Chapter 2

…*~*J*~*…

Severus started awake, shaken by the force of an incredible orgasm. It was not unusual for him to wake in the middle of the night with his heart pounding furiously in his chest, but it was very odd indeed to have had a pleasant dream. What the fuck was that? Had he really just dreamt about sex with Hermione Granger? Severus had to shake his head, throwing the sheets off and cleaning himself up before slipping out of bed and dragging himself into the bathroom.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he almost laughed out loud with the absurdity of it all. Not once in all his years of teaching had he dreamt about sex with a student. Hell, it was rare enough for him to dream about sex at all. But clearly there must be a logical explanation.

Severus relieved his bladder, allowing his mind to wander, and then moved to the sink. The cold water running over his hands helped to wash away the emotion surging through him until all that was left were the facts. Hermione Granger had appeared in one of his nightmares several nights ago. He had already analyzed that. She had been behaving rather oddly that day, and it was natural for his subconscious to cling to the suspicion she provoked and call upon her in a dream. The fact that he had killed her came as no surprise—he often had dreams like that about fellow Order members—but her reaction had bothered him quite a bit. Usually, in such dreams, his associates pleaded with him to spare them—as if the choice were his—or cursed him with all the accusations he'd heard over the years. It hadn't even been the first time he had dreamt of Miss Granger in that scenario. But never before had any of them looked at him as she had.

Raw, unconcealed, heartbreaking fear. That is what he had seen in her eyes. Hurt. And sadness; a profound hopelessness and understanding of her own position. It was as if she had known there was nothing he could do. It was acceptance of her own fate, despite her clawing desperation to avoid it.

He had wondered for a long time what that must mean. Was his unconscious mind trying to tell him that he underestimated the girl? For years she had been the only Gryffindor who truly believed he was innocent. Was he still clinging to that last bit of faith to prove that he was not yet lost? But then he reminded himself that the dreams in which his acquaintances spewed endless tirades of accusation and guilt were far less painful than the one he'd had of Granger. It was as if having them blame him for their own ends made it somehow easier for him to do. He could hate them if they hated him back.

But Granger hadn't hated him. She believed in him. She had known the truth; that he had to sacrifice her for the good of the Cause, in order to keep his position as a spy. And that petty excuse for murder was a harder bite to swallow. It broke through his carefully constructed psychological defenses, as none of the other dreams had been able to do, and made him feel… guilty.

For several days, he had been more afraid of sleeping than he had been in ages, but he hadn't dreamt of her again. And soon he'd gotten back into the rhythm of traditional, terrifying nightmares without the twisting stab of remorse.

And then he'd seen her at the Order meeting earlier that very day. Hermione Granger; the Brains of the Golden Trio; the bushy-haired, know-it-all, hand-waving nuisance. The epithets rolled right off his tongue like a cliché, they were so second-nature. Only, this time, he had really looked at her; past the hair, past the freckles, past the infantile way she sat with her legs beneath her in the chair. And he had suddenly realized that Hermione Granger was a much more complicated person than he had ever given her credit for being. That annoying, youthful excitement she seemed to direct at any and all new information was tempered by a keen skepticism for words unsupported by evidence. Her inevitable interjections of opinion did not completely unveil her thoughts; only the parts she wanted on the table. And he would be lying if he said that he hadn't suddenly noticed the curvaceous figure of a woman she had developed while he wasn't looking.

When she had appeared in his dream again tonight, something changed. Where usually he would have immediately cast himself as her murderer, he hesitated. And something about her presence brought a peacefulness that gave him strength to fend off the nightmare, somehow. Was it any wonder, then, that he had been drawn to her? The comfort and acceptance that seemed to emanate from the girl was at such odds to the harsh accusation of his usual nightmares that he'd found himself broken down by it. Understandably, sexual desire was adjacent to the affection she had shown him, and his long-dormant hormones took full advantage of the crack in his emotional shields.

Yes, he nodded to himself, it made perfect sense, really.

As he slipped back beneath the sheets, hoping for a few more hours before consciousness beckoned again, Severus found himself hoping for more dreams of her.

