Words He Doesn't Say

A/N: here there be lemons. Thanks for the reviews and support - everything is truly appreciated. Sorry for the delay in getting this up as well, but things have been hectic around here lately. In other news, I have a LJ now - michmak - if anyone is interested.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Their visit to Diagon Alley the next day produced another article in The Daily Prophet. Snape scowled as he read it, but did retain the picture that had been with it – a lovely photograph of Hermione, arm wrapped under his and smiling up at him as they walked past the shops and curious people on the street.

The girl had spent the entire time out alternately talking to him or berating the poor fools who were stupid enough to make a disparaging comment about him within her hearing. A few people had gone so far as to suggest he had placed some dark charm on her, to keep her so firmly at his side. She had glared at them and told them he needed no magic to keep her beside him, because that was right where she wanted to be.

The idea still shocked him. Where before, his trips to Diagon Alley had been most unpleasant, this one had actually been bearable. Truth be told, he had enjoyed the looks of outrage on many of the faces they had passed. He had also enjoyed Hermione's staunch defense of him – the way her eyes would light with anger and her voice would lower with a biting scorn almost as nasty as his own. He had never had anyone so firmly in his corner in his entire life – he realized he liked the feeling.

They had visited Florish and Botts and picked up several books each and browsed through several apothecaries – including one on Knockturn Alley he had been ambivalent about taking her too. She had surprised him by not only agreeing to go with him, but by purchasing several hags' teeth and a bottle of pickled dragons breath as well.

She had convinced him that stopping for ice cream would not be a waste of his time and he had to admit – if only to himself – that he had forgotten how wonderful the creamy treat tasted. He had not had ice cream in years.

Their last stop had been to pick up the dragon skin – the package was large and bulky, extremely awkward to hold and could not be charmed smaller for fear of damaging it. Hermione grinned at him when he had tried to carry it without her assistance, but had otherwise refrained from commenting when he finally allowed her to help him.

They returned to Hogwarts late that afternoon and, after placing the skin in his private stores, had gone to his lab to continue to work on his test potion. Hermione had insisted in bringing food back with them so they wouldn't need to eat in the Great Hall that evening and could work undisturbed, something for which Snape was grateful. Albus had heard from Hermione at breakfast that morning that they were going to Diagon Alley for the better part of the day, and he didn't think he could stomach the old man's sly looks and pointed questions. The day had been far too enjoyable to allow that interfering old goat to ruin it for him.

Later that evening, after they had finished what research they could, Hermione had leaned into him and hugged him, her lips pressing and opening against his in the same manner they had the day before. It had seemed to him she had pulled away from him somewhat reluctantly, although that could have been wishful thinking on his part. Regardless, it appeared the girl had enjoyed their day and he found himself absurdly pleased at the thought.

That night – and for the rest of the week - he dreamed of her. The dreams were not the purely sexual dreams of recent nights, although there was some of that too. Instead, he dreamed of her curled into his side on the large overstuffed sofa in his sitting room, reading Dante's 'Inferno' to him. In his dreams, she would laugh when he tried to determine just which circle of hell would best suit Potter and Weasley, although she had admonished him gently for saying it.

It seemed to him he was a different man when he dreamed – one more accustomed to joy and less accustomed to melancholy. His dream-self never had a problem holding up his end of the conversation and was adept at small talk; he laughed with her and shared things with her and told her he loved her. In his dreams she always stayed with him. When he dreamed of her, he was happy.

Invariably, however, the night would end and he would wake up and realize they were just dreams and probably always would be. Yes, she kissed him – had made quite a habit of it over the past few days – but that didn't mean she would ever do anything more. He knew physical intimacies of a different nature were out of the question, despite the fact his dreams told him otherwise.

Hermione was not the type of girl one fucked just for physical release. That type of girl worked at Knockturn Alley and, to be perfectly honest, he hadn't been in need of such services for quite some time. Hermione was the type of woman one needed to love and to cherish, a witch deserving of a young man with a whole heart to give her – a man who would know how to 'make love'. That man was not him.

