Becoming Silhouettes

Chapter 6 – Pictures of You

Harry sat at the table in the basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and glared angrily into the cup of weak tea that Luna had set in front of him. He couldn’t quite figure out how things had gone so pear-shaped so quickly.

Ginny was still not to be found. Hermione was neither at home, nor in her lab. Hogwarts was being evacuated and the Forbidden Forest had been put under quarantine, stretching the ranks of the Aurors so thin that a mere skeleton crew was left to handle the frequent flare-ups of violence across wizarding Britain. The Ministry was under lock-down along with all his notes regarding the contagion. No one could enter the building without a password set by the Minister himself. The coward was holed up with a retinue of bodyguards in his Manor in the Highlands of Scotland and wasn’t taking visitors. Harry’s squad was forced to meet at the unsecured Leaky Cauldron for lack of anywhere better, and he and Ron were due in ten minutes.

His one consolation was that he knew Hermione had managed to procure a sample, for she had left a note on his desk to that effect. Since the woman herself was out of reach, that didn’t exactly help him at the moment.

Parchment rustled across the table from him as Luna flipped through the Daily Prophet. How the paper still managed to print and distribute (this particular paper had arrived this evening, despite being the morning edition) was anyone’s guess, though there certainly wasn’t a lack of news.

“A quarter of Hogsmeade has been burnt to the foundations,” she said quietly. Harry glanced up from his tea to stare at her in shock. Their eyes met over the top of the paper, her characteristically dreamy gaze clouded with worry. “It says there was a riot last night. A group of wizards… eyewitness accounts say that they were clearly infected with the Rash and… foaming at the mouth?” She frowned and looked questioningly at Harry.

Scrubbing his hand over his face, Harry said, “Hermione’s rats exhibited symptoms similar to that of rabies.”

“Ah,” she said, staring contemplatively into space for a moment before continuing. “They attacked the Hog’s Head Inn, which was full of families that had come to collect their children from Hogwarts. Most of the families were Muggle with Muggle-born children. One of the Muggles had a hand gun.”

Harry groaned. She didn’t have to finish the story; he could guess where it had gone from there. Someone had gotten shot at, and perhaps the bullet had even hit its mark. Regardless, the Muggles would have found not only the crazed infected at their throats, but also the rest of the town united in defense against the evil of Muggles. The war had done little to eradicate prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-borns; it had simply submerged it to fester until wizarding kind was given a reason to strike against the group that so many still feared and hated. This incident could very well be the match thrown on kindling already primed with lighter fluid.

“Aurors were in the area, seeing to the evacuation and quarantine of the forest, but there wasn’t enough of them to stop the riot. They barely managed to contain the damage. None of the infected were apprehended, and many of the Muggles… and Muggle-born children… were killed.” Luna’s paraphrasing limped to a halt. Carefully folding the newspaper down the middle so that the story was prominently displayed, she set it aside. “Does this seem familiar to you?” she asked in the following silence.

His eyes squeezed shut and his hands clenched into fists, Harry didn’t answer. ‘… Nine… Eight…’ he counted silently to himself, willing the anger to flow out of him so that he would not send his teacup hurtling at the wall. ‘… Four… Three…” Finally, there was blackness behind his eyelids instead of red, and the high-pitched buzzing had faded from his ears. ‘…One.’ He was still furious, but rational enough not to scream his rage to the rafters. When he opened his eyes, Luna was watching him with thoughtful, slightly protruding eyes.

“You’ve learned to control your anger better,” she commented approvingly. “You were always such a hothead in school.”

“It was part of my training,” he said when he could trust that his voice to emit at a sane volume. Anger management had been one of the more difficult lessons he had learned as he had trained to be an Auror, and one of the most valuable. Rarely did he have to fall back on such devices as counting anymore, but in moments like these, it was a necessity. Guilt and anger had always mixed within him to create a volatile solution. He knew he shouldn’t feel guilty for the riot and resulting deaths. Hogwarts had been riddled with patches of mushrooms, and removing the children and staff had been the only decision to make. He hadn’t put the gun in the Muggle’s hand, and he had not been in the squad that responded to the riot. Still, the deaths weighed heavily upon him.

“It’s not your fault, Harry,” Luna said quietly and reached across the table to pat his hand gently.

