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She looked different.
The moment she entered his classroom, he noticed her.
Physically, she resembled Hermione Granger. Short, but with large, wild hair that she had to tame into a ponytail around the open flames and cauldrons.
But there was something different about her.
It wasn’t a physiological change— not exclusively, anyway. She was no taller, nor had she cut her hair. She had filled out, but that wasn’t what made him notice her.
It was her demeanour.
He recalled her from when last he’d taught her, two years prior; hurried and flustered and panicked. Hunched through the shoulders, scribbling as if the world would end if she failed to copy his words verbatim. But not any more.
She sat, quietly, towards the middle of the classroom. A small, Muggle notebook open to an empty page in front of her. She had a calmness that caught his attention; a surety of herself that made her sit taller than her petite frame should’ve otherwise allowed. It was a quiet confidence. In her abilities, in herself, perhaps both. The war had matured her. Settled her.
His eyes lingered on her a moment too long, and she met them with her own. Where once she had hesitated under his gaze, this time, she met it as an equal. And she held it. They stared at each other for a moment. He was the one to break it. But she did not stop staring at him.
Severus felt her eyes follow him around the room for the entire lesson. It should not have unsettled him as much as it did. She was his student, and she was paying attention. But her calmness made her presence feel larger. Her presence was that of more than one woman. She filled the room with it.
It was intriguing to behold.
When he asked the class to recite the brewing process for a Draught of Peace, she remained silent. Not because she didn’t know, but because she knew that she no longer needed to prove herself. When he called on her, she spoke with clarity. Surety. With the confidence of someone who knew. There was something magnetic about the way she spoke. The musicality with which she pronounced hellebore. Her tongue flicking the back of her teeth, and ending with parted lips.
He drew his eyes away from her. It would not do to stare.
The remainder of the class was uneventful. When the students began brewing, though, he found himself drifting toward her table once more. There was something about her hands. The way they moved was so… instinctual. The movements flowed through her hands as if it were her nature. He did not recall her being so adept in her youth. Meticulous, yes. Precise, yes.
Passionate? No.
The gentle touch of practice showed through her movements. He was entranced. How many times had she needed to brew while she had travelled? How many times had she been forced to make accommodations for ingredients not on hand? How much had she learned?
She flipped a lavender stem idly between her fingers as she reviewed the textbook.
He dismissed the class at the hour, moving to sit behind his desk at the front of the room, conscious of the fact that she was lingering behind.
And, as the door closed behind the final other student, she approached him.
Severus did not look up, busying himself with a meaningless paper.
“Something I can assist you with, Miss Granger?”
She stood silently for a moment, as if contemplating her words. He was not used to her silence. He was unsure whether he liked it.
“Are you alright?” she said, quietly.
It drew his attention, and he looked up at her. Her lips were pressed into a line. Her brow was furrowed, but her gaze was focused. She held her books to her chest, her fingers slowly twisting around a leather strap.
“In what regard?” he questioned.
She placed her books on the table nearest his desk, taking a step closer. “Harry told me you almost died. He told me what you did. And that you didn’t want anyone knowing. Well… I know. And I wanted to say thank you.”
He swallowed uncomfortably. “It is painfully obvious to any capable adult that Potter would have been dead fifteen times over had you not so repeatedly intervened. So if anyone is worthy of praise, Miss Granger, it should decisively be you.”
A soft laugh left her. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
He turned back to his inconsequential paper, pretending to read it thoroughly. She shifted on her feet in the corner of his gaze.
“Was there something else, Miss Granger?”
She stopped shifting, and instead steadied herself.
“Yes. And it’s a delicate subject, so I’ll be frank, if you’ll allow it.” She spoke decisively, and respectfully.
He nodded once. She took a breath.
“I want to pursue a Potions Mastery, and I’d like you to teach me.”
He froze, coming just shy of snapping his quill. She swallowed, choosing her words.
“I know it’s unorthodox for me to do it while finishing my studies, but I completed some accelerated subjects by correspondence over the summer, so I have extra time in my schedule. I would apply formally through the Ministry, but the registered Masters are all former Death Eaters being forced into it as reparations, and I will not waste any more time justifying my existence.” She hesitated for a moment. “I think I would be an exceptional student, and I want to do research, but in order to do real, impactful research, I need to study under someone who isn’t going to be rigid in following the rules.”
Then she reached one of her hands toward the stack of books behind her, whispering an incantation. One slipped from the stack, hovering gently toward her. Wandless magic. He would have been intimidated, if he were not so impressed.
The book looked larger in her small hands, but it was one he knew well. He had spent hours lost in its spine, his nose almost to the page as he wrote by dwindling light. Advanced Potion-Making. The inscription on the inside cover hinting at his blood status. Something he had been ashamed of, until he’d met her.
“I took it,” she whispered. “I took it with me when we left. I thought it would come in handy, and it did. Your notes were irreplaceable. Your understanding of Potion making is…” She trailed off. She hesitated for a moment. She took a deep breath. “I used to treat Potion-making as a science, until you.”
His eyebrow lifted. He glanced momentarily in her direction, then turned back to his task.
“It is a science,” he frowned. “A very precise one.”
Granger shook her head. “Not the way you do it. When you do it, it’s art.”
Her voice was quiet, skimming across the air like steam from a bubbling cauldron. The flattery flushed his body red, but if she noticed his discomfort, she did not mention it. She simply took another step closer to his desk.
“I admire you. Very much. And not just for your skill and expertise.” She placed the book on the desk before him, speaking quietly. “I know I wasn’t your favourite student. But if I’m going to have a teacher… I only want you.”
Her focus rested on him, and he felt his palms go a little damp. The flattery made him uncomfortable. Compliments were not something he liked receiving. But this one sent something eerily prideful through him.
Hermione Granger, doing a Potions Mastery? With him?
It was not something he readily admitted, but it was one of his only remaining ambitions. To take an apprentice, and teach them everything he knew. To research, and give findings about his areas of greatest interest, and discuss them at length with someone equally as passionate. She would be an outstanding candidate. She was brilliant. Curious, and innovative. Reliable. Dedicated. Had absolutely no qualms arguing with him. The perfect apprentice. All in all, the idea had merit. They would be a good match.
She took a deep breath, smoothing her skirt as she awaited his response. An innocuous, reflexive action, on her part.
But one that suddenly drew his eyes down her form.
He became discretely aware of her shape. The hourglass figure beneath a well-pressed uniform. The way the grey skirt flirted over her hips, cutting off at her thigh. And below it, bare skin. Golden and smooth and looking unbelievably soft. He stared at it. At the hint of her thigh.
His cock twitched.
The reflex filled him with horror. His breath caught through his teeth at his body’s response, rapidly coming to his senses. This was— she was— Spending ten-to-twenty hours a week in a room alone with a female student was inappropriate at the best of times. But with someone like her… Regardless of how intriguing she was, or how promising of a student, it would be inappropriate. He took a subtle, deep breath. He swallowed hard.
“I cannot accept.”
Her eyes flashed with annoyance, and she straightened further. “Why not?”
He turned away, dismissively. “Because it requires time that I do not have.”
“I’ve checked your schedule. You have plenty of time. You just don’t want to, and I won’t accept that as an answer.”
Severus mustered enough courage to consider her words.
She was a female student. A beautiful one, yes. But a brilliant one. Brightest witch of her age. Brightest magical human in a generation, he expected. And he was turning down the opportunity to mentor her because he was a man and she was beautiful.
The absurdity of it finally struck.
Perhaps her beauty might’ve been an issue for a man twenty years his junior. One who was anything other than repellent to women. But even at its most significant, his appreciation of her would only over exist from afar. It would only be an issue if his attraction was reciprocated.
So it would not be an issue.
He sighed. “Must you always push back?”
“Yes,” she steeled herself, staring pointedly. “In fact it’s kind of my thing. Now stop being obtuse and agree.”
Her words rang true. Pushing back was her thing. And she had always been persuasive. He sighed, resigned to his fate.
He stood, and extended his hand to hers.
“Alright.”
Granger’s face broke into a genuine smile. He was struck, for a minute, by how very beautiful she was, but he moved the thought from his mind. She acted very professionally, and she did not gloat over her victory. She simply held his gaze. She slipped her hand into his— so petite— and shook it firmly.
It was as appropriate as it could possibly be. A desk between them, shaking hands in agreement. But as her palm slid against his own, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of electricity pass between them. It lasted a quarter-second too long, and he was certain he was to blame.
She lifted her face to him, looking him decisively in the eyes.
“Thank you, Severus.”
His breath caught swiftly. His name on her breath sounded like some sort of prayer. It was unbelievably sensual, and his body tightened as if in a spasm. If her palm had been in his, he would have clenched it, giving himself away. It was— He was disgusted by himself on her behalf. He glared at her.
