It was not often that Severus Snape was rendered speechless. Sometimes people might think they had managed it, but in reality he had merely chosen not to speak. He had let his mouth run its course years ago, let the cruel, sarcastic comments leak out when it suited him, and it had the desired effect; it isolated him. Now he did not need or want that isolation. He had decided that some things were best left unsaid, and thus he often restrained himself.

But now, his quick mind failed him. In the face of her flushed cheeks, her confrontational but vulnerable honey eyes, her sheer proximity…

His cerebral cortex stubbornly refused to supply him with anything that could diffuse the situation, either positively or negatively. He could only imagine the face he was making; he hoped it was nothing she would interpret the wrong way.

"Hermione…" he attempted. "I…"

She tilted her head, waiting expectantly.

"You know…I…well, Salazar's balls, any man would be a fool not to like you!" he managed at last. But apparently, that wasn't good enough for her.

"I'm not asking about any other man. I'm asking about you."

"Yes," he said quietly, fighting the strange urge to avert his eyes. "I like you. More than I should."

She straightened up, looking down at him with her brow furrowed. The small distance caused him to relax muscles he hadn't even known he'd been tensing.

"Why shouldn't you like me?"

"There are a multitude of reasons, Hermione. I'm not going to list them all, but among them is the fact that I'm twenty years your senior, a former Death Eater, and I'm just not as attractive as I used to be." There, now some of his brain function was returning; he'd managed a sarcastic remark.

She rolled her eyes.

"Severus, if I cared about any of that, I wouldn't even have tried."

"You shouldn't have. There are better people out there for you."

Her lips pursed in a way that was disturbingly reminiscent of McGonagall.

"I think I decide who is best for me, thank you."

He did not think it wise to argue that. No matter how convinced he was that there were better men in the world for her, she would not stand for being told such things. Never mind that his own feelings on the matter were far from consistent; he did not think himself right for her, and yet, to imagine her with another man made him grind his teeth. What did that mean? What did any of it mean?

She exhaled and sat on the edge of the bed. Hesitantly he returned to the potion, unsure if the conversation was concluded or not. For a few moments all that could be heard was the clink of metal and glass as he stirred.

"Where are you going to sleep tonight?" she asked suddenly. He didn't look up from the potion; he couldn't let her see the panic that had flashed across his face.

"I hadn't though about it," he said a bit too sharply.

Hermione was ready to feel insulted, but then she noticed how tense he was. His shoulders were drawn up, his back too straight, and the muscles in his forearms bunched. She had thought something as instinctual as liking a person and having a relationship with him or her was relatively simple; now she realized that in some cases it was not. For Severus, it was anything but simple.

Paradoxically, that only made him more intriguing. He had played so many roles in her life already, but clearly he was not ready for this one. Somehow, though…somehow she would find a way. Hermione was determined to make what she could of their mutual attraction whether he liked it or not. Although…how he could not like it was beyond her.

"It's late."

"Mm-hm."

"Come to bed."

"No."

"What, do I have a new stretch mark or something?"

"No."

Rolling her eyes, Dawn gave up. She knew when she could not win; Lucius was determined to sit up all night waiting for his son. His devotion was admirable, but the weather had begun to turn. A light drizzle was falling and the ocean air was cool enough to sneak beneath even the warmest of robes.

"At least come inside?" she attempted.

"No."

"Well, don't expect me to brew your Pepper-up."

He smiled and turned to her with fond eyes.

"That's what Severus is for."

"Just as long as we have that clear," she replied, returning the smile. "Come in if you change your mind."

He nodded absently, returning to his quiet vigil.

I feel like I'm being watched.

I don't know from where or by whom, but I know someone is watching. It can't be Dawn; she's had a long day and is most definitely asleep. It's not Severus. He never emerged from Granger's cabin, which, I must say, is quite encouraging.

The site is quiet all around me. The ocean whispers to my right, the waves even and rhythmic. To the left, the sound of the city is muted but still present. For a while I had difficulty fighting my exhaustion. I thought the sounds might lull me into a light sleep with my head on the table – a very dignified position indeed.

At first it was the cold that kept me awake. Now it's that undeniable sensation that I'm being observed. It makes me tense, uneasy…I don't like it. At one time I could have pinpointed exactly where the watcher was. No matter how hard I try, no matter how I tune my ears, I can't do it now.

Every hour that passes frays my nerves a bit more. The rain begins to pour down much harder, dashing any hope I may have had of at least defining a general range of where the observer could be. I sigh, listening to the rain pounding on the canvas above me.

It's funny how I don't usually think about Draco when he's away at University. He sends me an owl every now and then that doesn't really tell me anything, other than that he's alive and doing well enough for some honors. For a while it bothered me, but then I recalled how I acted when I was away at University so many years ago – more or less the same. It's time for him to really find himself, and he doesn't need me interfering. My interference has already done enough damage.

