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Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 130141 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 27
- 28
- 29
Snape was sitting upright against the wall, head tilted back with curtains of lank black hair sticking to his scalp. His weight was deviating to the left, and the awkwardly seated positioning gave away that it had been an arduous effort of keeping himself propped up. His clothing seemed to be intact, although there was something about his appearance that made him look like a bedraggled ghost. Snape's long black travelling had been pulled around most of him, completely shrouding his thin upper body. The cloak was long enough to cover all of him but the remaining fabric was bunched at his waist, and covered his sprawled legs to the knee. Despite the wizard's obviously weakened nature, it hadn't stopped him from keeping his wand at the ready, and Hermione felt somewhat mollified by that small observance.

Oh please, please wake up! Hermione thought franticly."Professor?"

Snape seemed to be dead to the world, the only thing giving away that he was in fact still among the living being the slight rising of his chest beneath his cloak. Unaware that someone was next to him, his eyes remained closed. It was a while before they opened after Hermione spoke.

"Professor Snape, can you hear me?"

There was still no response; although Snape opened his eyes wider, they remained flat, lifeless and unseeing. He was staring straight ahead into the darkness, and not even a glimmer of recognition showed in his face.

Hermione's panic meshed with a strong dose of over-protectiveness, but t didn't stop her from taking Severus' lit wand into her own hand to begin running it over the length of his body. Crookshanks had still been on top of the wizard but moved out of his mistress' way to stand dutifully by Snape's side, looking like a furrier male version of Bastet guarding her loved ones.

Snape remained uncommunicative as Hermione moved his wand up and down his prone form. His eyes continued staring into space, giving him the look of a catatonic person.

"Professor, are you all right?" asked Hermione worriedly when he still didn't respond to her. She wasn't sure if he even knew she was there, and was too scared to act brashly for fear of his reaction should he suddenly come back to his senses.

Hermione had never seen Severus in such a state, not even when he stumbled into Grimmauld Place with blood blooming patterns through his shirt. Now he didn't seem to be injured in such a way, although it was hard to tell as he was still covered in his travelling cloak and huddled against the wall. Bringing the wand up higher, Hermione saw that Snape's gaunt, ashen face looked more sickly and withdrawn than usual, and a fine sheen of sweat was covering his forehead.

Typically when Snape returned from his meetings, which was where Hermione was positive he had been that evening, he was wrought with tension and the grimace on his face probably was nowhere close to matching the pain he felt. But this lifeless, expressionless Snape was scaring the hell out of her.

Hermione had half a mind to slap him, pinch him, yell or do something, anything that would make him respond to her. Whatever happened that night, it had been enough to make the wizard completely shut down. Even though his eyes appeared to be unable to register anything, it was obvious to Hermione that Snape seemed to be purposely trying to not look at anything, as if he had earlier seen something that he deeply regretted.

"Professor?" she softly called out once more. "Professor Snape?"

Silence.

"Severus?"

At the mention of his given name, a flicker of awareness finally showed in Snape's black eyes. Only after Hermione placed one small hand on his cold, clammy cheek did he seemed to become slightly roused. His thin, cracked lips parted but no sound came out.

Hermione didn't know if Severus could walk at that point, nor did she know how to get to his rooms on her own. Crookshanks had led her to some unknown area of the dungeons, and Hermione had no clue how to get the incapacitated wizard to his feet, much less to his room so he could lie down. Still, she had to try something as they couldn't remain on that cold floor.

"Severus? Let's get up from here, shall we?" Hermione gently offered, reaching down to slip her hand into his and trying not to recoil when she felt his frigid fingers against her skin. "You can even yell at me and give me detention if you like, but we need to move from this corridor."

Snape said nothing as Hermione sat next him. His hand remained limp in hers, although the witch held steadfast onto it. She didn't know what to say at that point. Even though Severus' face was impassive, Hermione kept furtively glancing at him and was shocked to find that his eyes were no longer lifeless; they were the eyes that belonged to a person who had looked into the deepest pits of hell yet somehow managed to escape, albeit not completely unscathed. Fire burned in those dark orbs, and Hermione thought if Severus was to look directly at her, that she would burn right along with him.

Struggling to find something to say that wouldn't sound completely inane at the moment, Hermione felt very much out of her depths. Finally murmuring something about them getting up from the floor to seek solace in a warmer place, it took several long minutes of cajoling and gentle prodding before Snape allowed Hermione to help him to his feet. She was still holding onto his wand and had to artfully arrange it between her fingers when they held hands. Once Snape remained standing by dint of pressing one pale, shaking hand against the wall, Hermione cautiously moved in and slipped her arm around his free arm.

This whole scenario was throwing her off, as usually even with Snape in an insurmountable amount of pain, he would still sneer yet tell her what he needed. No, he wouldn't admit to needing anything; Hermione always had to have a pull with him. But the professor had yet to speak, and even in the darkness, it was clear to her that he was struggling to remain on his feet.

"This way," he finally uttered in a broken, rusty tone, sounding as if it pained him to speak. He was still grasping onto the wall as he began slowly walking down the length of the corridor.

Hermione held his lit wand out in front of her and docilely followed behind, wondering where she was being led. She scarcely gave a second thought to Crookshanks, who had sense enough to follow behind without being told.

"I'll need my wand, Miss Granger," rasped Snape, pausing when they reached a part of the wall that looked the same as the rest of it.

Hermione handed the wand over and watched as Snape pointed it at the wall. Without uttering a single word, he uncovered a nondescript door, its well-oiled hinges never giving so much as a single creak when it swung open.

Hours prior, once Severus had been summoned and left Hogwarts, his evening had passed much too slowly, yet in a blur. Never would he become used to viewing the attacking and killing of innocent people. To make matters worse, he had watched a child that was mostly likely the same age as many of his first-year students being tossed around like a rag doll before he was killed. That child suffered, along with his parents, in a way that no one should ever suffer.

It hadn't been enough for the Dark Lord to torture Muggles; many of the Death Eaters had undergone their own share of torturing. 'Character building', the Dark Lord sometimes said. Over and over he used his own wand against his followers, and when the gathering had finally been dispersed, Snape nearly didn't have enough energy to Apparate to the front gates of Hogwarts.

Slowly and painfully Snape had made his way into the castle. The muscles in his legs fought and protested with his every step, and his lungs burned whenever he took in the smallest of breaths. For what was mostly like the hundredth time or so, he wished that he could Apparate directly to his rooms.

