Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion     For those who have emailed or reviewed and asked about whether or not WIKTT is real, yes- it is! It is one of the Yahoo! Groups. WIKTT, as noted in an early chapter, stands for When I Kissed The Teacher, and is a group dedicated to the Snape/Hermione pairing. WIKTT can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/whenikissedtheteacher/ And you can find all the fics and pics mentioned in Soul Searching in the files of this group. There is no WIKTT Archives, per se. I would also like to point out that Jodel has posted a lovely cover design for The WIKTT Archives in her file- I think it should still be there. And now, back to your regularly scheduled story update!   Chapter 19     I'm stiff when I wake the second time, and my hand is still faintly sticky from my early-morning activities. Smiling to myself, I take a moment to make sure The WIKTT Archives is safely shrunk and hidden- check- then raise my head from the couch cushions and peek over toward where Severus was asleep last time I checked.   The bed is empty, the covers thrown back, and I feel my spirits droop a little at the realization that he's gone.   Then, as full understanding dawns, I feel adrenaline soak my heart in a flood of panic. If he's gone, then I never got to say goodbye before he left to challenge Voldemort!   A small sound from the direction of the bathroom calms me in an instant, however, and I sink back onto the couch, shaking with the combined forces of fear and relief. The faint sound of running water floats my way, and I see that the door of the wardrobe is ajar; he's pulled out clean clothes.   Hastily rummaging in my bag, I find my watch; it's ten thirty. They're not leaving for another hour and a half. Sitting up and swinging my legs over to put my feet on the floor, I test my strength.   Better than yesterday, but not quite back up to snuff. I can stand with a hand on the couch, and I can walk without feeling too weak- but over to the door and back wipes me mostly out. There must have been something about both communing with the henge and donating the soul that's wiped me out.   Unless my love for Severus prompted my soul to give more of itself than I originally expected.   Now there's an interesting thought. I am beginning to suspect that there lies the truth of the matter- but I'll have to think about it later. There are more important matters that need attention.   There's a faint popping noise from the fireplace, and I flatten myself instantly against the cushions, some instinct warning me to feign sleep. I hear the crackle of flames as the Floo network flares into action, and Dumbledore's voice calls, softly,   "Severus?"   "Albus." The Potions master emerges from the bathroom, pale but composed.   "Are you nearly ready? I think it might be helpful if you are present as everyone arrives. You've become something of a hero, and the morale boost of seeing someone who confronted Voldemort and lived would be immense."   Severus snorts quietly. ""There's a first," he says dryly. "And if everyone else is going to survive what I did, we'll need a hundred Hermiones." His voice drops, and I can almost see the look he sends my way, checking to see if I'm asleep. Scores of slumber parties have taught me how to fool people into thinking you're asleep when they check on you, and I'm no slouch at the technique. Snape must be satisfied, because he crouches down in front of the fireplace to speak more quietly. "She's still asleep, Albus," he explains.   Dumbledore pauses a moment before he speaks. "I don't know if we should wake her or not," he says. "She will want to come with us, and we both know we cannot allow it. In her condition, it would be far too easy for Voldemort to hurt her. It would be a terrible thing for her to be awakened, only to be told she must stay here."   Snape is shaking his head- I can hear the soft rasp of cloth as he moves.   "I must disagree," he says quietly. "She's stubborn, but not stupid. If she must stay, she'll understand why. But it would break her heart not to be allowed to say goodbye to her friends, especially given the chance that some of them… may not return."   The Headmaster sighs heavily, and I know he will give in. Which is just as well, because if he didn't, I'd have pretended to wake up on the spot.   I'm still tempted to do it anyway. I can't help but notice that when Severus speaks of my friends, he says 'them'. Not 'us.' That will need correction before he leaves Hogwarts grounds.   Dumbledore's sigh returns me to the conversation taking place a few feet away.   "Very well, Severus. Please come down to the Great Hall as soon as she's awake; she can join us when she's ready, but your presence soon would be helpful. People are starting to arrive, and we must give them an idea what to expect."   