Author's Note: I owe a very special "thank you" to Barrie for being such an
invaluable beta (reading countless revisions was so far above and beyond
the call, my friend!), for the quote from "Terrible Temptation" and a
grateful hug - I'm glad you were able to find my inner child and kick its
little . well, you know. Any time I can return the favor of pulling you
from the Pit of Despair, you know where I'll be (don't worry, I'll have the
phone with me!)
Chapter 10 - Learning to Fly
After Hermione's unwitting declaration, there really hadn't been anything Severus could think to say. "Sorry about that" seemed lacking somehow, a little too "better you than me" to his mind, and there was no way to say "Oh, really?" without sounding at best dismissive and there was an excellent chance that, given the speaker, it would sound as if he was mocking her.
There was an awkward silence while both parties tried to figure out what to do next. Ultimately they did the only reasonable thing: they pretended nothing had happened.
Hermione busied herself in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing for supper. The menu included stir-fried vegetables, Kung Pao chicken and shrimp lo mein so there was a great deal of chopping, grating and marinating to do but even Hermione would have had to admit that 10 a.m. was a little early to get started.
She went to the kitchen to hide, to get away from Snape. This man was the master of the cutting remark, an artiste of insults. It would only be a matter of time until he launched his verbal assault; her confession of having had sex - and bad sex at that - was akin to giving him an armed and activated hand grenade. Of course, he had been behaving rather more considerately than was his wont but she'd just painted a huge bull's eye on her forehead. There was only so much temptation one person could resist, after all.
As for the man in question, the supposed maestro of scorn, he was gobsmacked. The fact that Hermione Granger, a woman who had always pursued what she wanted with the kind of single-minded intensity seen only in sharks going after harbor seals, would tolerate anything less than the best stunned him. He wasn't sure what shocked him more: that she hadn't somehow forced her partners to perform to her exacting standards (he smirked at the mental image of her ordering some cowering, clumsy boy to "get it right this time") or that she seemed so resigned to having sub-par sex.
Snape had to admit - at least to himself - that he wanted to change Hermione's experience when it came to that most intimate of interpersonal relations and not just as an academic courtesy. In fact, he'd typed in those accursed words at the computer this morning hoping to find some subtle but inspired means of conveying his feelings to Hermione. He hadn't lived a sheltered life by any stretch of the imagination but he had not been prepared for the visual onslaught he received. Combined with the fact that he couldn't shut the damn pictures off and was caught out to boot, he'd gotten as flustered as he ever remembered being.
Unfortunately, as much as he might have liked to, offering to address her plight at the moment would be opportunistic in the extreme, ruining any chance for intimacy between them and thus treating her to more of what she'd already had. Truth be told, it was unlikely that she'd even let it get that far if he made a move now. The only physical contact he was likely to receive from such an ill-timed offer would be a slap to his face - if he was lucky.
Switching off the computer, he stood slowly trying to stretch the stress of the morning out of his muscles. He let his head fall back and worked it slowly in a circle feeling the vertebrae in his neck crackle and pop back into proper alignment. After the last snap he opened his eyes, his sight falling on the third photo from the left on the middle ledge of the glass- fronted bookshelf.
Something about the wizarding picture struck him but it wasn't until he moved closer that he realized what had caught his eye. It had been taken after a Quidditch match and Potter and Weasley were standing on either side of Hermione, smiling and laughing over her head as crowds passed behind them, cheering and waving. If he squinted, he could just make out the score; ah, it had been the final game their seventh year, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. That likely explained the reason for the picture being taken, the last game, the last victory and all; typical memory book stuff, really.
What caught his eye was the tall solitary figure in black that passed behind the trio. Just before the picture ended and began again, the photographic Hermione turned and watched the illustrated Severus walk away. If he'd said anything to them as he'd passed by it had likely been something acerbic. The expression on Hermione's face as she looked away from the camera was a jumble of fading laughter, disappointment and something he wasn't quite willing to label as longing but couldn't seem to find any other word for it.
Why would she turn to watch him? He closed his eyes and strained his memory to recapture the moment. Had he said something unusually rude? Why would she have even noticed him among the dozens of other people brushing past? And why did the expression on her face make him feel uncomfortable as he stood in her living room, as if he were reading her diary or watching something that he had never been meant to see?
