A/N: I will be updating this, though it will be sporadic. The Five Winters is still my priority. However, once that is complete, updates to this story will become more regular.

And because I am not evil and have a conscience, I am posting this already-prepared chapter today.

You got your wish. ;)

Thanks to April93 for her awesome beta-ing skills. =) Seriously, she is absolutely amazing. Please give her a round of well-deserved applause.

Please review!

Hermione was called into one of the unoccupied rooms that night to meet with Mother. The rooms were usually for small private parties, but they easily doubled as a meeting room. If Hermione were asked to attend a party, she would have kneeled in front of the door and waited to be admitted. At other, stricter teahouses, she would have been expected to do the same when given the honour of meeting personally with the proprietor.

Mother had no use for such nonsense. No, that wasn't the right word. What they did wasn't nonsense. It was a careful act that they crafted to appear both subservient and sultry to the men they served. But when they were alone, they were just women again, girls who had all been thrown into the same situation. Some were older than others. They had different jobs. But in the end, all Mother cared that they kept up pretences when they were entertaining, but when they were alone, there was no need to defer to her as though she were a customer.

Hermione opened the door and slipped inside, shutting it firmly behind her.

Mother was kneeling, legs carefully folded under her seemingly-frail body, at the table. A cup of tea sat untouched by her hands, which were wrapped around it more for warmth than anything else.

"I'm here, Mother," Hermione stated unnecessarily as she took a seat opposite of the proprietress.

Mother's tone was very business-like, very matter-of-fact, as she answered simply, "Lucius Malfoy came by today."

"I know, Mother."

"He was there on behalf of Lord Snape," Mother continued, inspecting her teacup as though it held the secrets of the universe in its gently-swirling watery-brown colour. "He was here to make negotiations on the price of being your personal patron— your danna."

"Lord Snape spoke with me after I took him upstairs," Hermione replied, refusing to meet Mother's eyes, but instead followed the wood grain of the table. "His words were rather indicative."

Mother nodded in response.

"Mr. Malfoy and I spent most of the evening haggling," she continued. "He ended up agreeing to pay ten times the amount he originally offered. And his offer was a reasonable one," she continued with a tight-lipped smile that reminded Hermione distinctly of Professor McGonagall. "However, you are very valuable to this establishment," Mother continued, dipping her head to Hermione in acknowledgement. "Much more valuable to me as a worker than a cash girl." That's what they were called, anyways. Girls who trained as personal entertainers rather than working for a wider audience. They earned money by snagging a rich patron, not helping keep the place in order. "I would much rather Mr. Malfoy had been discouraged by the exorbitantly high price I demanded for you, but alas…" she pulled her gnarled hands from the cup long enough to hold them up as if to say, 'What can you do about it?" It was a gesture of helplessness. "He would not be deterred."

Hermione's eyes widened almost imperceptibly at this as her mind already went through the calculations in her head. A reasonable offer for an upper-class teahouse girl, with other considerations such as age, talent, appearance, and temperament, would have made Hermione very expensive to begin with. Ten times that was almost unthinkably high!

But of course, Lucius could pay for it. So could Lord Snape. Or whoever would actually be paying for her. Either of them were prosperous enough to do it without a second thought.

"I asked him what you would be used for," Mother continued evenly, her dull eyes trying to focus on the cup of tea in her hands with some clarity. "His words were, and I quote, 'everything.'"

For the first time that day, Hermione allowed herself to swallow.

Everything.

All of her.

She was his property now. Irrefutably so.

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat and forced it back down. She didn't know whether or not he would choose to call on her for more than just her brains, but she didn't like knowing that if he did, she would not be able to refuse. It was a revolting thought, one that made a shudder run down her spine, but she quickly collected herself.

She'd done worse. She was certain of it. If this was the price it took to get close enough to him to kill, she was grateful for it. It was the only opportunity she'd get.

Mother pursed her lips, and her dull eyes were apologetic. "I'm sorry, Sakura."

Hermione shook her head. "I knew what I was getting into when I came here for work," she replied dutifully. "I will do my job. You did your best—now it's my turn to do mine."

Mother's next move surprised Hermione. The old women placed her hand over Hermione's, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Men like these tend to tire of their toys quickly," she said quietly, "I don't expect it will last forever. You will bore them soon enough."

Hermione smiled back, as though relieved, but her thoughts ran the opposite way.

