She knew she shouldn't.
She knew she shouldn't allow herself to acknowledge these memories much less fixate on them to an almost indulgent degree. They had been so benign when left dormant in the back of her mind, easily ignored and repressed.
Now, as she lay in bed during the soft and vulnerable hours of night, her imagination was a saccharine voice she couldn't ignore, calling her deeper into increasingly erotic dreams.
She kept recalling the way he had touched her. So fleeting and perfunctory, yet unavoidably intimate. The way he had fastened to the flesh of her inner thighs, pushing her legs apart so as to make room for himself between.
Despite herself, she could feel her pulse quicken, a heady warmth spreading below her stomach.
She really shouldn't think of him in this way, in the bedroom, in those lewd and naked moments. But, like a tender bruise she couldn't help but press, she kept returning to it, lingering on it, exploring further and further as her body continued to have such tantalizing and electrifying responses.
She tried to ignore the intruding bulk of Crookshanks near her feet, edging away to the side of the bed for more privacy as her hand drifted downwards beneath the sheets. As though magnetized to the growing heat between her legs, she felt drawn to touch herself, replaying illicit memories of Snape.
No, not of Snape.
Just his hands.
His true identity, she shoved stubbornly into an embracing veil of darkness, focusing only on the sensory moments that ignited her, those fleeting meetings of skin and stimulating sounds.
She was fixated on his hands. Her mind's eye found it surprisingly easy to recall such vivid impressions, flashes of images that she had somehow, without knowing, prepared and curated for exactly this intention.
His professorial gestures as he orated at the head of class.
The flexing shift of his knuckles as he flicked his wand, igniting his cauldron to higher heat.
His long digits, so dexterous yet strong enough to puncture the rind of a dirigible plumb with the barest of effort.
The tendons in his wrist, how they rhythmically pulsed while he pounded doxy eggs to chalk inside a mortar.
Doxy eggs were easy enough to order powdered. But, clearly, Snape chose to do the task himself, presumably for his own perfectionist's sake and to ensure a finer grind.
Somehow, this thought alone was enough to fully wet herself, a shiver of pleasure running down her spine.
Submitting entirely to instinct, she slipped her hand inside her panties, sliding her fingers into her waiting folds, marveling at the dampness. How miraculous, she considered. Such reaction procured entirely from a thought.
She began to rub her sensitive nub, fascinated by her own arousal.
Before long, she could no longer stop herself.
Unable to hold at bay her growing fantasies, she started to imagine that Snape's hands were her hands, a flare of excitement flowing through her when she realized what it might feel like for him to explore her with such studied interest, thumb his way past the cotton of her waistband, run his long index finger along the silken flesh of her core, push his digit fully inside her, plunder her the same way—
Hermione startled suddenly out of her ruminations as she heard a loud thump followed by a soft curse.
She sat up in bed to see the moonlit figure of Lavender a few feet away, clearly having just returned from a midnight sojourn.
Lavender's silhouette waved shyly at Hermione while simultaneously holding her toe where she had obviously banged it on her own trunk.
Hermione waved back and then returned to lying in her bed.
She took several deep breaths, calming herself back to a state of impending sleep.
But, sleep was not easy to claim. Instead, Lavender's arrival had brought her back to the overheard conversation between Lupin and Snape, (another thing she had been trying to avoid without much success).
She remembered what Lupin had said, how Lavender and he were so often together, that she came to him and plied him with her desires, ensorcelled him to sexual play, how it pained him but he couldn't help himself.
The resulting feeling that crept into her chest wasn't quite jealousy. She supposed. Not really.
…Was it?
Still, something of a curiosity overtook her.
She couldn't help wondering what that felt like. To inspire such feelings from a man, to be so irresistible as to drive him into throes of unhindered lust.
Not, as Snape so clearly found her, an obsequious, prattle-mouth, grade grubbing, mouse of a girl whom he was indentured to put up with. Whose very presence seemed to wither him on the vine.
What was the last thing Lupin had said?
The beast of the castle, Lupin had called him.
What had he meant by that? Hermione herself had grown to see Snape as a coarse and ill-mannered creature, but surely Snape did not have qualms about this diagnosis, indeed it seemed to be his very own curated persona. He reveled in the dread he caused, the power it held.
