Hermione spent most of the next day trying to keep her eyes open during classes. As mortified as she would be if she was found sleeping, her burning eyes and heavy lids finally got the best of her during dinner. After a little over an hour of sleep the previous evening, she desperately needed to find her bed.

She had just stepped out of the bath, pulled on her underwear, and slid under the duvet with a copy of Hogwarts a History, when…

"Oh my gods!" she shrieked.

Throwing aside the blankets and flinging the immense book too near a duly startled Crookshanks, she glanced a second time at the nightstand.

7:56. Four minutes.

"Snape is… I'm going to die!" She dramatically tossed one of the accent pillows across the room. Crookshanks hissed and darted under the bed.

"Holy shit! Crooks, I'm going to die in…" She glanced at the clock again, praying she had read it wrong. "Fuck, three minutes!"

Ripping open her closet door, she pulled on a pair of jeans she had worn three days before, an orange long-sleeved shirt, sneakers, and finally, her cloak.

Grabbing a hair-tie from the dresser, she burst out of her chambers and sprinted dangerously down three flights of stairs.

She cringed as she felt her arm travel through the icy presence of a ghost. The shivering effect was the blunder of the dear Sir Nicholas.

He turned abruptly at her intrusion. "My, Hermione, I've never seen anyone travel so fast in that direction… especially at this time of night," He said, quite dumbfounded.

Without stopping her mad dash, she turned her head back and called, "I'm late for detention!"

He was far behind her, but she could still make out his distantly incredulous words. "Detention? You?" And then he passed through another wall.

"Unfortunately," she panted to the gargoyles that stood at the top of the stairs. The steps that most students referred to as "The Stairway to Hell".

She slowed to a walk.

Far off, she could hear the Hogwarts clock chiming eight. The sound made the adrenaline rush a little.

She sighed. "Might as well take my time now. I'm already late. No need to prompt an asthma attack just before I'm viciously murdered," she said again to the empty hall.

Three torches flickered in the dungeon lobby. They illuminated the corresponding three doors there. The nearest two were the storage closet and the Potions classroom. The farthest, an infamous tall ebony one, bearing a silver plaque that read "Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin", as well as a silver medallion, depicting two intertwining snakes, below the nameplate.

Hermione knew the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room was around somewhere. After the Polyjuice escapade in second year, Harry had told her the entrance was very near the Potions classroom. Idly, she placed a bet on the bare fourth wall there.

But, she had no business betting tonight, her luck was running thin. By now, it had to be at least ten past. And she was positive she had royally pissed off Professor Snape. Even more than she had earlier, if it was possible.

Part of her wanted to turn around and leave--just tell him tomorrow that she was ill, but she knew that there was no sympathy when it came to him. And on that thought, she raised her fist, and firmly knocked three times.

Ten unbearable seconds passed. Then twenty. Surely she had knocked loud enough?

She raised her hand again. Another three knocks. Still, no answer.

Was he there?

He had to be there. She didn't almost stroke out running down to detention because he was known to be fashionably late.

"Professor Snape?" she called. A stirring could be heard. "Professor?"

The door burst open and Hermione flew backwards as it swung by, narrowly missing her, and slammed against the stone wall.

"You are late, Miss Granger!" His face was boiling with anger. His chin-length hair wild and sticking to his left cheek. "You are wasting my time!"

Hermione took a step forward.

"I'm very sorry, Professor," she said. "It won't happen again."

"You had better swear that it won't happen again!" He glared at her and tilted his head to shake the strands of his stringy hair behind his ears, lifting his hand to smooth what remained of it. His eyes picked up the blaze of the torch. "Show me some respect, girl!"

It was back, that terrifyingly-furious stare he had given her the previous day in Potions.

"Yes, Sir," she replied meekly.

"Follow me," he said then. And they passed beneath the doorframe and into the flickering light of the chamber.

Removing her cloak, she surveyed her surroundings while she nervously folded and re-folded the fabric.

Above the enormous mahogany desk was a circular enchanted window. And on either side of it were shelves containing the most spectacular assortment of items.

Hermione had never been in Snape's office before, and the array of ingredients she found to be amazing.

She couldn't help getting a bit giddy as her eyes traveled the length of the wall. Unicorn and Erumpent horns, a black shiny jar labeled "Devil's Snare", Ashwinder Skin, Jobberknoll feathers, and a tiny thin jar that emanated the most compelling crimson glow.

She settled her gaze upon it… wondering. They always say that curiosity killed the cat, and she had enough curiosity to use up all nine lives of a whole litter.

