Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Cantata for Three Voices in G Major	By : wire-fish Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 2798 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
8 Sept 98, Potions Classroom
Stroke of brilliance, delaying the Friday’s class topic to Tuesday.

Granger seemed to have decided to sit on her hands. She didn’t even come to the aid of Longbottom when he questioned the boy. Midway through the class, after he’d turned them loose on their brewing, he finally had the chance to observe her. Was she chastened? Distraught? Distrait?

He read nothing. Interesting.

She laid out her ingredients in order of use. She prepped each exactly as described in the book—no, she’d learned a new way of collecting bark off the slippery elm. After a moment’s reflection, he realized she was scraping the specimen exactly as one would scrape a vanilla bean. Clever. Rather than waste time stirring, she set a charm to keep the cauldron’s contents moving as she crushed the daphne berries and added the yellow juice at exactly the right time, before the harvested fluid could set up. She doused the flame and leaned over, watching for the change in hue and the acid bite, sample beaker in one hand and pipette in the other. He approached her table first, noted she never raised her head although her eyes flicked in his direction. Beside her, the Weasley girl lagged a step or two. Behind them, Potter and Weasley struggled to add ingredients within time limits, as they’d once again failed to prep ahead of time. Most of the class fell within reasonable extremes of Granger and Potter—but in the center row, both Longbottom’s and Finnegan’s flames burned dangerous blue.

Snape killed the heat beneath both overheated cauldrons and vanished the contents from the other side of the room. “You two, zeros for the day and three feet on the effects of temperature inconsistencies, due next class.” Neither boy responded and Granger remained bent over her work.

But Malfoy sniggered from the far corner.

Parkinson had become Malfoy’s shadow overnight, predictably perhaps. Malfoy Manor had been badly damaged in the final battle and the Parkinsons had taken the disgraced family in. The pair occupied the table closest to his desk, with the other Slytherin Seventh Years at the three closest tables. Then the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, intermingled, and furthest from his desk and the door, all eleven of the Gryffindors. Far too big a class for such advanced studies, and the extra hour he’d managed to wrangle out of an already stretched schedule seemed to barely improve matters.

By the time he’d completed his circuit, most of the class had deposited their samples on his desk. As the students sorted and cleaned equipment, he reviewed the beakers, ticking off each name with either a passing or failing score, Vanishing the sample itself, and marking the score on the empty beaker’s label. Given the enforced lowered standards he’d had to accept, he’d decided to adopt Slughorn’s lazy grading for the Seventh Years, just to simplify matters. It meant any potion close enough to be recognizable survived.

This strategy cut deepest when he got to the first samples turned in, each from a student he’d openly admit was a competent potioneer. Most of his House, of course, and the Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs who’d opted to attend, and a handful of Gryffindors who really tried. Like Granger. He held her beaker to the light. Not a speck of dross. It wasn’t just that her brewing was exemplary; her collection methods impressed him as well. He hunched over his grade book and made notes.

The bell rang, instigating a riot of shuffling and scraping until the room was quiet. He sighed, enjoying the sound of his quill in the silence, and reached blindly toward his drawer for the Cox apple and slab of sharp cheddar he’d tucked away.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Professor?”

His head snapped up. Granger stood at the far edge of his desk, hugging her satchel to her with both arms. Second time in a week he’d been taken unawares by the girl.

“Why are you still here, Miss Granger?”

He could almost see her mind working as she came up with a response.

“What’s being an apprentice like?”

“To a Potions master?” He struggled to keep the surprise out of his voice. “It’s work, Miss Granger. Exacting. Are you considering Potions as a career?”

“No.” She rested her bulging bag on his desk. “I did some research on the bubble potion and saw that a Sylvanus Ciren was known for requiring it from his candidates. I’d never considered—“

“That I’d done any additional training beyond Hogwarts?” he interrupted. His stomach twisted away any appetite he’d had. She took far too many liberties.

“Yes. Rather, no—I assumed you had. But the career counseling we did in Fifth Year didn’t address apprenticeship.” Her eyes shone and her fingers tightened on the fabric of her satchel’s strap. “All they covered were careers. Not specialized training.”

Snape leaned against the back of his chair. “If you seek career advice, make an appointment with me during my office hours.”

“Where would we meet?”

“In my office.” Was the girl dense?

“Sunday?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to spend the day in Hogsmeade?” The first Hogsmeade weekend usually enticed every eligible student and sucked all their distracting babble out of the castle.

She looked down at her bag, her lips compressed. “I planned to spend Sunday in the library. It’s nice and quiet when everyone’s in the village.” Even in the reduced light near his desk he could see her eyes moving under the lids. He wasn’t prepared when her lashes fluttered as she raised her gaze to his. “Your office then, at two?”

“Two. Don’t be late.” He sat up sharply, intending the gesture to be dismissive, but she remained. “Something else, Miss Granger?”

“Was Ciren your….” She hesitated and lowered her eyes again. “You apprenticed to him?”

“Yes, he was my—“ He felt the word lodge in his throat while an awkward heat sparked in his groin. It hadn’t been that kind of relationship at all, completely professional, but he’d served both sexes and with both yearning and possibility so close—push that away. “I studied under him.” He winced inwardly. Even that phrase had a salacious tone.

“Oh.” She made an odd little motion with her head, a swiveled nod. “I’ll be on time, sir.”

Granger hefted her armload, exited the door, and let it fall shut behind her.

He stared after her. All his years teaching maybe thirty students had ever asked him about his post-Hogwarts training. Most had been Slytherins and he treated their interest as simple fawning. His snakes had to learn somewhere, after all. Perhaps Granger was flattering him as well.

Her reluctance to call Ciren by his rightful title unnerved him nearly as much as his own unease, but he drove it from his mind and yanked open the drawer containing his lunch. Midday mealtimes offered one of the few periods of uninterrupted solitude for Heads of House. He refused to waste the time puzzling over inscrutables.

9 Sept 98, Great Hall
“Coming down to watch the tryouts tonight?”

Hermione lowered her newspaper and squinted at Ron. “Can you swallow and say that again?”

