20 June, 1998 cont.

Severus Snape was rather partial to dramatic entrances, and of the reactions he got from them. It gave him immense satisfaction to catch misbehaving students in the act and watch them squirm; to make snogging couples leap apart as though struck by lightening; to watch all the miscreants and idiots lose their concentration and power of speech when he burst upon the scene with his trademark energy and intensity. Such an entrance let the sheep know a predator was among them. It made them nervous, and automatically put them on the defensive. It made them cower. It made them afraid, and as he knew all too intimately, a man who was afraid was a man who could be controlled.

The young woman seated at his massive dining room table was not afraid, however. Her attitude was more one of supreme indifference as he leaned against the doorjamb, one hand clutching the wood frame for stability, the other uncertain if it should be clutching at his aching head or better employed fending off the light coming in the windows at the far end of the room.

"Bitta," the wench called. "He's up. Coffee and his breakfast, please." The book in her hands created a faint but highly irritating scritch as she turned the page.

He wasn't sure which was more appalling; the taste in his mouth or the sight of his house elf bringing in a plate with two egg cups and toast - on demand, no less. The coffeepot that levitated along behind was a much more welcome sight.

For some reason his feet seemed to have grown several sizes larger than normal and were not inclined to cooperate as Severus shuffled across the carpet to fetch up against the nearest chair. It took three tries to get the thing pulled out far enough to sit down.

"Drink this first," his unwelcome guest ordered, and slid a tall, thin glass across the table towards his plate. Her gaze remained fixed on the book in her hands, and she seemed indifferent as to whether or not he drank her offering.

The potion was beyond unspeakable, but his brain managed to recognize a variant on standard hangover potions despite the awful taste. It occurred to him that she could have used that opportunity to poison him, but considering the current state of his head, he wasn't entirely sure that wasn't a preferable option. Severus attempted to make a face at the taste, but his features were already so twisted against the hangover that there was no marked change.

Across the table, Hermione Granger turned another page and seemed to be completely absorbed in her book. The cover was at an angle to him, but even if it had been under his nose Severus wouldn't have given a bent Knut for his chances of reading it before he'd gotten on the outside of a at least one cup of coffee. It might even take an entire pot to make him lucid. Fortunately Bitta had poured a cup before disappearing back into the kitchen, which saved him the humiliation of attempting that task himself. Lowering his head toward the brim, he managed, just, to get the first sip in his mouth rather than down his front.

Liquid gold, hot and black, strong enough to curl nose hair. Just the way he liked it. Another sip, then another, and the jolt of caffeine joined the potion he'd just drunk. There was a minor altercation and an ominous queasiness while the two liquids came together. After a few anxious moments his stomach decided to behave itself, easing the fear that he might just cast his accounts all over the floor and put Miss Granger to the task of brewing another of her vile creations.

By the time he'd finished the first cup and poured another with markedly improved coordination, Severus Snape was aware of the universe coming back into focus. Smaller details were becoming clear, such as the fact that he was missing a shoe, though he still retained both socks. His hair, by no means acceptable even on a good day, was revolting even to himself, and he needed a shave and a shower desperately. He was also becoming increasingly conscious that he was sitting across the table from an incredibly brassed-off witch.

Turning the pages steadily, never taking her eyes from the print, he was nonetheless fully aware of the simmering tension under the silence Hermione maintained. The uneasy feeling that gave him was not a sensation to which he was accustomed – the role of making others uncomfortable had always been his.

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, Severus seized a piece of toast and forced half of it in his mouth, dry, followed by more coffee. The eggs sat innocently on their cups, but his stomach demanded payment for its previous good behavior and rumbled ominously. Before he knew it, both eggs were gone and nothing remained of the toast but crumbs.

The last of the coffee swirled in the bottom of the cup, grounds and all, as Severus drank it down and wiped his mouth with the crumpled linen napkin beside his plate. Thus fortified, he addressed his companion for the first time in nearly four days.

"Whatever it is you have to say, Miss Granger, you might as well say it now. I know better than to hope you'll hold your tongue."

Hermione Granger's brown eyes rose to meet his, and Severus Snape realized he'd been wrong. She wasn't just brassed off. She was furious.

Carefully closing her book and placing it on the table, Hermione refrained from her first instinct to fling it at Snape's creased, stubble-covered face.

"I would like to know," she began in a very even voice, "where you have been, and why you felt it necessary to leave me locked up here for the last four days."

