Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 43
- 44
- 45
A/N: So hopefully this longer chapter will make up for several things...the wait between updates...the fact that I was unable to type for a length of time for an entire week...the previous shorter chapters...you all know that I love you, right? Just because wristy is slowing me down doesn't mean that anything has changed :) I still want to write for those that enjoy it because it makes me happy to entertain you. But I am taking wristy to the doctor next Tuesday because the pain is getting worse.
Thank you for the lovely reviews! Please enjoy this update ;)

"Hermione, you alright?" Ron asked, looking at her warily.
Hermione had tucked herself into a corner of the shared train compartment. Harry had gone ahead of his friends with the promise to save them a seat while Ron and Hermione tended to Prefect duty. Many of the older students had been in a sombre mood and followed instructions without fuss, but there were a handful of younder ones that had to be chivvied along. Once everyone had boarded the train and were tucked into each compartment, Prefects were able to return to their own seats. Hermione, Ron and Harry hadn't been in the mood for conversation, and Harry eventually went off to find Ginny. Shortly after, Lavender had come round looking for Ron, and he had been about to step out of their compartment when one glance at his forlorn curly-haired friend made him pause.
"I'm fine, Ron, thanks," Hermione answered in a lacklustre tone.
"I can stay, you know, if you want..."
"No, it's alright, thank you," she reassured, positive that she could hear Lavender whining in protest from the other side of the door. "Don't keep Lav-Lav waiting."
Smiling at Hermione's weak joke, Ron performed an awkward shuffle between the narrow space of the partially opened compartment door before making up his mind. Once the door snapped shut with a loud click, Hermione sighed and refocused her attention on the view as the train ambled through the countryside.
Right after her trip from the library when she uncovered Snape's secret, Hermione kept herself glued to her two best friend's side. The trio that had began going separate ways in the beginning of the school year once again became tight-knit, and the three were rarely found apart. Dumbledore's funeral had rapidly approached and passed in a bit of a blur. Hermione vaguely remembered the bustle in Hogwarts surrounding the event; it seemed as if witches and wizards from Wizarding communities all over the world had come to Scotland to pay their respects to the headmaster.
Two days before the funeral, every inch of Hogwarts had been buzzing with excitement. The only quiet time Hermione found was either in the library or in the prefects' bath, which had thankfully remained off limits to the general population. While there had been times she wanted to be alone, Hermione was sort of grateful for a constant presence, be it Ron, Harry, or one of her other friends. To be left on her own meant that her mind would wander, and when her mind wandered it focused on Snape, Dumbledore, and the messy circumstances surrounding them both.
No, she needed the distraction.
Sleeping properly had also proved difficult. Each night Hermione lie awake, staring at the murky outline of bed curtains enshrouding her. Chamomile tea did nothing, and she would have gone to Madam Pomfrey for a Dreamless Sleep draught, but did not want to bother the distraught matron. Therefore, each day Hermione awoke with burning eyes and a fuzzy mind. Harry was experiencing something similar, although he refused to talk about it and became snappish when Hermione enquired after him. But he did stay nearby, and Ron, in a very mature and un-Ron-like gesture, did his best to keep things smoothed over between them all.
The reality that they were leaving Hogwarts for the summer holiday after a tragic end of school year was anything but forgotten as they'd boarded the Hogwarts Express. Hermione had taken the seat closest to the window, staring out of it morosely and barely noticing when the train pulled out of Hogsmeade station. For the first time in her life she didn't have the comfort of her familiar nearby, and Crookshanks' absence was sorely missed.
Hermione had searched all over the castle for her half-kneazle. She'd even attempted to sneak into Snape's private, now abandoned, chambers, but hadn't been able to get past the front door. Hagrid promised that he would look around the school grounds for the fussy ginger cat, and looked at Hermione with sympathy when reporting that Crookshanks hadn't been found.
Trying desperately to discard the notion that she was losing everything she loved, Hermione gave Hagrid a watery smile and thanked him for his help. She chalked Crookshanks' absence to a superb job of hiding, or keen survival instincts. The last thing she wanted to think was that one of the Death Eaters had murdered her cat, its possibility a painful admittance. Prior to having his second home, Snape's room, Crookshanks never stayed away for longer than a full day. Yet with Snape gone from Hogwarts, the list of Crookshanks' likely whereabouts was short.
Her parents wouldn't terribly mind Crookshanks not returning with her, but they would be saddened to hear about his mysterious disappearance because they knew what the cat meant to their daughter. Crookshanks mostly kept to himself back at the Grangers' home, although he would sidle up to anyone that filled his food dish and he was a furry sort of fixture around the house.