That's what I'm afraid of…

What happened if he grew tired of her before she had gotten close enough to carry out her mission?

~o~O~o~

On the first day of February, Lord Snape arrived at the teahouse, flanked closely by his ever-present bodyguard. Hermione, who had been forewarned of his arrival, waited until one of the serving girls had directed Snape and Malfoy to one of the private rooms before Hermione moved to kneel before the door, waiting to be admitted.

Snape stiffly gestured for her to enter—and for Merlin's sake, to shut the damn door behind her— before gesturing her to sit at the table with them. Hermione was relieved by Malfoy's presence, for it meant that propriety would be expected. Politeness would be her shield while dealing with the man.

Snape pulled out a worn leather-bound book and slid it across the table to her.

"Read page three-hundred and ninety-four."

Frowning, Hermione picked it up and opened it to the desired page.

She nearly dropped it when she realized it was her old third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts book. Instead she disguised what little surprise she'd shown as interest in the topic written neatly across the top of the page.

Werewolves.

Hermione took a moment to read it, though she probably could have still recited the page by heart to him had he asked, and then set it down.

"What is this, Sir?"

"You are aware of the existence of the Wolfsbane Potion." Snape pulled the book from her hands and shut it, slamming it down on the table. "I am developing a potion to destroy werewolves. Permanently."

Hermione did not like the sound of this, but smiled questioningly regardless. "Permanently how?"

"I have yet to find a way to prevent them from transforming," he said, gesturing at the book, "but I'm currently trying to find a way to stop them from being infectious. Let them die out on their own."

Hermione blinked.

"Interesting, Sir."

"You will be helping me with research."

Hermione nodded solemnly.

"And if you prove yourself useful," he continued, "I will continue to pay for rights as your patron. If you prove to be more trouble than you're worth…" the threat dangled in the air.

"I understand, Sir."

"And stop calling me sir," he snapped.

Hermione sat up straighter, cocking her head almost playfully, though her mind reeled with surprise. He had always emphasized that his students were to call him Sir—particularly when dealing with Harry. It had been his way of exerting control over them. "Then what should I call you? I can't very well call you by your first name."

"You can and will." His tone bordered on a snarl, brooking no argument.

Sensing Hermione's confusion, Lucius cheerfully added, "Anything else will, unfortunately, tick him off."

"You're a loose cannon," Hermione said, eyeing the temperamental man, and testing the waters, "Severus."

"Go fetch tea," he snapped. "Lemon. No sugar."

Hermione dipped her head and stood up gracefully before exiting the room.

~o~O~o~

That evening found Hermione stretched out across her bed, in nothing but a bra and a pair of shorts, reading the books Lord Snape—no, Severus—had given her before he'd left. They were all on werewolves, their history, their attributes, and generally how much of a menace they were.

Hermione suspected she knew why Severus was working on such a potion. Since becoming ruler, he had lost the Dark Lord's control over the werewolf population. They didn't run rampant, but were still a growing problem. Naturally, he wanted to eliminate them; however, given that many of them were people with families, who would be incredibly disgruntled if they were all gathered and executed, he had to find a way of getting rid of them without annihilating them. This was, she supposed, his solution.

Crookshanks sat curled up at her side, the rumble of his purr signalling that he was not asleep, though his eyes were shut and his lips lifted up in semblance of a smile. Hermione reached down to scratch him behind the ears.

"So what do you think?" she muttered to him. "Is what he's after possible?"

But of course, the half-kneazle gave no reply—at least, none that Hermione could interpret.

~o~O~o~

Snape arrived with Lucius every two and a half days to check up on her progress, the notes she'd compiled, her research. Hermione always had something new to give him, some new tidbit that, she was pleased to see, made his cold eyes defrost enough to reveal the curiosity behind them. He snapped at her, but her ideas had merit, and though he belittled ones he obviously thought too far-fetched, there were many others that he would simply not comment on.

Hermione had had enough experience as his student to know this meant he could find no fault with them.

Two weeks later, he arrived without Lucius. Instead of meeting up in one of the private rooms, he demanded Hermione again take him up to hers. Once the door was closed, he let loose a sigh of exasperation, and took a seat on her bed, holding his face between his hands.

Hermione waited quietly until he spoke;

"I hate Valentine's Day."

