not back at Hogwarts yet, and I’m not as fragile as I look.”

“I’ve hurt you,” he said somberly. “Before. I’ve made you
cry.”

“You’ve done what you had to do. I understand that.” Because
she couldn’t take that sudden look of vulnerability that had
come over him, Hermione pulled him to his feet and made a
great show of dusting him off. “Let’s not dwell on it,” she
said again. “We’ll have to sooner or later, but right now
let’s just be happy we’re here together. Okay?”

“You’re the strangest girl,” he said. “Three kisses and Pansy
was picking out her bridesmaids’ colors. And you’re standing
here telling me you want to have a fling.”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “If you want to call it that. I was
thinking of it as a bit of a test run. Under controlled
circumstances.”

He laughed. “You think like Snape. That’s probably why he’s
hot for you.” His gaze went to the bustling, sunlit piazza.
“And you call these controlled circumstances?”

She rolled her eyes. “Malfoy. Stop talking, for God’s sake,
and come ON. I want to show you something else.”

“More art?”

“Sort of. You’ll see.”

**

They backtracked toward the pensione, back to the Piazza
Barberini, and turned onto the Via Veneto. Hermione deftly
squeezed the motorino in between a couple of taxicabs, parked
it, and gestured across the street. “There.” Draco stared
blankly at it.

“It’s another church.”

She looked secretive and highly amused. “Yeah. But wait until
you see inside.”

“Do we need the Invisibility Cloak for this, too?”

“Unless you want to pay to get in.” She frowned. “And it’s
possible we might run into a wizard in this place. Might not
be a bad idea.”

Duly concealed, they slipped into the little church - the
Santa Maria della Concezione, Draco saw - and past the monk
taking donations. “Where are we going?”

“The crypt,” she said. “Come on.”

The crypt wasn’t Pantheonic in size - it consisted of only a
few small chapels. Nevertheless, Hermione had to clap her hand
over Draco’s mouth to keep him from gasping aloud.

The whole place was decorated in bones. Human bones.

Stacks of grinning skulls. Pyramids of femurs and tibia. Giant
murals and frescoes made entirely of finger joints and wrist
bones and vertebrae. Entire, perfectly preserved human
skeletons.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed into her hand. “What IS this place?
Who did it?”

“Capuchin monks,” she murmured. “About four thousand of them.
Willingly donated to the cause. These guys used to give entire
sermons with a human skull in one hand and a candle in the
other.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, and dragged her over to one of
the propped-up skeletons. A neatly-lettered sign was wedged
into its dead hands:

“Quello che voi siete noi eravamo; quello che noi siamo voi
sarete.”

“Translation?” he queried into her ear. Hermione fought the
urge to lean into that warm, intimate tickle.

“That which you are, we were; that which we are, you will be.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment or two, and
Draco realized with a start that she’d meant for him to read
this - this morbid little psychodrama of a burial ground had a
blunt, but very valid point.

Sooner or later, he’d die. But he wasn’t dead yet.

Point taken, Hermione, he thought, and leaned forward to kiss
her nose. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but this is
putting me in the mood for spareribs. Is it time for dinner
yet?”

“You’re sick, Malfoy,” she said, but laughed anyway. “We’re
only a couple of blocks from the pensione. Let’s get dressed
up before we go out.”

**

They went to another café Giulia had shown her that first week
in the city, down near the Trevi Fountain, and dined on
prosciutto-wrapped melon cubes, grilled lamb shanks, and
ravioli stuffed with spiced pumpkin and smothered with cream.
No minimum drinking age in this city - the proprietor, sensing
a pair of heavy-tipping young lovers, poured red wine into
their goblets and kept up the refills with a vengeance. By the
time they pushed back their chairs, they were more than a
little light-headed.

“Where to now?” Draco asked, and Hermione shook her head to
clear it.

“Outdoor concerts down by the shore,” she said, running a
tentative tongue along her teeth. “You like jazz?”

**

He did, Draco discovered, at least this kind of jazz: cool and
tight and topped off with a smooth dollop of crooning soprano
saxophone, it seemed to insinuate itself into his wine-heavy
head and spread out on the inside. They’d swiped a blanket
from their pensione and carried it out underneath the
Invisibility Cloak (possibly, he reflected, the most practical
birthday present he’d ever gotten, and yes, that included the
broomstick). He leaned back into the softness that was
Hermione, closed his eyes, and smiled.

He could still see stars.

It was early morning before they trailed back to the pensione.
They were sober now, but still groggy and lethargic. If
Hermione hadn’t needed to stop to remove a stone from her
shoe, they would have run right into him.

“Look,” Draco whispered, and pointed across the street.
Hermione gasped and shrank farther back into the shadows.

Lucius Malfoy was standing on the pensione’s front steps. And
he didn’t look happy.

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twelve

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“Fuckin’ A,” Draco murmured, and Hermione agreed: that seemed
to be the prevailing sentiment at the moment.

“Cloak,” she snapped into his ear, and they fumbled the
silvery folds out from beneath his arm and over their heads.
“Steps,” she directed next, and they moved carefully out of
the shadows to the steps of the palazzo directly across from
their hotel. By now, moving in step was pretty much second
nature. If they ever got out of this mess, Hermione thought,
they could take up swing dancing.

She stared at the man across the street from them, the man
who’d stamped Draco with his face and then left his son to
deal with the aftermath of his own reputation. Anyone else who
looked that angry would have been pacing or muttering; Lucius
Malfoy simply stood leaning against the railing of the steps,
still and deadly as a cobra.

“Snape must have gone to see him. But how’d he find us?” she
whispered. Draco grimaced.

“Location charm, most likely,” he said into her ear. “It won’t
give you a pinpoint, but it probably got him as far as this
piazza.” Hermione groaned inwardly.

“We should have thought of better aliases,” she said grimly.
“Longbottom? Bulstrode? How thick is that? Of course he knows
it’s us.” She frowned with a new thought. “Draco? Does he know
you’ve got the Invisibility Cloak?”

He gave a single, terse nod. “Gave it to me for my birthday
last year. And I imagine he’s been up to the room already - he
must know it’s missing.” He lifted one shoulder in a tight
shrug. “We could probably get past him to get in, but we’ve
got too much luggage to smuggle it all out again. He’s
listening for us as much as he’s watching.”

Hermione hummed in agreement. “We’d better leave it, then,”
she said. “At least for tonight. Find somewhere else to go.”

“Where? It’s two in the morning.” Draco glanced at her watch.
“Three,” he corrected. His shoulders slumped. “You should take
the cloak,” he said dully. “Get out of here. I can go stall
him.”

She kissed him fiercely on the cheek. “No. GOD, no.”

“Got a better idea?”

“As a matter of fact …” She fished inside her neckline and
drew out a glittering gold chain. From it dangled a key. “To
Giulia’s flat,” she said. “I had a spare, and I only gave
Signora Malione one.”

His lips twisted up. “Are you sure that the Sorting Hat
shouldn’t have put you in Slytherin? That’s incredibly
devious, Granger.”

She fixed him with a glare. “You’re one to talk, offering
yourself up as a sacrifice so I can get away. Sure you
shouldn’t have been a Gryffindor?”

He ignored this. “Isn’t moving to the flat going to just lead
him there, right to us?”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s still technically in the Piazza
di Spagna,” she said. “Just on the other side. If the location
charm’s as general as you say, we should still show up as
being in the same place. And Giulia’s last name isn’t Granger,
so there’s nothing to connect that flat with the two of us.”

“Except your neighbor.”

“Who saw us moving out this morning, and will tell the world
that we’re in Saigon.”

“Bangkok.”

“Whatever.”

“Okay.” He let his breath out in a long, almost-silent sigh.
Maybe, just maybe, they could get away with this. “Let’s go.”

**

“God, I’m tired,” Hermione said. “Did we ever technically get
to sleep last night?”

Draco collapsed on the bed next to her. “I think we may have
dozed off around four-thirty or so. Still,” - and here he
yawned - “it’s been a full day.”

“Mm. I’ll say.” She yawned herself, stretched, and let the
fingers of her right hand entwine lazily with his. “Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not going to be able to go home after this, are you?”

He closed his eyes, hard, against her sympathy. “Well, that
depends.”

His thumb stroked over her knuckles, a little too hard for
comfort, but she didn’t complain. “On what?”

He injected a deliberate note of sarcasm into his voice. “On
whether my death wish wins out over my will to live.”

“That’s not funny,” she said, and rubbed her eyes with her
free hand. “God. This is my fault.”

“No, it bloody well is NOT your fault,” he hissed. “Unless you
somehow did a Summoning Charm on me from Lucerne without my
knowing about it.” He rolled over on his side, so he could
look her in the eyes. “I did this,” he said. “Me, Hermione. I
decided to come see you, I lied to him about why, and I got
myself here, all under my own steam. If anything, I’m the one
putting YOU in danger.”

“But …”

“No. No buts.” He gave a self-disgusted laugh. “Besides, it
doesn’t matter,” he said. “I had to make this decision anyway.
My seventeenth birthday’s in November. And if I don’t want to
be a Death Eater, I probably won’t be able to go home for
Christmas.” He shook his head. “I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t
pull me out of school for this little stunt.”

“Dumbledore would let you come back anyway. He’d keep you
safe.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Granger, you’re obviously mistaking me
for the Golden Boy again. I doubt that Dumbledore’s charity
extends to the son of a killer.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Hermione said. “Besides, I’d plead
your case for you.”

He looked at her sharply, taking in the pale perfect skin, the
sweet curve of her mouth, the way those topaz eyes shone with
pure, unadulterated faith. Joan of Arc in go-go boots.

Granger, the Crusader. How had he managed to get himself
adopted as her latest pet project?

His lip trembled, just once. “You would, huh?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

“Well, that settles it,” he whispered. “If I were him, I’d
never be able to deny you anything.”

Without seeming to move, they met in the middle of the bed.
Every nerve ending in his body was on red alert, but when he
kissed her, it spun out and held like honey pooling out of a
jar, sweet on sweet. New angles, new depth, new hunger, but
slow slow slow, the electric instant stretching and expanding
until he thought his heart would burst with the intensity of
her mouth on his. Kissing in slo-mo, like a fantasy, like a
wet dream.

Hermione’s skin. Hermione’s scent. The buttery feel of her
under his hands, like silk, like French-milled soap. The way
she moved against him, slow and languorous and whimpering and
then, as the first punch of gut-deep want hit her, too, tight
little grinding circles with her hips that took him to a whole
new level of mind-blowing need.

She pulled away from him, and he thought he’d die, but then
her hands went to the hem of her skirt and crossed and lifted
and there she was, gleaming in the yellow light like
everything he’d ever wanted, wrapped up in one soft smooth
package. Her eyes flicked to the boots for an instant before
she decided they weren’t worth the trouble, and then she was
back against him, pulling at his clothes and snuggling in for
the perfect fit, the shock of skin on skin that made them both
wriggle and gasp, once he was naked too.

He wanted to touch her everywhere at once, this
golden-gleaming nymph in his arms. Needed to touch her, to
affirm those pale hills and soft grottoes and figure out just
why she moaned and twitched when he put his mouth on her neck.
Where was she salty, where was she sweet, where were the magic
buttons that turned her liquid in his embrace and made her rub
purring against him?

And what was it about her that made it so easy to throw the
rest of the world away?

She rolled him onto his back and flowed over him like water,
her capable little hands running tramlines of electricity up
his inner arms to his wrists and holding him there, hands over
his head. Her fingers snaked into his, and she smiled down at
him, his own personal benevolent sex goddess. She was
straddling him, nudging at his cock with the wettest, warmest
part of her, rubbing the outsides of his calves with the
butter-smooth leather of her boots.

Any minute now he’d wake up to sticky sheets and a pounding
headache. Any minute now she’d disappear.

“Help me out here,” she whispered. “I’m a little new at this.
Does it hurt?”

“What?”

“Pansy,” she said, a trifle impatiently. “Did it hurt Pansy?”

He shook his head. “I never did this with Pansy.”

She closed her eyes for a second. “Oh. Well … good.”

If something didn’t happen soon, he’d die. “Hermione,” he
murmured. “You’re doing fine. Just keep going, okay? Please?”

She bit her lip, nodded, and sank down on him. His eyes shot
open in shock. She let go of his hands, and they stared at
each other for a solid, unmoving minute.

“Oh, God,” she said, and gave him an experimental squeeze.
“Oh, God.”

“You okay?”

She nodded.

He swallowed hard. “You think it’d be okay if I … um, moved a
little?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was a dry whisper. “Yeah, I think so.”

The next minute, he had her underneath him. Don’t blow it,
Malfoy, he thought savagely. Don’t lose your cool.

She’s wrapped around you like white on rice, but don’t rush
things.

Not … too … fast.

He propped himself up on shaking arms and began to thrust.

**

It doesn’t hurt, Hermione thought. Oh, God, does it ever not
hurt.

He was above her, pinning her down, his face set with effort
and concentration and something that looked suspiciously like
pain. Muttering something to himself.

Moving in and out of her in a measured, deliberate way that
made her want to scream.

So this was sex. This striving together, this deep inside
scratch of an itch that you didn’t even know you had until the
long silken scrape pulled it out of you, wanting and wanting
and clutching and God, the way her body could close around
that … club … of his, making the pull longer and more
tortuous, the next invasion sharper and deeper and better and
ohJesusohJesusohJesusohshitshitSHIT ….

Didn’t he feel it, too? Didn’t he want to stop fucking around,
pardon the pun, and just BURY himself?

“Hurry,” she sobbed, and clutched at his back with impetuous,
raking fingernails. “For God’s sake, HURRY …”

And then he was slamming into her, restraint forgotten,
self-control discarded, arms around her and cheek against her
forehead and maybe she couldn’t breathe but who the fuck cared
about oxygen, after all, when there was this descent into
madness, this glorious free fall, this fast, furious trip to
the end of the world?

She wrapped her arms around his neck and let herself explode.

**

It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, it wasn’t
what she expected to hear.

“Hermione?”

“Mm.”

“Think Dumbledore would let us stay at Hogwarts for the rest
of vacation?”

She started to frown, then laughed instead. He scowled, but
didn’t open his eyes.

“What?”

“It was good for me too, Malfoy,” she said. “Jesus. And people
tell me that I think too much.”

He gave up the scowl and snickered. “Sorry.”

“Let’s get some sleep, okay? Plenty of time to worry in the
morning.”

He reached over and flicked off the lamp. “You’re amazing,” he
said quietly into the dark.

She kissed his forehead. “Yeah. You too.”

They fell asleep holding hands.

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirteen

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Waking up next to Draco Malfoy was, Hermione decided, a mixed
bag. Once she got past the obvious girl stuff - how young he
looked with his eyes closed, that amazing platinum spill of
cornsilk hair against the pillows, the surprising warmth of
his body, the acquisitive way his arm curved around her waist
- reality began to intrude.

Reality. And not just the obvious
oh-my-God-I’m-not-a-virgin-anymore,
I-can-never-touch-a-unicorn-again,
I-hope-my-dad-never-finds-out Post-Coital Panic. Scary,
unanswerable questions too, bubbling out of her self-conscious
like some evil, revelatory potion she’d rather not drink.

What will Harry and Ron think?

How am I going to face Snape again?

Will Draco still give me the time of day at school? Or is he
going to pretend it never happened?

Worse yet: will he spread it around? Turn the gift I gave him
into some kind of pathetic Quidditch locker-room joke?

It could get ugly, come the start of term. Hermione liked the
New Draco, but she wasn’t sure she trusted him.

But even that concern, valid as it might be, paled in the face
of this frightening-but-true wake-up call: they weren’t safe
in Rome anymore.

Check that, Hermione thought. At the moment, she couldn’t
think of a single place, other than Hogwarts, where both she
and Draco were either safe, or for that matter particularly
welcome. And Hogwarts was out of the question, at least for
now. She’d read “Hogwarts: A History” until she could recite
it in her sleep, and NO student came back early from summer
break. EVER. Except for -

Prefects.

She was a prefect. And so was Draco.

Convenient, that.

And if she remembered correctly from last year, orientation
for new prefects started … well, three weeks before the start
of term. With a move-in date several days prior to that.

That was it, then. They didn’t have to hide out in Rome for
the next month; all they had to do was get to Hogwarts.
Surely, when Dumbledore heard their story, he’d let them stay.
It wouldn’t even look all that odd.

**

She’d thought Draco would be relieved to hear this, but he
didn’t look as happy as she’d imagined. “We have to leave
today?”

“Honestly, Malfoy, are you still asleep?” She jerked the
pillow out from under his head and batted him with it. “Yes,
yes, yes! We can get out of here - we’ve got somewhere to go!”

He frowned. “So, that’s it?” he asked. “That’s our holiday,
the end of it? What about all that stuff we talked about last
night at dinner? What about the Pietà? What about our tickets
to La Bohème? What about the Colosseum?” He punched his pillow
half-heartedly, looking as petulant and disgruntled as only he
could. “I just got here,” he said mournfully. “I don’t want to
go back to bloody Hogwarts, not just yet.”

Hermione sighed. “You know as well as I do that we can’t avoid
your father forever,” she said. “The longer we stay in Rome,
the better his chances of finding us get. And he’s not even
pretending allegiance to the Ministry anymore - none of them
are. If he catches us, it’s an Avada Kedavra for me and
probably worse for you.”

He winced. “It’s too early in the morning for this.”

She patted his knee. “Come on. We have to go rescue our
luggage. But I’ll make you French toast before we do. Better
yet, I’ll teach you how to make it yourself.”

He looked up, marginally more hopeful. “You can cook?”

**

By the time they’d cleaned up the excess powdered sugar and
the egg Draco had dropped on the kitchen floor and eaten their
breakfast, Lucius Malfoy had disappeared from the front steps
of the pensione. That meant one of two things, they decided
grimly, staring at the building’s façade from the safety of
the Invisibility Cloak.

Either he’d given up on them for the time being - possible, if
unlikely - or he’d decided to wait in the privacy and comfort
of their room.

They didn’t intend to find out the hard way.

They detoured to the little trattoria across the street for
backup coffee and a plan, picking out a table by the window
where they could keep an eye on the street. Half an hour
later, there was still no sign of him.

“Now or never,” Draco said grimly.

They used the pay phone in the hotel lobby to request maid
service to their room, thanking their remaining lucky stars
that the desk was crowded and that no one noticed Hermione’s
disembodied voice or the telephone hanging, seemingly, in
mid-air. Still under the Invisibility Cloak, they trailed the
maid up to their room, waited breathlessly as she knocked, and
slipped noiselessly in after her.

The room was empty.

They waited with growing impatience until she left, compiled
their belongings hurriedly into Draco’s biggest trunk, and had
just hauled it back under the cloak with them when footsteps
sounded in the hall and stopped outside their door.

“Oh, shit,” Draco mouthed, and they both stood trembling,
trying not to breathe, as someone muttered “Alohomora!” and
the door swung open.

Lucius Malfoy had returned.

**

One thing was in their favor, Hermione thought frantically.
The room looked as if it had already been abandoned. Judging
from the elder Malfoy’s curses, he was buying this scenario
and less than thrilled with it.

Please, please, please, she chanted inside her head. Let him
leave, let him leave, let him stomp out that door and let me
never see his ugly nasty face again. Next to her, Draco was
trembling. She put her hand comfortingly on his arm, and felt
the muscles relax a little underneath her touch.

They both had their wands out, underneath the cloak. Hermione
hadn’t touched hers in more than a month, but they were
necessary for a couple of reasons today. If it came down to
it, she’d told Draco in the coffee shop, they had one spell
apiece.

If Harry’s experience was anything to go by, an underage
practitioner got one warning. She’d been hoping they wouldn’t
have to go there, but things were looking bad now. If only
he’d leave … if only they could slip out the still-open door
without him noticing …

She jerked her head toward the door, and Draco, nodding, began
to move with her. Malfoy the Elder was pulling out drawers and
swearing, making enough noise to cover the faint rustle of
their clothing and the bump of the trunk against their legs.
They inched toward the door, reached it, and hit their next
obstacle.

The door was cracked open, but they’d have to open it the rest
of the way to get the trunk through.

Shit.

They glanced back at Lucius, who had turned his rage on the
bed linens. He was turned at a three-quarters angle to the
door … if they were quiet enough, slow enough, perhaps he
wouldn’t see …

Then, before she could stop it, before she even knew it was
coming, Hermione sneezed.

And the game was up.

Malfoy’s head came up like a hippogriff scenting sheep. He
grabbed for his wand.

“Go,” Hermione said in a low voice, and abandoning pretense,
they wrenched the door open, dragged the trunk through, and
slammed it behind them just as a blast of green light took it
from its hinges.

Running. Down the hall. Dodge. Thank God, still invisible -
cloak hasn’t fallen off yet.

Running. Stairs? Elevator?

Elevator not here. Stairs.

Down the stairs. Voice behind us, angry. Jets of pure green
danger, ricocheting off the walls. Dodge. Duck. Run.

It’s just the Impedimenta Curse, but if it hits us we’re
goners.

Cloak slipped off our heads - shit. Disembodied heads,
floating through the lobby.

Screams.

Man with a wand, pointing green death, yelling. Chasing the
heads.

Stitch in my side. Can’t slow down. Run.

Street. Get to the street. Get your wand.

“Now!” Hermione yelled, and they threw up their wands. Please
God, let it come, she thought, let it come, RIGHT NOW, and
I’ll never ask for anything else again.

Malfoy, fighting his way through the lobby. Running down the
steps.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is it???

Sweet, sweet, glorious relief.

The color of relief is purple.

Relief speaks bad Cockney English. Relief has pimples.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the -“

“Right,” Hermione said, gasping. “We know. Here, take this,
will you?”

She threw the trunk up the stairs, grabbed Draco’s arm to haul
him up with her.

“’Ere, wot’s this?”

“Emergency transport, you said,” she panted. “Well, this is an
emergency. Close the doors!”

“But -“

“CLOSE THE DOORS, I SAID!”

Malfoy had Draco’s other arm. Quick glimpse of bared yellow
teeth, fierce blotchy face. Pure rage. Hermione didn’t even
think, just hauled out her wand again.

“Petrificus Totalus!” she yelled, and Malfoy’s hand fell away.
One more yank, and Draco was on the bus.

The doors closed, and with a BANG!, the Knight Bus was off.

Their last sight of Rome was of a crowd gathering around a
dazed, immobilized wizard, and a big brown barn owl, flapping
dispiritedly in circles above the street, an unread letter
tied to its leg.

Possibly they were in big trouble.

But they were safe.

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fourteen

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Bangkok.

Not exactly the end of the earth, Snape supposed. It had its
merits.

The Muggles even had a song about it. Catchy little disco
number - you could still hear it every so often on the radio.

Despite its virtues, however, it was missing something. Two
somethings, to be exact.

No Malfoy, and no Granger.

Snape cursed himself for not doing a Location Charm in the
first place, even though cursing Granger was far more
satisfying. Devious, slippery little troublemakers, she and
Malfoy both, playing a dangerous game for dubious motivations.

Double-crossing him was one thing, and not insignificant - his
lip curled up in a sneer at the thought of what awaited them
at their first Potions class of the year - but double-crossing
Lucius Malfoy was nothing short of suicidal. Why bother? What
did they have to gain?

He snarled to himself. Time enough to wonder about that.

The minute they stepped onto school property, they were his,
body and soul.

**

To the concerned residents of the Piazza di Spagna, he was
simply a shell-shocked English sightseer who’d been nearly
mown down by a strange purple tour bus.

Shock, they murmured to themselves. What else could make him
lie so stiff, so still, with only his eyes twitching fiercely
from left to right?

They half-carried, half-dragged him back into the pensione and
called for a medico. Long before the doctor arrived, however,
Lucius Malfoy had found his voice - and the use of his limbs -
and swept hastily out into the street, muttering to himself.

The little bitch had cursed him. Cursed him.

A sixteen-year-old chit of a girl. A commoner. A Muggle-born.
And he’d felt the chilly power of that charm to his bones,
staggered under the force of its righteous indignation.

He was nearly as frightened by it as he was outraged. Nearly.

He’d bet his manor that his own wife couldn’t summon a
twenty-minute Petrificus, let alone his son.

His lips tightened. His son.

His son, the liar. His son, the coward. The flesh of his
flesh, creeping around this filthy Muggle city, consorting
with that disgusting little -

He gritted his teeth, forced his hand to drop by his side,
away from his wand.

It didn’t matter. The boy was clearly deranged, but it didn’t
matter.

He could dip his dick into the little Mudblood all he wanted;
he could run from his responsibilities, his obligations, his
own father, and scurry back to Dumbledore on that ridiculous
purple bus. None of that could change what was running through
his own veins. That was as pure and crystalline as hatred.

The blood of a Malfoy.

And, after all, his blood was all Lucius - or the Dark Lord,
for that matter - would need.

**

Albus Dumbledore detached the note from the owl’s leg and
offered the owl a corner of his crumpet. His eyes widened
slightly as he read, and at least twice he let out a chuckle.
Minerva McGonagall narrowed her eyes to slits, refusing to
ask, and sipped her tea.

“That’s a Knight Bus owl,” she said finally, and Dumbledore
beamed at her.

“Quite.” He readjusted his spectacles, folded the note, and
tucked it underneath his saucer. McGonagall glared at him. She
didn’t like the looks of that beatific smile.

“What?” she snapped. “Out with it, Albus!” He twinkled at her
over his cup of tea.

“The planets must have shifted,” he said dreamily, and passed
her the note. “Even in dark times, the benevolence of the
universe makes itself apparent, Minerva.”

She raised her head from the scrap of paper. “Hermione Granger
… and Draco Malfoy?!?” She snorted. “That’s your idea of
benevolence? I’d call it a disaster waiting to happen.”

Dumbledore lifted a gently reproving finger. “Or a disaster
averted,” he said. “After all, even a narrow bridge can join a
great divide.”

McGonagall made a rude sound from behind her teacup. “Albus,
honestly. You sound like a fortune cookie.” He laughed.

“Young Mr. Malfoy,” he said, “is a child of great destiny. Up
to this point, it’s been decided without his assistance.” His
eyes, as he swallowed the last of his crumpet, were nothing
short of triumphant. “Now that the reins are in his own hands,
the direction he will choose to take remains to be seen.”

“But, Albus -“

Dumbledore shook his head. “And Miss Granger,” he said. “A
very level-headed young lady, and a persuasive voice for the
good. Lacking only great passion, well-directed, to make her a
force with which to contend.” He looked up suddenly, and
smiled. “Biscuit, Minerva?”

They finished their tea in silence.

**

The Child of Destiny and the Persuasive Voice for the Good
sat, side by side, on the wildly jouncing mattress assigned to
them, and tried not to look either a) out the window, or b) at
each other.

It was difficult.

About half an hour had passed since they’d stumbled onto the
Knight Bus. Hermione hadn’t been sure it would pick them up;
until she’d seen the purple hulk of it scream to a stop in
front of her, she’d been half-afraid that it only ran in the
British Isles.

She didn’t like to think about what would have happened, had
that been the case. Too big a risk. Her heart hadn’t beat so
fast since that last wild trip with the Time-Turner, back in
third year. Even now, if she considered the possibilities of
What Might Have Been, On A Worse Day Than This, she could feel
her pulse speed up.

She wondered what Dumbledore was making of her note.

Draco, of course, had worries of his own. She sneaked a
sideways look at him and immediately felt guilty that she was
stewing over the disciplinary notice waiting for her from the
Ministry of Magic. Thinking about what he’d done, just now,
about the allegiances he’d just made - and broken - made her
wince with sympathy.

It would have been so easy for him to get back in his father’s
good graces.

All he would have had to do is stick out one foot to trip her.

Hold her down.

Hand her over.

Instead, he’d run with her. Pulled away and gotten on the bus
and severed himself, probably forever, with his family and his
old friends. And for what? Hermione asked herself. Or, more
aptly, for whom?

Not a hard question, exactly, but certainly a difficult one.
Hermione didn’t feel like tackling it.

“You okay?” she asked him, and he closed his eyes briefly
before shooting her a tired smile.

“Yeah.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “For eleven in the
morning, it’s been a long day already. You know?”

She nodded. “Feel like talking about it?”

“I don’t even feel like thinking about it,” he said wearily.
“Distract me, Granger. Talk to me about something.”

She thought for a moment, then brightened. “Ever play ‘I Spy’?
”

**

Playing ‘I Spy’ on the Knight Bus was considerably more
challenging than playing it anywhere else, and would have been
even if Draco HAD had the least inkling of what could and
could not fit in a bread box. Luckily, one of the other
passengers was a frequent Knight Bus traveller, and pointed
out the cabinet of games at one end of the bus. They played
two games of wizard chess (the second abruptly aborted when
the bus went over a particularly nasty set of bumps and half
of Hermione’s pieces succumbed to motion sickness), and passed
the next hour in an increasingly competitive and vocal match
of Exploding Snap.

At some point they got sick of the games and just started
talking, and it occurred to Draco that this was new, that the
easy, quick riposte they had going wasn’t something he’d
experienced in the Slytherin common room. “Tell me something,”
he said, and she looked at him enquiringly. “Is this how it is
with you and Potter and Weasley?”

She frowned a little, as though she suspected him of sarcasm.
“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do the three of you just sit around and talk a lot?”
Okay, he thought, that sounded incredibly stupid. “Like this,
I mean,” he clarified. “Just a lot of nothing in particular,
just talking to talk?”

“Sort of,” she said, and gave him a look that was half-amused,
half-resigned. “You’re a better listener than they are,
though. I barely get a word in edgewise around them, unless
the topic is homework.” The amusement blossomed into sheer
wicked humor. “What? Are you saying that Crabbe and Goyle
aren’t scintillating conversationalists? And here I was about
to book them for my next lecture tour.”

They started giggling and couldn’t stop, and then he leaned
over and kissed her again, a really satisfying wet hard kiss
that was, for all the tongue involved, inherently
affectionate.

They looked around, decided the Knight Bus wasn’t deserted
enough to risk any more snogging, and curled up together for a
nap.

Sometimes, comfort was as simple as another warm body next to
yours.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifteen

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Draco sat on his lumpy mattress in the shuddering, jolting
bus, moodily watching Hermione sleep.

This was all very sudden.

He couldn’t think of one other thing he’d done, ever, that had
taken so little actual thought, while requiring such a high
B-to-B ratio.

That was to say, balls-to-brains.

He rubbed his eyes wearily.

In less than seventy-two hours, he’d gone from Total Comfort -
the rich, spoiled scion of a wizarding fiefdom - to Total
Chaos. He’d lost his virginity (not that he was complaining
about that, mind you), gone into hiding, and watched as his
Muggle-born (lover? girlfriend? partner-in-crime? well,
whatever) put a Full Body-Bind on his homicidal maniac of a
father.

Now, he was on the run from everything he professed to
embrace, playing Clyde to her Bonnie, rattling along in public
transportation, no less, and feeling queasier by the second.

This was heavy stuff.

Not that he regretted it, exactly. After all, an hour spent
with Hermione Granger (when did he think he’d ever admit this?
Well, stranger things had happened) was worth a year of
listening to Pansy Parkinson’s jabbering.

Factor in nudity, and he’d make that two years.

But as he studied the slumbering figure curled up against his,
he had to wonder: what was going on behind those delicately
translucent eyelids? She slept like a stone, lips parted,
cheek pillowed on her hand, Botticelli-cherub curls in mad,
adorable disarray.

She could have been six. Or twenty-six.

She scared the shit out of him.

What was going to happen when they got back to Hogwarts? He
couldn’t imagine Potter and Weasley welcoming him into the
fold - not, of course, that he fancied himself the lost-lamb
type - and Hermione was so close to them that she couldn’t
help but be swayed by them. Draco wasn’t some simpering
Hufflepuff romantic. He knew the score.

Probably she couldn’t even help it.

But that thought was like acid in his throat. He’d never been
this afraid in his life, and he despised it, this nasty
shivering emotional nausea that he couldn’t quell no matter
how often he shuffled and reshuffled the Exploding Snap cards
in his restless hands.

What if all he’d done today was for nothing?

What if she decided he wasn’t worth the trouble?

What if, oh God, what if the Wonder Twins gave her an
ultimatum? He could hear them now: “Us or him ….” What if she
chose them?

He didn’t want to think about how alone he’d be, if she
abandoned him now.

Be strong, Hermione, he thought fiercely. After what I did
this morning, I can’t go back.

In all his young, careless life, Draco had never pondered even
the mere possibility of a Deity. Even so, the words in his
head felt oddly like a prayer.

**

It was after dark when they arrived in Hogsmeade, dizzy with
fatigue and hunger and the beginnings of long-suppressed
motion sickness. They were the only passengers remaining on
the bus. Which meant, Hermione thought grimly, that they had a
problem.

As long as they were on the Knight Bus, their whereabouts
couldn’t be revealed by a Location Charm. The minute their
feet touched the ground, though - that was another story.

And Lucius Malfoy, wherever in the world he was tonight, was
only a second’s Apparition away.

It would have to be the Invisibility Cloak again, she decided.
Though how they’d lug that beast of a trunk all the way up to
the school was another matter entirely. To say nothing of what
they’d do if the gates were locked … or if someone, discerning
their destination, had taken it into his mind to wait for them
there.

There was, of course, the secret tunnel under Honeydukes.
Shorter, certainly. And definitely safer.

Did she dare tell Draco about it?

Hermione hesitated, then laughed at herself.

You’ll sleep with him, she thought derisively. You’ll curse
his father into immobility. You’ll use magic, ILLEGAL magic,
outside the school grounds, risk your status as a prefect and
ruin your perfect school records. But the thought of giving up
the Gryffindor secret passage has you flinching. Oh, that’s
rich.

And - this dismal thought popped into her head before she
could block it - just another indication that your life and
his may not be meant to run parallel courses.

She picked up one end of the trunk and sighed. It WAS heavy.

Lug now, stew later, she decided, and gifted Draco with the
best smile she could manage.

“Come on,” she muttered. “Time to find our land legs.”

**

They emerged wearily from behind the one-eyed witch and
glanced cautiously around before removing the Invisibility
Cloak … Hermione hadn’t forgotten Snape’s onetime fascination
with this corridor.

Snape. Oh, dear.

She hoped he wasn’t still in Thailand. He’d been cranky with
her even before that little bit of subterfuge in Giulia’s
hallway. One night in Bangkok wasn’t likely to improve his
outlook, even if it WAS supposed to make the world your
oyster.

And if THAT had been “cranky”, she thought, recalling their
last personal encounter with barely controlled hysteria, she
wasn’t sure she wanted to see “seriously brassed off.” As he
no doubt was.

Although …

An involuntary shiver raced through her as she rounded the
corner. Draco frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Chilly,” she said, annoyed with herself. “Come on. Let’s go
find Dumbledore before Snape finds us first.”

“Too late,” said a silky voice behind them.

They whirled to find Snape, looking more dangerous, more
self-satisfied, more gleefully malevolent than they could ever
recall seeing him. His lips curled, seemingly in anticipation.
“Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco swallowed nervously. “Yes, sir.”

“The Headmaster would like a word with you.” Hermione opened
her mouth to say something, then fell silent at the burning
look Snape sent her way. “No, not you, Miss Granger,” he said
softly. “You’re not going anywhere until we settle some … old
business.” He glared at Draco. “Now, Mr. Malfoy!”

Shooting Hermione a last worried glance, Draco went. Snape
gave her an evil smile and motioned to the corridor ahead of
them.

“My office, Miss Granger,” he said coldly. “Now.”

If Hermione hadn’t been too preoccupied with putting one foot
in front of the other, she would have summoned up another
Petrificus and turned her wand on herself. A visit to the
hospital wing seemed vastly preferable, at the moment, to what
was no doubt in store for her. Instead, she gulped down the
panicked butterflies trying to escape her stomach by way of
her throat, and followed Snape toward the dungeons.

Even Madam Pomfrey couldn’t help her now.

***

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixteen

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How many House points could you lose for sending a professor
to Bangkok?

Hermione, frantically estimating figures in her head, would
have walked straight into the door of Snape’s office if a
well-timed mutter from him hadn’t sent it flying open. He
pushed her into a chair and stalked around to glare at her
from behind his desk. She gulped.

When he finally opened his mouth to speak, the words that came
out were the last she would have expected.

“Tea, Miss Granger?”

“Um …”

Tea, from the Potions Master? Tea, from the man who’d once
told Harry he was the wizarding world’s leading expert on
undetectable poisons?

Those cappucinos HAD been a while back. Still …

She chanced a surreptitious glance at the contents of his
office, her gaze coming to rest on a jar containing what
looked to be a fist-sized mass of swarming maggots. Quickly,
she looked away and swallowed hard. “I don’t think …”

His lip curled. “Judging from the arrival time of your
disciplinary owl, you and Mr. Malfoy boarded the Knight Bus at
eleven-ten this morning. Twelve hours ago.” He steepled his
fingers on the desk, and Hermione found herself noticing them:
long, slender, capable.

Capable of many things, that is. She ought to know.

Damn it, Hermione, don’t think about that right now. Don’t
think about it, period.

Ever. Again.

She dragged her eyes back up to his face, stopping at the
level of the sneering mouth. Eye contact was a step beyond her
particular reserves of Gryffindor courage at the moment.

He shoved himself up to his feet and over to a corner of the
office, where a cauldron of herbal-scented water was bubbling
over a bright green fire, on a table she hadn’t noticed
before. He’d dropped the smooth-but-dangerous shtick, Hermione
noticed, and had upgraded to Just Plain Annoyed. “Unless the
Knight Bus has expanded their line of services to include a
cafeteria on the upper level,” - and here that thin-lipped,
well-shaped mouth curled in consummate disdain - “I’m assuming
that your luncheon consisted of one cup of tepid hot
chocolate, and that you’ve not had tea, or dinner, today.” He
muttered something she couldn’t hear over the fragrant liquid,
ladled it into a cup, and passed it to her. A moment later,
he’d produced a plate of sandwiches and had returned to his
perch behind the desk to moodily watch her eat.

The tea was pretty good. Peppermint, and rosemary, and
chamomile, and something spicy she wasn’t sure of - ginger,
maybe? Valerian?

The silence, on the other hand, was unbearable.

She’d braced herself to be screamed at, physically menaced,
and threatened with expulsion. Had pushed the fear and
exhaustion down, down, down, to somewhere inaccessible, to be
dealt with when he wasn’t around anymore.

Now, in his surprisingly warm, quiet office, being heated
inside and out by the food and what was a really excellent cup
of tea, she could feel her guard slipping away from her. Damn
him. Why was he being decent?

She chanced a quick peek at him. He looked pretty tired
himself. Possibly that trip to Bangkok hadn’t been a piece of
cake. Possibly Apparation was more tiring than it looked.

Possibly he was catching hell from Dumbledore - Hermione
didn’t kid herself, not after the end of her fourth year;
Dumbledore might play Santa Claus for the world to see, but he
wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination toothless - for not
keeping better track of her. For bringing Lucius Malfoy into
the whole mess.

A pang of regret shot through her before she could help
herself. Apologize, the little voice in her head said. Quick,
before you lose your chance. Besides, he deserves to hear that
from you.

Hermione hesitated, closed her eyes briefly, put her
half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, and decided to go for
it. Probably saying ANYTHING at this point made her a couple
of tacos short of a combo platter … her fate was sealed, and
she might just make him more angry than he was already.

But she had to say it anyway.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she blurted, and saw his eyes widen in
surprise, a mere fraction of an inch, before he narrowed them
again. Cheered slightly by what she considered to be a
positive sign, she plowed ahead.

“It’s my fault,” she said, “all of it. I made Draco lie to
Signora Malione, knowing that you’d come looking for me and
that she’d give you the wrong information.” She dropped her
eyes, then lifted them to his again. “After what happened, I …
“ She flushed. “I was afraid to talk to you.”

His eyebrows lifted at this, but he still didn’t say anything.
Hermione ran one hand nervously through her hair.

“I know I should have gone home,” she muttered to her lap.
“You were right about that. About everything. I didn’t want to
listen to you.” She bit her lip. “Being there, by myself, made
me feel … liberated. And powerful. And then you … scared me.”

“Scared you?” he murmured. She set her chin at a mutinous
angle, but didn’t bring her eyes up. An uneven breath
shuddered out of her. It never occurred to her to lie.

“Scared, yes, I was scared,” she whispered, sounding disgusted
with herself. “And angry. And … excited, though I’d rather not
think about that.” She slanted him an anxious glance. “And
guilty, now, too, most of all. Because Draco’s in trouble with
his father because of it, and I don’t think he can go home,
ever again. And it’s my fault, but I never, NEVER meant for
that to happen. I swear it.”

She lapsed into silence, watching him worriedly from under her
eyelashes. Something was brewing behind those cold dark eyes,
but she didn’t know what. Shut up while you’re ahead, Granger,
she told herself, and took a nervous sip of her tea.

**

An apology.

He’d just gotten an apology from Hermione Granger. Snape’s
mouth curved in appreciation for the irony of that statement.

All previous, current, or future annoyance aside, it was a
pretty safe bet that he had more to apologize for than she
did. And had pulled her into his office to do just that.

He studied her with renewed interest. Curled into his big
green armchair, pretending to be fascinated by her tea while
she watched him from under her eyelashes.

Scared. Angry. Excited.

Who’d have thought that she’d have the stones to admit that?
To his face, no less?

It just went to show you that Dumbledore’s mangy old Sorting
Hat really DID know its stuff. Behind her sidekick persona,
her veneer of book-smarts, Miss Granger was the embodiment of
pure, steely-eyed Gryffindor determination.

Tempered, he thought, by a healthy dollop of Ravenclaw brains
and Slytherin ambition. Really, she could have gone either
way. Even to Hufflepuff, because there was loyalty there too,
in truckloads.

It appeared that she had now extended that Mother-Earth
concern of hers beyond the charmed Gryffindor circle. Draco
Malfoy was a luckier young man than he knew, Severus mused.
“Miss Granger, do I look like your father confessor?”

She considered him warily over her mug of tea. “No,
Professor.”

His lips twitched in self-deprecation. “Just checking,” he
said. “Spend enough time in Rome, and you begin to imagine
confessionals everywhere. I thought perhaps I’d been hexed
into a liturgical collar.”

A joke? Was that a joke? She smiled politely, just in case,
and wished he’d hurry up and arrive at his point. Now that
she’d eaten, all she really wanted to do was sleep.

The momentary expression of wry humor that had come over him
vanished, and he was deadly serious again. Though not, she
thought, visibly angry. Odd.

“I fear that I must amend your apology with one of my own,” he
said, and Hermione nearly dropped her tea in shock. If he
noticed her reaction, he didn’t let on. “What transpired
between us back in Rome … should not have, holiday or no
holiday, and I accept the majority of the blame for it. I
daresay that your little adventure with Mr. Malfoy would have
taken a safer course, were it not for our,” - he hesitated,
then sighed heavily - “encounter. I regret deeply that it ever
happened.”

She studied him closely for a moment. Funny how one turn in a
conversation can make you forget that you were ever tired, she
thought. “Do you? Regret it?” When he sent her a shocked
glare, she braved a one-shouldered shrug. “Because I’m not
sure that I do.”

Oooh. That had been ballsy. Not to mention, pure
sub-conscious-speak. She hadn’t even known she felt that way
until the words were out of her mouth. Snape looked suitably
horrified.

“Miss Granger -“

Hermione shook her head to ward him off. “No, I have to say
this.” She took a deep breath. “I was telling you the truth,”
she said. “It WAS scary. And it DID make me angry. But I’m
also a bit confused by it, because I can’t figure out, in
retrospect, whether it was all about sex, or all about power.”
She bit her lip nervously, wondered whether any of this was a
good conversational idea, and decided that since she was in
this far, she’d might as well say it. “Whichever it was, it
was a learning experience,” she said baldly. “But I’m not sure
what to think about it. If it was about sex, I can dismiss it
as something deeply arousing, if disturbing, and put it away.
But if it’s about power …” She gazed at him shrewdly. “I can’t
help thinking that it’s a good one to have. And I have to ask
you: why did you think you needed more power over me? What did
I do to tip the balance?”

They stared at each other for a long minute, and then Snape
laughed. It was a laugh of genuine amusement, the rich,
baritone laugh of a young man, and Hermione narrowed her eyes
curiously at him.

Odd. When he’d done that, he’d been almost handsome.

“You’ve come into your own this summer, haven’t you?” he
asked, and she couldn’t look away from him, this still-smiling
Snape with high color in his cheeks from the fire and the
laughter, this ten-years-younger Snape whose eyes snapped
madly with intelligence and mirth. “What have you done with
your Inner Bookworm, Miss Granger? And who’s the Machiavellian
princess sitting in my chair, drinking my tea?” He leaned back
and laced his fingers behind his head. “What did you do to tip
the balance, you ask? You grew up, that’s all.”

“The hair,” she said slowly. “The clothes. This is a body
thing, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” He laughed again. “Put the robes back on tomorrow,
Miss Granger, wrap yourself up from head to toe, and you’ll
find out. All the black sackcloth in the world won’t change
you back to the Hermione you were last spring.”

He leaned forward. “To answer your question,” he said,
sobering. “It started out as power, that night. And it turned
into sex. For me, anyway.” He met her eyes with what looked
like challenge in his own. “You have to decide what it was for
you. And whether you want to add that particular weapon to
your arsenal - well, that’s your choice too.”

They were playing with words now, and Hermione knew it. It had
always been her favorite game, but she was in the big leagues
now - and this sexy, amused, hot-eyed Snape was a million
times more dangerous than the great malevolent bat she was
accustomed to.

She thought, fleetingly, about Draco and the night they’d had
together.

Was this cheating?

If it was a betrayal, what was it a betrayal of? Did three
days in Rome, a night of mind-blowing sex, and a frantic
getaway add up to a relationship?

And when exactly had she stopped being the Good Girl and
turned into a thrill-seeker? The mere fact that she and the
Potions Master were having this conversation had her weak in
the knees - and not, exactly, from fear.

If she didn’t pursue it, just a little bit, she didn’t deserve
the title of ‘witch’.

Don’t give too much away, Granger, her brain warned her, and
she looked up at Snape with a cool little smile.

“These are dangerous times,” she said. “One should cultivate
all the weapons at one’s disposal, don’t you think, Professor?
”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You’re a busy girl already, Miss
Granger. I’d think carefully before I committed to more …
lessons.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I’ll do that.”

**

TBC
Roman Holiday

Chapter Seventeen

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

Hermione half-expected to run into Draco - or Professor
Dumbledore - on her way back to Gryffindor Tower, but the
corridors remained deserted … she didn’t see so much as the
flick of Mrs. Norris’ tail. Thank God, she thought, and yawned
blearily.

All she wanted in the world, at the moment anyway, was a hot
bath and a soft bed, preferably one that didn’t move
underneath her. She climbed the stairs, reached the portrait
of the Fat Lady, and froze in sudden, lead-stomached
realization.

She didn’t have the password.

Hermione thought she might cry.

“Um …” she began, not sure what she was about to say, and the
Fat Lady waved her hand and tutted kindly at her.

“I’ve been watching for you, dear,” she said. “Headmaster’s
orders. The password is ‘will-o-the-wisp’. And the password
for the prefects’ bath is ‘Yorkshire pudding’, in case you’re
in the mind for a soak.” She beamed at Hermione and swung
forward. “Your things are in your room.”

Hermione could have kissed her. “Thank you,” she said, and
climbed through the portrait hole into the empty common room.

The girls’ bath reserved for prefect use was a miracle of pink
Cassava marble and silver granite, with perpetual Warming
Charms on the floors, acres of fluffy rose and gray towels
heaped next to the cavernous shell-shaped bathtub, and
relaxing music invisibly piped in after six in the evening.
Tonight, it was the Debussy piano preludes. Hermione grinned;
she’d long suspected that Professor McGonagall was a bit of a
Francophile.

On a related note, rumor had it that McGonagall visited the
hot springs at Lourdes over summer holidays each year.
Hermione didn’t know if this was true, but it was on
McGonagall’s orders that the spa had been installed in the
Gryffindor prefects’ baths, and it was to this smaller room
off the main chamber that Hermione was headed now. She
stripped off her clothes, shook out her hair, and sank into
the little pool of warm, cinnamon-scented clay with a sigh of
pleasure. Who knew that rolling around in mud could make you
feel so clean?

She’d worked out her preferred routine in the spa early last
year, and it took her only a quarter of an hour to complete it
tonight: after the mud bath, the cold shower; after the cold
shower, the steam; after the steam, a quick plunge into a
star-shaped pool of frigid water, nicknamed the Glacier, from
which she rose hastily, shivering, with blue lips.

She already felt a million times better. But the bubble bath
in the main bathroom was too decadent to resist, with its
burbling jets, its gold lion-head fixtures, the fragrant steam
rising from its roiling surface. She padded over to it, still
shivering from her cold dip, and turned one of the smaller
faucets.

“Freesia,” she said, after thinking for a moment. “Coconut.
Tangerine.”

A tri-colored swirl of soap bubbles - lavender, orange, creamy
white - began to curl toward the center of the big tub,
releasing a fragrance that was pure heaven. Hermione climbed
the carved marble steps to the top of the rim, slid in
legs-first, submerged herself to the chin with a muffled
splash, and lay back with her eyes closed.

Next to being back in Rome, this was the closest to perfection
she was likely to get right now.

She let her hands fishtail lazily through the silky water and
allowed her head to swim with the sweet scents of mingled
fruit and flowers. Some secluded hot spring, tucked away in an
island paradise - that’s where she was. Warm sun on her face.
Warm, pulsing jets of water like friendly exploring hands,
ducking into private tender places and smoothing away residual
aches and pains from her travel-weary body.

At the time, she hadn’t noticed any pain pursuant to the loss
of her virtue. But she’d been carrying around a low-grade burn
between her legs since she’d woken up this morning - a vague
sense of … what would you call it … stretch … that reminded
her with every step, every shift in position, every bounce of
the bus, that she’d let Draco Malfoy settle himself in the
untried cradle of her thighs, that part of him had disappeared
into part of her and left her feeling like an overdone
martini.

That is to say, shaken AND stirred.

Thank goodness that he was new at it too, she thought. That
he’d been just as raw and wobbly and shocked and
oh-my-God-so-THIS-is-sex as she.

In other words, nothing like Snape.

Snape.

Hermione’s eyes flew open, and she abruptly arrested the hand
that had been wandering hopefully around to the inside of her
thigh. Best not to think about that, about him, about the
practiced, knowing way he’d touched her and made her respond.

As if she was a wristwatch, to be taken apart and put back
together at his whim.

As if he could have done it blindfolded.

Never mind that rash insanity of a challenge she’d tossed at
him tonight. Clearly, she needed her head examined. And what
was wrong with HIM, that he hadn’t jumped down her throat for
impertinence?

When you counted on Snape to be cutting, and got a laugh out
of him instead, it was time to doubt the workings of the
universe. When he followed up his jollies with sexual innuendo
that made her own feeble attempts at it sound like a Julie
Andrews encore, it was time to run the other way. And fast.

The fact that the laugh had been such a young, carefree sound
- the lift of that sardonic mouth into unfettered sensuality -
the most-becoming snap of vitality in his eyes - that made him
more dangerous still.

And Hermione had already jumped on one danger train this week.
If she thought Ron had been upset about the Yule Ball, back in
their fourth year? She whistled softly, imagining his reaction
to the news of what she’d been up to with Malfoy. Spreading
your legs for the Viking Prince of Slytherin House made dating
Viktor Krum look like passing out cookies at the local
kindergarten. She didn’t need lessons in kink, from Snape of
all people, to add to her already-full Plate of Complications.

What was that he’d said tonight?

You have to decide what it was for you.

Oh, damn.

She frowned. Sex? Or power?

What was the thought, exactly, that had her fingers creeping
up her thigh again? That she hadn’t been able to stop him? Or
that she hadn’t wanted to?

She’d have to sleep on that one.

**

Breakfast in the Great Hall was sparsely attended. No teachers
to speak of, with the exception of Professor McGonagall, who
gave Draco a narrow-eyed stare before returning her attention
to her grapefruit half, and Dumbledore, who was staring out
the window and whistling what sounded suspiciously like
‘Dixie’ under his breath. The long tables were dotted with a
few new prefects, mostly at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw
tables.

Hermione wasn’t there. Either she was having a lie-in, or
she’d been and gone already.

He had to talk to her, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Draco felt a stab of nostalgia for the little coffee shop in
the Piazza di Spagna. For a few halcyon days, his life had
pared itself down to one simple, enjoyable focus: fall for
Hermione Granger.

Which he had. And how.

If it seemed out of character for him, there were a million
excuses. The scenery, the vino, the warm perfumed air, the
solitary howl of the saxophone that had wrapped around him
like a golden snake and choked off his better judgment.

But mostly it was just the girl, who was warm and funny and
adventurous and irresistible, and nothing like he’d imagined
her. Draco scowled down at his prefect’s badge, at the little
silver serpent forking its tongue at him. Why couldn’t he have
been sorted into Ravenclaw? Why couldn’t he have had normal
wizarding parents - maybe even the rumor of a Muggle-born
grandparent?

Why couldn’t being a pure-blood wizard be, in reality, the
good deal it was cracked up to be on the surface?

And how exactly had he gotten himself mixed up in this
bullshit star-crossed lovers plot, anyway?

Easy to be a lover in Rome, he thought disgustedly. Easy to
flirt, to stuff yourself on pasta and cannoli, to ride a zippy
little machine through a starry night and kiss in a cathedral
and slide into the wet satin grasp of her - so tight, so taut,
above all so gleaming and shiny and NEW, like ripping off
cellophane on Christmas morning.

He snorted. Who was he kidding? It’d be no great trial to him
to do that same thing here at Hogwarts, on top of the
Slytherin table in the Great Hall if he could get away with
it, as often and as vigorously as either of them could stand.
What he couldn’t imagine nearly as easily was walking down a
corridor with her, holding hands.

He entertained a brief amused insight into the hypothetical
look on Pansy Parkinson’s face, laughed out loud, then sobered
again, ignoring the startled looks shot his way by students at
the neighboring tables.

Impossible to regain the easy camaraderie they’d had
yesterday, when the world hadn’t been set against them.
Intimacy was a lot harder when you weren’t invisible, when you
weren’t a Slytherin prince and a Muggle-born milkmaid, but
just two more young lovers in a city full of them.

And the other thing. It was easy enough to tell Pansy and the
Slytherins to go screw, if you were already an outcast. Which
he’d thought would be the case, after what had happened his
last morning in Rome. But his conversation with Dumbledore
last night had proved most informative to the contrary, and
he’d somehow found himself deep in Double Agent Land.

“I’m not loyal to Dumbledore,” he’d told Hermione back in the
doorway of the Sheraton. But now it wasn’t true. Half a
sandwich and a cup of tea, and he’d been pouring out his soul
to the man he’d heard referred to as ‘that old bat’ for most
of his life. There was something reassuring about those kind
blue eyes, something about the tone of the once-deep voice,
now crackly with age, that inspired confidence. And
allegiance.

He’d needed sanctuary, and he had it.

He’d needed a powerful ally, and he had one.

He’d needed to be of service, and Dumbledore had given him his
instructions.

Go back to Slytherin House. Be the arrogant heir to the
throne. Cultivate his all-too-eager sycophants.

Keep his eyes and ears open. Report back.

Tell no one. Not even, Dumbledore had said with a knowing
twinkle, the alluring Miss Granger. Not just yet, anyway.

So. Now he had to go find Hermione and sort the whole mess
out, before something or someone came along to make it even
more complicated than it was.

Even if that meant telling her he couldn’t kiss her in public
anymore.

He squared his shoulders gloomily and headed for the library.

**

She was in the Restricted section, huddled behind the most
remote study carroll and poring over what looked to Draco to
be a notebook full of equations. “Hi,” he said to the top of
her head, and she jumped.

“Oh. Um, hi.”

They shared a moment’s uncomfortable silence. “Can I sit down?
” he asked finally, and her brow furrowed at his tone.

“Are we in trouble? What did Dumbledore say?”

He shook his head. “Not in trouble. But we need to talk,
privately.”

They both glanced around cautiously. Not many visitors
frequented this part of the library, even when school was in
session - since they were still on holiday for another two
weeks, Madam Pince probably wouldn’t see another student all
day today.

Still, you never knew.

Satisfied that they were alone, Hermione hitched her chair
further into the corner so he could pull his in beside her.
They were so close that their knees touched. “Okay,” she said,
a bit breathlessly. “Spill.”

“First,” he said, and fought the urge to look away. “It’s kind
of good news, I guess. My father’s embarrassed that we got
away from him, and that you managed that Petrificus.
Apparently, from what Dumbledore said, he was out cold in that
Muggle hotel for about twenty minutes. So he called in a big
favor with Fudge and got the Ministry to hush the whole thing
up. Wants to pretend it never happened.” He smiled faintly.
“My school bill’s paid in full. You’re off the hook for
performing underage magic. And I may not get beaten up in the
Slytherin common room as much as I’d thought.”

The look of profound relief on his face had her frowning.
“You’re worried about the Slytherins finding out about us.”

He flushed. “Well … yeah.” A moment of silence, then, “Aren’t
you?” he burst out. “Aren’t you the least bit worried about
what Potter and Weasley are going to say? About what the rest
of them will?”

Silence from her, during which he searched for words,
abandoned them, and finally smacked the top of the carroll in
frustration.

“This isn’t Romeo and Juliet, Hermione! We have to live here
for two more years!”

“I know,” she said, the back of her brain vaguely registering
astonishment that he was up on his Shakespeare. “And you
aren’t the only one who’s been worried.” She twisted in her
chair so that she was looking at him full-on.

Was she about to get dumped?

She suddenly felt very sorry for Viktor. Had he felt like this
when he’d opened the owl that ended it?

Well, give him an easy out, at least, she told herself. Don’t
make it harder than it is.

“We could stop it now,” she said, her voice
uncharacteristically small. “It was only one night. We could
walk away now, pretend it never happened.”

Draco snorted derisively. “Go back to insulting each other in
the hall? Go back to Mudblood and ferret jokes? I think not.”
He was pleased to see that she looked relieved. “I was sort of
hoping,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, “that we
could go on as we were. But …”

“But keep it quiet,” she finished heavily.

Looking wary, he nodded.

“No commitment?” she asked. “No expectations? No publicity?”

She wasn’t taking it as badly as he’d feared. He nodded again,
and they looked at each other sadly for a second or two,
remembering the place they’d just left where such subterfuge
wasn’t necessary.

“No insults, either,” he said finally. “To you, anyway. I make
no promises regarding the Wonder Twins.” He studied her face,
now carefully averted, and bit his lip. “Hermione?”

“Mm.” She didn’t look up.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that there might be a way to get
some romance out of this, after all.” She sent him a sideways
look under her lashes.

“Really.”

He shrugged, keeping his face calculatedly casual. “Haven’t
you always wanted a secret admirer?”

At this, Hermione brightened - whether in reference to the
romance or the intrigue, he wasn’t sure. She would, he
reflected, have made a very good Slytherin.

He watched her consider the idea, her eyes beginning to
sparkle wickedly.

“Midnight assignations,” she said slowly. “Kissing under the
Invisibility Cloak. Love letters in code, delivered by owl.”
She looked up at him and grinned. “It’ll drive Lavender and
Parvati INSANE, trying to figure it out.”

“Well, then. Do we have a deal?”

Say yes, he thought. Damn it, say yes. If this is all we can
have, let’s get to it already.

The smile was still playing around the corners of her mouth.
“We’d need code names,” she demurred. “And you’re not much of
a Romeo. Besides, it’s overdone.”

“I’ll do some research,” he said. “Get back to you.”

She let out a reluctant snort of laughter and spread her hands
in helpless assent. God, she’s beautiful, he thought, and
leaned in for a kiss.

Putting all else aside, there was at least one good thing
about being a secret agent for Dumbledore.

Even in the Muggle movies, the spy always got the girl.

TBC
Roman Holiday

Chapter Eighteen

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The next two weeks passed mostly without event. Hermione sent
Harry a belated-birthday card, in care of the Weasleys, that
she’d doctored with a Flattery Hex, so that it shouted
improbable compliments when opened.

Not her cuppa, exactly, but she thought he’d like it. It
wasn’t long before she received a reply:

**

Hermione,

Thanks for the card! Fred and George have confiscated it in
the name of research, and are trying to figure out how to
transfer your charm to Ginny’s bedroom mirror. The mirror’s
smarter than they are, though - whenever they come near it
now, it shouts for Ron’s mum.

Ron’s dad came home from work with a strange story about you -
said you put the Petrificus Totalus curse on Lucius Malfoy,
and that Malfoy paid Fudge a bundle to keep it off the record.
Is it true? And if it is, Ron wants to know: Did Malfoy’s eyes
roll up in his head, the way Neville’s did our first year?

It sounds like your summer was more exciting than ours. Can’t
wait to see you and hear all about it!

Harry

**

Hermione sighed and tucked the letter into the inner pocket of
her robes. Any explanation she offered of her summer holiday
was going to require a fair bit of editing, before it saw the
light of day.

She and Draco hadn’t commenced with the secret-admirer shtick
yet; they’d decided that the effort was wasted until school
was in full session. Most days, they studiously avoided each
other - or met at prearranged places by vastly different,
circuitous routes. Their courtship seemed to be travelling in
reverse, at least in terms of the physical realm: lacking a
proper bed which they could both legally occupy, at the same
time, they were limited to gestures of affection which could
be expressed vertically, underneath an Invisibility Cloak,
without undue robe-rustling or other suspicious noises.

Exciting as this all was, it was ultimately frustrating. On a
happier note, two weeks back at school with minimal
distractions (during daylight hours, at least) had been just
what she needed to finish up her research project on
Palestrina. The paper for Muggle Studies was done and handed
in. The chord analysis of the Mass she’d heard at St. Peter’s
was complete, and had been translated into theoretical
astrophysics equations for Arithmancy. She’d almost finished
copying over her notes into essay form for Professor Vector.

There was one more facet to the gem, one more small piece of
the Palestrina puzzle that she’d like to solve, before she
dropped the subject and moved on. It was most intriguing,
perhaps more so than the other parts she’d already finished,
and it would make a kick-ass extra credit project, if she
could pull it off.

The trouble was, she’d have to talk to Snape first.

**

She tracked him down in one of the smaller laboratories off
the main Potions classroom and stood in the shadow of the
doorway for a second or two, hoping to gauge his mood before
she divulged her presence. He was back in his professor’s
robes, but Hermione saw with faint surprise that he’d pulled
his hair back into its summer ponytail. Probably his hair got
in the way when he worked, she thought, and tried not to think
about how the swept-back style accentuated the intent angle of
his jaw, the strong plane of one knife-edged cheekbone, and
made that thin-lipped mouth look almost lush in comparison.

“Come in, Miss Granger, or go away,” he said without turning
around. “But don’t stand there lurking; you’re in my light.”

“Sorry,” she said, pretending to look apologetic, and slid as
unobtrusively as possible into the room and onto one of the
high stools along the wall, where she could watch him without
being in his way. A black substance the consistency of motor
oil was bubbling in his cauldron. As she watched, he powdered
an unfamiliar seed-pod with a mortar and pestle, added and
demolished what looked like two ordinary lightning-bugs, threw
the mixture into the sticky black goo, and lowered the flame
under the cauldron with one tersely muttered word. After a few
seconds of simmering, the mixture suddenly hissed loudly,
emitted a belch of bright orange smoke, and subsided. Hermione
studied it curiously; it was now much thinner and the colour
of cloves, flecked with vermilion. The odour made her nose
twitch.

“Pepper-Up,” she murmured, and handed him the ladle he was now
reaching for. “But what was that seed pod?”

“Dried angelica pepper,” he said absently. “Developed by Mayan
wizards. Native to South America. You won’t cover it until
next year. Too expensive to import.” He shot her a sharp look.
“As long as you’re here, why don’t you make yourself useful?
This is going into bottles for the hospital wing, and they all
need labelling.”

She capped and labelled jars for the next half hour, admiring
the way their contents glowed softly in the dim light, like
the cinnamon apple butter her grandmother had made the summer
Hermione visited her in Yorkshire. She’d almost forgotten her
original reason for seeking out Snape, until he muttered a
Scouring Charm at the cauldron, set down his ladle, and turned
that penetrating black gaze on her.

“All right, Miss Granger,” he said. “Much as Madam Pomfrey
will appreciate the fact that you and not I labelled those
bottles - my penmanship is somewhat lacking - it’s not your
main purpose for skulking around my rooms, and I confess to a
certain amount of morbid curiosity. What do you want?”

He was being Blunt, Nasty, Sarcastic Snape, for which Hermione
was grateful … at this point, it was Tea-Brewing,
Sexual-Innuendo-Spouting Snape who made her nervous. She
capped the last bottle, set it neatly in the crate beside its
siblings, and turned to face him.

“I’ve been doing extra-credit research on Palestrina,” she
said. “Originally, the idea was to write a paper for Muggle
Studies, but that project suggested the need for some
mathematical analysis, so I’ve brought Arithmancy into the
equation as well. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

He snorted. “Fascinating. I’m sure you’re about to get to the
part that concerns me. Sometime before I retire, if I’m
fortunate.”

Her lips twitched. “I’d like to integrate Potions into my
study, in addition to the rest,” she said. “With your
permission, of course.”

“How do you intend to do that?” He sounded half-skeptical,
half-bored.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I’ve read some of Palestrina’s
notes,” she said. “He mentioned a potion -“

“The Illuminata Elixir?” Snape’s voice was noncommittal, but
there was an undeniable spark of shrewd interest in his eyes.
“Those notes are in Latin, Miss Granger.” He frowned. “And
encoded, as I recall.”

She shot him a twenty-four-carat smile of pure triumph.
“Cracked it last week. Been translating ever since.” The smile
clouded. “But I’m stuck now. There are some ingredients I
don’t recognize, and I haven’t been able to find them
referenced anywhere in the library. I was wondering …” She
trailed off apprehensively.

“Yes?” His expression was inscrutable. She gulped, gathered
her courage in both hands, and persevered.

“Would you help me with it?”

**

Well, it’s finally happened, Severus told himself viciously.
It was bound to. You’ve met a student who you can’t scare
away.

And God knows you’ve tried. She’s more like those friends of
hers than even you suspected - more perseverance than common
sense.

She was perched on the stool again, that ragamuffin hair of
hers in alluring disarray, a worried smile playing around the
corners of her mouth.

He scowled. She was worried for all the wrong reasons.

Not that he’d snap at her. Not that he’d be sarcastic, or
rude, or insult her, or … worse. Though she certainly had
reason to expect that of him.

If she was scared of anything, he thought, studying that
hopeful little face through hooded eyes, it was that he’d turn
her down.

And he was tempted, make no mistake. The Illuminata was
time-consuming and difficult - and for a sixth-year student,
even a brilliant one, unbelievably advanced. And that was just
the brewing stage - the substance itself held its own
dangerous fascinations, once completed, and if he started this
project with her, he’d be duty-bound to see it through to the
bitter end.

Damn it, she got in the way of all his nobler intentions. One
way or another.

Severus sighed. Who was he to stand in the way of scholarship?

“All right, Miss Granger,” he said. “I’ll have a look at your
translation. And I’ll oversee your extra-credit project.”
Mostly to distance himself from the stunned joy on her face,
he held up a reproving finger. “On one condition.”

She looked a bit wary at that - that dangerous, satiny edge
was back in his voice - but nodded anyway. “Of course,
Professor. What is it?”

He summoned his fiercest scowl. “Babysitting your Illuminata
will put me behind on the routine potions I supply to Madam
Pomfrey and the Headmaster. I’ll require your assistance on
Tuesday and Thursday evenings to help with the backlog.”

Hermione beamed at him in obvious relief. “Oh! That’ll be
fascinating. I’ve always wanted some practical experience with
medi-potions …”

“Well, then.” Snape curled his lip at her and injected all the
disdain he could muster into his voice. “Are you going to sit
here babbling at me all day, or do you think I might get a
moment’s peace before the start of term?”

**

That was it.

Hermione had had enough.

One minute, she thought furiously, he’s soft-voiced and
insinuating and, despite all physical indications to the
contrary, the Sexiest Man Alive. The next minute, he’s all
business, and the same utter, utter bastard he’s always been.

And I’m supposed to play by his rules, she fumed to herself.
Be the good student in class. Be fascinated when he wants me
that way. Run along like a little mouse when he gets tired of
the game and wants to be alone.

Well, no more.

Time was, she’d have wilted under that scathing tone, muttered
an apology, and scurried off teary-eyed. But those days were
long gone.

Good riddance, Hermione thought, and slid off her stool, her
most angelic smile firmly in place. “Trying to get rid of me,
Professor?”

He hadn’t expected that, oh no, but he was too well-trained in
the art of self-concealment to let her see his astonishment.
If anything, it was his sudden, utter stillness that gave him
away.

Time to see if mercurial, moody Professor Snape could deal
with a taste of his own maddening medicine.

Time to see if she could dish it out, as well as she could
take it.

She took a step or two closer to him. “Am I … annoying you?”

“You rarely do anything but,” he said, but the response was
automatic; his eyes were caught in hers, and Hermione felt an
exhilarating rush of power race out to her fingertips, down
through her calves.

Is this what he was offering me lessons in?

Because maybe, just maybe, I don’t need them as much as I’d
thought I did.

She moved closer still, deliberate and steady, keeping that
eye contact going until she could see the blood beating at his
throat, could feel the furnace of his body radiating heat at
her through his robes. He took an uneasy step back.

“What do you want, Professor?” she murmured, and kept walking,
forcing him to give ground. Back, back, back, until he was up
against the wall, until there was nowhere else for him to go.
That’s right, she thought, look at me, look at me and really
see me.

See more than a little girl. More than someone you can scare.

“Hmm? You want me to walk away?” She went up on her tiptoes,
bracing herself with both hands on his shoulders, and put her
mouth next to his ear, close enough that she could feel his
heart beating, feel his pulse hammering in his throat.

Oh, this girl power was heady stuff.

“Miss Granger -“ Strangled sound, harsh and reedy and the
farthest thing imaginable from that dangerous silky whisper he
used to such great effect. “Don’t be stupid,” he rasped. “You
don’t really want this. Go play your little games with Malfoy;
he’ll appreciate them more.”

“Is that what you want?” she breathed into his ear. “Really?
You don’t want to finish what you started, back in Rome?”

She pressed herself into him, feeling that tense hard body
vibrate against hers. “Or don’t you know?”

For her virgin voyage into Scary Sex Games Territory, this
wasn’t going too badly, Hermione thought. But she was starting
to lose her nerve. He was bigger than her. Stronger.

For someone with such greasy hair, he smelled amazing.

And his whole body was trembling with the fight for control.

Time to cut and run, she decided, and shifted, just slightly,
so she could brush her lips over the apex of one elegant
cheekbone.

“Let me know what you decide,” she breathed, and stepped back.

Turn and walk away. Just turn and walk away, and don’t look
back.

Except that the next second she was up against the wall
herself, her wrists held over her head, and HE was pressing
into HER. And that was something different entirely, Hermione
discovered. Unbelievable how all that power-euphoria could
dissolve into heart-in-your-throat helplessness, in less than
a second.

He leaned against her, his forehead an inch from hers, his
knee bent slightly and shoved, not quite gently, in between
her legs, so she couldn’t kick. He pressed it up and in,
rocking it slightly from side to side, and Hermione felt her
whole self go limp and weak with pure, terrified delight - as
if she was on a roller coaster, going up and up and up slowly,
so slowly, and all the while wondering when the world would
drop out from beneath her, when the apprehension would turn
into stomach-lurching, screaming exultation.

She might have some raw talent at this sort of game, but
obviously he had his black belt. You’re outclassed, Granger,
she told herself. You idiot.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.

“I’ve decided,” he growled, and the silk was back in his
voice, enough to make Hermione shudder against him. “You know
WHAT I’ve decided, you little fool?” He jiggled his knee again
and watched in satisfaction as she squirmed like a pinned
butterfly. “I’ve decided I’m tired of being underestimated by
hormonal little girls who are too smart for their own good.”

“I’m eighteen,” she gasped, her indignation at being called a
little girl winning out momentarily over the other twelve
emotions knotted up in her stomach. “Technically. The
Time-Turner, remember?”

He ignored this. “Believe me, Miss Granger,” he gritted. “This
is not something to play with. These aren’t weapons you want
used on you, regardless of what you said in my office the
other evening.” He tightened his grip on her wrists, yanked
her a little higher so her toes were off the dungeon floor.
“You want to be scared a little? Titillated a little? Go read
Gilderoy Lockhart.” His mouth was an inch from hers. “Play the
tease with me again, and you’re going to get taken apart, from
the inside out.”

And then he kissed her, and it was meant to scare her - she
could tell - the hard set of his lips, the brutal demands his
mouth made of hers, the way he had managed to shift her body
so she was writhing against his thigh. Not the fizzy, dizzy
delights of a Draco kiss, this - kissing Snape was like racing
the fine edge of a cliff and feeling the earth crumble beneath
your feet.

She couldn’t move away - her wrists were still held against
the dungeon wall. Couldn’t close him out, not when he had her
pinned open and soft and pulsing, squirming and yanking at her
wrists and making soft pleading noises into that deeply
demanding mouth.

Another minute and something would happen, something
cataclysmic and earth-shaking and world-changing. Another
minute and she’d be there. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh,
please …”

And then he’d stopped, drawn away, dropped the stabilizing
weight of his body against hers, and she would have fallen if
he weren’t still holding her hands. “Run,” he said, his eyes
glittering madly. “Run or stay, Miss Granger, but if I were
you I’d run. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Her chin trembled, her body ached with unfulfillment, and one
look at him told her that what he’d just done wasn’t all he
wanted to do.

Discretion is the better part of valor, she thought wildly.
Get out while you can.

She jerked her wrists out of his grip, pushed past him, and
ran.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Nineteen

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

“Will-o’-the-wisp,” Hermione panted, threw herself past the
startled Fat Lady and through the portrait hole, and pounded
up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, all the way to her
room.

Thank God, no roommates - yet another prefect perk, and worth
the hours of studying all on its own. She kicked off her
shoes, threw her robe into a corner, flopped down on the bed,
and yanked the curtains shut. Just for good measure, she
pulled her down comforter over her and jammed a pillow over
her head.

Christ, she was in a mess.

Why, oh, why, couldn’t she be a normal girl for once? She’d
spent four years in a dormitory room with Parvati Patil and
Lavender Brown - why couldn’t she have picked up on some of
their refreshing, middle-of-the-road Maybelline femininity?

Lavender had been dating Seamus Finnegan since the Yule Ball
two years ago. Parvati had given up on Harry, a few months
into their fifth year, and settled happily for Dean Thomas
instead. Hermione, of course, hadn’t dated anybody except for
Krum - and most of the Hogwarts student body considered his
interest in her to be the oddest kind of aberration.

That afternoon in the Roman salon with Giulia and Micaela,
looking in the mirror with the old ladies twittering behind
her and that classic little Hepburn face gazing piquantly back
at her, the face that she couldn’t believe was hers, she’d
thought she was finally coming into her own. Thought that this
year might be different, that somewhere among the Hogwarts
boys there’d be someone who would take a closer look and like
what he saw.

Her hopes had been modest. An invitation to Hogsmeade. A
snuggle underneath a stadium blanket, up in the Quidditch
stands. Some inexpert but enthusiastic necking in the
Astronomy Tower.

Instead, she had this … this situation on her hands. Secret
valentines from her onetime arch-nemesis. And an electric
attraction, as undeniable as it was unwise, for the forbidding
Potions professor.

Hermione hugged her pillow tighter. What was she going to do?

Two grade-A romantic tangles - three, if she believed what
Draco had said about Ron liking her, too - and not a safe,
steady Dean Thomas among them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Of the three, Ron was the closest to take-him-home-to-Mum
material. But dating Ron was out of the question. She’d
corrected his Transfiguration homework too often to consider
him as a potential boyfriend. Not to mention that it would
screw with their Three Musketeers dynamic.

And, God help her, she just couldn’t imagine him naked.

Dating Draco was nearly as bad. It wasn’t easy to admit, but
Hermione was more relieved than not that he wasn’t shouting
his love to the rooftops. Part of that was the aforementioned
buddy thing - she really, really couldn’t imagine breaking the
news to Harry and Ron, not after they’d all hated each other
for so long. Part of it was his own family’s obvious distaste
for Muggle-borns, and her suspicion that he wasn’t so much
rebelling against that bigotry wholesale, as making a
hormone-based exception in her particular case.

And part of it was just, well … it seemed a bit premature.

How well did she really know him, anyway?

Well enough to have sex with him, apparently, she told herself
tartly. Well enough to run around the castle at all hours of
the night, practically under Filch’s nose, and snog in
deserted classrooms. Well enough to share her favorite study
carroll in the library … which she wouldn’t have done for just
any pretty face.

In many ways, if you overlooked the traditional Gryffindor/
Slytherin rivalries, they were a good match. Draco was smart.
He was ambitious. He had good ideas. He made her think, and he
made her laugh, and he listened to her, really listened, when
she talked.

He liked her. A lot. She could tell - it was there in the way
he touched her, the way his lips trailed over her throat, the
half-poetic, half-incoherent words he gasped into her hair
under the Invisibility Cloak. And he’d given up a lot to be
with her … whether or not Lucius Malfoy cared to broadcast
that his only son had defied him for a Muggle-born witch,
whether or not the other Slytherins knew, Hermione had a
feeling Draco had seen Malfoy Manor for the last time in a
long time.

So in a way, she kind of owed him. Which was an awkward
position to be in.

He was sexy, he was inventive, and kissing him made her feel
as if she’d just uncapped a butterbeer after being out in the
cold. There was no artifice between them, during their
snogging sessions - they were both exploring foreign territory
- and as often as it got tense and breathless, it was giggly
and teasing and affectionate, too.

It’d be pretty easy to fall for him, all things considered.
But she wasn’t quite sure she’d … fallen … yet.

Or maybe it was just that Snape was distracting her.

Snape. Damn him.

She’d known that sooner or later she was going to have to
think about Snape; everything else, at the moment, was only an
evasion of the inevitable.

He gave her the screaming meemies … every short hair on her
body stood at attention under those lazy, knowing dark eyes.
And when he touched her - well. Wow. There weren’t words for
it.

No sweet teenage sincerity. Not Krum’s respectful gentleness,
or Draco’s appealing mix of sharp curiosity and awe. Just a
blistering tropical blaze that made her brain black out and
her body turn to porridge.

She knew it was a bad idea. Even if he weren’t her teacher.
Even if he weren’t twenty years older than she. Even if she
could manage to talk to him for ten minutes without ending up
against a wall or over his knee.

The chemistry was too powerful, too scary. When the two of
them mixed, they melted cauldrons.

And he knew it, too. She buried her head farther in her pillow
and groaned. He’d been trying to warn her off at every turn …
probably that nastiness he affected was his idea of a
defensive measure, meant to keep her at a distance.

But she couldn’t seem to stop herself from pushing his
buttons, now that she knew there was more to the story, now
that she’d seen the dark electricity that pulsed beneath the
surface. It was like that Nicolas Cage line in “Moonstruck,”
her mum’s favorite movie.

“You run to the wolf in me,” Nic had snarled at Cher. “That
don’t make you no lamb.”

Cue the fake snow and the violins. Hermione rolled over and
sighed heavily.

That jaw-clenched, skin-vibrating rage. That tidal wave of
animalian sensation. The heady, gut-roiling knowledge that
they were teetering on the precipice - that he was fighting
with his baser instincts, and that she’d already given over to
hers.

Dear God. Who’d have ever thought that she’d have a slick in
her panties for bad boys?

It was going to be an interesting year.

**

Crookshanks had arrived a week ago, along with her luggage and
a care package from her parents - apparently Dumbledore had
come to the rescue and sent them an owl with a plausible
reason why Hermione had come straight to school. Draco had
gotten his things, too - and his eagle owl was right on
schedule with its twice-weekly infusions of sweets and
spending money, Hermione noticed. If this seemed odd to him,
he didn’t let on.

“Keeping up appearances,” he’d said when she brought it up one
evening, and shrugged. “The Ministry’s bound to have leaked
the story a little … easiest way to make people forget is to
maintain a routine. He can’t seem to be angry with me now;
it’d just feed the rumors.”

And, as his right hand had at that moment found its way
through her robes and was moving in increasingly satisfactory
patterns over her naked breast, she’d let it go at that.

To paraphrase Ecclesiastes, there was a time to ask questions.
And there was also a time to just shut up and feel the moment.

Now, she decided that eating in her room tonight was vastly
preferable to taking her dinner in the Great Hall … Draco and
she never spoke at meals anyway, and she’d just as soon wait
to see Snape until … well, until it was absolutely necessary.
She ignited one of her little bluebell fires in the middle of
the stone floor, dug out a packet of microwave popcorn (her
mum didn’t seem to realize, even after five years of
Hermione’s reminders, that Hogwarts didn’t run on
electricity), and levitated the packet six inches above the
fire with a flick of her wand.

“Finite Incantatem,” she said as the popping began to slow,
and heaved herself off the bed to dump the popcorn into a
bowl.

One more uninterrupted evening, and she’d have the rest of the
Palestrina notes translated and ready for Snape to review. For
a moment or so following their little … um … episode this
afternoon, she’d seriously thought about calling off the
extra-credit project. But she didn’t want to give him the
satisfaction - and besides, if this potion really did what
Palestrina claimed, she wanted to see it happen.

She’d send it by owl, early tomorrow morning. Make it into a
correspondence course.

**

She was interrupted, an hour or so into her work, by a furtive
knock at her door. By the time she’d gotten off the bed to
answer it, it had already opened - apparently by itself -
paused as if to admit a fairly lean human body - then abruptly
shut again and locked itself.

A moment later, Draco appeared from under the Invisibility
Cloak and grinned at her. She gaped back at him.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Keep your voice down, will you?” He shoved a stack of her
notes unceremoniously off the bed and plopped down next to
her. “Followed one of the Gryffindor prefects up here,” he
said. “Right through the portrait hole. Nice password, by the
way.”

Hermione picked up her wand before he could squash it, eyed
him narrowly for a moment, and set a ward on the door before
she turned back to him. “So, what? This is a social call?”

“Something like that. You weren’t at dinner.”

“Wasn’t really hungry. Had work to do.” She yelped as he
tackled her around the waist and bore her back to the bed.
“Hey!”

His face was already buried in her neck. “I’m tired of
sneaking around the castle,” he murmured, nipping at the soft
skin behind her ear. “Tired of kissing you standing up. The
train’ll be here tomorrow, and you’ll be off with Potter and
Weasley the minute they get here. I wanted you all to myself
for one more night.”

Her robes were still in the corner where she’d thrown them,
and she was wearing only a pair of shorts and a much-worn,
much-laundered T-shirt with “Kiss the Cook” emblazoned on the
front - she’d stolen it from her dad. Before she knew what he
was about, he’d stripped it off over her head and had
transferred his mouth from her neck to her breasts. He smelled
faintly lemony, as if he’d just showered.

The bed was soft, the door was locked, and Draco had obviously
learned a lot about female anatomy since the last time they’d
been horizontal. What the hell, Hermione thought, and yanked
the curtains closed.

**

Much, much later. They were spooning in the center of the big
bed, the comforter bunched around their waists. Hermione’s
fingers were tangled idly in his silky spill of palomino hair.

“You need a haircut,” she murmured, and he half-twisted so he
could eye her lazily over his shoulder.

“You offering?”

She laughed. “That’s a thought. A dangerous one.”

