A/N: Hello, dearest readers, and welcome to the aftermath of what happened in Chapter five. :) This is the last pre-written chapter from before my exams, and since I'm going on vacation next week, I really need to get my arse in gear and write some more. Unfortunately, I can't promise you that I will be able to publish chapter seven at the usual time next Monday, if at all during my vacation, so please don't hate me if I don't. There's a good chance that I will have access to a computer, however, so I'll do my best to keep my usual schedule.

Also, I was sad to see that chapter five received less attention than the previous two chapters, but I hope to account that to the vacation season. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on anything you would like to remark on, both good and bad, and everything in between. But for that, I'll have to let you read this chapter, so I'll stop my ramblings here and let you get on to Friday, the Thirteenth - must be a lucky day, don't you think?

Friday, September 13th, 1995

Hermione descended the Astronomy tower as quickly as she could, taking first two steps at a time, then three, then jumping down the last couple of steps at the end of each landing, as many as or even more than she dared. It would later be a miracle to her how she had not broken or at least sprained an ankle with her foolhardy jumps, but in her panic she cared little for her safety. All she needed was to get back to Gryffindor tower with the greatest haste.

The Fat Lady greeted her, her face graced with a concerned expression, but Hermione cared little for her worried question of where she'd been. Maybe it should have puzzled her that the portrait, usually so annoyed by late-night stragglers, would worry over her whereabouts, but all that was on her mind was jumping under her covers and locking herself in the safety of her bed curtains.

The common room was fortunately empty. As on Monday, Harry must have come back from his detention earlier than she from hers, and Ron had probably taken him to bed, remembering her telling him not to wait up. Hermione was grateful for small things and determined to thank her ginger best friend at the next opportunity for keeping Harry unaware of her night-time activities with Professor Snape.

Hermione changed in a hurry and snuggled into the warm covers of her bed, closing and warding the curtains of her four poster bed against escaping light and sound, and against possible intruders. Only then did she allow herself to take a deep breath and close her eyes for a moment, hoping to calm her racing heart.

Night-time activities with Professor Snape, indeed, she snorted inwardly at her earlier thought.

Even though the man had healed her lower cheeks, she could still feel her behind glow with the marks his hand had left. True, it had not been his physical hand that had spanked her bottom again and again. But Hermione had come to know his hands well enough – not unusual for a student sitting in the same professor's class several times a week for four years in a row, she told herself – to know that it had been his own hand, rather than some generic limb, after which the magical slaps had been fashioned.

She rolled onto her belly and reached around with one hand to slide her nightgown upwards until it rested above her hips. Carefully, she laid her hand upon one abused cheek to feel if any residual pain remained. First hesitantly, then thoroughly examining the globe, she ascertained that, in fact, none did. Hermione drew a deep, grateful breath, but did not remove her hand.

She had hated that Professor Snape had so easily overpowered her, manhandling her as if she was little more than a doll, to be done with as one pleased. In a way, she mused, she probably was to him. After all, she was a foot shorter than him, even if she rose to her full height (which wasn't much) and he slouched (which he never did).

She had also hated that she had been unable to defend herself, though that was probably what Professor Snape had been trying to demonstrate. Against a fully grown man, there was little a girl like her could do.

But that was why she had come to him, was it not?

No, a small voice at the back of her mind whispered. You came to him for help in enduring what he did to you, not escaping it.

And yet, Hermione thought, he might have at least warned her about what he was going to do to her.

But he did warn you, stupid girl, the voice teased. You knew full well what was about to happen, yet you never once spoke up, or raised your wand against him. No, the voice now emitted a low, derogating chuckle that reminded her of somebody she was rather desperate to push from her mind right now, you enjoyed it. Even he could see that, remarked upon it, and gave you what you so obviously craved.

"I did not crave that," Hermione spoke into her pillow, loudly and with conviction.

In the bed across from her, Parvati gave a loud snore, and Hermione strengthened the Silencing charm on her bed curtains.

"I didn't," she reiterated, her voice now a whisper.

She did not even manage to convince herself.