“It is if you ask Mum,” Ron said as he entered the kitchen clean-shaven and fully dressed in his Auror’s uniform. “She’s sure that Ginny has eloped with a Muggle, now…” He trailed off as Luna tapped the story about the Hogsmeade Riot. “Bloody hell.”

Harry snorted and downed his tea in one gulp, wishing there was something stronger in it. Rising to his feet abruptly, he said, “We should get going. The squad will be waiting for us.”

Ron nodded and followed Harry to the fireplace, donning his mantel in a practiced sweep.

---

The main dining room of the Leaky Cauldron should have been much more full of people than it was. The small number of bodies clad in Aurors’ uniforms was a more concrete testament to the devastation of the Rash than any of the newspapers articles he had read. Granted, his squad’s numbers had been steadily dwindling since the start of the infection, but less than half had recovered and returned to their posts.

Chief Griswold nodded his grizzled gray head at them as Harry and Ron took their seats at the back of the room. The Aurors had spread out, many sitting at tables alone in what Harry thought was an unconscious attempt to make the group look bigger. It only had the effect of accentuating the absences. Two Aurors had gone missing since their last squad meeting on Thursday: Lightfoot’s partner Hackleman, an odd character who knew more hexes and jinxes than anyone Harry could name, and a lovely young recruit who went by the unlikely nickname of Stick. Lightfoot was sitting alone at a table sharing significant glances with Stick’s partner, who Harry suspected had been smitten by her within hours of the assignment.

With a quiet clinking of glass, Tom the barman finished putting away the glasses he had been cleaning and exited into the back of the bar, giving the Aurors their privacy. They waited another five minutes in relative silence, the easy banter that usually held the noise level of a squad meeting to a dull roar as noticeably absent as the squad’s members. Finally, Griswold cleared his throat, garnering the instant attention of every person in the room.

“As you must be aware,” Griswold rasped, his voice having suffered permanent damage from a hex years prior, “Wizarding Britain has gone tits up.” Someone snorted and Griswold raised an eyebrow so bushy that it appeared as if a small rodent had taken up residence on his forehead. “From this moment on, all of you are on call around the clock.” He paused to glare at the assembled witches and wizards, his eyebrows seemingly fighting for dominance over his bulbous pockmarked nose. “Your wand will vibrate for up to five minutes when you are being summoned. While it is vibrating, you are to Apparate; the spell sent to your wands will guide you to the correct location. It will stop vibrating once you have reached your destination. Yes, St. Germaine?”

The man in question had his hand raised, and upon being recognized, he lowered it to the table with a thump. “What if we can’t Apparate in those five minutes?” Griswold’s scowl deepened, so he was quick to add. “You know, if we’re in the loo or—”

“Having a ride!” one Auror interjected. He received a couple of snickers and several disgusted glares, including one from Griswold. A leather glove sailed through the bar and struck him in the back of the head.

“Then I suggest you finish quickly,” Griswold growled. Every Auror in the group slid a little further down in their chairs. “If you miss the summons, then your wand will vibrate again after a five minute break. If you must wait for the second summons, then you’d better have a damn good reason.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances and nodded in silent understanding. Finding Ginny was their highest priority. If their wands happened to start vibrating at an inopportune time, then the squad would have to wait.

“Potter! Weasley! Do you have anything to add?” Griswold shouted abruptly. Both men started, and it was Harry who was first to answer.

“Ginny is still missing, sir.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded truculent and querulous, but he didn’t care. It was also very true.

“Lots of folks are still missing,” Griswold snapped. “My own son—!” He cut himself off when his wand began to glow with brilliant red light and vibrate in his hip holster. “Blast!” he swore, drawing his wand and brandishing like a torch. “All right, time for the first test.”

An instant later, every wand in the room began to pulse with the same red light. The room exploded with noise as eight Aurors leapt to their feet with varying degrees of grace and profanity, withdrawing wands and regarding the shaking lengths of wood with everything from irritation to revulsion.

“They couldn’t have found a better way to do this?” Ron whined as he held his wand loosely and eyed it as if it had been replaced with a garden snake.

Harry grimaced, sharing in his friend’s dislike. It was if his wand had become possessed with a malevolent spirit, and Harry had had enough of possession in his teens to last him a lifetime. Like it or not, there was nothing he could do about it. Clearing his mind, he focused on Apparating, letting his ensorcelled wand guide the way.

Within two minutes, the dining room of the Leaky Cauldron was empty and silent.