“You are still a student, and you will refer to me by my appropriate title.”
Her mouth fell open, as if about to argue back. He gave her a stern expression. She dropped her gaze to his desk, but then changed her mind and stood taller.
Her eyes darted back to his, and she whispered it.
“Fine. Professor.”
The word licked its way out of her mouth, kissing the air as it curled toward him. An honorific that he could almost taste as it slipped from her lips. He’d heard it over and over. Day in, day out, for nearly two decades. And never, not once, had he heard the word sound so wholly and sensationally filthy. It left her like a moan on a heated breath.
He should’ve allowed her to use his first name.
He forced himself not to react, demanded that his body compartmentalise the sudden rush of southward blood. It should not have affected him. He would not allow it to affect him. He gave her a dismissive nod. She turned on her heel and swept from the room, leaving a subtle fragrance in her wake. Vanilla. Lavender. And a salty earthiness that he recognised to be the smell of parchment. He collapsed back into his chair and began heaving with breath.
There was something different about her.
Something very different indeed.
The first week was straightforward.
The project he proposed that they work on was a new type of pain potion. One without the addictive qualities of the existing options. It involved the meticulous study of all known ingredients that could possibly contribute to the cessation of pain. Hundreds of hours of work. Thousands.
Granger’s face had practically lit from within.
Severus had urgently reminded himself not to stare.
He sorted out the paperwork with the Ministry, and the Headmistress, and had almost formalised the arrangement, when Granger made a last-minute addendum, and insisted on paying for her own potion supplies. Severus had stared at her for a full minute, before curtly informing her not to be ridiculous. She argued that learning the economics of potioneering was an important learning opportunity. He put his foot down.
Granger went over his head, complaining to McGonagall about it. Then he was politely but firmly instructed that while it was very gentlemanly of him, he should allow her to pay for her own ingredients if she chose to. He had never seen a more self-satisfied expression than the one that had plastered itself on Granger’s face. He had rolled his eyes severely. The precocious witch never had learned to compromise.
She was a challenge. So he treated her accordingly. He hoped it would lessen his admiration for her.
He was woefully incorrect.
He fired off questions mid-sentence, giving her no time to respond. It worked for approximately one hour before she began almost pre-empting them. He began giving her more difficult tasks to do. She excelled at them.
Hermione Granger was a woman of truly incomprehensible brilliance.
Her knowledge far exceeded N.E.W.T. level. She would have required a lobotomy to achieve anything below an Outstanding grade. So he asked her to act as a teaching assistant in his classes. It was almost comical to watch her walk around the room, and have the classes be struck silent by her presence. Especially the boys.
Severus convinced himself that it was because she was very, very famous, and had nothing to do with her immeasurable beauty.
He had to regularly convince himself of it.
Weeks passed. Then months. He became proficient at not noticing her. Or, if he did, he had become proficient at acting as if he had not. Each time she twisted her hair around her fingers, tying it back into a bun with a Muggle tie. Or magically secured it. He found himself staring when she forgot, and instead, stuck it in place with her wand. Regardless, it was always so beautiful. Curls draping down the nape of her neck, or hanging loosely around her ears. Escaping from whatever fastening she’d tamed them into. The smell of vanilla and lavender salt almost lingered in his classroom.
He felt like it lingered on his skin.
She came every day at four-thirty, and they would work until six. Cleaning, setting up, et cetera. Then they walked to the dining hall together, quietly discussing experiments.
He never, ever allowed the conversation to drift from the professional.
They would reach the hall and they would separate. Granger would be welcomed by the wide smiles of the eighth year students. He would make his way quietly to the staff table.
The Headmistress always greeted him warmly. Occasionally he would be accosted by Sybil Trelawney, but it was only ever to point out, once again, that his aura was muddied and grey. But it was preferable to the alternative. Because the alternative was staring across the room.
At her.
Every now and again, he would hear her laugh echo across the Great Hall, and his eyes would dart up to find her. She would have her hands over her mouth, trying to stop herself from showing she enjoyed whatever idiotic thing her friends had done. He would stare for a moment.
But only very occasionally.
More often than not, he ate in silence, with his eyes on his food, if he could eat at all. Because it was after dinner when his greatest challenge presented itself.
His walk back to the dungeons was a long one. Because each night, when arrived, she would already be there. Finishing off the cleaning, halfway out of an enormous cauldron, her skirt riding up the back of her thighs. Researching, her nose in a book, her legs tucked up underneath her as she took up residence on the armchair near the bookcase. A quill in her mouth, or tapping against her chin, as another jotted down her dictated notes.
He tried very hard not to stare.
He particularly liked watching her prepare ingredients, her delicate fingers curling around a knife that was far too large for her hands. But she never made a single mistake. Not once. She had been working with him for months. And he was yet to provide her a real challenge.
So, one afternoon... he gave her one.
“Polynesian Billywigs,” he said, conjuring a shimmering version of one as they walked together toward the Great Hall. It buzzed threateningly around their heads. She glanced up at it, but then turned to him intently.
He had her full attention.
He cleared his throat. “Significantly larger than their Australian counterparts, which makes it easier to inspect their physiology.”
She frowned in concentration. “All billywigs need to be transported alive. And we can’t harm them once they’re imported. Non-invasive procedures only.”
He nodded. “Restraining them in a way that they cannot not break free, but would also not be killed, has eluded a generation of researchers. Including myself. Their sting is… extremely unpleasant. I do not recommend receiving one.”
Granger stared at the conjured bug, her brow furrowed in concentration. They could not be stuck to a table, the weight of their body crushed their lungs. Magical protective equipment, large scale cages, suspension spells— nothing worked. Their wings had a lift power that defied magic. And short of politely asking them not to fly, a solution had not been found.
“I read about them in your notes. Your hypothesis was intriguing. The one with the fork.”
He frowned. He had indeed constructed a hypothesis based on Muggle understandings of physics, an interruption of the exceptional lift force generated by Billywig wings. The drawing in his notes could have resembled a fork, he supposed, with its multiplex of flow interruption. But it was of no consequence. Because it had amounted to nothing.
“That was the ideation of an excitable sixteen-year-old.”
“A brilliant sixteen-year-old,” she said.
He frowned, and said nothing. She sighed, and they separated, toward their respective tables.
Severus tried to ignore the effect her words had on him. Brilliant. She considered him brilliant. She'd said it so casually. His mind continued drawing back to them as he ate. It was roast lamb that night. He had barely eaten.
He was busy staring at his fork.
Severus hadn’t thought about his original theory in years. Decades. He’d added to it and taken things away so many times that his current theory barely resembled it at all.
But she thought it was brilliant.
His eyes, once more, searched the room for her. And when he found her, she, too, was staring at her fork.
Her brow was furrowed in beautiful concentration. In deep study. A few of her eighth year companions were mucking about around her, transfiguring roasted vegetables into miniature flying dragons, but she didn’t join in.
Her brain was working.
A tiny dragon swooped in front of her. She swatted it away with her hand. It fell into the mint jelly in front of her with a squeak. She glanced at it, then returned to inspecting her fork.
Severus turned his eyes back to his own plate.
But then he froze.
He looked up at Granger. She was already on her feet. Her palms were flat on the table, staring down at the tiny dragon. She looked at her fork. Then at the carving fork stuck into the roast lamb. She reached for it. And she looked back at the tiny dragon, wings sticky as it freed itself.
Severus stood, his chair scraping loudly, eyes widening.
“Severus?” McGonagall queried curiously. He did not respond. He was already crossing the room. He moved quickly, not caring if he looked foolish or desperate. The expression on Granger’s face was one of pure brilliance. Of realisation. He would be the first to behold it or he would die trying.
By the time he arrived at her table, she had done it.
“Professor—“ she started, turning to him and showing him what she’d done. “An adhesive— from above—“
“With a multifaceted interruption of the lift dynamics—“ he replied.
“Your hypothesis— it was exactly right—“
“Prevents flight, without crushing the lungs. We could secure it—”
“Perhaps a perch, to keep it calm with—“
“No harm to the animal.”
His voice was shaking with quiet excitement, and so was hers. Breathing hard through open mouths. Staring at each other.
Fifteen minutes. It had taken her fifteen minutes to find a solution to a problem that had stumped academics for decades. He stared at the utensil, oversized in her delicate hand. Mint jelly dripping from the miniature dragon.
Everyone around them was staring like they had both gone completely mad. Rambling about adhesives and physics with an excitement that, at least on his part, probably seemed out of character. But he didn’t care. For once, he could focus on her, and her alone, as they spoke in quiet science. Finishing each other's sentences.