Mentally and physically he felt half-dead, and his only reprieve had been the cold stone floor and wall that he collapsed upon once he was finally down in the dungeons. Barely aware that he had been lying down for some time, Snape gave scant notice to his bruised cheek becoming further irritated from pressing down onto the roughly hewn stone. After an undeterminable amount of time, Snape had finally managed to shift his wand hand up to his face and nonverbally cast a weak Lumos.

It could have been five minutes or five hours; it had been hard to say. But between bouts of prising his weary eyes open, only for them to crash shut seconds after, it was around the third or fourth time of forcing them back open that Snape caught sight of an orange blob hovering around his head. At first he thought that he had been hallucinating, until the orange blob moved closer and swiped something damp and rough across his protruding knuckles.

The orange blob had then moved back a few steps, lying itself on the floor next to him. Only when Snape mustered all the energy possible to make his eyes focus, did he find himself staring into the one of the most squashed faces he had ever seen on what he was sure belonged to a cat.

His brain was still muddled but it took only a few seconds to realise that he was in fact staring into the furry face of Granger's cat.

He had been unable to avoid the damn thing whenever he attended meetings for the Order at Grimmauld Place. Countless times Snape had been sitting at the kitchen table down in the basement, and the tenacious creature crawled beneath it and took to sitting on top of his feet. Snape didn't think dragonhide boots to be a comfortable resting place for a cat, but what the hell did he know? He had never been a cat, and he had never took to perching upon a pair of boots. But the feline apparently deemed Snape's boots a suitable resting place, and the wizard didn't have the heart to make him move.

Besides, it had been nice to have someone, rather, something, willingly touching him. Even if he had been unable to move his feet for the better part of an hour. Despite his toes going numb, Snape had been somewhat amused by the sizeable cat sitting on his feet, and thought the creature to be just as bold and brash as its bushy-haired owner.

Snape had been unable to remember the damn thing's name, but as he lie painfully on that cold dungeon floor, he took some small comfort when he realised who was sitting next to him, one stretched paw resting on top of his splayed hair.

He vaguely remembered pushing himself up to lean against the wall, but the movement alone further wore him out. One minute he closed his eyes, and the next he reopened them to find the cat's owner hunched beside him with a look of outright panic on her pretty face.

Granger's cat sitting on his hair, and then Granger herself with her ridiculous and unreasonable hair inches away from his face; it was like he couldn't escape the clutches of either if he wanted to.

Even though it had been a moment before Snape remembered that he was sitting on a cold and very uncomfortable dungeon floor, something inside of him sparked when Hermione pressed her soft hand upon his cheek, and shook him out of his stupor.

Remembering that he had initially been in that specific corridor which led to his private laboratory as Lupin's Wolfbane potion still had not been brewed, Snape almost gnashed his teeth in frustration. He was too tired to think or even conjure up a glass of water to soothe his parched throat, much less stand on his feet for an hour to brew anything.

"What are you doing down here, girl?" asked Snape in a rough voice, his brows furrowed together as he glared at Hermione. "Do I need to spell it out in Runes for you to remember what I told you about wandering around after curfew?"

The two were now inside of his laboratory, and the only thing he could do was scramble to hold onto the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. Hermione seemed to notice his weak limbs for she instantly found a low stool and dragged it over, urging him to sit down.

"Crookshanks," she hastily explained, gathering the hem of her nightgown in one hand and kneeling down in front of the professor. "He woke up me, made me chase him all the way down here. I'm glad he did, too. Are you all right? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Crookshanks; that's the damn thing's name.

For the first time in a long time, Snape was surprised to find that he was too worn out to display his usual sense of sarcasm. There were a litany of things he wished to tell Hermione; he wanted to tell her to spare him from another bout of her incessant coddling, to make sure that she didn't cry on his head...and to thank her for discreetly finding him in his time of need before anyone else could.

To be caught in a compromising position by Granger had been one thing; but to be caught by students he had to see and teach on a daily basis... Snape knew he would never live it down. Short of being either teased or pitied, he knew there were students who would have been glad to kick him while he was down. Then would come the pompous, gloating faces, to which he would lose his temper. A lifetime of detention wouldn't even take the away the sting of embarrassment at being caught hugging the floor by one of his students. Madam Pomfrey was another who would most likely be summoned, after which all the Heads of Houses as well as other professors would become aware to his plight.

No, it was easier to avoid all the fanfare by dragging himself to his rooms and tending to his own wounds.

But he was tired, and not the sort of tired that could be sorted out with a full night's rest. He was tired of all the summoning and running between two masters, both of whom either expected absolute perfection from him, or at times, what seemed like outright failure. He was tired of seeing the scared, tear and snot covered faces of men, women, and children as they begged and pleaded for their lives to be spared. And most of all, he was tired of putting on a stoic face day in and day out, pretending as if none of it affected him.

However, the only way to deal with it all was to pretend that it didn't affect him, although a person was only able to lie to themselves for so long.

Typically when people lied to themselves, they began believing the lie, and became so deeply rooted in it that after awhile they were scarcely able to sort out the untruths from reality. But Snape knew that he would never be able to become fully submersed in such a wicked web of evilness and lies. He had at one point, and vowed never return to that point again, as it brought him nothing but grief and heartache.

Snape's eyes burned with the effort of keeping them open, and he was sure he looked like death warmed over. But the last thing he wanted to do was close his eyes; if he did, then he would see the pleading, tear-ridden brown eyes of that young boy who had been easily disposed of by his 'fellow' Death Eaters.

It apparently hadn't been enough for that family to be put through the horrific ordeal; the child had been killed first while his parents looked on. Wormtail had then taken hold of the woman, nearly pulling her arms out of its sockets in a fit of brutality and forcing her down on the ground.

Snape knew that the rodent-like turncoat always held a perverse air about him, but that night his depraved ways soared to new heights. It was no secret that even the lowliest of whores refused to touch Wormtail, a fact which was a bit of a joke among Voldemort's followers. This led Wormtail into trying to take whatever he could, no matter the age of the witch or their blood status. Snape even noticed Wormtail's roaming eye whenever they encountered young wizards whom had a more delicate appearance.

That night, the degenerate had nearly raped the woman while her husband looked on, unable to do anything as he had been held down by two Death Eaters, one of whom had his booted foot on top of the man's head, forcing him to listen to the screams and cries of his wife.

Snape knew he was many things, but he was no rapist, and it had been all he could do to not use Sectumsempra to castrate the poor excuse for a wizard.

He didn't know whether to be revolted or relieved when another of the Death Eaters killed the woman, even as she lie struggling beneath Wormtail.

