A/N: This is completely not for profit, characters are all property of Jo Rowling, and while some of the scenarios may have been started by her, they are creatively embellished by me. Yeah, that and Warner Bros owns everything.



He always does it, Hermione, and you always stick up for the bloody prats and fuckwhits, Harry hissed. Hermione was slightly scandalised, hearing the language that was issued forth, but she could hardly be surprised.


It had even occured to her how much time she had spent rushing to other's defenses. And she had tried to overlook the fact that few included in that number were worth her time of day.


Harry was still regarding her, his gaze leveling betwixt fury and disgust. She couldn't pretend that her sudden, and unfair protection of Snape had been a difference in maturity. She had suddenly felt, if not pity, than an empathy. And, eight points, when she glanced at the ruby filled counter, seemed very minimal in consideration of the points that Harry, Fred and George were losing amongst themselves.


Harry, just because your father didn't like him, doesn't mean the grudge has to be continued, she snapped tiredly, gazing anxiously at the Charms homework that should have been started long before their hallway hissing had commenced. But Hermione hadn't heard the sting of her words, and neither had she seen Harry's abrupt pause in the hallway. His light steps (which had turned into heavy scuffles, recently), squeaked.


She turned around, her mouth open to mention something about her missing Transfiguration text when she registered the surly fury on his face. Even his scar crinkled angrily, where he tried to contain himself.


Harry, I'm sorry, I just meant you can't keep blowing up in Snape's face because you feel some kind of obligation towards your dad, she finished lamely. Her normally useful knowledge didn't extend itself into the field of tact. She had a hard time understanding, and avoiding Harry's soft spots. She felt stupid and exploitative for including his father.


So you think you know what its like?, he asked her quietly, his anger had fled, but an insurmountable, and terrible look of disappointment had needled her, you think that I hate Snape only because of my father? Try understanding, Hermione, try joining the rest of us. They won't teach you that in a book.


He slapped the text book out of her hand, its pages fluttering in indignation. The moving diagram which she had been glancing at, sputtered for a few seconds in gravitational chaos.


Ron walked up slowly behind her, This is a royal mess, he said softly to her. He knelt down and picked up the book. She looked at him helplessly. As much as she loved both of them, she had been feeling much less of it lately. The second quasi harmony had been reached, another assault would occur.


I didn't mean it, she said desperately, not to Ron in particular. One of the portraits snorted unpleasantly. Ron shrugged, tugging his robes from his ankles. Well, you had to say it eventually. You've got to admit, Hermione, that Snape really is a bastard to Harry though, he said in an unusual moment of lucidity.


Of course I know that, she snapped, I just meant that he shouldn't feel like its a nepotism thing to keep on hating him. Snape's saved his life, Ron, and all Harrys done is blame him for He-Who....Voldemort's ressurection. Ron smiled deflatedly. Hermione sank to the ground, limply accepting the text book from Ron.


So, why this Snape sympathy? Starting a new club?, he smirked. He jabbed her softly in the ribs and she laughed. The echoe sounded unerringly like a very reluctant accordion.


We should head back for the tower, eh?, Ron said, his ginger hair in the direction of the dormitories. She nodded tiredly. The stone was making her rear end ache. She could tell Ron was worried about Harry's whereabouts. His tendency to wander into dangerous places in the midst of a tantrum was infamous.


Why don't you go find him? He won't talk to me for at least the extent of our O.W.L's, she sighed. She wished that she could promise herself that she would be humbled enough to apologise, or at least that Harry would want to look at her at breakfast in the morning, but both were equally unlikely.


Ron was long gone before she fully gathered her satchel and things about her. She stretched briefly, her arms flung high above her furious halo of curls.


What the bloody hell is the point, she said scathingly to a suit of armor. A rusty shrug was her only reply. A group of nymphs in a painting tittered at her distress.


She bent down, and stood upright again, when she saw the figure of Snape looking at her with mild reproach written on his face. She almost screamed and covered her breasts, utnil she realised she was neither naked, nor in a female-only zone.


, he asked. Hermione hoped that her one eyebrow raised wouldn't be considered impudent.


There was no tart reply on the tip of her tongue, and her head was strangely blank when she looked at him. She only felt a rather throbbing fury, as it really was his fault that Harry would probably never speak to her again, and that Ron was such a coward sometimes. And more than anything else, she would have dearly loved to tell him to wash his hair once in a while.










A/N: Thanks for the quick responses. This is not going to be a normal Snape/Granger romance. It won't build up to a steamy sex scene or any of that. I have yet to see what I want to do with this. And as for chaptering, well, it won't be a new addition everyday, so please be patient. Thanks again.