He sat at his desk, twirling a spent quill in his fingers. So she had heard his conversation with Lupin last night. It didn't mean anything.
Bollocks, it meant everything. She could go to Dumbledore, or Potter… Or, he mused, she could go to him. How long had he pined for her, longed to touch her soft skin and feel her breath upon his cheek? For too long. Lupin, of all people, understood this.
Severus could've sworn that he'd gone down in some earlier round, but the surprised look (perhaps joy?) on Hermione's face had given him a second hope.
