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Soul Searching	By : Quillusion Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 9768 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 31
- 32
Soul Searching

By Quillusion

Epilogue

I can hardly believe how much my life has changed. It all happened so quickly, and yet I can see now that these changes were really years in the making. They aren't done yet, either. But in the three months since Voldemort's death, I have traded my old life in for one I scarcely recognize.

Oh, I still have the same daily schedule. Wake up, soak the nerve endings in a hefty dose of caffeine, check whatever project I left to simmer overnight to make sure it's coming along properly. Then I shower, dress, and slip into the classroom to wait for my first victims of the morning to straggle into my class, terrified of what Professor Snape will do today.

I'm still a terror as a teacher. I suspect I always will be- assuming I continue in my unintentionally founded career as a shaper of young minds. I'm not certain that I will. Given what Hermione and I have found in the last few weeks as we've started our formal research into the magic of stones, I'm beginning to realize that I could start my life over completely, if I choose. I could leave Potions entirely, although that would pain me; if nothing else of my life these last twenty years has been entirely genuine, my love of my chosen field is. I don't think I would ever want to give it up completely.

The students are filing into the room now, taking their places with guarded expressions. They're still afraid in my classroom, although the hatred I know my students once felt for me personally has gone, leaving their low-grade terror of me with nothing for company but the knowledge that Potions classes used to be ever so much worse. I still snap, and I still hand out detentions, although I no longer favor Slytherin unduly and have even given points to other houses. I've become something of a libertine, I suppose. But I have no further use for the unwonted cruelty which formerly dominated my behavior toward my students.

No, now the fear is much more productively aimed at the potions I teach them. It is a dangerous subject, after all. Cauldrons explode, boiling liquids spill and splatter, their classmates suffer the effects of poorly completed brews. I reverse them all, of course; there haven't been any bizarre accidents I haven't been able to fix. Whatever else they think of me, the students of Hogwarts have never doubted my ability to reverse their mistakes. Only my willingness to do so. But the beauty of this particular arrangement is that no one knows who will be the brunt of today's botched experiments. It keeps them on their toes, and I suspect that if one were to question my students with Veritaserum, they would admit that they are as entertained by the consequences of poor work as I. As I said to Hermione long ago, I know that, no matter what I once could have been, I am who I am now. Severus Snape, the sarcastic, the caustic, the exacting taskmaster. The teacher with a carefully concealed soft spot for hopeless cases like Neville Longbottom.

Ever since that last battle, when his ineptness proved that it follows him like a hungry puppy and knows neither allegiance nor obedience to its chosen object- when he carried Hermione from the entrance hall and laid her so carefully on my couch- I have had a fondness for Neville that defies explanation, and that bothers me in an agreeable sort of way. It also seems to have extended to the unfortunate 'heir' of Longbottom Cauldron Killer, who in my mind has assumed the title as though it were a peerage. He's tall and thin, he looks nothing like his predecessor, and still I look into his chagrined face and see the roundness of Neville's eyes peering up at me. And so I do my best to teach him. It hasn't worked yet, and I doubt it ever will- but I curb my temper and try not to belittle Westby as I did poor Longbottom.

It's not much, but it's a start, and Hermione insists that it is my true self trying to make itself seen and heard.

Perhaps she's right. She's right about a lot of things. We've grown closer as the weeks have gone by, both emotional and physical intimacy flourishing in the warmth of our shared work and our mutual affection. She understands the stones, and slowly she's bringing me to understand them as well. I think it has a great deal to do with intuition, with listening to a part of oneself which I long ago muffled, gagged, and locked in a trunk, simply to make it possible for me to do what I must. I think that as I learn to connect with the stones, I'm learning about myself in the process. I only hope I still have something to teach Hermione in return.

I start the class promptly at nine, giving a brief lecture and then handing out ingredients. Today is Valentine's Day, and the usual romantic claptrap has made its way through the student body, but none of it has accompanied said body into the Potions dungeon. Which is just as well.

This year I have rearranged the curriculum to accommodate Valentine's Day. My students have only school legend to tell them how lucky they are, for there was a time when I scheduled the nastiest-smelling potion for the 14^th of February- or, at the least, I planned to teach one that was highly likely to be botched and thus result in disfiguring rashes for the rest of the day. But again, Hermione is right. I've lost the need for such petty digs. As humiliating as it is to acknowledge that for years I was jealous of a roomful of thirteen year olds, it is nonetheless the truth. But it is not true today, and I can afford to be magnanimous about it, because I'll be spending my Valentine's Day in her arms. This year, I've decided to assign Eloquence Potions for the day. If nothing else, it will ensure that we have no repeats of "His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad". And it just might help a few rather tongue-tied Romeos in their cause. Heaven knows I would have been in dire straits when I found myself in their position, if not for Hermione's incredible perception.

The students shuffle their notes, and to my surprise, pay particular attention to their work. There is no chatting, no distraction, and I smile to myself as I realize that these young men and women- for they are fourth years, not exactly children any longer- have discovered the potential benefits of doing their work carefully today. Even Westby falls short of his usual quotient of cauldron destruction, producing only a minor smoking cloud that is easily cleared away.

I retreat to my desk, where I now have the luxury of spending thirty minutes grading essays while the students work. Aside from keeping an eye on the cauldrons simmering over the row of flames, there is little for me to do; I have long since given up 'lurking' and 'looming', as I believe Hermione describes my behavior during her school years. I settle quickly to grading, wanting to get through the essays before classes end for the day. I don't plan on having time to grade anything tonight.

The stack of parchments goes quickly, despite my having to interrupt my grading twice- the first time to stop Westby from dropping in too much spider silk, and the second to ask Sylvanus Strathbyrne to breathe through his nose rather than his mouth. That boy could almost certainly suck flies out of midair with the vacuum he generates; unfortunately, the low pressure front appears to extend to the inside of his cranium as well, because the toes of his shoes are labeled "Left" and "Right". That wouldn't be too uncommon- plenty of people have that sort of difficulty- but they're also labeled "Front" and "Back".

I refuse to consider his undergarments.

