CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:

WRONG

1 October 1997

(the present)

Since Hermione had been gifted her own bedroom and sitting room and all those beautiful bookshelves, which she was now steadily filling, she hadn't had as much use for the Malfoy Manor library.

But last night, via owl, Professor Snape had set her a new assignment – writing an essay about the rise and 'attraction' of Grindewald – and she couldn't find what she needed on her shelves, so she hurried to peruse the library stacks. She was determined to do well, hoping he would come to the Manor to correct and discuss the assignment. She hadn't seen him in nearly a fortnight, since her birthday party (or, more accurately, her impromptu lesson that followed) and she found she missed him more than Fifth Year Muggleborn Hermione would have believed possible.

She'd finally found a tome that looked useful when the library door opened, and in swooped her aunt, Narcissa. Hermione hadn't seen Narcissa since the night of her eighteenth birthday party, either. The woman had gone back to the seclusion of her bed chambers, though she'd started letting Bellatrix in to talk, which Hermione's mother said she took as a sign the woman was getting better.

Narcissa entered the library with purpose, but after a few steps, she seemed to sense she wasn't alone. She paused, cocked her head ever so slightly to the side, and listened.

Hermione hugged Master of Manipulation: How Gellert Grindelwald Charmed a Generation to her chest and backed out of view, barely daring to breathe.

Narcissa shook her head like she must've imagined whatever she thought she saw or heard or sensed, and continued across the expansive room. She looked a bit better than she had the last time Hermione saw her, even though she wasn't all dressed up and wearing makeup now. Her face was bright and she appeared less gaunt. The dark circles remained under her eyes, but she didn't seem to be teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Her blonde hair was swept to the side in a long, low braid, her nails were painted shimmery gold, and she wore a simple rose-pink dress that went to the floor.

Hermione watched as her aunt went straight to the tall, thin bookcase to the left of the fireplace, the one with only fourteen titles on two shelves. This one, Hermione always skipped. These two shelves held only drab how-to books she couldn't imagine ever wanting to need, though she'd seen the titles enough times to have them memorized.

Baking Your Way Into His Heart

Dress Design with Charms & Needles

Pleasure With Purity: The Power of Waiting

Planning the Perfect Wedding

A Witch's Guide to Satisfying her Wizard

Tips and Tricks for the Perfect Hostess

Holiday Décor in the Modern Wizarding World

Gestating an Heir: From Conception to Birth

Your Magical Baby and You

Raising Little Witches, Volume I

Raising Little Wizards, Volume I

Raising Little Wizards, Volume II

Passion & Parenting: Maintaining a Marriage while Mothering

Magical Schools of Europe: A Comparative Look

(Though Hermione would never admit it to anyone, she'd once flipped through the Pleasure With Purity book. It was full of sex shaming diatribes by 'experts' and lists of reasons to 'wait,' but it also included diagrams and instructions about how to please a wizard without intercourse and how to stop him from taking things 'too far.' Someone, presumably a young Narcissa, had scribbled notes in the margins, which included doodling several hearts around the title of an article about oral sex. Hermione was too mortified by this to read anything more and hurriedly put the book back in its place.)

Seemingly unaware she was being watched, Narcissa took one of the heavy tomes off the shelf, carried it to the couch, and curled up, and began to read.

Hermione chewed her lip. How long was her aunt planning to stay in here? If she made her presence known now, it would seem like she was hiding out. But the alternative was… well… to hide out! Hermione peeked through the stacks, shifting from one foot to the other and impatiently waiting for her aunt to up and leave. After a few minutes, she was bored from standing there and sure Narcissa's departure would not be quickly forthcoming. She therefore decided, since she was in a library, she might as well read too. She quietly moved to a seated position, opened the book on Gellert Grindelwald, and was soon so absorbed in the text she almost forgot that her aunt was on the other side of the tall freestanding shelves.

Then, the door opened.

Hermione peered over the tops of the books on the shelf second from bottom. She recognized her uncle's white dragon hide boots.

"Here you are!" he said. He moved to the couch. Once he'd sat down, Hermione could see them both… if she craned her neck just right.

"Reading," said Narcissa. She showed the cover to Lucius. Hermione couldn't make it out from where she was.

"Why that one?" he asked. "Surely, you're not…"

"I don't know. Perhaps?" She sounded scared, but also maybe… excited? "I'm six weeks late."

Hermione stifled a gasp. Did that mean what she thought it did?

"Should we do the spell?" Lucius asked.

