Chapter Two

II.

...

Severus watched her go, fingers itching to reach into his robes and pull out the letter, to open it and read for himself what she had written. But he'd given his word; the meeting was tonight, and he'd promised to not let the letter be opened until this evening. The opportunity for him to be, well, not nice exactly, but less nasty than usual, had come into his grasp, and he had seized the moment carefully. It was exceedingly rare for him to be so alone with the Head Girl, in a moment of time when no one could spy upon them, not even her friends.

Her responses had been gratifying; Severus believed she might actually understand the position he was in, as a spy, as the head of Slytherin, as the reputably cold, unfeeling, black-hearted bastard of Hogwarts. After a full year of carefully lowering his guard in writing to the young woman, through one carefully phrased admission at a time, after seeing her respond to his slightly kinder attitudes in this rare moment of privacy, he finally believed the counter-spell to the Withering-Heart Curse might actually work. He hadn't been jesting when he'd told Ronald Weasley that the counter-spell could take years to apply. The Withering-Heart Death was a horrible curse to suffer, almost unheard-of even in the Dark Magic circles where he still prowled as a spy for the Order...and originally mostly for little more than pure academic interest and an interest in learning all the various counters, than for the reasons usually attributed to him by others. That was where Lord Voldemort still roamed. Not in search of counter-spells, but in search of the Darkest of Arts themselves, anything to fuel his mad quest for power over the wizarding world.

Still, Severus was a man of discipline. The letter stayed untouched in his robe pockets all the way through supper. When he rose at the end of the meal, his eyes strayed to Hermione Granger, whom he had glanced at covertly only a handful of times throughout the meal, carefully never more nor less than he had looked at the other students. Her gaze met his before he could look away. Deciding quickly on how to respond, Severus lifted his hand to his robes, brushing his fingertips over the spot where the letter was hidden. Sliding his hand off of the crinkling parchment, he adjusted his robes as if that had been his intent all along, and moved away. If she was as smart as she seemed to be, she would interpret that simple gesture as a reassurance that he had not forgotten his promise.

The letter stayed in his robe pockets throughout the meeting, too; Severus gave his report and patiently listened to those matters that were relevant for him to hear, but left as soon as everything important had been said, as it would have been out-of-character for the taciturn Potions Master to linger for the socializing that sometimes happened afterwards. He did withdraw into the downstairs washroom immediately after leaving the meeting, though, locking the door behind him for a moment of privacy. Extracting the letter, he cracked the seal as he stood before the sink, and read the neatly penned lines she had inked that morning.

His mouth curved in a slight smile, as he read her required percentages of honesty in his comments. That left him with a hundred or so lies he could get away with telling her. Not that he'd give her quite so many...unless one counted all the half-lies he'd hedged so far...but if she protested after finding out who 'Rus' really was and what he really did for a living, he could always point out that he'd simply used up his quota of lies ahead of time.

Less than his quota, actually. Even his pen-name could be considered a form of the truth, in a certain light. She'd asked for his full name, and he'd demurred, citing his position as a spy. That was true; he was a spy, and 'Rus' was a part of his full name, so it technically wasn't a lie to call himself thus. And his lies about his employment and co-workers were technically only partial lies...teaching students the art of potion-making was very much a case of Research, with all those essays, and Development, from all those attempts at getting a potion to come out right. Not to mention his students were in a sense his underlings in that he could order them about, and that the other professors were other 'departments' in that they were handling the other areas of knowledge waiting to be researched and developed by their students.

Alright, it was a very big stretching of the truth. But there were plenty of real truths buried in all the things he'd told her. His emotions had been true. Muted in some cases...especially in the beginning, toned down to an acceptable level for her to read, so that he wouldn't scare her off with his blunt honesty...but his reactions and thoughts and feelings had been transmitted with increasing honesty as their communications had progressed...and with the need to reveal the truth of himself, came a mellowing of himself as he unburdened his secret stresses to a remarkably sympathetic soul.

Hermione Granger now knew more about Severus Snape than almost anyone else, and perhaps even more; Lucius had known the truth of him fairly well in his youth, and Albus those parts that lay in his adulthood, but Hermione knew a lot about both parts of his life. The only topic they'd avoided entirely was why he'd joined the Death Eaters, and why he'd quit following their creed. She knew he was posing as a Death Eater, one of Dumbledore's spies in their ranks, but that was about it. The one time she'd asked, he'd gently pointed out that it was too early in their relationship for a revelation that intimate and intense.

