The Daily Prophet, 23 August 1999:

Ministry sources secretly confirms that 112 witches and wizards have died under mysterious circumstances since the War ended last year. The unusual, high number is attributed by our sources to the recent Death Eater resurgence, but the official Ministry spokeswitch Marigold Lebennon says it's all speculations:

- The fact that some people like to dress up in cloaks and masks to scare others, doesn't mean there has been real, Death Eater sightings. Granted, the deaths are very suspicious, but out intelligence says that Death Eaters on the loose are few. They can't possibly be behind all this, and the Auror Office says the deaths are due to people being disturbed and mentally ill from the aftereffects of the war, claims the spokeswitch with conviction.

He was bored out of his mind. Eighteen, long years of staff meetings was simply eighteen years too many. Blah, blah, the curriculum changing, blah, blah, encourage the students to do their best, blah, blah, the importance of all staff to enforce rules along the same guidelines… He just couldn't care less.

Severus had always thought that he wanted peace and quiet, an uneventful life, but he had been wrong. Oh, so very wrong. He'd never dreamed that he'd miss the adrenaline rush of threats to his life and deceiving a very accomplished Legilimens, but he did. He even missed being Headmaster, for all the horrors and tedious details his tenure had entailed. Something had to happen, or he'd go stir-crazy. Cauldron-potty. Batwing-mad.

Hiding behind the strands of his black hair, he wondered if Minerva would spot him napping. Probably, she would, he decided, and forced his eyes to stay open, groaning quietly to himself. The Head's office was much too hot in the summer heat, and he wondered why the castle would be so petty as to deny Minerva the use of its perfect Cooling Charm. Behave! he snapped silently at the castle, and he felt it grudgingly give in, and a bit of fresh air entered the room. Minerva gave him a quick, grateful look. He rather thought the castle might be right in its displeasure, because who would ever think that tartan curtains would fit the Head's office?

Oh no, the newest addition to staff, Septima's apprentice, had obviously not gotten over her incessant need to ask questions. There she was, Hermione Granger, her hands waving eagerly in the air, wild hair bristling in a ponytail, and those big, brown, innocent eyes bright and shining. Just like when she pestered him in class, still virtually bouncing on her chair. The rest of staff fucking smiled at her, indulgently, like the teacher's pet she still was. He sighed deeply, sinking back into his chair, while drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Thank the gods for small mercies, at least the chairs were still wooden, not … stuffed and tartan.

"Please, Headmistress," the girl said, "you said for all of us to follow the same guidelines for discipline. Can you explain that in a little more detail? I'm not sure how this should work, as I experienced quite different approaches from the staff in my years as a student."

He snorted to himself, thinking of Dumbledore's mad indulgence with the rule-breaking Golden Trio, but the meeting went downhill from there. It was supposed to last an hour, but ended up close to two hours, thanks to Miss Granger and her questions. Thank Merlin, when the students arrived in a week, prolonging a staff meeting like that would be impossible, but still…

He decided to stop her from blathering in future staff meetings. Maybe even Miss Granger could see reason. On his way out, he stalked behind Miss Granger down the stairs.

Grinning a little to himself, he noticed her increasing her speed. She was nervous, that's what she was. It made him feel good, that he'd still have that kind of effect on her, no matter her fame and achievements.

As he cornered her in the hallway, she stopped short, her hand uncertainly clenching and unclenching her wand. Deliberately, he stepped too close to her, using his height to intimidate her by looming over her. She was still on the small side, he noted, barely reaching his shoulder, and his proximity forced her to crane her neck to look up at him.

He arched an eyebrow to her lazily. "About to hex someone, Miss Granger? If I must remind you, it would be bad form to hex a fellow staff member in the corridors. Setting a bad example for the students, you see."

She reddened, looking away from him. Oh yes, the little Gryffindor would be embarrassed by him calling her out for being afraid. Lovely. But she gathered her courage, and said politely: "Professor Snape, how may I help you?"

