Digital Quill :: Fiction with Flair

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Harry Potter
It Started With a Book by Shiv5468 [Reviews - 4] [2707 hits]

“His hands passed over her body, generating electricity wherever they passed, until they reached her feminine core. She was writhing beneath him. Her breaths were coming fast and heavy; she was panting with desire. His cock was hard and throbbing, wanting nothing more than to sink into the nest of hair between her thighs.”

“Good God,” said Minerva, “where do these people get their silly ideas?”

Hermione looked up in some amusement from the book she had been reading aloud. “I don’t know. I do wonder why they are always writhing. What is writhing anyway? I mean, we all know it involves wriggling around but at what point does a wriggle become a writhe? Or is it the way that you wriggle? It sounds to me like she is having some sort of epileptic fit. And asthma. She needs a Mediwitch, not a third rate shag.”

“As good as that?” Minerva replied.

“And what is a feminine core?” continued Hermione.

“Goodness only knows. The more pressing question, if you’ll pardon the pun, is what on earth is the silly man doing pushing his hard, throbbing cock into her pubic hair anyway? Has he got lost?”

“Minerva, he’s a man, of course he got lost. I expect he thinks a clitoris is a climbing plant.”

They both giggled together.

Hermione had never imagined when she was a student that Professor McGonagall had a sense of humour at all, let alone one quite so earthy. Whether it was a change in her perspective or because the pressures of the war had passed, she had discovered that Minerva could be relied upon for a caustic assessment of her colleague’s personalities, the failings of the Ministry for Magic or a character assassination of their charges. They would often be found chatting together in the staff room and the other professors had learned to give them with a wide berth.

It was a free period for both of them and they had the staff room to themselves. Hermione was treating Minerva to a recitation from a particularly racy book she had confiscated during Charms earlier that morning. Hermione approved of reading in general, but not pap like this and certainly not in one of her lessons.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with a bit of Romance,” sighed Minerva, “done properly of course. Something with a bit of style and flair, not this heaving bosoms and throbbing bits. A bit of excitement like that in your life would do you the world of good. You’re too young to be trapped in a castle with old farts.”

“Minerva!” Hermione replied in horror, “You sound just like my mother. Anyway, you’re not an old fart.”

“I wasn’t thinking of me, I was thinking of Albus and Flitwick.”

“Of course.” They both smiled.

Minerva paused for a moment, pondering how best to raise the subject, before charging on, “I always thought that you and Severus would be well suited, you know. He always struck me as a man who knew what was what, and where to find a clematis. You know all those rumours about Slytherins being sexy? Maybe they are true, although I have never found anything particularly attractive about Crabbe and Goyle whether senior or junior. Still, why don’t you pounce on him one evening, drag him back to the dungeons and shag the living daylights out of him? Show him what a Gryffindor can do!”

“Minerva!” Hermione was even more horrified.

“Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Well,” she said reluctantly, quickly scanning the staff room to make sure they were alone. “It has crossed my mind.”

Minerva sat bolt upright. “I knew it,” she said triumphantly. “I knew it. I saw those sultry looks you were giving him at the last staff meeting. And? And? Tell Aunty Minerva everything.”

“You may have seen them; he didn’t. Either that, or, more likely, he isn’t interested.”

“Good god girl, how can he fail to be interested?”

“Well, there is that small problem …”

“Being muggle born, don’t be silly, Severus wouldn’t give a damn about that. He got that particular insanity out of his system a long time ago.”

“No, not that. I meant being a Gryffindor.”

“Oh, well, I can see that would be a problem. There he is, being seduced by an attractive, intelligent witch; he’s just getting ready to surrender to the intoxicating rapture and then he thinks, no, I mustn’t, she’s a Gryffindor. Don’t be silly. It’s much more likely he spent the staff meeting wondering what he had spilled down the front of his robes. He’s not very good at picking up those sorts of cues, bless him.

“I remember after the War, when we all had to go to those silly parties at the Ministry, he was surrounded by Witches wanting to get to know him a lot better, if only on a short-term basis but he never noticed. Sometimes, I despair of ever seeing that young man settled. If you take my advice, if you really want to get his attention you will have to do something drastic.”

“Like what? Should I turn up in his rooms with no clothes on?” Hermione asked sarcastically.

“If necessary,” Minerva said robustly.

“I can see that going well. I could crawl along the floor naked begging him to take me, take me, and all he would say is ‘I don’t know quite where you want me to take you Miss Granger, but you certainly don’t appear to be dressed for travelling’. Then he would try and take points off Gryffindor, for being improperly dressed.”

Minerva cackled. “You’re right, of course. It’s such a shame. I’m sure you would get on well together, and not just in bed.”

“I’ve tried talking to him at dinner – nothing. I’ve tried talking to him in the staff room – he just scuttled back to his dungeons. I’ve even suggested going out for a drink to Hogsmeade, but he just sneered and said he was busy. No one can say I haven’t tried. He just isn’t interested, Minerva.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong dear, he’s just shy.”

Hermione snorted, but whatever she was going to say in reply was interrupted by the sound of a bell in the distance.

“Oops, time for the next class,” said Minerva and the pair of them hurried off in a swirl of skirts and robes. In their haste, the book was left behind.

A few minutes later, Professor Snape emerged from the wing back chair he had been sitting in, hidden from view from the rest of the common room, and where he had been listening to the conversation with some interest.

He stood staring into the middle distance for some time, then thoughtfully pocketed the book and headed off to his class.

Severus Snape was almost late for the start of double Potions. He could feel the book resting against his hip nudging at him as he strode along to his class. He stepped through the door to the classroom and absent-mindedly started writing some ingredients up on the blackboard.

The chalk hesitated.

Miss Granger was apparently attracted to him.

He would have suspected some elaborate joke but she and Minerva had had no idea he was in the room. Minerva had been right; he had never noticed Hermione watching him at the last Staff Meeting. He had been too busy trying to stay awake. It was fatal to give Albus the faintest hint that you weren’t paying attention to his every word, or you would suddenly realise that you had been roped in to some pet project. He still had a nervous twitch that appeared whenever the phrase ‘exchange student’ was mentioned.

Abruptly he scrubbed out what he had written.

“Today you will be writing an essay on the uses of Mandrake root in potions under exam conditions. It will be useful practice for you, judging by the last set of scrawls you submitted to me under the guise of homework. You have two hours.”

The noise of satchels being hastily opened and papers being abstracted quickly faded, and soon all that could be heard was the faint scratching of 30 quills being propelled across parchment.

He surreptitiously slipped the book from his pocket. He carefully cast a charm to disguise the title of the book and flicked idly through the pages. Minerva had been wrong though, to think that he had never noticed those witches who had suddenly found him so attractive. They simply hadn’t interested him. They were silly, empty-headed fools; vapid and flighty. Nor he could help reflecting bitterly on quite how sudden their volte face had been. Where had they been during the dark and difficult years, when a little feminine company might have been welcome?

At school most probably, looking at their ages.

He had never really thought of himself in connection with Romance, but neither had he found the concept of mindless gratification particularly interesting. He had seen enough of that in his time. ‘The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action’ and all that.

He had consoled himself with the thought that whilst his opportunities had been few and far between, they had at least been based on honesty and mutual respect. Unlike his fellows he had never resorted to commercial arrangements, nor to false protestations of an affection he did not, and thought he could not, feel.

Hermione, though, could never be described as silly or empty-headed. He had his doubts about Minerva, but she was in general quite level-headed. Yet the pair of them seemed to think that Romance was important, and even more strangely seemed to connect the concept to him.

He opened the book that they had been pouring over, and selected a page at random.

“Sebastian was an imposing figure. He stood taller than the rest of the men in the ballroom. His coat was of an impeccable fit and his breeches were moulded to his figure showing his virile thighs to best effect.”

Good grief. If his breeches were that tight, it wouldn’t be all he was showing.

Although Severus couldn’t quite see the relevance of romance to his life, he did think that he was likely to make a favourable impression with his clothes. It couldn’t be denied that he did have a very well cut jacket. It was his one extravagance: spending the time, the effort and the money to make sure that he had the best quality possible.

But he certainly had no intention of wearing trousers so tight that he would be unable to sit down comfortably, even if it would attract the attentions of a certain young witch. He had some recollection of a periodical called PlayWitch Monthly which had approached him with a view to … well a view – but this was ridiculous. His privates would remain that – private.

He had heard that the modern witch was more forthright about these things than has been the case in his youth. He was in two minds as to whether he approved. Certainly it was difficult to misinterpret a young lady when she asked if he was up for a shag, but some of the mystery seemed to have gone out of the whole process. On the other hand, he and Lucius had originally learned the art of Legilimency in an attempt to work out precisely what was going on in the minds of the women they approached. It was either that or learn the counter-Hex for removed testicles.

What else could he glean from this book?

“His eyes were dark, smouldering pools which seemed to bore into her very soul.”

He glared at people a lot. Did that count as boring into someone’s very soul? He doubted it. Why was staring at someone attractive anyway? Not to mention that Legilimency would have a superior effect without being quite so obvious.

He resolved to practice in front of a mirror this evening, to see if he could produce dark, smouldering pools. Perhaps there was an effect to be gained that was a little more subtle than the outright expression of hostility and dominance he usually favoured. He had heard that some witches were ‘in to that sort of thing’, but he could hardly suppose Miss Granger was one of their number.

He idly flicked over a couple of pages, and his eyes were transfixed. Bloody hell. Witches certainly were more forthright these days. This had been confiscated from a child at Hogwarts? He looked up at the industrious students in horror. These seething masses of hormones were reading things like this, and in class too! He shuddered. Perhaps a quick word with Madam Pomfrey would be in order about adding a suitable potion to the children’s water supply.

“Sharp delight was what she knew as his hands, hard and knowing, possessed her, tracing every curve, every soft mound. One hand slid beneath her waist, then slid lower to cup her bottom. Strong fingers kneaded, caressed, and sweet fever spread, pooling in her belly, dewing her skin. The hand slid lower, tracing the long curve of the back of her thigh all the way to her knee, then slid to the front, reversing direction. To her hip, to that sensitive join where thigh met torso. One finger, gently, insistently, stroked downward along the crease – she shuddered, suddenly desperate for breath.

And then he was parting her thighs, gently but firmly spreading them to lavish soothing caresses along the sensitive inner faces. His lips had gentled on hers, allowing her to focus on each touch, each searing response. On the excitement, the frantic, barely reined passion that had both of them in its grip.”

No matter how much you sneered at the grammar – dreadful – or the stupidity of the description – you would think his hands had been greased the way they kept sliding around the poor woman’s body – it seemed he had a lot to live up to.

He sighed.

And wasn’t there something about gardening as well?

The modern witch may well be more forthright, but they were still a bloody mystery.

The end of the lesson crept up on Severus. He had spent nearly two hours reading the book and thinking about the problem of Miss Granger but he was no closer to finding a solution. The children filed past him dutifully, handing in their scrolls, before hurrying off to their next lesson. His attention abruptly focussed on Miss Saker’s desk. She had the latest copy of Witches’ Weekly half falling out of her satchel. There, in bright pink letters, the words ‘What Every Witch Wants in a Man’ was emblazoned.

That was what he wanted: an insight into the mind of a woman. Although it was odd, that information that was so obviously useful to the male of the species should be found hidden away in a Witches’ magazine. Mind you, he had long suspected that there was some feminine conspiracy on hand to keep these things a secret. Why else would a simple request for information as to what was wrong with a female would be met with the words most likely to frighten the average Wizard: “Well, if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you!” The Wizard then being expected to embark on a combination of a guessing game and confession of sins plucked out of the air entirely at random. Surely, the simple solution would be to simply state what was wrong in a calm and sensible manner, and then accept the proffered apology in the spirit it was made?

Well, now the conspiracy would be broken. He confiscated the magazine immediately on the grounds that she had been reading it in class. From the lack of outrage that greeted his appropriation of the item, he rather suspected that this was true. He made a mental note to keep a better eye on Miss Saker in class in future.

