Six for Gold

Chapter 6: Six for Gold

Within two weeks, Snape's amazing return to Hogwarts had already become old news. All attention had shifted to the third Saturday of November when the older students would finally be given the opportunity to descend upon Hogsmeade. The first Hogsmeade weekend was always eagerly anticipated, and the castle had been abuzz with excitement for days. Hermione smiled widely as she and Neville stood in the courtyard checking permission slips, having volunteered to act as chaperones. The excitement truly was contagious. The weather seemed keen to cooperate as well: the day had dawned clear and bright, and abundant sunshine streamed down upon the many heads huddled around the teachers. A steadfast wind whipped the fallen leaves into swirling eddies of colour around their feet while high above, the naked branches clicked and clacked their skeletal fingers in a hollow, staccato rhythm. Even the air held the distinct feel of autumn: dry and sharp and almost brittle, making Hermione grateful for her warm robes and thick Gryffindor scarf.

As they were about to depart, Hermione heard quick footsteps echoing on the cobblestones behind her and turned to see Professor Flitwick running towards them.

"Hermione! Neville! Wait!" he called to them breathlessly.

"Good morning," said Hermione. She had always liked her former Charms instructor and enjoyed the way he marvelled over the fact that she hadn't been Sorted into his House of Ravenclaw.

"I'm glad I caught you before you left. We're arranging a small get-together in Hogsmeade tonight: a sort of welcome-back party for Severus," he told them.

The images of Snape and a party didn't exactly mesh for Hermione, but she supposed the idea of it was appropriate.

"Please join us after dinner, and we'll walk to the Three Broomsticks together," Flitwick continued.

"Oh, I... um... I have to attend to some Shrivelfig tonight," Neville muttered lamely, and Hermione elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oh, yes, of course," squeaked Flitwick. "I'll inform the house-elves you'll be on hand then, Neville; they've agreed to keep on eye on the students and naturally some staff will be staying behind." Turning to look up at Hermione, he said, "But, Hermione, dear, surely you'll join us...we can't have everyone thinking our Potions professors don't get on with one another."

"Uh... yes, okay," Hermione told him feebly.

As she set out for Hogsmeade beside Neville, Hermione felt her earlier excitement quickly slipping away. She searched her mind for an excuse to avoid attending tonight's festivities, but came up blank. With a feeling of dread, she realised she'd have to go but was certainly not looking forward to it. For one thing, she didn't often drink; she was not fond of the way alcohol made her feel so out of control. And for another, she didn't relish the thought of spending an entire evening trying to avoid a public argument with Snape.

Despite his moment of apparent goodwill towards her during that first class, he had quickly returned to the sarcastic, brooding man she remembered from her youth. Hermione had been continually frustrated by the way he could draw her into a heated argument so easily. They had spent their first several evenings together in awkward silence as each adjusted to living with a relative stranger. Next came several ridiculous rows over sharing some aspect of the living quarters with one another. Fortunately, Snape had decided to ignore her the past few nights, burying his large nose in back issues of Draughting Digest.

Hermione divided her time in Hogsmeade between chastising errant students and formulating wild ideas to avoid attending the gathering later that evening. With a sigh, she supposed it would look dreadful if she didn't at least make a brief appearance. By the time she and Neville returned to the castle with the students, she was feeling decidedly grumpy. Perhaps it was a bit ridiculous, but she knew she'd have felt better if Draco or Neville were going to the Three Broomsticks as well. But Draco had Apparated home for the weekend (having arranged a mini-break to surprise Luna with a Crumple-Horned Snorkack expedition), and despite her cajoling, Neville seemed to be a lost cause as well, flat-out refusing to return to Hogsmeade with her later.

Making her way to the dungeons, Hermione glanced around and noted that Snape didn't appear to be in their living quarters. She idly wondered where he went at times like this when he seemed to simply disappear altogether. No doubt lurking in shadows, anxious to frighten first-years, she thought unkindly. Then she chided herself and resolved to put aside their differences for one night; perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as she feared, and she might actually enjoy herself.