The half-kneazle not sleeping on the end of her bed at night was not the only thing Hermione would have to get used to. Harry was planning on not returning to Hogwarts for the following school year. Right after Dumbledore's funeral, he had been adamant about visiting the Dursley's for one last time, then going to Godric's Hallow to visit his parent's graves, followed by hunting for the remaining Horcruxes. Harry seemed surprised when Ron told him that he and Hermione would be going with him, but pointed out that they all had to go to the Burrow before going anywhere for his brother Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Hermione hadn't minded Ron speaking for her; the two had shared countless conversations on doing whatever was needed to help Harry, even when they knew he would tell them not to. Secretly she had her reservations, as they would essentially be starting from scratch. Dumbledore hadn't left any sort of tangible clues or instructions about what Harry should do in the event of his death, and Hermione, who her friends usually looked to for the next step, had nothing.
Yet she now had newly arisen problems of her own. Her parents were definitely not going to be pleased about their eighteen-year-old daughter traisping about the world, looking for something that she nor either of her best friends could vaguely describe.
Any bright ideas, Granger?
The answer was still a resounding 'no'. Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, Hermione closed her eyes and tried her best to sleep.
A dull throbbing sensation in Snape's lower back broke him out of a sleep that been already been choppy to begin with, but kept being broken by a couple that lived nearby who deemed it necessary to get into a loud domestic row at four in the morning. Their shouting lasted a full hour, and Snape felt like a heel when he remembered his own spell,Muffliato, that would have saved him some trouble. Yet feeling bone-weary, mentally and physically, had nearly made him forget that he was a skilled wizard with a wand, the smooth ebony length of wood lying securely within a hidden pocket.
Once the shouted ceased, Snape resumed a slumber that lasted for another two hours. That same loose spring that he'd felt upon first sitting down had been continually pressing into his spine and forced him awake. Cursing under his breath, Snape unrolled himself from the balled up position he had slept in and doggedly moved to an upright position. Visions of his cramped, book-ridden sitting room materialised once he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The morning sun was shining in through a fingerprint-streaked window across the room and a few beams settled on his face. Oddly enough, even the sunlight did not feel warm to him.
It was a few minutes before Snape realised that he'd drited off into space and was staring at a few dust motes dancing merrily inches away from his nose. He never stared off into the distance or became easily distracted, which was how he knew that he was exhausted beyond the point of incoherence.
Part of him had been waiting for Aurors to burst into his house during the night, ready to take him in to answer for his crime of murdering Albus Dumbledore. But when each hour slowly crept by and no one showed up, Snape took some perverse relief in finding that the Dark Lord hadn't been lying about his followers having a firm grip on the Ministry. The other part of him wouldn't have minded being forced to face the Dementors; perhaps it would have put his guilt-ridden mind at ease, being made to deal with the consequences of his actions.
But if there was such a thing as the Afterlife, Snape reasoned he would have met Dumbledore there and been chastised for dying too soon. Without a doubt the manipulative bastard would have then sent him back to Earth, purely to make him carry out his dying wishes, which was to help the Potter brat bring down the Dark Lord.
For now, he had to maintain a low profile while awaiting further instructions from his remaining master. Leaving his home was not an option, although if needed, Snape knew how to move around without drawing attention to himself.
It felt strange to be back in her childhood bedroom, lying in the bed she'd had since the age of six. Yet no matter how many times she closed her eyes, Hermione found that it was impossible to sleep.
After deciding that it made no sense to continue tossing and turning until dawn, two a.m. found Hermione downstairs at the breakfast nook with a cup of half drank tea sitting before her. Even though the night was unseasonably cool, Hermione had opened the window behind her to let in some fresh air. While the kitchen was large, she felt stifled for some odd reason and it had been hard to breathe.
Since parting ways with Ron and Harry at King's Cross—with the promise that both boys would see her at the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding—the Grangers had been nothing but attentive to their uncharacteristically quiet daughter. On the ride home, they asked her about the school year while trying to avoid the delicate topic of Hogwarts' deceased headmaster.
Bless their hearts; Hermione knew her parents were doing their best to not upset her, but her mind felt utterly jumbled and her heart ached in a way that made her feel as though it would never cease. Still, that did not stop her from pasting a cheery smile on her face, mostly to placate her parents and keep them from worrying. If not, Mrs. Granger would ask her daughter how she was feeling fifty times between the trip from the train station until they reached home.
Thankfully Mr. Granger took the hint that Hermione was not feeling particularly chatty, because he suggested that she go lie down soon as they walked through the front door, while promising that he would carry her school trunk upstairs later. Hermione had thanked her dad, flashing her first unforced smile of the day when she saw him covertly winking at her while whisking his wife away to the kitchen.
