Tearing the Veil

Haha, you guys get the these chapters all at once. Nice, no? Anyways, as you know, this is being co-written with Mirrordyn (check fanfiction.net for her stuff!). And of course, we own nothing. (I weep x_x) Please review! -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. "No, really, you were really that drunk." "But no...I couldn't - I mean, you wouldn't let me do that...w-would you?" Exasperation. Hermione shook her head. "It wasn't that I let you do it, as you so delicately transfer the blame to me, but that you did it regardless of all of my insisting! And now it is I who have the detention this evening." Harry had a bit of decency to look regretful, but the smile that was slowly winning the struggle appeared fully on his face. A real smile. "We sang the whole way, eh?" A nice way of trying to change the subject, but Ron wouldn't let it go. He looked truly frightful, in the oh-please-god-tell-me-it-isn't-so face. "I called him a bat to his face? He's going to roast me next time in class. Tell Mum and Dad I love them, and Harry, you can have my collection of posters from the Chudley Cannons. It's all over." Hermione snorted. "As if you have any real reason to complain. He was relatively lenient on you both, though the fifty points apiece was rather drastic." Ron looked around down the length of the table. Some of the Gryffindors had been quite apprehensive about the sudden deduction of housepoints. After discovering that the Golden Trio had lost them to none other than Snape, any anger was quickly transferred to the "greasy git" and a chanting of "The Dungeon Bat Lives" quickly followed. Relatively convenient; the house was once again reunited in a common enemy they could understand. Hermione shifted her eyes and crinkled her nose. "Need I remind you that I'm the one that has to see him tonight? He's going to have me do something truly horrible, I'm sure." Thoughts of Care of Magical Creatures loomed in Hermione's mind, and she imagined a fate worse than ten of Hagrid's classes back-to-back. It wasn't that Hagrid intentionally made things difficult; he was just innocently reckless. Hermione let out a long breath, mentally preparing herself for her personal Hell that evening. It wasn't that Hermione ever held much against Professor Snape; she did her fair share of defending him (though not completely whole-heartedly) when Harry and Ron decided to have a verbal bash fest. She wasn't blind; there was blatant favoritism with the Head of Slytherin Professor, but part of her admired the man. He was one of the few who she continuously tried to impress, answered all of his questions and knew that he only expected the best. He was enigmatic, leading a double life, and though she did not know why the Headmaster confided in and trusted the man, she knew Snape was somehow worthy. But...then there was this. She glowered and quickly looked back up at Harry, who listened to Ron discuss some maneuver that his new favorite quidditch player had performed in the last game, last nights excursion discarded for safer topics. Ever since Hermione had "been with" Victor Krum, Ron showed a great disdain for the person and his once-idol, though he finally decided to call a truce on his somewhat sudden abhorrence with no explanation as to the cause or any other reason, and found it easy once again to occasionally mention the Bulgarian team. Hermione sighed, one large relaxing breath meant to calm her anxious mind. A giant gulp of pumpkin juice, with its subtle spices and general sweetness helped cement in her mind the pleasant façade that would help her survive her encounter with the Professor. She had most of the afternoon to complete any essays and side-projects she had neglected the previous evening for the fire-whiskey excursion. She mentally compiled a list of the tasks she planned on doing, and decided it was best to leave then. She cleared her throat. "Well, I'm off to the library. Don't get into any trouble." Hermione scowled, but the boys knew it was good naturedly. She had enough on her mind. "Yeah, be sure not to skip supper, you tend to do that when you're in that zone of yours." Harry quirked an eyebrow at the attention the redhead seemed to have been giving the bushy-haired brunette, but remained silent. Ron tried to look sheepish, slightly colored, and then tore into a breakfast muffin rather violently, as if asserting his right to worry and that it was normal. Hermione missed the exchange as she quickly gathered her rather large book bag and headed off for a long day of work. "We might as well be going as well. I know Hermione will yell at us later on if I don't at least read whatever work I have to do for Monday. Blimey, I still can't believe it. I was serious about the posters, mate, they're yours." Harry snorted and stood up, prepared to also sort through his planner, and probably let his mind wander as he was wont to do as of late. He had also been rather disappointed; he had hoped that Malfoy would have sported a nice bruise after their brief encounter the previous evening, but he had been quickly mended and marred-free. Harry's brief victory had been clouded over by the sudden loss of points, but he still