Months passed.

Snape thought grimly about how satisfied the members of the Order must be now their suspicions about him were confirmed. The way they searched his face at each meeting, he had felt under constant scrutiny. At least he didn't need to pretend he liked any of them anymore. Although he had never tried particularly hard at that, he admitted. He didn't need any of the pathetic Order to follow through with saving the bloody world. It was them that needed help from him. The first task had been feeding ideas through Mundungus Fletcher – it had almost been too easy.

Of course, they would protect their precious Grimmauld Place against him, but again, he had found with embarrassing ease that he was able to break through their attempts to repel him. Had they underestimated him so much as to not even bother increasing their defences? It was offensive. Still, he had more work to do.

Hooded, he made his way down from Spinners' End, slipping over shining wet cobbles to a hovel of a tavern on the dark corner. There was no signage, just a flickering lamp outside warped wooden-framed windows. It lit the rain falling onto the panes, opaque with dust; the white-noise pattering the only sound in the air. He was rarely provoked to leave the privacy of his terrace, but he knew who would be there tonight.

One week prior, he had summoned Dobby and informed him to pass information to Miss Granger. He would be expecting to meet a witch in the tavern this night, in order to obtain collected information from spies about the Order.

"Inform her that I have never met this witch before, and that you have intercepted this invitation to meet before it was received." Dobby's large round eyes focussed unwaveringly on Snape. "Ensure that she is… led towards formulating a plan to meet me instead, for her own information-gathering purposes. She will no doubt work out the rest."

Dobby nodded his head briskly and grasped Snape's proffered envelope, diligently disappearing with a crack. Snape knew she wouldn't let him down, how could she resist another attempt to outsmart him with polyjuice?

Arriving at the tavern, he pushed the door and ducked to enter. The wooden beams hung low, covered with brass ornaments, old hunting rifles and iron horseshoes. This was a muggle place, patronised by local farmers, and he was pleased to see very few of them were present tonight.

"Meeting someone, Mister Snape?" the Landlord offered interestedly, aware of the infrequence of the presence his solitary neighbour graced him with, and handing him a battered pewter tankard of ale.

"The social animal that I am." Snape confirmed with a curt bow of his head, shrugging off his long, wet muggle coat with an out-of-character smile, causing the landlord to emit a bark of laughter. He nodded towards a cloaked figure on a chair in the corner. Of course, she was early. He had always warned her not to be late.

A small fire crackled in the old hearth. The chimney in good need of a sweep; it filled the air with a light haze of smoke. Snape enjoyed the further privacy this offered and confidently took the chair opposite the witch, drinking deeply from his tankard of ale. He could be different here. Here, he wasn't the punishing, uncompromising Potions-Master. There was no wizarding war plaguing the minds of this tavern's patrons. The pair could go unnoticed.

She eyed him suspiciously from under the hood of her cloak.

"You know," he started, taking another gulp of ale and pointing airily around the room, "it's not raining in here."

He waited. She gave him a confused look, and he gestured amusedly at her outer attire.

"I'm just simply blown away with how bloody conspicuous your attempt at being inconspicuous has been… Esmerelda." He laboured her name. He wanted her to feel uncomfortable. Let him lead, here, he willed her.

She gave a quick "Oh!" and shuffled out of her cloak, revealing an attractive, red-haired lady in her twenties, wearing muggle clothing that would likely fit in anywhere. He was in all honesty impressed, he'd never witnessed one of her transformations, and he could see she brewed most accurately.

He flashed her a warm smile. He noticed her unease at his curious familiarity, but he didn't react. He had to feign a comfort throughout their scheming and lies that confirmed him to be a duplicitous murderer; the two-faced vessel of Voldemort's will. He must persist with behaving so very unlike his usual performance around her that she continued to trust his ignorance of her true identity. He casually crossed his legs and his straight back gave way to something very close to a slouch against the back of his chair.

She offered him some useless titbits of information about movements of the Order. He laughed jovially. He barely listened to the information he knew to be false and started asking her about herself instead. Whatever she came up with would be more revealing. It felt like a game; he was almost testing if he would have caught her out had he been unaware of her use of polyjuice.

