Ten for a Time...

Chapter 11: Ten for a Time...

Hermione spent the next several weeks in a state of cautious bemusement. Shortly after her revelation of Bertram's true intentions, she had heard wild rumours of an altercation between Snape and Bertram, in which Snape had rather unsurprisingly emerged as the victor. She'd been unable to ascertain the details (and undoubtedly the tale had been greatly exaggerated), but she had noticed Bertram giving them both a shockingly wide berth ever since.

Initially, Hermione had been a bit annoyed by Snape's actions: she was quite accustomed to fighting her own battles and didn't need him charging off like some self-appointed champion. If she hadn't been so very angry with Bertram for deceiving her and making her relive such horrific memories, she might have confronted Snape about his bold behaviour. But Hermione had to admit it felt inexplicably comforting to have someone defend her honour after so many years of independence, making it surprisingly simple to overlook the presumptuous act of possession. She decided to worry about Snape staking his claim on her later: for now, she was far too busy chuckling each time Bertram tripped over his feet in an almost comical effort to extricate himself from her presence.

Outside the castle, the barren landscape was a stark contrast to the fragile buds of hope that had begun to blossom deep within Hermione, tremulous yet persistent. The days had grown gloomy and brief while the darkness of night seemed to linger interminably, a sure sign the winter solstice was rapidly approaching. Hermione impatiently watched December trudging along in its relentless stream of miserably cold days. A damp chill seeped into the corridors, clinging stubbornly to the stone walls where it condensed, the drops of moisture glistening in the flames of countless torches. The ancient castle creaked and rattled, groaning against the onslaught of frigid winds, reminding Hermione of an old man whose body had suffered the vagaries of time and would never again know the youthful promise of spring or the wild abandon of long summer days.

Hermione tried to convince herself that the relative warmth of the living quarters was her primary motivation for returning so quickly at the end of each day. But in truth, she had begun to look forward to her evenings together with Snape, stunned when he demonstrated a quietly intense courtesy towards her that she hadn't expected and hadn't imagined him capable of. The bitter cold did little to dispel the heat Snape could generate from one softly uttered remark or tentative, slow smile.

It would have been foolhardy to expect a complete stop to their disagreements, but both seemed to realise and accept that such strong personalities could not co-exist without some clashes. Hermione was amazed when even their arguments seemed to change. There was a far lighter tone to their sparring now: gone were the muttered curses and cutting remarks. Snape had merely acted exasperated during Hermione's weekly occurrence of turning toast into charcoal (although, to be fair, if she hadn't been so distracted thinking about him, they might have been spared the episode). Hermione had clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes at Snape's overly dramatic coughing fit when he'd encountered the thick clouds of smoke in the kitchen. Her actions hadn't escaped his notice, and he'd responded with a series of queries on why the combination of bread and fire had proved so vexing to an otherwise talented witch. Hermione had simply reminded him that few were blessed with his extraordinary powers of perfection before she'd informed him he was dangerously close to becoming an insufferable know-it-all. The incongruity of the role reversal had had them both laughing out loud until Snape had suggested she leave the sarcasm to him in exchange for the uncontested title of bossy malapert. They had both agreed, and Hermione had smiled when he'd jokingly offered his hand. She had taken it readily, shaking on the mock deal, but Snape had seemed reluctant to release her hand and the light-hearted, teasing moment had quickly turned serious, seeming to take the air from the room as it metamorphosed. The brief, physical contact...however innocent...had stirred something in Hermione that she had steadfastly resolved to avoid. Although unfair, Snape had been correct in his long-ago assessment of her self-control: no matter how hard she tried, she found it impossible to remain unaffected by his touch.

Whether by chance or contrivance, they seemed to be spending a great deal of time in each other's company. Hermione was surprised when Snape began to pay her fairly frequent visits while she worked; he often appeared to specifically seek her out in between his lessons. So it was little wonder that as she stood in her lab on the first day of the Christmas break, her thoughts were soon drifting away from the ingredients spread across the table before her. Draco was attempting to have a conversation with her, but she was only half-listening to him. She couldn't seem to stop herself from thinking of Snape and wondering when he would appear.

"You seem distracted," Draco said, making her realise she had no idea as to what he'd been speaking about.

"Sorry," she apologised with a rueful look.

He surveyed her curiously and asked, "Is Severus still behaving himself?"