Ron washed down his kippers with a gulp of pumpkin juice and repeated himself while he skewered toast on his fork. “Wednesday, Hermione. The big day. Hoping Ginny lets Harry have Seeker again.” He nudged Ginny in the ribs while he reached for the jam jar. “You’re good, Gin, but Harry, you know. He’s Harry.”

Ginny snorted. “Yeah, and you just better be able to keep up. Freddy really got better last year. He only missed one quaffle the whole year.”

“Well, there weren’t many seasoned players, were there?” Ron retorted through a mouthful of jam and toast. All off fighting the war, not fooling around in school. He studied the top of Hermione’s head, buried as she was in her Prophet while she sipped coffee. Wouldn’t have made it without her, either, and when they finally realized how right they were together—oh, it was sweet when it finally happened. A little rocky here and there, but that was girls, wasn’t it? And Hermione—well, they were bound to have disagreements. She never really understood Quidditch. And she felt they needed to come back for the last year, convinced Mum and Dad, and here he was. The twins hadn’t finished, and they’d done fine. At least Fred had had two years of fun and more Galleons than he could hold before he’d died.

He stabbed down at the remaining kipper on his plate. Missed Fred. George missed Fred, missed having another Weasley helping out at the shop. He’d give Hogwarts a go, for Hermione’s sake and to keep Mum from carping at him, and if he got Keeper again, there’d be a reason to stay. Another reason. He poked his foot around until his toe connected with Hermione’s shoe and tapped at her.

She lowered the paper and glared at him. “What, Ron? I’ll come watch, I said so.”

“Oh.” He grinned at her, nudged her foot again. “I don’t guess it’ll take too long. Want to go down to the boat house after?"

She patted her stuffed rucksack. “Eleven subjects, Ron, and homework in most of them. Tonight’s Astronomy at 10. And I committed to mentoring the Thursday night study hall as well.”

“Friday, then?” he asked. “You were upset over Snape’s detention the whole weekend, we haven’t had a proper date since—hey, this week’s Hogsmeade weekend. We can go to the Three Broomsticks.” Merlin’s pants, whatever the bat had made her do, she hadn’t settled down until Sunday morning. Ever since she’d been drawing up revision tables. Or reading.

Hermione nodded. “Sounds good.” She tossed the newspaper down on the table and swung the rucksack over her shoulder. “Catch you in Defense,” she said and headed away.

“There she is,” Ginny said quietly, gesturing with her chin. “Slytherin’s new Seeker.”

“Her?” Ron craned to look at the thin girl with dark brown hair bound in tight braids as she wove around students in the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. “What happened to Malfoy?”

“Dunno. Alice from Ravenclaw told me yesterday. The Slytherin tryouts were Monday evening.”

“What’s her name?”

“Vivi. Fourth Year. Alice said she’d overheard Candace, the Slytherin captain, saying if Harry was back and got Seeker, Slytherin needed a secret weapon.”

“Her,” Ron replied. He snorted. “No way.”

Ginny shrugged. “It makes as much sense as anything else. Look, Ron, you weren’t here last year. The Slytherin team had to rebuild from scratch. Every player went off to the war—”

“All on You-Know-Who’s side, I bet—”

“Probably. Slytherin’s strategy always has been overpower and overrun—”

“And cheat—”

“That too. Not last year, though. Candace got captain, and Slytherin’s not had a girl player in twenty years, let alone a girl captain. Their style changed too. More like Ravenclaw, but almost everyone on the team is built small.”

“Even the Beaters?”

“As Beaters go, yeah. There’s their regular Beaters now, see?”

A pair of lanky boys with green and grey scarves swaggered past, one with a giggling Hufflepuff girl on his arm. They were built like twins, both tall and lean, pallid and spotty, and differed only in hair color and style. The one with the girl had brown hair in a plait to his mid-back. The other had dark blond hair clipped short.

“D’ya think Slytherins are pasty by nature?”

Ginny giggled. “That Vivi’s not. Did you get a good look at her? Course, could be because she’s just back from summer hols.”

“Didn’t pay attention,” Ron muttered, reaching past his sister for another sausage. “Gin, did Hermione tell you anything about her detention?”

“Not a thing. In fact, she’s changed the subject every time it’s come up. Bit of a record, isn’t it, getting detention the second day of class?”

“There was that time we flew the car into the Whomping Willow and got detention during the Welcome Feast.”

“Well, record for Hermione, then.” Ginny grabbed her bag. “She made me a revision table and I’m supposed to be studying in the library. Aren’t you, too?”

“Yeah, but I’m meeting Harry to practice some Quidditch runs.”

“Don’t waste time,” she said and glowered at him before leaving. Man, she was looking more and more like mum every day.

He turned around and scanned for the Slytherin team. They were just down a bit from where he sat, at their table of course. The dark-haired Beater had the girl on his lap now, one arm round her back, the other hand on her hip. Candace rapped the other Beater on the head with a roll of parchment and he guffawed loudly in response. A scrawny ginger boy leaned over and tugged at Vivi’s plait; she slapped back at him and hexed his tie backwards.

He’d never seen Slytherins look like so much fun. This bunch horsed around. Or could—they all sat up proper and orderly as Snape passed them on his way from the staff table. As soon as he was out the door, the roughhousing resumed, although most of them bundled up books and parchments at the same time.

Harry caught his eye at the door with their brooms over his shoulder and Ron snatched up his bag.

“Both Hermione and Gin gave me what for,” he said as they made their way through the crowded hall. “Revision tables, this early in the term?”

“Hermione does that every year, and every year we ignore her,” Harry replied. “I have to tell you, Ron, I’m tempted to try it this year, just to say I did. Once.”

“She’d never let you live that down, you realize.”

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who’s dating her.” Harry jostled into him and he bumped back. “How’s that going, anyway?”

“School’s got her on edge.”

“Me too, with what I have curing in my trunk. Come on, we only have an hour if we want to get washed up before Dark Arts class.”

