Revealing Moments

Revealing Moments

By Bambu

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Chapter One: Premiere

He'd stopped her at the end of class, asking her to remain for a moment to clarify something on her last assignment. This had to end. Her participation in his classes had suffered in the past several lessons.

Stealthily he positioned himself in front of her, lifted her chin, and looked at her face searchingly, taking in the dark circles and haunted look, the thinning of her cheeks from lack of sleep and too little sustenance. In the seven years she'd been his student, Severus Snape had never seen the Gryffindor know-it-all in such a state. A fleeting pang for the loss of her former ebullience was quickly crushed, and he rather speculated that the final veil of innocence had been ripped from her eyes. In a rare moment of compassion, he chose to restore her to her former self.

"Silly girl. It was only a kiss."

Her reaction was not what he'd expected. He'd understood that she was embarrassed and ashamed by her actions. He'd enjoyed her embarrassment thinking that she deserved it for her rash behavior. That she'd continued to be haunted by it was a trifle insulting, not to mention a bit unsettling, as was the intensity of the look she was currently giving him. Something sparkled in the depths of her brown eyes, and the flickering of her lashes, as she lowered them to hide what she was feeling.

Hermione hadn't had as much practice as he at hiding emotions, usually her thoughts were easily recognized, worn openly for the world to see. Not any longer. Not for two weeks now. She was learning, she thought grimly. Her voice was husky, and a bit choked with the strength she was exerting to repress the longing she felt.

"That's not it at all, Professor. If I may go, now..."

Without waiting for his permission, Hermione jerked from his grip and almost flew to the door of the classroom, desperate in her need to escape the dungeon and his presence. Her nerves were frayed to the last thread, and she was dreadfully afraid that with any slight tug they would snap altogether. It had been days since she'd eaten a full meal and had more than a couple of hours of sleep. And now, now, she would have the memory of his touch. His fingers touching her jaw, tilting her chin so that she could look into the depths of his very expressive dark eyes. What was happening to her? Hermione moaned and leaned against the wall of the hallway, resting her head against the cool stone, oblivious to other passing students.

"I hadn't given you leave, Miss Granger."

The dangerously soft tones of Severus Snape's voice sent a jolt of anticipated excitement to her nipples. Grasping her books closer to her chest in an effort to not give him any more room for speculation, she'd been quite humiliated enough thank you, Hermione gathered her courage, and turned to face her tormentor. Not that he was attempting to tease her at all, he'd just featured far too prominently in her thoughts and dreams recently to give her any sort of ease in his presence. Across the Great Hall was more than enough, she'd begun to avoid meals if he was at the head table; Ron and Harry had taken to smuggling food to her, not asking what was wrong, hoping she'd tell them when she was ready.

"I.. I beg your pardon, Professor," briefly she flicked her eyes to his face, surprise at his genuine concern halting the return to inspection of his shoes. Attempting to calculate how quickly she could bolt from his disturbing presence. The quivering anticipation in her system was spreading itself uncomfortably to her core. She couldn't get away fast enough.

"Miss Granger, would you care to enlighten me?" He asked, raising one eyebrow in query, and wondering what had left this girl so flustered. He thought back to the exuberance of her kiss in his quarters. He'd taken it as a form of unquenchable puppy like enthusiasm, she'd never been particularly good at reining in her thoughts or affection. As he looked into her eyes, he noticed the pupils beginning to dilate and the slight hitch in her breath. Puzzled by her reaction, he attempted to soothe her as if she were a wild animal. He dropped his voice to a low, husky murmur.

"It's all right, Miss Granger, it's forgotten... and forgiven."

On a half sob, she choked out, "that's just it. I haven't forgotten. That's the problem. I want to do it again." And she wrenched herself from the paralysis his gaze induced, and ran down the hall, leaving a bemused and stunned Professor in her wake.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

With his usual reticence and minimal interaction, Severus Snape joined his colleagues for dinner in the newly decorated Great Hall. As the school year waned, Dumbledore had wanted the school to reflect a more festive air in homage to the change of season, and greet the coming summer. Thus, spring bouquets were to be found at irregular intervals around the school, in suits of armor, ensconced upon the walls of hallways -- both in and out of use, on the house tables, and in other less likely places. None, however, drew the attention of Severus Snape, who took his accustomed seat at the Head Table. He rarely engaged in spirited dialogue with his compatriots while school was in session, a fact that was at present in his favor, as his thoughts were reluctantly and completely engaged by a mental dissection of his afternoon's encounter with Hermione Granger.

