Augury & Ardor

Author's Notes: This was posted, in its entirety, at Ashwinder. Before it was posted, it was edited by jamy21, Vaughn and wartcap, three of the best betas you could find. I heart them!

I've written and posted a darker, alternate ending to this story, titled "Rapture & Reunion", as a 'one shot', stand alone story. It is posted at Sycophant Hex's site (http://archive.sycophanthex.com/index.php) under this same screen name, in case you'd like to read it.

Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed it -- I know I enjoyed writing it!

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It was unseasonably cold for the second of November. A chill wind whipped across the stands and, upon it, a lone snowflake danced above the heads of the gathered crowd. It caught the fleeting attention of one spectator as he dropped his eyes from the soaring and swooping Quidditch players to the woman at his side. Her hair, tugged from her scarf by the playful wind, swirled and flirted across his face in a teasing caress.


Severus Snape hooked an errant sheaf of his wife’s tresses and reluctantly relinquished it, quashing the urge to caress the locks between his fingers as he would have done had they been alone. Public displays of affection were not his modus operandi, even amongst friends.


It was their anniversary. He wondered if she remembered.


The color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes held his gaze as she watched their beloved son race across the expanse of blue sky above the pitch. It was at moments like these that he found himself startled anew that Hermione was actually his. Exactly nineteen years ago, she’d been thrust upon him, a troubling and unwanted burden added to those he’d already been obligated to juggle in his role as spy. He could clearly remember his dismay at the task expected of him.


It had taken a laughably short time before that task – the obligation of ‘keeping’ Hermione Granger – had become as necessary to him as breathing. Sending her away while she was on the verge of delivering Sepharus, uncertain that she’d be safe – uncertain that he’d ever see her again – had been one of the most difficult moments in his life.


Another, stronger gust of wind caught Hermione’s hair, sending it swirling around her head and shoulders. With a vexed, distracted sigh, she began tucking it into her scarf, never taking her eyes off the sky. Grasping the excuse to touch her, Severus helped wrangle the willful strands and rewound her scarf to both hold the hair in place and keep her neck warm.


“Thank you, darling,” she murmured, scootching closer to him on the stand until their hips were touching. When he frowned slightly, she smiled up at him. “It’s freezing and we’re among friends. They’d expect us to cuddle occasionally, you know.”


He replied by sitting stiffly, fixing her with a forbidding, glacial glare. Immune to his austerity and unruffled by his severe countenance, she slipped her chilled fingers through his.


“Torturing me, I presume, is your idea of an anniversary gift?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and their conversation private. The way she had her head tipped back was a provocation to kiss her smiling lips and he had to dig his nails into his palm to resist the overwhelming urge to accept that invitation.


“I love you,” she mouthed, her eyes dancing with mischief.


“Stop that,” he growled under his breath.


Instead of being chastised, she smiled wider. His glowers and growls had long ago stopped intimidating her.


Severus clenched his teeth as he gazed down at her, fighting the instinctive urge to touch her. He wanted to pull her on to his lap, wrap his arms around her, and kiss her until she was warm and breathless - wanted to plunge his hands into her hair, free it from the scarf they’d so carefully tucked it into and fan it through his fingers - wanted to make her repeat those last words over and over to hear every possible inflection her sweet voice held. What he wanted and what he’d allow himself, however, were two very different things.


“Our friends realize we’re married. They also realize we’ve been intimate – unless they think our two children were discovered under a cabbage leaf. Holding my hand is not going to shock them.”


Even after she’d elected to remain married to him, even after she’d agreed to conceive another child with him, he’d had difficulty believing she’d stay with him. He didn’t deserve her; that was as clear as a crystal cauldron to him. He was sure it was widely understood by the general populace. She was the only one who didn’t seem aware of this very apparent fact. “No one wants to see an old man pawing his young wife in public,” he rejoined in a dry tone.


He continued to hold her hand only because with her sitting so close, the heavy folds of their winter robes concealed their touch. Still, the contact of their skin was tantalizing. Nearly two decades of marriage had done nothing to dull the sharp edge of his desire. To be near her was to desire to possess her and to be possessed by her.


“Poor excuse,” she dismissed lazily. He ground his teeth as she continued to smile up at him, her head tilted back in that tempting way that begged him to kiss her. “You’ve reached a plateau, whereas I’ve continued to visibly age. At this moment, we hardly look five years apart.”


He snorted to communicate his disagreement. She could lament all she liked about developing wrinkles and ‘losing her figure’, but she looked exactly the same to him – beautiful, and too damned desirable at the moment.