9 Sept 98, Quidditch Pitch
Ron broke into a jog as he landed and trotted across to where the rest of the candidates waited. No reason why he should join the string of wannabes—he’d blocked every quaffle thrown at him, even when they’d doubled up on him. But Ginny had made it clear, if anyone blew her off, she’d cut them from the team, no matter how good the player or how she knew them. So he took a place in line.

Hermione waved down at him from the stands. He waved back. It looked like she had a book open on her lap. Of course. But she was packing up now and making her way down the bleachers to the stairs that lead to the field.

“Listen up,” Ginny shouted. She held a large clipboard and a red-feathered quill and waited until everyone was quiet. “No surprises here. Freddy, you did really well, but you missed two. I want you as reserve. Ron, congratulations on making Keeper. Wanda, you’re in the empty Beater position. Harry, you outflew everyone again. Rich and Sally, I want you as reserve Beater and Seeker, respectively. The rest of the team stays the same as last year.”

Ron thumped his sister and Harry on the back, trotted toward Hermione, and flung his arms around her. Her sack of books whacked into his ribs.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, Ron.” She dropped the bag on the ground and hugged him back. “Class doesn’t start for another couple hours.”

He chuckled into her ear. “Boathouse?”

Hermione shook her head. “Not really enough time. Maybe walk around the stands?”

“Help me take off the gear?” If he could get her pulling off his stuff, maybe she’d get into the mood. He gave her his most enticing smile.

She slung her bag over her shoulder. “Go on. I’ll wait here.”

Harry offered to haul Ron’s equipment up to the dorm, so Ron emerged from the changing room empty-handed. Hermione had settled down on the players’ bench and was flipping through a text book and scowling. She grinned at him when he approached and he took her bag from her.

“You carry too much,” he said as the strap bit into his flesh.

“Only what I need.”

They linked elbows and turned right to walk round the pitch.

“Good job on making Keeper.”

“And you didn’t even have to Confundus Freddy.”

“How’d you know about that?” Her brows bunched as she looked up at him.

“Harry told me. Told me he didn’t give me any Liquid Luck, too. Remember how steamed you got, thinking he had?”

She didn’t respond but stared down at the flattened grass of the path.

“Anyway, I miss McLaggen. Right git, but a good sort.”

“Can we not talk about him any more, please?” Hermione said as she pulled her arm from his.

They continued in tense silence and approached the sharp curve of the end of the pitch before she spoke again.

“Hard to believe this is our last year.”

“Hard to believe I came back.”

She scoffed. “Ron, you never know if you might want to do more than work in your brother’s shop. What if you decided to work in the Ministry?”

“What, with dad and Percy?” He shook his head. “No, I’d like to do something fun. Exciting. Like the joke shop.”

Hermione rubbed his arm with the back of her hand. “How’s George doing, anyway?”

“Fine.” He winced at his tone. “I mean, as well as can be expected.” He jerked his head towards the underside of the bleachers ahead of them, already in deep shadow. “Want to sit there for a bit?”

She chuckled. “By ‘sit’ you mean ‘snog,’ don’t you? Sure, as long as we don’t get caught. I’ll set an alarm.”

Ron groaned. “Just once I wish you’d stop timing us.”

“You know how we are,” she replied, already fiddling with her watch. “We get involved—”

“But you enjoy it, don’t you?”

“Of course. But I have class tonight.”

He moved amongst the pilings of the bleachers to an open area, sent a Sweeping charm to brush away any litter, and Transformed his robe into a blanket for them. She followed after a moment of her own charm-casting and settled beside him.

“Privacy spells? What are you worried about?”

“Teachers, students. Mrs. Norris. Habit.” She leaned against him. “I’m glad we’re together.”

He hummed into her hair, put his arms round her, and kissed her neck. “Hogsmeade this weekend.”

“I know.” She combed her fingers into his hair, clamped her hand on his head, and pushed her mouth on his. He kissed her back, held her tightly against him, and fell backward, pulling her down with him. They lay close together, panting and kissing, and she struggled up to straddle him.

“Nice.” He chuckled and cupped his hands over her boobs.

She sat back and batted his hands away. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” She smiled and leaned over him, her hands planted on either side of his head. “Maybe I just want to do this.” And she ground her pelvis against his.

Ron moaned and closed his eyes. She’d done this from time to time and he’d learned to deal. He tilted his hips upward so she rubbed on his stiffy. She lifted from him.

“No, just let me.”

He stared at her in the near darkness. “What’s the fun for me then?”

“Letting me enjoy myself should be enough fun. Just lie still.”

He huffed, put his hands on her waist, and pushed her back down. “You’re a tease, Hermione.”

She squirmed, then stopped again. “Why do you kiss me back when I kiss you?”

“What kind of question is that? Because you taste good. I don’t know. I’m supposed to.”

“Would you not? Just once? Let me kiss you—”

“Without me kissing back?” He studied her. She was serious.

“Well, I mean don’t do anything until I do it first.”

“I’ll try, but it makes no sense.”

She leaned forward and put her lips on his. She opened her mouth and licked his lips. He parted his teeth, felt her tongue slip against his. Ridiculous, not kissing her back. He shoved a hand into her hair and held her as he stroked her tongue with his.

She struggled away. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because it’s stupid, Hermione.”

He guessed she was looking down at him in the gloom. “Okay. What did it feel like before you responded?”

“Weird. Why don’t you try it yourself?”

“Okay.” She bent over him again and touched her mouth to his. He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her, felt her lips yield to his probing, her tongue move around his. He withdrew.

“See, it’s not much fun, is it?”

“No, I suppose not.” She sounded distracted. She rolled off him and lay beside him on the blanket.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” She cast a ball of blue flames and set it on the ground at their heads. “I didn’t realize how quickly it would get dark.” After a minute she turned sideways, draped a leg over his, and propped herself on her elbow. “Do you like when I touch you?” She swirled her fingers over his chest and he wriggled.

“Hey, that tickles!” Ron rolled toward her and grabbed at her wrists to make her stop. They tussled back and forth and ended with him leaning on her while they gasped for breath. He nuzzled her neck until she kissed him again and clung to him. He shifted, wedged one knee between her thighs, and humped against her thigh. “So good.”

