A/N: Here is another chapter, because I actually had 45 minutes to spare today! That being said, note that I only had 45 minutes, so please don't flay me alive if...if you don't like it. But you better like it! Waaaaa! I may not be able to update after this for at least a week, so I wanted to get this straight out to you all. 3

I appreciate all you wonderful reviewers so much! Hundredth reviewer gets a 250 word oneshot.

JKR is the Messiah.

Hermione huffed irritatedly as she left the hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey had been altogether too chipper for the time of day, in her opinion. It wasn't even nine o'clock yet! The mediwitch had also been rather head-noddy and lip-smirky when interrogating Hermione about her current state of pink-ness, which did nothing for Hermione's state of mind.

All she would say was that the Headmistress had wanted her to be checked out, that she was fine, and that she had only come here under duress from her employer. This statement was greeted with more head-nodding and lip-smirking, and Hermione felt uncomfortably certain that Poppy, somehow, knew something.

Then again, the nurse did deal with young women all year, some of them suffering from acute cases of love-sickness (it was an actual disease), and hence probably thought she was recognizing some of the signs.

Not that Hermione was love-sick. That made her sound like a pathetic adult who had yet to grow out of her teenage years. No. She was...disconcerted. Intrigued. Yes. Intrigued was a good word. Appreciative. That was even better. She felt...appreciative of the Potions Master.

Never mind that appreciation had never made her pink before. Maybe she was a bit under the weather. Her throat did feel a bit dry, and her eyes were watery, although both of those could be attributed to the fact that she had gotten up so early.

Hermione was so far from a morning person that her very body rebelled anytime before ten. She had gotten through the mornings during her school years by...well, she wasn't exactly sure how she had gotten through the mornings during her school years, now that she came to think of it.

And now you're a tenured Professor, with a schedule beginning before eight every day. You're a masochist.

Ah, well. At least she'd soon be moving out of this room. She stepped into the Chamber of Dust, leaving the door ajar in an effort to encourage some sort of fresh air to circulate. Given that she was in the dungeons (second level, but dungeons no less) that was probably a wasted effort, but she did it anyway. The two tiny windows almost resembled those in a Muggle basement, in that they were almost eye-level with the ground. This meant that some sunlight was able to filter in, but the panes themselves could not be opened.

She began to pack up her things, so she'd be ready when she got word to move. It didn't take all that long, as she had only just arrived the day before, and hadn't yet had time to settle in. As she was lobbing several sets of her preferred lounge robes into her trunk, and squealing as she actually managed to make the shot, a small off-white owl with brown markings swooped into the chamber, alighting on one of the bedposts.

Hermione laughed when she saw the darker markings around its eyes, which followed an almost circular pattern. Minerva had said she'd send an owl when the East Turret room was ready, and with those markings, Hermione was sure this owl was hers. The bird looked for all the world as though it were wearing horn-rimmed spectacles.

As Hermione read the small missive, however, her face fell.

Dear,

The house-elves I just sent to ready the East Turret chamber for you have reported that they found the room in a shambles. Such was the level of destruction that I have called in two Aurors to ascertain whether or not dark forces have been at work. One can never be too cautious! I will continue to keep you abreast of the situation.

~Minerva

Well. She plopped back down on the bed, hacking as a giant cloud of dust rose up and threatened to choke her with its gritty embrace.

This meant one thing: she'd have to break out Magical Messes and their Mitigation. The housekeeping book had come highly recommended by Molly Weasley, who was prone to making sly insinuations about Hermione's lack of domesticity. Hermione usually just ignored the jibes. Up until now, she had had no desire to read the book, in great part because the title didn't make sense. You didn't mitigate messes. You mitigated conflicts. She made a harrumphing sound at the lengths to which people would go to alliterate their book titles.

Still. Perhaps now was the time to break it out. Digging in the depths of her infinitely expandable trunk, she rooted around in an effort to locate the tome.

It was right here just a second ago! she grouched to herself. Why can't I find it?

This happened to Hermione all the time, mainly with her purse. Even though she wasn't a girly girl to the extent Ginny was, she still had enough stuff in her purse at any given time that finding a damn pen was a task akin to locating a ribbon buried in a skip. (She had triumphantly emerged from her purse with a tampon in hand, rather than the desired pen, far too many times.)

