A/N: Based more or less on doomspark’s “Have at thee, varlet” challenge posted over on WIKTT (although I don’t think it has a separate folder...). Challenge details, of course, follow. And I bet that everyone has slipped wildly out of character, despite my few efforts to the contrary. Just to give you a heads-up and all...

Summary: Ron’s been a bad, bad boy, and for that, Severus decides that he’s got to die. Slowly. Preferably with a fork sticking out of one eye.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: I plan, if I ever manage to get my ass in gear and finish my novel, to write fanfic for it, so that I can say, “Ha! I do own everything you see here!” But alas, that time has not come, and for now, I must admit that I own nothing you see below. Not even the aforementioned fork.

The Dangerous Consequences of Pillow Talk

by: Hayseed (hayseed_42@hotmail.com)

She was either going to cry, or she was going to fly into a murderous rage and kill the next person that looked sideways at her. Hermione was not sure which option was more appealing, but it was definitely going to be one of them.

Fortunately -- or unfortunately, depending on how she looked at it -- no one made eye contact with her as she stomped her way down the street to the nearest Apparition point. Rounding the last corner, Hermione dimly noticed that the clearing warded for Apparition purposes was blurring under her gaze. The tears had crept up unnoticed and were now threatening to roll down her face.

Perhaps, she considered briefly, Apparating back to the flat was not the best of ideas, given her current state.

Hands trembling with a repressed emotion that she was determined to continue to suppress, Hermione fumbled in her robes for her wand. Bugger Ministry regulations -- she wanted to go home. “Portus,” she muttered shakily, pointing her wand at an empty crisp packet fluttering forlornly on the ground.

Her flat was deliciously cold -- she had turned on the air conditioning before she left that morning, Hermione recalled as if in a dream -- and she welcomed the cold blast of air on her skin, pushing back the summer heat. Pushing back the flush of rage.

She’s such a cold bitch sometimes, you know?

Hermione told herself not to cry as she leaned against one of the walls in her sitting room. Crying implied that she cared. That he had hurt her.

And he hadn’t.

What did she care, anyway?

Gets on my nerves with all of her blather. She probably thinks we’re interested in what she thinks.

Hermione let out a single, strangled sob, sliding down the wall, her legs splaying out in front of her in a sloppy fashion that did not suit her. Uncaring, she just buried her face in her hands and finally allowed the pent-up tears to flow. The crisp packet Portkey fell to the floor.

“That bastard!” she wailed aloud. “How could he say...?”

Harry once told me that he thought she fancied me -- I’d rather’ve kissed a buck-toothed oldd squirrel, eh?

She did not know how long she cried, only that once her tears ceased, she felt oddly drained.

And angry.

That was mildly surprising. Her involvement with Albus Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix and the occasional ensuing shouting matches with Severus Snape aside, Hermione generally considered herself to be a fairly levelheaded, mild-mannered sort of person. This tendency toward blinding rage that had reared its head over the past, oh, thirty minutes or so was quite uncharacteristic.

But not unwelcome, now that she was rational enough to consider it.

Perhaps she ought to be made hideously, unreasonably angry more often.

Hermione further surprised herself by laughing a little at that thought. Maybe she was feeling better.

Self-righteous, arrogant, twittering...

No... the anger was still there. And it probably would be for a good, long time. Possibly forever. There were some things that Hermione felt unable to forgive, and having to listen helplessly as Ron Weasley ran her down to a sympathetic Pansy Parkinson as they’d cuddled -- ostensibly naked; Hermione had been too shocked to pay much attention to their state of dress -- in his bed was certainly shaping up to be one of them.

Pansy she understood. They’d never been able to bring themselves to quite like each other, even after Pansy started shagging Ron on a regular, if infrequent, basis. Pansy Parkinson indulging in a bit of Granger-bashing was, if not to be expected, at least to be tolerated. Hermione knew that Pansy didn’t think much of her.

But Ron...

A fresh wave of anger washed over Hermione, and she wished briefly that Ron was here, standing over her, offering apologies that would probably be insincere, given what she now knew about him.

So she could throttle him.

And maybe hit him over the head with the broomstick he’d given her as a joke last Christmas. Just a couple of times, really. Only until he lost consciousness. And maybe bled from the ears a bit. But then she’d stop. Honest.

She thought about that morning all those months ago -- Ron grinning at her befuddled expression, Harry laughing openly at the both of them. To think, Ron had been lying to her that day. Lying to her for all of these long years, pretending for reasons that only he knew to be her friend. Her closest friend. It was criminally unthinkable.

Her eyes began tingling suspiciously once more. Sniffling and trying to hold it in, Hermione realized that she was fighting a losing battle and the inevitability of her tears mocked her small efforts.

