Chapter 3

Friday evening in the staff room was as tedious as it always had been, although slightly less frosty than when they'd had Death Eaters on the payroll, last year. The new professors appeared to be settling in well, not that he gave a shit, and there was a hum of general conversation and the clink of many glasses as much-needed Friday night alcoholic refreshments were shared around.

Severus sat in his usual chair, the between the window and the chessboard that made it very difficult for anyone to sit beside him, thus saving him the necessity of engaging in small talk. He would have much preferred to take his evening firewhisky in the privacy of his own chambers, but the Friday evening social in the staff room was so ingrained in Hogwarts history that woe betide any professor who attempted to absent themselves.

He'd wait until they got pissed, which some of them did remarkably easily, and then rescue himself by slinking off unnoticed. It was his night on patrol, anyway, so he had a ready-made excuse for when he was ready to leave, once the students' curfew was imminent.

It had been a long, boring week, not relieved by the thought of the long, boring weekend ahead. Severus was so used to being universally loathed that the looks of hatred from the students who had trooped through his dungeon classroom that week had not bothered him, after all, the reaction was not unexpected.

He would round up all the little bastards to their common rooms tonight, before returning to his own chambers to drink himself into oblivion with the good firewhisky he kept there, and then would spend the weekend in the private laboratory, for he had a number of potion research projects that he was keen to get started on.

Boredom was simply not an option. This was the life he had fought so hard for, and he intended to live it.

Just not like this, a small voice inside his head, goaded by piss-poor whisky, grumbled.

-xxx-

Hermione was on her bed with textbooks, quills and parchment strewn around, eschewing the desk for the infinitely more comfortable double four-poster. She found that she could bear the loss of riotous Friday evenings in the Gryffindor common room very easily, and with a mug of hot tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits next to her, it was almost perfect.

She'd showered and changed into her pyjamas straight after dinner, sending her week's uniform to the laundry and settling in for the weekend. Tomorrow, she would be accompanying Neville as he visited his parents in St Mungo's, as she had promised. Professor McGonagall had given them special permission to leave the school, and Hermione found herself rather looking forward to the day out, despite it being likely to be gloomy at the hospital. But if she could be of support to Neville, it was worth the trip.

It had been terribly strange, the first week back at Hogwarts as a student. The last time she had been here, the castle was being blasted to bits from all corners, and all their lives were in danger. Now, all that was over. Life was essentially as it had been before … except that it wasn't. They were living in peacetime, that blissful period after a war where everyone declares that such atrocities will never happen again. And it lasts. For a while.

If both Muggle and magical history books had taught her anything, is that life cannot be peaceful all the time. Sooner or later there would be another Voldemort, another Grindelwald, another Bellatrix, and all the warnings of the past would be forgotten. But for now, all was well.

Hermione had returned to the Potions classroom for her next lesson, expecting Professor Snape to sneer something unpleasant and mocking as soon as she entered, but it hadn't happened, instead he'd merely ignored her, his eyes empty, lecturing the class on today's potion as he always did.

He seemed less tired, less gaunt that he'd done during the preceding few years, but the fire behind his eyes, the intense black glare that made her want to please him and shit herself all at the same time, it didn't seem to be there, anymore. He'd glared at her on the first day of term, but it had seemed a mere shadow of the quelling stare that he used to control his students with.

The day after that, he'd been striding down a busy corridor between lessons, boots hardly making a sound and his forked, billowing robe flying out behind him, glancing neither left nor right, and making eye contact with no one. Just single-mindedly pursuing his own route as if he hadn't even noticed anyone else was there. Several students, including herself, had had to jump out of his way.

Not that she'd spent the entire week thinking about Severus Snape. Hermione was taking NEWTs in Herbology, Potions, Transfiguration, DADA, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes and Charms, so there had been plenty of classes to fill her timetable. Snape had just been the most … interesting. That was all.