The thought that had been in the back of his mind for nearly two years was no longer the harshly repressed hope that came to him in unguarded moments; it was screaming at him now like a Molly Weasley Howler, replaying as the emotions on her face repeated in an endless loop. No matter how many theories he considered to explain her countenance, only one seemed to fit all the circumstances and it was, frankly, the last explanation he would have ever imagined. It appeared that Hermione Granger might have actually cared about him.
It wasn't that he'd never been able to "get the girl" as the saying went. He may not have been a handsome man but the aura of confidence and power he'd grown into as an adult had served him well in social situations. The mysterious bad boy image helped as well; after all, he wasn't a monk, and he'd long ago discovered the allure a mysterious man in black had for an unusually large number of otherwise rational women.
The doubts he had about her feelings were further minimized as he remembered the night she stood in her kitchen doorway watching him cook. He'd heard her and had known she was watching; one couldn't be a spy for over 20 years without having an unusually fine-tuned ability to sense others' presence. It was unlikely she was watching him because she didn't trust him; she'd willingly slept in an unguarded room while he'd been free to move about the house. He suddenly remembered - with great mortification - that he'd kissed her on the forehead that afternoon when he'd sent her to take that nap. The fact that she hadn't chastised him for that kiss erased any question he had: she was attracted to him.
The fact that she might want him came as a surprise but not as a shock. Her intelligence, curiosity and determination had long ago marked her as a woman who would be unlikely to find a satisfactory romance with a man her own age; as someone had once said about her, "She was born forty years old." She had no peers in her age group. She had few peers in any group.
Snape's attraction to Hermione had begun the summer after she completed her seventh year, when she'd worked at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, researching various non-magical ways to defeat the Dark Lord. While there had been little if any hope for finding a lethal Muggle loophole, no one wanted to risk leaving any path unexplored. Hermione applied the same intensity to her methodical and thorough search into this dry well as she did for any and every task assigned her.
It wasn't her devotion to the work that had caught his fancy. He'd been on the receiving end of her obsessive drive and nearly compulsive attention to detail for seven years.
That first week she'd spent doing her research at Order Headquarters, she'd chosen to enjoy what little fresh air and sunshine made it through to the run-down neighborhood, so she spent nearly every day sitting outside at a small table behind the house with all her books and parchments.
As surprising as that may have been, it hadn't caused Severus to suddenly see Hermione in a new and sympathetic light. No, what had attracted him was infinitely more mundane: she'd spent that week in little more than a bikini.
Severus Snape might be an incredibly powerful wizard but he was, after all, a man.
It took him the rest of the morning to sort out exactly what he was going to do about all this and when the answer finally came to him, he was embarrassed at not having thought of it sooner. After all, it had been what had gotten him into trouble on the computer less than an hour ago when he had idly typed in those words. He was going to woo Hermione Granger.
Right, the rational part of his mind said, you, the Greasy Git, are going to court the one person you've insulted more than anyone else on the face of the planet, save Harry Potter. Why don't we come up with something a little easier? How about a grand unified theory of time, space, matter, consciousness, and chocolate? He beat his internal voice into submission and began to develop his plan of attack.
Two days later, Severus told Hermione that he was going to prepare dinner for her that night. "You've graciously allowed an uninvited guest to stay an extended time; it's the least I can do to properly thank you," he'd said brusquely, and then left her at home as he went to the grocer's.
He quickly made his purchases, including champagne, a rich Australian red wine and a sparkling dessert wine. In the best of cases, the wines would be appreciated and used to toast . well, to toast. In the worst case, he would at least have something well-made to drown his sorrows and humiliation.
Once Snape returned to the house, he shooed Hermione out of the kitchen.
By the time dinner was served, she was both hungry and curious - ravenously so. The smells issuing from the kitchen all afternoon had been causing her salivary glands and imagination to work overtime. She fought valiantly to remember that this dinner was simply his way of saying "thank you" no matter how badly she might wish it meant something else entirely.
He poured her a glass of champagne, Tattingers, and silently saluted her with his glass. Hermione took a sip and they both reveled in her enjoyment. She felt the light and flowery essence burst in her mouth with the bubbles; he watched as her cheeks flushed with the unexpected pleasure of the taste. The fact that her tongue curled over her bottom lip to capture each last bit of flavor sent his pulse into triple-time.