He persuaded himself he needed to be closer to plant the tracking spell he planned – this plot had been the only reason he had risked an encounter with her. He'd had success with this spell from a much greater distance before, but he wanted to be sure she didn't notice and, well - he felt impulsive. This would probably be the last time he would be ever be near her.

He leaned forwards, shifting his chair closer to her, and closed his long fingers evocatively around her forearm, bringing her towards him slightly. He felt her startle against his hand. Without losing eye contact he gently lifted a finger to stroke her jaw instead, thumb grazing her lower lip. He preyed on the fact she had no real idea of the structure these meetings took. For all she knew, this is what was to be expected. He berated himself inwardly - was he really using this as an opportunity to be a letch, knowing she couldn't react without risk of breaking her cover?

Sometimes it was hard to remember which persona of Severus Snape the act really was. Was he a good man only playing at this wickedness, or was this the genuine version: this intrinsically bad man kidding himself that all could be blamed on actions in the name of righteousness? He got away with murder. He could get away with just about anything.

He felt power surge through him. A fantasy of the real body of Hermione swirled into his consciousness like incense smoke. Taking another swig of ale, he ran from habit and chose not to shake it away. His eyes darted openly up her legs and he daringly pressed a hand high on her thigh. He was close enough to smell her perfume.

He paused. Her perfume.

It cannot have been an accident that she was wearing her own scent. The same that she wore at the ball. This was an obvious tell. She wanted to be discovered. Hot acid of realisation dropped inside him centrally – had she worked him out? Was she trying to send him a message?

Thoughts flickered quickly in his head – he should play ignorant still. If she suspected his true motives and was testing him, it was imperative that this test failed. He must clearly proceed; staying true to the charade of being unaware that she was not this 'Esmerelda'. Didn't she understand all she was risking with this trick? If only he could reprimand her now, highlight the danger she would have put herself in had she been mistaken; had he truly been the pawn of the Dark Lord.

He stared, shaken by her obstinacy and unable to hold back the silent glare towards the face of the young red-haired woman who bore the mind of this all-too-courageous witch. He moved to slump back in his chair. The game was over.

She suddenly moved forwards and covered his hand with hers, pressing it back onto her leg. She pulled his wrist, moving his hold up her skirt and closer to her hip. He could feel the lace of her underwear under his fingers. Frozen with disbelief, he struggled to respond naturally to her action. She ignored this and guided her other hand onto his chest. It slid from the skin where his shirt was left unbuttoned, up to his neck. She caressed him firmly, his neck exposed where his high collar would normally protect him.

Her eyes met his; dark and remaining unable to contain their incredulity, as she moved herself closer to his face. Their lips were almost aligned before she took an alternative route, moving towards his ear instead. Her hot breath on his skin caused him to alight all over his body. He felt soft lips graze his earlobe and visceral instinct took over.

He gripped her with both hands around her hips and pulled her on to him so that she straddled his lap. He looked up into her fiery face above him. Only she could wear that expression of simultaneous fear and desire. He had wanted this for so long.

She pulled him insistently into a deep kiss, working her fingers through his hair. He could feel an urgent longing fight through her soft lips as he returned her hard kiss, their tongues explored each other with a burning demand. He felt her in this stranger's body push closer to his. It was almost as if he could feel her, the real her, straining against the polyjuice potion with need.

A wolf whistle called at them from across the tavern and they broke apart, breathing heavily. Remaining close to her face, Severus gave a chuckle and an embarrassed raised eyebrow to the landlord who was delivering a mortifying 'thumbs up' in their direction. Hermione smiled with Esmerelda's grin, looking around to the bar with her arms draped around Severus' neck as if they were seasoned lovers. She whispered carelessly in to his ear,

"Was this your plan all along, Professor?"

He stood up so quickly she fell from his knees, barely avoiding a topple to the floor. Ale spilled.

"Professor?" he repeated, with a look of horror. Why couldn't she just… keep up the pretence?

To keep his cover, he would have to attack or escape. He chose the latter, and almost fell from the tavern, red-faced and dragging his coat behind him. He apparated immediately after crossing the threshold, without a look back.