He was grateful not to be caught carrying the magazine back to his rooms. He had a few hours before dinner, and he intended to spend them profitably. He settled at his desk and embarked on the task of understanding the female psyche.

In methodical fashion he had taken notes – according to the magazine flowers were good, chocolates were good, compliments were good. He read descriptions of the dark brooding hero in the novel, and had spent several minutes in front of the mirror considering whether he brooded. He had decided wryly, that in poor light and with a charitable viewer brooding was just about achievable. Overall, it was probably fortunate that candlelit dinners were considered romantic.

Severus was surprised to find that romance was not beyond his reach. He may lack experience in the field but there seemed to be an identifiable formula that he could work to, and that was that. Doubtless there were all sorts of arcane rituals that the more advanced practitioner could put into effect, but the basics were easy enough. It was when it came to sex that he felt almost completely at a loss. Things had certainly moved on from his adolescence, when a kiss and a grope was looked on as something of an achievement, and being in the same bed with a naked lady counted as the height of sophistication.

The novel was graphic in its descriptions of modern sex, but based on his admittedly limited experience he didn’t think it was very realistic. It seemed to have become altogether more athletic, and to last for hours. It was a lot to live up to.

He stuck out his tongue.

He was aware that some men were concerned about the size of their equipment, but usually their anxiety focussed on the trouser department. Judging from this book, they should rather be worrying whether they could touch the tip of their nose with their tongue. He could; but whether this was because he was particularly well-endowed in the nose or tongue department he couldn’t tell. Nor could he work out a way of dropping this fact subtly into the conversation, nor, indeed, how to demonstrate the fact. He would get some very strange looks if he tried licking his nose at the breakfast table. Such demonstrations were necessary it appeared, as men were, again according to the magazine, notorious for exaggerating their equipment, abilities, and the size of their bank vaults.

Not that the magazine seemed to be entirely reliable.

He was fairly certain that if he tried any of the seduction techniques employed in the book that he would be sporting a black eye at the very least. Only a fool would try pinning a woman armed with a wand up against a wall and forcing their tongue down her throat. Why exactly would that be considered attractive anyway? It was hardly subtle, or indeed comfortable. Even assuming that the young lady was receptive to that sort of approach, which he doubted, how then was the transfer to private chambers and thence to bed to be managed without any awkwardness?

He felt a faint surge of resentment, why was it always the man who had to take the lead? Why couldn’t he just lie back and let her do the hard work? He just hoped she would be gentle with him.

He was idly flicking over the pages of the magazine, when his attention was suddenly caught by an article: “The Rules, or How to Attract the Wizard of your Dreams.” He read on with interest; so, there were rules after all. How typically devious to find that one half of the human race were conducting their lives in accordance with a set of rules, but not allowing the other half - the poor, confused bastards - in on the secret. He had often thought that all women should be sorted into Slytherin. Thank god they weren’t! They were hard enough to deal with as it stood; they hardly needed to have their skills honed through seven years in the Snake’s den.

He snorted and began to read.

After a few minutes, he realised that the theory behind the Rules was quite simple: keep the object of your affections guessing. All that obfuscation and mystery was deliberate, as he had always suspected.

It seemed to him that whilst the article was aimed exclusively at women, its application could be much broader. These Rules were designed to make sure that a pursuer didn’t lose interest half way through the chase and find another, easier target. Contrary to the usual order of things, Miss Granger was the pursuer; he was the pursued. They could equally well be used by him to tease and encourage Miss Granger, before finally allowing her to bring him to bay, as it were.

He didn’t expect flowers, though chocolates would be nice, as would compliments. He indulged in a little fantasy of Miss Granger complimenting him on the cut of his robes, or the masterly way he conducted classes or wielded a pestle, before presenting him with a gift-wrapped box of Honeyduke’s finest. And then, and then, and then ………

Severus felt much more confident now: he had a plan.

Hermione and Minerva were doing some plotting of their own. If longing looks, to the point of practically drooling, were not enough to attract his attention, then more drastic measures would have to be employed. Minerva was an advocate of the direct approach. She was all in favour of pinning him to a wall and snogging him senseless. Hermione thought that this was a silly idea. As she pointed out, he was far too tall for that to be effective. At best, all she would end up snogging would be his chin.

Minerva had then moved on to suggesting slipping Severus a Lust Potion – “there’s no doubt that he wants you, dear; he’s just a little nervous around women” – strip wizard’s chess – “whether you win or you lose, you win!” – enchanted mistletoe – “who cares that it’s midsummer?” – or simply chaining him to the bed – “I saw that look in your eyes, you were definitely tempted by that suggestion!”

She was indeed tempted by the last suggestion but not, she felt, on a first date. She thought long and hard about the best way to approach Severus. She wanted something subtle, that would allow her to get him alone, so that she could employ the less-than-subtle tactics that were obviously going to be needed.

“Wizard’s chess it is,” she announced. Minerva blinked.

“I was just joking,” she said cautiously. “He’s never go for the strip chess, you know!”

Hermione looked at her with exasperation. “Who said anything about strip chess? I simply thought that I would ask Severus for a game of chess one evening. It’s the perfect opportunity to spend time together; a game could last hours.”

“Not the way you play,” Minerva smiled.

Hermione smiled back. “I really wouldn’t judge my abilities on any games I played with Ron. He is a shockingly bad loser, you know.”

Minerva’s smile broadened. “It’s a shame you won’t be playing strip chess then, because I don’t think that Severus knows that. You could really take advantage of him.”

“I will, Minerva. I will, don’t worry; one way or another.”

They grinned at each other, and then headed off to dinner.

Hermione managed to secure a seat next to Severus at dinner as usual. There wasn’t a lot of competition; there was very much a suggestion that the seat was hers as the most junior teacher present until she had worked her passage or a new teacher joined the staff.

DADA didn’t count.

There was universal agreement that the new DADA teacher had to be shielded from Severus in a vain attempt to ensure that someone would make it into a second year. The present incumbent was rather reminiscent of Professor Quirrell in his twitching nervousness although mercifully free of the turban. She and Minerva had been running a book on how long he would last. Severus had wagered ten galleons that the man would last the full year. “At least that way,” he had said, “if he lasts the full year, I’ll be in funds to go out and get very seriously drunk.” He was only half-joking.

Hermione was mildly surprised when Severus returned her softly spoken greeting; he tended to be somewhat taciturn on Mondays. She decided to press her luck and attempt to strike up a conversation. Sometimes, if classes hadn’t been too annoying, he would talk to her. Usually though, he would hide behind his hair and refuse to communicate. He was at his most approachable on Friday’s, with two whole days of freedom to look forward to, but she wasn’t going to wait that long if she could help it. She wanted to strike while the iron was hot, her self-belief was high, and frankly she was just too damned impatient.

Gyrffindor impetuousness seemed to be winning the day though, as Severus quietly chatted to her about his day.

“Young Blenkinsop managed to get himself another three Nevilles today,” he said. “A more stupid boy it would be hard to find. He was clearly told to put three ounces of bubotuber pus in 5 minutes after the boomslang skin, and what does he do? He puts five ounces in, three minutes afterwards. I am told his nose will grow back, but Poppy isn’t pleased. Why she thinks it is my fault the child can’t follow simple instructions I will never know.”

Hermione had been shocked on her first day at Hogwarts to see a large board up on the wall in the staff room, with the legend ‘Nevilles’ at the top. Various children’s names were listed down the side, and a black line tracked its way from the left hand side towards the right hand side, stopping at various points along its way for each child.

“What’s that?” she had asked Minerva, pointing to the Board.

Minerva looked sheepish for a moment, and then explained. “You remember how incompetent Neville was?”

Hermione nodded reluctantly; she could hardly pretend he wasn’t, no matter how fond of him she was.

“Well, it’s something we invented during his time at Hogwarts: a little competition. Severus said he was the most useless boy in the school. I said that wasn’t true, because Crabbe and Goyle were even bigger wastes of skin. Albus got tired of us arguing about it, so we set this up. Every time anyone did something really stupid in class, they would get a point or two, and they would show up here. At the end of the year, we were going to add them up, and whoever ‘won’ would be declared the official dunderhead of the school.”

Severus was smirking at this. “Go on, Minerva, tell Miss Granger who won.”

Hermione sighed. “Don’t bother, I can imagine.”

Minerva sighed as well. “Neville won, of course and I paid up like a good loser.” The other teachers snorted at that. “All right then,” she allowed, “I paid up with a bloody bad grace. At the beginning of the next year, I challenged Severus to a re-match and so the annual Neville awards were born.”

“Did he win every year?” Hermione asked.

“No. In his seventh year Crabbe won.” Minerva smiled at the memory. “Double or quits that year, wasn’t it Severus?”

“Indeed, Minerva,” he replied silkily, “which didn’t even being to outweigh my winnings from the previous six years.”

Minerva looked daggers at him.

“So it continued after Neville left?” said Hermione.

“Yes,” said Severus. “We turned it into a sweepstake. Everyone pays ten galleons to pick a name out of a hat at the beginning of the year, and whoever gets the child with the most Nevilles scoops the pool. Mind you, you normally end up spending it at the end of year celebration down at the Three Broomsticks, but there’s a little left. Usually there’s just enough to buy you a new book, or some other little treat. We found it made teaching blockheads a little more bearable.”

“Of course,” Minerva said darkly, “some people began to cheat.”

“Professor Snape fiddled the points did he?” asked Hermione pointedly.

Minerva laughed. “We got that little problem sorted out in the first year. If you don’t agree with the points awarded, you can appeal. Three of the rest of us get together and look at the incident, and we can overturn the points. The threat of that was enough to keep Severus on the straight and narrow. Mostly, anyway. By the end of the year he will try and award Nevilles to students for breathing too loudly, having too dark a hair colour on a Monday morning, and on one memorable occasion, for being cheerful in a potions class.”

“That has nothing to do with trying to win,” Severus said, “And everything to do with running out of patience with the little dunderheads.”

Hermione thought that being cheerful in potions deserved an Order of Merlin rather than a Neville. “It’s a pity you couldn’t do that for House points as well,” she commented.

“Minerva normally finds a way to slip annoying Gryffindors points, if she feels particularly hard done to,” sneered Severus. “And, for your information Miss Granger, the cheat in question wasn’t me, but Albus.”

“Albus!” she said in surprise.

“Oh, yes,” said Minerva in the same dark tones as before. “Originally we drew the names out of the Sorting Hat. We caught him bribing the Hat to give him who It thought was the best candidate each year. We never did find out what he was using to bribe It with; probably best not to find out, the mind boggles.”

So Hermione had paid her ten galleons and drawn her name out of the hat – Albert Blenkinsop. She had felt a little guilty about betraying Neville in this way, but it was her first year teaching and she didn’t want to cause trouble over something that was essentially harmless. She noticed that when Dumbledore reached in for a name, Minerva slapped his hand; apparently he was permanently disqualified.

Young Blenkinsop was the present front runner, and Hermione was rather smug about it. She looked to be on a certainty. Severus could tell that she was pleased to hear he had been giving out Nevilles to her candidate. “It’s such a pity he’s in Gryffindor; I was obliged to deduct ten house points as well.”

Hermione flinched. Points deduction was still conducted along such partisan lines that it made the Millwall – West Ham derby look tame in comparison “You really are a bastard, Severus. Couldn’t you have allowed me to gloat for a little longer?”

He couldn’t smile in public, that would ruin his reputation, but there was a minute twitch of his lips that wouldn’t be spotted by the children sitting below them.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, patently not sorry at all. “How can I ever make it up to you?” He gave her the opening deliberately and waited to see what she made of it. He was surprised to see a very sultry look directed at him, and that she appeared to be considering some very advanced apologies indeed. Miss Granger was definitely letching after him, he realised with intense satisfaction, and he waited with interest to see what she would propose.

“Perhaps a game of Wizard’s chess?” she suggested.