But when he plucked at her jeans zip, she pressed his hand from her. “Not here.”

He grimaced. “You can’t leave me in pain. Then second best, yeah?”

“Fine. You undo it, and I’m killing the light.” Blackness swallowed them when she cancelled her flames and she groped over him, locating his exposed twig by touch. He lost himself in her hot mouth, rested his hand on her head as she bobbed up and down, and gripped her shoulder when he shot his load. She snuggled into his armpit. “Like that?”

“You know I do,” he said and kissed her. She tasted of his cum and he kissed a line down her cheek to her neck. Her hands roamed over him, slipped under his clothes, and gripped his butt cheek, fingertips clawing into his skin. He caught her hand. “Let up. Hurts.”

Hermione giggled and released him, just as her watch started vibrating. He dropped to his back with a growl.

“Walk me up to class? Do you need light to dress?”

“No, but we will to get out of here.” He heaved his hips skyward, tucked his bits away, pulled his clothes together, and gave her the all clear. She lit her wand, waited for him to disenchant and pull on his robe and grab her bag, then led the way out from the pilings.

“Ron, when we make out, do you think of either of us as being in charge?”

He squinted at her. “Never thought of it. I mean, I wouldn’t if you weren’t interested. Like tonight, I didn’t push it.”

She pointed her wand down to light the path. “No, I guess.”

Distracted again. Girls. Hard to figure. “Do you? Think one of us is in charge?”

“Guess not.” She kept her head bowed as though she were watching her feet. She didn’t say much the rest of the way, not even when he kissed her good bye on the Astronomy tower.

12 Sept 98, Room of Requirement
Other than asking him about his apprenticeship, Hermione managed to avoid speaking much to Snape the whole week. In class, she stared fixedly at the knot of his cravat and answered as concisely as possible only the questions he directed at her. He seemed just as focussed on minimizing contact with her, even to limiting the amount of time he loomed over her and her cauldron.

She slipped off to the Room of Requirement early that Saturday morning to locate the stack of magazines, just as she’d done the previous Sunday. She found them again, still in the cluttered bookshelf near the shattered lion statue, and noticed they had been rearranged. The issue with the vignette that she had helped recreate was missing (it had been on the top of the stack), and she decided the Potions master was suggesting something. Or not, since it was hard to tell how many people might actually visit the Room.

Probably very few of those hunted out reading material.

She picked up the new top issue and perched on a table nearby. Snape had thumbed the pages into rounded corners. Hermione examined both the spine and the edges looking for a suggestion of what might be the favorite selection. Wait. There was actually a worn scrap of parchment with a smudge of red ink on it marking a page towards the back. She flipped to the marker and read the scenes. The situation was different, not the idle capture and ravishment of a wizard in an office. In this one, the wizard was ambushed in a deserted alley by a menacing witch, ordered to strip, and flogged before being made to pleasure his attacker. “I see a theme here, Severus,” she muttered to herself. She read the flogging section several times. Detailed description of the marks left by the flog and the witch’s skill wielding it, the sensation of the tails draping over his skin, the subsequent caressing of the marks.

Hermione skimmed through the rest of the issue until she found a story that made her rock her hips so the seam of her jeans pressed against her crotch. Written from the point of view of the witch rather than that of the wizard, it had the wizard nearly stalking the witch before throwing himself at her and begging to be used. She moved the parchment scrap to this location and set it back on the stack, but upside down, thinking that might indicate she had come and gone. Or not. Surely Snape had better things to do than skulk around trying to determine her interests in pornography.

First goal completed, she extracted the disguised flogger from her satchel, uncharmed and examined it. Smelled delicious and the hides felt wonderful as she combed her fingers through them. He was right. This was more than a passing thing for leather. She went back to the the old, velvet-covered chair she’d transformed the week before. The velvet reinforced the charm he’d taught her and showed clearly where each of the tails hit. She worked both directions until she managed to make reasonably matching dents with both fore- and backhand strokes. The gestures reminded her of something she couldn’t quite identify and she started playing, altering her approach and attack until a cramp in her left arch made her stop.

Hermione kicked off her trainer, plopped on the floor, and massaged her foot and calf. It wasn’t really physically demanding and the flogger wasn’t heavy. The challenge was in keeping the throws consistent and aiming with the ends. The longer she practiced, the looser she felt, and the more regularly she striped the target.

Until she imagined a pale back in place of the dummy. Then her arm stiffened and the tails splayed awkwardly and wrapped.

He didn’t like the tails to wrap. She’d mulled his comment the whole week and couldn’t come up with a better way to understand. Take a breath. Another. She hefted the whip, then whacked her bare left forearm with it.

Not what she’d expected. If anything, it was like having a leather coat thrown at her. She tried a few more times before deliberately moving the whip closer so the tails snapped around her wrist. She rubbed at the sting and the pinkish blotches. Made sense why he disliked it -- jarringly sharp in contrast to the controlled thud. An image popped into her head from a movie she’d watched with her parents....

She flipped the blades over her shoulder onto her back. Thuddy. Try as she might, she couldn’t increase the intensity and stripping off her shirt was out of the question. Comforting, really, that it wasn’t as painful as it appeared, because those weeping marks he’d made with the crop unnerved her.

Hermione arranged the flogger across her lap to examine it again. House colors, so the original was likely also House colors. Her House. The crop too, Gryffindor colors. The idea had made her vaguely uneasy since she’d made the connection the week before. Questions battled for attention as she petted the tails, but the only person who could answer them was the last person she’d ask.

Well, maybe not. She could ask Remus. Maybe he remembered something. Harry had led most of the discussions about his parents with Sirius and Remus over the years, largely amounting to stories of pranks the boys had pulled with a few notes about how sweet and caring his mother had been. In some respects, the few glimpses of Lily painted her as a one-sided angel, barely even an individual. In contrast, James had certainly been a real human with foibles and nobilities. Irritating, but then, they were all boys. Probably natural they’d only pay attention to their direct rivals.

