Seventeen

Disclaimer: They’re not mine.

The crisp crunch of snow beneath her feet helped to wake Hermione as she trudged through Hogsmeade. The sky was a cold, overcast gunmetal gray, rather a disappointment to the happy couples hoping to celebrate their Valentine’s Day in a picturesque setting, she was sure. If the groans and mutters at breakfast had been any indication, a fair number of students had decided to forgo the walk into Hogsmeade altogether, fearing that they would be caught in a nasty winter storm.

For Hermione, however, the potentially ominous sky was a mere afterthought. She was wholly focused on her impending purchase, the third and, she hoped, most efficacious ingredient to be added to the healing potion. Since leaving his rooms earlier in the week, she’d been unable to do anything but dwell on how pathetically all-consuming her lust for Snape had become. She needed to revert to the attitude she’d begun with: she was a dedicated student striving to secure for herself an apprenticeship, and helping her professor would be a pleasant side-effect.

She heaved open the heavy wooden door at the apothecary’s and strode through, listening to the bell tinkling behind her, alerting all those present to her arrival. The towering shelves surrounding her prevented her from identifying the other patron until, approaching the counter, she found herself standing directly behind him.

Though other, less interested students might have easily overlooked it, Hermione would have recognized the forbidding black wool cloak before her in any venue, under any circumstances. She sucked in a breath and cringed, realizing how loud the inhalation had sounded in the otherwise silent room. Snape turned around slowly and regarded her with an initially malevolent eye, probably anticipating some sniveling second-year whom he could scare away with a single look.

“Good morning, sir,” she said amiably, trying to make up for her less-than-flattering reaction at being confronted with him.

He gave her a barely perceptible nod of greeting and returned quietly, “Miss Granger.” Hermione was pleasantly surprised that she even warranted a word from him. She felt convinced that even a couple of months ago he would have done nothing more than stare at her and turn away, irritated.

“You’re here quite early, sir,” she remarked, glancing pointedly at the clock behind the counter.

Snape looked at her askance. “Like many of the faculty, I prefer to avoid the student crowds.”

Hermione nodded. “I can’t blame you. Although I doubt many students come in here, do they?”

Snape conceded this with a terse shake of his head. Just as Hermione was about to search for another topic of conversation with which to mitigate the uncomfortable silence, the apothecary emerged from the back room with a small package in hand. He turned it over to Snape, who pulled out from his pocket a rather hefty sum of Galleons.

“Sir,” she said suddenly, “are you buying the—”

“I will speak with you when I have finished my transaction, Miss Granger. If you wish to make a nuisance of yourself, do so elsewhere in the store.”

Chastened, Hermione drew her winter cloak more tightly around her body and turned away, wandering behind the safety of a tall shelf. She’d been worried about the wisdom of him walking into town when he’d so recently been ill in the infirmary, scarcely able to breathe on his own. She’d thought he would spend his weekend recuperating in his room while she made the trip into Hogsmeade to make any necessary purchases before their previously agreed upon Tuesday brewing session.

And further—if she was honest with herself, which she wasn’t inclined to do with him so close nearby—some delusional part of her had hoped that he would be touched by, or at least acknowledge, the additional work she’d been putting in during her weekends in order to help him. The project benefited her as well, to be sure, but she’d been going over and above the required work even for her habitually stratospheric standards.

Snape interrupted her musings by completing his business and exiting the store via the main aisle. She followed reluctantly, wincing when the bell tinkled and the large door escaped from her grasp, slamming shut with a resounding thump.

By now several feet away, Snape turned in his tracks to regard her. Hermione ran a nervous hand through her hair, conscious of the errant curls tangling with the pretty bronze hoop earrings Ginny had given her for Christmas. She’d put them on at the last minute before leaving a castle, really just on a whim, and hadn’t foreseen the difficulty of walking through wind and snow.

She’d hoped to take flight as quickly as possible, but she was disappointed to see that her escape wouldn’t be so effortless after all: he was headed not toward Hogwarts but deeper into town, in the direction of the bookstore she wished to visit. Deciding that building a tolerable rapport was preferable to walking awkwardly behind him, Hermione said quietly, “Mind if I walk with you, sir? I’m headed toward the bookstore.”

She expected him to display some sign of exasperation—a raised eyebrow, a slight twitch of his clenched jaw—but instead he simply nodded and replied, “That would be acceptable, as it is my destination as well.”