He thought about the Rules. He could accept her suggestion, but he ought not to be too easy. So, not tonight, but later in the week…..

“Friday evening?” he replied.

Hermione demurely said that that would be fine, and had to kick Minerva under the table when she started grinning widely. There would be time to celebrate later.

Hopefully.

The week had passed slowly for Hermione, eager as she was for Friday and her date with Professor Snape. The pupils had been surprised to find that their heavy homework schedule from Professor Granger had faded to a thin trickle. She had other things on her mind than sitting around marking the scrolls of idiotic children with nothing in their heads but cotton wool. She was uneasily aware that she was beginning to think like Professor Snape, but it was very hard to retain any enthusiasm for the transmission of knowledge in the face of so many mouth-breathers.

In her spare time she had been working on a spell that would pass the lesson plan to the scrolls of the children without actually engaging the brains of either her or the children, leaving all of them free to pursue more interesting things in classes. In their case it would be thinking about Quidditch, playing silly pranks, and wondering if the girl in the third row fancied them after all.

In her case, it would be pondering on the deep mysteries of the universe, and wondering whether Professor Snape fancied her after all. Mind you, as she remarked to Minerva one evening, she wasn’t sure that Snape didn’t count as one of the great mysteries of the universe.

She had been rather bewildered, but pleased, to find that he seemed to be making an effort to be approachable. Well, approachable by his standards anyway. They sat next to each other at dinner as usual, but instead of glowering at this plate as if it had offended him in some way that he was determined to take personally, perhaps by being the wrong colour, he had been chatty.

She and Minerva had dissected his behaviour over many a glass of port and lemon – strictly evenings only - and could only come to one conclusion: he had finally noticed her interest and was subtly trying to encourage her.

Hermione, so long accustomed to being ignored, had been doubtful at first. She had been inclined to put his increased affability down to a statistical aberration, then had seriously considered the possibility that someone had slipped him a cheering potion, but as time went on she had been driven to the inexorable conclusion: Severus returned her feelings.

Alternatively, as Minerva put it after one too many glasses of port – hang the lemon – “young Snapey is up for a shag: you’re in there my girl.”

Obviously, by dinner on Friday, she and Minerva had planned her strategy with military precision: what to wear, what to say, and what to do. Nothing had been left to chance. Minerva’s increasingly graphic suggestions were beginning to make her feel badly out of her depth, although she did provide several useful ideas. Minerva did have another forty years experience on her, and it seemed like she had been a bit of a goer in her youth. She was certainly an almost inexhaustible fund of information on the most useful strategy to adopt, not to mention providing a beginner’s guide to the best positions to employ to achieve satisfaction.

“On top is always nice for a change, but don’t let the lazy bastard think he can get away with that all the time; make the bugger work for it, that’s my advice. I remember when I first started going out with Albus-” at this point Hermione started to feel a little queasy, and it had nothing to do with the half bottle of port she had consumed, “-he wanted me to go on top all the time. He kept saying he had a back problem; the problem was he wasn’t prepared to put his back into it at all.”

Hermione shuddered but said nothing. She was well aware that most people’s reaction to the news that she wanted to make the beast with two backs with Severus would be to swallow hard to prevent their gorge rising: people in greenhouses and all that. Still, Minerva did seem to dwell on Albus’s inadequacies as a lover with what could only be called loving detail.

When she started outlining her activities with her current beau, Remus, Hermione suddenly realised that she had to be up early in the morning and called a halt to the evening’s reminiscences. She felt like trying to wash her brain out with soapy water; some things should be kept private, and Minerva’s sex life was certainly one of those things.

Minerva had wanted her to wear a low-cut robe; Hermione had countered with the fact that the dungeons were damned cold. She hadn’t expected the observation that this was all to the good, and she was torn between indignation and amusement when Minerva added that it would make her nipples stand out like blind cobbler’s thumbs.

They had compromised; Hermione was wearing a robe that wasn’t particularly low cut but was very clingy. Minerva’s opinion was that this, whilst ostensibly demure, would afford Severus the best opportunity to ‘look her over.’

When she had suggested that Severus might be interested in her personality and not her bra size she was abruptly told not to be an idiot, “Severus has had plenty of time to get to know you, he knows what you’re like, now he just needs to now that you’re interested and that you have great breasts. I tell you Hermione, wave twenty-year-old breasts in front of a forty-year-old man, and I guarantee you, you’ll have his undivided attention all evening.”

Hermione, who had pictured evenings full of intellectual conversation in front of a blazing fire, punctuated by lots of hot sex, was rather dismayed by this simplistic approach to romance. For two pins, she would have called the whole thing off and resigned herself to a life of celibacy.

That militant feeling lasted until she saw Severus at dinner that night. He looked neat and tidy, as always, but there was a faint aroma about him and it wasn’t potions ingredients.

Severus had put on aftershave, or whatever the wizarding equivalent was – wizard’s used a spell to shave. He wasn’t relying on force of personality alone to win her over. Severus-if-you-don’t-like-it-you-can-lump-it-Snape was making an effort; she could hardly refuse to do the same.

Anyway, she could always square it with her feminist principles, and argue that what she was really doing was displaying her assets so that she could (a) win the chess match, and (b) have her wicked way with him, and that therefore she was (c) exploiting his male weaknesses. Which was fine, and acceptable, and not a betrayal of everything she believed in AT ALL.

Severus was uncharacteristically quiet during dinner – or characteristically, depending on your view on his recent personality change. Either he had revealed his true, nicer self to her and was now retreating back into his shell because he was feeling a bit nervous, or, he had put on a thin façade of civility to lure her back to his quarters, and his quota of niceness had been used up for the week.

There was only one way to find out.

She waited until they had reached the final stages of dinner, and Severus was nursing a scalding hot cup of coffee whilst she chased the remnants of her apple crumble round the plate.

“I’m looking forward to our chess game tonight; we are still on for it, aren’t we? You’re not too tired I hope,” she said.

Judging from the considering look Severus threw her, she had managed to invest that simple statement with enough innuendo to get his mind running in the right direction.

“I’m sure I can manage to accommodate you.”

Definitely in the right direction.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like an early night?” she - almost - purred.

“Professor Granger, if I have to stay up all night to give you satisfaction, I will do so.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Severus.”

“Shall we?” he said, and courteously gestured for her to precede him out of the Hall.

Hermione had never had the privilege of entering Severus’s quarters before. As far as she was aware none of his colleagues had ever crossed his threshold, other than Madam Pomfrey when he’d had a particularly nasty bout of flu.

Apparently she’d been sworn to secrecy, and she would merely look mysterious whenever questioned about his rooms. Unkind and bitter souls (Minerva) had alleged that her closed mouth was solely due to a desire to wind up her fellow professionals.

Even if the evening didn’t end the way she hoped – and let’s face it, she thought, it would take a disaster of monumental proportions for her to come away without minimal lip contact – she would at least have the small pleasure of rubbing Poppy’s nose in the fact that her monopoly had been broken.

And she’d been invited in, and hadn’t forced her way past a poorly Severus in a weakened state.

The room was surprisingly pleasant. Obviously, he’d made an effort. She doubted that he’d selected the candles with anything in mind other than decent lighting to play chess – candlelight didn’t have the same romantic connotations for purebloods – but the subtle glow created an intimate atmosphere nonetheless.

She was aware that Severus was looking at her a little anxiously, and that was the moment she knew she’d definitely won. She’d never seen Severus look anything other than gravely serious, sadistically sneering (when deducting house points), seriously miffed (when deducting house points from Slytherin), and on one memorable occasion smiling. He had a nice smile, but you couldn’t go round defeating Dark Lords everyday, just to put a smile on his face.

Perhaps a post-coital Severus smiled?

She hoped so, and she hoped to find out personally. If a post-coital Severus smiled, it was perfectly possible that he could be made to smile at least once a day. Maybe more.

Perhaps she should throw caution to the wind and simply pounce on him, but then, he might not like such a direct approach despite Minerva’s assurances to the contrary. She debated the point so long that the moment was lost, he was courteously holding a chair out from the table for her to sit in, and then started setting up the chessboard.

“White or black?” he asked, sitting opposite her.

“I’ll take white,” she said, smiling warmly at him. “I’m sure you’d feel more comfortable with black.”

He acknowledged the joke with a twitch of the lips, and then battle began.

Hermione realised she had made a mistake almost straight away. After the first few moves, Severus was concentrating on the chessboard and not her at all. He was obviously determined to win. Now according to Minerva she should simply lean forward when moving the chess pieces, possibly with a meaningful look, and Severus Snape would be hers for the asking.

She sighed. She just wasn’t the seductive type.

She turned her attention to the chess board, and decided to give him the trouncing of a lifetime. There was a brisk flurry of moves – a knight exchanged for a bishop, a rook taken by a pawn – and the game was on in earnest. Both of them were taking longer over their moves, eyeing the board, and calculating the possibilities before taking their turn.

Severus was surprised to find that Hermione was a very good chess player. He found himself having to concentrate on the board to make sure that the game wasn’t over in fifteen minutes. That was harder then he had expected, not merely because of her newfound skills, but because of the dress. Every time she leaned forward to get a better view of the board, or to make her move, he could see the swell of her breasts; on one occasion he caught a glimpse of bra, and very nearly moved his knight to entirely the wrong square.

He was sure that the heroes in these damned books would be making witty conversation and wouldn’t be reduced to dry mouthed sweating at the mere glimpse of a piece of flesh and/or underwear.

Still, it appeared to be nice underwear, and one thing had been made clear to him from reading Witches Weekly was that the wearing of nice underwear was Important to Women. It appeared to act as the female equivalent of Firewhiskey and give women Dutch courage to face any tricky situation, or, and he hoped that was the right analysis, was worn on a date to make the woman feel Attractive.

So, on balance, taking all things into consideration, he was tentatively considering the proposition that Hermione was not averse to some kind of relationship with him.

He knew that he was being silly; he’d heard her announce that she was interested in him to Minerva, but this was so unlikely that he couldn’t help but look for circumstantial evidence to bolster this rather bewildering statement. Hermione likes me, he would think; and then he would prod the idea to see if it made any more sense than when he first heard it. He wondered if he would ever feel anything other than surprise at the idea; perhaps, in ten years or so, it would be ‘of course Hermione likes me’.

He snorted.

Hermione looked at him in surprise. “It’s your move,” she said softly, looking at him with her eyes wide. He’d never really noticed before: they weren’t brown, or rather they weren’t solely brown: they had hazel flecks.

Of course, a smooth seducer would say something about them; perhaps quote some poetry, before pouncing on her. He elected to move his bishop to safety, which was just as well, as her next move could have seen him checkmated.

He really needed to concentrate on the game; she’d hardly respect a man she could wipe the floor with at chess - ah, he could see an opening, and if she would just move her queen to there - oh yes, she did as he wanted – it was only a matter of a couple of moves until victory was his.

And so it was; five moves later Hermione was ruefully contemplating the board and conceding defeat. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed the game. He was a skilled player, and, unlike Ron, wouldn’t sulk if he lost. She hoped so anyway, though on her present rate of progress it would be a long time before she found out.

If only she could keep her mind on the game, rather than whether he was interested in taking things further.

“Well,” said Severus, “thank you for that. It’s not often I get to play chess, let alone against such a challenging opponent.”

Oh, was that her cue to leave?

“Perhaps you’d like a glass of wine? And then we could have a re-match; if you’re interested, that is?”

Severus hoped he didn’t sound as, well, hopeful, as he felt; he was trying for studied nonchalance.

“Thank you. That would be very pleasant, on both counts.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” So that blew any chances of studied nonchalance out of the water, and pretty much left him with drivelling idiot. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll hunt out a bottle of something half-way decent.”

And then he bolted.

It was, she reflected, only just short of a disaster. She’d managed to inveigle her way into his rooms, but that was all. There was no indication that he was interested in anything other than a chess match; and she really wasn’t keen on the idea of sweeping the chess pieces aside, sitting on his lap and snogging him into submission.

