Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.

--- 27 Snape: Unworthy of the Angel

Later, sleep eluding him despite several hours' attempt, Severus stood out on the second-storey balcony, braving the bite of the deep January cold, and stared out over the quiet street with the wand of Salazar Slytherin cradled reverently in his hands. The minor miracle of its recovery notwithstanding, he was by no means certain that he was capable of accomplishing the feat Albus expected of him.

As though on the wings of that thought, he heard the soft rustle of heavy fabric behind him, and turned (though he knew the sound of Dumbledore's approach well enough without looking) to watch as the aged Headmaster approached and joined him at the balcony rail.

After exchanging nods, the two old friends turned their attention to the breathtaking spectacle of the moon, three days shy of full. Despite the intense cold of the night, the storm clouds had passed on and the sky was crystal clear, the surrounding landscape brightly illuminated by the great silvery orb.

Had Severus been prone to flights of fancy, he might have taken that as a good omen, the world awash in silver--one of the colours of his own House, and so favored by its founder. He half-expected Albus to make some comment to that effect; the old man always seemed able to get to the heart of whatever was troubling him, even when he tried his best to conceal the fact that he was troubled at all.

When Dumbledore did break the silence, however, it was with a somewhat surprising observation. "I thought I might find you up here...they're missing you downstairs, you know."

He snorted softly. "I find that very difficult to believe, Headmaster. Though I suppose it's kind of you to say so."

Albus shook his head, mildly reproving. "You always have, Severus, but you have often been in error in that assumption. Minerva worries for you a great deal. The rest of the staff would be glad for your company, if you would ever show the slightest degree of interest in theirs." He paused momentarily. "And I believe a certain young lady of Gryffindor is also curious as to your whereabouts this evening..."

"Albus, don't." Severus shook his head, amazed and somewhat dismayed at what the old man seemed to be implying, even as his pulse quickened at the thought. "You of all people should be reading me the riot act for even presuming to look sidelong at the girl."

"I suppose I should," Dumbledore acknowledged mildly. "She is admittedly still a student, and some years your junior. Still..."

"Some years? Merlin's hairy arse, man, don't you think that's understating the case just a bit? I'm nearly twenty years older! I cannot believe you'd try to encourage..." He trailed off with a frustrated gesture, at a loss to express his own discomfiture at the whole idea.

Albus smiled slightly, in that infuriatingly serene way he had (which Severus was convinced he had adopted specifically for the purpose of driving him mad.) "Oh, I'm not necessarily trying to encourage anything, Severus, except perhaps a bit more balanced thinking on your part. Twenty years is not so great a difference, when one's lifespan could easily exceed one hundred and fifty. And Hermione is well past the age of majority."

Severus frowned. "I don't follow you, Albus, her seventeenth birthday was barely half a year ago." Hardly more than a baby, he thought, simultaneously aching for her and sickened by the fact.

But so was Gregory Goyle. And you killed him. That execrable little voice was back, crueler than ever and twice as loud. What's a little casual snogging by comparison? Bit like fretting that the teapot's broken when the house has just collapsed, don't you think?

"True. But then one must also take into account the better part of a school year she spent doubling and tripling up, using the time-turner Minerva acquired for her several years ago. Legally, that puts her just a few months shy of eighteen."

"Technicality," he muttered, filing away that bit of information for possible future reference. Presuming any of them had a future. "A few months more or less hardly changes anything. In any case, it's a moot point. She's far too sensible a girl to seriously consider wasting her time with the likes of me. If we all survive to see next week, she'll forget all about this...infatuation and get on with her life, exactly as she should."

He knew he sounded bitter, but there was no help for it; he was. If his penchant for getting attached to the wrong women kept growing stronger with age, the next one was liable to just kill him straightaway, no questions asked.

"She may, if she is given no other option. But the question is, will you?"

