Four - An Explanation

Chapter Four- An Explanation

I don’t really know how all of it started. A furtive glance here, a smirk there. It sneaked up on me, I suppose. I’d never felt any form of attraction towards him, merely admiration.

But there it was. He caught me looking, just once, and I think he understood. He understood that I had no idea what I was doing. He understood that it crept up on me from nowhere. And he encouraged it, or so I thought. He’d stare back when I admired his face, arms, chest, hands (gods, I was mesmerized by his hands), and even his exquisite arse. It seemed as if he enjoyed the attention. He certainly let up on me for being a know-it-all. Perhaps he didn’t look at me at all. Perhaps none of it ever happened. But I doubt it. I doubt one would ever forget or correctly imagine the feel of fucking one’s nasty git of a professor.

Eventually, I got up the bravery (or stupidity) to go to him. I wore my best dressing gown over my best pajamas and arrived in the dungeons somewhere after one in the morning. I went deep past the Potions room, to a place no rational Gryffindor had ever gone nor would go, past the place of the Slytherin common room, past all logical thought. Now it was the Potions Master and I.

A lone door was at the hallway’s end, looming at me. He had the door opened before I was within three meters of it. He was scowling, much to my amusement (or was it fear?). He looked around the corridor and yanked me by the hair into his office.

“Miss Granger—“ he hissed.

Needless to say, I silenced him. My lips were on his, pressing with a fierceness I didn’t know I possessed. After that, it was the end of me. Or should I say beginning? Either way, I was headed for trouble.

Nothing changed in the classroom. The brief lapse of him ignoring my know-it-all tendencies was gone. I was the annoying chit again. He had a modicum of decorum to maintain, after all. As did I. Hogwarts couldn’t take it if they found out their perfect Head Girl was getting a nightly lesson from the dirty old Potions professor.

Outside of class, I was accosted by Ron daily. We kissed. Sometimes we fucked. It was nothing special. Randy teenage boys weren’t my thing. Every time he’d slide into me, whispering nasty words at my ear, I stared up at the ceiling, wishing it was my secret lover, wishing I wasn’t so advanced that I didn’t want to have sex with a boy my age, that I didn’t want to spend all my time with someone who enjoyed my company.

He never knew that I secretly fucked Ron. He’d have been ballistic if he did. The charade I put up in public of being the frigid girlfriend was for both the fact that I didn’t want everyone to think I was an easy lay for Ron and for the fact that the professor watched my every move when I was within his line of vision.

But then I made an error. I let Ron get too antsy.

I had patrols a few times throughout the week, and Ron joined me during the earlier hours (as a Prefect, he could only be out so late). We never did anything; after all, we were supposed to set an example for the other students. Ron stayed later than normal one night. I can only say my slip in judgement was due to my damned teenage hormones. Ron and I were backed into an alcove, nearly hidden from sight. My leg was wrapped around his hip, my fingers in his hair. Again I was thinking of fucking my teacher, not Ron. Everything was going fine, if being disgusted by the person I was with was considered fine.

And then I saw him. Ron took my gasp of horror as a gasp of encouragement.

His face. His pale, worn, beautiful face. It was so sad, so betrayed. His obsidian eyes widened, then glared. The initial shock had left him. He was angry, very angry. Yet, instead of breaking us apart, he left. Turned on his heel and left.

I tried to speak with him again after that for two entire weeks every moment I could. He’d always find a way to slip from my presence. Eventually I resorted to breaking in his classroom, setting off his wards. He came, like I suspected. I blocked the door so he couldn’t escape.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” I asked.

He glared at me for an indeterminable amount of time.

“Severus—"

“Do not call me that, Miss Granger. I did not allow it when we fucked, and I will not allow it now.”

“Why won’t you speak to me?” I asked again.

He sat on the floor and crossed his legs in a very un-Snapeish manner.

“Imagine, Miss Granger, that you were having sex with someone you considered a bloody fucking miracle to his or her generation, someone you could relate to on many levels, someone who wouldn’t judge you or betray you. Then imagine that person hurt you in the worst possible way, a way involving someone you almost considered the bane of your existence. Would you enjoy it, Miss Granger?”

I looked at him quizzically. “What? I don’t understand—“

“Not surprising.”

“—What you’re getting at.”

“What I’m getting at, you stupid chit, is that when you sleep with someone and develop feelings for them, you don’t go around acting like a damned tart!”

“Feelings? But I thought— Professor, we were just having sex. We weren’t actually—"

“Oh, yes, of course. We were just fucking. That’s the exact point, Granger. We weren’t just fucking. It was more.”

“Professor, I don’t know what illusions you’ve pulled on yourself, but there was nothing between us. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“Sorry? That’s all you’ll ever be, Hermione.”

When he said my name, my real name, I knew I’d made a terribly mistake. I’d fancied him, the strong, collected spy for the Order. I’d imagined him to be able to handle anything. I’d thought I knew him. I didn’t know him at all. He was all those things, but really, he was just as fragile as the rest of us. Just as human, just as vulnerable. I’d taken him for granted, never imagining our post-coital talks would lead to something else. I’d underestimated my dear professor, and I would pay for it, for the rest of my life…

AN: That's it! Thanks for reading.