AN: Thank you, all, for reading. :)

Chapter 13: Litterae

My favorite niece,

"I'm your only niece, Aunt Rebecca," Hermione had pointed out ten years ago. She was still Aunt Rebecca's only niece, but that didn't change the moniker.

She readjusted her crossed legs to avoid a particularly itchy patch of grass on the Hogwarts lawn and yawned. It had been almost a week since the mysterious blend of memories and magic she'd shared with Professor Snape. He'd interrogated her about her family's background for an hour before sending her to bed and had not requested her presence since. He'd also taken to vanishing inside his office after classes so that she couldn't stop him, and the meals he was present at in the Great Hall he abandoned far before she was finished. She'd have thought he was avoiding her, had she not seen the determination glinting in his eyes as he questioned her until the Wit-Sharpener must have run out and heavy shadows of exhaustion filled his face. He must be—on top of everything else—investigating the strange…connection, for lack of better term. And so she had thrown herself into research as well, disappearing among the stacks in the library to investigate memory and mind magic just as much as her own coursework.

The additional study on top of O.W.L. work, house elf hat knitting, and prefect patrols kept her up into the early hours all week. It was a shame Quidditch practices had picked up, because she'd had yet to find the Prefects' bath open again for her own use. Her usual mess of hair was pulled into a chaotic bun on top of her head as a blustery wind rushed over the Hogwarts grounds. She pushed a short tendril behind her ear and kept reading.

Croatia was lovely. The beaches go on forever and sometimes you feel as if you could get lost in the little medieval towns in a most delightful, transporting way. I am now in Milano, of course. Italy is beautiful this time of year, and even you, mother's daughter though you are, would enjoy the boutiques I popped into in Lake Como. And don't think I've for a moment forgotten the fuss you put up in the Summer. Your gift is included accordingly. Consider it a late birthday present.

Hermione eyed the brown paper-wrapped parcel at her side warily. While the day couldn't be called warm exactly, a number of students were lounging by the lake or strolling across the grounds, making the most of what may end up being the last somewhat pleasant weekend of the year. Hermione could feel frost creeping its way in through the dormitory windows in the early mornings, and the sun was already setting before dinner was barely begun. Best to take care of that later…

It is interesting that you bring up France, because I had planned to explore Lourdes sometime in the Spring. Its history is fascinating and, dare I say, almost magical. But have my travels finally intrigued you? Is this your way of proposing a trip? I'm all ears, Hermione dear, you know me. Name the time and place.

Now, back to the subject of boys…

Hermione snorted inelegantly and skimmed the rest of her aunt's flourishing handwriting. She could tell that her aunt was well-meant and mostly participated in the upkeep of this old joke about boys for the nostalgic routine of it, much as she insisted that Hermione was her favorite niece. But a line near the end gave her pause.

I only ask because I adore you and wish you every happiness.

Well, that was rather kind. Hermione felt herself smile slightly, and then her mouth dropped open as she read the next sentence.

Even if that is with someone tall, dark, and mysterious.

Hermione reread the sentence multiple times, gaping as she finished the letter.

Anywho–I've an engagement to get to. Looking forward to your next letter. Please do tell me what you think of my gift.

xx,

Your favorite aunt

With shaking fingers, Hermione set the letter down in her lap even as she continued to stare incredulously at the flowing ink quarter-page sized signature. Had Aunt Rebecca not an especially attentive memory regarding details of Hermione's life she'd rather not relive, she'd have believed Lockhart Obliviated her to plagiarize the style. She swallowed and her gaze slid over to said gift before scanning her surroundings. There was no one particularly closeby.

She took a bracing breath and reached for the parcel. After a few minutes working at a stubborn knot, she pulled back the paper and stared.

Lace. Dark green lace.

That was all she saw before she smothered the thing again with brown paper and shoved the bundle into her school bag.

"Hey, Hermione."

Hermione yelped and turned around to see a curtain of red hair swing as Ginny sat herself on the grass beside her. Her face was flushed with exercise, and Hermione cursed herself for not taking advantage of the baths while the Quidditch team practiced. Ginny smiled uncertainly and cocked her head to the side.

"Bit jumpy," she remarked. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"N-nothing," Hermione stammered.