Truly, she had not craved a spanking from her Potions Master, but was that possibly because she had not known yet that it felt so good? After all, the first slaps had been cushioned by the thick wool of her school robes. Those first few slaps had taken her more by surprise than anything, her being too shocked at the sudden and unexpected sensation to feel anything other than surprise.

Only when he had come closer, speaking to her in those low timbers of his voice that sent shivers up her spine that had little to do with the cold air of a mid-September night, lifting her robes and lowering her knickers, the tips of his long, calloused fingers ghosting across the smooth skin of the back of her thighs…

You know full well that it started earlier, the frustratingly persistent voice at the back of her mind – or was it at the forefront already? – chimed in, little helpfully.

Alright, so maybe the whole idea of being spanked by him had turned her on. But who wouldn't be, really? His presence alone was more than enough to make her knees weak, and when he started to speak… Even Lavender and Parvati admitted – not to her, no, never to her, but to each other, far too loudly for her not to hear – that his voice was made for fantasies of what they called 'tall, dark, and handsome'.

Tall and dark Professor Snape might be, Hermione thought, but handsome was not a word one might immediately associate with the dour Potions Master. She pondered on his appearance for a few moments, tracing his features in her mind, assessing them as she went.

His eyes were captivating in their blackness, and so expressive if he wished them to, though artfully devoid of expression at times as well. His cheek bones sat high in his angular face, which gave him an aristocratic air. His mouth, so often contorted into a sneer or a vicious smirk, could probably be beautiful if he only relaxed it for once. Too frequently his lips disappeared into a very thin line of fury, more often directed against members of her House than not, to ascertain that they were not full and luscious. They were, Hermione knew, having covertly watched her professor these past few weeks at every opportunity. His angular jaw accentuated the shape of his face, framed by long black hair that shone almost blue in the right light, and appeared oily though Hermione knew to account that to his exposure to potion fumes all day long. Merlin knew her own mane needed a good wash after their Potions lessons, and those were only one or two hours at a time at most. The professor had little opportunity to escape the fumes, teaching most of the day and brewing for the Infirmary after lessons, so of course his hair would suffer a lot more than his students'.

All in all, Professor Snape certainly could not be said to be a traditionally handsome man, but to Hermione, he was more than that. He was arresting. And that was why she had not run from him earlier, too captivating had his mere presence been, too alluring his low voice, too appealing to her sense of curiosity the idea of being spanked by him.

And yes, that had been the reason for the heat pooling moistly between her thighs. Was she ashamed to have been aroused by her teacher? She most assuredly was. But that did not hinder her from admitting to herself the truth of her reaction to him. It simply meant she would never admit it to anybody else.

Not that he would need you to admit to it, the voice spoke up once more, unwilling to be dismissed, he would have been hard pressed not to notice. You practically shoved your flushed arse into his face, now, didn't you?

"No, I did not," the pillow once more muffled Hermione's outward reply to her inner musings. "Nobody forced him to expose my bottom and stare at it like the lecherous old man that he is."

Just listen to you, the voice laughed in a wholly unpleasant way that distinctly reminded Hermione of fingernails scraping over a blackboard, you can't even say 'arse' out loud in the privacy of your bed! And so easily you dismiss a perfectly young professor as an old lecher. But of course you must, seeing as you elect to behave like a petulant child yourself.

"I'm not a child," Hermione whispered into her pillow with little conviction, "I'm not."

Another dismissive chuckle resounded in her head, but no response came.

A different thought crept up on Hermione, however. No matter how much she herself had enjoyed that spanking – Professor Snape seemed to have enjoyed it as well. Or how else could his hard manhood pressing into the cleft of her bottom cheeks be explained?

It appeared that Hermione indeed was no child anymore, and her Potions professor had noticed that little fact. Nobody else had been with them on the Astronomy tower, and as far as Hermione could tell, he had not been aroused yet when he first chanced upon her on the tower platform, so he must have become affected by their interaction – there was no other possible explanation.

But what was it that had caused his arousal? Was it the spanking itself? Did her professor get off on exacting power over defenceless women? No, that couldn't be right, Hermione thought, or the Headmaster would not have proclaimed him reformed; if overpowering helpless people was his thing, he would still be a common Death Eater, non-reformed, plain and simple.