“Damn it,” she swore, pinching the bridge of her nose, half-exasperated.

She was so intent on restoring her emotional control, in fact, that the loud crash on the other side of the room barely registered. As did the subsequent muffled cursing. The shouted “Granger!” did manage to snag her attention, though.

Looking up, Hermione saw Severus Snape standing on her hearthrug, clutching at his right elbow and glaring at her. He had a sooty streak running down one of his cheeks, and if she hadn’t been so out-of-sorts, she probably would have made a cutting remark about it.

Bloody know-it-all...

She swallowed and exhaled loudly through her nose. “Professor Snape,” she said calmly, even managing a short nod for good measure.

His scowl deepened. “Oh, don’t you give me that, you little fool. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he spat.

Hermione was definitely not in the mood for this. “Clearly, Professor,” she replied, keeping her voice even, “I do not.”

“You forgot the Stasis Charms,” he growled, voice dangerously quiet and particularly venomous. “Costing us six months of work at least. A dozen samples are ruined. Ruined.”

She flinched a bit as his voice rose sharply at that last but remained otherwise calm. “Professor, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I haven’t been to the lab in two days at least. And I know I put the usual charms on before I left for the day.”

“Lying, Granger, is poor form for a Gryffindor,” he taunted.

Hackles raising and her misery lightened slightly at the prospect of a good row with Snape -- she knew she was right about this one -- Hermione felt her lip curl over her teeth in a snarl that was probably quite unattractive. “Oh, very mature, Snape. Just admit, Professor, that you forgot your own charms and you don’t want to have to tell Albus that.”

Snape’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You, you... insufferable, pompous, self-righteous little --”

It was too close to what Ron had said. As Snape hissed at her, Hermione’s defenses crumbled and she burst into tears for the third time that day.

-- -- -- -- --

Severus was at a complete loss. One second, Granger had been scowling up at him with at least as much intensity as he was fairly certain he was glaring at her, even though he clearly had the upper hand -- she was sprawled out on the floor for Merlin’s sake. And the next, she was bawling into her hands like a little girl who’d just been informed that Christmas, the annual Hogwarts Halloween feast, and her birthday had all been canceled for the remainder of her lifespan.

What had he done to deserve this?

Last week, he’d called her a “talentless, sniveling slug,” and she hadn’t batted so much as an eyelid. Just made an unflattering remark about his personal hygiene and pressed onward.

This week, he didn’t even manage to get to the genuinely insulting bit, and she was a bucket of rather unsightly tears.

Severus was mystified.

But she was still crying and, by all appearances, he was to blame for it. Albus would not be pleased if he learned about this, and Severus did not want to have to chaperone for the Hogsmeade visit next term.

Blowing out as quiet a sigh as he could, Severus crossed the room and knelt at Granger’s side. “Granger?” he asked in what he thought could pass as a gentle tone.

She ignored him and continued to sob. Perhaps he ought to...

“Erm... there, there,” he said, reaching out with a single hand and giving her arm a conciliatory pat.

If anything else, she was now crying harder.

Bugger this -- Severus was on the verge of simply taking the Floo back to the Order headquarters and returning to their work. But then he remembered the last Hogsmeade weekend Albus had forced him to supervise -- once the smoke had cleared, the final tally had been two hundred points deducted from Gryffindor, one hundred twelve from Slytherin, and eighty nine each from the other two Houses, not to mention the record twenty-one detentions issued in under two hours -- and turned his attention back to the increasingly-hysterical Granger.

“Granger?” he asked again, more softly. “Hermione? Are you... alright?”

Granger exhaled sharply and Severus realized that she was amused, through the tears. “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth,” she said, breath hitching every now and again.

At least she was coherent. More or less. He regarded her carefully, as he would a rabid animal backed into a corner.

Eventually, she looked up at him -- her eyes were bloodshot and her cheeks a bright red -- and sighed. “I’m fine,” she said.

“Oh, yes,” he retorted. “I routinely burst into hysterics when I’m fine. Perfectly sensible behavior.” Pausing briefly, Severus gave her his best ‘pained’ expression. “Miss Granger, you are perhaps underestimating my intellect. While not unexpected, it is nevertheless quite rude.”

“Snape, you stink at being comforting,” she complained, rubbing a bit at her eyes and sniffling once or twice.

“So I’ve been told,” he said blandly. “But I assure you that I am quite overwhelmed with concern for your well-being, Granger.”

Wrinkling her nose, she made an odd sort of face at him. “Forgive me if I don’t quite believe you, Professor.”

“As you wish,” he said, nodding acquiescingly.