"And why's your face all red?"

"It's not," Hermione said, pressing a hand to her cheek, which was, in fact, radiating with warmth.

"And what's that behind your back?"

Hermione made to pull her bag further away, but Ginny's arm shot out like a viper and seized the bag.

"What were you doing," Ginny asked, flipping open the latch. She waggled her eyebrows at Hermione. "Reading something…inappropriate?"

"I–what? Of course not!" she sputtered. "Ginny!" she demanded, as the distinctive sound of rustling paper reached her ear. "Give me back my bag this inst–"

But Ginny gave a low whistle as she opened the parcel in her lap. Gently and using only her fingertips, she gathered the material and began lifting the item out of its wrapping. It was less the scandalous bit of lingerie she had imagined it to be on first sight, but now seeing the garment as a whole, it appeared to be rather like a robe. A short, lace-trimmed, somewhat see through robe.

"Wow, Hermione," she said, in a sort of dull, astonished voice. "And here I thought you were a respectable prefect. Who knew you had…extracurricular interests."

"Oh stop," Hermione said, batting the fabric out of Ginny's hands and crumpling it up inside her bag once again. She looked around hastily to see whether anyone else had noticed. "My aunt got it for me. Probably as a joke," she muttered.

"That is not a joke," Ginny said seriously. When Hermione didn't say anything, she leaned forward and patted Hermione on the hand. "It's very pretty. I think your aunt was just trying to be helpful."

Hermione's brows rose. "Helpful? How could something like…" She gestured vaguely at her school bag. "…that help me?"

"Well," Ginny said primly, leaning back with incongruous body language upon her elbows. "You might not use it for its…intended purpose…but anyone could do with a confidence boost."

"That's exactly what Aunt Rebecca said," Hermione huffed, turning her attention to the lake.

"There you have it. Great minds think alike."

"Hopefully not in all respects," she mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nevermind," Hermione said hastily. "How're things with Michael?"

"Oh, you know…" Ginny trailed off, staring unseeingly toward the lake.

Hermione opened her mouth, but promptly shut it. The most of a relationship she'd had was a few months of quiet library conversations and a single kiss. She didn't know.

She awoke the next morning to a rumbling at her ear. Blearily, she pulled her eyelids open to squint at Crookshanks, who was purring insistently on her pillow.

"It's half five," she grumbled, eyeing her wristwatch. She promptly took a paw to the nose. "Ouch."

Crookshanks flicked his tail over her face and she batted it out of the way.

"Crooks."

He mewed insistently and prodded her on the shoulder this time.

"What?" she demanded in a whisper, and then her eyes fell on the folded square of parchment. Somehow, she knew who it was from before she even smoothed out the creases.

Entrance hall. Now. Running shoes.

Is this what he had expected her to do for their somewhat aborted midnight meeting?

"Why can't the impossible man hold a conversation during normal waking hours?" she grumbled under her breath.

She pulled her wand out from underneath her pillow, flicked it with a silencing charm, and set to pulling on the warmest attire that could still pass for exercise gear that she possessed. It was with a half longing, half disgruntled expression that she scratched Crookshanks behind the ears as he curled up and settled into the warm spot left behind among the blankets.

Ten minutes later, she slipped out of complete darkness and into the faint light creeping in through the entrance hall windows. A tall shadow peeled itself away from the wall.

"You're late," Snape said. "Let's go."

He turned without another word and opened the doors with a wave of his hand.

I had several flights of stairs to come down and you didn't even set a time, she wanted to protest, but at that moment, a yawn almost split her jaw, so she followed him obediently.

The late September air hit her like a cold slap in the face and she tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her fingers. Now out in the pale light of the grounds, she got a proper look at Snape and had to bite her tongue not to make a sound. He, like her, was dressed in Muggle running attire–sweatshirt, sweats, and sturdy trainers. Whereas hers were all recent gifts from her father, his looked as if they'd seen a great deal of use, the legs of the trousers slightly frayed at the hem. As she watched, he pulled up the zip on his black sweatshirt a little higher over the gray shirt beneath and raised a brow.

"Ready?"

And then he took off.

