CHAPTER ELEVEN

For Tomorrow

And I feel it

And she feels it...

Where ya going for tomorrow?

-Stone Temple Pilots

"This is wrong," he groaned into her hair, just before his lips found her neck. She was straddling his lap as she'd been in the bathtub and he was both desperate and unwilling to remove her from on top of him.

"I want it. I want you," she whispered, tilting her head to grant him better access to the spot below her jaw line, where he was well on his way to leaving a raised red mark on the right side of her neck.

"Hermione, this is wrong." His hands were on her hips, holding her down against him, shamelessly enjoying her weight against his growing erection. "You need to tell me to stop."

She unbuttoned his collar and the top two buttons of his soft black shirt. "I'm not telling you to stop, Severus. If you want to stop... if you... you have to... Oh!"

He was sucking at her neck... sucking too hard. There would be a second mark. Her "oh" came when he bit down lightly over the swollen pink skin. Fuck, he wanted her. He wanted to do this – to explore her body with his mouth, to taste her everywhere, to pleasure her with his fingers and tongue – all night. He wanted to make her moan, to make her beg for him, to make her cry out his name... He let out a low growl, taking her neck into his mouth again, leaving a third mark. He might leave marks all over her, to claim her, to remind her that she'd been willing to give herself to him, to show the world he'd take everything she'd been willing to give. He might... he might... he might...

But no. No.

"Severus... Severus, yes..."

"No. This is wrong."

"Why?" She brought her hand up to the back of his neck, scraping her nails against his skin under his collar, making eye contact. Hers were wide and watery and almost gold in the flickering candlelight. "Why is it wrong if it's what we both want?"

"You're too young for me." He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "You don't know what you want."

"I know I want this. I want you. I want..."

"You don't."

(But he did. Damn it.)

"Severus..."

"You're half my age."

(So why couldn't he stop touching her?)

His hands traveled to her outer thighs, up her knee-length skirt, against bare skin, as he couldn't help envisioning her in this position completely naked, riding him, grasping at his shoulders, shuddering as they came together. He tried to force the mental image from his mind.

"Age is but a number and nothing more," she whispered.

"You're too good for me." Unable to meet her eye, he turned his head, allowing his hair to curtain his face, as it often had during his Hogwarts years, though his hands did not move from her outer thighs. She tried to push the hair back as he had hers but he caught her wrist and held it tightly down by her side. "I mean it, Hermione. You're too good for me. You don't know who I am. You don't know the first thing about me. You don't know the terrible things I've done, the secrets I can't share, the monster I was, the criminal I still am. But I know you. You're the quintessential Gryffindor, the brave, bookish heroine, the type to fight injustice no matter how unlikely you are to enact change, the type to look for the good in others, even when it simply isn't there. You are bright and kind and wholesome..."

She drew back with a gasp as if slapped. He forced himself to look upon her and was surprised to see the hurt in her eyes.

"You think I'm wholesome?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.

"Are you not?"

Her nose twitched and for an awful moment he feared she might cry. He didn't understand. He hadn't thought he'd said anything offensive.

"You don't find me attractive," she said accusatorily. "That's the truth, isn't it?"

"I didn't say I don't find you attractive, I said you were–"

"Wholesome. I heard you. Not dark and mysterious and masochistic and alluring like Bellatrix Lestrange, is that it?" she sneered; it was an odd look on her. "I'm the girl next door, the friend, the woman good enough to save the day but not good enough to fantasize over, the disappointingly plain–"

"Stop." He placed two fingers to her lips. "I cannot imagine where you got 'disappointingly plain,' I've fantasized about you plenty, the last thing I need is another masochist, and you're infinitely more mysterious and alluring than Bellatrix Lestrange." Even as he reassured her, he was confused about why it was necessary.

"And yet you don't want me?" she murmured against his fingers, which were still on her lips. He withdrew them, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close, breathing in deeply. Fuck, her hair smelled good. How could she think he didn't want her? Certainly the girl couldn't have such a low sense of self-worth, to think he, of all people, would be denying her for reasons that had anything to do with her looks... not that he was turned off by her personality. Quite the opposite, frankly.

"If I had as little respect for you as I did for Bellatrix, I'd have you in my bed already," he said finally. "The night I came upon you in the ruins, I wanted you physically. All through our drink and conversation, I waffled between wanting to obliviate you and wanting to proposition you. But then you fainted and..." He cleared his throat. It was the first time he'd done so since they'd started... whatever they started. It was as if the redirected blood flow from his brain on south had a positive impact on his post-attack tic but the effects were now wearing off. "As I told you the next morning, I am not in the habit of taking sexual advantage of women unable to consent."

"Had I not fainted, you would have wanted me then... but now you don't?" She placed her palm over the center of his chest. He wondered if she could feel his heart beating violently and far too fast inside him. "What changed?"

"I... nothing."

"Something."

"Nothing."

"Something. Tell me."

