Part Two

Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any money from them, nor do I own any stock in the manufacture, promotion or distribution of Murtlap Essence.

I need to thank on bended knee and present a bottle of Zinfandel (the proper colour, of course) to the world's greatest beta, stgulik, who is my Hermione Granger. Thank you, Jules. I literally cannot do this without you. Well, I can, but why would I?

As always, for DahlraMuse, who woke me one morning with the full story in my head and wouldn't let me rest until I'd typed it out..

When the grass was closely mown,

Excerpt from V. The Dumb Soldier, A Child's Garden of Verses, RL Stevenson

It took another year for the school to be restored to the point that classes could resume. During that time, Hermione got engaged to Ron, but soon broke it off (the engagement, not certain bits of Ron, although she was tempted, after catching him in a rather compromising position with his former flame, Lavender Brown, and a third, unnamed partner). Then she Portkeyed to Australia to retrieve her parents, and decided to return to Hogwarts to finish her NEWTs.

She also discovered sex, which she found to be great fun. Fun had been in rather short supply for the last two years of her life; she was ready to make up for a little lost time. She blissfully lost her virginity to an older man, a travel agent she met while helping her parents to arrange their move back to the UK.

She justified her attraction to him by concluding that he was a good teacher and very skilled sexually. And, being Hermione Granger, she wasn't satisfied until she became as good at it as he was. That he had dark hair and brown eyes and rather pale skin did not strike her as being of any significance. Any resemblance to any known person alive, dead or otherwise, was merely coincidental, as they said in the Muggle cinema. She ended the affair shortly before she returned to England; he was lovely, but his voice got on her nerves. It lacked... character.

She followed him up with brief affairs with a couple of British Muggles, and a few one-night stands and summer flings. The war had taught her a valuable lesson: it was better to charge full steam ahead with conviction than to hesitate with caution.

She approached sex in the same fearless, methodical way she approached any academic pursuit: research, instruction, application. She would be the first to admit that her zealous and assertive attitude scared away just as many men as it attracted, but, as always, Hermione remained true to herself. She was not being a slut, she reminded herself; she was practicing for when the right man came along. When that happened, if she had the wits to recognise him, she would know exactly what to do to keep him. She was sure of it.

The idea of having sex with Severus Snape came up during Ginny's hen night party. After hitting the Wizarding nightclubs and stuffing Muggle fivers in the g-strings of the strippers in a club in Soho, they ended up back at the Burrow, playing a card game called Speak The Truth. Players drew a card, and if they told the truth, they got a chocolate button. Lies caused the card to spray a rather unpleasant scent all over the hands of the deceiver. The trick was to pass the card quickly to the next player, lest you were caught in the lie. It became a game of hot potato, and if the liar was caught with her own card, she had to give up all her chocolate buttons.

Padma Patel, Hermione's old roommate's twin from Ravenclaw, had just been caught in a spectacular lie involving her sexual proclivities, a live chicken and lime marmalade. It was a little hard to concentrate, what with the pretty Indian girl covered in fishy-smelling oil, and the elf-made wine flowing so freely. Hermione was having a bit of a hard time keeping up amidst the laughter, the fishy aroma and the idea of lime marmalade smeared on Terry Boot's twig and berries.

A quick Scourgify soon sorted out Padma's lie, and her sister Pavarti pulled the next card from the deck. She cleared her throat dramatically, and read aloud, "'If you could have sex with anyone, alive or dead, who would it be?'" She went for the safe and obvious. "Lucius Malfoy, no brainer."

Her twin's eyes grew wide and she smiled and nodded enthusiastically, wafting the aroma of cod around the room. "I love older men! I'll bet he's an animal in bed," said Padma, rolling her dark eyes to the heavens. She took the card. "But Blaise Zabini is really the one for me." She tossed the card to Ginny.

Ginny was thoughtful. "I would have loved to have done it with Regulus Black. I've seen photos of him." She sighed wistfully. "He was gorgeous, all black hair and dark eyes and mysterious, brooding Slytherin sexuality."

