The Bloody Stare of Mars

Chapter 2

III.

"You're working for Severus Snape."

Hermione didn't even turn around. "How very perceptive of you, Luna. How many days have you watched me arrive here in the morning and leave in the evening?"

"Five," Luna replied, ignoring the sarcasm, if she had even perceived it. She fell easily into step beside Hermione on the pavement, her wispy blonde hair trailing behind her in the twilight breeze. "It's a good place for you to be."

"It pays enough to keep me fed," Hermione said coolly, as she pulled on her gloves. "Which is my way of agreeing with you."

In truth, she disliked the job as much as she could dislike anything so vitally necessary to her. Snape had hired her, but he patently did not trust her; she was doing mere make-work, not any more engaging than the menial jobs she'd had before. He would not stay in the room with her for more than five minutes at a stretch, and she'd heard neither a word of praise nor instruction. Hermione sorely felt the lack of both. Also, it galled her to work in a house that enslaved an elf. But Binks brought her lunch every day, and she appeared to be treated no worse than Hermione was herself.

Most of all, Hermione disliked the fact that she'd let her hunger and desperation lead her to backing down in front of Snape. But that much, she understood, was her fault and not his.

"That's not quite what I meant," Luna said. She smiled shyly — an expression that brought her soft, blurry lines into focus and reminded Hermione of just why they'd been friends, long ago.

"It's enough for me," Hermione said. "But what did you mean?"

Luna took a deep breath. "You understand what Snape's doing, right?"

Hermione had been expecting something like this; in some ways, she was glad that Luna was broaching the subject this soon. "I don't know anything about the particulars, not yet anyway. But if you're asking that I know he works for Voldemort, yes, I know that."

"And — are you all right with that?"

"Of course not." As usual, Hermione's frizzy hair was flying every which way in the wind; she pulled some of it away from her face and knotted it at the nape of her neck. "But I don't know how much it matters. I don't think I have the power to really help Voldemort, or hurt him. He's already won."

"He hasn't won," Luna said, with more sureness than Hermione felt could possibly be justified. "But you're probably right about the rest of it. It's probably not anything so very important. But, still — well, we'd like to know what's going on in there. Just in case."

"You mean that you want me to spy on Professor Snape."

Luna quickly glanced around. "Quiet, Hermione!"

More quietly, Hermione replied, "I need this job too much, Luna. No."

They walked on in silence for a few moments before Luna said, "Is that all you've got to say?"

"That's all," Hermione said. "If you'll excuse me, I have a lot to do this evening. You see, I'm going out later tonight."

**

The banshee hovered just a few inches above the ground — a faint, silvery fog curling through the air beneath her. She cocked her head and spoke in a shivery voice: "Prisoner?"

Hermione breathed through her teeth, trying to avoid smelling the banshee's stale scent. "Remus Lupin." She watched as the banshee bent down over a black mirror, in which a few words swam up to spell themselves in white streaks. Finally, the banshee nodded and motioned Hermione toward the long line of people waiting for visiting night at Tartrosgate.

Good Lord, Hermione thought. How many people are there? Seventy-five? One hundred?

They were all crowded in a line, each of them bundled up, as Hermione was herself, in their heaviest coats, with gloves and scarves and hats to ward off the chill; though it was the first week of March, the nights were still cold. A few young women held children in their arms, soothing them into silence. Older couples looked at each other gravely, their only show of worry their tightly clutched hands. The worst were the ones who were alone; only a few shared her calm. Most were already weeping, visibly frightened, as well they might be when standing on the very edge of Tartrosgate itself. There were those who claimed that Tartrosgate wasn't as terrible as Azkaban; Hermione supposed that might be true. But Voldemort's prison camp held its own horrors. Whitechapel had been razed to create space for it, a wound of pain and death in the heart of the city.