"I don't know," said Narcissa. "I don't know if I want to know."

Hermione couldn't see their faces without twisting rather painfully, so she settled for watching them from the chins down. Lucius turned his body toward his wife and pulled her to him. She placed the book in her lap and brought her hand up to the center of his chest, over his heart.

"I honestly don't know what I'm hoping for," Narcissa whispered. "I can't lose another one."

"We won't lose another one."

"How can you say that?" her voice trembled. "In under five years we suffered two miscarriages and one dead toddler. Three of our four babies, gone. And now, sixteen years later, we're in danger of losing our only son. I can't keep children alive, Lucius. I wanted to give you so many, remember? But I can't manage to-"

"None of that was your fault." Lucius pulled her half into his lap, cradling her upper body against his chest with her legs bent over his knees, almost as a parent would hold a child whose gotten too big to be rocked. "Diana's death was an accident. Miscarriages happen. And we won't lose our son."

"You don't know that."

"I promise you, I won't let anything happen to Draco. Have I ever broken a promise to you?"

Hermione felt a weird fluttering in the pit of her stomach. It was almost like… attraction. But that didn't make sense. Even if the couple weren't her aunt and uncle, she had no attraction to them. Still, this was the same fluttering feeling Severus Snape sometimes induced in her. She'd thought it was indicative of a developing crush. Maybe, instead, she was suffering some weird stomach ailment.

"Lucius, my love, while you were in Azkaban, Draco was in danger, and…"

"Narcissa, my love," he cut her off. "While I was in Azkaban, you kept our son safe. It was you who thought to go to Severus. It was you who insisted he make the Unbreakable Vow. It was you who both kept him from being killed, and kept him from becoming a murderer."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably on the floor. Her legs had fallen asleep and gone tingly. And she felt guilty overhearing this conversation.

"I don't want our son to become a murderer," whispered Narcissa tearfully. "He's just a boy. A good boy. Murder – it tears your soul in two. That's what Bella told me. She said it takes away a piece of you that you can never get back. I don't know how she can kill, knowing-"

"When the options are kill or be killed, you do what you have to," said Lucius, his voice taking on a hardened quality it hadn't had moments before.

"Not me," said Narcissa. "When they came to Malfoy Manor, when I was alone with Diana, they could have killed me, and I didn't… I didn't defend myself… or her… they took her… they tried to take her… if Severus hadn't come… if he hadn't saved her… and found me… but if they'd taken her… if they'd taken her… she'd still be alive!" She began to sob.

Hermione inched back to rest against the wall. She didn't need to see them through the stacks. She didn't want to witness this. She understood Narcissa's worries about Draco becoming a murderer, and she was suddenly concerned for her mother's soul… but at the same time…

At the same time…

Her wand hand twitched involuntarily, and a mental image flashed before her.

Torturing James Potter just as she had Rodolphus Lestrange. Making him suffer the way he and his friends made her aunt suffer. Torturing him into insanity like her mother did to Frank Longbottom.

Ending his life in a flash of green light.

She shook her head, trying to clear the picture. She'd had revenge fantasies before, since seeing that memory, and in increasing frequency since Harry had taken the story for the Quibbler… but this was the first time she saw herself using the Killing Curse, really saw it. Really felt like she could.

But you've killed already, a nasty little voice in the back of her mind reminded her. That poor old House Elf. You Monster.

She'd killed before. And now, for the first time since, she was worried, if given the opportunity, she might kill again.

Lucius and Narcissa were still speaking quietly. Hermione tried to focus her attention back on them, and not on the pent up rage and guilt she'd been battling since the start of August.

"It might not be pregnancy," said Narcissa, talking through her tears. "I'm forty-two. It could be the climacteric."

"You're not old enough for the change," insisted Lucius. "My mother was in her late fifties. My grandmother was over sixty."

"Sometimes it happens earlier," said Narcissa. "Sometimes…"

"We'll do the spell," said Lucius. "Tonight. I'll have a House Elf bring a rabbit to the master bath. We'll do it there."

Hermione didn't understand why they'd need a rabbit to do this spell – maybe witches were unaware that women these days could simply pee on a stick – but she was disappointed it would be done out of sight. It wasn't as if she could ask her aunt about it later. Not without revealing she'd been eavesdropping.

"If it's positive, Lucius… if it's… if we're… do you even want…?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"I asked you first."