"You can and you will help me and the rest of the faculty," he said bluntly, eyes locked on her face. She had become pretty, he noted, somehow along the way she had grown into her face. "Do not ask questions at the next staff meeting. No one feel any need to prolong those meetings, and you, with your questioning…"

"Oh," she said blushing. "Everything is so new and exciting. I just got carried away."

"I'm sure you'll find most of the faculty in possession of our wits, so we might have noticed," he said drily. She was fiddling with her robes, still not looking at him. From his vantage point of looking down at her, he realized he could see her cleavage. It looked like she had nice, firm tits, just big enough to be a handful for him… Shaking himself, he realized that he had just ogled Miss Granger, of all people. Shocked and appalled at his own behaviour, he shuddered, but his cock twitched slightly, stretching in his pants. Gods, she was barely older than the students, and she was Granger, for Merlin's sake!

Stepping back hastily, he gave her his best sneer. "Make sure to rein yourself in at the next staff meeting, Miss Granger," he said as he swept past her.

Xxxx

"I'm so happy you came to your senses," Professor Vector told her with a pleased smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. Her white hair was gathered in a loose bun, but wisps of hair kept escaping into her face. The small, spry witch was pouring her a cup of tea in her office, the smell of the Darjeeling First Flush wafting up to her nose as the tea splashed into the wide cup. "I always thought you were cut out for an Arithmancer, and I was sorely disappointed when you applied for the Ministry last year." Giving Hermione the teacup with her age-spotted hand, she leaned back into her chair with a sigh.

Hermione gave her a smile, saying: "Yet, here I am. The Ministry wasn't quite what I expected, and I wanted to learn more. I'm so thankful that you accepted me as your Apprentice." She sat in a comfortable arm chair in Professor Vector's light and airy study, high up in the western tower. The afternoon sun lit up the room, making it bright, warm and welcoming.

"Oh, I'd be a fool not to," Professor Vector scoffed. "But please, do call me Septima. You're part of the staff now, so let's dispense of the formalities."

Hermione beamed at her, and sipped her tea. The Ministry had been exceedingly boring: Full of stuffy, self-important little prats, intrigues and power plays in every corner, people scrambling for influence and promotions. She had started out as a clerk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures right after she had finished her N.E.W.T.s – she had not taken the offer of a honorary graduation, but actually sat her exams in August, only a few months after the war. Now, after one year in the service of the Ministry, she was back at Hogwarts as an apprentice. And, she felt like she had come home.

"As you know," Septima said, "the requirements for your studying will be varied. You will, of course, spend most of your time studying theory, but there will also be practical applications of your calculations, as well as your project for your master thesis. You will also undergo training as a teacher. Here, at Hogwarts, we feel that you should get a more varied experience in teaching, as there are so few students in my Arithmancy classes. Therefore, you'll be required to undergo practical training in teaching all subjects at Hogwarts."

Hermione blanched. "You mean that all teachers will supervise my practical training?"

"Yes, close to everyone," Septima said calmly. "Don't worry, Hermione, they're all excited that you're here, and you'll feel like part of the staff in no time. You can expect to be on first name basis with everyone within a week."

"Even Professor Snape?" Hermione asked skeptically. It was hard enough to contemplate calling the Headmistress Minerva, but it was nigh impossible to think about Snape as "Severus". She shivered, remembering the way he had glared at her in the corridor, towering over her as six feet of intimidating, dark menace.

Septima laughed, eyes glittering, as she said: "Maybe not Severus."

Xxxx

Sighing contentedly, she looked around her private quarters. The rooms were rather small, but she had a bedroom with the standard Hogwarts four-poster bed and a dresser, and the bathroom had a surprisingly big shower. The sitting room was on the small side. The sofa was rather worn, and there was only room for a stuffed, gobelin armchair and a small table aside. The fireplace was large, though, making Floo travel as comfortable as it could be. She was happy that, whoever it was – be it the Headmistress, House-elves or someone else – thoughtfully had given her rooms with a Gryffindor colour scheme. The bed hangings were red with gold tassels, as were the rug in front of the fireplace and the curtains in front of the large window in the sitting room.

