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Chapter Text

The Department of Magical Forensics was still new enough to smell faintly of fresh paint and eager ambition. Housed in a discreetly expanded wing of the Ministry of Magic, its existence was a testament to two things: the harsh lessons learned during the Second Wizarding War and the surprisingly deep pockets of a reformed Lucius Malfoy. His "investment in the enrichment of Wizarding Society," as the official parchment read, had raised many eyebrows, but few could argue with the gleaming, state-of-the-art laboratory and the dedicated team it now housed.

Severus Snape, Head of the DMF, surveyed his domain from the doorway of his sparsely decorated office. It wasn't the dungeons of Hogwarts, but it possessed a certain sterile order that appealed to him. The gentle hum of magical diagnostic equipment from the main lab was a far more agreeable sound than the cacophony of dunderheads he'd once endured. Here, there was a purpose. Here, there was truth, waiting to be meticulously peeled back, layer by layer.

A sharp crack of Apparition outside his designated arrival point announced the start of the workday. He didn't need to see; he knew the precise, almost silent signature. Hermione Granger.

Hermione, now a lead Forensic Investigator, bustled into the main lab, her ever-present beaded bag already producing a neatly bound case file from its depths. Her curls, though still characteristically untamed, were mostly pinned back, revealing the focused intensity in her warm brown eyes. She offered a polite, professional nod to Pansy Parkinson, who was meticulously calibrating a series of shimmering potion vials, and Cormac McLaggen, who was attempting to simultaneously charm his hair into a perfect coif and review overnight rune transcriptions.

"Morning, Pansy, Cormac," Hermione said, her voice crisp. "Anything from the Atherfold Potion analysis?"

Pansy, without looking up, replied, "Negative for known toxins. McLaggen thinks he found a trace of uncatalogued floral magic, but he's likely just misread a daisy."

Cormac bristled. "It was not a daisy, Parkinson. It had a distinct, melancholic aura. Snape will see!" He shot a hopeful glance towards Snape's office, puffing his chest slightly.

Snape chose that moment to emerge, his black robes sweeping silently behind him. "Auras, McLaggen, are best left to the charlatans in Knockturn Alley. Stick to quantifiable data." His voice, a familiar low baritone, cut through the lab chatter, instantly sobering Cormac.

Before anyone could respond, a frazzled-looking Ministry owl swooped into the designated intake perch, dropping a scarlet-edged scroll. Neville Longbottom, entering with a tray of carefully cultivated luminous fungi for the trace evidence department, gently took it. "Red edge, Boss. Priority dispatch from the Auror Office."

Snape's dark eyes fixed on the scroll. "Draco? Luna?" he called, his voice carrying effortlessly.

Draco Malfoy, looking surprisingly comfortable in well-fitted but practical investigator robes, emerged from the evidence lock-up. Luna Lovegood drifted in from her small alcove, which was already festooned with intricate dreamcatchers meant to "filter out distracting psychic residue," her silvery eyes wide and observant.

Snape unrolled the scroll. The usual Ministry platitudes gave way to stark facts. "Deceased. Female. Lyra Nocturne. The Siren's Song Hotel, Diagon Alley, Room 713. No apparent cause. Aurors Potter and Weasley are securing the scene. We're up."

A ripple of focused energy went through the team. Lyra Nocturne was a sensation in the wizarding world, a singer whose voice was said to contain actual enchantments of joy and sorrow.

Hermione’s mind was already cataloging procedures. "Locked room? Any initial reports of Dark Magic signatures?"

Snape’s gaze met hers, a brief, intense connection that always felt more significant than it should. "None explicitly mentioned. Which, in itself, is informative." He turned to the group. "Granger, with me. Malfoy, Longbottom, Lovegood, you know the initial sweep protocols. Parkinson, McLaggen, prepare for intake. We’ll call if anything immediate needs analysis on-site."

The familiar twist and pull of Apparition deposited Snape and Hermione into the bustling thoroughfare of Diagon Alley, a few discreet steps from The Siren's Song Hotel. Aurors were already managing a small, curious crowd. Harry Potter, his Auror badge gleaming, met them at the hotel entrance, his expression grim.

"Severus. Hermione." He nodded, the use of their first names a product of post-war necessity and begrudging respect on his part, at least towards his former professor’s current role. "Glad you're here. It's… odd."

Ron Weasley joined them, looking slightly green. "Bloody strange, is what it is. Place is sealed tighter than Gringotts, not a thing out of place, 'cept for, well, her."

They ascended to the seventh floor. Room 713 was at the end of a plush corridor. Harry unsealed the door with a tap of his wand.

The room was opulent, decorated in deep velvets and silvers. Lyra Nocturne lay on the pristine white bed, looking as if she were merely asleep, if not for the unnatural stillness and the faint, almost imperceptible blue tinge to her lips. There were no signs of struggle. No overturned furniture. No shattered glass.

Snape stood just inside the doorway, his senses already working, absorbing the atmosphere of the room. He was a shadow, his presence both commanding and utterly still. He often thought of crime scenes as texts, and his first read was always silent, intuitive.

Hermione, in contrast, was already moving, her own innate caution guiding her. Her wand was out, not for defense, but for detection, its tip glowing faintly as she began a perimeter sweep for residual magic. She avoided looking directly at Snape, though she was acutely aware of his presence, a silent weight in the room. It was always like this: his quiet, almost unnerving observation, and her methodical, practical approach. They were an odd pair, yet their professional synergy was undeniable. He expected perfection, and she, more often than not, delivered. The unspoken approval from him was a strange, addictive balm to the relentless drive that had always defined her.

He’s watching me, Hermione thought, a familiar flutter in her stomach. No, he’s watching the scene. He’s assessing. Don’t be ridiculous. She focused on the task, noting the expensive, unopened bottle of Ogden’s Finest on the nightstand, the neatly folded clothes on a nearby chair.

Snape finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the unnaturally quiet room. "The silence, is an affectation. Too deliberate."

Hermione paused her sweep, her attention caught. "The silencing charm is layered, Boss," she confirmed, her own diagnostic spells corroborating his intuition. "Three distinct signatures. Expertly woven. And old. Cast some time ago, perhaps as a permanent fixture for privacy, but reinforced recently."

Snape turned, a flicker of something unreadable – respect? challenge? – in his dark eyes. It was a look she was becoming increasingly familiar with, one that made her feel both scrutinized and, strangely, seen. "Indeed, Miss Granger. Elaborate on 'reinforced'."

"The base layer is standard hotel-grade," she explained, moving closer to the wall, her wand tracing invisible patterns. "The subsequent two are far more complex, almost certainly custom. The most recent application feels… hurried, but still potent."

Draco, Neville, and Luna arrived, their investigator kits appearing with soft pops. Draco immediately began documenting the room with a magical lens, while Neville knelt by a potted plant near the window, his brow furrowed. Luna stood in the center of the room, her head tilted, her eyes unfocused as if listening to something beyond normal hearing.

"There's an echo," Luna breathed, her voice dreamy yet tinged with sorrow. "A scream, swallowed before it could truly be born."

Snape's gaze flickered to Luna, then back to the victim. Hermione, meanwhile, had her attention drawn to something small on the pristine white nightstand, almost hidden by a silver picture frame.

A single flower. Dark purple, almost black, its petals slightly wilted.

Neville, noticing where her attention was fixed, approached cautiously. "Boss," he said, his voice low, "is that… Aconite?"

Snape moved closer, his long fingers hovering just above the bloom. "Wolfsbane," he confirmed, his tone devoid of inflection, yet Hermione sensed a sharpening of his focus. "Yet, Lyra Nocturne was no werewolf. An interesting, and overtly theatrical, calling card."

Hermione’s mind raced. A locked room. Layered silencing charms. A singer known for her voice, now eternally quiet. And a sprig of wolfsbane. The pieces were disparate, unsettling.

Snape’s dark eyes met hers again across the room. The air crackled with unspoken questions, with the thrill of the hunt, and with something else, something far more complicated that neither of them was ready to name. The game, as they say in the Muggle world he sometimes studied with detached curiosity, was afoot. And the first move had just been made.

Chapter Text

The discovery of the Aconite hung in the air, heavy and incongruous. Luna Lovegood, who had been tracing patterns on the plush carpet with the toe of her iridescent boot, drifted closer to the nightstand, her gaze fixed not on the flower itself, but on the space just above it.

"The scream wasn't hers alone," Luna murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it sliced through the professional hum of the room. "It was laced with… surprise. And a thread of something bitter, like burnt sugar."

Snape, who typically had little patience for whimsical pronouncements, merely inclined his head slightly in Luna's direction. He had learned, much to his initial chagrin, that Miss Lovegood’s unique perceptions often yielded startlingly accurate, if unorthodox, leads. "Burnt sugar, Miss Lovegood?"

"A sweet betrayal, perhaps," Luna offered, her silvery eyes finally focusing on Snape, then flicking to Hermione.

Hermione made a mental note. Luna’s insights, however metaphorical, had a habit of crystallizing later. For now, she focused on the tangible. "Neville, the Aconite. Is it fresh? Wild? Cultivated?"

Neville, already gently levitating the sprig into a sterile evidence container, examined it closely through a magically magnified lens he’d produced from his kit. "Definitely cultivated, Hermione. The petals show signs of specific magical nurturing. And it’s fresh, likely cut within the last twelve hours. No wilting beyond what proximity to a non-lunar body would cause." He frowned. "Odd thing is, it’s a Lycoctonum variegatum hybrid, but the variegation is… atypical. Almost forced."

Draco, meanwhile, was methodically working his way around the room's perimeter, his own enchanted lens occasionally flaring with soft light as it scanned for latent magical signatures or microscopic disturbances. "No residual hostile magic on the door or windows, Boss," he reported, his voice crisp and businesslike. He had shed his schoolboy drawl for a more clipped, professional tone since joining the DMF. "The locking charms are standard hotel issue, reinforced by the victim’s own wards. No indication they were breached."

He paused by a small writing desk in the corner. "However," he said, crouching low, "there's a faint scuff mark here on the leg, and a minute trace of… something. Almost like fine, dark sand, but it’s not reacting like normal sediment." He carefully scraped a sample into a collection vial.

Snape moved to inspect the desk, his long frame casting a shadow over Draco. Hermione found herself watching the subtle shift of Snape's shoulders as he leaned in, the way his dark eyes scanned every minute detail. There was an almost predatory grace to his movements when he was immersed in a scene, a focused intensity that she found herself increasingly… appreciating. It was purely academic, of course. The man was a genius in his field.

His field, she mentally corrected herself. Our field. The thought sent a small, unexpected jolt through her.

"The silencing charms, Miss Granger," Snape said, straightening, his gaze sweeping back to her. "You mentioned the most recent application felt hurried."

"Yes, Boss." Hermione moved towards the wall where the magical signatures felt strongest. "The underlying layers are seamless, woven with considerable skill. The topmost layer, however, while potent, shows signs of haste. The magical threads are… tighter, less elegantly looped. Almost as if someone renewed an existing silencing charm in a rush, perhaps to cover a sudden, unexpected sound."

"Such as a scream?" Snape posited, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, challenging light.

"Precisely," Hermione affirmed, meeting his gaze. For a moment, the opulent hotel room, the dead singer, and the rest of their team seemed to fade. There was only the puzzle before them and the unnerving, stimulating connection of two minds working in concert. The air between them felt charged, like the moments before a potion reached its critical boiling point.

Snape’s internal world was a carefully ordered fortress, but Hermione Granger was proving to be a persistent, and not entirely unwelcome, siege. Her intellect was a given; he’d acknowledged that, however grudgingly, even during her school years. But her composure at a scene, her intuitive leaps that were so often grounded in solid magical theory, and the way her brow furrowed in concentration… these were new points of observation. Distracting points. He found himself anticipating her deductions, a sensation he hadn't experienced with another colleague in… ever. It was disquieting. It was also, if he were to be brutally honest with himself in the dead of night, mildly exhilarating. She is merely a competent investigator, he told himself sternly. An asset to the department. Nothing more.

Harry approached the doorway, his expression carefully neutral as he observed Snape and Hermione. "Any initial thoughts you can share?" he asked, addressing them both, though his eyes lingered a fraction longer on his former potions master. Ron hovered behind him, still looking distinctly uncomfortable.

Snape was the one to answer, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "The scene is meticulously staged to appear unremarkable, Auror Potter. The silencing charms are key, as is the… theatricality of the Aconite. Miss Lovegood suggests a betrayal. Mr. Malfoy has found an unknown particulate. Mr. Longbottom is analyzing the flora. Miss Granger is dissecting the magical soundproofing." He paused. "We have whispers and static. The full picture will emerge from the lab."

"Right," Harry said, nodding slowly. "Well, let us know what you need from our end. We'll start canvassing the hotel staff, other guests."

"See if anyone noticed deliveries to the room, particularly floral ones, within the last day," Hermione suggested, turning to Harry. "And any visitors, expected or otherwise."

"Will do," Harry agreed, giving her a small, appreciative smile that Snape noted with an uncharacteristic tightening in his jaw. He immediately quashed the sensation. Utterly unprofessional.

"We are concluded here for now," Snape announced to his team. "Longbottom, ensure the Aconite is shielded from any further degradation. Malfoy, your particulate will be priority for McLaggen. Granger, I want a full deconstruction of those silencing charm layers. Lovegood…" He paused, looking at the ethereal blonde. "Continue to listen to the echoes."

Luna smiled faintly. "They are getting a little clearer, Boss. Like a wireless tuning in."

As the DMF team began the careful process of cataloging and transporting evidence, Hermione found herself working in close proximity to Snape near the nightstand, both of them taking final notes. Her fingers brushed against his as they both reached for the same evidence marker. A jolt, faint but undeniable, shot up her arm. She pulled her hand back as if burned, her cheeks flushing.

"Apologies, Boss," she murmured, her gaze fixed firmly on her notepad.

Snape said nothing, but she saw his long fingers flex almost imperceptibly. When she dared a glance, his expression was as impassive as ever, yet she thought she detected a new intensity in the depths of his dark eyes as they briefly met hers. It was a look that spoke of hidden currents, of things unsaid, and it left her feeling breathless and more than a little unnerved.

__________

Just as everyone was packed up, their kits shrinking with soft thwips , ready to leave, Draco, who had been doing one last sweep of the small kitchenette alcove with his magical camera, spoke up. "Boss, hold a moment." His voice was tight with discovery. "The dishes in the sink – they’ve been recently cleaned. Superficially. But the camera’s picking up something on one of these teacups." He held up the enchanted device, its lens glowing faintly over a delicate porcelain cup. "Granger, can you swab this for me? There was definitely something dark and magical in it. Very faint, but it's there."

"Malfoy, Granger," Severus barked, his gaze sharp. "You two finish up processing that. We're all going to head back to the lab to begin processing the evidence already collected." They gave him a nod.

"Sure thing, we should be right behind you," Draco said.

Snape gave a curt nod, then with a swirl of black robes, he, Neville, and Luna Apparated away with successive cracks.

The room felt suddenly larger with just Hermione and Draco left. Just then, Ron popped his head into the doorway. "Just letting you know we questioned the front desk and there was a delivery. Floral. They have a signature in the guest book by the delivery driver, if one of you wants to collect it for evidence."

Hermione and Draco looked at each other.

Hermione was still in mid-swab on the teacup, her gloved hands meticulous. "You go ahead, Draco. I'll finish this up."

"Alright, I'll be back in just a few minutes," he said, standing up and leaving with Ron.

Hermione, kneeling beside her kit, had just placed the swab in a sterile vial and was carefully bagging up the teacup when she heard footsteps behind her. Soft, too soft for Draco’s heeled boots.

"That was quick, Draco," she said, her voice slightly muffled as she concentrated on sealing the evidence bag. She stood up, turning around just in time to see a cloaked figure, entirely in black, their face obscured by a deep hood, raise their wand.

She was momentarily stunned, frozen for a critical second by the sudden appearance. Before she could even reach for her own wand, holstered at her hip, the figure fired. A bright red spell shot towards her. Instinct took over. She dived, a desperate, sprawling movement, the spell grazing her cheek with an intense, searing burn. She landed hard, rolling behind the queen-sized bed, the thick mattress providing momentary cover. Her heart hammered against her ribs, adrenaline flooding her system. With trembling fingers, she pulled her wand.

The cloaked figure began advancing, their movements unnervingly silent. Hermione fired a stunner from her position, but it was deflected with an almost casual flick of the attacker’s wand.

She was literally backed into a corner now, the wall cold against her back, but she held her ground, her training kicking in. She blocked a disarming hex, then a volley of what felt like stinging jinxes, each impact against her shield charm jarring her arm.

Think, Hermione, think!

Just as another spell shattered her shield, she heard the blessed sound of thudding footsteps and familiar voices approaching up the stairs. "Draco! Harry! In here!" she yelled, her voice hoarse.

As Draco, Ron, and Harry burst into the room, wands already blazing, the cloaked figure froze for an instant. Then, with a loud, violent CRACK that vibrated through the floorboards, the figure Disapparated, leaving only a wisp of acrid black smoke coiling in the air where it once stood.

Hermione stood in the corner, panting, her wand still raised, trained on the dissipating smoke. The three men fanned out, their wands sweeping the room, eyes wide.

"Blimey, Hermione! What happened? Are you okay?" Harry shouted, his gaze immediately fixing on the angry red gash on her cheek, from which blood was now freely flowing. The scene – the lingering smoke, Hermione’s defensive posture, the scorch mark on the wall where the first spell had impacted – told its own story.

"I'm… I'm fine," Hermione said, her voice a bit shaky, the adrenaline starting to ebb, leaving a trembling weakness in its wake. "I think… I think the killer returned to the scene."

"Hermione, you're not fine," Ron spoke up, his usual jovial tone replaced with genuine concern as he took in the blood covering the side of her face and staining the collar of her robes.

Still a bit dazed, Hermione touched her cheek, her fingers coming away slick and crimson. The burning sensation intensified, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.

Draco was by her side in an instant, his expression grim. He pulled a neatly folded, dark green handkerchief from an inner pocket of his robes. "Here, hold this to your face. We'll have to clean it properly before we can heal it, can't risk trapping any dark residue." His voice was surprisingly gentle.

He then began efficiently gathering up her discarded kit and the bagged teacup. "Come on, Hermione," he said, his tone firm but kind. "We need to get you back to the lab. We can take care of that nasty cut there. And then," his grey eyes hardened, "we figure out who dared to attack a member of the DMF."

Chapter Text

The disorienting pull of Apparition spat Draco and Hermione directly into the reception area of the DMF, the abrupt transition doing little to settle Hermione’s frayed nerves or the throbbing fire on her cheek.

"Hermione, stay right there," Draco instructed, his voice tighter than usual. He glanced at the handkerchief she clutched to her face, now almost entirely saturated a grim crimson. Small droplets were beginning to escape, splattering onto the polished stone floor, stark against its pale grey. The sight visibly drained the color from Draco’s own face. "Don’t move. I'll be back in two ticks."

He didn't wait for a reply, practically lunging towards the evidence intake rooms, Hermione’s kit and the crucial teacup clutched in his hands. He burst into the nearest lab where Pansy Parkinson was meticulously arranging slides under a magically enhanced microscope. He deposited the items unceremoniously onto a clear section of her workbench. "Teacup residue first, Pansy. Priority," he threw over his shoulder, already pivoting to return to Hermione, his pace just shy of an outright run.

Severus Snape was reviewing preliminary sensor readings from Lyra Nocturne's room in the quiet sanctum of his office when a blur of platinum-blond hair flashed past his open doorway, followed by the distinct sound of rapidly retreating footsteps. He frowned. Mr. Malfoy knew better than to sprint through a laboratory environment; it was a blatant invitation for accidents, for compromised evidence. With a sigh that was more irritation than weariness, he rose to ascertain the cause of his godson's uncharacteristic haste.

He followed the echo of Draco’s steps towards the department’s entrance. The sight that greeted him there brought him to an abrupt, bone-jarring halt.

Hermione Granger stood alone, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to her face with a blood-soaked cloth, the other trembling by her side. Dark crimson spots marred the otherwise pristine floor at her feet. For a frozen second, all the air seemed to leave Snape's lungs. Then, a cold, primal fury, swiftly followed by a surge of possessive concern he refused to analyze, propelled him forward. He moved faster than he had in years, his dark robes billowing behind him like storm clouds.

He reached them just as Draco skidded to a halt beside Hermione, his face a mask of anxiety.

"What in Merlin's name happened?" Snape’s voice was a low, dangerous thunderclap that made both the younger witch and wizard flinch. His eyes, black ice, bored into Draco before flicking to the crimson stain blooming on Hermione's cheek. "No," he bit out, his jaw tight, cutting off any immediate explanation. "I will tend to Miss Granger. Then , Mr. Malfoy, I will expect a full account of precisely how one of my investigators came to be injured under your watch."

Without waiting for a response, Severus gently but firmly took Hermione’s arm. "My office, Miss Granger." His touch, though meant to guide, was surprisingly steadying.

He ushered a still-dazed Hermione into his office, the scent of old parchment, dried herbs, and something uniquely him a stark contrast to the sterile corridors. He directed her to one of the surprisingly comfortable leather chairs that faced his imposing desk. From a locked cabinet, he retrieved a familiar dark wood healing kit, its silver clasps gleaming dully. He knelt before her, the unexpected intimacy of the gesture making Hermione’s breath catch.

"May I?" he murmured, his gaze fixed on the bloodied handkerchief, his voice softer now, stripped of its earlier fury and resonating with a controlled urgency.

"Ye-yes," she stammered, giving a slight, jerky nod. Her own hand felt clumsy and unresponsive as she tried to lower the cloth.

His fingers, long and cool, brushed hers as he carefully took the handkerchief from her. He held her chin with surprising gentleness, tilting her face towards the light from the window. As the makeshift bandage came away, revealing the angry, weeping gash across her cheekbone, a low hiss escaped him, sharp and venomous. It wasn't directed at her, she knew, but at the injury itself, at whoever had dared inflict it. Yet, she still winced, a fresh wave of pain and shame washing over her.

Seeing her reaction, a flicker of something akin to self-reproach crossed Snape's features. He had allowed his anger to cause her further distress. He took a slow, deliberate breath.

With infinite care, he waved his wand over the wound, murmuring a cleansing charm. The worst of the blood vanished, revealing the raw, torn edges of her skin. He then selected a small, dark vial from his kit – Essence of Murtlap, she recognized by its distinctive, slightly fishy odor mixed with something sharper, antiseptic. Unstoppering it, he tilted her face slightly to the side.

"This will sting," he warned, his voice a low vibration.

He used a sterile dropper to apply the potion directly into the cut. Hermione gasped, her eyes squeezing shut as the antiseptic lanced through the wound with a fresh, biting pain. Her fingers curled into fists in her lap.

Almost unconsciously, Severus’s thumb stroked the uninjured plane of her other cheek, a feather-light, soothing gesture. The unexpected tenderness of it, the contrast to the sting in her wound, was almost her undoing. She leaned into his touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it offered.

He then produced a vial of Dittany, its viscous liquid shimmering faintly. His dark eyes met hers, holding them captive. "Now, Hermione," he said, the use of her first name rolling off his tongue with a low, soothing resonance that sent a shiver down her spine despite the circumstances. "This will be more intense, but I promise it will not last long. You must remain still." He continued the gentle, circling motion of his thumb on her cheek, a steady anchor in the rising tide of pain.

"I'll be okay, Severus," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She met his gaze, trying to convey a strength she didn't entirely feel. "Just… just do it."

With a minute nod, Severus began to apply the Dittany, drop by painstaking drop, along the length of the gash. Her skin smoked where the potent magical healer made contact, knitting itself back together with agonizing speed. She hissed, clenching her teeth against the searing agony, hot tears springing to her eyes, blurring his focused image above her.

The whole time, his voice murmured, a low, calming litany. "You're doing exceedingly well, Hermione. Just a little longer… focus on my voice… almost there…" With the last placed drop, the most intense of the burning began to subside, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake.

When it was finally done, her skin, though tender and flushed, was whole once more, a faint, silvery scar the only immediate evidence of the attack. Gently, with the pad of his thumb, he brushed away the path of a stray tear that had escaped, his touch lingering on her face for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary before he finally rose.

Hermione relished the fleeting warmth of his hands on her skin, a shiver tracing its way through her despite the lingering pain. When he stood, the sudden loss of his touch, of his focused proximity, left an unexpected hollowness in its wake.

He moved to sit on the edge of his desk, his dark eyes scrutinizing her with an expression of deep concern she had rarely, if ever, seen directed at her. With a decisive flick of his wand, a shimmering, silver doe erupted from its tip, dancing gracefully in the air for a moment before he spoke to it, his voice once again crisp and authoritative.

"Mr. Malfoy. My office. Now ." The doe inclined its head and then shot through the closed door.

It was time, Severus knew, to hear precisely how a member of his team, his investigator, had sustained such an injury in a secured crime scene. And, more importantly, who they would be hunting next.

________

Hermione watched him, her own tumultuous emotions warring within her. The sting on her cheek had faded to a dull, throbbing ache, but the phantom sensation of his fingers, gentle yet firm against her skin, lingered with an almost electric charge. His unexpected tenderness, the low, intimate murmur of her first name spoken in his deep timbre, had sent a confusing cascade of warmth through the icy fear of the attack. When he stood, the abrupt loss of his touch had left a void she hadn't anticipated. She quickly chided herself. He was her superior, tending to an injury sustained in the line of duty. Nothing more. It was his responsibility. Yet, her heart, traitorous and unruly, refused to listen to such cold logic, still thrumming a little too quickly against her ribs.

The door to Snape’s office burst open with uncharacteristic force, and Draco Malfoy hurried in, his usual carefully maintained composure visibly frayed. He stopped short upon seeing

Hermione, pale but whole, and a wave of palpable relief washed over his features before his attention snapped to Snape. The Head of the DMF had risen to his full height, an imposing figure of barely restrained fury, his dark eyes promising retribution.

"Snape," Draco began, his voice tight with a mixture of anxiety and lingering adrenaline. "I came as soon as I received your Patronus—"

"Explain, Mr. Malfoy," Snape cut him off, his voice dangerously soft, a silken threat that was far more intimidating than any shout. "From the moment Miss Granger and yourself were left to process the additional evidence. Every detail. Leave nothing out."

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to Hermione before settling resolutely on Snape. He recounted the events succinctly: their agreement for him to retrieve the hotel’s guest logbook from the front desk while Hermione finished swabbing the teacup, his brief absence – no more than five minutes, he insisted – and then hearing Hermione’s desperate shout as he, Harry, and Ron were ascending the stairs. He described their rush into the room to find the dissipating black smoke and Hermione, wand raised, her face a shocking canvas of crimson.

Throughout Draco’s explanation, Snape remained unnervingly still, his dark eyes fixed on his godson with an intensity that could strip paint. Hermione, though not the object of that glare, felt his attention keenly, a heavy, charged presence in the room. She saw a muscle twitch ominously in Snape's jaw when Draco mentioned leaving her alone, however briefly, however seemingly safe the situation had appeared.

When Draco finished, the silence in the office was taut, brittle. "So," Snape began, his voice still deceptively quiet, "you broke established DMF protocol by leaving an investigator unaccompanied at an active, albeit initially cleared, crime scene?" His volume rose incrementally with each word, culminating in a sharp, furious hiss, "She could have been killed , Draco!"

The raw anger in Snape’s voice, the undisguised fear for her safety that it betrayed, sent another jolt through Hermione.

"I am so sorry, Snape," Draco said, his voice strained. He then turned to Hermione, his own face etched with guilt. "I'm sorry, Hermione. Truly. I didn't think… I never imagined anything like this would happen." He was clearly blaming himself, the weight of his misjudgment heavy upon him.

"It's okay, Draco," Hermione said softly, offering him a small, reassuring smile despite the tremor in her own hands. "It's not your fault. None of us could have predicted that."

Severus’s eyes narrowed, his glower encompassing them both, clearly displeased by what he perceived as their downplaying of the incident's severity. "Consider this a formal verbal warning, to both of you," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "This department operates on

vigilance and adherence to procedure. Such a lapse must not, and will not , happen again. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused, their heads slightly bowed, the reprimand sinking in.

Chapter Text

"Miss Granger," Snape finally turned fully to her, his voice still low, but the steel beneath it unmistakable. The fury was banked, replaced by a focused intensity. "The attacker. Provide me with any details you can recall. Height? Build? Their magical signature?"

Hermione took a shaky breath, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to bring the fleeting, terrifying image into sharper focus. "It all happened so incredibly fast. They were cloaked, entirely in black, the hood pulled low, obscuring their face completely. Average height, I believe. Perhaps a bit… slender, but it was difficult to ascertain accurately under the bulk of the robes." She paused, searching her memory. "Their magic felt… aggressive, certainly dark, but not uncontrolled. There was a precision to it, a deliberate intent." She frowned, another sensation surfacing from the chaos of the attack. "And there was a scent… distinct. Like cold iron, and something else… something acrid, almost like burnt sulphur."

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Sulphur?" he mused, more to himself than to her. "Often associated with certain volatile teleportation spells or unstable, potent enchantments." He filed the information away, his mind already sifting through possibilities. His gaze flickered back to her cheek, now smooth and unblemished save for a faint, residual pinkness. The image of her, moments before, pale and bleeding, flashed in his mind’s eye, stoking the embers of a cold, protective rage he hadn’t allowed himself to feel so acutely in years. It was an unpleasantly familiar sensation, one he deeply associated with past failures, with irrevocable loss. The thought that she could have been seriously harmed, perhaps even killed, under his command, within his department, was utterly intolerable. And the deeper, more personal fear that had gripped him upon seeing her injured… that was a venomous serpent he refused to allow out of its carefully constructed cage.

"The teacup residue Mr. Malfoy mentioned," Snape stated, his voice pulling him back to the immediate, his mind already shifting, analyzing, processing. "It has now become our most critical piece of immediate evidence. The killer returned. Why? To retrieve something inadvertently left behind? To ensure a particular piece of evidence was destroyed? Or, perhaps," his gaze, sharp as obsidian shards, met Hermione’s, "to eliminate a witness they believed saw more than they let on?" He paused, the question hanging heavy in the air. "Did Lyra Nocturne have tea with her murderer, Miss Granger?"

"It's certainly possible," Hermione said, her voice regaining some of its usual steadiness as she focused on the forensic puzzle. "The room was undisturbed, as if she felt no threat. If the attack was personal, intimate, the sharing of tea wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility." She shivered slightly, despite herself, the image unpleasantly vivid.

Snape noted the shiver. He noted the lingering pallor beneath the healing pink of her cheek. He noted the way Draco, despite the reprimand, kept glancing at her with an almost fraternal, anxious concern.

"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, his tone shifting back to the coolly professional Head of Department, though the undercurrent of grim determination remained. "Inform Auror Potter of this development immediately. The crime scene is active once more; it needs to be resealed and re-examined meticulously for any trace of the attacker’s disapparition signature or any other overlooked evidence. Then, you will join Miss Parkinson in the lab. I want the analysis of that teacup prioritized above all else. Whatever substance was in it, whatever magic it holds, I want to know."

"Yes, Snape," Draco said, a sliver of relief evident in his expression that Snape’s direct ire was no longer solely focused on him. He gave Hermione another quick, concerned look before nodding sharply to Snape and exiting the office with renewed, almost fervent, purpose.

Silence descended again, heavier this time, charged with unspoken thoughts. Snape walked slowly around his desk, ostensibly to consult a leather-bound tome on Dark Magical residues and their olfactory signatures, but Hermione felt his gaze on her, an almost physical touch.

"You will go to the ministry’s infirmary wing, Miss Granger," he said, his back still mostly to her as he selected a volume from the shelf. "A precautionary check is in order. Head Mediwitch Stirling should be informed of the nature of the attack."

"I assure you, I'm fine," Hermione protested, though a residual shakiness still hummed beneath her skin. "The Dittany worked perfectly, you—"

"It is not a request, Miss Granger," he stated, finally turning to meet her eyes. His expression was unreadable, a carefully constructed mask of professional detachment. "You were assaulted on duty. You will be medically cleared before resuming any investigative responsibilities. That is protocol."

The abrupt, deliberate shift back to 'Miss Granger' was jarring after the brief, unexpected intimacy of the healing. It was a conscious drawing of lines, a retreat to the safety of professionalism that she knew was necessary, perhaps even for her own sake, yet it stung with a surprising sharpness.

"Of course, Boss," she said quietly, a knot forming in her throat. She rose from the chair, her legs feeling a little unsteady.

As she reached the door, his voice, softer now, stopped her. "Hermione."

She turned, her breath catching at the unexpected, almost hesitant slip back to her first name.

His dark eyes held hers, and for a fleeting, electrifying moment, the carefully constructed mask slipped. She saw a flicker of raw, undeniable concern, something akin to the protective fury he’d

displayed earlier, and a deeper, unsettling emotion she couldn't quite decipher, one that made her pulse quicken. "Be… vigilant."

The word hung between them, heavy with meaning.

"I will," she whispered, her throat tight.

He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, already turning back to his desk, his features settling once more into impassivity. The moment, fragile and charged, was broken. Hermione slipped out of the office, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of lingering fear, profound relief, and a bewildering array of new, complicated feelings for the enigmatic, formidable man she worked for.

Snape stared unseeingly at the ancient text open before him. Vigilant. He would need to be vigilant himself. Not merely against the external dangers inherent in their profession, but against the insidious, unwelcome way Hermione Granger was steadily, methodically breaching defenses he had spent a lifetime perfecting. He pushed the thought away with practiced, brutal efficiency and, with a renewed sense of grim purpose, headed towards the lab. The teacup, and the truth it held, awaited.

Chapter Text

The DMF’s infirmary wing was a small, quiet annexe, smelling faintly of dittany and sterile cleansing charms. It was a far cry from the chaotic hustle of St. Mungo’s, designed for the minor injuries and occasional magical backfires inherent in forensic work. Mediwitch Hyacinth Stirling, a robust woman with a no-nonsense demeanor and surprisingly gentle hands, tutted as she ran a diagnostic spell over Hermione’s newly healed cheek.

"Well, Severus Snape certainly doesn't do things by halves, does he?" Mediwitch Stirling commented, her wand tip glowing a soft gold. "The tissue regeneration is perfect. No lingering dark magic residue in the wound bed. Still, a nasty shock to the system, an attack like that." She peered into Hermione’s eyes. "Pupils reactive. No signs of concussion. You’re a resilient one, Miss Granger."

Hermione murmured a polite thanks, her mind only half on the examination. The residual throb in her cheek was a dull counterpoint to the chaotic symphony still playing out in her thoughts. The image of the cloaked figure, the flash of red light, the searing pain – those were sharp, defined, and terrifying. But tangled with them were the equally vivid, far more confusing sensations: the unexpected gentleness of Snape’s hands, the low timbre of his voice speaking her name with an almost tender cadence, the fleeting moment his dark eyes had held hers, stripped bare of their usual defenses.

She replayed his final word: Vigilant. It echoed the concern she’d seen in his eyes, a concern that had felt intensely personal, only to be swiftly followed by the cool, professional dismissal. He was a fortress of contradictions, and she, it seemed, was becoming increasingly adept at finding the hairline fractures in his walls, even as he hastily tried to repair them. The memory of

his thumb brushing away her tear sent a fresh wave of warmth through her, followed by a sharp stab of self-reproach. He was her superior. He had acted professionally, responsibly. To read anything more into his actions was foolish, perhaps even dangerous. Yet, the lingering scent of sandalwood and old parchment that had clung to him, the brief, possessive grip on her arm, the way his gaze had softened almost imperceptibly when he’d called her ‘Hermione’ – these details clung to her, refusing to be dismissed by logic.

"Alright, dear," Mediwitch Stirling said, snapping Hermione from her reverie. "You’re officially cleared. Though I’d recommend a Calming Draught if you feel the jitters returning. And perhaps avoid any more duels in dark hotel rooms for the rest of the day, eh?" She gave a wry smile.

"I'll certainly endeavor to, Mediwitch," Hermione replied, managing a weak smile in return.

Declining the Calming Draught – she needed her wits about her – Hermione made her way towards the main laboratory. The usual low hum of magical equipment seemed amplified, the atmosphere within palpably tense.

Severus Snape stood near the central analysis station, a silent, brooding sentinel. His dark robes seemed to absorb the light, his posture radiating an almost predatory stillness as he observed Pansy Parkinson and Cormac McLaggen, who were hunched over the delicate porcelain teacup retrieved from Lyra Nocturne’s room. Draco Malfoy stood a little to the side, his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of impatience and lingering concern.

Pansy, her brow furrowed in concentration, was meticulously guiding a shimmering, thread-like probe spell into the cup, her movements precise. Cormac, for once not preening or attempting a charming remark, was cross-referencing readings on a floating runic array that shimmered above a complex series of interlinked crystal phials.

Snape’s attention was absolute, his gaze unwavering as he watched the delicate dance of magic and meticulous procedure. His fingers were steepled before him, the only indication of his internal state, the almost imperceptible tightening of his knuckles. He hadn't acknowledged Hermione's entrance, but she felt the subtle shift in the room's energy, the way his focus seemed to sharpen, even if his eyes remained fixed on the analysis. He was a connoisseur of the unseen, a master of deciphering the silent testimonies of objects, and the teacup, she knew, was currently whispering its secrets directly to him through the skill of his analysts.

The air crackled with unspoken questions. What had Lyra Nocturne ingested in her final moments? And did it hold the key not only to her death, but to the brazen attack on Hermione herself?

_________

"The base magical signature is weak tea, as expected," Pansy reported, her voice a low murmur as she carefully withdrew the probe. "Earl Grey, I believe. However, there’s a secondary overlay… faint, almost entirely masked by the tannins and bergamot oil."

Cormac adjusted a lens over one of the phials, which now glowed with a murky, purplish light. "It’s not a known potion, Boss. Not in the standard Ministry registry, nor in the restricted archives I have access to." He shot a quick, slightly nervous glance at Snape. "The molecular structure is… fragmented. Deliberately so, I'd wager. Designed to break down rapidly after ingestion."

Snape’s eyes narrowed. "Degradation rate?"

"Accelerated," Pansy confirmed. "If Miss Granger hadn't insisted on swabbing it when she did, there'd likely be nothing left but the tea itself. Even now, the residual magic is dissipating. We’re working against the clock."

Hermione stepped forward, drawn by the urgency. "Was it a toxin? A sedative?"

Snape didn't turn, but his voice acknowledged her presence. "Patience, Miss Granger. Speculation without data is a luxury we cannot afford." Yet, there was no real bite in his tone, more the ingrained caution of a seasoned investigator.

"There are trace elements of… something saccharine," Cormac offered, zooming in on a particularly complex rune sequence in his floating array. "Highly concentrated. Almost like crystallized honey, but with an unnatural luminescence. And beneath that… a bitter alkaloid. Very, very faint."

"Burnt sugar," Hermione breathed, Luna’s earlier words echoing in her mind. She saw Snape’s head tilt almost imperceptibly, a sign he, too, had recalled the seemingly whimsical comment.

"The 'burnt sugar' could be a masking agent for the alkaloid," Snape mused, his gaze still fixed on the glowing phial. "Or a component of a two-part reactive compound. Parkinson, can you isolate the signature of the alkaloid? Cross-reference it with known magical neurotoxins, however obscure."

"Attempting now, Boss," Pansy replied, her fingers dancing over her own control panel. New runes sparked to life, intertwining with Cormac’s. "It’s… elusive. The magical signature is heavily shielded, almost as if it’s trying to hide itself."

Draco, who had been observing with quiet intensity, spoke up. "Could it be related to the Aconite? Not a direct component, obviously, but perhaps from the same… school of thought? Wolfsbane is a potent neurotoxin."

"A possibility, Mr. Malfoy," Snape conceded. "The theatricality of the Aconite suggests a certain level of sophistication, a desire to mislead or, perhaps, to send a specific message. This compound"—he gestured towards the phial—"feels similarly… intricate."

Suddenly, one of Pansy’s runes flared bright crimson, pulsing with an urgent light. "Boss! I have a partial match. It’s not a direct hit, but there are significant structural similarities to a base

compound sometimes used in experimental memory-altering potions. Specifically, potions designed to suppress or extract specific magical abilities temporarily."

Hermione’s breath caught. A potion to suppress magical abilities? Could Lyra Nocturne’s famed voice have been targeted?

"And the sulphur?" Snape asked, his voice sharp, cutting through Hermione’s thoughts. "Miss Granger reported a scent of sulphur from her attacker. Is there any corresponding elemental trace in the residue, however minute?"

Cormac ran a new diagnostic sequence. The phial flickered, and a new, faint symbol, a tiny, jagged yellow spark, appeared within the runic array. "Merlin's beard… yes. Trace sulphur compounds. Almost sub-molecular, but definitely present. Consistent with exposure to certain potent, and often unstable, teleportation or concealment charms."

Snape straightened, a grim satisfaction settling on his features. The pieces were beginning to coalesce, forming a disturbing, yet increasingly clear, picture. "So, our victim ingests a sophisticated compound designed to temporarily affect magical abilities, a compound that leaves traces of sulphur – the same scent noted from Miss Granger's assailant. An assailant who returns to the scene, perhaps to retrieve this very teacup, or ensure its contents were beyond analysis."

His dark eyes finally met Hermione’s, and the professional mask was firmly in place, yet beneath it, she sensed a current of shared understanding, the silent acknowledgment of a significant breakthrough achieved through their collective effort. "It would appear, Miss Granger," he said, his voice a low rumble, "that Lyra Nocturne was not merely silenced by a charm. She was, perhaps, rendered defenseless from within, her own magic turned against her or suppressed, before the final act."

He turned to the team. "Parkinson, McLaggen, continue to refine the analysis of this compound. I want its exact composition, its intended effects, and any known antidotes or counters. Malfoy, cross-reference this finding with any known associates of Lyra Nocturne who specialize in experimental potion-craft or enchantment. Longbottom," he raised his voice slightly to carry to where Neville was meticulously examining some fibres Draco had collected, "any progress on the atypical Aconite?"

Neville looked up. "It was magically forced, Boss. Grown too quickly, its properties amplified. Almost like someone was trying to create a super-concentrated version."

"Interesting," Snape murmured. "A desire for potency in all aspects, it seems."

The lab was thrumming with renewed energy, the scattered clues now forming a tangible thread. The killer was sophisticated, knowledgeable in obscure magic, and clearly not afraid to return to the scene or eliminate loose ends.

Hermione felt a shiver trace her spine, unrelated to the earlier attack. This wasn't just a murder; it was a meticulously planned magical assault. And she had come face-to-face with the architect of it. The thought was both terrifying and, to the forensic investigator in her, undeniably compelling. The game had just become infinitely more dangerous.

Chapter Text

The hours following the teacup’s revelation had been a blur of intense, focused activity within the DMF. Pansy and Cormac, working with an almost symbiotic efficiency, had managed to isolate and identify the complex potion: a rare concoction known in obscure circles as 'Islas's Shroud,' designed to temporarily nullify a witch or wizard’s innate magical core, leaving them as vulnerable as a Muggle, while also inducing a state of heightened suggestibility. Its signature, once unmasked, reeked faintly of the crystallized honey and bitter almond they'd first detected – a cruel mimicry of sweetness.

Luna, with her unique ability to perceive the echoes of intent, had dissected the magical signature on the hotel's guest log. The delivery driver's sign-in, though appearing mundane, carried a faint, nervous tremor of Compulsion, subtly overridden by a stronger, colder will – the same frigid intent she’d sensed lingering around the Aconite at the crime scene. Meanwhile, Neville’s meticulous botanical knowledge had borne fruit; he’d narrowed the list of Herbologists in Britain capable of cultivating, and magically forcing, that specific, potent strain of Lycoctonum variegatum to a mere three individuals, one of whom had recently reported a ‘security breach’ at their private greenhouse.

The pieces were indeed beginning to fall together, disparate threads weaving into a tangible, albeit complex, tapestry. From the combined findings, a list of five individuals with motive, means, or suspicious connections had emerged.

Severus, after a terse Floo call detailing the DMF’s findings to a grimly impressed Head Auror Robards, had dispatched the preliminary suspect list directly to Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The Auror department, for all its bluster, was efficient when given a clear target. Within hours, all five individuals had been located and strongly encouraged to present themselves for questioning.

Now, two of those five stood out, their connections to Lyra Nocturne far more intimate and potentially volatile than the others. Hermione found herself standing beside Severus in the dimly lit observation corridor that ran alongside the Ministry’s interrogation rooms. A large, enchanted two-way mirror separated them from the starkly furnished room where the first suspect was currently being questioned by Auror Williamson, a stern-faced witch known for her unflappability.

The air in the narrow corridor was cool, the silence punctuated only by the muffled sounds of the interview and the almost imperceptible hum of the magical mirror. Hermione was acutely aware of Snape beside her. He stood, as always, with an almost preternatural stillness, his arms

crossed, his dark eyes fixed intently on the scene unfolding beyond the glass. She could feel the intensity of his focus, a palpable force. They were a silent duo, observers in the shadows, a familiar dynamic from crime scenes now transplanted to this new, more overtly confrontational stage of the investigation.

She stole a quick glance at him. His profile was sharp, hawk-like in the dim light, his expression unreadable. Yet, she sensed the cogs of his formidable intellect turning, analyzing every nuance of the suspect’s posture, every flicker of their eyes, every carefully chosen word. It was a mirror of her own process, yet his always seemed to cut deeper, to unearth truths hidden beneath layers of deception she was still learning to penetrate with such unerring accuracy.

"The first," Snape murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel directly along her nerves, "is Lord Cassian Beaumont. Old family, new money. Lyra Nocturne’s most recent, and very public, paramour. Known for his possessive streak and a rather volatile temper when his desires are thwarted."

Beyond the glass, Lord Beaumont, impeccably dressed but with a subtle air of dishevelment, was vehemently denying any knowledge of Lyra’s death, his voice a mixture of outrage and what might have been carefully rehearsed grief. Hermione watched him, cataloging his micro-expressions, the way his hand repeatedly smoothed his already perfect hair – a nervous tic, perhaps, or a display of vanity even in distress. The performance was good, but there was something brittle beneath it.

_________

Once Auror Williamson concluded her questioning of Lord Beaumont, receiving little more than indignant bluster and carefully worded expressions of sorrow, Hermione and Severus moved silently down the corridor to the adjacent observation room. The atmosphere here felt subtly different. Beyond the enchanted glass, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were tag-teaming the interrogation of the second prominent suspect. To Hermione’s quiet astonishment, they were remarkably effective. Ron, with his surprisingly disarming, almost common-man approach, played the sympathetic ear, lulling the suspect into a false sense of camaraderie, while Harry interjected with sharp, incisive questions that cut through any carefully constructed narrative – a surprisingly potent good cop, bad cop dynamic.

The man in the interrogation chair was younger than Beaumont, with an artist’s intensity in his eyes and restless energy that even the stark room couldn’t entirely suppress. This was Silas Thorne, a moderately successful, avant-garde potioneer known for his experimental work and a tumultuous, on-again-off-again relationship with Lyra Nocturne that had reportedly ended acrimoniously a few months prior. He was deflecting Ron’s empathetic probing with a series of world-weary sighs and artistic lamentations about the tragic loss of a muse.

Then, Thorne leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, slightly rough-edged tone as he began to offer a "theory" about who might have wanted Lyra silenced. "You see, Auror,"

he began, his voice a low rasp, "Lyra… she collected secrets like some collect Galleons. And some secrets, well, they have teeth…"

The moment the first distinctive, raspy words left Thorne's lips, Hermione gasped, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in horrified recognition. The blood drained from her face, leaving her paler than the sterile walls of the observation corridor. The carefully constructed composure she usually wore like armor shattered.

Severus, who had been minutely observing Thorne’s body language, instantly sensed the shift beside him. He turned, his dark eyes immediately registering her pallor, the raw shock in her expression. It was an uncharacteristic display, far removed from her usual professional poise. Concern, sharp and immediate, cut through him. He placed a gentle, steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Granger?" he murmured, his voice low, pitched only for her. "Are you alright?"

Hermione barely registered his touch, her entire being transfixed by the man beyond the glass. The sound of that voice – the cadence, the slight rasp, the underlying hint of coldness she now recognized with chilling clarity – catapulted her back to the terror of the hotel room, the red flash of light, the acrid scent of sulphur.

She stared at Silas Thorne, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and dawning certainty. "It's him," she whispered, her voice trembling but infused with a fierce, undeniable conviction. She turned her gaze to Snape, her eyes pleading for him to understand. "Severus… it's him ! That's the voice. The voice of the man who attacked me."

For a fraction of a second, Severus looked utterly stunned, his own composure momentarily breached by the raw certainty in her voice, the genuine terror reflected in her eyes. Then, something dangerous and intensely focused ignited in his own gaze. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her shoulder before he slowly, deliberately, turned his attention back to Silas Thorne. He looked at the man not just as a suspect in Lyra Nocturne’s murder, but as the individual who had dared to harm one of his own. The air around Snape seemed to drop several degrees.

A muscle feathered in his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low, resolute promise, a vow spoken into the charged silence between them.

"We will get him, Hermione."

__________

The certainty in Hermione’s voice, the sheer terror and conviction in her eyes, acted as a catalyst. After Ron and Harry had indeed worn Silas Thorne down, extracting a series of increasingly contradictory statements and evasive half-truths, Severus decided it was time to

interject, to go in for the kill. The scent of guilt, now personally confirmed by Hermione’s recognition, was strong in the air.

He gave Hermione’s shoulder one last firm, reassuring squeeze. "Stay put, Miss Granger. Observe. You may see something we have missed." His eyes then flicked to the one-way mirror, a predatory gleam hardening their depths. He made his way around to the interrogation room door, rapping sharply. Ron and Harry emerged a moment later, looking somewhat surprised but deferential.

"We've got him on the ropes, sir," Harry said quietly, "but he's slippery."

"Indeed," Snape replied, his voice a low drawl. "Allow me."

He swept into the room by himself, the door clicking shut behind him with an air of finality. Silas Thorne, who had visibly relaxed when the Aurors left, stiffened immediately, his artistic nonchalance evaporating like mist in a harsh wind.

Snape didn't sit. He prowled the small space for a moment, his silence more unnerving than any immediate accusation. Then, he began his questioning, his voice soft, almost conversational, yet laced with an undercurrent of steel. But Thorne, though visibly unnerved by this new, more formidable inquisitor, attempted to rally, his responses dripping with carefully cultivated sarcasm and artistic disdain for the "mundane processes of Ministry bureaucracy."

Hermione watched from the observation room, her heart hammering. Every syllable Thorne uttered, every strained inflection, was a fresh wave of confirmation, chilling her to the bone.

There was an undeniable, almost palpable tension whenever Severus mentioned Lyra Nocturne by name. A flicker in Thorne's eyes, a tightening of his jaw, a subtle shift in his posture. Snape, a master at exploiting such weaknesses, used it to his advantage, his questions becoming more pointed, his observations more cutting, slowly, methodically, getting under the suspect's skin. Eventually, Thorne's sarcastic facade began to crack, revealing the simmering, barely controlled rage beneath. He finally clamped his mouth shut, refusing to respond further, his eyes burning with a mixture of fury and something that looked suspiciously like fear. He wouldn't rise to Snape's bait any longer.

Snape merely arched an eyebrow at the sudden silence. He pressed a small, almost invisible button on the side of the metal table. "Auror Potter," his voice echoed clearly through the intercom, "please bring me Mr. Thorne's wand. It was logged into evidence upon his arrival, I trust."

A moment of tense silence, then Harry's voice, "Yes, sir. On its way."

Thorne’s head snapped up, his eyes darting towards the door, then back to Snape, a new layer of unease settling over him.

"Now, Thorne," Severus resumed, his voice dropping to a confidential, almost conspiratorial tone. "You can either explain to me, precisely and truthfully, what transpired with Miss Nocturne, and detail your subsequent, rather violent, interaction with one of my investigators. Perhaps," he drawled, the word hanging heavy in the air, "just perhaps, the Wizengamot will take your cooperation into consideration when deciding your fate…" He paused dramatically as Harry entered the room, placing Thorne’s elegant, dark wood wand on the table in front of Severus with a grim expression. Harry then retreated, closing the door softly.

Snape’s gaze flicked to the wand, then back to Thorne. "…Or," he continued, his voice hardening, "I can simply find out for myself. Your choice. But do choose quickly. My patience is not infinite."

Thorne looked from Snape’s impassive face to his own wand lying on the table, a lifeline suddenly feeling like a noose. A flicker of arrogance, or perhaps desperation, crossed his features. Surely, the man was bluffing. Such detailed spell recovery was notoriously complex, often unreliable, and restricted. He let out a dismissive huff. "You're wasting your time."

"Fine then," Snape said, his lips curling into a humorless smirk. "Have it your way."

He picked up Thorne's wand. Hermione watched, breathless, as Severus began to cast, his own wand movements intricate and precise, weaving a complex pattern of shimmering silver light around Thorne’s wand. The incantation was subvocal, but Hermione recognized the faint, distinctive characteristics of high-level revelatory magic, a class of spells known only to a select few in the Ministry's law enforcement echelons, taught under the strictest secrecy. This was far beyond a simple Prior Incantato . After a few charged moments, the silver light pulsed brightly, and a rolled scroll, tied with a somber grey ribbon, appeared out of thin air, dropping silently into Severus’s outstretched hand.

He unrolled it with deliberate slowness, his dark eyes scanning the magically inscribed script, one eyebrow arching with significant interest.

"You see, Mr. Thorne," Snape said, his voice deceptively mild, "this scroll in my hand is a rather comprehensive list of every spell cast from that wand within the past seven days. Quite detailed, I assure you."

The blood drained from Thorne’s face, his carefully constructed composure shattering like brittle glass. "Wait…" he stammered, his eyes wide with sudden, dawning horror. "Wait… I can explain. There are circumstances…"

"You lost your chance to explain, Mr. Thorne," Severus stated, his voice now as cold and sharp as a shard of ice, "when you chose not to cooperate." He stared darkly at the now visibly trembling man. His finger, long and pale, began scanning the list, moving slowly down the parchment. Hermione leaned forward in the observation room, her own hands clenched, her gaze fixed on Snape. She knew what he was looking for.

"Ahh, yes," Snape murmured, his finger stopping near the bottom. "Here we are."

Chapter Text

Severus’s dark eyes scanned the magically generated scroll, his expression a carefully neutral mask, though Hermione, watching intently from the observation room, could see the minute tightening of his lips that signaled a grim discovery.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Thorne, here we are indeed," Snape repeated, his voice slicing through the tense silence of the interrogation room. "A rather illuminating sequence of spell-casting from yesterday afternoon. Firstly, a complex Compulsion charm, cast presumably upon a hapless hotel delivery driver. Followed shortly thereafter by multiple iterations of high-level silencing charms, consistent with those found in Miss Nocturne’s room." He paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. "And then, a rather telling signature: 'Islas's Shroud,' cast with considerable potency. The very same potion found in Miss Nocturne's teacup."

He looked up from the scroll, his gaze pinning Thorne like an insect to a board. "And finally, Mr. Thorne, after a significant lapse of time, several aggressive offensive spells, including a Blasting Curse and a Slicing Hex, cast within the confines of Room 713 of The Siren's Song Hotel – the exact time Miss Granger was unfortunate enough to encounter an intruder."

The carefully constructed dam of Silas Thorne’s composure finally burst. Hearing the stark, undeniable evidence of his actions laid bare, the truth resonated through the room with damning clarity, and something within him snapped. His face contorted, no longer artistic or world-weary, but a mask of raw, unadulterated anguish and fury.

"SHE WAS MINE!" Thorne screamed, lunging forward against his restraints, his voice cracking with a desperate, broken rage. "Lyra was mine ! Her voice, her magic, her soul! I gave her everything! That insipid peacock Beaumont, he couldn't appreciate her, not like I did! She was going to leave me, leave me for him ! I wouldn't let her! I couldn't let her! If I couldn't have her, no one would!" His tirade devolved into harsh, guttural sobs, a torrent of possessive rage and twisted love.

Snape watched the man’s emotional disintegration with cold, clinical detachment, waiting patiently for the storm to momentarily subside. Hermione, from her vantage point, felt a chill creep down her spine. This wasn't just murder; it was an act of supreme, selfish obsession.

Once Thorne’s initial outburst quieted to ragged gasps and muttered curses, Severus leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable edge. "A compelling, if predictable, motive, Mr. Thorne. But one question still nags. Why did you return to the room? Why did you attack my investigator? Were you attempting to retrieve the teacup, to cover your tracks before its contents could be analyzed?"

Silas Thorne lifted his head. His eyes, red-rimmed and wild, held a watery, maniacal glint. A haunting, almost triumphant smile stretched his lips. He laughed, a chilling, broken sound that echoed unnervingly in the sterile room. "Cover my tracks?" he rasped, his voice thick with a disturbing intimacy. "Have you ever loved someone so much, Mister Snape, that even in death, their

presence is an irresistible lure? I wanted one last kiss. One last moment. Even in death, I was drawn to her. My Lyra." He sighed, a sound of almost ecstatic longing. "Your investigator… she simply interrupted a rather private reunion."

Severus gave the man a long, calculating look, his expression unreadable, though Hermione thought she saw a flicker of profound distaste in the depths of his dark eyes. He offered no response to Thorne's disturbing confession. Instead, he reached out and pressed the intercom button once more.

"Potter. Weasley," his voice was crisp, decisive. "We're done here."

The door opened, and Harry and Ron re-entered, their expressions grim as they took in Thorne's disheveled state and the palpable aura of madness that now clung to him. They moved efficiently, unchaining the man from the table, the magical restraints dissolving with a soft hiss. Ron began to formally recite Thorne’s rights, his voice steady despite the chilling atmosphere Thorne had created. Thorne offered no further resistance, a strange, beatific smile plastered on his face as they led him from the room, his earlier rage replaced by an unnerving, vacant serenity.

Once he was gone, the oppressive tension in the interrogation room seemed to lessen, though a residue of Thorne's disturbed energy lingered. Hermione didn't wait. She rushed into the room, her earlier fear eclipsed by a wave of professional triumph and a burgeoning, undeniable admiration. A beaming, unrestrained smile lit her face, directed entirely at Severus.

"Snape," she exclaimed, her voice alive with excitement, "you were brilliant! The way you cornered him, the spell on the wand – it was masterfully done!"

Severus, who had turned as she entered, seemed momentarily taken aback by the sheer force of her enthusiasm, by the unreserved warmth in her expression. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched the tips of his ears. "I was merely following the clues, Miss Granger," he demurred, his voice retaining its usual low timbre, though perhaps a fraction less severe than usual. "And if it weren't for your astute recognition of his voice, we might still be chasing shadows. Your contribution was… pivotal."

There was a moment then, suspended in the quiet aftermath of the confession. They didn't speak, simply stared at each other, the unspoken words, the shared experience of the investigation, and the lingering charge from their earlier interactions in his office hanging palpably between them. The air in the small room thickened, becoming fraught with a tension that had little to do with the case just solved and everything to do with the man and woman standing a few feet apart. Hermione’s smile softened, her gaze locked with his, a silent acknowledgment of the complex currents flowing beneath their professional facade.

Severus finally cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. The mask of the detached Head of Department slid firmly back into place, though his eyes, when they met hers again, held a flicker of something less guarded, something she was beginning to recognize.

"Let us return to the lab, Miss Granger," he said, his tone brisk once more. "We should share the news with the team. None of this would have been possible without their diligent work as well." He turned towards the door, a silent invitation for her to precede him, the brief, charged moment already receding, yet leaving an indelible mark.

_________

The atmosphere in the main lab of the Department of Magical Forensics was one of quiet diligence when Hermione and Severus re-entered. Pansy was meticulously cleaning her diagnostic phials, Cormac was inputting final data into the central archive, Neville was carefully cataloging the remnants of the forced Aconite, and Luna was sketching intricate patterns onto a spare piece of parchment, occasionally humming a soft, ethereal tune.

"The case is closed," Severus announced, his voice carrying clearly across the lab. "Silas Thorne confessed. He murdered Lyra Nocturne and was indeed the individual who attacked Miss Granger."

A beat of stunned silence, then the lab erupted. Shouts of joy and relief bounced off the stone walls. Cormac let out an exuberant "Yes!" pumping his fist in the air. Pansy actually smiled, a rare and surprisingly warm expression. Neville clapped Draco on the shoulder, who grinned broadly. Luna beamed, her eyes sparkling. High fives were exchanged, and even a few uncharacteristic pats on the back were given.

"Brilliant work, everyone," Hermione said, her own smile infectious as she accepted a congratulatory nod from Neville. "Every piece of evidence, every analysis, it all led directly to him."

The group was standing around, animatedly discussing the more bizarre twists of the case – Luna's 'burnt sugar' premonition, Neville's super-cultivated Aconite, the sheer audacity of Thorne returning to the scene – when the main entrance to the DMF slid open with a quiet, almost imperious hiss, revealing an unexpected visitor.

Lucius Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, his silver-topped cane gleaming, his platinum blond hair perfectly coiffed. He surveyed the lab, and its occupants, with an air of proprietary, aristocratic arrogance that even his supposed reformation hadn't entirely managed to sandpaper away.

"Father?" Draco asked, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of apprehension. "What are you doing here?"

"Why the astonishment, Draco?" Lucius drawled, his cool grey eyes sweeping over his son before dismissing him to take in the rest of the room. "This is my lab, after all, is it not? A humble contribution to our society's betterment." He paused, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "But I am, as it happens, here on official business. Minister Shacklebolt himself informed me of the wonderful job you all have done on this rather high-profile case. I must say, I am very pleased with the efficient and thoroughly professional manner in which this was concluded."

Draco mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Hermione, standing nearby, to catch, "Yeah, we made you look good, woo."

Lucius’s head snapped towards his son, his eyes narrowing into icy slits. "Did you say something, Draco?"

Draco visibly reddened, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. He had, for a moment, forgotten the preternaturally sharp hearing his father possessed. "No, Father. Nothing at all."

"Hmm." Lucius’s gaze lingered on his son for another uncomfortable moment before sweeping across the team again. It paused, significantly, on Hermione. "I also heard," he said, his voice taking on a smoother, more personal tone, "that one of our investigators was injured in the line of duty?" His eyes, a disconcerting mix of polite concern and something far more appraising, landed squarely on Hermione.

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly. "Uhh… yes, Mr. Malfoy." Lucius's gaze raked slowly up and down her figure, lingering for a moment on the womanly curves that had indeed blossomed since her school days. The overt appraisal made her shift nervously on her feet, a flush rising to her own cheeks.

"A Slicing Hex grazed me on the cheek," she explained, her hand instinctively going to the faint, silvery line that was now her only visible scar. It was barely there, a testament to Snape's skill, but she was acutely aware of it under Lucius’s scrutiny.

He stepped closer, invading her personal space with the casual entitlement of his station. His long, pale fingers, adorned with several heavy silver rings, reached out and gently, almost possessively, stroked the exact spot her own fingers had just vacated. "Indeed, it did," Lucius said, his voice softer now, his eyes holding hers with a calculated, unnerving intensity. "A pity to mar such… notable features."

The rest of the team looked on at the display in varying degrees of odd fascination and discomfort. Draco, this time, looked mortified by his father's blatant actions, his ears turning a shade of crimson that clashed spectacularly with his hair.

Severus, who had been observing Lucius’s entrance with a carefully neutral expression, felt an unexpected and intensely violent surge of raw, possessive jealousy shoot through him, striking like an angry viper. He knew Lucius. They had been compatriots, rivals, and reluctant allies since they were boys. He knew of Lucius’s supposed reformation since the war, and he was certainly aware of the numerous… conquests Lucius had made in the years since Narcissa’s passing. But Severus could never recall his old friend taking such an overt, almost predatory, interest in a Muggle-born witch, especially one so intrinsically linked to the 'Golden Trio'. Yet, he recognized that particular look on Lucius's face all too well. It was a look of intrigue, of challenge, of a man who saw something he desired and was already calculating the steps to acquire it. The thought of Lucius Malfoy directing that look, that intent, towards Hermione was… intolerable.

He cleared his throat, the sound sharp and commanding, effectively shattering the charged tableau. "Ahem. Lucius," Severus said, his voice cool and clipped, deliberately reasserting his authority within the lab. "You mentioned you were here on business?"

Lucius took a small, reluctant step back from Hermione, his gaze lingering on her for a few more moments, causing the blush on her cheeks to deepen, before he finally turned his attention back to Severus and the rest of the group. A sly, knowing smile touched his lips.

"Yes, yes, Severus. Business indeed," he said, his aristocratic poise fully restored. "As a small token of appreciation for all of your exemplary hard work, and for so swiftly bringing this distressing matter to a close." He reached into an inner pocket of his immaculate robes and produced a fan of gleaming, gold-embossed tickets. He held them up for the group to see, handing one to each member of the DMF team with a flourish.

"On behalf of myself, and with the enthusiastic endorsement of Minister Shacklebolt, you are all hereby cordially invited to the Annual Ministry Gala Ball this Saturday evening." He surveyed their surprised faces. "Attendance," he added, a distinctly Slytherin-esque smile playing on his lips, "is, of course, mandatory for my department."

Chapter Text

The following day in the lab was Friday, and an almost uncharacteristic quiet permeated the Department of Magical Forensics. With the Silas Thorne case officially closed and no new urgent calls demanding their attention, the atmosphere was decidedly slow. Everyone occupied themselves with the more mundane, yet necessary, tasks of their profession: meticulously cleaning residual potion stains from workstations, cataloging evidence from closed cases into the deep archives, and compiling lists of reagents and enchanted supplies running low.

Hermione was in a quiet corner of the main lab, cross-referencing inventory parchments, when Draco approached, his expression unusually earnest.

"Hermione," he began, his voice low, "I… I need to apologize for my father's behaviour yesterday. I could tell he made you uncomfortable, and I'm truly sorry. He can be…" Draco trailed off, searching for the right word, "…rather overbearing."

Hermione offered him a small, appreciative smile. "Draco, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. You are not your father, and his actions are his alone." She paused, then added, a little too brightly, "Honestly, he didn't bother me." The slight tremor in her voice and the way she avoided his direct gaze made the statement somewhat unconvincing.

Draco gave her a knowing smirk but wisely said nothing in response to her less-than-truthful assertion. He glanced at the ornate clock on the lab wall. "Come on, Granger. It's lunchtime. Let's go join the others in the break room before McLaggen eats all the biscuits."

Hermione chuckled, grateful for the change of subject. Together, they walked towards the break room, a comfortable space furnished with mismatched but cozy armchairs and a large central table. They entered to find the entire team already gathered, sandwiches and flasks of tea spread out, engaged in relaxed conversation. Even Severus was present, a rare occurrence. He sat slightly apart, engrossed in the latest issue of Potions Quarterly , though Hermione had the distinct impression that very little escaped his notice, magazine or no.

She took the only remaining open seat, which happened to be next to Luna Lovegood, who smiled at her with her usual dreamy warmth.

"Hermione," Luna said, her voice like soft wind chimes as she tilted her head, her large, silvery eyes fixed on a point just above Hermione's left shoulder. "You have quite an amount of swirling activity in your aura today. Mostly pearlescent, but with little sparks of… magenta and worried grey."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure if that indicated good or bad things for her immediate future. Instead of trying to dissect Luna’s pronouncement, she smiled back and decided to steer the conversation to safer, more practical ground. "Luna, that's… interesting. On a completely different note, do you know what you're wearing to the Ministry Ball tomorrow evening? I searched my entire wardrobe last night, and I'm afraid I don't possess anything nearly fancy enough for a Ministry Gala."

Luna’s smile widened sweetly. "Oh, I don't either! Most of my frocks have Nargle-repellent charms woven in, which isn't quite the look for a Gala, I suspect. I was planning on going shopping this evening after our shift. You could join me, if you like? We could make an evening of it – perhaps find some Wrackspurt-free fabric."

Hermione let out a genuine sigh of relief. "Oh, Luna, you are wonderful! That sounds absolutely lovely! I'd be delighted."

From across the table, Cormac McLaggen, who had been listening with a predatory glint in his eye, spoke up, his voice overly smooth. "So, Granger, no dress and, more importantly, no date to the ball yet, I presume?" He leaned back, smirking confidently. "You know, I happen to be free, and I would be more than honored to have you on my arm for the evening. We’d make quite the impression."

Hermione rolled her eyes, a gesture of pure, unadulterated exasperation. She picked up a stray grape from her fruit salad and, with surprising accuracy, flicked it at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest.

Cormac made a dramatic gesture as if he’d been grievously injured, clutching his chest and feigning a mortal wound, which caused a ripple of laughter around the table, even a reluctant twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth, though his eyes remained fixed on his journal.

"Actually, Cormac," Hermione said, the lie popping out before she could properly think it through, driven purely by the desire to shut down his advances for the rest of the day, "I do have someone I'm going with."

The table looked on with surprised interest. Even Pansy raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Severus’s dark eyes, Hermione noted with a flicker of panic, lifted from his periodical, their gaze sharp and unexpectedly focused in her direction.

Cormac, however, wasn't so easily deterred. He called her bluff. "Oh really, Granger?" he challenged, his smirk widening. "And who's the lucky bloke, then? Anyone we know?"

A hot flush crept up Hermione’s neck. She had painted herself into a corner. Her mind raced, desperately searching for a plausible name, any name. Her eyes roamed frantically over the room, a silent plea for rescue, before landing, with a jolt of desperate inspiration, on the one person in the room she had, against all odds, come to consider something akin to a brother. Draco.

"It's… it's Draco," she blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush.

The occupants of the table gasped in collective surprise, their expressions ranging from stunned disbelief. Draco himself looked utterly flabbergasted, his fork halfway to his mouth, frozen in mid-air. His eyes met Hermione’s, and she shot him a look of such sheer, pleading desperation, almost begging him with her eyes to go along with it, that he managed, with admirable speed, to pick up on her predicament.

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched Draco’s lips. He gracefully placed his fork down. "Yes," he drawled, his voice smooth and unruffled, playing his part to perfection. "We're attending together. As friends, of course," he added, a subtle emphasis on the word 'friends'. "Neither of us particularly fancied showing up alone and enduring the inevitable… societal pressures."

Severus, who had observed this entire exchange with an unnerving stillness, had indeed been shocked by Hermione’s initial pronouncement. The thought of Granger attending a social event with Malfoy, even a reformed Malfoy, had sent a surprisingly sharp, unpleasant jolt through him. However, his careful observation skills, honed over years of deciphering deceit, quickly registered the panic in Hermione’s eyes, the subtle, pleading glance she’d thrown Draco’s way, and Draco’s almost too-smooth recovery. He knew, with a certainty that settled his initial disquiet, that it was all an elaborate, if somewhat clumsy, ruse to keep McLaggen at bay. Draco, it seemed, was simply repaying Hermione a favor, or perhaps cementing their unexpectedly amicable working relationship. Still, the image of them together, even platonically, lingered in his mind longer than he would have liked.

_______

That evening, as the clock in the DMF lab struck the end of their shift, Hermione gathered her bag, a small knot of anticipation and trepidation about the upcoming Gala Ball still residing in

her stomach. She met Luna near the Ministry's Apparition point, Luna’s radish earrings bobbing cheerfully.

"Hey Luna," Hermione began, a slightly apologetic smile on her face. "I hope you don't mind, but Ginny Owled me this afternoon. She's attending the ball with Harry – apparently, he finally remembered to ask her properly – and she’s in desperate need of a dress as well. I hope you don't mind, but I told her to meet us at Madam Malkin's. That she could shop with us."

Luna beamed, her silvery eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, I don't mind at all, Hermione! It's been far too long since I've gotten to spend some proper time with Ginny. It will be fun. The more, the merrier."

With a shared smile, the two witches Disapparated, reappearing a moment later on the familiar cobblestones of Diagon Alley, directly in front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Ginny Weasley was already there, tapping an impatient foot, her fiery red hair a vibrant splash of color against the dusky evening.

"There you are!" Ginny exclaimed, her grin wide as she enveloped first Hermione, then Luna, in warm hugs. "I was about to send out a search party. Or worse, go in there alone. The choices are already making my head spin."

They laughed and entered the shop, immediately greeted by the scent of new fabric, subtle lavender, and the bustling energy of Madam Malkin herself, who was currently attending to a rather fussy-looking witch intent on a particular shade of periwinkle.

As they began to browse through racks of shimmering silks, elegant velvets, and intricately embroidered gowns, Ginny, ever direct, launched into her inquiries. "So, Luna," she said, holding up a rather daring emerald green creation, "are you attending this grand ball with anyone special? Or are you gracing the Ministry with your stunning solo presence?"

Luna smiled, her gaze distant for a moment as if consulting an invisible dance card. "Yes, I am, actually. I'm going with Neville." A soft, pleased expression settled on her face. "He's asked me most politely. And he's quite the wonderful dancer, you know. Very steady on his feet, which is helpful when avoiding rogue Wrackspurts on the dance floor."

Ginny grinned. "Neville! That’s brilliant! You two will be adorable." Her attention then swiveled to Hermione, who was pretending to be deeply engrossed in a bolt of midnight-blue satin. "How about you, Hermione? Got anyone special lined up to navigate the treacherous waters of Ministry small talk with?" Ginny finished with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows.

Hermione felt a familiar flush creep up her neck. "I'm… I'm… going with Draco Malfoy," she murmured, the words barely audible even to her own ears, hoping the ambient noise of the shop would swallow them.

"Excuse me?" Ginny leaned closer, cupping a hand to her ear, her expression one of theatrical confusion. "I didn't quite catch that, Hermione. It almost sounded like you said you were going with Draco Malfoy ." She let out a peal of laughter, clearly expecting Hermione to correct her.

"Uhhhh… I am," Hermione confirmed, her voice still quiet but firm, bracing herself.

Ginny’s laughter died in her throat. She paused, her expression shifting from amusement to genuine surprise, then to a thoughtful frown. "Oh," she said, processing this unexpected piece of information. "Right. Malfoy."

Sensing Ginny’s internal bewilderment, Hermione rushed to explain. "Ginny, he's different now, okay? Truly. Please believe me. It's not like we're romantically involved in any way, Merlin, no!" she added hastily. "But working together in the DMF… he's actually become a close friend. Almost like a brother to me, if you can believe it."

"It's true, Gin," Luna piped in serenely, drifting over with a confection of silver, star-dusted tulle draped over her arm. "Draco is very kind now. He even helps Neville identify obscure fungi without making any sarcastic comments about their 'earthy' aroma." Luna paused, her gaze turning a little mischievous. "Besides," she added, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "from what I observed yesterday, it seems like his father has more of an interest in Hermione than Draco does."

Ginny's mouth gaped open, her eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline. "Hermione! What is she talking about? Lucius Malfoy? Spill, now! Every last detail!"

Hermione groaned inwardly, though a part of her was relieved the focus had shifted from her "date" with Draco. "I think Luna is just exaggerating, Ginny. Lucius Malfoy just came to the lab to thank us – all of us – for our work on the Thorne case. As for me, well, I got hit with that Slicing Hex during the investigation, and I suppose he just got a little too close when he was… looking at the scar on my face." She gestured vaguely at the silvery wisp on her cheek, trying to sound dismissive.

"Hmm," Luna said, her dreamy eyes fixed on Hermione with an unnerving intensity. "I know what I saw. And our department head, Severus Snape, didn't look too pleased with him either." She delivered this last piece of information with a mysterious little smile.

"What do you mean, Luna?" Hermione asked, genuinely confused. She hadn't noticed Snape reacting to Lucius at all, beyond his usual stoic demeanor. Had he even been looking their way?

Luna tilted her head. "When Lucius Malfoy began stroking your cheek, Hermione," she explained, her voice soft but clear, "Snape's aura changed dramatically. It went all… turbulent. Like the thickening dark clouds of an impending electrical storm, just before the lightning strikes. Very potent. Lots of deep, swirling crimsons and agitated greys."

Hermione stared at Luna, a frown creasing her brow. Snape? Reacting like that? It seemed utterly improbable. He barely tolerated Lucius on a good day; any displeasure was likely just his

standard reaction to the man’s ostentatious displays. She tried to recall the moment, but her mind had been too preoccupied with Lucius’s unsettling proximity.

Ginny, however, practically vibrated with excitement, her earlier surprise about Draco completely overshadowed by this new, far juicier, revelation. "Blimey!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide and sparkling. "I haven't had a proper catch-up with you girls in only a few weeks, and I've clearly missed out on ALL the good gossip! Snape having a stormy aura over Lucius Malfoy getting friendly with Hermione? This ball just got a hundred times more interesting!"

______

The gossip, as Ginny gleefully termed it, continued to fuel their conversation as they delved deeper into the racks of Madam Malkin’s extensive collection. Silks rustled, enchanted measuring tapes zipped through the air, and mirrors offered shimmering, occasionally opinionated, reflections. The girls tried on handfuls of dresses – some elegant, some whimsical, some downright disastrous – amidst peals of laughter and earnest consultations. After a good two hours, which felt like both an eternity and no time at all, they finally emerged from their respective fitting rooms, each adorned in a gown that perfectly suited their individual style and the grandeur of the impending Ministry Gala Ball.