Most of the people waiting, Hermione knew, had been brought here by love; it was easy to think that only love could strengthen anyone enough to do this. But her reasons were different, and more complex, if no less true. She focused on the distance; even the in the dark of a post-electric London, she could make out the nearby dome of St. Paul's, comforting in its familiarity.

"Silence!" the Banshee's voice slashed like ice through the crowd's murmuring, stilling them all instantly. "You all understand the properties of the Phlegathon Barrier. Those who attempt enchantments to circumvent the rules will find themselves quickly pulled down, and they will not resurface. You have one hour." Her gray hand turned over an hourglass, through which silver sand fell too quickly. "Go."

Everyone around Hermione took off at a run. Confused, she did the same, following them out into the dark and the cold.

The Phlegathon Barrier that encircled Tartrosgate was a sluggish, shallow ditch of liquid fire; its light provided the only illumination, a dull red that barely brightened the night sky. The ditch was only a couple of feet wide, but the Phlegathon fire had the power to kill anyone who touched it. Even breathing in the fumes for too long could hurt you; the books claimed that anyone who did so would lose her voice for nine years, a claim she had no desire to test. Hermione stared down at the roiling stream for a moment, transfixed as ever by anything new — how could it project so little heat, burning as it so clearly did?

"Mum?" a voice called, shaking her from her anxious reverie. A teenaged girl was peering across the barrier, staring at the faint shapes Hermione was beginning to make out in the dark. "Mum, where are you?"

"Samuel?" an older woman cried out. Then other voices began calling out other names, and immediately the scene was bedlam. The prisoners were rushing to one edge of the stream, visitors to the other, all of them desperately scrambling to find their loved ones as quickly as possible. Hermione felt a deep rush of fury — how cruel, how unnecessary, to make them all spend even a moment of their one hour in this frenzy.

Forcibly, she reminded herself: Be mad about it later. Find Professor Lupin now.

"Professor Lupin?" Hermione shouted, hurrying along the stream's bank as best she could. All around her, people were dropping to their knees or stopping short, either trying to identify someone on the other side or freezing in place as they found the ones they sought. She stumbled over a bit of broken sidewalk, clutched a leaning lamppost to right herself. "Remus Lupin?"

At last, amid the din, she heard a familiar, reedy voice: "Who's there?"

"Professor Lupin! It's me — Hermione Granger!" She made her way to the very brink of the barrier, and there at last she saw him. The sight struck her to the core, for all the best reasons, and all the worst.

In all the years Hermione had known Remus Lupin, he had never — to put it kindly — looked well. Lycanthropy exacted a terrible price from its sufferers, something Hermione had learn from books long before she'd ever identified Lupin for herself. But now he was more haggard than she had ever known him: his hair entirely gray, his clothes no more than rags, his face so emaciated that she knew the presence of the skull behind the flesh. And yet he was smiling at her, true joy in his eyes; the bond of their shared memories pulled them close. Whatever shock she might have betrayed at his appearance was quickly drowned in happiness — here, at last, was a friend. It had been too long for her, for them both.

"Hermione," Professor Lupin said tenderly. His breath was foggy in the night air, even so close to the Phlegathon Barrier. "Look at you. You look good enough to eat — figure of speech only, I promise." He was smiling so gently, so warmly, that it was impossible to think of him as a werewolf. And yet, the people who had put him here had been unable to think of him in any other way. "Have you really come to this monstrous place just to see me?"

"I'd have come farther," she said, and it was true. "Oh, Professor Lupin — how are you? Are you —" What could she say? All right? Faring well? None of that could be true, not here.

"I'm happy to see you," Professor Lupin said simply. "Let's sit. No point in being tired as well as cold, don't you think?"

She settled herself onto a patch of pavement, tucking her cloak around her as securely as she could. Then she realized Professor Lupin had no cloak. "Am I allowed to bring you things? Can — can I bring food, or a coat for you, or —"

"No, Hermione. You can't." Professor Lupin spoke kindly, as though she were the one who needed consolation. "I never knew what had become of you after the Battle of Samhain. Thank God you're alive."

