Stretching in the warm nest of her bed then curling back up into a snug ball, Hermione was always grateful for a lie in. Her schedule was good enough to provide her a midweek extra on top of the weekend, and she distinctly remembered sending up silent thanks to the deputy head when she saw her timetable. Hermione plumped her pillow and repositioned herself, checking her watch on the dressing table. She should get up and dressed and head down for a late breakfast.

The sight of the cold, crisp morning outside kept her horizontal. It looked like a good day to be under a blanket. There's work to be done, she told herself sternly. Children to teach, books to translate. You can't live your life from your bed.

There had been days - weeks even - where that had been a tempting prospect. She had never thought of herself as depressed, not after everything she had survived without seemingly batting an eyelid. It had been difficult to accept that the emotional repercussions might come afterwards; that while it was easy to be awake at a moment's notice when there were Death Eaters breathing down their necks, it was much harder when there was nothing to get up for. Not nothing, not precisely. But nothing that would lead to fatalities. No one would die if she didn't eat breakfast. In the months after she left Hogwarts to go out and find her place in the world, she had found it increasingly hard to know what to do, where to go, how she was supposed to act.

In many respects, writing had saved her. It offered her a project that she could think was important. As long as she was active and thinking, she was not remembering. This was the aim of the game.

So one book was published, and Hermione got stuck again. She decided on a new book, but even that didn't seem to give her the right drive to get up and live. Returning to Hogwarts had been Harry's idea. Instill a routine. Be around people. Eat proper meals. It made her cringe internally that he had pushed her so hard to make these positive steps, when he had been through so much more and seemed fine.

At least she didn't have Ron nagging her any more. Their brief spark of a relationship had been blessedly short lived. There were some things that were so much better in the imagination, and being the full time girlfriend of Ronald Weasley had been one of them. She remembered once telling him he had the emotional range of a teaspoon. It turned out that statement had been generous.

"Hermione Granger," she said aloud to the room, trying to sound like her mother, "You have to the count of three to get out of bed!"

Hermione didn't count. She sighed and got up instead. There were levels of indignity she couldn't stoop to, even on her own in her own bedroom. As she eased up she felt a warm, pleasant ache between her legs and grinned. She reached for her cigarettes and lighter and sparked up, standing and opening the window. Cigarette hanging from her mouth, she pulled on her dressing gown quickly, huddling down into it and squinting out at the bright day.

"I fucked Professor Snape," she said as she extracted the cigarette from her mouth and blew the smoke out the window. The words made her smile. She wasn't one to rebel, but having sex with someone almost everybody she knew and loved despised was quite a coup. Not that that was why she had done it. She did it for the same reason she did everything: because she wanted to. No one could argue with that. And if one thing was certain it was that she wanted to do it again.

Hermione closed her eyes and recalled his face when he flipped her over and started really pounding into her. She remembered the sound of his breath, his voice when he spoke to her. Her body responded to the memories, warmth settling and thrumming between her legs. She could only hope he thought so warmly about her that morning.

His post-coital bolt wasn't really surprising, she supposed. Not that she knew a great deal about his romantic past, but he wasn't close to anyone. The only woman he had ever loved had died. Even when she was a teenager he struck her as a very lonely man - and deservedly so, she had thought at the time. Whatever made someone a good fuck, though, he had that in spades. Maybe not experience, but intensity, passion, attention to detail. All the things that made him a great wizard also made him a great lover. And he seemed to share her views about keeping things casual, which could only be good.

Hermione stubbed out her cigarette and went to get dressed. She picked out a pair of stockings and, with a mischievous smile, wondered if she could think up a way to let Snape know she was wearing them.

By the time she had dressed, tamed her hair, donned her teaching robes and made her way down to the Great Hall, most of the students and staff were filtering out to go about their day. There would be time to grab some toast and marmalade, and probably peace and quiet to read a book while she ate.

As she entered the hall, she nearly walked straight in to the man who had made her ache so pleasantly. She smiled, taking a step back. Snape did not smile. Nor did he scowl, which was tantamount to a warm greeting, based on the way he would normally behave towards people first thing in the morning. "Granger," he said by way of greeting.

"Good morning, Professor Snape," Hermione said, not immediately meeting his eye. She was looking at the students nearby, suddenly paranoid. When she did look up at him he was frowning and tight lipped.

