Three

At supper that night Hermione sat as usual at the Gryffindor table, the conversation around her growing ever more childish and puerile. She pushed the food around her plate with a faint sigh. The staff had been in 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. It was emptiness without him.

It was desire.

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

She waited.

Distractedly, 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.

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

Once inside, Hermione shut the door tight. It was raining heavily, and she glanced out over the distant mountains beyond the 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. With silent frustration, 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.

Hermione was suddenly and utterly consumed by him.

Surprisingly, she found herself now accepting, almost welcoming the revelation. Her unforeseen but undeniable obsession with Severus Snape seemed the most natural thing in the world. She questioned how she could not have seen it before. Allowing the notion to sink in, the longest breath of relief escaped her.

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 cold 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.

Had it always been there, that connection between them? As she was now, adult, experience behind her, she supposed it had. Before, it had been masked in animosity, revulsion even: a compliance with the established view of him. Her childish prejudice had simply accepted what was in fact misperception.

But to the mature, searching mind of a scarred and battle-weary woman, he was now a man of infinite depth and intrigue.

Admittedly, in her first week or so back at Hogwarts, there had seemed little change in either his attitude to her or her perception of him. His reluctance to acknowledge her in any other way other than that which had been most familiar to him struck her as being due to hardened habit or even fear.

But Hermione could not back away now.

It was not going to be easy – whatever 'it' may be. The confused, tormented emotions he presented her with were obviously perplexing him as much as her. Whatever she had stirred in him was certainly not something she felt he would readily accept.

Severus Snape was clearly struggling.

But the scales were falling from Hermione's eyes and, as ever, once she had made up her mind about something, she would not let go.

But would he even contemplate exploring these feelings? 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 so 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 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 her hand quested instinctively down over her breasts, over her belly, resting in the dampness between her thighs. She could not stop. Her fingers caressed, coaxed and stroked the needy 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.

Hermione awoke early the next day, 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. The 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, he was beautiful.

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

Snape finished his breakfast and got up to leave, sweeping from 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, when she was granted a tantalising glimpse, he seemed distracted, as if concentrating hard to block something out. She guessed what it may be.

The hours and nights ticked slowly by. Her desire, her need, her passion grew by the minute. How could she have been so wrong for so long? But the answer was clear. 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, to 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 still could not rest. She felt almost unworthy.

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 following 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 was turned; he was writing on the board. Hermione sat in the middle of the room and tried to apply herself to the start of the lesson.

Snape 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 and 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, Hermione 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 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 inhaled 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 raised her hand for assistance. Hermione saw Snape roll his eyes, but her heart leapt when he turned towards them and came over, round 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 Hermione was suddenly alight, 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 was 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.

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

Snape crossed swiftly to the student concerned, a stream of insults emerging from his mouth.

Hermione sat still, staring after him, incapable of anything else.

The lesson ended soon afterwards, and everyone left quickly, including Snape, who mumbled something about a meeting. Hermione watched him go with a mixture of loss and delirium. Her finger was still tingling.

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

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Closer and closer. I doubt it will be easy, but well worth it, surely ...

Let me know your thoughts. I do so love them. LL x