"Yes," she said, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face. Draco had checked on her frequently since her emotional visit to the Divination Tower, and although she had not confided the details of the night Snape had wrecked the Potions classroom, she had assured him everything was fine and he needn't worry about her.

He nodded his acceptance but made no attempt to pry further; instead, he looked down at the items laid out neatly before her. "That's disgusting," he said, gesturing to a hard, sinewy rope of dried flesh.

Hermione chuckled. "It's Erumpent tail," she told him as she grabbed a piece and began trying to chop it, which proved quite difficult.

With a disgusted curl of his lips, Draco returned his attention to Hermione. "As I was saying... You've turned me down the last three years... You simply cannot say 'no' this time."

Hermione frowned and vengefully pressed her knife into the Erumpent tail. Draco was trying to cajole her into attending the annual Christmas Eve ball his parents gave, as he had tried to do each Christmas since she'd returned to Hogwarts.

Steering the conversation in a different direction, she said, "I bet the twins can't wait for Christmas." Draco had, in fact, been on his way out of the castle to Apparate home for the holidays, but he apparently couldn't pass up the opportunity to pester her about coming to the ball.

"They're ecstatic. Don't change the subject."

"I'm not!" she said, pretending to be insulted. "I happen to have genuine interest in the antics of your little angels."

Draco snorted, although she couldn't tell whether it was her feigned offence or the idea of his hellions being called 'angels' that drew his humour.

"Nice try, Granger. Come on," he beseeched her. "Luna's dying to see you – it's been months."

She pondered that, feeling like it had been far too long since she'd seen Luna as well. Not since the summer holidays, when Hermione had passed a pleasant week with the young Malfoy family. She had loved the constant havoc caused by the twins and had marvelled over Luna's calmly accepting reaction to it all. But that had been at Draco and Luna's home in Sussex; the thought of returning to Malfoy Manor had always turned her stomach.

"I don't know... I just don't think I can go back there," she said quietly, trying to explain.

"I understand," he said, earning himself a grateful smile. But then he continued, "It's been over fourteen years though, Hermione. Maybe going back now would actually be a positive step... Exorcise the demons, so to speak. People change," he reminded her, and Hermione quickly looked back down at the table.

She whacked her knife into the Erumpent tail as she considered his words. While it was true that Draco had changed enormously in the past fourteen years, she doubted the same could be said for his father. There were indications that Lucius Malfoy was still as conceited and bigoted as ever, and Hermione had her own very private reasons for never wanting to see him again. Reasons she could not possibly share with his son. She had no desire to spend Christmas Eve...or any other day of the year...dredging up memories from her past, although there was no conceivable way to convey the secret of her rationale to Draco.

She knew that relations had been strained between Draco and his parents after their incarceration for supporting Voldemort. When Draco had married Luna before Lucius's release from Azkaban, there had been a full-out estrangement between father and son. That had changed when the twins had been born, and a shaky reconciliation had ensued. Still, unlike their days at school, Draco rarely mentioned his father, and Hermione suspected they spent little time in each other's company.

Draco seemed to think her silence indicated she was wavering because he continued, "Please say you'll come."

Hermione remained silent.

"Severus will be there," he said enticingly, and Hermione could feel an odd fluttering in her stomach at the mention of Snape's name and the unbidden image of him in formal attire. "Isn't that right, Severus?" Draco asked, causing Hermione to snap her head up.

Snape was in the doorway, casually leaning his shoulder against the frame. His gaze focused on Hermione, and although he answered Draco, he never shifted his eyes from hers. "I will indeed attend," he confirmed and then stipulated, "if Professor Granger will grant me the honour of a dance."

Hermione felt a warm glow in her body and heard herself answering, "Oh... um... okay," before she could recall all her previous reasons for not attending.

"Great; see you both there!" Draco said cheerfully, quickly departing before Hermione could change her mind.

Hermione scowled at Draco's rapidly retreating back. Glancing at Snape, a shy smile replaced her frown, and she said, "I never really pictured you as the Christmas ball type."

Snape pushed off from the doorway and slowly entered the room, winding among the tables as he approached her. "No, I suppose I often find them a rather tedious waste of time." Then he turned his dark eyes to her face and added, "But perhaps I've just never been properly diverted before."

Hermione's smile bloomed from shy to daring. "Well, then. I certainly hope you can find something...or someone...to keep you amused," she said.

"I intend to," he replied softly, holding her gaze until she blushed and returned her attention to her work.