They continued to watch each other in silence. Every now and again, Granger’s eyes would flicker away from his face, to something over his shoulder, but Severus was careful to keep his gaze steadily on her face, for reasons that he did not care to ponder, although it occurred to him that Albus would be quite pleased with him for continuing to look after Granger’s welfare. She cleared her throat meaningfully, interrupting his mental monologue.

He grunted questioningly.

Granger frowned. “If you’ve finished assuring yourself that I’m sufficiently recovered and that you’re not culpable, you can be on your way, Professor.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He tried to interject as much innocence into his tone as he could.

“I’m telling you, Snape,” she said, enunciating clearly and loudly, “to go away.”

He considered it. Considered her. He could walk out right now, no strings attached -- But Albus... she told me to. Besides, Granger was right. He did stink at being comforting.

And yet...

There was something behind her eyes as she told him to leave. Something in the way that her hand swept at the wetness on her cheeks.

Bugger Merlin with a bloody Bludger.

“Miss Granger,” he said, dropping all emotions -- sarcasm, faux concern, even that petty glee he often felt at baiting her -- and speaking neutrally. “I expect, Miss Granger, that would make you entirely too happy.”

She laughed again, and it was bitter.

“If only to satisfy my own morbid curiosity -- to verify my lack of culpability, to borrow your turn of phrase,” he continued, still indistinct in manner, twisting a wrist in an imitation of the elegant gesture he remembered from his mother many years before, “Miss Granger, what happened to reduce you to such a state?”

Face hardening, Granger looked down at her hands, turning them over to stare at her fingernails. Severus noticed that they were grubby and she had streaks of ink all over most of the fingers on her right hand. “It’s none of your concern, Snape,” she said lightly. “Suffice to say, I’m fine.”

“Need I remind you about the traditional Gryffindor view on lying?”

He could not see her expression, but he suspected that it was about as sour as he’d ever seen it before. “For your information, Professor, I... had a bit of a shock this afternoon.”

“A bit of a shock?” he echoed in disbelief.

“Well...” she drawled, and he knew then that she was going to tell him the entire story and could not decide whether he was irritated or pleased. “Ron owled me this morning at work. Said he needed me to drop by his flat this afternoon to go through some paperwork.”

“Not very shocking,” Severus said dryly. “Weasley usually needs your assistance when higher-level thinking is required.”

Uncharacteristically, Granger kept her head down and did not leap in to defend Weasley. “I dropped by around four. And when I got there...” Her shoulders heaved and Severus realized that she was fighting back tears yet again. “He was there with Pansy. Pansy Parkinson, you know.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am aware of that particular travesty of a romance. But I find it hard to believe that a glimpse of Weasley and Parkinson, erm, in flagrante delicto would inspire such an adverse reaction. Surely you knew as well?”

She did look up, then -- Severus placed her facial expression about halfway between misery and exasperation. “I did,” she said slowly, as if addressing an infant. “But they weren’t, ah, you know. No, they were talking. About me. And Ron said...” Trailing off, her face screwed up and she clasped a single hand to her eyes.

Severus found himself captivated by the scene, and he’d placed a hand on Granger’s shoulder before he knew what he was about.

“Awful things,” she whispered. “He said... he said...” She hiccupped. “He said he’d always hated to be around me. That he was only nice to me because he pitied me and because Harry wanted... oh, God,” she choked, spiraling down into tears once again.

Blinking, Severus realized that somehow, Granger was sobbing into his shoulder and his arm was wrapped around her shoulder, a hand between her shoulder blades. He did not know whether he had initiated the motion or she had, but it was irrelevant in any case. He now had an armful of crying, slightly damp female. A crying, slightly damp female, now that he came to think about it, who he had managed to cultivate a fairly decent, albeit often volatile, working relationship with. If sufficiently pressed -- although not all the Albus Dumbledores in the world could have probably pressed hard enough -- he might have admitted to even quite liking said crying, damp female.

And Ron Weasley had made her cry.

Ron Weasley, one of the stupidest, most irresponsible, Gryffindor boys that he had ever run across, wielded enough power over Granger to make her cry. And he’d used it.

A sudden, irrational and oddly inexplicable anger swept through Severus, causing him to pull Granger even more tightly into his embrace. He felt her arms snake around his waist and her head turn so that her cheek rested on his shoulder and her nose dug pleasantly into his neck.

Weasley had reduced her to this... this weak creature. He had broken her, maybe forever.

The anger doubled into rage. Weasley was not worthy to lick the ground that Granger walked on, and yet she allowed him to...

Something ought to be done. Weasley should not be allowed to get away with it.

Impulsively, Severus pulled out of her arms slightly, stuck his pointer finger under her chin, and lifted her face so that he could look down into her bloodshot eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he released her and Disapparated.

-- -- -- -- --

Severus had spent entirely too much time around Gryffindors as of late. Stupid Albus and his even stupider Gryffindors -- the Order was practically overloaded with them. They must have rubbed off on him.

