Chapter Two

As the days passed by, the workload for the fifth-, sixth- and seventh-year students piled up tremendously. Hermione, as usual, had not only completed her homework, but had also read each one of her texts from back to front...twice.

Not surprisingly, Harry and Ron were struggling with their own assignments like kites caught in a tailwind, and they were grumbling about it every chance they got to anyone who would listen.

"Fine," Hermione huffed one evening after Ron had asked her, for the third time, to correct his Potions essay for him. "But this is the last time, Ronald. I mean it. What about you, Harry?" she asked sarcastically, shooting a nonchalant glance at the other member of the Golden Trio. "Is the Prince writing your essays for you as well?" she added snidely.

Harry rolled his eyes and returned to the numerous applications for the Gryffindor Quidditch team that were splayed out before him. She knew she was being hard on her friend...he was only doing as his book directed after all. Still, the thought of Harry achieving better marks than she did by not following directions irked her immensely. She returned to her knitting, quite sure that this particular elf hat looked much better than the ones she'd made previously, and shut Harry out of her mind. She would just have to try harder in their next lesson...that was all....

The following morning, Hermione found herself, albeit reluctantly, standing watch over the Gryffindor Quidditch team tryouts.

The group was unusually large this year, and it appeared to be comprised of almost entirely first- through fifth-year girls.

Harry was making a funny gesture with his arms, and Hermione snorted out loud when she saw that he was in fact ordering a group of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw girls off the field.

"Morons," she sneered.

"I couldn't agree with you more."

The unmistakable baritone voice of her Potions master startled her, and she whipped her head around without pause to face him.

She stared at him as if he had more heads than Fluffy. "What?" he said nonchalantly. "Clearly, they are. Fawning over Potter... I am sure they are delusional."

The comment was so very Professor Snape that she couldn't help but giggle. Something was most definitely wrong with this picture. Was Snape being...dare she think it...nice to her?

They continued to watch the tryouts in silence, Hermione keeping her comments to herself, Snape snorting in glee each time one of the applicants missed a goal or dropped the Quaffle.

When it came time for Ginny to audition, Hermione found herself subconsciously leaning over the railing in front of her, her eyes glued to the pitch. Snape remained silent, though she could tell he was watching her friend as closely as she was.

A perfect practice. Brilliant!

"Adequate, I suppose," Snape commented snidely.

"Adequate?" Hermione scoffed. "She sank five in a row!"

"Barely," Snape retorted, eyes still glued to the pitch.

Hermione rolled her eyes and concentrated on the next group to try out...the Keepers.

Ron looked like he'd been nicking treats from one of Fred and George's Skiving Snackboxes. The young man to his right, whom Hermione recognized from her Advanced Ancient Runes class as Cormac McLaggen, looked as cocky as Umbridge in a collectible plate competition.

"I suppose you're cheering for him to mess up," Hermione commented and immediately regretted it. She had a bad feeling that Snape would probably dock her twenty points for cheek again.

"Quite the contrary," he responded noncommittally. "With Weasley on the team, that trophy will be sure to find a new home in my office at the end of the year. Though I daresay Minerva will be sad to see it go...."

Hermione was not quite sure what to make of Snape's uncharacteristic remark, and so, instead, she chose to watch the tryouts closely, hoping that her high-spirited vibes would somehow make their way down to the playing field below.

Cormac was up first, and he managed to save one, two, three... shit...four goals in a row. Things were not looking promising for Ron.

As Ginny went in for the final goal, Hermione caught a glimpse of movement from Snape out of the corner of her eye. She moved her head just in time to see him tucking his wand neatly beneath his cloak.

A boisterous cheer erupted from the ground below them, drawing Hermione's attention back to the area of play.

"There you go, Ron!" Dean was yelling at the top of his lungs. "Now all you have to do is save that last one, and you're in!"

Hermione's jaw dropped, her head snapping toward Snape. "You cheated!" she scoffed, watching Snape carefully, looking for an indication that she had been seeing things. The action was so blatantly uncharacteristic of Snape, or any other teacher for that matter, that she could scarcely believe what she had just seen. Perhaps this wasn't Professor Snape at all, but instead, a Polyjuiced version of the man?

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Granger, though I suggest you return your attentions to the activities below, lest you find yourself in detention for airing ridiculous, false accusations," he replied in his usual bored baritone.

