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.

I would appreciate some reviews, particularly because I work hard to get these chapters out. TFW is scheduled to be updated every Monday, but this keeps my muse going (even though I've got it all planned out) and some reviews would be most appreciated. -arches eyebrow in Snape-like fashion- or do I have to start placing Compusion Charms on my readers?

I anticipate this story being somewhere between fifteen to twenty-five chapters (at the most.)

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!

Snape appeared the next day, much earlier than Hermione had expected. He knocked on the door before sliding it open. He slipped in, shut it behind him and—to Hermione's surprise—locked it. He never locked it. They were never disturbed—it was, after all, considered bad manners for one girl to walk in on another, particularly when she was engaging a patron, her patron. Why he felt the need to lock the door was beyond her.

Once checking to make sure it was properly closed, he sat down on the floor and began unlacing his boots. It was such a human thing to do that it momentarily threw Hermione off, but she quickly collected herself.

"No more damned potion to work on," he grunted, tugging one boot off and (rather rudely) sending it sprawling to its designated corner of the room. "Now that we've developed it, other people can brew it. It's just a matter of administering it to the werewolves."

Hermione started opened her mouth to speak, but Snape cut her off, clearly not done.

"There are still a dozen projects to work on," he said, now working on the other shoe, "but I'm allowed a break once in awhile." Now clad in only his socks—which were still black, Hermione noted—he looked up at her. "I'm here to take you up on your offer of a massage."

Hermione's mouth might have dropped open in surprise if it hadn't been for the fact that she was hoping he would take the second part of her bait. The offer had been weeks ago, but it still stood.

There was a way to go through with this. She wasn't just going to ask him to sit down and let her work on him—he could probably find someone else to do that, a professional even, if that were the case. No, it was her job to make it worthwhile. Sensual, rather than merely comfortable. Worthwhile.

Worthwhile had different connotations. In Hermione's situation, given that she was trying to seduce his trust, it would have to be sensual. The thought of working on a man like Snape privately made her shudder—she had no idea what he looked like underneath, and she wasn't certain she wanted to know, but it was necessary. She immediately pulled her mask back firmly in place, in the form of a sultry smile.

Without another word, Hermione stepped forward and kneeled down, making sure her breasts were directly in his line of sight as she began to work on pulling his robes off. His face betrayed no emotion—it seemed to her that he was starting to guard his reactions better when faced with her unexpectedly bold actions toward his person— as she began tugging his sleeves off. His eyes flickered from her face to her chest, as though determinedly trying not to stare at the latter, but Hermione's tokuemon was a bit too revealing for that. He didn't have the self-control to deny himself from looking at something that he was clearly meant to see, and leaned forward to allow her to pull the back off and set it aside.

She saw him hesitate—his wand was in there—but he seemed to reconsider pulling it out. Hermione stood up suddenly, dragging him up with her by tugging on the front of his shirt—possibly the only white article of clothing he ever wore—and nibbling on his chin, kissing it sensuously, while she slid the shirt off of him.

She knew he wanted to kiss her; despite his masked expression, she knew men too well for them to hide such wants easily. But she wouldn't let him, instead teasing him, moving to nuzzle his throat—Merlin, what lengths would she have to sink to for this man?—as she ran her hands over his now-exposed chest, feeling out the scars. Perhaps her earlier assessment of him had been a bit too quick—he didn't look too bad underneath, just a bit pasty…

He surprised her when he pulled away enough to grab her jaw in a fierce, unyielding grip, much as he had done the first day she'd brought him to her room. She absolutely detested when he did that, but she knew better than to pull away. She let him have the illusion of power—even though the grip on her jaw certainly was painful—if that would make him vulnerable enough around her.

He reached down to kiss her, forcing his lips on hers—not that she was resisting, and she certainly had initiated it—and surprised her again by loosening his grip on her jaw, slid it down the column of her throat, as if feeling it out, and then brushed it gently with his knuckles.

This was a man who could be both gentle and rough at the same time, with unpredictable results. Hermione realized this now.

Hermione let him kiss her, but refused to respond. He could take what he wanted, but he would get nothing if he took it by force, and indeed, he pulled away a moment later, looking frustrated.

Hermione smiled coyly. It was the smile of a fox appraising its meal.

