Don't own it, but my muse likes to play with her dolls.

The plot bunnies are fornicating again. Short oneshot. Rating is for language.

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Hermione sat in a dark corner of a rather questionable bar at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. She stared into the tumbler full of scotch in front of her. No bloody shot glass here, she had plans to get totally pissed off her arse.

She studied the amber liquor in front of her. It was her second glass, so her mind was already comfortably floating. She took a gulp, and grimaced at the sharp ascerbic flavor.

She chuckled slightly. Just like Him. And the more she thought about it, the more she chuckled. Scotch is aged, but the age makes it better, and flashes of his experienced hands coaxing feelings out of her that no one else ever had, not for her lack of trying. Patience came with age, and he taught her the benefits of patience; making her hold onto the edge so long she would do anything to blissfully be thrown over cliff. La Petit Mort. The French had at least one thing right besides their wines.

The sharp bite of the first flavor as it traveled over her tongue, so much like their first years acquaintance. A tongue that by turns could hurt with abrupt observations, or heal with a mind numbing exactness that let her forget everything but the feel.

The liquor began to mellow, and left a warmth. Rich and intoxicating after-flavors, so remincent of his skin. Slightly wood flavored, the sharpness gone. So like their lovemaking. She was so surprised at the tenderness he showed her, holding her gently, stroking her skin as though he were shocked, awed. Perhaps he had been.

She took another gulp. It was, after all the closest she could get anymore. Trust was something he didn’t give up easily, and in the end it destroyed whatever it was they had.

In the now drunk haze of her mind, she remembered details of their work together. The war had not been over, after all, and there was still work to be done. The war it seemed did not take into account broken hearts. She hid it, afraid of the power it would give him. He already hurt her, no sense in giving him more reason. He didn’t return to the snarky professor mask, but neither was there any of the passionate lover or friend she so longed for. The man before her at those times was a stranger. Polite, distant, but a stranger nonetheless.

She must be pretty damned pissed, because her visions of him floated corporeally in front of her.

“Hermione?” his voice whispered.

“Yep. Scotch is just like you. Bewitches the mind and ensnares the senses. Hell. I think you’re really in front of me. Figment of my imagination, you might as well pull up a chair. Good scotch…dark just as you are,” she managed to slur, feeling quite brilliant.

The man looked pained. He reached into his severe robes and pulled out a small potion vial. “Would you drink it?”

She laughed. “Now I know you’re a vision. He would never ask. ‘Drink it’ would more likely be his answer. So since you’re a vision, what the hell?”

She reached for the vial, and realized it was real.

“Bloody hell.” She looked closer at him. Then she realized how tired the man looked, haggard and tired.

“Shit. Sev, you’re still a sneaky bastard. What’s in the vial?”

“Sobering potion,” he offered in a dull tone.

“I’m finally pissed enough to not hurt in your presence and you want me to give that up?” tears started welling up in her eyes.

“Merlin’s balls. Give me the damn vial, seems the scotch wasn’t strong enough after all.” She reached across the table and took it from his hand. She felt a jolt when their fingers brushed, and she closed her eyes to enjoy this small contact.

He watched her as she drank the contents of the vial, the clouds of inebriety leaving her eyes. He shuddered inwardly though, when he saw the dull despair no longer hidden in them.

“I was afraid,” he murmured.

“Who wasn’t?” she scoffed.

“I’m sorry,” he said looking away from her.

That stunned her. Not even in their closest moments…no a Snape never apologized.

“What did you say?”

“I’m sorry. I should never have let you go.” He stood up as if to leave.

“Where are you going?” she asked, standing up to face him.

“Home. I …I didn’t suppose you would want me here any longer.”

She studied him. The war was over, and he had won, but he looked beaten. His shoulders were hunched, as though carrying a great weight, and his dark eyes mirrored her own dullness. His skin, sallow to begin with, seemed almost waxy and so pale it seemed to glow in the dark recesses of her corner table.

She reached for his hand. “Home sounds nice.” He jumped at the touch.

“It won’t be easy,” he bit out.

“Have you ever seen me back away from a challenge, Severus?” she answered with a smile. A real smile, that took over her plain features and made her glow. Severus’ lip only twitched.

“That I haven’t.”

Hermione threw a few galleons on the table leaving the half glass of scotch.

No one noticed the two holding hands as they apparated into the night.

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