Revealing Moments

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Revealing Moments By Bambu. *~*~*~*~*~*~* Chapter Two: Intermezzo The summer began to wane into a grim sort of anticipation leading up to fall, and the residents of 12 Grimmauld Place breathed sighs of relief that the expected cataclysm hadn't erupted yet. The longer it was held at bay, the more the Order could prepare. For with the summer and the coming of age of many recent Hogwarts graduates, the ranks of the Order of the Phoenix began to swell and the ancient Black Mansion had, on occasion, begun to resemble a dormitory. They now counted in their number Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Ernie MacMillan, Hannah Abbott, and all but two members of the Weasley family; Ginny, who was too young, and, Percy, who was still estranged from his family, and was increasingly vocal and disparaging about his younger siblings' choice of professions. As Harry had predicted, the wizarding world was in sad need of amusing diversions, and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was becoming quite a success. It was also a wonderful cover. Fred and George had ostensibly hired their youngest brother, Ron, who was traveling for 'research.' At least, that's what anyone who inquired about his whereabouts was told. There'd been quite a number of inquiries, including several from Percy, who'd twice gone to the shop, each time a little more demanding and tightly strung. The fact that Percy was inquiring about Ron was an ominous portent. When Molly Weasley heard about Percy's second visit to the shop - the twins had kept the knowledge of his first from her - she'd put her head on the kitchen table and sobbed. It'd taken weeks before anyone could coax a smile from her, and the shadows in her eyes reflected how haunted she'd become. Next to his mother, Ron appeared to be the most affected by this turn of events, even with Luna's sympathetic commiseration. His handsome face was contorted by anxiety, and the strong possibility that his brother might be a traitor willing to offer his younger brother up for membership to the Dark Lord's ranks of Death Eaters etched worry lines in his forehead. "He's always been a bit of a prat, Harry, but he was always a fairly smart prat. For him to... to... I dunno, Harry, it makes me wonder." For his part, Harry found himself having an entirely new appreciation for how miserable Sirius had been before his death as he, too, was confined to the mansion for his protection. Given the protective wards and unplottable location of the Headquarters, Professor Snape felt it the safest place until the Order was ready to strike. Harry raged at this, but, unlike Sirius, he bore his incarceration with resigned good will. The preceding two years had taught Harry that even though he'd blamed Snape for Sirius' death, he'd done so unjustly. Thus, as he began to understand his former Potions Professor and the precarious position he was in, Harry grudgingly began to respect Snape. Harry spent part of his days in planning and learning defensive strategies with whichever senior colleague was at the house. Most often he found himself on the receiving end of wisdom imparted by Remus Lupin or Minerva MacGonagall, who was supposed to be on a painting holiday in Ireland. Occasionally, he'd have an adjunct lesson with Tonks, who never coddled him. Harry enjoyed his friendship with Tonks, but it always left a bittersweet feeling of homesickness for Hermione. She would've thrived on the information he was processing. The remainder of Harry's days was spent in practice sessions with whichever junior members were available, usually Ron could be counted on to be there unless he was running an errand. Not since his third year at Hogwarts had he been so focused on study. Then, it'd been to produce a patronus worthy of repelling Dementers, and now it was to save his life, and that of the wizarding world as they he it. After their graduation, Harry and Ron had been allowed to attend the Order of the Phoenix's meetings. In fact, they'd been allowed into the strategy sessions as well. It'd been Lupin's suggestion to include Harry, and Snape had not only agreed, but added Ron Weasley to the group as well. None of the other recent graduates were included. The other senior members who included Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt welcomed their participation. As far as the Ministry and the rest of the wizarding world was concerned, Harry Potter had dropped off the face of the planet. Or, as the Daily Prophet most often implied, he'd become a coward, and was running for his life. They suggested that perhaps he'd fled to the muggle world. None who knew the truth bothered to refute the statements. They let the rumors work to their advantage. It kept the Death Eaters in check. With the intent of having as many advantages as possible, Harry began taking animagus lessons with Minerva MacGonagall. Unexpectedly, Harry's animagus form was a slender bodied, gray, Harrier. A raptor known for hunting by sight and sound, stealth and speed, and whose prey included rodents and snakes. When Severus Snape had heard about Harry's animagus form, he'd laughed long and loud, the first and only laugh anyone had been able to coax from him the entire summer. The only words that made sense through his laughter were "Pettigrew" and "Riddle". It'd taken a while for everyone else in the room to understand the joke, Remus Lupin being the first to figure it out. Following Sirius' death, Snape and Remus had made an effort to allay their long-standing animosity and distrust. However, the most profound difference the summer brought was in Severus Snape. He wasn't overly friendly to the new members of the Order, but he was civil, and his former students, now no longer in fear for their grades, came to have an appreciation for his dry, sarcastic sense of humor. For the most part, however, they left him alone, which he preferred. His thoughts were dark and brooding. He'd willingly offered himself up for the sacrifice but was finding it increasingly difficult to prepare for the moment of revelation. Snape never knew from one summons to the next if it'd be his last. He was called to the Dark Lord an average of three times a week, suffering the Cruciatus curse on almost every occasion. When he hadn't delivered Harry Potter to Voldemort as soon as school was out, Snape was singled out for 'special' attention. What saved his life was the simple fact that none of the other Death Eaters, or the rest of the wizarding world, had a clue where Harry Potter was. Snape remained the best chance they had to find him. Shortly after graduation, the Potions Master had been able to report to the Dark Lord that Potter had been offered the job of Madam Hooch's apprentice, and would be coaching Quidditch at Hogwarts in the Fall term. It was a delaying tactic, and had bought them - him -- some time. Snape was becoming gaunt as a result of the repeated abuse, deep circles under his red rimmed eyes reflected his exhaustion. His hands continued to involuntarily flex as a result of countless bouts of the Unforgivable curses he'd endured. He refused almost all assistance, staggering in the front door of Headquarters, sometimes collapsing as soon as he entered, muscles screaming with the burning, searing pain. Sometimes he only made it as far as the stoop. Remus had taken to waiting for him, and, with his highly sensitive ears, he'd be alerted to the sounds of Snape's return. Remus would wordlessly assist the spy to his small dark room, hand him the small vial of Dreamless Sleep, and leave the battered wizard to his excruciating recuperation. It was during those long hours, while Snape recovered the use of his muscles from the involuntary spasms that left him gasping for breath, that he cast his mind for a thought