Fifteen minutes before class ends, I rise from my desk and produce the customary ladle and cup; Strathbyrne is chosen to drink a sample of potion from one of his classmates' cauldrons. Incredible; the boy even breathes through his mouth when he's drinking.

But he manages to produce a remarkable speech on the subject of his favorite Quidditch team, which moves me to award ten points to Hufflepuff for the quality of the other student's work. After all, I've never before heard Sylvanus Strathbyrne use words with more than three syllables.

I make everyone else test their own potion, knowing full well that most of them are planning on smuggling some of the potion out of class whether I give them permission or not. No sense making extra work for Madam Pomfrey later; for all I know, she has a hot date tonight, too.

"Those of you whose potions are satisfactory may bottle them to take back to your rooms for your own personal use," I announce briskly. "Oh, come now, I know perfectly well what you're all planning to use them for; why do you think I picked such a practical potion for today?" I fight to keep the grin off my face. "But remember-if I hear so much as a single couplet of bad poetry from any one of you, you will have cause to regret your literary indiscretions."

There is a mad dash for the door, and the three pupils whose potions failed sigh and turn to their cleanup efforts. This particular potion doesn't produce spectacular results if improperly prepared, which makes for lighter work at the end of class for me. Today, that's what I want. I watch them implacably for ten minutes, and when the last cauldron is cleared away and the last desk wiped down, I study them for a long moment.

"I would not ordinarily make this sort of exception for any of you," I tell the three boys coldly, my eye roving over them with something very like suspicion. "But in light of the circumstances- and the fact that, if anyone needs an eloquence potion, it's the three of you- I have decided to make an exception."

I hand them a small flagon of Eloquence elixir, and point to the door.

"Out. And bring that bottle back when you're done."

They're gone in an instant, and I sigh with relief and tidy my stack of graded essays. Even those humble scratchings are spared the full force of my irritation these days; I restrain myself to criticizing their content, and not their authors.

I chuckle to myself. There was a time when I would have thought that these changes represented the fun leaching out of my life. And I do miss it- just a little.

But I'm more than compensated for the loss by the sight of students actually learning something in Potions. I've never before even considered taking pleasure from teaching; that I do so now is more than a little surprising. Perhaps Hermione is right; perhaps this is something I could do for a little longer, until I get my bearings and make some choices for myself. I've promised Albus that I will stay until the end of the school year; beyond that I have made no guarantees. But the notion of continuing does not hold the same repugnance that once it did.

The day passes, as it always does, with its share of mischief and besotted adolescent posturing. I do find some of it a touch overdone, but it's easily overlooked with the addition of a detention or two. Or three. I smile with smug satisfaction to myself as I stack the few remaining papers on my desk, weighting the stack down with a glass paperweight bearing the Slytherin crest. Those students who thought that my feelings for Hermione would turn me into something 'warm and fuzzy' are as unobservant as they are sentimental.

After all, most things warm and fuzzy are also fanged and clawed.

Dinner is relatively tame, by Dumbledore standards. There is the usual flurry of hearts falling from the ceiling, roses everywhere, and strolling violin players serenading students for three Sickles a tune. No form of Valentine messenger has been allowed in this year, however; apparently Albus does learn from past mistakes.

Hermione is not at dinner, and while I know it's because of an astronomical conjunction which requires her work to be done tonight, rather than tomorrow night, I still feel her absence. I'm not dependent on her, nor she on me- not by a long stretch. Nevertheless, there seems nothing weak to me in admitting that my days- and nights- are better with her than without her.

I really have changed.

I go through the motions of eating, amusing myself by listening to the chatter of the students. They don't realize it, but the Great Hall's ceiling is acoustically designed and magically enhanced to make it easier for the staff to hear what they are saying. I happen to know that this particular feature of the school's design is the brainchild of Salazar Slytherin, but it's not a point about which one can brag without destroying its usefulness. In that, it has a great deal in common with many of the finer points of my House.

I sigh, and turn my attention toward Ginny Weasley as she sits at the Gryffindor table. It doesn't take a keen observer to see the faint traces of love bites on her neck; I hope she's being careful. We haven't covered contraceptive potions in class, but I have half a mind to slip her a note on how to make one. I've grown rather fond of Hermione's best friend, as much for her own merits as for her choice in companions, and I have no wish to hear how Molly Weasley would take the news of her first grandchild being born to her youngest child. Neither do I want to hear what she'd say to Potter. I've grown to tolerate him with good cheer, and I wouldn't want that fragile peace shattered by the resurgence of glee I might feel at hearing him verbally lashed by the capable tongue of Ginny's formidable mother.

Ginny is talking to her friends right now, and I'm surprised to realize that she's talking about her future. Great minds think alike, I smile to myself, and lean forward a little to hear better.

The young people around her have clearly been talking about jobs and future plans; most of the seventh years are job hunting now, or looking for opportunities to further their education. Some occasion or other has brought Ron Weasley and Harry Potter back to their alma mater for a visit, and the two of them have been sharing tips and discussing interview strategies with their younger fellows. Ginny has not said much up till now; her brother has apparently just asked about her future plans.

She toys absently with the peel of an orange as she replies, dropping her news almost casually to the table. "I have a job lined up," she admits, and Ron's eyebrow arches with interest.

"Doing what? You never even let on that you were looking."

"I'm going to be working as a model for Gladrags," she confesses quietly. "And I've had an offer from StRobes as well. You know- the really trendy shop at the end of Diagon Alley. They want me to pose in their fall catalog. StRobes has offered me a year's contract."

"Ginny, that's incredible!" exclaims Harry, his face alight with happiness at her good fortune. I know from Hermione that Ginny's got her hopes set on a higher degree, but I also know that she won't be able to go straight on to graduate school. Her family can't help her, and because her father is a Ministry employee, she is not eligible for any of the usual Ministry scholarships for which the rest of her classmates have applied. I've always resented that law- silently, of course- on behalf of more than one bright student who has passed into obscurity because of a lack of funds. It rankles even more, now that I see another good mind shelved for want of resources.

