A Matter of Honor
by Amy McWilliams (McAmy)

Book 2: Honor Bound

Chapter 1: Year One at Mywoods

Over the next few days, Severus Snape completed his suggestions to Hermione Granger regarding the revision of her manuscript for Ars Alchemica. There weren't many, he noted, but she would expect him to be thorough, and he certainly didn't have to worry about hurting her feelings with his honest criticism of the few points he felt she needed to clarify. That was only one of the things he missed about her. He had always insisted (to himself; everybody else took it as a given) that he worked best--really, that he only ever worked--alone. It was still true, since his work with the Granger girl had been on her project, and not his own.

But he missed their talks: her insightful discussion, the gleam in her eye as she made the mental connection she'd been working towards, her clever remarks…even her teasing comments about his class. She had only made one or two, and only at the very end of the year, but when she had noted to him that she had been glad to see that even he wasn't impressed with Draco Malfoy turning Pansy Parkinson's cauldron into an impromptu fireball (she had just broken up with him) in the middle of class, he couldn't help but smile.

Sometimes--though he told himself that these moments were rare, that they were born out of the tension that filled his sleep with dark visions and his silent hours at the cauldron with nagging voices speaking only doubt--sometimes, he missed the simple fact of her presence in the workroom. The knowledge that she would at some point during the evening come to him with a question, or a request for something from the storeroom. The thought that she would, as she left for the night, turn back and wave: "Goodnight, Professor."

The memory that, as she waved, she would smile.

"Ludicrous," he said out loud, as he turned back to his letter to her. He remembered it because it was so unusual--people never smiled at him, unless they were up to something. And he wasn't sure why she would. That was it. That was all it was. Curiosity.

Snape looked over the letter, signed his name with an insistence that made the tip of his quill creak out a complaint, and sealed it closed.

The owl was there before he could look up. "There you are, my friend," he said, stroking a finger over the spot of white feathers on the bird's ruff. "You always know when you are needed." He tied the note to the bird's leg, then held out his hand. The owl hooted an acknowledgement, stepped onto his master's forearm, and stretched his wings slightly as Snape took him to the open window.

"You might stay for a minute," Snape said, looking the bird in the eye. "She seems to take it personally when you don't." A soft hoot, a gentle nip at the finger that stroked his head, and he was gone.

Hermione sat at her desk, working on an Arithmancy assignment. She had taken a flat within walking distance of the college; the thought of returning to dormitory life had made the expense worth it. She lived in the converted top floor of a three-story Victorian townhouse, owned by a retired professor from the college, Hazel Bedford. Professor Bedford had announced, when Hermione came to apply for the flat, that she would tolerate no noise, no guests, no late hours, and no pets. Hermione's heart had sunk--the flat had seemed so perfect, so close to school--until she described Crookshanks to the older woman. She had eyed the girl for a minute, then crossed to her mantelpiece and took down a photograph. Showing it to Hermione, she had asked, "does your little one look something like this?" The photograph was of a cat that could have been Crookshanks's sibling, except that she had died forty-five years ago. "She was my companion all through school," Hazel had said--it was "Hazel" now, and she insisted on lowering the rent by ten galleons a month. "I got her when I started Beauxbatons, and she was a dear friend. Died young, sadly enough--at the age of nineteen."

Hermione leaned down to stroke Crookshanks's head; he had come to the leg of her chair and let out a plaintive cry. "What is it, whiny butt?" she asked, letting her hand run along the cat's back and down his tail, pulling the end through her fingers. He turned to make another pass. "I'm trying to do some work here." He meowed again in protest, but before Hermione could answer there was a noise at her window and a large, black owl settled himself on the corner of her desk.

"Well, Mordred," she raised her eyebrow, "have you brought Professor Snape's reply?" A hoot. "And would you like to stay for a minute this time?" A ruffle of feathers. She smiled. "Snape's been teaching you something about manners, I see. Don't worry; the irony isn't lost on me." She knew better than to offer him anything. Of course, considering some of Snape's correspondents, she understood why the owl would refuse.

"All right," she said, "hang on a minute and I'll give you something to take back with you." She opened the letter, skimmed the note at the top, and reached for a piece of parchment. After signing her name to the acknowledgment--she would write more once she had time to look over his comments--she tied it to the owl's leg. "Tell your master that you behaved yourself admirably," she commented. Mordred turned to the window, spread his wings, and was off without comment.

By the end of September, Hermione had settled into a new routine at Mywoods, and though she still found herself thinking about Hogwarts from time to time, she was happy. Her article was almost ready to be mailed to Martin Rochester, the managing editor of Ars Alchemica, and though she knew there was a good chance it wouldn't be accepted (the work was still very much in progress, and she was, after all, only a first-year university student; even though he was Snape's acquaintance, it was a long-shot), she was pleased with it. Her classes for the term were going well: she had Arithmancy, Potions, History of Magic (and without Professor Binns, it was actually interesting), Herbology, Charms, and an elective of Muggle Literature. She had looked forward to the literature class regardless of the particular subject matter, but was thrilled when she saw that the Professor--Anne Harwood--had chosen to focus on British Novels of the Nineteenth Century. Hermione's favorite authors came from that period, and though she had taken Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, fewer students here raised an eyebrow if you admitted to being truly interested in the topic.

