Hermione spent the morning delivering her few remaining posters to various shops and establishments in Hogsmeade, thankfully with a far better reception than she'd received in Diagon Alley. The news of Snape's true loyalties seemed to have seeped through the general consciousness here, a result, she supposed, of being so close to the site of the final battle. Madam Rosmerta – who Hermione had secretly always slightly resented due to her ability (or perhaps more accurately the ability of her well-endowed bust) to hold Ron's attention – was only too pleased to be of help. From the sounds of it the landlady had done more for Snape's cause than Hermione had, simply by talking to her punters over a casual pint, a fact Hermione found rather disheartening – for all her grand ideas, it seemed she had underestimated the simple power of the grassroots.

'Course, I always knew he adored Lily Evans,' the landlady said as she wiped glasses behind the counter. Hermione sipped on her coffee – provided on the house as a thanks for her part during the war – and listened intently; the idea of Snape adoring anyone was still strange. 'It was obvious. The two of 'em used to come in together and sit and natter for hours. Not so much as the years went on, mind – once she got more popular and he got in with the dodgy crowd.'

Hermione was growing increasingly fascinated by hearing accounts of Snape from people outside her regular circle. She longed to know more about the man, but he was hardly forthcoming himself. Since she'd taken on the role of … well, whatever she was doing … he'd alternated between hot and cold, talking almost openly to her one minute and coldly shunning her the next. He was impossible to make out, and it was maddening.

'Did you ever get the impression Lily returned his feelings?' she asked in a lowered tone. A part of her felt she was betraying Snape's confidence by asking, but her curiosity was too much to bear. Besides, she could hardly ask Harry that question – he was still a little squeamish about the whole thing.

Rosmerta shook her head. 'She seemed fond of him, I suppose, but not in the way he was of her. Poor lad never stood a chance, certainly not when James Potter took a liking to her. Mind you, with a face like that, he was probably never going to be very popular with the ladies, was he?'

'Well,' said Hermione, feeling oddly defensive of the professor all of a sudden, 'not everyone's impressed with good looks, some girls want more – intelligence, bravery, loyalty for instance.'

Rosmerta laughed. 'They all say that, but when push comes to shove most women are shallow creatures.'

Just because you might be, Hermione thought bitterly. And just because Lily was …

But she shoved that thought quickly to the side. She didn't know it was true for certain … although she had to wonder whether the stories she'd heard about the woman – of her singular kindness and caring nature – were rooted more in a desire to not speak ill of the dead rather than any kind of reality.

The landlady threw a dishcloth over her shoulder and leaned across the bar. 'I always thought they made an odd pair – is it true they grew up together then?'

Hermione immediately recalled her promise to Snape, and was thankfully spared having to come up with a clever way to dodge the question by the sudden appearance of George Weasley at the other end of the bar.

'Firewhisky please, Rosmerta,' he said. He did not look up.

'Are you alright, George?' said Hermione after the landlady presented him with a tumbler and he'd downed the drink in one go. He glanced sideways, only then seeming to notice her presence.

'Oh, hi Hermione.' He spoke in a flat tone.

'Should you be drinking this early?' She glanced at the clock above the bar – it was only just past eleven o'clock.

'Probably not,' he said, and ordered another – he downed that just as quickly.

'Let me take you home, George.'

'No. I'm fine,' he said impatiently. 'Rosmerta!' He waved his tumbler.

'No point, love,' Rosmerta muttered to Hermione at her alarmed look. 'He's in here most days anyway.'

She glanced at the redhead – he was nearly swaying on his seat now. 'I live with him,' she whispered, 'I had no idea he was drinking like this.'

'This place is full of them now,' said Rosmerta sadly, 'the grievers, lost souls drinking away their sorrows, shells of what they once were.'

Hermione eyes filled with tears. 'Oh, George,' she whispered.

'He's alright. He usually has four or five, then spends the next few hours reminiscing. He gets morose but he's not a danger to himself or anyone else.'

I bet you're making a killing these days, Hermione thought uncharitably, but said nothing.

