See disclaimers on Chapter 1

Chapter 3: Get Me The Butter

The train emitted a long, high-pitched whistle as it rounded the curve on its way to London, drowning out the chorus of voices shouting goodbyes. Hermione stood on the edge of the platform watching it speed away until only the echo of the whistle and a thinning plume of steam rising on the horizon remained to mark its passage. Moments prior, she had been running alongside the last car, grasping Harry's and Ginny's hands through the open window until the train cleared the end of the platform and she was forced to let go. She teetered for a moment on the very edge of the platform, both arms raised above her head to wave farewell to her friends one last time.

Hogsmeade station had been so alive earlier, so raucous with the students milling about laughing and calling out to each other. Now it was terribly quiet. The only sound that reached her ears was the wind rustling around the edges of a large banner wishing the Hogwarts Class of '98 the best of luck.

Her eyes prickled with unshed tears at her friends' departure. It wasn't just that she would miss them – she would, after all, be seeing them all again in a few weeks, as she had been invited to spend some time at the Burrow in August. Instead, she was saddened that it was the end of their time together at Hogwarts. No matter where their lives took them or how often they saw each other in the coming years, they would never be students again. They would never be children again.

Not that Harry had ever really had a chance to be a child, growing up in that house of horrors and then facing the kinds of challenges that even Dumbledore was ill-prepared to tackle, all before the age of 18. And as one of his closest friends, Hermione had also been dragged into precocious maturity, though she suspected it meant less to her to shed the trappings of childhood than it did to Harry. Still, it was frightening to be right on the cusp of adulthood like this. On the one hand, she was eager to reach out and grab the future, to beat it into submission if she had to in order to make what she wanted out of it. Yet she still sometimes felt like the fearful little girl she had been just seven short years ago, the one who overshadowed everyone with her intelligence and overcompensated for her Muggle blood by trying to out-wizard every student in the school. Thankfully, she no longer had anything to prove. Time, hard work and her innate magical abilities had seen to that.

She was now the newest staff member at Hogwarts, having decided to accept the position of apprentice Transfiguration instructor. Professor McGonagall – Minerva, she corrected herself – had made the announcement to the school that morning at breakfast, and the news had been met with congratulatory cheers from three of the four long tables. At the meal's conclusion, each of the teachers stopped at the Gryffindor table to tell her how pleased they were to have her join the staff… with one notable exception.

Snape was not present in the Great Hall that morning, for which Hermione was truly grateful.

The memory of their encounter in the greenhouse still made her face burn hot with shame whenever she thought about it, which was far more frequently than she would have liked. How could she help it? She still sat in his classroom once a week, still saw him two or three times a day at meals. His very presence was a constant reminder of her humiliation, and she avoided him as much as possible. She had not said a single word in his class since that rainy night, had not even looked at him when he lectured, and he ignored her as assiduously as she ignored him. Concern over the issue almost caused her to turn Professor McGonagall's offer down, but after giving the matter careful thought she decided it would be foolish to waste the opportunity. She could only wonder what his reaction to the news had been.

The breeze shifted and she got a tantalizing whiff of the fresh fudge being made at Honeyduke's. Her stomach rumbling in response, she decided to head to The Three Broomsticks for lunch before heading into town to do some shopping.

The inside of The Three Broomsticks was dark in comparison to the bright afternoon sun, and Hermione saw nothing but shadows until her eyes adjusted. "Hello, love!" Rosmerta greeted her warmly as she perched on one of the high stools at the bar. "Fancy seeing you here! I thought you'd've left on the train with all that lot this afternoon."

"No, not yet. I'll be staying here for a few more weeks and then taking some time off to visit friends before the beginning of next term." She ordered a butterbeer and a bowl of chicken soup.

Rosmerta's eyebrow jerked upwards. "Next term? And here I thought you was one of the graduates this year."

"Oh, I was. I mean, I am. I'm not going to be here as a student, I'm on staff now." She straightened proudly and smiled as Rosmerta plunked a mug down on the bar in front of her.

"Ahh, that's wonderful, love!" Rosmerta said. "How exciting for you!" She clucked her tongue wistfully, expression growing nostalgic. "Seems like only yesterday you was in here for the first time. You and the youngest Weasley boy. They way he looked at you… well, it did me heart good, it did."

Deciding it would be best not to respond to that comment, Hermione applied herself to blowing the steam from the bowl of soup Rosmerta set before her, instead.

"Anyway," the older woman continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "I don't envy you having to be on staff with that one." She nodded toward a booth in the back corner of the room. "He's in an awful mood today. Even worse than usual, if you can believe that. Don't think he's feeling quite up to snuff."

Hermione glanced over her shoulder in the direction Rosmerta had indicated, then turned back quickly, instantly on full red alert. Snape was seated alone at the table, facing the back wall. How did I miss seeing him there? she thought despairingly.

"Does he come in here often?" she asked Rosmerta quietly.

