Knocking lightly on the open door, Hermione took a tentative step into the classroom. "Professor?" she called out. The room was dimly lit, illuminated by little more than a few floating candles. The sconces were blown out, the eerie green glow of the dungeons ominous as always. She shivered against the constant chill, offering the man a shy smile as she stood before his desk.
The man in black did not bother to look up from the massive pile of assignments he was correcting. "Yes, Apprentice Granger, what is it now?"
She blushed, shifting her weight on the balls of her feet. "I- erm, I have a request to make, sir," she said, her voice strained.
Snape looked up at her from beneath his lashes, the corner of his lips lifting at her discomfort. He set down his quill slowly and steepled his fingers beneath his nose as he sat back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. "I live to serve," he purred, arching an imperious brow at her.
Hermione's face was on fire as her blush deepened, running down her throat and beneath the neckline of her brown apprenticeship robes. She took a shaking breath and wrung her hands, her palms moist and sweaty. Here goes nothing.
"Would you care to join me for tea?" she blurted out.
A frown knit his brows. He had not been expected that. He recovered quickly, an impassive mask hiding his emotions. "Your ability to catch me off guard impresses me, Apprentice Granger," he replied smoothly. "I admit you have me intrigued by your request."
Swallowing thickly, the witch tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. "I was hoping to perhaps discuss the uses of certain magical flora in potions. I was-"
"In the library," he supplied with a smirk. "Where else would you be in your spare time?"
She caught her lip between her teeth and focused on breathing, her heart racing in her chest. She had rarely ever been quite so forward, especially with her former teachers turned colleagues. "I understand if you are otherwise occupied," she rambled, trying to save face before she made a bigger fool of herself.
The Potions' Master stood then, rearranging his pile of essays into a more ordered mess, and stepped around his desk. Standing before her, he once again raised an eyebrow. "What gave you the impression I would not be inclined to acquiesce to your demand of my time?" he asked curiously, searching her face for anything besides embarrassment. He offered her his arm and jerked his head toward the door. "Lead the way, Miss Granger."
Her heart squeezed as relief flooded through her. She let out a slow breath and curled her arm around his, her fingers gripping his wool coat. "You're always so busy," she answered bashfully. "Besides, you are not often seen consorting with colleagues, much less apprentices."
He shrugged, an elegant lift of his broad shoulders. "I have been known to make the occasional exception," he replied, his voice a soft rumble of velvet by her ear as they walked down the darkened corridor. "How could I resist the offer of such interesting conversation with the most sought-after apprentice Hogwarts has known in decades?"
Hermione pursed her lips and held back a girlish giggle. "You flatter me, sir," she responded. "What a lovely spin on 'insufferable know-it-all', you have such a way with words."
His breath was hot on her ear, his voice too close in all its richness and dark beauty. A rarity blissfully preserved from the thrice-damned snake that had nearly ended his life. "Don't I?" he murmured, a finger sliding along her jaw to lift her chin toward his face as they halted at the top of the stairs.
He observed her carefully, taking in her bright cognac eyes. Her breathing hitched as his gaze raked her, taking in every inch, his thumb on her chin just below her lip. "Tea and conversation?" he inquired. "Is that all, Apprentice Granger, or do you have an ulterior motive?"
She fluttered her lashes, all too consumed by his spiced and sandalwood scent as it surrounded her, the heat of his body so close to hers, his hand on her face in a way that was more intimate than she had expected. "Am I really so transparent?"
Snape's lips curled upward and his eyes softened. Carbon life pools drinking her in as she gazed up at him with admiration. "My dear, you are as subtle as a bludger to the face."
The young woman laughed, unable to hold back this time. "Less flattering, I must confess," she managed between giggles. "While I am confessing, I must admit to a... less academic fascination."
His brow rose again, his head cocking to the side. He had yet to drop his hand from her face, his fingers dancing along her jaw. "How very unprofessional, Apprentice Granger. I should have you reprimanded for your indecencies."
Hermione shrugged. "Reprimanded over tea and conversation? I highly doubt my superior would mind, sir," she said haughtily. "Is it not my position to consort with my future colleagues?"
Clever little witch.
Hermione Granger had become an all too curious creature since her return to Hogwarts. She was cunning and ambitious and bold and quite brilliant. Her decision to study beneath Minerva had come as a surprise to no one, though her increasing interest in the Potions' Master had been less expected. To his satisfaction, she had seemed stunned that he had noticed at all. He was endeared by her attentions, her attempt to get to know him, despite his reputation and how terribly he had behaved in the past. With the war over and Voldemort gone, there was nothing stopping him from building a life for himself should he choose it.
Why not her? Why not the little dove curled around him, hanging on tight to his arm? She was young, no doubt, though she was a woman in her own right. A war hero of great renown, an apprentice, and a colleague.