Macnair had only killed the woman for two reasons; one, he would have sooner cut off his own cock than willingly lie with a Muggle woman, and two, he had an open dislike for Wormtail and used every opportunity to ruin his fun.

Most of the other Death Eaters shared that same sentiment about sleeping with a witch that wasn't pureblood, and idea which Snape found ridiculous in itself. It wasn't as if their cocks would burn and melt away into nothingness, and besides, pureblood lines had become so diluted that it was a miracle first cousins weren't getting married. Although there were some that would much rather marry and copulate with a close family member than do so with a half-blood or Muggle-born. Some old wizarding families had actually done so, although it was one of those things that was swept under a rug and rarely discussed in the light of day.

Wormtail would have fucked anything so long as it was warm and had some semblance of an orifice, and he nearly cried when Macnair cast the Killing Curse on his unwilling sex partner. He had then heaved his grime-ridden, rotund form up from the ground to unsteadily launch himself at the snarling wizard until Snape interjected, his voice distorted as he told them both to shut up so they could get away before the authorities had been alerted.

By that time, the woman's husband had also been killed and left in an oddly-twisted heap a few feet away from the bodies of his wife and child.

Long after the Death Eaters had returned to their initial meeting place, Wormtail continued to carry on about Macnair killing the woman before he had a chance to have her. He whined to the point that the Dark Lord roared and swore at him, only to begin throwing hexes at anyone within his eyesight.

Snape felt the effects of the Cruciatus one too many times that night, and vowed that when met with the first available opportunity, he would kill Wormtail and leave his body for scavengers.

His mind kept flickering back, recalling the look of terror in the family's eyes, recalling the scent of fear and piss, as the young boy had been so frightened that he wet himself. Snape almost forgot that he was no longer in that house, but in his private, dimly lit laboratory, perched on top of a small stool with fine tremors running through his body. He didn't realise that he was shaking until Hermione stood up and slowly advanced on him, the way one might approached a spooked horse, and gently rested her steadier hand on top of his.

"Sir?"

Snape came back to reality and wordlessly searched Hermione's soft brown eyes for a moment. The young witch reached out and brushed back the limp strands of oily hair partially covering his face, tilting her head up to look directly at him.

Hermione seemed to know that Severus didn't want to or was unable to talk about whatever had him so distressed. Still, she moved in closer to him and threaded one trembling hand into his damp hair, and gently guided his head to rest upon her shoulder.

The unspoken horrors of his night continued to weigh heavily on Snape's mind, combined with the fact that he knew he shouldn't even be next to Hermione. This time his self loathing had nothing to do with the fact of her being his student; he knew he wasn't good enough for her. Especially not after standing by and doing nothing to help stop the slaughter of an innocent family.

For the greater good.

He heard those words one too many times, and all it entailed was that no matter what he witnessed, what he had to endure, at the end of the day he'd better keep himself alive. To help anyone else meant to risk his own life, and that was a gamble that he could not take.

Snape hadn't been the one to raise his wand to those people; it had been the sole efforts of the Dark Lord's true followers. Yet it still didn't keep him from telling himself that blood was on his hands, and Snape felt filthy and loathsome as he sat in that dimly lit laboratory, crouched and trembling on an uncomfortable stool with his head on the untainted witch's body.

Still, it wasn't enough for him to move out of Hermione's warm embrace or push her away.

"You need to rest, a proper rest," she was now gently suggesting over his head. "Perhaps you should go to the hospital wing, have Madam Pomfrey take a look at you."

Snape gave a dismissive scoff, a sound that became lost into the thick material of Hermione's nightgown covered shoulder.

"As enticing as that sounds," he began, "I must decline."

"But why?" Hermione shot back. "It's not as if she asks a lot of questions, and you're a professor, so surely you can avoid—"

"What part of spy do you not understand, Miss Granger?" Snape snapped, sounding more like his usual self as he pulled out of Hermione's grasp. "I go to the hospital wing and I might as well announce to the whole of Hogwarts as to why I'm being summoned every other evening at nightfall." Snape shook his head, the small movement making him grimace in pain. "No, I will tend to myself just as I always have. It's bad enough that I dragged you into all this, but this is where it ends."

"I understand," Hermione replied, struggling with her words. "But I still say you need a rest. You look like you're about to keel over from exhaustion."

Snape levelly eyed the young witch for a moment. "Surely you've heard the phrase, 'there's no rest for the weary'? Besides—" Snape paused to briefly gesture to the ingredients and cauldron spread out on the work table next to him, "Wolfsbane isn't exactly self-brewing."

Hermione's mouth fell open, and her words came out spluttered in outrage.

"But how are you going to brew anything? You can barely keep your eyes open!"

"Tell that to your favourite professor," Snape wryly replied. "Or perhaps you can take up your issue with the next full moon. Either way, this damned potion needs brewing. Merlin forbid Lupin doesn't get it in time, but it won't make a difference. The blame will somehow lie with me, like it always does."

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Hermione snapped, drawing herself up to her full height in exasperation. "Why did he wait till the last minute to ask for the potion? There are calendars he could follow, not to mention lunar charts! Lupin, of all people, should have known better."

Snape was still uncomfortable, and the hard stool he was sat upon was digging into his aching tailbone. But in spite of his agony, he was surprised that Hermione was uttering a statement that wasn't riddled with a litany of accolades when it came to her old Defence teacher.

That entire year, Snape had been forced to listen to the greatness of Remus Lupin where his colleagues and students were concerned. Snape wouldn't have claimed to be jealous, but all the same, he did wish he could make it through dinner without listening to others fawning over the man. Even Dumbledore had gushed in such a way over Lupin that his words were able to turn even the hardest of stomachs.

So to hear Hermione Granger speaking about him in a way that pointed out his faults was refreshing, to say the least.

"While I am sure that this is one of those rare times, perhaps because of the imminent full moon, but it is safe to say that I agree with you, Miss Granger," Snape told her. "As it is, Lupin will be waiting for his potion and it needs to be made tonight."

Snape took that opportunity to gingerly shift off the stool and push himself to his feet, but no sooner than his weight settled, he let out a roar of pain as his body protested at the movement.

Hermione immediately noticed Snape's legs giving out on him, and without thinking, she stepped forward and caught him around the waist.

"Granger!" Snape roared, feeling a fresh wave of perspiration rolling over his skin beneath the thick woolen layers of his cloak and suit as all of his muscles seized up, making him stumble forward and nearly knock over Hermione. "You daft girl, are you trying to break your back!?"

Hermione could only yelp and grunt as her limbs strained under the solid weight of the professor.