She scowled at him, his eyes still fixed to the ground below them, and switched her gaze back to the tryouts. That sneaky bastard, she thought as Ron saved his third goal in a row. She pondered the situation for a moment, her mind analyzing both sides of its own inner argument. On the one hand, he had only Confunded McLaggen to better his team's chances of winning the Quidditch Cup. Then again, he had done something that benefited one of her best friends, so she really couldn't complain about it... could she?

When Ron saved his fifth and final goal, the crowd erupted in cheers. She smiled brightly as Ginny and Harry nearly knocked him off his broom when he landed, ensconcing him in a two-sided bear hug.

"I suppose I can't really complain, can I, Professor?" she asked, smiling, and turned her head to her left.

Her face dropped when she saw that Snape was gone, and she twisted herself around in a full three-sixty, searching for the man's whereabouts. Amazingly, he had managed to sneak out of the stands and off of the pitch, completely undetected by her. She had to give it to him... the man was stealth incarnate.

She paused. Perhaps she really was 'losing it,' as Ron had been hinting at her so frequently as of late. Was it possible that she had imagined the encounter? She shook her head and proceeded down to the pitch below. She had to congratulate Ron on making Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"Hey, Granger," McLaggen called to her as she stepped off the bleachers and onto the sidelines.

"Er...hey, Cormac," she answered hesitantly.

"What are you doing right now?" he continued, approaching her and giving her a light pat on the arm. "You wanna head up to the library? Maybe study for the Ancient Runes exam together?"

She looked at him oddly. She had never even spoken to Cormac before...not even during class. Cormac was a seventh-year, and ran with an entirely different crowd than she. If she hadn't been bumped up to Advanced Runes, she probably wouldn't even know his name. It struck her as somewhat suspicious that he would be approaching her, the best friend of the person who had just beat him out for Gryffindor Keeper, now.

"The exam isn't until next week," she responded.

He didn't move, but continued to stand in front of her, an expectant look on his face.

"And I've got something I have to do right now," she added belatedly.

"With Weasley, I suppose," he spat back.

She furrowed her brow, trying to decipher if he was truly agitated or if he was just joking around. "Yeah, actually...."

"Figures. See you, Granger."

She watched McLaggen's retreating form as he made his way back up to the castle, wondering what on earth he was on about. She joined her friends at the center of the pitch, and the three of them proceeded to Hagrid's hut to explain their sudden permanent absences from his class.

On the way back to the hall for dinner, Hermione and Harry were invited to Professor Slughorn's first party of the year, scheduled to take place at eight o'clock that evening. Ron was pointedly ignored.

Two hours later found Hermione grudgingly making her way to Slughorn's office, McLaggen following closely at her heels.

"Excellent, excellent!" Slughorn beamed as he opened the door, standing aside and allowing the two of them to enter.

Hermione chose a seat in the corner of the office, cradling her wineglass in her palm for the first hour or so of the engagement.

"Not quite as glamorous as he made them out to be, are they?" McLaggen said, nudging her with his elbow.

"Hmmm?" she replied absently, shooting back a quelling look.

"The parties. He spent the first few weeks of school boasting about how brilliant his parties always are. To be honest with you, I think I'd rather be studying for that Runes exam."

She giggled, quite in agreement with McLaggen's assessment of the evening. "Tell me about it."

"Oh!" Slughorn's rather loud exclamation pulled their attention back to the rest of the party. "Look at the hour! Time flies when you're having fun, no?"

Neville, along with several of Slughorn's other guests, nodded emphatically. Cormac and Hermione exchanged amused looks.

"Better be off, or you'll be out past curfew! I shall see you all at my next gathering, I'm sure?" Slughorn asked hopefully.

Everyone nodded their ascent, including Hermione and Cormac, though the two did it more out of courtesy than a desire to attend another party.

It was quarter past ten by the time Hermione crawled through the portrait hole and into the Gryffindor common room. Pointedly ignoring both Ron and Harry, she immediately retired to her dorm room, falling into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

***

Their next Potions lesson arrived before she knew it, bringing with it an entirely new concoction for the group of sixth-years to brew.

Slughorn waved his hand at the board, and a complex, but fairly easy to follow, set of directions appeared in clear, pristine handwriting.

Hermione smiled. She would have no need for any hand-me-down Potions book for this lesson. The Draught of Clarity, or Memory-Enhancing Potion, as it was often referred to, was something she could have brewed in her third year with her wand hand tied behind her back. She unstopped her vial of powdered hellebore and got to work.