“They’ll still respect you tomorrow,” she whispered, stroking her fingers through his. Because he was so restrained in public, in private he had a voracious need to touch her. She knew her caress – what would have seemed an innocent gesture to anyone else – was an enticement to her husband.


“Witch,” he spat softly, meeting her dancing eyes, “keep that up and you won’t see the outcome of this match.”


“I’m not worried about this little match,” Hermione remarked, but stilled her hand. She knew the limits of Severus’ patience and was careful not to step over the line from harmless teasing into taunting; she loved him too much to wound his pride. “If it weren’t for the fact Sepharus wanted us all together to hear his latest bit of writing, I’d make an excuse for us to leave.”


“We’re all here now,” Severus muttered, clearly impatient to be alone with her, “he should come down and quit toying with Potter.”


“You know Sepharus can’t pass up an opportunity to ‘defeat the stag’,” Hermione laughed, “and neither Harry nor Ron can resist the opportunity to get in a little Quidditch whenever possible.”


“What a treat to see Weasley again,” Severus replied, his lip curling in disdain at being reminded of the man. His eyes flew up to hone in on the irritating redhead who was playing Keeper on Potter’s rag-tag team. “He’s divorced a second time and unable to hide his disappointment that you have not.”


“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermione whispered, glancing around to see if any of the Weasley clan had overheard. “I understand he’s dating a Healer at St. Mungo’s.”


“He’ll need a Healer if he doesn’t learn to veil his thoughts around me,” Severus muttered, but diplomatically allowed the matter to drop.


Hermione studied her husband’s profile as he watched the players overhead. She hadn’t been speaking idly. While Severus still looked to be in his late forties, her face continued to reflect the passage of time. The disparity in their ages was hardly detectable at the moment.


A smile curved her lips. Severus Snape, thanks to a book written by her son, might still be known as the most intimidating professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but he was now also recognized as a hero in the war against Voldemort. While it was true some still refused to believe he’d been on the side of Light, those dissenters were few and comprised primarily of those who carried a personal grudge.


He wasn’t a handsome man, her husband. His profile, with its long, hooked nose outlined against the brilliant blue sky, was too harsh a reminder for her to make that claim. Despite that, she still found him incredibly attractive even after nearly twenty years of marriage.


There had been no miraculous change in his character upon their reunion or since. He wasn’t a patient man; he didn’t suffer fools silently or graciously. He could be irascible and moody for no apparent reason. At times, he could be as stubborn as an ass and as unreasonable as a toddler. Sarcasm was still his preferred method of communication, and his forbidding demeanor hadn’t unbent amongst the student body or his colleagues.


The smile that had began as a curve to her lips grew until her teeth gleamed in a delighted grin. He was exactly the same man she’d fallen in love with and who, to this day, could make her breathless with desire.


“Perhaps later you’ll explain why you delight in provoking me.”


With a soft laugh, she ignored her husband’s darkly muttered accusation and joined her gaze to his as their son let out a whoop and flew a victory lap around the pitch.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


“Trounced,” Harry sighed, attempting to sound disgusted. His smile, however, belied his true mood as he walked across the Quidditch pitch toward the stands beyond. “I don’t know why I bother.”


“Told you - you should’ve used the Sniggering Snitch we brought.” Fred Weasley slung his arm around Harry’s neck from the right just as his twin did the same from the left, sandwiching their friend between them.


“As we see it, the only sure way to thwart the prophecy is to cheat,” George advised.


“Cheating a dark prophecy is always advisable,” Fred agreed.


“And using Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes to do it is good for business.” George grinned.


“And what’s good for the Three W’s is good for us,” Fred added, mirroring his brother’s broad smile, his eyebrows wiggling mischievously.


Their brother, Bill, approached, sporting a black eye and holding out a Beater’s bat that wilted whenever held upright. The twins grinned, released Harry, and ran in the opposite direction. Bill flung the novelty bat to the ground and took off to chase them around the grassy pitch, shouting his intentions to knock their heads together when he caught them.


“Zose boys,” Fleur sighed, rolling her eyes as she peeled out of her Quidditch gloves, “zey will nevair grow up!”


“Which is exactly why their business is such a success,” Harry replied on a laugh as Fred and George swung back around and swept Fleur off her feet, using her as a shield between themselves and their brother. Her squeal, followed by a string of angry French expletives, grew fainter as they capered away with her in tow.


“Speaking of success,” Ron interjected, falling in to step with Harry. “Any luck with the Minister?”


Harry’s smile faded and he shook his head. “As always, he nods his head, pats mine, and gives me busy work to keep me out of his hair.”