"Well did you expect me to let you just fall on your face?!" she breathlessly shot back, firmly planting her bare feet on the floor in a struggle to gain purchase. "Merlin's pink knickers, why are you so bloody tall and heavy!"

There wasn't a single thing humorous about the situation at hand. Snape was still in a great amount of pain, so much that he found it hard to breathe. He could barely stand on his own, and his only saving grace was the petite witch he was nearly wrapped around.

Snape towered completely over Hermione, and his face was buried into the top of her head. He couldn't help from clutching onto her, even though he could feel her small frame shaking with the effort to keep him standing. The fact that he was wrapped around her like a sloth holding onto some tiny creature almost turned his grimace into a smirk. But the eruption of 'Merlin's pink knickers' nearly sent him over the edge.

He didn't know why; it wasn't as if he had never heard Hermione swear before. Of course, he strongly suspected that the witch had been unaware of the dirty words that poured easily from her mouth during some of their more pleasant encounters.. Although, Snape had been to blame for Hermione's sudden change in speech.

Hermione tended to swear lustily as a blue-collar worker downing his third drink in pub on a Friday night whenever she neared climax. She still retained some of her initial shyness and only became verbal whenever things grew heated, but that was the only time Snape heard her curse.

"Arrgh! Professor, I can't hold you for much longer!" Hermione gasped between gritted teeth, her hands slipping against the folds of Snape's travelling cloak. "I need to put you down."

"You shouldn't have held onto me in the first place!" Snape snarled between equally clenched teeth, feeling another fresh round of pain sweeping over him and leaving him dizzy.

"All right, wait a minute!" Hermione panted, her chin digging into her chest beneath the weight of Snape's head pressing down on hers. "If I could just get you—damn! I don't have my wand!"

In between trying to keep himself from losing consciousness, Snape internally berated Hermione, wanting to know what sort of witch was she to go anywhere without her wand.

"We'll discuss that later," Snape ground out. "Take out my wand, it's in my inner pocket."

"OK, alright, let me see if I can move my hands," said Hermione, awkwardly trying to pry one hand loose. "I can't, Professor! Do you think you could—"

"If I let go, I'll fall and take us both down," Snape cut off in a tight voice. "You will have to find a way to get it."

It took another second of shuffling, panting, and huffing before Hermione was able to move her and Snape around so they wouldn't take a spill. He was dead weight on her, and she had to press her back onto the edge of the work table just to keep herself from falling. Using one hand to keep Snape against her, Hermione finally managed to get one hand in front of her and slip her fingertips beneath his cloak.

Her task still wasn't an easy one, not with the way Snape's long, firm body was nearly pressing all the air out of her lungs, and Hermione nearly wept when she felt the handle of his wand. Sliding it out inch by inch, she wrenched her arm free from between their bodies and turned her head, her eyes immediately falling upon an empty corner of the room.

She had never been in this specific room, and surmised that Snape used it to make potions for the hospital wing and such. If she had been able to examine her surroundings more closely, Hermione was sure that she would barely be able to find a single speck of dust or dirt in the area. When Snape taught Potions, it was true that he kept a manner of all things nasty inside of jars and bottles in his classroom, but he at least set great store by keeping things in a meticulous and orderly fashion.

Still, it was a dungeon laboratory, and the area wasn't exactly immaculate as a freshly mopped hospital floor, but Hermione could think of no other alternative at the moment.

It's better than nothing, she told herself as she aimed her wand at an empty corner of the room and conjured up a high pile of squashy pillows and blankets.

"Professor, I'm going to move us, all right? Just hold onto me," she told Snape, letting out a fierce groan as she hefted them both up from the work table.

Feeling Snape nod his agreement into the top of her head, Hermione doggedly pulled him across the room while trying to remain gentle. When her legs moved, Snape's legs moved, until they made progress. Shifting his wand in her hand so as not to break it, knowing that the wizard would kill her if she did, Hermione managed sort of an awkward vertical wrestling move to slowly manoeuvre him to the floor, all the while keeping his weight against her.

With an air of triumph, Hermione arranged enough cushions beneath Snape's head until he looked comfortable. Finding that she was weak-limbed and shaking from straining to hold him up for so long, she had to pause for a moment to catch her breath.

All the while, Snape was breathing shallowly but appeared to be marginally better now that he was lying on a soft surface.

Hermione was still rapidly inhaling while unfastening the clasp of Snape's travelling cloak when he finally spoke.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said in a low voice. "But don't you ever do that again!"

"Not bloody likely," Hermione grumbled, now engaged with the task of unbuttoning the front of his frock coat. "How would it look to have Hogwarts Defence teacher not show up to class because he cracked his head open on the ground?"

There was no way she would allow Severus to get hurt while he was in her presence. Hermione knew that she had absolutely no control over anything that happened while they were apart, and little control during those rare times when they were alone, and she would sooner gnaw off her own arm than to stand by and watch something happen to him.

"The masses would celebrate, no doubt," said the professor sardonically, grimacing again yet lifting one hand to try and push Hermione away from his chest. The witch merely hissed at him before shoving his hand back to one side, intent on continuing with undressing him to check for further injury.

Snape glared daggers at Hermione, his dark eyes nearly boring a hole into the top of her bowed head. "I hope it's not your intent to become a Healer, Miss Granger. No doubt your patients would be put off with that appalling beside manner."

"No, I'm actually a bit squeamish when it comes to blood," Hermione replied matter-of-factly, intently peering down at his bare chest. "No bleeding this time, thank goodness."

Snape found Hermione's comment about blood peculiar, especially considering that she had volunteered her services all those other times when he was covered in it. "I could have told you that had you simply asked."

"I could have asked, and you still wouldn't have told me."

Snape knew Hermione was right, but he wasn't about to admit it and continued glowering at her.

"Do you need water?" Hermione was now asking, pressing the back of her hand to Snape's forehead. She remembered the fever that he suffered at Grimmauld Place; it had taken a few hours for her to help break it with use of cold compresses. His skin now felt nearly cold as those compresses, and Hermione knew that he needed to be warmed up. Scooting down to Snape's feet, she carefully pulled off his boots and set them to the side. "Professor?"

"The only thing I need for you to do is find your shifty cat and return to your tower."

"So you can yell at me later when you aren't poorly," Hermione continued as if she hadn't heard him, conjuring up a glass of water and holding it to his lips, "but for now perhaps it would be better if you told me how to brew the Wolfsbane."

Snape drained the glass and had just closed his eyes, reopening them to focus on Hermione's face when he heard her comment about the Wolfsbane.

