AN: See what a review whore I am? So much for my one-shot! LOL. Almost looks like there might be something resembling a plot developing here – dear Merlin, what have I become? *sniggers* Enjoy! (and see, reviews work!)





Two weeks. Two long, aching weeks. Two weeks since Hermione was in my arms, in my bed, begging me for more. Two weeks. More like an eternity. I know she is going to be here, bouncing around Grimmauld Place with her effervescent prat-like friends, pretending that all is right and glorious with the world and chocolate frogs wouldn’t melt in their mouths. I sincerely hope Potter and Weasley choke on theirs.

I am quite aware, given that I need no longer attempt to educate those two, I should let sleeping dogs lie, so to speak of course. Not a chance. I know that the likelihood of Hermione…Miss Granger falling for either of those imbeciles is infinitesimally small, however they are still hormone-ridden eighteen year old boys and even with their moronic nature they will eventually notice that Hermione is a hot blooded, female of the species, and a fine specimen at that.

Thankfully I have only had to report in to Grimmauld Place once in the past two weeks, and I arduously made certian that visit was beyond midnight, a time by which Molly Weasley would surely have mollycoddled the ‘kids’ off to bed. I wonder what ‘Mother’ would have thought about ‘baby Hermione’s’ discrepancies two weeks ago? Still your sweet, wee girl, Molly? Is it still appropriate to wrap her up in cotton wool and smother her with pitiful love because of your ludicrous need to play savoir to anyone you have ever seen in gentler years? Anyone you have ever seen as vulnerable? I must suppose that at some point I have shattered your rose-coloured Snape-glasses. Thank Merlin.

But I digress. Mother Weasley is not the reason for the uneasy feeling seeping through my body, taking up residency in my veins and promising to lead to an aneurysm in the very near future. I ponder what the inhabitants of this place would think of unscrupulous Snape having an anxiety attack on their doorstep? Answer, in brief: The Apocalypse has come.

I pull myself together. I have dealt with so much worse, I have spent all of my adult life living a lie. There are still many who doubt where my loyalties lie and, more often than not, myself included. One more façade should not be that impossible, all I require is to re-establish that stony exterior, the callous attitude, the ‘holier than thou’ persona and no one need know otherwise, least of all Hermione. Silly twat.

Silly twat that is quickly becoming an all consuming obsession. Pathetic.

My temper is flailing and anger directed at myself is unbelievably worse for the masses than when I possess a victim. No one will be spared my wrath. Least of all myself.

With that in mind, I slam the door to Grimmauld Place shut, setting the image of Mummy Black into an explosive raucous. Enjoy, Molly. No need to thank me. Consider it a gift. Foot steps with the grace and poise of a herd of over-weight ogres performing pirouettes thunder across the ceiling and, promptly enough for my taste, most of the inhabitants of this godforsaken place are bumbling around the entranceway in a pathetic attempt to silence the screaming vulgarity. Molly Weasley gives me a particularly disdainful glare, which, were it expressed by someone more satisfactory, I would have congratulated her on. Instead, in the essence of the moment, I smile sarcastically and drawl, “Whoops.”

“Tonks! For Merlin’s sake, can’t you just for once attempt to…” Hermione. She stands on the stairs, her face frozen in red fury, her hair tousled from sleep, or at least I hope that is what that birds nest is the result of. She is stunning. Her dressing gown has been tied hastily, open enough to see the soft curve of one breast and much of her thighs. I ache to run my hands over her silky skin again. Many completely inappropriate yet infinitely more satisfying ways of having disturbed her slumber breeze through my brain. My eyes are drawn to hers and are unable to leave. Slowly she pulls her jaw closed. “Good evening, Professor Snape.” I am totally unable to determine what she suggests by those words. Her voice comes out strained, yet her eyes soften. For a man who prides himself on his ability to read people, I suddenly feel quite the fraud. It is irrelevant though. I do not want Hermione, I do not care. Raising one eyebrow in my best sneer, I look her scathingly up and down and say, with the tone of a man who has caught a waft something disgusting, “Miss Granger.”