Brilliant. It was brilliant. He felt his eyes sparking at her creativity. He took a deep breath and looked down at her, meeting her gaze with what he was sure was a sparkle in his own.
“Finish your food. Quickly.”
She beamed at him.
They spent the evening replicating the consistency.
Severus guided her through authoring her first academic paper that very same week. Then an application to the patent office at the Ministry. When the acceptance letters for both came in the post, she saw her name as the sole creator. She’d stormed into his classroom with the papers in her hands. Ranting about how dare he give her all the credit, and this was a joint effort.
“That’s for the potions ingredients,” he said, coolly, hiding his smirk.
She was so annoyed she didn’t speak to him for a week.
It was an awful week. He cursed himself every day. He had intended it as a gesture. He was an idiot. However, she began speaking to him again. And when she did, she greeted him humbly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “It was incredibly generous of you.”
Severus did not gloat. He was just glad to hear her voice.
But something between them had changed. And it was for the better.
A connection seemed to have formed between their thoughts. It was not magical, nor was it intentional, but it was, for want of a better word, chemistry. She had grown, once more, in her confidence. In her passion. Her excitement. Her mind moved too quickly for her mouth to keep up, but he always seemed to understand her. He could always follow her thoughts, and where they were going. Jumping between ideas and forging pathways between them. He had to do little else than point her in a direction.
Granger continued to impress him. Surpass him, even, in some things. She picked up new techniques quickly. Her ideas were novel, and exciting. But every single time, she would stop.
And she would ask his opinion.
It made him feel quite secure in his knowledge. To have her mind, whirring and calculating on four different planes at once, instantly silence and focus on him. She respected his expertise. And his knowledge. And she welcomed it.
Their work was often quiet. And whenever he spoke, she listened. On extracting the root from Chizpurfle fangs without damaging the bone. On chewing the wormwood before chopping it to release more juice, it didn’t matter what it was. She was always listening.
He mentioned in passing an hypothesis that the bark of the wiggenbush could be up to three times as potent as the bark of the wiggentree, if dehydrated and powdered first. An offhand comment while discussing something unrelated.
She snuck into his classroom on the weekend and tested it.
It turned out to be correct. Another discovery. She forcibly wrote his name as the primary researcher, and this time, he did not protest. He wanted to, of course, it was her that had done the experiment.
But it had been so long since he enjoyed someone’s company the way he enjoyed hers.
He would not risk her not speaking to him again.
All in all, Severus managed to keep himself in line. Focusing on the research, and on talking to her in a professional capacity only. It was good for her progress. He quickly trusted her to perform tasks far beyond what an apprentice would usually be permitted to do.
He convinced himself that he had his fascination with her under control. In hindsight, it was obvious that this had been a grave error in judgement.
However, it was the only explanation for what he entrusted her with next. It was foolish, in hindsight.
It was uncharacteristically naive of him.
Cupido gemmas. Small, yet potent, not unlike her. Not something to be toyed with. Certainly not something to be underestimated.
He had been quite clear: a precise centre-cut at a forty-five degree angle, releasing the acidic sap from the right atrium of the plant without puncturing the left. Because, in the left atrium were the seeds. Once dried, powdered, dispersed, and diluted, a single drop could be safely added as the key ingredient of Amortentia.
Raw Cupido seeds were the most powerful aphrodisiac known to the wizarding world.
The extraction procedure was fraught with risk. The left atrium was extremely fragile. A single knock in the wrong direction— the slightest disturbance of the delicate film, and the seeds would interact with the sap, and release their fragrance. A single breath of the fragrance was said to send even those with the strongest constitution into a frenzy of such unbridled lust that it could… barely be sated. He had heard rumours of the last time an attempt had been made to collect them. Three students… he cleared his throat.
One must be very careful in handling it.
Easy, under normal circumstances. Granger had a steady hand and precise knife skills. However, one could not use a knife on Cupido gemmas. It was poetic, but unbelievably powerful magic. A knife through the atrium would cause the plant to immediately shrivel and die. Any force, any insistence, gone. There was only one, single, known way to cut the heart of the plant.
A hair.
It was difficult to find one strong enough. But he sourced one. A single, silver unicorn hair.
He had given her a violin string to practise, along with a bag of lychees that had cost a truly incomprehensible sum to have imported to Scotland. She had been practising for nearly the last week.
She was not practising when he entered.
Granger was sitting, reading over the storage instructions, and double-checking that she had the correct size dehydrator ready. He raised an eyebrow as he passed the table.
“Are we so confident, Miss Granger?”
Granger took a deep breath. “I’ve been practising for days. I have the technique perfected. If I do it immediately beforehand, I’m going to overthink it, and my hands will shake. Relying on muscle memory is an easy way to make a mistake. I’m going to triple-check my angles, and cut once.”
He studied her for a moment.
He couldn’t really ignore the pride that flooded him. His lip curled into a soft smile. He nodded once at her.
“Good.”
It seemed that Granger was trying to hide how deeply that affected her, but for once in her life, she failed at something. Because she immediately blushed, and smiled back. Severus took quite a deep breath to steady himself.
He knew his praise was difficult to come by.
He had not realised how highly she valued it.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, and it immediately fell forwards again. She glanced up to check he hadn’t seen. He had. And he knew he did not need to say it aloud. He shot her a stern look.
Granger huffed, tugging her hair free and re-tying it tighter, and as she did, she huffed with teasing annoyance. “Why do I have to tie mine back, and you don’t have to tie yours?”
He sighed. “Because no one will fret if my hair catches fire.”
Granger smiled softly. “I would. Though I do think shorter hair would suit you.”
Severus paused.
It had been a long time since he’d considered his appearance in any way that mattered. Haircuts were not something he’d had the time, nor the vanity to consider. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had it trimmed. He wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he chose to say nothing. He simply turned his back on her as he washed his hands, and prepared to work with the Cupido.
She spoke again. “I could cut it for you, if you like.”
He froze. Partly because of the personal nature of the offer, and partly—
Partly at the thought of her running her fingers through his hair.
His eyes closed as he pictured it. There was something unbelievably sensual about the thought. Of him, seated, with her standing somewhere behind him, pre-empting her touch. Never knowing where or when it would come. Around his ears, or down the back of his neck. He would remain perfectly still. She would be so precise. His mind wandered to an alternate reality, where he might have allowed her to do it. Where she inspected him afterwards. Looked down at him with approval. With that smile, directed at him.
He came to his senses, and dismissed the idea.
“Are you sure?” She lifted a pair of scissors from the table before her, as if offering once more. “I used to do Harry’s for him while we were travelling. I’m actually rather good at it.”
He swallowed, hard.
“No, thank you.” He cleared his throat, and approached the table.
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.” She smiled, shifting sideways to make room for him.
He slid in beside her. The proximity did not make him as anxious as it once had. That was good.
Granger looked at him, her eyes flicking up once more to his hair.
“Although, you mustn’t judge my skills off what Harry’s hair used to look like. Sometimes he pissed me off, so I did it badly on purpose.”
A comfortable silence fell between them. He furrowed his brow, a sudden humour bubbling inside him. He sighed.
“Idiots. All three of you.”
His face remained stoic. But he glanced sideways at her, and found her staring curiously at him.
“Did you just call me an idiot?”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“An insufferable know-it-all with no concept of self-preservation, a Weasley, and the mortal peril magnet that is Potter, tasked with saving humanity. I remain in disbelief that any of us are alive.”
Her mouth fell open, scoffing. “We did not save humanity—“
“Your chocolate frog card disagrees.”
Then she laughed.
She laughed.
It was only brief. But the sound drew more magic into the room than the magical core of the universe. His stomach wrenched. He could not recall the last time a witch had laughed at his joke.
He could not recall the last time he had told one.
She rested her elbow on the table, her chin on her hand.
“It should’ve been you on a card,” she smiled. “You took more risks than anyone.”
“Yes, I’m sure the public would have delighted in their sweets being wrapped in photographs of a sullen, middle aged man.”
She grinned.
“I’m so sorry, Professor, that we stole your spotlight. We all know how much you were looking forward to the alternative. It should’ve been you in Neville’s place, posing in your pants on the cover of Witch Weekly.”
He tried to fight the muscles in his face, but the mental image was too powerful. It tugged at him. And the more he fought it, the funnier it was.
He grinned. And he laughed at it.
It felt unfamiliar in his mouth, more a jolting breath than an actual sound. He could feel it creasing in his skin, the sensation foreign and unrehearsed. Iit took her completely by surprise. Her eyes sparkled, and she beamed at him.
“Made Severus Snape laugh,” she teased, checking off a box in the air. “They should add a line to my card.”
He glanced sideways at her, ready to roll his eyes, but paused a moment. She was looking at him with such warmth that he could barely stop himself.
