December 23rd

Hermione woke up, long before dawn had even thought about breaking, with the distinct feeling that there was something odd about the day. After a moment she realised that it was the fact that she didn't have to pull herself out of bed and down to the dungeons in order to do as much work as humanly possible on face creams and body lotions.

In that case, she thought happily, she would treat herself to a long awaited lie in, followed by a lazy bath and a late breakfast. She snuggled down under the covers again, closed her eyes, stretched her toes and prepared herself for a nice long sleep, fortified by happy thoughts of another Christmas at Hogwarts.

Nothing happened.

Too many early mornings meant that her brain was automatically getting itself into gear, despite her body's fervent desire to return to somnolence.

Bloody hell.

This just wasn't fair. She lay there a few moments longer, willing herself sternly, but unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep until the tension of trying to relax made her muscles begin to cramp. Sighing, she rolled over onto her back and stretched fully. Eyes still closed, she tried to let her mind drift.

Predictably, it drifted towards the lower reaches of the castle. To the dungeons if one was going to be accurate about it. To the inhabitant of those dungeons if one was going to be accurate and honest about it.

And, even more specifically, the events of the preceding day. Of course, there had been the final delivery of the fruits of their joint penance to the Magenta Menace, but that wasn't what she was thinking about.

She was recalling that fragment of conversation, when, for one unguarded moment, she thought that something might have remained of that long, bizarre, wonderful final year. That perfect and unspoken understanding, relaxed and unforced, something unlooked for yet secretly desired and regretted. An instant in non-time when she could almost have reached up and run a finger down his face, tracing the familiar lines and angles, touching him just so, knowing how his body would respond almost as well as if it had been her own. And he would not have stopped her. At least, he probably wouldn't have stopped her. Well, she didn't think he would have stopped her. Say rather that he might have tolerated it. And she would never know what would have happened because Parvati - with a gift for timing that didn't appear to have improved since school - had erupted into the room, and the time had gone.

She sighed.

She might as well be realistic about this, she thought. It must have been the relief of finishing. Or simple inattention. Or maybe the recent close proximity of Parvati had made her presence seem more attractive to him. She gave a small snort. What a tribute: Marginally less distasteful than Parvati Patil.

And yet, there had been that moment when they touched and he hadn't pulled away from her. Certainly he hadn't shied away from her as he had from Parvati as she stalked him round the laboratory for two hours, peppering him with questions about their work. Hermione grinned into the darkness, momentarily distracted by the mental image. Watching Snape evade the Predatory Patil had almost been worth the mind-numbing stress of the last two weeks. Her grin faded then, as she remembered the attention - attention? Why not call it what it was: fawning adulation - that Parvati had lavished on Snape. Snape for heaven's sake. The man whose classes she couldn't leave fast enough. The man she had complained about for seven solid years. The miserable, sarcastic, ugly, greasy, evil bastard. That Snape.

She wriggled under the sheets, unreasonably put out. How come Parvati had taken such a sudden liking to him anyway? It wasn't as if he had substantially changed since they were at school. He had been testing the products, so naturally his hair was in better condition and his skin was somewhat clearer - she felt a certain satisfaction that he had finally been forced to stop using that wretched all-purpose household soap for his personal hygiene. Irritation gave way to a small wince at the memory of the constant sticky residue on her hair and skin, that no amount of rinsing with hot water seemed to quite clear. And she had to admit that not living in constant fear of discovery and torture would loosen anyone up a little - theoretically, at least - but he was still the Snape she remembered from school.

The Snape who criticised her work. Who totally ignored her if he was concentrating on something else. Who didn't enquire solicitously about her day. Who didn't hold her chair or fill her glass for her. Who let her get on with things without asking after her progress. Who knew how she liked her work space organised and how she took her coffee. Who knew what she would find funny and what would annoy her. Who could use that knowledge to aggravating effect when he wanted to.

The Snape who saw no reason to modify his behaviour to accommodate anyone else's notions of acceptability, and who, consequently, did not expect anyone else to do so either.

The Snape with whom she could be herself.

