"Well done, Miss Granger."

Snape's voice was expressionless, but Hermione nevertheless felt a thrill of delight at this hard-won acknowledgement. A week had passed since the night she'd magicked herself off the wall and into his arms during their second Advanced Defense lesson deep in the dungeons of Hogwart's. Both, for reasons of their own, had carefully avoided any mention of the incident. Snape remained stiffly polite, if a bit more distant and abrupt than usual.

Tonight's lesson, like all the rest, involved levitating and moving objects without the use of wand, voice or physical motion. Snape's dry suggestion that his conjured chair be her first subject caught Hermione by surprise, as did his grudging smirk. (Of course, it disappeared almost immediately - far be it from *him* to actually have a sense of humor.) Hermione had quickly become adept at making the chair take off and fly around the room at will, and it had been three days since it last faltered or crashed into a wall. She was even able to make it hover in midair and perform acrobatics. At the moment, however, all four of its legs rested firmly on the ceiling.

"The lesson is concluded." He said this every night, his tone never varying. "You may bring it down."

Snape eyed his pupil intently as she concentrated on smoothly returning the chair to the floor. His own concentration of late had been (to his great discomfort) less on her education and more on avoidance of physical contact which, unfortunately for him, was necessary in order to bring Hermione with him when Apparating to their lessons. But even the brief presence of his hand upon her shoulder was enough to drive him to distraction for an entire evening. Given the seriousness of their situation, that simply would not do.

"It's time you learned to Apparate," he said when the chair was back in position. "That will be the subject of our next lesson."

Hermione breathed in sharply, her eyes alight with anticipation - this was what she'd been hoping for. It was happening far sooner than she'd expected - not only would she have a private tutor, but she'd also be several jumps ahead of her classmates. The excitement was almost enough to make her forget the dire circumstances that required her presence here in the first place.

"I've been told it's quite difficult," she said eagerly, stepping closer to him in preparation for their departure.

Snape regarded her through narrowed eyes for a few seconds before answering. "It can be," he said slowly, "for those unable to grasp its basic principle."

"And that is?" Hermione held herself steady under the warm weight of Snape's hand as the familiar tingling began. This fleeting moment of closeness was her favorite part of the lessons.

"Simply a matter of knowing," he replied, this time not looking at her, "that your so-called "destination" is already around you. It is merely a change of perception powered by intent."

Before she had time to ponder this statement, they were back in his office, whose atmosphere was surprisingly balmy compared to the chill of the lower dungeons. Snape jerked his hand away as though burned by hot coals - as he did each time they Apparated.

"Until tomorrow, then," he snapped dismissively, and swept behind the desk, where he seated himself and made a show of fussily arranging his robes. He didn't speak again or look up, instead turning his attention to a stack of waiting essay parchments.

"Yes, sir." Hermione lingered for a few seconds, watching him, pondering once again how he seemed to loathe the touch of her. The man took obvious pains to avoid being anywhere near her unless absolutely necessary. On the one hand, that was simply in keeping with his natural aloofness.

On the other ...

Hermione blushed, suddenly recalling the turgid state of Snape's trousers on the night they'd returned from the second lesson. She bent to pick up her bag, letting her hair fall forward to hide her face. Of course, that *had* to be it - he was embarrassed, that's all, and wanted to avoid it happening again. Without a word, she slipped outside and started walking as fast as she could, her face still hot with the memory.

Snape froze, quill poised in midair, listening intently until her echoing footsteps had faded from the hallway. He forced himself to resume his work, but try as he might, he simply couldn't banish his incessant thoughts of Hermione, or stop the distracting changes in his body that accompanied those thoughts. Interwoven with the myriad inky scribblings on which he now tried to focus were mad visions of himself giving in, throwing aside all caution, saying Come to me, let us finish what you have begun. More than once, Snape had to reluctantly draw himself back from reliving his drunken dream of a nude Hermione stretched out before his fireplace. At last, in frustration, he threw down his quill and sat back to stare at the door.

I'm trapped, he thought bitterly. This isn't fair. I can't stop these feelings, and I can't get away from her, no matter how I try.

Roughly half his life had been spent walking the thin line between Darkness and Light, forever in danger of discovery. Only his knowledge of Occlumency and inherent magical strength had kept him alive this long, and both had been tested to their limits. Snape leaned forward, elbows on desk, to let his head drop wearily into his hands. What with the constant vigilance needed to maintain appearances, the occasional painful "reminder" from Voldemort (here he instinctively reached down to rub the Mark on his forearm), and now this inescapable situation with Hermione, his energy was being drained like never before. More than once in the past few weeks, he'd resorted to Strengthening Draughts, which he hadn't needed since his days as a fledgling Death Eater.