But their recollections of other boys left gaps. Peter Pettigrew’s image had suffered under his subsequent betrayal. If Severus deserved a mention, it was only because he had been the target or a miserable observer of some jape. Sirius and James had been the stars, Remus and Peter took some supporting roles, Lily became either a mildly scolding conscience or a glittering ornament, and the rest of the school faded away.

Hermione rolled to her back on the floor and stretched lengthwise. That was a problem with being Muggle-born. The only magical people she really knew were somehow connected to the school. Students, teachers, family of students, shop keepers. The war had introduced her to people from the Order and the Ministry and, well, Death Eaters. Very few “normal” people. Like Bellatrix.

Where’d that thought come from? Bellatrix was the polar opposite of normal. Crazed, power-mad, fanatical, sadistic.... She thought about the welt Severus had made on the dummy. He’d wanted to be hurt like that before. Would he want that from her? Could she do something like that to anyone, wallop them so hard the skin broke? The thought made her ill. How many of his scars were from his dominatrices? Had he been with Bellatrix, let her torture him?

She shuddered. It would explain why the witch had jeered at him during their final confrontation, if he’d jilted her, but so would the fact that he’d betrayed them. No, Hermione couldn’t strike him like that, make him feel pain that severe. Even if he begged. Especially if he begged, she amended herself. If he wanted pain, if he was a masochist like that, then the proper response as a sadist was to deny what he wanted. Maybe.

Madness. The more she tried to analyze why this interested her or tried to pin down what she felt, the more confused she became. She’d spent several free periods in the library and scoured the shelve on sexuality, but found little beyond a few mentions of The English Disease and the Marquis de Sade. Come to think of it, there wasn’t a lot about homosexuality either, as though the whole wizarding world avoided non-reproductive sex. Her search for information on Horcruxes had been more fruitful. Maybe it was reasonable, though, because it was a school library for teaching children.

She was willing to bet that Muggle school libraries didn’t devote whole sections on how to best brew poisons or fine tune methods to kill and maim.

She jumped when her watch alarm vibrated. Time to get downstairs to meet Ron and her friends for breakfast and head off to Hogsmeade. She tapped the watch’s crystal to kill the alarm, set everything back, secreted the flogger-turned-book in her bag, and made her way out of the Room.

Her friends clustered at the middle of the Gryffindor table. Hermione joined them, took the juice Ginny handed her and smeared currant jam over a slice of toast. The Hall was abuzz—perhaps it always was the first Hogsmeade weekend, but it seemed especially electric today. She glanced around. Every House table had clumps of chattering, animated students, and only the youngest wore their black school robes. The rest were all in bright fall colors or school colors.

A mass of black caught her eye as McGonagall and Snape swept into the Hall, with Sprout bustling on their heels. They huddled just inside the door. Hermione craned her neck—yes, Flitwick was there as well, all three of the other Heads were looking down at him. Then they separated, each to their own House table, but alternating where they stood, so that Sprout and Snape both went to the ends closest to the High Table.

“Your attention, please,” McGonagall called. “Third Year and above Gryffindors, come to this end.” Across the Hall, the other teachers made similar requests. McGonagall went through her usual pre-Hogsmeade talk about their behavior reflecting on the school and the trips being privileges that could be revoked. She concluded with a reminder that since the Seventh Year was bigger than usual, they should make an extra effort to courtesy and decorum.

“Third Years, I need your permission slips. The rest of you are free to go.”

By agreement, Hermione and her friends waited until the stampede cleared. Not surprisingly, most of the returning veterans at each table remained seated, finishing breakfast.

“Hogshead?” asked Ron. “Firewhisky, now that we’re old enough?’

Dean and Seamus laughed in agreement.

“Where are you headed?” Ginny asked Hermione.

“I need quills and ink, if you can believe it.”

“Already? Term just started.”

Hermione chuckled. “In all the excitement, I never checked the state of my supplies. Half my nibs are bent and my ink is so desiccated my rehydrating spells aren’t working.”

“Then where?”

“Window shopping?” She shrugged. “You?”

“Harry wants a new broom maintenance kit. Then I’m leaving the boys to their drinking, or whatever. Even quill shopping.”

“Then I’ll follow you, and we can hang out after.”

12 Sept 98, Hogsmeade
Selecting broom supplies took longer than she’d imagined. When Hermione had bought Harry his first kit, she’d gone on the advice of the salesclerk. A newbie error, it seemed. Apparently the Quidditch mags bursted with conflicting reviews of kits and unguents—she listened in amusement as they argued about the ideal diameters for brush bristles before Ginny jerked her head towards the door.

“They’ll be at that all day,” the red head complained once the door shut behind them. “It’s not as if we have top of the line equipment to begin with. Harry almost does, but not the rest of us.”

They made their way to the stationery shop, winding around knots of kids and adults. From the outside, the shop seemed deserted.

“Doesn’t seem popular,” Hermione said.

“Noticed?” Ginny chuckled. “Come on then.”

A bell tinkled as they entered. In contrast to the bright fall day, the store’s gentle lighting seemed completely inadequate. They explored the displays near the window until their eyes adjusted. Several small tables filled the center of the shop, each cluttered with a variety of quills and inks and papers to try. Before they moved inward, a voice rose over the muted sounds of the crowds outside.

“No, I’m not mistaken, I ordered that ink two weeks ago and it never arrived. Here’s the date on the slip, you’d see it if you’d just raise the bloody lights.”

Snape loomed over the elderly witch, a strip of parchment in his extended hand. His black robes and hair had blended into the gloom at the back of the room.

The witch said something in a quavering voice and shuffled behind a curtain. Snape straightened, turned and picked up a fluffy white quill on a table near him, and noticed them as he spun the feather between his fingers.

“Wore down your quills already, Miss Granger?”

“No sir, didn’t prepare well for this term.” She took a few steps toward the table he’d taken the quill from, felt Ginny tug on her sleeve in protest. “Not quite your type, is it, sir?”

His mouth twitched and he dropped the plume back in its holder. “No, indeed.”