Yes. He was exactly the Snape that she remembered from school.

Oh dear.

Hermione raised her head and hit it several times on the pillow as if that would change the reality of the situation. The knowledge that she had been trying to bury beneath work, reunions, Queroz and, latterly, Minerva's whisky came marching to the forefront of her brain, set up camp and stubbornly refused to move.

She was going to have to face Snape. Of course, he would laugh, or sneer, or both and it would be a disaster, but having reached the conclusion, she couldn't just ignore it. Hermione Granger had not been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

The prospect made her feel slightly sick.

Abandoning the idea of a lie in, Hermione got out of bed. Somewhere in the middle of her bout of introspection the fires had been lit in her rooms, so she was not cold. She found her coffee pot - identical to Snape's, and one of the "essential items" that she had brought from home - and filled the bottom with water.

By the time that the pot was ready, she had managed to have a quick shower - so much for the long bath idea - and get dressed. Pouring the coffee, she wandered over to the advent calendar, propped up on one of the sets of bookshelves in the room. The angel was looking a little worse for wear now, graceful outlines disrupted by little cardboard doors, and slivers of different pictures. She located number twenty-three and teased open the door with some difficulty; she didn't like to tear the things and two weeks of intensive potions work had left her with extremely short nails.

Inside, three gorgeously robed men were carrying jewelled boxes. The Magi bringing gifts - pre-birth in this case - to the infant Christ. Which reminded her of another, more prosaic fact; Parvati's timescale had left her no time to buy any Christmas presents whatsoever.

Which meant that the confrontation of Snape would have to be temporarily postponed. It was, Hermione thought, something of a toss-up which was the preferable option; a "talk" with Snape, or a morning in Hogsmeade two days before Christmas. Nevertheless, the shopping had to be done, and it was probably better that it should be done and sent off before she ran the risk of having to beat a hasty retreat from the castle.

Sipping her coffee, she sat down to make a list. The usual suspects came at the top - Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly and Arthur Weasley, Dumbledore. Minerva. Fortunately, she had been able to arrange for her parents' present to arrive poste restante at St Helena. She couldn't imagine that the Ministry would be very amused at having to obliviate an entire Muggle cruise ship because an English barn owl had shown up in the West Indies carrying a package.

Which left the question of Snape. The minor question as opposed to the major question. Did she buy him a Christmas present? She chewed her quill. After some more deliberation she wrote "Severus" on her list. She could always leave the present with Dumbledore if there was a problem. As for what this hypothetical present might be; she decided that she would just wander round Hogsmeade and hope that inspiration struck.

Yes, she thought, that was the right way round. Get the presents sorted out, and cards and letters sent, and tackle Snape when that was off her mind. Later today, perhaps. Or maybe tomorrow. She might be a Gryffindor, but she had learnt over the years that occasionally discretion was the better part of valour. And sometimes procrastination was the better part of discretion. This definitely seemed like one of those times.

Satisfied with her decision, she headed for breakfast.

December 24th

Leisure was vastly overrated. One day of it, and Snape was already irritated with the world in general; he refused to consider that his irritation might have less to do with leisure and more to do with the fact that he hadn't seen Hermione in more than twenty-four hours, for the first time in weeks.

She was still at Hogwarts, of course. She had accepted Dumbledore's invitation, and she had looked at him, and he was still trying to work out what it was that she had meant by that look. Was she checking to see whether he minded? Whether he was remotely interested? Whether he was going to object?

It was these moments that reminded him that it had been ten years since he had known her as well as himself; ten years in which she had changed, grown up. He no longer knew exactly what was going through her mind at a glance. All of which made things more interesting and more complex. If he had still known her that well, perhaps all of this would have been moot. She would not have changed, would not have grown and would be infinitely less interesting. She wouldn't be Hermione.

All of which introspection achieved nothing and was frankly tedious; Snape was getting bored with himself and the constant refrain of moments circling in his mind. It was time to go and do something constructive.

He had spent the previous day in London, somewhat unexpectedly. He had gone wandering through the school corridors around mid-morning, having had coffee in his rooms from sheer perversity, and discovered eventually that Hermione had gone into Hogsmeade.