So what was it? Was it Hermione herself? Somehow that thought didn't seem right to her, either; after all, nobody had ever shown the slightest interest in her person, much less her outside attributes.

Don't you mean your backside attributes? the little voice interrupted once more.

Hermione sighed, not gracing the voice with an answer. The voice saw it as encouragement to carry on with her opinion.

Viktor.

"What?" Hermione asked, slightly confused, into her pillow.

Somebody who showed interest. Viktor.

"Well, yes, alright," Hermione conceded, "Viktor took me to the ball, but seeing our lack of conversation, one can hardly say that he was interested in me as a person, and much less as a girl."

Woman, the voice persisted.

"Oh, now I am a woman?" Hermione queried, indignant. "A minute ago I was a petulant child."

Well, you've finally started thinking into the right direction, the voice explained, little graciously. And of course Viktor was interested in you as a person, or why else would he have lingered in the library for weeks until he could ask you out? You may not have noticed, but you're not at your best when you're in your oversized jumpers, bent over parchment, hair sticking in every direction, and your hands and face smudged with ink. And believe me, as a Seeker, he did notice that.

"Alright, but –"

And, the voice spoke up, rising in volume until Hermione's head rang with the sound. The unpleasant sensation made her interrupt her thought. The voice appeared pleased, smug even, and continued.

And he was interested in you as a woman. Do you think anybody in the Great Hall remained unaffected by your stunning appearance that night? No, the voice chuckled, and the sound carried a generous measure of pride in it, even Karkaroff stared.

"Headmaster Karkaroff," Hermione chided.

Death Eater Karkaroff, the voice countered. Or rather, soon to be late Death Eater Karkaroff, if rumours can be believed.

Hermione pondered that for a bit. Harry had told her about the conversation he witnessed between Headmaster Karkaroff and Professor Snape. Both wore the Dark Mark, he'd discovered. In fact, Hermione had gained from some overheard conversations between Order members at Grimmauld Place that Karkaroff had fled Durmstrang, apparently trying to outrun Voldemort's grasp. Nobody, including her, believed him to be able to hide and thus survive for long. That thought almost evoked pity within Hermione, but then she remembered what Harry had told her about the memories in Dumbledore's Pensieve – Karkaroff's list of charges that were held against him – and the flicker of emotion died.

And Professor Snape…

I bet he watched you, too, the voice chimed in once more, wrapped in those layers of purple silk, I bet he had a nice view of your arse as you spun and turned in Viktor's arms as you danced. I bet he remembered that tonight. I bet, in fact, that he tried to recreate that same colour of purple with his spanking, don't you think?

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione half-snorted into her pillow, though she was not quite able to convince herself that the voice was actually being ridiculous. What if the Potions Master had watched her at the Yule Ball indeed? What if he did like her behind?

Oh please, the voice began to sound annoyed again, I thought we had established that fact already. I'm certain he did not become so aroused by your magnificent counting abilities – oh wait, didn't you even fail to count correctly the first time?

Burying her head under her pillow, Hermione tried to drown the voice at the forefront of her mind. Yes, it had taken her some time to become accustomed to those first few slaps, she admitted, but hadn't she counted very well after that?

But for the most important question, the voice would not be still. Do you believe that was what Dumbledore meant when he asked you to become Snape's companion?

"Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to become Professor Snape's companion," Hermione corrected. "So what?"

Well, the voice drawled, do you think that was what he meant when he asked you to accommodate Professor Snape?

Hermione was stunned into silence. So was her brain, apparently, as all thought processes – and there were quite a few of them running in her brain at any time, and especially now – came to a screeching halt. Her breathing stopped as well, and even though she could not be certain as she lacked the necessary brain capacity to check on it, Hermione was pretty sure her heart skipped several beats as well.

"No," she breathed into the air, her head abruptly withdrawn from underneath her pillow. "No, it cannot be."