Once the grime of her journey had been showered off, Hermione kept to her room. If soap lather could dissolve all of her inner turmoil, she reasoned that she would have stayed in the bath for an extra thirty minutes. Yet a clean body and hair was all she got out of the deal.
Hogwarts, Snape, Dumbledore and everything else—it all seemed miles away as Hermione looked around her family home. The kitchen looked as it had right before she'd left home to hide at Grimmauld Place the summer before, one minor difference consisting of a brand new set of tea towels draped over the oven door handle. Everything else in the house was the same as it had always been, and for a fraction of a second, Hermione wondered if the events of that past year had actually occurred. Sometimes after being away at Hogwarts for so long and then returning home, things felt almost surreal, and she would have to pull out her wand to remind herself that she was truly a witch.
"Hermione, what are you doing up?"
Her thoughts interrupted, Hermione turned her head to see her mussed-haired father shuffling into the kitchen, dressed in pyjamas and his plaid robe. She feigned a smile as he gave an exaggerated groan while lowering himself into a chair.
"Stop pretending that you're old," Hermione chided, although there was a hint of mirth in her voice. "I couldn't sleep. But why are you awake?"
"Your mother thought she heard something and sent me to investigate, even after I told her that it could only be you down here knocking around. Then she thought you needed checking up on, so here I am."
Hermione stifled a laugh at that; her mum was a notoriously light sleeper and could most likely hear a hiccough from someone that lived halfway across the world.
"The kettle's still hot. Would you like some tea?"
"Tea. Good idea, even though a nice lager would be better," Mr Granger replied, peering over at the electric kettle.
Hermione fiddled with the lip of her mug as she watched her father sorting out his own tea, humming a tune under his breath while rummaging through the cupboard.
"So besides everything that happened at school, what else is on your mind?" Mr Granger asked, his voice slightly muffled as his head was behind the refrigerator door, most likely to get the milk.
"What makes you think there's something else?" Hermione asked, only half-expecting an answer. Her father knew her pretty well and had always been able to gauge her moods, something that either worked for or against her.
Flashing his daughter a knowing look, Mr Granger opened the milk and poured the desired amount into his mug, stirred, tasted it, and then returned the carton to the fridge.
"I've only known you for...how old are you again?"
"Dad!"
"I'm joking. I've known you since birth, and I know every look on your face, even when you try to hide it."
Pretending to scowl at her father, Hermione hid her grin behind her mug as she lifted it to her lips and took a sip.
"Do you want to talk about it? I know I don't know everything about...you know, your other world, but maybe I can be of some help."
Hermione was touched by the offer. Both her parents had grown receptive to the idea of their daughter being a witch...once the initial shock had worn off. Being products of science and tangible facts, they often used shoddy excuses to explain the unexplainable, such as the time when Hermione was around eight and came home from school crying because the other children teased her. Her mum's favourite vase had suddenly crashed to the floor, even though it was on a flat, stable surface and no one was standing near it.
'It must have been close to the edge,' Mr Granger had reasoned.
Another time, Hermione had been alone and reading in her room when she accidentally levitated one of her books. Her mum had walked in soon as the book was a few inches off the floor, but it immediately fell back down when Hermione's concentration was broken. Mrs Granger shook her head in disbelief and made no mention of the incident, and it had been instantly forgotten.
Accepting that she was a witch took about a weeks' time, a week which had been confusing, exhilirating, and relieving for Hermione. Her parents refused to talk about her placement at Hogwarts at first, but eventually they became curious about the wizarding world, and asked Hermione question after question when they saw her reading books, genuinely curious about the differences between magic folk and Muggles.
"Thanks, Dad, but I'll be OK," Hermione reassured him. "It's just a lot to take in right now, but I'll be fine."
"Well, if you need to talk, you know where I'll be," Mr Granger replied. "Oh, by the way, we're selling the practice. We thought about waiting until you'd graduated but your mother is ready to retire now. Yesterday, actually. Apparently she's caught the travelling bug and I'm being forced to visit Australia over the summer."
"That's good. The retiring bit, not being forced to go to Australia, although something tells me you don't mind all that much."
"Not at all; I just enjoy hearing your mother threatening me. Said she'd ask you to teach her a spell to shrink me so she could stuff me in her valise if I gave her any trouble. Can you imagine? Now why would she want to do that to this sweet face?"
Mr Granger pulled his face into an expression of boyish innocence,which involved coquettishly batting his eyes and pressing a hand to his mouth. Unable to help herself, Hermione grinned from ear to ear.
"I think part of you wants to retire, purely so you can drive Mum mad," Hermione laughed. "Am I right?"