“I like it long.” He yawned. “Don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t take that much off,” she said, and gathered it all
together. “Just a half inch or so … Draco?”

“Mm.” He tried to turn around to face her, but she pressed his
shoulder with one hand to keep him as he was. “What is it?”

“You’ve got a funny little mark on your neck,” she said. “At
the very nape. Like a birthmark or something.”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Never heard anything about a Malfoy
birthmark.”

Her fingers combed his hair to either side, and she pushed one
of the curtains back to take a closer look. “Odd,” she
breathed. “I’ve seen this before, somewhere - I’m sure of it.”

His hand came back to feel his nape. “I don’t feel anything.”

“That’s the weird thing.” She traced it with her index finger.
“It’s not raised at all - not really like a birthmark, come to
think of it, as much as a … tattoo?”

“Huh.” He turned in her arms. “Never heard anything about a
Malfoy tattoo, either … and you’d think it’s something your
mother would tell you. What’s it look like?”

Her eyes were troubled as they met his. “Like a little knife,”
she said. “It’s shaped exactly like a little black knife.”

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty

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“Severus,” Minerva McGonagall said, “I’d duck if I were you.”

Snape looked up from his toast and stared at her blankly. “I
beg your pardon?”

“Post owl at twelve o’ clock,” she said. “And closing in fast.
Looks like books - did you order something from Flourish and
Blotts?”

“Not in recent memory,” he said, and pushed his chair back
slightly as the owl misjudged the distance and dropped the
package squarely into his scrambled eggs. He picked it up,
wiped it off with his napkin, and studied the brown paper
wrapping for a return address.

There wasn’t one - just his name, now slightly smeared with
egg yolk. He’d recognize that neat copperplate script
anywhere, though … not too difficult, considering that it was
all over the twenty-five bottles of Pepper-Up Potion he’d just
carried up to the infirmary.

Miss Granger’s translation, he assumed, and tucked it away in
an inner pocket of his robes to open later.

She surprised him. He’d thought yesterday afternoon would be
the end of the extra-credit Palestrina project. And - though
he’d never admit it - he’d spent a dolorous hour mourning its
passing, and cursing himself for an idiot.

Working with potions, one learned quick and memorable lessons
about volatile compounds. The smoke might be pretty, but the
fire burned and the explosion left a mess. And you only walked
away from it if you were fortunate.

He’d miscalculated twice yesterday: first, when he’d chosen
sarcasm as his buffer of choice, and it had turned into a
catalyst before his very eyes - and second, when he’d assumed
that a provoked Hermione Granger would choose flight over
fight. A wise man learned from his mistakes, though, and
Severus didn’t intend to make the same errors again.

He stared moodily into his tea, replaying the scene in his
head. She - stormy and magnificent, for her small height -
backing him across the floor of his own dungeons. Lit up and
luminous with outrage and power and sheer teenage pheromones.
Audaciously trying to beat him at his own game, and not
backing down even when she realized she’d bitten off more than
she could chew.

Yes, he’d known, had sensed the instant when the anger turned
into apprehension, when she’d resquared that stubborn little
chin and laid on another layer of sex to cover up her
momentary wobble. Kudos to her, he thought, for pulling it
off. That kiss on the cheek had been a stroke of genius, the
deliberate stroll away, a walking work of art.

At the time, of course, he hadn’t seen it so objectively.

After all, a woman hadn’t kissed him in fifteen years.

And if he lost control, if he upped the ante, if he forgot
himself and his position and the million or so Very Bad Things
that could come of his bad judgment, and for one moment just
REACTED, it was because she’d come too close, because she’d
touched a nerve.

No excuse for it, naturally. None.

But he’d been in despair for most of the evening, thinking
that he might have driven her away from the Illuminata.

He hadn’t thought of that potion in years - his guess was that
no one had. A good translation didn’t really exist in the
public archives, after all … and it was difficult, and arcane,
and too oddly philosophical and time-consuming to fit into the
mainstream.

But in dark times like these, it might be just what they
needed.

Him most of all.

He ran his fingers over the little brown parcel inside his
robes and allowed himself a faint smile.

**

“Hermione! Over here!”

Harry, looking a bit brown and certainly less scrawny than
usual - apparently Molly Weasley had been force-feeding him -
was standing in the entrance hall. Behind Harry was Ron, at
least three inches taller than he’d been last spring and
skinny as ever. Hermione ducked around a group of chattering
third-years and slid into place between them.

“Hi,” she said, and gave them both a quick peck on the cheek.
“How was the trip?”

“Boring,” Ron said. “No Fred and George to blow things up, no
you to talk to, no Malfoy to insult.” He grinned. “We were
forced to talk about Quidditch the whole time.”

Hermione laughed. “Tragic.”

“Nice haircut,” Harry said, running a hand casually over her
curls. “How was Rome?”

She shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Ron, who had stuffed a Chocolate Frog into his mouth,
swallowed hastily. “Did you really do a Petrificus Totalus on
Lucius Malfoy?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Rumors, rumors.” She shot him a
mischievous look under her lashes. “If you can find the
paperwork, I’ll own up to it.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances. “Think she’s holding out on
us?” Harry murmured, and Ron’s freckly face split into an evil
grin.

“I’ll say.”

“Only one thing to do, then.”

“TICKLE TIME!” Ron yelled.

And they lunged at her.

Hermione shrieked as they swung her into the air. “Get away,
get away! Ack! Put me down, you idiots!” She was laughing so
hard that she felt the hiccups coming on. “Ahhhh! I mean it -
hic - I really do … Harry, come ON …”

“Give up? Gonna admit it?”

She spluttered as Ron slung her over his shoulder. “Never! Now
put me DOWN!” She pounded at the backs of his legs, which were
all she could reach. “I’m gonna curse you … I’m - hic -
warning you …”

“Weasley! Potter! Miss Granger!” Professor McGonagall did not
look pleased. “The first years will be here any moment! Kindly
set an example!”

Slightly shamefaced, Ron set Hermione on her feet. “Sorry,
Professor.”

He glared at Hermione in mock warning, after McGonagall had
swept into the Great Hall, then wiggled the fingers of one
hand at her like a manic spider. “You won’t know when,” he
said darkly. “You won’t know where. You won’t know how.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, patting her hair back into some
semblance of order. “But you’ll be there. I know. Come on,
let’s go get seats.”

They trooped into the Great Hall, still giggling.

**

From his seat at the Slytherin table, Draco watched them
darkly.

It appeared that his father had been successful in hushing up
his indiscretions in Rome. Crabbe and Goyle showed up to flank
him, just as usual, and Pansy Parkinson, intent on relating to
him every detail of her summer holiday, had already claimed
the seat across from his own.

It was a good thing that he’d never paid much attention to her
in the past. She didn’t seem to notice that he was distracted
- that he was in fact looking straight past her, fixated on
three laughing faces at the Gryffindor table.

This secret admirer stuff sucked.

He’d watched their little reunion in the Entrance Hall - the
friendly greeting kisses, the banter, the laughter. Watched
them pick her up and spin her around. Watched Weasley throw
her over his shoulder like a sack of feed, as if she wasn’t
the most glorious thing he’d ever seen, as if she weren’t
golden and glowing and …

“Draco!”

He shook himself, frowned, dragged his attention back to
Pansy. She looked half-amused, half-annoyed.

“Haven’t you been listening?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Carry on.”

… and deserving of so much more than those two chortling
peasants. Honestly.

He hated that she liked them.

He hated that she wasn’t just his anymore. That her time and
attention, from now on out, would be split between homework
and lessons and those troglodytes she called her friends.
Hated that he wouldn’t be waking up beside her anytime soon
again.

Hated that the main connection between them would be words on
paper, words he couldn’t even sign with his own name.

“Draco!!” Pansy wasn’t even slightly amused now. “What is your
problem?”

He rolled his eyes, grateful that he’d never been polite to
her before and didn’t have to start now. “You’re boring me,”
he said, and glanced away to the front of the hall, where the
line of first-years waiting to be sorted had dwindled to five
or six. “This whole thing is boring me. Crabbe, wake me up
when it’s time to eat.”

He chanced one more glance toward the Gryffindor table and set
his jaw.

If words were all he had, he thought, he was going to make
them damn good ones.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-One

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“So,” Harry said, and the tone of his voice gave Hermione an
uneasy twinge of foreboding. “Tell us all about it.”

The three of them had commandeered the armchairs by the fire
in the Gryffindor common room - which, in the absence of Fred
and George, seemed oddly subdued - and drawn them into a
half-circle. Hermione looked from one curious, avid face to
the other and tried out her most innocent expression. “All
about what?”

Ron struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “About
what, she asks.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Hermione. Lucius
Malfoy, that’s what. Did you curse him, or didn’t you? What’s
the scoop?”

Hermione shrugged. “No need to pull a Skeeter, Ron. There’s
not much to tell.” She shrugged. “He chased me. I cursed him.
I got on the Knight Bus and it brought me to Hogwarts. End of
story.”

“Hah!” Ron shouted, making two fourth-years look up from their
game of wizard chess and scowl at him. “So it’s TRUE,” he
continued, sounding half-gleeful, half-disbelieving. “You
really did it.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The fourth-years
were openly staring now. “It’s supposed to be a secret,” she
hissed. “Keep your voice down!”

Ron was not to be swayed. “Did he gurgle?” he demanded. “Did
he drool? Did someone step on him?” More thoughtfully: “I
would’ve. If I’d been there.”

She tried not to laugh, with only partial success. “Honestly,
Ron ….”

Harry, in the meantime, was looking contemplative. “Why?” he
asked suddenly, and mistook Hermione’s suddenly hunted look
for one of confusion. “I mean, why would he come after you?
That makes no sense to me.”

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Ron, on a roll, spread his hands
theatrically. “I mean, Hermione’s a Muggle-born, isn’t she?
And first in our class?” He shook a triumphant finger at them.
“Now tell me - who’s right behind her? Who hates Muggles?
Whose father bugs them about their grades?”

Harry considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You’re
right,” he said slowly. “I heard them - Malfoy and Malfoy - in
Knockturn Alley, right before second year. And Draco was in
trouble about his grades … only his grades aren’t that bad,
are they?”

The two boys exchanged significant glances.

“That slimy git,” Ron hissed. “Isn’t it enough he buys his way
onto the Quidditch team, without having his thug of a father
try to assassinate anybody smarter than he is?”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said desperately. “You think Draco
put his father up to it?” Oh, this was bad, she thought. This
was very, VERY bad. “But that’s impossible!”

Two heads swiveled abruptly toward her - one red, one black.
Hermione’s stomach sank into her shoes. Big mistake, Granger,
she thought wildly. They’ll never buy it now.

Damn it, why couldn’t she have been born a better liar?

“Impossible?” Harry asked, looking genuinely bewildered.
“Why’s that?”

“Um …” she began, and saw Ron’s eyes narrow with the
beginnings of suspicion.

And then inspiration struck.

The best lies contained a grain of truth.

“Because,” she said, putting on her best Impatient Face, “he
TOLD me why he was there, and Draco had nothing to do with
it.” She took a deep breath. “He wanted me to tell him where
you spend your summers, Harry,” she said quickly. “He said you
aren’t listed in the student directory. And I think there must
be some kind of protective magic around your uncle’s house.
Maybe even the Fidelius Charm.”

She paused. Did they believe her? “Or maybe it’s Unplottable,”
she added for good measure. “It could be that, too.”

“No, it couldn’t,” Ron said. “Because we found it that summer,
Fred and George and me, with the flying car. And Dad even
hooked you up to the Floo Network, a couple of summers ago.
Remember, Harry?”

“Well, yeah. But maybe …”

And that was it … they were off into a heated discussion of
the possibilities. Hermione wasn’t listening - she was too
relieved.

She hoped with all her heart that she would never be called
upon to be a Secret-Keeper.

It was much, much harder than it looked.

**

First day of classes.

Breakfast in the Great Hall.

Hermione slung her bag under her chair, slid into her seat,
poured herself some pumpkin juice and was plowing through her
cornflakes when the post arrived.

“No Daily Prophet?” Ron asked, his mouth half-full of
blueberry muffin, and Hermione shook her head.

“After what happened two years ago? No thanks. I’ll read the
library’s copy, but I won’t spend my money on that libelous
rag.” She reached for a piece of toast.

“Hermione, you’ve got an owl,” Harry said, pointing. “Not the
Daily Prophet, either … letter from home, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Hermione said absently, but she had to fight to hide
a smile. Over at the Slytherin table, Draco was very pointedly
opening his Charms textbook. But their eyes had met for a
split second, and she knew he was watching her.

Here goes, she thought. Operation Secret Admirer is underway.
She slit open the little pink envelope, pushed her cornflakes
toward the owl who had brought it, and drew out a small, plain
white card.

“Who’s it from?” Harry asked, and Hermione schooled her
features into puzzlement.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s unsigned.”

Given Draco’s sense of humor, she didn’t know what to expect -
some half-sarcastic version of “Roses are red, violets are
blue …”, maybe. Or perhaps an obscene limerick.

Instead, he’d excerpted Matthew Arnold. God knew where he’d
found the book, Hermione mused; Madam Pince didn’t stock a lot
of Muggle poets.

Interesting.

**
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
**

“Oh,” she said softly, reading it again, and - only partially
in jest - sat back in her chair to fan herself with the
envelope. At the next table, she saw Draco’s lips twitch
behind his textbook.

Parvati, who had been watching Hermione with great interest
since the arrival of the owl, seized this opportunity to pluck
the card from Hermione’s plate.

“Ooooh!” she squealed a moment later, her eyes racing over the
words, and showed the card to Lavender. “Hermione, how
exciting! You’ve got an admirer!!!”

“Let me see that,” Ron snapped, and snatched the card. “What’s
this? ‘The hopeless longing of the day’? What a load of …”

“Look, Hermione,” Harry interrupted. He was reading over Ron’s
shoulder. “Part of it’s in code, looks like. Bunch of numbers
in rows. Some on the back, too.”

Hermione reclaimed the card and studied it more carefully.
“Hm,” she said. “Interesting.”

“Interesting,” Ron echoed darkly. “That’s one word for it.”

“Who do you think it is, Hermione?” This from a very giggly
Lavender. Hermione shrugged.

“No idea,” she said, gathering up her books and pushing back
her chair. “Somebody who knows me pretty well, I guess.”

“What makes you say that?” Harry asked.

She shouldered her bag and sent him an amused look as she
turned to go. “They’re giving me homework already.”

**

Ten minutes into History of Magic, Hermione pulled out the
little card.

Usually she’d be taking notes. Usually she’d be the ONLY one
taking notes. But Professor Binns had apparently mistaken his
sixth-year class for his fifth-year class today, and was
repeating the lecture he’d given them last year.

And even she drew the line at writing THAT down again.

She studied the back of the card. Above the series of numbers
was a tiny drawing of a skeleton key.

Well, that was easy enough. The key to the code.

She copied the numbers down on a scrap piece of parchment,
tucked the card away, and studied them again. Random order, it
looked like. Numbers one to twenty-six.

Aha, she thought. One for each letter of the alphabet.

But why mixed-up?

Hermione dug out the card again and copied down the second
series of numbers, careful to duplicate the spaces between the
groups. Maybe it was easy, she thought. A equals 1, B equals 2
…

No. That wasn’t it.

She erased her first effort surreptitiously and went back to
the key. The first number was 16. Okay.

16 equals 1 equals A. 17 equals 2 equals B. Let’s try that.

No.

She erased again and glared at the card. Then she glared at
Harry, who was highly amused by the whole process and watching
her out of the corner of his eye.

Quick glance up at Professor Binns. Make eye contact. Nod.

That should take care of HIM for the next half hour, she
thought. Now. Let’s try one more thing.

First number. 16 equals A.

Second number. 22 equals B.

Third number. 7 equals C.

Etcetera.

Bingo, she thought, and slid the key and the coded message to
the far side of her backpack, so Harry couldn’t read over her
shoulder. The note didn’t take long to decipher.

**

Ten p.m. tonight?

I’ll pick you up at the portrait hole.

Send your reply care of “The Wizard’s Guide to Dark
Prophecies.”

Write in code. I have the key.

**

Parvati, who had noticed her copying out the numbers, leaned
over and whispered something to Lavender at the next desk.
“Did he sign it?” Lavender mouthed while Professor Binns was
writing on the blackboard, and Hermione shook her head and
turned her palms up.

More whispering, interspersed with giggles. Hermione slid the
decoded note under the desk and pointed her wand at it.

“Incendio,” she whispered, felt it flake away to ashes in her
hand, and sat back, smiling to herself.

This could be fun.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Two

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Lunch.

“What did it say?” Parvati asked for the millionth time, and
Hermione rolled her eyes over her ham and cheese sandwich.

“It’s from Cornelius Fudge, Parvati,” she said. “He wants me
to run away with him and bear his children.”

At that, Harry choked on a crisp and had to be beaten
vigorously on the back by Ron. Parvati looked cross, though,
and Hermione relented.

“Seriously,” she said, “the note didn’t really give me a clue.
Wish it had.” She popped one of Harry’s crisps into her mouth,
brushed crumbs from the front of her robes, and stood up. “See
you in class. I need to go to the library for a couple of
minutes.”

“Some things, at least,” Ron muttered, “never change.”

Hermione pretended she hadn’t heard him.

**

“The Wizard’s Guide to Dark Prophecies” was in the Restricted
Section, back on the shelf devoted to Divination. Obviously
Draco’s idea of a little joke, Hermione thought, and lugged it
over to the nearest study carroll.

Had she paged through this once? She couldn’t remember - back
in her third year, she’d worked very hard to establish a
mental block of All Things Divination, and she’d rather like
to keep it that way. She flipped through it idly, frowning
when it fell open at a folded-down page. Madam Pince wouldn’t
like that one bit, she thought, and paused to unfold it.

There was a note in the margin, adding insult to injury.
Hermione barely registered the message, the first time she
read it - a tiny arrowhead pointing up, next to a single
sentence:

Is this what it looks like?

Startled, she looked more closely at the page. And gasped.

A black knife. Identical to the mark on the back of Draco’s
neck.

By the time she’d finished reading the passage corresponding
to the picture, her hands were shaking. She pulled out a
half-sheet of parchment and a quill and scrawled a hasty
answer:

Yes. Details at 10.

She didn’t bother to encode it - she only had five minutes to
Arithmancy. Tucking the parchment into the book, she replaced
it on the shelf and sprinted for class.

Every time she thought her life couldn’t get more complicated,
something like this happened.

**

Arithmancy, and then Potions, where Hermione managed to trade
one swift, significant glance with Draco before settling down
at the same table as a pale, set-faced Neville Longbottom.

Poor Neville. At this point, Potions had ceased to become
simply his worst class, and had passed into the realm of
nightmare. It was as if, Hermione thought, Snape had scared
him into mental rigor mortis.

It wasn’t even as if she could help him much at this point -
from what she’d read of the textbook, sixth-year Potions had
ceased to be all about the ingredients. They were getting into
the subtleties now, potions in which success or failure could
be determined by the difference between a clockwise or a
counterclockwise stir, a simmer or a low boil, thirty seconds’
resting time between ingredients or thirty-five.

The lessons might be getting more difficult, but they were
also, Hermione had noticed, becoming very practical … and not
just for the everyday. Today’s Armoring Fluid, for example,
granted the drinker temporary immunity from hostile spells.
Its effects wore off within minutes - less than five, as a
matter of fact - but it maintained its potency for several
weeks at room temperature.

Practically a military weapon, Hermione thought, as limited as
it is. She shuddered. Nothing went into these textbooks
without good reason.

Used primarily by Aurors and debt collectors, Snape had said -
as usual, so dryly that Hermione couldn’t detect a joke if
there was one - despite its unreliability. “I don’t suppose
any of you have spotted the weakness in the formula?” he
asked, and Hermione - seeing no other takers - raised her
hand.

“Miss Granger. Pardon my surprise.” The Slytherins tittered;
Harry shot a dark look at Snape that he either didn’t see or
pretended to ignore. “Enlighten us,” he sneered, and Hermione
felt color rise in her cheeks.

Asshole.

“It’s the lacewings,” she said. “Their half-life is short
anyway, and they’re not a strong enough ingredient to stand
against the acid in the dragon’s-blood.”

A long silence followed, broken eventually by Ron saying “Huh?
” under his breath and Pansy Parkinson sniggering. Apparently,
‘half-life’ wasn’t a wizarding term, Hermione thought
ruefully, nor was dragon’s-blood judged by its pH levels.

Funny how she could still make these mistakes sometimes.

But he’d asked her for a hypothetical answer - it wasn’t in
the book. And, dammit, she wasn’t wrong.

Snape inclined his head fractionally. Either he was affirming
her answer, or his neck was stiff and he was trying to crack
it. Whichever it was, he looked pained.

“How … scientific of you,” he said, grimacing. “Anyone else
care to take us back to the fourteenth century, where we
belong?”

Asshole, Hermione thought again, and settled back in her chair
to count her beetle legs and glare at him from under her
eyelashes. Honestly. She loved this place, loved being a
witch, but sometimes she had to wonder about people who hadn’t
settled on at least some adaptation of electricity.

The class went downhill from there, reaching what was perhaps
its low point twenty minutes from the end of the period. “You
should all be finished by now,” Snape purred, and waved his
desk to the side of the room with a rarely-seen flick of his
wand. “Kindly measure out a half-beaker of your potion and
form a line along the far wall. Whatever you do, Miss Brown,”
- and here he glared at Lavender, who was lifting her beaker
to her lips - “don’t drink it yet; under the best of
conditions this potion’s effects last only a few minutes, and
I don’t imagine most of yours will work at all.”

This last was delivered with such obvious anticipation that
Lavender paled.

**

“It could have been worse,” Hermione said comfortingly to
Neville as they went up to dinner. Neville only grunted, and
continued to bunny-hop.

Snape’s curse-of-choice for testing the Armoring Potions had
been Tarantallegra for the Slytherins, Leg-Locker for the
Gryffindors.

Admittedly, it had been funny to watch Crabbe and Goyle
waltzing with each other. But that didn’t change the fact that
Tarantallegra wore off in about ten minutes - well before the
end of class - and Leg-Locker did not.

Not only unfair, but calculatedly so.

Oh, to be on holiday again, Hermione thought. She’d trade her
still-perfect record at the Ministry of Magic for one
well-placed hex.

She glanced sideways at Neville, still hopping, and sighed
with inward exasperation. Hadn’t he even thought to reverse
the spell himself? “Finite Incantatem,” she said, pulling out
her wand, and grabbed his shoulder to steady him as his legs
snapped apart. “Come on. I’m starving.”

Dinner was a nightmare of Quidditch-speak; in the absence of
Fred and George, Ron had joined the Gryffindor team as a
Beater. As far as Hermione could tell, he and Harry would
never talk about anything else until they died.

That could be arranged, she thought sourly, draining her
pumpkin juice and standing up. “I’m going to study,” she
announced, and Ron looked up from the diagram he was drawing
on his napkin.

“What?”

“Never mind,” Hermione said, and headed for the stairs.

Keeping secrets from them, she reflected, might not be so
difficult after all.

**

Crookshanks, who was napping on the foot of her bed, meowed as
she came in and stretched out a lazy paw toward her. Since the
defection of Peter Pettigrew from Ron’s pocket to Voldemort’s,
Crookshanks had seemingly retired his inner Kneazle, and spent
most of his time following the migratory spot of deep sunlight
from one end of Hermione’s room to the other. Hermione
suspected that he missed his summers at her parents’ house:
the sunny patio, the visual delights of the aquarium in her
father’s office, and the constant cosseting of her mother, who
was a Cat Person from the word ‘go’, and who had gone so far
last summer as to purchase, in a pet-specialties shop, an
electric water fountain designed for cats.

“What is that?” Hermione had asked, and her mum had promptly
pulled it out of the box and set it up - a sweetly flowing
little column of water, emptying into a roomy dish and
circulating up again.

“It’ll keep the water fresh for him,” she’d explained proudly.
“Cats prefer running water to still.”

Whatever, Hermione had thought, and rolled her eyes at the
extravagance. As it turned out, Crookshanks did like it - not
nearly as water-shy as most cats, he was fascinated by the
moving water and liked to bat at it with his paws - but the
little fountain had remained at home, despite her mother’s
protests, and so far Hermione hadn’t figured out how to
enchant Crookshanks’ regular water bowl to achieve the same
effect.

Professor McGonagall would probably know how. But Hermione was
a little embarrassed to ask.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said now, setting her bag down next to
the door, and obligingly rubbed the tummy he presented to her.
“Have a good day?”

He rolled back over and half-closed his eyes contentedly.
Hermione eyed the bed, still striped with the warm remains of
the afternoon sun, and decided he had the right idea. No
homework to speak of, and what there was could wait.

Besides, if she was going to run around half the night with
Draco Malfoy, she needed to rest up.

“Just for a few minutes,” she told the purring cat, and kicked
off her shoes.

**

“Wake up,” a voice hissed in her ear, and she jolted straight
up in bed, looking around panicked for her clock.

“What time is it?”

“Ten-fifteen,” Draco said, and lit the candle on her
nightstand with a spark from his wand. He sounded annoyed, or
at least abrupt, and not loverly in the least. “Sorry I broke
in again. You said you’d meet me, and it’s not like you to be
late.”

“Ten-fifteen,” Hermione repeated, and shook her head. “Wow.
That’s the last time I go down for a power nap at
seven-thirty.” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Give
me a minute,” she said, yawning, “and I’ll be ready to go. I
just have to wake up a little.”

“Not necessary,” he said, softening a little, and handed her a
stack of notes. “I Replicated the chapter.”

Hermione studied him levelly as she took the parchment from
him. He wasn’t taking this well; his face was dead white,
except for the hot flush of colour on his cheekbones, and his
eyes were glassy with anxiety. Understandable, she thought,
and laid her hand over his as she began to read over the
passage she’d skimmed earlier in the library.

Finally, she looked up, more worried than she cared to admit.

“The Fils de Couteau,” she said, and unconsciously traced the
outline of the drawing on the page with the tip of her
fingernail. “Son of the Knife.” Draco winced.

“That’s me,” he said grimly. “Since conception, apparently.
I’ve been carrying this, this … thing,” - here his hand flew
unconsciously to the back of his neck - “from the womb.”

They both did the mental math and shuddered. The time of his
conception would have been nearly two years before Voldemort’s
defeat, at the height of his power. At a Dark Revel, most
likely. Hermione didn’t want to think about what that little
ritual must have looked like.

Poor Narcissa, she thought. No wonder she looks so disgusted
all the time.

She turned back to the notes, mostly to distract herself.

“I hate Divination,” she muttered under her breath, her finger
stabbing at the page. “’Son of the knife, blood pure as snow’,
blah blah. ‘Destroy the imperfect’, blah blah. ‘Purge the
world’, blah blah blah. This is right up Trelawney’s alley.
Nothing but poetry and tea leaves.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco said. “It seems pretty clear to me.
Especially the part about the blood.”

“Actually,” Hermione admitted, “the purging bit’s pretty
clear, too.” She paused thoughtfully. “You’re supposed to be
some sort of a secret weapon, then,” she said. “Against
Muggle-borns. I wonder how that works, exactly?” She scanned
the page again. “Wouldn’t you have figured it out by now, if
you had extraordinary powers?”

Draco swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’m the weapon, exactly,”
he said, sounding remarkably unshaken, considering the
circumstances. “But there’s about five liters of it sloshing
around inside me. If you catch my drift.”

They exchanged uneasy glances. Hermione could almost feel
herself Reverting To Type.

“Dumbledore,” she said. “We’ve got to see Dumbledore. Now.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Three

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“No,” Draco said flatly. “We’re not going to Dumbledore with
this.”

Hermione studied him curiously. It was as if her suggestion
had erected an invisible barrier between them. “Why not?”

“Because,” he snapped, “I don’t want to. And because it’s not
necessary.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You sound just like Ron and Harry,” she said, and Draco
bristled, the spots of colour on his cheekbones growing even
more pronounced against his pallor.

“I’m nothing like them,” he spat. “If they want to keep the
Headmaster in the dark, it’s usually because they’re doing
something they shouldn’t be.”

(At this, Hermione gave a hum of grudging assent. He had a
point there.)

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he continued. “But the very
fact that I have blood in my veins makes me a threat to
society, apparently, and to be honest with you, Hermione, I’d
really rather not advertise that. Even to Dumbledore.” He
paused, then laughed humorlessly. “Especially to Dumbledore.”

“He might be able to help,” she persisted. Draco made an
impatient sound in his throat and shook his head.

“He might be. And he might decide that the world’s safer if
I’m not in it.” The look he gave her was cold and appraising
and so unlike the boy who’d shared this same bed with her only
two nights ago that it made her shiver. “It’s easy for you to
trust Dumbledore,” he said with a touch of bitterness. “You
and your little charmed circle. The fearless, death-defying
Quidditch star. The brilliant, talented future Head Girl. One
of the noble, penurious Weasleys.”

He sneered, and Hermione would have taken offense if he
weren’t directing his malice mostly at himself.

“You don’t wear your last name like a fucking albatross around
your neck,” he said, each word more caustic and embittered
than the next. His eyes were stony with rage. “You don’t share
a face with the man who’s tried to have the Headmaster sacked
for the last five years. Who loosed a Basilisk on the school.
Who sent the school gamekeeper to Azkaban on trumped-up
charges. You’re not the spawn of a homicidal maniac and a
society junkie, and you don’t have poison pumping through your
heart sixty times a minute, and as smart as you are, you
really don’t have a clue about this.” A muscle was ticking in
his cheek, and he’d compressed his mouth into a line so thin
that his lips were white.

“Draco -“ She brought up her hand as if to caress his arm,
then dropped it again without touching him. He closed his eyes
wearily, rubbed his hand over his face.

“I’d rather not chance it,” he said, after a long awkward
pause. “My life might not mean much to anyone else, but it’s
still pretty valuable to me.”

“You trusted him about what happened in Rome,” Hermione said
quietly. “Why can’t you trust him about this?”

He managed a tight smile.

“Because I don’t share your faith in the system,” he said. “I
wish I did. But I honestly don’t trust it to work for me.”

Seeing the worried look on her face, he sighed heavily and
gave her hand an apologetic squeeze. “Look,” he said. “You’re
the best researcher in the school, and I’m not so bad myself.
If we can’t find a solution between the two of us, we’re an
insult to our education.”

“But …” He cut her off.

“But nothing,” he said. “This is the way it is. My father, my
problem, my bloody destiny, so we play it my way. Okay?”

Hermione, feeling a heavy sense of déja vù overtake her, bit
her lip and reluctantly acquiesced.

“Okay.”

Long after he’d gone, she lay awake, cuddling Crookshanks and
thinking hard.

If there was an easy way out of this, she certainly couldn’t
see it.

**

There were no secret-admirer envelopes in the owl post the
next morning at breakfast, but Hermione did get a curt little
note from Snape, informing her that he’d looked over her
translation and was available to discuss her extra-credit
project that evening following the dinner hour.

Whoo, boy, she thought. Rough waters ahead. Ready the life
preservers. All hands on deck.

Ron, who had been reading over her shoulder, shook his head
incredulously. “I can’t believe,” he said, “that you’re
willingly doing extra work for Snape. You’ve obviously been
reading too much; the library paste has gone to your brain.”
He paused thoughtfully. “Or maybe,” he said, “Lucius Malfoy
really DID manage to curse you, and you just don’t know it
yet. Maybe -“

“Oh, put a cork in it, Ron,” Hermione snapped, suddenly
irritable. Trust him to be indiscreet about her Roman
adventure; Parvati and Lavender were only two seats away, and
all four of their delicate little seashell ears were perked
for gossip. “You may be prepared to go through life without a
working knowledge of Potions, just to spite Snape, but I am
not,” she continued, her voice rising despite her best
intentions. “So why don’t you leave me to it, since you
disapprove so much, and just go polish your broom or
something?”

The whole table fell silent. Hermione, finding herself the
object of a long row of surprised Gryffindor stares, flushed
slightly and ducked under her chair to fish for her book bag.

“I have things to do,” she said shortly, shouldering the bag.
“I’ll see you in class.”

As she stalked away, she was aware of two things: smothered
giggles from the female Gryffindors, and Ron’s reddening face.
She smiled in grim satisfaction.

In the wizarding world, ‘polishing the broomstick’ was a
common, if crude, euphemism for male masturbation. She doubted
that she’d hear any more nonsense from Ron for at least a
week, where Snape was concerned anyway.

She blew out a long breath, suddenly feeling very shaky.

Dealing with Snape wouldn’t be nearly so easy.

**

He was already in the Potions classroom when she arrived that
evening after dinner, barricaded securely behind his desk with
a stack of partially graded essays in front of him. “Hello,
Professor,” she said from the doorway, and he waved her in
impatiently with one hand while continuing to write with the
other.

She perched herself on top of one of the tables -
unconventional, she knew, but she felt braver when he wasn’t
towering over her, and this way she actually had a slight
height advantage - and waited for him to finish. Finally, he
pushed the essays to one side, withdrew from a drawer a roll
of parchment that she recognized as her translation, and
raised his eyebrows inquiringly at her. “Well?”

Well, what? Hermione wanted to retort, but bit it back. He was
probably spoiling for a reason to throw her out, and she
didn’t intend to let that happen. She folded her hands in her
lap and gave him her most innocent look. “Well, what do you
think?” she asked. “Is it any good?”

“Answering one question with another is not only
ungrammatical, Miss Granger, it’s rude,” he said. He sounded
more triumphant than annoyed. “I’ll tell you what I think of
your translation, once I’ve determined whether your background
research is sufficiently thorough to merit its discussion.”

Ouch.

Okay, Hermione thought. I can play that game. “Of course,” she
said, as sweetly as she could manage, and handed him the rolls
of parchment she’d brought with her. “Here’s my history
research. And my harmonic analysis.” She beamed at him. “And
my mathematical proofs. With which would you like me to begin?
”

He grimaced at her, shoving the documents aside as if she’d
poured slugs into his hands. “I don’t want to see what you
know on paper,” he said impatiently. “I want to hear it.
What’s your justification for doing this project? Why does it
interest you, and what about it is worth my time and yours?”

**

If for no other reason, you had to admire a man who cut so
quickly to the chase. Hermione sucked her teeth for a moment,
wondering where to begin.

“My dad used to tell me bedtime stories,” she said finally.
“But he didn’t like fairy tales or children’s books. So he
told me things that were true, mostly, things that he thought
would inspire me. And one night - I think I was six years old
- it was this story about Palestrina.”

She shot a nervous glance at Snape. It was odd, telling him
something so private and cherished - even her mum didn’t know
about this memory of hers, and she wasn’t sure what she’d do
if he said something to ruin it. But he just sat there looking
at her, his face carefully expressionless. She took a breath
and kept going.

“There was a religious convention,” she said, “called the
Council of Trent. They’d come together for the purpose of
reforming the Church, to make the services more accessible to
the common people.” She paused. “I don’t know what you know
about Muggle religion, Professor, but -“

“I know enough,” he said. “Pray, continue.”

Was that a joke? She gave him a hesitant smile, just in case.
“Anyway,” she said, “the Council said that church music was
too complicated, and that people couldn’t understand it. And
they were ready to ban music in the services altogether.
That’s when Palestrina stepped in and wrote a Mass - the Missa
Papae Marcelli - to convince them to change their minds.” She
grinned sheepishly. “Dad sold it like a kind of morality play.
You know, ‘use your talents’, ‘change the world and make it
better’, that sort of thing.”

She was into her story now, her reluctance forgotten. “We
listened to some of it, my dad and I,” she said. “And I could
hear it - I could hear why it worked.” She paused in
recollection. “It was so balanced. So perfect. There was
something about the way it went through me … as if it wasn’t
just my ears anymore, as if my whole body was standing in line
and listening and just … just vibrating right along.” Her eyes
were dreamy and faraway. “It had colours in it,” she said. “I
could hear them. I could feel them. And then ….”

“Yes?” he prompted, and couldn’t believe he’d done so. It
didn’t seem as if she’d heard him anyway.

“We started floating,” she murmured, and he could see the
wonder of the memory on her face. “He was sitting on my bed,
and I was all tucked in, and then … we were in midair. Bed and
all. Both of us. About a foot off the ground. Until the music
stopped. And it didn’t seem strange at all.”

She snapped back to the present and shrugged at him, a little
embarrassed. “When I got my letter from Hogwarts, that’s the
first thing I thought of,” she said. “That night in my room,
floating in my bed while the music played. It didn’t surprise
me at all when I found out Palestrina was a wizard.”

Silence.

“All right,” he said finally, to break the spell of that
tender, eloquent image - he could picture it all too well in
his head, a little girl with curly hair and a dark-eyed man,
wrapped in a magic soap bubble of music and thin air. “So.
That’s why it interests you.” He gave her a long appraising
glance. “But why is it valuable? What makes it worth the
study?”

She looked surprised by the question, but not thrown off.
“That’s easy,” she said. “The Illuminata. The potion. The
magic in the music.” Her hands rose expressively in front of
her, two fluttering golden birds in the candlelight. “That
feeling,” she said. “That emotion. That … that goodness.
There’s nothing else like it, anywhere. Not a Cheering Charm.
Not a Calming Compound. Not Dreamless Sleep. Not Obliviate.”

She leaned toward him, her face alight. “The Illuminata is
pure joy, bottled. What better weapon could we have, in a war
against darkness?”

**

Severus stared at her and felt his throat close.

For a moment, he was back in Rome, offering his handkerchief
to a girl with an awestruck, tearstained face.

For a moment, he could hear the choir himself.

Pure joy, bottled.

What better weapon, indeed?

“Are you all right?” she asked gently, and he realized that
she’d come around the desk, that her hand was on his arm, that
her eyes were wide with concern. He stared up at her, a little
dazed.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. “If it’s not a good
idea, just say so - it’s okay.”

“No,” he said, his voice sounding raspy and distant to his own
ears. “No, it’s not that.”

He looked ready to cry, Hermione thought, and was oddly
panicked by that thought. Give her back Nasty Snape, Dangerous
Sex God Snape, even Kinky Violent Snape, just don’t make her
deal with this … this very human-looking man, who was gazing
up at her as if he’d never seen her before.

“What is it, then?” she asked, and he just shook his head.

“It …” He paused, swallowed hard. “It’s a good idea, Hermione.
A very good idea.”

“Oh,” she whispered, and they stared at each other for another
long moment.

His knuckles grazed her cheek. Her lips found his palm.

When he finally spoke, it was in a voice so so rusty and
disused that she barely recognized it as his.

“You make me think,” he said, “that there may yet be hope.”

**

TBC
Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Four

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“’Assume,’” Hermione’s father was fond of saying, “makes an
ass of you and me.”

How right he was.

She’d been in Severus Snape’s class for more than five years.
She’d had him over for dinner. They’d shared an ill-fated
Discipline Moment, a clandestine cup of tea, and a brief,
violent, decisive match of tonsil hockey.

And she didn’t know the first thing about him, really, except
that his hand against her face had been surprisingly warm, and
that she hadn’t wanted him to take it away.

Oh, yes, and one more thing.

He was much more dangerous when he wasn’t trying to be.

It was seven o’ clock - she’d have to hurry if she wanted
breakfast. The sun was up, the air was warm, the birds were
singing. (So, from the sound of it, was Hagrid; a trick of the
air currents around the castle carried sound from the
gamekeeper’s hut up to Hermione’s window on most clear days.
She’d once had to endure half an hour of Professor Sprout’s
scolding and Hagrid’s apologies when Fang had dug up a row of
shrivelfigs.)

Hermione yawned, pulled herself out of bed by sheer force of
will, and groped for her bathrobe. Long day ahead, and she’d
had a hard time getting to sleep last night.

If every encounter she had with Severus Snape was going to end
in four hours of brain-numbing sleeplessness, she might ask
him to change Thursday night for Friday. At least then she
could sleep late the next morning.

**

Thursday evening, however, passed mostly without event. For
the first hour, she shredded valerian roots for a Dreamless
Sleep potion; anyone who ended up in the hospital wing got a
healthy dose of it, regardless of their initial malady, so
reserves tended to run low quickly. The second hour was spent
with her translation and some books from Snape’s private
library; one, a comprehensive reference of magical substances,
and the other, the wizarding version of a Latin dictionary.
When she closed the books at eight o’ clock, he looked up from
the papers he was grading.

“Did you find everything you needed?”

She nodded. “The translation’s complete, I think. Thank you,”
- she indicated the books in front of her - “these were very
helpful.”

Snape dismissed her thanks with a quick sideways jerk of his
head. “Leave it on my desk, and I’ll look over it this
weekend.”

He picked up the parchment she handed him and frowned over it
for a minute. “Most of these things I have, or can order
through the school. But before you can proceed with the potion
itself, you’ll need to make a distillation of the lemon balm,
the stronger the better. Ask Professor Sprout to give you as
much as she can spare. It should be picked fresh Tuesday
afternoon.”

“I’ll do that.” She gathered up her books and paused at the
door. “Good night.”

He had already turned his attention back to his grading, but
at that, his head jerked up again. “Hm? Oh. Yes. Good night.”

Very proper, she thought while walking up to Gryffindor Tower.
Very civilized. And also very wary - they’d cut wide circles
around each other while brewing the Dreamless Sleep, as if
avoiding an invisible magnetic field.

That was probably a good metaphor for the whole situation, she
reflected. If either one of them got too close, they’d be
jerked together with a clang, probably at the lips. Like those
kissing teddy bears her mum had sent her for Valentine’s Day
last year.

She groaned a little at that memory. She hadn’t opened a
package from home in public since.

One thing, though. He hadn’t called her ‘Miss Granger’ once
all night.

Come to think of it, she’d avoided the word ‘Professor’
herself.

“Cattails,” she said to the Fat Lady, and slipped hastily
through the common room, up to her dormitory. Once inside, she
warded the door.

Draco Malfoy was a complication she didn’t need tonight.

**

Draco’s discovery of the Fils du Couteau prophecy, and the
subsequent argument in Hermione’s room, had brought their
fledgling affair to a screeching halt. Hermione didn’t take
this personally; he seemed distant from everyone, not just
her, and a few days ago at dinner she’d seen him shake Pansy’s
hand off his arm with an ugly look on his face and a few terse
words that Hermione couldn’t hear, but that had made Pansy go
pale and run out of the Great Hall. From what Hermione had
overheard from the other Slytherin girls before Care of
Magical Creatures the next morning, Pansy had spent most of
the night in tears.

Draco himself looked paler than usual, if that was possible,
and a bit careless about his personal appearance, though no
one seemed to notice this but Hermione. He was withdrawn
during class to the point of catatonia; given to staring
glassily into space, and reacting with what verged on
hostility when interrupted from his reverie, whether by
teacher or student. Crabbe and Goyle he avoided altogether,
and they seemed lost without him, purposeless and oddly
diminished.

Hermione was still taking what time she could spare from her
classes, and the tedious process of distilling and
re-distilling the lemon balm, to research on his behalf.
Sometimes they’d meet by chance in the library, looking for
the same book; on those occasions he was subdued, but civil.
Mostly he seemed surprised that she was still working on it,
and at least as bothered by that fact as he was grateful.

The situation had Hermione disturbed, too. She didn’t like
that look of self-loathing he got when he thought himself to
be unobserved, or the mannerisms he’d picked up. This
particular afternoon, she’d been sitting at the other end of a
study table from him, surreptitiously watching as he read.
He’d been using a fountain pen to take notes, rather than a
quill, and was flicking it against his wrist.

A nervous, subconscious gesture, yes - but rhythmic, and
prolonged, and not what she’d call gentle. She saw a pink
stripe bloom on his wrist where the pen was hitting it,
watched the pink deepen to red, and finally couldn’t take it
any more.

“Draco,” she hissed. “Stop it.”

He looked up, startled. “What?”

“Stop it,” she repeated, and gestured to the pen in his hand.
He followed her gaze to the ugly red mark on his arm, then
shrugged.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Time for a little tough love, Hermione decided, and scooted a
little closer to him. “You know,” she said, “this has nothing
to do with you. Not really.”

He snorted but didn’t look at her. “What are you talking
about? It has everything to do with me. It’s been hard-wired
into my bones. It’s all I am.”

“Not true,” she persisted. “If it was all you were, you’d be
embracing the idea - not trying to fight it. You’d be falling
all over yourself to make it happen, and you wouldn’t be
caught dead at the same library table with me, trying to make
it go away.”

She grabbed his hand to make him look up. “Whatever’s wrong
with you may be in your blood, but it’s not in your brain. So
will you stop with the self-hatred, please? It’s not helping
your cause.”

“It’s not exactly as if I can help it,” he said, slamming the
book shut with his free hand and glowering at her. “You know
as well as I do that there’s nothing in this library that’s of
any value, where this prophecy’s concerned. We’ve been reading
the same information over and over again for two weeks. Lots
of ‘this-is-how-to-recognize-it-when-it-happens’. Not much on
what exactly is going to happen, beyond the fact that it’s
bad. And not a word about how to stop it.”

Halfway through his rant, he’d downgraded from outright
belligerence; now he just sounded, and looked, bone-weary.
“You never think about your blood,” he said softly. “It’s just
there, running through you. But you can’t feel it, and you
don’t notice it - at least, I never did.”

He shook his head, looking away again. “But now,” he said.
“Now, it’s all I can think about. Every time my heart beats,
this malevolent, evil stuff is moving through me. This killing
substance, that’s keeping me alive. And I just …” His jaw
clenched, and he gripped Hermione’s fingers so hard that she
winced.

“I just sit around and think,” he said, “about how easy it
would be, to open a vein and let it all come out.”

**

Silence.

Wow, Hermione thought, horrified. That’s heavy.

Nothing to make him feel any better, either. Can’t fix it.

Only -

Maybe - just maybe …

The thought popped, fully-formed, into her mind, as if it had
Apparated there.

“Draco,” she said aloud. He didn’t look up.

“Yeah.”

“’The Wizard’s Guide to Dark Prophecies’,” she said, and
started flipping frantically through her notes. “What was that
quote again? ‘Blood pure as snow’?”

He nodded. “I think so. Why?”

“Have you really never had a Muggle-born ancestor? Ever?”

The urgent tone of her voice roused him. “No,” he said. “No -
never. My father keeps geneaology records, extensive ones.
I’ve seen them. Pure wizarding blood, back to the
great-great-great-greats.” He laughed derisively. “Fat lot of
good it did us.”

“Draco,” she said again, impatiently. “Stay with me here. If
the prophecy is only valid when the Fils du Couteau is a
pureblood, what would happen if you weren’t?”

“Well, it probably wouldn’t work,” he said, frowning. “But - I
am, Hermione. I can’t change that about myself.”

“No,” she said, and looked oddly triumphant. “But I can.”

He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

Hermione glanced around the Restricted Section. Deserted.
“This,” she said, and dug out of her bag the little Swiss army
knife she carried with her to sharpen her quills. “You want to
open a vein?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly. “Let’s do
it. Both of us.”

Draco watched, wide-eyed, as she flicked out the blade of the
knife, as she held it to the inside of her arm. “Hermione -“

Don’t, he wanted to say. For God’s sake, don’t.

But he couldn’t.

She pressed, and a thin trickle of crimson began to snake
toward her wrist. “Now you,” she said, and handed him the
knife with a trembling hand.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he said, but he took
the knife. “Are you sure? Are you sure you want some of … me …
inside you?”

“Just do it, Malfoy,” she said, gritting her teeth, and gave
him a shaky smile when he complied. “See? It’s as red as
mine.”

For a second, their exchanged glance was full of the old
conspiriatorial connection; darker now, maybe, but just as
exhilarated.

“On three,” Draco said quietly. “One … two ….”

They pressed the cuts together.

**

Nothing happened.

No bang. No curl of black smoke. No reaction, as the two
substances melded.

Just the two of them, sitting blood-smeared and apprehensive
at the library table.

Hermione muttered a Healing Charm finally - she’d sliced a bit
more deeply than she’d meant to -let the sleeve of her robe
fall over her arm, and sat back in her chair.

He looked a bit shocked. Best to be matter-of-fact about this,
she thought, and pasted on a brisk smile.

“There,” she said. “Now, we still have to worry about keeping
you out of harm’s way. But I think the world’s safe.”

Draco nodded. He had no words.

“Dinnertime,” she said, talking more quickly than usual. “And
I have some work to do for Snape tonight. I’ll see you later?”

“Later,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”

Long after she was gone, he sat staring toward where she’d
disappeared beyond the surrounding shelves. Blood was still
welling slowly from his cut, but he didn’t notice.

It had never happened before, so he wasn’t entirely sure.

But unless he was gravely mistaken, he was in love.

**

TBC

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Five

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Palestrina, as Hermione had discovered in the course of her
research, had been heavily influenced during the development
and brewing of his Illuminata Elixir by the elaborately
illustrated sacred manuscripts of the Middle Ages. As a matter
of fact, she imagined that’s where he’d gotten the name for
the potion, as the old vellum books were so intricately inked
with red and blue, so saturated with gold inlay, that the
texts were said to be ‘illuminated’.

Of course, there wasn’t much information on them in the Muggle
Studies section of the Hogwarts library. But Hermione had seen
one or two under treated, ultraviolet-resistant glass, in one
of the chapels in Vatican City. And she’d read somewhere that
the decorative gold leaf, seemingly an afterthought to the
other illustrations, had to be laid in and burnished before
the page was inked, to avoid smears.

From what she knew of the Illuminata, it worked in much the
same way. That frisson of beneficent magic only seemed to be
the finishing touch on music that was glorious and masterful
and moving in its own right. In reality, it was the base coat.
The primer. Not only had Palestrina drunk it before sitting
down to compose, but he’d also mixed it with ink and loaded it
into his quill.

It made sense, then, that the potion’s base would be its most
strongly, subtly magical element. The two initial and most
essential ingredients were distilled, concentrated essence of
lemon balm - an herb used for millenia to lift the spirits,
allay anxiety, and bring on restful sleep and pleasant dreams
- and the ashes which resulted from the molting cycle of a
phoenix.

Hermione had asked Professor Dumbledore to collect and save
for her the ashes from Fawkes’ most recent Burning Day. Now,
having wolfed down dinner and run down to the Potions lab to
sieve the lemon essence through linen one final (and probably
superfluous) time, she was on her way to the Headmaster’s
office.

She’d done the research. Now it was time to see if she could
act on it.

“Jelly rabbit,” she said to the gargoyle - she’d acquired the
password ahead of time from Professor McGonagall - and
ascended the circular staircase to Dumbledore’s office. He was
waiting for her.

“Ah, Miss Granger,” he said, beaming, and nodded to the padded
armchair in front of his desk. “Won’t you sit down?”

Hermione perched reluctantly on the edge of the chair, casting
one worried eye at her wristwatch. “Thank you, sir,” she said,
“but I have an appointment, and I’d rather not keep Professor
Snape waiting.”

“I daresay that Severus will wait for you,” Dumbledore said
dryly. “He’s as interested in your project as you are. And
I’ve been wanting to have a word with you, Hermione, regarding
young Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione froze.

Boy, did that come out of left field.

She gulped. “Um …”

What should she say? What did he know?

Dumbledore twinkled kindly at her. “You needn’t look so
nervous,” he said gently. “It’s in our very nature to be drawn
to one another, whether we’re wizard- or Muggle-born, or some
combination thereof. And I shan’t pry into your … personal
affairs, never fear.”

His wise old face settled suddenly into grave lines. “I must
ask you, though, Hermione, whether you know something that I
do not. The staff and I have been rather concerned about
Draco’s state of well-being, as of late. Do you know, perhaps,
what it is that may be troubling him?”

Shit. She’d been afraid of this.

Why couldn’t Draco have gone to Dumbledore himself, when she’d
urged him to? Why did he have to put her in this awkward
position, caught in between what she wanted to do and what
she’d promised she wouldn’t?

Well, she couldn’t lie.

“I do know, Professor,” she said, and fought to keep her eyes
steady under that perceptive blue gaze. “But to say what it is
would betray a confidence.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said, and he wasn’t smiling. Hermione
spread her hands in unconscious frustration.

“I’d like to tell you, truly I would,” she said. “But it’s not
my story to tell.” She paused. “If it helps, Professor …”

“Yes?”

“I think,” she said, “that we may have solved at least part of
the problem ourselves.”

He digested this without comment. “Hermione?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Is it fair to say,” Dumbledore inquired softly, “that
whatever has been troubling Mr. Malfoy is not a lovers’
quarrel, but something else entirely?”

Hermione swallowed hard. Impossible to read those eyes - they
reflected back to you like her mum’s Blue Willow china.
Wordlessly, she nodded.

Dumbledore studied her for a moment longer, looking as visibly
troubled as she’d ever seen him, and then turned his attention
to selecting a lemon drop from a candy dish on his desk. When
he looked up again, his twinkly Santa mask was firmly in
place.

“Draco is fortunate to have you as an ally,” he said. “And I
won’t test your loyalty to him any further, except to remind
you that I am always available to you - and to him - should
either of you have need of me.”

Hermione nodded again, silently, and took the small enamel box
he handed her.

“Good luck with the Illuminata, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said
quietly.

“Thank you, sir.”

Once out in the hall, she glanced at her watch again and
yelped. Two minutes to six.

If she hurried, she’d almost be on time.

**

She burst breathlessly into the Potions classroom, clutching
at the stitch in her side. “Sorry I’m late,” she panted. “The
Headmaster - wanted to talk - got the ashes -“

She held up the little lacquered box as if it were the House
Cup. Snape prised it deftly out of her fingers and steered her
toward a chair.

“Sit down,” he said, “and catch your breath.” His voice was so
uncharacteristically mild that she gaped at him. “We’ll both
need steady hands tonight.”

He twisted the lid carefully from the little box and inspected
its contents closely. “More than enough,” he said with visible
satisfaction, and Hermione realized that Dumbledore was right.

Snape, in his introverted, peculiar way, was as excited about
this as she was.

“Have you made an Illuminata before?” she asked, and he shook
his head absently without looking at her. He was swirling the
ashes deliberately in the box - checking, she suspected, for
size irregularity in the fragments.

“No. Nor do I know anyone who has,” he said. “It’s obscure.
Palestrina was more well-known by Muggles than by wizards, as
you know. And then there’s the problem of his coded notes.” He
stopped swirling, apparently satisfied, and put the box down
on the table. “Someone, at some point, may well have
deciphered them for their own personal use. But then again,
perhaps not. Certainly a translation has never been made
public.”

“That’s odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, you’d think that everyone would want this,” Hermione
said thoughtfully. “It seems like such a worthy thing to know,
even if it is a lot of work.”

Snape stopped inspecting the cauldron she’d prepared for
cleanliness, and sent her a sideways look.

“You’ll find,” he said flatly, “that most of us will go to far
greater effort to do mischief, than to do good.”

Hermione didn’t believe that for a second, but she didn’t say
anything. Clearly, he believed it. He had a bleak, faraway
look in his eyes that made her feel unaccountably melancholy
on his behalf.

“Well,” she said, overly brightly. “Shall we get to it, then?”

**

The Illuminata was meant to hold its magical properties, even
when combined with other substances. In addition to mixing it
with ink, Palestrina had indicated that it could be combined
with other liquids, such as paint, or added to food or
beverages - though he had recommended, in a rather terse
footnote, that it not be used in direct combination with
alcohol.

On one hand, Hermione wondered why that was.

On the other, she was prepared to take his word for it.

Because stability was so necessary to the character of the
potion, the base ingredients had to be combined slowly and
with care, over very low heat, then left at a bare simmer for
a period of weeks before the remainder of the ingredients
could be added.

The complication was this:

The lemon balm couldn’t be heated more than a couple of
degrees beyond room temperature, but the ashes had to dissolve
instantly upon contact; otherwise, they’d clump together and
render the potion uneven and dangerously volatile. This meant
that they had to be added a mere sprinkle at a time, and that
the potion required constant stirring, to help regulate the
temperature throughout. For this purpose, four hands were
better than two.

Hermione carefully poured the essence of lemon balm - the
color of Pernod and impossibly fragrant - into the cauldron.
“Incendio,” she whispered, with the slightest possible flick
of her wand, and blew out a relieved breath when a bare
flicker of blue flame licked around the cauldron’s bottom.

“You stir,” Snape said. “I’ll sprinkle.” Hermione nodded.

The ashes were pearl-gray, vaguely iridescent, with flecks of
scarlet and gold. Snape took a scant pinch from the box and
let them filter slowly between his thumb and forefinger into
the cauldron, where they floated for a millisecond and then
vanished. Hermione was surprised to immediately feel a slight
tug of resistance in the liquid, as if the pinch of dust had
thickened it, and see a faint shimmer of peacock blue across
the potion’s surface.

“So far, so good,” she murmured. “Keep going.”

With the next pinch, the resistance increased. The potion was
now silvery green and thick enough to cling to her wand.

Another dusting of ash, and it flashed vermilion. It now felt
as if she was stirring a rather stiff cake batter, and her arm
was beginning to ache.

Snape caught her eye. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Arm’s a little tired,” she said truthfully. “But
it’s okay. It’s right on track, don’t you think?”

“According to the notes,” he said, “it’ll get very thick and
quite a dark plum color. When that happens, we add one more
pinch.”

Hermione nodded again. “Right,” she said. “Do it, then.”

As the potion thickened, it took longer for the ashes to
dissolve on the surface. Hermione was now using both hands on
the wand to drive it through the thick navy-blue glop.

“One more,” she panted. “I think it’s almost there.”

And then there it was, the rich dark aubergine that meant that
they’d made it.

“All right,” Snape said softly. “The minute I put them in,
stir twice around, very quickly, and then take your wand out.
It’s not clear what exactly is supposed to happen, but there’s
going to be a reaction of some kind.”

Hermione nodded. “Ready.”

The ashes gleamed silver on the plum-colored surface.

Once around.

Once more.

She summoned all of her strength and yanked the wand out of
what felt like hardened concrete.

And was enveloped in a blast of warm lemon steam that left her
reeling.

**

Oh, my.

Oh, MY.

Hermione considered her existence to be a fairly happy one.

But she’d never felt like this.

There was no way to describe it, not really. Once she’d woken
up with a stiff neck, from falling asleep propped up on her
pillow with a book - it had hurt for the first hour or so that
she was awake, then quieted to a dull throb as she became
accustomed to it.

Then, mid-morning, she’d been startled by something, turned
quickly to look, and in a bright flash of pain, the ache had
been gone and she’d felt almost light-headed with the lack of
it.

This was something like that. But much, much better. As if her
body was a weighted balloon that had just been set free.

Disconnected.

Floating.

Happy.

It worked. She’d done it.

That is to say, they’d done it.

Congratulations on her mind, she took a deep breath of the
heady lemon air and groped through the yellow cloud of steam,
toward Snape.

And froze.

His eyes were closed. His head was tilted back.

He was surrounded by wisps of golden smoke. Drinking it in.
Abandoned to it.

Smiling.

Hermione swallowed hard. And she thought she’d had a weight
lifted from her shoulders?

She was looking at a man whose whole existence had been
suddenly altered.

Young. Handsome. Blissful.

He opened his eyes and saw her. The smile disappeared, and was
replaced by an intense stab of something she didn’t recognize.

“You,” he said, wonderingly. “You did this.”

“Well, actually …” Hermione swallowed hard. “Um, we … that is,
you …”

“No,” he said, and took a step toward her. “Not me. Not us.
You.”

And then she was in his arms.

**

Conventional wisdom might have suggested that Happy Snape made
for Less Intense Snape.

And conventional wisdom, Hermione thought fuzzily, would have
been wrong. Happy Snape had soul kissing down to a science.

The door was locked, his body was like a furnace, and that
intoxicating yellow steam was still pouring out of the
cauldron, creeping along the floor in what was now a
waist-high blanket of aphrodisiac fog and rising higher by the
minute.

She was flying like a kite - he was only touching her face,
but her skin was warm and itching and trying to climb out of
itself. His lips on her lips gave her full-body tremors,
shaking electric pulses that she couldn’t stop. The only thing
that felt good was getting closer to him.

So she did.

His hands fastened in her hair.

They sank to their knees, and the yellow steam flowed around
them and closed in on them and went straight to her brain -
dear God, even the palms of her hands felt short-circuited and
tight, and his tongue in her mouth made her feel like his cock
was inside her already.

She moaned. She wanted to crawl inside him.

His hands were on her hips. She was straddling his lap; she
could feel him through her robes, as he rocked her back and
forth against his body, still kissing like he’d never come up
for air, like a screen idol at the end of the last reel, where
you just know it goes on for hours and hours even after the
credits and you wish they didn’t have to roll the names. “Oh,”
he was saying under his breath between kisses - “oh, oh, oh …”
as if he were remembering something important, finding
something he’d forgotten.

Get naked, Hermione thought. Get naked now.

Better yet, just get naked enough.

Was it the Illuminata? Or just their existing, long-denied
electricity, let out to play?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

“Come on,” she chanted, tugging at his clothes, “come on, come
on, hurry, hurry …”

Yank the robes up, she thought.

Yank everything else down.

Heat to heat, soft to hard, push to pull, oh GOD yes, yes yes
yesyesyes, just keep moving, Granger, up and down, up and
down, because no matter where it is, in or out, it’s not
enough yet and you have to keep going and yes, breathe in that
warm golden madness and feel it bubble out to your fingertips
with sheer absolute utter unalloyed
getting-what-you’ve-wanted-for-months-now, but no guilt, no
angst, no will-he-or-won’t-he-or-what-do-we-do-later, just oh
FUCK and oh JESUS and that hard implacable body shaking, yes
SHAKING against you and ohmanohmanohmanohfuckfuckFUCKyes …

… and now that you’ve lived through that, there’s nothing in
the world that can possibly touch you.

**

Self-possession would be good, Hermione thought, and took a
deep breath as she climbed off Snape’s lap and straightened
her robes.

Twenty minutes into the afterglow, the fog was just beginning
to clear. She ought to be running for the hills, she guessed,
but she couldn’t seriously regret what had just happened … for
all the heat, there had been something undeniably sweet about
it.

Sweet, your arse, Granger, she thought. You’re still vibrating
with the aftershocks.

To distract herself, she took a critical look at Snape. Even
now that the air wasn’t yellow anymore, there was a look in
his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a little spark of
light that he hadn’t possessed yesterday.

Not surprising, she mused - the effects of the Illuminata,
apparently even the scary aphrodisiac base of it, took a
little while to wear off.

Apparently, the more you needed it, the longer it hung around.
That was good to know.

She took a peek at the potion in the cauldron, which had
reverted to its original color of glassy gray-green. It
shimmered innocently up at her. “Wow,” she said aloud, and
Snape, having made some adjustments to the front of his robes,
got heavily to his feet.

“Wow?” he repeated. “That’s all you can say?”

“That was some reaction,” she said, still looking at the
cauldron. “I suppose the other ingredients are meant to calm
it down a little.”

Her knees were starting to shake. She needed to get back to
Gryffindor Tower before she let that happen.

“We need to talk,” he said, but she shook her head.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Not now. Please?”

She slipped out of the room before he could answer.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Six

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

Snape stared after Hermione’s retreating back in disbelief.

She was walking out. Without a word.

After that … that nightmare. That catastrophe. That
knife-thrust to the heart of proper teacher-student relations.

He sighed heavily, locked the door after her with a wave of
his wand, and slumped into his chair, irritably batting away a
stray wisp of pale golden steam.

He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

You idiot, you should have guessed that something like this
would happen, he thought, and jackknifed up from his chair
again to stalk over to the Illuminata. Greenish-silver, with
the consistency of heavy cream, it sent up the gentle, teasing
aroma of sun-warmed citrus and burning fruitwood. The smell
made his lips curve despite themselves, but he didn’t feel the
urge to ravish the nearest maiden.

Thank God, he told himself. Once in an evening was quite
enough.

And the Slytherins, unflappable as they liked to think
themselves, would no doubt be alarmed if he seized Millicent
Bulstrode from their common room.

He dismissed that rather gruesome thought with considerable
effort and turned back to the problem of the Illuminata.

Why hadn’t he thought about how those two ingredients would
react together?

Lemon balm for euphoria. Phoenix ashes, symbolizing new
chances ­ and holding within themselves the memory of fire
that couldn’t help but be inflammatory, in however mild a
fashion.

What was left in the cauldron now, he’d guess, was the stable
base. The incendiary elements of the ingredients had met,
flashed, and erupted, and he and Hermione had been caught in
the unsettling, if largely enjoyable, aftermath.

This meant, of course, that the Illuminata wasn’t an
aphrodisiac per se, despite all appearances to the contrary.

It nudged out negative emotion and replaced it with its
positive counterpart. And, to a certain extent, it undermined
self-imposed inhibitions. That explained Palestrina’s warning
about mixing it with alcohol, Snape thought.

And if the liquid itself had that effect, the initial vapors
were bound to be, if more ephemeral, also that much more
potent.

But it wasn’t a love potion; it didn’t mess with free will.
That fragrant golden smoke hadn’t made them do anything that
they weren’t longing to do already.

He wasn’t sure if that made him feel worse, or better.

The flash was over, of course. They’d never see that yellow
steam again; the substance that remained was inherently
inactive, and could probably be used in its current state with
complete safety. The ingredients they’d yet to add were the
same ones you’d find in a standard Preservation Potion;
Palestrina had probably incorporated them to prolong the
elixir’s effects. There was some tricky timing involved, but
the Big Bang wouldn’t repeat itself.

Severus sat back again and closed his eyes. He could feel that
warm sense of well-being slipping steadily away from him as
time passed and the room cleared, and the part of him that had
never hoped to be truly happy again raged against its passing.

That was the worst part of all this. Not that he’d lost
control. Not that he’d had sex with one of his students on the
floor of his Potions lab. Not even that the experience would
probably never repeat itself.

It was that he had been thoroughly, brutally reawakened to
everything he’d schooled himself not to miss, or want, or
need.

Smiling, for example. Kissing. The feel of another warm human
body, skin to skin with his own ­ and beyond that, beyond the
heat and immediacy of the sex ­ the feel of her hair and the
smell of her skin and the sheer human contentment that he’d
grasped, oh, so briefly, when they’d been curled up together
on the chilly floor, limp and sated and sweaty, and breathing
in tandem.

To be yanked back into the pleasures of humanity like that,
and then have to forget it twice?

That was a curse darker, perhaps, than the one on his arm.

Jaw clenched, he headed for his chambers.

**

"Hermione, are you okay?"

Half-asleep over her eggs, Hermione hid a yawn and tried to
look innocent. "Fine," she said. "Why?"

"You’ve got dark circles under your eyes," Harry said,
sounding concerned. "And your lips are all chapped. Looks like
you’re coming down with something."

Yeah, I’m coming down with something, all right, Hermione
thought wildly. A severe case of whisker burn, paired with
Acute Insomnia. She forced herself to meet Harry’s eyes and
shrug. "I feel okay," she said. "Up late studying last night,
that’s all."

Studying what? Anatomy?

Oh, shut up.

She was momentarily relieved to see the post owls flying in,
as Hedwig was swooping down with the newest issue of
Broomstick Today, and that particular magazine was enough to
keep Harry and Ron distracted for weeks on end. Her fragile
peace of mind, however, was shattered by one well-placed
shriek from Parvati.

"Ooooh, Hermione! You’ve got another pink envelope!!"

Christ on a bloody broomstick, Hermione thought, and eyed the
envelope in question with something approaching panic.

She didn’t know if she could deal with any more
thousand-year-old curses.

For that matter, she was beginning to rethink relationships
with sort-of-reformed Slytherins. Invariably, they were more
complicated than they appeared.

Trying half-heartedly for the proper level of girlish
excitement, she ripped open the envelope.

**
Sleep, and I’ll be still as another sleeper
Holding you in my arms,
Glad that you lie so still at last.

This sheltering midnight is our meeting place.
No passion or despair or hope divide me from your side.

I will remember firelight on your sleeping face.
I will remember shadows growing deeper
As the fire fell to ashes
And the minutes passed.
**

Parvati was bouncing in her seat like a manic human yo-yo.
"What does it say, what does it say?" she demanded. "Hermione,
can I see it?"

Hermione passed the card down to her. Her brain was revving at
a million miles a minute, but she was stuck in one stubborn
gear.

Guilt.

Academic arguments about whether or not she and Draco were in
a relationship could go on until Cornelius Fudge voluntarily
resigned from the Ministry of Magic ­ and personally, Hermione
figured that the world would end first.

That didn’t change this: he had feelings for her.

And she’d just slept with someone else.

His Head of House, to be exact. The elusion of whom in Rome
had led to this whole Devil’s-Snare of a sexual predicament.

Of course, the Fils du Couteau had been going on long before
this summer, she thought. And it was a good thing that they’d
discovered it when they had, right?

Right?

Oh, God. He wasn’t in love, was he?

"That’s quite a poem," Harry said softly, and Hermione jumped.
She hadn’t realized that he’d read it over her shoulder.

"Um. Yeah." She took refuge behind her glass of juice. "Ursula
Vaughan Williams, I think."

"You do, huh?" He gave her a small, private smile. "Know what
I think?"

She shook her head.

"I think your secret admirer’s a secret to everyone but you,"
he said. Those bottle-green eyes were gleaming with humor.
Hermione gulped.

"What makes you think that?"

"Come on, Hermione," Harry said quietly. "‘This sheltering
midnight is our meeting place’?" He raised his eyebrows.
"We’ve been back in time together, you and I. Don’t try to
play me."

"Okay," she said, her lips barely moving. "You’re right. But
don’t ask me who it is. Please."

He grinned at her. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Hermione collected her card from a half-swooning Lavender and
hefted her bag up to her shoulder, desperate to escape the
Great Hall before any more complications came her way.

Nice Gryffindor girls like her just weren’t meant to have this
many secrets.

**

History of Magic was as dull as ever, but Hermione steadfastly
ignored the card burning a hole in the inside pocket of her
robes.

School first. Romance later.

God help her, her life was half-Harriet the Spy, half-Last
Tango in Paris. Just about the only thing she didn’t have to
worry about right now was getting pregnant, and that was more
thanks to her mum’s foresight than her own, considering how
supercilious and I-Am-Abstinence-Girl she’d been about their
Mother-Daughter Sex Talk, pre-Rome.

If you only knew, Mum, she thought to herself. I’m doing your
flower-child days proud. A regular one-person sexual
revolution. Next thing you know, I’ll be picketing something
and carrying a sign.

Oh, wait. Already been there, done that.

Cheered by that thought, she snickered. Professor Binns looked
mildly affronted.

"Is something amusing, Miss Granger?"

"No, sir," she said, and put on her best Future-Head-Girl
Earnest Face. "I’m sorry, sir. Something in my throat."

Down the row from her, Ron snorted.

**

The encoded message beneath the poem wasn’t long. Or
complicated.

Thank you for yesterday.

I thought no one cared. You proved me wrong.

See you tonight? Your room?

Hermione frowned. There was one more faint line of numbers at
the very bottom of the card. It looked as if he’d written
them, then changed his mind and used a hasty and
not-too-expert Erasing Charm.

Even without decoding them, she’d know those three little
words.

Pretend you didn’t see them, she told herself, and swept the
card into her bag.

She wasn’t going to deal with that twist in the plot, until
she absolutely had to.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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

When Hermione entered the Potions classroom with Harry and Ron
later that afternoon, she was immediately hit with the
unmistakable fragrance of the simmering Illuminata. The
cauldron itself wasn’t anywhere in sight - she guessed that
Snape had removed it to a more secure location in the little
antechamber, off the main classroom, that he used for storage
- and whatever else it might be doing, it wasn’t belching
yellow smoke any longer. But the sweetness of lemons hung in
the air, rather as if someone were baking pies - or as if
Filch had traded in his Madam Malkin’s Magical Mess Remover
for a can of Pledge.

Ever the researcher, she surveyed her classmates
surreptitiously.

No random, unexpected embraces. No snogging in the corners.

But the Gryffindors did look considerably more cheerful than
usual, given that this was the much-despised Double Potions
period. And the Slytherins, for their parts, seemed oddly …
well, what was the word she’d use?

Tranquil, that was it.

Harmonious, even.

Hermione watched Seamus Finnegan and Blaise Zabini exchanging
idle pleasantries, and felt herself tingle all over with
scholarly satisfaction.

For a few unpleasant hours last night, she’d been worried that
the potion was ruined - that she’d miscalculated or made a
mistake in translation, or, worse, that Palestrina himself had
been deluded about his creation’s true effects. Far more
troubling than having had sex with Snape was the thought that
she might not have had a choice in the matter; that her
beloved Illuminata, her brain child, was after all nothing
more than a tawdry love potion.

Not so, apparently; even now, her worry and exhaustion were
drifting subtly away on a citrus-scented cloud of well-being.
Snape himself looked rested, if not exactly cheerful. Of
course, he’d been breathing in the fumes all day, Hermione
thought, and tried not to dwell upon how much younger he
looked when he wasn’t tensed with hostility.

Oh, it worked, it really worked. She had the sudden urge to
grab Snape and waltz him around the classroom.

She settled instead for letting out a long relieved breath,
and shot her widest, brightest Daughter-Of-Tooth-Professionals
smile at a startled-but-dreamy-looking Draco.

Just because she could.

**

“Well, that was relatively painless,” Harry muttered as they
gathered up their books, and even Ron nodded in agreement.

No squabbles. No practical jokes. No snide, cutting remarks
aimed from one side of the room to the other in voices just
loud enough to carry, just low enough to escape professorial
notice.

And Snape!

“What was wrong with him today?” Ron asked as they clattered
up the dungeon steps toward the Great Hall. “He was almost …
almost …” He shook his head in mute wonder, and Hermione
filled in for him, a bit more tartly than she’d meant to.

“Happy?”

Ron missed the edge in her voice entirely. “Yeah,” he said.
“What was up with that? He didn’t take off a single point from
us. Not even from Neville.” He looked around to make sure they
weren’t being overheard. “And did you see the way he looked at
the end of class? Just staring off into thin air like that,
with that little smile on his face?” His eyebrows went up. “
Creepy.”

Hermione had noticed, as a matter of fact, though she’d tried
not to look in Snape’s direction as class ended and they
packed away their things. After she’d skipped out on their
conversation last night, she was braced for a mandatory
after-class postmortem, and kept expecting to hear her name
called even after Ron and Harry had followed her out the door.
But Snape had been sitting at his desk, looking
uncharacteristically pensive and faraway, and hadn’t even
looked up when the bell rang.

She remembered the look on his face last night - disbelieving,
exultant - and shivered despite the warmth of the Great Hall.

She couldn’t imagine how he’d felt last night, once it had
worn off - but judging from her own foray into Deep
Melancholy, it had probably been pretty bad. And she had no
idea how he’d managed to sit in that room for seven hours
today, invaded by an artificial sense of calm that he had to
know he’d pay for later.

Her lips tightened. One more thing for me to feel guilty about
.

“Maybe he’s been bewitched,” Harry suggested, reaching the
Gryffindor table and setting down his bag. Ron snorted.

“Maybe he’s finally gotten shagged,” he said slyly, and the
two boys laughed. “Seriously - I wonder how long it’s been?
Ten years? Fifteen?”

“Ever?” More laughter.

“He’s only thirty-eight,” Hermione snapped. “You shouldn’t
talk about him like he’s sixty.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot even farther into his hairline. “Ooooh,”
he said teasingly. “The good Professor has an admirer! Maybe
he’s the one who’s been sending you all those sappy notes,
Hermione.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione retorted, stung. “And I’m not
his admirer, I just … well, he’s very good at what he does,
that’s all.”

Not his admirer, you say.

Shut up.

Very good at what he does, eh?

Shut UP, I said.

Because you would know, wouldn’t you?

Shut up, shut up, shut UP!

She swallowed hard, desperately channeling her Inner Percy,
and glared at Ron. “I’m sure he has his reasons for acting the
way he does,” she said, as officiously as she could manage.
“And if he seemed a little … distracted … today, perhaps he
just has things on his mind. Some people do, you know.”

Ron stared at her, perplexed and a bit hurt. “What’s with you?
”

She didn’t answer him.

**

He didn’t know what to think.

Draco pushed his peas around on his plate with his fork and
frowned thoughtfully to himself.

If you had asked him this morning about Hermione’s reaction to
her second Secret Admirer note, he would have used the
extremely unpleasant word ‘ambivalent’ … the look on her face
at breakfast had been deliberately unreadable. And whatever
Potter had said to her, after that, had panicked her enough so
that she’d bolted from the table without touching her food.

He wondered if Potter had guessed yet. You had to hand it to
the Wonder Boy; unlike his carrot-topped sidekick, who
remained as predictably one-note and simple-minded as he’d
been five years ago, he was showing occasional flashes of
insight.

Worrisome, that. But beside the point.

He’d hoped that Hermione’s reply to his note in “The Wizard’s
Guide to Dark Prophecies” would prove to be illuminating, but
it hadn’t given him any further clues into what she was
thinking. Just a simple affirmative, and a time.

Well and good, as far as it went, but not exactly what he’d
hoped for.

And what was that, exactly, Malfoy? he asked himself
derisively. ‘I want you, I need you, I can’t live without you,
run away with me and let me bear your children’?

Stupid of him to expect that from Hermione, who was just about
as fulsome and starry-eyed as Bartemious Crouch. If he’d
wanted hearts and flowers, he should have set his sights on
Lavender Brown.

Still.

He was very, very glad that he’d erased that last sentence.

Under the circumstances, he’d been rather dreading Potions,
and was subsequently blindsided by the lift in his spirits,
once he got there. Odd, that such a generally gloomy room
could seem so full of light, on a dark afternoon like this
one.

He hadn’t been the only one to feel it, either. Dean Thomas,
whose table he’d shared, had struck up a very friendly
conversation about pro Quidditch. And Parvati, rather than
glaring at him when his stretched-out feet accidentally bumped
the legs of her chair, had given him a most flirtatious look
over her shoulder.

But that wasn’t nearly as puzzling as the smile Hermione had
thrown his way, just as class was about to begin. Not a subtle
twist of the lips, not a sidelong glance through the
eyelashes, but a full-on, high-voltage, merry-eyed, blinding
beam of light.

Where had that come from?

He supposed he’d find out tonight.

**

Ten p.m.

Ron and Seamus were talking Quidditch strategy in the Common
Room. Across the room, Neville was working on a
Transfiguration essay for Professor McGonagall, and a small
group of third-years were starting on their fourth game of
Exploding Snap.

Harry was sitting by the fire, hidden from the others’ view by
the tall back of his armchair. His Charms text was open on his
lap, and his quill was dripping ink on his robes.

He didn’t notice. He had other things on his mind.

Hermione was meeting her Secret Admirer tonight, he was pretty
sure of it. And he was torn between scruples and curiosity.

Not that it was any of his business - he knew that. But the
secrecy had him wondering. Why shouldn’t she date, in public,
anyone she wanted to?

He’d tried to discuss the topic with his dorm-mates, but none
of them seemed to know anything, and the subject made Ron so
impotently furious that Harry thought it best just to drop it.
Ginny had just given him a wide-eyed shrug, the one time he’d
brought it up to her. And he knew better than to ask Parvati
and Lavender anything serious; he and Hermione had only just
lived down the Rita Skeeter articles, almost two years later,
and one ill-placed word would start the rumour mill churning
again.

He didn’t fancy Hermione, not in that way at least, but he was
a little concerned about her. For one thing, she wasn’t
getting enough sleep. Still taking more classes than the rest
of them, of course, and he’d seen her schedule - it left
precious little time for romantic assignations. From the looks
of the circles under her eyes at breakfast, Harry was pretty
sure her trysts were taking place after curfew.

And that was another thing. When had studious, law-abiding
Hermione ever broken school rules voluntarily? The thought of
her sneaking out at night to meet some Mystery Lover was so
out of character, it was comical.

Then there was the question of what exactly had happened in
Rome; he and Ron were both wild for the details, if for
different reasons, but Hermione wasn’t talking. If changing
the subject didn’t work, she simply invented a pretext to be
elsewhere.

Mysteries, mysteries. Harry frowned. Hermione had kept secrets
from them before, but somehow this situation seemed different.
As did she.

And he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Feeling momentarily guilty, he pulled a carefully folded but
somewhat ragged piece of parchment out of his Charms text and
looked around to make sure no one was watching him.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he muttered, and
tapped it with his wand.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Eight

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

Long before Draco arrived at her door, Hermione reached this
conclusion: something had to give. She couldn’t keep sneaking
around like this anymore.

Some women might be cut out to play femme fatale, she thought,
but she certainly wasn’t one of them. And this Lady Guinevere
thing was getting old, fast - once you factored in the late
nights, the missed sleep, the multiple lies and evasions she’d
either perpetrated outright or been party to, and the lost
study time, the Simple Joys of Maidenhood got pretty damn
complicated. Exponentially so.

Besides, Hermione rather fancied herself more a Maid Marian.
Or, if you wanted to get poetic, a Pallas Athene.

She shook her hair back from her face - it was getting long
again; she’d have to stop in at the Wand and Razor for a trim
tomorrow in Hogsmeade - and considered her options.

The Illuminata was three weeks away from finished, but the
most labor-intensive steps - the distillation of the lemon
balm and the painstaking addition of the phoenix ashes - were
finished. For all its reputation as a difficult potion to
brew, the actual process was rather straightforward. Hermione
suspected that its supposed difficulty was mostly due to
Palestrina’s tricky encoding, not to mention his relative
obscurity within the wizarding world - now that she’d actually
made some, everything she’d read about it sounded suspiciously
like speculation.

Had the … um, side effects of its brewing been more widely
known, she had no doubt that the translation would have been
common knowledge for at least a century now. Of course, in
that case the Ministry would probably have deemed it a
controlled substance, like all other known aphrodisiacs, and
she wouldn’t have been able to study it. So it was just as
well.

You’d better believe that her lips were sealed, she thought,
and smiled grimly.

Twenty more days of simmering, a wrap-up session to add the
final ingredients, and she’d be finished. Once she’d copied
over her notes and handed them in, her Tuesday and Thursday
evenings with Snape would come to an end, as well.

Hermione thought that was probably for the best.

Lemon explosions were all very well, don’t get her wrong. And
she didn’t regret the experience in the least - on the
contrary, she figured that every young witch should have an
Aphrodisiac Accident at least once in her life.

None of that changed the fact that sleeping with your
professor was indescribably tacky, especially when the primary
catalyst for doing so was based almost exclusively on physical
heat, rather than emotional or mental affinity. She respected
Snape, in some ways even admired him, but what had happened
last night was clearly an aberration, not a love match. As far
as she could tell, he didn’t even particularly like her.

Not that it was really an issue. She’d bet her grade point
average that Snape was mortally embarrassed by what had
happened last night, never mind that dreamy-cum-pleasant look
on his face in Potions today. That wasn’t real - it was just
chemicals. Take away the clouds of gently simmering lemon
happiness, and she wouldn’t even get from him the desperate,
aching tenderness that he’d given her, along with the
accompanying roller-coaster ride to Heaven. If the Illuminata
wasn’t a factor, they’d be back to the same wary, heated,
half-resentful truce in which they’d existed since their
encounter in Rome.

If nothing else, the situation raised the intriguing question
of the Illuminata’s usefulness. It would be interesting,
Hermione thought, to examine the effects of the Elixir itself,
once it was finished. One suspected that a dose of the actual
substance would prove more permanent, if not as purely
euphoric, as the inhalation of the fumes. Even so, it was
bound to wear off eventually, wasn’t it?

And then - if you were right back where you started before you
swallowed it - why bother in the first place? Sure, ‘tis
better to have loved and lost, and all that, but that was
poetry, not real life. If all the Illuminata offered was a
temporary lift of earthly cares, it was no better than a
psychedelic, it would never do anyone the lasting kind of good
she’d intended for it to do, and she ought to dump it now.