remembered. And he knew well enough that he'd have to be careful the next few days. Malfoy would want blood for the small tango of fists and face. It had been bloody brilliant. If it were in his character, he'd rub his hands and cackle, but that wasn't his nature. He'd sit there and plot, and revel in the possibility of besting Malfoy. It had its certain joy. "Look on the bright side, I'm sure Snape will appreciate he's finally been honored in Gryffindor with his own theme song. It's also inter-house unity and all," Harry said as he waved his hand in dismissal. "Inter-house unity, that's a load of bullocks and you know it. And that was love written all over your blast on the white-washed weasel?" "Pure and unadulterated adoration. Petrified Pe-tai," Harry nodded to the portrait of the fat lady, Hermione's earlier statement about their possible sentient-status had seemed too well thought out to be completely discarded. Better to be safe than sorry. Harry stepped through the proffered doorway after Ron with every intention of getting at least one assignment completed. ------------------------- Severus Snape had not slept well. No, after collecting his papers and having the good luck bestowed upon him to have the Golden Trio literally falling in his lap, it still had not been what he had envisioned as the close to a rather productive evening. His lips curved. He did have the pleasure of subtracting a tremendous amount of points, and even seeing those normally soft brown eyes fire up with indignation. It was extraordinary how emotions were so easily read on her face, the idiosyncratic gestures and folds in the face that accompanied each one. It was a task to carefully know how to hide the bits of character that seeped through in daily conversation, and even in thought, but he had mastered it. It was a novelty to see them so plainly on the chit's face, an effort well rewarded at every encounter, he mused. And there was this evening to play a now favorite game of his, recently discovered in the library that one morning when she flew from her chair. It had been how those muggles say: priceless. His dark leather armchair lightly echoed his pleasure; most of the furniture in Snape's quarters bespoke a man with simple yet expensive taste. The room was lightly furnished, yet one would not call the room sparse. The man's personal taste and dark persona were reflected in every corner of the room: the heavy velvet drapes; the antique desk of dark mahogany that surprisingly had ornate etchings throughout the legs and sides; the large bookcases that encased old yet well cared for tomes, each handwritten they seemed. This was a man that appreciated details, the specifics, and he breathed for the small incongruences that others generally missed. Despite the glum surroundings that were expected from the somber and acrid man, his rooms were well-lit, the velvet drapes merely framing the soft and translucent curtains that delicately covered the expansive windows by the dark bookcases. Beside the window, framed by the mid-afternoon light, were a pair of dark leather armchairs that framed an extensive fireplace and a small coffee table. Severus' favorite retreat. These chairs were home to Severus' every mood, confidants and companions; they were the gentle touches that uplifted him after his exhausting schedule and the demands of the outside world. The oriental rug that laced the framework of his inner-sanctuary added tints of red and gold to the atmosphere. Whoever said that Severus Snape was incapable of accepting colours? He just was very particular, that was the difference. Severus mutely glared at his fireplace, his ease at wandless magic being one of his talents discovered early in life. It was convenient, and had saved him quite a few times. He reckoned that it would continue to hold so and would play a role in the upcoming battle. Guaranteed. Though, his expertise was something he had closely guarded, as well as his ability in occlumency. There were some things better left unsaid, and many things that should never, ever be revealed if one wished to live. Once the fire was lit, and kindled a bit, the room became warmer by several degrees, a comforting sensation to the thin and lean man. True, it was harder to find any food particularly appetizing as of late, the nightly excursions and pleasant after-tremors from the Dark Lord's gifts of crucio had erased any and all reasons to eat, but Severus had a naturally taught and sinuous body that was accustomed to acutely feeling any drafts of coldness. It was a luxury to feel the cold of day pressed tightly up against him; at least he still lived. Which, oddly enough, reminded him of Albus' request. He frowned. To chose among his classes - a student - to assist him in his work was an absurd request. He could work alone, it was his solace to come into his rooms and perform any research in his private labs. He covetously eyed his lab from the fireplace and took a seat in his favorite chair; no, he did not agree with the bumbling fool, but he had to concede. Perhaps Albus really knew best. Severus rolled his eyes. Albus was no fool, but he was meddling and manipulative, a well-kept secret from the rest