In her opinion, the best feature of the set of rooms was the deep bookcases from floor to roof. Even her book collection wasn't filling up more than half of the space, but she smiled to herself: That would only be temporary. Inside, she felt a tingling joy by the thought of buying, reading and caring for so many more books in the years to come. Her wish list comprised over 300 books already, and she had calculated that her rather meager Apprentice payment would suffice for buying approximately ten tomes a month, if she saved a little for future needs in her Gringott's account and cut down on clothes and chocolate. Yes, those bookcases would be filled by the time she had finished her Mastery.

Xxxx

Like Septima said, during the next days the rest of the staff invited her to call them by their first names. McGonagall was now Minerva, Flitwick was Filius, Sprout became Pomona and Hooch Rolanda. Snape was still Professor Snape, though, but Hermione had never expected that to change.

She had, of course already a good start on her reading, with materials both from Septima's suggestions and her own, heavily researched reading list. But her most important task in those first days was a visit to Hagrid. His hut had burned down during the war, but he had rebuilt it, larger and more comfortable than before. He had added a bedroom, a spacious bathroom and a separate kitchen, and Hagrid was obviously proud as he showed her around. When they had settled in front of the fire in his kitchen, Hermione working on perfecting her trick of slowly Vanishing his rock cakes bit by bit, like she was actually chewing the damned things, he said: "It's unbelievable, isn't it, tha' yeh've grown to be a Hogwarts apprentice, yeh're practically a teacher yerself!"

She grinned at him, saying with all the pride she felt in her heart: "I know! I can't believe it myself. And I so look forward to being here for the next, five years."

Hagrid almost teared up by that, sniffling into his great, checkered handkerchief: "I'm so proud of yeh, Hermione!" Lowering his voice, he said with a serious expression: "Watch over yerself, will yeh? There are people up there," he nodded towards the castle, "who doesn' know righ' from wrong, or, they don' care. Take care, and don' let 'em pull yer into any games."

She nodded, eyes serious, but wondering what on earth Hagrid was referring to.

Xxxx

It was strange, eating in the Great Hall without the students. Dust motes danced in the rays of the morning sun, and all sound were magnified, almost echoing in the emptiness and the quiet of the large hall. It was breakfast time on the August the 30th, and in two days time, the students would fill the halls, classrooms and corridors once more.

Inside Hogwarts, Hermione felt curiously safe, more so than she had since the war ended. Then, everyone had been so deliriously happy, optimistic and believing that finally, everything would be set right. And, of course, it wasn't. Fear of the rather large body of violent, raging Death Eaters hell bent on revenging their Lord was looming large in the public. Brutal, violent attacks on Muggles, Muggleborns and those who had openly defied Voldemort had happened almost as often as during the war. There were a lot of people with harrowing experiences in the year or so after Voldemort's fall, that is, those who survived the violence and torture, the fear and the humiliations they had been put through.

After the post owl had dropped off the Prophet, she grimaced, seeing the front page. Another vicious attack, eradicating a wizarding farm growing potion ingredients. Three farmhands and a family of four dead. Every day, there where news or follow-up stories on the seemingly non-stop flood of tragedies, and even more stories harried the new Minister of Magic Saul Croaker, pushing for more decisive measures from the Ministry. Croaker had been an Unspeakable, and shortly before the election, he had revealed himself as the Head of the Department of Mysteries. In these articles, Croaker was shadowed as always by an increasingly frustrated Kingsley Shacklebolt, now Head of the Auror Office after his short stint as interim Minister.

Whatever the Ministry did to stop the terror, it wasn't enough by far, and Shacklebolt was obviously not happy with the current regime. Hermione had heard rumours in the Ministry saying Kingsley was angry to have lost the election, and that he wanted to run for Minister again as soon as the opportunity arose. No wonder, she thought, considering the mess Croaker had made of everything. Kingsley would have been a far better choice in her opinion. He was very competent, and a good man at heart.