She saw his wand slip out from his sleeve and he mumbled a Muffliato at the nearby gaggle of sixth years. Tilting her head to one side, Hermione wondered if she was about to witness Severus Snape apologising. She couldn't remember ever having witnessed such a thing before.

"I assume I'm welcome to your apartments on Friday nights as well, as early mornings aren't an issue. Correct?"

Hermione felt a smile at his pure gumption twitching the corners of her mouth. Being outraged would be too easy, and probably what he half wanted. "You're welcome to my rooms any evening. I simply reserve the right to kick you out when I've had enough."

He sniffed. "That's your prerogative."

They stood for a moment looking at each other. Neither willing to admit they wanted a repeat of the night before, yet both silently understanding that this was the case. If Hermione had been a romantic woman she would have wished they could kiss. As it was, she was content with the slow flick of his eyes down her body. She saw his attention pause at her legs. Then he looked back up to meet her eyes and raised a questioning eyebrow. The low heat that she was beginning to associate closely with Severus Snape thrummed between her legs and, smirking, she nodded once. Yes, she had worn stockings. Yes, to a certain extent, she had worn them for him. He looked penetratingly into her eyes and, for a moment, she wondered if he was poking around her mind without permission. The smallest of smiles curled his lips as he appraised her once more before swishing away, his black robes billowing behind him.

Snape did come to her rooms on Friday night, accepting the glass of red wine she offered instead of bringing his own bottle of spirits. She was pleased that the glass was only half drunk. Their preamble was less stalling, less nervous. Snape kissed her as she smoked. He lifted her skirt so he could appreciate her stockings. She flicked ash out of the window and watched him through hooded eyes as he parted her legs and knelt between them, showing just how much he appreciated her choice of attire. He made her come with his mouth, and she was disappointed not to save her orgasm for when they had sex - but it didn't matter. She would still enjoy. Climax wasn't everything.

He fucked her slowly, almost tenderly, as though determined himself to make it last as long as possible. She suspected he was trying to make her come again, and wondered if he was frustrated when it didn't happen. After he came, she licked him clean again as a consolation prize. Within moments his cock started to show interest again. She grinned, looking up at him as she sucked his prick between her lips. Disheveled was a look that suited him: lips parted, teeth bared, a pink flush high on his cheek bones and his hair in a lank disarray. He combed long fingers through her hair and urged her on until she swallowed his spunk. Severus growled and grunted when he came, like receiving so much pleasure caused him physical pain.

They had managed to actually get naked this time. Severus had even permitted her, eventually, to remove her stockings. Smoking by the window afterwards, she looked over his body. He was completely unabashed about his nakedness, now it was out there. His body was slim and wiry, chorded muscles standing out against the skin with little flesh in between. Against his pale skin the patches and trails of dark hair stood out like India ink on parchment. He lay with I his hands behind his head, eyes closed, frowning even when he was at peace.

He dressed without being prompted, but without leaving the impression that he had bolted. Hermione kissed him goodbye in her dressing gown. Perhaps that was sentimental, but she wasn't entirely without feeling.

Snape surprised her by appearing outside her mirror door the next night as well. He offered no explanation but kissed her, plucking at her clothes. Hermione wasn't about to complain - though he tasted strongly of fire whiskey. It didn't seem to harm his capabilities.

Thereafter, having discovered she was true to her word and he was welcome, Snape floo'ed or knocked on her mirror every couple of days. On a school night he would not stay long, sometimes only dropping in for a drink and a smoke on the way back to the dungeons after his nightly patrol. Other times they would kiss, grope. But she noted nudity only happened when they had the luxury of taking their time, and for this she was grateful. He was good enough to respect her boundaries and Hermione had no doubt that, if she was not in the mood for company, he would excuse himself without needing to be asked. In many ways, he was quite intuitive.

Outside of Hermione's apartments, they carried on very much as they always had. Which is to say, they ignored each other almost entirely. They might nod to each other at breakfast or exchange a greeting in the library. But he showed no interest in her research, and she made no effort to get closer to him.

Though there was one occasion, at the weekly staff meeting, where Minerva raised the need to start supervised revision sessions in the run up to the December exams. She went through the list of compulsory subjects and waited for a teacher to volunteer to supervise, along with the subject head. When 'Potions' was read, she was left looking expectantly at the small gaggle of teachers for some time. Hermione glanced at Snape, who was studiously examining his hands. The fact his colleagues still seemed to have issues trusting him, still treated him as something of a pariah despite his rank as deputy head, didn't seem to bother him. Unless you happened to know how much fire whiskey he drank after patrol each night.

