From Hell

Chapter 21

By Pigwidgeon37

A rat is delivered. Snape and Hermione discover breaking-and-entering. Two parties of five meet in an unlikely place.

How long will you lie there, you sluggard? When will you get up from your sleep?

(Proverbs 6:9)

“Ron!” Ginny exclaimed, racing along platform 9 ¾ towards her brother, undisturbed by the angry comments of those she was pushing aside. “Oh, Ron!” She hugged him tightly. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“What about me?”

Ginny turned round. “Charlie! I didn’t know…”

“Well,” he said, “somebody had to accompany him back to England. So I took a day off. When the train’s gone, I’ll pop over to The Burrow, as a surprise for mum and dad.”

At the mention of her parents, Ginny felt her throat tighten. She had had to swear to Dumbledore—no twinkles there, and no merry smile, just stern seriousness—that she wouldn’t breathe a word to anybody about what was going to happen tonight. Considering that something might go wrong, this promise was weighing heavily on her. What if her mother died tonight? Ron wouldn’t even have the occasion to see her a last time. Didn’t children have the right to say farewell to their parents? But Dumbledore had been adamant. Deep inside, she knew that the Headmaster was right. Had she not been bound by a solemn oath, she would have poured out the whole news to Ron, and probably they would have decided to join the group attacking Voldemort, come hell or high water. Yes, Dumbledore was right, but that didn’t make it any easier for her.

So she merely nodded at her brother’s words and said, “Yes, I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you.”

“Anything the matter Gin?” Charlie asked, scrutinizing her face.

“No. It’s just that we stayed up late yesterday night, and I had to get up early.”

“Okay. Well, then let’s get the two of you onto that train.”

Charlie was, of course, allowed to do magic wherever he wanted, and so he could simply levitate their trunks up the stairs and into their compartment. A few sound kisses and bear hugs later, he was gone.

“I wonder why Harry isn’t here yet,” Ron said, checking his watch.

“Probably Sirius takes him directly to Hogwarts. Ron, Hermione is gone!”

“Gone? What do you mean by gone?” Ginny told him about the transfigured wand and the expedition to Malfoy Manor. “Wow!” he said, “I wish I could have gone with you. To see the Malfoys’ lair… I bet that’s the only chance you’ll ever get.”

“Ron!” Ginny’s voice was vibrating with impatience. “That’s completely beside the point. Hermione is missing without a trace! She isn’t with her parents, she isn’t with the Malfoys, and neither the Muggle police nor the Aurors have seen hide or hair of her since 27 December!”

“Are you sure they aren’t just covering up something unpleasant?” Ron asked. The train began to hum softy and suddenly lurched forward, out of the station. “But I distinctly recall that Harry told me Sirius would accompany him to the train under his dog form!” he said, frowning. “You know what? Let’s look for Draco the Ferret! Maybe he’s on the train and we can beat some information out of him.”

“Of course!” Ginny said acidly, but rose and followed him out of the compartment. “Beat information out of Draco, what with Crabbe and Goyle watching over him!”

“To work with dragons does build your muscles,” Ron said over his shoulder, “But maybe you’re right. Much better if you ensnare him with your charming smile.”

Ginny shook her head. “It seems that dragon-taming isn’t the only thing you learned from Charlie. You’re on the verge of becoming a full-blown, insupportable macho.”

Ron merely grinned. “Girls like it.”

This observation wasn’t even graced with an answer by his sister. She merely harrumphed and prodded him, urging him onwards.

Twenty minutes later, both were back in their compartment, unsure whether to feel more puzzled or more worried.

“No Hermione, no Harry, no Draco…” Ron muttered for the umpteenth time. “That’s a bit too strange to be a mere coincidence.”

But little did he know about the strange knot the Three Fates had gotten their threads into, so that they were quite exasperated and relied on the respective humans to sort out the mess they had been placed in.