“You’re his Advisor, Harry,” Ron stressed. “If you can’t convince him there’s trouble brewing, who can?”


“He doesn’t want to see,” Harry replied.


“He has to be blind not to notice.” Ron leaned his broom against the stands and returned his niece, Maggie’s, wave. “It’s not safe traveling anymore. France, especially, has become overrun with Dark wizards. Last month when I was in Versailles, meeting with the Three W’s international board, I saw Mad-Eye in a bistro. He says not only has he gotten more reports about Lucius and Draco Malfoy being alive and in the area, he was sure he glimpsed them himself one night, during a skirmish.”


Harry paused, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, Ron – Mad Eye Moody was a great Auror in his time, but he should’ve been retired years ago. Not only is his eyesight faulty – you know he refuses to even consider replacing his old magical eye with one of the newer ones – he’s become a loose cannon, seeing Death Eaters everywhere he goes. Look at the incident three months ago when he roughed up that boy from Durmstrang. Anything he says should be taken with a grain of salt.”


“I believe him,” Ron replied with a frown. “Why would he say the boy cast the Morsmordre spell if he hadn’t?”


“I’m not saying the boy didn’t cast the spell,” Harry said. “In fact, what I understand from Casamir Svarogich is, the boy is now admitting he did cast the spell, but that it was on a dare – all part of a bad joke.”


“I wouldn’t trust that Svarogich as far as I could throw him.”


“Svarogich is not only qualified to run Durmstrang Institute, he -- unlike the last Headmaster -- showed no ties with Voldemort when investigated.”


“You-Know-Who has been dead for eighteen years, Harry. Dark wizards don’t follow one man anymore,” Ron said, his blue eyes troubled, “they have a quaint little democracy going now, and Mad-Eye seems to think Malfoy’s their elected representative.”


“Lucius Malfoy is likely dead,” Harry reminded his friend. “You remember how badly wounded he was all those years ago when Snape was rescued. Rumored sightings have been just that – rumors.”


“All these years working for the Ministry has ruined you. You’re even beginning to sound like a politician,” Ron scoffed in disgust. “Besides, it’s not Lucius that Moody’s talking about. It’s Draco.”


Harry frowned, but fell silent. When Ginny picked her way down from the stands, he hardly waited for her to reach them before asking, “Have you heard the latest rumor about Draco Malfoy?”


“Mad-Eye Moody submitted a report to both the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and my department last night. In it, he stated his sources indicate Draco Malfoy is leading the Dark Tide, as they’re calling themselves now.” Ginny’s voice was even although her eyes betrayed her worry.


“How is it the Department of International Magical Cooperation knows this and I haven’t been advised yet?”


“Both Tonks and I met with Scrimgeour this morning and he laughed it off as a joke,” Ginny said, raising her eyebrows at her husband’s furious expletive. “You’ve been away in Washington until this moment,” she hurried to explain when he opened his mouth to speak, “Scrimgeour obviously didn’t think to tell you and I wasn’t going to trust that sort of information by owl, especially not on a journey across the pond.”


“You believe it?” Harry asked, struggling with the image of the Draco Malfoy he remembered – an arrogant but inept teen – leading a Dark revolution.


“I’m not sure what to think,” Ginny admitted, glancing between the two men before her, “but I know this – we can’t afford not to entertain the possibility. The time is ripe. This, more than anything, convinces me we were right.”


“Right about what?” Ron asked, noting the charged look between his sister and friend. “What’ve I missed?”


Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Sepharus jogging over to meet their group.


At eighteen, Sepharus had filled out and lost the lanky quality of his boyhood build. Although the same height as his father, he’d inherited the Granger musculature which tended to be more robust. He moved with the easy, self-assured grace of a natural athlete, his shoulders back and his head high as he cut the distance between them.


Harry grinned as his godson ran a hand over his tawny mop of hair in attempt to smooth it. It had grown shaggier since Sepharus had moved to London and, at the moment, was a tangled mane around his handsome face.


“Ready to hear it?” Sepharus asked, flashing a grin that even Gilderoy Lockhart might have envied.


Ginny glanced at her husband. “You’re sure about this?”


A corner of Harry’s mouth quirked as if to say he thought they were both crazy, but he nodded. “I’m sure.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Sepharus waited until his honorary aunt and uncle reseated themselves and then looked up into the stands. Before him, seated in a cluster, were the people he loved best. Each face held a happy memory of his childhood and he inhaled deeply, his chest swelling with gratitude. He was loved by good people. Just as important, these good people loved their community – their way of life – enough to fight for it.