He knew it was a rhetorical question, and didn't answer, at least not aloud. Inwardly...well, the fact that he'd spent the past sixteen years pining uselessly for Lily Evans didn't speak very well for his prospects this time around.

Dumbledore let that hang in the air for a few moments, then tactfully changed the subject. "How does the wand suit you?" He gestured to the slender length of ash, and Severus realised he was clutching it tightly with both hands.

Deliberately loosening his grip, lest he accidentally damage the ancient artifact, he caressed the highly polished wood lovingly. It seemed almost to glow in the moonlight; a trick of the eyes, no doubt, but no less lovely for all that. "Very well indeed. It seems to like me nearly as much as my own wand. Quite uncanny...I wonder whether the others are having as much luck with theirs."

"I would be somewhat surprised if they were not." Albus smiled at Severus' curious look. "Heads of House do not attain that status by chance or by simple seniority, you know. The night each First Year is sorted, the Sorting Hat takes note of those who possess the qualities which mark them as potential Heads of House, and the Headmaster--to wit, me--keeps a record of the names, annotated according to academic record and other pertinent information. So when the question of a new House Head comes up, there is always a ready-made list of qualified candidates available."

"Ingenious," Snape commented, somewhat nonplused to think that he'd been tagged from his first night at Hogwarts as possible Head-of-House material. "I suppose you won't indulge me by explaining the criterion the Sorting Hat uses."

"Certainly. The Sorting Hat knew the Founders well, and marks those who remind it most strongly of each of them in personality and native ability. So you see, it's very likely that you have a great deal in common with Salazar Slytherin. It follows that his wand would take readily to your hand.

"But I see that this puzzles you," Dumbledore added, watching the younger man closely. "Why?"

Severus leaned on the railing and gazed out contemplatively over the moon-silvered landscape. "Well, for starters, I'm wondering how someone allegedly so much like me, could have been bosom friends with the progenitor of all Gryffindors."

Albus chuckled gently. "Well, Minerva is actually rather fond of you, you know. But I said like, Severus, not identical. And that friendship came to a sad end, as you'll recall--grand and fruitful though it was.

"But now indulge me for a moment, in turn, and imagine what might have happened if you had come to the school not twenty-seven years ago, but the same year that Harry and his friends arrived; if they had been the Gryffindors you'd first known. Do you think you would feel the same way about that House as you do now?"

Bowing his head, Severus reluctantly considered the old man's words. "All right, point taken," he admitted. "Probably not. Mind you, I might loathe it even more, if for different reasons." He knew he was circumventing the question. "But I hear what you are saying. Harry isn't really so much like his father, after all--is he?"

Nearly seven years, it had taken him to make that admission. And behold--against all expectations, his tongue showed no sign of bursting into flame. Amazing.

"In the ways you are thinking of, no, not at all. I could have told you as much quite some time ago, if you had troubled to ask."

Severus sighed. Dumbledore knew as well as he did the limits of his ability to consign the past to its proper place. "That was really rather a cruel question, Headmaster."

The old wizard blinked twice, then nodded, and patted him briefly on the back--a familiarity which he let pass unchallenged because it was Albus, and because he felt an unaccustomed need for the comfort of human contact this night. "I'm sorry, Severus; it was not intended to be. I fear I have been, as they say, rather off my game of late."

"Happens to the best of us." Severus waved the matter away, having no desire to add to the elderly man's already staggering burden. Even if it wasn't entirely undeserved.

"Yes..." Dumbledore conceded. "But when it happens to me, it is others who too often suffer. I rather think it is my doing, for example, that Draco Malfoy is now an orphan."

"Preposterous," the younger man snapped at once. "Draco lost his parents because Lucius Malfoy had a violent temper, and finally let it get the better of him. Or because they both fell under the Dark Lord's sway and never found their way out again. You had nothing to do with it."

"I could have insisted that Draco stay with us, when the letter from his mother arrived," Albus countered. "Or that you wait to go after him until the Order could mobilise and go in force."