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"Is it because you think I can't do it?" asked Hermione, puffing up a bit.

"Simmer down, you little wretch," Snape retorted in a soft tone incongruous to his insulting words. "Wolfsbane is a difficult enough potion, even for the most experienced of potioneers. One slip up, one wrong move, and the entire thing becomes tainted. The last thing I need is you accidentally poisoning Lupin as a result of well-placed intentions. Not only would it be bad form, but again, it would offer ugly fodder to the masses."

Hermione paused. She hadn't thought about it that way, but Snape proved a good point.

"I won't ruin it, I promise," she pleaded. "Maybe you could check to make sure I'm doing everything correctly before I proceed to each next step," Hermione suggested. "I'll bring it to you, you won't even have to move."

Snape went rigid but lapsed into thoughtful silence as if he was considering her offer.

"Professor...Severus, please? Let me do this. I promise to not add murderer to my CV."

"Very well," he conceded. "But if a single thing is off, then down the drain it goes."

"That sounds fair," Hermione agreed, standing up and walking over to the work table.

Hermione had slipped Snape's wand back into his pocket after settling him on the blankets. Right before closing his eyes again, he withdrew it and flicked it in her direction. An old piece of parchment materialised on top of the work table, and all it took was a cursory glance for Hermione to see Snape's spidery handwriting covering its entire length. Perusing it more thoroughly, she saw that he had explicit directions for brewing the Wolfsbane, down to every clockwise and anticlockwise turn and half turn of the stirring rod.

Snape was close to feeling irritated for having to depend upon the little busybody once more, but he knew without her, Lupin's potion wouldn't get brewed, and Snape, himself, would most likely still have been lying in that darkened corridor.

Gritting his teeth as he tried to turn from his back onto his side, Snape gave up the effort and settled for burying his face in one of the soft pillows. Images of his horrific evening kept flashing through his mind, and difficult was a euphemism for saying that it was nearly impossible for him to relax.

Without Snape realising it, he gradually became lulled by the sounds of Hermione mixing, grinding, and adding things to her cauldron. Little snicks of glass striking another piece of glass, the stirring rod briefly clanking against the pewter cauldron as she stirred, and even the way she hummed and sighed as she pondered over each step; it was soothing to his ears and Snape dozed off without intending to.

"Professor?"

Snape opened his eyes to find Hermione crouched beside his head. She was holding a phial with a few drops of purple liquid in it.

"How long was I asleep for?"

"For about twenty minutes; I prepared everything already and wanted to show you what I had so far before continuing on," Hermione explained, gesturing to the phial.

It was too dark for Snape to properly examine the phial's content, not that it made much difference as he was too weak to even hold onto the bit of glass.

"You'll need my wand again," he told her, keeping absolutely still as he waited for Hermione to reach into his pocket and pull it back out. "Cast Lumos first, I can't see a damned thing down here."

Once the wand was lit, Hermione held it and the phial a few inches away from Snape's face, rotating it so he could check the liquid's consistency. She had to put the wand down for a second to wave one free hand back and forth across the narrow glass opening to spread its vapour.

Most students would place a phial directly beneath their noses to inhale the scent, instead of fanning it towards them the way they had all been taught in their first year. Snape was pleased to see that Hermione remembered that lesson and it was just as well; he had told his students that if they were to outright sniff anything and ended up passing out in his class, that they would have to revive themselves and make their own way to the hospital wing.

Snape hadn't meant it, but at least he never had any students falling unconscious in his class. While the execution of his message had come out sounding callous, its meaning was well-placed if not conventional.

"Very good, Miss Granger," Snape told her after deeming the beginnings of the potion to be suitable, closing his eyes again. "Carry on."

Hermione felt sweaty and sticky and uncomfortable, but there was nothing at that moment to make her complain. As far as she was concerned, her discomfort was menial compared to Severus'. Yes, her bare feet still throbbed and ached against the rough flagstones, and her hair had tripled in size from hovering over the steaming cauldron. But every time she looked over at Severus and saw his wraithlike form half-buried beneath the pile of obnoxiously bright purple bedding she'd conjured, it only forced her to stiffen her upper lip and carry on.

Making Wolfsbane was more difficult than she anticipated, although Severus' notes somewhat made things easier. It seemed that his scribblings were somewhat deviated from the original potion she once read about in third year, but if the ends justified the means, then who was she to second-guess? Snape obviously knew what he was doing, as the additions were written in his own hand. Besides, Lupin had been taking the potion all along, presumably without complications. Lupin himself told Harry that he was grateful for Snape brewing him the Wolfsbane, so clearly it was working for him.

Harry, Hermione practically snarled to herself. He was another one that had dodgy additions in that stupid Potions textbook that he refused to hand in. At least Hermione knew where the footnotes on the parchment for Wolfsbane had come from; Harry continued following directions to the letter in his book without knowing anything about them. Hermione knew for fact that Harry's extensive offhand knowledge about potions , draughts, and the like could fill a thimble. If anything, he was the one that needed to err on the side of caution, not her.

One black-haired wizard at a time, Hermione. You can fuss at Harry later, but for now you have more important things to worry about.

In the midst of stirring the potion, Hermione ventured another glance in Snape's direction. His eyebrows were knitted together, and he was frowning in his fitful sleep. Severus looked well and truly worn out, and Hermione felt foolish for only being able to make him comfortable on the floor. She had conjured up enough blankets and pillows for ten people, and she was sure that the professor was unable to feel the rigid floor beneath him, but his warm bed a few feet away from a burning hearth would have been a more suitable resting place.

The last thing Hermione wanted to do was wake Severus, as it was obvious that he needed all the rest he could get, but she needed him to examine the potion again. When it was finally finished, Snape stayed awake long enough to direct Hermione to pour the potion into a goblet, which he conjured with his wand.

"Well, at least that's done," she announced. "But how is Lupin going to get it? You're not exactly in a position to walk to the headmaster's office, and I definitely can't go."

"Neither of us will be going," Snape told her, pointing his wand at the goblet that had faint blue smokey curlicues rising from its mouth. The goblet glowed for a second and then disappeared. "Lupin's potion is now safely on Dumbledore's desk, and those two can sort it out. Lupin can drink it or piss in it for all I care, but my end of the bargain has been upheld."

As crude as Snape's comment was, Hermione fought back a laugh in spite of herself. Apparently finished with his mini rant, Snape had fallen silent again and was in the middle of dozing off when Hermione approached him.

"I notice that cat of yours isn't skulking about," he mumbled, his words distorted as his face was half buried into a pillow.

