Hello all.

I'm glad you all like your Christmas present. :) Thank you to those who reviewed. I had a lovely Christmas and was then thrown into the shock of school again. Not fun. In all honesty, I was so busy I almost forgot to post this chapter.

Read, enjoy, and then please review.

Chapter 22

The noise of the Great Hall was drilling deep into Severus' head. Somehow he had dragged himself out of his chair and limped into a shower. The hangover still had not gone away, and he had decided to deny himself a hangover potion.

It was his punishment, his penance, his twisted determination to reward himself for what he had done. He had pushed Hermione Granger away from him after slanting his mouth over hers, he had pushed away the only good thing in his life after she had melted into him and sighed his name.

Getting roaring drunk had not banished the memory from his brain. No, it was still there, darting in at inappropriate moments to turn his head with thick curls or soft skin or hungry lips. Even now, he cautiously sipped coffee, all he could think about was how the smell of coffee seemed to linger around Hermione sometimes.

Where are the compartmentalization skills you are so proud of? he asked himself bitterly. He knew the answer, even if he didn't want to say it to himself; the value of the memory of the kiss was far higher than his state of mind.

The trickle of students entering the Great Hall grew. One clump came in, and the noise increased again as they greeted all their friends. It was a Sunday, so half the seats in the Great Hall were empty. He was grateful for that at least.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His stomach was rolling nervously.

Then he heard it.

It wasn't her voice, rather, it was the loud bray of the Weasley boy, saying something outrageously loud. There was a murmur that was the Boy-Who-Lived. His eyes shot open.

There she was, walking into the Great Hall as she did every day. Today she had chosen- defiantly, perhaps- to wrestle her hair into a braid. Her neck was visible- but not his mark on her. Instead of feeling relief, anger coursed through his gut. His mark should have been on her skin, declaring his claiming of her to all who saw. His eyes snapped from where his mark should have been to her eyes, which were staring guiltily at him.

She looked so apologetic, so young, so round faced. He knew it was her Glamour, but shame and guilt and disgust curdled his appetite farther. She was mouthing something to him- "I-"

And then a Hufflepuff boy (the prim and prissy one) was tapping her arm and she was turning around, startled.

Severus looked back down at his plate, full of slowly congealing eggs. He shoved himself away from the table, leaving the High Table and ignoring Minerva's squawk.

It had been a bit of a foolish decision, really, to choose to go to breakfast in the Great Hall on the first turn around. But that was normally what Hermione did on Sundays, and the craving for routine had been especially pronounced when she woke that morning.

In the light of the day, the mark on her neck was bright red and her lips almost garishly dark. She took a great deal of care with her Glamours, making herself look as normal as possible. Looking at her own face in the mirror was always strange after the magic was in place- it was like looking back in time, to when she had been sixteen and young.

As soon as she had looked at Severus in the Great Hall, he had left. The line of his shoulders was horribly tense as he went, and she ached to release that tension for him. She remembered his hands gently rubbing salve into her skin. Thoughts- fantasies, really- of doing the same to him, of rubbing his hard shoulders, of easing the knots.

But there were more pressing problems than Severus. There was an Order meeting planned for that night, to go over the information Hagrid had returned with, and planning to do for that. Then she also had to convince Hagrid to stick to Professor Grubbly-Plank's original lesson plan. And then, later, at the Order meeting, Hagrid would find out that she was a member.

To be honest, that was the part Hermione as looking forward to the least.

Since she had arrived in Hogwarts, she had made few friends. As soon as Harry and Ron had introduced her to the lumbering man, he had been kind to her. When Harry and Ron had turned away in her third year, she had had Severus. But she had also Hagrid. She worked tirelessly to try to save Buckbeak, and he had provided her with gentle companionship. She would always be grateful to him.

There was the option of using her position as a member of the Inner Circle to ask Hagrid to stick to the original lesson plans as a safety measure, to insure that he would keep his position at Hogwarts. Normally she would have talked out options and how to convince Dumbledore with Severus, but now- now that wasn't an option.

Rather than make the trip down to Hagrid's cabin in vain, Hermione spent the day indoors. She holed herself up in her room and wrote out extremely detailed reports all day long, struggling to ignore the heaviness of her lips and the sorrow in her heart.

