Hello! I'm not sure about you all, but I could sure use a break from reality about now. This chapter was written by candlelight on a particularly frosty, starry night. My thanks, always. Enjoy.

The next few weeks slipped away from the pair as they fell into a comfortable routine. Every other night Hermione would patiently sit through the feast in the great hall, listening to her friend's inane chatter before scurrying away toward the potion's classroom. No one had asked her where she went each time, either uncaring or assuming she sought refuge in the library. Once she was comfortably tucked away in the warm atmosphere of the classroom, the potions master-who was always waiting for her at his desk- and the muggle born witch would pour their knowledge and skill into creating the potion. Hermione had dubbed it "Dreamless Wake" for the time being. Severus, not normally one for corny names, didn't object. Before she scurried away the second night of their brewing, she had told Ginny just the barest amount. That she felt as though she might be developing feelings for someone. She need not know just how surreal the situation really was. Ginny had persisted on the "who" side of things for an hour before giving in and heading to bed, realising Hermione simply wouldn't tell.

This particular weekend, Hermione put the second stage of her plan for Severus' birthday gift into action. She excused herself from Saturday morning's brewing in favour of going to Hogsmeade with Luna and Ginny. After agreeing to meet up in an hour's time for a butterbeer, the three went their separate ways. Hermione made a beeline for Flourish and Blott's. She purchased a thick blank journal, with a silky outer and pages covered in golden fleck. It could be spell encoded so that only certain voices would be allowed entry. It was expensive, but she didn't want to use just any journal for this. She also bought a simple silver inked quill, instant drying to avoid smudges. Feeling decidedly giddy from nerves and excitement about her plan, she drank not one or two drinks but four before stumbling back to Hogwarts with the others. By the time they returned, the great hall was full of hungry students. You've done it now, idiot. Someone is bound to see you. She had to avoid dinner, instead sneaking up towards Gryffindor tower. Hermione was a responsible witch. She didn't get drunk, because it made her silly. That, she reflected after the fact, was entirely why she impulsively turned away from her heavy oak door and stumbled down to the potion's classroom.

Severus was feeling irritable. He told himself the source of his mood was the lack of progress on the potion. He thoroughly refused to acknowledge that his feelings had anything to do with Hermione's absence, or her choosing Hogsmeade over their brewing session. Or the fact that dinner had come and gone without her appearance in the great hall and he was growing concerned. He was still quite wrapped up in his feelings at 7pm, when an un-coordinated knock came from his classroom door.

"What?" His voice came as a snap, unintentionally.

"Profe- Sir. It's me."

"I am finished brewing for the day, Ms Granger. You have missed your opportunity to partake."

Hermione, confused by his harsh attitude and her mind muddled by alcohol, replied

"Well that's-. That's alright, Sir. I don't think I'd be very useful right now. I'm drunk."

At that, heavy footsteps followed, and the door swung open. Her potions master loomed before her, a skill he had mastered even without his teaching robes present. Somewhere in the back of her mind, logical Hermione noted that she felt nervous, but not afraid as she might once have been.

Severus stared down in incredulity at the young woman before him. His anger had eased greatly the moment he laid eyes on her and saw that she was safe. She was smiling softly, her cheeks red and eyes glazed over from the alcohol. Her pupils were wide as she looked up at him. She smelled sweet. Butterbeer and apple was an intoxicating aroma, he discovered. Maybe, just on her.

"I ought to do my duty and remove house points, Ms Granger."

At that, the witch's mouth downturned.

"I understand. I put myself in this position. I'm not one to drink and certainly not one to inform the teachers of my transgressions." The words were slightly slurred, blending together.

"On that note. Why did you come here? I would have thought your rooms for a cup of tea and sleep would be the appropriate course of action."

"I did go there. But then I came here. It was rather spontaneous."

The wizard before her, still confused, frowned.

"Yes, but why? Why did you come here?"

"Well. I…You see. It's just that… Just because I wanted to see you" She flushed, adding "Sir" as an afterthought.

A foreign lump grew in Severus' throat. He must have misheard her. His head couldn't believe what his eyes and ears were telling him. His body understood, the arousal instantaneous, but his mind refused to comprehend. She was looking down, her long lashes shielding her expression from him.

"I'm afraid I still don't quite understand, Ms Granger."

"Hermione."

"Excuse me?"

"My name, its Hermione."

"I am aware of what your name is, silly witch. I can't refer to you on such casual terms. I am still your teacher, despite our recent… acquaintance over the past months." His self control began to slip, formality giving way to emotion in his tone. He prayed she was too drunk to notice.