"Oh yeah, always has done," Rosmerta replied. "Used to come in here as a student, you know, and at least once a weekend since he came back on staff. There's another one I've watched grow up – and grow old before his time."

"I think I'd better get out of here," Hermione said, taking a final swallow of her butterbeer. "I don't want to talk to him right now."

"Oh?" Rosmerta's eyebrow lurched skyward again, intrigued as always by any hint of gossip. Hermione looked up at her, broadcasting her feelings with her eyes. "Oh," Rosmerta said again, nodding understandingly as the situation became clear. "Well, that's your business, I suppose. But whatever your problems are, you'd better get them worked out quickly if you're both going to be on staff."

"You're right, I'm sure," Hermione affirmed, slipping off the bar stool. "But there's plenty of time for that. Trust me… now's not the right time."

"You know best love," Rosmerta sighed, scooping up the sickels Hermione dropped on the bar. "Just so long as you realize that the longer you leave it, the harder it will be."

Hermione was halfway to the door by then, hoping Snape had not seen her. But as she placed her hand on the doorknob, she realized Rosmerta was right – if she was to function effectively on the staff she was going to have to have a good working relationship with the other teachers. And this situation definitely wasn't going to get any easier with the passage of time.

Look at it as another step on the path toward adulthood, she mused, turning away from the door and steeling her resolve. It was time to start building bridges again. But it was going to be difficult. It was a foregone conclusion that he would not be happy to see her.

Or was it…?

A meager meal sat on the table before him, nothing more than a bowl of stew, a buttered roll and a sweating tankard of ale. But the food had been pushed aside in favor of the large book that was open next to his plate. She recognized it immediately as the copy of Magical Draughts and Potions that he carried with him everywhere he went. At first glance he seemed to be studying the book very closely, his face dipped so low over the pages that his hair hung straight down across his forehead. But as she got closer she realized his head was at the wrong angle for him to be reading the book. It was almost as though he had hung his head and fallen asleep.

To her surprise, he did not look up as she approached. She had never seen him so unaware of his surroundings. "Professor?" she ventured softly.

His head snapped up, the sudden movement causing his hair to tumble across his face and completely obscure one eye. He regarded her coldly, his face pale.

"Go away," he hissed.

Her heart was pounding and she found she could not obey his order. Something was definitely wrong with him. It wasn't his usual brand of anger, either – she'd seen him angry enough times to recognize the emotion in him. Whatever was going on, it was bigger than the brush-off she'd had at his hand in the greenhouse.

Ignoring his remark, she slid in the booth next to him. "What is it?" she pressed.

He tossed his head a bit to clear the hair out of his eyes, to no avail. "Miss Granger, I'm in no mood to deal with you right now. I've neither the time nor the energy for – " He broke off abruptly and drew in a sharp breath, wincing.

She suddenly noticed that he was cradling his left arm in his lap. "You're in pain!" she exclaimed softly as the realization hit her.

"Just leave me alone," he croaked as the spasm passed from his face.

"Is it… is it your Mark?" she asked timidly as he turned his body away from her and huddled down deeper in his seat. "I thought that once He-Who… once Voldemort was defeated that would all be over."

"Voldemort is – was – an incredibly powerful Dark wizard, Miss Granger. Magic that potent doesn't simply disappear overnight." He winced again, rubbing the spot gingerly. "It may be some time before the Mark stops responding to it. My only consolation in this matter is that Lucius Malfoy is no doubt also suffering greatly at this very moment."

"Does it hurt all the time?"

"No. The pain comes and goes. The occurrences were far more frequent directly after the Dark Lord's defeat."

"Can I help?" she asked, reaching for him.

He shook his head wearily, but allowed her to take hold of his arm and pull it up into the light. Gently, she peeled back the sleeve to reveal the Mark. It looked nothing like what she had expected. The dark outline was so faded now that it was hard to tell where the skull ended and the serpent-like tongue began. It resembled angry-looking white scar tissue standing out in bold relief against the red, puffy skin surrounding it, a white tattoo embedded in a large first-degree burn. His forearm was swollen from the base of his hand to just short of the elbow, and as she watched she could see his pulse twitching at the wrist.

"Have you taken anything for it?" she asked, cupping her hand over his arm so the Mark was covered. It disturbed her to look at it, to imagine the things he might have done under its influence. She could feel the heat from the area radiating into her palm.

"Of course," he replied. "I've tried all of the pain relief potions. They only help temporarily."

"Well, there is one thing my mum always swears by for burns," she said, reaching for the small dish of butter on the table. She pushed his book closer to the edge of the table in order to make room for the dish in front of her.

"How many times must I tell you, Miss Granger," he sneered, trying to jerk his arm out of her grip, "I am not interested in any of your ridiculous Muggle cures."

