The song ended as all songs eventually must, but, though they both stilled, neither made any immediate effort to move apart. It was only when Ron brushed roughly into her as he escorted Luna from the dance floor that Hermione stepped back. Severus caught her hand as she did so, bending low in a variant of an old-world gesture of courtesy and pressing his lips to her palm. Hermione's eyes drifted closed, her mouth opening in a silent sigh.

"A thousand times good night," Severus said softly, straightening and backing away.

Hermione watched him as he turned on his heel.

---

Arthur gave a weary sigh as he watched the young man meld into the shadows. He didn't doubt that this was the man Hermione had spoken of earlier.

The affection and longing had been so transparently obvious that it was painful to watch. Whatever kept the two of them apart, it wasn't that Hermione's feelings were unrequited.

Today was a celebration of his son's marriage, but Arthur cared for Hermione almost as if she'd been his by birth, and his joy was deeply marred to think she seemed destined to heartache, especially as he hadn't been the only person watching.

---

Ron grabbed Hermione roughly by her upper arm, swinging her around to face him when she would have collected her handbag and gone in search of Moody and Viktor.

"What in the name of Merlin's saggy bollocks do you think you're playin' at?" he demanded.

"Take your hands off me," Hermione instructed him at a fraction of the volume he had used.

Ron dropped her as if he'd been burned. "Who was that git?" he asked slightly more calmly.

Hermione replied truthfully. "No one you know."

"You don't know anyone I don't know," Ron argued.

"She knows him," Luna said.

---

"Obviously," Ron snorted. "It's beginning to look like you know every bloke with a working wand. It's not enough to shack up with Vicky like some scarlet woman. You have to throw yourself at—"

"Reginald!" Arthur cut in as he closed the gap between himself and the group. "Helena is here as Percy's guest, and you will treat her with civility. It's not your place to stand in judgment over her or to interfere between her and Marcus."

"But—"

"No buts," Arthur insisted. "Helena, Marcus just left. You might want to talk to him sooner rather than later."

---

The cottage's front door stood ajar when Hermione reached it. Lights were on in several of the rooms. In the kitchen a bottle of chilled vodka was open on the counter with a used glass next to it.

However, as Hermione went from room to room, Crookshanks letting her carry him as if he knew that she needed the comfort of his presence, she became increasingly certain that Viktor was no longer there.

She curled up on their bed without bothering to get undressed. She dreaded the confrontation that was coming, but she wouldn't have sacrificed a minute with Severus.

---

The sky was streaked with pink by the time Viktor returned. His steps were heavy and slow on the stairs. His face was grim when he pushed open the bedroom door. "So you came back."

Hermione sat up, taking Crookshanks in her arms. She waited, trying to gauge whether Viktor's anger had truly faded or whether it was like a conflagration that had temporarily been smothered due to lack of oxygen, needing only the slightest draught to restore its destructive glory.

Viktor rubbed at his face as if he could wipe away the night's exhaustion. "Who is he?" he asked.

---

Hermione had known that the question would come. She had framed a hundred answers to it as she lay awake in her far too large dress, and none of them had seemed adequate.

"He's a friend. My best friend. It's complicated."

The light bulb that hung from the ceiling rose in the centre of the room shattered, showering the foot of the bed with pearly fragments and leaving the room a couple of degrees darker.

"Please do not lie to me," Viktor growled. "To haff you look at me the vay you look at him, I vould giff my soul."

---

Hermione set Crookshanks down and moved toward Viktor, reaching out a hand toward the emotionally wounded man.

"He's my best friend," she repeated softly. "I love him. I believe he cares for me, but we will never be more than friends."

Viktor shook his head even as he took a step toward her. "You are already more than friends, even if you do not know it."

"No," Hermione insisted. "He is lonely. His role in the war forced him to leave the man who was his lover, so he seeks my companionship, but that is all."

"The man?"

"The man."

---

Viktor came closer, and Hermione rested her head on Viktor's chest, wrapping her arms around him.

"There are men who desire both men and women," Viktor suggested.

"Not him."

"You know this?" Viktor sounded sceptical.

"I know this. Once, before you came here, I told him I loved him." Hermione felt every muscle beneath her hands tense. "He held me like a brother. He comforted me. He told me he was sorry. All he had to do was kiss me, and I would never have let him go."

"You still love him, not me."

Hermione exhaled. "I love you both."

---

"You love me?" It was barely a whisper, but Viktor tilted Hermione's chin upward so that he could read the truth in her eyes.

"I love you."

"As much as you love him?"

Hermione's eyes dropped downward. "He needs me. He doesn't have anyone else... And I need his friendship."