Hermione found she missed Professor McGonagall's tutelage in Transfiguration very much, for the new Professor Briner was no match for his predecessor's decades of experience teaching the subject. At times, Hermione had felt she'd known more about the syllabus than he did. She also didn't like the way the young-ish professor had looked at the older, returning girls. She could be completely imagining it, and had wished for the skill of Legilimency, but there was just something in an odd gaze held for a moment too long, a covert glance from his desk whilst he believed the class to be engaged in writing. Nonetheless, she would give him the chance to settle in.

Herbology with Neville and the three older Hufflepuffs had been hilarious. Neville was Professor Sprout's favourite, and of course she had great love for her own house, so the five of them had been able to get away with absolute murder, and had stayed long after the lesson had finished to listen to Sprout tell a particularly raucous story about some mischief she had got up to with a Venomous Tentacula the previous year, managing to piss off two Death Eaters and somehow not get discovered, or killed. Thank goodness it had been the last lesson of the day, for the long story and the resultant laughter had been a great tonic.

Charms, always her strongest class, had been wonderful, and Professor Flitwick had been starting to canvass her already to ditch her plans to work at the Ministry and apprentice under him instead, since he would be considering retirement in the next few years.

The new Defence professor, Andrea Masters, had been a bit of an oddity. Firstly, she looked most unlike a teacher. Her heavy make-up made her look like one of those society witches whom Hermione had encountered many time at various Ministry functions. What time did she get up in the morning to look that groomed for an eight o'clock breakfast?

Her voice was clipped, even a little pompous and aristocratic. She sounded like a female Lucius Malfoy, Neville had whispered in Hermione's ear and forced them to straighten the grins that sprung to their faces, for it was entirely true.

Her instruction seemed to be thorough, however, and acknowledged that this particular class had far more practical experience in Defence Against the Dark Arts that the usual seventh-years would do. She was unpatronising, and seemed interested in the students' real-life experiences, rather than sticking doggedly to the textbook. Hermione wasn't sure she liked Professor Masters, but her teaching seemed faultless, thus far.

Swigging the rest of her tea, she returned to her Charms essay, her quill flying easily across the parchment as the words flooded out, all her theories meticulously backed-up by referencing the text books. Shit, where was 'Quintessence – A Quest?' It was a sixth-year book, but they were using it again this year for revision and deeper understanding.

Hermione shuffled the parchments around the surface of the bed, looking for the missing book, eventually realising she would have to get up and search properly. It wasn't in her book bag, nor under the bed, nor on the desk. She even checked the loo, just to be sure.

Her stomach sank as she remembered sharing it in the Charms lesson that afternoon, loaning it to two seventh-year Hufflepuffs that did not have their own copy. It must have been left on the desk. Damn. Why couldn't they have just handed it back to her? She had wanted to complete this essay tonight, and it would be impossible without referencing that book.

"Accio, Hermione's Quintessence book!"

It had been a long shot, since the wards would be unlikely to allow that kind of charm to be used outside of the classroom. She'd been able to Accio Dumbledore's Horcrux books after his death only because the school wards had been temporarily down, since he'd not been alive to command them.

A wicked idea began to form in her head. Did anyone, and by that she meant any witch or wizard in this whole bloody castle, really care whether she went to collect a book from the Charms classroom at midnight?

Before Hermione had even thought particularly hard about her half-arsed plan, she had slipped into the thin floral robe that Fleur had sent her from France, covering her pyjamas and tying the soft sash around her waist. As she stepped out into the dark, deserted guest corridor, her heart leapt.

Oh, yes. This was what she had been missing.

Excitement.

The thrill of the forbidden.

Doing things that you weren't supposed to do in school and trying not to get caught. Honestly, the nights that she and the boys had traipsed these hallways after hours, landing themselves in all sorts of trouble. More surprising had been the times they had not been caught.

Moving stealthily and keeping to the shadows, she set a quick pace towards the Charms corridor, across the other side of the castle, wishing halfway up the second staircase that she'd had the presence of mind to put her slippers on, because her bare feet were bloody freezing.