Then why did Lupin's words seem to imply a makeshift facade? A behavior as though it were a put-upon play act that he was unknowingly, or else, intentionally, manifesting.
Or was she reading too deeply into it?
Hermione tightened her eyes and forced herself to stop this train of thinking.
There was nothing of merit to be gleaned from these ridiculous musings. All of it wrapped up in her own confused assumptions.
She would do best to follow Snape's own assessment of her:
His declaration that a smart girl would see their situation for what it was. A smart girl would not fly off to romantic silly-land.
A smart girl would know that they were forced into mutual servitude and never construe it otherwise.
"Do you understand my meaning?" Hermione asked patiently as she began packing away her materials.
Ron was half-listening as he became preoccupied balancing a finely made tincture of Armadillo bile on the tip of his finger.
"Mh-hm," he grunted distantly.
They were in the advanced potions lab at Hermione's personal station. Ron had been struggling with the most recent potions assignment and, in a fit of surprising initiative, had modestly asked Hermione to help him catch up with the rest of the class.
He was still intent on an Auror's career and admitted his marks in potions were teetering on the brink of failure.
Touched by his request, Hermione had invited him to join her before one of her weekly lessons so that, together, they could practice through the steps. Without the cruel intrusions of Snape's disparaging remarks, Ron was safely able to ask questions without fear of embarrassment while Hermione was able to take him slowly through each procedure.
But even Ron had his limits, it seemed, and his attention was fast depleting.
"The key factor in this case," Hermione continued, determined to finalize their exercise in the hopes that it would manage to imprint, "are the Ashwinder eggs. You really need to attend to the level of heat carefully. If it's too high, they will crack, massively diluting the potency."
Ron was now balancing the vial on his nose. "I thought they liked heat," he replied, eyes crossed and focused on his task.
Hermione was only partially annoyed. The other part of her felt unbridled affection for her friend's puppy-like ability to entertain himself no matter the circumstances. "They like heat," she said, "but not a scald."
An idea occurred. Hermione smiled. "Infant Ashwinders must mature before they can risk — Oh, Professor Snape, good evening."
Giving an enormous start, Ron fumbled wildly as the Armadillo bile fell from his face, the bottle hopping several times in his hands before, at last, using his no doubt Keeper-crafted instincts, he barely managed to catch it.
Hermione laughed heartily.
"Cheeky," Rob grumbled, though he seemed amused nonetheless.
Still giggling, Hermione plucked the bottle from his grasp and turned back to her station in order to place it in its proper place inside her kit. "Serves you right for—"
"Detention, Weasley!"
Snape's voice suddenly rang out from behind her and there was a tinkling crash as she dropped the vial and it broke at her feet.
Hermione whirled around to see Snape striding up, all malevolence and ire, his eyes flashing.
"Detention?" Ron whined. "What for?"
Snape glared at him. "It is now three minutes after seven which means you are currently disrupting a private lesson to which you have not been invited. Move along."
Ron gave Hermione a look but dared not say what he was thinking out loud. He heaved a petulant sigh and swiped his book and potions kit from the table, huffing out the door without another word.
"Get to work, Granger," Snape sneered, bearing down on her, "or suffer a detention of your own."
Hermione screwed her lips together in displeasure. "I was merely helping him catch up with his assignments." She flicked her wand at the glass at her feet. "Repairo."
"A spectacularly inadvisable use of your time," Snape countered, his dark eyes following the mended jar as it soared into Hermione's hand. "Given the risk it poses to your project."
"That feels rather dramatic," she said.
Snape crossed his arms. "You truly believe your efforts are better spent humoring a no-account dunderhead instead of in service to a Wizarding World that, as you so eloquently claimed, is all but dangling from the rafters?"
She knew what he wanted her to say, that she was sorry, that it wasn't worth the risk, that she wouldn't have done it if she'd known she would be late.
Instead, to be contrary, (and certainly not because she was feeling a wave of soreness at him that was certainly not related to the way he was looking at her, as though she were the least attractive girl in the world, certainly not), she said, "Yes. I do."
Snape's eyes flashed again. "Altruism will do you no favors."
"Who says?"
"Says the definition of altruism," he deadpanned.