Hermione, unable to help herself, peeked out again. Narcissa was stroking Lucius' cheek. It looked as though he hadn't shaved in a few days. He had his hand on her thigh and was moving his thumb in little circles.

Though this was hardly a scene from her mother's erotica novels, Hermione couldn't help feeling like she was witnessing romance. No, not romance, exactly.

But a different kind of love.

Not a kind she'd known yet. Not a kind she could imagine herself having ever known with those silly boys she'd once fancied, Viktor Krum and Ronald Weasley. Not even the kind she fantasized about when she couldn't sleep, when she let dirty daydreams of her private tutor get her so excited she worried someone would hear her moans and sighs from the hall.

"We were stupid to have two babies in the middle of the last war," said Narcissa finally. "But I loved being young and stupid with you."

"I would never pressure you for another child, my lotus blossom." He pressed his lips to the spot just below her ear. "But if you are, and if you want this, I want it."

Narcissa pulled him into a kiss, long, not chaste, but not messy. When they parted, he smiled.

"When I was in Azkaban, I was tormented by worries about what might be happening to you, but when I needed to keep myself sane, when I needed to fight the darkness of the Dementors, I closed my eyes and imagined you kissing me exactly like that."

Hermione leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She wished she could talk to Ginny. The saucy ginger would not believe what a closet romantic Lucius Malfoy was in private, when he thought he and his wife were alone. She wondered if even Draco knew. He'd mentioned, of course, that the two had an embarrassingly physically passionate past – he joked of the immense trauma of having walked in on them 'hugging' in bed when he was four – but this wasn't that. And, Hermione imagined, it wasn't something her mother had ever experienced with her father. Surely, a man who treated his wife like this never left her face bruised, or her heart broken.

This time, the feeling in Hermione's stomach was a sharp pang.

After her 'lesson' the night of her birthday, Severus Snape had rushed out of her room, apologizing and shaking his head. Thus far he hadn't returned.

"Do you remember when we were expecting Diana?" asked Narcissa. "The first time you felt her kick inside me? You couldn't stop singing."

He laughed. "Singing made her kick."

"She loved to dance. She loved her daddy. She lit up when you entered the room."

Hermione peered through the stacks again, craning to see their faces. Lucius was gently wiping tears from his wife's cheeks. She was smiling shakily back at him.

"She was beautiful," he said. "She looked like you."

"She had your eyes," said Narcissa.

"And your smile," he said.

"Sometimes, I hate Bellatrix."

Hermione's mouth dropped. While her aunt often changed the subject abruptly mid-conversation, this seemed to come especially out of nowhere.

"Why?" asked Lucius, who also appeared to be confused.

Narcissa's expression hardened. She didn't meet her husband's eyes. "Bella thought her daughter was dead, but she wasn't. She got her back." As quickly as it had overtaken her face, Narcissa softened again. Then she sniffled. "I hate her because she got hers back and I won't get mine back."

"You don't hate her for that," said Lucius.

"I do!" insisted Narcissa. "I do. I hate her because she gets a second chance."

"Perhaps we'll get a second chance." He rested his hand on her midsection. "If you're not now… we could start trying."

"Is that what you want?" asked Narcissa.

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but the library door swung open, and in charged Bellatrix.

"Have you seen Hermione? I can't find her."

"I haven't," said Narcissa.

"Nor have I," said Lucius.

Hermione pressed her back against the wall and tried to use what little she knew of Occlumency to close her mind to her mother.

Bellatrix let out a little grunt of frustration. "The pool, perhaps. I'll look there. If you see her, send her to me."

-0-0-0-

1 October, 1967

(30 years ago)

Sixth year Bellatrix Black had never been asked to do anything with a boy before, save for being asked by Tobias Nott to step out of the way at the last Yule Ball so he could ask Calpurnia Welsh to dance. She'd never held the hand of a boy or been kissed, not even on the cheek, she'd never been on a date – not that her parents would allow her to date, as she was already promised to Rodolphus Lestrange – and she'd never been the object of one's desires. The only cards she received on Valentine's Day were from her two sisters, who didn't want her to feel left out.

But since the start of the school year not three weeks ago, she'd been receiving letters from a Secret Admirer, and though she didn't know who he was, it felt… good.

She attributed this sudden attention to a couple of her new features… over the summer, after years of being one of the flattest chested girls her age, she'd suddenly gone from an A cup to a C, and she was sure the boys in her House had noticed. Her dormmates sure had.

"Did you do some sort of expansion charm on your tits?" asked one of the girls.