The kiss seemed surreal. How could it have happened less than twenty-four hours ago? Severus had touched his lips to hers, had held her, and sucked at her pulse. Why?

Among all the thoughts wondering why he had done what he had done were the questions concerning the future. Or at least, their future. His reaction in the Great Hall at breakfast had seemed clear enough- he regretted what had happened. Hermione didn't bother with lunch or dinner. It would hurt to see him again.

Why would he have kissed her? He had seemed passionate enough, and the moments preceding the kiss had been achingly tense.

He was upset that I had been avoiding him, Hermione thought sadly. He wanted me to come back to him, to not run from his past. When he found out that I was upset because his past included another girl- a perfect woman- he was... well, whatever he was, he was happy enough to kiss me.

Well, if he didn't want me to avoid him, I won't. I'll see him tomorrow. I'll need to report after the Order meeting anyway.

Decision made, Hermione firmly turned her mind to her work.

The look on Hagrid's face made Hermione's heart drop. When he had first seen her sitting at the Order meeting, he had been pleased, if confused. He had greeted her happily, asking what she was doing there.

"Hermione is a member of both the Inner and Outer Circles," said Dumbledore gravely. "She joined our ranks officially in the time you were gone, Hagrid."

She had sought him out after the meeting had concluded.

"I"m protecting Harry," was the first thing she said. "I'm- I'm doing everything I can to make sure he's safe."

Hagrid had heaved a great sigh. "Dumbledore asks a lotta us, Hermione. I unnerstand why yeh did wha' you did."

She tentatively rested a hand on Hagrid's jacket. "And you know that you can't tell Ron and Harry, right?"

"Yeah. Jus stop me if I do sommat that'd give yeh away, alrigh'?" The corners of Hagrid's beetle-black eyes crinkled. "Yeh're a good girl, Hermione. Don' le' anyone tell yeh diff'ren'."

So now she was safe in the knowledge that Hagrid would not give her away on purpose, and that he still trusted her. He had even invited her for a cup of tea in his cabin, without the boys.

Now the only problem to tackle was Snape.

It was late when she returned from the Order meeting, too late to go see him. A traitorous voice whispered to her that it had never been to late to go see him before, that she knew that Severus suffered from insomnia and would usually stay awake until early in the morning.

Standing in her little secret room, Hermione dithered for a moment longer before heaving a sigh. She began to re-braid her hair- she would go to the practice room, and exercise. Hopefully she would get tired enough to go to sleep.

His muscles burned. Sweat was dripping down his back, falling into his eyes, stinging them with salt. All his old wounds were beginning to protest in soft old voices, warning him that if he continued to punish himself like this they would roar back into full, painful life.

He ignored them, and continued to move.

It was true, he was punishing himself. If it was unhealthy, it was safer than drink. For even if his body was exhausted, he could still summon the necessary mental reserves to shield his mind. It had been stupid to drink the night before. He could have been called, he could have been forced to sink to his knees in front of the Dark Lord and have his mind examined with no warning. The Dark Lord had done it before and he had always managed to protect the things he needed to.

But how could he have kept Hermione from the forefront of his brain if his mind kept reminding him of the softness of her curls and the harshness of her hipbones pressed against his stomach and the insistent press of her mouth?

He was punishing himself for that too.

So intent was he on his exercise, of making the burn of muscle and the sting of sweat blot out the heat and pain of Hermione, that at first he did not register the opening of the door.

He did register the indrawn breath, the solid steps that halted suddenly, the scent of rosehips and books that drifted toward him.

Hermione.

She was standing in the doorway of their practice room, her small frame outlined in the light of the hallway. He had kept the room half-dark, so that his reflection in the mirrors wouldn't be anything more than a shadowy form. Her hair was in an unruly braid and the pants she was wearing fit closely on her hips. The marks that had been hidden by Glamours before were now visible, dark stains that declared his shameful claim on her.

"Close the door," he managed to croak. "Someone-"

"Might see," she murmured. "Uh- yeah, sorry." She swung the door shut. The click was sharp in the silence, a sharp noise amid the panting breaths of Severus and the slow exhales of Hermione.

The air between them thickened, condensed into something more than just empty space. It gained a form, a presence that was not so much malevolent as it was fearful. It pressed against his chest, adding its weight to that already burdening him.