to sustain him in his agonized state. Almost in desperation, he allowed himself to focus on his last encounter with Hermione Granger. He struggled to remember the feel of her hand in his, or the brief moment of her lips pressed to his. He knew that ultimately it was self defeating, pinning his sanity on a young woman who'd had a momentary weakness for him. He couldn't afford to form an attachment that would break what was left of his heart, but he couldn't help himself. With each moment that he held her memory close, he was becoming more infatuated with her. In the still moments of deepest night, he eased his fear, his tension, with thoughts of Hermione. His hands - sometimes shaking uncontrollably - eased his physical torment, stroking himself to the memory of her touch; his release the only pleasure to be gained in his continued descent into nightmare. He needed something worthwhile to cling to, some reason to continue the fight. Never before had he been subject to the unrelenting focus of Voldemort's attentions. The other Death Eaters were distancing themselves from him in an effort not to draw the Dark Lord's attention to themselves. Snape knew that his time of usefulness was waning, and that his personal time would come soon. There'd been a decreased number of Death Eater attacks, due in large part to the penchant of most humans and wizards to holiday during the summer months. However, the glowing green Dark Mark could be seen hovering over a residence or a business every couple of weeks. The wizarding community was becoming increasingly tense, and the vocal outcry for the Ministry to 'do' something was becoming untenable for Cornelius Fudge. The Minister had simply made placating comments, ordering the Aurors to find 'he who must not be named,' and hid in his office, frantically hoping that someone else would take care of the mess. When September came, the new term at Hogwarts began, Ginny Weasley returned to school, the Professors removed to the castle and their duties within. Snape had to report to the Dark Lord that Harry Potter wasn't coming to Hogwarts that term. He'd honestly expected that day to be his last. He was wrong. The spy barely made it back to the gates of the castle before collapsing. Fortunately, Hagrid had been patiently waiting and filled with worry, pacing along the perimeter of the school grounds. Hagrid heard the pop of apparition, and had dimly seen the crumpled heap that was Severus Snape. With a strangled cry, Hagrid quickly reached the contorted form of the Potions Master, and, carried him like a baby to the infirmary. Before passing out entirely, Snape frantically told Dumbledore that a bounty had been placed on the heads of Harry, the entire Weasley family, and Hermione Granger and her parents. He begged Albus to find Hermione and bring her home, to place her in hiding. That he revealed more of his heart in those frantic few moments than ever before was something he wouldn't remember later. Immediately following the pain-filled croak of his desperately communicated information, he lapsed into unconsciousness for the next five days. When he woke, she was there with her head resting on her forearms, nestled in the covers of his hospital bed, propped against his thigh. She was asleep. At his bedside. Snape didn't believe she was real, and, with a trembling hand, he reached out to touch her curls. She didn't respond, so he left his hand on her head, burying it in her hair. He closed his eyes, unable to keep them open a second longer, still not convinced that she was real, but willing to hold on to his vision of comfort with everything he could muster. For her part, Hermione Granger's summer had been the most frustrating of her life. It'd been lovely spending time with her parents, but the constant worry was utterly draining. She'd been forbidden by Albus Dumbledore from contacting any of her friends, except in dire emergency. Had she been anyone else, the words 'dire emergency' would have seemed histrionic, but considering the very real enemies she'd been battling for years, they seemed a prudent caution. The fact that on her 18^th birthday, September 19, she'd be allowed to return to her life had kept her strong. She had new appreciation for Harry's summers of isolation and Sirius' enforced captivity. Hermione constantly worried about Harry and Ron. And about Ginny, and Fred, and George. When she'd finished her chronological order of the Weasleys, she'd worried about Remus and Neville and Luna. But most of all she'd worried about Severus Snape. Specifically, whether the last time she'd ever see him had been for those short few moments of farewell in his office when they'd shaken hands. Every night she'd gone to sleep remembering how her body had reacted to the touch of his hand, the intensity in his eyes, and the tone of his voice. And every night, her hands had played over her body as she remembered the deep velvet tones of his parting words. She'd fervently hoped that he was alive and would remain so, as she allowed the memory of his voice, and the glittering intensity of his dark eyes to release waves of pleasure as she climaxed. She'd actually discussed her fascination for Snape with her mother, who, after being assured that nothing untoward had ever happened while Hermione had been at school, had simply listened. Reminding her daughter that there was a gap of fourteen years between her husband and herself, Mrs. Granger had then given her daughter some very good advice. In true motherly fashion it was in the form of a quote. "Hermione, if you understand what I'm about to say to you, then you are mature enough to make your own decisions. 'The heart has its reasons of which reason knows naught.'" Mrs. Granger had gotten up from the couch, given her daughter a warm, swift hug, and left said daughter alone to contemplate whether she was, in truth, mature enough to follow her own heart. Early in the summer, the Grangers had agreed on caution and discarded their original holiday plans. They'd changed hotels on a walk-in, cash only basis, and, after several lodging changes, had taken a puddle jumper flight, to a smaller island off the coast. They'd found rooms at an obscure, slightly dilapidated but clean, private B&B which was run by a widow, who gratefully accepted cash. Hermoine had spent her days devoted to building her body and focusing her mind, first studying protective spells and counter-curses, then moving on to study rare poisons and venom. And anti-venin. She'd begun to speculate that Voldemort might be weakened by the infusion of an anti-venin draught, considering that, as far as anyone knew, he still drank poison from the loathsome serpent he kept by his side. She began to extrapolate methods of creating an anti-venin charm from the physical matter. She'd discussed some of her ideas with her parents. They might be muggles, but they were dentists and had medical training. They'd offered some refining suggestions. Hermione had wanted to be prepared, to create something unexpected by the enemy to protect her loved ones. A whispered litany had constantly niggled at her conscious mind for those she worried about : her parents, Harry, Ron, the Weasleys... and Snape. Her former professor was always separate in her thoughts, as if he wouldn't want to be grouped with the others. She had no illusions that he'd want her. She knew he thought of her as a child. But over the summer, she had a lot of time to think and to examine her emotional response to the man - not the professor. She was a faithful and loyal friend, and once she'd accepted someone into her inner circle, her loyalty was for life. She didn't expect for him to return her feelings. That she had admitted them to herself would have to be enough. Hermione was still a small woman, but she'd developed muscles and endurance over the course of