He'd thought about skiving off dinner altogether, and having a quiet meal delivered to his rooms. He had work to do. However, he wanted a chance to observe his would-be paramour while dining with her friends, without the distraction of teaching a class of students, and having to keep constant vigilance over Longbottom's heavy-handed errors.

The revelations of the afternoon had been a bit unsettling. He mentally snorted at this understatement. Having a student apparently pine with desire for want of his lips was a novel experience. Over the course of a varied and misspent life, Snape had been offered more than his share of liaisons, with both men and women, for many reasons. Grades, quashing detrimental information, and a multitude of available and willing partners as a result of his efforts in the service of the Dark Lord among them. The common denominator in these offers was the manner in which they revealed the intricate manipulations of the power play. However, and this was the sticking point - the one his cyclical internal dialogue kept returning to -- none of those witches and wizards previously offering services had appeared to work themselves into such a state of turmoil over a simple kiss. Although, in this case, there was no need for his power to be wielded on the Seventh Year Gryffindor's behalf. In fact, she hadn't offered, nor did she require any dispensation - benevolent or otherwise -- from him. Which made her circumstances altogether unique in his experience. And puzzling. 'Gods, I don't have time for this,' he thought, aggravated.

Snape had spent the better part of the afternoon assessing Miss Granger's motives, her strategy, looking for the unobtrusive 'hook' to her bait. He'd succeeded in convincing himself that there was none. It seemed marginally possible that she was, in fact, in the throes of a crush. With him as the object of her teenaged fantasy. A preposterous conclusion.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a slight flush coloring the cheeks of the usually pale Potions Master. Exerting a firmer control of himself, he took a deep breath, and began to apply himself to his meal, while casting his eyes across the crowded hall, scrutinizing the House Tables, looking for the 'golden trio'. There. The telltale flash of flame colored hair indicated the location of the youngest Weasley son, seated, as was his custom, alongside the dark haired Boy Wonder. No sign of the third member of their triumvirate. She was missing.

Snape avidly watched the interaction between the two young men. They were generally affable when in conversation with their neighbors, but when their tablemates' attention was diverted elsewhere, Potter and Weasley were holding a quiet, serious discussion. Snape didn't want to jump to conclusions. However, given the information he already possessed, and, taking into account the state in which he'd last seen Miss Granger, he wouldn't have been off the mark to accurately surmise the topic of their discussion.

Idly his mind replayed the encounters with the little Gryffindor lioness. Nothing could've prepared him for the unexpectedness of her kiss that evening in his quarters. It was one of the few times in his life that he'd been shocked speechless. It hadn't been until she fled from the dungeons that he'd been able to move. Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's girl Friday, eager intelligence gathering know-it-all, was the last person he'd expected to develop any sort of feeling for him. Other than dislike, that is. Even now, he felt the enthusiasm of her soft lips pressed to his. Her lithe body conforming to his more rigid limbs. He hadn't noticed until that very moment, and, subsequently, each time he'd seen her, that she was no longer a child, or a young girl. Her body had grown into that of a woman. She was still his student; a young woman in his care. He would never -- had never betrayed that trust. The trust Dumbledore placed in him.

Granted his opinion of her had undergone a revision over the years; the last two years in particular. Her friendship with Potter and the Weasleys had allowed her 'access' to the Order of the Phoenix, and, with her physical presence at Grimmauld Place during the summers, he'd begun to see her in a slightly different light. It was commonly acknowledged that Hermione Granger was the brains of the 'golden trio,' but he'd never considered her as anything other than a young girl, and certainly not within the realm of his personal life - sexually or otherwise. He had far more bleak things to contemplate than to concern himself with the maturation of a young Gryffindor. She was a student, nothing more.