It was Hermione who broke the quiet. Her words sliced through the swelling, shatteringly soft.

"I should go," she whispered. "I'll- I'll let you practice."

The thought of seeing her back turn on him made his throat close and his belly tighten. "No," he spat out. "No."

She might have been giving him her typical quizzical look, but in the darkness he couldn't quite make it out. He did know that tilt of her head though, and the way her voice sounded when she said, "Pardon?"

Reasons and words were jumbled in his head, but he managed to string enough together to speak. "I shouldn't have done what I did."

"Severus-" she tried to interrupt.

"No," he said harshly, still trying to catch his breath. "But it happened. Now we need to move past it. If you prefer leaving reports on my desk, rather than-

She moved closer to him. "Severus," she said again, pleading entering her voice. It had leaked through, not a deliberate action. If she had done it on purpose, if she had shown the barest hint of desire to toy with his emotions and his heart, he would have pushed her away again. Whether or not he would succeed was not certain, but he would have tried. But it was not in Hermione's nature.

She was close enough that his breathing quickened again, having slowed at the respite from exercise. "Severus," she said again. "We-" She too was struggling for words.

"We are at war," he responded tiredly. "Everything about this is wrong. In name, at least, we are on two opposite sides of a war. I'm your teacher and you are my student." The warm light coming dimmed from some of the wall scones made her face a rippling shadow with two bright eyes and the dash of a dark mouth against pale skin.

"But-" her voice sounded a bit wild. "I l-"

"Don't say it!" he roared. "Don't say anything!" He didn't know what she had been about to say; he suspected but discounted it. "Nothing about what happened that night was right."

He could recognize the mulish set of her mouth and chin because he had seen it so many times in his own sitting room. "I would beg to differ." She would refuse to give up, she would press on mercilessly until he gave in.

He had only one choice. Only one weapon. It had worked before.

In an instant he was bearing down on her, making her back up as he moved forward. Soon the wall was at her back. "Do you understand how dangerous this is for me?" he hissed. It doesn't matter, Hermione, my life doesn't matter. You matter more. "What would happen to me if the Dark Lord would happen to see a snippet of affection for a Mu-ggleborn in my mind?" I can't do it to you, I can't lose you. I can't. I couldn't bear it.

The change in her face was immediate. The stubbornness melted away, worry flooding her features. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't-"

"You are still a girl," he said, moving away. "It is understandable."

"Then-" she was dazed, confused, and it showed on her face. "Should we- not meet?"

His throat tightened. He bought time by bending and gathering his robes. "As little as a possible," he said in clipped tones. "Leave reports on my desk. Of course, if there is anything immediately important come to me right away."

He left her in the dark of the practice room. There might have been something glimmering on her cheek, but he kept his eyes forward as he swept out of the room.

His own disgust in himself was running high. He had almost called her a word he had sworn many times over never to say again. It had not been so long ago that he had deemed the world an unfriendly and uncaring place, that he had looked at the faces he saw day in and day out and realized dryly that no one cared. And now he had used that one precious thing- Hermione and her heart large enough to worry for a spy, to care about him- to push her away.

There was nothing he could do now. The job was done, the contract sealed. She would stay away from him, out of caring, and she would refuse to give in to herself because if there was anything that could keep Hermione from what she wanted, it was a greater good.

He would not turn to drink that night. He bitterly craved the sting of alcohol, the sluggish heavy feeling that would take the place of his mind, the lassitude and lack of caring that came with the sharp tastes. But no- the night was still young he and still might be called by the Dark Lord.

Life was lonely with her snarky Potions Master. Even before, when she had foolishly avoided him, she had known that he had her back. That she need only call his name or touch her watch with her wand and he would be there in an instant. Even just to talk- that was why she had gone to him about Hagrid in the first place.

Now...

She wasn't sure.

Her days weren't too different, exactly. She attended all her classes accompanied by Harry and Ron, or for the more advanced ones, Padma Patil and a few other Ravenclaws. She poured effort into her schoolwork, into her work for the Order, into her reports for Severus. She spent time with the boys, with Ginny, with Luna. She planned lessons for the D.A., and watched as Harry taught them.