He spoke without thinking. “I heard it couldn’t be done. Might be worthy of another Order of Merlin.”
This time, he got to watch the laugh move over her face. It started in her lips, pursed as she fought it, but only for a moment. It started on the left, then on the right, tugging wider as the smile overtook her face. Her cheeks dusted pink. Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight of the dungeon.
God, she was breathtaking.
He caught himself, forcing the smile from his own face, clearing his throat.
“Now, if you don’t mind, can we proceed with our work?”
She sighed. “Alright, killjoy. Go on.”
He regretted cutting the conversation short. She fell back into ‘work’ mode, almost seeming disappointed that she did not have more opportunity to… talk. To him. Perhaps he could… allow some personal conversation, in future. He would quite like to talk. To her.
What non-academic books she enjoyed. About her classes. Which she liked, and which she didn’t. What food she preferred. What she had had for breakfast. Perhaps he could ask.
Perhaps one day he could bring it to her.
He proceeded to furiously scold himself in his mind. It was a terrible idea. Personal conversation was a terrible idea, and would only bring him closer to crossing a line.
His acknowledgement came in the form of a short grunt from the back of his throat.
Severus placed a hand over the top of the cloche. He turned to look at her.
“Safety procedures.”
She took a deep breath, reminding herself to be serious. “If it punctures, or otherwise breaks, we immediately exit the room. If either of us is… incapacitated by it, the other must not hesitate to stupefy and/or otherwise neutralise them until the room can be fully aired out.”
He nodded once, not allowing his thoughts to wander. There were too many scenarios in which— No. He would not allow them.
“Good,” he replied.
She did not smile this time. She just nodded back. He lifted the cloche housing the fresh Cupido, and gently placed it in front of her.
The tip of each heart-shaped leaf was curled like an inviting finger. The dusky pink bud drew his gaze immediately. Even from this distance, he could taste its fragrance on his tongue.
Professor Sprout had warned him of it. The effects of a raw Cupido bud were one-thousandth the power of exposure to the seeds, but even minor exposure acted as a mild aphrodisiac.
Its fragrance was obvious. Vanilla and lavender salt.
Circe, he was disgusting.
But this time, his shame did not chill him. It simply warmed the back of his neck. Down his chest, and into his gut. He cleared his throat. He did not allow himself to look at Granger.
“It appears to be reasonably fresh,” he instructed. “Proceed with the inspection.”
She took a breath, and nodded, glancing over at the dictation parchment floating beside her as she reached for her ruler.
“A specimen of Cupido gemmas, cut five-and-one-quarter hours prior to inspection. The bud is one-and-one-quarter inches at the diagonal. Dusky pink colour, both atriums appear to be intact. Fragrance is…” She leaned in, taking a deep breath. “... Extremely pleasant. There appear to be six seeds enclosed in the left atrium. Commencing procedure to release sap from the right, one unicorn hair at the ready.”
Severus watched her hands rise. He watched her measure the forty-five degree angle on the protractor beneath. She checked again. Then once more. He watched her tense. Then he watched her hesitate. Her breath caught. She placed the unicorn hair down, gently.
“My hands are shaking,” she whispered.
He took a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Then another. Then another. She looked over at him, and began following his breathing.
“Why are they shaking? Think logically,” he guided.
She took another breath.
“The plant is a vasodilator. And it promotes arous…” she hesitated, choosing her words. “...adrenal release. And adrenaline makes the hands shake.”
“Correct,” he said. “How do you overcome it?”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, and her lips parted. She began breathing quickly.
Panting.
“Miss Granger,” he caught her attention. “How do you overcome it?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know.
“Breathing, and exposure therapy,” he noted, calmly. “The fragrance is not getting stronger, nor is it cumulative. It is a constant. The more you are exposed to it, the less overwhelming it will be.”
She took a deep breath, and relaxed.
“Exposure therapy. Thank you. That makes sense.” She took another deep breath, and she calmed herself. She looked up at him. “Also, you’ve been exposed to this before. That’s why this isn’t affecting you as much as it’s affecting me.”
Affecting her.
Severus’ body went rigid. He slid his hand under the table so that she would not see him clench his hand into a fist on his trouser leg. He did not want to imagine it affecting her. He ignored her words. He did not allow them to impact him. He stared at her for a moment. But she shook her head.
“I don’t think I should do it,” she said. “I’m shaking too much— You should—”
She tried to pass him the Unicorn hair, but with her eyes closed, she was imprecise. Instead of passing the hair to him, her hand brushed over his.
Then took hold of it.
In his heightened state, the sudden touch of skin against skin was electrifying. She was holding his hand. It sent a shockwave through his entire body. His other fist, above his knee, slammed into the underside of the table as he tried to stop himself from collapsing into her touch.
They both froze as the Cupido bud began rolling towards the back of it.
Severus was unsteady on his feet. Granger was faster. She launched herself forward, across the table. He stepped back from it, ready to make a run for the door.
If the bud exploded with him in the room, he would not allow himself to be anywhere near her. He would take his own life before he allowed himself to hurt her in any way, a protectiveness that had him walking briskly toward the door. He had to get out. He could not risk it.
A gasp made him pause. He looked back.
Granger was clean over the top of the table. Bent over it, her arms and top half hanging over the other side. Her skirt— her uniform skirt— had risen up. Her thighs lay exposed to the room. Smooth, taut skin. The curved, pliable flesh of her backside. His eyes fell to her underwear. He was frozen as his eyes dragged over them. The light grey cotton was unassuming. Practical. Otherwise unremarkable.
But there was a dark, damp patch along the centre.
His throat closed over as he began staring at it. He’d known she was experiencing arousal, but seeing it— a visual confirmation that she had been sitting beside him, wet— His entire body fought to crawl towards her on his knees. To move the cloth aside, and replace it with his tongue.
Severus had to reach for the table beside him to steady himself. He exhaled heavily, willing himself to calm as every drop of his blood was saturated with need.
He’d never felt lust like this. The desire to wrench her underwear aside and drown in her. To dig his hands into her hips and hear her beg for him. To take her, over and over and over and over until she was whimpering into his ear for him to stop. To hold her and press his lips to hers. Her beautiful skin, her hair. Her body. Her lips. He wanted her for himself. He desired her deeply.
He forced his eyes away.
Horrified.
The thoughts had existed in his mind for a long time, but he had never allowed them to materialise until now. And the realisation filled him with shame.
The Cupido had to have burst. It had to have burst, because if it hadn’t, and he had just had thoughts of that nature about a student— about his apprentice—
About her. When she deserved so much better.
She pulled herself back off the desk. She was shaking, her hand closed loosely in front of her.
“I caught it.”
Severus swallowed hard as Granger moved back onto her seat. She held it in her hand. She looked down at it, terrified.
“I don’t know if it’s—”
He approached on shaking legs, and held his hand out to hers, calmly. Her fingers brushed his palm as she opened them to drop the bud into his hand.
The touch was electric.
The bud was firm, but stable in his hand. He glanced at Granger, trying to convince himself it had broken. A small cut? A bruise to the atrium? A single seed that would indemnify him; would excuse his behaviour; would excuse the way he had looked at her. The way he desired her.
If he crushed it in his hand, he would have an excuse. A subtle squeeze, or the slice of a fingernail, and he would never be able to say for certain that he hadn’t simply exacerbated existing damage. He would be innocent of the lust he felt for her. Of the affection. The admiration.
Oh, how badly he wanted it to be broken.
She was staring at him, with her beautiful eyes, and her beautiful hair. With her terrified expression that she had done something wrong in his eyes, when in reality, it was him who had transgressed.
He opened his hand to look down at the Cupido.
It was flawless. Perfectly intact and undamaged. Her delicate hands had caught it gently enough to save it from even a bruise. Shame washed over him, choking his blood with it. Adrenaline was no match for the self-loathing that filled him, through every muscle. Every crevice.
The thoughts he had were entirely his own. And down to his bones, he despised himself for it.
“Did I break it?” she whispered.
He could not look at her. Of course she would take the blame for his error. It was he that had knocked the table. Him that had looked at her with such filth in his mind. Such disrespect.
“Are you coherent?” he hissed. “Because if you’re capable of speaking, I should say not.”
She folded her hands in her lap, wringing them gently as he took the Unicorn hair.
He measured once. He made the cut. Sap trickled from the right atrium. He moved faster than he should have. It didn’t matter any more if the left atrium burst.
He could not hate himself more than he already did.
“You know,” Granger stared at his movements, her lip quivering, as if trying to lighten the mood again. “If you hadn’t been blessed with magic, you would’ve made an excellent surgeon.”
