15-Dec

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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She needn't have been so worried the previous day, as it turned out: Snape didn't pace. Snape was not, by any stretch of the imagination, given to pacing, which rather surprised Hermione. He'd struck her for so many years as someone who would feel the need to burn off excessive nervous energy, or just expend a day's worth of frustration after suffering through the stupidity of his students.

Instead, he'd formed himself into a reasonable facsimile of the world's most tightly coiled spring. His feet were planted firmly on her floor; his knees were braced against her coffee table; his shoulders were hunched over as he scrawled viciously in red ink on a poor student's essay; and his hair hung around his ears, lank and obstructive.

Hermione couldn't help herself from glancing up every so often to examine him. He wasn't at all what she'd expected, and that feeling of surprise didn't end at the lack of pacing. He was almost intensely economical with his movements, stirring only as often as was necessary to completely dehumanize his students with his marking.

He was far more... adult... than she'd ever realized, and at times his outline took her breath away. She supposed it had become all the more apparent to her now, having had lunch with Auror Finch...Devon...the day before. It had gone well enough, and his sparkling blue eyes had charmed her into at least considering a second outing with him, but her knees hadn't given way to jelly at any point during their conversation. Directly following lunch, as Devon had walked her back to her classroom, she'd ascribed the lack of butterflies to the singularly unromantic setting of the Hogwarts kitchens. And an afternoon meal, she'd reminded herself, was hardly as conducive to thoughts of a sexual nature as an intimate dinner. Perhaps, she'd reasoned, she owed him at least that...one dinner.

Hermione knew that she had to resign herself to the impracticality of her situation. In the days following his defense of her to Harry and Ron, she'd wildly fantasized that perhaps Snape's words hinted a multitude of his own sins. Sins, she'd thought ardently, that might rival hers in their delicious detail and promise. Upon further interactions with him, however, she'd consistently had her hopes beaten down. Theirs was a complex history, and she had for many years immersed herself thoroughly in only her perspective, that of the guilty student inflamed and confused by her burgeoning attraction to someone older.

She'd been susceptible to his voice from a young age, of course, but many aspects of his physical appearance had almost repelled her until she'd grown older. In hindsight, it wasn't repulsion so much as intimidation. After all, she'd grown up beside Harry and Ron and had become accustomed to those boyish characteristics that lingered in younger men. Devon...gallant though he was...typified the young man in transition, with his shaggy hair and self-conscious, almost shuffling walk. There was nothing overtly threatening about males her age; they were far more understandable, somehow easier to dissect and predict.

Snape was another specimen entirely. He was large, for one; she honestly couldn't wrap her mind around how large. She'd sat in the teachers' lounge with him multiple times and recognized him as a tall, healthy, well-built human male, but in the delicate surroundings of her private rooms, he seemed an island of unlikely darkness.

Hermione let her gaze wander over the shape of his body as he, oblivious, drew a sharp red line through one of the hapless student's answers. She'd once shyly admitted to Ginny, who'd been studying for her anatomy exams to become a mediwitch, that she thought his body oddly beautiful.

Ginny had cocked her head to the side and regarded Hermione with a contemplative look. "He does have nice hands and a nice back," she'd said in a rather dreamy tone, and Hermione had immediately agreed. "He can be so unpleasant, though, Hermione. Can you imagine what it would be like to be with him? I suppose the sex would probably be good. Hell, it would have to be good because there would be nothing else! How could you possibly talk to him? He's got no other way to get a woman's attention."

Hermione had tried to laugh it off, but it was the last time she'd discussed her crush with Ginny. There had been no compelling reason to broach the topic with her best friend since then, so she'd nursed it silently. She hadn't been ashamed by Ginny's reaction...which, she imagined still, was probably identical to the reaction of most other witches whose paths he crossed...but it had caused her to investigate her own feelings a bit more deeply.

Hermione hadn't liked what she had uncovered. If Snape ever discovered how she felt about him...how she could, if she grew lax in controlling her wandering mind, fantasize about him...his true feelings on the matter would be of no consequence. In an understandable fury over the security of his position, he would undoubtedly hex her to within an inch of her life and then have her committed to St. Mungo's for observation.

She'd never strayed much beyond the manner in which he could kiss her and the feel of his skin, however, because even her wildest fantasies had been hemmed in by her lack of knowledge about him. Severus Snape was one of the Wizarding community's most infamous enigmas, and she had no doubt that he derived a perverse sense of satisfaction from cultivating that status to the best of his abilities. He was unpleasant; he was taciturn; he seemed almost prohibitively intelligent to anyone harboring the brief illusion that they could hold a conversation with him levelly and civilly. Hermione just wished that, in progressing from adolescent to young adult, she hadn't begun to find herself almost aroused by his imperiousness.

He set aside his quill and reached smoothly for another parchment, startling Hermione out of her reverie. She was almost positive that in the fraction of a second before he'd placed the parchment on the table, he'd caught her observing him through hazy eyes. His eyebrow had lifted perceptibly, and his lip had curled.