She would eventually ask again, though, especially now that they were moving their acquaintance to a more intimate level. The young woman was inherently, interminably curious. She thrived on learning, took joy in expanding her knowledge, reveled in absorbing and integrating everything she ran across in her studies. If he were free to be the teacher he could have been, Severus would have gladly taken her under his wing as a special protege. As it was, he could not do so openly, though he'd done his best as Rus to encourage her curiosity even has he'd denigrated her know-it-all-ness in class, doing his best to stay in-character.

Tucking the letter back into his pocket, Severus regarded his reflection in the mirror. The lamplight showed a thin, hatchet-like beak of a nose, black stringy hair that he never bothered to comb save once a day when he rose in the mornings, and narrow eyes that were so dark, even he couldn't always tell where his pupils ended and his irises began, save under the strongest light. Pallid skin with a yellowish cast to it that suggested he could actually tan, if he ever bothered to laze about in the sun...which he never did; looking almost as pale and unhealthy as a vampire was an excellent addition to the rest of his unpleasant, consciously intimidating appearance...and of course the stark black of his clothes, which didn't do anything to bring colour or life into his complexion.

There was that slight touch of white at his throat and sleeve-cuffs from his undershirt, but that was about it. White only looked good on someone with enough of a tan to contrast the paleness of the fabric, anyway. His lips were too thin, the planes of his face too stark and angular, the lines of his age beginning to show in grooves around his mouth, and that frown-dimple above the bridge of his nose. The forehead was firm and straight, not the least bit sloping, but it only made his face look thin and uncompromising. The rest of him wasn't much better; about the only thing he could say for his genetics was that it hadn't given him a middle-aged pudding-belly. Of course, he himself had also helped contribute to that fact, but his physical inheritance was the one thing for which he could thank his bastard of a father.

Every single morning, like clockwork, Severus put his body through a series of warm-ups, stretches, and exercises designed to keep him as physically fit as possible. Yes, magic was the preferred method for the Dark Lord to torture his followers, but it was a fact that the greater shape a particular body was in, the better it could withstand such rigors. He knew very well that the chances of his surviving the end of the war were slimmer than most, given his position as a spy, but Severus wasn't above using anything and everything within his power to assure that chance existed, short of going back to Voldemort's side. Casting subtle protection charms which he applied with every single button fastened on his clothes, taking care of himself physically, keeping his Occlumency powers as sharp and secretive as ever, it was all a part of his efforts to survive.

There were any number of things he'd do to survive the war, really; technically, writing letters to the Head Girl wasn't one of them since it was to help her survive, not himself, but at least the other reasons kept him in good enough shape that he wouldn't embarrass himself or her with a middle-aged pudge. And being in a fit body ensured he would be in good shape to enjoy the aftermath of the war...provided he survived. There was no point in spying against the Dark Lord if Severus didn't want to live in a Voldemort-free world afterwards, and he most definitely did.

Eyeing his unchanging features one last time, Severus sighed quietly. There really wasn't much to recommend about his looks, other than the fact that he was physically fit. No tooth-whitening charms, no tanning spells, nothing could be changed about his appearance without it being noticed and reported by someone. She would have to be content with himself as he was...which was a nerve-wracking prospect.

Making sure the letter was safely tucked in his pocket, Severus used the facilities, then left. Penning his reply could wait until he returned to the castle. He was, after all, an expert at biding his time with a semblance of patience, after so many years of waiting for Voldemort's predicted return.

...

'Dearest Mione;

Rus'

Hermione looked up from the letter in her hands. It wasn't the lengthiest she had ever received, but it was quite telling. The seal had arrived intact, making her glad Professor Snape hadn't read her correspondence. He'd found her in one of the corridors, sneered at her friends, and stated brusquely that he 'had a matter to discuss with the Head Girl'. When she had acquiesced, he had led her wordlessly down to his dungeon-level office. Once there, he had said nothing, merely handed over the letter now in her hands, and had sat in continuing silence as she read its contents. Continuing, until she reached the end, and met his gaze.

