It had been several months since the Leaving Feast and only weeks since the headmaster had asked him to teach Miss Granger the Wolfsbane Potion, but it felt much, much longer to Professor Severus Snape. Before then she had existed only in his periphery, only occasionally making appearances in the forefront of his mind, and then only because Potter had dragged her into some sort of trouble.

But now he found he couldn't stop thinking of her and the disgustingly saccharine nickname she had bestowed upon him. They had had a conversation which should have cleared everything up, and for her that was probably case. She had acted like a mature adult, apologizing and explaining; an unspoken truce was declared.

However, now every time she called him Severus, he froze with anticipation and fear. Would this be the time she let it slip? He could tell by the slightest up turning of her lips and a small twinkle in her eye that though she had taken his threat seriously about pronouncing the name aloud again that she still thought about it. He was certain that in Hermione Granger's head she still called him Sevie.

And it was driving him crazy.

He wished Albus had never dreamt up the First Name Ceremony. He wished that she was still Miss Granger and that he could return to being Professor Snape full-time. He had proposed several days into their brewing that they call each other simply by their surnames. It had struck him as if like lightning, the perfect solution to his problem. She could be Granger and he would be Snape—no title, but no possibility of Sevie either. She hadn't taken to the plan.

"If that's what you prefer," she had said glumly, the look on her face telling him clearly that she, however, did not prefer it.

"Never mind," he snapped. "Call me whatever you like." She smiled at him mischievously.

"Within reason," he had warned.

"So no Sevie?"

"Definitely not," he snapped.

"Or Seviekins?"

"Are you trying to make me vomit, Miss Granger?"

"What about Potions Professional?"

"That one isn't so bad."

He could hardly believe he just stood there while she came up with more and more horrible names for him. It only proved that the girl had a bewitching effect on him. Anyone else who would have dared called him by Sevie or, god forbid, Seviekins, would have lived to regret it. But though his wand hand itched to hex her into oblivion for her blatant and continued displays of disrespect, he didn't do it. Maybe it was because deep down he knew that her teasing didn't come from malice or dislike but from affection, however misguided.

"I could call you P.P. for short," she said with a giggle.

"Your humor is decidedly low brow and immature, Granger," he snarled.

"Sorry, sir," she said abashed before turning her attention back to her work. Finally, the respect that he wanted, but at the same time it bothered him. She still called him Professor from time to time and it both reassured and frightened him. It reassured him of the fact that he was, in fact, still able to instill fear and respect in the likes of Hermione Granger, but the nasty twinge that he felt when she called him by his proper title scared him witless. It was as if a wall had been built between them with the mere pronunciation of 'Professor', and what little camaraderie and intimacy they had created while he taught her to make Lupin's potion disappeared. He had never had much resembling friendship in his life and he was loathe to lose what little he had even to the likes of Granger.

At first he had thought she had merely been making fun of him at the First Name Ceremony, that someone, (probably her friends Potter and Weasley,) had put her up to some sort of dare. It hadn't been the first time that someone had used the opportunity of the Leaving Feast to finally express their opinions about his teaching methods or what they thought of him as a person. Most were quite unoriginal in their accusations and he had had the last laugh with these sorts when he inconspicuously hexed them to trip as they strutted through the Great Hall, puffed up and believing themselves to be adults. It amused him greatly to watch as they fell on their faces, their first attempts to act as equals to the mature adults around them failing miserably. It was a consolation, albeit small.

But Hermione, Miss Granger, or just Granger, whatever he was supposed to call her now, had been different. She had approached him with her head held high. She had offered her hand and thanked him for teaching her. She had, unlike any past student he had had, acted like the mature adult he was supposed to pretend they were. Until she had called him by that name.

He had balked when Albus had asked him to teach her the more advanced Potions the Order required, but he had reconsidered when the headmaster had pointed out that since his role as a spy had been discovered he hadn't had much to do around but mope around 12 Grimmauld Place. Even the likes of Granger would be better company than that insufferable bird, Buckbeak or Molly Weasley, who had it in her head that she could somehow "cheer him up" or at the very least "fatten him up." No amount of sneering and snide comments had deflected her attempts and in his honest moments he admitted he was downright scared of the woman.

It hadn't been until the third week of their brewing that Severus admitted to himself that he might feel something more towards the young woman he was working with. Her hand had brushed up against his as she reached for ingredients across the table. These things happened, especially when two people were forced to work in the confined space that Severus and Hermione had been allotted at headquarters, but he noticed that he noticed.

"Are you alright?" she asked, apparently worried at the odd expression that crossed his face.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Just be careful, if I had been holding a knife or adding ingredients you could have caused an accident."

"Sorry," she said, sounding chagrined but he wondered if it hadn't been punctuated with a Sevie at the end in her thoughts. He had been a spy for too long; he was becoming paranoid.

But after that he noticed every time he touched her. He could sense her presence, feeling colder when she wasn't around. When he said something that potentially hurt her feelings, he felt bothered about possibly alienating her. And it bothered him that that bothered him.

Why her of all people? Why couldn't he have liked someone like...? But he failed to think of anyone. Why not her? Hermione was a smart girl; her record at Hogwarts had proven that. She certainly wasn't intimidated by him, her brave words at the Leaving Feast had shown him that, and as he watched her bent over her cauldron he realized that she possessed a special type of beauty. All those clichés that he had been told as a child ran through his head, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder," and "don't judge a book by its cover."

Judging merely by her looks one might not even call her pretty, but taking her courage, determination, and intellect into consideration, it somehow transformed her frizzy hair, upturned nose, and slightly too large teeth into something worth studying. He assumed it was probably quite the opposite in regards to him. His large beak of a nose, crooked from being broken too many times, his yellow teeth, sallow skin, and greasy hair were made all the worse by the addition of his prickly personality.

"Come with me," he ordered her several days later. He had had enough mental torture. He needed to put this to rest as soon as possible, and he could think of only one way to do that. If he could show her that that idiotic game she had played was just that, then perhaps he could convince himself as well, finally earning himself some peace.

"But where are we going?" she gasped as he clamped his hand on her arm, pulling her into the fireplace with him. There was just enough room for the both of them, and she had to press herself up against him to avoid knocking her head.

"The Brown house," he said, both in answer to her question and as he threw the bit of powder to activate the floo.