The voice remained silent for once. Where Hermione might have longed for peace and quiet from the nagging thing, she now would have been grateful for some much needed input. As it was, even when her breathing began and became regular again, when her heart resumed its beating, and when her trains of thoughts restarted their steam engines until she was certain there must be smoke coming out of her ears – even then, Hermione did not come to a conclusion whether that was indeed what the Headmaster had meant.

What she did realize, however, was that she would have to meet with Professor Snape regularly from now on, turning herself over to him and submitting to his judgement in their lessons of torture. How she would manage to attend those lessons without her head bursting into sudden flames of embarrassment of what had happened on top the Astronomy tower this night, she did not know.

Oh Merlin, Hermione thought, how will I ever be able to look him in the eye again?

She found it easier to meet Professor Snape's eye again than she had thought, however, as the next morning proved. When she and the boys sat down at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, a missive appeared on Hermione's plate, clearly sent via the House elves. Curious as to what it had to say, she picked it up and perused the lines, written in the neat, slanted script she had come to know from the scathing remarks that painted her best friends' Potions essays in copious amount of red ink. This note to her, however, was written in plain black.

Miss Granger,

As mentioned yesterday, these are the books I expect you to study in preparation for our lessons. I trust you will not become too sore from sitting down to read them.

SS

Scandalized by his quip towards his punishment from the night before, she shot an angry look at the High Table. Professor Snape, it seemed, had expected that reaction, and looked back at her with an empty expression – no, almost empty, as the left corner of his mouth quirked upwards in what might have become a smirk had he allowed it to.

Still furious at his impertinence, but also a little curious as to which books she would be studying, she turned around the slip of parchment to read the titles. It was a short list, only four books were listed, and after she'd read them thrice, she was sure to have memorized them. No sooner had she ascertained that she indeed knew the four titles by heart, did the missive burst into flames, the flaky ashes left in its wake fluttering downwards and ceasing into nonexistence a split of an inch from her plate.

The boys, she was quick to ascertain, were too busy stuffing their faces with food and bashing Umbridge to notice she had even received a missive in the first place. Returning to her own breakfast, Hermione piled scrambled eggs and some plain toast onto her plate and slowly began to eat, her mind still whirling. How come Professor Snape appeared so unaffected by what had happened that night? Was he simply so good at hiding his true feelings? Or was it she had mistaken his quip and his almost-smirk and they had, in fact, nothing to do with their meeting on the Astronomy tower?

Or maybe, you daft chit, the voice suddenly reappeared, and Hermione groaned in annoyance, maybe he is grown up enough to separate between what you asked him to do, namely teaching you how to accept and endure pain, and your day-to-day dealings with each other. Maybe he is simply mature about this whole thing, which you obviously fail to be. Ever thought about that?

"Oh, just shut up, will you," Hermione snapped at the voice.

When the boys looked up at her questioningly, Ron's expression one of bemused curiosity, Harry's one of barely contained rage, she realized that maybe she should start answering the voice where it nagged at her – in the privacy of her mind.

"Excuse me," Harry said coolly, "I was unaware that my detention with Umbridge was painfully annoying to you, Hermione. Of course, maybe I should have thought of your feelings about her methods, lest I hurt you."

His challenging glare betrayed his cold demeanour and polite words, and Hermione knew that he was close to exploding. Nevertheless, she marvelled at his self-control that allowed him to utter those words in the manner he did, emphasizing the pain the evil woman caused him as if it was Hermione's.

"I apologize, Harry," Hermione said in what she hoped to be a soothing and apologetic voice, treading carefully as she went, "of course I'm not annoyed at your discussion about your detention with Umbridge." At least that was what she desperately hoped the two boys had been talking about before she had interrupted them. "I have a lot on my mind right now, and my thoughts were wreaking havoc on my brain, and I simply wanted some quiet from them. I did not realize that I was talking out loud to make them stop before you two looked up."

The fact that Harry had not yet lost his temper and/or left the table in a black storm cloud of fury spoke in his favour and gave Hermione courage that maybe, just maybe her excuse had been good enough.

Apparently, it hadn't.

"And just what is it that is occupying your mind so much that you can't even bring yourself to listen, let alone to care about what the old hag has made me do every night this week? Not even to wait up with Ron until I got back?"