Snape appeared unimpressed by the emphasis that had crept into the last few words, despite her best efforts, and Hermione was once again forced to stomp on the desire to give in to her desires and shout at the man with all the frustration of the last week.

Since she'd first heard the groaning and the sound of a heavy body rolling off the chaise that signaled he was awake, her temper had been a steady undertow, growing stronger and stronger. The temptation to hex him with something truly creative had only been stymied by her innate respect for her teachers, not to mention the fact that he still had her wand.

The disheveled man who finally appeared bore little resemblance to Hogwart's formerly illustrious Potions Master, and she felt no remorse when she hoped his hangover was every bit as bad as it seemed. For a moment she even regretted the work she'd put into making the hangover potion. That, along with the breakfast he'd just inhaled, was apparently having the intended effect and now Snape was regaining the aura of the nasty professor she'd endured for the last seven years.

"It's none of your business where I've been, Miss Granger, and I left you locked up here as it was the safest place to stash you until I found someone willing to take your annoying self off my hands. Unfortunately your reputation precedes you and I was unsuccessful."

A moment passed while Hermione weeded fact from insult. "You mean you've been unable to locate anyone within the Order?" she asked sharply. "Why didn't you go to Number Twelve…"

"Twelve Grimmauld Place has been compromised," he cut her off sharply. "The Black family home is no longer the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix."

He nodded, taking grim satisfaction at her shock. "The house was breached by Death Eaters the evening following their attack on Hogwarts. Narcissa Malfoy apparently convinced a member of the Wizengamot to sign the house over to her last week. Nymphadora Tonks has no legal claim, since her mother was disowned for marrying a Muggle. Narcissa is the last living member of the Black family, or at least the last member who isn't wanted by the Ministry, and the Fidelus charm cannot be maintained against the legal owner's claim to a property."

"Was anyone hurt?" Hermione asked in a horrified voice. "Is everyone all right?" Another thought blurted out before Snape had a chance to answer. "What about all the things we'd left there? There's no telling what kind of information they can find out if someone halfway intelligent looks through our belongings!"

Severus waved a careless hand. "It didn't matter – everything to do with the Order had already been removed, and all traces of Order activity had been removed. Dumbledore must have had a warning from some other source," he added as the thought occurred to him. "I was given to understand Narcissa wasn't at all pleased. She rewarded Kreatcher's loyalty by putting his head on the wall next to his kin."

"Then where has everyone gone?" she demanded, exasperated. "Is there a new headquarters?"

"Yes, that is the question, isn't it?" he answered snidely. "If only the answer were as obvious. I've no doubt that your friends are fine, in as much as my Death Eater compatriots have not been able to locate them. Albus is with them and that old bastard is sly enough to teach a fox new tricks."

Hermione blinked. Had Professor Severus Snape just called the Headmaster 'old bastard?' "So what do we do now?"

"We?" he sneered. "I am going to my rooms. You may do whatever you like, as long as you say out of my way."

"I've been out of your way for days, Professor," she answered back in the same tone. "Now I'd like some answers."

"No more than I," he replied. "Unfortunately, they seem to be in short supply. Until the Headmaster sees fit to communicate with me, I'm as much in the dark as you are, if that were possible."

"Then when, exactly, can I expect to leave this house?" she asked bluntly.

"That isn't possible. I can't turn you over to the Order if I can't find them, and I would be disastrous to send you home to your parents. I'm sure Lucius and Draco Malfoy would offer you a place to stay but I doubt you'd prefer their hospitality to mine."

Hermione did not quite blanch but his words were an uncomfortable reminder of her encounter with Voldemort and of why she was at this house in the first place; Snape was purported to be her abductor and abuser. Going to her parents' home was out of the question; they were Muggles and totally vulnerable, and she'd certainly be even less informed of events than she currently was.

"So," she concluded tartly, "that means I'm stuck here."

"Indubitably," he drawled.

"I want to go outside then," Hermione told him in no uncertain terms, ignoring his sarcasm. "I've been in this house for far too long. It's making me go insane."

"Then by all means, do so."

"All the doors and windows are magically sealed," she retorted evenly. She had no way of knowing if he were aware of the situation, but she wasn't in any mood to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I've heard of wards to keep people out, Professor, but I thought only prisons kept people in."

An odd expression flickered behind his fathomless black eyes before he answered. "The password is 'manumittere,'1 Miss Granger. The property itself, however, is still warded. Don't bother trying to go over the wall."

