Dark Roast

Hermione had fallen asleep on one of the sundeck's several lounge chairs, her hair strewn about in wild, bushy curls. The friction of the frayed strands with the cottony fabric did not a smooth head of hair make - this she knew.

She awoke from her afternoon nap feeling faint. The skin on her face felt like it had been yanked across the bones, and was on the verge of cracking. She inhaled sharply as she felt the tip of her nose. She didn't need a mirror to tell her that she had burnt to a crisp. She clenched her teeth.

"Chryssan," she barked, a mite sharper then she intended. When the house elf appeared, she said in a softer tone, "Fetch me some Aloe Vera." She leaned back on the lounge chair, shielding her eyes from the sun, unsuccessfully, as she was loathe to put her arm against her fried skin.

"If I had a knut for every time I burned myself on this deck ..." came an alluring, throaty voice from the other side of the deck.

Hermione abruptly opened her eyes - somewhat painfully, as her lids had burned as well. She jumped to her feet and bounded across to embrace her mentor.

"Oh Minerva. It is so good to see you!"

"Hermione, darling," the older woman said affectionately, ending the embrace with a gentle squeeze. The two took a moment to take in each other's appearance.

Minerva had always been a regal creature, excessively tall with fine bone structure. In her nearly eighty years, her glistening midnight mane had lost none of its brilliance. While eighty was barely middle-aged for wizards, Hermione was certain that the powerful witch had diverted some of her talents towards the preservation of youth.

The Headmistress looked down her green eyes at her favorite ex-pupil. She seemed changed, and not just because of the unnaturally frizzy hair and burned skin. She looked thinner and flatter. The womanly curves that had caused Ministry officials to weaken at the knees had shrunk considerably.

"You're looking thin, my dear," she remarked worriedly.

"Research does that to a person."

Minerva smiled wryly. "Research is meant to stretch the brain, not shrink the body."

"Sometimes the two are regrettably mutual." Hermione waved a hand, dismissing the issue.

Minerva sighed. "You are not the first person I've heard say that." She paused. "Well, child, shall we go into the kitchen? I believe I kept a remedy for curing disastrous sunburns. As I said, it frequently happened to me in my younger days."

Hermione chuckled. "Thank you, but it's not needed. Chryssan is fetching me some Aloe Vera," she said, as the two women made their way indoors and towards the kitchen.

Right on cue, Chryssan appeared, holding the bottle of green goo. "Later, Chryssan dear," Minerva cut in, halting Hermione's protests. "Though admirable, Aloe Vera is no match for a magical paste."

They reached the pine-decked kitchen in three more steps. Minerva ran her hand familiarly over the cupboards, as though reacquainting herself with old friends. She murmured, giving Hermione the distinct impression that the feel of a cupboard could tell her the contents. Sure enough, Minerva's hand stopped over the fourth cupboard and immediately extracted a sparkling jar of blue-tinted paste. She handed it to Hermione. "This will have your skin up and running in no time."

Hermione opened the jar, sniffing it as she leaned against the counter. "How does it work?"

"It speeds skin cell reproduction at an astronomical rate. Used correctly, it will heal a sunburn and replenish your skin to a brilliant glow in a little less then half an hour. And trust me, darling, sunburns are not all that I have used this for," she remarked, eyes twinkling, as Hermione's went wide. Minerva huffed. "Good gad, girl, you've had your nose in books for far too long if a simple innuendo like that can render you speechless!"

Hermione smiled, slightly embarrassed. "Forgive me, Minerva. I know this may seem dreadfully childish, but Hogwarts students do not typically think of their professors as sexually active creatures. I can assure you that the thought of any Hogwarts professor shagging in a broom closet never crossed my mind during my years of school."

Minerva paused, hand on her hip, in seemingly deep thought. "Even Gilderoy Lockhart?"

Hermione shrieked. "How do you know about that?!"

"Oh, darling, who didn't?"

"That is completely humiliating, you know."

"Well, I have to make the most of what I have to work with. Lockhart, Viktor, and Ron do not come remotely close to being desirable material for crude innuendos."

"The hormones in that school have finally gotten to you, Minerva."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, not at all," the older woman chuckled. "How is your research coming?" she asked, changing the topic.

Hermione bent over, stretching out her legs. "Decently," she mumbled.

"Harry says you've nearly finished. Considering the mammoth scope of your project, that can be considered worthy of the highest commendation."

Hermione sighed, and propped herself up on the counter. "I am still at square one with my research on Unforgivables. Finding a way to protect children from the Cruciatus. There is nothing to be found, Minerva, nothing at all. All published texts on the subject are total bullocks. The theories are either blatantly incorrect or have been proven such."

