Dream

Reminder: OotP never happened. Heh.

~*~

"Where do you think you're going, hmm?" a low sleepy growl tickled her across her left ear, sending her senses reeling in a hundred different directions.

Hermione tensed up. Was it going to be that dream she had of Professor Snape again? Her mind raced, but his delicious warmth, filtering through her thin nightdress was highly distracting. She found great difficulty forming words, much less articulating sentences. She was engulfed by him - her back firmly pressed against his front, his left arm holding her close to him, and his hand was just under her right breast, his thumb, stroke, stroke, stroking, maddeningly slowly stoking the soft satin material of her nightgown.

He murmured again, "My sweet dream nymph, you delight in torturing me. Where have you been these past nights? Don't you know how I have longed for you?"

Longed for me? her eyes widened, as she thought incredulously. That doesn't sound like what Snape would say, she frowned. Well of course not, Hermione, honestly! she admonished herself, rolling her eyes, it's only in your dream - as if Professor Snape would really long for you! The idea that Snape - stern, surly, and taciturn Snape would even utter such sweet nothings sent Hermione into a giggling fit.

"My heart? My love? My adorable one, are you quite all right?" the man sounded confused. His question sent Hermione into a fresh fit of giggles.

Hermione struggled to contain her giggling fit, and she sat up and leaned against the headboard, gasping for air. "I'm sorry," she turned to her bedfellow in the dark, "but I just can't seem to stop."

~*~

Severus' expectation of the dreamless sleep potion working its magic was all for naught. He could feel that that vague sensation of waking, but not into his bed or his room. The sensation catalysed into an alternate reality - a reality where a distinct other being hindered his limbs from stretching, where this being was lying beside him on a warm, comfortable bed.

For a moment, the perfectionist Potions brewer in him cursed that something must have gone wrong with his dreamless sleep potion: this was not the result the potion was suppose to bring - after all, Hermione's dreamless sleep allowed him dreamlessness until he awoke, refreshed.

Cracking an eye, he adjusted his night vision in the dark room, and immediately saw his bed partner scooting away from him, towards the dying embers of the fireplace.

It was his longed-for dream! Finally, his dream had recurred, and he was not about to let his dream nymph move away from him whilst he could still seek comfort in her presence.

Pulling her back into his embrace, he murmured, "Where do you think you're going?" - only to have her on edge. He began to doubt the wisdom of his impulsive act when the woman in his arms remained silent. Thinking to break the tension, he cajoled her; "My sweet dream nymph, you delight in torturing me. Where have you been these past nights? Don't you know I have longed for you?"

A moment of silence, and then a most confounding thing happened - the woman began shaking. Afraid that he had just upset her, he tried comforting her by murmuring nonsense words to her, when the sudden burst of giggles broke through the darkness, and the woman sat up, apologising for her unstoppable giggles.

Was she laughing at him? Familiar bitterness at being made fun of struggled with his amusement at the incongruous female's behaviour in their very private and intimate setting. Amusement won out - her lilting giggles were infectious, and her swift apology assured him that she meant no malice in her struggle to gain equanimity.

Now more amused than offended by the charming sound, he noted, self-depreciatingly, "It doesn't do much for a man's self-esteem for his dream nymph to laugh at him, you know."

"Oh no!" she replied brightly, once she had her giggling under some control, "It's just--" she took a deep breath to smother the last of the giggles, "--it's just that," she hesitated, "who are you, really?"

Who are you, really? The question struck Severus forcefully.

"Who am I, indeed," he repeated almost inaudibly to himself

What was it about this witch? More and more he felt that she was his subconscious made manifest. The emotional rollercoaster she put him through - one moment in great joy and comfort, the next, burgeoning bitterness mixed with amusement, and yet the next, fear - and all with vaguely innocent questions that required him to engage in honest self-reflection - self-reflection that he dared not indulge in for fear of finding out that he really was as ugly as he thought he was, as unredemptive even with all the efforts he put into his work against Voldemort in order to erase his past indiscretions.

He sighed, and moved up to sit beside the woman, staring out into the dark.