Hermione nodded stiffly in thanks and rose from the table, leaving her book behind. Now that he could see properly, he could recognize it as one of the inane volumes on house management his father had presented to his mother on numerous occasions.

"Manumittere."

The doorframe shimmered briefly, outlining the panes of glass in the French doors, before a click signaled the lock's release. With a touch of trepidation, Hermione pushed the door open. A waft of fresh air came in, cool and moist and all but intoxicating after four days of captivity. Eagerly she pushed it open and ventured out onto the small terrace just outside the doors.

Like all good English country homes it was surrounded by a short, decorative stone balustrade, or at least it had been. In several places the mortar had crumbled, leaving dips in the railing and a scattering of dust and fist-sized rubble piled against the remaining wall. Just beyond a small terrace, an inlaid path, now a bedraggled and moss-covered meander of stones, led out into a wild, enticing tangle of green.

The first branching off the path led to a kitchen garden, which was nothing more than a flat mat of weeds and fallen leaves. The path circled slightly, past an herb patch that still held the faint impression of an intricate knot pattern, then dove through a formal flower garden. Hermione had to jump over several large tangles of roses gone wild, their runners forming snarls that spilled over the path and snagged her skirts despite her attempt to hold them up and out of the reach of the multitude of thorns.

Somewhere at the heart of the wild tangle of roses, she thought she caught a glimpse of bright white. Peering on tiptoe, it appeared to be an outstretched woman's hand, carved of marble, though it was hard to discern through the briars.

"Wonderful," Hermione mused aloud. "We've moved from Jane Austen to the Brothers Grimm. Are you Briar Rose or Sleeping Beauty?" she asked whimsically. The statue did not answer, not that it would have surprised her either way.

Despite the difficulty of making her way through the gardens, Hermione was exultant. She had forgotten how blue the sky could be, bright and graced with a few fat clouds that streaked thin at the edges, and the birdsong was better than a symphony. The air was delicious, the mid-morning breezes carrying a hint of the heat that could be anticipated later in the day. Momentarily dazzled by the sun, Hermione shaded her eyes with her hands while she took her bearings.

Past the overgrown roses was a cutting garden, mostly weeds now, although some genus of spring bulb had spread until the frost heaved stones of the path were nearly conquered by the onslaught of slender green shoots. Beyond that was the glint of glass.

The tiny greenhouse was stuck on the far end of one ell of the house, looking as out of place as fairy wings on the back of a blast-ended skrewt. The wrought iron and glass door was grime-covered, and Hermione decided to leave it alone for now in favor of more exploring. Just beyond the greenhouse loomed the great outer wall of the property, high and uncompromising. Someone had once trained fruit trees against it in the traditional espalier pattern, but the angular shapes were nearly lost in the riotous growth since then.

Between the wall and the path, however, several volunteer fruit trees had sprung up, presumably from windfalls. Some had died from lack of care, and there was evidence of storm damage on others. The rest were gamely spreading their branches and putting forth small, hard knobs that would, in time, become fruit. She wasn't enough of a gardener to tell what species the fruit would become, but the very rebellion of the trees against the impositions of the Snape household was enough to bring a smile to Hermione lips.

Some hours passed before the sun began to be bothersome, and in that time Hermione had circled the huge house and come back to the beginning. She had found the bowling lanes on the broad lawn, barely recognizable through weeds and grass that came up nearly to her waist. The far edges of the property were bordered again by the massive wall, though she did find a rudimentary gravel road leading into and out of the estate. The road was presided over by two huge iron gates, both of which were heavily warded and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she approached. Not that it mattered; the rust on the hinges and locks were so thick it would have required a full-grown troll to open them.

The cool dark of the house was actually a relief when Hermione made her way back inside. She found her book on the breakfast table where she'd left it, and a disgruntled Bitta flicking a duster across the samovar service set on the sidebar.

"Did Professor Snape leave again?" she asked sharply. An inner voice reminded her that house-elves should be treated as equals and not chattel. Another voice reminded her that Bitta was actively unpleasant and every bit as bad as the house elf Kreacher, who haunted the house at Twelve Grimmauld Place like a poltergeist in a teatowel loincloth.

"Master has gone to his chambers, and Miss is not to disturb him. Bitta will bring luncheon to Miss' rooms."

"Oh. Well. Thank you, Bitta." Hermione managed in civil tones, and retrieved her book on the way out of the room. As she expected, another plain meal awaited her when she returned to the blue and white room at the end of the hall. Although the large, empty dining room was hardly inviting, it was not outside the realm of possibility that Bitta didn't consider her worthy of taking her meals at the family table.