I don't even have to see Snape to know he's got an objection.   "I will be down shortly," he says, and even I can tell he's omitting something.   "Was there something you wanted to add, Severus?" asks Dumbledore calmly.   "I have something I need to discuss with Hermione. I'll be down as soon as we've finished."   Dumbledore chuckles softly. "Do you really think you can fit that entire talk into five minutes?" he says.   "They may be the last five minutes I get," Severus growls in reply.   Albus laughs aloud, and I can almost imagine him holding his hands up in defeat. "As you wish. But may I suggest that, the less said, the better?" he says, and from the tone in his voice, I know he means more than his words imply. Then, with a pop, he is gone.   I can feel the soft warmth as Severus kneels beside the couch, places his hand on my shoulder.   "Hermione." I don't stir at first, and he says my name again; I would fake sleep forever, if I could just hear him say my name in that soft, husky morning-bedroom voice. Then, because I know time is short, I stretch a little, taking a deep breath and letting my eyes crack open.   He's breathtaking. Severus Snape seems to have undergone some sort of subtle but profound change overnight. His features are still harsh and angular, his eyes still unreadable onyx, but the sneer is gone. I've never seen him look like this.   "Good morning," he says softly, and I shiver faintly. That's yet another phrase I've never heard him say.   "Good morning, yourself," I reply, and smile up at him.   "It's nearly time to go," he says then, and his face is lined with worry. "I know this will upset you, but Albus doesn’t think you should come with us. You're too weak from yesterday. He does, however, want you to come to the Great Hall to see everyone off. Everyone is meeting there so Albus can give us the plan."   I frown, sit up to protest- Albus was right, I am not happy at the thought of being left behind- but as my arms shake faintly as they take my weight, I sigh and nod wearily. "I understand," I say bleakly, sitting all the way up and facing him. I am sure my misery is clear in my face; there's no point in hiding it anyway.   He reaches up to cup my cheek in his palm, and I lean into the caress slightly. "Part of me wants you to be able to go- and part of me is glad you'll be here," he confides softly, and I put my hand over his.   "All of me wants to go," I say. "But I'll be satisfied if you all come back."   He looks intensely at me then, all the things he wants to say swirling in eyes now full of emotion. His other hand comes up, and he cradles my face between his palms, kneeling on the floor in front of me. Deft fingers smooth unruly locks of hair from my forehead, and he licks his lips nervously.   "Hermione," he murmurs softly, and I can feel my heart begin to pound with hope. His eyelashes flutter delicately as he blinks a few times, and he leans in toward me just a little, giving me time to back away. His lips brush mine in the faintest of touches- once, twice. Then, when I do not withdraw, he catches my mouth with his own, blending our souls in a kiss that is hot and soft and desperate and full of want.   What this taciturn man cannot say in words, he says with a kiss. The less said, the better. My heart is racing faster than a Golden Snitch, my voice stolen in a faint whimper as I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back with passion.   All vestiges of restraint gone at my acceptance of his overtures, Severus reaches for me in earnest. The faintest moan of delight escapes him as he wraps strong arms around me to hold me tightly against his chest as he kisses me, and I feel myself melt at the sound. That voice… that sensuous voice, whimpering in pleasure at my touch… it is too much to withstand. Those marvelous hands are sending electricity down my nerve endings without even moving, and all the time the subtle scent that is his alone is stealing into my mind, burning itself into my memory with the brightness of a new Sickle. I never knew it could feel like this to be kissed, never knew a man could make me feel faint and powerful and weak and invincible all at once.   