Luna looked ethereal in a sleeveless, shimmering Cinderella-blue gown that seemed to float around her as she moved. The soft fabric caught the light like captured moonbeams, and she’d paired it with elegant long white gloves, giving her an air of timeless grace. "The Quibbler’s fashion correspondent will have a field day," she commented dreamily, twirling slightly.

Ginny had chosen a lovely halter-neck gown in a rich, sophisticated plum color. The cut was sleek and modern, emphasizing her athletic build and fiery hair. It had an understated elegance that spoke of quiet confidence. "Hopefully, Harry won't stand on my toes too much in this," she said, grinning. "It feels too good to ruin with boot scuffs."

Hermione, however, had decided to go with something a bit different, something that made a statement. Since she was, however platonically, attending the ball with a Slytherin, she had found herself drawn to a breathtaking Slytherin green gown that made her look and feel like some sort of serpent queen. 

Thin, delicate straps, sparkling with embedded emerald chips, held the dress securely on her shoulders. The bodice featured a flattering sweetheart neckline and was incredibly form-fitting, sculpted to her figure and entirely covered in tiny, glittering green crystals that shimmered with every breath. Intricate, sheer green boning was cleverly incorporated into the corseted waist, giving the slightest, tantalizing illusion of it being see-through while maintaining an air of sophisticated allure. The skirt, also a deep, emerald green satin, clung to her hips before falling in a sleek column, boasting a daringly high slit up one side that promised to expose a fair amount of leg when she moved. Hermione had even found a pair of matching green stiletto heels and a delicate, dark green silk wrap to complete the ensemble. As she looked at her reflection, she felt a surge of unfamiliar confidence; it was a dress designed to be noticed.

Ginny let out a low whistle after seeing Hermione’s final look. "Wow, Hermione," she joked, her eyes wide with admiration and a touch of mischief. "If Draco really only looks at you as a sister now … he definitely won't after he sees you in that dress." She chuckled. "You look absolutely incredible. And rather dangerous."

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly at Ginny's teasing, though a small, secret thrill went through her at the compliment. There was one particular Slytherin she truly wished would take notice of her, her thoughts drifting unbidden, as they so often did these days, to the enigmatic Department Head with the stormy aura and the surprisingly gentle hands. The image of his dark eyes widening, even slightly, in appreciation was a potent, if highly improbable, fantasy.

Shaking off the thought, she glanced at the clock on Madam Malkin’s wall. "Alright, ladies," she said, a genuine smile on her face, "while this evening has been rather fun, and incredibly successful, I think I'm ready to get home and get some rest. Tomorrow evening is going to be… eventful, I suspect." She walked towards the shop entrance, her new gown carefully packaged and swinging lightly from her arm.

"You can say that again!" Ginny laughed, gathering her own purchase. Luna hummed in agreement.

The girls said their goodbyes on the bustling street outside, promising to coordinate their arrival times for the following evening. Then, with near-simultaneous, soft cracks , they each Disapparated, vanishing into the cool night air, their minds filled with anticipation for the Ministry Gala Ball.

Chapter Text

Hermione dedicated nearly the whole of Saturday to the intricate process of preparing for the Ministry Gala Ball. It wasn't vanity that drove her, but a curious mixture of anticipation and a sense of responsibility. She’d roped Draco into this charade, after all; the least she could do was ensure she didn’t embarrass him by looking anything less than perfectly put together. Her usually somewhat untamed curls were coaxed and pinned into a magnificent, elaborate updo, a cascade of glossy ringlets interwoven with tiny, glittering green crystals that perfectly matched her gown. Her makeup was a meticulous study in old Hollywood glamour – a flawless complexion, subtly defined eyes with a perfect flick of eyeliner, and a classic, bold red lip that spoke of elegance and confidence.

She had just slipped her feet into the strappy green stiletto heels, the final touch to her transformation, when a polite, firm knock sounded at her apartment door. Draco.

He looked utterly impeccable, a vision of aristocratic grace in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo that emphasized his lean build. His platinum hair was artfully styled, and he carried himself with an air of cool, understated confidence. However, when his grey eyes landed on Hermione as

she opened the door, his composure visibly fractured. His jaw literally dropped, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief before sweeping over her from the sparkling crystals in her hair to the tips of her green heels.

"Merlin's beard, Granger," he finally managed, his voice a little breathless. "You… you clean up exceptionally well!"

A delighted giggle escaped Hermione, the genuine awe in his voice a surprising balm to her nerves. "Well," she said, striking a playful, mock-dramatic pose, "I figured if I were going to brave the dark side for an evening," she joked, alluding to her Slytherin escort and gown, "I might as well look like I fit in."

"Oh, you're going to fit in alright," Draco said, his eyes doing another slow, appreciative sweep of her figure, still looking somewhat stunned. He shook his head as if to clear it. "So much for a fun, easy evening. Looks like I'm going to have to spend the entire night fighting off blokes with a Stunning Hex on repeat."

His exaggerated gallantry made her chuckle again. "I highly doubt that," she said, reaching for the delicate silk shawl that completed her ensemble.

Draco, recovering his poise, offered her his arm with a flourish. "Shall we?"

"We shall," Hermione replied, a thrill of anticipation dancing through her as she took his arm.

With a near-silent crack of Apparition, they vanished from her quiet London street and reappeared at the grand, shimmering entrance of the Ministry of Magic’s main ballroom. After presenting their golden tickets to a stern-looking wizard at the door, they found themselves at the top of a magnificent, sweeping staircase that overlooked the ballroom floor below. The vast chamber was already teeming with elegantly dressed witches and wizards, the air alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. As Hermione and Draco began their descent, arm in arm, a perceptible hush fell over the chattering crowd. Dozens of heads turned, conversations faltered, and a wave of surprised whispers rippled through the room.

Hermione, initially oblivious to the true cause, leaned closer to Draco, her voice a low murmur beneath the sudden quiet. "Wow, people are super surprised to see me and you here together, aren't they?"

Draco chuckled lowly, a genuine grin spreading across his face. He didn't look at her, his gaze sweeping coolly over the assembled guests below. At that exact moment, a bright camera flashed in their direction from the foot of the stairs. "I don't think that's what has them silenced, Granger," he murmured back, his eyes twinkling.

Hermione gave him a quizzical look, which only made him laugh again, a soft, appreciative sound.

When they reached the bottom of the grand staircase, Draco, with practiced ease, managed to snag two flute glasses of elf-made wine from a passing waiter. They scanned the room, eventually spotting some of their DMF colleagues gathered at a table towards the back, slightly removed from the main throng. They decided to join them. Luna and Neville sat close together, looking genuinely sweet and happy, Luna’s Cinderella-blue gown a perfect complement to Neville’s traditional, well-fitted dress robes. Cormac McLaggen was with them, his eyes already scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of a Kneazle sighting a particularly plump pixie, clearly on the hunt for single witches.

And then there was Severus. He sat at the table, a solitary, dark figure amidst the glitter, looking profoundly, almost painfully, bored as he nursed a glass of what appeared to be Ogden’s Old Firewhisky. Until he looked up. Until his gaze, sweeping idly over the arriving guests, landed directly on Hermione.

Time seemed to slow. Their eyes locked across the crowded ballroom, and for once, Severus Snape couldn't hide the thoughts behind his glittering black eyes. The boredom vanished, replaced by an expression of raw, unadulterated shock that swiftly morphed into something akin to awe. His lips parted slightly, his usually impassive features reflecting a stunned admiration. Hermione. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. His face showed it, every nuanced shift in his expression a testament to the vision she presented.

And she certainly took notice. Seeing that look on his face, that unguarded, almost reverent appreciation, sent an electrifying jolt of heat straight to her very core, causing a hitch in her breath and a wild, unexpected fluttering in her chest. Her fingers tightened instinctively on Draco’s arm.

Draco, puzzled by her sudden stillness, glanced at her, then followed her gaze to his godfather. He saw the arrested expression on Snape's face, the way Hermione was staring back, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining. A slow, knowing smirk spread across Draco’s lips. He said nothing, but his eyes danced with amusement. Apparently, he and Hermione weren't going to be the only shock of the evening.

As if on cue, further surprises arrived. Harry and Ron found their table, Ginny radiant on Harry's arm in her plum gown. And, to the utter astonishment of almost everyone present, Pansy Parkinson – looking surprisingly elegant in a sophisticated black gown – was on Ron Weasley’s arm.

It was, on the surface, a bit of an odd pairing. But as Hermione watched them interact for a few moments – Ron’s boisterous laugh softened by Pansy’s quiet, dry wit, her reserved composure seeming to anchor his more exuberant tendencies – it oddly made sense. They balanced each other out remarkably well, their chemistry, though unexpected, undeniably present.

The group settled in, enduring the boring, tedious speeches that inevitably opened such grand Ministry events. There was a special, lengthy shout-out to Lucius Malfoy for his "visionary philanthropy in developing the Department of Magical Forensics." Lucius, seated at a prominent

table near the Minister, stood to accept the round of applause, giving Kingsley Shacklebolt a slight, deferential bow of thanks. He then turned, his gaze sweeping towards their table, clearly intending to acknowledge his department. That's when he saw Hermione, resplendent in Slytherin green, her arm linked companionably with his son’s. Lucius faltered momentarily, his polite smile tightening almost imperceptibly. Then, noticing she was quite obviously Draco's date for the evening, his expression shifted to a minute, almost imperceptible sneer of… something Hermione couldn't quite decipher. Disappointment? Annoyance?

But when their eyes met across the room, Hermione saw that same look of intense, appraising interest he’d shown in the lab, now tinged with a new layer of complexity. It caused something odd and unsettling to stir within her. A flutter. A strange pull. Was it… attraction? The thought was so absurd, so horrifyingly inappropriate, that she immediately tried to quash it. No, that's silly. Ridiculous. Get yourself together, Hermione. You can NOT have the hots for Draco Malfoy's father! she berated herself silently, her cheeks burning.

Severus’s ever-seeing eyes, however, missed nothing. He saw the brief, charged exchange between Lucius and Hermione. He saw the almost imperceptible gasp that escaped her lips, the sudden flush on her cheeks. He saw Lucius’s knowing, predatory smirk before the older Malfoy turned away.

Luna, ever perceptive to the unseen currents in the room, leaned closer to Hermione, her voice a mere whisper meant only for her ear. "It seems the storm clouds are back, Hermione," she murmured, her gaze flicking subtly towards Snape. "And they are darker, much darker, than before."

Hermione had to physically restrain herself from looking in Severus’s direction, though she could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Merlin, she thought, a wave of exasperation and an unwelcome thrill washing over her. These Slytherins are going to be the absolute end of me.

Just then, the Minister’s voice boomed out again, concluding the initial pleasantries. "And finally, a special thank you to the brilliant Head of the DMF, Professor Severus Snape, and his exceptional team, for their outstanding work in swiftly and expertly solving the complex and tragic murder of our beloved singer, Lyra Nocturne!" A round of applause filled the ballroom.

______

Once the Minister finally wrapped up his rather lengthy speech and the last obligatory round of applause faded, the orchestra seamlessly transitioned into a lively, elegant waltz. Almost immediately, couples began to swarm towards the polished dance floor, the vibrant colors of their gowns and robes swirling under the enchanted, star-dusted ceiling of the ballroom.

Ever the gentleman, or perhaps just playing his part to perfection, Draco stood and offered his arm to Hermione with a graceful bow. "May I have this dance, Miss Granger?"

She smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her at his continued commitment to their charade. "You may, Mr. Malfoy." She took his offered arm, allowing him to escort her onto the crowded dance floor. Draco was an accomplished dancer, leading her with an easy, confident grace that made her feel surprisingly light on her feet, despite the intricate steps and the weight of so many eyes upon them.

As they moved in time with the music, Draco leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur near her ear. "My, my, Hermione. Who knew the formidable Gryffindor Lioness was, in fact, a Serpent magnet in disguise?"

Hermione chuckled, the sound light and airy. "Whatever are you going on about, Draco?" she asked, though a tell-tale flush was already beginning to creep up her neck.

Draco lowered his voice further, his proximity and the focused intensity of his gaze making their dance appear suspiciously romantic to any casual observer. "Oh, I think you know. I saw the way my father was looking at you earlier, Granger. And this time," he added, his grey eyes glinting with amusement, "it seemed… perhaps not entirely unwelcome on your part?"

Hermione gasped softly, her eyes widening as she looked up at him in shock. "Was it that obvious?" she whispered, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She hadn't meant for anyone to notice her fleeting, confusing reaction to Lucius Malfoy.

Draco chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "No, not to others, I don't think. You're quite adept at schooling your features when you wish to be." He paused, his smirk widening. "Though I also saw the way you and our ever-esteemed Department Head were gazing at each other across the table as well. That was… rather less subtle, from both parties."

Hermione was floored, her embarrassment now complete. "You're far too observant for your own good, Draco Malfoy."

"How do you think I'm so proficient at my job?" he gloated, earning a small, playful smack to his chest from her. He grinned, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort.

Just then, the silver snake head of Lucius Malfoy’s cane tapped Draco lightly on the shoulder. Both Draco and Hermione turned, their dance momentarily interrupted. Lucius stood before them, his cool grey eyes fixed on Hermione with an unnervingly appreciative gleam.

"Well, well, well," Lucius drawled, his voice smooth as aged silk. "Son, why didn't you inform me you were attending the ball with such a… truly beautiful creature?" The compliment, delivered with deliberate emphasis as his gaze lingered on Hermione, caused her to flush lightly once more, a reaction Lucius didn't miss. His eyes lit up with a predatory satisfaction.

"Well, it was a bit last-minute, Father," Draco replied, his tone carefully neutral, though Hermione could detect a hint of underlying amusement. "Considering you only extended the invitation two days ago, it didn't leave much time for us to secure… proper dates."

"My apologies for the short notice," Lucius said, his gaze never leaving Hermione’s face, making her feel like a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope. "So, you two are… only here as friends, then, I presume?"

"Yes, Father," Draco ground out, perhaps a little more firmly than necessary.

"Excellent," Lucius said, a predatory smile gracing his lips. He then turned his full attention to Hermione, his voice like velvet. "Then you won't mind if I cut in for a dance, will you, son? I find myself quite… enchanted."

Draco, to Hermione’s surprise and slight panic, smirked at her over Lucius’s shoulder. "No, Father. Not at all." With a subtle wink she almost missed, he gracefully disengaged, taking his leave with a polite nod. "Enjoy your dance, Granger." He then turned and headed back towards their table, leaving Hermione standing alone with Lucius Malfoy, the strains of the waltz swirling around them.

Upon seeing Draco's unexpectedly early return to their table, alone, Severus finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous drawl that barely concealed the undercurrent of… something. "Tired of dancing with your date already, Draco? Or did Miss Granger prove too… Gryffindor for your Slytherin sensibilities on the dance floor?"

"Oh no, godfather, not at all," Draco replied, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he casually picked up his wine glass. He had a distinct feeling Severus harbored more than just professional regard for Hermione. "We barely made it through one dance before my father decided to cut in." He took a deliberate sip of wine, watching Severus over the rim of his glass.

The effect was instantaneous. Severus Snape’s face, already stern, seemed to turn to stone. The hand holding his glass of Firewhisky tightened, his knuckles showing white. Draco’s suspicion, a faint, amusing thought he’d entertained earlier, solidified into near certainty. The esteemed Head of Magical Forensics was, indeed, far more invested in Hermione Granger's dance partners than he let on.

Chapter Text

The moment Draco stepped away, Lucius Malfoy’s cool, ringed hand confidently took Hermione’s, his touch firm as he expertly guided her into the rhythm of the waltz. The orchestra swelled, and they were absorbed into the swirling kaleidoscope of dancers. Up close, Lucius was an imposing presence, his silver eyes holding an almost hypnotic quality, his movements fluid and practiced. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and old money.

"A most… fortuitous turn of events, wouldn't you agree, Miss Granger?" Lucius murmured, his voice a silken caress that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine – a shiver she couldn't quite decipher as pleasant or alarming. "To find such an enchanting partner unexpectedly available."

Hermione maintained a polite, if somewhat guarded, smile. "Mr. Malfoy, you're too kind. Draco and I were simply enjoying the event as friends."

"Ah, yes. Friends," Lucius repeated, drawing her a fraction closer as they executed a turn. His gaze was intense, unwavering. "A commendable arrangement. Though, one must admit, seeing you together did spark a certain… curiosity in the room. The Gryffindor Princess and the reformed Slytherin Prince. It has the makings of a rather compelling narrative."

"I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, it's hardly a narrative worth pursuing," Hermione stated, trying to inject a note of firmness into her voice, though his proximity was making her feel strangely flustered. Was it the wine? The late hour? Or Lucius himself?

Meanwhile, at the DMF table, Severus Snape watched, his posture rigid, his dark eyes burning holes into Lucius Malfoy’s back. The sight of Lucius’s hand on Hermione’s waist, the easy confidence with which he guided her, the proprietary way his gaze lingered on her face – each detail was a fresh twist of the knife in Snape’s gut. He saw Lucius lean in, murmuring something that made Hermione flush, and a low, almost inaudible growl rumbled deep in Snape's chest. The Firewhisky in his glass did little to soothe the inferno of jealousy that shocked him with its ferocity. He had no claim on her. She was a colleague. A former student. Yet, the thought of Lucius, with his practiced charm and predatory intent, anywhere near her, was anathema.

Draco, seated beside him, observed his godfather’s silent torment with a carefully concealed smirk. He took another leisurely sip of his wine. "Father always was an accomplished dancer," he commented innocuously, his voice laced with just enough false pleasantry to be irritating. "He has a way of making his partners feel… utterly captivated."

Snape’s jaw tightened so hard he thought his teeth might crack. He didn't deign to reply, his gaze remaining locked on the dance floor. The "storm clouds" Luna had spoken of were no longer just gathering; they were a raging tempest within him, threatening to break free with devastating force.

On the dance floor, Lucius continued his subtle probing. "Tell me, Miss Granger," he said, his voice smooth and persuasive, "this work at the DMF, it must be rather… grim at times. Does it truly satisfy a witch of your considerable talents and passions?"

"I find it incredibly fulfilling, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione replied, meeting his gaze directly. "Bringing truth to light, finding justice for those who can no longer speak for themselves. There's a profound satisfaction in that."

"Indeed," Lucius conceded, though his eyes suggested he found her idealism quaintly amusing. "But such noble pursuits can be… isolating. A brilliant young woman such as yourself surely requires companionship. Stimulating conversation. Perhaps even a patron who can appreciate and cultivate her rarer gifts?" His thumb stroked the back of her hand where it rested on his arm, a light, almost imperceptible touch that nonetheless sent a jolt through her.

Hermione felt that strange, unwelcome flutter again. The man was undeniably charming, in a dangerous, sophisticated way. He was Draco’s father, a reformed Death Eater, a man she should, by all accounts, despise or at least deeply distrust. Yet, there was a magnetism to him, a powerful allure that unnerved her almost as much as it intrigued her. She gently tried to create a little more space between them. "I find my colleagues at the DMF provide ample stimulating company, Mr. Malfoy."

The music began to draw to a close, the final chords of the waltz resonating through the grand ballroom. Lucius guided her through the last steps, finishing with a flourish that left her slightly breathless. He retained his hold on her hand a moment longer than necessary.

"A most delightful dance, Hermione," he said, the use of her first name both presumptuous and disarmingly intimate. His eyes gleamed. "Perhaps we shall have another opportunity to… converse, before the evening is through. Promise me another dance?"

Before Hermione could formulate a polite but firm refusal, or before Snape could combust at the table, salvation, or perhaps just further complication, arrived in the form of a beaming Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic himself, approaching them with an outstretched hand towards Lucius…

__________

"Lucius, my dear fellow!" Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep, sonorous voice boomed, effectively slicing through the charged atmosphere Lucius had cultivated around Hermione. The Minister for Magic, looking regal in his own deep purple dress robes, extended a hand towards Lucius, a broad, affable smile on his face. "A splendid evening, is it not? Your contributions to the Ministry’s renewed vigor are much appreciated, as always."

Lucius, momentarily surprised by the Minister's direct approach, released Hermione’s hand with a smooth, almost reluctant grace. He turned to Kingsley, his public persona snapping perfectly into place. "Minister," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Your presence always elevates an occasion. And I am merely a humble servant to the betterment of our world."

Seeing her opportunity, Hermione offered a polite, if somewhat strained, smile to both men. "Minister Shacklebolt, Mr. Malfoy, if you'll excuse me." Without waiting for a reply, she turned and made her escape, her heels clicking purposefully on the marble floor as she headed back towards the relative sanctuary of the DMF table.

Her heart was still beating a little too fast. The dance with Lucius had been… unsettling. His charm was undeniable, a silken, sophisticated web, but beneath it, she’d sensed a possessive, calculating intelligence that made her deeply uneasy. And her own confusing, fleeting reactions to him were even more disturbing. She chided herself again. It was the wine, the opulence of the ball, the unexpectedness of it all. Nothing more. Yet, as she walked, she could almost feel Snape’s eyes on her, a prickling sensation that was entirely different from Lucius’s overt appraisal – heavier, darker, and infinitely more complex.

Back at the table, Draco greeted her return with an insufferably knowing smirk. "Survive your close encounter, Granger?" he murmured as she took her seat, fanning herself slightly with her hand.

Luna offered a gentle, enigmatic smile. "Your aura is quite… vibrant now, Hermione. Many swirling colors."

Hermione shot Draco a mild glare before turning to Luna. "I'm sure it is," she said, trying for a light tone. She risked a quick glance towards Severus. He was staring pointedly into his glass of Firewhisky, his expression unreadable, his jaw set in a rigid line. The silence from his corner of the table was almost more unnerving than any cutting remark. It felt deliberate, a cold shoulder that stung more than she cared to admit.

Cormac, oblivious to the undercurrents, seized the opportunity. "Well, Granger, now that you're free from the clutches of the Malfoy dynasty, senior and junior," he winked at Draco, who ignored him, "perhaps a dance with a colleague who truly appreciates your forensic brilliance?"

Before Hermione could even formulate a polite refusal, another voice interjected, smooth and unexpected. "Actually, McLaggen," said Pansy Parkinson, who had just returned to the table with Ron, both of them looking slightly flushed from a rather energetic dance, "I believe Miss Granger might appreciate a moment to catch her breath. And perhaps a fresh drink." Pansy slid a glass of chilled water towards Hermione with a surprisingly thoughtful gesture.

"Thanks, Pansy," Hermione said, grateful for the intervention.

The band struck up a new tune, a slightly faster, more modern melody. Several couples, including Ron and Pansy, and Harry and Ginny, headed back to the dance floor. Neville leaned over to Luna. "Shall we, Luna? I believe this one has a rather interesting rhythm." Luna nodded, her eyes sparkling, and they joined the throng.

The table suddenly felt much emptier, with only Hermione, Draco, a pointedly silent Snape, and a slightly crestfallen Cormac remaining. Draco, sensing the lingering tension, or perhaps just bored, stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I saw Blaise Zabini lurking near the canapés. I should endeavor to rescue him from himself." He sauntered off, leaving Hermione in the increasingly uncomfortable company of Snape and McLaggen.

Cormac, ever persistent, was about to try his luck again when Severus finally moved. He pushed his chair back, the sound scraping harshly in the momentary lull. He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow. His dark eyes, when they finally met Hermione's, were like chips of obsidian – cold, hard, and utterly unreadable, yet with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice a low, formal rumble that cut through the ballroom's ambient noise. "Given that our department has been publicly acknowledged, it would be… remiss… if the Head of Department did not at least make a cursory appearance on the dance floor with one of his lead investigators. Purely for the sake of appearances, of course." He didn't offer his hand. He didn't smile. It wasn't an invitation so much as a coolly delivered, almost reluctant, statement of protocol.

____________

Hermione stared at him, momentarily stunned by the unexpected, albeit stiffly delivered, summons. Cormac, deflated, wisely chose that moment to mumble something about needing a refill and scurried away. The music, a sophisticated, moderately paced melody, swirled around them. To refuse would be churlish, an insult after his public reasoning, however thinly veiled his true motivations – or lack thereof – might be. And, if she were truly honest with herself, a small, treacherous part of her wanted to dance with him, to feel his hand on her waist.

"Of course," she managed, her voice emerging a little breathier than she intended. "For appearances."

He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, and then, rather formally, gestured towards the dance floor. He didn't offer his arm as Draco or Lucius had. Instead, he simply began to walk, expecting her to follow. She did, her heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against her ribs.

When they reached a relatively clear space on the crowded floor, he turned to face her. For a moment, they stood, the music swirling around them, a silent, charged anticipation hanging in the air. Then, with a precision that was more practiced than graceful, he placed one hand firmly, almost possessively, on the small of her back, the other taking her hand. His grip was strong, his palm surprisingly warm against hers.

As they began to move, Hermione immediately noted the difference. Where Draco had been light and fluid, and Lucius smoothly dominant, Severus was… controlled. His steps were precise, measured, almost as if he were executing a complex potion sequence rather than a dance. There was a certain formality to his hold, yet beneath it, an undeniable tension. And then, as they navigated a turn, his hand on her back tightened, drawing her closer than what was strictly necessary, closer than what was considered appropriate for a department head dancing with his subordinate.

Her breath hitched. Suddenly, she was intensely aware of the solid wall of his chest, the subtle scent, that uniquely Snape-ish aroma that always seemed to cling to him. The thin silk of her gown felt like no barrier at all against the warmth radiating from him. Her fingers, encased in his, tingled. She could feel the faint, rhythmic thud of his heart, or perhaps it was her own, hammering in response to their unexpected proximity.

He tried to ask her something then, his brow furrowing slightly as he navigated them through a particularly dense cluster of dancers. His lips moved, but the swell of the music, combined with the chatter of the crowd, swallowed his words. He frowned again, a flicker of impatience in his dark eyes.

Then, with a subtle shift, he leaned down, his head inclining towards hers, clearly intending to repeat his question directly into her ear. The movement was precise. But in the slight sway of the dance, as he dipped his head, the unimaginable happened. His lips, cool and unexpectedly soft, brushed ever so lightly against the sensitive shell of her ear.

A shockwave, pure and electric, shot through Hermione’s entire being. Her body reacted before her mind could even process the fleeting contact. A shiver traced its way down her spine, raising gooseflesh on her arms despite the warmth of the ballroom. Her breath caught in her throat, a tiny, almost inaudible gasp. A dizzying heat pooled low in her belly, spreading like wildfire through her veins, making her knees feel weak. Every nerve ending seemed to ignite, her senses overwhelmed by his nearness, the accidental intimacy of that feather-light touch. Her grip on his hand tightened convulsively, her mind a sudden, roaring blank save for the overwhelming, undeniable physical response he had unknowingly, or perhaps knowingly, just evoked.

Chapter Text

The final notes of the dance resonated through the ballroom, and for a heart-stopping moment, Hermione was suspended, caught in the lingering charge of Snape’s accidental touch. As the music faded, Severus looked down at her, his dark eyes uncharacteristically transparent. He could see it, undeniably – the flushed cheeks, the slightly parted lips, the way her breath still seemed to catch in her throat. The aftermath of her body's potent response to his fleeting touch was written all over her. He looked at her with a raw, undisguised curiosity, as if she were a unique, captivating specimen under his microscope, a puzzle he was suddenly desperate to solve.

Just then, the band, after a brief pause, began to play again – a slow, deeply intimate melody that seemed to thrum with unspoken promises. The intensity of his gaze softened, the analytical curiosity giving way to something warmer, something almost… hesitant.

"May I have the honor of another dance, Hermione?" he asked, his voice a low, husky caress that vibrated through her. This time, he didn't just state protocol; he held out his hand to her, a clear, unequivocal invitation.

A shy, tremulous smile touched her lips. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, the opulent ballroom and its chattering occupants fading into a hazy blur. "Yes, Severus," she whispered, placing her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, warm and firm, and he guided her effortlessly back into the rhythm of the music.

They moved with a newfound fluidity, the earlier stiffness gone, replaced by a comfortable synchronicity. The hand on her back remained, perhaps a touch lower, a touch more possessive than before, pulling her close enough that she could feel the subtle movements of his body as they swayed to the music.

"You're quite a good dancer," Hermione found herself saying, the words soft, a genuine compliment. "One of your many hidden talents, I presume?"

A smirk, a genuine, almost roguish quirk of his lips, transformed his face. The iciness she had braced herself for earlier, the remnants of his observed jealousy, seemed to have completely melted away under the warm lights of the ballroom and the intimacy of the moment.

"Oh, I have many hidden talents, Hermione," he replied, his deep baritone voice a rich vibration against her ear as he dipped her slightly in a graceful turn.

Hermione couldn't help but wonder, with a sudden, illicit thrill, what exactly those other hidden talents might entail. Her mind, traitorously, began to conjure images, – images of what those clever, long-fingered hands and that deep, resonant voice could possibly do in more… private settings. A vivid blush stained her cheeks at the shockingly naughty direction of her thoughts.

He looked down at her then, his brow rising in a questioning arch. "Everything alright, Hermione? You appear… flushed."

"Oh! Yes… yes, perfectly fine," she stammered, fanning herself lightly with her free hand. "Just a little warm, that's all. It's rather stuffy in here, isn't it?"

He leaned down again, his lips perilously close to her ear, his warm breath fanning the sensitive skin there. Oh, how she wanted to taste them. What is wrong with me? Merlin, Hermione, get a grip! she frantically thought to herself, her internal composure rapidly unraveling.

"Would you like to step outside?" he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Get some fresh air, perhaps?"

"Yes," she breathed, relief and a fresh wave of anticipation warring within her. "Yes, that would be lovely." She truly was warm, though perhaps for reasons far more potent than the ambient temperature of the ballroom. Fresh air did sound undeniably nice.

This time, he offered her his arm properly, a courteous, almost old-fashioned gesture. She took it, and he led her away from the dance floor, through a set of ornate French doors, and out onto one of the Ministry's many unoccupied stone balconies. He summoned a stemmed glass of chilled elf-wine for her with a flick of his wand and, for himself, a tumbler that immediately filled with amber Firewhisky, ice clinking softly. They walked to the stone railing, which overlooked the Ministry’s moon-soaked, elegant gardens and the softly splashing fountains below, taking in the breathtaking, tranquil view.

"It's beautiful," Hermione relished in the sight, the cool night air a welcome balm on her heated skin.

Severus wasn't looking at the gardens. He was staring at her, at the way the moonlight caught the crystals in her hair and illuminated the curve of her cheek. "Yes," he agreed, his voice soft, his gaze unwavering. "It is."

They stood like that in comfortable silence for a few more moments before Severus set his glass down on the broad stone railing. From the breast pocket of his tailored suit, he removed a slender, dark glass tube. He popped the lid, and a single, perfectly rolled cigar slid out.

Hermione watched in fascination as he used the tip of his wand to precisely cut one end, then, with another subtle flick, conjured a small, controlled flame to light the other. He drew on it, the tip glowing a fiery orange in the darkness, then exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke into the cool night air. He began taking long, deep, appreciative drags, alternating between taking sips of his drink and puffing leisurely on his cigar, looking utterly at ease. A different man from the stern professor she had known, or the intense Head of Department.

"I didn't know you smoked," she said, her voice soft, a hint of awe in her tone at this unexpected glimpse into a more private side of Severus Snape. "It must be my lucky night, getting to see yet another hidden facet of the infamous Severus Snape."

That got a genuine chuckle out of him, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath their feet. It floored her even more than his smile. It was warm, unguarded, and utterly captivating.

"I don't smoke often, Hermione," he confessed, turning to lean back against the railing beside her. "But every now and then, a particular occasion, or a particularly… stimulating day, calls for a good cigar and a decent whisky on the rocks."

A sudden impulse, bold and uncharacteristic, seized her. "May I try it?"

He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. "Try what?"

"The cigar, silly," she said, a beaming, almost mischievous smile lighting up her face. "I've never actually tried one before."

Severus looked at her skeptically for a long moment, a considering glint in his dark eyes. Then, a slow smirk spread across his lips. "Very well, Granger. But don't say I didn't warn you if you find it less than… agreeable." He held the cigar out to her, the glowing tip like a captured ember. She took it carefully in her smaller hand, the paper surprisingly smooth beneath her fingertips.

She brought it to her lips, her gaze innocently meeting his, and began to suck from it, much as one would a straw. The sight – her full, red lips closing around the end of his cigar, the small, intent sounds she made – sent an unexpected, visceral bolt of heat straight to Severus’s groin, causing his cock to twitch sharply beneath the fabric of his trousers. It unlocked something primal, something fiercely possessive within him. An involuntary, low groan erupted from the back of his throat, his eyes darkening with a sudden, consuming hunger. Merlin, help him, he thought, his carefully constructed control shattering.

Hermione, oblivious to the inferno she had just ignited within him, pulled too hard, too deeply for her first attempt. Instead of a smooth draw, she inhaled a lungful of potent smoke and immediately erupted into a violent, hacking coughing fit, her eyes watering.

The sound, and her distress, pulled Severus sharply from his erotic reverie, concern overriding the sudden lust. He was instantly by her side, gently patting her on the back. "Gently, Hermione, gently," he chided, his voice a little rougher than intended. "A cigar is not a Chocolate Frog to be devoured. You must savor it. Taste the rich flavors." He handed her his glass of Firewhisky. "Here. Take a sip of this. It will cleanse your palate. The whisky, surprisingly, pairs rather well with it."

She took a grateful sip of the fiery liquid, the burn in her throat momentarily overwhelming the coughing. When she had recovered her breath, she looked at the cigar, then back at Severus, a determined glint in her eye. He offered it back to her. This time, she took a slower, much smaller drag, holding the smoke in her mouth for a moment as he’d implicitly instructed, trying to discern the flavors. She closed her eyes, allowing her sense of taste to take over. And then she noticed it: a complex, bittersweet flavor dancing on her tongue, shifting from dark, almost burnt caramel to rich, decadent chocolate, with an underlying earthiness.

She opened her eyes, exhaling the smoke slowly, a look of surprised delight on her face. "Severus," she breathed, "that was… amazing! I had no idea."

He grinned at her then, a true, unguarded grin that lit up his entire face, making him look ten years younger, erasing the harsh lines of stress and cynicism, revealing the handsome man beneath. "I'm glad you liked it, Hermione."

There was a comfortable silence then. Hermione liked this side of Severus, this unexpectedly relaxed, almost boyish man who could chuckle and grin and share a moment of quiet indulgence. And more surprisingly, she liked how she felt she could be herself around him, shedding some of her own carefully maintained reserve.

However, their peaceful, smoke-wreathed moment, charged with unspoken electricity and newfound intimacy, alas, had to come to an end. Just as Hermione was about to ask him another question, the French doors to the balcony slid open further down, and Lucius Malfoy, his silver cane tapping lightly, stepped out, his keen eyes immediately scanning the shadows, clearly in search of Hermione.

_________

The soft, intimate bubble that had enveloped Hermione and Severus on the moonlit balcony popped with the arrival of Lucius Malfoy. His voice, smooth and confident, cut through the quiet.

"Ahh. Severus. Hermione. A pleasant good evening to you both."

In an instant, the relaxed, almost boyish Severus vanished. The man who turned to face Lucius was the familiar Head of the Department of Magical Forensics – reserved, watchful, and perhaps, in Lucius's presence, a tad bit icier than usual. The warmth Hermione had seen in his eyes moments before was doused, replaced by a cool, guarded neutrality.

"Evening, Lucius," Severus replied tersely, his voice flat, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement.

Hermione, caught between the two men, managed a small, polite smile. "Good to see you again, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius’s gaze, however, was fixed solely on Hermione, a predatory gleam softening into practiced charm as he made his way over to her side of the balcony. "Oh my dear, please," he purred, his voice a low caress, "do call me Lucius. 'Mr. Malfoy' sounds far too formal for such a joyous, celebratory event as this, especially between… acquaintances such as ourselves."

"Sure… Lucius," she corrected herself, the name feeling a little foreign on her tongue, especially given the man it belonged to.

"Hermione, dear," Lucius continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate register, his silver eyes sparkling in the moonlight. "I was hoping that you would care to join me for one more dance before the ball wraps up for the evening? The orchestra is playing a particularly enchanting melody, I believe."

Hermione’s eyes flickered instinctively towards Severus, who remained impassive, his expression unreadable, before returning to Lucius. She bit her lip nervously for a fraction of a second. "I apologize, Mr… I mean, Lucius," she said, offering him a polite, almost regretful smile. "That's very kind of you, but I'm actually rather tired. I was just about to look for Draco so we can make our leave."

Severus quirked a single, dark eyebrow at her statement. He knew, with absolute certainty, that she was lying. Tired? Moments ago, she had been vibrant, animated, her eyes sparkling with life as she’d gamely tried his cigar. So, why the prevarication now? He had seen how she flushed when dancing with Lucius earlier, how she’d seemed almost… captivated by his attentions. It was obvious she enjoyed the flattery, the sophisticated charm. Didn't she? This sudden refusal was… puzzling.

Lucius, ever the actor, put on a show of profound disappointment, his shoulders slumping slightly, a mournful sigh escaping his lips. Severus, observing this theatrical display, rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly.

"Very well, my dear Hermione," Lucius said, his voice laced with a charming regret. He reached for her hand, lifting it gently. "Perhaps another time, then?" He bent low, his lips brushing against the back of her knuckles in a true, gentlemanly manner. The gesture, despite her resolve, sent another wave of warmth flushing up her neck.

With a small, almost imperceptible nod of her head and an ever-so-slight curtsey, she politely excused herself from his hold.

"Thank you, Lucius," she said, her voice soft but firm, "for inviting us to the ball, and for the dance earlier. It was… memorable." She then turned to Severus, her expression softening, a

genuine warmth returning to her eyes. "And thank you, Severus, for the dance as well," she paused, her gaze flicking meaningfully towards the remnants of his cigar resting on the railing, "along with… everything else." A shy, flushing smile touched her lips, one that was clearly just for him.

Severus felt a ghost of his earlier smirk return at her subtle acknowledgment of their shared moment. He gave her a slight, formal bow of his head. "Good evening, Hermione. Thank you as well."

Lucius, not to be outdone in gallantry, also offered a graceful bow as Hermione turned and made her way back towards the French doors, leaving the two Slytherins alone once more on the moonlit balcony, the air now thick with unspoken thoughts and the faint, lingering scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne.

Chapter Text

The Monday following the Ministry Gala Ball arrived with a crisp, early autumn chill in the air. Hermione, true to form, arrived at the Department of Magical Forensics a good fifteen minutes before the official start of their shift. The reception area was quiet, the magical lighting still dimmed to its pre-dawn glow. What was unusual, however, was the moderately sized, elegantly wrapped package sitting squarely on the polished counter, a bold 'FRAGILE' label stamped on its side. Hermione frowned, approaching it with caution. Her bafflement only increased when she saw the neatly inscribed tag: Miss Hermione Granger, Department of Magical Forensics.

Curiosity piqued, she picked it up – it was surprisingly light – and carried it into the main briefing room. This was where the team typically gathered at the beginning of each shift to discuss ongoing investigations and new case assignments. Already present, engaged in a low murmur of conversation, were Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom. Severus Snape stood near the enchanted assignment board, his back to them, seemingly engrossed in reviewing the day's projected workload.

"Whoa, 'Mione, what'cha got there?" Neville asked, his open, friendly face alight with curiosity as he spotted the parcel in her arms.

"I honestly don't know," Hermione replied, a slight frown creasing her brow. "It was just sitting on the counter in the reception area when I came in. But it definitely has my name on it." She shrugged, placing it on the large briefing table, her fingers already moving towards the ribbon. "I was just about to find out."

Snape, who had turned at the sound of their voices, his years of ingrained suspiciousness and perhaps a more recent, sharper protectiveness kicking in, barked, "Granger, wait!" His voice was a low growl, laced partly with genuine worry and partly with a sudden, sharp anger at her potential carelessness. "Don't be a fool. Do not open that package before ensuring it's safe."

Hermione froze, her hand hovering over the ribbon. "Ah… right. Of course. Good thinking, boss!" A flush crept up her neck at the implied reprimand. She quickly drew her wand, waving it over the parcel in a series of intricate patterns, casting various detection charms and spells designed to reveal hexes, jinxes, or any hidden malicious enchantments. The air around the package shimmered faintly with each spell, but ultimately, all diagnostics glowed a reassuring, neutral green. "Welp," she announced, a little breathlessly, "nothing overtly harmful detected. I guess I can find out what it is now."

With a newfound caution, she carefully unwrapped the parcel, peeling back layers of expensive, tissue-thin paper. She gasped, her eyes widening at what she found nestled inside: a breathtakingly beautiful bouquet of exotic, jewel-toned flowers she didn't immediately recognize, their scent heavenly and intoxicating, filling the room with a rich, sweet perfume.

"Wow, Hermione," Luna chimed in, her dreamy eyes wide with appreciation as she leaned closer to admire the blooms. "Someone certainly likes you! Those are Midnight Seraphs and Shadow Lilies – very rare, and said to enhance feelings of… deep admiration."

Hermione chuckled, though a knot of confusion was tightening in her stomach. "That's lovely, Luna, but I don't know anyone who would send me flowers like this," she said, genuinely perplexed. These weren’t simple daisies or roses; this was an extravagant, almost ostentatious, display.

"Oi, look! There's a card," Draco said, ever observant, pointing to a small, cream-colored envelope tucked discreetly amongst the dark, velvety petals. "Well, give it a go, Granger. Let's see who your mysterious admirer is!"

The others in the room – Neville, Luna, and even Snape, who had turned fully towards the table, his expression unreadable but his attention clearly snared – waited in palpable anticipation for the mystery of the flowers to be solved.

Hermione’s fingers trembled slightly as she carefully extracted the envelope and slid out the thick, expensive cardstock within. She began to read the elegantly scripted message. Her breath caught in her throat, and a small, shocked gasp escaped her lips as her eyes fell upon the initials elegantly embossed at the bottom of the card.

"Well? Who are they from, Granger?" Draco pressed, clearly impatient. "You can't leave us all in suspense like this." Just then, the door to the briefing room opened, and Pansy Parkinson and Cormac McLaggen finally arrived, looking slightly flustered from rushing.

"What did we miss?" Pansy asked, her gaze immediately drawn to the extravagant bouquet and the expressions on her colleagues' faces.

"Some mystery fella seems to have sent Hermione flowers here to the lab," Neville replied, his eyes still wide with curiosity.

"Ohhhhh, a mystery, yes! Do tell!" Pansy said, her interest immediately piqued, a sly smile playing on her lips.

"Well, come on, Hermione, don't leave us hanging," Cormac piped up, ever eager for a bit of workplace gossip. "Who is the mystery bloke? Is it someone we know?"

Hermione, still staring at the card as if it might bite her, finally looked up, her expression a mixture of shock and something akin to disbelief. She answered their collective question with a single, almost whispered word. "Malfoy."

Everyone in the room, save for Snape whose expression remained carefully neutral, turned to stare at Draco in stunned silence, their minds immediately jumping to the conclusion that perhaps there was something more between him and Hermione, especially after their joint attendance at the Gala.

Draco threw his hands up defensively, a look of utter bewilderment, mixed with a hint of something that might have been dawning horror, on his face. "Don't look at me , you lot!" he exclaimed. "It most certainly wasn't me ! I value my life too much to send Granger flowers that look like they cost more than my monthly salary!"

Cormac looked confused, his brow furrowed in thought. "But… if it wasn't Draco… that only leaves one other Malfoy," he said slowly, the pieces visibly clicking into place in his mind. His eyes widened dramatically. "OH MY GOD! Are you saying Lucius Malfoy sent Hermione flowers?!"

"It would seem so," Hermione replied, her voice faint, still stunned as she stared at the opulent, fragrant blooms that now felt less like a gift and more like a gilded cage.

Severus, who had remained silent throughout this exchange, his dark eyes fixed on Hermione with an unnerving intensity, finally moved. He stood, cleared his throat pointedly, and glanced with deliberate slowness at the large clock on the briefing room wall. "If you could all perhaps divert your attention away from Miss Granger's… floral arrangements," he said, his voice dripping with an icy sarcasm that made several of them flinch, "it is, in fact, time for our shift to officially begin." His gaze then landed on the bouquet, and a distinct sneer curled his lip. "Miss Granger, would you mind doing something with… those ? They are rather… in the way."

Hermione’s cheeks burned with a fresh wave of embarrassment and a surprising pang of defensiveness over the beautiful, if unwanted, flowers. "Oh! Sorry, yes, of course, boss," she stammered, quickly gathering the bouquet. She hurried out to the small kitchenette area in their break room and carefully sat the flowers in the window, where they could soak up the morning sunlight and, more importantly, be out of Snape’s direct line of sight. She then hurried back to the briefing table and took a seat, her heart still thumping, as the palpable chill emanating from the Head of their department settled over the room. The briefing was about to begin.

_______

The air in the briefing room remained thick with unspoken tension as Hermione hastily retook her seat. Snape stood before the enchanted assignment board, his posture rigid, his dark eyes sweeping over them with an expression that brooked no nonsense. The earlier, almost jovial atmosphere that had been sparked by the mystery of the flowers had been thoroughly extinguished, replaced by his familiar, and today, particularly frosty, professionalism.

"Now that the… distractions have been dealt with," Snape began, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth, "we have a new assignment. Dispatched from the Auror Office less than an hour ago."

He tapped the board with the tip of his wand, and an image shimmered into existence: a dimly lit, cluttered study, books overflowing from shelves, arcane objects scattered on every surface, and in the center, the shadowy outline of a figure slumped over a large, ornate desk.

"Our victim," Snape continued, his tone all business, "is one Corvus Blackwood. A noted, and notoriously reclusive, collector of rare and often… ethically ambiguous magical artifacts. He was found deceased in his private study by his house-elf this morning. The study was sealed from the within by a series of complex, interlocking wards. No sign of forced entry. No immediately obvious cause of death."

A murmur of interest went through the team, their professional curiosity momentarily overriding the earlier personal drama. This sounded like their kind of puzzle.

"The initial report from Auror Dawlish, who is currently securing the scene, indicates that Blackwood’s most prized possession, an artifact known only as the 'Obsidian Heart of Myrr,' is missing from its display case." Snape’s eyes narrowed. "This particular artifact is rumored to possess… unique and potentially hazardous properties. Its absence is of primary concern."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over each member of the team. "Miss Granger," he said, his voice cool and formal, "you will accompany me to Blackwood Manor. Your expertise in warding schemes and complex charm analysis will be required to dissect the room’s defenses and ascertain how they were bypassed, or if the perpetrator was, in fact, already inside." He didn’t look at her as he spoke, his attention fixed on the image on the board.

"Mr. Malfoy," he continued, "you will focus on any potential Dark Arts residue within the study and investigate Blackwood’s known associates and rivals. Given his collection, there will likely be many who coveted his possessions. Start with auction house records and any known dealers in restricted artifacts."

Draco nodded, his expression serious. "Understood, boss."

"Mr. Longbottom, Blackwood was also known to cultivate rare and often dangerous magical plants for his… alchemical pursuits. You will examine the study and grounds for any unusual botanical specimens or potion ingredients that might shed light on his activities or his demise."

Neville’s brow furrowed in concentration. "Right, Professor. I'll prepare my analysis kit."

"Miss Lovegood," Snape’s tone softened almost imperceptibly as he addressed Luna, "your unique sensitivities will be invaluable. I want you to assess the room for any lingering emotional echoes or obscure magical energies, particularly anything related to this 'Obsidian Heart'."

Luna smiled faintly. "The air in such places often sings sad songs, Professor. I will listen carefully."

"Miss Parkinson, Mr. McLaggen," Snape concluded, his voice returning to its crisp efficiency, "you will remain here on standby. Prepare the trace analysis lab and be ready to receive any and all evidence collected. I expect a full diagnostic workup on anything we send back, with priority given to any substances found near the victim or the empty display case."

Pansy nodded sharply. "Of course, Boss." Cormac, for once, looked focused and ready, perhaps sensing the gravity of the case, or simply chastened by Snape’s earlier demeanor.

"Are there any pertinent initial questions?" Snape asked, his gaze sweeping the room once more.

Hermione wanted to ask about the Obsidian Heart, its specific properties, but something in Snape’s closed-off expression, the way he resolutely avoided her eye, made her hesitate. She would research it herself. The chill from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the warmth and unexpected intimacy they had shared on the balcony just two nights prior. The memory of his lips brushing her ear, his husky voice, the shared cigar – it all felt like a distant, confusing dream in the face of his current frosty demeanor. She pushed the thoughts aside, forcing herself to focus on the professional task at hand.

No one else spoke. The weight of the new case, coupled with the lingering unease from the morning’s floral interruption, hung heavy in the air.

"Very well," Snape said, with a curt nod. "Granger, Malfoy, Longbottom, Lovegood – gather your kits. We depart for Blackwood Manor in ten minutes." With that, he turned and swept out of the briefing room, his black robes billowing behind him, leaving a palpable silence in his wake.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. This was going to be a very long day.

Chapter Text

Blackwood Manor loomed before them, a gothic edifice of dark, weathered stone and unnervingly narrow, mullioned windows that seemed to stare out like vacant eyes. Ivy, as black as midnight, clawed its way up the walls, and the air around the estate felt heavy, imbued with the residue of countless ancient and obscure enchantments. A palpable sense of foreboding clung to the place, even under the grey, overcast sky of late morning. The Apparition point, just outside imposing wrought-iron gates, left them with a short, unnerving walk up a winding, overgrown drive.

Auror John Dawlish, looking harried and slightly spooked, met them at the massive oak front door, which was already ajar. "Mr. Snape," he greeted, nodding respectfully. "Team. Glad you're here. This one's… peculiar. Place is a fortress."

"So I understand, Auror Dawlish," Snape replied, his voice devoid of inflection as his dark eyes scanned the oppressive facade of the manor. "Report."

"Victim is Corvus Blackwood, as you know. Found by his house-elf, Pip, around oh-seven-hundred hours. Pip is… distressed, but cooperating as much as a terrified house-elf can. The study is on the first floor, west wing. We haven't touched the door itself, per your department’s protocols. The rest of the house shows no sign of disturbance." Dawlish gestured vaguely. "It’s a bit of a maze, this place. And filled to the brim with… well, you’ll see."

Snape nodded curtly. "Very well. Miss Granger and I will assess the wards on the study immediately. Mr. Malfoy, begin your sweep for Dark Arts residue in the corridors leading to the west wing and make an initial assessment of the general magical atmosphere of the public rooms. Mr. Longbottom, the grounds here appear… neglected, yet deliberately cultivated in places. Begin your survey there, then proceed inwards. Miss Lovegood, accompany Mr. Longbottom initially, then allow your senses to guide you once we are inside. Dawlish, you will escort Mr. Malfoy and then remain available."

His instructions were clear, concise, and delivered with his usual cool authority, though Hermione noted he still hadn't met her gaze directly since the briefing room. The earlier chill lingered, a subtle but persistent barrier between them.

The team dispersed, Neville and Luna heading back towards the overgrown gardens, while Draco, with a curious glance at the gloomy interior, followed Dawlish inside. Snape, without a word, turned and entered the manor, Hermione a step behind him.

The entrance hall was vast and shadowy, dominated by a grand, dust-laden staircase. Tapestries depicting unsettling magical battles hung on the panelled walls, their woven figures seeming to writhe in the dim light filtering through a grimy stained-glass window high above. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, potent magical ingredients, and a faint, metallic tang she couldn't quite place. Every surface was cluttered with arcane objects – shrunken heads

in bell jars, intricately carved runestones humming with faint power, and glass cases filled with items that looked both priceless and deeply unsettling.

Snape led the way through a labyrinth of shadowy corridors, his black robes blending seamlessly with the gloom, until they reached a heavy, dark wooden door at the end of a secluded passage. This, presumably, was the entrance to Corvus Blackwood's study. There were no visible locks, no keyholes, but Hermione could already feel the dense layering of magical protections emanating from it, a complex web of interwoven spells.

"The wards, Miss Granger," Snape said, finally turning to her, his expression all business. "Begin your analysis. I want to know their nature, their strength, and any potential vulnerabilities or bypass sequences. And, most importantly, if they were indeed sealed from within, or if that is merely an illusion."

Hermione nodded, her professional focus kicking in, pushing aside the lingering sting of his earlier coldness. She unslung her investigator's kit, her fingers already moving to select the necessary diagnostic tools – fine crystal probes, rune-etched metallic filaments, and small vials of indicator potions.

"Of course, Snape" She approached the door, her wand held aloft, its tip glowing with a soft, analytical light. As she began to trace the intricate magical signatures woven into the ancient wood and stone, Snape stood a few feet behind her, a silent, watchful presence. His proximity was a familiar pressure, yet today it felt different, charged with an undercurrent of unresolved tension. She could feel his gaze on her, intense and scrutinizing, as she began the painstaking process of unraveling Corvus Blackwood's final defenses, one shimmering, complex layer at a time.

__________

The air in Corvus Blackwood’s study was thick with the scent of old magic, dust, and a faint, cloying sweetness that made Hermione’s nose wrinkle. After a meticulous analysis, during which Snape had remained a silent, observing shadow, she finally straightened from her crouched position before the heavily warded door.

"The wards are formidable, Professor," she reported, her voice echoing slightly in the oppressive stillness of the corridor. "At least five distinct layers. The outermost is a standard high-level Imperturbable Charm, reinforced. Beneath that, a Repelling Jinx keyed to anyone not of Blackwood lineage – bypassed, interestingly enough, as if by a recognized magical signature or a specific counter-sigil. Then there's a complex Muting Ward, likely to prevent any sound from escaping or entering the study, followed by a very old, very potent Stasis Charm, probably designed to preserve the contents. The final layer, directly on the door mechanism itself, is a custom-designed locking spell. It’s keyed to Blackwood’s magical signature and his heartbeat. Or, rather," she corrected herself, a grim understanding dawning, "the absence of his heartbeat. It appears to have unsealed itself upon his death."

Snape nodded slowly, his dark eyes fixed on the door. "So, the killer did not necessarily need to bypass the external wards to exit, if Blackwood was already deceased. The room itself would have opened for them." He pushed the heavy oak door inward. It swung open with a low groan, revealing the scene Auror Dawlish had described: the cluttered, dimly lit study, and the figure of Corvus Blackwood slumped lifelessly over his ornate desk.

They stepped inside, the atmosphere growing even heavier. The room was a chaotic treasure trove of the arcane. Books with crumbling spines and sinister titles were stacked precariously, artifacts pulsed with faint, unsettling light from within glass cabinets, and dried herbs hung in bunches from the low-beamed ceiling, their scents mingling with the underlying sweetness Hermione had noticed.

"Begin your sweep, Miss Granger," Snape instructed, his voice low. "Standard procedure. Look for anything out of place, any residual magical signatures that don’t belong."

They began to search, moving carefully through the densely packed room. Hermione focused on the desk area, while Snape, with his characteristic methodical approach, started with the perimeter. After several minutes of quiet investigation, his voice cut through the silence.

"Granger."

She looked up. He was standing before a section of dark, intricately carved wooden wall paneling, his brow furrowed. "This panel," he said, running a long finger over its surface. "It doesn't quite match the grain of the others. A subtle illusion charm, poorly maintained." With a deft flick of his wand, the illusion dissolved, revealing the faintest of seams. He pressed a specific point, and a section of the panel, about one foot wide, clicked and swung inward on hidden hinges.

Behind it was only darkness, a narrow cavity within the wall. "Interesting," Snape murmured. He extended his wand, uttering, " Lumos Maxima ." The tip of his wand flared, but the light seemed to be swallowed by the recess, offering only a dim, frustrating glow that barely penetrated the shadows. "Magical suppression charms," he deduced, his voice tight with interest. "Heavily warded. Whatever he kept in here, he didn't want found, nor did he want magic used to access it."

He peered closer, and Hermione moved to look over his shoulder. Within the oppressive dimness, they could just make out the shape of another sealed box, roughly the same width and height as the panel, fitted snugly into the space.

"Miss Granger," Snape said, turning slightly, his earlier iciness momentarily forgotten in the thrill of discovery. "I need your assistance, please. Given the suppression field, wand light is proving… insufficient. Do you happen to have a Muggle flashlight in that invaluable kit of yours?"

"Yes, I do, boss," she replied, a little surprised by the request but pleased to be of practical use. She rummaged through her beaded bag, which, as always, contained far more than seemed physically possible, and produced a sturdy, Muggle-issue torch. She handed it to him.

Severus clicked it on, directing the bright, steady beam into the small space. It illuminated a heavy, steel-banded strongbox, its front bearing a complex-looking mechanical lock rather than a magical one. "A safe," he confirmed. He tried a silent Alohomora , then a more forceful, verbal one. Nothing. The lock remained stubbornly impassive. "As expected."

He handed the flashlight back to Hermione. "If you would hold the light for me, Miss Granger." He then surprised her further by producing a small, leather-wrapped roll from an inner pocket of his robes. Unfurling it revealed a set of slender, gleaming metal tools – lock picks. "I am going to attempt to bypass the lock via more… traditional, Muggle methods."

A small, involuntary smile touched Hermione’s lips. "Still full of surprises, I see," she murmured under her breath, more to herself than to him.

Severus, who was already selecting a tension wrench and a pick, stopped what he was doing momentarily. He turned his head, staring at her, cocking it to the side slightly in a gesture of thoughtful consideration. A ghost of a smirk, faint but undeniable, graced his lips at her comment, and she blushed furiously at being overheard.

"Indeed, Miss Granger," he drawled, before turning his attention back to the safe. She took the flashlight from him, trying to quell the sudden, unexpected flutter in her stomach.

The space, however, was incredibly cramped. They struggled for a bit, bumping elbows and knees, trying different positions that would allow him enough space to work his delicate tools and her enough room to provide adequate, steady lighting on the intricate lock mechanism. After a series of awkward shuffles and muttered apologies, they finally found a configuration that, if a bit intimate, worked. Hermione found herself kneeling on the dusty wooden floor directly in front of the open wall cavity, holding the flashlight beam steady. Severus stood directly behind her, his body close, leaning over her shoulder to reach the lock.

Hermione was acutely, almost painfully, aware of the closeness of his body. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle scent of him filling her senses. His arm brushed hers as he worked, sending tiny sparks along her skin. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, trying to calm the sudden, erratic thumping of her heart, the way her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Focus, Hermione, she chided herself. This is a crime scene. She wondered, with a fleeting, ridiculous pang, if her proximity had any effect on him whatsoever, or if he was, as always, utterly immune.

After what felt like an agonizing eternity but was probably closer to ten minutes of focused, silent work, accompanied only by the tiny, metallic clicks and scrapes of Snape’s tools, they finally heard it: a louder, more decisive click . The heavy latch of the strongbox sprang open.

Snape carefully pulled the small, heavy door towards them. He directed the beam of Hermione’s flashlight inside. It revealed… nothing. Only a thick layer of undisturbed dust, save for one clean, voided rectangular area in the center, an outline where something of significant size had clearly been sitting for a very long time.

"It seems," Severus drawled, his voice tight with a mixture of frustration and grim satisfaction, "that the Obsidian Heart of Myrr wasn't the only precious item taken from Mr. Blackwood."

By this point, Hermione's legs, cramped from kneeling on the hard floor for so long, had gone a bit numb. When she tried to shift her weight and stand up, her balance deserted her. With a small, undignified gasp, she tipped sideways and then backwards, momentum carrying her directly into Snape.

The back of her head landed squarely, and with unfortunate accuracy, in Severus Snape's crotch.

That wasn't the worst of it. The impact, combined with her flailing attempt to regain her balance, caused her busy curls to instantly and inextricably tangle themselves in the metal teeth of his trousers' zipper. A small yelp of pain escaped her as strands of hair pulled tight. Oh no, no, no, noooo. This cannot be happening, she thought, a wave of horrified mortification washing over her. This was a nightmare.

She shuffled awkwardly on her knees, trying to lessen the painful pull, and twisted around to face him, to try and get her hair untangled from its improbable prison. "Severus! I'm so, so sorry!" she stammered, her face flaming, as her hands, in her panic, instinctively reached for the crotch of his trousers, fumbling to free herself.

Severus Snape, a man rarely caught off guard, was, for one singular, monumental moment, utterly, completely stunned speechless. This beautiful, intelligent, infuriating witch was on her knees before him, her head mere inches from his manhood, her frantic, warm fingers brushing against his thighs with an innocent intimacy that was anything but. He had to clamp his jaw shut, closing his eyes tightly, desperately picturing Minerva McGonagall and Albus Dumbledore engaged in a vigorous, naked game of Exploding Snap to keep the current mortifying, embarrassing situation from escalating into something far, far worse. Then he felt her delicate hands on the center of his trousers, trying to shake her hair loose from his zipper.

Despite his mental barricades, he could feel the blood rushing south, hot and insistent, his cock twitching to life with an undeniable, traitorous surge. A low, involuntary groan rumbled deep in his throat. His eyes, when he snapped them open, were dark, almost black with a mixture of shock, unwilling arousal, and sheer, unadulterated panic.

He quickly, perhaps a little too roughly, grabbed her hands, pulling them away before she could feel the undeniable evidence of his body's entirely inappropriate reaction to her. "Please, Miss Granger! Allow me ," he said, his voice emerging strained, flustered, a stark contrast to his usual cool control. His attempt at composure was further undermined when she looked up at him, her wide, golden-honey eyes filled with a mixture of pain and humiliation, her lips slightly parted, a

delicate flush tinging her cheeks. He let out another small, almost silent growl and began to work with frantic, fumbling speed, his own fingers brushing against the soft curls now intimately acquainted with his attire. This witch, he thought with a surge of desperate frustration, is going to be the bloody death of me.

Just when Severus had nearly, nearly , managed to free the last stubborn tendril of her hair, extricating her from their mutually horrifying predicament, they heard a voice from the doorway of the study.

"My, oh my ."

It was the cool, amused drawl of Draco Malfoy. He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, looking for all the world like the cat who had not only caught the canary but had also discovered where it kept its entire stash of premium birdseed. From his vantage point, all he could see was Hermione Granger, disheveled and flushed, on her knees directly in front of Snape, who was bent over her, his hands tangled in her hair near his own groin, in a very scandalous, highly compromising position.

"What, pray tell," Draco continued, a delighted, wicked smirk spreading across his face, "do we have here ?"

Snape finally freed the last bit of her hair, practically yanking it away, setting her free. Hermione, mortified beyond words, fell back onto the dusty floor with a soft, defeated "Hmpphhh," gently rubbing her tender scalp, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Severus straightened up, his face a mask of thunderous fury and acute embarrassment. He turned back around with a visible effort at composure and held out a hand to Hermione, curtly helping her to her feet. Her legs were still a bit numb and shaky, so she needed a good bit of his support to remain upright, which only added to their proximity and the overall awkwardness.

"I'm so very sorry," Hermione whispered again, looking at Snape in utter humiliation, her cheeks burning. "My hair… it just seems to have a mind of its own sometimes."

They then both turned to face Draco, who was still smirking, his eyes dancing with unconcealed mirth.

"Draco! It's not what it looked like!" Hermione tried to explain, her voice high-pitched with desperation. "We were… we were cracking a vault! And I had to hold the light, and then my legs went numb, and I fell, and then my hair got tangled in… in uhh… his zipper!" she finished lamely, nodding over in Severus's direction, as if that somehow clarified the absurd tableau.

Draco cocked a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his smirk widening almost as if he didn't believe a single word of their improbable, if entirely true, explanation. "Cracking a vault, you say? With your… hair?" He chuckled. "Whatever you say, Granger."

Snape cleared his throat, the sound like gravel. His face was still flushed, his usual pallor replaced by a ruddy hue that did little to disguise his agitation. "Ahem," he began, his voice tight. "I think we should get back to processing the scene. 

Chapter Text

The air in Corvus Blackwood’s study crackled with a mortifying, unspoken tension that even the thick layers of dust and arcane residue couldn’t absorb. Severus Snape’s attempt to steer the conversation back to the grim realities of their investigation – "Mr. Malfoy, your observations elsewhere?" – hung in the air, almost comically inadequate in the face of Draco’s knowing, Cheshire-cat grin.

Draco pushed himself off the doorframe, sauntering further into the study, his eyes still dancing with unconcealed mirth as they flicked between a still-flushed Hermione and a thunderously grim-faced Snape. "My observations elsewhere, boss?" he echoed, feigning deep contemplation. "Mostly just dusty corridors and rather unsettling portraits that seem to follow one’s movements. Nothing nearly as… illuminating as what appears to have transpired here." He paused, letting his gaze linger pointedly on the small, open cavity in the wall and then back to the dishevelled state of his two colleagues.

Hermione wished the floorboards would swallow her whole. Her cheeks felt permanently aflame, and she couldn't quite bring herself to meet either Snape's or Draco's eyes. She busied herself with fussing unnecessarily with her robes, trying to smooth wrinkles that weren't there, anything to avoid the current focus of attention.

Snape shot Draco a look that could curdle milk. "If your preliminary sweep yielded nothing of immediate import, Mr. Malfoy, perhaps you could make yourself useful by examining the desk area. Specifically, any correspondence or journals Blackwood may have left. Miss Granger and I," he continued, his voice tight with forced composure, though a faint tremor of residual agitation was still discernible, "were in the process of examining a secondary, concealed storage unit which appears to have been emptied."

"A concealed unit, you say?" Draco’s eyebrows rose, his smirk softening slightly as genuine professional curiosity began to override his amusement. "Well, well, Blackwood was full of secrets, wasn't he?" He cast one last, lingering, speculative glance at Hermione’s still-crimson face before turning his attention to the ornate, cluttered desk where the unfortunate collector had met his end.

With Draco momentarily distracted, Hermione dared to look at Snape. He was studiously avoiding her gaze, his attention fixed on the empty strongbox with an intensity that seemed almost desperate. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with the memory of her head in his lap, her hair tangled in his… she shivered, despite the stuffiness of the room.

"Snape," she began, her voice a little shaky, "the safe… did you notice any particular residue? Or any markings that might indicate how it was forced by the thief, if not by your… methods?"

Snape finally looked at her, his expression carefully neutral, though she thought she detected a faint, lingering flush high on his cheekbones. "The mechanism appears undamaged from any aggressive magical or physical assault, beyond my own intervention. The dust patterns within, as noted, suggest a single, specific item was removed. We will need to ascertain what that item was, and if its properties align with the missing Obsidian Heart, or if we are looking for two separate, stolen artifacts of significance."

His tone was clipped, all business, as if the last ten minutes of mortifying physical comedy hadn't occurred. It was a clear signal: the incident was not to be spoken of. Hermione, profoundly grateful, nodded quickly.

Just then, the heavy silence of the study was broken by softer footsteps. Luna Lovegood drifted in, her silvery eyes wide and already taking in the room's peculiar energies, followed by Neville, who looked around the cluttered space with a botanist's keen eye, already noting the dried herbs and strange potted plants near a grimy window.

"The air in here is quite… loud, isn't it?" Luna commented dreamily, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling, with unnerving accuracy, first on Hermione, then on Snape. "Full of sharp edges and… unexpected warmth, quickly chilled."

Hermione felt her blush return with a vengeance. Neville, bless his obliviousness to such subtle undercurrents, merely looked concerned. "Did you find something, Boss? Hermione? This place gives me the creeps."

Snape, seizing the arrival of the others as an opportunity to further distance himself from the earlier debacle, addressed them curtly. "Miss Granger and I have discovered a secondary, emptied strongbox, concealed within the wall. It appears Mr. Blackwood was a victim of a targeted theft, beyond just the Obsidian Heart. We need to ascertain what else was taken." He gestured towards the desk. "Mr. Malfoy is examining Blackwood’s personal effects. Longbottom, assess those plants. Lovegood, continue your… impressions."

He was back in command, the familiar, stern Head of Department. Yet, as he turned to re-examine the empty safe himself, his movements a little too stiff, his focus a little too intense, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that beneath the carefully reconstructed layers of ice, the embers of their shared, mortifying, and undeniably charged encounter were still burning. And, if Draco’s lingering, knowing glances were anything to go by, their little secret wasn't nearly as well-concealed as Snape clearly wished it to be. The investigation into Corvus Blackwood’s death had just become infinitely more complicated.

__________

The awkwardness in Blackwood's study eventually gave way to the pressing demands of the investigation. Driven by Snape's curt efficiency and their own professionalism, the team settled into their respective tasks, the earlier incident deliberately unmentioned, though it hummed beneath the surface like a misapplied charm.

Draco, sifting through Blackwood’s cluttered desk, unearthed a series of increasingly paranoid letters from the collector, referencing a "recent, most precious acquisition" and his fears of it being "coveted by shadows." Neville, after a thorough examination of the strange, wilting potted plants near the main display case where the Obsidian Heart had presumably resided, identified trace residues of Nocturna Mortis , a rare, night-blooming flora known to react violently to certain dark magical energies, suggesting a powerful, unsettling artifact had indeed been present. Luna, drifting through the manor's oppressive rooms, spoke of a lingering "shadow of immense hunger" that seemed to emanate not just from the plundered display case, but also with a peculiar intensity from the hidden, emptied vault Hermione and Snape had discovered. Hermione herself, meticulously analyzing the area around the concealed strongbox, found faint, almost undetectable traces of a highly sophisticated, multi-layered Disillusionment Charm, one clearly designed to evade even magical detection, suggesting the thief was skilled and exceptionally cautious.

Snape collated their initial findings, his expression grim. "Blackwood was not merely a collector; he was a hoarder of dangerous, volatile power," he stated, his gaze sweeping over his team. "And it appears someone with considerable skill and knowledge of his secrets has relieved him of at least two significant items. We have exhausted the immediate potential of the scene. Further analysis requires the resources of the lab."

With a final, sweeping look at the silent, shadowed study, they gathered their kits and evidence bags and Apparated back to the familiar, sterile environment of the DMF.

While Pansy and Cormac began processing the physical samples Neville and Draco had collected, Hermione immediately sequestered herself in the DMF’s small but impressively stocked research alcove. She needed to understand the nature of the Obsidian Heart of Myrr. The name itself whispered of antiquity and darkness. She delved into restricted Ministry archives, cross-referencing with ancient, leather-bound tomes on forbidden artifacts that Snape had, with a significant look, granted her access to.

Hours passed. The lab outside hummed with activity, but Hermione was lost in a world of faded ink and chilling descriptions. The Obsidian Heart, she discovered, was even more terrifying than its ominous name suggested. It wasn't a weapon in itself, but a potent amplifier, a dark lodestone that drew upon and magnified negative emotions – fear, despair, hatred – in its vicinity, channeling them into raw, destructive magical energy. It could destabilize wards, corrupt protective enchantments, and even, in the wrong hands, exert a subtle, insidious influence over sentient minds. She felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. This was no mere collector's bauble.

But it was a faded, almost overlooked illustration in a particularly obscure grimoire, ‘Umbral Artefacts and Their Unholy Convergences’ , that made her blood run truly cold. Deep within the research, she found it: a rough, woodcut image of a dark, faceted object, described as the 'Voidstone of Ascoroth.' Its dimensions, its sharp, almost crystalline shape so meticulously detailed by the ancient artist, matched with horrifying precision the exact size and outline of the clean, voided area they had found within the dust of Blackwood’s hidden vault.

Her breath hitched. The accompanying text was fragmented, parts of it deliberately erased or rendered illegible by time and perhaps even by past nervous custodians of the knowledge. But what remained was chilling enough. The Voidstone, it hinted, was a containment vessel, inert on its own, but designed to house and perfectly synergize with a potent emotional amplifier. An object like… the Obsidian Heart.

With trembling fingers, she flipped through the brittle pages, searching for any mention of what happened when the two were combined. She found it in a small, almost footnote-like addendum, written in a spidery, panicked script: "...when the Heart beats within the Void, the Desolation Engine is awakened. A localized cataclysm of despair, devouring light, hope, and magic itself, rendering all within its shadow unto dust and madness..."

Hermione felt sick. This wasn't just about stolen artifacts anymore. This was about a weapon, a horrifyingly dark weapon of unimaginable power, potentially now assembled and in the hands of a killer.

She gathered her notes, her hands shaking, and practically ran from the research alcove into the main lab, her face pale. "Snape!" she called out, her voice strained, stopping Snape, Draco, Neville, and Luna, who were conferring over a preliminary analysis from Pansy. "Everyone, briefing room. Now. It's… it's much worse than we thought."

Minutes later, they were all assembled, even Pansy and Cormac having been summoned from their benches. Hermione laid out the ancient texts, the magically duplicated image of the Voidstone beside a sketch of the Obsidian Heart. She explained her findings, her voice low and urgent, detailing the individual powers of the artifacts, and then, the horrifying synergy, the creation of the 'Desolation Engine.'

As the full weight of her discovery settled upon them, a stunned, heavy silence filled the briefing room. The usual hum of the lab outside seemed to fade into insignificance. Draco’s usually smirking face was pale, his eyes wide. Neville looked physically ill. Luna’s ethereal calm was replaced by a profound, sorrowful gravity. Pansy and Cormac started, aghast. Even Snape, his face a mask of stone, could not entirely conceal the flicker of grim understanding, the dawning horror, in his dark eyes.

This case had just escalated beyond anything they could have possibly imagined. They weren't just investigating a murder and theft anymore. They were potentially racing against the activation of a doomsday device.

Chapter Text

The stunned silence in the DMF briefing room was quickly supplanted by a frantic, renewed vigor. Hermione’s horrifying revelation about the Desolation Engine had injected a potent dose of adrenaline into the team. Every piece of evidence from Blackwood Manor, every minute trace, was now viewed through a lens of catastrophic potential. The search was no longer just for a killer and a thief, but for the means to prevent an unimaginable magical disaster.

Severus, his face a grim mask, unrolled a fresh parchment that had just arrived by Ministry owl. "The preliminary report from Mediwitch Tine at St. Mungo's morgue," he announced, his voice cutting through the focused hum of the lab. "The cause of death for Corvus Blackwood has been confirmed. Strangulation. Manual. No wand-work detected in the act itself, though there are residual traces of a powerful Confundus Charm lingering around the victim, likely cast shortly before his demise."

The team paused, absorbing this new, unsettling piece of the puzzle. They began to brainstorm, throwing out theories, trying to build a profile of their elusive, and now terrifyingly ambitious, perpetrator.

"It's certainly an odd way for a witch or wizard to kill anyone when they have a wand readily available," Draco mused, leaning against a workbench, his usual smirk replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Especially one capable of bypassing Blackwood’s wards and using sophisticated Disillusionment Charms."

"Yes, strange indeed," Luna added, her dreamy voice taking on a somber note. "It seems… personal. Intimate. To feel the life leave someone with one’s own hands… that requires a certain proximity, a certain… connection, however dark."

"Perhaps we're looking for a half-blood, or a Muggle-born?" Draco suggested, thinking aloud. "I don't know of many purebloods who would resort to such… visceral, manual methods to commit murder, unless caught in an unexpected altercation as a last resort. And from our observations of the study, there were no clear signs of a prolonged struggle before the Confundus took hold."

"Very astute observations, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Lovegood," Snape praised, a rare commendation that made both recipients straighten slightly. His gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over them. "The personal nature of the act, combined with the sophisticated magical skill required for the theft, presents a contradictory profile. Would you two," he directed this at Draco and Luna, "please proceed to the coroner's ward at St. Mungo's? See if you can find any trace evidence on Blackwood's body or clothing that the initial examination might have overlooked. Skin cells under the fingernails, foreign fibers, anything."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison, a new sense of purpose in their expressions before they took their leave via the lab’s designated Apparition point.

Snape watched them go, then turned to the remaining team members. "In the meantime," he drawled out, his voice laced with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, "I will need to notify our superiors of the full extent of this… emerging crisis." He clearly wasn't looking forward to the inevitable bureaucratic wrangling.

He retreated to his office, emerging shortly thereafter with three identical, stark black envelopes, each sealed with a vivid crimson stripe across the wax – the Ministry’s highest level of urgency. With a flick of his wand, they vanished, one addressed to Lucius Malfoy as the DMF’s benefactor, one to Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the third to Head Auror Harry Potter, requesting their immediate and urgent presence.

The response was, as expected for such a summons, alarmingly swift. Within a matter of five minutes, the distinct cracks of Apparition sounded in the DMF lobby, and all three men appeared, their expressions a mixture of concern and grim anticipation. Severus greeted them, his face a study in controlled severity, and began escorting them towards the secure meeting room.

Unfortunately for Hermione, who was just slipping out of the research alcove on her way to retrieve more obscure tomes on sympathetic magical resonance, their path intersected. Lucius Malfoy, ever observant, spotted her instantly.

"Severus," Lucius said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of cool arrogance that always set Snape’s teeth on edge, "shouldn't Miss Granger join us as well? She is, after all, the lead investigator in this department, is she not? And the one who uncovered the true nature of this… Desolation Engine, I believe I heard it called?" His eyes gleamed with a possessive, challenging light as they rested on Hermione.

