Hermione looked around briefly as she entered. The room was lit with only the light of the fire, the dim light washing over the many dark wood bookshelves and Snape’s desk. There was also a rather uncomfortable-looking green leather armchair in front of the fire, facing another identical chair. The clawed feet of the chairs rested on the oval rug, the same deep green as the leather. The entire scene was actually very elegant, Hermione thought. She turned to Snape, who motioned for her to sit.

She sat in one of the chairs, and he took the chair across from her. He gazed at her a moment, his eyes reflecting the fire some, adding to his intimidating and mysterious aura. Hermione felt herself melting in her own uncertainty. He remained stoic, though, sitting up straight in the other of the ridiculously uncomfortable chairs, his hands resting on the arms, his left fingers drumming quietly on the leather as he waited for her to speak.

"Professor, we need to talk about this," Hermione said, unsure of where she got the courage to speak.

"I believe, Miss Granger, that what you have done speaks quite loud enough," said Snape, raising an eyebrow. Hermione flinched, and resisted the strong urge to avert her eyes.

"I admit that I got a little carried away in the library today," she said, blushing sheepishly. Snape’s other eyebrow rose. "And I’m sorry," Hermione added.

"I appreciate you apology. However, that still won’t change the past," said Snape.

"Well, you didn’t stop me," Hermione said, suddenly angry. "I mean, you’re saying that you didn’t want me to kiss you, but if you really didn’t, why didn’t you bloody tell me not to?"

"Please, Miss Granger, there’s no need to shout," said Snape calmly. Hermione glowered at him, but beneath her hostile exterior, she did realise that shouting wasn’t going to solve anything. Still, he was being an absolute hypocrite. Only she was allowed to do that!

She settled against the back of the chair and continued to glare daggers at her professor. "Well, I apologise for shouting, but I think that I deserve an apology from you, as well," she said after a moment of silence accompanied by the crackling of the flames. Snape gazed at her for another of these moments, with only the fire speaking but no one listening to it.

"Apology for what, Miss Granger?" asked Snape.

"For lying to me," said Hermione firmly.

"Lying to you? I never did such a thing," Snape said, steepling his fingers and looking over them at her.

"Yes you did," Hermione pressed. "You said you didn’t want me to kiss you."

"I never said that," Snape argued.

"It was clearly implied. And I think that you did want me to kiss you," Hermione clipped.

"I didn’t, even if I may…" Snape fumbled for words, the first time Hermione had seen him at a loss as to what to say. "None of this is your business."

"How can I not be? We were the ones who kissed one another!" said Hermione, clearly confused at his logic.

"Look," Snape said, leaning forward slightly, his arms supporting himself on his knees. "I may have made my feelings seem more than they were, but forgive me if I had, for I feel nothing greater than friendship for you, if indeed, we are friends in the first place."

"That’s a load of rubbish, and you know it," Hermione snapped. Snape’s eyes found hers, and suddenly she felt as though his gaze was digging two angry tunnels deep into her skull. She could not look away, though, for being captured by his gaze she did feel as though she were falling into an endless abyss that consisted only of Severus Snape.

"Even if I felt anything for you, it would never work out, in the end," said Snape.

"You don’t know that," Hermione said ever so softly, reaching a hand out across the gap between them and taking his hand. The fact that he didn’t take his hand away didn’t escape her notice. His fingers were long and dextrous, curling around hers and spreading warmth throughout her body. Hermione removed her eyes from his lovely hand, with its perfect fingernails and just slight dusting of black hair across the back, returning to her silent study of his features as he spoke.

"You’re right," he said, "but you must admit that it is the more likely outcome."

"Professor, don’t be so pessimistic," said Hermione, managing to smile teasingly. "Really, not everything in life is so bad."

"For you, perhaps," said Snape, a touch brusque. He drew his hand away.

"Oh, really?" Now it was Hermione’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You have led a sheltered life for your generation. Do you know how many people died during your seventh year because of Death Eater attacks?" He paused, though it was for dramatic purposes, since it was obvious that he didn’t expect her to answer. "Thousands. You saw even in Hogwarts how many children were orphaned due to the Dark Lord’s insanity. You never even lost one of your friends."

Hermione frowned, suddenly feeling ashamed of having survived through the Reign of Terror. None of her friends had died, and none of her family. She had only escaped with a few physical scars, and a slightly darkened mind, but nothing was as horrible as what some others had gone through. That was all too true, and because of it, she now felt horrible. She hated how he could always make her feel nervous or dejected or ashamed of herself. She hated it! She hated it more that she was attracted to him despite that.

"Professor," she said quietly, "I don’t think that that has to do with our current discussion."

"Indirectly, it does, actually," Snape said. "I am simply trying to tell you that even if it seems like it to your protected mind, not everything turns out perfectly, especially when you’re associating with someone like me."

"Someone like you?" asked Hermione. Snape gave her a look that held an unidentifiable emotion that was something like scorn. He slowly lifted the left sleeve of his robe, revealing the Dark Mark, which was faint, but still seemed to stand out starkly, dark red against the white canvas of his inner arm.