<><><>°<><><>

Until he had literally stumbled upon Hermione’s Animagus form, Snape had had no idea that, where cats purred with satisfaction, rabbits ground their teeth. It amused him, and to scratch his part-time pet’s striped fur and silky ears after he woke up in the morning had quickly become a ritual. The sound the tiny animal produced, eyes half-closed and nose buried between its forepaws, was exhilarating and satisfying at the same time.

They had spent more time in Venice than they had originally intended, and returned home rather late. Their lunch had been a little more sumptuous than Snape had meant it to be, and so their siesta lasted until after 7 p.m. When he opened his eyes, Rabbit Hermione was still snoozing placidly beside his pillow, sprawled on her side, hind legs—they really were ridiculously thin, he thought—stretched out, furry belly a little more bulging than usually. Small wonder, after the quantities of food she had shovelled down, Animagus metabolism or not. It was dark, and the room was scantily lit by the bluish-white light of the streetlamps, the multiple shadows of the few pieces of furniture crossing and intersecting each other in a crisscross of blurry lines and forms. They would have to forego the cinema, he mused. Maybe it was better like that.  Somehow, to leave that for another day gave him a more optimistic perspective on what they were about to do.

Snape rolled onto his side and began to stroke the rabbit’s fur. It stretched even more at the contact and began to grind its teeth. His forefinger scratched the spot just above the nose he knew it—she?—liked most. Usually, she would transform after a few seconds’ cuddling. Tonight, though, she didn’t seem to contemplate a change of form anytime soon. Somehow, he could relate to that. He, too, needed reassurance. After all, it might be, as Hermione had said at breakfast, the last day of their lives. That, he thought, entitled them to searching for human comfort. Although, and the thought surprised him, if their plan turned out to be a spectacular failure, he would prefer for both of them to die. He had never been particularly susceptible to remorse, but he distinctly felt that, in case she was the one who didn’t return, he’d never be able to forgive himself. On the other hand, he could imagine how she would feel if he died and she survived. She would blame herself, because the whole crazy scheme had been her idea, and neglect the obvious fact that he wouldn’t have needed to accept unless he wanted to. So, if Voldemort felt like killing tonight, he was hopefully going to eliminate them both.

He was so absorbed in his own thoughts he hadn’t realized his hand was now buried in short, blonde curls.

“Severus?” Her voice was still drenched with sleep.

He shrunk back immediately. “Sorry, I… I suppose I was woolgathering…”

“Just continue,” she said, smiling at him, “It’s very reassuring.” So he resumed his activity. “What were you thinking?” she asked, “You seemed miles away…”

He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Please?” Not wailing or girlish… just interested, and honest.

“I was thinking that, if something goes wrong tonight, I’d prefer for both of us to…”

“To die,” she finished his sentence. “Yes, that’s exactly how I feel. I don’t think that either of us could bear the guilt. So it would be better if he finished off both of us. Or less bad,” she added, with a rather unsuccessful attempt at smiling.

“Less bad, definitely. But I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” No, he hadn’t wanted to say that. It was true, though. His subconscious had surreptitiously put those words on his tongue, but they were true.

Her eyes went wide—he could see it in the half-dark, although she was lying with her back to the window. He heard her swallow, and then she said, “We have become friends, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” he agreed gravely, “Strange as it may seem, the greasy git and the know-it-all have become friends, in less than a week.”

When she spoke again, her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Please, don’t die!”

“I’ll do my best,” he replied dryly, in a much lighter tone than the knot in his guts demanded. “Come on, let’s prepare our tea. If you’re a good girl, I’ll make scrambled egg with chilli sauce on toast.” Following an impulse, he planted a brotherly kiss on her forehead.

“I’m always a good girl,” she muttered into his chest, hugging him tightly.