It wasn't so very bad, was it? Not in the context of everything else she'd done in the last year. It was hardly stealing a dragon and crashing through the ceiling of Gringotts. She was only getting a book …

Hermione couldn't deny that the mad thump of her heart and the rapid pant of her breath was making her feel alive. Damn you, Harry Potter, she thought. You've turned me into a troublemaker. Then she smiled to herself.

Reaching the Charms classroom, she turned the handle, thankful to find it unlocked. She hadn't even given that a thought, that Flitwick might have locked his room for the weekend. Luckily, it appeared he didn't. She tiptoed inside, using the moonlight streaming through the tall windows to locate her book, which was exactly where the two girls had been sitting.

Resisting the urge to poke around, she left the classroom and closed the door quietly behind her, stealing back across the castle the same way she had come, down the staircase and into a wide corridor that led her back to the guest wing. She was almost home and dry, Hermione thought smugly, clutching the book to her chest and thinking of a pair of warm, fluffy socks to thaw out her frozen feet.

A black-cloaked figure suddenly stepped out in front of her, as if from nowhere.

"Holy fucking shit!" she gasped in sheer fright, dropping the book, which hit the stone floor with a loud whump.

"Let us start with five points from Gryffindor for language, Miss Granger," Snape drawled, his voice low and threatening.

"Professor Snape! I'm sorry … I just … you startled me. I didn't mean to swear, I really am most terribly sorry."

"Spare me your pathetic excuses, Granger. How very like your friend Potter you are. How arrogant of you to presume that you can walk the halls of this castle whenever you feel like it, causing all manner of wilful destruction."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I wasn't destroying anything, I promise, and I was being as quiet as I could. I just needed to get my book from the Charms classroom, so I could complete the essay I was writing."

"And this could not have waited until morning?" he sneered, disbelievingly.

"I really wanted to finish it tonight, since I have an important arrangement to go out, tomorrow. I don't know how I've managed to disturb anyone, the classroom wasn't even locked, so I'm sure Professor Flitwick wouldn't mind."

Snape moved his face towards hers.

"It was warded with a charm that indicates if anyone enters out of hours; you stupid little fool," he hissed, dangerously. "Since I am on duty tonight, it fell to me to investigate."

"Oh. I'm very sorry to have disturbed your evening, Professor. Truly."

"As if you would care about the quality of my evening," he retorted, somewhat strangely, before seeming to shake that thought out of his head. "Detention. With me. Sunday morning. I am aware of your … commitment with Mr Longbottom, and given the nature of it, I shall not stop you going. Therefore, your detention will be on Sunday, rather than tomorrow. Now, get to your room."

Hermione nodded, and turned away from the angry wizard, beginning to walk down the corridor away from him.

"Forgotten something?"

She heard his deep voice behind her, and whirled around to see him indicating the Charms textbook that had caused all the trouble, laying on the cold floor where she had dropped it. As she walked back towards him to retrieve it, for clearly, he was not going to hand it to her, her Gryffindor nerve accidentally slipped out of her mouth.

"Thank you, Sir. And actually, I do care whether you have a nice evening or not."

Snape grabbed her arm before she could bend down to collect the book.

"What?" he demanded, pulling her towards him. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you deserve to be enjoying your life, you fought hard for it. That includes having a nice Friday evening after a week's work."

He sneered, most unpleasantly, curling his lip and looking down his overlong nose at her.

"Like you, Miss Granger? The girl who walks around this castle like a ghost? You wouldn't know how to live your life if it bit you on the arse."

Hermione was shocked by his words and by his coarse tone of address. It goaded her. His derision sparked that fire which was always simmering, just below the surface.

"That's rich, Sir, because the only living ghost here is you. You pay no attention to anyone or anything. If you hate teaching so much then I wonder at your decision to return, because it's just making everyone else miserable!"

Professor Snape had thrown her up against the ornate corridor wall so fast that she didn't even have time to scream. He'd put his head firmly behind her head to cushion the blow, and his arm behind her back so that no part of her hit the wall directly. He would have absorbed all the impact, although she was a little winded.

