That is where Snape found her, close to dinner time.

He had returned to the castle a few hours before, spent time with Poppy, who sniffled over fixing his torn skin.

The Dark Lord had learned of his new teaching position, before Snape had a chance to tell him. Of course the Dark Lord wasn't pleased.

He'd left Bella in charge of teaching the teacher a lesson. Bella, of course, was very creative.

Especially with cutting and slicing hexes.

But it was his good fortune that the Dark Lord was pleased with his appointment; it saved him from total disrepair.

Snape stood, leaning against a tree, watching the girl. Occasionally she heaved a breath and her shoulders shook. He knew she sensed his presence, but left it at that.

He was not sure what had caused her to be so distressed, but she would speak when she was able. He was a patient man.

He had his orders, as the new Defence teacher. He had dutifully writhed in pain, gasped for breath and begged for mercy, kissed the hem with his bloody lips and bowed sycophantically at his "Lord's" feet, and waited till he had been alone to activate the emergency portkey to the infirmary.

Poppy had efficiently fixed him, and refrained from mothering him. It would take a few days for the deeper scars to heal, if at all. Then she had warned him to leave off the heroics and flooed to wherever she was spending the summer.

He sighed and waited.

Eventually, she turned her head slightly and spoke, "Why?"

He knew what she was asking, but he wasn't ready to answer just yet.

"Because you failed to turn up at our session, and you missed lunch," he lied, and she snorted, turning back to stare at the small pool at the centre of the glade.

"I've been fed too many lies and half truths," she said so quietly, he nearly missed it.

His chest constricted at the utter resignation that coloured her words. It wasn't right for such emotion to be part of a child's life. She would not remain a child much longer.

Not unlike his own past.

To give her ample time to refuse his gesture, he walked slowly, crunching grass and leaves underfoot, to stand beside her. She said nothing, neither did she recoil or move, so he assumed it was alright.

They stayed that way, each lost in their own thoughts, for longer than they cared to account for. The silence was interrupted by a tiny chime that would have gone unnoticed were it not for the absolute peace of the glade.

Snape lifted a pocket-watch (a gift from Poppy, years ago), flicked it open, and tapped the face. He glanced down to see her looking at him with curiosity.

His face gave nothing away, but he felt the heaviness at seeing her pale face, tear stained and nearly hopeless. It was not right.

"May I?" she nodded at the watch, and he silently took it off the chain to hand it to her.

"It's time for dinner," he said, needing to speak.

She was already examining the face. It was not unlike the Weasleys' clock, he knew. But this one was tuned to him. It would inform Poppy were something to happen. Snape had been touched by the gesture.

Now, it pointed to "Late for Dinner."

She chuckled and handed it back to him. A brief moment, their fingers touched, and he was amazed by the tingle he felt. It was also not right, he reminded himself.

"You should be at dinner, Ms. Granger," he intoned.

"I'm not particularly hungry, Sir," she replied, "You should be too."

"I find our predicament to be the same," he looked out at the pool. He was tired, and his legs were protesting. Torture did take its toll on one's body, he thought dryly.

A moment later, he felt something soft touch the back of his hand, and a quiet "thank you" fell from her lips.

His robe. He remembered now.

He nodded, took it from her and against his better judgement, draped it across her shoulders. She looked confused for a moment, but then she gratefully drew it closer. Her jeans and jumper were not suited to the cool glade.

"Would you like to join me, Sir?"

"I was under the impression that I already had," he drawled, making her smile a little. It relieved him somewhat.

She tilted her head, and he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Muttering about presumptuous Gryffindors (which made her smile widen) he sat down next to her, careful to leave a respectable distance. It would not do to have the headmaster die of an apoplexy to see his Golden Gryffindor socialising with the Greasy Git.

Apparently, she had no such worry.

Hermione scooted closer, and he felt nervous. It was not everyday that young children willingly accepted his company. He was not used to being friendly, except with the staff, and even that on rare occasion.

"May I?" she asked again, and he was hard pressed not to get up and run as fast as he could when she boldly draped the wool coat over both of them.

"It wouldn't do for either of us to freeze," she spoke, but he noticed the colour on her cheeks. He smirked internally to realise she was as nervous as he.

"Indeed," he murmured, and accepted the peace offering. It seems she had done much growing up in the past few weeks, and he was not blind to it.

The Room of Requirement locked itself up, allowing no passage inside. It was not clear whose requirement it was.

A long stretch of shared silence, that neither occupant was compelled to fill, surrounded them, save for the occasional whisper of leaves, or rippling of the water.

It was when he felt the weight of her head on his shoulder that Snape brought himself out of his thoughts. Hermione had fallen asleep.

Against all his inner turmoil, Snape decided that she deserved to be treated better than a floating object.

He knelt, carefully holding her head, and swept her up from the ground, almost as easily as he would lift a book. Much to his shock, her arms came up to surround his neck, her head resting on his chest, as if it belonged there.

Sighing at the gullibility of impressionable teenagers, he stepped through the fireplace, landing gracefully in the Gryffindor common room.

Déjà vu, he thought to himself, as he left her asleep, hugging his robe close.