"...Would you like my assessment of the man, now?" Professor Snape enquired in a somewhat bored tone.

"Yes, please. Thank you," Hermione added politely, on pins and needles as to his reply.

"Supra-average height, sub-average looks. Don't go out into public if you don't want to be stared at for your poor taste in companionship while in his company."

Hermione arched a skeptical brow at him. "That is hardly an accurate summation of his qualities as a potions ingredient, Professor. That would be like...like calling a bezoar just a rock found in some animal's stomach."

His face twitched again at her dry-voiced chiding, but he did not laugh, nor smiled more than faintly. Still, one corner of his mouth did curve upwards discernibly. Emboldened, Hermione dared to tease him,

"If our positions were reversed, I'd have to give you a 'T' for Terrible, Professor, as that was a truly terrible summation...a first year could do better, and I could easily subtract twenty points from Slytherin for such a poor effort!"

His eye narrowed, and she realized she had gone too far. Until he spoke, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. "Miss Granger, if you are ever to do that again, try to refrain from even the slightest hint of a giggle mid-speech. Five points from Gryffindor for a lackluster display of intimidation."

She stared at him, trying to come up with a reply. Finally Hermione blinked, frowned, and retorted, "I wasn't trying to intimidate you, Professor! I was sharing my sense of humor!"

Oh, that was bloody brilliant, she winced to herself in the next moment. Now he'll snap that he doesn't want me sharing anything with him, or something like that, and take off even more House points...

"I'm afraid I do not have much of a sense of humor, Miss Granger...but...his natural eye-colour is akin to the ink of an eskellian gall...without nearly as much lividity...his flesh the colour of boomslang skin that's been freeze-dried, the texture of his hair not that far off from century-plant fiber, his body as heavily scarred as a rutillated quartz crystal, and his nose could rival the protuberance of a cassowary's, save that it has been damaged at some point along the way."

The blood drained from her face, interrupting her bemused enjoyment of his potions-ingredient listing of Rus' appearance; it was a good thing she was already seated, since Hermione doubted her legs would have supported her, had she been standing. A damaged nose and a heavily scarred body? "Good god!...'Rus' is Alastor Moody?"

Professor Snape blinked. The blank shock on his face was such a rare sight, it instantly reassured her. Clearing his throat, he shook his head slightly. "No...no... It's definitely not Moody. The nose," he added, gesturing vaguely at his own face, "is merely broken, not half-eaten away. I sincerely doubt you've ever really noticed the fellow exists, let alone looked twice at him. He's not the sort to draw the eye of a young witch." Another blink, and the last of his shock melted away, his usual cold efficiency returning as he reached for one of the scrolls stacked on his desk, no doubt to begin grading them. "If that is all, Miss Granger...?"

She knew a dismissal when she'd heard one. Rising, she nodded, retreating towards the door. "Yes. Thank you, Professor."

"Do not think to make me a habitual courier of your correspondences, Miss Granger," was his reply. It wasn't as sharp as it could have been, and she glanced back at him, her hand on the knob of his office door.

"Sir...?"

He looked up from the scroll, uncorking a jar of red ink, quill in hand. "What is it, Miss Granger?"

It wasn't a friendly-voiced question, but it wasn't entirely an impatient one, either. "Erm...what's your opinion of Rus' character? Your own opinion of the man."

That made him pause, and sit back in his chair. "He...is taciturn to his colleagues, impatient with lackwits, and...a lonely man. But very intelligent, and very good at what he does."

"Which is...?" she asked, fishing for more information.

"He is a spy, Miss Granger. He is very good at deceiving people." A slight twitch of his face made her wonder if he had been about to wince at the end of that pronouncement. Even odder was his amendment, appended before she could turn back to the door. "But...he seemed very taken with your letter. Even when I observed him in a few less-than-guarded moments during the course of the evening, he was taken by it; he could hardly stop himself from re-reading it.

"If anyone can reach the parts of him he shares with almost no one, I think it could be you...and if you tell a single soul that I am advocating a relationship between a student and a man who's twice your age, I will not only deny it as an absurd fallacy, I shall deduct a hundred points from your House," he finished, jabbing the tip of his quill pen at her. "You may add a hundred hours' of detention to that threat, too, if you tell either of the boys you still somehow manage to call your best friends after all these years that I am playing...matchmaker...even in the smallest part."