Thirty minutes later saw a very pleased Hermione. Her Draught of Clarity was precisely the right shade and texture, and the spirals of steam were rising steadily in an anti-clockwise motion, just as the directions had stated. Her cauldron even smelled meekly of armadillo bile and acromantula droppings...mildly nauseating, yes, but accurate nonetheless. Seeing as it was impossible to top perfection, there was no way the Prince would be reigning supreme in this lesson. Hermione bottled up her ingredients, tucked them back into her Potions kit and stood back, awaiting the praise she deserved.

"Professor, what stinks?" Ron asked crudely, wrinkling his nose.

"Just the acromantula droppings," Slughorn replied. "Their smell overpowers the potion, as it is the dominant ingredient. Now, if there are no further questions," he shot an irritated glance in Ron's direction, "I shall be making my way around the classroom to grade your assignments."

Dean was first. His potion was bright blue, not the soft shade of pastel green that it should have been, and Slughorn simply shook his head and moved on down the row. As Hermione surveyed the potions of her classmates, she realized that hers and Harry's were the only ones that would pass for acceptable with their professor. She smiled. Harry was about to learn a very important lesson. Studying and hard work could achieve the same...if not better...results as cheating.

"Miss Granger," Professor Slughorn said, stopping before her table and puffing his chest out proudly. "Your potions surpass themselves with every class. Well done, my dear!"

He moved down the line, pausing at Ron's cauldron, then moving directly on to Harry's without so much as smelling the first. She couldn't blame him. Ron's potion was a sickly shade of gray and was bubbling up what appeared to be black mucus.

"Excellent job, Harry!" Slughorn praised when he stopped to test Harry's potion. "A perfect shade and consistency. And the smell is of...of..."

Slughorn paused, sniffing incessantly at Harry's cauldron. Excellent. It appeared as though Harry had made a mistake after all. So much for his perfect Half-Blood Prince.

"What is that I'm smelling, my boy?" Slughorn asked Harry, still sniffing the air roughly as if he were a hound dog tracking a fox.

"Essence of clove, sir," Harry replied. "And fluxweed, to counteract the stench of the acromantula droppings."

Hermione didn't think Slughorn's grin could have gotten any wider if he'd magicked it that way.

"Fluxweed, a sister of the mint family, amazing! Not only a Potions savant, but an inventor as well! My boy, you amaze me more and more with each lesson. Now, about the gathering I'm having this weekend..."

As Professor Slughorn pulled Harry out from behind his place at the table and proceeded to discuss (at great length) the plans for his next party, the rest of the class, including Hermione, packed up their things.

When the clock on the wall signaled the end of the period, Hermione was the first one out of the room. She had had enough of Harry's stupid book. It was cheating, whether he and Ron wanted to acknowledge it or not. She simply had to prove to him that copying someone else's answers was not the best way to achieve results. She was going to find a way to do it...and she knew just the man to talk to.

***

After Hermione had concluded her rounds for that evening, she made her way down the seventh- floor corridor to the stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. As a prefect, she had been given the password to the Headmaster's workplace at the start of term. She paused, rolling her eyes at the childish array of sweets that the Headmaster always chose for his rooms, and belted out, "Lemon fizzies."

The great granite beast leapt obediently out of the way, and Hermione gingerly stepped onto the spiraling stairs as they initiated their ascent to the destined level.

After grabbing the brass griffin knocker and rapping politely, she patiently waited on the outside of Dumbledore's heavy oak entry door until the elderly wizard called for her...by name...to come inside. She shook her head, smiling. It really did seem as though the man knew everything.

"Ah, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

He gestured toward a pea-green, felt-covered seat on the guest side of his antique oak desk, and she graciously sat upon it.

"Lemon drop?" he asked, offering her a bowl of yellow candies.

"No, thank you, sir," she replied, waving him off.

The Headmaster reclined in his chair, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. Hermione allowed him a moment to pop two lemon drops into his mouth, then asked the question she had come to pose.

"I've come to ask if your offer for extra lessons is still on the table, sir."

Dumbledore regarded her politely, removing his glasses and polishing them with the hem of his emerald robes.

"And in which subject, might I ask, will you be seeking these lessons?" he responded, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his forefinger.

"Potions, sir."