A tense silence fell between them, broken at last as Severus reluctantly shook his head. "No. You couldn't. He had the right to go...as you tried to tell me. And if we'd waited, it would have been too late. Lucius would have taken him before the Dark Lord..."

He stopped short of apologizing, unable to quite articulate such a sentiment, but knew that Albus would understand. That was how things had always been, between them.

Dumbledore smiled knowingly, nodding as he always did--but then surprised him again. "I didn't send the young ones after you, you know. They had my tacit approval, but they made that decision for themselves."

Snape frowned. "It's good to know that they concern themselves enough with Draco's welfare to have done it, Headmaster, but I am afraid I do have to fault you on that count. If Malfoy had had more than a handful of Death Eaters with him, it's likely none of us would have come back from that expedition."

"There you go again..." Albus shook his head, a trifle impatiently. "Harry went for Draco's sake, an act which I find extraordinarily encouraging. Ron went out of loyalty, because he could not let his friends walk into danger without him. But Hermione--"

"Don't say it, Albus."

"It is nothing more than the truth, son."

He laughed then, something he rarely did because it sounded so hollow and alien even to his own ears. This time, it trailed off into a brief bout of coughing. "Then allow me to wallow in denial, if you please," he wheezed. "Professional ethics aside, this is simply not the time for it, Headmaster. I have enough on my plate right now, trying to prepare for this miracle you expect us to pull off..."

Albus laid a hand firmly between his shoulder blades, and he stilled himself, sensing a gathering of force within the old wizard. After a moment, a current of warmth flowed into him, flooding his chest cavity and easing the consumptive spasms in his lungs. "I don't ask miracles of you, my boy. Only that you give whatever you have to the task, and believe that it will be enough. I have every confidence that it will be."

Severus drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly, relieved to find the air coming easily once again. "I'm pleased that one of us thinks so. I've done my best by my House, but..." He sighed, crossing his arms on the rail and resting his forehead on them for a moment. Aching all over, his mind swimming with concerns he felt inadequate to address, he wanted nothing more than to lie down someplace quiet and let it all slip away for a while...his own restless mind was holding him captive.

"Go on," Dumbledore urged softly.

He shook his head, forcing his attention back to the here and now. "It isn't easy to put into words, Albus. Salazar and the other Founders had a--a passion for teaching. The history and the legends make that very clear. It was the one thing they all had in common, and they infused that passion into the raising of the school. Hogwarts was literally founded on their desire to pass along what they knew to future generations.

"I see that same zeal in Minerva, and Flitwick...even little Sprout, in her way," he went on, unable to prevent a touch of envy creeping into his voice. "They're here because it's what they want most to do, just as you are...because they've been called to it."

Albus nodded. "And you fear that because your circumstances are different, you may not be able to match them, when the time comes?"

He lifted his head, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "Well, it's a legitimate concern, wouldn't you say? I scarcely think we need go over the events that brought me to Hogwarts. I had very little choice in the matter. Given such a choice, I wouldn't be a teacher. I'm not even especially good at it--as you know." He smiled humourlessly.

Alchemy, chemistry, cooking even, those were the sorts of things he excelled at. He could brew practically any sort of potion, elixir, philter, tonic, liniment, or salve ever invented--from memory, most of them--but imparting that information to the likes of Neville Longbottom was another question entirely.

Worse, though, were the perfectly intelligent sorts like Potter--who might even live up to his inflated reputation, if only he'd apply himself, but who simply couldn't be bothered to take the work seriously.

The futility of trying to get through to them drove him to distraction, and patently unfair though it was to take his frustration out on the students, at times he simply couldn't stop himself. On his worst days, all the nitwits had to do to kindle his fury was walk into the room.

He had long since learned that if he wanted to get any sleep at night, his only option was to let the anger take control and play itself out--even if that meant spending the next few days berating himself for his lack of restraint.