---

Hermione dragged a damp sponge across the naked chest of her patient, sopping up the oily black sludge that had begun seeping out of his pores several hours ago, and received the most beatific smile she supposed Severus Snape’s face had ever produced. She couldn’t help returning the smile. As out-of-place as it seemed, it was as infectious as the Rash that was being eradicated from his body. His eyes actually twinkled in a dazed, half-awake kind of way, and his thin lips stretched wide, sweetly, and slightly crooked, as if his mouth knew that it shouldn’t be doing this, but couldn’t be bothered to resist. It was Hermione’s not-so-humble opinion that stoned bliss was a brilliant side effect of her treatment when dealing with this particular patient.

So far, she had been treated with a rambling dissertation on the enhanced properties of lavender when harvested on a new moon; which brand of dragon dung imparted the highest concentration of iron to a flowerbed; Malfoy’s entire sexual history (she suspected that there had been more editorial than fact in that one, but since Malfoy had left the room at that point, she would likely never know); his thoughts on a Muggle science fiction series that she had read years ago and vaguely remembered; and in which orifice Minister Trout had sequestered his head. He had dozed often for no more than a couple hours at a time, and when she had grown exhausted to the point that she could no longer prop her eyelids open, he had sung her a slow sad lullaby in a slightly out of tune minor key. His deep silky voice had melted her bones.

Their conversations were far from one-sided. He asked her any question that popped into his head, whether it was suitable for polite company or intensely personal. She had been hesitant to answer at first, wondering how much he would remember later, but the more he shared of himself, the more she was inclined to reciprocate. When she had explained how she had started in Cosmetic Transfigurations and his small part in it, he had laughed so loudly that Malfoy had flown into the room and demanded to know what was wrong. Snape had shot him a mysterious grin, followed by an even more mysterious comment: “It was me. You’ve lost.” After Malfoy had flounced out of the room in a huff, Snape had launched into the Life and Loves of Draco Malfoy.

In a matter of a day and a half, Hermione had found herself becoming more intimate with this man by words alone than she had ever experienced with another human being. And as his eyes followed her hand as she swept it across his chest, tangling the scattered dark curls that dusted his pectorals, she wondered if it would be very unprofessional if she kept Snape doped and took him home with her.

“That feels divine,” he purred muzzily, slurring the slightest bit.

Malfoy pulled a face from the chair. Positioned as it was by the head of the bed, Snape couldn’t see him, but Hermione could (she was perched on the edge of the mattress, her hip aligned with Snape’s), and she scowled at him reprimandingly. Making an even more horrid face, he said, “That sounds obscene.”

“You’re one to talk, boy.” Snape stopped watching Hermione’s hand long enough to wink conspiratorially at her. She didn’t bother to stifle the giggle that tickled her throat; she wasn’t one for giggling, but it made Snape smile and she was fast becoming addicted to those smiles. This time, he not only smiled, but chuckled quietly as well, blinking long and slowly.

Dipping her sponge into the pan of cool water charmed to stay clean, she rinsed the sponge of ichor and wiped down his arms, still latticed with shiny scars. Snape’s face grew pensive and his gaze more focused as he watched the sponge traverse his left forearm.

“I thought it was him,” he said, almost dreamily. “I felt him under my skin, in my veins, in my head.”

“Not any more though,” Hermione confirmed. She touched his cheek gently, marveling at how he leaned into her hand instead of striking it away. She would miss this.

“No, not any more.”

“Severus,” she started, but was somehow caught breathless by his tender expression.

“Hermione,” he said almost singsong, lengthening the ‘i’. They had progressed to first names rather quickly at his insistence. She loved how he said hers, as if he relished each syllable.

“I just wanted to say…” She paused, remembering that Malfoy was in the room. However, she couldn’t let this chance pass her by. Taking care of him had help assuage some of the guilt to which she’d clung since the night in the Shrieking Shack, but it was important that he hear her apology. Perhaps he would even remember it when the treatment had run its course. “That night, when Nagini bit you and we left you there… I’m so very sorry. We should have done more. Something. Anything! Except what we did…”

He shushed her, patting her gently on the hand that was still washing his arm. “Silly girl, I neither wanted your help nor needed it.”