Hermione gave her hair a haughty toss. "As opposed to self-centered narcissism which has clearly done wonders for—"
All at once Snape's arms uncrossed, his spine straightened, and he seemed to grow in size as if he were a rising storm cloud. "This station has been provided to you for your particular use for a particular task, it is not a refuge for you to flop about in fits of schoolgirl giggles."
Hermione felt her cheeks flame. "Strictly speaking," she said, "I am a schoolgirl, so it would stand to reason—"
"Do not parse words with me!" he thundered.
For the first time in a long while, Hermione found herself cowering under Snape's rueful glare.
The hate that emanated from him was almost palpable. So much so, Hermione could swear he was a moment away from physically striking her.
This reaction had to be from more than just her minor fraction of tardiness, she thought. More than just her catty responses (she'd been developing a recent habit of those lately).
In their past session, they had reached an almost acceptable level of civility, but now it was as if they'd gone a full five steps in reverse.
Somehow her laughter, or Ron's presence, or both, she gathered, had inflamed him beyond his usual measure. It occurred to her to point out that Snape hadn't been so offended when she was laughing at his joke. But the malevolent stare he was currently aiming at her made her swallow the words.
"Your notes," he snapped, holding up a handful of parchment, "on the hybridization of flower extract are an embarrassment to say the least. I've added corrections but you would do better to bin them and make another attempt."
Snape shoved the notes at her roughly. "Amend these," he said, "or start over. I do not care which, only that you do so with some modicum of aptitude this time."
Hermione's finger grazed his as she grabbed the parchments. The moment she had them, Snape summarily turned on his heel and stalked off to his own potions station.
For some reason, the involuntary response that her body made from merely that brief moment of contact, the way a fiery tickle of nerves ignited from her fingertips up the full length of her arm, only aggravated her turmoil further.
As Snape went about his business, sorting ingredients and magicking items into place, acting suddenly as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Hermione crumpled her offending notes into an ungainly wad.
A sick feeling spread through her stomach. Frustration mellowing into a pool of rising despair. It was more than just her failure to impress, more than being chastised. Hopelessness was hovering, just an inch out of reach, looming over her shoulder. She could sense it, at any moment, waiting to overwhelm her.
Beast of the castle indeed.
It was barely any time at all before Hermione found herself back in potions class the very next day. She could swear her other classes passed by in a blur of distraction. Only Snape seemed to stand out in sharp alacrity.
Her thoughts tumbled over themselves despite every effort to control them, at once howling with indignation, and at others, melting into cowed submission.
In this particular moment, indignation was winning out.
She was furious at Snape for his casual dismissal. His treatment wasn't anything new, exactly, but the repetition was starting to wear on her, the way he would poke her and prod her and then turn his back and freeze her out with his cold inattention.
Once again, he had spent the entire lesson without so much as glancing her way.
And whereas before this had come as somewhat of a relief, today it made her every nerve scream to be seen.
She wanted another go at him, another chance to defend herself, to claim victory over his bullish oppression and prove that she was…
What? She thought. Worthy?
Worthy of what?
His acknowledgement?
His praise?
His… desire?
Hermione chewed her bottom lip raw, so preoccupied was she with this ridiculous whirl of spiraling emotions. It was nearly half way through the period when she came unglued enough to notice her surroundings.
Beside her, she could tell that Ron was struggling with the day's assignment. He appeared to have heeded some of her carefully taught advice, but the final details had clearly eluded him. She grimaced, noticing how the flames beneath his cauldron were much higher than necessary.
The last thing she wanted was for Snape to cotton on to Ron's casual mistake. She could only imagine how quick he would be to lord over her the uselessness of time spent helping her friend.
So, very carefully, when Ron was otherwise distracted, Hermione reached over with her wand to discreetly turn down his burner.
"I saw that, Granger!" Snape's voice cut through the quiet of the classroom. Eyes of a hawk, even when feigning disinterest, the man missed nothing. "Interfere again and I'll have you thrown from this class."
Unable to stand it, Hermione snipped back. "I beg your pardon, Professor, but my understanding is that this is a lesson not an exam."
Snape stood from his chair. "And neglecting your own cauldron to stick your busybody nose in another student's work is, shockingly, not the lesson of the day."