Severus swallowed, with great difficulty. He did not react to the compliment. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps things would’ve been easier for him if he had never entered this world. Never met her.
“Alas. Magic found me, so we shall never know.”
Granger took a deep breath, seemingly cut by his short tone. It made him feel worse.
But she did not stop.
“I know they’re very rare. Most people won’t get to see one in a lifetime.” She swallowed hard, looking up at him. “I’m sorry that I almost damaged it. I feel very privileged to see one at all.”
Her words made him wish that he were dead.
The fucking plant didn’t matter. Not to him. What was rare was her. Her patience. Her humility. Her speed in assuming responsibility and assigning blame for the sins of everyone around her to herself. He did not deserve for her to take blame for his mistakes, but in the moment he was too much of a coward to correct her.
After everything she’d been through, she was still able to wear her emotion across her entire chest. She was still able to see the positive in things. She was sensible of course, but an idealist at heart. She had seen the worst of the world, and had not let it damage her. She was a lot less fragile than she looked. He admired that very much.
A privilege? No. Existing in her presence was the privilege.
He handed her back the unicorn hair, allowing her to finish the remainder of the procedure.
“Are you sure?” she whispered.
He growled an acknowledgement, clenching his jaw, and made his way to his desk. He waited until she was focused, and he covered his mouth with his hand.
Knowing there were people like her in the world made him question why his life had been spared. Why the universe had decided to force his story to continue. Why it had let him live.
Severus often wondered whether the universe had made a terrible mistake in doing so.
When there were people like her who had died. Brilliant, kind people, who tried very hard to be positive about things. Who did the right things. Who weren’t disgusting, perverted, amoral stains on the earth. He had been allowed to live.
He could feel her gaze on him. He ignored her.
Granger finished her procedures without a single misstep. Flawlessly executed extraction, and entry to the dehydrator. She barely needed his instruction. But she did not stop her unrelenting staring.
As soon as she was finished, he dismissed her.
She crossed the room under instruction, gathering her things and lifting them to her chest. She placed her hand on the door handle.
She stopped.
Granger turned to him with a loud breath, her lips parted as if she were going to say something. He looked up. Their eyes met across the room.
She hesitated.
“Goodnight, Professor,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry again.”
He nodded once.
She left.
Severus brought both hands to his face, and breathed heavily into them. It did nothing to minimise his shame. He could not continue like this. In this vein. He could not allow himself to pine after her. Or to enjoy her company so much. He could not allow himself to feel protective of her, or feel that he deserved to share her time. She was not his to protect. He did not deserve her. Any part of her. Ever.
Exposure therapy, he reminded himself.
He would learn to control it with time. He just needed more time.
He had to learn.
He had to.
She was quiet the next day. Quieter than usual. And not with the nice, collegiate silence he’d come to look forward to at the end of each day.
She was simply quiet.
Though, he supposed he was quiet too.
He was trying to act as he normally would, but he could barely look her in the eyes. After he’d defiled her with them the day before, he felt he should not have been allowed. He was disgusting. A poor excuse for a mentor, and a shameful human being.
“I’m sorry again. About yesterday.”
His jaw clenched at her soft voice’s intrusion on his thoughts. He ground his teeth together in frustration.
“Stop apologising,” he hissed.
“You dismissed me before we could talk about—“
“I said stop.”
She fell silent. He closed his eyes.
“Are you angry with me for panicking?”
“No.”
“Was it what I said about you having the hands of a surgeon?”
“Miss Granger,” he insisted, sternly.
“Do I make you uncomfortable?” she whispered.
He swallowed hard. “No.”
“But compliments do.”
He was swallowing too frequently, but he did it once more. And he did not respond to her.
She shifted uncomfortably. He did not like her feeling uncomfortably around him. He had ruined everything. She spoke quietly.
“It felt like we were getting somewhere. I felt like we had such a strong rapport, and then yesterday happened, and… it feels like you’ve blocked me out again. And if it’s not because of my mistake, I want to know why.”
He cleared his throat. “I would prefer if you did not compliment me.”
“Why?” she asked. “You can’t tell me you don’t like compliments.”
“You were correct. They make me uncomfortable.”
“Well you’re in need of some exposure therapy, then,” she said quietly.
“I am not.”
“Actually, I think you are.”
Severus huffed his disapproval, peeling back a section of the plant, he rolled it over itself, a half-twist to keep it secure as he pinned the spiral to the side. He did not need her compliments. Particularly not multiple repeated sessions to reduce his sensitivity.
But she didn’t relent.
“The way you talked me through the Cupido. You just… understood it. It didn’t frighten you.”
“There was nothing to be frightened of. It was a potion ingredient with side effects, all of which we knew about well in advance.”
“And yet, I was frightened of it.” She spoke quietly as she glanced over to the dehydrator, where their specimen had long since left. “The same way you’re frightened to hear someone tell you, out loud, that they think you’re incredible.”
“Incredible is a gross exaggeration.”
“No, Professor, it really isn’t.”
She moved in beside him. Closer. Uncomfortably close. Her knee skimmed the outside of his thigh, and he wasn’t sure where to put his arms. He remained rigidly in his seat.
She pointed to a page in the book in front of them.
“Look at this. These notes.” She drew his gaze to the page, where notes from his youth were scrawled in the margins. Her delicate fingers trailed over the parchment.
He followed her gaze to where her finger rested on the page.
Stir once clockwise. Then one two-thirds stir. Then one half-stir, ensuring to bisect through the centre line of the cauldron. Perform a crescent-shaped stir, allow the mixture to settle, then perform the same pattern in reverse.
She shook her head in disbelief.
“You’re recreating the phases of the moon in your stirring pattern. For wolfsbane. That is—” She exhaled heavily, letting her head fall back. “I’ve never read anything like it. You don’t just know this, you understand it. You have a comprehension of magic that is beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”
He rested his wrists on the table to steady himself. “You do not need to flatter me.”
“You don’t hear it enough,” she said.
He lifted his tools once more, deciding to ignore her. But she leaned toward him, collecting his gaze and catching it with her own.
“You are one of the most impressive men I have ever met. I think you are brilliant. And a gentleman. I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you. And I’m not just saying it, Severus. I mean it.”
He was about to scold her for using his first name again, but he was struck silent as his eyes met hers. He’d never seen her eyes from this proximity before, and they floored him for a moment. They were like gold. Flecks of autumn, of fire and honey, or caramel. Butterbeer. Charcoal. Shades of brown to yellow to amber. Soft and warm, hard and fiery. Beautiful. And they were looking at him.
Her lips parted— full lips, so soft— he could barely stop staring at them.
But they moved. She moved them. Forming words. Nervously.
She took a breath, and she spoke again.
“I cannot believe you are single.”
He froze. His body seemed to curl in on itself, stiffening and deflecting from the words. He turned away from her.
“That is extremely inappropriate.”
“I would date you in a heartbeat, if you asked.”
His stomach wrenched, his eyes slamming shut.
“Stop.”
She huffed through her nose.
“No, I won’t, because it’s true. I find you attractive. And I—”
“Do not mock me,” he hissed.
“I’m not,” she said, her voice convincingly concerned.
“You are, because there is no way—”
He tried to finish the sentence, but he froze underneath the sudden weight of her hand on his forearm. Her fingers closed around it, resting comfortably on his skin. It was through his robes, but the contact felt like it might incinerate him.
“It wasn’t the Cupido that had me losing my mind, Severus, it was the fact that you were sitting so goddamn close to me.”
His body began pumping with adrenaline. With panic. If she noticed, it did not stop her.
He looked down at the touch, then back up at her. She moved his arm out of the way, but she did not release it.
“I thought it was just admiration at first,” she whispered. “Professionally. For your expertise. For your bravery. I thought about you every time I opened the book, and I started to feel like I knew you. I thought once I got back to school, that it would go away, and that I would see you as a teacher again. But then I got back, and I saw you. And I saw something else.”
He slid further away along the bench, but she simply filled the space with her own body.
“It was your mouth, to start with. Your lips. I was so used to seeing them in a line of tested patience that I don’t think I ever noticed how expressive they are. They twitch when you’re concentrating. And then the first time I saw you smile…”
He swallowed, hard, as her hand began sliding up his arm.
“Miss Granger—” he warned.
She had never once done as she was told, and she clearly wasn’t planning to start. Panic rose in his throat. He needed to remove himself from the situation. He brought one leg over the bench to stand from it. It turned him to face her. His back was to the wall.
She moved closer.
He knew he could not hesitate, but she had spread her own legs across the bench. Her skirt had ridden up, only an inch or so, but the peek of her inner thigh…
It made him hesitate for a moment too long.
Granger continued moving forward, and moved so close she was almost in his lap.
