Chapter 1

Hermione tips her glass and lets the alcohol swirl dangerously, threatening to overflow the brim.

She pouts and glances across the tables—a group of young men clinking their goblets, inebriated—she smiles to herself.

The place is dark and dim; the interior reminds her of the hippies—there is too much smoke and too many coloured fumes rising from the pots.

The 70s, she smirks.

She is drunk, she knows and doesn't care. She is too far gone along the road to destruction, too immersed in her grief and numbness—she doesn't care if she bleeds or burns as long as she can have that little light of forgetfulness.

Every night.

She comes here every night and there are new people.

Today the night has a few surprises—she recognises all too well the boyish faces of those grown men she knew and she wishes—Malfoy, Avery, Nott and... Severus Snape.

"A bottle of your oldest Firewhiskey," she offers the waiter an extra tip, "for Severus Snape at that table. Tell him it's compliments from Hermione..."

She chuckles to herself, inebriated, and watches as the waiter scurries off, altogether pleased by the large tip.

She downs another glass and it burns her throat—sometimes it feels like someone scratching the flesh from within—but she likes it.

It helps her forget.

Snape doesn't know her, obviously.

He couldn't possibly.

But she knows him.

And maybe, as she finds the alcohol wanting, she'll fuck him tonight.

And how many kinds of wrong that would be, how many different shades of grey-she enjoys complicating her life to the point of no return.

Severus scowls as the waiter brings him a bottle of a very fine Firewhiskey and points at some girl sitting in the shadows.

Superficial curtains of blue and green beads hang from the ceiling and hide her from his view.

"Looks like Sevvie's got an admirer." Nott thumps the table loudly. "So who is this... Hermione?"

Lucius looks at him curiously as is his wont and Avery mutters something incoherent about not having been laid in the longest time.

Severus hates this... and he hates them—these pureblood bigots with their pompous attitudes and superficial titles, sporting a new woman on their arms each day and murdering at whim—but he is a part, a lesser part of their group and has been so for years now...

"I don't know, Nott. I don't know any Hermione," Severus answers, not bothering to look at his neighbour. "You know I have no interest in females; they are distractions and any closeness to them deters my goals."

He is half-right—he has no interest in any woman except one.

Lily.

But she is...

"Looks like an expensive bottle, Severus. My father has one of these in his personal collection, you've see it, haven't you?" Lucius comments softly. "It might not be a bad idea to return her greeting, at the very least. She might even be a person of some influence; she does seem to have the money."

Severus downs his glass and looks away.

He can feel the said witch's eyes linger on him and he is slightly discomfited.

No one has paid much attention to him, not when the likes of Malfoy are around to steal the limelight.

"I can take my own pick, thank you very much." He scratches his arm.

The air is dull and he wants to leave.

Get away from them, this hellish room and... her.

"Yeah, right." Avery snorts loudly. "When was the last time you shagged a witch, Severus? Donna, right? Sixth year? I've seen you mope for ages after that... mudblood Lily and guess what, maybe it is time for you to move on and find a witch worthy of your attention."

Severus fumes within, his heart races and adrenaline courses through his veins dangerously—he wants to slit the bastard's throat for insulting Lily like that, for belittling her in front of him but he cannot. He stays put, quietly and lowers his eyes, digging his nails into the covers of his seat.

Lucius, however, is more subtle. He senses Severus's rage, always has, and places a warning hand on Severus's arm.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea to date, Severus. After all, nobody's asking you to love her. Just... talk to her, see if you can stand her for the night and get you aggressions out, if you know what I mean."

Of course Severus knows what he fucking means.

Reclusive he may have been, but Severus never overlooks things.

His is well-informed. On all aspects.

He feels a little—out of place. Perhaps the alcohol is finally gaining control over him and he finds it harder to sit between these people.

"You're right. Perhaps I will go and ensnare the bitch," he mutters and staggers away from the group, wineglass held askew in his hand, trying to exude confidence he doesn't feel.

Hermione snorts to herself.

She has seen him scowl. The look of discomfort has been extremely amusing to watch.

She doesn't have to hear them talk: she knows exactly what they are saying.

They are all the same, with their prejudices and lies, their greed and lust... Nothing stands out, everything is very much... the same.

She is surprised, however, when Snape actually leaves the group and stumbles towards her.

He has had too much; she can tell from the way his legs wobble and refuse to move in a straight line.

She sucks on cherry, relishes the juice on her tongue and watches him intently as he slides into the opposite seat.

"I am Severus. Severus Snape," he introduces himself.

How... cute.