He gave himself a mental shake. 'Be honest,' he chided, 'at least with yourself. It's what's kept you alive the past twenty years.' Hermione Granger had always been more than *just* a student. A pain-in-the-ass, an annoying intrusion into his classes with all the silly arm-waving eagerness to show just how much she'd learned. In fairness to her, a seldom used trait of his - fairness - over the years she'd grown into a scholar, one who no longer flaunted her knowledge, but applied herself diligently and intelligently to the task at hand, and which application illustrated her excellence in her accomplishments. And, he grudgingly admitted, she was a very accomplished student, with understanding far beyond the standard scope and ken of a woman of her years. A student who would no longer be his concern after the next few weeks. The thought intruded abruptly. In a short three weeks, Hermione Granger would graduate, and she'd no longer be his student. He almost choked at the force of the thought. As of her next birthday, the Gryffindor would be considered an adult in their world; he'd be in a position to accept what she might offer. He shook his head negatively, ignoring the querying look from Professor Flitwick seated to his left, and resumed his brooding.

With her brains, university -- muggle or magical -- should be her next logical step. However, with her Gryffindor loyalty, a trait he knew she had in spades, it was unlikely that she'd pursue that course of action. She'd never abandon Potter or Weasley while they were in danger. In fact, Hermione Granger might decide to join the Order, and that would change things... could change things. Snorting at his absurdity that he might enter into any sort of liaison with a young woman while engaged in the dual service of Albus Dumbledore, and the increasingly unstable Dark Lord, as he pursued the single-minded goal of the defeat of that same Dark Lord. Snape suddenly realized that he'd finished his meal and that coffee had replaced his plate. He had no idea what he'd just consumed.

Angrily, he admonished himself, 'I can't afford the distraction. Look at me, I've spent an entire meal without saying a word to anyone, consuming my food without a clue; I've been thinking about a 17 year old child. Who wants to kiss me,' intruded the treacherous inner voice. He frowned, and applied his considerable strategic ability to the issue at hand, and came to the conclusion that he'd have to amend the situation. 'As usual,' he thought sourly. Consequently, he had two choices - scare her out of it or put her mind at ease. While scaring her out of her 'crush' had decided attractions, he also knew that he'd regret it, especially if she did join the Order. That could be decidedly awkward.

The Seventh Year students would begin taking their NEWTs the following week, and, in all honesty, he didn't want her results tainted. Not that he particularly cared whether she achieved the highest NEWT scores ever, but he didn't want there to be any question of undue influence should she be distracted from her rightful course. Passing the damned exams and getting the hell out of Hogwarts. She'd become too enticing. And this was just one afternoon. He couldn't afford the distraction.

It was with these thoughts that Snape's awareness registered the surreptitious secreting of food by Potter and Weasley. It appeared that they were attempting to smuggle a second meal in their house robes. He watched Weasley pocket the last baked potato from the table, nod his head at Potter, and, in a synchronous motion, the two Gryffindors left the table, and sauntered across the Great Hall toward the double doors.

'Time to take action,' thought Snape. He abruptly excused himself from the Head Table, and took the side stairs to the empty teacher's corridor. Using this route, he was able to quietly position himself behind Potter and Weasley as they exited the Hall. Without a second's hesitation Snape evesdropped on their conversation.

"I tell ya, Harry, I'm thinking of sending Mum an owl if 'Mione doesn't come round. She's looking real peaky these days."

"I know, Ron. I don't like it. But we can't make her talk about it. I haven't seen her in the common room in days, and I don't think she's sleeping either. Lavender keeps complaining that her wand's lit long after they all go to sleep."

"What about Ginny? You think Ginny can get her to tell what's what?"

"I dunno, Ron. Hermione's awfully private. Remember that time she didn't talk to us for weeks?" Harry ran his hand through his untamable hair, anxiety for his friend written in every line of his young face; a face that wore the strain of a much older man.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, glumly. His ruddily handsome features reflected his worry, and his lack of comprehension for what ailed the third member of their triangle.

Neither young man was prepared for the voice that intruded on their private tete-a-tete.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, while your concern for your classmate is touching, it is nonetheless against school policy to smuggle food from the Great Hall. I assume you're providing dinner for the missing member of your little 'golden trio'..." he smirked, having caught them flagrante dilecto, so to speak.

"Professor Snape!" Two voices broke over his name, and they flushed with embarrassment, at having gotten caught, and for the fact that their voices still had the tendency to crack at inopportune times.

"Uh... yes, Sir. Hermione's not feeling well tonight." Harry staunchly defended his friend. He had a small spurt of satisfaction that he was almost tall enough to look Snape levelly in the eyes. Ron already was. And he was glaring at their Potions Master for being nosy.