her three months of isolation. She'd run every day, and practiced T'ai Chi Chuan with her father. The slow, precise moves were meditative and martial in both form and function. The beach was a good place to practice, and after she was sweaty, she'd plunged her trembling body into the ocean and swam with the dolphins. She'd appeared to have befriended her own pod of the precocious darlings of the sea. They'd been amazingly protective of her as she'd laugh gleefully as one after the other towed her through the waves of the little bay with the white sand beach. She'd wondered if perhaps they could sense her magical energy and had been fascinated by it. Every night before bed, Hermione had made certain that she was packed for a quick departure or defensive action, and she'd begun to sleep with her wand in a sheath she'd rigged on her left forearm. She'd practiced with it daily for quick access and a smooth draw. She never performed magic, because necessity dictated that she not leave any magical residue to be traced. An additional element of the nighttime ritual was the practicing of her Apparition skills. This she'd done as surreptitiously as possible, and rejoiced over the anonymity of being underaged, and the fact that she couldn't be tracked as yet. The tension she'd carried with her wound tighter with each passing day, and she'd been counting the moments until her birthday when she could rightfully take her place alongside her friends. However, fate was neither so cruel nor so kind. On the night of September 4^th, a frantic Pigwidgeon had appeared in her bedroom. The flighty ball of fluff ricocheted around the room until she'd been able to calm it enough to retrieve the message from Professor Dumbledore, calling her to Grimmauld Place, and telling her to bring her parents with her. The additional warning to travel inconspicuously had been unnecessary as soon as she'd read that Voldemort had placed a bounty on their heads. Hermione's tension had released itself in an enormous gust of expelled air from her lungs. This was it. The moment that they'd prepared for. The beginning of what they all recognized would lead to the final battle. The Dream Team's reunion had been fervent and boisterous, each cataloguing the changes in the other. All had matured during their three months separation. They'd recognized the signs and welcomed them. They were as ready as they could be for the coming conflagration. Regrettably, their joy at being reunited had been short lived when, haltingly, Harry'd informed her of Snape's condition. Unconscious, with no certainty of recovery. If Harry had harbored any questions as to his friend's feelings for the Professor, they'd been given proof by her reaction. Hermione's face had drained of all color and she'd sunk to a chair, looking as if she was about to pass out. She'd briefly rested her head in shaky hands. Gathering her determination around her like the invisible cloak she'd badgered Harry into loaning her, Hermione'd left the house, against Harry's and Ron's protests. They'd not tell anyone else, granting her what little privacy they could. Her actions would be known soon enough. As soon as her feet had touched the sidewalk, she'd apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. Making her way through the throngs of students, some recognized and others entirely new, Hermione had run up the main staircase to the infirmary, where she'd almost scared Poppy Pomfrey to an early grave when she uncloaked. Ignoring Poppy's protests, she'd made her way to Snape's bed which had been completely hidden from view by screens and silencing charms. The intensely anxious young woman had been shocked when she'd seen Snape, who appeared quite pale, with the haggard appearance of someone pushed beyond their limits. Uncontrollable muscle spasms wracked his body, radiating from the large muscle groups outward to his extremities. Hermione had stood next to his bed for a long time, just looking at him. She'd reached out a hand and tenderly brushed the long, lank hair off his face. He wasn't a handsome man, but he was a noble and self-sacrificing one, and he'd somehow captured her heart. She'd disjointedly thought it funny that she considered Snape noble. With a light touch, Hermione had traced her fingers along his cheek and jawline. She'd felt a clenching in her stomach, and a pain settle in her heart. A wave of protectiveness had flooded her. Even if he wouldn't choose her, she wanted him to live. Wanted him to find some peace and maybe a little happiness. She ached for the world to acknowledge his sacrifices. Pulling a chair close to the bed, Hermione had glanced around at the familiar confines of the infirmary, the high ceiling and stone walls, the cold floor, and the large paned windows overlooking the grounds. The faint smell of antiseptic herbs. She'd informed the mediwitch that she was staying. Looking at the deep tan of her arms in contrast to the whiteness of the linens and the translucence of his skin had left Hermione feeling as if her health were somehow an affront to the horrible things he'd gone through. If she'd known how to transfer some of her energy to him she would've. Since she hadn't, she'd contented herself with holding his hand. It'd appeared to give him some degree of ease. After two days, Hermione had been forced to take a shower and have a meal. Professor Dumbledore had spelled her at Snape's bedside. He'd been very surprised to see her, not to mention quite unsettled by the degree to which she was determined to sit with Snape. He had some indication of Snape's feelings, but none of hers. The Headmaster wasn't someone who took ignorance lightly. He knew that she was fiercely loyal and protective of her friends, and he'd initially dismissed her visit along those lines. He hadn't known that Severus had become her friend, but he undoubtedly had. However, the longer Miss Granger had remained in the infirmary, firmly planted by his Potions Master's side, the aged wizard had begun to suspect that her feelings were rather more than friendship. Following her meal and her return to Snape's bedside, Hermione'd looked refreshed and resolved. She'd taken over Snape's care, brushing his hair, sponging his arms and face, administering nourishing potions and pain relievers. She'd paused over the Dark Mark burned into his forearm the first time she'd massaged his muscles from spasm, but had gently continued in her effort to relieve some of the pain his body suffered. She'd continued every couple of hours to massage the professor's extremities, and, when he'd turned, she gave her attention to his back and shoulders, knowing that it would help ease the muscle spasms. He'd relaxed, especially when she'd touched him, and it comforted her to, in some manner, ease his pain. After several more hours, she'd been drooping with tiredness, and, folding her arms on the side of his bed, Hermione had dropped her forehead and closed her eyes. When she awoke, it was to the feeling of a weight pressing against the back of her head and something entangled in her hair. Moving slightly, she realized that Snape's hand was wrapped in her hair, cradled against her head. Delicately disentangling his hand, she gently massaged the long, gifted fingers, and suddenly she knew that he was awake. There was a tension in the hand that she cradled between hers. Looking up, she met dark eyes, filled with pain and longing and sanity, to her intense relief. She couldn't contain the joy that suffused her face, and smiled radiantly at him. To Snape, she looked like a gift, a miracle. The sun shone on her curls, casting a shine that radiated in an aureole around her head and shoulders. If it weren't for the fact that she was holding his hand in hers, he wouldn't have believed that she was real. He couldn't quite fathom how lucky he was that she was there. Gods, she was there, she shouldn't be. He began to panic. She had to be protected. His body began to tense as his fear for her rose. She felt the imminent spasms, and began to massage his arm, stroking her fingers across the Dark Mark on his forearm. He was completely shocked by her actions, and jerked his arm from her. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me for assuming it would be all right to be here. I just had to know you were okay." Her voice was thick with unshed tears. Snape was dumbfounded. The woman he'd been dreaming of, his personal light at the end of the tunnel, was standing at his bedside in tears for him. She'd touched his Dark Mark without flinching, and with some degree of familiarity. He hadn't been touched in such an intimate, tender, caring manner in... ever. No other person had ever touched the living representation of his branding. "How long..." he croaked. Instantly she reached for a glass of water, answering the question she assumed he was asking. "It's been more than 4 days." She helped him drink the water, using a small charm with her wand. It was only when she replaced her wand that he noticed she was using a sheath for it. Remarkable. The woman was remarkable. So young to be so seasoned. He looked her over, greedily taking in the reality of her. She was tanned and fit; there was a grace and flexibility in her movements that he'd never seen before. She was the same, and yet she was different. More finely honed he thought. More focused. And a more focused Hermione Granger, for all her young years, was a force to be reckoned with. Once again, he asked the question he wanted toask, fearing the answer. "How long have you been here?" "Oh. It's been 84 hours since you lapsed into a state of unconsciousness - may I tell you how relieved I am - um, we all are - that your mind hasn't been affected. I'm sorry, I'm wandering. Well, I got here after the first day. So, it's been close to three days. Please don't be angry. I know I don't have the right." She was suddenly very aware of the fact that she had no idea how he felt about her. "If you want me to leave, I'll go." "No," he held her hand more tightly in his, "stay." Another wave of spasms was triggered by his movement, and he grimaced in pain. His body involuntarily curled into a fetal position. Immediately Hermione called for Madame Pomfrey, and, not waiting for additional assistance, began to massage his spasming back muscles, working her way across his shoulders and down his arms, once again touching the Dark Mark and not shying away from its presence. She'd do anything to give him succor. Poppy Pomfrey heard the underlying urgency in Hermione's tone, and quickly rounded the corner, potion in hand. She helped Hermione hold Severus until she could get the small vial to his mouth. Once swallowed, he had almost instant relief, the muscles relaxing with the anti-spasmodic qualities of the magically enhanced potion. Snape's dark eyes sought out Hermione, and he forced the words out of his mouth, words he didn't want to say. But she had to go. She had to be safe. Her safety, and the safety of others like her, was what made every sacrifice worthwhile. Sending her away was the last thing he wanted to do. The thought pierced his heart, and he ached with the knowledge that he had to deny the comfort he derived from her presence. He couldn't believe the gift she'd given him today. Two gifts, actually. She was there, and she hadn't flinched from touching his Dark Mark. She hadn't been afraid. He'd think more about that when his mind wasn't so foggy. He felt the darkness begin to cloud his brain and recognized that the potion was inducing sleep. "Hermione, you must go. You must hide. There's a bounty." His voice was husky with concern as he called her by her given name for the first time. "I know. I can't stay much longer now that I know you'll be ok." She was unbearably saddened by this. But the dangerous realities had begun to press in on her with his return to consciousness. Fighting off the potion's effects he forced out, "Thank you." She brushed his cheek with her fingertips in a feather light caress. "Hush, I'll be here when you wake up. And then I'll have to go." His heavy eyelids closed, and he almost didn't hear her next words, but he felt the comfort of her fingers stroking through his hair. "I'll be here, Severus. Sleep now." He did. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~* The basement kitchen at the Order's Headquarters crackled with the tension of unresolved emotions, some expressed and others unacknowledged, which permeated the room. Fear, pain, anguish, rage, and unacknowledged love eddied around the verbal combatants facing one another, one in house robes, the other recently returned from her errand and dripping wet. The storm raging outside the house served as occasional counterpoint to the heated argument taking place between the two strong-willed people. The tautly controlled, imposing figure of Severus Snape towered over the smaller and equally rigid object of his wrath. He began his verbal assault the second she'd stepped from the fireplace. Their argument had been brief and intense. "It is *not* worth the risk," he stormed, his fear driving him. He hated this. She should be safe, not bait. He took in her cinnamon colored eyes, huge in her otherwise white face, framed by damp curling strands of brown hair, glistening with the moisture of the storm. The Potions Master's baser instincts urged him to grab her, and shake her until she agreed to stand down, barring that, to kiss her senseless until she agreed to stand down. This was exactly the reason he'd avoided her since that day in the infirmary, but seven months hadn't dampened his desire. Not even a little. Snape ignored his inner Neanderthal, and, for a moment, wondered what Harry Potter's feelings were on this subject. He doubted that Potter would bear the knowledge of her jeopardy with any degree of equanimity. The spy toyed with the idea of enlisting Potter's aid in curtailing her extra-curricular activities. It wasn't the Boy Wonder's style to allow friends to take risks for him. Snape was brought out of his reverie by her comeback. "Yes, it is. It's worth any risk," Hermione insisted, holding herself tightly in check, staving off the waves of nausea accompanying her pain and exhaustion. She was finding it difficult to concentrate under the circumstances, as well as under the full focus of his attention. She fervently wished that Snape hadn't been in the kitchen, obviously waiting for her, when she'd floo'd back. She wasn't prepared for this conversation tonight, her defenses were too weak. She'd expected a confrontation with him, but had hoped to avoid it for as long as possible. His reaction was exactly why they hadn't told him in the first place - of course, Dumbledore thought Snape's honor wouldn't allow them to take his risk. Hermione knew better. He wouldn't want *her* involved period; he couldn't even stand being in the same room with her. He'd made it plain in the months since his recovery. The Headmaster had predicted that Snape and Harry would react in a similar fashion. She could now assure him that they'd indeed reacted identically - they'd both shouted at her. Snape was still shouting at her, and the only thing she wanted to do was to throw herself into his arms. 