He'd learned to grudgingly accept all of that, as penance for the time he'd spent among the Death Eaters. His crimes fell far short of what Lucius and some of the other Inner Circle had committed--through no special virtue on his part; he would have got there, eventually, if not for the events at Godric's Hollow. But his sins were black enough to merit whatever atonement he could make, for the rest of his life, if necessary.

And therein lay the crux of his dilemma. A spell of the magnitude that they were contemplating required nothing less than the complete surrender of everyone involved. If successful, the product of the casting would be a direct reflection of its creators--everything about them, virtues and vices alike, overt or subtle.

His own shortcomings were, of course, manifest. And how anything that lurked in the deepest recesses of his soul was supposed to contribute to the bright and shining new school the others envisioned, free of the perils and prejudices of the old, was simply beyond him.

Albus allowed him to brood, for a short time. But with that inexplicable sixth sense the old magus possessed, before the clouds could gather too thickly, he reached out to grasp the younger man's shoulder and turn him so that they stood face-to-face.

The Headmaster's smile, tranquil and filled with faith--in him, and in some greater truth or power that had always been obscured from him--was almost more than he could bear. Only an abiding reluctance to disappoint his mentor kept his eyes level with the old man's.

"It's true, Severus, you may not possess the same love for teaching as your counterparts. And that is a sad thing, as you are much better at it than you give yourself credit for." Dumbledore leaned fractionally closer, and his gently whimsical facade slipped away for a moment, permitting a glimpse of the dauntless will that gave even the Dark Lord pause. "But, my friend, you are a man of passion, in so many other ways...so I entreat you to ask yourself, before we undertake this task, how those things which do inspire you can be made to serve our purpose.

"I think you'll discover that you have more to offer than you know."

Releasing his hold on Snape's shoulder, he turned from the railing. "Why, good evening, Miss Granger. A splendid night for stargazing, is it not?" He shuffled toward the doorway where the young woman stood, visible only in silhouette, shadows inviting Severus to fill in the details from memory and imagination. "One could stay up here uninterrupted for hours, I daresay...provided that they took care to keep warm..."

She stood aside to let the Headmaster pass, and then the old magus was gone. He and Hermione were alone. The sense of excitement that rose up in him at that thought was matched by a simultaneous rush of panic as he realized how effortlessly he'd allowed himself to be backed into a corner.

"Good evening, Professor." Greeting him in a low voice tinged with uncertainty, she stepped out into the moonlight...and Severus found that once again, his breath had been stolen away.

Hermione Granger was not, as men measured such things, a beautiful woman. Though her features were pleasingly regular, they lacked a certain refinement that would have elevated her to that coveted status. One word often employed to describe such a woman was cute, although that was a term Severus rarely found occasion to use in any context.

Amazing, he thought as a small tremor passed through him, what a commonplace thing like moonlight could do for a woman's appearance. Amazing what a perfectly ordinary pair of brown eyes, reflecting that silvery light, could do to a man, when they looked at him that way...

The moment came and went, and Hermione shyly dropped her eyes, only to catch sight of what he was holding. "Oh. Oh my," she breathed, eyes widening. "Professor, is that..."

Trust Miss Granger to identify on sight a legendary relic of a rival House that had been lost for almost nine centuries. "The wand of Salazar Slytherin, yes," he confirmed, struggling to suppress a smile. For a moment there, he'd quite forgotten the precious artifact.

Oh, come off it man, you bloody well forgot your own name. If you're going to put a stop to this insanity, you had better do it now, before someone gets hurt. The Voice of Reason was clearly losing patience with him.

The Voice of Hormonal Excess came right back with something vehement and unprintable, and he stayed where he was, frozen as effectively as though petrified.

Hermione took a step closer, her attention still fixed on the beautifully crafted wand. She extended one small, slender hand hesitantly toward it, but paused at a respectful distance. "May I?"