She bit her lip in anxiety. She had errands to run, but she couldn't leave George alone, not now she knew this was how he was spending his days when he was gone from Grimmauld.

With a sigh, she said, 'I think I'll stay for a while. Can I get another coffee please, Rosmerta?'

'Sure, love.'

Hermione scuttled up the bar closer to George, who gave her a grateful look – or at least she interpreted it that way. One or twice she attempted to engage him in conversation while she sipped her coffee and he glugged on another firewhisky, but most of the time they sat in companionable silence. After a few minutes Hermione nodded to the copy of the Daily Prophet on the bar that George had carried in with him.

'Do you mind if I read that?'

George shrugged, and with a muttered thanks, she reached for the paper.

Today's front page was a large photograph of the two most recently imprisoned Death Eaters, Avery and Mulciber, and a long paragraph about the importance of the testimony of one reformed Lucius Malfoy (Hermione almost threw up) in helping to put away the two men. She turned the page to an article about the recent developments in catching the rogue Death Eaters. There had been no sightings of Rodolphus LeStrange and Fenrir Greyback, but reports were trickling in of a raid at an apothecary in a small wizarding village in the south of England. The culprits had not been identified as yet, but it was strongly suspected that two were behind it, since there had been reported sightings of them nearby only a week ago. There was a short statement from the Ministry calling for calm and assuring the public that they had the situation under control.

She turned to the next page, and stopped abruptly. Her heart seemed to stall in her chest at the headline. Heart in her throat, she read.

WAR HEROINE'S BIZZARRE OUTBURST

Diagon Alley saw its share of action earlier this week with the appearance of none other than Harry Potter's sidekick, Hermione Granger. The young woman, who has dubiously been described by some as the brightest witch of her age, was seen by several witnesses plastering posters in shopfronts defending known Death Eater and Albus Dumbledore's killer, Severus Snape. When confronted by concerned citizens about her behaviour, the young witch broke into a fanatical rant and brandished her wand at several innocent bystanders. It's enough to make one wonder whether Hermione Granger's sudden and bizarre passion for the fate of her ex Potions professor is Amortentia induced. (For a full list of Severus Snape's crimes turn to page 9)

Underneath the headline was a photograph of herself with her wand out, defending herself against an angry mob – at least that's how Hermione remembered it. The Prophet on the other hand, had cleverly framed Hermione as the attacker, the moving, wizarding photograph conveniently stopping right before the large man had grabbed her arm so tight that he'd bruised her. Furious, Hermione tore out the page and scrunched it into a ball, then aimed her wand.

'Incendio!'

'Blimey!' said George, drawn from his stupor, watching the fiery ball turn to ash with some admiration. 'What was that about?'

'It's the stupid Prophet printing ridiculous lies again!' she said hotly. 'Apparently I'm the victim of a love potion.'

'Ah,' said George, a grin touching his lips, 'I did wonder how Ron finally managed to get into your—'

'Not Ron,' snapped Hermione, 'Snape!'

'Snape?' said George, pulling a face.

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'They're trying to discredit what I'm doing by making me look like a silly impressionable girl. There's no name to the article, but it's got Skeeter written all over it! Ooh, how I loathe that vile woman! I wish I'd never let her out of that jar!'

Hermione seethed, and George watched her, apparently amused. 'Jar?'

She realised her error immediately. 'Oh, nothing.' She buried her head in her hands and let out a deep sigh. 'I knew something like this would happen.'

'Look,' George said, placing a brotherly hand on her shoulder, 'don't worry about the Prophet; I think you'd be surprised at how many people realise the place is run by a bunch of nitwits. I got chatting to a guy here yesterday whose uncle works for them – apparently subscriptions are way down on what they once were.'

Hermione perked up. 'Really?' she said, and George nodded.

That cheered Hermione up no end.

'Well, that's good to hear,' Hermione sighed. 'Hopefully this interview with the Quibbler on Friday will undo some of the nonsense the Prophet's been printing.' Only yesterday there'd been an article based on an anonymous source claiming that during his time as Headmaster, Snape, as punishment, had ordered the Carrows to pull out students' toenails for use in his fiendish, dark potions.

