Author's note: This is smut, nothing else. If you are here in search of plot, character development and/or true love you have taken a wrong turning. Please retrace your steps back to the main thoroughfare and check your map. The author accepts no responsibility for any loss or damage occasioned by the failure to read and heed this warning.

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She met him again in Venice, of all places.

Then again, thinking about it, perhaps it wasn't the Venice part that was so incongruous. There was something about Severus Snape that fitted in rather well with the idea of fifteenth century intrigue; a shadowy figure in dark robes, sliding through the gilded magnificence of the Doge's Palace, brokering pacts and policies, scheming against the invading Turks.

Or, alternatively, prowling the Accademia, resolutely refusing to be impressed by Palladian courtyard or the assembled riches of Venetian Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque art.

She had no idea, of course, if Severus Snape had the slightest interest in the history of Western European Muggle Art but, in her imagination, the backdrop suited him.

The irony of it was that she had come here to escape from wizards. Ginny Weasley had raised a sceptical eyebrow and simply remarked that her idea of getting away from it all was somewhat novel; Venice in August could hardly be described as restful. On the contrary, it was teeming with day-trippers and longer visitors, backpackers and students, families trailing past masterpiece after masterpiece dragging reluctant teenagers who slouched along behind, trading flippancies and wearing boredom like armour, lest they be seen to be enjoying themselves.

It was in this multitude that she had sought to hide herself; eating cold pizza squares and drinking Coca-Cola, frequenting restaurants in which spaghetti alla bolognese was explained in a minimum of four languages, drinking double espressos standing up at the bar, not stopping long enough for anyone to register her presence, for anyone to be curious. She played the tourist; visiting the Basilica San Marco, the Doge's Palace, the Accademia, Santa Maria della Salute, even taking a trip along the Grand Canal, although she took the waterbus; even she drew the line at a gondola.

In short, she became, for this week only, the perfect Muggle. Trying to recapture memories of childhood visits here, to this place that she had once thought magical; magical, before she discovered the true meaning of the word and its consequences.

Before the war, before the rise and fall of Voldemort. Before she became, Hermione Granger, brilliant and powerful witch, companion of Harry Potter, co-saviour of the wizarding world; a celebrity merely by virtue of having survived.

In the way of wars, survival hadn't been granted to everyone; not to Ron Weasley or Albus Dumbledore, for example.

But it had been to her. And to Harry Potter. And to him.

Severus Snape, like Hermione Granger, had continued to live, despite the Dark Lord's best efforts otherwise. And for some unknown reason he was here, in Venice in the middle of a hot and smelly August.

"Here" being specifically, the Museum of Naval History.

Contrary to popular myth and legend, Hermione was not obsessively interested in everything. One thing that she was not obsessively interested in was naval history. If pressed, she would have had to say that she wasn't even slightly interested in naval history. In the ordinary course of events she would very probably not even have noticed the discreet entrance to the Museo Storico Navale. However, this particular day a search for an elusive breeze and a respite from the squabbling crowds had drawn her away from St Mark's Square and along the waterfront towards the Arsenale.

The sun was high in the sky, and the shops had begun to close and the cafés to fill, before she realised that she was hot, tired, uncomfortably damp and desperately in need of a drink. Pausing to flap her loose cotton skirt around her legs in a vain attempt to cool off, she looked around for somewhere that she might possible find water and shade. Muttering under her breath about her own stupidity in coming out at midday without bringing any water with her, she was about to turn inland to find a deserted side-street where she could use her wand to practical effect without attracting the attention of half the waterfront.

It was then that she saw the museum. She stood for a moment, eyeing it speculatively.

Drawbacks: it was a building full of boats, which did not excite her. Advantages: it was a building full of boats that was cheap to get into, that would provide some shade and, most importantly, that would be air-conditioned. At worst she would be able to sit down and cool off a bit; at best it would be quiet enough to allow to cast some discreet cooling and drying charms and maybe find something to drink Ð after all, the place had to have a water supply.

The woman in the ticket kiosk didn't bat an eyelid as Hermione asked for an entrance ticket.

"English?" she asked with a heavy Italian accent.

Hermione nodded.

The woman thrust a ticket and a leaflet in to her hand. The leaflet was in English and contained a plan of the museum.

"Shut half past one," she added, as Hermione moved away. Hermione nodded absently in acknowledgement. After all, it wasn't as if she was here for the exhibits.

She entered the first room and gasped in pleasure as the air-conditioning hit home. Paying no attention to the exhibits, she shook her arms to loosen her blouse, letting the cloth stand away from her body so that cool air could pass over her skin. Further in, she spied the vent in the ceiling that was responsible for the cold air. Positioning herself under it, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the air hit her face and stream down her neck like an invisible shower, slipping down the opening of her blouse and between her breasts, drying as it went. Another movement of her shirt and the cold touched her belly, making her flesh contract. She moved her legs slightly apart, so the air could circulate down and then up and around under her skirt, tickling the tops of her thighs and grazing the sweaty fabric between her legs. The change in temperature was almost shockingly sensual. Under the fabric of her bra, she felt her nipples tighten in response. It had been a while since she had ....

Hermione opened her eyes abruptly. A public museum as no place to be indulging fantasies of an ice-lover. Even this was a rarely visited museum. And even if this was Italy.

In an attempt to direct her thoughts onto less ... arousing ... matters, she unfolded the leaflet and studied the floor plan. If she was going to spend even three-quarters of an hour sitting in here, she might at least see if there was something halfway interesting to look at. Making a decision, she folded the map again and moved reluctantly away from the air-conditioning. With no particular interest, she drifted past the displays of armaments until she reached a room which appeared to be entirely filled with a ship. A replica of the ceremonial barge of the last Doge to be precise. Other than the vast model, the room was empty. She gave a cursory glance at the paintings; naval scenes and various captains by the look of them. A succession of dark brown canvasses, inhabited by men in dark clothes, with neatly trimmed beards, all standing before some suitably maritime background and all completely unmoving.

Hermione moved around the replica, to put its bulk between her and the entrance, so that she would be shielded should any visitor come upon her whilst she was using her wand. Not that that looked very likely. So far she seemed to be the only person here, even in the height of the season.

That was when she saw him. Not that she realised that it was him at first, of course. From the back he looked like just another visitor, thin and dressed in black, long sleeved and long trousered; something of an anomaly given the shorts-and-tee-shirt summer dress code of the city. He was seated on a small stool and intently studying a painting fixed low down on the wall. She assumed that he was a student of some sort; art or naval, one of the two.