"Hermione, tonight is a very important night," the Headmistress told her. She lifted her eyes from the grim headlines, and saw that Minerva's eyes were twinkling, and that she was clearly hiding a grin.

"And why is that?" she replied, smiling politely back.

"It's the annual staff party, so we can drown our sorrows and celebrate the loss of our freedom for the next year," Minerva said, chuckling. "You'll do well not to plan to much for tomorrow, as the party usually is quite… rowdy."

Hermione felt her eyebrows climb. So, the teachers were drinking and partying hard before the students arrived? Well, she'd never expected that! Her plan for the night had been some serious reading time in the library, but obviously, she couldn't refuse this. After all, they were to be her colleagues, and she needed to get to know the faculty better.

Xxxx

"Have a Fireshisky, Herimino!" Flitwick shouted, as she entered the staffroom. The small Charms professor was staggering, and brandished a goblet to her, slopping the smoking liquid on the floor. Hermione had taken care to magically iron her blue, modestly cut dressrobe and taming her hair, but taking a look around, she saw that the effort had been completely wasted. The faculty were all casually dressed, some already looking a little inebriated, but nothing like Filius Flitwick. Hermione doubtfully supposed it was due to his diminutive size.

"Over here, Hermione!", Septima called out. Her Mistress was sitting in a sofa, chatting with Hooch, Sprout, Sinistra and Trelawney.

The normally cozy staff room, with its grey sofas, deep leather chairs, small tables and the ever-present teakettle was transformed into a nightclub. Gone were the chairs, the sofas were moved along the walls, making a dance floor in the middle, and in the grand fireplace the multi-coloured fire was pumping and twisting in time with the fairly loud music, making the room flash with alternating red, blue, green, purple and yellow lights. The small kitchenette was Transfigured into a bar, with three House-elves serving as bartenders, sharply dressed in black, silk handkerchiefs, embroidered with the Hogwarts crest.

The Headmistress was standing in front of the fireplace, strands of hair escaping her normally severe bun, wildly gesticulating in an animated discussion with Snape and Hagrid. Her giant friend waved her a greeting, but frowned intently at Minerva, drumming his fingers at his large goblet, obviously not agreeing with the Headmistress. As Hermione crossed the floor, Snape shot her a long look, before he turned back to Minerva, shaking his head as well.

Flitwick was now dancing slowly by himself in the middle of the floor, while the new Transfiguration teacher, Marius Gewerryn was entrenched by Ancient Runes Professor Batsheda Babbling in the darkest corner of the dancefloor, swaying softly to the music. Junior Dark arts and Potion teachers Francis Heron and Cato Byror were loitering at bar, chatting quietly as they watched their colleagues.

Trying not to goggle, Hermione hurried to Septima, sitting down in the sofa.

"Oi, Winky! Bring Hermione prosecco!", her mistress shouted over the din.

The House-elf scurried over to her quickly, giving her a glass with the sparkling, light golden wine, bobbing slightly at Hermione.

Clink! Septima leaned forward, clinking her glass with Hermione, and said a little slurredly: "Now you are faculty, Hermione. This – this, is the initiation feast."

Trelawney and Hooch giggled, challenging her to a "Bottoms up!"

Hermione downed the wine, feeling slightly woozy, and to her astonishment, her glass was again filled up to the brim.

"I hear your fan mail is a bit troubling," Pomona Sprout said with a mischievous smile.

Hermione felt herself blush, and said: "I hope it doesn't make too much of a bother."

"No, no," Septima said, "the House-elves are quite well-versed in things like that. After all, they've dealt with Severus' mail for a year now."

"Does he get the same as me?", Hermione said, dumbfounded.

"I should hope not!" Sybil Trelawney hooted with laughter, her large glasses askew. "My dear girl, Severus gets at least five death threats a week, ten proposals and offers for sex, fifteen heartbreaking letters from families missing their loved ones, asking for any information he might have, and twenty Howlers varying in content from all of the above."