She called up her childhood memory of the Missa Papae Marcelli
- snug in her pillows, her dad sitting next to her like a big
warm boulder, and both of them nestled in midair as if cradled
in the palm of a large, benevolent hand.

Not shocked to leave the ground, oddly enough. Not giddy with
euphoria. Not in the throes of mad laughter.

Calmed. Comforted. Warmed.

If she thought hard enough, that feeling was still with her.
Of course, it was aurally linked to the conduit of the music -
maybe that was why.

Wait a minute.

Hermione frowned, grappling with a new thought. What if the
Illuminata didn’t affect the drinker, as much as what the
drinker did?

Now that was something worth pondering.

**

A soft knock on her door, followed by a slice of brighter
light from the stairwell just wide enough to admit a
relatively slender Lancelot. Hermione smiled in the door’s
direction and felt a pleasant sense of anticipation curl
through her.

She was feeling better about the Draco situation. His
half-erased declaration was still an issue, but - in her
post-Potions frame of mind - more intriguing than unsettling.
She’d pondered it all through dinner, as a matter of fact.

He loved her. And was afraid to say so.

Draco Malfoy. Hard as nails. Cold as ice. Mean as sin.

The name-caller. The daddy’s boy. The bigot. The sneak.

Draco, who’d risked death-by-tourist to kiss her in the
Sistine Chapel. Who’d fed her tiramisu with his fingers. Who’d
inhaled freedom like oxygen and then sacrificed his security
in trade for it. Who had, against all odds, chosen the Light
over the Dark, even before he’d discovered his seemingly
charmed life to be cursed.

Draco, whose pure wizard’s blood was running in her veins.
Wasn’t that one for the storybooks?

She watched the Invisibility Cloak come off and narrowed her
eyes in appreciation. No doubt about it, he was handsome; even
when he was stalking around with a scowl on his face and his
pretty mouth curled into a sneer, the Gryffindor girls shot
him second glances under their eyelashes. In the soft light of
her bedroom, with his hair slightly mussed from the cloak and
his face alight with danger and expectation, his Prince
Charming readings rocketed off the charts.

“Hi,” he said, and surprisingly enough, stood there looking a
little shy. She raised her eyebrows.

“Hi.”

“I got your note.”

Hermione sighed inwardly. Look at him now, and you’d never
believe that he’d conspired to kill a hippogriff.

This whole thing was so damn confusing.

“I liked the poem,” she said. “The Arnold was nice, too. But
I’d take free verse over metered, any day of the week.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He dropped the cloak by the foot of
the bed and took a step nearer. “What did Potter have to say
about it?”

Harry? Hermione frowned. What did Harry have to do with this?

“He said it was sentimental, overrated, and would never have
gotten published if her husband weren’t famous.” At his
disbelieving snort, her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Draco slid onto the bed beside her. “Because,” he said, “he
watched me walk across your common room. I could have sworn
that he saw me.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Did you open the Fat Lady’s portrait by
yourself? That might have attracted his attention.”

“No - followed a bunch of second-years in.” He kicked off his
shoes, wrapped his arm around her waist, and yawned. “It was
the oddest thing. They all stayed in the common room, and I
headed straight up here by myself. He was sitting in a chair
by the fire with some papers in his lap, and his eyes trailed
me, all the way to the stairs. I half-expected him to come
over and start something.”

He shot her a deliberately casual sideways glance. “You didn’t
… say anything to him, did you? At breakfast?”

“No, nothing.” Hermione’s jaw had begun to tick alarmingly,
but fortunately Draco didn’t notice.

“Hm. I must be paranoid.”

**

No, thought Hermione, ‘paranoia’ isn’t the word I’d choose,
exactly. ‘Invasion of privacy’, now - that’s a phrase with a
ring to it. I wish Snape had burned that bloody parchment when
he had the chance, three years ago.

She was going to have some serious words with The Boy Who
Lived, come daybreak.

But that could wait. Being a bookworm had its advantages -
chiefly among them at the moment, that no one in their right
mind would believe that she was shagging Draco Malfoy in the
sanctity of her Gryffindor Tower bedroom. Harry himself might
not even believe it; perhaps she could convince him the map
had malfunctioned?

Yeah, right.

File under ‘D’ for ‘Discoveries, Inevitable’, she thought,
resigned, and forced herself back into the moment. It wasn’t
as difficult as one might think -- whatever Draco was doing
with his hand right now, it was proving to be a marvelous
distraction. She twisted lazily in his arms so she could kiss
him back.

“You’re getting good at this,” she murmured. “You must have
been practicing.”

“Well, there’s this girl I know,” he muttered in between
kisses. “Too smart for her own good. Kisses like a succubus.
She’s got me daydreaming about her during Transfiguration.”

Hermione chuckled. “That’s dangerous.”

“Tell me about it.” Draco yanked the front of her robes open
and made a low sound of satisfaction in his throat. “My wand
slipped to the right this afternoon and Goyle ended up with
flippers.” He nuzzled her bare neck. “Of course, opposable
thumbs are wasted on him anyway. Can’t you get more naked than
this?”

Hermione ran her hands down under his collar and stifled a
moan. “Let me see what I can do.”

**

“Morning, Hermione,” Harry said innocently at breakfast.
Hermione studied him as coolly as possible; if he knew
anything, he wasn’t letting on.

The best defense is a good offense, she told herself, and
narrowed her eyes at him.

“Prongs,” she said, by way of a return greeting, and watched
with a very nasty sense of satisfaction as a flush spread over
his cheeks.

Gotcha, she thought, and reached for the maple syrup. Toast
was all well and good, under normal circumstances, but after
last night’s athletic endeavors, she needed a bit more of a
jump-start. Especially if Potentially Incendiary Revelations
were on the schedule for the morning.

Harry was now looking at least as embarrassed as he was
troubled, with possibly a soupçon of ‘angry’ somewhere in the
mix. Ron glanced from one of them to the other, bemused.

“You two have a fight?”

“Oh, no,” Hermione said airily. “Because Harry would never
jump to conclusions before he got his facts straight and say
something he’d regret later. Would you, Harry?”

Harry shot her a dark look. “Right,” he said. “Of course, fact
is stranger than fiction, they say. Just read the papers.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron asked impatiently. “The
Daily Prophet? Harry, there’s nothing even remotely resembling
a fact in that newspaper!”

“One might say,” Hermione said thoughtfully, studying her
pumpkin juice, “that someone needed to check their facts. To
get them straight. If you know what I mean.”

“One might say that,” Harry agreed. “I imagine the library
would be useful for that purpose. Don’t you, Hermione?”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Whew,” he said, cramming in the rest
of his toast and standing up. “Whatever’s eating the two of
you, I’ve got nothing to do with it. Harry, I’ll meet you on
the Quidditch pitch later.”

Hermione watched him walk away, mildly surprised. Tact, from
Ron? Was the earth moving?

“He might make a decent human being yet,” she murmured, and
got a black look from Harry for her trouble. “What? You want
to talk about this now?”

“Hole in one,” Harry said shortly, and gestured abruptly
toward the staircase. Hermione sighed.

It didn’t look like she was going to get that haircut today,
after all.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Twenty-Nine

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

“So,” Harry said, plopping into a chair opposite Hermione and
pinning her with a skeptical look. “Let’s hear it, then. And
it had better be good.”

They were tucked away in her favorite secluded corner of the
Restricted section. As it was Saturday, even the portraits
were occupied elsewhere; only Madam Pince remained in the
library with them, and she had been too busy polishing the
brass fittings on the thirty-eight volumes of The Wizard’s
Encyclopaedia of the Weird and Fantastical to even look up as
they entered.

Hermione eyed him speculatively. He wasn’t going to like the
truth, she knew that without asking. But even given all night
to think about it, she hadn’t been able to come up with a less
objectionable lie.

Besides, she was tired of lying.

“Look, Harry,” she said. “You know I don’t want to quarrel
with you over this. But I might as well tell you, it’s true -
Draco and I are seeing each other.” Harry’s jaw tightened.

“That’s all you’ve got to say for yourself?” he asked. “Just -
‘it’s true, we’re seeing each other’?” He scowled. “Sorry,
Hermione. You’re going to have to do a little better than
that. Keep talking.”

“What do you want?” she asked him icily. “A blow-by-blow? Or
have you already had that pleasure, courtesy of your little
Visual Aid to the Teenage Voyeur?”

Harry reddened. “It was an accident,” he muttered. Hermione
snorted.

“Bullshit. You have to tap that thing with your wand and state
your intentions; otherwise it only shows you professors.
Either you fed his name into it specifically, or you asked it
to track whoever I was meeting.” She curled her lip
contemptuously. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Harry shot back, glaring at her. “At the
very least, your memory’s obviously been compromised. After
all, you’ve managed to forget every slimy, underhanded,
sneaking thing Malfoy’s ever done to you - to us - long enough
to spread your legs for him.” He paused, a muscle working in
his cheek. “Or are you thinking with something besides your
brain, these days?”

Oooooh, was he ever asking for it now. “That’s a cheap shot,”
Hermione snapped, stung. “And I have my own reasons for
excusing Draco’s past.”

“That good a lay, is he?”

Hermione gritted her teeth, tempted almost beyond sanity to
slap that nasty, smug look from his face. “I expected this
from Ron,” she said, hanging onto her composure by a thread.
“But considering what you went through after your name came
out of the Goblet of Fire two years ago, I would have thought
that you, of all people, might reserve judgment long enough to
hear the whole story.”

There. Let him try and weasel around that logic. She saw with
satisfaction that he had the grace to flush - no doubt he was
remembering who exactly had been the only person, other than
the Headmaster, to believe his story and stand by him.

“You did, huh?” Harry looked chastened, but still dubious. “Is
that why you’ve been sneaking around with him, ever since the
beginning of term? Because you trusted me so much?”

Well, he had her there. Hermione flushed, but didn’t drop her
eyes. “I’m telling you now,” she said, willing her voice not
to tremble. “Are you going to listen to me?”

Harry sighed and pushed his head back from his forehead. Age
hadn’t softened the lightning-bolt scar; it was as livid as
ever above his glass-green eyes.

He hadn’t gotten any better at subterfuge, either. Hermione
could see instinct warring with reason on his face, as plain
as day, and felt an absurdly strong surge of affection for him
when he finally shrugged in capitulation and shot her a weary
smile.

“Okay,” he said. “Start at the beginning, then. Just don’t get
too detailed about any of the naked bits, okay? My stomach
can’t take it.”

**

It took her more than half an hour to get through the whole
story. As it turned out, finally spilling the beans felt so
good that Hermione stayed in confessional mode perhaps a bit
longer than was strictly wise.

Besides, she rationalized, if she didn’t say anything about
the Illuminata, the rest of it wouldn’t make sense.

There were still some selective edits in her story, of course.
Nothing about the spanking. Or about the way she’d kissed
Snape, down in the dungeons, while free of the influence of
adulterated substances.

After all, she hadn’t lost her mind completely.

Harry, to his credit, took her tale with surprising calm,
though he found certain parts highly amusing (Snape in
Bangkok; Lucius Malfoy ripping apart a hotel mattress), and
was frankly appalled by others. When she got to the bit about
the Fils du Couteau, he actually gasped. The news that she had
a bit of Malfoy running in her veins provoked some comment,
too.

“Jesus, Hermione,” he said. “Are you telling me that Malfoy is
part dentist, now?”

Hermione looked at him warningly. “This is all in confidence,”
she reminded him darkly. “If you dare …”

Harry raised both hands, palms out, in a gesture of
appeasement.

“Not a word,” he said. “I swear.”

“Not even to Ron,” Hermione insisted, and Harry rolled his
eyes.

“Especially not to Ron,” he said. “Are you kidding? He flips
out when you talk to Neville. It’s just bizarre, that’s all.
I’d never have thought …”

“Thought what?”

He considered this for a minute. “Well, a lot of things.”

“Such as.”

“Well, for starters, that any potion under the sun could be
powerful enough to make you want to sleep with Snape.” He
shook his head wonderingly. “That you survived four days under
an invisibility cloak with Malfoy without cursing his balls
off. That he has anything to say, to anyone, that isn’t
automatically nasty and cutting.”

She shrugged, feeling oddly defensive. “Well … live and
learn.”

Harry ran his tongue over his teeth. He was still staring into
space. “That any father could do that to his son,” he said
softly. “That most of all.” He bit his lip pensively. “Almost
makes me start to feel sorry for him, evil git that he’s
always been to me.”

Another surge of affection. Whatever his faults, Harry had a
real soft spot for an underdog. Hermione patted his hand.

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

That got a laugh out of him. “No doubt.” He sobered. “That
secret-weapon business is pretty heavy, though. Has Voldemort
written all over it. How is Dumbledore going to keep him safe?
Doesn’t his father have a right to take him out of school, if
he wants to?”

Hermione looked worried. Trust Harry to zero in on the heart
of the problem within sixty seconds. “That’s what I don’t
know,” she said. “We think we’ve managed to save the world,
but we haven’t figured out how to save him yet. And I’d feel a
whole lot better if I thought that Dumbledore knew any more
than we do, but I get the feeling that he’s in the dark, too.”

Harry pushed himself up from his chair and paced over to the
window. “It’s too bad that no one’s developed a really good
protection charm,” he said moodily, staring out at the school
grounds. “All we’ve got is the Armoring Fluid, and that didn’t
even save most of us from the Leg-Locker.” He swung back
around and looked curiously at Hermione, who was staring at
him open-mouthed. “What?”

“A good protection charm?” she asked faintly. Harry frowned.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. So what? We haven’t got one.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. A good
protection charm. Good,” she repeated. “Don’t you get it?”

“No,” he said blankly, and Hermione sighed.

“Harry,” she said urgently. “What happens when you light a
candle in a dark room?” Harry shrugged.

“It’s not dark anymore?”

“Exactly,” Hermione said, triumphant. “The darkness can’t
exist in the presence of the light. It’s dispelled. The only
way to darken the room again is to blow out the candle. But if
the candle’s protected …” She trailed off, and Harry, still
very confused, just shrugged again.

“Hermione, why do I get the feeling that you’re going all
metaphorical on me?”

Hermione ignored this. “Protect the light, and you kill the
darkness,” she murmured, as if to herself, and jumped to her
feet, suddenly galvanized to action. Harry stared at her in
astonishment.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to Snape, of course,” she said, and to Harry’s utter
bewilderment, planted an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek. “It’s
been right under my nose,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t
think of it before. You’re a genius.”

“Um …”

“I have to go,” she said. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

“Me too,” Harry said weakly. But she was already gone.

Shaking his head, he headed for the Quidditch field.

**

Figures, Hermione thought with a touch of bitterness. If you
wanted to avoid Snape, he followed you around like the Grim
Reaper, breathing down your neck. The second you needed to
find him, however, he was as scarce as a virgin in the Playboy
Mansion.

Damn, damn, damn. Still panting from her mad dash down the
stairs, she slid slowly down the wall outside his office until
her backside met clammy stone. According to the schedule
posted on his door, he kept morning office hours on Saturdays
- eight to ten, to be precise - so chances were good he’d
show.

This was important. She could wait.

Ten a.m. came and went, however, with no sign of him.
Hermione, rubbing feeling back into her chilled posterior,
stood up and decided to check the Potions classroom again,
just in case.

The door was ajar - aha! - but Snape wasn’t in the room.
Deciding that sitting in a chair was preferable to sitting on
the floor, and that in any case he wouldn’t leave the room
unlocked through the lunch hour, she ducked inside to wait for
him. She’d been sitting there for perhaps ten minutes when she
became aware of voices drifting into the room from the
corridor.

“ … acting very odd, that’s for sure.” That was Pansy,
Hermione thought, and she sounded even more petulant and
aggrieved than usual.

“Ever since school started,” agreed the second voice. Hermione
thought she recognized it as belonging to Forrest Avery, a
Slytherin seventh-year. “Don’t take it personally, Pansy -
it’s definitely his problem, not yours.”

“Hard not to,” Pansy said sulkily. “We were as good as engaged
last spring, everyone knew it, and he’s barely spoken to me
since school started. What am I supposed to think?”

“That he’s cracked up,” Avery said, lowering his voice.
“Something funny happened over the summer - no one’s quite
clear on what it is, but I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. My
father told my mother that he had a breakdown and ran off to
some Muggle city - his father had to go after him and drag him
home again. And he’s all quiet and strange these days. Doesn’t
even pick fights with Potter. Total zombie. I’ll be very
surprised if he even takes the Mark, come Christmas.”

“Really?” Pansy whispered, and Hermione could hear the
delighted malice in her voice. “Ooooh - what an embarrassment
to the Malfoys, if it’s true. Can you imagine?”

“My dad says some wizards just aren’t strong enough to handle
it,” Avery said smugly. “Says the idea drives ‘em mad. They
can’t take a little blood on their hands.” Clearly, he had no
such qualms himself, Hermione thought, and balled her hands
into suddenly icy fists.

“Not me,” Pansy said. Hermione shuddered - that rich-girl
petulance had taken on a nasty edge that chilled her to the
bones. “I can think of some I’d like to spill, all right.”

“I’d like to spill a little of yours,” Avery murmured
suggestively. This rather gruesome attempt at innuendo was
followed by a coquettish giggle and some wet sucking sounds;
apparently Pansy didn’t take his advances amiss. Hermione
tried not to listen to the slurping and muttered obscenities
floating through the stone wall, with only limited success. If
it went on too much longer, she was going to be sick.

A slap, a muffled groan, a chuckle. “Let’s find a little
privacy, shall we?” Avery suggested. “The Potions room is
open, looks like.”

Oh, shit.

Hermione cast a longing glance at the classroom’s only door.
It was already half-blocked by a loutish shadow. She rose from
her seat, undecided.

Brazen it out and say hello? Best not, considering that she’d
overheard them discussing Death Eaters.

Run? Not very Gryffindor.

Hide? Possibly. Though she couldn’t imagine where.

From the sound of things, Pansy rather enjoyed the idea of
possible discovery, and was all in favor of remaining in the
corridor for the duration of their tryst - or maybe, Hermione
thought, she was hoping to be rescued? Avery, however, had
other ideas, and Hermione bit her lip as Pansy allowed herself
to be manhandled toward the Potions doorway.

The desk, she thought - behind the desk, and barely managed to
slide out of sight before the amorous Slytherins stumbled in,
still grappling, and shut the door behind them. Hermione heard
the unmistakable sound of tearing fabric, followed by a
heartfelt female moan, and grimaced.

She SO did not want to hear this. And by the way - where the
fuck was Snape?

Get me out of here, she thought, and shoved fretfully at a
particularly uncomfortable outcrop of the unevenly worn
flagstones underneath her.

The next thing she knew, she was falling.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty

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It was a fast trip, straight down through darkness.

Hermione grabbed for her wand, almost bobbled it, caught it
again, and muttered, “Lumos!” Looking down was an exercise in
self-mastery; as it turned out, she needn’t have wasted the
effort. The wand’s light didn’t penetrate all the way to the
bottom of the tunnel.

She could, however, hear the crash of breaking water beneath
her, and it was getting louder as she descended. There must be
an underground river, feeding into the lake, Hermione thought,
and tried not to think about how hard she was going to land,
when she got to the bottom.

She flashed past a sizable opening in one side wall of the
tunnel, but didn’t grab for the ledge soon enough to stop her
fall. The sound of running water was quite loud now; risking
another glance downward, Hermione saw what looked like the
metallic gleam of a grate, far beneath her, and groaned.

This was getting worse and worse.

Making it all the way to the bottom was no longer an option.
Time for an experiment, she thought wildly, as almost anything
would be preferable to breaking both legs at the end of this
hellish oubliette and waiting for the rats to find her. Taking
a deep breath, she turned her wand on herself and shouted the
first spell she could think of.

“Mobilicorpus!”

She stopped falling so suddenly that her whole body jerked in
a whiplash. Despite the neck pain, she sighed in relief. She
hadn’t been sure that spell would work on a body that wasn’t
unconscious.

She was very close to the bottom of the tunnel now - so close,
in fact, that if she pointed her toes, they almost brushed
metal. She swallowed hard.

That had been a close one.

The walls of the tunnel were gray-green and slimy with moss.
No traction there. Even with her pesky gravity issue dealt
with, Hermione wasn’t sure how she was going to get back up.
Wingardium Leviosa wasn’t supposed to be used on beings, only
objects. And though she’d read about Hovering Charms and
thought she remembered the words, she was a bit apprehensive
about trying one out for the first time in this particular
circumstance.

Do it the old-fashioned way, then, she thought, and began an
awkward breast-stroke through the air, back up the way she’d
just come.

It was slow, exhausting work, like swimming through pudding.
What was worse, Hermione could feel the strength of her
Mobilicorpus beginning to slip as she tired. She could have
cheered when the opening in the side wall finally came into
view.

Time for a breather, she decided, and collapsed gratefully
onto the clammy stone floor.

A few minutes later, when she’d finally caught her breath, she
shone her wand curiously around her. The floor on which she
sat wasn’t simply a ledge; it was the entrance to a side
tunnel, tall enough for her to stand upright in and nearly as
wide as one of the Hogwarts corridors. These walls were furred
with moss, too, though less heavily, and in one place the moss
had been stripped away altogether to make room for some
hastily etched words. Hermione stood up and moved a little
closer, in order to read them.

“Fred and George were here.”

Startled, and more relieved than she cared to admit, Hermione
laughed out loud. If the irrepressible Weasley twins had been
down this rabbit hole and made it out alive again, maybe there
was hope for her, too. The question was: which way had they
gone?

She leaned out into the vertical passageway and peered up
toward the floor of the Potions classroom. Not so much as a
pinhole of light. Either the trap door had closed behind her
after she fell, or Avery and Parkinson had kicked it closed
out of spite. Whichever it was, she didn’t fancy another long,
exhausting swim up to the top, only to discover that she
couldn’t open the door from this side - and, considering that
it was Hogwarts, that was a very real possibility.

Well, then. That left this tunnel. She’d just have to find
another way out.

Gripping her wand in a hand gone clammy with trepidation, she
headed into the narrow stone hallway.

**

Some time later, she came to a fork in the path and groaned.

Right or left? The Lady or the Tiger?

She examined the wall for possible clues in the form of
Weasley-graffiti, but there was nothing. Apparently she was
moving away from the river, however - as she’d gone along, the
moss had become increasingly sparse and finally disappeared.
Now the walls were bare, though still damp to the touch.

Hermione glanced down one corridor, then the other. They
looked identical: black and forbidding, beyond her small
sphere of light. She bit her lip, undecided, and pushed her
hair irritably out of her eyes for the hundredth time.

Dammit, Harry, she thought. If you hadn’t been snooping last
night, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now, I’d be at the
Wand and Razor asking for a trim and a shape and possibly an
eyebrow wax. You’re the adventurer, not me: why couldn’t this
be happening to you and Ron, instead?

It was then that she heard the music coming down the left-hand
passageway.

It was a thin, eerie, echoing sound - much like a flute, but
without the warmth and the wide fluttering vibrato. The tune
was unfamiliar … haunting, heavily ornamented, and in a minor
key.

Hermione frowned. If you discounted the obvious skill of the
musician, the instrument sounded almost exactly like the
soprano recorder she’d learned to play in her third-grade
Muggle music class.

Immediately, and most unwillingly, she had “Hot Cross Buns”
stuck in her head.

Good God. She’d managed to block that particular memory for
years.

She glanced down the silent black corridor to the right, then
transferred the perspiration from her wand hand onto her
robes, gathered her courage, and turned toward the left,
feeling rather like a rat following the Pied Piper.

If this turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life, she
thought, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes could damn well pick up the
tab for her funeral.

And afterwards, she’d haunt their shop. Forever.

**

Snape was in a foul mood.

First of all, he had a head cold. (Which was what came of
getting naked - even partially - on a chilly damp floor, at
his age.)

Second of all, his routine had been thrown off today by the
discovery of mildew in his storage cabinets. Nearly his entire
store of dried bat wings and pickled sparrow tongues were
wiped out - both ingredients, of course, being things he
needed for Monday’s classes - and he’d subsequently had to
spend most of the morning in Hogsmeade, replacing damaged
supplies.

Now, it was three o’ clock, and his peaceful afternoon was
being disturbed. For some reason, the Fates had seen fit to
punish him with Harry Potter.

“Go away, Potter,” he snapped. “If you need help with your
classwork - and I daresay you do - my office hours are
posted.”

Harry looked put out by this, but to Snape’s great annoyance,
he didn’t budge. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s about
Hermione. She’s missing.”

Snape scowled. Hermione had been studiously avoiding him ever
since the Momentous Event of Thursday evening. “Tell your Head
of House, Potter. Miss Granger’s whereabouts are not my
concern.”

Potter persisted. “She was coming to see you this morning,” he
said stubbornly. “About something important. The Illuminata, I
think. Didn’t you talk to her?”

The Illuminata? Snape blanched. How much did Potter know?

He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Not that it’s any of your
business,” he said. “But this once, I will accede to your
extreme and unwarranted nosiness long enough to inform you
that I’ve been in Hogsmeade all morning. I haven’t seen Miss
Granger since class yesterday.” His head was pounding. He
thought his sinuses might explode. “Now. Will you kindly take
your bothersome self away, and leave me alone?”

Harry took a deep breath. “But. Professor.”

“What now?” Snape snapped. Harry met his eyes levelly.

“Her books are outside your office,” he said. “And I’ve been
looking for her ever since she didn’t come to lunch. She’s not
anywhere. And nobody’s seen her.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Did you ask Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Harry said evenly. “I’d say he’s about as worried as I
am. He’s checking all the third-floor classrooms again right
now.”

Dear me, she had come clean, hadn’t she? Snape gave Harry a
sharp look. He was paler than usual and trembling almost
visibly with anxiety. “What else?” he asked, less sharply, and
Harry held out a piece of black cloth.

“Found it on the floor of the Potions classroom,” he said,
swallowing hard. Snape took the rag reluctantly.

There was no mistaking the fabric - this had come from a
standard Hogwarts student robe. Snape felt his stomach lurch,
and took another swig from his bottle of Pepper-Up.

“All right, Potter,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Lead
the way.”

**

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking, but her feet
hurt, and she was starting to get hungry. Breakfast seemed
like a distant memory.

She thought the music was a little closer now, though with the
echo it was difficult to tell for certain. She blew out a
shaky breath. She’d be glad to see just about anyone right
now, even Parkinson and Avery - the ghostly faraway piping and
the dank, dripping stillness that closed in on her from all
sides were wearing on her nerves.

She had almost convinced herself to turn around and go back
when the corridor suddenly widened and turned. Hermione
rounded the bend cautiously, hesitated for a moment underneath
an imposing granite arch, then walked resolutely through it.

Holy shit.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

She was in a torchlit chamber about the size of the Gryffindor
common room. A gorgeous Oriental carpet shimmered underfoot.
Shelves of books lined the walls. On the far side of the room,
a fire crackled merrily in the grate, and a log gave way with
a hiss and a shower of sparks.

Two overstuffed armchairs flanked the fire. One was empty. The
other held a ghostly-gray figure Hermione didn’t recognize.

He was austerely dressed in unadorned robes, through which
Hermione could faintly see the back of the chair. He had short
hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and held what was indeed a
descant recorder to his pale lips. When he saw Hermione, he
laid his instrument aside, but didn’t rise from the chair.

“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said. “And who, pray tell,
are you?”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said faintly, stepping forward
into the circle of firelight. “I’m a student here,” she added,
when he didn’t say anything.

“So I see,” he said, sounding slightly amused. “A Gryffindor,
I see. And with a prefect’s badge at that. Dear me, you
Gryffindors do get around, don’t you?” He laced his fingers
behind his head. “I met a most entertaining pair of redheads …
was it two years ago? Three? Quite a conversation that was,
too. Though for sheer visual aesthetics, I must say you’ve
handily defeated them, Miss Granger. It’s been at least a
century since I saw a pretty girl; I must thank you for
dropping in.”

Hermione bit her lip. He talked more than any ghost she’d ever
seen, including the ever-obnoxious Sir Patrick of the Headless
Hunt. And he looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t think
why.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said. “But I don’t believe I
caught your name.”

“How impolite of me,” said the ghost. “An oversight, I assure
you.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his icy lips.

“Salazar Slytherin, Miss Granger. At your service.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-One

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

Salazar Slytherin?

Hermione sank wordlessly into the empty chair, wide-eyed with
shock. Slytherin, looking quite pleased with himself at her
reaction, chuckled and propped his transparently stockinged
feet on the ottoman in front of his chair.

“My reputation precedes me, I see,” he said, beaming.
“Hogwash, of course - most of it, anyway. I’m afraid Godric
was quite put out with me at the end … and, as I’m sure you
know, it’s the victors who write the history books.”

“Gryffindor … killed you?” Hermione croaked. Slytherin
chuckled again.

“Goodness me, no. Forced me into retirement, though. The young
hothead.”

He sounded remarkably cheery about this. Hermione guessed that
being dead for a thousand years would tend to take the sting
out of old quarrels, particularly if they didn’t end in
bloodshed.

“No, I died in my sleep,” Slytherin continued. “1303, to be
exact. Though you won’t find that in any of the history books,
mind.” He winked at her. “I’ve been walking through doors ever
since.”

Hermione looked him over; apart from the fact that you could
see through him, he looked like someone’s grandpa, right down
to the stockinged feet and the avuncular twinkle in his eyes.

Could this really be Salazar Slytherin? She was finding it
hard to reconcile the kindly old gent in front of her with the
ambitious, hard-headed tyrant with a taste for the Dark Arts
that she’d read so much about.

“You don’t sound very … Chaucerian,” she said, frowning.
Slytherin looked half-offended.

“Of course not,” he said indignantly. “I read, don’t I?”

He gestured at the walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “I
get a new shipment every month,” he confided. “Endowed the
library anonymously, before I died. Worded the bequest so that
they’d order whatever I requested and not ask questions. That
dried-up spider of a librarian doesn’t like it, but it’s
enough money that she does what she’s told. Leaves the box on
her desk, unopened, and lets it disappear overnight.”

He sent Hermione a sly look and patted the paperback copy of
Tropic of Cancer that was lying dog-eared on his lamp table.
“Change with the times, that’s what I always say.”

Okay, that was over the line. She’d read that book; for a
ghost, he was a hell of a flirt.

Still, Hermione was beginning, albeit warily, to enjoy
herself. “Does … does anyone know you’re here?”

Slytherin laughed. “Not on your life, dearie. I’m retired,
after all, and I’m a solitary old geezer. Don’t need the
pressure, don’t want the publicity. And that young pup,
Dumbledore, has things pretty well in hand, all told.” He
beamed at her. “No, I’m content to read my books, write my
memoirs, and wait for the occasional young beauty to drop in.
Can I offer you some tea?”

Hermione hoped her stomach hadn’t been growling too loudly.
“Tea,” she said fervently, “would be marvellous.” Her forehead
creased. “But I do have some questions for you, Mr. Slytherin.
If you don’t mind.”

“Call me Salazar,” said the ghost, who was casually Summoning
a teapot from the sideboard next to the fireplace. (Hermione,
who had always wondered if wizard ghosts retained their
magical powers, but hadn’t asked Sir Nicholas about it for
fear of seeming rude, tried not to stare.) “As for your
questions, I’d be happy to answer them. But may I propose a
bit of a trade?”

The casual way in which he asked this was a bit too elaborate;
Hermione eyed him with suspicion.

“What sort of trade?” she asked cautiously.

Salazar looked pensive. “Music,” he said, “is a hobby of mine.
Unlike the books, though, I wasn’t able to provide for my
retirement with regular infusions of scores - Hogwarts deals
mostly with Flourish and Blotts, and their musical selection
is meager, to put it kindly. So, unfortunately, I’ve not been
able to keep up with the times.”

He picked up his ghostly recorder and turned it over and over
in his hands. “On the rare occasions that I get company,” he
said, “I like to do a little bartering … when you’re as
cloistered as I am, such machinations are necessary. I’m sure
you understand.”

Hermione, who frankly didn’t know what he was talking about,
nodded anyway.

“Those redheaded twins, for example,” said Slytherin, “traded
me a tune in exchange for some information they wanted. They
were quite upset with me, until we got the misunderstanding
cleared up. Pesky little matter of a basilisk.” He piped a
couple of bars. “Nice little melody, eh? I didn’t catch the
name, though.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “’Yesterday’,” she supplied.

“Ah, yes. I remember now. Composer?”

“Um. John Lennon.”

“Lemon,” Salazar muttered, scrawling the word in silvery ink
across the top of a page of ghostly manuscript. “Much
obliged.”

Hermione considered correcting him, then decided it wasn’t
worth the effort. The teapot was whistling, and she
desperately wanted her tea. “No problem,” she said, getting up
from her chair and pouring the hissing water into a cup from
the sideboard. “So - that’s the trade you want to make? Your
information for my tune?”

“Exactly,” Slytherin said. He picked up a blank sheet of
manuscript paper and a quill, and looked expectantly at
Hermione. She thought fast.

“Um …” she said, trying to guess at what a thousand-year-old
ghost who liked Henry James would consider to be a ‘good
tune’. “Do you know ‘Greensleeves’?”

He nodded. Hermione tried again.

“’Scarborough Fair’?”

“My dear girl,” Salazar said with a hint of impatience, “I’m
not so out of date that I don’t know my British Isles folk
songs! Can’t you come up with something a bit more modern?
Nineteenth-century, perhaps?”

Hermione gulped. “Sorry.” She thought for a minute. “Okay -
how about Brahms?”

Her mum had used to sing her to sleep with the famous Lullaby,
and she thought she could remember all the words. In English,
of course, not the original German - hopefully, Slytherin had
been out of circulation long enough that he wouldn’t know the
difference.

The ghost brightened. “Brahms, you say? Never heard of him.”
Quill poised, he raised his eyebrows. “Well? Go on then.”

“You want me to sing it?” Okay, Hermione thought, this
afternoon had now officially moved waaaaay beyond ‘odd’, and
was turning left at the signpost marked ‘Salvador Dalí’.

Slytherin tipped his head to one side.

“You could hum, I suppose,” he said. “But if there are words,
I’d rather like to hear them.”

“And afterwards, you’ll answer my question?”

“You have my word,” he said, looking a bit reproachful at her
skepticism.

Hermione took a sip of tea - musty, but potable - and began.

**

She had to sing it through four times before he was satisfied
with his notation of the melody. “Very pretty,” he said,
trying out the first phrase on the recorder. “Charming, in
fact. And you’ve a lovely voice, my dear.” He looked suddenly
hopeful. “You haven’t studied the harpsichord, by chance, have
you?”

Hermione followed his gaze to a dark corner of the room - sure
enough, there was a museum-quality harpsichord set up, gilded
on every surface and covered with painted cherubim. “No,” she
said firmly, tamping down her initial instinct to go touch it.
“And what are you doing with a harpsichord, anyway? They
weren’t invented until hundreds of years after you died.”

“Even a solitary old retiree is entitled to a vacation or
two,” Slytherin said testily. “I daresay I’ve collected a few
souvenirs along the way. It’s only since 1750 or so that I’ve
become a total recluse.”

Hermione had a sudden thought. “You didn’t ever hear anything
by Palestrina, by any chance - did you?” Slytherin looked
suddenly pained.

“Palestrina. Nice kid named Giovanni, right? No. Listening to
his music would have involved setting foot in a Muggle
cathedral,” he said, and sighed at the suddenly closed look on
Hermione’s face. “I know, I know. We’re in the Age of Reason
now, or maybe even the Age of Unbelief, and I’ve gotten untold
bad press over this issue. But when you’re as old as I am, my
girl, you can still remember when the world wasn’t quite so
enlightened. Torture - burnings - the auto-da-fé - “ He shook
his head sadly. “It was a bad time to set yourself against the
Church of Rome, I’ll tell you.”

Hermione set her teacup aside and leaned forward in her chair,
struck with sudden realization. “That’s why you didn’t want to
admit Muggle-borns to Hogwarts,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Slytherin sighed. “The worst of the atrocities didn’t happen
until after I was dead,” he said. “I saw it coming, though.”
He pinned her with a penetrating glance. “It’s a long story,
young lady, and not a pretty one. Are you sure you want to
hear it?”

Hermione nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said.
Slytherin laughed.

“Trouble? When I haven’t spoken to another soul since your
friends the Weasleys tracked me down? No, no trouble.”

He shifted his position so he was facing her full-on. “We in
the wizarding world didn’t remove ourselves from Muggle
society until the rise of Christianity under Constantine -
until then, it wasn’t necessary,” he began. “Religion under
the Greeks and Romans was a bit of a buffet - you took a bit
of every god you liked, and the supernatural was accepted as a
matter of course. Young wizards and witches studied under
Socrates and Plato, right along with the Muggles. And of
course there were no organized schools of witchcraft - we
passed our magical arts down through our families, or hired
tutors.”

“So, then,” Hermione said slowly, “there were no Muggle-born
witches and wizards - at least not trained ones.”

“Right in one,” Salazar said. “You’re a sharp little cookie,
aren’t you?” He stared into the fire pensively. “Of course,
when the Church came to power, it ushered in five hundred
years of utter artistic and educational poverty for the
Muggles. We were all right, of course, but none of them were
educated at all, unless they were involved with the Church.
And even in those cases, they were taught as little as
possible. Theological argument was declared to be heresy;
philosophy and art were considered useless at best and
corrupting at worst.” He grinned at her. “This was before my
time, of course. I arrived on the scene just after the turn of
the century - in 1075, to be exact - just when things were
starting to change.”

“For the better?” Hermione asked. Salazar shrugged.

“In some ways. The Muggles were tired of being downtrodden and
uneducated. New trade routes - new translations of the old
books - a newly-formed middle class of merchants and skilled
artisans that just hadn’t existed since the glory days of
Rome. Universities started springing up - Cambridge, Oxford,
all the old schools that are still around now were founded
back then. Art, music, poetry, literature - they all started
to blossom into full flower around 1150 or so.” He paused for
breath. “That’s when Godric and Rowena and Helga and I got
together and started to talk about opening an academy of
magical arts. It seemed a good time for it.”

“Sounds exciting,” Hermione said, dreamily. “I’ve always liked
to read about the Renaissance.” Slytherin shot her a sharp
look.

“Exciting, yes,” he said drily. “And to some, alarming. The
Church wasn’t any too happy about the break in its
stranglehold, I’ll tell you. That’s when the trouble really
started.”

“You mean the witch hunts,” Hermione said. Salazar shook his
head.

“They hunted everybody,” he said. “Heretics, Jews, witches,
wizards, folk healers, you name it. They burned books and
paintings in the town squares. They killed children.” He
crossed his arms over his chest, looking cold and drawn
despite the warmth of the fire. “It was the Muggle-borns that
got the worst of it,” he said. “We’d recruited some of them
for Hogwarts from the very beginning - it was Helga’s idea,
though Godric’s gotten most of the credit for it.”

He gave Hermione a sideways glance. “I suppose your history
books tell you that no real witches or wizards burned, during
the hunts,” he said. “That they escaped the fires with Cooling
Charms, and the drownings with gillyweed, and so on. Am I
right?”

Hermione nodded, and Slytherin gave a short sharp bark of a
laugh.

“Lies,” he said softly. “We suffered more losses than I care
to think about. Not fully-trained witches and wizards, of
course,” he said in answer to Hermione’s gasp. “Except for the
few who got surprised without their wands. But the children …”
He trailed off. Hermione had to look away from the grief on
his silvery old face.

“A girl could be burned for a witch at nine,” he finally said.
“A boy at ten. In one summer holiday, we could lose half of
our first-years, almost all of them Muggle-borns. In some
cases, their own parents turned them over to the Inquisition.”

“You lived to see this,” Hermione said, horrified. Slytherin
shook his head.

“No, but I predicted it,” he said bitterly. “I advised against
the acceptance of Muggle-born and half-blood wizards and
witches into the school, because I foresaw conflict between
their old communities and their new knowledge, and because
Hogwarts was not at that point set up to protect them
year-round. And I was voted down and dismissed in the history
books as a racist.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong, for that matter - certainly
in the following centuries, Muggle-borns adapted and thrived
despite their setbacks. But by then, I was an old man - I saw
only the danger, and missed the opportunity.”

“Is that why you’re a ghost?” Hermione asked.

Slytherin nodded. “Ghosts,” he said, “are people with
unfinished business. Those who don’t feel they’ve yet done
what they can.”

Having said this, he lapsed into silence, leaving Hermione to
nurse her stone-cold tea and stare into the flames. When she
finally spoke, it was more to lift the somber mood than for
any other reason.

“Can I ask you my question now?”

Salazar’s bushy white eyebrows shot up.

“My dear Miss Granger,” he said, “you’ve been doing nothing
but asking questions for the last thirty minutes. But -“ and
here his eyes began to twinkle with a shadow of their former
calculation - “if you need to know something else, I might let
it go for a song.”

Why, you old chiseler, Hermione thought, torn between outrage
and amusement. This afternoon was proving to be most
interesting, however, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him
for prolonging the first social visit he’d had in three years.

“Okay,” she said, and launched into an uptempo version of
‘Pop, Goes the Weasel.’

**

“Oh, I like that,” Slytherin said happily, after he’d finally
laid down his quill. “Very peppy - and considerable room for
variation.” He looked at her enquiringly. “All right, girlie.
Ask away.”

Hermione’s hands were clammy. She wiped them on her robes,
braced herself, and looked the mighty Salazar Slytherin
straight in the eyes.

“All right,” she said. “Tell me everything you know about the
Fils du Couteau.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Two

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

Slytherin’s smile disappeared as if it had been zapped with an
Erasing Charm.

“The Fils du Couteau?” he repeated, looking troubled. “Why
would a sweet little thing like you want to know about nasty
business like that?”

Sweet little thing? Hermione raised her eyebrows.

Despite Slytherin’s protestations of modernity, she had the
feeling Camille Paglia wasn’t heavily represented on his
bookshelf.

“I’ve got my reasons,” she said shortly. “What do you know?”

“I know that it’s nothing I want to talk about,” he said
flatly. “That’s one potential disaster that’s in the past, and
it’s going to stay there. That little ditty you sang me isn’t
worth that kind of information, anyway.”

Hermione glared at him, irritated. “A deal’s a deal, Salazar,”
she said. “I handed over the tune - now pony up.” At his
mulish look, she slid out of her chair and went over to him.
“Look,” she said. “I’m only asking about this because I need
to know.”

“Get it from the library,” he said. She sighed.

“Do you think I haven’t tried?”

“Give up, then,” he told her. “It’s not worth dragging out
into the open, believe me. If I had my way, it wouldn’t even
be in books.”

Hermione laid her hand on his arm, ignoring the chill that
raced through her bloodstream. “Listen,” she said. “There’s a
student in this school with a little black mark on the back of
his neck. I just overheard a conversation that gives me reason
to believe he’s going to be … activated … over the Christmas
holidays.” She set her jaw resolutely. “Whatever it is,
however awful it is, it’s not in the past anymore. And I can’t
find anything useful about it in a book; you’ve got to help
me, or something awful’s going to happen.”

Slytherin stared at her. He had faded from pearly-gray to
stark, chalk white.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that the prophecy’s been
fulfilled? Someone’s actually made one?”

Hermione flushed. “Someone - two people, I assume - made him,”
she corrected him frostily. “Draco Malfoy. A person. Not a
thing.”

Slytherin waved this distinction away. “Has nothing to do with
the person,” he said. “Just the blood. But you probably
already know that much.”

Hermione nodded. “It’s one of the few things I do know. None
of the sources I’ve read have much to say about it.”

“For good reason,” Slytherin said. He looked weary. “The Fils
du Couteau,” he said, “has only been used once. And under
entirely different, entirely appropriate circumstances.” He
gave Hermione an appraising look. “What do you know about the
Goblin Rebellions, girlie?”

“Um …” Hermione blew out her breath. “Professor Binns talks
about them a lot in History of Magic, but it’s not information
that sticks with you,” she admitted. “Sort of dull, actually.”

“Hmph.” Salazar rolled his eyes. “Dull, she says. You little
pipsqueak, I lived through those rebellions, and dull had
nothing to do with it.” He surveyed her with grim amusement.
“You see them at Gringotts, right?” he demanded. “Wearing
their little red uniforms, scrambling in and out of their
little trolleys, pushing their papers and rattling their keys.
You think it was always like that?”

“Uh …”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. “My dear Miss Granger,
goblins almost took us over at least twice, that I can recall.
Clever, cunning little bastards. Powerfully magical. And
excellent spies.”

“Spies?” Hermione echoed.

Salazar harrumphed. “That’s what I said. Until they were
defeated in the thirteenth century and forcibly stripped of
certain of their powers, goblins were the best shape-shifters
in the business. Could look like you or me, blink of an eye.
Played havoc with our troops, let me tell you.”

Hermione had the feeling she knew where this was going. “So,
the Fils du Couteau …”

“Was invented - by me, I’m sorry to say - in a moment of
desperation.” He studied the flames for a long heartbeat.
“They came to me for a solution - what passed for a Ministry
back then - and I did what I could. Wouldn’t have come up with
the same thing, had it been peacetime, mind you. Wouldn’t have
required blood, if I could have found another way around it.
But we were strapped for time, and it was all I could think
of.” He closed his eyes. “It worked a little differently,
then. Our sacrifice was a volunteer - gave himself up for the
cause … and we fried goblins for miles around that night, I’ll
tell you. Pillars of green flame, all over the countryside,
like poplar trees, and the smell of burning tar …” He shook
his head. “Screams, the most awful screams. Never heard
anything like it.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around her knees. “And the Fils du
Couteau?”

“Ah, yes.” Slytherin nodded thoughtfully. “There were peace
talks, eventually, and a surrender - and in negotiations, the
goblins agreed to give up their shape-shifting powers, if we
would dismantle our weapon. So I destroyed my notes, and we
thought that was the end of it, until it popped up again a
couple of centuries later.”

“Someone figured it out?”

A hint of a grim smile played around the corners of
Slytherin’s mouth. “Not entirely,” he said. “The wizard who
did it wasn’t as adept as I. He couldn’t make it work
instantly, the way I’d done it, with a willing volunteer. Lots
more trouble involved; you had to conceive an infant in the
middle of a Dark ceremony, then wait until the child reached
majority to complete the ritual.” He rubbed his hand over his
eyes. “Good news for us, of course - the little girl was only
six or seven when Ministry Aurors tracked him down and killed
him, and that was the end of that. She grew up, married a
shopkeeper, and got rich selling cosmetics. But the bad news
-“

“Let me guess,” Hermione said. “He changed the focus of the
spell to target Muggle-borns.”

Even before he nodded, she knew she was right.

“I thought we’d destroyed all the documentation,” Slytherin
said quietly. “I thought there was nothing left but that
half-assed prophecy. Which of course was no prophecy at all -
more like a wizarding version of Mein Kampf.” He looked angry.
“Of course, I thought a lot of things, among them being the
naïve-to-the-extreme belief that the atrocities we endured as
magical folk would make us more sympathetic to the differences
among ourselves.”

He met Hermione’s eyes with a gaze so empty and gray and old
that she shivered. “I can tell you only two things that might
be of help,” he said. “First. Kill the wizard who initiated
the ceremony - in this case, I’m assuming it’s our friend Tom
Riddle - and you void the curse. Your ill-fated classmate will
wear the mark of the Knife to his grave, but it might as well
be a bunny rabbit, for all the harm it’ll do.”

Hermione ran her tongue over her teeth. “Kill Voldemort,” she
repeated. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”

Salazar raised his eyebrows. “But not impossible,” he said.
“You must continue to believe that.” He leaned back in his
chair. “Here’s my second piece of advice. The Fils du Couteau,
if its current incarnation is anything like the bastardized
version I thought I’d destroyed, will wipe out all targets
within a fairly localized area.” He shot her a shrewd look.
“Voldemort’s spent almost twenty years preparing this weapon,”
he said. “He’s going to be damn selective about when and where
he plans to use it. If I were you, Miss Granger, I’d make a
short list of probable targets and try to figure out when
they’re all likely to be in one place.”

**

That, Hermione thought, was excellent advice. However, it
didn’t really address the issue at hand.

“This is the thing,” she said, and launched into an exposition
of Operation Blood Buddy. When she was done, Salazar whistled
low in his throat.

“You’re sharp, all right, girlie,” he said. “I’d not thought
of that. It may very well work. But then - what’s your
problem?”

Honestly, did she have to spell it out?

“My problem,” Hermione said tartly, “is that I’m sleeping with
this guy, I have a boatload of squishy-but-mixed feelings for
him, and though I’m not quite sure if I’m in love or not, I’d
still rather his blood stay bottled up inside him.”

Salazar guffawed.

“You’re a piece of work,” he gasped, when he’d calmed down
enough to speak. Hermione glared at him.

“Do you mind?” she asked, affronted. “I mean, it doesn’t rank
up there with saving all the Muggle-borns in Britain, but it’s
still not high comedy. I’ve got feelings for him.”

Slytherin nodded, sobering. “Right,” he said. “In that case,
all you can do is this: either kill Voldemort, or make sure he
knows that his weapon’s been deactivated, before he has a
chance to figure that out for himself.”

“Okay.”

Hermione opened her mouth to ask something else, but was
interrupted by her growling stomach. She glanced at her watch.

Six p.m.

Oh, Jesus.

“I have to get back,” she said, looking up at Slytherin with
wide eyes. “They’ll have called out the Queen’s Royal Guard by
now.”

**

Getting back into the main body of the school from Chez
Slytherin was much easier than Hermione had expected. Salazar
himself walked her the opposite way out of his chambers and
pointed her toward a steeply up-sloping corridor.

“That’s going to bring you out right into the Trophy Room,” he
said. “When you open the door, you’ll be hidden in an alcove,
behind the tapestry of Morgan le Fay hunting unicorns. Know
the one I’m talking about?”

Hermione nodded.

“Oh, and the trapdoor in the dungeons won’t work for you
again,” Salazar said offhandedly. “It only opens accidentally
- if you’re trying to find it, that floor’s solid as
Gibraltar.” He looked suddenly wistful. “I don’t know if
you’re much interested in visiting an old man, Hermione, but
you’re welcome back anytime.”

“Of course I’ll come back,” she promised him. “And I’ll bring
you some sheet music.” Slytherin’s lined old face lit up.

“Excellent,” he declared. “You can use the door in the trophy
room. The password’s ‘Coleridge’.

**

Dinner was about to end when Hermione, puffing from the long
climb, finally opened the door to the Trophy Room and peeked
out from behind Morgan’s tapestry.

Lots of questions if she went in to dinner now, she thought,
and opted instead for a quick bite in the kitchens. The
house-elves still vaguely disapproved of her, but they
couldn’t help but be accommodating to a hungry visitor.

Hunger pangs satiated, she yawned, thanked Dobby for the extra
cream puffs, and headed for Gryffindor Tower. She hadn’t
gotten three steps toward the Great Hall when something
invisible grabbed her hand and yanked her into an empty
classroom.

Either Harry or Draco, she thought, and couldn’t stop her
mouth from dropping open when the cloak came off to reveal
both of them.

“Where the hell have you been?” they both hissed. Hermione
gulped.

Well, even ‘surreal’ didn’t quite cut it now. Deciding she was
too tired to care why they were getting along, much less under
the same Invisibility Cloak, Hermione squeezed in beside them.
It had been easier to fit three-to-a-cloak back when they were
first-years, she thought, and philosophically wrapped her arms
around both lean waists.

“We’d better go to my room,” she said. “It’s a long, long
story.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Three

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

Hermione had seen a lot of strange things lately. Many of them
she’d seen today, as a matter of fact.

That being the case, the realization that she could still be
surprised came as a bit of a relief. She’d begun to worry
about premature cynicism.

At some point during her brief absence, the Great
Gryffindor-Slytherin Divide had been breached. Hermione wasn’t
sure if this had more to do with her disappearance, or her
lengthy Personal Affairs update with Harry in the library this
morning. Whichever it was, the Unthinkable Had Happened:
Mssrs. Potter and Malfoy were presently both sitting on her
bed, cross-legged under the canopy, with nary a scowl or sneer
traded for the past three-quarters of an hour.

Of course, this could have been because their mouths were
gaping open in shock.

“Salazar Slytherin,” Harry said thoughtfully at last, breaking
the long, awed silence that followed Hermione’s recitation.
Then: “That bastard. Why didn’t he come stop the damn basilisk
himself, if he’s been around all this time?”

“I think Fred and George already asked him that,” Hermione
said. “He implied that there was a logical explanation for it,
but I didn’t pry. You might ask them, the next time you need
to stock up on Canary Creams.”

Harry snorted.

Draco, who had been staring into space, seemed to shake
himself back into the present. He looked dazed.

“Hermione,” he said. “Do you think he told you everything he
knows?” Hermione shrugged.

“Not sure,” she said. “God knows he was happy enough to talk;
take him a Glenn Gould album and a copy of The Well-Tempered
Clavier, and he’ll probably let you read his diary.”

She studied her fingernails, her forehead creased. “Maybe we
should pay him another visit, come to think of it. He might be
able to tell something about the curse just by looking at the
mark on your neck; after all, he invented the thing.” She
yawned. “Not tonight, though. I’ve had enough rabbiting around
in sub-dungeons for one day.”

At that, Harry bolted upright. “Snape,” he said. Hermione shot
him a curious look.

“Is our Potions professor,” she supplied. “What about him?”

“He’s the only other person who knows you were missing today.”
He frowned suddenly with a new thought. “You had me really
worried, Hermione - otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten near
Snape with a ten-foot pole. Did you rip your robes when you
went through the trapdoor?”

“Rip my robes?” Hermione scanned her front, puzzled. “No. Why?
”

“Because,” Draco said, “when Harry went looking for you after
lunch, he found your books outside Snape’s office and a
ripped-up robe on the floor of the Potions classroom. We just
assumed it was yours, and Snape seemed to think that was a
reasonable guess. He’s probably given you up for dead by now;
the three of us even spent half an hour trying to coax
information out of that map, but you didn’t show up on it.”

Hermione spared a few moments for hysterical reflection on the
subject of Harry, Draco and Snape huddled over the Marauders’
Map. Her curiosity for the details of this montage bordered on
the morbid.

“Did it insult him?” she asked, and Harry shook his head
regretfully.

“No. More’s the pity.” He sighed. “I did have to give away the
password in his presence, however.”

“The sun will come up tomorrow,” Hermione said smugly,
ignoring his look of reproach. “You know,” she mused, “those
must have been Pansy’s robes.”

They both looked at her, baffled. “Pansy?” asked Harry.
“Parkinson? What does she have to do with this?”

Hermione had honestly forgotten about the Parkinson-Avery
conversation she’d overheard this morning - Slytherin’s ghost
was a bigger headline, after all. Still, she figured now was
as good a time as any to put it on the table. Draco looked
amused by the thought of Pansy snogging Avery, but disturbed
by the content of their verbal preliminaries.

“Christmas,” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder …”

“I tend to think not,” Hermione said firmly. “Slytherin said
Voldemort would go for as big a body count as possible, and
that he’d choose his targets carefully. That says ‘graduation’
to me, don’t you agree?”

“Could be.” Draco didn’t look convinced. “In any case, Snape
ought to know about it,” he said, and flushed a little at
their curious looks. “I told him everything,” he said, looking
more than a bit guilty. “Right after your little stunt in the
library with the Swiss army knife. Well, I had to tell someone
.”

Hmm, Hermione thought. So - Snape had known about that, then,
even before the incident with the Illuminata. Was that why
he’d been so strangely nice, when she’d showed up late for
their meeting?

Things to ponder.

She stole a peek under her lashes at Draco, who had leaned
back against one of the bedposts and was studying her quite
brazenly with a curiously intent look on his face, as if he
intended to commit her to memory. Their eyes caught and held;
she flushed, but didn’t look away.

She wasn’t aware that the room had fallen into deep silence
until Harry broke it by clearing his throat.

“Well,” he said, a bit too briskly. “I’ll just … um … I’ll
just run down to the dungeons, then, why don’t I? And tell him
you’re all right.” He cast a glance at Draco. “Shall I pass on
the Parkinson-Avery thing, too? Or do you want to do that
yourself?”

Draco looked surprised and slightly gratified at this. “If
it’s no trouble …” he began. Harry made a slashing motion with
his hand to cut him off.

“No trouble.” He backed toward the door. “Well, then. See you
at breakfast tomorrow, Hermione?”

“Good night, Harry,” she said, grateful beyond words for his
tact.

As much as she’d dreaded being alone with Draco for the last
few days, it seemed, at the moment, to be a very good idea.

**

He was so pale in the dim light that he almost shone. Sir
Galahad meets Rutger Hauer, Hermione thought, and warded the
door. “Hi,” she said, turning back to him.

“Hi.” He still had that odd, almost hungry look on his face.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, and he shook his head slowly.

“An hour ago,” he said softly, “everything was wrong. Now?
Nothing. And that’s the scariest feeling in the world, you
know it?”

Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. She bit her lip and
tried not to fidget.

That, she thought, had been one baby step away from a
Declaration. Which was a problem.

If she let him heap her with hearts and flowers tonight, and
he found out about her indiscretion with Snape later, he’d
never forgive her. And rightly so. Bad enough that she’d slept
with him, last night, and hadn’t said anything.

The look in his eyes told her that she couldn’t stall him much
longer. She was going to have to come clean.

Besides, secrets weren’t in her nature. Despite all recent
evidence to the contrary.

“Wait,” she said, more loudly than she’d intended, and flushed
in shame at the harsh sound of it. He raised his eyebrows
inquiringly.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she muttered, eyes on
her lap. “I - that is, we - it, well you see …”

“Hermione,” he said. “Look at me, will you?”

She did. He was thin and solemn and intense, and looked as
much like Lucius Malfoy as ever. Oddly enough, that steady
gray gaze now made her think not of his father, but of Salazar
Slytherin.

“Don’t say anything,” he said. “Just listen. I know about the
Illuminata - Potter spilled it; he thought you’d told me
already.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “But - that’s not what …” He held up a
hand to stop her.

“I know about the rest of it, too,” he said, and managed a
hint of his old smirk when her eyes widened. “Snape’s pretty
closemouthed, you know. But a three-year-old could have
figured him out today - he was frantic. What I didn’t surmise
on my own, I managed to weasel out of Harry.”

Oh, Jesus. It was hitting the fan now, wasn’t it? Hermione
tasted bile on the back of her tongue. “Draco,” she managed to
croak, and then her throat closed.

Funny how she could feel so guilty and so relieved at the same
time. It barely registered that he didn’t look angry.

“Listen, Hermione,” he said. “You’re not going to get guilt
over this from me. Potter told me; it was a reaction with the
potion. And considering that I’m looking like the primary
beneficiary, I’m not going to hold it against you. You’re
going to try to mix the Illuminata with that Armoring Fluid
we’ve been studying, right?”

Hermione nodded wordlessly. Draco’s lips twisted.

“’Protect the light, and you kill the darkness’,” he said
reflectively. “Harry liked that quote so much, he wrote it
down for me.” His eyes were unreadable. “I’m sort of fond of
it myself; no one’s ever referred to me in terms like those
before. As if I’m something valuable, something to be
sheltered.” His eyes darkened. “Something good.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Draco -“

“No, let me finish,” he said. “God knows I’m probably breaking
all the International Codes of Male Behaviour to tell you
this, but I think we need to clear the air. That goddamned map
of Potter’s was our best and last hope, this afternoon. When
he tapped it, and your name didn’t show up on it, I thought
I’d die.”

He laughed humorlessly. “And now you’re back in one piece, and
all I can think is that I’d better tell you how I feel before
you disappear again.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Draco … “

“Shut up,” he said, and moved a little closer to her. “You
think I need to hear the words right now? You think I’m going
to get huffy because you haven’t made up your mind yet? That’s
bollocks.”

He grabbed her hands with both of his. “I’m a ticking time
bomb,” he said. “I’ve got a little piece of Death, carved into
the back of my neck, and let’s be honest - neither of us are
sure what’s going to happen next. Stacked up against that, do
you think I care about bloody Snape? Do you really think it
matters? I’m in love with you, Hermione, and all I want to
know is this: do you want to be with me?”

They were knee-to-knee in the middle of the bed, separated by
a bare inch of space that shimmered between them like the
portal to an alternate universe. Easy to cross over.
Impossible to return, once you’d taken the step through.

For a final instant, the last vestiges of Hermione the Maiden
trembled indecisively on the threshold. Go to him now, that
cautious little girl whispered, and nothing might be
contained, or logical, or entirely safe, ever again.

Stay, the rest of her replied, and you’re not worthy to call
yourself a Gryffindor. Lock yourself away and call that safe?
What good does it do you?

Not such a hard decision, after all, really.

She flung herself across those interminable millimeters of
space and buried herself in his arms.

**

Sex got better with practice. Hermione supposed it was like
anything else.

She could still remember the tense excitement of the first
time - the half-avid, half-embarrassed way they’d looked at
each other, the thrill of nerve endings under the touch of
unfamiliar hands. The knowledge that they were About To Do It,
that they’d never be untouched or untried or virginal again.

But this was so much better that there really wasn’t a
comparison.

She was lying with her lover, whose touch and breath and body
and lips she knew, who stroked her with ever-more-knowing
hands, who ferreted out her secrets with the care and
curiosity of an archaeologist. Her fingers fluttered over the
planes of his shoulders like horses running home across
familiar fields. The sounds in his throat were the same ones
that she heard in her dreams.

And maybe it was that they’d already figured out how they fit
together, maybe it was the relief of finally having
surrendered the secret, maybe it was the borrowed blood in
their bodies, beating out synchronicity like village drums,
beyond the boundaries and barriers of skin and space. Hermione
didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

He held her open, and he brought her up, and he sent her over,
and he did the whole thing again and again - oh God, that her
whole life could be boiled down to this one delicious act of
rising and rising and rising again to burst. And against her
skin, against her breasts and her collarbones and the insides
of her thighs, she felt his lips like the sweet sting of tiny
tattoo needles, moving in silent passionate declarations.

In - in - in - her blood clamored for it and her arms reached
for it and the cradle of her body bowed out and around to
accept it, the weight of the man, the disheveled-silk hair,
the panting and the bitten lips and the cries and the rocking,
rocking, rocking of him inside her like the delicious bloody
scratch of an itch. Come closer, she thought, locking her
ankles around his back - closer, and fast, and hard, and why
do all those silly magazines obsess about taking it slow when
it’s obviously like being hit by a train?

But oh Jesus, oh Jesus, she shouldn’t have even thought about
that, she’d jinxed it for sure, because it was slow now, he’d
pulled out of that wonderful, terrible tailspin and … oh God,
was he touching her feet? Hands around her ankles, lifting
lifting lifting, and in he came again to a tight, long new
stretch, his allegro assai cut to half time so she could feel
every advance, every retreat in brilliant Technicolor slo-mo,
his thumbs dug maddeningly into her arches and his face a
death-mask of sweaty concentration.

“No more,” she pleaded. Too much, too much, it had to end and
soon, because if it didn’t there’d be nothing left of her but
ashes and a smile. “Please, please, please …” this her mantra,
her chanted entreaty in time with some practiced squirming to
help him along, and please God let it be working because in
about two seconds she was going to bloody well go up in smoke.

And then, fast and hard, oh yes, just like she’d asked for,
just like she wanted, the spin spin spin of stuck wheels
finally lurching victorious out of the rut onto the open road.
She latched onto him with nails and teeth, and felt the large
muscles of his body gather and convulse in a final, desperate
lunge for the finish line.

**

“Good thing you put that Silencing Charm on the door,” Draco
commented sleepily. “McGonagall would have been in here
investigating a murder, else.”

Hermione chuckled drowsily and pulled his arm more firmly into
the curve of her waist. There was nothing like being turned
inside out at warp speed to make a girl appreciate her flannel
sheets. And if anything had died tonight, it was the last of
her reserve.

Watch out, Draco Malfoy, she thought, her brain already
numbing with sleep. The next time you’re in the mood to make a
Declaration, you might just get one in return.

Thank God she could sleep in tomorrow.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Four

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

Even before he’d had the good taste to appreciate Hermione
Granger’s many attractive qualities in a strictly personal
sense, Draco had known this about her: she never did anything
halfway.

This was no exception.

She’d decided, apparently, that Salazar Slytherin was their
most valuable ally to date in their little extracurricular
Knowledge Quest - it wasn’t every day, after all, that one ran
across a wizard with first-hand knowledge of obscure ancient
curses. Not only that, but they were pretty sure that
everything they told him would remain confidential.

Having had time to think about it, Draco was personally
reconsidering his decision not to take his news to Dumbledore
… the more he knew about the Fils du Couteau, the less he
liked it, and they’d be turning the calendar over to October
any day now. Before he knew it, the Christmas holidays would
be here, and by that point he needed to be either invulnerable
or very well hidden.

Even so, they had managed to turn a lot of stones on their
own, and Slytherin’s information was quite useful. Hermione,
for her part, had made it her personal goal to cultivate that
source as far as she could, and Draco was finding the results
to be fascinating.

Take the sex out of it, take the death-defying adventure out
of it, and hanging out with her would still be a hell of a lot
more exciting than listening to Crabbe and Goyle chortle over
knock-knock jokes. The famous Granger Brain in motion on a
bona fide project was nothing short of extraordinary.

Time for a really good bribe, she said with a conspiriatorial
smirk, and owled home for her CD collection and a shiny little
machine she called a Discman. Draco, who was of course
familiar with the Wizarding Wireless Network, was nevertheless
fascinated with the gleaming prisms of the flat metal wafers
in their colorful jackets, and genuinely astonished the first
time the funny little plugs went into his ears; with a touch
of a button, he heard the wild sweep of strings, playing clear
and sweet straight into his brain as if the Kronos Quartet
themselves were sitting on his shoulders. His mouth fell open.

“This is amazing,” he said, examining the Discman’s LCD
display with interest. “And not the least bit magical, you
say?”

“Not inherently,” Hermione said with a shrug. “I did have to
enchant it, to make it function inside the castle. But that’s
pretty simple.” She looked at him curiously. “I’m surprised
you haven’t seen one of these before. I’ve always left my CDs
at home because I usually have too many books in my trunk -
but lots of students have them here.”

“Not in Slytherin House,” Draco said dryly. “If we want music,
we have to bang two sticks together.”

Hermione snorted.

**

There was still the matter of Transfiguring the Discman into
something a ghost could actually handle … did they need to, or
not? This had been a topic of much whispered discussion -
could he turn the pages of the books? How was it that he’d
come by that shadowy silver wand? … or did all ghosts have
them?

“I’ll clear this up,” Hermione said finally, looking
determined. Harry and Draco exchanged glances behind her back.

This ought to be interesting.

She was as good as her word. The next night at dinner, she
took a resolute bite of her potatoes, laid down her fork, and
brazenly popped the Wand Question to Nearly Headless Nick: did
he still have his, she wondered, and could she see it, if he
did?

The phallic implications of this salvo convulsed Ron, and - by
transference - Harry, into fits of pre-adolescent snickering.
Draco, who was following the exchange covertly from the
Slytherin table, rolled his eyes.

Honestly.

“Oh, no,” Sir Nicholas said, flushing dark grey and sounding,
if not exactly offended, certainly a bit stiff. “Ghosts don’t
keep their wands unless they die in wizarding duels.” He
sniffed at the sordidness of this thought; apparently, among
your more socially conscious ghosts, being hacked to death
with an axe was a bit more high-class. “And they can’t
actually use them, even then,” he continued. Hermione’s
eyebrows shot into her hairline.

“No?” she asked doubtfully. “Not ever? Are you sure?”

Sir Nicholas frowned. “Well …” he said reluctantly.
“Hypothetically, it could happen, I suppose. One case in a
hundred million. But it would require very Dark magic, mind,
very difficult - and, of course, it goes without saying that
you’d have to be very powerful. The core of the wand would
lose all but a shadow of its former potency, so the magic
would have to be fueled mainly from another source.”

“Dark magic, you say,” Hermione mused, as if to herself. Nick
sighed and cast a glance around him, to make sure no one was
listening to them. Luckily, Seamus had just overturned a
pitcher of pumpkin juice into Lavender’s lap farther down the
table, helped along by the judicious application of Harry’s
elbow to his ribs at a crucial moment. Hermione threw Harry a
wink and turned back to Sir Nicholas.

“You were saying …?” she prompted.

Nick looked resigned - he’d encountered this particular brand
of candy-coated Granger persistence before, and there was no
way he could get away without an explanation now. “Well,” he
said. “You already know the difference between a ghost and a
poltergeist. Correct?”

Hermione nodded. “A poltergeist can move physical objects. A
ghost can’t.” Sir Nicholas nodded.

“All ghosts have unfinished business in the physical realm, of
course - otherwise, we wouldn’t remain here,” he said.
“Sometimes it’s love, sometimes it’s hate, sometimes it’s that
someone owes us money, sometimes we just can’t bear to leave.”
He looked very somber. “Just as all human beings have distinct
personalities and coping mechanisms, so it is with ghosts. We
all deal with our existence in unique ways.”

“So what exactly makes a poltergeist, then?” Hermione said,
looking around to make sure Peeves wasn’t anywhere to be
found. Nick’s shaggy grey eyebrows closed into a V.

“Well,” he said tactfully, “as I was saying, some of it’s due
to personality; poltergeists tend to have been naturally
mischievous, highly kinetic human beings. But also -“ here he
lowered his voice - “there’s generally some kind of nasty
incident or other in the mix, something to make that person’s
high spirits take a turn for the belligerent. Where the
majority of the ghost population merely want tranquility, or
at the most redress for wrongs done, the average poltergeist
exists because he wants revenge.”

“Right,” Hermione said, privately making a note to find out
what had happened to Peeves, the next time she had a spare
moment in the library. “So - are you saying that any ghost
able to use a wand is really a poltergeist?”

Sir Nicholas looked thoughtful for a minute. “No,” he said
finally. “There are certain parallels to be drawn there - the
trauma of experiencing the Killing Curse, the natural thirst
for vengeance that would arise from that - but there’s one
very important distinction there, and it’s essentially an
issue of control.”

“Control?” Hermione repeated.

“Control,” Nick said firmly. “Peeves, for example, doesn’t
have any - he could no sooner rein in that malevolent energy
of his than fly to the moon.” He adjusted his ruff
thoughtfully. “But a ghost who manages to use a wand could
only do so by channeling into it all of his darkest impulses,
plus the residual Dark magic remaining in his body from the
Avada Kedavra.” He gave Hermione a warning look. “I must
emphasize, however, that I’ve never actually seen this happen
- it’s all purely theoretical.”

“Why do you think it’s so rare?” Hermione asked him, keeping
her voice low. “I mean, think of all the wizards and witches
over the years who have been killed in duels - why couldn’t
they all come back?”

“Interesting question,” Nick said, looking grave. “But think
about all the elements that would have to be present to make
it possible.” He began to tick them off on the elegant fingers
of one silvery hand. “Massive amounts - inhuman amounts, I
would say, if you’ll pardon the pun - of sheer inherent power.
A strong bond with a particular place, for a particular
reason. Enough mental fortitude to harness and use the Dark
Forces - not to mention a lack of squeamishness about doing
so. And -“ He paused. “Again, all this is guesswork. But it
stands to reason, if the residue of the Killing Curse were to
be used as a power source, that the murderer would have to be
equally strong, perhaps even stronger, than the victim.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Nick looked - if possible - a tiny
bit smug.

“So you see,” he said. “It’s virtually impossible.”

Hermione nodded. “Virtually impossible,” she echoed, and
turned her attention back to her stone-cold creamed potatoes.
Her brain was churning madly.

Died in his sleep, eh? she thought, and stabbed savagely at
her beef Wellington.

The next time she saw Salazar Slytherin, he was bloody well
going to give her the real story, or she’d know the reason
why.

**

Unbeknownst to Hermione, Draco had embarked on a project of
his own. It didn’t involve centuries-dead wizards or
malevolent curses, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He was going to befriend Ron Weasley.

He’d spent a night or two worth of sleepless hours,
contemplating the issue. Potter was being pretty decent to
him, actually, considering all the nastiness that had passed
between them for the past four years. If Draco were in Harry’s
shoes, he wouldn’t have been inclined to overlook that comment
about Diggory on the train last spring, for example.

Draco wasn’t stupid. He saw what was under his nose. Every
time Potter and he said two civil words to each other in a
row, Hermione glowed like she’d been lit with a match. Reason
enough right there to bend over backwards preserving their
fragile armistice - after all, he was a man in love, right?

Harry wasn’t the big problem anymore. And yet he was. Draco
readjusted his pillow and frowned.

If Weasley found out - and it was only by the grace of God and
the Golden Snitch that he hadn’t yet - he’d go through the
roof. Unlike Harry, who tended to take people and events at
face value and adjust his worldview accordingly, Ron was
suspicious by nature and wary of change. Not only that, but
he’d been reared in a wizarding family, with all the attendant
knowledge and supposition that implied. And Arthur Weasley was
in a blood feud with Draco’s father.

No, it didn’t look good. For any of them.

Hermione, as the main perpetrator of the betrayal, would come
in for most of Ron’s fury. Draco he despised already, so
things wouldn’t change there, so much as intensify. Harry,
however … that was tricky.

Harry might fall under fire as an accessory to the deception.
But ultimately, Ron would expect him to choose up sides. And
it didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, Draco thought
glumly.

Harry loved Hermione. But his bond with Weasley was almost
palpable. If pressed, he’d side with Ron.

And that would be the end of all of it. Draco pulled his knees
up to his chin and scowled at a loose thread on the front of
his robes.

For a girl who spent every night in his arms, she still held a
lot of mysteries. He didn’t know what she’d do, if forced to
choose between friends or lover, and he didn’t have the stones
to ask her.

It was up to him, then, to make sure she didn’t have to make
the choice.

He rolled back over and started, grimly, to contemplate his
strategy.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Five

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

Except for her regular appearances in Potions, Severus hadn’t
seen Hermione in nearly two weeks.

He couldn’t say he blamed her; the situation was decidedly
awkward. On the other hand, it was oddly out of character for
her to sidestep an issue, rather than confronting it full-on.
And she was definitely going out of her way to avoid him; more
than once, he’d come back to his classroom after the lunch or
dinner hour to find that she’d been there in his absence to
tend to the Illuminata.

The weeks of simmering had thickened the potion to a creamy,
shimmering substance the color of celery and the consistency
of Alfredo sauce. According to Snape’s calculations, it was
ready for the final ingredients to be added.

If anyone had asked him why he was eating dinner in his
classroom tonight, he would have pointed to the stack of
ungraded essays in front of him. In reality, he was waiting
for Hermione.

He had history with this potion now. He wanted to see it
finished.

He sighed. After tonight, the Illuminata would be bottled and
stored, and the Potions classroom would be back to normal.
That thought didn’t cheer him; the faint hint of lemon exuding
from the storage cupboard had kept the atmosphere of his
classroom uncharacteristically pleasant. No Ravenclaws
sneering at Hufflepuffs, no Slytherin whispering or Gryffindor
hijinks. Even the other Heads of House had noticed, at the
meeting Snape had hosted the previous week; Minerva had lost
her look of perpetual disapproval, and Sprout was almost tipsy
by the time they adjourned.

He himself had to admit that his days were presently more
enjoyable than his nights. Withdrawing from the scent of the
simmering Illuminata wasn’t like the initial crash he’d
suffered after the first wave of explosion-induced euphoria -
it was more like a caffeine headache, a vague throbbing sense
of discontent that crept back into the edges of his
consciousness like wolves circling a dying campfire.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen after the
light went out altogether.

He was drawn from his reverie by light, quick footsteps, and
looked up to see Hermione standing in the doorway. Apparently
she’d come from outside; her cheeks were pink, and she was
clutching a slightly wilted bouquet of autumn chrysanthemums.

“Good evening, Professor,” she said, as if she hadn’t been
ducking around corners to avoid running into him for weeks,
and to his immense shock, handed him the flowers. He frowned
at them.

“What are these for?”

“Professor Sprout asked me to bring them down to you,” she
said. “She seemed to think you’d have a use for the stems and
the seeds, once they’re dried.”

“Ah. I see.” He propped the chrysanthemums in an empty beaker.
“Is that all?”

She studied her shoes. “No.”

He’d been afraid of that. “Well, then,” he said. “To what do I
owe the interruption, Miss Granger?”

“Two things,” she said. “Well, three.”

She had an odd hesitant look on her face that filled Snape
with inexplicable outrage. “Well, what are they?” he snapped.
“You may have nothing better to do with your time than come
down to annoy me, but I assure you that my evening is very
well-planned. So if you don’t mind, can you get on with it?”

To his chagrin, she didn’t so much as flinch. In fact, his
needling seemed to lend her new resolve.

“Right,” she said crisply. “First, I need to finish the
Illuminata. Second, I wanted to give you this, to thank you
for helping me with it.”

She withdrew a small parcel from an inner pocket of her robes
and held it out. Snape felt his ears burn with her silent
reproach as he accepted the little package and silently
removed its wrappings.

It was a small leather-bound book with blank lined pages from
Flourish and Blotts; originally it had probably borne the word
‘Diary’ on the cover, but she’d charmed it off and replaced it
with her own title. Inside it was page after page of neat
copperplate script: she’d copied over her translation of
Palestrina’s notes, including the recipe for the Illuminata
and the key to the code.

Hours and hours of work, Snape thought, and felt immediately
guilty for snapping at her earlier. He traced his finger over
her signature on the flyleaf.

As far as he knew, hers was the only translation in existence.
The fact that she’d presented him with a copy of her secret
made him weak in the knees; few would have been so generous.

“Do you like it?” She looked anxious, as if she’d come to the
bridal shower with Tupperware instead of Waterford. The twinge
of self-doubt Severus saw on her face twisted unpleasantly in
his chest.

“This is a most welcome addition to my library,” he said
stiffly. “Thank you, Miss Granger. Um. Hermione.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, clearly relieved, and favored him
with an unexpected glimpse of that impish smile she’d worn
nonstop in Rome. “I almost got you candy instead, but I wasn’t
sure if you ate chocolate.”

“Not in great quantity,” Severus assured her. “And in any
case, I much prefer the permanent to the ephemeral.”

That, he thought, had been exactly the right thing to say; she
looked immediately delighted.

“The third thing,” he prompted her, and she shot a nervous
glance at the open door. Snape locked it with a word and a
wave of his hand, and Hermione pulled a chair up to his desk.

Here it comes, he thought, the discussion that he’d been both
chafing to have and dreading with every molecule in his body.
He schooled his features into implacability. “Yes?”

“It’s about Draco,” Hermione said. “He came to you, he said,
and told you about the … well, about his problem.”

Oh. Apparently not.

Snape assented with a jerk of his head. Hermione clasped her
hands on top of his desk and leaned forward.

“I’ve been wondering,” she said, “if there isn’t a way to use
the Illuminata to help him.”

That was unexpected, Severus thought; foolish of me, to expect
the predictable from her. “I don’t know how it could,” he
said. “I know you’ve built it up to be a panacea to all ills,
Hermione, but against a curse like that …”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Not the Illuminata
by itself,” she said. “But we’ve been studying the Armoring
Potions in class, and I know that the Illuminata is supposed
to mix well with other substances. I thought that perhaps in
combination - since it has all those preservative ingredients
-“ She trailed off.

“But preservatives have been added to the Armoring Fluid
before,” Snape pointed out, “without success. What makes you
think that the Illuminata will be any more useful?”

Hermione frowned. “It’s mostly a gut reaction,” she said.
“When I try to come up with logical reasons for it, they seem
to slip away from me as soon as I corner them.” She bit her
lip. “It’s just that the Fils du Couteau, at least as it
stands now, was conceived with evil intent. It seems to me
that sheer chemistry won’t cancel that out; it’s going to have
to be counterbalanced with something purely good.”

At least as it stands now? What the hell was she talking
about? Snape started to say something scathing, but she just
kept talking over him.

“And then, there are the phoenix ashes,” she said. “Fire is so
powerful, and they were made by fire. And after all, the
phoenix saved Harry from the basilisk … and phoenix tears heal
wounds. How do we know the ashes won’t stop a knife?”

Her eyes shone with conviction. Snape sighed. Who was he to
play pessimist?

“Should Hogwarts ever decide to form a Debate Club,” he said,
“I will personally recommend you not only for membership, but
for the presidency.” He reached for a quill and a bottle of
red ink. “All right, we’ll try a small batch and see how it
goes.” He paused. “Tomorrow.”

Her face fell. “Tomorrow?”

“Best you test the potion by itself, before you go mixing it
with other things,” Snape said. “Go ahead - finish your
Illuminata; by the time you’re done, I’ll have finished
grading these essays and we can begin.”

**

Elsewhere in the castle, the gossip mill was buzzing with
unbelievable news.

Citing a need to devote more time to his studies, Draco Malfoy
had just quit the Slytherin Quidditch team.

The Slytherins were half-baffled, half-angry. Pansy and Avery
were seen to exchange a number of knowing smirks across the
table at dinner. The other three houses were in roiling,
whispered uproar. Only Draco remained calm, sipping pumpkin
juice and forking in pork chops and candied yams as if he
hadn’t a care in the world.

Ron’s eyes had flicked to the Slytherin table more than once
during dinner; now, as they crossed the great hall, he pulled
Harry aside.

“What’s he on about?” he muttered. Harry shrugged.

“Maybe they’ve got some new talent they want to showcase.”

Ron dismissed this with a rude noise. “He wanted that slot,”
he said. “Enough to buy his way onto the team. Why would he
step down now?”

“Because,” Draco said, coming up behind them, “competition
isn’t everything in the world. I seem to have lost my fighting
spirit.” He sent the scowling Ron an even look. “Evening,
Weasley. Potter.”

“Evening, Malfoy,” Harry said as Draco turned to go down the
steps to the dungeons. Ron elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“What’s all that about?” he demanded. “Are we on social terms
with that git now?”

“Well, he wasn’t rude to us,” Harry said. “Why should we be
rude to him?”

Ron, whose mouth had fallen open, evidently found this
suggestion too incredible to even favor with an answer.

“Come on,” he said. “Hospital wing. You obviously need to have
your head examined.”

**

It was finished.

There was no explosion, no smoke, no insidious lemon fog -
with the addition of the last ingredient, the Illuminata had
foamed briefly like shaken soda, then subsided into glassy
calm. It was as clear as water now, with a subtle patina that
caught the light like the sheen on a black pearl. Hermione
leaned over the cauldron and sniffed. Odorless.

She and Snape stared at each other for a moment, undecided. A
muscle was jerking in his jaw, and she could feel her hands
trembling.

What now?

“Palestrina developed this to be mixed with other things,” she
said finally. “Ink, paint, medicine. I’m not quite sure how to
test it in its pure form; there’s nothing in his notes about
it.”

Snape leaned over and scooped up a half-beakerful. He set it
on one of the student tables in the middle of the room, and
they both studied it nervously. The liquid in the beaker
stayed calm and quiet, looking for all the world like water
coated with a thin layer of motor oil.

“Well,” Hermione said, “we know it’s nontoxic. Perhaps I
should just drink some, and see what happens?”

“No,” Snape said firmly, catching her wrist as she reached for
the beaker. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not? Someone has to.”

“Yes,” he said. “But not here, not now.”

Hermione looked baffled. Snape frowned impatiently and ran his
hands through his hair.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that my nerves can’t take another
encounter like the one we had a few weeks ago. If there’s any
chance that … that could happen again, I’d rather you test the
potion in other company than mine.”