There were never long stretches of free time where she could sit and think- she avoided those at all costs. As November emptied itself in a series of howling storms, Hermione scoured the library and the Restricted Section for the most complicated books she could find, so she would be unable to think of anything but complicated spells and rituals in the time she had for herself.

In the first few weeks she wrote several long letters to Viktor and Charlotte apiece; but as the weather grew worse her writing slowed, out of concern for the owls. Viktor was much happier than he had been the year before, playing Quidditch and traveling with the team, rather than being towed around Durmstrang like a trophy. Charlotte was finishing her last year at Beauxbatons, and writing long, exasperated letters about coursework and teachers and boys who wished to distract her. Neither included anything of interest to the Order. Hermione continued with her penfriendships anyway, firmly convinced that even if they didn't pay off, it didn't matter. They were actually friends, and she wasn't using them- it was just occasionally they wrote interesting things in their letters about French or Bulgarian sympathies.

The loneliness gnawed at her. It was a beast that lurked around corners, cast shadows on her walls, attacked suddenly and nibbled at her bones. It ached, physically ached, the sadness and fear and regret.

How could she have been so stupid?

She had been so caught up with what it had meant for them- the two of them- that she had completely forgotten that there was a world much larger than Hermione and Severus. A world of Death Eaters and the Order of the Phoenix and Voldemort and Harry Potter. Her life was not her own. Severus himself did not decide his own fate. They were pawns in a game between others and it had been their own choice to step onto the chessboard.

She hadn't even considered what would happen if the Dark Lord saw her face in Severus' mind.

Obviously Severus had, though. Even as she berated herself for the gut-wrenching potential consequences of her- of the their- actions, there was still the heady thought that maybe- just maybe- there was a reason it would be so hard for him to hide the memory from the Dark Lord.

Severus had taught her that the memories it was most difficult for an Occlumens to hide were those with extremely strong emotions attached. That was why calm had to be learned, why hot heads had a very difficult time with the mind arts.

There was strong emotion behind the kiss. For her, definitely. And for him...

He had kissed her. No matter what she thought there was no way around it. They had been inches apart and he had been the one to lower his mouth to hers. In that instant, at least, he had desired her. Wanted her.

It was a hard thing to remember, day by day at Hogwarts.

In the mornings she would see him in the Great Hall. At least, she would see him every other day. A house elf would bring her breakfast on the days she slept in her little room. Then Potions. He would be imposing and inscrutable, his black robes buttoned to the neck. Seeing him in the dim light of the dungeons Hermione could forget that once upon a time Severus Snape in a white button down and black trousers had been a familiar sight. That she knew the line of his neck intimately, that she had heard that silky drawl wrap around her name in a hundred different tones- exasperation, exhaustion, anger, sarcasm, determination, worry, lust.

She did as he bid. Thrice a week she would ask the house elf who delivered her meals to leave a carefully written report on Severus' desk. In return, she found a scroll of parchment on her pillow with spiky handwriting detailing the movements of the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's plans, and Dumbledore's orders.

As winter gradually won out over autumn and the days grew shorter, Hermione's temper grew shorter as well. She was unable to tolerate Harry and Ron for long periods of time- she even found herself snapping at Luna for all that she had firmly promised herself that she would be as kind as she needed to be.

Stress began to build intolerably high. It was part of Hermione's personality to become overly stressed and harried, to worry herself sick and forget meals holed up in the Library. It worsened as the Winter Break approached. Her schoolwork was piling up as teachers gave study materials for the O.W.L.'s, the Order was increasing patrols in the Ministry due to increased Death Eater activity, which meant that she was distilling Severus' information and planning Order schedules. Rita Skeeter seemed determined to bog her down with useless information to slog through, but Hermione was determined not to give in to the reporter.

Normally, when the work and worry was pressing down on her, Hermione would have gone to Severus. He would have snorted, made her a cup of tea, and talked books with her until she was relaxed. Or if was really bad, he would have goaded her into fighting with him just to get the excess energy out. Then she would sleep soundly and wake up the next morning with sore muscles and more energy.

Sleep was also becoming something of a problem. Only something- the bad dreams meant that sleep didn't exactly happen, but then again, less sleep meant more time to work.

She wondered how he was faring.

