AN: Forgive me, but real life has reared its very ugly head. I won't be at a computer for a couple of days, and I won't be in any mood to update for a few more days after that. Also note that I made an idiotic mistake and accidentally replaced chapter 6 with 7 yesterday. You may want to go back and read chapter 6 if you haven't already.

---

I lie awake in the bed. Snape - Professor Snape - finished, rolled off, caught his breath. I hadn't second guessed myself then - he'd kept one hand resting on my belly even as he turned away from me. Now that he's gone, I feel inexplicably, coldly lonely, and desperately wish to be back with my friends, back with Harry and Ginny and sweet, affable, predictable Ron who would've done anything for me, who loved me to my core

---

I sat in the Three Broomsticks, contemplating my supposedly nonexistant future with my best friends. For some reason, once I agreed to be the bait in our operation to capture Lucius Malfoy and Professor Snape agreed to rescue me before anything happened, I completely believed that I'd come to no harm.

Harry and Ginny had sulked about for a week. Professor McGonagall had excused me from classes so I could 'enjoy myself,' as she put it. Ron kept following me around every chance he could, asking if I wanted to die a virgin. The Headmaster asked if I wanted to do anything special before I went out as bait, and Ron, at the words 'do anything,' got this awfully hopeful expression, like a dog awaiting a biscuit.

Everyone but me seemed convinced that I was going to die. Thus, Ginny, Harry, Ron and I decided to drink away our worries at the Three Broomsticks.

Well, Harry, Ron and I were. Ginny was too young to drink alcohol, and had to pass on the cocktails of butterbeer and rum that we indulged in. Butterbeer cocktails were the drink of choice of Hogwarts teenagers. I personally found them too sticky-sweet, but it was almost a ritual. Technically, we weren't supposed to drink.

The only teacher that seemed to notice, and happily take points, was Professor Snape.

He swooped into the little pub, all black cape and dark glower, and went straight to work, alighting first on a group of Ravenclaws who were using their ties as handcuffs and leashes in a bizarre card game. Fifty points from them. Next onto a first year who managed to sneak out in a group of third years; forty points and all seven of them ordered back to school for detention with Filch.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron muttered. "We're next up to Snape's axe. How many points do you bet he takes?"

"At least twenty," Ginny said

"I say fifty," Ron replied. "Plus one of his boring lectures."

"Probably give us detention," Harry sulked.

"Will you three be quiet? Honestly, you're no better than when you were eleven years old," I huffed. "He's quite intelligent, if you actually listened to him once in a while instead of acting like spoilt children."

"Aw, get off your soapbox, Hermione," Ron grumbled. "You know perfectly well that Snape hates Harry and I with..."

"Weasley. Potter. Miss Weasley. Miss Granger."

"Good afternoon, Sir," I said brightly.

The other three muttered halfhearted greetings and refused to meet his gaze.

"Miss Granger," he said. "Do try to stick with untainted butterbeer. I don't think I have enough hangover cures for all of your little friends."

I tried not to smile. I'd just brewed about fifty phials of it a few weeks ago, and unless the Slytherins had tried that Bacchus spell on the school's water supply again, I doubted that we'd run out.

"Yes, Sir," I replied, sipping at my glass.

He moved aside to sit with McGonagall and Vector in the corner.

"I was certain he would assign us an evening with Filch," Ginny said.

"Hmph." Ron frowned. "He wouldn't do that to his favourite know-it-all."

I watched him carefully. His face was red, and he glared daggers over at Professor Snape. It was then I realized why he hated the Profesor so much; I thought it was a holdover from childhood, but now I recognized it asjealousy. Strange, since we'd mutually agreed to break up only a few weeks earlier.

I wanted to shout at him that he was being foolish; Professor Snape was twice my age, a former Death Eater, frightening as hell, and who found my company acceptable only because I knew how to shred boomslang properly.

"Are you two ready to go? I thought I might stop by the bookstore before we head back to school."

"I have almost a full bottle to go." Ginny grinned. "Patience, Hermione. We have all evening."

It was about five minutes later when I felt Ron's toes slide up my chair and poke sharply into my inner thigh. I leapt backward in my chair, and his smirk vanished.

"Christ, Ron, what do you think you're doing?" I squealed.

I felt someone watching me, and when I glanced out the corner of my eye, I noticed that Professor Snape looked on the interchange between my ex-boyfriend and myself.

"Ron. We're friends. We aren't anything more. We're not going to be anything more, and having your boot kicking between my legs simply cemented that fact."

"Oh, Ron, you really are clueless sometimes." Ginny winced. "That's not a smooth move."