"Then Miss Gragner should see Madam Pomfrey, Potter. That's why the school retains her services." Snape just couldn't resist goading the boys. The two had been thorns in his side for seven years, and, although he and Potter had come to a better understanding over the past two years, they would never be friends.

"Professor, I'm sure she'll be better tomorrow." Harry wondered at Snape's motivation, he'd never shown any interest in Hermione's well-being before this, or was it simply a way for him to take house points.

"If not, I expect to hear that she's gone to the infirmary, and isn't shirking her classes. Now," he continued forestalling any protective defensiveness on their part. While it was touching that they cared for their friend, a small part of Snape didn't like their protectiveness when faced with it. "Gentlemen, empty your pockets. The food may not go."

"But, Professor..." began Harry, as he handed over rolls and a couple of slices of the beef that had been on the menu at dinner

"She's got to eat..." continued Ron, handing over the baked potato and an apple.

"That will be attended to, gentlemen. Excuse me." Abruptly, Snape turned toward the dungeons, and stalked in that direction rolls and meat still in clasped in his hands.

Harry and Ron looked at each other in perplexed bemusement. Snape hadn't taken house points or given them detention. He'd called them 'gentlemen'. And he'd almost been nice. Wonders would never cease. In truth, Snape had stopped being outwardly cruel to them following Sirius' death at the Ministry of Magic 20 months previous. He was still derisive, sarcastic, and exhibited a free hand with the deduction of House points, but the malicious edge had been banished.

With much to think about, the boys headed to their common room, and an attempt to get their friend to talk about what was wrong.

Simultaneously, a small house elf, wearing several layers of socks of varying sizes and colors, appeared in Hermione's dorm room, startling her out of her blind contemplation of a text book. He was carrying an enticingly aromatic dinner tray, laden with a small, nutritious dinner, consisting of a clear broth soup, rolls, a fresh salad of field greens and pomegranate seeds, and several slices of hot beef. A folded piece of parchment was to be found on the corner of the tray.

"Miss Harry Potter's Friend? Dobby was told to bring you a dinner. Dobby has to wait until you reads the note, Miss Harry Potter's Friend."

"Oh, thank you, Dobby. I shall read it immediately." Hermione wondered how the boys had managed to get to the kitchens. She was touched by their thoughtfulness, until she saw the writing on the parchment. It was neither Harry's nor Ron's. She recognized the bold strokes of Severus Snape's hand. With trepidation she opened the note. It was unsigned, and it read:

"Your friends were commendably worried about you, and illustrated their concern by breaking a few more school rules. Had you been there I'm certain you would have prevented their courting detention. I relieved them of their burden, and send them on their way.

I would not like to see you become ill before taking your NEWTs. All else is secondary."

'What was this?' she wondered with astonishment.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

With a relieved sigh, Hermione Granger set down her quill, and pushed an errant mahogany colored curl off her forehead. She was done. The last period of the last sentence of the last essay of the last exam she would take as a student at Hogwarts was drying on the parchment. The culmination of seven years of an excellent education, and a remarkably rewarding and difficult evolution from awkward child to a more self assured young woman. She smiled slightly to herself, letting her eyes roam over the heads of her fellow students in the History of Magic classroom. No one else had finished their exam, as the frantic and familiar sounds of scribbling could be heard around the classroom, and she was granted a few moments of leisure before Professor Binns would call time, and claim their parchments.

The strains of the past several weeks were reflected in the faint, dark circles under her eyes, the pallor and leanness of her features, and the almost permanent ink stains ingrained upon the calluses, visible on her thumb and first two fingers of her right hand. But she no longer looked haunted. That had been from an entirely different source of anxiety than simply revising for the NEWTs, an almost unbearable burden in its own right. Hermione was the only student in her year, in fact the only student in a decade, to attempt nine NEWT exams. Her mind began to reflect on recent events.

With the expedient of a courteous note, and the gallantry of dinner served in her rooms, Hermione's tormented anguish over her thoughtlessly impulsive act toward her Potions Professor had been buffered. She'd been enormously relieved that he wouldn't make an issue of the completely out of character gesture of affection. A gesture that niggled in the deep recesses of her subconscious. She appreciated his willingness to let the matter drop. Even though he'd have had a right to pursue it administratively, and, given her past experience with him, not to mention his darkly sarcastic comments over the years, she'd been expecting a summons to Professor Dumbledore's office. Upon receiving his note, the dreaded anticipation of reprisal was laid to rest.