Hermione blinked. The death threats she could understand, and the family letters too, but who in their right mind wrote to Severus Snape offering sex? Those people had to have a death wish.

"Luckily my mail isn't that bad," she said. "Mostly it's normal fan mail, with the odd proposals and death threats mingled in. And at the most, I think I get twenty letters a week or so." Not being able to help herself, she lowered her voice: "Are people really proposing to Snape?"

Aurora Sinistra sniggered, downing her glass again – motioning for Hermione to drink up as well. "You'd be surprised. He became quite popular overnight, and in the beginning, he really took advantage of it too."

Hermione felt her eyebrows climb up into her hair, and the older witches snorted with laughter at her expression. She tried to cover her confusion by draining her glass again, but it refilled promptly.

"Really," Rolanda Hooch said, yellow eyes twinkling at her, "You look like you fell down from a tree. The faculty are people too. That means, we laugh, quarrel, gossip and fuck. Just wait, you'll see." Looking at the other professors, she winked. "But Severus, he really went for it when he got the chance, didn't he?"

"Yes, yes," the other witches nodded, grinning widely at her. Hermione felt herself blush. These people had been her teachers. Their sex life was not something she was comfortable thinking about. And Snape shagging lots of witches – it was more than unbelievable, and frankly a very disturbing image.

Hooch continued: "For the first few months after the war, he had a new witch - or more – every weekend. But then he obviously tired of it sometime during the autumn." Squinting a little angrily towards Snape, she said: "And I lost my bet with Minerva. I put fifty Galleons on him becoming a player for real, and she was adamant he'd quit before Christmas." Hooch stuck her tongue out at Snape, and in that exact moment, he turned around, looking at them.

The silence was stuffy, short and unbearable, before the older witches burst out in raucous laughter. Blanching, Hermione saw Snape stiffen, turning around to Minerva again, but quite obviously uncomfortable with the barrage of drunken laughter directed at him.

"But you, Hermione, wasn't you supposed to marry the youngest Weasley?" Aurora Sinistra asked her with a shrewd look.

"Errr, well, it didn't work out," she mumbled. The story of her and Ron was still painful. At first, everything had been fine, and then everyday life and the quarrels started. What to do with their lives, how many children and when, why they just couldn't live next door to his mother, why Hermione had to spend so much of her time working, who would start the cleaning spells in the afternoon and get dinner ready – and then after the fiftieth angry row, he had used his status as a war hero to get laid. Often, publicly and with model witches.

Of course, by the time, it had all been over in everything but the name. Still, it hurt a lot. It wasn't like she had model wizards lining up at her door. Why Ron would be so popular was beyond her, and she felt stupid, unattractive, and outed for all of Wizarding Britain like the relationship loser she really was. Now, she had no other friends than Harry, Luna and Neville. Even Harry and her were drifting apart, because every single Weasley gave her the cold shoulder after her breakup with Ron, which made meeting Harry without Ginny infrequent. Work was all she had, but no one was even remotely interested in what she could contribute to life excepting her work performance, studies, spells and strategies.

So, she clung to what gave her value to the world: Her brilliant mind, her knowledge and her willingness to fight for a cause, but alone, at night, her life felt empty, devoid of human relationships. Her flat in London had felt almost like a mausoleum, not like a home. Hermione swallowed, forcing down the now familiar feeling of failure and deep loneliness. Instead she gave her former Professors a brittle smile, but still, they peered curiously at her.

"Really?" Trelawney said interestedly. "We all thought the two of you were a sure thing. Remind me to do you a reading, Hermione, we'll see what the future has in store for you."

"No thanks," she replied quickly, "I like my surprises, even when they're kind of bad." She got up, a little unsteadily, walking to the bar to get a pint, instead of the bubbly, too sweet prosecco the elder witches seemed to prefer.