There is always the Path of the Geminus ...

Snape shook off the thought as he sat up and sagged against the straight wooden back of his chair. Without question, taking that road would resolve many of his current problems. It would also create a situation much more dangerous than the one in which he currently found himself. And he couldn't forget the risk to Hermione. Her only guarantee of safety lay in her continued ignorance of the Path, though she herself had (however inadvertently) set them both upon it through her use of the Lumos Cardia.

The Path itself not being an option, then, a way must be found to sabotage her instinct to seek it.

What I need, Snape mused silently, pressing steepled fingertips to his chin, is a foolproof strategy ... one guaranteed to push her in the opposite direction, and out of harm's way.

He poured himself a glass of water and began mentally ticking off the facts as he knew them.

For one (he thought as he sipped), there was no chance that Hermione or any other student would run across written information regarding the Geminus (Dumbledore himself had seen to that decades ago, when he'd taken over as Headmaster), nor could she ask about it, for that would require her revealing where she'd seen the term in the first place.

Second, she didn't know that he'd found the forbidden book in her bag - therefore, she was unaware of how much he really knew. This would work in his favor, Snape reasoned, absently rolling the water glass between his hands. He would simply behave as if nothing unusual were going on - outside of their secret lessons, of course. Maintaining an impenetrable facade was second nature to him after all these years. His increasingly cold demeanor would cause Hermione to doubt her feelings for him, as well as remove any hope they might be reciprocated.

Third - and possibly most crucial - Dumbledore had no idea that Snape had stumbled across his own Geminus. Even if he did suspect, the use of the Lumos Cardia was not enough on its own to prove that assumption. Only one thing could reveal without doubt the true nature of Snape's connection to Hermione, and then only to those few who were able to to perceive it.

And that, he resolved, is not about to happen. Not while I have a say in the matter.

The following evening, it was all Hermione could do not to run at top speed to Snape's office. Apparation, at long last ... she could hardly believe it. Ron and Harry would simply die of jealousy if they knew.

Then again, perhaps not, she reminded herself, considering the instructor ...

Trembling with suppressed excitement, Hermione knocked softly on the thick wooden door of Snape's office, waiting for his usual muttered "Come in" and the sound of clicking locks as he dropped the wards to allow her in. She knew he'd given several students detention, but all had been been sent (as they had been since the secret instruction had begun) to serve it with one of his Potions assistants, freeing Snape for the evening. He wasted no time in getting them to their private dungeon, where he released her shoulder and stepped well away from her before starting the night's lesson.

"I'm sure I would be correct," he began, "in assuming that you've spent a great deal of time researching the art of Apparation."

"Yes, sir." Hermione nodded eagerly, her hands excitedly fiddling with her robes. In fact, she'd spent every spare moment (skipping both lunch and dinner) in the library doing just that.

"Good. Then you can repeat for me its base equation." He clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

"Destination equals perception plus intent," she answered without hesitation.

"Correct." Snape's head tilted back as he regarded her down the generous length of his nose. "However, theory and practice are clearly not the same thing ... so, let us see if you truly do *know* it." He turned and strode to the other end of the room, pivoting crisply to face her again. Hermione watched wordlessly, waiting for him to speak. After a few moments, Snape tightened his lips and gestured impatiently.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Come here."

Obediently, Hermione started walking towards him, only to be stopped by his upraised hand. Freezing in her tracks, she gave him a puzzled frown.

"Apparate, Miss Granger. Apparate!"

She opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again just as quickly. Excuses were useless here. All she could think to do was concentrate and hope that something would happen. For truly, despite all her research, she still hadn't a clue how to put it into operation. Several seconds dragged by as Hermione bent her mind to the task, imagined herself standing before Snape as she had the night she released herself from the wall. It all came flooding back - the firelight, the faint herbal scent of his hair, his black eyes boring into her, her all-consuming desire to be near him ...

In a flash, she found herself once again struggling for balance as she grabbed at Snape's robes for support. He seemed prepared this time for Hermione's sudden arrival, and simply stood still and waited for her to regain her footing and let go.

"I did it!" she breathed happily, smiling up at him.

"No, Miss Granger," Snape said tightly. "You most certainly did *not*."