"Of course you are, but don't tell her I said so." Mr Granger nodded to himself, a crooked smile forming on his lips. "It's my job as a loving husband to make my wife, your mother, go completely and utterly mad. I have to remind her of what a great catch I am. Remember, she could have married that boring bloke whats-his-face with the bent funny bone. Man had as much humour as a tin of tuna."
Exhaling and shaking her head as she thought of her Mum's old beau, a tall, thin man named Paul that Mrs Granger said had a combination of a comb-over and cowlick ever since the age of eleven. He was gangly and had the gait of a newborn giraffe that hadn't yet figured out how to walk on its tall legs, and he thought himself to be madly in love with Hermione's mum. Therefore, everyone had been surprised when he ended up with a husband instead of a wife, a jovial and equally thin man that resembled David Bowie with an impeccable fashion sense.
"Ugh, Dad, why are you bringing up Paul again?" asked Hermione in an aggrieved tone.
"Right, you have a point, she's not here to hear me. I'll bring him up over breakfast. Jane loves it when I bring up Paul and his husband's poet's blouse. It's her favourite topic, even though she denies it."
"Daddy, please behave yourself," Hermione laughed.
"Alright, alright," Mr Granger sighed, pushing his chair back and standing up. After setting his empty mug in the sink, he walked over to his daughter and planted a kiss on top of her head.
"Don't stay up too late, sweetheart. I know it isn't the same without that scruffy orange thing around, but you still need your rest."
"I won't," Hermione promised. "Goodnight, and thanks."
"Yep," Mr Granger yawned, pulling his robe around him and shuffling out of the kitchen.
Sighing resignedly, Hermione slumped forward in her chair and began playing with the table's white plastic pepper shaker. The kitchen was too quiet again, but after her and her dad's chat, she didn't feel quite so lonely. Well, she still felt lonely, but not for the company of her parents or her best friends.
Hermione wondered where Snape was, what he was doing, if he was alone. Hopefully he wasn't near He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; even though Snape never really said it, Hermione knew that he hated being near Voldemort. After each of their meetings, Snape usually seemed numb to everything, and it took a while before he snapped out of it. Even then, his mind always remained detached yet completely focused on some unnamed thing, which was an odd paradox.
Lousy bastard; I hate you!
That was a lie, but for the moment it was the only sentiment that Hermione allowed herself to acknowledge when it came to Severus Snape. She loved him so hard that it hurt, and she hated him for making her love him. He was so bitter and spiteful that sometimes she asked herself why her feelings ran deeply for him, but then Hermione remembered reading something about love being one of those things that held no rhyme nor reason. There were no clear cut explanations as to why people fell in love; to try to pinpoint it to one thing was unfeasible for her. That in itself was daunting, because Hermione used reason and logic for every aspect of her life.
Too bad she was unable to made heads or tails of anything at the moment.
Telling herself that it was pointless to stay until sunrise, Hermione washed her empty mug and dragged herself back up to her bedroom.

From her sole point of view, Hermione felt that her week hadn't improved. She hadn't heard from Ron or Harry, nor from anyone in the Order. She kept herself occupied with reading or going with her parents to their dental office. Their secretary, a warm, middle-aged woman named Dottie, which was now quite apt because of her increasingly forgetful behaviour, had happily greeted Hermione and asked if she was glad to be home for the summer holiday. Hermione pasted a smile on her face and told her yes, making all the expected polite chitchat that occurred when one conversed with a person that they only saw a handful of times per year.
Purely to keep herself from going mad, Hermione helped Dottie with paperwork and answering the phones. After being at Hogwarts without electricity for so long, it felt a bit strange to be using the landline. In between assisting with the piles of letters going out to current patients explaining the future closing of the Grangers' dental firm, Hermione attempted to keep up with current events by reading every newspaper she could get her hands on.
Strange things were still happening each day; people were being randomly attacked, fires were appearing out of nowhere. There was even a small explosion in which luckily there were no fatalities. It was attributed to a faulty gas pipe, but Hermione's gut instincts told her that the explosion had nothing to do with a gas pipe. She wondered if anything about the strange occurrences were reported in the Prophet, but having the paper delivered to her house, as it would come by owl, was too risky. Finally reaching dire straits of desperation for any sort of news of the wizarding world, she ducked out of the office one afternoon, using the excuse of getting lunch for everyone.
After picking up their food, Hermione had walked to a shop that was known for selling The Daily Prophet. The shop was owned by a couple, one of which was a Muggle-born wizard, and they sold wizarding newspapers only to those who knew to ask for it. But upon reaching the shop, Hermione had been surprised to find it closed and boarded up, looking as if it had been like so for some time. A small corner of her mind wondered why the place was closed, but the most plausible answer to that question unnerved her, and she quickly turned about face and hurriedly walked back to her parents' office.