After the simple but nourishing meal Dobby delivered, Hermione had given herself a strong mental chastising. She'd taken a good look in the mirror, and headed immediately to the private bath that was her sanctuary, and where she'd sunk into the warm, welcoming depths of a ginger and vanilla scented bubble bath. With the fear of punishment being removed, and in such a compassionate fashion, Hermione devoted her soaking time to the contemplation of her desire for her professor. Initially horrified that she wanted to actually repeat the gesture, followed by more intimate explorations with a man who'd never endeared himself to her or her friends, Hermione had applied her logical mind to the enigma that was Severus Snape. The Slytherins appeared to have an affection for him, whether it was simply because of his overt favoritism or something else, she wasn't certain. But he'd successfully been the head of Slytherin for a number of years, which meant that there was more than met the eye in regard to this very private and reserved man. She was familiar with some of the depths beneath the skillfully maintained façade.

Then there was Dumbledore. He certainly seemed to value his Potions Master and spy, although she'd recently begun to question how much of the Headmaster's regard for any of them was what it seemed. Possibly the elder professor cared for Snape because he was a useful tool. Then again, perhaps it was more. Hermione knew that Snape had been a Death Eater, and was now a double agent for Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. His sheer, stark courage was both humbling and awe inspiring. However guilty she felt for doubting the Headmaster, the question remained: how it was possible that she, Harry, and Ron kept being thrust into increasingly dangerous life and death situations while Dumbledore was kept relatively safe. She'd recently begun to feel like a pawn in someone else's chess game, loathed the feeling, and her thoughts strayed more and more frequently to the Potions Master, and whether he felt similarly. She finally recognized that these trains of thought provided the catalytic alteration in her perspective regarding Severus Snape. He was still rude and supercilious toward her, yet he was this way with most, and she was granted a leavening of understanding beyond common knowledge.

Competence, excellence, and dedication were traits that Hermione had been raised to admire, and, from her unique point of view as both student and putative junior member of the Order, there was no denying that the professor had these qualities in abundance. He'd committed his life to the overthrow of the Dark Lord, lived the daunting existence as a spy, functioned as a highly skilled Potions Master, and was an extremely demanding task master. Hermione's respect had grown due to his unflagging dedication to the downfall of Voldemort, his intense loyalty to Dumbledore, and, not the least, for the fact that she'd learned a tremendous amount in his class over the years.

Her orderly brain had acknowledged these perambulations, which answered her question of when and how her opinion of the 'greasy git' had shifted to one of respect. If she reflected further upon her thoughts, she'd recall that she had always respected him, initially only because he was a professor, and she held all professors in high regard. But none of her thoughts had addressed the issue at hand. When had she decided that she wanted to kiss the man? That his voice stimulated wonderfully intimate and delicious feelings within her.

Growing uncomfortable with her lack of success, Hermione had hoisted herself out of the tub, and, wrapped cozily in her warm waffle weaved flannel dressing gown, returned to her room. Thankful once again for the privilege granted the prefects with a private bath. Climbing the private stairwell and entering her dormitory, she'd noted that Lavender and Parvati were both asleep. With a sigh of relief, Hermione had crawled into her bed, pulled the hanging curtains closed, and leaned back for further contemplation.

The seventh year Gryffindor had a formidable intellect and sufficient courage when it came to addressing an issue head on, which is why, she'd realized, that she'd been honest with Professor Snape when he asked her to 'enlighten him'. Remembering that his voice had triggered electric waves of anticipation, rippling through her body during their encounter in the halls, she'd shuddering at the slight momentary fantasy of how else she'd respond to his voice. Ruefully shaking her head, she'd realized with utter certainty that she would never know exactly by what extraordinary means her subconscious had decided that Severus Snape had gone from being her well respected, curmudgeonly professor who had saved her from a nasty fall to a man worthy of being kissed, and whose voice made her want to attach herself to him like a leech. At that completely comprehensible non-understanding, Hermione had rolled over and slept well for the first time in two weeks.