As he Apparated into Ron Weasley’s flat with a tinny popping noise, he realized this. If he’d been in possession of his full, free-from-Gryffindor-taint faculties, he would have taken the time to formulate a plan, at the very least.

But then Weasley walked out of his kitchen and into his sitting room and a red haze fell over Severus’ line of sight.

Weasley had made Hermione cry.

“Professor?” Weasley asked dimly. “What--?”

He did not get a chance to finish whatever idiotic question he was formulating. With a battle cry worthy of the old Celtic warriors charging helter-skelter at the Roman invaders of yore, Severus launched himself at Weasley, both hands outstretched.

They crashed against a wall, sending a picture of Weasley’s family clattering to the floor. Severus noted that the photo-Molly Weasley glared up at them disapprovingly and that one of the photo-Weasley twins made a rude gesture. And then his focus shifted back to the Weasley in his hands.

More specifically, to the Weasley whose throat he now had his fingers wrapped around. Paling under his freckles, the boy made a gurgling sort of sound.

“Weasley!” Severus roared, knowing simultaneously that he was out of control and that he did not care. “What possessed you?” He gave Weasley, who, despite the fact that he had at least three inches and fifty pounds on Severus, did not so much as struggle, a violent shake, cracking the boy’s head against the wall.

“I --” the little swot wheezed.

He banged Weasley’s head back into the wall again. “You made her cry!” he shouted.

“Sir...”

Tightening his grip until Weasley started gasping, Severus felt his eyes narrow to near slits. “I will make you regret it, Weasley. I will kill you!”

“What’re--?” he managed to grunt.

With one final snarl, Severus pulled one of his hands away from Weasley’s neck long enough to ball it into a fist and deliver a blow to the boy’s nose. There was a satisfying snapping noise as it connected, the cartilage giving away -- the bruised knuckles would be worth the emotional fulfillment of finally punching Weasley.

Severus was rather surprised when the boy slithered to the floor after that single blow. Granted, he’d given Weasley a good choking and a bloodied nose to boot, but it usually took more to knock someone unconscious. A delicious grin spread across Severus’ face as it occurred to him that he might have actually just shocked Weasley into a dead faint.

The grin widened as he considered the plan that was forming in his mind. It was still a bit rough around the edges and involved a handful of unknown variables that might have concerned him if he weren’t still delighting over the fact that he probably just broke Ron Weasley’s nose.

Thus, Severus dragged Weasley’s unconscious body over to the fireplace with something akin to joy. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder from the mantle, he lit a fire with a wand flick and tossed the powder in as soon as the flames were tall enough. “Hermione Granger’s flat,” Severus shouted, pushing Weasley’s body into the fire and leaping in immediately afterward.

-- -- -- -- --

Hermione didn’t know whether to feel stupid or flattered. She’d unburdened herself to Severus Snape, of all people, which seemed like an immensely idiotic thing to do. But then, instead of berating her or mocking her, he’d simply held her. Put his arms around her even. And looked down into her eyes in one of those gestures that with any other fellow in the world would have meant a passionate kiss.

Not that she would have known what to do if Snape had kissed her. So it was all for the best when he Disapparated, really. Even if it had been a bit confusing.

I’ll be right back.

For a brief moment, Hermione allowed herself to entertain the notion that Snape was going off to defend her honor. A dashing knight in shining armor...

Okay, so maybe a surly knight in robes stained with potions experiments.

Either way. A mental image of Snape, in his perpetual black wool robes, eschewing the summer heat and winning, bearing down on a cowering, suddenly-three-inches tall Ron Weasley, brandishing his wand in the same dramatic gesture she remembered from her childhood.

“No, please don’t,” Ron would squeak, curling into a pathetic ball.

“Be a man, Weasley,” Snape might say with one of those smirks he was so good at, pointing his wand squarely between Ron’s eyes. “And have at thee, varlet!”

Shaking her head, Hermione pushed the image to the back of her mind. She might as well have put him on a white charger and given him a green and silver jousting lance for all of the reality of that particular scenario. And given Ron black armor, and a sinister mustache to twirl, while she was at it.

Snape probably just went back to the Order headquarters. Apparently, they had a dozen ruined experimental potion samples to deal with. He would be back once he’d cleaned it up and escaped her ‘female vapors,’ probably. And he’d make a snide remark, she’d counter with some brilliant repartee, and they would forget that she’d ever cried in his arms. The work would continue unmolested.

Her thoughts continued along these lines as she washed her few dishes, methodically and slowly, enjoying the utter Muggle nature of her work. Using a Cleansing Charm would make her think about magic and thinking about magic would make her think about Ron and thinking about Ron...