"I'm not sure I feel comfortable leaving you here on your own," Mrs Granger told her daughter that Friday evening, walking into Hermione's bedroom while adjusting her left pearl earring. "We can stay home if you like."
Hermione lowered the book she was in the middle of reading and looked at her mum, who was dressed in a black satin sheath dress and matching heels. A look of concern was etched across her mother's tastefully made up face, and Hermione sighed.
"Mum, it's your wedding anniversary," she began. "You can't stay home. I'll be fine, I promise. I have a hot date with my books, pyjamas, and chocolate biscuits, if you haven't noticed," Hermione continued, gesturing to the small dish on her nightstand. "Please don't stay home on accord of me."
"Well..." Mrs Granger trailed off dubiously. She then sighed and held up a hand in defeat. "Alright, darling, if you say so. I've left the number of the hotel we'll be staying at in case you need to reach us."
"I know, Mum. You told me twice already, remember?"
Mrs Granger smiled, and perched on the edge of her daughter's bed. Reaching over, she gently flicked a finger at Hermione's sleeve.
"Cheeky. Hermione, I don't know why you insist on wearing that ratty thing. I tried putting it in the bin and your father had a heart attack."
Hermione looked down at the ratty thing in question, which was another of her dad's old shortsleeved t-shirts. The shirt was probably at least twenty years old, and was grey and faded in some places, with a small hole in the hem. For some reason Hermione loved that shirt and refused to get rid of it, most likely because she had been wearing it ever since she could remember.
"Because it's my favourite," Hermione mused, peering down at the worn red and white lettering.
"You aren't exaggerating. When I came home and found you in it, you refused to let me take it off to give you a bath. We had to wait until you were asleep before we could pry it off your little body."
The day Mrs Granger was speaking of, Hermione had been about four or five years old. She had been sick and her father stayed home from work to care for her. Whatever it had been, a stomach virus or the like, had caused her to become sick all over herself as well as the floor.
Hermione had heard this story many times and laughed each time. Her parents clained that she had usually been a little lady as a child, except for when she was feeling poorly. Then she became cranky and irritable and refused to let her parents leave her eyesight for a minute.
That day had been no exception; after vomiting on herself she stood in the hallway, bawling her eyes out while clutching onto the ear of a cuddly toy. Mr Granger had done his best to calm his daughter, but she refused to be placated nor did she want to put on a clean pair of pajamas. Hermione hadn't wanted to hear anything about having to put on clothes, uncaring in her petulant four-year-old way about catching a cold from walking around in just her underwear. She had continued crying while clinging to her father's neck, and he'd wrestled the closest article of clothing he could reach with one hand, which had been the freshly laundered grey shirt, and manouevred it over her head,. When Mrs Granger returned home from work, she had been shocked at the sight of her sullen daughter curled up in her father's arms. Hermione had gone quiet and taken to sucking her thumb, and her small frame was swallowed up in the too-large garment which was at least twice her height. Mrs Granger insisted that her child was going to trip on the shirt's trailing hem and split her head open, but Hermione put up such a fuss when her mum tried to undress her that her parents let her be.
"I wasn't that bad," Hermione teasingly told her mother, laughing at the shock on her face.
"Not that bad? You wore that shirt over every outfit and wanted to sleep it in every night. We almost had to trick you just to get it out of your sight and put it in the wash!"
"Very funny, Mum," Hermione giggled. "Aren't you and dad running late?"
"As a matter of fact, we will be if your mother doesn't hurry up," Mr Granger announced as he stepped into Hermione's doorway. He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit and had his coat, as well as his wife's, thrown over one arm. His other hand was holding onto her beaded clutch.
"You, shush," Mrs Granger told her husband. "I was just telling Hermione that I wasn't sure if we should leave her alone."
"And I told Mum that I'm a big girl and I'll be fine," Hermione replied, looking at her father. "By the way, that handbag is lovely with that suit."
"Do you think so? Is it really my colour?" Mr Granger asked, putting the hand holding the beaded bag to his hip and striking a pose.
"Oh, goodness!" Mrs Granger exclaimed, rising from the bed and smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. "Alright, Hermione, if you insist on us going, then we will." She reached a hand out to smooth a few curls away from Hermione's face and kissed her forehead. "Don't stay up too late. Try to get some rest, darling."
"OK, Mum. You two have a good time."
"We will," Mr Granger replied, holding open his wife's coat and helping her into it. "And remember: no boys allowed and no wild parties while we're gone. But if you decide to throw a do, make sure you give your friends the cheap liquor. No sharing the good booze."
