A/N: A short but steamy (literally) chapter. I felt the need to keep things to shorter chapters for the separation they need.

When Hermione woke, she rolled over to see him lying beside her, rubbing at his forehead. "Headache?" she asked gently. Severus grunted, "Among other things," he admitted.

He seemed all business this morning, she quickly decided. He groaned as he moved to sit up. It was an agonizing process to watch, but this was a man who it was nearly impossible to help. With belabored steps, he crossed to the bureau, seeming much older than he was.

He found his supply of pain medication and choked down a few of the small tablets. There were days when he had washed the damn things down with a shot of his whiskey. Suddenly that seemed inappropriate in the presence of the innocent.

"He knows Potter and the Headmaster are up to something," Severus said slowly testing his tongue's progress toward healing. There was no preamble with him. He merely launched into the discussion as if there had been none of the erotic distractions of last night. "And at any time he could discover our deception.

"Promise me," he said finally turning to looked at her. "If something happens to me, you will get out of here. Get Minerva to hide you." His words were so intense they frightened her.

"I'll be alright. I will. You will, too," she insisted. The words sounded ridiculously childish and hollow even to her.

His voice was strained now, and he gritted his teeth. "Promise me, I don't have to worry about you. If I die, do whatever you need to. Tell them I forced myself on you. But don't let them martyr you."

"I would never tell anyone that," she objected and she could feel the tears well up. She damned the changes to her body that made her so apt to break down lately. "It's the hormones," she explained embarrassed as she quickly wiped her eyes..

"I'm going to shower. You need to go to breakfast." he said firmly. He stood there then by his bureau as if waiting for her to comply. As if he expected her to put her clothes on and march to the Floo like a good little girl.

She was torn about what to do. How does one handle Severus Snape, if the man could be handled at all? Do I ask him to let me stay so I can help him? Do I tell him I am staying?

Hermione just stood and with a small smile that seemed to say, I do not yield, she walked for the bathroom. Her swinging curls were the last thing he saw before the door closed.

When the door finally opened again, steam was rolling out and he could hear the water running. He pinched his brow in consternation, but he didn't move.

Patience, she told herself as she stood by the bathroom. Not a word. And patience. And finally he began to walk for the bathroom door.

"Promise me you will hide yourself, if it comes to that," he said once he stood along side her. Was he making an unspoken trade? He would not pester her to leave his rooms, if she would make this promise?

"I promise. I will take care of myself. And the baby," she added. "But you. You have to promise to take care of yourself."

"I don't have to promise anything," he said slowly, as he turned away from her. He shut her out of the bathroom then.

She waited. She was expected at breakfast, yes. But she wasn't going. After all, she was part of the sneakiest group ever to grace Hogwarts.

It was easy to discern what was going on in the bathroom. The door was not that thick, and her hearing was quite acute.... especially with her ear pressed up against the wood.

He flushed. She heard him struggle with his trousers and groan. He pulled the shower curtain open. And with a moan, the curtain was pulled shut. And a now-naked Hermione eased through the bathroom door. She parted the curtain just enough to squeeze through.

It was a beautifully tiled, large shower. Square with two jets of water and very easy to walk into. No climbing over a tub lip. But then, Horace Slughorn, the previous occupant of these rooms, would not have been one for anything laborious, she considered.

And as she adjusted to the feel of the spray on her back, she shook her head and scrubbed at her face to banish the thought of a naked Horace Slughorn. She opened her eyes to see her shower partner.

Severus. Severus Snape, she thought. No. Just "Severus" to me. A whole different man from any I have known before.

It hurt to look at him. His back was to her and he leaned into the wall with his head resting on his uninjured arm. The bruises were deep and exaggerated against his pale skin.

"What are you doing here?" he said with out even turning to look at her.

"Just helping," she said as she reached to gently extract the flannel he was holding from his hand.

He groaned in answer.

Even with the soothing feel of the hot water on him, he ached horribly. It would be another few minutes before the pain medication provided any relief. And so he was resigned to just stand there in the hopes that he would start to feel better quickly. The sooner he could function, the sooner he could get back some control over his life.

His pushy little ingenue was behind him. Was she being careful not to press against him? Was she mindful of the injuries or the likelihood that their bodies, naked and pressed together for the first time, would start something they could not finish?

So, it was just the touch of her hands and the flannel that worked across his neck gently. He almost chuckled then, despite the pain, to feel her scrub behind his ears as if he was 4.

He didn't move, didn't even open his eyes. He just felt. When she was not washing him, she petted him. Softly. Like no one ever had. As if there were words in her fingertips, words of encouragement and consolation. Her hands ghosted down him silently then, carefully, and relief seemed to enter his muscles just then. The soft flannel, the steaming water, and her faint touch, worked all the way down his back and arms, across his buttocks and to his thighs.

She was straightening now behind him. She placed a kiss on his shoulder blade and then began to wash him again. Oh God, he thought. That woman means to wash all of me.

She had been hesitant at first. Embarrassed. To be standing there naked and exposed. She had never seen him naked before. Still hadn't, really. He had yet to turn around and she had only seen him from behind. The awkwardness melted away as she put herself to her task. And she gently extended both arms around him to wash at his chest.

She stopped, got more soap. And then her hands returned with out the flannel. They swept from his hips low and to the front. She just grazed against him there and he moaned. Encouraged then, she took him in hand. The rising hardness excited her and she pressed against him as lightly as she could, but she could not help but to grind against his hip a bit. Oh, she was done washing him. But she could not stop stroking him.

Shouldn't I stop? she worried.

But as she slowed her hand, he began to push into it. And she had her answer.

"Show me how," she said. If they were going to do this, Hermione Granger wanted to do it right.

And his hand guided hers. He had her squeeze a little harder just ... "Mmm, there," he whispered. And he dropped his hand from hers to snake it behind him and give her something perfect to push against.

Shameless. She felt so shameless hearing herself moan. But she didn't stop.

And then she was invincible, alive, and connected as she climaxed against his hand just as she had the other night. But he had never come for her, and she wanted that. That unreasonable, demanding, set-in-her-ways determination that ruled Hermione Granger. She groaned with him. Stroked him. Felt the shivering, the tensing. Begged him with her thoughts to let her make this happen.

He gripped the wall with both hands now. Imagined himself blissfully buried inside her. Saw himself releasing and it happened.

His legs nearly left him then. She felt him weaken and wrapped her arms around his chest and supported him a bit. He sighed with exhaustion. He tried to turn to face her and nearly stumbled. She moved to shore him up. Pressing against him and having him lean against the wall. She lay her head against his chest, chuckled a little out of relief, and heaved her own satisfied breath.

"Easy, woman," he said with a hand to her head. "If we knock ourselves unconscious in here, we'll give the Daily Prophet enough material for a month. And Madam Pomfrey will have that heart attack she has been promising me I would cause." There was a touch of amusement to his voice. A lightness she enjoyed hearing.

She nuzzled against him, placed a soft kiss on his wet chest. There was this dichotomy to her that amazed him. The sweet silence of her seeking intimacy. And then that vocal woman who had ground herself against him, desperate with need. And all of it had him as its focal point.

He could only stare down at her and wonder how she managed this. She had made her decision and had, it seemed, bound herself to him... to him after all the gruffness, despite the age difference, despite the limitations on his soul and emotions.

He was too shocked to know if it endeared her to him. Or frightened him.

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