Well, actually she was dead keen on that, but not so keen on the likely rejection.

He was taking an awfully long time with whatever it was he was up to, surely it didn’t take that long to find a bottle of wine? Idly, she moved to stand by the bookshelves and began to examine them as any bookworm would. He had a rare copy of Trentan, which she wouldn’t mind borrowing; a couple of books so obscure she’d never even heard of; and she couldn’t help but laugh when she caught sight of the Muggle paperback squashed between them.

He too had been confiscating inappropriate reading material from his classes. She smiled; she could just imagine it: the spotting of his prey, the preparatory sneering “What is so interesting that you feel it takes priority over listening to me?”, the flustered girl, the pounce, the removal of the offending book, and the triumphant return to the front of the class holding the item at arm’s length.

He might, if he was feeling particularly annoyed, read a few selected passages to the class.

Her eyes travelled on. Oh a Para…… Oh sod it, who was she kidding; she was dying to know which book it was. Had he read it, she wondered? Had he actually sat down after class with a nice cup of tea and some biscuits and read the book?

Curious, the book looked familiar. She eyed the impossible physical form of the hero, all dark and brooding… her mind drifted away contemplating the dark and brooding man now apparently hiding from her in the other room… hang on. It was the book she’d been discussing with Minerva, the one that had started all this off in the first place.

What a coincidence.

She drew it out of its place, checking to see that Severus wasn’t about to return. She didn’t want to be caught reading anything without his permission, and he’d likely be embarrassed that she’d found the book. An embarrassed Severus would be a bad-tempered Severus, and a bad-tempered Severus would not be receptive to the suggestion that they determine whether some of the more outrageous scenes were physically possible.

She flicked open the cover.

A name was inscribed in the top left hand corner, though why anyone would want to be associated with this pap was a mystery. Marietta Saker. That was the name of the girl she had confiscated the book from; this was the same book, it had to be.

There has to be a simple explanation for this. He found the book in the Common Room after you left and brought it back to his chambers to read. That didn’t sound very likely did it? Which meant, what, that he had been there all the time? That he had listened to her confession about liking him?

And had then started being nice to her, and allowed her to suggest playing chess.

The cunning bastard; she’d thought she was being so clever, so seductive, and he’d been playing games all along.

Better put the book back. She needed time to think about what she was going to do about this.

The book wouldn’t go back in its little space: there was something getting in the way. Frustrated, and worried that Severus would return and catch her red-handed, she pulled at the scrap of paper that was lodged in the space. The book slid home easily now, all she had to do now was push the piece of paper back down the side, and she was safe.

The heading on the paper caught her eye as she was shoving it back: How to Seduce Hermione.

He had a plan.

He actually had a plan; the conniving, sneaky, duplicitous git had a plan. Thank god: he was interested.

She cast a hasty glance over the page: only a fool would turn down the chance to work out what was going on in his mind. She was expecting the usual, something about chess matches being used as a thinly veiled excuse to lure his prey to the dungeons, flowers, chocolates, invitations to dinner, and hopefully satin sheets and the shag of a lifetime.

Apparently not.

It took her a couple of minutes to work it out: there were references to The Rules and she couldn’t place them at first. Then an image of Witch Weekly flashed into her mind – How to Snare your Man. She had, in a weak moment, read them, before deciding that however much she liked Severus, nothing would make her behave like that.

It took another couple of minutes of feeling slightly disgruntled that he would think she would stoop to such tactics before the penny dropped; he was intending to employ these tactics. He intended that she should chase him – metaphorically – all round the castle before eventually allowing her to catch him.

Which was odd, and strangely appealing.

She heard footsteps, and quickly shoved the paper back into the bookcase, moving away to stand at the further end and admire his collection of first edition Potions books. She knew she looked slightly guilty when he came into the room with a bottle of wine and two glasses, but she hoped she it would pass for embarrassment at being caught in the typical bibliophile’s habit of looking at another’s bookshelves.

From his warm chuckle it seemed she’d got away with it.

“So, have you formed any deep insights into my character?” he asked.

“No, but I have found a couple of books I’d like to borrow, if you wouldn’t mind. I know how hard it is to part with them, even for a little while, but I promise to return them unharmed, and not to read them in the bath.”

Severus flinched at the idea of someone taking his precious books into the bath. He was reluctant to part with one of his books, but the strategic advantages couldn’t be overlooked. She had to return the book - that meant another evening in his rooms, if he played his cards right – and would give them a topic of conversation. He was fairly certain that that the Rules of Romance didn’t stipulate that you should make intelligent conversation with your intended partner, but he didn’t see why he should sit through four hours of tedium just for a snog, no matter how nice the underwear.

After all he was a master strategist – see Voldemort, fall of; and Snape, Severus, Order of Merlin (First Class) – therefore he could play around with the Rules if he so chose.

He would have been surprised to find that Hermione was thinking along the same lines. She’d seen the flinch and had empathised; the last time she had lent a book to Ginny, she’d taken it into the bath to read and it had been returned dog-eared and curling at the edges.

It had taken her four weeks of applying charms to return it to its pristine condition and a further two weeks before she had spoken to Ginny again.

Some things were sacred; and if he was prepared to part with a book, she was doing better than she had thought.

Sod Minerva’s advice, she was going to play this her way; it might take longer in the end, but surely the journey would be as interesting as the destination.

So when Severus suggested another game of chess, she smiled and said, “Would you mind awfully if we just talked instead?”

“Erm, well, no. What did you want to talk about?” Severus felt flustered as Hermione sat on the sofa and patted the seat next to her invitingly. He poured a glass of wine, to cover his uncertainty, and then handed it to her.

“Oh, I don’t know… Why don’t you tell me what Figgis did to warrant twenty points deducted in Potions this morning, that should be amusing.”

“Hmmm, let me see what didn’t he do?” He took a seat next to her, trying to judge the closest he could sit without being too personal, and was gratified when she turned slightly towards him and moved a little closer. “There were five points deducted for inadequate shredding of ingredients, five points deducted for melting his cauldron, and ten points for staring at Miss Spleather in an inappropriate manner.”

“Ah, sits the wind in that quarter? I did wonder. I noticed him making puppy eyes at her last week. I only took five points, though.”

“Which explains why he still feels able to allow his concentration to wander in my classes, no doubt.” He tried a faint smile to go with the comment; he didn’t want her to think he was criticising her teaching methods – though he did think she was too lenient with her classes – but rather venturing a joke. Humour was apparently important in a relationship.

She smiled back. “You may be right. I just don’t think I’ve got the presence to carry off a more radical approach to points deduction.”

He blinked. That was a compliment buried in there: she thought he had presence. “I’m sure you’ll find it easier to command the classroom as time goes on,” he offered.

“Perhaps, though I doubt I’ll be able to dominate a room like you do; I don’t have the voice for one.”

She liked his voice, too?

He felt a little like a dog that had been rubbed – just right – behind the ears. It seemed these Rules were working: he’d managed to lure her onto the sofa, and had received two compliments.

He made a mental note to study the Rules again later, to work out what his next move would be, but now he had to think of something to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a prat.

“More wine, Hermione?”

Well, it wasn’t witty and charming, but neither was it foolish.

“Why, thank you Severus. I do like this: it’s very rich and full bodied, just the way I like my wine.”

“It’s one of the last bottles from the Malfoy cellar. It was his one redeeming feature – the ability to choose a decent wine.”

The conversation turned to vintages and vineyards. Hermione’s father was something of a wine buff, so she was able to keep track of the conversation and even make a contribution. It was with something of a shock that she realised that they’d been talking for hours, and that it was well past midnight.

She yawned, unable to hold it back. “Oh, I think it’s time I left.” She rose to her feet and moved towards the door.

“Here,” he said, holding a book out to her. “You nearly forgot this.”

“Thank you, Severus.” He held the door open for her; as she passed she stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

Severus wanted to suggest another date, but the Rules prohibited it. He wanted a day to think about his strategy and his next move, so he contented himself with a simple, “I hope so too, Hermione.”

Both parties went to bed that night thinking that things could have gone better but overall rather pleased with the way things had turned out. Events were moving in the right direction; and Hermione and Severus were both planning to keep it that way.

Minerva was dying for a report of the night’s events. She barely allowed Hermione to take a seat at the breakfast table, before hissing at her, “Well?”

“Well what?” Hermione arranged the eggs in a pleasing pattern on the plate, and contemplated the bacon with a furrowed brow. “I wasn’t aware that you were interested in chess? Do you really want a blow by blow account of the game?”

“Well I’d certainly like to know how long it was before you reached mate,” said Minerva, with as innocent an expression as possible.

Hermione’s hand stilled over the bacon. “Do you know,” she said thoughtfully, “I really can’t remember. I do know that we reached mate, as you put it, on several occasions, but I really can’t remember specific timings. Perhaps next time we should have a stopwatch, just so I can report back to you.”

Minerva spread butter on her toast with unnecessary vigour, and contemplated her reply.
However, she was thwarted in any further attempt to discuss the matter by the arrival of the man himself.

“Good morning, Hermione.”

Minerva was practically trembling with suppressed excitement; it was almost unheard of for Severus to speak to anyone at breakfast, let alone greet someone warmly.

Hermione smiled. “Good morning, Severus.”

“Good morning, Severus,” echoed Minerva mischievously.

Severus studiously ignored her, and reached for some scrambled eggs. There was nothing in The Rules that said he had to be nice to interfering nosy-parkers, therefore Minerva could safely be ignored.

“Minerva was asking about our chess game,” said Hermione.

“I didn’t know she was interested in chess.” Severus considered the addition of sausages to his plate, and then politely offered them to Hermione.

“That’s what I said.” Hermione helped herself to a couple of sausages.

“I’m not remotely interested in chess, as you well know,” Minerva said bitterly. “I just wanted to know which one of you won. It’s a simple question. The fate of the world doesn’t turn on it, so why won’t you give a straight answer to a straight question?”

“Because it’s so very clearly annoying you,” replied Severus. “Which is reason enough in itself.”

“It’s certainly the principle that has governed your behaviour in Staff Meetings, ever since I’ve known you.” Minerva took a sip of tea. “I take it that means you lost,” she added smugly.

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Gryffindor tactics have all the subtlety of a Veela. You’ll have to do better than that Minerva.”

Minerva tsk’d irritably and replaced her cup on her saucer with an audible clatter.

Hermione was amused to notice that Severus was dissecting his sausages as if they were flobberworms. First, a lateral incision, and then, once the sausage was splayed across the plate, it was diced into pieces exactly half an inch in length. She dragged her mind back from contemplating whether he would be that precise in bed, because there was a time and place for that kind of thinking - which was during the next lesson with the children busily reading the set text.

She knew she ought to feel guilty about cheating the children of the full educational experience, but she really wasn’t in the mood to try and bring the text to life. She had far more important things to worry about: bringing a Slytherin to bay wasn’t going to be easy, even if he did want to be caught.

Severus, having finished his breakfast, murmured his farewells and headed off to bring fear and terror into the hearts of his students.

“I don’t know what you see in that man,” Minerva said irritably, once he was out of earshot. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night, or just sit there like the Sphinx?”

“I think it’s the voice,” Hermione said, taking a rhetorical query for a serious question. “Or it might be the hands, I’m not sure.”

“You have got it bad, haven’t you?”

Hermione didn’t deny it, though she thought that there was strong element of the pot calling the kettle black about the whole thing. Minerva had been known to be incredibly vociferous – and detailed – in her admiration of Remus; Hermione was merely indulging in a little mooning over the object of her affection, which was far less traumatising for the other occupants of the castle than a blow by blow account of how Remus was a complete animal in bed. “If you really want to know what went on, I’ll tell you. But not here. It’s a long story.”

“I’ll bring a bottle round after dinner then. But it had better be worth the wait.”

Hermione grinned. “Oh it is, believe me. It’s well worth the wait.”

