At last, this is the third and final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left such wonderful reviews! This last chapter wound up being longer than I anticipated, but there was a lot that I wanted to cover. To those who gave constructive criticism and advice, thank you...I tried to take it all into account. Please let me know what you think...enjoy!

A grey, watery light was just beginning to spill over the grounds, erasing the darkness of the previous night. Snape sat on the shore of the lake, his knees tucked under his chin, his body shivering in the cold. For several hours, he had roamed the grounds surrounding the castle, allowing his thoughts to wander aimlessly, willing his shame to be blown away by the late-autumn winds. Eventually, the leaden heaviness of his thoughts and his guilt weighed too greatly upon him and he sank to his knees beside the lake.

For the second time, he had completely taken leave of his senses and engaged in unspeakable, monstrous behavior. The first time might have been forgivable if it had remained an isolated instance, a regrettable, one-time mistake. But to add a second offense to his growing list of sins served only to ratify the horrendous nature of previous actions.

But even as he hated himself for what he had done to Hermione, he knew that he could not have stopped himself. The fury and jealousy that had fueled him, the pain and lust and desire, were too overwhelming. The only salve for his burning soul was the power and freedom he found in his domination and subjugation of Hermione, and her voracious, lustful response. Entering her was like stepping into an inferno where all of his other thoughts were obliterated.

But afterwards...withdrawing from her was like waking from the most intense and brilliant of dreams to discover the hard, cold dreariness of reality. And such dreariness truly did define Snape's life. For eighteen years, he had toiled away his life, not daring to step outside the lines, but existing only inside the parameters he had established for himself. Existing, but not living. Within the prison he had created for himself, he observed little color; the world consisted of black, white, and innumerable shades of grey. And until Hermione had entered his existence, he hadn't missed the color. But now – now he yearned for it.

There had been a day, several weeks before, when something more had seemed possible. The first day she had returned to his class and had turned in her potion to him, when she had met his gaze for the first time in so many weeks…he had been unprepared to face her at that moment, and as he had looked upon her, colors had flickered in the corners of his mind, red and gold shades of warmth and security. But he had shown her too much and her look of pity was too much for him to withstand. In the end, he had shut her out.

With their second encounter, he had repressed any feelings of warmth or compassion for Hermione, seeking only the power of his authority over her as he both pleasured and punished her upon the classroom floor. But, at the moment of his highest dominion, as she came in a torrent of incomprehensible gratification and his own orgasm was triggered, once more, the tenderness for her returned. In a flash, his guilt had subsumed any pleasure he had derived from her debasement and his waves of ecstasy were replaced by tremors of despair.

It was unthinkable that she should have seen him in such a state, and he had ordered her from his presence in order to hide his shame. The look of shock and grief upon her face as he bellowed for her to get out had pierced his heart, but allowing her to believe his callous disregard for her feelings was preferable to demonstrating what he was coming to recognize as his true feelings.

Until that moment, he had allowed himself to believe that his desire for her, though pervasive and controlling, was a function of his libido alone. But now that he had come to recognize the truth, he was aware of how dangerous it was to continue. He could not and would not allow himself to feel for Hermione what he had never truly felt for another woman. To invite her to know him in that way would be to hand her the greatest weapon, greater than any control she could gain through sex alone. Her rejection of him would be the key to his destruction. And so he would never allow her to reject him in that way.

Though the sky remained leaden and heavy, Snape knew the sun had finally risen above the horizon. The clouds were thick and hinted at the promise of snow. Winter would arrive soon, and he shivered at the thought of an eternity of grey, colorless days before him. But he had made his choice to live such a drab existence long ago, and he would not allow the temptation of Hermione Granger to lead him astray of his chosen path. Resignedly, he rose from the lake's edge and tread ponderously back to the castle, his heart heavy in his chest.

From that day forward, Snape did his best to return to his life as it had been the previous year. His efforts were not lost on Hermione, who appeared to observe him with a mixture of anxious expectation and disappointment. More than once, he found her eyes upon him in the Great Hall, but he turned away, careful not to meet her gaze. As usual, she produced an excellent potion in class, and he was tempted to provide her with a failing grade, if only to provide an excuse to assign her detention once again. But his logical self won out, and he awarded her an "E." He did not miss her crushed look in class the following morning.

Weeks passed, and he continued to treat her as he treated the rest of his students. Gradually, she appeared to accept the return to normalcy in their relationship. Her grades remained high and she never missed class or skipped meals in the Great Hall. When she turned in her potions or essays, Snape kept his eyes on his desk, and Hermione did not linger before him. Their hands did not meet.

But though Hermione seemed to be able to walk away from their association with relative ease, and though Snape was scrupulously careful not to ignite another encounter between them, his desire for her did not diminish. In fact, as the weeks went by, he found that his attraction for her grew ever stronger, and feelings of attachment continued to develop, despite his determination to feel nothing for her.

His only outlet for his longing remained his passion-fueled fantasies, to which he submitted himself several times daily. While in the shower, he imagined her nubile body slipping up against him, as her soapy hands explored the private planes and crevices of his body. While in bed, he could feel her hips beneath his hands as guided his member into her. In the Great Hall, he pictured her form spread before him upon the table, as he climbed astride her and took her under the enchanted ceiling.

These fantasies continued for weeks, becoming more elaborate and desperate. But his outward actions toward her did not change. And all the while, each day brought him one day closer to her graduation and departure from Hogwarts; each night closer to an existence devoid of her presence.

Winter descended upon the castle with a frenzy of snow and howling winds, announcing the coming Christmas holiday in no uncertain terms. Snape surreptitiously surveyed the roster of students remaining at Hogwarts over the holidays, but her name never appeared on it. Of course, she would go home to her parents. Or perhaps she would join the Weasleys at the Burrow. The monster of jealousy roared within his stomach as he imagined her spending Christmas with Weasley and, more likely than not, Potter.

A few days before the Hogwarts Express departed for London, Snape found himself spying on her with Potter and Weasley through the stacks in the library. To be fair, he hadn't intended to spy…he had gone to the library in search of a book and had chanced upon the trio accidentally. But once he had spied them, it became impossible to tear himself away from her presence. Ducking behind a nearby stack, he viewed their interaction carefully, agonizing over every glance, every touch she directed toward the two boys.

The three appeared to be working on some essay or another. But, as he would have predicted, Hermione was much more interested in working than were Potter and Weasley. Periodically, she would scold the pair for not concentrating and then return to her own parchment. After a time, he heard Weasley whine to her that he needed help. Snape snorted to himself; needed her to do the work for him was more like it, the dolt. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled the parchment toward her, continuing to scold him over his poor efforts. But even as she berated him, she made corrections to his parchment, and Weasley looked on gratefully.

After a time, Hermione shoved the parchment back towards Weasley with a huff, saying, "Honestly, Ron, if you're not even going to make an effort, that's the last time I edit one of your essays. How are you ever going to learn anything?"

But Snape did not miss blush on her cheeks or the small smile playing at the corner of Hermione's mouth as she returned to her own parchment.

Snape retreated farther back into the stacks, his chest burning with jealousy and fury. The edges of his vision were becoming blurred and he wasn't sure where he was anymore. He had resigned himself to the fact that he could not have Hermione. But he had not contemplated that someone else might have her in return.

As the blood pumped through his veins, his anger became mingled with arousal. For not the first time that day, his erection demanded his attention and for a moment, he considered leaving the library to take refuge in his bedchamber. He edged his way back up towards the front of the stack once more, until her profile came into view. From his current vantage point, Potter and the wretched Weasley were no longer visible and he could almost imagine she was sitting at the table alone. In an instant, he left the realm of reality.

Snape came upon her, now alone at the table. Before she had even lifted her head from her essay, he had her arm in his grip and had dragged her from her chair. Startled, she gaped at him with her mouth open and eyes wide as he threw her up against the stack. Pressing his body 

against her, his mouth covered hers, stopping any question or argument she may have considered making. He felt her soften against him and her arms encircled his neck.