“Oh.” Hermione was silent for a minute. “Was it so bad, then?”

At his half-angry look, she shrugged expressively. “I’m not
fishing for compliments,” she said. “I didn’t mean the sex. I
mean … afterwards. After I left. Was it very bad?”

Snape bristled. “What would you know about it?” he demanded.

Hermione shrugged again. “Well, I know how I felt,” she said.
“Like I hadn’t a care in the world, first … and then later,
like everything was caving in on me.” She shot him a
searching, perceptive look. “And from what I saw of you, while
it was happening …” Her hands spread helplessly. “I’ve never
seen you look like that,” she admitted. “Young, and smiling,
and … well, handsome, and so, so happy that you were shining
with it.” She swallowed hard. “It must have hurt to fall from
so high up, that’s all.”

He didn’t have words to answer her. He barely managed a nod.

This wasn’t the talk they were supposed to have had. She
wasn’t supposed to dismiss the sex as the secondary issue and
go straight to the angst. Nothing he’d lain awake preparing to
say to her was a fit comeback to those incisive, few true
words.

It must have hurt to fall from so high up.

Oh, Hermione.

Sentences were piling up inside him, battering at the locked
door of his closed throat. If she had asked him anything,
anything at all - the weather, the color of the sky, the
location of Longbottom’s toad - he might have lost control
completely, just opened his mouth and let the long-buried
words spill out at her feet.

But she just sat there quietly, studying the beakerful of
Illuminata and jotting her observations in the ratty old
notebook she carried everywhere with her. After a while, when
the lump in his throat had subsided to a dull ache and it
seemed like he might breathe normally again, she finally
looked up.

“So, then,” she said. “Shall we split it up?”

Severus frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“So we can both find out firsthand,” she said. “You take some,
and I’ll take some. Separately. And we can compare notes
tomorrow, before we start the second experiment.”

She was determined to include him in this, wasn’t she? Severus
sighed and wearily acceded.

“All right,” he said, and watched as she transferred half of
the beaker’s contents into a smaller container with a lid.
“But be careful, will you? And don’t do it alone.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Hermione said. “Believe me.” That mischievous
glint was back in her eyes; Severus felt pangs of mixed envy
and anxiety for the hapless young Slytherin who would
doubtless cross her path that night. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night,” he echoed, and locked the door behind her.

She had been gone for a long time before he finally lifted the
beaker to his lips.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Six

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Draco, still picturing the belligerent, bewildered look on Ron
Weasley’s face, was humming as he opened the door to the
Slytherin common room. A genius, that’s what he was. In one
fell swoop, he’d not only given the Gryffindors something to
think about, he’d also - albeit very subtly - told Lucius
Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins to go screw themselves.

The next time he got on a broom, he’d be free. Flying just for
himself again, for the sheer joy of doing it.

That was a happy thought.

Lucius, of course (that was how he preferred to think of him
now; donating sperm for an evil science experiment didn’t make
you a father, not in Draco’s book anyway), would be furious
when he found out. From the looks of the faces in the common
room, his housemates weren’t going to throw him a party
anytime soon, either. Draco, striving to look cool and
disinterested, slid one hand surreptitiously into the side
pocket of his robes.

It was a sad day when you needed your wand to assure your safe
passage through your own dormitory. Then again, he didn’t give
a fuck what any of them thought about him, anyway.

Hostile stares bored through him as he passed. He felt eyes on
his back, but kept his head high. Give him two minutes, and
he’d be blessedly invisible. Give him ten, and he’d be safe in
the cozy little prefect’s room in Gryffindor Tower.

Safe in her arms.

Hard to believe he’d ever felt anything for Hermione Granger
but this blinding adoration. Hard to believe he’d ever
preferred this room to that one, that he’d called those trolls
in the corner his friends and traded kisses with the smirking,
hard-faced girl now perched in Avery’s lap.

He reached his room, dropped his books, collected his
Invisibility Cloak, and slipped back into the hallway.
Glancing around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, he laid
a particularly nasty hex on his bedroom door; he’d caught
Avery’s eyes on his way through the common room, and not liked
the speculative look in them.

Anyone who came snooping around his bedroom in his absence
would get more than cheap thrills.

By the time he crossed the Great Hall and started up the
staircase toward the Fat Lady’s portrait, he was humming
again, and so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the pair
of sharp blue eyes marking his progress.

**

The Gryffindor common room was crowded and noisy, its
occupants a good deal more convivial than the gathering he’d
just left. Draco spotted Harry and Ron holding court from the
two big armchairs by the fire, surrounded by a giggling group
of fourth-year girls, and allowed himself a momentary pang of
envy.

They looked so sure of themselves. So sure of each other. When
had he ever had a friend like that?

For a moment, he wished he could take off the cloak and join
the happy little group by the fire. To joke, to flirt, to
exist in easy camaraderie with his acknowledged equals, with
people who had never called him anything but ‘friend’ - that
would be sweet indeed.

Sweet. And utterly out of the question.

He tore his eyes away and climbed the stairs to Hermione’s
room.

She was at her desk, writing furiously, her free hand running
absently through her newly-trimmed copper curls. If she heard
him come in, she was too engrossed to look up.

He hung the Invisibility Cloak over one of her bedposts,
shucked off his shoes, and padded over to look at what she was
doing. Beside the stack of notes at her elbow lay a swatch of
grotty-looking fabric, a tube of toothpaste, a pipette, and a
beaker full of what looked rather like vodka.

“Hi,” he said, and tried not to look too pleased with himself
when she jumped.

“Jesus, you scared me. Hi.” She pointed her wand at a stray
fluffy slipper, muttered something unintelligible, and nodded
with fierce satisfaction as the slipper morphed into a
ladder-backed chair. “Have a seat. How was your day?”

“Tolerable,” Draco said, pulling the chair up to her desk and
turning it around so he could straddle it. Damned if he’d look
impressed, even if that was a massively cool little bit of
Transfiguration. “That doesn’t look like our Potions
homework.”

“It’s not,” Hermione said, frowning at her notes. “It’s the
Illuminata.”

Draco gaped at the clear, oily liquid in the beaker. “That?
That’s the Illuminata? It’s finished?”

Hermione nodded. “That’s it,” she said flatly. “Nothing much
to look at, is it?”

Draco shot her a swift sideways look. “What’s the matter with
it?” he asked. “You look awfully glum - I’d have thought you’d
be dancing in the streets by now. Doesn’t it work?”

Hermione made a derisive sound in her throat. “Oh, it works
all right,” she said. “Look at this.”

She spread the fabric - an old, stained piece of what looked
like Dobby’s erstwhile tea-towel uniform - flat on her desk,
siphoned a small amount of the Illuminata into her pipette,
and allowed a single drop to fall onto the towel. The liquid
shone greasily for a moment, then disappeared, taking with it
the tomato-sauce stain on which it had landed. Though the rest
of the towel looked as woebegone as ever, there was now a
circle in the middle of the rag, about an inch in diameter,
that looked as if it had never been out of the box.

“Wow,” Draco said. Hermione smiled grimly.

“Okay, take two,” she said. “Check this out.”

She lifted the cloth away and gestured with a jerk of her head
toward the scarred wood of her desk. Where the Illuminata had
soaked through the fabric, there was a coin-sized spot of
gleaming virgin varnish.

“Wow,” he said again, and Hermione forced a laugh.

“One more thing,” she said. “Mixed it with my toothpaste.
Started out with just one tooth, so I could make a comparison,
but I was too vain to leave things that way.” She bared her
teeth at him in a Gilderoy Lockhart smile that didn’t reach
her eyes. Draco, half-blinded by her mouthful of gleaming
hospital-white enamel, leaned on the back of the chair and
frowned in confusion.

“Call me slow, Hermione,” he said, “but I’m sensing
something’s wrong here. And I have no idea what it is. Aren’t
you happy that the potion’s working?”

Hermione threw up her hands in frustration. “Think about it,”
she said, exasperated. “What we have here is a substance that
shows everything it touches in its best possible light.” She
grimaced. “It’s the last undiscovered mystery of the
seventeenth century. A bona fide miracle potion.”

Draco shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “But that’s a good thing.
Isn’t it?”

“Imagine the commercial possibilities,” Hermione went on, as
if he hadn’t interrupted. “Cosmetics. Furniture polish.
Detergent. The list just goes on. Do you know, I had a spot on
my chin, this morning?” She glared at the beaker. “One dab.
Gone. And that’s not even taking into consideration its
potential mood-altering properties - those alone open up the
market to a whole new demographic. It’s like a wizarding
version of Ecstasy.”

“Ecstasy?” Draco repeated, confused. “But that’s what you
wanted. To make people happy.”

“I didn’t want this!” Hermione’s voice had started to rise.
“To see it reduced to its lowest common denominator? Turned
into lip gloss and acne cream and floor wax? Exploited as a
hallucinogenic?”

She buried her head in her hands. “I should never have even
begun the project.”

Draco stared at her helplessly. “What do you want, then?” he
asked. “Why did you go to all the trouble, if you didn’t want
what it can do?”

Hermione let out a shuddering breath and faced him with
glittering eyes. “I want what Palestrina did,” she said. “I
want to use it for something worthy. And honorable. And
permanent. Something that matters.”

She dug savagely at the soft spots under her temples.
“Something that doesn’t just make the world prettier, but
makes it better. And I can’t fucking think of anything.”

Oh, Draco thought, suddenly understanding. “Scared?” he asked
quietly. Hermione nodded miserably.

“I was so excited about this,” she said, “until I actually saw
what it did. Now, I’m just terrified that I’m going to use it
in a way that’s not worthy of it.” She blew hair out of her
eyes. “All I can think of is mixing it with the Armoring Fluid
- but I can’t start that until tomorrow; Snape said I had to
test it on its own first.”

“Hm,” Draco said, and thought for a minute. Finally, he
squeezed her hand.

Ever the conscientious scientist, he thought ruefully, even
when it meant beating herself to emotional pulp. Well, maybe
he couldn’t fix her problem, but he could certainly distract
her from it for a while.

It was almost certain to work, and if it didn’t, they’d both
be dead by morning anyway.

“Up for an adventure?”

Hermione looked suspicious, but nodded warily. “What kind of
adventure?”

“I happen to know,” Draco said archly, “that Argus Filch is
very fond of hot chocolate.”

Startled, Hermione let out a snort of unwilling laughter.
“Drug Filch? That’s your idea of a worthy cause?”

“Can you think of a nobler one?” He pulled her out of her
chair. “Come on. Put some of that in a test tube, and let’s go
visit the kitchens. I’ve been waiting to see that man smile
for five years; I bet you ten Galleons his face cracks.”

Hermione hesitated, then gave an internal shrug of mental
capitulation.

It was true - bad boys were irresistible.

And after all, she thought, grabbing her notebook, research
was research. Pity this whole thing was Top Secret: the
thought of Argus Filch in the grip of the Illuminata tempted
her to ask Colin Creevey along on their little expedition.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d have to make up for the
lack of photographic evidence with her prose.

“You’re on,” she said to Draco, and let him lead the way.

**

Severus stared moodily into the depths of the beaker. On the
verge of drinking it, he’d set it back down.

No need to be hasty.

He dipped one finger into the potion, up to the first knuckle,
and then held it up to the light. The Illuminata clung to his
skin for a moment, then seemed to vanish inward, as if his
pores were exuding upon it some subtle gravity. Severus spread
his hand against the table and studied it: four calloused,
time-hardened fingers with nails yellowed by long exposure to
chemical reactions.

And one with a diamond-clear nail and skin as new as an
infant’s.

He swore, just once, under his breath. Hesitated. Then, as if
against his better judgment, he pushed up one sleeve of his
robe.

The Dark Mark.

It never went away entirely, though sometimes it lay on his
arm so quiescently that it seemed only a shadow, or a
lingering remnant of a bad dream. At other times, it flared
into a steady black throb, pounding temptation through his
bloodstream like a traitorous heartbeat. Voldemort could
project through his Mark any emotion he chose - on the surface
level, one might automatically expect the infliction of pain,
but that wasn’t always the case. The Dark Lord knew his
followers’ - and former followers’ - weaknesses, all too well.

And he hadn’t forgotten Severus Snape’s.

At random moments - the middle of the night, the dinner hour,
halfway through his lesson with the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff
first-years - the Mark would buzz to aching, insidious life,
and Severus would find himself battling a sudden wave of
heart-stopping, nerve-jolting need. When it inevitably
receded, ten or twenty or a hundred seconds later, he’d be
left with the greasy-tasting aftermath: headache, nausea, fine
tremors in his hands that took every ounce of his considerable
self-control to conceal.

After fifteen years of this, he was as well-conditioned as one
of that Muggle Pavlov’s dogs. He might still like to look at a
pretty face or figure, but the thought of the act itself
filled him with stomach-roiling, sweaty self-loathing.

Or had, at least, until Hermione Granger had streaked past him
into St. Peter’s Square on a borrowed red moped, and led him
on what was turning into the wildest chase of his life.

That night with her, amid the heady fumes of the raw new
Illuminata, had been the first time in nearly two decades that
he’d been with a woman, and been his own man. Was it any
wonder that he was obsessed with her?

He dismissed that unwelcome thought with considerable effort
and returned his attention to the beakerful of Illuminata.
Dipping his forefinger into the potion once more, he let a
spare drop of the glistening liquid fall onto his arm,
squarely over the dark head of the serpent.

And felt a hiss pass through his body like an exorcism, like a
faraway scream.

The Dark Mark writhed on his arm, and he felt the first wave
of hot anger run through him like boiling water in his
bloodstream. Under the hot pain was a faint chill of fear.

Good, he thought. You’d better be afraid, you bastard. It’s a
brand new day, and a schoolgirl’s got you on the run, do you
hear me?

Steadying his hand, he poised the beaker over his forearm and
poured.

More screaming. More heat. More pain. Confusion, too, and
terror, and fury - killing, bloodying rage, the snake on his
arm snapping its shadowy fangs wildly and straining away from
the stream of silvery liquid.

Die, he thought, glaring at the snake. Die, goddamn you. If I
can’t cut you out, I’ll fucking poison you instead.

There was an inch of liquid left in the beaker. He drained it
without a second thought, and felt the shadow-Voldemort, far
away, scream in protest.

Snape threw back his head through the sudden hot blanket of
pain, and felt the Illuminata sizzle down his throat like a
cleansing draught of acid, and laughed like a madman.

He didn’t know what the hell he was feeling right now.

But for lack of a better word, he was going to call it ‘hope.’

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Seven

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It was over.

Gasping like a landed fish, Severus propped himself up in his
chair and turned his attention to the little matter of
breathing.

In. Out. Long, slow, shuddering.

Steady now, he told himself, and tried to force his hands not
to tremble.

He couldn’t remember anything in his life that had ever hurt
quite so much as the last few minutes, as the Dark Mark
writhed in its death-throes and flickered on his arm like a
guttering candle. Not even the Cruciatus had been like this,
psychic pain as much as physical, as if the Mark were some
twining, parasitic plant determined to tear as much of himself
away with it when it went.

As always, he’d felt the Dark Lord’s displeasure as if it were
his own: bewilderment, outrage, terror - and in that last
moment, a terrible high keening cry, a promise of vengeance,
that rang in his ears and reverberated in the marrow of his
bones, even as his body threatened to rip itself apart from
the inside out.

And then, silence.

Slowly, haltingly, he turned his forearm over.

The shape of the Mark stood out in relief against the pale
olive of his arm: skim-milk, fish-belly white. Skin that
hadn’t seen the sun for almost two decades. But his own skin,
untouched by Dark magic.

At that thought, Severus let out a breath that was almost a
sob, and cupped that vulnerable pale patch of skin with his
opposite hand as if it were a wound.

He’d never been able to bring himself to touch the Mark.

He’d thought he’d wear it forever.

You deserved to wear it forever, you know, said a voice in his
brain. This is a gift you’re not worthy of.

At that thought, his teeth ground together.

Yes. He knew.

That didn’t change the fact that Hermione Granger’s
extra-credit Potions project had driven
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named out of the body he’d occupied for
nearly half its existence, howling like a stray dog before a
lit torch.

With a supreme effort of will, Severus pulled himself out of
the chair and limped unsteadily over to the fireplace.
Withdrawing a pinch of Floo powder from its storage urn on the
hearth, he tossed it into the dying flames, stepped in, and
said grimly, “Dumbledore.”

News like this couldn’t wait until morning.

**

Despite the late hour, the house-elves had welcomed Hermione
and Draco with open arms. Dobby, in particular, had been most
eager to talk - and so it was past midnight when they finally
re-emerged into the corridor, walking in by-now-familiar
lockstep under the Invisibility Cloak, Draco cuddling a warm
thermos of chocolate under his arm.

For complete safety’s sake, he supposed they should return to
Gryffindor Tower to add the Illuminata - but tomorrow was a
school day, after all, and he was reluctant to take the time.
Pulling Hermione into the empty Charms classroom, he warded
the door, set down the thermos on the nearest desk, and
unscrewed the lid.

Wordlessly, Hermione withdrew the stoppered test-tube of
Illuminata from the pocket of her robes and poured it into the
cocoa, where it disappeared without a trace. “Should we try
it?” she whispered, and Draco shrugged.

“Guess we’d better, before we give it to Filch,” he said.
“Just to be on the safe side. I’ll go first.”

Hermione watched with tense expectation as he tipped a scant
swallow of the steaming brown liquid into the cap of the
thermos and threw it back. “Well?” she demanded.

Draco looked thoughtful for a minute. “Good,” he said. “Very
warming - my feet were a little cold, and now I can feel my
toes tingling. It’s like drinking medi-chocolate after you’ve
seen a dementor. Try some.”

Hermione took a cautious sip and nodded in agreement. Added to
the hot chocolate, in this small dosage at least, the
Illuminata merely added a subtle frisson of well-being to the
mix. Filch shouldn’t even be aware he’d been medicated; the
drink would simply make him feel better.

Perfect. She grinned at Draco.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They re-capped the doctored chocolate, folded themselves back
into the Invisibility Cloak, cautiously opened the door, and
slipped out into the corridor.

And ran straight into the Headmaster, decked out for a good
night’s sleep in flannel robes, a tasselled nightcap, and
fuzzy slippers.

**

“Accio Invisibility Cloak,” Dumbledore said calmly, and folded
it over his arm as his two startled prefects gaped at him like
fish, their eyes unwillingly drawn to the plush dragon’s-heads
adorning his toes. “Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. Good evening.”
He nodded at the thermos under Draco’s arm. “Picnic?”

“Um …” Draco began.

“Well, that is …” Hermione said desperately.

They looked at Dumbledore, at each other, and fell into
miserable silence. He gave them a reassuring smile.

“I believe,” he said gently, “that prefects have special night
patrolling privileges, do they not? It’s not for the violation
of any rules that I need to speak to the both of you. Though I
do imagine that any scientific experiments intended for Mr.
Filch’s consumption -“ and here his eyes twinkled madly -
“should be processed through Madam Pomfrey first.” He held out
one hand. “May I?”

Wordlessly, Draco handed him the thermos of chocolate.
Dumbledore uncapped it, sniffed beatifically at the curl of
fragrant steam which rose into the chilly corridor, and poured
a measure into the cap.

“Amazing,” he said when he’d swallowed it. “Truly amazing.” He
smiled at them again. “A most fortuitous discovery, Miss
Granger. As you’re about to find out.”

“Sir?” Hermione wasn’t following this at all.

“Professor Snape,” Dumbledore said quietly, “has been
conducting some experiments of his own this evening. With most
remarkable results.” He looked pensive for a moment. “The
Illuminata,” he said, “may be just the formidable weapon for
which we have been searching.”

Hermione swallowed hard. Behind their backs, Draco’s fingers
found hers and squeezed reassuringly.

“To my office, if you please,” Dumbledore said, and shot a
searching glance at Draco. “And you as well, Mr. Malfoy.”

“But …” Draco protested. “I didn’t have anything to do with
developing the Illuminata, Professor.”

Dumbledore raised one bushy white eyebrow. “Draco,” he said
softly. “Don’t you think it’s time you told me about the Fils
du Couteau?”

**

Morning. The Great Hall.

Hermione spooned up an indifferent bite of soggy cornflakes
and stifled a yawn. These late nights were getting to her. Out
of the corner of her eye, she could see that Draco wasn’t
faring much better - his silky platinum head was drooped over
his eggs like a sickly dandelion.

Snape hadn’t appeared at all: according to a couple of
Ravenclaws who had been down to the dungeons before breakfast
to hand in late essays, there was a note on his door
cancelling Potions for the day. From the looks of him last
night, Hermione thought a day’s holiday was well-deserved -
though how Dumbledore had convinced him to take the day off
was beyond her weary imagination.

They hadn’t made it to bed until well past three o’ clock.
Faced with Dumbledore’s gentle probing and the comforting
weight of Fawkes on his lap, Draco had taken a deep shuddering
breath and then spilled out his story in what seemed like one
long run-on sentence, while he stroked the phoenix with one
hand and held Hermione’s fingers in a death grip with the
other.

For the most part, Hermione had let him talk, though she found
herself filling in spots here and there. When they were
finished, the Headmaster had leaned back, laced his hands
behind his head, and studied them consideringly.

“Most enterprising,” he’d said. “You seem to be quite
well-informed about the process by which the curse functions.
I confess that I find your knowledge fascinating, as I was
unaware of it myself, and am fairly certain that it doesn’t
exist in our library.”

At this, Draco and Hermione exchanged dark looks. Albus
Dumbledore might look harmless, but he didn’t miss much. And
as vague as they’d tried to be about their sources, the
existence of Slytherin’s ghost was a sizable hole in their
story that couldn’t be completely glossed over.

To tell or not to tell? Hermione, after a brief mental battle,
decided to hold her peace. Any ghost who’d managed to conceal
his presence at Hogwarts for almost a century had definite
reasons for doing so. And until she’d gotten the chance to
find out how and why he’d really died, and exactly why he’d
chosen to classify that information, she was going to keep him
to herself.

“Are you sure, Professor?” she’d asked, keeping her expression
as bland as possible. “It’s surprising what one can find in
the Hogwarts library; it’s amazingly well-stocked.”

This piece of borderline impertinence had earned her another
one of Dumbledore’s patented searchlight stares. It was late,
however, and he hadn’t pressed the issue.

“Indeed,” he’d sighed. “Well, then. Professor Snape tells me
you intend to begin preliminary testing with the Armoring
Fluid tomorrow … er, this evening. Correct?”

Hermione nodded.

“Then perhaps Mr. Malfoy should join you for this part of the
project, since its outcome is of particular interest to him.”
Dumbledore’s blue eyes took on a wicked sparkle. “And since
this experiment is of vital importance to the wizarding
community at large, perhaps the two of you should have some
private space in which to research.”

He rummaged in a desk drawer for a moment, then hummed in
triumph and withdrew a pair of tiny silver skeleton keys on a
ring, which he held out to them. “We have a limited amount of
private rooms off the library,” he said, “which Madam Pince
uses for storage and research. This one in particular is
well-suited for purposes of … chemistry; take her the keys
tomorrow and she’ll show you in.”

Stunned, they’d taken the keys and stammered thanks, which the
Headmaster waved nonchalantly away.

“This school,” he said cryptically, “has always rewarded hard
work and initiative. It may not appear to place such a high
value on innovation - or, for that matter, on inter-House
co-operation - but I assure you, the faculty and I are devoted
to nurturing such noble aims, when we recognize them.” His
gaze sharpened, taking on a hard edge. “Believe me,” he said
gravely, “to succeed against our common enemies, we cannot
stand on our own.”

Then he’d presented both of them with sugar quills and shooed
them off to bed, keeping the Illuminated cocoa - he’d murmured
something about Madam Pomfrey finding it interesting, but
Hermione suspected he had a nightcap in mind.

She ought to have slept well; her whole body ached with
exhaustion. But as she lay spread-eagled in her four-poster,
savoring the luxury of having the entire double bed to herself
for once, she couldn’t help trembling with the euphoria of
scientific discovery.

She’d been afraid, so afraid, that there wouldn’t be a fit use
for the Illuminata. And tonight, thanks to the potion she’d
rediscovered, one reluctant Death-Eater had thrown off his
chains.

All her life, she’d wanted to change the world.

It looked like she just might get her wish.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Eight

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Draco, who had forgotten that morning to tuck his Charms
homework into his textbook, was on his way up from the
Slytherin common room to grab a sandwich in the Great Hall.
After the post-curfew events of last night, going off to bed
together in the same room had seemed a bit brazen, not to
mention risky … so he and Hermione, as they parted ways in the
entrance hall, had agreed to meet in the library during lunch
hour to check out their new study space.

He was running far enough behind schedule that the first
muffled gasp from the curtained alcove off one of the dungeon
corridors barely made him pause.

He’d only gone a few steps farther, however, when a feminine
voice, tight with barely-concealed panic, choked, “Stop it!”,
and was answered with a masculine chuckle and a slap.

Draco froze. He knew that voice. And that laugh.

Striding back to the alcove, he yanked aside the curtain to
reveal Forrest Avery - or at least Avery’s back. He had a girl
pinned to the wall by way of his beefy hand around her wrists
and his large body against her smaller one. His free hand was
out of sight, but from the girl’s whimpering Draco thought he
could surmise what was going on.

As for her identity, only one female student at Hogwarts had
hair that colour.

Ginny Weasley.

Ginny had the misfortune to be the youngest sibling in a
family which had made more than a few enemies in Slytherin
House. The fact that she was a girl, and small for her age at
that, only made her more vulnerable.

Up until this year, she’d been Untouchable - not even an oaf
like Avery cared to have two angry (not to mention
well-muscled) Gryffindor Beaters breathing down his neck. Now,
however, there was only Ron. Protective as he was, he couldn’t
be everywhere at once.

And that flaming hair made an excellent target.

“Let her go,” he said. Avery twisted his head lazily, but
didn’t release his victim. Seeing Draco, he smirked.

“I’ve got dibs, Malfoy. You’ll have to wait if you want a go
at her.”

“Let her go,” Draco repeated. A wand - Ginny’s, he assumed -
lay on the ground. He picked it up before Avery could tread on
it. “She’s never done anything to you.”

“Wait your turn, I said,” Avery grunted. Draco’s jaw clenched.

“Avery, you slug,” he said calmly. “The lady’s not willing,
and you’re twice her size. As the senior Slytherin prefect,
I’m telling you to back off. You want to pick a fight, try me
instead.”

“You’re not as pretty as she is,” Avery said, leering at
Ginny. “Though certain of us are beginning to doubt your
manhood. You’re gonna want to watch yourself in the showers,
Malfoy. Slytherin House doesn’t like pansy little turncoats
like you, even if you do have a rich daddy.”

A muscle began to tick in Draco’s cheek. “For the last time,”
he said, holding on to his artificial calm with both hands, “
get the fuck away from her. Or I’ll make you sorry you
didn’t.”

“Mind your own business, you little loser,” Avery said
nastily. “She likes me. Don’t you, sweetheart?” He squeezed
Ginny’s wrists painfully, grinning unpleasantly at Draco when
he’d forced a cry from her. “See? Sounds like a ‘yes’ to me.
And what are you gonna do about it, anyway?”

The next second, Draco had him pinned against the wall.

Wands weren’t necessary for this, Draco thought grimly.
Putting aside the fact that duelling in the halls was
prohibited, the use of wands implied equality.

And this big cockroach wasn’t even remotely his equal.

He might be smaller than Avery, but he’d had more than his
share of experience with bullies. Damned if he was going to
walk away, when he saw it happening right in front of him.

That, he thought, would make him entirely too much like his
mother.

“Think it’s fun to slap girls around, do you?” he hissed. “To
hit people who can’t fight back? See how this feels, then.”

If Lucius Malfoy had passed on to him any useful information
at all, it was the inherent vulnerabilities of human facial
structure. Overtaken by savage satisfaction that encircled and
enflamed him like a hot red mist, Draco drew back his arm.

And shattered Avery’s nose with one clean blow.

The snap of the cartilage, the spray of the blood, the
anguished gurgle, sent a heady sense of power washing over him
in waves. If he squinted a little, he could almost see another
face behind the red splatter - sneering, faintly lined, very
much like his own.

He’d do anything to wipe out that sneer for good.

He put his hands around Avery’s throat and squeezed.

“Thirty points from Slytherin,” he said softly. It wasn’t
enough, but it was all he was authorized to take. “And I’ll be
passing in a detention referral to Professor Snape, make no
mistake. Now, apologize.”

“To that filth?” Avery sneered. For all his current
resemblance to a cranberry muffin - the destroyed nose, the
large purple bruises beginning to bloom, raccoon-like, around
his eyes - he had retained an astonishing amount of bravado.
“I’d sooner die.”

What the hell? Draco thought. He’d just severed his last tie
to Slytherin House, and had the blood on his hands to prove
it. “That can be arranged,” he promised, and increased the
pressure of his grip, feeling the beat of blood under his
thumbs like the frantic scurry of mouse feet. Avery’s eyes
bugged through the swollen slits of their lids.

“Say it,” Draco insisted, not sure if he was talking to Avery
now or to Lucius Malfoy, and not really caring. “Damn you, say
it!”

He’d expected Ginny to grab her wand and take off the minute
she was free, but for some reason she was tugging on the back
of his robes. “Stop,” she said urgently, going up on her toes
to hiss into his ear. “Malfoy, it’s not worth it - let him go!
”

“It’s worth it,” he insisted, shaking Avery so that the back
of the bigger boy’s head bumped into the stone wall with a
mushy-sounding thwack. “Anyone’s worth it. Anyone.”

Determinedly, Ginny pushed in between the two of them, shoving
Draco back. “Stop,” she said again, her lips trembling. “Don’t
kill him, Malfoy. You’ve got enough problems as it is.”

The knowledge in her eyes, more than her words, stopped him
cold. He staggered back against the opposite wall of the
alcove, not objecting when she yanked the curtain more firmly
closed.

Avery was on the floor next to them, holding his throat and
retching helplessly. Neither of them paid him any attention.

“I do, do I?” Draco said softly. “And what exactly would you
know about my problems? Someone been telling tales out of
school?” He felt a hot jab of disappointment. “Potter, maybe?”

“No!” Ginny looked scared again, but she lifted her chin in a
mutinous thrust that reminded him suddenly of Ron. “I have
eyes and ears,” she said. “Unlike my brother. I know that
‘Mione isn’t sleeping alone these days; even with wards on the
door, those dormitory walls are pretty thin. And I know who
checked out that book of Muggle poetry at the beginning of the
year; I saw your name on the card.”

She met Draco’s eyes with a challenging air of hauteur that
looked faintly amusing on her, like a little girl dressed up
in her mother’s robes. “I’m not sure I approve,” she said, “or
even understand. But it’s not my decision, now, is it?”

Silence, while they sized each other up.

Not so vulnerable after all, was she? Draco thought. Tiny
little thing like that, you expected fragility and easy tears
- not the ironclad determination of a dump truck.

No, Ginny Weasley had her own code of honor, that was plain to
tell. Draco made a quick decision.

“That lack of your brother’s,” he said slowly. “It’s sort of
working to my advantage at the moment.”

Ginny’s lips twitched.

“If he hears anything,” she said, “it won’t be from me. I owe
you one.”

Leaving the unconscious Avery on the floor in a puddle of his
own blood and bile, they walked up to the Great Hall together
in silence.

**

Hermione was waiting, not exactly patiently, at their usual
study carroll in the back of the Restricted section.

“Where have you been?” she hissed. Draco shrugged.

“Prefect stuff,” he said noncommittally. “I got stopped in the
hall. Had to write up a detention referral.”

To his immense relief, Hermione let it go at that. He was glad
he’d taken the extra minute to wash his hands and charm the
blood off his robes. “Madam Pince showed me where the room
is,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you so we could open it
together, though.”

He wasn’t expecting much from the room, but it turned out to
be exactly the distraction he needed.

You could have looked for it for years and never found it:
back in a particularly musty, sneeze-inducing rack of old
yearbooks from the 1300s, Hermione located a small,
grotty-looking volume the size of his hand that was faded from
what might have been blue to cobweb-grey. “Page thirty-five,”
she whispered conspiriatorially. “Right here, see?”

Draco peered over her shoulder. The page was blank.

“Um … no,” he said. “What’s to see?”

In answer, Hermione pulled her key from a chain around her
neck. “Like this,” she said, and touched the tip of the key to
the middle of the page.

Immediately, with a faint popping sound, she was gone. Draco
caught the book before it hit the floor.

“Okay,” he said doubtfully to himself, and dug his own key out
of his pocket. An instant later, the library had disappeared.
Impressed despite himself, he glanced around at his new
surroundings.

Dumbledore moved quickly, he had to give him that. The room
sparkled with cleanliness and boasted a freshly laid fire -
apparently the house-elves had access. Floor-to-ceiling
shelves were lined with books. One corner boasted two
laboratory tables and a small but neatly arranged ingredients
cabinet; Draco assumed that its lower drawers contained all
the measuring tools and chopping knives they’d need. A door
between two bookshelves gave him a glimpse of blue tile and
hinted at the presence of bathing and eliminatory facilities.

Immediately, he got a visual image of Hermione, naked and wet
and covered in bubbles. His own private mermaid.

Hmmm.

No time for that now, of course. He tucked the thought away
for later and turned back to his survey of the main chamber.

The rest of the room looked like a cozy little parlor:
comfortable chairs, cushioned footstools, and a narrow little
chaise longue that looked about as wide as a broomstick; when
he sat down tentatively on it, however, he could feel it
expand to fit him. Curious, he lay down on it, and was
astonished when his feet didn’t hang off the end. Hermione
laughed.

“I’ve read about those,” she said. “They’re like the wizarding
version of a sofabed.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” she said, and dropped down next to him. “Well,
what do you know? It fits two.”

Well-suited for chemistry, indeed, Draco thought, amused. Old
Dumbledore was even more of a romantic than he painted
himself. But aside from the snogging possibilities, intriguing
as they were, this room presented an entirely viable solution
to what had been, after today’s altercation with Avery, a
pressing problem.

He wasn’t going to have to spend a night in Slytherin House,
ever again.

Knowing the Headmaster, he’d foreseen that, too.

**

He took the opportunity to move his belongings out of the
dungeon while his classmates were at dinner, then locked and
warded the door to the empty prefect’s bedroom the way he
normally would. No sense advertising that he’d taken other
quarters.

Dropping into a seat at the end of his House table with a hint
of expatriate swagger, he had just started in on his roast
beef when Ron Weasley tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hi,” he said neutrally, and tried to read the expression on
Ron’s face. No go.

“Ginny told me about what happened today,” Ron said. His eyes
were shuttered, his face carefully arranged into blank
politesse. “That was decent of you. I appreciate it.”

“Least I could do,” Draco said. “Avery’s a thug.”

Ron looked for a moment as if he might smile, then quickly
glanced away. “Thanks,” he said again, and walked hastily
away, back to his spot at the Gryffindor table. Even from the
back, he looked relieved that the encounter was over.

Draco caught Hermione’s eye. She looked ridiculously pleased.
He sipped his pumpkin juice to hide a smile.

Things were definitely looking up.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty-Nine

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Being the only children of their parents, Hermione and Draco
both understood all too well the seductive lures of privacy.
Sharing their respective dormitory rooms for their first four
years at Hogwarts had only made the subsequent escape into
prefects’ solitude sweeter.

And so it was with caution that they approached the hidden
refuge of the library room, which Hermione referred to, only
half-joking, as ‘Elysium’.

Paradise.

Familiarity, after all, did not always breed contempt. But too
much proximity could, and though nary a word of discussion on
the topic ever passed their lips, they both knew it.

So Hermione made a point of spending a few evenings a week
with Harry and Ron, while Draco gritted his teeth and
performed an occasional obligatory stalk through the Slytherin
common room, thereby perpetuating the misconception that he
still slept there. It was quite amusing, really: he’d sweep in
scowling, like Sherman through Georgia, wait five minutes,
then slip out again under the Invisibility Cloak. It was an
efficient little trick, aided by the fact that since his
run-in with Avery, the other Slytherins averted their eyes and
let him pass without so much as a murmur of censure.

What he heard on his way out, of course, was another matter.

On the other hand, he didn’t have to eavesdrop at all to hear
the flying rumours that linked his name romantically with
Ginny Weasley’s - those were all over school. Ginny, for her
part, appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the hailstorm of
gossip that this fallacy provoked, perhaps because the very
topic turned Ron puce with ill-concealed bile.

The long-despised heir to the Malfoy fortune might be handy
enough when it came to rescuing Ginny, he told Harry and
Hermione privately, but damned if he was going to let her date
him.

This statement was found amusing in the extreme by all
concerned.

Draco had to admit that the gossip was advantageous, chiefly
for its smoke-screen effects. If the entire student body went
into a fit of whispering, every time Ginny winked at him from
the Gryffindor table, they were hardly likely to notice that
he and Hermione Granger went simultaneously missing for large
chunks of time, several times a week.

Also, it provided him with a certain amount of evil
satisfaction to think about the news trickling back to Malfoy
Manor. Pureblood or not, the idea of his only son dating a
Weasley was guaranteed to have Lucius spitting nails.

Possibly, Draco reflected, Arthur Weasley wasn’t too happy
about it either.

But then, that was Ron’s problem, wasn’t it?

**

All else aside, the evenings that he and Hermione spent in the
library hideaway were some of the most tranquil and pleasant
he’d ever experienced at Hogwarts. Quiet, comfortable, and
spacious enough to let them pursue their separate projects
without bumping elbows or having to share table space, the
room was also lined with books that seemed hand-picked for
their helpfulness, interest value, and general unavailability
through other, more conventional, outlets.

Knowing their benefactor, this seemed unlikely to be
coincidental.

And when the pressures of scholarship threatened to upset
their equilibrium, other pleasures popped up to distract them
- that marvellously inventive chaise longue, for example, and
the aquatic delights of the big blue-tiled bath. Later, after
Hermione left - she took her duties as the senior Gryffindor
prefect seriously, and spent the night in her own room, in
order to be available if necessary - Draco would lie back
against his pillows, safe in his hidden, fire-warmed cocoon,
and fall asleep listening to the books breathe around him.

All in all, life could be much worse.

**

A week after they’d taken possession of their new digs,
Hermione discovered a most useful Advanced Replication charm.
In addition to reproducing the object of the spell itself,
which was basic magic that the average third-year could
perform without difficulty, this trickier version of the charm
also replicated any enchantments that the object carried.
Immediately, she’d made two spare copies of the Keyhole Book,
as well as an extra key for each of them.

Draco Transfigured his spare key to look like a Remembrall,
and kept it in the bottom of his bag, under his textbooks. The
Keyhole he carried with him as well, as it hadn’t taken him
two days to discover that Elysium could be accessed from
anywhere in the castle or on the grounds, provided that he
carried both the Keyhole and the key.

Doing this meant hanging onto the Keyhole as he went through
it, rather than letting it drop back to the library shelf. The
resulting effect was near-total impregnability - rather like
locking himself in the bathroom, except that only Dumbledore
and Madam Pince had the necessary knowledge to perform an
emergency Alohomora to rout him out. (Seeing as this was the
case, Draco took the precaution of burying the library’s copy
of the Keyhole behind some back periodicals on a top shelf, on
which the dust lay nearly an inch thick, then charming another
inch of dust on top.)

Okay, so he was a little paranoid.

He and Hermione avoided discussion of his parental
predicaments, but they both knew that Elysium was earmarked as
Bolthole Number One, should Lucius Malfoy set foot on Hogwarts
property - with Slytherin’s cozy underground chalet presenting
a possible alternative. The existence of the Invisibility
Cloak just gave him another layer of insurance.

If anyone came to get him, day or night, Draco was braced to
disappear.

In the meantime, he and Hermione were working overtime on what
they’d optimistically dubbed the Protection Potion.

**

Their first attempts to meld the Illuminata with the Armoring
Fluid had yielded only modestly encouraging results. For their
experiments, they’d co-opted a few dozen oranges from the
kitchens and treated the fruit with an Anti-Rot Charm -
considering the circumstances, the idea of slicing into
Draco’s arm repeatedly held no appeal for either of them.

So far, the potion-treated oranges resisted the knife only
until the effects of the Armoring Fluid wore off - on average,
this was holding steady at about four minutes. After that,
they cut easily, though for a considerable period of time
afterwards, if the halves of the orange weren’t completely
separated, the fibers could be observed trying to re-knit
themselves. Small cuts in the surface of the orange rind would
repair themselves up to six or seven times, before the
Illuminata gave way to cold hard steel.

So, not a complete wash. Even so, they were drinking a lot of
orange juice. It was clear that in order to achieve any
meaningful results, they’d have to first strengthen the
Armoring Fluid.

“Oh, is that all?” Draco had said ruefully, when Hermione
pointed out this fact. “Fix a potion that’s been faulty for
millenia and eluded the best minds in the wizarding world?
Lead me to the cauldron; we’ll be done by dinnertime.”

Hermione didn’t deign to reply to this.

Snape’s snarkiness aside, she’d been right about one thing:
the lacewings were, indeed, the formula’s weakness. Draco took
it upon himself to experiment for a sturdier, workable
substitute.

Hermione, in the meantime, was immersed in the problem of
making her Discman ghost-compatible.

Apart from her curiosity about the actual demise of Salazar
Slytherin - the fact that he’d lied to her so calmly and
convincingly alternately rankled and impressed her - she was
convinced that Slytherin still held the trump card on the Fils
du Couteau. Even if she and Draco could get the Protection
Potion to work, they still needed to know what exactly to
protect. As Slytherin had designed the curse and activated it
once before, chances were good that he had a pretty good idea
of Voldemort’s planned procedure.

The Discman was the key to unlocking all that vital, jealously
guarded information. Hermione had already selected her lure: a
crystal-clear digital remastering of Vladimir Horowitz playing
the Rachmaninov Second Piano Concerto with the New York
Philharmonic.

Seven hundred years of British folk songs and Pergolesi opera
couldn’t begin to prepare even the most urbane,
forward-thinking music lover for Russian Post-Romanticism. Six
bars, and Slytherin would be putty in her hands … or at least
putty through her fingers. She was sure of it.

It was a pity that she couldn’t figure out how to desolidify
her miracle machine.

**

It was the night before the Halloween feast. Draco, who had
raided Snape’s stores for a sampler of alternative insects,
had four otherwise-identical Armoring potions simmering
side-by-side, and was industriously removing the wings from
the carefully-labelled carcasses. Hermione had located a
Latin-English dictionary and was working her way through all
the possible Latin synonyms for the word ‘vaporous’, her wand
determinedly pointed toward the hapless Discman.

Perhaps, she’d confided to Draco earlier, etymology would
prevail where the spellbooks had failed her.

It was a good thing she’d Replicated the Discman several times
before commencing. So far, her linguistic experiments had
caused one machine to dissolve into a small silver puddle and
another to condense itself into a pocket-sized thunderstorm
which rained furiously over her notes for two minutes, broke
into a brief shimmering rainbow she could have balanced on her
palm, then abruptly vanished, leaving behind a single silver
coin on the table. Yet a third had grown bandy little legs and
tap-danced while tinnily singing “Stormy Weather”, until a
well-placed hex from an irritated Draco reduced it to
smoldering electronic rubble.

Not one of them, however, ended up looking like something a
ghost could use to discover Rachmaninov.

Hermione sighed, muttered a Drying Charm at her notes, and
dutifully recorded the results. If nothing else, this approach
to spellcasting was certainly entertaining.

“Well, it’s not ‘vaporous’,” she said. “Can you think of
another word to try?”

Draco ripped the wings off yet another desiccated housefly and
frowned. “How about ‘transparent’?”

“Well, I’ve already gone through all the matches for ‘foggy’
and ‘insubstantial’,” Hermione said, doubtful. “Which is sort
of the same thing, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugged. “Worth a try, though,” he pointed out, and
Hermione nodded absently. She was already flipping pages.

“Let’s see,” she murmured, scanning the list. “Epicrocus - no
- interluceo - no, that doesn’t sound right, either. Hm.” Her
finger stopped consideringly and tapped the yellowed page. “
Perluceo. To shine through; to be transparent. That might
work.”

She picked up her wand and pointed it at the Discman. “Okay,”
she said. “Last try before I start my Arithmancy homework.
Perluceo!”

To her amazement, the little stereo glowed for a moment with
bright silver-white light, then faded to a familiar
pearl-gray. Hermione peered at it closely, then picked up a
stray quill and cautiously poked at it.

The quill passed straight through the Discman, stopping when
it hit the table.

“Finite Incantatem,” she said slowly, and watched displaced
atoms scurry back into place under cover of another streak of
white light. This time, the quill hit solid matter.

Cool. Way cool.

She felt Draco’s hand on her shoulder and twisted back to look
at him. He’d stopped dismembering beetles and was staring
speculatively at the newly-solidified Discman.

“That,” he said, “is pretty damn intense.” Hermione beamed at
him.

“Well, that’s that,” she said. “No time to lose now.”

He looked bemused. “What’s what?”

“Tomorrow night,” she said. “Eat fast, and then meet me in the
trophy room. I’m going to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty

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Severus supposed he should be happy.

The Dark Mark, that grim phantasm that had ruled his days and
stalked his nights for so long that he’d forgotten what life
was like without it, was gone. Not just hibernating, not just
on hiatus, but gone - really gone - for good. The second
weekend of the month, when Voldemort usually summoned his
circle of Death-Eaters, had approached and passed with not so
much as a twinge where the Mark had been.

He was free.

Perhaps, he thought sourly, that was part of the problem - he
wasn’t yet accustomed to having his body to himself. He taught
his classes with only half a mind on the lessons, too
distracted to bother with his usual unpleasantness (to his
extreme chagrin, the normally timid Hannah Abbott had actually
approached him warily after last week’s Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw
sixth-year lesson and asked him, very worriedly, if he felt
alright ... and he’d sent her away with a curt nod, too
surprised to snap at her.) He ate without tasting his food. He
paced his nights away on the worn flagstones of the corridors,
his brain awhirl with possibility, with prospect, with the
visualization of a world suddenly open to him.

It was terrifying, this freedom. It made him think he could
go, and have, and do, and be anything.

And of course that wasn’t really the case.

For example, he’d never be free to pay court to Hermione
Granger.

He heartily wished that he didn’t want to. The awkward,
studious little girl, the seductive Roman nymphet, had
coalesced and matured into a lovely promise of the woman she
was becoming - beautiful and brilliant and heartbreakingly
sure of herself. Severus sometimes watched Draco’s eyes fix on
her during class with a wistful mix of bewilderment and
worship in their grey depths- precocious as young Malfoy was,
Hermione was clearly still a mystery to him.

At such times, Severus found himself torn between sympathy,
for the young man swimming out of his depth, and pure green
envy that he wasn’t the one in the water.

He shouldn’t begrudge them the sweetness of first romance. He
shouldn’t want to deny Draco any comfort Hermione could give
him - God knew that the boy had enough betrayal and darkness
on his plate right now, and precious few allies to balance out
the bad hand his snake of a father had dealt him.

But oh God, he wanted her for himself.

She intrigued him, she challenged him, she’d single-handedly
pulled him out of his twenty-year depression and given him the
means to wipe out all physical evidence of the biggest mistake
he’d ever made. And when their eyes met, even now, the air
crackled with electricity - a chemical certainty that no
number of nights in Draco Malfoy’s bed could change or
diminish.

Maybe, whispered the newly-awakened-but-already-presumptuous
voice of hope in his head, if you just bide your time … wait
until she’s out of school …? Puppy love is bound to run its
course, right?

No, he told himself brutally, tamping down that traitorous
thought and resolutely ignoring the Bambi-eyed troop of
fantasies gamboling along behind it. Just because you love a
beautiful thing doesn’t mean you have the right to touch it.
And Hermione’s no different. She’s not for you.

She’ll never be for you.

Still, getting a new lease on life changed your outlook, made
you see yourself and the world with new eyes. For the first
time in he-didn’t-know-how-long, Severus took a good hard
appraising look in the mirror … and immediately wished that he
hadn’t.

In the two decades that he’d been sleepwalking through his
life, he’d somehow gotten old.

He’d been a skinny, gawky youngster who had grown into a
slender, dangerous-looking young man. He remembered that young
man’s face - all abrupt planes and angles, perhaps not
handsome but certainly interesting - his skin, pale but taut
and youthful - his fall of soft black hair, shining to his
shoulders like a new moon at midnight.

He’d been a bit vain about his hair, actually.

So when had it gone greasy and lank? When had his skin taken
on that pasty yellow tinge? At what point, during the last
twenty years, had he stopped looking like Dorian Grey and
started looking like his infamous portrait instead? He gazed
in fascinated revulsion at the lines around his eyes, at the
deeply grooved, permanently pinched downturn of what Lily
Evans had once called a sensual mouth.

Lily.

The other girl he hadn’t deserved to touch, who had touched
him anyway. Time was, if he’d looked in that mirror of
Dumbledore’s, he’d have seen nothing but her.

Don’t think about her, he snapped at himself, annoyed all over
again at his recent propensity for self-scrutiny. Don’t you
have enough problems as it is?

Besides, Lily had been dead for a long time. And he was still
alive. Severus yanked himself out of his chair and stalked
toward the door with bleak determination in his eyes.

It was time for him to reclaim himself.

**

Halloween fell on a Saturday this year, a fact which met with
near-universal approval from faculty and students alike. One
of the sixth-years - Dean? Seamus? Ernie? Hermione couldn’t
remember - had overheard Professors Sprout and Flitwick
murmuring about Dumbledore’s supposed engagement of a band
called Fly By Night, in honour of the occasion. For the time
being anyway, this rumour threatened to eclipse the supposed
Malfoy-Weasley romance in the Hogwarts echelon of Discussable
Unprovables.

Where there was music, there would be dancing.

Where there was dancing, there would be Romance and Intrigue.

And those twin specters of adolescent angst automatically
upgraded the Halloween feast from what would have been an
unusually good dining experience, to a Clothing Event of Epic
Proportions.

In other words, Gladrags was doing quadruple business.

Harry and Ron had dug out their old dress robes - Harry’s
green ones from fourth year, and Ron’s rather smart navy-blue
set that Fred and George had sneaked into his trunk at the
beginning of last term. For her part, Hermione decided to go
Muggle in a vintage-cut A-line gown that Giulia’s designer
friend Rafael had pressed into her hands during that first
week in Rome, despite Hermione’s protestations.

“It was an assignment for class,” he’d shrugged. “Doesn’t go
with the new show I’m designing. And it’s perfect for you.”

She hadn’t protested too hard after that. She’d never seen a
more beautiful dress.

It was long-sleeved and high-necked and covered every inch of
her except her hands, face and feet, but the cut was a miracle
- even on the hanger, it was shaped like Marilyn Monroe. Made
of some space-age fabric that looked like velvet and sucked
her in like Lycra, it was fitted to the waist, then flared out
gently over her hips and gathered fullness as it went, until
it fell in heavy graceful folds just above her ankles. The
result gave her a stylized ultra-feminine figure that was pure
Old Hollywood. And the colour was an amazing, glowing warm
gold that made her skin look like someone had turned the
lights on behind it.

She shimmied into it, turned to admire herself from all angles
in the mirror she’d charmed to full-length, and grinned.

Malfoy was going to soil himself when he saw her.

**

Of course, they wouldn’t be staying long at the dance
(assuming it actually was a dance; no one really knew for sure
and Dumbledore was doing more twinkling than talking on the
subject) - now that Draco wasn’t living in Slytherin House
anymore they could probably technically reveal their
relationship, but both of them liked the ease of movement that
anonymity provided. So chances were good that they wouldn’t
actually be dancing with each other - it was more likely that
Hermione would end up partnering Neville or two-stepping with
Harry, while Draco and Ginny shoveled some more grist into the
Hogwarts rumour mill. Fun, but not a whole night’s worth.

Besides, they had a ghost to interrogate.

Hermione decided that going prowling through the subdungeons
in haute couture and Ginger Rogers dancing sandals wasn’t
exactly prudent - even if that old lecher Salazar would
appreciate her outfit. She dug out a rucksack, folded a set of
standard student robes and some sensible walking shoes into
it, then carefully slid the Discman and the Horowitz CD in on
top and tucked her wand safely into the folds of the robe. As
an afterthought, she took her copy of the Keyhole out of her
book bag and added it as well … no sense making that climb up
to the main level, and risking an encounter with Filch, if
they had the wherewithal to simply beam themselves directly
into Elysium.

Five o’ clock. Hanging up the gold dress and slipping into
plain black robes, she picked up the rucksack and hurried out
through the Gryffindor common room toward the trophy room, to
stow her bag behind the tapestry door.

She hadn’t even gotten to the Fat Lady when Parvati and
Lavender pounced.

“Hermione!”

Warily, Hermione turned around and immediately tried not to
laugh. Parvati had spread some kind of green muck all over her
face - she looked like she’d fallen head-first into the
squishy stuff at the bottom of the lake - and Lavender’s
entire head was covered in folded squares of foil. They wore
identical expressions of unrepentant, prurient interest.

“Did he ask you?” Parvati whispered excitedly. Hermione
frowned, bewildered.

“Did who ask me?” she asked. “And to what?” Lavender sighed
heavily.

“Your secret admirer,” she said, quivering with
barely-suppressed curiosity so that her hair rattled loudly in
its metallic prison. “To the Halloween dance.”

She should have known this was coming when Malfoy sent her
another pink card last week, Hermione thought. While she was
all for Keeping the Romance Alive, his timing left much to be
desired.

And if she didn’t come up with something good, she was headed
for Well-Meaning-But-Slightly-Condescending Patil-and-Brown
Makeover Land in a hurry, with a possible Matchmaking Bonus
thrown in. Normally she’d play along, but tonight she needed
to be able to come and go without undue remark.

Think fast, Granger, she told herself, and was immediately
rewarded with a deliciously evil idea.

“Oh, is it really going to be a dance?” she asked innocently.
“I heard Professor McGonagall tell someone that was just a
rumour - after all, Fly By Night has an engagement in
Gloucester tonight, don’t they?”

Inwardly chuckling at their looks of horror, she gave them a
friendly little wave - “Sorry, need to go to the library!” -
and escaped through the portrait hole.

Draco had a point. She would have done very well in Slytherin.

**

But Fly By Night was there, of course - Dumbledore was cagy,
but he wasn’t a sadist. Compared to the Weird Sisters - the
only other wizarding band Hermione had experienced firsthand -
this group was a definite surprise: four grinning,
clean-shaven young wizards in lurid robes who appeared to have
lifted all of their highly-synchronized moves (not to mention
most of their tunes and possibly their name, though that was
debatable) from American Muggle music videos.

Only the lyrics were completely original. And those were
pretty damn bad - not that most of the Hogwarts student body
appeared to care or even notice, though a few of the
Muggle-borns looked distinctly amused. Hermione, standing at
the back of the hall to avoid the worst of the thumping
over-amplified bass, sipped some punch and entertained herself
by studying the pained expressions and gritted teeth at the
Head Table.

Dumbledore, of course, looked as beatific as ever, and little
Professor Flitwick was snapping merrily along to the beat, but
the rest of the faculty - even easy-to-please Hagrid - looked
positively nauseated. Hermione wondered how Snape was taking
the cacophony, and then realized that his chair was empty.

Odd.

She scanned the room for Draco - there was at least an hour to
go before their scheduled meeting time behind Morgan LeFay’s
tapestry, but she didn’t want him to get worried if he saw her
leave. As she’d predicted, he was dancing with Ginny, a wild
hip-shaking, partner-twirling pelvic impossibility that
reminded her simultaneously of John Travolta in Saturday Night
Fever and Ballroom Night at her grandmother’s retirement home.
Hermione shook her head.

If she lived to be a hundred and five, she would never, EVER
understand wizarding pop culture.

She studied the white-blond head thrown back in temporary
abandon for another moment, then slipped out of the Great Hall
with gently curving lips and a definite flutter in the pit of
her stomach.

If she were Severus Snape, she would presently be in the mood
for a little fresh air.

She hoped he didn’t mind sharing it.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-One

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Even from the top of the Astronomy Tower, Severus could hear
the faint thumpa-thumpa of the bass backbeat. He’d heard it
from as far away as the castle gates, actually, which was why
he was up here instead of down there, sharing his new robes
(black, like all his others, of course, but still, new) and
his surprisingly satisfactory haircut with the blindly
luminous stars and his old nocturnal companion the giant
squid, who blew him a few appreciative bubbles and then
disappeared again into the inky depths of the lake.

“Just a trim,” he’d snarled earlier that afternoon at the very
matronly, suspiciously sunny proprietor (“Afternoon, luv -
call me Esmé; they all do”) of the Wand and Razor. Lack of
sleep, combined with the mere fact that he’d darkened the door
of an establishment with a pink candy-striped awning, had put
him in what was, even for him, an uncommonly vile mood. “No
more than an inch off, under any circumstances. Understand?”

Her eyes had narrowed a bit at his murderous tone, but she’d
nodded and pasted on a professional smile and cheerfully
whisked him off to the nearest sink for a shampoo. He’d had
just enough time to register the sensations of warm water and
soapy fingers on his scalp - dear God, that felt good - before
he felt his eyelids growing inexorably heavier.

Automatically, he tried to jerk upright, and was pressed,
not-too-gently, back down into the basin.

“Relaxing, isn’t it?” Esmé said sympathetically, her soothing
tone at odds with the practiced, matter-of-fact iron fingers
presently raking his hair out by the roots. Strange, Severus
thought dazedly, that such an inherently violent process
should feel so blissful. “You’ve been keeping late hours, I’ll
wager. Working too hard. You single wizards just don’t take
good care of yourselves, do you?”

His intended retort was interrupted by a wide, embarrassing
yawn. “That’s all right, dear,” she said kindly, sluicing more
warm water over his hairline from a flexible metal hose. (She
could have done that for an hour straight - it felt heavenly.)
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just lie back
and try to relax. Wouldn’t see me having to tell a witch these
things,” she murmured pensively. “You men can’t see the forest
for the trees. Don’t have the sense to come in out of the
rain. Helpless as babies.”

Her thumb dug into a particularly sensitive spot below his
right temple, making him see bright blue spots of relief when
she finally eased her pressure. “You’re very tense, you know.”

Severus would have gone for his wand, at that.

If he’d had the willpower to move his arms.

It was when she draped a hot towel over his face that he
finally surrendered. “One inch,” he managed to mumble through
an insidious fog of womblike well-being. “No more.”

At that, his eyelids clanged shut.

All those sleepless nights were finally catching up with him.

**

He awoke to gentle treachery: his skin had been exfoliated,
his facial DepiloCharm expertly renewed, his teeth subtly
bleached (not quite to Lockhart standards, thank God), and his
hair trimmed, dried, and brushed to a long-forgotten gleam.

“No extra charge,” his pink-smocked benefactress chirped,
eyeing his bared teeth with a touch of nervousness. “You
looked like you could use a little TLC, luv, so it’s on the
house. Besides -“ this last was in an undertone, as she turned
away to sweep up some stray bits of hair - “I always enjoy a
bit of a challenge.”

Severus stonily ignored this well-meaning bit of humiliation
and glared at the mirror, which purred seductively back at him
and blew him a cheeky kiss. He looked better, he admitted
reluctantly to himself. Relaxed. Well-rested.

Maybe even a bit younger.

But not, praise be, like he’d spent the afternoon in a salon.

Imagine Minerva finding out? He’d be hearing about it for
decades.

**

He paid for his haircut, gave Esmé a ridiculously outlandish
tip and then scowled at her until she hurriedly found pressing
business in the back room, and slid furtively out into the
street - after looking both ways first to make certain he
wasn’t being observed. Though he’d never admit it, the whole
experience had put him into an uncharacteristically mellow
frame of mind, and the walk back to Hogwarts was quite a
pleasant one, as the streets darkened and jack-o’-lanterns
winked on in the windows of one house after another.

Be that as it may, there wasn’t enough goodwill in Scotland to
make him turn his steps toward the Great Hall tonight. As long
as the stage was occupied by those caterwauling infants who
dared to call their howling, thumping gyrations music, he’d
keep his own company.

Solitude had its drawbacks, but in this case it was definitely
the preferable alternative.

He turned his attention now to the portable wireless set that
he’d conjured out of a stray pebble, and muttered at it until
it tuned in to the BBC. On Halloween night, Muggle public
radio tended to be quite wizard-friendly, if a bit
unimaginative. Severus fiddled with the reception, idly
wondering what they’d be playing: Night on Bald Mountain?
Danse Macabre? Sorcerer’s Apprentice? Or perhaps that rattly
little xylophone bit from Carnival of the Animals?

A final, rebellious burst of chattering static, then silence.
Severus sighed in irritation.

He was about to thump the little wireless into submission when
the connection finally cleared and he heard it - not one of
the old comforting Halloween chestnuts he’d expected, but the
plaintive first strains of Ravel’s Pavane pour une Infante
défunte, spiraling sweetly out of the tiny speakers in a
melodic silver thread of oboe and strings, and seeming to
shame the distant bass below into abashed silence.

Or perhaps, he just couldn’t hear it for the buzzing in his
ears.

In the sudden stillness, Severus felt his lips tremble.

Pavane for a Dead Princess. He hadn’t heard it in years now,
but it took him back instantly to everything in his life he’d
ever loved and lost: childhood, innocence, romance, friends.

One lovely woman, dead too young.

And now, this night, in this tower, he felt the ragged shreds
of his composure - and with them, the brittle existence he’d
patched together so painstakingly - slipping away from him on
a melancholy stream of melody.

God, it made his chest ache. For an instant, his hand hovered
over the little radio - one flick of his wrist, and it would
be dashed to bits on the flagstones below - then he turned
blindly away, hands fisted at his sides. Staring out across
the ramparts as if he could call back the past, he started,
shook his head to clear it, and took a second, incredulous
look.

A genuine princess - living, not dead - was walking his way.

**

She appeared at the top of the stairs, a vision in glowing
Botticelli gold, and stopped short as if she’d never seen him
before. “Why aren’t you down with the others?” he started to
say, out of force of habit, but stopped before the words were
out of his mouth. This shimmering, lush creature, gilded from
her shining curls to her dainty slippers, didn’t belong down
there in the mosh pit, any more than he did.

Of course, she didn’t really belong with him, either. But it
was getting harder and harder for him to remember that.

A light breeze ruffled her hair and molded that liquid-metal
gown even closer to her body. She leaned indolently in the
doorway and studied him with intent copper eyes, seemingly
content to keep her silence. There was something dangerous
about her deceptively casual stance, something in her steady
unblinking gaze that made him think of a small golden panther.

As if he were prey, and she the predator, wondering what he’d
taste like.

At that thought, he felt himself flush. Their eyes met and
held.

She took a step toward him, glimmering and molten as the heart
of flame. She took another.

And, quite silently and completely unexpectedly, went straight
into his arms.

**

Hermione didn’t know what she was doing, or why for that
matter, except that it suddenly seemed necessary.

She’d left her lover dirty-dancing in the arms of another
woman, without a backward glance. She’d stepped out into the
cool dew-sprinkled night, drawn to the Astronomy Tower first
by the promise of silence, and then by a shivering thread of a
tune that wound its way down to the ground like a floating
feather. She’d seen his profile against the dark turrets of
the balcony - proud, unapologetic, defiant, like an emperor in
exile, like a captain going down with his ship.

Typical, she’d thought, lips curled in dark amusement.

And she’d climbed the long stone spiral of the steps, fully
intending to cajole him down from the tower and back to the
feast.

But now that she was up there with him, he merely looked pale
and haunted, half-sick with some old grief and at the same
time strangely, wanly handsome - a beautiful specter of
himself, a romantic young suicide ghost. At the sight of her,
he backed another step toward the edge of the balcony, hands
half-spread as if to ward her off.

Frightened, almost, Hermione thought, and glitter-eyed with
something that might have been tears … or perhaps just desire.

Either way, he wouldn’t want her to see it.

So she stepped forward, and offered him the only comfort she
was pretty sure he’d take.

He was tall, so tall that even in her high-heeled dancing
sandals she could tuck her entire head under his chin. His
heart beat beneath her cheek, strong and sure and just
unsteadily enough to flood her with protectiveness. His skin
smelled faintly of almonds, and she wondered why she’d never
noticed that before.

Too much lemon in the air, probably.

She linked her fingers at the back of his neck and felt his
arms slide around her in return, but hesitantly, as if she’d
break if he held her too roughly.

“Hermione …” he whispered, and she shook her head against his
shoulder.

“Shhh.”

They didn’t speak again. The sweet wild music played on, and
she thought she felt him shudder once, but then his pulse
slowed and steadied and he gathered her into him more closely
yet, pressing what might have been a kiss into the top of her
head and rocking her chastely against him like a child.

There’d never been anything that was at once less about sex
and so much about it, Hermione thought, shivering against the
leashed danger of his body. Misunderstanding the reason for
her trembling, he wrapped her tightly into the long full folds
of his cloak. Hermione didn’t bother to correct him.

Oh, the sweet furnace of his tall, taut body.

Oh, the heart-wrenching adoration in Draco’s grey eyes.

One wrong step now, and she’d fall so hard she’d never get up
again. An inch the other way, and she’d push one of her
partners off the same precipice.

Oh God oh God oh God, she thought, and shivered once more in
the Potions Master’s arms. There was no way all three of them
were walking out of this mess heart-whole.

Best to stay put, then.

As long as she possibly could.

**

When she finally drew back, it was to glance at her watch.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be late.”

He didn’t ask after the nature of her appointment, just nodded
and took a step back himself.

“Good night, Hermione,” he said, and she paused halfway
through the tower doorway to look back at him, her hazel eyes
searching and just a bit defiant.

“Good night, Severus,” she said finally. “Sleep well.”

He watched her emerge from the tower doors and run lightly
across the grounds toward the main entrance of the castle.
Behind him, the forgotten wireless was halfway into Danse
Macabre.

“Not a chance,” he murmured to himself, and gathered his cloak
around him for the long solitary walk back to his chambers.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Two

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By the time Draco finally looked down at his watch, he was two
minutes late.

He’d been dancing with Ginny Weasley for a solid hour and a
quarter. Guiltily, he looked around the room, but didn’t see
Hermione anywhere among its head-tossing, high-stepping
occupants. Gone already, he guessed, and felt a twinge of
shame that he hadn’t noticed her leave.

It had been a long time since he’d put his brain on hold like
this.

He ladled punch into a glass and, as unobtrusively as
possible, herded Ginny into a corner under the pretext of
giving it to her. She pushed her bright fall of hair off her
forehead, took a less-than-dainty sip (their dancing had
fallen more into the ‘athletic’ category than the ‘romantic’,
and they were both sweating), and grinned at him, her eyes
merry over the rim of her glass.

“What’s up?”

“I have to meet Hermione,” Draco muttered. “I’m late already.”
He smiled at her nervously. “Business, not pleasure.”

Now why had he felt compelled to add that?

The dancing eyes sharpened in speculation. “What sort of
business?”

Draco bit his lip. “Long story. We have to meet someone.”

“Everyone’s here,” she pointed out mildly, sweeping out a
graceful bare arm to indicate the crowded Great Hall. Not for
the first time, Draco caught a glimpse of the iron core behind
her delicate appearance.

Why that should shake him up so much, he had no idea.

“Someone else.” He gulped. “It’s sort of … a secret.”

“Really,” Ginny said, immediately interested. Draco groaned
inwardly.

Oh, that’s smooth, Malfoy, he told himself furiously. Really
smooth. Nice going.

Damn it, he was a Slytherin - he was supposed to be good at
subterfuge. Especially around petite Gryffindor redheads whose
enchanting little pixie-faces lit up when they heard the word
‘secret’. Draco glanced at his watch again, trying not to
grimace.

Ten minutes late.

“Look,” he said. “You’re a great dancer and I’ve had a
fantastic time, but I’ve really got to go now. Okay?”

In response to this, Ginny took a considering sip of her
punch.

“If you disappear without me, it’s going to look like we
quarreled,” she said. “On the other hand, if we leave at the
same time, no one will think anything of it.”

Draco shot her an incredulous look. “You want to come along?”

Women. The day he understood one would be the day he fell down
dead.

Which, in all fairness, could be sooner than he thought. He
dismissed that grim thought - the first one he’d had in hours
- and, with a bit of effort, closed his open mouth. Ginny,
clearly pleased at catching him off-guard, slanted him one of
her naughty-angel looks and drained the rest of her punch.

“Well, it sounds like an adventure to me,” she said archly.
“You grow up with five older brothers, you know one when you
hear one. Besides,” she added in an undertone, jerking her
head toward the opposite wall, “if you disappear on me I’m
going to spend the rest of the night being trod upon by
Neville. And that’s the kind of adventure I’d rather avoid. So
if the two of you aren’t just going off to neck in the gardens
…” She shrugged expressively.

Draco glanced over his shoulder. Indeed - Neville Longbottom
was watching them from the other side of the Great Hall, a
distinctly disconsolate expression on his normally
good-natured face. He sighed.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on. We’ll fill you in on the details on
the way.”

**

Hermione, who was running late herself and had guiltily
steeled herself for curious questions, was most gratified to
be the first person behind the tapestry door. She took
advantage of her unexpected solitude to pull herself together
and change out of her gown, and was just zipping up her black
robes when from the other side of the door came a muttered “
Coleridge!” and Draco, followed by Ginny Weasley, came sliding
into the secret passageway.

Under certain circumstances, Hermione might have found the
presence of an additional comrade-in-arms odd … especially a
dainty-looking little Tinkerbell like Ginny. Certainly Draco
was shooting anxious sideways glances in her direction, trying
to gauge her reaction. But under the initial frisson of
suspicion at the sight of Draco’s mussed hair and Ginny’s
shining eyes, Hermione honestly felt more relieved than
anything else.

First of all, Ginny hadn’t grown up in the Weasley household
without learning how to keep her own counsel when it was
important.

Second of all, Slytherin’s quarters were a looooong walk away,
and bringing Ginny along meant the conversation wouldn’t
falter. Nor - more importantly - was it likely to turn to the
uncomfortable subject of where - and with whom - Hermione had
been for the past hour.

Finally, she was hardly in a position to complain, was she?

“Hi,” she said, and summoned her brightest smile. “Ready to
go?”

**

It took them a few minutes to get started. Draco, like
Hermione, had provided himself with a bag containing standard
student robes and comfortable walking shoes. While he ducked
around a corner to change, Hermione ran a considering eye over
Ginny’s emerald-silk sheath.

“Um .. you might be a bit chilly in that,” she said, gesturing
toward the deep neckline and spaghetti straps. “Do you want to
borrow my cloak?”

In response, Ginny shook her head. “Not necessary,” she said,
reaching into her décolletage and withdrawing - to Hermione’s
look of speculative admiration - a much-Reduced wand, slender
as a matchstick and about as long as her little finger.

So that’s how the pureblood witches do it. Hermione filed that
piece of information away for another day and took the tiny
wand Ginny held out to her.

“Engorgio, right?” she queried. “That’s a good idea - I never
would have thought of it.”

“It’ll still work,” Ginny assured her. “It’s just kind of hard
to aim.”

To Hermione’s surprise, Ginny then turned the newly-restored
wand on herself, shot Hermione a conspiratorial wink, and
whispered, “Finite Incantatem!”

“The Cinderella Charm - old trick of Mum’s,” she explained a
bit self-consciously, smoothing down what were now
unmistakably plain black student robes. “Not as good as the
real thing, of course; if you get hit with a stray hex, it’s
all over - and it would have worn off at midnight anyway. But,
if you’re short on pocket money …” She trailed off with a
carefully casual shrug.

Hermione felt a stab of empathy. Fred and George might have
schemed their way out of penury (Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, for
an infant business still in its first year out of mail-order,
was raking in the Galleons, a handful of Knuts at a time) -
Percy might salaam his way up the corporate ladder at the
Ministry - and Ron might sit around and kvetch like an old man
about his lack of funds. But she’d never thought before how
the Weasleys’ precarious finances affected their only
daughter.

Clearly, though, Ginny could hold her own.

To hide her thoughts, she pasted on a smile and linked her arm
with Ginny’s. “You’re going to need to know a few things,” she
said, and started down the corridor. “How much has Draco told
you?”

**

Taking the trip into the subdungeons was, Hermione thought,
much more pleasant when you had company. Besides, the
Illuminata/Salazar Slytherin/Fils du Couteau epic made for a
good story - and Ginny was as appreciative an audience as they
could have wished for, oohing and ahhing and asking sharp
incisive questions in all the right places.

“Wow,” she said finally, after both Hermione and Draco had
fallen silent. “Wow. What can you say to that?” Her dark eyes
narrowed. “And how do the two of you keep your grades up, when
you’ve got this mess to worry about?”

“Where there’s a will,” Draco said lightly, and smiled at her
as if he hadn’t just been discussing his own possible, highly
unpleasant and very pre-meditated demise at the hands of an
evil madman. Hermione’s eyebrows shot up.

Someone was really turning on the charm, wasn’t he?

No time to dwell on that now, though - patting the inside
pocket of her robes to make sure the CD and the Discman were
safe, she towed her entourage around the final corner and
quickened her steps. Behind her, Ginny gasped and Draco drew
his breath in sharply.

From his armchair in front of the fire, Salazar Slytherin
looked up and sent them an amiable smile.

“Good evening,” he said, his eyes drifting appreciatively over
Ginny and more speculatively over Draco. “The lovely Miss
Granger, back for a holiday visit - and with friends. I’m
honoured.” He gestured toward the spare armchair and ottoman.
“Sit down, won’t you?”

“Ginny, Draco, this is Salazar Slytherin,” Hermione said. “Mr.
Slytherin - um, that is, Salazar,” she amended, as the ghost
sent her a reproachful look - “these are my friends Draco
Malfoy and Virginia Weasley. I believe you’ve met Ginny’s
older brothers already.”

Ginny’s eyes took on a calculating gleam at this; Hermione had
inadvertently forgotten to tell her about Fred and George’s
bit of dungeon-graffiti, and she was clearly filing that
particular little bibelot away for possible blackmail purposes
later. “How do you do,” she said, curtsying, and didn’t flinch
as the old ghost gravely kissed her hand.

“You don’t mean to say that those two rogues are related to
this sweet young lady?” Slytherin said gallantly, pretending
surprise. “My dear. What an improvement you are over the
previous model. Your parents must be so pleased.”

Charmed, Ginny giggled. Draco rolled his eyes.

“And Draco,” Hermione soldiered on, “is the friend I mentioned
to you before. With the, um, curse issue.”

Salazar’s expression changed immediately from pure flirtation
to straight business. His smile, however, didn’t falter.

“Indeed,” he said. “The Fils du Couteau himself. This is an
occasion, isn’t it?” His amused-but-calculating glance swung
over to Hermione. “If it’s information you need, Hermione, I
trust you’ve brought a tune in trade.”

Hermione grinned at him. “I’ve done better than that,” she
said. “Check this out, will you?”

With the triumphant air of a parlor magician finishing up a
well-rehearsed rabbit trick, she drew out the Discman and
popped in the CD. “Sonorus!” she murmured at the headphones,
and pushed ‘Play’ with a slightly trembling forefinger.

Okay, Vladimir, she thought. Do your stuff.

**

Hermione was fairly certain that neither Draco nor Ginny had
heard Rachmaninov before. The Malfoys, of course, wouldn’t
have had Muggle music in the house. And at the Weasley
household, Molly generally kept the old wireless tuned to
Celestina Warbeck, a sweet-voiced warbler in the Breathless
Mahoney vein who mostly ripped off old Edith Piaf tunes.

It was Salazar that she was watching, however, as the piano’s
deliberate opening chords went from a whisper to a shout and
the strings swept in underneath like exultant hurricane
breakers.

This, after all, was a man who’d never even heard Mozart.

These chords, these tunes, half of these instruments even,
including the solo piano, hadn’t even existed the last time he
was out of the dungeon. Either he’d love this or hate it, and
from the intent, utterly focussed way he was staring at the
little silver Discman, as if he’d be holding his breath if he
still had it to hold, she couldn’t tell which it was yet.

A silver rocket of piano arpeggio shot off the high end of the
keyboard; the sawing strings subsided to a gentle mutter.
Hermione bit her lip - here came the tune, the movie theme,
her trump card.

If this wasn’t worth everything in the world he knew, she
didn’t know what was.

No orchestra, just naked piano, in the most searching,
reaching, revealing melody she knew, the quiet notes falling
pure and clear into the silence of the dungeon like funeral
bells. Beside her, Hermione heard Ginny draw in a surprised
breath and let it out again in a whispered sigh of pleasure.

Beautiful, beautiful - the second statement of the melody
merely confirming to your dazzled ears that you really had
heard that, that it wasn’t just wishful thinking … and then
building, building, building with those urgently murmuring
strings underneath, and it was back again - the same tune, but
triumphant and defiant and …

“Turn it off.”

Hermione blinked. “Sorry?”

“Turn it off,” Slytherin ordered, and Hermione was shocked to
see the glitter of tears in his pale grey eyes. Hurriedly, she
hit the Stop button.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I thought you’d like it …”

He shook his head, barked out a harsh laugh, and wiped his
eyes with the back of one shaking translucent hand. “Like it?”
He shook his head again. “Like it,” he repeated, more quietly.
Hermione watched him anxiously.

She’d entertained the possibility that he might not like it,
but she’d never thought that it would upset him.

“Do you?” she queried timidly, turning the little machine over
and over in her hands. Draco and Ginny were pretending tactful
interest in the bookshelves; she and Slytherin might as well
have been alone. He withdrew a pearly-grey handkerchief from
the inside of his ghostly robes and carefully blotted his eyes
with it.

“It’s too beautiful,” he said finally. “Beyond my
understanding. Like Dark magic for your ears.” He pointed at
the Discman. “That … that thing - it’s smaller than my hand.
How can it sound like that?”

Oh, Hermione thought, suddenly understanding. “The machine
doesn’t make the music,” she said. “It just plays it back.
It’s a recording.” She extracted and held up the CD, which
Slytherin peered at closely. “The music’s on this,” she
explained. “The musicians play it, and it’s held here.”

“A Trapping Spell,” Slytherin said slowly. Hermione shook her
head. Whatever a Trapping Spell was, she’d never heard of it.

Sounded useful, though. She made a mental note to look it up.

“In a way, I guess it would be similar. But it’s a Muggle
device. No magic - just science.” She met his eyes. “It’s
yours,” she said. “Signed, sealed, and delivered. Just tell me
anything you can that will help us.”

**

To their surprise, Slytherin was most interested in their
Protection Potion research. “Fascinating,” he said, studying
the neat pages of notes Hermione had tucked into her rucksack.
“So you’ve got a substance here that will resist a blade for,
what? Four minutes or so?”

“About that,” Draco said. “After that, a superficial wound
will heal a couple of times … but if you repeat the cutting
enough, the effects eventually wear off altogether.”

“Hm,” Slytherin said, looking thoughtful. “Most useful. Didn’t
exist when I was alive, of course.” He nodded toward the
notebook, flipping pages with a flick of his wand. “Isn’t
going to do you much good against young Tom Riddle, though,
not after those first few minutes.”

Draco and Hermione exchanged significant glances.

“Why is that, exactly?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice as
calm as she could. Slytherin directed a slightly pained look
in Draco’s direction, then grimaced and spread his hands
meaningfully.

“Means of death is dismemberment,” he said shortly, ignoring
the little outcry that came from Ginny at this news. “One
piece at a time. Wrists, ankles, elbows, knees, shoulders,
hips. Then the neck … but not until after the body’s cold.” He
shot the white-faced Draco a look that was not unkind. “Not
that it will come to that, I hope.”

“You and the rest of us,” Hermione said grimly. Salazar stared
into the fire, then looked back at them.

“You’ve got a couple of things in your favor, Draco,” he said
finally. “First thing is, you’ve put a bit of Miss Granger in
your veins, and that’s the smartest thing you could have done.
If it’s true that Riddle’s version of the Fils du Couteau must
use a pureblood for its sacrifice, then he’ll know the minute
he draws first blood that the ritual won’t work.”

He thought for a moment, then continued. “I’d count on a
public place for it,” he said. “He’s held a grudge against
Albus Dumbledore for a long time, and to pull something like
this off under Dumbledore’s nose would be a major coup - oh, I
read the Daily Prophet,” he said, darkly amused at their looks
of surprise. “Seclusion doesn’t have to mean ignorance. And
most of this ritual can be done beforehand; no chanting, no
potions, no invocations, not even a wand. Just a knife to the
wrist will start the ceremony going, once it’s in place - and
I’ll wager that he’s counting on the resulting panic to make
sure no one interferes.”

“So,” Hermione said, slightly cheered by this. “Four minutes
may be all we need.”

“Possibly,” Slytherin said, but his pale face was shadowy with
tension. “But if I were you, I’d work on strengthening that
potion. And don’t,” he said to Draco, “leave the castle,
unless you have it with you. Because you never know who’s out
there.”

**

On this grim note, they moved on to happier topics - Hermione
demonstrated the Discman’s uses briefly and vaporized both it
and the Horowitz CD into ghost-compatibility with “Perlucio!”
Slytherin looked impressed.

“That,” he said, “will be most useful when my next shipment of
books arrives. I’m in your debt.” Hermione eyed him narrowly.

“You certainly are,” she said crisply. “My sources say that
however you died, it wasn’t in your sleep. I’m looking forward
to hearing the real story - especially considering that I
traded you a perfectly good lullaby for that conversation.”

Slytherin’s beard twitched, but his eyes had taken on that
buccaneer’s gleam again. “My rates have gone up, Miss
Granger,” he said. “And that’s quite a story - worth far more
than a snippet of Brahms, I’m afraid.” He patted the Discman’s
pearly finish. “I might be persuaded to part with it, however,
if the compensation were up to standard.”

Hermione glared at him, then smiled reluctantly.

He was a sneak, all right. But a charming sneak.

“Count on it,” she said over her shoulder, following Draco and
Ginny toward the corridor. “You haven’t seen the last of me
yet.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Three

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

Hermione, upon arriving back in her room, had fallen into bed
and slept very well indeed - so well, as a matter of fact,
that she almost missed breakfast. She hurried down the stairs
from the girls’ dormitories and was about to step down into
the common room when she heard Ginny and Harry in a low-voiced
argument.

Not wanting to interrupt - and curious, despite her better
intentions - she halted on the first step, just out of sight.

“ … can’t just go off like that with him,” Harry was saying in
an earnest undertone. Ginny, arms folded, sniffed
disdainfully.

“I don’t see why not,” she said, and Harry let out his breath
in a frustrated huff.

“Because it looks bad, that’s why,” he hissed. “People were
talking.”

Ginny looked mutinous. “And that’s your business, Harry
Potter, because …?”

“Because Ron’s my best friend,” Harry said, a little louder.
“And your brother. You know that he feels responsible for you,
now that Fred and George are gone! And you had him worried
sick.” He took a deep breath, then lowered his voice again
with visible effort. “We might know that … that he’s
harmless,” - this in more conciliatory tones - “but Ron
doesn’t know that, now, does he?”

“Someone ought to tell him, then,” Ginny said, shaking her
hair back over her shoulders with an irritated toss of her
head. “I honestly don’t see why the lot of you are tiptoeing
around the issue, anyway. What the hell does he care who
‘Mione’s seeing? He had his chance, didn’t he?” She arched her
eyebrows meaningfully. “All last year, after she and Viktor
broke things off, and he didn’t so much as look her way.
Stupid.” She snorted contemptuously. “Well, he’s made his own
bed, and he can damn well lie in it.”

Go, Ginny, go! Hermione thought from the stairwell. This was
clearly a morning for Home Truths - and she couldn’t have said
it better herself. Now, if there was such a thing as poetic
justice in the world, Ron would be listening to this same
conversation from the boys’ stairwell.