"I don't see you as an acquaintance. You're my friend. Even that isn't enough to describe it. You're my…"

Possible words hung in the air between them. Idol. Partner. Crush. Everything.

She trailed off; mouth snapping shut with a small gulp. Hermione was sure her big mouth had betrayed her feelings this time, nerves at the thought flushing the alcohol from her system. Anyone else would have seen her rosy cheeks and the lust in her eyes for what it was. Severus could not, so deeply ingrained was the belief that he was unworthy, unpalatable, disgusting.

He didn't know quite what to do. It was like his teenage years all over again, but somehow worse. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the impulse to reach for her almost unbearable. Had he been a man lesser versed in the art of restraint, she would have already been pressed up against the nearest desk. Had he been able to see how she really felt in that moment he might have chosen to give up that restraint, everything else be damned. He was already going to hell, anyway.

The reminder of his sins was enough for him to wrench himself back from her. His desire gave way to self-hatred. Idiot. For a moment, he had forgotten who he was. Murderer, unworthy of the attention of anyone, let alone one as sweet as the muggle born witch before him. He had killed the likes of her. When Severus forced himself to meet her eyes, he could see the hurt lying within them.

Hermione felt a deep pang in her chest, misreading his reaction. What else had she expected? Him to lean down, kiss her and profess his undying love? She had been totally blinded by her own feelings, forgetting what she was to him. A muggle born witch, who had spent years irritating him with inane questions and now served to further irritate him by being a general headcase. Chances were, he was only doing this because she was a student in need, and he was secretly kindhearted. He probably didn't even particularly enjoy his time with her, saying so only out of pity. He had seemed genuine though, any time he complimented her. Sobriety and alcohol now warred for space in her mind, only adding to her disorientation. She said nothing when he moved away.

Severus packed up the rest of the classroom in silence, as Hermione stood in the doorway. Finally, he turned to her

"It would be impertinent to let you wander back to your rooms in your current state. I shall accompany you, or you may join me in my room for a drink. Tea, preferably." He silently prayed that she would come along, whether out of pity or otherwise he could not deny himself her company.

"Tea would be nice, thank you."

Approximately twenty minutes later, Severus found himself in a new dilemma. Hermione had fallen asleep in her usual armchair, book falling from her fingertips and tea long gone cold. He allowed himself to take in her features, as he decided what to do. The small stress lines normally occupying her forehead were banished in her sleep, reminiscent of her character before years of war and grief. His eyes trailed down her slender nose to her lips, which were a very light pink and still shiny from the gloss she wore. They were the colour of his mother's favourite roses, which he assumed still grew at Spinners End. He himself lacked time and enthusiasm for nature. His onyx eyes fell back upon the sleeping form. He didn't want to wake her, were he able to avoid it. Ideas flowed, each one quickly dismissed. He could hardly levitate her back to her rooms without questions.

Another twenty minutes had passed before Severus decided he would transfigure his own chair into a bed. He picked the closest jersey, creating a passable blanket. Transfiguration was not a strong suit. He tormented over levitating the sleeping witch before giving in to temptation. He slipped his arms under her, gently lifting her unconscious form. She stirred but didn't wake, tucking her face against his chest. Holding her in his arms felt different without the panic of thinking she was dead. She was warm, soft, and alive. He pulled her a little closer for a moment before swallowing harshly. He couldn't be certain what it was, but a new feeling began to bloom.

Hermione awoke to the smell of pine needles, brandy and woodsmoke. She inhaled deeply, before her brain registered that she shouldn't be able to smell him. She sat up in a hurry, eyes widening as she took in the room. It was dark, but definitely not her room. For one, her bed wasn't right before a smouldering fireplace. She could feel a dull ache in the back of her skull. She had been drinking, she remembered. The pieces fell into place like a horrible jigsaw puzzle. She had come down here, drunk, rambling about wanting to see him. Groaning softly, the witch looked around for a clock. In the dim light, she could make out that it was 2.23am. She let her head fall back against the bed with a thud. A small smile graced her face. He had made her a bed. After a cautious glance around to make sure he really wasn't in the room, she buried her face in the blanket laying over her. It was loosely stitched, the fabric scratchy. It clicked. He had transfigured a blanket from a jersey. His jersey. That was why it smelled so strongly of him. A dizzying wave of affection hit her at the gesture, so strong that she had to suck in a few deep breaths just to calm down.