He sighed. She was undeniably persistent. "I've started getting to know you. You're... clever. You're good with Eileen. She's... not easy. But you treat her as if she's any other child. And you've made me laugh – I find so little to laugh about these days." Carefully, after a deep sigh, he added, "I can't be with you now, because of that."

Her cheeks went pink, discernible even in the flickering candlelight, and he had to fight a smirk over having made her blush yet again. Thankfully, due to decades of practice utilizing Occlumency, he remained expressionless, despite her next words.

"You like me."

"I wouldn't say I–"

"You would have taken me to bed two weeks ago because you didn't like me then but now you won't because you like me. You like me a lot, don't you?"

He scowled, the urge to smirk completely dissipated. She was correct, of course, but he hated for her to know it.

"I am merely tolerating you, Miss Granger."

"Tolerating?" The pink in her cheeks remained but the Cheshire Cat grin on her face told him she now believed herself to have the upper hand. "Professor Severus Snape – Or Mister Prince, or whatever you'd like to be called – I believe it is clear that you more than tolerate me." She bounced on his knees. He tried not to wince - his knees were too old for this. "Let's look over the evidence, shall we? First, I am straddling your lap and you have your hand on my bum. Second, you invited me for dinner and were willing to pretend to cook for me, to impress me. Third, you have allowed me to 'work' with you every night for two weeks, solving a mystery you've already solved. Fourth–"

"What do you...?" The tickle in his throat made him cough, a crack in his stoic facade. "What makes you think I solved it already?"

"A hunch, but your expression just confirmed it." She placed her palm against his cheek, gently stroking his face with her thumb, an action that somehow felt more intimate than her grinding against his cock minutes earlier. "I appreciate that you're letting me figure it out on my own, though. I'm enjoying the challenge. It's part of what has endeared me to you, despite our history."

"We have history?"

"You were my professor."

"Don't remind me."

"You weren't the kindest or most encouraging – in fact, you could be a complete bastard, playing favorites and outright mocking students, including me – but you were a sufficient teacher."

"Thank you," he said dryly. "High compliment."

"You can't deny it."

"I won't. I'll gladly accept 'sufficient teacher.' It's far better than what most have called me. I don't know which has been worse since the war: being vilified by those I risked my life to save, or being posthumously praised by Potter in the Prophet."

"With all that alliteration, you could be a poet." She kissed the corner of his mouth. He did not attempt to stop her. On the contrary, he closed his eyes ever-so-briefly, thinking he wouldn't mind if she did it again. "Who has vilified you? I was under the impression you died a hero. Of course, I was also under the impression you, you know, died."

"My godson hates me."

"You have a godson?"

"Draco. His parents forgave me for failing to disclose my true loyalties to them as they understand their lack of knowledge on the subject was tantamount to keeping all three of us alive, but Draco was bitter over having been kept in the dark. He's hated me for a number of reasons since his father was sent to Azkaban in '96. Perhaps he'll come around in time. He's young."

"He's my age."

"You're young."

"Not so young. I'm sorry he's held a grudge. I can't believe he, of all people, isn't able to understand why you did what you did."

"Do you understand?"

"I do!" Her overconfidence seemed to falter at his cocked eyebrow. "I mean, I think so. I'd like to."

"I've done a great many terrible things."

"You keep telling me that as if you think I'm unaware. I know what you've done."

"There's much more to it than you know. More than you could ever know."

"So tell me. Tell me who you are."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and was staring at him with such concern, such compassion, without a hint of pity, that it made him want to hold her, to tell her everything. The women he'd been with prior to Voldemort's final fall had always looked upon him with a mix of revulsion and pity, even those who threw themselves at him hoping to rise in the Death Eater ranks, and the women since, the few who knew him for who he was, were clearly interested in landing a war hero, not in him as a person – which suited him fine, since he didn't see the need to truly let anyone in anyway. The Muggle women he'd dated had been fine, but he'd had to lie to them, thus no matter how they regarded the person before them he never felt they were looking upon him at all. Could he tell her? Could he reveal to her the secret he'd been carrying around for four years, the one he'd told only Minerva, the one he hadn't even revealed to his own mother?

No. No, of course not. Even if she accepted him and all he'd done despite knowing it, he couldn't saddle her with that information. It wouldn't be fair. To any of them.

"I maintain what I've said. You, Miss Hermione Granger, are far too good for me."

She gently kissed the corner of his mouth again and it took all his willpower not to turn his head enough to meet her lips with his own, especially when she added, "Severus? Perhaps I don't want to be good anymore."

-0-0-0-

Her heart beat faster than a hummingbird's wings as she drew back after kissing him. His lips were soft, softer than she would've imagined, and his hands were slightly calloused, and he smelled of soap and cedar, and though she found his insistence that she was too good for him frustrating, she also thought it to be entirely who he was – a martyr, a protector, the man willing to defy Lord Voldemort, to risk and ultimately be willing to give his life to save the son of a man he hated, not only because he loved the boy's mother, but because it was the right thing to do. She remembered how he'd stepped between her and werewolf Lupin third year without thinking, put his body between theirs and the danger, and she'd heard from witnesses during the trials that his 'battle' against Minerva had consisted of her on the offense and him merely deflecting and defending, never once trying to harm her, before he flew off. People believed him to be a coward in that moment, fleeing rather than fighting, but after all was revealed Hermione understood – he could have hurt Minerva. He could have at least tried. It would have helped his cover, if nothing else. But she was his friend and colleague and he was nothing if not loyal.