"Is that-" she started without thinking.

"Yes, Miss Granger, it is." He looked smug.

"How on earth did you get it?" Again her mouth ran.

Exasperated, he looked at the glowing jar, and then to her. "I have many more stunning things in my possession, Miss Granger. However, the reason you are here is not to admire my collection."

He sounded annoyed, yet she was surprised he had not been harsher in reply.

"I'm sorry, Sir." She looked down at the cloak in her hands. "It's just, well… Dragon's blood is so rare."

He opened his mouth again to speak but…

"Is there somewhere I can put my cloak?" she said before he could reply, as she knew the retort would not be at all friendly. With the wave of his hand, the material flew from her grasp and onto a nearby table. The color had also returned to his cheeks.

"Now sit!" he said savagely, pointing to the black leather wing-back across from the desk.

She moved to comply as his robes swirled, bat-like and expressive. In the moment he had his back turned, she found herself smiling.

All the drama really did suit him.

The corridor outside the foyer containing the Fat Lady's portrait was congested with students returning for recreational activities. A few pops and sparks confirmed a game of Exploding Snap and a roaring lion could be heard. Someone had enchanted the Gryffindor banner.

"Harry, do you think he's killed her yet?" Ron asked.

"I dunno." Harry walked a little further down the hall.

They had just left the Great Hall and were on their way back their dormitory, when Nearly-Headless Nick zoomed through the wall.

"Oh good, you two," he said hurriedly.

Ron smiled. "Evening, Sir Nicholas," he called. "You look like you're out of breath!"

"I'm always out of breath, Ron." He chuckled.

"Good one," Harry said.

Nick continued. "I was in a hurry though, boys… Trying desperately to catch Hermione." He looked around, slightly puzzled.

"She's in the dungeons," both replied in unison.

"I know," Sir Nicholas said. "She ran past a few minutes ago, said she was late."

Ron gave Harry his best "she's in for it" look.

"But she dropped that." He pointed to the floor near a suit of armor. "And, seeing as how I am a ghost, I could not bring it to her." He sighed sadly as Ron looked at the floor. "But now that you are here, I trust you can reunite her with it when she returns?"

Ron bent down and retrieved Hermione's stranded wand. He lifted it to show Harry, and Harry's eyes widened in surprise. Hermione, lose track of her wand? It was unheard of.

"We'll return it first thing, Sir Nicholas. Thanks," Harry said as he and Ron turned the corner to the main staircase.

Professor Snape leaned forward on his forearms. His brow was furrowed and his black eyes focused on Hermione.

He couldn't help being as confused as he was the day before, as she fixed him with that foreign look of hers. Scrutinizing and intrusive, it was a little unnerving. As if it didn't register to her that she was sitting across from the most feared professor in the school, the one who had humiliated and insulted her almost every day for the last six years.

And still she… just breathed. The artist's eye had been roused again. And the frame was in golden hues.

The flames of the wall sconces and the candelabras at either end of the mahogany desk lifted as she stared, meshing into an orange glowing mass, a rich aura around his figure. Her peripheral vision forced her to give all attention to his stunning outline.

And as the lines softened, black became flat silhouette, and the paleness of harsher features surfaced. Fingers and a face, cream colored, and complex enough for her to paint as doily lace. Not nearly as soft.

Those fingers seemed to unfurl like ferns. As elegant as though they'd dance if told, yet strong enough to crush stones between them, leaving minimal marks. Fingers that lead to palms, only partially visible beneath the sleeves of the infamous frock coat. Fingers that matched only a sour face in hue. Three splashes of non-color, the only dimension to a dark shadow. So far.

And still her eyes searched the scene. She needed his face, so rare, so close without a scowl. And he wasn't scowling. The lines were complying for once, giving her a kind of satisfaction in seeing a calm version of her subject.

I wouldn't need those square-tipped brushes anymore, only soft, feathered contours... pastels...

It felt exposed, raw, explicit. The thought of a few slow seconds when Professor Snape was candid. Not needing to look unpleasant. As if she was a fly on the wall. Observing him alone.

The fleeting thought brought a delicious tightening to the area above the fly of her jeans. But she brushed it off as quickly as it came, not wanting to recognize it just yet. Needing, instead, to rake her eyes over the contours of his face.

Lips, bowed and upturned at the corners, thin and slightly wet, they twitched ever so slightly as he breathed.

Nose, long and aquiline, large, but not too.

