Here we are ... we are getting closer ... not quite there yet, but still rather a delicious moment here ...

Thanks for the lovely, lovely reviews. x

A couple of you mentioned seeing things from Snape's POV. I haven't done that so far, but am thinking of ways to achieve this. We will be able to delve into his mind in different ways, believe me ...


At supper that night, Hermione sat as usual at the Gryffindor table, the conversation around her growing ever more childish and tedious. She sighed to herself and pushed the food around her plate. The staff had had a meeting and had not yet appeared at high table. At last she was able to admit to herself what that strange feeling in the pit of her stomach had been. It was longing for him. It was emptiness without him. It was fear.

It was desire.

The teachers started to come in and sit for dinner. She waited. His seat remained empty. The ache in her belly intensified. She did not speak a word to her fellow students.

She waited.

She pushed the bowl of dessert away from her and it was cleared away. Still she waited, her eye almost permanently trained discreetly on high table.

He did not come.

She returned to the Gryffindor common room in a foul mood. Ginny tried to chat, ask her what the matter was, she mumbled something about a headache and took herself off to her room.

Once inside she shut the door tight. It was raining heavily and she glanced out over the distant mountains beyond the Forbidden Forest before closing the shutters. She could not deny the beauty of the place, but it did little to appease the sense of emptiness inside. She collapsed down onto her bed. She missed him. The acknowledgement of her feelings came as a complete shock, but at the same time, deep down, she felt they had been there for an age, ignored, buried, repressed.

As she tried to settle down to sleep, she tried to reconcile her emotions.

Surprisingly, she found herself now accepting, almost welcoming them. The sudden revealing of her obsession with Severus Snape seemed the most natural thing in the world. She questioned how she could not have seen it before. As she allowed herself to let the notion sink in, she sighed out the longest breath of relief.

She had found him.

Snape was one of the few people she considered her intellectual equal. He was insightful, perceptive, highly articulate. Brave. It was not only his body that now consumed her desire, it was his soul, of that she was certain. She wanted to understand him, wanted to open him. His anger, his coldness, his dismissive attitude towards her suddenly made him more attractive in her eyes. He had seen something in her too, of that she was sure, and she would grab that spark, and pull, pull him into her.

But would he want to reciprocate her feelings? His behaviour towards her in the last few days had been mystifying, but the moments of connection between them were undeniable. But his own confusion was understandable. After all, she was his student.

Hermione groaned.

Relationships between student and teacher were forbidden. Rightly so. Hermione herself had no objection to that.

But she was nineteen, She had lived too much already. Except for the circumstances of last year, she would no longer be a student. She certainly did not feel like one.

There seemed no future to a relationship founded on illicit, secretive meetings behind closed doors and away from prying eyes. However, she had to admit, that the dynamics between her the student and he the teacher were what made his attraction all the greater. They existed together solely within Hogwarts. Hermione's mind did not allow her, did not want to imagine them beyond the castle walls.

But for now, she could not dwell too hard on the problems thrown up, she could think only of wanting him. The realisation of her feelings, although so sudden, swiftly took a tight hold, gripping her very being. It was like a fire that starts as a tiny flame, but spreads rapidly to engulf and consume. She knew that the desperate ache in her depths would not go away. And she knew there was only thing which would assuage it.

She lay in the dark, and allowed his image to enter her mind. The face, so reviled and mocked in the past, seemed now to possess an austere beauty reflecting the complexity of what lay within. She heard his voice in her head, low and dangerous, a ribbon of black silk snaking its way towards her. How could she wait to hear it again? Her back arched and she found her hand questing down, down, over her breasts, her belly, resting in the dampness between her thighs. She could not stop. Her fingers caressed, coaxed, stroked her tender bud until she came against them, a cry of lonely pleasure sounding gently into the room. At that moment, she saw in her mind two black eyes staring into her very soul.

She woke the next day early, rising and showering before anyone else. She hurried to breakfast, desperate to see him.

She was rewarded almost instantly. Shortly after she arrived he came and sat next to the Headmistress. His face looked sour and remained resolutely lowered.

Her eyes hardly left his figure all meal. Look up. Look up. She ached from the exertion of willing him from afar. It did no good.

His brows were deeply furrowed, but still she saw him so differently to before. His eyes seemed larger, more profound than ever, his cheekbones carved high, giving him an air of elegance that set him apart from the other staff. His lips, albeit thin, were a deep red which contrasted with the pale skin surrounding them. His rich black hair framed all these features in dramatic contrast. At that point, clearly and obviously to Hermione's eyes, he was beautiful.

But he did not glance once in her direction. The ache inside her threatened to make her sick.

He finished his breakfast and got up to leave, sweeping out of the hall quickly.

She almost sobbed aloud with disappointment.

She did not have Potions for three days.