The shuffle of parchment from the surrounding desks reminded Hermione of where and when she was. With a quick mental shake, she abruptly terminated the contemplation of her inner thought processes in time to turn in her completed exam to Professor Binns. She gathered her things, and filed out of the classroom for the final time, flanked as usual by Ron and Harry. The trio gratefully fled into the late afternoon sunshine, her dark thoughts relegated to nighttime flights of fancy and other solitary moments.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Look, we're going to be working with him later this summer, and he's a vital link in the information infrastructure. You know that. Come on, it's not as if he can take house points from us any longer, and you never know what a gesture of goodwill can bring." Hermione's pursuasive plea did not fall on deaf ears. Her eyes were wide, and she fairly vibrated with the urgency of her request.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had matured enough to recognize the wisdom inherent in Hermione's suggestion, although Harry gave Hermione a sharp look, trying to read beyond the surface. The intensity of his appraisal was masked by the reflection of his new glasses. Harry'd noticed that his friend had become more private in the last couple of months, and he knew that she was keeping something from Ron and him. He was marginally accepting of this, after all, he'd successfully withheld the fact that he was supposed to kill-or-be-killed in the final encounter with Voldemort. The tall young man supposed Hermione could have a secret or two, but he was nonetheless very curious as to why she was insisting on a personal farewell to their cantankerous Potions Professor. He wasn't the only professor to be a member of the Order. They'd officially shaken hands at the graduation ceremony the day before, and she hadn't shown a similar inclination with regard to any of their other teachers. Just Snape.

'Very odd. Why is she so nervous?' he wondered. The easy answer would be that none of the other professors had ever treated Hermione as badly as the Potions Master, who, in their first years, had enjoyed making their lives miserable. The last couple of years had been easer, although Harry knew better than to take things at surface value.

"All right, 'Mione. We'll go with you."

The young men shared a look over her head at her sigh of relief. This would bear watching -- she would bear watching - Harry thought as he and Ron turned on the stone steps to follow their best friend down into the lair of the Head of Slytherin. As they descended to the dungeons, Harry found himself really looking at Hermione, scrutinizing her to a degree he'd never taken the time to do before. She'd changed. He realized that she'd matured, and he'd never really appreciated that fact before. His heart clenched for a moment in fierce protectiveness. There were too few people that he loved in his life, and he'd do everything he could to safeguard her in the coming dark times, as much as she'd let him, he amended wryly. He mused that there could be no doubt in anyone's mind that an ineradicable bond linked the three friends: love, friendship, and unquestioned loyalty. They'd proved it too often for there to be any question.

The raven haired wizard looked over her head to see whether his freckle-faced counterpart was aware of his perusal, or Hermione's nervousness. Ron wasn't. The ebullient redhead was chatting with Hermione about who they were going to sit with on the Hogwarts Express the next day. His intent, of course, was to make certain that Luna was included in the seating arrangements.

Ron and Luna Lovegood had been dating fairly seriously for the past year, once Ron had honestly believed that she was interested in him, and after he'd learned to actually listen to what Luna meant and not necessarily what she said. It had surprised everyone when Luna had shown an astonishing degree of prowess in the DA (Dumbledore's Army). Her seemingly disconnected air notwithstanding, she was as quick as Ginny Weasley in learning new defense strategies, and her ability to abstract and assess threat scenarios was second only to the golden trio. The day she'd disarmed Harry and Ron simultaneously in a DA practice was the last day anyone underestimated her abilities. The news had traveled like wildfire within the school, and, thereafter, Luna experienced a previously unrealized respect from her peers. Ron had promptly fallen in love with her as he lay on his back on the bitterly cold, stone floor of the Room of Requirement, looking up at her with a completely shocked and besotted expression on his flushed countenance. They'd been inseparable from that day.

So, no, Ron wouldn't be assessing Hermione's feminine charms or the fact that she'd suddenly appeared to mutate into a woman overnight. Harry vaguely wondered why he was. There'd never been anything but friendship between Hermione and him. And it wasn't that he was interested now. In fact, for the most part he'd stopped acting on his interests, due to what he considered was his precarious existence and probably shortened longevity. However, when he very privately admitted it, his interest lay with the auburn-haired younger sister of his other best friend. Ginny Weasley. She'd long recovered from her early crush on Harry, and in her fourth year had begun to date. In fact, the field was littered with broken hearts, none of whom ever blamed her. She'd been up front and honest in her experimentation. The only male Gryffindor of appropriate age that she'd studiously avoided insofar as a romantic liaison was concerned, other than her siblings of course, had been Harry. Harry's ego had been a bit bruised by her defection.