Head down, Hermione grinned as she listened to Snape slowly sweeping around the laboratory, examining ingredients and notes as he moved, pausing periodically to inspect a piece of equipment. He had taken a surprising interest in her research, and contrary to his earlier assertion, he wasn't reading "The Brukowski-Granger Principle" simply to fall asleep at night.

She had expected him to mock her when he'd first inquired into the different methodologies she employed, but her answers had actually led to several stimulating conversations. Hermione had been pleasantly reminded of her time spent at university where she had often engaged in debates over various ideas and approaches. She hadn't realised how much she had missed being challenged on an intellectual level and found herself eagerly anticipating their discussions. She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that Snape was interested: his thirst for knowledge and his innate hunger to examine every facet of whatever held his interest rivalled her own. Still, she relished the discovery of yet another layer to the puzzle that was Severus Snape.

Hermione had been lost in her thoughts, but her mind snapped to attention at his next words.

"What is it about visiting Malfoy Manor that upsets you?" he asked.

Hermione's hand stilled on her knife. She looked at the blade, overcome with sudden memories of Bellatrix Lestrange holding a similar weapon to her throat. She felt certain that Snape knew about the incidents at Malfoy Manor; he was firmly ensconced with the Death Eaters when they had occurred. With a frown, she wondered why he would ask her such a question. Unless...

Hermione shook her head to clear it; there was no way Snape could suspect her true reasons for wanting to stay far away from Malfoy Manor.

"Bad memories," she mumbled at last, returning to the Erumpent tail with sudden ferocity.

"Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?" she shot back with unmasked fury, angrily attacking the stubborn flesh of the tail before her. "Bellatrix and her love of torture. Voldemort coming for Harry. That monster, Fenrir Greyback." Hermione shuddered visibly, remembering the vicious werewolf.

"Yes, of course," Snape said quickly, contritely. "I had just thought... perhaps you and Lucius..."

The knife in Hermione's hand slipped dangerously at his words, sliding off the sinewy tail muscle and sinking deeply into the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger. She let out a startled cry as blood pumped out with alarming force, covering her robes and the table before her.

Snape was beside her in an instant, grabbing her hand carefully and sliding his fingers through the gushing blood to inspect the cut beneath. Hermione had had enough accidents in the lab to know the cut was very deep. She suspected the knife had sliced open an artery, and she wouldn't be surprised to learn a tendon had been severed as well. She felt incredibly embarrassed at her clumsiness and tried to pull her hand away.

"Hold still," Snape hissed at her impatiently, holding his wand over the wound with one hand while still massaging the cut with the other. Then he began an intricate series of motions, and Hermione could actually feel faint movement deep within her hand as tendons were repaired and layers of skin moved together. She stood still as a statue now, watching in wonder and listening as his deep voice seemed to be humming or chanting something incomprehensible. The words were indecipherable, the language unrecognisable, and yet there was something about the strange, low song that was comfortingly familiar. She was hypnotised by the resonance of his voice and felt goose bumps spring to her arms. Her heart was filled with a strange feeling: an incredible swelling that made her want to weep with joy, for surely her chest would burst if she couldn't release it. It was as if a chorus were singing inside her head. The sound of a thousand voices joined together in perfect harmony flowed through her body, filling her completely.

Then the strange song stopped, and the feeling slowly faded. Snape used his wand to quickly remove the blood, even swishing it over her robes until it was impossible to see that a terrible accident had just occurred. Hermione watched him contentedly, observing his precise and efficient ministrations as if in a dream. Finally, he held her hand up, inches away from his nose, and carefully inspected his work.

"How does it feel now?" he asked, turning her hand back and forth in detailed examination.

"Wonderful," she replied breathlessly, still mesmerised by his movements, his power, and the feel of his fingers on her hand.

His eyes locked onto hers quickly, widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing slightly. Almost imperceptibly, the lines of his face changed, smoothing themselves from the quiet concern and rearranging into what could only be described as desire.

Hermione felt an odd wave of dizziness and knew it had nothing to do with the recent blood-loss. In her mind, she was falling; the floor beneath her feet was no longer stable, and she felt herself tumbling over some imaginary precipice, into the dark depths of his eyes. They stood staring at each other for several moments, neither willing to break the spell. Hermione decided she would be content to stay like that forever.