Hermione realized with a jolt that she had completely forgotten about it. Harry and Ron had sent her a letter just a week ago, but nothing in there would have reminded her. It was all business. And the teahouse never celebrated it—what was the point of celebrating love in an establishment that preyed on the lust of men?

"In fact, I ought to get rid of it… as a holiday… or at least ban it from being celebrated within ten miles of my person…"

"A rather creative solution," Hermione offered, taking a seat on the floor in front of him so that she was kneeling before him, though not quite facing him; her elbows were almost touching his knees. "However, I'm not certain how well that might work."

"I should simply ban it from Britain. For good."

"You'd have a riot on your hands," Hermione replied with a wry smile.

"Do you like it?" His tone was almost accusatory.

"Severus," Hermione answered gently—she'd gotten used to calling him by his first name by now. "I work in a place where it is my job to fake love for the sake of inciting lust. Valentine's Day seems a rather sordid affair to me in comparison."

He snorted at this. "Interesting perspective."

Hermione laughed. It was one of her high, musical laughs, the one that Lucius—flatterer that he was— always told her reminded him of bells. "Trust me, I have no interest in covering the walls in garish pink décor. You're quite safe here, I assure you."

"Small favours."

Hermione could not have agreed more.

She was alone with him. She'd had two weeks to adjust herself to being under his supervision once more, only this time as an adult. Lucius's presence here was unnecessary to her now—it had been protection before, but now it became a barrier between herself and her target. If she could entice him into thinking time alone with her was better than when he had his blond bodyguard with him, she would be a step closer to her goal.

"You're stressed, aren't you?" she asked, trailing a hand up to toy with black locks of hair. Four weeks ago, he would have pulled away from her. By now, she had conditioned him to accept her touch near his head. The prerequisite to, perhaps, snapping his neck, if given the right opportunity. "Ruling an entire country with twelve other men—I haven't any idea how you manage it."

"The Romans managed it with a hundred and more land to cover," Snape replied sneeringly. "Twelve lackeys and one island is far easier by comparison."

"Yes, but I imagine not all of your men are content being lackeys," Hermione replied patiently, now gently stroking his neck. A muscle twitched under her touch, but he did not pull away. "Isn't it hard to rule a country while worrying about being stabbed in the back by the overly ambitious?"

"I forced them to take a Vow." Snape's words sounded almost resigned. "An Unbreakable Vow. Their only purpose is to serve me—work hard, and I will raise them. Shirk their work, and I kill them. If they attempt to kill me, they will drop dead where they stand."

So that's how he does it…!

"I still imagine it's not easy," Hermione pressed, working her hands ever so gradually down to his shoulders. He shuddered, unaccustomed to having hands touching his person, particularly in vulnerable places. She saw his left eye, the one that she was almost certain was partially-blind, blink nervously at this. "They must complain. And while Lucius is a good man, I find his son to be rather spoiled." She was taking a risk again, Gryffindor though it was, but she was certain she was able to read him well enough to know where to push him and not to push him.

To her surprise, Snape nodded slowly.

"Lucius is a valuable asset. A good friend," he conceded, looking away. To Hermione, it only exposed his neck to her further. "Draco is lazy, recalcitrant. Oppositional. The only thing protecting him is his father's connection."

"Ah." Hermione sounded understanding, sympathetic even, though not enough to trigger his ire by feeling as though he were being pitied. Her fingers rubbed deeper into his shoulders, loosening the knots of stress from his back. "Quite a dilemma, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Would you like a massage?" The question was bold, but Hermione was practically half-way there anyways.

"Regretfully, not at this time." Snape looked down at his watch. "I have things to attend to—I must leave soon."

Hermione had already been well aware of this, and now she dropped the bait.

"Perhaps next time, then?"

He turned to look at her, scanning her thoughts—well-occluded as they were—as though trying to detect a trick or ploy in her words.

He didn't detect them.

"Perhaps," he agreed. His next words broke the calm that had overtaken the room— "How close are you to identifying the properties of the werewolf saliva?"

Hermione smiled, continuing to work his shoulders.

"I already have." She smiled knowingly at him. "However, you will have to stop by again to get it."

"Two days," he warned.

The bait had been taken. Flawlessly.

"I'll be waiting," she said.

~o~O~o~

Snape was not entirely what Hermione had expected.

He was paranoid, demanding, snarky, quite rude at times, and controlling. He ruled with an iron wand, and his followers enforced his edicts.