Hermione slipped on a pair of faded jeans and rifled through her dresser for a top. She finally decided on a soft chenille jumper in a deep shade of red that reminded her of Imperial Russian rubies. The fabric gently caressed her curves while the colour flattered her skin tone. She kept her makeup light, opting for just a bit of mascara and some shiny, clear lip gloss before heading out alone.

Leaving the castle, she saw a large group of teachers clustered around the front gates and could easily make out the forms of McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape. After joining the others, she was touched to realise they had been waiting for her, and she hastily threw her heavy cloak over her clothes. She noted Snape staring at her jumper with an annoyed expression on his face. Hermione assumed he didn't approve of her attire, which looked blatantly Muggle.

Bertram Aubrey, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, beamed at Hermione and said, "You look lovely tonight, Hermione."

She smiled brightly at him and said, "Thank you... You're very kind," while resisting the urge to throw a look at Snape that said, so there!

Bertram offered his arm to Hermione rather jauntily, and she took it, laughing. As the group began the short journey to the Three Broomsticks, Bertram chatted merrily at Hermione's side and provided a nice distraction from Snape's tall form skulking in front of her. She felt herself scowl each time he glanced back at them; there was an obvious look of disapproval on his angular face, but Hermione had no clue as to what had drawn his displeasure this time. She wondered idly if Snape disliked Bertram but dismissed the thought immediately; Snape had only met Bertram two weeks ago, after all.

Hermione had liked Bertram the instant she'd met him three years earlier; he was a few years older than she and excessively kind. His soft hazel eyes suited his unassuming personality, and he almost always had a smile on his face. Hermione thought he seemed like the kind of man who took everything in his stride. She had never once seen him angry, even when his class of sixth-years had accidentally Summoned a Banshee from County Clare whose shrieks had blown out all the windows on the third floor.

Bertram had once told Hermione that his father had attended Hogwarts with James Potter and the other Marauders, although his tales of James and Sirius in particular were not exactly flattering. Bertram often peppered her with questions about Harry; he was full of questions, in fact. A year ago, he had confided to Hermione that he'd begun work on a book about the rise and fall of Voldemort. He was adorably shy about the endeavour and begged her not to tell anyone else, to which she'd reluctantly agreed. Since that time, he had sought Hermione's help on several occasions for information about incidents she'd been privy to. Hermione didn't relish these sessions, but Bertram was exceedingly kind about stopping as soon as he sensed her becoming uncomfortable.

"How is your work progressing?" she asked him now, referring to the book.

"Good... excellent!" he replied enthusiastically. After a small hesitation he added, "I do have some pieces I'd love to get your help on, though. I wonder if you might have some time... Could I possibly impose upon you?"

Hermione gazed before her, noting that Snape's head seemed to shift towards them slightly as if he were listening. Thinking she could use an excuse to escape his presence, she told Bertram, "Absolutely! When would you like to get together?"

By the time they had settled on meeting over the next four Saturdays, their group had arrived at the Three Broomsticks where a large table had been reserved for them at the back of the establishment. Bertram excused himself from Hermione and left to speak to Madam Rosmerta, the innkeeper. As everyone took their seats, Hermione quickly struck up a conversation with Rolanda Hooch, the flying teacher while simultaneously sticking close to Flitwick in a childish ploy to avoid sitting next to Snape. She needn't have bothered, as he seemed to have no interest in sitting next to her. Instead, he waited until she sat and then took the chair directly opposite from her.

Slick, she derided herself. Now she'd be stuck with his enigmatic eyes casting disapproving looks at her all night. She stole a brief glance at him: he appeared to be watching her lips, and she subconsciously wet them, nervous under his scrutiny. He raised his eyes to hers at the motion, and she looked away quickly, surprised to find her pulse racing.

Hermione listened to her colleagues telling wildly entertaining stories of their activities over the past fourteen years. Everyone seemed to be in relatively high spirits, helped in no small part by the ample quantities of Madam Rosmerta's excellent oak-matured mead. The teachers enjoyed relating their tales to Snape, and he actually behaved quite graciously as they enlightened him on the rather large gaps he had missed.

Hermione opted for Gillywater instead of mead, but she was enjoying the evening just as much as the others. Except for those occasions when she'd look across the table, and she'd find Snape studying her with his dark, intense eyes. Then she couldn't seem to stop an inexplicable heat from rising to her cheeks, and she was forced to look away quickly each time.