Severus visibly seethed, a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he knew Lucius had out maneuvered him. To refuse now would seem petty, or worse, dismissive of Granger's crucial contribution. "Very well," he bit out, the words clipped.

He turned to Hermione, his expression thunderous. "Granger. Meeting room. Now ." Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel and began marching towards the indicated room, his black robes billowing dramatically behind him, a clear indication of his displeasure. Hermione, startled but obedient, quickly fell into step behind the formidable group.

Once inside the magically soundproofed meeting room, with the door sealed, Severus wasted no time. He launched into a concise, chilling explanation of their findings: the murder of Corvus Blackwood, the initial theft of the Obsidian Heart, the discovery of the second, hidden vault, and Hermione’s horrifying research into the Voidstone and the creation of the Desolation Engine. As he spoke, detailing the potential for a localized cataclysm of despair and magical annihilation, the newly informed men – Kingsley, Lucius, and Harry – all looked a shade paler than when they had first entered the room.

"This is grave news indeed, Severus," Kingsley Shacklebolt finally spoke, his deep voice heavy with the weight of the revelation. The usual warmth in his eyes was replaced by a steely resolve. "A weapon of such magnitude… it cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands, or worse, be activated."

Harry Potter, his scar seeming to stand out more starkly against his suddenly pale forehead, nodded in grim agreement. "What do we know about the thief?."

Lucius, for once, looked genuinely unsettled, the implications of such a weapon clearly not lost on him, perhaps even stirring old, unwelcome memories of devastating dark magic.

The group, a strained alliance of DMF expertise, Auror might, and Ministry power, began to come up with a plan of action. Kingsley was unequivocal. "All resources the Ministry possesses

will be at your disposal, Severus. Whatever you need – manpower, access, intelligence – it is yours. We must find these artifacts, and the individual who stole them, before it's too late."

__________

The emergency meeting with Minister Shacklebolt, Lucius Malfoy, and Harry Potter concluded with a grim sense of purpose, the weight of their shared knowledge pressing down on them all. Kingsley and Harry departed to set the wider Ministry and Auror departments on high alert, while Lucius, after a lingering, unreadable glance at Hermione, made his own discreet exit, promising any resources at his private disposal.

Hermione returned to the main lab with Snape, the air still thrumming with the gravity of their situation. The rest of the core team – Neville, Pansy, and Cormac – were already hard at work, the news of the Desolation Engine having clearly spurred them into overdrive. It wasn't long before the lab's Apparition point crackled, and Draco and Luna reappeared, their expressions serious.

"We have some findings from the coroner's office," Draco announced, wasting no time as he approached the central briefing table where Snape and Hermione were reviewing Blackwood’s known associates.

"The Mediwitch was thorough," Luna added, her usual dreamy tone now tinged with a focused intensity. "She allowed us to conduct our own supplemental examination."

"And?" Snape prompted, his dark eyes fixed on them.

"We found trace amounts of epithelial cells under Mr. Blackwood's fingernails on his left hand," Draco reported. "Definitely not his own. They’re being preserved for analysis."

Luna continued, "And the strangulation marks on his throat… they are quite distinct. We took precise magical measurements. Based on the width and the depth of the bruising, and the spacing of the pressure points, it appears he was strangled by someone with notably wide hands and large, strong fingers. Most likely a man's hands, given the force required."

"We're sending the three-dimensional measurements over to Pansy immediately," Draco concluded. "She should be able to begin creating a projected 3D layout of the assailant's hands."

Just as Snape was about to commend them, Cormac McLaggen let out a sudden, excited yelp from his workstation, where he'd been meticulously pouring over one of Blackwood's ancient, leather-bound journals. He scrambled up, nearly tripping over his stool, the journal clutched in his hand.

"Guys! I think I've found something… something huge!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. He hurried over to the table, flipping open the journal to a dog-eared page. "I was analyzing the linguistic patterns and enchantments woven into the journal's preservation

charms, and I found a heavily suppressed, magically concealed entry. It seems… well, it seems Lord Blackwood may have had an illegitimate child with a Muggle woman." He paused, then glanced back at the journal in his hand to confirm. "About… forty years ago?"

A sudden, profound silence fell over the lab. Every member of the team looked at each other, the disparate pieces of the puzzle – the manual strangulation by strong, likely male hands, the foreign DNA under the victim's nails, the intimate, personal nature of the killing, and now, a forty-year-old secret child, quite possibly of mixed heritage – seeming to snap together with an almost audible click. This wasn't just a random theft gone wrong; this was deeply, profoundly personal.

Severus Snape stepped into the center of the stunned group, his mind visibly processing the new information with lightning speed. The earlier tension from Lucius's presence was momentarily eclipsed by the thrill of the hunt, the scent of a clear path forward. He began barking out orders, his voice sharp and decisive, energizing the room.

"Parkinson!" he called out, his gaze finding her at her analysis station. "You have your new priority. Begin working on that 3D model of the assailant's hands immediately, using the measurements Mr. Malfoy and Miss Lovegood are providing. It will be useful evidence whenever we finally apprehend the killer."

"McLaggen!" he snapped, turning to the still-excited analyst. "Those cells found under the victim's nails – get them under immediate analysis. Run a full genetic profile. Cross-compare it to Blackwood's known DNA to establish if there's any paternal relation. Then, run the unidentified profile against every magical and Muggle database we have access to. If this child exists, and if they were in that room, their DNA might already be on file somewhere."

Cormac, energized by the importance of his task, nodded vigorously. "Right away, Boss!"

Snape’s gaze then swept over Hermione and Neville. "The rest of you – your new focus is this child. Tear apart Blackwood's remaining records, his correspondence, his financial ledgers, anything that might give us a name, a location, a hint. Forty years ago, a Muggle woman… there must be a trace somewhere. We need to determine who this mysterious child is, and if they are, in fact, our killer and the new possessor of the Desolation Engine."

Chapter Text

The Department of Magical Forensics became a hive of frenetic, laser-focused activity. The usual meticulous, often leisurely pace of evidence processing was cast aside, replaced by an urgent thrum of energy that crackled in the air. The looming threat of the Desolation Engine, coupled with the tangible new leads, had galvanized every member of the team. Failure was not merely an option; it was a potentially world-altering catastrophe.

Hermione and Neville were sequestered in the records annex, surrounded by towering stacks of Corvus Blackwood’s dusty ledgers, journals that spanned decades, and boxes overflowing with personal correspondence. The task of finding a forty-year-old secret, a hidden child born to a Muggle woman, felt like searching for a single enchanted needle in a boundless haystack of mundane and magical miscellany. Yet, they worked with grim determination, Hermione’s fingers flying as she cast complex information-retrieval charms, while Neville painstakingly cross-referenced names, dates, and locations mentioned in Blackwood’s spidery script.

In the main lab, Pansy Parkinson, her usual cool composure intensified into an almost icy focus, worked with the three-dimensional measurements Draco and Luna had provided. Enchanted clay swirled and shaped itself under her precise wand movements, gradually forming a spectral, translucent model of the hands that had ended Corvus Blackwood’s life – large, wide, undeniably powerful.

Severus Snape prowled the department like a caged panther, his dark robes sweeping silently as he moved between workstations, observing, analyzing, the immense weight of the situation etched into the severe lines of his face. He offered curt, incisive suggestions, his mind clearly racing, connecting disparate pieces of information with an unnerving acuity. The fate of countless innocents rested on his team’s ability to unravel this deadly puzzle, and the pressure was immense. He paused frequently by the DNA analysis lab, where Cormac McLaggen was working with a level of concentration Snape had rarely witnessed from the usually more flamboyant wizard.

Cormac, indeed, felt the pressure acutely, but also a thrill of profound importance. The epithelial cells extracted from beneath Blackwood’s fingernails were a direct link to the killer, potentially their most concrete piece of evidence. He meticulously prepared the samples, running them through a series of complex magical and magically-assisted bio-scans. First, he isolated Blackwood’s own DNA from the mixture, then focused on the foreign genetic material. The enchanted sequencer hummed, its crystals glowing with intricate patterns as it mapped the unidentified DNA.

Hours bled into one another. The initial adrenaline rush began to wane, replaced by a weary, dogged persistence. Coffee and strong tea were summoned, and the only sounds in the lab were the rustle of parchment, the soft hum of diagnostic equipment, and the occasional muttered exclamation of frustration or minor discovery.

Then, a sharp intake of breath from Cormac’s station cut through the strained silence.

"Boss!" McLaggen called out, his voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and triumph. "I think… I think I have something. Something significant."

Snape was by his side in an instant, Hermione and Neville looking up sharply from their mountain of parchments, Pansy pausing her work on the ethereal hands.

Cormac pointed a trembling finger at a shimmering, holographic rune display that hovered above his main analysis slate. "The unidentified DNA profile… I’ve run the paternal comparison against Blackwood’s." He swallowed, his eyes wide. "Boss, it’s a definitive match. The DNA from under Blackwood’s nails belongs to his biological son."

_________

The confirmation that the DNA belonged to Blackwood’s biological son sent a wave of relief and renewed focus through the assembled team. They had a direct, familial link to their victim, a tangible thread in a case that had, until moments ago, felt like grasping at smoke. They gathered around Cormac’s workstation, holding their collective breath as the rest of the DNA profile, cross-referenced with various Ministry and Muggle DNA registries (a recent, if controversial, addition to their databases), began to coalesce on the shimmering runic display.

Finally, a name materialized: Atlas Wellington . Forty years old. Mother listed as deceased. Father… unlisted, but the genetic markers were irrefutable.

The team erupted. Low whoops of triumph from Neville, a rare, satisfied smile from Pansy, and even Draco offered Cormac a grudging but sincere clap on the back. "Well done, McLaggen! For once, your obsession with obscure data points has actually paid off!"

Cormac beamed, preening under the praise. Severus, of course, offered no such effusive congratulations, but the almost imperceptible nod of approval he directed at Cormac was, from him, high praise indeed.

"Auror Potter, Auror Weasley," Snape's voice cut through the jubilation as he swiftly dispatched a silvery doe Patronus with crisp instructions. "We have a name. Atlas Wellington. Age forty. Begin your search. Standard apprehension protocols. Consider him potentially dangerous and magically adept."

With the Aurors alerted, the DMF team found themselves once more in the familiar, frustrating territory of the waiting game – waiting for the Aurors to locate their suspect, waiting for further insights from the remaining evidence.

As the official end of their extended shift finally arrived, the weary but cautiously optimistic team began to disperse. Pansy and Cormac headed off, already debating the finer points of magical genetic markers. Neville and Luna left together, Luna already speculating on the color of Atlas Wellington’s aura. Draco, after a pointedly enigmatic smirk in Hermione’s direction, also took his leave.

Hermione, however, remained. She was nose-deep in a borrowed copy of 'Notable Wizarding Lineages and Their Lesser-Known Branches' from Snape’s private collection, the name ‘Atlas Wellington’ echoing in her mind with a persistent, nagging familiarity. She knew she had seen that name, or something very like it, somewhere before… but where? The elusive connection gnawed at her.

Hours passed. The main lab grew quiet, the magical lights dimming to their energy-saving nighttime glow. Severus, having penned several terse, urgent letters to his superiors regarding the significant breakthrough, began his final rounds, turning off stray lights and ensuring the labs were secure before locking up. He entered the research alcove, where a single lamp still cast a pool of light over Hermione, who was hunched over a stack of books, her brow furrowed in

intense concentration. He looked at her, a flicker of something unreadable – concern? exasperation? – in his dark eyes.

"Burning the midnight oil, I see, Miss Granger," he said, his low voice startling her from her deep concentration. She jumped, a hand flying to her chest.

A shy, almost sheepish smirk touched her lips as she looked up at him. "Sorry, I didn't hear you come in. Just trying to remember where I've seen Atlas Wellington’s name before. It's driving me a bit barmy, to be honest. It feels… important."

He sighed, a sound that was more weary than annoyed. "Hermione, it is well past midnight. The Aurors are searching. Whatever connection you are trying to make can surely wait until morning. Go home. Get some rest. Please?" The ‘please’ was soft, almost an afterthought, but it hung in the air between them.

Hermione, however, barely heard him. Her eyes had suddenly widened, a metaphorical lightbulb igniting with blinding clarity in her mind. Her breath hitched. "That's it!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with sudden, electrifying conviction. "Oh, Merlin, of course! I know where I saw it!" She shot up from her chair, her previous weariness forgotten, and began rapidly, almost frantically, packing essential research parchments and her kit into her beaded bag.

Severus watched her sudden burst of activity, his expression perplexed. "Where on earth do you think you are going at this hour, Granger?" he asked, his voice sharp with renewed concern.

"Back to Blackwood Manor, of course!" she declared, slinging her bag over her shoulder as if it were the most obvious, logical course of action in the world. She was already halfway to the door of the alcove.

Before she could take another step, Severus moved with surprising speed, his hand shooting out to grab her firmly by her upper arms, effectively halting her progress. His grip was strong, unyielding.

"Foolish girl!" he growled, his face close to hers, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something that looked startlingly like fear. "Did you not learn anything the last time you found yourself at a crime scene, alone and vulnerable?" His thumb, almost involuntarily, brushed the faint, silvery line of the scar on her cheek, a feather-light touch that nonetheless sent a shiver down her spine. He sounded genuinely angry, but beneath the anger, his voice was tight with a raw, undeniable concern.

They were so close. So incredibly close. Hermione could feel his warm breath on her skin, see the tiny flecks of amber in the endless depths of his dark eyes. The scent of him enveloped her. It was dizzying. How she wanted him to kiss her, right then, right there. Her body, betraying her carefully constructed resolve, took a small, almost imperceptible step forward, closing some of the already negligible distance between them. She looked up at him, her lips slightly parted, her heart hammering against her ribs. But then, as those dark, intense eyes stared directly into

hers, searching, questioning, her nerve faltered. The boldness receded, replaced by a vulnerable plea.

"Come with me?" she all but whispered, her voice barely audible.

His grip on her arms tightened for a moment. "Can this not wait until morning, Hermione?" he bit back, his voice strained, though the anger seemed to have lessened, replaced by a weary frustration.

"Severus," she pleaded, her eyes beseeching his. "We've already wasted so much time. That man, Atlas Wellington, he’s out there with those artifacts. He could be planning Merlin knows what with the Desolation Engine even as we speak. I wouldn't be able to sleep a wink with this weighing on me, knowing there might be something crucial we missed."

Severus let out a long, defeated sigh, the fight visibly draining out of him. He stared down at her, at the passionate conviction shining in her eyes, at the stubborn set of her jaw, and he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he was already going to agree to whatever harebrained, late-night excursion she was planning. He was utterly incapable of denying her when she looked at him like that.

"Fine," he conceded, his voice rough. "But we are in and out. Quickly. And you will not leave my sight. Understood?"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" Hermione squealed, relief and gratitude flooding through her. In a burst of spontaneous, uncharacteristic joy, she threw her arms around his neck, giving him a surprising, enthusiastic hug. She pulled back almost immediately, a bright blush staining her cheeks as she realized what she’d done, the impropriety of it. "Sorry… sir," she mumbled, her eyes downcast.

He looked momentarily stunned by the embrace, his own arms frozen at his sides, before his composure reasserted itself, though a muscle still twitched in his jaw. "What exactly, Miss Granger," he asked, his voice regaining some of its familiar formality, though perhaps a little less steady than usual, "are we hoping to find by returning to Blackwood Manor at this ungodly hour?"

"Well," she began, her eyes lighting up with renewed excitement as she explained her theory, "do you remember those rooms on the lower levels of the Manor? The ones near the old kitchens? We thought they were all just disused staff quarters, for house-elves or forgotten servants." She paused, taking a breath. "I remember seeing a very old, tarnished door plaque on one of them. It just read 'A.W.' We dismissed it at the time, assuming it was an initial for some long-gone staff member. But what if it wasn't? What if 'A.W.' stands for Atlas Wellington? What if Blackwood's son had actually been residing with him, hidden away? What if they actually had some sort of… relationship, however strained? What if he's been there the entire time, hiding in plain sight, right under our noses?"

Snape raised a thoughtful eyebrow, his mind clearly processing the implications of her theory. It was… plausible. Disturbingly so. "Alright, Granger," he said finally, a new glint of determination in his own eyes. "Let's go."

With a sharp crack , they Apparated away from the silent, darkened labs of the DMF, bound once more for the oppressive shadows of Blackwood Manor.

Chapter Text

The sharp crack of their apparition shattered the oppressive stillness of the Blackwood Manor grounds, a sound that felt unnaturally loud in the dead of night. The moon, a sliver of silver in the inky sky, cast long, skeletal shadows from the ancient, gnarled trees, and the manor itself loomed before them, even more foreboding and sepulchral than it had in daylight. A cold wind whispered through the overgrown ivy, sounding like hushed, mournful sighs.

"Stay close, Granger," Severus murmured, his voice a low rumble beside her, his wand already drawn, its tip emitting a barely perceptible glow. "We are here unofficially. We do not wish to alert any remaining… occupants, magical or otherwise."

Hermione nodded, her own wand in hand, her senses on high alert. The thrill of her earlier conviction was now tempered with a healthy dose of apprehension. Sneaking back into a recently designated crime scene, especially one connected to such dangerous artifacts, was risky, to say the least. But the thought of Atlas Wellington, of the Desolation Engine, spurred her on.

They bypassed the grand front entrance, Severus leading them with surprising familiarity towards a less conspicuous side door, one likely used by staff. A quick, complex series of non-verbal spells from his wand, and the old, sturdy lock clicked open silently. They slipped inside, the air within the manor cool, stale, and utterly silent, save for the distant, rhythmic ticking of an unseen grandfather clock.

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of Blackwood Manor in near darkness was an eerie experience. Moonlight, slanting through dusty, grime-streaked windows, painted unsettling patterns on the peeling wallpaper and glinted off the eyes of forgotten portraits that seemed to follow their progress. Every creak of a floorboard, every rustle of unseen drapery, amplified the tension. Hermione found herself sticking closer to Snape than she might have otherwise, his quiet, focused presence a surprisingly steadying anchor in the gloom.

He moved with a silent, predatory grace, clearly familiar with navigating shadowed spaces. Hermione, recalling his past, knew this was a skill honed in far more dangerous circumstances than a late-night foray into a deceased collector’s home.

Finally, after what felt like an age of creeping through darkened passages and down narrow, winding servants' stairs, they reached the lower levels Hermione had remembered – an area of the manor distinct from the opulent, cluttered rooms above, characterized by plainer stone walls and a more utilitarian feel.

"It was down this corridor, I think," Hermione whispered, gesturing towards a narrow hallway lined with several identical, unremarkable wooden doors. "Towards the end."

They proceeded cautiously. Most doors were unmarked, some slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of small, sparsely furnished rooms likely belonging to house-elves or long-departed staff. And then, at the very end of the passage, almost hidden in shadow, was the door she remembered. It was slightly more substantial than the others, and fixed to it was a small, tarnished brass plaque.

Severus angled his wand light. The letters, though faded and coated with a patina of age, were still discernible: A.W.

"Well, Miss Granger," Snape murmured, a hint of something – grudging respect? – in his tone. "Your memory serves you." He approached the door, running a critical eye over its frame and the old-fashioned lock. He cast a series of quick, silent diagnostic charms. "No overt magical protections beyond a simple sticking charm and a rudimentary privacy ward, long since decayed. He likely felt secure enough down here, away from his father's more valuable… and more heavily guarded… possessions."

With another subtle flick of his wand, the sticking charm gave way with a faint click. Snape pushed the door inward slowly, revealing a small, dark room beyond. The air that wafted out was stale, but with an underlying, faint scent that was different from the rest of the house – something faintly metallic, and a trace of something else… was it old ink, or perhaps a specific type of pipe tobacco?

He stepped inside, Hermione close behind him, both their wands now providing a more substantial, if still cautious, illumination. 

___________

The small room was spartan, as expected for forgotten staff quarters, yet there was an undeniable, albeit subtle, sense of recent occupancy. A thin layer of dust coated most surfaces, but it was disturbed in telling ways. They began scanning, moving with the practiced silence of their profession. At first glance, it appeared as though no one had disturbed the room in years. However, to their trained investigator's eyes, tiny anomalies began to surface.

Severus, his attention drawn to a small, rickety desk facing the far wall, noticed that a stack of yellowed papers seemed to have been recently shifted, the dust outline beneath them sharper, fresher than the surrounding grime. Hermione, meanwhile, was carefully examining a meager bookshelf on the opposite side of the room, her fingers tracing the spines of a few worn,

unremarkable Muggle novels and a single, heavily annotated book on basic magical theory, searching for any clue, any hidden meaning.

Neither of them noticed the almost imperceptible shadow detaching itself from the deeper gloom within a narrow, built-in closet. Neither saw the hidden panel slide silently open, until it was far, far too late.

Hermione felt it first – a sudden, brutal force from behind. Strong, steely arms snaked around her, yanking her backwards, her breath stolen in a shocked gasp. The grip was tighter than anything she had ever felt before, a vise around her chest. Then, the cold, unmistakable press of metal against her skin – the razor-sharp tip of a knife at her throat. She froze, paralyzed by a searing, bone-deep terror. Merlin, how she hated knives, the icy dread a visceral echo of Bellatrix Lestrange’s deranged glint and agonizing torture in the drawing-room of Malfoy Manor.

"Don't move." The voice was a harsh, guttural rasp, practically in her ear.

Severus whirled around at the sound of her stifled cry, the sudden commotion. What he saw stopped his heart cold, a shard of pure ice piercing through his chest. Hermione, his Hermione, was trapped in the brutal embrace of a large, wild-eyed man – Atlas Wellington, undoubtedly – a wickedly sharp blade pressed menacingly against the delicate skin of her jugular. Snape’s wand was instantly in his hand, trained with deadly precision on the assailant.

"Ut-ut-ut," Atlas Wellington hissed, his eyes glinting with a feral madness. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. You fire any spell at me, any at all, and I promise, this pretty little throat of hers will be slit before your magic even hits." To emphasize his point, he dug the knife in just a fraction more. A few ruby droplets of blood welled where the steel bit into her skin, drawing a small, choked whimper of pain from Hermione’s lips. Her eyes, wide and terrified, locked with Snape’s, a silent plea shimmering within their depths. She felt like she was back in the war, helpless, awaiting an inevitable, agonizing torture to begin.

Severus’s face remained a stoic, unreadable mask, betraying none of the roaring terror and white-hot rage that clawed at his insides. "Let her go, Wellington," he said, his voice a low, dark command, each word laced with barely suppressed fury.

Atlas merely laughed, a crazed, broken sound that bounced off the cramped walls. "Why should I?" he spat, his breath hot and fetid against Hermione’s cheek. "I spent my whole miserable life in confused darkness! Alone in the bloody Muggle world with no one, no one , to teach me about these powers I was experiencing! My bloody mum," his voice dripped with venom, "wouldn't tell me nothing about magic, about who I truly am, about my FATHER!" He spat the word with such ferocious contempt that flecks of spittle landed on Hermione’s face, making her flinch.

"No, she'd rather lock me up in a loony bin!" Atlas continued, his grip tightening, his voice rising in a near hysterical crescendo. "Made me think these 'powers' of mine were all in my head! Well, I most certainly showed her ." His eyes gleamed with a chilling satisfaction. "While I was locked away, I was able to figure out my powers, embrace them, hone them! I escaped… and I took care of her." He said it rather grimly, the implication clear and horrifying. As he spoke, he

dug the blade a fraction more deeply into Hermione's neck, drawing a fresh trickle of blood. Tears of pain and terror began to stream silently down her face.

Severus hadn't felt this utterly, sickeningly helpless since he had been forced to raise his wand against Albus Dumbledore. A cold, nauseating twist formed in his stomach. This could not be happening. Not again. Not to her .

"You see," Atlas sneered, his face contorted with a lifetime of resentment, "with Mum out of the way, I was finally able to figure out who I truly am. I found her diary, and it led me to dear ol' Da." He chuckled, a mirthless, bitter sound. "He was surprised when I showed up on his doorstep one day, wasn't he? But he was too embarrassed, too ashamed, to truly accept me as his son! Hid me away down here, in the dusty servants' quarters, just out of sight, out of mind! He cared more about those bloody, cursed artifacts of his than his own flesh and blood!"

His grip tightened around Hermione’s chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, making her gasp. Her nails dug into his arm, a desperate, futile attempt to create space, to breathe.

"It didn't take long, though, snooping around while Da was out of the house," Atlas continued, his voice taking on a sinister, boastful tone. "I figured out what that Obsidian Heart of Myrr could really do, especially when I found its other half, the Voidstone, tucked away in his little wall safe." He let out a sinister smirk, his eyes glittering with mad triumph. "I HATE THE WIZARDING WORLD!" he suddenly roared, his face inches from Hermione's. "It ruined my life! It took everything from me! And now… now I'm going to end it! End it all, once and for all!"

Severus knew, with a cold, drenching dread, that if he didn't do something, something drastic, now , this was not going to end well. He looked into Hermione’s terrified, tear-filled eyes, and in that desperate, suspended moment, he did something very few people in the world even knew was possible, a feat that went beyond mere Legilimency and Occlumency. He was a master of both, yes, but this… this was a level of mental intrusion and communion achieved by only a select, powerful few. He focused, pushing past his own raging fear, and delved into her mind, sensing her overwhelming terror, her pain…

Hermione, she heard his voice, calm and clear, resonating not in her ears, but directly within the chaotic confines of her own mind. Hermione, listen to me. Please try to stay calm. I am going to get you out of this. Just trust me. Trust me, and stay perfectly still, no matter what. He felt her mental acknowledgment, a flicker of desperate hope amidst the fear, before he gently pulled back from her mind, their gaze never breaking.

Merlin, let this work, he thought, a silent prayer to any deity that might be listening. He raised his wand, not in an aggressive stance, but subtly. And then, non-verbally, with a will of iron forged in years of deception and survival, he cast the spell: Imperio .

He felt the insidious power take hold, reaching for Atlas’s fractured, hate-filled mind. He saw the look of surprise, then confusion, flicker across the man’s face as he visibly tried to fight the unseen intrusion. But Snape’s will was stronger, fueled by a desperate, protective fury. He

pushed, forcing Atlas’s grip on Hermione to loosen, commanding the hand holding the knife to draw away from her throat.

"Now, Hermione!" he barked, the mental command simultaneous with the verbal one. "Run!"

And she did. The moment she felt the pressure release, she scrambled, stumbling away from Atlas, running blindly towards Snape, towards the only point of safety in the terrifying room. She ran straight into his arms, burying her face against his chest, her body wracked with sobs. The brief, vital distraction of her movement, the overwhelming relief of feeling her safe against him, caused Snape’s intense focus to waver for a crucial fraction of a second. The Imperio broke.

Atlas Wellington, his eyes blazing with renewed, thwarted fury and the horrifying clarity of his own brief enslavement, looked menacingly from Snape to the trembling witch in his arms. "You'll not take me alive!" he roared, his voice raw with defiance. Before Snape could react, before he could even raise his wand again, Atlas raised the bloody knife to his own throat. With one swift, brutal slash, he dragged the blade from ear to ear.

He dropped to his knees, a gurgling, choking sound escaping his lips, his eyes still wide with a terrible, mad light. Then, he pitched forward, collapsing heavily onto the dusty floorboards. Blood, dark and copious, began to soak the ancient wood around him, the metallic scent instantly overwhelming the stale air of the hidden room.

Chapter Text

The gruesome tableau in the small room – Atlas Wellington’s lifeless body sprawled in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood, the coppery scent thick in the air – left even Severus Snape, a man no stranger to death and darkness, momentarily stunned. His mind, usually so quick, so analytical, struggled to process the abrupt, brutal end. His arm, however, instinctively tightened around the trembling witch still clinging to him, her small, shuddering gasps a stark contrast to the horrific stillness before them.

With a visible effort, he compartmentalized the shock. His priority was Hermione, and securing the scene. He raised his wand, his voice a low, strained murmur as he cast a Patronus – his familiar silver doe – imbuing it with a terse message to summon the Auror department to their current location within Blackwood Manor.

The Aurors arrived with commendable speed, their expressions grim as they took in the bloody scene. Severus, his arm still a protective band around Hermione, gave them a concise, carefully edited statement of what had transpired with Atlas Wellington, omitting, for now, the precise nature of his own intervention. He instructed them to begin a thorough search of the hidden passageway and the room itself, specifically for the missing artifacts – the Obsidian Heart and the Voidstone.

Once the Aurors began their grim task, their hushed voices and the methodical click of their investigative equipment filling the small room, Severus gently but firmly pulled Hermione out into the relative quiet of the narrow corridor. He needed to check on her, properly.

She was still clinging to him, her body wracked with violent tremors. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, staring at some unseen horror only she could perceive. He recognized the look all too well – the far-away gaze of someone trapped in the suffocating grip of past trauma. She was caught in her memories, he knew, reliving the terrors of the war, Bellatrix’s cursed dagger, the agonizing pain, and now, the fresh horror of Atlas Wellington’s attack, the cold press of his knife against her throat.

"Hermione," he began, his voice softer now, gentler than she had perhaps ever heard it. He began to gently stroke the back of her hair, his fingers trying to soothe the frantic energy thrumming through her. "You're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore. Come back to me, Hermione. I promise, you're safe now. Please… please, come back to me."

His words, his touch, seemed to make little impact. She remained lost, adrift in a sea of terrible recollections. He hated that look on her face, in her eyes. It pained him deep within his core to see her like this, so vulnerable, so broken. He wanted to absorb her pain, to shield her from it, to somehow take it all away so badly it was a physical ache within him.

Driven by an instinct far deeper than professional concern, he leaned down, his lips pressing a warm, gentle kiss to her trembling forehead. He kept his head close to hers, murmuring softly into her ear, his breath warm against her skin. "Hermione… you're safe now. It's over. Please come back to me."

That seemed to do it. The kiss, the warmth, the low, resonant murmur of his voice finally pierced through the fog of her terror. Her body gave a sudden, convulsive shudder, and she blinked, her eyes slowly focusing on his face, truly seeing him for the first time since Atlas Wellington’s grip had released her. She wasn't sure if it was the residual adrenaline still coursing through her veins, the profound relief of survival, or the raw, unexpected tenderness in Severus’s eyes, but something within her snapped, some carefully guarded dam bursting.

With a small, desperate sound, she pulled Severus close, her hands tangling in the front of his robes, and kissed him. Merlin, was it magical. His mouth, which she had so often imagined as thin and severe, was surprisingly soft, warm, and achingly inviting against hers. For a stunned moment, he remained rigid, surprised by her boldness. Then, with a low groan that seemed to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he began kissing her back.

His response was anything but hesitant. He reached up, his large hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones as the kiss deepened, became more urgent. He slowly backed her against the cold stone wall of the corridor, trapping her between his body and the unyielding surface. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, wanting to pull him closer still, if such a thing were even possible. She could feel the hard planes of his body pressed against hers, the radiating heat of him a stark contrast to the chill of the manor. Then, his tongue, witty and

surprisingly agile, darted into her mouth, exploring, tasting, intensifying the kiss beyond anything she had ever experienced. A deep, throaty moan escaped her as her fingers tangled in the silky black strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, arching into him, desperate for more.

Gods, she had fantasized about this, in fleeting, secret moments. But never, not even in her wildest, most improbable dreams, had she imagined Severus Snape could be this good of a kisser. She’d never been kissed like this before – with such raw, unadulterated want, such desperate need, such consuming passion. It felt like heaven, a dizzying, intoxicating plunge into sensation.

Then, all too soon, it was over.

Severus abruptly pulled away, tearing his mouth from hers with a ragged gasp. He braced his arms against the wall on either side of her head, effectively caging her in, his chest heaving as he panted heavily, struggling to regain his composure. His dark eyes, usually so guarded, were turbulent, filled with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions – desire, shock, regret. After a few long, shuddering breaths, he pushed himself upright, deliberately putting a small, but significant, amount of space between them.

"Hermione," he breathed out, her name a rough caress on his tongue. His voice was strained. "I… I am sorry. That… that should not have happened."

"No…" she whispered, the word an almost desperate plea, her own breath coming in shallow gasps. Her lips still tingled from the force of his kiss. "Please, Severus, don't be sorry. We… we both clearly wanted that."

He looked at her then, a deep, profound sadness settling in his eyes, extinguishing the last embers of the fire that had blazed between them. "We… we mustn't," he said, the words sounding defeated, torn from him. "I am your Department Head, Hermione. It would… it would ruin your career. It is inappropriate. Unprofessional."

The clinical, detached words, the retreat to duty and propriety, were like a douse of icy water. Hermione felt her heart clench. She schooled her face, forcing away the lingering warmth, the vulnerability, replacing it with a mask of cool indifference she didn't feel. She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting slightly. "Right then," she said, her voice devoid of the emotion that was churning within her. "Message understood."

Severus reached out then, his gaze dropping to the angry red line on her neck, the dried trickles of blood on the collar of her shirt. "Your neck…" he began, his voice still rough, his fingers moving as if to check the injury.

But instead of leaning into his touch as she might have done only moments before, Hermione pulled away sharply, taking a small step back. The warmth was gone, replaced by a sudden, protective chill.

"I'm fine, boss ," she said, a deliberate, pointed barb. "Just a little cut, that's all. Nothing to be concerned about." She added, her voice taking on a darker, slightly bitter edge, "I've survived worse."

He looked at her then, a confused, almost wounded expression flickering across his features. Before he could say anything else, before the charged, painful silence between them could stretch any further, they were interrupted by the distinct sound of footsteps approaching from the main staircase.

Appearing at the end of the narrow corridor, their expressions a mixture of grim concern and authority, were Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and, of all people, Lucius Malfoy.

_________

The sudden appearance of Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and Lucius Malfoy at the shadowy end of the narrow corridor was a jarring intrusion, yanking both Snape and Hermione from the raw, fractured intimacy of their preceding moments. Kingsley and Lucius had clearly been notified about the escalating situation – likely by the Auror’s– and had Apparated directly to the Manor’s grounds. Their expressions were grim, reflecting the gravity of the summons. However, they visibly faltered as they took in the immediate scene before them: Severus Snape and Hermione Granger, standing far too close in the dim corridor, both looking utterly dishevelled and emotionally strained.

Hermione’s neck bore a fresh, angry red cut, a stark, bloody contrast to the deathly pallor of her face, and her eyes held that haunted, distant look that tore at Snape’s insides. Snape, for his part, looked like a thundercloud about to burst, his usual formidable composure visibly frayed at the edges, his dark eyes burning with a suppressed, volatile energy.

"Severus? Hermione?" Kingsley's deep voice was laced with immediate concern as he strode forward, his gaze taking in Hermione's obvious injury and her trembling, almost rigid stillness. "What in Merlin's name happened here? The Aurors your patronus summoned indicated you'd found Wellington, but this…" He trailed off, his eyes sweeping the grim scene.

Lucius Malfoy, his silver eyes missing absolutely nothing, swept his astute gaze from Hermione's pale, tear-streaked face and the fresh blood on her neck, to Snape's rigid, almost defensive posture, and then back again. His trained eye, honed by years of navigating treacherous political and social landscapes, saw more than just the aftermath of a violent confrontation. He saw the almost imperceptible, lingering flush high on Hermione's cheekbones, the slight, almost bruised swell of her lips, and then, most tellingly, he noted the surprising, faint flush just at Severus's own prominent cheekbones. A flicker of something complex – cold calculation? a renewed, sharpened possessiveness? – crossed his aristocratic features, almost too quick to discern.

Snape stepped slightly, almost imperceptibly forward, subtly positioning himself a fraction more between Hermione and the newcomers. It was a protective gesture so ingrained, so instinctive when it came to her, that he likely wasn't even aware he'd done it. He drew a deep, steadying

breath, attempting to rein in the chaotic maelstrom of emotions still churning within him – the lingering, visceral terror for Hermione's life, the phantom sensation of her lips burning against his, the bitter, acidic sting of his own necessary, professional rejection, and the raw, unspent adrenaline from the fatal confrontation with Atlas Wellington.

"Minister. Lucius," he began, his voice impressively steady, though a fraction huskier, rougher, than usual. "We located Atlas Wellington. He was indeed concealed in a hidden room within these lower levels, as Miss Granger theorized." He paused, choosing his words with deliberate care, acutely aware of Hermione standing rigidly beside him. "There was a… confrontation. He took Miss Granger hostage."

At this stark pronouncement, Kingsley’s expression hardened further. Lucius’s eyes narrowed, his gaze sharpening on Hermione with an intensity that made her skin crawl, despite her desperate attempts to appear impassive and unaffected.

"She is unharmed, for the most part," Snape continued, though his eyes flicked involuntarily to the bloodied cut on her neck, a muscle tightening ominously in his jaw. "Wellington, however, chose to take his own life rather than face apprehension."

Hermione stood rigidly by, trying to school her features into a mask of professional detachment, attempting to mirror Snape’s hard-won composure. But inside, she was a chaotic, fractured mess. The phantom sensation of Snape’s lips, the desperate, unexpected passion of their brief, earth-shattering kiss, followed so swiftly by his immediate, painful apology and retreat, were all warring with the raw, undiluted terror of Atlas’s knife at her throat. Her earlier dark comment to Snape – "I've survived worse" – echoed in her own ears, a bitter, hollow reminder of past traumas now freshly, brutally reawakened. When Lucius’s gaze lingered on her, assessing and intrusive, she felt a desperate urge to shrink away, a stark, visceral contrast to the confusing, almost curious flutter she’d experienced during his attentions at the Gala Ball. 

"His own life?" Kingsley repeated, clearly stunned by the grim turn of events. "And the artifacts, Severus? The Obsidian Heart? The Voidstone? Were they with him? Did you recover them? That is the most pressing concern."

"The Aurors are currently conducting a thorough search of the hidden room and a connecting subterranean passage Wellington appears to have utilized as a bolt-hole," Snape reported, his voice regaining its crisp, authoritative edge. "He made certain… boasts… regarding their power and his destructive intentions before his demise. It is imperative they are found, and found quickly."

Lucius stepped forward then, his voice smooth as oiled silk, though his eyes remained fixed on Hermione with that unsettling, proprietary focus. "Miss Granger, you appear to be injured. And quite understandably shaken. Perhaps you should be escorted back to the Ministry immediately for medical attention and a calming draught?" The concern in his voice sounded almost genuine, yet there was an undertone, a possessiveness in his unwavering gaze, that made Snape’s fists clench tightly at his sides, his knuckles white.

Before Snape could interject with a curt, dismissive retort, Hermione found her voice, a cool, distant echo of her usual confident tone, the shock beginning to numb her. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy, I am quite alright. As Department Head Snape stated, largely unharmed." She deliberately, pointedly, used Snape's formal title, a subtle, perhaps even subconscious, reinforcement of the painful boundary he himself had so firmly, and so recently, drawn between them.

Kingsley, however, looked unconvinced, his gaze lingering on the bloody gash on her neck. "Nevertheless, Miss Granger, you've endured a significant trauma. Once the scene here is fully processed by the Aurors and you've given your formal statement, I expect you to be seen by a Mediwitch without delay."

Lucius seized the opening. "Minister, if I may, I will ensure Miss Granger is seen to. I can escort her there myself once her presence is no longer immediately required here."

"Very well, Lucius," Kingsley said, a hint of an approving smile touching his lips. "It is good to see you so… invested in the well-being of your department's team members."

He then turned back to Snape, his expression all business once more. "The immediate priority, Severus, remains locating those artifacts. I want every available Auror on this. This manor needs to be torn apart, inch by inch, if necessary. And I want an immediate, comprehensive report on Wellington – his background, his known associates, how he managed to remain hidden for so long, and how he came to know of these artifacts."

As the Minister began issuing further orders, coordinating with the Auror captain who had just arrived in the corridor, the immediate, raw, overwhelming intimacy of what had transpired between Snape and Hermione only moments before felt like it was being rapidly encased in layers of official procedure, grim necessity, and unwelcome external scrutiny.

Yet, every time her gaze accidentally, inevitably, met Snape’s across the suddenly crowded, chaotic corridor, the memory of their kiss – of his hands cupping her face, of his body pressed hard against hers, of the desperate, shared passion – arced between them, an unspoken, unresolved, and dangerously potent current in a room rapidly filling with the cold, hard reality of their dangerous world.

Just then, a triumphant shout echoed from deep within the hidden passage leading from Atlas’s room. "Minister! We’ve found them! Both artifacts! They’re here… and thank Merlin, they’re still separated!"

A collective sigh of profound relief swept through the assembled group. You could almost feel the tension in the corridor lessen by a palpable degree. The Aurors carefully brought out two heavily enchanted containment boxes, their surfaces shimmering with magical suppression charms, designed to transport the dangerous items back to the Ministry. The Obsidian Heart and the Voidstone, the core components of the Desolation Engine, would be held under the highest possible security measures. With those items now under control, the Aurors began the methodical process of wrapping up the crime scene.

Severus spotted Hermione standing slightly apart, looking pale and exhausted, the earlier mask of indifference beginning to crack. He felt a desperate urge to go to her, to say something, anything , to bridge the painful chasm that had opened between them. He began making his way over to her, navigating through the bustling Aurors.

But before he could reach her, before he could even utter her name, Lucius Malfoy was there, smoothly, effortlessly, intercepting her. "Come along, Hermione, my dear," Lucius murmured, his voice all solicitous concern as he took her arm firmly in his. "Let's get you away from this grim place." And with a polite, almost triumphant nod towards a stunned and suddenly furious Snape, Lucius Malfoy Apparated them away with a soft crack .

Severus stood frozen, staring at the empty space where Hermione had been, a sickening feeling of dread and utter, consuming regret churning in his stomach, a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the lingering scent of blood and dark magic. He had pushed her away, and Lucius, like a patient predator, had simply been waiting to step into the void.

Chapter Text

The familiar, sterile scent of the Ministry infirmary did little to soothe Hermione’s frayed nerves. Lucius Malfoy had escorted her there with a disquieting proprietorial air, his hand remaining firmly on her elbow until they reached the Mediwitch on duty. Throughout the brief examination, Hermione remained decidedly standoffish, offering clipped, monosyllabic answers, her mind still reeling from the bloody confrontation with Atlas, the terrifying intimacy of Snape’s kiss, and the subsequent, painful sting of his rejection.

The Mediwitch was efficient, her expression carefully neutral as she cleaned and magically healed the gash on Hermione’s neck. It knitted together quickly under her wand, leaving only a faint, thin white scar – another memento of violence to add to her collection of scars.

Once the Mediwitch pronounced her fit, if in need of a Calming Draught (which Hermione politely declined), Lucius escorted her from the infirmary. In the quiet, deserted corridor outside, bathed in the dim, pre-dawn glow of enchanted sconces, he finally stopped her, his silver eyes studying her pale, withdrawn face.

"Hermione," he began, his voice unexpectedly gentle, "forgive me for asking, but have I done something to upset you? You seem… distant."

A wave of shame washed over Hermione at his perceptiveness. He had, after all, just ensured she received medical attention. "No, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her voice low, automatically reverting to the formal address. "Not at all. You've been very… considerate."

"Please, Hermione," he urged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "Call me Lucius, at least when we are outside the confines of work. It seems rather…

unnecessary to maintain such formality, given the circumstances." He sounded remarkably sincere, his usual aristocratic hauteur softened.

Hermione hesitated, then decided, in her current state of emotional exhaustion, that a measure of honesty, of vulnerability, might be easier than maintaining a brittle facade. "I'm sorry, Mr… sorry… Lucius," she corrected herself, the name still feeling awkward but less so now. "It's not you. It's just… this evening," she paused, her hands beginning to wring together nervously, a tell-tale sign of her distress. "It brought back some rather painful memories. The last time I was held at knifepoint… it was by… well." She trailed off, unable to voice the name.

"Bella," Lucius finished for her, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual silken inflection. A look of dawning, genuine understanding crossed his features. He finally realized why she had seemed so profoundly bothered, so haunted. He remembered all too clearly, with a cold dread that still had the power to make his own skin crawl, what his crazed, sadistic sister-in-law had done in the drawing-room of Malfoy Manor during the height of the war. He let out a deep, almost weary sigh and, with a surprising gentleness, tilted Hermione’s chin up with his fingers, compelling her to meet his gaze.

"I am so profoundly sorry for what happened to you this evening, Hermione," he said, his silver eyes holding hers with an unexpected depth of sincerity. "And I am even more deeply sorry for what that… that bitch Bella did to you." His gaze flickered down almost involuntarily towards her forearm, where he knew the hideous, carved scar would be hidden beneath her sleeve.

She saw his gaze, and her own hand instinctively went to the spot, rubbing the sleeve where the terrible, jagged letters of "Mudblood" were etched into her flesh. "I keep it glamoured," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, a familiar wave of shame and embarrassment washing over her.

He gently stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb, his touch surprisingly comforting. "You are so… beautiful… resilient… and incredibly brave, dear girl," he said, his voice a low murmur, imbued with an intensity that startled her, yet, in a strange way, it was also… validating. Not threatening, like his earlier attentions, but almost… admiring. He gave her a long, calculated look then, the intensity shifting subtly, becoming something more speculative.

"Hermione, dear," he said, his tone becoming smoother once more, "would you perhaps care to join me for a drink? A quiet one. Somewhere far removed from… all of this."

She glanced instinctively at a nearby enchanted clock on the corridor wall. Its hands pointed to just past three in the morning. Her mind reeled. After everything that had happened she really, really didn't want to be alone. The thought of returning to her empty, silent flat was unbearable. But the alternative… the last place on earth she wanted to be was Malfoy Manor, with its dark, suffocating memories.

Almost as if he could sense her internal turmoil, her unspoken hesitation, Lucius added quickly, his voice reassuring, "And please, don't worry, my dear. I speak of my penthouse in Muggle London. A quiet, private retreat. I myself," he confessed, a shadow crossing his own features,

"find I do not much like residing at the Manor either these days… after everything that transpired there."

Now that did surprise her. Lucius Malfoy, admitting to disliking his ancestral home? Finding solace in Muggle London? Perhaps the rumors were true. Maybe Lucius Malfoy truly was… reformed, changed by the war and its aftermath, if even he couldn't stand the atrocities that had irrevocably darkened the once-grand halls of Malfoy Manor.

It was a long moment before she finally spoke, her mind a confusing jumble of exhaustion, lingering fear, and a strange, uncharacteristic desire for distraction.

"I… I would love to join you for some drinks, Lucius," she said, her voice still a little shaky. "But," she glanced once again at the clock, the ingrained responsibility kicking in, "I have to be back at work in just a few hours. Snape will expect a full debrief…"

Lucius noted the genuine disappointment in her tone, the way her eyes still held a flicker of exhaustion and something akin to… heartbreak? He smiled at her, a charming, almost boyish expression that softened the sharp angles of his face.

"No worries on that account, Hermione," he said smoothly. "As it happens, I am on very good terms with the… primary benefactor and oversight for the Department of Magical Forensics. Myself, in fact." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "I think, under the circumstances, a day off is the very least that can be arranged. Or even," he added, his gaze softening with what appeared to be genuine concern, "the rest of the week, if you wish. You went through a tremendous ordeal this evening, after all. You deserve time to recover."

Oh, you have nooo idea the half of it, Hermione thought to herself, the memory of Snape's kiss, his rejection, and her own raw pain a fresh, aching wound.

Hermione Granger was never one to be so careless about her work commitments, nor was she one to use connections or allow anyone to 'pull strings' for her. It went against every principle she held dear. However, tonight… tonight was different. After being held hostage at knifepoint, after sharing that earth-shattering, soul-searing kiss with Severus, only to be so cruelly, if professionally, rejected by him… she was hurting. Deeply. Her head and her heart were a complete and utter mess, and the thought of facing Severus in the lab tomorrow, of trying to pretend that nothing had happened, was more than she could bear. She decided, for once in her life, to be uncharacteristically Hermione. To accept the offered escape.

She looked up at Lucius, a small, tentative smile touching her lips. "That would be… exceptionally nice, Lucius. Thank you."

"The honor, I assure you, is all mine, Hermione," Lucius said, his own smile widening, a hint of triumph, perhaps, in his silver eyes. He offered her his arm, every inch the polished aristocrat once more. "Shall we?"

Hermione took a deep breath, nodded, and accepted his arm. With a soft, almost imperceptible crack , they Disapparated from the silent, shadowy Ministry corridor, bound for Lucius Malfoy’s penthouse in the heart of Muggle London.

______

The disorienting tug of Apparition dissolved, and when Hermione finally regained her bearings, she found herself standing in an environment utterly alien to her expectations of Lucius Malfoy. Gone were the oppressive gloom and dark artifacts of Malfoy Manor. Instead, she was in a breathtakingly modern, luxurious penthouse apartment. Clean lines, minimalist yet expensive furnishings, and an entire wall of panoramic windows showcasing a glittering, pre-dawn view of Muggle London spread out before her like a carpet of diamonds. She walked towards the vast expanse of glass, drawn by the spectacle, and gasped.

"Lucius," she breathed, turning to him, her earlier standoffishness momentarily forgotten in her awe, "this is… beautiful. Truly."

He smiled, a genuine, almost soft expression that transformed his usually sharp features. "I find it offers a certain… clarity. A different perspective." He inclined his head. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I shall be right back."

Lucius excused himself, retreating to a sleek, modern study she hadn't initially noticed. There, he quickly penned a note on thick, cream-colored parchment, not with a quill, but with an expensive-looking Muggle fountain pen. It was addressed to Severus Snape.

Severus, it read, Following Miss Granger’s unfortunate ordeal at Blackwood Manor, the Mediwitch at the Ministry strongly advised a period of immediate rest. Given the circumstances and the clear signs of distress she exhibited, I have taken it upon myself to ensure she is afforded this. She will be excused from her duties at the DMF tomorrow to recuperate fully. Her well-being is, of course, paramount.

-Lucius.

He sealed it, not with the Malfoy crest, but with a simple, discreet ‘L’, and sent it directly to the lab at the DMF. He knew Severus would receive it, and he allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk at the thought of his old friend’s likely reaction.

He rejoined Hermione in the sprawling living room. She was still standing by the window, mesmerized by the slowly awakening city. He made his way over to a well-stocked, gleaming chrome-and-glass wet bar. "What would a lovely lady such as yourself care to drink?" he asked, his voice imbued with a smoothness that made Hermione finally turn from the captivating view, a small, tired smile gracing her lips.

After the evening she'd endured, the thought of her usual elf-made wine felt utterly inadequate. She needed something stronger, something to numb the lingering terror and the aching

hollowness Snape’s rejection had left behind. "A martini, please," she requested, surprising herself with her choice. "Straight up, if you don't mind."

"Coming right up," Lucius replied, his eyebrows arching slightly in surprise, but his smile didn't falter. He expertly mixed her drink before pouring himself a generous measure of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky, neat – no, tonight, he decided, a Muggle bourbon on the rocks felt more appropriate for the setting.

They settled onto a plush, comfortable sofa, and as the first hints of dawn began to paint the London sky in hues of soft pink and lavender, they talked. Or rather, Hermione found herself talking, Lucius proving to be an unexpectedly adept and empathetic listener. She didn't speak of Snape, or the kiss, but she found herself, loosened by the potent martini and the surreal intimacy of the early morning hour, sharing some of her lingering fears from the war, the weight of expectations, the exhaustion of always trying to be strong. Lucius listened, interjecting only with quiet words of understanding or surprisingly insightful observations. They watched the sunrise paint the city gold, a silent, shared moment that felt strangely peaceful.

By the time the sun was fully above the horizon, Hermione was feeling considerably looser, the sharp edges of her trauma and heartbreak pleasantly blurred by the alcohol and the strangely comforting company. She was incredibly surprised when Lucius picked up a sleek, black remote control from the coffee table and, with a casual click, aimed it at what she had assumed was a giant, abstract painting dominating one of the walls. The "painting" flickered, then sprang to life, displaying a vibrant, moving image. Her jaw dropped.

The reaction caused a genuine, warm chuckle to emit from Lucius. "Care to watch a film, Hermione? A moving picture, as the Muggles so quaintly call them."

"Lucius Malfoy," Hermione said, her voice a mixture of astonishment and amusement, "you watch Muggle movies ?"

"It is," he confessed, a roguish glint in his silver eyes as he rose and stood rather close, looking down at her, "something of a guilty pleasure. One of many I've acquired." His proximity, the faint scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the bourbon on his breath, caused a light, not entirely unpleasant, blush to grace her features.

She took the remote from him with a smirk, feeling a spark of her old adventurous self return. "And I can watch any movie I desire?"

"Yes, my dear," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "Ladies' choice, naturally." As she began to scroll through an astonishingly vast digital library of titles, he flicked his wand almost dismissively, and heavy, blackout shades descended silently across the panoramic windows, plunging the penthouse into a cozy, intimate gloom.

He escorted her back to the oversized, impossibly comfortable couch and, with a surprising tenderness, covered her with a soft, cashmere blanket. Hermione continued scrolling through the seemingly endless list of movies while Lucius made them both another round of drinks.

Once finished, he returned and sat beside her, not too close, but companionably so, handing her the fresh, chilled martini.

"Find anything to your liking yet?" he inquired.

"No," she sighed, nibbling on her lower lip in concentration. "There are so many to choose from. I simply can't decide."

"How about," he suggested, a playful quirk to his eyebrow, "you close your eyes and let fate decide? A random scroll, a sudden stop."

She smiled at him, a genuine, almost girlish smile, loving the spontaneity of the idea. "Okay! But we both have to close our eyes, so it's a complete surprise for both of us."

"Deal," Lucius said, another genuine smile gracing his lips. It had been so very long, he realized with a pang, since he had felt so utterly relaxed, so at ease in someone's company, especially a woman’s, since Narcissa had passed. Most women he brought back to his various residences – and there had been a few, though none of consequence – wanted to jump straight into the sack, their motives transparently fixed on seducing their way into the Malfoy fortunes or securing a certain social standing. But not Hermione Granger. No… she was undeniably, refreshingly different. There was an innocence about her, despite everything she had endured, a genuine warmth that he found himself… drawn to.

They both closed their eyes, and Hermione began randomly scrolling through the movie titles, her finger hovering over the selection button.

"Okay," she said, a note of joyful anticipation bubbling from her, "let's have a countdown to stop on one. Starting from five."

In unison, their voices blending in the dim room, they counted down. "Five… four… three… two… one!"

Hermione pressed the button and stopped on a movie title. They both opened their eyes to see what fate, or rather, random selection, had decreed.

" Dirty Dancing ," Hermione read aloud, and then she burst out into a fit of delighted, almost hysterical laughter, the tension and exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours finally finding a release. Lucius looked at her, at the way her eyes sparkled and her whole face lit up, and he beamed, another genuine, unguarded smile.

"Oh, Merlin, I loved this movie when I was younger!" Hermione confessed, still giggling. "Patrick Swayze… Jennifer Grey… the dancing!"

"Well," Lucius said, his lips twitching with amusement, "it certainly sounds rather… enticing." His comment caused another chuckle to escape Hermione.

She clicked the play button, and as the iconic opening notes of "Be My Baby" filled the room, she surprised Lucius, and perhaps even herself, by snuggling comfortably into his side, tucking her feet beneath her on the couch. He hesitated for only a moment before his arm came around her, settling her against him. He took her nearly empty martini glass from her unresisting fingers and placed it carefully on the sleek end table before wrapping her more securely in his embrace. She felt so good there, so soft and warm, fitting against him with an unexpected rightness.

Once the movie had finally wrapped, nearly two hours later, Lucius had to admit, it was… half-decent. Not his usual fare, certainly, but he’d found himself strangely captivated, if only because of the pure, unadulterated squeals of delight it periodically caused Hermione to emit, especially towards the end when the rather uncouth but undeniably charismatic Patrick Swayze fellow declared that "nobody puts Baby in a corner" and executed that rather impressive lift.

The credits began to roll, the familiar strains of "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" filling the room. Hermione, half-asleep at this point, snuggled closer and hugged Lucius tight around his middle. She had been awake and running on adrenaline and sheer willpower for nearly twenty-four hours now, after all.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, Lucius," she murmured, her voice soft and sleepy, her words muffled against the crook of his neck. "I truly… I truly dreaded being alone tonight after… well, after everything."

He had his arm wrapped securely around her waist and gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "It has been my distinct pleasure, Hermione," he said, his voice sincere, his own weariness momentarily forgotten.

Hermione, in a sleepy, contented haze, leaned up and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to his cheek. He turned, looking at her in some bewilderment for a moment, her sleepy, trusting eyes meeting his. Then, almost as if acting on an impulse he hadn't fully examined, he lowered his head and captured her lips with his own.

The kiss was not like the desperate, fiery claiming she had shared with Severus. This was different. It was slow, achingly tender, a gentle exploration. It was a kiss he wanted to savor, to prolong, to perhaps commit to memory. Hermione was different, he acknowledged to himself. He didn't want to rush things with her, didn't want to employ his usual practiced seductions. He wanted to take his time, to discover the woman beneath the war hero, beneath the brilliant mind. It was a novel sensation, one he hadn't experienced in years, if ever. He gently, reluctantly, pulled away from her, giving her a soft, almost shy smile, which she, equally sleepy and content, returned.

"You are exquisite, my dear," he murmured, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. "As much as I would love to continue this… delightful interlude, I fear we both must get some rest." He carefully disentangled himself from her sleepy embrace. "Allow me to escort you to the guest room. It has its own rather spectacular view, should you wake before I."

Chapter Text

Despite the harrowing events at Blackwood Manor and the emotionally charged, sleepless hours that had followed, Severus Snape arrived at the Department of Magical Forensics before anyone else the next morning. The pre-dawn quiet of the lab offered no solace, his mind a turbulent storm of regret and a surprisingly sharp, aching tenderness. On his usually immaculate desk lay a single piece of expensive-looking parchment – Lucius Malfoy’s note regarding Hermione’s absence.

He picked it up, his fingers tracing the elegant, familiar script. “Advised a period of immediate rest… ensure she is afforded this… her well-being is, of course, paramount.” Lucius’s silken words did little to soothe the gnawing guilt. Severus felt like a complete and utter ass. He, who prided himself on control, on professionalism, had not only crossed an unforgivable line but, far worse, he had hurt her. Deeply. He could still feel the phantom sensation of her warm, desperate lips against his, the way she had molded herself to him, the raw, uninhibited passion of her response. And then, his own brutal, if necessary, rejection. The memory was a brand. He had to apologize. He had to find some way, any way, to make this up to her, to mend the damage his own conflicted heart had wrought.

He knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in his gut, that she wouldn't want to see him, not yet. Not after he had so callously pushed her away after such an intimate, vulnerable moment. But the need to check on her, to assure himself of her well-being beyond Lucius’s glib reassurances, was a burning imperative.

As the rest of the team began to trickle in, their faces reflecting a mixture of weariness and the lingering adrenaline from the previous night’s dramatic conclusion, Severus called them to the briefing room. He kept his own expression carefully neutral, his voice devoid of the turmoil raging within him.

"The artifacts – the Obsidian Heart and the Voidstone – were successfully retrieved from Blackwood Manor late last night," he announced, his tone crisp. "They are now under maximum security within the Ministry. The immediate threat of the Desolation Engine has been neutralized."

A collective sigh of palpable relief passed over the team. Neville actually sagged against the table, and even Pansy’s usually composed features softened with a hint of a relieved smile. Surprisingly, it was Pansy who spoke up first, her voice holding a note of genuine concern.

"Is Hermione alright, sir?" she asked, her gaze steady. "Ron may have… filled me in on some of what happened after he heard about it this morning from the other Aurors at the scene. The hostage situation… it must have been terrifying for her."

At the mention of Hermione, the others looked on with renewed confusion and dawning worry. "What happened to Hermione?" Draco interjected, his voice sharp, the casual amusement from

the previous night entirely gone, replaced by a clear, anxious concern for his friend. "Why isn't she here today?"

Severus let out a slow, weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache. He then proceeded to fill his team in on the full, unvarnished events that had taken place in Atlas Wellington's hidden room, including the harrowing details of the hostage situation Hermione had found herself in, omitting only the deeply personal, unprofessional moments that had transpired between them in the corridor afterward.

"She suffered a minor cut to her neck during the confrontation," he concluded, his voice carefully measured, "but she is, physically, fine. She was checked out by a Mediwitch at the Ministry and was given strict orders to take today off to rest and recuperate." The tension in the room seemed to lighten a fraction at that news, though Draco still looked troubled.

"Since there are no new active cases at present," Snape continued, his gaze sweeping over them, "please utilize today to ensure the lab is thoroughly tidied and restocked from the Blackwood investigation. Any outstanding paperwork and evidence archiving from previous cases must also be finalized."

With that, Severus dismissed his team and made his way back to the quiet solitude of his office. He sank into his chair, Lucius's letter still sitting on his desk, a stark reminder of the previous night's complicated end. Hermione might not want to see him yet, he reasoned, but he could at least check in with Lucius. Lucius had taken her to the Mediwitch; he would have ensured she made it home safely afterwards, wouldn't he? The thought of Lucius Malfoy being Hermione’s sole comfort and guardian, however, sent an unpleasant, jealous pang through him.

He needed to know she was truly alright. The concern, the guilt, it was a physical ache. He couldn't just sit here.

With a sudden, decisive movement that belied his internal turmoil, Severus Snape stood. He cast one last, conflicted look at Lucius’s note, then, with a sharp, almost violent turn, he Apparated directly from his office, his destination fixed firmly in his mind: the doorstep of Lucius Malfoy's Muggle London penthouse.

___________

Given that Lucius and Hermione had talked, drank, and watched a film until the early hours of the morning, by the time Lucius was roused by a persistent, authoritative knocking at his penthouse door, he had only managed a scant few hours of sleep. He rolled out of the king-sized bed in his master suite, groaning slightly, clad only in a pair of deep purple silk pajama bottoms that did little to hide the lean lines of his physique. "Just a moment!" he shouted, his voice still thick with sleep as he padded towards the entrance.

Lucius pulled open the heavy door to find, to his utter astonishment, none other than Severus Snape standing on the other side, looking grim, determined, and as though he hadn't slept at all.

"Severus, my friend," Lucius said, masking his surprise with practiced ease, a slow, welcoming smile spreading across his face. "What an unexpected… pleasure. Do come in, come in." He ushered the man inside, his mind already racing, trying to decipher the reason for this unscheduled, early morning visit. "What brings you all the way to Muggle London at this hour?" he asked, escorting Snape into the spacious living room, the panoramic windows now revealing a bright, bustling cityscape.

"I apologize for the intrusion, Lucius," Snape began, his voice stiff, his gaze sweeping the opulent room with a flicker of something unreadable. "I didn't wish to disturb Miss Granger directly, but I merely wanted to ascertain that she… made it home safely after her visit with the Mediwitch last night. Given the circumstances."

Lucius raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a knowing glint in his silver eyes. He could see through his old friend far too easily. Snape wasn't just concerned about Hermione's safe arrival home; he was concerned about Hermione .

"The team… and I," Snape amended, a slight flush rising on his neck, "were naturally a bit concerned about her well-being."

"Mmmhmmm," Lucius hummed, his expression one of polite understanding, though a smirk played at the corners of his lips.

Before Lucius could offer any further commentary, a distinctly disheveled, hungover-looking Hermione emerged from the hallway leading to the guest suites. She was wearing what appeared to be one of Lucius’s oversized silk dressing gowns, her hair a riot of sleep-tousled curls, one hand pressed to her temple as if warding off a splitting headache from her overindulgence in martinis.

"Ughhh," she groaned, her voice raspy. "What in the bloody hell was all that infernal banging out here just moments ago? Some of us are trying to recover from near-death experiences and… excessive hospitality."

She made her way to the end of the hall, blinking against the bright morning light flooding through the windows, and then she saw them: the two men she most fancied, in very different and highly complicated ways, standing in the middle of Lucius Malfoy's living room. They both turned to look at her. Severus, with an expression of utter, profound confusion that quickly morphed into something akin to horrified disbelief. Lucius, with a thoroughly pleasant, almost triumphant smirk on his handsome face.

Lucius spoke up first, his voice a smooth, silky drawl, laced with undisguised amusement. "Ah, Hermione dear, good morning. Severus here just dropped by, most thoughtfully, to inquire as to whether or not you made it home safely this morning after your… ordeal."

Severus’s dark eyes flicked between Hermione – clad in Lucius Malfoy’s dressing gown, looking like she’d spent a very comfortable, if alcohol-fueled, night – and Lucius, shirtless and looking far too pleased with himself. The dots connected in his mind with brutal, sickening clarity,

forming a picture he found utterly repulsive. Right, he thought, a cold fury mixing with a despair so profound it almost buckled his knees. Well, it seems I was entirely wrong to be worried. It looks like you have been very well taken care of indeed.

"Good day, Lucius," he said, his voice clipped, icy, devoid of all emotion. "Miss Granger." He gave them both a curt, dismissive nod.

Hermione, seeing the look on his face, the dawning, horrified realization, tried to go to him, to explain. "Wait, Severus… don't… it's not what you think…"

But before she could finish her desperate, stammered sentence, he had disapparated with a sharp, angry crack , leaving only bitter regret in his wake.

Hermione put her hands over her face and let out a long, frustrated groan. "Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful."

Lucius turned to her, his expression one of solicitous concern, though his eyes still held a spark of something else – amusement? Satisfaction? "Everything alright, dear?"

It was only then, as she lowered her hands, that Hermione truly took in Lucius's state of dress, or rather, his significant lack of it. Her mouth went suddenly dry at the sight of the toned, pale muscles rippling across his chest and down… down… down to the sharply defined, chiseled V of his hips, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his low-slung silk pajama bottoms. He was, she had to admit, even in her current state of turmoil, a remarkably well-preserved and undeniably attractive man.

Lucius smiled, a slow, knowing curl of his lips, clearly noticing her distraction, the way her gaze had lingered. "Hermione… earth to Hermione?" he purred.

She snapped out of her daze, a deep, mortifying flush instantly suffusing her cheeks, causing Lucius to chuckle, a low, appreciative sound.

"Come, dear," he said smoothly, "let's have some breakfast, and then you can tell dear old Lucius all about it." He offered her his arm, and somewhat numbly, she allowed him to escort her to the kitchen area, where he sat her at an enormous, polished granite island. With a casual flick of his wand, eggs began cooking themselves in a pan, bacon sizzled invitingly, and toast popped from a sleek, modern toaster. He poured them both a steaming cup of strong, black coffee and then sat beside her.

"Now, Hermione," he began, his voice gentle but probing, "what's truly going on? Why did my old friend Severus act so… incredibly disgruntled, shall we say, at seeing you here this morning?"

"I… I'm not sure I know what you're talking about," she mumbled, stirring her coffee with unnecessary vigor, avoiding his gaze. "He just seemed like… the same old Snape to me. Always a bit… curt."

Lucius chuckled, a rich, knowing sound. "My dear Hermione, you may be able to fool everyone else, but I've known Severus Snape longer than you've been alive. And," he added, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "I saw you two when I first arrived at Blackwood Manor last night. Your lips, my dear, were distinctly swollen. As if you'd just been very… thoroughly, and perhaps rather recently, snogged."

That caused Hermione to blush a brilliant, undeniable crimson once again, from her hairline to the collar of Lucius’s dressing gown. There was no point in denying it further.

"Okay, okay, fine," she conceded, her voice barely a whisper. "I… I've had a bit of a crush on him… for a while now. A long while, if I'm honest." She sighed, the confession tumbling out. "And last night, after my… my incident with Wellington… he was being so kind, so concerned… and I don't know what came over me. I kissed him. And," her voice dropped even lower, "he kissed me back. Really kissed me back." She paused, the memory still vivid, still painful. "Then he… he properly rejected me, saying it was improper, unprofessional, that it could harm our careers."

Lucius smirked, a flicker of genuine surprise and perhaps even grudging respect in his eyes. "He kissed you back , did he? My, my, my. Severus Snape, willingly engaging in a passionate embrace?" He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "He must really like you, Hermione. Very much indeed. Severus does not bestow his… affections… lightly."

"It doesn't matter if he does or doesn't," Hermione said, a wave of despair washing over her. "He was very clear. He was not interested in pursuing anything."

Lucius’s smirk widened. He reached out, his fingers gently stroking her cheek while their magically prepared breakfast – perfectly cooked eggs, crisp bacon, golden toast – appeared on elegant china plates before them. "Well, Hermione," he said, his voice a silken murmur, "what if I told you that I know of another wizard who is very, very interested in you? One who is not afraid of being honest with you, or with himself, about his intentions."

Hermione looked up at him, a flicker of surprise, and perhaps even a tiny spark of defiant interest, in her eyes. She managed a small, tentative smirk of her own. "Oh yeah? Anyone I would know?"

"Oh, perhaps you know him," Lucius purred, his silver eyes glinting. "He's said to be quite charming, when he wishes to be. Reasonably attractive, for a man of his distinguished years… and, at this very moment, finds himself utterly and completely smitten with you." He leaned closer, his gaze intense, and gently tapped the tip of her nose with his finger.

His playful, confident audacity, so different from Snape's tormented reticence, caused an unexpected laugh to bubble up from her. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really," he said smoothly, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. He leaned down then, ever so slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away. But she didn't. He captured her lips with his own, cupping her cheek gently with his hand. The kiss was breathtaking – slow, tender,

and deeply possessive, a stark contrast to the desperate, almost frantic passion she had shared with Severus. This was a kiss that promised, that savored, that spoke of intent. It left her head spinning, her earlier anxieties momentarily forgotten in the unexpected, potent allure of Lucius Malfoy.

Chapter Text

The slow, tender pressure of Lucius Malfoy’s lips against hers was a disorienting blend of unexpected comfort and subtle, deeply unnerving seduction. When he finally, gently, pulled away, his silver eyes – no longer merely shrewd, but now holding a possessive, almost proprietary gleam – searched hers with unnerving confidence. Hermione’s head was indeed spinning, a confusing, volatile cocktail of the previous night’s potent martinis, lingering, bone-deep exhaustion, the raw, persistent ache of Severus’s rejection, and now, this – Lucius Malfoy, former Death Eater, Draco’s father, looking at her as if she were the most captivating, desirable creature he had ever beheld.

She wasn’t sure what to say, what to feel . A significant part of her, the logical, sensible Hermione screamed silent, frantic warnings. Red flags, emblazoned with skulls and crossbones, waved frantically in her mind’s eye. This was Lucius Malfoy , a man whose past was steeped in darkness, whose motivations were rarely, if ever, altruistic, a master manipulator. Yet another part of her, the part that was currently hurting profoundly, confused, and so utterly bone-weary of always having to be the strong one, the one who endured, found a strange, undeniably perilous allure in his polished charm, his unwavering attentiveness, and the intoxicating way he made her feel, in this singular, bewildering moment, unequivocally desired and seen, without the complicated, painful push-and-pull that characterized every interaction she had with Severus.

"Lucius…" she began, her voice a little breathless, her fingers unconsciously rising to touch her lips where the ghost of his kiss still lingered.

He smiled, a slow, deliberate curl of his lips that was both devastatingly charming and unnervingly predatory. "Yes, Hermione?" he murmured, his gaze unwavering, intense. "Did that, perhaps, clarify the… level of interest the wizard I previously mentioned holds for you?"

She couldn't help the small, shaky laugh that escaped her. It was either laugh or cry, and she felt perilously close to the latter. "I believe it did, rather explicitly," she admitted, a fresh wave of heat warming her cheeks. She felt a sudden, desperate need to put some distance, both physical and emotional, between them, to find a quiet space to process the dizzying cascade of events that had just occurred. "The breakfast was lovely, Lucius, truly, thank you. And the coffee is… an absolute lifesaver this morning."

"My pleasure entirely, my dear," he said smoothly, sensing her slight retreat, her need for space, but not pressing, his patience a well-honed tool. "You may, of course, use the guest room to get some more rest if you desire. You look as though you could use several more hours of undisturbed sleep."

"That's very kind of you, Lucius, but I… I think I should probably get home," she said, the words tinged with a genuine, almost regretful reluctance. As much as a part of her craved the distraction, the attention, she knew, deep down, that she needed time alone, space to herself, to try and make sense of everything that had occurred in the whirlwind of the past twelve hours.

"Very well," he said, his voice conveying nothing but understanding. He stood with effortless grace and offered her a hand to help her down from the high bar stool. His touch was light, impersonal, yet still managed to send a tiny shiver through her.

Hermione retreated to the opulent guest room where she had snatched a few hours of troubled sleep. She quickly changed out of the borrowed silk dressing robe – Lucius’s, she realized with another jolt – and back into her own clothes from the previous night, which felt rumpled and carried the faint, lingering scent of Blackwood Manor’s dust and her own fear.

She made her way back out to the living room, her bag in hand, to say her goodbye. Lucius was standing by the panoramic window, looking out over the now sun-drenched city, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Thank you for everything, Lucius," she said, her voice more composed now. "You certainly went above and beyond to… to make me feel better after last night."

"The pleasure, I assure you, was all mine, Hermione," he drawled out, turning to face her, his silver eyes glinting. He approached her slowly. "Hermione, before you depart, I find myself compelled to ask you something." He paused, his gaze direct, unwavering. "Would you do me the distinct honor of accompanying me out this Saturday evening?"

Hermione paused, her breath catching. Her mind went into overdrive, a chaotic internal conflict erupting. She was certainly, unequivocally, still hung up on Severus. She wanted him, yearned for him, with an intensity that frightened her. But he had made it so painfully, unambiguously clear how he felt – or rather, how he believed they must not feel. The professional barriers, the fear of scandal, his own damn stubbornness. 

Why should she keep turning down other men, other possibilities, however complicated, and keep hoping, like a lovesick schoolgirl, for him to make a move when that was obviously, frustratingly, never going to happen? Lucius, for all his faults, his dark past, was undeniably open about his interest. He wasn't embarrassed, or ashamed, or making a litany of excuses as to why they couldn't be together. He was offering her attention, charm, and perhaps, a much-needed distraction from her aching heart. She made up her mind, a sudden, reckless decision born of hurt and a desperate desire to feel something other than pain.

"Yes, Lucius," she said, a small, determined smile touching her lips, her eyes meeting his. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

Lucius’s steel-grey eyes lit up, a genuine, almost boyish delight chasing away the usual cool calculation. "Splendid, Hermione! Truly splendid." His smile was dazzling. "I will be by to pick you up at seven o'clock. It will be a formal evening, if that is agreeable?" He leaned down,

taking her hand in his, his touch surprisingly warm, and raised it to his lips, bestowing a light, lingering kiss upon her knuckles.

"I will be looking forward to seeing you then, my dear." He released her hand slowly.

Hermione nodded, a strange mixture of trepidation and a perverse sort of excitement bubbling within her. "I will too, Lucius."

And with that, she turned and Apparated away with a soft crack , leaving Lucius Malfoy standing alone in his sunlit penthouse, a thoughtful, deeply satisfied smile gracing his aristocratic features. Hermione reappeared in her small, familiar flat, the silence and normalcy of it almost deafening after the tumult of the past day and night. She needed rest, desperately. And she needed to somehow prepare herself for a Saturday evening with Lucius Malfoy, an event she was already certain would be anything but simple.

__________

The day following the harrowing events at Blackwood Manor and the disorienting morning at Lucius Malfoy’s penthouse passed in a blur of much-needed, profound sleep for Hermione. By the time Friday morning dawned, Hermione felt… if not entirely whole, then at least significantly refreshed, the sharp edges of trauma and emotional exhaustion somewhat blunted. She felt ready, or as ready as she could be, to face the day, and more pointedly, to face Severus Snape.

Upon entering the familiar hum of the DMF lab, she was immediately enveloped in a series of warm, concerned greetings. Neville gave her a gentle, brotherly hug, his relief palpable. Luna’s embrace was light and airy, accompanied by a soft murmur about the "calming blues" slowly returning to Hermione’s aura. Pansy offered a surprisingly sincere, "Good to see you back on your feet, Granger," while Cormac, for once, refrained from any flirtatious remarks, merely looking genuinely pleased to see her unharmed.

When Draco hugged her, a brief but firm embrace, he leaned in and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone, "We definitely need to talk later, Granger. About… several things." He pulled back, a knowing, almost mischievous glint in his grey eyes before he moved away to his workstation.

Hermione had barely settled her bag when the figure she had been both dreading and, if she were honest, desperately wanting to see, emerged from his office. Severus Snape’s dark eyes met hers across the lab, his expression unreadable. "Miss Granger," he said, his voice carefully neutral, "my office, if you please. Before the morning briefing."

I wonder what this could be about, she thought, a familiar knot tightening in her stomach. She followed him in, the scent of old books and his unique, personal aroma immediately assailing her senses, a painful reminder of their last, intense encounter. She sat in the worn leather chair across from his imposing desk. He shut the door firmly behind them, then moved to sit behind his desk, facing her, the broad expanse of polished wood a veritable chasm between them.

He looked as though he hadn’t slept much either, faint shadows beneath his eyes, his usual immaculate composure subtly frayed. He regarded her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers, clearly having an intense internal debate with himself before he finally chose to speak, his voice low and gravelly.