"Or do you stuff your bra?" asked another.

"Sod off, both of you," Bellatrix had said. But she was secretly pleased. Even though in her rational mind knew she was the same person she'd been two months earlier, she liked the newfound femininity having developed a bit more brought. She filled out her uniform shirt and jumper better and she thought it made her look older. She was always trying to look older. She hated being a child, so the quicker she could reach adulthood, the better.

Because she'd never been asked to do anything with a boy before, she was through the moon thanks to her secret admirer's latest letter, which requested she meet him in the astronomy tower at midnight exactly.

"Don't go," said Andromeda, fourteen. "It'll end in disaster."

"Go!" said Narcissa, twelve. "It'll be so romantic!"

"It won't be," said Andromeda. She slipped a cigarette out of the tiny pouch she kept on her hip.

"Don't you dare light that in here!" Bellatrix, though a rule breaker herself, was also a prefect, and she was not going to allow anyone – least of her, her little sister – disobey such a massive rule right in front of her.

"You ought to light one," said Andromeda, holding it out. "You'd be less tense."

"Mummy doesn't like the way they smell," said Narcissa, her little nose pointed in the air. "And neither do I."

"Give that here." Bellatrix took the cigarette from Andromeda and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. "You're lucky Cissy won't tattle on you."

Andromeda rolled her eyes dramatically, then pulled out a second one. "Mummy doesn't control me. No one does." She lit the end of the cigarette with her wand, put it in her mouth, and took a long drag.

Bellatrix hit her in the face with a stream of water via a nonverbal 'Aquamenti.' Andromeda swore, threw her soggy cigarette on the common room floor, and stormed off toward her dorm.

"Why do you antagonize her?" asked Narcissa.

"Why does she antagonize me?" countered Bellatrix. "She knows better than to smoke in here. If Slughorn caught her…"

"He never comes in here," said Narcissa.

"That's not the point." Bellatrix sighed and sat back in her chair. "I should go, shouldn't I?"

"Yes," said Narcissa, starry-eyed. "Who knows? Perhaps you'll meet the love of your life!"

"Rodolphus will be the 'love of my life.' I'm not allowed to fall for anyone else, remember?" Bellatrix sighed again. She'd met Lestrange several times now and while she didn't hate him, she couldn't see herself falling for him, either. They had nothing beyond ideology in common. He didn't enjoy Wizard Rock or chocolate sweets or ballroom dancing, he had no interest in fiction or theatre or swimming, and he called her 'little girl' in a patronizing way.

His family did own several horses though. She hoped to be allowed to ride one someday. Mother didn't allow equestrian sports because of her own negative history with the animals, but Bella saw them as less magical unicorns.

Narcissa went up to bed around ten and the common room cleared out completely by eleven fifteen. For thirty minutes, Bellatrix paced the length of the room. With fifteen minutes to go, she hurried out and up toward the astronomy tower.

An hour later, she was back in her bed.

Sobbing.

A hand touched her back. She jumped.

"Just me," whispered Andromeda. "I'm sorry."

"How did you know?" whispered Bellatrix. She rolled over to face her sister in the dark, wiping tears from her eyes at the same time.

"I didn't know," said Andromeda. "But I had a feeling." She climbed under the covers with her sister before continuing in a whisper so low, Bella had to strain to hear her. "Sometimes, Bella… I have these… feelings. And I… it's as if I see… or get a sense of… a flash of… things. I knew you'd end up crying tonight. But I didn't know why."

"I should have listened to you." Bellatrix snuggled against her sister and squeezed her eyes shut tight. More tears eked out. "I should have known better. No one will ever want me. Not like that."

"At least you have a marriage arranged," said Andromeda, stroking her hair. "All mine have fallen through, remember? But not yours. He's met you and his parents have met you and they've all approved and no one seems to be changing their minds."

"Yes. I'll be Mrs. Rodolphus Lestrange. Brilliant."

"It's something," whispered Andromeda. "The one thing I've never seen flashes of is my own future. At least you know you can expect not to be alone in yours."

"It's something," echoed Bellatrix. She thought about the heroines in the thrilling romance novels she loved so much, the ones whose lives were full of mystery and drama and lust, each with a happy ever after. "But it's not enough."

-0-0-0-

1 October 1997

(the present)

Severus Snape was glad being Headmaster meant he no longer had to grade paper or teach pupils, but he didn't enjoy all of the ridiculous day-to-day discussions with professors about the most inane…

"Headmaster!" Someone banged on his door. "Headmaster?" Sounded like Amycus Carrow.

