Chapter 3

As Hermione ran to meet her fate she thought, for about the hundredth time since moving to her new quarters a week ago, how glad she was to have taken up residence in the dungeons. Besides the fact that she didn't have too far to go to get to Snape's Potions room, there was the fact that the dungeons were one of the few levels of the castle that had sustained almost no damage during the final battle. This was due in large part to Snape having warded them with the strongest, most obscure protection spells possible.

Hermione's original quarters on the seventh floor had been, for all intents and purposes, left uninhabitable—unless one didn't mind sleeping in a room that happened to be missing one entire wall, along with the bathroom, and whose interior was filled with broken, burnt, and hex-splintered furnishings.

After having had one look at what was left of her rooms when the dust had settled, Hermione had immediately known that they couldn't be repaired, magic or no magic, in under a month. And, there had been other areas of the castle which must be attended to before private rooms could be considered a priority; such as the Entrance Hall, whose door had been literally blown to bits, and the Great Hall, with its obliterated enchanted ceiling.

Of course, the grounds-wide wards, which Voldemort had somehow dismantled, had had to be re-cast before anything else was done. It was, as yet, unknown how many Death Eaters had made it through the battle alive and uncaptured. Professor McGonagall had not wished to leave Hogwarts vulnerable to further attack.

As Hermione continued to scurry hurriedly toward the now visible doors to Snape's dungeon room, she wondered why she was thinking of all of this now, just when she was about to face Snape, who would undoubtedly be very displeased she had kept him waiting.

Oh, well, she thought with a mental shrug, it's better than making myself a nervous wreck thinking of his reaction.

When she was no more than one hundred feet from the heavy double doors leading to her destination, she could feel Snape's powerful, multi-layered personal wards reading her magical signature and receding with her approach. Finally, Hermione found herself resting a slightly shaking hand lightly on the doors. She paused to steady her breathing and collect her wits, before entering to confront the volatile wizard to whom she must now make her excuses.

"Well, girl," came Snape's embittered velvety tones through the barrier between them, "are you coming in? Or, will you linger outside, wasting even more of my precious time?"

Hermione let her head drop and her body sag against the door in defeat. "Time to give a pound of flesh …" she murmured through pursed lips.

Suddenly, the doors swung open with a "whoosh", and Hermione stumbled gracelessly into the room and fell to her hands and knees at the feet of her very put out former professor. He stared down at her, black eyes blazing with undisguised anger.

"No need to grovel, Miss Granger," he said with a nasty smile, as he peered down at her condescendingly. "A simple apology will suffice."

Hermione hung her head for a moment, her knees and the palms of her hands throbbing from her impact with the stone floor. She gathered her resolve and jumped to her feet.

"No, no! Thanks for you concern, sir, but I'll be fine!" she spat, as she dusted herself off and glared at him furiously.

"Such ridiculousness!" he sneered. "You're not hurt. You'll get no coddling from me!"

"Too right, I won't!" she cried. "And, I don't expect it, nor do I want it!" Hermione assured him heatedly.

Snape stared at her, momentarily non-plussed. There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Ah," he purred, moving around her sinuously, and peering at her coldly, "the lioness has some bite to her—and claws to boot." He paused to eye her menacingly. "If I were you, I'd retract those claws. After all, you are the one who is late."

Hermione simply sniffed carelessly and plucked at the cuff of her robe with feigned indifference, thus allowing her to eye her watch. "Only by five minutes," she said airily.

Snape swept toward her, invading her comfort zone by leaning in so his face was only inches from hers. "In case you've not noticed, Miss Granger, the hospital wing is full of those who have given their utmost fighting in the final battle. Some of them are very ill, indeed," he said in low deliberate tones. "For them, every minute counts."

He pulled away, with one lingering, pointed look, glided around her and headed to his storage closet to collect the necessary ingredients for that day's brewing.

Hermione felt her stomach drop and her face flush with shame. He's right, she thought, the ire suddenly seeping right out of her. Those patients and Madam Pomfrey were counting on her to help and she had behaved irresponsibly.

Picking up what was left of her dignity, she hurried to follow Snape, when another thought hit her, making her feel even more miserable.

Harry and Ron were counting on her. Both of them were currently occupying beds in the hospital wing themselves. Harry was recovering from severe magical depletion and some rather nasty cuts and bruises. His weakness was so debilitating that for a time he could hardly feed himself. But, he had been lucky compared to Ron.