"Sometimes it doesn't feel so lucky," she confessed, and just having spoken the words aloud brought tears to her eyes. How long had she needed to say this? And yet, to whom else could she have said it?

Professor Lupin shook his head. "Don't talk like that. While there's life, there's hope."

What hope? Hermione wanted to argue. But she couldn't; if Professor Lupin could encourage her from the heart of Tartrosgate, she had no right to tell him he was wrong. "How long have you been here?"

"Five weeks." She fought to hide her shudder; few prisoners at Tartrosgate survived longer than three or four months. "And they brought Firenze in only a few days ago — you remember Professor Firenze? Ah, good. Next time, I'll bring him along as well. I'm sure he'd appreciate the sight of a familiar face." Professor Lupin beamed at her. "Tell me how you are. What's it like for you, out there?"

"It's been better, but, honestly, it's been worse," Hermione said, and she smiled. She was grateful to be able to give him at least these scraps of good news. "I've finally been taken on at a position I expect to keep."

"I know it's hard for people like you, these days," Professor Lupin said.

Hermione nodded. "Of course you know. Professor —"

"Would you—" he paused, then said quietly, "Would you mind terribly calling me Remus? I know we were never on such terms before, but, honestly, one gets lonely for the sound of one's own name."

"Whatever you want," she said. In truth, it felt awkward, but she didn't have the heart to deny him such a simple request. "Remus, then. I just wanted to say — I never understood what it was like for you, before the war. How hard it is, going around in a world where everyone hates you, refuses to employ you, treats you like —"

"Hush," said Professor Lupin — no, she reminded herself, Remus. "They didn't treat me so badly. At least, it doesn't seem so now." They were quiet together for a few moments, before he said, more brightly, "What's this job you've gotten? I hope it's something challenging. You have a fine mind, Hermione. I'd hate to think of that going to waste."

"Well," Hermione replied. "Challenging is one way to put it." She'd hoped to avoid the particulars, but Remus looked so interested — so distracted from his wretched surroundings — that she mustered up her resolve to plunge ahead. "I'm working as assistant to Severus Snape."

Remus' face clouded. "Snape. Still the Death Eaters' cherished hero, then?"

Hermione glanced around, seeking the shape of a banshee or goblin lurking in the dark. "Oughtn't you to lower your voice?"

"They don't watch us here," Remus replied. "They're quite sure there's nothing we can do, not from within Tartrosgate." Something in his voice — something she might almost have called pride — made Hermione stare searchingly at him. But whatever his voice had given away wasn't reflected in his calm, curious gaze. He continued, more evenly, "I suppose they never had any reason to doubt him. So far as they knew, they had every reason to reward him."

"You'd think he couldn't keep his silence," Hermione muttered. "That simple pride — or decency — whatever you want to call it, would have made him tell the truth."

"Hermione —"

"I mean it," she said, and some of the anger she'd suppressed the past two weeks began to bubble over. "How can he even stand it, reporting to Lord Volde —" Hermione paused, taking in the many people huddled nearby, all speaking to their loved ones. "To You-Know-Who? Knowing that he's responsible for killing Professor Dumbledore and so many others? How can he keep silent? If he can't do something, can't he at least say something?"

"I imagine he sees himself as — pragmatic," Remus said. Though his voice was grudging, he added, "There are worse sins than pragmatism."

She ducked her head. "He lives in a mansion built with money made of Harry's death. If he's comfortable with that, fine, but I can't be."

Remus did not answer her, and for a few moments they were silent together. Though she did not mean to eavesdrop, Hermione couldn't help hearing the conversation nearest her: A few feet away, a heavily pregnant woman sat awkwardly on the ground, leaning so far over the Phlegathon Barrier that its dull red glow cast eerie shadows on her face. "It's a good place for me," she assured the thin, worried man who sat on Remus' side, clad in prison rags. "They don't ask me to do too much heavy work, and I'm to have a whole week's lying in." The man's hands moved toward her, as though he would take her in his arms; the Phlegathon Barrier allowed just enough closeness to be unspeakably cruel.