Under the circumstances, she supposed that was a bit much to
ask for.

“You’re being awfully hard on him,” Harry said defensively.
“It’s not so easy, you know, being the one who’s expected to
make the first move. Bloody nerve-wracking, if you ask me.”

In response to this, Ginny made an extremely rude sound in her
throat. “Bollocks,” she said. “How hard can it be? You’re
interested, you go up to her, you say so.” She drew herself up
to her full height and glared at him. “You boys and your
Gryffindor courage,” she said scornfully. “If you’re not
careful, you and Ron are going to end up two old men in the
same room at St. Mungo’s, arguing about fifty-year-old
Quidditch games and running your wheelchairs into walls.
Babies, the both of you.”

“Oh, is that so?” Harry snapped, stung. “Well, let me tell you
something, then, since you’re so smart …”

Hermione, craning her neck, could see them squared off in
front of the fireplace, red head juxtaposed with black, both
chins angled at an identically pugnacious tilt. She smothered
a grin.

Harry was in over his head for sure, this time.

“Oh, what’s that?” Ginny demanded, taking a step forward. She
and Harry were practically butting foreheads. “Go ahead,” she
said when Harry hesitated, “say it, then - God knows this is
the longest conversation we’ve had in the last four years; we
might as well drag it out a little longer. Go on, do - tell me
how worried my poor brother was, and how you’re such a good
friend to him, that you could have set his mind at ease, and
didn’t do it.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry gritted out. Ginny edged him back
another step.

“Oh, no?” She bared her teeth at him in a parody of a smile.
“Grow up, Harry. How hard would it have been to say, ‘She’s
fine; they’re probably both with Hermione, they’re working on
a project together’? Or would that have put too much pressure
on your delicate masculine nerves?”

Hermione smothered a laugh at Harry’s wince. That had been a
shot to the solar plexus; she supposed that a life spent with
the Weasley boys would tend to give a girl a fascinating
inside angle on masculine sore spots.

They were nose to nose now, Ginny looking wild-eyed and
enraged, Harry increasingly uncomfortable. “I didn’t know you
were with Hermione,” he said in a low voice - “I swear to you
I didn’t. And …” this last, even softer - “I was worried too,
you know.”

“What?” Ginny snapped.

Harry flushed. “I said,” he repeated, “that I was worried,
too.” He had recovered a bit of his equilibrium - Hermione
would characterise his present state of mind as less-shaken,
more-annoyed.

Odd that he hadn’t stomped off by now to sulk in private, she
thought. Generally Harry sought his own counsel when upset;
she couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper long
enough to have an argument with anyone, let alone little Ginny
Weasley.

Of course, ‘little Ginny Weasley’ was currently making verbal
mincemeat of him. And who would have ever seen that in the
cards?

He set his jaw at a more stubborn angle and glared at his
porcelain-skinned adversary. “Shall I make a bloody
announcement during dinner tonight?” he demanded. “Would that
be an adequate demonstration of my Gryffindor courage? Or
would you prefer to discuss my shortcomings in private?”

This astonishing outburst was followed by complete silence,
during which the pique on Ginny’s face gave way to
speculation, and green eyes met brown with a click of
chemistry that resonated even around the corner of a curved
stairwell.

Whoa, Hermione thought. This is getting interesting, isn’t it?
Too bad everyone else is at breakfast. I could have sold
tickets.

“Well,” Ginny said softly, “that’s something, I suppose.”

To Hermione’s delighted surprise (and, no doubt, Harry’s utter
shock), she went up on her dainty toes, leaned forward the
bare millimeter that they were still separated, and planted a
deliberate, not-too-gentle kiss square on his gaping mouth. A
moment later, she pulled back with a narrow-eyed smile.

“Never say,” she told him, “that you had to make the first
move with me.”

Before Harry could close his mouth and formulate a response,
she turned abruptly and disappeared through the portrait hole.
Quietly, Hermione tiptoed back up the stairs to her room.

There were times, she thought, that the male of the species
needed to be prodded into conversation for the good of his
soul. And there were times that he should just be left alone
to sort out his own damn brain.

She wasn’t touching this one with a ten-foot pole.

**

She spent the morning in her room, catching up on her reading
for Transfiguration and getting a head start on her Arithmancy
term paper. The paper wasn’t due until the week before
Christmas vacation, but Hermione was systematically
stockpiling where she could.

Graduation may have been top on her list of Events Most Likely
To Be Crashed By Evil Death Lords, but she couldn’t get the
conversation she’d overheard in the dungeons out of her head.
Something was going to happen over Christmas, at the very
least a Death-Eater initiation ceremony. At the very most …
who knew?

And if the Armoring Fluid didn’t start to come along, they’d
be researching far into the night, come December. Best to have
big projects finished ahead of time, just in case.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood and pushed her
chair back from her desk. The careful, systematic,
self-preservatory part of her brain said It’s their choice;
it’s none of your business, but the rest of her felt oddly
responsible for the outcome of that ceremony. Who knew how
many of them there were, lining up for the Mark? And they
couldn’t all be hard-liners like Parkinson and Avery. Surely
something could be done to save at least a few of them, right?

Too much to worry about - she stopped pacing abruptly and
threw herself down on the bed, bouncing an annoyed Crookshanks
out of his morning nap. “Sorry,” she said, scratching his ears
absently, but her mind was still racing.

Dark curses. Bloody prophecies. Long-concealed ghosts. Trips
through the bowels of the castle. Hidden rooms and secret
lovers and late-night Astronomy Tower encounters and above
all, far too many options, none of them perfect but none of
them what you’d exactly call bad, either.

She rolled over, scooped the sleepy Crookshanks into her arms,
and buried her face in his ginger fur, squeezing him until he
yowled in protest. Was this what growing up was all about -
this awful, all-pervasive sense of responsibility for the
world’s problems? Or was that just part of her nature?

Save the world, Hermione, she thought, not without a touch of
bitterness. Discover the potion, rescue the boy, stop the
killing, defeat the Evil - and above all, get your bloody
homework in on time, because after this there’s another year
of school and the NEWTs and then God knows what; college
probably and then just years and years of life stretching out
in front of you, more potions and more rescuing and more evil
and stop it right now because you’re getting far too maudlin
and it’s far too pretty a day.

Far below on the lawn, Hagrid was whistling. Hermione set a
rumpled Crookshanks back on the comforter and smoothed his fur
placatingly.

If there was anyone who always made her feel better, it was
Hagrid.

Time to go visiting.

**

By lunchtime, she was feeling much more cheerful - Hagrid had
just gotten in a shipment of baby Puffskeins for use with the
first-years, and Hermione had spent a pleasurable forty
minutes playing with the little pastel balls of fluff, which
were much more amenable to cuddling than her cranky,
self-involved cat. She slid into her customary seat between
Harry and Ron and scooped crisps and lobster salad onto her
plate with real anticipation.

Despite Hagrid’s mid-morning offer of tea and treacle fudge,
she was starving.

She followed Harry’s surreptitious glance down the table and
saw that Ginny, too, was eating heartily, though carefully
avoiding the temptation to look their way. Interfering was
irresistible, given her knowledge of the situation; she nudged
Harry with her elbow and muttered, “Pretty, isn’t she?”

Harry jumped as though she’d dropped ice down his back. “Who?”
he demanded, and flushed at Hermione’s knowing look. “Oh. Um.
I suppose so, yes.” He fixed Hermione with a stare. “Were they
with you last night?”

“Who?” Hermione said innocently. Harry’s lip curled
dangerously.

“You know very well who; don’t play dumb with me,” he hissed.
“The two of them. Were they with you?”

“Why do you care?” Hermione murmured, carefully schooling her
features into blank interest. Harry gritted his teeth.

“Just answer the question, okay?”

Hermione took pity on him. “Yes,” she said. “We paid a little
visit to Salazar last night.”

If she’d expected this to have a soothing effect on Harry, she
was sadly mistaken - this new piece of information was like a
red flag to a bull. “And you took her along?” he demanded in a
whisper, shooting a panicked glance in Ron’s direction. (Ron,
who had co-opted Harry’s new issue of Broomstick Today, was
immersed in a sneak-preview article on the Firebolt X-Treme,
and didn’t look up.) “What were you thinking? She’s a baby!”

Hermione choked on a bite of her salad. “Oh, Harry, honestly,”
she said. “Does the poor girl have to hire a crane, to hoist
you out of Denial Land? For heaven’s sake, look at what’s in
front of your face and quit being such a prat.” She sipped her
pumpkin juice and shot him a sardonic sideways look. “You
don’t want to end up racing wheelchairs with Ron, do you?”

Harry went white, then red, then white again, making his
lightning-bolt scar flash against his forehead. “What -“ he
stuttered. “You - did you - how did you -“

Hermione just grinned at him and popped in another crisp.

She wasn’t saying anything more.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Four

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

Sunday afternoons had been designated by Madam Hooch for
Gryffindor Quidditch practice; thus, Harry and Ron disappeared
straightaway after lunch, broomsticks over their shoulders.
Hermione walked them as far as the castle doors, then halted
on the steps, staring out at a sky gone grey and chilly.
Consideringly, she went over her options for the afternoon -
her homework was finished; the Protection Potion experiment
was safely in Draco’s capable hands - and brightened when she
remembered the Trapping Spell that Slytherin had mentioned the
previous night.

Now there lay the makings of an interesting puzzle. Lit with
fresh resolve, she headed for the library.

An hour later, she slammed the latest in a string of highly
uncooperative volumes down on the table, making Madam Pince
look up from her card catalogue with startled disapproval, and
jumped restlessly to her feet.

Researching in books was all very well - and God knew she had
a knack for it . Even so, spending all this time in fruitless
searching seemed a bit beside the point, when she had a
perfectly reliable, highly voluble source three stories down -
one who would throw his mother to the alligators, should the
act of doing so benefit his fledgling CD collection.

So what was she doing here?

Besides, Hermione told herself, she was in the mood for
conversation. Replacing the much-despised book on the shelf
and throwing Madam Pince an apologetic glance, she shouldered
her bag and headed for her bedroom. Once in the door, she went
straight to the box of CDs in the corner and started pulling
albums at random.

This time round, she was going to take along some spare
incentives. When your verbal sparring partner was a
mercenary-but-lovable thousand-year-old ghost, you never knew
what questions would present themselves for discussion.

She just hoped her father never took it upon himself to
inquire after the whereabouts of her Felicity Lott album - or
any of the other music she was trading away in such a cavalier
fashion. Explaining its absence from her collection in any way
that wasn’t a complete violation of the truth would take more
time and narrative ingenuity than she cared to think about.

She loaded her pockets down with CDs, slipped in a couple of
energy bars from her mother’s latest care package in case the
conversation ran long and she missed dinner, and headed for
the stairs, humming.

That was her first mistake.

**

Severus heard Hermione before he saw her - that little scrap
of melody floating down the staircase from Gryffindor Tower
was instantly recognizable as the one she hummed under her
breath during particularly tricky procedures in his Potions
class. Only the fact that it seemed completely unconscious on
her part - and her laudable ability to stay on pitch - had
saved her the loss of House points.

Still, he could think of several snarky things to say on the
topic. Halting in his tracks, he leaned on the bannister and
waited for his opportunity.

She swung down the stairs into view, a Renaissance smile
playing around her pretty mouth, secrets sparkling in her
eyes, and set off across the Entrance Hall without so much as
looking his way. Severus sucked his teeth consideringly and
scowled - the insult he’d worked up had been particularly
amusing, and he hated to let it go to waste. Beyond that, he
knew that beatific look of hers. On another face, it might
have looked like a girlish daydream about some lover or
another. In Hermione’s case, he was willing to bet that
romance wasn’t even on the menu.

She was up to something.

Jaw set, keeping a judicious distance, he followed her.

Sure enough, she slipped into the Trophy Room - no one ever
went in there for a good reason - and headed straight for the
Morgan le Fay tapestry. Severus’s eyes narrowed as he watched
her duck beneath it - if there was a hidden door there, not
even Argus Filch knew about it - and disappear.

Lips twitching with the unquenchable urge to assign detention,
he went after her.

Twenty minutes of unsuccessful experimentation later, he slid
his wand back into his robes and glared at the stubbornly
blank stone wall. Above him, Morgan le Fay fluttered her woven
eyelashes.

Normally, Severus avoided talking to Morgan. Despite her
Celtic earth-goddess roots, she had adopted the ridiculous
affectation of peppering her speech with breathy interjections
in French. Possibly this was because the tapestry itself had
been woven in Normandy, and boasted the French version of her
name - la Fée - as part of its elaborate apple-tree border; in
any event, Severus found her sex-kitten mannerisms, and the
steely calculation underneath them, unsettling, and stayed out
of the trophy room when he could.

Still, information was information, and a source was a source.

“I know she said something,” he muttered, and cast a
speculative glance at Morgan. “You didn’t happen to catch it,
did you?”

She shrugged the shapely warp and woof of her shoulders and
tested the tension of her bow with a distracted forefinger. “
Bonjour to you too, Severus,” she murmured in the whispery,
thready voice common to all the castle’s tapestries. “As to
the password, I could not say - though whatever la mignonne
seeks must be très amusant; this is the third time I’ve been
disturbed since yesterday sundown.”

“Indeed,” Severus said, his jaw beginning to tick at this
distressing bit of news. Morgan chuckled silkily.

“Quelle intrigue,” she said playfully, her ersatz French
accent thickening. “Quel mystère. And what a good little girl
she is, to have so great a secret - don’t you agree, mon cher
Severus?”

“Mm,” Severus said noncommittally. Morgan studied him with
amused cornflower-blue eyes that matched the sunny sky of the
tapestry’s background.

“One might ask,” she purred, “why you want to follow her so
badly. One might … wonder.”

At that, he bristled - and would have responded with
insinuations in kind, had his eye not been drawn to her belt.
A large ring of keys hung from it, and the fingers of one
creamy-white hand were playing idly with them. The
deliberation of her movements, combined with the smirk on her
pretty face, brought him up short with baleful realization.

“You know,” he said slowly, swamped by a fresh wave of
infuriated frustration. “You know the password, you little
Cornish tease, and you’re not going to tell me what it is.
Damn you.”

Morgan tossed her blonde courtesan’s head and tilted up her
patrician chin; making a reference to her pedestrian Cornwall
connections was the fastest way to piss her off that Severus
knew, and today was no exception. Even that provocation didn’t
break through the superior silence she’d wrapped herself in,
though. Severus felt his teeth grind together.

“I’ll go to Dumbledore,” he warned her, and was answered by a
husky Marlene Dietrich laugh, its contemptuousness matched
only by its self-satisfaction.

“There are secrets in this castle,” she murmured seductively,
“older and more powerful than even the Headmaster … and more
inscrutable even than you, ma bête noire.” She fluttered her
eyelashes at him. “If you wish to possess the knowledge of the
secret, you must speak to la petite lionne herself … for
without the password, I cannot allow you to enter.”

What was that she’d called Hermione? Severus thought
distractedly, struggling to recall his rusty French.

Ah, yes. The little lioness. Fitting - as fitting as her
characterization of him: the Black Beast.

Even so, pretty words didn’t get him past that stone blockade.

He fumed impotently for a moment, spun on his heel, and was
about to stalk away - Hermione, in whatever mood he found her,
was sure to be easier to deal with than this snippy,
pretentious French throw-rug - then slowly wheeled around
again. His brain was buzzing with a sudden idea - simple,
really, but diabolical enough to make Lucius Malfoy snap his
wand in half with envy.

If this didn’t fix her wagon, he’d hand the Potions Master
position over to Neville Longbottom, and retire to Montana for
good. Steely-eyed with determination, he pointed his wand at
the tapestry’s hem.

“Conflagrio,” he said calmly, and watched the fringe begin to
smolder. Morgan stared at him in utter, open-mouthed
disbelief.

“What do you think you’re doing, Severus?” she said quietly.
When she dropped the bombshell act, she sounded eerily like
Minerva McGonagall. He smiled thinly.

“There’s more than one way to smoke out a secret,” he said.
“Are you feeling the heat yet, Morgan?”

“Put it out,” she said sharply. “You’re mad!” Severus tilted
his head to the side.

“Possibly,” he said, watching the little lick of flame spread
from the fringe to the apple-tree border. “But at least I’m
not on fire.”

The unicorns in the tapestry’s background had smelled the
smoke and were rearing and wheeling in maddened confusion,
their slashing hooves coming dangerously close to Morgan’s
golden tresses. Severus watched her grab for their rosebud
halters and miss, so that she stumbled and trod heavily on her
discarded quiver of arrows.

“Say the word,” he prompted cheerfully, and got a poisonous
glare for his trouble.

“Coleridge,” she said, ducking another spatter of flying
unicorn hooves. “The password’s Coleridge, all right? Now, put
it out!”

“Finite Incantatem,” he said, then added almost as an
afterthought, “Reparo.” Morgan glared at him as he ducked
under the now-intact tapestry fringe.

“Beast,” she spat. “You’d better hope I never get my hands on
a wand, Severus Snape, or I’ll be out of this damned thing and
in your nightmares so fast your head will spin.” Severus
stifled a grin.

“Morgan, chérie,” he said mockingly. “You’re already in my
nightmares.” And started down the steeply sloping corridor,
grinning as the stone wall closed behind him with a clang.

Time to find out exactly what his star pupil was up to.

**

Felicity Lott and her Bach cantatas had scored Hermione the
Trapping Spell she wanted. “What was it used for?” she asked
absently, jotting down the last of her notes. Salazar cleared
his throat meaningfully.

“That, I believe,” he said, “is a separate question.”

It was clear from his tone and the sly look on his face that
he was hoping for an argument. Hermione, lips twitching,
obliged him.

“It most certainly is not,” she said, pretending outrage. “It
pertains to the exact same subject; therefore, it’s covered in
my original fee. Which I’ve paid.”

Salazar put on a look of long-suffering patience. “My dear
girl,” he said, “the Trapping Spell itself falls under the
umbrella of Charms research. Whereas -“ his eyebrows twitched
gleefully; it was obvious that he thought he had her here -
“any question pertaining to its traditional use falls into the
History of Magic category. Ergo - two different subjects
altogether.”

He looked at her expectantly. Hermione thought fast.

“But, Sal,” she said in her sweetest voice, “everything we
talk about is so multi-disciplinary in nature anyway, that
those old-fashioned delineations between subjects are really
beside the point, don’t you think?”

Hah, she thought. Weasel out of that one, why don’t you.

Slytherin’s face settled into sulky bloodhound folds, giving
him the look of a bearded, transparent Humphrey Bogart. “I
know you brought more CDs,” he said mournfully. “I can hear
them clattering around in your pockets.” He allowed his face
to droop another couple of millimeters. “I wouldn’t have
thought, Hermione,” he said reproachfully, “that you’d be so
unkind as to deny a lonely old spirit one of his few solitary
pleasures.”

He looked so downtrodden that Hermione laughed out loud.
“Pathos,” she said with mock severity, “does not become you.
And I would have given you this anyway - here, take it; I
doubt you’ve heard anything like it before. It’s my dad’s
favourite jazz album.”

“Jazz?” Salazar surveyed his newly-Perluceod album - Miles
Davis’ ‘Shades of Blue’ - with interest. “What’s jazz?”

“You can find out,” Hermione said firmly, “later. When you
listen to the album. It’s a digital remastering; the liner
notes are pretty extensive.” She poised her quill expectantly
over her notes. “The Trapping Spell,” she said pointedly, and
Slytherin settled reluctantly back into his armchair.

“Well,” he said, “first things first. The reason I thought it
had been employed in making the CDs is because it works in
much the same way.” He held up the ‘Shades of Blue’ jewel
case. “Before you perform a Trapping Spell, you need to
designate and prepare a magnet object - traditionally it’s
something made of iron or stone, but I suppose anything
metallic would do.” He paused. “Then, once the spell is
performed, whatever you’ve Trapped - be it human being,
magical object, or secret knowledge - will reside helpless
within that receptacle, to be released only by the initiator
of the original charm.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “There are a million ways for that to
go bad, I’ll bet,” she commented, and Slytherin laughed.

“That,” he said, “is why knowledge of the spell has been
suppressed over the centuries, and why it’s no longer taught
in magical academies - though certain elements of it were
modified and incorporated into the modern-day Fidelius Charm.”
He jerked his head toward the Discman. “That’s also why I
suspected your little music-machine of being a purveyor of
Dark magic,” he said. “Though -“ here he looked thoughtful -
“I have always held the view that very little magic has
inherently moral properties, in and of itself … either for the
Light or the Dark.”

Hermione stiffened. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of
that.

“The Illuminata …” she began, only to be cut off by
Slytherin’s uplifted hand.

“ … can be used in ways both banal and profound,” he finished.
“As you’ve discovered already for yourself.”

Hermione thought hard. “The Unforgivables,” she said
triumphantly. “Cruciatus. Imperius. The Avada Kedavra.”

“Were developed in times of need,” Slytherin said softly, “as
weapons of war. And later corrupted.” He fixed Hermione with a
penetrating light stare. “I offer you powerful knowledge,” he
said, his tone suddenly deadly serious, “because your
adversary is powerful and unscrupulous. Use it as you will -
but recognize the force you harness, Hermione, and respect it
for what it is.”

“Which is …?”

Slytherin smiled mirthlessly. “A conscienceless, mindless
entity,” he said, “that depends upon you for its safe
direction.”

He patted her warm hand with his chilly one. “And now,” he
said, “I have a date with Mr. Miles Davis. And I believe
there’s a gentleman waiting over there, to take you back up to
dinner.”

Hermione whirled around abruptly and gasped.

Severus Snape was leaning against the bookshelves on the far
side of the room. There was no telling how long he’d been
there, or what he’d heard.

But he didn’t look happy.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Five

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Of course, Hermione thought as Snape swept forward into the
firelight, she could have counted the number of times he’d
actually looked happy on the fingers of one hand … even, come
to think of it, if that hand were amputated at the wrist. And
his current expression, while certainly suggestive of some
below-the-surface angst, was at the same time only a slightly
aggravated version of his customary poker face.

If teaching Potions ever lost its luster for him, she thought
with a grimace, he could always hop a broomstick to Monte
Carlo and hit the baccarat tables. Even without a wand, he’d
be a millionaire inside of a week.

He opened his mouth to speak - something acerbic, no doubt -
and Hermione decided to head him off at the pass. “Good
evening, Professor,” she said hurriedly. “Allow me to
introduce you to a friend of mine - this is, um,” - she gulped
slightly - “Salazar Slytherin.”

She turned to a distinctly amused-looking Salazar. “Sal,” she
said, “this is Professor Severus Snape. He’s the Potions
Master, and also the Head of Slytherin House.”

Apart from one errant eyebrow, which jerked spasmodically
toward his hairline at Hermione’s familiar address of the
beaming ghost in the armchair, Snape’s impassive expression
stayed firmly in place. “Charmed,” he said sourly, and
performed a vaguely perfunctory movement with his head that
could have passed either as a nod of acknowledgement or a
facial tic. Salazar, on the other hand, looked delighted at
this turn of events, and not - as Hermione had feared - put
out in the least, to have his solitude invaded by a
representative of the Hogwarts Establishment.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” he said cheerfully. “What brings you
this way, Professor?”

Snape glowered. “Miss Granger has been missing meals of late,”
he said darkly. “I thought perhaps I’d trail along behind her
this afternoon, in case it became necessary to send up a
flare.”

As if on cue, Hermione’s stomach growled. She glanced
surreptitiously at her watch: dinner had been over for half an
hour now.

Damn.

Salazar chuckled. “Well, I daresay that the house-elves can
remedy that problem,” he said. “Do stop in again, Severus - I
can call you Severus, can’t I? and do call me Salazar, of
course - news of my House is always welcome.”

He winked at Hermione. “And as for you, my dear, the welcome
mat is always out … I needn’t extend the invitation anew.”

With that, he popped the Discman’s headphones over his ears,
loaded in ‘Shades of Blue’ with a level of expertise that
bespoke far more technological experience than he actually
possessed, and leaned back with an anticipatory sigh of
pleasure.

By the time they reached the corridor, he was humming.

**

They walked for a few minutes wrapped in a relatively benign
silence that Hermione was reluctant to trade for the
Inquisition that she felt was sure to follow. If he felt it
necessary to lecture her, she thought with resignation, he had
plenty of opportunity now.

But damned if she’d add fuel to his fire.

When Snape finally spoke, however, his tone was
uncharacteristically mild. “Where’s your comrade-in-arms this
afternoon?” he queried. Hermione glanced at him in surprise.

“Doing research in the library, I assume,” she said, and was
encouraged by his questioningly raised eyebrows to add, “He’s
pretty much taken over the Preservation Potion experiments.”

“Good,” Snape said, and sounded so emphatic that Hermione
jumped. She frowned at him enquiringly and got a sardonic
sidelong look in return. “The best thing you can do for
Draco,” he said, “is allow him some academic ownership in his
own redemption. He’s far too dependent on you as it is.”

Immediately after this bluntly delivered declaration, his
mouth snapped closed, as if he regretted speaking. Hermione
digested his statement in silence, wondering why he’d
volunteered it; it seemed rather unlike him.

If he’d been anyone else, she’d suspect him of inviting
confidences.

Now there was a laughable thought - confiding in Snape. The
very suggestion ought to send her scampering for the exit and
some fresh air, to clear her head, and yet … She studied him
consideringly out of the corner of her eye.

He was the only other person in the world who knew the whole
story from beginning to end. Whatever his reaction might be in
private, he was comfortingly closemouthed; he’d take anything
she said to the grave before he’d divulge it to another party.
And … the dilemma over which she’d been agonizing, for the
last few weeks, wasn’t exactly something that anyone else she
knew would understand.

She hesitated, then took a deep breath.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“He says he loves me,” she blurted out, and immediately
flushed bright red. “And I don’t know …” She dropped her eyes
to her twisting hands, unable to finish the sentence.

Oh, God, this was a bad idea.

“I’m sorry,” she said miserably. “I know you don’t care …”

“Of course he loves you,” Snape said coolly, still looking
straight ahead. Hermione goggled at him.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me,” he said. His face was as impassive as ever,
but there might have been a hint of sympathy in his tone.
“You’re his rescuer, after all - his avenging angel. You treat
him like a person, rather than a commodity, and he’s a child
accustomed to the cold hand of indifference. He’s given his
heart away to the first genuine kind word, that’s all. Don’t
take it personally.”

“Um …” Hermione stammered. Whatever else she’d expected him to
say, that wasn’t it. “I don’t think …”

He waved her impatiently into silence.

“Don’t interrupt.” He looked annoyed with himself for
speaking, but he didn’t stop. “There’s more to it than that,
of course - you’re a Muggle-born, and so falling in love with
you feels rebellious to him, even though he’s really only
trading one leash for another.” His jaw clenched, as if he was
trying to hold back whatever was next in his arsenal of Strong
Opinions. “You might rescue him from Lord Voldemort, and you
might not. But you can’t save him from damage already done.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione demanded, white-faced with what
she desperately wanted to be outrage, but suspected was closer
to fear. Snape eyed her sharply.

“Draco’s never going to be your lover, Hermione,” he said, “as
much as he is your acolyte. Worship and love aren’t the same.
And you’re perceptive enough to know that already, even if he
doesn’t see it yet.”

His lip curled. “Now, if you don’t mind - any more requests
for advice-to-the-lovelorn should be directed to your parents;
in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m hardly the poster child for
successful relationships.”

**

Wow, Hermione thought, shaken. She wasn’t sure about all of
what he’d said, but some of the more shocking sentences had
curled into her gut with enough chilly certainty to make her
light-headed.

Where had that come from?

She shook off the fog of dizziness swirling in her brain, and
gritted her teeth. Her choice was clear; either she could
continue to gape at him like a codfish on ice, or she could
forge ahead with the conversation. The latter option was far
more dangerous than the former, certainly - but he’d raised
more questions than he’d answered with that cool little précis
of her recent love life.

And she’d jump off the top of the Astronomy Tower before she’d
let him shut down the dialogue now.

Besides, she might never get another opportunity.

“My parents,” she said in a tone heavy with irony. “You want
to know what my parents have to say about relationships?”

Snape gave her a narrow look, then shrugged. “I have the
feeling,” he said darkly, “that I’m going to hear it anyway.”
Hermione ignored him.

“My mother,” she said, “on the way to the doctor’s office to
pick up the birth-control prescription she engineered for me
last summer, told me that men are like used automobiles.” Her
lips twisted wryly. “Her advice is to ‘test-drive as many as
possible before you put any money down’. Direct quote.”

Snape’s thin mouth twitched with what might have been humor,
immediately suppressed. “Forward-thinking of her,” he
commented. “And your father?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Says that I shouldn’t settle for
anything but true love.”

This trembly little sentence sank into a deep pool of silence
that reverberated through the corridor like an echo, and was
followed by Snape’s elegant one-shouldered shrug.

“They’re both right, of course,” he said matter-of-factly.
“And as long as we’re on the topic of gratuitous advice,
here’s some from me: there isn’t a single man at this school
who’s worth a second look from you.”

“Even you?” Hermione blurted, then immediately clapped her
hand over her mouth, horrified at her lack of circumspection.

Snape glowered at her.

“Especially me,” he said bitterly. “Not that I’m not
interested, mind you - there’s no point in denying something
that’s so goddamn apparent that even a thick-headed infant
like Potter can figure it out without a word spoken. But
listen when I say this: there’s not one chance in a million
that I’m going to act on that interest.”

His eyes were hard and bleak; his face was turned toward hers,
but he was seeing straight through her to something else
entirely.

“Go to college, Hermione,” he said harshly. “Get a job. Dance
the night away in short skirts and throw dinner parties and
break another dozen hearts. Get your own broken a couple of
times, too, if you can.”

Hermione started to say something, but he held up a hand to
stop her. She’d never seen anyone look so sad, yet so
determined.

“And then,” he said - in a clipped, rusty voice that sounded
so strange coming from him that Hermione never would have
recognized it as his. “After you’ve done all that … if you
decide that you still have unfinished business with me - come
back then, and we’ll talk about it. Until then, stay away from
me.”

His lips twisted in a heartbreakingly familiar pattern of
self-derision. “I’m not yet so unscrupulous,” he said, “that
I’ll steal your youth from you, just because I threw away my
own.”

They’d been at the door to the trophy room for at least ten
minutes. Hermione, unable to stop herself, lifted a trembling
hand to his gaunt, set face, and found her fingers caught in
his.

Slowly, slowly, he lifted them to his lips, never breaking the
electric thread that was her gaze and his linked. For an
instant, she felt his mouth brush her hand, like a searing
brand of something indelible burned into her palm, more
eternal than a thousand declarations.

And then he was gone.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Six

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

“Any luck?” Hermione asked, looking up from the final draft of
her Arithmancy term paper. If proofreading text was tedious,
she thought, setting down her quill and stretching,
proofreading formulas ranked right up there with Professor
Binns’ version of the Goblin Rebellions.

She didn’t know who had said it, but it was true.

Sometimes, presentation was everything.

Draco, shooting her a disconsolate look from behind his
cauldron in the laboratory corner, tossed aside his wand.
“No,” he said, coming over and flopping into the armchair
opposite her. “And that was our last hope, too.”

He pushed sweaty blond hair back from his forehead, which had
gone slightly pink and blotchy from heat. “We’ve now
officially tried every insect with magical properties that the
Potions lab stocks. Plus all of the more likely candidates I
found in Hogsmeade, and a couple of mysterious bugs I found in
the greenhouses, just before first frost.” The hair fell back
across his forehead; he blew it up again impatiently and
frowned in Hermione’s direction. “Nothing works at all,” he
said. “Except the lacewings. But then, you already knew that.”

Hermione grimaced. It was the first Saturday in December - the
month of November had passed in a frighteningly fast blur of
cold nights and Quidditch matches, and her complicated love
life (though still contemplated at length, late on certain
nights when sleep eluded her) had necessarily taken a back
seat to the two gnawing problems presently set before them.

First of all, as Draco had just pointed out so succinctly,
they’d made no progress at all with the Protection Potion, in
spite of Draco’s near-daily experiments and Hermione’s reams
of carefully-catalogued, much-pored-over notes. Clearly - as
they were learning to their chagrin - there was an excellent
reason why no one had developed a better Armoring Fluid during
its scores of years in the public lexicon, and it was this:

Nothing else worked.

The lacewings, flawed as they were, were the only possible
option; in the month since Halloween night, they’d made more
than twenty-five batches of the Protection Potion, and none of
their variations on the original formula, however viable they
looked on paper, offered even token resistance against either
blade or hex. They’d mangled oranges in piles, to the point
that neither of them could even stand the smell any longer,
and nearly run themselves out of Illuminata in the process -
luckily, there was commercially-prepared concentrate of lemon
balm on hand in the Potions stockroom, and Fawkes had molted
right on schedule this month.

Snape’s classroom smelled like lemons again - that was the
good news. The bad news was that the potion wouldn’t be
finished until well into the Christmas holidays. And now
they’d run themselves out of new Armoring options, which meant
that the whole exercise might be moot if they didn’t come up
with another idea soon.

Hermione glared in the cauldron’s direction. “There has to be
something else,” she said, “that no one’s tried before.” Draco
shrugged.

“Can’t think of what it might be,” he said, fanning the notes
out in front of him on the low table. “I mean, we did all the
logical stuff first - we tried every single thing listed in
Snape’s Potions Index that’s supposed to have the same
properties as lacewings.”

He picked up a sheet of parchment, studied it briefly, then
dropped it back on the table with a sigh. “For the last two
weeks, I’ve been grasping at straws,” he said heavily. “I
didn’t tell you this, but I even went down to Filch’s office
and asked him to find me some cockroaches.” He laughed. “You
can imagine what he had to say about that.”

Hermione snorted. “Cockroaches? Why?”

“Well,” Draco said reasonably, “they do seem to be pretty
indestructible, don’t they? I thought it was worth a shot.”

Hermione pushed her Arithmancy paper aside. “So there must be
some element in the lacewings,” she said thoughtfully, “that’s
unique just to them. Some chemical element.” She tapped her
quill emphatically against the arm of her chair. “If we could
figure out what it is,” she mused - “isolate it, maybe even
concentrate it …”

Draco looked blank. “Muggle-speak,” he said apologetically.
“All Greek to me. Haven’t the foggiest, sorry.”

Hermione head came abruptly up from the stack of notes.
“Muggle-speak,” she repeated slowly, then suddenly threw her
quill across the room, let out a jubilant whoop, and jumped to
her feet. “Omigod, that’s it. That’s it!”

“That’s what?”

She grabbed him by the hands and hoisted him out of his chair.
“Come on,” she said, heading for the door as if the castle
were on fire. “We’re going to the owlery.”

“What for?”

She was already shrugging into her cloak. “Note home,” she
said. “I’ve just decided that I want a chemistry set for
Christmas.”

**

The note was duly sent, received, and replied-to; Hermione’s
parents, who Once Upon A Time, in the Days Before Student Loan
And Mortgage Payments, had been science nerds themselves, were
more than happy to oblige any bent their
brilliant-but-capricious daughter might wish to explore in the
direction of logic. Experiments would re-commence on Christmas
morning, and this time, Hermione thought, they just might have
something.

All those chemi-wizards who had gone before them … they might
have exhausted every possibility known to the magical world,
in their attempted revamps of the Armoring Fluid. But she
sincerely doubted that they’d gone in for Muggle techniques.

Time would tell, wouldn’t it?

Unfortunately, time was the one thing they might not have -
and even if their new round of experiments worked, the results
might be too late.

Because the Slytherins were most definitely up to something.

**

It had become apparent weeks ago that a plot was afoot - one
by one, morning after morning, a series of ominously
distinctive letters began to arrive in the Great Hall and find
their way to the Slytherin table. Delivered by an enormous
black raven whose wingspan, in flight, probably exceeded the
measured length of an average first-year’s outstretched arms,
the scrolls were small and dark, each sealed with a smudge of
green wax and written in shimmering, oily-looking ink (Draco
had managed a brief but fairly close look at Crabbe’s).

Hermione, who from the very beginning had been keeping a list
of recipients in the back of her Charms notebook, found the
very presence of the scrolls chilling - the only thing more
disturbing was the Slytherins’ carefully-blank lack of
reaction to their contents. The Dark Mark wasn’t anywhere on
them, of course - Voldemort was cocky, but he wasn’t stupid.
Still, his influence behind the messages was apparent beyond
question; one look at Albus Dumbledore’s face, the first
morning of the raven’s appearance, had told her everything she
needed to know.

Almost certainly, they were Death-Eater initiation notices.

The raven came eight times in total, bearing one scroll with
each visit. Draco, who was most familiar with Slytherin
House’s inhabitants, surveyed Hermione’s completed list
grimly.

“Four sixth-years, four seventh-years,” he said, tapping the
column of neat script with a pensive forefinger. “That’s good
news, believe it or not: he must not have been set up for new
members yet last year. I don’t remember seeing that raven ever
before, do you? And those four -“ here, his finger paused at
Avery’s name - “are the worst of the lot, for their year.
Looks to me like he’s only targeting the sure things.”

Hermione read over the familiar names of her Potions
classmates, feeling a cold fist of dread clench in her gut.

Bulstrode. Parkinson. Crabbe. Goyle.

And then, beyond the obvious, a whole new set of potential
issues popped into her brain, leaving her reeling with their
terrible possibilities. She hadn’t forgotten Sal’s graphic
warning of Halloween night, after all - once it was set in
place, their enemy didn’t need anything by way of equipment to
implement the Fils du Couteau curse, except for an ordinary
table knife and an opportunity.

This combination of knowledge and events had her skipping
lunch for an emergency visit to the sub-dungeons.

“Sal,” she said urgently, dropping her book bag by the empty
armchair and coming over to perch on the arm of his, “can
anyone do it? Anyone who’s … well, who’s loyal to - to Him?”

Slytherin put his book aside and lowered his headphones. One
look at her strained, white face, and any gentle raillery he
might have prepared to deliver on the subject of compensation
died on his lips.

”I’m afraid so,” he said quietly, and laid one ghostly hand
over hers to still its shaking. Though chilly, the contact was
a comfort - Hermione stared at him with tears trembling on her
lashes.

“Eight of them, Sal,” she said dully. “Eight brand-new
Death-Eaters, roaming the halls as of January first, and any
one of them might have a knife. How the hell can we watch them
all at once?”

They both stared into the fire. After a moment, Slytherin
cleared his throat and gave her a long level look.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that everyone involved would be
better off, if those eight misguided children never made their
appointment.”

“Well, of course,” Hermione said. “Them most of all, the
twits. But that’s beside the point - they’ve obviously already
made their decisions … or had them made for them,” she
amended.

Right now, Muggle parentage was a big fat check in the Plus
column, in Hermione’s book. After all, the worst her parents
could have done to her, in terms of familial career
expectation, was send her to medical school; the fact that
four of her fellow sixth-years had been brought up to become
killers, with the full knowledge and blessing of their
families, was a thought she still had trouble grasping.

Sal was looking thoughtful, but she’d known him long enough
now to tell when he had something up his transparent sleeve.
“What?” she demanded, and he gave his attention to the
painstaking process of arranging a ghostly lap robe over his
knees.

“Beside the point,” he echoed, staring at his lap. “But is it,
really?”

Hermione threw up her hands in impatience. “Sal, I’ve got
Transfiguration in a quarter of an hour,” she said sharply. “I
don’t have time for your riddles. Of course it’s beside the
point. It’s not as if we can stop it; we’d have to keep all
eight of them from going home for the holidays, and that’s
impossible.”

“Impossible,” he said, his eyes beginning to twinkle. “Is it?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Hermione sprang from her perch on the
chair’s arm to stalk back toward the bookshelves, sure he’d
lost his mind and was on the verge of driving her out of hers.
“What are we going to do? Lock them in their rooms?”

“Or somewhere else, perhaps,” Slytherin suggested quietly.

Hermione stared at him open-mouthed, then followed his pointed
gaze to the “Shades of Blue” jewel case on his lamp table.

Oh, she thought, her eyes widening. She sat down again,
heavily.

The Trapping Spell. Well, that did it.

She was going to have to come up with an excuse on her way
back upstairs - in the Greater Order of Things, the
Transfiguration lecture she was about to miss didn’t even make
the same page as this conversation.

“Is it dangerous?” she asked, after a long moment of
consideration.

“Yes.”

“Illegal?”

“Yes.”

Oh, dear God.

Hermione gulped. “Will it … will it hurt them?”

Salazar waved a dismissive hand. “Keep ‘em there more than a
couple of months, and they’ll start to get dizzy and lose
short-term memory,” he said off-handedly. “But for the winter
holidays? Fine.”

Well, that was something, at least. Hermione stared at the
fire, trembling on the brink of decision, then deliberately
withdrew a blank roll of parchment from her book bag and
turned to the ghost in the next chair.

Sometimes, as Harry and Ron delighted in reminding her, rules
were made to be broken.

“Sal,” she said, in a small voice that shook only slightly.
“I’m going to need to know everything you can tell me.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Seven

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

Hermione didn’t know if this was the best idea she’d ever had,
but she was committed to it now. Not necessarily because she
liked it, but because she didn’t see a better option.

Her partners in crime and knowledge - that is to say, Ginny,
Harry, and Draco - were less concerned than she with vague
moral dilemmas of destiny and free will, and were following
her fast descent into Murky Waters with thinly-veiled
fascination. “I have to hand it to you, Hermione,” Harry
remarked at one point. “When you decide to do something, you
really do it.” He’d looked amused and impressed in equal
parts. “And let’s face it - if you’re going to dabble in Dark
magic, you couldn’t have found a better teacher.”

He had a point there.

The last two weeks before the holidays were spent marking time
in class, handing in homework that had been finished for
weeks, and otherwise learning more about Medieval entrapment
charms than Hermione had ever dreamed there was to know. The
first step had been to find a suitable receptacle for the
spell; if the receptacle was weak, Salazar warned her, it
would burst under the force of the charm.

And, as she well knew, she only had one shot at getting it to
work.

Traditional Trapping receptacles, according to Slytherin,
ranged from marble statues to river rocks to lead-lined
snuffboxes … even, on one occasion, he said, a pair of emerald
earbobs. At this last, Hermione shuddered.

“Earrings?” she echoed. “How … creepy. Who would want to wear
another person as jewelry?”

Salazar laughed. “Well, this was a very particular case,” he
said. “The owner of the earrings found her husband in
flagrante with another woman. So she bided her time, charmed
the earrings, and Trapped the woman in one and her husband in
the other. Then she claimed he’d been smothered by a
Lethifold, and lived out her days as a rich widow.” He waggled
his eyebrows comically. “That’s not even the best part, though
- afterwards, she only wore those earrings when she met her
lover. I believe she got a bit of a charge out of it,
actually.”

He looked, Hermione thought snidely, as if he did, too. She
wondered idly how he knew the story.

One didn’t delve too closely into some things.

“Practically speaking, however, there’s another good reason to
use a piece of jewelry, providing it’s a quality piece,” he
continued. “You can keep it with you, and it’s inconspicuous.
People don’t think anything of it. Quite safe, actually, as
possible receptacles go.” He gave the unassuming bits of gold
at her ears an assessing look. “You don’t happen to have
anything suitable, do you?”

As it happened, Hermione did.

**

Her mother wore very little jewelry. For evening affairs or
dinner parties, she had a pair of modest diamond studs and an
elegant matching choker that Hermione’s father had given her
for their fifteen-year wedding anniversary, but apart from
that she stuck to plain gold posts in her ears and a
wristwatch. While she was working, she didn’t even wear her
wedding rings.

Needless to say, Hermione hadn’t gotten the jewelry bug from
her. Her grandmother Granger, however, was another story
altogether.

Gram Granger was tall and willowy, a retired operatic
mezzo-soprano who even at seventy-five possessed enough grace,
poise and … well, glamour, for any two women half her age. She
had what she herself referred to slyly as a “chequered past” -
many were the summer afternoons Hermione had spent paging
through her scrapbooks of programs and kohl-eyed photographs
and newspaper clippings, with the occasional warm note from
Leonard Bernstein or Rudolf Bing - or a melody-covered napkin
from some Paris bistro, crowned with a scribbled signature:
Samuel Barber, Ned Rorem, Carlisle Floyd.

Gram had been married twice - the first time in a
highly-publicized, short-lived liaison with a Tortured
American Novelist, the second time - “for real,” she’d told
Hermione with a wink - to Hermione’s grandfather, an Old Money
patron-of-the-arts who by all accounts had lived to adore his
whimsical, statuesque, considerably-younger-than-he
raven-haired Sex Goddess of a wife. Hermione remembered him
mostly as small, shiny-headed, and benevolent, dispensing
cookies on the sly before teatime, and ten-pound notes on
birthdays. He’d died when she was seven, in his armchair,
listening to the BBC broadcast of Glyndebourne’s opening gala
- a deeply happy man.

Gram still missed him. Hermione could tell.

But of all the delights of Gram’s house, most entrancing to
the young Hermione had been the Proposal Scrapbook, which was
packed from front to back with dried rose-petals,
carefully-pressed sprays of orchids, and written protestations
of love from all over the globe. Companion to the Proposal
Scrapbook was a drawerful of glittering trinkets - presents
from Gram’s admirers - that looked to ten-year-old eyes like
the Crown Jewels and were valuable enough to be kept in a safe
in the library. (On more than one occasion, Hermione had
overheard quietly heated conversations between Gram and her
father, who maintained that the jewelry collection ought to be
kept in their bank vault.)

She was rather glad Gram never gave in to him. The jewelry
went with the Proposal Scrapbook, after all - every piece was
a gift, every gift had a story, every story was long and
involved and romantic and fascinating enough to require that
they flop belly-first in the middle of Gram’s big four-poster,
open the scrapbook in front of them, and spill the jewels in a
fascinating, light-bending heap onto the satin comforter.

Hermione still knew every story by heart.

**

It had been Gram who had talked Hermione’s parents into
letting her attend Hogwarts - Hermione, letter clutched
possessively in her sweaty hand, had been listening at the
door.

“I know it seems a bit odd to you, Peter,” she’d said in that
still-creamy contralto. “But then, your choice of career
seemed a bit odd to me, too, back in the day.”

“Mother, I’m a dentist. What’s odd about that?”

“My baby,” Gram sighed, fluttering one white butterfly of a
hand over the arm of her chair so that Hermione caught the
flash of her canary-yellow diamond solitaire. “Such a lovely
voice … such talent … and with my connections ….” She trailed
off dramatically. “Ah, well.”

“Mother, we’ve been over this.” Mr. Granger sounded like a man
who’d been having the same argument and losing it for years.
“I’m a medical professional. But this .. this Hogwarts …”

“A medical professional, yes,” Gram agreed sweetly. “And who,
pray tell, put you through medical school?”

A disgruntled sigh. “You did, Mother, as you very well know.
But -“

“And who, my dearest, supported you in everything, even when
you went against my wishes?”

(Oh, she’s good, thought the eleven-year-old Hermione.)
Another sigh from her beleaguered, clearly-outclassed father.

“You did, Mother.”

“Of course I did,” Gram said (gently - she was too
kind-hearted a person to crow, once she’d made her point).
“Because your wishes and needs were no longer my own … and to
deny you any dream would have been a disservice.” She took
another contemplative sip of her tea. “Hermione’s not just an
extension of you anymore, Peter,” she said. “Oh, she’s
brilliant, all right - and to look at the two of you together,
it’s like seeing the past and the future in one room. She’s
got that cool analytical streak, and that eagerness to please,
just like you did at her age. But …”

“Yes?” Peter Granger sounded, if not convinced, at least
resigned.

Hermione held her breath.

“If she has this talent,” Gram said slowly, “and I truly think
she does, it would be a grave mistake to deny her the
development of it.”

And at that, she’d laughed, a smoky sexy chuckle that belonged
to a much younger woman.

“Besides,” she said. “Being a witch doesn’t mean you can’t do
other things, too. It just means you’re more successful at
them.”

**

Just before the fourth-year Yule Ball, Hermione had gone up to
her room after dinner to find a package on her bed. Inside the
plain brown wrapper was a velvet jewelry case and a note from
Gram: Your mother said you were wearing blue. Knock him dead,
sweetheart.

And in the case had been the sapphire pendant, the one from
the Russian KGB official that he’d claimed came from one of
the Tsarina’s private collections, before the Revolution. Gram
had been suspicious of the story, but the jeweler’s appraisal
on the gem, at least, didn’t lie: fourteen carats and clear as
a bell. Dangling from its fine gold chain like a giant lapis
teardrop, it was at nearly as big as the first joint of
Hermione’s thumb.

Fit for a princess to wear, to dance with a champion. Since
then, it had been carefully tucked away in the secret
compartment of her ballet-dancer jewelry box, hidden with an
Anti-Theft Charm so that only Hermione’s hands could find it.
Now, she scooped it out of its hiding place and took it down
to Salazar for inspection.

“Will this do?” she asked, and held it out in the lamplight.
Salazar looked at it closely, his ghostly eyebrows furrowed
over his eyes.

“Yes, and quite nicely,” he said. His lips curved in amused
surprise. “Who were you in a past life, anyway? Cleopatra?”

Hermione blushed.

**

The trick to performing a successful Trapping Charm, Salazar
claimed, was visualization.

“Let’s start small,” he said, nodding his head toward the copy
of Great Expectations that lay on the table. “Now - the
initial holding charm’s been done on the receptacle, and that
means forever, all right? As long as you possess that pendant,
it can be used indefinitely for Trapping and Releasing. Just
be aware that the spell isn’t specific; you can add as many
objects to the receptacle, one at a time, for as long as you
like, but once you utter the Release, the receptacle will be
cleared. Got it?”

Hermione nodded.

“Good. Now - take this page, for instance.” Salazar waved his
wand, and Great Expectations flipped itself open. “Look at
that page, Hermione,” he said; “really study it, hard - then
close your eyes so that it’s imprinted on your brain. Can you
see it?”

“Yes.”

“Now,” he said. “Imagine that the center of the page is a
whirlpool, a vortex - in your case, it’d be helpful to think
of it as the colour blue - into which the page itself is
crumpling. Perform and reverse that mental process a few
times, until it’s easy for you.”

Hermione’s eyes were squeezed so tightly shut that she could
feel veins throbbing in her temples. “Okay,” she said. “I
think I’ve got it.”

“Excellent,” Salazar said. “Now. Open your eyes again, point
your wand at the page, keep that blue vortex in your head, and
say “Inlaqueo!”

“Inlaqueo?” Hermione tried it out on her tongue. “Inlaqueo.
OK. Here goes.”

She took a deep breath, turned her gaze on the book, and
raised her wand.

”Inlaqueo!”

The sapphire pendant around her neck pulsed with a single
throb of heat. Hermione jumped. “Did it work?”

“Look for yourself,” Salazar said, sounding smug. She peered
at the book.

The pages were blank. Hermione looked back up at Slytherin. He
was grinning.

“Kid,” he said, “you’re a natural. Now - let’s move on.”

**

The words themselves were easy - Inlaqueo to Trap, Libero to
Release. Even so, the charm took more mental energy than any
other incantation Hermione had ever learned. Still, Sal was a
good teacher and she a motivated student. By the end of the
week, she’d successfully Trapped not only pages of a book, but
the book itself, Salazar’s ottoman, a glass of pumpkin juice
from across the (deserted) Gryffindor common room, and … in a
moment of malicious glee, egged on by Draco … Mrs. Norris.

The cat had trailed them into the Trophy Room and refused to
leave, forcing them to make awkward conversation with Morgan
and pretend to admire the awards. Clearly, she’d picked up on
the increased traffic to and from that particular tapestry -
from the evil look in her slitty yellow eyes, it was only a
matter of time before they had Filch on their case.

Still, the holidays were due to begin in just under a week,
and Hermione couldn’t afford to miss a training session - Mrs.
Norris or no, Filch or no. Unconsciously, her fingers went to
the small bulge that the pendant made beneath her robes … a
movement that was not lost on Draco.

Their eyes met.

“Do it,” he said, and grinned at her. “I dare you.”

Thirty seconds later, they were past Morgan and running down
the secret corridor. Hermione’s pendant was throbbing with
heat - if this was the emotion one angry cat could muster, she
couldn’t imagine wearing her husband and his mistress on her
ears. Still, the sheer audacity of the act had the tips of her
fingers tingling.

Was this what being Seduced By The Dark felt like - this
heady, giddy flush of power?

She couldn’t bring herself, for once, to be too worried.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Eight

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

Slytherin, as it turned out, was completely unfazed by the
Trapping of Mrs. Norris.

“I hold a special grudge against that cat,” he said. “Always
nosing around the library when I’m trying to pick up my new
book shipments … as if I haven’t better things to do than
avoid her and that crazed old ghoul whose company she keeps.”
He smirked. “I’ve Stunned her so many times that her brains
are probably pickled.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Draco said, grinning.

Hermione frowned and turned away, fussing with the chain of
the pendant to conceal her suddenly outraged sense of fair
play. Sure, Mrs. Norris was annoying … but Stunning seemed a
bit extreme, didn’t it?

Who are you to talk? her conscience sniffed disapprovingly.
Bad enough you’re prepared to use Entrapment on your
classmates; was it really necessary to do it to Filch’s cat,
too?

Hermione shoved that bit of self-analysis to the back of her
brain, and lifted out the pendant so that it lay on top of her
robes. “I know I was supposed to practice on Draco tonight,”
she said, worrying the jewel with the pad of her thumb. “But
the first time I Release him, Mrs. Norris will get free, too.
How do we get around that?”

Salazar shrugged. “We can practice on her instead,” he said;
“it doesn’t matter. You’ll have to do an Obliviate afterwards,
once you get her up to the main level … but you would have had
to do that anyway.”

You’ll have to do an Obliviate.

Hermione’s whole body went stiff.

She knew the Ministry of Magic used Memory Charms all the time
- they seemed to be the first line of defense against curious
Muggles - but that didn’t mean she had to like them. Obliviate
wasn’t Dark magic, exactly, she supposed … dirty gray, maybe.
Still, it seemed like a charm of convenience rather than one
of necessity, cast to cover up mistakes and - more
unscrupulously yet - to rewrite the past.

She’d burned all six of Gilderoy Lockhart’s books, plus the
get-well card he’d sent her - they’d been ashes even before
her bags were unpacked from second-year - but his betrayal
would live forever in her memory, in lurid, grinning
Technicolor. If she looked for a thousand years, she’d never
find a better example of the truism Handsome Is As Handsome
Does.

When you were thirteen, that was a hard lesson to learn.

Pretty and Good, she’d told herself sternly as that wide,
white smile flaked into ash, are two different things. And
don’t you forget it.

She’d been deeply suspicious of Obliviate ever since; she
associated it with things slipshod and mercenary and
not-to-be-trusted. And as for Sal, her wickedly charming
mentor in the Dark Arts, he might be an endlessly fascinating
fount of knowledge, and more than halfway to being a good
friend - but that didn’t mean she was going to let him bully
her into doing something that felt this wrong.

She decided to approach the subject by a side route.

“Sal,” she said, “can Mrs. Norris hear us talking right now?
Does she know what’s happening to her?”

Slytherin, surprised, shook his head. “No,” he said. “You’re
more aware of her right now than she is of you - the object of
a Trapping Spell is confined not only in the physical space of
the receptacle, but also in the moment directly before the
spell was cast. The cat doesn’t know she’s been Trapped; she’s
still stuck in a time loop up in the trophy room.” He glanced
knowingly at the pendant. “Buzzing a bit, is it?”

“It feels …” Hermione searched for words. “Angry. Panicked.
Afraid.”

“Mm.” Slytherin nodded. “Don’t let it throw you, Hermione -
the emotions contained in the receptacle reflect how she was
feeling at that moment, not how she’s feeling now.” He paused,
frowning. “Well, I suppose technically she is feeling it now,”
he clarified. “But that’s a perception thing, really.”

If he was trying to reassure her, he’d fallen well short of
the mark. Hermione chose her words carefully.

“If Mrs. Norris isn’t operating in real-time, now that she’s
Trapped,” she said, “why do we need Obliviate?” She bit her
lip. “I don’t like that spell,” she explained sulkily. “It’s
so .. so underhanded. So slimy. So …”

“So Slytherin?” Draco suggested idly, glancing up from the
copy of Portnoy’s Complaint that he had plucked off Sal’s
bookshelf and was skimming for the pornographic bits. Hermione
glared at him.

“I wasn’t implying that,” she said.

Slytherin laughed.

“Well, I did have quite a reputation, back in the day,” he
admitted. “But consider this, Hermione - often what people
think of as ‘underhanded’ behaviour is really just
characteristic of a good logician.” He had a devil’s-advocate
gleam in his eye, and a cagey little smile playing around the
corners of his mouth. “If you think farther ahead than your
opponent, does that make you underhanded and - what was your
term again? Oh, yes - slimy? Or are you just better-prepared?”

Hermione looked skeptical. “If we’d thought ahead or been
well-prepared,” she said acerbically, “we would have been
under the Invisibility Cloak, and I would never have been
tempted to Trap Mrs. Norris in the first place.” She eyed him
scathingly. “Using Obliviate under this circumstance isn’t
evidence of logic, Sal, no matter how you spin the semantics.
It’s a cover-up for a bad decision and my own cocky,
ill-considered behaviour.” She glared at him. “And I don’t
like it.”

Chin jutting, eyes narrow, she stared him down.

Salazar, in return, studied her intently for a moment, then
unexpectedly threw back his head and laughed until the tears
ran.

“Sorry,” he gasped, still hiccoughing. “You don’t know how
like Godric you were, just now. Gryffindors.” He shook his
head admiringly. “And you, girlie,” he said. “You’ll play my
slippery little games up to a point, and then you put your
foot down, don’t you? Good for you.”

He linked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his
chair. “As far as the cat’s concerned,” he said affably, “it’s
a small matter - you can just take her up and turn her loose,
though I’d be ready to disappear at a moment’s notice; that
old buzzard of a caretaker is just itching to pin all those
Stunnings on a student.” His brow wrinkled. “As for the other
Trappings you’ve got planned, though, we may have a problem.
Using a Memory Charm to follow up Entrapment is a fairly
standard procedure … if you don’t modify their memories to
prohibit the spell being traced back to you, what’s the point
of doing it? You’re just causing more trouble for yourself.”

“What about the Invisibility Cloak?” Draco asked, not taking
his eyes off the page (apparently Portnoy didn’t have too much
to complain about, at the moment). “If she’s invisible, all
they’ll remember is a voice. And I know that lot - pile all
eight brains on top of one another and they still don’t add up
to a rocket scientist. There’s no way they’d be able to
identify her from hearing just one word.”

Hermione looked hopefully at Salazar, who was studying the
fine transparent hairs on his knuckles. “I think that’s a good
idea,” she ventured. “After all, Memory Charms can be reversed
… sure, it’s dangerous, but I think Voldemort would do it if
it served his interests. He doesn’t care whose brain he
fries.” She looked troubled for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be
safer in the long run - for them, too - if there was really
nothing in their memories to be recovered?”

Salazar scowled half-heartedly.

“You modern kids and your fancy toys,” he grumbled. “Time was,
Invisibility Cloaks were hard to come by even for a wizard
with a legitimate war to wage. They’re meant for espionage.
Ambush. They didn’t use to be just lying around in fancy shops
so you overprivileged brats could run around out of bed and
snog under them.”

“Oh, they’re still hard to come by,” Draco said absently, his
bright head still bent over the book. “Lucius would never have
sprung for mine if I hadn’t told him Potter already had one.”

Hermione snickered. “And we don’t use the Cloak for snogging
anymore, Sal,” she said. “The Headmaster’s given us a
perfectly good secret room for that purpose.
Gryffindor-Slytherin fraternizing is on the Endangered list -
he must figure we’re a protected species.” The amusement died
on her face. “Seriously, though, if what we’re planning isn’t
part of a ‘legitimate war’, I don’t know what is. I personally
don’t think the word ‘ambush’ is too far off the mark.”

Salazar shrugged amiably. “You may have a point there,” he
said. “Well, then, by all means, take the cat up and turn her
loose. Just be careful; if that grim little beast of a
caretaker catches you you’ll be in detention until you
graduate. Then get out the Invisibility Cloak and practice
your Traps and Releases on Draco. If anything goes wrong, you
know where to find me.”

His amused glance traveled over to the other armchair and
rested on Draco. “Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco jumped and looked up guiltily, a faint stain of pink
marring his cheekbones. “Um. Yes?”

“You can borrow the book,” Sal said. “Just don’t bring it back
with the pages stuck together.”

Draco went red to the roots of his hair.

**

In all their nocturnal comings and goings through the Trophy
Room, they hadn’t caught sight of Snape once. Despite this,
Hermione felt certain that he’d been back to see Sal: certain
books went periodically missing from the shelves, the second
armchair was tilted at a different angle from visit to visit,
and she’d once caught sight of a half-empty teacup on the
sideboard.

Her suspicions were confirmed at dinner, the last night before
the holidays began. “Post owl, Hermione,” Ron said, and
squinted suspiciously at the small parchment envelope. “More
poetry again?”

Hermione slit the envelope open with her table knife and
scanned the card inside. “No,” she said slowly. “Just a note
from Snape. He wants to talk about the final grade for my
extra-credit project.”

She, Harry and Ginny exchanged hooded glances. A quick look in
the direction of the Slytherin table confirmed that Draco had
noted the exchange. She gave him a quick, surreptitious nod.

Inside her chest, which felt suddenly, ridiculously tight, an
invisible timer started to tick.

It was almost showtime.

**

“So what does it say?” Ginny asked. They were gathered around
the low table in Elysium: Hermione and Harry in the armchairs,
Ginny stretched out on the chaise, Draco pacing a measured
path around the hearth. “Is it really from Snape?”

Hermione nodded. “Looks like Sal filled him in on our plans,”
she said, and flipped the card onto the table. Harry picked it
up.

“Will wonders never cease,” he said wonderingly. “Snape’s
providing us with intelligence - I’ll never know how you
managed that, Hermione. The eight of them have been directed
to stay behind when the train leaves tomorrow morning and walk
down to the front gates, where they’ll be … collected. Wonder
who he overheard that from?”

Draco shrugged. “Someone was bound to let it slip,” he said.
“Big news. They’re the Chosen Ones.”

They looked grimly at each other.

“I wish we were staying,” Ginny said suddenly. “I feel like
I’m deserting you.” Hermione waved this away.

“You’ve been plenty of help,” she said; “if you hadn’t
volunteered yourselves as experiment material, I’d be even
more nervous than I am. As it is, I’m pretty confident I can
take them all at once.”

“Eight of them,” Harry pointed out. “Only four of us.”

“Well, yes,” Hermione agreed. “But one of you is a
thousand-year-old sorcerer-ghost, and one of you’s the Boy Who
Lived. I think I’ll be fine.” She frowned consideringly.
“Besides, it’s for the best,” she said. “The Death Eaters are
going to be angry enough as it is when their initiates don’t
show; best not to have any Potters or Weasleys still in the
castle, to pin the blame on. That would be way too
convenient.” She rolled her eyes. “I have an ironclad excuse -
I’ll be studying; no one’s going to find that unusual.”

“And me?” Draco asked. Hermione jerked her head toward the
card in Harry’s hand.

“This is what I’m thinking,” she said. “Snape’s going to
collar the Slytherins as they leave the dungeons - as they’re
walking out the front doors, you should meet them on the steps
and pretend to need to speak to him. They’re going to want to
get away from him anyway; the minute you pull him into a
conversation, they’ll start down to the gate without him. That
way, you’ve both got an alibi.”

“Where are you going to be?” he asked. Hermione swallowed
hard.

“Right behind them,” she said. “Halfway between the front
gates and the castle, they have to pass the lake - there’s a
spot there that’s not visible from either place. I’ll do it
then.” She shrugged nervously. “If all goes well, they’ll seem
to have vanished midpoint, with no one implicated or even
aware of their disappearance until they’re missed by whoever
it is they’re meeting.”

“What if it doesn’t go well?” Harry asked. Hermione grimaced.

“Then it’s a good thing I’ll be invisible, isn’t it?”

**

Her alarm went off at five a.m., but she was already awake.
Outside her window, nothing but darkness and howling wind;
they hadn’t had snow yet this winter, but temperatures had
plummeted steadily for a week now, and the frost on her
windowsill was so thick that it could have passed for a
dusting of snow.

The train left at six. The house-elves served an early
breakfast in the Great Hall for the students who were
travelling, but Hermione didn’t intend to show. Better that
she be assumed to be still sleeping.

So she’d said her goodbyes to Harry and Ginny last night in
Elysium, and then walked back with them to Gryffindor Tower.
Ron had been in the common room when they came in, playing one
side of his chessboard moodily against the other. Seeing him
sitting there, broad-shouldered and flame-haired and utterly
oblivious to the moral havoc being wreaked around him,
Hermione had felt affection clutch at her throat.

“Have a happy holiday, Ron,” she said, coming over to perch on
the arm of his chair and dropping a friendly kiss on his
cheek. He blushed, but didn’t pull away.

“You too,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to come with us,
after all? Mum would love to have you.”

“I’d love to be there,” Hermione said, and it was the truth -
right then, she couldn’t have thought of a more uncomplicated,
inviting place than the Burrow. “But I have things to do.
You’ll just have to wait and get your presents by owl this
year.”

“Bugger the presents,” Ron said unexpectedly. “Don’t work too
hard, Hermione.” His gaze was almost troubled as it slid over
her, as if he knew more than he was letting on. And then he
hugged her, and to her intense embarrassment Hermione felt the
prick of tears under her lashes.

“Sentimental,” she said with shaky-voiced self-mockery. “Ron,
let me go before I sniffle all over you. I’ll owl you, all
right?”

**

And now it was morning, and in another twenty minutes the
school would be reduced to a ghost of itself, all the
chattering bustling noisy life of it siphoned away by the
clattering carriages. Hermione pulled on a pair of dungarees
and a sweatshirt and dug through her underwear drawer for a
pair of thermal socks.

Five-thirty. She could hear the first birdlike cries of
student farewells, far below her window - or was that just the
wind? Somewhere in the morass of holiday expectations and
cheery good wishes stood eight would-be Death Eaters, Hermione
mused, and wondered: did they feel the icy fingers of dread
clutching at their guts?

Or was that just her?

She looped the pendant over her head, pulled closed the
Invisibility Cloak, and pocketed her wand. Ready or not, she
thought - here I come … and went out to meet Draco.

She passed him on the steps of the Great Hall, pink-cheeked
and windblown and looking at once excited and a bit dejected,
rather as if he’d just kissed someone goodbye. Knowing him, he
probably had - Harry and Ron would be fuming all the way to
King’s Cross. Hermione fought back a snicker.

“Hi,” she hissed in his ear. “They’re right behind me, coming
up the stairs. Good luck.”

And then the front door opened, and there they were: eight
white-faced, glitter-eyed children off to lose what little
remained of their innocence, forever. Behind them was Snape,
his face set in uncharacteristically unpleasant lines.

“Professor!” Draco said, feigning surprised delight. Not
exactly in character, Hermione supposed, but still, worthy of
the Academy’s consideration; Snape, at least, looked genuinely
startled. “I’ve been looking all over for you - do you have a
moment? It’s about that course of summer study I was telling
you about; I got the application in yesterday’s post, and I
was wondering …”

He shouldered his way through the Slytherins, who shot him
venomous stares of dislike, and dragged Snape a few feet back
into the Hall. Hermione saw Pansy and Avery exchange glances.

“Now,” Avery hissed, and the Slytherins hurried down the steps
in a quick-moving rush of mingled anxiety and relief. Hermione
shadowed them, her heart fluttering in her throat.

She’d expected to overhear some of the juicy details
concerning the upcoming ceremony, but they were silent and
oddly subdued. Hermione supposed that as coming-of-age rituals
went, this one wouldn’t be especially warm and fuzzy, and
noted that Millicent Bulstrode, in particular, looked like she
was about to be ill. Even Pansy and Avery, for all their
bluster down by the Potions classroom, didn’t look exactly
eager to get where they were going.

It was strange how diminished the eight of them seemed, in
only their own company. Less malicious, certainly. Less like
their parents - and more like what they really were: a
disconsolate huddle of rookie kamikazes. Oddly enough, this
made Hermione feel better about her upcoming interference in
their holiday plans. The thought that they might be getting
cold feet almost managed to qualify the Trapping Spell as a
‘rescue’, rather than a subversion of fate and a violation of
free will.

Almost.

Sentimental, she chided herself again. That’s going to get you
into trouble someday. Even so, it was the image of Millicent’s
scared white face, as they rounded a second corner and lost
sight of the castle altogether, that gave her the courage to
pull out her wand.

To Trap multiple objects or people required complete sustained
focus and precision wand-work. No room for error, in other
words - she’d only get one shot. And though it would have been
simpler, and certainly safer, to hex them from behind,
Hermione just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Now or never, she thought, and cleared her throat as loudly as
she could.

The sound cut through the still semi-darkness like a gunshot.
The Slytherins jumped like rabbits and whirled guiltily in the
direction of the castle, fumbling for their wands.

“Inlacqueo!” Hermione whispered, the word harsh and
unrecognizable to her own ears. She had just enough time to
register the eight frightened faces in front of her before
they - and their owners - blinked abruptly out of existence.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Forty-Nine

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

It had worked.

Hermione leaned weakly against the nearest tree, gripping
herself with shaking arms and fighting the near-uncontrollable
urge to vomit.

She’d done it.

One second they’d been standing there in a wild-eyed huddle,
pointing trembling wands at the empty darkness - and the next,
they’d vanished, leaving nothing behind them but ghostly
footprints in the thick frost. And it was nothing like the
friendly rehearsals with Sal, nothing like practicing on Harry
and Draco and Ginny and then blinking them immediately back to
the comfortable coziness of Elysium.

No, this was scary and cold and intrusive, and it felt like a
violation; never mind all her good intentions, all her
high-minded rationalizations about cold feet and serving the
greater good … not when she could feel their fear - feel it! -
beating at the inside of their sapphire prison like tiny
panicked fists.

And at the same time - God help her - she was proud that it
had worked, and glad for Draco’s sake that she’d done it. And
just the tiniest bit .. well, elated, and ashamed of the
elation too.

And tired … tired was an understatement; drained was more like
it. Teeth gritted, she hauled herself away from the tree and
forced her weak knees to hold her.

Before she could go back to Hogwarts and collapse, she needed
to do one more thing.

Wait.

**

She was late.

Draco checked his watch again, swore, chucked Portnoy across
the room, and yanked himself off the chaise longue and into a
nervous stalk.

She should have been here twenty minutes ago.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Had it worked? Had eight people at once been too many? Should
he have been there to help? Should he go out now to check on
her - rescue her?

The possibilities piled up in his head, each more grisly than
the last: she was Stunned, she was dead, Avery had raped her,
they’d dragged her off to the Death-Eaters ceremony, they’d
handed her over to his father … to Voldemort … they were
torturing her …

And here he sat, like a maiden in a fucking tower, letting his
girlfriend slay his dragons for him.

Pathetic.

Not for the first time, he found himself pondering the Granger
Self-Sufficiency, which was sexy as hell but also a bit
bewildering. Life with his pale, vague, troubled mother - with
the undemanding, sly-but-banal Slytherin girls - hadn’t
prepared him to play Albert to Hermione’s sweetly stubborn
Victoria.

He didn’t mind, though. Honestly. Truth be told, that
rock-steady self-assurance, that calm adherence to an absolute
moral center, had long-since eclipsed her pretty face and lush
body, to become the most alluring thing about her.

Only … only …

Draco sighed.

He only wished that she needed him half as much as he needed
her.

**

He was about to go to Dumbledore and spill the whole sordid
story, Salazar Slytherin and all, when she shimmered abruptly
into view, clutching the Keyhole like a lifeline. “What took
you so goddamn long?” he started to say, but only got as far
as “What -“ when she dropped the book, pushed past him, and
stumbled into the bathroom, hands clamped over her mouth. A
moment later, Draco heard the unmistakable sound of retching,
and hurried after her just in time to see her being violently
ill into the toilet.

Oddly enough, this put him on firmer ground.

Draco wasn’t his mother’s son for nothing. He’d seen firsthand
the deleterious effects of more than one medi-potion gone
awry; if there was one thing he knew how to cope with, it was
female nausea. He soaked a washcloth in cold water, wrung it
out, and calmly pressed it into Hermione’s shaking hands.

“Put that on your forehead,” he directed. “And hold it there.
I’ll get you some water.” Obediently, she took the wet cloth
and pressed it to her brow; when Draco returned a moment later
with a brimming glass, she hadn’t moved. He took the cloth out
of her hand, remoistened it, and clapped it to the back of her
neck. She flinched, but didn’t protest.

“Okay,” he said, tilting the glass to her lips. “Just a
little. Swish and spit. Now do that again. Good.”

“Draco …” she whispered, her voice small and ragged. “Please -
take it off -“

“The compress?” he asked, startled. “It’s good for you.” She
shook her head weakly.

“Pendant.”

Oh. He tugged on the long gold chain disappearing under her
robes, closed his hand around the sapphire. And felt fear -
cold, debilitating, metallic - kick him in the guts.

He yanked the stone over her head and dropped it as if it had
bitten him. Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

“It worked, didn’t it?” he asked, breathing hard. Hermione
nodded. She looked pale, but already steadier.

“They’re all in there,” he said wonderingly, eyeing the
glittering blue stone on the floor as if it might get up and
dance. “You really did it. Holy shit.”

Another nod. “Scared,” she whispered. “Did you feel it?” She
was shivering. “Oh, God, Draco - they were so damn scared -“

“Shhh.” He took the glass away from her, wrapped his arms
around her and rocked her back and forth on the tile floor,
surprised at how small and fragile she felt. “You can’t wear
that thing next to your skin,” he said. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Have to … Sal said …”

“Fuck what Sal said. We’ll figure something else out, later.
Until then it can stay where it is. Can you stand up?”

He steadied her against his body (flashback to his mother’s
overdose on Dreamless Sleep when he was eight; just enough to
make her sweat and shake and empty her guts on the white
carpet of her adjoining bath - not enough, she’d wept later,
to kill her), and steered her toward the main room. “Come on.
Let’s get you horizontal.”

She allowed herself to be guided toward the chaise, but balked
when he would have pushed her down on it. “Can’t go to sleep,”
she said urgently. “Death Eaters. On their way to Dumbledore.
I saw them.”

Draco’s jaw dropped. “You did? Where? Who?”

She was swaying on her feet, clinging to his forearms for
support but stubbornly refusing to sit, her face dead white
with the effort to keep herself upright. “Foxes,” she said.
“One silver, one black. Animagi. Came up from the gates -
stopped when the footprints ended - went sniffing all around.
Don’t know why they didn’t find me. I almost trod on one. I
wanted to.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “Then they …
changed. Just for a minute. Avery. And your father.”

He pushed again, gently, and defeated, she let herself be
eased back on the bed. “Angry,” she said. “They think
Dumbledore did it. Went back to talk to the others, maybe to
him. I think your father’s coming back, though.” She shot bolt
upright in sudden panic. “God. What time is it?”

Draco checked his watch. “Not even eight yet,” he reassured
her. “Look, you’re dead tired, you’ve worn yourself out,
you’re about to collapse. You have to sleep now.”

“Can’t. … Couldn’t.”

“Try.”

Her eyelids were battling gravity. “What if they -?”

“Dumbledore’s more than a match for them,” Draco said, and sat
down beside her. “You’ve done all you can.”

“No,” she said, her voice slurred with exhaustion but still
emphatic. “No one ever does everything they can. No one.”

By the time he’d come up with a suitable retort for that, she
was asleep. Sighing, Draco slipped off his shoes and curled up
beside her.

He could do with a nap, himself.

**

They’d known well in advance that they’d top the list of
likely suspects, at least in Lucius Malfoy’s eyes - why else
would they have gone to the trouble to give Draco an airtight
alibi? Still, it was a bit of a shock when they were shaken
awake, shortly before lunchtime, by a very worried-looking
Dobby.

“Wake up,” he hissed. “Mister Draco, Miss Hermione, Dobby is
sorry to disturb you, but the Headmaster, he is asking Dobby
to come and fetch you.”

They jerked awake, shared one quick look, and fumbled for
their shoes. “Dobby,” Draco asked, “is my father in with the
Headmaster?” Dobby nodded fearfully.

“Dobby is not liking to say this,” he said in a low voice,
“but he is looking most upset. He is screaming and yelling at
the Headmaster for an hour now, wanting to talk to you - and
the Headmaster, he is just now giving in.”

Well, that was to be expected. Draco leaned down and put his
mouth near Dobby’s floppy ear. “We’ll get there on our own,”
he said. “You find Professor Snape and ask him to come too,
all right?”

Dobby nodded and pressed a small tin into Draco’s hands. “Use
this,” he said; “you is best not keep him waiting.” A moment
later, he’d disappeared with a loud CRACK!

“What is it?” Hermione asked, and Draco opened his hand to
show her.

Floo Powder.

**

They emerged out of the fireplace into Dumbledore’s study, to
find Lucius Malfoy silent-but-raging, and the Headmaster
concerned, but calm.

“For the last time, Lucius,” Dumbledore was saying patiently.
“I don’t have any idea where those children are. They signed
up to leave on the train with all the others.” His eyes
gleamed for a moment. “Had we known you had made other …
arrangements,” he said pointedly, “we would have provided a
staff escort down to the village.”

Draco had never seen his father so angry: sick and shaking
with fury, choking with rage on every word that rose in his
blocked throat. “Don’t play dumb with me, Albus,” he growled
finally, then turned on Draco. “And you,” he said, advancing a
step toward the fire. “You’re in on this too, you
ill-begotten, ungrateful brat. You .. and your Mudblood
whore.”

“Lucius!” Dumbledore said sharply, and Hermione thought dimly
that some people were just Born To Be Listened To: angry as
Malfoy was, Dumbledore’s tone had him turning red and backing
off like a scolded child. “Watch your language in this castle,
if you please; I won’t tolerate the abuse of my students.” His
tone softened slightly as he turned toward the hearth. “Mr.
Malfoy, Miss Granger. Please sit down.”

They sat, trying not to look at Malfoy the Elder, whose entire
being was vibrating with malice and ill-controlled temper.
“I’ll handle this, if you don’t mind,” Dumbledore said firmly,
and fixed his gaze on Hermione and Draco.

“We’re missing some students, it seems,” he said shortly, “and
your father, Draco, believes you may have some knowledge as to
their whereabouts. Eight Slytherins - four from your year and
four seventh-years.” He listed the names briefly; Hermione
suppressed a shudder at the thought of the sapphire pendant,
discarded in Elysium’s bath. “They appear to have vanished on
the way down to meet their parents in Hogsmeade. Have either
of you seen them this morning?”

Draco nodded. “Yes, Professor,” he said calmly. “I met them
walking out this morning with Professor Snape. I needed to
discuss my application to the Beauxbatons summer program with
him, so we stayed behind in the Great Hall.”

Lucius Malfoy sneered. Dumbledore pretended not to notice.

“And after that?”

Draco shrugged. “We went to Professor Snape’s office so he
could give me the reference he’d written - I’ve been in the
library ever since.”

All of that was the truth, Hermione thought. Her part came
next, and she was going to have to flat-out lie.

She wasn’t looking forward to it.

“And you, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore prompted. She met his
kindly blue gaze full-on with her best Head-Girl look
plastered firmly on her face, and a hollow feeling in the pit
of her stomach.

“I slept until eight,” she said, “then joined Draco in the
library.” Lucius Malfoy made an ugly sound in his throat;
Dumbledore raised one hand in warning.

“You didn’t encounter any of the eight missing students, Miss
Granger?” he persisted. “You didn’t leave the castle?”

“No, sir,” she lied. Dumbledore looked at her searchingly for
a moment, then nodded slowly.

“Well, there you have it, Lucius,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t
know what you imagine these two could have done in the first
place, that would cause eight of their classmates to
disappear. But the point is moot - neither of them, it seems,
had either opportunity or motive.” He rose, his shaggy
eyebrows uplifted. “Ah - and here’s Professor Snape, to shed
more light on the matter. Good afternoon, Severus.”

“Headmaster.” Snape’s eyes flicked past Draco and Hermione to
the pale, seething man in the armchair. “Lucius.”

“Severus.” Malfoy’s thin mouth twisted. “We’ve not seen much
of you, lately.”

Snape raised one eyebrow. “No,” he agreed acerbically. “You
haven’t.” Hermione watched, mesmerized, as he leaned
gracefully against the doorjamb and raised one indolent arm
above his head to brace himself.

Her first thought was that the pose was sexy. Her second was
that it was calculated.

The loose sleeve of his robe had fallen away, exposing his
upraised arm to the elbow. And Lucius Malfoy was staring
open-mouthed at that bare expanse of flesh as if it were a
snake poised to bite him.

In a way, Hermione supposed it was.

She felt nothing whatsoever for Malfoy the Elder but disgust
and a sort of contemptuous disbelief. Even so, the naked
terror fighting its way out from under the mask of his anger
made her feel almost sorry for him.

As soon as he left Dumbledore’s office, he’d be obliged to go
back and tell Voldemort that not only had he failed to recover
their eight missing initiates, but that Severus Snape had
managed to erase his Dark Mark. Oh, to be a fly on that wall,
Hermione thought, and barely concealed a smirk.

There’d be no joy in Leadville tonight - that much was
certain.

Lucius, it appeared, wasn’t going to stay to hear Snape’s
corroboration of Draco’s alibi. He pushed himself resolutely
to his feet and cast about for the shreds of his composure.

“You’ll be sorry, all of you,” he said, and the cold, certain
malice in his voice made Hermione shiver. “You, Albus -
captain of this sinking ship; you, Severus - you miserable
turncoat … and you,” here he turned the full force of his
punishing, impotent rage on Hermione, “you conniving, filthy
little tramp, you’ll get yours, too. I promise you.”

His gaze rested on Draco, cold as the heart of winter, and
Hermione felt a tremor run through Draco’s body. “As for you,”
he said softly. “My son - my heir - flesh of my flesh - I
expected more from you, at least. Consorting with fools,
throwing away your future for this … this trash. You were born
for better things than this.”

“Really, Father?” Draco’s spine stiffened; he chose his words
carefully.

This was it - if he said what he wanted to now, he’d burned
his bridges forever.

No decision, really. He squeezed Hermione’s hand defiantly.

“Born for better things,” he repeated with as much irony as he
could muster. “And what would those be, Father? A pile of
spareribs?” Stormy grey eyes met their shocked counterparts
and locked. “Drop the bullshit,” Draco said, his voice shaky
but determined. “I’ve never been a person to you - just
another step up the corporate ladder toward the Number Two
spot.” He took a deep breath. “Be careful, though, Father -
get much closer, and you’ll have your tongue stuck so far up
Tom Riddle’s ass that you’ll never get it back again.”

There. He’d finally said it.

Hermione gasped. Snape laughed out loud. And Dumbledore
continued to placidly nibble on the end of his Sugar Quill.
Lucius Malfoy’s face contorted.

“You’re no son of mine,” he spat. Draco laughed mirthlessly.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “how much I wish that
were the truth.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty

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The minute Lucius Malfoy’s robes cleared his study door,
Dumbledore dropped the half-eaten Sugar Quill. “Close the
door, Severus, and sit down,” he said; his blue eyes had gone
instantly from dreamy to sharp, making him look very much like
a powerful wizard and not like Saint Nicholas at all.

