Hermione reread the letter for the umpteenth time, and with a sigh placed it back in its place. Simultaneously, she glanced at the clock, another action that she had performed far too many times today. She was anxious. It was like she was waiting for the results of some important test, and she hadn’t slept the evening before the exam, causing her concentration to be at an exceptionally low level. She was going to fail, and she too well knew it.

What if she said the wrong thing? What did he want to talk about, anyway? What if she couldn’t answer his questions and made a complete idiot of herself in front of him? Like an adolescent girl whose biggest crush had just asked her out on a date, Hermione was almost afraid to go to him that evening, afraid of what she might do, or what he might do, or how many things might go wrong.

With nothing more or less than complete and utter fear, Hermione paced around the dormitory, too nervous to set aside her insecurities and have fun on her last day at Hogwarts for the holidays. Gods, when was the last time she had gotten this worked up over a man? Never! She shouldn’t be like this. She wasn’t supposed to feel as though her skin was the only thing that kept her from flying everywhere at once.

However, despite the fact that cool, collected Hermione Granger wasn’t supposed to, she did feel that way. Her muscles were tense, and there was a spring of energy inside of her, coiled tightly but with no way of release, no way to let itself loose. Hermione could only pace the stone floor, counting the number of steps from the window to the door and back again.

As she was coming for the twentieth time to the window, someone suddenly spoke her name behind her. She whirled to face the door to the dormitory, almost fast enough to make her loose her balance, which she nearly did.

"What?!" she cried, not having actually meant to yell. "Sorry, Harry. Um… you know, I think I’ve told you several times that you shouldn’t come in the girls’ dormitory." She was just making an excuse to keep him out, and she knew it. Harry knew it, too, but he didn’t say anything, only gazed contemplatively at her for a moment.

"Hermione, what’s wrong?" Harry asked. "What was in that letter you got, anyway?" Harry gestured towards the envelope that sat almost forlornly on Hermione’s bedside table.

"Nothing," Hermione said, attempting nonchalance. "Why are –that is to say, what did you come up here for?"

"You’re awfully tense, ‘Mione," said Harry.

"Am not," said Hermione, knowing that Harry knew that she wasn’t telling the truth, but frankly not caring. "What did you want, Harry?"

Couldn’t he see that she didn’t want other people around? Men, as Hermione had said before, could never pick up on anything. It was beyond irritating.

"I just wanted to tell you that we’re all really missing you outside," said Harry.

It was now that Hermione finally noticed that Harry was quite frankly drenched, and his skin was stained with vigour. His hair was mussed up, more so than usual, that is, and his green eyes were bright with a childish sort of light. Hermione glanced over him, wondering whether she should burst into tears or simply smile at how much he reminded her of his younger self after any other snowball fight.

"Hermione?"

She snapped out of her reverie, and sort of let her eyes go back into focus. "Harry, I’m… ah, really busy. I hope you understand," Hermione said, trying not to sound as jittery as she was. What a poor lie that had been. It wasn’t even very well delivered, let alone believable.

Harry looked extremely sceptical, but he simply shrugged, shaking his head. "All right, then," he said. "Maybe you can come join us later."

"Maybe," Hermione said, shrugging in what seemed far too an enthusiastic way.

Harry looked one final time at her, seeming to debate inwardly whether he should stay and help his friend. From past experience he had realised that Hermione didn’t usually want to be helped or talked to when she was in one of her four different extreme moods, nervousness being one of those. He shook his head as he turned and went down the stairs without a word.

Once he was gone, Hermione turned and flopped face down on her bed, burying her face in her pillow. Then, she simply screamed. It let out a fraction of the total anxiety she felt, and also helped chip away at the huge ball of energy that floated aimlessly in her abdomen with no place to go. When she ran out of breath, she stopped screaming, and rolled over, staring at the ceiling. She was never going to get through this day.

Of course, hour after painful hour went by, and eventually she did manage to live through the entire day, with some restless reading and a whole lot more pacing included, though. Skipping dinner since she wouldn’t be able to get anything past the lump in her throat, Hermione spent a chunk of her time in the library until six fifty, though she simply continued with her pacing there. Finally, she deemed it a decent time to head down to the dungeons, even if she was ten minutes early.

It seemed that before she knew it, Hermione was at the door to Snape’s office. Once again her dream wafted like an early morning mist into her mind, hanging at the back of her thoughts. It was as impending a doom as the darkness at either end of this corridor, a corridor that seemed far too endless for its own good, or the good of anything else, for that matter.

Hermione felt tiny, all of a sudden, like the world was far too big and frightening and yet also wonderful for her pathetic, cowardly little self. I’m a rotten excuse for a Gryffindor, she decided mournfully, but still, she could not back down from this, when so much was capable of happening. She had to gather what strength she could from her house. She took a deep breath.