Mortified, Hermione shoved her face into her teacup so forcefully that she nearly chipped a tooth. He'd never been an approachable person, and her crush was unavoidable, but what should have been an acceptable, if strained, evening before her fireplace was somehow becoming charged with awareness. She'd hardly expected it to be cozy, but this was ridiculous.

Perhaps it was only on her side, she thought, returning to her novel. Perhaps he'd simply thought she was woolgathering, not fixated on him. After all, he was hardly the type of person to remain silent if the opportunity to torment her arose. The fact that he'd returned wordlessly to his grading probably indicated that he hadn't seen any impropriety in her behavior.

That made sense, right?

On the other hand, Severus Snape did not represent the human norm in any sense, and he was probably far more perceptive than the average person, if only because he'd been forced to survive on his wits for so long. He had to be profoundly observant, and she knew he had a keen and probing interest in determining the weaknesses and motives of others. He'd probably seen right through her. He'd probably realized months ago that her growing discomfiture in his presence was due to more than a latent childhood aversion.

Hermione threw aside her book, disgusted with her train of thought. Snape looked up and regarded her mockingly.

"You've been reading a staggering twenty minutes, Miss Granger," he murmured. "Do try not to overtax yourself."

"I'm no longer in the mood to read," she snapped. "Is that all right with you, Professor?"

"Has anything ever induced you to feel concern for my opinions, Miss Granger?"

He really was an insufferable man. She rose precipitately from her chair and stalked to the window, arms crossed over her chest. "A Christmas tree," she announced to no one in particular.

"I presume you are having a conversation with yourself, Miss Granger, as I am an unwilling participant."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Professor, I know you dislike me!" she exclaimed, turning to face him with her cheeks blazing angrily. "You've made that perfectly clear, and I can't stomach apologizing to you any more when you've done nothing but reject my apologies. I'm through with apologizing."

Snape, to her astonishment, was actually paying her the compliment of meeting her eyes. A prolonged, uncomfortable moment passed between them in which hope fluttered in Hermione's heart. Perhaps he would actually accept her apology, and they could coexist peacefully for the next ten days.

"And what has this to do with a Christmas tree?" he prompted finally.

Hermione couldn't restrain herself from sighing. "I want a Christmas tree," she clarified. "We could decorate it."

"Consider again my unwillingness as a participant, Miss Granger."

"Very well...I could decorate it," she amended huffily. "I haven't had the opportunity to decorate my own Christmas tree in years. My last one was before my first year here, in fact. I should especially like to chop it down myself, I think, so that I could pick my own."

Snape made no comment. She drew aside the curtains over her window and stared balefully at the dark, snow-streaked vista outside. The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, frighteningly to this façade of the castle in which her window lay, and she considered whether she would have the courage to enter it in search of a suitable Christmas tree. She wasn't a timid person, and she'd braved her fair share of challenges, but venturing into that thorny wilderness during the dark months of winter was a decidedly intimidating prospect.

"I would not recommend that you venture out this particular evening," Snape remarked calmly, as though he'd read her thoughts. Hermione decided to forgo wondering if he'd cast Legilimens in favor of feeling stupefied by the lack of animosity in his voice.

He was, as always, correct. She noted the snow flying by at alarming speeds; visibility waxed and waned rapidly. She suddenly regretted that she would not be able to step out that evening...nervous or not, she would undoubtedly have found a long walk to be a welcome diversion on a stuffy and awkward Saturday. But it would have been terribly dangerous to go floundering through the Forbidden Forest in inclement weather. She just didn't have the field experience for it.

Resigning herself to requesting that the house-elves procure a tree for her, Hermione ran her fingers absently along the rich material of the curtains, sighing again. Her reflection was backlit softly by the candlelight of the room, and the frost on the windowpane gave her skin an eerie glow. She wondered what she looked like to Snape, who had paused in his writing and was glancing up at her, frozen in his observation rather longer than strictly necessary.

He returned his gaze to his parchment a moment later. Just when she was preparing to retreat to her bedroom, Snape said quietly, "You do not have sufficient experience navigating the Forbidden Forest, Miss Granger, if that is indeed your plan to obtain a tree."

Hermione remained obstinately silent, grinding her jaw. She definitely hadn't felt any invasion of her mind, which made his propensity for guessing her thoughts especially grating. She was preparing a suitable rebuttal when he continued neutrally, "Minerva is making the rounds tomorrow evening. If you can quell your more foolish Gryffindor tendencies and muster the patience to wait until we have finished supper tomorrow, I will accompany you."

Her grip on the curtain grew slack. That was unexpected. She ran a finger anxiously along the loose strands at the nape of her neck that had escaped from her bound hair. "I would appreciate that, Professor," she said quietly, studying the carpet. "Thank you." Their eyes locked, and she was acutely aware of how low her Muggle sweater draped and the feel of the silky curtains against the flushed skin just above her shoulder blades.

Snape grunted in response and returned to his task. Hermione pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to bark a laugh. The moment had passed, but she felt a resurgence of her Christmas spirit all the same. She returned to her seat and resumed reading.