He also appeared to be a bit put out, Hermione noted, which
explained at least partially why he seemed bigger than he had
a moment ago. “Stay there,” he said to her and to Draco. “I
want some answers, and I want them from all three of you.” He
closed his eyes for a moment, then turned on them the full
force of his steely regard.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy,” he said. “I’ve been the recipient
of some extremely interesting stories regarding the two of
you.” He looked grudgingly amused. “In the light of current
events, I think the most relevant one was brought to me a few
weeks ago by Mr. Filch, concerning his cat Mrs. Norris. You
are acquainted with Mrs. Norris, I trust?”

They nodded, trying very hard not to look at each other.

“Filch claims,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully, “that the two of
you - particularly you, Miss Granger - attacked his cat in the
trophy room, and transported her by the use of magic to the
library entrance, some hours later.” He studied them intently.
“There wouldn’t happen to be any truth to that, would there?”

“I … um …” Hermione chose her words carefully. “I wouldn’t
call what happened with the cat an attack, Professor,” she
said. “Certainly we had an encounter - but to the best of my
knowledge, Mrs. Norris never left the trophy room.”

Well, that much was true, wasn’t it? Hadn’t Sal said she’d
been stuck in a time loop there, the whole time?

“Hm.” Dumbledore twirled a strand of his long silky beard
between his fingers and spent a full minute in its examination
- presumably he was looking for split ends. “Odd. From what
Mr. Filch described, the cat definitely went missing in the
trophy room, and ended up, rather abruptly, on the third
floor. Not only that, but they lost touch for, as I said
before, a period of some hours - and as I’m sure you’ve
ascertained by now, he and Mrs. Norris are telepathically
linked. He was quite frantic, you know, when he lost the
connection. Certain she had met with some fatal accident.”

Hermione felt an immediate stab of guilt, which was
exacerbated by Draco’s muffled snicker. “How terrible for
him,” she said politely, hoping that whatever she was feeling
wasn’t finding its way to her face. “But how fortunate that
the incident wasn’t tragic, after all.”

“Fortunate,” Dumbledore mused. “Yes, I think fortunate is a
very good word, Miss Granger.” His eyes went even sharper. “To
the best of my knowledge, there is only one magical
incantation that would produce this effect. And it is not
contained in The Standard Book of Spells. In fact,” and here
he leaned back in his chair, seemingly to peruse the ceiling,
“this particular spell that I’m thinking of hasn’t been used,
or for that matter, allowed, in the magical community for at
least eight hundred years.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Draco, “but how do you know
it, then?”

A muffled sound from Snape’s armchair followed this
borderline-impertinent verbal salvo. Hermione tried not to
stare.

Genuine laughter from Snape? Twice? In one day? Without
benefit of magical assistance?

The world was coming to an end.

“It’s the sort of knowledge, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore said in
uncharacteristically astringent tones, “that is passed down to
one verbally, from a mentor. I happened to hear it as a
wizard’s apprentice, well after I’d left school. I had
believed, however, that I was the last wizard left in Britain
to possess the knowledge - for reasons of my own, I chose not
to pass it down myself.”

He looked sharply at Snape. “You don’t know the Entrapment
Spell, Severus,” he said. “Lucius doesn’t, either - that much
is clear - and I’ll wager even Voldemort himself never
uncovered it, in his descent to the Dark. It’s far too useful;
he would have tipped that particular hand of his during the
last war. So where,” and now his gaze shot back to Hermione,
steely-blue eyes fixed with slightly stricken brown ones, “did
these two pick it up?”

It couldn’t be easy, Hermione reflected, for someone as
generally omniscient as Albus Dumbledore, to find himself in
the position of wanting to know information that was being
deliberately withheld.

She almost felt sorry for him.

And if she could have spilled the Entrapment secret without
implicating Sal, she would have. But it was one thing for
Snape to find out about Slytherin by following her. It was
quite another to sit in the Headmaster’s office and
voluntarily give up his location to Central Administration.

So she looked straight into Dumbledore’s Blue Willow gaze, and
opened her mouth to lie for the second time.

She was interrupted by a familiar, but completely unexpected,
voice behind her.

“Where did they pick it up, you ask?” Sal said crisply from
the corner. “Why, from me, of course.”

**

“That,” Hermione said fervently, “was surreal.”

Lunch was Mulligan stew and crusty, hard-skinned rolls that
reminded her of Italy. She tore one apart with some effort and
doctored it with a quarter-inch of unsalted butter. Across
from her, Draco was eating with the same fervour and
intensity: they’d had a full morning, after all, and neither
one of them had gone down for breakfast.

They were sitting together at the Gryffindor table, ignoring
the open stares of the three Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws
who were staying at Hogwarts for the holidays. The Great Hall
was warm and fragrant with pine and suffused with soft gray
light - high above them, the enchanted sky-ceiling was thick
with snowflakes as big as their fingertips.

They’d pulled off the Entrapment, they’d flown the bird to
Voldemort, they’d ruined Lucius Malfoy’s holidays, giving
Snape a good and much-needed laugh in the process, and they’d
managed to leave the Headmaster’s office without turning over
either information about the pendant or the pendant itself.

In a week’s time they’d have the best chemistry set the
British pound could buy, which gave them a reasonable shot at
perfecting their Protection Potion.

They no longer needed to conceal from Dumbledore their visits
to Sal - as might have been predicted, those two had hit it
off very well indeed. (Judging from Dumbledore’s absence at
the Head Table, they were probably still yukking it up, up in
his study.)

And the Mulligan stew was excellent.

All in all, life was good … so good, in fact, that past a nod
of agreement from Draco - it certainly had been a strange
morning - neither of them felt the urge to talk at all.
Hermione sent a cheery wave to the gawping Hufflepuffs,
grinned at a shocked-looking Minerva McGonagall, and tucked
into her second roll.

Thank God for the holidays.

**

There was still the matter of dealing with the sapphire
pendant. The passage of time didn’t affect the emotions
contained in an Entrapment receptacle - Hermione could handle
the gold chain all she wanted to, but every time the sapphire
itself brushed her skin, she found herself shuddering as if a
dementor had just slipped up behind her and run its icy,
scabbed hands down her bare arms.

In the end, she’d wrapped the pendant back up in its velvet
bag and sewn it into an inside pocket of her robes - to get it
out again would take a pair of shears or a Severing Charm, and
the thick pile of the velvet contained the worst of the
emotions spinning off the surface of the sapphire. She could
wear the thing all day and not be terribly affected by it; by
the same token, she’d know immediately if it were gone.

So when she opened her Christmas present from Draco, on the
morning of the twenty-fifth, and saw a familiar blue glow
winking back up at her from the contents of the jewelry box,
she had to stifle a scream.

“Is it - is it - how did you -“

“Don’t look so scared,” he said with a hint of patrician
drawl. “It’s a Replica - and one that I made before the start
of the holidays, so we wouldn’t have two sets of Death-Eater
wannabes running around. Nicked it right after you Released
Mrs. Norris, a couple of weeks ago, then put it back in your
jewelry case.” He sounded rather pleased with himself.

They were still in bed, eating Chocolate Frogs instead of
going down to breakfast, in Hermione’s room in Gryffindor
Tower - Hermione in a white cotton-eyelet nightdress; Draco in
nothing but the soft gray-green cashmere scarf and gloves
(mail-order from Hermès; Hermione wasn’t imaginative when it
came to gifts, but she wasn’t cheap either) she’d given him
for Christmas, looking like a naughty young Oscar Wilde - or
the wizarding world’s answer to Playgirl. Hermione picked up
the charm bracelet again and examined it more carefully.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said. “Perfect.” She touched each
finely-wrought silver charm wonderingly - a tiny witch’s hat,
a miniature cauldron, a wand the size of a matchstick, a small
silver cat with topaz eyes that stretched and purred under her
touch.

And, of course, the sapphire. She closed her fingers around it
and felt no fear, no nausea, only a cool blue stone.

“Perfect,” she said again. Draco beamed.

“The wand’s yours, too,” he said. Hermione looked at him
sharply.

“You Replicated my wand?”

“Replicated and Reduced,” he said cheerfully. “And plated in
silver. Still works, though. I thought you could use it as a
penlight.”

“Huh.” Hermione gripped the tiny wand carefully between two
fingers. “Lumos,” she said, and grinned as a sliver of light
shot out of its end. “Cool.” She petted the tiny cat again,
then shot him a suspicious look. “You didn’t - I mean, that’s
not -“

“Crookshanks? No.” Draco chucked the real Crookshanks under
his fuzzy orange chin. “The bracelet came with the hat, the
cat, and the cauldron. I had them add two more fasteners so I
could customise it a bit.”

“Clever,” she said admiringly, and clasped the silver bracelet
around her right wrist. “I’ll never take it off.”

“I rather hope,” Draco said, “that the same sentiment doesn’t
apply to that bit of lace you’re wearing.”

**

The gleam in his eye told her that he was planning something,
but it wasn’t until she’d complied with his request to remove
her nightdress that she figured out what it was.

“Turn around,” he said, and gently smoothed back the curls
from her forehead. “Close your eyes.”

The cashmere scarf looped around her head and settled there,
light as a dream. He tied it off behind her head.

“Can you see?”

“No,” Hermione said truthfully, and heard him laugh as he
eased her back down to the pillows.

“Good.”

A moment later, she realized he hadn’t taken off his gloves.

Oh … he must have been planning this ever since he opened the
box, Hermione thought hazily, then surrendered thought to
sensation. He brought her arms gently up over her head, and
she obediently held them there, even when he trailed his
fingertips down her inner arms to the sensitive skin of her
sides, even when those soft wool gloves found her nipples and
squeezed … gently, gently, then harder and harder with a hint
of twist, calculated seductive cruelty overlaid with a
cashmere patina of tenderness. Oh, God, how it felt - his
mouth, his hands, his lips, his tongue, his teeth - and not to
see it coming, oh, that was the most maddening thing of all,
every caress a bolt out of the blue specifically designed to
make her quiver and gasp and twist her body blindly toward
where the next one might come from.

Over and over, touch on touch, and she could almost see those
caresses piling up on her bare skin, like a canvas overloaded
with paint. Killing her, one brushstroke at a time, drawing
out her soul whisper by whisper … and those sounds, were they
hers, those broken whimpers and pleadings, those breathy
name-callings and pleas and exhortations that he so laughingly
disregarded?

Oh, she was going to die, she really was.

And then the hands were tugging at her, shaping her, pulling
her up so that her knees sank into the comforter-covered
mattress and all the blood in her body rushed immediately to
her swollen, needy pudenda and the tips of her aching,
well-tended-to breasts. He came up behind her then, strong and
warm and oh-so-sure of himself, his hands slipping around to
knead those pulsing nipples, his teeth nipping at the bare
nape of her neck as she arched and bowed and bucked back to
take him and it slid in, oh God, so sweetly, such a sweet
sweet stretch, and why did it feel so different this way, and
what had he been reading, that he knew about this stuff?

And it was slow, oh, slow, and he pulled her up and stretched
her out and she flowed into his hands like wet clay for the
shaping, pressing her body into those soft expensively-gloved
hands and panting for breath, repeating in a throaty garbled
voice the whispered endearments he hissed in her ear, and
moaning as he rewarded her obedience with a deeper thrust, a
new caress.

And then his clever artist’s fingers in their
two-hundred-dollar gloves found her aching, distended nub of a
clitoris and began to twirl it like a lariat, and Hermione
felt herself implode, crying and twisting and then curiously,
rigidly stiff, arms splayed back and tremors racing down her
spine and blood pounding so hard in her ears it sounded like
ocean surf, as all of the soft parts of her body went liquid
around him and she headed full-speed into the Little Death.

It was a few minutes before she came back to consciousness
long enough to realize that he was still inside her.

He had collapsed back-first onto the bed, rolling over and
taking her with him. She was sprawled on top of him, and he
was most definitely still interested. Languidly, she reached
up and ripped off the blindfold. He grinned up at her.

“Take your time,” he said, and hissed through his teeth as her
hips rotated in a teasing circle around him. “I told Dobby to
bring lunch up around one o’ clock - there’s no good reason we
should have to leave this room today.”

“Good to know,” Hermione said, and leaned down to kiss him.

Revenge, in this case anyway, was undeniably sweet.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-One

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

When it came right down to it, Severus thought to himself, his
difficulty in forming friendships had always stemmed from his
opinion that most people, deep down, weren't really worth
getting to know.

Superiority, of course, had its drawbacks - loneliness being
the most obvious - and he had to admit that his sense of
isolation was exacerbated by his profession. As a student at
Hogwarts, he'd at least moved on the periphery of the social
scene, merely by virtue of proximity. His status as a
dubiously-ex- Death Eater hadn't done much to endear him to
the rest of the faculty, however, nor had he made any efforts
to help himself in that regard. Those first months back in
Dumbledore's fold, he'd existed on caffeine and nightmares, in
his own way as shaky and paranoid as old Mad-Eye himself.

They were a soft-hearted bunch, naturally - Severus knew in
his soul of souls that any overture he made would be instantly
returned, even now, if only out of sympathy. But that
knowledge in itself made him cringe inwardly; better to be
that great malevolent bat, or even that insufferable ass, than
poor dear Severus. And Albus, while a brilliant Headmaster and
a better-than-average pop psychologist, was still the man who
signed his paycheques ... not to mention the one who'd plucked
him from the gates of Azkaban into the welcoming, motherly
bosom of AcadÀme.

Best to keep a little distance there, if only for his own
sense of equilibrium.

There had been exceptions to the rule, over the years. Lily,
for instance. And, for a few brief happy months, before the
business with Potter and Black blew up in their faces, Remus.
And then, of course, there was Lord Voldemort himself, whose
ruthlessness had been matched only by his charm - back then,
anyway ... he certainly wouldn't win any points in the Witch
Weekly polls, these days.

But for the most part, Severus had cultivated his solitude
until habit became preference, and buried any regrets in the
all-encompassing, ever-present truth that Things Could Have
Turned Out Worse.

Which was why his instant rapport with Salazar Slytherin came
as a bit of a pleasant shock.

He hadn't intended to go back, after that first evening in the
subdungeons. Hermione was ... well, Hermione, and he could
understand completely why Slytherin would find her intriguing.
But his own curiosity was another affair entirely - he wasn't
a pretty little gamine with big liquid-caramel eyes and a
persuasive barrage of questions that would make a skeleton
leap to its feet and dance. And he, of all people, wasn't
about to intrude on someone else's privacy - if Slytherin
wanted company, wouldn't he have sought it out by now?

But the very next day, as if Summoned by that mental query,
the old ghost came wafting through the wall just as Severus
was sitting down to tea in his solitary suite of dungeon
rooms, his shadowy hand upraised in a pantomime of knocking.

"Ah, Severus," he'd sighed, and found himself a chair by the
hearth without waiting to be invited. "I hope you'll pardon
the intrusion; you're just the man I've been wanting to see."

And that was that.

They had a lot to talk about. Sal, after his centuries of
self-imposed hibernation, had the air of a man just rescued
from a desert island - many of their subsequent teatime chats,
which in the weeks between Halloween and Christmas had
increased in frequency to nearly every day, centered around
the topic of Progress: when it came to magical theory and
practice, what had been gained over the last millenium? what
had been lost? Severus found himself expounding on subjects
he'd never voiced before, talking so much that afterwards his
throat ached. More than once their conversations went straight
through the dinner hour without either of them noticing.

And, in return for his information, he had a confidant - one
who was inflappable, unshockable, without current political
bias; one who'd seen in his centuries of life and afterlife so
many would-be Dark Powers wax and wane that the name
Voldemort, to him, was the laughable affectation of a
megalomaniac. The much-feared, much-hated Dark Mark, that
scourge of Severus's young adulthood, Sal brushed aside as a
youthful indiscretion - as if Severus, in a drunken fit of
short-sightedness, had stumbled into a tattoo parlor, egged on
by catcalling friends.

"The young do stupid things," he'd said dismissively. "And
commit, in groups, acts they'd never consider individually."
He'd studied Severus shrewdly. "You think six months of
bloody-mindedness when you're eighteen makes you an ogre
forever? Rather an overstatement of your case, I'd say."

"Six months of bloody-mindedness?" Severus had snapped in
response. "I don't think so. Because of what I did, the
innocent died. Don't you play your moral-relativist games with
me."

"You were in a war," Sal pointed out. Severus scowled into his
teacup.

"I was on the wrong side."

"A fact you rectified, once you figured it out." Sal shrugged.
"Look, all I'm saying is this: as a wizard, you've got another
hundred years ahead of you, easy - and who knows what happens
after that? I certainly didn't intend to end up being able to
walk through walls. If you don't come to terms with what's
inside your own brain, you're going to be a miserable old
man."

"Maybe I deserve to be a miserable old man," Severus shot
back. Sal laughed shortly.

"Being miserable," he said in a tone of voice that was
suddenly, surprisingly gentle, "doesn't make you any less
guilty. Take it from one who knows. But then -" and here he
smiled - "being at peace with yourself doesn't make you any
more so, either."

That, Severus supposed reluctantly, made a certain amount of
sense.

**

Sal's tendency to give gratuitous advice didn't stop there. A
certain amount of their conversation was necessarily devoted
to the girl who'd introduced them; it hadn't taken him ten
minutes on the topic to deduce what was really going on, and
to Severus's great surprise, he was all for it.

"You're a perfect match," he declared now, sipping from his
Perlucioed teacup. In honour of Christmas Day, he'd conjured
up a garland of ghostly pearl-gray ivy for his head; shortly
thereafter, it had slipped down over one ear, giving him the
look of a dissolute fraternity alumnus. "Illuminata be damned.
Much better-suited for her than that puppy she's running with
now."

Severus's lip curled. He might secretly agree with that
statement, but damned if he'd admit it.

"She and the ... puppy," he enunciated crisply, "are exactly
the same age, exactly the same year in school, and they're the
smartest students in their class. I'd say they're fairly
well-matched."

Sal dismissed this with a contemptuous wave of one transparent
hand. "Bollocks," he said, "and we both know it." He winked
slyly. "How far apart are you - twenty years? How much
difference is that to a wizard, really?"

"Enough," Severus said shortly. "She's still a child."

"She's on the cusp of womanhood," Sal persisted, grinning.
"She's the prettiest rosebud in the garden."

Severus narrowed his eyes menacingly, a trick that sent his
students running for the nearest exit but didn't, regrettably,
seem to have any effect at all on cheeky ghosts. "I," he said
with as much dignity as he could summon, "prefer my roses in
full bloom, thank you."

Sal chortled. "Go back to the garden later, my boy," he said,
"and you'll find that particular blossom plucked and sitting
in someone else's buttonhole."

True, certainly true, but all the same, not a welcome thought.
Severus could feel his teeth begin to grind. "I don't like the
flower analogy, not for Hermione," he said stiffly. "She's got
a brain, after all, and a choice in the matter - probably more
choice, truth be told, than whatever poor sap she decides to
fix her sights on."

"Of course she does," Sal agreed, his mouth twitching. "And as
pigheaded as you are, that's probably very fortunate."

Whatever he meant to imply by that, Severus had no idea.

**

By the time Dobby brought up their lunch, Draco and Hermione
were decorously showered and dressed and sitting cross-legged
in the middle of Hermione's freshly-made bed, surrounded by
glass phials and bits of foam packing material. Peter Granger
had been kind enough to include a few books on the subject of
chemical and genetic thumbprinting, and Hermione was immersed
in the most likely-looking of these, while Draco studied the
contents of the jars, frowning over the scientific-sounding
names and occasionally unscrewing one of the lids to sniff at
the contents.

Their food was cold by the time they got to it. Ruefully,
Draco muttered a Warming Charm at the turkey and stuffing, and
they dug in, barely caring that the cranberry sauce was runny
and the rolls no longer warm ... after all, they'd had a busy
morning. And a few Chocolate Frogs apiece weren't adequate
fuel for the sort of intellectual calisthenics they had
planned for the rest of the day.

In retrospect, it was just as well they were too busy eating
to talk much - halfway through their jam tarts, there came a
sharp rap on the door, followed by a questioning, "Miss
Granger?"

Hermione froze, the last bite of her tart halfway to her
mouth. "McGonagall," she mouthed silently, and Draco's
eyebrows shot halfway off his forehead.

Dumbledore could twiddle his thumbs at them and sing "
Matchmaker, matchmaker," until the cows came home. If Minerva
McGonagall found the two of them alone, unchaperoned, in
Hermione's bedroom, their elevated status as prefects wouldn't
be worth an aluminum Knut.

They'd be toast.

Another rap on the door. "Miss Granger? Hermione, are you in
there?"

"Just a moment, Professor!" Hermione called, scanning the room
desperately for the Invisibility Cloak. It was in the opposite
corner, where Draco had thrown it into a chair as he came in
last night. And the knob was already turning.

Too risky. "Go!" she hissed to Draco. "Hide! Under the bed!"

"What a cliché," he complained, but he was already on the
floor, dragging the hem of the draperies over him. And not a
second too soon, either, Hermione thought.

She stuck a finger in her book and looked up as her Head of
House entered the room, putting on the most fuzzily academic
look she could muster and discreetly upending the chemistry
set's packing box over Draco's empty plate on the bedspread.

"Happy Christmas, Professor," she said, hiding her nerves by
clearing away the foam squiggles from one corner of the bed.
"Won't you sit down?"

To her dismay, Professor McGonagall did just that. Hermione
immediately realized that she'd cleared the wrong corner;
McGonagall was so close to the drapery-covered Draco that
should he have been so inclined, he could have bitten her
ankle without so much as stretching his neck. "We missed you
at Christmas dinner," she said, arranging the folds of her
robes around her. "I thought perhaps I'd check in on you, and
make sure you were all right."

Ha. If they'd missed her, then it was a pretty safe bet that
they'd missed Draco, too - even the thickest of first-years
could draw the necessary conclusions from that coincidence,
and Minerva McGonagall was anything but thick. Hermione forced
herself not to look in the direction of the draperies.

"Oh, erm ... fine," she averred, indicating the melée of books
and scientific paraphernalia around her. "I just got a bit ...
um, carried away here. Lost track of time." She sent
McGonagall a weak smile. "Muggle chemistry set - I asked my
parents for it ages ago. I thought it might help me with my
Potions extra-credit project."

It was obvious what Professor McGonagall thought of Potions,
be they extra-credit or otherwise; her mouth was compressed to
the thinnest of lines. She glanced around the room, her gaze
lighting on the wreckage of Dobby's dinner tray.

"Well, the house-elves seem to have remembered you, at least,"
she said. "You must have studied up quite an appetite."

"Mm," Hermione agreed noncommittally; the tray had been large
enough to feed four, and she and Draco had made a surprising
dent in it. She'd only have been able to eat that much by
herself if she were half horse.

That was the least of her worries, however; McGonagall looked
uncomfortable but determined, a sure sign to Hermione that the
conversation was about to take a sharp turn for the personal.

"Hermione," she began, "I don't believe I've had this talk
with you before - you seem so much older than Miss Patil and
Miss Brown, frankly, that I've left you a bit on your own when
it comes to ... ahem, certain matters."

She was distinctly pink-cheeked. Hermione, who had heard
firsthand from a convulsed Parvati and Lavender about the
details of that prior encounter, closed her eyes briefly and
sent up a fervent plea to whatever deity might prove most
sympathetic: please, please, let this not be the conversation
I'm afraid it is.

Below her, a lump of drapery was twitching with what could
have been either anticipation or suppressed mirth. If
Professor McGonagall intended to take this opportunity for a
birds-and-bees shtick, Hermione thought she might explode from
sheer Irony Overload.

She opened her mouth to say something - confirmation, denial;
who knew? - but Professor McGonagall cut her off. "Oh, I know
I don't need to go into detail with you, Hermione," she said,
studying long white hands that must have been beautiful, once.
When she looked up, her face was tense with kindness and
worry. "I just want you to know that - well, I understand your
position, more than you might think. And my ear is available
to you, should you ever have need of it."

Oh. Impulsively, Hermione reached out and laced her fingers
with McGonagall's. "Thanks," she said. "I may take you up on
that sometime."

**

At the door, Minerva McGonagall turned back toward the bed.
"Good luck with the Potions project," she said. "I've heard
good things about it both from Professor Snape and from the
Headmaster; it sounds like a very worthy goal."

"Thank you, Professor."

"Oh, and Miss Granger?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Yes, Professor?"

"You can wish Mr. Malfoy a happy Christmas from me."
McGonagall's snapping black eyes were suddenly, inexplicably
alive with knowing amusement. "Once he comes out from under
the bed."

And with that, she swept out, shutting the door firmly behind
her.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Two

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

The worst thing about being Practically Number Two to a Dark
Lord, mused Lucius Malfoy, was that when it hit the fan, you
were not only the most logical person to blame, but you were
also standing closer than everyone else. Take the case of the
Missing Initiates, for example. The existence of Peter
Pettigrew had been just about the only thing to save Lucius’s
hash.

Peter wasn’t feeling so good at the moment.

Lucius allowed himself a little smirk at that thought, then
sobered. His head wasn’t off the block yet. More than a week
since the Disappearance, and they were no closer to locating
their missing persons than they’d been back at Hogwarts, alone
in the sunny December dawn with a mess of rapidly melting,
disembodied footprints as their only clue.

Vanished, into thin air. And Hermione Granger knew why.

Oh, he couldn’t prove it. Not to Albus Dumbledore, that
cackling idiot - not to Severus, the Traitor - and not to the
Dark Lord, either, though it wouldn’t have made any difference
if he could, in that case. A slip of a seventeen-year-old
schoolgirl, and a Muggle-born at that, wasn’t on Voldemort’s
list of Worthy Adversaries.

But she knew, and he knew she knew. The way she’d looked at
him, from her comfortable seat in Dumbledore’s office - back
straight, head tipped oh-so-slightly to the side, pert elven
face properly serious but backlit with amusement - yes, she
knew all right. Which meant that Draco was in on it, too.

Draco. Lucius let out a little growl at the thought of that
name and tossed back another nip of Ogden’s Black Label.

Draco, the Saviour, Draco the Sacrifice - and now that deal
might be queered, too; the boy obviously knew all about what
was going to happen to him, and Lucius would bet his last
Galleon that he had the Mudblood to thank for that, as well.

Somebody, after all, had to get close enough to see that mark
on the back of his neck. Not for the first time, Lucius
regretted his forced resignation from the Hogwarts school
board. Were he still in a position to do so, he’d have plenty
to say about Dumbledore’s lenient snogging policies.

Another shot of Ogden’s - it’s the holiday, after all, isn’t
it? - to stave off the fear that was gnawing at the edges of
his consciousness. Your goose isn’t cooked yet, he told
himself. They could look from here to doomsday, his wayward
son and the Junior Bitch Goddess he’d taken up with, and
they’d never find a way to stop the curse. He’d done a fair
amount of reading himself, during his school days, and there
wasn’t a bit of useful information on that particular
prophecy, anywhere in the castle.

Which still left eight missing Death Eaters, the most
promising of the New Generation - the delayed Initiation was a
real blow to Voldemort’s machine. Lucius dug viciously at his
temples, where a migraine was throbbing just beyond the reach
of the alcohol.

The Granger girl had them, or at least knew where they were.
He was certain of that. What he wasn’t so sure of was what
she’d done … or was going to do. Would they turn up out of
whatever secret dungeon they’d been lured to, rubbing their
eyes and blinking, at the start of the spring term? Or had she
disposed of them for good? Was a pretty little Gryffindor
witch even capable of pulling a cold-blooded stunt like that?

Lucius wished he knew.

She was the root of all his problems. Darkly, he imagined
explaining that to Voldemort, then decided that the Dark
Lord’s reply wasn’t even worth contemplation.

She’s your problem? Then deal with her, Lucius. Haven’t I
taught you anything?

He rolled the last swallow of Ogden’s around in his mouth and
pondered that idea. She was just an ordinary student, after
all - not the fawned-over, notorious Potter. No special
privileges, no guards, no magical barriers, no omnipresent,
meddling Headmaster looking over her shoulder.

Just a girl, and a Muggle-born at that.

He set down the glass, leaned back in his chair, and smiled
for the first time in two weeks.

**

“So what is it we’re supposed to do again?” Draco asked.

They were both looking doubtfully over the neatly arranged
array of phials and equipment, which had been moved into
Elysium. There, they had a more congenial workspace - and they
weren’t threatened with the possibility of interruption,
however benign. Hermione sucked her teeth thoughtfully and,
with barely a twinge of regret, broke the spine of the
paperback book her father had sent her so that it would lie
flat on the counter.

“I don’t know any more than you do,” she admitted. “It looks
like the sort of process we need to undergo is something
referred to as qualitative chemical analysis, and believe me,
I didn’t get that far in Muggle science. But at least it seems
logical - and the Hogwarts library has a book with some of the
basics, though according to this they’re pretty outmoded.”

She gestured to the far corner, where a number of covered
beakers had been sitting for nearly two weeks. “Lucky for us
we did one thing right - before we do anything at all with
this, we need an aqueous solution of each sample. And we’ve
got them; they just need to be strained.”

The beakers contained distilled water, in which the carcasses
of several different species of insects had been decomposing.
Gingerly, Hermione pulled off the cheesecloth which had been
covering them, and they stared nonplussed at the lumpy,
discoloured sludge.

The spirit of scientific inquiry was one thing when it smelled
like lemons and tasted like orange juice. This was entirely
another matter.

“Okay,” Draco said finally, grimacing, and picked up the
beaker labelled ‘houseflies’. “I have the feeling we’re going
to need more cheesecloth.”

**

What would really have made their job easier, they discovered
upon further reading, was an instrument called a spectroscope,
designed to break down chemical compounds into its component
parts with the use of a laser beam. Hermione, scanning the
chapter on spectroscopy software, entertained brief wistful
thoughts about the big white computer in her room at home,
about the sleek little laptop her mother carried back and
forth from work, then sighed and turned back to the heading
entitled Low-Tech Qualitative Analysis: Litmus, Flame Testing,
and Reagents.

They were going to have to do this the hard way.

They had four samples - houseflies, billywigs, chizpurfles,
and of course the lacewings. The idea, according to Hermione,
was basically to test the hell out of the solutions that they
had, and note any differences they found. “What we’re looking
for,” she said, “is anything that distinguishes the lacewings
from all the other samples. Then we’ll know what to focus on.”

They skipped the carbon test - these were all insects, after
all; of course they were carbon-based - and proceeded directly
to the litmus paper; luckily, the chemistry set included an
ample supply. “Tests for the presence of acid or alkaline,”
Hermione said shortly. “I remember from my last year of Muggle
science.”

All four samples performed similarly - no surprises there, but
it didn’t hurt to check. They moved on.

Hermione studied the page on flame testing and pushed her hair
back impatiently. “Well, I hope this works,” she said finally.
“If it doesn’t, we have to move on to reagents - and quite
frankly I’m not getting all the scientific mumbo-jumbo about
cations and anions; I think this book assumes that you know
all that stuff already.” She looked grim. “Writing home for
another book could set us back a week. Or more. And school
starts back right past New Year’s; I was hoping to have made
some progress by then.”

“Owls are pretty fast over the holidays,” Draco said
helpfully. Hermione didn’t look convinced.

“Yeah.”

“We could just forget it,” he said unexpectedly, and Hermione
sent him a sharp look.

“I’m sorry?”

“We could just forget it,” he repeated. “He knows we know now
- what are the chances that Voldemort’s going to go through
with it and activate the curse? Won’t he assume that we’ve
taken the necessary steps to counter it?”

“Possibly,” Hermione said. “Though he came through this school
too, you know, and I bet you a Galleon that he read the same
books we did. As far as he knows, we’re aware of the curse’s
existence, but we haven’t a clue how to stop it.” She frowned.
“Besides. He’s getting way too cocky - sending his goons up to
collect the Initiates at the front gates is the next thing to
flipping Dumbledore the bird. Something’s going to happen
soon, and when it does, I want our side to have a working
Protection Potion.”

She sorted through the jumble of hardware that had come with
the chemistry set and laid out four aluminum wire loops.
“Ready?”

Draco sighed. “Ready.”

**

They fired up the Bunsen burner and carefully dipped the first
wire loop into the housefly solution. “Hold it in the fire,”
Hermione directed, and flipped the page to a
complicated-looking table. “What color is the flame?”

“Red.” Draco peered more closely at it. “Well, it was yellow
for a second, then it turned red.”

“Yellow’s sodium,” Hermione said, her finger scanning the
page. “If it burns off, it’s not important. Would you say that
red was a ‘carmine’, a ‘scarlet’, or a ‘yellow-red’?”

“Um. More yellowy, I’d say.”

“Mm. Well, that makes sense. Yellow-red means lots of
calcium.” She jotted something down in her notebook. “Want to
try the next one?”

The chizpurfle sample performed similarly, which they
considered to be a good sign. The billywigs, on the other
hand, proved to be a bit more problematic.

“I get that yellow flare at the beginning,” Draco reported.
“And the orangy-red calcium colour. But then there’s a flare
of something else … this brighter red colour that the others
don’t have. Here, look at this.” He picked up a clean loop,
re-dipped it in the billywig solution, and thrust it into the
Bunsen burner. Hermione studied the sputtering flame
thoughtfully.

“I think that must be what the book calls ‘carmine’,” she
said. “And that means lithium. No wonder those things are
hallucinogenic when they sting you. I’m off Fizzing Whizzbees
for life.”

“Mm,” agreed Draco half-heartedly. He had no idea what she was
talking about, but she had that intent, predatory look on her
face that only ever had to do with a problem she’d solved.
That face meant she wouldn’t hear a question, even if he asked
it … so instead, he dipped the last wire loop in the lacewing
solution and placed it carefully into the center of the flame.

Hermione shivered. She was holding her breath, and wasn’t even
aware of it.

A short burst of yellow. A flicker of orange-red. And
something else - not the clear red-pink of the lithium, but
the barest tinge of bright, emerald green.

Jackpot, she thought, and went for the book like a vulture to
carrion.

“Well?” Draco asked, turning down the Bunsen burner, and
Hermione smirked happily.

“One of two things,” she said. “Emerald green means either
thallium or copper. And if I recall correctly, thallium is
really, really poisonous. So I think we’re looking at a copper
compound here. Fabulous.”

“Great,” Draco said cautiously. Those colour-changing fires
looked cool, but they creeped him out a little. As did
Hermione herself, quite frankly; she was just a little too
excited about this, and she was starting to mutter in a
language he didn’t understand. “So what do you want me to do
now?”

Hermione tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “We still have
some Armoring Potion left over, minus the last ingredient,
right?”

He nodded. “So you want to add the lacewing goop to it?”

“Let’s go one better than that,” Hermione said, and started
sorting through the pile of neatly labelled powdered elements
that had come with her chemistry kit. “If it’s copper this
thing needs, by all means - let’s throw some in, and see what
happens.”

It wasn’t quite that simple, they soon discovered. The
Grangers had taken Hermione at her word when she said she
wanted a professional model: this particular kit contained not
one, but three different copper salts, labeled only with a
series of mysteriously arranged letters and numbers that
resembled nothing so much as secret code.

“Copper sulfate,” Hermione translated from one of the tables
at the back of her user’s manual. “Copper oxide. And … um …
oh, here it is. Copper carbonate hydroxide. For all the good
that does us.”

Momentarily stumped, they stared at the phials of powder -
deep blood-red, brilliant blue, variegated moss-green - then
back at each other. What now?

“Process of elimination?” Draco suggested, and Hermione
nodded.

“Works for me.”

This part was home turf for Draco, who’d done it what seemed
like a million times since mid-October. If anything, he
remarked to Hermione, Muggle chemistry had at least three
advantages over potion-brewing: the ingredients came in neat
little jars, he didn’t have to chop them up, and they didn’t
resemble anything that might have once been alive.
Ceremoniously he measured out a tiny scoop of each substance
and dumped one into each identical beakerful of Armoring Fluid
as Hermione stirred. They craned their necks curiously over
the beakers.

A traditional Armoring Fluid, when properly brewed, was the
consistency of iced gin and the colour of Bing cherries -
adding the Illuminata transformed it into a clear liquid with
perhaps just a tinge more pink than usual in its rainbow
sheen, but they weren’t going to bother with the Illuminata
today. For one thing, they’d have to go all the way down to
the Potions classroom for it, and it wasn’t really necessary
for experimental purposes anyway - they’d already figured out
that its function within the finished Protection Potion was
not to shield, but to repair existing damage.

Draco had gotten quite good at predicting whether a given
variant would work, based on its colour. Now, however, he had
to admit he was stumped. Despite the colour differences in the
copper salts themselves, all three beakers glowed an identical
cough-syrup red.

“Oranges?” he asked, and Hermione snorted.

“We only have one left,” she said. “Let me get my wand, and
I’ll Replicate it. If none of these work, we’re going to have
to raid the kitchens again.”

They decided to try the copper-oxide potion first, since the
colour of the salt matched most closely that of the potion
itself. They’d gotten good at this part, too; the luckless
orange, placed in a petri dish - the splash of potion over its
surface, followed by a quick spin to cover the entire surface
- the ceremonious placing of what Hermione had begun to refer
to as the Sacrificial Fruit, on a wooden chopping block they’d
begged from Dobby.

Draco was responsible for the surgery itself - his scalpel of
choice was a meat cleaver that looked as if it could chop a
cow apart, but was in reality slightly dull. Splatter was
inevitable; they had long-since learned to take the extra
precaution of covering any yet-to-be-tested samples before
commencing.

The cleaver came down in a spray of orange pulp. Hermione
yelped; she’d gotten juice in her eye.

“One down,” she said, groping blindly for a corner of her
sleeve to wipe her eyes. “Let’s try the copper sulfate next,
shall we?”

They cleared away the citrus debris from the first experiment,
wiped down the counters and the blade of the cleaver, and
prepared the second orange. “These were the blue crystals,
right?” Draco asked absently, raising his blade on high.
Hermione nodded and stifled a snicker: this whole process was
beginning to resemble late-night television.

This time, the cleaver bounced twice before it penetrated.
Encouraging, but hardly what they’d hoped for. Hermione glared
at the little phial of green powder in front of the third
beaker.

“I seriously hope,” she said with mock-fierceness, “that I
haven’t wasted my Christmas present on you. You had better
come through for us.” Draco, who was combing his hair with his
fingers in search of an errant orange seed, laughed.

“Which one’s that?” he asked, and Hermione consulted the
user’s manual again.

“Copper carbonate hydroxide,” she said. “Also known as
malachite. Says here - oh, this is interesting! It says here
that malachite’s a gemstone, sort of like a budget version of
jade, and that it’s often carved into amulets.” Her hands
shook slightly as she tossed the pamphlet aside. “Protection
amulets.”

“Huh,” Draco said, and took additional care wiping down the
blade of the cleaver. “That sounds promising, doesn’t it?”

“Mm. I think … oooooh, maybe ….” Hermione had her fingers
crossed and her eyes squinched shut; Draco found it endlessly
charming that superstition could exist in that logical little
machine of a brain. “I can’t look. Tell me when it’s over.”

“No,” he said. “No, I think you should watch.” He waited until
her eyes blinked cautiously open, then swung.

The blade kicked in his hand and skated to one side, leaving
the orange untouched. He tried again. Same results.

“Are you timing this?” he asked, after his fourth attempt.
Hermione nodded.

“We’re past three minutes,” she said briskly. Superstition had
given way to purpose; she was studying the sweeping second
hand of her wristwatch as if the fate of the universe hung in
the balance. “Okay, we’re coming up to four. Try again.”

The cleaver bounced.

At six minutes, Draco dropped the cleaver and reached for his
wand.

At ten minutes, tiring of ducking the enchantments that kept
bouncing back at him, he threw the orange on the floor and
tried to squash it with his foot.

At fifteen, nursing a slightly twisted ankle, he took over the
stopwatch and let Hermione have a go.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. Thirty. “Talk about a magical
fruit,” Hermione panted, and Draco began to laugh
hysterically. (Be you wizard child or Muggle, that particular
little rhyme was universal.)

At forty minutes, the orange was still intact. “Forty-five,
coming up,” Draco said, and Hermione picked up the cleaver.

“On five,” she said. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One….”

Splat.

Trembling, breathing heavily, and sticky from head to foot,
they stared at each other from over the mangled remains of the
Little Citrus That Could. “Forty-five minutes,” Hermione said
softly, her tone disbelieving. “Forty-five minutes.”

Draco’s brain was blank with shock, immobilized with a growing
tidal wave of euphoria. “What do we do now?” he said slowly,
and was answered with a fierce, blazing smile that, in
retrospect, he wasn’t sure he liked.

“Snape,” she said. “We go tell Snape. And the sooner the
better.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Three

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

Severus was awakened from his post-Christmas tea armchair doze
by the sound of pounding fists on the door and muffled calls
of: "Professor? Professor, are you there?" He cracked one eye
blearily open, glared at the door, then exchanged a baleful
glance with the similarly awakened Sal.

"Don't look at me," Sal yawned. "I haven't been anyone's
'Professor' for eight hundred years."

In response to this bit of witticism, Snape growled and
hoisted himself to his feet. "Malfoy and Granger," he
predicted darkly. Sal grinned.

"How do you know?"

Severus made a face. "Malfoy's a Slytherin prefect. All the
prefects know the way to my rooms, in case there's an
emergency and I'm needed in the dormitory. To narrow it down
further, he's the only one who stayed at school for the
holidays."

Except, of course, for the two who'd spent their Christmas in
Hermione Granger's jewelry box. He winced.

"And the lovely Miss Granger?" Sal inquired lazily. Severus
clenched his teeth.

"Is the only present inhabitant of this castle who's foolhardy
enough to batter down my door on Christmas afternoon." He
strode over to the door, yanked it open, and scowled down at
them. "What?"

At his tone, Draco paled and took a step back - clever boy,
thought Severus - but Hermione, for some reason, was beyond
apprehension. "Professor," she bubbled, and rocketed past him
into his parlor like a cork from a bottle of shaken champagne.
"Oh - Sal! Happy Christmas!"

She was holding, Severus noticed now, a covered plastic jar of
something that was either Armoring Fluid or cranberry juice.
"We've done it," she said exultantly - "we've really done it.
You have to see this."

Just because he was curious didn't mean he was going to let
her off the hook that easily. "Miss Granger, do you know what
the word privacy means?" he snapped. "For that matter, shall I
explain to you, in small words that you'll understand, the
meaning of the term national holiday?"

Or - this unspoken - the words stay away from me?

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"This can't wait," she said, not looking the least bit
apologetic. "It's really big news - I promise you."

She glanced past him, as if for corroboration, to Draco, who
was still lurking warily on the far side of the threshold.
Though more cautious than she, he too seemed lit from within
with suppressed excitement. Severus knew when he was beaten;
sighing, he beckoned Draco in and closed and warded the door
behind him.

"Am I to understand," he asked - as disagreeably as possible,
just so she wouldn't think she'd won any concessions from him
- "that the two of you have made some amazing breakthrough
concerning the Armoring Fluid?"

Hermione nodded. Severus smirked.

"And how," he asked silkily, "did you intend to prove it to
me?"

He should have known that she'd call his bluff.

If anything, his snarkiness added to her high spirits.
Unscrewing the jar lid, Hermione swirled the container twice
as if she were preparing to sample a fine port, tipped a
generous slug of the potion down her throat, and shot them all
- he, Draco, and Sal - a gleeful, almost maniacal smile.

"I," she said, "am now welcoming all curses great and small."
To his extreme displeasure, Severus saw her wink at Draco.
"Have at it."

He didn't wait for a second invitation.

**

By the time twenty minutes had passed, however, his state of
mind had travelled the country from Sleep to Annoyance, paused
briefly for tea and scones at Surprise and Grudging
Admiration, and was now hovering with the needle stuck firmly
on Unadulterated Shock. Tossing his wand aside, he ducked the
playful Jelly-Legs Draco had thrown at Hermione, and picked up
the half-empty jar of potion.

"What did you add?" he asked. Hermione looked smug.

"Powdered copper carbonate hydroxide," she said with a wicked
little grin, then relented when he glared at her. "Also known
as the mineral malachite. As it turns out, that's the active
ingredient in the lacewings. We did a chemical analysis, then
substituted the pure mineral for the trace amounts found in
the insects' bodies." She shot him an arch look. "I told you
they were the weak link, remember?"

Snape stuck his tongue in one cheek, impressed despite
himself. Sal chortled.

"Muggle chemistry, eh?" he said. "Good for you. We wizards are
an inbred lot, aren't we, that we didn't think of that before.
How long has this potion been around, anyway, Severus?"

"Six hundred years," Snape said absently. "Give or take." He
dipped one finger in the potion and touched it to the tip of
his tongue. The bloody tang of copper sat heavily on his
palate. His mind was racing.

"How long does it last?" he asked.

"Almost forty-five minutes," Draco said, tossing a final
Impedimenta in Hermione's direction and grinning at his
professor's look of shock. Hermione dodged the curse and
dropped lightly onto the rug by the hearth, drawing her knees
up to her chin.

"And this is just the prototype," she said. "We haven't even
started to play around with the ratios yet. I'm sure that,
given a bit of time, we could nudge it up to an hour. Maybe
more."

"Forty-five minutes," Snape echoed blankly. Hermione beamed at
him.

"Well?" she asked. "What do you think?"

"That you're too damn smart for your own good," he said. "Both
of you. And that we'd better go wake up the Headmaster." His
gaze swept some faraway interior landscape, rueful and
assessing in equal parts.

"This isn't a potion," he said, almost to himself. "It's a
bloody revolution."

**

Further experimentation with the chemistry set did, in fact,
produce better results. The formula in its final incarnation
prolonged the structural integrity of the new supply of
Sacrificial Fruit by precisely one hour and six minutes - long
enough, as Sal commented, to make the most persistent of foes
give up and head home for a nap and a couple of pints.

Hermione, as the mastermind behind the miracle serum, was
called into the Headmaster's office two days before classes
resumed - Dumbledore was there, and Professor McGonagall, but
also Mad-Eye Moody, and Remus Lupin, and a large black dog in
the corner, as well as a handful of grim-looking others
Hermione didn't know. Also there was a very old, bespectacled
wizard who didn't seem to belong with the others. It was to
him that Hermione was first introduced.

His name, Dumbledore told her, was Algernon Wandlesworth, and
he was the Head of the Magical Patents Office at the Ministry
of Magic.

"This potion," explained Wandlesworth, "is your creation, and
we want to make sure that it remains yours. Albus here tells
me that you're responsible not only for the improvements on
the Armoring Fluid, but also for a new substance altogether,
which you're calling - ahem -" here he peered over his
spectacles at his notes - "ah, yes. The Protection Potion. In
addition, you've formulated a working English translation of
Giovanni Palestrina's notes for the Illuminata Elixir, and you
own the copyright to that translation as well. Quite an
industrious young lady." He held out a quill. "If you'll just
sign here Ö and here Ö"

Hermione stared at the proffered quill as if it might bite
her.

"Wait," she said. "I didn't do all this so I could own it, or
make money from it! I don't want these copyrights!"

An uneasy pause followed, and was broken by Dumbledore
clearing his throat.

"That's not the issue, Hermione," he said kindly. "No one's
accusing you of being mercenary - quite to the contrary! But
if your work is copyrighted, it gains an added degree of
magical protection - and it means that if samples find their
way somehow to unfriendly hands, they'll be much more
difficult to analyze and duplicate."

Hermione frowned, unconvinced. "But we duplicate potions in
class all the time," she said. Wandlesworth lifted a bony,
pedantic finger of dissent.

"Those are in the public domain," he inserted. "Or special
permission has been granted to study them. However, almost
every magical discovery made during this century has indeed
been placed under copyright protection. And rightly so."

"Oh." She hadn't known that.

"Not to mention," Dumbledore added gently, "that if this
knowledge belongs solely to you, we will be legally able to
create, disseminate and monitor the Protection Potion solely
from the safe haven of Hogwarts. Don't forget, Hermione," he
said, a hint of heaviness in his tone, "that we are indeed at
war - even if our battles are invisible thus far. It is of
utmost importance that a defensive weapon of this magnitude
not fall into the hands of Lord Voldemort."

Put that way, how could she refuse? But one more thing niggled
at the edges of her conscience, and she couldn't proceed
without clearing it up.

"What about Draco?" she asked. "He was my partner. And what
about Professor Snape, my advisor? This was very much a joint
effort - I couldn't have done it by myself."

"We've spoken with both of those individuals already,"
Wandlesworth said, a touch of impatience creeping into his
quavering old voice. "They declined to be named on the
copyright agreement."

Hermione looked inquiringly at Dumbledore. He gave her a
reassuring smile in return.

"This was your brain child, Hermione," he said. "Both Draco
and Severus know that. You needn't feel guilty about taking
credit for it."

And so she signed the documents with the quill Wandlesworth
was still holding out for her, filled with a peculiar cerulean
ink that seemed to shimmer in the air above the signature line
for several seconds, like a heat mirage, then implant itself
so deeply in the parchment that it appeared to be engraved.
When the old Ministry official had gone, Dumbledore clapped
his hands and beamed at the group who remained, and had been
muttering quietly amongst themselves in the far corner of his
office.

"Right, then," he said brightly. "Agenda item Number Two.
Everyone, this is the formidable Miss Granger." (At this,
Lupin chuckled, and Professor McGonagall hmmphed.) Dumbledore
himself, Hermione thought, had never been more twinkly.

"Hermione," he said, "meet the Order of the Phoenix. They'd
like to see a little demonstration."

**

That was an experience. But it was nothing at all compared to
two mornings later, when Hermione woke once again before her
alarm could wake her, dressed in the dark, and tiptoed down
past the roomfuls of newly-arrived Gryffindors toward the main
grounds, shivering under the Invisibility Cloak. The sapphire
pendant had been cut out of its prison in her robe pocket, and
seemed almost to buzz with anger and anxiety as it lay against
the front of her jumper. To console herself, Hermione fingered
its Replica on her charm bracelet.

During the Christmas holidays, they'd finally gotten snow,
deep and wet and heavy; by the time Hermione reached the
hidden bend between the castle and the front gates, she was
soaked to the knees. She found a sheltered place by some
overhanging brush, where the snow had drifted in balletic
curves and the ground behind the drifts lay bare and brown,
then waved her wand toward the churning path of her progress
and muttered a Banishment Charm.

The footprints disappeared, leaving only a smooth ocean of
foot-deep snow, shining lavender and tranquil in the
not-quite-dawn. Okay, Hermione thought, and stroked the little
silver cat-charm once for reassurance, biting her lip as it
mewed and butted its tiny head against her finger.

Okay. Time to do it.

She closed her eyes, found her focus, pointed her wand at the
middle of that lake of snow, and whispered, "Libero!"

A moment later, all hell broke loose.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Four

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

One minute, there was nothing. And then there they were,
staggering and shaky-kneed and staring wildly about them in
the darkness for glimpses of their invisible attacker.
Hermione felt a maelstrom of dark energy swirl out of the
pendant as they left it with an almost audible hiss, like air
escaping from a punctured tyre, and reeled in shock at her
body’s sudden feeling of lightness.

She was reeling for other reasons, too.

About certain things, Sal had been right on the money;
obviously the Initiates didn’t remember their sojourn in her
robe pocket, or for that matter realise that any time had
passed since their last moment by the lake and this one. He
had, however, been slightly misleading about the adverse side
effects of the process. He’d said they’d be dizzy and
disoriented, but only after months in Entrapment, and now
Hermione cursed herself for believing him so readily; the
effects of the Slytherins’ imprisonment, combined with their
pre-Initiation nerves and Hermione’s sneaking up on them from
behind, had pushed them over the edge from mere apprehension
into pure blind panic.

She ducked a little lower behind her sheltering snowdrift and
watched in horrified fascination as they went to pieces;
fumbling for wands, whirling and stumbling in the heavy
knee-deep snow that had been, to them, only a bare glittering
crunch of frost under their feet mere seconds earlier. It was
too dim to see clearly, but Hermione caught glimpses here and
there as they staggered and shouted and fired random panicked
curses into the darkness.

The friendly-fire casualties were mounting at an alarming
rate, inflicted as often by fists and elbows and feet as by
their wands. Goyle, poleaxed by Avery’s Stunning Spell,
wavered unsteadily for a moment and then pitched sideways into
the snow, managing to take Crabbe down with him. Simone
MacNair, one of the seventh-year prefects, lost her footing
just as she shouted a Disfigurement Hex; Pansy, who had taken
the full brunt of the curse, shrieked as her skin came alive
with angry red weals, and began frantically, mindlessly, to
claw at the lesions on her face.

Pansy had laughed at her, two years ago under similar
circumstances, down in the Potions corridor - Hermione was
sure that she would remember that afternoon, and that
humiliation, for the rest of her life. Now, however, she
couldn’t find it in her soul to derive enjoyment from Pansy’s
suffering.

After all, in a way, she’d caused it.

And Millicent Bulstrode, whom Hermione had never liked much
but who had, from that first moment on the castle steps, been
the most frightened and miserable of them all, took one
wild-eyed look around her, stumbled a few steps away from the
mêlée, went down on her knees, and vomited into a virgin
snowbank.

Hermione couldn’t take it anymore.

“Stupefy!” she cried, stepping out from behind her drift of
snow - and stared for a moment down at the Slytherins’
suddenly prone bodies, her lips trembling.

For all her high-minded idealism and righteous indignation,
Sal had been right about one more thing. His was by far the
kinder way to do it.

She closed her eyes and lifted her wand with a shaking hand. “
Obliviate,” she said clearly into the morning stillness, then
opened her eyes again and took a good hard look at the
unconscious recipients of her good intentions.

Would she do it all over again? Maybe.

But now that it was done, she thought fiercely, she was never
using the Trapping Spell again, as long as she lived.

**

She used the Keyhole to beam herself straight into Elysium,
threw her robes into a hamper and herself into the shower, and
scrubbed her skin viciously until it felt raw. By the time the
cold, unhappy little band of Slytherins had been found by
Hagrid on the grounds and shepherded back up to the Great
Hall, she’d been at breakfast for fifteen minutes, ignoring
the platters of food heaped temptingly along the table and
staring morosely into a glass of milk.

The Gryffindors were in emotional flux, which Hermione would
have found amusing if her mood hadn’t been so foul. Harry’s
relationship with Ginny clearly hadn’t taken a turn for the
better during his two-week stay at the Burrow. They were
pointedly ignoring each other; Harry with his head in a
well-thumbed copy of My Lover, My Snitch by the much-fêted,
much-feinted Wronski, Ginny with her hair finger-combed over
one shapely shoulder, fluttering her lashes at the Slytherin
table and taking time out for a wink in Hermione’s direction.

Hermione managed a wan smile, but Ron wasn’t remotely amused.

“I swear,” he muttered in Hermione’s ear, “I wish Fred and
George were back to make her see reason - she’s got less sense
than a flobberworm, that girl.” He sent a narrow-eyed glare in
Draco’s direction. “And if he thinks he can take advantage of
her infatuation, well, I’ll …”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Hermione sighed heavily. Enough is
enough.

“Ron,” she said, “what are those things on either side of your
nose?”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“You know,” she said patiently. “Partly white, partly that
greeny-gold colour, little black dot in the middle, fringe
around the edges?”

He looked blank. She sighed again.

“Your eyes, you idiot.”

“What about them?”

“Do you use them for anything except avoiding Bludgers? Or
have you not been avoiding them often enough?”

He scowled at her. “What are you getting at, Hermione?”

Well, it’s already been a lousy day, Hermione thought. Might
as well get everything out in the open, while I’m still in a
bad enough mood not to care what happens afterwards.

“Ron,” she said. “Ginny isn’t interested in Draco.”

This earned her a contemptuous smirk. “What, are you blind?
She’s arse over teakettle.”

“Yes, but not for Draco,” Hermione said. “For Harry. And he
for her, though they’re both being thick about it presently.”
She squared her shoulders. “Besides, Draco already has a
girlfriend.”

“Who?” Ron demanded suspiciously, looking torn between the
revelation that his best friend wanted to make it with his
sister and the promise of new gossip. “Parkinson? That hag.”

“Me,” Hermione said shortly, and almost laughed when his mouth
fell open.

“You’re joking.”

“I assure you I’m not.”

“You? You? With Malfoy? You’re having me on.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

He was laughing now. “Prove it.”

Hermione made a disgusted sound in her throat. I can’t believe
I’m about to do this, she thought, then slapped her hands on
the table and stood up. “Fine,” she bit out, and stalked
purposefully over to the Slytherin table without another word.

Draco was reading over the assigned chapter in his Charms
textbook and placidly shoveling in oatmeal. He looked up when
she tapped him on the shoulder, and lifted one eyebrow in mild
surprise.

“Hi,” he said, looking faintly apprehensive. “How are you?”

“Tired of sneaking around,” she said, and cupped one hand
possessively around the back of his neck.

Before he could reply to this, or comment on her state of
mind, she was already kissing him.

**

It wasn’t particularly lengthy, or particularly deep, or for
that matter particularly enjoyable. As kisses went, Draco
thought, this one was pretty thin on sensation.

Who cared? It was public.

Hermione Granger was kissing him in front of the whole school.

As she drew away, he caught a glimpse of Ron Weasley’s open
mouth, and the empty seat next to him. Aha. That’s why.

But just when he’d steeled himself for her to leave, to
abandon him for the Gryffindor table, she pulled up a chair
opposite him and slid into it, blithely ignoring the curious
stares and scandalised whispers sweeping the Great Hall.

“Do you mind?” she asked, and dug into his oatmeal with an
extra spoon without waiting for his answer. “I’ve had a
terrible morning.”

Wordlessly, he pushed the cereal her way and wrapped both
hands around the bowl of his water goblet, his heart too full
to speak.

Maybe - just maybe - she loved him, after all.

**

Hermione saw Lucius Malfoy that afternoon, sweeping up the
staircase to Dumbledore’s office in the company of some other
angry-faced witches and wizards, looking like - as her
grandmother would have put it - a cancer cell on its way to
the brain stem. He saw her, too, and paused long enough to
give her a lengthy and extremely unpleasant stare. She
returned his look with as much equanimity as she could summon,
then turned her feet reluctantly toward the Arithmancy
classroom.

She’d give anything to be a fly on that wall.

She wouldn’t mind knowing what transpired in the Initiates’
interview with Dumbledore, either - but though rumours
abounded, nothing concrete was to be had via the student
grapevine. All anyone really knew for sure was that they’d
gone straight from the Entrance Hall to the Headmaster’s
office, and straight from Dumbledore to the hospital wing,
where they were presently in seclusion - presumably for
exposure.

After a few days, they returned to class, but in a highly
subdued state; Hermione noticed that the four sixth-years in
the group tended to travel in a worried little clump, avoiding
contact with other students, and that Millicent in particular
still jumped at sudden noises.

Others had noticed this, too; Hermione herself discovered
Dennis Creevey with a lighted Filibuster firecracker, ready to
toss it in Millicent’s direction. By the time she’d finished
her taut-faced, whispered tirade, he accepted the fifteen
points she deducted from Gryffindor meekly, tripped over
himself getting away from her, and avoided her the rest of the
week.

She wished she could deal with her own guilt so easily.

But then, there were other things to think about as well.

Ron, for example, still turned pink and incredulous whenever
he looked at her. Her attempted jump-start to the Harry-Ginny
romance hadn’t even gotten their relationship out of the
driveway. And … whatever the Death Eaters had said to
Dumbledore, that first afternoon of January classes, Hermione
was certain it wasn’t good.

Security was being subtly tightened, to a degree that it
hadn’t been since Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban: the
professors were supplementing the prefects’ nightly rounds
with patrols of their own; all students were required to be
inside the castle by dusk; Harry reported that he’d seen
Hagrid deep in conversation with a centaur, a few nights
previous, and that Hagrid had walked away from the
conversation and gone straight to Dumbledore.

As for her research project, it had taken a sudden leap from
the theoretical to the practical. A great cask of powdered
malachite had been shipped to Hogwarts, express, and she,
Draco and Snape were spending every free moment they had in
mass production of the Protection Potion.

Something - something big - was about to happen. Hermione just
wished she knew what it was.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Five

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

They were scheduled to visit Hogsmeade, the third weekend in
January. But to say that the weather proved inclement would be
the equivalent, Hermione thought ruefully, of referring to the
Giant Squid as a maki roll. That whole week prior, it had
snowed - steadily on and on, one storm piled on another, until
the drifts reached to the middle of Hagrid's thighs, meaning
everyone else's shoulders, and the swirling of white-on-white
outside the windows seemed to Hermione like an extension of
the aggrieved static in her brain: vaguely foreboding,
searching in vain for a signal that made sense.

Herbology had been cancelled until further notice, as had Care
of Magical Creatures. By the time they could have fought their
way through the drifts to the greenhouses, or down to the
gamekeeper's cottage, they would have frostbite and the class
would be over. Homework in their remaining classes, meanwhile,
was minimal; the faculty were preoccupied and irritable and,
Hermione suspected, not much in the mood for grading
assignments or reading papers.

They could have done with a touch more homework right now, in
her opinion - the student body, in unconscious reaction to
their teachers' lack of academic focus, seemed restive and
jittery, unsure of how to handle their half-holiday. The
Gryffindor common room in particular, historic haven of
sophomoric hijinks as it was, seethed with latent energy
looking for a likely outlet.

Filch, as a result, was working overtime. And complaining
every step of the way.

Harry and Ginny, for their part, had progressed in their
relationship from Mutual Avoidance to a peculiar form of
mating ritual that involved thinly-veiled insults and
sarcastic, snarky asides just loud enough to be overheard by
their intended target. Because they both appeared to be
enjoying this so much, Hermione decided to take it as a
hopeful sign - and invited both of them, this particular
Saturday evening, for conversation and Bunsen-burner cocoa in
Elysium.

After a bit of soul-searching, she decided to invite Ron, too.

**

She had expected Ron to be outraged upon discovering the
identity of her current paramour, but the vibe she was getting
wasn't so much anger as it was extreme discomfort. The other
Gryffindors might send her worried, assessing glances from the
corners of their eyes when they thought she wasn't looking -
the Slytherins might hiss and whisper among themselves when
they passed her in the halls. But Ron's regard lay on her
heavily and openly, his handsome face an open book of troubled
concern overlaid with ... with ... well, with
she-didn't-know-what. And though he made no efforts to hide
this, he went out of his way to avoid situations where the two
of them might find themselves alone.

It had gone on for nearly three weeks, and that was long
enough. Hermione decided to take the matter in hand, and went
in search of him.

In the end, she found him in the Owlery, absently stroking
Pigwidgeon's feathery little belly and staring moodily out
toward the Quidditch stands - if they couldn't walk outside in
this weather, it was a sure bet that no one was going to let
them fly, and Hermione had often thought that Ron, despite his
more ordinary, less-astounding talent, loved Quidditch far
more than Harry. He turned around when he heard footsteps,
then, seeing that it was her, turned back toward the window.
Hermione came up beside him and busied herself for a few
minutes with scratching an ecstatic Pig under his nonexistent
chin.

"It's bound to let up sooner or later," she offered finally,
as an ice-breaker. "You'll be back on broomstick in no time."

He nodded, but his glum look deepened. "Trelawney's predicting
hail for the rest of next week."

"Trelawney," said Hermione with a touch of asperity, "couldn't
predict jam on toast." Ron snickered reluctantly.

"That class got a whole lot less interesting when you left
it," he said. "Harry and I used to sit there and wish you were
still there to hear some of the crap she pulled. It's never as
good when you repeat it second-hand."

Hermione snorted in mock outrage. "So I'm a source of
amusement now, eh? Glad to know that my misery at the hands of
that old bat went to some use, at least." She peered at his
profile intently - was that the start of a smile she saw?
"Ron," she said. "We have to talk. You haven't said three
words in a row to me for almost a month now." She took a deep
breath. " I miss you."

Ron's face went from cautious amusement to careful,
noncommittal blankness. "Seems to me," he said slowly, "that
you've had plenty of distractions. My presence surely
shouldn't make that much of a difference."

"You know that's not true." Hermione shouldered in closer,
dislodging a disgruntled Pigwidgeon from the windowsill so she
could sit on it and face Ron full-on. "We've been friends,"
she said urgently, "for six years. Since we were babies. When
you're angry with me, I feel it. Believe me."

His lips compressed, and he dropped his eyes. "I'm not angry
with you, Hermione."

"Then what is it, if it's not anger?" she asked quietly.
"Something's wrong between us, I can tell. And I don't want
this to be like third-year, when we went months without
speaking over something silly."

That, she realized immediately, was the wrong thing to say.

"Silly?" Ron queried sharply. "You sleep with him, with the
son of my father's worst enemy, and you don't even have the
decency to pretend that it's serious?"

"That's not what I meant," Hermione protested. "Of course it's
serious!" She glared at him. "You know me better than that,
Ron. I wouldn't sleep with him if I didn't care about him - if
he didn't care about me, too."

At that, Ron seemed to deflate. "No," he admitted. "You
wouldn't, would you?"

He studied her for a moment, opened his mouth as if to speak,
then closed it again.

"What?" Hermione prodded gently, and he laughed - a short,
sharp sound utterly without humour.

"I was just thinking that this is exactly like Quidditch," he
said. "My instincts are good, but my timing sucks."

Hermione frowned. "Sorry?"

He gave her a look so full of bittersweet candour that she
almost recoiled from it. "I thought you were still pining over
Krum, last year," he said. "You don't know how many times I
wanted to ask you out and then didn't at the last minute. I
was psyching myself up for it, all summer ... and then you
started getting those damned secret-admirer notes, our very
first morning back." He shook his head. "Those were Malfoy's,
too?"

Hermione nodded. Ron's mouth twisted in a grim smile.

"Figures. And then - over the last few weeks - I've been
thinking, and it's the worst thought of all." He hesitated.
Hermione laid an encouraging hand on his arm.

"Yes?"

"Well, it's just ..." He closed his eyes against a suspicious
glitter of moisture. "Even if there was no Malfoy, Hermione -
it was never going to be me, was it? And I had always thought
it would be, you see."

Hermione felt her heart crack, felt tears shimmer behind her
lashes. Oh, Ron, she thought, and would have reached out for
him if she'd thought he'd let her. "I can't answer that," she
said quietly. "I really don't know."

"I wish I could hate him," Ron said, staring past her out the
window. "I wish he hadn't beaten up Avery. I'd feel a whole
lot more self-righteous if he was really the rat bastard I
used to think he was."

"He's not."

"I know."

They stood in silence for another couple of minutes, staring
out at the swirling snow, Pigwidgeon cheeping happily from his
perch on Ron's shoulder. "Ron?" Hermione ventured finally.

"Yeah."

She swallowed hard. "As long as we're talking again ..."

He stiffened. "Yeah?"

"Well, there are some other things I need to fill you in on,"
she said. "Maybe we'd better go somewhere where we can sit
down."

**

So there they all were, the next night, sprawled on conjured
pillows next to Elysium's merrily crackling hearth and - for
the moment, at least - putting aside their differences in the
interest of biscuits and hot chocolate, though Draco looked
wary, Ron still seemed a bit uncomfortable, and Harry and
Ginny were sending each other smoldering glances over their
cocoa cups. Hermione made a mental note to lend Ginny Like
Water for Chocolate - in the absence of a boyfriend with a
clue, it was the witch's perfect romance novel - and adroitly
steered the conversation into neutral waters.

Check that. Not neutral, exactly. But there was nothing like a
good mystery for breeding solidarity among the disparate.

Dumbledore and his staff, they all agreed, had begun acting
oddly ever since Lucius Malfoy's second visit. Therefore, it
was a pretty sure bet that the impending threat had to do with
him.

The only other thing they knew for certain was that they were
all possible targets.

"Let's count the clichÈs," Ginny said, swallowing the last of
her biscuit and holding up one finger. "Harry's the Boy who
Lived. Draco's the Fils du Couteau and also the Prodigal Son.
You and I, Ron, are Symbols of His Political Opposition. And
Hermione ..."

Ron snorted. "Hermione," he said, "you're no clichÈ. Not from
the story I've heard." He took a sip of hot chocolate. "You're
just the biggest pain in the arse he's ever had to deal with,
that's all. Everything he's set in place, you've knocked to
smithereens. He must loathe you."

They all stared at each other, acknowledging the truth of
this.

"Right," Harry said quietly. "If he goes after anyone, it's
going to be you. So you're the one we'll watch."

Hermione made a face. "If it were just me," she said tartly,
"we wouldn't all be locked in the castle, now, would we? My
guess is that the Hogwarts castle is warded against hostile
enchantments, to a greater extent than the grounds. We may be
Voldemort's most annoying enemies, but we aren't his greatest
ones. I'm going to have to put Dumbledore at the top of that
list." She paused. "And Snape."

"Snape?" Ron asked, startled (Hermione, not tempting fate, had
decided to tactfully leave her Illuminata Encounter out of his
version of the story, and had kept Snape securely in his role
as Faculty Advisor). "What does he have to do with anything?"

Draco, though, was nodding in agreement. "You're right," he
said, then turned to Ron. "Snape isn't a Death Eater anymore,"
he said. "Not even an ex-Death Eater. He burned off the Dark
Mark using undiluted Illuminata, and if I understand anything
about the way it works, probably did some damage to Voldemort
in the process. That Mark wasn't just a tattoo - it was an
magical conduit for Dark enchantments. Lucius has long
suspected that Voldemort can read his mind through it, and I
know he can communicate that way. I've seen it happen."

They all stared at him, open-mouthed. He shrugged.

"What can I say? He welcomes it. He's a psychotic."

"But Snape," Ginny said, and Draco nodded again.

"Exactly. There aren't two men born who are more different
than Lucius Malfoy and Snape. He probably hated that thing."

"You don't happen to know," Hermione said slowly, "how long he
was a Death Eater, do you?"

Draco shook his head. "I don't know when he joined," he said.
"But I know why he quit. Lucius was in rages about it for
weeks."

He hesitated, took another sip of his hot chocolate, then gave
Harry an unreadable look that might have contained an element
of compassion in its grey depths. "Snape went to Dumbledore,"
he said, "the minute he found out that your parents were being
considered for possible assassination by Voldemort and his
cabal of freakshows. And he never went back again."

**

The next week proved sunny and almost mild - "just another
nail in the coffin of Trelawney's credibility," Hermione
exulted to Ron; "I told you!" In the wake of the sunshine,
Lucius Malfoy reappeared, demanding a private audience with
his son. Draco was duly summoned, and Hermione waited
impatiently outside the door, underneath the Invisibility
Cloak, for his return. He was out within fifteen minutes,
carrying a parcel under his arm and looking bewildered.

"What did he want?" Hermione asked once they were safely in
Elysium, and Draco shrugged.

"It was weird. He was all ... fatherly. Patted me on the
shoulder and apologized for shouting at Christmas. Gave me
some new robes that my mother sent ... not that I'll wear
them, I think. Here. Take a look."

They ran every Dark Magic detector against those robes they
could think of, and even took them down to Sal for
suggestions, but they seemed perfectly innocuous. Draco took
them to Dumbledore for disposal anyway - "just to be on the
safe side," he murmured to Hermione.

She didn't blame him, not one little bit.

Paths were cleared to the greenhouses and Hagrid's cottage,
whether by manual means or magical they didn't know, but in
any event classes resumed - though the extra security measures
remained. It would be a miracle, Draco murmured to Hermione,
if the Hogsmeade visit was rescheduled ... surely under these
circumstances, it would have been called off regardless of the
weather.

But the sign-up list went up on the activities board the very
next day; apparently Dumbledore was prepared to bend to
threats only so far, when doing so meant the disruption of
school routine. After a short, tense discussion, all five of
them signed up to go.

That Saturday dawned clear and brisk; after a look outside,
Hermione pulled on dungarees and a woolly jumper to wear under
her robes, dug a pair of insulated boots out of the bottom of
her closet in case the Hogsmeade roads weren't well-cleared,
and tucked a pair of gloves into the interior pocket of her
robes. Her charm bracelet jingled as she brushed her hair, and
her lips curved affectionately; just two days previously,
Draco had borrowed the bracelet back overnight and then
returned it with two additional charms attached - the Keyhole,
shrunk to miniature and silver-plated with her monogram
ornately engraved on the cover, and the matching key.

"In case," he'd said, "we get cold and want to come back
early."

He really was sweet.

She dabbed on sunscreen (her mother's advice: you keep your
skin all your life, you know) and lip gloss (Gram's: you never
know who you might meet on your way to lunch), stuffed a few
Sickles into her dungarees pocket, and headed for the stairs.
She found the rest of them waiting for her with tense,
expectant looks on their faces; the minute her feet hit the
floor of the Entrance Hall, they exploded with whispers.

"On the steps ..."

"Madam Pomfrey ..."

"You won't believe this ..."

Frowning, Hermione slipped through the goggling crowd and
peered over a third-year's shoulder at the front steps. Just
as usual, Professor McGonagall was standing there to check off
names. Beside her, however, was Madam Pomfrey. And beside her
was a huge box full of tiny glittering phials.

"Drink one now," she was directing Justin Finch-Fletchley.
"And take one for later." Justin shot a questioning look at
Professor McGonagall, who nodded crisply.

"These," she announced loudly to the line of waiting students,
"are to be used only in case of emergency. If you are accosted
by anyone unfamiliar - anyone at all - you are to break the
top of the phial and drink it immediately!"

Hermione's mouth fell open.

Before they left the grounds, she realised with a jolt, they
were all being provided with a double dose of Protection
Potion.

Whatever it was that wasn't right with the world, it was worse
than she'd thought.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Six

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They walked down from the castle past the lake to the school
gates, via a path that had been cleared for them through
drifts too high to see over. The path was only wide enough for
two people to walk abreast on it and was slightly narrower yet
at its top, filtering the winter sun that shone palely down
upon them into a chilly, colorless, strangely eerie
half-light. All in all, it was a solemn, whispering little
procession that wound its way down to the edge of Hogsmeade.
When they finally reached the gates, the students glanced
around them nervously, as if expecting Voldemort himself to
materialise from thin air, then took off hurriedly in rather
larger-than-usual groups.

Hermione was walking off with Draco, slightly trailing Harry,
Ron and Ginny, when she was halted by Professor McGonagall
calling her name.

“Miss Granger!”

They all stopped in their tracks. Hermione turned
questioningly around.

“Yes, Professor?”

McGonagall looked as if she wanted to say a great deal and was
biting it back through sheer willpower. Her black eyes were
worried and a bit softer than usual.

“For heaven’s sake, Hermione, be careful,” she said finally,
in a bit of a rush. “And the rest of you, too. That miracle
potion of yours won’t do you any good at all, if you don’t get
the chance to drink it.”

Looking a bit annoyed with herself for saying anything at all,
she turned abruptly on her heel and stalked in the opposite
direction, leaving the five of them to stare open-mouthed
after her.

“Well,” Hermione said after a moment’s silence, “let’s get on
with it, then.”

And on that less-than-encouraging note, they set off for the
middle of town.

**

Wizarding snow removal, Ron explained as they walked along,
was superior to its Muggle counterpart for one pivotal reason:
instead of merely displacing the snow from one location to
another, those in the magical community could use the twin
charms “Liquefy!” and “Evaporo!” in quick succession, to
actually transmutate the solid crystals - first into water,
then, literally, into thin air.

Generally, he said, this process was best attempted in pairs -
there were several well-documented cases in which unfortunate
witches or wizards had allowed their feet to get wet during
the Liquification procedure, to the point that they then
accidentally Evaporated their own shoes. But it was possible
to do it alone, if one was careful.

That was the plus side. On the other hand, the town of
Hogsmeade unfortunately didn’t appear to have snow-removal
policies or bylaws, or even a team of civil servants
responsible for the clearing of public paths. This regrettable
oversight meant that each individual resident simply cleared
their own passage to wherever it was they needed to go; a week
of this had turned the town into a veritable warren of
meandering, narrow tunnels, crisscrossing each other at random
angles and often ending in cul-de-sacs, as their creators
tired of clearing away the snow and simply Apparated the rest
of the way to their destinations.

Under certain circumstances, this could have been fun - on a
number of levels. Today, however, it seemed merely
inconvenient and vaguely sinister, and Hermione was glad when
they found themselves on a relatively well-travelled path that
continued all the way down Hogsmeade’s main street.

They visited all their usual haunts: Honeyduke’s, Zonko’s, the
Owl Emporium - then journeyed another block toward a
kaleidoscopic awning that proclaimed in swirling, psychedelic
colours that they had reached Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

Fred and George’s shop was more crowded than Zonko’s had been,
partly because the proprietors’ schoolboy pranks had passed
into Hogwarts legend, during their year of absence - and
partly because their products journeyed into a realm of
juvenile humour so ingeniously twisted, so scarily innovative,
that no one else could possibly have ever thought of them.

They were also savvy businessmen - Hermione, who when they’d
opened this shop had gifted them with Small Business for
Dummies, had watched in amused fascination as they’d gleefully
pulled every trick in the book: two-fer sales, free samples,
discounts, bribery. They’d even recruited a couple of
Gryffindor third-years (most notably, Dennis Creevey) to
disseminate their products around school, happily exchanging
merchandise for free advertising. Poor old Zonko, with his
eighteenth-century Biting Teacups and his dusty decks of
Exploding Snap, didn’t stand a chance.

Now, the twins whooped as Harry and Ron came through the door
(causing a fountain of green slime to shoot up from the floor,
drench them all in an inch of peppermint-scented sludge, then
magically melt away), and dragged them off to inspect their
new product line of Insulting Mirrors (“We’ve got you to thank
for these, Hermione!”).

Ginny, rolling her eyes, settled down to wait for them - Draco
and Hermione, however, eyeing the remainder of the displayed
merchandise nervously, decided that butterbeer was a safer
bet. They made plans to meet back up in front of the Owl
Emporium for lunch, waved good-bye to Fred and George, backed
nervously around the slime fountain, and set off for the Three
Broomsticks.

The pub was dim and noisy and full of students sheltering from
the cold, most of whom were debating the effects of the
Protection Potion in urgent whispers. Lavender and Seamus
waved Hermione and Draco over to the table they were sharing
with Dean and Parvati; as they threaded their way through the
crowd, Hermione heard Parvati hiss, “Ooooh - she’ll know!” and
had to bite back a grin.

They’d barely settled themselves at the table when Lavender
leaned forward eagerly.

“So,” she said. “Tell us all about it.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and busied herself with removing
the cap from her bottle of butterbeer. “About what?”

Lavender rolled her eyes. “About this, silly,” she said,
pulling the phial of Protection Potion out of her robes.
Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Draco, then shrugged.

“What makes you think I know any more than you do?”

Dean tipped back his butterbeer and took a long swallow.
“Because,” he said, setting down the bottle with a clink,
“Parvati and I overheard Madam Pomfrey say to McGonagall that
‘if Miss Granger hadn’t come up with this when she did, no one
would be setting foot outside the castle until graduation’.”

Four expectant faces swiveled more intently toward hers.
Hermione groaned inwardly.

No way she was weaseling out of this one.

“It’s my extra-credit Potions project,” she said grudgingly.
“Draco and I have been working on it together.”

Seamus looked nonplussed. “But what is it?” he asked. “What’s
it called, and what does it do?”

Draco cleared his throat. “It’s an augmented version of the
Armoring Fluid, that’s all,” he said dismissively. “Lasts just
a little over an hour, which makes it more worth its while
than the original.”

The occupants of the table digested this in silence. Finally,
Parvati spoke up in an apprehensive whisper.

“What do they think is going to happen?” she asked, her
graceful little hand gripping Dean’s for support. “Why did
they have us take it? What’s out there?”

“That,” Hermione said grimly, “is what we wish we knew.”

**

They left the much-subdued Gryffindors at the Three
Broomsticks and walked down toward Madam Malkin’s - Hermione
had ruined one of her school robes just that week with a
sizable spill of dragon’s-blood down the front, and wanted a
replacement. Draco declined to join her.

“I’ll be next door in Quality Quidditch,” he said. “There’s a
new Firebolt coming out, and I want to take a look at it. Meet
you out here?”

Hermione raised one eyebrow. “Boys and broomsticks,” she said
with a mock-sneer. “We could all go into convents for all you
lot would notice, as long as there were new racing brooms to
be had.”

“That’s not true!” he protested, and she laughed.

“I know … I’m just kidding. Have fun.”

She bought the new robes, as well as a small can of what
looked like a wizarding form of Scotchgard; hopefully, she
thought, it would prevent the same catastrophe from occurring
again. Wishing Madam Malkin and her establishment a cheerful
farewell, she headed out into the winter afternoon with
nothing on her mind but textile experiments and - more
immediately - lunch.

She was instantly distracted by the sight of a familiar
white-blond head, just now disappearing into a snow tunnel
with a backwards wink in her direction. “Draco?” she called
after him, puzzled, and heard his snow-muffled voice come back
to her.

“Over here - come on!”

Amused and exasperated in equal parts, she ducked into the
narrow passage and followed his fresh footprints through a
series of twists and turns. “Draco, come on,” she panted
finally as he hove into view, his back against the wall of an
abandoned oubliette, his pale ears pink with cold. “I’ve seen
enough of this snow to last me till I’m fifty. Let’s go eat
lunch.”

“In a minute,” he said, and pulled her into a kiss. She broke
free, laughing.

“What’s gotten into you?”

He nudged her against the wall of snow and nuzzled insistently
under the high collar of her robes, his cold nose making her
flinch and giggle. “Indulge me,” he murmured, and Hermione
gave in with a little half-sigh.

It felt quite wonderful, actually: cold air and warm skin
against her body at the same time, as his hands wandered
inside her robes - the hard insistence of his body pressing
her back - a hot line of kisses trailing from ear to
collarbone and back again that were most unlike his usual,
more gentle attentions.

Most unlike.

Wait a minute.

A warning bell, distant but unmistakable, began to clang in
the back of her brain. Hermione, in the grip of a sudden flash
of foreboding, struggled for calm.

“Honey,” she said, the unfamiliar endearment like ashes on her
tongue, “we have to meet Ginny at Honeyduke’s, remember?” She
pulled slightly away from him and cocked her head in feigned
confusion. “Or was it Zonko’s? I can’t remember.”

He shot her a look of slight impatience, then bent his head
again to administer more kisses to her neck. “Zonko’s,” he
murmured. “Just one more minute, and we’ll go. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmured, then put both hands on his shoulders and
shoved hard, sending him backwards into the snow. He stared up
at her, baffled.

“What the -?”

“Trick question,” Hermione said, closing her robe with shaking
hands and trying not to make it obvious that she was judging
the distance to the cul-de-sac’s exit. “It’s the Owl Emporium.
And I never call Draco ‘honey’. So who the hell are you?”

“Oh, I think you know,” he said, getting lazily to his feet -
and it was true; he was regarding her with an expression of
such satisfied, gloating malice that Hermione could find no
trace of her gentle lover in his stolen face or body.

On the other hand, he now looked very much indeed like his
father.

“Lucius,” she said coldly, and reached for her wand.

It wasn’t there.

“Looking for this?” he purred, and held it up just out of her
reach. “For such a clever girl, you’re easily seduced, aren’t
you?”

He’d taken it out of her robe pocket while he was kissing her,
Hermione realised, and knew also in that second that she’d
never make it to the exit.

Oh, Jesus, she thought as he advanced toward her, and had just
enough time to break the top of the little phial and drain the
swallow of potion inside it before he’d grabbed her arm and
Disapparated with her.

**

Draco emerged humming from Quality Quidditch Supplies and
grinned sheepishly at Hermione. “It’s a great broom,” he said,
linking his arm through hers. “Sorry it took me so long.
You’re not going to run off and join a convent, are you?”

She looked confused. “Convent? Why would I?”