Friday night found him drinking in front of the fireplace in his rooms again. Hermione had gone to Hogsmeade to meet Harry and Ron at The Three Broomsticks and he hadn't felt like continuing in the lab without her.

He was getting quite pathetic, mooning after the girl the way he was. She had told him she needed to leave at 8:00 to 'meet the boys' and had said she'd be back by 10:00 if he wanted to meet her in her quarters for a hot toddy before bedtime.

It was the first time she had ever invited him to her private quarters, even though they were only two hallways down and one hallway over from his own. He had debated with himself for the two hours she was gone as to whether or not he should join her and find out what this 'hot toddy' she referred to was, but when he finally knocked on her doorway – at 10:00 precisely – there had been no answer.

The girl had been toying with him, just as he had originally suspected. He had returned to his own rooms post-haste, black robes swirling behind him, cursing himself for a fool. She had plied him with her kisses, wormed her way into his life and made herself indispensable and now it was over. She had fooled him and was probably laughing about it right this instant with Weasley and Potter.

The fire whiskey burned on the way down and could easily be attributed to the cause of the ache in his chest and the hot sensation at the back of his eyes.

He was well into his second drink when he heard the knock on his door. "Go away, Albus!" he hollered. "I'm not in the mood."

The knocking continued. He ignored it. It got louder.

Sliding to his feet he stalked to the doorway and threw it open. "Sod off, Albus!" he snarled. Only it wasn't Albus. It was Hermione – and she was holding two steaming mugs in her hands.

"Severus! I hope you don't mind – I decided to come here instead. I was a bit late getting back from Hogsmeade and thought I'd take the chance you were still up. Did you come to my rooms?"

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, scowling at her.

She tried to hand him a mug while she peeked around his body. "Oh lovely, a fire! I'm still a little chilled. Are you going to invite me in?"

"No." His reply was succinct and to the point. "Leave me alone, Hermione."

She raised an eyebrow at him, "After you tell me what's bothering you."

He was about to reply in a way that would have left little room for her to doubt how much he detested the little games she was playing with him when he noticed a scratch on her neck.

It was long and thin and red, marring the smooth column of her throat. Of its own volition, his hand reached out and very gently traced it.

"How did you get this scratch?" he asked abruptly, pulling his finger back as though burned.

"I was walking home from Hogsmeade when I noticed some blue-moon flowers just inside the forest. I thought you could use them, but managed to whack myself in the face with a tree limb while retrieving the damnable things. That's why I was late – I took them right to the lab and put them in stasis before they could wilt. I didn't realize my neck was scratched though – is it bad?"

"Bad enough, you foolish girl. You were walking home by yourself?" He turned away from her as he asked this and stalked across the room. "You need some salve – scratches like that can be deceptive." He kept his tone purposely snide, trying to hide his sudden confusion.

"I left Harry and Ron at the pub, if that's what you mean," Hermione replied. She had followed him into his rooms and was now standing almost immediately behind him in his bathroom.

"I can't believe those two dunderheads let you walk back here by yourself," he growled. "I know you think you're perfectly safe but there are still plenty of wizards out there who would like to see you hurt, Hermione. And you know better than to go into the woods by yourself – it's not called the Forbidden Forest for nothing."

"I didn't want to be late for our date," she replied mildly. He hoped she didn't notice the way his eyebrows had arched slightly at her words. "I know how punctual you are and didn't want you thinking the worst if I wasn't there when you arrived."

"I didn't say I was going to meet you," Snape retorted, finding the jar he'd been searching for and handing it to her. "Here, put this on the scratch. It will heal it right away."

"You did go though – and I wasn't there. That's why you were so angry when you opened your door."

"I was angry because I was looking forward to an evening of peace, in front of my fireplace," he snapped back. "Give me that; you're not doing it properly and you're not getting the entire scrape. I'll do it."