Eyes, pained, deep, obsidian. They hid nothing and everything at the same time. And at the moment they looked fragile. Like the glass of the Devil's Snare jar on the shelf, they reflected the shape of the flames.

She did admit to herself that they were different, in a way, from what she was used to seeing when their eyes had met before. Like they had some spark missing from them and conveyed a saddened, almost desperate look beyond the glimmer. Even rage could not contort them back to how she remembered them from years ago.

Something had definitely changed in him. But what…

"Miss Granger!" his voice bellowed so loudly it echoed off the back wall.

So startled was she, that her entire body flinched. And it took a few blinks to bring her back. She stared at him, shocked.

He did the same. "Miss Granger, are you under the influence of something?... Have you been drinking?" He was… confused. She supposed that was the way she would describe the expression on his face.

Have I been drinking? What does he take me for?

"Drinking, Professor?... Surely you don't believe that." He pinned her with a narrow look. "Do you think I'm crazy!" The color on his cheeks really gave him more dimension. She liked that color.

That's Rose Number Four, that is. Some posh pricey paint if you ask me… but worth it

"Judging by the way you've been acting, you might be. It is very out of character for you." He dragged his eyes along her and raised an eyebrow. "Twenty points from Gryffindor."

She felt anger rise again. Only one way to deal with that.

The new way.

"Then, Professor, I have a little question for you." She lifted an eyebrow in mock fashion. "I have clearly showed you how little I care about house points. What good will the deduction of them do in this situation?"

He opened his mouth to answer her. But he found the sarcasm to be lacking as he actually didn't have an answer. So he settled for bellowing, "Do not question me, Miss Granger. Do not question authority!"

"I only question what I do not understand, Sir." Her anger was showing a little. Perhaps she should have backed down.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger. That's nearly all your house has earned in the past two days." His eyes were piercing, yet still glassy, she noted.

What had possessed her? Intrigue maybe? She'd settle for simply seeing how far she could go. Or at least, to see how much it would take for the spark to be ignited behind his eyes. She admitted to herself that she missed it there.

Crazy, Granger, you're going bloody crazy.

When had she begun to care about his eyes?

Last night… Oh, last night.

She wrinkled her nose. And her chin raised a little like it always did when she was angry with Ron or Harry.

"Why don't you just bring us back to zero?" Her tone had lowered and was in the category of what she liked to call dangerous. Unpredictable.

"Twenty two more points from Gryffindor, Miss Granger." His reply was monotone, so it took a moment to register.

That was back to zero alright. He was satisfied, grinning like he did with the Dragon's blood. She didn't like it. Something in her expression must have showed him that he had gotten to her.

She glanced at the ceiling and smirked.

I can be a bastardly-bitch-butt too Snape.

"Well, now what will you do? No more points to take away." She smiled.

That'll teach him to call me a know-it-all.

For a moment, he looked as though he wouldn't do anything. But then he rose from his chair so violently, it toppled over and the shelves containing the rarities shook. And the stomp of his leather boots caused her seat to vibrate.

That rosy tone had filled the apples of his cheeks and the abrupt movement of his arms had caused those half-hidden palms to be completely exposed and those fern-like fingers to curl.

He was… he was going to strangle her! No…

He kicked the chair she occupied with such force, it slid four feet. And now it was impossible for her to hide her fear. It would be impossible for a dragon to hide its fear.

And he fell--no--swooped forward, catching himself on the arms of her chair. His face inches from hers. His breath, hot, and smelling of… what was that? Cigarettes.

Spicy and smoky, heady like cloves. And it wouldn't have mattered. It would have been another painting, another great scene, too bad he was going to kill her.

And then there was a knock on the door.

And Hermione let out a breath as he turned away, trying to decide if he did, indeed, hear the knock.

Lifting himself from the chair, he stalked towards the desk, turning back to fix Hermione with a look of narrowed eyes.

"I'm not through with you yet," he said through gritted teeth.

And the blood behind her ears chilled slightly.

It was an hour until curfew.

Harry and Ron had decided to retrace the path Hermione had taken to the dungeons.

"Harry, remind me why we're going to Hermione's rooms again?" Ron asked.

Harry was concentrating on the floor.

"Because, I want to make sure she didn't drop anything else, Ron. I still can't believe that she would lose her wand like that. It's usually attached like a third arm."

He continued studying the dark stone floor. He paused at an extremely intricate area rug and studied it in such a way that reminded Ron of second year with the spiders.

He silently prayed for no spiders.

"What if she dropped the Time Turner or something?" he asked Ron, who didn't seem to be paying attention.