"My lips offer sweetness," she told him, taking the hand that had gripped her jaw in hers in a gentle hold and lowering it, "but take without asking, and you will get nothing but a sour taste of what might have been." Her milk-chocolate eyes seemed to hold him in a disturbingly hypnotic gaze. "Be patient, Severus."

His eyes darkened with both anger and arousal, but Hermione would have none of it. She pulled away, slipping behind him, and pressed her hands against his back, gently pushing him forward. She suspected that, if he was angry enough, he might have simply turned around and forced his lips against hers again in an effort to prove her wrong, but the message she'd given him seemed to penetrate his brain. No knowing that nothing short of the Imperius would get her to comply if she did not wish to; he seemed to relinquish the control back to her—reluctantly—and stepped forward until he reached the bed.

He lay down without prompting. He didn't need permission for that.

Hermione followed him and then leaned over to whisper into his ear;

"Close your eyes."

For a moment, she thought he would refuse. He blinked angrily, still furious at her earlier defiance, and she felt his consciousness press up against hers, demanding to know what she was doing. Her Occlumency barriers prevailed against his moderate invasion, and he pulled away, satisfied but disgruntled.

He closed his eyes, chin resting under his crossed arms.

Hermione hardly dared to breathe. She had Snape laying across her bed, in nothing but trousers, in an incredibly vulnerable position, and with his eyes closed. If only she had a knife in her hands, she could easily kill him now, and there would be nothing he could do. If only she'd found a way to slip a knife up her sleeve without risking detection, she would be able to complete her mission right now.

Her eyes travelled over to her desk, which was on the other side of the room. Her wand lay there inconspicuously, an innocent object that was just waiting to be used as a murder weapon. If only.

Hermione resigned herself to her lost opportunity, unless an idea came to her, and carefully pulled herself onto the bed, moved to the other side, and tucked her legs up and under her.

The muscles in his back twitched involuntarily when her questing fingers first touched him, but the trembling—he still shook at times—slowly ceased when her hands began to rub into his shoulders with practiced firmness. She took notice of the pale scars criss-crossed along his back, paying no particularly special attention to them with her hands, though she spent a good portion of her time imagining how he'd acquired them. His body was lean, though she remembered him from her schooldays as being of scrawny build and half-starved. He had certainly fleshed out a bit, and her earlier assessment of him that he looked healthier appeared to be correct. Her fingers worked to undo the coiled knots of muscle that had developed in his shoulders, and though he winced in pain as she worked, the soreness gradually seemed to leave his body.

"You know," Hermione said, in sudden inspiration, "I know a spell that releases knots from your muscles, if you would like me to use it."

Snape seemed to take a moment to consider it, and then nodded. Hermione stood up to retrieve it and returned to her previous position.

She felt him tense up as she cast the spell, but given the nature of the casting, his muscles relaxed almost immediately. He let out an audible groan of relief, and rested his cheek against his arms, clearly in a state of relaxation. His eyes, which had opened while she cast the spell, had closed again, though they still fluttered open nervously now and again. His anger at her had clearly dissipated, and Hermione was now in possession of a wand. Her wand.

She set it back down next to her and continued working, waiting for the right moment to use it. She had it. She could do it. She was prepared to do it. She should do it.

She continued to work on him, her mind reeling in a dangerously vulnerable way. She hated this man—and yet, she didn't. She hated and liked him in the same way he could be both gentle and a terror. She had to kill him, though she no longer really wanted to, though really, the best way to do this in the kindest manner was to do it while he was relaxed and calm—probably the first time he'd been so since the night of Voldemort's downfall—

She picked up her wand—

"What're you doing?" he mumbled.

"Recasting the spell," Hermione answered resolutely, pointing it at him.

At that moment, a large ginger blur barrelled into her, knocking her wand to the floor. Hermione squeaked in surprise—and Snape shot up immediately in alarm—as Crookshanks crashed to the floor.

"What the hell—"

"Crooks!" Hermione scrambled off the bed to stand up as her cat dashed under the bed and then appeared out the other side, to apparently make a run for the desk. She stumbled to her feet and snatched up her wand before running over to where her cat was now hiding, orange eyes now peering out of the darkness. "What—?"

Before Hermione could even finish, Crookshanks shoved a small, grey carcass in front of her.

Hermione stared at the mouse. There was no way he had just caught that mouse. He had probably been hiding it under her desk for at least a few days. She quickly vanished the rotten thing before Snape could see it properly.

"Thank you, Crooks." Her voice was sweet, but she knew her cat wouldn't be fooled by it.