Snape slipped back into consciousness for a moment, finding his eyes still upon her serious profile and his hand sliding down to his fly. For a minute or two, he allowed his hand to stroke his bulge gently through his pants, wanting desperately to pull himself off right then and there. His reason and sanity caused a moment's hesitation and then his demanding arousal won out; urgently but silently, he ripped open his fly and wrapped his hand around his cock, choking back a strangled sigh. His eyes still on her face, he settled into an immediate rhythm, until blackness once more overtook him.

She was pressing her body against him, wrapping her legs around him, moaning softly into his ear. He could take no more. As quickly as possible, he ripped open their robes, aching to sink into her. Her legs still wrapped around him, he carried her back to the library table and dropped her atop her books and parchment. Wasting no time, he climbed atop the table, straddled her, and thrust powerfully into her waiting body.

Her cry roused him from his reverie once more, and found her profile lifted toward someone he could not see. She was trying not to laugh. The light in her eyes sparkled and he bit back a groan as he continued his assault on his cock. He yearned to cross the small space between them and ravish her upon the table. Without such an option available to him, he returned to his fantasy.

He was plunging into her repeatedly and with abandon, neither one of them knowing or caring whether anyone else was in the library. They existed only in that moment, only for each other. She was crying out regularly now, her eyes shut tight and her hands gripping his shoulders. He pumped his organ in and out with determination, excruciatingly close to orgasm, but at the same time, wanting to be within her forever. He buried his face into her neck as he she began to shudder beneath him and he finally gave in to his agonizing pleasure.

With a shock, he was rushed back to the present, as the waves of his orgasm came upon him. He kept his eyes trained upon her face and allowed himself one small groan as he came into his hand. But even as he came, his loneliness and longing for her overcame him. Even just feet from him, she was too far away.

Snape returned to his bedchamber, where the enormity of what he had just done forced him off his feet. Sitting before his fire, he marveled at his own stupidity and dumb luck. How he had not been caught was beyond him; there were most certainly other students in the library that could have come upon him at any time and Madame Pince missed nothing within her precious stacks. But even more troubling was his extreme inability to control himself. It had been weeks since his last interaction with Hermione and he had hoped that his desire for her would diminish with time. That did not appear to be the case.

Snape was at his wit's end. Controlling himself did not seem to be an option any longer. God help him, he wanted her. He could think of no solution to his problem.

He slept uneasily that night, as Hermione wound her way through his dreams. The next morning, as he trudged toward his classroom, he groaned inwardly at the thought of her being in his class that day. He was terrified that her presence would provoke the same response from him that he had demonstrated in the library. But even as he worried, he also eagerly anticipated her presence, despite the fact that she no longer looked his way with mingled desire and trepidation.

Class began and he was careful to keep his attention away from her, as always. The students brewed their potions as he kept a watchful eye over the room from his desk. His familiar stirrings of arousal were present in his groin, but he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, determined to suppress his desire. After a time, his heart rate slowed and he felt secure enough to walk about the room, examining the contents of cauldrons.

His walking examination was both his most eagerly anticipated and his most dreaded activity while teaching his N.E.W.T.-level students, as it provided him with a valid excuse to interact with Hermione. But for the past month, he had been careful to spend exactly the same amount of time with each student, and gave her the same amount of attention that he bestowed upon his other students. He was determined not to deviate from his standard practice.

He began at the back of the room, slowly making his way toward her desk near the front. He peered into each cauldron without really seeing, occasionally picking up on glaring errors by the students and berating them until they cowered before him and nervously made corrections. But even as he tortured his students, his mind was not on his work, because her desk continued to come closer and closer. With each step, he felt his heart pound harder and the butterflies in his stomach fluttered madly. A sweat broke out on his brow and he fought to keep his concentration on the here-and-now. By the time he was two students away, he began to become aroused once more; as always, he was grateful that his layers of clothing disguised the majority of his embarrassment. Still, he was determined to see his commitment through.

She was next. Blood rushed to his head and he could hear nothing but his pounding heart. His mouth was dry and tongue felt too large. He stepped closer to her, noting that she had not lifted her head to see him; she did not acknowledge his presence in any way. Perhaps she was over him. The possibility disturbed him and he paused a moment, unable to move forward. But then his attention was caught by her scent that wafted from her almost imperceptibly. His arousal reinforced, he took another step forward and glanced down into her cauldron. Not noticing the contents, he allowed his eyes to fall shut as he breathed her in, permitting her to surround his senses. He was overwhelmed.

The time he would normally allot to spend near her had passed and it was time for him to move on. But she had not yet acknowledged him and he couldn't bring himself to step away. Instead, swallowing hard, he took another tiny step forward, until he could feel her side pressing gently against his swollen erection. He just barely suppressed a groan at the pressure. At the contact, her head shot up, but she did not turn to face him. He could see plainly, however, that her cheeks had reddened and her chest was rising and falling quickly. A wave of relief washed over him – she still wanted him.

He would have to walk away from her soon, as he had already spent too much time with her already. This was by no means over, however. For a moment, he attempted to console himself that he could send for her after class and they could find a way to be alone together. But the idea of even the briefest of separations seemed agonizing. He wanted her immediately and the fact that he could tell she felt the same way made the need all that more pressing. And so, in an instant, he made up his mind. Leaning down ever so slightly as he brushed past her, he whispered lightly into her ear, "Storeroom. Now."

He was already moving back towards his desk the instant the words left his mouth, but he did not miss the shiver that ran up her spine at his words. He smiled to himself at her reaction, relishing his obvious continuing power over her. He had no doubt that she would comply with his command.

Settling himself back at his desk, though his need for her was as urgent as ever, he felt more in control and his breathing slowed a bit. He watched her carefully for a few moments, wondering amusedly how she would manage to get to the storeroom. Tentatively, she raised her hand and their eyes locked together.

"Miss Granger?" he acknowledged, careful to give his voice its usual annoyed tone. Hermione shifted slightly in her seat and after a pause, asked in a voice barely above a whisper, "May I be excused to the lavatory, sir?"

Snape kept his gaze trained on her and, for an instant, toyed with the idea of denying her request, just to see her reaction. He very nearly smiled at the idea, but a surge of pressure within his groin made up his mind for him.

"You may," he finally responded, his gaze still leveled upon her. Still slightly breathless, Hermione rose from the table and made her way through the desks toward the classroom door. No one paid her any mind, including Weasley and Potter, who were each desperately trying to salvage hopelessly pathetic potions in their respective cauldrons.

Hermione edged her way around the back of the room toward the storeroom, careful not to be noticed. Once she was stowed safely inside, he felt a thrill of pleasure race up his spine, knowing she was waiting there for him, at his command. For a leisurely minute, he smirked at his desk, knowing she was likely in agony within the cupboard, terrified of being discovered.

Finally, his eagerness got the best of him, and he rose without a word to his students and headed for the cupboard. As it was not unusual for him to visit the storeroom during class time, he had no fear that anyone would find his action unusual. All the same, he couldn't exactly claim that what he was about to do was safe or smart. But, for exactly those reasons, it was also electrifying.

He entered the storeroom and quickly shut the door behind him, extinguishing almost all light. Still, the cupboard was small and it wasn't difficult to locate her. Instantly, he was upon her, pressing her against the wall and allowing the exquisite pressure of her body to flood each of his nerve endings. He had wanted this for so long. With all the pent-up fire of a month's fantasies 

and lonely nights, he kissed her, his tongue invading her mouth and claiming it as his own. But when she moaned into his mouth, he pinched her hard, and pulled back.

"Not a sound," he threatened her. Though the storeroom was thick-walled, he knew he couldn't rely on it to stop all noises from reaching the ears of the students on the other side. In the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he could easily set a silencing spell of some kind to solve the dilemma. But as quickly as he thought of it, he dismissed it – forcing Hermione to keep silent even as he did everything he could to make her scream was so much more appealing.