The most famous young wizard in Britain had his own romantic escapades, Cho Chang being the worst experience of the lot. None of them, however, were serious. Harry hadn't been willing to take the risk. No, he kept it to short interludes, one or two dates only, and during the course of his random dating he'd admitted that Hermione had rubbed off on him. In the last 18 months, Harry had come to value intelligence as an extremely attractive trait. A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought about Ginny; she was in the top 5% of her year, and outshone both his and Ron's marks. He wasn't looking forward to the separation that the next school year would bring; however, she'd at least be as safe as any in the wizarding world.

During his ruminations, the three Gryffindors reached the potions classroom in the dank depths of Slytherin territory, and Harry's thoughts ground to a halt. He looked at Hermione questioningly, "You're sure you want to do this?"

At her quick nod and suddenly flushed cheeks, Harry realized that something indeed was going on. It was not her normal behavior, nor was it akin to any sort of threat. No, this was something altogether different. He appraised her, as she drew a shaky breath and collected her poise. Her once incredibly bushy hair, Hermione's only claim to superficial vanity, had been tamed by a potion she'd devised in their 6th year. The frizz was now relaxed into a thick mane of curls that fell unimpeded to her hips. Charmed to remain in place, it flowed like a curtain of shimmering mahogany down her back. Hermione was a small and slender woman. It continued to amaze Harry that such a small vessel could contain her tremendous intellect and radiate such a magnitude of power. Her face had kept its heart shape, and the strains of recent weeks had leaned her down so that the fine bone structure of her cheeks gave her an ethereal, elfin quality. Her cinnamon colored eyes appeared huge in her face. Harry suddenly realized that some men would find her beautiful, and it was a vaguely unpleasant jolt. He did not want her to become prey, any more than she already was.

Ron had at last recognized that their errand was far from casual to their friend, and, in his decisive, forthright manner, he reached forward to grasp the handle of the door to enter the classroom. He was unwilling to allow their very nervous 'Mione to lead the way. His eyes met Harry's, and they shared a joint look of affection for their Hermione's foibles.

Upon opening the familiar door to the Potion's classroom, the golden trio was astounded by its appearance. Where they were used to seeing stacks of cauldrons, various instruments, measuring utensils, and vessels stacked in different easily accessible locations along the walls, the distinct lack of paraphernalia left them feeling unsettled. The room was immaculately clean. The furniture consisted of the students' work stations and stools, the podium, and Snape's desk which was devoid of clutter or accessory. The room looked almost as if it were deserted. The three shared a concerned look.

Hermione's whisper sounded surprisingly loud in the relatively empty room. "He doesn't think he's coming back."

Ron and Harry sucked in their breaths at this obvious conclusion, and the shadows belied by the festivity of their graduation suddenly bowed their shoulders with the weight of the responsibility they shared and had taken on. One, with the force of his convictions and friendship, the other with the force of destiny which had been thrust into his infant arms, and who'd finally accepted his role with a fierce determination in this last year, granting the fact that he'd become the tool Dumbledore had been honing since he'd passed through the gates of Hogwarts.

Slowly, with the burden of fate facing them, the three Gryffindor graduates, made their way to their Professor's office, adjacent to the classroom. They could make out faint shuffling sounds, as if someone were packing. Gathering her courage, Hermione quietly knocked on the partially closed interconnecting door.

The shuffling stopped, and a curt voice answered, "Yes?"

"Professor, may we come in?" Hermione was almost breathless in her response.

This encounter was important to her. She knew that they'd all be working together in the coming months, and wanted to move forward into a more adult relationship. She hoped to prove that she'd left the impulsive child behind. Even if she wouldn't be joining the Order until September, she needed to make use of this opportunity. Her parents had insisted upon her taking the three months off for the summer, and what was most likely to the be last vacation she'd have for a long time - what no one said was that it might be the last vacation she'd ever have. However, on her 18th birthday, Professor Dumbledore had agreed that she could join the Order, and, given the state of the Potions classroom, Hermione didn't think September would come soon enough.