Such a simple question, really. But he did not know the answer. Once, he would have had no hesitation in answering that he was Severus Snape, but really, who was Severus Snape, truly? The Death Eaters who trusted him were the people he was betraying; the people whom he was spying for treated him with mistrust. Neither party knew the real Severus. Was Severus Snape the traitor or the loyal spy?

Perhaps that answer was too emotional. Traitor or Loyal? Why not focus instead on something lacking those kinds of value judgement?

Well, he could say that he was Professor Severus Snape - associating himself with his professional identity - except, the students he toiled for, watched over, mentored; they all hated him with a passion. He understood full well when he began teaching that he needed to dissimulate his true self in order to keep up his pro-Death Eater persona, and later he had learnt to maintain that evil bastard façade when he realised that the teaching persona he had unwittingly created allowed him a level of classroom management and discipline that kept the students alert, focused and in line, in the sometimes highly dangerous Art of Potion-making. For unlike Transfigurations or Charms, where mistakes can be swept away with a quick and simple "Finite Incantatem" or a quick visit to the Fourth floor of St. Mungo's, accidents in Potions class ran the gamut from simple non-threatening side effects, to exploding cauldrons, to more permanent bodily injuries, and even death.

No, the real Severus Snape cannot be defined merely by his professional persona. He was more than that person stalking in between students' tables, docking House points for careless answers in class, scaring pathetic dunderheads witless for his own pleasure. That was not who he really was, although he suspected that that professional identity of his was the most consistent of the many faces he had to wear. Perhaps that was who he truly was; that and his role as Draco's godfather - but even in that role of godfather, he did not allow himself to be truly honest with Draco. He did not allow himself to lay bare his concerns, his fears and worries about the oncoming war, partly because to the young Slytherin, these emotions would appear as weakness, and partly because he himself feared the vulnerability in being truthful about his deeply buried self.

The truth was that he had hidden himself so successfully that in his heart of hearts, he did not know who he was anymore. He only knew that who he was, was not whom he presented daily to those around him, and neither was it whom he wished to be, and it cut him to the quick to acknowledge that.

~*~

When Hermione asked him who he was, she did not expect the man to turn silent and introspective. Nonetheless, she was aware of the sudden stillness in her bedfellow, and his deliberate movements as he sat up and leaned against the headboard beside her, looking wordlessly out into the dark room.

They sat there for what seemed like hours - the dark room and the soft glow of the fireplace lengthening the passage of time unconsciously.

In reality, it was not a philosophical quest to know who the man beside her was that prompted Hermione to ask that question. It was just that bizarre feeling that the man beside her was Professor Snape, and that he behaved so out of character that she wanted to know if that man in the dark room with her was Snape or another person altogether.

Honestly, Hermione! Only you are capable of turning off even a man in your dream with your incessant and unnecessary need to know, she chided herself mentally. Besides, what does it matter if it were Snape? It could very well be someone else! And let's say for argument's sake that it was Snape, it's only your dream manifestation of him! It's not as if he were really here.

She snorted in exasperation with herself. The harsh exhalation of air seemed to break her partner's self-contemplation, as he shook his head and turned towards her expectantly.

"Erm," she began, haltingly, not knowing how to address the man who shared her bed, nor know how to make her request known, "it's rather dark in here. Umm, do you think you could turn the lights on?"

The man seemed amused at her question, but he took a look around, presumably to look for a light source besides the glowing embers of the fireplace.

"Well--"he drawled, turning back to Hermione, "I suppose we could do what we did the last time," he offered, with an evident smile in his voice.

Glad that the man had lightened up enough to tease her, she retorted with an answering smile, "Oh, I'm sure you'd like that. But there must be some other way to do this. Do you have your wand with you?"

The man answered with a chuckle. "My adorable creature," he smiled, and in a rakish tone, continued, "wouldn't you like to help me look for it?"

Hermione, glad for the dark that he wouldn't be able to see her blush, mentally conceded that she set herself up for that one. Not willing to back down, however, she pretended to be scandalised and slapping his arm lightly, she admonished his tomfoolery.