"I see," he replied. "Is Professor Slughorn not challenging you enough in his classes?"

"No," Hermione replied, shifting a bit uncomfortably in her seat. "It's not that, not really, anyways. It's just that I feel as if I would benefit from extra lessons outside of his classroom. If he could just spare an hour or two each week..."

"Impertinence!" cried a voice from behind her.

She whipped her head around and searched for the source of the voice, eventually snapping her eyes back to Dumbledore and gazing questioningly at him when she was unable to find it.

"Outrageous!" the voice called again.

Turning abruptly once more, this time she was able to find the person...or portrait, rather...responsible. A scrawny, elderly wizard with jet-black hair was glaring angrily at her from a heavy gold frame with the name "Arthur Shiverbalm" on its plate. The man looked as though he'd have throttled her, if he had only had the three-dimensional arms with which to do it.

"Professor Slughorn was a personal student of mine, and I'll not have you sullying his good name with your nonsense requests!" the ornery wizard decreed.

Hermione's jaw dropped. "I wasn't sully..."

"You've grown too lenient in your old age, Albus!" the portrait cried, his glare now focused on the Headmaster. "These students are running wild! Second-guessing teachers. in my day..."

"I wasn't second-guessing at all!" Hermione shouted back at the portrait. "I want Professor Slughorn's help. I just wanted some extra less..."

"Just like your teaching staff," the portrait interrupted, ignoring Hermione completely, his eyes never having left Dumbledore's in the first place. "Waltzing in here at all hours of the night, whining about students and tasks you've asked them to..."

"That's quite enough, Arthur," Dumbledore interjected sternly. "I wouldn't want to have to pull your shades shut again."

The jaw of the man in the portrait dropped so far open that Hermione was sure it would smack the frame.

"Why, I never!" the portrait wizard shouted indignantly, whirling out of sight so quickly that his robes made an audible whooshing sound as he disappeared beyond the frame.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I apologize for Headmaster Shiverbalm's rudeness, Miss Granger. He has a bit of an uneven temper. Now, you were saying?" he asked, popping another lemon drop into his waiting mouth.

"Er...yes," Hermione replied slowly. "I was hoping that Professor Slughorn might agree to take on extra lessons with me. One lesson per week would more than suffice, and..."

The elderly wizard held up one gnarled hand, forestalling her request. "I'm afraid, my dear, that Professor Slughorn was quite clear about this matter when I hired him. It is in his contract that he will not be giving lessons outside of his required schedule."

"But, sir," she exclaimed, "it would only be for an hour per week, and if you could perhaps speak with him..."

"Please," Dumbledore interrupted, holding up his hand again, "let me finish."

Hermione quieted down, an irritated expression marring her features.

"While Professor Slughorn will not be open to giving extra lessons, it may be possible to arrange an alternative. Professor Snape..."

"But, sir, Professor Snape would never..."

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore interceded, raising his voice over hers, "while reluctant to teach those who do not wish to learn, is more than happy to assist those students who have taken a special liking to his subject. Although he is no longer the Potions master for the school, he is still the foremost expert on the subject in this country."

Hermione paused, allowing the Headmaster to finish before countering his argument. "I'm not saying that Professor Snape isn't brilliant, sir, but the likelihood of him agreeing to tutor me is fairly nonexistent."

"And why do you say that, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked kindly. "Have you not been first in your year at Potions every term since you began your academic career at Hogwarts?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"And did you not receive an Outstanding on your Potions O.W.L.?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then I see no reason why Professor Snape would deny you extra lessons, if your classes aren't quite up to speed with that of which you are capable."

"He hates me." The sentence flew from her lips so bluntly that it sounded harsh even to her own ears. She blushed.

Dumbledore smiled, regarding her carefully over his recently-polished glasses. "You give yourself far too little credit, Miss Granger. It just so happens that Professor Snape said to me just the other day that you were the best Potions student he'd ever taught."

Hermione couldn't help but let her jaw slacken hugely, making her look far more like a guppy than a human being.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled brightly. "Yes, my dear. Even a teacher such as Professor Snape is capable of a compliment where one is deserved. Now, I cannot promise you anything, but I would not underestimate my powers of persuasion. I shall speak to Professor Snape for you in the morning," he paused, his brow heightening, "if that is what you wish?"

Hermione finally shut her mouth; the fact that Snape was capable of complimenting anyone...especially her...still a bit much for her to comprehend. "Yes, sir, if you wouldn't mind, that is."