The two Junior Professors Heron and Byror eyed her with interest as she asked the House-elf Tommen to draw her a porter. Looking at them, she gave them a small smile, and soon they had dragged her into a conversation. The two of them were teaching classes first through fourth years in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions, while Snape did OWL and NEWTH classes in both subjects.

"I'm excited about the new term," Cato Byror told her, "as I have all my lesson plans tested and evaluated. That bastard," he shot a hard glance at Snape, who was still listening to Hagrid and Minerva quarreling, "wasn't willing to share any of his, last year. It takes time to find out what will work, but now I think I've got it down pat."

"He wasn't willing to share with me, either," said Francis Heron darkly. "But luckily, there have been so many Defense teachers over the years, so I had loads of earlier class planning from other teachers to reference. This is my second year at Hogwarts, by the way."

The two men were handsome, in a rugged way, Byror blonde, and Heron dark haired. Quickly, she realized that both of them were trying to impress her. It must be because I'm the only female in the faculty under the age of fifty, she thought. They told her about their past work, their families, their academic successes, and she nodded politely and smiled automatically, concentrating mostly on drinking her pint, while the two of them were slowly crowding in on her, trapping her against the bar.

"You're so young, Hermione, and so talented, with all that lovely vivaciousness of youth," Francis Heron purred, his chocolate brown eyes moving suggestively down her body. "It almost makes me feel mature, experienced and seasoned. You know, I'd love to give you some advice, if you feel like it. Not many are made a Hogwarts professor at the age of 44. I can give you a few, helpful tips."

"Absolutely," his colleague whispered into her ear. "Your beauty and brain makes for a quite … heady… combination. Your will go far, and by the time you've reached my age, at 49, you'll be so accomplished, so well-versed. I would only be happy to show you a little more of the world to get you started." His dirty-blonde hair fell into his eyes, and those baby blue eyes were consuming her face with a rather frightful intensity.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes, because she wasn't about to be tackled by the two of them. After all, she had faced much more challenging situations than this. To be chatted up by two of her colleagues, both old enough to be her father was simply preposterous. Hermione knew, she would have no problem turning them down, but she also wanted to keep a civil working relationship with them. In all probability, she'd see these two wizards every day for the next five years. Being who she was, she wanted to be liked, accepted and respected among her colleagues, and that translated into turning these wizards down in a polite way.

She finished her pint, licking the foam from her lips, and giggled inwardly at their vacuous expression as their eyes locked on her lips. But really, did they think that she'd be impressed by their experience? The Defense teacher Heron had been abroad in Paris during the war, while Byror had sat it all out comfortably on his manor, pretending to be growing Potion ingredients. They hadn't been in the Order, they hadn't made an effort to overcome Voldemort, they hadn't been fighting, like she had, like Minerva, like Snape...

Fighting an incredulous grin at the obvious, but very sick and twisted solution to the problem they posed, she deliberately gave her two colleagues a wide-eyed, innocent look as she slipped past them.

"Why, thank you! I'm sure it will be lovely to get to know you," she said. "I need to speak to Professor Snape. Isn't it wonderful to have such a respected war hero among the faculty? I admire him so much."

Seeing their flabbergasted expression, she almost gave herself away by laughing out loud. Fighting her laugh, she went over to Minerva and the said professor. War hero, my arse! Those two idiots didn't stop to think that she was one too, actually one of the most awarded war heroes in magical Britain.

"Hello," she said a little nervously, interrupting the Headmistress and Hogwarts' most feared professor. Minerva was dressed in crumpled, maroon robes, her hat slightly askew on her head, holding a non-descript bottle of Firewhisky in her hand. Snape stood tall and straight, as usual crisply buttoned up in his black frock coat, but had obviously forgone his teaching robes for the occasion. He gave her a long stare, and she almost froze – gods, what if he finds out what I told those two idiots? He'll kill me!

"There you are, Hermione!" Minerva beamed. "Try my Firewhisky. My brother made this, and I think it's excellent. Severus maintains that Ogden's better, but I don't think a mass-produced brew can compete with a true, home-brewed, quality whisky."