I gather my robes around me. My heating charm has worn off for the third time. I recast it, feeling the weariness creeping up on me again. It would be nice to just retire to the cabin, to climb into bed next to Dawn's warm body and sleep until noon. But I need to be here. I need to be here to show him that I care, because for so long I didn't.

"Miserable weather, eh, Brit?" a deep, rough voice asks, interrupting my internal battle. It's Joeri, the Russian wizard. He strides up to the table and sits across from me, blocking my view of the ocean. I don't care; at this point conversation may be the only thing that can keep me awake.

"Miserable indeed," I reply. He has not spoken to me before, other than when etiquette demands it. I wonder why he wishes to speak now. It seems, for a moment, that he is wondering the same thing. His eyes bore into me intensely, a cool brown ringed with green.

"I taught at Durmstrang, you know," he says at last. "History of Magic." I raise my eyebrows. I don't know if I'm going to like the direction of this conversation. Nonetheless, I engage him.

"I almost sent my son there."

"It is good that you did not."

"Why?" I ask, inclining my head slightly. "All my information indicated that it is a fine school."

"It was."

"Was?"

He seems to be struggling for the right words.

"Do you know why Viktor Krum disappeared?"

My spine straightens of its own accord. That has remained one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the war. One day the world-famous Quidditch player had simply disappeared, and no one could offer an explanation. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the earth.

"That boy was a spot of light in that school. All the others, they were infatuated with the Dark Arts and purification of wizard blood. But Viktor…Viktor had a mind of his own, and he had the status to be able to make some kind of difference. And he did, let me tell you. Without him, I don't know how many of those children would have survived."

I watch him and keep my silence. He knows what I was, and most definitely does not care for it. It is not the first time a person has spoken to me of their disgust for the ideals I once held. Severus assures me that it is therapeutic for them, but it is no such thing for me.

"You know Krum never took any mark, and distanced himself from the Dark Lord."

I nod. Voldemort had extended the invitation, but Krum had responded that it was not wise considering his fame. A shrewd argument, to be sure. Voldemort had let it be, deciding that Krum was too wrapped up in Quidditch to pose any kind of threat. I had my reservations about the awkward young man, perhaps because he reminded me so much of Severus at that age. Luckily, Krum was a prodigy at something that was of no use to the Dark Lord, unlike Severus.

"When the war was over, many took the stance that no punishment but death or the Dementor's Kiss was suitable for the Death Eaters."

I look at my hands. I know that Severus and I are lucky to be alive and free.

"Until I met you and your quiet friend, I felt the same way. I didn't think it was possible to rehabilitate a Death Eater."

"It was not a matter of rehabilitation," I say, fighting the irritation that rises in me. So many people forget that making the mistake of being a Death Eater does not make a person inhuman. We are all fallible. Unfortunately, some make more severe mistakes than others.

"What was it, then?" Joeri says, his gaze hard and serious. "Why did they let you live?"

I take a breath. I do not like explaining myself to virtual strangers, but I doubt I will ever be privy to Krum's fate if I do not cooperate with his questioning.

"I always prided myself on being just a little smarter than everyone else. And yet…it took me so long to see that Voldemort's logic didn't make any sense. A half-blood leading the crusade for purification of wizard blood?" I shake my head, agitated. It bothers me that it took me so long to realize that the Dark Lord was little more than a psychopath, so obsessed with his own imperfection that he sought to stamp it out in everyone else. "But it was a means to my desired end, so I embraced it."

"What made you see the truth?"

"My son. He did not have the same…fervor that I did. He didn't want to take the Mark. That, of course, meant that he had to be exterminated. I realized that all Voldemort cared about was his cause, and that he would not hesitate to kill purebloods to put purebloods in power. No one was safe; not me, not the oldest, most traditional purebloods, no one. I'm rationalizing it now. At the time it was a much more…visceral reaction."

"So you turned before the end."

"Yes."

"Some would think worse of you for being a turncoat."

"They did, on both sides. But make no mistake – it wasn't easy. I suffered, and so did my son."

"Did you fight in the final battle?"

I nodded once. That I did not wish to talk about, and he did not press the matter.

"And your friend?" Joeri asked.

"Severus never believed in those things," I say, waving a hand. "He was just so desperate for any kind of acknowledgement…he had so much intellect but so little love. Voldemort offered him a chance to be praised and recognized and respected. No one else ever offered him that. One little push from me was all it took. He was right there in the thick of it with the rest of us."

"And how was he saved?"