Then Hermione executes the most amazing thing. She doesn’t flee, she doesn’t burst into girlish tears, she doesn’t even return with a well-deserved, and somewhat expected, insult. She rolls her eyes at me like I am the biggest moron on the planet whom deserves no more of her precious time, continues down the stairs and wanders, quite indolently, into the kitchen. I do believe Miss Granger just ridiculed me with my own poison. Insolent little trumped-up trollop. How dare she?!

I love her.

Like a lovesick puppy, in a manner fitting for the pathetic third year girls who would flock behind Potter at school, my brain implores me to pursue her into the kitchen, and, even more deplorably, my body complies. Thankfully, I do manage to look livid as I stalk after her.

“Coffee, Professor?” Hermione asks quite sweetly, not even bothering to turn from the kitchen bench to ascertain that it is indeed me. She knew I would follow her in here. I am torn between letting my heart soar to think that she knows me that well and blasting her head off for being so damned presumptuous and smug as to think that she has me under her thumb that easily.

Instead I find myself sneering, “Black.”

I can tell by the slight rise of her shoulders that she is grinning to herself. “Sugar, Sir?”

If that was supposed to be suggestive, Miss Granger, it was repulsive. Admittedly, it worked, but repulsive nonetheless. Unsure of how to answer her, I keep my mouth closed and glare around the room, searching for something to be a suitably fraudulent distraction.

“You’d better,” Hermione answers herself. “Merlin knows you could do with sweetening up.”

“Ha de ha, Miss Granger. Very amusing.”

She shakes her head ever so slightly as she flicks her wand once more at the mug before her. Finally she turns to face me as she brings the steaming vessels across the room, plonking one down on the table before where I stand. Hermione slides onto the bench seat on the opposing side of the table, crosses her arms and rests them upon the top as she looks up at me expectantly.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, you stupid girl. I am not here to apologise.”

For some reason I cannot comprehend, Hermione laughs. “Sit down, Sir. I don’t wish to strain my neck just so you can attempt to keep a hold on whatever almighty power you believe you possess that makes you more than human.”

Wrong, Miss Granger. It’s less than human. Though my powers are failing.

“If that would make you more comfortable,” I sneer at her, sliding onto the seat.

She gives me an utterly disbelieving look. “One chance, Severus,” she whispers, in what sounds suspiciously like a threat. “Clearly I … enjoyed your company that night and am willing to entertain the idea of something more…more. However, I do not intend to spend anymore time than necessary mulling over what could be unless you are willing to concede that it was more than you ‘doing me a favour.’”

I am dumbfounded. It is wholly incomprehensible that Hermione Granger just gave me an ultimatum – face my feelings or lose. I literally bite my tongue holding back the scathing remarks that automatically find their way to the tip of my razor-sharp tongue. Just as I can hold back no longer, Mr Moron and his sidekick, Imbecile, saunter into the room. They look at the scene before them, Hermione and I glaring at each other across the table, untouched cups of coffee sitting between us, and in his infinite wisdom, Potter pipes up, “Leave her alone, Snape. You aren’t our Professor anymore.” Thank you for that astute observation, Potter. Trust me, I am fully aware that I no longer have charge of you, and the celebratory party, though dismally attended, will be a memory I shall treasure for a long time to come. No, I won’t say that – I have a feeling insulting her friend is perhaps not the most congenial way of winning over Miss Granger.

I rise from the table knowing this conversation is at an end. Even if I could possibly fathom entertaining the idea of a relationship with Hermione, there are compelling reasons for complete and utter secrecy. Not that it is really an option. What am I saying? It is most definitely not an option. With a long look at Miss Granger, I open my mouth to inform her there is no way in hell this ‘relationship’ exists, let alone is going to proceed.

“Midnight, Miss Granger. I believe it is your turn to play host.”

Whoops.

















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