Hermione smiled when the card reached her, thinking of another mysterious, brooding Slytherin. With plenty of Dutch courage to sustain her, she ventured, "I've always fancied a go with Professor Snape." She tossed the card to Luna, waiting for the chorus of "Eeeeewwsss!" but it never came.

Ginny nodded sagely. "Yeah, I can see that. Even after last year. He was a bastard, but he did have a gorgeous voice."

"I always loved his eyes," Luna Lovegood added dreamily. "He had a way of looking at you, like there was something going on that might be fun to discover."

"And you know what they say about men with big noses and hands? Merlin, I'll bet he could lay wand for hours," Ginny moaned rapaciously, crunching on an ice cube. They all looked at her for a moment, then burst into huge scoops of drunken guffaws.

Hermione laughed. "Lay wand? Do you kiss Harry with that mouth?" She sobered slightly. "Yes, well, we all know I have a better chance shagging Regulus Black than Professor Snape. He can't stand me."

"Why?" Padma asked.

"Oh, let's see," Hermione said, with a pally but false smile. She ticked off the reasons on her fingers. "I've only set fire to his robes, knocked him unconscious, stolen from him, spied on him and cost him his Order of Merlin in my third year."

"Oh, Hermione," Pavarti laughed, "surely you don't believe he still holds a grudge after all this time? I mean, the man's a war hero, and there's been a lot of water under the bridge since then."

"Hate is merely the opposite passion of love," Luna replied, her lilting voice serene and confident. "Sometimes we tell ourselves we hate someone because we're too afraid to admit how much we love them."

Hermione smiled warmly at Luna, suddenly attaching new significance to the expired bottle of Murtlap essence from Professor Snape's pocket.

Going back to school to finish her NEWTs had been a mistake. Hermione realised it within two weeks of returning.

As much as she loved Hogwarts and learning, Hermione found herself increasingly bored, listless and frustrated. Every one of her teachers treated her like she was some sort of holy relic and practically couldn't be bothered to attempt to teach her anything. As far as they were concerned, she already knew everything she needed to know.

All of her peers were gone; not one Gryffindor from her year had returned. Harry, Ron and the rest of her class had accepted the Ministry's honorary degrees and proceeded with their lives. But when asked why in Merlin's name she wanted to return to school, Hermione stated emphatically that she wanted to finish what she started.

And this was partly true. She loved academics; she loved the feeling of being clever and discovering a new way of using a plant or finding a better method of performing a charm, a more efficient shortcut to transfiguration. She loved the simple joy of reading something complex and understanding it, and she loved imparting her wisdom as well. When she was a youngster, it invariably led to being called names like bookworm, brains, and the infamous know-it-all, but as an adult, it made her an instructor, and she seriously considered applying for a position in the field of education.

And there was a second, no less compelling reason to return to Hogwarts: she wanted to keep an eye on him. Something in her wanted to make sure he not only survived, but that he lived. She knew from experience the former was surprisingly easy, but the latter could be so much more difficult.

He seemed so lost, so unthere. He was not the same teacher who bullied his students into a pulp, but Hermione missed even that. At least he used to take some perverse pleasure in debasement and intimidation; this Severus Snape no longer took pleasure in anything. He was no longer three-dimensional, like a figure cut from negative space.

And the teachers all seemed tired. The past two years had been hellishly hard on them as well. They frankly weren't up to the job of trying to find new and more difficult ways to challenge the intellect of Hogwarts' currently most famous pupil. They wanted time to regroup, and all of them tended to let things slide with her, and treated her like a valued and much loved pet.

Well, almost every one of them. Professor Snape, who had (so gossip intimated) reluctantly returned as the Potions professor, treated her like a piece of wood. He looked straight through her, and when she tried to participate in class, he blatantly ignored her. Sometimes, she felt like a ghost in his class. He simply would not acknowledge her presence at all.