I lean back, my eyes sizing up the wizard before me. He knows more than he appears to, that is for sure, but he does not know everything. My gut tells me he is trustworthy, though. He must have been quite cunning to survive the war as a fixture in Durmstrang who was at the same time opposed to Voldemort's agenda. Nevertheless, there are still those out there who would like to see Severus dead, so the fewer people that know of his time as a double agent, the better.

"He saw the error of his ways much more quickly than I. There was a time when I would have been quite content to kill him, but my guilt stopped me. I had been his friend before I was his comrade, and I led him into hell," I reply quietly. "He is lucky to have survived."

"You are both lucky."

"What does this have to do with Viktor Krum?" I ask, tired of discussing things gone over a thousand times before.

"It has everything to do with Krum. People like you are the ones who got him killed."

So he is dead, then. I cannot say I am surprised, but I do not fully understand what Joeri means.

"Viktor had begun to support people like you and your friend – repentant Death Eaters. He wanted fair trials and humane treatment, but above all he wanted people to be tolerant. He wanted them to forgive. So many, especially the ones close to his age, had been forced into it or pulled in before they knew what it fully entailed."

That was another horrible truth about the war. I had taken the lives of children on the battlefield, mere children. Gregory Goyle had lost his wand arm to me, and later on, his life to one of his own classmates. I had been forced to kill Pansy Parkinson purely out of self-defense. That gave me no comfort, however, in the dark of night when I closed my eyes and could see nothing but the vacant, blue-ringed pupils staring up from her dead face. She had been the one promised to my son, the one I had chosen to perpetuate my line, and though she was rotten to the core, she was only seventeen. I had been rotten to the core at seventeen, too. Hell, I had been rotten to the core for most of my life.

"It is funny that after a time of such intolerance, the people remain intolerant," Joeri said thoughtfully. "The last act of Fudge's uninspiring career was to order the discrete removal of Krum's influence."

My mouth falls open.

"He had him killed?" Even I am shocked by this. The Ministry was and would always be corrupt, but Fudge had been mostly harmless. He was a fool and an imbecile, but I did not think he would go so far to salvage his image and keep the people appeased.

"Oh, yes…Viktor was a big threat to him. The people had almost forgotten how his refusal to believe Voldemort had returned and his complete disorganization had nearly lost the war in the early stages. They were ready to embrace him as the Minister of Magic who had gotten them past the second war. Viktor's support in the East was growing every day. If people in the West caught wind of the opposition to Fudge's no-redemption policy, it would make him seem incompetent and bring back all those previous ineptitudes."

"Could Krum really have been so much of a threat? He was no politician," I say, still having trouble grasping the situation. When I had been in the Ministry, Fudge had been nothing more than a yes-man. He would do nearly anything I ordered. I was not foolhardy enough to think his obedience was out of anything other than fear, but when had he grown a backbone? When had he developed ambition? Perhaps it was there all along, and he had simply been waiting out the storm. The thought was disturbing.

"True, Viktor was not the most eloquent person. But when he was passionate about something, he could sway just about anyone."

I cannot think of anything to say. I am still stunned at the possibility that Fudge was the ultimate Slytherin; perhaps he just appeared incompetent in order to get everyone to drop their guard. It was fortunate, then, that his retribution had come quickly. Seven months after the end of the war, the last surviving faction of Death Eaters assassinated him at a public appearance in Berlin. Many had lamented his death, but those who mattered had little to say. Dumbledore had become Minister after that, and remained so until his death eighteen months later. From there, Arthur Weasley had taken the reigns. That had been a source of some chagrin to me for a while – a Weasley with more power than me! – but he has done an admirable job and I have gotten used to it.

When I look up again, Joeri is slicing a cigar in half with one of those strange little Muggle devices. I always thought they looked like finger guillotines; I prefer, on the few occasions that warrant a cigar, to use a spell. He holds one half out to me, and I take it. It seems to be the appropriate thing to do. He uses his wand to light the end, and I do the same. The smoke is pungent and strong and I can almost feel my lungs blackening, but it clears my head quite nicely.

"Do they know?" I ask, watching the smoke curl and disperse in the night air.

"Dumbledore did. He pardoned many of those Fudge had condemned, although he kept it quiet."

"That old bastard knew everything."

Joeri smiles a quick, rueful smile at my acerbic eulogizing. I wonder for a moment if he was one of Dumbledore's contacts in the Order. It is very likely the case. How could he know so much if he wasn't?

"I hope your son arrives soon," he says after a few minutes, stamping out the cigar against the table.

"As do I."

He nods briefly and stands. But he hesitates when he moves to walk away.

"Albus always felt that he had failed the alumni that turned as much as they failed him."

I sigh. I have heard that very statement so many times.

"He was only one man. No one can save you from yourself."

The Russian wizard looks at me, his head tilted thoughtfully.