Hermione repressed an amused smile, wondering if he ever spoke in anything less than stiff, formal tones. “Are you feeling well today, sir?” she inquired. Hurrying to match her shorter strides with his, she spared herself a moment to admire the forbidding figure he cut even in the dim daylight, his unrelieved black clothing sharply delineated against their snowy surroundings.

“I am fine, Miss Granger.” He held his shoulders stiffly, and she realized that on only one previous occasion had they simply walked together, side by side. As their trek to the kitchens after he’d caught her out of bed had hardly been companionable, she couldn’t very well expect him to ease quickly into the rhythm and comfort of walking alongside her.

Hermione waited for him to elaborate, but it soon became clear he didn’t intend to offer anything further. She sighed, not bothering to hide her frustration with his reticence. “I didn’t ask if you were fine, sir. I asked if you were well. I was hoping the potion might have resulted in further improvements.”

Her professor was quiet for a long moment before responding. Hermione’s cheeks began to burn, anticipating another encouraging response but possibly also one that alluded to a sexual matter. Instead, he finally said brusquely, “As a matter of fact, I slept much more soundly and for a longer duration than usual. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Miss Granger?”

She beamed at him. “Yes, sir. I’m very glad to hear it. And have you had breakfast yet?”

Averting his eyes, Snape began muttering what sounded like distinctly unprofessional and uncharitable things about her annoying mothering instincts. Hermione said with affected brightness, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t quite catch that. I asked if you’ve had breakfast yet...?”

“Yes,” he snapped, “I have had a morning meal. Does that satisfy you, Miss Granger?”

“I’ll only be satisfied if you promise to have lunch and supper as well,” she told him firmly, “or I’ll be forced to deliver them personally to your rooms. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t approve of any other course of action, sir.”

“Very well,” he growled. “Merlin deliver me from the both of you. Insufferable, meddlesome witches…” Breaking away from her briefly, he ascended the few stone steps to the bookstore and opened the door, lighter than the apothecary’s and with a much more pleasant, twinkling bell that responded to their arrival. Hermione waited for him to advance into the store, but he remained rooted to the spot, now frowning with obvious consternation. It took her a brief moment to realize that he was standing in the bitter wind not merely to glower at her but in order to hold the door for her.

“Oh—I—thank you,” she said, startled and embarrassed. She’d had boys hold the door for her in the past, of course, but to stand there while a grown man stepped aside and held it for her sent an unfamiliar emotion racing through her chest. He displayed none of the fidgety, bouncing impatience of boys when they were simply discharging what they viewed as an obligation. His body was tall and still and his face expressionless, but his eyes locked with hers in a way that made a frisson of feminine awareness run down her spine. It made her feel good, and very adult, she had to admit, to have him perform the simply courtesy in such a polite and attentive way.

Thus Hermione entered first, her right shoulder brushing tantalizingly against the fabric of his cloak. She had to force herself not to pause in order to turn and admire him. Using her head start to ensconce herself firmly in the section dedicated to academic periodicals, she breathed deeply and tried to dampen her inappropriate ardor.

She wanted the quarterly Transfiguration Review and a few pieces on advances made at the Department of Arithmantic Studies at the Ministry of Magic. Once Snape had moved past her and continued on to the Potions section, she felt comfortable reaching for her fourth selection, a review of Wizarding universities in the British Isles with a focus on Arithmancy curricula.

There was something headily intimate about book shopping with Snape nearby, she reflected, moving slowly along the shelves. Bookstores and libraries already held a special place in her affections; she recalled the beginning of her sixth year when, upon scenting the Amortentia for the first time, she’d inadvertently revealed to her entire Potions class in a breathy voice her love of the aroma of parchment. Possessing the freedom to wander through a bookstore or library for hours on end, unfettered by assignments and schedules, was a delicious enough experience; to have Snape nearby, so readily accessible, so visible, made it almost unbearably erotic.

She scolded herself mentally. It wasn’t right to stand there gawking at his back and shoulders as he walked slowly, purposefully, through the aisles; and it certainly wasn’t right to imagine cornering him in the quietest, most secluded section of the store, grabbing him by the collar of his cloak, and pressing him against the shelves.

Hermione focused her attention sternly on the section before her. Undoubtedly she was the only person alive who lived such an antisocial and bookwormish lifestyle as to consider a bookstore an erotic milieu. Snape, she was sure, would be horrified by her thoughts were he privy to them.