“Here it is, professor,” the clerk said as she elbowed through the curtain. She cradled a box with several tall bottles in it. “My grandson was playing in the back over summer, I think he mislaid them.”

He exhaled heavily, leaned over to sign the receipt of goods, and took the box from her. “Who is your grandson, madam?”

She hesitated before replying. “Patrick Flanders. He’s a forgetful boy at times.”

“So I’ve observed.” He left the shop without another word.

After the door shut behind him, the clerk clucked her tongue and simpered apologetically at them. “How can I help you, dears?”

Hermione collected a selection of fine-nibbed quills and several bottles of ink. She set them carefully on the counter and the clerk boxed them up. While that happened, Hermione eyed the ridiculously fluffy quill Snape had toyed with. In addition to being beyond frou-frou with its billow of curly plumes, it had the broadest nib she’d ever seen and gold chasing on the shaft.

“Like that, dear?” the clerk asked. “A professor some six years back ordered that and never came for it. Nice fellow, pretty smile. I’d be happy to take half price for it.”

Hermione considered for a moment, then added it to the pile.

“You bought Lockhart’s quill?” Harry said in shock when they met him at the Three Broomsticks. “Why?”

“Whim.” She handed him the plume in its gilded white box. They took turns giggling over it as they waited for sandwiches and butterbeers. “It might make a nice Christmas present.”

“For whom?” asked Ginny. She tickled Harry’s ear with the long, floating ends of the feathers and gasped. “You ought to give it to Snape as a going-away present at the Leaving Feast. He’d toast it on sight.”

“He looked like he wanted to incinerate it in the shop,” Hermione said as she put it away. “Where’d Ron go?”

“Off with Dean and Seamus. I think they were serious about firewhisky.” Harry sipped his freshly delivered beverage. “I can’t wait for Quidditch to get underway.”

Hermione snorted. “I thought you came back for school, same as me.”

“I did. But the other guys—they’re restless. They need something to focus on.” He lifted his gaze to the door. “There’s Ron now.”

Ron wove his way through the crowds and scooched into the booth beside Hermione. He threw his arm round her shoulders and squeezed her roughly. “Can’t keep up with Seamus. He’s a bloomin’ sponge.”

She shook him off, irritated by the whiff of whisky and smoke from his breath and clothes. “Did you just leave him there?”

“Dean’s with him. And a bunch of ‘Claws. Some ‘Puffs, too. Seen Neville?” He peered around, narrowed his eyes. “Malfoy.”

Draco and Pansy scooted into the same side of a small booth on the opposite end of the room.

“They’re not bothering us,” Ginny said. “Have some of my roast beef, Ron.”

“Saw Snape, too,” Ron said suddenly. “Stormed into the ‘Head, went upstairs, and left.”

“We saw him too,” Ginny said and recounted their experience at the shop. “I suppose everyone has to shop sometime.”

“Poor fucker,” Ron said. “The shopkeeper’s grandson. Bet Snape will do something nasty to him.”

“I was thinking about that,” Ginny said. “The only Flanders I know of is a Second Year Hufflepuff.”

“Yeah, he’ll be in detention by the end of his first Potions class,” Harry said and chortled. They ate lunch and chatted. Once they’d polished off their food, Ginny and Harry left to wander about the village.

Ron rubbed Hermione’s thigh. “Guess it’s just us.”

“Guess so.”

“Get all your homework done last night?”

“Most. Have a Theory of Magic essay to finish.” She turned to look at him. “I didn’t realize how busy I’d be this last year, between the study hall and everything.”

“Eleven subjects.” He swilled the dregs of his butterbeer. “You’re always busy, Hermione.”

“When does practice start?”

“This afternoon, actually.” He put his hand over hers, leaned towards her. “I really like you, Hermione.”

“I know.” She edged further into the corner of the booth where they sat. “I like you too, Ron.”

“Once we get out of school, what are you going to do?”

“Work, I guess.” She fiddled with the fork on the table before her. “St. Mungo’s, maybe. Or apprentice with someone. Specialized training.”

He made a face. “I’m done with school. Will be, anyway.” He tucked his chin and looked up at her. “I mean, us. What do you think? Should we, dunno, get hitched?”

She laughed nervously. “I hadn’t thought. That’s a ways off still, Ron.”

Ron shoved his arm behind her back and pulled her against him. “I have. We belong together, Hermione.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want an answer now, but I’m serious. One, two years out, I’d like to have you be my Mrs.”

Hermione squinted at him. “How much did you drink, Ron?”

“I’m not pissed!” He loosened his hold on her, pulled a letter out of his jacket pocket. “Got this owl when I was at the ‘Head. From George. He’s asked Angelina to marry him and she accepted.”

“That’s great!” She leaned over to read the nearly illegible writing. “Next spring?”

“Yeah. May.” He squirreled the letter away. “George hasn’t told mum and dad yet. Or anyone else. Thinks they’ll tell him he’s too young. So don’t tell Ginny or Harry or anyone, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Yeah.” He took the last swallow of his drink. “So, I don’t want to be the last to settle down, you know?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Just don’t. Always got the hand-me-downs, last of everything.”

“I doubt Ginny and Harry will marry any time soon.”

“They might. See how they moon over each other? But she’s the only girl—it’ll be special for her anyway.”

“Percy’s not married, nor Charlie.”

“Yet. Percy’s seeing someone, though, and Charlie never talks about what he’s doing. He might have tied the knot already and just didn’t tell anyone.”

Hermione gave him a sideways look. “I don’t think anyone in your family would be that secretive, Ron.”

“You don’t know Charlie.” He tugged her against him again, pressed his palm against her belly. “He’s a real lady’s man, from what Bill says, loads of witches after him in Romania.”

She wriggled a little to shake him off her. “Really, Ron, this isn’t a competition, who pairs up soonest.”

His hand snaked up and stroked the outside of her breast and she jerked away.

“What the hell, Ron? We’re in public!”

“No one’s looking. Don’t make a scene and no one will notice.”