Snape's eyes left hers, focusing on her hand which he was still holding in the air between their faces. His thumb began slowly stroking the area where the knife had sliced her skin, then roamed farther along her wrist. Hermione watched in fascination as he continued to gently caress her skin, moving to the inside of her hand. His touch was soft and tender, but she felt her breath hitch at the feel of his long fingers massaging the sensitive flesh of her palm. Hermione marvelled at how strangely erotic the sensation was considering the innocence of his actions.

With an almost painfully slow deliberation, Snape lowered his head towards her hand and placed his warm lips against the base of her thumb. Their eyes met at the exact moment his lips made contact: intense black seeking the surprised brown. He held her gaze intently as he began to move his lips along the length of her thumb, rubbing them back and forth against her skin slowly, reverently. Hermione became entranced by his exquisite movements, amazed to find herself thoroughly aroused by nothing more than the strength of his gaze and a simple kiss on her hand.

Of course, nothing about this man was ever simple. He shifted his mouth to her other fingers, opening her hand to place his lips against her palm before closing his eyes and breathing deeply. Hermione watched transfixed as his long black eyelashes swept down to touch his face. His eyes remained closed as he slowly kissed the palm of her hand. The skin felt incredibly sensitive, and the intimate touch of his lips to her flesh sent shockwaves through her body. Her lips parted involuntarily to emit a soft sigh of pleasure, and his eyes flew open at the sound.

He raised his head, and Hermione felt a sudden wave of sadness as he slowly lowered her hand and gazed into her eyes once more. She regarded him cautiously, a part of her still feeling fragile and uncertain, not entirely ready to trust him again.

Instead of releasing her hand, though, he stepped closer to her and placed it upon his chest, holding her palm flat against his heart so that even through the layers of clothing, she could feel it beating fast and hard.

He gazed at her, almost desperately now, and his expression looked somehow tortured. When he spoke, his voice was uneven and shaky.

"How do you do this to me?" he implored her.

Hermione searched his face, unable to speak, barely daring to breathe.

He didn't seem to require an answer, as next he moved his hand to her face. His fingertips brushed her cheek before trailing down the side of her throat and winding behind her neck, urging her closer. His eyes focused on her lips before he slowly lowered his head, and they both forgot to breathe.

Hermione could feel his mouth almost upon hers when he paused and barely drew back, searching her eyes as if seeking her consent to continue. She was powerless to refuse, weary from denying herself that which her entire being seemed to yearn for. She angled her chin up, closing the tiny space between them by pressing her lips to his as she closed her eyes in acceptance and surrender.

His mouth was patient this time, unhurried in its careful exploration of her lips. He seemed to taste and savour and relish each delicious tremble, each softly uttered sigh. When he urged her lips open at last, his tongue touched hers gently, tentatively stroking and experimenting in slow torment.

Her body shook with the memory of the frantic need she'd felt in the alcove, and the familiar pull of desire quickly flamed to life. She could feel Snape shudder against her, and she knew he was just as consumed by longing as she. Hermione thrilled at the way he seemed to strain against it, though, as if he was determined to enjoy the pleasure of discovery before passion overwhelmed.

His hand had just released her neck, sliding slowly down her throat and brushing over the swell of her breast when a deafening cackle filled the air.

"SNAPE AND GRANGER, KISSY KISSY!"

Hermione and Snape broke apart guiltily as Peeves, the Poltergeist, zoomed around the room, singing with obvious delight.

"OLD HOOK NOSE AND PRISSY MISSY!"

"Peeves!" roared Snape, whipping his wand from the folds of his robes and pointing it at the intruder. A jet of red light shot out from the end, barely missing Peeves. Instead, it ricocheted off the far wall, rebounding dangerously around the lab before finally blowing up an empty bookcase standing in the corner.

Peeves was smart enough to make a hasty exit, but his cackling laughter and ridiculous song could be heard echoing down the corridor for some time.

"I cannot fathom why Minerva doesn't banish him from the castle," Snape said irritably.

Hermione shrugged. "He's an institution."

She had turned her back to Snape and stood at the table shuffling bottles of insects, not wanting him to see how visibly shaken she was by his recent touch. She kept telling herself it was just a kiss, but the knot in her stomach belied that theory. This had been very different from the desperate fire that had consumed her in the alcove, seemingly light-years ago. That encounter had been all about tension and lust and raw hunger. And even though it had ended badly, it still seemed somehow safer than the tenderness of the kiss they'd just shared. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but she was suddenly terrified that at some point, in that brief expanse of time when their lips had just met, she had opened her heart to him. The realisation sent her mind reeling and made her knees shake.

