2

She takes no notes her first day in his class, just blinks at his "many varied, ever-changing and eternal." Hermione has no need to write it; Hermione knows. And he can’t help watching, cataloguing the ways that knowing has changed her. No harm in watching. It’s wholly on the up and up. She’s of age and he’s her teacher. He would never seriously consider touching her, besides which the Headmaster would hex his bits to Snitches. She Confunds McLaggen and he’s delighted; the girl who was blindly wedded to the rules is gone (that sow Umbridge is to thank for that, he supposes, and the Ministry too). The young woman he watches—the unaffected way she slings her arms around the miscreants, the brave, determined set of her jaw whenever she opens the Prophet—that woman knows that we’re at war and that in war the rules matter very little. Horace complains about dwindling stores, Polyjuice filched right from the cauldron, disappearing Dittany, other key (and costly) healing ingredients gone missing. Horace says some troublemaker (Peeves, probably) has been wreaking havoc with his wards, and while Severus would like nothing more than to tell the pompous old fool it was a student, a sixth year no less, who cut through his protections, he doesn’t mention the Gryffindor prefect he saw tending a first year’s bloodied elbow. He certainly doesn’t mention that his first thought seeing her steady hands on the child’s hurt wasn’t that ward breaking would come in useful when she fights or that a knack for healing might just help her keep Potter’s hide intact long enough for him to end this. No. His first thought was that he would gladly cut himself to have those hands upon him.

By mid-term, Hermione’s marks are slipping—not that it matters. Most students, most Ravenclaws even, would still waltz with a Blast-Ended Skrewt for her grades—and when Minerva comments, he doesn’t even rib her. Because he’s watching, always. Her breasts graze the library table when she leans over her books, advanced tomes that have nothing to do with the schoolwork she’s neglecting: books on memory charms, on illusion and disguise, on long forgotten wizarding battles. A map of Australia, for some reason once, and one of Canada, and one of the States. She arrives early to class one day and extracts her textbook, quill, and the two-foot essay he’s assigned from a coin purse that fits easily in her palm.

“Some kind of Engorgement Charm?”

"Close, sir. Undetectable Extension." She shrugs. “You never know what may come in useful.”

“Throw everything at him but the kitchen sink?” That’s not a wizarding expression. It’s one of Lily’s; he’s slipping up. Hermione would never tell, but still. He’s got to be more careful.

“If I thought it would work, Professor, I would throw the sink too.”

Potter is in the hallway, and it wouldn’t do for the boy to hear him laugh. Not with anyone, and especially not with his best friend. Severus leans in towards Hermione and whispers, so that the boy--

He’s got to get this one, he won’t know otherwise. Potter, don’t let the memory go to smoke. Take it, boy, you’ll need it; Hermione has to know that--

Severus leans in towards Hermione and whispers so that the boy won’t hear. “Hermione, do you recall the potion we discussed?”

She nods.

“It is progressing.” And there again is that smile, his smile, not the classroom one, and the air between them shimmers. He is warm, if only for an instant.

Three patrol nights in a row, he catches her out after hours, down on the Quidditch pitch. She practices, always practices. Salvio Hexia, Protego Totalum. She has no idea he’s watching until the night she masters Homenum revelio. When he takes no points and offers no reprimand, she winks. Lily is the only other person who has ever winked at him.

In his dreams now Hermione is with Lily; their mouths meet, pink on pink. Their tongues meet, shy but welcoming. Lily is taller; the younger witch must rise on the balls of her feet to keep the kiss going. She does and Lily leans down into it. Hands find breasts, Hermione’s hands over Lily’s, guiding, showing her what she likes. The women have the same skin tone. The women are the same temperature, except where there’s skin on skin and they grind, a tangle of limbs. He can see heat build where they press together. Even dreaming, he remembers Lily saying it’s possible to make fire just by rubbing sticks together, and Severus never believed, but believes now. Only the women aren’t kindling, they are too supple for that, Dryads, green in the center, soft with sun and alive with sap. They breathe words into each other’s ear; it’s a language he as never heard before.

The dream changes. Lily is still with Hermione and he is watching, but he himself is somehow also Lily. Hermione parts her legs and he is/Lily is far away, way down at Hermione’s ankles, but they begin to kiss their way up. When they reach her apex, they lick and she moans. He is Lily and his Lily hands hold Hermione’s hips still as she bucks against him. He tongues in. She is wet everywhere and warm. His Lily mouth sucks at her clit, and he works a finger in, and then another. He is Lily but the fingers are his own, and Hermione tightens around them and he presses deeper. Hermione thrashes beneath him and moans, and his tongue flicks and swirls, and she comes, calling out to him in that language of hers that he has never heard before. She calls out again, tenderly, and he knows now it is the name for when he is him-and-Lily, and that word is the warmest sound there is. He begs Hermione to say it once more, and she does, drawing his mouth up to her waiting nipple. Again and again she says it, stroking his red hair. He sucks, desperate, at Hermione’s breast, as if she could succor him and Lily, as if she could bring them back to life…

Thanks to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

The characters aren't mine. The concept is not mine. If you think any of this is mine, you belong in St. Mungo's, which is also not mine.