The fresh air and sun had worn her out more than she anticipated; she lay down on the bed to read her book and woke several hours later. The sound of running water from the bathroom reminded her of the long ramble she'd been on earlier, and the need to clean up.. Rubbing at her face with the heel of her hand, Hermione sat up and glanced around the room.

A bathrobe had been laid out on the foot of the bed, but another element in the room felt different. Her lunch dishes had been cleared, but that had nothing to do with the odd change in the house. After a moment it occurred to Hermione that the house no longer felt echoing and empty. As though it recognized its master, the mausoleum aura had been replaced with an almost comforting sense of presence. That thought immediately caused her to snort in an unladylike fashion; Severus Snape's presence caused many reactions, but comfort was not usually one of them.

Without a wand, it was difficult to tame her hair into some semblance of order. Hermione found some old hair pins on the bureau and used it to anchor her mass of hair up out of the way. Some of the fly-away ends were damp after she finished her quick wash, but she dared not wash it again so soon after her last bath. The lack of proper hair care products was making her already difficult to manage hair an absolute fright, and washing it with the ancient soap was drying it to a brittle mass.

Once out of the tub and dried off, Hermione pulled the robe around her and returned to the bedroom to find Bitta laying out a set of formal robes. Apparently, she was expected to eat dinner somewhere besides her bedroom tonight.

Giving up any real hope of cooperation from her hair, Hermione ruthlessly brushed it out and braided it into a single plait down her back. By the time she'd accomplished that, Bitta had moved into the bathroom, where the sound of water draining and the muttering was accompanied by muttered house elf complaints regarding the mess on the floor and soap cakes that stuck to the bottom of the tub. Hermione used this small window of privacy to struggle into the archaic undergarments on the bed, and she had managed to pull the sleeveless chemise over her head when Bitta returned.

"These are nice," Hermione temporized, holding up the dark blue robes. The two-layer formal gown seemed suitable for a witch in polite company, if a bit old-fashioned. It was hard to gauge witches' fashions, but it didn't appear to be less than twenty years out of date. "I've been meaning to ask you, Bitta. Where are these clothes coming from?"

Bitta's ears drooped, and her eyes flicked from side to side. "Some is from maids back when the Snape family had human servants," she admitted, almost cautiously. "This was… left behind, by one of the old master's young lady friends."

Hermione looked at the gown again. The fabric wasn't as fine a quality as the maid's outfits she'd been wearing, which had tended to be solidly woven and intended for hard wear; the weave on this garment was thinner and nearly a gauze. She shrugged; it didn't really matter. Putting it on, she was a bit taken aback at the design which seemed to be aiming for easy removal, but decided not to think about that too much as she settled the skirts around her legs and tied the tapes that held the garment closed at the back of her waist.

Tugging at the neckline proved futile, and with a growing sense of dread Hermione assessed the gown once more. Turning to the mirror, one look at her reflection caused the word 'cheap' came to mind, although it wasn't in reference to the dress itself. The bodice was cut to make the most of a woman's cleavage, and it did the job - rather too well, in Hermione's opinion. Mother Nature hadn't been overtly generous in this department, but everything she'd been gifted with was on display.

"Bitta," she called, somewhat desperately. "You don't have a shawl or something I could add, do you?"

For once the look on the old elf's face was thoughtful rather than irritated, and with a snap of her fingers the bottom drawer snapped open, spitting out a long length of silk. Hermione sat obediently in the chair when Bitta pointed, and all but had her hands slapped out of the way as the house elf draped the complementary colored fabric across the front of Hermione's breasts. The scarf was fastened at the shoulders with a pair of small brass pins conjured from the air.

While she had the girl effectively subdued, the house elf made an impatient noise at the fuzzy plait hanging down Hermione's back. A few whooshes of house elf magic later, the plait had been transformed to a smooth, intricate knot at the nape of her neck.

Satisfied with the effect, Bitta shooed the girl out of her chair and then charmed the long scarf into a loose knot at the back of the girl's waist, allowing the trailing ends to just miss the floor. When Hermione surveyed the results, the gown had been transformed from upscale tart to nearly elegant.

"Thank you, Bitta. I don't think I could have faced the Professor with all my goods on display like that."

"Miss is welcome," answered the elf with an unmistakable chuckle, and disappeared before Hermione could gape at her in astonishment.