"Don't I need you?" Viktor asked.

"No, you want me. You love me. You don't need me."

"So if I made you choose..."

"Even if I loved you more, it would have to be him," Hermione admitted.

"You love me. I thought I vould be happy."

"Me too," Hermione sighed.

---

Hermione lifted her head. "I really do love you," she told Viktor.

"Is it because he's better looking than me?" the Quidditch player asked.

Hermione reached up and took the Bulgarian's face in both her hands. "I love how you look. I love your dark eyes, and those thick lashes. I love the curve of your nose. I even love the scowl, but I especially like the way it normally disappears when you see me. The face you saw belongs to someone who goes to his barber, so, no, it's not because he's better looking than you. It's just timing."

---

"Just timing?" Viktor asked.

Hermione nodded. "If you had come back from Bulgaria before I got to know him, everything might be different. In another year, I might be so in love with you that my feelings for him might seem like shadows."

"Or you might still be vith me and vishing I vas him."

"Except I don't wish you were him. He'll never want me. He and I will never be happy. Some day we might."

"Is that something you belief or something you hope?" Viktor asked.

"Both," Hermione answered.

"Vhat do ve do now?"

"That's up to you."

---

Severus reached out, tracing the outline of Pensieve Hermione's cheek, even though the smoothness of her skin was only an echo, an intangible illusion. Mere magic could not compete with the feel of her in his arms earlier tonight, but magic could let him recreate the scent of her hair. It could give him the opportunity to watch her over and over from every angle as she swayed in his arms, even if neither of them wore their true forms.

He studied her every expression, savouring the contented curve of her lips as she rested her head against his shoulder.

---

The interlude was ripped apart by the piercing pain that seemed to penetrate down to the bones of his left arm.

Severus cursed himself for a romantic buffoon. How could he have forgotten even for an hour or two that this was the path he was destined for? Love had no place in the life fate had given him, other than to make him its fool.

He masked his features behind a vizard of burnished metal as he resolved henceforth to conceal his affection for the girl. To indulge his fantasies could only bring tragedy to Hermione and him alike.

---

He barely listened as Voldemort preened and congratulated himself on the corruption of another of Scrimgeour's inner circle. His attention wandered, despite the knowledge that it might cost him dearly. He recalled the scent of her unique hair preparations and felt a stirring in his loins.

"You!" Voldemort crooked a finger.

Severus barely avoided flinching as the figure to his left stepped forward.

"Report!" the Dark Lord ordered.

"The mothers are doing well in general, but the Flint girl came close to a miscarriage last week. Nevertheless, the child should be close enough to term to survive an early birth."

---

His words quashed Severus's libido as effectively as immersion in ice water. The Flint girl. Pansy Parkinson. His charge until recently... little more than a child who had been violated, whose barely ripened body had been ravaged by a pregnancy that she had not chosen, one which she might not survive... and one for which he might be responsible.

He'd known that most of the girls would come from Slytherin, and to be at the peak of their childbearing years, they must have fallen under his care. In the abstract the idea revolted him. In actuality it seared his soul.

---

Voldemort pointed to another figure. "Your wife?" he demanded.

The Death Eater crawled forward to kiss his master's hem. "She is healthy."

"And the memory charm?" the Dark Lord asked.

"It holds, my lord," the kneeling man replied. "She believes the child is ours."

"Naturally." Voldemort's narrow lips curved into a leer. "See that it remains so. Mulciber?"

Another penitent shuffled forward.

"I believe things are proceeding according to plan?"

"Yes, my lord," Mulciber rushed to reassure. "The wedding was today. The boy has re-established contact with his family. We expect to begin receiving information on the Order's movements soon."

---

Several more masked figures stepped forward to report. Some had obviously been assigned to watch couples where the girl had attended Voldemort's revels under the Imperious Curse. In some cases the memory of that night had been wiped from their minds. In others, the Curse was periodically renewed, forcing them to ardently protect the cuckoos in their wombs.

One father pridefully announced that his daughters would bear the next generation of wizarding elite. Severus felt bile rise in his throat as the man spoke of his own flesh and blood as though they were pedigree bitches, impregnated by Cruft's champions.

---

The Dictaquill settled onto the desk, and Severus sealed the letter. He stroked Prometheus's head gently. "You must wait for him at home, you understand? You cannot take it to Downing Street or the Ministry. You must deliver it only to him and only if he is alone."

The owl nipped at Severus's finger and held its leg out.

Shortly after, Severus retired. Despite his exhaustion, sleep didn't come easily, and when it did he was haunted by dreams where Hermione's willing body became that of Pansy Flint screaming in the agony of childbirth instead of the ecstasy of orgasm.