"He's a menace," grumbled Snape, apparently still fixated on Peeves as he muttered something about foolish sentimentality. Hermione could almost feel his eyes on her back and bent her head down to hide her face.

"No one will believe him, anyway," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Everyone thinks we hate each other."

She could feel the very faint brush of his robes as he stepped close behind her.

"They're wrong," he said roughly.

Then his hand was on her hair, pulling it back to expose her ear. She could feel his warmth as his lips drew nearer, and her mind went to war with her heart. Retreat! screamed her mind. Enjoy! yelled her heart.

Shifting ever so slightly forward, Hermione said, "It's probably a good thing he showed up when he did." She could sense Snape's body stiffen behind her, feel his hand freeze on her hair.

"And why is that?" he asked with a derisive sigh, dropping his hand and stepping back.

"Well, obviously... we shouldn't be doing this..." Hermione faltered, not quite knowing what to say. She bit her lip, surprised by her reluctance to look at him.

"Is this a game to you?" he asked quietly. "Or have you chosen this opportunity to punish me for my earlier behaviour?"

Hermione spun around quickly, stunned. "No!" she exclaimed, appalled. "I would never..."

"I could hardly blame you, of course. I daresay I deserve it for the things I said." He was watching her intently, searching her eyes. Hermione tried to gauge his thoughts but found she could no longer read his expression. A door had been shut, and she was left out in the cold.

"It's not that, I promise. I just... I..." she tried to find a way to explain all the reasons why they shouldn't be sharing intimate kisses like this. A thousand random thoughts shot around inside her head, seeming to zoom away the second she tried to latch onto one and making it impossible to offer him an explanation.

Hermione cursed her inability to find the right words when Snape was around. If she could just think of a logical way to explain this to him, then surely he would agree with her. But logic meant truth, and she wasn't sure she was ready to examine the truth yet, much less relate it to him.

Her hand fluttered up nervously, and she said, "I can't do this." It sounded clichéd, even to her own ears, but all she could think to add was, "I'm sorry," before looking away.

Snape regarded her for a moment and then sighed again. He folded his arms across his chest, his expression still aloof.

"What is it you think you need from me, Hermione?" he asked, bringing her eyes back to his face. "Declarations of love? A marriage proposal?" he asked with a laugh so hollow it practically echoed.

Hermione shook her head in the negative. The idea of marriage was preposterous. Love, on the other hand, was something everyone wanted, wasn't it? A misty image of Lily Evans surfaced in the back of her mind. She knew Snape could never offer her love: his heart was far beyond her reach and belonged to the memory of another woman. To expect such a man to care deeply about her was surely a recipe for disaster.

"I just don't want to get hurt," she replied at last. Without meaning to, she had already allowed her heart to be touched by him. She had to do something to stop herself from falling any further: it could only end in heartache. Hermione knew instinctively that this man could, intentionally or not, cause her a tremendous amount of pain.

"Life hurts, Hermione," he told her matter-of-factly. "And if you think differently, then you're fooling yourself. Or perhaps you just need to grow up." There was no malice in his tone, just disappointment. Somehow, it was harder to take.

He stared at her for a few moments more, then unfolded his arms and walked to the door. "Good day to you," he said formally before departing.

Hermione stood at her table feeling confused and miserable. She knew she had blundered her explanation and completely botched the conversation, and she couldn't help but wonder why her best intentions kept leading her in the wrong direction. She had a strong notion that by trying to spare herself any pain, she had unintentionally hurt Snape. Rejecting him had never been her goal; she had simply been scared by how rapidly her feelings had changed and had felt suddenly desperate to protect herself. How could the rationalisation seem so sensible in her mind and yet sound so ridiculous when spoken aloud? And how was she supposed to concentrate on anything when her mind was still spinning from the memory of his lips on hers?

Hermione packed up her lab materials and put it away as a bad job. She made her way back to the dungeons, trying to think of a way to offer Snape some explanation without digging herself further into a hole. Their living quarters were depressingly empty, a fitting reflection of the void that seemed to be expanding inside her. Hermione dropped her shoulders, wondering where Snape had gone after leaving the lab.