With his warning issued, the two began tearing open their clothes, she seemingly as eager to reunite as he. Before they had managed to open much more than their robes, however, his mouth founds hers once more, and the kiss seemed to sear into him, spreading heat throughout his body and making every extremity tingle in anticipation. He could stand it no longer. Within a matter of seconds, he tugged down her panties, pulled her leg around him and thrust into her.

It was as good as he had remembered and even better, all at the same time. The feel of her surrounding him like a velvet glove nearly caused him to come instantly. But he regained control of his senses quickly and sought to establish a steady rhythm.

Hermione was obviously struggling not to make a sound and her effort spurred him on. Standing upright, he knew that, with each thrust, he was making contact with the sensitive inner wall of her pussy, causing her to spasm slightly with each touch. They didn't have much time and he needed her to come as quickly as possible.

If their prior encounters had provided him with any knowledge, it was that Hermione responded to rough treatment. And so he pressed her harder and harder against the wall, not bothering to take care for her head against the stone wall. Each time he pumped into her, she pressed back with her pelvis, tightening her grip on his cock with her slippery walls. His rhythm picked up and soon he was stroking into her with abandon.

Finally, he pushed her to the edge and her shuddering climax arrived as she sunk her teeth into his neck and dug her nails into his still-clad shoulders. The pain of her assault brought him to the brink as well, and Snape let go, feeling himself uncoil and release into her violently.

The moment he had finished, he felt his compunction set in. From what he could see in the dim light, Hermione was standing against the wall, her eyes still closed and her mouth slack. He could hardly order her from the room at that moment, especially not when he had entered it last. But he could not stop the waves of punishing remorse that were flooding over him, threatening to overtake him. It was as though each orgasm ripped open his soul and left him unable to repair it. If he did not get away soon, he would lose control in front of her.

Snape closed his trousers, adjusted his robe, and exited the storeroom, without sparing Hermione a backward glance. Though he knew his actions probably shocked and hurt her, causing her pain was much preferable to allowing her to view his own. The students in the classroom barely noticed him as he strode across the room and right through the classroom door. He flew down a 

maze of hallways until he was safely out of sight. There, he slid down against the wall until he was nothing but a quivering mass on the floor.

His trembling continued for a time and tears burned at the back of his eyes. But he did not allow himself to cry. Anger and guilt once more coursed through him. He knew, truly, that this was not what he wanted, for himself or for Hermione. But he also knew just as certainly, that what he truly wanted he could not have. And if the past month had demonstrated anything to him, it was that he simply did not have the discipline to stay away from her. And so if that meant that he would give in to his darker side, and allow himself to demand pleasure from her in the most demeaning ways, without attachment, then he would do so.

As Snape huddled on the hallway floor, he allowed himself to go back over his history with Hermione, recalling her challenge to him in the classroom all those months before. He remembered her tying him to his chair and allowed his anger at her to return. He could hear her stating to him defiantly, "I do not have to answer to you." He pictured her smiling shyly at Potter and saw Weasley starting longingly at her exposed throat. And with those thoughts, he pushed to the back of his mind any soft or affectionate feelings he ever might have felt for her and resolved to finish what she had started. This was not about feelings or emotions or, God forbid, love, this was about possession and control. With his mind resolutely set, Snape gathered himself together and returned to his classroom.

Class had ended already and the students had cleaned up and departed in his absence, including Hermione. He knew she would likely be found in the Great Hall, however. For a moment, he considered the fact that the following day began the first day of the Christmas term and that Hermione was scheduled to depart on the Hogwarts Express in the morning. Sensing an opportunity to exert himself, he grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, scribbling, Tomorrow. Midnight. My office. Finding a first-year in the hallway, he sent the sealed note off to her with a sigh of satisfaction. He had no doubt she would stay.

Midnight the following evening found him sitting calmly before his desk in his office. He had not bothered to seek Hermione out that day, or to ensure that she had remained behind as the other students boarded the train for home. She would do as he ordered.

Sure enough, at midnight precisely, a soft rapping sounded on his office door. For the first time, he felt well and truly in control of his emotions. He took a deep breath of smug satisfaction and then called out, "Enter."

The door opened cautiously and Hermione stepped tentatively inside, looking unsure of herself. It occurred to him that she may never have been in his office before. It certainly wasn't the most welcoming of places, with its damp, chilly air, drab furnishings, and varied jars of floating specimens. Her discomfort caused a stab of pleasure in his gut.

She continued to stand uncertainly near the door, her hands twisted before her, taking in her surroundings. Rather than her school uniform and robe, she was dressed for bed, in a nightgown covered by a dressing robe. She was barefoot and her toes curled sensitively on the cold, rough stone. Eventually, however, she directed her gaze toward his desk, where he sat, observing her. 

As their eyes connected, he recognized the flush of arousal that lit her cheeks and throat. He allowed himself the pleasure of continuing their glance for a minute or two, reminded of the initial stolen glances during class. His cock began to stiffen beneath his robe.

"Remove your clothing, Miss Granger," said Snape, his eyes not leaving her face. Hermione hesitated for only the briefest of moments before untying her robe and slipping it over her shoulders. She hesitated once more, however, after dropping the robe to the floor.

"All of your clothing," he commanded, keeping his voice low but sharp. She closed her eyes briefly and then pulled the nightgown over her head in a single movement. As it dropped to the floor on top of her robe, he took in her form, allowing his eyes to sweep across her skin, watching as the goosebumps broke out across her body and her nipples hardened in the chilly air. Her eyes flicked about the room, pausing once on his face, then on the jars of indiscernible contents next to her. He rose from the desk and quickly disrobed.

"Lie upon the desk." She looked at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable, before complying with his demand. Passing by him as she crossed the room, she nimbly climbed upon the desk and lay down on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling. She did not move, save for the shallow rising and falling of her chest. As he came into upon, he could not discern whether the expression upon her face was one of passion or fear. And then he reminded himself that he did not care.

The school was nearly empty for the Christmas holiday and Snape took full advantage of the privacy such emptiness afforded them. Beginning cautiously, he met Hermione only in his office or classroom. But after several days, he grew bolder, finding more and more locations throughout the castle. It was as though his fantasies had sprung to life. He felt invincible, as though he could never be caught, for his fantasies never allowed for such a thing to happen. He was careless, if not reckless, calling for her at all hours, day and night, in every location imaginable. And she never failed to come to him, never hesitated, no matter the abuse he heaped upon her. She was his slave and seemed grateful to be so.

Just before classes resumed in January, he found himself worrying that his time with Hermione would be curtailed by the presence of the student body once more. However, as the castle filled with bodies, he took their presence as a challenge, seeking ever-more dangerous places to meet. As the weeks wore on, they met in rooms all over Hogwarts – classrooms, bathrooms, and cupboards, just as often as his office and Potions classroom. One evening, he managed to fulfill his well-worn fantasy of fucking her against the stacks in the library, just barely managing to escape Mr. Filch as he investigated the disturbance. One particularly bold afternoon, he pulled her into the darkened corner behind a statue on a rarely visited sixth-floor corridor. As she clung to the base of the statue, he thrust into her violently, daring her to cry out and alert someone to their presence.

Despite the varied nature and location of their encounters, however, certain facets of their relationship remained constant. Though Snape ensured that Hermione was thoroughly satisfied, coming each and every time, her pleasure was always bestowed by Snape as he saw fit. He demanded total control over their relationship, from the time of their meeting, to the place, to the 

manner in which they fucked. Never did he place himself in a position of subjugation by allowing her to ride him. And in all their meeting places, he never allowed her to visit his bedchamber, preferring the cold expansiveness of the castle to the personal security of his room.

But perhaps most vital to Snape was his refusal to remain with Hermione for any length of time after sex. For despite his set determination to disabuse himself of his guilt and allow his baser instincts to have free reign, it was in the moments after he had come that he was least able to cope with his own actions. To allow Hermione to see any doubt or shame was not an option. And so wrested himself from her the first moment he was able, struggling once more to suppress his pain, burying his remorse deeper and deeper within himself.