Her cat didn't seem to care. He looked directly up at her and purred, looking smug and self-satisfied. She set her wand back at the desk, knowing her opportunity was over, and turned around to where Snape was sitting up, his obsidian eyes glaring at both her and the cat.

"He practically barrelled you over for a mouse?"

"He's dedicated," Hermione said, sounding appropriately resigned as she slowly resumed her place next to him and slowly pressed him back down on the sheets. "He's done that a few times before. My cat lacks the meaning of tact."

Snape snorted.

"He would have made an excellent Gryffindor."

Hermione had a feeling that was not a compliment, but nevertheless took it like it was, and resumed working.

When Snape left nearly two hours later, looking oddly relaxed as opposed to his usual stiff posture, Hermione could have screamed in frustration. She'd created an opportunity—practically been handed it—and had failed.

But she would have the opportunity again. He had thoroughly enjoyed her efforts on behalf of his tired and knotted muscles. The only problem was he no longer wanted her using a wand under such circumstances. The effect of being startled could have changed the spell she'd been about to cast, and he wasn't interested in being on the receiving end.

It was insulting, and it prevented her from having the opportunity to simply kedavra him, but in retrospect, minimal damage had been done. He still wanted to return. He would likely want to re-enact the situation again, given how well it had gone, minus Crookshanks.

The ginger half-kneazle seemed to know precisely what he'd done, and it infuriated Hermione to no end that she couldn't figure out why.

~o~O~o~

She received a letter from Harry and Ron three days later.

Dear Hermione,

The Order met last week, and someone brought up the idea of you seducing Snape. Ron blew his top at that, and I thought it was absolutely hilarious, but Tonks brought up a really good idea. What if you tricked him in being away from his contingent of guards and in a vulnerable position for us to storm the teahouse and kill him? You already told us that he comes without Malfoy anymore—if you can keep working on him, six months from now, we can kill him.

We thought we should run the idea by you first, of course. You're our top strategist.

Love,

Harry.

P.S— Snape hasn't shown up on the map of Hogwarts since January, and Professor McGonagall hasn't been able to send us a proper letter since her mail's still being checked. Something's not right. Do you have any idea?

Hermione carefully reread it, committed it to memory, and then tapped it with her wand and watched it go up in flames.

She sat on her bed, tracing the simple patterns on the bed contemplatively as she went over their proposal.

It was a very good plan. Make her his weakness and then kill him for it. It could work, and Hermione wouldn't be working alone anymore. The thought of seeing her friends again, of having them as backup, of being by their side as they reached victory made her heart soar.

But it was a risky plan. That was the thing.

But then again, all Gryffindors were risky.

And Snape was vulnerable while in the teahouse…

Hermione smiled.

It would work.

~o~O~o~

Snape had not shown up for nearly four days now, and Hermione was worried that something she'd done last time had driven him away when she heard a knock on her door in the afternoon. She always fretted that he wouldn't return if he didn't come back after two days, but it seemed there were always good reasons for it. Work. Visits to Hogwarts. Disciplinary measures to take against people who were not doing their work properly. Public appearances—always with Lucius by his side and a contingency of Officers—or simply because he was busy with a terribly large amount of small things.

She stood up quickly and bade him to enter, and he did so, once again locking the door behind him.

And then, before she could even greet him, he had crossed over to her in two strides, towering over her with his imposing height. She tried to speak, but he seemed to have learned a trick from her, for he shushed her by pressing a finger to her lips. And then he gently—almost exaggeratively so—brushed his knuckles against her cheek before leaning down to kiss her.

It wasn't forceful. Hermione was actually caught off-guard by the gesture, and she responded, bringing a comparatively smaller, more delicate hand to brush against his cheek as she kissed him back. He seemed to have learned his lesson from last time and seemed to be experimenting with what she would allow. If he tried to take something by force, he would end up regretting it. If he tried to acquire it gently, she might give it to him…

Rewarding him for this leap of realization, she responded with apparent eagerness, allowing him the taste of her for a full minute before pulling away.

"You learned your lesson," she responded with a cheeky smile. "Coveted flowers must be treated with gentleness to produce sweeter nectar."

"You and your allegories," he muttered, pulling away. "You are full of them."

"You like them," Hermione said, pressing a finger to his lips. "They are, after all, quite poetic."

"Guilty as charged," he said, darkly amused.