<><><>°<><><>

Neither Lucius Malfoy nor Sirius Black would ever have seriously considered the possibility that, one day, there might be something like complicity between them. But when an extremely indignant Cornelius Fudge, wearing a pinstriped purple nightgown and matching fez, adorned by a golden tassel, marched into the parlour where a stressed House Elf had told them to wait, they turned towards each other and shared a very school-boyish grin.

His features back to cool and aloof, Lucius rose from his chair. “Good evening, Cornelius. I am exceedingly sorry to disturb you—”

The Minister’s look strayed past Lucius and got caught by Black’s calm blue gaze. “Lucius,” he said, became aware that his voice was unbecomingly squeaky, cleared his throat and repeated, “Lucius!”

“Ye-es?” Lucius asked with the innocent smile of a shark trying to convince his victim that he merely wants to lick off the blood.

“That’s… that’s…” Fudge croaked, while desperately searching for his wand.

“Yes, Cornelius, that’s Sirius Black. And we brought you a surprise.” He stepped aside and gestured towards the unconscious form of Peter Pettigrew.

Clearly, Fudge wasn’t very eloquent at this time of night. “That’s…” he choked out hoarsely.

“Indeed,” Lucius said, politely ignoring the Minister’s rhetoric inability.  “That is Peter Pettigrew. Alive. Ready to pour out the interesting story of his life and miracles.”

“But Black…”Fudge rasped.

“Is innocent, just as you said,” Lucius said, inclining his head to hide his smile.

“But how…”

Obviously, the Minister couldn’t be expected to pronounce more than two coherent syllables. “If you could be so kind as to call in the Aurors?” Lucius asked, although his tone suggested that it was by no means a question. “We came here, so as to be sure the Aurors wouldn’t just dispose of him without a written testimony… you know how they are…” His tone of voice implying that this was exactly what he thought Fudge would do, so that he insisted on the Aurors’ presence.

“Yes, of course, of course, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Fudge replied hastily and waddled over to the fireplace. “If Black is innocent, he has to be cleared, by all means.”

When the Aurors arrived, their surprise was evident, but they didn’t seem to mind that Sirius Black was innocent. A protocol was drawn up, taking note of both Black and Malfoy’s statements; two of the Aurors, Fudge, Black and Malfoy signed it, whereupon the Minister—he was looking less than happy, but couldn’t possibly refuse—put his official seal on the document.

“And now the declaration of my innocence,” Black said, when Fudge was just about to send the Aurors away.

“My dear young man,” the Minister said, “this will have to wait until Mr. Pettigrew here has made his statement; then there will be a trial and—”

“And the Daily Prophet is going to have you for breakfast, Cornelius,” Malfoy drawled. “May I suggest a provisional declaration of innocence? To be replaced by the final one once Pettigrew is pronounced guilty? That seems like a reasonable compromise.”

Fuming but unable to protest when Malfoy commanded, Fudge summoned another sheet of parchment and wrote down the declaration. “Here,” he said, handing it to one of the Aurors.

“You forgot the seal, Cornelius,” Lucius purred, parrying Fudge’s vicious glare with an icy smile.

Finally, the document was sealed and handed to the Aurors, who seemed rather satisfied with the turn things were taking.  One of them even remembered Black from school, as he had been in Ravenclaw, one year above the famous troublemakers. “Good to see it wasn’t you after all,” he said, patting Black’s shoulder, “We’ll take care of this one here, don’t worry. You should show up at the Ministry tomorrow, just for a few formalities. You too, Mr. Malfoy.”

Lucius and Black took their leave from an obviously very relieved Minister, who seemed to desire nothing more than to return to his abandoned bed. Lucius had a fleeting suspicion that it might not be empty, difficult as it was to imagine.

“Let’s go get Harry and Draco,” Lucius said, once they were standing outside Fudge’s mansion.

Black nodded, and both Disapparated.

<><><>°<><><>

“Are you sure you want to come along as well, Charlie?” Dumbledore asked, knowing his question was rather redundant.