Only once did his guilt extend beyond his usual post-coital period of self-abasement. One afternoon, early in January, it occurred to him with a flash that she could become pregnant. Somehow, the possibility has completely escaped his attention. And though he knew that many witches, even those at Hogwarts, used preventative potions once coming of-age, he had never consulted Hermione on such an issue. He tried to put the thought from his mind, but the ramifications of a pregnancy were too dire to ignore.

Thus, he found himself sneaking into the hospital wing one evening while Madam Pomfrey was at dinner, in order to peruse Hermione's treatment record. When he discovered she was, in fact, being prescribed the monthly potion, his knees weakened with relief. However, an instant later, his jealous anger flared, as he realized she had been receiving the potion since turning 17, well before his association with her began. Of course, he reasoned, she could have begun receiving the potion as a preventative measure, a fortuitous move, considering the impromptu nature of their initial encounters. But the thought that she had been sleeping with anyone else made his blood run cold, and strengthened his resolve to possess her entirely.

As the weeks turned into months and winter's vicious storms weakened into bleak, wan days, he tried his best not to notice the effect his actions were having on Hermione. For a while she was always eager to see him and always an active participant in their meetings. However, before long, she was looking worse for wear and it was clear that what was happening was not good for her. She became drawn and gaunt, and looked older than her eighteen years. He knew from observing her in the Great Hall that she was hardly eating, and couldn't possibly have been getting enough sleep, what with the amount of studying she did, coupled with her extracurricular activities with him. In addition, she bore the wounds and scars that resulted from his regular assaults, albeit in locations only he would see. Snape himself was not well, his health suffering at the hands of his addiction. For that was what sex had become to him; not a day passed that he did not summon Hermione to him, at least once and usually more frequently.

Still, though he knew what was happening was wrong, to say the least, and though he knew he was causing nothing but harm to himself and to Hermione, he had no intention of modifying his actions. It was difficult enough to remember that she would be graduating in a few short months; such knowledge was buried each day with his guilt and shame, not to be dwelt upon.

And so things would have continued, had Dumbledore not intervened.

Evening had fallen upon the Hogwarts grounds and Snape had retired to his chambers, where he intended to grade a slew of essays and potions before summoning Hermione to his office. But just moments after entering his room, a knock sounded upon his door. Snape turned back to answer it, wondering if Hermione would have taken it upon herself to come to him early. Such a move would have been unexpected, especially since he had never invited her to visit him in his bedchamber.

Opening the door, he was surprised to find the headmaster standing on the other side.

"Professor Dumbledore, good evening," he said, his surprise evident in his tone. Remembering his manners, however, he stepped aside, saying, "Please, do come in."

Dumbledore smiled and swept past Snape into the room, saying, "Thank you, Severus. I apologize for the intrusion."

Dumbledore looked about the room for a moment and then returned his gaze to Snape. "I trust you are alone?" he asked inquiringly.

Snape looked sharply at the headmaster and answered, "Yes, of course."

"Good. Let us sit and chat for a moment, shall we?" Dumbledore settled himself in one of the armchairs before the fire, adding, "A nice brandy or whiskey would do nicely, don't you think?"

Once again, Snape answered, "Yes, of course," and set to fixing the two men a pair of drinks. Once they were both settled before the fire, drinks in hand, a silence fell, and Snape was at a loss for how to address the chasm developing.

Finally, Dumbledore, who had seemed not the least bit disturbed by the silence, ended the awkwardness by asking, "I do hope we will have a pleasant spring, do you not?"

Snape, accustomed to Dumbledore's inane chit-chat, answered easily, "Yes, I suppose some warm weather would be nice."

Dumbledore continued, "And I do think that some sun would do you a world of good. You are far too pale and drawn, far more so than usual."

Snape gave a noncommittal grunt in return, not wishing to discuss the state of his health.

"My, this term has progressed quickly, no? It seems that, just yesterday, the students were returning from their Christmas holidays and now we're very nearly onto end-of-term exams."

Again, Snape said nothing, taking a sip of his firewhiskey. He generally tried not to think about the end of term, as it meant that Hermione would be graduating. His silence, however, did nothing to stop Dumbledore from continuing his chatter.

"And your students, will they be ready for their exams? How are the O.W.L and N.E.W.T. students progressing?"

Dumbledore was now looking at Snape most carefully, and Snape stared back, becoming more certain of what the old man was fishing for. He felt his face grow hot and he gripped his glass tightly.

Without giving Snape a chance to answer, Dumbledore continued, "I believe your N.E.W.T. students, Miss Granger in particular, show a great deal of promise."

Snape felt sick to his stomach. Dumbledore knew. How long had he known? Of course, they hadn't been as discreet as they should have been, but he thought he had been careful enough. So what would happen now? He'd be chucked out, of course, and disgraced. The parents would find out and there would be a scandal…he'd never teach again and be forced to return to Spinner's End, where he'd live a lonely life as a recluse…he could imagine it all vividly. But what bothered him more than anything was the thought that he wouldn't see Hermione again; it would be over. That, more than anything else, scared him to death.

He realized Dumbledore was watching him carefully. The old wizard asked him gently, "Severus, what precisely is happening between you and Hermione Granger?"

Snape rose from his chair and stood before the fireplace, his back to Dumbledore.

"I do not know what you are talking about," he replied, his voice level, but his heart heavy with the lie. Both men knew the truth, but he could not bring himself to admit it to this man, whom he so greatly respected and admired.

Dumbledore sighed sadly and was quiet for a moment more. Finally, he spoke.

"Severus, please look at me."

Snape turned to face Dumbledore, careful to keep his face and eyes unreadable. Dumbledore gave him an appraising glance before stating, "Severus, I do not know exactly what is happening between you and Miss Granger. But I do know that, whatever it is, it is harmful. To both of you."

Snape said nothing and Dumbledore continued, "It is my duty, as the headmaster of this school, to protect both my students and my professors. But Severus, it is also my duty to protect you as my friend. What you are doing is not wise, and will bring you both nothing but pain. You must end it."

Dumbledore swallowed what was left of his whiskey and placed the glass down carefully on the table beside him. Rising, he said, "I trust you will think carefully about what I have said. I come to you with only your best interests in mind. Goodnight, Severus."

And with that, he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Snape sank heavily into his chair, lowering his head to his hands. He was overwhelmed with guilt, recognizing the position in which he had placed Dumbledore. His headmaster had trusted him with a duty of great importance, that of the molding and shaping of young, impressionable minds. He had placed faith in Snape when no one else would have done so, believing in him despite his past despicable actions. And Snape had betrayed him.

He had known all along that what he was doing was unfair to everyone, especially to Hermione. And he could see, plainly, how their relationship was affecting her. He was truly bad for her. The knowledge of that truth pained him. And what made it all that much worse was the fact that, under it all, he didn't want to treat her the way he did. He wanted to touch her carefully, caress her, make love to her. Love her. And most of all, he wanted her to love him.

Snape pulled a galleon out of his pocket. He smiled to himself as he slid his fingers over the gold. It was the special coin, the one he used to summon her. He remembered when he had first been told of the system, the one used by Dumbledore's Army years before, and he remembered how impressed he had been when he had learned that Hermione Granger had developed the system. When he had presented her with a coin several months before, her face had glowed at his recognition of her talents; in response, he had been more forceful with her than usual, not wanting to let her become too close.

In the present, Snape tapped the galleon with his wand, canceling his meeting with her. He needed some time to think about what Dumbledore had said. By morning, however, whatever resolve he might have developed in trying to stay away from her crumbled. Though he knew it was wrong, and though he knew it might cost him his job and his reputation, he could not stay away from Hermione.