"Oh please, Harry," she said, throwing her hands up both in desperation and in exasperation, "of course I care! You know I do! I provided you with the Essence of Dittany to help with those wounds, and I," – here, she dropped her voice, so they would not easily be overheard – "and I suggested a way of learning Defence this year despite being taught by an incompetent, vicious old toad that would rather V- Voldemort ruled Britain than admit her precious Fudge was wrong about you being a liar and a fraud.

"You know," Hermione carried on, now emboldened, "maybe if you started realizing that we're your friends in this instead of constantly antagonizing those closest to you, you would notice that you're not so alone as the Ministry wants to make you believe you are."

Harry was silent for a few seconds, and that alone made Hermione more afraid of what he was going to say next than ever before, and seeing the number of tirades she had suffered from her best friend, that was saying something.

"Oh, so now I am just one of those brain-washed idiots who believe everything the Ministry has to say, am I?" Harry asked, seething with rage.

"No, Harry, that's not what I –"

"And you bringing some dishwater to put my hand in and shoving off the responsibility of learning how to defend ourselves against Voldemort to ME once more makes it all okay?"

Harry's voice was rising to levels easily overheard by half their own table and a good part of the neighbouring tables as well. Hermione was desperate to calm her friend down, and to quiet him.

"No, please, Harry, just listen to me –"

"JUST ANSWER MY BLOODY QUESTION, HERMIONE," Harry raged. "WHAT THE FUCK IS SO IMPORTANT TO YOU THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN FOLLOW A CONVERSATION WITH YOUR TWO BEST FRIENDS?"

"I'M IN DETENTION WITH PROFESSOR SNAPE, ALRIGHT?" Hermione now shouted back at him.

A collective gasp sounded around them, every eye in the Great Hall now fixed on Harry and Hermione, now both standing. In the background, Hermione noticed Malfoy's ugly smirk, mirrored seconds later on the faces of his thick minions.

Harry's face blanched at her declaration.

"You are – what?"

"Yes, Harry," Hermione admitted, "Professor Snape gave me detention with himself for a couple of Mondays and yesterday night. That's why I wasn't in the common room when you got back from Umbridge. I'm sorry, Harry, I really am."

Chancing a look at Ron, she saw that he was looking at Harry, his eyes not leaving his face, as if waiting for another explosion. Fortunately, it didn't come.

"You're in detention with Snape?" Harry reiterated, unbelieving. Her own admonishment to call him 'Professor Snape' went unheard by either of the boys, naturally. "Whatever did he give you detention for?"

"Insolence, Potter," a familiar, though unwelcome voice sounded from behind Hermione.

That the professor was silent in his approach she knew, and it was of no surprise to her that she had not heard him advance. But how Harry had not seen the Potions Master creep up on them, sitting opposite from her as he was and in clear view of the space between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, was beyond her.

"Impudence," the drawl continued, "impertinence. Take your pick, Potter, I'm sure you are well acquainted with all of them, as your and Miss Granger's display here clearly demonstrates."

Hermione's shoulders sagged. Of course he would come to denigrate her some more in front of her friends and all the school, as the other students were obviously still listening. She knew that this fact did not go unnoticed by her professor. In fact, he probably played on it.

"And Miss Granger, I know that usually your accomplishments incite the need in you to brag about them, but if I may offer you a word of advice?" Without waiting for her answer, he continued. "Detention is conventionally not seen as something worth accomplishing, much less bragging about, however much you might want to shout it to the world – or the Great Hall, in this case – that you landed in detention with me.

"Seeing, however," the Potions Master carried on, "how rare a feat it is for you to be assigned detention, I understand your confusion that it might be a success, rather than the punishment that it is. In fact, I am willing to help you with that confusion."

His voice dropped, as did Hermione's heart at his cold tone and the unpleasant sneer on her professor's face.

"In order to demonstrate to you, Miss Granger, that detention can be rather unpleasant, contrary to your expectations due to the rarity of which you get assigned any, I would offer to prolong your detention, to be served with Mr Filch, as I have little desire to punish myself with more time in your presence than absolutely necessary. Would that be to your liking?"