Best of all, Hermione had made a close friend on the very first day of class. Almost late for their Herbology lesson, she and Greg had literally smashed into each other just outside the door. Books and parchment went flying, but instead of being angry, Hermione had found herself laughing with Greg and trying to sneak quietly in at the back of the greenhouse before Professor Thorne had come to their names on the roster.

From then on, she and Greg had been inseparable--to the point that Greg's partner, Bill, complained that he was jealous. Greg and Bill had graduated from Hogwarts the year before Hermione had arrived, and knew the Weasley family by way of the older brothers. (At the mention of Percy, Bill had exclaimed, "What a pain in the ass he was. You dated his brother? And here I thought you had some taste." The last was added with a wink.) They had both found jobs in London, saving money for Greg to go back to school. Once he had his degree in Herbology, Greg wanted to work for the Ministry. Bill was happy with his career in graphic design, and proudly told anybody who would listen, "I'm pleased as punch to put my sweetheart through school!"

Bill, it turned out, was mad for Muggle popular culture. He subscribed to the local Muggle paper, followed a Muggle football team ("Just for the outfits, darling," he told Hermione), and absolutely adored Muggle movies. For his birthday, Greg had bought him a DVD player, and most Friday nights found the trio curled up on the guys' sofa watching a double feature. Everything took longer because, at the end of each film, Bill had to flip back through for the "crystal clear freeze frame-able moments." ("Gone with the Wind is long enough, love, without you adding another thirty minutes of Clark Gable stills at the end," Greg had said, getting up to open another bottle of wine.)

Hermione managed to find plenty of time for her work on the Cruciatus curse; it was an important priority, and not only because it could help in any future fight against Voldemort. She knew that Professor Snape had turned his attention back to Imperius, both because their work in the spring had been so promising and because he had hit a stumbling block in his attempt to perfect the cure for lycanthropy. He had told her that he would wait a while and come back to it with some objective distance; he had even written her once to ask what she thought of the possible use of mandrake root--something he had earlier rejected in a different combination.

She had been thrilled, and Mordred had to wait (impatiently) an entire hour before her response was ready. She received regular letters from Professors McGonagall and Vector, and an occasional note from Professor Sprout, but she hadn't expected Professor Snape to write to her unless it was with a response to something she had asked him. The thought that he wanted her input--that he saw her not only as a student, but also…maybe, possibly…as a peer…. She had smiled for days.

Yes, it promised to be a very good year.

"Ah, Severus. Please--have a seat." Headmaster Dumbledore motioned towards the chair opposite his desk. Snape bristled at the warm greeting; he had heard enough rumors in the past week to know that this would not be a friendly chat. He expected the call at any time, and the mark on his arm seemed to burn already, if only slightly, underneath his skin. Soon it would pain him in earnest, and then…then they would see if everything they had been working towards would succeed…or fail.

"I assume, since you're here, that you haven't been called yet?" Dumbledore asked. Snape nodded. "Severus, I know you're anxious…" he stopped as Snape shot him a look.

"Headmaster, if you know that, you will understand that I am in no mood for pleasantries. What have you heard?"

Dumbledore continued, respecting his wishes. "It's not good, Severus. Sirius sent an owl to me today that confirms what my contacts at the Ministry told us a week ago: Voldemort and his followers are going to make their move sooner, rather than later."

"Was he…" Snape managed to repress a scowl at the reference to Sirius Black, "any more specific than that?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Dumbledore. "My best guess," he continued, and Snape raised an eyebrow slightly--Dumbledore's best guess was a formidable thing, "is that they will move before the year is out."

"And the target? Still the Ministry headquarters in London?"

"By all accounts, that will be their main goal. I have my suspicions that they will also strike at the Auror training facility outside of Glasgow."

Snape's brow raised in earnest. "Why Glasgow? If they're striking in London already, why would…" Suddenly, it was clear. "Potter," Snape growled. "They're going after Potter."

A/N: In case people missed the note in book 1, I'll point out again that I took the idea of Mywoods from Lilith Morgana's No Angel, and that Riley's Pawn to Queen introduced us to Ars Alchemica. Also, while DVD players (and the first DVD release of Silence of the Lambs) were available by fall 1997, Gone With the Wind wasn't actually released on DVD until 1998. Either I fudged a bit, or Bill got his hands on a bootleg…. In addition, Hermione's endearments for Crookshanks (as well as their behavior, generally) are on loan from my cat, B.

On to Chapter 2