Raising her hand tentatively, Hermione tapped meekly on the door, and though timid, the three knocks seemed too loud in the silence of the hallway. There was a moment during which Hermione held her breath, anticipating, and then the door opened. Though Hermione had expected relief that he would answer at all, however, she suddenly felt tenser than she had, and the fears of the morning returned in full force.

"Good evening, Miss Granger," Snape murmured, his voice like very dark chocolate, as though her ears could taste the bittersweetness of it.

Hermione’s eyes flitted to his own black pools of allure. "Good evening, Professor."

He ushered her inside with no further word, and as she passed him, she made sure to brush his arm with hers with a feather light touch, for some odd reason taking great satisfaction in the fact that he tensed slightly as she did so. She even allowed herself a small, devious smile while he wasn’t looking.

Sitting down before his hearth in the rigid armchair, she tried to assume the pensive, graceful position that he had had previously and unsurprisingly did not. It was like no one could have nearly as much natural grace as the Potions Master could, and Hermione found herself somehow envious.

"Miss Granger," said Snape, sitting across from her with that ever-present grace that once again made itself known to her. "I would like to discuss something with you."

"So I’ve heard," Hermione said, as a faint smile went with the swiftness of lightning across her face. "What is it, then?" she asked.

"I know that this could possibly sound very odd to you, but… I would like you to tell me about yourself," said Snape.

Hermione was quiet for a moment, not sure if she had heard him correctly. "What do you mean? Should –do you want me to tell about my childhood, my current life, my… what?" she asked, shaking her head confusedly. She briefly wondered if Snape had ever asked anyone else to tell him about themselves.

"Anything," Snape replied confidently, lifting his hands, palms up, like he had no idea what she could tell him, and he was asking her to tell him what she could.

Hermione was hesitant, but then she started on her childhood, awkwardly at first with her hobbies and thoughts on many issues, and before she knew it, the awkwardness had disappeared. She even talked about the horrible experiences at work.

Though she knew she was probably boring him to death, she found herself describing in detail many things about herself that she didn’t often think about. She noticed that each topic led her to another, until she didn’t know quite how she had gotten to where she was in this slightly one-sided conversation.

He only interrupted to ask a question here and there, and gazed straight at her as she spoke, the same way that he had on the very first day she had entered his classroom. He was searching, questioning, as though he was wondering what her potential could possibly be, this little girl.

It was the same look he probably gave every student. However, it seemed that there was something added to this look that he would never have given anyone else, a hungry challenge, a challenge that she would certainly rise to.

After what seemed ages, the thought that she may have been growing uninteresting to him came once again to Hermione. She paused in her long string-of-consciousness description of herself, and looked at him.

"I’m sorry, am I boring you?" she asked uncertainly.

Snape shook his head quickly. "No, of course not," he said, evidently forgetting that he was looking something other than languid about life at the moment. "No. How could you?" Hermione flushed with colour a little at that comment, but didn’t avert her eyes.

"Well, I’ve been talking about myself this entire time, and you haven’t said a word about yourself," Hermione said. "Don’t you find it exhausting just to listen about one person and not be able to talk about you? Besides, I’d really like to know about you."

Hermione wondered how many times she had stressed that fact since she had come here.

"Fine," Snape said after a long minute of silence. "Ask me something."

Hermione realised that she hadn’t actually had any questions in mind. Well, one makes do with what one has, she thought.

"Um… do you have a favourite book?" she asked after a moment.

"If I had to pick a single book, it would be The Return of the King, from ‘The Lord of the Rings’ trilogy," said Snape calmly. Hermione raised her eyebrows reflexively, though she hadn’t meant to. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was a little surprised at his answer.

"Really?" she said interestedly. "I never would have guessed. You don’t seem the type, to like that sort of thing."

Now it was Snape’s turn to raise his eyebrows. "Simply because I am a pureblood wizard does not mean that the existence of Muggle literature eludes me," he said. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your narrow-mindedness."

"Very funny," Hermione said, only a little sarcastic.

"Any other questions?" asked Snape, folding his hands in his lap, and assuming a slightly more relaxed position, preparing for whatever other inquiries would come at him.

"Well, what’s your favourite food?" asked Hermione, wondering if she would ever come up with any interesting questions.

"Contrary to popular belief, it is not human flesh," said Snape sardonically. "Actually, I really do like chocolate cake."

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. He wasn’t so dark and dreary as she had expected, and she was probably wrong to have thought that since he liked dark clothes and was often sarcastic he would automatically be the sort to drink blood and read horrid, death-filled literature all of the time. It was strange that while he seemed so perfect, he actually was human.