Ron's face flushed, and he looked a bit sheepish.

Harry snickered. "Ronald Weasley, the man who proves that romance is not dead."

"Okay, okay, quiet, both of you. Look, I'm sorry, I'll try to think a bit more before I act."

"Right, Ron." Ginny chuckled. "We'll see how long that lasts."

I shook my head, not really angry with him, before finishing up the last of my drink.

"I think I'm going to return to school."

"But Hermione, you only have a couple of weeks before you're off on... the... mission thing. Don't you want to spend time with us?"

"I do, Harry." I reached out and squeezed his hand. "But not like this, not out in public shouting at you over a noisy pub crowd. I'd rather just be myself, keep studying with you three in my room eating biscuits and drinking things that'll eventually rot my teeth while I lecture you, knowing perfectly well that it'll do no good."

He nodded. "I understand. C'mon, Ginny, hurry up and finish your butterbeer so we can walk her back..."

"Nah, Gin, don't bother." Ron winked. "I'll see the lady back to her humble abode. C'mon, Hermione, it's dark, wouldn't want you walking alone."

I smiled and let him drag me out of the pub.

We hadn't even gone six feet when he began pawing at me again, like a bear at a fisherman's campsite. Clumsy and awkward and leaving me with the urge to hit him with a tranquilizer dart. He kept pushing me toward the wall, and the stone and grout was really scratching my arm. I wondered, absently, why he'd bothered breaking up with me in the first place.

"Ron, give up already."

He pulled back, looking terribly serious. "You don't want to die a virgin, do you?"

"I think what you meant to say is, 'Hermione, you don't want me to die a virgin, do you?' Contrary to what you may think, I'm not writhing with built-up tension, hoping desperately that any random male will throw themselves at me."

"You know that's not what I think." He rubbed his hands over my upper arms. "You know I think you're pretty. I'm your friend. You know I'd never try to hurt you, I wouldn't tell anyone. I just thought, if I were in your place, I'd want to experience everything if there was a chance I might die. I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know, Ron," I whispered, putting my face in his shoulder.

He gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Are you sure?"

"I..."

"Oh, look what we have here. Two lovebirds sucking at one another drunkenly in the dark."

I jumped. Professor Snape. He looked angry. The Professor steepled his fingers and glared at Ron.

"Mister Weasley. Ten points for drinking, and another ten for forcing me to watch your attempt at seduction against a granite wall." He glared at me now. "Miss Granger, I expected better of you. Detention tonight. Both of you. Follow me, back to the school now."

Ron ended up dusting all of the portrait frames with a paintbrush whereas Professor Snape, in one of his more genteel moments, allowed me to chop three pounds of daisy root instead.

After three hours under Snape's disdainful supervision, shagging Ron seemed like even less of a bright idea.

---

I think I should leave. I start to slide out of the bed, horrified when I see three droplets of blood on the bed linens. I freeze. It's in that moment that Snape returns. What will he do? I don't know. Probably throw me out. He isn't kind, most of the time, has a temper. He's unpredictable, and that's the worst. I can still feel where his hands slid down me, where fingers caught on ribs and pelvis bones...

But no, he just settles into the bed beside me, letting me half-sit, half-lie on the other side, not facing him. He stays quiet for a minute.

"You're too thin."

I turn to him. How could he say that to me? I know I'm bony, even though I've started gaining again - am I really that disgusting that this is all he can think of at a moment like this? How can he always, always find a soft spot to wound?

I notice that he's poured himself a drink, though I don't know when he found the time.

He sounds like his mouth is filled with marbles as he speaks. "I think you lovely at times. I want you to eat more."

I swallow. I'm not lovely. Does he really think so? Why should it matter to me?

"Say something," he finally says. "Even if it is only to insult me."

I swallow again, lick my lips, and start to speak, uncertainly. I ache. I'm filthy. My body feels as if there's electricity buzzing through it. What can I say? Some logical part in my mind tells me I should hate him - he's unpredictable. He's keeping me captive.

But I don't hate him. I like him like this, kind of docile, sleepy. Predictable. He looks like he's almost afraid of me.

"I..." My voice sounds rusty, and I clear my throat, struggling to think of something normal to say, something that won't send him running. "I don't like eating by myself in the corner of the room. I mean - it seems strange, sitting there on the bed, nibbling at whatever Loki happens to bring. Eating is supposed to be social. At Hogwarts home I always had comfort food..."

"Comfort food?" His tone is derisive.