“Of course!” the redhead said, nodding vehemently. “I’m not going to abandon mum when she needs me. And I assure you that working with dragons does help you develop quick reflexes.”

“It’s almost midnight,” Moody growled from the depths of an armchair. “I suggest that the Animagi among us transform now. I’d rather finish that whole nasty business before it gets too late.”

“Hearing the siren call of the whisky bottle, aren’t you?” McGonagall muttered, in a voice so low that only the old Auror could hear it.

“Considering that you don’t want to warm my bed, I have to search for some surrogate warmth,” he retorted. “C’mon, puss, what are you waiting for?”

Glaring at him, she transformed and scratched him only very lightly when he scooped her up. Dumbledore smiled at everybody and transformed into a white raven. Molly Weasley held out her arm for him to perch on, and he fluttered onto it.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she said apologetically, pointed her wand at him and transfigured him into an ordinary black specimen. “We don’t want him to see you immediately. Ready to go, everybody?” The group nodded grimly. “On the count of three, then,” she said. “See you, Arthur! One—two—three!”

Arthur Weasley stood rooted to the spot for a while, glancing at the now-empty room, then heaved a deep sigh and started clearing the table. When—and he thought ‘when’, not ‘if’—his wife came  back, she would be delighted to see he had done the housework.

<><><>°<><><>

“You all right?” Snape whispered, holding the rabbit up to face level. The animal craned its neck and licked his nose. “I’ll take that as a yes. Very well, I’d say we should go inside now, no use waiting anymore. Remember: do not transform before I have completely absorbed him in conversation.” The minuscule pink tongue tickled his nose once again, and he put the animal on the ground.

With measured strides, so that the rabbit could easily follow without having to run, Snape proceeded towards the cottage Voldemort had chosen as his headquarters. Once more, the Dark Lord’s megalomania turned out to be a valuable ally: there were no wards. Which was, come to think of it, also quite reasonable, because wards and other magical shields were easily detected. As things were, this was merely one of thousands of thatched cottages nobody would look at twice. The door was unlocked.

“Bloody hell!” Snape murmured, and the rabbit rose on its hind legs. “I meant to say,” he explained, crouching down on his haunches—many Hogwarts students would have given a years’ worth of pocket money to see the Potions Master, in trousers and shirt and his hair in a ponytail, deeply immersed in conversation with a dwarf rabbit, “that there has to be at least another person, if the door is unlocked. Let’s hope it is Pettigrew and not Malfoy.”

Rising to his feet again, he took a deep breath, put his hand on the handle once again and opened the door. Noiselessly—they had thought of clipping her nails in the last moment—Rabbit Hermione hopped over the threshold and into the large room. Snape took off his shoes and followed her, hoping that the floorboards, which, much to Hermione’s delight, were of unpolished wood and therefore not slippery, wouldn’t creak.

The only source of light were the last glowing embers of a dying fire on the grate; it had probably been extinguished some time ago, because the room was definitely chilly. In its middle stood the hideous throne, but it was as empty as the whole room. Fortunately, there was a thin blanket of snow covering the surroundings, so they could rely on the faint glow of the light it reflected and didn’t have to cross the room in pitch darkness. Hermione had taken the lead, for her animal’s eyesight was much better in the almost-darkness; besides, her olfactory sense, which was way superior to even the Potions Master’s now, guided her in the right direction. Not that she was glad about this particular detail—the stench that had almost overwhelmed her when in human form was downright unbearable now. But she couldn’t throw up, and somehow she was less emotional in her animal form.

They had reached a door and the rabbit came to a halt and rose on its hind legs.  Snape nodded—he had understood. Voldemort was behind that door. What reassured him immensely was that no light shone out from under it. So maybe the Dark Lord was sleeping already. And, keen as he was to have company whenever he felt like it during the day, he never allowed anybody to remain near him while he was asleep. Snape allowed himself a tiny glimpse of hope, took another deep breath, exhaled, grabbed the door handle and pushed it down. He could only try to imagine what the reek of decay hitting his nose did to the poor rabbit—he himself needed some seconds to steady himself and fight the bile rising in his throat. To his great amusement, he became aware that his pet had stuck its nose under the left leg of his trousers, probably conceding itself an olfactory break. Then the head became visible again; the rabbit shook itself and proceeded into the room.