But not for long, it would seem. One or two years of modeling should bring her the funds she needs to put herself through school.

Good for you, Ginny, I think with a touch of pride in her determination.

Her brother surprises me in the next moment by becoming the voice of reason. "Ginny!" he exclaims. "Does Mum know? I mean, I know it sounds glamorous, but she'll have a fit if she sees you like-" he breaks off uncomfortably, knowing he's bringing up a rather antiquated point of view. His eyes stray for the briefest of seconds to his sister's cleavage, then leap away like water on a hot griddle. "Not that I'm not happy for you," he adds, clearly wanting to be supportive and protective all at once.

"I know what you mean, Ron," says Ginny calmly. "And I agree- Mum will hit the roof when I tell her. And she'll object on exactly the grounds you've mentioned- which is why I have planned an irrefutable defense."

She sounds quite smug, and a moment later I can see why. She reaches up into her hair and draws out an ornamental stick, its tip crowned with what is now revealed to be a locket. I frown slightly- the last time I saw a locket that looked like that, it sucked Hermione practically into Voldemort's lap- and murmur a subtle magnification charm to get a better look.

Ginny pries open the locket, and with a whispered spell and a flick of her wand, enlarges the image inside.

There, staring up from the glossy sheet of wizarding photo paper, is a young, vivacious, gorgeous, and three-quarters naked Molly Weasley, winking and swinging her hip in flirtatious circles to draw the observer's eye to the curvaceous stretch of long leg peeking out through the floor-to-hip slit in the diaphanous robes. Given what I can see of her hip, she isn't wearing any knickers- or, I realize after a quick check upstairs, a bra. The top of her 'robe' barely skims the upper curve of her breasts, and it looks as if it's relying on a prayer or a spell to stay up- and such assistance would be most unlikely to come from any male looking at this photo. Which is not to say that the robe hides much. The fabric is so thin she could get sunburned in the moonlight. The fact that the robe's sleeves skim down to her knuckles in sheer folds only makes the rest of the getup that much more alluring.

"Where on Earth did you get THAT?!" Ron asks, his eyebrows joining forces with his hairline to express his shock.

Ginny smiles triumphantly.

"The Gladrags catalog," she says simply. "1958."

Harry whistles. "I don't think your Mum is going to be able to say much to Ginny about her career choices," he says slowly, gazing at the redheaded woman beside him with new respect. And, dare I think it, with an altogether new level of desire. Even the Boy Who Lived is not immune to the charms of a supermodel in the making.

Well done, Miss Weasley, I think as I turn my attention back to my plate. Well done indeed. Salazar himself could not have done better. She'll go far, no matter what direction she ultimately chooses. She's come a long way from the frightened girl Tom Riddle lured into the Chamber of Secrets. They've all come a long way- Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, even Lupin and Black- and I've passed down that road along with them. The events of the past few months make these times feel like the end of the tale, but I know quite well that it's only a beginning. The beginning of these young people's lives as adults, the beginning of the life I was denied for so long. The return to the life Black put on hold when he went to Azkaban. The start of a life, period, for Remus Lupin as he is admitted to society from the fringe- as, I suppose, am I.

Ginny Weasley chooses that moment to turn her attention to the staff table, and her eyes catch mine. She smiles at me, and nods- just a little. But I know what she means. I nod back, and she turns to rejoin the conversation.

We all have much for which we should be thankful, and the future holds things of which we never dared to dream until so recently.

But there will be a time for such weighty thoughts later. There are other joys to be savored tonight.

I finish dinner and leave the Great Hall as soon as I can, eager to return to my rooms to get things ready for Hermione's return. I'm grateful to live in the dungeons of this heap of stone, for reasons that no one would really guess. It's not that I'm fond of the dark, the dank, or the gothic atmosphere- although that can be rather beautiful at times. No, mainly it's that I detest the idea of having to climb seven flights of stairs to get to bed every night. As it is, two flights up to meals is all I need, and at the end of the day, gravity is on my side.

I chuckle to myself as I reach the base of the stairs. Who would ever guess that Professor Snape was lazy?

My rooms are dark, and a few flicks of my wand set the torches to blazing and light a fire in the usually cold hearth. I make a few other preparations- flowers, wine, the usual rituals men undertake for such an occasion- and add a few touches of my own. I am, after all, an expert in my field; it would be unthinkable for me to have no secrets at my disposal on such a night as this.

It's all ready in short order, and a glance at the clock shows me that Hermione should be back in about an hour. I sigh; after the preparations I've made, I can't bring myself to undo the mood and settle down with a Potions journal. Too dry. My wandering eyes skim the contents of my bookshelf, and tonight it is only natural for me to lift down the beautiful green leather-bound book that started it all.

The WIKTT Archives. Its arrival over two years ago startled me to the foundations of my soul; what I found within its covers rebuilt me from the ground up. It's made me a different man, given me something I never thought I could have. I've laughed, cried, howled, and trembled at the stories it contains, and I've half-started on more than one occasion to pen a tale of my own to tuck between the endpapers as if I were one of the WIKTTeers myself. It's amusing to realize that no one is more qualified to be a member than I am; there is only one person on earth who is as dedicated to the Snape-Hermione relationship, as they phrase it, as I am. I've been tempted to tell the story of the last year of my life, just to see if it would look as fantastic on the page as it does in my mind. If I thought I could get my story into the Archives, I might even do it. After all, these women would appreciate the new reading material. I feel certain of that.

I settle into my usual chair by the fireplace, propping my feet up on the ottoman and crossing my ankles to get comfortable. The crackling of the fire is a novel sensation; I don't have it lit all that often. But the warmth dispels some of the February chill of the dungeons, and it's more than welcome to me.

To my delight, there are several new stories in the Archive. There seems to be a new challenge about Valentine's day; how appropriate. Many of these works are unfinished, and I read them with the usual flare of impatience at their lack of ending. Even though I know patience is usually rewarded, I frequently find the delay between appearance of chapters frustrating. And there are one or two pieces which have not been updated in so long that I despair of ever seeing an ending. I flip hastily to check up on Lost, by Venus DeMilo; no, nothing since December. Alas. I know the author is a busy woman, but I keep hoping against hope for progress.