I am willing to bet that no student who has ever come through Hogwarts would believe that Severus Snape can kiss like this. Even the ladies of The WIKTT Archives had no idea- though I doubt they have the benefit of my personal experience with which to judge. And that's just our lipuchiuching…   Severus tilts his head slightly, tracing my lips with his tongue in an unspoken plea, and I open for him instantly, crooning a soft welcome as he deepens the kiss. Velvet slides on velvet as his tongue twines sensuously with mine; he groans his appreciation as he possesses my mouth as easily as he has possessed my mind and soul these many months. His breathing is deep and ragged, and I can feel the faint tremor in his arms as he molds me against him- and I know I must affect him just as much. As if in confirmation of my unspoken thought, a shaky moan escapes him as I flick my tongue against the roof of his mouth playfully. Our bodies fit together perfectly, my curves fitting his angles as if we were made for each other. I moan a little as one particular custom fit sends a jolt of lust sizzling through me.   There's no mistaking it- Severus Snape is as far from indifferent to me as he could get. He's hard, and it's all I can do not to reach down to touch him. Instead, I slide forward on the couch, my legs wrapping around his waist and my arms coiling tighter around his neck, my fingers driving into the raw silk of his dark hair to hold him closer. He rocks against me slightly before he can stop himself, and I whimper again as the friction comes where I want it most .   He breaks the kiss reluctantly with a soft nip and gentle suction on my lower lip, causing me to shiver with delight. He draws me close then to hold me tightly, his face buried in my neck. I can feel the soft, ragged breathing on my skin as he shakily whispers,   "Oh, Hermione!"   "Sev- Severus," I manage with a faint catch, overwhelmed by sensation, my own voice thick with desire and other emotions too complex to name. At any other time, in any other circumstances, this might almost be too much, too fast. But the events of the last few months- and hours- have forged some sort of understanding between us, the nature of which is subtle enough to defy quick categorization. But it makes all of this right, somehow.   As if…this… had always been there, and we're only just now recognizing it for what it is.   He leans back a few inches then, staring into my eyes intently, and I smile at him. His eyes aren't really black; they’re actually a dark sherry color- tiger eyes, I think I remember my grandmother calling them- but there are so many crystalline splinters of dark brown in them that they look glittering black. Unless you're nearly nose to nose with him, which I am now.   As if needing to hide, he leans forward a little until our foreheads are pressed together. His eyes close briefly as he struggles to find his voice.   He swallows then, the sound loud in the small space between us, and draws a shaky breath.   "Hermione… there's so much I want to say…"   Oh, God. I haven't heard that husky note of desire in his voice since that first night in his rooms with the Book. I clamp down fiercely on the shock of desire that memory fires under my skin, concentrating instead on tucking the stray locks of hair away from his eyes. There is a lot to say, for both of us, but we haven't the time now. And while I know we're probably in agreement on the major points, there are still things that we must discuss. But later.   "I know," I say softly when he trails off. "I know. You don't have to say them now."   He touches my lips with his fingers. "I hate not saying them," he says then. "I know there's a chance-"   It's my turn to touch his lips this time.   "There is every chance," I say firmly. "Of eveing.ing." I will not think of him not coming back to me.   He nods, once, and smiles at me. It's such a genuine gesture, one so unlike the Potions teacher I remember from school, that it touches a part of my heart that no one's ever reached before. He reaches into his pocket then, pulls out a small parcel wrapped in parchment. Pressing it into my palm, he kisses my forehead, and stands in a swirl of black robes. "Come down soon," he says softly. "There's not much time."   Then he's gone, and I can feel my mouth drying out with fear.   It's begun, then.   I get to my feet, hastily shaking out my robes and combing through my hair with the fingers of my free hand as I study the package he gave me. I find my wand and hastily cast a few spells to deal with wrinkled clothes and tumbled hair and the lack of time for a shower, and then sit back down momentarily on the couch to open the small packet.   It's a scrap of parchment folded neatly into an envelope, like letters were folded hundreds of years ago before envelopes became common. I unfold it cautiously, and a small key on a satin cord falls out. Severus's writing leaps off the page at me, spidery inkings in a hand I would know anywhere from seven years of Potions classes.   