To no one's surprise, Ron had really laid down his life in battle. He had protected Harry with all he had, effectively making himself a human shield. As a result, he had taken several unpleasant curses. But, he had fought at Harry's side until he had literally dropped from exhaustion and pain—and, then he had forced himself up to fight again.

The curse that had finally stopped him had been a vicious "Sectumsempra"—the cutting spell. It had nearly killed him, as it was no doubt intended to do. Hermione had been on hand when he was brought in. She had been terrified to see his condition. And, Madam Pomfrey had thought he wouldn't make it, at first.

Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ginny, and Hermione had hovered over Ron anxiously for twenty-four hours, waiting for him to awaken. Then, when he'd had the presence of mind to ask about the rest of his family, they'd all stood by in quiet desperation as he fell apart at the news that Fred and George had both been lost in battle.

Ron had been extremely fragile for a couple of days after that. Hermione knew he felt keenly the absence of Harry, his best mate. But, Harry had been in a coma at the time, and could be of no help to his beleaguered friend.

Good God! How could I have let my personal battles with Snape cloud my thinking! Hermione berated herself.

"If you are quite finished daydreaming, Miss Granger, I could use a bit of help just now with these ingredients," came Snape's bland, if muffled voice from inside the storage closet.

Hermione shook herself and scurried toward the voice. The storage closet was not large. It was dark, musty, and smelled of earth, plant-life, and bitter herbs. Hermione loved it.

But, though it was large enough for one person to work in, it was decidedly too cramped for two. So, Hermione stood outside the door, as Snape wordlessly handed her the aconite, Billywigs, and snake's fangs.

Ah, Skele-Gro today, is it? Hermione chewed her lip guiltily for a moment, as Snape filled her arms.

"Is there something wrong, Miss Granger?" he asked emotionlessly, as he turned back to his work.

"No, sir," she began uncertainly. "Only, I wanted to apologise."

Snape let one smooth, black eyebrow cock up at her. "Indeed," he intoned smoothly.

"Yes, sir," she said, reddening under his scrutiny. "You were right—back there," she continued, looking him in the eye. "It was irresponsible of me to come in late. I'll do my best to be here on time in future."

Snape stood eyeing her for a moment, as if he was trying to detect any insincerity in her words. Then, he smirked, "Will wonders never cease?" he mocked. "Surely, my ears deceive me … Hermione Granger, know-it-all of Gryffindor House, apologising to me and admitting she is wrong, all in one morning?"

Hermione felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and her heart pounded with outrage. She stared at him fixedly. "You don't give an inch, do you, sir?" she stated with cold, hard fury.

Snape's eyes gleamed, a small, self-satisfied smile on his face. It was apparent he was spoiling for a fight.

Well, he won't get it from me, she thought savagely. And, she spun around on her heel and stomped off, bearing her burden of potion ingredients carefully before her.

She was gently unloading the bottles onto her workbench when she felt Snape's presence, rather than saw him. He had a habit of lurking around behind her like that after an argument—of which there had been many, and usually she was made so uncomfortable by it, that she couldn't help but attempt a conversation. But now, anger was burning so ardently within her heart that she determined to keep her mouth shut.

Nasty git! she thought acidly. I'll just ignore him. I can brew Skele-Gro without his help, anyway.

So, ignore Snape she did, and he did not attempt to speak to her. Finally, after fifteen minutes of awkward silence, Hermione felt him move away. She breathed an unconscious sigh of relief and thankfully lost herself in her work.

Three hours later, she began decanting her perfectly brewed potion. Though she could still feel her anger bubbling inside of her, she had not allowed it to impede her performance. A sense of accomplishment lessened her wrath a bit—but not by much.

After the potion was properly stored, she began to clean her workbench. It was the work of a few minutes as she employed cleansing spells in the cleaning of her cauldron, knives, mortar and pestle, and ladles.

Since she was always very careful about not spilling the precious ingredients of any of the finished potion in decanting it, her bench only needed a light cleansing spell to make it ready for the next day's brewing.

As Hermione worked, she noticed that all was silent except for the murmured spells and the clinking of her own tools and vials as she packed up her personal potions kit. Then, she became very aware that she was being watched. She could, in fact, feel Snape's eyes boring into her back, watching her every move.

He's just trying to unnerve me, she thought, moving with slow deliberateness, as if to show him he wasn't getting to her.

When she was finished with the clean-up and packing up, Hermione lost no time in flinging her bag over her shoulder and heading toward the door. She did not look at Snape, but as soon as she laid a hand on the door handle, his voice stopped her.

