Black and White

Black magic.

Black fucking magic.

How in the holy name of Merlin will I tell Harry that he's alive because his mom performed a dark ritual?

I can remember that time we sneaked to Hogsmeade in the beginning of our fifth year - he was so damned depressed, it scared me to no end. Even Ron admitted that there was a problem. And we sneaked into the tunnel that leads to the bar, and methodically applied ourselves to the very hard task of getting drunk with butterbeer. It's not easy, mind you, except if you are a house elf, because butterbeer is not really that strong... and how, in the early hours of the morning, right before Rosmerta kicked us out, he spoke - at last! That was, after all, the whole purpose of the trip. I must say I had my doubts; the plan, you see, was Ron's, and I had my doubts about the virtues of getting someone drunk to get information. What if we were so drunk ourselves we didn't remember it later? So I tried not to drink that much after Harry was drinking to my satisfaction. And so I remember it clearly...

I'm digressing.. Oh, bugger, I always do this when I'm upset. Come on, Hermione, time to use that infamous cool blood that kept your suicidal friends alive all these years... oh, god, are they all right? I hope so. I hope they are safe somewhere and learning to use their wits for a change instead of looking at each other and saying, 'Hey, let's save the world? Too bad we may get ourselves killed in the process, but since that's a possibility, why do we need bother with a plan? Let's just go there and rock! After all, everything will go out just fine because we are the Dream Team, right?'

The way Harry looked at us, those gorgeous eyes of his - I may be his friend, but contrary to Harry and Ron, who did not find out I was a girl till Victor did, I do have eyes and I use them well, thank-you-very-much - and I had the impression he'd break down crying, and the odd thing was that I wanted him to, because somehow it felt as if he needed to cry desperately and never allowed himself to. And then he proceeded to tell us of the few conversations he had had with Dumbledore about his parents, about the Mirror of Erised. And then he finally proceeded to tell us of the few times he and Dumbledore had spoken about his parents, of the scattered morsels of information the old wizard had deigned it proper for Harry to hear over the years, all the while hiding from him a rather important point the way Obi-wan hid Darth Vader's true nature from Luke (sorry, another Muggle thing...). I guess I should at least give Dumbledore partial credit, though; I'm sure he could have come up with a misleading euphemistic way of saying the truth, but instead he just refused to answer.

"The one question you ask me is the one question I cannot answer now. Perhaps later, Harry."

The power of love, my ass. How did Harry buy such a bunch of crap? I'd always thought him to be a fairly smart guy (even if he did not apply himself as diligently to his studies as I'd have liked) and he didn't even question it. It might have been the authority of Dumbledore. It may have been because it sounded good to him, being the love-starved creature he was, to think the love of his mom followed him throughout his life, even saving him from evil.

Love, my fucking ass.

Lily was Muggle-born, like myself. She certainly read Muggle newspapers and magazines. She was raised in a world that had given up moral absolutes, where the boundaries of ethics were often bent all the way to hell, if not broken. Maybe she had an insight... or had the former Head Girl been contemplating her little experiment before? Somehow I do not see any loving mother wagering her son's life on a vague hypothesis. She had to know what she was doing, or at least have a fairly good guess. She was alone with her baby boy, nowhere else to go, one of the most powerful spells did not save them, and her husband was downstairs buying her a couple of minutes duelling with a wizard that Dumbledore himself avoided confronting directly. What should a mom do? Anything that was necessary.

Black magic.

Thing is, the dragon blood expert was Dumbledore - he discovered the blood. How did Lily get that information? Did Dumbledore tell her himself? If so, why? If not, how did she figure it out? But above all things, how will I ever face Harry after this, knowing what I do now? It may not matter to me, but god knows Harry will take this badly. God help us all.

Hermione wrote her essay with a shaky hand; for the first time for as far as she could remember, her handwriting was not as neat and tidy as it usually was.

--It has been reported in the non-magical community the use of the offensive substance in order to increase/create a bodily immunization to the aforementioned substance, i.e., the vaccines, serums, and antidotes in general. There's a branch of Muggle science called Homeopathy which explains it through the dogma 'Similia similibus curantur'. What previous contact Lily Evans Potter had with homeopathy, or medicine, or Muggle science in any way, and how she got hold of the classified information on Dragon Blood is merely speculation, though we do know that she somehow knew them.

James Edward Potter died instantly due to the Unforgivable curse. Lily barely had the time to finish whatever ritual or enchantment she had in mind before Voldemort invaded the baby's room, killing her.

Hermione put her ballpoint pen aside. Merlin, but they were so much more practical than those damned quills! She stared at the pen for quite a while, willing her mind to empty itself so she could make some sense of the ideas twirling inside.