"Hermione…" he began, the use of her first name making her breath catch. "About the other night… at Blackwood Manor. I am… truly sorry. For everything." His gaze was direct, unwavering. "For allowing that maniac to get to you, for putting you in such peril. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if anything more serious had happened to you." He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of his guilt palpable in the small office.

Hermione could see the raw honesty in his eyes, the genuine remorse etched into the lines around his mouth. She could see the guilt written all over his usually impassive face, and it made a part of her, the part that stubbornly refused to stop caring for him, melt even more, despite everything. Until he began speaking again.

"I also… apologize," he continued, his voice becoming more strained, his gaze dropping to the papers on his desk, "for what happened after… in the corridor. We crossed a line. A professional boundary that should never have been breached."

The carefully chosen, clinical words were like a slap. She stopped him before he could say more. "Please, Severus, don't apologize for that ," she said, her voice trembling slightly, but firm. She pushed herself up from the chair, needing to move, to plead with him to see, to acknowledge what had truly happened between them. "I know what I felt. And I know what you felt. You wanted that kiss just as much as I did."

"Hermione…" he began, his voice tight with an internal conflict that was painful to witness. He waved a hand vaguely, helplessly, between them. "I… I don't know what to do about… this ."

The raw uncertainty in his voice, the admission of his own confusion, was almost worse than an outright denial. She felt like she wanted to cry, to scream. She thought she had finally, painstakingly, built a resilient barrier around her heart against Severus Snape after his rejection, but it seemed to crumble into dust anytime he was near, anytime he showed even a sliver of vulnerability. Even now, after everything. She felt her heart breaking all over again, the pieces sharp and agonizing. But she refused to let him see it, not this time. Instead, the deep well of her hurt, her frustration, her unrequited longing, finally overflowed, manifesting as a cold, biting anger.

She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting defiantly. "When you figure it out, Severus," she said, her voice dangerously quiet, echoing his earlier gesture by gesturing a hand between the two of them, "when you finally decide what you want to do about 'this'…" She paused, her eyes locking with his, conveying all her pain and resolve. "It's going to be too late."

With that, she turned on her heel and stormed from his office, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft, yet somehow deafening, finality.

Severus sat there, stunned into silence, her words echoing in the suddenly oppressive quiet of his office. Too late. He stared at the closed door, a profound sense of loss, of a monumental misstep, settling heavily upon him. Just then, a familiar tap at his window announced the arrival of a Ministry owl. It dropped a stark, official-looking black envelope onto his desk. A new case. With a weary sigh, he tore the paper open, his eyes scanning its contents. He cursed under his breath, a low, vicious sound. As if this day, this entire damnable week, could possibly get any worse.

He pushed himself to his feet, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. He called his staff to the briefing room, his voice clipped and harsh, to go over their new assignment. This was indeed going to be a very, very long day.

Chapter Text

The tension in the briefing room was thick enough to curdle potion ingredients. Hermione’s parting words – "It's going to be too late" – still hung in the air, an invisible, razor-edged blade between her and Severus. He stood before the enchanted assignment board, his face a carefully constructed mask of impassivity, though the storm in his dark eyes was far from quelled. He cleared his throat, the sound overly loud in the strained silence.

"We have a new assignment," Severus began, his voice clipped, all business. He tapped the board, and an image of an opulent, sprawling country estate appeared, surrounded by meticulously manicured gardens. "It is… somewhat different from what we typically handle. A robbery. The Auror department is currently engaged in their annual advanced training and recertification exercises, and Minister Shacklebolt has requested our assistance to ensure a swift resolution, given the… prominence of the victim."

He gestured to the image again. "The robbery occurred late last night at the estate of the widow, Countess Catherine Kensington. Apparently, a rather expensive, historically significant set of jewelry was stolen from her private vault, which was, by all accounts, locked and warded."

A low murmur went through the team. A simple robbery, even of valuable items, felt almost mundane after the life-and-death stakes of the Desolation Engine.

Draco Malfoy, however, scrunched his face up, his brow furrowed in deep thought, his gaze fixed on the name ‘Countess Catherine Kensington’ displayed beneath the image of the estate. Where did he know that name from? It tickled at the edges of his memory, associated with hushed whispers from his childhood, with his parents’ carefully guarded conversations from a darker time.

Severus, his own expression unreadable, could practically see the gears turning in Draco's mind. He knew it was only a matter of moments before the connection was made. He saw when

the lightbulb finally, inevitably, flickered on above Draco's head, saw the look of dawning, horrified recognition that spread across the young man's usually composed features.

Draco gasped, his eyes wide. "You mean… THE Countess Catherine?" he asked, his voice a mixture of disbelief and something akin to awe. "Catherine de Beaumont, before she married the Count?"

Severus glowered at him, a dark, warning look. "Yes, Draco," he confirmed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. " Her ."

The others in the room – Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac – looked on in utter confusion, their heads swiveling between Draco’s shocked expression and Snape’s thunderous one.

Cormac, never one to be left out of a mystery, was the one to finally break the tense silence. "Is… is anyone going to tell us who 'she' is? And why she warrants such dramatic reactions?"

Draco looked at Severus nervously, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, clearly wondering just how much his godfather was willing to reveal about his complex, shadowed past, particularly his association with the enigmatic Countess.

Severus took a slow, deep breath, his gaze sweeping over his team… deliberately, pointedly, avoiding Hermione’s eyes. He couldn't face her. Not yet. Not after their raw, painful confrontation in his office, not with her final, damning words still echoing in his soul.

"I knew the Countess," he began, his voice carefully devoid of emotion, flat and detached, "from my… previous life. During my days as a spy for the Order, and," he paused, the admission costing him, "concurrently, as a Death Eater. The Dark Lord had instructed me to get close to her. She was influential, wealthy, and unaligned, though with certain sympathies that could be… exploited. He wished for her to support the cause, financially and socially." He paused again, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I believe that is all you truly need to know about her connection to me. However," his voice hardened, his gaze becoming sharp, "be on your guard around her, and at her estate. She is… formidable. And not to be underestimated."

The partial explanation, delivered with such chilling control, only deepened the intrigue for most of the team. Hermione, however, looked at Draco questioningly, her brow furrowed. She knew Severus. She knew when he was holding back, when he was carefully curating the truth. And every instinct she possessed screamed that he wasn't revealing the whole story about Countess Catherine Kensington, not by a long shot.

Draco, seeing her inquisitive, searching look, gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes flicking briefly towards Snape and then back to her, a silent message passing between them: Not right now. Later.

She would have to wait until she got him alone to question him further. For now, another complex, potentially dangerous case awaited, with their enigmatic, emotionally fractured Head

leading them into the orbit of a woman from his own dark, complicated past. This day, Hermione sensed, was far from over.

_____________

Upon arrival at Kensington Estate, they were ushered into a lavish drawing-room that spoke of old money and exquisite, if somewhat theatrical, taste. And then, Countess Catherine Kensington made her entrance.

She was, Hermione had to begrudgingly admit, breathtaking. Not in a wholesome, sunny way, but with an alluring, almost dangerous beauty that seemed to draw the very light from the room towards her. Tall and willowy, with a cascade of raven-black hair that framed a heart-shaped face, piercing sapphire eyes, and lips the color of crushed rubies, she moved with the sinuous grace of a panther. She was draped in a gown of deep crimson velvet that clung to her every curve, exuding an aura of dark, captivating sensuality. Compared to her, Hermione, in her practical investigator robes, felt suddenly, painfully plain, like a common garden sparrow next to an exotic bird of paradise.

"Severus, darling!" the Countess purred, her voice a low, husky melody as she glided towards him, completely ignoring the rest of the assembled DMF team. She placed her elegantly manicured hands familiarly on his arms, her touch lingering. "It has been far, far too long. Though I must confess, the circumstances of this reunion are less than ideal." She tilted her head, her sapphire eyes glinting as she looked up at him through thick, dark lashes.

Sparks of raw, undeniable jealousy shot through Hermione, hot and sharp. The woman was practically draping herself over him, her every gesture an intimate claim. And Severus… Severus was allowing it. His expression remained largely impassive, but he didn't pull away from her touch, didn't correct her overly familiar address. Hermione felt a fresh wave of anger, hot and bitter, rise within her. How dare he reject her when he so clearly permitted, even seemed to expect, this kind of flirtatious intimacy from this… this Countess ?

After a brief, overly dramatic recounting of the "dreadful robbery" from the Countess – during which she managed to touch Severus’s arm no less than three more times – the team was finally permitted to begin processing the scene. Hermione, needing an escape from the suffocating atmosphere of the drawing-room and the sight of the Countess preening over Snape, practically grabbed Draco’s arm.

"Let's start with the upper floors, Draco," she said, her voice tight. "Perimeter outwards."

Once they found a blessedly empty, dust-sheet-covered guest bedroom, ostensibly to "process for latent prints and residual magical signatures," Hermione rounded on him. "Alright, Malfoy, spill it. Everything you know about Severus and that… that woman ."

Draco leaned against a covered chaise lounge, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Jealous, Granger?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. "I just… I need to understand the dynamics. For the case."

"Right," Draco drawled, clearly not believing her for a second. "Well, from what I overheard from my parents back in the day – and they were very discreet, mind you – the Countess Catherine was one of the Dark Lord’s… pet projects for Snape. Young, beautiful, immensely wealthy, and with certain… proclivities that made her susceptible to influence." He paused, his smirk fading slightly. "They had a relationship, Granger. A real one. By all accounts, a rather passionate one at that. My mother always implied Snape was quite taken with her, more than duty required." He lowered his voice. "I even heard whispers that he continued to… see her, on occasion, even after the Dark Lord no longer specifically required him to ‘entertain’ her company."

A cold, hard knot formed in Hermione’s stomach. Passionate. Continued to see her. So, Severus was capable of such relationships, of such feeling. Just not with her. Of course not. Why would he be? She definitely wasn't as ethereally beautiful or seductively curvaceous as the Countess. She couldn't help but compare herself to the vision in crimson velvet downstairs, and in every conceivable way, she found herself lacking. The thoughts spiraled, dragging her down into a familiar, depressing mire of self-doubt.

Meanwhile, Neville and Luna were meticulously processing the ransacked vault, while Hermione and Draco, now in a much more subdued mood on Hermione’s part, continued their sweep of the sprawling estate, looking for any additional clues, any access points the thief might have used.

That's when they ventured into a room unlike anything either of them had ever seen before, tucked away in a remote wing of the manor. It was a large chamber, bathed in a dim, reddish light from heavily draped windows, the air thick with the scent of old leather, exotic incense, and something else… something musky and vaguely unsettling. There were whips of various sizes and materials mounted on one wall, gleaming chains and intricate shackles suspended from hooks on another. Strange, padded chairs and studded boards were strategically placed. A large, four-poster bed, draped in black silk and deep crimson velvet, dominated one end of the room, while oddly shaped couches and chaises lounges upholstered in leather and more velvet were scattered about.

"Merlin's beard," Draco breathed, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and morbid fascination. "What kind of bizarre torture chamber is this?"

Hermione felt a cold dread creep over her. Then, as they turned a corner, hidden behind a tall, leather screen, they saw it: an array of gleaming, polished metal and silicone objects of various shapes and sizes, alongside an assortment of vials and bottles containing what were unmistakably lubricants and potions. The two of them gasped in unison, understanding dawning with horrifying clarity. This wasn't a torture room. It was… it was some kind of kinky sex room. A BDSM dungeon.

Hermione stood stock still, her mind racing, her face burning. Her thoughts immediately, unwillingly, flew to Severus and the Countess. Was this what he was into? BDSM? Was this what his "passionate" relationship with the Countess had entailed? Was that what he liked sexually? The idea was so foreign, so far removed from the stern, reserved Potions Master she knew – or thought she knew – that it made her head spin. No wonder he's not into me, a vicious little voice whispered in her mind. I'm the most vanilla, bookish person he probably knows. She thought, with a fresh wave of mortification, about her own limited, mostly awkward, and entirely unsatisfactory handful of sexual encounters in her life. She'd only ever experienced an orgasm from one of her partners, and that was just once . Just once! What did that say about her? She was just boring, plain Jane Hermione Granger. No wonder a man as complex and experienced as Severus Snape, a man who had apparently explored this side of sensuality with a woman like Countess Kensington, couldn't possibly see himself with someone like her. He'd be bored to death. The thought was utterly, crushingly humiliating.

"Hermione?" Draco’s voice finally shook her out of her horrified thoughts. He looked almost as stunned as she felt, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes – perhaps a dawning, worldly understanding. "Come on, Granger. Let's… let's get back to the others. There's clearly nothing of evidentiary value in here ."

Numbly, she nodded. They quickly, and rather awkwardly, exited the room, both studiously avoiding looking at each other. They found Neville and Luna just emerging from the vault area, their expressions thoughtful. Severus was there too, speaking with the Countess in low tones, his back to them. He turned as they approached.

"Well?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over them. "Did anything turn up?"

Draco and Hermione both blushed furiously, their minds instantly replaying the contents of the room they had just left. Hermione found she couldn't meet Snape’s eyes, terrified he might somehow guess what she was thinking, what she had seen.

"Nothing… uh… nothing pertinent to the case , boss," Draco spoke up for both of them, his voice a little strained.

Snape’s eyebrow rose slightly at their shared flush and Draco’s slightly evasive answer, but he didn't press.

The team finished processing the scene shortly thereafter, collecting what little evidence they had found – mostly just confirmation of a magically adept thief who knew the estate well. As they prepared to return to the lab, Hermione’s mind was a maelstrom. Thoughts of the Countess, of Severus’s past, of that horrifying, enlightening room, and her own crushing insecurities swirled relentlessly, leaving her feeling more confused and disheartened than ever.

_____________

The atmosphere in the DMF lab was a strange mixture of focused intensity and weary resignation. Pansy and Cormac were hunched over their respective analysis stations,

attempting to coax secrets from the meager evidence recovered from Countess Kensington’s ransacked vault. The rest of the team – Neville, Luna, and a deeply troubled Hermione – were immersed in a mountain of research pertaining to the enigmatic Countess herself. They were trying to build a profile, to understand her connections, to unearth any enemies or, perhaps more pertinently given the nature of the theft, anyone close to her who might be desperate for money.

The list of her known enemies, surprisingly, was remarkably short for a woman of her standing and apparent lifestyle. Her little black book of past lovers, however, which she had all too readily handed over to Severus with a theatrical sigh and a wink, was voluminous. It was bound in supple, dark leather and filled with an astonishing array of names, dates, and cryptic annotations. Hermione had taken on the tedious task of cross-referencing the names, looking for patterns, for motives. She stalled when she got to the 'S' section of the meticulously organized book. There, staring back at her in elegant, spidery script, was a name that made her breath catch: Severus Snape, Hogwarts Castle, Potions Master. A small, almost imperceptible wave of relief washed over her when she noted the address; at least it hadn't been updated to reflect his current circumstances, suggesting the entry was from a bygone era. Still, seeing his name there, a tangible link to the Countess’s intimate past, sent a fresh pang of something akin to despair through her.

She took a deep, shaky breath and scrubbed her face with her hands, trying to dislodge the image, the implications. Just then, the door to the small research alcove she’d claimed swung open, and Draco entered, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. He swung the door shut behind him, though it didn’t quite latch, leaving a tiny, almost invisible gap.

"Thought you could use this," Draco said, handing her the tea with a surprisingly gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, which were filled with a knowing concern. "You look like you're wrestling with more than just old case files."

"Thank you, Draco," she said, accepting the cup, her own smile faint and strained. He took a seat at the table opposite her, his gaze sweeping over the few ancient society ledgers and gossip columns spread about before landing, with pointed significance, on the Countess’s little black book lying open before her. He didn't have to ask; he already knew what she must have found in there, or at least, whose name. He took pity on her evident distress.

"So, Granger," he began, his voice carefully casual, clearly trying to distract her from the case, and perhaps her own spiraling thoughts, for a bit. "We need to have a little talk."

She looked up at him curiously, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes for the slight, much-needed distraction. "Go ahead, shoot."

"So," Draco leaned back, steepling his fingers. "My father insisted that I join him for dinner last night. A rather… illuminating affair, as it turned out."

Hermione felt a genuine smile touch her lips this time; she knew it was only a matter of time before Draco brought it up. "Oh yeah?" she prompted, a hint of amusement in her voice. "How so?"

"Well…" Draco drawled, drawing out the suspense, "perhaps the rather startling fact that you, Hermione Granger, apparently stayed the night with him? And, according to Father, not only stayed but also subjected him to some bloody awful Muggle film called… Dirty Dancing !?" He looked utterly scandalized, though his eyes were twinkling.

That got a hearty chuckle out of her, the first genuine laugh she’d had in days. "I stayed in the guest room , for your information, Malfoy!" she corrected, a playful defensiveness in her tone. "And for the record, your father seemed to enjoy that movie very much! He was quite… captivated by the 'nobody puts Baby in a corner' line."

"Right, right," Draco conceded, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "He also mentioned, rather casually I might add, that you are going out on a… date … with him tomorrow night? A formal one, no less."

Hermione blushed, a soft pink staining her cheeks, but she met his gaze, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips. "Yes… I am. Are you… are you okay with that?" Her tone became suddenly serious. The last thing she wanted was to put Draco in an awkward or uncomfortable situation with his father because of her.

Draco shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "It's bloody weird, Granger, not going to lie. My father and… well, you ." He paused. "But, if you are both happy, or at least… content with the arrangement, then I suppose I'm okay with it." He leaned forward then, his voice dropping slightly. "I do have to ask, though… what about Snape? I've seen the looks you two give each other. Merlin, Granger, I even walked in on you two in that… very scandalous position at Blackwood Manor!" He chuckled, the earlier concern replaced by his familiar teasing glint.

Hermione turned a shade redder, if that were possible. "That was an accident , and you know it, you bloody prat!" she said, though she was laughing as well, the shared memory now more absurd than mortifying. Her laughter faded, however, and her expression became mournful, her gaze dropping to her teacup. "And to be honest, Draco," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper, "I think… I think I'll always have feelings for him. For Severus. But he made his feelings, or lack thereof, perfectly clear to me. He… he doesn't want me. He said so himself." The words were a fresh stab of pain, even now. "So, I have to try and move on, as much as it hurts."

"Wait," Draco said, his teasing demeanor vanishing, replaced by a look of genuine surprise and confusion. "When did he tell you he didn't want you? What happened?"

Hermione groaned to herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. She really didn't want to share this, this deeply personal, humiliating moment, but she knew Draco wouldn't tell anyone. And honestly, she needed to talk about it, to voice the hurt. "He told me… after… after I kissed him,"

she confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. "The other night, at Blackwood Manor. Right after Atlas Wellington… after he’d held me hostage."

"You did WHAT !?" Draco exclaimed, looking utterly stunned, his eyes wide.

"I kissed him," she repeated, her voice small. "I don't know what overcame me, Draco. Maybe it was the fact that I had nearly died, and I suddenly realized that I could have died without ever knowing what his lips felt like on mine… I just… I acted on impulse." She took a shaky breath. "But, Draco, he kissed me back! For a moment, I swear, I could tell he wanted it just as much as I did." A lone, traitorous tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. "And then… then he pulled away," she whispered, the memory still vivid, still raw. "And he said it was a mistake. That it couldn't happen. That we couldn't happen. Professionalism, careers, all of it."

Draco sat there, completely stunned into silence for a long moment. "Merlin's beard, Granger," he finally breathed out. "I've missed so much!"

"Yeah," Hermione said with a watery, humorless chuckle. "And then, after seeing the beautiful, sophisticated Countess Kensington and her… her sex dungeon ," she added, her voice laced with a fresh wave of mortification, "it's abundantly clear to me why he's not interested. Given their history, given what she clearly offers… I could never be enough for him. I'm far too plain, too boring, too… vanilla."

"Hey, hey! None of that!" Draco interjected, his voice firm, his earlier teasing completely gone, replaced by a surprising, fierce loyalty. "Don't you dare talk about yourself like that, Granger. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. He is definitely into you, Hermione. Trust me. That Countess, for all her dark allure, has absolutely nothing on you! I think… I think he's just scared. Terrified, probably. Scared to get close to anyone again, scared to feel anything. He's been through more than any of us can probably imagine." He finished with a shrug, a thoughtful expression on his face that left Hermione pondering his words, a tiny, fragile seed of hope trying to take root amidst her despair.

"On a different note, however," Draco continued, deliberately lightening the mood, "I can now see why you're giving Father a chance. He's quite smitten with you, you know. Genuinely."

"Really?" Hermione said, somewhat surprised, her mind still reeling from Draco’s assessment of Snape. She was no fool; she knew Lucius had a well-documented playboy side to him since Narcissa had passed. He always seemed to have a different, beautiful witch on his arm at every Ministry function.

"Yes, really, Granger," Draco affirmed, his expression serious. "I haven't seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you… in… in… well, I truly can't remember ever seeing him like this. Not even with Mother, towards the end. But I can tell he feels different about you compared to all the other witches he's… courted." He paused, then a wicked grin spread across his face. "If this all actually works out, though, don't expect me to start calling you 'Mummy,' alright? That’s where I draw the line." He spat the last word out with mock disgust, causing Hermione to double over in a fresh wave of genuine, healing laughter.

"Don't worry, Draco," she gasped, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "I wouldn't ever dare ask that of you. You're like my brother, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbled good-naturedly. "Anyways… on to more pressing matters. Father wants to know your dress size. He's apparently sending over a custom-designed gown for your… assignation… tomorrow night."

"He's what !?" Hermione exclaimed, her laughter dying instantly. "No! Draco, that's far too much! I can't accept that!"

"He will send it regardless, Granger," Draco said with a resigned sigh, knowing his father’s methods all too well. "You know what he's like when he's decided on something. You may as well tell me your size to ensure it actually fits properly and you don't end up looking like a trussed-up house-elf."

Hermione hesitated, then sighed. "Fine," she conceded, knowing it was a losing battle. "I'm a size four."

"Splendid," Draco said, smiling brightly. "Consider it done." He stood up. "Well, now that my filial mission is complete, I believe I must actually get back to some semblance of work before your other admirer," he winked, "decides to transfigure me into a teacup."

Neither of them noticed the dark shadow that had been frozen just outside the slightly ajar door quickly, silently, stalking away. Severus Snape had indeed been walking by when he heard Draco telling Hermione they needed to "have a little talk." He knew he shouldn't have lingered, shouldn't have eavesdropped. But his curiosity, that damnable, gnawing need to know what concerned her , had gotten the better of him. And now, after hearing their entire, devastating conversation – her hurt, her insecurities about him, her confession of their kiss, her upcoming date with Lucius, and Draco’s well-intentioned but ultimately galling reassurances – he wished to Merlin, with every fiber of his being, that he hadn't. The pain in his chest was a cold, sharp, unbearable thing. Too late, she had said. And now, he truly, terrifyingly, believed it.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning dawned bright and clear, a stark contrast to the emotional tempest that had been raging within Hermione since her confrontation with Severus and her subsequent revealing conversation with Draco. She had spent most of Friday in a haze of introspection, her heart aching with a dull, persistent throb every time she replayed Snape’s rejection, his insistence that they had "crossed a line." Yet, Draco’s words, his belief that Severus did care but was merely afraid, offered a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of hope she tried desperately to extinguish. It was too painful to hold onto.

She was just finishing a solitary cup of tea when a sharp, decisive knock echoed through her small flat. Puzzled – she wasn't expecting anyone – she opened the door to find the landing empty, save for a very large, elegantly wrapped box tied with a silver satin bow, resting on her doorstep. There was no card, no indication of the sender, but she knew. A small, anticipatory flutter went through her. It was the gown Draco had told her about, the one Lucius was sending for their date tonight. Deep down, despite the turmoil in her heart, despite the lingering warnings of her sensible side, she was actually, undeniably, ecstatic to see what it looked like.

She maneuvered the surprisingly light box inside, her curiosity overriding her reservations. She carried it into her bedroom and carefully sat it on her bed, her fingers fumbling slightly as she worked at the intricate bow. With a final tug, the ribbon fell away, and she lifted the lid.

She gasped. Nestled within layers of shimmering, silver tissue paper was the most magnificent gown she had ever laid eyes on. It was a whisper of moonlight and starlight, crafted from a fluid, silver charmeuse that seemed to pour like liquid mercury. An off-the-shoulder design, with delicate straps, hinted at a daring décolletage, while the cut promised to cling and flow in all the right places. It was impossibly elegant, breathtakingly beautiful, and utterly, undeniably, Lucius Malfoy. A small, involuntary squeal of delight escaped her lips.

Without a second thought, she began stripping off her comfortable weekend clothes, her earlier melancholy momentarily forgotten in the face of such exquisite craftsmanship. She had to try it on. Immediately.

Holding her breath, she stepped into the gown, the cool, slinky fabric gliding over her skin like a caress. It settled around her, and as she turned to face her full-length mirror, she gasped again, this time in sheer, unadulterated astonishment. The dress fit her as if it had been spun from magic just for her, a perfect, flawless glove. It showcased her figure in a way she hadn't known was possible, nipping in at her waist, flaring gently over her hips, the off-the-shoulder neckline highlighting the curve of her collarbones and the elegant line of her neck. The silver fabric seemed to shimmer with an inner luminescence, making her skin glow, her eyes sparkle. Looking at her reflection, Hermione felt… beautiful. Truly, breathtakingly beautiful.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her. Despite still being deeply, painfully upset about Severus, she found herself, to her own surprise, genuinely looking forward to her date with Lucius this evening. A fierce, almost defiant resolve began to solidify within her. Why should she let life keep passing her by? Why should she keep turning other men down, keep putting her heart on hold, in the faint, desperate hope that her impossible crush on Severus Snape would somehow, magically, be returned? No. He had made his position abundantly, painfully clear. He never would. It was time, she decided, squaring her shoulders as she gazed at the transformed woman in the mirror, to move on. Or at least, to try. Tonight, she wouldn't be "plain Jane Hermione Granger." Tonight, in this magnificent silver gown, she would be someone else, someone desired, someone who might just find a different kind of magic.

__________

The rest of Saturday passed in a surprisingly pleasant, almost dreamlike haze of anticipation for Hermione. The raw ache from Severus’s rejection still throbbed beneath the surface, a persistent bruise on her heart, but the prospect of an evening with Lucius Malfoy – an evening where she would be unequivocally desired, where there were no forbidden lines or professional repercussions to fret over – offered a potent, if perhaps perilous, distraction.

She took a long, scented bath, soaking away the lingering weariness from the week's tumultuous events. She styled her hair not in its usual practical updos or sensible plaits, but in soft, tumbling waves that cascaded over her bare shoulders, a deliberate, almost defiant contrast. Her makeup was applied with a careful, artistic hand, aiming for an understated, luminous elegance that would complement the dazzling silver of the gown Lucius had sent. When seven o'clock approached, she felt a distinct, nervous flutter in her stomach, but beneath it, there was also a thrill of something new, something that wasn't entirely tinged with the constant, hopeless ache of unrequited longing for Severus Snape.

A sharp, polite knock sounded at her door precisely on the hour. Hermione took one last, steadying glance in the mirror. The woman who looked back, draped in shimmering silver, her eyes shining with a mixture of trepidation and a newfound, almost reckless confidence, was someone she barely recognized. She opened the door.

Lucius Malfoy stood there, looking devastatingly handsome. He was dressed in impeccably tailored black dress robes that bore a subtle, almost invisible silver trim, a perfect echo to the color of her gown. His platinum hair was perfectly styled, swept back from his aristocratic features, and his silver eyes, when they landed on her, widened almost imperceptibly before a slow, deeply appreciative smile spread across his face. He took her offered hand, his touch cool but firm, and raised it to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers, making her feel like the sole focus of his entire universe.

"Hermione, my dear," he murmured, his voice a silken caress against her knuckles, his eyes drinking her in from head to toe. "You are… utterly breathtaking. The gown, I see, found its rightful owner." There was a possessive gleam in his eyes, a hint of masculine triumph, but it was predominantly overshadowed by a look of genuine, almost reverent admiration that made her blush deeply.

"Thank you, Lucius," she replied, her voice a little breathless, her own confidence bolstered by his reaction. "It's truly the most beautiful dress I've ever worn."

"Only because it is worn by the most beautiful woman," he countered smoothly, his eyes still holding hers captive. He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

Instead of suggesting Apparition, he held out a small, ornate gold coin. "A Portkey, my dear. For expediency, and a touch of… discretion." He looked at her, and she must have shown a flicker of nervousness at the unexpected mode of transport to an unknown destination.

"Trust me, please, Hermione," he said softly, his gaze reassuring. "I promise you will love where we are going."

With an unsure nod of her head, she pushed her momentary worry aside and decided, for tonight at least, to live in the moment, to embrace the unexpected. She took hold of the large gold coin Lucius held out. The familiar, disorienting pull at her navel activated, whisking them away not to a crowded Diagon Alley establishment or a stuffy Ministry ballroom, but to a discreet, unmarked door nestled in a quiet, elegant corner of wizarding Paris. As the door swung silently open at Lucius’s touch, it revealed Le Ciel Argenté – The Silver Sky – an exclusive, almost mythically renowned restaurant whispered about in only the highest echelons of magical society. The interior was a breathtaking symphony of shimmering silver, intricate crystal chandeliers that dripped diamonds of light, and tables bathed in soft, enchanted candlelight. Quiet alcoves, draped in silver velvet, ensured absolute privacy for its discerning clientele. The very air hummed with sophisticated, ancient magic and the low, melodious murmur of refined conversation.

They were shown to a secluded table, perfectly positioned overlooking a moonlit, magically enhanced Seine, the lights of wizarding Paris twinkling like fallen stars beyond the enchanted windows. Lucius was the epitome of charm and attentiveness throughout the exquisite, multi-course meal. He spoke, not of Ministry politics or dark artifacts, but of art (a subject he knew she appreciated, though he approached it from a wealthy collector’s rather than a diligent scholar’s perspective), of amusing society scandals from decades past, and even, surprisingly, of his adventurous travels in his youth, before his marriage and before… the war. He was witty, engaging, and made her laugh more than once with his dry, often cynical, yet undeniably amusing observations. He asked her about her work at the DMF, listening with flattering, unwavering intensity, though she carefully, deliberately, steered the conversation away from any specifics regarding Severus Snape.

Hermione found herself, to her own profound astonishment, actually, genuinely, enjoying herself. Lucius's sophisticated charm, his undivided attention, was a potent, soothing balm to her recently bruised ego and aching heart. He made her feel interesting, captivating, desired . For fleeting, blissful moments, the dull, persistent ache in her heart for Severus would recede, almost forgotten, only to resurface with a sharp pang when a particular turn of phrase, a shared intellectual spark, or a fleeting expression in Lucius’s eyes would inadvertently remind her of him. She would then consciously, determinedly, push the thought away, focusing instead on the man before her, the man who was so overtly, so elegantly, and so uncomplicatedly, showing his profound interest in her .

There were no manipulative undertones tonight, no subtle power plays she could discern, no hidden agendas. Lucius was simply… a devastatingly charming, incredibly wealthy, and undeniably attractive older man, seemingly intent on wooing her with all the considerable resources at his disposal. He refilled her wine glass before it was empty, anticipated her needs with an almost telepathic intuition, and his gaze, whenever it met hers across the candlelit table, was filled with an almost reverent admiration that was both deeply intoxicating and, if she were honest, slightly unnerving in its intensity.

As the magical evening drew to a close over rich, dark coffee and a sinfully decadent chocolate confection that seemed to melt on the tongue, Lucius leaned forward slightly, his silver eyes

serious, the earlier playful glints replaced by a sincere, almost vulnerable expression. "Hermione," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur that sent shivers down her spine. "I find myself… remarkably captivated by your company. More so than I have been by anyone in a very, very long time."

A warm blush rose to her cheeks at his earnest declaration. "I've had a wonderful evening too, Lucius. Truly. Thank you."

"The pleasure, I assure you, Hermione, has been entirely mine," he replied, a soft smile touching his lips. He didn't press for more, didn't suggest extending the evening to his penthouse this time, didn't push for any commitment. He simply offered his hand across the table. "Allow me to see you home."

They port keyed directly back to the doorstep of her small London flat. The contrast between the opulent, dreamlike Parisian restaurant and her humble, familiar abode was stark, yet Lucius, standing beside her in the dim light of the landing, seemed entirely unfazed, his aristocratic poise unwavering.

At her door, he took both her hands in his, his gaze searching hers. "Thank you again, Hermione," he said softly, "for a truly… memorable evening."

"Thank you, Lucius," she repeated, her voice equally soft, a confusing swirl of emotions within her.

He hesitated for a moment, his silver eyes dropping to her lips, and she wondered, with a sudden catch in her breath, if he would kiss her again. A part of her, the part that still stubbornly, foolishly yearned for Severus, recoiled slightly at the thought. Another part, the part that had basked in feeling desired and cherished for an entire, magical evening, was strangely… undeniably… curious.

But Lucius merely raised one of her hands to his lips, bestowing a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles, his eyes holding hers over her hand. "Until we meet again, my dear," he murmured, his voice a husky promise. He began to turn, clearly intending to Disapparate.

Before he could, before the moment was lost, Hermione acted on an impulse born of wine, weariness, and a desperate, reckless desire to feel something other than pain and longing. She placed a gentle hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Lucius, wait…."

He turned back, an intrigued, questioning look in his silver eyes.

Hermione was tired. So incredibly tired. Tired of being sensible, plain Jane Granger. Tired of being cautious and unadventurous. Tired of her deepest desires being unmet, ignored, or deemed "inappropriate." She summoned up every last ounce of her Gryffindor courage, the reckless bravery that had seen her through a war.

"Kiss me… please," she said, her voice breathy, barely a whisper, her eyes locking with his.

A slow, predatory grin spread across Lucius Malfoy’s handsome face as he stepped closer, his hands coming to rest possessively on the curve of her hips, the silver fabric of her gown cool beneath his touch. "As you wish, my dear."

He leaned down and pulled her firmly against him, his mouth claiming hers in a deep, intoxicating kiss. Hermione felt a fire, long dormant, begin to roar deep within her belly, a dizzying, potent heat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his soft, platinum hair, and kissed him back greedily, all her earlier reservations, her fears, her lingering heartache for another man, momentarily consumed by the intoxicating reality of Lucius’s embrace. She could feel his powerful body reacting to hers, could feel the hard ridge of his erection pushing insistently against her hip, straining against the fine fabric of his expensive trousers.

He broke the kiss only to trail a burning path of kisses down her jawline, along the sensitive column of her neck, leaving a fiery blaze on her skin that made her gasp. She let out a low moan of pure pleasure and arched into him, needing to feel more, needing to lose herself in the sensation.

He breathed in deeply against her skin, his eyes closing for a moment as he relished her sweet, musky scent. It seemed to make something within him snap, some carefully maintained veneer of aristocratic control. When he opened his eyes again and gazed into hers, his pupils were completely blown out, steely dark pools of undiluted hunger. He stroked her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the fire in his eyes, and leaned down to whisper, his breath hot against her ear.

"I can smell your arousal, dear," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. "I can smell your need… your want. Merlin, I wonder… if you taste as good as… you… smell." He punctuated the last words with tiny, nipping kisses along her earlobe, causing another flood of molten desire to course through Hermione’s veins.

She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her own eyes heavy-lidded with a lust she hadn't felt in years, if ever. Suddenly, astonishingly emboldened by Lucius's raw, honest words, by the way he was looking at her, by the fire he had ignited within her, she had never felt so wanton, so completely uninhibited before.

"Why don't you find out, Mr. Malfoy?" she said, her voice a husky invitation she barely recognized as her own.

Lucius closed his eyes for a moment, a shudder running through his powerful frame. Her words, her challenge, sent a scorching wave of pleasure straight to his already aching cock. He wasted no more time. In one fluid, powerful movement, he scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing, shouldered open her flat door, and carried her through to her bedroom, laying her gently on her bed. He hastily removed his outer dress robes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, before undoing his cufflinks with swift, practiced movements and rolling up the fine

linen sleeves of his shirt. He unbuttoned the top few buttons, his gaze never leaving hers, ensuring he wouldn't be hindered in his imminent endeavors.

Hermione looked up at him from her bed, her heart hammering. Another wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through her, soaking her silk panties at the sight before her. Lucius Malfoy, divested of his usual polished perfection, his hair slightly mussed, his eyes blazing with intent, looked so unlike his usual well-put-together, aristocratic self. He looked like a man on a mission, a man consumed by desire. And it thrilled her, with a shocking, primal intensity, to know that she had done that to him. She had made this powerful, controlled man come apart at the seams.

She was drawn from her thoughts when she felt his hands on her finally, pushing the exquisite silver gown up around her waist with an almost reverent touch. Lucius wasted no time, his earlier patience now replaced by a raw urgency, tearing the delicate silk panties from her body with a low growl. He leaned down between her thighs, burying his face in her curls, taking a deep, intoxicating breath, smelling her unique, feminine scent. He let out a deep, guttural moan that seemed to vibrate through her very bones, causing her thighs to slicken further with her own burgeoning desire.

He wasted no more time. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her tightly, almost reverently, in place and began slowly, exquisitely, licking her, tasting her. He licked in lazy, deliberate circles around her swollen, aching clitoris, his tongue a master of exquisite torture, causing her hips to buck involuntarily against his mouth, her breath to hitch in her throat.

Dear God, she thought, her mind reeling. She had never… never had anyone go down on her before. Not like this. Not with such devastating skill, such focused intent. Gods, she had been missing out, because this… this was pure, unadulterated, mind-shattering bliss.

Lucius, sensing her rising pleasure, eased a long, knowing finger into her hot, tight, wet channel. "You're so wet for me, aren't you, my dear?" he groaned out against her slick folds, his voice thick with arousal. He began sliding in another finger, then rhythmically, expertly, began pumping them in and out of her. "So wonderfully wet… and… tight!"

"Gods, Lucius! Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Please… please don't stop!" she cried out, her voice a strangled plea as she tried to writhe around beneath him, but Lucius held her firmly, masterfully, in place. He smirked down at her, clearly enjoying the way she was coming apart in his hands. He leaned back down, his tongue flicking expertly between her slick, swollen folds, still pumping his fingers rhythmically, deeply within her.

She let out a raw cry of pure, unadulterated pleasure, a sound she didn't recognize as her own, causing Lucius to smirk again, his eyes glittering with triumph. He then began his final, merciless assault on her clitoris with his tongue, his rhythm becoming faster, more demanding. He could feel her delicate inner walls tightening convulsively around his fingers; he knew she was incredibly close. He doubled his efforts, applying more direct, intense pressure with his

talented tongue while simultaneously curling his fingers within her, seeking, finding, and mercilessly stimulating her G-Spot.

Hermione let out a high-pitched, piercing shriek of pleasure as her vision completely whited out, her body arching almost completely off the bed, every muscle clenched, every nerve ending on fire. Her body convulsed violently around Lucius’s fingers, her legs instinctively circling his head in a vice-like grip as the orgasm, the most powerful, earth-shattering one of her entire life, ripped through her. As she began to crash back down to earth, boneless and trembling, she felt a sudden, gushing wetness between her legs. She saw Lucius lift his head, a predatory, satisfied smirk on his face, his chin and lips still glistening with her juices.

He wiped his mouth on his rolled-up sleeve, his silver eyes blazing into hers, and leaned down on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows, to kiss her deeply. She could taste herself on his lips, a sensation that seemed almost taboo, illicit, yet undeniably, profoundly erotic. Lucius pulled back, tipping her chin to look directly into her dazed, sated eyes.

"You, my dear Hermione," he murmured, his voice husky with spent passion, "are absolutely exquisite."

She could feel his hard, throbbing erection pressing insistently against her belly, straining for its own release. With a newfound, wanton boldness she didn't know she possessed, she moved her hand down, her fingers tentatively, then more confidently, stroking his rigid length through the fine fabric of his trousers. He flushed a darker red beneath his aristocratic pallor and let out a small, sharp groan of pleasure. He grabbed her hand, momentarily halting her explorations. "Hermione," he said, his voice suddenly serious, his eyes searching hers. "You don't have to. Not if you don't want to."

Something in her, however, some newly awakened, adventurous part of her, pushed her on. With a surprising surge of strength and determination, she gently pushed Lucius off her and onto his back. With a quick, silent flick of her own wand, she cast a spell to undo the intricate fastenings of the silver gown, and with a shimmy of her hips, she slipped it off over her head, leaving her completely, gloriously naked before him.

He watched her, his eyes like molten silver, drinking in the sight of her, his breath catching in his throat. She leaned down and, ever so slowly, unfastened his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free his magnificent, straining erection from their confines.

She gasped when his cock sprang free, thick and proud. He was, she noted with a thrill of both intimidation and excitement, considerably larger than anyone she had ever been with before, both in length and impressive girth. His cock was beautiful though, perfectly formed, a pale column of blatant, masculine power. She bent down between his spread legs and began stroking it, her fingers marveling at its heat, its velvet-smooth texture. A low, guttural moan escaped him. She saw a bead of precum begin to drip from the engorged tip, and with a sudden, wicked impulse, she leaned down and swiped it up with her tongue, savoring its salty tang. He hissed in raw pleasure, his hips bucking slightly off the bed. With renewed

reassurance, she began licking his impressive length, slowly, deliberately, up and down, before finally taking him fully, deeply, into her mouth.

He grabbed her hair at the back of her head, not roughly, but firmly, guiding her, helping to set the perfect, intoxicating rhythm for her ministrations. She could tell he was beginning to get close, his pace quickening under her attentions, his breathing becoming ragged, and she could feel his balls begin to tighten and draw up in her gently cupped hands.

"Hermione!" he gasped out, his voice tight with warning, his body arching. "I'm going to…"

She knew. She pulled back just slightly, her mouth still slick, and began stroking him with a fevered, rapid pace, her eyes locked on his face, watching him unravel. His hips began bucking uncontrollably beneath her touch. It didn't take long. With a final, strangled cry of her name, ropes of his hot, thick seed shot from the head of his cock, landing, warm and sticky, on Hermione’s perfectly perk, flushed breasts.

Hermione reveled in the sight, in the raw, primal power of it, at seeing this incredibly powerful, controlled man beneath her come completely undone by her touch, her skill. She laid down on her back beside him on her bed, both of them panting, their bodies slick with sweat and spent passion, as he caught his breath.

He turned his head on the pillow and grinned at her, a wide, boyish, utterly un-Lucius-like grin, a glint of something that looked remarkably like… happiness, true happiness, in his silver eyes. "Granger. My dear, delightful Hermione," he breathed out, his voice still husky. "That was… absolutely superb!" He playfully swooped a finger down at the sticky mess on her chest, his fingertip circling one of her hard, sensitive nipples with his own seed. The sensation, even now, caused Hermione to groan again with a fresh wave of desire.

They spent the rest of the night, or what was left of it, tangled together in each other's embrace, limbs intertwined, drifting in and out of a contented, exhausted sleep, both feeling, for once, surprisingly, profoundly, at peace.

Chapter Text

Sunday morning unfurled slowly for Hermione, hazy and imbued with the lingering scent of Lucius Malfoy’s expensive cologne on her sheets and the phantom sensation of his lips against hers. He had, as promised, taken his leave after smothering her in a series of deep, possessive kisses that left her breathless and surprisingly content. She was just nursing a much-needed cup of strong tea in her sun-drenched living room, her mind a confusing, yet not entirely unpleasant, whirl of thoughts about the previous night – his unexpected tenderness, his surprising humor, the astonishing, uninhibited passion they had shared – when a loud, insistent knocking on her flat door shattered the quiet.

Wrapping herself tightly in a soft cotton robe, her hair still sleep-tousled, she padded to the door. She swung it open to find a beaming, bubbly Ginny Weasley on the other side, her bright red hair practically crackling with energy.

"Hermione!" Ginny exclaimed, her smile wide and infectious as she launched herself at her friend, enveloping her in a tight hug before stepping briskly inside.

"Ginny! What on earth are you doing here?" Hermione asked, genuinely confused, her mind still half-lost in the memories of the night before. "Is everything alright?"

Ginny pulled back, looking at her friend with mock-stunned disbelief. "Alright? Hermione, did you completely forget about our girls' day brunch!? We’ve had it planned for weeks!"

Hermione’s eyes widened as she began wracking her brain, a guilty flush rising on her cheeks. The events of the past few days had completely eclipsed any prior social arrangements. "Oh my goodness, Gin, I am so incredibly sorry! It completely slipped my mind. I guess I… I did forget."

Ginny glanced at the clock on Hermione's mantelpiece and then grinned, her earlier surprise melting into amusement. "Well, good thing I came by an hour early to remind you then! My ‘Hermione-might-have-lost-track-of-time’ senses were tingling." She gave Hermione a playful nudge. "No worries. But you need to hurry up and go get ready! We're supposed to meet Luna in just over an hour… and," Ginny’s grin widened, "I think she might have invited Pansy Parkinson along as well."

Hermione’s own lips curved into a genuine smile at the mention of Pansy. She had indeed grown surprisingly fond of the other witch since working with her at the DMF. Pansy, divested of her schoolgirl pettiness, possessed a sharp wit and a no-nonsense attitude that Hermione had come to appreciate. She still didn't know her on a deeper, more personal level, but seeing as Pansy was now, almost unbelievably, dating Ron, Hermione knew she ought to make more of an effort to be her friend. She was actually glad Luna had thought to include her. A girls' brunch with Luna, Ginny, and Pansy sounded like exactly what she needed after the emotional rollercoaster of the past week.

"Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me," Hermione laughed, feeling a lightness she hadn’t anticipated. "Give me twenty minutes, tops, to shower and make myself look presentable. Make yourself at home – there's fresh tea in the kettle if you want any." With that, she dashed off towards her bedroom and bathroom, a new, more social energy thrumming through her.

________

True to her word, Hermione was showered, dressed in smart but casual Muggle attire – comfortable dark-wash jeans that hugged her curves, a soft, heather-grey knit jumper that felt like a comforting embrace, and sturdy but stylish ankle boots – and feeling remarkably more human within precisely twenty minutes. Her hair, still damp from the shower, was quickly tamed with a charm and left to air-dry in loose waves. Ginny, who had indeed helped herself to a

generous cup of tea and had been idly flipping through an old Quibbler Hermione had left on the coffee table (no doubt Luna’s influence), grinned approvingly as Hermione emerged.

"See? Knew you could rally," Ginny said, grabbing her own worn leather jacket from the back of the sofa. "Ready to face civilization and a veritable mountain of magically enhanced waffles?"

"More than ready," Hermione laughed, a genuine lightness bubbling up inside her that she hadn't experienced in what felt like ages. The prospect of good food and even better company was an irresistible lure.

They Apparated with a near-simultaneous, sharp crack not to the familiar, slightly grimy ambiance of the Leaky Cauldron, but to the bustling entrance of a slightly more upscale Diagon Alley establishment – ‘The Whimsical Waffle’. It was a newer, incredibly popular spot, particularly for brunch, known for its enchantingly vibrant atmosphere and ridiculously decadent, magically infused waffle creations. Luna, with her unerring knack for discovering charming, out-of-the-way places, had suggested it in her owl to Ginny.

Inside, the café was a delightful riot of cheerful, mismatched furniture, floating teacups that refilled themselves with steaming brews at a mere nod, and enchanted murals that subtly shifted and changed, depicting whimsical magical creatures frolicking in sun-dappled meadows. The air was filled with the scent of warm batter, magical syrups, and cheerful chatter. Luna Lovegood and Pansy Parkinson were already seated at a cozy, circular booth by a large bay window that overlooked a magically animated miniature garden where gnomes diligently tended to self-watering flowerbeds bursting with impossible blooms.

Luna, looking ethereal as always in a pale yellow, sunflower-embroidered linen dress, beamed at their arrival, her radish earrings swaying gently. "Hermione! Ginny! Wonderful! We were just discussing whether the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks prefer blueberry or strawberry syrup with their morning crumpets. It’s a surprisingly contentious debate, you know."

Pansy, looking surprisingly chic and utterly relaxed in dark, perfectly well-fitted Muggle jeans and a luxurious Slytherin-green cashmere jumper that made her dark hair shine, offered a small, almost shy, but genuine smile. "Glad you could make it, Granger. Weasley." There was still a hint of her old schoolyard formality in her address, but it was significantly softened by a newfound, if still cautious, friendliness that Hermione found herself appreciating more and more.

Warm greetings and enthusiastic hugs were exchanged all around, and soon the four of them were comfortably settled around the table, enchanted menus hovering invitingly before them, displaying mouth-watering images of waffle creations Hermione hadn't even known were possible. Orders were placed with due diligence – towering stacks of fluffy, golden waffles laden with various magical and mundane toppings (Hermione opted for a classic Belgian waffle with enchanted berries that changed flavor with every bite, while Ginny went straight for the triple-chocolate-fudge-volcano waffle), pots of fragrant, self-refilling tea, and a large, chilled pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice that sparkled with what Luna assured them were infused cheering charms.

The conversation flowed easily at first, a comfortable and welcome mix of lighthearted banter, surprisingly insightful Ministry gossip (Pansy, it turned out, had a remarkably keen ear for the subtle political machinations within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where Ron now worked with a surprising degree of competence), and updates on their respective lives. Ginny regaled them with hilarious and slightly terrifying tales of her latest Quidditch training drills with the Holyhead Harpies, while Luna shared a fascinating, if somewhat bewildering, account of a recent solitary expedition to the Scottish Highlands in search of definitive evidence of the elusive Heliopaths.

"So, Hermione," Ginny began, after a particularly large and satisfying bite of her chocolate-chip and charmed-whipped-cream-laden waffle, her bright hazel eyes twinkling mischievously as she leaned forward. "Aside from completely and utterly forgetting about our sacred, long-standing brunch date, what else have you been up to this past week? Any… interesting developments since the Ministry Gala Ball, perhaps?"

Hermione felt an involuntary blush creep up her neck at Ginny’s pointed, teasing tone. "Life has certainly been… eventful," she admitted, stirring her tea with unnecessary vigor, her gaze dropping to the swirling liquid.

"Eventful?" Pansy raised a perfectly sculpted, dark eyebrow, a knowing, almost Slytherin smirk playing on her lips. "I'd say so. You had a rather terrifying week, Granger. Being held hostage at knifepoint and all. That’s a bit more than just 'eventful'."

"Oh, that !" Hermione laughed, a little too quickly, a little too brightly. "That was just… yes, intense, certainly, but…"

"Do what!?" Ginny interjected, her fork clattering onto her plate, her earlier teasing vanishing, replaced by a look of sharp, worried alarm. "What is Pansy talking about, Hermione? Hostage? Knife point? What happened?"

Hermione’s blush deepened to a painful crimson. She had hoped, rather naively it seemed, that the specific, terrifying topic of the Atlas Wellington situation, and its more… personal aftermath, could somehow be gracefully avoided. She knew exactly what questions it would lead to, and she would rather have kept those particular cards very close to her chest.

"Well," Hermione began, choosing her words with extreme care, acutely aware of three pairs of eyes now fixed on her with varying degrees of concern and intense curiosity. She quickly recounted a heavily edited, significantly sanitized version of the hostage situation at Blackwood Manor, focusing primarily on Atlas Wellington's madness and his eventual, tragic capture and demise, omitting entirely the desperate, passionate kiss with Snape in the corridor and its painful, confusing aftermath. And she certainly, most definitely, did not mention her subsequent, rather surreal night at Lucius Malfoy’s penthouse.

The girls listened with wide, horrified eyes, their waffles forgotten, interjecting with soft gasps and frequent expressions of profound concern. "Hermione, that's utterly terrifying!" Ginny exclaimed when she’d finished, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand tightly. "Are you

absolutely, positively sure you're alright? That madman didn't… he didn't hurt you too badly?"

"I am now," Hermione reassured them, managing a small, if somewhat shaky, smile, though the memory of the cold steel against her throat still sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. "Just a small cut, it’s already healed."

"And Lucius Malfoy was there?" Pansy asked, her brow furrowed in thought, her sharp mind clearly dissecting the details. "What was his involvement in all of this? Ron mentioned he arrived with the Minister."

"He arrived with Minister Shacklebolt afterwards, yes," Hermione explained, trying to keep her tone casual. "He was… naturally very concerned, given his funding of the DMF. He insisted I be seen by a Mediwitch at the Ministry right away."

"And he escorted you, didn't he?" Luna added, her gaze gentle, unnervingly knowing, as if she could see far more than Hermione was letting on. "To the infirmary?"

Hermione squirmed slightly under their collective, unwavering scrutiny. "He was… a perfect gentleman," she conceded, the words feeling strangely inadequate. "He made sure I was okay… and then he… he comforted me. I ended up staying at his Penthouse in London after we… well, we stayed up quite late drinking and watching a Muggle film."

Ginny’s eyes widened to the size of Galleons. "You stayed the night with Lucius Malfoy!? At his penthouse !? Blimey, Hermione, that’s considerably more than just ‘solicitous’ and ‘gentlemanly’!"

"I stayed in the guest room !" Hermione clarified quickly, perhaps a little too defensively. "I just… I didn't want to be alone in my flat after that ordeal with Wellington. It was all very… above board." She then bit her lip, knowing she couldn't entirely withhold the rest, not from her closest friends, especially if, as she suspected, things with Lucius might progress. She decided she had to be honest, at least to a degree. She wanted them to hear it from her first. 

"But he did…" she took a deep breath, "he did ask me out on a proper date after that… an actual date, which we went on last night together." A faint flush crept up her cheeks at the memory of the Parisian restaurant, the silver gown, and the subsequent, intimate hours spent at her flat. "It was… magnificent, actually. Truly. I think," she added, her voice softer now, a hint of genuine surprise in her tone, "I think I finally got to see a glimpse of the real Lucius Malfoy last night." She flushed a deeper crimson at the sudden, vivid memory of him leaned down between her thighs, the look in his eyes, and quickly looked away, hoping no one noticed her heightened color.

Pansy, who had been listening intently, a thoughtful, almost calculating expression on her face, finally spoke, her voice carefully neutral. "Lucius Malfoy, Granger, doesn't do anything without a very specific reason. And rarely, if ever, are his reasons purely altruistic, even now, after all this time." There was no malice in her tone, more a cool, pragmatic statement of fact from someone who knew the man, his history, and his nature, exceptionally well. "If he's showing you this level of unprecedented attention, especially after what happened with… well, with his past, and given

your history with his family… he's either deadly serious about you. Or," Pansy’s gaze sharpened, "he's playing a very, very deep and complex game."

"Pansy's right, Hermione," Ginny chimed in, her earlier teasing completely gone, her expression now far more serious, concerned. "You need to be incredibly careful. Lucius Malfoy can be incredibly charming, devastatingly so when he chooses to be, but he’s also… well, he’s still Lucius Malfoy. He always, always has an angle. Multiple angles, probably."

Hermione felt a familiar knot of unease tighten in her stomach. She knew they were right, of course. Her logical, sensible mind screamed it at her with every beat of her heart. But then the memory of Lucius’s unexpected tenderness, his unwavering attentiveness, the intoxicating way he had made her feel not just desired, but beautiful and cherished, sent a confusing rush of heat through her, temporarily overriding any and all logic.

"I… I know," she said quietly, her gaze dropping to her now-cold waffle. "I am being careful. Or at least, I'm trying to be." She paused, then, needing desperately to shift the focus away from herself and her complicated entanglements, she looked directly at Pansy, a genuine, teasing smile finally returning to her face. "Speaking of you charming Slytherins, Pansy… Ron mentioned, rather enthusiastically I might add, that you two had a rather good time at the Ministry Gala?"

Pansy Parkinson actually blushed . A faint, delicate pink stained her usually pale, cool cheeks, a sight so unexpected, so utterly out of character, it made Hermione smile for real. "It was… surprisingly enjoyable," Pansy admitted, a small, almost shy, and entirely un-Pansy-like smile playing on her lips. "Ronald is… considerably less of an oaf than I remembered from our school days. He’s actually rather… sweet, in his own way. When he’s not, of course, attempting to inhale an entire treacle tart in one go."

The girls erupted in laughter, the previous tension easing slightly, replaced by the comfortable, familiar camaraderie of friendship. The brunch continued, filled with more laughter, surprisingly candid shared confidences, and the quiet, unspoken support that only true friends could offer.

Chapter Text

The next few months passed by in a surprisingly swift, almost deceptive blur. The Department of Magical Forensics, with its usual quiet efficiency, had thankfully wrapped up the case of the Countess Kensington’s stolen jewels fairly quickly. It seemed her wayward, debt-ridden nephew had made some rather disastrous business deals in Knockturn Alley. Instead of admitting his mistakes and asking his enormously wealthy aunt for assistance, he had foolishly opted to pilfer her renowned diamond parure and attempt to sell it off piecemeal. Surprisingly, when confronted with the evidence, the Countess, with a world-weary sigh and a dismissive wave of her elegant hand, declined to press charges, merely banishing the young fool to a remote family estate in the Outer Hebrides to "contemplate the profound error of his ways."

For Hermione, those intervening months held a complex tapestry of emotions. Things between herself and Severus Snape had remained as icy and fraught as ever, perhaps even more so. After he had inadvertently overheard her conversation with Draco, then the subsequent news of her relationship with Lucius. Severus had begun to avoid her with a chilling, almost surgical precision. He addressed her only when strictly necessary, his voice devoid of any inflection, his dark eyes sliding past her as if she were a particularly uninteresting smudge on the laboratory wall. It was, Hermione told herself firmly, perfectly fine. Out of sight, out of mind, as she liked to remind herself with a brittle sort of cheerfulness. Yet, deep down, in the quiet, unguarded moments, she couldn't help but feel the persistent, aching sting of his rejection, the cold weight of his disapproval. She couldn't, no matter how hard she tried, ever fully extinguish the stubborn, foolish embers of her feelings for him.

Though, distracting her from that particular heartache, was Lucius. Hermione had, much to her own astonishment, fallen for Lucius Malfoy, quite spectacularly. The charming, attentive man she had encountered on their Parisian date and the subsequent night at her flat had not been a fleeting persona. When it was just the two of them together, away from the prying eyes of the Ministry or the judgmental whispers of society, he showed her a side of himself she suspected few ever witnessed. He was actually witty, his humor dry and sophisticated; surprisingly insightful, his intellect sharp and engaging; and, most unexpectedly, genuinely playful. Hermione hadn't felt this light, this cherished, this… happy, in well, years. He treated her like a queen, showering her with thoughtful gifts, whisking her away on spontaneous, romantic excursions, and listening to her with an intensity that made her feel like the most fascinating woman in the world.

It was a crisp Friday evening in late autumn. Lucius had sent word earlier that day, a beautifully penned note delivered by a discreet owl, explaining that an urgent, unforeseen Ministry matter would require him to work late, forcing him to cancel their long-standing dinner plans at a new, exclusive restaurant. Hermione, being the caring, considerate person she was, felt a pang of sympathy for his long day. She decided, on a whim, to set up a little surprise for him, something to help him unwind.

After her own shift at the DMF, she went home, took a long, leisurely bath, and then dressed herself with particular care. She chose her sexiest little black dress, a simple but devastatingly effective silk slip of a thing that clung to her curves and left her shoulders bare. Her hair was styled in soft, tumbling waves, her makeup subtle but alluring. She called in a take-away order from one of Lucius’s favorite upscale wizarding bistros, ensuring she included his preferred vintage of elf-made wine. She would make absolutely sure Lucius was thoroughly taken care of, in every sense of the word, after such a long, demanding day at work.

With a thrill of anticipation, she Apparated directly to his penthouse. She let herself in with the charmed key he’d insisted she keep, the familiar, luxurious scent of his London retreat

welcoming her. She set the containers of food on the sleek kitchen island, casting a quick stasis charm to keep everything perfectly warm for when he finally arrived home.

What she didn't anticipate, as she turned to perhaps pour herself a preemptive glass of wine, was the sound of music – a sultry, bluesy melody – drifting from down the hallway, accompanied by the low murmur of voices, one distinctly Lucius’s, the other… a light, feminine laugh.

She scrunched her face up in confusion. Had he managed to get away from work earlier than expected? Was he perhaps entertaining a colleague, discussing Ministry business? She made her way silently down the plushly carpeted hall towards the master bedroom, from where the sounds seemed to be emanating. The door was slightly ajar. With a growing sense of unease, she pushed it open.

It was as if everything happened in slow, agonizing, heart-shattering motion.

The scene that greeted her was one of blatant, irrefutable betrayal. Lucius Malfoy, her charming, attentive Lucius, was indeed tangled in the expensive silk sheets of his enormous bed, but not alone. With him was a stunningly beautiful young woman, her blonde hair spread like a halo on his pillows, her lithe, naked form artfully entwined with his. She looked like she had stepped directly from the pages of Witch Weekly’s most glamorous fashion spread, probably a model, Hermione thought with a numb, detached sort of clarity.

When Lucius, his head thrown back in laughter at something the blonde had whispered, finally turned and saw Hermione standing frozen in the doorway, his handsome face paled to a ghastly white. His silver eyes widened in horrified shock, his stomach filling with a sudden, sickening dread. He scrambled from the bed, yanking a sheet haphazardly around his waist, and chased after her as she turned, blindly, and fled back down the hall.

"Hermione! Wait! Please, dear! Let me explain!" he called out, his voice hoarse with panic.

Hermione reached the kitchen island, her movements stiff, robotic. She grabbed the unopened bottle of chilled elf-wine from the counter, her fingers fumbling with the cork. She turned around to face him as he skidded to a halt before her, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with desperation. Her own eyes were filled with a maelstrom of hurt and cold, angry tears that threatened to spill.

"I don't think there's much to explain, Lucius," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though laced with an icy fury that was far more terrifying than any shout. "Not after what I just walked in on."

He reached out a trembling hand, desperate to grab her arm, needing to wrap his arms around her, to somehow hold her there before she slipped away from him forever. He knew, with a certainty that clawed at his insides, that he had just royally, irrevocably, fucked up the best, the most genuine, thing that had ever walked into his life. He was desperate to fix this, to somehow rewind time.

But she stepped away from him sharply, out of his desperate grasp, her expression unreadable.

"Goodbye, Lucius," she said, her voice flat, final. And before he could utter another word, she Apparated away with a sharp, echoing crack , leaving him standing alone and half-naked in his opulent penthouse, the scent of her abandoned takeaway meal mocking him from the kitchen island.

Hermione reappeared, stumbling slightly, in the chaotic, noisy heart of Diagon Alley. She didn't know where else to go, what else to do. She began walking aimlessly down the crowded, brightly lit streets, oblivious to the curious stares of passersby, chugging the expensive elf-wine straight from the bottle like a common drunkard. The sweet, potent liquid burned a path down her throat, but it did little to numb the gaping, ragged wound that had just been torn open in her heart. Tonight, she decided, tears finally streaming down her face, mingling with the spilled wine, tonight, she would drown her sorrows in whatever spirits she could find. She wanted to be numb. She wanted to not feel anything, anything at all, if only just for tonight.

___________

The cloying sweetness of the elf-made wine had long since faded, leaving a bitter, hollow ache in its wake as Hermione wandered aimlessly down the bustling, brightly lit cobbles of Diagon Alley. She tossed the empty bottle into a discreetly placed rubbish bin, the clink of glass a small, sharp sound in the cacophony of evening shoppers and revellers. Her eyes, blurry with unshed tears and the effects of the potent wine, scanned the shops that lined the street, searching, not for trinkets or books, but for some type of establishment where she could continue her determined descent into oblivion. She finally spotted one down near the corner, its windows glowing with a warm, inviting light, a discreet brass plaque identifying it as 'The Alchemist's Reserve'. It looked a bit upscale for a wizarding bar, more sophisticated than the Leaky Cauldron. Perfect, she thought with a grim sort of satisfaction. She wanted to be anonymous, to lose herself.

She made her way inside the swanky establishment. It was rather busy, the air thick with the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the scent of expensive spirits and subtle enchantments designed to enhance conviviality. Despite the crowd, she managed to find herself a small, secluded table in a dimly lit back corner, shrouded in shadows.

She was on perhaps her fifth… or was it her sixth shot of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey? The fiery liquid burned a welcome path down her throat, temporarily numbing the gnawing pain in her chest. She was staring numbly at the growing collection of empty shot glasses on her table, occasionally sipping from a glass of soda water she was ostensibly using as a chaser, when a familiar flash of black robes registered in the corner of her peripheral vision.

Her head snapped up. And there he was. Of all the gin joints in all the world… Severus Snape, standing at the polished mahogany bar, his back to her, calmly ordering a drink. Like this night could possibly have gotten any worse, she thought dourly, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. He turned from the bar then, two glasses in hand, and as he did, their eyes locked across the crowded room. She saw the look of initial, familiar iciness in his dark gaze falter, replaced by

a flicker of surprise at seeing her there, in such a place, alone. And then, to her utter mortification, that surprise melted into something that looked unmistakably like… concern.

Shite, she thought, her heart sinking. She began wiping frantically at her cheeks with the back of her hand, dabbing at her eyes. She must look an absolute fright. She was positively sure she had thick, black streams of mascara coursing down her cheeks from the earlier bout of tears, now no doubt mingling with fresh ones.

And then, as if the universe had been actively listening to her earlier lament and decided to amplify her misery, the night certainly, quickly, got much, much worse. Countess Catherine Kensington, looking every bit the dark, alluring enchantress in a sinuous gown of midnight blue, materialized at Severus’s side. She leaned into him, her body pressing familiarly against his arm, and planted an intimate, lingering kiss on his cheek. He, in turn, handed her one of the drinks in his hand, his expression unreadable from this distance.

Hermione wanted the floor to swallow her whole, to simply disappear into the flagstones. But then, Snape did something that surprised Hermione to her very core. After a brief, murmured exchange with the Countess, he excused himself, his gaze flicking back towards Hermione’s shadowed corner, and began making his way over to her table.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck… Hermione began thinking to herself in her rapidly intensifying drunken haze as he approached, a tall, dark harbinger of… she wasn’t quite sure what, but it couldn't be good.

"Granger," he greeted her, his voice a low, neutral rumble as he stopped before her table.

"Snape," she replied, injecting a false, brittle confidence into her tone that she most certainly did not possess. He stood there, waiting, his dark eyes scrutinizing her with an intensity that made her squirm. Then she remembered… manners! Even in her current state.

"Oh! Sorry," she slurred slightly. "Please. Please, have a seat." She gestured vaguely to the lone, empty chair across from her.

He stiffly sat, his gaze still fixed on her, looking at her oddly, taking in her disheveled appearance, the tear tracks, the damning array of empty shot glasses. He went to say something, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then finally spat it out, the words laced with an undeniable thread of concern. "Are you… quite alright, Granger?"

"I'm marvelous!" she declared, plastering a fake, overly bright, beaming smile onto her face and punctuating it with a short, sharp laugh that sounded slightly hysterical even to her own ears. She grabbed the shot glass nearest to her and downed its fiery contents in one gulp. "Perfectly bloody well splendid, in fact!" she announced, her words slurring noticeably now.

He raised a single, skeptical eyebrow at her, his expression clearly indicating he didn't believe a word of it.

"Are you… sure?" he drawled out, his voice a low, skeptical rumble.

"Yes, quite sure!" she insisted, her head nodding a little too emphatically. "Just on a bit of a… a mission, tonight. Mission to forget ev’rything. 'About my life. For one night. Jus' one." She raised another freshly filled glass – had she summoned that one? She couldn’t quite recall – in a wobbly, mock cheers. "An' I seem to be well on track of my goal!" She downed it with a grimace.

Severus’s gaze dropped pointedly to the cluster of empty glasses piled in the center of the small table.

She tapped her wand somewhat haphazardly on the tabletop, and another shot of Firewhiskey magically appeared in front of her. She reached for it, her fingers clumsy, when she felt Snape’s larger, cooler hand close firmly over her own, stilling her movement. She looked up at him in hazy confusion.

"Hermione," he said, his voice softer now, losing some of its earlier edge, "please. Take a break from the shots. Just for a moment. Tell me what's got you so… visibly upset."

The unexpected gentleness in his tone, the use of her first name, the firm but not unkind pressure of his hand on hers – it was all too much. Hermione began laughing, a wild, broken sound that quickly, inevitably, dissolved into choked, hiccuping sobs. "I… I don't think I can talk about it," she managed between gasps, the words quiet, raw. "I feel so bloody… stupid ." Hot, miserable tears began streaming down her face again, carving fresh paths through her already ruined makeup.

Severus fished his pristine white handkerchief from an inner pocket of his robes and, with a sigh, handed it to her. She took it numbly, dabbing at her eyes. He kept his hand covering hers on the table, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. He hated seeing her like this, so utterly sad, so broken. He had no idea what could possibly have happened to make Hermione Granger , of all people, turn to alcohol like this, to seek such blatant oblivion. It sent a sharp, unfamiliar pang through him.

"Would you… would you like me to send for someone you might feel more comfortable speaking with?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral, though he hated to even utter the words, hated the thought. But he would do anything, anything at all, to ensure her happiness, her well-being… even if it meant facilitating her comfort with another. "Lucius, perhaps?"

The look of pure, unadulterated horror that flashed across her face at the mere mention of Lucius Malfoy’s name made something clench tightly within Severus’s chest.

She dropped the hanky, her eyes wide and wild. With her free hand, she snatched up the shot glass Snape had prevented her from drinking and downed it in one defiant gulp. "No… no. Please don't," she choked out, shaking her head vehemently. "Lucius… and I… well," she gave a short, bitter laugh, "we're over ."

Seeing Severus’s look of utter confusion, she elaborated, the words tumbling out in a rush, fueled by Firewhiskey and misery. "I seemed to have… found him. In a rather… compromising position. With a… a young, beautiful, blonde … this evening. At his penthouse."

Severus felt a maelstrom of conflicting emotions warring within him at her broken confession. There was an undeniable, shameful surge of elation – Lucius would no longer have his grimy, possessive hands all over his Hermione anymore. This was swiftly followed by a cold, potent anger – how dare the man do something so callous, so deliberately hurtful to her? And then, overriding it all, was a profound, aching sadness, a deep sorrow at seeing her look so utterly broken, so profoundly hurt by another’s betrayal. He reached over, his other hand covering hers as well, giving both her hands a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"Hermione," he said, his voice low and earnest, "please don't drown yourself in alcohol over the despicable actions of Lucius sodding Malfoy. He is most certainly not worth it."

This, surprisingly, caused a small, watery chuckle to escape her. "I appreciate your… concern, Severus," she slurred, a ghost of her usual wit flickering through. "But I am going to have just… just one night. To drown my sorrows. Promise."

He was about to make a counter-argument, to insist on taking her home, when Hermione cut him off, her gaze flicking towards the bar.

"Besides," she said, a hint of her earlier defiance returning, "I think your date ," she nodded pointedly towards the Countess, who was indeed standing at the bar, her sapphire eyes narrowed, studying them with an intense, unreadable focus, "is waiting for your return."

Snape glanced over his shoulder at Catherine. He felt profoundly torn. He did not, under any circumstances, want to leave Hermione in this vulnerable, self-destructive state. She was clearly going to be blackout drunk, or worse, if she kept downing shots at this rate. But he had also promised Catherine this one evening – strictly as friends, he’d insisted – just to catch up, to appease some lingering obligation from a past he’d rather forget. He let out a frustrated sigh. He did not want to leave Hermione alone.

As if sensing his internal conflict, Hermione offered him a wobbly, overly bright smile. "I'll be fine, Severus, I promise," she slurred out, her head beginning to loll slightly. "I'm a grown witch. I can take care o' myself."

With another heavy sigh, Severus reluctantly stood up. "Hermione, please… don't go anywhere, alright? Just… stay here. I'll be right back."

"Severus, really," she insisted, waving a dismissive hand. "Go. Enjoy your date. And don't worry 'bout me. Pretend you never even saw me here, okay?" She tapped her wand unsteadily on the table again, and another shot glass appeared, already filled. She held it up to him in another mock cheers. "Oh! And Severus…" she added, her eyes suddenly focusing on him with a strange, drunken clarity, "in case… in case I get sacked come Monday… it's been a real

pleasure workin' with you." She toasted towards him with a solemn nod of her head before downing the shot in one quick, practiced gulp.

He gave her a sharp, questioning look, a fleeting expression of profound worry mixed with anger passing over his face. Surely Lucius wouldn't sack her over his own monumental fuck up. He felt a fresh surge of cold anger course through him, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. He better bloody well not, he thought viciously to himself. Sodding, arrogant wanker!

"You are not going to get sacked, Hermione," he said, his voice firm, authoritative, leaving no room for argument. "I can personally assure you of that." He paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Now, please, excuse me. I will be right back."

Chapter Text

Severus made his way back across the crowded, smoky bar towards Countess Catherine Kensington, his mind a turbulent sea of concern for Hermione and a simmering, unfamiliar anger. Catherine watched his approach, her sapphire eyes narrowed, a knowing, almost feline smile playing on her perfectly painted lips. She looked, as always, as if she could see straight through him, past the carefully constructed walls to the disquiet churning within.

"Severus, darling," she purred as he reached her, "you took your sweet time. Was your little stray lamb in need of rescuing?"

He sighed, not wanting to get into a lengthy explanation, especially not with Catherine, who had an uncanny ability to dissect his motivations. "Catherine, my apologies for leaving you alone for so long. Miss Granger was… unwell. I needed to ascertain the situation."

She looked up at him then, her expression softening with an unexpected, genuine understanding. "Severus," she said, her voice losing its teasing edge, "it's quite alright. Truly. The girl over there," she gestured discreetly with her chin towards Hermione's shadowed table, "is clearly distraught… and from the looks of those empty glasses, trying very determinedly to drown a significant amount of pain. It also seems," Catherine’s gaze sharpened, becoming unnervingly perceptive, "that you care a great deal about her."

Severus let out another weary sigh, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He didn't want to have this conversation, not here, not now, not with Catherine. "You know she's a valued member of my team, Catherine. I couldn't simply ignore her when she's so clearly distressed and making a public spectacle of herself."

"No, Severus," Catherine said, her knowing smile returning, gentler this time. "It's more than that. You care for her, truly care, more than just as a colleague, more than as a boss protecting his subordinate. I can see it written all over your face, even when you try so desperately to hide it. It’s in your body language, the way your shoulders tense when you even glance in her direction."

Severus didn't like how easily, how effortlessly, the woman could still read him after all these years. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting it, not out loud, but she was, of course, infuriatingly correct. He let out a small, annoyed huff but said nothing further, his gaze flicking worriedly back towards Hermione.

Catherine, sensing his internal conflict, placed a delicate hand on his arm. "Severus," she said softly, "how about a rain check for our evening? It’s been… an illuminating start, but perhaps not the relaxed reunion we both envisioned."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow at her unexpected offer.

"It's perfectly obvious you are deeply worried about… your colleague," Catherine continued, her eyes kind. "Go to her. Make sure she makes it home alright. We can catch up another time, when the skies are clearer, for both of us."

Severus looked genuinely surprised at how understanding, how gracious, Catherine was being. She leaned over, pressing another light, friendly kiss to his cheek. "Until next time, Severus. Take care." And with that, with a final, enigmatic smile, she turned and, with the effortless grace of a queen, disappeared out of the bar and into the darkness of Diagon Alley.

Severus took a moment to compose himself, then, his resolve solidified, he turned and made his way back towards Hermione's table. As he approached, his blood ran cold. A group of three young, leering wizards had circled her, their intentions all too clear. One of them, a particularly loutish-looking individual with shifty eyes, had pulled up a chair far too close to hers, his arm slung familiarly over the back of her seat. The man now had a hand on her knee, his fingers trailing dangerously, possessively high up her bare thigh, inching towards the delicate seam of her dress.

Hermione, her head lolling slightly, was trying to bat the man’s invasive hand away, her slurred words a mixture of confused protest and weak demands for him to stop. "No… get off… don't touch…" But she was far too drunk, too disoriented, to effectively force his hand off her, her struggles only seeming to amuse him and his equally unsavory companions.

Severus saw her struggle, saw the predatory gleam in the man's eyes, and a white-hot, possessive fury unlike anything he had felt in years bubbled up in his chest, eclipsing all other thoughts. He quickened his pace, his long strides eating up the distance between them with frightening speed. How dare some stranger try to manhandle her, especially a clearly inebriated, vulnerable woman.

Just as the lout’s questing fingers were making their way under the hem of her dress, Snape reached them. With a snarl, he snatched the man up by the collar of his cheap robes, yanking him roughly away from Hermione. "I believe," Snape bit out, his voice a low, menacing growl that promised violence, "the lady asked you to stop !" He punctuated the last word by shoving the man hard, sending him stumbling backwards.

The man, regaining his footing, grinned insolently at Severus, clearly mistaking him for some interfering old busybody. He puffed out his chest and got right in Snape’s face. "Oi, mate, you got it all wrong, yeah? She's been beggin' for me to touch her, ain't ya, darlin'?" he leered at Hermione. "In fact, we were all just about to head back to my place for a bit o' fun, innit that right, fellas?"

The other two wizards, equally odious, smirked and nodded in eager agreement.