"Crookshanks didn't like the fumes of the Wolfsbane, so I let him out," Hermione explained, settling down next to the professor and crossing her legs. "Or maybe he was jealous of the attention I'm giving you. He's probably hunting for mice by now."

"Nothing like a midnight mouse when you need a little something, I suppose."

Hermione let out a titter; was Severus Snape joking with her? The world must be coming to an end.

"No wand, nothing on your feet, and barely dressed," Snape was now saying. "And alone, despite my many warnings. It's a wonder you made it down here with your head attached."

Hermione was unable to keep from pulling a face as she looked down at Snape. His eyes had been closed practically the entire time, and she didn't know that he had noticed her bare feet.

"Well I was sort of rushed out of the dormitories," she blithely replied, yanking the hem of her nightgown beneath her heels for warmth. "It's not as if my slippers or a robe were a priority. And I distinctly remember you calling my slippers ugly."

"Too right, Madam Warrior. Those slippers were positively dreadful," Snape drawled, "but better those ugly-arsed slippers than your bare feet against this damnably cold floor. And by the way, make sure if you find yourself going into battle, that you're prepared. I don't care if you have to stick it in your knickers or put it beneath your pillow, you keep your damned wand on hand at all times. No excuses."

Hermione knew it was pointless to argue as Severus was one-hundred and ten percent correct. However, she was unable to tell him so because soon as he finished his last sentence, he drifted off again.

There was nothing else to do besides watch over the man as he succumbed to a restless sleep. Shuffling to the right of Severus, Hermione pulled one of the pillows behind her and sank back onto it. That same silence she encountered on her initial trip down to the dungeons had returned, although Hermione felt less on edge with Snape lying next to her, even if he was barely conscious.

A few candles had sprung to life upon the two walking into the laboratory, and they threw off just enough light for Hermione to brew Lupin's potion. But now that she was on the floor, it was harder to see, although the tension in Snape's thin, pallid face was difficult to miss.

The fine tremors in his limbs had subsided, and Snape lie perfectly still, even as he seemed to be battling with some internal war as he slept. Hermione could barely fathom being unable to find peace, even once your eyes were closed. But with everything that happened to her thus far, she'd had her own share of bad dreams, ones that woke her up with a start, causing her heart to beat wildly and her body to sweat profusely.

Hermione thought it pointless to tell anyone about her dreams; what would they be able to do? Short of Obliviating herself, there was nothing that would take away the image of Sirius Black being killed before her eyes. And she would most definitely be unable to forget the cold, dangerously-glinting metal masks that the Death Eaters wore.

Hermione lost track of the amount of times she had been jolted awake when visions of those masks haunted unwaking hours. For a brief moment when she and her friends were in the Department of Mysteries, staring into the hardened eyes that peeked out of that Death Eater's mask, Hermione had been sure that she was going to die. To this day those masks were enough to set her blood to ice, and that was just a bit of metal. Needless to say, she was scared to imagine what had an experienced wizard like Severus in such a state of mental discord.

Looking at him again, Hermione focused on that deep line etched into his forehead that never really went away, and she longed to reach out and smooth it away with her fingertips. It wouldn't have made a difference in the long-run, as Snape was prone to frowning on a consistent basis. But is still didn't change the fact that she hated seeing him under such stress.

While her friends as well as most of her other classmates tended to chalk up Snape's sour disposition to him being an iniquitous bastard, Hermione knew better. No one behaved the way Snape did without having a reason to; besides, if she found herself living the way the professor did, then she too, would be grumpy.

Sliding further down on her pillow, Hermione began musing about what life would be like if she snapped at people the way Snape did.

You already do, she told herself.

No, you don't snap, but you're terribly bossy.

So? My bossiness is justified. And besides, it's usually beneficial to two wizards that I refuse to think about right now.

On the verge of making herself laugh as she pictured herself curling her lip and baring her teeth like the professor when Ron and Harry asked for help with their homework, Hermione was literally thrown from her thoughts when Severus' solid hand suddenly flew out and caught her in the middle of her chest, striking hard enough to make her see spots.

Hermione was coughing and trying to catch her breath when Snape stirred out of his sleep, sitting up halfway when he heard her next to him.

"Granger?" he asked in a groggy voice.

Hermione knew that Severus hadn't meant to hit her; something had made him lash out in his sleep, and she only caught the brunt of his flying hand because of their close proximity. It was an accident and she wasn't cross, but, Merlin, the man had some heavy hands!

"I'm sorry I woke you," she rasped, gingerly running her fingertips across her aching sternum.

Snape shook his head and moved fully into an upright position. He roughly rubbed at his eyes before running a hand through his oily hair.

"Sorry," Snape said, apropos of nothing.

Hermione was a bit shocked; it was possible that Severus knew that he accidentally struck her, but she had the idea that there was more behind that single worded apology.

"I know you didn't have anything to do with the attack at the Weasleys," she offered after a few minutes, not knowing what else to say.

"Do you now?"

"Yes..."

"Most would be disinclined to agree with you."

"I'm not most people," Hermione pointed out.

"No...you're not," Snape agreed. He was now sat with his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on top, almost looking as if he was in deep thought. Hunched over and frowning at some spot on the blankets near his feet, it was almost as if Snape was considering hexing the bedding.

Even though the professor was silent, his shoulders were rigid enough to almost carry the weight of the world upon them, and his protective stance was warning enough for anyone to keep away, no matter if they were coming with the best of intentions. But that troubled look on his face made Hermione want to move closer; it made her want to hug him or take his hand in hers, while telling him that everything would be all right.

Such a trite and childish sentiment.

If someone bumped their knee or broke a drinking glass, that was a suitable time to tell them that it was all right. To do so now would be an insult as well as an outright lie, and Severus Snape was not a man that needed to be placated with empty promises and false platitudes. Besides seeing right through them, he would toss her out onto her ear for uttering such tripe.

Wracking her brain to come up with a way to move in closer without feeling like a complete idiot, Hermione gradually scooted sideways until her side was pressed against Snape's. He broke out of his reverie long enough to cast a sidelong glance at the witch. Hermione was pleased to notice that the line in his forehead was slightly less furrowed.

Figuring that her best bet would be to behave as if she needed him, instead of the other way around, Hermione let her weight fully settle against Snape, shortly after resting her head on his shoulder.

Unsure if her pence psychology was working, Hermione was shocked when Snape moved his arm down from his right knee to slip his hand into hers. For several minutes it seemed as if he forgot that quickly that they were holding hands, because it remained completely stationary within hers. A few more minutes passed before Hermione felt his callused thumb swirling over the back of her hand.