She was done crying.

Hermione placed a freshly rinsed glass carefully on the drain board and pulled the plug out of the sink, letting the soapy water drain away. Torn between drying everything and simply letting the air do her work for her, she picked up a dishtowel and began drying her hands idly, staring at the dishes and thinking of anything but what had happened today. A loud thud pulled her from her musings, however, and Hermione curiously walked into her den, continuing to dry her hands.

A curious sight greeted her -- Snape was back. Snape was standing in her sitting room, using his wand to bind what appeared to be an unconscious Ron Weasley to one of her wing chairs.

“Erm...” Hermione began, half amused and half just plain confused. “I don’t think...”

Appearing to ignore her, Snape leaned forward as soon as Ron was completely bound and gave his cheek a vicious slap. Only then did Hermione notice the blood smeared under Ron’s nose and wonder what Snape had done.

With a groan, Ron’s eyelids began to flutter.

“Wake up,” Snape snapped. “Or I’ll hit you again.”

Ron groaned again. “Snape?” he moaned. “What the bloody hell--?”

“Shut up,” he replied. “I only want one thing to come out of your mouth, Weasley. You will apologize.”

Hermione felt her mouth fall open. “Professor... I... Severus...”

Something glittered strangely in Snape’s eyes as he turned to face her. “He should not be allowed to conduct himself in such a fashion, Hermione. He will be held accountable. Now.” He spun around to confront Ron once more. “Apologize, you execrable excuse for a human being!”

If Hermione didn’t have Ron’s cruel, mocking voice in her ears as she looked down at his pathetic, bound figure, she might have thought his bewildered expression to be, if not endearing, sweet at the very least. As it was, though, she found herself looking forward to any apologies that Snape -- that Severus (were they not now compatriots of a sort?) -- was willing to extract. “Apologize?” Ron echoed dumbly.

“I trust you are familiar with the word, in passing, at least,” Severus said, bringing his wand to bear in between Ron’s eyes.

“But...” he said in a slow, slurred sort of voice. “What for?”

Something twisted in Severus’ face and his hand tightened on his wand -- Hermione felt a thrilling fear ripple through her belly at the sight of him. “Do not play me for a fool, Ron Weasley!” he shouted -- a shout from Snape, who was more prone to quiet threats than anything else, was a truly terrifying thing to witness. “I will turn you into a cockroach and crush you under my shoe!” Breathing heavily through his nose, Severus took a few moments to regain even a fraction of his usual control. “You will apologize, Weasley, and then, depending on how well you apologize, we will revisit our former conversation.” His slow grin was wolfish and disconcerting. “If you are very lucky, Weasley, I will take you to St. Mungo’s afterward, instead of throwing you into the Hogwarts lake to drown.”

Ron’s eyes widened and he cringed under his ropes. “I swear on everything holy, Professor Snape, that I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Only because Hermione had known Ron Weasley for more than a dozen years did she catch the unspoken ‘please don’t hurt me’ following Ron’s statement.

But she’d heard enough from him. “Don’t you pretend, Ron,” she said coldly, stepping forward to glare at him. “I was there this afternoon. At your flat. I heard you, damn it. And I may be cold, Ron Weasley, but not so cold that it didn’t hurt.” She felt a tear on her cheek as she spoke and mentally cursed it.

“This afternoon?” he repeated, sounding increasingly dull witted with each passing moment. “But... but I was at Ginny’s Quidditch match this afternoon. Harry showed up at lunch with tickets.”

“Don’t lie to me anymore!” she shouted, hating him for doing this to her. “I can’t take it, Ron!”

His eyes rolled around in his head as Severus growled and advanced. “I’m not lying!” he cried frantically. “Ask Harry! I swear, Hermione, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Severus’ wand was at his throat. “You swear?”

“On my grandfather’s grave,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

“Severus...” Hermione said hesitantly, realizing for the first time that she was actually addressing Professor Snape by his given name. “Severus,” she said again, more firmly, “I think he’s telling the truth.” Reaching out on instinct, she laid her fingertips across the back of his wand hand.

Unbearably slowly, the wand retracted. Severus looked away from Ron and Hermione found herself once again caught in his intense stare. “It’s not possible,” he said flatly.

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “But I still think he’s telling the truth. We should, at the very least, ask Harry.”

-- -- -- -- --

Severus could not decide whether Hermione was simply a soft touch or she actually believed Weasley. Personally, he was torn -- Weasley had stuck to his guns, sniveling and cowering, but stuck to his guns nonetheless.

Besides, the gentle pressure of her hand on his was asking him to pardon Weasley, whether he was truthful or not. So he did as her hand asked and put his wand down.