Rolanda Hooch had just finished relating a very funny anecdote about a harpy named Heldegarde when she slapped a hand on Hermione's back and said, "But enough about me... Hermione here is the one who's made a name for herself in the past fourteen years!"

Hermione choked on the Gillywater she'd been drinking and said, "No, no... my life is boring!" She chanced a quick look at Snape and found his gaze piercing her again.

"Don't be shy," said Flitwick, patting her arm reassuringly. "Tell Severus what you've been doing for the past fourteen years." He leaned towards her conspiratorially and added, "Besides growing into an enchantingly beautiful woman, of course."

Hermione felt the heat returning to her face as she looked at Snape.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he said, his voice soft and caressing. "Do tell."

Hermione directed herself to breathe normally as her heart pounded in her throat. She squirmed in her seat, determined to get this over with quickly. "There's nothing much to tell, I'm afraid. I returned to Hogwarts for seventh-year, then off to university."

"Head Girl!" Minerva added, sounding proud. "A doctorate from Jagiellonian University and a master's degree from that Muggle university in Krakow. Top honours in both if I'm not mistaken."

"Hear, hear," said Bertram from the end of the table, raising his glass towards Hermione.

Hermione's face was on fire now, and she thought it must surely match the colour of her jumper. She couldn't bring herself to meet Snape's eyes and simply said, "Yes, well, I've always enjoyed my studies."

"Don't be so modest," chided McGonagall with a tiny hiccup. "What about the papers you've published and the awards you've received?"

Hermione desperately wished they'd stop trying to help her.

"Yes, indeed!" said Flitwick as he beamed up at her. "You worked for that impressive research firm too, I recall. What was it called? IA? AI?"

"Arglist Industries?" Snape asked quietly, and Hermione's eyes snapped up to meet his. She saw a flicker of recognition in those inky depths and thought, Oh, Lord, he knows.

"In Austria?" he asked with narrowed eyes. "What were you doing there?"

Hermione tamped down her rising paranoia, realising with relief that he apparently didn't know about Arglist's relatively new lab in England.

Trying not to draw attention to her sudden fear, she attempted a teasing tone and replied, "Oh, it's quite confidential, I'm afraid. I could tell you, but then I'd have to Obliviate you."

Snape continued to fix her with his penetrating gaze, but McGonagall cleared her throat and quickly steered the conversation in a different direction.

As the hour grew later, McGonagall ordered shots of Firewhisky for everyone to drink together in Snape's honour. "I'll just use my Gillywater," Hermione said.

"You can't toast with Gillywater," McGonagall informed her with an alarming giggle, and Hermione suspected she'd just made up that rule.

"Miss Granger does not drink, Minerva," Snape informed the headmistress dismissively. "No doubt she cannot abide being out of control for even a second."

Hermione glared at him, hating that he was trying to goad her, and hating that he was right.

"Not at all," she lied. "I just thought someone should stay sober enough to get us all back safely to the castle."

"And what dangers do you imagine you'll encounter tonight?" he asked in a tone that was somehow both mocking and suggestive. His gaze fell to her lips again, and one side of his mouth seemed to lift slightly in a secretive half-smile.

Hermione fought the urge to chew on her bottom lip and swallowed hard instead. "Constant vigilance," she said with a shrug, quoting her favourite phrase from Mad-Eye Moody.

McGonagall attempted to overrule Hermione's protests, but Snape cut her off by saying, "She's obviously scared to join us, Minerva; just let her use her Gillywater." His voice was heavy with disdain.

"I'm not scared!" Hermione threw the words at Snape.

"Oh, Hermione, lighten up," scoffed McGonagall as she handed out dozens of small glasses filled with amber liquid.

Snape flicked his wrist towards Hermione with an air of boredom and continued speaking to McGonagall. "Don't force her, Minerva. Young witches are rarely able to handle their alcohol."

This proved too much for Hermione to ignore. She slapped her palm on the table with enough force to make the many glasses rattle. "I can drink you under the table any day, old man," she told him angrily as she pierced him with a glare of her own.

Snape smiled at her cynically and said, "Very well. I accept your challenge."