"Fine." Hermione stepped a little closer to him and tilted her head to the side, barring her neck to him. He grabbed the jar from her and coated his fingers with the clear gel, before gently coating the scratch. Where the salve touched, the skin quickly knit together and turned pink, before healing completely. It took him less than ten seconds to apply the potion, but his fingers were still tracing her neck.

Biting back a curse, he quickly dropped his hand and turned his back to her as he replaced the lid on the jar and set it back on the shelf. He could feel the heat radiating off her and the fingers that had stroked her neck tingled from the magical heat of the gel.

Hunching his shoulders, he gripped the counter in front of him. "You can leave now," he said tightly. "Your neck is fine."

"I don't want to leave," she replied. "I've still got two semi-hot drinks here."

He looked up from under his lank hair and caught her looking at him through the reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were glittering and her skin seemed oddly flushed. Her bushy hair sprung out wildly around her head and he noted that she was, indeed, still holding the mugs in her hands.

Feeling oddly trapped by her gaze, he barely reacted when she leaned forward and reached her arms around his sides and deposited the mugs on the counter.

"I don't want that damnable hot toddy," he gritted out.

"Nor do I," she agreed. Her hands were still on the counter, beside his and he could almost feel the press of her body against his back. He dragged his eyes away from her to study her hands. They were small and dainty, the fingers rather short for someone so adept at preparing potions ingredients. She had a rather dark freckle just below the knuckle of the index finger on her right hand. Her fingers had never been broken, unlike his which were long and slightly malformed from the time Lucius had thrown a joint-bender curse at him during the final battle. It had only caught his hand, but it had taken Poppy weeks to get the bones to mend properly and even now it ached in the damp weather.

"Hermione..."

"Severus..."

It appeared they were at an impasse. He looked up again, but refused to believe what he was reading in her eyes through the mirror. "I'm not a man to be trifled with, you little witch." His voice was silky and he was certain only he could hear the uncertainty in it.

"I'm not trifling," she replied just a smoothly. "We're both adults."

He turned as she said this, his side brushing against the front of her as he did so. He felt as if he'd been scorched. "I'm old enough to be your father."

"But you're not."

"I don't want this."

She leaned into him as he said this, rising slightly onto her tiptoes until the tips of her breasts brushed his chest and he could feel her warm breath on his neck. "Yes you do. I do too."

Her hands – which had thus far remained behind him on the counter – slowly lifted until one was pressed firmly against the small of his back and the other was drifting up his chest. "Hermione..." he breathed, "this is not a good idea. You're my apprentice for goodness sake -"

"So teach me then," she interrupted. "I've been wanting to learn what the skin on your back feels like for ages. Are you paler under your robes than I think? What will your hands feel like on my breasts..."

She nipped his chin at this, before her hand slipped into his hair and angled his head down for a kiss. Her lips tasted of butterbeer and he could smell the faintly earthy scent of the salve he had rubbed into her neck. He closed his eyes against the wave of longing that crashed through him.

"Hermione," he tried again, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You never would," she sighed against him, "and I'll never hurt you, Severus. I promise. Just – please...take this chance. I promise everything will be fine..."

She stepped away from him slightly and reached for his hands, curling her fingers against the palms and squeezing, saying nothing as she led him from the bathroom. When they were out in his main living area again, she dropped his hands and lifted her own to the front of the white shirt she wore, slowly undoing the top few buttons. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

When she was about halfway done, she reached for his own collar and started undoing it. "I've never seen you without at least a vest on over your linen shirts," she murmured as her fingers brushed against the base of his throat. "I like this relaxed look on you."

As she exposed his collarbone she leaned into him again and kissed it gently. He was gripping her shoulders now, holding her closer even though he wanted to push her away. She would break him in the end. Was it worth it? Was a night – or perhaps a few nights – with Hermione worth the inevitable pain he knew it would cause when she left him?