Professor Dumbledore, seated at the heart of the group, smiled down at him, his familiar blue eyes twinkling. The elderly Headmaster had aged, it was true, but he was still as spry as ever. In him, Sepharus had found a wealth of pragmatic wisdom with which to approach life.


At Dumbledore’s side was Professor McGonagall. She, too, was showing signs of her advancing age, but her tongue remained as tart and her mind as sharp as ever. She smiled and nodded at him before his eyes moved on.


His Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny sat side-by-side, holding hands and approaching this moment in the same way they approached life -- as a team. Their eyes, when they met his gaze, were resolute and their smiles puckish.


Dotted amongst the stands were the Weasleys. He grinned at the uniformity of their hair and freckled skin as well as at the fecundity of their brood. He’d felt as at home at The Burrow as he had at Hogwarts while growing up; they were extended family.


Lifting his eyes higher, he caught Cerridwen’s gaze and held it. His sister was his inspiration, the guiding force that often turned his talent where it would be most useful – the fight against Dark magic. While he was celebrated for his persuasive communication skills, it was her passion and will that kept him from focusing solely on academic subjects. Her eyes softened slightly as they met his, but quickly flashed with impatience when he didn’t begin speaking right away.


He nodded or traded smiles with a number of other people he’d invited – old family friends and new ones – until his eyes came to rest on his parents. They were whispering to each other, his mother clearly amused and his father’s features, as usual, enigmatic.


“Before I begin, I’d like to thank you all for coming to watch me defeat Uncle Harry once again,” Sepharus began, smiling at the laughter, before finishing, “I’d also like to wish my parents a happy anniversary. Mum, Dad-- congratulations on nineteen years.”


Sepharus bit back a laugh at his father’s glower when someone suggested the couple trade a kiss to celebrate the day.


“Now, before my father hexes me for drawing attention to him,” Sepharus interjected, “I’ll get to the reason I invited you all here. I’ve written something -- the most important piece I’ve quilled in my short career, I believe. It’s a speech and I’d like to share it with you before its shared elsewhere. Not only do I want your opinion, I wanted you to hear its contents as it impacts us all. ” He took the piece of folded parchment out of his Quidditch robes and smoothed it out. Taking a deep breath, he began reading.


“Esteemed members of the Wizarding Council, thank you for your time and consideration. I come before you today a troubled Ministry official concerned for the structure of government I serve. The ideals on which this structure was built are solid, yet should those ideals be compromised, the formation no longer remains sound.


“A Dark tide has silently and stealthily arisen these past years. Unless addressed, it will undermine the foundation on which the Ministry was built and inexorably topple it.


“Respected Council members, I come before you, a humble citizen of Wizarding Britain. I speak for my peers when I say I fear our way of life is in jeopardy, not from Muggle influences, but from a malignant force within. I believe my children face a bleak future, a life of oppression and fear, matching, if not surpassing, that which we experienced during Voldemort’s reign. If measures are not soon taken to address the threat this Dark Tide represents, it will surely grow to rise up and drown us.


“The witches and wizards who comprise this movement care nothing for the community as a whole. Their impetus is a thirst for power. Sadly, over the years, they’ve been allowed to infiltrate the very structure built to keep our system of government whole, intent on deposing it.


“We cannot afford to be complacent. We mustn’t ignore the storm clouds on the horizon. It is now we must prepare. It is now we must avert the tide, before it’s too late. Future generations of witches and wizards rely on our vigilance.


“Honored Council, I come before you, an aspirant to Minister of Magic.” Sepharus smiled slightly at the low murmur of voices that rose from the stands, but didn’t falter or hesitate in his speech. Raising his eye to his audience, he spoke the rest by rote, his voice steady. “I submit my name, at the recommendation of Albus Dumbledore, in hopes, Esteemed Members, you’ll consider me worthy of this post. I submit my name in hopes that I might serve as shim to a mighty structure – a structure worth saving. I submit my name in hopes that I might serve as a flame to curse the darkness – a darkness which threatens our families, our children, and our loved ones.”


Sepharus’ smile widened at the looks of pride and inspiration on the faces of those before him before he concluded with feeling, “Make no mistake; a storm is fast approaching. The tide is rising, but it’s not too late to avert it. Revered Council, I implore you to consider a change. Consider appointing me as Minister of Magic so that I might make a change as well. Thank you.”


There was no applause or comments on the speech itself. Immediately, questions were volleyed at Sepharus.


“When did you start working for the Ministry?”