"Richard!" Mrs Granger shouted from the hall.
Winking at his daughter, Mr Granger slid out of her room.
"What? That was sound advice I gave Hermione; you never give out the top shelf alcohol. If you do, your boozers—I mean, guests— will never leave."
"Will someone—anyone— please tell me why I married this man?"
Laughing as her parent's voices became dimmer as they walked downstairs, Hermione opened her book and picked up where she had left off.
"Happy Friday night to me," she muttered to herself, flipping to the next page of her book when she realised that she was rereading the same paragraph.
Mr Granger had been poking fun at her when he said no boys and no parties. Even if she had friends that lived close by—which was definitely not the case—Hermione preferred the quiet of her bedroom compared to the shrill, mingled screams of her peers. Back at school, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil spoke in high-pitched tones that put dolphins to shame, not to mention their ongoing twaddle day in and out, which made Hermione appreciate silence whenever she found it.
As far as her father's joke about boys...if he only knew.
Nope. I do not want to think about that.
In another world, in another time, perhaps if Hermione were considerably older and had found a mate closer to her age, her dad would probably go through the whole 'what are your intentions towards my little girl' spiel. Once the boy proved himself, whatever that meant, perhaps her father would invite him down the pub to have a pint and do things of a 'manly' nature.
But even if Severus wasn't more than twice her age and her professor, she could not see him going anywhere with her father, much less to a pub or any other social setting. And while Mr Granger might have been reserved upon initial introduction, his easy-going nature was only revealed once he got to know a person. Somehow Hermione did not think that easy-going would rear its head if he were to meet Snape. Her dad would surely show a new side of himself and try to kill the wizard with his bare hands.
The drama that would unfold...the insults that would be hurled at the wizard...
At least one of them wouldn't be 'murderer'. The Order had decided to keep the true nature of Dumbledore's death under wraps, and only few people knew what really happened. Some believed the headmaster's death had been an accident, while others claimed that he was killed by the other Death Eaters. One rumour said that Dumbledore had been killed by Voldemort himself.
Dumbledore's death still had Hermione stymied. She had never quite stopped trying to understand what transpired between him and Snape; instead she sometimes forced herself to avoid the issue altogether, mostly because it upset her to the point of unreasonableness.
Each time Hermione thought of Severus Snape, whom she had always thought to be on her side, as being nothing but a murderer, her heart felt as if shards of glass were being slowly pushed into it. The entire situation felt like a horrible nightmare that she was unable to wake up from. In addition to that, she never really forgot about every other dreadful thing she and her friends were dealing with, but Hermione forced herself to keep a straight face when in the company of others. Just one time, her thoughts got the best of her and a lone tear made its way down her face. Hermione had been sure that Dottie caught sight of the tear and she'd rushed to wipe it away, but Dottie never asked and Hermione did not volunteer anything.
Her alone time was a different story. Hermione knew that worry kept her forehead creased. A few times that week, her dad joked about her looking too serious, and he'd pinched her cheek while telling her to give him a smile.
Now she didn't have to smile. She could glower all she wanted and there was no one to notice.
Maybe that's why Severus always looked so...cross. He was tired and out of sorts, and still had to teach all those classes.
Yes, not to mention the fact that he was planning to kill Dumbledore. Have you forgotten that quickly?
Oh, back to talking to ourselves, I see. It's alright, Granger, just don't start answering yourself. Oops, too late for that—you already did.
Shut up. And maybe Mum was right: I do need to sleep. Maybe sleep will keep me away from the obvious mental breakdown that I'm heading towards.
Setting her book on the nightstand and turning off her lamp, Hermione turned over onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. Her body was not remotely tired, but her mind was exhausted. Almost ready to bargain with the devil and sell her soul if it would keep her thoughts from racing about, Hermione tried to focus on one thing that might bring her relief.
The first image that came to mind was one evening over the Christmas hols which had been spent in Snape's room. They had finished off one of his bottles of wine, and spent the majority of that night in a comfortable silence. By midnight they were esconced behind the curtains surrounding Severus' bed, both of them completely naked, kept warm by a low burning fire at the hearth and bedding that had been rumpled from a somewhat frantic round of sex. Hermione had been lying on her stomach, just like she was now, and was on the brink of a much-needed sleep when she felt slightly callused fingers tracing down the column of her back. She had parted her eyes just enough to find Snape intensely focused on her face, almost looking at her with disbelief as if he wasn't sure that she was really there in his bed.
Reflecting back to the speech Snape had given about Potions during her first year...then his talk about the Dark Arts during his first lesson as the Defence teacher...both times Hermione had felt a small thrill of fear and excitement about being led into the unknown by the intimidating yet highly skilled wizard. Snape's voice had been silky, literally taking posession of her ears and making Hermione hang onto his every word.