She stared at him. “No, Ron. I’m not doing that here, now.”

“Well, when? We’ve hardly had a proper date in weeks, not since we got back to school—“

“Because I’m busy!”

The diners near them turned to gawk.

“I’m busy,” she repeated in a hiss. “And if the best you can come up with is to push me into a corner and feel me up, then you have a lot to learn.”

He made space between them, glanced around him. “Okay, I got it. Maybe I did have too much to drink. I’ll try to be slower next time.”

“You do that. Now, let me out. I want to take this stuff back to the dorm and I need to finish that essay.”

Ron stood up and moved away from the end of the bench. “You have tomorrow, Hermione.”

“I have an appointment tomorrow.” She hung her bags on her shoulders. “I’ll see you later, Ron.”

12 Sept 98, The Three Broomsticks
Hermione stalked from the Three Broomsticks and Ron just stood staring at the door after it shut. That hadn’t ended the way he’d planned.

He’d expected that she’d accept the cuddle, move in a bit, cuddle back.

When a server came to bus his table, he grabbed his bag of broom supplies and went outside. The village was still mobbed with students and he couldn’t see a place where he could sit and clear his head.

The ‘Head? Firewhisky? His feet carried him toward the dive before he made himself stop. That’d contributed to this mess, it wouldn’t get him out of it.

Oh, but Seamus and Dean and the boys—they’d have ideas. Like more to drink.

Inspiration struck him as a Ravenclaw walked by with a package wrapped in lemon yellow with a black and red polka dot ribbon. Hermione’s birthday was coming up and he’d yet to get her a present.

Ron wandered down the streets looking in shop windows. She’d been quill shopping already. She played no sports. He’d no idea what kinds of books she might want. The bookseller advertised gift cards, but that seemed too close to admitting failure. Besides, he was limited to cash on hand, and that wasn’t much, especially after he’d been to the Quidditch shop. Robes? No. He apparently peered in the pink and black decorated windows of the witch’s wear store eyeing the frillies a bit too long, judging by the stern stares of the matron within. In an attempt to justify his ogling, he slipped into the next door he came to and nearly sprang back out.

Who would recreate the Potions workroom in the village and why?

Jars of multicolored liquids glowed in indirect lighting. All sounds were muffled, as if the few shoppers feared raising their voices over the light tinkle of glass as they lifted stoppers from bottles. He waded into lush carpet, reluctantly drawn forward by a smell...then he realized where he was.

Ophelia’s Scent Shop.

He’d heard his older brothers sing praises of this place, always accompanied with nervous giggles. They could never explain, something about he had to go there himself but make sure he’d scrubbed his hands first. Even that made sense, because he found himself feeling for hangnails and chewed ends. Malfoy probably felt right at home here, now that Ron’s eyes had adjusted and what had appeared at first to be stone counters were revealed as being upholstered in grey satin and crushed velvet.

“You seem lost.”

Blimey. The clerk had sidled up to him from somewhere. He was slender with a thin face, large dark eyes, groomed stubble, and reddish hair pulled back in a bunch. He steepled his hands at his chest.

Ron stammered out that he wanted something for his girlfriend’s birthday. The clerk guided him into the shop to a waist-high table where a bare handful of tester crocks stood.

“Our most popular line with Hogwarts students,” he said in a purr.

“How do I pick…?” Ron asked as he leaned toward the crocks.

“Ideally, you pick a scent that complements the young lady’s natural fragrance.” The clerk dipped a slip of paper into one of the crocks and waved it in Ron’s face. “This has lovely undertones with some aromatic notes.”

“Do you have anything that smells like old books or libraries?” Ron asked nervously.

The clerk pursed his lips and he clearly assessed Ron’s status of poor student with vertical flick of his eyes. “We can certainly oblige with a bespoke order. But perhaps this one might interest you?”

When the clerk left to ring up another customer, Ron noticed the little cards under each crock. Descriptions and, more importantly, prices. Merlin’s Y-fronts, this was expensive. He made his way around the table until he found the cheapest three. He picked the least flowery of these, although they all smelled like desserts, wrote the smallest amount down on an order card, and started toward the register.

A secluded display caught his attention. It had its own lighting, captive blue flames just like the ones Hermione made, but in cut glass vases that refracted the light. Elegant script wrote and rewrote itself on the back of the display box. “Self-Illuminating Ink—See your thoughts, no matter what.”

Brilliant. Perfect. He was tempted to ditch the perfume order, when something his dad had done years back popped into his head.

They’d had a fight, mum and dad, probably over some Muggle artifact or other, and dad had been consigned to the sofa for several nights. He’d arrived home from work for dinner, haggard and desperate to sleep in his bed, with a present, a tiny bottle of cologne, and mum had forgiven him.

Worth a try with Hermione.

So he bought both. The ink even came in its own little posh pouch.

“Professor Snape still over Slytherin?” the clerk asked while Ron counted out Sickles. Ron hummed affirmatively and the clerk continued in a mild tone, “I brewed that range.”

Ron paused, focused on his coins. Several details connected.

“Ophelia hired me based on the professor’s recommendation. She does most of the complicated fragrances, but I’m catching up. And that ink—that’s her invention, based on my idea.”

Ron pushed the little pile of coins over the counter. “That’s nice,” he said and met the clerk’s eyes. Yeah, the man had been three or four years ahead of him. Ron faintly recalled the boy receiving his award for Highest Potions N.E.W.T. at the Farewell Feast. What he remembered clearly was the snarky chatter about how only Slytherins ever won that award, that it should be renamed the Junior Death Eater Poison Prize.

“It is. Professor Snape wanted me where the sympathizers wouldn’t try to court me. Who’d think a talented Potions apprentice would be content working in a perfumery?” He made change, wrapped the scent with a flick of his wand, and put both items in a rustling grey fabric bag.