That’s odd, Draco thought. That was her joke in the first
place. Why wouldn’t she remember it?

But then she smiled up at him, a carefree happy smile like the
ones he remembered from Rome, and snuggled a little closer to
his side.

“Never mind,” he said, dazzled by that smile; “it’s not
important. Come on - let’s go eat.”

Arm in arm, they set off toward the Owl Emporium to meet
Ginny.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Seven

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

The Three Broomsticks was too crowded, by the time they
reached it, for the five of them to find a table. Instead,
they backtracked two blocks to Fly-By Bite, a trendy
soup-and-sandwich café that catered to a slightly more
upscale, older crowd.

Since three hours had passed since they’d entered Hogsmeade,
and nothing awful had yet happened, their spirits were high;
while they waited for their food, Ron kept them entertained
with the VentroloQuill he was field-testing for Fred and
George. Speaking into it allowed you to send your voice
anywhere in the room, meaning that the evil possibilities were
endless. After a few trial runs (during which Ron told a small
bald wizard surreptitiously reading a romance novel at the
back table that his waitress found him irresistible, and
crooned a few bars of “La Vie en Rose” into the ear of an
elderly witch with horn-rimmed spectacles and large false
teeth), he settled into his most riotous trick yet -
repeatedly requesting a water refill from the the snooty
headwaiter at the front station, at an interval of thirty
seconds or so, and watching his elaborately waxed moustaches
quiver as he spun round and round again, trying to identify
the speaker.

Great fun, had by all. Hermione, however, was acting very
strangely, and Draco couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It
wasn’t so much that she was laughing as hard as the rest of
them at Ron’s misdemeanours, though it was true that normally
she’d frown on that sort of thing.

No, he thought, it wasn’t that; it was the questions. Odd
questions - simple questions, really - and all about the
Protection Potion: how was it made? what did it do? - things
she knew far more about, truth be told, than he did.

Either being out in the cold all morning had frozen her brain,
or she’d bumped her head really hard on the dressing-room door
at Madam Malkin’s. Come to think of it, she was acting a
little spacey - when she wasn’t asking questions whose answers
she already knew, she was staring up at him with gooey
calf-eyes and tickling his thigh under the table.

Bizarre.

The third time he gave her a puzzled look instead of an
answer, she finally shut up about the damned potion, took her
hand off his leg, and reached into the pocket of her robes,
drawing out a small bright-green canteen.

“What’s that?” he asked her curiously, and she shrugged.

“Distilled water,” she said, and grimaced toward the goblets
on their table. “No telling what’s in that stuff.”

Draco frowned. Since when had Hermione given a damn about
designer water?

And then he did a double take, looked her over more carefully,
and froze, so cold with sudden horror that goosebumps rose on
his forearms.

“Hermione,” he said casually, “where’s your bracelet?”

For just an instant, she looked blank. And in that second, he
knew, and cursed himself for a million kinds of idiot.

“You bitch,” he said softly, and ignoring the shocked stares
of the table’s other occupants, grabbed her canteen, wrenched
off the lid, and upended the contents into his empty water
goblet. The fluid inside was thick and sludgy and the colour
of clover honey, and wouldn’t in a million years of trying be
mistaken even once for bottled water.

“Polyjuice,” he said with a sinking heart, and Ginny gasped.

Harry’s wand was the first one out. “Immobilo!” he cried, and
the ersatz Hermione, about to go for her own wand, froze in
mid-motion. Ron reached over and plucked the wand from the
inside pocket of her robes, snapped it in half, then drew his
own and calmly finished off what Harry had begun with a
Binding Spell.

“Ginny,” he said, “run and find Snape, as fast as you can.
Whoever this is -“ and here he prodded their captive hard
under the chin with the sharp tip of the VentroloQuill - “she
wouldn’t be sitting here eating lunch with us if Hermione
weren’t already long-gone. We’re going to need to know who her
accomplice is - with any luck, Snape will have some
Veritaserum about him.” He glared at the now-cowering
impostor. “Or a whip.”

“It won’t do you any good,” Whoever-She-Was said sulkily as
Ginny pushed back her chair and streaked out of Fly-By Bite
like a small panicked flame. “I don’t know anything.”

“That’s too bad,” Draco said icily - his hands were shaking
with anger and an awful debilitating fear, but his voice
stayed clear and steady. “Because if anything happens to her -
anything at all - all that’s going to keep you out of Azkaban
is what you claim you don’t know. Assuming, of course, that
the three of us don’t hunt you down and kill you first. So
you’d better start talking.” Steadying his grip with his other
hand, he pointed his wand menacingly at her throat. “You can
start with your name. Who are you?”

The impostor opened her mouth, presumably to reply - but a
verbal reply was no longer necessary.

The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off.

Soft honey-coloured curls darkened before their eyes to a
brassy red permanent wave. The young slender body of a
seventeen-year-old girl shortened and thickened until her
Hermione-sized robes were stretched over this woman’s larger
frame like a sausage casing.

And in place of Hermione’s sweetly stubborn pre-Raphaelite
features, appeared a petulant, heavily-lipsticked face they
all knew far too well, and for all the wrong reasons. Ron’s
mouth dropped open.

“Rita Skeeter?”

**

Hermione supposed it could have been worse - though not much.
About the only happy thought she could summon right now was
that she had at least an hour before they could kill her.

Apart from that, life sucked swamp water.

They were in an old-fashioned sitting room, furnished with
heavy dark brocaded furniture thoroughly slipcovered in dust
and illuminated by a wall of cobwebby mullioned windows
through which Hermione couldn’t see. No telling where they
were, she thought, but she was guessing they hadn’t left the
British Isles - for one thing, the pale washed-out light was
the same; for the other, the room’s furnishings reminded her
vaguely of the backgrounds in old Granger family portraits.

Not that it mattered, really. Location was the least of her
worries.

Someone - Lucius, maybe, or one of the other Death-Eaters -
had imbedded an iron ring in the floor - it added a charming
touch of Medieval Dungeon to the room’s décor, Hermione
thought sarcastically, and managed to say as much aloud before
two dark-masked minions grabbed her arms, allowing Lucius to
manacle her foot to the ring by way of a heavy iron chain.
After that, they undressed her - or rather, the Minions
pinioned her arms behind her back, while Lucius-not-Draco cut
off her robes and everything underneath them with a
wicked-looking bejeweled stiletto.

For a few extraordinarily bad moments, she thought she might
cry. Then rage took over - no calmer an emotion, perhaps, but
better by far than terror.

And then she managed, somehow, to summon out of all that anger
a small useful bit of the stubborn rock-hard core that was
her, and that might save her if she could use it. She closed
her eyes for a moment, planning her offensive strategy, then
gritted her teeth and faced her abductor.

Damned if she’d let him see her sweat.

Besides, he couldn’t really do anything to her for almost an
hour - and surely she’d have figured out a way out of here by
then, wouldn’t she?

“Pretty little dagger you’ve got there,” she said coolly,
staring him straight in the face - Lucius, not Draco; remember
that! - and pretending to appraise the gems on the handle
while he used it to slice through her brassiere. “Borrow it
from your wife?”

“It’s an heirloom,” he said sharply, surprised at her
equanimity and clearly offended at the insult to his weapon.
Ha, Hermione thought, and decided to press her advantage.

“I thought it must be,” she said sweetly. “My grandmother uses
something just like it to open her fan mail. I’ve always
admired her for keeping her femininity as she aged - that’s so
important, don’t you think?”

One of the Minions laughed, then disguised it as a cough.
Lucius looked disgruntled.

“If I were you, I’d keep that clever little mouth closed,” he
said warningly. Hermione blinked innocently.

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I think it’s wonderful. So many men
never really find their softer side, no matter how much Leo
Buscaglia they read.” She looked askance at the sparkling
knife. “A pity it’s mostly for show, isn’t it?”

Lucius-not-Draco reddened. “Oh, it’s sharp enough, all right,”
he said, an ugly smirk on his face, and slid the razor edge of
the blade insinuatingly over one of her cheekbones. It seemed
to infuriate him that she didn’t cringe away. “I was going to
save this for later, but if you want a taste now -“

It gave Hermione great satisfaction when the stiletto veered
sharply away from her skin at the last minute and gave him a
nasty cut on his thumb.

“Uh-oh,” she said, and put on a moué of faux concern as he
swore and sucked on his injured digit. “Better go home and let
Narcissa put a Band-Aid on that. You can tell her you managed
to cut me, if it’ll make you feel better.”

The Minions sniggered. Lucius looked furious. Hermione
grinned.

This was more like it: Hermione 1, Death Eaters 0. And
forty-five more minutes before they could turn the tables.

Her hopeful frame of mind slipped a bit when she noticed the
matching ring in the ceiling. Putting on a cheap girlie show
for her boyfriend’s evil father and his henchmen was one
thing. But she’d been counting on having her hands free, once
they got her naked.

This was the thing.

All she had to do, to get out of here, was get to the key and
the Keyhole hanging around her right wrist. But in order to do
that, she’d have to take off the bracelet. As a fuming
Lucius-not-Draco - God, don’t crack now, Hermione; it’s his
father, it’s not him - looped rope around her wrists and tied
them off to the ceiling ring, she felt that particular escape
route slipping inexorably away.

Hermione 1, Death Eaters 1.

Forty minutes.

He sent the Minions away and carefully wiped dust off one of
the brocaded chairs with a monogrammed handkerchief before
sitting down and giving her a slow once-over with cold grey
eyes that made her skin crawl. “Not so brave now?” he asked
knowingly, and Hermione scowled at him.

Not only was he evil, she thought irritably, but this was a
scene straight out of a Gothic bodice-ripper. Couldn’t he at
least have moved his bondage fantasies into the twentieth
century? She channeled Gram for a suitably imperious look -
think Marie Antoinette going to the guillotine - and looked
down her nose at him, trying to block out Draco’s face and
features and see only those flat, mad eyes that gave away the
deception.

“Lucius, you’re a cliché on two legs,” she said dismissively,
and saw his teeth clench. Good. A cranky Death Eater is a
careless Death Eater.. “A fourteen-year-old could do better
than this with ten minutes alone with Quidditch in Bed.
Inartistic, heavy-handed, completely lacking in imagination
and class. Really, I’d have expected more from you. And I
don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but the ring you put in the
floor is crooked.”

She rolled her eyes so she could surreptitiously check the
time on her watch. Thirty-eight minutes; she could afford to
piss him off a little more. “You’re compensating for a small
penis, aren’t you?” she asked, lowering her voice
conspiriatorially, and watched red blotches dance across his -
no, NOT his; get it together, Hermione - pale cheeks.
Deliberately, he stood up.

Score another point for the Damsel In Distress, she thought
wildly, and tried to keep her gaze from wavering.

“You’ve got an awfully smart mouth, for a Mudblood brat,”
Lucius-not-Draco said softly, and crossed from the chair to
cup her left breast with one long-fingered hand. “Think my
son’s going to save you? Your vaunted Headmaster? Your beloved
friends?” He leaned so close to her that she could feel his
breath on her cheek. “No one knows you’re here,” he said with
malicious satisfaction. “You’ve made more enemies than just
the Dark Lord, my little plum pudding. It wasn’t so hard to
find someone more than happy to oblige a father in distress by
doing you a bad turn. You might say she was just … buzzing …
around.”

He laughed at his own weak joke and leaned in a little closer
yet. “No one’s going to know you’re missing,” he whispered in
lover’s tones against the beating pulse in her throat, “until
you float down the Thames into London. And by then, they won’t
even recognise you.”

Hermione gulped. Okay, that evened the score. Ewwww. And I
wish he’d morph back into his own body already. Hearing those
words from Draco’s lips did cold, crawling things to the state
of her stomach.

As did his hands on her body - oh, God, if she had it to do
over again she’d formulate a Protection Potion so strong that
he wouldn’t even be able to fucking touch her. She was sure he
was being deliberately brutal, but under the shielding effects
of the Protection Potion, she registered his touch as light
and teasing and lover-like.

Just like his son’s.

Hermione wasn’t sure that wasn’t worse. Right now, she’d
sooner be tortured than feel those hands - Draco’s hands, yet
not - moving over her skin in that travesty of a caress.

How could something that didn’t hurt feel so wrong?

Despite herself, she whimpered, and heard him laugh. Think
about something else, she counselled herself, and began to
apply downward pressure to the ropes on her wrists.

He’d tied them fairly tightly, which was good. Distraction.
Don’t think about where his hands are, she told herself
grimly; think about forcing the heel of your hand through that
loop of rope. If only the bracelet weren’t in the way -

The bracelet.

She flexed the fingers of her right hand cautiously, bent her
knees slightly to apply more weight to the ropes on her
wrists, and felt one of the delicate silver charms - the
kitten - slide into her palm, pushed up by the pressure on the
rope. Oddly comforted by this, she stroked the little cat with
one finger, and felt the faint vibration of its purr travel
all the way down her arm.

Thirty minutes. Tie score.

She could still get herself out of this.

And then the door opened.

“Lucius,” someone behind her said in a cruel, cold voice, “do
stop mauling Miss Granger for a moment. She’s a famous
scientist, you know.”

Abruptly, the invading hands dropped away from her body. This
fact, however, reassured Hermione not in the slightest.

She’d never heard that voice before. But an introduction
wouldn’t be necessary.

Even before he walked into her line of vision, she knew beyond
the shadow of a doubt that she was in the presence of Lord
Voldemort.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Eight

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

Draco Malfoy was crying.

They were all back at Hogwarts - Ginny had found Minerva in
the Three Broomsticks, blurted out the story, and every
student in the town had been rounded up and shipped back to
their common rooms, faster than you could say “Quidditch is
cancelled”. Now, they were waiting for Albus in his study …
and Minerva was in full cry.

“ … don’t know what possessed you to let her out of your
sight,” she was fuming. “And for the sake of a broomstick. You
foolish, foolish boy. And you three!”

She turned on her Gryffindors - Harry, Ron, and Ginny - with a
ferocity that made even Potter squirm in his chair. Underneath
their worry and obvious remorse, they looked nevertheless
sulky at the thought of a scolding; young Malfoy, however, was
too destroyed even to hear her, or to process what was said to
him. The moment Albus’s Location Charm had failed, Draco had
begun to weep - and it seemed now that he might never stop.

Severus supposed dully that he should speak up now in Malfoy’s
defense - his sin had been one of poor judgment, not malice,
and it was clear to see he was his own worst punishment. And
Minerva, gripped as she was by a fury born of frustrated
anxiety, was only making the situation worse.

But he was afraid to move, afraid to speak.

One wrong word, and he might end up in tears himself.

Grief and guilt and desolation bubbled in his chest, black and
bilious and debilitating. He, of all people, knew what
Voldemort was capable of, had witnessed it firsthand time and
again … and now, it was taking every gram of self-possession
he had, not to think about the last time he’d seen Hermione,
entering the Weasley twins’ shop three hours ago -
pink-cheeked with cold, arm in arm with Draco like the Sun
with her attendant Moon, glowing and golden with youth and
health and high spirits.

No, he told himself fiercely, don’t think about it - not about
that, and not about what might become of her … what bastards
like Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle could do to a beautiful and
brilliant young woman to cripple her promise and blacken her
hope.

Assuming that they hadn’t already killed her.

Bile rose in his throat at that thought, thick enough to choke
him, and only receded when the door opened in the middle of
Minerva’s diatribe and a thoroughly cowed Rita Skeeter
appeared, flanked by a Ministry Auror on one side and an
uncharacteristically grim Dumbledore on the other.

“Severus, you wanted to join us for this?”

At last, a purpose. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said viciously,
rising from his chair with the bottle of Veritaserum damp and
sweaty in his clenched fist, and had the very great pleasure
of seeing Rita go sheet-white underneath her cosmetics charms.

If the only useful skills he could bring to the table were a
talent for potions and his inherent nastiness, he was damn
well going to take advantage of them.

**

Hermione had never seen Lord Voldemort firsthand, but she’d
heard enough from Harry to know what to expect: a skeletal,
glowing-eyed, slit-nosed caricature; something not quite
human. So her first glimpse of him surprised her: the tall,
slender man in the sober black robes, who paused to murmur
something to Malfoy and then crossed into her peripheral
vision, looked more like a Faustian Mephistopheles than the
monster of Harry’s nightmares.

That didn’t, Hermione reminded herself, render him any less
dangerous.

He gifted her with a thin, passably charming smile that she
didn’t return. “Lucius, where are your manners?” he chided,
cold voice sharpened with an edge of gallows humour, and
flicked his wand lazily in Hermione’s direction. She
immediately found herself draped in a Muggle-style dressing
gown - black silk - that fell to mid-calf and belted demurely
in the front.

Much, much better. But damned if she’d be grateful. She kept
her gaze stony.

“Miss Granger,” Voldemort said with another one of those thin,
persuasive smiles. “One of our great young minds; I’ve been
hearing so much about you.” He took a step closer. “Charmed,
I’m sure.”

Hermione lifted one eyebrow. “You’re most kind, Mr. Riddle,”
she said dryly, and watched a shadow pass over his saturnine
features at the mention of his birth name. “I was beginning to
fear I’d catch a chill.”

Twenty-eight minutes. And ticking away with every breath she
drew. Possibly, Hermione thought, it wasn’t a good idea to get
too cheeky.

She returned his steady gaze for a moment longer, then made a
show of dropping her eyes, so he’d move in and tip her chin up
again. That’s right, counselled Gram, her Internal Acting
Coach. Be a little afraid. Give him too much lip, and he’ll
know you’re up to something.

She pretended to shiver as one long, bone-white fingertip
traced the inner whorls of her ear. Inside, she was shaking
like a leaf, but for a different reason.

Far above her head, out of his current line of vision, she’d
just managed to loop the chain of the bracelet with the index
finger of her left hand. Gingerly, she tugged to the left, and
felt the cat-charm slip out of her palm and fall to the side
of her wrist. She eased the bracelet around by another link,
the fingers of her right hand poised to identify the next
charm upon its arrival.

With any luck, she’d be able to slide the bracelet all the way
around to its clasp and try to undo it with her left hand. It
was, however, slow going.

And she was down to twenty-five minutes.

“You’ll excuse us, Lucius? Miss Granger and I have matters to
discuss in private.”

She didn’t see him leave, but she heard the door close behind
him. Whether this was a good omen or a bad one, she didn’t
know. She gave the bracelet another tug.

“I confess to some curiosity in a certain matter,” murmured
Voldemort. Hermione let her lip tremble.

“Yes?”

“Your Professor Snape,” he said - softly, but with the edge of
something violent underneath. “Was one of mine, and is no
longer. I want to know how.”

“Um.” She’d been prepared for a question about the Initiates,
or even about the Protection Potion - about this, however, she
didn’t have a plausible invention close at hand. “Uh, I don’t
really know Professor Snape that well,” she lied. “I mean,
he’s my project advisor, but we don’t talk about, um, personal
stuff.”

Another link. Her fingers felt something pointy and sharp -
ah, yes. The witch’s hat.

Try again.

“Are you saying you don’t know?” Voldemort breathed in her
ear. Hermione gulped.

“Why would I know?”

Another link. Another. She was getting better at this.

Twenty minutes. Deep breath.

“Come now, Miss Granger,” he coaxed. “Such a mind as yours -
you can’t possibly have a faulty memory.”

Hermione felt the tiny cauldron slide into her fingers. Damn.
No clasp yet.

“Miss Granger?” Edge of impatience in his voice; as she looked
at him, she could see a faint shimmer around his profile, as
he subdued his annoyance.

Aha. A glamour. No wonder he looks well-rested.

“My memory’s fine,” she said tartly, suddenly tired of his
soft voice and his inch-deep respectability. “It’s my scruples
I’m hung up on. I wouldn’t give away the time of day to you,
never mind a secret like that one. I’m no Peter Pettigrew.”

The air shimmered once more, and she caught a glimpse of a
mad-eyed, rictus-grinned death’s head, shining like a
premonition through his suave exterior before he could tug the
glamour back into place. “Indeed you’re not,” he said, his
voice alive with sudden malevolence, and Hermione saw with a
jolt of gut-deep fear that the pupils of his eyes were glaring
blood-red. “Poor Wormtail doesn’t seem to have many admirers.
But pitiable as he is, he knows something you haven’t learned
yet, my noble little Gryffindor Mudblood. Would you like to
hear it?”

“Knowledge is power,” Hermione said, as coolly as she could
manage, and forced herself to look him straight in the eye.
Voldemort let out an icy, high-pitched laugh that froze her to
the bone.

“One of your Muggle proverbs,” he said, “ironically enough.
But I find it fitting. It is better to be a living dog than a
dead lion.”

And with that, he raised his wand.

**

Severus exchanged an exhausted glance with Dumbledore as Rita
Skeeter was led away, still glassy-eyed with the effects of
the Veritaserum, by the Ministry Auror. “I rather wish,” he
said heavily, “that she’d tried to Transform. I don’t mind
insects normally, but I’d have taken great pleasure in
squashing that one.”

Dumbledore nodded absently in agreement, but Severus could
tell he was thinking of other things, none of them pleasant.
He could relate.

What Skeeter had said to the students back at the café was
indeed the truth; she really hadn’t known anything. All they’d
been able to discern from her confession was that she held a
two-year-old grudge against Hermione concerning her status as
an illegal Animagus, that she’d heard a passing bit of gossip
about the miraculous properties of the Protection Potion from
a Ministry contact, and that she’d been subsequently
approached by Lucius Malfoy, presumably because of the
negative articles she’d once written about Hermione during the
Tri-Wizard Tournament.

Malfoy had had in his possession, at their meeting, two hairs
- one of Draco’s, one of Hermione’s - that he said he’d taken
off one of his son’s school robes. Rita hadn’t been surprised
at all that he disapproved of the match - after all, the
Malfoys’ attitude toward Muggle-borns was no secret. And she
had thought it quite ingenious, that Lucius had hit on the
idea of impersonating his son in order to break off the
relationship. Participating in the charade offered her a
surefire way to gather inside information about the patented
potion, while evening her score with the ‘officious little
sneak’ who had singlehandedly (according to Rita) wrecked her
career.

But she didn’t know anything about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,
in connection with the kidnapping. And no, she hadn’t been
told where Lucius was taking the girl - she didn’t know, and
she didn’t care.

In other words, a strikeout. They sat in silence for a few
minutes - Dumbledore deep in thought, Severus nauseous with
despair. Finally, Albus broke the silence.

“She may have taken the potion,” he said. “And she’s wearing
the key to one of the study apartments off the library around
her wrist. If they don’t take the bracelet away from her …”

He sounded like what he was: a man grasping at straws. Severus
closed his eyes against the hot red wave of sickness
threatening to engulf him.

“ … then she’s got twelve minutes,” he finished, and dropped
his head into his hands.

They settled down to do the only thing they could.

Wait.

**

“Crucio!” Voldemort cried, and Hermione felt the shock of the
Unforgivable hit her body like a battering ram.

The Protection Potion wavered under the strain, but held. She
watched the jet of green light bounce back without touching
her and ricochet straight toward Voldemort; unfortunately, he
stepped out of the way just in time to avoid it. The
gentleman’s mask slipped another notch, however - he turned
away for a moment to regain his composure, and Hermione yanked
nervously at the bracelet, her hands slippery with dread.

She had ten minutes, and the Protection Potion had never been
tested against the Unforgivables - from the jolt she’d just
taken, she’d bet money that she only had about one hit left
before it gave out, time or no time. She had to get out of
here, or she’d be creamed eels on toast.

And where was the fucking clasp?

Her damp fingers scrabbled for the next charm - long and thin,
this one; it had to be the wand.

Wait a minute.

If that was the wand - and it was, oh, it was - then the next
charm on the bracelet was …

Voldemort turned back around, and she lost her train of
thought.

“Let’s try that again,” he growled; “I may have missed once,
but I won’t again.”

Another jet of green light; another bone-jarring jolt, as the
weakening Protection Potion held fast. It was gone, now -
Hermione could feel that layer of chemical safety evaporating
from her pores.

Oh, God.

But he’d been hit - he hadn’t moved quickly enough this time;
he was clutching his stomach, grimacing … oh, please, Hermione
thought, let it slow him down long enough for me to …

Because it was clear in her head what she was going to do, as
clear and blue as the sapphire lying warm and smooth against
her wrist.

They’re hard to aim, she remembered Ginny saying, back on the
other side of the tapestry door, and twisted her hand
painfully until the little wand was pointed squarely at the
gasping figure in front of her - who was even now
straightening up, all pretense at civility gone, and
purposefully pointing his wand.

“Avad---“ he began, but Hermione was faster than he was.

Oh, Sal, let it work, she prayed desperately, her eyes shut
tight against the sight of him, and swallowed hard.

“Inlaqueo!” she croaked, and with the last of her courage,
cautiously opened her eyes.

Lord Voldemort was gone.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Fifty-Nine

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

She had a moment for shock, and another for triumph, glorious
and unalloyed. And then the most powerful Dark wizard
currently walking the earth crashed headlong into his sapphire
prison, and brought along with his displaced atoms all the
hatred and rage and sheer undiluted evil that one might expect
from the Scourge of Britain, from Cedric Diggory’s murderer;
all the homicidal intention and psychic sadism of the Killing
Curse aborted.

Next to that, what Hermione had felt after the Trapping of the
Initiates was mere petty teenage angst.

Clammy with cold sweat, gasping and retching helplessly with
the misery of a thousand murdered souls, she reeled under the
impact - and would surely have fallen, had it been a
possibility.

At times, being tied to the ceiling could be distinctly
advantageous.

She let the first wave of nausea steamroll through her, then
fought off the second and forced herself to stand erect, to
take deep breaths until the gut-churning sickness retreated
and the screaming in her ears grew more bearable. Marvellously
adaptive, the human body, her father used to say, and Hermione
gave a mental shout-out to Dad: if she could get used to this,
she could get used to anything.

Still wracked with fine tremors and verging on a second attack
of physical upset, she bent her right wrist at another
unnatural angle, ignoring her screaming tendons, and with the
last of her strength managed to shake the sapphire charm so
that it lay against the rope, and not her bare skin. The
relief was palpable and immediate - she could still feel him
in there, raging to be released - could feel the angry
disbelief and the muttered promise of vengeance racing through
her blood - but now it was a trickle, not a flood; arsenic,
not nightshade.

She took a few moments to steady herself, then turned her
exhausted attention to the next obvious question: what now?

And then she heard a tentative knock on the door, a wary “My
lord?” - and knew suddenly, as if Sal himself were sitting on
her shoulder, whispering in her ear - what she had to do.

“Come in, Lucius,” she called, modulating her voice into as
fair an approximation of Voldemort’s cold countertenor as she
could. The door creaked cautiously open, and Lucius Malfoy -
in his own body now, not Draco’s, she was happy to see -
appeared in the doorway.

He was in her peripheral vision; she let her head loll to the
side, as if she was unconscious, and watched his grey eyes
flick nervously around the room, his long aquiline nose
wrinkle at the smell of fresh vomit. It took him a moment to
realise that Voldemort was missing; by the time he’d checked
all the corners again and whipped around to stare,
unbelieving, at Hermione, she was ready for him.

“Imperio,” she said calmly, pointing the little silver wand,
and immediately felt his mind in hers like its own living
being, kicking and scratching for a few fractions of a second
before his will subsided and hers took over. She couldn’t see
his thoughts, but she could feel them, open to receive
instructions - rather, she thought, like a quiescent,
leash-trained dog.

So this was what casting an Unforgivable felt like.

For a minute, she was taken aback; she hadn’t expected it to
work so easily. Possibly, she reasoned, being a Death Eater
accustomed one to accepting the Unforgivables as a matter of
course - his buried willpower didn’t seem alarmed, as much as
it did resigned to its fate. Hermione remembered trying to
fight Moody’s Imperius, back in her fourth year, but she
wasn’t getting any resistance at all from Malfoy the Elder.

Maybe she was a stronger witch than she’d thought.

Or maybe, Voldemort’s lingering presence in her emotional
slipstream was doing her some good, after all. Don’t question
it too closely, she heard the Sal-in-her-head mutter - typical
Slytherin advice, but she rather thought he had a point just
now.

Don’t mess with success.

“Stick your fingers in your nose,” she said, just to test it,
and stifled a slightly hysterical snicker as the dignified,
sophisticated Lucius Malfoy obediently thrust a manicured
index finger into each nostril, then looked at her
questioningly as if for further instructions.

Excellent.

“Now take them out again,” she directed, “and tell me how many
Death Eaters are in this house.”

“Two,” Lucius said in a hollow voice not quite his own.
Hermione sighed in relief.

Just the two, and those two as thick as rocks. Her good luck
was holding.

“Lock the door,” she said. “Now come untie me.”

**

She had a couple of bad moments, as the ropes came off and the
sapphire brushed inadvertently against her bare wrist;
immediately she angled her hand so that the jewel dangled
harmlessly in midair, but she’d barely recovered from her last
hit. She sat down heavily in the nearest chair, fighting a
case of the shakes, and focussed on keeping the Imperius going
- for a second or two, she’d felt it slip, and she couldn’t
afford to let that happen yet.

Just a few more minutes. Just until she got back to Hogwarts.

Lord, she was tired.

“Give me my wand,” she ordered Lucius, half-afraid he’d
refuse. He didn’t. “Give me yours, too.”

His she snapped, and tossed the pieces into the cold ashes of
the fireplace grate - burn ‘em now or burn ‘em later, it
didn’t really matter. Hers she used to immobilize Lucius and
repair her ruined clothes. The moment they were on, she felt
immediately better.

Gram was right. It was amazing what a really good brassiere
could do for your self-esteem.

She finished dressing, carefully arranged the sleeve of her
jumper so that it was between her skin and the charm bracelet,
and looked over at the Imperius-free Lucius, Bound and propped
like a large angry broom against the side of the hearth. He
glared at her, but didn’t speak; Hermione imagined that he was
still wondering where Voldemort had gone, and how she’d
managed to score a wand with her hands above her head.

She allowed herself a small, tired smirk. That’d teach him to
underestimate her.

She undid the clasp with nerveless fingers, took a few deep,
relieved, Voldemort-free breaths, tucked her wand into her
robes, and walked over to Lucius.

“Hospitable as you’ve been,” she said, linking one of her
hands with one of his, “we really need to get going now.
Ready?”

His only reply was an indignant wheeze, but Hermione didn’t
care - she had already clasped the bracelet resolutely in her
free hand and inserted the tiny silver key into the
thirty-fifth page of the miniature Keyhole. If she’d had the
energy, she would have clicked her heels together three times.

At that thought, she laughed, a tired old sound that barely
seemed hers. “There’s no place like Hogwarts,” she said dimly,
through a fog of mingled exhaustion and relief - and felt the
tug of space and dimension against her skin and clothing that
meant the Keyhole had worked.

Don’t drop the bracelet, whatever you do, she thought, and
surrendered to oblivion.

**

“It’s my fault,” Draco said miserably for the thirtieth time
since they’d arrived in Elysium. Severus sighed.

He’d been much, much more comfortable back in Dumbledore’s
office, administering Veritaserum and extracting his pound of
flesh from Rita Skeeter’s ample supply. This duty, on the
other hand, wasn’t nearly so well tailored to him - exactly
why Albus had assigned him Suicide Watch on Draco, he’d never
know.

It’s because you understand, said the faint voice in his head
that was his long-suppressed Better Nature. Growling
internally at the unwelcome truth of that particular
self-observation, he wrapped a grudgingly sympathetic arm
around Draco’s lean shoulders.

Sympathy, in this case, came as naturally and inevitably as
resentment.

Thirty-eight years old, at the top of his craft, as
hard-boiled as one of Tutankhamen’s Easter eggs, and he wasn’t
sure that he was equipped to deal with Hogwarts Minus
Hermione. The very thought had him spinning saviour fantasies
in his head, had him on his knees to Voldemort offering up his
life for hers.

As if such a thing was possible. As if Voldemort would accept
the trade.

As if, even if he found them, even if he got there, he
wouldn’t be already too late. After all, she’d been gone now
for nearly two and a half hours, and every tick of the clock
was like a blade against his skin, a knot in the rope, a step
up the stairs of the Astronomy Tower.

But if he, Severus, was grieving, then Draco was coming slowly
apart from the inside.

“My fault,” he said again, and Severus shook his head.

“No.”

“It is.”

“Partly,” Severus said - there was no comfort, after all, in
lies. “But not entirely.”

The young voice was choked with the beginning of more tears.
“I left her alone.”

“We all did,” Severus said sharply. “Not just you. From
Dumbledore on down, myself included. You’re not the only one
to blame.”

Draco wasn’t listening.

“I was closest.” His voice thickened. “I was fooled - after
months in her bed, months! - fooled, by that … that …” He
jerked his body away from Severus’ encircling arm and paced
over to the laboratory corner, where the chemistry set still
lay in abandoned disarray.

“I thought that something was wrong,” he said jerkily. “She
was too … too sweet. Too flirtatious. The things she did and
said, Hermione would never do.” He spun on his heel and faced
Severus, skin drum-tight over his skull, dry-eyed but utterly
defeated. “I wanted it to be true,” he said hollowly. “I
wanted to believe it - so I did. And now she’s dead, because
of …”

He hesitated, then dropped his eyes. “Because of me.”

He’d been about to say something else, Severus thought, and
mentally finished that first thought, still hanging in the
heavy air: She’s dead because she didn’t love me.

He looked at Draco’s tortured face and resisted the urge to
swear.

“We don’t know that she’s dead,” he said roughly. “Stop being
morbid.”

“But I should have saved her,” Draco insisted, and those words
- so close to what Severus himself had been thinking, just
moments ago - snapped the frayed remains of his patience like
rotten elastic.

“Open your eyes,” he gritted. “Do you even know her, this
Immortal Beloved of yours? Since when has she ever needed
rescuing?” He snorted. “She’s the most self-reliant person I
know, and if she gets out of this mess it won’t be because of
you, or me, or Albus or Minerva or the bloody Ministry of
Magic - it’ll be because she’s cool-headed and gutsy and smart
, a million times smarter than that syphilitic sleazebag Tom
Riddle and his sycophantic cronies.”

He drew a deep breath, started to continue, then saw that
Draco was staring at him open-mouthed and settled for a glare
instead. “What?”

“You’re in love with her,” Draco said slowly, and it sounded
like an accusation. When Severus didn’t reply immediately, he
took a step closer. “You are. Aren’t you?”

Faced with those fever-bright, pain-filled grey eyes, Severus
couldn’t bring himself to lie. “Aren’t we all?” he asked
tiredly, and passed a weary hand over his face at Draco’s
shocked look.

“What do you mean?”

Severus shook his head. “You. Me. Weasley. Even Sal, I think.”
He grimaced. “Don’t take it personally. It’s only a matter of
good taste, after all.”

At this, Draco flushed hotly and opened his mouth to reply -
good, Severus was thinking, better brassed-off than ready to
jump. But he never got the chance.

“How flattering,” Hermione said from behind them, and they
both jumped and whirled to face her.

She was holding onto a tied-up, wild-eyed Lucius Malfoy with
one hand and her charm bracelet with the other, and though her
clothes and her skin were unmarked, she smelled of vomit and
looked one step away from death. “You’ve got a real way with
words, you have.”

He was fixed in place like a fly in amber, wanting to move but
hopelessly, helplessly stuck, as she let go of Lucius, dropped
the bracelet on the rug, and sank slowly to her knees.

“Don’t lose the bracelet,” she said in a voice that was
trembling with exhaustion but perfectly clear. “Voldemort’s in
there, and he’s not happy.”

And then she collapsed.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty

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

She was dreaming.

The dream was a maze of snow, blinding white-on-white, and the
sky above so pale a grey as to make no difference. All white,
all still, and only Hermione running, her breath loud and
laboured, slipping and panting and clawing at the icy slick
walls with her bare hands, her gloves long dropped behind her
- the Shadow advancing, and she a small stalked animal with
nowhere to hide in her black robes against all that merciless,
blank white.

Running and running, until her breath screamed in her lungs -
and then, flat up against the unforgiving wall of snow,
nowhere-to-go-no-one-to-help, scrabbling in her pockets for a
wand that wasn’t there. And him, the Shadow whose face she
couldn’t see, black against the corridor of snow, blocking her
way out again.

She screamed at him, hit out at him, but he just kept coming.
And then she ripped at his mask with her frozen hands and
before she could get a good look he turned into Three, not
One: one shadowy and dark, with a voice like ice; one fair,
with an archangel’s face, who came closer and closer and
reached out for her - the beautiful golden one, who was
sometimes cruel and sometimes kind.

Which was he now? She couldn’t tell. Panicked, she cried out
and twisted away from his touch, pleading with the Third, the
Watching One - help me, help me, don’t let him touch me!

They argued, the Watcher and the Archangel, argued in soft
voices using words she couldn’t quite hear. And then the
Archangel was gone, and it was all white again - but warmer
now and soft, with bits of gold light leaking through her
closed eyelids.

She was safe.

The Shadow was trapped. She could feel the hammering of his
fists against the walls, but he couldn’t get inside, couldn’t
find her now. The Archangel had fled weeping away. Only the
Watcher remained, and he didn’t touch her at all, just sat
solid and dark and didn’t speak, except at the very end, just
once.

This doesn’t change anything, you know, he said.

And she wanted to agree, since his voice was so reasonable, so
calm: all right, she wanted to say; yes, that’s perfectly
sensible.

But she had dropped her voice in the snow, and she couldn’t
find it again. Instead, she searched for his hand, strong and
warm against the enveloping white, and held on tight until the
bright lights came back for her and she didn’t remember any
more.

**

Draco ran until he couldn’t run anymore; down the stairs,
through the Entrance Hall into the Trophy Room, past a sleepy
Morgan and then down down down to the most dark secret place
he knew, until he reached Sal’s deserted dungeon apartments
and threw himself into a chair. Blood was beating bright and
hot behind his eyes, and he was fairly certain that he no
longer wanted to kill himself.

He wanted to kill Snape instead.

Snape - sympathetic, oh-so-reasonable Snape - patting his
shoulder and talking soft silky sense and all the while
laughing in the middle of his head, knowing things Draco
didn’t.

Bastard.

And after he was done, after his rival was broken and bleeding
in a sticky black heap under his feet, then maybe he’d go
after Hermione.

Hermione. His raison d’ętre, his false angel.

Hermione, who’d warmed his bed and stolen his heart and scared
him half to fucking death, thinking she was dead and never
coming back. Hermione, for whom he’d forswear King and Country
and follow, mindlessly follow, to the ends of the earth.

Hermione, who just five minutes ago had cried in her sleep and
cringed away from his hands: help me, help me, don’t let him
touch me!, when all he’d really wanted was to make sure she
was real, that she wouldn’t be stolen away from him again.

No extra points for guessing the object of her supplications.

If there was an Irony Sweepstakes, Draco thought, he was a
shoo-in for the boat and the vacation. “It’s so fucking unfair
,” he said aloud bitterly, and jumped when Sal materialised
suddenly in the adjoining armchair.

“Why’s that?”

Draco scowled into the fire. “If it were any other girl,” he
said, mostly to himself, “there’d be no contest. It’s not like
he’s handsome, after all.”

Sal should have looked confused at that, but he seemed to
understand perfectly. “Ah,” he said thoughtfully. “And you’d
want just ‘any other girl’, would you?”

Another scowl. “Well, no …”

One ghostly eyebrow tilted upward. “And if she were like all
the others, you’d still want her? You’d want to be loved for
your blond hair and your trust fund, and not for yourself?”

Of course not, but to say so under this kind-but-pointed
questioning would be too much of an admission. Draco set his
jaw stubbornly. “I’d settle for her loving me at all,” he
said, knowing he sounded sulky and hating it. “Just now she
cried when I got near her - pulled her hand away from mine.
It’s him she wants, not me.”

The other eyebrow shot up. “There’s been more than one man
running around in your body today,” Sal pointed out mildly.
“Once she wakes up and tells her tale, you might find that she
had reason to keep her distance.”

Draco hadn’t thought of that - and now that he had, he wished
he hadn’t. After sixteen years with Lucius Malfoy, he knew his
father fairly well … and the thought of Hermione helpless
under those hands was like ice water over his whole body. He
drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around
them, trying not to shiver. Sal shot him a sideways look.

“Sleep is a strange land, anyway,” he said musingly; “I ought
to know. I lie back and doze a bit sometimes, but I can never
quite fall, not the way I used to. I’ve been craving a good
night’s sleep for eight hundred years.” He caught Draco’s eye
and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t take dreams - your own or
anyone else’s - too literally. That way lies madness.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

They sat in silence for what could have been five minutes or
fifteen, watching the crackling flames - golden fingers, blue
hearts, in a courtly all-consuming dance. Finally, Sal cleared
his throat.

“Tell me something,” he said, and Draco looked at him
curiously.

“Sure.”

“What are you going to do with yourself when you finish
school? What are your plans?”

Huh. Not what he’d been expecting, but a good question
regardless. Draco shook his head after a moment of thinking.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really have any.” He
shrugged. “Up until this year I was going to do whatever my
father wanted me to do - I assumed that meant university, or
joining the Death Eaters, or both. And then, when I found out
about the …“ - here , his hand went unconsciously to the back
of his neck - “I stopped thinking about after-Hogwarts at all,
because I figured - what was the point?”

“Time you started thinking again, isn’t it?” Sal suggested,
and Draco nodded slowly.

“Yeah.” He hugged his knees a little tighter.

“I really did send in that application to Beauxbatons, for the
summer program,” he confessed suddenly. “It was part of my
alibi, remember? But Snape wrote me a really good
recommendation, and after I read it, I thought - why not? I’m
still waiting to hear back from them, though.”

Sal nodded approvingly. “There’s a start,” he said. Draco
frowned.

“A start to what?”

“Ah, there’s the question,” Sal said, then turned to look him
straight in the eye. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d start
thinking about what it is that I want, not who. You and Miss
Granger will sort yourselves out eventually, for better or for
worse. But your chances with her will get a whole lot better,
the more you bring to the table.”

He rearranged himself in his chair and leaned back with a
little sigh. “Ahhh - that’s much better. I couldn’t trouble
you for a game of chess, could I?”

There was no point playing chess with Sal, Draco reflected as
he rummaged in the sideboard for the game pieces. After you’d
owned a set for a couple hundred years, even the opposing side
started to do what you told them to - and Sal, cagey old
conniver that he was, knew it. Then again, Draco guessed that
a thousand years of existence would tend to make you smart
about a lot of things … careers and women no exception.

Things to ponder, he thought, and began resignedly to set up
his already-mutinous players.

**

“Ah, you’re awake,” said a cheerful voice, and Hermione rubbed
her eyes blearily, feeling rather as if she’d slept underwater
and was just now breaking the surface. “There’s quite a crowd
outside the door, you know. Poppy’s having a time of it,
keeping them at bay.”

Hermione yawned, pushed herself up on her pillows, and turned
toward the voice. Albus Dumbledore beamed back at her.

“Feeling better, I hope?”

Hermione cautiously took stock of herself. All seemed to be in
working order. “I’m not sure I was ill,” she said, her voice
sleep-clogged. “I didn’t feel ill. Just tired.”

“And small wonder.” Dumbledore was impossibly cheery; Hermione
saw a flash of blue in one of his hands, and thought she knew
the reason why.

“I can’t believe you want to touch that,” she said, a bit
sharply. “Just looking at it makes me queasy.”

“Precautions have been taken,” Dumbledore said, and held it up
so she could see. The sapphire had been removed from her
bracelet and suspended in a glass chamber slightly smaller
than a walnut. Hermione frowned.

“Is it charmed?”

“Charmed for Unbreakability, yes,” Dumbledore agreed amiably.
“Beyond that, it’s made of two-way mirror glass. Should he
manage to escape, he’ll find whatever nastiness he was
embroiled in at the moment reflected right back at him, from
all sides.”

Hermione’s eyebrows went up. That was clever.

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked, and the
Headmaster beamed.

“Well,” he said, his voice young with mischief, “I’ve rather
been needing a paperweight.”

Startled, Hermione started to laugh - and then, as if the
laugh had torn that coiled-up something in her chest loose
inside her, to cry. “Oh, God,” she hiccuped, and mopped at her
face with a corner of the sheet. “All day yesterday, and not a
tear. Now, I’m hysterical. What sense does that make?“

Dumbledore’s arm was around her. “You needn’t apologize,” he
said kindly. “Any wizard with a phoenix familiar understands
the healing properties of tears. And you’ve more than proven
your bravery, Hermione.”

“Brave,” she said with shaky self-mockery. “Scared to death,
more like.”

“Brave,” he repeated firmly, and tucked her head comfortingly
underneath his chin - an astonishing feat for someone so
slight of stature. Breathing in the scent of lemon drops and
Old Spice aftershave, Hermione felt the last of her tension
slipping away.

“Do you want to hear what happened?” she queried. He shook his
head.

“Not unless you want to tell it.”

Hermione weighed her options, then pulled back a bit. “Not
yet, then,” she decided, and on impulse leaned up and kissed
Dumbledore’s papery cheek.

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you think I could see the others
now?”

That twinkle was back in his eyes. “I’ll refer that question
to Madam Pomfrey.”

He was halfway to the door before she decided to ask the
question. “Professor?”

He turned back around and cocked his head to the side, looking
- at the moment - very much like Fawkes indeed. “Yes?”

“Someone was here with me last night,” Hermione said, “sitting
with me. Was it you?”

To her annoyance, Dumbledore looked amused. “No, Miss
Granger,” he said. “It was not.”

He was gone before she could ask him anything more.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-One

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And just like that, things were back to normal – it was
amazing how quickly you could fall back into an everyday
routine, even after a brush with death. Saturday tied up in
the Lair of the Death Eaters, Sunday in the infirmary
deflecting the inevitable barrage of worried questions with
the mildest version of events possible – then, back to the
daily round of classes and meals and books, with no one the
wiser about what had happened except for a few of the
professors and her inner circle of friends.

Surreal, really.

Some things had necessarily changed, of course. She was
spending more time in the Gryffindor common area – playing
chess with Ron and watching the Harry-Ginny flirtations become
more and more overt – and less in the isolation of her
bedroom. Her extra-credit Potions project was complete, so she
had no valid reason to visit Snape in the dungeons. (That
being the case, she stayed away – she was, truth be told,
rather afraid of what would happen, if she invented one.)

And though technically she and Draco were still dating – they
ate at the same table, studied together in the library, spent
their customary few nights a week coexisting in the privacy of
Elysium – their physical relationship had ground immediately
to a halt, directly following her abduction, and showed no
signs of picking up again. Part of this, Hermione admitted,
was due to her own Lucius-induced squeamishness – no matter
what her brain told her, her body still had trouble
recognizing Draco purely as Draco, and reacted accordingly.
Their chemistry had an ugly edge to it now, which made her
want to avoid the issue completely.

The other part, however, had to do more with Draco than with
her: ever since her showdown with Voldemort and subsequent
return to Hogwarts, he’d been awkward and withdrawn – more
quick-tempered, slower to laughter. Sometimes Hermione would
catch him watching her, out of the corner of her eye, with a
closed hooded look that she couldn’t decipher on his handsome,
set face.

It was rather, she thought, as if he was waiting for something
– and at the same time, he looked almost angry, deeply and
silently so, like a man in an unseen battle.

Her tentative questioning got her nowhere – he closed her off,
shut her out, changed the subject. Eventually, she gave up
asking.

And then one night, early on in March, he abruptly threw down
the book he was reading, causing Hermione to look up in
puzzlement from her Transfiguration text.

“I can’t wait any more,” he said, a muscle jumping in his
cheek. “I have to tell you something.”

**

He couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I have to tell you something,” he declared, as if throwing
down a gauntlet, and she looked up blinking from her
Transfiguration text, a quizzical, distracted look on her
pretty pale face.

“What is it?” she asked, and Draco felt his stomach clench.

He’d been sitting on this news for four weeks – almost since
she’d come back from the dead – and had told himself he was
just waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Well, that
moment hadn’t arrived, and this one wasn’t any more auspicious
than any of the others; he could tell that just from the
polite way she was waiting for him to go on.

Didn’t matter – he had to say it. “I got an owl back from
Beauxbatons,” he said flatly. “I’ve been accepted.”

For a moment, she looked mildly surprised – then her face lit
up. “For the summer program? But that’s fantastic. I didn’t
know you’d really applied!”

“Well, I did.” Her face fell a bit at his defiant tone – oh,
you’re not handling this well, Draco thought, but soldiered on
anyway. “And not just for the summer. Based on my grades,
they’ve offered me a slot in their exchange program for all of
seventh year.”

He took a deep breath, willing himself not to look away. “And
I’ve written back to accept it.”

There. He’d said it.

“Well, of course you have,” Hermione said, beaming, and leaned
over to kiss him on the cheek. “What a wonderful opportunity –
and you’ve already got such good French. You’ll be practically
native by the time you graduate. Oh, wow.” Just for good
measure, she kissed him on the other cheek, ooh-la-la style,
then pulled back a little and frowned when he just continued
to stare at her. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy? Aren’t
you just thrilled?”

She looked so crestfallen, all her congratulatory bubbling
deflated into baffled concern. And she didn’t have a fucking
clue, Draco thought viciously; not a clue that this had been
the Last Test.

Or that she’d just failed it.

“I rather thought,” he said – carefully, to keep the black
ugly rage in his gut from boiling up and out – “that you’d be
sad to see me go.”

Her brown eyes widened slightly at that, and she bit her lip.
Draco could almost see the wheels turning under that pretty
mop of curls: oh, dear, now I’ve hurt his feelings – how do I
fix it?

You can’t, he thought with savage satisfaction. Nothing you
can say. Nothing you can do. I’d like to see you try.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I will miss you. Truly. But …” She
looked baffled again. “You don’t want me to hold you back, do
you? You want me to be happy for you, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hating that sneering edge in his
tone that made her look so bewildered, like a puppy kicked for
no good reason. “Maybe I do. And maybe I don’t. Maybe what I
really want is for you to cry, and plead, and tell me you
can’t live without me for a year.” He stared at her coldly.
“Maybe I want you to ask me not to go. Didn’t you ever think
of that?”

At that, she swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. “No,” she
said sadly to her lap. “You know me, Draco. I just don’t think
that way.”

Her tone was soft, almost pleading, and at that Draco felt all
his rage and resentment and frustrated hope drain away into
the cesspool from which it had risen, leaving him feeling
nothing but … empty. He hesitated, then looked her straight in
the eyes.

“You don’t love me,” he said simply, and watched as if from a
great distance, as her mouth opened to a little ‘o’, as the
great jewels of her eyes went liquid.

“I …” she began, but he cut her off.

“No – don’t say it now,” he said, half-angry again. “Not if
it’s just to spare my feelings, Hermione. I’d rather have the
truth, and I have it. Not now, and not ever, and it’s my own
fault I didn’t realise it before.”

He rose, still feeling light-headed and drained-away, like a
helium-balloon version of himself. “I know I’ve been a swine
for the last month,” he said tiredly, “and I’m sorry. I guess
part of me knew it would come down to this, and I’ve been
putting it off.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve always known,
you see, that you didn’t feel for me the same things I did for
you. But I thought it was still more than I deserved.”

“No,” she whispered, anguished. He ignored her.

“And now,” he said, “I realise that I didn’t ask for nearly
what I’m worth. I still love you, Hermione, but what we’ve got
isn’t good enough for either of us.” He took a deep, shaky
breath. “It’s over.”

He was halfway to the library door when she finally spoke, in
a voice thick with tears.

“Draco.” A deep, shuddery breath. “I do care about you.”

He stiffened, paused, but didn’t look back.

“I know you do,” he said. “But not enough. And not the right
way.”

**

She was in her room later that night when the house-elves
arrived, bearing all of the belongings that she’d left in
Elysium: the neatly-packed chemistry set, her spare bedroom
slippers, a just-in-case change of clothes, a
meticulously-folded dressing gown.

There was a note pinned to the gown, written in Draco’s
spiking angular hand. Hermione recognized the poem with a
jolt:

**

See how they love me – green leaf, gold grass,
swearing my blue wrists tick and are timeless.
See how it moves me – old sea, blue sea,
curving a half-moon round to surround me.
See how it loves me – high sky, blue sky,
letting the light be kindled to warm me.
But you rebuke me, oh Love –
Love that I only pursue.

**

See how they love me.

Her last secret-admirer note.

Hermione buried her head in her hands and let the tears fall.

**

The weeks passed, and gradually – though after all that snow
they’d barely dared to hope for it – spring began to show its
face. Hermione found herself wishing it wouldn’t; the rain,
the mild air, the muddy earth, all seemed to mock the frozen
rut she found herself in.

He was right to end it, she thought – smart, even; certainly
smarter and more perceptive than she had been. That didn’t
mean it felt good, though; nor could she even take
satisfaction in the sure knowledge that he was just as
miserable.

She hadn’t been lying, after all – she did care about him.

Ron and Harry noted their falling-out with interest, but
backed off when she said flatly that it was a mutual decision,
and that she didn’t want to talk about it. Ginny did a little
more prying for details, up in the girls’ dormitories after
hours, but Hermione stayed mum. In the months that they’d been
together, Harry and Draco had developed the beginnings of a
genuine friendship – now that it wasn’t so cold, she happened
to know that they and Ron went flying together nearly every
evening, after dinner.

She wasn’t such a small person that she’d break up their
little Quidditch club out of spite. Besides, Hermione told
herself, he needed all the friends he could get.

And if she was lonely, too? Well, then, it was mostly her own
fault, now, wasn’t it?

She was packing books into her satchel one sunny Saturday
morning in April, preparing for a post-breakfast trip to the
library, when she heard a scratch at the glass and saw a small
brown owl hovering anxiously outside her bedroom window.

Funny, Hermione thought. Why wouldn’t it wait for the morning
post and come in with the rest of them?

She went over to let the owl in – it was wearing international
leg bands, she noted with interest – scrounged around her room
and found a not-too-stale biscuit to offer it, then watched it
fly away in a long curving circle around the castle and out of
sight before she sat down on her bed to unfold the letter.

It took her only a few minutes to read it, but afterwards she
sat staring at the parchment for a long time. Even after it
had fallen out of her hand onto the comforter, she was too
dumbfounded to move.

Of all the possible solutions to her emotional dilemma, this
was the one she’d least expected.

To the victor goes the spoils, she mused, then laughed out
loud for the first time in weeks with the sheer absurdity of
it all and scrambled to put on her shoes.

She had to see the Headmaster.

Right away.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Two

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She raced down to the Great Hall, leaving the bag of books
forgotten on her bed, and bolted her cereal in two minutes
flat - after which she was reduced to worrying at the corners
of a scone for which she had no appetite and staring a hole in
the Head Table while time slowed down to a crawl. Naturally,
Ron noticed.

“Christ, you’re jittery this morning,” he said, yawning and
helping himself to more bacon. “What did poor old Dumbledore
do to you, anyway? Cancel exams?”

Hermione was not amused.

“I just need to talk to him,” she said. “About something
important. And before you ask,” she added, noting the
expectant look on his face, “I’m not about to tell you, until
I’ve spoken to him.”

“Spoilsport,” Ron muttered.

Hermione didn’t answer.

The minute Dumbledore rose to leave, she was after him like a
wolverine on a wounded rabbit. “Professor,” she said
breathlessly, noting in the still-logical corner of her mind
that he had yet to wipe off his chocolate-milk moustache, “I
need to speak with you, if it’s not an imposition. I’ve had an
urgent owl …”

“Ah, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore, from all appearances delighted
that she’d accosted him before he’d had a chance to dust the
muffin crumbs from the front of his robes, beamed at her from
behind his napkin. “A fascinating coincidence - I was just
telling Professor McGonagall here that I’ve had some
correspondence concerning you myself, not twenty-four hours
ago. I’ve been meaning to find you ever since.”

“If you don’t mind, Professor,” Hermione repeated - a little
more insistently - “I was wondering if we could meet today.”
She glanced at her watch. “I don’t know if this is a good time
for you, but …” She trailed off meaningfully. Dumbledore
twinkled with understanding.

“Of course,” he said. “My office, then? Minerva, I’ll catch up
with you later.”

With a distracted, half-apologetic nod to Professor
McGonagall, Hermione sprinted after him.

She followed him out of the Great Hall and through the
corridors, nearly stepping on his heels in her haste and
trying not to look too impatient as he stopped to inquire
after Filch’s health, spoke to Professor Sprout at length
about the alarming moulting rate of the Scabrous Yucca
seedlings in Greenhouse Five, and paused momentarily to offer
a Pepper Imp apiece to two of the Ravenclaw second-years.

And then finally, finally they were there; past the gargoyle
(“Candy apple!”), up the moving staircase, into his cheerfully
cluttered office and safely behind the closed door at last.
Dumbledore sat down, taking entirely too much time - in
Hermione’s opinion, at least - to adjust the drape of his
robes, and at length turned amiably to face her.

“All right, Hermione,” he said. “What is it you needed to
discuss with me?”

Instantly, her mind went blank.

She opened and shut her mouth a few times, stammered and
aborted the beginnings of an unintelligible sentence, then
finally forewent speech altogether and simply dug in her
pocket for the letter.

“You need to explain this,” she said baldly as she slapped it
down on the desk. Her heart was beating fast and shallow. “I
don’t understand it.”

That irrepressible, infuriating spark of humour lit
Dumbledore’s Wedgwood eyes. “What don’t you understand?” he
asked - in such a reasonable tone that Hermione thought she
might throw something at him.

Damn it all, why did such a brilliant man get such a kick out
of playing dumb?

“This!” she said, nudging the parchment a little nearer to
him. “This whole thing. Every word of it’s a mystery.”

She stabbed a shaking, accusatory finger at the parchment’s
letterhead, which proclaimed it to have originated with the
Cairo Consortium for the Preponderance of Magical Study,
Department of Alternative Thought, School of Anthropology,
University of Cairo. “These people,” she said unsteadily, “are
offering me a full scholarship. And I don’t see how that’s
possible.” She looked appealingly at Dumbledore, as if asking
him to negate the letter’s contents. “I have a whole year of
school left! I haven’t even taken my NEWTs!”

**

“True,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But I think you’ll find the
magical world, Hermione, to be quite lax about quibbles like
exam scores, under the right circumstances. The NEWTs are a
fairly recent development in our educational system, and tend
to be most valued within Britain; the world is full of places
of higher learning who don’t require those tests at all.”

He picked up the letter and examined it briefly, ignoring her
open mouth. “Ah, yes, it’s all in order,” he said, and
returned her look of disbelief with a cheeky twinkle. “I was
expecting you’d hear from her soon. Areli Ben-Nadir” - here,
his forefinger traced the signature at the bottom of the
letter - “is a former student of mine at Hogwarts, and the
founder of the Consortium.”

He gazed dreamily at the wall behind Hermione’s head. “Your
classic Ravenclaw, really. Devoted to higher levels of thought
- quite a Wunderkind in her own right - and of part-Muggle
parentage, which has proven to be quite useful to her. Her
father is an Israeli-born biochemist and a tenured professor
at the University of Cairo; I suspect that Areli has found his
contacts most useful in establishing and funding her study
group under their umbrella.”

He tapped the parchment thoughtfully. “She did her advanced
study in the areas of Transfiguration and Charms, but I happen
to know she also has an interest in hybrid Potions and is
hoping to use the Consortium to spearhead research in that
field. Being aware of this, I naturally took the liberty of
sending her a sample of your Protection Potion, shortly after
Algie was here to administer the patent.”

He beamed. “Judging from the enthusiasm of the owl she sent in
return, she’s quite anxious to have you, Hermione - NEWTs or
no.”

“But -” Hermione swallowed hard. Fucking surreal. “You mean -
leave Hogwarts? A whole year early? To go to -“

“College,” the Headmaster supplied serenely. At her look of
patent astonishment, he shrugged.

“Well, not college in its strictest sense,” he corrected
himself. “More an apprenticeship, really; Areli’s a great
believer in independent study, and for most of it you’d be
one-on-one with her, or with other mentors within the
Consortium. After all, it’s a rather elite group as academics
go. Though I believe,” he added, frowning thoughtfully, “that
the University is prepared to grant you a Muggle degree, on
the completion of your coursework.”

He rummaged haphazardly among the documents on his overflowing
desk. “She sent me all the particulars of that - and also your
housing allowance, your stipend - though I can’t seem to
locate them at the moment …”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said. Her ears were buzzing, and she
thought she might faint. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.
Did you say there was a stipend?”

Dumbledore nodded cheerfully.

“Oh, yes, it’s salaried - I’m quite sure of it,” he said.
“Like I said before, Areli is quite eager to work with you.
She’s been looking for a suitable acolyte with your particular
qualifications for several years now.” He shifted another
precariously leaning stack of parchment and triumphantly
produced a piece of letterhead identical to Hermione’s.

“Here we are,” he said, searching through the lines of text
with the tip of his quill, and named a figure that made
Hermione’s eyes roll back in her head. (She wasn’t her
parents’ child for nothing - she’d grown up on stories of
graduate-school penury, of boxed macaroni and peanut-butter
sandwiches ad nauseum at the end of the month, and she knew:
assistantships just didn’t pay this well.) With considerable
difficulty, she pulled herself away from the thought of that
magical number and concentrated on what Dumbledore was saying.

“ … says there’s a very suitable apartment coming available in
June - close to the university, and the building is
wizard-owned.” He looked wickedly at her over the edge of the
paper. “As you’ve probably ascertained simply through
observation, our world is a tightly-knit one. In fact, you
would already know your next-door neighbour; I understand
young William Weasley’s been a tenant in good standing for
several years now.”

“Wait,” Hermione said again, and she meant it - there was too
much happening here to process, at the speed he was saying it.
“I can’t quite believe this,” she said slowly. “You’re telling
me that this scholar, this” - she glanced down at her letter -
“Areli Ben-Nadir - wants to pay me, to come to her school and
study with her? That she’s already found me an apartment?”

“Hermione,” Dumbledore said - and he’d dropped the Santa act
for the moment, he was deadly serious - “this is nothing.”

She pried her jaw out of her chest and coaxed her eyebrows
down from her hairline. That was the last thing she’d expected
him to say.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing,” he repeated with an emphatic nod. “After the
inquest is over and the truth told - after the Daily Prophet
prints the story and makes the news of your discovery public -
you’ll be writing your own ticket; the recruitment owls will
be coming down on you like hail.” There was still no humour in
his voice; he wasn’t joking, Hermione realised, and felt a
little shiver work its way up her spine.

“Your hard work and persistence is about to pay off,”
Dumbledore said, with as fatherly a look on his old face as
she’d ever seen, “so don’t feel you have to make any decisions
now. Take your time - they’ll wait for you to make the choice
you feel is right.”

Hermione nodded mutely, barely hearing his words. She’d
stopped listening about three sentences ago.

The excited butterflies in her stomach had compacted abruptly
into a fist-sized, leaden mass, and she could find no joy -
right now, anyway - in her extraordinary good fortune.

The inquest was coming up.

How could she have forgotten about that?

**

Albus Dumbledore was a kindly man, but he was also a shrewd
one. As slippery as Lucius Malfoy had been in the past about
his involvement with the Dark Side, he was backed into a
corner now - and Albus intended to take full advantage of that
fact.

Cornelius Fudge might be a shortsighted dimwit with his head
in the sand, but even he couldn’t ignore this.

Hermione, despite her lower profile in the wizarding community
- or perhaps because of it - made a far more credible witness,
in Fudge’s eyes anyway, than Harry. And Rita Skeeter’s
confession in the presence of the Ministry Auror, while not on
its own a clear implication of Lucius, was certainly a
convincing enough piece of circumstantial evidence to merit
full Ministry investigation of the affair.

Not to mention the Angry Evil Wizard in the paperweight; for
all his flippancy to Hermione in the infirmary, Albus was
taking more precautions with that little jewel than he let on.
After all, it was his trump card. Should Fudge prove to be
stubborn - and when wasn’t he, really? - they’d simply have to
Liberate their one piece of incontrovertible evidence and let
the chips fall where they would.

Rita, for her part, was awaiting wizard trial in Azkaban.
Lucius, on the other hand, had played his money-and-influence
card yet again - for the last time, if Albus had anything to
say about it - and had been granted a ‘more humane
confinement’, pending trial, by direct order of Fudge.

The idiot.

Albus smiled to himself. ‘Humane’, he thought, was a very
relative word.

Going along with Fudge, he’d requested that Malfoy be held at
Hogwarts, and indeed that’s where he was now - wandless and
Bound in a doubly- and triply-enchanted subdungeon cell not
far from Salazar Slytherin’s apartments. To round off the
already impressive security on the room, Slytherin himself,
along with Professor Snape, had volunteered himself for
round-the-clock guard duty.

Dumbledore’s lips twitched. Given the look on Severus’ face
when Hermione went missing, and the sleepless night he’d spent
in the infirmary, keeping fierce, implacable watch next to her
bed, he wasn’t at all sure Lucius wouldn’t have preferred the
company of the dementors, after all. What was that saying the
Muggles had again?

He crunched thoughtfully on his Pepper Imp, ignoring the puffs
of steam emanating from his ears, and smiled in sudden
recollection.

Ah, yes. How could he have forgotten?

Paybacks are hell.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Three

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The inquest was tomorrow morning, and Hermione couldn’t sleep.

She had a lot on her mind. Ever since her conversation with
Dumbledore a week ago, she’d been reading everything she could
find on the subject of wizard trials, and not everything she
found was reassuring.

Quite the contrary, actually.

From what she could tell, the magical community wasn’t
disposed to settling its differences in the courtroom. The
most well-publicized trials by far were those Death Eater
witch-hunts Crouch Sr. had spearheaded, after Voldemort’s
first defeat. And while they might have been a telling product
of the dark times which produced them, and inevitable in a way
- even therapeutic, if you wanted to go there - they were,
Hermione realised, less a codified part of peacetime wizarding
society, and more like a hastily-assembled Muggle war
tribunal.

What she could expect tomorrow from this inquest, she
suspected, was exactly that: an official inquiry, less
cumbersome than a full-fledged trial and also much more
flexible, in terms of what testimony could be allowed and what
methods of extracting it permitted. Fudge would be there, of
course, with a small panel of officials - Hermione suspected
that Dumbledore would sit on the panel, too, but she wasn’t at
all sure. They’d hear an accounting of the events from the
plaintiff (her), and the defendant (Malfoy), question any
eyewitnesses or persons with firsthand knowledge of the case,
determine among themselves whether there was evidence of
wrongdoing, and sentence accordingly.

Fine and good, as far as it went. But even apart from her
suspicions about the Ministry of Magic’s impartiality where
Malfoy was concerned (“Remember Buckbeak?”, she’d said
gloomily, just yesterday, to Harry and Ron), Hermione had one
other, far more major, concern.

Before either she or Malfoy opened their mouths to speak, it
was likely that they’d be dosed with Veritaserum. And while
that was good, in one sense - he’d be compelled to admit his
dastardly dealings with Voldemort and come clean about the
motivation behind the Polyjuice caper - it posed some problems
for her as well.

One illegal Imperius Curse, for starters - the maximum penalty
for which was Azkaban and the snapping of her wand. And
Inlaqueo, which was a little fuzzier. Sal had said it was
illegal, but to the best of her knowledge, Fudge and his
cronies wouldn’t even know what it was … and after all, it
wasn’t listed as an Unforgivable, now, was it?

One could hope.

Still, Hermione shuddered to think about what might happen to
her scholarship and her magical patent, should Fudge find out
just how the formerly-missing Initiates had gone missing.

Troubled, she massaged her temples. Worrywart. Try not to
think about it, okay?

But then - then - forget the Pursuit of Justice, forget giving
Lucius Malfoy his just deserts, for a moment - if she simply
managed, through some miraculous alignment of the planets, to
get through tomorrow without being thrown out of Hogwarts and
the magical community at large, there was still her upcoming
interview with Areli Ben-Nadir to worry about.

It was to be an interview-by-Floo - not just the talking-heads
variety, either; oh no, the Headmaster, together with
Professor McGonagall, had arranged for her to miss one entire
Friday’s worth of classes, so she could actually visit the
University and see - with Areli as her tour guide - the
members of the Consortium at work. It really did seem as if
she was being courted, Hermione thought with a twisting
stomach; as if that glorious, unbelievable offer really was
hers for the taking.

All the more reason not to fuck things up at the inquest.
Christ.

She almost wanted to call it off, and yet the prospect of
letting Skeeter and Malfoy walk despite their misdeeds, of
Letting Evil Remain Unaccountable Yet Again, gave her a facial
tic of epic proportions.

She had to go through with it - had to.

And she wanted, rather desperately actually, to talk to Draco
first.

**

It had been a month and a half since their breakup - long
enough, surely, for life to return to some semblance of
normality - and indeed it had, in some respects at least. And
yet - even with all her regret and self-recrimination shoved
into the farthest corner of her subconscious that she could
manage, even with April slipping away from the calendar like a
shy girl from a dance - it felt strange not to be talking to
him.

After all, for most of the school year he’d been the first one
to know, the minute anything happened to her.

Was it always going to be like this? Hermione wondered. With
every lover that came and went, would she lose, in his
leaving, the shared history inherent to the two of them?

And where had it gone, exactly, that sweetly sloping handful
of emotional topography, that first foothill of romance that
now lay scraped and barren as slag, an eyesore only she,
seemingly, could see?

Had he taken it with him? Or was he still as raw and wounded
as she?

Hermione picked up the charm bracelet on her nightstand and
studied it thoughtfully. All the charms were still attached,
minus the sapphire: wand, hat, cauldron, cat … and of course,
the Book and the Key.

She thumbed idly through the Keyhole and froze when the little
book fell naturally open to page thirty-five.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Then again - nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She hesitated, undecided, on the edge of her bed, the Keyhole
open in her palm.

**

Ten p.m. - time for the changing of the watch. Severus
sauntered past Morgan and down toward Sal’s chambers, feeling
oddly and most disconcertingly free of angst. That pleasant
sensation of Nothing In Particular gave way to the edgier
delights of evil satisfaction, as he neared Malfoy’s holding
cell and heard the sound of helpless retching.

Sal certainly was inventive, he thought, and drew up next to a
seemingly blank wall which melted away at his touch and then
reassembled itself behind him as he swept through.

He was in a small stone room, torch-lit and provided with a
satisfactory-if-impermanent Portable Hearth, the sort one
might take on a camping expedition if rain was in the
forecast. The floor had been laid with a thickly padded
Turkish carpet to ward off the chill inherent to the
subdungeons, a pair of overstuffed chairs - similar to the
ones in Sal’s study - flanked a small-but-mighty bookshelf,
and against one wall stood a state-of-the-art digital stereo
system that Sal had conjured after a model he’d seen in one of
Hermione’s Sharper Image catalogs (her father sent them to her
periodically, with the more outlandish offerings circled in
red; he held them up as an example of all that was
simultaneously wrong and right with the Yanks). Presently the
set was Perlucioed, and humming with the lively counterpoint
of the Brandenburg Concertos.

A cozy little retreat, all told. Until you looked through the
easternmost wall, enchanted to behave like a two-way mirror,
and saw the prisoner in the next room - a functional-but-bare
cell furnished only with a cot, a privy, and a rickety desk
and chair.

How the mighty are fallen, Severus thought, picturing the
luxuries of Malfoy Manor, and felt his lips curve in spite of
themselves. Dumbledore was, even in anger, a humane jailer -
the stone floor of Malfoy’s cell had been treated with a
Warming Charm, and the room was suffused with dim magical
light, so as not to leave its captive in darkness.

Still. No doors, no windows, no human contact, no wand. Not
that the last mattered - no curse could penetrate through the
enchanted wall. On the other hand, he and Sal could fire at
will - to deliver food, to empty the privy, to change the
linens.

Or for other reasons, which had nothing to do with bodily
functions or the necessities of life, and had everything to do
with petty vengeance.

Vengeance - the Slytherin way.

It ought to be on a T-shirt.

Presently, Sal was sipping tea and skimming Leaves of Grass
for the racier bits. He didn’t appear to hear the gargling and
choking coming from the next room; Severus, however, saw
Malfoy on his knees on the bare floor, clutching his abdomen
with both hands, and raised an eyebrow as he dropped into the
other chair.

“Unforgivables, Sal?”

Sal’s moustache bristled. “Of course not,” he said, somewhat
indignantly. “It’s a Tickling Charm, man - any infant could
see that!”

Snape studied the heaving figure on the other side of the
transparent wall, looking thoroughly miserable and giving new
meaning to the words laughed himself sick. “A Tickling Charm,”
he repeated slowly. “Ingenious.”

“Yes, he was quite amusing for the first half hour or so,” Sal
mused. “After that, I fear he began to find the whole process
a bit … laborious.” He carefully bookmarked the ghostly volume
of Whitman with a silken ribbon, laid it gently aside on the
lamp table, and picked up his wand.

“Finite Incantatem,” he said, and they watched Malfoy shudder
to a halt, his half-hysterical hiccups subsiding to slightly
ragged breathing as he pulled himself up on the narrow cot and
collapsed.

“Poor bugger, he’s got no sense of humour really,” Sal said,
deadpan. “Fellow can’t enjoy a bit of a laugh, there’s
something wrong. Got to feel sorry for him, don’t you?”

Severus, studying the wretched huddle of robes on the bed,
grimaced as another image slid unwillingly into his brain;
another body reduced to a black-silk crumple, with a dark
auburn tangle of waves tossed like a funeral shroud across her
once-pretty face.

Wilhelmina, that was her name. Wilhelmina Jacobsen. He’d gone
to school with her.

Gone to school, yes - every Thursday afternoon, double Charms
with the Ravenclaws, and she just in front of him, tossing
back that glorious hair as she nibbled her quill, such
jaw-dropping sexy-librarian fantasies she’d given him
unwittingly, back in their fifth-year - and then stood, and
watched, and betrayed by silence.

Mina Jacobsen, broken on a bed very like this one - broken,
and bloody too, though that was hidden by her hair and the
robe tossed over her body, like dirt on a carcass.

Malfoy, laughing, stepping back while he rearranged his robes
- taking out that wicked little blade he liked so much and
used so readily, to snip an auburn curl - for my collection,
he’d said with a smirk. Severus had thought of that
lighthearted Muggle epic, The Rape of the Lock, and shuddered.

Somehow, the theft of Mina Jacobsen’s hair had seemed a
million times worse than anything else Malfoy had just done to
her. Remembering, Severus gritted his teeth against age-old
guilt and narrowed his eyes at the man on the bed.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t feel sorry for him at all.”

**

There was someone in the room with him.

Draco sat up and fumbled for his wand. “Lumos,” he said
unsteadily, and wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or further
unsettled, when he saw Hermione. He sat up in bed and tugged
the comforter a little farther up to his shoulders.

“Hi,” he said, his voice guarded. She blinked.

“Hi.”

Silence unfurled between them, like a silk scarf dropped off a
cliff on a still day.

“How’ve you been?” Hermione said finally, and Draco shrugged.

“Okay. You?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence again, slightly more strained this time.

Don’t ask, don’t ask, Draco told himself, but finally couldn’t
help it. “What’s up?” he said, as casually as possible, and
was surprised when she looked straight at him, her face white
and pinched.

“Scared about tomorrow,” she said tightly. “Scared of what
they’ll ask - of what I’ll have to say.”

“You?” Draco looked incredulous. “You’re not afraid of
anything,” he said, and Hermione snorted.

“You’d be surprised.”

Her self-mockery was new, something he hadn’t seen in her
before. To his surprise, Draco found that he didn’t like it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling a bit of his
carefully-hoarded bitterness reach out from its hiding place
to sting him. “Ron and Harry hex each other’s ears off? Or are
Gryffindors really the bad listeners we all suspected them to
be?”

She didn’t say anything, and he persisted, feeling the wicked
little animal inside him stretch and luxuriate in the power of
its sarcasm, the flash of hurt on her white scared face.

“The Unsinkable Hermione Granger meets her iceberg,” he said,
smirking. “All those little white lies catching up with you?
Hogwarts’ quintessential Good Girl, shaking like a leaf over
the Bottle of Truth. That’s a good one. And running to me for
comfort - better yet.”

At that, she flushed. “My mistake,” she said in that same
tight little voice. “Sorry I bothered you.”

She turned to go, her eyes wet with humiliation but her
shoulders square. Draco studied the resolute line of her jaw
and felt regret rip at him.

“Hermione,” he said from behind her. “Hermione, I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, yes, you did,” she said, pausing but not turning around.
“Every word of it. You hate that I’m strong, that I do things
on my own; you’ve made it perfectly clear that you wanted me
to be someone I’m not.”

“No,” he said, horrified. “God, no.”

Something in his voice must have reached her - she turned
around to face him, eyes glittering with mingled hurt and
challenge. “What, then?” she demanded. “What was it that made
you end it?”

There were a million things he could have said, but only one
truth. “I wanted you to need me,” he said flatly. “And you
didn’t.”

She faced him down, a small tousle-haired vengeance goddess in
a white Muggle bathrobe. For the blaze in her eyes, her voice
was surprisingly soft.

“Had that been the truth,” she said, “I never would have let
you into Giulia’s apartment. Much less my life.”

Before he could react to that, she’d turned and slipped away.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Four

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As long as she was in the library, she’d might as well read.

Hermione wound her way through the darkened stacks, rigid with
righteous outrage and the beginning niggles of something that
might have been disappointment. Serves you right, she thought,
her lips tightly pressed against the hurt. You should have
known better - he’s got his own agenda right now, his own
baggage. He doesn’t want to hear anything from you but
grovelling.

And that, she decided fiercely, he wasn’t going to get.

“I wanted you to need me, and you didn’t.”

Hermione snorted.

The narrow-minded, autocratic, silver-spoon-up-his-ass,
inflexible little prick. If he’d bothered to think tonight,
instead of wallowing in all that damned self-pity and
indulging his Inner Snape, he’d have realised that that was
exactly why she was there.

Well, no more. She didn’t need him, not this resentful
sarcastic I-Am-Alpha-Male version of him, anyway. She’d gotten
herself into the mess, she’d get herself out.

And if the Veritaserum was indeed her prospective iceberg, at
least she saw it coming. She ducked into the Potions aisle of
the Restricted Section and used the penlight-wand to find her
way to the Vs.

Edwin Razorscuff and the Making of Primitive Veritaserum.

No.

She moved on to a smaller hand-bound volume that looked rather
like a doctoral dissertation.

To Tell the Truth: Modern Uses of Veritaserum.

Interesting, but not exactly what she was after - and if it
was indeed published in 1804, the date on the binding, any of
its pretenses at modernity could be, Hermione felt, safely
discarded. She blew some dust off the binding of the next
book, stifled a sneeze, and peered at the faded gilt
lettering.

When Potions Fail: Veritaserum’s Broken Promise.

Ha - this was more like it. She removed the book from its
place on the shelf, flipped it open, and frowningly perused
the preface.

Upon Edwin Razorscuff’s discovery of a truth elixir in the
late 1700s, the wizarding world believed itself to be
revolutionised. To this day, Veritaserum is widely regarded as
fail-safe, a longtime standby of employment agencies,
courtrooms, and parents of small children. However, the author
of this volume presents compelling scholarly evidence that
Veritaserum is a manipulable substance, and not to be trusted
implicitly …

That was all she needed to see. Hermione dusted off the rest
of the book, stuffed it under her arm, and headed for the
exit, glancing at her watch once she reached the corridor
leading to Gryffindor Tower.

Almost two-o’-clock. And the inquest was at ten. Plenty of
time.

Tamping down the thought that a real Gryffindor wouldn’t even
have gone looking for this book, she set off down the hall
toward her bedroom.

Four hours later, she was still reading.

**

Ten a.m. found her waiting outside Dumbledore’s office, along
with Harry, Ron and Ginny - all fidgeting - a strangely
sated-looking Snape, and her Morose-But-Still-Cute
ex-boyfriend, battling fatigue but feeling marginally hopeful.

As it turned out, Veritaserum was more scientific than its
poetic name, and had a great deal in common with its Muggle
cousin, the polygraph. This was good news.

Hermione wasn’t an expert on how the polygraph worked, but she
knew it measured physiological responses: perspiration,
breathing patterns, the involuntary movement of certain
muscles. The concept behind its creation had been that
deceptive speech or behaviour triggered certain measurable
physical phenomena, sparked by a jolt of adrenaline.
Veritaserum appeared to be the other side to that coin: the
potion worked to muffle that adrenaline surge, so that any
response requiring it couldn’t be voiced.

Which meant, of course, that she had a choice to make. The
weak link was obvious - no truth, after all, was absolute. The
question How did you get down from the ceiling? could be
answered in at least two ways: I used the Imperius Curse, or I
told him to untie me. Both statements, equally true.

Of course, if the question happened to be: Did you cast the
Imperius Curse on Lucius Malfoy?, or Did you keep eight of
your fellow students trapped in a star sapphire for the
entirety of Christmas vacation?, her room for dissembling
disappeared. There was only one way to answer those: you bet
your ass.

In other words, she was hoping for essay questions, and not
true-or-false.

But that made her wonder: wasn’t she just better off, telling
the truth?

She was still pondering that question when the downstairs
gargoyle jumped aside and a small crowd of Ministry Aurors
rose into view, surrounding in their official midst a person
Hermione didn’t at first recognise.

Then she looked a little closer - and gasped as she realised
it was Rita Skeeter.

Hermione had heard from all the various eyewitnesses to the
café scene about Rita’s complicity in Malfoy’s Polyjuice
scheme, but she’d been unconscious during Skeeter’s brief
appearance at Hogwarts for interrogation, and hadn’t awoken
until long after the Aurors had taken her away. That poisonous
bitch, Ron and Harry called her, and Hermione hadn’t disagreed
with them - even taking into account all those mean-spirited
Daily Prophet articles of two years ago, it was hard to
imagine that she’d stoop to malevolence like Malfoy’s in her
quest for revenge.

Now, however, she found indignation battling with sympathy at
the sight before her. Rita had always reminded her a bit of
Mrs. Boggs, the receptionist at her parents’ office who sold
mail-order cosmetics in her spare time - ill-advised in her
fashion choices, certainly, but also indubitably well-groomed.
She suspected that Rita prided herself on being impeccably (if
a bit heavily) made-up: certainly Hermione had never seen her
without her lips matched to her nails, her handbag coordinated
with her shoes, her hair shellacked resolutely into
submission.

This cowering, sallow-skinned woman in the brown prison robes
with her broken nails, her scratched arms, her lank hair -
brass-red, still, but streaked liberally now with grey -
didn’t even look like Rita Skeeter’s shadow. Hermione met the
madly rolling eyes with her own and couldn’t help shuddering;
with pity, with revulsion, she honestly didn’t know.

Both, probably.

And then Rita Skeeter laughed, a horrible harsh broken sound,
and wrenched free of the Aurors holding her arm long enough to
face Hermione square-on, and gather her saliva, and spit.

“Stupid little bint, you’ll get yours,” she hissed. “Don’t
even think you’re safe -“ and then the Aurors had grabbed her
arms again and hustled her in a flurry of uniforms and fading
imprecations into Dumbledore’s office, and closed the door
behind her.

Hermione stared at the gob of thick whitish spittle on her
shoe - one of Giulia’s black Prada loafers, with the elegantly
curved stacked heels and the narrow silver buckles; she’d worn
them to give herself a touch of her cousin’s Roman bad-girl
confidence - and started to shake.

Stupid little bint. You’ll get yours.

Around her, Harry and Ron and Ginny were hovering and talking
and touching, but she couldn’t look at them; they were blurry,
or she was dizzy, or both - and oh God, she should have slept
last night instead of reading that stupid Slytherin book!