A few more turns of the page show that A Night To Remember is one chapter further along, and I devour the new pages with relish. The gnawing sense of deprivation at the end of the update is as sharp as ever, however, and at last I chide myself to be grateful for the update, and then I flip a little more. Golem has been updated, to my great happiness, and I shiver as I read about Hermione drinking the champagne.

Ms. Janvier has quite a nose for wine, I think to myself. I wonder what she would think of Rowena Ravenclaw's specialty. I smile even further when I read about their experience with the red wines; there are days when I can't decide whether art imitates life, or vice versa.

I'm sucked in for the better part of half an hour by the realization that Jewel of the Nile has seguéd into Last Tango in Paris- and I cannot believe the flare of jealousy that heats my heart as I read the first few chapters. I eat through the rest of the existing chapters in record time, and by the end of chapter 18, even I cannot sustain any such petty feelings. I have to set the book aside and breathe for a few moments to regain my composure. Damn. Mental note- must have clever mural painted in the dungeons.

Equilibrium regained, I flip to the back of the Archives- this book is now positively huge- and check for new pieces.

A new experience is waiting for me on the next page; I've never sat and watched as a story appeared in the book. The writing gradually blurs into focus and darkens on the paper, as though the first page were rising slowly up from the bottom of a well. A new story, which means I'll get to read it before Hermione does. I can't help feeling a small flare of triumph at this.

Soul Searching. By Quillusion. Hmm. I think I read a piece from this author's pen some time ago. I have a vague memory of something involving a pair of stockings. Settling back again, I begin to read.

I set the book down with a startled thump, my heart pounding. I can't keep myself from glancing suspiciously at the wardrobe behind me, and at last I spring to my feet and fling its doors open.

Empty. Except for my clothes, of course.

That little minx.

That little Slytherin sneak. Excuse me. Gryffindor sneak.

I read the next few lines.

Gryffindor voyeur.

I read a little bit further, my pulse still racing, my nerves on edge. Can it be the truth, or is this a mere startling coincidence? Hermione stealing the soul, worrying about Molly and the Starling Countercurse, trying to escape- but to no avail. Hiding in my wardrobe. Watching me. Oddly enough, I don't find the idea intrusive; in fact, it's rather arousing. I know perfectly well why she wouldn't have told me, if this is what really happened; to Hermione Granger, 'expelled' is equivalent to 'excommunicated', and is a few notches below 'murdered' on her list of Bad Things. She had no reason to think I would act otherwise; when had I ever really treated her fairly before, let alone shown mercy?

I read further, and when at last she lifts the book to inspect its contents, I feel a shiver of delight go down my spine as I see a fantasy coming true on the page before me.

Without knowing why, my mind sharpens on a single point, a sudden thought coming to me through the thick haze of sensuality that has fogged my brain. I have a good idea why I'd like to know what Hermione's response was when she found out what was in the Archives. Any man would want to know that. But something is prickling in the back of my mind, the potential truth of which has been awakened by this story, and suddenly I'm convinced that it's important, for some reason, to know exactly when she learned about it. There's something out of place, and it's nagging that part of me which, for so many years, had the responsibility of keeping me alive by finding out things which their instigators wished to keep hidden.

Intuition flashes like lightning, buzzing in my head like too much electricity, crackling along my nerve endings on a surge of adrenaline.

I remember the horror I felt as Hermione circled the Little Green Book as it sat on the table in my study, that day so long ago when she argued that I ought to take the bottled Cleve Potion to the Burrow myself. I was so afraid she'd find out, that she'd be horrified. That we'd ruin the tenuous friendship we'd begun. I was so grateful that nothing terrible happened that day that I put it out of my mind as soon as I could, as if forgetting about it would lessen the possibility of disaster in the future. But in doing so, I've ignored a critical fact which should have occurred to me much sooner.

Hermione has a mind like the proverbial steel trap. She read the title of The Book to herself that very day. I would be astonished if she didn't recall it when she found the very same distinctively bound volume in her lap a scant few months later.

Which means that she has known about my copy of The WIKTT Archives since long before my confession at the start of The Fireworks three months ago. Presumably she made the connection, and hence the discovery, the very day she received the Little Green Book- probably in midsummer, sometime after her first visit to Nooke's. But this knowledge does not fully settle the feeling I have that I'm missing something. There must be something else.

Unbidden, the innocent conversation that left me feeling so off-balance that day last summer replays in my mind:

What's the last thing you've read, Professor? Haven't you read anything good lately? Something you just couldn't put down? Something that seemed to suck you in until you were part of the plot? The innocent look, the guileless smile.

That's what I've been missing. My own faults have blinded me again; I've never given Gryffindors the credit they deserve for cunning. After all, isn't cunning a feline trait?

She knew.

Somehow, she knew, even back then.

How on earth did she find out?

My eyes fall to the page again, typeface blurring as I look through the book at nothing in particular. And then, as if seeking answers, they focus, and I keep reading.

Hermione is nearly a half hour late, which does not bother me in the least because I have made significant headway into the story. If this is not the tale I have just lived, then I'll eat Albus's hat collection for breakfast and dance the can-can naked with the giant squid on The Leaky Cauldron's bar. I put the book down when I had read far enough for this to be patently obvious; somehow, it feels like an invasion of Hermione's privacy for me to go further, for her thoughts and feelings are plainly laid out for the reader to know. If I were anyone other than myself, it might not feel so odd; but as I am the one person whom the story Hermione would be mortified to see reading her mind, I feel obligated to stop.

There was a time when it would have angered me to know that Hermione had spied on me and then, after we grew close, continued to keep that information from me; but that time is no more. I can see in her eyes that she loves me for who I am, and not who the stories might have suggested me to be before she knew me. I know that I don't owe her love solely to that Book. I'm secure enough in her affections to acknowledge that, because she kept her secret, the information has taken its place as a cherished step along the road to where we are now. And I can readily admit that if she had confessed to me, the knowledge would only have become a rankling wound in our relationship, one from which I would most likely never have recovered. It may be a Slytherin trait to appear cold and proud- but it is also a Slytherin trait to know one's strengths and weaknesses, and to be mindful of each. I've had enough reminders about mine to last me a lifetime.