“Yes, but we were simply horrible—”

“Will you hurry it up? This is disgusting,” Malfoy groused from his chair, and Hermione was forcibly reminded of his spoiled Hogwarts persona. “He had better be back to normal when your cure wears off or I’ll be quite put out.”

Hermione frowned at him. “You don’t have to stay.” In fact, she would prefer it if he left. Snape wouldn’t be so pleasant for much longer, and she wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. All too soon, he would be back to insulting her and, more likely than not, send her packing without so much as a word of thanks.

He snorted derisively and raised an eyebrow. “I’m saving these memories for a rainy day,” he said with a wink much more mischievous than the one Snape had given her. “They’ll be good as gold. Besides,” he said as he leaned back in the uncomfortably hard chair and stretched like a cat, “I’m here to spell you. You’ve got to rest sometime.”

With a sigh, Hermione dropped the sponge into the basin. “I suppose. I could use a lie-down in a real bed.”

Snape patted the mattress next to him and smiled up at her through sleep-fogged eyes. The fact that he was falling asleep, and therefore not able to keep her such excellent company, sealed the deal.

“You have no finesse, old man.” Malfoy shook his head in mock disgust and folded his arms together as Hermione stood up. “Take my room. It’s down the hall to the right.”

---

Sleep didn’t come as easily as Hermione would have guessed, despite the fact that Malfoy had a sinfully soft down-feather-topped mattress and his bedroom was decorated much more sumptuously than Snape’s had been. Layers of off-white gauzy curtains softened the twilight into a purple haze, and a thick-piled Oriental rug in muted blues and greens covered the hardwood floor. The air was warm enough that she simply flopped across his duvet, luxuriating in the relief that it gave her back and the feel of soft cotton under her skin. She knew that she should have taken a shower first, but couldn’t be bothered, expecting to fall asleep straight away. Instead, she lay awake staring at the ceiling and thinking about Snape.

It had never occurred to her that he had the capacity for anything but viciousness. It probably should have come as no surprise that he was human underneath all his spines, but she couldn’t recall giving it any serious thought. Nothing in her treatment for the Rash had any personality-altering ingredients in it per se, though she had added a sedative that lowered inhibitions – it tended to make difficult patients more tractable. The nature of the potion also played a part in his pleasant demeanor. It destroyed Dark Magic in order to kill the infection. The result was that all traces of Dark Magic were temporarily eliminated. For one so inclined to the Dark, Snape was undoubtedly feeling disoriented and disconnected.

The brilliant, funny man sleeping in the next room was a part of Severus Snape, just one he wasn’t comfortable showing her. It was a shame – she liked this man; they got on smashingly, and she would jump at the chance to see more of him. Just the same, he wasn’t Severus Snape without the bite to his wit and the glitter to his fathomless black eyes. He wasn’t what one would call devastatingly handsome or even very attractive, but his features were striking and he was leanly built, if a little short. One couldn’t have a decent conversation with physical beauty, anyway. As a package, he was just about as perfect as any man could be.

She had no delusions that he wouldn’t go back to being horrid to her once the potion had been flushed from his system – worse than horrid if he remembered any of what they had shared. Not to mention the fact that he had been in love with Lily Potter since he was a schoolboy and surely still was. He would certainly be a tough nut to crack.

‘Understatement of the decade,’ she thought with a wry twist of her lips. The question was: would she be up to it?

Sighing in frustration, she slapped the duvet with her palms and glared at the ceiling, resigned to the fact that she was not going to fall asleep and probably should take a shower instead of moaning over Snape. She rolled off the bed and padded out of the room, debating whether she should ask Malfoy where the fresh towels were kept or simply start opening doors. There were only five in the narrow hallway: one to Snape’s bedroom, one to Malfoy’s, the loo, and two that she had yet to open. Though a bit uncomfortable with the feeling of snooping through their house, even if it was to simply find a towel, she opened the door closest to the bathroom and peered in.

It was a small room hardly bigger than her walk-in closet and jam-packed with bookshelves, leaving just enough space for a worn oak chair and roll-top desk. With the blinds open, the large picture window had an excellent view of the garden, which almost seemed to shimmer with life and vitality in the failing light. Churning sluggishly beyond his backyard, the river was as polluted and ugly as the garden was beautiful. The air was stuffy, close, and heavily scented by old parchment. It reminded her of the library down the street from her parents’ house, and for that reason only, she stepped in, leaving the door cracked behind her.