Late in the afternoon, as students were streaming toward the Great Hall for dinner, he stepped out of the shadows and plucked her, unseen, from the throngs. He pulled her into a nearby classroom and charmed the door. As he listened to the footsteps die away, he gazed upon her and tried to tell himself to let her go. But the thought of ending things, right then and there, produced a rage in him that he could not control. Unreasonably, he felt himself becoming angry with her, as though she had played some part in causing his inner turmoil.

Hermione reached for him but, with a surge of anger, he held her back. Though he knew it was unfair, he found himself irrationally, uncontrollably filled with rage. With his rage came powerful arousal and his never-ending need to dominate her. More than ever, his urge to possess her filled him, as the thought that she could be taken from him forever became a real possibility.

And so, without offering any explanation as to his sudden ire, he forced her to her knees, where, despite his rough treatment, she immediately sought to pleasure him. With her hands she drew him out, and with her mouth, she drew him in, and for a moment, he was surrounded by heat and desire, to the exclusion of all other senses. But before long, he became aware of what was happening, the battle between his lust for her and his need to do the right thing stormed within him. He simply could not deny that he needed her, more than anything, and he longed to bring her yet closer to him.

He slid his fingers into her hair, the bushiness of which disguised its soft, luxurious feel. He loved to sink his fingers into her head, believing that her hair was his secret delight, known only to him. His hands securely against her scalp, he pushed firmly on her head, leading her mouth ever further along his cock, needing more and more access to her. She began to gag but he did not care, his thoughts only on his desire for her and his absolute need for control. Finally, she resisted, pulling away from him, but he directed his gaze down toward her, narrowing his eyes and silently commanding her to recommence her ministrations. With a determined breath, she sank once more to her task and he gloried in her surrender.

His release was building and he simultaneously pushed for his orgasm while seeking to prolong his domination. And somewhere underneath it all, he knew that once he came, he would be subsumed once more with his shame and despair. But he couldn't hold off his orgasm forever, and eventually, her skillful tongue proved too much, and he came into her mouth, down her throat, groaning and clutching her head to him.

He knew she would be waiting for him. He knew he had never left her, seeking his own solace, without pleasuring her first. But the intense pleasure of his orgasm also brought, as he had expected, crushing self-doubt and anguish. And so he pushed her from him and ran from the classroom, leaving Hermione in a heap on the floor.

When Snape reached his chambers, he found he could not sit still. Instead, he paced the room for hours, stalking to and fro, consumed by thoughts of his disastrous situation. He wanted so badly, in that moment, to do the right thing. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the right thing was to walk away from her. But even the thought of walking away was like tearing a limb from his own body. Even so, he knew what he had to do.

After pacing in his room for several hours, Snape ascended from the dungeons, seeking the early evening air, hoping for some relief from his suffocating thoughts. But before he could make his escape through the front door in the entrance hall, a booming voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Evenin', Professor!" came the unmistakable greeting from Hagrid, as he crossed the entrance hall to meet Snape.

Snape considered ignoring him and simply fleeing the building, but his manners got the best of him.

"Hagrid," he replied coldly, hoping to keep the small talk to a minimum.

"A few o' us were just headin' down to the pub for a pint or two. Care to join us?" asked Hagrid, in his usual, jovial tone. It was then that Snape realized that Hagrid was trailed by several other professors, chatting amiably as they ambled toward the door.

Snape opened his mouth to reply, but stopped before saying a word. The thought of spending an evening with any of them, especially Hagrid, with his buoyant cheerfulness, made Snape want to slam his head against the wall. And he was just about to say so when a vision of his coming 

evening stopped him short. For he could see it plainly – after trying to wear himself out by stalking about the castle grounds for hours, he would return to his room, where he would resume pacing, alternately agonizing over what action to take with regard to Hermione and jerking off as he fantasized about how he would ravish her during their next encounter. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

And so, much to the shock of everyone else, Snape finally answered Hagrid, "I'll come down for a little while."

As the small group set off towards the castle gates, it became clear that the professors had mistaken Snape's assent at joining the group as an eagerness to participate in conversation. But it took only one withering glance directed toward Pomona Sprout after she inquired after Snape's term for the group to let him alone.

When they arrived at the Three Broomsticks, Snape was sure he had made a mistake by agreeing to tag along. The pub was crowded and noisy, with groups of young men ogling Rosmerta at the bar. Still, Snape made his way through the crowd and joined the rest of the Hogwarts crowd as they found a table.

Hagrid, who was heading toward the bar for drinks, called out to Snape, "Professor – mead?"

Snape grimaced and called back, "Firewhiskey. A double."

An hour and three whiskeys later, Snape could no longer stomach the insipid prattle and gossip of the other members of his party. So when Hagrid offered to get Snape another drink, Snape mumbled, "Don't bother," and headed toward the bar himself.

Settling himself into an empty bar stool, he sighed with weary relief at his independence. He would take horny teenagers at the bar over the middle-aged Hogwarts staff any day. After downing his fourth whiskey, he ordered a fifth and turned toward the crowd at the bar. He watched as the teenagers fell all over themselves trying to impress Rosmerta and she laughed patronizingly at their efforts. But before long, their barely-concealed yearning looks brought to him visions of Weasley mooning over Hermione and he turned his attention away.

It was then that he noticed the witch sitting next to him. She was not too young, but not exactly old either, perhaps in her mid- to late-thirties. She had long, light brown hair that fell softly down her back in an elegant sheet, and deep-set brown eyes. She was dressed fashionably, if conservatively, as though she had come from an office. But the grey robes were form-fitting, showing off her trim figure nicely. On the bar, just within reach of her slender, manicured fingers was a drink; it was pink and yet, somehow, deadly-looking. He had taken all of this in before he realized she was looking at him.

Snape jumped slightly, his eyes out of focus from the alcohol. She smiled a familiar smile and he wondered vaguely if he knew the woman.

"Severus Snape," she said in a low voice that still carried to him easily. "I wondered if you'd make your way over to me tonight." Her voice was silky and sophisticated and sent a shiver down his spine. But more importantly, he recognized it.

"Opal?" he asked, uncertainly. She smiled more broadly at his having remembered and placed her hand over his.

And then it came back to him. Opal Rosier. She was the wealthy daughter of a pureblood wizarding family, related to Evan Rosier and, distantly, to the Malfoys. During his time with the Death Eaters, when nothing had mattered to him but power and glory and the service of the Dark Lord, she had been one of the many. He remembered little of their association, but that he had been with her, he was certain. And judging from the way she was looking at him, Opal was just as certain.

He had seen her name a few times over the years, as she had ascended position after position within the ministry. Though he didn't know her exact position any longer, how she managed to rise through the ranks was no mystery to him, based on his personal experience with her. She had no real allegiances one way or the other, toward those seeking pureblood preservation or those pushing for diversity and acceptance. Opal was out for Opal, and what she hungered for more than anything was power. Hence her eagerness to attract Snape in his early, promising days as a Death Eater.

Snape continued to drink as Opal lured him into conversation. Her tinkling laugh cut through his foggy brain, assaulting him on his every attempt to think clearly. As she talked, first her right hand, and then both hands explored his hands and arms, snaking up to his shoulders.

"I read all about what you did during the war," she purred, eyeing him seductively. "I always knew you'd be a great man one day. I just never expected you to pick the side you did." She pouted a bit at her last sentence, but then brightened once more.

"Still, you're quite an impressive man, Severus. Who knew we'd find each other again after all these years."

Snape was trapped beneath an intoxicated haze, but he did not miss Opal's hands as they came to rest on his thighs and then slowly began sliding back and forth.

Her eyes glittered as she leaned in and whispered to him, "I've never forgotten you."

Through his drunkenness, Snape felt his arousal start to creep up. The feelings of the old days were returning, feelings of power and authority without limit. He knew that, with Opal, he could have whatever he wanted.

Getting to his feet uncertainly, Snape took a deep breath. He grabbed her wrist and she winced a little, clearly surprised by his strong grip.