And now she was standing by her fireplace, rummaging around the hearth for her box of Floo powder. Hermione, for all of her usual organizational skills in the classroom and later in the lab, seemed to live a cluttered personal life. This included, for whatever reason, not managing to keep the Floo powder on the mantle like most normal wizards and witches.

Hell, Severus thought with a wry grin, even Weasley kept proper track of his Floo powder.

His eyes went back to Weasley with that thought. The boy was still tied to Hermione’s wing chair, stark terror in his eyes. Severus had a suspicion that if he so much leaned over and whispered, “Boo,” that Weasley would probably wet himself.

It was awfully tempting.

A muffled shout indicated that Hermione had finally found her Floo powder, and a hand waving a box triumphantly in the air thirty seconds later confirmed this. She tossed a bit of powder in, saying, “Harry’s flat,” as she did so.

“... need to get this...” Potter’s head said as it casually popped into the flames. “Hey, Hermione,” he continued in a pleasant voice. “I was just getting ready to call you. Funny, huh?”

Hermione looked distinctly uncomfortable as she stretched an obviously fake smile across her face. “Yeah, Harry, funny. So... how’re you?”

Severus’ eyes widened -- he’d hand-delivered Weasley to her flat in order to help her maul him and she was wasting precious time making small talk with Harry Potter? He cleared his throat warningly.

“Pretty good,” Potter was saying. “I’ve got Pansy Parkinson over, of all people. Seems that Ron was supposed to meet her for supper and he never showed. He’s not at his flat, either. We were just getting ready to check and see if he was with you. I figured that he wanted a friendly ear to rehash the match with.”

“The match?” Hermione asked in a careful voice. Severus relaxed minutely -- they were getting there after all.

“Oh, yes,” he said, oblivious to her odd behavior, if indeed it was even odd. “Ginny started for Manchester in this afternoon’s match and she gave me a pair of tickets. Ron and I figured that you wouldn’t be interested, so we just went ahead. It was brilliant, too -- Ginny had four goals.”

“That’s good,” she said. “So... you and Ron both went to the match?”

His reply sounded confused. “Yes... why?”

“Oh,” Hermione began evasively, “no particular reason. I just... I thought I saw Ron at his flat this afternoon.”

“Nope,” Potter said, blithe and unaware, as per usual. “He was with me all afternoon. That’s sort of weird. So, you saw him this afternoon? Is he over there now?”

Hermione swallowed and it occurred to Severus that if Potter happened to come through the Floo and see Weasley tied to a chair, it would probably look quite bad indeed. “He is,” she admitted, sounding distinctly miserable.

Discreetly, Severus flicked his wand and Weasley’s bonds seemingly evaporated. The boy stayed in his chair, though, slumped down and white-faced.

“Well...” Potter drawled. “D’you mind if we let Pansy have him? Only they’ve got plans and they’re in love and all that...”

“Actually, Harry...” Hermione twisted her hands nervously. “Would you come through? You and Pansy, maybe? I need to ask her something and I’d really, really like it if you were here.”

“Sure,” Potter said cheerfully. “Stand back, then.”

There was a whooshing noise, and suddenly, Potter was standing in the middle of Hermione’s sitting room, a fine dusting of soot coating his hair. Another whooshing noise, and Pansy Parkinson joined them, shaking dust out of her blonde curls.

Glancing about the room, Potter nodded at Severus politely and raised an eyebrow at the sight of his friend, nearly collapsed in his chair. “Ron? Your nose is bleeding...”

“Is it?” Weasley asked faintly, swiping feebly under his nose with a hand. It came away red. “Oh, so it is.”

Parkinson’s eyes narrowed as she looked back and forth between Severus and Weasley. “What’s going on here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Hermione replied.

“Well, what’s he doing here?” Parkinson asked rudely, cocking her head at Severus.

Posture going rigid and mouth thinning, Severus could tell that Hermione was trying to control herself. “Severus and I work together, Pansy,” she said in an even voice. “You know that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw Potter mouth, “Severus?” to himself, a question clear on his face.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Parkinson said. “He --”

“He’s my friend,” she interrupted, sounding the slightest bit stern. “And he’s done me a great favor this evening.”

Inwardly, Severus smiled. At least Hermione recognized the effort he’d gone to in bringing Weasley to her. Although... the more he considered it, the more it occurred to him that she quite possibly wasn’t talking about Weasley -- she was probably against violent acts of revenge as a rule. But he hadn’t done anything else for her this evening, so that had to be it, he concluded.

But they were arguing now, Parkinson’s cheeks reddening and her curls shaking. Hermione looked exasperated, and Potter looked vaguely bemused. If Severus remembered correctly, Parkinson and Hermione argued quite frequently, though, so maybe Potter just didn’t realize that something abnormal was happening.