He dipped his head politely, gesturing before him so that they may continue walking with the hand that had caught her face. "Tea, Miss Granger," his words were a whisper on the chilled air of the castle, a secret in the stone craquelure of the walls. His tone offered decadence and the heady implication that there would be many more evenings for tea in her future and perhaps... more.
She glanced at him, straightening her robes. "Hermione," she corrected. "We're colleagues, after all."
He nodded once. "Very well, Hermione,"
It was not the first time she corrected him. It would certainly not be the last. Since the beginning of her apprenticeship six months prior, she had been trying to get him to address her by her first name. And consistently, the man would agree and then never follow through, reverting to polite manners. It drove her absolutely batty.
She despised that he was so bloody polite. Polite and distant and unapproachable. Until now. No, now he seemed all too keen to entertain the pretty little idiot of an apprentice as she presented herself before him, seeking his attention in a manner all too gauche for her liking.
She did not know how to behave next to his lithe grace, his elegance, his imperious presence that commanded respect. She envied his skill, really. But damn it all, she wanted to know him.
She wanted to know this selfless man who had taught her for years, who had put his life on the line time and time again in honour of his long-lost love, who had to hide behind an emotionless mask while he served not one but two masters. This man, now free, had decided to return to Hogwarts after it all. Taken back his position in Potions, despite his preference for the dark arts and former status of Headmaster.
Above it all, she wanted to know why.
"Sickle for your thoughts?" He asked idly, leading her into the staff room, his hand on the small of her back.
Hermione spun about quickly, stumbling as she reached out to steady herself against his chest. She blushed fiercely as he caught her elbows. "Sorry," she mumbled. "You surprised me, I was lost in thought."
He led her backwards with a chuckle, pointing to an empty armchair. "Sit, witch. I will call on the house elves for tea," he ordered.
Curling into her seat, the curly-haired woman toed off her boots and tucked her feet beneath her. She caught a glimpse of her former head of house eyeing her suspiciously, her lips pinched as she observed their interaction. Hermione averted her eyes and sighed in relief as Snape returned with a fully loaded tea tray and sat across from her. He shot a look at the headmistress and smirked, a brow raised in her direction. "Tell me, Hermione, what did you wish to discuss, precisely?" he asked as he turned back toward her, his voice loud enough to be heard from where the older witch was seated.
The apprentice narrowed her eyes at him and his own gleamed as he caught her stare. Wicked man. She scoffed and rolled her eyes.
They lost the evening to discussion on herbs and various plants and the state of decay or preservation they were in when applied to specific potions use. They discussed her apprenticeship and her advancement in the field of transfiguration, why she had not chosen charms instead or defence against the dark arts. Finally, as the staff room emptied out and the two were alone, the man sat back in his seat and asked the question that had been burning at the back of his mind since August. "Why did you not choose Potions?" his voice was quiet, his tone curious.
Hermione looked away, staring down into her teacup. She swirled the remnants of her earl grey and sighed. "Honestly?" She replied. "I thought I would never be good enough to study beneath you. To meet your excessively high expectations."
Something shifted in his eyes, though it was gone before she could identify what it was. He leaned forward, setting aside his cup and saucer, and reached out his hand. Her trembling fingers slid across his palm and he squeezed them. "My dear girl, you would have been brilliant," he told her. There was no hint of a lie in his expression. Her breath caught, and her heart was in her throat at such open praise from the stoic and standoffish Potions' Master. "You brewed Polyjuice at the tender age of 12. You've learnt how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. You could have bottled your fame, brewed your way to glory."
She blushed. "I had a rather good teacher," Hermione curled in on herself, her hand still holding on tightly to his as she recalled his words from years ago. "Besides, all I wanted was to put a stopper in death... During the war, I- Gods, there was so much of it."
The words fell from her lips in a rush of air, brown eyes watering at the thought of all the people they had lost. Of Remus, Tonks, little orphaned Teddy, of Fred, of Sirius, of Dobby, of Dumbledore.
She shuddered with the thought of the last one. How she sat across from the man who had agreed to take his life to preserve his image alongside Voldemort. How it had failed anyway and how Dumbledore had almost certainly known it would unless Draco disarmed him first and Tom Riddle was made aware of how the succession of the Elder Wand truly functioned.
Only one of those two things had transpired.
Snape caught her chin, pulling her forward as he sat on the edge of his chair and stared hard into her face. His gaze shifted from one eye to the other, his hand firmly on her jaw as he held the other in a vice grip. "Sweet thing," he sighed. "Had you not possessed the predisposition to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion making, I would not be sitting before you today."
Her mouth dried and she fought to breathe. He knew.
After all this time, he knew.
The apprentice had wanted him to live without thinking he owed anyone a debt. She would not ask anything of him in exchange for having saved his life. She refused to let him believe he owed another life. Another great sacrifice. After Harry had shared with her the contents of the man's memories, her heart had folded in four. She was grateful for her meddling and trying to save her teacher's life. Even though he had been callous and cruel, she did not believe he deserved death. No, the curly-haired witch was all too convinced the dark and taciturn man deserved more, a second chance. A chance at freedom.