Dear Hermione,   I know it would be a harsh thing to ask to to wait for us to return without any idea what's been happening. I also know you well enough to suspect you'd find a way to tag along to avoid just that sort of torture. I would probably do the same, myself. But this time, it really is too dangerous. I thought you might find this helpful in resisting the urge to tag along in Potter's invisibility cloak. I know better than to think one can ask a Gryffindor to be something other than what she is- patient, careful, and obedient come to mind- but perhaps you'll manage it with this. The key opens the cupboard beside my desk in my office; at the back of the bottom shelf is a crystal ball. It's left over from my student days; I, too, had no use for the fractious subject of Divination. I had it altered in Diagon Alley to show what is happening in the location of the viewer's choice; I usually use it to keep tabs on things in the Slytherin Common Room and the hallways. And if you tell any of the students how I always know when they're up to something, you'll regret it. The phrase that activates the ball is "Fruit Bat." And if you tell Trelawney about that, you will most definitely regret it. Even the staff have a hard time keeping a straight face around her, except when she's angry. If all goes well, I will see you again soon. Please take care of yourself, Hermione; knowing you're safe will make all the difference to Potter and Weasley- and to me. Yours, Severus   I stare at the parchment in disbelief, as if expecting the page to incinerate on the spot; I wouldn't be able to use this as proof of anything, and Severus knows it. No one would believe he actually wrote it.   Slipping the key and cord around my neck, I dash for the door. The clock over the mantelpiece tells me it's nearly eleven o'clock. I head upstairs toward the Great Hall, feeling my legs dangle from my hips like lead weights. I have to admit that they're right, all of them; I'm in no fit shape to face a Death Eater. I pass through the Great Hall's carven oak doors ninety seconds later, too tired to speak but glad I made it up the stairs. I didn't remember there being so many.   It takes me a moment to realize how full the Hall is; I hadn't expected there to be this many people so early. But then again, Dumbledore would want to talk to them all before they set off. Silly me. Taking another good look around, I am startled to see the assembled crowd filling the house tables without regard to previous affiliation. There must be sixty witches and wizards present, and it's decidedly odd to see Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs talking in hushed voices at the Slytherin table.   It's odder still to see Severus Snape standing at the end of the Gryffindor table, staring down its polished length at the large group of witches and wizards seated at its benches.   Albus, I belatedly realize, is seated on a bench at one end of the table, and all attention seems to be drifting between him and the Potions master, who is stock still beneath the unaccustomed scrutiny of adult eyes. Judging from the expressions of the listeners, Dumbledore is retelling the events of last night.   No wonder Severus looks irritated. I had at first ascribed his demeanor to being uncomfortable with public attention- although, now that I think about it, he always wears that expression in public. Perhaps I'm just growing used to knowing him in private and seeing a relaxation of the thin line between his brows when the world isn't looking right at him. His arms are crossed over his chest in a very familiar position, and his dark expression is discouraging questions. I can see the fatigue in his features, and my heart thumps painfully with tenderness for him. He is not the sort of man who easily tolerates having his weakest moments displayed- even if they are lauded as heroic ones.   My movements must have caught his attention, because the dark gaze flicks up to me for a moment, and I know it's not my imagination that there is a faint softening in the hard eyes. I can't help noticing his mouth is still just the faintest bit swollen…. I know I'm staring, but I can't stop. He quirks the barest hint of a smile in my direction, and I smile openly back.   Just then, there is a muffled whoosh, followed by a light cloud of soot emerging from the massive fireplace. Arthur Weasley steps out of the hearth, beating soot from his robes as he comes. Percy is right behind him- I haven't seen him since the summer before our last year at school, but he looks just as pompous as ever. I suppose I ought to be glad enough that he didn't fall prey to the temptations of someone like Voldemort; we always worried that Percy's ambition would make him vulnerable.   A moment later my ribs creak with suppressed laughter as Molly erupts from the fireplace, her eyes searching for Severus among the assembled faces even before she's standing upright. Spotting him almost instantly, she descends upon him to express her gratitude, her indomitable sense of protectiveness for wounded creatures surging to the fore.   "There you are! Professor Snape, Arthur told me the whole thing, I'd no idea what you were going through- you've been simply marvelous! And all this time, everyone just assumed- Oh, when I think of it! I could simply kill that dreadful creature!" As she's speaking, she actually hugs Snape, to the horror of her children, as well as Snape himself. I've never seen him squirm before- this is as close as he's ever come. To judge by the look of things, though, he's nearly all the way there. He does, however, return the gesture, looking as awkward as can be the entire time. He catches Minerva's eye down the table, and the glare he sends her way does nothing to erase the smile from her face.   It would appear that Snape has his snark back. Now my smile matches Minerva's; when her eyes meet mine across the Hall, I nod slightly, and she nods back. &nbs#9;G#9;Gryffindor women, it would seem, have a marked ability to appreciate the finer points of Slytherin male psychology.   The rest of the Weasley clan has arrived, and as more people stream into the Hall, I begin to realize I'll have to sit down. I find a place at the Gryffindor table between Ron and George, and when Harry emerges from the fireplace, he sits across from us, shaking hands with all the Weasleys and reaching over to touch my cheek in a gesture of friendly reassurance.   When the arrivals slow down, it is nearly eleven fifteen, and the Great Hall contains nearly a hundred wizards and witches, all armed with a wand and a determined expression. Dumbledore stands up and addresses them, and I can't help seeing symbolism in the fact that he is standing among us, rather than speaking from behind the staff table- he is speaking to equals now, not students.   "Thank you all for coming today," he says calmly, and his voice carries softly but clearly to every intently listening ear. "There is serious work to be done, and grave. But I think we are sufficient in number and strength of purpose to carry the day.   "You have all had the details of last night's events from someone or other, but to give a short summary, Professor Snape was able to dose Voldemort with a reversal agent for his protection potions. He is already quite vulnerable, and will become more so up until tomorrow morning; however, he will regain his strength quickly after that time, and so we are planning to take advantage of his weakness now, so that he will grow weaker rather than stronger with time. Severus will be our guide to Voldemort's court, where we will as a group obtain entry and attack Voldemort himself, incapacitating as many Death Eaters as possible along the way." There is a pause, and Albus's blue eyes are hard with purpose.   "I will be clear on this point- deadly force may be required, and should be used if necessary- but only if necessary. Taking some of the opposition into custody will allow us to question them about Death Eaters still at large in the community. This may be invaluable information to us, as the cleanup from this operation- provided it is successful- may take some time.   "A few other items of interest. Firstly, if anyone encounters Draco Malfoy or Orvis MacBurran, they are to be taken into custody if possible. Every attempt to do so without harming them must be made." Albus glances at Snape, who seems somewhat relieved at this announcement. He is sitting rather tensely at the Ravenclaw table, but I can see his clenched fists relax marginally as the import of Albus's s sis sinks in.   "Secondly, there will be no wild heroics. This task is too vital to allow any unreasonable risks to be taken. Therefore, we will be dividing our number up into groups, and assigning tasks to each group. There will be one group whose sole task is to attack and kill Voldemort; this group will be made up of people whose ability to think clearly is not compromised by emotions." Here, Albus seems to pause as if expecting an interruption. Sure enough, Harry leaps to his feet- nearly tripping because the bench beneath him, held in place by the weight of his seatmates, does not move back to give him room.   "Professor Dumbledore," he objects vehemently. "I know there's a lot at stake here, but for some of us, this is personal. I think it would be fair to let those of us whom he has personally hurt be part of that group. I want a shot at Voldemort." His tone is almost belligerent, and I cringe. Dumbledore does not need opposition this early- certainly not from The Boy Who Lived.   A soft voice from the middle of the room steals everyone's attention.   "Take a number and get in line, Mr. Potter. We must be into double digits by now." The Potions master's wan face is the very image of what Voldemort has done to everyone, and the gentle reminder that others have claims as strong as Harry's serves to relax the air in the room a little. "There's no sense tearing the issue of who gets to kill him apart like wild dogs. There is too much else to be decided. Let's make the best plans we can; much as I would love to return to him every injury he has ever inflicted upon me and mine, it would take far too long. I think I could be satisfied just seeing him dead."   There is a soft ruffle of laughter across the room at Snape's dry commentary. How right he is; there isn't a witch or wizard in this room who wouldn't dearly love to be the one to dispatch Voldemort on his one way cruise down the river Styx.   Even Harry laughs, holding his hands out in a gesture of supplication before he seats himself again.   Dumbledore beams at Severus for a moment, and to my faint surprise, I see the lightest flush of color in the pale cheeks. How rarely he must receive public approbation.   "I assure you, Harry, you will have your chance. All of us will. As I said last night, it could be any of us who at last is called upon to do what must be done. I have complete faith in whoever wields the wand chosen. Now, here are the groups." With a wave of his wand, three lists begin to appear in the air   The first list, labeled Point, is full of known adrenaline junkies who have been known to play the Muggle game Paintball from time to time. Dumbledore explains that their job will be to secure entry into the fortress and Voldemort's inner sanctum, as it were. The curse breakers are part of this group, and I glance over at Bill Weasley to see him flexing his fingers with a satisfied expression on his face. This is what he does- and he's gone up against nastier minds than Voldemort's while breaking five thousand year- old curses in the Egyptian tombs. Beside him, Arthur is rolling up his sleeves and looking determined. Charlie Weasley is in the group as well, and he's sitting quietly, hands loosely laced as he leans forward, elbows balanced on his knees. He looks thoughtful. The Weasley twins are positively gleeful- this is just their sort of mission. After entry is achieved, they will accompany the team who will attack Voldemort.   List number two is labeled Guards. The wizards and witches on this team are in charge of any prisoners taken; part of their number will also stand guard to keep an exit open in case a hasty departure is needed. Snape has already assured us that Apparition is no more possible in any of Voldemort's strongholds than it is at Hogwarts. Molly and Percy Weasley are on this team, as is Ginny. Startled to see my friend's name on the list- after all, she is still a seventh year- I turn to scan the crowd. And there she is, sitting next to-   Neville Longbottom.   When the last list is formed- Tactical- I am stunned to see Neville's name at the bottom. Just below Ron's, Harry's, Dumbledore's, McGonagall's, Hagrid's, Remus's, Sirius's, and Snape's.   Snape seems stunned, too, but to my surprise he makes no objection, only turns to find Neville in the crowd and study him with a blank expression.   As he himself had pointed out, after all, Neville had as much reason to want a crack at the Dark Lord as the rest of them.   The tactical team, clearly, will be the one making an attempt to kill Voldemort himself. I wish I could go with them.   Ron and Harry are talking excitedly, and I notice with only faint irritation that they are not in the least surprised that my name has not appeared on any list. So much for my image of their blithe ignorance of how I look and feel- although, to be honest, I doubt I could fool a first - year Hufflepuff into thinking I am up to a trip to Death Eaters-R-Us today. But I can't be upset with them; I know they're sorry I can't go, but I also know that what Snape said is true: sometimes, knowing there's someone at home for whom you are fighting is all the inspiration in the world.   Dumbledore is speaking above the din of the crowd, calling them all to attention. "You will assemble at the gates in your teams, and we will use Portkeys to travel to the location Severus has provided." He speaks at length for several more minutes on the subject of how they will enter the castle and reach Voldemort, and when he's finished, the room is sober once again.   He turns to Professor McGonagall then.   "And now, for the practical aspects of this mission. Minerva?"   McGonagall rises from her seat and begins to hand out small, random objects to the witches and wizards along the tables.   "These are your Portkeys. They will not be activated until I say the appropriate charm, and at that point, we will all be simultaneously transported. Please try not to lose or drop yours." She says this last as she passes Neville, and I can't help noticing that he nearly loses hold of the small Styrofoam cup she has handed him. Ginny giggles from her place next to him, and instantly puts the ratty glove she was given on his hand, taking the cup from him with a gentle smile.   It is now ten minutes of noon, and the assembled crowd begins to leave the Great Hall. More than one pair of eyes drifts fondly over the charmed ceiling and the House tables, savoring what might well be the last glimpse they ever get of Hogwarts. Hands are shaken, hugs exchanged, and all around us people bite back the things they're afraid of saying, and of not saying. Knowing looks are passed, upper lips stiffened. It's like the 1940s news reels of soldiers shipping off to the Continent.   Ye gods, I think to myself. Wizard or Muggle, we're all British, aren't we?   Harry and Ron appear to be no more immune than the rest of them. They're looking at me rather mournfully, and for a moment their obvious reluctance to leave me behind improves my spirits. Then I think about what they're facing, and the momentary lift evaporates.   "It won't be the same without you," says Harry genuinely, and I can see he's worried.   "Oh, Harry, don't worry about me- you two are the ones heading into the lion's den!" I exclaim, a little overwrought at the thought that this might be our last few moments all together.   Ron laughs. "Yeah," he agrees with a knowing look at me. "Again. C'mon, Hermione, stop being so gloomy- we've done this so many times before we could be hired as tour guides, the three of us! And this time we've got lots of help!" Ron swoops me up into a massive bear hug with a cry of delight, swinging me around in what I know is an excess of nervous energy. I can't stifle the small startled shriek that escapes my lips as he lifts me from the ground, and Harry shakes his head in good-natured chagrin.   Snape, however, seems less amused. He's watching us from a few feet away, arms still folded, pale face looking stark as bone in the sunlight shafting through the high stained-glass windows.   "Mr. Weasley, I suspect that Miss Granger has had enough of that sort of treatment for one day," he says, and Ron puts me down carefully. There is surprise written on his face, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's taken aback more by the civil tone Snape has used than anything else. Heaven knows it would have been more in character for the Potions master to ask, Why don't you turn her upside down and shake all the Sickles out of her pockets while you're at it, Mr. Weasley?   Snape isn't finished. "I suggest you try to approach this with a serious attitude. I realize that's something of a new concept for you-" here he smirks a little, and I feel a shiver of glee at the sight of the old Professor Snape- "but do try. This will not be like your past experiences. Then, you were on the defensive. Only Harry has actually fought Voldemort in the last eighteen years; today, we will all do so. Your little skirmishes with Draco Malfoy notwithstanding, I would be much surprised if you've ever had to attack another human being in earnest. Certainly not with deadly intent."   Ron is dead serious now. He sizes Snape up with a surprisingly cool manner, and looks him in the eye.   "And you have?" he asks. It is not a challenge, but an honest question.   Snape's eyes close for an instant before he replies.   "Yes."   None of us ask any more- none of us needs to. We know Snape is not proud of part of his past- that's why he's done so much to make up for it. Today is not the day to go opening old wounds, airing out insecurities and feelings of uncertainty. And then Ron startles me more than I could have thought possible.   "Any advice for a newbie, then?"   If Snape is as surprised as I am, he gives no hint. A dark brow arches over one tired eye, and the Potions master lets the faintest hint of a smile lift the corner of his mouth. He hesitates for only the barest of moments, as if deciding whether Ron is serious or not, and then speaks. There is the faintest wash of acid in the tone, but it is still the mildest one in which he has ever lectured Potter and Weasley Ltd.   "Keep your back to a wall, if you can," Snape says. "Or to a person you trust. And watch out for Unforgivables. I have no doubt the Dark Lord and his followers will hand out Avada Kedavra as often as they can- but there are other ways for them to fight. They just might try Imperius or Cruciatus. And believe me when I tell you they're not easy to throw off when Voldemort casts them. Try to dodge them if you can- it's easier than resisting.   "And whatever else you do or don't do, don't try to attack Voldemort by yourself. That especially goes for you, Mr. Potter."   