"Enter," said Severus, lazily waving his wand to let the man in.

"Caught these two putting up signs in the hall." Amycus dragged Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbott into the headmaster's office by the back of their collars.

"Signs?" asked Severus.

"Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting!" Neville answered boldly, looking braver than Snape had ever seen him.

"Leave them to me," said Severus.

"Sign off on the Cruciatus, won't you? Let them experience it, let them see what happens to-"

"Thank you, Carrow, that will be all." Severus motioned toward the door. Looking thoroughly put out, Amycus exited. "Accio posters."

Several rolled up pieces of parchment flew out of the pockets of Longbottom and Abbott's robes and toward him. He spread one out on the desk.

"Is this supposed to resemble me?" he asked.

It was a hideous painting of a gaunt hook-nosed man in ill-fitting robes, sneering down at children wearing the colors of three of Hogwarts' four Houses.

"Recognize yourself, do you?" asked Longbottom.

"You've not captured my facial expression well at all," admonished Severus. "My eyes do not cross, nor do I curl the bottom of my lip."

"That was an accident," said Abbott. "My quill slipped." She clapped her hands over her mouth. "Oops."

"I hope you are a better Herbologist than you are a painter, Miss Abbott." Using his wand, he set fire to the parchments, burning all of them, then Vanished the ashes. "It is nearly time for supper. Hurry along to the Great Hall. Eat as much as you can so you have a happy memory to reflect upon when living the life of a starving artist in the future."

Hannah Abbott gave him a very queer look, but she hurried toward the door. Neville Longbottom moved to follow.

"Not you, Mr. Longbottom. You take a seat. Miss Abbott can save you a place at the Hufflepuff table, should you decide to abandon your House for hers."

"I'll be alright," Longbottom assured the girl. "Go on without me."

She looked uneasy, but did as directed. Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Mr. Longbottom," Severus started.

"Snape," came the disrespectful reply.

"Sit."

The boy obeyed, though he was shooting daggers at Severus with his eyes as he did so.

"You are making my life rather difficult at the moment, Longbottom."

"I don't much care about making your life easy," said Longbottom. "Where's Hermione? What are they doing to her? She's been brainwashed."

"Not at all." Severus sat back in his seat and tented his fingers. "She's been… illuminated."

"She thinks my father and Harry's were rapists. She told that lie to Harry and he told it to the Quibbler and now half the wizarding world thinks my dad-"

Severus sneered.

"Your mother was a lovely person, Longbottom. Your father, on the other hand, was every bit the monster Granger described to Potter. It's unfortunate you had to learn about it the way you did."

"It's rubbish, that's what it is! My gran told me–"

"Told you what? That your father wouldn't hurt a fly? I was there, Longbottom. I arrived as they were leaving. I saw…" He cut himself off. He didn't owe the boy anything, and it wasn't as though the truth mattered. Not in this moment. He switched gears. "You are going to get yourself into trouble, Longbottom. The Carrows are itching to start using the Cruciatus on students who prove to be behavior problems. When you act out, you not only cause trouble for the staff, you interrupt the educational process of others, which we simply cannot have. You'll therefore obey the rules of this school or you will be asked to leave this school. Do you understand?"

"I'm not afraid of you, Snape. Not anymore."

"Aren't you?" Severus stood, picked up his wand, and pointed it in Longbottom's direction. "It is fortunate – for you – that you look like your mother. I wonder if Frank really was your father. Alice was a lovely woman, but she had a bit of a… reputation."

"Don't talk about my mother!" Longbottom pulled out his wand, too, pointing it directly at the Headmaster.

"Hermione's mother landed in Azkaban because she tortured your parents for information. Your mother never had to torture anyone for information. She got what she needed in exchange for the liberal use of her-"

He almost didn't manage to deflect the Stunner sent his way.

"You lot have learned precious little about the first war," said Severus. "Much to your detriment. That was the fault of your parents, grandparents, and professors. Granger suffered as much from that willful ignorance as the rest of you, but now that she's safely where she belongs, she's learning the truth."

"That's not the truth!" said Longbottom. "That's not the truth about my mother and it's not the truth about my father!"

"It may not be the truth about your mother," said Severus. He sat back down and drummed his fingertips on the desk. "Rumors spread like Fiendfyre and, while there is typically a kernel of truth, they can devolve into the rather absurd. But what your father was accused of having done to Draco Malfoy's mother? That is unquestionable fact." Severus shrugged. "If he really was your father, that is."