None of Hermione’s students were destined to receive the full educational experience that day. She would have been touched to realise that her students were actually slightly concerned to find their teacher so distracted.

“You don’t think it’s anything to do with the War do you?” whispered Susan Brinterman to her friend Bartleby Minster.

Bartleby cast a knowing eye over Professor Granger. “I don’t think so. She’s not looking worried precisely.”

“It’s obvious,” put in Charlotte Strangerfield – successor to Pansy Parkinson’s title as Slytherin’s chief bitch - “She’s in lurve.”

Several pairs of eyes looked at Professor Granger and assessed the evidence; the verdict definitely came down in favour of being In Love.

“I wonder who with,” Susan said.

“Well that’s obvious,” Charlotte said scornfully. “Remus Lupin hangs round the school an awful lot for someone who doesn’t teach here. It must be him.”

Bartleby looked very knowing. “Don’t be silly, Lupin’s got the hots for Professor Snape.”

There was silence as the class contemplated the likelihood of Snape and Lupin being an item.

“But they’re always arguing,” said Susan.

“Exactly,” said Bartleby. “It’s suppressed passion, isn’t it? All that bitterness and bad temper covers up their unresolved sexual tension.”

“Well they can’t be going out then, can they?” Sharon Starner (Ravenclaw, and therefore better at gathering gossip, if less likely to spread it) said condescendingly. “If it’s unresolved, then they aren’t shagging, and if they aren’t shagging, then what’s the point of going out?”

Bartleby was a romantic, and didn’t think that this was necessarily the clinching argument. The rest of the class, being rather more earthy, did.

“Anyway,” Sharon continued, “I have it on the best authority that Lupin is knocking off old McGonagall. Filch saw him sneaking out one morning.”

“Ew,” said Bartleby, whose romantic streak did not extend to old persons having sex.

There was another silence as the children excogitated.

“If not Lupin,” said Charlotte, in the tones of someone who had just realised something, but didn’t want to face it full on. “Then who else is there?”

“Well,” said Susan. “Let’s look at it logically. It has to be someone here, as she doesn’t leave the grounds that much. It has to be someone with a pulse, someone who isn’t wrinkly, and probably male.”

Sharon, being quicker on the uptake, had already arrived at the answer without the laborious thought processes. “Snape. She’s only got the hots for Snape.”

“The question is,” Susan said, “does Snape have the hots for her?”

“And if he does,” said Charlotte, “what should we do about it?

The class looked puzzled.

“I mean, what’s in it for us?” she amplified. “Do we want the pair of them happy and too shagged out to pay us any attention, or, do we want them miserable and sulking and ignoring us?”

Bartleby, the aforementioned romantic, was all in favour of giving love a helping hand, for no other reason than the happiness it would bring two lonely souls; the others could see the practical advantages in having a more contented Potions Master, though there was a strong minority in favour of seeing him suffer as much as he had made them suffer in class.

Their speculation was brought to an abrupt halt by Hermione coincidentally recalling what she was there for, and springing a series of nasty question on them; the identity of her amour was forgotten about as they desperately tried to remember what the contents of the chapter on Runic Charms actually said.

Hermione was grateful for the fact that the she was nominated to be Severus’ dinner companion. If she hadn't been, the sudden move to sit next to him would have sounded alarm bells in her colleagues’ head. This way, she was able to pursue her interest him almost entirely disregarded by them; they were far too interested in eating to pay her much attention.

The only person who had any idea of the brewing romance, kept her gimlet gaze firmly on her plate, relying in Hermione’s assurances to tell all, and anxious not to do anything that would startle Severus back into his shell and determined to wrest all the gory details from Hermione later.

Minerva wasn’t to be disappointed, though she was a little surprised when Hermione opened the planning session by referring to The Rules. “Have you read them, Minerva?”

“Good god, no. As if I need that kind of rubbish to keep a man interested,” Minerva said huffily.

Hermione grinned at her. “Don’t be daft. I wasn’t suggesting that you needed to apply them; they’re obviously a pile of dragon dung written for teenagers. I just meant, had you read them, solely for the purposes of sneering and laughing at them.”

“Oh, well in that case, I may have read them. Once. In passing. When I’d confiscated Witches Weekly from some teenage temptress.”

“It appears that Severus has been taking an interest in them,” Hermione said over her shoulder as she rummaged around trying to find a glass for the wine that Minerva had brought with her.

“The Git! Surely he doesn’t think that you’re going to start playing silly buggers like that.” Minerva poured the wine into the proffered glasses, and handed one to Hermione.

Hermione settled herself comfortably in an armchair opposite Minerva and smirked. “You misunderstand. Severus is applying the rules to me, to make sure that I chase him several times round the castle before he gives in.”

Minerva stared at her. “You have got to be joking.”

“Nope.”

“He’s got to be joking then.”

“I think he’s entirely serious. He has a list laid out and everything. He has a plan.”

Minerva raised an eyebrow. “Really. Hmmmm. Well he is a Slytherin. I don’t suppose it should surprise me to find out he has a plan, but really! He should be thanking the fates that you’ve taken a shine to him, instead of playing silly buggers.”

“I think it’s sweet really. He wants a bit of courtship: some flowers, chocolates and candlelit dinners. You were saying it yourself, there’s nothing wrong with a bit of romance.”

Minerva eyed her severely. “You really do have it bad don’t you? He should be romancing you, you daft bint, not the other way round. I suppose you’re going to let him get away with this?”

“Get away with what?” Hermione replied mildly. “It’s not as if he’s tricking me into doing something that I don’t want to.” Minerva was unimpressed by her argument. “Look. Let’s face it, Severus Snape is shy and doesn’t trust people easily – which isn’t bloody surprising – of course he needs to be wooed.”

Minerva wrinkled her nose thoughtfully and silently conceded the point; or at least stopped arguing about it on the basis Hermione was a lost cause. “So what did you have in mind? I can’t imagine that he’d take kindly to a bunch of roses turning up in his rooms.”

“Neither can I. He’s far too fond of blasting the rosebushes to make me think he would appreciate them as a gift.” Hermione smiled at the thought of Severus using a bouquet as target practice. “And that’s half the fun: finding ways to fulfil the terms of The Rules in ways he’ll like, but are completely unexpected. What about flowers of sulphur for instance? Or some other potions ingredient, something that’s linked very specifically to one sort of potion, and so has a hidden message?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a copy of these Rules lying around anywhere, have you?” Minerva asked. “This is going to need careful planning, and I can’t remember all the details.”

“I think you’re sitting on them. They’re probably under that cushion somewhere.”

Minerva scrabbled around behind her, and pulled out a rather dog-eared book. “I see you went for the full paperback edition, rather than the magazine article.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s all I could get. I confiscated it from someone in class. They weren’t reading it I grant you, so it was a bit unfair, but if you can’t be arbitrary and tyrannical in class, when can you be?”

“Staff meetings?” Minerva opened the book to its contents page and started reading it. “They use an awful lot of exclamation marks; that’s not healthy.”

“Literary snob. You’re supposed to be helping me come up with ideas and not criticising the style.”

Minerva gave a sudden crack of laughter. “Oh, I can see why he likes this. Have you seen Rule 3: Be a creature like no other. Severus is there already isn’t he? He’s certainly unique.”

Hermione gazed dreamily into the middle distance. “Oh yes,” she said. “Definitely.”

Minerva shrugged mentally. Hermione was clearly too far gone to be recovered to a sense of proportion, and all you could do was help her on the way and hope that once she’d succeeded that she’d go back to normal. She returned to reading the book, and found the heading for Chapter Four particularly amusing. “Oh my goodness,” she gasped, helpless with laughter. “Have you seen this about bathtime?”

Hermione shook her head. “Enlighten me.”

“Apparently, you’re supposed to sit in the bath surrounded by expensive unguents and oils and chant self-affirming mantras. Can you imagine?”

The dreamy look was back in Hermione’s eyes as she contemplated Severus in the bath. He was taking some of the foam and rubbing it on his chest. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him caressing and stroking, and ... oh yes that was nice… She realised that his lips were moving, and he was saying, "I can hex 99.99% of the population six ways from Sunday."

She gurgled with laughter, and the image of the Potions Master vanished from before her.

Minerva continued, “It’d be something like, ‘I make babies cry with a single glance.’”

“Surely not,” Hermione said, with a grin. “How about ‘I am the Slytherin Sex God.’"

"’Blondes don't do it better. Greasy haired potions masters do’," countered Minerva.

Hermione lobbed a cushion at her. “No, I’ve got it: ‘I am hung like a donkey and shag like a demon.’ Now leave poor Severus alone and let’s get on with the planning."

Minerva was nothing loath; that last comment had brought up a disturbing mental image. She wasn’t sure what was worse, thinking about Severus Snape as a sexual object at all, or the rather disturbing realisation that he wasn’t that bad after all. “Well, as I see it,” she said, “You haven’t a hope in hell of getting anywhere before the third date. So that’s two more Friday night chess games to go. And that’s only if you manage to fit in the prescribed gift giving in the next fortnight.”

“That works out quite well when you think about it,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “That takes us near to the end of term, which means we can get an awful lot of romancing done in the holidays.”

“True. You don’t want Albus getting wind of it. There’s nothing more off-putting than the Headmaster trying to play cupid. You’ll never get anywhere with him leering at you over the dinner table, and arranging for you two to work together on some silly project. I tell you if I hadn't tied Remus to the bed one evening, we would never have got anywhere at all. Silly man.”

It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to Albus or Remus as being silly, but Hermione didn’t enquire further. She had other fish to fry. “I’ve booked the first fortnight of the school holidays in a villa somewhere in Tuscany. We can always Apparate there for a bit. Get some peace and quiet, a nice bit of Italian food, and the wine’s supposed to be very good.”

Minerva looked doubtful. “Won’t the sun be a bit of a problem? You don’t want a sunburned Snape; he’ll do nothing but whinge.”

Hermione smirked. “I don’t think sun will be a problem at all.”

“Erm, yes, because you can get sunburn potions and Severus is a Potions Master so he’ll know all about that,” said Minerva hurriedly, skating over the issue of marathon shagging sessions with aplomb. Really, it was shocking the way the younger generation felt so free to talk about things that should be kept private.

“That’s right, Minerva,” Hermione said kindly. She waited until Minerva had a mouthful of wine before adding, “And, of course, I don’t plan on letting him out of bed.”

Minerva manfully retained the wine, though it was a close run thing. “I’ll do you a deal, Miss Granger,” she said in her best teacher’s voice. “You don’t give me the sordid details, and I’ll help you pin young Snapey down. Any more talk like that, and you’re on your own.”

“Deal.”

They raised their glasses in a toast to silence, and then began the serious business of plotting Severus’ downfall.

A/N: Thanks to elisa0984 for the suggestions on The Rules.

Usually Hermione spent her evenings after dinner tucked up in bed with a good book. Sometimes, when the children had been particularly irritating, she chose a bad book instead, or at least one that wouldn’t be hard work. The children were an immensely useful source of trashy fiction, and saved her both the embarrassment and the expense of purchasing them herself.

Lately her reading had taken a turn for the serious and she had been spending her time reading books on Herbology.

She had to find a way to give Serverus flowers, without simply turning up on his doorstep one evening with a bunch of chrysanthemums. She had always been an over-achiever, so she wasn’t content to settle for a mere tick on the list by the item ‘Flowers’. She wanted something dramatic, but not flashy, something intriguing that would hold his attention in between chess dates.

She hadn’t got a clue.

Romance, as practised by the boys, was simply a question of remembering to present the object of their affections with flowers three or four times a year: valentines, birthdays, anniversaries, and when they were about to ask for a really big favour. It wasn’t that they didn’t love their girlfriends, but they did feel embarrassed about showing it in anything other than an offhand, oh here’s a bunch of flowers I picked up earlier, sort of way.

It was easy for them: they knew what was expected of them and behaved accordingly.