"Let's go," he muttered gruffly and began to pull her toward the back door of the pub. Opal stumbled a little as she trailed behind and stammered, "We can go to my place—"

"No," stated Snape, authoritatively, not stopping. "Out back." He did not turn to determine whether anyone from Hogwarts had watched him leave with her through the crowded pub.

The pair tripped through the back door into the narrow alley that serviced the Three Broomsticks and Snape allowed the door to slam behind him. The cool night air met him like a slap in the face, and he sobered slightly. And then her hands were on him and pushed her roughly against the wall, sinking once again into his intoxication.

As he kissed her, in the back of his mind, he noted that her taste was alien, not right. His hands fought through robes to grasp skin that was a foreign texture. Silken strands of hair brushed against his cheeks, sending wafts of unfamiliar scent into his nostrils. It felt wrong.

Despite the wrongness, however, he shoved the inconsistencies to the back of his mind and began a fresh assault, surging against her as his erection stretched through his layers of clothing. Her hands were sliding across his body and pulling at his robes. Finally, they reached his tented pants and pulled open his fly, reaching her hand into free his swollen cock.

Her hand made contact with his member and he broke their kiss, moaning in pleasure. As he buried his head into her neck and bucked into her warm hand, he groaned, muttering, "Hermione."

He pressed his lips against hers again, murmuring, "Hermione," once more against her mouth. But as the name passed his lips, she pulled her head away slightly, panting into his ear, "It's Opal. Opal."

Snape stopped short. With a rush of sobriety, he realized what he was doing and who he was not with. With all his might, he placed his hand upon her chest and heaved, slamming her against the wall as he roared, "Get away!" He was panting and gazed about, wild-eyed, realizing the extent of his madness.

Opal was surveying him with shock, he robes hanging open. After a moment, fury flashed in her eyes and she closed her robes. But when she spoke, her words were calm, if short.

"I see."

Snape hurriedly righted his clothing and spun away from Opal. With only a moment's hesitation, he took off down the alley, wanting to be away from there, away from her. He barely heard her as she called after him sarcastically, "Goodbye, Severus!"

Snape's heart pounding heart kept time with his feet as he bolted back to the castle. Once safely within his chambers, he leaned back against his door, eyes closed, until his heaving chest calmed. And with that, he resumed pacing the floor, as though he had never left.

His thoughts were chaotic and his brain buzzed with confusion. For hours, he kept up his pacing, unable to settle on one thought. In the back of his mind, he recognized that, more than anything, he was afraid to dwell on his thoughts, afraid of where they might take him. And so he walked for hours until, finally exhausted, he collapsed on his bed.

A few hours later, the morning found Snape hungover and groggy. He showered and dressed, and headed straight for his classroom, where he hoped to brew himself a restorative potion, but when he arrived, he found he was unable to focus long enough to brew the potion correctly. The only other option to cure his pounding headache would be to visit Madam Pomfrey. But after his performance for the various members of the Hogwarts staff during the previous evening, he had little desire to show his face around the castle, let alone inform anyone that he was hungover. So, instead, he suffered until his first class arrived, at which time he set them to work brewing a restorative potion. If any of the mindless students had the ability to brew such a potion without killing him, it would be a miracle, but he was willing to take the risk.

By midmorning, Snape had managed to take some potion and had recovered slightly from the previous evening's activities. He had not forgotten his disastrous reunion with Opal, but he honestly didn't care what she thought of him. Truly, the only person he cared about was Hermione.

N.E.W.T.-level Potions was scheduled for just after midmorning break and he wasn't quite sure how to prepare for it. The last few days had been confusing and, in all honesty, terrifying to Snape. The prospect of losing Hermione forever was fresh in his mind but he couldn't see any way to rectify the situation. Whether he heeded Dumbledore's warning or not, she would graduate in a few short months and he would be left alone. The prospect was frightening.

When Hermione entered the classroom, as usual, he did his best to remain neutral and unaffected by her presence. Hermione, on the other hand, who was usually calm and collected during class, today appeared angry and vengeful. She chopped her potion ingredients violently and slammed them into her cauldron, sending splatter across her desk. Her cheeks were pink with the flush of her wrath and she glared openly at him throughout most of the morning. He wondered vaguely if her anger had anything to do with him and their last time together on the fifth-floor classroom. No matter the cause, however, he refused to allow himself to be baited.

Meanwhile, as Hermione apparently fumed across the room, Snape agonized privately over what he viewed as him impending doom. The thought of her leaving, of being separated from him, was unbearable. And when class ended and he watched the door close behind her retreating back, a pain as real as being stabbed by a knife awakened him absolutely to his feelings for her. He would tell her. There was no other alternative. She had to know that, beneath the punishing treatment and degrading sexual depravity, his love for her was utterly unconditional and unqualified. He loved her. He needed her. And he would tell her.

The sudden realization and conviction with which he experienced his revelation was overwhelming and he dropped into his chair. He had no idea how he would form the words to tell her how much he needed her. But he knew that he would find them. With dizzying speed, ideas were coming to him as his future was suddenly spread before him. He would tell her and 

she would love him too and she would be with him. She would not leave Hogwarts at the end of term, but would remain with him. They would leave together and start a new life. They would travel, they would experience new things together. She was young and brilliant, and with his help, she would rise to new heights of glory and recognition. His heart was fluttering and palpitating as he reveled in the ecstasy of his anticipation. Slowly, the grey pages of his life began to brighten, as brilliant colors seeped in at every corner. It would be different. He would be different.

Ripping out his galleon from his pocket, he sent for her, to come to him as soon as possible. He could wait no longer to tell her. His heart was bursting.

Yet, somehow, he had not anticipated the obvious. For she did not come. For hours, he waited, canceling his afternoon classes, pacing his office all evening. But she did not come. He was utterly unprepared for the shock to his system caused by her unresponsiveness. It was like being plunged into a bath of icy water. He had embarked upon a journey of self-discovery and was cognizant of the fact that, minute by minute, he was becoming more aware of himself. But this newfound realization was thoroughly dependent upon her, upon her acceptance of him. Perhaps it was counterintuitive to seek self-discovery through another. But his years of solitude and independence had produced nothing but loneliness for him.

So now, where had this left him? In the span of several days, he had reversed nearly two decades of practice and certainty to open himself up for the first time. And she rejected him. For several days, he summoned her insistently, desperately, but she did not respond. And so, without her there to catch him as he leapt from his high perch of security into the great unknown, he plummeted into a freefall of anxiety and despair.

The days passed into weeks, one agonizing minute at a time, and all the while, she ignored him. In the Great Hall, she kept her body turned resolutely from him as she ate and talked with her friends. In class, though she always showed up, she hardly made an effort. When her grades began to slip, she appeared to recognize the senselessness of sabotaging herself at the end of her school career and her grades picked up once more. But her lackadaisical, almost spiteful attitude was not lost on him.

It wasn't long before his despair began to harden in response. He was bitter and angry and unable to contain any of his feelings. Throughout the spring, his students suffered at his hand as his wrath was unleashed in a torrent of heavy punishments and words more acidic than any potion he could ever concoct. At night, he burned with a mixture of despair and longing more intense than anything he had felt in the days leading up to the first night with her in the classroom. He remembered that first night well, and the challenge she had laid down, seeking to exert control over him. He had denied her that control at every opportunity and now, it appeared she was effecting her revenge. For she had all the control and he was absolutely powerless. His impotence was maddening.

The final day of classes arrived, but neither Snape nor Hermione acknowledged the occasion to one another. In fact, the day passed rather unremarkably, much as if it had been any other class. But suddenly, class was ending and she was walking out the door. Despite his anger and vicious 

rage, he found himself panicking at her departure. She was no longer his student; whatever had existed between them was now, most certainly, at an end. And he didn't want the end to be like this, to be bitter and vengeful.

