Honey Dipped, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K.R., not me; I just write about her characters for my own sick enjoyment.

Warning: This is HG/SS, so if that ship doesn't suit you, then I suggest not reading this. Onward!

Honey-Dipped

A set of 10 drabbles, concentrated on Hermione and Snape

Preconceived notions are the locks on the door to wisdom.

- Merry Browne

"Sweetie, you're doing it wrong."

Hermione Granger, four years of age, ignored her mother's careful reprimands and dipped the corner of her half-eaten piece of toast into the bowl of honey at her right elbow.

"You're going to drip it onto the table,"(Mrs. Granger smiled with satisfaction as a drop of the sugar substance did just that), "I'll toast more bread and help you spread the honey on first."

"Mum, my way works just as good, see?" The child disobediently bit into the corner of her honey-dipped breakfast, only to have a trail of it leak down the front of her overalls. Her mother scoffed.

"Nonsense. Now apologize to your aunt for soiling her tablecloth, and help me clean this up."

Mrs. Granger's younger sister, who had been finding the ordeal more amusing than the newspaper in front of her, said, "Really, Marie, no need to scold the poor dear. This old table's seen enough wear and tear through the years; a little thing like a drop of honey isn't going to hurt it. Hermione can eat her toast any way she likes, isn't that right, dear?"

Hermione nodded determinedly, but her mother frowned.

"Children," she said, "they always think they know best."

"She's a right pest, that one," said Ron Weasley, as he crawled through the portrait hole with the other first years. "It's all well and good that she knows the answer to every question, but why can't she just keep it to herself?"

"Dunno, Ron. She probably doesn't think about it," said Harry Potter. Ron's eyebrows drew together in confusion.

"Think about what?"

"The answer," replied Harry, "maybe she knows it, so she figures she might as well tell somebody."

The red-haired boy snorted. "Just so long as I'm not the somebody…"

"Sir? I'm here for detention."

Snape looked up from his grading and scowled. "You're late."

Startled, Hermione glanced at the clock hanging just above her Professor's head. "Only by a minute."

"Only by a minute," Snape agreed, "and a second is all that separates life from death. Now sit."

She dropped her book bag down by the nearest chair and sat meekly.

"Before I set you to the enjoyable task of cleaning cauldrons, Miss Granger," he said scathingly, "I would be most interested to know why you were not preparing a sample of pepper-up potion like your classmates in Potions today."

She took a deep breath. "Because, Professor, I already know how to make pepper-up; you've assigned it before."

"That does not answer my question, Miss Granger," he informed her. Hermione rather thought that it did.

"Well," she said slowly, "why make a potion if I don't need to?"

"Because, I told you to," Snape replied coolly, "and I am your teacher. Therefore, you do as I order you."

"But, Professor," she plunged on, "you're just going to grade the potion. It wouldn't have had any immediate practical–"

"Did it ever occur to you that I might possibly have other reasons for assigning it? Besides the grade?" he asked, deep voice full of mocking.

When she didn't answer, he steepled his fingers an said, "The potion you neglected to make today was assigned with the goal of replenishing Madame Pomphrey's stores. She's run out, and I haven't had the time to make any myself."

Hermione's face flushed, and she shifted her eyes toward her feet. Snape smirked.

"Will you be doing your assignments from now on, Miss Granger?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious, in a twisted sort of way.

"Well, what's the point of it?" she asked. "You've already gone over all the essential potions in our textbooks–"

"You silly little girl,"interupted Snape quietly, "there are some things that can't be learned from a book."

"Professor Snape?"

"What is it, Granger?"

"Can… can you teach me?"

"Teach you what?" he sneered. "Somehow I doubt that trying to teach you anything would help either of us, as according to rumor you have read through the entire Hogwarts Library. Twice."

"Those are just rumors, sir. Besides, there are things that can't be learned from a book."

The door to the potions classroom was almost knocked off its hinges entirely one evening by a terribly upset Hermione Granger.

"Professor?" she practically shouted. "Are you alright? Nothing has happened has it?"

Snape, who was grading at his desk, frowned. "No, of course not."

She muttered something under her breath and dug a parchment out of her pocket. "Here," she shoved the document forcedly into his face. "It was in The Prophet this morning."

'NEW RESIDENT IN AZKABAN PRISON' was the headline,

'…after his appearance at the Department of Mysteries last week, Lucius Malfoy's alliance with Lord Voldemort has been confirmed. The multi-millionaire was charged with foul play and loyalty to the Death Eaters yesterday in Wizengamot and sentenced to a life in Azkaban…'

"Do you think Lucius Malfoy would rat you out- tell the Ministry that you work for Professor Dumbledore?" she asked him the next night.

Snape frowned thoughtfully. "He wouldn't. He knows about as much regarding my allegiance as the Ministry, and the only thing the Ministry suspects is that Dumbledore must be lying. The Dark Lord would make sure his family suffered –financially, if nothing else- if he 'ratted me out', so to speak."

"Oh. Why do the Headmaster and the Dark Lord trust you?"

Snape had asked himself this often. He looked in her chocolaty eyes, which were wide with curiosity. He hated the answer he gave her, but it was the only one he had.

"I don't know."

"Unhand me, woman!"

"Oh, be quiet, Severus. Just admit you need my help."

"I'll never need your help, or anyone else's! Now, kindly let go of me," Snape growled as Hermione tried –and failed miserably- to push his desk chair aside, so that she could help him grade essays.

"But there are so many of them! And they're Hufflepuff! You loathe the Hufflepuffs because they're so…oh, what's that phrase you use? Dim-witted idiot children with no-" She was silenced effectively by a strong hand on her mouth. She swatted it away. "Oh, come on! Everyone needs a little help every once in a while."

Snape snorted derisively. "Gryffindor," he muttered.

When Snape finally entered his quarters that chilly night in late November, it was after midnight and thunder from the storm outside could be heard from inside the dungeons.

Hermione gasped when she caught sight of his defeated stature and injured body.

"What in Heaven's name did you do to yourself," she murmured, as she gingerly caressed his face.

"You were right, Hermione," he said, as if that answered everything. "Everyone needs help every once in a while." Her covered her hand with his. "I need yours."

The smile that Severus received at that moment was warmer than any blanket.

"Severus?"

He grunted.

"Do you think that, out of everything bad, something good happens?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps."

Hermione swatted his shoulder. "Just answer."

He stared at her for a moment, seemly in thought. "Yes," he finally said. "There is some good in everything and everyone."

She put a hand to her mouth and raised her eyebrows in bad impression of shock. "I would've never thought to hear that from you!"

"Nor I." The corners of his mouth quirked, up ever so slightly. "But I do believe the concept works both ways."

"What would you say to someone if they told you that they loved you?" Hermione asked Severus.

"I would tell them that they're a lunatic who pays to much attention to their sentimental notions, and that if they did not leave my sight immediately, I would take fifty points from their respective house."

"What if the person wasn't a student?" She snuggled into his shoulder.

"Then," said Snape, "I would settle for the 'sentimental lunatic' bit."

"Severus?" she queried, looking up at him with large brown eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Am I a sentimental lunatic?"

"Undeniably, Hermione."

And he lightly brushed her lips with his.

AN: This was inspired by 'Honey-Dipped', a song by the saxophonist 'Dave Koz' www. dave koz. com (without spaces). His music always encourages me to write.