There was a chorus of good-natured whistling from the other staff members seated around the table. Before Hermione could bemoan the stupidity of what she'd just said, four shots of Firewhisky had been set before each of them. The deep gold liquid sparkled in the firelight, and Hermione watched transfixed as Snape raised one of the glasses to her in mock salute. He brought the glass to his lips, tossing the drink into his mouth in one fluid motion before swallowing. Everyone at the table cheered, save one.

Hermione raised a glass to her mouth and gingerly drank the libation, her throat burning in protest with each swallow. Eyes watering, she set the empty glass down with a determined 'clink' and raised an eyebrow at Snape in defiance.

He smiled again and easily repeated his original routine without the slightest of pauses. Hermione knew she was in trouble. She took a deep breath and grabbed another glass, encouraged by the merry cheers from the others at the table.

It was many, many hours later when the last of the other instructors left with resignation. Only Snape and Hermione remained, still sitting across from one another with identical scowls on their faces, although Hermione's gaze was admittedly unfocused. McGonagall had departed with Flitwick several hours earlier, and both had begged Hermione to concede defeat, but she had obstinately refused to budge. She had lost track of the number of shots she'd consumed, and had long ago stopped trying to count the empty glasses when her double vision rendered the task impossible.

"I'm going to bed," announced Madam Rosmerta with a roll of her eyes. She set a full bottle of Firewhisky on the table, and Hermione felt her stomach give an unwelcome flip. "Severus, please lock the door when you leave," Rosmerta said to Snape. Then, with a frown at Hermione, she added, "IF you leave."

They watched her stomp up the stairs and out of sight.

Hermione had been sitting in front of her full shot glass for some time trying to muster the courage to drink it. She had repeatedly pointed out that no time limit had been set for their little challenge: technically, she hadn't yet lost...she was just one drink behind. Experimentally, she attempted to wriggle her nose, which, along with her cheeks, had gone numb several hours earlier.

Snape leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out before him. Lacing his fingers together behind his head, he watched her wearily and offered up a heavy sigh.

Hermione surveyed the two Snapes swimming before her eyes and mentally ordered them to hold still. She marvelled over the fact that neither of the Snapes scowling at her seemed in the least affected by the alcohol.

"Drink it," he ordered her. "Or give up."

"I am drinking it," she slurred belligerently. Then she picked up the glass and took a small, horrible sip to prove her point. The violent shudder that wracked her body did not go unnoticed.

"This is infantile," Snape pointed out.

Hermione lifted her hand and pointed her finger at him unsteadily. "You are!" she exclaimed, unaware that her comment had merely underscored his assertion.

"Admit you cannot drink as much as I!"

"Never!"

With a disgusted look he told her, "You are a bull-headed woman, Hermione Granger."

"And you are an impossible man, Severus Snape," she retorted. The many "s's" in her statement proved very difficult for her tongue, and it took far longer to say than it should have.

Snape snorted at her mangled attempts to pronounce his name. He shook his head at her, but there appeared to be a smile on his face.

"Tell me something, Hermione," he said, suddenly serious and leaning in across the table towards her.

"Anything," she replied, leaning forward to join him and opening her eyes wide. He had called her Hermione twice now, and she was thinking she rather liked the sound of her name when he said it. He really did have a beautiful voice.

With a soft whisper he asked, "What did you add to the Creativity Potion to cool it so quickly?"

Hermione blinked slowly. She wasn't sure what she had expected him to ask her, but it certainly hadn't been this. She hadn't told anyone in the class that she had merely used liquid nitrogen: their homework assignment had been to figure it out.

"It's called niquid litrogen," she told him carefully.

"Niquid litrogen?" he repeated verbatim.

"No, no... you're saying it wrong," she chastised him. "You said niquid litrogen, but it's called niquid litrogen," she explained patiently.

"Niquid litrogen?" he asked again.

"Yes," she confirmed with a nod. Wait, was that right? she pondered, looking away with a small frown creasing her brow. It sounded kind of funny to her now. "Niquid... niquid... niquid litrogen," she repeated over and over, very slowly. "Yes, just what I said."

She felt herself sway a bit as she attempted to return her gaze to his face. For some reason, her eyes seemed to be taking an inordinately long time to catch up with the rest of her face when she turned her head.