"You're all right, Malfoy."

I chuckle humorlessly.

"If I'm all right, then I worry about those who aren't."

Draco was annoyed, but too exhausted to act on it. The truck had gotten stuck in the mud, and they were camped four villages away from Preveza. They were so close, but so far away.

The urge to complain was strong, but he was so tired that it did not seem worth it. No one would listen to him, anyway. He burrowed further into his rough blanket, wishing he was with wizards rather than muggles. It was cold and the floor was hard; as much as he wanted to sleep, he could not.

Their shelter was a large gazebo with a leaky roof. Townspeople whose homes had collapsed were intermingled with them. He had never slept in the same place with so many people simultaneously. Apparently he was the only one with a problem, though. Everyone else was sleeping fitfully; Gerard snored to his left and a little boy and girl were curled up to his right.

He sighed, staring out through the wooden slats. The grass glistened with moisture as the rain continued steadily. The sound of the fat drops hitting the roof would have lulled him to sleep if he had not been so uncomfortable.

Glancing around, he wondered if he could get back to his spot without disturbing anyone. Probably not. But was there a point to just laying there? Not really. If he started walking now, maybe he could make it to Preveza by midmorning.

Was that prudent? Rain couldn't hurt him, and he had his wand if anyone tried to attack him. He didn't know how many kilometers it was, though. Many of the other villages had been close together, but a few were separated by as much as thirty kilometers. What if these last four villages were far apart? He could not hope to make it to Preveza by this time tomorrow if that was the case. Oh, what he would do for a decent broom.

Perhaps he should wake Gerard and ask him how many kilometers it was to Preveza. But more likely than not, the other man would not allow him to leave.

Draco stood up, carefully stepping around the sleeping bodies until he made it to the archway of the gazebo. Pure, inky darkness met his glance. Electricity still had not been restored, and it was too late for anyone to be doing anything by candlelight.

So what was it to be? Should he gamble? Or should he just wait? Surely the truck would reach his destination tomorrow. Somehow, tomorrow did not seem soon enough. It never did when you didn't know if someone dear to you was alive or dead.

"A peaceful sleep for a troubled mind," a soft, sugary voice whispered. She sifted her fingers through silky hair the color of the pale winter sun.

"Leave him be," her companion said sternly. "If he wakes, he shall hurt you."

"He will not wake. No man can wake from the spell I weave."

"He is not a man. He is a wizard."

"He is both. And you would not speak so loudly if you truly thought he would wake."

"Hmph," he said shortly, his voice tinged with disdain that they both knew was false. She smiled to herself, brushing the man's hair away from his face.

"The likeness is incredible."

"There are few lines as pure as his."

She looked at her mate, the changing ocean in her eyes.

"The girl will destroy that purity."

"Would that I was mortal, you silly nymph, or I would have discovered that the purity does not matter in a much more timely fashion."

Her face was lit by a demure smile, but it disappeared quickly.

"Do you not worry about the weakening of the blood?"

"The blood weakens itself if it is recycled so many times. It cannot be any worse than that fate."

"I trust in your wisdom, my love." Her sigh ruffled the fine strands of the man's hair

"You find him beautiful," he said. It was not an accusation; he merely stated what was proving to be a very obvious fact.

"Even you must admit that he is."

"Indeed. Give him a merman's tail and he would be one of the most beautiful creatures in the sea."

She smiled at the thought. He bore a strange resemblance to her firstborn; clearly her mate saw it, too. Ah, how fine he would look with a coat of shimmering scales.

"They are not easily deterred," her partner murmured, staring out at the great fissure that had opened in the earth.

"I am glad."

He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes full of gentle disapproval.

"You are ever the disobedient wife."

"And you are ever the doting husband."

"Aye, I am, and you are lucky," he sighed, running both hands through his wavy hair. "What use have they for these secrets?"

"I have never understood how the minds of mortals work, but they have a right to know."

He grunted, his face contorting in an expression of scorn.

"If I know mortals, they will start a war over it. They have already seen too much war. Would you destroy them?"

"Perhaps this is the right time. They wish only for peace in the wake of their last conflict."

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Slowly, he turned back to her, doubt etched in his features.

"Mortals always wish for peace. A wish is not reality."

"You have become pessimistic in your old age." Her voice was light with humor, and he envied how relaxed she could be when dealing with such matters.

"You have grown too content to place your faith in creatures that are not worthy," he retorted. She did not take offense; both of them knew that she was a supreme judge of character, and if she chose to grant her favor to someone, that someone would not disappoint her. She smiled a small, knowing smile, and he moved off, sulking.

As the pair faded into the misty air, Lucius woke to the ghost of a touch against his stubbled cheek.