She watched him for a few minutes, thinking that she should just move on and find another ship to hide behind, but something compelled her to stay. Something in his utter stillness as he examined Ð whatever it was that had his attention. She was so wrapped up in his concentration, that when he gave a snort that sounded a lot like disgust and bent to pick up a notebook from the floor, she physically started and let out a strangled squeal of surprise. And she was so busy trying to come up with a good reason why she should have been staring at a complete stranger, that it didn't immediately strike her that the snort of disgust had sounded oddly familiar.

The man whirled round at the noise and Hermione's half formed apology died on her lips. He was tall and pale and thin. The August sun had done nothing for his complexion, which was as sallow as ever. His hair appeared no less unkempt and greasy than it ever had, the nose was as large, the features were as unprepossessing and his eyes were the same uncanny black. And the expression was just as unwelcoming.

"Miss Granger," he said, in a voice that made the air-conditioning seem perfectly tropical, "how could I have expected to be able to get on with my humble task, in this, the least visited museum in this city, without a visit from one of the glorious saviours of wizardkind. You may assume that I am suitably awed by your greatness."

His words took her straight back to the classroom and the months - and years - after school when the fight against Voldemort continued. Throughout, Severus Snape had been perpetually bad-tempered, insulting, cruel and vicious. At the end he had stood shoulder to shoulder with them, turning on the Dark Lord whilst still wearing his Death Eater garb. And afterwards - the few times that Hermione had seen him afterwards he had been ... well ... bad-tempered, insulting, vicious and cruel.

I see no difference, she thought, with a trace of humour.

Although she could feel herself colouring reflexively at his acid remark, there was something curiously refreshing about the fact that Snape would always treat her as he had done, no matter what. And without his robes, in this odd context, he somehow seemed less intimidating than usual.

Either that or facing down the most evil wizard that ever lived will just give a girl some backbone.

"Good afternoon, Professor Snape," she managed, with a fair semblance of politeness.

He folded his arms and glared at her. There was no question of finding another room now. She met his gaze squarely and cast around for something else to say.

"Fancy meeting you here." She doubted that he would appreciate the irony of the remark, but the deepening of his scowl suggested that he had at least understood that she was making fun of him. She tried again.

"What exactly are you doing here, Professor?"

She didn't truthfully expect any kind of a reply other than a variant on "mind your own business." So she was astonished when he suddenly stood aside, and gestured to a small painting.

"I am constantly being informed of your brilliance and your indispensability to the wizarding world in general. So look at this and tell me what you see - and we will see if you live up to your reputation or not." His tone suggested that not would be his guess.

Hermione bent to examine the picture. At first glance it was not very different from any number of other paintings in the room. A slightly rotund man in black robes with a neat little beard, standing proudly in front of what looked like a collection of model ships and a drawing board covered in symbols. It was all shades of brown from dark to very, very dark.

"Tommaso Foscari, the Shipwright", she read, from the plaque attached to the frame. Behind her she could hear Snape muttering something about her astonishing literacy skills, but she was too busy studying the painting. The models all seemed incredibly detailed, but somehow she couldn't imagine Snape having a secret passion for maritime modelling. It would be like entering the dungeons and finding that he had set up a scale model of the Hogwarts Express to run round the walls. She shook her head to clear the image, and moved her study to the drawing board. At first she assumed that the symbols were simply working drawing, notes from which Tommaso Foscari would construct his barge or other ship. Then, as her brain sought to find patterns in the chaos, she realised that the notation was familiar.

"Those are alchemical symbols", she said out loud.

Snape said nothing. Hermione peered closer.

"They're very indistinct," she murmured, "I think it's the age of the painting. They would be clearer if it were cleaned up a little."

She was about to reach for her wand, when a pointed snort from Snape stopped her.

"I think that even the Italian Magical Authorities would notice the sudden magical restoration of a piece of their artwork."

She didn't reply, unwilling to concede that he was right- which of course he was. She simply returned to squinting at the symbols.

"Sea," she translated, "that makes a certain amount of sense ... water ... yes ... waxing moon ... well, the lagoon is tidal ...mercury, sulphur, that's fairly standard ... wool ... that's odd ... there appears to be something about calcination and distillation of hartshorn ...", she looked up, " I understand what I can read of the individual symbols but they don't make sense put together that I can see."

Snape was nodding, a slightly smug expression on his face.

"No, they don't, Miss Granger, Of course, if you had access to the rest of my research, then it might be a little clearer." He didn't need to add the "but I doubt it."

Hermione fought a stupid urge to grin. Snape hadn't changed. He hadn't changed one little bit. For some reason she felt absurdly cheered by that fact.

"Yes," she said, not taking the bait, "I expect it might." She turned to face Snape, whose expression was now rather perplexed, as if her mild response had somehow wrongfooted him. She pointedly looked at her watch. "As this museum closes in ten minutes, neither of us are going to achieve any further productive study anyway." Might as well let him think that I was in here for some worthy academic purpose. She was seized with a sudden desire to see how far this newly discovered ability to disconcert Snape extended. Added to which she still hadn't managed to get a drink. She cocked her head at him. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in joining me for a coffee somewhere would you, Professor?"

She was waiting for the refusal, certain that there were few things that he would like less than coffee with The Gryffindor Know-It-All, but he surprised her again.

"Since you ask me so nicely, Miss Granger, how can I resist?"

The words were charming but the tone of voice and the glint in his eye made her suspect that he had accepted, simply because he knew she was expecting him to refuse. Bluff and double bluff.

"Excellent," she responded, managing to infuse her voice with enough genuine enthusiasm, that she thought she saw a brief hint of uncertainty cross his face. "Shall we go?"

She stood up and moved away so that he could clear up and reduce his things so that they fitted easily in his pocket. Together, but silently, they walked to the exit. As they passed through the room just inside the entrance, Hermione caught a final blast from the air-conditioning, and remembered her earlier thoughts.

I dream of an ice-lover and then I find Snape. What a coincidence.

She felt a curious lurch in the pit of her stomach at the thought and pushed it aside before she could examine its origin too closely.

Walking into the heat outside in the Campo San Biagio was like hitting a wall. Hermione squinted against the sun and realised that, in the confusion of meeting Snape and deciding somewhere in her subconscious to take the tiger by the tail, she had forgotten to do anything about cooling charms. A sideways glance at Snape, who looked dishevelled, but untroubled by the heat told her that he had not only cast a suitable charm, but was well aware that she had not. Her currently ambivalent feelings towards him began to resolve themselves at the dislike end of the spectrum.

She had had in mind going to one of the many small cafés that populated the tourist quarters of Venice. Snape, however, appeared to have other plans. He strode purposefully onwards, oblivious to the heat and to the fact that she was having difficulty keeping up, and certainly ignoring any gestures that she might have made towards any particular establishment. Hermione wasn't quite sure enough of her tiger that she was prepared to yell at him or grab his arm to get his attention, so she simply matched his pace as best she could and tried not to feel like a busy executive taking a lunchtime power-walk. Snape, meanwhile, led her back along the waterfront, past St Mark's, and headed off towards the south side of the square.

He came to a halt outside a long, columned façade, with tables spilling out into the square, contained within a boundary of thick looping ropes. Next to him a small group of people in their mid-twenties were counting out their change and holding an earnest discussion in a language that Hermione didn't understand, although it was clearly about money. She could see why, given where they were.

"Florian's?" she said, amusement returning. "You like to live well."

Snape just raised an eyebrow.

"Shall we?" he said, making a elaborately polite gesture for her to precede him.

Later, as she was seated in the dark interior of the Caffè Florian, sipping iced sparkling water and rich black espresso, she reflected that this was probably Round One to Snape. She had invited him for coffee on a whim, and he had trumped her by not only accepting, but making her take him to the most expensive café in Venice.

That'll teach me to try to play a Slytherin at his own game.

Her lips quirked at the thought. Snape obviously caught the movement.

"Is there something amusing you, Miss Granger?"

"I was just thinking that the Sorting Hat definitely got it right in your case," she said without thinking and then tensed, waiting for the scathing rejoinder.

"I'm sure it'll rest easier knowing you approve of its decisions," he returned acidly, although she thought there was a hint of pleasure in his voice, as if she had somehow complimented him.

There was just no accounting for some people.

"Did you have something that you wished to say to me, Miss Granger?" Snape's voice cut through her daydreaming.

She blinked at him stupidly.

"I assume," he continued pointedly, "that you had some reason for this apparently quixotic gesture of yours." A small movement of his hand encompassed the café.

Why had she invited him?

It was easy enough to say that it was because she wanted to see if she could, but why should the impulse have presented itself? She was the one who had come here to avoid wizards. And here she was, grabbing the first one that she met and hauling him off for coffee, never mind that this particular wizard could hardly be described as pleasant company.

Snape was silent, waiting for her to respond, with the same air of irritated expectancy that he had shown when some student didn't have the answer he wanted on the tip of his tongue. Or even when she did, she added to herself, wryly.

"I've been here for a break and I just fancied some coffee," she said slowly, aware that the two halves of the sentence didn't really fit together sensibly. Snape appeared to agree with that for he raised an eyebrow.

"Venice seems to be rather a long way to come for coffee. Even at Florian's."

She nodded.

"I needed a break," she repeated, "and I've always liked Venice."

That, at least, was a coherent sentence, if not an answer to the question.

"Venice is intolerable in August," remarked Snape.

She sighed. The whole conversation was becoming absurd.

"I came here for a break," she tried for the third time.

"Yes," he said, "I had actually grasped that fact the first time you told me."

"I've been here on my own and haven't spoken to many people. I saw you ...." She trailed off.

"... and you fancied a chat," he finished in tones of deepest scepticism. "Because, of course, my dazzling conversational repertoire was a source of constant astonishment and envy to all throughout your time at Hogwarts. Please credit me with a little intelligence, Miss Granger." He paused and put his cup down, looking at her directly. "Let me see if I can help you out. You are here on your own, away from the coterie of the great and the glorious with which you and Potter have surrounded yourselves in recent times. To your chagrin, you have found that there is no one here who cares in the least for who you are or what you have done for them. Clearly, you are missing the fawning adulation of your retinue. No doubt, you invited me here in the expectation that I would bolster your fragile ego with suitably adoring gratitude for the deliverance of the wizarding world."

She looked away and he obviously took that as agreement, for she heard a small satisfied snort from the other side of the table.

"You are destined to be disappointed," he finished with an air of triumph.

Oddly enough, his words, cutting as they were, gave a shape to the malaise that had been haunting her. But it was that triumph in his voice that sparked her old combative instincts and drove her to speech, She swung back to face him directly.

"Actually, Professor, you couldn't be more wrong." Another snort told her that he thought that unlikely. "I don't suppose," she pressed on, "you have any idea what it's like to be a "hero"."

"It must be truly awful for you," he returned with fake sweetness.

She looked straight into his eyes, pupilless and openly sneering. He was sitting there, baiting her with every line of his body.

"Do you have any idea," she said slowly, "what it's like to be surrounded by people who hang on your every word? Who never challenge you? Who never question what you say or do because it must be right because you're a hero? Or who can't string a coherent sentence together when they talk to you because you're famous? What it's like when you give a lecture and people are there because it's you and not because they want to hear what you've got to say? And afterwards they comment on your dress rather then what you said. Or when people start buying books because you read them or you mentioned them once to someone somewhere that you've forgotten about. When people don't want to know about what you're really like, they just want you to live up to their image of you?"

She paused for breath. Somehow her speech had got faster and more intense and to give herself a moment to recover, she picked up her espresso and sipped. She was annoyed to see that her hand shook very slightly. Carefully replacing her cup, she continued.

"I asked you to have coffee precisely because I knew you didn't care about what had happened." She waved a hand vaguely. "You know about it; you were there. And you may still be a miserable bastard, but at least you don't speak to me like I'm some kind of goddess made flesh." She laughed without too much humour. "It seems, Professor, that I asked you for coffee precisely because I did not want - what was it you said - fawning adulation and adoring gratitude."

"Then it would appear that your desire has been amply satisfied," he said. His voice was even and lacked the bite of his previous remarks.

She smiled thinly.

"Oh yes, I think so," she answered.

This was, she supposed, the point at which he simply got up and walked off into the Venetian afternoon, leaving her to sit and watch the world go by. But to her surprise he made a gesture to the waiter that resulted, not in the expected bill, but in two more double espressos.

He sat there, watching her, as she dropped a cube of sugar into the thick black liquid, His gaze was intent and focussed, but curiously lacking its earlier judgment.

"I would have thought," he said neutrally, as she stirred the half-dissolved lump around the tiny cup, "that you and Potter would have welcomed the attention."

She shrugged.

"Harry, maybe, I don't know. He seems to take it all in his stride whatever. But me? OK, I'll confess it was nice at first, with everyone rushing to make a fuss and make me feel important. But after a while I just wanted them to stop and leave me alone. I think that sometime between leaving school and the defeat of Voldemort I grew out of attention seeking for its own sake."

"I am profoundly relieved to hear it." His voice was still neutral, careful.

She risked a smile.

"I thought you might be."

He didn't press the point any further and they both lapsed into silence. It was, Hermione reflected, a surprisingly peaceful silence considering that they were two people who would not have counted themselves as being on any sort of amicable terms. Snape, himself, appeared to be content to stare at a point over her shoulder, observing the comings and goings of the café. Without any conscious intention, she found herself watching him; watching the way one hand rested lightly on the surface of the table, the fingers loosely extended, tips square and blunt. The nails were clean and short cut, and his skin was so pale that the topography of veins and tendons underneath was clearly visible. The other hand moved infrequently from sugar to spoon to the cup in front of him, which disappeared into his grip as he lifted it to his lips in a movement which seemed entirely separate from any other part of his body.

The stillness was unnerving but not intimidating. At least, unnerved was the best word that Hermione could devise for this feeling of expectancy that was building up, a subtle tension that made her skin prickle and tense as if poised for something.

As she watched, Snape put the cup down and stretched his hand out to its full extent as if the act of holding something so small had cramped it in some way.

"Unlike you, Miss Granger, I do not have the luxury of spending the entire afternoon in café society. I still have to write up my notes from this morning."

Hermione felt a sharp stab of disappointment, partly at the fact that she had not thought to ask him about his work but, more unexpectedly, about the fact that he was leaving.

"I'm sorry to have kept you from your work, Professor," she said, hoping that she didn't sound too sulky. "Thank you for the company."

That last part, she realised, was actually true. Whilst there hadn't been much conversation to speak of, she had found the lack of demands that he made on her more soothing that she could have anticipated.

Snape? Soothing? Who could have thought it?

He had stood up and moved his chair neatly back to the table. She was fully expecting him to nod and walk away but he seemed to hesitate.

"As you are here on your own, Miss Granger, I wonder if you would be interested in joining me for dinner this evening?" There was just the faintest hint of a challenge in his voice.

Challenge or not, she couldn't detect any mockery behind it. Amusement, maybe, but not mockery.

He thinks I'm going to say no, she thought suddenly. The tables had been almost completely turned. She smiled sweetly.

"That sounds lovely," she said.

He nodded.

"I shall meet you outside San Giacomo di Rialto at 8 o'clock." She nodded and he peered at her suspiciously. "You do know where that is, don't you?"

"Yes, Professor," she said meekly. "Will it be Muggle or magical?"

He looked even more suspicious.

"Muggle," he said curtly. "Don't be late."

He turned on his heel and walked off before she could say anything else.

Hermione was left with the feeling that she had just conceded Round Two to Snape.

**********

Dinner with Snape, indeed, she thought back in her hotel room, looking at the results of an afternoon's adrenaline fuelled shopping.

The day had taken on a surreal quality ever since she had stepped into the Museo Storico Navale and thought about ice-lovers. Coffee with Snape was unlikely. Enjoying coffee with Snape was highly implausible and dinner with Snape was downright fantastical.

It was only dinner, after all, and the chances were that he had only asked out of some kind of Slytherin version of truth or dare. Which considerations went no way to explaining why the prospect of a simple meal was causing such disruption to her normal thought processes.

"Who are you kidding, Granger?" she asked the mirror. "Since when have the words 'simple' and 'straightforward' ever had anything to do with Snape?"

The mirror remained totally silent after the way of Muggle mirrors. Hermione was beginning to find that she liked a looking glass that didn't talk back. Replacing the mirrors in her flat was on her list of Things To Do when she got home.

None of which helped her. Nor did they provide any kind of reason for the fact that she had spent the rest of the afternoon idly prowling the alleyways, carefully not noticing that she was eyeing the windows of the expensive clothes shops with new interest, just in case something took her fancy, that she was considering the jewellers' shops, wondering if it was time to treat herself to something new, that she was strolling nonchalantly over the Rialto bridge and past the church of San Giacomo, just to be absolutely certain that she had the right place.

Her attention had finally been caught by a brightly coloured silk scarf, wide enough to serve as a wrap on a hot summer's evening. And having given in to that it was a small thing to succumb to a vest top in fine black silk. And after that, when she saw a simple black linen wrap-around skirt in a nearby shop and realised that it would set off the top perfectly, well, it was just foolish not to buy it. It would be very practical for work in the summer and, after all, a girl can never have too much basic black.

It was, she told herself firmly, only right that she should have some souvenirs of Venice and Italians made some of the finest clothes in the world and anyway she hadn't been expecting to go on a date when she packed, not that she was going on a date of course, it was just a meal because Professor Snape wasn't the sort of person that you dated or even had meals with except that she was going to because he had asked her.

This internal monologue punctuated with blatant self-deception carried Hermione through her shopping, back to her hotel, and into the bathroom for a long and luxurious shower. It took her through the process of taming her hair - some charm, mostly hair-spray - and applying some light make-up, and it took her into the bedroom where she put on her new skirt and top, draped her new scarf over her shoulders and tried to hold a conversation with a mundane mirror.

She didn't look too bad, she thought critically. No one would truly describe her as pretty, but she looked ... neat, tidy, respectable. The top and skirt were smart without being overdressed and the scarf added a vivid splash of colour. Her hair was as tidy as she could ever get it; pulled back and secured with a tortoiseshell clasp. It had been a good thing for her wallet that she had brought sandals with her that would serve.... Determinedly she pulled her attention away from her reflection; if she didn't stop this, she was going to be late. She swallowed once, strangely reluctant to leave the room now that the time had come.

Get on with it, Granger. Can you imagine what he would say if you didn't turn up?

Remembering this time to cast a cooling charm over her ensemble, she picked up her bag , dropped her wand inside, and walked out of the room to face Round Three.

Even deliberately taking her time, she crossed the Grand Canal early. At a quarter to eight the trinket sellers were beginning to pack up for the day. They looked at her half-interestedly as she slowed down, obviously wondering if they were going to be able to sell a last gondolier's hat or illuminated plastic statue of the Madonna before supper. She half shook her head and their interest evaporated.

It was still light, but the glare of the day was reddening into the early traces of sunset, turning the caramel and cream of the buildings into soft peaches and oranges. Deepening shadows gave the arches and colonnaded balconies overlooking the water a stronger relief. She was still surrounded by sound and motion, but now the expressive lilt of Italian rose to dominate, as the Venetians took advantage of nightfall to reclaim their city. The oppressive heat had faded to bearable, and the first stirrings of an evening breeze coupled with the cooling charm meant the Hermione was quite comfortable as she waited.

Comfortable, that was, apart from a small voice in the back of her mind that suggested that he might have invited her here to stand her up. She resisted the urge to check her watch telling herself that if he was going to stand her up, looking at her watch every fifteen seconds would not prevent it. She fixed her eyes on a point in the middle distance and began, mentally, to plan what she would do if he didn't show up. She would just find somewhere else to eat, that wouldn't be a problem, after all she'd been doing that every evening since she got here. Tonight would be no different. It was in the middle of making plans to see if the jazz bar close to St Mark's Square did food in the evenings that a voice made her jump.

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

She focussed in front of her to see Snape standing there, not looking appreciably different from the morning. Black trousers, long sleeved black shirt, hair ... could he hair be marginally less untidy that it had been earlier. She realised that she was staring at him.

"Um ... good evening, Professor. I ... er... did you get your notes written up?"

She tried not to wince visibly at such a clumsy opening.

"Yes," he said simply. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," she said, not knowing whether to be offended that he hadn't made any remark about her appearance or to be relieved that he hadn't made a disconcerting leap out of character and turned into an attentive companion.

Without another word he headed off, away from the river and then took an abrupt right turn into a small alleyway. Once off the main thoroughfare, the noise of the city quickly stilled, to be replaced by the sounds of crashing metal and crockery, muffled bursts of Italian and the smell of garlic and herbs. Part way along the alleyway were some steps down with a door at the bottom. Snape headed down in front of Hermione and opened the door, but, to her surprise held it so that she could precede him into the restaurant.

Inside, it was very simple and very clean; scrubbed wooden tables, plain chairs and whitewashed walls. On each table were several glasses, a candle stuck in a bottle and small posy of flowers. About half the tables were already occupied, and the buzz of lively conversation filled the room.

A man approached them, smiling. It would have been hard to call him the Head Waiter; it looked more Hermione as if he was the father of the family that owned it.

"Per due?" he asked cheerfully.

Snape nodded.

They were led to a vacant table and menus placed in front of them. Hermione noted that they were only in Italian and that spaghetti alla bolognese was nowhere to be found.

"The restaurant is right next to the fish market and does the best fish in Venice," said Snape abruptly. "Do you understand the menu?"

"Enough of it," she replied. Deciding that she would prefer not to rely on translation charms unless she had to, Hermione had acquired a working knowledge of basic Italian during her stay. Certainly enough to understand the menu.

After they had ordered and the waiter had brought them water and an ice cold bottle of Breganze, Hermione decided that it was time to take back some of the conversational initiative.

"You mentioned your research earlier, Professor. What exactly are you working on at the moment?"

He pulled a face.

"Miss Granger, I have absolutely no desire to be perpetually reminded of my time at that school. I doubt that we will get through the evening if you are going to persist in calling me 'Professor'.

"What would you prefer? Mr Snape?" Although she was genuinely curious, she couldn't help the slight edge to the comment.

Snape glared at her as if he thought she was being deliberately obtuse.

"Severus would be acceptable," he eventually said grudgingly.

"In that case, please call me Hermione."

He inclined his head just enough for her to infer that that, too, was acceptable. Hermione resisted the urge to sigh. Clearly conversing with Snape - Severus - was going to require a high degree of inferring content and making allowance for style- or lack of it.

A mozzarella and tomato salad appeared in front of her, and she drizzled olive oil over it whilst she pursued something about his comment that had struck her.

"You're not at Hogwarts any more then?"

He paused mid-way through shelling a prawn.

"No."

She waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't she repeated her first question, hoping to get some more information out of him.

Snape deftly disrobed another prawn. She was struck by the ease of the movement, almost instinctive, barely regarded. It must come from years of dealing with potions ingredients, she thought.

"I am no longer teaching at Hogwarts. I do some small research projects on a freelance basis. At the moment I am working for the Italian Institute of Alchemical Studies." He placed the naked prawn in his mouth and picked up another one.

She wasn't going to let him get away with that.

"I don't suppose you'd care to elaborate on that? Such as explaining what your were doing in a museum of naval history. Is there a tradition of Maritime Alchemy?" She allowed the irony to show in her voice.

He looked annoyed and then sighed.

"Of course there isn't a tradition of Maritime Alchemy."

"Was Tommaso Foscari an alchemist?"

Snape sighed again.

"No, he was a shipwright, as the painting said." Hermione drew breath to ask another question, and Snape held up his hand. She shut her mouth. "The alchemist was the painter, Lorenzo Battista. He was a pupil of Michael Sendivogius and strictly second rate both as alchemist and painter. The interest in the painting of Foscari, as you have, no doubt, deduced, is the background. It contains part, but not all, of an alchemical process which is claimed to speed up the healing of certain diseases, significantly beyond any healing potions currently available. Battista is supposed to have acquired this process- I say now that opinion is divided as to whether he devised it or stole it, the latter being most likely. However he came upon it, he apparently recognised the value of such knowledge and hid it in the background of his paintings. Unfortunately, before he could make any profit from him he was killed in a tavern brawl and the paintings in which the process is described were split up and dispersed who knows where."

Hermione took a bite of tomato, fascinated now that Snape had finally decided to talk. Snape himself took a sip of wine and picked up the last prawn. She was carried along in the measure of his speech, hypnotised by the rhythm and the neat, confident removal of head, tail and jacket from the last of the shellfish.

Regrettably none of Battista's pieces have been felt sufficiently significant to attract interest in their own right. We are reliant on them having been saved by families or as minor examples of the Muggle Baroque. His painting of Tommaso Foscari has been traced to here, obviously. There is another painting of a minor functionary in a gallery in Florence. The National Gallery in London has a study of some priest or other, and somehow, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York has The Portrait of an Unknown Gentlewoman in storage."

He pushed his plate away from him and dipped his hand in the bowl of clear water beside him, squeezing the lemon segment so that the juice mingled in the water, cleaning the garlic and oil from his fingers. Hermione watched him swirling the water around and found herself thinking of taking his hand, lifting the fingers to her lips and licking the lemon water off them. She could almost taste the sharpness of the lemon and the slight fishy residue of the seafood. Unconsciously, her tongue touched her lips. The movement recalled her to the present. She blinked, forced herself to concentrate on Snape's words.

"I have been attempting to collate as much of Battista's information as possible and supplementing it from my own experience and knowledge where there are gaps. The goal is to recreate the process if possible."

"It sounds fascinating," Hermione said, honestly.

Snape simply grunted and fell silent again, appearing to have exhausted his conversation on this topic. Musing, Hermione finished her salad.

She was considering her next move when he surprised her again.

"What do you do when you are not being a celebrity?"

The question was blunt, but she was beginning to work out that he simply didn't bother to ask questions when he wasn't interested in the answer. "Just to be polite" was obviously an alien concept to him. It was disconcerting and brusque and it dramatically simplified the amount of second guessing and analysis of sub-text that needed to take place.

By the time they were part way through their second course, Hermione realised with a jolt that she was feeling more relaxed than she had in- well, she didn't know how long. And more than that, she was enjoying the evening. Snape asked what he wanted to know, didn't make meaningless noises of sympathy and was refreshingly devoid of helpful advice. The wine was crisp and refreshing, the atmosphere was bustling but not intrusive, and the food was, as Snape had promised, simple but excellent. She was beginning to feel that a weight was lifting from her; one that she had carried for so long that she had stopped even noticing that it was there.

Now, however, she was eyeing Snape's plate with rather dubious curiosity. She had opted for sea bass, cooked to perfection with a crisp green salad. Snape had selected something that was definitely black. It certainly went with the look- black eyes, black hair, black clothes, black food. He had briefly explained that it was risotto cooked in cuttlefish ink. She had preferred not to be so adventurous but the sight of the plate was compelling.

Snape eventually noticed her attention.

"It's not poisonous I can assure you," he said sounding almost amused.

"No, no," she said hastily, "I'm sure it's not. I'm sure it's lovely."

At that his mouth twitched into something that could have been the beginnings of a smile. He pushed his plate towards her a little.

"Try some for heaven's sake."

She didn't know what to say to that.

"Try some," he insisted. "Then at least you'll know what it is you're turning your nose up at."

She was about to accept but she had evidently hesitated too long, for he made the decision for her. Scooping up a forkful of the dark rice, he reached over towards her so that she could take it in her mouth. This time it was the intimacy of the gesture that made her pause. He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, of course if you're afraid to try something new...".

He let the sentence hang. She glared at him, knowing that he was taunting her again but he remained impassive. Without taking her eyes off his, she leant forward and took the mouthful of risotto, pausing for a moment and then drawing back slowly, deliberately releasing the fork inch by inch from her lips. It was impossibly to tell if his pupils reacted on not, but he didn't move a muscle until she had sat up straight again. Then he let out a breath, and she saw the tip of his tongue flicker briefly across his own lips. In that moment something passed between them, something that skittered across the surface of conscious thought so lightly that its passing was hardly marked.

The creamy rice in her mouth was rich and heavy and dark. It was unexpectedly smooth and opulent; not a dish for the unsophisticated. She swallowed, acutely conscious that he was still watching her.

"That was ... interesting," she murmured.

"Indeed," he responded softly.

Neither of them were talking about the risotto.

By mutual agreement they declined dessert, and sat in silence studying each other as the waiter placed coffee in front of them. Hermione sipped slowly, reminding herself to breathe, left hand toying with the spoon, the expectancy that she had felt earlier redoubled. Snape, intimidating or not, was definitely still a presence. She was intensely aware of the feel of the silk against her skin, of the linen skirt, fastened at the waist, but falling away from her legs under the table, of the tiny hairs on her arms and neck that vibrated in the slightest movement of air. Her skin felt so taut that she thought that if he touched her she would scream.

When he did touch her, stilling the restless movement of her hand with his, all she could do was give a long, silent sigh. He held her quietly, enclosing her hand as he had the espresso cup in Florian's, his thumb rubbing softly over the ball of her own and then up to the palm, tracing small circles. Heat flooded her, from the core out and she knew that the signs of it were visible on her face.

She put her cup down carefully. Snape nodded at it.

"Have you finished?" he asked, his voice sounding fractionally unsteady.

She nodded, mesmerised by the darkness of his eyes.

Somehow the bill was paid and they were out into the Venetian night. The main streets were brightly lit and beginning to fill up with visitors in search of some night life. Snape strode through this crowd as he had the daytime one, still oblivious to Hermione's shorter pace; the difference this time being that he had a tight grip on her hand. For her part, she didn't know where she was going and was not at all certain that she cared.

She wondered exactly when did Snape move from someone that she was having dinner with to someone that she wanted to sleep with? Somewhere around the point when he had refused to treat her as anything other than herself, when he had challenged and baited ... and listened. Men always underestimate just how sexy listening really is, she thought as she was pulled over a bridge, gradually leaving the tourists behind, moving into the regions where people actually lived rather than just passed through.

Then, suddenly, Snape came to a halt and spun her round to face him. They were in an alley, empty of people. She realised that she had totally lost her bearings and for the first time felt a slight frisson of fear.

"Hermione," he said intently, "there's something that you ... I ... we both need to get clear before we go any further."

She nodded, uncertain as to whether he could see her in the half light, but he didn't seem to need her to respond.

"I need you to be clear about what it is that you're doing."

She felt another shiver of apprehension; she had thought that she understood what was happening. Perhaps, she hadn't.

"I thought that we were going to go somewhere and have sex," she said hoping that she sounded breezy and nonchalant, and not scared and uncertain.

In the darkness she missed the movement, and was surprised to feel his hand brush against her cheek, caressing and cupping her jaw briefly.

"Ah, Hermione," he said gently. "Not as brutally as that, I hope."

She stepped forward, thinking that he needed some open consent.

"I'm old enough to know what I'm doing," she whispered and placed her mouth over his.

His arm came round her and she felt his palm, flat between her shoulder blades, pulling her to him. His mouth opened under hers and she slid her tongue inside, over the roof of his mouth, tasting the coffee and the strange aftertaste of the risotto, flavours that blended darkly with his own. He responded in kind, dipping into her mouth, touching her lips and her tongue, all the time pressing himself against her, or was she pressing against him? It was hard to tell. She closed her eyes, giving herself over to the sensations; the taste and feel of the man, the rising heat within her.

He broke away from her mouth and began to plant small kisses in the curve of her neck. Instinctively she arched her head back, pressing her breasts against him. At that he made a soft noise and pulled back without letting go of her.

"Hermione," he said again, reaching up to trace the line of her jaw with one finger. "You interest me and you arouse me and I want nothing more than to take you and to make love to you tonight and I sincerely hope that I would give you pleasure. But I am extremely unlikely to ever give you 'Happy Ever After'. I have no interest in possessing cottages with roses round the door or telling fairy-tales to my grandchildren. If that is what you are looking for, then I advise you to say so now, and I will escort you back to your hotel and say goodnight." He paused. "I want you, but I do not want you to think that I am offering something that I am not.

Throughout the speech he had continued to stroke her jaw and she had hardly dared to breathe. Slowly, she reached up a hand to halt the movement and to draw the finger into her mouth. She tasted lemon and shellfish on the skin, just as she had imagined, back in the restaurant. She held it there for a moment and then released it.

"I want you too," she said softly. "I want you to touch me and make love to me. Let's just let tonight be tonight and worry about tomorrow when it comes. " She paused. "But you needn't worry. Whatever happens, I won't spend it picking out wedding dresses."

Snape made a strangled sound that could have been a laugh, and covered her mouth in a fierce kiss, quickly started and quickly over. He stood away from her and pulled on her hand again.

A few hundred yards later he stopped, this time outside a heavy street door. He let go of Hermione's hand and pulled a small Yale key from his pocket. It was so unexpectedly mundane that she commented on it.

"Yes, well, a street in the middle of Venice is hardly the place to start trying to perform unobtrusive magic. And large iron keys are simply impractical."

Inside was an iron and tile staircase that ran up the centre of the building. Snape began to climb. Hermione followed, wincing at the way her footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

"You needn't worry about the noise," Snape remarked. "All the other residents have gone to the mountains for the summer. As any sane person who lives in this city would."

At the top of the staircase, Snape removed his wand from the sleeve of his shirt and muttered under his breath to disarm the wards. Hermione felt an odd relief at the sight of magic; the "Muggle" Snape had disconcerted her more than she had liked to admit. He opened the door and let her in, murmuring "lumos" as he did so.

Inside was a small apartment, with wooden floors, comfortably furnished, with a sofa and chairs, a cluttered table that seemed to be doing service as a desk, and a small cooking area. On one side of the room were floor to ceiling windows, framed by heavy curtains. On the other side was a door which she assumed led to the bedroom. Snape had gone over to the windows, opened them, and was now reaching out to close the shutters for the night. Curiously, she looked around the rest of the flat.

"I must apologise for the accommodation," Snape said ironically, behind her. "I'm afraid the family palazzo is closed for renovations."

For a moment she thought that he was serious, and then realised from the expression on his face that he was not.

"No," he confirmed, "I'm afraid there is no family palace, no Gringotts' vault stuffed full of gold and fabulous treasures. There's just an unremarkable house in middle England and a 'mutually convenient' arrangement with the Ministry of Magic. This," he gestured to the room, "is courtesy of the Institute. I'm sorry if you're disappointed, but I did warn you."

For some reason that irritated her.

"You think I'm here because I think you're rich?" she queried, unable to keep the sharpness from her tone.

He looked at her measuringly and then closed the distance between them. He reached up to caress her jaw again, and she felt her breath catch.

"Why are you here, Hermione?" he asked softly. "I don't recall being a particular favourite of yours, either at school or during the War."

She was transfixed under the gentle, but insistent movement of his hand.

"Because you treated me like I was just me. Because you don't think I'm anything special. That's very ...," she reached up now to catch his hand in hers, holding it still, "... sexy to me right now."

He shook his head very slightly, looking at her all the while.

"Oh, I think you're special, Hermione. Never doubt that. I just don't think you're superhuman. There is an important difference."

She turned her head to kiss the palm of his hand, tasting the salt and sweat and faint lingering traces of lemon.

"Show me," she invited.

And then she was in his arms, with his lips on hers, not pressing hungrily as she might have thought, but lightly, tracing her mouth with his tongue, exploring its contours, placing butterfly kisses on the corner of her mouth.

As she reached round to run her hands up his back and pull him closer to her, he stopped and stepped back, eyes glittering. Wordlessly, he drew her across the room and through the door that she had speculated would lead to his bedroom.

She had been right.

The room was simply furnished; a double bed with a cream and gold damask cover, a dressing table, a wardrobe, a long mirror and a smaller bedside table which was, predictably, piled with books. A door in one corner led to what she imagined was the bathroom. The whole was lit with a soft yellow light by a heavy glass lamp, set at one end of the dressing table.

He steered her so that she was facing the mirror with him behind her, his movements clearly visible to her in the glass. She watched herself as he carefully pulled the brightly coloured silk wrap away from her and laid it aside. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head to lick at the side of her neck. A lessening of tension on her scalp told her that he had released her hair from the clasp. His hands were now stroking the bare skin of her shoulders as he explored her neck and the hollow behind her ear, teasing and making her gasp as he found her sensitive areas. Her face in the glass was flushed and her lips were swollen, her eyelids half closed but unable to shut out the sight of Severus Snape touching her.

He slid his hands down and pulled the silk top out from the skirt. Mesmerised, Hermione watched her reflection arch as skin and silk brushed her torso, and paused fractionally at the sides of her breasts, fingers working the silk and lace, then carried on higher. Trancelike, she raised her arms so that he could remove the top completely. He laid it aside as carefully as he had done her wrap, and then returned to his attentions, stroking her back and round to her stomach and up, following the base of her bra, all the time playing his mouth across her bare flesh.

She wanted to hurry him, to move his hands higher, to touch her aching nipples, to free them from the confining material that chafed against them. She put one of her own hands over his, pulling him upwards. She felt the soft breath of his laughter against her.

"Patience," he whispered, "all in good time."

Frustratingly slowly he brought his hands together in front of her and ran them up, over her bra, between her breasts, careful not to actually touch them. Hermione made a small noise in the back of her throat and the girl in the reflection moved to try to increase the contact. She was rewarded with another low laugh and a kiss on the back of her neck. Up he traced, fingers finding the hollow at the base of her neck and the ridge of her collarbones, stopping at the straps of her bra.

"Yes," she whispered as he ran his hand underneath them, cupping her shoulders and rubbing more circles with his thumbs. Gently he drew the straps down her arms and she felt her breasts become heavier and freer. Snape kissed the places where the straps had lain, and then his fingers were grazing her skin in the middle of her back where her bra fastened. A quick twist and it fell to the floor by her feet.

Her nipples were dusky pink against the paleness of her skin, and already erect. Snape's hands, the ones that she had watched all evening, came back round to cup her from beneath, and she pressed into him with a small cry of pleasure. His fingers spread and she cried out again as he began to circle her nipples, brushing over the tops of them and tracing gentle patterns over the aureoles, sending sparks into the hot place between her legs. The flush from her face was spreading over the rest her body and she moved against Snape, trying to relieve some of the pressure building inside her.

With infinite care, he shifted one hand from her breast down to her waist and, without stopping his rhythm, unfastened her skirt so that that it fell to the floor. Aching for release now, she moved a hand to her own panties, but felt him stop her.

"Let me," he murmured into her hair.

She let her hand drop again as he worked his own under the side of the material and pulled it down in one long slow stroke. She kicked the unwanted garments away, pressing against him as she did so. His own arousal was perfectly apparent to her through his trousers. She was now completely naked, standing out starkly against his darkness, the muted lighting and her rising flush making her flesh glow. The rub of cotton and wool, hard against her bare buttocks was almost as unbearable as the stroking at her breast and the fire between her legs. Then, unbelievably he moved his hand round to cup her mons and to slip one finger very slowly into the moist wetness between her legs.

By this stage she would usually have had her eyes closed, but the sight of herself in the mirror leaning back against Snape, legs slightly parted to allow him better access, one hand teasing her nipple and the other hand stroking her fold- it was the most erotic thing she'd ever seen.

He was dipping deeply into her, plunging and then withdrawing, circling her clitoris making her buck and gasp, then caressing her with long strokes. She watched herself being pleasured until she could bear it no longer.

"You see how beautiful you are?" he whispered against her as his arms tightened around her and she had to close her eyes and let go of the world with short sharp cries.

She realised that he had held her until reality returned and then he had steered her to the bed and taken her sandals off. Drowsily, she protested when she felt him move away from her, pushing herself up on one elbow. She blinked and her mind came properly back into focus as she saw that he was unbuttoning his own shirt. Without a trace of self-consciousness he stripped off his clothes in front of her, his erection standing proud away from his body. He was pale and thin, with only the finest dusting of hair on his chest and round his balls. He didn't look muscular, but there was strength in him, as she knew from the way that he had held her. Just a hint of challenge crept into his eyes when he saw her looking at him and deep within her she felt desire stirring again.

Swiftly, before he could move any further, she slipped off the bed and onto her knees in front of him. Very lightly, she planted a kiss on the tip of his penis, swirling her tongue round the tip, tasting the salty moisture there. A guttural sound from the back of his throat told her that he had appreciated the gesture, and then, with one motion, she took his cock into her mouth. He gave another groan and his hands came round to fasten themselves in her hair. Giving pleasure is a two way street, she thought happily as she withdrew slowly, exploring the ridges of his penis with her tongue as she went. Steadying herself, she cupped his buttocks with both hands, feeling the flat planes of him. She ran her mouth over him, now deep, now shallow, learning the taste of him, judging his reaction from the harsh sounds and the clenching of his hands in her hair. The tension built up between her own legs again heightened by the fact that he was quite clearly losing his control. Gently, she cupped his balls with one hand, squeezing lightly, and then playing her fingers over the sensitive skin of his perineum, stopping to press lightly on his anus.

At that he drew back with an inarticulate sound, which startled her, making her think that he hadn't liked it, but he drew her up from the floor to kiss her hard and passionately. Putting his hands on her shoulders he pushed her onto the bed and lay down beside her.

"Another time I will happily come in your mouth," he said raggedly, "but this time I want to come inside you."

The roughness in his voice sent shivers through Hermione. She pulled his head to her to kiss him again as hard and as passionately as he had her.

"As long as you keep your promises," she said, her own voice thick with desire.

In response he pushed her onto her back and moved to straddle her, his erection red and slick from her mouth. Desperate now to feel him moving inside her, she spread her legs and dug her heels in, tilting her hips towards him, but he just bent his head to take one nipple into his mouth. More fire flashed into her groin and she moaned, burying her hands in his hair and pulling him into her. He suckled on her, pulling and kissing and licking until she was grabbing at the covers beneath her and arching her back up, brushing the tip of his erection with her movements.

Then his mouth was moving downward again, across her belly, pausing to lap at her public hair and then his tongue brushed her, oh so lightly, across her nub, making her cry out and clutch at him again. The touch of him, exploring, tasting, dipping in, nipping and sucking, finding just what made her react was pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She dug her heels in again and tried to push away from his insistent attention.

"Damnit, Severus," she choked "I want to come with you inside me as well."

He pushed himself up and looked at her. His eyes were glittering with pleasure and desire and maybe something else that she couldn't quite identify - surprise, perhaps - she couldn't tell, for her attention was caught by his low chuckle.

"Since you ask so nicely, my lady ...." She closed her eyes at the echo of his words in the museum; the challenge that had started all this.

He moved back over her and entered her in a single stroke. Now, Hermione did close her eyes, drowning in the feel of him inside her, every nerve sensitised to the slow steady in and out. Snape had caressed and teased and coaxed her into such a state of arousal that she had been half way to coming when he entered her. But he just kept up his unhurried rhythm, touching her nipples, bending to kiss her mouth. She reached up to stroke his chest, smooth and hairless and to caress his nipples, feeling the shudders that went through him, and her, as she did so.

After the heat and the urgency there was something almost serene about this, a moment outside time that she could have lived in forever. And then time broke back in, the pressure moved up that extra notch, and her inner muscles convulsed around him as the world broke apart for the second time. From a distance she heard herself crying his name, and then her own name came back to her as he stiffened, thrust and then collapsed on top of her.

She wouldn't let him roll off, though, not even when she came back to herself again; she had always liked to hold a man after making love and feel him go soft inside her, prolonging the intimacy as long as possible. Snape didn't resist, simply sliding himself sideways enough that she could breathe, letting their breathing slow back to normal, drowsing in each other's embrace.

Later, when heat and desire stirred them again, Hermione asked, "Do I want to know where you learnt to do all this?"

Snape gave a small snort.

"No," he said simply. "Just say that no experience is ever wholly negative. Even if the benefits take some time to manifest themselves."

She nodded, attention distracted by his tongue returning to her nipple.

Even later, she said: "Just because this isn't happy ever after doesn't mean I wouldn't be interested in doing it again, you know."

There was a pause.

"I'm very busy," he said, in an experimental tone. "When I've finished here I have to see the Battista works in Florence and New York."

"I'm very busy too," Hermione replied equally neutrally. "I have two keynote lectures to prepare for the week after the next, then a talk in Paris, then three days in Budapest at a conference on International Wizarding Relations. I haven't dared look at my diary beyond that."

He touched her on the cheek.

"As long as you understand ...."

"I understand," she said gently. "No roses, no grandchildren, no wedding lists. Definitely not, 'happy ever after'. Happy sometimes will do just fine."

**********