He first reaction was to follow her; he needed to get some Christmas presents, after all. It was not, perhaps, his favourite chore but he generally found something for Dumbledore and McGonagall at the least. A long time ago, he had found something for Hermione as well.

Then caution drew him back; if he went into Hogsmeade, he would almost certainly run into Hermione. Would she think that he was deliberately following her? More deliberations, more considerations, until he was halfway to the village and abruptly apparated to London.

London had, on reflection, not been one of the wiser choices of his life. The streets were crowded - Muggle and wizarding streets alike - with people rushing without obvious purpose and with a heightened note of hysteria in the air. In the end he had accomplished his shopping more by luck than by design and the results, wrapped in a paper shot with silver, sat on his desk at the moment.

Snape stared at the small pile of gifts, willing his mind to silence, to simply be. Coffee grew cold in the mug in his hands until he came to sip it and grimaced. He pulled himself out of his chair, trying to pull himself from frustration and irritation as well, wondering whether it was appropriate to see if Hermione was still in the castle, and settled for pouring himself another coffee.

He had just put the pot down on the stove again when a knock sounded at the door. He glanced at it, squashed the involuntary hope and put the mug down next to the stove. Crossing to the door, he opened it to find Hermione standing outside.

Startled, he simply looked at her for a moment until a strange expression crossed her face; mingled fear and resolve.

"May I come in?"

He nodded without words and stepped back to let her in.

"I thought I should knock this time - we're not working on the project any more and I wasn't sure whether you would be here and-"

She was nervous; that tic of rambling was one thing that hadn't changed. Snape lifted his mug and quirked an eyebrow at her, suddenly calmer in the face of her lack of composure. He had no idea why she was nervous but it was somehow comforting that she wasn't standing in his rooms in a state of bland assurance. Hermione stopped talking abruptly, apparently now aware of the words tumbling faster and faster.

"Coffee?"

She nodded and he poured another mug for her, passing it to her as they stood in front of the stove. Her fingers brushed the back of his as she took the mug; he had some difficulty controlling a shiver.

So, apparently, did Hermione - or was that wishful thinking?

Snape, for the first time in too many years, indulged in wishful thinking and turned to face Hermione. She looked up at him as he stood in front of her and he thought he could see the questions forming; the fear he had seen in her at the door was gone now.

"Would you like to go for a walk?"

That hadn't been the question he had intended asking; that had been rather more direct and to the point, but somewhere between intention and action the words had changed.

"Uh - yes. Yes, I'd like that." Hermione seemed as startled by he was by his own question. "Let me get my coat."

Suddenly it seemed imperative not to let her out of his sight for a moment, and Snape stopped

Hermione as she turned to leave the room, his hand resting lightly on her arm. They both looked at his hand - long, pale fingers against the pristine black of her robes - and then at each other. He drew a breath, surprised again by the slight shudder in that breath.

"Let me ..." he said, then gestured with his free hand and a murmured "Accio". One of his cloaks flew to his hand; another murmur brought it down to Hermione's size and he settled it around her shoulders, fastening the black corded clasp at her neck before summoning another cloak for himself. He was acutely aware of Hermione's examination of his face throughout this, the shifting expression from confusion to tinged with hope - although the latter was perhaps wishful thinking again. Still, she had not pulled away from him, or his touch, and he had let his fingers brush the side of her jaw as he fastened the cloak. If he had nothing else, he would have this touch.

The snow was thick again now, in the depths of the Scottish winter, and they left a trail of shuffled footsteps behind them as they meandered around the school grounds. They stopped to pick herbs in the knot gardens behind the greenhouses, filling the air with the scent of the rosemary needed for medicinal potions - a task for after Christmas, but the herb would need to dry before it was used.

Somewhere in the gardens Snape had helped Hermione over a low wall; somehow, he forgot to let go of her hand once she was over. She didn't appear inclined to let it go either.