Severus looked harsher. His permanent scowl was etched deeper into his face, his hands were always moving in irritated motions. The food on his plate got mushed around. The voluminous robes meant she couldn't tell if he was getting thinner. Sometimes she could recognize a look of pinched pain on his face, a look that usually accompanied a scroll on her pillow.

She took to waiting, disguised, near the secret entrance he had showed her the night he had taken her to meet their spy network. If she wasn't sleeping anyway, at least she could have some calm knowing he hadn't left. Of course, that meant that on the nights he did leave, she refused to move until her bum was molded flat from the cold flagstones and her fingers felt frozen solid.

In her spare time Hermione practiced her wandless magic. Learning to use just small amounts of power was difficult- there had been a week where she had been forced to borrow chewed up quills from Ron because she had accidentally incinerated all of hers. Now it was shaky but reliable, and she could do minor feats of magic with only her mind. She told herself that she practiced so much because it was her nature to work hard at magic until she mastered it. It had absolutely nothing to do with the tugging sensation at her magic and the memory of Severus standing behind her and in her mind and holding her magic and his, together.

She missed him dreadfully.

Every day Severus was thankful for his Occlumency skills. His control had always been perfect. Everything of his belonged to someone else- his body belonged to his masters, his will to the fight, even his heart had belonged first to Lily and now to Hermione. He was always someone's- except for his mind. His mind was his own.

So he was able to tuck the thoughts of Hermione behind walls. He pulled out strands of memory, leaving gaping holes with ragged edges in his consciousness. And then he weakened, dipping his wand into the eerie blue-white glowing memories and finding the ones of Hermione. Slowly he placed them back in his mind.

They needed to be safe- he built walls around them, fortresses. He sunk them deep into the recesses of his mind, he forced them to fade until he only knew that he had kissed Hermione and he needed to protect that memory with all he had.

Both the Dark Lord and Dumbledore knew that Severus was a Master Occlumens- it was idiocy to send a double agent whom everyone knew was a double agent behind enemy lines when the enemy was a mind reader. The Dark Lord would have never let Severus hear half the things he heard if he was not completely sure of the strength of Severus' mind. It had been the Dark Lord himself who had taught Severus what he knew of the mind arts. He had not wanted to send a valuable Death Eater with a mind full of important information helpless into the presence of a man known for his Legilimency skills.

The stakes had been high. There was nothing about the first nineteen years of Severus' life that the Dark Lord did not know. But he had learned- it was long and hard but he had learned how to shield his mind, how to keep what was sacred and precious to him hidden from the prying eyes of the Dark Lord.

But the trick was to hide what he wanted hidden without broadcasting that he was concealing something from his masters. Dumbledore rarely performed Occlumency on him anymore- but the Dark Lord was a different story. He routinely expected Severus to bare his mind, to lay it open and willing for the Dark Lord to peruse. Severus had tried to hide things before, especially in the early days. He was discouraged from doing so immediately.

The Dark Lord thought that Severus' spirit had been cowed, but it had not. He had simply forced himself to find other ways to hide things.

And so the fortresses and walls that hid Hermione from the eyes of the Dark Lord were hidden in the midst of ordinary things. It was dangerous, making the protections on them so strong. The stronger his defenses were, the more likely they were to draw the Dark Lord's attention.

He would fight to the death to keep her from the Dark Lord. It did not matter- even if the Dark Lord discovered the walls, he would not be able to push past them without destroying Severus' mind first.

How strange it was now, how eagerly history repeated itself. He would do anything to save a Muggleborn girl who would fight to defend Potter to her last breath. He didn't even know if she cared for him half as much as he cared for her.

The winding staircase taking her to Dumbledore's office was making Hermione feel sick. Her head wasn't feeling right either- perhaps it was the nausea from the rotating stairs or maybe because she had skipped dinner. Either way, something was wrong.

When the stairs deposited her on the landing, Hermione stood still, clutching the railing. Swimming. That was the word she had been searching for. Her head was swimming.

"Enter, my dear," Dumbledore's voice called. "Come right in."

She took a breath and walked into the office, dropping her Glamour as she did so. The moment that drain on her magic stopped, she felt better. Now, at least, dirtying the floor and her shoes no longer seemed like an option.