Hermione slowly, silently raised her hand. Minerva raised her eyebrows, but carried on the list without comment. When she looked at him, Snape was still studying his hands, a small frown deepening the crease between his eyebrows.

"Not very good at subtlety, are you?" He hissed at her when he floo'ed to her rooms that evening.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, biting back her temper. "Don't take it personally. No one else was going to volunteer and I'm a peace maker. I would have done the same for anyone."

Snape smirked, as though that was precisely what he had expected all along. Then he pushed her against the wall, none too gently, his bony hand biting into her shoulder and hip as he kissed her hard enough to bruise. They fucked there, her knickers torn away, gripping onto his robes for purchase.

When he came, Snape rested his head against the wall above her shoulder breathing hard. She had not come. She had not particularly enjoyed it - and he knew it. He breathed and slowly relaxed. Twice he drew a breath as though about to say something, and then let it go. Instead he dropped to his knees and licked her clean in penance, holding her hips again as she bucked and writhed against his mouth.

In the morning Hermione had rich purple bruises on her hip. She sighed and healed them before going to breakfast. Severus asked if she was well, a muscle in his cheek jumping and his eyes boring into her. "Of course," she replied breezily. But as soon as she met his eyes she could feel him flicking through her mind, sifting out the memory of just a few moments past, of the purple-black finger marks on her skin.

Again he looked ready to apologise, but didn't.

He came to her that night. It was only when he was stone cold sober that she noticed how much he must really drink. He tasted of cigarettes and breath mints, with no sour bite of whiskey. His eyes were sharp and he missed nothing - not that she suspected he missed much anyway, but his focus was intense. Snape lay her on the bed and spent hours kissing and stroking and touching her body, watching her face for every small reaction.

Hermione came hard after an hour of teasing, her arousal staying high for once, to the point where she wondered if she would come again. The very act of wondering seemed to scupper that idea, and though she enjoyed Severus' attentions she longed for him to just fuck her.

As he finally stripped his trousers, he pulled her on top of him and purposely smoothed his hands over her thighs. He pushed up inside of her, straining as he got close and Hermione kept on teasing and grinding, rolling her hips and tightening her cunt muscles around him. He came with his hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles turned white.

Hermione lay on top of him for a long time. He didn't seem to mind.

"I'm not made of China, you know," she whispered against his ear. "I heal. It's fine."

One hand rose up from the sheets and settled on the small of her back, thumb rubbing back and fore. "It's not fine," he said.

She pulled his other hand up to wrap his arms around her, collapsing against his chest and enjoying the warmth of his body. "You can make it up to me with a hug. And when your dignity has taken a suitable quantity of battering, it will be fine. You don't have to think about it."

His arms tightened fractionally around her. "I didn't think this sort of thing would be welcome."

"I'm not vain enough to think that you can't hug me without falling madly in love with me. Sometimes we all need some physical comfort."

"I thought that's what we had anyway." She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Well," she said, lifting from him and immediately missing the heat from his body. "There's more than one way to skin a skrewt."

It was the first week of December when Severus offered to admit Hermione to his rooms in the dungeon. The invitation came quite out of the blue and, when made, Hermione accepted immediately before he could change his mind. She would follow his normal routine, making a nine o'clock sweep for students out after curfew, finishing in the dungeons.

The responsibility was supposed to be performed on a rota basis, two staff walking the corridors per night. But everyone knew that Severus suffered with insomnia and would walk the hallways and would be stalking the hallways anyway. Minerva said she had caught him often as a sixth or seven year just walking through the castle and sent him back to bed with a flea in his ear, only to catch him again a couple of weeks later. It had become an informal arrangement that the teachers only really needed one patrol rota, unless Snape specifically said otherwise for some reason.

Hermione walked as quietly as she could through the dark halls, her wand lit and held before her. It still felt wrong to disturb the sleeping castle. She still felt like a student out of bed. Even the portraits were snoring softly as she passed them, some grumbling quietly in their sleep about the light. If the ghosts were wandering, she didn't see them. If students were canoodling in dark corners, they did so very quietly.

Hermione had covered the Astronomy Tower - killing two birds with one stone by checking the lovers lane of Hogwarts and stopping for a very quick smoke - then toured the floors of the three above-ground common rooms. At last she headed down towards the dungeons. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind, but it seemed darker below ground level. The walls seemed to radiate cold. She pulled her teaching robes tighter around her and picked up her pace, wishing she had thought to wear a jumper under her robes. Snape wouldn't mind, her clothes seldom lasted long anyway.