He said nothing as he laid the oysters, still in their shells and sodden with their own liqueur, before her.
She was surprised at his choice of a first course. Discounting the sexual implication of the dish - Snape would never be so obvious - she allowed herself to fully experience his selection. Hermione had always assumed that oysters would be smelly and slimy; in fact, they were an unusual combination of sweet and salty, firm and silky, visually repulsive yet oddly compelling. Even ignoring the alleged aphrodisiacal properties to the dish, she couldn't help but be aroused by the contrasting tastes and textures of the mollusks. There were only six bivalves on the plate, served au naturel, accompanied by nothing more than lemon wedges; by the time she brought the third to her mouth her hand was shaking.
The next course was a simple salad of mixed greens that had been tossed with walnuts, Roquefort cheese and a strawberry vinaigrette. This straightforward dish gave Hermione a chance to regroup. Her pulse slowly returned to a more medically acceptable level and she delicately fanned herself when Severus turned away from her to clear the plates.
He still hadn't said a word.
The next course - the main course - was hidden in some kind of flaky pastry shell. She noticed a design in the crust and was surprised to recognize a claddagh. Of all the images she might have imagined, this traditional symbol of love, friendship and loyalty was the last she would have expected from the Head of Slytherin House, especially on something he served to a Gryffindor. Her mental processes refused to catch into gear until she decided that he must have purchased the dish ready-made; despite the remoteness of that possibility, it was easier to believe that than the implications of the alternative.
Severus stood behind Hermione as he poured her wine for this dish. It was red, an Australian shiraz. Her skin tingled from his proximity; she could feel the heat from him pressing against her the way she wanted his skin to. Goosebumps raised on her as if her flesh could somehow close the gap between them. She so wanted him to touch her but as close as he got, his body never made contact. The electricity was almost unbearable.
Her mouth had gone dry and she took a generous taste of the wine. The ripe berry flavors washed over her in an almost obscene flood of sensation. The smell, the feel, the taste of the wine was overwhelming.
She waited until Severus was seated across from her. He raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at her plate. Resolutely telling herself that the claddagh was simply a cliché placed incongruously on a pre-made entrée and that Snape was signaling her to begin so that he might take a taste as well, Hermione sliced into the pastry.
Any thoughts she'd had about cliché disappeared when the scented steam reached her nose. She'd never before seen much less tasted one, but she knew that there was truffle in her dish.
As with the oysters, she'd always been a bit squeamish about the idea of a truffle. After all, it was a fungus, traditionally harvested with the aid of a pig, and had been described in more than one cookbook as having the aroma of sex. Based on her experiences, that was hardly the kind of thing she'd even consider putting on her plate, much less tasting.
She was discovering, however, that words would never do this morsel justice and if it tasted even half as indescribable as it smelled, she would be in very real danger of wanting to spend the rest of her life replicating this experience.
The scent of the Beef Wellington was like nothing she'd ever known. She could identify individual aspects of it - the butter in the pastry, the sweet tenderloin, even the rich goose liver - each bringing a unique note to the perfume of the dish. Underneath all these fragrances, however, was something elemental; an earthy, powerful grace note that appealed to some unevolved part of her. The combination of all these smells was synergistic and compelling. If she'd been a cat, she would have rolled in the dish.
With a start, Hermione realized that the entire meal had passed without a single word between them. While they'd had their share of uncomfortably quiet moments over the past weeks, they'd never gone on for a particularly long time. Tonight was different.
Tonight had been silent but it had never been awkward. The attention that Hermione might have otherwise paid to trying to force a stilted conversation or dealing with her discomfiture had been focused on the food - and it had been nothing less than soul-stirringly exquisite. She'd had no idea that eating could be so . sensual. It was nearly sinful.
By the time he served dessert - a chocolate mousse with a contrasting white crème swirled on top - Hermione was little more than a pulsing bundle of nerves; a tinderbox ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. The delicate apricot flavored wine, a moscato d'asti, should have cooled her but served only to increase the heat in her veins.
Severus had said nothing all through the meal. No explanation of what she'd been eating, no questions about her guesses as to the ingredients or even queries about the wines he'd selected.