Hermione took a deep breath. "I'm doing well," she said, steadily and honestly. "My personal opinion of Snape aside, he's polite to me, at least by Snape's standards of politeness. I don't have to worry about my rent any longer. That's about as good as it gets these days, isn't it?"

"These days," Remus said, and again he seemed distant, strangely preoccupied. When she stared at him, he said, more sharply, "Will you come back to see me, Hermione? I know it's no pleasure."

"But it is," she hastened to assure him. "It is a pleasure. Just seeing a friendly face — you don't know what it means to me. I'm sorry — of course you do. Better than I do, I imagine."

Remus just smiled. "It won't always be as hard as this."

How many times had she told herself precisely that? When were things supposed to get better, exactly? But Hermione kept her retorts to herself and just smiled at him, as warmly as the night chill and unnatural light would allow. "I suppose not."

He looked very serious indeed. "It'll be much, MUCH harder."

She started laughing the same moment he did.

**

IV.

Severus began counting the ways in which Hermione Granger annoyed him on the very first day she worked as his assistant.

First, there was the way she simply refused to accept any explanation, however basic, as sufficient. He could give her no instruction without her asking "But why —?" The curiosity that had been acceptable in a student was infuriating in an employee, not least because he was not yet such a fool as to entrust Harry Potter's erstwhile best friend with Lord Voldemort's secrets.

Second, he hated the way she carried on about Binks the house-elf. Only on her first day of work did he remember the flyers that had swooped around the Hogwarts hallways, advertising something called S.P.E.W. Miss Granger kept trying to engage the house-elf in conversation, which Binks clearly neither wanted not appreciated. Apparently it was beneath Miss Granger's exalted moral status to accept her lunch on a tray from anyone whose health and rights she had not fully inquired into first.

He rather thought Miss Granger might have noticed that she received her lunch on a tray. His other assistants had neither expected nor received a meal as part of their work. But his other assistants had never looked so painfully thin. Severus had realized, even as she left their "interview," that he could not abide the sight of her so nearly emaciated. Seeing her that way pricked at his conscience, a sensation he worked to avoid.

So Miss Granger was given lunch. She accepted it as no more than her due, which was the third way in which she annoyed him.

The fourth way revealed itself at the end of their first week of work.

Severus waited for her to finish her transcriptions, then met her at the door with her pay in his hand: cash, not a cheque. When she looked up at him quizzically, he explained, "I have heard of the present — inequities — at Gringotts."

"Stealing from Mudblood accounts, you mean," she replied. Her gloved hands were still at her side, betraying no nervousness, no eagerness. "When the accounts aren't frozen altogether. You're quite right; payment in cash is more sensible. I ought to have thought of it myself."

He held his broad hand over her delicate one; though she was nearly as tall as he, Snape realized, her hands and feet were still small, so much so that it reminded him of Potions class long-ago, of those same fingers wrapped around smoking flasks or exam scrolls. It was that unwelcome flash of memory, no doubt, that led him to say, "No second thoughts? No qualms?"

"About the job? Oh. You mean — about taking the money." Miss Granger hesitated, her hand still outstretched beneath his. He rather enjoyed seeing her hesitate at last.

"This money comes from Lord Voldemort's coffers," he said, pronouncing the words slowly, so that she could linger on them. "It was collected in tributes, and it is spent to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes. In other words, for the work you do for him."

Miss Granger stood shock-still, her face pale, as though he had struck her. She didn't pull her hand away, and he had not expected her to; he knew quite well how badly she needed the money. But he had anticipated her cringing, making excuses, even weeping. Severus wanted some acknowledgement from her that they were no different after all.

Instead she straightened her back. "Voldemort owes me more than this," she said in a low voice. "Anything I can take away from him, I'll take."