Dumbledore clasped his hands together merrily and rose from his desk, turning the corner and standing next to Hermione. "Excellent, excellent. I shall see what can be done, then."

He politely pulled Hermione's chair out for her and walked her to the door. "I will let you know, one way or another, though I have high hopes that the answer will be in the affirmative. You'd better be off now. I suspect Mr. Weasley may have missed his rounds for the evening."

Hermione smiled. Now she was certain that the man knew everything.

Hermione found it difficult to sleep that night. Though extra lessons with Snape were not her ideal concept of a good time, he was, in fact, the foremost Potions master in all of England. Under his tutelage, the sky would be the limit. She sorely doubted that Professor Snape would agree to spend any more time in her company than was required by school doctrine, but the Headmaster had seemed fairly confident in his...what had he called them?...powers of persuasion.

The following morning came much too quickly for Hermione, and she made her way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. She was far from hungry, and it felt as though a large rock had settled in the hollow of her stomach.

"Fanks fer cuvrin fermee lassnight, 'Miyee," Ron said to her over a mouthful of eggs as she took her seat at the breakfast table.

"You're welcome," she replied rather harshly. "But don't expect me to do it again. Dumbledore knows you haven't been doing them, by the way."

Ron blanched, and Harry cut short his conversation with Seamus to turn to Hermione.

"When did you see Dumbledore?" he asked her speculatively.

"I...er...ran into him during my rounds last night," she lied quickly.

"Oh," Harry replied and turned back toward Seamus.

"So, anyways," Seamus continued now that he had Harry's attention once more, "the Holyhead Harpies...."

Hermione turned back to her untouched plate of food just in time to see a tawny barn owl dropping a catalog onto the table in front of her.

"Oh, good!" Ron grunted, reaching for the rolled-up magazine. "Quidditch Weekly's here."

He savagely unwrapped the parcel, untying the string and smoothing it out in front of him expectantly.

"Collectable Books Monthly?" he said in a fairly repulsed tone. "This has to be yours," he concluded, tossing the catalog haphazardly toward Hermione.

"Ohhhh," she grumbled irritably. "You've gotten bacon grease on it, Ronald! Honestly!" She shook her head.

"Sorry," he answered noncommittally, his eyes searching the space above the table for the owl that would be carrying his Quidditch Weekly.

A second bird soared over Hermione, carrying in its talons a small, neatly folded note. The black crow dropped the parcel directly onto her lap this time, and she looked at it curiously before opening it.

The letter was folded into a perfect square and tied together with a thin, black string. There was no name written on the front of it, so she assumed its sender had told the bird for whom it was intended and where she normally sat during breakfast. This meant that the sender probably resided in the castle. Hermione swallowed hard, untying the parcel. She hoped it was from Dumbledore, and she hoped it bore good news. The message was scribbled in small, cramped writing, and there were only three main lines:

Miss Granger,

Your first lesson is scheduled for this Wednesday at 8 P.M., per Headmaster Dumbledore.

If you would like there to be a second, do not be late.

These lessons are private, and will remain as such if you wish for them to continue.

Professor Severus Snape

Potions Master

Hermione wasn't sure whether she should be ecstatic or disheartened. Snape had agreed to tutor her, but under very specific (and volatile) conditions. Oh, who was she kidding? She was beside herself! The foremost Potions expert in the country was going to be tutoring her, and only her, in an extracurricular environment. She wouldn't just be ahead of the curve at Hogwarts, but if she worked hard, she could graduate with more knowledge and experience than most university alumni.

She refolded the note, tied the string around it and stuffed it into her schoolbag. Wednesday at 8 P.M. Perfect.

***

Hermione moved down the narrow set of stone steps that led to the dungeon corridor. It was 7:45 on Wednesday evening, and she was fifteen minutes early for her lesson with Professor Snape. Harry and Ron had Quidditch practice on Wednesdays from six to ten, so her presence would not be missed in the Gryffindor common room. She paused halfway down the corridor, turning to the entrance on her right that led to Snape's office.

"Enter." Professor Snape's signature drawl reached her ears through the door as she was raising her hand. She hadn't even knocked.

"Good evening, Professor Snape," she said politely, placing her cauldron and Potions kit on the floor to her right.

"Not there," he said irritably, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "In the lab. Give me a minute." He paused, halting his writing and looking up at her from his place behind his desk. "You're early."