Those three days were the most agonisingly painful Hermione could remember. He often missed meals, and on the occasions he was there, Hermione had either not managed to sit in a position where she could see him, or he did not look once towards her. Still, on the occasions she was allowed a tantalising glimpse, he seemed distracted, as if concentrating hard to block something out. She guessed what it may be.

The hours, nights ticked by. Her desire, her need, her passion grew by the minute. How could she have been so wrong for so long? But she realised, now she was a different person. She had now at last grown into a woman, and a woman of profound depth and knowledge, despite her forced need to conform to the constraints of schoolgirl pretence. She had grown ... she had survived.

So had he. Yet he seemed almost to have wished he hadn't. That awareness made her despair, ache with grief. It was only now, now that she was at last fully formed, that she could see him for who he truly was; a man, not her tormentor and derider, but a soul; noble, heroic ... yet in anguish, still. Here was a man who had experienced the depravities of his own soul for goodness, for nobility ... for love. And yet he could still not rest. She felt almost unworthy of him.

Hermione spent the next few days thinking of nothing but him, desperately willing the passage of time to carry her closer to him. It only did so teasingly slowly.

The next Monday at two minutes to three, Hermione at last found herself standing outside his classroom. The wave of expectation was overwhelming and she leant briefly against the wall to steady herself. Then breathing in deeply and drawing herself up, she entered.

She saw him immediately, his back turned, writing on the board. She sat in the middle of the room, and tried to apply herself to the start of the lesson.

He turned swiftly and glanced around at the students sitting before him. He did not look at her.

As he lectured, walking up and down across the front, her eyes swept over his body as if for the first time. He was taller than she had realised, with long legs. His shoulders were broader too, but his frame slender, elegant, firm. It was strange, she had never looked at him in that way before. His appeal seemed so clear now. Her belly twisted.

As the lesson wore on, she became increasingly frustrated by his inability even to acknowledge her presence. She had raised her hand to answer and ask many questions, but had been passed over each time.

They were now working on their potions. It was a simple enough task, and Hermione could not think of a complex enough question to justify asking him.

He was walking up and down the rows, perusing the students' work. As he passed her, she caught his scent on the air and breathed in deeply. She longed for him to turn back, but his robes billowed past her and his back continued down the aisle. She thought she may cry out in desperation.

Ginny, who was working at the same broad table as her, suddenly swore under her breath and put her hand up for assistance. Hermione saw Snape roll his eyes, but her heart leapt when he turned towards them and came over, around to the back of their table.

He was standing between them.

Hermione felt his presence as if he was electrified. Her senses filled with his rich aroma. His deep black robes hung perilously close to her arm. She wanted to reach out, touch them, but every time she thought she would, he moved slightly and they swayed out of her reach. She struggled to catch her breath, and the molten lead in her belly churned mercilessly. Her heart beat so hard and fast she was sure he could hear it.

"Professor, I just can't seem to get the consistency right. I'm sure I've done everything exactly as you said." Ginny sounded dejected.

Snape sniffed derisively. "Clearly you have not, Miss Weasley. Attention to detail cannot be underestimated." Although scolding and not directed at her, his words were like honey poured around Hermione.

He leaned over the cauldron, placing his right hand on Hermione's side of the desk, next to where her left hand already rested.

His little finger touched hers, innocently, inadvertently.

Hermione drew in a sharp breath. She sensed him tense momentarily.

Neither moved their fingers away.

He continued berating Ginny for her poor preparation of the potion.

Their skin continued to touch, less than an inch of warm, smooth flesh made contact, but her flesh was suddenly electrified, her breathing rapid. She dared not look down, for fear the touch was not real, a figment of her feverish imaginings. But she knew it was not; the tiny point of contact between them the focus of their beings. Still neither moved.

Hermione raised her finger slightly. Slowly, exquisitely slowly but deliberately, she brought it up, up and over, running it along his finger, until it rested gently on top. She pressed the soft undertip down a little, rubbing it delicately but perceptibly along him.

Snape stopped his volley of criticism for an instant, but did not move from his position over the cauldron, stirring it with his left hand, while his right remained firmly on Hermione's desk.

Her finger continued to lie atop his. She could feel it warm and firm beneath. His body burned next to hers, sheathed beneath his voluminous robes. Still, they did not move.

Hermione's belly twisted again. God, she wanted more. He did too. She knew it.

Then there was a crash from behind them. Instinctively, both moved simultaneously to look behind, mutually breaking the sublime contact.

Snape moved swiftly to the student concerned, a stream of insults emerging from his mouth. Hermione sat still, staring after him.

The lesson ended soon afterwards, and everyone left swiftly, including Snape, who mumbled something about a meeting. Hermione watched him go with a mixture of loss and delirium.

They had not spoken a word to each other or made eye contact all lesson.


Ooh ooh ooh ...

Don't worry, not long to wait, for development or the next chapter ...

Let me know your thoughts. x