The castle embarked upon a week of hushed intensity, for students were preparing for exams. Though he didn't want to care, didn't want it to matter, he trailed Hermione frequently, spying on her as she studied intently in the library. It was as though he wanted to get his fill of her before she would be gone forever. As she pored over her books and notes, he pored over her, studying every detail of her face, her hair, her body. He committed to memory each and every curve and plane of her figure and analyzed every gesture.

He noticed ruefully that, after several months of no contact with him, she appeared healthier. She had gained back the weight she had lost, discarding her skeletal, emaciated look. Her skin, once sallow and sickly, was now vibrant, her cheeks colorful once more. Her eyes no longer appeared sunken and filmy, but were once again bright and sparkling. And though he couldn't actually tell while she was dressed, he was sure her bruises and wounds that he had inflicted upon her were healed. All evidence that he had ever been with her had disappeared.

Snape's attention to Hermione carried straight through to the N.E.W.T. examinations. From concealed locations, he observed each and every exam, holding his breath as she flawlessly executed the practical sections. And though he had little doubt in her abilities, when she finally reached the Potions exam on the final day of testing, he couldn't help but feel nervous for her. But he could see that she brewed her potion perfectly each step of the way, producing a flawless finished product. He didn't doubt that she had passed all of her N.E.W.T.s with flying colors. And he felt a surge of reluctant pride when he privately acknowledged to himself that she'd be able to anywhere and do anything she set out to accomplish.

With N.E.W.T.s and O.W.L.s completed, the remainder of the school rushed into its examination period and Snape was forced to abandon his post as secret guardian and watchman of Hermione in order to administer his other students' exams. The testing period moved quickly, and suddenly, exams were finished and graded and students and staff alike were enjoying the last days of sunshine before the Hogwarts Express departed Hogsmeade Station for London.

Once he had completed his final professorial duties for the year, Snape found himself at the bottom of a well of depression and anger. He avoided people as much as possible, and spent the majority of his time in his chambers or office, leafing through old books and doing his best to focus on potions-related activity. Thus, when the last night of the school year arrived, heralded by the leaving feast, it was not a difficult decision to remain in his self-imposed solitary confinement.

After several hours cooped up in his office, he needed a break from the tediousness of his books and wandered through the dungeon corridors until he reached the Potions classroom. Entering the room, he lit the torches and gazed around. It was here that his moments of intimacy with Hermione had sprung to life, through stolen gazes during classtime. It was here that their affair had begun, so many months before. And it was here that he would spend the remainder of his 

days, alone, attempting the mold the minds of the innumerable students yet to come, students who became more and more insolent with each passing year.

His eyes flickered over to the storeroom door and he crossed the room and pulled it open. Stepping inside, he gazed upon the rows of shelves, crowded, but well-organized, labels gracing each shelf in a neat hand. He ran his hand along the edge of one shelf lovingly, appreciating the effort she had put into the task. He could not have done a better job himself.

Abruptly, he shook himself out of his reverie. This would not do. To have the cupboard in such a state would only serve to remind him daily of what he had lost. His chest swelled with anguish and he swept his arm along the nearest shelf, bringing its contents crashing to the floor.

Snape closed his eyes and took several deep, calming breaths. His blood pressure decreasing, he began to empty the cupboard of its contents methodically, loading everything onto the desks in the classroom. He would reorganize and relabel and remove every trace of her presence.

After a time, the loading of small jars into boxes and the heaving of the boxes into the classroom became routine, leading him into almost a trance-like state. As a result, it was with complete astonishment that he exited the storeroom to find Hermione standing across the room.

Hermione's face registered surprise as well, apparently at his actions. They stared at one another for what felt like an eternity. It was the most she had acknowledged him in months. He was in turmoil, not knowing what to do next. He longed to run to her and sweep her into his arms as he had never done before. But the time for such actions had passed. She didn't want him. And the knowledge of that fact reinforced his resolve.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"What do you want?" he demanded continuing with his activity. She didn't answer him directly, however, and responded, "What are you doing?"

She was watching him empty the box of potion ingredients onto a desk. He didn't stop as he replied, "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm cleaning the storeroom."

He returned to the storeroom for another box, and on his trip back to the classroom, she began, "But I…" Her words trailed off; he knew she was wondering why he'd clean the storeroom she had just organized so well several months earlier.

Not looking to hand out any compliments, he retorted, "For your information, your organization of the storeroom was unacceptable. Tonight was my first opportunity to rectify the disorder you caused."

She looked as though she had been slapped by his insult. However, she addressed another issue as she continued, "Tonight? Tonight was the first opportunity? Tonight was the leaving feast. Why couldn't it have been tomorrow?"

Her voice was gentle and he could hear the abrasiveness in his own voice as he responded with a sneer, "And why on earth would I attend the leaving feast?" He glanced up at her and continued sarcastically, "Was my presence requested?"

He noticed that she did not meet his eyes as she responded softly, "I would have liked for you to be there."

Her answer caused him to laugh bitterly. "Oh yes, you have avoided me; you have ignored my requests to see you for months, but you would have liked for me to attend. I see."

She continued to stare at the floor and he let the cruel smile slip from his face. He was tired of the games. Letting out a sigh, he finally asked her resignedly, "What do you want, Miss Granger? Why are you here?" He was ready for his torment to end.

She raised her eyes to his for the first time since entering the room; she opened her mouth but only stammered, "I…I just thought…"

"You just thought what?" he demanded sharply, wanting to know what more she could possibly want from him. Apparently, she didn't know either, and she sighed and returned her eyes to the floor.

As their gaze broke, Snape felt something break within himself as well. This was it. They had nothing left to say to each other, nothing but harsh, bitter words, and so he chose to put a stop to it.

"Get out of my sight." He tried to put some venom into the words, a hint of threat, but it just wasn't in him. Fighting to keep his composure, he turned his back on her and headed back to the cupboard. When, at last, he heard the classroom door close behind her, he let out a breath and took a few shaky steps back to the desk.

He lowered himself to the seat slowly as the realization of his loss hit home. His body was trembling as it usually did after he came with her. All of the emotion came surging up, all of the guilt, all of the memories of his bad acts, and assaulted him violently. As angry as he had been with her, for months, he was angrier with himself for letting it happen in the first place. The blame for his condition lay with no one but himself.

He lowered his face to his hands as the trembling in his body worsened. Tears burned behind his eyes and for the first time, they threatened to spill over onto his cheeks. Despite all of it, he still yearned to hold her. He longed to hear her speak his name.

He was still sitting in this position, aching and trembling, when the door swung open once more. He had been certain that when she had walked out the door, he would never see her again. But she was back, and their eyes connected. So surprised was he that he forgot to look away and shield his emotions. He felt naked and ashamed, of everything he had done, and he had momentarily lost the ability to cloak his emotions. She was looking at him with unabashed openness and concern. He wanted desperately to shut her out and push her away, but he could 

not make a sound and she was not leaving. Silently, he pleaded with his eyes for her to leave him in peace, but she ignored his pleas. On her face was an expression of equal parts revelation and determination.

When she took a step toward him, it finally triggered his brain and he leapt from his chair, shaking harder. He had never felt so frightened; he was an exposed raw nerve, and the mere thought of being touched sent shivers down his spine. But she ignored his reaction and was across the room in an instant. He backed up to the wall as she approached him and stretched out her hand.

As their fingers met, he felt not the painful surge of electricity he had been expecting, but a soothing, calming tingle. He relaxed slightly at the contact and she took his accession as an invitation. Her arms slipped up and pulled his head down toward hers as she captured his mouth in a kiss. Her body was pressing against him and he returned the pressure, accepting her body like a salve on an open wound.

The kiss was unlike anything he had ever known. Never had he felt such passion or such joy from the act. Never had he felt like he existed simply for the purpose of being joined to someone else in such a way. And never had he felt that he deserved such a feeling.

She had begun to remove his clothing, one piece at a time, but he hardly knew what was happening. He was lost in a dream, where all was loving kisses and tender caresses. He had never known it could be this way. Not for him.

