And now there she was curled up on his rug reading those dreadful essays for him. Her whole sixth year had been spent trying to keep Potter in line, falling in and out of love with Weasely, fighting Death Eaters, and, eventually, thinking Snape a murderer. She'd fought bravely and cleverly that night at the Astronomy tower. And as he made his retreat from the school that night she'd looked at him, really looked at him, and said "Good luck." And she'd meant it. She'd covered him from jinxes as he escaped to the grounds.

At the time, he'd been keeping company with her for just over a year. Out of fear of endangering her or compromising her in some way, he never told her all of his plans. As he was not one to share, this was much easier than some might have found it to be. But she did know that if Draco did not succeed in his plans to kill Dumbledore then he, Snape, would be bound to do it for him. She was to say nothing, tell no one that he was certainly innocent. For if she did, it would surely mean his death at the hands of the Dark Lord. He would have to be acquitted by the Wizengamot to shake suspicion in the eyes of Voldemort. And if Voldemort were to fall before that happened, at least the remaining Death Eaters would not come after Snape for being a traitor to the Dark Lord.

None of the Death Eaters present that night would be so stupid as to reveal that Snape had killed Dumbledore lest they explain to their master why they had let Snape interfere in Draco's task. So Snape returned to Grimmauld Place to be apprehended by whoever should find him first. All he had to do was survive long enough for a trial if he got hexed to holy hell by one of his former Order members. He hoped Tonks, or perhaps Arthur Weasely would find him first. If he could just avoid Lupin or Moody, perhaps he'd keep his head.

But Hermione found him first, as planned. She snuck him food and supplies until he was discovered by the Auror Dawlish. He'd almost died that night. Snape had come along as peacefully as he dared and hoped to stay alive long enough for Dumbledore to amble though enough portraits to arrive and testify at his trial.

Hermione hadn't been able to talk to him since that night, though she'd tried to attend his hearing at the Wizengamot. Audience members had been barred though, and the last time she'd seen him at all was at the Ministry, outside of the courtroom, as he was being led in under the supervision of five Aurors, their wands pointed at his head. He'd met her eye again then, just before he disappeared behind the door.

Two miserable months in and out of Azkaban to sit at his trial followed. One would think that Dumbledore's testimony from his portrait would have been enough, but seeing as the Ministry had yet to apprehend Draco, Snape was their scapegoat, and a very good one too. It didn't help that nearly half the Wizengamot were apprehensive about basing a man's life or death on the testimony of a portrait - Even if it WAS Dumbledore.

Minerva, thankfully, had been easily convinced and Dumbledore had explained to her why she must reinstate Snape at Hogwarts once he'd been declared innocent. To uphold the illusion that Draco had indeed killed Dumbledore, Snape had to be allowed back into the fold.

He'd returned to his office, to his job, to the only thing he had left, and found her there on the sofa. She had a gigantic book spread out on the low table in front of the fire. Her back was to the door, but she spoke when she heard the door open. "Professor Archer, there was an owl for you last night. I left the message on your desk."

Professor Archer? Snape thought. Then Hermione did not know he was returning. Of course, Minerva had not know that Hermione was his assistant, nor was she an official member of the Order, so it was likely that no one would have thought to tell her when he was returning. All the parents in the wizarding world thought Draco had killed Dumbledore, so no one would have been making a big deal about his return to teaching. Perhaps the students who had anticipated never having to sit another class with him as their instructor would be disappointed, but he doubted anyone else would have noticed.

He dropped his bag by the door and hung up his traveling cloak. Snape pulled his wand from inside his robes and lit the fire over her shoulder. She looked up at the fireplace and then spun around, her gigantic book falling to the floor.

"Oh, God," she said softly. He'd never seen her move like she did. She'd climbed over the back of the sofa in a heartbeat and was wrapping her arms around him before he could even say hello. "Oh, God," she said again. It sounded foreign. He rarely heard wizards say "God" and he had never heard Hermione say it ever. His arms hovered at his sides. She seemed to be enveloping him with her robes and hair. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Hello to you too," he whispered.

That had been mid-September, and now it was three days until Christmas holiday. Four months since he'd returned, but they had fallen back into it easily, although Hermione could have used an assistant of her own. She was operating as Potter's research department and still attempting her N.E.W.T.s. Before he had gotten back, she'd introduced herself to Professor Archer as his unofficial teacher's aide. Thankfully Archer was a bit lazy when it came to tedious paperwork and course schedules and grading; he accepted Hermione without question. This allowed her access to Snape's private library to accompany the pass she'd been given by McGonagall to the restricted section. She'd been excused from all classes on her own discretion need she attend to matters concerning Potter and Weasely's search.

If Voldemort was vanquished by the end of her seventh year, she was planning on going away in the fall to Cambridge. She'd already been accepted. He had tried to gently dissuade her, but Muggle-borns seemed to tend to opt for a few years at university once leaving Hogwarts. He stopped trying to talk her out of it once she threatened him with explaining the Arithmancy chart she'd devised to determine which school she should apply to and why. It was foolish to expect her to stay, he told himself. This was her last year at the school and she should not be sequestered to it. She would be leaving anyway. If Voldemort was not defeated by the time she left Hogwarts she would join Potter and Weasely in finding the Horcruxes he'd devised.