of the wizarding world. Oh, Severus would play his role of the genteel and obedient son, knowing full well that the headmaster had valid reasons to his request, but that did not mean he could not feel restricted and suffocated. Severus liked his space, his solitary lifestyle. No, whomever he chose would not enter this space. Work would be restricted to the dungeons area late at night, damned be the child he happens to delegate this task. Severus couldn't help but smile at the sudden thought. It would be brilliant, a genius idea that would not only allow him to pull one over Albus but would also allow him to receive personal satisfaction. The chit. His little tormentor. She had the potential and aptitude, despite Severus' original belief that the girl merely studied so hard because she could not comprehend any of the material. No, the encyclopedic answers were a part of a comprehensive package - a part to the whole. Hermione Granger could recall the information and later apply it - her information gathering abilities were not two-dimensional and applicable only when providing cut and dry answers. Her potions exemplified the knowledge and apprehension of techniques that Severus himself had mastered when young. She could apply the theory she had gathered and received in classes. She was not a sex-less child, but that was secondary knowledge that had to be quickly forgotten. But he could train her and watch her, mold her in a way that no other could. She would be his in that way, and he could easily bring about any reaction from her, he knew this to be true. Severus lazily brushed his hand through his long hair, the tendrils falling to frame his face just seconds afterward. He was allowed this personal pleasure after giving his life of service, if only for a little while. He had no illusions of surviving the war, not with the multiple roles the man had, but he could scheme just a bit longer. This would keep Albus quiet and the girl near. He would have chosen Draco had it not been for the already complicated situation: Lucius Malfoy. One word in itself bespoke the hazardous relationship and role that Draco was to have in life. It was not certain with whom his sympathies lied, but his blood ties and responsibilities spoke volumes. Everyone, Severus included, held their breaths to see whom Draco would choose to serve. It could never be simple. Filial obligations ordered him to serve the Dark Lord, which seemed the obvious option, but there was still a shred of hope. Draco Malfoy did not revel in the monstrous gore his father preferred, his taunts and pranks were sugar canes and lollipops in comparison. No, Draco did not have the urge to watch a person bleed, to humiliate perhaps, in the case of Harry Potter, but Severus could forgive that. He narrowed his eyes, and brought his fingertips together in contemplation. He could overlook Draco's harassment of Harry because it was returned and neither were out-numbered. And it was the pale boy's only outlet: he had become a silent shade of his pale self ever since his father's confinement, and with all the expectations surrounding him, there was only so much a person could take. The fire crackled softly as in agreement. Severus would watch Draco and quietly drop hints and encouragement, but the boy had to think for himself. It was not too late, but he could not be his apprentice. Severus breathed slowly and mentally flinched - he still had to look through the remainder of Delilah's papers concerning his potion. There were but a few hours remaining before he had his detention to attend; it was best if he made some preliminary notes concerning what she had heard and compiling a list of what he was already certain. Perhaps some of the information overlapped or would need to be discarded. He had asked Delilah to get anything, and to not leave out a phrase or other meaningless factoid she happened to come across. It was an arms race, only this time men weren't fighting over whose metaphorical phallus was larger. Lives were at stake and had been lost over the past two decades. There was no time to lose. -------------------------- Hermione stretched in the wooden chair, her back complaining from the hours of straining to stay straight while reading volumes of tomes to complete the essays that were due later in the week. Her potions essay on the properties of burdock, caraway, coltsfoot, and feverfew, how they behaved in conjunction with one another was proving a much more difficult task. Yes, it was easy enough to say that they all served to help calm and heal, but what were the best combinations in which potions to maximize their effects? And how on earth to limit what she wrote? Since the previous evening and the encounter with Professor Snape, Hermione felt that it was now of greater importance to write an excellent - nay, perfect - essay. She was sure the Professor detested her more than ever. It was bad enough that she had befriended Harry Potter, was a muggle, and ceaselessly horded copious amounts of information regarding all subjects, but now she had the awful detention to contest with and who on earth knew what sorts of debasement she'd endure then. He could easily do that to her, read