"Forget that, Harry. She didn't even close her damned door."

And he was right. There, at the end of the hall, the thick wood of the door labeled "Head Girl" was pushed open so far that the edge of a four poster was visible.

"Oh hell, Harry, you don't think someone might have broken in do you?" He was truthfully just curious to have a look.

"Not really. I mean, I hope not." He peered around the open space as best he could to see inside. "Maybe we should check to make sure," Harry added. But Ron had already pushed the door completely open.

Once they were both in, Harry set Hermione's wand on her nightstand. Ron's eyes had bulged as he was slowly turning, taking in the surroundings.

"Bloody hell! These rooms look like something out of Witch Weekly's Rich and Famous!" Ron had skipped over to the bathroom and peered in, gasping at the size of the tub.

"You should see the size of this tub!"

Harry felt uneasy. "I don't know, Ron. I don't feel right invading her privacy like this."

"She left the door open!" A typical Ron reply.

"What's that?" Harry heard him say it, as he walked over to a tall bulky object covered with a sheet. Oh hell.

Harry was probably the only person in the whole of the Wizarding World that knew of Hermione's stunning artistic abilities.

"I dunno, Ron. It looks like a ladder." Harry's attempt at swaying Ron from it was no use.

"No it's not! It's a painting!" He squealed, running over to it with his arms outstretched. Luckily, Harry got there first.

"Ron!" he yelled. Snatching both of his best friend's hands away from the sheet, he looked him in the eye. The jade glimmer in his gaze was a little threatening. But he softened a little once he was reminded of how dense his friend could be.

"It might be something she doesn't want anybody to see," he said. "That's probably why there's a sheet over it." Harry's curiosity was piqued as well, but he valued Hermione too much to do go through her things without consent.

"Awe come on, Harry!" he whined.

"No, Ron! Can't you just respect her privacy!" Harry had resorted to whining himself. Ron had a thick head, that's for sure. But he wasn't about to let him invade Hermione's privacy without her permission.

Ron let his arms drop and forced himself to focus on the gold Persian rug and Crookshanks.

"So can we just go?" Harry sighed, relieved. "No one broke in. She's got her wand back. It looks like she just forgot about the detention… 'cause, well, her sheets are all rumpled."

Ron snickered.

"Oh, grow up, Ron. You know what I mean." And that was Harry's mistake. Walking towards the door, not realizing that his friend was not beside him.

He whirled around. But it was too late.

"Ron, nooo!"

But the sheet had already dropped to the floor.

It was a painting alright, on an enormous easel, and it was facing away from him, towards Ron.

Harry watched, upset and curious, as Ron's facial expressions changed. It began as shock, then amazement, and then realization. The redhead looked almost sick with fear and stood as rigid as if petrified.

"What is it?" Harry found himself asking.

But Ron could not speak. His face had contorted into a look of extreme terror. The color had drained from his cheeks. A horrible thought rose from Harry's subconscious…

"Voldemort?" he asked in a whisper.

A slight flinch at the name but Ron's eyes remained glued to the canvas. He shook his head.

"Then what, numskull!" Harry was annoyed as Ron slowly peeled his eyes away from the easel.

Finding Harry's gaze, his lips quivered. And, finally, he found his voice.

"…Snape," he said.

Hermione was hoping that whoever it was behind the door would be able to ease some of the tension that had taken over the office.

Professor Snape was leaning against his desk. His eyes, reluctantly it seemed, left Hermione to focus on the ebony doorframe.

"Enter!" he barked.

At first, nothing happened. The rich baritone of Snape's voice echoed slightly and Hermione was beginning to believe that the visitor had been scared away.

But then the door unlatched and creaked open, revealing the small frame of a student—a short thick-haired beauty that Hermione recognized immediately as the Parajanov girl.

Hermione could tell that she had cleaned up and located clothes that actually fit her.

Yeva's skirt barely reached her knees and her button up shirt was figure flattering. Even though, as a sixth year, she had the privilege of wearing what she wished on Wednesday and Friday evenings, as well as weekends, she seemed to pull off the uniform as her own unique style.

Hermione couldn't help feeling a little jealous as the girl obviously had hair as thick as hers. Only it was shiny, dark, and sleek, like umber and chocolate, and fell in choppy waves around her face. A look like that would take Hermione at least an hour. And it made her look like a Greek goddess, the whole smoothness of it.

It almost wasn't fair the way the silver and forest green of the school tie picked up the brilliant flecks of indigo in her overlarge eyes. And the size of her waist would surely be envied among her peers.