"I won't say a word, Professor," she promised quietly, and slipped out the door. Wondering at the change in the Potions Master's behaviour. Odd, how...nice...he's being to me...

Severus Snape, Matchmaker... Ha! I couldn't tell anyone about this even if I really wanted to, she thought as she headed up out of the dungeons. No one would ever believe me!

...

The letters passed between her and Rus with doubled frequency...they now came every other day, rather than once every four days. Most of them were at least somewhat shorter on average, though not quite cut in half. Still, they were fun to answer, as well as nerve-wracking, thrilling, embarrassing, and fascinating, given the increasingly intimate nature of their contents. She told him she wanted to get settled in a career first before having children, and that quiet evenings reading together was something she would enjoy...and that tucked onto a couch with him, sharing a book...even fully clothed...was indeed a very intimate image to contemplate in her own mind. Breathtakingly intimate in a positive way, for she had no one else in her life who would even think of something as simple as reading a book while nestled together, fully clothed, as 'intimate'.

But as he had written, there were other forms of intimacy, too, and a little bit at a time, a little further with each letter, they explored those other things. All forms of intimacy, from longing images of just being able to relax with someone at the end of a hard day, to teasing questions about whether each of them preferred a shower or a bath, and if the latter, with how many bubbles. They even discussed how much each of them liked kissing, and what parts of previous romantic interests they'd kissed. Hermione had to admit she didn't have much experience beyond kissing and a little caressing in those areas that were mostly socially acceptable, whereas Rus admitted in his letters that he was 'reasonably experienced' in the 'joue d'amour', as he called it, the game of love.

That had led to what started out as a set of questions prompted by her curiosity on sex and lovemaking. From there, it progressed to a clinical discussion of what actually happened during sexual congress. That discussion evolved eventually into teasing suggestions of what each of them liked to do to find and feel pleasure...and what they thought they could do to the other person, too. Which had in turn led to the mortifying letter in her hands.

It started out simply enough:

'Mione;

You will definitely not want to read this letter out in a public area. In fact, you might want to read it in the safety of your dorm room, in the privacy of your four-poster, with the curtains drawn and a silencing charm laid upon them. I intend to tell you what I can do for you, and you will want to be somewhere private yet comfortable, at a time when you can be alone with yourself...and this letter...for an hour or two...'

However, she had skimmed the rest of the letter, and now her face was quite red, and she was trying very hard to not let the Potions Master know how embarrassed and...and...other things she was feeling, right now. Thankfully there were at least another ten minutes before most of the other students would arrive for class, hopefully time enough for her to regain control of her face-colour, but...sweet Merlin! The things written in this particular letter...!

"...Is something wrong, Miss Granger?"

She jumped, flustered, and quickly folded the pages, stuffing them back into her robe pocket. "Er...nothing."

"Nothing? You're blushing, Miss Granger. You do not normally do that," Professor Snape observed dryly, but without the usual edge of sardonicism he employed during class-time.

The more time she had spent down here in the mornings, waiting for the others to arrive, the more Hermione had observed him acting almost pleasantly towards her. She still couldn't pinpoint whatever had urged him to do so, and he was still cold and cruel towards her whenever anyone else was around...but he was quite bearable when they were alone together. And if she asked him things about her increasingly amorous pen-pal, he usually replied after a few moments of thought, confirming the things written in Rus' letters to her.

It was almost like having another confidante in her life. Maybe even a friend. But there were some things one just didn't share with a friend, some things one definitely didn't tell a teacher, and some things one absolutely did not confess to Professor Snape. Cheeks hot, she mumbled, "It's nothing."

"Do I have to confiscate that letter, to find out for myself what it says?" he enquired silkily, leaving the chalkboard with its scrawl of class notes in favour of strolling over to her front-row desk.

Hermione clutched her robes closed, blushing even harder. "It's...intimate, Professor. I really don't think you want to read something that...intimate."

"Hm. An intimate letter, written to the Head Girl of this facility? Perhaps it should be confiscated anyway, on the grounds of being corruptive literature."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She almost said you wouldn't dare, but that would be like the proverbial matador's cape fluttered in front of an enraged bull. The man was a spy, for heaven's sake; he throve on challenges and dares. Instead, she tightened her voice and replied as menacingly as she could, "...Try it, and I'll reveal to Lavender Brown, the greatest gossip in Gryffindor Tower, your most humiliating secret...Mr. Matchmaker. It'd be worth the lost House-points and a hundred hours of detention, combined!"