Severus jolted violently awake in a way he had not experienced since his childhood. Not even the mornings after particularly hellish dealings with the Dark Lord had made him sit bolt upright like this. Only the terror of a childhood nightmare could compare; it was the horror of waking alone in the dark, heart pounding, lungs straining, and wondering if that formless monster was still there with you, silently stalking in the inky shadows.

Only this time…he was not alone. His breathing slowed as he focused on Hermione's face. She was still deep in sleep, impervious to the noise and his movement because of the potion. Her hair was a bit frizzy from the humidity, standing up in some places from pillow-induced cowlicks. Her mouth was open, and her nose whistled slightly as she breathed.

His lips twitched. He had the most ridiculous urge to smile like a fool. She was beautiful.

Severus stood up, reasoning that he could not stare at her much longer, because somehow people always knew when they were being stared at. He stretched, reaching for the ceiling and lengthening his spine. Then he went over to the sink for a glass of water. His throat always went dry from nightmares like that; it was as if he had been screaming for hours, and though he knew it was only in his head, his hoarseness was a strange physical manifestation of the turmoil in his mind.

The details of the dream were fuzzy. He remembered being asleep, and then his body going numb. A formless weight pressing against him, his limbs uncooperative, and a shadow at the end of the bed…and then it was in his mind, and he wanted to claw at his face and get it out, but he could not move, and the air was so putrid…

His hand shook as he filled a glass. Would these obscure half-remembrances never leave him? Years had passed. Could he ever move on? His mind whispered no. The few years since the end of the War were just that – few – in comparison to his years in Hell. Time was indeed the great healer of all things, but it functioned proportionally. The further you were dragged in, the longer it took to drag yourself back out. And he had gone just about as far as you could get.

He gulped the water, grateful for its cool, crisp flavorlessness. It was times like these that he missed the predictability of Hogwarts. There were never any surprises, and no one ever bothered him. It was easier to press on when you only had yourself to think of. He looked at the last of the water at the bottom of the cup. In those days, it would have been firewhiskey.

Sighing, Severus turned and looked at Hermione over the rim of the glass. Was this fair to her? Was it right that she be saddled with him? She seemed fairly sure of what she wanted (as her ordering him into bed with her had indicated), but what she wanted and what she needed were two different things. She might want him, for reasons unknown, but that by no means meant that her judgment or her feelings were 100 percent correct.

Never mind the fairness of it all. Where was the sense in it? She was a Gryffindor, he was a Slytherin. He was twenty years her senior, a member of a whole different generation, for Merlin's sake! They were about as incompatible as incompatible could get. And yet, if that was the case, how were they managing to get along so well? And how in the nine hells had she convinced him to share a bed with her?

Well, that he actually knew the answer to. He was getting old. His body simply couldn't take sleeping on a floor. He would have done it, though, if she had not invited him into the bed.

Why had he been so willing to slip under the covers beside her? It was all relatively chaste; she was in red linen pajama pants and a pink frilly camisole, causing the formation of many comments about a walking valentine in his brain, which he stifled. He wore light cotton pants and a bizarre oversized muggle t-shirt Hermione had lent him which declared, "One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, FLOOR." He was loathe to even wear the silly shirt (accurate as it was), but he didn't feel right sleeping beside her so exposed. It was better than the other option she had hesitantly presented him with – a grey t-shirt sent to her by her American cousin that said, "I got my crabs from Dirty Dick's!" He failed to see the humor in such a vulgar statement, even after she had explained that Dirty Dick's was a seafood restaurant. He wondered why anyone would eat at a restaurant with the word 'dirty' in its name. She had found his disdain quite amusing.

He supposed he could have borrowed some of Lucius's clothing, but the thought made him roll his eyes. Lucius was fond of a very basic item of muggle clothing, although he only wore them to bed – the plain, sleeveless, ribbed white undershirt. He was even fonder of them now that Dawn had mentioned that they sometimes called them wife-beaters. Typical Lucius.

In any case, he wasn't going to be able to fall back asleep, so he could change out of her ludicrous shirt. He pulled it over his head and performed a thorough Scourgify before folding it and placing it neatly on top of her trunk.

A bath would relax him. He couldn't face her in this state. He was a nervous wreck, his mind abuzz with a million questions all ricocheting against each other.

Severus could not shake the feeling that he should have just said no. Though he could imagine the effect it would have on her (because Gryffindors were absolutely awful at concealing their emotions), a part of him felt that it might be the best thing. Dumbledore had once said that it was never right to inflict pain on someone for the sake of protecting them; it took away all their autonomy and needlessly ruined close relationships. But Dumbledore had never felt the way he felt; the old man had never been ugly like he had, never been a social pariah, and most certainly never willingly submitted himself to the sort of unforgivable behavior Severus had. They were two different creatures, intrinsically, and though he tended to agree with Dumbledore's statement, there was always an exception. He was that exception.