"You're drunk," he stated matter-of-factly.

"No, you're drunk!"

"You should refrain from arguing when you're drunk, Hermione," he informed her.

Her head wobbled slightly as she told him, "No... I should refrain from arguing when I'm drunk."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said, 'you shouldn't argue with you'... I mean 'me'... I shouldn't argue with me," she began again, then stopped, completely befuddled. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'Finish your drink.'"

"Liar," she said with a smirk. Then she bucked up her strength and lifted the glass to her lips, draining it with one gulp. She felt the back of her mouth start to water and knew she was moments away from losing the contents of her stomach.

Apparently satisfied, Snape grabbed the full bottle of Firewhisky and refilled his glass as well as Hermione's. With amazing speed, he drained his shot in one quick gulp before nodding his head towards her refilled glass.

Hermione glared down at the glass. It sat before her mockingly, but she knew the taunting gold liquid wasn't nearly as innocent as it tried to appear. She contemplated the drink and felt her whole body shake. "I'm gonna be sick," she stated with unemotional detachment. Then she pushed back her chair and careened to the bathroom to make good on her statement.

When she had finally finished retching, she washed her face in the sink and tried to rinse her mouth out. The taste of the water had her stomach churning again, and she heaved into the basin long after her stomach had emptied. Looking at her wild reflection in the mirror over the sink, she sternly admonished the face staring back at her.

"What were you thinking?" she asked the mirror aloud, slightly relieved when it didn't answer.

Stumbling back into the tavern, she discovered that Snape was no longer at the table, although he had obviously taken the time to tidy up their glasses before leaving. She walked outside, fumbling for her wand in order to lock the door.

"Finished?" asked a voice behind her.

Hermione spun around to find Snape pointing his wand at the tavern door; he had apparently been waiting for her.

Unfortunately, she didn't consider the effects of trying to spin around so quickly, and she was soon falling sideways while desperately attempting to remain upright. Snape caught her neatly with one arm and steadied her. She had grabbed onto his black robes and cloak when she'd begun tumbling and now looked up at him, still clutching his clothing tightly.

She'd never been this close to him before. Her head was spinning, and she was suddenly aware of the fact that she was leaning against his chest, and his arm was around her waist, and his face was so close to hers that she ridiculously felt as if she could drown in the depths of his dark eyes. She smiled at him slowly, taking in his smooth features and thinking he was actually quite attractive when he wasn't frowning. She took a steadying breath and inhaled his scent: he was forest and cloves and fire and books and the smell made her think of Christmas for some reason.

"You smell nice," she told him.

He winced. "You don't," he informed her.

Hermione chuckled and broke away from him, surprised at how cold the loss of contact made her feel. "Yes, well, there's nothing like vomit-breath to ruin a mood," she said dryly. With a small frown, she realised every part of her body that had touched him was still tingling.

He said nothing, but offered his arm to her stiffly. Hermione took it gratefully, and they started off for the castle along the rocky path. They walked in silence for most of the way, and the cold night air soon helped to clear Hermione's head.

As they passed through the castle gates, Snape paused in the shadows just short of the torches at the entry. He removed her hand from his arm, and Hermione assumed he didn't want to be seen walking into Hogwarts with her in such a companionable fashion. She moved away, intending to continue alone, but he reached for her arm and gently pulled her back into the shadows with him.

Hermione looked up at his face in surprise, but his eyes were unreadable in the darkness.

He seemed to be searching her face, and after a moment he said, "Tell me something..."

"Liquid nitrogen," she offered immediately, smiling with the knowledge that she'd finally managed to pronounce it correctly.

"No," he said, sounding serious. "What were you doing, working at Arglist Industries?"

Again, it was not the question she'd been expecting. Hermione frowned and wished she could see his face more clearly. "I can't tell you," she replied honestly.

"Why not?"

"It's... complicated. And it was a long time ago... Please, just forget about it."

He stepped closer to her, and she found she could make out his eyes a little better now. The dark orbs were devastatingly intense, but still unreadable.

"I could use Legilimency and find out," he whispered, watching her face intently.

Hermione swallowed hard. "Yes... but you won't because that would be evil."