Between his silence, the menu and her long-repressed but now burgeoning desire for him, it was all she could do to sit still.
She finished her mousse, licking the last tiny bit of crème from the corner of her mouth.
If she hadn't seen it herself, she probably would never have believed it; as her tongue completed its reconnaissance for any bereft chocolate, she watched as Severus' eyes tracked the path her tongue made over her lips. His pupils widened as she tested her theory and re-licked her upper lip.
Her hair could have burst into snakes with flaming tongues and she doubted he would have noticed, so intent was he on her mouth.
Oh.
Oh my.
The oysters, the claddagh, the wines... they were all - it was - he -
He was seducing her.
This time when reality shifted for Hermione, it shifted in her favor. The man she wanted wanted her.
She sat back in her chair, quietly marveling at how successfully he'd walked yet another - though certainly less deadly - tightrope. As a Slytherin and as a spy, Severus' modus operandi was stealth; dealing with a Gryffindor would require a much more direct approach. Given the friendship that had tentatively bloomed between them and despite or maybe even because of their fractious history, making his romantic intentions known to Hermione required finesse and tact. At the same time, he had to know there was a chance that his advances might be rejected and given Hermione's temper, that rejection could be painful. She was beginning to wonder if Severus had some kind of death wish that drove him to such dangerous situations.
What should she think about this? What was there to think about? For one of the few times in Hermione's life, she didn't want to think, she wanted to feel. There was something confident yet subtle in this, his courting, and she knew that he would be like this when he made love to her - powerful, vulnerable, attentive - passionate.
Not wanting to shatter the magic the silence had created, Hermione looked at Severus, his demeanor calculatedly neutral, and she hoped her eyes would be able to adequately express her feelings.
A fleeting glimpse of surprise crossed his face, followed by a darkening in his eyes that set her heart fluttering like a bird's wings in anticipation of what was to happen next. She had never felt so alive. As a smile slowly unfolded between them, her heart no longer fluttered its wings; it soared.
For those of you wondering, yes, truffles were traditionally harvested with pigs but dogs are supplanting their use, as dogs are less likely to devour the expensive delicacy. And lest you worry that I mightn't have a food- related link, here you go: http://www.epicurious.com/e_eating/e02_wintering/winterveges/truffles.html
Chapter 10 - Learning to Fly
After Hermione's unwitting declaration, there really hadn't been anything Severus could think to say. "Sorry about that" seemed lacking somehow, a little too "better you than me" to his mind, and there was no way to say "Oh, really?" without sounding at best dismissive and there was an excellent chance that, given the speaker, it would sound as if he was mocking her.
There was an awkward silence while both parties tried to figure out what to do next. Ultimately they did the only reasonable thing: they pretended nothing had happened.
Hermione busied herself in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing for supper. The menu included stir-fried vegetables, Kung Pao chicken and shrimp lo mein so there was a great deal of chopping, grating and marinating to do but even Hermione would have had to admit that 10 a.m. was a little early to get started.
She went to the kitchen to hide, to get away from Snape. This man was the master of the cutting remark, an artiste of insults. It would only be a matter of time until he launched his verbal assault; her confession of having had sex - and bad sex at that - was akin to giving him an armed and activated hand grenade. Of course, he had been behaving rather more considerately than was his wont but she'd just painted a huge bull's eye on her forehead. There was only so much temptation one person could resist, after all.
As for the man in question, the supposed maestro of scorn, he was gobsmacked. The fact that Hermione Granger, a woman who had always pursued what she wanted with the kind of single-minded intensity seen only in sharks going after harbor seals, would tolerate anything less than the best stunned him. He wasn't sure what shocked him more: that she hadn't somehow forced her partners to perform to her exacting standards (he smirked at the mental image of her ordering some cowering, clumsy boy to "get it right this time") or that she seemed so resigned to having sub-par sex.
Snape had to admit - at least to himself - that he wanted to change Hermione's experience when it came to that most intimate of interpersonal relations and not just as an academic courtesy. In fact, he'd typed in those accursed words at the computer this morning hoping to find some subtle but inspired means of conveying his feelings to Hermione. He hadn't lived a sheltered life by any stretch of the imagination but he had not been prepared for the visual onslaught he received. Combined with the fact that he couldn't shut the damn pictures off and was caught out to boot, he'd gotten as flustered as he ever remembered being.