"Someone," he repeated severely, "like me."

Hermione’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the Mark, and then reflexively she looked away. She then felt even more embarrassed because she now had labelled herself as weak in the presence of the Potions Master. She didn’t want to seem weak to him, she wanted to seem perfect, especially since she wanted more than anything for him to return her affections.

"I’m sorry you were hurt, Professor," she whispered almost inaudibly. "And I’m sorry," she continued, looking up, "that I misjudged the situation. Perhaps you don’t feel anything for me."

"You don’t know that," said Snape, and Hermione, who had just made plans to leave, settled down again and looked at him. Had she simply imagined the corners of his mouth twitching slightly? What game was this that he was playing with her? She looked sideways at him. There was something he knew that she didn’t.

"You do, then?" she asked cautiously.

Snape sighed, and hung his head. "Hermione," he said, but didn’t continue. Hermione froze, looking at him in shock. He had said her name. And she had to admit that the her name, a name that she had sometimes been irritated with, suddenly achieved a much higher quality when it was said with his dark, velvety voice. Chewing her lower lip, Hermione gripped the arms of her chair tightly enough that her knuckles were turning pale.

"Professor?" Her voice was strange to her, garbled and blurred when it reached her ears. What was happening to her?

His eyes met hers once more. "Call me Severus," he said. Suddenly, she knew.

"Severus," Hermione said, his name a sweetness on her tongue that tasted better than honey. She leaned over, and brought her hand up into his hair. He looked into her eyes, and moved his mouth to hers in a moment, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. Hermione was secretly ecstatic because she was the one who had finally gotten to Severus Snape, and for real this time. She’d defeated the intimidating exterior, and as far as she knew, was free to explore the real man behind that shield as she pleased.

She was even more ecstatic, though, that she was kissing him again. This feeling was unbeatable, perfect. She thought it was a little awkward sitting here and kissing him, though, so she took his hands, and somehow without managing to break contact with his lips stood up with him. Then, the kiss instinctively deepened as his arms went around her and she laid her arms about his shoulders, relishing in the sensation of their bodies touching so sensually, so close.

She was aware only of him, everything about him. His hair brushed her skin, his hands moved restlessly over her back and into her hair and over her arms, the heat of his body that her palms detected even through his robes. The scent of spices, ginger and… rosemary? Whatever it was, it was making her positively tipsy. He smelled too good for it to be legal.

Hermione all of a sudden had the odd sensation of being far too clothed, and it seemed that any fabric separating her from him was evil and harshly scraped against her skin. She moved her hands to the buttons of his robes, but just as her itching fingers began to go to work, his hands moved up and took hers, moving them from away. He ended the kiss, stepping a little away from her and looking at her hands, as though he was talking to them.

"Miss Granger, you are getting quite a bit ahead of yourself," he said to her hands. "I don’t think that we should… not yet. Besides, your friends will be worried about you, since I’m assuming you didn’t tell them where you were going when you decided to come down here."

Hermione cringed at ‘Miss Granger’ again. Severus had removed his cloak of sarcasm and malice for a moment, and then with touch he had wrapped it once more about himself, much like some reclusive sea creature retreating into their shell at the first sign of danger. She didn’t blame him. Putting one’s happiness and heart into the hands of another was extremely dangerous. But wouldn’t someone who was brave enough to endure years of being a spy for Dumbledore be brave enough to give their love?

Snape looked up at her. Hermione gazed evenly into his eyes for a moment, clenching her teeth to keep her chin from quivering. He didn’t want her, did he? You prat, she told herself, he just passionately kissed you. He does too want you.

She nodded, looking away. "All right," she whispered, and turned away, dropping his hands and sullenly walking from the room.

After she was gone, Severus looked away from the door, and walked a few heavy steps to the door. Entering his bedchambers, he walked to the closed wardrobe, meaning to take his grey, wool nightshirt from the hook on which it hung just inside the door of the wardrobe. For the moment, though, he placed his long, pale hands against the cool mahogany and let his head drop, his forehead resting against the wood.

What on earth could he have been thinking? Of course, it was everything he had always wanted, to feel her kiss him, to realise her need to be with him. Still, it just didn’t seem right. She was at least twenty years younger than he, and had been his student, as well. That must mean something, even if she had already finished school. He didn’t want to be contradicting the wishes of his body and the majority of his mind, but when he thought critically this just wasn’t right.

The fact that left him a little hot under the collar was that she had obviously been ready to lay with him. Naturally, he was flattered, but again, she was so young, and he didn’t want to spoil her. Then again, if several hundred teenagers are put in a giant castle full of hidden rooms, there is probably going to be some unauthorised fornication going on throughout the year.

But, he had to remind himself, they weren’t shagging their professors.

Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the hard wooden door of the armoire. Damn it. Life was an absolute bitch, always with limitations and obstacles that only became apparent once you had come to them. Needless to say, he hated this, and hated that however much his metaphorical heart and wanting body needed to have Hermione Granger there, the sane half of his mind was telling him that it was wrong and shouldn’t happen.

"What’s wrong with me?" he wondered aloud, turning to face his bed. The brief vision of Hermione and himself tangled in one another in those cool, white sheets flashed through his mind, and once more his body flamed with desire. Closing his eyes to shut the thought out of his mind, he returned to the armoire. Before he withdrew his nightshirt, though, he changed his mind. He was far too hot in these clothes, in clothes in general, and tonight they seemed unnecessary.

Undressing, he climbed into bed, and settled back under the covers. Still, as he fell asleep, he was haunted by his imagination, and what visions of Hermione it gave cause to dance in his head.

Hermione sneaked back up to the Common Room, and upon finding it virtually dark except for the faint firelight, she made her way to the stairs. However, as soon as she reached them the figure that she had barely noticed on the couch spoke.

"Hermione, where were you?"

Frozen, Hermione slowly turned to see Ron glaring at her. She stared at him in bashful horror, but tried her very best to keep it hidden. "I –I was on a walk –"

"Don’t give me that," said Ron, his tone mildly angry, like red embers. "You aren’t even wearing a cloak, and it’s probably just five degrees out there, at the most."

Hermione didn’t want to tell Ron that he was exaggerating just a bit, as she usually would have. He was obviously very angry with her, and she didn’t want to make that anger rise higher. Obviously, she should have told him, she really should have, before this ever got so far. She didn’t remember having ever been this blind.

"Where were you?" Ron asked again, standing and looking at her from his place near the fire. His figure seemed ablaze with the light of the flames, and his eyes were darker than the infinite depths of the ocean. He seemed suddenly powerful, there, in that position with his eyes so full of anger and… concern? What reason had he to be concerned? He should be irate, goddammit, not concerned!

"Ron," Hermione said, but didn’t finish. She moved towards him, and then stopped after a single step, not sure whether getting closer to him was a good idea at the moment. Wringing her hands tightly, she opened and closed her mouth in the manner of a goldfish, but didn’t make any noise. "Ron," she said again, after a long pause.

"Yes?" asked Ron, his tone sounding though he was trying his best not to be impatient. Hermione looked straight at him.

"I lied to you." The words came unbidden, and extremely unwanted.

"What do you mean?" asked Ron, and his guarded manner reminded Hermione so much of Snape for a moment that she lost her breath.

"What I mean is –today in the library, I –I wasn’t talking to Snape about a book. I was, well, actually, it’s kind of strange once you think of it…" Why was she feeling almost ready to lie to him, now? She had told too many lies, lately, and Ron, of all people, deserved to know the truth. Even if this was the last time he ever spoke to her because of that truth.

"Hermione…?"

"Ron, I kissed him today," Hermione said suddenly, and for a second, she was unaware of the fact that she had said it. That blissful ignorance, however, only lasted a few minutes as almost immediately Ron became more livid as she expected he would be, about ten times as angry as she had hypothesised, actually.

"What?!" he cried. His voice rang through the Common Room, and suddenly the room seemed far too copious, as though his voice had ricocheted off of the walls, echoing almost endlessly in Hermione’s mind. She knew suddenly that she couldn’t make things right ever again, even though with her next words she tried to.

"I didn’t mean to –"

"Do you mean that he kissed you or –or you wanted to kiss him and did?" Ron asked, clearly not believing that any of this could even have happened. He hated Snape, more than anything, and Hermione knew that he expected his friends to, as well.

Hermione looked away, shame burning her skin like a white-hot branding iron. She had this odd feeling that she should never have told him, that lying, though awful, would have gotten her out of this in far easier a manner. Ron stared at her a second before realisation dawned on him, and he became even more furious. "Hermione, how could you do this? And Snape! God, I thought I knew you better. I thought we loved one another."

Suddenly, it felt as though a ten-pound iron anvil had struck Hermione in the gut. She looked up, pangs of guilt and self-hatred pulsing in her bloodstream. Ron had loved her. What a fool she was, chasing someone who wasn’t even willing to let her show him that she loved him, when there was a man who would do anything for her right here. Stupid, she thought, I am so stupid. Still, this didn’t mean she could suddenly return to Ron and make everything right. She no longer felt anything for him.

"I’m sorry, Ron," she said. "I’m so sorry I hurt you."

"Sorry can’t change the past, Hermione. Sorry… sorry isn’t good enough." Ron’s voice sounded choked, as though he were trying to speak with a swollen throat.

Hermione realised quite suddenly that her former beau was trying damn hard not to cry, and she felt even worse about the truth. She had rarely seen Ron cry. Ron said no more to her, simply walked up the stairs and to the boys' dormitory. He was obviously not caring whether he woke anyone as he slammed the door, the sound echoing through the Common Room, sounding like the axe of the executioner as it hit the chopping block and ended Hermione’s life.

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