Down the stairs and along narrow passages, past the statue of Stellan the Sly and on to the Potions classroom. From there it would only be a masked left turn and the tapestry concealing the door to Snape's rooms should be obvious.

Hermione paused just past the classroom. She stood very still, trying to breathe quietly. A muffled noise, close by. She turned back to the classroom and noticed that the door was ajar.

Years after the war, after living on the run for a year, after fearing for what might lie around every corner she still feared what might hide behind a classroom door. She chided herself mentally. If she wasn't careful she was going to turn into Mad Eye. All his paranoia didn't save him in the end. She felt a pang of loss and of disappointment at herself for such a harsh thought.

Even at Hogwarts, the world could still seem frightening in the dark.

In a burst of courage and with a curse ready in her mind, she opened the door wide.

The room looked empty. Yet she could still hear a muffled sound. It sounded like someone crying.

Walking between the empty desks, the abandoned pots of ink and scratchy, broken quills, and stacked empty cauldrons, Hermione cast her light about the room. In a corner at the back there was a huddled shape. Squinting past the brightly lit wand tip and the encroaching shadows, Hermione could make out a hunched figure. He was definitely weeping, black clothed shoulders shaking.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, feeling guilty for intruding until she remembered that she was a teacher, not a student; that she was there to send students back to bed. "You're out after curfew."

The boy turned and narrowed dark little eyes at her. Inky hair hung to his jaw. It needed a wash. She stepped closer and he hastily scrubbed his sleeve over his eyes, though she could see even in the darkness that they were puffy from crying. His tie was green and silver, a Slytherin crest sewn to his black school robes. A second or third year, she would guess. He had that gangly look they got during the growth spurts, like his arms and legs were too long for the rest of his body. A prominent hooked nose distracted from the rest of his face, which Hermione reflected was unfortunate. She remembered how it felt, knowing her over bite was the first thing people noticed about her. Feeling ugly.

He rubbed under his nose and sniffed loudly. Hermione frowned. "What's wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

She would guess his voice had broken very recently. He didn't seem used to it yet.

As he wiped a bony, sallow hand over his face his sleeve listed. A large mottled bruise encircled his wrist, deep brown and ugly yellow.

"What's that?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Nothing," the boy answered, his voice just as sharp, black eyes flashing as he yanked his sleeve back down again.

Hermione sighed. Bullying in school usually resulted in magical maladies that would naturally go to the infirmary because the children didn't yet know how to cover up that they'd been scrapping. Physical bruising was more concerning. Almost none of the children would fight with their fists, except sometimes the Muggle borns. She remembered her own single act of violence against Draco Malfoy in her third year, still with a small thrill of satisfaction. But that bruise was larger than a child's hand. Something was very wrong.

"I think we need to go and see your head of house," she said softly, holding out a hand to the boy that he looked very reluctant to go near.

Before she could insist, there was a crash and a whoop in the hallway outside. Hermione sighed, looking over her shoulder. Peeves had been suspiciously quiet the last week. Just her luck he'd raise his ugly head at such an inconvenient time. "Wait right here," she instructed the boy.

As quick as she could she left the classroom, closing the door behind her as though that would keep the boy in. He would stay, she was quite confident. She was a teacher and, even if he bolted, she knew which house he was in. He wouldn't be difficult to find.

The Peeves clamour turned out to be Mrs Norris trying to get into the flobberworms in the Potions store room, and knocking a large tin of powdered quartz onto something that had obviously been somewhat explosive! It was a mess and it was late, and Hermione knew that she was already tardy. She picked up Mrs Norris by the scruff and sent her on her way, then cast as many reparation spells as she could manage. The combustible, whatever it was, would be beyond repair. That would be a sour beginning to her evening with Snape. She hoped he would not insist on going and inspecting the scene of the crime himself, hunting for a way to apportion blame to someone he could actually punish.

Hermione closed the door firmly, locking and warding it. How Mrs Norris had got in there was a mystery, but she had always thought there was something fishy about that cat.

She walked briskly back to the Potions classroom, with a sinking, inevitable feeling. When she got there, the door was ajar once more and the boy had gone. Hermione sighed and closed the door, turning her feet in the direction of the apartments of Severus Snape.