~*~

Just when Severus' inward introspection began to spiral downwards into depression, the woman rein him back with a derisive snort at the dark and dangerous path he was taking.

Like a flip of a switch, Severus had an epiphany of what she had meant by her question: 'Who are you?' - not 'Who were you?' nor 'Who do you hope to be?'

The wisdom of his lady! She seemed to be saying that his morose musings counted for nothing - it was the gothic, depressing Severus again, that inward, private, self-pitying caricature of the man in black robes of depression again; and his melodrama well deserved that derision. For she was right: focusing on what he was in the past only led to depression, and things past are things that cannot be changed. Focusing on his future, on the other hand, his hope of finding redemption was an exercise in futility, as not even Trelawney could predict accurately what is to come or what tomorrow may bring. No wonder she was impatient with his line of thoughts!

He gave himself a half-smile and shook his head. He was amazed and impressed by her ability to cut to the heart of the matter and remind him that he had to live in the present - that who he was was just Severus Snape, no matter how others might see him or consider him. His true identity, like everyone else, was constantly being formed because of his current actions. And in reality, what he had to do - his spying, his teaching; yes, even his betrayal of Voldemort's Army - these were things that had to be done; and they should have no bearing on who Severus Snape in him was. Until he understood that he needn't the approval of his fellow wizards to know his own worth, he would never find happiness in the past, present or the future.

He turned to her, and felt warm admiration rising in his chest.

Swiftly, the witch changed the subject and lightened the mood considerably, by asking him to turn the lights on in the room. He was amused, for he was sure that the room, like the rest of his dream, was all under the direction of the woman before him. However, he was willing to play along to see where she would lead him. The epiphany he had before had enlightened him greatly, and he felt more whole than he had been for a long time - and it was all to her credit.

His roguish replies and her obvious fluster at them charmed him greatly. He had wanted to get her back into the position the dream started out in and spend this time with her indulging in some of his more interesting rumination he had had during the week. He could not deny it - not now with the adorable creature sitting so deliciously next to him that he had struggled with wanting her and hoping his godson not find out that he was infatuated with her, especially so after the detention he had suffered through with her the previous Friday, wherein he discovered that beyond her serious, earnest schoolgirl façade, was a very matured and focussed young lady.

For after that one night's most amazing - dare he say life-altering? - dream of her, when she had pierce through his constant night terrors like a shaft of light in a dark place, and where he had shared that mind numbing kiss with her, he had become obsessed with her. True, his obsession had only really taken hold after her detention with him, and had grown steadily through this past week, but he had since memorised all her lovely features surreptitiously, which he hadn't bothered noticing before - the modulation in her voice, her frank and sincere manner of speaking and above all, that sweet, maddening scent of fresh strawberries that surrounded her like an aura.

Hermione, his heart sighed. He could recognise her anywhere now, even in the dimly lit room. And he was thankful that like the previous week, his subconscious had taken the form of Hermione, and - heaven forefend! - not Minerva, or Sprout, or even Miss Bulstrode!

But what if it did take the form of another woman? Would that matter at all? Was he infatuated with this ideal of her - of her compassion for him, of her 'Queen Midas' touch'? Or did he really fancy the student, his godson's interest, the one he had spent last Friday evening with?

~*~

"That's not very helpful, is it?" Hermione asked mock-brusquely, amused at the way the man had twisted her request. She was sure that the dream, strange though it was, was beyond her control. She did not like not being in control, and although she knew that her bedfellow would not harm her, and that she was only in a dream, it did not lessen the discomfort she felt thinking that she was at the man's mercy.

After all, this dream, like the previous one, had that touch of dreamy, erotic quality with its intimate flavour - the warm bed, the dim room, the dark stranger that turned out to be Snape. No, not Snape. It could be another person, remember? But if it were--, she stopped herself there, not daring to consider the implications of her dreaming about him in such a context again.

"Well, what would you suggest we do?" the man's low whisper replied, a smile in his voice.

"Perhaps you might get out of the bed and stoke that fire in the fireplace."

"Perhaps there are other fires I'd like to stoke," was his quick reply.