Hermione, too, took to her feet. "If other students are heeding my actions as lessons then I dare say their professor isn't quite commanding the attention they—"
"Two-hundred points from Gryffindor!" Snape bellowed, making everyone in the room give an almighty jump.
Hermione felt her jaw fall slack as a few gasps let out around her.
"Do I have your attention now?" Snape said coldly, addressing the several dozen faces currently fixated on him.
"Thanks to Miss Granger," he continued, "today's class will be dismissed early and all marks will be noted as incomplete."
There were several groans. Ron, especially, made a strangled sound and buried his head in his hands.
"The lesson of this hour, I will leave entirely to your interpretation. Apparently my efforts to improve your impotent minds have failed to entertain."
As everyone slowly began packing up their bags in what could charitably be described as a deathly daze, Hermione stood frozen, Snape's dark eyes pinning her in place with his smug and narrowed stare.
"If you aimed for altruism this morning, Miss Granger," he said silkily, "I dare say you missed the mark."
Hermione still couldn't shake herself loose from the icy tremors of Snape's retribution half an hour later. She, Harry, and Ron were making their way up the winding grand staircase for an early lunch.
Harry had made several attempts at conversation along the way, but each sentence died in the air as it received no response.
Ron was mulishly quiet, obviously battling with himself about how much or how little he wanted to blame Hermione for what happened. It seemed to be a complicated mental exercise on which he had made very limited progress, so Hermione felt it wise not to intrude.
Instead, she clutched her books to her chest and stared blankly ahead, trying not to replay the horrible moment over and over in her mind.
Along the way, they picked up Ginny as she was just exiting the Astronomy wing. Sensing tension, she fell into step beside Harry who, in very quiet and careful tones, caught her up on the recent drama.
"It's just points, Hermione, honestly," Ginny said bracingly. "It's all made up anyway. Who cares?"
Harry tried his hand again. "And Ron, you know you can make up ground in the midterm. Daily projects are a pitiful percentage, you'll barely notice it."
Ron gave a melancholy sigh, avoiding eye contact with Hermione. "I really felt like I was doing alright on this one. I studied all night! But, apparently I'm too stupid to be left alone, Hermione had to jump in and–"
"I'm so sorry, Ron," she said at once. She was sincere, realizing how her intervention could have been taken as a vote of ill confidence. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just… I... Oh, I can't explain." How was she supposed to convince him that her actions had, in fact, not been about him at all? "It was an impulse," she said. "I'm sorry."
Ron seemed to accept her apology tepidly. Turning to give her a funny look, he said, "What's gotten into you anyway? Talking back to a teacher like that. Don't get me wrong, I'm impressed you took on Snape, but I swear I never thought–"
"Look!" Harry interrupted.
Just as they were cresting the final landing on approach to the Great Hall, (Hermione braced herself to gaze upon the House hourglasses and fully take in the colossal destitution she had wrought), they all paused mid step as they were met with an unexpected sight:
Gryffindor's hourglass remained untouched. The two-hundred rubies were seemingly unmoved, or else returned, to their place as though nothing had happened.
"Maybe he gave them back?" Ron suggested.
Harry gave Hermione's shoulder a companionable pat. "See, even Snape isn't a complete bastard. He must have reconsidered. It was a mental overreaction, even by his standards."
Comforted by this turn of events, Harry and Ron pushed on towards the Great Hall, with Hermione slowly following in their wake. Though she wondered all the while why she didn't seem to feel as relieved as she knew she ought to be.
Only Ginny remained behind, hands on her hips, regarding the hourglass with quiet suspicion.
Hermione resisted the urge once again to set her entire pile of parchments on fire.
She was in the library late after supper, surrounded by the half-constructed scaffolding of yet another attempt at her hybridized extract endeavor.
Every time she made a breakthrough, her keener instincts made her triple and quadruple check her work, almost always resulting in her uncovering yet another aspect of dormant interactions that she hadn't considered. She was going in circles and time was running out. Her next session with Snape was less than twenty-four hours away but she had absolutely nothing to present.
She sat up, startled, as Ginny suddenly took the seat beside her, thumping a large tome onto the table.
"I've been doing some reading," she announced.
Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Oh?" she replied.
Ginny flipped open the book and began thumbing through it in search of a particular page. "Yes. I've been doing some reading and have uncovered a rule." She flicked a brief, sidelong glance at Hermione. "About inter academic relationships."
Hermione cocked her head curiously. Lavender, she thought at once. Ginny must have found out about Lavender and Lupin.
Hermione was just gearing up to tell Ginny how important it was to show discretion and to keep the information to herself, when they were interrupted by the appearance of Daphne Greengrass.
"Weasley," Daphne said in her low, feminine voice. She was chillingly beautiful as always, her blond hair pulled into an elegant high bun, tendrils artfully escaping to frame her face. "I wanted to return these." She handed Ginny a stack of books, ones Hermione immediately recognized as some of the "crusty texts" Ginny had brought to their support group meeting. Apparently, Daphne had taken Ginny up on the offer to borrow them.
Ginny accepted the books and placed them next to her on the bench. "Learn anything fun?" she asked lightly, giving Daphne a wink.
Daphne rolled her eyes. "Even I could write more informative drivel than these duds."
"Ooooh," Ginny encouraged. "Please do. You'd be shocked how many girls have never been told the most rudimentary things. If you want, I can help you draft it."
Daphne looked as though she were going to bite back with her usual snark, but then thought better of it. In fact, she appeared to be taking Ginny's suggestion seriously. "Hm," she said, her expression curiously neutral.
Ginny waggled her eyebrows suggestively and that seemed to be enough for Daphne. Her spell of composure broken, she gave a delicate snort and turned immediately to leave, a subtle scent of daffodil perfume lingering behind her.
Ginny shrugged and turned back to her task.
All at once, her disposition became quite serious again.
She found the page she was looking for and continued. "It turns out, it's not totally unheard of in the history of Hogwarts for professors to marry their students. Girls were expected to grow up so fast back then and advantages were taken on such frequent occasion. Not that…" She heaved a sigh. "Not that it's altogether better now. The patriarchy is still alive and well. But," she flattened the book purposefully, "anyway, I found this…"
Ginny paused, making sure she had Hermione's full and undivided attention.
"You see, what I discovered is, written here in the Hogwarts Handbook, seventh edition… Spouses are not allowed to give or take House points."
She slid the book along the table, her finger pressed against a particular block of text, her blue eyes shining keenly. "It's in the rules."
There followed a very long moment of silence. Ginny stared Hermione down, waiting for her to respond.
Hermione's throat had become painfully dry.
It was on the tip of her tongue to confess everything, absolutely everything. But everything was such a confusing whirlwind of mystifying fragments and half formed emotions, the idea of putting any of it to words was a monumental task she didn't feel nearly ready enough to take on. Even considering the ungainly mess of it all made her want to scream.
"Please don't tell anyone," she finally croaked.
Ginny let out a breath. "I won't, of course. But don't you want to—"
"No."
"Talk about it—"
"No."
"Even a little?"
Hermione shook her head stubbornly.
Ginny flipped the book closed, throwing up her hands in concession. "Alright, alright," she said. "But I do think you should consider trying out counseling. At least one session. Her name is Josephine Lamont and she's apparently very good. She's not from the Ministry. Daphne says she doesn't crawl up your arse like other ones you've heard of."
Hermione, partially out of interest, but also in an effort to deflect, commented breezily, "You and Daphne are getting along."
Ginny sat up a bit straighter. "I'm allowed to get along," she said quickly, cheeks a bit pink. "With people," she finished lamely.
Hermione gave her a sly look. "But don't you want to–"
"No."
"Talk about it–"
"No."
"Even a little?"
Ginny huffed. "Point taken."
A great deal of understanding passed between the two of them, then. It was wordless. The invisible bond of sisterhood they had long shared, now strengthening beyond its former iteration.
Finally, Ginny stood up, collecting her Hogwarts handbook and preparing to leave. But, just before she did, she paused. "My offer stands," she said softly. "If you ever change your mind, I'll be around. I can't imagine… I can't imagine having to be with… him. What you must be going through."
Hermione reached over to give Ginny's hand a brief squeeze. "I'm figuring it out," she replied in earnest. "I don't want to discuss it just yet. But you'll be the first person I come to when I do."
Ginny returned Hermione's gesture and then went on her way, leaving Hermione exactly where she started:
Buried in the miasmic doldrums of her rapidly failing project.
Hermione rested her forehead on the tabletop and groaned.