Obediently, she tasted the whisky, taking a big gulp, immediately coughing violently. It was vile, tasting like what she imagined petrol would be like if she ever was stupid enough to drink it. She shivered, not being able to cover up her involuntary shudder of disgust.

Snape was crossing his arms over his broad chest, and he smiled faintly, triumphantly, at her predicament. "It tastes like Madam Majory's window cleaning potion", he stated with determination. "Minerva, this is my final word. Your brother can't seriously entertain the notion of brewing this whisky for sale. You can foist it on anyone, and they'll tell you it is horrible. Even Hagrid couldn't stomach it, and he told you so in no uncertain terms."

The Headmistress huffed, and stalked up to another group, holding out her bottle to Babbling and Gewerryn, interrupting their dance, and forcing them to take a sip. Hermione made a pleading look at Tommen the House-elf, and he immediately came running with another pint of porter.

"Acquired a taste for darkness, Miss Granger?" Snape asked, nodding at her choice of drink, black eyes glinting wickedly.

"In terms of beer, yes," she said, taking a sip of her dark, delicious porter, foam thick and almost creamy. Tommen sure knew how to draw a proper porter. Sweet Morgana, to make this believable to Heron and Byror, I have to keep up a conversation with Snape. Why did Minerva have to leave? This would have been so much easier if she stuck around. Helplessly, she peered at him over her pint.

"Well, Miss Granger, what brings you here? I don't imagine it's the lure of my friendly conversation." His voice was still the same silken, deep and measured cadence as before, and she still felt those shivers of something akin to fear as he spoke, just like it had been in his classroom.

"I had to get rid of Heron and Byror," she mumbled, opting for the truth, worried that he'd spot a lie. He had always seemed like he had a sixth sense for detecting lies and omissions during her schooling, and she supposed, that was one of the traits that made him into such a fearsome teacher. "They seem to think I'll be suitably impressed by their careers. Also, because they believe themselves to be Merlin's gift to womanhood."

Professor Snape came close to choking on his drink. Sputtering a little, he replied: "I see. You don't agree, I suppose, since you are here?"

"Obviously not," she said testily, staring at them. "I don't want to estrange myself from my colleagues during the first week, but that … bragging … when all they did was to wait out the war from their own sofas, while people were running, starving, fighting and hurting."

He gave her an odd look, before he formally said: "I remember you doing all those things, Miss Granger."

She huffed. "And so did you, too, but I don't see you telling witches how wonderful it will be for them when you share your immense, fantastic knowledge that made you into a Hogwarts teacher at the age of 44."

Snape arched an eyebrow, and for a moment, she could almost swear his mouth twitched. "That would be rather silly of me," he drawled, "as I'm thirty-nine, and I have taught here since 1981."

Blinking, she said: "But you're a Potions Master? How did you finish your degree so quickly?" She could feel envy churning inside – she wanted to be brilliant, a fast learner, the best – but to finish a five year Mastery in what had to be two or three years? It would be almost impossible.

He shrugged. "An impatient, Dark Lord can be quite the motivation for working hard. He expected me to finish early. After all, he paid for my degree."

"Oh," she said a little stupidly, "I had no idea." Dipping deep into her pint, she noticed she started to feel dizzy. How much had she been drinking? Here she was, having an actual conversation with Professor Snape. Who would have thought the man was able to talk almost like a normal person? Taking another sip, she stared a little surprised at her glass. Hadn't she just ordered a new pint? This one was almost empty.

Giving Snape a good once-over, she realized he wasn't that old. Logically, she had known his age, but somehow in her mind, his age had seemed so much more advanced when he was her teacher. His hair was still lanky, but without any grey, his skin still sallow and his face lined, but his body seemed to be in a good shape, straight and muscular. Then she continued impulsively: "Somehow, I always thought you were older. But you're still the youngest professor at Hogwarts, then. It's surprising, you always seemed so much older than your actual age." Odd, she'd be the youngest member of the faculty, and the next in line was her snarky, mean-spirited ex-teacher.