Presently, he became aware that she had removed both of their clothes. An instant later, his arms were around her and they were resuming their embrace. Their bodies came into full contact and each of his nerve endings rejoiced in the pressure of her skin against his. She pushed more fully against him and his back pressed harder against the wall. Giving into the pressure, he slid down along the wall, and she followed, sitting astride his lap as he reached the floor. Instantly, he sought out her mouth to continue their passionate embrace.

He was fully erect, his aching cock throbbing in time with his aching soul. He longed for her but simultaneously knew he did not deserve her. But he had no control over himself any longer, nor did he have control over the situation. He had laid himself on the line before her at last. He pressed forward because he could not stop, and prayed that she would grant him what it was he desired.

At last, their embrace became too much for him and he longed to be buried within her. In an effort to reach her, he surged his hips forward, and she pulled her head back in surprise. Their eyes met and held. Both knew that, at any other time, when he had been ready to enter her, he would simply have done so, forcefully and without permission. But he didn't want to take without asking any longer. He wanted her to bestow herself upon him, to give herself up willingly. And so he waited tensely as she searched within his eyes for whatever answers she was seeking.

Hermione almost appeared to become lost in thought and Snape's anxiety grew. He had never needed her as he needed her in that moment and his apprehension increased as he felt her slipping from him.

In desperation, his voice hardly a raspy whisper, he choked, "Hermione."

At the sound of her name falling from his lips for the first time, she snapped back to reality, shock apparent on her face. But when she did not act on his plea immediately, he groaned and continued, "Please…"

As he begged her to grant him the release he had been seeking for so long, he reached up his hand and stroked her cheek, unable to find any other way to show her the tenderness of his feelings for her.

Hermione's eyes filled with tears and Snape felt certain that whatever questions she had had, he had answered. Without removing her eyes from his, she wrapped her arms around him once more and lowered herself onto him.

With just the first movement, stars exploded behind his eyes. As his vision returned to him, he reconnected their gaze, stepping up the intensity of their union. Hermione lifted herself and sank upon him once more, settling slowly and carefully into a rhythm.

It was glorious and different from every other time with her, or any other woman. He felt powerful, not because he sought to dominate her, but because she made him stronger. Minutes before, he had been a quivering mass upon the desk and now, with her to guide him, he felt the strength of ten armies within himself. Through her, he felt the promise of the man he could be. He was a phoenix, old and careworn, and she was the fire, through which he died and was reborn. She burned bright and intense, destroying his past and purifying him until he was clean and whole.

As the rhythm of their lovemaking increased, colors began to bleed into the edges of his vision, obliterating his sight. There, for the first time, were the vibrant, pulsating hues he had been missing – the splendid colors of a sunrise, fiery oranges and glimmering golds, and brilliant crimsons, all holding the expectation of a fresh, new day. It was his to be had, if he would just reach out and take it.

And so he did. Completely unaware of where he was or what was happening, Snape gave himself over to the kaleidoscope of colors before him, reaching for a life he had hardly dared to dream of until then. This was how it could be. Surrounded by the glow of ecstasy, he felt himself let go as his orgasm tore through his body and anchored him back in reality.

He became aware that Hermione was still above him. As his orgasm passed in wave after wave through his body, he collapsed against her, burying his face in her neck. He pulled her close to him, not wanting to lose the nearness of her presence. Even after the shuddering of his body had stilled, he could not control his trembling. Remorse flooded his body, but, for the first time, it was not for what he had just done, but for what he had done previously. Every time he had been 

with her, he had had an opportunity to change things, to set them right, but he had never allowed himself. Instead, whenever his guilt had threatened to rear its ugly head, he had run from her, never letting her in.

But now, as his sorrow mounted, he could not escape her, nor did he want to. Instead, he buried his head against her, allowing the tears that had threatened him for so long to finally escape. Choking on the sobs that rose from his throat, he moaned into her neck, "Hermione…Hermione…" Her name on his lips felt like the sweetest water and he wanted nothing more than to be able to say it for the rest of his life.

And then, finally, came the words he had known he owed her from the start.

"I'm sorry." And with that, he was lost, sobbing against her as he mourned the life he passed up. In that moment, he atoned for all the acts in the service of the Dark Lord, for all of the women during those years. He prostrated himself before her to beg forgiveness for the years of selfish solitude. And, most of all, he begged for absolution from her.

Through it all, Hermione held him close to her, rocking gently, stroking his back, whispering in his ear. After an eternity, as he felt his sobs subsiding, he whispered to her once more, "I'm sorry."

Hermione continued to hold him as she pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss. And then she whispered back, "I'm sorry too."

After a time, Hermione pulled her head from his, looking into his eyes once more. When she lifted her body from his, he felt a chill descend upon his body, both physically and emotionally. He watched her silently as she pulled her robe on and gathered up her belongings. Despite everything that had occurred, despite everything they had been through together, he still had not told her. She approached him quietly and slipped his robe over his shoulders. As she drew away from him, instinctively, he reached out and caught her arm. This was the moment. But the words did not form, even as his brain beat against the inside of his skull, demanding that he not let her go. Desperately, he pleaded with his eyes for her to understand. But she did not. Or maybe she did, but simply did not love him. The possibility kept him silent and, mutely, he watched as she carefully, tenderly, withdrew her arm from his grip and left the room.

After her departure, an overwhelming exhaustion consumed him. He raised himself on rubbery legs and carefully made his way back to his chambers, where he collapsed onto his bed and fell into the deepest sleep he had experienced in a year.

The next morning found Snape standing on the front steps of Hogwarts. He had one last opportunity. The thestral-drawn coaches had departed and the train to London would be leaving at any moment. He could reach her before then and he could tell her. He could ask her not just to pity him but to love him and to be with him. He could reach for the life that, for the first time, seemed within his grasp.

With sudden determination, he took off for the front gates of the school at a sprint. Reaching the gates, his chest heaving with exertion, he twisted his wand as he turned and Disapparated, finding himself upon the platform at the station.

Students milled about and steam billowed from the engine, swirling around the moving bodies. Immediately, he backed into the shadows as he searched her out. It was only a moment before he spotted her bushy hair, as she stood in a small, disorganized queue, waiting to board the train. His heart leapt at the sight of her and he took a step in her direction. At that moment, he stopped, however, as he noticed Weasley standing behind her. Snape watched as Weasley said something to her that she apparently couldn't hear in the surrounding din, so he lowered his lips closer to her ear. She smiled appreciatively at whatever the comment was and ducked her head shyly. And then she was boarding the train.

Snape expected to feel a raging jealousy at the scene he had just witnessed, but for the first time, he was calm. He looked along the length of the train, attempting to locate the compartment she would choose. As he scanned the windows, he considered the possibility that she would wind up with Weasley. It would be a sensible move on her part. And maybe she had feelings for him. But whether she married Weasley, or Potter, for that matter, he knew that either was a better fit for her than he. He was old and weary, disillusioned with the world. What kind of life could a Potions teacher, a former Death Eater, offer to someone like Hermione Granger?

The colors were bleeding out as the grey once more subsumed his world. For a brief moment, he had felt the hope of a new life and the joy and anticipation of sharing it with Hermione. But she did not belong with him, and without her, the new life was useless.

His eyes came to rest on her face as she sat down in a compartment not too far away. She was resting her head against the glass, her eyes unfocused and sad. The whistle blew and the train gave a great lurch. At the same moment, her eyes turned a fraction of an inch and came to rest on him where he stood in the shadows on the platform. A small smile replaced the desolate look on her face and she raised her hand to the window, pressing her palm and fingers against it. The train began to slide forward and he nodded his head in acknowledgment, careful not to let his tears fall until she was gone.

Returning to the dungeons, he sat before his empty fireplace for a time, contemplating the ashes that were scattered about. Eventually, with an air of finality, he dug out a spare stoppered bottle from a drawer and touched his wand to his temple. One by one, strand by strand, he drew out his memories of her and deposited them into the bottle, the only way he could imagine facing the day, the first day of his new life without her.