her, make her flush and wish to run from his gaze. It wasn't fair that he had that advantage and that he used it whenever possible. There should be some rule against that. She slowly collected the heavy volumes and began to place them in their homes, knowing full well that dinner was soon approaching and the boys would be worried if she stayed ensconced in here forever. Although she certainly wouldn't mind it, she knew better; detention would most likely take the entire night (if he had his way, it would) and it was wise to at least have something in her stomach. That, and Ron or Harry would come chasing after her in here and drag her to eat. Not to say that she didn't enjoy eating, on the contrary, it was a nice pastime, but with work, reading, and her other greater interests...sometimes she became sidetracked and would miss a meal or two. Sometimes those two were so maternal, Hermione thought, rolled her eyes, but softly smiled. It was nice to have people care. She blew a small tendril of a curl out of her eye before heaving the leather books onto a shelf and carefully putting them back alphabetically. Madame Pince would never let her return if she ever mistreated her treasures; just last week the small-boned librarian nearly ripped her own hair out and screeched at the top of her lungs when a Hufflepuff third year dropped a rather old book after tripping over someone's book bag. It was something Hermione dared not wish to see again. Having finished cleaning up, and nodding to Madame Pince, Hermione calmly walked over to the Great Hall, wishing for some warm tea. She was nervous and was trying desperately to relax. No wonder it had taken her twice as long to fill the four-foot parchment that they had been assigned on Friday. This was killing her. "'ey Hermione," Ron smiled at her and then continued to select pieces of roasted chicken to place on his plate. Harry glanced up, nodded, and then bit into a biscuit he had plunged into a gravy sauce. No, he did not make it look graceful; it was the epitome of boy-eating. Hermione shook her head and sat down, took her small cup and filled it with the cream of broccoli soup that thankfully the elves had prepared that evening. "Ron, will you pass me the tea?" "Nervous, are ya then? I knew you would be, I mean I would be, too. Oh, but you'll be proud of us: Harry and I managed to do our divination homework." "We killed each other off, but not before Ron lost his manhood in a spaghetti throwing contest and I became a quadriplegic after doing a nose-dive from the astronomy tower. Apparently, I couldn't cause my own demise; a gnome sneezed and caused me to become so frightened that I had a heart attack at the age of twenty-two," Harry deadpanned. Hermione's eyebrows narrowed as she softly blew on her warm soup. "I thought you said you actually did the work. You two just made up outrageous stories that aren't at all plausible." "We've discovered, oh dearest Hermione, with much research, that the most unbelievable tales are the ones Trelawny respects and actually believes. It's not like you take the class or her seriously," Harry reminded her with a pointed look. She wiggled in her chair after taking a couple of teaspoons in of the peppered-green milky broth. "It's not that I respect her or the subject, but to blatantly lie...well...you know I don't like that. And besides, you don't want to get into any more trouble. We've lost enough points as it is, and I'm bound to lose more tonight." Ron looked up in between mouthfuls of the moist roasted chicken, "Oa noa yoo araan'!" Harry locked gazes with Hermione, and assumed his protective role, somewhat patronizing if anyone asked Hermione. "You need to stay calm and not say anything that would get you into more trouble. He's waiting for it and you know it." Hermione sighed, the paranoia had set in. Sometimes Harry could be as dubious of others as much as Moody Alaster had been after the incident in their fourth year. "Yes, yes, constant vigilance and what have you. I'm not a child; I know well enough. Blasted, I can't eat anything and it's already nearly time for me to meet Professor Snape down in the dungeons," Hermione said while standing up and nearly spilling her soup. "I-I'll go with you," Ron quickly offered, standing as well and patting his pants clean of food debris. "You know, for moral support and all. And those dungeons are mighty chilly this time of year." Harry made it a point to find his dinner plate the most fascinating specimen. "Yeah, good idea, Ron. I'll catch up with you later. I'm still working on my food." And as proof he started to work on a golden brown chicken leg. "Oh, okay. Thanks, Ron." Hermione didn't see the sense in any company, but she didn't object. Besides, it seemed like Harry wanted to be alone. Ron and Hermione shuffled out, the redhead trying to cheer up the worried bushy-haired brunette. Harry didn't mind the fact that both of them were gone, though he questioned his lank companion's behavior. Hermione was not one to notice the most obvious of human emotions, given what bit she allowed herself to experience with Viktor Krum. Ron was being obvious, putting himself out on a limb, so to speak, but Hermione was