'You know,' George said after a minute, 'I could have a chat to Mr Lovegood, tell him all about how Snape saved Lupin and me that night. If it would help?'

She looked up in surprise; she wouldn't have supposed George would feel any particular desire to help the man, since Snape had been the one to take his ear off. It appeared she was mistaken. 'It would sound good coming from you of all people, I admit,' she said. 'Thanks, George.'

He shrugged. 'S'alright.'

Hermione finished her dink. 'Listen, I have to go. Um … are you going to be okay?' She glanced at his third glass of firewhisky, now nearly empty.

'I'll be fine,' George said, then added, 'Look, don't tell the others you saw me here, will you?'

'George—' Hermione began uncertainly, but she was cut off.

'Please, Hermione.'

It didn't feel right keeping George's drinking a secret, but she also didn't want to betray his trust. She weighed up the options in her mind, eventually deciding to leave him be for now, but resolved to keep a close eye on him and intervene if she decided it became necessary.

'Okay,' she said reluctantly. 'I promise. I'll see you later, yeah?'

'See you.'

Grabbing her bag, she made for the door. A dragging, guilty feeling made her look over her shoulder one last time before she left. The inn was filling up now – it was as Madam Rosmerta had said, the place seemed filled with lonely witches and wizards with nowhere else to go, and a pub which had once been filled with laughter and gaiety now resembled a funeral wake. The flattened homes and businesses could be restored, Hermione thought as she glanced one last time at George's hunched over shoulders, even Hogwarts could be repaired, but there were so many lives destroyed by the war that would never be the same again.

oOo

Severus Snape had done nothing all morning except stare at peeling wallpaper.

No, that was not entirely true. Since Granger had left after delivering his breakfast, he had attempted to read a few chapters of Great Expectations, but the exploits of Pip hadn't quite been able to hold his attention as they had done when he'd been a child.

Truthfully, he was still smarting from his interaction with the girl this morning. His oh-so-clever plan had backfired most stupendously, and he'd had to suffer being manhandled by the very person he had been hoping to avoid. To have to be dragged to bed in that manner by a student! His face flushed as he recalled the incident. He'd been mortified at her discovering him in such a vulnerable state, but even though her help was the last thing he wanted, he'd been in no position to send her away.

It was your own damn fault for letting yourself get that bad.

Quite why he'd been so determined to avoid the girl, he couldn't quite pinpoint now. He had to admit she was more engaging than he'd previously given her credit for, but more often than not her visits left him on edge. Hell, she'd even got him to apologise to her – twice! Even Albus Sodding Dumbledore had never achieved that great feat. The girl was confounding, unnerving, provoking. And yet her thrice-daily visits were all that broke the monotony of his days, giving him something to focus on other than his imminent incarceration – even if just for five minutes, even if all she managed to do was stoke his temper and leave him in a rage.

She was undeniably preferable to the elf at least. For one, she brewed a far better pot of tea than Kreacher, and there was no denying her face was more pleasing to look upon first thing in the morning – though admittedly it wasn't much of a competition.

With a resigned sigh, he tossed the book aside – there was no hope of reading today, he was far too distracted. A bit of sleep might do him some good, however – he'd only managed three or four hours last night.

Carefully – his leg twinged as he moved – he lay down in bed and closed his eyes. But everything was wrong; a flock of parakeets squawked loudly in the garden, and he could hear the hum of London traffic in the distance and the rumble of the lawnmower from next door. It was nothing like the quiet he was used to in his Hogwarts chambers. He tossed and turned, shoving a pillow over his head in a futile attempt to block out the cityscape and quieten his mind. An hour later he gave it up as a lost cause, and spent the remaining time till lunch glaring at the plum wallpaper in a thoroughly bad mood.

Finally, just when he thought he might be at genuine risk of losing his mind, there was a knock at the door. He hastily picked up his copy of Great Expectations and pretended to read.

'Come in.'

'Good afternoon, sir. Did you have a pleasant morning?' came the girl's greeting, her tone far too cheerful to not be false.