Snape had offered her an apprenticeship to try and get her to stay, but either she couldn't wait to escape the walls of the castle or she really was hopelessly devoted to Potter and Weasely. Either way, there was no keeping her. He'd only taken her on as an assistant because she'd talked him into while he was drunk. But he'd kept her because he liked having her around. Snape had not been surprised when he'd returned to his office to find her there. He'd almost expected it. But he had been surprised when he found he would have been disappointed if she hadn't been.

Hermione, parchment still in hand and reading, got up and made her way to Snape's desk. He watched her, still reading, open the top draw and pull out a little pot of red ink.

"You know, you could ask me before you go through my personal things."

She walked past him but didn't look up. "I've been asking for two years, Professor. Perhaps if you ever had said "No" before, I would think twice." She sat back down on the rug and unscrewed the ink, then made some corrections on the page.

"Well then," Snape said in a supercilious manner, "maybe I'll just stick some wards all over my desk so you can't get near it."

"And maybe you could just leave the ink out once in a while so I wouldn't have to search for it."

He scowled and the parchment dented under his fingers. "Maybe you could just bring your own damn ink."

Hermione, who still did no look shaken despite this exchange which her friends might otherwise find precarious, looked up and smiled. "Well, maybe, if someone paid me for all the time I spend down here helping out, I could afford my own damn ink." Teacher's correction ink was expensive, as it was charmed so as not be susceptible to students trying to change their marks. It was a moot point though, because students at Hogwarts weren't allowed to buy correction ink anyway. She bit the inside of her check to keep from laughing.

Snape scowled again but said nothing. He finished marking the essay he was holding and then reached for another roll when he was done.

"The fifth ingredient to be added to the draught of peace is four grams of crushed mandrake root," he read to himself, "and it should be added after the potion has simmered for no less than ... " Merlin, this was abysmal. Obviously Desmond Zabar had been copying from his textbook, but from two inches too far down the page. Snape had the urge to tear the parchment in half and hand it back to him. Instead he scribbled at the top of the page. "Congratulations. You are two weeks ahead in your lessons. A pity I do not have a time turner so I can meet you there. F." The "F" he scribbled over four or five times to make it bold and angry-looking.

"You're scribbling awfully hard back there," Hermione drawled. "Shall I get you some more ink?"

Very slowly he lowered the clipboard he was using to write on and looked down at her. "You've rather cheeky tonight. You're lucky it's nearly Christmas; I've let you get away with a dozen things this evening I wouldn't have otherwise."

"Have I ever thanked you for your leniency, Professor?" she asked without turning around.

"Not. Once," he replied, stressing each word harshly.

"Well, that wasn't very polite of me, was it? I suppose I'll have to make it up to you in some way."

"Oh? And pray, tell, Miss Granger, what delightfully whimsical gewgaw will be gracing my desk this weekend? Perhaps one of those puppy dog-eyed Precious Moments figurines with which Muggles are so enamored?"

"I'm cheeky, he says," she muttered. "You know, if we weren't such good friends, I'd be positively taken aback."

"And who says were are… Friends, Miss Granger? That's remarkable presumptuous of you, don't you think?"

"Well, I suppose I'm just holding out for a Christmas miracle," she answered in a very matter-of-fact way. "Believe me when I say though, that I wouldn't read third year potions essays for just anyone. I daresay this is only slightly worse than proofreading Harry and Ron's homework. Though I do sense some hope springing eternal here in Cilia Clemmons." Hermione sat up and handed a roll of parchment to Snape, who took it with an interested look on his face. "Perhaps the latent brilliance she's exhibiting will take the edge off of … Oh, dear. Is that Zabar's?" she asked, noting the red slashes over the page in front of Snape.

Snape gave a nod but said nothing for he was already engrossed in Clemmons's opening thesis. "You know," he drawled after a few more lines, "this one just might be worth teaching one day."

"One day? She's a third year, Sir, how long will you want to wait?"

"Until you're well gone at least," he said dryly. "Do you have any idea what an annoying handful you are? Two geniuses would be quite impossible. Not to mention the competition. Don't think I haven't seen you glare at your own best friends when they get something right in class and you don't."

But Hermione wasn't listening, or rather she'd stopped listing sometime around the word "genius."

She sat back up again and was peering at him intently. "Professor, did you just call me a genius?"

Snape pulled himself away from Clemmons's essay a second time and stared at her. "Well, I certainly can't be the first person to use that word to describe you, now can I?"

She paused and thought about it slowly. "Well, no, Sir. It's just… If someone had told me a year ago that you would some day… Pay me a compliment. Well…" She smiled, pleased, and Snape could tell even in the flickering light of the fire that she was coloring.

He cleared his throat and, trying to remain indifferent, said, "I pay you many compliments, Miss Granger, to be sure. After all, did you or did you not do an excellent job cleaning those cauldrons earlier tonight?"

"Yes, Sir, and I appreciate that you notice my work. It's just..." she said again, trailing off. "It's just, I never thought you'd compliment ME." She stopped and laughed a little nervously. "I'm sorry, that's dreadfully self-indulgent."

Not to be pegged as a kindly old professor bestowing compliments just yet he reminded, "I just called you an annoying handful, told you that you totter on the verge of impossible, you're too competitive, and I've implied that you'd do some bodily harm to your best friends if the situation arose where you were one-upped in class; how on earth did you derive a compliment in all of that?"

"Well, I guess I'm just getting to know you, Sir. And I suppose you're finally starting to make sense to me."

"Well," he drawled sarcastically. "Hell's afreeze." And he gave a little shiver.