"Appreciate your concern, ol' man," the first wizard continued, dismissing Snape with a wave of his hand, "but the lady is more than alright with me. You can just move along now, before you get hurt."

"I. Think. Not!" Severus said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone that should have warned the idiot.

But the young man, fueled by alcohol and arrogance, simply sneered and then, with shocking speed, sucker-punched Snape hard in the mouth. Snape’s head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, but he didn’t so much as stagger, his feet remaining firmly planted.

Hermione let out a shriek of pure, terrified worry. "Severus! No! Don't hurt him!" she cried out, her voice slurred but filled with genuine alarm for Snape's safety.

She tried to stand, to somehow come to his aid, but her legs, uncooperative and numb from the alcohol, buckled beneath her. She sank back down into her chair in a helpless, frustrated heap.

One of the other men in the group, the one who had seemed slightly less aggressive, suddenly looked on in abject horror at hearing Hermione's shriek, his eyes widening as he focused on Snape’s face. "Severus!?" he stammered, his bravado vanishing. "As in… Severus Snape !? THE Severus Snape? Head of the DMF? Ex-Death Eater? Potions Master from Hell?"

The two wizards looked at each other, their faces paling rapidly with dawning, horrified realization, before simultaneously scrambling away, practically tripping over each other in their haste to flee the bar, leaving their unfortunate, and now very isolated, friend to fend for himself.

Severus slowly turned his head, looking directly at the man who had just punched him. He touched his fingers gingerly to his rapidly swelling lip, then looked at the smear of blood on their tips. A slow, terrifying, utterly predatory smile spread across his face. "My turn," Severus said, his voice a soft, taunting purr that promised retribution.

With that, he moved. It wasn't flashy wand-work; it was brutal, efficient, Muggle-style violence. He landed a devastating blow to the man’s jaw, then another to his gut, doubling him over.

"Don't," punch . "You," punch . "Ever," punch . "Touch," punch . "Her," punch . "Again!" He punctuated the final word with a savage uppercut that sent the man sprawling to the floor. Snape stood over him for a moment, panting with anger, before turning his back on the groaning, defeated lout, who quickly scrambled away, whimpering.

Severus stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, slowly regaining his bearings, the adrenaline beginning to ebb. He turned to Hermione, who was looking at him with wide, worried eyes, a mixture of fear, relief, and something else he couldn't quite decipher.

She tried standing again, determined to go to him, and wobbled precariously. He was there in an instant, catching her effortlessly before she could fall, pulling her trembling body against his, steadying her.

"Severus," she whispered, her voice thick with concern and unshed tears, "are you okay? Your lip… I was so worried when he hit you." Her hand, small and shaking, reached up to cup his jaw, her thumb gently, almost reverently, brushing over his split, bleeding lip.

He leaned into her touch, a shudder running through him at the unexpected tenderness of her concern. He took her much smaller hand in his, his fingers lacing through hers. "I'm fine, Hermione. A mere scratch." His gaze hardened as he looked down at her. "But are you alright? That man… he shouldn't have been touching you in that manner." His voice was dark, possessive.

"I'm okay now, Severus," she said, a faint blush staining her cheeks despite her inebriation. "Thank you. For… for helping me."

"Let's get you home, Hermione, alright?" he said softly, his anger receding, replaced by a deep, protective concern. "I'm going to Apparate us directly to your flat. Hold on to me tightly, now."

She nodded, her head feeling too heavy to lift. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face into the familiar, comforting scent of his robes and his skin. Finally, he heard a muffled, "Ready," from her.

With that, they were gone from the noisy, smoky pub, reappearing with a soft pop on the front doorstep of Hermione's small London flat.

Hermione fumbled with the key, her coordination shot. Waves of dizziness and nausea washed over her from the potent combination of Firewhiskey and Side-Along Apparition. Severus had just managed to get her inside the doorway, his arm still securely around her waist, when she lurched forward, her body convulsing, and hurled the entire contents of her stomach onto her doormat.

He held her steady, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation, and with a swift, non-verbal flick of his wand, vanished the vomit away. "It's alright, Hermione," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle as he guided her shaking form to the small sofa in her den, carefully sitting her down. He conjured a sturdy bucket and placed it beside her, just in the nick of time. She leaned over it, her body wracked with another wave of violent retching, throwing up more and more until she was left dry heaving, tears of misery and humiliation streaming down her face.

She was so utterly embarrassed. She couldn't believe it. Severus Snape, the Severus Snape, was here, in her flat, on her sofa, rubbing her back soothingly and watching her puke her guts

out. She had imagined many, many scenarios of them on her sofa before, over the years, but never, not even in her most bizarre nightmares, one quite like this.

"Hermione," he asked, his voice calm amidst her distress, "do you have any Anti-Nausea Potion in the flat?"

All she could manage to do was nod weakly, and get out, between heaves, "B…bathroom… cabinet…" while vaguely pointing down the small hall.

Severus walked quickly down the hallway and found the bathroom relatively easily. He opened the cabinet and began to plunder through its contents, pointedly ignoring her more personal, feminine items, until he finally located a small, half-empty vial of the distinctive turquoise potion.

He returned to where Hermione sat, slumped and miserable, and unstoppered the vial. He knelt before her, gently tilting her chin up. "Here, Hermione. Drink this. Slowly." He held it to her lips and carefully, patiently, coaxed her to drink the potion, which she did, whimpering slightly. The effects were almost instant, thank Merlin. The violent heaving subsided, though she still looked pale and wretched.

"I'm afraid a Hangover Potion will be of no use until tomorrow morning," he said softly, stroking a stray, damp curl from her forehead. "But the Anti-Nausea will at least stop the vomiting." He looked at her more closely then, his expression worried. He could see the faint gleam of a cold sweat on her skin, her breaths still shallow and uneven. Merlin, had she really drunk herself to the borderline of alcohol poisoning over Lucius fucking Malfoy? he thought with a fresh surge of anger directed at the other man. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he couldn't leave her alone tonight. Not like this. He had to keep an eye on her, to make sure she kept breathing, to ensure she was safe.

"Hermione," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I'm going to help you to bed now, alright?" He stood up. "Do you think you can walk?"

She took his offered hand as he helped her to stand. However, when she finally tried to take a tentative step, her legs crumpled beneath her as if they were made of wet parchment. She would have collapsed entirely if he weren't there, his strong arms instantly catching her, holding her securely against him.

"Right," he said, his voice a low rumble near her ear. "It seems I'm going to carry you, then. Alright?" His gaze met hers, seeking her consent even in her inebriated state. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, her head lolling against his shoulder. And with that, he scooped her up effortlessly into his surprisingly strong arms, her light weight no burden at all. He carried her carefully down the short hallway to her bedroom and laid her gently, reverently, on the bed.

"Severus…" she murmured, her eyes fluttering open slightly, "would you… would you mind getting my nightgown? From the dresser? Top left drawer, please." Even in her current state, she may be incredibly drunk, but she knew, with a clarity that transcended the haze, that she would be in absolute agony if she slept in this tight, restrictive dress.

He located the drawer and pulled out a confection of white silk – a simple nightgown with thin straps that looked to be about knee length. He handed it to her silently and then, with commendable propriety, made his way to walk out of the room, intending to give her some privacy to change.

Until her small, weak voice stopped him at the door.

"Severus… wait." He turned back. "I… I think I may need some help… please," she whispered, her cheeks turning a beet red, even in her drunken state, "getting out of this dress." She struggled feebly with the zipper at her back, her fingers clumsy and uncooperative.

He turned and looked at her, a muscle twitching in his jaw. This was… a dangerous territory. "What if," he suggested, his voice carefully neutral, "I simply turn around, and I vanish the dress for you. Would that suffice?"

Even in her drunken haze, she looked affronted, a spark of her usual Hermione-ness flaring. "NO!" she exclaimed, her voice surprisingly strong. "That's my favorite little black dress! Please don't vanish it! It was… it was expensive."

"Just… just please help me stand up again," she pleaded, her eyes large and imploring, "so I can try and get it off." She gave him a look so full of vulnerable, drunken appeal that it melted his remaining resolve.

"Fine," he said with a sigh that was more resignation than annoyance. He walked back to the bed and carefully helped her to the edge, where she slid off, using him as her primary support to hold her upright. His hands, large and warm, held her waist tightly, keeping her securely on her unsteady feet.

"Uhhh, Severus…" she mumbled, her head resting against his chest for a moment, "could you… could you unzip me, please?"

He raised a questioning eyebrow, his blood, which had been relatively calm, now beginning to leave his brain and head decidedly south, straight to his groin. No, he told himself sternly. He must not enjoy this. He was here to help her, to care for her, not to oogle her like some… some common lecher. He felt no better than that cretin from the bar. After taking a deep, steadying breath, he carefully turned her around so that her back was to him, and she was now facing the bed.

She was effectively pinned between him and the bed, her soft bottom brushing against his thighs, and boy, did it feel amazing to her, even in her current state. If only the circumstances were different, she sighed to herself, a wistful, drunken thought.

She felt his cool, long fingers fumbling for a moment at the top of her zipper, then the slow, deliberate pull as he unzipped the dress all the way down to the top of her bum, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The dress loosened, revealing her matching black lace bra

and panty set. She heard his sharp, almost ragged intake of breath, and she couldn't suppress a small, triumphant, if slightly wobbly, smile to herself.

She leaned forward, bracing herself on the bed, and drunkenly, clumsily, shimmied out of the dress, letting it pool in a silken heap on the floor around her feet. She could hear his breathing becoming heavier, more labored, behind her, and it thrilled her, even now, knowing she had caused that reaction in him. She tried to straighten up, intending to undo her bra, but her balance was still precarious. She lost her footing and pitched forward, falling face-first onto the soft duvet of her bed. In doing so, her silk-and-lace clad bum ground directly, and with considerable pressure, against the crotch of Severus Snape.

She could feel it then, undeniably – his hot, throbbing, impressive erection pressed hard into her backside. A low, involuntary moan escaped her lips. Gods, how many times, in how many secret, shameful dreams, had she envisioned similar positions with him, similar intimacies? He felt so good, so hard, so… there . She instinctively pushed back further, grinding against him, needing to feel more, her inhibitions completely obliterated by alcohol and burgeoning desire.

She was met with his strong fingers digging almost painfully into her hips, pulling her roughly, almost savagely, back against him, trapping her there. A deep, guttural, animalistic groan escaped him then, a sound so raw, so primal, it sent a fresh wave of pure electricity flowing through Hermione’s already sensitized body. She could feel her panties, already damp, growing positively soaking wet with her arousal.

He could smell it, her delicious, unique arousal, soaking through her lacy panties, her potent feminine juices practically imbedding themselves into the fabric of his own trousers. She began moaning his name then, soft, broken sounds, "Severus… oh, Severus…" almost begging for him to take her, to claim her, when suddenly, his entire body went rigid. His sense of reality, of propriety, of her vulnerability, snapped sharply back into place.

With a sorrowful, almost agonized growl, he pulled her up off the bed so that she was now standing, albeit unsteadily, with her back pressed firmly against his front. His arms wrapped tightly around her, caging her in, both of them panting heavily, their bodies thrumming with unfulfilled need.

He chose his words with extreme care, his voice husky, strained, not wanting to hurt her again, not like last time. "Hermione," he said, his lips brushing her hair. "I… I can't."

He felt her stiffen in his arms, a small, wounded sound escaping her.

"Listen to me, witch!" he said then, his voice suddenly stern, authoritative, tightening his hold on her almost imperceptibly.

His abrupt, almost harsh sternness, paradoxically, caused a fresh hitch in her breathing, a new wave of purely physical arousal to wash over her. Wow, she thought, a dizzy, drunken part of her mind registering the sensation. She really, really liked when he was authoritative. She felt another gush of wetness soak her panties.

He continued, his voice rough but controlled. "You are drunk, Hermione. Very, very drunk. If we were to… to do this, now, like this… I would feel as though I had taken advantage of you. I would feel no better," he growled out, the self-loathing clear in his tone, still holding her tightly, protectively, against him, "than that lecherous, despicable cretin from the bar!"

Even through her significant drunken haze, she was able to realize, with a surprising clarity, that he wasn't rejecting her this time, not because he didn't want her – his body pressed against hers was undeniable proof of that – but because he wouldn't be able to live with himself, with his own conscience, if he felt he had taken advantage of her vulnerability. She was, much to her own surprise, and his profound relief, remarkably understanding.

"I… I understand, Severus," she said, her voice small, still laced with a tad bit of lingering disappointment, but, crucially, not a trace of the raw hurt he had inflicted before.

"I… I still need help getting my bra off, though," she added, after a moment, a mischievous, almost teasing smirk playing on her lips, her head lolling back against his shoulder.

He let out a low, frustrated growl. "Fine!" He supported her around the waist firmly with one arm, his fingers splayed across her soft stomach, and then, with a surprising, almost practiced ease, he reached around with his other hand and undid the clasp of her bra with a single, deft movement.

"You're very good at that, Severus," she said with a sleepy, drunken giggle, as the lace confection fell away.

He let out another frustrated growl and snatched her white silk nightgown from where it lay on the bed. He absolutely could not risk seeing her nearly completely naked, not now, not when his own control was hanging by the thinnest, most frayed of threads. It might just cause his last vestiges of resolve to snap entirely. He quickly, almost roughly, slid the cool silk nightgown on over her head, his hands brushing against her bare skin, still supporting her waist with his other arm. She managed to slip her arms through the thin straps before clumsily, with his help, climbing back onto the bed.

"Thank you… for all your help… this evening, Severus," she murmured, her voice already thick with impending sleep as she finally laid down, her eyes fluttering closed. "And I'm… I'm sorry I ruined your date." With that, she seemed to finally drift off into rhythmic sighs of deep slumber.

He settled into the worn chaise lounge chair in the corner of her small bedroom, his own body aching with an exhaustion that went far beyond mere lack of sleep. He wasn't going to leave her. Not until he felt absolutely confident that she wasn't going to stop breathing in her sleep from the sheer amount of alcohol she had consumed. He stayed there, a silent, grim guardian, watching over her, the lines of his face slowly softening as he observed the peaceful, innocent vulnerability of her sleeping form, until the first, pale rays of dawn began to creep through her window. Only then, did he too, finally, allow himself to doze off, his head slumped uncomfortably against the back of the chair.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke the next morning – or rather, sometime well past noon, judging by the insistent sunlight trying to pierce through her closed curtains – feeling as though she’d been hit by the Hogwarts Express, then possibly backed over for good measure. Everything ached with a dull, throbbing intensity, and the room, when she dared to crack an eyelid open, wouldn't stop its nauseating, relentless spinning. The Anti-Nausea potion she vaguely remembered Severus giving her last night had long since worn off, leaving her system to wreak its full, vengeful havoc.

She rolled over in bed with a groan, intending to bury her head under the pillow, and nearly yelped aloud. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her blurry vision focused on a dark, still figure slumped in the worn armchair in the corner of her bedroom. Severus Snape. Asleep. Snoring, very softly, almost imperceptibly, here, in her room.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her – shock, embarrassment, a strange, unexpected tenderness. He looked… different while sleeping. Younger. The harsh lines of his face were softened, his usually severe mouth relaxed, almost peaceful. She wanted to continue gazing at him, to commit this rare, unguarded image to memory. However, her rebellious body wouldn't allow it. The dizziness intensified, a fresh wave of nausea churning in her stomach.

Moving with painstaking slowness, trying to be as quiet as humanly possible so as not to wake the sleeping wizard, she haphazardly, unsteadily, made her way out of bed. Each movement sent her head spinning. She stumbled down the short hall to the bathroom, one hand pressed to her mouth.

She rummaged frantically through her cabinet, her vision still blurry, before her fingers finally closed around the familiar, slender vial of a Hangover Potion. She downed its contents in one grateful, shuddering gulp. Within moments, the blessed relief began to spread through her. The room gradually stopped its violent spinning, the roiling nausea subsided, and she began to feel more or less like herself again – or at least, a version of herself that wasn't actively dying. She was still a bit achy, a dull headache throbbed persistently behind her eyes, but she felt loads better. She decided a quick, hot shower was in order, to try and wash away the lingering grime and shame of the previous night.

As the warm water cascaded over her, images began flooding her mind, sharp and unwelcome. Lucius, his handsome face a mask of shock and desire, the beautiful blonde model tangled in his sheets. Severus at the bar, his dark eyes filled with concern, then the Countess, her proprietary hand on his arm. The ugly brawl, the terrifying flash of the lout’s fist connecting with Severus’s face. And then, the humiliating, mortifying episode of retching her guts out in front of him, right here in her own flat. She began vigorously washing her hair, scrubbing at her scalp as if to physically dislodge the memories, when all of a sudden, a different set of images, far more hazy and confusing, came to her – strong hands supporting her, cool fingers unzipping her dress, the scent of him, so close, his body heat… She gasped in shock, her hand flying to her mouth, soap suds dripping down her arm. Oh Merlin, what have I done? she thought, a fresh

wave of horror washing over her. He helped me undress? I was… I was grinding against him? Begging him? The memories were fragmented, shameful, intensely mortifying.

He's never going to speak to me again, she groaned, a sense of utter dread settling in her stomach. Not after that.

Once out of the shower, she dressed quickly in comfortable, clean Muggle clothes – soft leggings and an oversized, cozy jumper – and decided, with a surge of desperate energy, to make breakfast. The Muggle way. No magic. It would keep her hands occupied, her mind focused, for a bit. And it was the absolute least she could do for him, a pitiful attempt at a thank you, and a profound apology, for her utterly deplorable actions the previous night.

She was nearly done cooking – the scent of frying bacon, sizzling eggs, and toasting bread filling her small kitchen – when the man who currently haunted her every thought emerged, making his way slowly, stiffly, into the kitchen. He looked tired, rumpled, and undeniably out of place amidst her cheerful, slightly cluttered Muggle kitchenware. She offered him a small, sheepish, incredibly nervous smile.

"Good morning, Severus."

"Morning," he replied, his voice rough with sleep, seeming a bit unsure of himself, his dark eyes wary as he took in the domestic scene.

It was only then, in the bright morning light, that she really took in his face for the first time that day. She frowned, her heart clenching with a fresh pang of guilt. Adorning his lower lip was a nasty, swollen bruise, already turning a purplish-blue, and a small, but deep, cut that looked incredibly painful. She went to him immediately, her earlier embarrassment momentarily forgotten in a surge of concern. Her small hand, of its own accord, reached up to gently cup his jaw, her thumb lightly tracing the outline of his injured lip. "Oh, Severus," she breathed, "that looks nasty. Let me see if I can find some antiseptic cream for it, or some dittany…"

He gave her a sheepish, almost boyish smirk, a stark contrast to his usual stern demeanor, and leaned almost imperceptibly into her touch, his own larger hand coming up to cover hers where it rested on his jaw. "I'll be alright, Hermione. Merely a scratch. I have a salve back at my house of my own creation, it will clear it up in no time." His dark eyes held hers, a flicker of something warm, something… tender, within their depths.

Their shared moment, however, was short-lived. He eventually, reluctantly it seemed, pulled away, a flicker of his usual reserve returning.

"Have a seat, please," she gestured towards her small, wooden kitchen table, already set for two. She began pouring him a cup of strong, black coffee, which he took, thankfully, his eyes still holding a hint of that earlier, softer expression.

"Breakfast is almost ready," she said, trying for a cheerful, normal tone, as she began to plate up the eggs, sausages, and toast, adding a small pot of strawberry jam. She sat a plate in front of him before taking her own seat on the opposite side of the small table.

The two ate in a somewhat awkward, heavy silence for a bit, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery and the distant hum of London traffic. Hermione finally couldn't bear it any longer. She had to break the tension.

"Thank you, Severus," she began, her voice sincere, her gaze fixed on her plate. "For… for helping me last night. And for… for staying." She looked up at him then, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry for acting so rashly, for making such a complete spectacle of myself. It was incredibly irresponsible of me." Her out-of-character actions from the previous night replayed in her mind, making her cringe.

He said nothing for a moment, merely looked at her with that unnervingly intense gaze, a curious, almost analytical expression in his eyes.

She continued her ramblings, needing to fill the silence, to get it all out. "I'm also… incredibly sorry for ruining your date with Countess Kensington… and… and well," her voice dropped to a near whisper, "for taking advantage of you, of your kindness, in my… my drunken state, back in my bedroom." She finally managed to address the mortifying, hazy memories of what had happened, or almost happened, when he’d helped her undress. She blushed furiously, unable to meet his eyes, convinced he would be disgusted, appalled.

He placed his fork and knife down carefully on his plate before looking at her, his expression surprisingly serious, devoid of judgment. "Hermione," he began, his voice low, and then he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "You do not have to apologize. For any of it." He paused, his gaze softening. "You are human. You were hurting last night. Profoundly so, it was clear."

"Did you act a bit… irresponsibly?" he continued, a faint, almost imperceptible quirk to his lips. "Absolutely. But it is… understandable, given the circumstances." He was clearly thinking about the way Lucius had so cruelly betrayed and hurt her. "As for my… 'date'," he said the word with a hint of distaste, "you didn't ruin anything. Catherine was perfectly okay with leaving, once she saw how genuinely concerned I was about your well-being." He finished softly, his dark eyes holding hers, causing Hermione’s eyebrows to raise in surprise.

"Oh…" Hermione managed to mumble, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. She felt crestfallen at his confirmation that he indeed had been on a date with the beautiful, sophisticated Countess. But there was also a confusing, unwelcome flicker of something else… relief? Hope? …that Catherine had been so understanding of his concern for her . Then, another wave of guilt washed over her. She had nearly been the other woman this time, hadn't she? When he was clearly involved, or at least, out with someone else.

"I'm so sorry for putting you in such a precarious situation, Severus," she said, her voice filled with genuine remorse. "I truly didn't mean to cause your… your relationship with her any harm."

He looked at her, utterly confused for a moment, before the pieces started coming together in his astute mind, his eyes widening slightly as he realized her misunderstanding.

"Hermione," he said, his voice firm but gentle, "I am not in a relationship with Catherine Kensington. We were simply… going out together, as old friends, to catch up for an evening. Nothing more."

Hermione perked up considerably at that unexpected bit of news, her heart giving a hopeful little flutter. "You're… you're not?" she asked, hardly daring to believe it. "But I thought… I mean, with your past together, and how familiar she was with you… I just assumed that you had perhaps rekindled your old relationship with her." She mumbled out the last part, feeling foolish.

Severus sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off another headache. He looked at her, a complex expression on his face.

"Catherine and I…" he began, choosing his words carefully, "yes, we did have a significant past relationship. One that, admittedly, went deeper and lasted longer than what I initially implied to the team." He paused, a shadow crossing his features. "It lasted for several years, even while she and the Count were married. They had a very… unique understanding. An open marriage, I believe the Muggles would term it."

"Well, that certainly explains the sex dungeon," Hermione thought she had merely said it in her mind, a fleeting, unbidden thought, but to her utter horror, the words had somehow escaped her mouth, albeit in a shocked whisper. She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in mortification when she realized he had most definitely heard her.

"What was that, Miss Granger?" Severus asked, one eyebrow arching dangerously, though there was a flicker of something unreadable – amusement? – in his dark eyes.

"Uhhh…" she stammered, her face burning a brilliant, fiery red. "Draco and I… we… we may have inadvertently come across a rather… private room of hers during our investigation of her estate. It was… quite something."

"Ah," Snape said, a dark, almost cynical understanding dawning. "The Count and Countess Kensington… yes, they were known to host certain… parties of sorts… where such a room would have indeed come in rather… handy." He said it darkly, his lip curling slightly, causing a small, shocked gasp to escape Hermione.

"Right… I see," Hermione said, feeling suddenly, profoundly dejected again. The image of the beautiful, sophisticated, and apparently sexually adventurous Countess Kensington resurfaced, and Hermione once again thought, with a fresh wave of bitter insecurity, that she could never possibly compare to a woman like that.

Seeing her change in demeanor, the way her shoulders slumped and the light in her eyes dimmed, Severus spoke up, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"Hermione… Catherine and I are merely friends now. And have been for many years. Nothing more. She offers a… unique perspective on life, on the world, that not many possess. Which I, on occasion, appreciate. She is still a valued friend to me, in her own way, but we are just that. Friends."

His words, his quiet reassurance, made her feel slightly better, though the image of the "sex dungeon" still lingered, unsettlingly.

"On another note," his deep voice drew her from her reverie, his tone becoming sterner now, slightly chastising. "Could you please, in the future, endeavor to refrain from drinking yourself to the brink of death next time you find yourself upset? I genuinely thought you were on the verge of alcohol poisoning last night." He paused, his voice dropping so quietly, becoming an almost angry, protective whisper, that she barely heard him. "I stayed up nearly all night, Granger, making sure you didn't stop breathing in your sleep." He finished off, his gaze intense, "That… piece of shite Lucius Malfoy was certainly not worth it."

Her face reddened even more at his words, a confusing mixture of profound shame at her actions and a small, undeniable, thrilling zip of pleasure at the depth of his concern, at the raw possessiveness in his final, hissed statement.

They finished their breakfast in a more comfortable, if still somewhat charged, silence. She cleared the plates away, taking them to the sink.

"Thank you for breakfast," he said, his voice a low rumble from directly behind her. He had come to stand at the sink as well, startlingly close. She turned, her breath catching, and he was there, his tall frame seeming to fill her small kitchen, his presence overwhelming, off-kiltering.

"No," she managed, her voice a little shaky, "thank you , Severus… for… well, for everything. I truly don't know what I would have done without you last night."

Severus raised a dark eyebrow, his mind no doubt replaying all the terrible scenarios that could have befallen her if he hadn't intervened at the bar. "I must be going now," he said, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "Will you be… alright?" The concern in his voice was evident, genuine. He knew the events of the previous night, Lucius's betrayal, were probably still raw, still painful for her.

She gave him a wry, tired smile. "Yes, Severus. I will be fine. Eventually. Thank you again."

Surprisingly, he leaned down then, ever so slowly, giving her ample time to pull away if she wished. But she didn't. She stood frozen, her heart hammering, as he pressed a soft, incredibly tender kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. He pulled away with a curt nod of his head, and a murmured, "Good day, Hermione." And with that, before she could even react, he was gone, Disapparating from her kitchen with a soft pop .

Hermione stood stock still, her fingers gently, almost reverently, caressing the spot on her cheek where his warm lips had just been, a dizzying, hopeful warmth spreading through her.

__________

Come Sunday, the unexpected, tender kiss from Severus lingered on Hermione’s cheek like a phantom touch. A warm ember in the otherwise desolate landscape of her emotions. She spent the remainder of that Sunday in the quiet solitude of her flat, the events of the past few days replaying in a relentless loop. She sought refuge in her books, their familiar scent and the rustle of their pages a comforting constant, a desperate attempt to keep her mind busy and, more importantly, off the subject of Lucius Malfoy.

His betrayal cut deep, a sharp, unexpected wound that throbbed with pain. With Lucius, she had allowed herself to feel desired, cherished, even happy, however briefly. She had allowed herself to believe, just for a moment, that perhaps she could move on, that perhaps she could find a different kind of contentment. And he had shattered that illusion with such casual, devastating cruelty. Though, perhaps I should have expected it to happen sooner or later, she thought with a weary sigh, staring unseeingly at the page before her. He is Lucius Malfoy, after all – a notorious playboy, a man who has always had his pick of witches, who likely viewed liaisons as little more than amusing diversions. She sighed again, a bitter taste in her mouth. It seemed she had just managed to last a little longer than the others, a slightly more entertaining chapter in his long history of conquests.

Just as she was trying to forcibly redirect her thoughts to the intricacies of ancient Sumerian rune clusters, a sharp, insistent tapping on her windowpane made her jump. She looked up to see a sleek, haughty-looking eagle owl, its amber eyes fixed on her. She recognized the creature instantly. It was Lucius’s.

Think of the devil, Hermione thought bitterly, a fresh wave of anger and hurt washing over her, and he shall appear. Or at least, his feathered emissary.

With a resigned huff, she got up and opened the window. The owl gracefully extended a leg, a thick, creamy parchment envelope tied to it with a silver ribbon. She untied it, her fingers fumbling slightly. The owl gave her a single, imperious blink, then launched itself back into the dusky sky, clearly not instructed to wait for a response.

Hermione stood there for a moment, the letter heavy in her hand, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach. What could he possibly have to say? An apology? An excuse? She walked over to her sofa, the letter feeling like a lead weight. She sat down, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath, steeling herself for whatever insincere platitudes or manipulative excuses lay within. Then, with a surge of grim resolve, she broke the elegant Malfoy seal and unfolded the parchment.

It said:

My Dearest Hermione,

I find myself writing this missive with a hand that trembles, not from the lingering effects of last night’s bourbon, but from the profound and entirely justified fear that I have irreparably damaged something I had, against all my cynical expectations, come to value quite deeply: your regard, your company, and dare I say it, your burgeoning affection.

There are no words, my dear, that can adequately express the depth of my regret for the scene you were unfortunate enough to witness at my penthouse. It was a moment of egregious, unforgivable lapse in judgment on my part, a relic of a past self I had foolishly believed I was beginning to transcend, largely, I might add, due to your enlightening influence.

I will not bore you with paltry excuses, nor will I attempt to insult your considerable intelligence by downplaying the vulgarity of my transgression. What you saw was a moment of weakness, a stupid, meaningless diversion that meant less than nothing, especially when compared to the genuine pleasure and intellectual stimulation I have found in your presence. The young woman… she was a fleeting distraction, a symptom of old, regrettable habits, and her presence in my bed was an error.

To say I "royally fucked up," to so eloquently (and accurately) phrase it, would be the grossest of understatements. I have, it seems, a deplorable talent for sabotaging anything that might bring genuine light into my rather jaded existence.

I understand if you wish never to see me again, if the sight of my handwriting alone now fills you with disgust. You have every right. But I find I cannot simply let this pass without at least attempting to convey the sincerity of my remorse, and without expressing the hope, however faint, however undeserved, that you might, in time, find it within your remarkably generous heart to consider the possibility of a conversation. Not for forgiveness, perhaps, as I doubt I merit such a grace, but for… understanding. Or, at the very least, for the opportunity to apologize to you properly, face to face, without the intermediary of parchment and ink.

The hours we have spent together, Hermione, have been some of an unexpected and profound pleasure. You are, as I have told you, an exquisite and remarkable woman. To have jeopardized the prospect of more such moments through my own idiocy is a folly that weighs heavily upon me.

I will not presume to ask for a reply. But should you ever find yourself able to entertain the thought of speaking with me again, you know where to find me. The penthouse, I assure you, is now devoid of all… unwelcome distractions.

Yours, in deepest regret and with a sliver of foolish hope,

-Lucius

_________

Hermione’s fingers clenched around the thick parchment, crinkling its expensive edges as Lucius's carefully chosen words blurred before her eyes. Hot, angry, miserable tears now fell freely, splattering onto the elegant script, making the ink run in small, dark rivulets.

She missed him. Dreadfully so. The admission, even to herself, was a fresh stab of pain. She missed his charm, his attentiveness, the surprisingly easy companionship they had found, the way he had made her feel beautiful and desired after so long. She missed the man she had thought he was, or perhaps, the man she had desperately wanted him to be, the man she had glimpsed in those stolen hours of laughter and intimacy.

But beneath the longing, a fierce, protective anger still burned, coupled with a deep, profound hurt. He had shattered the fragile trust she had tentatively placed in him, treated her with a casual disrespect that was all too reminiscent of his old, arrogant self. His words, however eloquently phrased, however steeped in professed regret, couldn't erase the image of him with that other woman, couldn't undo the casual cruelty of his betrayal.

She couldn't face him. Not yet. The wound was too fresh, too raw. To see him now, to engage with his sophisticated apologies and silken reassurances, would be to risk either crumbling completely or lashing out with a fury she might later regret.

Hermione took another shuddering breath, wiping her tears fiercely with the back of her hand. She decided then, with a heavy heart but a flicker of grim resolve, that she needed time. Time and space. Time to process the betrayal, to nurse her wounded pride, to perhaps, just perhaps, begin to heal for just a bit, before she could even contemplate facing Lucius Malfoy again, if she ever could. The letter, still clutched in her hand, was a testament to a happiness that had been as fleeting as it had been intoxicating, and for now, it was simply too painful to hold.

Chapter Text

For once in her life, Hermione Granger dreaded waking up the next morning, the thought of going into work, of facing everyone, a lead weight in her stomach. After Lucius’s devastating betrayal and the subsequent emotional implosion, she just wanted to hide away in the relative safety of her small flat for the rest of the sodding week, buried under a mountain of books and oblivious to the world. But she had an obligation, a duty to her team and to the victims they served. She couldn't hide out forever, no matter how appealing the thought.

She sat stiffly in the briefing room nursing a cup of lukewarm tea, waiting for the start of shift, steeling herself for the day ahead. Draco, bless him, plopped into the chair next to her a few minutes later, his usually sharp features softened with an expression of genuine concern. He leaned over, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper meant only for her ears.

"Heard about what happened with Father," he murmured, his grey eyes sympathetic. "From… well, from him, actually. He was rather… morose. I'm terribly sorry, Hermione. My father can be a real arse sometimes, even when he’s supposedly ‘reformed’." He paused, looking at her worriedly. "I… I hope this doesn't come between our friendship."

She managed a halfway smile, touched by his sincerity. "It's not your fault, Draco. Your father's actions are entirely his own, not yours to answer for." She attempted a more reassuring expression. "We're good, Draco. Really."

"If you need anything, Granger," he said, his voice earnest, "anything at all, just let me know. I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Draco," she replied, her smile feeling a little more genuine this time. "I appreciate that, really. More than you know."

The others began to trickle into the room then – Neville offering her a cheerful good morning, Luna humming softly as she arranged some interesting-looking seedpods on the table, Pansy and Cormac engaged in a low-key debate about the merits of a new potion-stirring charm. None of them, Hermione noted with a profound sigh of relief, seemed to know about her disastrous entanglement with Lucius, or its abrupt, humiliating end. Only Draco knew the specifics, and, well… of course, Severus. She didn't want the rest of them to know, not yet at least. She wanted some time, some space, before she could possibly bear their pitying looks, or worse, the unspoken 'I told you so's'.

Snape stood at the front of the room, a thick case file already in his hand, his expression grim. "We have a new case this morning," he began, his voice cutting through the low hum of pre-shift chatter. His dark eyes scanned the room, assessing his team, and then, for the first time in what felt like months, his gaze actually landed on Hermione, lingering for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary, an unreadable expression flickering within their obsidian depths before moving on.

"It is… a bit of a gruesome site," he said, his tone carefully neutral, though a hint of weariness edged his words. He flicked his wand towards the enchanted board behind him. Images shimmered into existence, and a collective gasp went through the room.

The photographs displayed a horrifyingly bloody, brutal scene. A witch, clearly the victim, lay sprawled naked on her carpeted bedroom floor, her limbs contorted at unnatural angles, hog-tied with what looked like coarse, enchanted rope. A gag was stuffed cruelly into her mouth, her eyes, wide and unseeing, staring up at the ceiling with a terrified final look, already clouded over post-mortem. Dark, ugly bruises littered her pale body like grotesque blossoms, and her back… Hermione had to swallow hard against a rising wave of nausea… was it covered in a series of deep, vicious cuts? The images were stark, visceral, and incredibly hard to stomach, causing a few of the investigators, including Hermione herself, to gasp aloud at the sheer, unadulterated brutality of the murder.

"Our victim," Snape continued, his voice a low, steady anchor in the suddenly chilled room, "is thirty-two-year-old Elara Thorne. Her husband, thirty-eight-year-old Finnian Thorne, has been away for the past week on a Ministry-sanctioned business trip to Transylvania – the Aurors have already confirmed his alibi. He returned home early this morning to find his wife… like this." He gestured curtly towards the horrific images on the screen.

"The Mediwitch first on the scene magically checked liver temperature and concluded that Mrs. Thorne has been deceased for approximately seventy-two hours. Commendably, she touched nothing further on the scene or the body itself. They are awaiting our full investigation before transporting the body."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over his team again, noting their pale, shocked faces. "We will need to thoroughly search for any and all trace evidence, and then meticulously piece together what happened in that room. Please," he added, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, a worried look briefly touching his features as his eyes again flicked towards Hermione, then quickly away, "prepare yourselves before you arrive on site. This one is… rather bad."

_________

As they Apparated to the designated point just outside the property line, the scene was already one of grim activity. Aurors in their distinctive crimson robes moved with purpose, and Hermione could see Harry and Ron near the front porch, patiently, gently questioning a man who was clearly distraught, his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands – Finnian Thorne, presumably.

The house itself was a charming, if unremarkable, two-story wizarding dwelling, the kind one might find nestled in any quiet magical enclave. There was nothing outwardly sinister about it, which only made the horrors Snape had described within seem all the more incongruous.

As Snape led them towards the entrance, even before they crossed the threshold into the house proper, they were hit by it – the overwhelming, cloying, sickly-sweet smell of death and decay. It was a revolting, stomach-churning miasma that permeated the air, clinging to the back of their throats. Neville let out a choked gag, his face turning a distinct shade of green, and even Draco, usually so composed, visibly recoiled, his hand flying to cover his nose and mouth.

Severus, his own expression tightening with distaste but otherwise betraying no outward reaction, pulled a small, flat silver tin from the depths of his robes. "Everyone," he instructed, his voice clipped, "rub some of this under your noses. It’s a mentholated herbal balm. It will help, somewhat, with the smell." He passed the tin around and each investigator gratefully applied a dab of the pungent cooling salve.

Hermione and Severus, as was their usual protocol, began their assessment with the exterior wards of the house. "It’s difficult to determine with absolute certainty due to Mr. Thorne already having entered," Hermione murmured, her wand tracing shimmering lines of residual magic around the doorframe, "but the primary wards appear to have been keyed to him and his wife. No obvious signs of forced magical entry. It seems likely the perpetrator was either let in, or knew the specific bypass." Snape nodded in agreement, his own diagnostic spells yielding similar, frustratingly inconclusive results.

Inside, Draco immediately began his investigation with his magical camera, its lens flaring with soft light as it captured and analyzed every detail. He moved with a grim efficiency, snapping shots throughout the ground floor. "Hey boss," he called out a few minutes later from the living

room, "I've found traces of blood spatter here, on the rug. And more here, a smear along the wainscoting. It seems to trail towards the back of the house." He followed the grim path, his camera documenting the silent, bloody narrative.

Luna, meanwhile, had made her way slowly through the house, her usually dreamy eyes wide with a profound, gathering distress. The cheerful décor of the Thorne home – family portraits smiling from the walls, half-finished knitting projects resting in a basket by the fireplace – seemed to mock the darkness she was clearly perceiving. By the time she reached the doorway of the back bedroom where the victim lay, she broke down. A small, choked sob escaped her, her hands flying to her temples as if to block out an unbearable noise.

"So much… yelling," she whispered, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "Shouting… such terrible anger. And a deep, cloying darkness… it’s… it’s everywhere." Her gaze unfocused, seeing things no one else could. "And then the screams… oh, the screams! Her begging… pleading… Elara… her final moments…" It was all too much for Luna’s sensitive psyche. With a choked cry, she turned and fled from the room, pushing past a startled Neville and stumbling back out into the relative sanity of the front garden, gasping for fresh air.

Neville looked after his partner with a mixture of deep worry and pained understanding. They had worked some truly tough, gruesome cases before, but he had never seen Luna react with such visceral, overwhelming distress. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he knew, with a heavy heart, that he would help her, and Elara Thorne, even more by focusing on the case, by doing his part to find justice for this poor, brutalized witch.

Draco had finished snapping his pictures and was now reviewing them with a critical eye, his brow furrowed in concentration. He rejoined Snape, Hermione, and Neville, who had now all congregated grimly at the threshold of the bedroom, steeling themselves. "I found no definitive signs of a break-in anywhere in the house," he reported, looking at Hermione for confirmation of their earlier assessment of the wards.

"Neither did I," she affirmed, her voice quiet.

"But I did find a distinct pattern of blood spatter beginning in the living room," Draco continued, gesturing back down the hall, "and trailing, quite clearly, all the way to… here." He gestured grimly towards the bedroom they were all now reluctantly entering. "I think the initial struggle began out there. She put up a bit of a fight, judging from the scattered drops of blood I found embedded in the carpet fibers, and the distinct smudges of blood on the walls, as if she braced herself or was thrown against them. But the attacker, whoever it was, clearly overpowered her and managed to get her into the bedroom, where the main assault occurred."

The bedroom itself was a scene of unimaginable horror, just as the pre-briefing photographs had depicted. Elara Thorne’s violated body lay in the center of the room, a silent testament to a brutal, terrifying end. Neville, his face pale but set with a grim determination, knelt carefully beside the body, his investigator’s kit open, his gaze meticulous as he began his examination. He noticed it almost immediately – some sort of strange, waxy, almost translucent film on parts

of the victim’s skin, a film that also seemed to have tiny beads of condensation clinging to it, despite the cool temperature of the room. That’s odd, he thought, his brow furrowing. Very odd.

He retrieved a sterile swab from his kit and carefully swiped a sample of the strange substance to take back to the lab for analysis. The others looked on with a mixture of revulsion and professional curiosity. None of them, not even Snape with his vast experience, had ever seen anything quite like that on a body before.

Hermione, forcing herself to move closer, was then able to take a more detailed look at the horrifying marks on Elara Thorne’s exposed back. There were definitely deep, vicious cuts covering it. But beneath and around the cuts, there seemed to be a distinct pattern of bruising as well, almost like an outline of some unknown object had been repeatedly, forcefully pressed into her flesh.

"I believe Mrs. Thorne's body will hold the most crucial clues for us in this particular instance," Severus said, his voice a low rumble, drawing everyone out of their grim, silent thoughts. "Let us wrap up the preliminary processing of the immediate scene, and then we will have the body transported for a more… thorough examination." He looked at his team. "Neville, Draco, you will take all collected physical evidence back to the lab for immediate processing by Parkinson and McLaggen. Hermione," he said, his dark eyes finally, directly, meeting hers, a flicker of something unreadable within them, "why don't you and Luna – once she feels able to rejoin us – accompany the body? You can begin a more in-depth forensic examination there."

Draco’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. He couldn't remember the last time his godfather had actually called them all by their given first names during an active investigation. He was usually so formal, so detached. And he was even more shocked that Snape had addressed Hermione directly, almost gently, after months of pointedly avoiding her gaze, of treating her with a frosty, professional distance. Something was definitely up, Draco thought, a spark of intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of hope, igniting within him.

_______

The journey with Elara Thorne’s body back to the Department of Ministry’s’ dedicated examination suite – a sterile, magically sealed chamber, referred to grimly as the 'Coroner’s Ward' – was a somber one. Luna, though she had regained her composure after her overwhelming experience at the manor, remained quiet, her usually bright eyes clouded with a profound sadness. Hermione, too, felt a heavy weight settle upon her, the brutal images from the crime scene replaying in her mind.

Once Elara’s body was carefully transferred to the examination table, they began their grim task. With meticulous care, they scraped beneath the victim’s fingernails, hoping for any trace DNA evidence of her attacker, bagging each tiny sample separately. They then conducted a thorough head-to-toe visual examination of her body for any overlooked evidence – foreign hairs, fibers, or subtle marks – before allowing the assigned DMF Mediwitch, a stern but competent older

witch named Pomfrey (a distant, less cuddly cousin of the Hogwarts Matron), to begin the process of gently rinsing away the dried blood and grime.

Hermione, having borrowed Draco’s advanced magical camera, meticulously documented every injury, every bruise, every laceration before the cleansing charms took full effect. Elara Thorne was covered in a horrifying tapestry of dark purple and deep blue bruises, literally from head to toe. Some were fresh, livid, and angry-looking; others were older, tinged with sickly greens and yellows, hinting at injuries sustained days, perhaps even weeks, prior.

Healer Pomfrey then began her diagnostic scans, her wand moving in slow, precise arcs over Elara’s still form. The magical readouts that shimmered in the air above the body painted an even more brutal picture. "Significant trauma," Pomfrey announced, her voice clipped and professional, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of grim distaste. "The scans indicate a recently broken left ulna and radius. Comminuted fracture of the jaw, likely from a heavy blow. Nasal bones shattered. A severe orbital fracture on the right side, and a fractured left ankle." She paused, her frown deepening. "Internally, multiple fractured ribs, both recent and some in various stages of healing. And a ruptured spleen, leading to massive internal hemorrhaging."

She ran another, deeper scan. "What’s more," Pomfrey continued, her voice dropping slightly, "there are numerous older injuries. Healed breaks in several ribs, evidence of past fractures in both wrists, and significant scar tissue around the kidneys indicative of repeated blunt force trauma over a prolonged period."

The internal bleeding from the freshly ruptured spleen, accompanied by the shock from her various other grievous injuries, seemed to be the official cause of death.

Luna, who had been standing quietly beside the table, reached out a gentle hand and took Elara’s cold, limp one in hers, her expression one of profound, sincere sadness. It was chillingly clear to both women: Elara Thorne had been severely, brutally beaten and systematically tortured, not just in her final moments, but likely for a significant portion of her life. The mood in the sterile examination room became even more somber, almost suffocating, as the horrifying reality of the situation, the sheer cruelty inflicted upon this woman, finally settled over them.

Hermione felt a cold, hard fire ignite within her, a burning, righteous anger. She would find out who did this to Elara Thorne. She would hunt them down, and she would make absolutely sure they would be sent to Azkaban for the rest of their miserable, worthless days. There would be justice for Elara.

With renewed, almost fierce vigor, Hermione turned her attention back to the disturbing pattern of cuts on Elara's back, which Healer Pomfrey had carefully preserved from the initial cleansing. Now, with the surrounding blood cleared, the bruising pattern associated with each welted cut was even more distinct. An odd, almost perfectly rectangular shape, with the cut itself running directly down the middle. There was something else there too, some fainter, more subtle indentations around the primary bruises that she couldn't quite make out, a pattern that eluded immediate identification. She took numerous, overlapping macro-shots with Draco’s camera,

ensuring every detail was captured. Then, with a precise wave of her wand, she cast a complex tracing charm, a shimmering, silver outline of the bruises and cuts lifting from the skin and transferring itself onto a waiting sheet of parchment.

If they could find the object that matched this unique outline, Hermione thought, her mind already racing, it could be the key, a direct link to the weapon used, and perhaps, to the killer themselves.

Luna, her task of silent comfort seemingly complete, let out a soft, sorrowful sigh. "You can rest now, sweetie," she said quietly, her voice filled with an almost unbearable tenderness as she looked down at Elara’s ravaged face. With gentle fingers, she reached over and closed the woman’s eyelids, finally bringing a semblance of peace to her terrified, forever-frozen final gaze.

With that, their grim work in the examination suite concluded for now, Hermione carefully sealed the parchment tracing and the nail scrapings. They returned to the main lab, the weight of what they had seen and learned heavy upon them, to report their disturbing findings to Snape and the rest of the team.

Chapter Text

The heavy door to the main DMF laboratory hissed open, and Hermione and Luna stepped inside, the sterile brightness of the lab a stark, almost jarring contrast to the somber quiet of the examination suite they had just left. The rest of the team – Severus, Draco, Neville, Pansy, and Cormac – looked up from their various tasks, their expressions expectant, tinged with a grim understanding of the grim work the two witches had been undertaking. An unspoken question hung in the air.

Hermione took a deep breath, clutching the sealed parchment containing the tracing of the bruise patterns, her earlier resolve solidifying into a cold, professional focus. Luna stood quietly beside her, her usual ethereal aura now imbued with a profound, sorrowful gravity.

They quietly asked everyone into the briefing room so Hermione could cast the images she'd taken, along with Healer Pomfrey's diagnostic scans, onto the main screen.

"We've completed the preliminary examination of Elara Thorne," Hermione began, her voice steady, addressing Snape primarily, but encompassing the entire team. "Healer Pomfrey has confirmed the official cause of death as exsanguination due to a ruptured spleen, a result of severe blunt force trauma."

A low murmur of distaste and shock went through the room. This was undeniably more brutal than even the initial crime scene photos had suggested.

"The extent of her recent injuries is… extensive," Hermione continued, her voice carefully devoid of emotion, though the horrific images flashed vividly in her mind. "A broken left arm – both ulna and radius. A comminuted jaw fracture. Her nose was shattered. Severe orbital

damage to the right eye socket, and a fractured left ankle. Multiple ribs were broken, some potentially puncturing internal organs before the fatal splenic rupture."

She paused, letting the grim litany sink in, watching as Neville’s face paled and Draco’s jaw tightened with a mixture of disgust and barely suppressed anger. Pansy and Cormac exchanged wide-eyed, horrified glances.

"What's more," she added, her voice dropping slightly, making her colleagues lean in, "there was clear, undeniable evidence of numerous older, healed injuries. Healed rib fractures, signs of previously broken wrists, significant scar tissue around her kidneys… Healer Pomfrey is unequivocal in her assessment: Mrs. Thorne was a victim of sustained, long-term physical abuse."

Neville let out a horrified gasp, his hand flying to his mouth, his eyes reflecting a pained empathy.

Severus’s expression remained largely impassive, a carefully constructed mask of professional detachment, but Hermione, who had become far too adept at reading his subtle tells, saw the way his dark eyes hardened, the almost imperceptible clenching of a muscle in his jaw. He listened intently, his gaze fixed on her, unwavering.

"Luna," Hermione prompted gently, turning to her friend.

Luna nodded, her voice soft but clear, carrying a weight of sadness that resonated through the room. "Her spirit was… terribly bruised, long before her body finally gave way," she said, her gaze distant. "There was so much fear, so much pain, layered over years. The final moments, as I mentioned at the scene, were filled with an agony that is… hard to bear witness to, even in echo. The darkness in that house… it clings."

"We collected nail scrapings, of course," Hermione resumed, bringing the focus back to the tangible physical evidence. "And I documented all external injuries with Draco’s camera before Healer Pomfrey began cleansing the body." She then addressed Neville directly. "Neville, that waxy film you noticed on her skin at the scene? We found more of it, particularly around the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, and traces on her back near the lacerations. We’ve taken several samples for Pansy and Cormac to analyze."

Neville nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It was strange, wasn't it? Almost like a… a sealant, or perhaps a residue from something used to bind her, something that reacted to her skin or body temperature."

"Possibly," Hermione agreed. "The lab will hopefully tell us more. But the most distinct, and perhaps most telling, physical evidence we found were the patterns on her back." She carefully unrolled the parchment she carried, laying it flat on the central briefing table. It depicted the intricate, silver-traced outlines of the repeating bruises and cuts, stark against the pale parchment. "The lacerations themselves appeared consistent with welted cuts, likely from being struck repeatedly and with significant force, perhaps with a thin, metallic object or something

similar. But the bruising beneath and around each cut forms a very specific, repeating pattern." She pointed to one of the meticulously traced outlines. "It's a distinct rectangular shape, approximately four inches by two, with the cut running directly down the center. And," she leaned closer, indicating fainter marks, "there are these fainter, almost stippled impressions around the edges of the rectangle, a texture I couldn't quite identify visually but was able to capture with the enhanced imaging spells."

The team leaned in, their expressions a mixture of grim fascination and intense professional focus.

"This pattern was repeated multiple times across her back, with varying degrees of force," Hermione explained, her finger tracing the brutal map of pain. "It strongly suggests a specific object was used to inflict both the blunt force trauma causing the bruising and, either simultaneously or in conjunction, to guide or accompany the lacerations." She looked up, her gaze meeting Snape’s directly. "If we can identify an object that matches this precise outline and textural pattern, it could very well be the weapon, or at least a significant component of it."

Severus stared at the parchment for a long, silent moment, his dark eyes narrowed in intense, unwavering concentration. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the lab’s magical equipment. He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over his assembled team.

"Parkinson, McLaggen," he began, his voice a low, decisive rumble that commanded immediate attention, "the waxy substance Mr. Longbottom and Miss Granger have collected – prioritize its analysis above all else. Identify its precise composition, its origin if possible, and any potential magical properties or common uses."

Pansy and Cormac nodded in unison, already mentally preparing their diagnostic arrays.

"Mr. Longbottom, Miss Lovegood," Snape continued, "cross-reference that substance, once identified, with any known binding agents, particularly those associated with prolonged restraint or obscure, perhaps even ritualistic, practices. Explore any connections to the… darker aspects of herbology or potion-making that might yield such a residue."

He then turned his attention back to the damning parchment tracing, his expression thoughtful, almost predatory. "This pattern," he said, his long finger hovering over one of the rectangular outlines, "is indeed… peculiar. Distinctive." His gaze finally settled fully on Hermione, and for the first time in a very long time, it held not coldness, nor anger, but a flicker of something else – an undeniable professional respect, perhaps, and a shared, grim understanding of the difficult task before them. Then he included Draco. "Granger. Malfoy. You two will accompany me. We will return to the Thorne residence immediately. We need to conduct a meticulous search for any object, any item at all, that could have produced these marks. I will send word to Auror Potter to ensure an Auror presence remains on site and is aware of our return for this specific purpose."

The faint praise, the almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor towards her – "Your meticulousness in documenting this, Miss Granger, is commendable. It may well prove crucial." – sent a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver through Hermione. She simply nodded, her focus

entirely on the case, on the hunt for Elara Thorne’s killer. The personal turmoil, for now, would have to wait. The dead deserved justice.

___________

The return to the Thorne residence was swift and silent, the three colleagues united in their grim purpose. An Auror, younger than Dawlish but with a watchful, serious demeanor, was posted outside the front door, which was now officially sealed with Ministry tape. He nodded as Snape approached, acknowledging their clearance to re-enter.

Inside, the house felt colder, the silence more profound now that Elara Thorne’s body had been removed. The faint, lingering scent of death, however, still clung to the air, a ghostly reminder of the brutality that had occurred.

They began their search. As per Snape’s instruction, he and Draco centered their efforts in the master bedroom, the primary site of the assault, meticulously examining every inch for an object that might match the strange, repeating pattern of bruises and cuts. Hermione, her own senses on high alert, started her search in the living room, working her way methodically through the space where Draco had identified the initial signs of struggle, her eyes scanning for anything rectangular, anything with a textured edge, anything that might have been used with such savage force.

Suddenly, the relative quiet was shattered. The front door burst open with a violent crash, and a furious Finnigan Thorne came storming into the house, his face a mask of contorted rage, his eyes wild. The young Auror posted outside was close on his heels, shouting, "Mr. Thorne, sir! You can't go in there! It's still an active crime scene!"

Thorne, however, was oblivious, his entire focus zeroed in on Hermione, who was standing in the middle of the living room, her wand half-raised in surprise. He stopped directly in front of her, looming over her, his body radiating a palpable heat of fury. He began shouting, his voice hoarse, spittle flying from his mouth as he jabbed a thick finger down at her, merely inches from her face. "What in the bloody hell are you still doing in my house? Poking around my things! You have no right!"

Hermione instinctively held her hands up in a peaceful, placating motion, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice calm but firm, "this is still an active crime scene. For your own safety, and for the integrity of the investigation, you really can't be in here right now."

"Bullshit!" he raged, his face turning an alarming shade of puce, his spittle now hitting her in the face. "This is my bloody house! That other Auror, Potter, he told me earlier, once you lot were done with your poking about, I could return home! Now GET OUT! All of you! GET OUT!" he roared, his voice cracking.

A wave of cold fear washed over Hermione, but it was quickly followed by a surge of white-hot anger. This man, his aggression, his entitlement… this , she realized with a sickening certainty, is

probably what poor Elara had to deal with. Constantly. Instead of cowering away, something within her snapped. He might think he could bully and intimidate women, but Hermione Granger was not the one to be messed with.

"No, Mr. Thorne!" she shouted back, stepping defiantly towards him, her own eyes blazing. "YOU GET OUT! We are working on solving your WIFE'S murder! A murder that happened in your house! And I am going to make absolutely sure that whoever did this to her, whoever tortured her, gets put away in Azkaban for LIFE!"

At hearing the escalating commotion, Severus and Draco ran from the bedroom, emerging into the hallway just in time to see a very red-faced, apoplectic Finnigan Thorne, his eyes bulging with rage, lunging for Hermione with a guttural snarl. Before either of them could react, the young Auror, his own wand now drawn, cast a swift, efficient Full Body-Bind Curse. " Petrificus Totalus! "

Mr. Thorne froze mid-lunge, his arms outstretched, his face a mask of fury, and then toppled rigidly forward, landing with a heavy thud on the living room carpet, thankfully missing Hermione. The Auror quickly released the bind, replacing it with magical manacles that snapped around Thorne's wrists as he forced the sputtering, struggling man to his knees.

Thorne looked up furiously at Hermione, his eyes filled with venom. "You're going to regret that smart mouth of yours, you interfering little bitch!" he shouted, his voice hoarse, as the Auror hauled him roughly to his feet, holding him securely.

Draco and Severus quickly made their way to Hermione's side, their expressions a mixture of shock and concern. Hermione was trembling, the adrenaline from the confrontation coursing through her.

Severus, his face like a thundercloud, turned to the young Auror. "Take Mr. Thorne to the Ministry for immediate detainment," he commanded, his voice dangerously low. "Attempted assault on a Ministry employee during an active investigation."

The Auror nodded curtly, already beginning to steer the still-ranting Finnigan Thorne towards the front door. Just as they turned, Draco, his eyes sharp and observant, caught a glint of something at Thorne’s waist. The man's silvery belt buckle! Of course, he thought with a jolt, that would make perfect sense. It seemed to be about the right size, rectangular, and from what he could glimpse, it had some sort of raised, possibly embellished, design.

Once Thorne was finally gone, the house falling into an uneasy silence, Draco looked at Hermione with open worry. Severus, however, turned to her, his expression not of concern, but rather of stern disapproval. "Miss Granger," he said, his voice tight with controlled anger, "you know better than to engage with a clearly volatile individual in that manner. Your priority should have been to de-escalate or withdraw, not to enter into a shouting match."

Hermione looked back at Severus incredulously, her own anger, fueled by adrenaline and empathy for Elara, flaring anew. "How can you say that?" she retorted, her voice trembling.

"That… that man got directly in my face! He was aggressive, threatening, with me ! A trained Ministry official, a member of the Magical Law Enforcement team! If he felt perfectly okay trying to go after me, in front of another Auror, can you even begin to imagine… just imagine the things he must have done to his wife when they were alone? When no one was watching?" The fury, the adrenaline of the altercation, and her profound sorrow for Elara still coursed through her, making her words sharp and passionate.

Severus took a slow, steadying deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment, visibly trying to calm himself. He was all too familiar with domestic violence, with men just as bad, if not worse, than Finnigan Thorne. He knew, logically, that her outburst was fueled by righteous indignation, by empathy.

Before Severus could formulate a reply, Draco cut in, his voice urgent. "Uhhh, guys? I think… I think we can stop our search for the weapon."

All tension, all personal conflict, momentarily left the room as Hermione and Severus turned to look at Draco, their eyes questioning.

"It was Thorne's," Draco said, his gaze flicking towards the front door through which Finnigan had just been dragged. "His belt buckle. That's what left the marks on her back. I saw him wearing it while he was being escorted out. It looked like it will match the outline perfectly – rectangular, and it had some sort of raised pattern, an embellishment. We need to get it from him, see if it matches Hermione’s tracing."

Hermione felt suddenly, profoundly overwhelmed. The violent altercation with Thorne, the adrenaline still singing in her veins, and now this news… this sickeningly, yet utterly brutal, revelation. The thought of poor Elara Thorne being struck over and over again with a common belt buckle, with such horrific force, by the man who was supposed to love and protect her, made her feel physically sick to her stomach.

Severus had a faraway, haunted look in his eye, as if remembering something, some image, from long, long ago. He finally snapped out of it, his expression hardening into a grim mask of determination. "I think," he said, his voice dark, resolute, "we should indeed return to the lab immediately. And then," his eyes glinted with a cold, dangerous light, "we need to pay Mr. Finnigan Thorne a rather… pointed visit."

__________

The sterile, sound-dampened corridor outside the Ministry’s interrogation suites felt a world away from the oppressive gloom of the Thorne residence. Hermione, Draco, and Severus now found themselves standing before the one-way magical glass, observing Finnigan Thorne pacing like a caged, furious animal within the stark confines of Interrogation Room 3. He looked dishevelled, his earlier rage now curdled into a sullen, resentful glare directed at the empty chair opposite him.

Severus felt his skin crawl just looking at the man. This case, the brutal, intimate nature of Elara’s death, the underlying current of domestic tyranny… it had stirred up too many painful, deeply buried memories he wished could remain interred in the darkest recesses of his mind. He, of course, allowed none of this internal turmoil to show on his face, his expression a carefully maintained mask of cold, professional detachment, but he was deeply, profoundly bothered.

The quiet hum of the observation corridor was broken by the familiar, slightly hurried footsteps of Auror Ron Weasley approaching.

"Hey guys," Ron said, nodding to them, his expression grim. "Sorry 'bout the wait. Had to get him processed and officially logged for the attempted assault charge first. Nasty piece of work, that one." He gestured towards the room. "Are you ready to proceed?"

Severus gave the younger wizard a curt nod. "Yes, Auror Weasley. Draco," he began, turning to his godson, "if you would obtain the evidence from Mr. Thorne – specifically, his belt – and then begin the preliminary questioning regarding his wife’s murder."

"Sure, boss," Draco replied, straightening up, ready to assume his role.

But Hermione spoke up, her voice surprisingly firm, stepping forward slightly. "Wait. No. Let me, Snape. Please."

Severus turned, his dark eyes narrowing, giving her a stern, disapproving look. "I don't think, after the incident at the Thorne residence earlier today, that putting yourself in direct confrontation with Mr. Thorne again would be a wise choice, Granger. He is clearly volatile and has already demonstrated aggressive tendencies towards you."

She stepped closer to him, her gaze direct, pleading, but with an undercurrent of fierce determination he hadn't seen from her in this context before. "With all due respect, we all know he did it. Or, at the very least, that he knows far more than he’s letting on. He’s arrogant, entitled, and clearly has a temper." Her voice dropped slightly. "What if I can make him lose that control, just a bit? Rattle his cage? To where he maybe slips up and says something he shouldn't? He already sees me as a 'little bitch' with a 'smart mouth'. Perhaps I can use that to our advantage."

Draco looked at her, a mixture of profound shock and grudging, almost awestruck pride dawning on his face. "Jeeze, Granger," he whistled under his breath. "I think hanging around all us Slytherins," he shot her a quick, conspiratorial wink, "is really, really rubbing off on you. Seriously. That’s… twisted. But," he conceded, a slow smirk spreading across his face, "it’s actually a bloody good idea."

Severus gave her a long, calculated look, his expression unreadable. He wasn't entirely fond of the idea, not at all. The thought of her in that room with that brute, deliberately provoking him, made his stomach clench. But, damn it all, she did make a disturbingly good point. Thorne’s arrogance, his disdain for her, could indeed be a vulnerability if exploited correctly.

"Pleaseeee, Severus," she begged him again, her eyes earnest, her hands unconsciously clasped before her. "I need to do this. For Elara." He knew she had a burning, visceral desire to get justice for Elara Thorne; the whole team did, but Hermione seemed to have taken this case particularly personally.

He let out a deep, almost imperceptible sigh, the internal battle warring within him. His protective instincts screamed at him to forbid it, to shield her. But the pragmatic investigator, the man who had spent a lifetime exploiting weaknesses, recognized the strategic merit in her dangerous proposal. "Fine, Granger," he conceded finally, his voice rough with reluctance. "You may initiate the interview. But," his gaze sharpened, becoming hard as flint, "you will not be alone. Auror Weasley will remain in the room with you. And at the first sign of physical aggression from Thorne, or if I deem the situation is escalating beyond your control, I will intervene. Do not," he added, his voice dropping to a low, serious warning, "make me regret this decision."

A brilliant, almost dazzling smile of pure, unadulterated triumph lit up Hermione’s face. She let out a happy, involuntary squeal and gave a little jump, her hands clapping together once in excitement. "Thank you! I won't let you down!"

He gave her a profoundly disapproving look, not because of her idea, which he now grudgingly admitted had potential, but at the sheer, unadulterated thought of her being in there… alone with that monster, deliberately poking the dragon. "Granger," he said, his voice tight with a concern he couldn't entirely mask, "be careful. Very careful."

"I will, Snape!" she said, her earlier grin softening into a look of focused determination. She squared her shoulders back, ready for a face-off, a new, almost predatory glint in her own eyes that Severus found both unsettling and undeniably compelling. With a nod to Ron, she turned and followed him towards the interrogation room door, ready to confront Finnigan Thorne.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy stood shoulder to shoulder behind the one-way magical glass of the observation room, their expressions a mirror of grim trepidation. They watched as Hermione Granger, flanked by the reassuring, sturdy presence of Auror Ron Weasley, walked with a squared-shouldered, deceptive confidence into the stark interrogation room where Finnigan Thorne awaited.

"Hello, Mr. Thorne," Hermione said, her voice dripping with a false, almost saccharine sweetness that immediately put Snape on edge. It was a tone he hadn't heard from her before, a calculated prelude.

Thorne, who had been slumped in his chair with a sullen glower, looked up. His lip curled in visible disgust. "Oh, it's you again," he sneered. "Great. Just bloody marvelous."

Hermione smiled sweetly at him, though her eyes held a distinctly predatory glint that Snape recognized all too well from certain… formidable witches of his acquaintance. "Mr. Thorne," she purred, "we were hoping you could lend us your assistance with our ongoing investigation into your wife’s tragic murder."

This caught his attention. He straightened slightly, his eyes narrowing into calculating slits as he appraised her. "And how, precisely, could I possibly be of any help to you ?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

"I need your belt, Mr. Thorne," Hermione stated simply, her sweet smile unwavering. "For evidence."

He crossed his thick arms defiantly over his chest, a sneer twisting his lips. "I don't think so, little miss. You're just going to try and use it to pin something on me, aren't you? I know how your lot works."

Hermione’s grin widened, a flash of something almost wolfish in it. She reached into the pocket of her robes and pulled out a crisp, official-looking envelope, presenting it with a flourish. The impressive, embossed seal of the Wizengamot gleamed dully in the interrogation room’s harsh light. "I have a warrant, sir," she said, her voice still honeyed but with an underlying edge of steel. "Duly signed and authorized. Now, please, if you would be so kind as to remove your belt."

He stared at the warrant, then back at her, a different kind of smile – his own sort of predatory, assessing grin – slowly spreading across his brutish face. He could tell what game she was playing at, the little chit. He wasn't going to fall victim to it, wasn't going to let her rattle him.

"Granger, was it?" he asked, his eyes raking over her.

"Yes, sir," Hermione replied, her composure impeccable. "Hermione Granger."

"Well… Hermione ," he drawled, the way he said her first name, lingering on the syllables, making all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in a mixture of revulsion and apprehension. "If you want it so badly…" He leaned back in his chair, a lewd, challenging glint in his eyes. "Come and get it."

Hermione glanced at Ron, who, though his ears had turned a shade of red at Thorne’s tone, gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod of assent. Ron approached Thorne, his expression grim. "Alright, Thorne. Stand up. Hands behind your back, if you please." Before Thorne could protest further, Ron had efficiently applied a pair of magical restraining cuffs, the metal clicking sharply in the quiet room. He’d heard all about what had happened earlier at the Thorne residence, and he wasn't about to take any chances with his best friend’s safety.

"This is for your protection, Thorne, as well as ours," Ron stated, his voice firm. "I'll remove them once the evidence has been collected." He then positioned himself directly behind the cuffed

and now visibly irritated man, his wand aimed steadily at Thorne’s back, ready for any sudden moves. "Alright, 'Mione," Ron said, his voice softening as he looked at her. "All yours."

Thorne, despite the cuffs, stood tall as Hermione approached, his chest puffed out, a smug, defiant look still plastered on his face. She knelt before him, her professional focus kicking in, her gaze immediately drawn to the heavy, ornate silver belt buckle at his waist. This was her first real, close-up look at it. She stayed that way for a few moments, her mind cataloging its size, its shape, the intricate, almost familiar-feeling raised embellishments, before being jolted from her thoughts by Finnigan Thorne’s lewd, guttural comments.

"That's it, luv," he said, his voice a dark, suggestive sneer. "Stay right in that position. We can have some real fun later, you and I." He smirked down at her. "I like 'em feisty," he added, then deliberately, disgustingly, jerked his hips forward, towards her face.

Hermione recoiled, a look of utter disgust flashing across her features. Before she could even react further, Ron grabbed Thorne’s arm, roughly jerking him back into a more stationary position.

"Enough of that, Thorne!" Ron snapped, his voice a low warning. 

Thorne merely smirked down at Hermione, unrepentant. "Go on then, luv," he taunted. "Undo my buckle. Go on. Go real slow now, build up the anticipation for me."

Outside the room, in the dim observation corridor, Severus Snape stood watching the vile interaction, his hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides, his nails digging painfully into his palms. A cold, murderous rage was building within him at the crude innuendos, the blatant sexual harassment the man was directing towards Hermione. If not for the magical glass separating them, he would have stormed in there himself and personally throttled the life from the lecherous bastard.

Hermione, however, met Thorne's taunting gaze with a glare of her own, her eyes like chips of ice. With deliberate, almost disdainful movements, she reached up, her fingers deftly unbuckling the man's trousers, and then, with a single, firm tug, she roughly slid his heavy leather belt from the loops, ignoring his continued, "MMmmmm, yeah. Just like that, luv. You’re a natural."

She stood, holding the belt, her eyes narrowing at him. It was okay, though. Hermione would get her payback, her justice for Elara, very shortly. Ron, seeing she had what she needed, released Thorne from the cuffs and gruffly directed him to sit in the chair across the interrogation table from them.

Hermione moved to the table, pulling another sheet of parchment from her robes – the tracing she had so meticulously made from Elara Thorne's back. She laid it out carefully on the metal surface, smoothing it flat, her eyes never leaving Finnigan Thorne, a small, almost dangerous smile playing on her lips.

He looked on with a feigned, bored interest. "What is that supposed to be, then?" he asked, trying to sound dismissive.

"This, Mr. Thorne," Hermione said, her voice still deceptively sweet, but with an unmistakable edge of cold steel beneath it, "is a precise magical tracing of the unique pattern of bruises and cuts that covered your wife Elara's back." She then deliberately, slowly, sat the heavy belt buckle down on the table directly next to the outline. "And this ," she stated, her voice now sharp, matter-of-fact, "is your belt." She flicked her wand almost casually, and a complex spell washed over the buckle, causing its intricate, raised pattern to be momentarily highlighted in shimmering silver light before stamping a perfect, ghostly image of itself onto a waiting piece of translucent magical parchment.

She then carefully, dramatically, picked up the translucent parchment with the ghostly imprint of the belt buckle and placed it directly over the traced image of the bruises from Elara’s back.

"Is a perfect match," she said, her earlier sweet smile now a grin of pure, triumphant satisfaction as she looked directly at him.

Finnigan Thorne’s smug, arrogant face paled considerably. A flicker of genuine fear, quickly suppressed, flashed in his eyes.

"Care to explain, Mr. Thorne?" Hermione pressed, her voice like ice.

He rallied quickly, his bravado returning, though it was tinged with a new defensiveness. "I… I must have left my belt at home when I went away on my business trip," he blustered, his voice a little too loud. "Whoever did this to my Elara, they obviously found it, grabbed it off the dresser, and… and used it to try and frame me! You're not going to pin this on me, little girl!" He slammed his fist on the table. "My alibi has already checked out! The Aurors confirmed it! I wasn't even in the bloody country when my dear old wife was so tragically slain!" He finished with an air of angry, almost righteous detachment.

Hermione stared at him, her eyes narrowed, her earlier triumph souring into a familiar, frustrating knot in her stomach. He had her there. His alibi for the time of death was solid. She couldn't deny it. But his reaction, his possessive fury, his blatant lies about the belt… he knew more. He had to.

______________

The return to the lab after the tense, ultimately frustrating, slight-interrogation of Finnigan Thorne was subdued. Severus, Hermione, and Draco quickly filled in the rest of the team – Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac – on Thorne's aggressive demeanor, his convenient alibi, and Draco’s crucial observation about the belt buckle, which was now being meticulously analyzed by Pansy for any trace evidence or magical signature that might contradict Thorne’s claims of it being left at home. They all shared the same gut-wrenching feeling: Finnigan Thorne was guilty. His arrogance, his barely veiled contempt, his possessive fury – it all pointed to a man capable

of horrific violence. They just couldn't definitively prove it yet, not with his airtight alibi for the presumed time of death.

The team spent the rest of their shift immersed in their respective tasks, a cloud of frustration hanging over them. They meticulously went through every piece of evidence again, re-examined every photograph, every statement, waiting with bated breath for any definitive lab results from Cormac on the waxy substance or from Pansy on the buckle itself.

All too soon, the end of shift approached, the case no closer to a resolution. The team would have to regroup tomorrow, hoping fresh eyes or new lab findings might break the deadlock. They morosely took their leave, the grim images of Elara Thorne’s brutalized body weighing heavily on their minds.

Snape, however, did not immediately depart. He retired to the dim solitude of his office, the silence a welcome, if heavy, blanket. He poured himself a generous measure of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky from the bottle he kept hidden away in his lowest desk drawer, reserved for the harder cases, the ones that clawed at the edges of his carefully constructed composure. This Thorne case was certainly one of them. He leaned back in his worn leather chair, giving his wand a weary flick. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, its melancholic, haunting strains, began to drift softly from a small, enchanted speaker on his bookcase. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, burning sip of the whiskey, enjoying its familiar bite, letting out a long, ragged sigh.

He was halfway through the somber beauty of the Sonata, lost in a labyrinth of unwelcome thoughts, when a light, hesitant rap at his door startled him from his reverie. He let out a small, almost inaudible curse under his breath, annoyed at the interruption. "Come in," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

The door opened, and Hermione Granger stood there, looking hesitant, her eyes filled with an unreadable emotion. She shut the door quietly behind her before taking a seat in the chair across from his desk.

"Is that… Moonlight Sonata?" she asked, her voice soft, a hint of surprise in her tone.

"Yes," he replied, his gaze distant for a moment as memories of his own haunted, lonely past flashed unbidden before his eyes once again. "I feel as though it is quite fitting, after the day we've all endured." He took another large sip of whiskey, the liquid fire doing little to soothe the chill within him. He finally snapped out of his introspection and looked at her properly.

"Yes, it is rather fitting," she agreed quietly, noticing his slightly odd, almost vulnerable demeanor. "Severus… I… I wanted to come by and apologize." She twisted her fingers in her lap. "For my behavior earlier today… at the crime scene with Mr. Thorne. I just… I lost my cool. It was unprofessional."

He gave her a long, considering look while he finished the contents of his glass. He then leaned down, pulled the bottle from his desk drawer, and poured himself another generous measure. "Would you care for some?" he offered, gesturing with the bottle.

A faint blush touched her cheeks. "No, no thank you," she said, a wry, self-deprecating smile playing on her lips as she remembered her alcohol-fueled, mortifying night from that past Friday. "I don't think I'll be having any alcoholic drinks for quite a bit."

Snape, surprisingly, smirked at her, a genuine, almost amused expression. "A wise decision, Granger." His expression then sobered. "As for your behavior earlier," he said, his voice serious once more, "I was not… thrilled with it, admittedly. It was reckless. I hope you do not feel the need to act so brashly again in the future when faced with such overt aggression." He let out another sigh, the sound heavy with weariness. "This has been a rather… difficult case. For all of us."

She looked at him in contemplation, her brow furrowed with a sudden, genuine concern. "Severus," she asked, her voice soft, "are you alright? You seem… different. You're worrying me a bit." Her eyes, those warm, intelligent hazel orbs, were filled with an open, honest concern that caught him off guard.

And that's when he did something very un-Snape-like. Something he hadn't done with anyone, not in years, perhaps not ever. He opened up. Just a bit.

"I'll be honest with you, Hermione," he began, the use of her first name feeling surprisingly natural now, even in this context. "This case… it is getting to me a bit more than usual." He stared into his glass. "It's bringing up… past memories. Things I would rather not think about, things I had believed long buried." He paused, then continued, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. "I've had… firsthand experience with domestic violence. With abuse. Growing up. My father… Tobias Snape… he was a drunk. A violent, bitter man. He used to beat my mother and I."

He took another deep, steadying gulp of his whiskey, his gaze distant, lost in the shadowed corridors of his past. He couldn't meet her eyes. He stood abruptly from his chair, turning away from her, leaning heavily on the edge of his desk, his back to her. He needed a moment to compose himself, to regain control, before continuing.

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her heart constricting with a sudden, profound ache for him, for the small, terrified boy he must have been. Without thinking, she got up from her chair, rounded the large desk to where he was standing, and gently, tentatively, took his hand in hers, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze.

"Oh, Severus," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I… I had no idea. I am so, so sorry."