His breath caught. He slid back further, but it was no use. He had run out of bench, and was against the wall. He could not move her away from him without either sending her flying, or pushing her backwards by her thighs. His wand was half a metre away. He was trapped. He held his arms firm by his side.
She looked him in the eyes. Determined to make him listen.
“I couldn’t stop staring at you,” she whispered. “It started with your lips, but before long, I was studying your face.”
She lifted her hand to his cheek, and panic filled him. He averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at her.
“Your jawline is striking. When it clenches, I can see the tension in it. You’re like pure mathematics. Angles and lines. Your nose. Your cheekbones.” She trailed her fingers along the lines of his face, goosebumps erupting from his ear to his chin under her touch.
He had not been touched by many women, but even in his limited experience, he had never been touched this way before. Explored, like this. Inquisitively. Softly.
Gently.
“And this hair.” She spoke quietly. She ran a strand between her fingers, a featherlight tug sparking electricity down the back of his neck. “It’s so dark. It’s such a lovely contrast against your skin. It’s— all of you— you’re striking.”
He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to lift his hands to her body and reciprocate her touch. It was building inside him. Curling in his gut, and filling his blood.
He could not allow himself to enjoy her touch. He did not deserve it. He wanted it to stop. It was mocking him. He hated it.
But then her fingers threaded into his hair, raking it back softly across his scalp.
The electricity returned. His lips parted. And from his throat left a moan, dark with lust. With need. It gave him away. It gave everything away.
The sound seemed to take her by surprise. Her breath caught. And from her own throat came a moan that was every bit its counterpart. High to his low. Soft to his grated.
Severus’s eyes snapped open. The sound of her moan, however soft, was not information he could retain. For his own sanity, he could not retain it. He would never sleep again. Never be able to bathe, or be alone with his thoughts without revisiting it.
The dark curl of want was already beginning to wrap around his neck.
Without another word, he caught her under the arms and lifted her away from him. He rose, and crossed the room. He stood behind his desk, his hand on the wall, eyes squeezed closed and breathing heavily as he tried to compose himself.
She did not want this. She did not want him. She was a silly, immature girl who had developed an infatuation for a man she respected. And he would do anything to maintain that respect. He could not allow himself to lose it. She did. not. want. this.
She did. not. want. him.
Even if her words were true, and the dim lighting of the potions dungeon had somehow tricked her into finding him attractive, he knew she was simply blinded by their proximity. By his authority. By the fact that she considered him an intellectual equal, and he respected her intelligence.
Eventually, she would see him in the light, for what he was. A pathetic, doughy, middle-aged man with a tendency towards obsession and without use to anyone outside of a dark dungeon.
He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut once more. But when he opened them, she was standing in front of him. He straightened, his back once more to the wall.
“Miss Granger…” he warned again.
But she wasn’t going to let him escape it this time.
She took a step closer, her eyes hooded and sparkling with concentration. Determination. Her lips were plush and full. Her skin smooth—it looked so soft—Merlin, she was beautiful. His body jolted, stretching against the wall to keep himself away from her.
He looked pathetic, he knew he did, trying to flee the touch of such a beautiful woman.
But he couldn’t stomach the proximity.
“Please,” he begged.
“I haven’t even told you the main thing,” she whispered. “Please let me tell you. You deserve to hear it.”
He was too tense to move. He was afraid that if he even shook his head, something in him would break. He already knew the sound of her moan. If he knew the feel of her skin, he would split out of his own with desire. He could barely move.
So when she slid her hand into his, he had no choice but to let her take it.
“It was these.” She lifted his hand higher, as if exalting it. “They’re so…” Her tongue darted out between her lips, wetting them gently. She swallowed. “God, I don’t even know what it is about them. But they’re so beautiful.”
His eyes dragged to his hands. His fingers were marked with small scars from decades of knifework. His palms were smooth, nails short, but they were not beautiful hands. He furrowed his brow, but she did not notice. She was inspecting his knuckles, and the curve of his wrist.
“Watching you cut. Or hold your wand. Watching you drag one over your face when you’re stressed.” She swallowed harder. She flipped his hand, and trailed her own delicate fingers along his palm. Then she lifted it to her face.
His breath caught at the feel of her cheek.
Her skin was as smooth as it looked. Like silk, or velvet. Liquid gold, and it burned him just as it would if it were molten. The heat of her skin made his own erupt with goosebumps.
She closed her eyes, and she brought her lips to his palm, whispering into it.
“I could talk to you for hours, or I could sit in silence with you for days, and I want to keep doing that,” she said, quietly. “But every night, I think of your hands on me.”
Breath left him as his mind began to race. Images—ideas— of how she would look.
Of her hands on herself.
Between her legs.
He drew his hand back, panic flashing through him.
“No,” he growled. “Foolish girl. You don’t want this.”
“I do. I do want this.” She stepped forward, pushing her body up against his, looking desperately up at him. “I also know I’m not the only one who does.”
Granger slid her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. The other rose to his face. He panicked, frozen.
“I’ve seen how you look at me,” she whispered. “I know you feel it too. There’s something here—”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Severus.”
He had to swallow his groan. Her voice curling around his first name had always felt inappropriate, but now it just sounded like sex. His shoulder blades ached from the stone behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to push forwards. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
“I shouldn’t want this,” he whispered. “I can’t. I can’t want this.” He shook his head, correcting himself.
“I’m of age,” she whispered back. Her fingers left his hand, and instead, toyed with the front of his shirt.
“That’s not—” He clenched his jaw as her palms slid up his torso. “You’re my—” He corrected himself. She wasn’t his, and he could not think of her as such, even as her hands pressed up over his chest. “You’re a—”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “A student?”
“Yes,” he hissed.
“Your student.”
His.
Circe.
“That’s not illegal,” she whispered.
“It is inappropriate,” he hissed again. “I would lose my…”
He tried to protest. But as Severus glanced down, and the words disappeared from his mouth.
Granger was undoing the buttons on her blouse. Two, then three, the fabric parting just enough for his gaze to pervade. The soft curve of the top of her breast. A white lace bra. Pert, golden skin filling the cups. Her perfume, curling into his throat like a noose around his neck.
Vanilla. Lavender. Salt.
“My job.” His head fell back against the wall as he dragged his eyes away. “I would lose my job.”
Granger trailed her fingers up the front of his shirt until she reached the first button, flicking it nimbly open. He tensed, closing his eyes. He could’ve easily stopped her.
He convinced himself he was powerless to.
She leaned in, pressing her lips to his throat, just above the collar of his shirt.
“Only if I tell. And I won’t,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Her hands moved back to his shirt, unfastening it. Slim, nimble fingers on delicate hands. They made short work of his buttons. She slid her hands onto his skin, and he tensed. Shame filled him.
He was old. Too old for her. He did not have the lean, youthful body of a man her own age. But her hands did not mind. They did not falter. They traced gently over his skin. As if she could feel his apprehension, his fear, and wanted to soothe it. Wanted to calm it.
Then they inched lower. Lower.
Lower.
He exhaled heavily through his nose as her palm grazed down the front of his trousers. She inhaled the breath that left him, her voice catching between them, no louder than a squeak as she trailed down his full length.
“I promise,” she repeated.
His eyes remained closed.
His body’s response to her was physiological. It was to be expected. He could not prevent, nor could he control, the direction that blood deigned to flow in his body. But he had not tried hard enough.
He had to try harder.
His eyes were already shut tight, so he began occluding subtly to force himself out of his physical state. It worked. It quickly began to work, and everything began to drift away. But it refused to go away completely. The sensation of her elegant hands as she began stroking him through the fabric. Trailing up and down his outline. The slight, pinpoint dampening of his undergarments as she nudged those fingers up to trail the head of his cock. It was perfect. He was falling into a haze of pleasure and agreement. He tried to force himself not to realise it. Not to want it.
Her lips pressed against his.
His eyes opened.
Granger was no more than an inch away, standing on her tip-toes to reach him. Her gaze flickered between each of his eyes, her lip trembling with the adrenaline of what she’d just done. Who she had kissed. The line she had crossed.
His gut wrenched. The line he had crossed.
He had allowed her hands on his body, pretending it was absolutely fine, because he was resisting. But he was the adult. The authority. She was a student. An innocent. If not a virgin, then likely close to it.
He was the one who was supposed to have stopped this.
But she was looking up at him with a depth in her eyes that he did not recognise. A dark want. A desire. For him. She… desired him.
She brought herself up again. Onto her tip-toes. Kissing him again, but this time, it was a touch harder. A little longer. The torment exploded through his chest, forcing a sharp breath into his lungs.
And he let go of it.
His hands did not feel like his own as they took hold of her body. Not his own as he pushed her up against the wall. He took her face in his hands, and held her still, but his hands were not his own.