Hermione blinked in astonishment, then forced herself forward, catching up with him after several strides. He set the pace and strode out just ahead of her, carving a path down the grounds and toward the Forbidden Forest. Above their heads, only glimmering stars provided any light. She gave an internal sigh of relief when he peeled to the right instead of plowing into the trees. It was enough that her lungs were already burning as they took in air that may as well have been ice and converted it through a burning process into puffs of mist in front of her face; her long braid struck her steadily in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades. It would be quite another thing to have to look out for monsters and tree roots on top of everything else.

She tried to remember all of the encouragement her father had given her on their infrequent Summer runs. "Breathe in for three strides, out for two." "Set a goal marker: that lamp post, now the next one, now the next one." "You're not dying, you're alive!" But as they cut a circuit along the treeline and out toward the pitch, Hermione thought her heart was going to burst out of her chest, and that surely it was possible to breathe just a little quieter wasn't it? Snape strode along making barely a sound other than the pounding of his feet along the cold, hard ground.

Just as a stitch began stabbing at her side, Snape made a left turn and plunged into the forest. Aghast, Hermione ground to a halt and stared as his always black-clad back retreated under the branches.

"Come along, Miss Granger," he called, not sounding winded at all.

Indulging in a quiet scream that sounded something like a mouse dying, Hermione ducked into the forest. Instantly, she felt a cold sweat slick her neck. It was colder and darker in the shade, and her eyes darted from the ground to her surroundings to Snape in a wild flash as she tried to avoid roots, keep an eye out for unfriendly creatures, and not lose track of the person capable of defending her should she come across any unfriendly creatures.

Ahead, the shadow that was Snape grew larger in her vision, and she realized that he had stopped at the entrance to a clearing. She half stumbled over a gnarled root, then crouched beside him, bent over her knees and gasping for breath.

"Do you have your wand?" Snape asked, not looking at her.

Hermione felt her heart plummet into her stomach. The reaching branches and deep shadows now looked even more sinister. She scanned the perimeter of the clearing, half-expecting to see glowing eyes in the darkness.

"No, I…you said…shoes," she wheezed, face feeling simultaneously cold with fear and overheated with exercise.

A long, dark stick hovered in her vision.

"Use mine."

She gaped up at him, even as she accepted it. "But sir–"

Finally, he looked down at her. The faintest of pink flushes lit up his cheeks, the only indication of the last twenty minutes of exertion.

"For your magic to have allowed mine to call upon yours and be channeled through your wand, clearly a magical as well as mental connection is at play here. It stands to reason that your magic will respond well to my wand. But by all means, waste our valuable time by casting Wingardium Leviosas at twigs to test the theory."

Hermione knew by his tone it was sarcasm, and instantly squashed the impulse to do that very thing.

"Sir, on that night, why did you–"

"I will deflect your spells wandlessly," he said, ignoring her and beginning to walk across the clearing, frosted grass crunching under his feet. "But keep in mind I will cast as well. I will raise no shields to protect us or the forest. You must focus. You must be aware of your surroundings."

You must be aware of whether a blast-ended skrewt comes thrashing towards us, Hermione thought wildly, disoriented from lack of sleep, unaccustomed exercise, and lack of caffeine within an hour of waking.

"Are you ready?" Snape asked, turning on the spot to face her. "Begin."

Hermione brought his wand to bear. The handle was cool and smooth in her hand, perfectly polished. If this was the same wand Snape had purchased as an eleven-year-old, he had taken remarkably good care of it. She gripped the wand tighter and felt something tingle in her arm, as if her magic was curious and excited to play again with this foreign magic.

She blinked, forcing herself to focus, and said the first spell that came into her head.

"Impedimenta!"

A gust of power, like water bursting from a hose, traveled down her arm and out from the wand. She stumbled, even as the spell shot forward. It was perhaps the most powerful spell Hermione had ever cast. Snape deflected it with a movement of his hand. The spell launched itself with barely diminished speed and power into the trees, slipping between the gaps of the first few before blasting into an unluckily placed oak, whose heavy low branch broke free from the trunk with a sound almost like a gunshot. Hermione jumped, but couldn't help looking down at her own hand, feeling residual dazzling tingles in her fingertips as if her hand was waking from sleep.

"Yes, please do stand around all day," Snape called lazily.