Hermione felt all the delicious heat that his reply generated, and she couldn't think of anything in response to that. Perhaps a 'Stoke? Yes - but I'm feeling hot enough, thanks.' But she did not respond to that verbal temptation. Instead, her mouth hung open and it was all she could do to remind herself that she needed to get oxygen inside of her. Breathe, Hermione, breathe!

The man moved towards her on the bed and Hermione was certain that he would attempt to kiss her again. She was so sure, she was so prepared for his proximity, that when he suddenly moved beyond her towards the fireplace, she felt very disappointed by his moving away.

She turned to look at him, crouched by the embers of at the fireplace, where she could vaguely make out his profile in the dark. His shoulder-length hair curtained his face even as he seemed to be considering how to stoke the fire. He turned to the side of the fireplace, where a stack of firewood was neatly stacked, and threw in a couple more logs, using the available poker to carefully cajole the wood to reignite.

Hermione chewed her lips in thought. Until the man had stoop close to the dim firelight, she had consciously refused to acknowledge that her bedfellow was her Potions Professor. But honestly, what did it matter if she was dreaming of her professor? After all, this was not the first nor second time the professor featured in her dreams, was it?

Well, yes and no, she thought to herself.

Her dreams of the professor had always held a nightmarish quality, occurring most frequently just before her potions examinations, where Snape would sneer and pronounce her potions pathetic and fail her miserably. Her other dreams of him would have him sneer and take away house points from Harry, Ron or herself for not obeying school rules, whilst they were on yet another adventure, saving the day. The worst dreams she had of him were during the time she was in the hospital wing, having taken the botched polyjuice potion, and dreaming that he had found out she had stolen the potion ingredients from his private stores. Apart from those, she also had recurring dreams of that night in the Shrieking Shack, where Snape's anger took almost devilish proportions - when he was almost ready to kill Sirius. In all, dream-Snape was the personification of the bogeyman, the dark shadow to be feared.

So, yes, this wasn't the first time Snape had featured in her dreams.

But--, she thought wryly.

But, somehow the dream-Snape she encountered recently was very much different from the caricatures her former dreams made him to be. This Snape was a different creature altogether. This Snape had a sad vulnerability that had compelled her to hold him, and sooth him. This Snape had a poet's heart in the imagery he conjured with his words. This Snape had allowed her into his darkest nightmares, and had welcomed her comfort. True, she didn't know it was Snape until the very last bit of her previous dream, but if she were honest with herself, she knew she had intuitively sensed that the man in the dark as someone she trusted, and that his voice and scent was familiar to her after all those years as his student.

But Hermione, this is not the real Snape! This is not how Snape would behave! This is what you think Snape is like - the truth is that you don't know him at all!

In her more reflective times, Hermione had sometimes wondered how Snape had coped with the work of being a spy for the Order. She had known since her fourth year that Snape bore the Dark Mark, and that Dumbledore knew about it and trusted him. With Harry's recent revelation that Snape was second in command of the Order, her admiration of her surly professor had increased, though her liking for him had not.

Perhaps these dreams of him she had - perhaps it was her subconscious helping her answer those questions of how Snape had coped? But... there was something missing in this argument. Surely understanding her ally in the war did not need the very intimate quality these dreams carried?

Oh, you think too much, Hermione! she frowned.

Perplexed, she kept her eyes on her pyjama-clad professor, who had successfully got a tiny blaze going in the fireplace. She had to bite back a giggle as she noticed the professor's dark green ensemble for the first time. Even in her dreams he was wearing his House colours, just as she was in her Gryffindor red.

'How typical!' she thought with a smile, rolling her eyes.

In that meagre light, she studied his features, just as she had the week before at detention. His black, lanky hair fell forward; obscuring his face, save for that crooked nose, and the grim line of his lips, with the corner of a crooked, yellow tooth protruding out. She stifled another giggle, thinking about how her father would be professionally challenged to straighten and whiten those teeth; after all it was his speciality - Cosmetic Orthodontics. Snape's slight overbite and crooked teeth would have sent her dad into raptures to get a before and after photograph of Snape's teeth for his ever-increasing portfolio.