You have no idea, Hermione thought, slipping her finger between his lips. His eyes widened in surprise, but after a moment's hesitation, he immediately began suckling on it, enjoying the taste. The sensation of his mouth on her fingers was exquisite, Hermione was disappointed in herself for admitting, and his mouth was pleasantly warm. He let go after a moment, eyes dark with undisguised male interest, and Hermione knew she had him. Wrapped around her finger, or nearly so.

"What have you come for today?" she asked, bringing the finger he'd suckled to her lips, the picture of child-like curiosity. She watched his eyes following her every movement, and the heat apparent in them doubled when she took it into her mouth, licking off his saliva. "Is it time to start another project, or have you come for something… else?"

"The project is for next time," he responded smoothly. "Today, I simply want your… company."

Hermione smiled, and took his hand in hers as she led him toward the bed.

"That can be arranged," she said, almost forgetting to leave off the sir. "Would you like tea to go with it?"

"That would be acceptable," he agreed.

From the corner, Crookshanks' purring was audible the entire time.

~o~O~o~

Throughout the short time Hermione had known him, Hermione had learned a lot of private things about a man who had, throughout her childhood, been an enigma. He was still a private, intense, rather mysterious man, but Hermione was slowly picking his mask apart, piece by piece. In that short time, she had gone from hating him to pitying him.

And now that she had seduced him—and let there be no doubt that she had, for she highly questioned the idea that he would curl up in bed and talk and ask to be entertained by just any woman, given how paranoid and antisocial he still was. He was attracted to her now, in both mind and body, and she had made enormous progress with him.

Now that she had reached the first half of her goal—seduction before assassination—she was able to sit back and relax, just a bit. It also allowed her time to wonder about him. What had happened to his eye? All throughout their encounters, Hermione had never had a chance to ask him about it. And it was for this reason that the next time she saw him outside of business—or rather, potions research, given that they were now starting on another project—that she sought answers.

They were in bed, and Hermione was stroking his face, something she'd discovered he liked early on, when she asked him;

"Out of curiosity, what happened to your eye?"

His eyes, which had been closed in relaxation, snapped open.

"Why do you ask?" His tone was defensive and dangerous, and Hermione treaded carefully.

"I see it a lot," she answered simply, "and you have yet to volunteer an answer. In the meantime, I am left wondering what caused it."

The eye in question fluttered—or perhaps it was a twitch—at this remark, but to Hermione's relief, it did not incite his temper.

"Potter," he replied at last.

Hermione blinked, disguising her recognizance of the name, particularly when said in such a manner. "Who?"

"Harry Potter," he growled, sitting up so that he was leaning on his elbow. "He tried to use a spell on me that was designed to cut and scar permanently, but it was too weak." Sectumsempra, Hermione surmised immediately. "Despite that, it struck me in the eye. I'm lucky it didn't blind me permanently. It could very well have done worse."

Hermione was wondering why Harry had never told her this. Moreover, how had he broken through Snape's nearly-impenetrable defence?

"It healed, though," she whispered, bringing a finger to gently caress the eyelid. It fluttered in response, but he did not pull away.

His expression soured. "As I said, I was extraordinarily lucky." He looked away. "Essence of Dittany helped too, I suppose."

"You said it didn't blind you permanently," Hermione hedged.

"Part of my vision is fuzzy," he admitted. "Unfocused." He hesitated, and Hermione saw fear cross his face. "Sometimes, I see shadows out of the corner of my eye, as though I'm looking through a foe-glass.

"I never know if they're real." Hermione felt an involuntary tremor run through him. "That's why I go everywhere with Lucius…" he paused to turn his gaze back on her. "Except here."

"You trust me."

He sneered. "I don't think you're trying to kill me."

If only he knew how wrong he was. Hermione let loose a tiny laugh; "I could be, for all you know."

"Somehow, I highly doubt it."

"Yes," Hermione agreed. "I don't think I have the word 'assassin' stamped across my forehead."

"I think that would be a bit too obvious," he remarked dryly. "Besides, it would clash horribly with your complexion."

Hermione covered her mouth with her sleeve in an open gesture of surprise. "You certainly know how to flatter a lady."

His expression darkened at this, and he seemed to withdraw, resting back down on the pillow.

"If you say so."

Hermione frowned, reaching down to brush a lock of hair away from his face. "Did I offend you?"

He shook his head.

"What did I do?"