blind, deaf, and mute. She did not see, she did not have ears to hear, and perhaps lacked the words...Harry could see her with her mouth agape if Ron ever confronted her with his feelings. If he gave them a release. Hermione would be dumbstruck - Harry was not at all sure if he wanted to be present for that. It made him feel nauseous to think that anything else could occur. Too real. Too much drama. It would only serve to separate the trio further, he later reminded himself, and how they had been drifting Action. That was right, he had forgotten all about it. Action had a pale outline, wisps of shockingly white-blonde hair, and eyes that were crystalline, poignant, that were jarring. The incarnation of evil? Hah, green and grey were teasing one another all throughout the dinner. Grey was chasing green and green had ignored; only now that green was found alone, did he feel he might as well oblige and return the probing, questioning glares that were aimed his way. There, Malfoy, I have acknowledged you, although you no longer have that sweet bruise, any evidence of my besting you. I'm always fighting, always fighting against you, against me, against him, why won't you just go away, why can't you just go away- The banter is starting again, and Harry knows it's best to make a departure then. He salutes Malfoy by cocking his eyebrows up once, a way of indicating that he's had his fun, the pleasantries are over, it's time for the curtain to close. They were going to play this game on his terms, Harry told himself. Harry unceremoniously drops his fork into his plate (perhaps he should take art, the fine shade of pale cerise he made with the potatoes and tomato sauce from the pasta are worthy of being used in some sunset portrait), and heads for the great doors of the Great Hall. "'ey, Harry, you hardly ate, where ya goin' off to?" Seamus Finnigan asked, all smiles. "I'm not much hungry, and I thought I might start our transfiguration homework, seeing as I probably didn't do too well on that exam." He didn't. He probably just passed because of Hermione's not all too subtle hints to study the material. "It weren't all that bad, Harry. Yuh just need a pattern to follow. I used quidditch. It was phenomenal. I think it might have worked, really." "You used quidditch as a means of remembering transfiguration material?" Harry looked incredulous; it could solve all his problems. Well, if only he could use that for Potions, then he'd never have to worry again. "Yeah, but I think I confused two of the plays, mate," Seamus bunch up his brows, similar to how he would bunch up the consonants when speaking. "I'll teach you my methods once I head up." Harry nodded, heading out the doors, a bit tired of the cacophony, the conversation: he needed to walk. His steps only seemed to echo back to him as he walked through the passageways; they would have seemed like catacombs had it not been for the fact that his childhood memories resided in the curves and cuts on the antiquated stonewalls. But home had eyes and ears at every post, and they all reached the ears of one long-bearded old man, whose ignorance and child-like innocence were but a façade - Harry was sure - and who had most of the answers to Harry's problems yet never supplied but an enigmatic response. Harry hated not knowing, being the child and yet the savior, jerked from right to left, with enough scars already on his body that could not compare to the indelible scars that remained in his mind and psyche: He was truly old, and had a right to know. He did not feel the eyes and the itch at the back of his neck until he stopped thinking; no, the gaze from behind, and the silent, muffled steps due to some charm were registered and ceased his thoughts, and he was all but ready when the hand rested on his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall. Harry smirked, much to the dismay of the shard-like, crystalline orbs that demanded his attention. "You know, Malfoy, it's not like I couldn't tell someone was sneaking up on me. Even with your 'silencio pasos dos' charm, I could feel you right behind me." Slight arches convened in anger, after a spill of embarrassment; but Harry had to admit, Draco could school his features over very quickly. It must be a perk of being a Slytherin, after all, or perhaps a necessity. "To think, you've survived this long is laughable." Draco pushed Harry's shoulder back, Harry slightly meeting the wall for the second time that evening. "I didn't come here for small chit-chatting, Potter; I've better things to do. And might I add, I rather not sully my reputation with being caught seen around with you. But I demand payback for that little scene." "Ah, so that's why you chose a secluded hallway to molest me? Seriously, Malfoy, bugger off. I don't care for your little trysts. I'm tired and this isn't enjoyable." Malfoy scoffed. "As if I, Potter, would even desire such a reckless, lanky thing as yourself. Don't flatter yourself or think I'd ever turn a head for you; I spoke of punishment, not fulfilling some sordid fantasy you might have about me." He inspected his nails, then looked up. "I have noticed you've been spacey lately, but I hardly doubted you'd grant