Although there had been next to no light in the parlour, Snape needed some time for his eyes to adjust to the total darkness in the bedchamber. All the same, he felt as if he were blind and desperately tried to make out something, anything, a shadow, a form… Then he felt Hermione nudge his ankle, take the fabric of his trousers between her teeth and gently pull him onwards. Torn between relief and the fear he might step on her, he moved in the direction she indicated, slowly—like some doddering Methuselah, he thought—without lifting his feet, his soles gliding over the wooden floor inch by inch. After what seemed like an eternity, she nudged him to a halt. He stopped and almost jumped out of his skin: Voldemort’s rasping breath was coming from directly in front of him. He was standing at the Dark Lord’s bedside, and, to judge from the quality of his breathing—not of his breath, though, which was best not thought about—he was sleeping.

Snape did some quick thinking. If they managed to get at his wand, they didn’t even need to wake him up—a solution he honestly preferred. Once they had the wand, they could decide what to do next. But where might it be? To judge by the proportions of the cottage and the living room, this chamber couldn’t be very large. He had automatically counted the minuscule steps from the door to the bed. Ninety-seven. If one step equalled an inch, he had covered a distance of about nine or ten feet, which meant that the bed was probably standing close to the wall, and parallel to it. Therefore the nightstand had to be within his reach, on his left or right side. Carefully, Snape bent down and stretched out his right hand, cautiously, inch by inch through the darkness. Considering that the rabbit could probably see his movement and didn’t stop him, he might have chosen the right direction—unless poor Hermione had fainted from the stench. His hand touched wood. He splayed his fingers and edged upwards until his fingers encountered the edge of a horizontal surface. It was cool—probably marble. His fingertips slowly made their way forward… another fraction of an inch… and another… and his fingertips made contact with a piece of wood, round and polished… Voldemort’s wand. Resisting the urge to grab it quickly and run, he picked it up carefully and shoved it into his left sleeve. Then he felt the gentle tug at the right leg of his trousers.

It was difficult to control his breath, for his heart was hammering wildly, but he straightened up slowly, turned and, as slowly as before, let himself be guided through the room and finally outside. Having closed the bedroom door noiselessly, he saw Rabbit Hermione canter towards the entrance door and out into the snow, where she performed a very strange rabbit dance, jumping two feet into the air, racing around in circles and whacking the ground with her hind legs. Snape quickly strode towards the door, put on his shoes and waited patiently until the rabbit approached him.

“I think you might transform for a moment,” he whispered, and the next second she was facing him in her human form, panting and clutching her ribcage. “Thank you for the impressive performance,” he said sarcastically. “Are you able to think clearly?” She nodded, still breathless. “Fine. So, what are we going to do now? Finish him off? Go home? Summon the Aurors and Disapparate?”

“I think,” she said, “I think we should just go home. We have his wand, and if we feel like becoming the heroes of the wizarding world, we can produce it as evidence anytime. Unless you feel like going in and killing him—”

“No,” he interrupted her, “I don’t want to see the interior of this damned cottage anymore. Never again. I think we should simply Apparate home, enjoy a good night’s sleep, and plan what to do in the near future.”

Instead of giving him an answer, she simply transformed. He picked her up, shot Voldemort’s cottage a last, hateful look and Disapparated.