"And Hermione's father, it's really You Know Who?" asked Longbottom. He still looked furious, but Severus was confident another hex wouldn't be heading his way. His words had shaken the boy as much as they'd angered him, and he knew why – as much as Longbottom wanted to believe his father would never do such a thing, the fact was, he didn't know the man at all. He couldn't remember him before his mind was addled. And it killed him.

"She is indeed the daughter of the Dark Lord," said Severus. "And Bellatrix Lestrange. Does that change your opinion of her?"

"Of Bellatrix?" asked Longbottom. "Not at all. I still think she's a mad old monster who-"

"Of Hermione Granger," clarified Severus. "Hermione Black. Does knowing who her parents are change the way you view her?"

"I…" Longbottom's wand dipped slightly. He appeared conflicted. "She was my friend."

"She was, yes."

"I don't know what to think."

"That, Longbottom, is the most honest thing you've said today, and also the most accurate. You don't know what to think because you do not have all the necessary information. You don't know enough about the past to even begin comprehending the present. You are lost." Severus tutted pityingly. "I'll not permit Carrow's use of the Cruciatus against you for putting up these signs – not this time – but I'm going to need you to view a certain memory of mine, then write me a three foot essay on why we should not glorify the actions and tout the character of people we truly know nothing about. You'll return tonight at eight, sharp."

"View a memory?"

'You shall see. Go. Join Miss Abbott. Enjoy your chicken or fish or whatever it is the elves are serving tonight. Eight sharp. Be here, or I'll put you at the mercy of the Carrows tomorrow."

Longbottom hurried out faster than Abbott had, and Severus quickly summoned over a bottle of firewhisky and a small glass.

"You're not going to show Narcissa's memory to the boy," said Dumbledore, the painting of Dumbledore, behind him.

"No. Only mine. Part of mine. He'll see them fleeing Malfoy Manor with the baby, see Narcissa battered on the floor. He'll come to his own conclusions."

"Why?" asked Dumbledore.

"I knew what a nasty, worthless person my father was." Severus downed the glass in two gulps and poured more. "Why should Potter and Longbottom be allowed to blissfully believe their deplorable fathers were heroes?"

"This seems immature, Severus," said the old man, the painting of the old man, gently.

"I'm immature, then." Severus gulped down the second glass, sent the bottle back to its shelf, and headed into his sitting room. He'd been in a bad mood since Hermione's birthday, since he'd lost control and nearly… his face went hot remembering it. What the fuck was wrong with him? She was an eighteen year old prisoner, his former student. His current student, really. Daughter of his master and that mad cow, Bellatrix. It had been bad enough fucking Tonks when she was young and willing and already experienced. It would be a thousand times worse to take advantage of Hermione, who was already suffering from the continuous manipulation of everyone around her and didn't seem to know who she was anymore.

He was glad he'd stopped it before it had gone too far. Before he'd gone too far.

But he didn't trust himself to do so the next time, should it happen again. And so he'd been sending her assignments via Owl for the last twelve days, avoiding having to leave Hogwarts for any reason, citing the attempted mutiny of several students (led by Longbottom, he suspected) as an excuse to keep in the castle.

It wouldn't work much longer. She wrote every other day, asking when he'd return. Even the Dark Lord was growing impatient with him, as his daughter's education had suddenly become one of his top priorities, after immortality, finding Potter, and quashing the last of the rebellions. Severus couldn't avoid Hermione forever.

But he could try.

-0-0-0-

19 September 1997

(twelve days ago)

Hermione seemed to be utterly delighted to show Professor Snape her new chambers. She started with the sitting room, of course, with the bookshelves and the table for potions and the new pewter cauldron and the various vials and knives and ladles, everything she could need to brew. She then dragged him into the bedroom, explaining that he'd want to know where to find the loo should he have need for it. She showed him the photographs, Crookshanks' space, the new wardrobe full of clothes she and her mother had shopped for that afternoon, and more books. And the bed.

"It's massive!" she said. "And very comfortable!"

"I shall have to take your word for it," he said.

"Oh, right. Sorry. I only… I meant… I didn't… it's nice, that's all."

"Quite nice," he agreed. "Let us return to the main room to begin your lesson."

"Yes, please!" She pushed past him, leading the way, brushing against him as she did so. He tried not to notice how well the bodice of her dress fit, or how delectable she smelled, or how much she seemed to have matured as of late.