“Pansy,” Hermione was saying, “I dropped by Ron’s flat this afternoon, and I could swear that I heard your voices.”

“Ron was at the Quidditch match with Potter,” Pansy replied. But there was something odd in her tone, something that Severus could not immediately identify.

Hermione’s eyes went wide and innocent and Severus knew in that moment that she was about to make her attack. “Where were you, Pansy?” she asked quietly.

Parkinson blinked. “What?”

“I know Ron was at the match,” she said. “He told us he was at the match and Harry confirmed. But what I want to know is where you were. And, incidentally, who was with you, because I know I heard two voices.”

Severus thought he almost had it. Hermione obviously did. Hopefully, she would explain everything, and judging by the slack-jawed looks on both Potter’s and Weasley’s faces, she was going to have to explain it twice at least.

“I don’t --” Parkinson began indignantly.

“Pansy, this afternoon, I stood in Ron’s den for no less than thirty minutes and listened while he mocked me and you egged him on. Thirty minutes, Pansy,” Hermione said in a fierce voice, a fire now burning in her usually soft eyes.

“Hermione,” Weasley said. “I’d no idea...”

With a scowl, Severus prodded Weasley sharply in the arm, shutting him up.

“I spent five hours convinced that my best friend in the world hated me, Pansy,” she continued. “And I’m still not quite sure. Not until I hear it from your own lips. Now...” Her voice had taken on a sibilant, dangerous quality that reminded Severus disconcertingly of himself. “Are you going to explain this to me, or am I going to have to feed you Veritaserum?”

Severus wondered why he hadn’t thought of that.

Parkinson’s face was pure venom as she glared up at Hermione, her hands all but quivering with fury. “Do you know,” she began tightly, “what it’s like to be in love with Ron Weasley, Granger? I don’t think you do.”

Hermione was silent, and Severus was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the sudden turn in the conversation.

“I can’t just love Ron,” she continued, still tense with anger. “I have to love all three of you. I can’t have him to myself, ever. If you’re not around, Granger, I have to listen to him talk about you. I have to listen to his mother, wondering why he didn’t marry you. I have to -- damn it, Granger!” she cried. “I’m sick of sharing my bed with the three of you!” After a moment of shocked silence, Parkinson spoke again, more calmly. “And I just wanted... I wanted to have Ron to myself, I suppose. So I called up Blaise Zabini and convinced him to take Polyjuice. We sent you the owl so that you would hear us. I... I told Blaise what to say.”

Surprisingly, it was Weasley who spoke up. “Pansy, I don’t... I don’t know what to think... I can’t...”

“You weren’t supposed to know,” Parkinson told him, almost gently. “Granger was supposed to just break all ties with you and not mention why. I guess... I underestimated her.”

Hermione looked over at Severus briefly and he smiled sardonically at her, knowing exactly what she was thinking.

“I think,” Weasley said after another long pause, “I think that you and I need to have a long talk about all of this, Pansy. And Hermione...?”

Her face held a fair amount of trepidation -- Severus fought the sudden and disturbing urge to fold her in his embrace again. “Yes?”

Weasley’s face was a mask of sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

“So’m I,” she muttered. “And, Ron, you should probably have someone take a look at your nose.”

He shot a sideways glare at Severus, who did not feel obligated in the least to apologize. The feel of Weasley’s nose giving way under his fist was entirely too delightful a memory to apologize for. “I will,” he promised, rising from his chair finally and taking Parkinson’s hand. “But first, I think we ought to go back home. You think, Pansy?”

Her nod was oddly demure.

“Hang on...” Hermione said as they turned toward the fireplace. At her voice, Parkinson half-turned and gave her a questioning look. Fast as lightning, Hermione plucked Severus’ wand out of his hand, pointed it at Parkinson, and muttered an incantation that Severus only dimly recognized.

Parkinson’s expression was resigned. “I suppose I deserve whatever that was.”

“Yes, you do.” Hermione’s voice held no sign of remorse.

“Is there any chance that you’ll tell me what you just hexed me with?”

Severus did not know that Hermione was capable of such a cold smile. “I think it’s best if you find that out on your own,” she replied.

Shrugging, Parkinson turned back to Weasley and took a handful of powder from the box he held out in her direction. “Ron Weasley’s flat,” she said dully, tossing it into the flames.

With a sad smile, Weasley took some Floo powder for himself. “You know,” he said in what was nearly a conversational tone as he sat the box carefully on the mantle. “I had a moment back there when I thought that you two were after me for the potions.”

“Potions?” Severus echoed, doing his level best to keep his voice even.

“Yesterday I had to go into your lab at the headquarters to grab a couple of things, and I bumped into a couple of the cauldrons you two have littered all over the place,” he explained. “And there were a few weird noises. I thought I’d maybe messed something up, but then, you wouldn’t have broken my nose for a bit of spilled asphodel, huh?”