He kissed her with an anger she didn’t deserve. The anger was at himself. Because this craving; this selfish, reckless desire for her that allowed him to press his lips to hers.
That was entirely his own.
He was ashamed of the hunger with which he kissed her, his tongue covering hers, but she seemed to only want more of it. She threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him lower, closer, deeper as her tongue met his halfway. He was ashamed of how frantically he reached for her thigh, pulling it around himself as his hand slid up the soft skin and disappeared under her skirt. Ashamed of how expediently he ground himself against her, and ashamed at the thrill that ran through him as she whimpered desperately into his mouth.
Shame flooded him as he reached for her blouse, unable to stop himself from taking advantage of her half-dressed state. He tried to work the remaining buttons, but he couldn’t bring himself to slow down enough. He fumbled with them, an ogrish clumsiness that was unfamiliar to him. He flung the fabric open, exposing her top half, the same as his own.
His hands never shook like this. He could not understand how she thought they were beautiful. But he could not stop the shaking as his hands slid onto her body.
They were pale and foreign against her unblemished golden skin. His hands were scarred and knife-struck from a lifetime’s worth of mistakes. He was rough and shameful; she was soft and perfect. Responsive and warm as his palms curled on her waist.
She thought they were beautiful.
He did not breathe as his hands moved higher.
Her bra— that white lace— textured beneath his fingers, skimming the outline of her breasts. His thumbs planed over the cups. She arched into his hands, asking for his touch. He wrenched the fabric down, spilling her over the top. He groaned with shame as he trailed two fingertips over her tight nipple.
She broke their kiss to gasp.
“Severus.” She raked her fingers through his hair, tangling in it as she held him close. “I want you.”
Shame flooded him. He could not. It had gone too far already. But she was so…
Severus swallowed, hard.
She was pathetically aroused, squirming and grinding herself against him. Desperate. As if she truly desired him as much as he did her. And he had never desired someone like this. It wasn’t fair to leave her like this. It would be cruel.
It had already gone too far. He had already taken it this far. He pressed his lips into a tight line. Making his decision.
He had her thigh in his right hand.
So he pushed the left between their bodies.
Granger fell silent as he moved her underwear aside, slipping his long fingers between her folds and into the soaking wet heat that greeted him. He ignored the explosion of biology inside him, one that screamed for him to sink himself into her. He forced himself to be gentle, but firm, circling his fingers over her clitoris.
Her eyes squeezed closed, and mouth fell open, moaning her approval through lips that whispered his name. She liked it. She liked it. She liked the feel of his hand. He silently thanked a God he didn’t believe in. She gripped his biceps, squeezing hard.
“More,” she whimpered.
He dropped his hand, and pushed his fingers inside her. She moaned again, and fortunately it was loud enough to cover the shameful one that fell from his own lips. She was so tight, and he was forced to inhale sharply through his nose as he began violating her with his fingers.
She canted her hips over his hand, rocking over them as she flooded him. She squeezed his fingers with her walls, whimpering and shaking like mad. She was already close.
He willed her to come. Silently begged her to crest around his fingers, so that she would come to her senses and put a stop to this. So that she could realise what she was doing. What she was allowing him to do to her— She squirmed and writhed, sinking her fingertips into his tensed biceps.
He needed her to be the one to stop it. Because he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
He should have.
But he wanted this too much.
She released his arms. She guided his hand away, and pushed both of her own between their bodies. In no more than a second, he felt his trousers opening, and being pushed down his hips.
Yes. Yes.
“No,” he pleaded. “Please. I can't.”
She pushed her hand into his underwear. His eyes rolled back as she wrapped it around him.
Her hand was so different to his own, her palm softer against his tip as she began to slowly move up and down. The pleasure— it had been so long since someone— a reluctant groan forced its way from his lips. She inhaled it into her own body, and began moving faster. He needed her to stop. He wasn’t going to last.
She pushed his underwear down. She moved her own aside once more. She guided him forward until he was aligned with the tight, wet heat that still coated his fingers. But she didn’t stop. She just kept dragging him forward. Closer.
Every part of him tried to pull away. Tried to convince himself she didn’t want this, so he could stop. But she kept whispering it in his ear.
“I want it,” her breath danced across his cheek. “Please. Please.”
He didn’t want to believe it. Because if he did, and he went through with it, he would have a taste of her. He would know her, like only a man could know her. He would know how she felt, and she would ghost over him in his dreams. If he had a taste of what being with her was like, he would never be able to give it up.
“Severus,” she whispered, brushing her lips across his. He stilled, and she looked in his eyes.
She placed her palm on his cheek, holding him steady.
“I want this. I want you.”
She brought her lips to his once more, but this time, it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t powered by lust, or adrenaline. It was— softer. Gentler. Like the first time she touched his hair. His body was wrought with pain, and hesitation, and knowing he was stupid and that this would kill him.
But he gave in. He kissed her back, holding their lips together.
And he thrust himself inside her.
Their lips parted in tandem, groaning into the space created between them. They lingered like that for a moment, mouths open, breathing into each other as she adjusted to him.
He cursed across her breath. She whimpered into his.
God, this was going to be so quick.
He shook as he sank into her. The tight, wet heat dragged him deeper. He did not stop to ask if she had done this before, he wasn’t sure he could’ve stopped even if she hadn’t. He simply lifted her thigh higher, spreading her wider to sink himself fully in. He did not open his eyes, but he could not close himself to the sound of her voice as she gasped her desperate approval into his ear. He drew out, and thrust firmly back into her.
The volume of her moan shook him to the bones, and he lost every shred of sense he had.
He could not stop himself, or pace himself. He just gave in to it. Her body was supple and limber in his arms, and he fucked her hard. She’d been so gentle with him, but he found himself incapable of extending the same to her. He’d waited so long, telling himself he didn’t want this, but he did. He wanted it more than he wanted to breathe. More than he wanted to live, he wanted this. He wanted her.
She jolted with each thrust, breasts rippling, her head back against the wall. Moans fell from her lips, as if she were enjoying it— enjoying him—- and it only made him fuck her harder. He breathed into her lips. His fingers curled on her thigh, on her hip, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t close enough.
He dropped his hand to her other thigh, and lifted her fully. She was surprised by his strength. He spread her wider. He drove himself deeper. Fucking her harder. She caught his lips with hers and kissed him. He moaned into them. She threw her arms around his shoulders. She squealed and whimpered into his neck. Yes-es and Muggle curses and cut-off versions of his name.
Severus closed his eyes, his head falling back as her lips dragged up his throat.
It felt so good he wanted to drown in it.
He had never been wanted like this. Touched like this— held onto— like this. As if he was hers, and she wanted him, and she wasn’t letting go. Claiming him. Wanting him inside her, so he was. He gave her what she wanted. He slammed himself into her. Over and over and over. It was hard. It was desperate.
He had completely lost control. And it felt so perfect and ordained and right that for a little while, he had forgotten that he was not supposed to want her.
It was only as he glanced at her body that he remembered. Her shirt was open. Her uniform skirt pushed up to her waist. His hands beneath it, gripping her thighs. And between them, their bodies joined where he was fucking her. Where he’d sunk his cock into her.
He was fucking a student. In her uniform. Against the wall of his classroom.
Shame filled him once more, but his breath caught in his throat as her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her head back against the wall. He shifted her weight to one arm, and forced his hand between her head and the stone. Protecting her from it.
“Like that,” she gasped. She fell forward, burying her face in his shoulder. Clinging to him.
His hand covered the back of her neck. Raking into her hair.
Holding her.
“Sev— I’m so close—” she whimpered. “Don’t let go of me—”
The instruction broke him. He had never felt a pull— a call to something so strongly as he felt in that moment. He could not think of anything else.
Only her. Only doing as she asked.
His hand on the back of her head, pulling it into his shoulder. Her body against the wall. His arm strained as he held her up, but he could manage it. He had a new purpose. And he would live for it.
He could only feel her as he sent her over the edge, cresting into her orgasm and writhing against him. He held her as it overtook her. She fell silent. A beautiful, full, heavy, choking silence that was louder than any scream.
The silence as she breathed into the side of his neck was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. He felt it in the side of his neck. In her fingertips, clawing at his skin. In the tightening of her arms around him, and the clench of her walls around him. He was giving her what she needed. What she wanted. What she desired.
He had never felt so purposefully alive.
He knew, as she came around him, that his peak would follow rapidly, and it did. For a moment, he panicked. They had not discussed where— if he could—
His breath shuddered and caught in her hair.
“Hermione,” he gasped, warning her. It was all he could say. Her arms tightened around his shoulders. Holding on to him. He buried his lips in her hair. He understood.