He could spend all night telling her she didn't know him, but she felt she did. She might not know all of his history or the exact circumstances surrounding the existence of his child (a child that may not even be his?) but she knew in her heart he was a good person, which is why her heart nearly burst from her chest when, after a too-long pause, he cupped her arse with one hand and her chin with the other, meeting her cinnamon brown eyes with his impossibly dark ones. She leaned slightly forward, her head tilted just enough, and he kissed her as he had earlier in the evening, another tender kiss, another kiss that sent rapid fire flutters from her stomach up into her chest and down between her legs. Her lips parted, prompting his to do the same, and this time he sucked her bottom lip, running his tongue along it. She parted her lips further and pressed back against him, welcoming his tongue into her mouth, letting it meet her own. The hand he'd placed on her arse thrust her closer to him as the unmistakable evidence of his arousal under her thigh caused a clenching between her legs. Feeling bold, she explored his mouth with her tongue, tasting his whiskey, drinking him down. He nipped at her lip and she couldn't refrain moaning in response. She never would've imagined he'd be such a capable kisser, but now she couldn't help thinking she might be content to spend the entire night snogging him on this couch; she wasn't sure she'd ever want him to stop.

"Nothing is happening between us," he said definitively as his hands slid up the back of her jumper, pulling it off, apparently forgetting how wrong he'd said this was. He tossed it aside. She kissed him again and again as he ran his hands up and down her back over the thin material of her tight tank-top, which she wore in place of a bra. His slightly rough hands came into direct contact with the skin of her upper back and squeezed her shoulders before traversing down her spine again. One hand drifted from her lower back to her ribs to her breast. She gasped as his thumb grazed over her hardened nipple. "Nothing," he groaned into her hair, continuing to caress her chest, shifting his weight, his hardness digging into her inner thigh. "Nothing is happening between us."

"Your words and your actions are sending me very different signals."

"My brain controls my words. My body is acting on its own."

"Your brain is attracted to my brain and your body is responding accordingly."

"My brain wants to stop." He drew her up so her chest was eye-level, then buried his overlarge nose between her breasts, breathing in deeply before withdrawing to place a series of feather light kisses along the top of her tank-top against her skin. She nearly whimpered at his touch. It had been so long since she'd last been touched, and even longer since she'd last been touched like this, revered and desired, further solidifying her suspicion that both she and Ron had spent their last year together going through the motions.

"You're too young for me," he continued. "I would hurt you."

"I wouldn't mind. I hear some witches are into that." She grinned cheekily, prompting his eye-roll.

"I meant emotionally. I would destroy you. I am a broken man."

"I could fix you."

He stifled a derisive snort. "That is precisely what a woman too young for me would say. Why are you throwing yourself at me?"

"Am I throwing myself at you?"

"Aren't you?"

Her brow furrowed. She sat back on his knees, studying him. His pale face was void of expression, but his eyes... she could see a vulnerability there. Was he truly afraid to hurt her? Or was he afraid she would inevitably end up hurting him?

"Throwing myself at you," she murmured, the wheels in her head turning. She was throwing herself at him, wasn't she? But why? Why him?

Because he was familiar, like home?

Because he was forbidden, unlike Ron?

Because she didn't want to be wholesome?

Because she wanted adventure abroad?

Because she couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said about Bellatrix, about holding her down and hurting her because she liked it?

Or because he had become the man in her recurring dream about the masquerade party?

"You are unable to answer." He settled his strong hands on her hips, lifted her, and placed her beside him, like a child. "I refuse to take advantage of you."

She crossed her arms and frowned. "Well, aren't you the very picture of chivalry."

He stood, stretched, and turned to face her. Since she was now about eye-level with his waist, she couldn't not notice the physical effect she'd had on him. She tried not to focus on it, not to wonder what he looked like... what he'd feel like... but she felt her skin going hot nonetheless, starting with her chest, spanning out across her shoulders and down her arms, up her neck and into her cheeks. A full-body blush, worse than before. She wouldn't be surprised if even her hair had turned red. He rebuttoned his collar and cleared his throat.

"I am going to take a shower. I expect you to be gone when I emerge."

"Am I permitted to return tomorrow?"

"If I say no, will you return anyway?"

"I'll return only if you want me to, Severus. I know better than to go where I'm not wanted. So... am I wanted?"

She stood, expecting him to back up, but because he didn't they found themselves chest to chest (well, her breasts to his lower ribs, anyway). She stared up at him, awaiting a response, any response, but hoping it would be the response she wanted to hear.

"I suppose you should return tomorrow," he answered after a long pause, with a sigh of resignation. "We still have a mystery to solve."

She opened her mouth, but before she could reply, his lips were again on hers.