He moved closer to her still; she could feel his cloak brushing against hers. "You don't think I can be evil?" he asked her smoothly, his deep voice like velvet against her ears.

Hermione considered. She knew he could be evil, and she knew he had done many, many evil things in his life. But somehow she couldn't stop thinking about all the good things he'd done, and the sacrifices he'd made to help both Harry and the Order of the Phoenix.

Acting out of pure impulse, she raised a trembling hand to his face and placed it gently upon his cheek. "I think you have untold depths of goodness."

He seemed taken aback; it obviously wasn't the answer he was expecting. His eyes grew stony, and he stepped away sharply, letting her hand fall back helplessly to her side. "You're a foolish girl," he told her disdainfully. Without another word, he strode past her and disappeared into the castle.

Hermione turned and watched him walk away. "You're right," she whispered before slowly following him inside.

*****

When Hermione awoke the next morning, she held her pounding head in her hands and cursed her stupidity again. It took her several minutes of serious contemplation before she was ready to leave the relative safety of her bed and risk standing upright. Closing her eyes against the fresh wave of nausea that hit her, she tried to swallow and idly wondered if something had crawled inside her mouth and died while she'd been asleep. She was very glad it was Sunday, as she had no classes or other responsibilities to worry about. She bathed and dressed very carefully, her every movement sending knife-blades through her eyes and head.

Looking in her mirror, she surveyed the damage. Her face was puffy, her eyes were red-rimmed with dark circles beneath them, and her skin was pale. She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail, but the weight on her head hurt too much, so she promptly removed it.

Venturing from her bedchamber, she noted with relief that Snape wasn't in the living quarters. She suddenly remembered the way he had rebuffed her last night when she'd told him he had untold depths of goodness. Her already-shaky stomach tightened in a knot. Hermione determinedly blamed the Firewhisky for her ridiculous behaviour and wondered what she could have been thinking to speak to him that way. She knew he had always despised her, and he had certainly never been her favourite professor. Their mutual dislike was somehow safe and familiar; why had she thought she could change that? Why had she wanted to?

The thought of food was revolting, so Hermione left the kitchen and wandered through the quarters aimlessly. Finally, she decided a visit to Madame Pomfrey was in order; surely she wasn't the only one in need of a headache tonic today. She left the chambers and walked carefully through the darkened Potions office.

Upon stepping into the Potions classroom, Hermione was assaulted by two things at once. First: the shutters on the high dungeon windows had been flung open, and blinding sunlight streamed down on her exuberantly. Next: there was a hideous smell coming from the front of the classroom; it reminded Hermione strongly of rotting eggs. The sun and the smell caused Hermione to simultaneously clamp one hand over her eyes and another against her stomach while she uttered a noisy, pain-filled moan.

A deep chuckle met her ears, and she knew without looking that Snape was in the classroom. With another moan, Hermione realised he must be the madman responsible for that horrendous smell. Hermione slowly lowered her hand from her face, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the brilliant sunshine. When she could see, she turned her attention to Snape, who stood over a very small cauldron at the front of the class. He actually had the temerity to smile at her, she noted with disgust. She glowered back at him.

"Sit," he ordered, indicating a chair across from him. Hermione cautiously walked to the seat and did as she was told.

The smell was far worse up close, and Hermione gingerly pinched her nose as she watched him. "Is this to punish me?" she asked, looking up at him pitifully.

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he seemed to be trying to hold back a smile. He offered no reply, so Hermione rested her elbows on the table and watched him work in silence. His movements were precise and ordered with an economy of motion that was hypnotic to witness. Hermione admired his elegant fingers as he deftly wielded his knife to slice through an odd assortment of ingredients. There was something very soothing about watching a master at work. He crushed and chopped and eventually stirred everything into the tiny cauldron.

When he finally appeared satisfied with his concoction, he carefully poured the contents of the cauldron into a clear glass cup. Hermione noted with revulsion that the colour matched the smell: rotting eggs indeed. He set the cup aside while he cleaned his station; phials and bottles floated through the air on their way back to the storeroom, and the cauldron went into a basin at the back of class where it was promptly scoured.

Snape returned to the table and surveyed Hermione silently. He picked up the cup containing the mysterious liquid he'd just made and drank half of it in one gulp.