"If I had known about the attack at the Burrow, I would have tried my best to intervene," said Snape pensively. "Or at least I would have made sure that no one was home when it occurred.

"That dim-witted freckled friend of yours would most likely die from shock if he heard me say that, but I will admit to having respect for the Weasleys. I have no idea why there are so many of them, but they at least take care of their own. I could have done without Percy in my classes, though. The twins' antics were more bearable when compared to that pompous boy's attitude, not to mention that whiny voice."

Hermione snorted in laughter; there had been a time in her life where she was a bit in awe of Percy Weasley. He was a Head Boy, had stellar grades, and a promising career once he moved on from Hogwarts. Of course, she had the tunnel vision of an innocent eleven-year-old child at the time. It wasn't until she matured a bit that Hermione learned how annoying Percy's haughty streak was. Sometimes she listened to him droning on and on, and it sickened her to the point that she put forth the conscious effort to curtail her own pretentious behaviour.

"I think we've all wanted to cuff Percy round the ear at one point or another," Hermione murmured, slightly tightening her fingers over Snape's. "He would claim to be working whenever he visited the Burrow, but I think he was actually hiding from his brothers to avoid their teasing."

And the jinxes, Snape mentally added. He was tired of talking about the Weasleys, more concerned with making himself comfortable. His cloak and frock coat was still hanging onto his thin frame, and between that and the thick blankets, he had grown uncomfortably warm.

Pulling his hand out of Hermione's, he shifted out of both items and left his white shirt on. Hermione remained by his side, watching as he partially disrobed.

"Let me check your forehead again," she said once Snape had finished and was reclining next to her.

"I'm fine," he snapped, yanking his head back out of Hermione's reach. "I'm not a child, you don't need to keep fussing over me."

"Really, Severus," said Hermione, rolling her eyes. "It'll only take me a minute—"

Hermione had just shifted half her weight onto Snape's lap and was forcing her hand upon his head when he jerked back again. His travelling cloak was still nearby, and Hermione accidentally caught it when she threw her hand down to break her fall. Snape, however, had easily caught her around the waist, but their combined efforts were forceful enough that Hermione yanked up the cloak into her hand, causing something to fall out of one of the pockets.

The item landed with a loud clatter on the stone floor, its appearance enough to give both Snape and Hermione pause.

Three inches from the thick purple blanket, lay Severus' Death Eater mask. Hermione had never seen it, not even when she assisted him after he returned from his meetings with the Dark Lord. She never really gave thought as to if he even owned one, but now the tangible proof was right there, a stone's throw away from her fingertips.

Unable to tear her eyes away from the cold, glittering metal, with its sinister face charmed onto the front, Hermione had to remind herself that Severus wasn't 'one of them', that the mask was only for show.

Deep in her heart, she truly believed that Severus was no Death Eater, but it still didn't help ward off the disturbing feelings that came from actually seeing his mask. There were oddly shaped slits in place of the mouth, and the metal around the eyeholes were darker than the rest. Swirling designs surrounded the edges, although it was hard to tell if they had been painted or charmed on. The mask was hauntingly beautiful, yet sinister at the same time, and it sent an ice-cold shiver down Hermione's spine.

When it became apparent that Hermione had been staring at it for too long, Snape withdrew his wand and pointed it at the mask, making it disappear and sending it someplace else.

Snape had almost forgotten about that odious thing that he'd stuck in the folds of his cloak. He typically only wore the mask, as the complete Death Eater ensemble was impractical for him as he travelled between Hogwarts and the meetings. But wearing the mask alone made him feel like a prisoner, trapped in a body that was being forced to do things he didn't want, even if it was just his face that was covered, and he always felt relieved when he was able to take it off.

He hadn't meant for Hermione to see it, ever, if he could help it. Now all of the colour had drained from her face, and it didn't return even after he'd vanished the mask.

The young witch looked as if she was about to become sick on herself. Snape half expected Hermione to get up without a word and leave his sorry arse alone in that room, and was surprised when instead, she slowly leaned back against his side without uttering a word. He was able to hear her thudding heart in the stark silence of the room, although there was a strong possibility that it was his heart causing such a ruckus.

It had been one thing for Hermione to have a vague idea of his double life. Up until then, the only proof of his second existence had been the battle scars and cuts that she helped to heal when he came crawling back. But his mask solidified his dark position, and to his utmost surprise, the young witch stayed put.

"Are you all right?"

Hermione didn't answer immediately, but she did nod her head after a while, as if she had to give a great amount of consideration to the question.

"I'll be fine, it's just..." she trailed off. "It doesn't matter; I should be asking if you're all right."

When Snape didn't answer, Hermione suspected that he was most likely giving her one of his trademark sneers; she couldn't see, as her head was pressed against his bicep.

She would have been surprised to find that Snape was not frowning or sneering. While the rest of his face wasn't terribly expressive, incredulity was definitely in his eyes as he stared down into to top of Hermione's messy curls covered head. After everything that happened that evening, to be subject to Hermione's unfailing kindness was nearly too much, as Snape felt that he truly did not deserve it. But it seemed that the young witch cared not a single whit about what happened, nor would she be put off.

The only thing Hermione seemed concerned with was getting him to lie down, which he eventually did when she gently steered him back onto the pile of squashy pillows.

For a split second, Snape nearly forgot that they were lying on a pile of blankets and pillows in the corny of his darkened laboratory. He nearly forgot that he was still Hermione'e teacher, and it was definitely harder to do away with the memories of everything that happened that evening. But for a brief moment in time, Snape closed his eyes and gave in to the feel of Hermione's soft, little fingers against his cheek.

Someone had once joked that Snape had features so sharp be could most likely cut them just by looking in their direction. He forgot which idiot had likened his gaunt cheekbones to that of a blade, but it had been enough for him to reply with a remark that ensured said person to never feel comfortable enough to make a comment like so again. After all, Snape knew what he looked like; he had no reason to listen to anyone's insipid metaphors. He had never been a handsome wizard, or a pretty boy, and he never would be.

Besides, last he checked, looks were never a person's saving grace.

Snape had encountered all sorts of attractive witches and wizards, notwithstanding blood status, and some of them had been so thick-headed that he was sure they needed a torch and a map just to find their own arsehole, even while standing in the bright of day.

But stupid was something that Snape could safely say he was not. He learned from an early age that he was what most people considered unattractive. While that realisation had stung at first, it didn't take long for him to figure out that most people were imbeciles, and he had no reason to bend to their ideals of what was acceptable or not.