"How dare you, Granger?" he growled. "How fucking … dare you?"

"I dare, because you levelled the same accusation at me!" she bit back, refusing to be cowed by him. "You tell me that I walk around like a ghost, but you cannot see that the same is true of yourself!"

He curled his mouth into a hideous smile, and he was now so close that she could see how overcrowded his teeth were.

"There is the fire," he told her. "Your fire is still there, Granger. Underneath. Clearly you need danger in your life to make the blood pump through your veins."

"How would you know what I need?"

Snape raised her up the wall, so that her tiptoes were barely touching the floor, holding her hips in place with his own, and forcing a solid thigh between her legs, pushing them open.

"I know what you need, Granger," he whispered, and the professor had dropped his mouth to her ear, pushing through her mad hair with his big nose, and she could feel the heat of his breath as he spoke. "I know, because I need the same."

He kept pushing his thigh upwards, until it was resting against the seat of her thin pyjamas. Hermione could feel the scratch of the rough wool that his trousers were made of, and he began to move, rubbing his thigh against her covered pussy. His leg felt cold, which meant that he would feel the warmth of her, and think that she was in some way aroused by this. Snape kept moving, rubbing and pressing against her.

"You need the thrill of the forbidden, little girl. You will never be satisfied with a nice evening, much like myself. You need excitement to light your fire, and danger to keep your mind alert, to remind you that you are truly alive, that you aren't laying cold in the ground with the rest of them."

Quite unbidden, there was a tortured, pleasured groan that she'd never heard before, and Hermione realised that she had made it, tipping her head back to allow him better access to the sensitive shell of her ear, and she felt his lips curl against it, smiling at her obvious noise of arousal.

"So easy, Granger. It would be so easy for me," he whispered, enunciating each syllable and continuing the devastating grind against her most secret place. "You want intensity. You want passion. You want to be controlled, and to control in return."

"Fuck!" she gasped, as she felt the unmistakable nip of sharp teeth upon her earlobe, just once.

He released her, standing her back on her own feet.

"I should take another five points for language, however, perhaps I shall overlook your dirty mouth on this occasion," he said, clearly and quietly, his terrifying eyes boring into hers, burning with what looked like dark, black fire. "I found I rather liked it."

Snape summoned her book from the floor and placed it in her hands.

"Your detention is cancelled, for I believe my warning should suffice on this occasion. I suggest you revisit the rules of this school, Miss Granger, since you seem to have forgotten them in your absence."

He whirled around, ready to barrel down the corridor, away from her.

"Sir!"

"Yes?" he answered, in a deep voice, not turning around.

"That's the first time I've seen the fire return to your eyes, too."

The tall professor in the long black robe stood motionless, facing away from her. It seemed like an age before he spoke again, and when he did, his voice seemed strange. Unfamiliar.

"Get to bed, Miss Granger."

His boots made no sound as he stalked down the corridor, robes flying behind him and his long black hair bouncing with the pace he was setting, and in no time at all he had turned the corner at the end of the hall, heading to … well, she knew not where. Back to the staff room? Somehow, she doubted it. He would do as she was, returning to his private chambers to think over the encounter that had just occurred between them.

Hermione entered her room, sweeping up all the detritus from her homework session with one wave of her wand, sending everything to the desk surface in a messy heap and throwing herself on her bed. It felt like she was burning between her legs, but in a really good way.

Snape had made her feel like this?

She should be galled, disgusted at his unchivalrous attitude, but the fact would remain that the simple touch of his thigh, rubbing between her legs hard and insistently, had done more to arouse her than every wet kiss or clumsy grope that Ron had bestowed upon her this summer.

His outrageously honest words had accused her of concealing her fire, of needing the thrill of the forbidden, and hadn't she realised the exact same thing herself, when she'd left her room earlier, on this fool's errand?

He'd then levelled her by saying she wasn't truly living. Well, if she wasn't living, then Severus Snape certainly wasn't, either.

He was most definitely forbidden, though.