Speaking of strengths and assets- I feel my mouth curve into the smile which was so foreign to it before Hermione came into my life. I am perfectly well aware that among her reasons for being behind in her confession is her understanding of me. She expects anger. This, of course, gives me the advantage in the night about to unfold. Guilt is a sculptor's tool in the hands of a Slytherin with the skill to use it.

I am rather looking forward to extracting a full confession from those lovely lips of hers tonight. Which is not to say that I'm angry. Given the overall effect of her little venture into espionage, I have no reason to be anything short of profoundly grateful. But I want a little of that same pleasure she enjoyed- that secret, guilty pleasure of knowing- for myself. Just for a little while.

I carefully slide the Little Green Book, as we have taken to jokingly calling it, under the pillows of the bed when I hear Hermione's step in the hallway. When she emerges into the sitting room, I am waiting for her, smiling shyly, struggling to conceal a dozen long-stemmed roses behind my back.

She frowns at me, sharp eyes taking in my awkward posture. "Are you all right?" she asks, stepping toward me with concern.

"Never better," I assure her, displaying the roses with a flourish. Her smile is bright, and she buries her nose in the dark petals with a deep inhalation.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I murmur, and she wriggles her way past the roses and into my embrace. She feels so right here, and nothing else matters right now.

We stand like that for some time, until at last I draw back, tucking the roses into the vase I plucked them from as she came in the door.

"You must be hungry," I say, leading her to the small table at which we have often taken meals at odd hours. "I had the house elves bring a little something up." I seat her with a small flourish, and she gasps with delight.

"Oh, Severus- fondue! I love fondue!"

"I know," I say softly, kissing the top of her head. Taking my own seat, I fire the burner under the already-heated pot with a quick flick of my wand.

Fondue is a dish eminently suited for lovers, I think. There is plenty of time to stare at one's companion longingly, there are plenty of opportunities to tempt them with the removal of cooked morsels with long, slow slides. With chocolate fondue, there is the incredibly erotic experience of watching a woman slide a chocolate-dipped strawberry into her mouth on the end of her fork, and then suck it off and slowly roll it around, staring at you all the while with the implication that what she'd really like is something hidden about six inches beneath your plate.

Make that two inches beneath the plate.

She's going to pay for this one.

I couldn't eat another bite if my life, or hers, depended on it. I stand, adjusting my hips just slightly as I rise to accommodate my response to her teasing, and hold my hand out for hers. She takes it wordlessly, dropping her napkin on her chair and following me into the niche that holds the bed which has gone from being mine to being ours.

I stop her when she starts to slide onto the bed, instead pulling her to me and kissing her aggressively. After all the things I've read this afternoon, I can't find it in me to take things as slowly as I might have otherwise wished to do. I explore that soft mouth thoroughly, taking incredible pleasure in the sounds that escape her lips as she clings to me. My hands glide down her sides to cup her backside in my palms, and I lift her against me in wordless expression of how she makes me feel. I have to break the kiss when she lifts one leg to hook it over my hip; I want to savor this.

Lacing my fingers through hers, pinning her with the intense heat of my gaze, I walk her backward a step or two and press her back on the bed. It's so much like that first night. I never would have thought I'd enjoy being the aggressor when it comes to sex; in my fantasies, it's always Hermione who takes the lead. But there's something so delicious in commanding this woman, who is so decisive and powerful. Something so wonderful in feeling her tremble beneath me and glory in my possession of her. I smile as I nuzzle at the soft skin where her neck becomes her bosom; Hermione Granger likes to be taken. Even if she can't admit it out loud.

"Severus…" she whispers, and her voice is thready with desire.

"Hmm?"

"Naked. Now."

I chuckle, the soft vibrations of my voice thrilling her nerve endings as I muffle the sound against her skin. "Very well."

I've always wanted to see Hermione undress slowly for me. I think the Muggles call it a strip-tease. But I don't think I could withstand that tonight. Not with all the things I have planned. So I hastily slide my hands along the front of her robe, unfastening with practiced haste and peeling the fabric from her skin, revealing the soft bareness of her underneath, like bark separating from the wood. Pliable and smooth, warm to the touch like sunshine.

She is not one to wait passively, and I too am standing in a puddle of discarded clothing before a minute has passed. I lift her in my arms, laughing as she clutches my shoulders for support. She's forever teasing me about my 'forty year old body' and its weaknesses, ribbing me over the aches and pains it must endure; she's clearly known nothing of adult wizards. The only ache I have is one that will be nicely remedied by the time we fall asleep. My only weakness is her.

Skin on skin, the odd shock of all our warm and cool spots coming together until neither of us can tell whether it is our skin or the other's that feels so. I love this- the intimacy, the utter human contact. In those first few weeks of bliss, this was what I craved the most. Hermione understood.

We kiss again, the driving need rising but not able to overpower the tenderness. I lay her in the middle of our bed, stretching out beside her and tracing delicate patterns on her skin. I content myself for a bit with this, studying her reactions to the various touches I can apply. I know she likes my hands; she watches them whenever she can, and I oblige her whenever possible. I find myself wondering whether she ever watched them in class as she is watching them now.

With what I now know about Hermione and The Book, I am well aware that it's a distinct possibility. And while I never once let my mind wander to these sorts of questions while she was a student, the notion is now delicately and irresistibly seasoned with the flavor of forbidden fantasy. Everyone has fantasies, after all- many of them on the shady side of so-called 'morality', as the Muggles put it. Given the life I've led, this little spark of my imagination has the blush of comparative innocence on its cheek. I recall the frank terms in which Hermione describes the sensuality of what she watched me do; for all my supposed worldliness, in all but the most intimate moments, and the most private recesses of my mind, I still tend to think in euphemisms. Perhaps that will change once I read the rest of this story I've found; certainly if I've any interest in playing out the student-teacher fantasy, I shall have to learn. Unless I wish to relinquish the role of teacher to Hermione. Which would defeat the point of the exercise….