Unfortunately, as much as he might have liked to, offering to address her plight at the moment would be opportunistic in the extreme, ruining any chance for intimacy between them and thus treating her to more of what she'd already had. Truth be told, it was unlikely that she'd even let it get that far if he made a move now. The only physical contact he was likely to receive from such an ill-timed offer would be a slap to his face - if he was lucky.
Switching off the computer, he stood slowly trying to stretch the stress of the morning out of his muscles. He let his head fall back and worked it slowly in a circle feeling the vertebrae in his neck crackle and pop back into proper alignment. After the last snap he opened his eyes, his sight falling on the third photo from the left on the middle ledge of the glass- fronted bookshelf.
Something about the wizarding picture struck him but it wasn't until he moved closer that he realized what had caught his eye. It had been taken after a Quidditch match and Potter and Weasley were standing on either side of Hermione, smiling and laughing over her head as crowds passed behind them, cheering and waving. If he squinted, he could just make out the score; ah, it had been the final game their seventh year, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. That likely explained the reason for the picture being taken, the last game, the last victory and all; typical memory book stuff, really.
What caught his eye was the tall solitary figure in black that passed behind the trio. Just before the picture ended and began again, the photographic Hermione turned and watched the illustrated Severus walk away. If he'd said anything to them as he'd passed by it had likely been something acerbic. The expression on Hermione's face as she looked away from the camera was a jumble of fading laughter, disappointment and something he wasn't quite willing to label as longing but couldn't seem to find any other word for it.
Why would she turn to watch him? He closed his eyes and strained his memory to recapture the moment. Had he said something unusually rude? Why would she have even noticed him among the dozens of other people brushing past? And why did the expression on her face make him feel uncomfortable as he stood in her living room, as if he were reading her diary or watching something that he had never been meant to see?
The thought that had been in the back of his mind for nearly two years was no longer the harshly repressed hope that came to him in unguarded moments; it was screaming at him now like a Molly Weasley Howler, replaying as the emotions on her face repeated in an endless loop. No matter how many theories he considered to explain her countenance, only one seemed to fit all the circumstances and it was, frankly, the last explanation he would have ever imagined. It appeared that Hermione Granger might have actually cared about him.
It wasn't that he'd never been able to "get the girl" as the saying went. He may not have been a handsome man but the aura of confidence and power he'd grown into as an adult had served him well in social situations. The mysterious bad boy image helped as well; after all, he wasn't a monk, and he'd long ago discovered the allure a mysterious man in black had for an unusually large number of otherwise rational women.
The doubts he had about her feelings were further minimized as he remembered the night she stood in her kitchen doorway watching him cook. He'd heard her and had known she was watching; one couldn't be a spy for over 20 years without having an unusually fine-tuned ability to sense others' presence. It was unlikely she was watching him because she didn't trust him; she'd willingly slept in an unguarded room while he'd been free to move about the house. He suddenly remembered - with great mortification - that he'd kissed her on the forehead that afternoon when he'd sent her to take that nap. The fact that she hadn't chastised him for that kiss erased any question he had: she was attracted to him.
The fact that she might want him came as a surprise but not as a shock. Her intelligence, curiosity and determination had long ago marked her as a woman who would be unlikely to find a satisfactory romance with a man her own age; as someone had once said about her, "She was born forty years old." She had no peers in her age group. She had few peers in any group.
Snape's attraction to Hermione had begun the summer after she completed her seventh year, when she'd worked at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, researching various non-magical ways to defeat the Dark Lord. While there had been little if any hope for finding a lethal Muggle loophole, no one wanted to risk leaving any path unexplored. Hermione applied the same intensity to her methodical and thorough search into this dry well as she did for any and every task assigned her.
It wasn't her devotion to the work that had caught his fancy. He'd been on the receiving end of her obsessive drive and nearly compulsive attention to detail for seven years.
That first week she'd spent doing her research at Order Headquarters, she'd chosen to enjoy what little fresh air and sunshine made it through to the run-down neighborhood, so she spent nearly every day sitting outside at a small table behind the house with all her books and parchments.