The shelves reached from floor to ceiling and covered every inch of available wall space, much like the parlor downstairs. Yesterday, on her way to the kitchen for a glass of something cold to drink, she had taken a moment to peruse the titles on those shelves. There had been a number of Potions textbooks for various school years, a set of encyclopedias on the history of Magic, and a number of grim titles that could only contain information on the Dark Arts. Here, the selection of books was completely different: a leather-bound set of classic science-fiction novels, the kind one would receive piece by piece in the post, was wedged next to a hodge-podge of worn Muggle paperbacks, some with spines so creased that she had trouble reading their titles. Another shelf held a seemingly random collection of non-fiction on subjects from astral projection to hydroponics to Twenty Daytrips in the Highlands of Scotland. He also had an old CD player crammed into one shelf, almost engulfed by an eclectic collection of CDs. Like the paperbacks, their covers were scratched and worn, and several had prices inked with Magic Marker. She wondered if he wandered the local thrift stores and simply bought what looked interesting.

It was a set of matched photo albums that caught her eye, however. They were sewn-bound, leather monstrosities with static-cling pages, the kind a scrap booker might use (her mother kept them by the dozens). Intrigued by what Severus Snape would deem worth keeping, she lit the small electric lamp on the corner of his desk and slid the first off the shelf with a guilty, covert glance at the door. Pushing it shut, she hoped that Malfoy wouldn’t notice the faint light under the door. There was no way she could rationalize this as “looking for towels.”

The first several pages had old Muggle Polaroids of a skinny, awkward black-haired boy and a lovely girl with auburn hair and bright green eyes. Occasionally, another girl, sour-faced and not nearly as pretty, was in the background, often glaring at the boy.

“Snape and Lily,” she breathed, staring with rapt attention at the photos. Even then, his crush on her was obvious, though Lily seemed hesitant and lacked his enthusiasm. His Hogwarts letter took the entirety of one page, and across from it was a photograph of Lily and Snape on Platform Nine and Three-quarters in their school robes, lacking any house insignia. Lily was smiling nervously, but Snape had a wide, happy grin plastered across his face. As the pages progressed, there were fewer and fewer pictures of them together. Most were of Lily alone, posing shyly, or a candid shot of her amongst friends, seemingly unaware of the camera.

Hermione watched Lily mature as she flipped through the book, the posed pictures dwindling until they ceased completely, the candid shots increasing in number and distance from their subject. Several were oddly shaped, as if they had been cut. Others were torn. She suspected that he had removed parts that he hadn’t liked. Near the end of the book were a few wizarding photographs: one of Lily crossing the street in Diagon Alley, the wind blowing her auburn hair across her face and thwarting her every attempt to brush it back, and another of her sitting in the sun on a blanket at a park, a book in her hand and a picnic basket at her hip. She was quite obviously past school age, and when Hermione looked closely, she could see the small rise of her stomach. The last photo in the book was of Lily standing outside of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, rocking an infant on her shoulder. Her lips moved silently, she supposed in song, as she swayed and bobbed. Harry would kill for this photo. The final few pages were blank.

Smiling sadly, Hermione slid the album onto the shelf and pulled down the next one. It held his Masters Certification in Potions and the birth announcement of Draco Malfoy to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. There were several Wizarding photographs of a tow-headed chubby baby, then toddler and then young man. Grimacing as the boy’s pointed face grew more sneering and smug (she remembered that quite well, thank you very much), she flipped through the pictures of Malfoy until a newspaper clipping caught her eye. It was one of those published in the Daily Prophet during the Tri-Wizard Tournament; she was hugging Harry just before he performed the first task.

Frowning in consternation, she turned the page to find two more photos of her from that same year: one of her and Victor Krum posing together and one of the all the Tri-Wizard contestants and their dates. The event photographer had been taken them mid-way through the dance when she had still been relishing in the glory of her makeover – before Ron had spoiled it all by being a blockheaded prat. Flipping through the pages quickly as confusion and unease began to tighten her chest, she found several more photos of her through her years at Hogwarts: patrolling a dark hallway, standing on the train platform as the Hogwarts Express steamed into the station. These were intermingled with many more photos of Malfoy, usually posed family portraits.

Hurriedly thrusting that album into place, she grabbed the next and opened it to see a clipping from the Daily Prophet, her young face beaming with triumph that they had defeated Voldemort. The rest of the pages were filled with her: candid Wizarding photos like the ones of Lily, clippings from various newspapers, even a tiny cutout from her company’s brochure – a glamorous black-and-white headshot.