Stepping into the kitchen, she grabbed a glass and poured herself a generous amount of the elf-made wine Minerva had bestowed on the teachers staying at Hogwarts for the Christmas holidays. Although she still balked at the servitude of house-elves, Hermione had to admit that the deep burgundy liquid was beyond anything she'd ever tasted before. She took the glass to her favourite chair in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames while sipping her wine. After draining the glass, she set it aside and pulled her legs up on the chair, curling herself into a ball. Then she rested her temple against the arm of the chair and allowed her thoughts to drift back to the amazing kiss she'd just shared with Snape.

She wondered what they'd be doing right now if she hadn't stopped him and found herself wishing she had been fearless enough to find out. She'd only been trying to safeguard her emotions, she reasoned; she just wanted to spare herself the inevitable pain. That plan had backfired, though, because what she was feeling now was certainly not painless. And the thought of living with Snape over the coming months, in a constant cycle of desire and denial, was worse than the pain she'd been trying to avoid.

Hermione wondered if she was in love with Severus Snape. The idea of it was shocking, to be sure. She had spent so many years disliking him and then many more years feeling remorse because of it. She respected him, certainly. But love? An image of him sitting across from her on the sofa, smiling at her over his book while he sipped a glass of wine suddenly rose to her mind. Then she pictured his eyes, dark with desire, and the feel of his hands on her body. Companionship, desire, admiration... All these things seemed to be leaning in one direction. She seriously doubted she was in love with Snape, and she was certain it was far too soon to be contemplating such things. Nevertheless, she was bright enough to realise that if she continued on this path, she would need to take very careful steps to guard her heart, lest she place herself in the dangerous position of falling in love with him.

Hermione closed her eyes, feeling like she needed a new plan but suddenly too tired to focus on it. She pictured Snape's face as he had looked kissing her hand and quickly fell asleep with a small smile on her lips.

She was having a lovely dream about Snape: they were back in the lab, and he was caressing her cheek softly, whispering her name. There was such tenderness in his touch and his voice that she sighed deeply and moved her face to nuzzle against his strong fingers. Then the fingers were gone, and a shadow passed before her vision. Hermione opened her eyes and realised he was standing in front of the fireplace, and she hadn't been dreaming.

"You're back," she said needlessly.

Snape turned away from his silent study of the jumping flames and watched her, his face a total mask in the shadows. Hermione sat up tiredly and rubbed her eyes. The elf-made wine must have been stronger than she'd thought: a glance at the clock told her several hours had passed.

Whether it was the fire, or the dream, or the residual wine, Hermione felt surprisingly relaxed. She thought of all the logical things she had planned to say to Snape, but dismissed them with conviction, telling her brain to be quiet for once.

Instead, she looked up at him with a comfortable smile and asked, "We just can't seem to get it right, can we?"

His shoulders seemed to relax, and he dropped them slightly. Hermione could see that he'd been holding himself quite rigidly, as if bracing himself against whatever nonsense was going to come out of her mouth next. He walked to her chair and knelt down beside it, so their faces were on the same level, and he could gaze into her eyes without looking down.

"Nothing worth having ever comes easily," he told her.

With an uncertain laugh, she said, "I guess this must be really worthwhile, then."

He smiled, then grew serious. "I'm sorry I accused you of being immature."

"You seem to be apologising a lot lately," she pointed out with a smile.

"Yes," he agreed, looking grim. "And might I just mention how much I detest it?"

"Really? I never would have guessed."

"How gracious of you."

"Actually, you could have spared yourself this one. I happen to agree with you. At least with the first part," she amended.

"Oh?"

"I realise everything's a risk," she said. "And to try to live a life without any pain probably wouldn't be much of a life."

"No one wants to be hurt, Hermione. Sometimes it's unavoidable."

"I can accept that, I suppose. And I should have been honest with you earlier," she began, noting the way he shifted back from her slightly. She wondered if honesty in a relationship was as frightening to him as it was to her.

"The truth is... I've begun to care for you," she told him.

Snape sat back on his heels now, and his eyes appeared guarded. He was obviously uncomfortable with talking about emotions, as she suspected he would be. But she'd gone too far to stop now. Her heart was pounding, but she had to finish.

"I know you didn't ask for it," she said with a small shrug. "I doubt either of us expected to find ourselves in this situation. But whatever this is, it doesn't appear to be going away, despite both of our best efforts. And I'm tired of fighting the fact that I'm attracted to you; I can't keep pretending my feelings are nothing more than deferential regard for a colleague."

She paused for a moment, simultaneously eager and fearful for his reaction. He appeared to be deep in thought, but he remained silent, so she continued, "You asked me earlier what I thought I needed from you. I don't expect promises or declarations, Severus...I'm not a child. All I require is for you to understand that this scares me a little."