I blush and turn my face downward. His hand settles on my shoulder, and I can't help but let out a contented whimper when he tentatively, tentatively begins digging his thumb into the button of bone jutting out from the corner of my shoulder, working into the knot of tense muscle. When I turn to see his reaction, he has a half-smile playing at his lips. I blush, and that gut-clenching sick feeling subsides, just a bit.

"What sorts of comfort food?" he asks.

"Well," I admit, "What I'd really love is flapjack. Caramelly, buttery flapjack... chewy, made out of oats... you know?"

He nods. Silence. He sits there for a minute, just letting his hand rub my arm. I'm not even sure he realizes what he's doing.

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask.

"Do you want to leave?"

There's a hint of uncertainty in his voice. I catch the near-uncatchable quiver on the you.

"I don't know what I want." I look down. "I'm achy and cold."

I feel lonely, empty and dirty; not surprising, I suppose, since I've just lost my virginity in my Professor's bed. Draco suggested it was an order from the Dark Lord, though I can't imagine why a random prisoner would be important to a wizard who now controls Britain.

I'm thinking too hard. He thinks me pretty. He won't hurt me. He doesn't even know what he wants.

He lies down on the left side of the bed. After a minute of me sitting on the right side in uncertainty, he slides one arm around my shoulder, pulls, very gently, until I lie down beside him. A few minutes later I hear his breathing slow, metronome rhythm. As he falls asleep, he loops one arm around my waist.

I lie there, staring at the dark wood floor panels and the wide window for a good hour until I realize that I'm not going to get any sleep. Neither do I want to leave, and wake - what do I call him now? Professor? That's just wrong, somehow. Besides, on some level, I like being wrapped in this thick satin blanket, with the warmth of another person beside me. I haven't realized until now just how desperately lonely I've been.

"Loki," I whisper.

He pops into the room. "Missy? Oh, Missy has pleased Master... I know..."

"Shh, Loki," I whisper. "You'll wake him, he's still ill. Can you please bring me a Sleeping Draught?"

"Yes, yes, yes Missy... of course, Mistress..."

He reappears a few seconds later, leaving the phial on the night stand. I swallow it on one go, but as the potion takes effect, I realize that I've awakened him. He runs a hand over my hair, laces two arms around me - oh, but he thinks I'm asleep now, the potion's acting slowly upon me.

"Mmm, Hermione," he murmurs. "What have I done?"

I would reassure him - why do I feel this sudden need to reassure him, make him feel better? I want to comfort him with sweet words, want desperately to rid him of his guilt, but the potion is already dulling my mind, and all I can do is nestle into his belly and chest, yawn and fall asleep.

I blink. It's dim - clouds cover the sky outside again, and I can see smudgy rainclouds on the horizon. After a minute, I realize I'm not alone. Something clatters from across the room. Professor Snape, dropping a comb onto the top of his walnut dresser. His hand shakes - the afereffects of whatever he was exposed to? He seems to have healed himself well enough. Worry flickers through me, though I know he must've had to heal himself plenty of times without me to help.

My worry vanishes when he begins to speak. His voice is as strong, controlled and clipped, as always.

"Miss Granger."

I flinch, and he sees it reflected in the mirror.

"Hermione," he says. "We need to discuss... this."

What is there to discuss? I can imagine, from his shuttered eyes, his hooded expression, the way he is standing at one end of the room, fully clothed, while I lie in the bed in a state of dishabille, awaiting his judgement.

"I assure you that this will not happen again."

"Why?" I ask.

I have to know his reasoning.

"It was not appropriate. You were already feeling threatened by me. I did not give you an opportunity to voice your desires before I pushed you into... this situation."

I think about it. He's right, in a way - I had been afraid, and I'd felt sorry for him in some ways, and I just wanted him to feel better. I hadn't really done anything but lie there. He'd peeled off my clothes, and any marginal curiosity, enthusiasm I'd had at the beginning vanished with the pain, like a deep, hard pinch, when he'd breached me. My mind had wandered from the discomfort and the disbelief. I'd thought of my friends. I'd thought of school.

I hadn't thought of him.

"It wasn't supposed to be this way, Hermione," he murmurs. "And I apologize."

"Don't apologize, please," I feel my eyes growing misty, though I don't know why, exactly. "I just want you to feel better..."

He stalks over, kneels next to me, and in a gesture wholly at odds with his character, takes my hand. "You have, in many ways. Do not doubt it." He pauses. "No matter how bitter I have made you over the past few months, you are still the same - still trying to please others, when you should consider yourself."

I hang my head, not sure what to say to that. It feels as if he's trying to say more than he really is, as if there's an undercurrent to his words that I haven't caught. He drops my hand and tightens the lacings on his robe.

