A/N: If you get halfway through and think this is total drivel, please remind yourself of the chapter title. In everything there is a purpose, I promise.

Also, I went back and added subtitles to each chapter, each of which is the name of a Bob Dylan song, and the applicable lyrics from that song. These things always existed in my mind, but for some reason I never included them in the chapters. And now they're there, and of course all of Bob Dylan's lyrics belong to Bob Dylan.

Chapter 7: A Dream

(I Want You)

The guilty undertaker sighs,
The lonesome organ grinder cries,
The silver saxophones say I should refuse you.
The cracked bells and washed-out horns
Blow into my face with scorn,
But it's not that way,
I wasn't born to lose you.
I want you, I want you,
I want you so bad,
Honey, I want you.
-Bob Dylan

Dear Ron,

It's been going just about the way I expected since the supposed Agreement. No one's pretended to try to poison anyone again, and really today wasn't much different than yesterday, though maybe a bit less stiff and awkward. A very tiny bit.

I'm learning loads – it's really quite interesting now I'm going deeper into the theory of potions, and learning how to reverse ill effects and deal with the mistakes students are likely to make. It's a messy process, but I'll definitely be ready for Dennis Creevey (do you remember hearing about how he melted three cauldrons in one day, two or three years ago? Apparently, the rumor was more of an understatement than an exaggeration).

I will try to bring you one of those custard pies from the kitchens, although honestly I can't imagine why you could possibly need more food with the way your mum keeps you boys in puddings. Also, I'm not really sure it will still be good to eat when it finally gets to you - I'll not be getting there until pretty late tomorrow night, as Snape is the very essence of someone who doesn't believe in ending early on a Friday.

I'll tell you lots more when I see you. I've been working on keeping the potions smell from following me around, but wait till you see my hair.

Much love to all the family, and Harry of course,

- Hermione

Hermione managed to catch Ron's frenetic owl and tie her letter to his leg.She had been tired every night this week, but tonight was much worse. It seemed that an unexpected effect of her agreement with Snape was that all the time that had previously been spent bickering was now devoted to work. More walking from desk to desk, more potions to keep track of, more messes to clean up.

She crawled into bed without bothering to change into pajamas. After only a moment, the smell of stale potions had begun to bother her, enough to take off her robes and fling them toward the far corner, but not enough to drag herself out of bed to put something else on. She was warm where she was, and besides, she would enjoy the look on Ron's face tomorrow when she told him how she had slept nearly naked the night before.

Nearly naked was the most Ron had seen of her; she still didn't let him have free reign, and he was usually pretty good about respecting her wishes. There was plenty of kissing, and some touching – Hermione was constantly amused by the extent of Ron's fascination with breasts – and recently she had discovered the amazing rush that came from being able to take complete control of Ron's consciousness with the right hand movements and a few well-placed licks.

It wasn't as if Ron had any other points of reference when he told her how good she was at what she did, but Hermione thought he was probably right. This was one skill she couldn't learn from a book, and that had forced her to be creative, wild, wicked. She loved what she could do for Ron. She loved the person she became when she was doing it. But she still wouldn't let him touch her. It didn't feel right.

It might have been different if they hadn't been in the middle of a war, but it had seemed somehow indecent to be focusing on herself while their friends and allies were dying. She couldn't be passive at anything, except at times like this, when her exhaustion weighted her down as she drifted off to sleep.

She was cheering for Ron. Ron, in orange robes that clashed horribly with his hair. Ron, circling the goal hoops. Ron catching a red ball; Hermione screaming her approval. Ron was flying toward her, and now they were flying together, and now lying on the lawn behind the Burrow.

"How come you're so beautiful, Hermione?" Ron kept stroking her hair.

"I'm not…" She looked up at him through her lashes.

"No, you're not, but I think you are." Ron moved closer to her. "When I gain my power as the new Dark Lord, you'll be the only Mudblood I'll spare." Hermione stared at him.

"That's really not funny, Ron."

"Oh, don't worry. You won't have to be my Queen. I can't sire a new line of wizards with dirty blood. But you can stay in my palace. The half-bloods you produce for me can join my army."

"Ron, stop it! It's not funny."

"You should start watching what you say, or I'll have to get rid of you, beautiful or not."

"Who are you? Are you polyjuiced? Why are you saying these things?" Hermione knew this couldn't be real, but tears started to fall nevertheless. Ron stood above her, looking down in scorn.

"What a shock, she's started to cry. All you ever do now is cry. Careful – you'll dampen your spark, and then nothing worthwhile will be left."

Hermione shook her head in bewilderment. The Burrow seemed to fade away, until she and Ron were alone in a grey mist. She thought she could sense someone walking just outside her circle of vision. Ron took a step toward her.

"Help me!" Her scream dissolved, thin and futile, into the clouds. A shadow appeared, moving from the side. Shades of darkness seemed to swirl in and out of focus, and when Hermione could see again, Ron was gone and another man was standing over her, looking into her face with concern in his eyes.

"Where is he?" she asked, frantically. The other man was pulling her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, holding her awkwardly but gently. She was too caught up in finding out where Ron was to register the identity of her protector.

"He's gone. He can't hurt you."

"He'll find me… he's going to try to take over the wizarding world. He's going to kill someone…" Hermione was too far beyond panickey to realize that what she was saying couldn't be right.

"He won't. It's all right."

She tilted her head back up and found herself looking between two curtains of straight, dark hair into the face of Severus Snape. She hadn't recognized him before; she had never seen this look of caring on his face, this worry in his eyes.

