A/N: Okay, here is a short, horribly short chapter to show that I have actually been thinking about this story. I'm working on more, and will do as much as I can. The next few chapters might be a bit more interesting. I promise!

P.S. Ooh, I'm currently listening to Chris Isaak's 'Wicked Game'. What an inducement to write things about a certain Potions Master. 'What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you.' what an appropriate line.

To everyone who has waited so incredibly patiently: kiwi pixie, thanks for the understanding and good wishes, my play went over well and we even made some money; Miss Elvin; Night Shade; loopy loopy lupin (what a great name. BTW); Canadian Weirdo; Morwen- thanks for such entusiastic (and thoroughly undeserved) praise!; eowowiel; Uberscully; Chrissy; Regina and whyMMM. Thanks for all your kind wishes and understanding, and also for wanting to read more of my story.



Chapter Seventeen

Snape opened his eyes to the dimness of his chambers, his mind a blank. Sleep sometimes had that wonderful effect on him; robbing him of thought, freeing him of torture. Slowly, the occupants of his mind made their way back into his brain; ordinary, everyday thoughts like whether he had clean socks and if he needed to change his sheets today, more complex thoughts like the equation for his latest experimental potion, the thoughts that lurked in the back of his mind every moment of every day, taunting him with past deeds, and, finally, memories of the evening before.

Of course. The sight of Hermione Granger drunkenly making her way down the dim corridor. Prodding him in the chest, making her rather interesting accusation. Fainting- without a care as to who would take care of her. Then picking her up, seeking out one of the numerous spare rooms kept at the ready in this busy castle in the failure of knowing the password to her rooms, lying her down, performing the unusually personal task of removing her boots for her and tucking her in.

Snape allowed himself a period of reflection as he worked his limbs into life. He flexed his fingers and thought of the way Hermione Granger's hair really did look like on a moonlit pillow. He stretched his legs and remembered the way her lips parted in sleep. He yawned sleepily and thought of the scratches on her neck, wondering if his dream-self had inflicted them on her. He cracked a knuckle and cursed himself for thinking these thoughts in the first place. Moonlight and romance were the stuff of pulped novels.

With a groan, Snape sat up and placed his feet against the floor. Why did he have the damned habit of patrolling corridors just as Hermione Granger entered them, anyway? It seemed as if there was some sort of radar that drew them together on moonlit nights.

Having her collapse in front of him was what had put him in this foolish mood, he was certain. If he considered it logically, having a drunken female accost him and then pass out in front of him was not particularly attractive. The smell of stale alcohol was not pleasant. The way a person looked while unconscious was even less so; the look of the slack jaw, the feel of true weight trying to pick the rag-limp person up off the floor. All these were reasons to feel displeased, even slightly disgusted by such an event.

Yet the remembrance of her warmth as he wrapped his arms around her, the feeling of her weight in his arms as he carried her caused a heady rush of endorphins to his brain. His brain still carried a picture of her sleeping face in the moonlight that wouldn't go away. It was all damnably gooey.

He wished he'd just let her collapse at his feet. The cold of the stone floor would have woken her up sooner or later, he was sure.

The problem, he felt, was hormones. Though he was a man rapidly approaching middle age and its attendant sexual decline, he had not had sex in at least five years- not with anyone else, anyway- and this lapse in sexual activity was undoubtedly the cause of the rush of testosterone now that an attractive young female was around. His body simply sensed a potential to procreate, and was doing its best to prompt him to do so. Knowing this didn't make the attraction any less potent, but at least he had something to rally against.

Of course, he could just bed her, and that would be that. But Snape was a man who, if nothing else, had learnt to understand himself. He did not seek pleasure without respect, did not simply take without giving something in return. To sleep with Hermione Granger, he felt, would be a disaster, even pushing aside the possibility of an uncomfortable scene or two after the event- they were colleagues, after all, and, little as he liked to admit it to her face, Hermione was likely to have a position on the Hogwarts staff as long as she chose; they would have to look each other in the eye every day hence. It wasn't uncommon for grown adults to be able to have sex without having to turn it into a drama, but then again, it wasn't uncommon for the situation to turn the other way.