"Miss Granger, if I might have a moment of your time?" he said casually. Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to face him. He was seated at his desk, not thirty feet from her. He looked a bit uncomfortable, for all he was trying to project otherwise.

"Yes, sir?" Hermione questioned, barely keeping her tone civil. The tension in the room was thick as pea soup. She fully expected a lecture of some sort. She did not expect …

"It has come to my attention that I was a bit harsh with you before," he said, keeping his expression neutral. "And, I want you to know I appreciate your sentiments," he finished in tightly clipped tones.

That said, Snape picked up his quill and resumed writing as though Hermione was not even there. Hermione could not keep her jaw from dropping a little, as she continued to stand rooted to the ground. She wanted to reply, but found she could not formulate a sentence, so great was her shock.

Snape looked up at her, his obsidian gaze full of mock wonderment. "Was there something else?" he asked.

"N-No, sir," Hermione stuttered, blushing and letting her eyes fall to her shoes.

"Then you may go, Miss Granger," he said matter-of-factly, as he dipped his quill in the inkwell. "I will see you tomorrow morning, eight o'clock sharp." He did not look at her again.

"Yes, sir."

And, hiding away her surprised delight, she turned and strode through the doors.

Hermione's mind was twisting itself in knots, as she walked slowly away from the lab and headed in the direction of the Great Hall for lunch.

"That was … strange," she breathed.

Had Snape really apologised to her? Well, it wasn't really an apology, per se. But, it was, she imagined, as close as the proud Severus Snape ever got to a real apology.

In the three and a half months that Hermione had been assisting him, he had done such a thing a total of … well, all right, never!

That had to mean something, but what? Reviewing the whole scene in her head, Snape's words, his actions, and facial cues … his eyes … Well, there just wasn't much to go on, except the heretofore unheard of semi "apology" itself.

She thought back to the immediate scene after the difficulty itself. What about when he had been standing behind her those few minutes? Had he been looking for an opportunity to make things right with her then? Or, had it been when she'd felt him watching her as she cleared away her workspace?

Hermione had reached the end of the corridor and began slowly climbing the cold, stone steps leading to the first floor and the Entrance Hall, her mind whirring at a fast and furious pace.

Was it possible Snape's behaviour this morning indicated a shift in his perception of her? She was under no delusion about his thoughts of her three and a half months prior to today. He had, she could not doubt, disliked her, at the very least. He had only given her a grudging acknowledgement of her intelligence and abilities. He certainly had not thought of her as anything but his lowly assistant. Had that in some way changed?

Thinking back over the months since she had been working with him she saw that the nature of their acquaintance had, indeed, been subject to a slow but sure evolution of sorts.

When Hermione had first set foot in his rooms, Snape had refused her help with anything but the most rudimentary of tasks. He had spoken very little to her, and when he did speak it was to instruct her with the most cutting and degrading words possible. He had watched her like a hawk, criticising her every move. And, if she dared to voice her displeasure at such uncalled for treatment, the exasperating man would launch into a tirade so caustic and so full of fiery vitriol that Hermione's eyes would water.

Yes, there had been many a morning when she could not get out of there fast enough.

Hermione now found herself pausing at the top of the steps she'd been climbing. Her breath was coming in short pulls, her muscles aching with the effort, her heart thumping against her chest.

Heavens! she thought, as she broke into a cold sweat. I must be really tired. I shouldn't be this winded just from climbing a few steps.

For the last few days, Hermione had noticed she was fighting a bit of a cold, but it was nothing more than that she was sure. She knew she should rest more for her health's sake, but there was so much to do and so little time in which to do it. She didn't have time to eat properly, much less actually go to her room and rest.

"I just can't be ill right now," she told herself firmly. "So, that's that!"

But, her breathing wasn't slowing down, and her chest hurt her, so she sat down on the top step for a bit of rest. While she sat, she let her mind compare those horrendous early weeks with Snape to his treatment of her now.

Certainly, he was no less sharp-tongued, as a general rule. But, he didn't seem to find it necessary to monitor her every move anymore. In fact, just as he had done today, he usually left her to brew alone, whilst he worked on something else.

That wasn't to say he ignored her, for she could recall many times in the last several weeks that he had pulled a stool over to her workstation and spoke to her about an article in Potions Monthly magazine, or about some of his recent research. Sometimes he had even asked her opinion of his methods, or about a particular ingredient he was thinking of adding to one of his test potions. Sometimes, she had even had had an idea that he was about to ask her to come in after hours and help him with his work.