Hermione felt numb. Why would he be so mean to her now? Hadn't last night been punishment enough? She felt the urge to rub her bum, but suppressed that need. From the flicker in his eyes, however, Professor Snape seemed to have sensed her thought.

Realizing that he – and everybody else in the Great Hall, their eyes still firmly fixed on the spectacle that she and Harry had been making of themselves – was still waiting for an answer, Hermione shook her head.

"No, sir," she replied in little more than a whisper. As an afterthought, she added, "Thank you."

He sneered, and took a step closer to her. He now towered over her, and his smooth black eyes were fixed on hers. Remembering his advice from last night, before he had dismissed her for the first time, she averted her gaze and instead stared resolutely at a spot on the floor where a student must earlier have spilled some of his breakfast. Let him watch memories of bacon and jam, she thought.

"Fifteen point from Gryffindor for shouting in the Great Hall, for both of you," Professor Snape snarled. "And now I suggest you two sit down again – unless, of course, the hard wood is too uncomfortable? I would not wish to cause any imprints on the soft skin of schoolchildren."

And with another sneer that Hermione more heard than saw, he was gone in a swirl of black robes, leaving her with yet another quip at their meeting on top of the Astronomy tower.

Hermione sat down, letting her head fall into her cupped hands, her elbows resting on top of the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ron tug on Harry's robes until he let himself fall into his seat, as well.

They sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the chatter and clatter rise once more around them, until nobody paid them any heed anymore. Even Ron wasn't eating, rather watching his two best friends instead. Finally, Hermione broke the silence.

"I'm sorry, Harry – please believe me, I am! I wanted to be there for you more, I really did."

Harry looked up to meet her gaze.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice now thankfully devoid of his previous anger. Merely a trace of hurt was wrought in his words.

"I didn't want to burden you more, Harry," Hermione confessed. "I know it was wrong to keep this from you, but this was my fight, not yours, and you had so much on your plate already that I –"

"…felt like you couldn't come to me with this?"

Oh sweet Circe, if only Harry didn't sound so hurt, Hermione thought.

"It's not that, Harry," she tried to reason, "please, I know I could trust you with anything. I just didn't mean to add to all that stress you already have by burdening you with my own, as well. This is my detention, and I need to do this on my own – just like Ron and I can't really be there for you during your own detention with Umbridge. We can't help you then, but we try to be there for you afterwards."

"And you won't even let me do that for you?" Harry questioned, his anger now creeping back into his voice.

Hermione struggled to backpaddle quickly, but was unwilling to give way in this too easily.

"Not right now, Harry," she replied cautiously. "Not when you are still sitting your own detention with the toad."

The boys smirked at her description of Umbridge, apparently shrugging off the tense atmosphere from before. Hermione, however, knew that she couldn't let the issue rest like this.

"Will you be there for me next Monday, when I come back from my detention?" she asked hesitantly.

A wide grin spread over Harry's face, mirrored by Ron who seemed exceedingly happy that their fight came to an end.

"Of course I will, Hermione," Harry exclaimed. "And the Monday after that as well, if you need me."

If they were being honest with each other now, might as well come out with the whole truth, Hermione thought.

"And the Monday after that…?"

"Merlin's hairy balls, Hermione," Ron now chimed in to their conversation, obviously content with the level of civility and friendship they had reached, "how much detention did the greasy git give you?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, though did so with a smile on her face to show them that she was merely friendly-annoyed, not annoyed-annoyed.

"Professor Snape," she answered, deliberately stressing the title, and it was the boys' turn to roll their eyes, "assigned me five evenings of detention, two of which I already served this week, Ronald."

"Merlin's beard," it was Harry's turn to swear, though he at least did so with a little more taste than Ron, "what did you say to the big bat to earn that much detention?"

I merely told him that I respected him and wanted to learn from him, Hermione thought.

Out loud, she said simply, "The truth."

And laughing, the three of them finished their breakfast in companionable conversation, before heading off together to face their lessons of the day.

Coming up: Chapter seven, wherein rambling can't be stopped and a night is rehashed.