"You know, it is unlikely that the Cruciatus will ever come to be as - dare I say popular - a curse as it was during the wars."

"I am well aware of that. But I have to do this. It's ..." She trailed off, lost in her thoughts.

"Personal," her mentor finished for her, smiling gently.

"Yes," she barely whispered.

They sat in friendly silence for a moment before talking of other things. Hermione showed Minerva her research library, and token souvenirs that she had taken from her experiments. Her stash of Fred and George's secret supply of healing potions and simple jinx removers elicited playful envy from her former professor. "Don't let Pomfrey ever know you have these - I think the woman would spend a week in Azkaban to get her hands on them!"

Several hours passed, ending with the two women sitting companionably on the sundeck, watching the sunset. Minerva stood up a few moments after the sun slipped beneath the earth. "You know, dear," she started, as the two walked out towards the beach, "I've been thinking about your predicament with the Unforgivables. There is someone - an expert, albeit unpublished - who has been pursuing similar routes with cures for Unforgivables, as you have been. It's a side project of his, one he loves dearly, although he is frightfully protective of it. Seeing as how the two of you are of similar mindset in thought and purpose, perhaps I could put you in touch."

Hermione paused, brushing a hair aside. "I trust he's credible, if you vouch for him."

"Oh, that is he dear, and I do vouch for him wholeheartedly. One could say he has ... raw experience in the matter."

There was a pregnant pause.

"It's Severus, isn't it?" Hermione asked sharply, with a swift turn of her head.

"Why, yes." Minerva was surprised at her friend's hostility. "Who else?"

Hermione looked at the sand as they walked, lip twitching.

"What's wrong, Hermione? I know how the three of you so disliked him at school, but certainly with the war ..."

"It's nothing," she interjected. She knew their time together was ending. "It was so lovely having you here today. And thank you so much for letting me use your little slice of heaven." The women embraced.

"Any time, my dear." Minerva winked, Apparating away as swiftly as she had come.

Hermione turned around in her walk, smiling, and headed back to the house. The chill of the night breeze had begun to sweep across the southern half of England - it was as predictable as the rising of the sun. Hermione sauntered up the wooden steps of the sundeck, locking the screen door behind her as she entered the house. For reasons unknown to herself, she wandered into the living room. The one thing she saw caused her to bring her hands into a prayer-like position underneath her chin. Her thoughts wandered to what Minerva had said. Was he the only way that she could complete her quest?

Her right eye shimmered with an unshed tear. She walked across the plush carpet, which muffled her steps. She rested a hand on the fireplace mantle, examining her many elaborately framed photographs - both wizard and muggle. Thank God Minerva hadn't Floo'd, she thought, or she likely would have seen that one, particular picture.

The frame was chipped, and pieces of the glass were missing. She brushed the dust off the forsaken frame; She'd thrown it at the wall after their final fight. It had been last year, just after the end of the war. He'd never betrayed the Light, had merely acted on orders from his surrogate father ... like they all had. He'd never betrayed anyone, she thought as she softly caressed the picture, except himself.

They'd kept in contact after his true orders had been discovered during her seventh year. One academic to another. Whenever he came back during those final two years of battle, she was the second person he'd see. Minerva, of course, was the first.

They'd become attached. She first loved him as a friend. And then, as something more.

The picture was from Victory Day. Not even seconds after Voldemort's defeat, the Ministry had turned up to arrest and transport the remaining Death Eaters to Azkaban. Of course, they were also there to photograph the evidence - or, it would be better to say, the entertainment for the next Daily Prophet. This photo had been one of the Creevy brothers' - in a moment displaying remarkably keen Slytherin abilities, Hermione had got her hands on both the negatives and the actual print. It was of the two of them - Hermione, soaked to the skin in perspiration, leaping into Severus' arms, both of them practically glowing with joy and relief. He had kissed her on the cheek, but the picture didn't show that. It showed the moment just before. In this picture, the two of them were forever captured in the anticipation of each other's arms.

Her heart jumped in her chest, she was nearly in physical pain over the memory. She had wanted to contact him, so badly, over the past year. It wouldn't have been hard. Minerva and Lupin both knew where he was at any given time. Well, most of the time. But it was useless. Hermione gently placed the photograph back on the mantle, face down, and walked to her bedroom. It was late. She was tired. And now, over memories long repressed, her heart had broken in two. Again.

Some of her friends would be surprised that she slept in the nude, she thought, as she tucked herself between the cotton sheets. Others wouldn't be. Sleep ... it was her rest, her respite from the world, her savior from the constraints she placed on herself. As she drifted off into sleep, her conscious mind refused to remember the happiness that had burst through her heart nearly a year ago today.

Her subconscious, however, had a mind of its own. The memory's ghost visited her in her sleep ...