She could not understand why he insisted on treating her like she was a non-entity, until the day he suggested they experiment using varying ratios of St. John's Wort to Valerian instead of Silverleaf pod, in the making of the garden-variety Calming Draught.

"But, Professor," she began, her voice low and insistent, "if you balanced the St. John's Wort with valerian properly, it is cheaper to produce, but wouldn't the uneven results you inevitably obtain be more cost prohibitive in the long run?"

Professor Snape had looked at her for exactly seven seconds. She counted them. He then turned to his class and announced, "Experimentation is the catalyst for greatness. It is one thing to think you have all the answers, but it is another to realise that, while your theories are sound, they are meaningless, unless you are willing to risk your reputation, perhaps even your life on them.

"A potioneer who is afraid to experiment will soon stagnate. If he is content to rest on his laurels he can earn modest success. Even a dilettante can impress his customers if he convinces them he is impressive. From there, he will rapidly enter the realm of charlatan in the eyes of his peers." He paused, looking over her left shoulder. "Rather like taking your N.E.W.T.s in every subject because you know your professors will pass you because of your reputation, not your true ability."

He turned away, and Hermione face burned.

She realised that he truly believed that granting her the oxygen of acknowledgement would mean he would be forced to treat her with the same unproductive regard as her other teachers. And perhaps that she wanted and expected him to, as well. As much as it dismayed her, Hermione was convinced of it. She had heard of cutting one's nose off to spite one's face, but she'd never known anyone to cut off another person's nose because that person was seen as not deserving of it.

It also occurred to Hermione in more self-assured moments that he might simply be afraid. Afraid that if he acknowledged her, he'd have to acknowledge that she helped to save his life, and he would have to start living again. She felt better for having figured out his disregard for her, but merely understanding Severus Snape was not necessarily helpful in getting him to understand himself.

She remembered so well the day they became lovers. It was the day Professor Snape cut his finger. Right at the end of class, demonstrating a cut-tear-curl technique for extracting seed pods from the Sorshalrose plant, the knife slipped and sliced deeply into his finger. Hissing, more irritated than injured, he dismissed the class five minutes early and stalked back to his desk. He produced a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the injured finger; it soon grew dappled with his blood.

Hermione was astonished at how bright and vibrant it was, next to his drab, colourless form. He had seemed so bloodless of late she marveled he could spare this much over a simple cut. Honestly, he was starting to look like Professor Binns. His lectures no longer held their biting edge, and sometimes Hermione would leave his class feeling as washed out and grey as he. It was like attending class taught by a sleepwalker.

The students acted spooked, derailed by it. The cut itself was the only anomaly in his class since the beginning of term. It seemed as if the cut had leeched the colour from the walls, pulling it all down into his bleeding hand. It was the only bright spot in the room. No one could take their eyes off it.

As the rest of the class finally snapped out of their blood-induced trance and filed out of the room, Professor Snape remained sat at his desk, morosely staring at his hand. At the moment Hermione approached him, drawn like a shark to the blood, he raised the makeshift tourniquet from his finger, grimaced, and pressed it against the wound again.

Gingerly, as if afraid of spooking him, she offered, "I have some Essence of Dittany, sir." She dug in her beaded bag and produced the small vial that practically lived in her hand during her eighteenth year; the year she, Harry and Ron were on the run for their lives. She reached for his hand. "Here, let me-"

"That will be quite unnecessary, Miss Granger. I do not require a nursemaid," he snapped. He lifted the handkerchief, looked at his hand with a faint look of distaste, and re-applied pressure to the wound. He shifted in his chair, turning his body slightly away from her.

She grinned. "Well, at least you're speaking to me!" She sat her bag on his desk. Without asking permission, she took hold of his hand. The cut was short, only about an inch long, but very deep, and was still bleeding profusely. "Hold still."