Hermione blushed and brought her arm up again. Her stomach flipped with excitement and possibility. This was the most fascinating thing she'd experienced since watching McGonagall turn into a cat on her own sofa four years ago.

"Silencio!" she cried.

She could have sworn Snape's mouth twitched, even as he sidestepped the spell. She didn't have time to dwell on it, though, because he stopped waiting for her to cast and began sending spells of his own.

Hermione wasn't a good duelist. Though she felt fully knowledgeable about the spellwork up to her year–a little more than that, even–she felt that it was only her own classmates' laziness with schoolwork that had given her any upperhand in the dueling club or active DADA classes. To go against Snape was another matter entirely.

But this duel wasn't so mismatched as their previous one. While she was loathe to admit that the run had warmed her up–she could imagine her dad smiling knowingly about it–that, paired with the added power she felt using Snape's wand made her, if not a very good duelist, certainly better. She felt lighter on her feet and dodged more hits than she took, having to duck quickly a second time when a missed spell shattered the tree directly behind her, which began raining down splinters. An energy, a liveliness, seemed to swell in her chest, providing a steady grounding point from which her mind, with heightened clarity, could launch ideas.

Petrificus Totalus! Blocked, but powerful. Incarcerous! Dodged, but chains of iron, not ropes, lay in a pile on the grass. Avis! A flock of birds swooped around Snape and managed to distract him long enough for her to land a trip jinx. She felt a moment of triumph as he stumbled, but then a jet of yellow light shot toward her and she froze, literally, in place by the spell.

"Finite," Snape murmured, and reached out an arm to steady her as she unfroze off-balance. He withdrew his arm a second later. "Again."

They dueled until she was incapacitated three more times, and then he waved a hand with a shortly enunciated "Enough." Hermione sank gratefully to her knees. Snape had winded her with his last spell and she knelt, hands braced on her knees to keep her chest open and fill her lungs as he advanced toward her.

"My wand," he said.

Something within her wanted to protest. Still, she stretched out her hand toward him and allowed him to gently pry the wand from her grasp. The warmth that had flooded her with its use slowly ebbed out of her fingertips and she looked with something like nostalgia as she watched him pocket it before–to her astonishment–seating himself on the grass beside her.

"Describe to me what it felt like," he said, eyes unblinkingly fixed on hers.

"I–sorry?"

"The wand," he said, impatience tinging the edges of his voice. "How did your magic initially respond? How easy was casting?"

"It was…" Hermione trailed off, trying to find the words. Perfect. Wonderful. Euphoric. "Right." She finally settled upon, shrugging. "It was as if Ollivander had helped me find the wand himself. It didn't put up any resistance. If anything, it was–"

"More powerful," Snape said, nodding. "Yes, I noticed."

"My magic was…excited. Playful, even," she said, looking down at the grass without really seeing it. "I can still remember the way my accidental magic felt when I was a child. The first time I ever used magic was when I was five. I didn't know that's what it was at the time. I had been trying to climb the tree in the back garden. One of the boys in nursery was always climbing trees at playtime and said he'd bet I couldn't do it."

She half smiled now, remembering with fondness and pity how eager she had been to prove him wrong.

"So I was practicing, you see. But I hadn't gotten very high up when my foot slipped and I fell. But my magic protected me. I floated down to the ground and landed in the grass like it was a blanket. My parents weren't out there with me when it happened and I didn't tell them. Anyway," she shook her head, ridding herself of the memory, and looked up at him. "It sort of felt like that."

He only looked at her blankly. "I don't understand."

"I–" Hermione, who knew she was already pink with exercise, flushed. "I don't know. It felt warm and bright and…and safe."

She bit the inside of her lip, somehow feeling as if she had said too much and should take it back. But he did want to know, didn't he?

Safe? A voice sneered in his head. When has anyone ever felt safe with you around?

He stared at her as he processed what she had said. The accidental magic of childhood was not a well-researched phenomenon. For all that the Department of Mysteries studied, well, mysteries, early magic was not in its purview. The most it was discussed was among frantic families waiting for the first signs of magic from their children. But Mediwizards only parroted the same line to anxious parents: "Magic shows itself when it shows itself. Every child is different.