She had never told him anything. Her friends had been sworn to secrecy, under oath.
Hermione fought to make sense of her racing thoughts as the man came closer still. His breath stirred the air above her cheek as his thumb just barely traced the outline of her lips. His mouth dipped to hers, a gentle slide of skin against skin as he whispered to her. "Brightest witch of your age," he murmured. "Merlin, you would have been the most fearsome Potions' Mistress in a generation, a century."
She smiled easily, leaning toward him, her hand fisting in the wool of his coat. "Second only to you, sir."
He chuckled. "Of course,"
His mouth found hers and she melted into the warmth of his kiss. The long fingers on her face moved to support her head, cradling her nuque. Her lashes fluttered shut, tickling his cheek. His tongue darted out to press against the seam of her lips and pushed into her mouth as she gasped. Taking advantage of their proximity, she reached up to cup his cheek, pulling him down toward her.
She was not entirely certain when he had risen from his seat to kneel before her, though she put his new posture to good use and coaxed him into her own chair, as she perched on his knee. His hand found her hip and pulled her closer, teasing another surprised gasp from her.
"Insistent little thing," he purred, his lips brushing her cheek.
The young woman cooed, leaning into him as she brushed away a strand of silky black hair from his face. "I always end up getting what I want, sir," she said bossily, her lips curling into a wicked smile. "One way or another."
He raised a brow at this and his hand on her hip tightened, resulting in a squeak. "Oh, do you?" He asked, allowing her to fuss with his wayward hair.
Her cheeks rosied and he smirked, pulling her close to his chest and tucking her beneath his chin. She buried her face against his throat, being mindful of his scars, they were more evident now that she was so close to them. She absently kissed his jaw as his hand ran along her arm, tracing patterns into her sleeve. He let out a slow breath, he could get used to holding her this way. This little witch, too willing to be in his embrace. A pleasant surprise he was not at all opposed to. Yes, this unexpected development suited him just fine.
Someone behind them cleared their throat and the witch flinched, curling further into the man to hide herself. His arms tightened around her and he dropped a kiss on her wild mane of hair before responding. "Yes, Minerva?" Came the bored drawl of the dungeon dweller.
The older witch let out an indignant sigh. "That would not happen to be my apprentice in your lap, would it, Professor Snape?"
Her tone was biting and sharp and Hermione cringed. Gods, she wanted to melt into the upholstery and become the armchair to escape the embarrassment. Snape shrugged, unfazed by her use of his formal title. "Should it matter?" he retorted nonchalantly.
The girl in his embrace envied his skill. She would love to pretend she did not care what others thought of her, that her reputation was not important. Though, she was a student of sorts still. She still had to pass her ministerial examinations and make a name for herself. McGonagall was her best chance at evolving in the domain of transfiguration.
The man snorted and pulled his witch closer still. "I am not going to steal your apprentice, Headmistress. I simply meant to... Entertain. Satisfy her many curiosities." His voice was a rumble from his chest that implied something far less seemly than tea and conversation. Hermione's face was on fire and burning up against the sensitive skin of his throat. He offered the tartan-clad witch a nasty smile. "Unless you would prefer to instruct your cub on why I am the worst possible choice for such endeavours."
McGonagall seemed to deflate before them. "Oh, good, you've finally pulled your head out of your arse," she said. To Hermione's surprise, the woman waved them off and shrugged. "Thought you were trying to steal my ward, Severus. It would not shock me to find out you used unethical means to convince the girl. You've got quite the reputation, you know."
Snape laughed, a low and rich sound that warmed Hermione's heart. She was curious about the sort of reputation her superior was talking about. There had been word in the Prophet on what sort of man he was behind closed doors, though there was nothing explicit on the subject. Nothing she could find anyway.
He shot her a look and shrugged. "Do I, Minerva? Would you care to enlighten me on how I could possibly have such a reputation when I live in the castle ten months out of the year?"
The former head of Gryffindor scoffed and lifted her chin. "Dear heavens, boy. I will have none of your cheek. See to your witch, then."
She left the room then, huffing and murmuring something or other about his audacity and how he had changed since the war.
Alone, the man looked down at the apprentice. "Care to tell me about this so-called reputation?" His voice was curious and quiet.
Gathering her courage, she lifted a hand to turn his face toward her. Meeting his eyes, she took a steadying breath. She had nothing to lose, really. The worst he would do is laugh, right?
She drew runes along his jaw, drawing his attention as his thoughts seemed to scatter. She really was a very distracting little thing. "They, the Prophet, say that you've a way of luring innocent, hapless women into your bed. That you defile them, that you are positively debauched. A deviant."
Impossibly, his eyes darkened, some wanton need flashing through them as he watched her eyes flit to his mouth. His hand lifted to catch her face, his thumb brushing a half-moon across her cheek as he pulled her closer, his lips hovering above hers. "Care to find out?"