Anyone else who had been so audacious as to ask would likely have got their fingers fused together at this juncture. Severus astounded himself by flipping the wand around and passing it to her handle first, without hesitation.

He watched, fascinated and only a touch anxious, as she examined the implement with respectful care--and, curiously, no sign of discomfort. "It's lovely. And as powerful as I'd imagined."

"Then you must have an exceptionally well-developed imagination. It was used to cast some of the most potent spells the wizarding world has ever seen. I daresay only the Wand of Gryffindor, and that of Merlin himself could compare." Saying it out loud brought home once again the magnitude of what Albus had accomplished.

She handed the wand carefully back to him. Their fingers brushed momentarily; he couldn't be certain whether she had done it deliberately, but the point was academic. That brief contact set off a chain reaction of arousal, blood rushing southward as his vital signs accelerated.

"Thank you. Would I be overstepping my bounds to ask where you found it?"

He picked up the jet case and slid the wand carefully into its place, trying (unsuccessfully) not to attach any inappropriate symbolism to the act. "You might be, if I had any idea myself. Albus found it for me, but declined to share the specifics."

"I imagine having that will be extremely helpful with what's coming."

"Ah...yes." He backpedaled a step as she moved closer, bringing them within half a metre of each other, only to bump into the balcony rail behind him. The moonlight danced merrily across the surface of her freshly-washed, untamable hair. "Provided the redoubtable Mr. Black does not first succeed in terminating my House, and my status as Head thereof," he added, with only a trace of bitterness. Somehow all of that just didn't seem as important right now as it had a little earlier.

Very slowly, her eyes never leaving his, Hermione raised one hand and brought it to rest gently over his heart. She smiled slightly at the shudder this evoked. "Don't worry about Sirius Black," she said softly. "He hasn't got a leg to stand on. Everyone knows it."

He shut his eyes, covering her hand with his own. "I don't," he admitted quietly. "I can scarcely dispute the truth of what he's been saying. I've lost most of my House to the Dark Lord. And Black is not without his supporters within the Order."

With a small impatient sigh, Hermione took his hand and drew his arm around her waist, moving close and nestling against him as easily as though they had been doing this sort of thing for years. The close contact brought a surge of desire that nearly overturned his self-control right then. May all the gods help him, he did not have it in him to push her away, but...Seventeen. Seventeen. Remember she's only seventeen...

"Trust me," she murmured. She fit so well against him, her fuzzy head tucked comfortably under his chin. "You're not in school anymore. Whatever facts he has, he'll spoil his own argument the first time he falls back on his old Marauder habits and says something juvenile. All you have to do is avoid falling into the same trap. You'll tear him to shreds."

He chuckled ruefully. "That simple, is it?"

Her logic was flawless, of course; but in her innocence, she could not hope to fathom the animosity that existed between himself and the Animagus. He tried to kill me, he thought. The resentment that smoldered perpetually in a distant corner of his mind flared up, threatening to burn away his sense of pleasant euphoria. I don't care what they say, he would have liked nothing better than to see my throat ripped out. Even if it had meant making a murderer of one of his dearest friends.

Oddly enough, the werewolf's seeming dismissal of the incident rankled almost as deeply as the Prank itself. Unlike the other Marauders, Lupin was a decent enough sort, but far too quick to forgive and forget when his accomplices got out of hand; both their lives had been put at grave risk that night, and Severus had always felt as though he was somehow obliged to carry the grudge for them both.

If he had an Achilles' heel, its name was Sirius Black. The self-control he'd learned so painfully to muster in the face of Voldemort's interrogations deserted him whenever Black walked into the room. Just one more of the infuriating little ironies that comprised his life.

Then again, Hermione seemed to be having a similar effect just now, though for vastly different reasons...

"Your confidence in me is gratifying, but I fear rather ill-founded. Or have you forgotten already that my own temper is a thing of mythic proportions?" he asked her, trying to make the question sound light-hearted.