<><><>°<><><>

Shortly after midnight, Molly and Charlie Weasley and Alastor Moody materialized at a safe distance of about hundred yards from Voldemort’s cottage. The tabby cat Moody was holding jumped onto the ground and looked up at the black raven perching on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder. Their strategy was simple: Moody and the two Weasleys were to break the wards and enter the house, while McGonagall and Dumbledore would move to its rear side and take their positions there, possibly on the window ledges so they could watch what was going on inside. Once Voldemort and whoever was with him were sufficiently distracted, they two Animagi would transform, get inside the cottage and attack the enemy from behind. A clean, simple plan. Only the scenery wasn’t at all what they had expected: instead of dark, the windows were lit, and even from this distance the five wizards could hear the sound of laughter and loud talking.

They all stood, dumbfounded, and looked at each other.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Moody growled, “I thought your precious Severus—” these words were directed at the raven “—had told you Voldemort went to bed early! So what’s all that noise and—” He stopped, and his magical eye swivelled like mad. Through the quiet night, they clearly heard a woman’s laughter, crystal-bright and lilting.

A moment later, McGonagall had transformed. “They have Miss Granger!” she whispered fervently, “And Merlin only knows what they are doing to—”

“Now don’t be irrational!” Molly Weasley hissed, “She was laughing, Minerva! Do you think Hermione would laugh if the Death Eaters were having their ways with her?”

The raven shook its plumage, sailed down from Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder and changed into Albus Dumbledore. “She might be under Imperius,” he said. “Well, that changes the situation. I suggest that we go to have a look through the windows. What about the wards, Alastor?”

Moody cast a detecting spell. “No wards?” Charlie muttered, “Well, if that ain’t strange…”

“Strange or not, let’s go!” McGonagall hissed and took the lead. When they had almost arrived at the front door of the house, she stopped, causing Moody to bump into her. “Nice try, Alastor,” she whispered, slapping his hand. “Look here!”

They didn’t even have to light their wands—the brightness from inside the house was more than enough for them to recognize a strange, more or less circular pattern of paw prints in the snow. Next to them, there were human footprints; to judge by their size, they belonged to a man.

Charlie bent down to examine the traces. “Those prints were made by a rabbit,” he whispered, “although a very small one.”

Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged a glance. “A rabbit?” McGonagall breathed, “Are you absolutely sure, Charlie?”

He nodded. “Yep, I’m hundred percent sure. Why?”

Another look passed between Headmaster and Deputy. “Oh, nothing,” Dumbledore said, a little too cheerfully, “Just curious. Well, let’s see what is going on in there!”

Careful not to destroy the footprints, the five wizards rounded the corner and looked inside. And what they saw made their jaws go slack with surprise. Lucius Malfoy was sitting on some kind of throne, with his wife, whose robes were stained with soot, perching on his knees. Cross-legged and taking a swig out of a whisky bottle he then handed to Malfoy, a very inebriated Black was sitting next to them on the floor. And in an armchair, mimicking the position of the blonde couple, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were engaged in what seemed to be kissing. Now the five outside could hear distinctly what the five inside were saying—or rather three of them, as the two young men didn’t seem to participate in the conversation.

“And then he fumbled for his wand, like this,” Black shouted and did a very convincing imitation of a terrorized wizard in desperate search for his wand.

Lucius handed the bottle to his wife, who took a graceful sip. “What a pity you weren’t present, ma chérie,” he said, wiping his eyes, “The look on his face was priceless.”

“I can imagine,” she said. “Shouldn’t we better leave, gentlemen? We can take the Floo, seeing as how my robes are already dirty…”

Finally, the five outside shook off their stupor.

“I suggest we join the party,” Dumbledore said, and the others nodded.

Walking in Indian file, they went back to the front door, Dumbledore first and Moody bringing up the rear, opened it and entered.

“Dumbledore!” Lucius called, looking quite unimpressed, “Good evening! You are late, if I may say so.”

“A wizard is never late,” Dumbledore replied with as much dignity as he could muster, briefly wondering where exactly the quote came from. “Would you care to inform us what exactly is going on here?”

“Hi Albus,” Black roared, scrambling to his feet, “Good to see you! Harry! Get up and greet the Headmaster!”