Besides, something in Snape cringed away from the thought of bloodlessly seducing and bedding Hermione Granger. There seemed something... unclean about the thought. And that thought made him even more uncomfortable, so he pushed it away. It was definitely time for breakfast.

Snape allowed himself a smile as he observed Poppy Pomfrey slink in to the dining hall just as he was finishing breakfast. She looked considerably less chipper than usual. Snape didn't bother to hide a smirk as he observed her timidly pouring a cup of coffee, holding her head in pain. She undoubtedly deserved it.

He had observed what he liked to think of as the Three Witches- in the most derogatory sense of the term- stumbling their way to their rooms soon after he left Hermione. Their entrance had prevented him from pondering too much on his own actions, of which he was glad. Their antics had also provided considerable entertainment, as he was sure they would this morning, especially Hermione. Snape congratulated himself on stopping himself from leaving a vial of hangover solution by her bedside, an extremely uncharacteristic and tender act as it would have been. Her antics this morning would well satisfy his need for cruelty.

Finishing his breakfast, Snape stood and left the table. Strange how the pain of others could put him in such a good mood, but then again they were the group who had repeatedly disturbed his peace the evening before. He frowned as he walked down the corridor. Yes; Hermione. Her little comment had prevented his sleep for at least two hours, so caught up was his insubordinate mind with it.

Reaching his rooms, Snape sat at his desk for a while. Work, he thought, was the refuge of the desperate. He did, however, have to grade the papers for several classes, and it would do to reconsider the project for sixth-year Slytherins once more, even though he had gone over it fifty times. He was about to begin, when he noticed he had left the book he was currently reading somewhere- it must still be at the breakfast table. It was an essential text for his day's proposed work; it was impossible to simply wait for a house elf to return it. With clenched teeth, he stood and strode over to the door. It was obviously going to be one of *those* days.

The corridors passed in a blur, and Snape barely had time to take points from the three students he came across before he found the doors to the great hall looming before him. With a brief detour, he entered the room from the side door- he had always avoided the grand entrance on weekends, it just wasn't worth it- coming across a somewhat bedraggled group of late- breakfasting staff. Immediately in front of him, Ailie, Hermione, Minerva and Freya Hooch were grouped up one end of the table, far away from the others. They hadn't noticed his entrance. Something about the situation caught his attention; they seemed a little too engrossed in conversation.

'So, any more dreams about certain dark potions professors last night, Hermione?' asked Madam Hooch, buttering a piece of toast. Snape's ears perked up. So, the ladies had been gossiping about him last night, had they?

'I don't know,' groaned Hermione. 'The first thing I knew this morning was waking up in some strange room. I have absolutely no idea how I got there.' Snape half-smiled at the obvious pain in her voice. There was nothing he enjoyed more than someone else's hangover.

'Hmm...' said Ailie conspiratorially. 'Well, the last I saw of you last night was you approaching Snape, picking a fight with him, and him picking you up in his manly arms and striding down the corridor with you.' McGonagall gasped. Madam Hooch laughed uproariously, then clutched her head.

'Ow,' said she, still smiling. 'So Snape finally gave in, did he?' Snape quirked an eyebrow. So. They had been discussing him.

Hermione looked at the three of them, her eyes wide. 'I didn't- I mean, I would know, wouldn't I...?' Snape snorted inwardly. As if he would take advantage of a drunken child. A stray thought from the evening before slipped into his mind, but he pushed it aside.

'I'm certain you would,' said McGonagall, although she looked a little uncertain.

Snape narrowed his eyes. He had just had a brilliant idea, but he wasn't certain if he could pull it off. It would certainly teach these gossiping females a lesson. Clenching his teeth against a smile, he stepped forward.

'Hermione,' he said softly, placing his hand on her shoulder and leaning over her. He looked deeply into her eyes as her startled glance met his.