"Hardly. But you don't have to deny your anger, you know; you have a right to be angry." He startled slightly. He'd lost count over the years of how many times well-meaning individuals had advised him to 'get over it' or to 'rise above it'; no one had ever vindicated his grievances that way before. His ire was promptly snuffed out by a wave of immense gratification.

"You just have to channel it productively, as opposed to, say, cursing Sirius into next week. That would definitely not strengthen your position," Hermione concluded decisively.

He snorted. "Well, it would, until next week. By that time, it might be a moot point."

Hermione giggled. "Was that a joke?"

"I am utterly devoid of anything resembling a sense of humour, Miss Granger; you should know that by now." He couldn't stop himself. His fingers found their way into her hair, that wild, frizzy mess that must be well-nigh impossible to do anything with. Still slightly damp from her shower, it smelled faintly of honeysuckle and sandalwood and vanilla. Glorious. "Dare I ask if you've exhausted your store of unsolicited advice?"

She turned and tilted her head, resting her chin on his chest. Smiling up at him with dreamy half-lidded eyes, she considered the question, while he frantically thought of pickled cod, Albus's socks, and anything else that wasn't remotely connected to the things a man might do with a willing young woman in the quiet of a clear January night.

"Actually, no." She fumbled in her pocket for a moment, pulled something out, and reached up and around behind him, carefully gathering his hair back from his face.

"Stop hiding behind your hair," she murmured, her face scant inches from his own as she secured the mass with a leather strap. "And stick with the suit when you make your argument. It's far more dignified than the Batman regalia."

"Bat-man?" He frowned, certain he'd heard the term before, but unable to place it. His mind was fogging over, swiftly losing ground before his body's powerful reaction to her nearness. Sirius Black, the impending war, and Voldemort himself receded to mere trifling annoyances.

Her lips were so close, and so soft, he remembered...

"Never mind, it's a Muggle thing. The vampire routine works wonderfully for frightening first-year students," she clarified, "but it only gives Sirius one more opportunity to needle you."

He shook his head slightly, struggling for clarity, unable to believe they were having this conversation. How had she taken control of the situation so effortlessly? Could she feel how violently his heart hammered against his sternum?

"Hermione," he whispered, terrified to ask, but at the same time needing desperately to understand. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She ran her fingertips lightly up the back of his neck. Oh gods. He couldn't take much more of this.

"If you weren't such an intelligent young woman, I would say you're coming on to your nasty, ugly old Potions instructor." And making a splendid job of it, too. Already his state of arousal had grown almost painful.

"As it happens, my Potions instructor has surprised me several times of late," she murmured, "and is neither as old nor as ugly as he seems to think."

He quirked an eyebrow, immeasurably pleased, but not missing the item she had left out. "But just as nasty?"

"Well, he did call me names and threaten to turn me into an amphibian." Her fingers meandered their way upward, tracing intricate patterns ever so delicately on the sensitive skin behind his ears. "But I'm willing to overlook all that, in light of the fact that he also rescued me from torture and probably an unspeakable death."

"Which is part of his job, and the penance he pays for past crimes." He shut his eyes, feeling giddy. No. You've got to stop--but maybe not just yet?--

Somehow one last fragment of good sense fought its way through, and he reached up to grasp her wrists, stilling her momentarily. "He is really rather a horrible person, you know," he breathed into her ear, willing her to believe him, and retreat while she still could--even as his entire body vibrated with the desire to make her stay. "Don't let your sympathetic nature deceive you on that count."

"Have I mentioned he's got an exceptionally nice backside?"

He rolled his eyes, thankful the moonlight hid the blush that crept up his face at that. "You would have to bring that up..."

"I seem to have brought something else up as well," she observed. She was blushing, too. He could feel the heat coming off her skin.

"Insolence." Breathe, Severus. Don't forget to breathe. "I should deduct points."

"You already did."