I lean forward a little to catch her mouth. She deftly curls her tongue around mine, sucking on it a little. I moan with delight, and when she lets me go, I can't resist saying,

"Lucky, lucky strawberry."

She sighs with pleasure as she sifts my hair through her fingers.

"I was thinking the same thing of your napkin during dinner," she says wistfully, and somehow she makes the humorous remark sexy, too.

My eyes drift closed for a long moment as I savor the feel of her skin, and I murmur softly,

"I wish I could know how you feel. How the things I do to you feel to you, how you respond."

Hermione shifts under me, the soft flex and glide of her muscles sensuous against me.

"There are potions," she says, and I can tell she's hesitant about appearing to lecture me on my own subject.

"Oh, I know," I chuckle, and reach overhead for one of the little bottles I had put there earlier. "Believe me. I know." I hold the slate blue bottle up to the light, eyeing the liquid level pooling in its glass prison. Such possibilities….

"This used to be used as a way to torture people," I muse as I uncork the flask. "It was given to several people, one of whom would then be physically tortured. It was a favorite tactic of the Dark Lord in days gone by, one which allowed him to inflict pain on one person and have it felt by numerous others- none of whom would then bear physical marks to allow them to accuse him of assault. There was a time when I was compelled to brew this for him; in fact, it was the first task he gave me when I made the colossal mistake of throwing in my lot with him."

I turn the flask over, let one drop of the peacock-colored elixir fall into my palm.

"But it has occurred to me that it has other uses."

Hermione shivers as I gently turn my palm over and spread the thick, warm oil into her belly. I hear the faintest whimper as the stuff soaks into her skin, and she arches into my touch.

"I've always wanted to know what you see in me," I go on. "I've wanted to know what made you look twice. Or even the first time. What made you decide that I was worth your notice, your attention. Your love. What made you decide to put yourself on the line to save my life. I want to know what that first moment was like- that first moment when you looked past the professor and saw the man."

Without even realizing it, I've given her the very confession I was hoping to receive. Some subtlety. But there are times when being direct is the best way for a Slytherin to disarm a Gryffindor.

Hermione bites her lip, and I see the faintest flicker of nervousness in her eyes. Guilt. But she masters her expression- a sign that she's already learned far too much from me- and smiles.

"That potion ought to go a long ways toward that," she returns. "Can it really tell you all that?"

"Most of it," I affirm, sending a long strand of the thick stuff from her breast to her hip in a jeweled arc. My fingers are not far behind, and she chuckles.

"And will you get to see that first moment?"

Her voice gives it away- but only just. She's afraid I'll find her secret and be angry with her.

"Perhaps," I hedge, leaning forward to kiss her mouth.

"Maybe it's a tragically Gryffindor moment- you see me returning from a Dark Revel and the unspeakable nobility of my sacrifices kindles the flame." My mocking tone lets her know I don't really believe this, and she smiles under my lips. My mouth curves to match hers as I go on. "Or perhaps a secret schoolgirl crush, brought on by the fact that Miss Hermione Granger is turned on by shouting and threats." I let my hands glide to a stop, my hands spanning her waist, the tips of my fingers spread across the curve of her hips. I narrow my eyes at her just a little.

"Or perhaps," I say softly, my voice laced with meaning, "perhaps there's more than a little of the clandestine here after all."

Eyes pinned to hers, I lean forward, letting my hands slick up through the oily elixir on her chest, deftly clasping her wrists in mine and drawing them above her head.

But I have not effectively immobilized the rest of her, and with a sinuous movement she twines her legs with mine, rolls me leisurely to one side so that her face is in shadow, mine limned by firelight.

She may be on top of things physically, but I can tell from her expression that I've still got the reins well in hand. "Is that it, Miss Granger?" I ask smoothly. "Is there something illicit in your interest in me? A little touch of Nabokov, perhaps? Or maybe it's more along the lines of the vampire rumors that spread during your school years." I study her for a moment.

"Or did you learn more than you bargained for when you stole from my storeroom-" careful beat- "back in your second year."

But that's all it took; her admission is sketched on her face in lines of uncertainty and shame, and I regret putting them there for such a petty cause. I smile at her warmly.

"Mind you, I wouldn't complain," I say, feathering my breath across the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. "I've nothing but gratitude for even the most ignominious beginnings of your feelings for me." The faint drop in tension I feel in the skin against mine is reward enough for the absolution I know I've just given her, and I catch her earlobe between my teeth and suckle for a moment, savoring the pleased gasp she cannot hold back.

"All the same, I doubt there are two graduates of Hogwarts in the last fifteen years capable of thinking of Professor Snape's sex life without needing Calming Compound afterward. Excepting you, of course- although given your usual response, I don't know that Calming Compound would be a bad idea. For either of us."

Her smile is so beautiful, especially when she's responding to my teasing.

"I don't know, Severus," she says uncertainly, curling one lock of my hair around her finger, and I know she isn't referring to the Calming Compound. "I'll tell you someday. I just don't know if I can blurt it out like that."

I shouldn't… I really shouldn't… but I can't resist.

"Come now, Hermione. What's the worst it could be?" My tone is academically dry. "You caught me one night in the middle of a game of single-handed solitaire and thought it looked really sexy?"

She turns beet red, not sure how to interpret my ambiguous remark, and I congratulate myself on a well-placed point.

"No?" I murmur, my tone full of tender disbelief, and then lean in to plant kisses on her neck. My hands trail in their wake, and when I have her twisting beneath my touch, I pour the rest of the oil on her skin and spread it thinly across her body until I cannot hold her still against the tides that move her. Slick, paradoxically sticky, she feels finer than anything I think the world can ever offer me again. It's all I can do to keep hold of my wits and my tongue, but I can't afford to lose either. Not now that I've started this game.

She's whimpering now, and I can see my desire echoing in her eyes. She's feeling the effects I described to her when I first drizzled this potion onto her, and her body is more than ready for mine. I whisper to her, words of love and lust, graphic descriptions of what I want to feel. She's past speech, but her hands make it more than clear what she wants.