Perhaps that was partly why her professor never smiled and very rarely bared his teeth. Even in anger, Snape kept his mouth closed, deigning to barely whisper his threats. She had seen some of her parent's clients whilst helping out in the dentistry over the summer holidays, and the common trait amongst the people waiting in the waiting room were their closed mouth hiding their ugly teeth and braces, and their pale faces as the dental drill would sound from the surgery. She had gotten to know some of her parents' patients over the years, and she was used to seeing how some of them would contort their speaking in such a way as to hide their teeth, much like how Snape chose to whisper when speaking, hiding his orthodontic nightmare behind his lips.

The growing firelight cast a warm glow on Snape's face, giving his usually sallow skin a warm tinge. She noted how his thick brows were furrowed in concentration, not unlike his usual classroom look, when demonstrating a particularly difficult sequence of potions brewing technique to the sixth and seventh years. However, unlike classroom Snape, dream Snape's eyes were not narrowed in anger or exasperation at incompetent students. Instead, his intelligent black eyes were contemplative, reflecting and regarding the fires as if they held some important answers that he needed.

Hermione had never seen his eyes looking like that. It gave him a thoughtful, pensive look that somehow made him look more human than the persona he wore everyday. Even during her detention, with her curiosity about his age and in her study of the man, she did not try to reconcile the idea that Snape was a person with feelings. He was featureless - not a man with attractive, handsome eyes - no, he was her teacher, and as such, relegated to that corner of her mind as not having needless fanciful features.

Yes, Hermione, believe that lie - how do you explain Professor Gilderoy Lockhart?

With that thought, she couldn't hold back her giggles anymore. Hermione's innate honesty wouldn't allow herself to lie. In Lockhart's case, she'd been infatuated with the handsome man, until the events unfolded to show that Lockhart's gilding was fool's gold. Not like the true worth of Severus Snape. The value of the DADA professor was his external appearance and sparkly wide smile. Defence Against the Dark Arts? Not likely - not when defending others means ruffling Lockhart's otherwise perfect hair, perfect face, perfect nails. No. The man truly defending Hogwarts against the Dark Arts was dark himself - dark lanky hair from hours spent before the cauldron; dark ringed-eyes due to sleepless nights probably working in defending against said Dark Arts; and dark, potion-stained fingernails. The far greater value of Severus Snape was hidden behind his repulsive exterior, much like an unpolished diamond, which looks as valueless as the next glass pebble to the undiscerning eye.

Hermione's hand naturally reached for her diamond pendant that was a gift from her parents on her birthday. Yes, it was pure irony that the teacher with whom she had been infatuated with was all show and no substance, but the one she hated, or at least been indifferent to all these years, was quite the opposite. She smiled thinking about the differences between the two professors, and remembering that day in her second year when the two stood facing each other in a Wizards' Duel. Hermione's smile grew into a smirk thinking about how Snape had so effectively disarmed his opponent, who had the audacity to claim that he had allowed Snape to best him, in order to show the students the effects of the spells cast.

"What is it that so amused you?" he broke her reverie with his question, walking over to the bed to sit on the edge near her feet, leaning against the post at the foot of the bed.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," she turned towards his face and answered with a mischievous grin.

At Snape's raised eyebrow, she explained herself, "I was just thinking how different you are from Professor Lockhart. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it."

~*~

She had asked him to stoke the fire, and he had bantered with her.

As he tried to ignite the fresh logs he had thrown into the fireplace with the still glowing embers, he was well aware of the woman's eyes on him.

What is she thinking? What does she want?

He felt as warm as the fire he was stoking. Through the curtain of his hair, he surreptitiously spied her staring unabashed at him, chewing her lips, her brown eyes guilelessly wide open, and her hair a wild mess from sleeping on the pillows. Once or twice, he swore he saw her trying to suppress a smile - did it amuse her to see him stoking the fire like a common House Elf?