That night when he idly stroked her back, even though Snape was mute, Hermione noticed the way he had taken his time, carefully running his fingertips over each rounded curve and sometimes pressing into spots that immediately dissolved any lingering tension in her body.
Besides the wizard's gentle hands rendering her boneless, Hermione remembered that she had also felt safe lying next to him. During the course of the night, she'd awoken to finding him with one arm securely attached to her waist and his face against her breast. Her bladder had been on the verge of bursting and when she pulled away from Snape, he'd pulled back, intent on keeping her close by even though he was in the middle of snoring—loudly. For some odd reason, that little tug made her ridiculously happy, and Hermione endured the urge to urinate for as long as possible, purely because she didn't want to move. Snape ended up letting out something between a snuffle and a snort, and he'd rolled over onto his back without waking up. Hermione used that opportunity to sprint to the loo, and hurried back to bed, pressing herself against the wizard who immediately rolled back into her arms.
He might confuse the hell out of me, and he's anything but perfect, but he's as good as mine, Hermione thought drowsily, her entire body going limp as she dropped off to sleep.

"No, Crookshanks, go away. It's too early to eat."
Annoyed that she was being prodded out of her much-needed rest, Hermione forced herself to open one eye. Her room was completely silent but something made her wake up. Automatically, she assumed it was Crookshanks, who had no sense of time whenever his tummy demanded to be filled.
Wait a minute... she reminded herself in a moment of clarity. Crookshanks isn't here. So why am I awake?
The question to Hermione's answer soon became clear when she caught sight of what could only be another witch or wizard's Patronus sitting calmly across her room, its silvery glow casting light onto her wall. Just as she opened the other eye to get a better view, the creature jumped up and gracefully leapt out her window. A Patronus was non-threatening, and she reasoned that whoever it belonged to, they hadn't come to kill her.
"Wait! Come back!" Hermione cried, stumbling out of bed and running in bare feet across the room. Wrenching apart her curtains, she looked frantically out the window to see where the animal had gone. The silvery glow had completely vanished, but there in her back garden was a person in dark clothing, standing completely still and staring back up at her.
Frozen in place for a moment, Hermione forced herself to move and ran back to her bed. Shoving her feet into slippers, her arms into her bathrobe and her wand into its pocket, she fled downstairs and to the back door. If the person in her garden was who she thought it was, she didn't want to waste any time in getting outside. It took her a few seconds of fumbling with the lock and knob, and just as she considered blasting it off the hinges, she got it open.
"Prof..." Hermione began out of habit, her racing heart feeling as if it were going to fly out of her chest as she walked across the cold, damp grass. "Severus?"
The person continued staring at her, keeping both arms folded beneath the folds of their travelling cloak.
"Severus?" Hermione repeated, closing the distance between them and stopping.
"Is it?" he finally asked, a hint of iciness in his tone.
"How did you know where I live?"
"Always asking questions, Miss Granger, yet this time, the wrong ones. Have I taught you nothing, insufferable girl?"
"Well, it has to be you; only Severus Snape has ever referred to me as insufferable."
Vaguely, Hermione wondered why she was not afraid. More than once, she had thought about what she would say if she ever saw Snape again. In her head, she sometimes screamed and ranted at him. Other times, she clung to him, begging for him to not disappear again.
Now, he was standing before her, and she felt like a tongue-tied idiot.
A length of silence stretched between the two. Hermione was quiet because she didn't know what to say, and Snape...she didn't know why he was so tight-lipped, especially since he had been the one to come to her.
It's him, it's really him, she mused inwardly, taking in Snape's appearance from head to toe. His black cloak concealed much of his form, but the tips of his dragon-hide boots were exposed and making a clear indentation into the grass beneath them. The professor seemed paler than she remembered, or perhaps it was the absence of light that made him look almost preternatural. Still, his penetrating onyx eyes managed to cut through the darkness, and Hermione felt herself gravitating towards him.
"Severus..."
"You aren't afraid." His inflection came out sounding like a statement. "I'm a murderer, girl, don't you remember? I'm sure Potter refuses to let you forget."
"You're a lot of things," Hermione countered, moving one step closer. "But so is Harry. So am I. So is everyone."
"Yes, but you and I both know that 'murderer' is not a word one would describe when it comes to Hermione Granger, or your bratty friend, for that matter."
"That's today. We don't know what might happen tomorrow."
"Spare me the codswallop, Hermione. You Gryffindors would try reasoning with the enemy instead of killing them. No, I take that back; you would roar first and offer to wrestle it, purely to show off that vaunted Gryffindor strength."