Black eyes glittered down at her as he growled back, "Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger, for such a Slytherin-esque threat." Again, the corner of his mouth quirked, this time because of the way she gaped at him for the points added, not subtracted as one might've assumed. "I'm glad to see I am finally corrupting you, after years of putting up with your baser, lamentably Gryffindor-ish tendencies."

"...And I'm just as glad to see that I am corrupting you, too, sir," Hermione managed to retort smoothly, though her face still felt overly warm. This time from the fact that he'd just given her what was probably the most House-points any Gryffindor had ever earned from him since he first started teaching at this school.

His brow arched warily. "How so?"

"You're being nice to me, in private. That's far more Gryffindor-ish than Slytherin-esque, in style."

This time, she didn't cringe mentally in anticipatory fear that he'd retaliate at her brashness. She did flinch internally when he folded his arms across his chest, settling into an intimidating stance, but lifted her chin with an external show of bravery. Or perhaps it was stubbornness, refusing to back down in the face of his dark, glittering stare.

He didn't speak immediately though; instead, Professor Snape shifted, strolling around the end of the table between them. Hermione turned her head to watch him, wary. His arms were still folded across his chest; with the way he kept them there, she didn't think he was going to go for his wand. What he did do unnerved her even more, however. Stopping behind her right shoulder, he leaned his long body over, until she could feel his breath gently warming the curves of her ear. He smelled of peppermint, with an undertone of coffee; his clothes carried the ever-present herbal mixture of potions ingredients, some sweet, some spicy, some pungent, and a hint of the same soap the house-elves used on all the students' laundry. Hermione wondered nervously what he was going to do, as he stayed that way for a long, silent, tension-building moment.

And then he spoke, devastating her.

"Do you know what Rus' voice sounds like, Miss Granger?" he enquired softly, deeply, his voice reverberating as much in her blood as in her ear, though how that was possible she wasn't quite sure.

Shaking her head slightly, she waited for his explanation, unsure if it would be wise to turn her head and look into those eyes. Not from this close a distance, at any rate. Truth be told, she hadn't even considered what Rus would sound like. Only now did she realize she had been remiss in seeking out certain relevant bits of information. No images or photographs, wizarding or Muggle, true, but then he'd refused that when she'd tentatively asked for an image of him early in their correspondence. Still, she could have asked for other things.

Hermione had no idea what Rus sounded like, because she had no recordings of his voice. The closest they had come had been when they had covered their respective tastes in music long ago, and had discovered to mutual delight that they had a more than reasonable amount of overlap. But to finally contemplate the sound of her pen-pal's voice, with a man who knew who Rus was... But the question is, why is he suddenly willing to tell me what Rus sounds like? Hermione didn't trust the Potions Master's motives. He's been nicer to me, true, but this is going above and beyond the simple courtesies he's shown me. What does he want?

"Your correspondent has one redeeming physical feature, Miss Granger," Professor Snape murmured in her ear, distracting her from her confusion. "His voice. It is low, soft, smooth...most witches even find it seductive. Well, on the rare occasion it has been unleashed pleasantly upon them, imparting those special sweet nothings shared between two potentially interested parties.

"It has been likened to the same sort of rich, dark, high-quality chocolate I have noticed you covertly nibbling after some of your trips into Hogsmeade." That surprised the Head Girl. She had no idea the Potions Master had noted her gastronomic activities so closely. "You rarely buy the same sickeningly sweet candies of your contemporaries, but always go straight for the bittersweet, and the spicy-sweet . Imagine such a voice wrapping around your senses, penetrating your defenses, stroking your nerves and stoking the fires of your imagination with all the power of that delectable New World aphrodisiac as you read this...intimate...letter of his.

"In fact, it is said, and even the Headmaster agrees, that Rus sounds remarkably like...me."

Hermione shivered, feeling her belly clench with desire and her heart thud with trepidation at the comparison.