Her tongue flicked his nipple and he shuddered at the hot surge of lust that drove straight to his groin. She had his shirt almost completely unbuttoned and her hands and mouth were tracing against his flesh until he felt every nerve was on fire.

The hands on her shoulders had migrated to the front of her blouse and started unfastening buttons where she had left off. She moaned in appreciation when he half-slid it from her shoulders, exposing a bare breast to the coolness of the dungeon air. The nipple was already peaked and pink and he allowed his fingers to skim it briefly before he freed the other breast.

She was pushing his shirt from him as well, sighing with frustration when she realized she hadn't undone the cufflinks. With a muttered spell, they fell to the floor with a heavy clinking noise and he was standing in front of her shirtless.

She quickly shrugged out of her own top, before allowing her fingers to trace against his rib cage. He closed his eyes against the feeling; trying to lock the tingle of his skin at her gentle touch and the pounding rhythm of his heart into his memory. Her mouth was against his chest again and he could feel her breasts poking against him. He buried his head in her gloriously bushy hair and inhaled. "Just this one night," he thought to himself, "Just for one night, let me have this."

He had never been with a woman like this before. Ever inch of flesh before him was a revelation. Her breasts were small and firm like plums, the nipples dusky and wide and delicious. Her tummy was slightly bowed, and the sweet curve of it filled his palm gently when he ran his hand over it. She undid the zip on her skirt and let it fall, easing him out of his own trousers as his long fingers slid her panties down her lovely toned legs. The patch of curls at her apex, guarding her femininity, were neatly trimmed and decidedly unlike the bushy mass atop her head. He wanted to bury his nose in those curls as well and see if she still smelled as sweet.

Her hands and her mouth were everywhere and between her kisses she was talking to him. He found her voice highly erotic; her words seemed to cause his blood to heat faster than even the feel of her skin did.

"I always knew your hands would feel like this," she would gasp as he traced the dimple above the cleft of her buttocks.

"That feels so good," she would moan as he rolled her nipples between his fingers before laving them with his tongue.

"Please," she begged, "please Severus, take me to your bedroom."

So he did.

When he first slid into her and felt her velvet flesh wrap around him, he almost groaned at the feeling that swamped him. As he drew himself away from her, he almost cried out at the thought of his desertion. When she welcomed him back again, he barely bit back her name as it flew to his lips.

He didn't need to say anything to her anyway – she was talking more than enough for the both of him. Most of her words were incoherent, but the odd one like his name, or a deeply sighed 'Yes'; what even sounded to him suspiciously like 'love you' spurred him on to greater heights.

Sliding into her was like finding a new place to live; a place he never wanted to leave. She was whimpering against him now, her fingers spastically gripping him as he flexed through her, her feet pressed against his thighs and drawing him rhythmically against her.

"Please Severus, please, please," her voice was keening in his ear, low pitched and breathless, causing his whole body to tighten until she finally pulsed around him so firmly he could hold back no more. Gritting his teeth against her neck, he choked back the words of devotion that wanted to spill from him and exploded into her hot depths.

The backs of his eyes were stinging again as he let himself sink against her, a slight smile gracing his features when her arms wrapped around him and her fingers traced lightly up and down his spine. He fell asleep with her murmuring his name, his head against her breasts, the words that would destroy him lodged in his throat.

He would give her his body, but he refused to give her his heart. He refused to make himself any more vulnerable to her than he already was. Besides, he didn't have a heart to give.

TBC

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N Redux:

Moonlight, Passing Through a Window

from the musical Romance, Romance

I was thinking something rare

Something precious we could share

Something done with great respect

Which we'd always recollect

Which would have no more effect

Than moonlight, passing through a window

I imagined something sweet

Something tender and complete

Just a moment to explore

What goes on beyond the door

Which could bruise our hearts no more

Than moonlight, passing through a window

That was all I meant

On singular event

Brief and innocent

As moonlight, passing through the window.