“Sepharus, you’re barely old enough to apply for the position of Minister of Magic -- you can’t be serious!”


It was Professor Dumbledore, not Sepharus, that first responded. “Obviously, Sepharus is too young for the position. It’s not he whom I plan to recommend as candidate for the post. He’s merely applied his talents and offered his services as speech-writer to our potential new Minister of Magic.”


“Harry!” Arthur Weasley crowed, turning to beam at his son-in-law. “I knew you’d reconsider!”


“That’s wonderful!” Molly agreed.


“I haven’t changed my mind,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “I’ve spent enough of my life in the limelight. While I agree we need to have a new Minister, I’m content to remain Advisor.”


“Then who?” Molly asked.


“I’ll be the one delivering that speech tomorrow.”


All eyes turned to Ginny. With a grin reminiscent of her girlhood, she studied the looks of surprise on the faces in the crowd. Only Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, Harry, Sepharus and one other person were unfazed by the news. She fell silent as she watched her friends and family consider the possibility, and then slowly embrace it with enthusiasm.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Twenty minutes later, when the crowd dispersed from the Quidditch pitch, Cerridwen tucked her hand in the crook of Sepharus’ arm and walked with him back toward the castle. “Spectacularly written speech,” she commented.


Sepharus grinned. “Spectacular concept. I doubt anyone would have considered the possibility had you not suggested it.”


“I can’t take all the credit,” Cerridwen replied. The smile curling her lips was small, but self-satisfied. “Professor Dumbledore and I had the same epiphany one day while discussing the problems with the current political structure. We both agreed, of all the people we knew, Aunt Ginny was the best candidate for the position. She’s strong, opinionated and resolute enough for the job. On top of that, she’s shown a talent for international diplomacy. Add to all that the fact she’s not afraid of attention and she’s perfect. Besides, she’s got a group of wise, seasoned individuals to advise her, not to mention Uncle Harry backing her up. It’ll be like having a Ministry team. It’s the ideal situation. Under those circumstances, the darkness out there has no chance. Under the new administration Aunt Ginny will implement, they’ll be crushed!”


Sepharus stopped walking, causing Cerridwen to stutter to a halt. She turned and walked back to him, her gaze curious as she studied his stunned expression. “What is it?”


“We’ll be all right,” Sepharus breathed out, wonder dawning in his eyes. “Darkness won’t prevail.”


“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”


“You said they’d be crushed. It made me remember a part of the prophecy – the part where it says, ‘Crushed and drowned ‘til none remain/But those who serve the one unnamed’,” Sepharus replied, his words thick with feeling. “Rumors abounded that someone was preparing to oust Scrimgeour, but Aunt Ginny wouldn’t announce it – you know as well as I that she didn’t want it released until she made the speech. She’s the ‘one unnamed’, Cerridwen!”


“Really?” Cerridwen replied.


Not noticing Cerridwen’s cool, composed smile, Sepharus wrapped his arms around her and spun her around with enthusiasm. “In his hands he holds the turning/Of light and dark’s tidal churning.”


Setting her back on her feet, Sepharus grasped her shoulders and squeezed, his handsome face earnest as he gazed at her. “My speech. It’s the turning! The ‘maelstrom’ will be Aunt Ginny’s actions during her term as Minister! As for the rest: not only is Dumbledore Father’s master, he’s Aunt Ginny’s as well. We’re all members of Dumbledore’s Army, aren’t we?”


Unable to contain himself, he picked Cerridwen up and spun her again. “As representative of Dumbledore’s ideals – as Minister of Magic -- clearing the ranks of dark wizards would leave the remaining witches and wizards ‘serving’ her, wouldn’t it? It would mean they served ‘the one unnamed’!”


“Kindly put me down before I release my own ‘tidal churning’,” Cerridwen responded coolly, but her eyes were warm as her brother smiled down at her. “Congratulations. It seems you neatly wrapped up the prophecy, big brother.”


Sepharus slung an arm around his sister and smiled when she leaned her head against his shoulder. For a few minutes, they walked in companionable silence. Then, Sepharus spoke up. “You do realize how terribly the prophecy might have turned out had things been different – had, say, Dad not sent Mum to safety?”


Cerridwen nodded and they both fell silent again, each considering what might have been as they walked. As thoughts do, Cerridwen’s eventually wandered to other subjects. “Walk me into the Forbidden Forest? I want to look to see if there is any harvestable centaury left.”


They altered their course slightly and headed for the forest in the distance, not hurrying but neither tarrying in the blustery, chill air. Sepharus, his thoughts having wandered afield as well, glanced down at his sister. “So . . .how’s Dmitre?”