Severus himself had displayed his first bit of magic, according to his mother, when he was four. According to her, she had been telling him bedtime stories about three wizard brothers for about a week when he had entered the house, a broken twig from their half-dead tree in hand, and waved it. Instead of a shower of sparks or a gust of wind, typical signs of compatible wand discovery, his mother's spell book had flown down the steps to land at his feet.

"Severus!" she had gasped, lunging forward for the book. "I must not have locked the trunk last night," she murmured, clutching the book to her chest and looking around as if Tobias was going to jump out of a hidden place in the house, despite the fact that he was at work, and confiscate any signs of magic. She had crouched in front of him, said something brief and encouraging, and then demanded that he not repeat any such tricks while his father was around, before rushing back upstairs to lock the book away.

Triumph he had certainly felt, especially for subsequent secret uses of magic–summoning birds into his hand where they sat patiently, breathing in small, quick puffs within his fist; conjuring daises to present to his mother on mornings after long nights of shouting and no sleep (he could still see her blackened eyes crinkle in a slow smile); and his favorite: confounding bullies who had advanced upon him if he was alone on the street, only to wander away, half-tripping over their own feet.

But he wouldn't have described his magic as warm or bright, and couldn't think of any way anything associated with him could be described as safe. Not to give anyone like Miss Granger that wondering look of quiet amazement on her face.

"Sir," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "Did you sense anything different?"

"No," he said shortly. "Unlike Potter, you don't broadcast your every thought." The girl smiled slightly at that, and he pursed his lips. He hadn't known she'd know to take it as a compliment. "I knew nothing of what spell you intended to cast next. But–" Here, she looked up at him, head slightly tilted in curiosity. "It was clear," he said slowly. "That you were more…determined than usual. Confident."

For some mysterious reason, she broke eye contact immediately. He watched as pink crawled up her cheeks, even as she averted her gaze to the far side of the clearing.

"Well," he said, getting to his feet. "It's time we get back."

He did not offer her his arm. It was clear she would not have taken it anyway.

Safe, indeed.

The morning of the first Hogsmeade visit of the year dawned brightly. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as she made her way downstairs, but she was determined not to allow Harry to back out.

"Confidence, Granger," she had said to herself in the bathroom mirror.

"That's the spirit," the mirror had replied.

But the trio had barely set off across the grounds when Harry said something that gave her pause.

"He said he was tipped off you were ordering Dungbombs?" she asked. "But who had tipped him off?"*

While she couldn't rule out that it had been Malfoy playing a trick on Harry by telling stories to Filch, something about it was unsettling. Malfoy had seemed to back off a bit this year, whether because OWL work was weighing all the 5th years down or because he'd learned a bit of a lesson being Transfigured into a ferret last year. Or, just maybe, he was maturing.

Malfoy, growing up? She snorted internally. Sure, that's it.

She led the way to the Hog's Head, heart pounding and almost ready to leap out of her chest until the first groups of students began trickling into the bar. Soon, she was speaking in front of the group. For as often as she had given answers in class, speaking to a crowd was a different thing entirely. But determination, partly not to look foolish in front of Harry who looked ready to bolt at any moment, kept her feet rooted to the straw-strewn flagstones beneath her.

"You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts OWL, too though, I bet?"*

Even though it was Michael Corner who had said these words, Hermione couldn't help but be distinctly reminded of Snape questioning her with nearly the same attitude when she had begged for his help.

"I want to be properly trained in Defense because…because…" And then she could almost imagine him standing in the shadows at the edge of the room, dark eyes fixed upon her, daring her to say it. She took a breath. "Because Lord Voldemort's back."*

The effect on those gathered was varied but instantaneous. Her mental image of Snape gave the smallest of smirks, then vanished.

Yes, she thought with quiet triumph. This is going to work.

My dear Hermione,

I knew it was only a matter of time before you took after your old dad. Don't forget your warm-up stretches, that's very important! Now, I realize it's weeks away, but what do you think I should get your mother? You know I'm going to need all the time I can get…

Hermoninny,

The weather is beautiful here, but not as beautiful as it is in the Summer. Am I not telling you so in June? A Potions workshop is very good news. Are you certain you don't belong in the clever house, what is it, Ravenbeak? I am practicing most mornings and sometimes evenings each week. Did I tell you? Alexei is engaged to be married–about time, says his fiance. But you did not wish me to discuss Quidditch, no?