As surprising as that may have been, it hadn't caused Severus to suddenly see Hermione in a new and sympathetic light. No, what had attracted him was infinitely more mundane: she'd spent that week in little more than a bikini.
Severus Snape might be an incredibly powerful wizard but he was, after all, a man.
It took him the rest of the morning to sort out exactly what he was going to do about all this and when the answer finally came to him, he was embarrassed at not having thought of it sooner. After all, it had been what had gotten him into trouble on the computer less than an hour ago when he had idly typed in those words. He was going to woo Hermione Granger.
Right, the rational part of his mind said, you, the Greasy Git, are going to court the one person you've insulted more than anyone else on the face of the planet, save Harry Potter. Why don't we come up with something a little easier? How about a grand unified theory of time, space, matter, consciousness, and chocolate? He beat his internal voice into submission and began to develop his plan of attack.
Two days later, Severus told Hermione that he was going to prepare dinner for her that night. "You've graciously allowed an uninvited guest to stay an extended time; it's the least I can do to properly thank you," he'd said brusquely, and then left her at home as he went to the grocer's.
He quickly made his purchases, including champagne, a rich Australian red wine and a sparkling dessert wine. In the best of cases, the wines would be appreciated and used to toast . well, to toast. In the worst case, he would at least have something well-made to drown his sorrows and humiliation.
Once Snape returned to the house, he shooed Hermione out of the kitchen.
By the time dinner was served, she was both hungry and curious - ravenously so. The smells issuing from the kitchen all afternoon had been causing her salivary glands and imagination to work overtime. She fought valiantly to remember that this dinner was simply his way of saying "thank you" no matter how badly she might wish it meant something else entirely.
He poured her a glass of champagne, Tattingers, and silently saluted her with his glass. Hermione took a sip and they both reveled in her enjoyment. She felt the light and flowery essence burst in her mouth with the bubbles; he watched as her cheeks flushed with the unexpected pleasure of the taste. The fact that her tongue curled over her bottom lip to capture each last bit of flavor sent his pulse into triple-time.
He said nothing as he laid the oysters, still in their shells and sodden with their own liqueur, before her.
She was surprised at his choice of a first course. Discounting the sexual implication of the dish - Snape would never be so obvious - she allowed herself to fully experience his selection. Hermione had always assumed that oysters would be smelly and slimy; in fact, they were an unusual combination of sweet and salty, firm and silky, visually repulsive yet oddly compelling. Even ignoring the alleged aphrodisiacal properties to the dish, she couldn't help but be aroused by the contrasting tastes and textures of the mollusks. There were only six bivalves on the plate, served au naturel, accompanied by nothing more than lemon wedges; by the time she brought the third to her mouth her hand was shaking.
The next course was a simple salad of mixed greens that had been tossed with walnuts, Roquefort cheese and a strawberry vinaigrette. This straightforward dish gave Hermione a chance to regroup. Her pulse slowly returned to a more medically acceptable level and she delicately fanned herself when Severus turned away from her to clear the plates.
He still hadn't said a word.
The next course - the main course - was hidden in some kind of flaky pastry shell. She noticed a design in the crust and was surprised to recognize a claddagh. Of all the images she might have imagined, this traditional symbol of love, friendship and loyalty was the last she would have expected from the Head of Slytherin House, especially on something he served to a Gryffindor. Her mental processes refused to catch into gear until she decided that he must have purchased the dish ready-made; despite the remoteness of that possibility, it was easier to believe that than the implications of the alternative.
Severus stood behind Hermione as he poured her wine for this dish. It was red, an Australian shiraz. Her skin tingled from his proximity; she could feel the heat from him pressing against her the way she wanted his skin to. Goosebumps raised on her as if her flesh could somehow close the gap between them. She so wanted him to touch her but as close as he got, his body never made contact. The electricity was almost unbearable.
Her mouth had gone dry and she took a generous taste of the wine. The ripe berry flavors washed over her in an almost obscene flood of sensation. The smell, the feel, the taste of the wine was overwhelming.
She waited until Severus was seated across from her. He raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at her plate. Resolutely telling herself that the claddagh was simply a cliché placed incongruously on a pre-made entrée and that Snape was signaling her to begin so that he might take a taste as well, Hermione sliced into the pastry.