Cerridwen’s head snapped up, her brown eyes searching Sepharus’ innocent expression. “He’s fine. Why do you ask?”


“You haven’t mentioned him much the last few times you owled me.”


The shrug Cerridwen gave was too nonchalant. “I knew you were busy writing that fascinating paper on the genetics of Animagi and fixing up your little flat above Flourish and Blotts; I didn’t want to bother you with trivialities.”


“Frank wrote to me and said you and Dmitre had split up,” Sepharus replied patiently. “That’s not trivial.” His sister had always been a private person, but with patience and a little persuasion, he could get her to open up to him.


“It wasn’t Frank’s business to tell you.” Cerridwen dropped the arm she’d wrapped around Sepharus’ waist, but her brother only hugged her against him tighter. It was in her nature to withdraw when she most needed support.


“He was worried for you.”


“He should have been worried for Dmitre,” Cerridwen muttered darkly.


“What happened?” Sepharus asked and then waited the few minutes it took Cerridwen to acquiesce and discuss the situation.


Despite the bright afternoon sunlight and the trees having shed most of their leaves, the interior of the Forbidden Forest was gloomy once they’d crossed into its depths. Without conscious thought, both brother and sister drew their wands from their robes as a precautionary measure. One never knew what might cross one’s path inside the Forbidden Forest.


“I found out he preferred Gryffindors– blonde ones, it seems,” Cerridwen said, idly tapping a lone, withered leaf still clinging to its branch with her wand. It released a short, haunting melody as it floated to the ground to join the general leaf litter.


Although her words had been delivered with cool derision, Sepharus knew his sister was hurt. “You caught him cheating on you?”


Cerridwen raised one ebony eyebrow to illustrate her contempt for her brother’s reasoning. “He wouldn’t have dared. No, instead, he began comparing us and she always came out in a more favorable light. Apparently, he only thought he was attracted to strong, intelligent, passionate women. In reality, he likes clingy, insipid kittenish types.”


“I’m sorry,” Sepharus said softly, ignoring the flinty edge to her words and responding to the unvoiced hurt he knew she’d be holding inside. “He’s an idiot to choose someone like that over you.”


“Oh, he didn’t. He swore, on his knees, I was the one he wanted – I was the one he adored. He begged me not to end the relationship.” She waited as Sepharus stepped over a fallen tree and then helped her over before winding her arm back around his waist and relaxing into his one-armed embrace. “But what was the good of prolonging the inevitable?”


At Sepharus’ questioning look, she asked. “One of the first things Dmitre said after we’d met was that I fascinated him --do you remember that?” When he nodded, she continued. “I was a challenge – a puzzle. He took all the pieces and fit them together to make a larger picture, but it turned out, in the end, I wasn’t how he’d envisioned. Now, he thinks he can start over and somehow get the puzzle to form what he wants instead of what is. I’m not interested in having my pieces trimmed so I fit his ideal.” She shot Sepharus a sharp, self-deprecating smile. “That’s what I get for thinking I could go out with one of you emotionally irrational Gryffindors.”


“Excuse me!” Sepharus laughed in return. “Not all of us are irrational. Are you forgetting Mum and I are Gryffindors?” He continued smiling a bit at her jibe, but then a thought came to him and he glanced over at her, considering the wisdom of his next words. “Frank Longbottom is a Gryffindor and he certainly isn’t emotionally irrational. He knows exactly who you are, Cerri, and wouldn’t change you for the world.”


“Frank’s my friend,” Cerridwen replied, but it seemed to Sepharus she answered too quickly.


“Yeah . . . so?” he prompted when she didn’t expound on her statement.


“So, a friendship and a romantic relationship are much different. I wouldn’t ruin the former in a foolish attempt to create the latter.”


“Who says it would be foolish?” Sepharus pushed.


“Of course it’s foolish. Dmitre and I proved it. Gryffindors and Slytherins can’t maintain a relationship no matter how strong the initial attraction. I knew it was a bad idea, but I went out with him anyway. It was doomed before it began.”


Sepharus glanced to his right and stuttered to a stop, a smile blooming on his face. “So, Gryffindors and Slytherins can’t maintain a relationship?” he asked softly.


Cerridwen turned and, eyeing him suspiciously, walked back to join him. “What?”


He gestured, directing her attention to the sight that had stilled his feet. “You weren’t the only one who thought to come looking for centaury before it died off.”


Following her brother’s gaze, Cerridwen flushed scarlet.