"I know." She watches his expressionless mask flicker in apprehension.

He hasn't got the finesse—or the daunting aura that she is so used to.

"How?" he asks, way too quickly and she knows that he is curious. Something that she wants him to be. "I mean—I have never seen you before. How do you know me?"

Hermione smiles, a twisted smile that dies on her lips and she is left to wonder why she is doing this...

"I know a lot of things about you, Severus..." His name sounds so odd when says it out aloud, a sort of coppery flavour that leaves a bitter aftertaste on her tongue. "Things that no one else does, things that you would rather not have anyone know... you past, present... future."

That should hold his interest.

It should, for there isn't anything else she can do; he is too reclusive and suspicious—he would not stay if she were too plain and failed to pique his curiosity.

She hasn't planned this but now that he's here, she doesn't mind the company.

His coal black eyes narrow suspiciously and he leans forward.

"Who are you? What is your name?" he hisses slowly, his breath reeking of alcohol. "I won't ask again, and believe you me; it will not go well if you lie."

He glances at the group of friends he has just left and Hermione is more amused than ever.

Apparently, issuing threats seems to be a favourite pastime of Slytherins.

Oh, he may mean them alright, but she doesn't care.

"Threatening so soon, Mr Snape?" She laughs a little. "We haven't even got to know each other yet... I would hate to lose the opportunity to converse with such a promising young man..."

That puts him off his guard and he looks... flushed. They really are quite adorable in the seventies.

But he still looks cautious and Hermione can tell that he is nervous by the small twitch in his jaw.

"I'm sure you're just dying to know more about me, but I cannot tell you all that I know... not just yet." She twirls a lock of her hair and wraps it around her finger. "This place is rather stuffy and getting on my nerves. How about if we step out and enjoy each other's company for the night?"

She is drunk; she has had far too many shots and swigs and her head feels dizzy—perhaps she will die tonight and it will all be over.

Or maybe, she surveys the young man with her hooded eyebrows, she would get to fuck him.

Wouldn't it be a laugh?

He, too, is under the sway of strong intoxicants and his grip on himself seems to be slipping.

Perhaps he will take her offer.

Her heart gives a twinge of ache—a sad, burning sensation that penetrates her bones and leaves her feeling terribly alone.

She has to leave—get out, do anything to stop this madness...

She flings five galleons onto the table and stands up, her legs faltering on the stupid, Persian carpet and she tramples it insistently, under he heels.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" she calls out behind her, lurching dangerously as she walks to the doorway.

She knows he'll follow.

Does she have her wand?

"Where are we going?" Snape slurs, keeping his hands buried in his pockets. His robes are cheap and dirty—she wonders if he can afford laundry yet—maybe she'll fix them for him.

He clearly doesn't pay much attention to personal hygiene; cleaning charms are easily learnt and the first ones taught.

"You'll see." She giggles and feels for her wand. It's still there. "A little way off, in the Knockturn alley, of course."

"You must be a slut, no good witch would ever step foot in the Knockturn Alley," Severus voices his thoughts out aloud, the disapproval quite evident. "I don't even know what I am doing running around with you."

"Ashamed of the likes of me, Severus?" She takes his arm in hers and kisses his cheek, running her tongue over his sallow skin and notices as he cringes.

Just a bit.

She finds it hilarious that he considers her a slag.

Maybe that's what she is.

But she doesn't care.

They cross the Diagon Alley and stagger towards one of the darker lanes in the Knockturn Alley.

"I'm not sure if we should go there..." Severus hisses quietly, tugging at her urgently but she brushes him off. "This place... I don't think it's wise, not at this time of the night."

"It is quite late, isn't it?" Hermione muses quietly. "Ah. There is our destination."

And there in a dark corner, stands the shop she has visited before.

Borgin and Burke.

"Shhh..." She puts a finger on her lips and drags him towards the shop. "Be quiet."

"What do you want in there?"

"Tut, tut... don't talk," she snaps at him absently and then turns to look at his face.

It is so pale and vulnerable right now.

The moonlight is no help.

She licks her lips and gazes deep into his black eyes.

And then she kisses him... her cherry lips meeting his parched ones, their breaths intertwine in a sad memory and she clings to his robes in the shadow, feeling the taste of his slick tongue as she explores his mouth... devouring, moaning... softly, in hunger.

She can tell that he is surprised.

Once again.

When she lets go of him, it is with a quiet, desperate whisper,

"We're going to break in..." She removes her wand from its sheath. "There is something I need and you will help me get it, won't you?"