This was one of the few areas in which he could identify with Harry Potter. In the last two years of school, the boy had grown sullen, quiet – nothing like the idealistic first-year he had been. Of course he still kept up with his best friends, but he did not give other people the time of day. The boy had not wanted to get close to anyone else; as it was, he agonized regularly over putting Hermione and the Weasley boy in danger. In the end, it had led to Ronald's death. But, as the old man pointed out, Ronald had made those choices all on his own. No one had asked him to be a martyr. Was it better or worse that Harry had not pushed him away? No one could really say, but Severus was beginning to think it was better. If Weasley had not had the courage or desire to save Potter, someone else would have. More likely than not, that someone would have been Hermione. It was terrible for him to think like this, because there had been more honor in the hot-tempered Weasley boy than there would ever be in him, but he could not help it. He was incontrovertibly biased.

That was the only time Severus had felt a bit of sympathy for the Boy Who Lived – there had been no joy in his victory. Dumbledore had worried about the boy. Indeed, for a while he seemed to take a turn for the worst, barely coming out of his room, and turning not to the firewhiskey, as Severus had, but to the hallowed Cannabis leaf for his self-medication. Only one person had reached him through that chemical haze – Ginny Weasley.

Her love had been both a blessing and a curse to Potter. He was incredulous that anyone could care so much anymore; his role in the great war was over, and in his mind, he was useless. She had shown him, in a patient, no-nonsense fashion culled straight from her mother, that she and many others loved him and would not let him waste away. Slowly he started to come back to himself, but doubt would paralyze him at times. In his perception, Ron's death was his fault, and he could not understand why Ron's sister would want anything to do with him.

This, of course, he had all been privy to in those dark times at St. Mungo's. Lucius was not the only one that had rambled at his bedside. Dumbledore had come fairly often before his duties as Minister of Magic took over his time. McGonagall would read to him twice a week, and though he had already read most of her selections, the lilt and cadence of her voice was pleasant. He had even had a visit or two from Lupin, who was awkward and did not say much. And once, just once, Harry Potter himself.

"You knew the secret. You knew that there was no use in living like there was a future beyond Voldemort."

At the time, Potter was right. But now…clearly there was a future. He glanced at Hermione once more. She had shifted in her sleep, her arm draped over the spot he had previously occupied.

The future was always uncertain, but perhaps now he might look forward to it with some small degree of anticipation.

Lucius did not remember falling asleep. The sun was beginning to brighten the grey horizon, and the air was hazy with humidity. The sensation of being watched was gone, and in its place was something worse; the sensation that someone or something had been very close to him, perhaps even touched him.

He stood up, his eyes darting warily about. There was no one in sight. The area was still deep in slumber, and there were no footprints in the sand anywhere near him. Even Joeri's had been erased by the wind and rain.

Lucius rubbed his palms against his face. Maybe the lack of sleep was making him paranoid. But his instincts were always fine-tuned, even if they were a bit neglected nowadays. To doubt the feeling in his gut would be to doubt the thing that had kept him alive for the last forty years.

Draco had not come. He sighed, blocking out all the horrific images that formed in his brain. Draco was a strong and versatile wizard. He would make it. Yes, he would make it. Malfoys always did.

He was about to make his way toward the ramshackle kitchen when the sound of flapping wings made him turn back. A hawk was gliding low over the sand, coming directly towards him. It didn't look like it was going to attempt to avoid him. That could only mean it was coming to him. He stuck out his left arm, but not without first making sure that his robe was thick enough to withstand the raptor's talons. Seconds later, the hawk pulled up and landed cleanly on his wrist.

A fresh bloom of joy filled him when he saw that a scrap of paper was attached haphazardly to the bird's leg. Eagerly he unwrapped the crinkled paper, and, as he'd hoped, Draco's small, elegant hand adorned it.

Father,

I am with a search and rescue team that left from the train station yesterday. We were supposed to have made it to Preveza last night, but the truck got stuck in the mud caused by the rainstorm, and we had to stop. I am four villages away. If all goes well, I should be there by tonight, if not sooner. I hope this finds you well and that you remembered to cover your arm with your robe before letting the hawk perch.

Lucius grimaced. There had been an incident a few years back involving a hawk. After he had turned away from Voldemort, he had been put in a safehouse for a time while Dumbledore and the Order decided what to do with him. They usually sent mail with a raven or a pigeon, but once it had come with a hawk. He hadn't looked up when he heard the beating wings. His indiscretion had been rewarded with eight neat little punctures on his forearm. Eight exceedingly painful punctures.