He squeezed her hand back, a small, almost imperceptible pressure, and after a long moment, he managed a wry, humorless smile, though he still didn't turn to face her. "It is not your fault, Granger. My father was a vile, despicable man. Who, unfortunately," his voice dropped to a deathly, chilling whisper, heavy with a pain that time had clearly not erased, "ended up killing my mother in one of his drunken rages. He… he ended up beating her to a bloody pulp one evening… and then he finished the job by pushing her down the stairs. She broke her neck."

He finished the drink in his glass in one savage gulp. A visceral rage, cold and sharp, filled him, thinking of those terrible memories, of the sounds, the smells, the crushing helplessness of being too small, too weak, to stop his monstrous father. He could still hear, in the darkest recesses of his nightmares, the sickening, final snap of his mother’s neck as she was killed.

His hand gripped the glass tighter, his breath became ragged as the anger continued to grow. Without warning he chunked the glass at the door of his office causing it to shatter with a loud crash.

Hermione jumped and gasped, startled at the crash of the glass. She could see he was beginning to spiral. She gently reached up and cupped his face in both hands. "Hey... hey look at me," she said sternly but softly. "Severus, you're okay. I'm here with you. You're not in that place anymore, do you hear me?"

Eventually, he came back to himself, his chest heaving, the wildness in his eyes slowly receding as he focused on her concerned face.

She smiled up at him, a soft, reassuring smile. "Hey. There you are," she whispered. "You gave me a bit of a fright there."

His eyes glittered darkly, no longer with rage, but with a profound self-reproach, as if he were angry with himself for losing control like that in front of her. "Hermione," he rasped, his voice hoarse with spent emotion, "I am so sorry if I startled you. I did not mean to…"

He wasn't sure what came over him next – perhaps it was her compassion, her unwavering understanding, the raw vulnerability they had just shared, or simply the culmination of months, no, years , of suppressed longing and emotional turmoil. He didn't analyze it. He simply acted. He pulled her against him, not in passion, but in a crushing hug born of a desperate, almost primal need for comfort, of a longing so profound it felt as if she, Hermione, were his lifeline, the only solid thing keeping him afloat in the raging, dark seas of his tormented mind. His face buried in her fragrant curls, he clung to her.

Once her initial surprise at the sudden, fierce embrace faded, she melted into him, her arms instinctively going around his neck, hugging him back with a surprising strength. She gently began rubbing soothing circles at the base of his neck, her touch a balm to his frayed nerves. She could feel the solid, unyielding planes of his chest hidden under his familiar black robes. Merlin, did he feel oh so good in her arms. A fleeting, traitorous thought of wanting more, of wanting his lips on hers, flickered through her mind, but she quickly, firmly, pushed it away. No, Hermione, she chided herself sternly. None of that. Not right now. He's hurting. He needs comfort, not… complications.

They held onto each other tightly, desperately, for a long, suspended moment, as if afraid the other might vanish, neither wanting to let go, the only sound in the dim office their commingled breaths and the distant, mournful strains of the Moonlight Sonata.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few moments, Severus eventually, and with visible reluctance, began to pull away. But he still held her loosely by her upper arms, his dark eyes, when they met hers, looking surprisingly… bashful. Vulnerable. He hadn't opened up to anyone like this, hadn't allowed himself to feel this exposed, in… well, in years. Decades, perhaps.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said softly, his voice still a little rough. "For… for listening. And for…" he gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the depth of comfort her presence had provided.

Hermione smiled up at him, her own eyes soft with understanding and a warmth that seemed to radiate from her very core. "Anytime, Severus. Anytime at all." She reached up and gently brushed a stray lock of black hair from his forehead. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. I meant what I said before. I'm always here if you need me. You know that, right?"

He gave her a gentle, almost tentative smile in return, and a brief, almost imperceptible nod of his head. It was more eloquent than any words.

He then, with a practiced flick of his wand, repaired the shattered whiskey glass on the floor and vanished the spilled droplets, restoring a semblance of order to his office, if not entirely to his wildly thrumming, newly awakened heart.

"Come," he said softly, his voice regaining some of its familiar timbre, though the harsh edges were noticeably absent. He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with a natural, unthinking ease. "Go home and get some rest for the evening. I have a distinct feeling that tomorrow will be just as… difficult… as today has been, in its own way."

He walked her to the door of his office. He leaned down then, and before she could react, before she could even fully process the shift in their dynamic, he pressed a soft, chaste, yet undeniably lingering kiss to her cheek. He pulled away with a final, gentle nod of his head.

They took their leave of his office then, hand in hand, Hermione's mind reeling, her heart soaring with a fragile, tentative hope. The world, or at least, her small corner of it, felt suddenly, beautifully, irrevocably changed.

Chapter Text

The fragile, hopeful tenderness that had blossomed between Hermione and Severus in the quiet intimacy of his office after his raw confession seemed to hang in the air, an unspoken, delicate thing, when the team reconvened the next workday. Hermione found herself glancing at him more often than she intended, a soft warmth spreading through her when she recalled his unexpected hug, the gentle kiss on her cheek. He, in turn, while maintaining his professional demeanor, seemed less… severe. His gaze would occasionally meet hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them before he would look away.

The entire team, however, was laser-focused on the Elara Thorne case. The image of her brutalized body, the chilling certainty of her husband’s guilt despite his seemingly airtight alibi, spurred them on with a renewed sense of urgency. They gathered in the main lab, awaiting the final analysis from Pansy and Cormac on the mysterious waxy substance found on the victim.

Finally, Pansy looked up from her complex array of alchemical instruments, her expression one of intrigued discovery. "Professor, we've completed the compositional breakdown of the waxy substance," she announced. "It's a rather complex blend of beeswax, several refined magical oils – moon-calf oil being a primary component – and trace elements of powdered silver and dittany leaf, all bound with a potent, slow-release stasis charm."

Cormac, eager to contribute, chimed in, "The stasis charm isn't strong enough to halt decomposition entirely, not in a human subject, but it would certainly… inhibit it. Significantly. We couldn’t find any direct matches for this specific compound in any known potions or embalming fluids in the Ministry databases."

The team looked at each other, a mixture of confusion and dawning understanding on their faces. None of them immediately recognized the specific application of such a substance. Then Neville, who had been frowning in deep thought, suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Wait a minute," he said, his background in Herbology kicking in. "Moon-calf oil, beeswax, powdered silver… florists! Or rather, high-end magical floral preservationists. They sometimes use a similar, albeit usually less magically potent, compound. They dip freshly cut, rare magical blooms in it to dramatically slow the rate of decay, to keep them looking perfect for weeks, sometimes months. The flowers often absorb most of the wax over time, so it's not always visible on the surface, but the preservative effect is remarkable."

The team stared at him, shocked into silence for a moment. Luna was the first to ask the question that was suddenly burning in all their minds, her voice a soft, horrified whisper. "Neville… would such a substance… would it stop the rate of decay the same way in humans?"

Neville looked uneasy. "I… I honestly don't know, Luna. I've only ever seen it, or variations of it, used on flowers. Never on… on anything else."

Hermione’s mind raced, the horrifying implications of Neville’s revelation crashing down on her. Her voice was tight with a dawning, sickening certainty when she spoke. "If Finnigan Thorne slathered his wife in that stuff, or something very much like it, after he killed her… then the Mediwitch's estimation of the time of death, based on liver temperature and standard decomposition rates, would be completely off. He truly could have been out of the country that week. He just… he killed her before he left, and the wax slowed the rate of decay enough to throw the entire timeline off, to give him a seemingly perfect alibi."

"Merlin's saggy left…" Draco began, then cut himself off, his face paling. "But how do we prove it, Hermione? How can we definitively show that this specific compound would have that effect on human tissue?"

Severus, who had been listening intently, his dark eyes narrowed in thought, spoke up then, his voice a low, decisive rumble. "With experimentation, Mr. Malfoy. Controlled, meticulous experimentation." He looked directly at Hermione, then at Draco. "You two will need to conduct an experiment with this substance. We need to clearly demonstrate the rate of decay on a normal, untreated biological sample versus the rate of decay on a sample covered in this… floral preservative."

Hermione and Draco looked at each other, their expressions a mixture of grim understanding and sudden, profound nervousness. "Snape," Hermione began hesitantly, "where… where exactly do you propose to get the… the bodies to use for such an experiment? Obviously," she added quickly, "we can't use real people."

Severus paused, his brow furrowing in thought for a moment, considering the ethical and practical implications.

Pansy Parkinson, ever practical, spoke up this time, her voice calm and clear. "Why not try the research department at St. Mungo's? They frequently receive bodies donated to magical science. They use them for experiments in treating complex physical and magical ailments, testing new potions, that sort of thing. They might have protocols in place for… post-mortem research collaboration with law enforcement, under strict ethical guidelines, of course."

Severus gave her a look of genuine, if surprised, approval. "A very good idea, Miss Parkinson. Astute." He then turned his gaze back to Hermione and Draco. "Your new assignment is clear. Go to St. Mungo's. Liaise with the head of their anatomical research division. See if they will cooperate with our experiment and provide the necessary… subjects… and facilities. The integrity of this case may well depend on it."

"Yes, sir," Draco and Hermione said in unison, a new, albeit somewhat macabre, sense of purpose settling over them.

___________

The journey to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was a relatively short Apparition trip for Hermione and Draco. They arrived not in the usual chaotic cacophony of the main reception area, with its lime-green-robed Healers bustling about and loudly wailing patients, but at a quieter, more discreet entrance marked ‘Department of Magical Research & Anatomical Studies.’ The air here was cooler, tinged with the sharp scent of antiseptic potions and old parchment, the atmosphere more akin to a university library than a bustling hospital.

After presenting their Ministry credentials and a sealed directive from Snape detailing the nature of their inquiry (though omitting the specifics of the ongoing murder investigation for confidentiality), they were eventually ushered into the office of Healer Griselda Bone, Head of Anatomical Research. She was a formidable-looking older witch, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind severe, square-spectacles, her grey hair pulled back into a tight, uncompromising bun. She regarded them with an expression that was both intensely curious and deeply skeptical.

"Professor Snape sends his… regards," Draco began, with a touch of his old Malfoy charm that seemed to have little effect on Healer Bone. "We are here on behalf of the Department of Magical Forensics regarding a matter of some urgency, Healer."

Hermione stepped forward, taking the lead. "Healer Bone, we have encountered an unknown substance in a current investigation that we believe may have significantly altered the post-mortem decomposition rate of a victim. To accurately establish a timeline, we need to conduct a controlled experiment."

Healer Bone’s eyebrow arched. "An experiment involving… decomposition, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, Healer," Hermione affirmed, her voice steady despite the grim nature of their request. "Specifically, we need to observe the effects of this substance on… biological tissue… over a period of several days, comparing it to an untreated control sample. We were hoping," she paused, steeling herself, "that your department might be able to assist us. Miss Parkinson from our lab mentioned you sometimes have… anatomical donations… that are utilized for research purposes."

Healer Bone’s gaze sharpened. "We do indeed receive bodies donated to magical science, Miss Granger. They are invaluable for the advancement of healing and understanding magical afflictions. However, they are treated with the utmost respect and are utilized for research that directly benefits the living. A forensic experiment on decomposition rates is… unorthodox, to say the least."

"We understand that, Healer," Draco interjected smoothly. "However, the implications of this case are significant. Establishing an accurate timeline is crucial for identifying a potentially very dangerous individual. The substance in question is unique, and its effects are unknown. Your cooperation could be instrumental in bringing a perpetrator of a heinous crime to justice."

Healer Bone steepled her fingers, her sharp eyes moving between Draco and Hermione. "Professor Snape’s note mentions the necessity for ‘two recently deceased human subjects, unclaimed and previously designated for scientific study’." She read the line aloud, her tone flat. "A rather blunt request, even for Severus."

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck, but she held the Healer’s gaze. "The experiment needs to be as accurate as possible, Healer Bone. We need to mimic the conditions as closely as we can. The bodies would, of course, be treated with the utmost dignity and respect throughout the process, and returned to your care for final disposition once the observation period is complete."

There was a long, tense silence. Healer Bone stared at them, her expression unreadable. Finally, she let out a small sigh. "The pursuit of truth, even in its grimmest forms, is a noble one. And I confess," a flicker of scientific curiosity lit her eyes, "the potential properties of this unknown substance intrigue me from a preservationist standpoint. Very well, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. St. Mungo's will cooperate, under very strict protocols. You will conduct your experiment within our secure research morgue, under my department’s supervision. The subjects selected

will be individuals who explicitly donated their remains for unrestricted magical research, and whose passing is recent enough to provide viable baseline data."

Relief washed over Hermione. "Thank you, Healer Bone. We are very grateful."

Healer Bone led them through a series of sterile, magically climate-controlled corridors to a secure research morgue. It was a cold, quiet, echoing chamber, lined with gleaming steel alcoves. With a wave of her wand, two such alcoves slid open, revealing two still forms covered respectfully with white sheets.

"Subject Alpha and Subject Beta," Healer Bone stated, her voice all business. "Both adult males, deceased within the last twelve hours from non-magical, non-violent causes. Full consent for unrestricted research on file."

The next few hours were some of the grimmest Hermione had ever experienced, rivaling even some of her more disturbing encounters during the war. Under the watchful, dispassionate eye of one of Healer Bone’s assistants, she and Draco set up their macabre experiment.

They designated Subject Alpha as the control. Subject Beta was to be treated with the waxy, floral preservative – Pansy and Cormac had managed to isolate and magically replicate a significant quantity of the substance from the samples taken from Elara Thorne’s body.

With meticulous, almost reverent care, Hermione, her hands surprisingly steady despite the churning in her stomach, began the task of applying the replicated waxy substance to Subject Beta. She worked silently, methodically, ensuring an even coating, mirroring as closely as possible the likely application by their suspect. Draco, his face pale but his expression resolute, assisted her, his usual aristocratic disdain replaced by a somber professionalism. He documented every step with his magical camera, his own discomfort palpable but controlled.

Once Subject Beta was fully treated, both bodies were placed on separate, magically monitored slabs within a specially designated, temperature-and-humidity-controlled observation chamber. Hermione and Draco set up a series of complex monitoring charms that would record decomposition rates, tissue degradation, and any residual magical emanations at precise intervals over the next seventy-two hours, and beyond if necessary.

As they finally stepped out of the cold research morgue, leaving the two silent subjects to the grim work of time and science, Hermione felt a profound wave of exhaustion, both physical and emotional. This case was pushing them all to their limits.

"Well," Draco said quietly, breaking the silence as they walked back towards the Apparition point, "that was… thoroughly unpleasant."

Hermione could only nod, a heavy weight settling in her chest. The experiment was underway. Now, all they could do was wait, and hope that this grim undertaking would finally give them the proof they needed to bring Elara Thorne’s killer to justice.

___________

The heavy doors of St. Mungo’s Department of Magical Research & Anatomical Studies closed behind Hermione and Draco, leaving them blinking in the late afternoon light, the sterile, cold air of the research morgue still clinging to them like a shroud. They Apparated back to the DMF lab, both looking pale and visibly drained, the grim reality of their experiment weighing heavily upon them.

They found the rest of the team – Severus, Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac – gathered in the main lab, discussing the preliminary findings on the waxy substance. Pansy had confirmed its complex organic and magical makeup, while Neville and Luna had been cross-referencing its components with known ritualistic or preservative compounds, though nothing yet matched its unique signature or its apparent effect on slowing decay so significantly in floral applications.

"The experiment is underway," Hermione reported, her voice tired but steady as she and Draco joined the group. "Healer Bone at St. Mungo's was… cooperative. We have two subjects, one treated with the replicated compound, one untreated control. Both are now under continuous magical and visual monitoring within a controlled environment. We should begin to see comparative results within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, though the full seventy-two hours will likely yield the most definitive data regarding the extent of preservation."

Draco nodded in agreement. "The setup is precise. If this stuff does what we think it does, the experiment will prove it."

There was a brief moment of grim satisfaction, a small flicker of hope that they were on the right track. That was, until Severus, his expression thunderous, relayed the news he had evidently received while they were at St. Mungo’s.

"While your efforts at St. Mungo’s are commendable," he began, his voice tight with ill-concealed fury, "I regret to inform you of a rather… galling development regarding Mr. Finnigan Thorne." He paused, his dark eyes sweeping over his team. "He has been released from Auror custody."

A collective gasp of disbelief and outrage went through the room.

"What?!" Hermione exclaimed, her weariness instantly replaced by a surge of hot, indignant anger. "But the attempted assault! His violent behavior! How could they possibly just let him go?"

"It appears," Snape continued, his lip curling with disdain, "that Mr. Thorne possesses some rather… influential friends within certain antiquated echelons of the Ministry. Strings were pulled. The charge of attempted assault was… amicably resolved with a hefty donation to the Auror Benevolent Fund and a magically binding promise to seek ‘anger management counseling’." He practically spat the last words. "Without being able to definitively link him to his wife's murder at this precise time, and with his alibi for the presumed time of death still holding, their hands were legally tied. They had to set him free."

Hermione was about to start raging, to launch into a furious tirade about the blatant injustice, the corruption, the sheer audacity of it all, when Severus held up a single, imperious hand, effectively silencing her before she could utter a word. His dark eyes, however, held a spark that mirrored her own outrage.

"He is, however," Snape stated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, "being watched. Very closely. Auror Potter has assigned discreet, round-the-clock surveillance. Should Mr. Thorne get any brash ideas about… attempting to flee, or interfering further, he will find his newfound freedom exceedingly short-lived."

Hermione let out a deep, shuddering breath of pure frustration, though Snape’s assurance offered a sliver of grim comfort. The entire team felt the same palpable sense of injustice, of a victory snatched away by bureaucratic maneuvering and old-boy networks. You could see it etched on all of their faces – Neville’s usually cheerful countenance was tight with anger, Luna’s dreamy expression was replaced by a steely resolve, Draco looked utterly disgusted, and even Pansy and Cormac appeared incensed.

The news cast a pall over the remainder of their shift. The earlier sense of progress felt tainted, the weight of Elara Thorne’s brutal murder pressing down on them with renewed force. All too soon, the end of the workday approached. The team would have to regroup tomorrow, their hopes now pinned more desperately than ever on the grim experiment unfolding within the cold walls of St. Mungo’s.

They all slowly made their way towards the Apparition point, a morose, disheartened silence hanging over them. This was, indeed, going to be a very long, very trying week. The fight for justice for Elara Thorne had just become significantly more complicated.

Chapter Text

Three painstaking, nerve-wracking days had now passed since Hermione and Draco had initiated their grim experiment at St. Mungo's. The magically monitored results were undeniable and proved immensely useful: the waxy, floral preservative Elara Thorne had been coated in did indeed significantly slow the rate of human decomposition, by a factor that almost perfectly aligned with Finnigan Thorne’s week-long business trip. They decided to continue the experiment for the full seven days, meticulously documenting every stage to provide irrefutable evidence for the Wizengamot trial when it was eventually brought before them. They didn't want to chance that monster, Finnigan Thorne, getting away with what he had so brutally done. But they knew, with a grim certainty, that they now definitely had enough forensic evidence to charge him with the premeditated murder of his wife. The carefully constructed alibi was about to crumble.

They were all gathered in the main DMF lab, reviewing the latest readings from St. Mungo’s, a tense, focused energy thrumming between them, when the lab doors hissed open and Auror Harry Potter strode in, his face split by a wide, triumphant grin.

"We got him!" Harry announced, his voice ringing with satisfaction. "Finnigan Thorne is officially behind bars at the Ministry holding cells. The evidence from your experiment, combined with his previous aggressive behavior and some… persuasive questioning based on your initial findings, was enough for an emergency arrest warrant. He's awaiting trial for formal sentencing, but between you and me," Harry lowered his voice conspiratorially, "he’s facing a lifetime in Azkaban, no question."

A colossal wave of relief swept over the lab. It was palpable. Hermione felt tears spring to her eyes, tears of exhaustion and profound gratitude. Neville let out a whoop of joy, Luna beamed with a serene, knowing light, and even Pansy and Cormac were seen exchanging enthusiastic high fives. Draco clapped Hermione on the shoulder, a genuine, proud smile on his face. They had finally gotten Elara Thorne the justice she so desperately deserved. They had put a monster behind bars.

The celebratory mood, however, was soon interrupted by the sound of more footsteps approaching. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt entered, his expression one of pleased solemnity, but it was the man beside him who made Hermione’s stomach clench with a sudden, unwelcome lurch: Lucius Malfoy.

His sharp, silver eyes, as always, seemed to find her immediately, landing directly on Hermione with an intensity that made her skin prickle. A palpable tension instantly filled the room, a silent, awkward awareness that everyone, including Kingsley, seemed to notice.

Lucius, however, put on his usual mask of cool, aristocratic charm, a polite smile gracing his lips as he greeted the team. But his eyes, Hermione noted with a fresh pang in her chest, kept going back to focus on her, causing an unwelcome flush to rise under the unwavering intensity of his gaze.

Bugger, Hermione thought with a surge of internal panic. Whyyyy did he have to come here? Now? It's far too soon. She hadn't seen or spoken to him since that disastrous morning at his penthouse nearly a week ago.

Kingsley began speaking, his deep voice commanding their attention. "Good work, team. Excellent work. This was indeed a very difficult, and disturbing, case for everyone involved. Your dedication and innovative forensic methods have been exemplary." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them. "As a small token of our gratitude, and more importantly, as a thank you to St. Mungo's for their invaluable cooperation and contribution to this case – to my understanding, without their assistance, this vital timeline evidence would still be unknown – the Ministry, in conjunction with Mr. Malfoy as a primary benefactor, has decided to host an immediate charity dinner and auction. All funds raised will go directly to their invaluable research department." He smiled warmly. "Your attendance, as the team instrumental in highlighting their crucial role, will, of course, be mandatory."

The rest of the team seemed to feel genuinely thrilled at the idea – a formal gala, a chance to celebrate a hard-won victory, and for a good cause. Hermione, too, was genuinely happy to help

St. Mungo's; their cooperation had been indispensable. But a significant part of her was filled with a cold, sinking dread. A mandatory Ministry event, with Lucius Malfoy as a co-host… It meant she would have to spend an entire evening in his presence, navigating his charm, his pointed gazes, the unspoken weight of their last encounter.

Severus’s face, Hermione noted from the corner of her eye, showed no discernible emotion at the announcement, remaining a stoic mask. Internally, however, she could almost feel the waves of icy fury radiating from him at the sight of Lucius, especially when the older Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her. 

Lucius then spoke up, his voice smooth and cultured. "Excellent work indeed, team," he said, his gaze sweeping over them all, though it paused again, just for a fraction of a second, on Hermione. "I very much look forward to seeing you all at the fundraiser. It promises to be a most… memorable evening."

To Hermione's profound surprise, Lucius then simply nodded to Kingsley, and without lingering, without making one of his usual extravagant speeches, without even attempting to approach her or engage her in conversation – all things he usually would have done – he took his leave alongside the Minister. It was… uncharacteristically restrained of him.

As he turned to go, Hermione thought she saw it – a fleeting flash of something beneath his usually impeccable, regal features. A shadow of… sadness? A profound, almost hidden regret? It was there for an instant, then gone, replaced by his usual aristocratic composure. Oh my god, she thought, a sudden, unwelcome realization dawning on her. His letter… his words… He actually did care. Or at least, he regretted what he’d lost.

She felt her carefully constructed resolve, her anger, crumble just the tiniest bit at that unexpected glimpse of vulnerability. Then, just as quickly, she slammed her shield back up around her bruised heart. Well, he should have bloody well thought about that before shagging some mindless, pretty blonde trollop, she thought, a fresh wave of anger, hot and sharp, surging through her. No. She would not be swayed by a fleeting expression. He had made his choices. And she, it seemed, was about to be forced to navigate the consequences at yet another Ministry function.

_________

The departure of Minister Shacklebolt and Lucius Malfoy left a strange, somewhat deflated antechamber to the potent relief that had filled the DMF lab only moments before. The news of Finnigan Thorne’s arrest was a solid, undeniable victory, justice for Elara Thorne finally, blessedly, within reach. Yet, the abrupt announcement of another mandatory Ministry function, one prominently co-hosted by Lucius Malfoy, cast a subtle but distinct shadow, at least for Hermione. And, she suspected, for Severus, who still stood stiffly by the briefing table, his expression shuttered and unreadable.

It was Neville who, after a moment of thoughtful silence, broke the slightly awkward atmosphere, his usual cheerfulness beginning to resurface. "Well," he said, a tentative but

hopeful smile spreading across his face, "Thorne's behind bars. I don't know about anyone else, but I think that calls for… something. A drink, perhaps? To Elara? And to us not having to deal with another case quite that grim for a good long while, hopefully?"

Luna beamed, her silvery eyes regaining some of their usual sparkle. "That sounds like a splendid idea, Neville! Perhaps we could find a place that serves Gillywater with extra fizz? It’s very good for clearing lingering psychic residue, you know."

Draco, who had been observing Hermione with a concerned frown ever since Lucius’s pointed departure, quickly latched onto Neville’s suggestion, clearly thinking Hermione could use the distraction. "I'm definitely in," he declared. "A stiff Firewhisky, or possibly five, sounds about right after this week. McLaggen, Parkinson," he looked towards them, "you two up for an actual celebration this time? No impending doom hanging over us?"

Cormac, ever eager for a social outing, grinned broadly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world! My treat for the first round, to celebrate a case well and truly closed!"

Pansy, after a brief, almost imperceptible glance around at her assembled team members, her gaze lingering for a moment on Hermione’s tired face, gave a small, sophisticated nod. "A celebratory drink does sound… acceptable. Even warranted."

"Granger?" Draco prompted gently. "How about you? Are you in as well?"

Hermione nibbled her lower lip in contemplation, a bit torn. She really, really shouldn't, not after how she had so spectacularly overindulged that disastrous past weekend. The memory of Severus patiently dealing with her drunken, vomiting mess was still fresh and mortifying. But a significant part of her desperately wanted to be with her team, her friends, to honor Elara properly, to share in this hard-won victory. 

Plus, the thought of going home to her empty, silent flat, alone with her turbulent thoughts and the nightmares that had plagued her all week from this horrific case, was utterly unbearable. She decided, with a surge of resolve, that she could manage just a few drinks.

"Yes," she said, offering a small, grateful smile. "I'm in."

All eyes, for a brief, expectant moment, turned towards Snape, an unspoken question hanging in the air. He looked back at them, his expression still largely impassive, but Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something – profound weariness? A grudging resignation? – in the depths of his dark eyes.

"You may all… proceed with your 'celebratory libations'," he drawled finally, his voice devoid of any discernible enthusiasm for the idea himself. "Ensure, however, that you are all fit for duty tomorrow morning. Some of us," he added, his gaze sweeping briefly, pointedly, over them, "still have considerable paperwork and final reports to attend to regarding this case." It wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement for their revelry, but it wasn't an outright prohibition either. With a curt,

dismissive nod, he turned and swept back towards the quiet sanctuary of his office, the door clicking shut decisively behind him.

"Right then!" Draco said, rubbing his hands together with an almost boyish enthusiasm. "The Leaky Cauldron it is? Or are we feeling a tad more… adventurous tonight?"

"The Hog's Head actually has a surprisingly decent selection of aged Firewhiskies, if you know to ask Aberforth nicely," Neville suggested, a mischievous glint in his usually gentle eye. "And it’s generally less… crowded with Ministry types."

And so it was that, half an hour later, the core members of the DMF team – Hermione, Draco, Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac – found themselves squeezed around a slightly sticky, heavily scarred wooden table in a dark, smoky, and blessedly anonymous corner of the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade. The air was thick with the smell of stale ale, cheap tobacco, woodsmoke, and various dubious magical concoctions, but the atmosphere was undeniably more relaxed.

Rounds of drinks were ordered – Firewhisky for Draco and Cormac, Butterbeer for Neville and Luna, a sophisticated elderflower gin for Pansy, and a small, carefully measured Ogden’s for Hermione. Stories from the Thorne case, the ones that could be shared without breaching too much confidentiality, were rehashed, and analyzed. With solemn faces, the team raised their glasses in a group cheers. "To Elara Thorne," Neville said quietly. "May she finally rest in peace." They all bowed their heads for a moment of respectful silence, before deliberately turning the conversation to lighter, less harrowing subjects.

Then, for the first time in what felt like days, genuine, unrestrained laughter echoed amongst them. Neville and Luna were, as always, adorable, sharing a large tankard of Butterbeer through two straws and earnestly discussing the potential migratory patterns of Mooncalves in relation to ley line energy. Pansy and Draco, much to Hermione’s surprise, fell into a comfortable, almost sibling-like banter, hilariously dissecting the more ludicrous aspects of Ministry bureaucracy and the questionable fashion choices of certain Wizengamot elders. Even Cormac, after his initial boisterousness, settled into an agreeable camaraderie, sharing amusing anecdotes from his early days in the potions development department.

Hermione found herself, to her own astonishment, actually beginning to relax, the tight knot of anxiety in her chest slowly, gradually, unclenching. The Firewhisky – she’d opted for just a small one – burned a pleasant, steadying warmth down her throat, and the easy, uncomplicated company of her friends, her team, was a welcome, healing balm to her frayed nerves. She listened more than she spoke for a while, offering a genuine smile here, a quiet, insightful comment there, content to simply bask in their shared relief and companionship.

Draco, however, was observing her closely, his usual teasing demeanor tempered with a genuine concern. Under the guise of refilling her glass (with water this time, after a pointed, warning look from her which he’d acknowledged with a subtle, chastened nod), he leaned in, his voice low.

"You alright, Granger?" he asked quietly. "Really alright, I mean. That news about the fundraiser… with Father co-hosting… I saw your face back at the lab."

Hermione sighed, swirling the water in her glass, watching the condensation trail down the side. "It's just… complicated, Draco," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "After… well, after everything."

"He really did seem genuinely… off, when he left the lab today," Draco mused, his brow furrowed in thought. "Not his usual polished, imperturbable self. Almost… regretful, if I didn’t know him better. Has he said anything else to you… since, well, since you walked in on him that evening?" He trailed off, letting the unspoken details of that disastrous night hang delicately in the air between them.

She thought of Lucius’s carefully crafted words of remorse in the letter, the unexpected glimpse of what she’d thought was genuine sadness in his eyes earlier. "He… apologized," she admitted quietly, staring into her glass. "For everything. In a letter. And he seemed… sincere, perhaps. For a moment."

"And you believe him?" Draco asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

"I don't know what to believe, Draco," she confessed, weariness lacing her tone, the confusion evident in her eyes. "Part of me, the foolish, naive part, I suppose, wants to. Part of me remembers how… kind he could be, just to me, in those few months. How attentive. And then the other, much louder part of me, remembers exactly who he is, what he’s done in the past, the capacity for cruelty he possesses. And then," she stopped abruptly, shaking her head, not wanting to go down that particular, painful rabbit hole, especially not here, not now, "and then there’s Severus…" She let the sentence hang, unfinished.

"Snape looked like he was about to hex Father into the middle of next Tuesday when he was looking at you in the lab today," Draco observed, a hint of his familiar smirk returning. "Just saying. The man practically radiates 'keep your nefarious hands off my witch' vibes."

Hermione felt a faint, unwelcome blush rise to her cheeks. "He's just… he's just protective of his team," she mumbled, though her heart gave a small, traitorous, hopeful flutter at Draco’s words. "He'd be the same for any of us."

"Right," Draco said, clearly unconvinced but letting it drop, for now. He raised his glass of Firewhisky. "Well, to solved cases, however grim. To justice, finally, for Elara Thorne. And," he added with feeling, "to hopefully not having any more bloody mandatory Ministry functions for a very, very long time."

"I'll drink to that," Hermione said, a small, genuine smile finally reaching her eyes as she clinked her water glass against his Firewhisky.

"Draco," she began, her voice dropping again, leaning over so only he could hear her, her gaze flicking nervously towards Cormac, who was currently engaged in an animated, and likely highly

inaccurate, retelling of one of his Quidditch "glory days" to a slightly bemused Pansy. Gods forbid Cormac overheard this. "Speaking of Ministry functions… that fundraiser for St. Mungo’s. Would you… would you happen to perhaps want to go together? As friends, of course."

Draco smirked at her over the rim of his glass, taking another slow sip of his drink before answering. "Sorry, Granger," he said, though his eyes were kind. "Can't. I actually have someone I've been seeing, that I'm planning to take."

Hermione gasped in genuine shock, her own troubles momentarily forgotten. "Draco Malfoy! You've been seeing someone and you didn't tell me!?" she exclaimed, perhaps a little louder than she intended.

He chuckled, a low, pleased sound. "Relax, Granger. We've only been officially 'going out' together for this past month or so. It's nothing super serious yet. But," a softer, almost tender look crossed his face, "I do rather want to bring her as my date to this thing."

"Well, who is this mystery witch then?" Hermione demanded, her curiosity thoroughly piqued, a genuine smile on her face now.

Draco hesitated for a moment, then a proud, almost boyish grin spread across his features. "Astoria Greengrass."

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly in recognition. She remembered Astoria from Hogwarts – Daphne Greengrass’s younger sister, a beautiful, intelligent pureblood witch from a respectable, if not overly prominent family. A family, Hermione also recalled, had quietly but firmly chosen to fight for the side of the light during the final, terrible days of the war.

A genuine, warm smile spread across Hermione’s face. She was truly, unexpectedly, happy for her friend. He deserved some happiness, some uncomplicated affection after everything he had been through. "Astoria Greengrass," she repeated softly. "She’s a lovely girl, Draco. Truly. I think you two will make an absolutely excellent couple." She gave him a playful nudge. "Don't you dare bugger it up!"

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'll certainly try my best not to, Granger."

The laughter and easy conversation swirled around them again, a temporary, much-needed reprieve from the darkness of their work and the complexities of their personal lives. But even amidst the genuine camaraderie and the smoky, comforting fug of the Hog's Head, Hermione couldn't entirely shake the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of her stomach when she thought about the upcoming fundraiser, or the persistent, confusing, undeniable ache in her heart that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there – an ache that had far, far too much to do with two very different, very complicated, and equally infuriating Slytherin men.

Chapter Text

The time had finally arrived for the Ministry's Fundraiser. The grand ballroom within the Ministry of Magic, usually reserved for the most ostentatious of state galas and weighty diplomatic receptions, had been transformed into an even more glittering, almost blindingly opulent spectacle for the St. Mungo's Charity Dinner and Fundraiser. Crystal chandeliers, magically enhanced to drip cascades of pure, diamond-like light, hung suspended from the soaring, enchanted ceiling, which currently depicted a breathtaking, slowly swirling nebula of deepest silver and vibrant sapphire. Round tables draped in rich, midnight-blue velvet were artfully arranged throughout the vast space, each adorned with elaborate, towering centerpieces of shimmering, self-illuminating moonflowers and delicate, enchanted silver bells that chimed softly with the ambient magic, creating a symphony of subtle, melodic sound. The air itself was thick and heady with the scent of expensive perfumes, rare and exotic magical blooms flown in from around the globe, and the low, sophisticated murmur of hundreds of influential witches and wizards mingling, their dress robes a dazzling, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of silks, satins, and intricate, shimmering enchantments.

Hermione Granger, taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm the frantic fluttering in her stomach, stepped into the glittering, overwhelming fray. She had, after much internal debate, several near-panicked owl-orders to various robe-makers, and a rather frantic last-minute emergency shopping trip to Diagon Alley with a determined Ginny, chosen a gown that was intended to be both a statement and a shield. 

It was a severe, yet elegant, column of midnight-black silk, deceptively simple in its clean cut, but utterly breathtaking in its understated sophistication. The gown was sleeveless, with a gracefully draped cowl neckline that hinted at the delicate curve of her collarbones, and it clung subtly to her figure before flaring out into a subtle mermaid silhouette that whispered around her ankles as she moved. Her usually unruly hair had been coaxed into a sophisticated, intricate chignon at the nape of her neck, with a few soft, artfully escaped tendrils allowed to frame her face. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of delicate diamond drop earrings that had been a thoughtful, if modest, birthday gift from her parents. She felt elegant, poised, and, she fervently hoped, utterly unapproachable, at least by one particular, silver-haired co-host of the evening.

The DMF team, as per Minister Shacklebolt's rather pointed "mandatory attendance" edict, had been assigned a prominent, circular table near the front of the expansive ballroom, not far from the main dais. As Hermione approached, navigating the throng of mingling dignitaries, she saw her colleagues already beginning to assemble. Neville, looking remarkably smart and surprisingly dapper in dark, forest-green dress robes embroidered with subtle silver leaves, was seated beside Luna, who was a true vision in a gown that seemed to be woven from actual moonbeams, its fabric shimmering with an ethereal, otherworldly light. Her usual radish earrings had been replaced tonight by delicate, dangling silver stars that caught the light as she moved. Ron, looking slightly uncomfortable in the formal setting but undeniably proud in well-fitting, deep navy robes, was gallantly holding a chair for Pansy Parkinson. Pansy, in turn, was stunning, a true Slytherin ice queen in an emerald-green silk creation that perfectly

complemented her dark, sleek hair and sharp, intelligent features. Cormac McLaggen, preening slightly in undeniably ostentatious gold-trimmed robes that shouted ‘look at me’, was already attempting to charm a harried-looking, and clearly unimpressed, witch from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. And Draco, looking every inch the reformed, impeccably polished aristocratic heir in exquisitely tailored black robes that spoke of quiet, old-money elegance, was smiling warmly at Astoria Greengrass. Astoria, lovely and graceful in a gown of pale, ethereal lilac, her gentle demeanor a perfect, calming counterpoint to Draco’s usual sharpness, returned his smile with a soft affection that made Hermione’s heart ache just a little.

Hermione offered a polite, general smile to the group as she arrived, her gaze quickly, anxiously, scanning the remaining place settings, a familiar knot of dread tightening in her stomach. There were three empty seats remaining at their slightly curved table. One beside Draco, which seemed a safe, friendly option. One beside Neville, equally innocuous. And then… one directly in the middle of their table, a seat that offered a commanding view of the room, and, unfortunately, a prime position for unwanted attention. She mentally crossed her fingers, her toes, anything that could be crossed, hoping against all hope.

Her hope, however, was, as usual, remarkably short-lived. Just as she was about to suggest, perhaps a little too brightly, taking the seat next to Draco, a deep, familiar, silken voice drawled from directly behind her, a voice that still had the power to send an unwelcome shiver down her spine. "Miss Granger. You look… exceptionally radiant this evening."

Hermione’s tummy clenched. She turned, schooling her features into a mask of polite neutrality, to see Lucius Malfoy standing there, looking devastatingly handsome and utterly, infuriatingly composed in black dress robes that shimmered with a subtle, almost invisible silver thread, his platinum hair gleaming under the enchanted chandeliers. His silver eyes, however, held that familiar, unsettling intensity as they raked over her, a possessive heat in their depths that made her skin crawl. Before she could offer a polite, if decidedly cool, acknowledgment, another, even far more jarring voice, cut through the air from her other side.

"Granger."

Severus Snape. Looking imposing in his own severely tailored black dress robes that seemed to absorb the light around him. He stood regarding her, his expression completely unreadable, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian, cold and hard.

And then, the horrifying, inescapable reality of the seating arrangement, no doubt meticulously orchestrated by some well-meaning but utterly clueless Ministry functionary (or perhaps, a far less well-meaning and infinitely more manipulative Lucius Malfoy), became glaringly, painfully apparent. The only remaining seat for her at the DMF table, as indicated by the elegantly calligraphed place card bearing her name, was directly, horrifyingly, positioned squarely between none other than Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy.

Swallowing a silent groan, Hermione pasted on a brittle, overly bright smile and, with as much grace and composure as she could muster under the sudden, intense scrutiny, took her

assigned seat. The tension that immediately descended upon that particular section of the table was so thick, so palpable, it felt as if it could be cut with a freshly sharpened, goblin-forged knife. Everyone at the table, and likely several tables nearby, noticed it. Word, it seemed, had eventually gotten out about her rather spectacular breakup with Lucius Malfoy, even if the lurid details of why were known only to Draco and, of course, to Severus.

Ron actually choked on a sip of his pumpkin juice, sputtering slightly before Pansy discreetly thumped him on the back. Pansy’s own perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in what could only be described as fascinated amusement. Even Luna seemed to momentarily lose her usual ethereal detachment, her wide, silvery eyes flicking between the three of them with a curious, almost pitying expression. Draco shot Hermione a look across the table that was a potent mixture of profound, heartfelt sympathy and barely suppressed, wicked mirth at her predicament.

Dinner was, to put it mildly, an exercise in excruciating, almost unbearable awkwardness for Hermione. To her right, Lucius Malfoy, after her initial cool reception, was the epitome of polished, if somewhat subdued, charm.

"Hermione, my dear," he began, his voice his usual smooth, Lucius-like drawl, but with an underlying softness, a hint of something vulnerable she hadn't expected. "How have you been?" He did seem, she noted with a flicker of surprise, genuinely, deeply concerned about her. It was, after all, the first time they had directly spoken to each other since that disastrous, soul-crushing night at his penthouse.

"I've been as well as one can be… considering," she said, her voice a bit terser than she intended, her gaze fixed on her untouched plate of salmon. She didn't elaborate further; she didn't have to. He knew exactly what she was referring to.

To her left, Severus Snape was a silent, brooding, almost vibrating monolith of disapproval. He ate his food with a grim, focused precision, his posture rigid. His gaze fixed resolutely on his own plate, or on some distant, unseeable point across the glittering ballroom. He offered no conversation, no acknowledgment whatsoever of her presence beside him. Yet, Hermione was acutely, uncomfortably, almost painfully aware of him, of the palpable tension radiating from him in icy waves, of the way his jaw would clench almost imperceptibly whenever Lucius leaned in to murmur something in her ear.

"Hermione," Lucius’s voice was a low, intimate whisper now, his head bent close to hers, "please, may we talk? In private, perhaps, later this evening?"

She turned and looked at him, her heart giving an unwelcome lurch of disbelief. His face was precariously close to hers still, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath sweeping across her skin, see the tiny flecks of silver in his grey eyes. His warm, formerly beloved lips were ever so close to hers, causing her own breath to hitch at their dangerous nearness. Gods, why is he still so bloody charming, even now? she thought angrily, despairingly, to herself.

"I… I don't know, Lucius," she said softly, her voice barely audible, hoping desperately that no one else, particularly the man on her other side, could overhear their whispered conversation.

Severus, however, possessed unnaturally sharp hearing. He could hear every infuriating, silken word of it. He was utterly, profoundly disgusted with Lucius. The man had royally, unforgivably, fucked up, had hurt her deeply, and yet, here he was, still attempting to wheedle his way back into her good graces, with no apparent shame, no real understanding of the damage he had wrought.

Lucius, oblivious to Snape's silent fury, leaned back down to her ear, his lips now brushing against the sensitive skin of her earlobe ever so lightly, sending an unwanted shiver through her. "Please, my dear," he murmured. "Let me at least apologize properly. In person. For everything."

Hermione let out a small, almost inaudible sigh of resignation. She was tired of fighting, tired of the tension. "Fine, Lucius," she said softly, finally caving in, though a part of her screamed in protest. "Later. Perhaps."

She picked at her food, her appetite completely gone. This, she thought with a sinking, leaden heart, was going to be an exceptionally long and uncomfortable evening.

Severus, sensing her sad, resigned demeanor, and his own cold anger still ranging at Lucius’s audacity, did something very unexpected. Something that made Hermione’s breath catch in her throat. He reached over, his hand moving with surprising stealth beneath the heavy velvet tablecloth, and found her hand where it lay clenched in her lap. He gently, firmly, grabbed it, giving it a warm, reassuring squeeze. He then leaned over, his own lips now brushing against her other ear, his breath sending a sudden, dizzying rush of heat coursing through her.

"Hermione," he whispered, his voice a low, intimate rumble meant only for her, "will you honor me with the first dance of the evening?"

He pulled back all too quickly for her liking, his dark eyes searching hers, a single eyebrow raised in that familiar, quizzical look.

Her cheeks, which had been pale with stress, now flushed a becoming, delicate pink. She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not the brooding Head of Department, but simply… Severus. His dark eyes held a warmth, a sincerity, that made her heart ache in a completely different, far more hopeful, way. She smiled at him then, a genuine, beaming, utterly radiant smile, and squeezed his hand back, her fingers lacing through his.

"Yes, Severus," she whispered back, her voice filled with a breathless delight. "Yes, that would be lovely."

"Splendid," he murmured, a ghost of a smile, a rare and precious thing, touching his own lips. "I shall be looking forward to it."

He gave her hand one last, firm squeeze before releasing it, and then, with deliberate intent, he gave Lucius Malfoy, who had been watching their whispered exchange with a tightening jaw, a pointed, almost challenging look. Lucius looked on, his silver eyes narrowed, a flicker of something that looked remarkably like jealousy – a sensation he had rarely, if ever, possessed –

tightening his chest. He couldn't hear what Snape had whispered to her, but he could clearly see the effect it had. He saw the way her cheeks had flushed so prettily, the way her eyes had lit up, how Snape had actually, brazenly, held Hermione's hand right there at the table.

Lucius met Snape’s gaze with narrowed, icy slits. Challenge accepted, old friend, he thought to himself, a cold, competitive fire igniting within him. He gave the other man a curt, almost imperceptible nod, which Severus returned with an equally challenging, almost predatory, nod of his own.

Hermione, caught between them, could practically feel the air crackle with the unspoken, sudden tension, the shift in the dynamics between the two powerful, complicated men on either side of her. Merlin, she thought, her own heart now a confused, fluttering mess of dread and a strange, unexpected excitement. What on earth was that all about? This was, indeed, going to be a very, very interesting night.

_________

The sumptuous dinner service eventually concluded, and after a brief, appreciative speech from the Head Healer of St. Mungo’s, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt officially declared the silent auction open and the dance floor ready for its first occupants. A lively, yet elegant, melody struck up from the enchanted orchestra nestled in a far corner of the grand ballroom. The silent auction, with its glittering array of donated magical artifacts, rare potions, and exclusive experiences, would run throughout the evening, he announced, until an hour before the end of the event. Until then, the floor was open for dancing.

Hermione braced herself. Lucius, seated to her right, was already turning towards her, a possessive, anticipatory gleam in his silver eyes, his lips parting as if to speak. But before he could utter a single syllable, Severus Snape, with a surprising, almost predatory swiftness, stood from his seat to her left. He offered his hand to her, his dark eyes locking with hers, a flicker of something unreadable – determination? Defiance? – within their depths.

"If I recall correctly, Miss Granger," Severus drawled, his voice carrying clearly in a momentary lull, cutting through Lucius’s unspoken intention, "you promised me the first dance of the evening."

A palpable shockwave rippled around their section of the table. Neville looked utterly bewildered, while Luna simply beamed with serene, knowing approval. Draco, however, looked on with an expression of spectacular, almost gleeful amusement, his eyes dancing. And Lucius Malfoy… Lucius was glaring pure, unadulterated daggers at Severus, his aristocratic composure momentarily fracturing into an expression of cold, incredulous fury.

Hermione, caught completely off guard by Snape’s bold, public claim felt a dizzying rush of warmth, of triumph, of sheer, giddy surprise. She looked up at him, at the almost imperceptible challenge in his eyes, and a genuine, beaming smile spread across her face. She placed her hand in his. "Indeed."

Oh bloody hell, Draco thought to himself, trying to suppress a laugh as he watched Snape lead a radiant Hermione towards the dance floor. This evening is going to be something truly spectacular.

Hermione allowed Severus to lead her onto the polished expanse of the dance floor. He pulled her close, one hand settling firmly, possessively, on her waist, the other enveloping hers. The orchestra had, as if on cue, transitioned into a slow, graceful waltz. He led her with a surprising, almost unnerving elegance, his movements fluid and precise, a stark contrast to the stiff formality she might have expected.

"Thank you for that," she said after a few moments, her voice a little breathless as she smiled up at him bashfully, the memory of Lucius’s thwarted expression bringing a fresh wave of satisfaction.

He raised a single, dark eyebrow, his expression one of feigned innocence. "I have no earthly idea what you are referring to, Miss Granger."

She gave him a look that clearly said, I know you're lying, and you know I know. "You know exactly what for," she murmured, a playful accusation in her tone. "For saving me from a rather… immediate and unwanted confrontation with Lucius."

"Hmmmm, perhaps," he conceded, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as he executed a perfect, graceful twirl, pulling her back even closer to him, their bodies brushing with an intimacy that sent a shiver down her spine. "Are you… upset that I intervened?"

"No," she admitted, her voice soft. "I'm grateful, actually. Very. I want to put off that particular conversation for as long as humanly possible." She paused, then added, a little reluctantly, "He can be remarkably charming when he wants to be, you know. Persuasive."

Snape scoffed, a low, dismissive sound, and then did something so uncharacteristic it made her giggle aloud: he actually rolled his eyes. "I am well aware of Lucius Malfoy and his so-called, and frequently deployed, ‘charms’."

She studied him for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I always thought you and Lucius were rather close, Severus. You are Draco’s godfather, are you not?"

His expression sobered slightly. "Yes," he confirmed, his gaze distant for a moment. "Lucius and I have been… acquainted… for almost thirty years. We’ve always… had to be rather close, as you put it, given our intertwined pasts." He paused, guiding her expertly through another turn. "He was, believe it or not, my only real friend during our Hogwarts days. He always had my back then, in his own way. Especially when I needed it most, during the… darker times." His voice dropped, a shadow crossing his features. "And yes, I was able to convince him of the profound errors of his ways near the end of the final battle. He surprisingly, for once, did the right thing and took my advice, protecting Draco and Narcissa."

Hermione was shocked, not just by the revelation of their deep, complicated history, but by the uncharacteristic openness with which Snape was sharing it with her. That he and Lucius Malfoy, two men she viewed as polar opposites in so many ways, shared such a long, complex bond… it was startling.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, Severus," she ventured, emboldened by his candor, "but if you are such long-term friends… why have you seemed so… rather openly hostile towards him lately? Especially," she added, her cheeks warming slightly, "when he’s been around me?"

He looked down at her then, his dark eyes serious, intense, holding hers captive. "How could I not be, Hermione," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "after he hurt you so badly?" He didn't mention the other, more personal reason, the fact that he was incredibly, fiercely upset that Lucius had gotten his manipulative hands on the woman he now realized he had deep, consuming feelings for.

She was floored by his admission, by the raw, protective anger in his voice on her behalf. "Severus," she began, a knot forming in her throat, "he's your friend. Your oldest friend, it sounds like. You can't let something that he did to me , over our… brief involvement… come between you two. I don't want to be the reason for a falling out of that magnitude."

"Hermione, trust me," Snape said, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Lucius and I will be… okay. This is hardly the first time we've had significant grievances with each other over the decades. Our… 'friendship'… has weathered far worse storms than his current transgressions against you."

The waltz began to draw to a close, the final, lingering chords of the music filling the air. Hermione, still processing his words, his unexpected revelations, nibbled anxiously on her bottom lip, a worried frown creasing her brow. He reached up, his thumb gently, possessively, grabbing her chin, tilting her face up to his. "Please refrain from that, Miss Granger," he murmured, his voice a low, husky caress. "It would be such a terrible shame to chew that lovely lip off."

She giggled, a light, airy sound, a blush instantly staining her cheeks at his unexpectedly flirtatious, almost tender, warning. "Thank you for the dance, Severus," she said, her voice a little breathless. "You are, I must admit, quite the good dance partner."

"I aim to please, Hermione," his deep baritone voice rumbled through her, causing an involuntary shiver of delight to trace its way down her spine.

As the music faded completely, he took her hand in his, brought it to his warm lips, and bestowed a soft, lingering kiss upon her knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving hers. It sent a fresh wave of dizzying heat through her, a sensation so potent, so intoxicating, that all thoughts of Lucius Malfoy, of her earlier anxieties, momentarily vanished, eclipsed by the overwhelming presence of the man before her.

With that, Severus was about to escort her from the dance floor when Draco, looking remarkably suave, approached them with a slight, charming bow. "May I have the honor of the next dance, Granger?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "Astoria, regrettably, had to excuse herself to freshen up for a moment."

Hermione smiled warmly at him. "Of course, Draco. I’d be delighted."

Severus gave them both a curt, almost dismissive nod, though Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something – satisfaction? – in his eyes as he looked at Draco. "Excuse me," he said, his voice returning to its usual formal cadence. "I believe I shall view the items available in the silent auction." He then turned and made his way towards the glittering tables laden with enchanted objects.

The next song, a slightly more upbeat but still elegant melody, began, and Draco expertly led Hermione into the dance.

"So, Granger," he began, after a few moments, an amused smirk playing on his lips, "it seems you're rather popular this evening. Turning heads, causing quite the stir."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy," she replied, though a pleased flush warmed her cheeks.

"Oh, come off it, Hermione, you know very well what I'm talking about," he chuckled. "Our esteemed Head of Department, for one. I haven't seen Snape that… cordial … with anyone in living memory. Other than, of course, when he was deeply undercover as a spy and had to be charming to save his own skin."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "He's just being a friend, Draco. A good colleague. I think," she added, her voice dropping slightly, "he was mostly just trying to shield me from your father if I'm being perfectly honest."

"Oh yes, most definitely that too," Draco agreed, then his voice dropped conspiratorially. "But did you see the looks he and Father were shooting each other at dinner? And just now, when Snape claimed your first dance? They are bloody jealous of each other, Granger! Utterly, incandescently jealous!" He let out a delighted laugh.

Hermione gasped, genuinely shocked. She had, of course, noticed the palpable tension between them at dinner, the unspoken challenge when Snape had asked her to dance. But she hadn't, for a moment, thought it was due to jealousy . Especially not… not over her . Her mind began reeling, rapidly putting the pieces together – Lucius's possessive attention, Snape's uncharacteristic interventions, the almost territorial way both men had acted… She gasped again, a little louder this time. "Oh, bugger," she moaned out, a horrified understanding dawning. "I… I didn't realize."

Her mortification, of course, only made Draco laugh even harder. "Oh, Hermione, sometimes you Gryffindors are so wonderfully, hilariously oblivious!"

"Watch out this evening, Granger," he added, his expression becoming a little more serious, though his eyes still danced with amusement. "Slytherin men, especially ones like Snape and my father, are very… well… territorial , putting it very nicely indeed."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, a new sense of unease, mixed with a strange, unwelcome thrill, beginning to stir within her.

"Oh, I'm quite sure," Draco said, a knowing, almost wicked smirk spreading across his face as he expertly twirled her, "you're going to find out very, very soon."

Before she could press him further, before she could demand an explanation for his cryptic, unsettling words, the song came to an end. He gave her another charming bow. "If you'll excuse me, Granger. My lovely Astoria awaits." And with that, he was gone, leaving Hermione standing alone in the middle of the dance floor, her mind a whirlwind of confusion, dawning realization, and a growing, undeniable sense of impending… something.

Chapter Text

Hermione made her way off the dance floor, her heart still thrumming from Draco’s unsettling words. She decided to view the items of the silent auction, partly out of genuine interest and partly to give herself a moment to collect her scattered thoughts. She marveled at the dazzling assortment. She thought about placing a bid on a particularly beautiful set of antique goblin-silver calligraphy quills.

That's when she saw them, across the crowded, glittering room, near a display of shimmering tapestries. The Countess Catherine Kensington was on Severus Snape’s arm, her raven head tilted towards him, her body leaned into his with an easy, confident intimacy. They were speaking in hushed voices, their heads close together, the picture of a couple engrossed in a very private, very intimate conversation.

Hermione’s initial reaction was a visceral, sickening lurch of jealousy. It clawed at her insides, sharp and unexpected. She tried to dampen the feeling down, to remind herself of Severus’s words – they were just friends, catching up . But knowing he had shared a deeply intimate, passionate past with this stunningly beautiful, alluring woman, she couldn't quite extinguish the flames of jealousy that licked at her composure. How she longed to be able to be that carefree, that openly affectionate with Severus, to be able to touch his person so casually, so openly, as Catherine did. To invade his personal space with no hesitation, no fear of professional recrimination or emotional rejection.

As if sensing her gaze, the Countess looked up, her piercing eyes shimmering under the enchanted lights. Their eyes met across the room. Catherine gave Hermione a small, almost imperceptible smile and a delicate, dismissive wave of her fingers.

Hermione didn't know what to think, how to interpret the gesture. Was the woman truly being friendly, offering a polite acknowledgment? Or was she, with that subtle wave, rubbing her intimate stance with Severus in Hermione’s face, a silent, sophisticated taunt?

She couldn't bear it. Instead of returning the gesture, Hermione pretended to be suddenly, intensely busy bidding on the calligraphy quills. She scribbled nonsensical words onto the auction paper, her hand trembling slightly. Doing anything to break eye contact with the other woman, to escape that knowing, assessing gaze. That's when she felt it – a distinct, unwelcome presence directly behind her. A familiar, cloying scent of expensive cologne and something else… something uniquely Lucius.

She turned around, her heart sinking. And there he stood, none other than Lucius Malfoy, his silver eyes fixed on her with a look of carefully cultivated remorse. Merlin, I am so utterly over this night, she thought with a surge of weary exasperation.

He gave her a sad, almost pleading look, his aristocratic features arranged into an expression of profound regret. "Hermione, my dear," he began, his voice a low, silken murmur. "May I please have just a few minutes of your time? To talk. In private?"

She sighed inwardly, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. She knew he would pester her all night about it if she refused now. She might as well get it over with, try to establish some boundaries, make her position clear.

"Fine, Lucius," she ground out, her voice a bit more annoyed, more clipped, than she intended.

His silver eyes lit up instantly, a hopeful smile gracing his lips. He reached out, his fingers gently stroking the bare skin of her arm where her gown left it exposed. "Thank you, my dear," he purred. "Please, let us go somewhere a bit more… private. There is a small anteroom just off the main hall, usually used for smaller gatherings."

She reluctantly allowed him to escort her from the bustling auction room, his hand resting with a proprietary weight at the small of her back.

Severus, who had been ostensibly examining a rather dubious-looking shrunken head, watched their retreating forms, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. He saw Lucius place his hand at the small of Hermione's back, saw it slowly, almost casually, slide down just a fraction further than what most would consider proper or respectful. He glared at the silver-haired man's retreating back, his hand tightening around the crystal glass of Firewhisky he had been nursing, a silent vow to somehow get through this bloody Ministry circus.

Catherine’s knowing, amused voice cut through his dark thoughts. "Something bothering you, Severus, darling?" she purred, her eyes alight with a perceptive gleam as she followed his gaze.

Severus brought himself sharply back to his current situation, away from the infuriating sight of Hermione and Lucius disappearing into a private room. "No, Catherine," he said, his voice carefully neutral, though a muscle twitched in his jaw. "I am quite alright."

"Are you sure?" she pressed, her smile widening. "You seem rather… distracted. By that pretty young witch you were so gallantly worried about at the bar other night. Quite the display of territoriality, I must say. I’m not at all surprised Lucius has swooped her up again. He always was remarkably fond of exceptionally beautiful, intelligent women. Especially ones who present a… challenge."

Severus scoffed, his lip curling with disdain. "More like groveling for her to take him back after his latest… indiscretion."

Catherine’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in genuine, if somewhat theatrical, surprise. She was, of course, well acquainted with Lucius Malfoy from the elite pureblood circles they both still, to some extent, ran in. "Lucius Malfoy… groveling ?" she mused, a delighted sparkle in her eyes. "I don't believe I've ever witnessed such a phenomenon. He usually discards his conquests with considerably less… effort. She must be something truly special to have elicited such a response. And," she added, her gaze sharpening as she gave Severus a knowing, deeply amused smile, "to have two such powerful, formidable wizards quite so obviously dying for her singular affection."

Severus gave Catherine a look of profound annoyance. She was always far too overly perceptive when it came to people and their hidden feelings, a trait he usually appreciated but found intensely irritating when directed at himself.

"I don't have the faintest idea what you are talking about, Catherine," he said dismissively.

"Oh, come now, Severus," she chided, her voice laced with playful mockery. "After all these years, after everything we’ve shared, you won't even admit to an old friend that you have developed… feelings … for the girl? It’s so clearly written all over your usually unreadable face, not to mention in your rather… aggressive body language whenever Malfoy Senior is near her."

His continued, stony lack of response was answer enough for her. She decided then, with a wicked glint in her eye, to torture him just a little bit more, since he was being so stubbornly obtuse.

"Well…" she sighed dramatically, "if you're quite sure you don't have any particular feelings for the girl, then I simply must go and see if I can get a sneak peek of Lucius groveling. Imagine! Never in my lifetime would I have thought I would ever witness Lucius Malfoy actually begging a witch for forgiveness. Now that ," she said, her voice filled with delighted anticipation, "would be a sight worth seeing!"

She began walking with deliberate slowness in the direction Hermione and Lucius had just gone, taking Severus’s arm and gently, irresistibly, pulling him along with her. "Come, darling. Let's see if we can get a peek. For old times' sake."

Severus, however, pulled her to a stop, his expression genuinely troubled. "Catherine," he said, his voice low and serious, "I really don't think we should. I have no desire to invade Hermione's privacy in this manner. It is… unseemly."

Catherine smiled up at him, her eyes dancing. "Oh, Severus, always so concerned with propriety, even when your own heart is clearly involved." She patted his arm. "We won't eavesdrop , darling, not in the traditional sense. The other side of that particular anteroom is made almost entirely of enchanted glass overlooking the Ministry’s private moonlit gardens. It's a magnificent view, truly. And," she added, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "there's a small, rather discreetly placed terrace just down from it, perfectly positioned for… quiet contemplation of the flora. We can look on from there. No one will be the wiser." She squeezed his arm. "Please, Severus? Humor an old friend. I simply must see if Lucius will actually get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness if he truly, genuinely cares about the girl as much as his current pursuit suggests."

Severus hesitated, his internal conflict warring. He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn't. But the thought of Hermione in there with Lucius, vulnerable to his manipulations, his practiced charm… and the overwhelming, undeniable need to know what she would do, whether she would succumb, whether she would forgive the unforgivable bastard… it was a torment.

He reluctantly, with a deep, foreboding sigh, agreed, allowing Catherine to drag him out through a side door and onto the promised shadowy terrace. And just as Catherine had said, there was the anteroom, its far wall indeed made of enchanted glass, offering a clear, if slightly distant, view of the interior. He could see Hermione and Lucius standing in the room, already engaged in what appeared to be a very earnest, very private conversation.

His stomach rolled. He did not want to spy on her, to invade her private moment, her private decision. The other, darker, more possessive part of him, however, was secretly, shamefully, glad Catherine had dragged him out here. He had to know. He had to know if she was going to forgive that silver-tongued, manipulative wizard for his egregious wrongdoings. Because deep down, in a place he rarely acknowledged, he knew he couldn't bear the thought if she did.

________

Inside the small, elegantly appointed anteroom, the muted sounds of the grand ball – the distant strains of the orchestra, the low murmur of hundreds of voices – seemed a world away. The only sounds were their own quiet breaths and the frantic thumping of Hermione’s heart. Lucius Malfoy turned to face her once the door was closed, his usual aristocratic composure replaced by an expression of such profound, weary regret that it momentarily disarmed her. The silver gleam in his eyes was softer now, shadowed with what looked like genuine remorse and a hint of desperation.

He began his apology, and it was clear from the outset that he was employing every single tactic from his considerable arsenal of charm, persuasion, and calculated vulnerability, honed over decades of navigating the treacherous currents of pureblood society. He had, by his own admission in the letter, been going half-mad since that horrid, fateful night at his penthouse, and his current demeanor seemed to underscore that.

"Hermione," he started, his voice a low, silken murmur, pitched with an earnestness that was almost hypnotic. He didn't immediately approach her, respecting the fragile space between them, but his gaze held hers captive. "My dearest Hermione. I know my letter could only begin to express the depth of my… my abject shame and profound regret for what you were forced to witness. There are truly no words, no apologies eloquent enough, to adequately atone for my… my egregious, unforgivable behavior."

He took a hesitant step closer, his hands slightly outstretched as if imploring her understanding, then let them fall to his sides. "That night… it was a grotesque parody of judgment, a descent into a past self I thought, I hoped , I had left behind. Largely, my dear," his voice dropped, becoming more intimate, "due to your remarkable influence, your light."

Hermione listened, her expression carefully neutral, though her heart was a confusing battlefield of residual anger, profound hurt, and a tiny, treacherous flicker of the warmth she had once felt in his presence. He was good. Gods, he was so good. He knew exactly which strings to pull.

"The woman you saw…" Lucius continued, a look of genuine self-loathing crossing his features, "she meant nothing. Less than nothing. A meaningless, pathetic echo of old, destructive habits I find myself increasingly despising. A stupid, vulgar mistake that I regretted the instant it began, and which became an unbearable torment the moment I saw your face in that doorway." He ran a hand through his perfectly styled platinum hair, a gesture of uncharacteristic agitation. "I have barely slept, barely eaten, since that night, Hermione. The thought of the pain I caused you, the disgust I must have instilled… it has been a constant, unrelenting torture."

He took another step, closing the distance slightly, his silver eyes pleading. "You are… different, Hermione. You are not like the others. You never were. You are intelligent, vibrant, astonishingly brave, and you possess a depth of character, a genuine goodness, that I… that I find myself inexplicably, powerfully drawn to. To have jeopardized what was blossoming between us, something I had begun to believe could be… truly significant, for such a tawdry, meaningless indiscretion…" He shook his head, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine despair. "It was the act of a fool. A desperate, stupid fool."

Hermione felt a dangerous softening within her. His words, his apparent contrition, the raw emotion in his voice… it was a potent combination. She remembered the fleeting moments of happiness, the intellectual sparring, the surprising tenderness he had shown her. Was it all a lie? Or was this the truth? This broken, remorseful man before her?

"I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, Hermione," he went on, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his gaze searching hers with a heartbreaking vulnerability she wouldn't have thought him capable of. "Perhaps not even your pity. But I had to try. I had to tell you that what we shared, however brief, was real to me. More real than anything I have felt in a very, very long time." He looked down, as if ashamed to meet her eyes. "I have been… going quite mad since that horrid night, consumed by the thought of what I have so carelessly, so stupidly, thrown away."

_____________

The anteroom felt suddenly small, almost suffocating, under the weight of Lucius Malfoy’s intense, pleading gaze and remorse. Hermione listened to his carefully crafted words, the silken apologies, the declarations of her uniqueness, the confessions of his torment. A part of her, the part that had reveled in his attention, that had found solace in his company, wanted desperately to believe him, to succumb to the potent charm he wielded so expertly.

But another, stronger part, the part that had been forged in the fires of war and tempered by too many betrayals, screamed caution. She decided, with a clarity that surprised even herself, to be honest with Lucius, and more importantly, with herself.

"Lucius," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "I do… appreciate your apology." She paused, a visible battle warring within her – the traitorous, foolish thump of her heart against the cool, hard voice of her gut instinct. This time, her gut won. "But this," she gestured tiredly between them, the opulent room suddenly feeling like a gilded cage, "this is over."

She saw the hope drain from his silver eyes, replaced by a flicker of something akin to panic.

"I was really beginning to fall for you, you arse," she admitted, a wry, humorless smile touching her lips as she gave his impeccably robed arm a light, almost playful slap. It was a gesture so out of sync with the gravity of her words that a frustrated, watery laugh escaped her. A few hot tears immediately leaked out, and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her hand. She didn't want to get emotional in front of him.

"I truly enjoyed our time together, Lucius," she continued, her voice softening slightly with a genuine, if painful, sincerity. "More than you know. I felt like… like I got to see a side of you that very few people in this world ever get to witness, and I do feel incredibly lucky, incredibly privileged, in getting to experience that." A few more tears escaped, and this time, he reached out, his thumb gently, almost reverently, swiping them away from her cheek. The familiar touch sent an unwelcome jolt through her. He felt an incredible, aching hollowness begin to form in his chest at her words, at the finality in her tone.

"You are a wonderful man, Lucius," she conceded, "in your own complicated, infuriating way. But," she took a deep breath, meeting his gaze directly, "you unfortunately are not, I fear, meant to be a one-woman man. And I… I deserve someone who is." She finished off sadly, the words a painful acknowledgment of her own needs, her own worth. "I will never forget our time together, Lucius, but I… I don't think there's any chance of us truly working things out. Not in the way I would need."

Lucius felt his insides clench tightly at her quiet, devastating pronouncement. He felt physically sick to his stomach, a cold dread spreading through him. She turned then, a gesture of finality, to walk away, to leave him standing there with the ashes of what might have been. But he couldn't let her. Not yet. He grabbed her arm, perhaps a little more forcefully than he intended, spinning her back to face him. He then gripped her by both upper arms, his silver eyes wide,

pleading, a desperate, almost frantic energy radiating from him. His usual aristocratic composure had shattered, revealing the raw, frazzled nerves beneath. He was desperate, utterly desperate, to get her to understand, to change her mind, to believe that he was willing to do anything for her.

"Please, Hermione," he said, his voice hoarse, choked with an emotion she had never heard from him before. "Please, don't do this. Don't say that. Please, I… I need you in my life. In some way. Can we not at least… can we not at least be friends?"

The desperation in his voice, the raw plea in his eyes, it was almost her undoing. But the feel of his fingers digging into her arms, the sudden, unwanted restraint, sparked a flicker of her old fear. "Lucius, please… let me go," she whispered, beginning to struggle, to pull away from his too-tight grasp. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to bruise her delicate skin by digging his fingers in harder, so instead, in his panic, he pulled her into a tight, almost crushing embrace, his face buried in her hair. She immediately tried to pull away, her hands pushing against his chest.

"Lucius, please! Stop!" she cried, her voice muffled against his robes, tears now streaming freely down her face. "I don't know if we can be friends, not right now, not after everything. I need… I need some time. Space. Please, just let me go!"

But he only pulled her closer, his arms like steel bands around her, and began once again, almost feverishly, apologizing, begging for her forgiveness, his words a torrent of desperate, disjointed pleas. He needed her in his life, he kept repeating, in some manner, any manner, even if they weren't, couldn't be, romantically involved anymore. He still cared so deeply for her, he insisted, and he didn't want to lose her completely, not now, not ever.

Meanwhile, out on the shadowed terrace, Severus Snape had watched the entire, escalating interaction with a mounting, white-hot rage. He saw Lucius grab Hermione’s arm, saw her struggle, saw Lucius pull her into that unwanted, confining embrace. He saw her face, contorted with distress, her hands pushing against Lucius’s chest. In his mind, Lucius wasn't comforting a distraught woman; he was clearly holding her against her will, refusing to let her leave, his desperation manifesting as a frightening, physical coercion.

A savage, protective fury surged through Severus, so potent, so overwhelming, it obliterated all other thought. Without a single word to a startled Countess Catherine, without a moment’s hesitation, Severus Snape turned and took off, his black robes billowing behind him like storm clouds as he strode with grim, lethal purpose back inside the Ministry. Heading directly towards the anteroom where Lucius Malfoy was with Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

The ornate door to the anteroom didn't so much open as explode inward, Severus Snape bursting into the room with a ferocity that nearly tore the ancient wood from its hinges. His wand was already out, its tip glowing with a menacing light, aimed squarely at Lucius Malfoy. Hermione, still caught in Lucius’s desperate, unwanted embrace, gasped at the sudden, violent intrusion.

"Let her go, Lucius!" Snape snarled, his voice a low, dangerous sound that promised retribution. "She clearly doesn't want to be anywhere near you!" The finality in his tone was absolute.

Lucius jumped back as if scalded, his arms instantly releasing Hermione, who gladly, shakily, pulled away from him, putting several feet of much-needed space between them. He raised his hands in a universal gesture of peace, though his silver eyes flashed with annoyance as he took a few more steps back from Hermione, his gaze fixed on Snape’s unwavering wand.

"Severus! What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing ?" Lucius sneered, his aristocratic composure rapidly returning, though his voice was tight with disgruntled surprise at his old friend’s dramatic, almost unhinged entrance.

His wand still trained unwaveringly on Lucius, Severus responded, his voice dripping with contempt. "I was on the terrace, Lucius, when I happened to observe you holding Miss Granger rather… aggressively . She clearly didn't want to be held so tightly, especially," he added, his lip curling, "by the likes of you ."

Lucius lowered his hands slowly and threw his head back in a short, unbelieving, condescending laugh. "Oh, Snape, Snape, Snape. And here I thought you had actually grown a bit soft over the years. It’s abundantly clear your rather distasteful spying days are not entirely behind you, are they, old friend?"

Hermione looked over at Snape, a flicker of disbelief in her own eyes. She was, yes, incredibly grateful that he had barged in when he did, effectively ending Lucius’s increasingly desperate pleas and unwanted proximity. But was he really spying on them?

Snape, seeing Hermione was no longer in Lucius’s immediate clutches, finally, almost imperceptibly, lowered his wand. "There is nothing soft about me, Lucius, as you well know. And I can hardly help it if I possess uncanny observation skills. It is, after all," he drawled out darkly, his eyes penetrating, "my job."

Lucius gave him a narrowed, appraising look, as if he were shooting daggers from his eyes. "Sure, Snape. 'Observation' skills. Why don't you finally man up and say what you're really doing here, eh? How about some long-overdue honesty, ol' chap?"

Snape shot Lucius a look that could kill, a muscle twitching ominously in his jaw. But he remained stubbornly, infuriatingly silent.

Lucius, emboldened by Snape’s reticence, pointed an accusing, manicured finger directly at him. "You're here because you have bloody feelings for her, admit it!" he snarled out, his own composure beginning to fray. "You couldn't stand the fact that I was actually man enough to act on my feelings for her, and better yet, Snape, she reciprocated those feelings! With. Me !" He punctuated each of the last two words with a sharp, insolent poke to Severus’s chest, a triumphant, goading smirk on his face.

Severus took a slow, menacing step towards Lucius, leaving little to no space between their taut bodies. The air crackled with a dangerous, volatile energy. Hermione looked on anxiously, her heart hammering, a sense of dread coiling in her stomach.

"And yet you still managed to fuck it all up, Lucius," Severus replied, his voice a darkly cold, almost sibilant whisper. "You never deserved her. Not for a moment."

Lucius grit his teeth, his silver eyes blazing with anger. He replied in an equally cold, venomous voice, "You're right, Severus, I did, most regretfully, managed to fuck up. Monumentally. Though I wasn't a bloody coward regarding my feelings for her, pushing her away with pathetic excuses like you did!" he spat, the words like daggers. "I, at least," he added, his voice dropping to a suggestive, taunting purr, "actually tasted the heavenly fruit, before being so cruelly damned to an eternal hell for my sins."

He said the last part with a deliberate, leering innuendo, clearly intended to wound, to provoke. It worked. A deep, primal, possessive anger, an emotion Snape had suppressed for far too long, finally pumped through his veins, obliterating all reason. Without thinking, he acted purely on raw, visceral impulse. Before he even knew what he was doing, he felt his knuckles collide with brutal force against Lucius Malfoy’s aristocratic jaw, knocking the other wizard clean off his feet and sending him sprawling to the floor.

Lucius jumped back up with surprising, almost feral agility, rubbing his already bruising jaw, his eyes blazing with fury. He launched himself at Snape, landing a solid punch of his own to Snape’s ribs.

Hermione jumped back with a cry of surprise and utter shock. These two incredibly powerful, sophisticated, grown men were actually, physically, fighting – brawling like common street thugs – over her , of all people! It was horrifying. It was ridiculous. It was… utterly unbelievable.

The two men were entangled in a flurry of desperate, angry punches. Snape, using his height and reach, landed a series of brutal, sickening kidney shots. Lucius, fueled by rage and wounded pride, retaliated with equally brutal, jarring rib shots.

They eventually broke apart, panting, their fine dress robes askew. Then, almost simultaneously, they began landing blows on each other's faces again. Lucius was now sporting a rapidly darkening bruise and a small, bleeding cut on his cheek. Severus’s left eye was already beginning to swell and turn a dark, ugly shade of blue.

The two men locked up again, grappling, landing sickeningly hard body shots, grunting with effort and pain.

Hermione, her mind reeling, not thinking rationally enough to use her wand to cast a disarming or binding spell to break up the absurd, violent scene before her, did the only thing she could think of in her panic: she ran towards the entangled men, intending to somehow, physically, try and break them apart. No one knew whose it was, Lucius’s or Severus’s, but all of a sudden, in the chaotic flurry of limbs, a stray, errant elbow flew out at the exact same moment she tried to intervene.

It connected squarely, painfully, with her mouth. She instantly tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood. She let out a slight, sharp whimper of pain and took an involuntary step back, her hand flying to her rapidly swelling lip.

The sound, her small cry of pain, halted the two battling men instantly, as if a freezing charm had been cast. They both froze, their fists still raised, their chests heaving, and then, as one, they looked at her, their eyes wide with shock and dawning horror.

A wave of hot, profound shame crashed over both of them as they saw her, pale and trembling, blood trickling from her split lip. They both instantly tried to rush to her side, to aide her, their earlier animosity forgotten in the face of her injury. But she held up her hands, stopping them both in their tracks.

"No!" she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of pain and furious indignation. "That is ENOUGH! Both of you!"