"Yes, yes. Come in." Snape sounded impatient, resigned; his tone reverberated with unresolved tension. He'd recognized her voice, and, though unexpected, a tiny tendril of pleasure crept up his spine her query and the realization that she'd sought him out. In the intervening weeks between her confession and the seventh years' graduation, he'd made certain that they were never alone. They'd both conducted themselves with the utmost propriety, pretending that nothing had ever happened. The Potions Master was certain his feelings were a fleeting fancy which would resolve itself as soon as she walked out the doors of the school, while Hermione'd decided that her infatuation was the result of too much stress in the weeks leading up to taking the NEWTs. Of course, neither would admit to anyone, let alone themselves, that they occasionally thought about the other late at night when alone. That their hands might stray to the relief of the tension they felt wasn't something either was prepared to acknowledge.

The office door opened and Harry entered first, nodding to his now former Professor. He was followed by Hermione, and Ron was his book-ended counterpart. Hermione's eyes went wide at the evidence of Snape's 'house cleaning', he was obviously putting things to right. His glittering obsidian eyes latched onto hers, and the sudden intensity electrified the room. Ron and Harry weren't blind, and they noticed... something. What, they weren't certain. But there was something.

"Um, Professor. We just wanted to come ... to say thank you for everything." Hermione's voice was soft and had a quality none of the men in the room had ever heard before. She couldn't pull her eyes from Snape's. She didn't want to. 'What was this? What's wrong with me?' she thought frantically. She'd thought the silly infatuation was behind her. He was a mature man, her teacher. That thought brought her up short. He was no longer her teacher. But he was still a much older man. A man with shining, dark eyes that could cause one's heart to flutter rapidly, as hers was doing at that moment.

Harry noted the signs of her confusion, and, not knowing the cause, interjected himself smoothly into the awkward pause. "Professor, I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I'd like to add my own thanks for the care that you've shown me over the years."

Harry held out his hand, half expecting Snape to reject it outright. He was pleasantly surprised when the Potions Master accepted his hand. Harry believed that they'd made some inroads after his abrogation of Snape's confidence during their aborted Occlumency lessons, and the painful summer that had followed. Snape's grip also surprised him. It was wiry and strong, the grip of a fully dominant male, assessing, acknowledging another potentially dominant male. It was the most unexpected affirmation of his adulthood. Harry was completely taken aback at its source.

"Potter, you've made my life hell; however, I wish you luck." Snape was not curt particularly, rather he was gruff, and he raised one brow in emphasis. Unused to expressing affection, and, while he certainly wasn't fond of the Boy Who Had to Defeat the Dark Lord or Die Trying, Snape had come, over the past couple of years, to have a grudging respect for the young man's place in the downfall of Voldemort. He'd forgiven, not forgotten, Potter's look into the pensieve. He didn't have to like Potter, but they would have to work together.

Snape released Potter's hand, and voluntarily extended his to Ron, who gaped in surprise for a brief moment before taking the peace offering. "Weasley, do try to use your head for strategy rather than knocking in doors," Snape dryly commented as he shook Ron's hand, watched the redhead blush, and heard his answering chuckle.

Then there was the last and most important connection to be made. Hermione raised her hand, and Snape engulfed it in his, long sensitive fingers wrapping around her smaller more delicate ones. It was the first time he'd touched her since the kiss. The contact shock almost rocked them off their feet.

"Miss Granger, you always added an extra element to my classes," Severus Snape's sardonic tone was husky, and wry, with an underlying gentleness that provoked a tremor in her hand, and a corresponding response from his body. A response he ruthlessly quelled as he waited for her reply. He took in the huge cinnamon colored eyes framed in her delicate face, and wondered how he could have missed the combination of strength, grace, and intelligence for so long.

With a slight hitch in her breath, she responded, fighting her immediate physical reaction, the frisson of electrified nerve endings up her spine and radiating outward to encompass her entire body, "Thank you, Professor. I will never forget the lessons you've taught me. I hope your summer is a safe one."

With that, her hand was gone as was she, along with the Boy Who Lived and their devoted companion, leaving behind a hollow echo in the room. The man, who felt that his life was forfeit, knew that he'd carry the memory of her touch in the dark hours of the days to come, and he wondered, in a bittersweet twist, whether Fate had just shown him a hint of things that might've been or of things that might never be.