Darling,

Please tell me your father is joking. Have you truly become an…athlete? I shudder to think all your father's dreams before we knew we were having a girl are coming true. I can't deny it is good to see him enthusiastic. Speaking of enthusiasm, what did you tell him in your last letter? Barely had he finished reading it that he put on his coat and disappeared out the door. If I didn't know better, I'd say he apperated… appearated… app… Oh, why don't you just call it teleporting if that's what it is!?

Dear Miss Granger,

Merci for your kind letter. I am staying in Diagon Alley and recently accepted a job at Gringotts, so your letter reached me quickly. I would be happy to meet with you. At the Christmas holidays, I expect to return home briefly, but I am sure we can arrange something after the new year...

"Class is dismissed," Snape said, turning on his heel and heading to his desk. "Miss Granger, stay behind."

He heard the shuffle of feet and low murmurs as students gathered up their belongings and filed out while he made a show of rifling through a stack of parchment, as though he were fishing out a recent homework assignment. When he raised his eyes, it was to find both Hermione Granger and Dolores Umbridge still standing in his classroom. The former had her hands clasped in front of her and was sending him a panicked look, while the later, who stood further back, held her clipboard at the ready.

"Madame Umbridge, I don't recall asking for your…" He let his eyes drift to the quill she held poised at the ready. "Notes…on this meeting."

Dolores simpered. "Oh, I'm sure Cornelius–that is, Minister Fudge–would appreciate notes on lessons as well as student-teacher interaction. The High Inquisitor's job is, after all, to have a firm grasp of the fullest picture of the situation."

"In that case," Snape said smoothly, shifting his glance to the girl. "Perhaps, Miss Granger, you can explain why it is that you performed so dismally on your last essay?"

He slid a piece of parchment across the desk and the girl approached with hesitant steps, blocking his view of Umbridge. As she bent her head to the essay on the Strengthening Solution, her curls spilled over her shoulders and her brow furrowed, no doubt spying the miniscule note in the corner.

Rule four.

Her eyes darted across the page in bewildered thought. Suppressing a sigh, he took a quill and underlined a word.

"Perhaps this was your problem?" he prompted.

Cauldron…? He watched as she mouthed the word and then pinned him with a quizzical glance. The essay had mentioned the word exactly once, as she had written the instructions typical of a strengthening solution before diving into a comparison between using salamander blood versus newt blood. While she had gotten a bit carried away with the thought, the comparison had set her off analyzing the entire recipe by considering the numerological implications and powers of each ingredient. It was perhaps the first time Hermione Granger had not regurgitated an entire textbook, but had launched into theory in a regimented way, no doubt aided by the O.W.L. work she was doing in Arithmancy. Not all of her conclusions were correct. In fact, she had concluded very little.

With the barest of movements, he tapped against his scrawled note again. Her eyes widened with understanding, and her lip quirked before she let her mouth fall open.

"But sir," she said anxiously, embodying her usual obnoxious, know-it-all self that bounced around in her seat, desperate to provide the correct answer. "Cauldron bottom thickness is of utmost importance when brewing anything more volatile than a blood replenisher. I happen to have read a report published only this Summer saying that potion leakages have been increasing at a rate of three percent per year thanks to our increased import of foreign cauldrons. Their bottoms are thinner, you see, given that there's less regulation and–"

"Enough!" Snape barked, if only to get her to stop adding fuel to the fire that burned in his lungs, desperate to be expelled as a laugh. In the sudden quiet, he thought he heard an intake of breath from Umbridge and a harshly whispered, "Weatherby!"

Umbridge cleared her throat in her girlish way, then clicked her fingers, vanishing her quill into thin air. She had plastered a strained smile to her face and was patting her person, as though to be sure she had all of her belongings.

"So sorry. I've just remembered I have an appointment at lunch," she said, already halfway out of the room. "I see you have everything in hand, Professor Snape. I'll leave the rest to you."

And then she was gone. The girl looked from the door to him in astonishment and held it together for all of five seconds before she burst into giggles. Snape jumped in his seat at the sound, then watched as she braced herself with one hand against the desk as she pressed the other against her side. She caught sight of his, no doubt, stunned expression, then laughed harder until small tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. Shoulders still shaking with mirth, she hastily wiped them away.