She didn't want to write down that Lily Potter had created, developed, and used a dark magic ritual.

What if Voldemort brought the dragon blood with himself... Maybe she had the shields laid on both of them, and was merely injured as Voldemort tried to kill Harry. Lily had time to screw whatever dark ritual Voldemort had in mind for the Chosen One... Harry was, Voldemort was sure, the child mentioned in the prophecy, and the Dark Lord may have something more special and elaborate than a simple AK. That way she would have had a more active participation in deflecting and twisting the curse. For not only did the Killing Curse not work as it should, but also it nearly destroyed Voldemort and passed most of his powers into the infant. If she was only injured - and Voldemort could not kill her because of the shield Lily created- and she would be on the floor before he put the blood on the door and on the ground...

No, it can't be that, it's too far-fetched. If the ritual and the blood were not hers, Lily wouldn't have to go upstairs. She'd have united forces with her husband and duelled with the dark Lord downstairs. If Voldemort was using it instead of Lily, the ritual would have worked.

Damn it. It was Lily who used the dragon blood and the ritual. It's the only theory that makes any sense. She went upstairs with her child, because she knew James would not resist long. She performed the ritual with the dragon blood - did she know she would die all along, and protected only Harry on purpose, or she had counted on James holding Voldemort long enough that she had time to protect herself as well... but that does not matter now. That ritual created a shield strong enough to withstand, twist and deflect the Killing Curse. Voldie is weakened, most of his powers pass onto the child he was trying to kill. End of story.

Hermione decided Snape didn't need to know that she knew about the dark magic. Resolutely, she resumed her report without mentioning dark rituals, dragon blood or malfunctioning curses.

It can be said that Harry James Potter, being already exposed to evil, had borrowed (thought not complete) immunities to most dark spells. It's important to note that the individual in question had to develop resistance against the Imperio like all of his other classmates, albeit he succeeded sooner; and that he had no obvious resistance against the effects of Crucio, to which he had been exposed a few times before. No conclusion may be drawn over his possible reaction to being submitted to Avada Kedavra again.

She went downstairs and gazed through the living room. Nothing. Snape wasn't in the kitchen, either. So distressed she was with what she had learned, Hermione barely thought on what she was doing - if she had, she'd certainly wait till they went out that night; there was a nice comedy movie she wanted to see, and he'd go with her, obviously.

Snape was paranoid. He never let her go anywhere alone, never let her fraternize with other people her age, never let her out of his sight. Therefore, they were always together, even when she desperately needed some privacy. Like that moment when she had to go to a gynecologist and he insisted on taking her.

His progress in learning about Muggle culture was another marvel. They had been living together for two months, and he could already pass for a reasonable Muggle if needs came. In other words, he no longer felt uncomfortable when they needed to travel by car, or when they were among a large gathering of people - though he still hated it. And now he had learned to use the laundry machine, the microwave, and the telephone, among other things. They still had a lot of ground to cover, but at least now he did not look so obviously out of place in the Muggle world.

Not to mention that jeans suited him very well. Hermione had browbeaten Snape into wearing more appealing Muggle clothes, arguing he needed to get rid of that Potion Master's aura. He had acquired a few new pairs of jeans trousers, but though he had put black aside, most of his shirts were still in some dark hue.

In fact, Hermione was considering dragging him down to the clothing store again. As soon as the current shouting match was over, that is.

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione blinked hard when she reached the door to his room. How did she get there? "Come in," he said when she knocked. No use asking who it was when there was only one other person in the house.

The room was a little less somber than she thought when she first glimpsed; now she saw there were a few pictures on his desk, a rather nice bookshelf with several books. Was he doing some research on his own, or was it just a part of the cover.

"Excuse me, " she said, and closed the door behind her. Immediately she regretted the action; it was one thing to be alone with him in the living room or the kitchen, but this was his bedroom, and she had closed the door! And Snape was half-naked. His only clothes were a pair of faded jeans.

Where was her oh-so-praised brilliance?

"I have finished my essay," she said nervously, handing him the folder she had worked on for the past few days. And on doing so, she was forced to look at him. He was obviously enjoying some time to himself, lying on one elbow on his bed, several books arranged before him, a half-finished letter clearly visible. Of course, he'd make reports on her to his superiors, would he not?

"What brings you to the big bad Potion Master's lair?" he asked, with a smug arrogance that sent shivers down her spine - both the good and the bad kind. It should be illegal for anyone to be that self-confident. Certainly he knew he had a flaw?

Hermione swallowed hard.

