Severus's intentions were good, if dishonourable. He wanted to devote his considerable expertise, honed to perfection over the last couple of years, to ensure Hermione's complete and utter satisfaction.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she had other ideas.

Instead of a quick progression to his rooms, the leisurely removal of clothes, and a prolonged exploration of each other's bodies, there had been innumerable stops along the way for the kinds of activities that would lead to deduction of points in his students.

The first time, he had felt slight concern that he might be seen; the second time, there had been a fleeting concern for his buttons as she had commenced a very determined attack on his jacket; the third time, it was only the sound of voices that had prevented them from consummating their relationship against a dungeon wall.

They finally arrived at his rooms in a very dishevelled state. His jacket was undone, his shirttails tugged free, his flies were half undone, and Hermione was in no better state. Her robes were undone, her underwear had been charmed off, and her hair was tousled and dishevelled.

He'd barely managed to shut the door behind him behind him, before she was launching herself on him again. He wondered fleetingly, before her fingers moving back to his fly reclaimed his attention, whether this was a Gryffindor thing. He didn't think that he'd ever had sex with a Gryffindor before; he'd dismissed them as being clumsy and pedestrian. Now he was rapidly reassessing that opinion; untutored enthusiasm had its benefits.

It was true that the hand scrabbling at his fly was taking too long to find its goal, but when it did, he felt his knees buckle.

"Bed?" he asked.

"God idea," she replied, and he could see her point; the bed was looking very friendly at the moment.

There was an undignified scramble to the bedroom, both of them reluctant to stop kissing, coming to rest on the bed with Severus half sprawled on top of her. He was determined to regain the initiative, and took the opportunity to pin her hands above her head. She wriggled, a little impatient at the restriction, until he placed his mouth close to her ear and said, "Now, now Miss Granger, you know it takes time to brew a good potion."

"My dear Professor, at the moment I want to subscribe to the Longbottom method; throw everything into the cauldron and just wait for the explosion."

Ordinarily the mention of Neville's name would have been enough to dampen, if not douse completely, the fires of passion; this time, it had the opposite effect. Refusing to release her hands, not that she was struggling much, the other hand was pulling up her robes. She was obligingly using her feet to push his trousers off his hips, and then he was driving into her, with long, powerful thrusts, her hips rising to meet him.

The small part of his brain still capable of conscious thought was aware that she was making encouraging noises, which died away to wordless whimpering, then a long drawn out wail as she came, wrapping her legs round him to pull him closer. He managed the few snaps of his hips necessary for him to join her, and then slumped, exhausted and panting, on top of her.

He didn't think anything for a long time, just laid there, all languorous and limp. When his brain kicked back into life, spluttering and protesting, he realised that he must be squashing Hermione, and her lack of protests may well be due to lack of breath. His dutiful attempts to move were halted when she protested, and they remained curled together in sated contentment.

Hermione wriggled around a little, gave a jaw-breaking yawn and apparently fell asleep, leaving Severus hovering between amusement that she'd taken the man's role, relief that she hadn't wanted to talk about his - or her – feelings, and feeling slightly cheated and a little foolish for feeling cheated.

But wasn't there supposed to be some expression of appreciation or affection, or something? He supposed he should feel grateful she had stopped short of farting and rolling over. He debated whether to discreetly elbow her in the ribs, and prompt her to massage his ego. The plan was only aborted when the burrowing animal that was Hermione, wriggled a little closer, snaked an arm round him and mumbled something about 'Severus', 'wonderful' and 'darling'.

He chose to take that as the required glowing praise, tucked his arm possessively over her and drifted off to sleep.

When Severus woke the next morning he found himself in the same delightful position as the day before, only this time it would be reasonable to assume that he didn't have to remove any offending limbs, members or digits before Hermione woke.

She was warm, and soft, and he'd never noticed before quite how chilly his bedroom was. It made him reluctant to make the dash to the loo his bladder was calling for.

It was pleasant to wake next to a woman and not have to worry about what to say, or trying to make as fast an exit as possible before the young lady in question made enquiries as to breakfast, lunch and dinner; what he was doing next week; and began mentally picking out curtains for his quarters. He liked his curtains as they were, thank you very much; pretty much liked his life as it was, and hadn't seen any reason to change it before now.

And yet.....

And yet, in barely three days – or seven months, depending on how you looked at it - he'd completely changed his mind and rather impulsively thrown away his bachelor existence. He hoped it went better than his last impulsive decision. He rubbed his left arm reflexively though the Mark had long since gone.

He couldn't resist the call of his bladder any longer.