I will never grow used to the shock of joining, the exhilarating moment when you connect with the other part of you and feel whole, just for that short while. It's nothing I ever thought to know, and I still wake some mornings fearing that this was all just a dream. But this is what I've wanted to savor tonight, and no dream will ever be this good.

Hermione is arching beneath me, her back tight as a bowstring, and the sight is breathtaking. She looks up at me then, and I know by the look in her eyes that she's remembering the very moment she won't describe to me.

I let the rhythm falter for an instant, my eyes widening just a little. "It wouldn't bother me if it were true, Hermione," I murmur a moment later, picking up the rhythm again just a little. "It might be the only way it could ever have happened. I would never have had the courage to approach you, and I can't imagine you would ever have thought of me without some kind of encouragement." I close my own eyes, the sensations flooding my body overwhelming me for a moment. It would appear that I have discovered my intellectual limits- or at least my hematological limits. I'd need another quart of blood to power higher cortical functions at the moment; my current blood supply is occupied elsewhere and shows no sign of wanting to leave anytime soon.

"Do you like the idea of that?" I ask her, still being intentionally vague, trusting that she's thinking what I believe she's thinking- and from her body's response, I know that I'm right. "I used to read the Archives at night before bed, and I'd be lying if I told you I didn't have a normal red-blooded male response to those stories. I was careful to keep the book out of sight, and even more careful not to let anything slip about its existence. That day when you came to my rooms was the first anyone ever saw of it." I let her think over that, and she locks her legs around me as I shift position a little bit.

"Not exactly," she murmurs, and then her eyes fly open in consternation.

"Really?" I drawl, then renew my efforts. I wait until we're both on the edge, and then, as I feel the shivers begin deep in her core, I press myself into her and ask,

"Did you like watching me?"

Her eyes open so wide that I know she's not looking at me, and as her climax ignites, she throws her head back and shrieks,

"Yes!!!"

The faint hiss of the fire slowly reaches my ears as the pounding of my heart lessens. Hermione's body is gradually uncoiling from beneath mine, and as we ease into a more comfortable position, I can see that there is still a red flush across her skin. I know her body too well to mistake it for the pleasant leavings of desire; it's a blush, and a strong one.

"Severus… I don't know what to say."

"About what?" I ask, lightly tracing her eyebrows with my index finger.

She frowns, just a little. "I think you know the answer to that," she says.

"Probably," I allow, my voice still calm.

"Probably?" she echoes, and I can hear the natural irritation in her voice being restrained by the knowledge that she sinned first. "You read it right from my mind!"

"No, I didn't," I counter.

"Yes, you did. That potion ought to be registered like Veritaserum!"

"You have a point there, my dear. But I have the distinct feeling that your discomfort stems more from the nature of what you revealed than the fact that you revealed it." I draw her close to me, letting my actions soothe even as our words wrangle.

Her confession is registered once again in her silence; she curls closer into my chest, as if to hide.

"Both of those points bother me a little, if you'd have the truth," she says at last. "It's always uncomfortable to find that someone else knows what you've tried to keep a secret."

"Quite," I say, and she catches the irony in my tone. "But at least now you've got it off your chest." My hand slides gently down to illustrate my point; her skin is bare, covered only in shadows and the faintest trace of elixir.

"I did no such thing," Hermione asserts, rolling to her side to look at me seriously. "That was an invasion of privacy."

"So was what you did."

This frank admission that I know exactly what she did is enough to stop the irrepressible Miss Granger in her tracks. "Damn potion," she mutters.

"It wasn't the potion. Which means, when you come right down to it, that I did not really invade your privacy. You confessed all on your own; I only made suggestions."

"I thought you said the potion could let you see my thoughts and feelings!"

"It can."

"But then-"

"Hermione," I murmur against her damp skin. "You have to drink it, love."

She stiffens for a moment, and it's difficult to decide whether she is angry with me, or with herself for assuming. But then she relaxes, and her 'tsk' is clearly full of self-recrimination mixed with good-natured resignation.

"Just when I thought you were coming out of your Slytherin shell, too."

"Skin, dear, skin. Snakes don't have shells."

"Whatever. I could still swear you read that little scenario out of my mind with that potion. I'd never have confessed otherwise."

"I have no doubt. But if touch were enough to activate the potion, don't you think you'd have felt my emotions and thoughts in turn?" I don't wait for her answer. "Not that the failure of your usually scintillating intellect disturbs me; if you could have managed higher reasoning and logic through everything we just did, my ego might never have recovered." It is all I can do to refrain from reverting to Professor Snape in the face of such academic frustration from the former Head Girl. I'm only trying this hard because her knee is too close to prime real estate for me to dare letting myself go.

Hermione's brow is creased with a wary frown. She doesn't see the connection, but she knows it isn't the one I've led her to expect. "But you said you thought this potion might have other uses. I thought you were referring to… er… pleasurable uses. Ones that involve good feelings. I had thought you meant that the potion could be used to let lovers share even more."

I let my own mouth curve into a smile.

"In a manner of speaking. The potion is, as you have seen, admirably suited for use as a massage oil," I say contemplatively, kneading the muscles of her shoulders and pulling her closer to me as I do it. "The energy-releasing qualities of the meteorite dust work just as well on muscles as they do on the human mind." The husky timbre of my voice seems to be working on her mind, at least, and I draw her down against my chest once more. "Next time I think we should try the potion your way."

She studies me shrewdly for a moment. "Deal," she says. "I've wanted to explore the inner workings of your head for a long time now."

I laugh. "I love you, Hermione," I murmur as I reach up to kiss her. "You and that inquisitive mind of yours. I've wanted to know more about that part of you, myself."

Which thought brings me right back to where I started. "A little light bedtime reading?" I offer, consciously echoing my words the night of The Fireworks as I deftly slide the Little Green Book out from under the pillow.

Hermione shivers, then nods and turns to inspect the Book's thickness. "Anything new?" she asks, her hand gently caressing my shoulder. In reply I tip the book open to where my bookmark lies across the page, then quickly flip back to the first page of the new story.