Harry and Draco flinched apart, got up and mumbled something unintelligible.

“Of course,” Lucius answered, “Only I think a change of scenery might be in order. And we should… er, take care of Voldemort first, I think. He is in there—” he pointed at a door at the far side of the room, “Stunned, petrified and wrapped up like a mummy. Maybe Mr. Moody—” he sketched a mock-bow, swaying slightly “—would like to call in his colleagues?”

“That seems like an excellent idea,” Dumbledore agreed amiably, “And perhaps you would like to accompany us back to Hogwarts after we are finished here? Glad as I am to see you all—” his twinkling gaze swept around the room “—so peacefully united, I do have the feeling that some essential information is still lacking.”

<><><>°<><><>

“Are you sure the wand is undetectable?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Snape snarled back in his best Potions-class tone of voice, “Otherwise the Aurors would have located him long ago.”

They were sharing a bottle of wine in the living room—this time without previous discussion—as none of them felt like sleeping.

“So you could just as well do it now?”

He eyed her eager face with a mix of amusement and concern. On the one hand, he thought, it was probably better to free her of that blasted spell as soon as possible—you never knew what might happen. On the other hand… he was conscious enough of his own feelings to know that what was now friendly, even brotherly, affection might turn into something else in less than no time. And he certainly didn’t wish to be refused by her or, worse—worse? Really? a small voice inside him cackled—get involved with her. “Y-yes, I could, but—”

“So what are you waiting for?”

Snape sighed. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to share a flat without that spell protecting—”

“Protecting? You must be joking! I want to get rid of it, now! The consequences be damned!”

“Don’t be so appallingly Gryffindor, Hermione!” he snapped. “We have to think of the consequences. And if your brain is too wine-fogged, then I have to be prudent enough for both of us.” He took a sip of wine.

Hermione immediately took advantage of the short pause. “Okay,” she said, “let’s do some thinking then. Unless I am very much mistaken—”

“Don’t imitate me!” he growled.

“I’m not imitating you. There are three possibilities, or rather two: either both of us feel attracted to each other, or only one of us feels attracted and the feelings aren’t requited. Right?” Snape merely harrumphed. “Right. So, if the thing is mutual, everything’s fine—”

He choked on his wine. “Have you gone completely crazy? It would be the worst that could happen to us!”

Hermione flushed scarlet. “To us or to you?” she asked sharply.

“Both of us, of course. You have to return to Hogwarts—”

“Says who?”

“Shut up. I’m not going to discuss this. You have to return to Hogwarts, and I will have to find a place to settle down in the very near future, as I have no intention to go back to teaching. So, just imagine we fall in love—”

“Yes, so what?” she yelled, “Why is falling in love so bad? Get off that train of thought, for God’s sake! You’ve become so used to all those stupid rules and regulations that you can’t even think past them anymore!”

“That,” he replied, grinning in spite of himself, “Is a bit rich, coming from Miss-I-Can-Sing-The-School-Rules-Backwards-Standing-On-My-Head.”

“I have changed a lot!” she snapped angrily, “And so have you! Only you don’t have the balls to admit it.”

“Do you think we might leave my genitals out of this discussion?” Well, at least he had made her laugh.

“Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes, “But I still think that unrequited attraction is the worse scenario. What about a deal?”

He frowned at her. “What deal?”

“You take off the spell now, and we see what happens. If either of us isn’t interested, I promise I’ll go back to Hogwarts tomorrow.”

Snape pondered this. “Very well,” he finally said, “But what if it is mutual?”

“Then,” she said, giving him a bright smile, “We should be happy and thank God, or the Gods, or whomever you want. Or are you afraid?”

“Don’t try to bait me! That might work with a Gryffindor, but not with me!”

“So you are afraid, admit it,” she said, grinning.

“Oh, shut up, for heaven’s sake,” he snapped and drew Voldemort’s wand. “I need to concentrate now.”