"I apologize, sir. I just didn't want to be late," she answered quickly.

He ignored her and returned to scribbling something down on an unusually long piece of parchment. She stood quietly, taking the opportunity to survey the room.

She had been in Snape's office only once before...in her second year. As it was, she had only stayed in the room for less than one minute, and she had spent most of that minute staring at the inside of his Potions cupboard, searching for boomslang skin.

Now that she had a few minutes to really examine the place, she took her time in doing so. The walls of the office were in shadow, and all four were lined with glass jars, strange objects floating inside of the clear containers.

Dimly lit torches were fastened to the front and back walls, giving the room an eerie glow. On the guest side of the desk were two chintz armchairs, both as black as onyx and lined in gold. There was a door on the right side of the room that she assumed led to Snape's private quarters, though she could not be sure.

"You may sit," he drawled irritably, not looking up from his writing.

She brought her cauldron, Potions kit and book bag with her as she made her way to the left guest chair. After quietly placing the items on the ground behind the chair, she perched herself on the seat precariously, being careful not to make any more noise than was necessary.

She glanced at the clock on the wall...7:51. She was sure he was planning on making her wait until exactly 8:00 before beginning their lesson. From what she knew of Snape, the man did everything to the letter and definitely to the minute.

Exactly nine minutes later, and without glancing up at the wall clock, he laid down his quill and rolled up his lengthy section of parchment. After placing both items in the topmost drawer of his desk, he rose from his seat and walked over to the mysterious door on the right side of the room.

Hermione remained in her chair, unsure of whether or not he wished her to follow.

"Well?" he bit out, glaring at her.

She rose quietly and grabbed her belongings, following Snape as he swept through the door and into the other room.

"On," he announced clearly, and the torches on the wall all flared to life at his command. Apparently, they were spelled to ignite at his instruction.

This new room was almost an exact replica of the Potions lab that Snape had kept previously, only it was constructed at a smaller scale. Three tables, each with two stools, were the only furniture in the room aside from a statue of a gargoyle that sat in the corner, water pouring constantly from its mouth into a small stone basin.

"You may use the table on the right," Snape said out of nowhere. "If you make a mess, clean it up. I am not averse to giving out detentions for careless behavior that occurs outside of the normal classroom environment. Am I understood?"

Hermione looked at him meekly, completely oblivious to his intentions for the remainder of the evening. "Er...what would you like me to do, sir?"

He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe and looking at her like she had just asked him the sum of two plus two. "I should think that would be obvious. The only potion that you failed to brew properly this term is the Draught of Living Death. You will be brewing it tonight and next Wednesday...and the Wednesday after that, if necessary...until you get it right."

Her jaw slackened. "How did you..."

"Professor Slughorn has been spewing the news of Potter's sudden alleged brilliance at Potions since the start of term...including the fact that he was the only one in the class to correctly brew the Draught of Living Death in the very first lesson. The only one to brew it correctly, Miss Granger. Which means you did not."

"Oh," she said quietly.

"I have no idea what you are waiting for," he said casually, curling his fingers inward and bringing up his right hand to examine his fingernails.

"You haven't given me any directions, sir, and the book didn't..."

"The book," he interrupted her, looking up at her over his still-bent fingers, "is not required for this lesson. You will be brewing from memory."

She gawked at him. "Memory? But, sir, I couldn't possibly complete the potion from memory. I didn't get it completely right the first time. I would have to improvise new calculations when it comes to stirring, and..."

"Precisely, Miss Granger. Contrary to popular belief...your belief, at least...not all the answers can be found in a book. Now, either commence brewing, or leave."

Hermione shot him a look as if to ask, "Are you serious?" But when he did little more than go back to studying his fingernails, she slumped her shoulders in defeat and arranged her items in proper order on the table to which she'd been assigned.

The brewing process took well over an hour. At the end, Hermione's potion was a very light shade of lilac, but not, "clear as water" as her book had stated it should be if brewed to perfection. When she laid down her ladle on the table beside her cauldron, Snape rose from the counter on which he had been organizing ingredients and walked over to inspect her potion.

"It's not perfect," she said glumly.

"No, it is not," he agreed. "Do it again."

"What?" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"I said, do...it...again."

"But, sir, it's already 9:30, and I'm not supposed to be..."