…*~*J*~*…

Hermione had not been able to get back to sleep all night. Her brain seemed keen to analyze every teensy detail of the dream and its implications. First and foremost on her mind was the fact that it had felt so real. Or, at least, she thought it had… but it was hard to be sure, seeing as she had no experience to draw on. And that was another thing… had she had sex? Was she no longer a virgin? Or was she a virgin who now knew exactly what it felt like to have sex? With her professor… Oh gods.

Professor Severus Snape had always been an angry man; very aloof and never friendly. She wasn't even sure he had friends. After all, it wasn't as if the Order members liked him. But with his guard down, he'd shown her another side of him that she never would have expected to exist. And he had fucked her. There really was no other word for it. Of course, she understood that he was not acting as intentionally as she was; that his mind was making the leaps and jumps that dreams often do. However, the fact remained that what had transpired had not been a mutually agreed upon activity and he had been in complete control. Merlin, it made her face red just to think about it.

And, oh gods, what would Harry and Ron think? Hermione gasped into the darkness. Well, she just wouldn't tell them. They wouldn't believe her anyway; she hardly did herself. Professor Snape, the bat of the dungeons, the Greasy Git—her breath hitched—the Head of Slytherin House had dreamt about her last night. And what bothered her most was the fact that that should bother her a whole lot more than it did.

The eerie blue of early morning was filtering through the curtains, now, and once in a while she heard a bird outside. For years, Hermione had striven to impress their surly professor, and he had never once satisfied that desire. But she was beginning to wonder just how much was hidden behind that angry façade, if he could dream up such a thing about her. It wasn't as if he were having a sexual dream and she walked into it, and the jump from nightmare to fantasy was rather large. A hesitant smile slowly grew across Hermione's face. She had inspired that scenario. She had saved him from his nightmares. And she had made him come. Oh gods, I made my professor come!

It should have sickened her, but Hermione found that the grin which stretched across her face refused to fade, and all she could feel was triumph.

…*~*J*~*…

Harry looked dreadful that day. He clearly hadn't slept well, and Hermione felt that she was the one to blame. She had robbed him of his good dreams and given them to Snape. It was completely illogical, of course, but that was the way she felt. Well, now that she'd satisfied her curiosity, she'd have no need to revisit the professor's mind.

By daylight, the dream they'd shared seemed like a faraway fantasy; something she'd imagined that couldn't really be true. Professor Snape, of all people. She just couldn't believe it. Well, the thing to do, really, was to push it from her mind. After all, he was her professor, and it was better she didn't think about him in that way.

As the days went by, she returned to her routine of dreaming with Harry, and the boy looked so much the better for it. Harry's wellbeing was her top priority, and she was happy to be able to help him. If he wouldn't confide in her, at least she could chase away his nightmares. And for now, that was good enough for her.

But she found that she couldn't keep her thoughts from drifting to Snape's dream. It had been so real. Part of her was drawn to the memory by the pure excitement of having discovered something new. And part of her knew that that excitement came from other, less respectable sources.

She hadn't quite enjoyed the dream, per se. Obviously, she'd been more or less in a state of panic, at the time. However, she had to admit, she was beginning to enjoy thinking about it.

There was just something so exciting about imagining that Snape wanted her sexually. It made her feel powerful in a uniquely feminine way. And as unaccustomed to feeling feminine as she was, the sentiment held her captive by its unprecedented charm. She felt like a child who'd been given her first taste of ice cream. Now all she could think about was getting some more.

Woah! Let's not get ahead of ourself. She certainly didn't want more. After all, the experience hadn't exactly been pleasant. That is, it had been rather painful, all in all. Exciting, or not. It wasn't as if she'd had an orgasm, after all. Not that she ever had had one.

So why was it that thoughts of his naked body above hers-the gleam of arousal in his eyes-the way his lips parted in uncharacteristic pleasure-made her cheeks flush pleasantly and a warm excitement settle in her belly? She knew the feeling and it was uncomfortably similar to the way she used to feel when Ron would smile at her, back in Fourth Year, before Victor, when life was simple.

And what if she were to reenter her professor's dreams? The mere thought sent a wave of heat across her skin and made her breath hitch, overwhelmed by possibilities. Who was to say he'd have the same dream? Maybe it would be entirely different. She gasped as her mind toyed with the notion. She would be jumping off the cliff, so to speak, giving him the reigns and surrendering to his desires. Oh, Merlin.