The gown had not come with shoes, so Hermione was forced to put her sensible brogans back on before she went down to dinner at the appointed time. Either Bitta or Whitlock had magicked away the mud and grass bits from her ramble through the grounds, so she didn't need to worry about leaving a trail on the carpets as she made her way to the chilly formal dining room.

The man who rose to his feet when she entered the room was a vast improvement over the one she'd spoken to earlier in the day. Indeed, she barely recognized him. The scholar's robe and frock coat had been replaced with a more formal wizard's attire, still in black of course, but somehow less forbidding than his usual austere look. Some time had obviously been devoted to personal hygiene and sleep. His expression was slightly sour, but his hair was clean and his high cheekbones held more color than his usual sallow complexion.

"Good evening," he greeted her.

"Good evening, Professor."

Without another word, he held a chair out for her, and after a moment's hesitation she allowed him to seat her at the dinner table. It wasn't a promising beginning, but Hermione smiled at him as he took the seat opposite hers, fortunately across the huge table rather than at the opposite end of its long length.

Determined to keep their exchange pleasant, Hermione took a stab at opening a conversation. "You look as though you're feeling much better than you did this morning, Professor."

Hermione had taken care to speak with absolute sincerity, and after a moment Snape appeared to take her words at face value.

"Thank you, Miss Granger."

The food began to appear at that moment, easing the awkward silence. The soup was excellent, and eating it gave her something to do with her hands. In between spoonfuls, she caught glimpses of the professor taking in the details of her gown. A faint frown appeared and disappeared, but he did not open his mouth for any reason other than to put sustenance in it.

The main course passed in the same fashion, and was nearly completed before Hermione found the courage to comment break the silence with a compliment on the food.

"Bitta is an adequate cook," was the only response Snape made.

"The wine is excellent, as well," she added, hoping to break the deadlock.

"Enjoy it while you can, Miss Granger. There are only a few bottles left." He put action to his own advice and drained the rest of his glass. The bottle stood nearby, and Hermione took it as an encouraging sign when, after refilling his own glass, he topped hers up as well.

"Professor, I wanted to apologize for this morning. It was unfair of me to be cross with you when you'd just woken up." This, at least, got a look from the man across the table. She pressed on before he could say anything. "It's just that – it was a bit of a shock to realize that I'm going to be imposing on your hospitality for longer than I have already."

Snape paused as he raised his wineglass again. "Please, Miss Granger. Consider yourself my guest." He took another long drink of his wine, and Hermione wondered if it had actually caused him physical pain to utter this nicety.

"Actually, sir, if we're going to be here for a while, I thought we ought to discuss a few things."

"There's nothing to discuss, Miss Granger. You'll remain here, out of sight and out of my way."

"But…"

"No 'buts,' Miss Granger. You may consider yourself my guest, but you will not begin poking your abnormally inquisitive nose into things that do not concern you. When I have a place to put you, you may be assured that I will take the first available opportunity to get you out from under my roof. But until then, you will continue to obey me as your professor and the only representative of your school authority. And," he added, "you will leave the house elves alone. They've been in the family for years and they don't need you terrorizing them with the idea of clothes."

"Fine," she retorted. "But I want to get a copy of the Daily Prophet for the past few days and see what kind of nonsense they've published about the attack on Hogwarts."

"That can be arranged."

"And I want my wand back."

"No," was the flat answer.

"What? Why not?"

His voice was matter-of-fact as he returned attention to his dinner "Your wand still has the monitoring spell from the Department of Underage Magic."

"And why is that a bad thing? I'm of age, and school is obviously out of session for the foreseeable future"

"As a Hogwarts student, your wand is registered with the Department for Underaged Magic. If it's used, the Ministry will know, but more importantly Mafalda Hopkirk's secretary will know."

His hands were deft on the cutlery, but Hermione noticed that he did not look up to meet her gaze. "Her husband is a Death Eater and has been giving information to Voldemort for years. She'll definitely take note of you using your wand when you're supposed to be… otherwise occupied."

His hesitation on the last two words reminded Hermione of why, allegedly, she was in Snape's house in the first place. She felt the sudden need to have a sip of wine herself.

"Can't you remove it?" she asked, after a fortifying gulp.

"It's a very complex spell, Miss Granger," Snape began in a more reasonable tone. "I promise you teenagers have been trying to break the spell for the better part of a century. If anyone could have discovered the secret I would have put serious money on the Weasley twins, but even they've let me down. When your class leaves Hogwarts, the Ministry is notified and you're removed from the roles of under-age witches and wizards."