"Nothing," he replied shortly. "It has nothing to do with you."

~o~O~o~

Hermione didn't know what she'd done wrong. She had taken several steps backwards, and she wasn't certain why.

Something she'd said at their last session had greatly bothered him, though she didn't know how her remark could have done that. It simply didn't match up.

He returned the next day, looking sullen and defeated, and despite herself, Hermione's heart broke at the sight. However, the minute the door locked behind him, his dark mood seemed to lift, and when Hermione discovered that he had come bearing gifts, she was left nearly speechless.

He dug into the pocket of his voluminous robes—even now, they were still imposing—and pulled out a plain brown sack, holding it just out of reach.

"The Wereguard Potion was invented for purely governmental uses, but other countries paid rather handsome prices for the knowledge," he remarked dryly. Hermione could hear the coins in the bag gently clinking together as he lowered it for her to take. "Lycanthropy is, apparently, a global pest, and not exclusive to Britain." Hermione mentally snorted at this. He still hadn't gotten over Lupin, had he? "As a result of your usefulness, I'm giving you this with the understanding that you will continue to work for me." His eyes glittered dangerously, though Hermione didn't know why. "Exclusively."

Hermione stared at the proffered sack. She hadn't been expecting to be given any money at all for her work, and by rights, Mother kept the lion's share of the money paid by Snape for the privilege of being her patron, so while she was giving everything to the people who owned her, she was given a very negligible amount in return. This turn of events was rather surprising.

She steadied herself as she took the bag, and almost dropped it in surprise at how heavy it was—he must have put an Undetectable Extension Charm on it—and opened it up to see the glint of gold Galleons reflecting up at her.

She struggled to respond.

"O-of course."

"Good." His eyes bore into her. "Now—sing for me."

"Angel Of Music?"

"Think of Me," he growled in response. "Sing it softly."

And Hermione sang.

~o~O~o~

"He gave you money?" Mitsuki squealed, sitting upright on her bed. Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her younger sister's room. "I can't believe it—he gave you money?"

"About a twentieth of the total revenues," Hermione admitted. "It's not much compared to what he and Lucius are making off of it, but given how much that actually is, what he gave me was a lot."

"He made a fortune off of it, and a twentieth of that is a killing," Mitsuki said, now sitting in a yoga-like butterfly position. "What are you going to do with it? Give it to Mother?"

"Mother's already making a fortune off of Snape being my danna," Hermione replied. "I'm saving it."

"I wonder why he gave it to you," Mitsuki said, pondering the question for a moment.

"Motivation," Hermione answered easily, rocking in her cross-legged seat on the floor. "Motivation by money should keep me working exclusively for him without much trouble trying to rein me in."

"I bet he likes you," Mitsuki added slyly.

Hermione let loose a derisive laugh. "I don't deny I'm important to him as a resource, and I've seen him get it up once or twice—" Not that it had gone anywhere yet, and he had done a fairly good job of trying to hide it from her. The problem was that Hermione was very observant in this particular line of work. "—and perhaps he finds my music and conversation to be entertaining. But like? The man hasn't got a heart to like a whore like me."

"We're not whores," Mitsuki said defensively, red spots appearing high on her cheeks in anger.

"We're decorated and picky prostitutes," Hermione responded blandly. "Some of us have more choice than others and can afford to only take money from the best. But no matter how you dance around it, we are what we are." She looked her sister in the eye. "We're sex objects to them. I'm simply lucky enough to be considered useful in a different capacity."

Mitsuki uncrossed her legs, curling up in a foetal position.

"I never thought I'd end up like this," she said, her voice small, not at all like the bubbly exuberance it usually exuded. "I got average grades at Hogwarts, had plenty of friends, and thought I might get an ordinary job, like working at Twilfit and Tattings. My parents were so pleased when I did well on my OWLs—I never got around to taking my NEWTS."

Here she stopped to look at Hermione.

"I didn't think I'd end up being a high-class whore," she said with more bitterness in her voice than Hermione had thought possible.

"It won't be forever," Hermione offered.

Mitsuki flipped her hair out of her face. "I tried saving up to buy my freedom, but after awhile, I gave up. The money would run out eventually and without credentials, I'd just end up back in another teahouse. Or worse," she conceded.

Hermione looked at her.

"You could run away to America," she said.

Mitsuki shook her head.

"No point," she said.

Hermione's heart sank.

Her sister really had given up.