Ignoring him, she muttered a brief warming charm over the butter to soften it, then scooped up a generous blob on her index finger. Tightening her grip on his wrist, she pulled his arm toward her and began carefully applying the butter to the red area. Bending low over her work, she smeared the greasy substance all around the Mark with feathery-light touches, unable to take her eyes from it and yet also unable to touch it. His skin was so hot she was surprised the butter did not melt on contact.

He grew very still and quiet under her ministrations. "Am I hurting you?" she asked, looking up at him. He shook his head wordlessly, lips parted slightly as if in surprise that she would do this for him. She noted the expression without comment and bent her head back to her task.

Eventually, she ran out of surrounding skin and, taking another scoop of butter, skimmed her fingertips directly over the Mark itself. This area was the most sensitive on his arm and he stiffened when she grazed it, his muscles contracting of their own volition beneath her touch. This writhing of his flesh made the Mark seem to come alive, and for a moment she gazed at the uncoiling viper slithering up his forearm in frank horror.

As she traced the white scars that formed the outline of the Mark, she was suddenly overcome with an impression of Darkness. It was – thankfully – terribly brief but it was also terribly strong. Flashes of hatred, fear, torture and pain, images of death and Dark magic so strong it could not be resisted. Snippets of harsh voices upraised in anger, keening in despair, groaning with enraged helplessness. And wrapped around it all were poisonous pangs of self-loathing and an aching desire for redemption. It swept over and around her like a cyclone, robbing her of her breath – and then it was gone.

This then… this is what made him the person he was. This was the power she had sensed in him that night at the Yule Ball and then again in the greenhouse. No wonder he was so vigilant about keeping it in check. What he must have endured… she could only imagine the tiniest bit of it. A wave of compassion and concern filled her, and she could not prevent herself from drawing his wrist to her lips. She pressed her lips gently to his pulse point, offering comfort and understanding in the only way she knew how.

"Enough," he said hoarsely, yanking his arm away. "I know what you're thinking, Miss Granger, and I do not want – or need – your pity." He stood quickly, bumping the table with his hip as he rose. The jarring upset his book, and it fell to the floor face down. Their heads nearly collided as they simultaneously leaned over to retrieve it, but he reached it first and pulled the book back onto the table by its spine.

He was about to make a biting final comment on the matter before storming off when he noticed she was still staring at the spot where the book had fallen. Open-mouthed, she slowly leaned over to pick a small, papery-looking object up off the floor. He stifled a gasp when the realization struck him as to what she now clutched in her hand.

"Is this my rose?" she whispered in a stunned voice, holding it up.

He turned his head away, refusing to respond.

She stood up and moved in front of him so he could not avoid her gaze. "You kept it all this time? I don't understand."

But she did understand. She recalled the feel of his heart racing against her cheek as they danced, sensed again the change in his breathing when she fell against him. It had not, as she had told herself countless times since that night, been only her imagination. She held the confirmation of that fact in her hand.

"Why did you say those things to me in the greenhouse?" she demanded when he still did not reply. "Why did you tell me you would never consider being with me in that way?" She bit back tears at the thought of it, of how unnecessary it had been.

"I'm a monster, Hermione," he said simply, his voice raw, and a detached part of her brain thrilled to hear him use her given name for the first time. "You sensed that yourself a moment ago. How could I allow a student – a child – to risk being corrupted by what I am?"

She studied his face for a moment, uncertain of how to respond. Then she reached out tentatively and tucked an errant lock of hair behind his ear. "As of this morning, I'm no longer a student…." she replied softly, tangling her fingers in the silky tresses.

He grasped her wrist and held it tightly as she brought her other hand up to touch his cheek. Cradling his head in both hands, she stepped forward just as he brought his face down to hers, and their lips met.

Finally.

Unfinished business, she thought, relaxing gratefully into the kiss. Her breathing quickened as he pressed his mouth against hers more firmly, his other hand coming to rest on the back of her head. They kissed for a long time, exploring the taste of one another gently at first, then with greater urgency. It felt so right, so… fulfilling to be with him like this, and she realized he had been wise to put this off until such time as they were both fully prepared for it.

Tingling from head to foot, she had a sudden urge to curve her body into his so she could feel him along her entire length, but at the same moment they both remembered that they were in the middle of a public place. Regretfully, she broke the enticing contact and stepped back.

"Come back to Hogwarts with me," she whispered urgently, sliding her hands down to his shoulders.

"No. Here," he replied in a husky voice. "I have a room upstairs – my refuge from the school. I don't want to give you time to change your mind."

She nodded wordlessly. And taking her hand, he led her up the stairs.




A/N: Yes, yes... I know... you're not supposed to put butter on a burn. Please don't do it. The reason it's in here is this story originally started out as a response to the Seducing Severus Snape writing challenge on the WIKTT mailing list, and one of the conditions of the challenge was Hermione must use some type of food product during the seduction process. Hence, the butter. Not a major point, but I've had a couple of emails and reviews from folks who were disturbed by it, so I figured I'd better explain why I included it in the first place.

Thanks for reading!