Even his own father, Tobias Snape, outright told his son that he was stupid and ugly.

Severus had been about eight or nine at the time, and while he might have conceded to the ugly part, he refused to believe that he was stupid. His mum's skills as a witch had been more than adequate, and whenever her husband wasn't around, she taught her son all she knew. Other times, Severus ensconced himself in his dingy little bedroom, keeping his head buried in a book as he tried to drown out the sound of his parents arguing. Ever since he could remember, books had been his only friend, the only thing he'd been able to truly lose himself in. Books were the only thing that kept him marginally sane until he was old enough to go to Hogwarts.

Hogwarts had been another bone of contention for Tobias; the man had groused and complained that the boy should just go onto secondary school, and stay on until he was old enough to find a job. Tobias wasn't bothered enough to want his son to attempt O levels, let along A levels. However, that had been the one time where Severus' mum, Eileen, had firmly put her foot down to tell her husband that her son would be attending Hogwarts whether he liked it or not.

Severus suspected that his mother paid for that comment in spades once he was off at school, but he never forgot the way the woman he strongly resembled stood up to the man that he disliked for most of his life.

He had been grateful; it was never his intention to leave school at a young age and begin working in the mills or the like, only to become a weary, broken-bodied man before he reached forty. Most of the young men in his neighbourhood that left school early to work, ended up working like mules for the rest of their lives. They often married early, some purely because they hadn't been careful enough, and then came the litter of children.

The last thing Severus wanted was to remain in that grimy little town, working his fingers to the bone only to have enough money for a pint at the end of the day.

Irony; they name is Severus Snape.

He still hadn't reached forty, and he ended up working his fingers to the bone anyway. And while his job wasn't arduous in the way that grueling hand labour was, it left Snape feeling as if he were much older.

When he was bothered enough to give thought to his hair, Snape found himself just a tad amazed that it was still the same shade of shocking black that it had been since birth. People claimed that stress made greys pop out and soon enough take over your head the way weeds did to a flower garden. If that was the case, his hair should have put Dumbledore's to shame. But no, there wasn't an excuse of grey or even white threaded throughout his lank black strands.

Lank black strands that were now being stroked by a dainty, languidly moving hand.

Snape was lying on his side, and Hermione had her chest to his back. At some point she had pulled one of the heavy blankets over them, and had taken to playing with the hair at the back of his head. The warm breath of Hermione's steady breathing tickled his ear and neck, and the sensation was oddly comforting.

"Sometimes I feel as if I barely know you, but then there's something that makes me not care," Hermione was now telling him. "Does that sound mad?"

Snape gave a wry laugh; Hermione had a better measure of him that most people, even if in just a basic sense. He would have attributed her unclouded judgment to her age, but Snape would say that Hermione wasn't the sort of witch prone to the typical flights of fancy that was usually hand-in-hand with youth.

While at times she gave into her feelings, Hermione was level-headed for the most part, not to mention analytical and calculating. She reminded Snape of himself in that aspect; ready to analyse something down to the smallest atom to try and make sense of it. Sometimes he had passed her in the library, and she had been so lost in thought that he had been tempted to walk up behind her and whisper into her ear that she would give herself an aneurysm from thinking so hard.

"If you were another person, then I would say yes," Snape answered. But if you were another person, then we wouldn't be here.

"That wasn't a covert invitation to get you to pour your heart out or anything," Hermione laughed. "I'm more speaking of the little things that I don't know. Like your birthday, for example. I wouldn't know when to say 'happy birthday' to you."

"I assure you, I would not fall to pieces if you hadn't."

Sourpuss, Hermione thought. "Well, when is it? When is your birthday?"

At first, Snape wasn't sure if he wanted to divulge that bit about himself, but then Hermione began caressing the underside of his jaw, ignoring the bit of scruff that was surely scratching her fingertips. The sleeve of her nightgown had been pushed up, baring her wrist, and he was able to smell a lingering trace of something faintly sweet, most likely a skin cream that she had put on after her evening bath.

But it was hard to remain closemouthed, not if it meant risking putting a stop on the soft fingers stroking the side of his neck.

"Well?" she asked again.

"January ninth."

The stroking fingers stopped anyway, and Snape caught himself on the brink of complaining. Hermione then sat up, paused for a moment, and carefully clambered beneath the blankets and over onto his side so they were facing.

"Are you serious?"

"Do I appear to be joking, Miss Granger?"

"Hermione. And today's the ninth," she huffed. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

Snape's eyes had been closed the entire time, but he opened them long enough to narrow them at Hermione.

"Well, I was otherwise engaged, if you don't remember. Besides, what was there to mention? It's just another day."

Hermione slowly shook her head as if she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Yes, the professor had more pressing things in his life, but to say that his birthday was just another day was perplexing. She barely had been able to celebrate her own, as it fell right after the start of the school term, but even so, there had still been presents at the foot of her bed in the morning, and parcels sent by owls at breakfast.

"I cannot believe you're being so nonchalant about this," she mused. "Your birthday is not 'just another day'."

"To me it is, as well as everyone else," Snape replied. "But if it means that much to you, you can begin celebrating by lying back down and being quiet."

"You know, most people would ask for some sweets or a new gadget for their birthday; only you would request the gift of silence," Hermione said as she slithered down next to him.

"It's the gift that keeps on giving," the professor shot back, lifting one hand to loop a few of Hermione's unruly curls around his index finger. "Next year, for my birthday and yours, I think a request of some hair grips wouldn't go amiss. You'd need two birthdays' worth just to conquer this hair of yours."

Laughing as she moved closer until her lips were nearly grazing the front of Snape's shirt, Hermione sighed when he pulled the blanket back over them. Settling into an awkward tangle of limbs, as Snape still wore his trousers and Hermione in her long, thick nightgown, two two finally found a comfortable position that left their arms draped across one another.

Taking heed of his earlier instructions to be quiet, Hermione stroked Severus' back through his shirt, running her fingertips over the protruding ridges at the top of his spine. His arm was loosely curved over her waist, although the heat of his now warmed skin was palpable through her nightgown.

It was hard to not think about them being pressed together sans the barrier of their clothing. While Hermione immensely enjoyed that level of intimacy, right now she found that she was just as content to quietly lie wrapped up in Severus' arms.

His thumb had been rubbing uneven circles onto her thickly-clothed hip, and the circles soon stopped as he drifted off to sleep. But right before his hand went still, Hermione was pleased to note the way Severus slightly burrowed his nose into her hair, inhaling deeply as if it pleased him.
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Unintentional Inveiglement