Another step closer. "Did you come here to abuse my House, or is there another reason?" Hermione glared challengingly at Snape, a feat made difficult as she was beginning to shiver in the cold night air.
"No need for that, as there is no comparison," Snape smoothly countered, before exasperation twisted his gaunt features. "Hell's bells, child, why are you always walking around half-dressed?!"
Dropping his arms and stalking forward, Snape's pale hand shot out and he impatiently tugged Hermione against him and covered her with the folds of his voluminous travelling cloak.
"Haven't I warned you about cosying up to snakes?" he asked in a low voice next to Hermione's ear when she burrowed into his warmth, pressing her cheek against his chest.
"Yes, and I told you that you're the non-poisonous variety," was her muffled reply.
Every question that plagued Hermione ever since leaving Hogwarts suddenly escaped her mind. The only thing she wanted to do was feel Severus' lips against hers, and she tightened her arms around his narrow waist and raised herself on tiptoe.
Snape let out a sharp exhale and turned his head, causing Hermione's lips to brush against the underside of his jaw. She got the impression that he was trying to avoid kissing her, but refused to be swayed.
"You great lump! After all you've put me through, the least you can do is kiss me!"
"Hermione..." Snape trailed off in a pained voice, but to her surprise he caught her face between both hands and pressed his lips to hers.
What started off as a few close-mouthed pecks soon turned into more langorous kisses that almost rendered Hermione speechless.
"I'm alone for the weekend..." she murmured, melting into Snape and beckoning him to hold her tighter while sliding her fingers across the back of his neck the way she knew he liked, but would never admit. "Come inside with me."
"I can't, Hermione," Snape murmured through their kisses.
"What? Why not?"
Hermione's voice sounded pitiful, almost whiny, to her own ears.
"Because I can't," he replied, refusing to offer an explanation. "I just came to tell you that this is most likely the last time you'll see me. I want you to stop worrying about what happened between me and Dumbledore. You have more important things to think about."
"What? What do you mean, this is the last time I'll see you?" Hermione demanded, refusing to be placated even as Snape tenderly kissed her temple and gently kneaded her lower back through her shirt. "And what do you mean that I shouldn't worry about you and Dumbledore. It's the only thing I can think of!"
"I know it is, because that mind of yours never stops, hence my visit. I knew I would become nothing more than a dangerous distractation to you...I told you this would be dangerous. We never should have become involved."
"Dangerous? What? Severus, what are you talking about?" Hermione pleaded, pressing her body into his again for fear that he may vanish within her grasp. "Severus, I don't care what you did, as mad as that sounds. Please, come upstairs with me."
Snape closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Hermione's, and she grew marginally hopeful that he was considering her offer.
"Hermione, I've already told you that I can't," he explained patiently. "Please stop asking."
"No, I won't stop asking," she adamantly replied, beginning to tremble again, this time out of fear. "Just come inside with me. You don't have to stay all night, just for a little while."
Snape shook his head slightly, and his long hair grazed the side of her cheek.
"Severus, please. I don't want you to go; I l—"
Just as she was about to finish her sentence, Snape moved his head away from hers and pressed his thumb to her lips.
"Hermione, don't."
Silent, irrepressible tears began running down her face, and Hermione grabbed onto Snape's cloak, clinging to him like a lifeline. Her sobs quickly became audible when he extracted himself from her grasp and stepped back, causing his cloak to fall away from Hermione's body, physically and mentally robbing her of his warmth.
"I have to leave, Hermione. I've already been here too long."
"Severus—wait—don't go—"
"Look after yourself. You're the brains of the glorious Gryffindor Trio and the only reason those two can find their arses without the use of a torch and map."
A rising bubble of hysteria rose in Hermione's throat, and she almost choked on her tongue as she tried to get her words out.
"Severus...Severus! Stop!"
Snape kept on walking, and to her horror, Hermione found that she could not move her feet to follow behind him.
"You filthy...cheating...take off the spell!"
"The spell will wear off once I've Disapparated," Snape explained calmly, as if they were in the middle of a class. He moved a few more paces before turning to stare at Hermione, an unfathomable expression on his face. "Goodbye, Hermione," he finished before disappearing with a sharp crack.
Unable to speak through her tears, Hermione let out an anguished scream as she felt her heart breaking all over again. Snape was like opium, and Hermione didn't realise how hopelessly addicted she was until he'd taunted her with his presence before harshly taking it away.
Her feet were unbound and she was free to move, yet she remained in her unlit garden, cold and trembling from head to toe while sobbing viciously.

I might have cried a bit writing this last bit...
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