your thoughts in my direction. I should have known you were a poof. Is it some complex, perhaps you actually desire the Dark Lord, Harry? Maybe," and he licked his lips while he said it, inching over toward Harry, his right arm supporting him against the wall, "you are the lost little boy, who hates the attention, and is still waiting for someone to hold him while he's all alone. "Does he keep you up at night?" Draco whispered next to his ear. Harry's breath hitched, due more to the warm breath on his ear, the topic of conversation mismatching the intimacy. No, Harry blinked; it was perfect: what better way to discuss his fears and reality than with the dangerous tension of an enemy's breath playing softly in his ear. "I heard you've screamed at night, waking up all sweaty - never you mind how I know. I've got connections everywhere, Potter, you forget that." Footsteps and idle chatter, giggling, were making their way over to their hallway. Both boys turned their heads momentarily, as if that was the cue for things to cease. "Well, I would have promised to tuck you into bed, but that really isn't my sort of thing. Ask the weasel or the mop of brown hair to do you that favor. Wouldn't mommy be proud of her little, brave" - he sneered - "boy." Harry pushed him away, wiping away the feeling of Malfoy on his skin, so close. "Although I'm sure you've thought of me in a bed, countless times, I've to disappoint you, Malfoy. Best to stay to members within your own house. Besides, I don't want whatever you've been catching; I hear you're quite the whore." "An experienced man is never a whore; he is an adept lover. Apparently, you've no time or breeding to know the difference. You do realize this isn't over," Draco challenged calmly as the young Ravenclaw girls passed by, smiling at one of brunettes that coyly batted her eyelashes in his direction. "Of course it isn't. I never expected it to be," Harry pivoted quickly, not bothering to see how the interchange between the females and the ferret would finish. He didn't care; it didn't matter, and it wasn't a part of his life. Superfluous details of another's existence that would merely be a hindrance in the end. Malfoy was a distraction to the ever-present "impending doom," as Harry mockingly referred to his expected tango with Voldemort. It was one of the weaknesses he allowed himself. Harry made his way up the enchanted staircase (which for once, he added, led him directly to the fat lady's portrait without causing him to find some other path), recited the password off his numb lips, and made his way to his quarters. He shifted off his heavy, dark robes, the white undershirt and exposed his chest to the incandescent candle-lit room. No one was present yet, they were still roaming about downstairs, just as he wanted it. He climbed into the quilted blankets, swished his wand and muttered a spell to close his drapes on the four-poster bed. As in after thought, he added the 'Silencio' and screamed. Screamed because it was the most basic of things children did to remind themselves they existed. Harry screamed because it was the most beautiful sound he could make. And because he wanted to remember that he still breathed. --------------------------------- "Can I carry your books for you, Hermione?" asked Ron, who was making it a point not to look at her. Unfortunately his nonchalant act wasn't working too well as he failed to notice that Hermione was, for maybe the first time in her life, not carrying any books. She was in the middle of putting her long, thick hair up into a messy ponytail. A few strands of hair managed to fall down around her face and she was glaring at them as if they were an affront to decent humans everywhere. "Uh, no, Ron. I'm fine." They walked for a bit more in silence. When the reached the stairs that led down to the dungeons Ron graciously allowed Hermione to go first. One, because it was gentlemanly, and two because it gave him a view of her posterior while she was walking. "I'm really sorry about last night," he began. Hermione raised a hand to silence him, however. "Think nothing of it. I went along with it just as much as anyone else and I should have known better." "It doesn't seem fair that you have to serve detention, though." "Yes, you're right. But we managed to complete our primary objective so it wasn't a total waste." "Primary objective?" "Yeah, we made Harry happy." She then frowned and gave Ron a look. "Although you'd be hard-pressed to convince me that it wasn't two thirds an excuse for you two to go drinking . . . again." "You wound me, Hermione." She laughed. They stopped in front of the potions classroom. Ron cleared his throat and pointedly looked somewhere that wasn't Hermione's face. "So, if you want, you know," he took a breath. "I can wait for you until the detention is over." "Are you sure? It's probably going to take forever." "I'll escort you back to Gryffindor tower, if you like." The boy was so hopeful looking that Hermione was almost ready to believe that he meant something more than just escorting her back to Gryffindor tower tonight, but that he would do it every night and maybe then carry her over the threshold of some white-picket