'Pleasant may be a stretch.' He put aside the novel, then frowned in disgust. 'What are those?' he asked, catching sight of the tray that held his sandwiches and the unexpected offering that accompanied them.

'What do they look like?'

'What in Merlin's name possessed you to bring me flowers?'

Granger lifted the vase of white tulips from the tray and set them down on the table next to him. 'They're from the garden. I thought you could do with something to brighten up this dingy room.' She leaned in and buried her face in the bouquet. 'Don't they smell lovely?'

'I'll take your word for it,' he said, wondering whether to tell her about the spot of pollen on her nose, before deciding against it. She'd be furious with him later, of course, but the sight of the usually well-put-together Hermione Granger with a bright yellow nose was rather comical, and he had little else to amuse him these days.

He contemplated the blooms she'd brought him – he knew what white tulips traditionally represented, but did Granger? Was it a coincidence – his keen, overactive mind reading into symbolism that didn't exist – or was the girl trying to send him a less-than-subtle message?

This is Granger, you fool, of course she knows what they mean.

'How are you feeling now, sir? Any pain since this morning?'

'Not so much,' he said. 'A twinge here and there, but it's manageable.'

'That's good,' she said, and pulled a phial from the pocket of her cardigan. 'I hope you don't mind – I took the liberty of brewing you up a vitamin potion. I noticed you didn't have any in your box from St Mungo's and I thought it might help with healing your nerve damage. There's extract of nettle in there for iron, too – I suspect you may be a bit anaemic from losing so much blood. It would certainly explain your headaches, chest pain, and the colour of—' She stopped abruptly, her eyes lingering on his face a moment too long.

'My deathly complexion?' he suggested dryly.

'Well … yes,' she uttered, obviously embarrassed – she was very lucky he wasn't a vain man.

The blue liquid sloshed in the phial she was holding out to him. He hesitated, staring blankly at it – he'd never been very good at receiving gifts, always assuming the giver was after something in return. But what could Granger possibly want from him? And what was the appropriate reaction to a girl he barely knew suddenly gifting him flowers and potions?

'You don't trust my brewing?' she said in a worried voice.

He almost laughed at how badly she'd misinterpreted his hesitation, and he took the phial from her. 'Granger, in the five years I taught you Potions, you never once turned in a sample that was anything less than perfect.'

He studiously avoided looking at her while he downed the potion.

'I think that might be the first compliment you've ever given me,' she said, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Severus shook his head in disbelief; the girl was far too easily pleased.

'It's hardly a compliment when it's a simple matter of academic record,' he said, and handed her the phial, which she slipped back into her pocket. 'Thank you for the potion.'

'You're very welcome,' she said.

She didn't seem inclined to leave just yet; surprisingly, that didn't bother him all that much. He bit into a cheese sandwich for want of something to do and to give him a chance to think of what to say next.

'Do you mind an early dinner tonight, sir?' she said, sparing him the trouble. 'Only I'm going out this evening.'

He raised a brow and swallowed the mouthful. 'Hot date, is it?'

Her cheeks were suddenly crimson. Interesting.

'Well … yes, I suppose.'

'Who's the lucky man?' he said ironically before his face twisted in a grimace. 'Christ, it's not Potter, is it?'

'No, actually. It's Ron.'

He watched her carefully, amused to see the blush on her cheeks deepen even further at the mention of her beau's name.

'I see.'

'It's only been a few weeks. Since the battle.'

He nodded, averting his eyes. He thought he'd done a good job of masking his surprise, but she must have sensed it, for she said, abruptly, 'What is it?'

'Nothing,' he said, and picked up another sandwich.

'You gave me a look. Come on, what are you thinking?'

Merlin, but she was persistent. He swallowed his bite and said, 'Only that I didn't have you down as the type to go for brawn over brains.'

She visibly bristled at that, and he swore her wild hair almost crackled. 'Ron might not be very academic, but he's clever enough.'

He gave her a sceptical look. 'In all the years I taught him I saw no evidence of that.'

'Well, it's true,' she said with a scowl, then crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. 'Anyway, I don't see why my relationship has anything to do with you.'