Miss Granger was able to make surrender look like victory. Her gift of self-delusion had been denied to him. This was the fourth way in which she annoyed him.

The next way in which she annoyed him — no, he thought, more than annoyed him, but drove him quite mad — was not something she could help, but Severus held it against her regardless. Just as he had suspected when she first came to him; Hermione Granger reminded him too much of days gone by.

Odd, he thought, how little he had enjoyed Hogwarts at the time; he knew, intellectually, that he had spent many hours correcting pupils who'd made ludicrous mistakes, filling out applications for the job he most wanted but never received, and toiling in the ridiculous ancillary jobs that teaching required: chaperoning Yule Balls, overseeing House discipline, and the like.

But Miss Granger's presence brought up other memories, strangely more vivid than those he had considered more often. He remembered the banter at the staff table, so much more honest than anyone dared to be these days. He remembered the crisp air on the mornings before Quidditch matches, the sensation of sitting in the stands surrounded by laughing, cheering children in silver and green. He remembered the feeling that Albus Dumbledore was always nearby, always listening, always right.

Hermione made him remember what it had been like to feel that way about Dumbledore and Hogwarts and the rest, so that was the fifth way in which she drove him mad. The sixth was that, over the course of her first month with him, it became impossible to think of her as Miss Granger any longer. Though he had never called her anything else at school, nor ever thought about her at any length at all, in his mind she became Hermione, and he had to consciously remind himself not to call her that.

He suspected that his tendency to think of her as Hermione had to do with memories she'd unearthed of Harry Potter, and the days when Dumbledore and all the rest were looking to that boy as their savior and their hope. Those memories, for any number of reasons, were among those Severus least wished to revisit.

Of course, this woman — tall and rail-thin, with eyes that were older than her years — little resembled the round-cheeked girl who had trailed along at Potter's side all those years. Sometimes it seemed as though nothing remained of that child but wild hair and insufferable arrogance. But nonetheless, he began thinking of her as Hermione without realizing it, and despite realizing, it, he could not stop.

Severus did not discover the seventh way Hermione was destined to drive him mad until several weeks into her employment. He'd been following her progress more closely than she knew, double-checking her notes and her calculations. Only after becoming quite sure that she was ready did he make the decision to move her from her small anteroom into his workshop.

She would, of course, learn the full extent of what he was working on — but Severus had always known this was inevitable. What he had not known was how little she yet knew her place.

"What are you doing?"

"Beg pardon?" Hermione paused, a small bronze cauldron in her hands. "Do you mean the re-organizing?"

"How does this —" Severus trusted that the sting in his voice would make it clear that "this" referred to the chaotic jumble on his worktable. "— constitute organization of any sort?"

Inexplicably, she brightened, and words began tumbling from her as if bubbling over. "I've devised this new system, you see, and I really think it will maximize efficiency, once it's done, of course. Now you're grinding the powders all the way at that end of the table, which means you've got to bring them over here to begin combining them with the essences, and anything could happen. Bit stupid, really. Not you, of course, Professor, but the system. I thought, if we moved the powders over here —"

"The light is poor at this end of the table, Miss Granger," he said, his voice low and growling even to his own ears. "How then do you suggest we manage the delicate work of creating the powders, if we cannot see them or one another? Through mind-reading, perhaps?"

Ah, yes. The "mind-reading" got to her, as Severus had suspected it would. That particular claim to fame had almost eclipsed all the others in the short, unhappy life of Harry Potter, before the end. His own memories of the boy's Legilemens ability were unpleasant enough to add some spice to his appreciation of Hermione's crestfallen face.

She murmured, "Well. I suppose we could move everything over to the area with more light — it's a small work space, but it would do."

"It is not your place to move anything." When would she understand? He glowered at her and stepped closer, meaning to impress some of the truth upon her at last. "You are not here to improve my methods, Miss Granger. You are not here to rearrange the furnishings. You are not here to comment upon the well-being of my house-elf. You are here to do what I tell you to do and no more."