He slid out of bed, careful not to wake Hermione, and wrapped his dressing gown round himself. The floor in the bathroom was cold, and he winced. His pressing need answered, he moved to wash his hands. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and realised that he looked slightly stunned. His Slytherin façade of supercilious detachment had entirely shattered.

It made him uncomfortable.

After ten minutes he had to admit to himself that he was hiding from Hermione. Not that he regretted what he'd done; not really, he just needed time to himself to come to terms with it. Just a bit of breathing space.

His period of reflection – or pure blind panic, as it might more properly be known – was brought to an end by the sounds of someone stirring in the next room.

Oh well, what was the worse that could happen? Being rogered senseless? Spending the rest of the day in bed, with a couple of meal breaks? He could cope with that, horrid though it might be.

He opened the door to find a tousled Hermione sitting up in bed, with a sheet very firmly tucked under her arms, and, he was pleased to see, a faintly worried expression. At least he wasn't the only one feeling a little uneasy this morning, and wondering quite what to do. "Oh there you are," she said with relief. "I was beginning to think that you'd run off with a house elf."

He shrugged off his dressing gown and dipped back under the covers as quickly as possible. Hermione squealed when his cold feet brushed against her, then relented, and wrapped her arms around him. "Why on earth didn't you cast a warming charm?" she said severely.

"I usually do," he confessed. "But for some reason I forgot to do so last night. My mind must have been on other things." His hand, which had been innocently resting on her hip, began moving in entirely less-innocent directions.

"And still is, apparently." He flinched a little when she pulled her wand from underneath her pillow, then relaxed when she did nothing worse than cast a warming charm. "I wouldn't want you to get a chill when you give the house elves our breakfast order," she explained. "It'll take some time to warm up though. Do you have any idea how we could pass the time?"

As it turned out, he did, and very good ideas they were too.

By the time they got round to breakfast, it was almost lunchtime, and Hermione was feeling ridiculously happy. This time she was wrapped in Severus' second-best dressing gown, which drowned her, and looked ridiculous, but did keep her feet warm. Apparently they didn't have to worry about impressing the House Elves anymore.

Severus was sitting on the sofa, and Hermione was twining herself affectionately round him. A bit like honeysuckle round a stake, she thought whimsically, contemplating where to put her tendrils next.

"Erm, what were you planning to do for the rest of the day?" Severus asked, a little hesitantly.

"No idea," she said. "Why, what did you have in mind? Do you need to do Potions-Master-y things? Should I make myself scarce for a bit?"

His arms tightened reflexively round her. "Don't be silly."

"Well then, I thought a bath and getting dressed would fill up the afternoon, and then there's dinner in the Hall again, and then I was assuming that we'd come back here afterwards for a nice discussion about potions. Or literature. I don't mind which."

A faint upheaval indicated that Severus was amused by that. "I was just wondering what we were going to do about Harry and Ron, now that things have changed."

"Do we have to do anything about Harry and Ron? As far as I'm concerned, they can either like it or lump it."

"I'm sure that you'd prefer to be friends again."

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose."

"I'll take that as a 'yes, provided they grovel at my feet by way of apology' shall I?"

Hermione smiled faintly. "I don't hold out much hope. It's funny. They're allowed to run around shagging everything in sight, but they expect me to stay at home, reading books, and waiting for them to call."

"Is that what you fell out about?"

Hermione nodded, and shifted a little closer. "They took it on themselves to warn off a bloke who they said was being over-friendly; according to them anyway. I told them to mind their own business. They told me that I didn't know what blokes were like, and that he was just interested in one thing. I pointed out that they shouldn't judge everyone by their own standards, and then they called me an uptight bookworm who wasn't getting any herself. The point seemed to escape them that the reason I wasn't getting any was because any time a man looked at me twice, they'd take it on themselves to go and 'have a word'. Bastards."

Severus wrapped a curl round his finger. "You don't think it's a question that if neither of them can have you, neither can anyone else."

"Good grief, I hope not. I don't think of either of them like that. Ew. That's revolting."

"There was a time in your sixth year when you and Mr Weasley seemed to be getting very close. There were bets being taken in the staff room over how long it would take you to succumb to his manly charms, and how long it would last. As I recall Irma and I scooped the pool that year; we both thought you had more sense."

Hermione let that pass, struck by a more interesting thought. "It's funny. I spent the whole year waiting for him to ask me out, and preparing all my excuses about how we were better as friends, but it never happened. I just thought he'd reached the same conclusion, and was relieved to be spared the inevitable sulking when I turned him down. It's not as if Harry needed the extra aggravation; he had enough to deal with."