It was a very good thing that Hermione was holding his wand at the moment. As it was, Severus felt something in his gut tighten and he eyed his wand with dark fury. “Weasley,” he said in his usual quiet, warning tone. “Run. Now. Before I manage to get my wand away from Hermione.”

With wide eyes, Weasley hurriedly threw his fistful of powder into the flames and was gone.

Severus gave the fire a baleful glare. “I’m still going to kill him,” he growled.

“No, you won’t,” Hermione contradicted with a grim sort of smile, handing him his wand. “It won’t even take a week to get all of the potions back in working order -- I took notes, remember?”

“It’s the principle,” Severus said, knowing it was lame even as he said it.

Behind them, someone cleared his throat. Severus had completely forgotten Potter’s presence.

“Look,” Potter said cheerfully, “it’s been a really great, weird time, but I think I’m going to leave now because if I stay, I’m going to ask for details that I don’t really want. Besides, I’m sure Ginny would love to have another Quidditch groupie to hang on her every word for the evening. So, if it’s all right, I’m going to take off now, Hermione. Severus...” This last he said with a wide grin, directed mostly at Hermione.

She rolled her eyes. “Harry...” she warned.

“Watch it,” he said. “Or I’ll tell Ginny and she’ll pump you for information.”

“Oh, go away,” she said, making a decidedly rude gesture at him. Severus noticed that it was the same one that the Weasley twin in the photograph at Ron Weasley’s flat had directed at him and wondered whether he learned it from Hermione or if it was the other way around.

Still grinning, Potter tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fire and departed in a flash of smoke.

“This might not have been the worst day of my life,” Hermione said as she flopped down into the wing chair that Weasley had been tied to, “but it ranks right up there.”

Severus couldn’t bear it -- he had to ask. “What was that spell you put on Parkinson?” he inquired. “At the end there?”

“Possibly more than she deserves,” she replied with the tiniest of shrugs. “Basically, it’s a sort of Truth Spell -- Pansy is going to spend the next twenty-four hours telling the truth. That way, everyone will know exactly what she thinks of them. We can only hope that she runs into Draco Malfoy and gives him an involuntary earful.”

Chuckling, he sat in the remaining chair in the room. “How oddly fitting.”

“I thought so, too.”

They watched the flames in the fireplace crackle for a bit. Severus inwardly shrugged at the irony -- a roaring fire made bearable in the heat of the summer only by the humming Muggle contraption that Hermione swore produced cold air reliably and efficiently.

“Erm... Severus?” a small voice asked as he pondered this.

He hummed. “What?”

“I just...” Hermione said quietly, “I just wanted to thank you, for today, I mean.”

“You’re welcome,” he said with a shrug, refraining from saying, there aren’t many people in this world that I would resort to kidnapping for, you know, only with great effort. He had a sneaking suspicion that Hermione was attempting to be serious.

“I don’t usually fall apart like that,” she continued, more quickly now. “But I really appreciate that you were... uncharacteristically kind about it.”

Oh. So that was what she was thanking him for. A clumsy pat on the shoulder as she drenched one of his better sets of work robes. Severus decided then and there that he was likely never going to understand her. “I’m not a total monster, you know,” he said defensively.

“Oh, I know,” she said. “Well... not a total monster.”

He made a face that he was certain she didn’t see.

“And you did abduct Ron and bring him back here to apologize to me,” she said reflectively. “In a twisted sort of way, that was almost... sweet.”

“Sweet?” he nearly spat.

Her sigh sounded amused, and Severus tried not to react to it. “I’d no idea, Severus, that you cared enough to offer to dismember a Weasley on my behalf.”

“Well...” he drawled, uncomfortable with the subject at hand yet again this evening -- he’d quite lost count of the number of times it had happened. “It’s not as if I mind the thought of dismembering a Weasley. That Weasley, at least.”

“Albus would probably give you hell for it, though,” she said in a thoughtful sort of tone.

“Probably,” he agreed.

“So, all in all, I’m still rather impressed,” Hermione concluded.

There was a rustling noise, and suddenly she was standing over him, looking down at him with something in her eyes that he could not immediately place. She reached out a single finger and ran it along the collar of his robes.

“They’re not potion-stained at all,” she muttered. “I was wrong, then.”

Severus was baffled. “What?”

Instead of replying verbally, Hermione simply leaned down and touched her lips gently to his, lingering long enough that he caught a whiff of her perfume. As she pulled away and offered him a shy smile, it occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind it a bit if she would do that again.

Interesting... Severus thought to himself as he reached out to pull her down into his lap.

FINIS