"That, Miss Granger," he murmured with an undeniably sexy purr to his voice, pulling back from her ear as she flushed and tried to rub the goose-spots from her arm as surreptitiously as possible, "is my revenge for you daring to call me nice."

Oh holy mother of Merlin! Hermione didn't know when her eyelids had drifted shut, but they had, and she was having a hard time summoning the will to open them. She was having a hard time controlling the urge to pant, and she certainly had no control over the tension in her belly, nor the tightening of her nipples, nor the ache in her breasts and between her thighs. Any minute now, the other Advanced Potions students would come traipsing into the classroom, and she had to get her hormones under control. Really.

Because she had always thought Professor Snape's voice was like true bittersweet chocolate, not nearly sugary enough for most others to enjoy, but perfect for her own palate, trained from childhood to eschew most forms of sweets by both of her dentist parents. And now she was going to have his voice reading Rus' letters in her imagination, whenever she read them again. That meant all those intimate things in his latest missive, about stroking herself and imagining her hands were Rus' hands, touching her breasts, tickling her stomach, rubbing the damp secrets kept between her thighs...all of that would be tainted by the image of Severus Snape, Potions Master, directing her to do everything, instead.

Her face burned again, this time with shame. Not because of what he had done to her, but because of what she was doing to herself. Maybe it was involuntary, and maybe it was just a sign of how secretly twisted she was, but Hermione couldn't help feeling aroused by the thought of Professor Snape's voice ordering her to do all of those things. God, she wasn't going to get calmed down before the other students arrived! Hagrid clad only in a cooking apron, she thought desperately, and flinched, shying away from even the remotest possibility of seeing the hairy half-giant's thighs and arse...urgh!

Great; now she was sick to her stomach...but at least it had killed her libido.

...

Dammit, you're an idiot! Severus swore at himself as he retreated to the far side of the room, faced the wall, and wriggled the tip of his wand past the placket of his trousers, brushing it against his underclothes. "...Frigeo!"

The discreet, sotto voce hiss was accompanied near-instantly by an abrupt chill spreading across his boxers, taking most of the heat out of his loins, and with it, the evidence of his erection. His damnable hormones were at fault. He wasn't supposed to have moved so quickly into this phase of his seduction plan, writing that letter and sending it to her on a weekday. Hell, he wasn't supposed to make her think of his voice, Severus Snape's voice, whenever she contemplated her pen-pal lover, Rus. Never mind that they were one and the same man. The grimace she'd sported mere seconds after he'd withdrawn wasn't very heartening, either.

His actions certainly weren't supposed to make him hard with longing for her, aroused by his own shameless verbal seduction of the young woman. Adjusting one of the cauldrons on the stone shelving, Severus wondered how he was going to overcome the mistake he had just made, rushing everything like that. The classroom door opened as he wracked his brain, and a pair of Ravenclaws entered the room; they didn't see him, standing on the wrong side of the aged oak panel, but he could definitely hear them.

"...in Hogsmeade, this weekend. I'm running low on spare quills."

"Well, I'm looking forward to a hot mulled cider. Pumpkin juice may be full of vitamins, but it just isn't the same as something hot to drink on a cold December morning, and Madam Rosemerta makes a much-better-tasting pick-me-up than any Pepper-Up potion Madam Pomfrey ever handed out..."

Hogsmeade. Rosemerta. The Three Broomsticks...which was an inn as well as a pub. Which had private rooms for rent. Which he had rented on the rare occasion he had wanted to get away from the school and all things children-related for a few hours at a time. Usually he'd Transfigured the bed into a fainting couch much like the one his mother had favoured for her own migraines, and rested there while sipping a headache draught and wondering when his miserably stressful life would finally take a turn for the better.

He couldn't, daren't meet her there openly. But an invitation to a clandestine meeting, carefully timed and choreographed to minimize witnesses...that could work. Part of his mind working on the problem, hashing out the details and specifics, Severus swept up to the head of the room, ignoring the slightly damp chill around his loins as his boxers slowly unfrosted. Yes, he would strike quickly, and accelerate the timetable even further. Knocking her off-balance might actually give him the time to insinuate himself fully into her affections. With a few precautions...providing she cooperated...he might be able to make the unveiling of Rus' true identity bearable for her. Might.

It had been a long time since Severus had bothered to pray...at least, sincerely...but he did so now.