'You asked me what I was thinking, I was merely being honest. I thought you'd have better taste than Ronald Weasley,' he sneered.

She scoffed disbelievingly. 'You're unbelievable! Just when I think we're arriving at a truce you hurl yet another insult at me.'

'I believe the insult was directed at your boyfriend. Is that not progress, Miss Granger?'

Her mouth twitched upwards just a fraction, as though she was amused against her will, but her eyes still flashed with righteous anger. 'You insulted my taste in men. How would you like it if I insulted—'

Now it was his turn to bristle. He was only thankful she had the wisdom to close her mouth before she could finish that sentence; he really didn't have the energy to shout at her. Merlin, how he regretted confessing his deepest secret to The Boy Who Couldn't Keep His Bloody Trap Shut. Granger may have promised to keep schtum about it during her ill-fated public relations campaign, but the truth would out eventually at his trial, and he was not looking forward to the day his private life – or, more accurately, his humiliating lack thereof – would be displayed for all the world to see, his heart laid bare for the hyenas who ran the Daily Prophet to pick at.

Granger's sigh shook him from his thoughts. 'Why does it feel like every conversation we have turns into an argument?'

He contemplated the girl; her brows were knitted together as she frowned down at the floorboards. He could not tell whether the question had been a rhetorical one or not.

'Perhaps if you weren't so bad tempered we might get along better,' he deadpanned.

Her eyebrows shot up at that, her eyes flashed in outrage, and he nearly – very, very nearly – gave in to the temptation to smirk.

'You—' Then she stopped, her eyes widening in realisation. 'You're joking.'

'Of course I'm bloody joking, Granger. Don't look so surprised.'

She huffed. 'So you do have a sense of humour then?'

'Were you under the impression I had none?'

'It's hard to tell. Some of your classroom insults were rather amusing I suppose. When they weren't directed at me or my friends anyway.'

He felt himself tense a little. 'Fishing for another apology, are we?'

She was openly grinning now, and the tension melted away when she responded in a playful tone, 'Not this time, sir.'

He found it a little easier to concentrate on his reading that afternoon once she'd gone, except that he was now distracted by the subtle but alluring scent of the white tulips. When she returned later to deliver his dinner, the yellow nose was no more and she only berated him a little for it.

oOo

'… I was thinking about a petition, that might get people at the Ministry to take more notice. What do you think?'

It was nearly nine o'clock and Hermione and Ron were strolling along the River Thames in a historic part of London, having just enjoyed a romantic dinner for two at a fancy Muggle Italian restaurant.

'Yeah, sounds like a good idea,' said Ron absently.

'Of course there's the interview in a couple of days, so it would make sense to wait until after that. Maybe we could buy up a load of copies and give them away for free in exchange for signatures,' she said, thinking out loud now. Ron made a noncommittal noise.

Hermione glanced sideways. 'Am I boring you?'

'No!' he said a little too quickly.

'Well, good,' she said, bemused, and they fell into silence. From time to time she looked at him but he mostly stared stonily at the ground as they walked.

Hermione couldn't account for Ron's abrupt change in behaviour. They'd had a very pleasant evening, chatting easily over dinner; she'd told Ron about the research she'd been doing for Snape's trial and her ideas and he'd talked at length about his and Harry's plans to start Auror training next month. He'd seemed perfectly at ease when they'd passed the Globe Theatre and Hermione had enthused at the posters advertising a current production of Macbeth – he'd even responded positively to her suggestion of getting tickets soon. Sometime in the last ten minutes then, she must have said something to offend him, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what it might be.

'Have I said something wrong?' said Hermione as they turned onto Tower Bridge and passed a group of Japanese tourists. He simply shrugged.

'Ron, please,' she said, tucking a hand into his arm. 'How am I meant to know what's wrong if you don't talk to me?'

'It's nothing,' he said, shaking his head, and tugged her closer. 'So what do you reckon, fancy going to Hogwarts on Friday to help out with repairs?'

'I can't, Ron,' she said, frowning. How many times had she mentioned her plans to him? 'It's Snape's interview with Mr Lovegood on Friday. Since I'm the one who organised it, I sort of need to be there.'