She watched him close his eyes, mesmerised by his long black eyelashes sweeping down to contrast with his pale skin. There was a look of disgust on his face, and his Adam's apple bobbed convulsively as he swallowed. Hermione couldn't imagine what would possess someone to drink something which smelled so hideous.

Then he held out the cup to her and said, "Drink."

Hermione felt her eyes grow wide and tried to shake her head, but it was too painful, so she just asked, "Are you insane?"

He ignored her question and continued to proffer the cup.

Hermione finally took it from him and peered at the contents hesitantly. She felt her lips curl and her stomach protest, and she had to hold her breath at the smell. With a silent prayer, she pinched her nose again, closed her eyes, and drank.

Hermione expected her stomach to heave, but instead, it instantly felt better. Opening her eyes in surprise, she was amazed to find the sunlight was no longer akin to sharp daggers piercing her eyes and head. It was incredible.

"Wow," she said, still gripping the cup tightly. She looked down and suddenly found herself thinking about the intimacy of sharing his cup. Unthinkingly, she had placed her lips to the exact spot where his had been just moments before, and she imagined she could feel them pulsing with warmth now.

"Miraculous, isn't it?" he asked dryly.

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, amazed when she could attempt the motion without immense pain. As the discomfort in her head ebbed, her brows drew together in a frown, and she began to wonder why Snape had drunk the potion first. She squinted hard at him and noticed for the first time that his eyes were red-rimmed and his face appeared paler than usual.

"Aha!" she cried out loudly, pointing at him.

He arched one eyebrow at her and pierced her with a look of intense displeasure.

"You needed that, too!" she accused.

"Do not make me regret sharing it with you," he warned her.

"Sorry," she said humbly. "And thank you."

"You're welcome."

"It's just nice to know, though," she said, unable to drop the matter. "If it had been anything other than Firewhisky, I would have been fine."

Snape snorted and Vanished the glass from her hand with a small wave of his wand. He walked around the table to stand beside her, folding his arms across his chest as he peered down at her. "You should learn to lose graciously, Hermione," he said with a smile. "You will find that every time you challenge me, I will win."

Hermione had a feeling he wasn't just referring to the alcohol. She stood up from her chair and met his eyes steadily, her pulse racing at his proximity. "And you should learn that I never back down from a challenge, Severus."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Hermione realised the taunting smile had not left his face, even when she'd called him by his given name. He was standing very close to her, and Hermione found she suddenly lacked the ability to breathe normally. There was something about those dark eyes that forced her breath to come in shallow, rapid bursts.

"Well then," he said at last, tilting his head, "that should make our evenings together... interesting."

Hermione swallowed hard as he turned away. She felt confused by the tension his words seemed to create in her. There had been something distinctly sensual about the smile on his face and his tone as he had spoken to her. She was certain she'd imagined it, though; no doubt her brain wasn't functioning clearly yet, and her system was simply frazzled by an overconsumption of alcohol last night.

She waited for him to depart, but he turned back to her and said, "One more thing, Hermione..."

Looking at him questioningly, she watched in amazement as he slowly leaned in close to her. She stood frozen in place...as motionless as a statue...and still he continued to shift closer. For one crazy second, she thought he was going to kiss her, and she felt her mouth go dry.

Instead, he reached a hand up to push aside the curtain of her damp hair, grazing his fingernails across her jaw-line in the process. Hermione felt herself tremble as his face dipped lower and lower until his lips were so close to her ear she could feel the caress of his whispered words.

"If you ever again refer to me as 'old man', there will be consequences," he purred against her skin. "You might force me to teach you just how... arousing... experience and maturity can be."

He fled the room before her newly-addled brain could process the full implication of his words, leaving Hermione to wonder whether he'd just delivered a threat or a promise. Or perhaps both. With shaking knees, she sank back into the chair and closed her eyes, feeling suddenly dazed and weak. Her stomach had begun to behave strangely again, and this time, she doubted it had anything to do with the hangover.

A/N: Many thanks to my beta's, Karelia and little_beloved (I solemnly swear to learn compound predicates. Soon...). The hypnotic lettybird offered wonderful Brit-picking advice, and saved Hermione from a most dreadful make-up blunder.