"Hmm. So I did...I suppose this calls for a detention." He was babbling, and he didn't care.

"That's fine. I'm not doing anything else right now."

"On the contrary. You're driving me out of my mind."

In answer, Hermione slowly spread her arms out to either side, making no effort to break his grip. Instead she rose on tiptoe to capture his mouth in a soft, sweet, utterly overpowering kiss that effectively silenced all troublesome inner voices.

Defeated, he encircled her waist with his arms, catching hers loosely behind her in the same movement, and leaned into the kiss, abandoning all pretense of restraint.

Warm and small and soft against him, and trembling intensely she was; but not fragile, no, not his Hermione...a wellspring of Gryffindor courage all wrapped up in this lovely, perplexing, surprisingly tough little package, pressed so close he could have mapped every curve of her by body contact alone.

No maidenly shyness this time. Once assured of his reaction, she leaped into the kiss the same way she attacked every other endeavor--with a single-minded determination he might have found off-putting, if he hadn't been so caught up in his own, equally intense response.

He broke the kiss, fumbling for his wand. "Door," he panted by way of explanation, charming it locked over her shoulder, still holding her firmly to him with his free arm.

"Right." She hastily dug out her own wand. "Floor." And in no time at all a very comfortable-looking palette was spread invitingly out beside them.

Severus almost dropped his wand in surprise as she casually topped it all off with an area-warming spell. Well, that answered his next pressing question. Or did it? Careful. Make no rash assumptions....she may not fully understand what it is she's inviting you to do. Gryffindor courage, Granger curiosity, always a perilous combination...

By the time that thought had fully formed, they were already tumbling among the blankets, and she was underneath him, and muttering with annoyance between feverish kisses because his shirt had too many damn buttons...

"Evanesco." He'd never liked that particular shirt anyway.

Soon thereafter they were happily rid of Hermione's blouse. And it was at this point, as he struggled to work the catch of her bra one-handed without calling a halt to the whole proceedings, that Severus ran smack into reality like a Nimbus hitting the castle wall.

Hermione was almost certainly a virgin, to judge by their earlier exchanges; he of course was not, not by any stretch of the imagination--but his experience with women, to date, had been either brief and disastrous (school,) obligatory (Death Eaters,) or bought and paid for (Hogsmeade red-light district.)

Well-acquainted with the basic mechanics of sex, he'd never really had an opportunity to learn the subtler art of lovemaking. And she was too inexperienced to tell him what she wanted.

"What's the matter?" she murmured, sensing the shift in his attention.

He chuckled ruefully, glad that the moonlight hid his flush of chagrin. "Minor technical difficulty...I am going to be completely honest with you," he dropped a kiss at the base of her neck, just where it met her shoulder, smiling to himself as she shivered, "and trust that you won't hex me arse over bollocks."

"All right," she said, a little uncertainly.

The drew a deep breath. "I haven't the foggiest idea what I'm doing."

"What?" She laughed, half disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

"Fraid so." He returned to his task, triumphantly springing the clasp a moment later. "This is a first for me, as well, you see." He drew the lacy contraption off of her, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her naked breasts. Beautifully shaped, they were neither too small nor overlarge--perfectly proportioned to the rest of her.

Strike that, they were just plain perfect. He ached to touch them, but was almost afraid to, impeded by a totally irrational fear that he might somehow mar her just by the touch of his hands.

"I've so rarely been in this situation," he explained softly, nerving himself up to trace the outline of one soft swell with his fingertips, "with someone who really wanted to be with me..."

"Oh..." He wasn't sure whether that was a reply, a reaction to his touch, or both. But then Hermione calmly took his hand, guiding it to where her nipple stood out hard in fascinating contrast to the softness all around, and made a funny little sound at the contact. The sound went straight to his groin, deepening the throbbing ache of arousal further still.