'Wh-what?' she asked, all confusion. Snape knelt down, seemingly ignoring the presence of all the others, and took her hand.

'I'm sorry I had to leave so early this morning,' he said in a low voice, running his thumb over the back of her hand. 'I do hope you understand.' He was pleased to see her attempt to rally.

'Uh, Professor Snape, this isn't-' Hermione began, but Snape cut her off with a low chuckle.

'Professor?' he said, glancing down coyly. He was surprised he was actually pulling this off. The romantic hero was one of the few roles he had never been called upon to do. 'Have we not surpassed these... formalities?' he drawled. 'After all, last night, you were using my given name. I rather enjoyed the way you said it when you-'

Hermione gasped, and opened and shut her mouth a few times before any sound came out. 'Sn- Severus,' she finally managed, in a choked voice. '*Please.*'

Snape smiled wickedly at her. 'Exactly.' He looked down at the small hand resting in his big one, and traced a pattern over the back of it, noting the way her pulse jumped. He smiled inwardly, but kept his serious look in place. It wouldn't do to give his audience knowledge of his enjoyment. He ran his hand over hers once more, then put it back in her lap, looking once more into her eyes.

'Hermione,' he said, 'I just wanted to tell you...' He rose. 'That next time you supposedly grown women feel in need of a gossip you would be treading a safer path by leaving my name out of it!' The chill in his voice would have made a snake shiver. He treated the other four to his most threatening look, strode over to his former seat, and, retrieving his book, swept out of the hall. He was pleasantly surprised that the ladies waited until he reached the door to burst into laughter.

***

Hermione heard the laughter of her colleagues dimly as she sat, fixedly staring at the remains of her breakfast. She idly reflected that it was a waste; there had been a whole sausage that she hadn't even touched. She doubted that the rest of those seated at the table would appreciate her throwing up during their meal, so she pushed her plate aside.

She felt a touch at her shoulder, and snapped around to see Ailie staring at her concernedly. 'Are you all right?' the other girl asked.

Hermione looked back down at her plate. 'No,' she answered. The other women calmed down; silence reigned in their corner for a few minutes. Finally, McGonagall opened her mouth to speak. Hermione cut her off.

'No, I am *not* all right, Ailie. May I enquire as to how Severus Snape gained knowledge of my dreams? And you-' she indicated the other three, '-you just sat there, you didn't stop him from making me believe- from tricking me into thinking that-' she stuttered into silence. McGonagall reached over to pat her hand.

'Well, my dear, we didn't quite know that it was a trick,' she said. Hermione glared at her. She opened her mouth to rebut, but could come up with nothing. With an angry snort, she rose from the table, throwing her napkin down.

'No, Minerva, you're right. It's entirely his fault.' With a look of determination, she rounded the table and strode to the doors leading from the great hall.

Behind her, Ailie was the first to break the wave of silence.

'We can't let her go off and confront Snape,' she said quietly.

'I don't see why not,' said Hooch, dropping her own napkin on her plate and rising.

'But anything could happen!' said Ailie.

'I do believe she's right,' said Poppy Pomfrey, with a considered look to the doors. 'Those two are a powder keg waiting to go off.'

'And sex in the corridors is something the students do not need to see,' added Ailie, hastily rising and heading for the door, leaving a shocked trio to sit and stare after her.

'I just meant that they'd have a rather nasty fight again,' said Poppy.

'You know Ailie, she's a bit excitable,' said Hooch calmly, turning and heading for the door.

'I'm sure Freya's right,' said McGonagall. 'Still, it might be best to arrange for Hermione and Severus to stay out of each other's way for a time. Hermione can have a terrible temper when she's roused.'

'Yes, I remember with Fred Weasley,' said Poppy dryly, wiping her mouth and rising also. 'It took three months for his eyebrows to grow back.'

'You have to admit that painting Hermione's cat green was a fairly silly thing to do,' said Minerva, following her old friend out the door.

'He was always a fairly ugly cat anyway,' Poppy replied.

Next chapter: Pining for the Fjords.