He knew what he wanted. For once, he was going to allow himself to choose it.
He could live with the consequences.
The feeling was all-encompassing; her body gripping his. Taking his. Desiring his. She was perfection, turned liquid in his veins, leaving flecks of her gold on every drop of him. It boiled. It overflowed, curling inside him as his breath seared like steam. Swelling and collapsing into a pinpoint as he took a handful of her hair. His grip tightened. He did not let go of her. But he let go of himself.
The point of climax was unlike any other. His eyes closed as he passed it, his voice choking out of him as he began to release inside her. Falling. Spilling. Overflowing in an explosion of ecstasy with every pulse. He gasped into her. Into the side of her head. Vanilla and lavender salt in his lungs as he breathed her into him. As he took a part of her. As he gave her a part of him.
He would give her all of him.
His body felt different from it. Shaking and bucking into her without pretence. Drawing a moan of approval with every instinctive jerk of his hips. Her purrs of contentment vibrated through her lips on his neck. He loved it. He loved it. He wanted to live in this feeling. In the closeness, and the desperation, and the feel of her skin against his.
Its perfection didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. Only she mattered. Only her. And him.
He mattered, too.
Severus swallowed, soothing his breath-struck throat, and licked his lips to soothe them. She panted into his skin. He lingered in the euphoria of it, just for a minute. In the beautiful nature of her body. In the feeling of her surrounding him. In the feeling of her lips tugging into a smile against his neck.
In the soft smile that curled onto his own.
Beauty. All of it. All of her. All of this between them— beautiful. It all just felt beautiful.
She dropped one shaking leg to the floor, and he steadied her. As she moved, he felt his release begin trickling out of her, but she did not mind, nor did she push him away. In fact, she made a point of holding her arms around his shoulders. He was significantly taller than her, but she did not seem to care, holding on to him like it was important to her that she do so.
As if she wanted it.
He hadn’t intentionally kept his eyes closed, but he noticed that they were. So he opened them. And the true beauty of their act revealed itself.
Her head was against the wall again, but her face was turned to his. A dusky pink colour across her cheeks, and down her throat. Her chest, where she always showed her whole heart. It wore a blush that he had put there. But even that knowledge could not draw a word from him.
Because he could do nothing but stare into her eyes.
They were heavy. Exhausted and satisfied and sleepy, and he realised the privilege that he had been gifted. To see her like this, at her most human. At her most raw, most her. Vulnerable and shaky. Skin prickled with goosebumps, body spent. Wordless and boneless and he felt the urge to carry her to his bed and fall asleep with his arms around her.
He knew he could not. But he wanted to. And the fact he could admit that to himself was part of why he smiled at her.
He held her chin with his fingers. And he kissed her. Softly and gently, as his other hand reached for hers.
Their fingers entwined. He smiled into her lips.
She smiled back.
“Sit still,” Hermione huffed, seated firmly in his lap as she held the front pieces of his hair between her fingers.
“This is absurd,” Severus retorted. “I told you, no one cares if it catches fire.”
“I care!” she said, lifting the pieces away from his face. “Burning hair smells atrocious.”
He shot her a look of absolute derision. “So just cut it off. It does not need to look good. I can almost assure you, it won’t.”
She scolded him with her gaze, and he fell silent. She leaned in close, as if she was about to kiss him. He closed his eyes. She brushed her lips gently across his, then she snipped the scissors right in front of his eyes.
He sighed with impatience.
Hermione let the pieces fall from her fingers. Then she guided his hair back off his face in one swoop. Her eyes sparkled. She reached beside her, opening a jar of… something… and ran her fingers through it. Smoothed it over her hands. Then tousled her hands back through his hair.
She reached for a towel to clean off her hands. He kept hold of her hips to keep her steady in his lap. But as she leaned back to replace the towel… she eyed him.
In a… way.
She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip, before running her tongue across them.
“You’re going to kill me,” she grinned.
He frowned, running a hand over the back of his neck. It was significantly shorter. Not that short, but it was off his collar, at least. It was very short at the back of the neck. It felt nice to run his hand across. It felt even nicer when she curled her hand around the back of his neck, and began stroking through it with her fingernails.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously, trying not to groan at her touch.
She leaned in. “Because you look really fucking good. And everyone’s going to think you’re horrifically vain for styling your hair.”
He pursed his lips with annoyance.
“Look at Severus, he cares.” She mocked him. She gasped. “They might even think you’re seeing someone.” Her mouth parted with feigned scandal.
Severus rolled his eyes. “You have an assignment due next week, which I am grading. Remember that.”
“I think I’ll be fine. I’m sleeping with the Professor.”
He laughed, shaking his head. But as the humour wore off, he sighed. He caught her eye, and motioned to his hair.
“Thank you,” he said. “It was becoming a bother.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, vanishing a few cut hairs from his clothes. “Now why don’t you go and change. I’ll go down to the Great Hall so it’s not so glaringly obvious that we’ve just spent yet another afternoon in bed instead of working, and I’ll see you after dinner.”
He took a deep breath. He kissed her. And he nodded.
Severus exited the dungeons, as usual. He walked the corridors toward the Great Hall, as usual. The response when he entered it was not usual. A distinctly unusual number of eyes fell on him as he walked toward his normal seat at the staff table. He ignored it, serving his regular, mostly balanced meal. Until he realised a good number of his colleagues were looking directly at him as well.
The Headmistress was openly staring.
Her hands lay flat on the table before her, leaning back as if shocked. Her lips were pursed, but her expression was one of confusion. She leaned in.
“Severus, have you had a haircut?”
He was immediately uncomfortable.
“Yes, Headmistress,” he replied, stiffly.
She continued staring. But in the corner of her pursed lips, a smile began to wrinkle. She shifted, almost as if amused, and spoke quietly.
“It suits you,” she insisted. Her tone was not all that unlike one of a proud mother. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, hiding behind a goblet of water. But McGonagall’s face tugged into proper amusement. “I daresay, you look quite handsome!”
It was only through a lifetime of keeping his cool that Severus did not immediately choke on his water. He muttered a forced thank you, at the Headmistress, who was chuckling quietly to herself. He turned to his food.
He did not have to look up to know that Granger’s eyes were on him. And that she would be giving him the smuggest, most self-satisfied expression she could manage.
She truly was insufferable when she was right. And God, she was right with annoying frequency.
He began cutting into his artichoke, when another female voice spoke beside him.
“She’s right, you know,” Sybil Trelawney said, quietly. “Your hair off your face. It compliments your features.”
He nodded politely at her, but she reached out, placing her hand on his arm.
The clarity with which she met his gaze made him take pause.
The woman studied him. Just for a moment. He didn’t know what she was looking for. Or whether or not he was supposed to be hiding it. A million possibilities ran through his mind, but none more pressing than an instant thought of Hermione. Briefly, he considered occluding. But whatever she was looking for, she found without his interference, and without his push.
Trelawney’s mouth extended on both sides, into a smile so wide it pushed her glasses up on the roses of her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled, and her hand squeezed his arm with a friendly affection. She said nothing, and turned back to her food.
Severus eyed her carefully. He cursed himself for being too curious not to ask. He leaned in, questioningly.
“Something of concern, Sybil?” he asked, quietly.
She shook her head, smiling up at him again. Knowingly.
“We have been colleagues for many years. And in all those years, I have come to know you as a deeply unhappy man.” She said it as quietly as she could, however, their effect was the same.
He tensed. But her hand reached out for his arm once more. She squeezed him, gently.
“You seem happier now,” she said, her smile returning warmly. “It suits you.”
She turned back to her tofu. Completely unaware of how deeply and profoundly correct she was.
Severus could not fight the rise of his gaze.
Hermione was listening intently to Ginevra Weasley’s explanation of a Quidditch strategy. He could tell, because the food between them had been swept aside; replaced by salt, pepper, and a multitude of condiments which were being moved around as players. Their other friends engaged in the conversation. But, as if she could sense him, Hermione looked up, across the room, at him.
Severus could not smile at her, nor her at him. But their eyes met.
It was small. A moment between the two of them, shared by no one else. A silent conversation, and one that needn’t happen with words. He would tell her later. With his lips on hers, and a silent whisper across her skin. He would tell her as he held her; curled into his side, her body draped in his sheets as he traced his fingers up and down her spine. A little work, and then he could lay beside her, holding her hand as they slept. At least for a few hours. Then she’d once again have to return to her dormitory while complaining loudly about how late he’d kept her.
He broke her gaze.
It wasn’t because he was finished looking at her. No, never. But instead because the smile that tugged at his lips was becoming impossible to hide from anyone but his plate of food.
The lines beside his mouth felt a little more familiar.
He was happier now.
It suited him.