"Headmaster," she said formally, taking a seat as he gestured. The office was as strange as it normally was. Fawkes was preening on his stand, the silver instruments puffed softly, and the Headmaster was reading reports at his desk with his shiny silver spectacles perched on his crooked nose.

Dumbledore gave her a warm smile. "You know that you can call me Albus, my dear girl. You are, after all, of age."

A ripple of fear trickled down her spine. Does he know about Severus and me? "Very well then, Albus." She tried for a smile. "What was this about?"

"Just checking up with you for our midyear report before the Winter holidays," Dumbledore said nonchalantly. "I know that usually Severus takes your report, but when I asked he told me quite sharply that you're a big girl now." He chuckled. Hermione's stomach dropped.

He knows how much I absolutely hate doing this, Hermione thought angrily. She had no right to be angry- Severus had told her before that he would take care of reporting on Harry's actions to Dumbledore. She had thought that perhaps it was because he had seen the dread on her face the first time it was brought up.

"What do you want to know?" Hermione asked, willing her mouth to form the words.

"What have his movements been like this term?" asked Dumbledore. "What is he doing? How are his classes going? And the little group he started?"

"Harry is finding this year his most difficult yet," started Hermione. "Um- He hates Professor Umbridge. He is chafing at the restrictions on his Quidditch playing. He is starting to feel trapped at Hogwarts."

A small noise interrupted her. "Hmm. That won't do. He must feel like he owes something to the students here, like Hogwarts is his home."

"He does!" Hermione blurted suddenly. "Especially because of Dumbledore's Army. He's stepping up, taking control of the classes. It's the only thing- I don't want to say it's the only thing keeping him here, but it is the only thing that is keeping Harry going."

The smile that appeared on the Headmaster's face didn't fit quite right with Hermione. "Excellent. Severus tells me that I have you to thank for that delightfully complex idea- and I must admit, I was surprised that I had not thought of it first."

She wanted to squirm in her seat. She wasn't sure if she should thank him- was it a thing to be proud of, a thing to be complimented on, misleading and tricking people? Instead, she remained silent.

That appeared to discomfit Dumbledore. "Well. Continue."

"He's still having the dreams," Hermione said after a moment. "A corridor and a door. He doesn't know what they are."

Dumbledore rubbed at his beard. "Then we will have to see about teaching Harry Occlumency. Perhaps Severus could start lessons at the beginning of the next term?"

"That wouldn't be wise," said Hermione. "He detests Severus. Severus hates him. It would never work. He would listen to you, though."

The kindness in Dumbledore's eyes melted away. "There are greater things at work here, Hermione. It would be dangerous to have Harry and I in the same room for too long."

That sent her senses into high alert. "Why?" She met his eyes fearlessly.

The Headmaster sighed. "It's not yet time for you to know." That prickled at her. When would it be time?

"Then let me teach him," Hermione suggested. "And let me teach him other things, while I'm at it. Lessons on how to fight. Hand to hand combat, knives-"

"In short, everything Severus taught you?" A glimmer of amusement was back, twinkling behind the Headmaster's glasses. "No."

"Why?" Hermione protested. She stood, wavering. "Headmaster- Albus- he needs to be able to protect himself! After last year- after the graveyard- he's serious about it, he would learn! What if-" Tears were threatening.

Dumbledore was out from behind his desk in a moment, putting a frail arm around Hermione's shoulders. "Why don't you come into my rooms, my dear?" he said, grandfatherly worry in his voice. "We'll have some hot chocolate."

Sure enough, soon Hermione was curled up on a couch with a mug of steaming hot chocolate in her palms. Dumbledore also had a mug, and was sitting cross legged on the sofa.

He started the conversation. "I do want you to know that Harry Potter is my utmost priority," Albus began. His voice was strong, sincere. There was no way that Hermione could doubt him. "Harry- he is more than just the Boy-Who-Lived to me. I am close to him. I worry about him as I would worry about my own child."

Bitterness rose in her. "But you don't want me to teach him how to protect himself?"

"No," Dumbledore said, still with that tone of complete honesty. "Hermione, there will come a time when Harry will need to be vulnerable. When he will need to look at death not with fear, as you and Severus do, but as if it was only the next great adventure. Harry needs to be selfless."

Her head was hurting more. She put down the hot chocolate and cradled her head in her hands. "Headmaster, you are telling me all these things and none of it makes any sense."