"Soul Searching," she reads contemplatively. "Well. The gods know we've both done quite a bit of that lately. Who knows-" she winks at me saucily. "Maybe this one will be your long-awaited tale of Hermione's Epiphany."

You have no idea, I think fondly as I watch her sink into the pages.

When she sits bolt upright one chapter later, eyes wide and face pale, I lean in to press a hot kiss to her mouth. Confession is good for the soul, they say. I'd like to see Hermione Granger search hers for a way out of this one.

I find myself using my best 'Professor Snape' tone as I bring my mouth to Hermione's ear and whisper,

"So. Miss Granger. Is there anything you'd like to tell me before I read any more of this story than I already have?" My hand slides down her side to circle her waist possessively. "Or shall we skip right to the detention?"

One delicate eyebrow arches in response to my challenge, and she turns to study me, considering her options. Those beautiful eyes are candid in their assessment of my face, and it requires no skill in subterfuge for me to tell that she's come to the same realization I have: it's all come right, and now it's just a matter of finishing out the game. Once her decision is made, I see the change subtly shift her features as Gryffindor guilt now turns in full retreat before Slytherin seduction. Her voice is sultry, husky when she replies.

"Detention- singular? Professor, you disappoint me. I suspect you have not read all of the assigned text." Her provocative smile belies her slightly mocking tone. "You'll be threatening to expel me by the time you're done with this tale." She pauses a beat. "Unless," she amends with a suggestive smile, "you're more of an opportunist than I once thought you to be."

Any reply I might have made is lost in the mad scramble to be the first one to get hold of the Little Green Book.

The faint light of dawn is softly filtering into our rooms, and Hermione is dozing against my chest. We're exhausted, as we've been up all night reading. The story is achingly familiar, and the intimacy of candlelight gave us the necessary courage to admit as much to one another. I may never know whether the Book started all of this, or whether it merely made us acknowledge feelings that we had hidden from ourselves- and I don't care either way. Fate has its methods; for some couples, it's a trip on The Knight Bus. For others, it's dropping an armload of packages in Diagon Alley. For us, in proof that the cosmos has a sense of humor, it was a book.

It's remarkable, and I still don't know how these WIKTTeers do it; perhaps they are the Fates themselves. Perhaps some of the other stories in this book will come true; perhaps none of them will. Perhaps there's another alternate universe out there with another Severus and Hermione, reading these stories, finding this particular one to be an interesting fiction, and yet finding their own life stories recorded by one of the other authors in the same sort of eerie benediction from beyond that I feel now.

I'm feeling it even as I read these words, words which I myself did not write- no matter how they are phrased. The next page of the Archives is blank, and I know I am nearly to the last paragraph of this story. I'm also joltingly aware that the tale is now entirely caught up to my present life, and that as I read I am merely reading about what I'm doing right now. To read anything further could be to learn of my future. If I watch the page, will I see my future unfold upon it? Or will I have to put the book away and check back later? Surely there's a metaphysical impossibility staring me in the face- unless it has to do with time travel.

No. That's too much to consider without sleep. I'm going to put this book down- just as soon as I can read the words that have suddenly begun blossoming on the blank facing page of The WIKTT Archives.

That's funny. The words aren't getting any clearer. I wonder…

Oh.

I'd better close this book now. It seems that Quillusion cannot write any more about my life- our lives- until we've lived it first.

Somehow, that rings as both a reassurance and a challenge.

Smiling, I carefully close The WIKTT Archives and set it on the nightstand, then gather Hermione into my arms and murmur a spell to draw the curtains against the sun. We'll need our sleep if we want our sequel to be any good.

FINIS

Author's Notes:

Finishing a story is an odd sensation. I feel elation at being done, coupled with a sense of loss as the last of the things that might have been must finally yield to what is. I feel like I've raised a child over the last nine months, and I'm so grateful to everyone who has helped me do it! A hundred thousand thank yous to all the wonderful reviewers who have reviewed this story on ff.net and Whispers, and to all who have emailed me about the story and its contents. I am indebted to all of you for the input and feedback! You all helped me keep going. Thanks once again to The White Knight for being a great critiquer of plot, and to WIKTT and its members for stimulating conversation and for providing the inspiration behind the Little Green Book. I've enjoyed directing people to the group as a result of inquiries as the story has progressed; I've also enjoyed meeting you online. It was a unique pleasure to see names from my email inbox appearing on 'hello' posts….

I hope you've had as much fun reading Soul Searching as I have had writing it. I may clean it up a little bit, and I do plan on posting nearly the entire thing back on ff.net (although a few chapters may need to be posted on outside sites due to the content restrictions on ff.net). It may take me a while to do all of this, however. I don't think I'll be modifying the beginnings of the story, which- as a few reviewers have noted- has less lofty goals than the rest of the tale. The beginning became too entrenched in the rest of the story, and upon reflection, I've realized that the whole thing happened to me, the author, as suddenly as it did to Hermione. Neither of us saw it coming, and neither of us found it surprising to have what started out as a simple quest to help a friend turn into something so much bigger. I don't write from an outline, I just take an idea and go with it, and sometimes the stories spring surprises on me just like life does. So I'll be leaving Soul Searching as it is, with appropriate ratings.

And yes- there may be a sequel. But I've got way too many other plot bunnies rioting in my head for their chance at the keyboard, and I haven't decided when further forays into the Soul Searching universe may take place. Reviews, feedback, and input are always helpful to authors considering sequels. (And with that, the hint dropped lightly enough to be mistaken for a New York telephone directory left out in the rain.)

For anyone who is interested in archiving this story, please do email me at quillusion@yahoo.com to discuss it. I'm generally open to archives as long as the story is not modified and the disclaimers go on it along with my nom de plume, but I like to visit the sites too!

We'd like to thank you for choosing Quillusion Airlines to provide you with transportation to Anywhere But Here. If you ever find yourself needing a bit of escapism again, please consider flying with us. We hope you've enjoyed your flight, and we wish you a pleasant stay wherever your final destination may be.
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Soul Searching