Yet there was something about her, something in her movement that was familiar to Hermione. How swift and fluid everything was.

"Good evening," she said quietly. Her voice was throaty. And her words were chopped. She definitely had an accent. To Hermione's surprise, Snape nodded his head and walked toward the girl with ease.

"Good evening, Yeva." He lifted the latch to a side cabinet and pulled out three silver candles--identical to the ones in the candelabras that adorned his desk.

"You'll be needing these in the dormitories, yes?" Snape asked her, in a voice so out of character, it made Hermione whimper a little.

And he used Yeva's name.

I guess it's all first name terms behind closed doors… they're all Slytherins after all. That's why…

And he touched her arm.

Hermione, why do you care?

"…Yes and Dumbledore showed me all of the gardens. And all of the enchanted rooms too. He's made me feel quite at home…"

Unconsciously, Hermione quirked her head to one side, trying to take the scene in and wrap her brain around it at the same time.

They're talking like best friends. It's like I don't exist.

"Have you decided what you will do for the Ball yet?"

Yeva's question settled in the air like a stone in a puddle. Ripples radiated from it and caught Hermione's attention immediately.

Professor Snape's eyes darkened and he looked at Yeva with surprise. And then, without warning, he laughed.
And Hermione died… Almost.

Such a deep, rich sound was Severus Snape's laugh, it moved through the eaves of the ceiling and resonated. It really was ridiculous how exquisite it was.

Both Hermione and Yeva looked a little taken back.

"I… Yeva, I don't think I'll be attending the Halloween Ball," he said through a chuckle. "In fact, it would be a cold day in hell before you found me in a costume."

There was a moment of silence.

"Well, I think it's a splendid idea!" Both heads turned directly toward Hermione.

The thrill of becoming part of that conversation slowly died and slid to her stomach where it felt empty and slightly sick.

I did not just say that. I can't believe, oh shit, I did. Sonofabitch, I should just keep my mouth shut!

"What?" Yeva asked the taller girl. Hermione was sprawled along the leather chair, legs crossed, a bit of the orange sleeve of her shirt was being nibbled on nervously.

"No one asked you, Miss Granger." His words slid through his teeth again and the menacing stare had returned, shattering any hope for Hermione—any hope that she'd make it out alive.

"I know, Professor."

Snape jerked his head back to the Parajanov girl. He spoke in a lower voice, hoping Hermione would not be inclined to eavesdrop. He was wrong, of course.

"Yeva, as much as I want to catch up, I have a detention to attend to." And he placed a hand on her shoulder.

To Hermione's surprise and horror, Yeva leaned in and placed a kiss on the tip of his nose.

What the hell did I just see?

And Hermione watched, dumbfounded, as Yeva walked towards the door. Turning and smiling brightly she added, "Oh and Dumbledore asked me to remind you that you left one of your coats in his office."

"Yes, thank you, Yeva." Snape did not smile, but his face was softer and more serene than Hermione had ever seen it. The lines melted a little and were less harsh. And his eyes twinkled for just a moment, in a way that reminded her of the headmaster.

"I'll be sure to pick it up later, tell him," he muttered.

And her little skirt swayed as she slipped to the door. She fiddled with the knot of her Slytherin tie and pulled it nervously as she lifted the latch. Looking back, she fixed Hermione with a careful frown, before deciding to turn once more to her Head of House.

"Good night, Yeva," he almost whispered.

"Good night, Uncle."

And she was gone.

Harry's eyes scanned the canvas before him. He kept breathing in little spurts, unconsciously trying to prevent himself from fainting.

Ron had backed away against the bed and sat on it, silently, as he watched raindrops streak through the grime on the dark window panes.

"This is freshly painted, Ron," Harry managed to say. "She must have done it sometime today… last night-"

"Mione painted that?" he shrieked, wide eyed.

"Ron-"

"Mione can't paint! When has she ever painted anything? When has she ever done anything but read a bloody book?" He looked as if he was on the verge of either a childish temper tantrum, or launching into an old man's stroke.

"Ron, Hermione can paint. Obviously." Harry still couldn't believe that his Potions Master was staring back at him and silently thanked Merlin that it was a Muggle portrait, because at this point, he just couldn't handle another Snape, no matter how harmless or two-dimensional.

Ron gave a laugh, uncharactristicaly filled with healthy doses of gloom and doom, respectively.

"Well if she painted that depraved piece of shit, I guess she can paint anything." He slowly massaged his forehead. "I'm wondering more about the reasons why she did."