He looked at her in shock. "What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Granger? I said, leave it!" He yanked his hand away from hers, and drops of blood flew in every direction. One landed on his face, just above his lip. Two landed on her shirt: one on her collar, the other just above her right nipple. The bright red spots bloomed on the white fabric, and for a second or two, they both stared at them in mute fascination. The droplets fairly screamed in the sepia-toned room, especially the one on Snape's face.

For a moment, they merely stared at one another. In his eyes, she could see the ghost of Norton, fearful and abused. Beyond that was Severus Snape, resentful for still being alive, bewildered at still being alive, afraid of still being alive.

Hermione shook her head. She held out her hands in supplication. "Stop. Just, stop, please." She took the handkerchief from his still, pale fingers, and wiped the blood from his face. When he did not protest, she picked up the vial of Dittany. He was still as stone as she cradled his hand in her palm, and gently applied the healing essence to his bleeding finger.

As she worked, something like a smirk touched the corners of his mouth. She was glad to see it; even sneering at her was preferable to the emotionless wizard who had walked out of his trial as a free man. His mouth twitched, and he murmured, "What, no Murtlap, Miss Granger?"

Her eyes met his, and she smiled as she reached into her bag again. From its depths, she produced a little bottle. Vial 183, Batch 10.

He took the little bottle, which looked like a capsule in his hands. He absently tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other. An expression crossed his features, one Hermione could not describe. Finally he murmured, "I wondered whatever happened to it." His dark eyes met hers. Almost against his will, he said, "Madam Pomfrey told me you saved my life. I don't know whether to thank you or curse you for it."

Running on pure instinct and desire, Hermione leaned forward toward his lips. "Thank me first."

As she closed the distance between them, Severus' eyes grew wide. He leaned back in his chair as far as he could without tipping over. His breathing quickened. And still he kept silent. It seemed to take her a month to reach his mouth.

As Hermione's lips touched his, he gasped and whispered fearfully, "Oh, gods, fuck," against her lips, then drew the words into his with his next breath, along with her tongue.

It was not a kiss of any great finesse; it was fueled by anger and passion, and he pulled her into his arms and grasped her head and opened her mouth to his with a growling moan that made Hermione's groin burst into flames. He sucked her tongue almost painfully, greedily, and tangled his hands in her hair.

"Damn you," he growled, between his hard, bruising kisses, and she tasted blood. "Damn you," he purred against her mouth, sliding his tongue along hers, and he tasted divine. "Damn you," he whimpered, slowing the kiss down to a sensuous dance of tongues and teeth, slanting her head until he was drinking from her mouth, moaning low, teasing and nipping at her soft lips in slow, measured caresses, gently biting her bottom lip, then soothing it with his velvety tongue.

Sometime between the first and second 'Damn yous' Hermione climbed/was pulled into his lap, straddling his hips, surging against him. And as they gradually separated, Hermione saw the raw, helpless surrender in his eyes and she understood. She could break this man with a single gesture. She could make this man with a single caress.

He refused to meet her eyes. Staring fixedly at the feathered edge of the blood spot on her breast, he cleared his throat. His voice sounded like tyres crunching on gravel. "Well, brava, Miss Granger. How marvelous for you. You've proven I'm human. The delight with which you've taken advantage of this situation is most un-Gryffindor." He fixed her with one of his flat, smirking glares. "I'm beginning to think there's a little Slytherin in you."

Curling her lip, Hermione leaned closer and placed her hands on his shoulders. "I think I'd prefer," she growled, as she ground down on his crotch, "a lot of Slytherin in me, sir."

It was as if everything up to this point had been little more than a hair tickling his face in his sleep. His lidded eyes first widened in shock, then closed tightly. He took a deep breath. It filled his lungs and sounded as if he hadn't taken one like it since right before the final battle.

And then – and then, as he opened his eyes, he thrummed to life like a Harley kicked over by a Doc Marten-booted Hell's Angel. Fucking hell, Hermione thought. She'd been so wrong about all the colours of the rainbow coalescing in his blood. They were here, now, in his blazing, black, salacious eyes. Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and stand in fear and trembling.

Severus Snape was fucking awake.