An impatient noise escaped her before she thought to suppress it. "It smacks of far too much organization for the Ministry I know."

Snape snorted dryly. "Too right."

"Lovely," she muttered. "Not only am I trapped here, now I can't do any magic."

Snape sent her a quick glance.

"I had originally thought to wait a few days, Miss Granger, before I sent you to the Order. If the subject arose, my fellow Death Eaters would believe I'd killed you after..." his normally excellent vocabulary failed to come up with a proper euphemism, and he quickly continued. "But in three days of searching I failed to find any trace of Dumbledore or Remus Lupin. Additionally, the Dark Lord has taken an interest in you – he asked after you last night."

Hermione suppressed a shudder at the idea of Voldemort taking a personal interest in her. "Why?"

Black-clad shoulders rose and fell in a slight shrug. "It could be he knows you're a close friend of Potter's, though I wouldn't count on it. Normally he doesn't care what becomes of any Death Eater's victims, as long as they're dead or otherwise unable to testify."

This time, Hermione did shudder as she remembered Frank and Alice Longbottom, both insane after being Crucio'ed past the limits of their endurance.

"The Dark Lord specifically ordered me not to kill you, Miss Granger. Sooner or later he will check to see that I've obeyed him. Which means I cannot allow you to simply disappear. I will need to devise a more elaborate excuse to explain why you are no longer in this house."

"I don't suppose he'd believe I just escaped, do you?"

"Doubtful, but you're welcome to try. Do you have any idea where we are? This house is miles from any Muggle village. The wards set by my father and grandfather would require hours to break. I doubt even Headmaster Dumbledore or, dare I say it, Potter could squeak through the wards without triggering something rather unpleasant. Without a wand, you'd have no chance at all.

"In addition, I've been instructed to…" again, the command of his native language escaped him, and despite the gravity of the situation Hermione could not help but feel a flicker of amusement as Hogwarts' most fearsome professor actually blushed at the subject matter. Her own cheeks were flushed, she could tell, but pride kept her from letting it affect her.

"If I cannot produce you upon demand, the Dark Lord will not believe any explanation I offer up. Even if I told him you were dead, he'd find an innovative punishment for me and then demand to see your body."

The cold reality of the situation made the excellent food settle like lead in her stomach. "I'm a hostage, of sorts, aren't I?"

Snape nodded barely. "After a fashion. The Dark Lord may not have decided you're of any importance, yet. But if Potter becomes a problem, he will remember you are a friend of his, and use that to whatever advantage he can."

"And if he does, I could be forced to tell him anything I know." Snape did not point out the obviousness of her comment. A few moments' thought later, Hermione straightened in her chair and met Snape's black eyes squarely.

"Perhaps you should Obliviate me. I already know you're working for Dumbledore, and I know you've worked to save Harry, and me. Knowing you're working for the Order could put you in danger."

The corner of Snape's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "Do you? Are you sure?" He took another sip of wine. "Are you sure I'm not working both sides?"

Hermione gave him back the same smile. "Well, you haven't raped me, Professor, so I'm fairly certain you're not the Death Eater you pretended to be three days ago. If you were, you'd have given me to Malfoy." If she had had any doubts of Professor Snape's veracity, it was allayed by the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face when she'd said the word 'rape.'

"Speaking of which…"

"Must we?" he retorted lightly. "Malfoys are definitely a subject not fit for the dinner table."

"I meant the ravishment part," she told him, although that was certainly not a subject for the dinner table either. "What are the chances that my virginity will cause you problems?"

The same expression of distaste reappeared, and the man's eyes were dark with some emotion that Hermione did not recognize. "You should be safe here," he told her firmly. "It's unlikely that any of my confederates will intrude here, nor anyone else for that matter. I've never been one of the social crowd."

Hermione sipped her wine rather than comment on this understatement.

"You have my word that I will do whatever is in my power to reestablish contact with the Order. Once I've done so, my first priority will be to find a way to get you out of this house without jeopardizing your safety or compromising my position." ."

Despite his earlier comments, Hermione knew that his comments had more to do with her continued safety rather than the inconvenience that she posed to this incredibly prickly man.

"Thank you, Professor. I promise I'll do my best not to be a bother while I'm here."

"See that you do," was the retort, and it took a supreme act of will on Hermione's part not to roll her eyes as Hogwarts' resident grouch reverted to normal.

1 Manumitterre – Latin for 'to make free,' as in a slave.