Now, when he felt he must instruct her, his tone was no longer mocking or despising. He seemed to be honestly trying to impart what he knew to build up Hermione's ever growing base of potions knowledge. There had even been times, when she and Snape worked together on a more complicated potion, that Hermione had got the impression that he considered it a pleasure rather than an odious duty.

To be sure, he still had his outbursts and his moments of sheer cussedness, but Hermione was well able to take those moments in stride, if he didn't push it too far, like he had that morning. And, more and more, she saw those moments as sparring matches between them—perhaps less an opportunity for him to hurt her or put her down and more a bit of a battle of wits between two comparable minds. Of course, she had yet to win one of these battles.

Unless … Hermione's eyes widened with sudden realisation, and she felt a wave of pleasant shock rise up inside her.

Had she won today? She stood up excitedly, forgetting her weakness of only moments before. Of course she had! She had refused to engage him, and had soundly ignored him all morning, resulting in enough discomfiture on his part to compel him to "apologise".

In previous such scenarios, he had said nothing, but had stood silently about waiting for her discomfort with the silence to force her to speak first.

"Childish, but effective most of the time," she said with a grin. "But, not today!" She laughed.

With that, she jumped a little in celebration, balling her hands up in an effort to contain her joy. "That's just brilliant!"

She was certain of it now. Perhaps she and Snape were not exactly colleagues and certainly not friends, but at some point, and on some level, Severus Snape had learnt to accord her some respect. And, since Hermione admired and respected him for his skill with potions, that knowledge meant something to her.

It felt wonderful to know that she had finally earned his approval. It did not occur to her to wonder exactly why she desired his approval. And, she certainly didn't trouble herself by questioning why she felt so ridiculously happy about receiving said approval in whatever measure Snape chose to bestow it upon her. She just wished to bask in the sunny warmth of knowing Snape had finally realised she wasn't a complete "dunderhead".

As Hermione, having recovered her breath, all but skipped light-heartedly to her lunch with Ginny, Snape sat at his desk brooding over the puzzling scene that had occurred between him and his assistant. He was not so much perplexed by Miss Granger's reaction to his out of character speech as by his feeling he must make such a speech in the first place. What on earth had compelled him, the aptly named bastard of the dungeons, to come so near to apologising to that bushy-haired chit of a girl?

He had pulled it off with the starkest of phrases, that was true. But, it was unlikely that Miss Granger could be counted upon not to recognise his words for what they were—namely a capitulation. He could not remember a single other time in their previous combative interactions when he had fallen to her like that.

After all, he had certainly fought her before. Verbally skewering her had been something of a pleasant pastime to him in the past … a reward for being forced to work in such close proximity to her in the first place. And, Miss Granger had always given as good as she got anyway. So, what had changed? What had been so different about this confrontation, and why had he felt such a strong compulsion to "fix" things between them?

She had ignored him, instead of fighting back as she had always done in the past, and that he found he just could not easily bear. So, he had felt obliged to hover behind her in hopes of making her so nervous she would have to talk. That tactic had always worked like a charm.

"No pun intended," he chuckled humourlessly, as he dropped his quill and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.

But, she had not responded to his silent, intentionally oppressive presence at all. In fact, she had ignored him so soundly that he had had no choice but to move away in red-faced embarrassment. Had her actions been intentional, or had she just been so hurt and/or angry that she could do no other? And, why did he suddenly care what the irritating girl's motives were? More importantly, why did he care what she thought in any event?

Snape furrowed his brow in consternation, as he absently fidgeted with his quill.

There could be no doubt the girl was—intelligent, and possessed of a ready mind. She was an—adequate assistant—teachable, quick. He could even admit to the fact that her presence had, in recent times, become less odious to him.

Snape sniffed at this thought and tossed his quill down again. Suddenly, he felt unaccountably angry. He was not accustomed to examining his thoughts and feelings so closely. It was not a comfortable process to him, in the least.

"This is nonsense!" He scowled. "I have spent …" he narrowed his eyes at the small antique clock gracing his desk, "a full quarter of an hour contemplating that girl and her incomprehensible behaviour! Well, I'll not waste another millisecond on such worthless musings!"

At that, he determinedly grasped his much abused quill and savagely thrust it into his inkwell. Then, he spent the next several minutes staring at his parchment with thoughtful, glassy eyes.