The emerging light from the fireplace revealed the thin, Gryffindorish red spaghetti straps of her nightdress, the low scoop of the neckline, and that brilliant diamond fire resting against the seductive rise and fall of her breasts, as she reclined against the pillows at the headboard, the blankets covering her modestly from the waist down.

Does she even know how alluring she looks? he turned his eyes back to the fire.

Did she always look like this? He doubted it. After all, she came to Hogwarts when she was an annoying brat and constant companion of Potter's boy. And Severus, no matter how perverse his life had been, was no paedophile. Hell, he could barely tolerate the younger brats he taught daily! It was only his upperclassmen that he could deign to consider worthy of his time teaching, but even then, he was not likely to think of them as anything other than his students; frankly, he had more pressing issues on his mind, like how to survive his dual role through this war.

But what made the difference now? Why was he dreaming of his student? Why was he lusting after her?

This wasn't right on so many levels. Not least because of...

Draco.

He had a responsibility to his godson, and dreaming about Hermione... No. It's just a bloody dream - it's not as if he were cheating with Hermione behind Draco's back.

Then again, why her? Why, of all women on earth did his subconscious choose her? Why not... why not Keltsha Waters, the cute Ravenclaw, whom he was infatuated with when he was in sixth year? Why not his beautiful cousin Sylvia Verdis, with whom he grew up together and lost his first kiss to? Why not her? In fact, why not a nameless, unknown woman altogether? Why put the idea of the unattainable Miss bloody Granger in his mind, and in this setting? Why put her in that delectable nightdress, that tissue thin satin? Why not dress his psyche up in a St. Mungo's Mediwitch robe and put him on a couch? Why a bed, in a room with no windows, no doors - just a bloody four poster and a bloody fireplace? Why? Why this need for a bloody fantasy?

Her giggles broke through the silent twenty questions in his mind, as if sweeping the questions aside as unimportant. Why indeed? Severus let out a soft snort in acknowledgement. What difference did it make if his dreamscape chose Hermione or this particular setting? The point was that as long as he was in this dream, he would not need to see nor hear those orphans screaming accusations. This dream was a respite, a peaceful lull, no matter what form it took.

Severus cut his eyes to the woman on the bed, who was fiddling with her diamond pendant, lost in thought, with a secret smile on her face. She had pulled up her legs under the blanket, and was resting her elbows on her covered knees. Severus had never seen a lovelier tableau of intimacy and comfort in having a woman in his bed. It was the picture of domestic intimacy, not the sort of raw passions associated with lovers, and he grew jealous of the man who would claim the right to come home to her, seeing her in such a position, thinking about him each night before they retire to bed.

No point in playing 'if onlys' and 'what ifs', Severus. There is a reason why these situations are called 'dreams'.

He sighed a little, got up silently and stole towards the young lady, who did not seem to notice him at all.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he asked lightly, "What is it that so amused you?"

Resting against the bedpost, he was surprised when she answered, "Gilderoy Lockhart" with a brilliant smile.

What is it with that frippery buffoon? Surely she wouldn't--

She interrupted his thoughts with, "I was just thinking how different you are from Professor Lockhart. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it."

Reeling from her words to him, Severus stared at Hermione and wondered if what she said could be true. He knew that he had done a great evil in his wanton murder of innocents, in his abetting the first rise of the Dark Lord. He knew that his caustic nature towards his students and colleagues were not exactly endearing traits. He knew too, that his compassion for those weaker than him was almost non-existent, and if he showed any kindness at all, it was more often than not hidden, untold and done anonymously. He had a cover to keep and the lives and work of many depended on him maintaining his façade successfully.

But to be affirmed as 'good'... that was something else altogether. What was his subconscious trying to say? That he should start forgiving himself for what he had done in his youth? That the way of redemption is not just in atonement, but also in seeing rightly that he had goodness? That he had gain some worth even in his work of atonement?

Hermione was speaking again, "You know,--" she hesitated, "Professor Snape--"

"Severus, please. I can't have you calling me 'Professor Snape' in this setting, now can I?" he interrupted with a levity in his tone he did not fully feel.

"Severus, then," she bit her lips nervously.