She was breaking new ground here, and not doing it very well.

Everything she looked at was disastrous. What about rose tea, she had thought? That was a sly way of getting him some flowers. Unfortunately, it was used for hangovers, as a gentle laxative, or to treat mild depression. Buying him some tea would amount to calling him a miserable, dipsomaniac, and a constipated, miserable, dipsomaniac at that.

Rose oil then?

That was used as a treatment for skin complaints and what was delicately referred to as women’s complaints. Whilst PMS would provide some sort of excuse for his bad temper, it would only apply for one week in four, and he was clearly irritable all the month round. And he was a man, of course.

So, none of that was looking very useful, and Hermione was seriously contemplating turning up for their next chess date with a bunch of flowers in hand, and trying to convince him that she’d just picked them up from somewhere, and ooh would he like them? As if that wouldn’t start him wondering what she was playing at, and then remembering that he’d caught her by the bookcase, and linking the two.

It wouldn’t be disastrous, but it would bring a premature end to their game.

By Friday lunchtime, Hermione was standing in the Teacher’s Garden glaring at the roses. By this time, she had come to hate the damned things. Why did they have to be so annoying? Oh, they were pretty enough, and the obvious choice for Romance, but every practical use for them involved some sort of socially undesirable condition.

She sighed. It was always aggravating when things didn’t go your way.

They were pretty though, she thought, putting a finger out to touch one of the delicate blooms. It was pink, and blowsy, but disappointingly it had no scent at all. It had obviously been bred for looks at the expense of every other quality that made a rose a rose. It was fairly typical of the world, to value looks over innate qualities, but it would never do to give Severus a rose like this.

What sort of rose would be best then?

A black rose would be perfect, apart from the slight problem that there was no such thing. It was only a slight problem, because she could probably transfigure a rose into something darker, but she was reluctant to do that. Giving him something false, something that betrayed its true nature, seemed ominous somehow. Perhaps a really, really dark rose would do.

Whoever had planted the garden had liked their roses. There were pink roses, and white roses, and orange roses, even stripy roses, but they were all at the lighter end of the spectrum. It was only after half an hour scrabbling around in the undergrowth that she managed to find one that was suitably austere – it was small and understated, in the deepest red, and had a wonderful fragrance.

There were only a few blooms, low down on the bush, and she had to kneel down to be able to reach them at all. She carefully severed a half-open bud, and sat back on her heels. This would do nicely; no one could argue that a rose that was so determined to hide away wasn’t perfectly emblematic of Severus.

“Hermione, are you alright?” asked Severus from behind her, as if summoned by her merely thinking his name. She squawked in surprise, and twisted round to see him.

“Good god, you made me jump,” she said, hand on her racing heart, very much aware of how foolish she looked.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “But I didn’t see you at lunch, and I was concerned.”

“That was very thoughtful of you,” she said. It was more than thoughtful: it was encouraging, and sweet, though she knew better than to say so. Calling Severus sweet would be like a red rag to a bull, and would provoke points deduction and sarcasm.

“Yes… well… I was wondering whether you were still available for chess this evening?” He looked faintly uncomfortable, as if he’d intended to ask something completely different and was nonplussed to find those words coming out of his mouth.

“Oh, of course. I’m fine. I … er… I was just … I wanted a bit of fresh air,” she said lamely. “The class before lunch was being particularly aggravating, and I thought that some peace and quiet before facing the next lot would be a good idea. And then I noticed this lovely rose and erm...”

He offered her his hand, and helped her to her feet. She busied herself brushing the non-existent dirt from her robes to give her time to think of something to say.

He was looking at her quizzically. “Fresh air? Don’t you know how dangerous that can be, Hermione? I make it a rule to avoid it as much as possible.”

“I had noticed,” she replied dryly. “I think it’s worth the risk though - it’s quite pleasant out here.”

“There aren’t any children here, I grant you, which can only be an improvement on the rest of Hogwarts,” he said with a faint smile. “I come here sometimes to harvest the roses for potions ingredients. Fresh ingredients are always the best, and I find that most the rose petals supplied by most apothecaries have lost their potency to an unacceptable level by the time they reach us here, so I’ve always preferred to collect my own. I don’t think I’ve ever really taken the time to simply look at the flowers.”

“Perhaps you’d care to join me,” she asked. “There’s another fifteen minutes before we have to join the fray, and I was going to spend them sitting on that bench and attempting to reach a state of utter peace that would take me through the afternoon.”

“I’m not sure that anything would help with the rank tedium of teaching the first years not to put their fingers in their cauldrons,” he replied. “But I would be willing to make the experiment.”

Hermione smiled. Once you translated that from Snape to English, that was practically a gushing display of affection.

The seat was wooden and spindly, with its back to the warm red brick, and sandwiched between two rose bushes that scented the air. The sun, now at its noon high, was warm on their faces, and a gentle breeze stirred the bushes into life. It almost sounded like they were whispering to themselves.

Hermione and Severus sat side by side, almost but not quite touching. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his thigh next to hers, and the way that his hand could, if he moved just a little closer, almost touch hers. They didn’t speak, but the silence was companionable rather than awkward.

Some words of a poem she had read long ago suddenly sprang into her mind, something about sepulchral statues …. It took her some time to hunt down the quotation, which was being awkward and refusing to be pinned down in her mental library.

Donne perhaps; no, Donne certainly …

And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay ;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day

That was it.

Their tranquillity was only broken by the sound of the clock chiming the hour and summoning them to class. Hermione shook herself free of her reverie, and sighed. “There’s nothing for it, I suppose. It’s back to the grindstone.”

Severus nodded and rose to his feet, courteously waiting for her as she stood up.

Hermione, seizing her chance, and in as offhand a voice as possible, added, “You know it’s a shame to let this little rose go to waste. Why don’t you have it as a buttonhole?”

Surprise, calculation and amusement all flickered across his face, settling on self-congratulation on playing the game so well, and getting his gift of flowers.

She took out her wand and charmed the flower to stay in its present state perpetually. She grasped his lapel and tucked the flower through his buttonhole, and then tapped it to charm it into place. Her hand lingered on his coat, her face tipped up to his. They were so close that he could have kissed her easily, and she felt her pulse leap at the thought of what that would be like.

His hand came up to cover hers in a slight caress, and then turned his lapel to his face so that he could smell the rose. “It’s lovely,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

The sounds of children clattering past on their way to class disturbed them. Severus grimaced, then strode off, leaving her leaning against the pillar with a hand pressed to her thumping heart, ruefully aware of looking like some Victorian damsel, and wondering what this evening would bring.

And what the children would think of Snape wearing a buttonhole to class.

And what did the children think about the buttonhole?

Not much, at least at first.

The next class of First Years didn’t notice the rose at all. They were too busy watching their cauldrons and worrying about making a mistake to look up.

They were aware of Snape as a dark shape on the periphery of their vision, but had no desire to make eye contact. They were a class for whom the surface of their desk held an overwhelming interest.

The next – and final – class for the day were Seventh Years. Confident in their abilities, they could afford the luxury of taking an interest in things around them. For them, Potions was a little like war – or goalkeeping – for most of the time stultifying boredom, only occasionally punctuated by heart-stopping terror.

To a seventh year, Snape was a rite of passage they had endured and would soon be able to look back on with amusement if not fondness. They would be able to deal with the petty tyranny of future employers with equanimity – they had survived The Snape, unlike lesser mortals who had been forced out after their Owls.

Charlotte was the first to notice the addition to Snape’s attire.

She had diced her ingredients carefully, which were now simmering in her cauldron in the approved fashion – neither too quickly nor too slowly - but hadn’t achieved quite the right shade of green.

She cast a glance up at the blackboard to check on the ingredients and saw the buttonhole. She was so immersed in her work, and so used to seeing Snape without any adornment, that her brain didn’t register what her eyes had seen for ten minutes or so.

That was a rose, said the eyes.

Nah, replied the brain. That can’t be right.

No, really, the eyes insisted.

This is Snape we are talking about, replied the brain. How likely is it that he’d be wearing a rose? In class?

Take another look, the eyes said, and the brain did so. Not because it expected there to be a flower, but in the hope that the itching feeling behind the eyes would go away once the absence was confirmed.

There it was. It was a small rose, a subtle rose, a dark rose, but it was a rose.

Eyes and brain could both aver that there was indeed a rose and it was indeed attached to Snape, and after that the brain had nothing to contribute.

“Oi, Charlotte,” hissed her neighbour. “Watch out.”

Her attention drawn back to her cauldron, which was on the verge of boiling over, she adjusted the heat and tried to concentrate on her work.

“What on earth has got into you?” said Sharon from behind her, giving her a sharp prod with her wand. “If you don’t watch out, Snape’ll be down on you like a ton of bricks.”

Snape’s head shot up like a lion scenting prey in the long grass, determined to search out the innocent gazelle and rend it limb from limb. “There will be no chattering in my class.”

“Sorry, sir,” replied the two girls, almost in unison.

Snape’s attention was now fixed on the pair, to their obvious discomfort, until a sharp cry of pain from the back of the class distracted him. “Mr Bartleby,” he said, “Much as I appreciate your desire to bring your insignificant little existence to an end, I would be grateful if you could do so in some other teacher’s class. Not only is the paperwork on the death of a pupil onerous, but it makes a dreadful mess, and I will not be happy if I have to spend my valuable time listening to the complaints of Mr Filch on the subject of blood on the floor.”

Professor Snape drew his wand and cast a series of cleaning charms to remove the spilled potion from the floor, desk and pupil.

“Look at Snape,” muttered Charlotte, taking advantage of the disturbance.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Sharon replied, and then the penny dropped. “Good god, is that what I think it is?”

Charlotte nodded.

“Good god,” Sharon said weakly, unable to think of anything more original or pithy to say.

Susan heard their comments, and turned to see what they were looking at. “Eeeek,” she said.

Pupil by pupil, the news passed through the classroom like a wave. Einstein had it wrong – gossip travels faster than the speed of light.

It was fortunate for the class that Severus had half a mind on Bartleby’s mess and the other half on the impending chess game, because if he had realised that his entire class was gaping at him in astonishment, he would have been forced to give out detentions.

With Filch, of course. He had other things to do that evening, than bullying annoying schoolchildren, especially as Miss Granger was coming along nicely.

Severus could be forgiven for being distracted: he was trying to work out whether the Rules allowed him to reward Miss Granger’s wooing by allowing her to pounce on him, and to what extent he could, and should, acquiesce in any pouncing.

He wouldn’t want to seem easy.

Hermione had never thought of Snape as easy, and wouldn’t have thought of him as easy if he had turned up in her bed one evening, stripped naked, and covered in baby oil. He was awkward, difficult, exasperating, oddly attractive, and a bloody mystery, but never easy.

So, whilst she was satisfied that she had managed the first task on the list, she had no expectations for that evening’s chess game other than pleasant company and a challenging match.

This didn’t prevent her from dressing with seduction in mind. If chance favoured the prepared mind, it may also favour the prepared body, which meant perfume, best underwear, and a dress that subtly enhanced her best points.

Minerva would doubtless think that she wasn’t going far enough – and she hoped that Minerva would keep her opinions to herself over the dinner table - but she felt fairly self-conscious as it was. The v-neck dress she had chosen was revealing enough, and seemed to her to put acres of flesh on show. Anything lower would have meant an entire evening worrying about how far she could bend down before her chest fell out. As it was, it was all she could do to sit through dinner without constantly plucking at her neckline and making sure that she was decently covered up.

Hermione already felt extremely self-conscious, as if the whole of the Hall was staring at her, without the added discomfort of sitting next to Sybill who had ousted Minerva from her usual seat.

She was up to something.

Further acquaintance had not let to Hermione revising her unfavourable opinion of the fraud, other than downwards. Trelawney wasn’t merely a fraud, she was a sadistic fraud, who spent her weekends tucked away in her tower sucking on the cooking sherry and deciding what “prophecy” would spread most consternation in the school.