Standing in a small clearing amidst the season’s last bit of centaury were her parents. Her father was embracing her mother and the kiss they were sharing wasn’t the brief peck on the cheek Cerridwen was used to witnessing.


There was no determining where her father’s black robes ended and her mother’s began, he had her molded so tightly to him. Her mother, in turn, had her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers anchored in his hair as if to ensure he couldn’t move away.


For a moment, neither sibling could tear their eyes away; the sight of their self-contained father in such a blatantly passionate moment was riveting. Then, Cerridwen grabbed Sepharus’ hand and quickly but silently pulled him in the opposite direction. As soon as they felt sufficiently far enough away, they burst out laughing and ran for the forest’s edge. Outside its boundary, they collapsed to the grass.


Minutes later, their laughter tapered off to giggles, and then the giggles, finally, to silence. Cerridwen spoke a moment later, but her voice was just above a whisper and bordering on awe. “I think that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”


“It was,” Sepharus agreed, turning his head to grin at her. They broke into another small fit of nervous giggles at happening across their parents in such a private moment.


Cerridwen rolled to her stomach and grinned at her brother. “They really love each other, don’t they?”


“You doubted it?” Sepharus asked, sobering in surprise.


“Yes. Well, no . . . I mean, I know Mum loves Father. I’d be able to tell by how she smiles at him and, I don’t know . . . flirts with him, even if she hadn’t been open about how she felt.” Cerridwen plucked thoughtfully at a tuft of grass before continuing. “Father is another story. When I was little, I caught him watching her once and the look on his face scared me. Remember when I got punished for continually hiding his wand? It was right after that incident that I started stealing it. I don’t know what I thought – that he wanted to hurt her or . . .” She jerked her head and shot him a self-conscious smile. “I was little. I couldn’t have said what it was. I just knew, by his face, that he wanted something from her and that he was hiding it most of the time.”


Cerridwen brushed the grass from her fingertips before raising her eyes to her brother’s. “It wasn’t until I was older that I realized not only did he love her, but how much he did. On a rare occasion, I’d catch him watching her in that way and, suddenly, it made sense. Have you ever noticed that?” Sepharus nodded. “You can see it in his eyes -- hear it in his voice when he talks about her, but it’s always tightly contained, like he’s afraid it’s something wild that might break free and hurt someone. So, no, I didn’t doubt it. I just . . .I just never knew that they knew.”


Cerridwen grinned at Sepharus again, both in acknowledgement of her inability to articulate her thoughts and also at their recently shared discovery. “They love each other and they both know it.”


Sepharus nodded, equally as pleased to have heard Cerridwen laugh as he was to witness his parent’s apparent affection for one another. Both events were pricelessly rare. Reaching out, he hooked his fingers in hers. “Dad’s not the only wizard who isn’t always forthcoming with his feelings, you know.”


Cerridwen snorted, studying his face. “What? You?” she mocked. “You’re as transparent as a window and as enthusiastic in expressing your affection as a puppy.”


“No,” Sepharus sighed, amazed at how dim his normally sharp sister could be. “Frank Longbottom.” Despite Cerridwen’s features becoming shuttered, Sepharus pressed on. “Has it ever occurred to you how he feels?”


“I’m his friend,” she repeated by way of explanation.


“I think, if you ask, you’ll find he’s felt more than a friend’s affection toward you for a long time now.”


He watched as his sister warily considered the possibility, then looked away. “I’d rather keep him as my friend than risk losing him,” she finally whispered fiercely.


“Well,” Sepharus declared, pushing to his feet and brushing off the dirt and debris clinging to his Quidditch robes. “I never thought I’d see the day my sister – the woman who presumes to change history by lobbying for a new Minister -- was afraid of anything. Our mother, Cerri, is Hermione Snape, the bravest and cleverest Gryffindor in a millennia. Perhaps you should look within yourself and draw from her courage . . .” With that, he strode off across the grass toward the castle.


“I’m not afraid. You take that back, Sepharus Snape!” Cerridwen snapped, sounding all of ten years old as she pushed to her feet. “It’s not cowardice that’s kept me from saying anything, it’s caution. Slytherins don’t rush headlong into everything like Gryffindors! We examine issues from every angle before we-- Are you listening to me?” When he continued to walk away without acknowledging her, she gave a cursory brush to her robes and, as a young Hermione once chased Harry and Ron, ran to catch up.


Had she known he was smiling to himself in a self-satisfied way, she would have surely hexed him.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Severus tilted his head, mesmerized by his wife’s slumberous brown eyes. “If you truly wish to gather some of this centaury, you’d best do it now before I decide to cast a Warming Charm and take you right here, madam. The herb will be crushed below us and of no use whatsoever.”