Severus gave her a small smile in encouragement for her to continue.

"I was just going to say that my mother's favourite gemstones are diamonds, not because they are expensive or precious or beautiful--" she said, as she continued playing with her solitaire. Severus found his line of sight drawn to the precious stone between her thumb and forefinger, framed against the background of her chest, just above the alluring neckline of her dress. He had to mentally shake himself to pay attention to Hermione, and not at the hypnotic sight before him.

"--diamonds are my mother's favourites because of how they are formed."

Mother's favourites. Diamonds. How were diamonds formed? Did you know your eyes sparkle like diamonds? Pay attention, Severus!

~*~

Hermione blushed when her professor gave her leave to call him by his first name. But should that be remarkable? After all, it was only a dream. She is not likely to lapse and call her professor 'Severus' in reality, now is she?

She tried out the name cautiously, "Severus, then."

He had smiled in response, and whilst she still couldn't see his crooked teeth hidden obsessively behind his lips, she thought that that smile was a vast improvement over his sneer. She had then tried to explain her mother's love of diamonds, but could see that he looked distracted, and she wondered if she had gone into her lecture-mode again.

She paused, waiting to see his reaction.

He looked up into her eyes.

"How they are formed?" he blinked. "How are they formed?"

Fine, if you really want to know... she thought with a smile.

"My mother says that diamonds are the hardest substance known to man, and therefore, the most precious. I don't know about the magical world, but in the muggle world, diamonds are created from worthless coals that have gone through extreme geological pressures. The pressures transform the coals into pebble-like stones, which are then polished to release its shine. Mum always tells me that until I go through trials and pressures that test me, I'll only remain a common coal. It is only through not yielding to the pressures and trials that face us, that forms our inner values, our inner worth, like coal transforming into diamond," she smiled, thinking that transfiguring coals to diamonds was something that might be difficult for magical folks to understand, seeing as how Professor McGonagall could easily do it on a whim. "The diamond analogy doesn't stop there, though," she continued.

"It doesn't?" he murmured.

Hermione shook her head, which effectively loosen some of the tangled strands in her hair. Her eyes caught an excited gleam as she shared her thoughts with Severus.

"No, it doesn't. You see, diamonds need to be polished before they can shine. Since diamonds are the hardest substance known to man, diamonds can only be polished with another diamond. Mum says like diamonds polishing diamonds, our worth can only shine forth if polished by the people around us. She says that we need to develop right relationship with people, especially people who have gone through similar trials like we have; people who have strength of character. It is through relating and interacting with such people that my inner diamond can shine," she smiled. "You know, Severus, you are like that diamond pebble. In fact," she paused, with a teasing smile, "I think your diamond pebble's rather large, considering the work you do for the Order. But--" she hesitated.

"But--" he encouraged.

She sighed, "But you don't let anyone else near enough to you to allow for polishing."

Hermione fell silent for a moment, waiting for Severus' to accept what she had said. He had broken his eye contact with her, choosing to stare at the fireplace in thought instead.

Hermione couldn't understand what it was about this dream-Snape that caused her to tell him so much. She didn't know if it were the way dream-Severus seemed to hang on her words that empowered her to talk to her taciturn professor in such a manner. All she knew was that she felt compelled to show compassion to this hurting man, this man with nightmares every night, this man who looked to her - to plain old Hermione Granger - as if she had some power to bring light into his otherwise dark world.

"Your mother is a wise woman," he said, when he returned from his introspection. "I can see where you got your wisdom from," he smiled, putting his hand over hers.

Hermione scooted over to him, eyes smiling, "Thank you. I must warn you though," she looked up into his dark eyes, "polishing can be a downright painful process at times. You will have to put up with people who might disagree with you, or people who don't understand you. But along the way, you might be able to meet some kindred spirits."

"Kindred spirits?" he whispered, "Is that what you are?" he traced her cheek with the index finger of his other hand.

Hermione stared into his eyes, his whisper caressing her skin. "If you like," she breathed, "After all, we are fighting on the same side."

"Thank you, Hermione," he murmured, and pulled her lips onto his own.

~*~