"My essay," she repeated, trying very hard not to stare at his torso. She had seen men half-naked before, dammit! You still have eight months here, don't screw it up... He did not take the folder from her hands, retrieving his books and standing up instead. Flatly ignoring her, he proceeded to re-shelve them, moving with cat-like grace and smooth precision. Soon the room was tidy once more, and then he turned around to face her again.

It must be a crime to hide that body under a robe and cloak, she thought.

"You said that already, but you did not answer my question," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. While other professors had had to struggle to impose their authority, Snape never had such a problem. He easily controlled any group of students with the subtle undulations of his voice; rarely heard in a shout, always silk covering steel.

Nice stomach... oh shit, I must get out of here.

"If you want to play with fire, I advise you to learn how to cover your emotions. You're extremely easy to read."

Was it her or the room was getting hot?

"The essay, sir," she said again, clutching the manila folder in her hand, and putting it in front of her so it would somehow bring some distance between them. Snape stared at her intently, his dark eyes piercing her every thought and emotion, making her feel extremely vulnerable.

"I do believe, Galene, that we should pass to the next stage in your education," was his solemn ultimatum.

And so, with a flippant manner he took the folder out of her outstretched hand. Hermione allowed her breath to escape in a huge sigh of relief when he turned is back on her and placed the folder on the table. He was probably talking about her investigation skills, or maybe they'd go to a darker subject. Martial arts? Code-breaking?

Snape leant his hips against the table and stared at her, his hands supporting the weight of his upper body. There was something in that pose that made Hermione's pulse race again.

The eyes. Those dark eyes were not cold anymore. Hermione remembered that was the way he looked at the mall. Before they argued. Before they kissed. Should she have asked what the hell the kiss was about, make it sound as if she had not liked it?

He let go of the table and stood before her.

She should scream, she thought. She should struggle. But there was not much in her mind when their bodies made contact, his arms pressing her tightly against him, and it felt so damned good, so right, so absolutely and wickedly delicious that she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down, driving the kiss deeper.

Ah. There was a definite difference, Hermione thought, between shagging with clumsy lads - however sweet and affectionate they might be - and being in the arms of a man. It was in the way he held himself, sure of his moves, of her responses, knowing everything he had to do to elicit just the right reaction. And how, oh how did he know that? Opposite to what appeared to be the rest of the female gender, Hermione had very little sensitivity on her breasts, but made more than up to it on her stomach and the side of her hips (what an odd erogenous place...). Or that alternating feathery light touches with rougher ones, she'd go absolutely insane.

Snape did not say anything - no sweet nonsense, no compliments, nothing but little moans. Hermione felt herself being shoved onto the desk, her clothes taken off carefully, in a very methodical way. The air suddenly felt too cool on her bare skin when he stepped back to admire her, and the look in his eyes... ah, the look in his eyes! Smug and confident, but above all, predatory. This was not a nice man, definitely not a man you should bring home on a sunny Sunday to meet your parents, but oh bugger.

Her shorts were taken off and discarded on the ground. He kissed her mouth and neck, keeping her hands on her back and his own everywhere, driving her further and further in her own throes of passion.

Her world narrowed to the places his hands roamed over, the heated feeling of his mouth assaulting her, and that sweet ache low in her abdomen. This was absolutely not what she thought it would be like - she had fantasised, after the kiss, in those quiet hours before sleep took her, alone and uncensored by anyone. She thought he would come to her with sweet caresses (even thought it's not really a Snape-ish thing, come to think of it...), a slow seduction she'd have the pleasure to resist for a time, before finally obliging. This was another thing entirely; he was simply taking something that was entirely and undoubtedly his.

Oh, god. Oh my. Ah.

She felt a tantalising finger invading her most secret parts, probing and weighing and testing and making a hell of damage in the process.

Just don't stop that. Oh, my.

Her fingers ached from digging on his back, and her lips were swollen, her jaw was numb, but nothing could ever get any better than that, when he thought she was ready enough for him and took her in one swift motion. His strokes were just like the rest of their coupling - measured, thorough, and fast and furious. With surgical precision he drove her to her own climax, following soon after. Hermione was sure the ground was shaking.

If he was ever celibate when he lived at Hogwarts, he sure enough made up for it after he left.

Both their bodies were covered in sweat, Hermione noticed, when her senses returned to something akin to normality, and he had never undressed, only pulled his jeans down enough to allow him to ... err, do what he wanted to.

Snape raised his head from her shoulder and looked straight into her eyes.

"I will read your work now. Leave me alone."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, and her ragged shout was already on her tongue, but she felt the look in his eyes, and the deadly quietness of his voice settled in her mind - a tone he had used on her often in the past. A tone that admitted no contests, and frankly cared not for any. She did not bother to retrieve her clothes, fleeing without a word through the door that connected their bedrooms

Snape stared at the door for a long, long time.