"You are a prefect, Miss Granger. You are allowed to be in the halls after curfew. Now, do you wish to get this right or not?" he snapped.

"No, I want to, Professor, but I can't think of anything to do differently that would fix it," she replied earnestly.

"I do not remember you asking for my help during the first brewing," he said nonchalantly, half-leaning on, half-sitting against the table.

She guffawed at him. "But you said I had to brew it on my own!"

"No, I did not. I only said that your book would not be necessary. Are you in a private tutoring session or not?" He arched a brow at her. "I believe that as I am the person running this lesson, the title of tutor belongs to me. You should have asked."

Hermione considered arguing with him, but thought better of it. Unless she was mistaken, Snape had just offered to show her how to brew the draught correctly. She Evanesco'ed her potion and began the brewing process anew.

"Sir?" she questioned him as he watched her progress over her shoulder.

"Hmmm?" he answered absently.

"I'm not really sure how to maximize the benefit of the sopophorous bean."

His gaze switched from her cauldron to her eyes. "Specific questions only, Miss Granger."

Hermione thought for a moment, trying to figure out a way to phrase her question that would not irritate her tutor. "Is there a way to harvest the juices of the bean that will render better results than cutting?"

Snape gave her a rare half-smile. "Much better, Miss Granger. And yes, there is. Take out your silver dagger."

Hermione did as she was told and attempted to hand the knife over to Snape, but he waved her off dismissively. "No. You will be completing this on your own, Miss Granger. Believe me when I say that you will appreciate it once we've finished. Now, put on your dragon skin gloves."

He waited while she complied with his instructions, then continued where he had left off. "Now, hold the bean down carefully with one hand, and use the flat edge of the dagger to gently squeeze the bean flat in a rolling motion."

She complied, and when the juices from the little sopophorous bean spilled out over the plastic cutting board, she gasped. There was enough juice to fill an entire vial...much more than she had ever expected a tiny thing like that bean to be able to produce.

"Very good," Snape said, and she noted that she detected no tone of sarcasm in his voice. "Now, add the juice, and begin your stirs."

She did as she was told, pausing when she got to her sixth stir.

"Sir?"

He didn't answer her, but she continued anyway. "Should I add a clockwise turn every seventh stir?"

She turned to look at him, and he arched a speculative brow, replying, "Why do you ask?"

She thought quickly, not wanting to answer truthfully that she had seen Harry do it. "Because the clockwise stir would slow the diffusion of the valerian roots, and that might explain why my color was off last time."

He continued to stare at her, making her uneasy. She shifted on the spot, shuffling her feet.

"A lucky guess," he said, still arching a brow at her. "You are correct. The clockwise stir, while not written in the book, is essential for a perfect potion. Proceed."

She smiled brilliantly at him, and she could have sworn she felt him smiling back when she turned to tend her potion. Ten minutes later, the potion was finished, and it was as clear as ice.

"Brilliant!" She beamed, turning to look at him.

"Adequate," he responded dully.

She frowned. "Why is it only adequate? It's clear as water, isn't it? Just like the book says it should be."

"What did I tell you about books, Miss Granger?"

He reached past her and grabbed one of the empty vials out of her Potions kit, brushing her arm with his own in the process. She shivered. It was an odd sensation, and she wasn't quite sure why she had felt it. She was brushed up against all day long on a regular basis...in the hallways, between classes, in the common room...but this was, well, different. She looked up at him, and he stared back at her oddly.

"Miss Granger, are you quite all right?"

"Yes, sir," she answered immediately, though she could feel that she was blushing.

He scrutinized her for several seconds before continuing his explanation. "When bottled, your potion will only remain clear for a matter of minutes. The only thing keeping it clear at the moment is its exposure to air. Observe."

She shook the sensation off and immersed herself in watching him closely. He sucked a small amount of the liquid into a dropper and replaced it in the vial, stopping the cork when he was finished. Within the first minute, the potion in the vial turned back to its previous shade of lilac while the portion in the cauldron remained clear.

"So how do we fix it?" she asked almost immediately, snapping her eyes back to Snape.

"That," he said, placing the stoppered vial on the table, "is a problem that we shall work on in our next lesson."

She smiled and packed up her ingredients, being careful to leave the table as she had found it. When she had finished, she slung her backpack over her shoulder and picked her cauldron up off of the table, cradling it carefully in the crook of her arm. For only the second time since she'd arrived in the lab, she glanced up at the clock on the wall, her eyes bulging when she saw that it read 11:15.