He held the tapestry aside for her to enter, hand rolled cigarette held between his lips. He was dressed in shirt and black trousers, hair damp and clean smelling. She noted also that he was freshly shaved and smiled a very small smile, hoping she wouldn't notice. It was nice he had made an effort for her, but she didn't want to make him defensive. It had already been a long night.

Snape warded the door and took the cigarette from his mouth, leaning in to kiss her, his hand sliding down the small of her back to cup her arse and pull her closer.

With regret, Hermione pulled away. "You're not going to like this," she said.

Snape sighed and handed her his cigarette. She spotted an ashtray on a pile of books - strangely, most of Snape's furniture seemed to be made from piles of books - and flicked away the excess ash. "Mrs Norris has destroyed something explosive in your store room. I cleaned up what I could, but I don't know what actually ignited. She's also eaten quite a few flobberworms."

"Wretched animal. I'll deal with it in the morning." He pulled her closer once again. His mouth was insistent and persuasive. It was tempting to melt into him, just enjoy the feel of his hardness pressing into her belly, the answering heat inside of her that responded so quickly to him. She enjoyed the firm stroke of his tongue and smooth of his hands a moment longer before pulling back for breath.

His eyes were so black. She kissed him once more. His fingers were plucking at her robes, her shirt.

"I need to ask you something," she said against his lips.

"Later," he muttered. Hermione smiled fondly. His hand was already snaking under her shirt, into her bra, lifting and squeezing the soft weight of her breast. She felt him roll his thumb over her nipple and shivered, tempted to follow his instruction.

"There was a boy crying in the Potions classroom," she said, kissing his forehead to soften her persistence. "A Slytherin boy. He had bruises all over his wrist, they looked too big to be from just scrapping."

Snape sighed. She felt the puff of his breath across her collarbone. He removed himself from her entirely and went instead to the liquor cabinet. Hermione frowned but adjusted her clothing. For a moment her attention was caught by the prominent bulge in his trousers and she felt a pang of mixed lust and regret. She hoped she was not putting him off entirely.

"He looked like a second or third year. Tall, gangly, shoulder length black hair and very dark eyes. He had..." She paused, watching Snape pour a large measure of whiskey and weighed her words carefully. "He had a very characterful nose." Snape snorted and she took that as a good sign, all things considered. "And a northern accent. He was crying, Severus, and those were just the bruises I saw. Do you know him?"

When he turned, Snape was scowling furiously. His eyes danced with fury instead of desire and he was gripping the whiskey bottle hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "What have you found out?"

Hermione blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you nosy little know it all. You obviously have something to get off your chest."

For a moment she could only stand with her mouth hung open, fear and anxiety, doubt and uncertainty twisting together in her belly as she tried desperately to think what she could have said to make him angry. "I don't know what you-"

"Don't take the piss," he spat. "I know only one lanky, oily haired, big nosed Slytherin. How many can you think of?"

She frowned, taking a tentative step towards him. "I'm just telling you what I saw. I thought you should know. You're the head of house."

He smiled unpleasantly, and emptied his glass in one go, quickly pouring another generous measure. "I see. And you saw this poor little boy bruised and crying. Better bring him to me, Granger."

"I ... When I went back after sorting out the potions store room ... I thought it was Peeves ... He'd gone."

"How convenient." Another measure disappeared down Snape's throat. Another was poured. Hermione suspected the motion of drinking was the only thing that kept him from hurling the bottle at her head. "There are no Slytherin boys matching that description. There are no students in the school at all of the description, to the best of my knowledge. And I write the timetables for the idle little shits, I know them all."

Hermione drew herself to her full height, though doubt had started to creep in long ago. "I know what I saw, Severus."

"Then you'd better go find your broken little boy so you can save him," he sneered. "Get out."

It was a wrench, but Hermione knew better than to try and reason with him when he had anger and alcohol on his side. She swallowed down her pride and turned back to the tapestry, ducking beneath it. Though muffled by the magic entrance and the thick stone walls, she paused outside his doorway and heard sounds of destruction inside. Hermione was a brave woman, but she sent up thanks to the tattered shreds of Snape's self control that he had not started throwing things in front of her. She would not have liked to try and restrain him.

"Better to let him rage it out," she told herself, ignoring her feelings of hurt and confusion.

She knew what she had seen. She had not imagined it. There was a boy who needed her help, and when she placed him in front of Snape she would see him bloody well apologise.