Hermione left her arms around his neck and gazed up into her husband’s eyes. They were like black velvet as they traveled over her face. “I’m sure there’s some sort of use for crushed centaury,” she murmured and pressed back up on her toes to mold her mouth to his.


Later, as he lazily tickled the column of her throat with a sprig of the herb they were lying in, he studied her face. “Are you sorry?”


“No,” she sighed, the picture of languor, before opening her eyes and smiling at him slightly. “For what?”


His lips curled at her answer but his eyes remained serious as they searched hers. “For the life you chose.”


Hermione studied her husband’s features for a few silent moments. “You always grow melancholy on our anniversary,” she finally said, reaching up to caress his jaw. “I think we should stop acknowledging it as such if it makes you so unhappy, and start recognizing the day I hunted you down at Spinner’s End as our anniversary.”


“Was that your clever way of avoiding the question?” he asked, although her words had gone a long way in dispelling the pocket of niggling doubt he’d found himself entertaining. Seeing Weasley – witnessing the unabated desire the man had for Hermione -- never failed to undermine his complacency.


“No. As a matter of fact, I’d love to answer your question. I’m not sorry for the life I chose, not in the least. I’ve never regretted it for a moment.” She traced her thumb along the curve of his bottom lip. “Happy?” she asked.


“No,” he replied, although a smile was curling the corners of his mouth. He lowered his hand and feathered the sprig of centaury across her breast. The curve of his lips grew more pronounced as her nipple beaded and she gasped in response. “Not until you tell me.”


“What? That I love you or that you make my body sing?”


“Both,” he murmured, his mouth already replacing the herb.


“I love you,” she purred at the warm suction of his mouth on her skin and reached up to wind her fingers in his hair, “and I love the way you make my body sing.”


For a few minutes, she merely enjoyed the warmth of his mouth and the teasing stroke of his calloused fingertips against her skin. Then, she tugged his head up so she could look in his eyes. “I’d like a response to that.”


“What sort of response?” he asked, pretending innocence.


“A positive declaration of affection,” she replied with patient amusement. “Tell me.”


“I think not,” he replied, his smile hidden in the curve of her neck as he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him. When she sat up to straddle his hips, he handed her the sprig of centaury. “I think, instead, you should make me respond.”


“Oh, you’ll respond,” Hermione purred, trailing the centaury from his breastbone to the point where their bodies met at the hips. With a slow, wicked smile, she wriggled against the growing evidence of his arousal. “Tell me, darling.”


Reaching up, he cupped her breasts and stroked his thumbs across their turgid peaks. “You’ll have to do better than that. Voldemort himself tortured me and I gave him nothing.”


“Did Voldemort do this to you?” she asked, her mouth following the same path the herb had. Her smile was purely sensual as he gasped in response. “Or this?”


“Hermione . . .” Severus warned, his eyes as black and warm as a summer’s night.


“Tell me,” she crooned, feathering her lips back up his torso. She slid her hips upward so he was poised at her entrance.


“Let me inside you and I’ll tell you,” he bargained, trying but failing to hide the husky quality to his voice.


“Oh, no,” she replied on a throaty chuckle, batting his hands away from her hips before he could take command of the situation. “Husband or not, you’re still a Slytherin and not to be trusted.” She shifted and glided the silky heat of her core along his length before returning to the same position as before – teasing on the precipice. “Tell me.”


He gritted his teeth and arched his hips from the forest floor, twisting his pelvis in attempt to thrust into her. “I need you.”


“That’s close,” she purred, gliding over him again. Leaning over, she nipped his earlobe between her teeth, “but to make love to me, you’ll have to tell me that you love me first.”


She straightened and smiled down at him in challenge, unaware that an errant ray of sunshine had broken through the trees and spotlighted her. Her hair was a golden corona around head and her skin shone, kissed by the autumn sunlight.


Severus stilled, his eyes roaming over her face, drinking in her beauty. “Hermione,” he whispered, his heart surging as her mouth curved in anticipation. He couldn’t have contained the words had he wanted to. They flooded up from his heart to his lips like water from a spring. “I love you.”


“I know,” she whispered, joining their bodies and their lips at once. Swallowing his groan of pleasure, she rose over him until he was straining to stay seated inside her. Gazing down at him, she smiled a very wicked, un-Gryffindor-like smile. “But tell me again anyway.”

The End
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Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me;
And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.

(an excerpt from “To Anthea, who may Command him Anything” by Robert Herrick)