She glared at them, her eyes blazing. "You two need to stop acting like a pair of idiotic, overgrown first years and squash this… this nonsense between the two of you! Right now!" she said, her hand still pressed to her swollen, bleeding lip. "You two have been friends for far too long, for decades, to let something as utterly silly as a girl come between you like this!"

"I've had enough of this evening!" she declared, her voice shaking with emotion. And with that, she turned and stormed out of the small, now trashed, anteroom, with every firm intention of heading directly to the Ministry Apparition point and never looking back. She didn't care if she got in trouble for leaving the mandatory fundraiser early; she was DONE with that night. Or… almost done. She hadn't made it ten feet down the corridor from the small room when, of course, Draco Malfoy had to cross her path. He stopped her immediately, his usually cool demeanor replaced by a look of genuine, alarmed concern on his face as his eyes fixed on her bruised and swollen, bloody lip.

"Hermione! Merlin’s beard, what happened to you?" he exclaimed, his gaze sharp and worried.

She pointed a trembling finger back towards the room she had just stormed from. "Your father… and your godfather… are what happened," she said, her eyes still fiery with residual anger and unshed tears. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Draco, I am leaving."

She took off before he could rattle out any more questions, leaving him standing there in a bit of shock. He then stormed towards the room she had pointed at, his own expression now grim. He threw the door open and indeed found his father and his godfather, both looking considerably worse for wear, covered in bruises, a smear of blood on both their faces, panting heavily from the fight they had just been so spectacularly, and so foolishly, engaged in.

Draco slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing angrily in the small room. "What the FUCK happened in here!?" he roared, his voice filled with a fury neither Lucius nor Severus had ever heard from him before.

Severus and Lucius looked at the young man sheepishly, for once in their powerful, arrogant lives, feeling genuinely, profoundly shameful of their childish, violent actions.

"Which one of you bloody hit her?" Draco demanded, his voice seething with a cold, protective rage as he advanced on them. "Because I swear to Merlin, I am going to beat you far worse than you just beat each other."

Lucius, clutching his bruised ribs, spoke up first, his voice hoarse. "We… we don't know, Draco. It was an accident. She… she tried to intervene, to break up the fight…"

Severus then launched in, his own voice filled with a self-loathing that was almost palpable. "She caught a stray elbow when she tried to pull us apart. It was… unintentional. But unforgivable." Guilt, heavy and suffocating, was already filling him.

Both older men looked utterly dreadful, and from what Draco could tell from their expressions, they both felt just as horrible, just as ashamed, for what had just occurred. He let out a slow, frustrated breath, his own anger softening just a little bit in the face of their clear remorse.

"You two," he said, his voice still tight with disapproval, "need to sort this out. Now. And for heaven's sake, clean yourselves up a bit before going back out there. Minister Shacklebolt will not be happy if the primary benefactor of this event and the esteemed Head of the DMF are seen brawling and then parading their injuries around the fundraiser."

Severus and Lucius exchanged a look then, a look they each knew all too well from decades of shared history, shared mistakes, shared regrets. It was a look of profound remorsefulness.

Lucius, wincing slightly, held out his hand first, his other still clutching his aching side. "I am… sorry, Severus," he said, the words sounding surprisingly truthful, sincere. "For my part in this… unseemly display."

Severus stared at Lucius’s outstretched hand for a long moment, the image of Hermione’s bleeding lip, her shocked, hurt eyes, flashing before his own. He realized, with a fresh wave of self-disgust, how utterly, immaturely they had both acted. How his own uncontrolled actions, his jealousy, his rage, had directly resulted in Hermione getting hurt. He finally, reluctantly, held out his own hand and shook Lucius's briefly. "I am sorry as well, Lucius," he said, his voice a low growl, offering a curt, almost imperceptible nod.

"Splendid," Draco said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, though his anger had mostly abated, replaced by a weary disappointment. "Now, get yourselves cleaned up. I sincerely hope you're both incredibly happy with yourselves for tonight’s performance." He gave them both one last, disgusted look before storming out of the room himself, leaving the two older, battered, and deeply ashamed wizards alone with their bruises and their regrets.

___________

Draco’s disappointed, cutting words hung in the air long after he had stormed from the room, leaving the two older wizards standing amidst the subtle carnage of their own making. With a series of weary, efficient waves of their wands, Severus and Lucius repaired the last of the damage to the anteroom and then cleaned themselves up as well, casting glamour charms over their rapidly bruising faces and split lips, hiding the most obvious evidence of their foolish, testosterone-fueled fight.

Lucius took a deep, inward sigh, the sound heavy with a resignation that seemed to age him by a decade. He approached Severus, his usual aristocratic arrogance completely gone, replaced by a raw, almost painful sincerity.

"Go to her, Severus," Lucius said, his voice quiet, devoid of its usual silken charm. "Go and make sure she's alright. Please."

Severus gave him an odd, suspicious look, his mind immediately trying to decipher the angle, wondering what new game the man was playing at now.

Knowing that look all too well, Lucius met his gaze directly, his own silver eyes clear, for once, of any artifice or manipulation. His tone was serious, imbued with a gravity Severus hadn't heard from him in years. "I messed up, Severus," he said, the words a quiet, defeated admission. "Spectacularly. And… it's you she's always truly cared about. I see that now." He gave a short, bitter, self-deprecating laugh. "I was merely a rebound, a distraction… after you had rejected her. She told me about it, you know. After the hostage situation at Blackwood Manor. She didn't give details, but she told me enough."

Snape was taken completely aback, the confession so unexpected, so contrary to Lucius’s usual prideful nature, that he was momentarily speechless. "Lucius," he finally managed, his voice a rough whisper. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything," Lucius interjected, shaking his head. "Just… take care of her, Severus. Please. Don't be an even bigger fool than I have been. Don't muck it up like I did."

The old, familiar excuse, the one Snape had clung to like a shield for months, rose to his lips automatically. "But I'm her boss, Lucius. It's… inappropriate. I don't want people getting the wrong idea, thinking she has earned her considerable merit through anything other than her own brilliance."

This time, Lucius actually chuckled, a genuine, if weary, sound. "Severus, for Merlin's sake, I'm your bloody boss, in a manner of speaking, and I'm telling you it's okay. The entire department is my investment, and I am giving you my explicit blessing, not that you need it." He clapped a hand on Snape's shoulder. "Besides, anyone with half a brain – anyone who has spent more than five minutes in Granger's presence – knows how extraordinarily brilliant the girl is. No one of any consequence will ever doubt she has earned every single one of her accolades entirely on her own."

Snape’s primary excuse, so neatly dismantled by the one person who could arguably give him professional cover, left him with only his deeper, more personal fears. "What if…" he began, his voice barely audible, the vulnerability feeling foreign, dangerous, "what if she doesn't feel that way about me anymore? Not after… not after everything that has happened this evening? One of us, for Merlin's sake just elbowed her in the damn mouth because we were brawling like a pair of idiodic first-years!" The self-loathing in his voice was thick.

Lucius patted his friend's shoulder, a gesture of rare, genuine camaraderie. "You'll never know until you try, Severus," he said softly. "But from what I have seen, from the way she looks at you even when she's angry with you… I believe the sentiment remains." He squeezed Snape's shoulder once more. "Now go to her. Please. Take care of her." He finished gently, his own face a mask of profound regret and a deep, unfamiliar sadness. With a final, weary nod, Lucius took his leave of the anteroom, presumably to go and find some very strong, very expensive spirits to help numb the sharp, dual pains of his bruised ribs and his broken heart.

Severus stood alone for a moment, Lucius's unexpected, almost selfless words echoing in the quiet room. Go to her. The command, the plea, the permission… it was all he needed. All his carefully constructed excuses, his fears, his professional objections, had been systematically stripped away, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth of his feelings.

He wasted no more time. With a renewed, desperate sense of purpose, a frantic fear that Hermione's earlier words – it's going to be too late – might actually come true if he delayed a moment longer, Severus Snape also took his leave of the anteroom, making a determined beeline for the Ministry's Apparition points, his long black robes sweeping behind him like the wings of fate.

Chapter Text

Even with Lucius Malfoy’s unexpected blessing echoing in his ears, Severus Snape Apparated to the doorstep of Hermione Granger’s flat with a profound sense of trepidation. He knocked, the sound seeming to reverberate in the quiet dark stillness of the street, and waited. It felt like an eternity before the door finally, tentatively, opened.

The sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. Hermione had already changed out of the elegant black gown, now clad in a tiny white silk nightgown that stopped daringly mid-thigh, its delicate fabric clinging to the gentle swell of her hips and the curve of her breasts, outlining her womanly body with an almost painful allure. She wore a sheer white robe with intricate lace detail over the top, though it did very little to hide what lay beneath. Her hair and makeup, however, were still as they had been at the fundraiser. She looked like a fallen, weary angel.

Severus stared, momentarily at a complete loss for words, his carefully rehearsed apologies and explanations dissolving into dust in his mind. She looked back at him, her own expression questioning, wary.

"Hermione," he finally managed, his voice rougher than he intended, "may I come in for a moment? I… I wanted to make sure you are alright. That you made it home safely."

She was still incredibly, justifiably upset with him, with Lucius, with the entire disastrous evening. But there was a raw vulnerability in his eyes she hadn't seen before, a stark contrast to his usual guarded composure. She sighed, a small, tired sound, and stepped back. "Come in, Severus."

She escorted him into her small, book-lined living room. As she turned, she saw him wince, a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain escaping his lips as he subconsciously held his ribs. Her anger, her hurt, momentarily forgotten in a surge of immediate, overriding concern. "Severus! Are you alright?" she exclaimed, rushing to his side. "You're hurt. Here, sit down." She gently guided him to her comfortable sofa.

He sat, still wincing heavily as he settled onto the cushions. "I'll be alright, Hermione. It's nothing."

That’s when she realized it. His face, in the soft light of her living room, looked… fine. Too fine. There were no swollen eyes, no darkening bruises. It didn't take her long to figure out he was using a glamour charm. With a frown of disapproval, she took out her wand. "Don't be ridiculous," she chided softly, and with a swift, decisive flick, she cast the counter-spell. " Finite Incantatem ."

She gasped in shock as the illusion melted away. His face was a mess. It was swollen, already covered in a horrifying patchwork of angry cuts and deep, ugly bruises. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, already turning a dark ominous shade of blue. She was almost positive that underneath his immaculate robes, his torso wouldn't look much better.

She rushed to his side again, this time sitting next to him on the sofa, her earlier anger completely eclipsed by a wave of profound empathy and concern. She gently, tenderly, took his battered face in her hands, her fingers light as she inspected his injuries.

"Oh my goodness, Severus!" she whispered, her voice filled with worry.

"Don't fret about me, Hermione," he said, his voice a low growl of self-reproach. "I came to check on you ." He gently tilted her chin up with his thumb, his dark eyes inspecting the swollen, split skin of her lower lip. "I feel… terrible about what happened." Her lip was definitely split, already bruising darkly all the way down to her chin.

She gently pulled his hand away from her face and offered him a small, pained smile. "I'm fine, Severus. Truly," she said, her tone carrying a note of finality. "You, I believe, are far, far worse off than I am."

"Hermione, please," he said, his voice pleading, a raw, tormented anger creeping into his tone. "Let me look after you. I feel… I feel as though I am no better than my bloody father."

The self-loathing in his voice, the sheer despair, it lit a fierce, protective fire within her. Her eyes flashed with indignation. "Severus Snape! Don't you dare compare yourself to him!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp, commanding. "You are the absolute, polar opposite of that man! At least, from the little you've told me of him."

He turned his face away from her, unable to meet her gaze, clearly not daring to believe her words. The shame, the guilt, it was a palpable weight upon him. He felt sick to his stomach. She gently, firmly, cupped his face again, her hands warm against his bruised skin, directing his gaze back to hers.

"Listen to me, Severus," she said, her voice stern but soft. "First off, you were in a fight with someone your own size, a man who provoked you, not… not going after defenseless women and children. And secondly," she took a breath, "it is my own fault that I got hit. Entirely. I didn't think rationally. I should have used my wand to bind you both instead of foolishly, physically trying to separate two large brawling wizards."

He let out a huff of air, a sound that was half scoff, half sigh, clearly still upset with himself, but he let the argument go for now. "Fine," he conceded grudgingly. "But I still feel… terrible." His gaze flickered back to her bruised chin.

She smiled at him and, with a flick of her own wand, said, " Accio bruise salve." Within moments, a small, familiar container came floating out of her bathroom, down the hall, and directly into her waiting hand.

She unscrewed the cap. "Now, I'm sure this isn't nearly as potent as your own private stock," she said, a hint of her usual teasing tone returning, "but I'm sure it will help a bit."

He gently grabbed the small container from her hands. "Only," he stipulated, his voice a low rumble, "if I can take care of yours first."

She smiled at him, the best she could considering her incredibly sore, swollen lip. He dipped two fingers into the cool, soothing cream and, with a tenderness that made her heart ache, began to gently rub the salve over the bruising on her chin, his touch feather-light as he moved higher, to her split lip. She closed her eyes, reveling in the unexpected, almost unbearable sensation of his calloused, gentle fingers on her skin, on her lips. It felt magical, more potent than any healing potion. All too soon, he was finished. She opened her eyes, a little disappointed at the loss of his touch.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick.

She leaned forward and took the container back from him. "Your turn, sir," she said with a warm, gentle smile. She began carefully, reverently, rubbing the cool salve over nearly his entire battered face, over the swollen skin around his eye, the cut on his cheek, the angry bruise on

his jaw. He, as well, closed his eyes, a low, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him as he reveled in her gentle, healing touch. His skin, she noted, was surprisingly soft beneath her fingers… so warm.

She finished, and he opened his eyes, giving her a small, silent nod of gratitude. He could already feel the cool salve working its magic, the angry heat of the bruises beginning to lighten and soothe. The salve wasn't nearly as potent as his own, of course; it wouldn't heal the injuries completely overnight. But this… this was a good start. A very good start.

"Severus…" she began, her voice hesitant, her eyes dropping to the dark, rumpled fabric of his robes. "May I… may I help with your other bruises? Your ribs? I saw you take some rather nasty shots from Lucius. I'm sure they must hurt a great deal."

He didn't answer immediately. He sat there, contemplating for a long moment, an internal battle clearly raging within him. Finally, with another small, resigned sigh, he agreed to her request with a single, curt nod of his head.

He stood up, wincing yet again in pain, and began shrugging out of his heavy, formal outer robes. Hermione saw his face scrunch in pain as he moved, and she stood to help him. Without asking, she began the slow, methodical, almost reverent task of undoing the long row of buttons of his black frock coat. He didn't say anything, didn't move. He just let her, though the air between them suddenly became thick, charged with an unspoken, palpable tension. Once she finished with the frock coat, she hesitated for only a second before beginning on his high-collared undershirt.

Slowly, one by one, until she had finally, agonizingly, reached the bottom of the long line of buttons. He pulled the tucked-in shirt from the waistband of his trousers himself and finished shrugging it off, leaving him standing, bare-chested, before her.

Her hungry eyes, wide and full of an emotion she couldn't name, took in the strong, surprisingly toned planes of his pale chest and down further… She saw a myriad of scars covering him, a testament to a life of pain and conflict. Some were silvery white, thin and faded with age. Others were still red and angry-looking, even this many years after the final battle. She saw the now-faded, but still undeniably present, Dark Mark still adorning his left forearm. And then she saw the fresh injuries – the deep, black and ugly blue bruises that had already bloomed across his ribs, trailing onto his back, a testament to the brutality of his fight with Lucius.

She reached out a tentative hand, her fingers gently, reverently, tracing the outline of one particularly nasty bruise that stretched from his pectoral muscle down to his side. She could feel him tense beneath her fingers, a sharp intake of breath, but he was allowing her to touch him like this, allowing her this intimacy, this vulnerability.

"Oh, Severus," she said in a choked whisper, her heart aching for him. "These look… incredibly painful." She reached into the pot of salve, her fingers trembling slightly, and began gently, carefully, rubbing the cool cream into his bruised skin. The dark, ugly bruises began to lighten

almost immediately under her touch, no longer black and angry blue, but fading to softer shades of brown, green, and yellow.

He remained completely silent as she worked, his eyes never leaving her face, watching her as she looked at him. Not in disgust, he realized with a jolt. Not even when she saw the Dark Mark… though, a dark, cynical part of him thought, she’s probably had time to get used to seeing that particular brand after her time with Lucius. Not even when she saw his many, many scars, old and new. He saw something else entirely read across her expressive face as she tended to him. Something akin to… compassion. Tenderness. Acceptance.

She finished his torso and moved to his back, her touch gentle, sure. She finally decided to break the heavy, charged silence now that his intense gaze was no longer on her.

"Severus," she asked, her voice soft, full of a curious, gentle concern, "what on earth were you thinking? Back at the fundraiser?" She paused, her fingers still working the salve into his skin. "Don't get me wrong," she added quickly, "I am… incredibly thankful that you came to help me… but why did things escalate so much between you and Lucius?" She drew on every last ounce of her Gryffindor courage to ask her next, far more important, question, the one she had been pondering ever since it happened. "Is… is what Lucius said true, Severus? What he accused you of?"

Severus let out a deep, shuddering sigh. It was now or never. He had already nearly lost her once to Lucius of all bloody people. He couldn't, wouldn't , risk losing her again to his own fear, his own cowardice. He turned around slowly to meet her gaze, his dark eyes now stripped bare of all their usual defenses, revealing a raw, profound vulnerability. He took the pot of cream from her hands and carefully set it on the nearby end table. He then took both of her smaller, salve-slicked hands in his before finally, finally, answering.

"Yes, Hermione," he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, thick with an emotion she had never heard from him before. "It's true. All of it." He squeezed her hands. "I have found myself to… to care for you. Very much so. More than is wise, or perhaps, sane." He took a breath. "That's why Lucius and I got into that… that idiotic fight. He was taunting me, and I… I lost control." He looked down at their joined hands. "I've had feelings for you for a very long time now, Hermione. Longer than you could possibly imagine." He finally looked up, his eyes filled with a deep, aching regret. "I am terribly, profoundly sorry for hurting you… before. I was just… so bloody scared. And I understand, completely, if you no longer feel the same way about me now, not after everything."

Hermione couldn't believe the words he’d just said. Words she had waited for, longed to hear, for what felt like an eternity. He cares for me. He has feelings for me. For a very long time. A feeling of pure, unadulterated, giddy happiness erupted within her, a brilliant, dazzling sun chasing away all the shadows, all the pain, all the doubt. She didn't hear anything else he had said, not his apologies, not his fears. All she heard was the truth she had always, deep down, hoped for.

Without another thought, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, pulling herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him.

The suddenness of the kiss, the sheer, joyful force of it, seemed to catch Severus completely off guard. But it didn't take long, only a fraction of a second, for him to respond. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare, scarred chest, and kissed her back, pouring his heart, his soul, every last ounce of his long-suppressed, long-denied love and longing for her into it. It was so perfect, so right, so much more than she could have ever dreamed. It was as if time itself had stood still, just for them, in the soft, quiet light of her small London flat.

______________

The kiss was everything. It was the answer to a question Hermione hadn't even dared to whisper in the darkest, loneliest corners of her heart for years. It was validation, it was acceptance, it was a shared, profound relief. Severus poured every ounce of his long-suppressed, long-denied love and longing for her into it, his lips moving against hers with a desperate, claiming heat, and she met him with equal fervor, her own years of secret yearning finally, gloriously, tumultuously unleashed.

The kiss deepened almost immediately, shifting from something tender and soulful into something far more desperate, more primal. This was no longer just a meeting of lips; it was a frantic, hungry collision of two souls who had orbited each other for far too long, trapped by circumstance, by duty, by fear, and were now finally crashing together in a supernova of pent-up emotion. His arms tightened around her waist like steel bands, pulling her flush against his bare, scarred chest, the heat of his skin a searing, welcome brand against the soft silk fabric of her nightgown. She could feel the hard, toned planes of his muscles beneath her hands, the frantic, heavy, triumphant beat of his heart against her own.

A low growl rumbled deep in his throat as his mouth slanted over hers, his tongue delving inside to tangle with hers in a dance that was both rough with need and achingly intimate. He kissed her with a desire so potent, so raw, it made her knees weak, her mind spin. Hermione’s hands, which had been clutching his shoulders, slid up into the surprising silk of his black hair, her fingers tightening, pulling him impossibly, desperately closer. The air in her small living room grew thick and heavy, charged with a raw, electric need that crackled between them.

With a surge of strength she didn’t know he possessed, he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, his mouth never leaving hers for a single moment. He backed her against the nearest wall, pinning her there with the hard, unyielding length of his body, her legs instinctively, eagerly, wrapping around his waist, locking behind him. Her simple white nightgown hiked up, bunching around her hips. The thin silk of her knickers provided no meaningful barrier as her hot, damp, aching center pressed against the undeniable, throbbing hardness of his erection straining against his trousers. The friction, the sheer, unadulterated reality of his arousal against her, sent a fresh wave of liquid fire through Hermione’s core. She let out a deep, shuddering moan into his mouth, a sound of pure, uninhibited pleasure and aching, desperate want.

Hearing that sound, feeling her arch against him, her body so pliant and exquisitely, eagerly responsive in his arms, made something in Severus, some last bastion of his carefully constructed, iron-clad control, begin to fray, to unravel, to finally, blessedly, snap. His hands, no longer content with just her waist, began to roam, sliding down over the soft curve of her bottom, squeezing, kneading, pulling her more firmly, more demandingly against his throbbing erection. He trailed a burning path of open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, along the sensitive column of her neck. He found the faint, thin white scar from Atlas's knife and soothed it with his tongue, a gesture so unexpectedly tender, so fiercely, savagely protective amidst their rising passion, that it made Hermione cry out his name, her voice a ragged, desperate plea.

"Severus…"

Her hands, now with a will of their own, fumbled at the waistband of his dark trousers, her own need, her own desire to claim him, overriding all thought, all reason. She wanted him. Here. Now. Desperately, completely.

But it was her cry, the sound of his name on her lips, so full of breathless vulnerability and absolute trust and raw aching need. That finally, blessedly, pierced through the red haze of his own spiraling, consuming desire. It was the sound that brought him crashing back to reality, back to himself.

He froze. His entire body went rigid against hers, though his breathing was still harsh and ragged in the quiet room. He pulled his head back from the sweet skin of her neck, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezed shut as if in immense, physical pain. He was panting, his chest heaving, his body still undeniably hard and demanding against hers, but the frantic, almost savage energy had stilled, reined in by an immense, almost superhuman act of will.

"Hermione," he breathed out, his voice a rough, strained, agonized whisper against her skin. "We… we have to stop."

The words, so horribly, chillingly reminiscent of his previous rejections, sent a bolt of pure, cold fear through her. "No," she whimpered, her hands tightening convulsively in his hair, terrified he was about to push her away again, to shatter this fragile, beautiful thing between them. "Severus, please, don't… not again…"

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice thick with a profound, almost agonizing tenderness that was entirely new. He opened his eyes, and she saw not rejection, not cold duty, in their dark, turbulent depths, but a raw, desperate sincerity that stole her breath away. "Listen to me, Hermione. Please, listen to me." He waited until her fearful eyes met his again. "I want you. Merlin help me, I have never wanted anyone or anything more in my entire, wretched, miserable life than I want you in this very moment." His grip on her tightened, as if to emphasize his words, to make her believe them. "But not like this."

He gently, and with a reluctance that was palpable, loosened his hold, allowing her legs to slide slowly back down to the floor, though he kept his hands firmly on her waist, not letting her go entirely, keeping her close against him, unwilling to break the connection.

"Not like this," he repeated, his voice filled with a self-loathing that made her heart ache for him. "Our first time together… it cannot be a desperate, rushed, fumbling in the dark, born of trauma and my own lack of control. It cannot."

He reached up, his hand gently, almost reverently, cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her tear-dampened skin. "You, Hermione Granger, you deserve more than that," he said, his voice raw with an emotion she had never heard from him before. "You deserve… everything. You deserve romance, and a proper bed, and a partner who is whole and clear-headed enough to give you the pleasure, the reverence, and the care you are so profoundly owed." He let out a shaky, shuddering breath. "I will not… I cannot … have our beginning be this. Something so precious, so long-awaited. It has to be a choice. A deliberate, clear, and beautiful choice. For both of us."

Hermione stared at him, her own lust-fueled haze slowly, gradually clearing, replaced by a wave of such overwhelming, profound love and understanding for this complicated, difficult, surprisingly honorable man that it brought fresh tears to her eyes. He wasn't rejecting her. He wasn't pushing her away. He was… protecting them. Protecting this , this fragile, new, precious, unbelievable thing between them. He was, in his own tormented, convoluted way, cherishing her, cherishing the very idea of them, enough to wait, to ensure it was right, perfect.

A slow, watery, incredibly radiant smile spread across her lips. She reached up, her own hand covering his where it rested on her cheek, and leaned into his touch, her heart so full it felt like it might burst. "Okay, Severus," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, with a love so deep it was almost painful. "Okay. We’ll… we'll do it properly."

He closed his eyes, a shudder of pure, unadulterated relief running through his powerful frame. "Thank you," he murmured, his forehead resting against hers once more, the violent tension finally bleeding out of him, replaced by a deep, quiet, almost profound contentment. They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms in the middle of her small living room, simply holding on, their hearts beating in a new, shared, and infinitely hopeful rhythm. The passionate fire had been banked, for now, but in its place was a warm, steady, and enduring glow, a promise of something far more meaningful to come.

Chapter Text

The fragile, hopeful understanding forged in the dim light of Hermione's living room had left her feeling both profoundly content and surprisingly, impatiently restless. The idea of waiting an entire week for their promised "proper" date felt like an eternity after years of unspoken longing and months of turbulent miscommunication. She had waited long enough. And so, with a surge of newfound Gryffindor boldness, Hermione had been surprisingly insistent that Severus and her go out the very next night. She didn't want to lose this precious, precarious momentum. After so long, she was done waiting. Surprisingly enough, after only a moment of token resistance, he had, with a soft, almost amused look in his dark eyes, agreed.

That is how she found herself that Saturday evening, a woman on a mission, dressed in a deep blue, crushed velvet mini dress and her absolute sexiest pair of black stiletto heels. The velvet clung to her curves, the color rich and decadent, the hemline daringly high. She had magicked her hair into a sophisticated, intricate updo, leaving her neck and shoulders alluringly bare, and was just putting the finishing, smoky touches of makeup on when she heard his sharp, punctual knock at the door. She gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and was genuinely impressed by her own reflection. For once, she thought, she didn't just look pretty or intelligent; she looked hot , the dark blue velvet and more sultry makeup giving her an air of mysterious, confident allure she rarely felt. A slow heat crept over her skin as a wicked thought took hold.

I know he wants to take things slow, she mused, her eyes gleaming at her reflection, but Merlin, I am so tired of waiting. He's all I can think about. A girl could dream, couldn't she? Hopefully this, she thought, looking herself up and down in the mirror one last time, will help things along a bit?

She finished her musings, took a deep, steadying breath, and went to the door to greet him. When she opened it, her own breath caught in her throat. He was still in his usual, comforting black, but this time, it was not his familiar, billowing robes. He stood there in a perfectly tailored Muggle suit, the dark charcoal fabric emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and his surprising height, a crisp white shirt stark against the column of his throat. Her mouth dropped open. He looked… devastatingly handsome.

"Severus," she breathed out, ushering him inside, "you're looking quite… quite dashing this evening."

"You," he replied, his voice a low, husky rumble as his dark eyes drank her in from head to toe, "look absolutely stunning yourself, Hermione." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and without preamble, his hands came to rest on her hips, grabbing her gently, his thumbs beginning to stroke the soft, rich velvet of the dress up and down her sides. He leaned down and kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of longing and promises, causing a familiar, potent heat to course through her veins. She wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into his embrace, her body humming with a pleasure she was no longer trying to deny.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling back with a boyish, almost triumphant grin upon his face, a sight that still made her heart skip a beat. "This dress," he murmured, his gaze dropping to where his hands still rested on her hips, his fingers continuing their intoxicating rhythm against the velvet, "is quite something. I feel as though I could touch it all night."

Hermione summoned every last ounce of her Gryffindor courage, her eyes locking with his, a challenge in their depths. "Well, lucky for you, sir," she said, her voice a breathy invitation, "I don't mind you touching it. In fact," she added, her voice dropping to a purr, "you may touch every inch of it, if you like."

Severus’s ministrations paused, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips just a bit, clutching onto her as if for balance. She saw a distinct, visible change in his eyes, a shift from

warm admiration to something else entirely. Something primal. She didn't know it was possible, but his pupils seemed to dilate, his eyes becoming even darker, more intense. He closed them for a moment, taking a deep, shuddering, steadying breath, his entire body tense with restraint.

He opened his eyes again, and they were still dark, blazing with a desire that sent a thrill of pure exhilaration coursing through Hermione.

He leaned down then, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below her ear. "As… enjoyable… as that sounds, Hermione," he whispered, his voice a rough, strained caress, "I fear we would never make it to our intended destination this evening." He paused, his breath hot against her skin. "I promised you a proper date. And I do not," he emphasized, "break my promises." He then proceeded to place a few feather-light, torturously slow kisses just under her ear, along the column of her neck, causing Hermione to moan ever so lightly, a helpless, needy sound. She could feel her knickers dampen with a fresh, immediate surge of desire. Just as quickly as he had started, he pulled back, a wicked, triumphant smirk now firmly on his face. He held out his arm to her, every inch the dashing gentleman once more. "Shall we?"

Hermione groaned internally, her body thrumming with an unfulfilled need that was both frustrating and exquisitely exciting. How on earth am I going to make it through this entire date without spontaneously combusting if he keeps this up?

She grabbed her black, flared trench coat from the small coat closet by the door, a necessary concession to the cool autumn evening, and shrugged it on over her dress. The coat stopped just above her knee, just below the tantalizing hem of the blue velvet mini dress underneath. She took Severus's arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. "Ready!" she declared, her voice only slightly breathless.

"Hold on tightly," he murmured, his arm circling her waist, pulling her flush against his side. "We're going to Apparate there."

And with that, before she could ask where "there" was, they disappeared from her small London flat in a swirl of dizzying colors and the thrilling, intoxicating promise of the night to come.

_____________

They landed in a dark, obscure alleyway somewhere in the quieter, more elegant streets of Muggle London. Severus checked to make sure she was alright after the disorienting pull of apparition, his hand steady on her arm. Once she nodded, he led her from the alleyway's shadows. When they emerged onto the main street, Hermione gasped, her eyes widening in pure, unadulterated delight when she saw where he had brought her.

Looming before them, magnificent and grand under the evening sky, was the Natural History Museum. She looked up at him, her face alight with a beaming, radiant smile.

"Oh, Severus, this is lovely! It’s perfect!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine happiness. "I've been wanting to visit for quite some time, for years actually, but I've never found the chance to."

Severus smiled back down at her, a genuine, warm expression that made his usually severe features look handsome and almost boyish. "I thought you might enjoy it," he said, his voice a low rumble. "They're having an 'adults only' late-night event this evening. There are drinks and music whilst exploring the exhibits. Considerably less… chaotic than a daytime visit."

She smiled up at him again, a giddy, joyful energy coursing through her. "Well, what are we waiting on then?" she said excitedly, giving his arm a playful tug. He actually chuckled then, a deep, rich, unfamiliar sound that she had never heard from him before. She absolutely loved it.

He wrapped a protective arm around her waist and guided her up the grand steps and into the magnificent entrance hall, checking her trench coat for her before escorting her to a pop-up bar to get drinks for them – a glass of crisp, white wine for her, and a tumbler of Firewhisky for himself. They began their journey of exploring the museum's vast halls. The main lights had been dimmed, with spotlights artfully illuminating the colossal dinosaur skeletons and ancient artifacts, while soft, classical music played throughout the echoing halls, creating a surprisingly intimate and romantic atmosphere.

Hermione was delightfully surprised at the depth and breadth of Severus's knowledge of many of the artifacts on display. He spoke with a quiet passion about the fossilization process, debated the alchemical properties of certain rare minerals in the gem exhibit, and pointed out the historical inaccuracies in a display on medieval apothecaries. She finally had an intellectual equal who not only appreciated but actively enjoyed discussing and debating historical and scientific minutiae. It was more refreshing, more intoxicating, than any glass of wine. This dark, mysterious, complicated man was, she realized with a jolt, everything she could have ever hoped for in a partner.

When they had finally made their way through the main exhibits, their conversation flowing easily, they found themselves in the museum’s famous nature gardens, which had been transformed into an enchanted wonderland for the evening. Another, smaller bar was set up on a terrace, and a live band was playing a slow, soulful melody. Couples were engrossed on a makeshift dance floor set up on the lawn, swaying together under the stars.

Severus grabbed them another drink from the bar. "Would you care to explore the gardens for a bit, Hermione?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

"Yes, that would be lovely," she said, smiling up at him, her eyes sparkling. He held his arm out for her once again, which she took without hesitation. She let him lead her down a dark, winding path lit with gently glowing paper lanterns.

They made it to a beautiful, secluded section of the gardens that contained a quiet pond and a small, trickling waterfall. They were surrounded by beautiful flowers and exotic plants that had

tiny, glittering fairy lights woven throughout the foliage, casting a magical, ethereal glow over the entire area.

Severus, with a flick of his wand, vanished their now-empty glasses. The music from the band could still be heard faintly off in the distance, a soft, romantic melody. "Hermione," he said, his voice dropping, becoming huskier, "may I trouble you for a dance?"

"Certainly" she said, her voice teasing, as she gave him another radiant smile.

He took her hand and pulled her close, his other hand settling firmly, possessively, on her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck as they began to sway gently to the distant music, and he placed his hands on the small of her back, his thumbs once again beginning to stroke the soft, rich velvet of her dress.

She looked up at him cheekily, an impish glint in her hazel eyes.

He raised a dark eyebrow, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "You wish to ask something, Miss Granger?"

She chuckled, a light, happy sound. "I was just wondering, Severus… did you bring me all the way into the depths of these gardens just so you could stroke my dress again?"

"Hmmm, perhaps," he conceded, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "Though, if I do recall correctly," his eyes darkened slightly, "you told me I could touch it… everywhere ?"

The last word, spoken so deliberately, sent a surge of pure, molten arousal coursing through her, a slight, involuntary flush marring her cheeks. She decided, with a surge of her own Gryffindor boldness, to rise to the challenge.

"Yes," she whispered, her gaze locked with his. "I do recall that."

There was a darkness taking over his eyes again, a raw, primal hunger, but it was also tempered with a bit of a playful twinkle.

"So," he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a silken caress, "you won't mind, then, if I touch you… here?"

She could feel his large hands moving slowly, deliberately, from her waist down to the curve of her hips, lower and lower, until he was gently, possessively, rubbing slow, maddening circles over her bum.

She closed her eyes and gasped, a small, choked sound. Everywhere his hands touched felt like a hot, pleasurable fire of euphoria, making her dizzy with a fresh wave of need. His fingers were just skirting around the daringly high hemline of her dress, the tips of them just grazing the sensitive, bare skin of the backs of her thighs.

"Hermione?" he asked, a sinfully sexy smirk evident in his voice, though her eyes were still closed.

"Oh," she breathed out, her mind a hazy, pleasurable fog. "What… what was it you had asked?"

He pulled her even closer, their bodies now flush against each other, his hands still possessively, expertly, rubbing her backside. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "I had asked," he whispered, punctuating his words with a slight, deliberate pinch to the soft flesh of her bum, "if this … was okay?"

Her eyes snapped open, a fierce, wanton fire in their depths that he had never seen before, a fire he had unknowingly ignited.

"Severus," she said, her voice a husky, breathless command, "I'm afraid that it's not okay."

He looked a bit disappointed, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features, and he began to pull away, to respect her wishes. But she stopped him, her hands tightening around his neck.

"It's not okay," she clarified, her voice a raw, needy whisper, "because I want to feel so much more ."

Within an instant, he captured her lips in a deep, passionate, consuming kiss, roughly pulling her hard against him, his earlier restraint shattering. Her entire body was a raging flame. She could feel her thighs slick with desire, her own wetness soaking through her knickers, a testament to the power he held over her.

He pulled back just millimeters, their foreheads resting against each other, both of them breathing heavily, their bodies thrumming with a shared, urgent need.

"Hermione," he asked, his voice a husky, ragged pant, his eyes blazing into hers, "would you… would you like to come back to my place? Now?"

A breathless, almost hysterical laugh bubbled up from her. "Gods, Severus," she gasped, her voice filled with a dizzying relief and a profound, aching want. "I thought you'd never ask. Yes! Yes, a thousand times, yes!"

He smiled then, a genuine, almost predatory smile of pure, unadulterated masculine triumph, and leaned in for another quick, hard, claiming kiss. "Hold on tight, witch," he murmured against her lips. "I'll get us there."

And with a sharp crack that seemed to echo with the sound of their shared, inevitable surrender, they disappeared from the moonlit, enchanted gardens.

_____________

Severus wasted no time. With a sharp, decisive crack that tore through the quiet night, they left the moonlit gardens of the museum behind and reappeared, not in a living room, not in a hallway, but directly in the center of his bedroom. The transition was seamless, disorienting, and utterly thrilling. As soon as their feet hit the solid wood floor, his mouth was on hers again, kissing her with a deep, consuming desire that left no room for thought, only feeling. He picked her up as if she were made of air and sat her on the edge of his large, imposing bed, which was covered in a surprisingly luxurious dark green comforter. His hands immediately found their way up the bare skin of her thighs, inching higher, his palms hot against her skin as they crept towards the hem of her blue velvet dress.

He broke their kiss then, pulling back just enough for her to see the raw, blazing hunger in his dark eyes. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. He was asking for permission, for her consent, with just his intense, questioning gaze.

"Yes," she breathed out, her voice a ragged whisper. "Please… please touch me, Severus."

His lips crashed against hers again at her words, a groan of pure, animalistic need rumbling deep in his chest. His hands, now fully permitted, made their way under the hem of her barely-there mini dress. His thumbs began to gently, expertly, trace the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and he could feel through the thin silk of her knickers that they were already slick with her desire. He let out another deep, utterly masculine groan, a sound so gutturally sexy, so full of raw want for her , that it turned Hermione on more than anything she had ever experienced. She nearly creamed in her panties right then and there from the sheer, potent sound of it.

She began fumbling with the buttons of his suit jacket, of his shirt, needing to feel more of him, needing his skin against hers. She was burning up, consumed with a desire so fierce it was almost painful. Severus, sensing her frantic need, stilled her fumbling hands with his own.

"Let me help you, baby," he said, his voice a low, husky growl against her lips.

Gods, that voice. That pet name. The combination was devastating. It was, without a doubt, the sexiest, most intoxicating encounter she'd ever had in her entire life. He was going to kill her. She was going to die right here, in his arms. She truly felt as if she was going to implode on herself with sheer, unadulterated want.

With a simple, elegant snap of his fingers, their clothes simply… disappeared. Vanished into nothingness. She gasped as the cool air of the room hit her heated, naked skin, causing her already sensitive, pebbled nipples to harden even more, to ache for his touch. She let out a soft, involuntary whimper of need.

Severus stood for a moment, his dark eyes raking over her, taking in every inch of her exposed form with a look of pure, reverent awe, before leaning down to nibble, ever so gently, on the sensitive part of her neck, just below her ear. "You are so exquisite," he murmured, his lips a hot brand against her skin as he trailed searing, open-mouthed kisses up her neck, back up to her ear. "I am going to worship every… single… inch… of you."

His voice, that deep, resonant baritone, whispering such promises directly into her ear, was like a lightning bolt straight to her clit. She closed her eyes desperately, her head falling back, trying with everything she had not to come undone right then and there.

"Severus," she panted out, her voice strained, "your voice… it's driving me absolutely mad."

He smirked against her skin, a dark, knowing expression, clearly aware of the profound effect he was having on her. He leaned over, his lips moving to her other ear. "You don't like it?" he whispered, his hands now beginning their own slow, deliberate exploration of her body, his long, clever fingers eventually making their way to her erect, rosy nipples, giving them a small, teasing squeeze that caused another sharp gasp to escape her.

"No," she managed to get out, her voice trembling, "the opposite, in fact. Your voice… it's… it's going to make me…" She let out another low, keening moan as he dipped his head down, taking one of her aching nipples into his hot, wet mouth, sucking on it firmly before releasing it with an audible, wet pop .

"It's going to make you what, baby?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing taunt before he turned his devastating attention to her other, eagerly waiting nipple.

The combination was too much, the exquisite torture of his mouth on her breast, the deep, rumbling vibration of his voice against her skin, his hands, which were now gently caressing her hips, holding her in place for his ministrations. She was losing all control. "Oh gods, Severus!" she moaned out, her hips beginning to buck against the bed. "It's going to make me cum!"

He grinned at her, a predatory, triumphant, utterly pleased expression on his handsome face, before leaning back down to whisper in her ear, his voice a silken, commanding promise. "Then cum for me, baby. It will be the first of many for you tonight." He gave her nipples a final, simultaneous, gentle squeeze. "I promise."

With that last phrase uttered, that final, delicious torment, she couldn't hold on any longer. A raw cry tore from her throat as she felt herself explode in pure, blinding ecstasy. A gush of hot, slick wetness left a damp, dark spot on his deep green comforter, her inner walls clenching desperately, convulsively, for something to hold on to, something to fill the sudden, aching emptiness. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, holding onto him for dear life as she rode the powerful, all-consuming wave of bliss. And the entire time, he whispered praise in her ear, beautiful, filthy, wonderful praise, telling her how exquisite she was, how responsive, how perfectly she came apart for him.

When she finally, finally crashed from her wave of bliss, her body trembling and boneless, her mind a hazy, sated fog, she looked at him in utter shock, her chest still heaving.

"I've never…" she breathed out, her voice filled with awe. "I have never had an orgasm like that before in my life. You… you haven't even touched me… down there … and you made me cum. Just with your voice, your hands, your mouth…" She said it with a sense of profound, almost reverent astonishment.

He smirked down at her, a look of deep, masculine satisfaction on his face as he gently, tenderly, stroked her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear of pleasure she hadn't even realized had fallen.

"As I said, Hermione," he murmured, his dark eyes blazing with a promise of all the pleasures yet to come, "I'm not nearly done with you yet."

________

He moved her gently to the center of the large bed, the dark green comforter a stark, beautiful contrast to her pale, naked skin. He climbed onto the bed before her, kneeling on his knees between her already open, waiting legs. For the first time, she caught sight of him in all of his raw, masculine glory. He looked like a god chiseled from white stone, all lean, powerful muscle and pale, scarred skin, a living, breathing paradox of strength and vulnerability. Her gaze lingered, then moved further south, and she gasped aloud, her eyes widening.

She had never, in her limited experience, seen such a magnificent cock. It was both impressively long and possessed a formidable girth, standing fully at attention in all its glory, a testament to his overwhelming desire for her. Her inner walls clenched instinctively, aching, needing to feel it, all of it, deep inside of her. She could feel an all-new wave of arousal, a fresh surge of wetness, pooling between her legs.

"Oh gods, Sev," she pleaded, her voice a raw whisper, her eyes still fixed on his massive, beautiful cock. "Please."

He smirked, a dark, knowing look in his eyes. "Please what, baby?" he purred, his voice a low, teasing rumble.

"Please fuck me," she said desperately, all pretense of coyness gone, replaced by a raw, undeniable need. "Now, Severus. Please."

With that, he moved closer, shifting his position over her. He teased her slick, swollen entrance with the engorged head of his cock, running it slowly, torturously, up and down her slit. She watched, mesmerized, as a bead of glistening precum leaked from the tip, and her breath hitched as he deliberately rubbed it against her throbbing, overly sensitive clit. She let out a low, desperate moan; it was the most incredibly erotic thing she had ever seen, ever felt. She arched her back, instinctively trying to create more friction, trying to take him inside her.

He chuckled lightly at her unrestrained eagerness. "Don't worry, baby," he murmured against her lips. "I'm going to take very good care of you." With that, he lined himself up at her entrance and, with a control that was almost maddening, slowly, deliberately, began to enter her. Once he was buried all the way inside her, stretching her, filling her completely, he paused for a moment, letting her adjust to his considerable size. He could feel her hot, wet inner walls gripping him tightly, convulsing around him. It felt like heaven, like coming home.

"You're so fucking wet and tight for me," he groaned out, his voice thick with pleasure, his hips twitching with the need to move.

"Fuck, Sev," she whimpered, her own voice barely recognizable, "you feel so good. So big."

He leaned over her then, grabbing her wrists with surprising gentleness and pinning them to the bed on either side of her head, a silent, dominant claiming. He bent down and captured her still-aching nipple roughly in his mouth, sucking on it hard, sending another sharp jolt of pure pleasure straight through Hermione’s core.

"MMmmmMmm, yes," she moaned, her head thrashing against the pillows. "Don't stop. Please, please don't stop."

Severus released her wrists then, wrapping his strong arms around her shoulders, pulling her flush against him as he began to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful.

Hermione was on cloud nine; she had never felt anything like this before in her life. This raw, all-consuming passion, this feeling of being so utterly possessed, so completely desired. All she could do was moan his name and writhe in pure, unadulterated pleasure beneath him. She clung onto him, her nails digging into the pale skin of his back, leaving long, red scratches down his spine, a testament to the pleasure he was giving her.

He began to drive into her with a frantic, almost savage pace, their bodies slick with sweat, the sound of their skin slapping together echoing in the quiet room. He wanted to shag her into oblivion, to make her come completely, utterly undone beneath him.

"That's it, baby," he growled in her ear, his voice a dark, commanding litany. "Take all of me. You're doing so good for me. So good."

His voice, his powerful dick filling her, his constant praise… it was all feeding some deep, latent part of her, her inner people-pleasing tendencies, her desire to be good for him . It was all so much, too much.

"Oh, Sev!" she cried out, her body tensing, the pleasure coiling tight, unbearably tight, in her belly. "You're going to make me cum again!"

"Let go, baby," he commanded, his voice a dark, husky, demanding growl as he felt her begin to clench around him. "Cum for me." He pushed deeper one last time. "Right........ NOW!"

Somehow, that final, authoritative command was all it took to make her come completely undone. She exploded in pure, blinding ecstasy, the most intense, earth-shattering orgasm she had ever experienced in her entire life. A raw scream of pleasure ripped from her throat as she arched violently up off the bed, clinging to him for dear life, her body convulsing uncontrollably. He could feel her tight, slick inner walls clamping down powerfully on his straining cock, the intense, exquisite pressure finally making him lose his own carefully maintained control. With a deep, guttural roar of his own, he exploded deep within her, filling her with hot, white ropes of

his seed. He kept pumping into her, emptying himself completely, as she rode out the powerful, lingering waves of her orgasm.

When she finally came down, her body boneless and trembling, he pulled out from her slowly, leaning back on his knees, his chest heaving, enjoying the sight of his seed slowly, beautifully trickling from her well-loved depths. Without thinking, something ancient and primal took over. He swiped some of his own seed from her inner thigh on his fingers and then deliberately, possessively, smeared it within her slick, swollen folds, a primal, intimate way of marking her as his . He brushed his fingers lightly against her still-sensitive, throbbing clit, causing her to gasp and twitch with a fresh wave of pleasure.

He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound, and laid down on the bed beside her, pulling her into his side, their sweat-slicked bodies fitting together perfectly. Both were still slightly breathless, utterly sated.

After a few moments of quiet, contented silence, Hermione leaned on her side to look at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

"Severus…" she began, her voice still a little shaky, "that was… I mean… I've never…"

He raised his signature eyebrow at her, a smug, self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

She turned a shade of deep red. "What I'm trying to say," she clarified, a small, breathless laugh escaping her, "is that that was… incredible. Truly. I've never experienced anything that intense before… or," she added, her blush deepening, "that… that big ." The admission caused Severus to grin, a wide, smug, thoroughly pleased expression.

"Are you trying to say, Miss Granger," he purred, his voice laced with amusement, "that I am the best you've ever had?"

She chuckled, her own confidence returning. "Yes, Severus," she confirmed without hesitation. "Hands down, the absolute best." She paused, then added, a thoughtful, almost curious expression on her face, "I think… I think you may have unlocked some unknown desires I didn't even know I had."

This caused another, even higher, brow raise. "Is that so?" he asked, his interest clearly piqued. "Like what, for instance?"

"I don't know," she admitted, a little embarrassed now. "Most everything I've ever done in the past has been pretty… vanilla. Tame. But with you… I don't know. I… I liked the way you talked to me during. Telling me what to do, and when to do it. And," her voice dropped, her cheeks flushing again, "I… I think I really liked that you praised me during."

He leaned over, his expression softening, and cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin gently. "Hermione," he said, his voice a low, sincere promise, "we will explore any and every desire you have, together. Whenever you are ready. Okay?"

"I would like that very much, Severus," she said with a soft smile, a profound feeling of relief and excitement washing over her. He didn't judge her. He wanted to explore with her.

Just as he had promised earlier that night, he brought her pleasure many, many more times before the sun began to rise, exploring her body with a reverence and a skill that left her breathless, sated, and utterly, completely, his. They finally collapsed together into a deep, peaceful slumber, tangled in each other's arms, their bodies and souls finally, blissfully, at peace.

Chapter Text

Monday morning came all too soon, a harsh, unwelcome intrusion after a weekend spent in a dizzying, hazy, and utterly magnificent entanglement. For the first time in a very long time, Hermione Granger dreaded the start of the work week, not out of weariness, but out of a profound reluctance to leave the secret, intimate bubble she and Severus had so passionately created.

She felt better than she had in… well, ever, now that she thought about it. There was a pleasant, deep ache in muscles she hadn't known she possessed, a lingering sensitivity to her skin that made her robes feel both abrasive and strangely erotic, and a secret, irrepressible smile that kept threatening to bloom on her lips at the most inopportune moments. She walked into the DMF lab that morning feeling lighter than she had in years, as if a great, heavy weight she hadn't even been fully aware of carrying had finally been lifted. The world, for the first time since the war, seemed painted in brighter, more vibrant colors. In her current state of blissful, sated contentment, she felt utterly invincible. Nothing, she thought with a surge of pure, unadulterated happiness, could possibly bring her down.

Her lightheartedness, however, was swiftly extinguished the moment she entered the briefing room. A solemn-looking Severus Snape stood at the head of the room, but he was not alone. Flanking him, their expressions equally grim and foreboding, were none other than Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt and Lucius Malfoy. The team, as they filed in, felt the shift immediately. The usual pre-briefing chatter died away, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. They all took their seats, a collective sense of dread settling over them. Something was seriously, terribly wrong.

Severus flicked his wand at the enchanted screen behind him, and it immediately illuminated, not with a single crime scene photo, but with at least half a dozen formal portraits of missing persons – all wizards, and one young witch who couldn't have been more than twenty. The team looked at each other, a bit confused. A missing persons case? While tragic, what could be so dire as to warrant the presence of both the Minister for Magic and Lucius Malfoy?

As if reading their minds, Severus spoke, his voice a low, grave rumble that seemed to absorb all the light from the room. "Over the past month," he began, "the Auror department has noted an unusual uptick in missing persons reports from across magical Britain. Isolated incidents at first, and while odd, especially now that the war has long since ended… they were not deemed overly suspicious. Until this past weekend."

He gestured to the screen. "Apparently, Aurors on patrol have discovered evidence of dark rituals being performed at the graves of several known, deceased Death Eaters. Traces of the missing persons' magical signatures," he paused, letting the full weight of his next words land, "have been found at each of these desecrated graves."

The room was suddenly deathly silent, the air thick with a tension that was almost suffocating. Severus, Lucius, and now Draco, who seemed to grasp the implications faster than the others, all wore identical grim, haunted looks upon their faces.

Luna, her usual dreamy expression replaced by one of profound unease, spoke up, her voice a soft, trembling whisper. "Do we know what kind of rituals are being performed?"

Severus took a deep, steadying breath before answering, his dark eyes sweeping over his team. "We believe… based on the runic arrays, the potion residues, and the nature of the desecrations… that whoever is behind this is performing necromancy rituals."

Hermione let out a sharp, audible gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, her earlier happiness a distant, forgotten memory. "But that's…" she stammered, her mind reeling, her extensive knowledge of dark magic supplying the horrifying details, "that's the darkest kind of magic imaginable. Arguably even darker than Voldemort's use of Horcruxes. Necromancy… it not only rips the caster's own soul apart with every casting, but the victim… the victim is trapped in an unimaginable state of darkness, their soul imprisoned inside their own body while the corrupted soul of the dead possesses them, animates them, against their will. If the possession lasts for too long, the soul of the dead, fueled by the victim's life force, will eventually consume and kill the host. It will come back completely… but as something much, much darker and more evil than when it last walked the earth in its own body."

The faces of everyone in the room paled even more at hearing her clinical, horrifying explanation.

"That is correct" Severus said, his voice grim.

Pansy spoke up then, a distinct, uncharacteristic tremble in her voice. It was the first time Hermione had ever heard the usually so-composed, sharp-tongued girl sound genuinely, truly scared. "Who's… whose graves have the rituals been performed at?"

Everyone held their breaths. They all knew Voldemort's soul couldn't be brought back; it had disintegrated upon its final defeat at Harry’s hands. However, the thought of some of his most sadistic, most powerful followers being brought back from the dead, even more dark and evil than before… it sent a collective, icy chill through the entire team.

Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke up this time, his deep, authoritative voice heavy with the weight of the names he was about to utter. "So far," he said, his gaze sweeping over them, "we have found conclusive evidence of these rituals being performed at the graves of Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Augustus Rookwood, Corban Yaxley, Evan Rosier, and… Antonin Dolohov."

Hermione felt like she was going to be physically sick. The names alone, a roll call of some of the most depraved Death Eaters, were enough to make her stomach churn. But the last name, the very last one Kingsley had listed, flooded her with a torrent of visceral, terrifying memories she had rather kept buried deep, deep down in the darkest, most fortified corners of her mind. No one knew. Not even Harry and Ron, not really. They knew about Bellatrix's torture, of course, they had heard her screams. But they didn't know what had truly happened to her in the moments before Bellatrix had gotten her claws on her, in those terrible minutes when she had been taken up from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor and they had been left, helpless, in the cell below.

She could still feel it, even now. His hot, rank breath on her skin. His meaty, grasping hands trailing all over her, his cruel, knowing claws leaving tiny, stinging cuts in her delicate flesh as he’d held her down, whispering obscenities…

She was abruptly, blessedly, pulled from the suffocating memory by someone calling her name, their voice soft but insistent. It was Neville. He had seen her begin to tremble, seen the far-away, glazed-over look in her eyes, seen the few silent tears slip from her eyes and trace paths down her pale cheeks. He gently shook her arm, trying to quietly get her to snap out of whatever horrific memory she was trapped in. They had all experienced them, after all. No one in this room had made it through the war completely unscathed. Some people, he knew, just had it far, far worse than others.

"Hermione. Hey, Hermione," he whispered to her, his gentle voice a lifeline.

She finally snapped out of it, her breath catching in a shuddering gasp as she was brought crashing back into the grim reality of the briefing room. She quickly, furiously, wiped away the few stray tears that had managed to leak out and gave Neville a shaky, but grateful, wry smile.

"Thank you," she whispered back to him, her voice hoarse.

She looked around the room, noticing that most of her colleagues also had distant, haunted looks in their own eyes at the mention of those infamous names. Then she locked eyes with Severus. He was giving her a look she couldn't quite decipher, a look of intense, piercing scrutiny, laced with something else… was it concern? 

He cleared his throat, the sound bringing his team, and himself, back into sharp focus. "The Aurors are currently out scouring other known Death Eater graveyards to see if they can find any other signs of these rituals. We," he stated, his voice now crisp and commanding, "are going to assist the Auror department by meticulously analyzing these initial ritual scenes for any physical or magical evidence, any clues at all as to who is behind this, and why."

Draco spoke up then, his voice tight. "How long do we have?  Before… you know. Before the victims are fully possessed and it's too late to save them?"

"That depends on a few variables," Snape replied grimly. "How strong the victims' own souls and will powers are… and how strong, how malevolent, the souls of the dead being summoned are. It is, in essence, a battle of wills. However," he added, his tone becoming graver still, "most of the literature on the subject suggests that it takes, on average, approximately three months for a host's soul to be fully, irrevocably consumed by the possessing entity."

Severus looked around at his grim-faced team before continuing. "Lucius," he nodded towards the other man, "will be assisting us directly with this case, as he is, besides myself, the only other person in this room who is deeply, intimately knowledgeable in the dark arts pertaining to this specific, and thankfully obscure, type of magic."

Hermione looked between the two men, a flicker of her earlier amazement returning at how well, how professionally, they seemed to get on now, as if they hadn't tried to beat each other into a bloody pulp just a few days ago. That's Slytherin men for you, I suppose, she thought to herself with a strange, detached sort of wonder. Pragmatic to a fault, when the stakes are high enough.

Severus started speaking again, his voice now sharp with authority, assigning tasks. "We have no time to dally, so we will be pairing off in teams of two to investigate the individual grave sites immediately. Longbottom, Lovegood," he commanded, "you will have the Carrows' graves. Malfoy, bring Miss Parkinson with you into the field." Pansy’s eyes lit up with a mixture of apprehension and a grim sort of excitement at the chance to finally get out of the lab and do some real, hands-on fieldwork. "You two," Snape continued, addressing Draco and Pansy, "will have the graves of Corban Yaxley and Augustus Rookwood. Granger," his gaze finally, fully, settled on her, his expression unreadable, "you will be with me. We will investigate the graves of Evan Rosier, and… Antonin Dolohov."

Hermione felt her stomach lurch violently at the sound of the man's name again, a cold, sickening dread washing over her. But she met Snape's gaze, held it, and with a will of iron she didn't know she possessed, she gave a single, firm nod, not allowing a single flicker of her internal terror to show on her face.

"Cormac," Snape concluded, "you will remain here and be ready to process any and all evidence that may come in. Pansy, you will assist him back in the lab once you and Draco have concluded your on-site investigation. Lucius," he turned to the other man, "you will begin immediately researching all possible necromantic rituals that could have been used. There are only a handful I can think of that are potent enough for this kind of resurrection. The more information you can gather on their components, their casting methods, their potential weaknesses, the better for all of us. Kingsley has graciously given you unrestricted access to the Ministry's darker, more heavily restricted section of their library."

"Gather your initial findings," Snape said, his final command ringing through the tense room. "We will all meet back here in four hours to discuss everything we have discovered. Dismissed."

The team, their faces now set with a grim, shared determination, took their assigned case files and began to gather their necessary equipment, ready to face the darkness that awaited them.

_______________

Of the two grave sites assigned to them, Severus made the executive decision to investigate Antonin Dolohov’s first, wanting to get the more personally volatile location out of the way. It was located in a grim, largely forgotten corner of a bleak wizarding cemetery in the Midlands, a place of crumbling headstones and weeping yew trees that seemed to leech the very color from the overcast sky. The air was cold, damp, and heavy with a palpable sense of old sorrow.

The moment they Apparated to the desolate location, a violent, uncontrollable tremor ran through Hermione. She tried to suppress it, tried to maintain her professional composure, but her body betrayed her, her hands shaking, her breathing shallow and ragged. Snape noticed immediately. He stopped, his hands coming to rest firmly on her upper arms, his touch instantly grounding, familiar now, as he forced her to look at him.

"Hermione," he said, his voice a low, concerned rumble, his dark eyes searching hers, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she lied, her voice a thin, unconvincing whisper that was immediately whipped away by the cold wind. "Just… a bit of a chill."

He could see through her paper-thin lies with an infuriating, and at this moment, profoundly comforting, ease. His grip on her arms gentled, his expression softening from that of a stern commander to something else entirely – something deeply, genuinely, and intimately concerned.

"Hermione," he asked again, his voice softer this time, more sincere, a tone he now reserved only for her. "Are you really okay? I can swap you with one of the other teams. Draco or Pansy can take this site. If this particular grave is… too much for you to bear, there is no shame in it. Your well-being is more important than the assignment."

His unexpected kindness, his sincere offer to shield her from this, it was her undoing. A choked sob escaped her, and without thinking, she launched herself into his arms, wrapping her own around his middle in a tight, desperate hug, burying her face against the familiar, comforting scent of his dark robes. They had implicitly agreed, in the quiet, hopeful hours of Sunday morning, not to show any overt affection at work, to maintain their professional boundaries. But in this moment, Severus couldn't stop himself. He was rigid for only a fraction of a second before his own arms came around her instinctively, holding her securely, one hand moving to gently, rhythmically stroke her trembling hair as he simply held her, letting her draw comfort and strength from his solid, unyielding presence.

She eventually pulled back, her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering fear, wiping at her eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry, Severus," she mumbled, not meeting his gaze. "It's just… Antonin Dolohov and I… we have a bit of history." She said it with a weak, watery attempt at a wry smile, trying to make light of the sheer terror that was currently clawing at her insides.

She turned, facing away from him, looking out at the desecrated grave site, at the disturbed earth and the sinister, scorched runes that marred the ground.

Severus looked at her, at the rigid set of her shoulders, his own expression deeply concerned. He knew, of course, about her run-in with Dolohov at the Department of Mysteries, the curse he had hit her with. But he felt, with a cold, sinking certainty born of his new, intimate knowledge of her, that there was more to it than that. He was also all too aware of the things Antonin Dolohov was truly capable of, the man’s particular brand of cruel, sadistic pleasure.

He gently took her arm, his touch careful but firm, causing her to turn and face him once more. He saw the fresh tears gathered in her wide, haunted hazel eyes, and it made his heart clench with a fierce, protective anger that was intensely personal.

"The Department of Mysteries," he stated, his voice quiet but firm, "it wasn't your only run-in with him, was it?" It wasn’t a question.

She looked down at the damp ground, at the dead leaves scattered around their feet, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, shook her head. It was a long moment before she finally found the strength to speak, her voice a raw, broken whisper.

"When we were captured," she began, her voice trembling, "and taken to Malfoy Manor… I was taken up from the dungeons while Harry and Ron were still locked in the cell below. They… they think I was only tortured by Bellatrix. They heard her, of course. But they don't know… they don't know about the hours leading up to it."

Severus felt a cold, white-hot rage begin to build within him, a murderous fury directed at the monster whose name was etched on the tombstone just yards away. He kept it ruthlessly at bay, burying it deep beneath a wall of Occlumency. He needed to be her anchor right now, not another source of fear.

Hermione continued, her voice gaining a strange, detached quality, as if she were recounting a story that had happened to someone else entirely. "He… Dolohov… he took me to his 'playroom' first," she began, then choked on the words, a violent shudder wracking her small frame.

Severus shuddered as well, a wave of revulsion and fresh, potent fury washing over him. He was all too familiar with the vile dealings of 'that' particular room within Malfoy Manor. It was a sadist's dream, a place of unimaginable horrors. "Hermione," he said, his voice rough with a deep, suppressed emotion, "you don't have to tell me this if it's too difficult. You don’t have to relive it." He paused, his own voice dropping, dreading the answer to the question he had to ask, the question he needed to know. "Did he…"

He didn't have to finish the sentence. She knew exactly what he was asking. She looked up at him then, a strange, watery, almost hysterical smile on her lips. "No," she said, her voice a hollow whisper. "No, he didn't get the chance to rape me. That's the only thing, I suppose," she added, her voice thick with a dark, twisted irony, "that I could ever wholeheartedly thank Bellatrix

Lestrange for. She interrupted him just as he was… getting to that particular aspect of the 'torture'. And boy," she said, with a horrifying, rueful little laugh that tore at his heart, "was she snarling mad that he was playing with her new toy without her permission."

"Just… just the idea," she whispered, her fragile composure finally crumbling, fresh tears streaming down her face, "that someone could have brought him back… it's terrifying, Severus."

Severus pulled her hard against his chest then, his arms wrapping around her in a fierce, protective embrace, his hand cradling the back of her head, holding her as if he could physically absorb her pain, her fear, and shield her from the memory with his own body. "Shhh," he murmured into her hair, his lips brushing her temple, his voice a low, rumbling promise that was both a vow and a threat. "It's okay, Hermione. It's okay. We are going to find whoever did this. And we are going to find him . And when we do," his voice dropped, becoming a dark, lethal whisper, "I will personally get rid of him for good. I swear it."

The deep, steady timber of his voice rumbled through her, a calming, grounding effect pouring over her frayed nerves. She felt so safe in his embrace, so utterly protected. It felt… right. Like this, here in his arms, was where she was always meant to be.

He eventually, reluctantly, pulled back, though he kept his hands on her shoulders, his dark eyes searching hers, still filled with that fierce, protective light. "Come on," he said, his voice gentle but firm now, a renewed determination in his tone. "Let's search for clues, so we can send this bastard straight back to hell where he belongs."

She looked up at him, at the undeniable promise of vengeance on her behalf, and she felt at peace, truly at peace, for the first time since this horrifying case had begun. She drew strength from his resolve, from his anger, from his presence. She nodded, her own expression hardening with a shared, grim purpose. "Let's do it."

Chapter Text

The heavy, soundproofed door of the DMF briefing room hissed shut, encasing the reunited team in a bubble of tense, grim silence. Four hours had passed since they had dispersed to the various desecrated grave sites, and the weight of what they had witnessed clung to each of them like a shroud. The air, usually humming with professional energy, was thick with a shared sense of dread and grim determination. Lucius Malfoy sat at one end of the large table, a stack of ancient, foreboding-looking tomes before him, his expression more serious and focused than Hermione had ever seen it.

Snape stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding, authoritative. He scanned the faces of his team, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second longer on Hermione. Their shared, raw vulnerability at Dolohov’s grave had forged a new, unspoken connection between them, a fragile thread of understanding that was both a comfort and a complication in this professional setting. She met his gaze, offering a small, almost imperceptible nod of reassurance, which he returned with a subtle softening of his own severe expression.

"Report," Snape began, his voice cutting through the silence, sharp and direct. "Longbottom, Lovegood. You had the Carrow twins. What did you find?"

Neville took a deep breath, pushing a stray strand of hair from his eyes. "Both graves were… heavily desecrated, Professor. The earth was scorched in a circular pattern around the tombstones, and there were residual traces of several potent ingredients – powdered moonstone, essence of Murtlap, and, interestingly, crushed Dirigible Plums."

Luna, seated beside him, nodded in agreement. "The plums are often used in rituals meant to guide wandering spirits or… reorient lost souls," she added, her voice soft but clear. "The emotional residue was… chaotic. A great deal of anger and malice from the Carrows' own spirits, of course, but also a frantic, desperate energy from the caster. And something else… a profound sense of loss from the victims. Their magical signatures were faint, almost entirely consumed."

Next, Snape turned his attention to Draco and Pansy. "Yaxley and Rookwood?"

"Very similar findings at both sites, Professor," Pansy reported, her tone crisp and analytical. "The same circular scorch pattern, the same foundational potion residues Neville mentioned. We also found trace amounts of goblin-wrought silver shavings at both locations, likely used as a binding agent in the primary runic array."

"And the arrays themselves were identical," Draco added, sliding a magically duplicated image onto the central table for all to see. It showed a complex, interlocking series of runes, some familiar from standard Dark Arts texts, others far more obscure. "This central rune," he pointed to a particularly nasty-looking symbol, "isn't for resurrection in the traditional sense. It’s a rune of… transference. Of forceful soul-supplanting."

Snape nodded grimly. "My findings at the Rosier and Dolohov sites were consistent with your own. The same ingredients, the same runic array, the same undercurrent of desperation from the caster." He deliberately avoided looking at Hermione as he mentioned Dolohov’s name, a small, protective gesture she deeply appreciated. "There were no physical clues left behind, no fingerprints, no stray hairs or fibers. Our perpetrator is magically proficient and forensically meticulous."

He then turned his formidable gaze to Lucius. "And your research, Lucius? Has the Ministry's restricted collection yielded any answers?"

Lucius Malfoy leaned forward, his silver eyes gleaming with a grim, intellectual light. He pushed one of the ancient, leather-bound tomes forward. "It has, Severus," he confirmed, his voice a low, serious murmur. "Given the specific combination of ingredients you all found – particularly

the Dirigible Plums and the silver binding agent – and the nature of the transference rune Draco identified, I am certain of the ritual being used. It is a particularly vile, thankfully obscure, piece of magic known as 'The Soul-Thief's Requiem'."

Hermione felt a cold chill trace its way down her spine at the name.

"It is, as Miss Granger so astutely explained earlier, a form of necromantic possession," Lucius continued, his gaze flicking briefly towards Hermione with a flicker of what looked like genuine respect. "But it is unique. It does not just resurrect the dead; it specifically seeks to supplant a living magical core with a deceased one, using the host body as a… living phylactery. The ritual requires three key components: a significant personal effect from the deceased to act as an anchor, a powerful emotional conduit from the living victim – usually elicited through terror or pain – and," he paused, his expression darkening, "a willing caster who must sacrifice a portion of their own soul, their own life force, with each successful casting, which would explain the 'desperate' energy Luna sensed."

"So our perpetrator is not only a necromancer, but is also likely killing themselves in the process," Draco mused, a look of disgusted fascination on his face.

"Precisely," Lucius confirmed. "Which suggests a motive that transcends mere power or revenge. This is an act of profound, self-destructive desperation."

"Did your research offer any potential weaknesses, Lucius?" Snape pressed, his voice tight. "Any way to reverse the process or track the caster?"

"Reversal," Lucius said with a grim finality, "is, I'm afraid, considered impossible once the host's soul has been fully consumed. Before that point… it would require a counter-ritual of immense complexity and power, one that could forcibly expel the possessing soul. As for tracking… the 'Soul-Thief's Requiem' is specifically designed to be untraceable. It feeds on ambient magic and leaves no discernible signature of the caster behind, only that of the victim and the resurrected."

A heavy, defeated silence fell over the room. They had a name for the magic, an understanding of its mechanics, but they were no closer to finding the person responsible, or saving the remaining victims whose souls were slowly being devoured.

It was Hermione, her mind racing, connecting the disparate pieces of information, who finally broke the silence. "Wait," she said, her eyes widening as a new, horrifying thought began to form. She looked around the table at the grim faces. "The names listed… Rosier, Dolohov, the Carrows, Rookwood, Yaxley…" She recited them slowly, a dawning realization in her voice. "They weren't just random, brutish followers. They were all members of his inner circle. Some, like Rosier, from the First Wizarding War. The others, some of the most trusted and fanatical of his lieutenants in the second."

Draco’s face, which had been pale with disgust, went a shade whiter as he grasped her meaning. "She's right," he confirmed, his voice low. "Every single one of them… they were the elite. The true believers. The ones we … answered to."

"So the necromancer isn't just bringing back any Death Eater," Neville said, the horrifying implication dawning on him. "They're being… specific. They're reassembling a command structure."

"But for what purpose?" Pansy asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Voldemort is gone. What could a resurrected council of his most devoted followers possibly hope to achieve without him?"

Snape and Lucius exchanged a dark, knowing look across the table, a shared understanding forged in the fires of their dark past passing between them.

It was Lucius who answered, his voice a grim, silken whisper. "Perhaps, Miss Parkinson, their goal is not to achieve something new, but to reclaim what they believe was stolen from them. Or, perhaps," his silver eyes flickered with a new, personal dread, "to exact vengeance upon those they feel betrayed their master’s cause."

The unspoken meaning hung heavy in the air. The team looked between the two former Death Eaters in the room. A new, far more immediate and personal terror began to settle over them. The necromancer wasn't just creating monsters; they were potentially building a vindictive army, resurrecting the very witches and wizards who would hold the deepest, most violent grudges against the two men who had turned against their Lord.

"If they're reassembling the inner circle," Hermione said, her voice tight with a new fear, not for herself this time, but for the man sitting at the head of the table, "who else is on their list? Who else might they try to bring back?" She looked at Snape, then at Lucius, a sudden, chilling realization dawning. "And what happens when they run out of graves to desecrate? What happens when they decide to target the living survivors of that circle?"

The question hung there, a poisoned dart. The necromancer’s plot was no longer just a threat to the wizarding world at large. It was a direct, pointed, and deeply personal threat to Severus Snape and Lucius Malfoy.

__________

It had been almost three weeks since they had started what the DMF team had grimly dubbed the "Soul-Thief" case. Three weeks of dead ends and frustration. While they now understood the horrifying how of the necromancy rituals, the who and the why remained maddeningly elusive. All activity from the perpetrator seemed to have quieted down, a sinister silence that felt less like a resolution and more like the unnerving, oppressive calm before a devastating storm. The lack of leads, the feeling of helplessness, was driving everyone mad, but especially Hermione. She was fraught with a constant, gnawing worry about Severus, about something terrible happening to him because they just couldn't crack this case in time. She’d never had a case she couldn't solve before, and the impotence was maddening.

Severus, however, was doing a remarkably good job of keeping her distracted, at least in their private hours. Their relationship, forged in the fires of shared trauma and confessed

vulnerabilities, had blossomed with a surprising, almost desperate intensity. They had been spending more and more time together outside of work, their shared past and newfound feelings creating a bond that was both profound and deeply comforting. They would usually have dinner together every other night, rotating between her cheerful, cluttered flat and his own surprisingly comfortable, book-lined quarters at Spinner's End. They had also started staying the night with each other, unable to bear parting after their long days at the lab. They simply couldn't seem to get enough of each other, as if trying to make up for years of lost time, of unspoken longing.

This was how they found themselves on a brisk Wednesday evening at Severus's house. The fire was crackling merrily in the hearth of his bedroom, casting flickering, romantic shadows across the room. Hermione, naked and flush with passion, straddled his lap on the bed, her hands braced on his scarred, powerful chest as she rode him into oblivion.

He was beneath her, his own hands gripping her waist firmly, his hips pounding into her from below, matching her rhythm, driving her higher. Each powerful thrust made her cry out his name, a litany of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Ohhhhh, Severusss! That… that feels… so, so good!" she panted, her head thrown back, her hair a wild mane around her.

"Fuck," he growled, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated through her very core. "You like bouncing on my cock, don't you? Taking me like this?"

"Yes," she gasped, her voice a broken plea. "Yes, yessss!" She rode him harder, faster, thrust for thrust, chasing the brilliant, coiling pleasure that was building deep within her, a supernova about to detonate.

"That's it, Hermione," he coaxed her, his own voice thick with pleasure, his dark eyes blazing up at her. "Keep going for me. Come apart."

Just as she was about to climax, the very peak of her pleasure within reach, the bedroom door burst open without so much as a knock, shattering the intimate, passionate bubble they had created. Hermione let out a shriek of pure shock and fright. Severus reacted instantly, his protective instincts overriding everything else. He quickly, powerfully, pulled her down against his chest, his strong body trying to shield her from whatever intrusion had just occurred. At the same time, with a speed that was terrifying to behold, he somehow managed to summon his wand to his hand, pointing it directly towards the now-open doorway, a deadly curse already upon his lips.

"Don't!" a familiar, panicked voice started shouting, hands raised in surrender. "Godfather, it's us! It's Father and I! For Merlin's sake, put the wand down!" That's when Severus, his eyes still blazing with protective fury, finally registered that Lucius and Draco Malfoy were standing in the doorway of his bedroom, their own faces a mask of profound shock at the incredibly intimate scene they had just so spectacularly interrupted.

"OUT!" Severus roared, his voice a thundering of pure, undiluted rage, as he simultaneously pulled the dark green sheets up around Hermione's naked, trembling form, trying to cover her. She still had her head buried in his chest, her face flaming with a mortification so profound she was sure she could simply die from it.

Draco stuttered a bit, his eyes wide, looking anywhere but at the bed. "Eh… right. Sorry. We'll… we'll be out in the sitting room. Please, come speak to us. Errr… once you're both… decent."

Severus let out another low, dangerous growl, which was enough to make both Malfoys scamper away hastily, shutting the bedroom door firmly behind them.

Severus took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rein in his own fury. He gently tilted Hermione’s chin up to meet his gaze. Her face was scarlet red, her eyes wide with a mixture of lingering passion and acute embarrassment. "Hermione," he said, his voice still rough, "I am so very, very sorry about that intrusion. I don't know what has gotten into those imbeciles, but I promise you, I will make it up to you once they are gone." He ground out the last words, a fresh wave of anger and intense sexual frustration washing over him, thinking of his unexpected visitors arriving at the absolute worst moment possible. Why couldn't they have waited just two more bloody minutes? he groaned internally.

Hermione shook her head, still unable to meet his eyes. "It's… it's fine," she mumbled, though it clearly wasn't. "Let's just… let's just go and see what this is all about." She slid off his lap and began frantically searching for her discarded clothes, desperate to cover herself, to restore some semblance of normalcy.

Once they were both decent, though the charged atmosphere still clung to them, they made their way out into the sitting room. Draco, true to his word, couldn't seem to make direct eye contact with Hermione, his gaze fixed firmly on a particularly interesting spot on the carpet. Lucius, however, was giving her an incredibly odd and deeply unnerving stare, an expression she just couldn't quite place. It wasn't lecherous, or amused, or even angry. It was… something else entirely.