The teachers were impervious to her dire prognostications and greeted her portents with shrugs and rolled eyes, but every year brought her a new crop of students to terrify, and terrify them she did with her tales of death, doom, gloom and despondency. It took the students the bulk of seven years to overcome their fear of Snape, but even the most ardent mouthbreather was immune to Sybill by the end of the first term.

This was a matter of annoyance to Sybill, who felt that Severus was showing her up deliberately.

Consequently there was little love lost between the two, and Sybill’s sudden urge to sit near to Hermione was probably the rough equivalent to moving a pawn out onto the wide expanse of the chessboard and waiting to see what happened next.

Hermione, with all the smug assurance of the queen, was doing what she was supposed to, and protecting her king.

Sybill’s reconnaissance being completed, she made her move. A gasp, a hand to the throat, a death rattle – if only, thought Hermione – and then the oracular pronouncement. “I see dark clouds gathering.”

“The weather does look to be closing in,” Minerva said from the other side of Trelawney. Severus coughed pointedly.

“I meant psychic dark clouds, as you very well know,” snapped Sybill, before making a conscious effort to regain her wistful demeanour. “I can see them, gathering round people at this table.”

“Really,” Hermione said flatly.

“Ohhhhh,” Sybill gasped. “I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid that it may be you, Miss Granger. You and another… I can see a dark figure… a dark man… and there is some dreadful event in store for you.”

“I think she means that you’re going to lose another chess match,” Severus said to Hermione, but pitched to carry.

“The forces of destiny will not be mocked,” Sybill said. “Trouble is brewing, and when it comes, you will rue the day that you scoffed.”

“Yes, Sybill,” Minerva said in tones of infinite patience. “Though, correct me if I’m wrong, didn’t you foretell something equally dire last week? Something about a snare lying in wait for someone?”

“Pomona did trip over a plant in the greenhouses,” Hermione said. “Be fair.”

Sybill muttered something under her breath that seemed to indicate that she was less than appreciative of Hermione’s support.

“That’s true. Good grief,” Minerva clutched at Sybill’s arm, “you don’t mean that Hermione and Severus are going to have to supervise another Hogsmeade weekend, do you? Fate couldn’t be that cruel; surely not.”

Sybill pulled her arm free abruptly, to Minerva’s evident amusement.

“Fate might not, but Albus surely would,” Hermione said.

“Not if he wanted to make it to the end of term with all his limbs intact,” Severus replied darkly.

“I shouldn’t worry, Severus,” Minerva said, offering what comfort she could. “Bearing in mind the events at the last Hogsmeade weekend you were called upon to supervise, only an idiot would think you were suitable to oversee children enjoying themselves.”

“And your point is,” Severus said, very carefully not looking at Albus.

“If you have quite finished mocking the fates,” Sybill interrupted, knowing that the topic of Albus’ sanity could occupy the teachers for hours. “I would remind people of the terrible fate in store for Miss Granger. If I were you, dear, I would settle for an early night and hope that the cloud will pass over in the night.”

Both Hermione and Severus were thinking that an early night sounded like a good idea, and were bitterly regretting the decision to play silly games.

“I know you mean well, Sybill,” Hermione replied. “But we Gryffindors are noted for their courage, so I will be brave, and just have to take my chances. If the fates have something dreadful in store for me, I can’t see how it can be avoided really. Not even by sticking my head under the bedcovers.”

“Indeed,” said Minerva. “I think that’s a very commendable attitude, don’t you Severus?”

“Much as it pains me to admit that anything Gryffindor is commendable, I have to agree,” Severus replied with the faintest of smiles, which deepened into something warmer when he turned to Hermione. . “If you’ve finished your dinner, perhaps we could begin our game?”

Hermione nodded, a little shyly.

Sybill watched them leave with an unpleasant expression that could have soured milk, and grievous bodily harm, if not quite murder, in her heart.

Hermione was feeling more confident about this chess game. She knew that Severus was interested, so she could concentrate all her attention on winning the game rather than worrying about her next move, and been reading up on strategy to increase her chances of winning.

She sat down in what she was coming to think of as her usual chair, and watched him setting out the chess pieces. “I thought,” she said, “that we might make it a little more interesting this time. Perhaps we should play for a forfeit of some sort?”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked, intrigued.

“Nothing too onerous.”

Suspicion made him hesitate. She seemed to be hinting that she would take advantage of him. That was all well and good if that taking advantage consisted of acts of a sexual nature, but what if she had something truly awful in mind like supervising a Hogsmeade weekend? Or sitting next to Albus at meals for a week?

“Unless you’re worried you might lose,” she added.

“Not at all,” he replied. “After all, Sybill has foretold your doom, and we know how reliable she is.”

It was only half way through the game that he realised how truly stupid that comment was. Sybill was indeed living up to her reputation for almost complete inaccuracy, and he was losing. Not badly, but Hermione definitely had the edge.

She’d been practicing, he realised. And she was cheating. Wearing that dress definitely counted as cheating.

He was debating whether to let her win – or at least pretend that he’d let her win, just in case she did win – and allow her to move the real game on a move, when there was a thunderous knocking at the door.

“Bugger!” he said. He rose to his feet, and slipped back into his teacher’s gown. “Is it too much to hope that the little bastards would refrain from killing themselves just as I was about to make the decisive move?”

“You mean you were going to concede defeat?” Hermione asked, smiling at him almost fondly.

Snape didn’t answer her, but opened the door to his rooms with great vigour. “Yes?” he barked.

“I’m sorry sir,” wailed a student. “But there’s been a bit of an accident.”

“And?”

“It’s Felsham, sir. You’d better come and have a look, sir. Quickly, sir.” The lad hopping from foot to foot in his anxiety, and Hermione whether they’d drawn straws to see who came down to pass on the good news.

“I’m sorry, Her – Professor Granger” Severus said, turning back to her. “I’ll have to go and sort this out, and it may take some time.”

Hermione nodded, resigned to a perfectly good seduction opportunity going to waste. Whatever had happened wouldn’t take that long to sort out, but trying to work out which of the fifteen versions of events was the closest to the truth would take several hours at least. It wasn’t as if it were a straight Gryffindor vs Slytherin contest, where the matter could be solved by blaming the most convenient Gryffindor and deducting House Points. This was an entirely Slytherin affair, by the look of it, which meant actually having to work out who was the culprit. House discipline would not survive if one of the little blighters actually managed to get one across Snape.

“Indeed. I shall look forward to picking up where we left off at some stage,” she replied.

Severus obviously wanted to say more, but couldn’t in front of the student, so had to content himself with ushering her from the room and locking the door very carefully behind her.

As Hermione walked back to her room she reflected that Sybill had turned out to be right after all. And if she found out that Sybill had had anything to do with this evening’s events – and she wouldn’t put it past her – then there would be trouble.

The portrait guarding her rooms didn’t appreciate the tone in which she gave the password, but thought better of saying anything about it. Hermione flopped gracelessly down on to her bed, and glared at the nicely wrapped box of chocolates on the bedside table.

Sod it.

She may not be able to have love tonight, but she could certainly have a Strawberry Crème. It would just have to do.

For now.

None of the present children had ever had the privilege of seeing Snape lose his temper. Not properly anyway. They thought they had, but older students could have told them that they’d never experienced anything worse than a little light thunder.

They’d expected their head of house to turn up, utter some withering sarcasm, deduct a few points and give detention to anyone not in Slytherin. That was the way it worked. Occasionally, if someone had been more than usually badly behaved, there would be trips to the headmaster’s office which would result in some additional points deduction and being twinkled at.

What they got was hurricane-force Snape.

Harry could have told them all about it, having been on the receiving end a time or two, but Harry wasn’t here, and the students had dismissed the tales of Snape’s temper as apocryphal.

It was rapidly dawning on the occupants of the Slytherin common room that the stories were nothing less than accurate and not some Gryffindor plot to blacken Snape’s name.

“What is the meaning of this?” he thundered, striding into the room with his robes flaring out behind him. The door had opened automatically, seeing what sort of mood he was in, and was pressed flat against the wall out of the way.

“I’m sorry you had to be troubled, Sir,” began Probsthain, inheritor of Draco Malfoy’s title of teacher’s pet.

“You’re sorry,” snarled Snape. “I was having a perfectly enjoyable evening, before I was interrupted by this! I’ve a good mind to give you all detention until you graduate. I’d make it longer but that would mean enduring your presence more than is desirable.”

“Bud sir,” protested Fulsham.

“But sir, nothing. You should know better by now than to hex your fellow pupils after 6pm. Your teachers like to have some time to themselves after a long day spent trying to force knowledge into your thick skulls, and have no interest in additional contact after hours.”

“Bud, sir, he hexed off by dose,” Fulsham said, determined to bring the full horror of the situation out into the open. Not that it wasn’t obvious what had happened: his nose had sprouted wings and was lying on the floor, with wings a-flutter, attempting to get airborne.

“Then learn to duck. Really, you’ve had four years of the finest defence against the dark arts tuition from the best teachers that the headmaster could find loitering the street in Diagon Alley, and none of them have thought to mention the necessity of ducking?”

“Doh, sir.”

“Well, consider yourself told. Now pick your nose up and take yourself off to see Madam Pomfrey. And remember to grovel at her feet for being so damned inconsiderate.”

There were one or two smiles at Fulsham being told to pick his nose, but only from the boys at the back of the crowd who felt sure that Snape wouldn’t be able to see them.

Fulsham managed to get hold of his nose before it could fly away, and stamped off to the infirmary. It was clear that he was feeling hard done by.

“Who hexed him?” asked Snape, as soon as the door had closed behind the boy.

No one said anything but there was a lot of shuffling of feet.

“No one would like to own up then?”

The boys looked puzzled. Wasn’t that a bit like asking who wanted to commit suicide? Especially with the mood that their Head of House was in.

“At least you have that much sense,” he said. He was pleased to see his House sticking together. There was nothing worse than a sneak. “Right, Probsthain, Smythe and Strenter will all have detention with Filch for a week.”

“But sir,” wailed Strenter. “It wasn’t me, sir.”

“No, Strenter. I expect it wasn’t. However, you will still serve detention. You will serve detention because I expect that you have done something in your school career that deserved detention, even though you thought you’d got away with it. You will serve detention because I can rely on you to make sure whoever the real culprit is suffers. But mostly, Strenter, you will serve detention because I feel like it.”

“That’s not fair, sir,” Strenter complained.

“It isn’t fair. You’re right there. However, this is Slytherin house and not Hufflepuff, and you will behave accordingly. This means that you won’t whine about how life isn’t fair, but you will strive to make sure that the unfairness comes out in your favour in the future. This is what we call a life lesson, Strenter. See that you learn it.”

Severus fixed his prefects with a stern gaze. “I do not want to be disturbed again tonight, or any other night. Are we clear?”

There was a chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ and then he swept out of the room slamming the door shut behind him.

There was silence in the common room for a heartbeat before the recriminations began. It had to be said that the modern generation was nowhere near as suspicious as Draco’s year, and not one of them thought to check that Snape had actually left and wasn’t leaning against the wall in the corridor and eavesdropping by means of a charm.

This was a shame really. Because it did allow him to find out who had started it, and who had hexed off Fulsham’s nose, so that the proper punishment could be meted out in due course.

Fortunately, having obtained the information he needed, he left to return to his quarters, so he didn’t hear the speculation as to why he’d been particularly annoyed to be interrupted when he was spending an evening with Professor Granger.

Severus, having taken his bad temper out on someone, returned to his rooms in a better frame of mind than when he left them. However, the sight of the abandoned chess match and the half-empty wine glass on Hermione’s side of the table, recalled his sense of aggravation.

It just wasn’t bloody fair that they should have been interrupted just when things were going so well. He’d even made his mind up to allow Miss Granger the opportunity to take some liberties with his person, and then they’d been interrupted before he’d had a chance to allow her to manoeuvre him into a vulnerable position.