Before they cracked open a textbook, he said he had a gift for her. Her face lit up.

"Two gifts, really," he said. He reached into his pocket and took out two items the size of thimbles, which he then re-transfigured to their original sizes. The first, the practical one, was a brand new scale, ideal for measuring even the most minute amounts of ingredients necessary for precise potions brewing. She thanked him, hurriedly put it with her other potions things, and sat back down on the couch beside him.

The second gift was, unsurprisingly, a book.

She took it from him excitedly and read the title.

"European Witches Who Made History!" She flipped to the chapter breakdown and ran her finger down the list, excited whenever she recognized a witch. "Oh, yes, she was the first witch admitted to the Auror training program! Oh, and she was the first woman to serve as Minister for Magic! Oh! Oh! And she was the first female Healer and later Hogwarts Headmistress! I read about her in Hogwarts, a History!"

He tapped one of the names. "This entry may interest you."

"Cassiopeia Black," Hermione read aloud. "A relative?"

"Your great-grandfather's younger sister. She was a beautiful, vain woman, a powerful witch, and, allegedly, the Seer who foretold the rise of Grindelwald when she was only eleven years old. The prophecy she gave was one of many destroyed during that little incident at the Ministry."

"I don't think I believe in Seers," said Hermione, but he could tell she was itching to start reading.

"And this one." He tapped another name. "Catherine Monvoisin. She lived in France in the 1600s and was known for practicing the Muggle art of medicine. She made potions and poisons and provided desperate women with the abortions they sought. The Muggles burned her to death."

"Oh!" Hermione shuddered. "How awful."

"She was one of your ancestors on the Rosier side, traced back entirely through the maternal line. She is often cited as one of the reasons the wizarding world had to go underground. The Muggles adored and appreciated her for all she could do for them, until witchcraft fell out of favor with both the general public and, her frequent clients, the aristocracy. When she was no longer useful to them – when they were no longer interested in using her – she was disposed of."

"It killed her then?" asked Hermione. "Being burned? But I thought-"

"According to her chapter, it destroyed her spirit, killing her in a sense, but leaving the shell of her body behind. Read it."

"I will!"

"And this one." He tapped one other name. "Isobel Gaunt, the first registered Animagus, and quite possibly the first person, witch or wizard, to ever transform willingly into an animal. She was the great-great-great-grandmother of your father's great-great-grandfather. She was a lizard with first transformation documented in 1745."

"A lizard?" Hermione looked like she didn't know whether to laugh or show pity. "What a useless animal."

"Better than the one your mother managed," he couldn't help replying, but this was a mistake, because Hermione immediately began to pepper him with questions about that, which he'd been forbidden by the Dark Lord to discuss.

"You shall have to ask her."

"I'd like to become an Animagus," she said. "I'd hope to be a cat, like Professor McGonagall, or perhaps a dog, a rabbit, or a bird. Something that can move about largely unobtrusively, but nothing small as a bumblebee or dull as a toad."

"If you would like the beginning lessons relating to that added to your advances Transfiguration curriculum, I will discuss it with your father, and provided he approves that can be arranged."

"Wonderful! Thank you!" She threw her arms around him in a hug and he froze.

Then she pulled back slightly, wet her glossy lips with her tongue, and pressed them to his.

-0-0-0-

1 October 1997

(the present)

Bellatrix was having a good day.

She awoke early to find the Dark Lord's body curled around hers. When they first started spending the night together, he tried to avoid this, and would be visibly annoyed in the morning if he opened his eyes to find he'd sought her ought in the middle of the night. Since his resurrection and her prison escape, though they'd been sharing a bed more than ever before, this accidental spooning almost never happened.

But this morning, it did, and better still, when he opened his eyes and realized it, rather than pushing her away or hurrying from the bed to shower, he pulled her even closer, thrusting his erection against her arse, and flicked his tongue against the back of her neck.

His left hand briefly squeezed at her breast, then slipped down between her legs. She grinded against him shamelessly as his fingers danced over her clit through the thin fabric of her knickers.

"You're wet for me," he said.

"Yes," she replied.

"I want to watch you touch yourself, then you'll suck my cock until I come in your mouth. You'll swallow."

She felt a tightening from her lower belly to her groin and a fluttering in her chest. He so rarely spoke dirty to her, especially these days, and she moaned at the mere thought of obliging.

"Won't you fuck me with your fingers, my Lord?" she asked, as one of his long digits slipped between the fabric and her skin.