Well, he had learned his lesson. He stroked the proud head of the hawk as he walked back towards the table he'd been sitting at all night. He let the bird perch on the bench as he transfigured a shell into a quill and set about writing his reply on the back of Draco's.

Draco,

I am glad that you are alive and well. I apparated to the train station yesterday evening looking for you, only to be told by a rotund woman that you'd taken off with some missionary group. Take your time getting here; you are not missing much right now, as much of the site was damaged by the earthquake. As you can probably guess by the absence of blood stains on the paper, I remembered to cover my arm. I do hope you remembered to cover yours, smart ass.

Unable to contain a smirk, Lucius re-attached the letter to the patient creature's leg. He looked about for something to reward the hawk with. After a moment, a small crab caught his eye, and he caught it with a summoning charm. He lowered it onto its back on the table, and the hawk did the rest of the work, cracking the weak underbelly with its beak. After it had feasted, it preened for a few minutes, and Lucius reinforced the spell Draco had used to direct it.

He was smiling when it flew off. Now that his worry was gone, perhaps he could steal a few hours of sleep before the day truly began. Predictably, his mind strayed to the woman waiting in his bed. Hm. Perhaps sleep would have to wait.

Dawn woke to an arm snaking around her waist and a hot mouth sucking on her earlobe. It was a pleasant way to wake, but she was a little disoriented.

"Mmm...is your kid here?"

"No." His hand slid down the front of her shorts as he said it, trailing brazenly between her thighs. The tingle of pleasure began, surging hotly across her skin.

"Lucius."

"Yes, my dear?" He accompanied his silky inquiry with a small thrust of his hips, brushing his pelvis against her rear.

"I'm guessing everything's all right?"

"Oh yes, splendid. He owled. Any more questions before I fuck you silly?" The hand in her shorts snuck around to cup her buttocks. There was a pause as she thought of her answer.

"Do I get to pick the position?"

Lucius laughed, his breath tickling her neck.

"Positions, my dear. Plural."

She turned her head so that her lips brushed his and whispered,

"No further questions."

"What are you reading?" Hermione's voice drifted from the bed, low and husky with sleep.

Severus glanced up from the thin paperback. Hermione was curled on her side, her head resting on her folded hands.

"My birthday present from Minerva," he replied. "An anthology of the works of William McGonagall."

She smiled, laughter in her eyes.

"How is it?"

"Absolutely appalling."

Hermione giggled.

"Is there any relation?"

"Yes indeed, he was her uncle."

"Good thing she stuck to transfiguration, then," Hermione mused, chuckling.

"It was retaliation for the present I sent her at Christmas," he said, his lips twitching faintly. "A walking stick with a mirror attached to the bottom. A pervert cane, if you will, only this mirror is invisible to all but the user and charmed to see through clothing."

"Severus! That's terrible!" Hermione gasped. Her expression of chagrin crumbled after a moment, though, and she dissolved into giggles.

"You have never seen some of the presents she gives to me," he retorted. "Believe me, mine are tame in comparison." He was smiling as he returned to the book of poetry.

"Read me one."

He turned to her, his face aghast.

"If I'm going to read you poetry, it will most certainly not be that of William McGonagall!"

"Please? I want to know if it's as bad as they say it is."

"It is."

"Just read one." Internally, she marveled at how relaxed he seemed today. Yesterday he had been so jumpy, so irritable. Had it all been because of Anatole? Sharing a bed with him ought to have made it clear enough that she wasn't about to elope with the handsome Greek man. However, she had to wonder how he would react if Anatole was around. Would he always be jealous? Would he always have moodswings?

Grudgingly, he was turning the pages of the book, looking for something suitable. Truly, there was nothing he would ever want to read to a lady.

"You're really going to make me do this?"

She nodded, giving her best wounded puppy look. There were few men in the world who could resist that look; a few years ago Severus would have been one of them. But now he caved, just like Ron always had and Harry still did.

"You asked for it. This is the worst I've seen so far, from 'The Collision in the English Channel." He cleared his throat, straightened his back, and held the book out in front of him. "Oh! it was a miracle how any of them were saved, but it was by the aid of God, and how the crew behaved; because God helps those that help themselves, and those that don't try to do so are silly elves."

"That's…inspiring…" Hermione said, cringing slightly.

"Ha. I could have written that at three years old!"

"You could have written something better than that at three," she replied, snickering. The feckless verse was just as amusing as picturing Severus at three. He had probably had that furrow between his brows even then; she could only imagine the trouble he'd caused, playing with chemicals and compounds at that age.

"No more," he declared, setting the book down. "I feel my brain cells dying with each consecutive line."