Yet, Hermione also saw, through the cracks in his shell, a tired man, as well as someone who had been deprived of comfort. He had taken a liking to Crookshanks, who—to Hermione's disturbance—always greeted him by rubbing his legs affectionately before leaving the room.

She had hated him on sight. For Hermione, hate was a strong word. But as she got to know him, she couldn't help feeling pity for him even as she assimilated the information she had on him and plotted and planned various ways in which she could assassinate him successfully. He was not an attractive man, and Hermione found herself easily irritated by him, but there was no denying that there were certain aspects of him that she would miss once he was gone.

He stopped bringing Lucius with him. They stopped meeting in the private rooms, instead adjourning to her room. The correlation was not missed on Hermione; by coming without Lucius, he was without safety. By being in her room, he felt safe. He would review her work, show her his results, and she would pick them apart and add in her own knowledge. Together, they were starting to sketch out the details of a potion that could very well become a prophylactic measure against werewolf bites. It wasn't precisely what they had been aiming for, but modifications would make it a viable base for Snape's original idea.

Lucius continued to stop by on his own time. Hermione no longer served in the capacity of a teahouse girl, but she would still come out to sing for Lord Snape's closest friend, partnering with Mitsuki. Mitsuki had pouted when she'd found out that Hermione would no longer be working with her, and was insanely jealous of her new status, but was also excited for Sakura, knowing this was a grand opportunity. They both cherished the moments they had together when they performed for Lucius, and Hermione's singing was prevented from growing rusty from disuse, something she prized greatly.

She sometimes sang when she was worked—and if Lord Snape was present, and they were not working on the research, she would sing quietly. At the beginning, he had snapped at her for it, calling her an annoyance, but Hermione would not be discouraged. She had acclimated him to her touch, and she would get him to enjoy her music. He was slowly relaxing in the presence of her room, and if she could condition him to associate her room, herself, and signature aspects of what made up Sakura, she was a step closer. To her, it was all about to conditioning.

It was an ongoing process. He hated it all at first, and then began to develop preferences, which Hermione would lean toward, giving him a compromise that made him feel in control, more as if he had requested it rather than chosen the lesser of a half-dozen evils. But Hermione refrained from doing so while they worked—distracting him at such a time would be a step back, and that was the last thing she wanted. They were progressing so well.

He began to visit more often, sometimes three days in a row. More often than not, they worked. Sometimes, it seemed to her he came simply to escape from the ordered chaos that was his life, and she felt the strings of victory start to play their tune. What had started out as merely an investment to him was fast becoming something akin to a drug. A friendly face, a smart companion, music, a safe place, something it seemed he needed more of each time.

Hermione always held back. She never gave him everything. She always had one more bread crumb to toss to him, one more trick up her sleeve, one more idea to implement that would make his eyes widen in minute appreciation when they compared notes. Far from growing bored of her, his interest multiplied tenfold.

Hermione never left any written traces of her plans anymore—she had burned them all the day she had learned he was to be her danna. He was a nosy man, observant, and if he saw anything, it was all over. Hermione kept all her plans locked inside her mind, where they were safest. He always scanned her mind the moment he met her, and through this interaction—unbeknownst to him—her skills had begun to grow. She was now competent enough to keep him at bay if he chose to delve further than mere surface scans, though if he pushed his hardest, she still had no doubt that he would break her. But she was competent, and for the moment, her plans were safe.

He had her test every cup of tea she brought him—and indeed, she was the only one who ever did bring him tea. He ordered that she be the one to prepare it, too, and she quickly learned to make it exactly as he liked it. She couldn't poison him. She wasn't in any position to come up behind him and wrap her arms around his neck—she wasn't at that stage yet, nor was she strong enough to execute a powerful enough jerk to snap his neck. He was an ex-Death Eater and had more experience with knives than she could ever hope to acquire, and to keep him at ease, she was required to keep her wand on her desk except for when she was using it. She couldn't simply whip it out and kedavra him.

And yet, she was making progress.

However, there was a tiny spark of regret within her at the thought of killing him. She always pushed the thought aside, but it began to grow, slowly, but surely. The closer she got to her target, the more she knew about him, the more reluctant she was to carry out her mission.

But she had to do it. She had taken it upon herself to do it, and Hermione had never failed a job she set herself yet.