"I'll fuck your mouth," he said. "Remove your nightdress."

She missed the warmth of his body when he pulled away from her, but she didn't say as much. Instead, she threw back the blankets, removed her nightdress, and let her thumb encircle her nipple, her eyes not leaving his. "You want my knickers on or off?"

"Start with them on." He summoned over a chair, transfigured it into a tall barstool, and sat upon it, one foot still flat on the floor. She bit her lip as he exposed himself to her, and slid her fingers down into her knickers as he took his length in his hand.

Though she knelt before him and began sucking when ordered to, not even a minute passed before he yanked her up by the arm, turned her around, bent her over against the end of the bed, and fucked her until she climaxed, which brought on his own orgasm.

He bent closer to her, bit her neck, then spoke directly into her ear.

"You belong to me, Bellatrix. I own you. You are mine."

"Yes, my Lord," she whispered, heady and tired and sated. "I'm yours. I belong to you. You own me."

But for the first time, instead of bringing her comfort, these words filled her with unease.

-0-0-0-

19 September 1997

(twelve days ago)

She didn't know what made her do it, the excitement of the day, perhaps. Having her own chambers, having this book about famous witches which included three of her own relatives, having had an excellent lesson that morning, having enjoyed the food and the dancing and, if she was being honest, the champagne…

But after hugging him to show her gratitude for his gifts, she pulled back, and looked into his eyes, and her stomach fluttered as it had been doing with some frequency as of late, and without giving a single rational thought to what she was about to do, she pressed her lips to his.

And, after the briefest awkward moment, he responded.

His right hand entangled itself into her perfectly coiffed hair. His left found her hip. His tongue found hers.

And before she could process what was happening, she was reclining onto her back, pulling him with her, kissing him hard and sloppily and desperately and with almost enough enthusiasm to make up for her lack of experience.

He groaned as she shifted her weight under him, and he didn't resist when she brought his hand up to her breast. He grasped at her breast, kneading it, needing her, and then brought his mouth down to taste the soft flesh spilling from the top of her corset.

"Please," she whispered, but she didn't know quite what she was pleading for.

"Fuck," he groaned. His tongue flicked under the material of her corset, just touching the hard pink bud in the center of her areola. She shifted again. She wanted her legs on either side of his hips, but the dress would not allow for that. He yanked down hard on the front of her top, granting him access to more of her breast, and returned his tongue to it.

She felt frantic, dizzy, excited and confused. She wanted him to suck her there, just as the wizard did to the witch in the erotic thriller she read recently.

"Please…" she said again. "Yes… please…" (She was careful not to call him 'professor.')

He yanked again at her top, finally exposing her nipple, and just as she'd fantasized about, he took it into his mouth.

Now it was her hand that went to the back of his head. She arched her back and moaned. He was not gentle. She didn't need him to be.

His tongue laved back and forth, flicked over the hard pebble, and then he took it in his mouth again, sucking harder. The buildup of pressure between her legs was overwhelming. She wanted to be touched there, too. She wanted everything.

He moved against her and she could feel his hardness against her thigh. The only man she'd ever touched there before was Viktor, and she hadn't used her hand. She'd once straddled his lap while they were kissing, and she'd felt him poking through his trousers, and she'd curiously grinded against him, which he'd seemed to enjoy until he suddenly stopped her and rushed away.

But this man was not rushing away.

She touched him tentatively and he hissed. She drew her hand back, but when his mouth went back to her breast, she placed her hand over him again. She began to rub him through the fabric. He groaned, then growled, and thrust against her.

Then, as suddenly as the moment began, it was over. He swore, stood up, and adjusted his frock coat. He glared down at her for a moment. Her breast was still exposed, her lips were tingling and puffy, and her chest was heaving.

"This is wrong," he said, his eyes dark and narrowed and furious. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's wrong."

Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

A/N:

Thank you for your patience and for your kind words! I can't tell you how much I appreciate the responses and the understanding. I was so worried readers would be annoyed by the replaced chapters with limited new content when there hadn't been a new chapter in so long.

The witch ancestors of Hermione are based on real people - Catherine "la voisin" Monvoisin really practiced witchcraft and gave abortion and was burned as a witch, and Isobel Gaunt is based loosely on a different witch named Isabel Gowdy, who said she and her coven could turn into animals at will. Cassiopeia Black is from the Black Family Tree; aside from her birth/death years, little is known about her.

Thanks again!

-AL