'Oh right, yeah,' he said, and fell into sullen silence again.

'Are you angry because I'm helping Snape?' said Hermione, cottoning on. 'Because I've already told you—'

'Please, let's not argue,' said Ron. 'I'm sick to death of bickering about it.'

'You're the one who …' she started. 'Right, yes, sorry.'

Ron had been like this all week; any mention of Snape by her sent him into a huff and acting like a moody fifth year. She'd been surprised and pleased when at dinner he'd finally seemed interested in talking to her about what she'd been doing, but now she wondered whether he had simply pretended just to keep her happy. She was still puzzling over this when they reached the historic Tower of London on the other side of the bridge. As she was admiring the centuries-old building, she felt strong arms pull her closer and Ron's voice murmuring in her ear, 'Look, I'm sorry, Hermione. I've just been a bit … with Fred and everything …'

Feeling her irritation slip away, she pulled him closer.

'Oh, Ron. It's all right, I understand.'

'If I'm tetchy, it's just 'cause I'm … it's all just so … hard at the moment.'

'I know,' she said.

He took her hand, and caressed the back of it with his thumb. His eyes dropped to her mouth. 'I want to kiss you,' he said quietly.

She felt a flutter in her stomach. 'Well, go on then.'

Gently, he brought his mouth to hers, pressing feather-light kisses on the corners of her lips. Then she felt his tongue, and after a moment's hesitation she opened her mouth to his and allowed him to deepen the kiss.

Kissing was good; they couldn't argue when they were kissing. It seemed to work for Harry and Ginny anyway; those two couldn't keep their hands off each other and they never seemed to fall out. Maybe that was her and Ron's problem, she mused as Ron kissed her, maybe if they worked on the physical side of their relationship things would improve. The few times they'd been together had been enjoyable but a little awkward and fumbling. But perhaps she was being a little harsh; he'd surprised her, actually, their first time, by how romantic he'd been, arranging her bedroom to be filled with candles. Afterwards he'd stroked her back and made her feel cherished.

She'd worried they were rushing the physical aspect of their relationship; they were both shaken from their year on the run and the battle, and Ron had just lost a brother – jumping into bed hadn't exactly felt like the wisest thing to do. But in the heat of the moment those qualms had disappeared. She had been more than ready, and in hindsight she was glad her first time had been with Ron.

When he had told her she wasn't his first, that his relationship with Lavender Brown – rest her soul – had gone quite a bit further than just kissing, she'd not been as upset as she would have been a year before. After all, it was quite hard to feel jealous of someone who was dead.

Ron's hands were straying down to her waist now, and she stealthily shoved them away.

'Not here, Ron,' she said, glancing around at the smattering of tourists also out for late-night strolls. No one was looking at them, but she had never been one for overt public displays of affection.

He chuckled and brought his lips to her ear. 'Let's go back then,' he whispered lustily.

Blushing hard, she nodded, and Ron pulled her away from the riverside to a secluded spot down a dark alley where he Apparated them back to Grimmauld Place. There was no one about when they entered the house, so Ron led her up the stairs, stopping every now and then to kiss her thoroughly. As soon as the bedroom door was closed behind them, his hands were everywhere, clumsily but enthusiastically exploring every inch of her body.

Reaching for him, she managed to undo the buttons of his shirt to reveal his pale, hairless chest, and ran her hands over him. Then, guiding her backwards, Ron pushed her gently and she fell to the bed. She scooted back on the mattress and watched as Ron discarded his shirt and brought his hands to his belt, a look of pure hunger on his face that made her flush harder. She pushed her skirt down her legs and threw it to the floor.

He joined her on the mattress and his hands moved to the hem of her long-sleeved shirt.

'Leave it,' she said.

'Hermione—'

'Leave it, Ron.'

In the few times they'd had sex she'd not once allowed him to lay eyes on the scars that littered her body, but this time Ron didn't protest; he knew her well enough by now that she wouldn't change her mind.

Their kisses became more and more heated. Soon, Ron was above her, breathing heavily and wearing nothing but his Gryffindor-red underwear. She reached for the straining bulge at his crotch.