"Yes, well that could be it. They came to some sort of gentleman's agreement that neither of them would make a move on you....."

"What? Next you'll be telling me that the reason the pair of them have found a proper girlfriend because they're pining for me."

"Well not entirely. There's a large element of them being young lads being offered sex on a plate wherever they go."

"Thank god for that," said Hermione firmly. "I can't imagine anything worse than being stuck in a relationship with either of them. Ron seems to think that, just because his mother runs round after him, that his girlfriends should do everything for him. He has this little act he puts on about not being able to do the most basic of cleaning spells, and the daft bints always fall for it. Plus, he's got this really annoying habit of leaving his socks in the middle of the kitchen floor. I'd have to kill him if I were living with him and he did that."

"And what's wrong with Harry?"

"He's unbearably chatty first thing in the morning, and he can't bear to let me sit and read a book without interrupting me every five minutes to ask me stupid questions. What am I reading? Who is it by? What's it like? Is it any good? It drives you demented."

"I put my socks neatly in the laundry basket provided, and, whilst I might invite you to put your book down, I'd certainly be doing it for more interesting reasons than asking you what it was about." Severus wondered whether it was wise to broach the issue of his bad habits, but decided that Hermione would be only too ready to point them out to him at a later date.

Hermione smiled up at him. "That's not the point though, is it? The thing is, if I liked Ron in that way, I'd probably think that leaving socks in the middle of the kitchen was sweet or something. If you're in love your brains seem to leak out your ears, and it's the really annoying things about someone that attracts you to them."

"For instance," Severus said cautiously, hoping that he wasn't asking for trouble.

"Well, some people might think that you were an irritable and sarcastic sod," Hermione replied. "I prefer to think of you as making witty and insightful comments, provoked by the utter inability of the average person to organise their way out of a paper bag. And I think you look really rather sexy when you sneer at people."

Severus wasn't offended by the thought that most people thought he was irritable and sarcastic; he was irritable and sarcastic. He was surprisingly pleased by the idea that Hermione thought he was witty, but then he supposed she had to deal with dunderheads almost as much as him, which would tend to make her appreciate his point of view. "And I've always admired the ... er... determined way you tackle any problem," he replied tactfully. She seemed to be right about brains leaking out of ears, because he'd never really tried being tactful before now; he'd never felt the need to.

"You mean I'm bossy, but you quite like it." Hermione said, amused. Tact was apparently wasted on her. That was probably for the best.

"I suppose I do: better bossy than having no idea what you want, and no idea how to get it. There's a lot to be said for bossy." Particularly when applied in the bedroom, he added silently. There was something to be said for not having to do all the hard work yourself.

There was a comfortable silence while breakfast settled, the fire crackled, and Severus excogitated. Only the broadest of smirks indicated that he'd reached a conclusion, though what that conclusion was he had no intention of sharing with Hermione. Despite her protestations, she still liked the boys, and really didn't have the ruthlessness necessary to bring them into line. What he needed was a Slytherin with a grudge, and you didn't have to look far to find one – Pansy Parkinson.

He was going to enjoy this.

Being a Slytherin, plotting was plugged directly into his libido. "Hermione, didn't you say something about having a bath?"

"Hmmmm."

She wasn't in a hurry to move, until he added, "Well why don't you run a bath for the both of us, and I'll be along in a minute?"

It didn't take long to dash off a quick note to Pansy asking for a quick word, and arrange for its delivery by house elf. Another house elf was sent scurrying for champagne and glasses, and a cooling charm was applied to the bottle.

He was disconcerted to see that Hermione was lying in a bath full of bubbles. The view was nice, he couldn't deny, but he didn't really think that bubbles were appropriate.

"Don't worry," she said, smiling warmly. "It's sandalwood, so you won't end up smelling of roses. It's a nice manly scent. And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"I should bloody hope note," he said severely, handing her a glass of champagne before sliding into the bath by her side. He'd never appreciated the benefits of having a bathtub this large before; it took ages to fill, was doubtless a bugger to clean – though that was the house elves' problem – and made you feel like you ought to lay down a trail of crumbs to be able to find your way out of it.

But it was just the right size for two, and Hermione was right about the bubbles being nice – though it would never do to let her know – and the champagne was chilled to perfection.

He didn't really approve of the way Hermione bolted her glass of champagne – it was vintage, for heaven's sake – but he entirely approved of the way she was nibbling on his neck. It did seem like his worse fears for the day were about to be realised, and he was going to be rogered senseless.

At least he'd made it out of bed.