"So am I, mate. So am I."

Harry couldn't bear to look at the picture anymore.

"…And I want you to clean out the entire storage closet, without magic! Sweep the floor, alphabetize the ingredients on my shelves—without damaging them—and then…" Snape paused for effect as he watched Hermione's face grow sad and her shoulders slump in defeat.

"Sir, I'll be here all night," she mumbled.

The silence that hung between them was as heavy as the tapestry that hung in her room. She fully expected to be scolded for whining like that. In fact, she expected to be torn apart and used as the newest rare potions ingredient. She did not, however, expect…

"Alright then, Miss Granger." His voice was clipped, and matter-of-fact.

She was tongue-tied for a few moments before she asked, "Sir?" And wrinkling her brow, she waited for what he could possibly say.

"Yes, Miss Granger, forget the busy labor. I've changed my mind about your… punishment." And his face grew grotesque with malice.

Dangerously low as his voice was, the heat of the room doubled, rather than chilled, as it usually would have under these circumstances. Hermione briefly wondered if she had passed on into Hell, as she could actually feel the swelter of the sconce flames… the sconce flames that occupied the wall ten feet away.

She forgot all about painting, contour lines, and the fact that the sour man staring at her actually had a niece, actually had family—at Hogwarts no less. She forgot about everything that made her happy and had no choice but to wait for her punishment.

"I want you to write for me," he whispered, breaking the silence.

"A composition… of the reasons why you find it so necessary to be so obnoxiously insufferable!"

Every word he spoke was overly enunciated and his head jerked in a rigid movement that was not natural, causing stringy hair to adhere again to his cheeks.

Raising his wand, he waved it into the air, conjuring a message of glowing green letters. In his own handwriting, the assignment soon clearly stood between him and his sorry student.

Hermione recalled Harry mentioning that Tom Riddle—Voldemort—had used this spell in the Chamber of Secrets…

And now, she herself was face to face with the green-glowing letters. The topic of the paper that would consume her time, and make her life doubly difficult in addition to her already filled schedule.

She could see the pleased smirk upon Snape's still malicious face between the lines of the message. And she hated him for giving her more to do that would take time away from painting.

But she would never back down. Not from a challenge like this…

Two qualities of decent human beings are sophistication and respect. You exhibit neither.

List the reasons that you, yourself, have for being a silly little know-it-all. And do not be surprised if the list is lacking. For I will not be.

You do not have the decency to hold your tongue in any situation, and are as naïve as the day you were born. Explain to me, in detail, why it is that you find it so imperative to be proud as you are, whereas your assuming attitude makes you as one dimensional as the words on the pages of the books you read.

This must be at least seven feet of parchment and is due the first of December.

Hermione read the message for a third time and tried her best to ignore the prickling feeling behind her eyeballs. She would not show emotion, as hurt as she was, because that was what he wanted.

"Do I make myself clear, Miss Granger?" he asked, smiling. A venomous, mean smile.

"Crystal," she said as she placed her sweaty palms on her denim-covered thighs, feeling the heat they caused. She looked at them then, closing her eyes when she feared the tears would spill.

She did not know how long she sat like that, oblivious to everything.

And once she had composed herself she glanced up, to find that the message had vanished, and that her cloak was folded on the desk that no longer contained her professor.

She stood and put it on, silently cursing herself. Silently cursing the world, her assignment, and Professor Snape… she turned around.

He was sitting at a smaller table in the corner, poring over notes.

Some intricate potion.

Poring over something that did not concern her. Would never concern her. And that was what she deserved.

Some complicated potion, judging by the look of those ingredients.

His gaze never left his parchment. But he knew she was there. And he knew that he could not handle her presence any longer.

"Get out of my office, Miss Granger."

The words were spoken not with anger, not with malice. In fact, they seemed almost normal. Like the way he spoke to Yeva. Unlike the characteristic way of Snape handling problems, this was not based on the tone of his voice, but rather the words he said.

And they told Hermione all she needed to know.

He could not stand her. And there was nothing that she could come up with, despite her extensive knowledge, that would change that fact. It was something all the information in the world wouldn't fix.

She left.

The sheet had been replaced as Ron left for the Gryffindor common room, mumbling about how he'd lost his appetite for the next month.

Harry had placed a small note on the dresser.

Hermione Granger actually lost track of her wand. Something's seriously up.

We'll talk later.

Love,
Harry

Hermione sighed as she stared at the wand on her nightstand. It was painfully true. She hadn't even realized it was gone.