“Hermione, what are you doing in here?”

Hermione’s head snapped up, and she spun around, the photo album still open in her clammy hands and her heart in her throat. Malfoy stood in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. An eyebrow rose when he caught sight of what she was holding.

“I was looking for towels,” she said unconvincingly. It was still odd to hear her first name coming from Draco Malfoy’s lips, and it wasn’t nearly as pleasant as hearing it from Snape. Just as nursing Snape had brought them closer, she and Malfoy had developed something that resembled a real friendship. He wasn’t half bad if one overlooked a number of character flaws.

“You aren’t going to find any in there.” He nodded at the album in her hand. “I do believe that you are snooping. Not very good at it, are you, Hermione?”

Refusing to deny the obvious, she shrugged. “I thought you were supposed to be watching Severus.”

“He’s sleeping. Like you should be.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, he sauntered over to her with a wicked smile. “However, if he knew that you had been in here, looking at these…” He froze when he saw the picture on the page: an artsy shot of Hermione leaving Flourish and Blotts, her hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun as she gazed off to the side. “What…?”

Seeing that Malfoy was as surprised as she was, she turned the page to see herself yet again. In silence, they thumbed through the album to see picture after picture of her: alone, with friends, but never aware of the camera.

“Well, I’ll be buggered,” he said finally.

“The first picture was from fourth year, Draco. There’s many of Lily, too.” She nodded at the bookshelf containing the albums.

“Pervert,” Malfoy said with a certain amount of awe. “And I thought he was a eunuch.”

Hermione pursed her lips and met his eyes over the book. “He lived most of his entire life at Hogwarts. He graduated at what, seventeen? Eighteen? And began teaching at twenty-one? He’s been surrounded by students for most of his life. It makes sense that it would be a… former student about whom he would choose to… obsess.”

“Full of ourselves, aren’t we?” Malfoy asked, but his laughter had lost its derisive edge and sounded sad more than anything else.

Hermione shrugged and turned back to the last photo in the book. She was around twenty-five in that photo, just starting her Cosmetic Transfigurations clinic and personal makeover. Her hair backlit and glowing like a corona, she was strolling through a park with a book in her hand, the wind stirring a cyclone of orange autumn leaves around her body. He had developed a particular style and artistry as a photographer over the years, and she was sure that he could have had some submitted to a gallery – if he found more subjects, that is.

The initial creepiness was fading as she absorbed the reverence with which the pictures were taken. She was never in a compromising position; there were no photos of her on the loo or undressing by her window. In his pictures, she was truly beautiful. Part of her was quite flattered that she had somehow caught his eye, though she was still unnerved that he had been able to take so many photos for so long while she had remained oblivious.

Or, perhaps, was he having her followed? She couldn’t imagine why. Pausing her slow tour through Snape’s hidden hobby, she allowed another thought to roll through her mind: perhaps he wouldn’t be as impossible a challenge as she had anticipated. Her breath caught in excitement, and she forced herself to exhale in a calm, measured breath.

“Am I to understand that you have never seen these albums before?” she asked, sure of his answer, but wanting to confirm it nonetheless.

“Of course not. I hadn’t actually noticed them before in all this junk.” He waved a hand at the crowded bookshelves. “It does, however, shed light on a few things.”

“Oh?” Hermione asked, shutting the book and replacing it. Shaking his head, Malfoy slouched out of the room, for all appearances deep in thought.

“The towels are in the basket above the toilet,” his voice, muffled by the wall, carried back to her.

“Right,” she mumbled to herself, deciding to leave the last album unopened and to take that shower. “Draco,” she called, hurrying out of the room after him. “Were you looking for me?”

He paused at the end of the hallway, his hand on Snape’s bedroom door as he pushed it open. Staring hard at the man inside for a long moment, he shot her a wry grin. “You could say so. I wanted to see how you looked sleeping in my bed.”

He shook his head before disappearing into the room, leaving Hermione alone in the hall with her thoughts.

---

A/N: Big shout-out to my beta, who has seen this chapter several times! Thanks also to the mods of TPP for hosting the challenge and reviewing all of our work, and to you readers and reviewers. :)

This title of this chapter is from the Cure song of the same name.