"Do you understand me? Everything will be okay." He cupped his hand around her cheek as he spoke, and Hermione suddenly felt lightheaded. She knew, without knowing how, that Ron was vanquished. She relaxed against the body in front of her.

He was warmer than she would have expected. Leaning into him, she felt a light, thrumming heat that didn't correspond at all with the cold stone dungeons he inhabited.

"I was worried about you," he whispered into her hair. "You should have come to me sooner. I wanted to protect you."

"I was afraid. I always thought you hated me."

He put his hands softly on either side of her head, smiled, and tilted her head so she was looking directly into his eyes. She felt a rush of images in her head: Snape sitting behind his desk, all his attention focused on a fifth year Hermione looking exultant over a shimmering cauldron; Hermione spinning through the crowd at the Yule Ball; Hermione lounging on a couch at Grimmauld Place, a plaid scarf tied over her hair and blackish stains all over her arms and shirt; a defiant Hermione hiding the evidence of a contraband blue flame behind her back in a snowy courtyard. Laced through all the scenes were emotions as easy to interpret as the images: admiration, pride, love.

His smile widened at Hermione's gasp. Snape loved her, Snape wanted only to protect her, Snape had her in his arms and it all felt nothing other than right. Hermione stretched herself up and found his lips with hers.

It was nothing like kissing Ron. It was smooth and even, controlled and devastating. His hands were now around the small of her back, and that might have been the only thing holding her up. She could feel each strong, slender finger pressing against her skin with its own pulse. At some point she realized that she hadn't been breathing properly in several minutes, or was it hours, or nanoseconds?

When he pulled his lips away she thought she might cry from the beauty of it all. She kissed him again, more hungrily this time, and arched her back as he kissed his way up along her jawline and down her neck.

It wasn't until he eased her backwards that the discovered the bed behind them. The grey mist had gone, and in its place was a dim, vaguely purple glow haloing a red velvet four-poster. His mouth was on her ear now, breathing softly against her and speaking in that low, molten rumble that thrilled through her body:

"I had to make you think I hated you. It killed me to do it, but I couldn't have you in my thoughts. His attention couldn't be fixed on you, ever."

She ran her hands over his chest, taut and smooth through his robes. Looked into his eyes, seemed to say: "But now?"

"But now, now I can make it all up to you." Hermione couldn't remember ever having seen Snape look happier. He covered her body with his and began to kiss her again, deeply and desperately. She could feel him against her, hot and hard, and once again she was struck with how different this felt than it did with Ron. With Ron, his arousal was a challenge, an opportunity for her to take care of it in the most fantastic way possible.

But now, feeling the throbbing pressure, Hermione didn't want to take care of it. She wanted to keep feeling it against her – no, she realized as a tremor shot though her body – she wanted to feel it inside her.

He seemed to understand what she needed; at least, he must have been steadily removing their clothing during the last few minutes of urgent kissing, because she was naked now, and he was naked above her. His gaze on her body almost burned, and she arched into it, begging him to touch her. His eyes locked back on hers, and she almost cried out at the touch of his fingertips on her breast. His other hand moved over her stomach and down to the side of her waist. She was mewling now, Snape breathing in a heavy purr that reached her in places his hands hadn't yet found.

She didn't trust herself to speak without screaming, and so pleaded with her eyes for him to take her. He leaned his face closer to hers while slowly spreading her legs and rubbing the smooth tip of his erection against her hot wetness. She ran her hands through the lank silk of his hair and dragged her nails over the scar-ridged length of his back, and pulled him into her.

Snape's black eyes glittered in long-awaited triumph as he thrust inside her. She did scream this time, as he did something with his hand that sent her reeling into new clouds of color. She pushed his shoulders up and rolled him over to sit on top of him, rocking her hips, swiveling around up and down, arching her back and reveling in the growl he gave when she cupped her own breasts and moaned. He swiveled himself back on top of her and thrust into her again and again.

Hermione woke up gasping for breath. She felt her bare body under the sheets and had a moment of panicked certainty that it had all been real, before remembering that she had gone to bed that way. It had just been a dream. A very strange, very vivid dream, caused entirely by a lack of clothes.

Well, never again. Sleeping naked might be a good story to tell Ron to rile him up, but if it also sent her dreams of an insidious Ron and amorous Snape, she would have to do without it. Clearly, she was just hard up for some physical contact. But Snape? Hermione shifted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the warm and golden feeling left by the dream.

Snape was a teacher – now, her colleague. She couldn't feel tingly about him. And Snape was as old as Harry's parents, though probably about twenty years younger than her own father. But still. She couldn't have dreams in which riding him made her whole. Because Snape was, and always would be, Snape.

He had said that much to her two days ago. Snape was good for arguing with and spurring her on to greater things in order to spite him. Snape was good for scaring unruly first-years into order. Snape was good for revealing how overwhelming a single kiss could be.

No, not that last thing. Snape was good for all those things except the last one.

Hermione turned her thoughts to the other part of the dream, and tried to laugh at herself for the ridiculousness of the Evil Ron her mind had created. She smiled ruefully at the idea that she might just have to take up Occlumency to remove any possibility of Ron catching a glimpse of this dream – of his own role in it, but especially Snape's role.

Oh. Oh no. Ron finding out that Hermione had dream-snogged Snape would be disastrous, but Snape finding it out would be apocalyptic. She had to find a way to close her mind, and she had to find it fast.