They met no-one on the walk, and heard nothing but winter - shivers of snow tumbling from trees, ice cracking and groaning on the lake - and the sound of their own voices, ringing slightly in the chill air, forming words in puffs of vapour. The talk was mostly academic, discussions of recent articles and dry sarcasm - from both - in criticism of some of the more outrageously under-researched material that had been published recently. Somewhere in the snow and the cold a decade-old rapport re-established itself quietly, rising through layers of uncertainty and dampened hope.

As dusk began to descend from the mountains ringing the school, setting the snow on fire with sun-gold, Snape and Hermione made their way back into the dungeons, to his rooms. The conversation had been enough for understanding - well, he hoped so, anyway. They were comfortable together, and it had been too long since he had felt comfort in anyone's presence - although this was not exactly comfort that he was feeling right now as they stood, dripping slightly, in front of the stove. The fire in the cast iron box had been fed recently, and the coffee pot on top of it cleaned out; the room was almost too warm after hours outside.

Snape shrugged out of his own cloak and stilled Hermione's hands as she moved to undo hers; he unfastened the cloak as carefully as he had fastened it. His hands brushed her face again; this time she leant into the touch, always watching him as she did so. He pushed the cloak off her shoulders, letting it pool to the ground behind her, and stood with his hands on her shoulders now. He couldn't quite bring himself to move, to break this spell. It wasn't real, even after all this. It couldn't quite be real.

The touch of Hermione's mouth on his proved him wrong; it was entirely real, a reality that was warm, tasting his lips - and his response was drawn from experience and fantasy, his arms drawing her in as he leant into the kiss.

Then ... then Snape was hard-pressed to recognise each individual moment as action and reaction blurred into pleasure until time slowed again and he found himself re-learning a body he'd once known as well as his own. Did this still ... oh yes, clearly it did still work. The twisted arching body beneath his own, the kiss-smoothed bite on his shoulder was proof enough of that thesis.

Did that - his experimentation came to an abrupt halt as Hermione took revenge and indulged in testing her own hypotheses; he rather thought that she was, as he had been, re-learning his body. Her old body. Somewhat more scarred, rather less changed than hers, though. Still just as ... oh, please ... capable of ...

Rational thought returned eventually, and Snape focussed on Hermione's grin. She looked inordinately pleased with herself, he thought, then found thought momentarily hard to come by again as her tongue licked briefly at lips already wet and glossed. He shook his head at his own frailty and concentrated once more on Hermione; his hands trailed from her shoulders down over her breasts - these were fuller, a little, than they had been at 18. The nipples were slightly darker than he remembered seeing in the mirror; the curves of her waist and hips a little more defined in the taut muscle there. He wondered briefly what it was that she did for exercise, then lost himself again in this exercise as he re-learnt her taste.

December 25th

The clock struck twenty-five, notes filtering down the to dungeon through some trick of the castle's acoustic - or some special Christmas charm of Dumbledore's - to announce the beginning to this particular day.

Hermione lay with her eyes shut, allowing her other senses to register the feel of the man beside her, now calm, maybe even sleeping a little, after that first explosion of passion. She couldn't quite identify the point in the previous day when she had allowed herself to begin to hope; when he had asked her to go for a walk, perhaps. Or when he hadn't seemed to want her to go back to her room, even to get a coat. Or in the knot garden when their hands had clasped and not released. Or in the conversation, or in the myriad of moments when a verbal sketch was as good as a completed picture. By the time they had returned to his rooms hope had become sufficient certainty for her to stop feeling stupid that she had cast some - precautionary - charms before leaving her rooms. And sometime after that she realised that, far from forgetting, Snape had remembered every single thing in exquisite detail.

Had he changed? She wasn't certain. He was still difficult and defensive, to be sure. He had been through too many years of suspicion and double-dealing to able to abandon that. She gave the roof of the bedroom a wry smile. Not to mention that fact that if he suddenly started to behave like Peregrine Queroz, he wouldn't be Severus Snape any more; it just wouldn't be right. But the obstacles of age and status and Voldemort were no longer there. It could be that this time they had a chance.