fenced cottage on the outskirts of Hogsmeade with two point five children and she would have a brilliant career in charms and he would play Quidditch for the Chudley Cannons or, preferably, a team that won every once in awhile. There was the boy with red hair offering his arm, strong and youthful, to the brown, bushy haired smart girl. She tentatively raised her hand to take his in her own, the joining of their two hands would mean so very much more - the beginning, perhaps, of something wonderful. That is if someone didn't have the worst timing ever. "Cavorting in the hallways when you have detention, Miss Granger? Hardly behavior worthy of the Head Girl." Worst. Timing. Ever. That silky, smooth voice which was the secret guilty pleasure to an oddly large number of seventh year girls was just the thing to cool the timid amour of Ronald Weasley. He still held his hand out to Hermione, but it had gone limp and unattractive from fear of his dour professor. Hermione, on the other hand, quickly retracted her hand and turned a pale shade of pink like she had been caught with her hand in the metaphorical cookie jar. Ron gave her a pained look, like he was being rejected, and Hermione was almost quick enough to tell him that she didn't mean it like that. Professor Snape was still quicker, though. "Return to your tower, Mr. Weasley. I will make sure Miss Granger makes it back to her dorm room in relative safety." Ron seemed to deflate then, and even more so when Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and said, "It's okay, I'll be fine." With a small nod the boy was off, brushing past Professor Snape with more ire than was absolutely necessary. Without further ado Professor Snape gallantly held the door open to the potions classroom where Hermione, silently fuming, walked ahead of him. Snape closed the door with only a minor show of his dramatic flair. She stood before his desk with her face carefully blank. It was so painstakingly thought out that Snape saw right through it and knew she was fuming. Her jawbone was deliciously tense and her eyes couldn't help but hold the fire of her suppressed rage. Severus swept his long robes up and strode to his desk before casually leaning against it. "Usually, Miss Granger, I would be assigning my detention students the chore of cleaning the cauldrons by hand or, even more odious, alphabetizing my storeroom." Hermione looked a bit downcast at this. If this is what he normally subjected the detention students to she had no doubt that he had saved something disastrously terrible for her. Probably had planned the whole thing years in advance and had been waiting for her to step out of line just so that he could subject her to it. "As it is I have something a little different in mind for you." Yep, there it was. Something different in Snape-tongue meant something arduous, perilous, and probably smelly. Severus gave Hermione a sharp look and was pleased to see that she was in a state of dread. He supposed it was somewhat sadistic of him, but after that little scene with Weasley in the hallway he couldn't help but make her squirm a bit. "Miss Granger, when one adds three-fourths of bicorn horn, the yolk of an ouroboros egg, the petals of a moonlilly and the juice of a pomegranate what would one be making?" He was secretly pleased that her eyes were slowly lighting up at the chance to prove herself to him academically. "If it was brewed on the night of the full moon near midnight you would have the base for the Wolfsbane Potion, but it would still need to simmer for a few days before the next steps could be taken." Silently he was delighted. His eyebrow arched disdainfully. "And then?" He listened to her ramble off the next steps for the Wolfsbane Potion. It was a lot like listening to a talking encyclopedia that had learned to enunciate. "You will be completing those steps tonight, Miss Granger. I have other matters that require my attention. You are capable, I presume?" He knew he need not have asked, the girl was more than capable in his opinion. She seemed to agree with him because her eyes got really large and she nodded fractionally, shocked that he was giving her both a chance to prove herself and that she wouldn't be forced to clean anything. An hour later found Hermione slowly stirring the Wolfsbane Potion. Severus had been pouring over the papers Delilah had given him. He pinched the bridge of his nose when he came to a particularly irritating part. Sighing softly, he leaned back into his large, leather, wing-backed chair. This was going to be a problem. Rather than dwelling on it he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to question Albus about what he knew in the morning. That was a conversation he was not looking forward to, if only because one of his pet peeves had slowly, over the years, become anyone offering him sweets of any sort. He blamed Albus in particular for that one. His gaze surreptitiously traveled over to the girl whose full attention was on the potion before her. Severus felt an uncomfortable pressure on his chest which he could not quite identify as pain or pleasure, or perhaps a mixture of both, as he took in the girls rolled up sleeves, the messy