By the time the next Order meeting came around, Hermione had worked herself into a tizzy. She had replayed the dream so many times that the details were fuzzy and the emotions were dulled, but Snape had become the object of her fantasies, and she'd be seeing him soon.

The hours ticked by and she found herself alternately pacing her room and pretending to read in the kitchen while acting as casual as possible and waiting for him to arrive. As it happened, of course, she was pacing in the kitchen and trying to decide if she shouldn't hide in the library—but part of her desperately wanted to see him again, for reasons she couldn't possibly name—when he suddenly appeared in the doorway.

She didn't… squeak… exactly… It was more of a startled gasp—complete with flinch and rapid blush. Her cheeks were hot, but she met his eye as he lifted one disdainful brow. "Feeling a bit… on edge… today, Miss Granger?"

It was remarkable. How did he manage to pretend so perfectly that he hadn't shagged her in his dreams just a week ago? It was enough to make her wonder if he really had. There was nothing in his manner or his face to suggest that anything had changed at all, which unnerved her more than she was willing to admit. Did he often have such dreams? Ridiculous. Of course, she was no Occlumens, and he could probably read her secrets in her wide eyes and rosy cheeks. She reacted instinctively. "Must you always sneak up on people? You might have given me a heart attack!"

Snape's expression darkened and he advanced on her, trapping her against the table in one fluid motion that had her gasping for breath. She seemed to shrink several inches as he loomed over her in indignation. "You would do well, Miss Granger, to temper your outbursts when speaking to a professor. School may not be in session, but I will not tolerate such disrespect." Hermione couldn't breathe. She had been thinking so much about the man in the dream that she had forgotten who Severus Snape really was. Probably the fantasy hadn't been anything personal at all. She was female. He was male. Perhaps his overwrought mind had taken the opportunity to find a bit of relief, and that was all.

"S-Sorry, Professor," she heard herself say. His nostrils flared, but he seemed appeased by her response; probably just content to see that she still feared him. And then she saw it. For the briefest fraction of a second, his eyes darted down to her chest where the simple cotton of her dress clung to her rounded breasts in a subtle caress. She had chosen to wear the thing precisely for that appeal. But imagining him noticing it and actually seeing it for herself were two very different things. It was the most fleeting of glances. But in that instant, she knew. The dream had been real. Her breath caught and the sudden realization shook her to the core with tense, quaking fire that made her strangely lightheaded. She was suddenly very aware that both of them were remembering it, and her ears began to hum with the tension in the room. She felt like a cornered rabbit. But then, there were hurried footsteps on the stairs and Fred and George appeared, giving Hermione the chance to slip away.

…*~*J*~*…

Severus lingered, for once, after their meeting, taking tea with Remus in the kitchen. Despite his rather hasty and spiteful decision to out the werewolf to the public, Severus found that he did not mind the man's company, most of the time. Years of brewing his Wolfsbane had brought them closer in a subtle, yet integral way. They had established a sort of peace.

After a short while sharing the comfort of the silence, Remus was called upon by Potter to participate in the feeding ritual of the beast in the attic. Severus finished his cup of tea and placed it in the sink before deciding that he, too, should leave. Had he been hoping she'd make a reappearance? Foolishness.

But as he swept up the stairs and past the open door of the study, he caught sight of her. There, stretched across a couch, a book resting on her stomach, was Miss Granger. She had not seen him and he took the opportunity to study her while she was unaware. That bushy mane of hair was crushed against the pillows, framing a face that seemed lost in thought. Severus had never seen the girl pay so little attention to a book. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips were parted and he suddenly had the distinct impression that she was actually fantasizing. Imagine! Granger often seemed lost in thought, but it was usually of an academic nature. To imagine her thinking about such things… well, it was best he didn't imagine it at all.

The soft fabric of her dress—how odd to see her in a dress—draped over her form, outlining the lush orbs of her young breasts, the dip of her stomach, and even the slight curve at the apex of her thighs. Best not to study that too intently, either. One knee was bent, the other stretched out straight, and the skin of her legs had a healthy, summer glow. Severus swallowed. In short, she was beautiful. He was just about to turn away when she released the softest sigh and slowly rubbed her thighs together. His breath caught and his heart suddenly began to hammer in his chest as he felt himself growing hard. When had she become such a woman? When had she learned what it was to want sex?

…*~*J*~*…

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