She moved a hand fractionally to touch his hair. That was better without a doubt, but she had been too focussed on being annoyed by the man himself to notice the difference. It had taken Parvati's flirting to bring it to her attention - which would more than likely mean that Snape would return to the use of household soap as soon as humanly possible, if only to avoid any repetition of that scene.

Now she was past the uncertainties, she could see the humour in it. She stifled a sudden giggle and the movement drew an indistinct murmur from Snape. She had disturbed him, or perhaps he hadn't truly been asleep.

She placed a small kiss on his forehead.

"Merry Christmas," she said softly.

He shifted against her, making a noise of enquiry.

"I heard the clock," she explained.

He made another noise, and said something indistinct and derisive, although she did hear the words "Dumbledore" and "idiotic".

She smiled again, and wriggled down against him, so that she could plant a trail of small kisses down the line of his jaw and then up to his mouth. He turned to meet her lips, and for a moment she was lost again in the taste of him as their tongues met.

She felt one of his hands begin to stroke her hip, and she pressed forwards, bringing her leg into closer contact with him. She could feel the stirring against her, telling her that his mouth and hands weren't the only things responding. The caressing hand shifted over the muscles of her back to graze the side of her breast. She made a small sound of pleasure and yielded to the gentle pressure to roll on to her back and allow his hands and mouth free access to her.

He was quick to take advantage. He dropped a kiss in the hollow at the base of her neck and then took one of her nipples into his mouth. She arched into him as he licked and teased and suckled at her, whilst a lazy thumb drew across the tip of the other breast, sending electric shivers down her spine straight to the spot between her legs, already swollen and semi-aroused from their previous efforts. Restlessly, she moved her hips, lost in sensation, not knowing whether she was trying to heighten or release the growing pressure there. His hand moved away from her breast to stroke her belly, just above the edge of her pubic hair. She made a noise in protest as cooler air hit the naked nipple making the sensitive skin react and contract still further. His fingers were tangling in her lower hair now, teasing at the point of the triangle, dipping in and out, getting closer and closer, touching and stroking, now short, now long, now fast now slow. Her hips bucked and arched of their own volition and his mouth continued to work at her nipple. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head to her breast, rubbing herself against him, responding to the increasing pressure, and then his fingers found the spot and she threw back her head with a cry as her body turned to molten liquid under him.

As she came back to herself she realised that her hands were still clenched in his hair. Carefully, she released them, massaging his scalp a little as she did so.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

There was a movement that could have been a shrug.

"Maybe a little. It doesn't matter."

She kissed him.

"I'm sorry."

There was a pause.

"It was worth it, though." He sounded pleased with himself. "You seemed to be enjoying it." Hermione tried not to choke.

"Smug bastard," she hissed with no real heat.

"Yes," came the calm reply. "What of it?"

She couldn't help it; she had to grin. It was just so - so Severus.

"Nothing," she said, and then ducked her head so that she could put her mouth on one of his nipples.

She was rewarded by a gasp and then hands burying themselves in her own hair. Gently, teasing, she lapped at him, feeling the tissue rise to prominence under her tongue. Wetting her thumb, she traced lazy circles round the other one, knowing how sensitive he was to this. She caressed him, but not for too long; if her memory served her well, he reacted quickly to this stimulation, and she had more things in mind.

Supporting herself on one elbow, as he had done earlier, she trailed her hand away from his chest, down the ribcage and to the top of his balls. Lightly she traced a pattern down the edge of his hips, and then up his inner thigh, circling, but never quite touching him. Instinctively he moved his hips to try and meet her hand, but she evaded him. He was making incoherent noises in the back of his throat somewhere between protest and plea. His hands in her hair were beginning to exert a definite pressure.

Giving in to him, she began to kiss her way down the centre of his body. Positioning herself comfortably, she began to follow the same path with her mouth that her fingers had travelled, dancing around his cock but never quite touching it. He was hard - that was clearly visible, even in the half-light of the now guttering candles - but his hands in her hair, although they were clenching, were never trying to force the direction her head.

No, he wouldn't do that. Not ever. She remembered a ten year old half-conversation about imperio. Enough of this, perhaps.