She had just plunged face first into her trunk, fully immersing her torso, when a smooth Ahem made her halt mid-wiggle.

Horrified, she became instantly aware that her legs were sticking straight up into the air, and that her sudden scrambling to right herself was making her look like an upturned beetle.

Why why why? was her last coherent thought, before she hit her head on something sharp, and promptly passed out.

Snape had come to Miss Granger's suite because he felt bad, dammit. He knew it was his fault that she had been placed in this awful room, and he had heard about the issue with the East Turret (house-elves gossiped more than Aurors during peacetime). Just because he felt the sudden inclination to offer his assistance cleaning up, however, did not mean that he was nice. He shuddered. What a horrible word. Nice. It conjured up all sorts of terrible things.

Unicorns. Dewy-eyed puppies. Gurgling babies. Sunlight.

He had knocked several times to no avail, so he peered through the open door. He was prepared for many things: killer dust balls, more evil clocks, perhaps a nasty-tempered bat or two, but the last thing he had expected to see was two legs waving about in the air directly in his line of sight.

Between the legs was a pair of frightfully baggy knickers in a sad shade of lilac.

He shook his head to see if the odd vision went away, but it did not.

"Ahem."

There was a squawk, and the upended legs began to kick violently. This was followed by a dull thunking sound. Snape stared as the legs went limp, not sure whether to laugh or rush to help. It quickly became clear, however, that rushing to help was in order.

He pulled Hermione from the depths of the trunk like a cork from a bottle. Despite her unconscious state, her right hand was clenched victoriously around a grotty-looking old book. Snape snorted when he saw the title, but took it and placed it on the bedside table. Seating himself on the floor and conjuring up some salts, he held them under her nose.

He had read about this in various harlequins – Snape had always been very much a lover of literotica – and had always wanted to do it, just to see if it actually worked.

It did. She came to, blinking up at him owlishly. Several seconds passed, during which she attempted to process the events of the last half-minute. Doing so rather more quickly than he had anticipated, she squawked again.

He promptly dropped her as though she were a hot potato, letting her fall unceremoniously the few inches from his lap to the ground.

She turned fuchsia, and looked away. Her gaze fell on the bottle of salts, and she whipped her head back around to look at him.

"I fainted?"

He answered her with a derisive snort.

"I've always wanted to faint, so I could be given smelling salts. I read in harle–in books that they worked, and I was always curious to see for myself."

Snape blinked.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger. You are the first witch, ever, to lose a fight with a book."

"What are you–" She put a hand up to her head, and winced as she felt the bruise. The edge of the book had actually scraped off enough skin that her fingers met with some blood.

"Oh," she said again, inanely. "Professor Granger," she added as an afterthought.

He snorted again. (He really needed to stop doing that. It was wreaking hell on his adenoids.)

"Your attempt at dignity and self-assertion is falling short, somehow." He pretended to stroke his chin thoughtfully. "Ah, yes. It must be the book-induced blood smearing your face. Or could it be the granny knickers?"

His eyes flicked meaningfully over her body.

At this, she gasped, yanked her robes back down over her legs, and made as though to stand. Instantly, she felt dizzy.

"Sit, Miss Granger. Just sit."

To his surprise, she did as she was told.

"As soon as you feel recovered enough, I shall assist you in setting this...mausoleum...to rights. It is to be hoped that the East Turret can be readied for you without further delay, but in the meantime..." He trailed off, noting the glazed look in her eyes.

"...thank you," she was saying. And then... "...why are you being so nice to me?"

He snorted. Dammit. "I'm not being nice. But to answer your question, narrative causality."

"Oh. Well, if there is anything I can do for you in return, I would be more than happy..."

A quick peek into her mind again showed him that odd, enhanced version of himself. Ignoring the recurring question of what the fuck, and suppressing the urge to spend a moment admiring the physical attributes of this imposter, he simply used the information to his advantage.

"Anything, Miss Granger? One does not simply offer anything to a Slytherin."

Her mouth gaped open in understanding of her error, and he chuckled.

"Yes. You have made a mistake of monumental proportions, Miss Granger."

A/N: Dun dun dun dun...

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