hair which was falling forward into her face or the way that she bit her lower lip as she concentrated on making sure her rotations were exactly ten seconds apart. When Severus had come across Hermione and Weasley in the hallway he had quickly cast a disillusionment charm on himself. Years as a schoolteacher had not put him above the likes of spying on the student body. It was in parcicular with those two because he felt he somehow had a right when it came to Hermione, if only because Weasley was going to make her late for his detention. When Weasley had reached his hand out to the girl he had felt jealously, white hot and freezing at once, course through him. He had managed to keep himself from hexing the boy and branding his mark on the girl, which he really had the urge to do, and quickly sent the boy packing instead. His eyes half closed in pleasure as he watched her carefully tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears with a small growl of impatience. Ah, what he could make her into if she allowed him to. She had all the makings of a great Potions Mistress. She was patient, calculating, creative and, though he would never admit this aloud as a positive character trait, brave when it was called for bravery. He thought of her under him as an apprentice, imagining making potions with her, tedious burn salve and bone replenishing potions, or creating new and dangerous brews with her. His imagination turned the potions classroom into his well-furnished sitting room where they would sit taking their tea and discussing the latest article in Ars Alchemica. Then, of course, they would move to his four poster bed where . . . He shook his head of the thought. Not only was it highly inappropriate but he was vaguely aware that if the girl had any idea what he was thinking she would probably run from the school screaming. He turned back to his work. It was another hour later when Hermione was putting a stasis spell on the Wolfsbane. She was particularly pleased with her work. It was the pale grey it should be at this stage. It needed to sit for another night before the actual wolfsbane weed, a highly reactive plant, could be placed into the base. "This work is adequate, Miss Granger," came the voice of Severus Snape from behind her. She jumped a little in surprise, she hadn't heard him coming up behind her, and was once again too late to see him hide his smile at her stupor. Though why she should feel such a rush of pleasure when he, albeit grudging and subtle, should comment in a way that can only be described as not negative about her potion was truly lost on her. "Thank you, Professor. Will that be all for tonight?" she asked him hopefully. If she got back to her room now she would still have about a half an hour for studying before she had to go to sleep. "That will be all, Miss Granger. I will escort you back to your room." "No, really, Professor, that's alright. I can manage on my own," she said quickly, jumping off the stool and beginning to roll down her sleeves. Professor Snape narrowed his eyes. "I insist upon it, Miss Granger. Merlin forbid I have to listen to Mr. Weasley give his attempt at a verbal tirade if you so happen to trip and scratch a knee." Before she could help it a giggle escaped her lips. "I suppose, when you put it that way," she said while still laughing. Professor Snape strode ahead of her and held open the door. She passed through with nod of thanks. They walked in silence , both pleased for different reasons. Hermione considered herself mighty lucky that she got out of doing anything truly terrifying. She was also indescribably pleased that Snape had, in his very understated way, approved of her potion and thus by default, her as well. She knew it was a problem that she craved the approval of everyone. Her mother had given her numerous muggle self-help books on the subject of low-self esteem which she had made a point not to read. She didn't think she had a problem. After all, she knew she was the brightest witch of her age. Practically everyone admitted as such. She didn't want everyone's approval, but she did desire Professor Snapes if only because he was the only one who wouldn't readily supply an endless string of compliments. They stopped in front of the portrait in front of her dorm room. It was a painting of a young girl playing with a doll. She perked her head up and smiled at Hermione. When she noticed her dour escort, she put the doll in front of her face like a shield. Hermione turned to her professor. "Thank you for walking me, sir." "It was my pleasure, Miss Granger." With a stately bow that was distinctly un-modern, Professor Snape turned on heel and walked off back to his dungeons. Hermione watched him go with a raised eyebrow. She was relatively pleased, if only a little confused, as to the way things had gone tonight. Making the potion had been pretty fun, though. It was more challenging than anything they had been doing in the classroom this year. She entered her room with a decided grin on her face. Wait until Ron and Harry hear about this one. She bet they didn't get the chance to make potions and had gotten detentions that involved cleaning the hundreds of cauldrons.