Hermione clasped her hands in her lap and gave him a sheepish grin. "In case you hadn't noticed, I generally like to be in control of a situation," she said. "I'm not comfortable with feeling vulnerable...I've spent a good portion of my life avoiding this sensation. To willingly relinquish something that could so easily be used against me is unnatural and frightening and hardly the act of a supposedly bright witch." Shaking her head, she finished, "I must be mad to be telling you any of this."

Hermione took a deep breath and folded her arms across her chest, surprised to realise she actually felt better for having shared her thoughts. It was almost liberating to know the decision to proceed or retreat rested with Snape.

Snape stood up and walked to the fireplace, his brow furrowed in concentration. After several moments, he turned back to her and seemed about to speak, but then looked away and began pacing. He kept at this for several minutes: pacing, looking at her, hesitating, pacing some more. Hermione was amazed at how calm she felt despite his apparent agitation. She had spoken her mind and merely sat watching him with a bemused expression.

Finally, he spoke, and Hermione could tell he had chosen his words carefully.

"I appreciate your candour," he began. "I will attempt to respond with the same."

Hermione nodded.

"I am not a romantic man, Hermione. I would prefer you refrain from attaching any romantic notions to me. I am not going to write you poetry or sing you love songs."

"All right," she said, wondering if he seriously thought she was expecting such things.

"I will not pretend to be in love with you."

Hermione let his statement hang in the air for a moment. She knew this, of course. But hearing the words spoken with such finality made her pause. He was being brutally honest, and on some level she supposed she was grateful; at least she would be spared the burden of wondering if he would ever love her. He was making sure they both went into this with their eyes wide open. Now, the only question remaining was whether she wanted to be with a man whose heart was forever closed to her.

It surprised Hermione to find that she did. "I understand," she said finally.

Snape searched her face and seemed satisfied by what he found, giving her a curt nod.

"That being said, I have experienced certain feelings for you: chief among these are admiration and desire," he stated rather formally.

"I see," she said with a small smile. He certainly hadn't been exaggerating about not being romantic.

Snape frowned and appeared to be unsatisfied with his statement. He elaborated by saying, "I admire your intellect and wit, as well as your strength and determination."

"You're going to make me blush," she teased. "I believe you mentioned something about desire, too?"

"Of course I desire you," he said, sounding more than a little impatient. He considered her for a moment, still frowning, and then said, "You possess a unique intelligence as well as an uncommon beauty, of which I'm sure you're aware. And I happen to find intelligence and beauty a rather irresistible mix."

Whoa, she thought to herself, letting his sensual voice carry the words to her brain, making her tingle all over. For an unromantic man, he could say some fairly amazing things when he chose.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She received another curt nod in return. His brows were still drawn together, and he pursed his lips as he looked at her askance, serious contemplation evident in his countenance.

"You said you did not require declarations and promises," he said, drawing a deep breath. "And I cannot offer them to you in the traditional sense."

He came back to her chair and resumed his original position, kneeling before her and looking into her eyes thoughtfully. Hermione sat forward and found her heart was beating loudly as she watched him.

"I will, however, declare to you that I understand your fears. And I will promise to try my best to ensure those fears are never realised."

Hermione regarded the sincerity in his eyes and swallowed hard, unable to speak. She hadn't been able to articulate it earlier, but he had somehow managed to provide the precise measure of reassurance she'd been searching for.

"This is all I can offer," he said with an air of finality.

Hermione smiled slowly, suspecting that his impatience masked his trepidation over having revealed so much. "I'll take it," she said with a nod.

He looked relieved, then stood up and offered his hand to her. Hermione thought he wanted to shake on it and almost laughed out loud. She took his hand, but instead of a handshake, she found herself being pulled up out of her chair and standing before him. She craned her neck to meet his eyes and smiled as his gaze searched her face, perhaps looking for doubt or regret.

Satisfied at last, he said, "Let's see if we can get it right this time," before turning to lead her towards his bedroom, her hand still held within his.

A/N: Karelia and little_beloved are kind enough to beta this story, and lettybird Brit-picks for me. I am eternally grateful to all three of these lovely ladies!

Just wanted to say, "Well done!" to all the clever readers who suspected Bertram of being evil (almost from the first instance he was mentioned)!! I was a tad pouty that you all figured it out so quickly. :-)