"I'm sorry," she gasped when she could finally speak again. Still, she paused to laugh every now and then. "It's just…I tried to think of the most boring thing I could…you know, to get her to leave. And the first thing I thought of was Percy!"

She grinned at him and Snape wondered whether he needed to take her to the hospital wing to have her head examined.

"He works with her now," she said. "Junior Assistant to the Minister…or some such tosh to cover up–" She saw his raised brow and waved her fingers. "Anyway, you'll know all about that, I'm sure. The point is, I imagine she's heard that speech half a dozen times by now. I had to annoy her but not make her angry, so I went for boring. I'd say it worked, wouldn't you?"

Snape thought he might go blind as she beamed brightly at him from three feet away.

"Quite," he said shortly, eyeing the hand she still had on his desk.

"Sorry," she said quickly, straightening up and clasping her hands once more in front of herself. "I presume you didn't make me stay to play a joke on Umbridge."

She opened her mouth again after a pause, in which he knew she was ready to ask, "Or did you?" but her cut her off.

"I will be unable to host you tomorrow. Our next lesson will be Wednesday instead."

It was his customary dismissal. The girl paused as she reached up to straighten the strap of her bag. She then re-hoisted it over her shoulder and shifted her weight to her hip. All humor had dropped from her face.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, looking at his collar. "I can't meet then."

Snape folded his hands on top of the desk, a careful gesture of calm that belied none of the irritation underneath. "Why not?"

Her eyebrows pulled together into twin frowns, even as she continued to avoid his eye. "I…can't tell you that."

"Why not?" Only a dunderhead would miss the sharpness in his voice.

"Sir–"

"Miss Granger, when you begged me on bended knee to–"

She stepped forward to defend herself, hands balling into fists at her side, eyes flashing with indignation. "I wasn't on bended knee!"

"–to give you defense instruction," he plowed on, raising his eyes to meet hers as she stood at the other side of the desk. "You agreed to my terms, did you not?"

Her brow wrinkled. "Yes, but–"

"And I told you that if you could not keep up, you would receive no second chances, did I not?"

"Yes, but–"

"Miss Granger," he said sharply, and was pleased when she gave a little self-conscious start and crossed her arms defensively. "I advise that you act against your impulsive, argumentative Gryffindor nature and think very carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth."

Hermione opened her mouth, then snapped it shut hard enough that he heard her molars grind into each other. Her nostrils flared as she forced a slow breath in through her nose and out again. She took a couple more even breaths, and seemed to be chanting to herself internally as her eyes skimmed the air between them. Finally, her shoulders untensed.

"Sir," she said slowly. "You agree with me that Umbridge's teaching methods are…" She pressed her lips together, then changed direction. "Leave something to be desired."

Snape's eyebrow inched toward his hairline, but he didn't say anything. She continued.

"I saw a need. A need which–" Here she raised her hands and gestured between the two of them, as if to remind him of the additional lessons he had agreed to add to his already overburdened plate. "–I know you saw as well. But you agreed to teach only me, so I didn't pester you again about it."

Lucky me, he thought, rolling his eyes internally.

Her mouth opened but she wavered for a moment as she thought, then she set her chin. "So I founded a…study group."

"A study group," he deadpanned. She nodded, then her eyes flickered away from him self-consciously before they darted back. Understanding hit him. He closed his eyes, then pressed his fingers into his temples and spoke to his desk as he massaged slow circles into the headache that was threatening to split his skull.

"Don't tell me this has anything to do with educational decree number twenty-four," he intoned, envisioning the large sign that had popped up on the Slytherin common room notice board that very morning.

"It…may have…" the girl said, ending on a slightly higher, wavier note than typical.

Inside the safety of his own mind, he let out a slew of profanity that would not have been blinked at in Spinner's End. He forced his eyes open.

"How many of you are there?''

"A fair few…" Under his piercing gaze, she muttered, "A couple dozen."

"A couple… Where are you meeting?" he demanded. Where did a couple dozen students intend to gather without getting caught?

"Sir–" she protested.

Snape leaned forward across the desk and spoke dangerously and so lowly that she had to lean forward herself to hear him.