Any thoughts she'd had about cliché disappeared when the scented steam reached her nose. She'd never before seen much less tasted one, but she knew that there was truffle in her dish.
As with the oysters, she'd always been a bit squeamish about the idea of a truffle. After all, it was a fungus, traditionally harvested with the aid of a pig, and had been described in more than one cookbook as having the aroma of sex. Based on her experiences, that was hardly the kind of thing she'd even consider putting on her plate, much less tasting.
She was discovering, however, that words would never do this morsel justice and if it tasted even half as indescribable as it smelled, she would be in very real danger of wanting to spend the rest of her life replicating this experience.
The scent of the Beef Wellington was like nothing she'd ever known. She could identify individual aspects of it - the butter in the pastry, the sweet tenderloin, even the rich goose liver - each bringing a unique note to the perfume of the dish. Underneath all these fragrances, however, was something elemental; an earthy, powerful grace note that appealed to some unevolved part of her. The combination of all these smells was synergistic and compelling. If she'd been a cat, she would have rolled in the dish.
With a start, Hermione realized that the entire meal had passed without a single word between them. While they'd had their share of uncomfortably quiet moments over the past weeks, they'd never gone on for a particularly long time. Tonight was different.
Tonight had been silent but it had never been awkward. The attention that Hermione might have otherwise paid to trying to force a stilted conversation or dealing with her discomfiture had been focused on the food - and it had been nothing less than soul-stirringly exquisite. She'd had no idea that eating could be so . sensual. It was nearly sinful.
By the time he served dessert - a chocolate mousse with a contrasting white crème swirled on top - Hermione was little more than a pulsing bundle of nerves; a tinderbox ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. The delicate apricot flavored wine, a moscato d'asti, should have cooled her but served only to increase the heat in her veins.
Severus had said nothing all through the meal. No explanation of what she'd been eating, no questions about her guesses as to the ingredients or even queries about the wines he'd selected.
Between his silence, the menu and her long-repressed but now burgeoning desire for him, it was all she could do to sit still.
She finished her mousse, licking the last tiny bit of crème from the corner of her mouth.
If she hadn't seen it herself, she probably would never have believed it; as her tongue completed its reconnaissance for any bereft chocolate, she watched as Severus' eyes tracked the path her tongue made over her lips. His pupils widened as she tested her theory and re-licked her upper lip.
Her hair could have burst into snakes with flaming tongues and she doubted he would have noticed, so intent was he on her mouth.
Oh.
Oh my.
The oysters, the claddagh, the wines... they were all - it was - he -
He was seducing her.
This time when reality shifted for Hermione, it shifted in her favor. The man she wanted wanted her.
She sat back in her chair, quietly marveling at how successfully he'd walked yet another - though certainly less deadly - tightrope. As a Slytherin and as a spy, Severus' modus operandi was stealth; dealing with a Gryffindor would require a much more direct approach. Given the friendship that had tentatively bloomed between them and despite or maybe even because of their fractious history, making his romantic intentions known to Hermione required finesse and tact. At the same time, he had to know there was a chance that his advances might be rejected and given Hermione's temper, that rejection could be painful. She was beginning to wonder if Severus had some kind of death wish that drove him to such dangerous situations.
What should she think about this? What was there to think about? For one of the few times in Hermione's life, she didn't want to think, she wanted to feel. There was something confident yet subtle in this, his courting, and she knew that he would be like this when he made love to her - powerful, vulnerable, attentive - passionate.
Not wanting to shatter the magic the silence had created, Hermione looked at Severus, his demeanor calculatedly neutral, and she hoped her eyes would be able to adequately express her feelings.
A fleeting glimpse of surprise crossed his face, followed by a darkening in his eyes that set her heart fluttering like a bird's wings in anticipation of what was to happen next. She had never felt so alive. As a smile slowly unfolded between them, her heart no longer fluttered its wings; it soared.
For those of you wondering, yes, truffles were traditionally harvested with pigs but dogs are supplanting their use, as dogs are less likely to devour the expensive delicacy. And lest you worry that I mightn't have a food- related link, here you go: http://www.epicurious.com/e_eating/e02_wintering/winterveges/truffles.html