She moved her head sideways, to the area that he was carefully not pushing her towards, and took him into her mouth. His response was a long drawn out sound that told how much he had been wanting it. He was nearly ready, she could tell by his movements and the salty taste in the back of her throat. Carefully, she worked her way up him, licking and kissing, taking the base of his cock in her hand and cupping his balls with the other. The sounds she heard were now peppered with expletives and invocations, and then, to her surprise, the word 'no', said thickly, and his hands pushing her away.

As she lifted her head, he cupped her chin.

"Not yet," he said, voice heavy.

Dumbly, she nodded, her breath shortening at the sight of the naked desire on his face. It had been so long since anyone had looked at her with such open wanting. Not since her final year in school, to be precise. He moved to kiss her mouth, once, hard, and then moved so that he could kiss her at the top of her legs. Another movement, and he was cupping her hips and her legs parted instinctively to allow him access. Then his mouth was on her, licking and tasting, dipping inside her and moving up to circle her clitoris, sucking and nipping, and her mind ceased to be able to form any kind of coherent thought. His hands were kneading her buttocks and she brought one hand up to her own breast to mimic the movements, playing with her nipple. Her awareness focussed to a point, made up of action and reaction and something within her began to coil tighter and tighter and she knew that the point of release was near.

Some desire to have him with her this time made her put her hands on his head and move him away, hard as it was. He must have understood her inarticulate pushing and pulling, for he came onto his knees and then forward onto his elbows, to kiss her hard on the mouth. She drew her knees up and apart, to cradle him between them.

"Please, Severus, now," she whispered against his mouth.

There was a brief pressure against her and then he was inside her, rocking slowly, delicious friction against her swollen tissue. And then neither of them could stand it any longer and there was just the two of them and heat and need and rhythm and pressure and release.

Afterwards as they lay, still joined, Hermione reached to kiss Snape's shoulder. He tasted of them, sweat and stickiness, and she didn't care.

"You really are very good at this, you know," she said lazily.

There was a slight pause, long enough for her to wonder if anything was wrong.

"I have an excellent memory," he said eventually. "And you were quite right."

"I was?"

"Yes. You don't forget. Although," he added, "I have still never ridden an actual bicycle."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. She buried her head in the crook of his neck as her shoulders shook.

"Remind me to teach you." She sobered suddenly. "Severus," she said uncertainly, knowing there was one thing she had to ask, "last time we couldn't ... continue ... because of what was going on then. Is it different now?"

If this is all we have then so be it. But please say yes. Please.

He was silent for a very long time.

"Hermione," he said eventually. His voice was very guarded. "Circumstances have changed since you were at school but I am not significantly different."

"I came to care for the person you were at school very much," she said softly.

She could feel the rise and fall of his breathing against her.

"I cannot promise that any - relationship - with me would always be easy or pleasant. I am extremely unlikely to turn into a Professor Queroz."

He wasn't saying no, she told herself. He was thinking about it. She tried to stifle the rising hope, picking her way through the minefield of the conversation.

"If I'd wanted a Professor Queroz," she said dryly, "it seems that I could have had the real thing and I didn't notice. I may just have a thing for tall dark difficult men."

"I don't want you to have any illusions about me."

She took a chance.

"I had to dance with Hyacinth Hooch. How many illusions could I have after that?"

He sniffed.

"I had to have my legs waxed." It sounded as if the injury were fresh in his mind.

She snuffled with laughter.

"So?"

"As long as you're certain."

"I'm certain. I know this is only a beginning, but I really am certain."

He moved to kiss her again.

A long time later, after dawn was visible behind the curtains and after Christmas Day breakfast and been and gone without them, she broke away from his embrace to glare at him.

"You still haven't wished me Merry Christmas, you know."

He raised an eyebrow and then smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Hermione."

XXXXXXXXXX

The moments of happiness - not the sense of well-being,

Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,

Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination-

We had the experience but missed the meaning,

And approach to the meaning restores the experience In a different form, beyond any meaning We can assign to happiness.

TS Eliot - The Dry Salvages, from The Four Quartets

THE END

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS