Hermione woke up, long before dawn had even thought about breaking, with the distinct feeling that there was something odd about the day. After a moment she realised that it was the fact that she didn't have to pull herself out of bed and down to the dungeons in order to do as much work as humanly possible on face creams and body lotions.

In that case, she thought happily, she would treat herself to a long awaited lie in, followed by a lazy bath and a late breakfast. She snuggled down under the covers again, closed her eyes, stretched her toes and prepared herself for a nice long sleep, fortified by happy thoughts of another Christmas at Hogwarts.

Nothing happened.

Too many early mornings meant that her brain was automatically getting itself into gear, despite her body's fervent desire to return to somnolence.

Bloody hell.

This just wasn't fair. She lay there a few moments longer, willing herself sternly, but unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep until the tension of trying to relax made her muscles begin to cramp. Sighing, she rolled over on to her back and stretched fully. Eyes still closed, she tried to let her mind drift.

Predictably, it drifted towards the lower reaches of the castle. To the dungeons if one was going to be accurate about it. To the inhabitant of those dungeons if one was going to be accurate and honest about it.

And, even more specifically, the events of the preceding day. Of course, there had been the final delivery of the fruits of their joint penance to the Magenta Menace, but that wasn't what she was thinking about.

She was recalling that fragment of conversation, when, for one unguarded moment, she thought that something might have remained of that long, bizarre, wonderful final year. That perfect and unspoken understanding, relaxed and unforced, something unlooked for yet secretly desired and regretted. An instant in non-time when she could almost have reached up and run a finger down his face, tracing the familiar lines and angles, touching him just so, knowing how his body would respond almost as well as if it had been her own. And he would not have stopped her. At least, he probably wouldn't have stopped her. Well, she didn't think he would have stopped her. Say rather that he might have tolerated it. And she would never know what would have happened because Parvati - with a gift for timing that didn't appear to have improved since school - had erupted into the room, and the time had gone.

She sighed.

She might as well be realistic about this, she thought. It must have been the relief of finishing. Or simple inattention. Or maybe the recent close proximity of Parvati had made her presence seem more attractive to him. She gave a small snort. What a tribute:Marginally less distasteful than Parvati Patil.

And yet, there had been that moment when they touched and he hadn't pulled away from her. Certainly he hadn't shied away from her as he had from Parvati as she stalked him round the laboratory for two hours, peppering him with questions about their work. Hermione grinned into the darkness, momentarily distracted by the mental image. Watching Snape evade the Predatory Patil had almost been worth the mind-numbing stress of the last two weeks. Her grin faded then, as she remembered the attention - attention? Why not call it what it was: fawning adulation - that Parvati had lavished on Snape. Snape for heavens' sake. The man whose classes she couldn't leave fast enough. The man she had complained about for seven solid years. The miserable, sarcastic, ugly, greasy, evil bastard. That Snape.

She wriggled under the sheets, unreasonably put out. How come Parvati had taken such a sudden liking to him anyway? It wasn't as if he had substantially changed since they were at school. He had been testing the products, so naturally his hair was in better condition and his skin was somewhat clearer - she felt a certain satisfaction that he had finally been forced to stop using that wretched all-purpose household soap for his personal hygiene. Irritation gave way to a small wince at the memory of the constant sticky residue on her hair and skin, that no amount of rinsing with hot water seemed to quite clear. And she had to admit that not living in constant fear of discovery and torture would loosen anyone up a little - theoretically, at least - but he was still the Snape she remembered from school.

The Snape who criticised her work. Who totally ignored her if he was concentrating on something else. Who didn't enquire solicitously about her day. Who didn't hold her chair or fill her glass for her. Who let her get on with things without asking after her progress. Who knew how she liked her work space organised and how she took her coffee. Who knew what she would find funny and what would annoy her. Who could use that knowledge to aggravating effect when he wanted to.

The Snape who saw no reason to modify his behaviour to accommodate anyone else's notions of accceptability, and who, consequently, did not expect anyone else to do so either.

The Snape with whom she could be herself.

Yes. He was exactly the Snape that she remembered from school.

Oh dear.

Hermione raised her head and hit it several times on the pillow as if that would change the reality of the situation. The knowledge that she had been trying to bury beneath work, reunions, Queroz and, latterly, Minerva's whisky came marching to the forefront of her brain, set up camp and stubbornly refused to move.

She was going to have to face Snape. Of course, he would laugh, or sneer, or both and it would be a disaster, but having reached the conclusion, she couldn't just ignore it. Hermione Granger had not been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

The prospect made her feel slightly sick.

Abandoning the idea of a lie in, Hermione got out of bed. Somewhere in the middle of her bout of introspection the fires had been lit in her rooms, so she was not cold. She found her coffee pot - identical to Snape's, and one of the "essential items" that she had brought from home - and filled the bottom with water.

By the time that the pot was ready, she had managed to have a quick shower - so much for the long bath idea - and get dressed. Pouring the coffee, she wandered over to the advent calendar, propped up on one of the sets of bookshelves in the room. The angel was looking a little worse for wear now, graceful outlines disrupted by little cardboard doors, and slivers of different pictures. She located number twenty-three and teased open the door with some difficulty; she didn't like to tear the things and two weeks of intensive potions work had left her with extremely short nails.

Inside, three gorgeously robed men were carrying jewelled boxes. The Magi bringing gifts - pre-birth in this case - to the infant Christ. Which reminded her of another, more prosaic fact; Parvati's timescale had left her no time to buy any Christmas presents whatsoever.

Which meant that the confrontation of Snape would have to be temporarily postponed. It was, Hermione thought, something of a toss-up which was the preferable option; a "talk" with Snape, or a morning in Hogsmeade two days before Christmas. Nevertheless, the shopping had to be done, and it was probably better that it should be done and sent off before she ran the risk of having to beat a hasty retreat from the castle.

Sipping her coffee, she sat down to make a list. The usual suspects came at the top - Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly and Arthur Weasley, Dumbledore. Minerva. Fortunately, she had been able to arrange for her parents' present to arrive poste restante at St Helena. She couldn't imagine that the Ministry would be very amused at having to obliviate an entire Muggle cruise ship because an English barn owl had shown up in the West Indies carrying a package.

Which left the question of Snape. The minor question as opposed to the major question. Did she buy him a Christmas present? She chewed her quill. After some more deliberation she wrote "Severus" on her list. She could always leave the present with Dumbledore if there was a problem. As for what this hypothetical present might be; she decided that she would just wander round Hogsmeade and hope that inspiration struck.

Yes, she thought, that was the right way round. Get the presents sorted out, and cards and letters sent, and tackle Snape when that was off her mind. Later today, perhaps. Or maybe tomorrow. She might be a Gryffindor, but she had learnt over the years that occasionally discretion was the better part of valour. And sometimes procrastination was the better part of discretion. This definitely seemed like one of those times.