'Get a grip,' she told herself sternly, 'he doesn't want you. God, maybe if I close my eyes, he'll be gone when I reopen them. I do *not* want to have this conversation now.' Regrettably, however, it appeared that her quotient of luck for the day had been depleted. Escaping with her life had been enough. "You forget yourself, Miss Granger." Every hated, supercilious tone at his command rang in his voice as Snape flung the arrogant, quelling statement at her. The Potions Master had just that evening discovered her secondary mission, the reason for his current presence at 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione's 'day job' was actualizing her idea for an anti-venin charm to use against Voldemort in the coming confrontation, and training with the Aurors. She'd begun to teach the other members of the Order her meditation and martial arts technique after besting Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt two of three times. They had believed it was luck. Primarily though, the focus of her last six months had been perfecting the anti-venin potion. Recently she'd begun dematerializing it into the form of a charm, working diligently with Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick. The results were promising. 'Too promising,' Snape thought, 'for her to be so bloody cavalier with her personal safety.' Tonight, however, after dinner in the Great Hall, Dumbledore had let slip Hermione's other priority - one they'd kept from Potter and him. She'd been playing decoy for the past four months, making appearances at highly visible locations, including Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic -- taunting the Death Eaters into making a play for her. Among the other highly visible forays into the public's eye, Hermione'd been seen at Gringott's Bank accessing Harry Potter's vault. An additional foray had taken her to Flourish & Blotts, where she'd purchased a significantly large number of reference books, conspicuously taking them with her, rather than allowing a later delivery as was custom. Each appearance had been designed to draw attention to her, making it obvious that while the rest of the wizarding world didn't know Harry Potter's location, she did. With crystalline clarity, Snape realized that it was this gambit that'd kept him alive - he'd thought it the quixotic reaction of an increasingly unstable Dark Lord. But it was suddenly obvious that Hermione's risk was his lifeline. The Headmaster had actually chuckled at their success, and Voldemort's growing frustration. With each decoy sighting, a greater number of Death Eaters had arrived upon the scene. It served their purposes beautifully. Dumbledore's delight had only infuriated Snape - and highlighted the precariousness of his own safety. He hadn't known about the decoys from either side. That thought was chilling in and of itself. Snape couldn't deny that it was an audacious ploy. It was also extremely dangerous, and he was terrified for Hermione's safety. The Professor knew exactly what would happen if she was caught, and it was for this reason, more than any other, that he hadn't allowed himself to pursue his feelings for her. The idea that he'd be forced to watch, impotently, as Voldemort toyed with her was more than he could bear. Earlier in the evening though, Snape had walked out of Dumbledore's office and abruptly left the school. As soon as he was beyond the castle gates, he'd Apparated to London to have it out with the impudent snip of a woman. She hadn't been there. His thoughts about her activities had kept him company for several hours, while he'd waited for her return. And now that she stood before him, he was determined to achieve his goal: to remove her from the playing field, whether she appreciated it or not. Crossing his arms, Snape attempted to force the issue, breaking their standoff. He took a step toward her, opting for physical intimidation. He met her glare with an equal ferocity, paying attention only to what he could see in her eyes, hoping to suborn her to his will. Hermione pulled herself up to her full height, and raised her chin in both defiance and determination. However, the regal effect was diminished slightly by the fact that she clutched her left arm to her side, blood oozing through the fingers of her right hand, dripping silently and unnoticed on her already wet, black robes and down to puddle on the dark stone floor. The water served as camouflage, her blood almost invisible in the ill lit kitchen. Eyes blazing, her voice was thick with a note of some unidentified emotion, the pain hidden in its depths. "You idiot! There is no one more important to the success of this war than you and Harry. And if it means I continue to play decoy, then I will." "Miss Granger, there are experienced members of the Order better qualified to take that chance. I am quite certain that I do not want to pin my hopes of survival on the possible success of a child. Leave it to the adults." Desperate to get this point across, he'd use any tool in his arsenal. He knew how to bludgeon with words, he'd honed the skill to an art form. He only hoped they would suffice. Hermione's shoulders slumped in defeat, no longer able to hold the pain from her wounds at bay, or to fend off the searing agony as his words lanced her heart. Suddenly she felt naked, vulnerable, and raw. "I'm trying to keep you alive," she whispered. Her hair sprinkled droplets of water as she spun and left, the swinging door creaking rhythmically behind her. There was a moment of grim silence during which Snape squeezed his eyes shut, and, with a shaking hand pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to breathe normally. He opened his eyes and glared at the diminishing swinging movement of the door. "I'm the only other decoy worth anything, and you know it, Severus." The unexpected intrusion of Ron Weasley jerked Snape from the focus of his incendiary glare. "She takes too many unnecessary chances. Something she obviously picked up from you and Potter." Snape retorted bitingly, hiding his most highly prized secret. "You're in love with her, aren't you?" Ron's swift rejoinder ripped through the spy's hoped for illusion. Quickly turning to face the attack from a new vector, Snape focused on the redhead, trying to discern his response to the idea. In the last several months, Ron Weasley had become expert at masking his feelings, and one of the more valuable contributing members of their strategic planning sessions. The last remnants of childhood had been eradicated by the exigencies of the coming war, and being a target of the hunt. Snape could also discern no hint as to what the redhead thought of the possibility that his once hated professor was in love with his best friend. The spy realized the futility of denial to this man, and calculated that Weasley might prove to be an ally with better leverage. "Probably." "Good," was the unexpected reply, "I'd hate to see Hermoine be the only one." "Excuse me? I am certain you are mistaken." Snape, unused to having his innermost thoughts public, and hating the exposure, looked anywhere but at the knowing and unexpectedly sympathetic eyes of Ron Weasley. Instead he stared at the floor, at the shining, dark red stain where Hermione had been standing moments before, and the small trail leading from the kitchen. It took a moment for the significance of the puddle's color to sink in. Ron's response was unheard as Snape followed the faint trail of blood, knowing that he'd find Hemione at the end of it. "Rude bastard," echoed throughout the room behind him. "She's bleeding," was Snape's abrupt response, thrown over his shoulder as he tracked his quarry. Five minutes later, Snape halted his headlong progress to find Hermione. He stopped just outside the small bathroom on the fourth floor of the Black Mansion. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath, and listened without remorse to the conversation within. "Stupid ferret, Moody should never have..." Hermione's words were broken off with a sharp hiss of pain. "Ow, Molly! That hurts!" "Just for a couple of minutes, Hermione. This time you'll probably have a scar." Harry's voice broke in, vibrating with anxiety, "You aren't going out again! Malfoy..." "Harry, Malfoy's hated me since our first day of school. I made a mistake today; I hadn't expected him to come at me in a crowd, with a blade of all things." "Well, I'm going to kill him for this." The anger emanating from the small bathroom was palpable. "Argh! Harry! Stop being so overprotective for a moment. Look at what we've gained from this." "What? That we know he really *does* want to kill you? We learned nothing new, and you could've lost your life. Hermione, it's not worth it." The sound of clothing being rumpled was audible. "You have to let go of her, Harry, if I'm to finish healing her arm." Molly admonished gently. "Oh, Harry. I know it's dangerous, and you know why I have to do this. I'm not letting Ron do it all." Hermione sighed, exhaustion and pain lacing her voice with a small tremor. "We learned a lot tonight. We've confirmed that Malfoy took the Dark Mark. We know he'll be anxious to prove himself to Voldemort. What better way to for him to get into the inner circle than to bring me in. At least we can recognize the face of *this* enemy. We just have to figure out how to use the information." This was too much for Snape, and gathering the woefully inadequate reins of self control where Hermione was concerned, he quietly stepped into the room. His attention immediately fixed on the narrow stream of viscous dark red blood draining in the bathtub. The color contrasted sharply with the pristine white porcelain, and the accompanying sharp copper smell of a fresh wound hung in the air of the confined space. He felt his gut clench at the evidence of her injury, and the fact that it was obviously not the first. He drawled insolently, "Indeed, Hermione, if Draco Malfoy could count you as his first major victory, his rise to the inner circle would be assured. It is imperative that you do not give it to him. I would think that tonight's skirmish would be enough to convince you to leave the heroics to someone else." Hermione jerked her head at the sound of his voice and the use of her first name. He'd never used it in public before. In fact, the only time he'd ever said it was in the infirmary the previous September. Her strained and pale face flushed briefly, and then her chin firmed, as she resolutely told herself its use didn't mean what she hoped. "Who? Ron? I won't let Ron do this alone. It was my idea, and I'll see it through." Holding up her good hand, streaked liberally with dried blood, she forestalled his interruption. "Tonight's attack worked for us. They'll feel more confident, and I won't make the same mistake again." "You're right you won't, because you sure as hell aren't going again!" Harry's strident tone and rigid stance was suddenly the focus of the entire room. "Give it a rest, mate." Ron growled as he, too, pushed his way into the small room, coming to rest at Hermione's side. He gasped at his first sight of the deep, flayed wound running the length of Hermione's arm. Settling next to where she stood, Ron took a seat on the commode, and put on his chess 'face'. It was the 'face' of someone playing a game to win; the one he'd shown to Snape earlier in the kitchen. It was the same 'face' that Snape saw in the mirror every morning. "We both know the risks, and they're as great as either of yours. It's our choice." Ron returned his gaze to the healing wound, the blood flow beginning to ease. Molly had successfully sutured half the gaping wound, using a healing charm to knit the layers of muscle, ligament, and tendon. Malfoy's initial thrust had been deep and close to the bone near Hermione's shoulder, and it became shallower as it spiraled below her elbow, evidence of her rolling getaway. "What did he cut you with, Hermione?" The urgency of Snape's question and tone sliced across the lines being drawn in the argument. Everyone looked at him. Molly's sharp intake of breath ended in a short sob, understanding with a sudden flash of insight where the question was leading. Snape spared a quick glance at her, seeing the sorrow in her face. He couldn't, however, spare the time for sympathy. "Um, it was a sword." "Fuck!" Four equally shocked looks greeted the harsh expletive. If the situation wasn't so dire, they'd burst into laughter at the utter incongruity of that word coming from Snape's mouth. None had ever heard him swear. They weren't sure they'd heard it now. "It is imperative that you tell me all you remember about this sword. If it is what I think... No." Shaking his head sharply, he squeezed his eyes shut, and then continued in a firmer tone. His teaching voice. "Tell me about the sword, Miss Granger." Hermione replied reflexively, years of conditioning eliciting a response to his tone of voice. "It was long," she closed her eyes encouraging the recall of her encounter. "It was long -- approximately the length of my leg, the hilt was wrapped with some sort of animal hide with dangling tufts, almost like fur balls." She paused for a moment, continuing to replay the memory in her mind's eye. "And the blade was gold." Snape interrupted with a sharp, "Are you sure?" Startled, Hermione looked into his eyes, seeing a myriad of emotions reflected in their depths. "Yes, I'm sure. It was too yellow to be bronze or copper. I don't think there's anything else I can tell you other than the fact that he only cut me the first time." "He came goddamned close the other six!" Harry snapped at her, giving vent to his anxiety, the air charged with the power of his emotion. Snape, his brain feverishly trying to deny the evidence, turned to watch Harry fingering the tattered remains of Hermione's drenched cloak. Several long rents in the cloth were visible to all in the room. Ron's arm came around Hermione's shoulders, and he felt her stiffen in the face of Harry's anger. "I made a mistake, Harry," she sighed. "This mistake will get you killed, Hermione," Snape's voice was leached of all emotion as he removed the cloak from Potter's hands. He took stock of the cut material, imagining each clean slice as a slash on her skin; his torment was acute and etched upon his face. "What do you mean?" Hermione's feelings were tumultuous, and, as comforting as Ron was, she wished with a burning, visceral ache that she was enveloped in the safety of Snape's arms. So overpowering was her desire that, coupled with the accumulation of the night's exertions, her knees buckled, and she began to crumple to the floor. Ron's quick reflexes, honed by years of Quidditch and DA training, guided his movements. Grabbing her around the waist, he pulled her to his lap. Molly began a sharp admonishment, but Hermione's choked cry of agony brought Snape to her side in one long stride. "Where else are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice low and concerned. Panting in short breaths, Hermione told him, leaning unconsciously towards him as she did. She'd forgotten about the kick. It'd been the unexpected trip wire outside Florian Fortesque's that had given Malfoy and his cronies the momentary advantage. Hermione's mistake had been in thinking she wouldn't be attacked in the midst of such a large crowd of innocent bystanders. "The ribs... he kicked me in the ribs... while I was on the ground. That's when he cut me. Before I got back to my feet." She continued to breathe shallowly, but now for a different reason. Snape was touching her. Gentle hands examined her torso for the evidence of her pain. She leaned into his touch, unable to contain the involuntary shiver of anticipation that his fingers evoked. Despite the day's events, or, perhaps because of the day's events, her body responded to the feel of his hands on her skin, and her nipples reacted, growing taut. Intent as he was on examining her ribcage and torso, her arousal was obvious. His eyes flicked to hers, taking in the slight flush of her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils, and he ruthlessly clamped down on his own answering want, startled