She frowned at him again and shook her head. "What do you mean?" Hermione looked back at the end of the room from which she'd come. "Then how did I - "

"Allow me to explain." Snape cut in, straightening his robes and pacing as he spoke. "Your mistake is, sadly, quite common among beginners. What you have just done is not true Apparation, but rather a form of Self-Summoning. In short, you have Summoned yourself to a particular location - in this case, the opposite end of a room - in much the same way one summons any other object. That is to say, you merely moved through the air at a speed that made your movement almost invisible, causing you to lose your balance once you came to a stop. Had you actually Apparated, your transition would have been undetectable, save for the change in your surroundings."

Hermione nodded. "I see ... " was all she could think of to say.

"Let's try again, shall we?" Snape made a shooing gesture with his hand, indicating that she should return to her end of the room. She blushed as she complied, more from irritation than anything else.

I *hate* it when he does that, she growled silently as she walked. Pompous arse ...

For three hours, Hermione moved back and forth across the room, and never once managed to actually Apparate. By the end of the lesson, she would cheerfully have Summoned her instructor directly into a wall, were it not for the fact that she had no idea which room she was in (having never used the door) or how to Apparate herself out of it. With his usual impeccable timing, Snape ended their session just at the limit of her endurance. She left his office without a word, fuming all the way back to her room.

This being a rare night without a report to write or a test to study for, Hermione passed silently through the Gryffindor common room, ignoring everyone, and went directly to bed. Not even the thought of spending time with her two best friends helped her foul mood. Tired as she was, she still tossed about for some time as the Apparation problem turned itself over and over in her mind, nagging at her with a strange familiarity. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she sat up and leaned against the headboard, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees in the close darkness of her curtained bed.

So much for sleep, Hermione thought with a yawn. For some inexplicable reason, she couldn't shake the feeling that she should *already* know how to do this. But how was that possible? She'd never even attempted Apparation until tonight. She yawned again and rubbed her eyes, her mind awhirl with the information she'd gleaned from her studies. It rolled maddeningly through her brain as she tried to pinpoint whatever it was she was missing. After a few minutes of this effort, fatigue took over, closing her heavy eyelids and sending her head nodding downward. And Hermione dreamed.

She was four years old, playing with her toys on the garden patio of the small house her family had lived in then. In their tiny enclosed patch of sunlit grass, her mother stood at a table filling flowerpots, thick auburn hair loose and flowing gracefully in the breeze. (In later years, when she'd become a professional, she'd started wearing it up, then cut it short - but as a young mother she'd gone about with it flying behind her like a banner.) One of Hermione's favorite pastimes had been brushing it til it shone, then carefully spreading it in a shimmering reddish fan over her mother's shoulders. The dream Hermione stared at it now, wanting more than anything to go to her, run her tiny fingers through the gently waving tresses that spilled down her back and gleamed in the sunlight.

The present-day Hermione jerked awake, gasping, her heart thumping so hard she thought it might try to jump out of her body. She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe slowly, clearly remembering now the look of surprise on her mother's face as she'd turned to find her child, whom she'd seen that very second on the patio, now standing at her side.

Calm down, think this over carefully now ...

Hermione picked the memory apart, moment by moment, and realized she didn't remember walking out to her mother. She was just - there. And she definitely didn't recall losing her balance.

Did I ... ? But I was so *young* ...

Then she recalled the two-year-old she'd seen in front of his parents' tent at the Quidditch World Cup, using his father's wand to enchant a slug.

Oh my god ... if I really did Apparate when I was four years old ... why can't I do it now?

Good question, she answered herself. What's stopping you?

"He's right - it's all about *perception*," she mouthed to herself in the darkness, "and intent. I knew it before, all I have to do is know it *now*."

A wave of joy surged through her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. When she'd calmed herself, she returned to the long-ago memory, searching for that crucial split second when her four-year-old self had decided to go to her mother. If she could recapture that feeling of pure *knowing*, of unselfconscious intent, then it might really work. She slowed her breathing and heartbeat, made herself relax into the memory, seek out what she needed.

Careful, careful ... don't chase it away ...

At last, she hit upon it, a tiny glistening pinpoint in her mind, and reached out to grasp it.

If only Snape could see me now ...

For a moment, Hermione thought she must be imagining things - through her eyelids, the room seemed to suddenly grow brighter. She opened them to discover herself seated on the floor and facing a large fireplace.

What have I done? What *is* this place?

A sharp intake of breath somewhere to her left froze her in position for a few seconds - she slowly turned her head to see a tall, nightshirt-clad figure emerging cautiously from the shadows. With a nervous swallow, Hermione forced her gaze upward.

And found herself looking into the stunned face of Severus Snape.