"Do you know any stupid human tricks, professor?" she asked, interested to find out the answer.

"I can touch my nose with my tongue," said Snape, "but little else."

Hermione laughed outright. She didn’t know why she was laughing so much this evening, it was simply happening. People did crazy things around those that they were infatuated with, she supposed. Or maybe it was simply that the thought of her old, usually calm and serious professor being able to touch his nose with his tongue was hilarious even without the fact that she was drunk with his presence.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to her.

"What’s your favourite sexual position?" Hermione asked, unable to resist asking since the question had seemed so tempting when it had suddenly popped into her mind.

Snape gave a rare smile. "Are you implying something, Hermione Granger?" he asked, giving her a very specific Look that told her he secretly didn’t mind at all what she was implying.

"I don’t know. Maybe I am," Hermione said, her lips curving devilishly.

"Cheeky," Snape muttered. Hermione laughed a little, her eyes sparkling.

"Naturally," she replied. "But Professor, you still haven’t answered my question."

"Whatever I feel in the mood for," Snape said, and Hermione felt her muscles tighten slightly at his tone. "What about you?" her professor added, and Hermione felt colour taint her cheeks.

"Well…" she mumbled, trailing off.

Hermione was uncomfortable under his penetrating stare. Snape had gotten her back, this time, for her impertinent remark. After a moment of fidgeting, she glanced up at him. His eyes positively glowed with mirth, and it seemed as if he were trying his best not to smile.

"A bit afraid and uncertain for a Gryffindor. Most unusual," he said, and Hermione hated him just for a second for saying that.

"I think that I’d have to say the same as you," she said finally, somehow knowing that he wasn’t going to let her out of this without an answer. When she had answered, she realised that her answer was the truth, and it really wasn’t so difficult to give an answer. She pondered for a moment, and then grinned at him.

"Another question," she said.

"Yes?" asked Snape.

"Gentle or rough, Professor?" Hermione asked, and by this time the smile could not be removed even with force from her features.

"I prefer it a little rough," Snape admitted.

"You seemed the type," Hermione said distantly. "And in case you ask, I like it more gentle than rough, though at times, the right person can get me into a rough sort of mood."

Knowing that she was giving almost too big a hint, Hermione glanced at Snape to see his reaction. She moistened her lips then caught the lower one in her teeth, hoping she didn’t seem like she was trying to be alluring. She didn’t even know why she suddenly wanted him so badly. Perhaps even the simple mention of sex while around him could cause this flare of arousal within her.

Snape eyed her form briefly, her legs pulled under her and her elbow supporting her weight on the arm of the chair. Her dark hair caught more than its fair share of light, and her features seemed suddenly more beautiful and angelic than they should have. She was bating him, and he almost wanted to simply take her right there, though the warning of his past experience told him it would be inappropriate, as it always told him. He blinked hard. There was a subject change in order, he decided.

"Miss Granger, I actually have one of my own questions," said he, unknowing of quite what question he meant.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, and the slight tone of disappointment in her voice, though she attempted to hide it, was a little obvious.

"Why do you find me so fascinating?"

It obviously was not the question that Hermione had expected. She felt surprised. She couldn’t come up with an answer to that question without thinking on it a moment. He simply was fascinating. Wasn’t that enough for him? Hermione gazed serenely at him a moment, pretending not to be as befuddled by this question as she was.

"Well," she said finally. "You’re… intelligent, and though you may not believe it, I happen to find you very attractive. And despite some of your social insufficiencies, you seem to be a person who is easy enough to talk to."

"Are you sure that it isn’t merely because I am forbidden fruit?" asked Snape, and Hermione paused a moment, simply looking at him.

"Well, you obviously find me somewhat attractive," she said finally. "Do you think that that is because I myself am forbidden to you, as well?"

"I honestly do," said Snape.

There was something about how he never hid things, and addressed them as they were that was a relief from all the code that was spoken between herself and her friends, or a man she was going with every once in a while.

This particular man was straightforward and unafraid to say what he thought, whether or not it surprised others or appalled them or whatever. Of course, she was sad that he thought that he didn’t see anything else in her except the fact that she was something hard to reach. She felt almost as though she had been wasting her time trying to get to him.

"I’m sorry that you think that," Hermione said quietly.

The fire crackled ominously for a moment as the two figures sat gazing at one another. Hermione was rigid, her eyes hard against his as she no longer saw any point to this. He didn’t want to want her, and if he wouldn’t let his true feelings show, then she didn’t want to waste her time.

"And," she said, breaking the silence, "I am sorry that I bothered you. Goodbye, Professor Snape."

She rose, and strode from the room, leaving the seemingly unfazed Professor gazing after her.

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