by its intensity. Snape resumed his investigation of her injuries, ignoring the play of well-toned muscle under smooth, unblemished skin responding to his touch. He was profoundly thankful for the worried and inhibiting presence of her two best friends. "Well?" Harry anxiously peered over Snape's shoulder. "Bruising, and three or four cracked ribs. I have a potion down in my room that will fix it." As he withdrew his hands from the witch, he was assailed by a loss so keen his body literally ached. "Thank you," whispered Hermione, certain that she'd reveal the longing in her heart if she spoke another word. She simply didn't have the stamina to continue the charade. "I will be back in a minute, and then we need to discuss this - this development." His eyes held her gaze for a long moment, glittering obsidian melding with warm honey, before he abruptly departed, desperate to escape the temptation, knowing that he'd succumb and wrap her in his arms if he stayed a second longer, if only to give her some ease from the pain. Unaware of the underlying overtones between the two, Molly took advantage of the momentary lull and, wanting to follow Snape to confirm her fears privately, she quickly finished sealing the wound, and deftly wrapped Hermione's arm. The short few minutes gave Hermione a chance to regain her composure, all too aware of the close scrutiny of her closest friends and confidants. "I know the bandage isn't really necessary. In 24 hours the wound will be permanently sealed. Humor me, Hermione, this is the worst injury you've gotten." Giving a little laugh she asserted, "Arthur's rubbed off on me. Using a muggle method of healing. Now to bed with you and I'll send Dobby up with your usual." Without further recrimination, Harry and Ron helped Hermione to her feet and to her room. Fortunately, the little bathroom was adjacent to Hermione's small bedroom. She'd refused a larger room on the lower floors because, of all those living at Headquarters, she had the largest individual accommodations. Of course, she'd included in the calculation her workrooms in the basement; her lab, where she worked on the anti-venin serum and charm, and her studio, where she taught her blend of the martial art form. By unspoken mutual accord, the trio didn't discuss the mysterious sword. They'd wait for Snape's return. Ron and Harry left Hermione to get undressed and into bed, waiting in the hallway to give her some privacy. After a short few moments, Harry was unable to contain his seething anger; seeing Hermione hurt to such an extent was deeply disturbing to him. Memories flashed across his mind: Hermione being petrified in their second year, the vicious hex by Dolohov in their fifth, and, now this, a double death warrant on her head. All because of her faithful and loyal friendship. He felt the weight of her safety squarely upon his shoulders. He looked across the hall at his other best friend, recognizing the compassionate understanding on Ron's face. He wasn't in the mood for comfort. He pinned Ron with a glare, and asked, "Just how many times *has* she been hurt?" "I would like the answer to that question as well, Weasley," the icy anger of Snape's question balanced the fire of Harry's. Ron appraised both men, realizing that Snape must've run, given the rapidity of his return and shortness of breath. He suppressed a smile, odd that he'd feel like smiling in these tense times. The older wizard's urgency only confirmed the truth of their conversation in the kitchen earlier, and his reactions in the bathroom. Snape was in love with Hermione. After working closely with the former Death Eater for the past several months, Ron's opinion had undergone a revision. But now wasn't the time to dwell on these thoughts. Pushing off the wall, Ron ran his fingers through his lengthening red hair, and knocked on Hermione's door before answering his companions. "We don't share that information with each other. You'll have to ask her." "I will," came the simultaneous response from two throats. Upon their entrance to her room, their verbal answer was delayed by the arrival of Dobby bearing a tray with Hermione's dinner: soup, toast, and tea. It seemed to be Dobby's special purview, coddling Hermione when she was overextended. His movements and her silent acquiescence implied both familiarity and frequency. He fixed her rumpled covers, and quickly charmed her hair into a French braid. Her maroon flannel pajama top was all that could be seen of her clothing, as Dobby pulled the covers up to her armpits. None of the three men watching the efficient movements of the house elf commented until Dobby, with a final affectionate pat on her hand, departed. The impending wrath of two of the three wizards in the small room had been enough to quash even Dobby's effervescent spirit. Forestalling the imminent explosion of anger Hermione was certain loomed seconds away, she took a deep breath and hoped that her answer would deflect their inquisition. "Not every injury is related to being a decoy. Sparring can be quite, um, vigorous." "How many times, 'Mione?" Harry asked, loathing the necessity that made his friend's injuries appear commonplace. "Harry, Ron and I don't discuss it" "Make an exception, Hermione. Just how many times do I have to *thank you* for putting your life on the line in exchange for mine?" Worry for the woman in the bed made Snape's question harsher than he intended. He was shocked by how delicate she appeared snuggled into her bed. She'd always been small and slender; it was easy to forget her size when confronted with her intellect and stark courage. Exhaustion overrode Hermione's prudence, "Don't worry, it doesn't compare with the number of times I owe you for mine. Give Ron and I a little credit that we can at least weigh and measure the inherent dangers and make the appropriate choices. I know you don't like me, but, Gods, Severus, we do it for the same reasons." Tears welled in her eyes, and she closed them, furious with herself for revealing so much. Snape's head snapped back as if she'd struck him. The look on her face was more than he could bear. His frustration, fear, and longing coalesced in this one moment. He'd had no success in keeping her out of his heart. He didn't want to continue fighting this losing battle. Severus Snape was not a man who liked to lose, and he knew when to switch to the winning side. "You know better than that, Hermione." His voice was low and caressing, his tone leaving no doubt in her mind exactly what he was referring to. "Do I?" She whispered, her eyes still closed. They'd both forgotten the presence of anyone else in the room - or had chosen to ignore it. "Look at me," he coaxed, and she opened her eyes, meeting his. For the first time, the veneer was entirely stripped away revealing his vulnerability and desire. Fear also lurked in the reflective depths of his shimmering dark eyes. "You do know better." "Yes," she breathed; her answering response easily read in her eyes. "Ok, now that all is right with the world, may we get on with the discussion of the sword? We have a war to win." Ron's brisk tones braced against the emotional floodgates preparing to burst into the small room, an event he was not desirous of sharing. Harry snorted, and the tension eased to some degree. "What are you, Ron? The comic relief?" "No, mate, just keeping us on track. I'd like to get to sleep at some point tonight, and our good professor has to return to Hogwarts before tomorrow morning. There's not a lot of time." The reminder of their duties broke through to the fascinated couple staring at one another, the intimacy of their look precluding intrusion. But, with Ron's prompting, they visibly made the effort to focus on the needs before them. Hermione collected her scattered thoughts, and asked the important question. "What is so distressing