Haloed by the dying light of the day, he turned away from her to engage in a pensive consideration of the view from the window.
"Miss Granger. Hermione. I cannot pretend that I do not…admire…you."
His silken voice seemed to catch on the penultimate word and the quiet intensity of his tone made a shiver go through her. For the life of her, Hermione could not formulate a response. She had understood on a primal level that he was interested in her, but this was more than she could process or even stand to hear aloud. Fight or flight, she wondered dizzily.
The moment stretched and still Hermione could not speak to reply. Did he expect her to? The tension that had been burgeoning between them lately had been a remarkably comfortable one – until now – and full of easy silences. She found she wanted desperately to convey her own interest; her own admiration, but the words wouldn't come. They had been supressed for too long by the thought that it was entirely inappropriate for an apprentice to have such thoughts about her Master. Though well used to feeling on-edge and tongue-tied around him, his words had caused her entire being to prickle with energy that she just could not marshal into action or coherent thought.
From the window, he exhaled in a loud sigh suddenly and she pictured the saturnine severity he usually wore as if carved on his features contorted with emotion he had never shown her before.
"You have had my full…attention… for some time now," he stated, apparently deciding to maintain the conversation despite her lack of participation.
"Initially, I had an awareness that I could ignore and then I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. Your spirit and generosity, to start, and then grudgingly I had to accept your brilliance, wit and aggressive ambition. I did not want to see it, you understand. I couldn't afford to have distractions then."
So it had started at school, she realised. During the war. The thought did not repulse her, especially when she remembered her solemnity; even then. She knew without question that he would have damned himself doubly for her tender age as well as the poor timing; the distraction he could ill afford during his spying career.
"I assure you that I did not let myself even acknowledge your physicality until you were of age," he continued. He dropped his head back against his shoulders: an obvious sign of his struggle to voice such sentiments. She knew him to be profoundly uncomfortable discussing matters of the flesh and bodies in general. Likely it stemmed from his conflict with his own physical self – ugly, loathed and yet the source of amazing self-preservatory urges thanks to years of torture - and she could well understand.
"You know of my stance on such things," he said, mirroring her thoughts. "I was not the master of my own body and so hardly in a position to think of yours. Long for yours," he added in an undertone.
Hermione felt as if she were aflame.
"I felt the greatest lecher to have given in to those thoughts and to have been captivated by the form of one of my students, and yet I could hardly drag my mind to other matters. Lately," he said, but seemed to think better of it. He exhaled again.
"Our acquaintance has been a long one, Hermione. I know I need not remind you that I have been your teacher from the time you were 12, but I hope you understand that you have come to mean more to me than any other I have taught in more than 20 years. More than any other ever."
There it was.
They had begun their Summer in her parents' French cottage already having exceeded the intimacy of a mere working relationship and over the weeks of walking together in the evenings, reading together after lunch and even the occasional piano duet, the thing between them had only strengthened and grown. Of course, she had always recognised that he preferred to ignore the existence of his students from the point they graduated and left Hogwarts and that she was lucky to have had any further contact with him at all. Yet, she had become his colleague through the Order of the Phoenix and later, his apprentice. His first. Now, she was nearing the end of her studies, though it was understood between them that any further training was unnecessary at this point. The time to leave and move on with her life was drawing near and she found she didn't want to be away from him. Couldn't, after getting to know the man behind the billowing robes and biting sarcasm, and becoming his friend over these last 3 years.
It seemed like he might not want her to leave either.
"When you suggested that we come to France for the Summer, I knew that I would not have you for much longer. Not that I have ever had you," he amended quietly. "But I had hoped-. No." he said and brought a hand up against the window pane.
"God," he gasped as if in pain, and laid his cheek against the glass.
The quiet agony in his tone finally spurred her into action and she silently pulled herself out of the wing chair they always playfully fought over. She approached soundlessly too, worried she would spook him. Her nerve endings were tingling, throbbing and the anticipation had her breathless. Eventually, she was only a step behind him.
"Severus," she said softly, and closed the distance between them to wrap her arms around his compact waist. She dropped her face against his back and placed a kiss against the crisp linen.
"Hermione."
He groaned her name but did not move. His tall form radiated tension and a hardness to rival stone, though there was undeniable heat too.
"Severus," she whispered and nuzzled the milk-coloured cotton; hunting for the warm herbal smell she had come to recognise as his. She guided a hand upwards towards his heart and was thrilled to find it pounding rapidly.
He covered it with his own free hand and she felt a burst of joy.
"Beloved," he breathed, and she knew she was.