Ron shrugged, tucked the bag in with the rest of his purchases, muttered thanks, and only then noticed the silver framed photos on the back wall. Snape and Dumbledore on either side of the clerk, who held a shiny metal disk on his open palm and a scroll in his other hand. A Gobstones team of pigtailed girls clustered around a middle-aged Slughorn. A very young Slughorn with a witch on his knee, both of them cradling small cauldrons that seemed to be inscribed. Another customer put her orders on the counter and Ron escaped into the non-Slytherin air outside.

Not quite. Everywhere he looked, green and silver scarves. Snakes. He plowed through the crowds toward the castle, listing off the places where he might be likely to find Hermione, what he might say to her, how to apologize and sound sincere—and slammed into a hurtling black-robed figure who tumbled to the ground.

“Hey!” Dark brown eyes glared into his from knee height. “Watch it!”

He extended a hand automatically before his brain caught up and identified her as the new Slytherin Seeker. Too late to retract—she grabbed his wrist and leveraged his recoil to leap up.

She was really light under that robe. Petite. Half a head smaller than Ginny. Numbers calculated—she might be able to beat Harry with speed and agility. She leaned toward him and cooed as she squeezed his bicep.

“Strong. You should be a Beater.”

Then she rushed past him toward a giggling mass of green and silver stripes.

He collected himself, checked for broken bottles, and resumed his march to Hogwarts.

###

Ron tracked her down in the library, back in a nook by a window. She had her usual pile of books and scrolls and peered over them at him.

“Can I talk to you?”

She sighed heavily and he shuffled his foot. “I’m at a stopping point.” She set aside what she’d been working on, emerged from the alcove, and sat beside him on the work table between the shelves.

“I was a git.”

“True.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do it again, Ron.” Her gaze hadn’t softened. “I mean, that’s a private thing.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his weight from hip to hip. “I got you something.”

She huffed and dropped her head backwards. Not a good sign.

“Not to buy you off, Hermione, because I thought you’d like it.”

“Really?” She was looking at him now, that was encouraging, but he’d seen similar skeptical expressions on both mum and McGonagall. Not comforting.

He set the perfume on the table between them. They both stared at it until she reached out and picked it up.

“Should I open it now?”

He hummed and shrugged, not wanting to push her but eager to know if she liked it. She fiddled at the edges of the paper and unpeeled the wrapper.

“Oh, it’s scent.” She rocked the bottle to read the metallic writing. “From Ophelia’s?”

“Yeah. I met the bloke who made it.”

She looked sharply at him. “Really? You met the potioneer?”

He nodded encouragingly. Had no idea that she’d be so interested about that aspect, so he babbled on. “He studied here, at Hogwarts. Got highest Potions NEWTs for his year a few years back. Think he said he was an apprentice.”

“Apprentice,” she echoed softly. Hermione turned her attention back to the bottle and took a sniff, then dabbed the stopper on her wrists. She sniffed her skin and held her arm to him to sample it. On her, it smelled like sponge cake and baby powder. Tasty and huggable, like she were fresh from a bath.

“Do you like it?”

“I do, actually,” she said, as if she were surprised. “It has a nice color and viscosity.”

“You sound like Slughorn.”

“It’s an art potion, Ron, it’s supposed to be pleasing to all the senses.” She snorted, focused on the bottle. “Did he say who he was apprenticed to?”

“No. Just that Snape put him there.”

Her lips drew back in a pained grin. “Professor Snape put him there? What does that mean?”

“To keep him away from the Death Eaters, I guess. Didn’t make much sense to me either.”

“Ron...” Hermione sighed. “Recall what Harry said Slughorn told the headmaster, that they kept trying to recruit him?”

“Because of the Horcruxes.”

“Sure, but obviously he knew more than he let on. Don’t you think skill in potions would be inherently useful?”

“He had Snape.” He nodded toward the clutter of books and paper. “Are you done?”

She twisted her mouth. “Maybe. I still have some to write, but I got distracted.”

“By what?”

She picked up one of the books and flipped the pages. “I’m finding that the Fifth Year career counseling left a lot out. I’m Muggle-born, I really don’t have a good idea what I can do.”

Back to that. “Talk to my dad.”

“I’m not sure I want to work in the Ministry. I’d always assumed I’d go into health services. Healing.”

“Madam Pomfrey, then.”

“Most of those roles require an apprenticeship. And none of these—” she gestured at the books piled in her alcove, “none talk about how to make the initial connections. It’s all who you know. I don’t know anyone.”

“You know lots of people, Hermione. All the people in the Order—”

“Who mostly work in the Ministry or Hogwarts, if they work. Mundungus, for instance.”

She had a point.

“Dad keeps saying to pick something I enjoy. I like studying best, I think. I’d teach, but I’m too young.”

“Hermione, it’s still September. You have a whole year and we just finished saving the world.”

She drummed her fingers on the book’s cover. “You realize I’m turning nineteen in a week.”

“Yeah, so?” Ron grinned. “Want to plan a little private party?”

Her eyes flashed and her mouth compressed. “I’m serious, Ron. This world we saved—all the people who kept it running are still in place. It’s still the same world, we just don’t have Voldemort to worry about, and no one cares what Harry thinks any more.”

“So?”

“So, I want make a difference, Ron, I don’t want any of it to happen again, and the best way to do that is to change it from inside, but inside is least likely to change.” She shook another book at him. “I found this last weekend. It’s nothing but phony science on how magical genetics are transmitted. It’s bad research—even for when it was written—and supports the belief that Muggle-borns’ magic is substandard.”

“Then you do want to be in the Ministry—”

“No, I think I want to bring more modern scientific practices and discoveries into the magical world. But I can’t tell where would be the best place to start.” She paced as she spoke, going in circles on her basic idea that to do one thing required her to do something completely different, the duplicity bothered her, it’d be best if she could partner with someone who was already respected, and all of it involved needing to know more. Reminded him of when she’d gone on the spew kick because she just didn’t understand how things worked with magical folk.

She stopped right in front of him and poked him in the chest. “Are you listening?”

He hummed and nodded.

Hermione crossed her arms and eyed him doubtfully. “I’m going to stay here for a while and ask if Madam Pince will remove this rubbish from circulation. I’ll see you at dinner.”
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Cantata for Three Voices in G Major