"With all due respect, sir," Hermione began, in the most disrespectful tone of voice possible, "you said that you hired me for my abilities. So why won't you let me use them to help you?"

"I know where I require help," Severus replied. "And the work with which I require help is important, Miss Granger. Substantial. Intellectually challenging. In other words, NOT associated with the placement of cauldrons."

Hermione cocked her head. "Have you never heard the phrase, 'The devil is in the details'?"

Details. This chit of a girl wanted to lecture him about details — he, who could measure a gram of mimbulus pollen by testing the weight on a fingertip, who had navigated the treacherous waters of Voldemort's inner circle through evaluating the meaning of each arch comment, each muttered word.

He realized he was smiling an unpleasant smile, saw it reflected in the increasing uneasiness of her face. "Shall we discuss details, Miss Granger? I think it is time, at long last, to discuss the particulars of why you are here."

"The spell, you mean." Hermione's hushed tone might have indicated fear or anticipation; Severus could not tell which. "You're going to explain the spell."

"Your behavior occasionally to the contrary, you are not a dullard," Severus said. "You will therefore have made certain deductions based on the potion you have been brewing and its properties.

She did not disappoint him. "In essence, the potion is designed to intensify magic," she said, reciting as clearly as though she were still in his classroom. "It contains essence of jasmine and dragon scales, both noted for their empowering qualities. I've wondered about the wisdom of using both in the same potion — that's extraordinary power, maybe overwhelming, if not directed with great precision."

He steepled his hands before him. "And how would we direct that power? Give it precision?"

"The scarab-shell powder acts as a stabilizing force," Hermione said. "And — I meant to tell you before, I think that's a clever choice, really, not what you'd expect but complementary to both ingredients —"

Severus disliked it when she became conversational. He summoned his best schoolmaster's presence. "Do you think that will be sufficient?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not without controls within the spell. And we'll need to refine the potion more, most likely. To do that — I'll have to know what it is."

Her eagerness was ill-concealed, and Severus found himself unaccountably enjoying the moment. This, after all, was the test. This was the moment that would tell him whether Hermione Granger would continue in his life or not. For a moment, it occurred to him to wonder why he cared, but that curiosity was quickly drowned out in the intensity of the moment. "The potion is designed to enhance a locator spell."

"—Locator spell?"

"At present, in order to discover the precise physical location of any given individual, all spells require an object belonging to that person, preferably one important to him or her." Severus watched Hermione carefully. Was it her changing emotions that created the shadows in her eyes? "Upon our completion of this potion, the locator spell in question should be able to find — within a reasonable degree of accuracy — anyone that the seeker has ever met."

Hermione put one hand on her chest, as if trying to catch her breath. "They mean to use this against the resistance."

"What's left of it." Severus still found it astonishing that anyone remained so hope-addled as to continue fighting Voldemort at his fullest power.

"And that's what I'm helping to do." She was shaking visibly now, clearly horrified at their work. At him.

He'd known, from the beginning, that this hour would come — a moment that would either seal her to him, when she submitted to his authority and wishes, or that would divide them forever. What he had not known was that when he received the answer — that they would be divided — that it would outrage him. "I always wondered what anesthetic you'd applied to your overdeveloped conscience, Miss Granger," he said, his voice low and overly sweet. "It appears that it has at last deserted you."

"These people — they can't hurt him. Not any longer. It's pointless, going after them — a lot of crackpots who worship Neville Longbottom —"

"It is not given to us to judge the Dark Lord's plans," Severus reminded her. "Only to carry them out."

Hermione shook her head, frowsy curls tumbling as she did so. "But these are innocent people. As good as innocent, anyway."

Severus felt something within him close up, go tight. "I doubt any innocents remain."

She turned on one heel and fled the room. It was more than an hour before he condescended to ask Binks where she'd gone. As he suspected, Hermione had left. He also suspected she would not return.

But the eighth way in which she drove him mad was revealed during the course of the weekend that followed. And that way, he thought, was the most surprising of all:

Hermione Granger was not a spy.