All of which is good advice; I doubt any of us have practiced resisting Unforgivables since Moody's classes fourth year. And Harry has never been known for waiting for the signal to charge.   Snape is still watching Harry with one brow lifted, and Harry nods grudgingly. Satisfied, the Potions master moves away from us with the drifting crowd, his eyes still on Harry.   Whether He Who Lived notices that the dark eyes flick to me before he turns his head and walks away altogether, I cannot say.   We step out through the gates of the school into a brilliantly sunny day, and I find it ironic that such dreadful things as wars and other horrific events can happen when things are so beautiful around us. It was a lovely night when Cedric Diggory died; the afternoon when Ginny Weasley vanished into the Chamber of Secrets was picture perfect. It's getting so that I can't trust a lovely landscape. No wonder Snape has taken a liking to dungeons, black robes, and scowling; at least that way you aren't tortured with the hope of something perfect, only to have it shatter before you.   The teams are forming up on the sweep of grass beside the road. The point team is conferring over positions, the guard team is practicing body-bind hexes on squirrels in a nearby tree, and the tactical team is discussing… well, tactics, I suppose. Harry and Ron scurry to join them, and I stand on the periphery, suddenly feeling useless.   Neville looks exactly like I feel, I realize as I watch him. He's never really gotten comfortable with magic, I don't think, and having Snape a few feet from him is really unnerving him. Dumbledore is reviewing a few of the tactics we learned in dueling, but Neville doesn’t seem to grasp what he's being told.   In fact, he's holding his wand upside down, point in his palm, the grip end trembling as it points skyward in the midday sunlight. My heart aches for him. Poor Neville. He's going to get himself killed.   Snape is looking at the terrified wizard beside him with an expression of mild exasperation, but then his face suddenly softens the tiniest fraction. He turns his head back to Dumbledore, paying rapt attention to judge by his expression- and then, with a deft, discreet movement, he plucks the wand out of Neville's weak grasp and flips it over, stuffing it back into the young man's fist.   He does it so quickly and smoothly that no one noticed- except Neville. For a moment he flushes deep red with mortification, but then he seems to perk up.   Snape didn't yell at him. Didn't humiliate him, didn't ridicule him or question his right to be on the team.   I smile to myself; Severus could not have found a better way to help Neville relax and trust him. Not that it will be easy- seven years of terror won't fade away in a heartbeat. But at least Neville knows Snape is not going to leave him out to dry in this battle as he might once have done in a classroom.   That does make me snort softly to myself. If there's one professor at Hogwarts who knows how devastating a nervous Neville can be, it's Professor Snape.   The sun is now directly overhead, and Minerva consults her pocketwatch.   "Two minutes!" she calls out, and suddenly everyone is saying goodbye, and good luck, and you owe me a butterbeer when we get back, and all sorts of other rot.   I dash forward to hug Ron and Harry again, and I manage to hug part of Hagrid at least, though I think it was his arm and not Hagrid in entirety. I kiss Dumbledore on the cheek and hug McGonagall, and even shake Neville's hand; Remus and Sirius get a quick peck as well, and Ginny and Molly grab me for a bear hug from behind, which I return with tears in my eyes.   There are only thirty seconds to go, and I turn with frantic intent to look for Severus.   He's standing behind me, stark black in the white light, his face burning with something I know he must see reflected in my own.   "Hermione," he murmurs, and I throw myself into his arms.   And there, in front of everyone we hold dear, I kiss him with everything I want him to know I feel.   His fingers slide through my hair to cradle my skull as he kisses me back, and I feel my heart pounding with exultation.   We let go quickly, knowing there's little time, but I take a deep breath and struggle for words. I have to tell him before he goes, in case….   "Severus, I-"   But he stops me. Elegant finger to my lips, faint callus from his quill tickling my nerve endings.   "Not yet. Don't say it until this is finished."   He steps back then, and as if from a distance I hear McGonagall's voice shouting the last word of the charm that will activate the Portkeys. Severus's eyes are locked on mine as if he is memorizing my face, and I feel a sob building in my throat.   A gust of wind rips across the suddenly empty field, and the sob escapes my lips in a tearing cry.