Smiling, she contemplated him as he re-arranged the desk. He wasn't lying that first day when he said she knew nothing about him. There was so much to him that she never would have thought possible; slowly, that spiteful, sullen man she had known was fading into the back of her mind, and he seemed like a new acquaintance, someone she had never met before. And yet there were things about him that were the same; his sarcasm, his low tolerance for stupidity, his unparalleled intellect…

At first it had been hard to reconcile, but now she could see that Severus then and Severus now were the same person. The only metaphor she could think of was that of wine; he had been distilled, stored, aged, and now he was near perfection.

Gerard looked perplexed as Draco suddenly stood up in the bed of the moving pickup truck.

"Assieds-toi!" he said, looking at the young man as if he'd grown another head. "C'est dangereux!"

Draco turned to him, a radiant smile on his face.

"Arretez! Arretez! Dites-lui arreter!"

Gerard yelled for the driver to stop, and a moment later, they rolled to a standstill.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" he asked as Draco grabbed a blanket and draped it over his arm.

"Le faucon," he replied, pointing. A hawk was flapping rapidly toward them, and Draco held out his arm. Gerard watched in wonder as the bird pulled up and landed neatly on his companion's arm. Draco patted the bird's head and unwound the battered scrap of paper from its leg.

"Une lettre?" Gerard asked, incredulous.

"Oui, de mon pere." Draco chuckled as he read it; his father did not make jokes or use sarcasm when things were bad, so he must be in fine spirits, thank Merlin. "Tout est bien." Smiling, he took one of the crackers Gerard had been eating and fed it to the hawk. The other man watched, speechless, as the bird picked carefully at the cracker. At last, when it was finished, Draco sent it off with a flick of his wrist and a curt order of,

"Go!"

He turned around and sat back down, the scrap of paper still in his hand. Gerard regarded him curiously. Draco had forgotten that muggles did not generally use birds for mail.

"Ma famille exerce les oiseaux," he lied quickly. "C'est facile, pour moi."

Gerard nodded, apparently satisfied, before telling the driver they could move on. He could see that a weight had been lifted from the boy, even if its method of removal was more than a little strange.

"I can't believe they let us go," Nick said, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "I thought they were going to oblivimiate us, or whatever."

"I guess Dawn is pretty convincing," Anatole muttered, nursing his own mug. He sighed heavily.

"I hope so. Her boyfriend really has it in for me, I think."

Anatole shrugged.

"What's the matter with you, Anatole?" Nick asked, leaning forward. "We've just discovered that wizards and witches and magical creatures are real, and you have nothing to say? That's not like you at all."

Anatole shrugged again, staring into his coffee.

"It's Hermione, isn't it."

He nodded sadly.

"The girl I like is a witch. What could she possibly want with a boring person like me? I can't do any magic or brew any potions. What do I have to offer?"

"She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who can be won with flashy things like that."

"But that other guy really likes her, and has known her longer. It would be wrong of me to pursue her."

Nick grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, just once.

"It would be wrong if it was me. But you don't know this man. He's not your best friend. You have as much of a right to romance her as he does."

"I don't think it's a good idea. You're not even trying to get with Dawn and her boyfriend is ready to kill you. Besides, think how complicated it would be…how out of place I would be in her world, and how secretive we'd have to be with my family…"

It was Nick's turn to shrug.

"She might be worth it, Anatole. But I can't figure that out for you."

He nodded.

"She might be."

"Another test."

He looked away from his brother, frowning. He had not wanted to initiate the first test, and now the witches and wizards were growing on him, as they had on his wife.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I will summon Artemis. The moon will wax full tonight, and the child will awaken. Sweet Lilith shall see the sky again."

"She has slept for millennia, brother. She will kill them all in her bloodlust."

The handsome god smiled in that pitiless way of his.

"That remains to be seen."

"They are not our toys to play with. They are part of us, or have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten nothing. Time saw men grow weak. If the same has happened for wizards, our secrets are better left buried."

Poseidon nodded once. His brother was right. These events held implications that might very well change the world as they all knew it – god, wizard, man, and beast.

"I see the necessity, but know that I wish them success. My lady and my offspring are most averse to blood in my waters."

Zeus chuckled, waving his hand.

"We shall see, my dear brother, we shall see."

Translations:

Gerard: "Sit down! It's dangerous!"

Draco: "Stop! Stop! Tell him to stop!"

Gerard: "What is it?"

Draco: "The hawk."

Gerard: "A letter?"

Draco: "Yes, from my father. All is well."

Draco: "My family trains birds. It's easy, for me."

A/N: Relax, people, you don't have to tie me to the computer to get me to update. I've just been insanely busy since February, but school is over in less than 2 weeks. Then I'll have 3 glorious months to write, interrupted only by work and 17 days in July during which I will be in Europe. Just think how much I'll want to write this story once I've actually been to Greece! Enjoy the chapter!