He'd never been certain one way or the other, of course. He would not have hired her had he not thought there was a good chance that she was what she claimed to be and no more. But he had known her for seven years at Hogwarts, seven years in which she had dogged Harry Potter's every step, along with one of those Weasleys, whichever one had been in Potter's year. He had hoped that she, too, had understood the shape of the new world in the way he did. Perhaps he had also hoped for another person who could walk his path, forget the past, live only in the here and now. He had not, however, expected it.

A spy might have feigned horror at the locator spell, even thrown a tantrum, but she would not have stormed out. A spy would not have quit just when the information she wanted was finally revealed to her.

Was Hermione after no more information than just the raw fact of the locator spell's existence? Unlikely, Severus thought, but still possible. So, the Friday night after she had left Snape Manor, Severus cloaked himself in a Disillusionment Spell and set out for the street she'd said she lived on.

He found her quickly, without the use of any spells; Binks had mentioned Hermione's grousing about the cracked skylight. He could see the candlelight flickering through the panes, then saw it extinguish around midnight. Hermione was in her bed, sleeping, and he had no reason to think she was not alone.

During the next two days, he watched her residence near-constantly, sending Binks out to do it when he wanted sleep or food. Hermione went nowhere in all that time, nor did anyone visit her. No owls came to her windowsill; no messengers left notes or parcels.

Astonishing, Severus thought. I might have trusted her. If it stung for him to realize that now — at the point when she had left his employ forever — it was altogether less annoying than the fact that she had defied his expectations. He knew that, for months to come, he would be second-guessing the way he had handled the situation, how he had assessed her — and that promised to be a slow and sure way for her to drive him mad, without doing anything else at all.

The ninth, final and most fatal way Hermione Granger was destined to drive him mad made itself clear that Monday. His morning's labors passed slowly; as much as he had dreaded having company in his home and his workshop, Severus found that the silence of solitude now oppressed him. But he was prepared to get used to that.

Just as Binks brought him his lunch, however, the doorbell chimed; as the house-elf scurried away to answer it, Severus wondered who could be calling upon him. Surely not Lucius Malfoy — he'd made it clear the potion wouldn't be ready yet, not for weeks to come —

Then Hermione walked through the door.

They stared at each other for a moment, no words coming to Severus' mind. Mercifully, she spoke first, and simply: "I came for my wages."

Of course. He'd had no chance to pay her for the last week's work. She needed the money too much to let it go. But even as he rose to begin counting out sickles and knuts, Severus found himself saying, "You are late, Miss Granger."

"Late?" Her forehead furrowed, and some of her careful composure faltered. "Of course — I ought to have waited for payment on Friday, but I failed to do so —"

"You departed early on Friday," Severus said, gaining confidence as he realized what he meant to do. "I will condone such behavior only once. Compounding that by being hours late today — well, it shows little respect, don't you think? I shall have to dock you one day's payment. See that it doesn't happen again."

Hermione stared at him. "You mean — I'm not sacked?"

"Not yet, though at this rate I will make no assurances for the future.' Severus gave her his coldest glare. "Unless, of course, you mean to resign."

"I don't," she said, shaking her head. He'd thought she would struggle with the decision longer. "I can accept — I mean, I need —" Hermione hesitated, then simply put one hand on his forearm for just a moment and said, quietly, "Thank you."

The touch of her hand on his arm rushed along his skin, elbow to shoulder to spine. He forgot all about her blowsy hair and shabby robes; he saw only her soft mouth and dark eyes.

Severus pulled his arm away, and she immediately began bustling around the workshop. "I'll only need a few minutes to get started, Professor — just let me get settled —"

He watched her frantically pulling out the grinders and flasks she needed. To his surprise and horror, the sensation of her touch lingered, both on his arm and within his spirit.

At long last, he realized that he had come to desire Hermione Granger. What surer proof of madness could he possibly have had?