There was a loud bang from upstairs.

She pulled back.

'Hermione?'

'Mm?' she responded, staring at the ceiling.

'You all right? I can cast a silencing spell if you're worried about Snape hearing us.'

Her eyes flicked back to Ron's blue ones, staring down at her with a bemused expression.

'It's not that,' she said. 'I'm worried he might be hurt.'

'What? He's fine,' said Ron, and proceeded to attack her neck with kisses. But Hermione couldn't get the image of Snape's half-conscious frame leaning against her out of her head. What if he was up there now, in pain, in need of help?

'Um … Ron,' she said, squirming away from his attentions. 'I … I might go check on him quickly.'

Ron pulled back with a groan. 'You know how to blue ball a bloke, don't you?'

'I'm sorry,' she said, guilt suffusing her even as her resolve hardened. 'It's just he collapsed earlier and I really should check he's okay.'

'Bloody hell,' he said, and ran a hand over his face before moving off of her. 'Fine, go on then, if you have to.'

'I'm really sorry, Ron, I won't be long.'

'Take as long as you need,' he muttered angrily.

Hermione ignored him – she'd make it up to him later. Likely she'd feel like an idiot if it turned out nothing was wrong, but there was no way she'd be able to switch off and enjoy herself now anyway.

Slipping into a pair of loose trousers and giving Ron one last apologetic look, she climbed the stairs to Snape's room. She knocked against the door softly.

'Sir?'

There was a pause.

'What is it?' came his voice through the door.

'I just wanted to check you were okay.'

'I am fine.'

'Are you sure? I heard a thump and—'

'For heaven's sake, girl! Come in and see for yourself if you must.'

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she pushed the door open. Snape was sitting up in bed, a large, hardback book open on his lap. She was surprised to see Pax, her new owl, perched on the windowsill.

'As you can see,' he said, 'I am perfectly' – he looked up from the book, his eyes coming to rest on a spot just to the side of her mouth – '… well.'

Her hand instinctively rose to her face. When she drew it back, sure enough she noticed the smear of pink lipstick on her thumb.

Bugger! After her and Ron's heated snogging, her face must have been half-covered in the stuff. Immediately, she wiped away the rest of the offending makeup with the sleeve of her shirt.

'Right … Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear it.'

'The owl surprised me and I dropped the book,' he said before adding with a slight sneer, 'I apologise for the interruption to your … amorous activities.'

Hermione shrugged awkwardly as she leaned against the doorframe. 'It's all right, we hadn't gotten very far when …' She clamped a hand to her mouth – definitely a mistake to have that third glass of wine at dinner. 'Um … I'll be off then, I suppose, since you're okay.'

He was smirking at her, the bastard!

'Goodnight, Miss Granger.'

'Goodnight, sir. Come on, Pax,' she called to the owl, who promptly flew over and landed on her arm. 'You shouldn't fly into people's bedrooms unannounced, you know.' She could have sworn she heard Snape chuckle after she closed the door, but told herself she must have been mistaken – Snape never laughed.

She dropped Pax off in the library where she kept his cage, then returned to her bedroom. Ron didn't seem in any rush to resume their amorous activities. In fact he seemed rather put out with her, and wasn't particularly receptive even to conversation. She was on the brink of apologising when her inner voice piped up: You haven't done anything wrong! If Ron wants to be immature and sulk then that's his problem, not yours!

Soon, Ron disappeared to his own room, claiming a headache. A little miffed, Hermione changed into her pyjamas, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. She knew sleep was a long way off, however, so she grabbed the copy of Wizarding Law for Dummies she'd discovered earlier in the Black library and read by wandlight until her eyes began to droop.

oOo

That night, Severus Snape dreamed of pink, kiss-bruised lips and a charming blush.

Fun fact - there are actually feral non-native parakeets living in London. There used to be a huge flock in my parents' back garden until they chopped down the tree that they used to nest in. They're brightly coloured and chirpy and I'm sure Snape would hate them - so obviously I've put them in the Grimmauld Place garden.

Let me know your thoughts! I live for reviews.