"I suppose we have a level playing field, then." She drew him down to her for another tender kiss. The softness of her against his bare chest...he imagined what her naked belly would feel like beneath his, her thighs...

"We'll figure it out," she promised breathlessly.

And slowly, shyly--feeling their way by instinct and observation and blind guesswork--they did.

---

Afterward, as they lay in a drowsy tangle of limbs and twisted sheets, Severus was convinced he would never move from that spot again. The prospect had its appeals, if he could only convince Hermione to stay too...

Panting, still mildly dizzy, he drew a deeper breath to say something complimentary (and probably rather foolish)--and then cursed inwardly as his breath caught unexpectedly in his chest and set him coughing.

"You should see Madam Pomfrey about that," Hermione murmured sleepily.

Hells. It's started already. "Don't worry yourself about it...it's only a little cough," he grumbled when his lungs had unclenched.

She cuddled closer, hugging his arm to her. "If I didn't worry, we wouldn't be here right now."

"True. I wish you'd go anyway...I hate to think what would happen if one of those spasms hit you in the middle of a life-or-death situation."

He sighed. "Very well..." This relentless barrage of common sense would no doubt be good for him, if it didn't drive him hopelessly insane. "If it will make you feel better, I'll stop by tomorrow morning, and submit to whatever indignities she sees fit to visit upon me."

He laid his head down and closed his eyes, breathing in the sweet fragrance of her hair. "...just as long as it doesn't involve confinement to the infirmary. I'll have far too much to do."

"Thank you." She shifted restlessly then, with a barely-audible sound of discomfort.

"All right?" he murmured, unsure what he could do about it if she was not. He had hurt her, unquestionably; and knowing that he hurt her, had damn near lost his nerve--naturally, at precisely the moment that it was too late to think better of the whole business. She would not have allowed him to stop, in any case--he'd had a confused impression at one point that the old Gryffindor nickname had its basis in reality, and he had in fact taken a young lioness to bed. Or perhaps a small hurricane.

It was a rationalization; but having come this far, it was one he had little choice but to cling to. That, and the knowledge that Hermione had walked into the whole thing with her eyes wide open. He only hoped that the experience had been worth it for her.

"Mm-hmm." She seemed contented enough, at least. He felt the last of the tension seep out of her, and listened as her breathing slowed and evened out, falling gradually into the quiet steady rhythm of sleep.

He lay there awake for a long while, simply listening to her breathe; unwilling to join her in sleep, lest whatever whim of fate had brought her to him snatch her away again the moment his attention wavered.

The moon had not yet set; they lay in a pool of brilliant argent, every inch of exposed skin gleaming faintly in its unearthly light. Despite the charm that drove back the cold, Severus found himself shivering beneath the great satellite's indifferent regard.

The moon was said to drive men mad; certainly it could turn them into monsters. He had personally seen it happen. Muggles, and at one time his own people, had even called her a goddess. Most wizards had long since abandoned such notions as literal truth, but the stories were still told; and there were some who quietly went on believing, passing the old ways down through the generations as archaic but sacred family tradition.

Severus wasn't one of them; he had never said a prayer in his life. He'd seen too much of the evil men did one another to believe there could be some benign omniscient force watching over the world, taking an interest in the affairs of humanity. If any gods did exist, he'd always thought that they must be petty and capricious beings, more like mankind than unlike, and no more worthy of trust--let alone adoration.

But Albus believed, if not in a God, then in some greater force for good. That faith was surely a part of the reason the old man had become what he was, the greatest wizard of the age. And tonight, with this lovely girl curled up trustingly in his arms--caring for him, worrying for him, wretched, tainted creature that he was--Severus could almost believe it too.

Let her be safe, he found himself calling silently to some nameless benevolent Power. Having long ago signed away his soul, if such a thing existed, he had nothing left to bargain with; and so, for the second time in his life, he swallowed his pride and offered it up as a desperate plea. Whatever happens to me, let her make it through this whole and well.

To Be Continued

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