"Shit," she blurted out, only to cringe once she'd realized what she'd said in the presence of a teacher.

"Do not force me to take points, Miss Granger," Snape said. He was bent over the table, scribbling something down on a small piece of parchment. When he was finished, he rose back up and handed her the note.

"Read this before our next lesson. Wednesday at 8 P.M., just like tonight. Again, I will instruct you not to be late and to keep these lessons private."

She took the note and looked up at him curiously. "Excuse me, sir, but why is it so important to keep these sessions a secret?"

He glared at her, and for a moment, she was worried that she was about to be yelled at.

"I do not wish for you to inform anyone of our lessons," he said, "because I do not wish to extend this invitation to any other student. I have turned down tutoring requests in the past. The only reason that I have agreed to this one is because the Headmaster has asked it of me as a personal favor. Is that clear enough for you, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir," she responded, wishing she hadn't asked the question in the first place.

He walked past her and opened the door to the lab, standing aside so that she could pass through.

"Next Wednesday, 8 P.M." he said, dismissing her. "And do be sure that you've read that book, or do not bother coming at all."

She nodded, keeping her eyes to the ground, and exited his office.

On the trek back from his office, Hermione pondered the night's events at length. She had to admit that he was a brilliant tutor. Any other professor would have simply written the instructions on the board and waited for her to complete the potion to the best of her ability. Not only had he taught her to brew the potion blindly, but he had also made her think about her methods on her own, not just copy them from a book. She felt confident that, if asked, she would be able to brew the potion correctly, completely from memory.

She rounded the corner at the top of the dungeon steps, brushing against the corner of the wall as she went. The sensation made her think about other events that had taken place that evening.

Why had she shivered when he had brushed her arm? Yes, one would normally jump, move or at least look down upon being touched by another person, but her feelings at the time were somewhat different.

She chuckled at herself when she saw where her line of thinking was taking her. Clearly she had been deprived of sexual contact for far too long if she was thinking of her former Potions professor in any manner but a scholastic one.

Not that sex was foreign to her...far from it, as far as she was concerned. The two weeks she'd spent at Viktor's vacation home this last summer had been filled with sexual exploits. In fact, she'd actually been disappointed when she'd had to leave.

Still, it had been a while.

Thinking about Viktor led to comparing him with Snape. They were similar in ways that she would have never thought of if unprovoked. Both were intelligent men in their own rights. While Viktor's intellect was masked by his outward appearance as the stereotypical dumb jock, Snape's ability to be seen for his mind was compromised by the fact that almost everyone around him thought of him solely as the Arsehole in the Dungeons.

Now that she thought about it, Viktor and Snape were much more alike than she'd ever noticed. Their appearances, for example, were not that dissimilar. Both men had signature prominent Roman noses. Both had unique and intriguing eyes. She suspected that if Snape spent as much time on the Quidditch pitch as Viktor did, the two would have had similar figures as well. They were equal to one another height-wise, at any rate.

"Dilligrout," Hermione stated clearly as she approached the portrait hole. The Fat Lady swung sleepily inward, and she stepped through into the common room. She was immensely pleased to find the place empty and trudged immediately up to her bedroom.

Lavender and Parvati were both snoring loudly as usual. She stripped down to her underwear and bent to grab her nightgown from the trunk at the base of her four-poster, pausing when she caught her own reflection in the full-length mirror.

She was not dissatisfied with her body. Her breasts were on the smaller scale, but perkier than most of the girls' in her class. She had a tight, flat stomach, though it lacked muscle definition. Her legs were well-toned...probably from all the walking she did between her elevated number of classes.

She glanced at her roommates. There was no reason that the two of them should be so popular with the boys while she was so commonly blown off as the bookish third member of the Golden Trio. There was nothing for it. She would have to start working on her image.

Though there was a significant lack of acceptable male counterparts amongst the sixth-year boys, there were actually some very tempting specimens among the sevenths. She slipped into her nightgown and under her comforter, thinking about her plans for the following day. If Snape was turning her on subconsciously, then she definitely needed to get laid. She grabbed the almost-forgotten note that Snape had written her and read it by wand light: Potions of the South Pacific. She made a mental note to stop by the library the following morning, then shut her eyes and allowed her mind to rest, saving her planning for the subsequent morning.