"I need you to trust me," Dumbledore said urgently. "Hermione Granger- do you trust me?"

No. I'm not sure who I can trust anymore.

"I think so," Hermione admitted finally. "I- some people here have grown up with legends about you, and I haven't. All I have to go off of is my own interactions with you."

She had meant is as an excuse- why she didn't fully believe in him- but Dumbledore took it as an affirmation.

"And I trust your judgment as much as Severus does, my dear," he said jovially. "Trust me when I say that I will sacrifice anything to win this war, and Harry is the most important element of it right now."

Is he the king or the queen, through? Is he the most important player, or is he what needs to be guarded? Can he be sacrificed too?

"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asked, peering at him over the tip of her quill. He had just stumbled back into the Common Room, quite a dazed expression on his face. She narrowed her eyes. His lips- his lips were red. And his face seemed a bit damp.

Harry gave a half-hearted shrug.

"What's up?" said Ron, hoisting himself up on his elbow to get a clearer view of Harry. He had been sprawled on the floor, doing his Transfiguration homework. "What's happened?"

He didn't say anything. Hermione wasn't quite sure if it was his still-dazed look or if it was a choice. Either way, she took matters out of his hands.

"Is it Cho?" she asked in a businesslike way. "Did she corner you after the meeting?" They kissed, didn't they. Fuck. If Dumbledore finds out he's going to kill me.

She had left them in the Room of Requirement only because she had to finish her letter to Viktor, reasoning that on her turn back she would prevent anything from happening. That's means something's happened. Well, Dumbledore can't get too pissed if something more important was going on.

Numbly surprised, Harry nodded. Ron sniggered, breaking off when Hermione caught his eye. Prat. Not the time to laugh, Ronald.

"So - er - what did she want?" he asked in a mock casual voice. Hermione swung her foot to kick him, but he was just too far away.

"She -" Harry began, rather hoarsely; he cleared his throat and tried again. "She - er -"

"Did you kiss?" asked Hermione briskly. Obviously. Damn it.

Ron sat up so fast he sent his ink bottle flying all over the rug. Disregarding this completely, he stared avidly at Harry.

"Well?" he demanded. Oh dear. I hope Ronald's inferiority complex doesn't make things difficult.

Harry looked from Ron's expression of mingled curiosity and hilarity to Hermione's slight frown, and nodded.

"HA!" Ron made a triumphant gesture with his fist and went into a raucous peal of laughter that made several timid-looking second-years over beside the window jump. A reluctant grin spread over Harry's face as he watched Ron rolling around on the hearthrug.

Hermione gave Ron a look of deep disgust and returned to her letter. You are welcome to come to Headquarters anytime, Viktor. Just let me know. I'll have to get clearance of course but-

Ron's voice broke her concentration. "Well?" Ron said finally, looking up at Harry. "How was it?" She didn't want to know what Harry's kiss was like. A wave of bitterness moved through her. He gets to kiss the girl he isn't allowed to have. Why can't I have Severus?

Harry considered for a moment. "Wet," he said truthfully.

Ron made a noise that might have indicated jubilation or disgust, it was hard to tell. Hermione was confused too. Wet?

"Because she was crying," Harry continued heavily. Crying? Oh dear.

"Oh," said Ron, his smile fading slightly. "Are you that bad at kissing?"

"Dunno," said Harry, who hadn't considered this, and immediately felt rather worried. "Maybe I am."

"Of course you're not," said Hermione absently, still scribbling away at her letter. How to spin this, how to spin this...

"How do you know?" said Ron very sharply. Oh? Jealous? Uh oh. I'll need to nip that one in the bud.

"Because Cho spends half her time crying these days," said Hermione vaguely. "She does it at mealtimes, in the loos, all over the place. She misses Cedric. And her parents are thinking about moving back to China."

"You'd think a bit of kissing would cheer her up," said Ron, grinning.

"Ron," said Hermione in a dignified voice, dipping the point of her quill into her inkpot, "you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Ron indignantly. "What sort of person cries while someone's kissing them?"

"Yeah," said Harry, slightly desperately, "who does?"

Hermione looked at the pair of them with an almost pitying expression on her face. I could have cried when Severus was kissing me, the emotion was so intense.