And then a strong black-robed arm materialized in front of
her, and she grabbed it gratefully and was whisked away from
the chair, away from the gabbling of her friends and Draco’s
silent stare and the door through which Rita had disappeared,
around a corner and into a little curtained alcove. She sank
onto the cushioned bench where he deposited her, teeth
chattering, and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Here,” Snape said curtly, and waved his handkerchief in front
of her face. She stared at it blankly.”

“I’m not crying.”

“For your shoe,” he said. “Wipe it off.”

Her hands were shaking too hard to hold the handkerchief. She
looked at him appealingly, and he shook his head.

“Do it yourself.” Steel in his voice. “Pull yourself together,
Miss Granger. This isn’t Hollywood, it’s real life.”

That’s right, kick me when I’m down, Hermione thought
resentfully, and grabbed the square of crisp white linen with
a surge of annoyance that took the edge off her shakiness. By
the time she’d swabbed at her shoe and sat back up, she felt
much steadier. No doubt that’d been his intention, she
thought, and handed the now-crumpled hanky back to him.

“Thank you,” she said grudgingly. “I’m sorry - I don’t know
why I let that get to me.”

“Don’t you?”

He was sitting beside her but looking straight ahead at the
curtain, rather as if they were riding together in an
automobile. It was a position that invited confidences.
Hermione drew a deep breath.

“I haven’t slept,” she started - then, when he made a soft
sound of disbelief in his throat, decided to cut to the chase.

“I’m scared.”

“Of Rita Skeeter?” Now he sounded amused, damn him. Hermione
scowled at the impassive profile next to her.

“No! Of testifying.”

“Oh?”

She hummed impatiently. “I used an Imperius Curse on Malfoy,”
she said. “I used a Trapping Spell on Voldemort - a spell I’m
not even supposed to know! I could be sent to Azkaban myself,
just for the Imperius alone. And if they find out what I did
before Christmas …”

She was shaking again - just voicing the problem made it seem
that much bigger. Snape sighed heavily, and shifted so that he
was looking straight at her.

“You’re not the one on trial, Hermione,” he said. She shook
her head.

“But it’s still illegal! It’s more than illegal. It’s
unforgivable.”

There was a swoosh of black fabric, a muttered curse, and then
he was kneeling in front of her, gripping her chin with one
elegant strong-fingered hand.

“Look at this,” he said harshly, and released her in order to
yank up the left sleeve of his robes. She stared
uncomprehending at the pale unmarked skin, at the blue throb
of his wrist.

“It’s where the Dark Mark used to be,” she said, and he let
out a laugh that was half a sob.

“Exactly,” he said, black eyes boring holes in hers. “Where it
used to be. Where it no longer is.”

Her lips trembled. “But what -“

“What does it have to do with you?” He leaned closer, so
closer that she could smell the mint on his breath. “You did
this,” he breathed. “You. Doesn’t that prove anything to you?”

“I -“ she began, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Hermione,” he said. “If you can get rid of this, then
nothing’s Unforgivable. Not anymore.”

And then he was kissing her.

**

She was so soft, so sweet - like honey on his tongue, like a
perfectly-still butterfly, poised on the back of his hand. And
she didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold back from him, just sighed
and gave over and hooked those small strong hands in the back
of his collar, the sensation of her calloused fingertips on
the back of his neck turning him to cornmeal mush, to stone.

He’d kissed her in anger, he’d kissed her in haste, but he’d
never kissed her for comfort, and he’d never kissed her out of
love.

So now he did, and it was electricity in his brain, water
pouring over his palms, the missing piece of the puzzle, dug
out from under the davenport and clicked triumphantly into
place. Cradle her, cosset her, kiss those wet eyes and save
the salt on your tongue - salt like ocean, salt like spray.
Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she’s safe.

He rocked her in his arms, he stroked that honey-silk hair,
and when they finally drew back from each other, he looked her
straight in her eyes and lied.

“Hermione,” he said, “don’t worry about the Ministry. Just go
into that room and tell them the truth, and they can’t
possibly do a thing to you.”

She gave him a watery smile, and then he was on his feet and
they were carrying him toward Dumbledore’s office, because
after all they’d been away far too long, and he was needed for
witness-questioning in the Skeeter case.

Don’t worry, he’d said, and left the rest unspoken.

I’ll do it for you.

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Five

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Rita Skeeter’s trial didn’t last long.

Barely twenty minutes after Hermione had peeled herself off
the alcove floor, reapplied her lipstick, messed about with an
AntiRed cosmetic charm on her eyes, and reclaimed her
pre-panic-attack chair, Dumbledore’s door swung open and Rita
re-emerged, flanked by her Auror guards. Hermione turned
instinctively away, but she needn’t have worried. Unlike her
dramatic entrance, Rita’s exit was subdued - she was weeping
softly into her hands, and the Aurors seemed to be supporting,
more than restraining, her.

Draco was next, an unreadable expression on his handsome, set
face - followed by Harry, Ron and Ginny, in a whispering
little clump of suppressed excitement. “Good news,” Harry
mouthed in Hermione’s direction, and she felt herself go limp
with relief.

“How long?” she asked, and Ron sat down next to her.

“Six months,” he murmured, shooting a wary glance toward the
still-open door. “For Unlawful Impersonation with Intent to
Harm. And she’s not allowed to write any more - they tore up
her press badge. Right in front of her. Can you believe it?”

“And the quill,” Ginny interjected under her breath. “They
snapped her Quick-Quotes Quill in half and threw the pieces
into the fire.” She swallowed hard. “She cried and cried, poor
thing.”

“Poor thing?” Ron echoed, incredulous. “Ginny, don’t be such a
sap. She deserved every bit of that and more.”

But Ginny looked rather trembly - Hermione happened to know
that even the Tom Riddle incident back in her first year
hadn’t cured Ginny of her diary habit. She was a good writer,
too - Hermione had proofread some of her term papers for her,
and even they had a quick, light, readable style that was
immediately distinguishable. If Ginny didn’t decide to start
writing novels instead, Hermione rather suspected that they
might have another future journalist in their midst.

Good thing Harry had gotten over being an idiot and was
holding her hand. He could do with a little good press, for a
change.

She noticed also that Harry had draped his cloak over Ginny’s
shoulders - took you long enough, didn’t it, boyo? - and that
he looked angry, but calm. “What’s the matter?” she asked, and
he smiled thinly.

“Fudge wouldn’t admit my testimony as valid,” he said quietly.
“Told me I had a ‘conflict of interest’, since Rita wrote all
that rubbish about me two years ago. But when he turned away
to talk to the panel, I heard him use the word ‘unreliable’.”

“Bastard,” Ron muttered. Draco, who had been leaning against
the wall a little way away - presumably, Hermione thought,
waiting for Snape - raised one blond eyebrow.

“You know it’s nothing to do with you,” he told Harry
unexpectedly, and frowned as they all looked at him,
surprised. “He’s in a pissing contest with Dumbledore, that’s
all. Angry that he even has to bring my father up on charges.”

Hermione felt her stomach lurch. Draco, apparently giving up
on Snape, turned to go and lifted one spare shoulder in a
shrug.

“Good luck, Hermione,” he said softly, and looked as if he
wanted to say something more, but thought better of it. They
all stared after his retreating figure, nonplussed.

“He misses you,” Ginny said dreamily, and looked startled when
Hermione snorted.

“He’s got a funny way of showing it, then, doesn’t he?”

**

They hovered for another few minutes until Hermione finally
couldn’t stand it anymore - “I’m fine, I’ll be fine!” - and
sent them away.

She had to think, and she couldn’t do it in the middle of a
racket.

Six months in Azkaban, and her press privileges revoked.
Hermione was with Ginny on this one; poor thing, indeed. But
after all, Rita hadn’t made any friends with that poison pen -
and the Ministry, that is to say the Minister, had been her
target more often than not. No doubt Fudge felt himself
well-rid of her.

A logical person might conclude that Lucius Malfoy would get
the same six months plus some, since he was guilty of the same
crime. Hermione was afraid she knew better.

Disposing of a troublesome journalist was one thing; sending
your longtime associate to Azkaban was quite another. And
Cornelius Fudge had already proven to them, time and again,
that he wasn’t held by any code of honour.

Hermione sighed and wrapped her arms around her knees as the
muffled conversation in the next room died away to silence and
was replaced by purposeful rustling - someone was coming to
fetch her, no doubt. She dropped her head briefly on her knees
and tried for one more moment to regain the sense of absolute
security she’d had just half an hour ago, wrapped in Snape’s
arms.

For someone who seemed so determined to be unpleasant, he
could be amazingly comforting. She brought her head up
resolutely.

What was it he’d said?

Just go into that room and tell them the truth, and they can’t
possibly do a thing to you.

Head high, she unfolded herself from the chair and gave the
Auror in the doorway the bravest smile she could muster.

Dumbledore’s desk had been Transfigured into something higher
and longer and less cluttered, behind which sat Fudge, three
other Ministry officials Hermione didn’t know, and Professor
Dumbledore himself. In the far corner, where the Order of the
Phoenix had once stood waiting for her copyright to be signed,
lurked yet another band of Aurors.

There was no witness stand, but there were two low tables in
front of the desk. At one sat Professor McGonagall, Madam
Pomfrey, and Professor Snape - Hermione supposed that was her
side. The other table, as yet, was empty.

And then the fire glowed green, and spat still more Aurors out
of it. And Lucius Malfoy was with them.

Obviously, he hadn’t been in Azkaban - he was wearing his own
clean robes, and he didn’t have the same mad, unkempt look
Hermione had seen in Rita, in Sirius, or - on occasion, when
he was unusually tired, or had been startled - in Hagrid. Even
so, he walked like a man who had been confined, and blinked
his pale, red-rimmed eyes in a rabbity way that suggested he
was unused to this much light. Hermione expected glares from
him, expected imperiousness, but he seemed
uncharacteristically vague and focussed inward, as if he was
holding himself erect only with great care. Once in the chair
at the opposite table, he looked visibly relieved.

Hermione saw McGonagall tip her head toward Snape inquiringly,
then roll her eyes in mingled amusement and disdain at what he
whispered in her ear.

Ha. No wonder Snape had been making himself scarce, as of
late.

She acknowledged the wizards at the desk with a grave little
nod and seated herself in the empty chair beside Snape,
suddenly feeling much better about the whole situation. After
all, she was surrounded by friends and protectors.

And Lucius Malfoy was surrounded only by guards.

“Shall we begin?” asked Fudge, and she let out a shaky breath.

Showtime.

**

It had never occurred to Hermione that Fudge might be uneasy
at the thought of administering Veritaserum in this particular
case, but so it seemed.

“No, no, won’t be necessary,” he said tersely, waving aside
Snape’s proffered bottle. “That Skeeter woman’s one thing -
you know what she’s like as well as I do, Albus; she hasn’t
said or written a syllable of truth in the ten years she’s
been at the Daily Prophet - but for these two?”

He fixed Hermione with what was undoubtedly intended to be a
grandfatherly look. “No - won’t need it - absolutely
trustworthy - longtime personal friend - I’m sure you’ll vouch
for the young lady here, Minerva -“

“Indeed,” said Professor McGonagall frostily. “But you know as
well as I do, Cornelius, that unless there’s a barometer of
the witnesses’ veracity present at this hearing, the entire
proceeding can be declared legally void, in the case of an
appeal.”

Oho, thought Hermione, who hadn’t known that. Fudge looked
taken aback.

He recovered equilibrium quickly, however - a born politician,
that one, muttered Madam Pomfrey to Snape - and sent
McGonagall a weak smile that she didn’t even acknowledge, let
alone return.

“Quite, quite,” he said heartily, adjusting the collar of his
official’s robes with one pudgy moist hand. “Still -
Veritaserum - bit harsh, especially on a young stomach -“
here, another false smile in Hermione’s direction - “I know
just the thing - here we go -“

As he spoke, he had been rummaging in a monogrammed leather
bag; now, he held aloft a gold-plated Sneakoscope engraved
with his initials, as triumphantly as if it was the Quidditch
Cup. “Right, then,” he said. “This should do it, eh?”

He was adjusting his pince-nez with an air of immense relief
when Snape stood up suddenly, brushed past Hermione, and
stepped forward.

“No need to use your personal model, Minister,” he said in his
silkiest tones, eyeing Fudge’s Sneakoscope as if it was one of
Neville’s more thoroughly-botched attempts at a Swelling
Solution. “I’m sure the Headmaster has a school-owned
instrument suitable for the occasion - don’t you, Headmaster?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, nodding cheerfully. He held up one
hand, nodded toward the far corner of the room, and deftly
caught the fist-sized object that came flying toward him,
causing the Ministry officials to duck for cover and making a
definite sideswipe in the direction of Fudge’s right ear
before thunking solidly into Dumbledore’s outstretched palm.
Fudge eyed the object skeptically - and for once, Hermione
didn’t blame him.

The Sneakoscope, if indeed it was one, was shaped like one of
those hula-dancer figurines one could find in certain vacation
shops - a small graceful woman with her plasticine arms over
her head, a tiny flowered lei nestled between bare,
prominently-nippled plasticine breasts, and a plastic
grass-skirt that fell to her otherwise bare knees. Next to
Fudge’s corporate gold-plate, it looked like a mail-order
souvenir mistakenly dropped off on the Tiffany’s counter.

“My name,” Dumbledore said seriously to the little dancer, “is
Cornelius Fudge” - and immediately, the grass skirt began to
swivel in a parody of the hula.

The Ministry officials immediately became very interested in
the contents of the parchment in front of them. Professor
McGonagall went into a coughing fit; Madam Pomfrey laughed out
loud, and Hermione saw out of the corner of her eye that even
Snape was smirking. Only Dumbledore and Malfoy were unaffected
- Dumbledore was playing Santa as if he was up for the Academy
Award, and Malfoy was still staring at his hands.

Fudge, for his part, looked annoyed. “Albus, this is a serious
legal proceeding,” he hissed, and Dumbledore turned up the
twinkle a notch higher. If he kept it up, Hermione thought,
someone was going to take him home next Christmas and put him
on their lawn.

“All the more reason to have a working Sneakoscope,” he said,
and deftly picked up Fudge’s sedately-monogrammed one to
examine the underside. “If you’ll notice, Cornelius, yours
didn’t go off when I gave it the wrong name. It’d be a
terrible thing to send an innocent man to Azkaban, on the
say-so of some faulty machinery.”

The room went suddenly very quiet. Fudge’s collar, Hermione
noticed, seemed to be a bit tight.

“Fine,” he spat, very red in the face. “Let’s begin. Miss
Granger, we’ll start with you, if you please.”

Hermione stood up and looked him straight in his piggy little
eyes.

You’re a cheat and a liar, she thought - and suddenly, wasn’t
nervous at all.

**

She told her story from the beginning, starting with her
budding relationship with Draco, the chase through the Muggle
hotel in Rome when he’d been flinging Stunning Spells at them
and she’d felled him with her Petrificus, their discovery of
the Fils du Couteau shortly before Halloween, their subsequent
work on the Protection Potion, and their encounter with Malfoy
in Dumbledore’s office at the beginning of Christmas vacation.
Hermione still hadn’t forgotten his words: you conniving,
filthy little tramp; you’ll get yours, too, I promise you.

She must have gotten the quote exactly right, because the
grass skirt didn’t so much as quiver.

She left out any mention of the Initiates altogether - better
to say nothing than to risk a lie in front of the Hula Dancer
of Truth - and skipped over to her encounter with him in
Hogsmeade. Leaving Draco at the door of Quality Quidditch.
Coming out of Madam Malkin’s to see him disappearing into the
snow, calling her name. Following him, kissing him, realising
his identity the instant after he’d stolen her wand.

And then, on to the deserted old house in God-knows-where,
reliving that terrible hour wherein he’d chained her feet to
the floor, tied her hands, cut off her clothes. On her left,
Professor McGonagall was white-faced and Madam Pomfrey
gasping; Fudge looked sullen, Dumbledore grim. Malfoy was
still staring at the table - through the whole recital, he
hadn’t looked at her once.

“He put his knife next to my face,” she said, her throat
suddenly very dry, and remembering, felt her knees quiver.
“I’d drunk the Protection Potion, so he couldn’t cut me - but
he tried - and then he sent the others away, and he put his
hands on me … and then Voldemort came in …”

Nausea swirled through her at the memory.

She had to stop. She couldn’t go on.

The whole room was holding its breath. Fudge looked, for the
first time, genuinely frightened. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”
he prompted, his tone disbelieving. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, swallowing hard. “I knew who he was. I
called him Tom Riddle, and it made him angry.” She had to get
this out fast; no way was she going to cry in front of Fudge
and his cronies. “He had a glamour on - he looked like a man,
and then he didn’t, and he wanted to know how Professor Snape
lost his Dark Mark, and I wouldn’t tell him - I said, “I’m no
Peter Pettigrew” -“

Her lips began to tremble. On hearing Pettigrew’s name,
Fudge’s eyes had darted immediately to the hula-dancer, but
she didn’t so much as twitch. “And he said Pettigrew was
smarter than me - he said -“ She closed her eyes. “It is
better to be a living dog than a dead lion. And then he cast
the Cruciatus on me.”

The room erupted in angry whispers; Hermione heard Professor
McGonagall stifle a cry. Next to her, Madam Pomfrey was
trembling.

“And -“ She cleared her throat, held onto the table with both
hands. Why wouldn’t her stomach stop pitching? “And it bounced
off, and went back to him, but he ducked. And then he cast it
again, and it bounced again, but I knew the Protection Potion
wouldn’t last, because the hour was up. And I’d been trying to
get to the Keyhole -“

“The Keyhole?” Fudge asked, nonplussed. Hermione looked
appealingly at Dumbledore.

“Study compartment in the library, Cornelius,” Dumbledore
explained. “A book and a key. You had one yourself, as I
recall.”

Fudge fidgeted with his collar again. “Ah. Ah, yes.”

“It was on my bracelet,” Hermione said tiredly. Her head was
beginning to spin. “Charm bracelet. Draco. Gave it to me for
Christmas.” She held one arm up in explanation. “Wand on it.
Miniature. Like the book. For a penlight. Twisted the
bracelet. Got it in my hand.”

She really couldn’t stand up any longer. She started to sink
back to her chair, then felt a strong arm slide around her
shoulders.

Snape.

“Just a minute more,” he murmured in her ear, and obediently
Hermione took a deep shuddering breath.

“Aimed it. Trapped him. In the sapphire. Malfoy came in. Cast
Imperius.”

“Malfoy did?” Fudge asked, disbelievingly. Hermione shook her
head.

“No. Me. On him. Had to get down.”

She sagged into the warm iron support that was Snape’s arm.
“Tied him up. Used the Keyhole. Came home.”

She could feel her face dissolving. Blindly, she turned it
into Snape’s shoulder and held onto him. Somewhere behind her,
Fudge was muttering - “Unforgivables - Dark magic - further
questions - very unusual -“ but then Dumbledore’s voice cut
through clear as a bell: “Cornelius, she’s told you everything
she can.”

“Tired,” she mumbled, and Snape’s arm tightened.

“Headmaster?” he said inquiringly, and Dumbledore must have
nodded.

“By all means. Thank you, Severus.”

He swept her up in his arms, and she gratefully let her vision
fade to black.

Black.

Right now, it was the most comforting colour she knew.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Six

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

A blast of warm air, a muttered destination, a brief whirl of
green fire and hearthways - they were travelling by Floo.
Hermione didn't take her face out of Snape's shoulder, didn't
open her eyes even when he laid her down on a bed too wide to
be an infirmary cot and too soft to be her own. She felt him
pull off her shoes, rather as if she'd been a sleepy toddler;
heard him snort - no doubt at their impracticality - and
sighed with pleasure, as a squashy down-filled duvet settled
over her and she felt velvety-soft corduroy against her cheek.

Ahh - so warm. And then his footsteps started to recede -
wait, that's not how it's supposed to happen! - and she
jackknifed back up to a sitting position as if sprung from an
ejector seat.

"Don't leave," she said, eyes trying to fight their way open.
He sighed.

"I'm right over here. I won't go far."

She scowled in the direction of his voice, then ruined her
intended effect by yawning. "You're too far away."

Another sigh. He scraped his chair a scant inch closer.
"Better?"

"I want you next to me," she said stubbornly, and thought she
might have heard him groan.

"Hermione -"

"Please."

Hesitation. And then the bed dipped slightly under his weight,
and she finally had what she wanted, which was the whole lean,
tensile length of him stretched along her back, six-feet-plus
of reluctant, snarky body shield, keeping the world at bay.
She groped for his arm, tugged it around her waist, linked her
fingers with his, and tucked their entwined hands underneath
her body with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Happy now?" Still sarcastic. Hermione decided not to take it
personally - keeping up witty conversation at this point was
becoming too much of an effort.

Oh, yes, she thought, and smiled to herself.

"Getting there," she said out loud, yawning again - and took
the final step into merciful, long-elusive sleep.

**

Severus lay awake and watched her sleep.

A couple of times, he'd tried to reclaim his arm, but she'd
only muttered some sleepy imperiousness or other, furrowed her
creamy forehead in unconscious obstinacy, and clung on
tighter.

Eventually, he'd given up.

Apart from the fact that he'd lost feeling in his right arm
from elbow to fingertip half an hour ago - if she didn't wake
up soon, he might well be facing amputation - he had no
serious objections to the situation.

Save, of course, that he shouldn't be in it to begin with.
What he was going to say if Albus or Minerva decided to peek
in on the patient unannounced, he had no idea.

Undoubtedly, he should have taken her to the infirmary - or
even to her own room. Anyplace but here.

On the other hand, these were the safest rooms in the castle.
He ought to know; he'd chosen them for exactly that reason,
years ago.

And damn it, just because she thought she was invincible
didn't mean she actually was.

She stirred, turned, and mumbled something that he didn't
catch, pushing the duvet down to her waist in the process. It
wouldn't have been an immodest gesture even if she was awake -
she was still covered by at least two layers of clothing,
after all - but the move was so natural, so implicitly
sensual, that Severus thought he might have forgotten how to
breathe.

Yes, he thought, moistening suddenly-dry lips, the infirmary
would definitely have been a better idea.

And then he found himself under attack.

She advanced on him in her sleep, fighting one arm free and
twisting it instinctively over his shoulder and around his
neck like a warm, fragrant little tendril of Devil's-Snare.
Severus shifted position, in a bid for escape, and immediately
realised his tactical error: not only had the move landed him
on his back instead of his side, but her lips were now on a
parallel with the hollow of his throat. And that brush of
contact - besides making all his insides twist into a slippery
Gordian knot of hopeless lust - worked on the drowsy bundle of
temptation in his arms like an unspoken invitation.

She nuzzled lazily at his throat, holding him down with her
upper body angled over his and drawing on his hammering pulse
with her mouth as if she intended to pull it out through his
skin. Through the rage in his groin, the sparks dancing along
his nerve endings, Severus dimly registered that her capable
little fingers had threaded themselves through his, and were
now holding his hands in gentle but determined captivity, just
above his head.

It wasn't until her breath misted his right earlobe, however,
that he realised she was awake.

"Stop," he said thickly, and was answered with an amused puff
of breath that sent a hurricane spinning down his spine,
followed by a playful nibble from those exemplary white teeth.

"But you feel so strong," she murmured, the whispered words
doing illegally arousing things to the tiny hairs inside his
ear. "And you taste so good. I could do this forever."

I wish you would, Severus almost said, and managed to stop
himself only by biting down hard on his tongue.

His brain wasn't quite working the right way at the moment.

Hermione had managed to kick off the duvet still cocooning her
lower body; now, she wriggled astride him, her robes rucked up
to her waist, and turned the attentions of that busy mouth to
his other ear.

"Been so long since I slept," she said against his temple,
gasping as her pelvis rotated against his. "Been so long since
I haven't been worried - haven't been scared. Since I haven't
dreamed myself back there again."

She let go of his hands, only to rip open the collar of his
robes and tug determinedly in the direction of his waist.
"I've never seen you. I want to see you."

His hands went to her shoulders with the intention of pushing
her back, but were immediately distracted by the buttery skin
at her nape, the clean line of her jaw. "Hermione - please,"
he said, desperately, and she looked him straight in the eye.

"Look," she said, her oh-so-reasonable tone at odds with her
glittering, desire-dilated pupils and her swollen, succulent
mouth. "I listened to you, back in November. You said 'Stay
away from me,' and I did." For a moment, that lush mouth
turned sulky. "You took yourself out of the equation. You took
the choice away from me. And I let you do it."

She leaned down and nipped at his lower lip, not quite what
he'd call 'gently'. "Now," she said, "it's my turn to talk,
and your turn to listen. You were wrong."

Severus blinked. "I was?"

He couldn't quite access rational thought at the moment, not
with her squirming against him like that. "About what?"

"About everything." She wasn't playing now, wasn't flirting -
she looked almost angry. "Why should we wait until I've gone
and come back, when there's no guarantee that I will, or that
I can?"

Why, indeed? agreed his straining, churning body. He was
almost lost.

But wait a minute.

Something in her tone clutched at him - he'd felt that
fatalistic desolation before, himself, and seeing it in her
cut through the red haze of desire that was swirling around
him like scissors through cr'pe. He pushed himself up on his
pillows, gently dislodging her onto the comforter next to him
and determinedly ignoring her gasp of dismay.

"That's precisely why we should wait," he said. "So that it's
your decision entirely - to come, or to stay away."

"Some decision I'll be able to make, rotting in Azkaban," she
said, her tone defiant. Her eyes were just a bit too bright,
her gaze too hard. Severus frowned.

"Come again?" He shook his head. "Azkaban? What does Azkaban
have to do with anything?"

Hermione sighed impatiently. "I told you already, this
morning," she said. "Why do you think I haven't slept for the
last two weeks? Unforgivable Curse. Life in Azkaban. Corrupt
Minister of Magic. Remember?"

Light was dawning, slow but sure. Gods, but you're a dunce,
Severus. He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. "Let me get
this straight: you think Fudge is going to send you to Azkaban
for the rest of your life, just for casting Imperio on your
would-be rapist and the accessory to your murder?"

The very thought was laughable. "That's honestly what you've
been worried about, all this time?"

She glared at him, her eyes like stones but her soft mouth
trembling. "I don't see what's so amusing about it," she spat.
"Give me one good reason why it's not a realistic scenario,
given what we both know about wizarding law and the current
state of the Ministry."

Oh, you poor child, Severus thought, and thanked whatever
flickering remnant that remained of his lucky star, that he
hadn't just lain back and let her have her way with him. The
girl sitting next to him, hugging his goose-feather pillow as
if it was a teddy bear, needed reassurance right now far more
than she needed sex.

Carefully, he extended his hand and took hers into a loose
clasp.

"I can give you several reasons, Hermione," he said, "not just
one. But above all others is this: we would never have let it
happen."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

He squeezed her hand a little tighter. "Albus. Minerva. Poppy.
Myself." He looked searchingly into her bewildered brown eyes.
"Do you think we exist solely to cram facts into your brain?
Don't you think we care about you - that we feel responsible
for you, and shoulder that responsibility gladly?"

She hadn't thought of that, he realised, and shook his head in
exasperation. "If Cornelius Fudge had lifted so much as a
finger in your direction," he said, "he would have found the
whole castle aligned against him."

She let out a shuddery breath. "Oh."

A new thought: "But what if he orders it? What if Malfoy lies?
What if he didn't believe me?"

"Malfoy," Severus said calmly, "is the least of your worries."

She looked at him, startled. "How can you say that? He loathes
me."

"Even so." She didn't believe him, he could see that. "I give
you my word, Hermione, that five minutes after we left the
Headmaster's office, Lucius Malfoy was spilling his figurative
intestines onto the table in front of him for examination, and
backing up your story down to the last dotted 'i'."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "How do you know?"

Severus couldn't hold back a smirk. "Because," he said. "He's
been Salazar Slytherin's guest for the last few weeks - a
fate, by the way, that a noble Gryffindor soul such as
yourself undoubtedly wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. By
comparison, the dementors are kind. And because ..."

"Yes?"

He grinned outright, and gave her hand another comforting
squeeze. "Well, because you've managed to make friends in low
places, Miss Granger, and because vigilante justice has always
been a hallmark of Slytherin House." He took a deep breath,
then paused for dramatic effect.

"You see," he said, "Sal's had his wand aimed at Malfoy's
balls, ever since they left the dungeons this morning."

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Seven

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He meant for her to laugh, and she wanted to - oh, did she
ever. If there was anyone on earth who deserved to end up
walking funny for the rest of his life, it was Lucius Malfoy.

But there were some major holes in Snape’s story that needed
clearing up first - at the very least, Hermione thought, he’d
been seriously disingenuous.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before, then?” she asked him
stubbornly.

“Tell you what?”

She curled her lip at him. “That you and Sal had things all
figured out. That there wasn’t a chance in hell of me ending
up in Azkaban.”

He looked innocent - well, as innocent as was possible.
“Didn’t I?”

Her lip-curl turned into a full-on glare. “No,” she said
acidly, “you bloody well did not.”

“I told you not to worry.”

“But you knew I would.”

He glared back at her for a moment, summoning the full force
of his Potions-Master ire; when she didn’t back down, he
rolled his eyes and turned his attention to conjuring the
buttons back onto the collar of his robes.

“Well, yes,” he said reluctantly. “But you had to worry. It
was bad enough that Poppy sabotaged the Sneakoscope; bad
enough that Sal had Malfoy scared enough to lose his breakfast
on the way up to Dumbledore’s office. You, at least, had to be
apprehensive enough to convince Fudge the inquest was on the
level.”

Hermione goggled at him. “You mean … it was fixed?” She didn’t
know whether to laugh, cry, or hit him. “The five of you fixed
the inquest?”

“Well, Minerva didn’t know anything about it,” Snape said, a
touch defensively. “And nothing was said to Albus either,
though I’m sure he had us figured out well beforehand.” He
shook his head in what appeared to be disbelieving admiration.
“Why else would he have had that … that thing enchanted in his
office and ready to go?”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “You mean the Hula Dancer of Truth?”

Severus snorted. “Yes - that,” he said. “That’s no more a
Sneakoscope than it is a unicorn horn. He bought it in a
Muggle souvenir shop the last time he went on holiday, then
brought it to a staff meeting and enchanted it to … uh, gyrate
like that every time Binns said the word indubitably.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open.

Surreal.

“But - what’s the point?” she said faintly. “Why bother?”
Snape raised one eyebrow.

“Oh, you’ve got enough Slytherin in you to figure that out,”
he said. “Fudge is a loose cannon, and he’s in Malfoy’s
pocket, right?”

Hermione nodded. “Right,” she said slowly.

“So what better way to defuse him, then to make him out as a
liar before the inquest even starts?”

Snape finished buttoning his collar, propelled himself
gracefully off the rumpled duvet, and began meticulously to
brush wrinkles out of his robes.

“The one thing we had in our favour,” he said, “is that Malfoy
had been in our custody at Hogwarts since the incident
occurred, and hadn’t been able to confer with Fudge. Fudge had
no idea what Malfoy would say - or, indeed, what had actually
taken place - so there wasn’t a chance in a million that he
was going to let Veritaserum be used, not in front of all
those Aurors. There had to be a Sneakoscope in that bag - he
would rather not have used anything at all, but he would have
looked like even more of a fool if one of us had called him on
that technicality and he hadn’t been prepared for it. And
knowing Fudge, it probably was tampered with from the
beginning; he looked mad as hell when Dumbledore brought out
that ridiculous figurine, but you’ll remember that he didn’t
seem particularly surprised.” He shrugged. “Poppy just made
sure of what we already suspected, that’s all.”

“No Veritaserum?” Hermione grimaced. “That,” she said
ruefully, “would have been useful information twelve hours
ago, when I was plowing through that damn book instead of
sleeping.”

“Book?” Snape looked momentarily distracted, then laughed
unexpectedly. “You don’t mean to tell me you read When Potions
Fail?” He looked contemptuous. “What utter rot.”

“You mean -” Hermione swallowed hard. “You can’t really fool
the potion? The book’s not true?”

Her head was beginning to hurt, and the sardonic look he’d
given her in reply to that bit of apparent naďveté didn’t help
matters. She backtracked through the conversation until she
found what she thought was the main point, and doggedly jumped
on it again.

“Azkaban,” she said slowly. “Back to Azkaban. You told me that
he wouldn’t send me there - but it sounds like all of you were
worried, too.”

“I said,” Snape said testily, “that we wouldn’t have allowed
it. As for what Fudge will and won’t do, that’s always a bit
up in the air - or at least it was, before we subdued his
witness and made him look like a liar in front of his Aurors.”

“Subdued his witness?” That sounded interesting. “What exactly
did the two of you do to Malfoy, anyway, to make him look so
sick this morning?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.
“Not more Unforgivables?”

“Unforgivables? You wound me, milady.” Now he looked more
amused than annoyed. “Give us some credit for imagination.
Torture is a subtle art.”

“Torture?” Hermione echoed.

“A Hovering Charm, to be exact,” Snape clarified. “With a bit
of random Rotation thrown in, just to keep it interesting.”

He paused for a moment of wicked, utterly satisfied
self-reflection. “After all, how were we to know he’s afraid
of heights?”

Hermione subsided into silence, digesting this. The image of
Lucius Malfoy rotating in midair like a rotisserie chicken was
funny - the thought of the sedate Madam Pomfrey teaming up
with Sal and Snape to incapacitate Fudge’s Sneakoscope, on the
other hand, was nothing short of unbelievable.

Indubitably, she thought, and had to stifle a snicker at the
mental image of old Professor Binns droning on and on in his
reedy voice, while Dumbledore’s cheap plastic souvenir did the
bump-and-grind in the middle of the conference table and the
rest of the faculty fought for composure.

Bizarre, really. And then there was Snape himself - relaxed,
self-assured, his snarkiness intended to amuse, not to wound -
and so gentle, so uncharacteristically tactful, in his
deferral of her seduction attempt, that she’d ended up feeling
more highly valued than before, and not unwanted in the
slightest.

What had happened to him?

Maybe, a little voice in her brain whispered, he’s not
changed, as much as your perception of him has. Hermione
frowned.

Maybe.

“I need to ask you something,” she said, propping two of his
pillows behind her and pulling the duvet back over her legs
with a little sigh. He looked suspicious.

“What?”

“Do you know who Areli Ben-Nadir is?”

Whatever he’d expected her to say, that must not have been it;
his look of puzzlement was genuine. “I’ve heard the name,” he
said. “Why? Who is she?”

“She runs a program for advanced magical study in Cairo - I
got an owl from her a few weeks ago,” Hermione said.
“Professor Dumbledore sent her a sample of the Protection
Potion, and now she wants me to come apprentice with her in
Egypt next year.”

Snape’s face cleared. “I think I know of that program,” he
said. “CCPMS, right?”

Hermione nodded, and Snape looked satisfied.

“I thought so. She has an associate by the name of Friedrich
von Fluegel - one of Durmstrang’s Arithmantic enfants
terribles - who’s formulated a magical version of the chaos
theory. I was at a symposium with him, a few summers ago, and
managed to finagle a copy of his paper. Brilliant.” He gave
her a sideways look. “According to him, they’re unusually
well-funded for a research group. Is she offering you money?”

Hermione nodded. “Loads.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you going to take it?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said truthfully. “I’ve been trying to
figure that out.” She sent him a sideways glance. “Do you
think I should?”

He raised one shoulder in a careful little shrug. “It doesn’t
matter what I think.”

Oh, now she’d done it - he’d gone all closed-off and
unreadable again. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to
know,” she persisted. “I trust your opinion - what would you
do, if it was your decision to make?”

“If it was me? In your position? I’d have posted my acceptance
before the owl had turned around,” Snape said. A tinge of the
old self-denigration was back in his tone. “But then, I was a
very different person from you, when I was eighteen.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione said, surprising herself.
“Sometimes I think we’re more alike than not.”

He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “Maybe. But I
didn’t have close friends, or a significant other who hung on
my every word. I didn’t have two magical patents on file with
the Ministry of Magic. And -“ here he looked sardonic - “I
didn’t have a Head Girl letter with my name on it sitting on
Dumbledore’s desk, waiting to be owled the minute spring term
was up.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. That was news, though considering
the events of the morning, it seemed oddly anticlimactic.

In any case, Snape had tossed it out as if it was a foregone
conclusion, and was studying her thoughtfully. “You’ve got
good things waiting for you, Hermione,” he said, “no matter
where you go - which means your decision’s that much harder.”

Another shrug, accompanied by a cynical twist of his mouth
that, for a split second, gave Hermione a direct window into
the face of the boy he’d once been. “You’re just going to have
to decide,” he said matter-of-factly, “what it is that you
want more.”

**

After that, the conversation fell into a lull - Hermione was
feeling drowsy again, despite what her wristwatch told her had
been a two-hour nap - and apparently Snape had papers to
grade; out of the corner of her eye, she watched him settle
himself at a graceful little Louis Quinze writing-table with a
stack of parchment, a raven quill, and a bottle of red ink.
She folded her hands behind her head, rubbed her cheek against
the soft wales of the corduroy duvet, and smiled.

Judging from the faces he was making, the considered cruelty
of the smirk at the corner of his mouth as he lifted his pen,
the owners of those essays were going to be sadder but wiser,
come Monday morning. Apparently he hadn’t lost his edge just
yet.

That being the case, she was beginning to think he maybe had a
soft spot for her.

Good, she thought, and had just about drifted off into another
sandalwood dream when the hearth glowed green and Dumbledore
stepped serenely out of it.

“Begging your pardon, Severus,” he said, “but the panel is out
of deliberations. Fudge is ready to pronounce sentence - we’re
just waiting on Miss Granger.” He smiled in her direction.
“Feeling better, Hermione?”

She smiled weakly in response. Well, she thought, I was until
now.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” she said, and resolutely
swallowed the pack of manic butterflies making a beeline for
her throat. “Just let me pull myself together.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Eight

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

“Lucius Malfoy,” said the aged wizard next to Cornelius Fudge,
his palsied hands trembling against the parchment he was
holding, “this judiciary panel finds you to be guilty of the
following crimes.” His gnarled old finger moved as unsteadily
as his wheezing, crackly voice; his lined face, however, was
set with determination as he cleared his throat.

“Ahem. Illegal use of Polyjuice: impersonating with intent to
harm. Kidnapping by Apparition. Attempted sexual assault.” He
paused, faltering for a moment at the vicious trapped-animal
look on Malfoy’s face, at Fudge’s cold sneer. “Collusion with
Dark forces. Aiding and abetting a known enemy of the
Ministry. Accessory to attempted murder.”

He studied Malfoy over his reading spectacles. “Have you
anything to add to your defense, before this tribunal passes
sentence on your crimes?”

Malfoy opened his mouth, then abruptly winced and shut it
again. Hermione noticed that his knuckles had gone suddenly
white against the edge of the table; his normally pale face
was flushed an unbecoming shade of brick red.

Thanks, Sal, she thought fervently, shooting a covert look of
gratitude at the empty space between Malfoy’s black-robed
knees. Fudge’s sneer faded to a scowl.

“Get on with it, Hubbard,” he growled, and the old wizard sent
him a look over the top of the parchment that was at once
apprehensive and scathing.

“The panel, Mr. Malfoy, has recommended that you serve, for
your crimes, a sentence of twenty years in Azkaban,” he said,
and Hermione saw Malfoy’s shoulders jerk under the words -
clearly, the severity of the sentence was a surprise to him.

Serves you right, she thought, then felt her own relief fizzle
and evaporate as the Ministry official cleared his throat
loudly.

“The Minister, however,” said Hubbard - and here, the Aurors
present in the room stirred and muttered threateningly among
themselves - “has seen fit to reduce your sentence, taking
into account your position in the magical community and your
long-time support of the Ministry itself.” He and Albus
Dumbledore, Hermione noticed, wore identical expressions of
resigned irritation. “The committee, therefore, has arrived at
the following … compromise.”

Hermione stiffened in her chair and felt Madam Pomfrey, who
was standing behind her, place a comforting hand on her
shoulder. Below the table, her sweaty hands were locked in
slippery combat with one another.

I don’t like that word, ‘compromise’, she thought, and braced
herself for the worst.

“Lucius Malfoy, your sentence is hereby reduced to eight
years,” said Hubbard heavily, “with the possibility of parole
set after the first four.” More angry buzzing from the Aurors;
Fudge’s face was set like stone, but Hubbard’s papery old
cheeks were burning with bright spots of what might have been
shame, or perhaps suppressed anger. Doggedly, he bent his head
to the parchment in front of him.

“Your Apparation license is revoked for life. Your rights to
vote, sit on Ministry committees, and hold office are
permanently withdrawn, with no hope of appeal.”

He took a deep breath and soldiered on in his reedy, old-man’s
tenor. “During your term in Azkaban, control of your financial
estate is jointly awarded to Narcissa Malfoy and Albus
Dumbledore. Out of that estate, we award to Miss Hermione
Granger one thousand, five hundred Galleons, as a form of
monetary apology. An additional fine in the same amount is
payable to the Ministry, for illegal use of your Apparation
privileges, and to cover the costs of this inquest.”

At that, Malfoy looked murderous. Hermione, on the other hand,
dried her hands on her knees, feeling slightly cheered.

So. Only four years, out of the twenty he richly deserved -
but to be fair, she supposed the same allowances would
probably be made for a wealthy pillar-of-the-community at a
Muggle trial. And he still wasn’t getting off lightly; in
exchange for the reduced sentence, Fudge had really taken a
beating in committee.

Hermione studied the Ministry panel with new appreciation.
When you can’t beat ‘em, she thought, nickel-and-dime ‘em to
death. From what she’d read about Cairo in the guidebook her
puzzled father had owled to her, living there was dirt-cheap;
fifteen hundred Galleons would set her up quite nicely indeed,
should she decide to go that route.

And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t spare it.

On a more serious note, Malfoy was going to be seriously
brassed-off after four years spent taking tea with the
dementors.

Don’t think about that right now, she counselled herself, and
looked up, gripped by a fresh wave of tension, as she realised
Hubbard was speaking to her.

“ … Miss Granger?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir?”

“The Ministry wishes to apologise for this regrettable
incident,” the old wizard said formally, “and also to
congratulate you on your extraordinary composure in the face
of danger.” He didn’t appear to be reading from the parchment
now; he shot a wary sideways glance in Fudge’s direction, then
turned his attention back to Hermione. “This panel has
recommended,” he continued, “that your name be submitted for
consideration to the awards committee responsible for choosing
the annual recipient of the British Medal of Magical Valour.
The committee will review your case and owl you shortly.”

His faded, rheumy eyes were kind as they rested on Hermione’s.
“And I, for one,” he said, his voice more vigorous now, “as a
veteran of the war against Grindewald, and the father of two
who died as Aurors battling Voldemort -“ he said the name
almost defiantly, a gleam of fire passing over his old face -
“would be honoured to shake the hand of the young lady who
jailed that bastard in a trap of his own devising.” He
extended his arm over the top of the desk, the last vestiges
of his formality banished by a wide, surprisingly white smile.
“Well done, Miss Granger.”

“Well done,” the rest of the panel echoed, and as Hermione
rose shakily from her chair to shake Hubbard’s hand, she felt
the prick of grateful tears behind her eyes.

Apparently, the whole Ministry wasn’t to be tarred with
Fudge’s brush.

Fudge himself, however, looked colder and more forbidding than
she’d ever seen him; Hermione took his reluctantly proffered
hand with a sense of real foreboding, and quickly cut her eyes
away from his frigid gaze. Funny how such a chubby, round
little man could seem so frightening - it was rather as if her
teddy bear had suddenly sprouted fangs and leaped for her
throat.

It had to be her imagination - at least in part. But through
the high tide of well-wishers, through the handshakes and back
pats and floods of congratulations that rained down upon her
from all sides, she felt those squinting, steely eyes upon
her, and shivered.

It made no sense. But she couldn’t help but feel that this
small victory had just made her a very powerful enemy.

**

Hermione didn’t sleep too well the night before her interview
with Areli, but it was a happy, exhilarated insomnia this
time, and not the cold leaden anxiety that had plagued her
before the inquest. Predictably, Dumbledore had been right
about the trial’s aftermath; the Daily Prophet had come to
call, the afternoon after the verdict was announced, and fast
on the heels of the ensuing article - definitely what Gram
would have called a ‘puff piece’ - had come the counter-offers
to the CCPMS scholarship.

Just two days ago, she, Harry and Ginny had spread out all the
letters on a table in the Gryffindor common room (Ron was
nowhere to be found; Hermione suspected he and Draco had
slipped out to the Quidditch pitch to hit Bludgers at each
other), and had divided the piles into two smaller stacks -
labelled by Harry as ‘possible’ and ‘not bloody likely’.

Among the latter were an invitation to transfer to the Salem
Academy of Massachusetts; a very shady-looking piece of
correspondence from a dubious Uzbekistan-based company that
wanted to incorporate the Illuminata into their brand of oven
cleaner; and, perhaps most improbably of all, the offer of
employment as a private Potions tutor to a six-year-old wizard
from Reykjavik (who, as his mother assured Hermione in her
letter, showed “unusual promise in Hexing”.)

Those, and the others like them, got polite notes of
Replicated regret and were deep-sixed immediately thereafter.
The stack of ‘possibles’ - much smaller, most of them similar
to the CCPMS offer - Hermione had tipped carefully into a
manila envelope and handed off to Dumbledore for comment. She
hadn’t gotten them back yet, but she personally thought that
Areli’s offer was a hard one to beat.

Harry seemed to think so, too.

“Hermione,” he’d said after he finished reading it, “you’d be
crazy not to take this. Really.”

“You think so?” She scanned his face, ever-watchful for signs
of dissembling. “But it’s our last year. I’d feel so …
disloyal, leaving now.”

Harry looked disbelieving. “You’re kidding, right?” He made a
scornful noise in his throat, accompanying it with a hand
gesture that was so blatantly rude that Hermione snickered in
spite of herself. “Come on, ‘Mione - you know us better than
that. We’ve been back in time together, you and me. How’s
another year of long-distance owls going to change that?”

At his casual tone, his obvious sincerity, Hermione felt her
eyes fill.

The boys had laughed at her sentimentality for so many years
now, that to hear a straightforward avowal from either of them
always hit her blindside. And though she’d never have admitted
it, their reactions were a definite litmus test for her
decision. It was one thing to sacrifice romance for
scholarship - but friendship was something else entirely; she
hadn’t forgotten those first few lonely weeks at Hogwarts, as
a brainy, friendless first-year.

Friends are like money, the old saying went. Hard to get, easy
to throw away.

But he was sparing her that awful decision, and for that she
was grateful. “Thanks, Harry,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

They grinned at each other, then turned abruptly toward Ginny,
who’d just let out a loud harrumph, and who looked as if she’d
just pieced together a mental puzzle that had long eluded her.

“Back in time?” she asked, and Harry’s forehead creased
guiltily.

“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll explain …. later.”

From the look on Ginny’s face, a more timely exegesis was
about to be required. Hermione, biting her cheek to suppress a
smile, gathered up her papers and prepared to leave them to
it.

Part of friendship, she supposed, was being where you were
needed - and, perhaps more importantly, knowing when you were
utterly superfluous.

And she had an overnight bag to pack.

**

The American University in Cairo was, according to Hermione’s
guidebook, one of the most well-respected institutions of
higher learning in the Middle East. It was also a rich-kid
magnet which attracted trust-fund babies and well-heeled
Expatriate Party Animals from around the globe. No keggers
here, if the hype could be believed; rather, Turkish
cigarettes, Cosmopolitan martinis, and Colombian cocaine from
silver straws.

Pity, Hermione thought, that the book wasn’t nearly so
eloquent when it came to discussing the less-notorious Cairo
University, the Consortium’s parent institution. By studying
the dinky map in the back of the index, she did manage to
ferret out its location - in the Cairo suburb of Giza, near
the Shooting Club and the Pyramids and just across the Nile
River from Garden City and the Opera House. It was surrounded
by relatively new West Bank residential communities dating
from the rise of Anwar Sadat - professional, white-collar
neighborhoods with exotic names that Hermione could almost
taste on her tongue: Mohandiseen, Agouza, Doqqi.

Presumably, Bill’s aforementioned apartment building, the one
with the unit coming empty next month, was in one of these.

Apart from that, she didn’t have much to go on. She’d been
wondering for weeks about things the tourist-happy guidebook
couldn’t tell her, and of course about Areli herself, whose
picture she’d found in a 1964 Hogwarts yearbook - Areli, a
willowy dark-eyed seventh-year gazelle of a girl, slim as a
dancer under her student’s robes and regarding the camera with
the cool regal stare of a puma.

She’d be - how old, now? Hermione did the mental math:
somewhere in her mid-fifties. Younger than McGonagall, older
than Snape.

Hm.

Further inquiries among the library’s archives of professional
journals and trade magazines had uncovered a number of Areli’s
articles - and even one moth-eaten, dust-caked copy of her
dissertation, an undeniably interesting argument for the use
of magical medical techniques in certain Muggle surgical
procedures, as filtered through the Hippocratic Oath.
Apparently Hippocrates had been a wizard, too - something
Hermione hadn’t known, but wasn’t surprised to learn.

Top on her list of Intriguing Facts About Areli Ben-Nadir was
currently this: that her densely written, formula-packed
dissertation carried the most-poetic title of First Do No Harm
.

That, in and of itself, sent Hermione’s Soulmate Antennae
rocketing off the charts.

But further personal information about her prospective
employer seemed virtually nonexistent. Hermione, studying that
thumbnail-sized box of a photo in the yearbook, wondered how
an additional thirty-six years would sit on those graceful
shoulders - McGonagall seemed born in black wizarding robes,
but that was acadème; what did one wear as a professional
witch, as a scientist? Especially in the middle of the desert?
Was that beautiful black hair drawn up in a bun, like Madame
Maxime’s? Or had she cropped it off short?

Hermione rather imagined the Consortium as a white-tile lab,
and Areli as one of those fast-walking, loud-talking medical
researchers one saw on certain American-made hospital
television dramas - immaculate white lab-coat, stylish
seal’s-cap of hair, short-trimmed fingernails. But the truth
was that she didn’t know what to expect - Hogwarts, after all,
was a bit of an anachronism, and not the barometer by which
one judged the real world.

Now was the time to wonder: what was Muggle, and what was
Magical? And to what extent could they feasibly combine? It
wasn’t a question one could easily ask, or expect to have
answered, in a thousand-year-old Scottish castle haunted by
pureblood ghosts and taught by pureblood professors;
nevertheless, as the minute hand of her wristwatch swept
inexorably toward the hour of her interview, Hermione felt it
pressing down on her, the first chilly spectre of Life After
School.

Who am I, and where do I belong? Hermione rolled her eyes at
the impossibility of those questions, flipped her pillow over
to find the cool side, and snuggled down determinedly for a
few hours of sleep.

When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Pretty
pop-psych, as Zen went.

But maybe, just maybe, it was true.

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Sixty-Nine

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As it turned out, Areli Ben-Nadir was neither a black-cloaked
academic nor a sleek, super-efficient lab rat, but rather - as
Hermione might have surmised, nerves aside - her own unique
persona. At precisely five of ten on Friday morning, she rose
from her chair to pull Hermione out of the green column of
Floo-fire and into her Cairo office - the very picture of
casual, wealthy elegance in unbleached linen trousers and
matching tunic, a small fortune in hammered silver clasped
around her slim wrists. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled
back at her nape, setting off a Nefertiti profile and diamond
studs the size of grapes.

Hermione was instantly reminded of Gram, and put further at
ease when Areli, instead of pulling back from her immediately,
drew her into a Continental embrace, kissed her lightly on
both cheeks, then leaned back to beam at her.

“Brilliant, as promised - I can tell - and a beauty too,” she
said in a surprisingly deep, throaty voice. Her English hadn’t
a trace of accent. “Welcome to Cairo, my dear. Come in and sit
down - here, let me take your bag for you. Do you care for
lemonade?” She studied Hermione with dark film-goddess eyes,
shot her a persuasive, mischievous smile. “It may be only ten
o’ clock in Scotland, but it’s noon here, after all.”

“Lemonade would be wonderful, thank you,” Hermione said
cautiously - a bit dazed at the warmth of her welcome; this
wasn’t at all what she’d expected - and settled back in her
chair to take stock of her surroundings.

She was in a spacious, high-ceilinged room the colour of an
eggshell, with starker white crown mouldings that matched the
cornices on the immense fireplace. Opposite the hearth - now
stone-cold with the passing of the Floo enchantment, and home
to a flourishing basket of Boston ivy - were a set of
elegantly curved French doors, draped with fluttering sheers
and opening to a tree-shaded rose-quartz balcony.

Very British Colonial, Hermione decided - but in contrast to
the formality of the architecture, the furnishings were pure
casual comfort: sisal rugs, squashy oversized chairs flanking
a matching davenport in luxurious caramel suede, potted palms
in earthenware urns that six men couldn’t have lifted. The
warm air was pleasantly stirred by the faint hint of a cooler
breeze - probably a Zephyr Charm, she thought, but it was so
well done that she couldn’t quite tell.

Settling deeper into the womblike recesses of her chair, she
took an appreciative sip of lemonade. “This is a beautiful
room,” she said politely, then couldn’t help adding, “but it
doesn’t look much like an office, does it?”

Areli chuckled.

“Not in the slightest,” she said with a conspiriatorial wink
in Hermione’s direction. “We’re a completely autonomous unit,
you see - very insular - so I took a few liberties with the
décor. From the outside, to the non-magical eye, this is just
another dreary post-industrial office building. But I thought
- we had might as well be comfortable, hadn’t we?”

She gestured toward the French doors with her sweating
lemonade glass. “This is one of the conference rooms. Not that
we ever conference formally, of course, but it’s a comfortable
meeting place for the more social among us, and a handy
thinking spot during more solitary moments. There’s another
room similar to this one downstairs, which leads out into a
lovely little walled garden - you’ll see it later when I give
you the tour.” She glanced toward the arched doorway, through
which Hermione could see apple-green walls and the sinuous
curve of a banister.

“And then we all have our own space - that’s crucial, when
you’ve got so many deep thinkers under one roof. A few of us
are quite solitary indeed; it’s entirely possible to go months
and never see certain people at all.”

For lack of a more erudite response, Hermione nodded and
nervously decimated an ice cube between her back molars. It
made a crack like a thunderbolt in the quiet room.

Oh, very professional, Granger.

“I hope I’m not being too forward in asking,” she said,
swallowing hard, “but could you tell me a little bit about
what exactly goes on here? Professor Dumbledore was most
closemouthed on the matter.”

Areli raised an amused eyebrow. “Well, that’s Albus for you,”
she said. “When in doubt, look mysterious. The truth is,
Hermione, that he didn’t tell you what the Consortium does
because he didn’t know.” She looked quite self-satisfied by
this; something that Hermione, having been brought up short by
the Headmaster’s seeming omniscience too many times to count
now, could certainly understand. “It’s a bit difficult to
explain, really - ah, well, here we go.”

She wagged one exquisitely-manicured index finger in the air.
“For being as exclusive as it is - the Consortium is made up
of eleven members, presently, including myself - it’s an
unusually multi-disciplinary group. My goal in forming it was
to bring together the finest minds I could recruit, and put
them in a setting where they were allowed to work unimpeded,
regardless of their chosen field.”

She took a reflective sip of her lemonade. “We have a small
team of three, devoted to magical archaeology; their
contributions to the Museum of Egyptian Art alone are enough
to keep us all in funding. We have an expert on Celtic runes,
a couple of mathematical geniuses, a husband-and-wife duo who
spend eight months out of the year in the Congo bush, living
with and studying a small tribe of primitive magic-users
there.” She looked pensive. “Fascinating study, really -
apparently these people are either born mute or just never
learn to phonate - instead, they communicate and cast their
enchantments using an elaborate finger-language of magical
drumbeats, instead of wands.”

She grinned at Hermione’s look of astonishment, then shrugged
self-deprecatingly. “Then,” she said, “there’s the literary
crowd - we have a poet and a novelist; touchy creatures, both
of them - and myself. The token run-of-the-mill scientist. How
we manage to swim along together is worth a bit of research,
all on its own - but so far, it’s worked out quite nicely.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Hermione said fervently, and it was the
truth - everything about it appealed: the room, the chair, the
city, the fascinating woman opposite her. “But I guess …” She
broke off, frowning, causing Areli’s other eyebrow to elevate.

“Yes?”

Hermione fidgeted a bit. “I guess,” she repeated, “that I’m a
bit puzzled about why you want me. After all, I’m not an
expert on anything.”

She was utterly unprepared for Areli’s broad smile.

“Funny you should ask that,” she said, and leaned forward to
sandwich Hermione’s hand between her own. “I’m afraid my
answer’s a bit long-winded - you’ll forgive me in advance if I
ramble a bit, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Hermione murmured, but Areli was already talking.

“It starts with my own particular area of interest,” she said;
“I’ve long been fascinated by the wizarding influences on
Muggle medicine, and the possibilities that lie inherent
therein.”

Hermione gave a little start.

“Your dissertation,” she blurted out. “First Do No Harm. I
read it, back in the Hogwarts library.” Areli looked
surprised, then gratified.

“Ah,” she said. “So you already know the basics. Well, then I
can skip ahead a bit. Basically, I’ve been conducting field
tests on Muggle medical paraphernalia over the past few years,
subtly bewitched to augment its effectiveness. Contact lenses,
hearing aids, pacemakers - you name it, I’ve experimented on
it.” She paused for another sip from her glass. “The testing
on the hearing devices, in particular, has just produced good
enough, and reliable enough, results, that the Consortium has
been able to contract with a Muggle company, to market them on
a trial basis.”

Hm, Hermione thought, intrigued. That’s a new one.

“Wow,” she said slowly, then frowned. “What are you using? An
Amplification Spell?”

Areli nodded. “You are quick, aren’t you?” she asked,
obviously delighted. “Well, it’s a simple idea - so simple, in
fact, that it would have been done decades ago, were it not
for the great divide between Muggle technology and wizarding
practice. As it stands, the Consortium holds the patent on the
idea.”

Cool, Hermione thought - patents are cool - and crunched some
more ice, decorum forgotten. “How do you do it?” she asked. “I
mean, so the Muggles don’t catch on?”

“Well,” Areli said, “the enchantment could be cast
assembly-line style, and I toyed with that idea for a while.
But it’s just as effective to appoint one ‘engineer’ - so far,
I’ve fulfilled this duty myself - to oversee the process, at
the level in which the plastic alloy used to manufacture the
devices is still in a molten state.”

She grinned at Hermione. “One whispered word during the final
quality check, before the molds are poured, and the very raw
material itself becomes a magical conduit. Four thousand
Muggles go back to their lives better-equipped to live them.
And no one’s the wiser.”

“What a great idea,” Hermione said, and meant it. “But -“ she
ventured - “doesn’t the Ministry of Magic frown on this sort
of thing?”

Areli shook her head.

“First of all,” she said, “the African Ministry isn’t nearly
as uptight about these things as the British Ministry - one of
the many reasons that I decided to base the Consortium in
Cairo. Secondly, there’s no law, anywhere in the world, that
specifically prohibits allowing non-magical folk from
unknowingly reaping the benefits of magic. Though there are
those who would lead you to believe differently.”

She sat back in her chair, dark eyes sparking with challenge.

“A fully-trained mediwitch or mediwizard,” she said, “can heal
wounds. Regrow bones. Can tell with a wave of the wand whether
and where cancerous cells exist in the body, and can Banish
them with a word. Can, in certain circumstances, start a
stopped heart beating again.”

She waved one hand in a flash of rings. “Are we helpless
before some things? Yes. Are we nevertheless at a medical
advantage? Absolutely. Are we morally obligated to share our
greater knowledge? I, for one, happen to think that we are.”

Hermione watched, transfixed, as Areli shook back her
magnificent head, pitched that persuasive voice deeper and
richer yet as she warmed to her subject. “Which brings me to
your role in the Consortium,” she said. “I have been looking
for a young person - gifted in Potions - who has a connection
with the non-magical world, and is conversant enough with its
structures and fallibilities to use them to advantage. Someone
who’s willing to take up my torch - as it were - and step into
the mighty divide that exists between Muggle potions and their
magical counterparts.”

Hermione nodded, open-mouthed. “I think I see what you’re
getting at,” she said. “Something like chemotherapy, for
instance - it helps kill cancer, but it’s also a poison. Or
asthma medication. Or kidney dialysis. Situations in which the
benefits of the treatment are almost outweighed by the
drawbacks, and when magic could fill in that gap of
knowledge.”

“Exactly,” Areli said, and squeezed Hermione’s hand again. “It
doesn’t matter one way or the other to me that you’re of
non-magical birth,” she said, “except that because you are,
you understand completely where I’m coming from. What I’m
working on, what you would be working on, is nothing short of
revolutionary - it’s a virtual Magna Carta of medicine, a
bulldozer to the playing field.”

She shook back the thick black hair escaping from its bonds,
never breaking eye contact. “I’m not going to lie to you,
Hermione,” she said. “There’s a very great stigma against this
sort of research, in the magical community - otherwise, it
would have been done long ago, merely because of the market
that exists for it. If we’re successful at it, we’re likely to
end up rich beyond imagining.” She swept Hermione a
penetrating look from beneath thick black lashes. “But then,
that’s not really the issue, is it?”

“No,” Hermione said, surprised at her own vehemence. “It’s not
the money at all. It’s - it’s doing the right thing, that’s
what it is.”

Her own words were stuck in her head, from way back before
Christmas - she and Draco, talking over the top of a
tomato-stained tea cosy and the single spot of bright varnish
on her battered desk. You idiot, she told herself fiercely.
Why all the unnecessary angst? You’ve known what you wanted
all along.

Something that doesn’t just make the world prettier, but makes
it better.

Well, here was her chance.

“Think it over,” Areli was urging her. “Talk to Dumbledore;
take your time. I’ve waited this long - I can wait another
week or so -“ but Hermione barely heard her.

“I don’t need to think about it,” she said, and looked the
older woman straight in the eyes. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m
in.”

**

Roman Holiday

Chapter Seventy

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By the time she’d said her goodbyes to Areli and stepped over the Boston ivy
into the conference-room fireplace, late on Saturday evening, Hermione was
physically exhausted and running on pure adrenaline. She wasn’t quite sure how
she was going to get through the last few weeks of school, either.

She wanted to move.

Immediately.

Her guidebook had called Cairo the Mother of the World - a quote lifted
directly from The Thousand and One Nights - and Hermione believed it. From the
mud huts and the goats roaming through the alleyways, the tenth-century street
markets, the dusty points of the Pyramids in the background - as the visiting
Florence Nightingale had remarked, “boring holes in the sky” - to the crush of
honking automobiles, the ubiquitous Golden Arches, and the towering blue-white
slab of steel and mirrored glass that was the Cairo Sheraton, this city seemed
less a dwelling place for real people and more a microcosm of civilisation
itself.

This had been more than apparent during their bumpy taxicab ride north from the
University to the nearby suburb of Zamalek and across the 15th of May Bridge,
where they found themselves stuck in traffic halfway across, at a total
standstill for a full twenty minutes, and Hermione - secretly rejoicing despite
Areli’s mutters about a missed lunch reservation - was able to take in the
glories of the Nile uninterrupted. Wide and placid and, for all its reputation
for muddiness, a surprising shade of rich shimmering indigo, it was lined with
pleasure yachts the size of hotels, hosts of smaller sailboats that Areli said
were called feluccas, and humble pole barges manned by sun-wizened fishermen.
Beyond the river, the modern skyscrapers of downtown battled for air space with
the graceful minarets of Islamic Cairo’s ancient mosques.

Closer at hand were brightly painted billboards that Hermione thought almost
worthy of Gauguin, so vibrant were their laughing-eyed, mustachioed men and
their sleek, febrile women. Even the Arabic script splashed across the
portraits seemed exotic, pointing out the virtues of some unknown product in
intriguingly fluid whorls and dots that Hermione wanted to read with her
fingers, like Braille.

And the people - people of all shapes and colours and sizes and ages, teeming
together in solidly packed masses that were at once disparate and homogenous.
Tourists and businessmen and peasants and nouveau riche, severe Western suits
and ties toe-to-toe with flowing robes and elaborately knotted headscarves,
with little boys in loincloths balancing baskets of eggs and oranges on their
bicycle handlebars.

The din was amazing. The start-of-summer heat hung in the humid air like an
almost-palpable veil of haze. And Hermione couldn’t stop staring.

“This place is incredible,” she said, half to herself, and Areli nodded in
amused agreement.

“There are civilisations nearly as old in England,” she remarked wryly. “But
none still living, I think.”

She gestured in resigned annoyance to the crush of traffic surrounding their
hapless taxicab. “Here’s the downside,” she said, shrugging. “You can see
immediately: such an ancient city is not engineered to cope with the …
conveniences … of modernity.”

“It is crowded,” Hermione said. Areli laughed.

“It is insane, that’s what. The worst drivers on the planet. You don’t own an
automobile, do you?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Good,” Areli said. “Don’t get one - not for this city.” She rolled her eyes.
“Egyptians think using their headlights at night will deplete their batteries.
The minute the sun goes down, the streets aren’t safe to walk - the drivers run
at each other head-on, flashing their lights and honking their horns like
teenagers playing chicken. It’s a menace.”

Hermione tried not to laugh and failed. “Public transportation?” she asked. “I
saw a Metro sign - and there seem to be a lot of buses around.”

Areli shook her head. “Public transport is not either comfortable or reliable
here,” she said, “and as a single Western woman, you shouldn’t get on a bus
alone anyway.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suggest you get your
Apparation license before you move - after the first few days, unless you’re
just exploring without a time limit or a destination, you’ll find it’s quicker,
cheaper and more convenient than anything else.”

By the time they’d crossed the bridge, crawled down the 27th of July Avenue in
the increasingly-stifling heat of the taxi, and disembarked at L’Aubergine,
Hermione could see her point - mind-numbing traffic here was the rule, not the
exception. Areli slipped the driver a few Egyptian pound notes - “six of these
to one British pound,” she informed Hermione; “there’s a branch of Gringotts
here, of course, but for the most part you’ll want to keep Muggle money on
hand” - and led the way into the café, which was dim and blessedly cool and
smelt enticingly of ginger and cumin.

As they approached their table - Areli nodding to one of the waiters as they
passed - a familiar auburn head came into view; a moment later, Bill Weasley
unfolded his tall slim body from the chair, and stood up to greet them. He was
casually dressed in a blue chambray shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and a pair
of fashionably baggy khaki pants, a bit sprung at the knees - as if he’d been
gardening in them, or crawling through ancient tunnels á là Indiana Jones. His
hair wasn’t in its accustomed ponytail today, but hanging loose to his
shoulders. Apparently, Hermione thought, he’d also gotten some sun recently;
that fair Weasley skin was touched with a light sheen of gold, and the ends of
his hair were bleached to a very becoming shade of strawberry blond.

In other words, yum.

He nodded a friendly welcome to Areli, then let his eyes flick appreciatively
over Hermione, his lips curving in a practiced, charming smile. He doesn’t
recognise me, she realised with a jolt of satisfaction - glad she’d changed out
of her Hogwarts uniform into that pretty green summer dress Gram had bought her
before she went to Rome - and was compelled by her Inner Flirt to give him a
saucy wink in return.

He looked momentarily startled by this - ha, thought Hermione - then recovered
sufficiently to dial the charm up another notch.

Areli cleared her throat.

“Bill,” she said with mock severity, “stop flirting for a moment, if such a
thing is possible, and greet an old lady properly, will you?”

“Areli, you’ll never be old,” Bill said, gallantly taking the hand she offered
him and planting a genuinely affectionate kiss in the center of her palm.
Hermione smiled to herself.

A rogue, no doubt about it.

But a nice rogue.

“That’s better,” Areli said with satisfaction, allowing him to pull out her
chair for her and settling her napkin over her lap. “Bill, you and Hermione
know each other already, I believe?”

His hazel eyes - more gold than Ron’s, less green, Hermione noticed - flicked
abruptly back to hers, their good-natured acknowledgement mingling with
delighted surprise and fresh appraisal. Touché, said that look; Hermione could
almost see the wheels turning as he re-evaluated his position.

“Of course, I see it now,” he said finally, and raised his bottle of Stella
lager in a wry toast. “Though you’ve pulled a bit of a Gigi since I saw you
last, Hermione.” He took a long pull on the beer, then set the bottle back down
with a rueful shake of his head. “You witches have enough advantages over us
helpless wizards already,” he said, with a sly glance in Areli’s direction.
“Not exactly sporting of you to turn from little girls to goddesses while we’ve
got our backs turned, on top of it all.”

Another long, warm smile. Hermione felt her toes curl.

Oh, he was good at this.

Areli snorted into her water glass.

“Don’t mind him, Hermione,” she said, sending a wicked look across the table.
“He’s gone native, I’m afraid. Egyptian men would rather flirt than eat - and
when they’re in the position to do both things at once, I’m afraid they’re
quite impossible.”

Hermione didn’t mind, and said as much. Later, after they’d eaten and
backtracked south to Doqqi for a tour of Bill’s apartment - back-to-back with
the one Hermione would be renting, the two units were, according to Areli,
mirror images of one another - she couldn’t help but think this was rather like
being back in Rome, the week prior to the Hogwarts Invasion.

She’d forgotten how much fun flirting could be - and how innocuously
self-affirming; especially stacked up next to angsty, reproachful,
Breaking-Up-Is-Hard-To-Do Draco and Snape’s intense but determinedly distant
scrutiny. In comparison, this sly, frothy under-the-eyelashes exchange with
Bill - who, she suspected, was a Valentino of the first water - felt like a
refreshing spoonful of lemon sorbet on her tongue, after a too-heavy boiled
dinner.

She could quite easily get used to the thought of borrowing sugar from him.

**

She spent the night in Areli’s palatial Garden City villa, breakfasted
leisurely the next morning on the rooftop terrace with a distant-but-clear view
of the Giza Pyramids, spent a fascinating hour tagging along after Areli
through the Al-Khalil bazaar, then moved on to a tour of the Consortium itself,
feeling rather like a novitiate-to-the-order let out on holiday. Even the hum
of the Great Hall at dinner seemed muted, compared to this clattering big-city
racket.

She liked it.

As warned, the Poet and the Novelist were a bit touchy, during their brief
encounter, and anxious to regain their solitude. Friedrich von Fluegel,
however, was another matter entirely. A somewhat myopic young wizard with
ink-stained fingers and a clean-shaven head, he talked eagerly - if
incomprehensibly - about his recent advances in Arithmantic theory, and loaded
her down with a heavy roll of parchment for Snape, whom he remembered with
apparent fondness (“Oh, yes - charming fellow, charming!”).

More to Snape than meets the eye, Hermione thought - not for the first time -
and, swallowing her curiosity, Reduced the parchment for easier transport,
stuck it in her pocket, and followed Areli out into the next corridor.

The archaeology team was out on location, and the expert on runes Deep In
Meditation - according to the scribbled note on her door - and therefore, Not
To Be Bothered. The Congolese duo, however, happened to be in town on furlough
- a tall rawboned wizard burned to leather by the African sun, who smiled
briefly in greeting and returned immediately to transcribing his notes into a
sleek silver laptop, and a thin, intense little witch - “call me Camilla;
everyone does” - who took Hermione’s right hand in her scrawny claw,
scrutinised the palm intently, then pulled her to her feet and over to a table
piled with drums.

“Pick one,” she said firmly, and Hermione - after casting a hesitant eye over
the assortment - pointed to a beautiful instrument made of engraved nickel and
shaped rather like an egg cup; a deep narrow bowl, set on top of an even
narrower cylinder. Camilla nodded with satisfaction, picked up an elaborately
hand-painted wooden drum of the same shape, pulled her chair over to face
Hermione’s, and showed her how to settle the drum between her knees.

“Echo me,” she said, and flicked her hand in a quick deft twist so that the
side of her right thumb struck the drumhead near the edge. Hermione followed
suit, a little more clumsily. Again, Camilla repeated the motion, and again,
until Hermione could do it perfectly.

“Now. Add this.” That thumb-flick, followed by a quick slap with the fingers of
the same hand in a more central location. Flick-slap. Flick-slap. “Good.”

Flick-slap-thunk: that was the fingers of the opposite hand, and it took a
little more time to master. But they weren’t done yet - oh, no, now it was
flick-thunk-slap-thunk, and to her surprise Hermione felt a sort of internal
tug, as her rhythm settled into a slow groove; as if her body was asking her to
speed up, to deepen her strokes.

Flick-thunk-slap-thunk. Flick-thunk-slap-thunk.

Flickita-thunkita-slapslap-thunkita. Flickita-flickita-flickita-thunk.

Slapslap-flickita-thunkita-slapita-flickithunka-flickithunka-flickithunk
a-flickithunka …

She wasn’t quite sure how long it went on, except that Camilla was no longer
playing, and somehow her hands were finding agility and knowledge outside her
brain, finding pleasure and glory and ultimate satiation in that flickita
thunkita- flickitathunkita- flickitathunkita- flickitathunkita. And then she
opened her eyes - how had they closed? She didn’t remember closing them - and
looked down … and nearly shrieked with astonishment.

A warm silvery light was rising from the head of the drum.

As if in a trance, Hermione took her hands away, and watched the silver fade
into the air around it like a wisp of vapor. Hesitantly, she put her hands back
on the drum.

Flickita-thunkita. Flickita-thunkita.

Another curl of silver, rising like steam between her fingers.

“Wow,” she said faintly, and - grasping the drum carefully - put it to one
side. Areli was looking down at her, beaming. Camilla looked satisfied but
grim.

“Power,” she said. “Determination, and perfectionism, and care … but above all,
power.” She shot Hermione a canny glance, startlingly blue in her faded face.

“Be careful what you turn your hand to,” she said. “Whatever it is, you’re
bound to succeed.”

**

And now she was stepping out of the fireplace into her own bedroom, so
overstimulated by the events of the past two days that the inside of her head
was bright with it, like a caffeine headache - and underneath that, bone-tired
and weary enough to weep.

She dropped her suitcase, kicked off her shoes, brought nerveless hands to the
buttons of her robes. And gasped as she felt hands seize her shoulders.

“Where the hell have you been?” a voice demanded, and Hermione closed her eyes
in a silent prayer for strength.

“Draco,” she said, and smiled wanly up into his angry face. “Nice to see you,
too.” **

Roman Holiday

Chapter Seventy-One

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"Where have you been?" he repeated - a bit quieter than
before, but no less annoyed. Hermione analysed his tone for
possible shades of  worry  or  fear , and came up blank.

Nope - it was  anger  and  suspicion , pretty much all the
way.

"Let go of me," she said, irritated, and when he didn t
immediately comply, stepped down hard on the arch of his foot,
hard enough to make him yelp.

"Be thankful it wasn t your balls," she snapped, shouldering
past him to sink onto the bed and ignoring his look of injured
reproach. "I m warning you now, Draco Malfoy - I ve had a long
day, and I m tired. So if you re here to give me a hard time,
you can just go away and plan a nice little ambush for
breakfast tomorrow, after I ve had some sleep. I m not in the
mood to take your crap."

That took the wind out of his sails, she thought smugly. He
opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again and
limped gingerly over to the chair nearest her, contenting
himself with a dark look in her direction.

"It s a fair question," he said sulkily. Hermione raised a
skeptical eyebrow.

"It is!" he insisted. "If you must know, I ve been sitting on
an apology for weeks - ever since the night before the
inquest. And finally I got up the nerve to sneak up here and
deliver it, last night - and then you didn t come back." He
glared at her. "What was I supposed to think?"

That made her more kindly inclined toward him, but she wasn t
about to show it - if he was determined to take his temper out
on her, he could damn well grovel a little longer. "You could
have asked around," she pointed out with a touch of asperity,
and Draco scowled.

"I didn t want to ask any of the professors, for fear of
getting you in trouble," he said, then added - a trifle
waspishly - "You are a Gryffindor, after all. And  " - this, a
bit more reluctant - "if you were with Potter or Weasley, or
" He grimaced, then looked her straight in the eyes, gloomily
defiant. "Well, then, I didn t want to know. Okay? Happy now?"

Hermione sighed, torn between exasperation and sympathy.

It was impossible to stay angry with him, it really was.

"I wasn t with anyone," she said, "not that way. I had a job
interview. In Cairo. For next year."

His mouth made a little  o  of surprise, and he whistled
softly. "Did you get it?"

She nodded, and his eyebrows shot up.

"You took it? You re leaving Hogwarts, too?"

At this, he looked so disbelieving that Hermione wasn t sure
whether to laugh or to be insulted. "What?" she demanded, and
he shrugged.

"Well, it s one thing for me," he said defensively. "I mean, I
ve burned my bridges well and truly, haven t I? Not a proper
Slytherin anymore -" here he hesitated, thinking, no doubt, of
Sal - "at least by current standards. And not really cut out
to tag along with Potter and Weasley either." His lip curled.
"Father in Azkaban. Mother too much of a lush to manage her
own affairs  "

"You aren t responsible for them," Hermione pointed out
sharply. "They made their own choices - you re not pulling
their strings! And you re not a tagalong - Harry and Ron like
you." She frowned at him. "Christ, you re gloomy. Next you ll
be saying that what we had wasn t worth anything, either."

Draco shrugged, his face a careful blank. "It s over, isn t
it?"

Hermione wanted to shake him. "You idiot," she said, her
capability for irritation suddenly returning tenfold. "It s
never over, haven t you figured that out yet?"

At the flicker of hope in his eyes, she wanted to groan.

"Just because it didn t work doesn t mean it wasn t good," she
finished, and turned away so she wouldn t see his face fall
again.

He made a skeptical sound somewhere in his throat. "I don t
buy that," he said; "it sounds pretty, but it doesn t make
sense. If it was as good as you say, why didn t it work?"

Unspoken: why didn t you love me? Hermione rubbed her aching
temples.

"It s not like a broomstick," she said. "Just because we don t
suit doesn t mean we re broken, after all. We re just not
ready for forever yet - I m not, and you aren t either,
whether you want to admit it or not."

She fought back a yawn. "It s not just Hogwarts anymore; the
whole world s out there, and I want to see it. And much as I
love you - and yes, I do," she said stubbornly at the look of
disbelief on his face, "you were right - I don t love you the
right way. Not enough to give up my freedom. And not enough to
ask for yours."

Whether those words were right and true, she wasn t quite sure
- exhaustion was settling over her like fog, blocking out
sight and sound by degrees. They seemed about right, at least
to her ears. But Draco still looked mulish.

"I would have given it to you," he said, and Hermione felt her
patience fray and snap in the same instant.

"I didn t want it," she said, too tired to be gentle. "And I
still don t."

Draco winced.

"Well," he said, and that one word encompassed a world of
desolation. "That s about as clear as you can make it, isn t
it?"

At her look of distress, he shot her a world-weary,
meant-to-be-reassuring smile. "It s okay," he said. "I ve got
the message -  cut your losses . Don t worry about me."

Her head was pounding. "I m sorry," she said helplessly, and
he shook his head.

"If it s the truth," he said, "you ve got nothing to apologize
for."

At the door, he turned.

"Write me, at least?" Hermione nodded.

"Of course."

Awkward silence.

"See you around, then," he said finally, and Hermione echoed
him.

"Right. See you."

**

And then, just like that, the rest of the term was gone in a
flurry of farewells and final exams, as if she d inadvertently
bumped a Time-Turner the wrong way and blinked herself a month
into the future. Her professors, her classmates, her friends -
Harry, Ron, Ginny, Sal - she made the rounds to each one in
turn, during her final week at Hogwarts, parroting familiar
words through a dry throat. Of course I ll write. Of course we
ll stay in touch. We ll always be friends, of course.

Of course, of course, of course.

She wanted it all to be the truth, and she was scared it
wouldn t be - scared in a way that didn t show, like a small
white bird beating at the prison of her rib cage. Let it out,
let it show, and she just might lose her nerve, might just
stay.

The last night, she didn t sleep, just sat on the
bare-stripped bed, clutching her pillow over her fast-beating
heart, and tried not to panic.

Morning came, tremulous at first, then stepping sweet and sure
over the horizon. She watched it through her window for the
last time, watched Hagrid emerge yawning from his cottage and
ruffle Fang s ears, and turned shaking away - from fear or
excitement, she didn t know which.

Leave, but don t forget, said the small voice in her head.
Take it with you, as much as you can - as much as you can bear
to.

If it were only that easy.

She Reduced her trunk to the size of a deck of cards, juggled
it absently from one hand to the other, and turned to take a
last look around her bedroom.

"I ll miss you," she said softly, and heard her own voice come
back to her from the bare stone walls; eerie and thin, more
like the child-Hermione who had arrived that first year than
the girl she was now.

"Hermione! Come on - we ll be late!"

Harry s voice floated up the stairs toward her, disturbing her
rêverie. She pocketed the trunk and moved toward the door.

The carriages were waiting for them in front of the castle,
their wheels shifting impatiently on the loose stones.
Hermione caught sight of two red heads bent together, and
started to hurry over to them.

"Miss Granger."

She spun around, and found Snape at her shoulder - as
forbidding and icy as ever, wearing the same glower he d worn
the first time she d raised her hand in his class.

Some things, Hermione thought, never change.

Or don t they?

"Your bracelet s caught on your sleeve," he said, and watched
impassively as she tried unsuccessfully to disentangle
herself. "Here - allow me."

A few deft twists - oh, hint of almond, of long-evaporated
lemon, as he bent over her arm - and her sleeve fell free.
"Thank you," she said, and saw his thin mouth soften for an
instant in what might have been a smile.

"It was my pleasure." He let go her hand. "Good luck, Miss
Granger."

"Thank you," she said again, and stood staring at him;
foolishly, oddly dejected - what, no declaration? no word of
encouragement? - until she heard Ron call her name.

"Hermione! They re leaving!"

The carriage was dancing to be off. A last scramble, an
outstretched hand, a bit of a laughing scuffle. They clattered
away, and she forgot to look back.

He who hesitates is lost.

**

They had boarded the train, had ordered a last nostalgic round
of Chocolate Frogs and butterbeer from the pink-smocked witch
with the cart, and were nearly halfway to London when Ginny
looked over at Hermione, did a double take, and gave a little
cry of wonder.

"Oh, that s beautiful, Hermione," she breathed. "Is it from
Draco? Did the two of you make up?"

Puzzled, Hermione shook her head  no , then followed Ginny s
gaze to her bracelet - and felt a sudden loosening in her
chest, as the tight near-panic that had gripped her for the
past week gave way to blessed, blessed calm.

Where the sapphire had been, dangled a tiny, exquisitely
carved charm - a scarab beetle, the Egyptian sun-totem and
symbol of protection. She held it up to the light, marvelling
at the detail, at the creamy translucence of the green stone
from which it was carved.

"What is that?" Harry asked, peering at it. "Jade?"

Hermione s lips curved. "No," she said. "It s malachite. I m
sure of it."

The train swept on toward London, toward the future. Fingering
the little green scarab, Hermione watched Scotland flash by,
receding into the past, and smiled to herself.

Whatever was out there, she was ready for it.

**

END BOOK ONE

**

Author s Note:

Thank you to all of my many reviewers - I assure you that it
is your constant support and encouragement that made this fic
possible. Stay tuned for Jewel of the Nile, the next book in
the series, shortly forthcoming as soon as I tie up a few plot
ends - I promise you lots of Cairo and Surrounding Environs, a
suitably gruesome and complicated Indiana-Jones-type plot,
letters to and from all the Folks Back Home (yes, including
Draco and Snape!), and some serious William Weasley
flirtations.

For spoilers beyond that, you ll just have to wait. J Thanks
again!

Anna