about the sword?" "If it is the sword I believe, and only a visit to the Ministry can confirm that, then there is only one of its kind - it is highly illegal -- and was crafted by Salazar Slytherin 1400 years ago. It is the divining sword." Hermione's eyes grew wide with understanding, and her hand shook so violently that she sets her mug of tea on the tray. Harry, irritably out of the loop, asked the obvious, "And that means what, exactly?" Snape continued, holding his worry in check, "The divining sword is keyed to only one person at a time, the wielder, and it tracks the victim's blood. Hermione, the sword will sing to Draco when you leave the protection of these wards, it can lead him directly to you anytime you aren't under a warded fortification." Ron gave voice to the next obvious, his tone recognizing the severity of the issue, "How long?" "The sword has not been seen in hundreds of years, no one knows how quickly it seeks out the victim. It can be stopped in very few ways. The destruction of the sword, or the death of either the blooded victim or the wielder." Snape reached down to take Hermione's hand in his. He squeezed slightly, his thumb soothing the surface of her skin. Hermione, immeasurably comforted by his touch, gathered her courage. "Well, good. At least we know the plan's working..." "What! It's your death warrant!" Harry exploded. "Harry, Voldemort issued that months ago. This is nothing new. Well it does shorten my window of opportunity. But it means that they'll focus on me and not you," was Hermione's logical response, although Ron and Harry noticed her white-knuckled grip on the Potion's Master's hand. She took a deep steadying breath, initiating a meditation ritual. "I'm buying you time. I ... we need you both alive. And I will use whatever tools I have to, even if it's my own blood." Ron's thoughtful commentary interrupted what might have become a full scaled verbal assault by the Wonder of the Wizarding World, whose green eyes were snapping with frustration and distress. "You make a good point, 'Mione. We simply have to use this to our advantage. We know that Malfoy will show up wherever 'Mione goes. That makes you 'it,' but if we can set it up properly, we can lead him - lead them all - right where we want them. It gives us control. But we need more information." Without pause, Ron's mind actively engaged in the planning process, he crossed to Hermione's side of the bed, and leaned down to kiss her, ignoring the slightly bemused Professor, who wondered just who this redheaded man was and what he'd done with the Ron Weasley who'd attended Hogwarts. The younger Weasley would never volunteer for research. This Ron continued his stream of conscious thought and questions as he prepared to leave. "Information, we need information. Professor, if you can gather the books from the restricted section at school, may I borrow them from you? Harry, this will have to take precedence. We have to start in the morning. Before you ask, Hermione, you can work on the charm, but your classes will have to wait. This might be the break we need. C'mon Harry, we have to make a list of the books we need." He absently patted Hermione's good shoulder. "Night, I'll see you at breakfast. Professor." He nodded distractedly, and moved to exit the room, "Harry, hurry up, we've got to get this list together before Severus has to leave." Harry reluctantly rose to take his leave as well, but was held back by Snape. "Gentlemen, first things first. I plan to put a personal ward on Hermione. The Ancile Contego Aegis will delay, not counteract, the finding spell in the sword. I regret that nothing can permanently conceal her once the blade has been blooded." The sorrow in his voice wasn't feigned, and his grip on her hand tightened for a moment. Hermione responded immediately, keeping her own fear at bay, "Then let's do it." "Are you sure? You have to completely trust me in order for it to work." "You know I do." Their gazes locked once more, and the connection between their hands seemed to burn with more than just the combined heat of their mutual attraction. Harry coughed in the background. "So, are we going to do this?" Broken from their mutual regard, Snape looked to the young wizards upon whom so much of their future rests, and of whom the events of the evening had altered his opinion for the better. Not that they'd ever be friends. As it stood, they were closely linked allies in a dark war, and bound by their common cause and their love of the dark haired maiden in their midst. "Yes. It will buy her some time. I will need to use another wand. I cannot take the chance with mine." "What about Hermione's?" Harry asked. "Nullified by the bloodletting." "Use Harry's first wand." Hermione's detached tone brought the focus back to her. It was obvious by the slightly unfocused look on her face that she was extrapolating scenarios based on some of the assumptions they'd already made, and spurred by Ron's series of questions. "Why?" Snape's curiosity was piqued. He'd come to enjoy watching her keen intelligence at work. "It's Harry's so the remaining affinity between Voldemort's wand and Harry's original wand should let Voldemort think that Harry's protecting me. It might also have the secondary benefit of making Voldemort a little annoyed with Malfoy for his carelessness in letting me survive. Especially if they can't find me again. It will make Malfoy desperate, and when he loses his focus he becomes careless and sloppy. Know thine enemy; we can use that to our advantage. I'm not sure how yet. I agree with Ron, we need more information before we can determine our best course of action." She sighed with the last conclusion of her perambulations, "It also means that I'll definitely have to be the carrot." Harry gasped, "No, Hermione." Hermione looked at Harry gently, "I made that decision a long time ago." Snape broke up the tableau before it could get maudlin. "We will do this in the morning before I return to the school. You are safe until then. You need your sleep. Drink the blood builder, it is the blue potion." Harry and Ron quickly bade their final good nights of the evening. Hermione and Snape were left alone for the first time in seven months. The moment was awkward. They'd said enough to openly acknowledge that there was more to their relationship than it seemed, but neither wanted to make declarations that would render the situation completely untenable. Not knowing what to say, she said the first thing that popped into her head. "Will you help me with something? I need my second wand sheath. It's on the top of my bureau, and I can't strap it on easily with this bandage on my left arm. I don't go to sleep without it." At his cocked eyebrow, she flushed and a rush of arousal tightened in the pit of her stomach, "Well, I haven't yet." Wordlessly, Snape crossed to her bureau where he retrieved the intricately connected strips of leather with some very odd closures. Returning to her side, he sat on the side of the bed, and gently assisted the tired witch with fastening the supple straps over the bandage of her left arm. He watched as she slid her wand into its proper place. He thought her resilience remarkable, and powerfully enticing. "Thank you, Severus." She spoke so quietly it was almost a moan. A fierce spark of desire flared in Snape's groin. Slowly, he reached out to cup her cheek. She covered his hand with hers, reveling in the feel of his skin. They never broke eye contact as he lightly caressed her lower lip with his thumb. "Good night, Hermione", his silky voice sent ripples of pleasure across her skin, heightening her awareness of him. He leaned forward to brush her lips with his, gently, and with promise. "Sweet dreams." "They will be now," she replied, turning her face to kiss his palm before he departed to find his own bed.