"I assume you will feel some discomfort this morning," he says matter-of-factly. "There is a healing potion upon the nightstand as well as a contraceptive."

I nod, but can't help but flinch at the cool, clinical tone.

"Hermione," he says, softer. "I will be in my office for my morning meal. I have a week to recuperate here... perhaps I will see you later."

With that cryptic message, he billows out the door, slamming it behind him as he leaves.

I drink the potions. They taste like candy, which I'm grateful for. My stomach roils from the taste and the stress and the emotions coursing through me. I want desperately to be at home, wrapped in a big fat blanket with a cup of soup and something mindless and familiar and positively ancient on the telly, like old BBC comedies.

"Oh, Mistress, why is Master being sad?" Loki suddenly crawls up on the bed, startling me. "Master was being happy, happy before. He dreams nice dreams... has arms around Mistress like big dolly."

I snort involuntarily at the thought of Professor Snape needing a doll to comfort him at night, and Loki glares.

"Is true!" he huffs. "Now he being sad, sit at table staring, staring into coffee cup. Go be fixing him!"

"He doesn't want me to fix him, Loki. He needs to fix himself."

Loki drags a dress out from beside the bed - ah, yellow today, goldenrod yellow with fat ribbon ties at the elbows, the sorts of frippery that make it awkward to eat soup, write, paint or garden.

I pad out from under the covers, and as he did before, he magicks away my old clothing - a set of underwear lying on the ground, nothing more - and slides the gown over my head. This time he ties it properly, no choking or cutting off arteries, and then cajoles me into sitting on the edge of the bed so he can weave my hair into a messy plait.

"But Master says he wants Mistress to be joining him, does he not? I be hearing him say something about morning meal, and seeing him later..."

"Well, why wouldn't he just ask me, 'Hermione, would you like to join me for breakfast?' That would be infinitely more direct."

"But what if Mistress be not wanting to be joining Master? What if Mistress be angry? What if Mistress be wanting to kick Master, like Master be thinking she does? Then Mistress be turning down Master, which be making Master sad. Or worse, Mistress tell lies and pretend to like Master's company, when really she be hating him."

"Oh, I don't hate him," I reply slowly. "He's really not one for directness, is he? I suppose I'll go see him. Maybe he'll be willing to talk with me..."

Loki beams. "Master be asking Loki for something nice, something Mistress will be liking..."

Before I can ask what he's on about this time, Loki snaps his fingers. I feel ribbons threaded through my hair, feel socks appear on my legs and a belt round my middle. With that, Loki vanishes, leaving me to amble on my own to the office at the bottom of the staircase

"Professor?"

I stick my head in. His office is warm, pale gold-orange with candlelight, and even his sallow skin looks healthy under the glow. Breakfast is on the corner table - obviously he expected me to join him.

"Hermione."

"May I join you?"

He nods sharply, continuing to butter his scone with precision. I look over the table - there's a plate of flapjack there, plain flapjack cut into big blocks. It's still warm from the oven. When I bite in, it's buttery and sugary and heavy and just like kitchen food, motherly food, reminding me of meals around the well-scrubbed blue table back home.

I sniffle.

"Oh, what is it now?" he snaps.

"It just reminds me of home."

I slide my chair back, feeling stupid for becoming sniffly and emotional around him.

"I'll go," I say. "I should've left you to eat in peace."

He catches my hand, pulls me back. When I look at him, the plea is there, unspoken, in his eyes, and I sit back down to watch him as he eats. He shifts under my gaze, looking horribly awkward. He opens his mouth, hangs his head, and begins speaking, as if confessing to a priest.

"My parents were killed by a Death Eater as well, so I know how moments can come upon you suddenly," he says haltingly. "It was one of my reasons for joining Dumbledore."

I know not to press him for more information. I reach for more food.

"You know, I wish we could discuss things like we used to."

His lips curl up at the edges in a half-smile. He looks odd when he smiles, with all the angles on his face, and I can tell why he might not do it often. It seems profoundly intimate, knowing that I'm one of the few that's seen it.

"If there's anything else you wish for your meals, you may tell Loki. He will procure it for you."

I nod, pour myself some milky tea and pick at a few grapes and nibble at a honey-smeared scone.

"I think," I say as I finish what's on my plate, "That I'll go to the library today. Would you care to join me?"

"I imagine you would interrupt my reading every few minutes to ask me about my book."

The rejection of my olive branch stings less than I expected.

I shrug. "I don't know where you got such an idea, but if you want to read alone, I certainly won't protest. I suppose I'll see you later."

I stack my plates, brush off my skirt, and move to the door.