He gazed at Heron and Byror, and said softly to himself: "I've never felt young." Then his sharp eyes focused on her, and he grimaced. "But you, Miss Granger, are obviously still very young. Didn't your parents tell you it is rude to comment on people's appearances?"

She reddened. "I didn't mean it like that, I just…"

"Whatever you thought, Miss Granger, you should, by now, be able to consider how your opinions might be understood. And most definitively, you should be able to curb your need for expressing anything that's on your mind, however insignificant and trite your observations are." And by that, he swept off.

Xxxx

Merlin! As if the staff parties weren't awful enough to begin with, now he had that little Gryffindor chit to contend with! And she had taken special care to use the occasion to tell him he looked old. Staring at himself in his bathroom mirror, he had to concede the chit was right. His face was lined, there was a deep furrow between his eyes, no doubt self-imposed by his habit of scowling, his hair was getting thinner, and it was still greasy. She was right. He did look old, not to mention the scars on his back and neck. Sighing heavily to himself, he divested his clothing and stepped into the shower. As usual, it took too much time for the hot water to run through the milelong pipes of the castle, and he growled his displeasure at the castle, ordering it to speed up the process. In fact, he could do better than that, he thought, and barked an order for the castle to always have hot water ready whenever he turned on the taps, never mind what that would do to other people's bathrooms.

As the hot water gushed forth, the castle eager to please him as always, he lathered himself with soap. His cock hardened by his touch, and for a moment, he wished he was still in denial of the motivations of his female fans. About one half of them wanted to be fucked brutally by a former Death Eater, toeing the line of dangerous evil. The other half thought he was a romantic, tender-hearted hero, and those witches wanted to show him love, saving him from a loveless life. It was sad, pitiable and disgusting, and after he understood how they perceived him, he wanted none of it. Much better to visit the brothels of Knockturn Alley. There, he at least knew there would be no questions of being anyone but himself. But it was too late to do so tonight.

Muttering angrily, he grasped his cock in his right hand, stroking it firmly, squeezing the head on each stroke. Oddly enough, he envisioned Granger, instead of Lily. In his mind, he pushed her into the wall of a corridor, wrenching her robes open, fondling those decent-sized tits he had spotted a few days earlier. Granger had indeed grown up, she was all woman now, and her sweet face was…

No! That was wrong, on so many levels. He wrenched his mind off her, going back to his favorite memory, at that one time in the past when they were fifteen, when Lily and he had broken open his father's liquor cabinet, and the evening had ended gloriously in his bed, where Lily had given him head…

But unbidden, Granger popped up in his head again. She would be on her knees before him, biting her bottom lip before she wet her lips with her tongue, taking him into her mouth, licking, sucking at him… Her robes would be unbuttoned, her luscious tits bare to the cold air in the dungeon, with goosebumps raising her skin and hardening her nipples.

Groaning, he quickened his pace with his hand, imagining her mouth work greedily on him, while she moaned his name. He would put his fist into that ridiculous amount of light brown hair, pushing her head onto his cock. Feeling his balls tighten, fire building in his cock, he spasmed. With a deep grunt, he shot his load, hips thrusting frantic in the air, his semen splashing at the wall in the shower, and then he slid down, sitting on the slated floor, letting the hot water pound over his head, remorse and anger building up inside him for doing something as stupid as letting himself fantasize about Hermione fucking Granger. His fantasies were either Lily, or they were faceless. Definitively not Granger!

A/N: Please let me know if you hated it or enjoyed it, hit the review button or send me a pm. Thanks for reading!

What do you think? Is Hermione a lamb ready for slaughter, and Severus the big, bad wolf? Or is the oh-so-hot, big bat in for a surprise? Next chapter will be up in a week. Per now, twelve chapters are prewritten, and I expect the entire story to be around 16-18 chapters.

Hagrid's speech is difficult to write. I've tried to be faithful to the amazing wordcount found on Furiosity's livejournal, but any mistakes are my own.