Or would he?

She advanced around the corner, noting with relief that the magically enhanced size of the store was barely hinted at by its outside dimensions. There was plenty of space for her to keep her distance from her professor, who continued to make her heart skip, betraying her continued fantasizing. She’d never, come to think of it, seen him so relaxed as he was now, not even in his own quarters, and that in itself was incredibly sexy. The tension in his face and body gave way to a kind of languorous curiosity as he moved from book to book, occasionally running a long finger against the spine or tipping it out of its place to examine its front or back covers. Watching the graceful, almost worshipful way he caressed the velvety ancient bindings made her shiver.

He’d already made two selections in the Potions section and had moved on to carefully examine the Charms offerings, an observation which put a temporary halt to her mental drooling and amused her greatly. His silky voice delivering his first-year speech and decrying “foolish wand-waving” was never far from her thoughts. She had to bite back the urge to ask him how long-lived was his interest in reading about such foolish wand-waving activities.

Hermione watched with an increasingly fidgety, warm sensation flooding through her as he replaced the tome he’d been perusing and continued on to the next section. She was positive now that it wasn’t simply her impression: he was doing precisely what she herself did, moving along at a leisurely pace and taking in everything for the simple joy of touching and experiencing new books, and that was the sexiest thing of all. She must have been staring after him a little too dreamily, for the middle-aged witch at the counter had looked up from the novel she’d been reading and was now observing Hermione interestedly with a slight, lopsided smile that sent her reading spectacles careening to one side.

Blushing, Hermione ducked her head and focused on the Potions texts, hoping Snape would not turn around to scorn her interest in a subject for which she had no innate talent. Instead, she was shocked to see him retrace his steps, reach out a questing hand along the top shelf, so high that she could barely read the titles of the volumes, and pull out a slim dark-gray text, which he handed over to her silently.

Unable to refrain from meeting his eyes and revealing her own shock, she found his expression difficult to discern. His face was relaxed and inscrutable, but his eyes were darker and more intent than she ever recalled seeing them. She took in the title of the book, Unicorns and the Ancients.

“You may find this intriguing.”

Hermione swallowed and nodded, tightening her grip on the book as Snape made his way swiftly to the counter and paid for his selections. She was still consumed with reading the publication information on the first few pages when the bell announced his timely exit from the store.

Hermione exhaled the breath she’d been holding for seemingly ages and walked to the front counter in a sort of daze. She’d spent the duration of their time in the store supposing that she was the one watching him, but obviously he’d paid plenty of attention to her as well. What was more, she was now positive that it had been Snape who’d moved so soundlessly through the library that evening weeks before, leaving the small volume on the collection of potions ingredients for her to stumble across.

The witch attending the counter straightened her spectacles and flashed what Hermione thought was rather a mischievous smile, but perhaps it was simply her paranoia acting. After all, she figured she was at times a little too inclined to imagine in others the sudden realization of her feelings for her professor. It wasn’t as though she’d been following him around with her mouth literally hanging open. This witch, however perceptive she might have been, couldn’t possibly have known in the space of ten minutes.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” she said with a wink, tallying Hermione’s subtotal. Hermione froze in the act of retrieving her coin purse from her pocket, suddenly wishing she’d chosen to carry her Muggle handbag. Rummaging around in one’s handbag was at times a God-sent deliverance from mortifying conversation.

“I beg your pardon?” she returned, striving to sound as arch as possible.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you. None of my business, love. Just thought I saw you admiring him.” She gave a distinctly feline little smile. “I know I always do whenever he comes in.”

“I assure you that you’re mistaken,” Hermione said coolly, handing over her Galleons. She kept her ears open to the sound of his inopportune return, but they were, for the time being, utterly alone in the store.

“Well, like I said, didn’t mean to cause any offense. But just between you and me, I wish he’d come around more often. You know what I mean?”

Hermione grasped the parcel containing her books and allowed herself to soften. After all, who did she think she’d been kidding? She obviously wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Well… Maybe I do. Just a little bit,” she admitted, sheepishly.

The older witch grinned, running an ink-stained fingernail through her cropped dark-blonde hair and raising an eyebrow. “You have a lovely day now. And if that gorgeous professor of yours happens to be in front of you on the walk back to school… Enjoy the view for me, hmm?”

Well aware that her face was flushing bright red, Hermione ducked out of the store.