A/N: Dates in the diary are closer than you think.
"Protego ego!" Hermione lashed out as Malfoy mock tripped beside her. The jug of squash he was carrying lurched in his hands, rebounding off the magical barrier and upending itself down his front. He scowled bitterly in her direction, drawing back to hurl the glass jug at her in vengeance when it was plucked from his grasp by his House Master.
Malfoy looked around in dismay.
Snape uttered a single word flatly, "change." He did not bother to watch his charge cower and hurry away.
"Professor, he was going to drop that…" Neville defended
"Detention Mr Longbottom, for sticking your nose where it does not belong." Neville gripped his eating irons brutally hard.
Hermione eyed the Professor silently and his lips twitched a small sneer. Temperance was, as he was personally aware, a hard won skill, often at great cost. "See me later," he drawled and stalked off to the trestles at the head of the great hall.
Hermione turned back towards the table. "Thanks Neville," she offered him a small smile which he returned sheepishly. Dinner materialised on a long line of serving dishes in the middle of the table which put paid to any further conversation for a time.
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Professor Dumbledore introduced the Beauxbatons shortly after dessert and they paraded jauntily down the centre aisle. They caused quite a stir with their skirts cut on the cross to waft just so and hair pinned back like a librarian wet dream without the glasses. There were times when Hermione really felt like she was one of the boys and times like these when she clearly was not. It wasn't so much Ron saying, "bloody hell," as Seamus elbowing him in the ribs as the Giantess passed saying, "don't think much of yours mate."
It had been a mistake to ask them to explain, because now she knew that a laughing group of boys eyeing up a group of girls, were splitting them up between them. The thought that she might be the last to be picked did not trouble her so much as the idea that she might be selected like cattle at an auction. She seethed inwardly at a society that was enlightened enough to allow a girl a veto, but still thought it odd for one to make the first move so that she wouldn't have to use it.
"Why don't you wear your hair like that?" asked Ron, with his eyes glazed over.
"Like what?" she demanded.
"You know, all up 'n stuff," he replied, still following bum cheeks with his eyes. The Creevey boy had his wand bobbing time as if he was conducting every pert wobble and bounce.
"I do, sometimes," she retorted, most recently during Potions, not that he had noticed, obviously.
It wasn't Rons fault that she caught sight of Cedric on his feet so that he could see better, or that the open mouthed smile he wore, wasted on a dozen arses that wouldn't see it, made her furious for reasons that she could not seem to put into words.
"Why doesn't it look like that then?" Ron said, sighing after them.
Hermiones silverware flashed down prongs first, barely missing the meat of his arm. He cringed away as far as his pinioned sweater sleeve would allow.
"You're vicious, you are."
The slamming of the first Durmstrang staff stopped her from stuffing a bread roll down the back of his neck for closure. She watched Krum pass with avid eyes, the silver corner cap on his left heel winked at her, even if he hadn't.
Ron nudged her, "I'll have that one washed and sent to your tent shall I?" he asked jokingly. Hermione pinched him hard on the inside of his thigh until he yelped. "what did he call you?" he added, trying to keep her pincers away from him, "ermine?"
"At least he was man enough to…." she stopped herself from finishing the sentence. Ron dropped his defences and stared at her like Crookshanks had just appeared with a dead Scabbers in his mouth.
"Man enough to what?" he asked in a squeaky croak. Dumbledore started to explain what an honour it was for Hogwarts to be chosen to host the Triwizard Tournament. "To what?" he asked again, worriedly.
"Shut. Up. Ron! This is important." She pinched him again and he hissed but curled her hand securely in his, keeping it on top of his thigh. The warmth under her knuckles was the only thing stopping her from following, when the main door closed behind a head of hair cut into a crisp point at the back.
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Karkaroff raised his glass to his old friend. The liquid in the glass stirred weirdly in the firelight of Snapes study. "To better times."
Snape raised his own glass and threw back the liquid in one. He allowed himself a long blink as the fumes of alcohol cleared his sinuses like a flamethrower.
Karkaroff refreshed both glasses with the potent, colourless liquid. "It's the good stuff," he said nodding, waiting for the acknowledgement from his drinking partner. "The last we make from the still, under the Willow."
Snape nodded, he knew. Of course he knew.
"I saw Minerva," Karkaroff commented. "I am surprised she is still here."
Karkaroff scratched his forearm, exposing the tip of a black tattoo that was becoming ever more prominent. Snape raised his glass, setting it to his lips and mulling over a subject long buried under the autumn leaves of pain and regret.
Karkaroff leaned forward in his chair. "What happened?" In the ominous silence that followed, he added needlessly, "to the girl?"
Snape studied him, the way that he worried at his arm and the hunch in his shoulders. His own forearm burned with the brand that they shared. That they had all shared. He smiled thinly, "you will always be my oldest friend." The glasses refilled themselves and he added softly, "because you know too much."
A knock at the door made Karkaroff jump disproportionately and he rose to cover his embarrassment. "I should be going, another time perhaps."
Snape gave him a curt nod, Karkaroff moved to the door with him, behind them the bottle and glasses clinked quietly as they tidied themselves away.
Snape flung the door open and took an involuntary step back, immediately regretting his impropriety with the bottle.
"Miss Granger."
It was difficult enough to remain civil with Granger even when stone cold sober. Karkaroff sidled off and Snape stood aside, but did not gesture her to enter. He toyed with how best he might put her off until later. Alcohol slowed his reponse and dulled his sarcasm.
Hermione took the bull by the horns. "Professor, I need your help."
Snape stared stonily back. Hermione stepped over the threshold and pulled the door from his hand. She clicked it quietly shut behind her and leaning against it to steady herself. Firelight played across her features and turned her brown hair golden, shot through with amber. Snape took a deep breath, cursing memories hammering on his subconscious when a vine leaf made itself a bracelet over her wrist. Firelight. The burn of raw spirit. The sear of a body against his manhood, stealing his will.
"Professor?"
Brown eyes stared up at him rather than blue, a mouth too pink when it should have been red from his ardent admiration. His jaw locked in agitation.
"I need you to teach me what you have been teaching Harry." Hermione ploughed on.
'Potter', fled through his mind. She had come for him. He had been waiting, waiting by the Willow, they had agreed, but Helen, Helen….
"I already read up on how to protect a space, an object, even a person. I'm quite good," she said modestly. "But the mind thing… it feels like a Dark Art," she finished lamely.
'Protect,' skidded the corners of his circling thoughts. Snape armed himself with his wand, breathing heavily. Not here. She couldn't reach him here.
"… and Professor McGonagall said…" Snape refocused his effort on the present. "Professor McGonagall sent you."
"There's something else," said Hermione, holding out her hand. "She said you had the Potion and spell to quick cure this.
Snape recovered himself and inspected the contents of her palm. "I think," he said faintly, "you may have been incorrectly sorted."
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A/N: Time is the most important thing that you can give anyone, including yourself. Thankyou for reading