"Granger, you will tell me where you are meeting and when, or you will consider your extra lessons finished. Is that understood?"

The girl blanched before him and looked for a moment as if she might fall over. Her white-knuckled hands braced themselves on his desk and he watched as she swallowed the knot in her throat.

When she didn't say anything for several seconds, he growled, "Granger…"

"The Room of Requirement," she whispered. "After dinner."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "The what?"

"The Room of Requirement…" It came out as a question. "Dobby told Harry about it and–"

"You're risking expulsion based on the wisdom of a house elf?"

Instead of flinching as he'd expected, she gave him a crooked smile. "That was my reaction, too. But Dumbledore knows about it, too."

"The meeting?" Encouraging half a year-level worth of students to engage in illegal–unjustly illegal, but illegal nonetheless–activities was just the sort of thing Albus would do. But she shook her head.

"The room. Apparently he's been there before."

They fell into a silent staring contest. Within moments, he could see the fire light behind her eyes, as if she was about to launch into a persuasive, righteous speech about why she needed to do this. Internally, he sighed. Bold, impulsive, rash Gryffindors…

"If you get caught…" he said slowly.

For the second time in ten minutes, someone broke out in a grin directed toward him. That it was the same person was even more bizarre. He shifted in his seat.

"We won't, sir, I promise," she said.

"At least someone will be in charge who knows a little of discretion," he mused, picking up a quill and dragging a pile of essays to himself, ready to bury himself in much overdue work.

"What?" she said above him, and his movements stilled. "I'm not teaching everyone. Harry–"

The quill in his hand snapped.

"Right," she said quickly. "I'll just be going."

"Granger," he snapped. Halfway across the room, she turned around with a wince. He opened his mouth, then hesitated and pressed his lips into a thin line. I do not have time for this… He jerked his head at his desk. "Your essay."

Pink in the face, she hurried over to his desk, but didn't immediately turn to go. Exercising every bit of control that he had, he slowly looked up at her.

"My essay," she said, brandishing it weakly. "You didn't mark it…"

With a quiet snarl, he slashed his hand through the air, nonverbally scratching a harsh letter E on the page. Her brows rose and she turned to him, jubilance evident in every pore on her face. But upon catching sight of the stony expression on his face, she ducked her head.

"Thank you, sir!" she managed to squeak.

And then she fled.

Today is going to be a good day, she told herself, even as she pulled her body out of bed and silently began changing in the dark. In little time, she was slipping out of the entrance hall doors and jogging down the sloping lawns. While Snape hadn't summoned her in the early morning over the last two weeks, she didn't want to be caught unawares again. So a few times per week, she awoke early and completed twenty minutes of running before making her way for the clearing for target practice. To her surprise, she was learning to enjoy the solitude in the cold and the energy boost that carried her through the rest of the day.

She pounded out a steady rhythm, musing on the arithmancy calculations she'd worked through the night before. By the time her wristwatch read six o'clock, she was sure she'd found two ways to simplify the equations and solve in fewer steps. Mentally setting aside that task, she slipped among the trees and slowed her pace, looking out carefully for obstacles in her path.

Soon, she was in the clearing, and with a flick of her wand—which she always remembered now—targets popped into existence among the trees. She took a steadying breath, still feeling her heartbeat pulse in her ears, and began casting.

Each target was set to automatically reset itself two seconds after being disabled. After running through a few drills where each target came back three times, she cast a mobility spell on the targets, which began to roll, glide, rise, and fall steadily around the clearing. In the third iteration, Hermione cast a spell Snape had shown her, and the targets took on defensive perks. Some rebounded her spells upon her, while others were impervious to blasting curses, and still others had to be hit in rapid succession to be disabled.

After one of the targets zoomed toward her, spinning like a Catherine wheel and lit up with flames, Hermione cried, "Immobulus!"

Immediately, all of the shields stopped where they were. The flaming target halted a few feet from her face, and she could feel the heat rolling off of it.

"Evanesco," she panted, and the targets disappeared, sucked into non-being.

Wiping her sleeve across her forehead, Hermione let out a tired but pleased sigh and turned to leave the clearing.

It was at that moment that she heard a sharp crack directly behind her.