Severus seemed to have noticed it as well, and it did little to improve his temper. His protective instincts flared anew. "What is this all about!?" he snapped at the two Malfoys, his voice dangerously low. "What could possibly be so important that you felt the need to not only barge into my house, but into my private bedchamber, unannounced!?"

Lucius, his usual aristocratic composure looking strained, spoke up, his voice grim. "Look at your forearm, Severus."

Severus looked at his friend in confusion before pulling up the sleeve of his black robe. The Dark Mark, that ugly, hateful scar marring his pale skin, the mark that had been faded grey and utterly unmoving since Voldemort's final demise, was now… different. It didn't float or burn on his skin as it had when the Dark Lord was alive, summoning him. But the mark itself, its intricate lines, now seemed to have some terrible life in it again. Instead of a faded, dormant grey, its

lines were now as dark as a moonless night, as if new, malevolent life had been breathed directly back into the old scar.

Severus’s eyes widened a fraction in pure, unadulterated shock and disbelief.

"No," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else in the room. "No, it can't be possible."

Hermione, seeing the mark, seeing the look on his face, rushed to his side, her earlier embarrassment forgotten, her own expression now one of extreme worry as she stared at his arm.

Draco spoke up then, his voice grim, his face pale. "Father and I noticed ours had darkened as well. About twenty minutes ago. We came here immediately."

"We must figure out what this means," Severus said, his voice grave, his mind already racing through horrifying possibilities.

Lucius spoke up, his tone equally serious. "I think the best possible way to figure it out, Severus, is to solve this Soul-Thief case as soon as possible. There's not much else we can do until then, is there?"

"No," Severus conceded, his expression grim. "You're right. There's not much we can do about the mark itself now. Thank you for coming by and letting me know." He instinctively put a protective hand on the small of Hermione's back, pulling her slightly closer to his side. "I swear, though," he added, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl as he glared at the two Malfoys, "if either of you ever barge into my private bedchamber unannounced again, I am going to hex your bollocks clean off. Am I understood?"

Both men stood with a solemn nod of understanding, chastened by the ferocity of his tone. They prepared to take their leave via the Floo.

"Oh, and one more thing," Severus said darkly, his eyes narrowing. "If I hear so much as a single word of what was seen in that room this evening leaked into the office grapevine, or anywhere else for that matter… I will come up with something far, far worse than simply hexing your bollocks off. I will get… creative."

Draco, who wouldn't have dreamed of leaking a word even without his godfather’s terrifying threat, looked momentarily scared. "My lips are sealed, Godfather! On my honor!"

Lucius just gave another grim nod, then cast one last, long, unreadable look at Hermione before stepping into the green flames and disappearing, with Draco following swiftly behind him.

Chapter Text

The tense, sexually charged atmosphere of the previous night had been forcefully supplanted by a grim, focused energy in the DMF lab the next morning. The shocking development of the reactivated Dark Marks had lit a fire under the entire team, renewing their vigor to solve the Soul-Thief case with a desperate urgency. Lucius, true to his word, had already briefed Minister Shacklebolt at the crack of dawn, placing the full weight of the Ministry on high alert.

The team was halfway through meticulously reviewing every shred of evidence, every theory, every half-forgotten detail from the last three weeks, searching for anything they might have missed, when the doors to the main lab hissed open and Aurors Harry Potter and Ron Weasley came rushing into the department, their expressions a mixture of excitement and grim determination.

"We've got something," Harry announced without preamble, his voice tight. "We've discovered another grave with ritualistic markings. And it's fresh. Looks like it was only done within the last hour or so."

Severus’s eyebrows rose, a flicker of something akin to grim excitement in his dark eyes. He knew there was a real, tangible possibility they might finally find something they'd been missing with such a fresh scene. Certain magical traces, particularly the caster's own residual signature, were known to fade significantly over time. An hour-old scene was a potential goldmine.

"Who's grave is it?" Neville asked, already looking towards his field kit.

"Walden Macnair," Harry responded grimly, the name casting a pall over the room. "Macnair was a particularly bloodthirsty individual who enjoyed carrying out executions for the Committee on the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures and, later, torturing others for his own amusement. He worked as an executioner for the Ministry before openly allying himself with Voldemort's forces, even helping to recruit giants to their cause during the Second War."

"Has anyone else been reported missing, though?" Luna asked, her voice soft, her gaze distant as if she were already trying to sense the new victim's fear.

"No, not that we've found as of yet," Ron said, shaking his head. "We're still running magical signature checks against the Ministry's registry. It's possible they just haven't been missing long enough to have been officially reported yet."

"Come on, team!" Severus barked, his voice cutting through any further speculation, snapping them all to attention. "Time is of the essence. Every second we waste here, another soul is being consumed. Let's go."

With a series of sharp, near-simultaneous cracks , the entire DMF team, along with Harry and Ron, Apparated from the lab, their destination the freshly desecrated grave site of the executioner, Walden Macnair.

________________

The Apparition drop left them in another bleak, forgotten cemetery, this one perched on a windswept cliff overlooking a churning, grey sea. The air was sharp with the taste of salt and decay. Walden Macnair’s grave was not hard to find; the desecration was appallingly fresh. The acrid scent of burnt earth and volatile potion ingredients still hung heavy in the air, sharp and raw, unlike the stale, faded scents at the other sites. The circular scorch mark around the violently overturned headstone was still faintly smoking, and the sinister runes carved into the earth looked as though they had been drawn moments ago, their magical energy practically vibrating, a low, sickening hum against their senses.

"This is it," Harry said grimly, his own wand already out, scanning the perimeter. "Just as we found it."

"No time to waste," Snape commanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "Standard sweep protocols, but with extreme prejudice. This scene is less than an hour old. Any residual signature from the caster will be at its peak potency. Do not miss anything."

The team scattered, a whirlwind of focused, professional energy. Ron and Harry began casting wide-perimeter detection spells, searching for any lingering traces of arrival or departure magic. Draco, his magical camera already active, meticulously documented the runic array, noting its perfect, practiced execution. "No mistakes here," he called out. "Whoever our necromancer is, they know this ritual by heart."

Pansy, having insisted on joining the fieldwork for such a fresh scene, worked alongside Neville, carefully collecting samples of the still-bubbling potion residue from the scorched earth. "The alchemical composition is consistent with the other sites," she confirmed, her brow furrowed in concentration, "but the magical potency is… off the charts. It hasn't had time to degrade."

Hermione and Snape, meanwhile, focused on the magical signature of the ritual itself. "It's overwhelmingly dark," Hermione murmured, her own diagnostic spells shimmering over the runes. "But there’s still nothing… nothing that points to a specific caster. It's like the ritual itself is designed to act as a magical black hole, absorbing any trace of its creator."

Snape nodded, his expression grim. "A classic cloaking technique for high-level necromancy. It draws power from the victim, the site, and the deceased, using their combined energies to scrub the caster’s own signature from the equation." It was a dead end, and a frustratingly familiar one.

It was Luna, her silvery eyes closed, her hands hovering just above the disturbed earth, who found the first crack. She swayed slightly, a pained expression on her face. "The caster…" she breathed, her voice distant, "their desperation is still here. It’s so strong. But it’s not just

emotional." She frowned, her head tilting. "There’s… pain. A deep, physical, gnawing pain. Not from the ritual itself, but from within the caster. As if their own body is… failing them. Wasting away."

The team paused, looking at her. A sick, desperate individual, performing self-destructive magic. It added a new, chilling layer to their profile.

Then came the second breakthrough. "Boss!" Neville called out, his voice tight with excitement. He was kneeling near the edge of the runic circle, carefully levitating a tiny, almost overlooked object with the tip of his wand. "Look. In their haste, they must have dropped it."

It was a small, withered sprig of a dark, almost black-leafed plant, clearly a component of the ritualistic potion.

"We have dozens of samples of the potion residue, Longbottom," Snape said, his tone impatient. "What is so significant about this single sprig?"

"Because it hasn't been crushed or powdered," Neville explained, his eyes gleaming with intellectual fervor as he gently guided the sprig into a sterile evidence vial. "I can identify it precisely. This isn’t common Aconite. It's a highly specialized, magically cultivated variant known as Umbra Mortiferum , or Shadow-Wolfsbane. It’s incredibly rare, highly illegal, and notoriously difficult to cultivate. Its properties for rituals involving soul-transference are… exponentially more potent than standard wolfsbane." He took a deep breath, delivering his final, crucial point. "And according to the International Magical Herbology Guild, there are only two licensed cultivators in all of Britain with the skill to grow it. One is under exclusive contract with the Department of Mysteries."

Snape’s eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam entering their dark depths as he instantly grasped the implication. "And the other, Mr. Longbottom?"

Neville’s face hardened. "The other is a rather disreputable, back-alley apothecary in Knockturn Alley. A place called 'Nightshade Roots'. They’re known for dealing with a very… particular clientele. Witches and wizards looking for ingredients that no respectable potioneer would ever touch."

A thick, hopeful silence fell over the group. This was it. This was the first solid, tangible, traceable lead they had. A direct link from the ritual to a specific, physical location.

Snape straightened up, his eyes sweeping over his team, a new, fierce determination on his face. His voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Potter, Weasley, you're with me. Granger, Malfoy, you too. The rest of you, return to the lab immediately. Analyze everything else you’ve found here with all due haste." He turned his gaze towards the dreary, windswept path leading away from the cemetery. "We’re paying a visit to Knockturn Alley."

_____________

Knockturn Alley was, as always, a place of oppressive shadows and whispered secrets, even in the middle of the day. The Apparition drop plunged them into a narrow, twisting lane where the sunlight struggled to penetrate, the air thick with the smell of dark magic, grime, and desperation. Witches and wizards in dark, hooded cloaks scurried along the cobblestones, their faces hidden, their business best left unexamined.

Snape led their formidable group – two seasoned Aurors and two of his sharpest investigators – with a grim, purposeful stride that parted the crowds before him. He seemed utterly at home in the seedy underbelly of the magical world, navigating its labyrinthine twists with an unnerving familiarity.

They found 'Nightshade Roots' tucked between a shop selling shrunken heads and a dingy pub from which unsettling noises emanated. The apothecary was a dark, uninviting place, its windows so grimy they were nearly opaque, a single, withered mandrake root hanging grimly above the door instead of a welcoming bell.

Without hesitation, Snape pushed the door open, the five of them stepping inside in a formidable phalanx of Ministry authority. The interior was cramped and smelled powerfully of damp earth, decay, and a hundred volatile, clashing magical ingredients. Jars filled with viscous, bubbling liquids and pickled things with far too many eyes lined the shelves from floor to ceiling.

A small, weasel-like wizard with thinning grey hair and shifty, darting eyes looked up from behind a cluttered counter, his expression of annoyance at the intrusion quickly morphing into one of pure, unadulterated fear as he took in the stern faces of Snape, Harry, and Ron. This was, presumably, Phineas Mulch, the proprietor.

"Severus Snape," Mulch stammered, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Aurors. To what do I owe the… ah… unexpected pleasure?"

"There is no pleasure involved, Mulch," Snape drawled, his voice like silken ice as he glided further into the shop, his dark eyes scanning the illicit wares on the shelves. "We are here on official business. A matter of extreme urgency and importance."

"I run a legitimate business here, I assure you," Mulch said, wringing his thin hands together, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

Harry stepped forward, his Auror badge gleaming dully in the gloom. "Is that so, Mulch? Because I can see at least three highly restricted substances from here that could get your shop shut down permanently and land you a decade-long holiday in Azkaban." He pointed towards a jar containing what looked suspiciously like powdered basilisk fang.

Mulch paled considerably. "A misunderstanding, I'm sure, Auror Potter…"

"Cut the theatrics, Mulch," Snape snapped, his patience clearly nonexistent. "We are investigating a series of disappearances. A very specific, very rare ingredient was used in a series of dark rituals. An ingredient you are one of only two licensed purveyors of in all of

Britain." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. " Umbra Mortiferum . Shadow-Wolfsbane."

The color drained completely from Phineas Mulch’s face. He knew exactly how much trouble he was in.

"We know you sell it," Hermione interjected, her voice calm but firm, stepping forward slightly. "We need to know who you've sold it to recently. Within the last month."

"My client records are… confidential," Mulch squeaked, his gaze darting nervously between them.

Snape took a slow, menacing step towards the counter, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper that promised things far worse than Azkaban. "And my ability to make your life a living hell, to ensure that every single delivery you receive is inspected, every potion you brew is confiscated for ‘analysis’, and every single customer who darkens your doorstep is questioned at length by Aurors, is not. You will answer our questions, Mulch. Now."

Mulch swallowed hard, thoroughly intimidated. "Alright, alright!" he conceded, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yes, I… I sold a significant quantity of Umbra Mortiferum just last week. And another batch about three weeks before that."

"To whom?" Harry demanded.

"I… I don't know his name!" Mulch insisted frantically. "He… he never gives one. Always pays in old, pre-Gringotts-reform Galleons. Keeps to himself."

"Describe him," Snape commanded.

"Always cloaked," Mulch said, his eyes unfocused as he tried to recall the details. "Heavily. And gloved. Can't see his face or hands. Not tall, not short. Average build. But his voice… it’s strange. A sort of… wet, rasping sound. And he has a terrible, persistent cough, a real chest-rattler. Sounds like his lungs are full of gravel."

Luna’s earlier words about the caster's deep, physical pain echoed in their minds.

"Anything else?" Hermione pressed gently. "Anything at all that stood out?"

Mulch thought for a moment, then his shifty eyes widened slightly. "Yes! His magic! When he paid, when his hand brushed against mine, they felt… dead. Not like normal enchanted objects. Cold. And there was a smell about him… not just the dampness of his robes, but something else. Like… like grave dirt and… and something sweet, but sickeningly so. Like… like flowers, left to rot."

A man in constant physical pain, his magic feeling cold and dead, who smells of grave dirt and rotting flowers. A necromancer slowly killing himself to bring back Voldemort’s most devoted followers.

The team exchanged grim, knowing looks. It wasn't a name, but it was a profile. A vivid, chilling, and utterly distinctive profile of the man they were hunting.

"If he returns, Mulch," Snape said, his voice a final, cold warning, "you will contact the Auror office immediately. Do not engage him. Do not sell him so much as a single newt's eye. You will simply send a Patronus to this office. Am I understood?"

"Yes! Crystal clear, Snape!" Mulch stammered, nodding vigorously.

Without another word, Snape turned and swept out of the dingy apothecary, his team following closely behind, leaving a terrified Phineas Mulch amidst his jars of illicit ingredients. They stepped back out into the oppressive gloom of Knockturn Alley, the chilling description of their quarry echoing in their minds. They finally had a scent. The hunt was truly on.

______________

The tense, silent Apparition back to the DMF lab was a stark contrast to the grim but energized mood that now gripped the small team. They had a profile. After weeks of frustrating dead ends, of staring at patterns without a key, they finally had a description of their necromancer, however spectral and strange.

They reconvened immediately in the briefing room, Snape standing before the enchanted board, his expression one of sharp, predatory focus. With flicks of his wand, he listed the key characteristics they had just learned from the terrified apothecary owner.

SUSPECT PROFILE: The Soul-Thief

• Appearance: Average build, identity concealed by heavy cloaks and gloves.
• Physical Ailment: Chronic, severe cough. Rasping voice. Seems to be in constant physical pain, body likely wasting away (corroborates Miss Lovegood’s findings).
• Magical Signature: Feels 'cold' or 'dead' to the touch. Highly skilled in concealment charms.
• Scent: Grave dirt and sweet, decaying flora.
• Resources: Access to old, pre-Gringotts-reform Galleons. Deep knowledge of obscure necromancy.

"This is our quarry," Snape announced, his voice a low rumble that commanded their full attention. "We will dissect these traits and formulate a list of potential suspects. Every piece of information is relevant. Begin."

The brainstorming started immediately, a rapid-fire exchange of ideas.

"The pre-reform Galleons suggest an old family," Draco started, his mind immediately going to lineage and wealth. "Someone who has been reclusive for a very long time, living off an old family vault rather than engaging with the modern wizarding economy. Or someone who plundered such a vault."

"The 'rotting flower' scent could be significant," Neville chimed in, leaning forward eagerly. "It might not be flowers at all. There's a rare magical fungus, Corpus floribunda , that sometimes grows on unearthed remains used in particularly dark rituals. It emits a scent often described as sickeningly sweet, like decaying gardenias. It's also highly toxic to handle, which would necessitate the use of gloves."

"And the illness," Hermione added, her own mind racing, already cross-referencing magical maladies. "The cough, the wasting away, the 'dead' feeling of his magic… it sounds like a long-term degenerative magical curse, something designed to slowly, painfully drain a wizard of his life and power. It would explain the desperation Luna sensed, the willingness to use a self-destructive ritual like the Soul-Thief's Requiem. Perhaps he believes resurrecting these Death Eaters, or what they represent, can somehow cure him."

"We can cross-reference the Auror archives," Harry said, already pulling out a magically linked notepad. "Look for any known dark wizards who escaped capture after the First War, particularly those rumored to have been cursed in battle."

"Focus on the purists," Snape instructed, his dark eyes narrowed. "The fanatics. The ones for whom the cause was everything. They would be the most likely to attempt something so desperate, to see this as a noble, self-sacrificial act to restore a twisted version of glory."

The pieces began to connect, the profile becoming sharper, more defined. They weren't looking for a common criminal. They were looking for an old, reclusive, and dying pureblood fanatic, someone steeped in the dark arts, likely since before Voldemort's first fall.

"What about Mordecai Vile?" Ron Weasley said suddenly, looking up from Harry's notes. The room went quiet. The name was infamous, a ghost story used to frighten young Auror recruits.

Snape’s head snapped towards Ron, a flicker of something – surprise? recognition? – in his eyes.

"Mordecai Vile?" Harry repeated, his own eyes widening as he made the connection. "He was one of the most feared duelists in the First War, wasn't he? A pureblood supremacist, utterly devoted to Voldemort. Specialized in flesh-rotting and organ-liquefying curses. He disappeared completely in late 1980s after a legendary duel with Alastor Moody near the Welsh border."

"That's the one," Ron confirmed. "Auror legend says Moody didn't kill him, but hit him with some kind of incurable wasting curse of his own invention. Said he wanted Vile to have a nice, long time to think about his crimes while his body rotted away from the inside out."

A chilling silence fell over the room as every member of the team stared at the profile Snape had written on the board.

A wizard in constant physical pain, his body wasting away.

A magical signature that felt 'cold' and 'dead'.

A reclusive fanatic from the First War, from an old family with old money.

A master of the dark arts.

It all fit. Horrifyingly, perfectly.

Snape strode over to a secure cabinet and retrieved a dusty, leather-bound volume – the Ministry's register of most-wanted wizards from the First War. He flipped through the aged pages until he found the entry. There was a faded, black-and-white moving photograph of a man with sharp, cruel features and eyes that burned with a cold, fanatical light: Mordecai Vile.

"We have our suspect," Severus announced, his voice grim, but laced with the hard edge of a hunter who has finally found the trail. "Potter, Weasley, get everything the Auror office has on Mordecai Vile – his last known whereabouts, his family estate, known associates, anything. The rest of us," he looked around at his team, "will begin researching every known counter-curse and containment spell for both the Soul-Thief's Requiem and any creature it may have already spawned."

The mood in the room had shifted. The frustration was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused, and deadly sense of purpose. They had a name. They had a target. And the race to stop him before he could resurrect any more of Voldemort's most dangerous servants had just truly begun.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the atmosphere in the DMF lab was electric with a taut, focused anticipation. Harry Potter, true to his word, had provided the last known whereabouts for their prime suspect: a secluded, unplottable manor in the bleakest part of the Fens known as Vilewood Keep. The team wanted to leave right away, to storm the gates and confront the dying, desperate necromancer they believed to be at the heart of the horrifying case.

But Severus stopped them, his voice a low, cautionary command that cut through their eager preparations. "Hold. We will do no such thing," he stated, his dark eyes sweeping over them. "We have no idea what awaits us there. Vile could have followers, booby traps, or worse, he may have already succeeded in resurrecting one or more of his targets. We could be walking directly into a den of newly reanimated, and exceptionally powerful, Death Eaters. We will not proceed until the site has been deemed secure." Upon Minister Kingsley's direct order, a full squadron of Aurors, led by Harry and Ron, was dispatched to clear Vilewood Keep first and ensure it was safe for the investigators to enter.

And so, they waited. After the frenetic pace of the previous day's breakthroughs, the waiting was a unique form of torture. They paced the lab, double-checked their kits, and reviewed the case files for the tenth time. After waiting nearly an hour, the team was going a bit stir crazy, the adrenaline of the hunt curdling into a frustrated impatience.

Finally, the doors to the lab hissed open, and Harry and Ron trudged in, their faces grim, their usual post-mission energy noticeably absent.

"So," Harry began, attempting a weak, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "good news and bad news."

Ron, rubbing the back of his neck wearily, spoke up next. "Errr, yeah. I don't think you're gonna be particularly happy with what we found."

Severus's already thin patience, worn down by weeks of dead ends and the new, terrifying development of the Dark Marks, finally snapped. "Spit it out already, for Merlin's sake!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to make Cormac jump.

Harry and Ron exchanged a quick, uneasy look.

Ron, with a humorless half-smile, took the lead. "Well… the good news is, we've found Mordecai Vile."

"And…?" Severus drawled out, his voice dangerously low, his dark eyes narrowed, sensing the inevitable letdown.

Harry spoke up then, his voice flat, delivering the final, frustrating blow. "The bad news is, he's been dead. For what looks like… a good long while."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose hard, a wave of profound frustration washing over him. He could feel a massive, throbbing headache beginning to form behind his eyes. Their only viable suspect, their direct link to the necromancy, was already a corpse. They were back to square one.

Harry, seeing his former professor's barely contained fury, continued quickly. "Healer on site estimates he's been dead for at least a year, maybe longer. Looks like his curse finally got the better of him. You're, uh, welcome to the scene now, sir," he added formally. "The estate has been thoroughly cleared of any immediate threats. It's… safe."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," Severus said through gritted teeth, the words sounding more like a curse than a statement of gratitude. He turned to his own team, his expression a thunderous mask of grim determination. "Team! You know the drill!" he bellowed, already sweeping away

down the hall towards the Apparition point, his black robes billowing behind him like the wings of a furious bat. They had a new, even more confusing crime scene to process.

_____________

The Apparition to Vilewood Keep dropped them into a scene of profound decay and neglect. The manor was a crumbling testament to dark ambition, its stone walls stained black with age and damp, its windows boarded up or shattered. The grounds were a tangled, thorny wilderness, and the air itself felt stagnant, heavy with the oppressive silence of a place long abandoned by life.

Inside, the scene was even grimmer. The Aurors had, as promised, secured the Keep, but the evidence of a long, slow decline was everywhere. Dust lay thick as snow on every surface, cobwebs draped from the chandeliers like burial shrouds, and the air was musty with the smell of rot and forgotten magic. They found the body of Mordecai Vile in what appeared to be a master bedroom, a skeletal figure in decaying robes, collapsed in a grand armchair near a cold, ash-filled hearth. The state of advanced decomposition confirmed the Auror's initial assessment: Vile may have been their prime suspect, but he had been dead for well over a year.

And yet, as the team began their usual meticulous sweep of the desolate manor, inconsistencies began to emerge, small details that warred with the narrative of a long-abandoned house.

"Boss," Neville called out from the small, grim kitchen, his brow furrowed. "There’s a half-eaten loaf of bread on the counter here. It’s rock-hard and covered in mold, but it’s not petrified. This hasn’t been here for a full year. More like… a week or two."

"And the hearth in the main study," Draco added, joining them from another room. "The ashes are cold, but there's a distinct lack of dust settled within the fireplace itself. It was used recently. Within the last few days, I'd wager."

Hermione, analyzing a series of potion vials on a dusty workbench in what looked like a personal lab, confirmed the growing suspicion. "These vials are for standard restoratives and pain-relief potions," she noted. "But this one…" she held up a small, crystal flask, "the residue inside is still magically volatile. It hasn't had time to fully decay. This potion was brewed and consumed within the last forty-eight hours."

Someone had most definitely been in the house recently, living amongst the decay, using the deceased Vile’s Keep as a hideout.

It was Pansy Parkinson, her expression one of intense, focused concentration as she swabbed various surfaces for trace residues, who found the final, damning clue. She was working near a small, tarnished silver teacup left on a bedside table in one of the less decrepit guest rooms – a room that showed signs of very recent, if sparse, habitation. Her diagnostic charm, a shimmering web of pale blue light, suddenly flared a vivid, unmistakable emerald green.

"Boss!" she called out, her voice sharp, cutting through the dusty silence. "I have a positive reading here. A complex transformative residue. It’s… unmistakably Polyjuice." She ran a more detailed temporal scan. "And it's fresh. The magical bonds are still degrading. I'd say it was brewed, and likely consumed, within the last twenty-four hours."

The team gathered around her, their eyes wide as they stared at the glowing green residue on her diagnostic swab. The pieces of the puzzle violently rearranged themselves into a new, far more cunning picture.

"Merlin's beard," Ron breathed out, his own investigation with Harry momentarily forgotten. "So our suspect… the man at the apothecary… it wasn't Vile at all."

"No," Snape said, his voice a low, almost impressed growl, a new, grim understanding dawning in his dark eyes. "It was someone impersonating him. Using his fearsome reputation, his known history with the Dark Arts, even mimicking the symptoms of his wasting curse, to acquire the necessary ingredients for the necromancy rituals without revealing their own identity."

"It's brilliant, in a terrifyingly deceptive way," Hermione murmured, her mind reeling. The entire profile they had so carefully constructed – the rasping voice, the cough, the cloaked figure – it was all a performance, a masterful disguise. Their necromancer wasn't a dying fanatic from a bygone era. They were someone new, someone clever, and someone currently at large, hiding behind a dead man's face. The hunt had just been reset, but this time, they knew they were searching for a ghost.

__________

Severus was raging mad on the inside. This entire case, this necromantic filth, had brought out a whirlwind of emotions from his past he had fought for years to keep buried and chained. He was pissed that whoever was behind this insidious plot always seemed to be two steps ahead, leaving them chasing shadows. He had just, for the first time in his miserable, complicated life, settled into a semblance of existence where he was experiencing a genuine, terrifying glimmer of happiness. He finally had a job he felt fulfilled at… for the most part. And now, almost unbelievably, he had the woman of his dreams, a woman he never in a million years thought he deserved, in his life, in his arms, in his bed. He had a terrible, foreboding feeling that this case, this darkness, was going to try and rip all of that away from him.

Without a word, a low snarl escaping his lips, he turned on his heel and stormed from the dingy, dust-filled estate, pushing out into the wild, overgrown gardens, needing space, needing air.

The remaining team members all looked at each other in worry and confusion at their Head's abrupt, angry departure. Hermione made eye contact with Draco, who, with a subtle motion of his head, silently urged her to go after him. She gave him a small, grateful nod, and left the house as well, her heart aching for him.

She had to cast a quiet tracing spell to locate him in the dense overgrowth. What might have once been elegant gardens was now more like a primordial jungle, tangled and wild. She finally

found him pacing relentlessly along the high stone fence at the very perimeter of the property, a caged tiger stalking the edges of its enclosure. He was snarling things under his breath in anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Just as she was nearing, he reached out with a roar of pure frustration and punched the unyielding stone wall with his bare hand.

She gasped and ran the rest of the way to his side, stopping slightly behind him as he leaned his forehead against the cold, rough stone, his back to her, his shoulders heaving as he panted with exertion and rage.

"Severus," she said softly, her voice a gentle caress, so as not to startle him further. "I'm here." She gently, tentatively, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling the rigid tension in the muscle beneath his robes.

After a few long, shuddering moments, he finally turned around to face her, his expression a mask of torment, his dark eyes filled with a pain that went far beyond the case. She took his hand in hers – the one he had just slammed into the wall – and gently kissed his now scraped and bruised knuckles, a simple, tender gesture of comfort.

She cupped his battered face with her other hand, her thumb softly stroking his cheek. "Severus, I know you're frustrated," she said, her voice a low murmur. "We all are. But we are going to solve this case. It's going to be okay. We will figure this out, together."

"What if it's not, Hermione?" he asked, his voice rough, broken. "What if there's some new lunatic out there trying to become the next Dark Lord? What if this is just the beginning of another war?" He looked at her then, his carefully constructed walls crumbling, revealing the raw, terrified man beneath. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible whisper, "if I can survive another one."

It was so rare to see him like this, this incredibly strong, impossibly powerful wizard, so utterly vulnerable, admitting a weakness, a fear. It pulled at her heartstrings, made her love for him swell into an almost painful ache in her chest. She wanted to take all his pain away, to shield him from the world, from his own dark memories.

She pulled him into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around his neck, and kissed him deeply, pouring every ounce of her love, her strength, her conviction, into it.

They were so caught up in the moment, in the desperate, comforting embrace, that neither of them saw the fleeting shadow from the dense wood line just beyond the manor's fence, watching them. Waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Just as Severus began to kiss her back with an equal, desperate fervor, he cried out, a sharp, ragged sound of pure agony. He broke the kiss, his body going rigid, and fell away from her, dropping to his knees on the damp earth. He was clutching his left forearm, his face contorted in a mask of excruciating pain, a low hissing sound escaping his clenched teeth. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in years, not since the Dark Lord's final demise. It felt like he was being

summoned, but somehow more intensely, more invasively, as if his very magic was being violently torn at through the old, faded scar.

Hermione looked on in horrid panic, her blood running cold at seeing the man she loved in so much obvious pain. She immediately dropped to her knees as well, in front of him.

"Severus! What is it!? Are you okay!?" she cried, her hands hovering over him, unsure of what to do.

"The mark…." he hissed between his clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. "It's… it's active! It's burning!"

Hermione’s mind raced. Active? How? Voldemort was gone. But there was no time for questions. She pulled him up by his arms, her own strength surprising her. "Come on," she commanded, her voice firm, taking charge. "We need to get back to the lab. Now. I'll send a Patronus to the others to let them know what's happened."

With that, Hermione clung to him, supporting his weight, and with a supreme act of will, she Apparated them both back to the relative safety of the DMF lab. As soon as they landed, she gently helped a still-pained Severus into a chair. She then drew her wand, her mind already forming the message for her Patronus. " Expecto Patronum! "

A brilliant, silvery light erupted from the tip of her wand, but Hermione was momentarily dumbfounded, her jaw dropping slightly, when her usual, playful silver otter didn't greet her. Instead, coalescing out of the light was a new form, a creature she had never produced before: a beautifully magnificent, powerful leopard, its form sleek and muscular, its gaze intense. She didn't have time to process the profound magical implications of what her Patronus had just become, what it meant . The urgency of the situation was too great. She focused, infusing the beautiful, fierce creature with her voice.

"Team, we've had an incident at the scene. Snape and I have returned to the lab. Finish processing the crime scene with all due haste and meet back here immediately. We will go over everything then."

The silver leopard gave a silent, powerful nod, then bounded away, phasing through the solid walls of the lab, a silent, urgent messenger of a terrifying new development.

_____________

They waited in the tense, sterile quiet of the DMF lab for what felt like an eternity, but was likely closer to an hour. The rest of the team – Draco, Neville, Luna, Pansy, Ron, and Harry – had returned from the estate, their faces grim, their usual post-investigation energy replaced by a deep, shared worry as they looked at their department head, who sat quietly at the briefing table, his left sleeve still pushed up, revealing the now-dark, but thankfully inert, Dark Mark. Hermione, knowing this development was too crucial to withhold, had also summoned Kingsley Shacklebolt and Lucius Malfoy, feeling they both needed to be informed immediately.

As soon as they had returned to the lab from Vilewood Keep, the fiery, wrathful burning in Severus's arm had ceased as abruptly as it had begun. He had since had some much-needed time to calm down, to push past the initial agony and panic, and to process everything before the full team arrived. In doing so, he was now able to discuss the terrifying event with a chilling, professional calm.

When Kingsley and Lucius finally arrived, their own expressions grave after receiving Hermione's urgent Patronus, Snape began without preamble.

"When we were around the perimeter of the Vilewood estate," Severus said darkly, his voice low but carrying clearly through the room, "something… happened. The Dark Mark," he gestured to his own forearm, "became… active."

The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop. It was as if everyone was holding their collective breath in worry and horrified anticipation.

Severus continued, his gaze flicking pointedly towards Draco and then to Lucius. "It felt as if I was being summoned by the Dark Lord himself," he explained, his voice tight, "but with more of a searing hot, burning intensity than I ever could recall, even from him."

Draco and Lucius paled significantly at this description, a shared, unwelcome memory passing between them.

Kingsley, his expression grim, turned to the two blonde men. "Lucius. Draco. Did either of you experience any such activity with your own marks as well?"

Lucius, looking more unsettled than Hermione had seen him in a long time, was the first to speak. "No, Minister. Nothing. I've felt no activity whatsoever besides what you already have known about the mark darkening some weeks ago."

Kingsley then looked at Draco expectantly.

"I haven't either, sir," Draco confirmed, shaking his head. "Same as Father. Nothing but the initial change."

Everyone in the room seemed to be pondering the same terrifying question. Luna, as she so often did, was the only one brave enough to voice it.

"Why," she asked softly, her gaze fixed on Snape, "would only your mark begin to burn, sir? If theirs didn't, it obviously wasn't a general summons… unless," her eyes widened slightly, "unless only you were being specifically targeted, trying to be reached."

Lucius looked at his friend of many years with a new, dawning worry. "She's right, Severus," he said, his voice low. "For some reason, you were targeted."

Draco, who had been listening intently, suddenly had an epiphany. "Wait a minute," he interjected, his eyes alight with a sudden, horrifying understanding. "What if… what if whoever is behind this, well, they obviously aren't in control of the primary blood magic connected to the mark, since the Dark Lord himself is the one who performed that particular ritual on all of his followers. But," his gaze sharpened, "they obviously do have the Dark Mark themselves, since they have somehow figured out how to manipulate it."

He took a breath, a dark memory surfacing. "I remember… Aunt Bella," Hermione cringed involuntarily at hearing that particular name again, a shiver tracing its way down her spine, "she somehow figured out how to… torture other marked members occasionally, through the use of the mark itself, but only with Voldemort's express permission. But even then, she couldn't do it from far away. They had to be in the same room as her, or at least, very close by."

Lucius and Severus looked at each other then, a spark of grim, mutual understanding passing between them. It made a horrifying kind of sense. Severus pondered this to himself, his expression dark and faraway. Only a select, trusted handful of people in Voldemort's inner circle had that special permission, that specific, vile knowledge on how to manipulate the marks of others… and they're all dead… or, his mind corrected with a jolt, they were dead.

It was Hermione who finally, chillingly, put the final, most horrifying piece of the puzzle together, a piece that the others, in their focus on the how , had not yet grasped. Her eyes widened in sheer, dawning terror.

"Uhhh… guys," she began, her voice a little shaky, commanding the attention of the room. "If… if whoever is behind this, whoever activated Severus's mark… if they had to be close enough to cast the spell… that means…" She looked around at their expectant faces. "That means they were there today. At Vilewood Keep. Watching us."

All heads in the room snapped back to Hermione, their faces paling, looks of profound shock and a new, creeping fear dawning in their eyes.

"Yes," Severus confirmed grimly, his voice a low, dangerous whisper as he met Hermione's terrified gaze. "Whoever it is was there. Hiding. Waiting and watching us from the shadows." He stood, his presence suddenly filling the room with a cold, hard authority. "We must all remain on high alert, highly vigilant at all times. Whoever is doing this is not only powerful, they are cunning, intelligent, and possess all the makings of another exceptionally powerful dark wizard."

The air in the room grew heavy, tense, as the team mulled over the terrifying thought of another possible dark wizard trying to come to power, and the chilling realization that this new, unknown enemy had been watching their every move.

_____________

The heavy, chilling silence hung in the briefing room, thick with the terrifying realization that they were being actively watched by a powerful, unknown adversary. Each member of the team was lost in their own grim thoughts, the scope of the danger they faced finally sinking in.

It was Severus who, with a visible effort, broke the tense quiet, his voice sharp and professional, a commander pulling his shocked troops back into formation. The time for fear would come later; now, they needed information. He turned his attention to Harry, Ron, and the others who had remained at the scene after he and Hermione had made their hasty departure.

"Report," he commanded, his dark eyes sweeping over them. "After Miss Granger and I left, how did the rest of the investigation at Vilewood Keep proceed? Did you discover anything else of use to this case amidst that squalor?"

Harry stepped forward, his own expression grim as he shook his head slightly. "For the most part, no. The place was exactly as it seemed – a neglected, dusty tomb. We did another full sweep, but Vile has been dead a long time. There wasn't much left besides cobwebs and cursed dust bunnies."

"However," Draco interjected, a flicker of something new in his eyes, "after you left, we concentrated our efforts on the guest room where Pansy found the Polyjuice residue. We reasoned that if our necromancer was using the Keep as a base of operations, that room would be the most likely place to find something of theirs, not Vile's."

Pansy nodded in agreement. "We practically disassembled the room. Cast every detection and revelation charm in the book."

"And?" Snape pressed, his voice tight with impatience.

"And," Draco said, a slow, triumphant smirk beginning to form on his lips as he reached into a magically expanded pocket in his robes, "we found this." He pulled out a small, unassuming, black leather-bound journal and placed it on the central briefing table with a soft thud. "Tucked away in a hidden compartment beneath a loose floorboard, under the bed. Along with a few recently brewed healing potions and some nerve-calming draughts."

The team leaned in, their eyes fixed on the small, anonymous-looking book.

"It doesn't appear to be Vile's," Draco continued. "The binding is too new, and the faint magical signature emanating from it doesn't match the ambient magic of the rest of the manor. We believe it belongs to our imposter."

Hermione’s heart gave a hopeful leap. A journal. It was the best possible clue they could have hoped for, a direct window into the mind of their quarry.

"Have you opened it?" Snape asked sharply.

"We tried," Harry admitted with a frustrated sigh. "It's magically sealed with something complex. Resists every standard unlocking charm we threw at it. We thought it best to bring it back here for you and Hermione to examine, rather than risk destroying its contents."

Snape strode forward and picked up the journal, his long fingers tracing the plain, unmarked cover. "A wise decision, Potter." He turned the book over in his hands, his expression one of intense concentration. "This is our first, best chance to get ahead of our target, to understand their motives, their plans."

He looked up, his gaze sweeping over his assembled team, the earlier fear and tension now replaced by a renewed, razor-sharp focus. "The game has changed. Our quarry is no longer a ghost. They have made a mistake. They have left something behind." His eyes glinted with a familiar, predatory light. "And now, we will use it to hunt them down."

Chapter Text

The rest of the day passed in a haze of intense, yet ultimately fruitless, concentration. Severus, Hermione, Lucius, and Draco, arguably four of the most brilliant minds in the wizarding world when it came to complex magic and dark arts, found themselves utterly thwarted. They worked steadfastly, pouring over the small, black leather journal, trying every decoding spell, every revealing charm, every counter-curse they could conjure. The necromancer's magic, however, was formidable. The pages remained stubbornly blank, the secrets of the Soul-Thief locked away behind a cipher of infuriating complexity.

By the end of the shift, they were no closer to figuring it out than when they had started, and the frustration in the room was a thick, tangible thing.

Draco and his father, with a shared, weary sigh, took their leave first, promising to continue their own research into old family ciphers. The rest of the team, seeing the grim, defeated looks on their superiors' faces, followed suit, offering quiet words of encouragement before departing for the evening. Eventually, only Hermione and Severus remained in the vast, silent lab.

Severus returned to his office, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He pulled the familiar bottle of Firewhiskey he kept stashed away in his lowest desk drawer and poured himself a generous glass. Hermione, having gathered her own things, appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. She had a sad, soft smile on her face, her heart aching at seeing him look so utterly defeated.

"Hey you," she said, her voice gentle, trying for a note of false cheerfulness that didn't quite land. "Still up for dinner at my place this evening?" She could see the tension radiating off him in waves as he took a long, burning sip of his Firewhiskey. He looked a million miles away. "It's okay if you're not," she then added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, offering him an escape. "I understand."

He looked up at her then, his dark eyes a turbulent storm of conflicting emotions, and let out a heavy sigh. He didn't want to hurt her, didn't want to reject her company, but he desperately needed a little time to himself, to decompress from the case, to sort through the chaotic tangle of his own thoughts and feelings. This case, with its echoes of his past and its threat to his future, was taking an extreme toll on him. He sat his glass down on the desk with a soft thud.

"How about," he began, his voice rough, "you have dinner without me… and I'll come by later this evening and stay the night instead? I just… I need some time to myself, Hermione. To sort things out."

She gave him a more genuine, understanding smile then. His request didn't feel like a rejection, not this time. It felt like… honesty. She completely understood his need for space, for solitude. "That sounds like a deal, Severus," she said softly.

She walked around the large desk and, leaning down, pressed a soft, comforting kiss to his cheek. She went to pull away, but he moved with surprising speed, his hand gently grabbing her wrist, pulling her back down to meet his lips. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, and kissed her deeply, a kiss that was not about passion, but about grounding. It was as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the present moment, the only thing holding back the raging seas of his own dark thoughts. His taste was intoxicating, a heady mix of his own unique scent and the sharp, smoky bite of the Firewhiskey. He eventually, reluctantly, pulled back, leaving her a bit breathless, her heart aching for him.

He gently stroked her cheek, his dark eyes staring at her intently, almost desperately, as if memorizing every little freckle on her face.

She finally regained her bearings and stood up, clearing her throat to break the intense, charged silence. "I'm… I'm going to grab some take-away for dinner," she said, her voice a little shaky. "From that little Indian place near my flat. With the good curry. Would you… would you want me to get anything for you, for later, when you do come by?"

A rare, half-cocked smile touched his lips, softening the severe lines of his face. "I'll have whatever you order, Hermione," he said, his voice a low rumble.

"Alright," she smiled back. "I'll see you later, Severus. Don't stay here too late, okay?"

"Yes," he promised, his eyes still holding hers. "I won't keep you waiting too long."

With that, Hermione Apparated to her flat, her mind a swirl of worry for him and a deep, abiding warmth at the new, trusting intimacy that was growing between them. She changed into more comfortable Muggle clothing – soft, worn jeans and a cozy jumper – and then, on a sudden impulse, decided she needed a walk to clear her own mind, to breathe in the cool evening air. Instead of ordering delivery, she decided to go out and pick up the take-away herself. It would give her something to focus on, something simple and mundane, a brief respite from the dark complexities of the case.

____________

The walk to the small Indian restaurant was a welcome respite, the cool night air clearing Hermione’s head, the mundane reality of Muggle London a temporary balm to her magically overwrought soul. She ordered their food – a spicy vindaloo for Severus, a milder korma for herself, with plenty of naan and rice – and the simple act of waiting, of breathing in the fragrant scents of cumin and coriander, felt blessedly normal.

She had picked up the warm, fragrant takeaway and was walking back towards her flat, navigating the crowded Friday night sidewalk, her mind replaying the soft, tender kiss Severus had given her in his office, a hopeful warmth spreading through her chest. It was this pleasant, distracted haze that left her vulnerable.

It happened in an instant. One moment she was walking, the next, a strong arm snaked around her waist from behind, yanking her backwards, while the hard, unmistakable tip of a wand was jabbed sharply into her back. She cried out in surprise, dropping the bag of takeaway, its contents scattering with a soft thud on the pavement. She tried to turn her head, to see who it was, but only got a brief, fleeting glimpse of the man's face before he was roughly shoving her off the main street and into a darkened, narrow alleyway between two buildings.

The face… it looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't immediately place it. It nagged at her, a half-formed recognition her panicked mind couldn't quite grasp. She didn't have much time to think on it, however. He shoved her hard against the cold, damp brick of the alley wall, the impact knocking the wind from her.

She was shoved against the brick when she heard a voice in her ear, a voice she never, ever thought she would have to hear again, a voice that haunted the darkest corners of her nightmares. A low, guttural rasp, thick with a cruel, leering amusement.

"'Ello, luv," the voice sneered. "Did you miss me?"

Hermione froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins. Dolohov . It was the unmistakable voice of Antonin Dolohov. Absolute, paralyzing fear seized her. Then, her mind, with horrifying clarity, finally placed the face she had glimpsed moments before. It was one of the missing persons, a wizard whose picture had been displayed on the briefing room board. He was possessing him. It was real.

She felt Dolohov’s hot, rank breath breathing down the back of her collar, and she began to struggle instinctively, a desperate, primal terror overriding her paralysis. Her struggles only seemed to amuse him, causing him to laugh, a low, guttural sound, as he pinned her harder against the wall with the full weight of his body. "Oh, we have big plans for you, princess," he rasped near her ear. "Just you wait." He finished with a dark, chilling laugh.

That's when another voice, cold and sibilant, spoke from the deeper shadows at the mouth of the alleyway.

"That's enough, Antonin."

Hermione tried to turn her head, to see who was speaking, but she could only make out a tall, imposing figure cloaked entirely in black, their face completely obscured by a deep, dark hood. Then, a scent wafted towards her on the damp night air – a sickeningly sweet smell, like flowers left to wilt and rot in stagnant water. The scent Phineas Mulch had described. She gasped in horror. It was the necromancer. The Soul-Thief.

"We have big, big plans for Severus's little… pet ," the cloaked person said, the word ‘pet’ dripping with a cold, condescending venom. The figure gave a low, evil, laugh and raised their wand, pointing it directly in her direction.

Hermione’s eyes widened, her heart hammering against her ribs, but she had no time to react, no time to even scream. The necromancer cast a silent, shimmering spell in her direction.

Her vision began to blur almost instantly, the edges of the dark alleyway wavering, dissolving into a grey, swimming haze. The last thing she saw before the world went completely dark was the chilling, triumphant glint of Dolohov’s eyes as he grinned down at her, before she knew no more.

____________

After a couple of hours spent staring into the bottom of his whiskey glass and wrestling with the tumultuous events of the day, Severus decided he was in a better, more composed state of mind. The raw anger had subsided, leaving a deep, aching concern and a surprising, fierce determination. He was ready to see Hermione. Just the thought of her, of her wry smile and intelligent eyes, the memory of her small, comforting hand in his, put him in a markedly better mood. He first went home to his own spartan quarters, grabbing some fresh clothes to stay the night, his heart thrumming with an unfamiliar, almost hopeful anticipation. He then flooed directly into Hermione's flat, using the connection she had so trustingly established for him.

When he stepped out of her fireplace, he was met with an eerie silence and a profound darkness. The flat was still, empty.

"Hermione?" he called out, his voice sounding overly loud in the quiet space.

No response. A flicker of unease went through him.

"Hermione!?" he called again, his voice sharper this time. Still no response. A cold feeling of dread began to coil deep within his belly. He knew her. If she had had a change of plans, if she had decided to go out with Ginny or something, she would have let him know. Always. He looked at his watch, his brow furrowed in worry. It was late now, far too late in the evening for her to have simply gone to get take-away. The short walk to the restaurant and back should have taken no more than half an hour.

His dread mounting, he conducted a swift, methodical search of all the rooms in her small flat, just to be sure she really wasn't there, perhaps having fallen asleep while reading in her favorite armchair. But the flat was undeniably empty. He remembered the name of the take-away restaurant she had planned on visiting and, with a new, urgent purpose, he strode out of her flat and into the cool night air. He walked as fast as his long legs would carry him, his robes billowing behind him, making it there in what must have been record time.

He asked the young Muggle girl at the counter if a woman by Hermione's description – "remarkably busy, curly hair, very bright eyes" – had picked up an order for Granger that evening. The young girl smiled, her face lighting up in recognition. "Oh, yeah! The really nice one? She was lovely. But," the girl frowned, thinking, "she left well over an hour ago now."

"Thank you very much," Severus said, his voice tight, the dread in his stomach now a cold, heavy stone. He crossed the crosswalk to the other side of the street and began to walk back, taking the exact same route Hermione would have taken. His dark eyes scanned the area, every shadow, every doorway, looking for any traces of her, any sign of a struggle.

He was just walking past a dark, narrow alleyway wedged between a closed bakery and a Muggle bookshop when his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of something on the ground. He stopped dead. It was the distinct takeaway containers from the Indian restaurant, their contents spilled across the grimy pavement, the familiar scent of curry now mingling with the stench of refuse. His heart sank, a cold, sickening plunge into sheer terror.

He looked at the receipt stapled to the grease-stained paper bag. Sure enough, in neat, feminine script, were her initials: H.J.G. She was here. And obviously, something terrible had happened.

Severus cast a quick, non-verbal notice-me-not spell to distract any Muggles passing by as he pulled out his wand, its tip already glowing with a cold, white light, and entered the dark, oppressive alleyway. He cast a silent Lumos , the light pushing back the shadows, revealing nothing but overflowing rubbish bins and damp brick walls. He searched for anything at all, a dropped scarf, a scuff mark, a single drop of blood.

That's when he saw it, stuck to the brick wall with what looked like a small, magically-adhered dart, fluttering slightly in the breeze. A single piece of parchment. He didn't touch it, knowing it could be cursed, but leaned in close, his wandlight illuminating the cruel, spiky handwriting. Its contents made the blood freeze in his veins.

Lost your little Mudblood pet, Snape?

Don't worry. We're taking excellent care of her.

It was followed by a riddle, a taunting, hateful challenge designed to twist the knife, to mock him with his own past and knowledge.

The brightest mind in a cage of bone,
Will soon sing praises to the serpent's throne. 

To find the vessel before the warrior star ascends,
Seek the dark house where family loyalty ends. 

The loyal servant and the faithless hound,
Their shared prison is where your prize can be found.

_______________

Snape stood frozen in the filthy, dark alleyway for a split second, the cruel, spiky words of the riddle burning themselves into his mind. Then, a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated fury and a soul-deep, chilling worry consumed him, so potent it was a physical force. He re-read the poem, his dark eyes scanning the words over and over again, but his mind, usually so sharp, so analytical, couldn't decipher it right away. It was clouded, choked with frantic, terrifying images of Hermione’s safety, of what they might be doing to her, of what that bastard Dolohov was capable of. His resolve hardened into something lethal. He was going to find her. And then, he was going to find whoever the fuck this necromancer was and put an excruciating, permanent END to all of this.

He raised his wand, his hand trembling slightly not from fear, but from rage. " Expecto Patronum! " The familiar, powerful silver light erupted from his wand tip, but instead of the graceful silver doe, the symbol of his lost love and eternal grief for Lily, something else took its place, coalescing out of the mist. A sleek, powerful black panther stood before him, its form radiating a dangerous, predatory grace, its silver eyes glowing with an intelligent, protective light.

He stared at it, utterly dumbfounded, a new kind of shock cutting through his anger. He had only ever read of a person's Patronus fundamentally changing form in very rare, extreme circumstances, when the caster experiences a profound, earth-shattering shift in their deepest love, their truest affinity. He didn't have time to fully process the staggering implications now, not with Hermione in such grave danger. He pushed the thought, and the witch it so clearly represented, to the back of his mind and infused the magnificent, dangerous creature with his urgent message, his voice a low, commanding growl.

"An emergency of the highest order. All hands to my location immediately. Granger has been taken."

He sent the panther off to summon the Minister, to Potter and Weasley, to Lucius, and to every single member of his own team. He wanted everyone. He wanted all hands on deck to find her, and he would tear the world apart to do it.

___________

The response was immediate and overwhelming. The narrow, filthy alleyway was suddenly filled with the sharp cracks of multiple Apparitions as, one by one, everyone Snape had summoned arrived. Ron and Harry appeared first, wands already drawn, their Auror instincts kicking in. They immediately began casting powerful Muggle-Repelling and Notice-Me-Not charms over the entrance to the alley, sealing it off from the bustling London street, creating a pocket of grim, magical reality hidden from the oblivious world outside.

The rest of the DMF team – Draco, Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac – arrived next, their faces etched with confusion and alarm at the urgent, cryptic summons. Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared a moment later, his expression grave, and finally, Lucius Malfoy, his aristocratic features a mask of cold dread.

Lucius’s eyes immediately found Snape’s, his usual composure gone, replaced by a raw, naked worry. "What's happened, Severus?" he demanded, his voice tight. "Where is she?"

Snape’s face was a stony, impenetrable mask, though his dark eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire. "The necromancer," he said, the words like shards of ice. "He… he has her." He pointed a single, trembling finger towards the piece of parchment still affixed to the grimy brick wall. "I found the takeaway she went to retrieve scattered on the pavement, and… that."

They all gathered close, their faces illuminated by the combined glow of their wand-tips, each reading over the cruel, spiky words. A collective intake of breath, a series of horrified gasps, echoed in the small space as they read the taunting message and the cryptic, layered riddle. Their faces, one by one, turned grim, the full, horrifying weight of the situation crashing down upon them.

It was Neville, surprisingly, who stood up and decided to help lead the team during this trying, chaotic time. He saw the way their formidable department head seemed a bit out of sorts, his focus fractured, his usual sharp command blunted by the sheer force of his worry and rage. "Right," Neville said, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the stunned silence. "Let's process the scene. Methodically. Then we can take everything we find back to the lab to study further, and work on the riddle there."

Severus looked at him, and for a moment, the raw fury in his eyes subsided, replaced by a look of sheer, man-to-man respect. He gave Neville a single, sharp nod of approval.

He then turned to the rest of the team, his command returning, fueled now by a singular, desperate purpose. "You heard him," he barked out, his voice a low growl. "Get to work! This case, finding Miss Granger, now takes priority over anything and everything else!"

The team broke apart instantly, a flurry of focused, professional activity in the tight confines of the alley. Every member began checking and analyzing every nook, every cranny, every single cobblestone and piece of refuse, searching for any clue, however minute, that their quarry might have left behind.

_____________

The meticulous search of the grimy alleyway yielded precious little, a testament to the necromancer's cunning and foresight. Whoever they were, they knew how to cover their magical and physical tracks. After an hour of intense, fruitless searching, a grim-faced Snape called a halt. Their best chance now lay not in the physical world, but in the cryptic, taunting words of the riddle. They all Apparated back to the lab, the small, damning piece of parchment clutched securely in Snape’s hand.

Back in the briefing room, the atmosphere was thick with a frantic, desperate energy. Snape, with a sharp flick of his wand, transcribed the riddle onto the main enchanted board, the cruel words glowing with a faint, sickly green light.

The brightest mind in a cage of bone,
Will soon sing praises to the serpent's throne. 

To find the vessel before the warrior star ascends,
Seek the dark house where family loyalty ends. 

The loyal servant and the faithless hound,
Their shared prison is where your prize can be found.

"Report," Snape commanded, his voice tight, as the team gathered around, their faces pale as they stared at the horrifying verse. "What did we find?"

"Almost nothing, Boss," Pansy stated, her usual coolness replaced by a frustrated frown. "The area was magically scrubbed, almost sterile. I found a trace residue of a powerful memory-modifying agent near the mouth of the alley, likely used on any Muggles who might have witnessed the abduction, but nothing from the caster themselves."

"The dart used to pin the note to the wall," Neville added, "was coated in the pollen of a Night-Blooming Moonlace, a plant often associated with concealing dark magic. But it’s not particularly rare, it could have been sourced from anywhere."

Luna, who had been standing with her eyes closed, spoke softly. "The psychic residue was… cold. A profound absence of energy where the main caster stood, as if they are a void that consumes magic. And Hermione’s fear… it was absolute. But it was… layered. There was the new terror, but beneath it, an old, familiar terror, reawakened." Her words sent a chill through the room, and Snape’s jaw tightened.

"So we have nothing tangible," Lucius stated, his voice a low growl of frustration. "Only this… this damnable poem."

"Then we solve the poem," Snape snapped, turning his furious gaze to the glowing words on the board. "It is a taunt, yes, but it is also a message. They want us to follow. They are arrogant. That will be their undoing. Break it down."

The team stared at the riddle, their minds racing.

"The first two lines are obvious," Draco said, his voice grim. "'The brightest mind in a cage of bone'… that’s Hermione, her mind trapped in her body. And 'sing praises to the serpent's throne'…" he trailed off, looking sickened.

"They mean to turn her," Kingsley finished, his deep voice filled with revulsion. "To possess her with the soul of a loyal Death Eater."

"What about the third line?" Neville asked, trying to focus on the tangible clues. "'To find the vessel before the warrior star ascends'?"

Luna’s eyes, usually so dreamy, were sharp and focused. "Bellatrix," she said quietly. "Her name. It’s a star, the 'Female Warrior', in the constellation of Orion. He’s giving us a timeline, however vague. We must find Hermione before that star is in its optimal alignment for such a ritual."

"So we have a timeframe, but we still lack a location," Harry said, frustration evident in his tone. "'Seek the dark house where family loyalty ends.' What does that mean? Malfoy Manor? The Gaunt Shack?"

"It could mean any number of old pure-blood homes," Lucius mused, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Most of them have seen their share of betrayal and fractured loyalties."

Snape remained silent, his own mind racing, his gaze fixed on the final two lines, knowing the true key must lie there. It was Hermione, her logical mind connecting the seemingly disparate metaphors, who would have likely seen it first. He had to think like her.

"The final couplet," he said, his voice low, "is the most specific. 'The loyal servant and the faithless hound, Their shared prison is where your prize can be found.'"

"A hound… a dog…" Ron muttered, thinking aloud.

And then Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a sudden, dawning horror and recognition. "Sirius," he breathed out, the name a ghost in the room. "The 'faithless hound'. That’s what his mother called him. A blood traitor. Faithless to his family. And his Animagus form… was a dog."

The pieces began to click into place with terrifying speed.

"And the 'loyal servant'?" Pansy asked, her eyes wide.

Lucius answered, his voice a low, grim whisper. "Kreacher. The Black family house-elf. Utterly, fanatically loyal to the house and its mistress, but a servant nonetheless."

"Sirius and Kreacher," Hermione would have said, her voice filled with dawning certainty. Snape could almost hear her mind working alongside his.

"Their shared prison…" he finished aloud, his own voice a low, venomous snarl as the answer, so obvious and yet so horrifyingly personal, finally revealed itself. He turned to Harry, his dark eyes blazing with a cold, murderous fury.

"Number 12, Grimmauld Place."

_________________

A chilling, absolute silence descended upon the briefing room at Snape's pronouncement. Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius’s childhood prison. The former headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. The very heart of their resistance during the darkest days of the war. The audacity, the sheer, calculated cruelty of it, was breathtaking.

Harry was the first to find his voice, his own expression a mask of pale, furious disbelief. "He's right," he breathed out, the words tasting like ash. "The house where family loyalty ended… where Sirius rejected everything they stood for. And he and Kreacher… they were both trapped there. Imprisoned together. It… it fits perfectly." The sense of personal violation was a palpable wave emanating from him; the necromancer was defiling his godfather’s home, turning their greatest sanctuary into a place of dark, unholy ritual.

"It's also still under the most powerful protection charms the Order could muster," Kingsley added, his mind already shifting to strategy. "Unplottable, hidden from all but a select few. The perfect place to hide, right under our very noses."

Snape’s earlier grief and worry had now been transmuted into a cold, lethal focus. The hunter had his prey's location. "We move now," he commanded, his voice sharp, decisive, leaving no room for argument. "A full-frontal Auror assault is out of the question. We don't know the state of the ritual, or what traps have been laid. One wrong move, and they could complete the possession or kill Hermione outright. We need a small, stealth-based team."

His dark eyes scanned the faces before him. "Potter, Weasley. You know the layout of that house better than anyone alive. You're with me." He then looked at Draco. "Malfoy, you know how these people think, you know their tactics. You're on point with me."

Draco nodded, his face grim, his earlier amusement entirely gone, replaced by a steely resolve.

"Minister," Snape continued, turning to Kingsley, "you will remain here and coordinate a secondary support team of Aurors. Have them on standby, but they are not to approach the house unless I give the signal. We cannot risk a magical siege."

"Lucius," he said, his voice flat, "you will stay with the Minister. Your knowledge of this ritual is our greatest asset. You will advise them on any potential magical fallout, counter-curses, or the specific abilities of the resurrected individuals we may be about to face."

"The rest of my team," he concluded, his gaze sweeping over Neville, Luna, Pansy, and Cormac, "you will prepare the infirmary and a secure containment cell here at the DMF. Be ready for anything and everything. If we retrieve Miss Granger, she will need immediate magical and psychological care. If we retrieve any of the other victims, or the necromancer himself, they will need to be contained. Be prepared."

A chorus of determined "Yes, sirs" and grim nods answered him. There was no fear, only a shared, burning purpose.

Snape, Harry, Ron, and Draco gathered together, their faces set like stone. The time for analysis and grief was over. The time for action, for a desperate, dangerous rescue, was now.

"Let's go bring our girl home," Harry said, his voice low and filled with a dangerous fire.

Snape merely nodded, his own expression a thunderous mask of lethal intent. With a final, shared look of grim understanding, the four of them vanished with a simultaneous, sharp crack , leaving a tense, charged silence in their wake. The hunt, and the fight for Hermione Granger's soul, had truly begun.

Chapter Text

The familiar, nauseating lurch of Side-Along Apparition deposited Snape, Harry, Ron, and Draco onto the cracked pavement of the small, grim London square. Number 12, Grimmauld Place materialized before them, rising from between its Muggle neighbors like a dark, forgotten tooth. The air was heavy, the usual oppressive gloom of the ancient house seeming even more menacing now, knowing the horrors it might contain.

“Standard infiltration tactics,” Harry whispered, his Auror training taking over as he looked to Snape for confirmation. “I’ll take point and handle the primary wards on the door. Ron, you watch our backs. Draco, Snape, be ready for anything once we’re inside.”

Snape gave a curt, sharp nod, his own wand already held aloft, his dark eyes scanning the shadowy windows for any sign of movement. The four of them moved as one, a silent, deadly unit, their feet making no sound on the stone steps. With a series of complex, non-verbal spells from Harry, the old, formidable locks on the front door clicked open with an almost soundless precision.

They slipped inside, greeted not by the screams of a captive or the crackle of dark magic, but by an unnerving, profound silence. The long, gloomy hallway, with its troll-leg umbrella stand and the moth-eaten curtains concealing the shrieking portrait of Walburga Black, was still and empty. Dust motes danced in the thin shafts of moonlight piercing the grime-caked windows. There was no sign of a struggle, no lingering scent of a recent ritual, no sign of Hermione or her captors.

A cold, sickening dread began to settle in Snape’s stomach.

“Split up,” he commanded in a low whisper. “Search every room. Be thorough. Be silent. Report back here in ten minutes.”

They moved like ghosts through the oppressive house they had once considered a sanctuary. Harry and Ron took the upper floors, their wands held high, while Draco and Snape methodically swept the ground level. They found nothing. The bedrooms were untouched, the kitchen was silent, the library was thick with dust. Every room was exactly as the Order had left it years ago, a time capsule of a war they had thought long won. Hermione was not here.

They regrouped in the dark, musty drawing-room, the one dominated by the vast, sinister Black family tree tapestry. The frustration and fear in the room was a palpable, living thing.

“There’s nothing,” Ron said, his voice hoarse with disappointment. “The entire house is empty. It’s like they were never here at all.”

“They were here,” Snape countered, his gaze sweeping the room, his sharp eyes missing nothing. He pointed towards the center of the room, at a small, ornate table that sat directly beneath the tapestry’s depiction of Bellatrix Lestrange, whose woven face seemed to sneer down at them. "There."

Lying on the dusty surface was a single, rolled-up scroll of parchment, tied with a black silk ribbon. It looked identical to the one they had found in the alleyway. They had been led on a wild goose chase. The necromancer was toying with them.

With a muttered curse, Severus approached the table cautiously, casting several diagnostic spells before touching it. Finding no immediate hexes, he carefully, with the tip of his wand, nudged the ribbon undone. As the scroll unrolled with a soft whisper of parchment on old wood, a small, opaque black vial, no bigger than his thumb, fell out and rolled silently onto the table. They couldn’t see the contents, but its dark, unassuming appearance felt deeply menacing.

“Don’t touch it,” Snape commanded as Draco reached for it. He conjured a sterile evidence bag and levitated the small vial inside, sealing it tightly. “We’ll take it back to the lab for immediate analysis.”

His gaze then fell upon the scroll. On it was another taunting, hateful riddle, written in the same cruel, spiky hand. Snape read the words aloud, his voice a low, cold monotone that did nothing to hide the simmering fury beneath.

The hound's dark prison led you true,
But the brightest mind is not for you.
The warrior star begins its climb,
You're running out of precious time.

Her final tribute is not in stone,
But where the weeping nightshade's grown.
Find the last shadow of her kin's domain,
By the cold fury of the northern rain.

The four men stared at the words, a fresh wave of despair and rage washing over them. Bellatrix Lestrange's body was never recovered by the Ministry after the final battle; it had vanished amidst the chaos. The riddle was a sickening confirmation that someone had not only taken her but had given her a secret, shrine-like burial. They were on the right track, the riddle confirmed it, but they had been too slow. Their enemy was one step ahead, leading them on a twisted, cruel scavenger hunt, with Hermione’s life, and her very soul, as the prize. And the clock, the riddle made terrifyingly clear, was ticking.

_____________

Severus and the rest of the rescue team Apparated back into the main lab of the DMF, their grim faces saying everything that needed to be said. The hopeful, anxious expressions on the faces of Neville, Luna, Pansy, Cormac, and Kingsley, who had all been waiting with bated breath, were instantly dashed with a palpable, shared disappointment as they saw the four men return empty-handed.

"They led us on a wild goose chase," Severus snarled, his voice a low, furious growl as he stormed into the briefing room and threw the new, taunting riddle down on the table. He rounded on Pansy and Cormac, his dark eyes blazing. "The timeframe. The 'warrior star'. Have you solved it? How long do we have?"

Cormac and Pansy exchanged a quick, grim look. Cormac was the one who spoke up, his usual bravado completely gone, replaced by a grave seriousness. "We have," he confirmed, his voice tight. "We cross-referenced the star’s celestial path with the magical requirements of the Soul-Thief's Requiem. The ritual can only be completed when the star reaches its absolute zenith in the night sky. That will be… at precisely midnight tonight."

Severus glanced at the large clock on the briefing room wall. It was just past ten o'clock. Two hours. They only had two hours to find her, to stop the dark ritual from being completed. He slammed his fist down hard on the table in a rare, violent display of utter frustration, the sound echoing through the suddenly silent room, before turning on his heel and storming off down a back hallway, needing to escape, needing a few moments to compose himself before his rage and fear consumed him entirely.

Lucius, seeing his friend's profound distress, his raw agony, gave a brief, apologetic nod to the others and followed him.

He found the man pacing like a caged beast in one of the dimly lit back corridors, his hands clenched, his shoulders rigid with a tension that was almost painful to behold. "Severus," Lucius said softly, approaching him cautiously. "It's going to be okay. We are going to find her."

Severus stopped his pacing and looked up, his dark eyes filled with a pained, haunted expression Lucius hadn't seen in them since the darkest days of the war. "It's my fault she was taken, Lucius," he said, his voice raw, riddled with a self-loathing so profound it was almost a physical thing.

"We were supposed to have dinner together after work," he confessed, his voice a low, tortured whisper. "And I canceled on her. Canceled on her , after everything that had happened, just so I could go and sit in my bloody office and sulk and sip Firewhiskey." He spat the words out, his voice thick with anger at his own foolishness. "If I had been with her, Lucius, if I had just gone to her as I should have, she wouldn't have been walking alone. They never would have gotten to her."

Lucius took a step towards him and put a firm, reassuring hand on his friend's tense shoulder. "Severus, you mustn't blame yourself for this. You cannot. It is not your fault."

"Isn't it!?" Severus retorted, his eyes blazing now. "Lucius, whoever is behind this clearly has some type of personal vendetta against me ! The note was addressed to me! They taunted me with her! They clearly saw her with me, they know what she has come to mean to me, and they decided to hurt her to get to me !" he said, his voice rising with a desperate, angry energy, his entire body shuddering with the force of his emotion. "If I hadn't pursued her, Lucius, if I hadn't started this… this relationship with her… she would be here right now. She would be safe. Not in the clutches of some dark, demented, necromantic wizard!"

Lucius, seeing his friend beginning to truly spiral, to drown in a sea of guilt and self-recrimination, broke his prim, proper, pure-blooded character entirely. He pulled Severus into a firm, grounding hug, his arms wrapping around the other man’s shaking shoulders. Surprisingly, after only a moment of rigid resistance, Severus clung to him, his own arms coming up to grip Lucius’s robes, his head buried in his friend's shoulder. Lucius knew his friend was hurting, deeply, profoundly, and was, as always, blaming himself for the cruelties of others.

"Severus, you listen to me," Lucius said, his voice firm, authoritative. "Don't you dare regret letting yourself finally find some measure of happiness in this miserable world. And don't you dare blame yourself for this. This is not your fault. This is the fault solely of the necromancer, that vile, cowardly creature who preys on the innocent. Do you understand me?" He pulled back then, holding his friend at arm's length, his silver eyes boring into Snape’s dark, tormented ones.

"Right now," Lucius continued, his voice softening slightly, "Hermione needs you. She needs you to pull yourself together, to be the formidable, brilliant, intimidating bastard we all know you are. We are going to go back out there, and we are going to solve that blasted riddle, and then, Severus, we are going to go and find her. Together."

Severus stood there for a long moment, Lucius’s words, his unexpected, profound show of friendship and support, slowly piercing through the thick fog of his grief and guilt. He finally, with a shuddering breath, was able to pull himself together, to push the pain down, to lock it away

behind his formidable Occlumency shields once more. The cold, calculating Potions Master, the cunning spy, returned.

"Alright," he said, his voice steadier now, his eyes clearing, a new, cold determination hardening their depths. "Let's solve it."

They returned to the briefing room to see the new riddle magically posted on the main screen, his team gathered around it, scribbling different possible meanings on scraps of parchment, their faces a mixture of frustration and intense concentration.

"Any leads so far?" Snape asked, his voice once again that of their commanding officer, his personal anguish now a well-hidden, but fiercely burning, fuel.

______________

The briefing room became a crucible of frantic energy and desperate intellect. The riddle glowed menacingly on the enchanted board, a silent, mocking testament to their enemy's arrogance, while the large Ministry clock on the wall ticked with an almost malevolent slowness, each second a lifetime stolen from Hermione.

"Let's focus," Snape commanded, his voice sharp, pulling them all from their individual fears. "The first four lines are a taunt and a timeline. We know we were right about Grimmauld Place, and we know our time is short. The location is hidden in the final four lines. Dissect them. Now."

Her final tribute is not in stone, But where the weeping nightshade's grown. Find the last shadow of her kin's domain, By the cold fury of the northern rain.

"Not in stone," Draco mused, pacing back and forth. "An unmarked grave. Hidden. Not in a formal cemetery. That makes it infinitely more difficult to locate."

"Weeping nightshade," Neville murmured, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. "That’s not a common term. It likely refers to a specific magical variant of Atropa belladonna. Most strains prefer shaded, rich soil, but there is one… a particularly rare and poisonous variant… Atropa fletus . It’s unique. It actually thrives in bleak, sorrow-soaked locations, places of great tragedy or dark magic. And," he added, looking up, a flicker of connection in his eyes, "it favors damp, coastal climes."

"‘By the cold fury of the northern rain’," Ron read aloud, his expression grim. "So, we're looking for a tragic, unmarked grave, likely on a northern coast, probably Scotland or Northumberland, where this specific creepy plant grows. That… that's still an impossibly large search area."

"The key must be the third line," Lucius stated, his voice a low, thoughtful murmur as he stared intently at the glowing words. "'Find the last shadow of her kin's domain'." He began to pace, his mind a flurry of ancient pure-blood history. "The Black family owned vast amounts of land. Several primary estates – Grimmauld Place, a summer home in France that was lost centuries

ago, a now-ruined manor in Wiltshire…" He listed them off, but none seemed to fit the bleak, northern coastal description.

Over an hour passed, a frantic, frustrating hour of cross-referencing old maps, shouting out and dismissing potential locations, the hands of the clock creeping ever closer to the midnight deadline. The hope in the room began to wane, replaced by a gnawing, desperate fear.

"There must be something we're missing," Harry said, running a hand through his already messy hair in frustration. "Some lesser-known property, something forgotten…"

And then, Lucius Malfoy stopped pacing. He stood stock still, his silver eyes wide with a sudden, dawning memory. "The Folly…" he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

"What was that, Father?" Draco asked, looking at him intently.

"The Blackwood Folly," Lucius repeated, his voice stronger now, a grim certainty in his tone as he looked at Snape. "It was hardly a 'domain'. More of a… a footnote in the Black family’s history. I only know of it from some of my father’s oldest, most obscure texts on pure-blood landholdings. It was built by Lycoris Black in the seventeenth century, a man who was disowned by his family for attempting to marry a half-blood witch. He became a recluse, building a small, fortified watchtower, a 'folly', on a desolate stretch of cliffside on the northernmost tip of the Scottish mainland. A place to watch the sea and mourn his lost love and his family's betrayal. A dark house," Lucius met Snape’s gaze, "where family loyalty most certainly ended."

Neville’s eyes lit up with a sudden, horrifying understanding. "A tragic history… on a northern coast, constantly battered by the sea and rain," he breathed out. "That specific microclimate, the sorrowful magical residue of the location… it would be the perfect, and perhaps only, habitat in all of Britain for Atropa fletus to grow wild."

Luna, who had been quiet until now, her eyes closed, nodded slowly. "A place washed by sea and sorrow," she whispered, her voice echoing with a chilling finality. "A powerful nexus for a ritual fueled by pain."

That was it. They had it. A location.

Snape’s expression hardened into a mask of lethal determination. He looked at the clock. Less than thirty minutes until midnight.

"Potter, Weasley, Malfoy," he snarled, his voice a low, urgent command. "With me. Now." He turned to Kingsley and Lucius. "Minister, have your Auror support team ready to Apparate on my signal, and only on my signal. Lucius, be ready to relay any and all counter-ritual information you can find. We are out of time."

With a final, shared look of grim, desperate resolve, the four members of the rescue team clasped hands, and with a single, violent CRACK , they vanished, the hunt for Hermione Granger and the race against the warrior star’s ascent reaching its final, terrifying climax.

___________

When Hermione finally woke, the first thing she noticed was the penetrating, damp cold seeping through her, chilling her to the very bone. The next was that she couldn't move, not an inch. A heavy, sluggish weight seemed to press down on her limbs, her body refusing to obey her mind's frantic commands. She finally managed to force her eyelids open, her vision slowly, painfully coming back to her. The world was a blurry, indistinct smear of grey and black. What happened? she thought groggily, her mind thick and slow as if waking into a hazy, suffocating fog from a deep, dark, unnatural sleep.

That's when she heard a voice, a harsh, sneering rasp that shattered the fog and made everything come rushing, crashing back to her in a tidal wave of pure terror: the alleyway, Dolohov's foul breath, the cloaked figure, the sickeningly sweet smell of decay…

"Welcome back, Mudblood." The voice spat the slur with relish, then let out a low, maniacal laugh at seeing the look of dawning, abject panic that must have flooded her face.

Her vision cleared. She looked up and saw them – at least half a dozen hooded, black-cloaked figures, their faces obscured by gleaming, bone-white Death Eater masks, standing around her in a menacing semi-circle. She struggled, her heart hammering against her ribs, and realized she was lying on the cold, damp ground, her arms and legs bound tightly by invisible, magical restraints. A thick, cloth gag was tied firmly over her mouth, preventing her from speaking, from casting any non-verbal spells she might have managed in her terror.

She realized with a cold, sickening panic seeping through her what was happening. The desecrated graves. The necromancy. The "vessel." They were going to perform the ritual on her . Hot, terrified tears began to stream from the corners of her eyes, tracing paths through the grime on her cheeks.

"Oh, don't cry, pet," the main figure, the necromancer, said, his voice a sibilant, condescending drawl. He stepped forward, looming over her. "You are being given a great, great honor this evening. You, a filthy little Mudblood, will host the pure, noble soul of our dear sister Bella within your unworthy shell, momentarily."

Hermione felt sick, a wave of pure revulsion and terror washing over her. No. No, nooooo, anyone but that psychotic, sadistic bitch, she thought frantically, her mind screaming. Not her. Not her soul inside my body, inside my mind.

She tried to scream then, a desperate, defiant sound of protest, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled, pathetic whimper against the gag. The necromancer chuckled at her feeble attempt, a low, cruel sound that was echoed by the rest of the masked figures around her. The cloaked man pulled a large, ornate pocket watch from an inner waistcoat pocket, its ticking unnaturally loud in the tense silence. "Tick. Tock," he taunted, his hidden face angled down towards her. "It truly is a shame Severus couldn't get here to save you in time. Maybe he's not quite as smart as he used to be, now that he's sullied himself with someone like… you ." He let

the insult hang in the air. "Or maybe," he added, his voice dripping with false pity, "you just aren't worth his time, Mudblood."

The words were a calculated, venomous poison, designed to strip away her last vestiges of hope, to make her feel abandoned and worthless in her final moments. But even through her terror, a spark of defiance flared. Severus would come. He would figure it out. He had to.

The necromancer snapped the watch shut, his patience clearly at an end. "Let's begin."