Perhaps he will say no and it won't matter to her anyway—this charade is just a means to get her adrenaline pumping, a means to stay alive and die if she is caught—she doesn't care which.

And he?

He would probably be another casualty.

He doesn't say either yes or no and she's tired of waiting; it seems like a century.

She has not patience anymore.

"If you help me, perhaps we will... celebrate afterwards. And why not, I don't think you have any qualms about stealing, sweetheart..." She presses her slight figure against his taller, leaner one and smirks as she feels him shiver.

He swallows and looks at her face.

She seems too troubled and deeply inebriated, she looks fucking demented and he doesn't know if he should just run—not that he has any reservations about stealing from Borgin and Burke—but he is intrigued by this young woman in front of her and he wants to know more, wants to feel more of her tongue in his mouth and the snare of her soft skin against his... Perhaps his friends have been right; maybe it has been too long for him and he feels awake, more aware around here even though he is ludicrously drunk and cannot think straight—maybe this will end badly but he wants to do it.

"It might have strong wards." He surveys the exterior and looks around. "We'll need to bypass them."

She smiles at him, inanely, and pulls out a beaded bag.

She reveals a pebble-like shiny object and throws it at the door.

Blue sparks fly off the handle and fade.

"Blood wards." She chuckles once more and he thinks she looks beautiful, horribly beautiful in the feeble moonlight. "Perfect. It will require the fluid of a pureblood. How original."

He snorts at the remarks. Unless she is a pureblood brat, there would be no breaking those enchantments.

"Do you want to offer yours?" She leans against the window, her legs travelling up and down the wall behind her and he wonders...

"I—cannot. I'm not a pureblood." He coughs.

Why has he revealed that to her?

"Oh that is very sad, Severus." She slashes her own wrist and dips her wand in the oozing blood. "Watch and learn."

Does she feel no pain?

He has never known a female to be so... indifferent.

She slashes at the door once more and the spell seems to work—the door creaks open—they have only to enter and take what they will.

The interiors are ghastly, she reflects.

As soon as she enters, she feels drained.

Gods, not...

"Hold my hand," she stammers. "I won't light my wand if you don't trip."

She looks around; there is no harm in it anyway.

"I want that." She points to her left.

The Hand of Glory.

The one that Malfoy used... once upon a time.

"And that."

The necklace he used to curse Katie. Deadly.

"And this little china doll." She moves fast, gathering all the objects quickly, and drops them into her beaded purse.

She notices Severus pocket a few innocuous looking items.

No qualms about thieving indeed.

"Who's there?" a high pitched voice calls out.

From outside.

Any moment, the lights would go on and they would be caught. Severus starts to panic; he doesn't know if he should simply Apparate by himself and leave the girl to her plight.

But he cannot Apparate in this tipsy state.

Before he can think though, she grabs him by the hand and runs, dragging him unceremoniously after her.

She flings curses left and right, smashing everything in sight and Severus is unable to do anything but look on in horror as the spells leave her wand and hit glass cases.

Chinks of glass hit them and the shop is wrecked beyond repair.

A few seconds of deafening sounds and they are out of the shop—they run straight into two men—but she, Hermione, flings another flurry of well-aimed curses at them and they are thrown aside.

He has never seen anyone act in this manner, let alone a witch, but he runs nevertheless—more people are on their trail and they run as if the very hounds of hell are dogging their footsteps—they turn and stumble, weaving in and out of the alleys until he is sure that no one's following them but they run anyway.

Finally, they slow down and stop outside a closed pastry shop. He catches his breath, his heart thudding loudly in his chest, and drops to the ground.

It has been very taxing.

"That was fucking great!" She doubles over in laughter, a maniacal glint shining in her hard brown eyes.

"Are you kidding me? We could have been caught, tortured and thrown into Azkaban for that!" he bites out, seething now that he has had time to consider his actions.

We were born sick.

She turns her neck around in its shaft and massages it. "But we weren't, darling. That's what matters. That's the only thing that fucking matters."

She too slides down the opposite wall, he legs flung carelessly on the ground, and she stretches out her hands.

"I'm going to sleep now, under this fucking dark sky and wake up in the morning. Want to join me, Snape?"

She is insane.

And he has a headache.

"No, thank you," he snaps and jumps to his feet. "I think I never want to see you again. Have a good night."

She leans her head against the wall and watches him go, biting her lips and swallowing tears, but no.

The night has been long and she is weary.

She will go back to the bar again.

Tomorrow.

Hey u guys, so this is a story that i think i tried to write before but gave up cuz it wasn't turning out right. Here's me trying to get it right this time.

lemme know if you like it.