Damn it. He wanted to be manoeuvred into a vulnerable position. He had to give her a second chance to do so. With no clear plan in mind he decided to go and see Hermione. After all, it was her responsibility to come up with a plan. He was the plottee not the plotter.

His sense of irritation with the world carried him as far as her door. It even carried him through knocking at her door. But, faced with the thirty second wait that felt like thirty aeons, it all leaked away leaving him feeling like a bit of an idiot.

What was he doing coming to see her like this? He was supposed to be playing the long game, and not rushing into things, and not he was on the verge of looking both foolish and desperate.

Only the thought that he would be an even bigger fool if he ran away now kept him where he was. Surely he could think of some pretence for being here so late, and then things could get back on track tomorrow.

It was a lapse, but it was a lapse he could recover from, he told himself firmly.

Hermione opened the door to find a mildly dishevelled Professor Snape who had apparently lost the power of speech. Had he been hexed? Had there been some terrible rebellion in Slytherin House, and he’d been caught in the crossfire? That Charlotte girl looked like trouble, and Probsthain was sly enough for anything.

She was also worried that her fluffy bunny slippers might put him off, and trying to work out how to slip out of them without being obvious.

Severus was surprised to find that Hermione was in her night attire so early in the evening. Admittedly it wasn’t the night attire of his dreams, being rather prosaic and designed for warmth and not sexual attraction. However, it couldn’t be denied that she was naked under it.

He realised that Hermione was always naked under her clothes, but never before had he been so close to her when all there was between her and complete nudity was one thin layer of cotton. It would be so easy to slide a hand under the pyjama jacket just so, and then there would be warm, soft flesh beneath his hand. Perhaps even taut, furled flesh beneath his hands, and then the other hand could move to the buttons, and that flesh could be beneath his lips.

Now was the time to say something incredibly smooth and move back onto the offensive.

Hermione felt increasingly certain that something dreadful had happened. He was obviously in shock. What he needed was a nice cup of tea and a bit of a sit down until he recovered enough to tell her all about it. “Come in,” she said. “You look as if you’ve had a very nasty shock.”

Severus allowed himself to be gently pulled into her room and fussed over. It was, after all, where he wanted to be, and surely he would be able to come up with some sensible reason for being there given a couple of minutes to think.

Five minutes later, he was seated in a chair in front of the fire, with a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, which had given Severus time to recover the use of his brain. Hermione may be naked under her pyjamas but if he didn’t pull himself together then the only bed he would be seeing would be in the locked ward at St Mungo’s.

Hermione had taken the opportunity to toe off her slippers and had tucked her feet beneath her in the armchair. She was waiting to hear what had discomposed Severus so badly. “I take it you managed to deal with the little fracas?” she asked.

“I’ve despatched the victim to the Infirmary, shouted at the rest, and then given random students detention.”

“You know, when I was a student I would have thought that was dreadfully unfair,” she said, peering at him over the rim of the tea cup as she drank.

There was no great disaster then. Which meant that he must have been pining for her after barely an hour apart. If she were Ron or Harry she would have been running around the room chanting ‘result’, and making strange hand gestures.

“Now you know better,” he replied, taking a last bite of the biscuit. “It’s the only way to keep order.”

“True. Would you like another biscuit?”

Severus accepted the biscuit, and was on the point of biting into it when the realisation dawned that it was covered in chocolate.

Well, that was that then.

She’d paid him compliments.

She’d given him flowers.

And now she’d given him chocolate.

He was now entirely available to be taken advantage of, with a clear conscience and his pride intact. Which only left the simple task of how to drop a hint that he was available, short of stripping off his clothes, lying on the hearth rug and inviting her to take him.

How did girls manage in these situations? The Rules had nothing to offer in this situation, clearly regarding men as predatory wolves who needed no encouragement to pounce and who should be kept at arm’s length as much as possible.

“Was there something wrong with the biscuits?” Hermione asked, bringing his attention back to the issue at hand. Whatever girls did in these situations, he didn’t think it included ignoring your companion.

“No. It was very nice. Chocolate has always been my favourite. I was erm just taking the opportunity to savour it.”

He could almost hear the penny drop. Chocolate? Chocolate! She was no doubt running through the list in her mind, just as he had, and coming up with the same answer that he had.

All he need do now was sit back and wait.

Hermione hadn’t expected to accomplish her tasks so quickly, and so hadn’t discussed her end game with Minerva, so she was at a loss to know what to do next. Minerva would no doubt counsel her to leap in him and snog him till he gave in, which was all very well, but what did you do with the tea cups?

Right. First things first – remove the tea cups, and then return to the issue of leaping upon the victim.

She carefully placed her cup on the hearth by her feet, where it should be safe from flailing limbs in case things became energetic, then asked, “Shall I take that for you?”

Severus nodded, swallowed the last of his tea, ran his tongue over his teeth to remove any crumbs, and prepared to surrender his virtue.

As Hermione bent over him to take his cup, her fingers brushed against his. He looked up, and then the cup went crashing to the floor as they finally came together in an almighty rush.

Being experienced persons of the world, they did not bump noses, but managed to tilt their faces in the necessary direction to avoid collision. Having stoked up the tension for several weeks by playing silly games it had to be said that they felt like giddy teenagers as they finally managed to kiss.

At times like that, a certain failure in vocabulary is not only understandable but almost required, and the only sound that could be heard for several minutes were murmurs of names and sounds of breathy encouragement.

Until Severus, wholly distracted by entirely marvellous way Hermione’s lips were moving along his neck, sighed, “Sod the Rules.”

“Absolutely,” she muttered into the curve of his neck, before latching onto his ear lobe.

The frisson of pleasure didn’t entirely overcome the frisson of terror that accompanied his lapse, and his relief was only short-lived. What did she mean absolutely?

He had to ask, even if he didn’t like the answer.

“What, sorry?”

“What do you mean ‘absolutely’?”

Hermione looked as shifty as a pupil caught hanging round the Astronomy Tower after midnight, before deciding to come clean. “Severus, the next time you’re plotting something, don’t leave your notes lying round where someone can find them.”

“I didn’t,” he protested. “I put them away safely.”

“In a book?”

She had a point; that wasn’t the most sensible place to hide something from a bibliophile.

“So you’ve been laughing at my expense?” he said sulkily. It was intolerable that he’d been out-plotted in this way.

“Hardly,” she replied. “I spent six long months chasing you round the castle and you never even noticed. I asked you out for drinks, I talked to you about Potions, I practically had “Hermione fancies Severus” tattooed on my forehead and I got nowhere. I was absolutely sodding delighted when I found that note, it meant that finally I was getting somewhere.”

Again, she had a point. He hadn’t noticed her previous attempts at courting him, which pretty much made him as big a blockhead as Potter, so he couldn’t really complain about her tactics. He ought to be bloody grateful that she hadn’t given up, when you came right down to it.

“I suppose you think it’s all very silly,” he said. It made him uneasy that he’d underestimated her that badly: he felt very silly.

“Oh, Severus, what on earth is silly about wanting to be treated properly?”

Her exasperation reassured him more than earnest protestation would have; she clearly thought he was being silly now, and not then. But he still felt the need to ask, half-joking, “Ah, but will you still respect me in the morning?”

“I’ll respect you every morning,” she said firmly, and then kissed him.

“And twice on Sundays?”

“If you’re very, very lucky.”

It seemed that he was very, very lucky, and he wasn’t going to be stupid enough to spit in Lady Luck’s face, not when she finally was coming good after all these years.

Besides, she still didn’t know that he’d overheard her in the staffroom. She was good, but she wasn’t that good.

Epilogue.

Sensation flashed through her, immediately melting into a warm tide that spread like warm honey through her. His wicked fingers tensed, flexed – he closed his hand, then kneaded; nerves she didn’t know she possessed cam alive. Pure pleasure washed through her when his other hand left her back to minister to her other breast. Eyes closed, her mouth all his, still captured in the drugging sensuality of a slow, deep kiss, she gave herself up to the sensation of his hands on her breasts, to the heat and the fire slowly building to the tightness, the ache that he both evoked and appeased.

It was a revelation that anything could feel quite so good, quite so satisfying, yet there was more, she knew, more she yet wanted, more her awakening body yearned for. Within minutes, she was very certain – more she had to have.

He broke their kiss, but only to skate his lips along her jaw to find the delicate hollow beneath her ear. He didn’t need to think to know what she wanted – to know that he could take as he wished. Beyond a distant watching brief to ensure their privacy, which, given the composition of Lady Hartington’s company, he was certain would remain undisturbed, his senses were focused on the woman in his arms, on the tantalising promise of the svelte body beneath his hands…..

Severus was sprawled over the bed, with his naked skin dappled by the Tuscan sunlight. He’d been surprisingly easy to persuade to a holiday, helped by Minerva’s determination to prise all of the gory details of their relationship out of the pair of them. He looked up from the paperback he was reading with a horrified expression. “Dear god, Hermione, it’s as bad as you said it was. I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life. I’m sure there should be a semi-colon in that last sentence at the very least.”

“I was more surprised at the amazing skating lips. Do you think it was ice skates or roller skates? I hope it was the roller skates, because surely ice skates would leave nasty cuts.”

“And why on earth didn’t he think to cast some decent privacy charms?” he asked.

“It’s a muggle book, Severus.”

“Oh.” He peered at the front cover. “The hero, though I hesitate to call him that, seems to be wearing robes, though it’s hard to tell when people are wearing so few clothes.”

He held the book up for her to look at. She took it from him, and squinted at it critically. “Hmm, I think that’s supposed to be a dressing gown.”

“I’m not surprised. He spends so much time in bed, that it’s hardly worth bothering to get dressed.”

Hermione grinned at him. “Mr Pot meet Mr Ketttle.”

“That’s entirely your fault, Professor Granger. You will insist on taking advantage of me.” He was still faintly surprised by that, and even more surprised by the way that their lives had fitted together so easily with only the occasional squabble.

Hermione was flipping through the book to find the offending portion, and started reading it to herself. “Can you imagine pouring warm honey on someone; it would be dreadfully sticky.”

“Well now you come to mention it…”

Hermione giggled, and the book fell to the floor, entirely forgotten.

The end.

A/N Hermione is thinking of The Ecstacy by John Donne

WHERE, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swell'd up, to rest
The violet's reclining head,
Sat we two, one another's best.

Our hands were firmly cemented
By a fast balm, which thence did spring ;
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes upon one double string.

So to engraft our hands, as yet
Was all the means to make us one ;
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.

As, 'twixt two equal armies, Fate
Suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls—which to advance their state,
Were gone out—hung 'twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay ;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refined,
That he soul's language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood,

He—though he knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same—
Might thence a new concoction take,
And part far purer than he came.

This ecstasy doth unperplex
(We said) and tell us what we love ;
We see by this, it was not sex ;
We see, we saw not, what did move :

But as all several souls contain
Mixture of things they know not what,
Love these mix'd souls doth mix again,
And makes both one, each this, and that.

A single violet transplant,
The strength, the colour, and the size—
All which before was poor and scant—
Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so
Interanimates two souls,
That abler soul, which thence doth flow,
Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know,
Of what we are composed, and made,
For th' atomies of which we grow
Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But, O alas ! so long, so far,
Our bodies why do we forbear?
They are ours, though not we ; we are
Th' intelligences, they the spheres.

We owe them thanks, because they thus
Did us, to us, at first convey,
Yielded their senses' force to us,
Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven's influence works not so,
But that it first imprints the air ;
For soul into the soul may flow,
Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labours to beget
Spirits, as like souls as it can ;
Because such fingers need to knit
That subtle knot, which makes us man ;

So must pure lovers' souls descend
To affections, and to faculties,
Which sense may reach and apprehend,
Else a great prince in prison lies.

To our bodies turn we then, that so
Weak men on love reveal'd may look ;
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,
Have heard this dialogue of one,
Let him still mark us, he shall see
Small change when we're to bodies gone.

Author's Note:

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