"Don't you understand how Cho's feeling at the moment?" she asked.

"No," said Harry and Ron together. Of course not.

Hermione sighed and laid down her quill. "Well, obviously, she's feeling very sad, because of Cedric dumping. her Then I expect she's feeling confused because she liked Cedric and now she likes Harry, and she can't work out who she likes best, or if she has another chance with Cedric or if she'd be better off than Harry. Then she'll be feeling guilty, thinking that maybe she shouldn't be kissing Harry at all, with all she's been saying that she still loves Cedric and she'll wait for him and she'll be worrying about what everyone else might say about her if she starts going out with Harry, and if it'll be getting back to Cedric. And she probably can't work out what her feelings towards Harry are, anyway, because she's been telling some people she wants the Boy-Who-Lived and others that she'll still in love with Cedric. Oh, and she's afraid she's going to be thrown off the Ravenclaw Quidditch team because she's been flying so badly."

A slightly stunned silence greeted the end of her speech, then Ron said, "One person can't feel all that at once, they'd explode."

"Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have," said Hermione nastily picking up her quill again.

"She was the one who started it," said Harry. "I wouldn't've - she just sort of came at me - and next thing she's crying all over me - I didn't know what to do —"

"Don't blame you, mate," said Ron, looking alarmed at the very thought.

"You just had to be nice to her," said Hermione, looking up anxiously. "You were, weren't you?"

"Well," said Harry, an unpleasant shade of red creeping up his face, "I sort of - patted her on the back a bit."

Hermione felt like rolling her eyes. Harry. What am I going to do with you? You get one illegal kiss past me and you pat her back? "Well, I suppose it could have been worse," she said. "Are you going to see her again?" I can't let another one slip through my net. Goddamnit.

"I'll have to, won't I?" said Harry. "We've got D.A. meetings, haven't we?" And I can't exactly kick her out of the D.A. Without probable cause.

"You know what I mean," said Hermione impatiently.

When he didn't answer after a while, she sighed. He probably hadn't thought about that yet."Oh well," said Hermione distantly, buried in her letter once more, "you'll have plenty of opportunities to ask her."

"What if he doesn't want to ask her?" said Ron, who had been watching Harry with an unusually shrewd expression on his face. Oh? Maybe jealous of Cho? No... I don't think so. He likes getting an eyeful of lavender.

"Don't be silly," said Hermione vaguely, "Harry's liked her for ages, haven't you, Harry?" Harry flushed.

"Who're you writing the novel to, anyway?" Ron asked Hermione, trying to read the bit of parchment now trailing on the floor. Hermione hitched it up out of sight. Nope. You don't get to see what I'm writing. Viktor suspects I'm a bit older than I look and I'm writing like I am.

"Viktor," she said noncommittally.

"Krum?" There was more than a little outrage in his voice.

"How many other Viktors do we know?"

Ron said nothing, but looked disgruntled. They sat in silence for another twenty minutes, Ron finishing his Transfiguration essay with many snorts of impatience and crossings-out, Hermione writing steadily to the very end of the parchment, rolling it up carefully and sealing it, and Harry staring into the fire, wishing more than anything that Sirius's head would appear there and give him some advice about girls. But the fire merely crackled lower and lower, until the red-hot embers crumbled into ash and, looking around, Harry saw that they were, yet again, the last ones in the common room.

"Well, night," said Hermione, yawning widely as she set off up the girls' staircase. She had to send the owl to Viktor and get some sleep before whatever was going to happen happened.

And so ends Chapter Twenty Three.

I'm glad you all think so much of my writing skills. Thank you, as always, for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.

The next chapter will be posted on January 24.

Her head was throbbing. "I understand, sir," Hermione said, bowing her head and placing it in her hands. The blackness was comforting. She wanted nothing more now than Severus.

"You have failed us tonight, Miss Granger," said the Headmaster coldly.

I love all the fascinating takes on the relationship I've assembled so far. (Don't worry, I'll be taking it pretty darn slow for those who were concerned). Also, I'll probably be upping the rating sometime soon.

If you enjoy Sherlock, you can find plenty of adlock fanfic on my author's page. (Holy freaking cow new/last episode on Sunday. Gulp)

Review! Thank you for reading!