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Scattered	By : Tnteacups Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 25013 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
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Chapter List
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11 Severus Snape, Unabridged
His hand shot out, wrapping around the back of her neck, pulling her face to his. His mouth crushed hers, his face tilted slightly, parting their lips, and he moved forward, pushing her backward. She let out an involuntary gasp of surprise as she fell to her back, his lips barely leaving hers as he trapped her underneath him. His tongue was against hers, his body heat seeping into the front of her, his fingers tangling in the hairs at the base of her neck. She kissed him back, overwhelmed by his sudden onslaught, her mouth moving independently of her thoughts, her eyes squeezed closed, her hands automatically resting on his waist, reorienting herself after the plunge.
His free hand came out of nowhere, pushing one of her legs aside, his weight shifted as he settled between her splayed thighs. The sudden feeling of vulnerability made Hermione snap her eyes open, her hands slipped to his hips and she pushed, keeping him from pressing down into her. He didn’t seem to notice, his lips still possessing hers eagerly, his fingers squeezing her bare thigh. The legs of her shorts had fallen from the position of her lifted thighs, revealing more of her skin than ever, and leaving them exposed to his hot hand, and the feel of his cotton sweats brushing against the sensitive flesh.
“Wait, stop!” Hermione managed to gasp, turning her face just enough to break the kiss. With so much skin showing, and him kneeling over her, she was suddenly terrified of the thought of losing her virginity. A tent wasn’t much better than up against a tree, and the hardness of his hands, his kisses, they weren’t at all the romantic image she’d imagined for her first time.
His head lifted, giving her room to look up at him without their faces in contact. She felt her breathing, quick and choppy, her pulse racing with desire and fear. His black stare held hers, reading what she couldn’t force her throat to say. She could see the impression of her own fear in his head, everything still washed in red lust, before he rolled his eyes, and dipped his head back down.
“I’m not going to deflower you.” His mouth was at her ear, his teeth pulling gently at the lobe, his tone went from slightly miffed, to gruff, and needy. “Yet.”
“Then-” Hermione flinched, and caught her breath as his lips trailed gently down the side of her neck, doing her best to ignore their path back up as she spoke. “Then what are you doing?”
“I want to make you scream.” The words were just as sinister as they were sexual, his fingers tightening on her thigh as he said them, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers up Hermione’s spine. His head lifted, and he looked in her eyes again, delving into her reaction to his statement.
She felt her head swimming, a jagged spike of uneasiness splitting through her arousal with his voice. He wouldn’t really make her scream, would he? Was he truly that sadistic? A thousand worries slipped through her thoughts, concerns about him hurting her, choking the life from her, forcing himself on her if she refused him.
“You wouldn’t. You’re not like them, I’ve seen the truth. You’re on our side.” She babbled, trying to soothe her own worries, more than argue his words. “You’re a good man, despite what you pretend.”
His hand slid from her thigh, bracing his weight on the ground, as he leaned up, giving her room to breathe freely as he stared down at her, a hard look on his face.
“Listen well, girl.” He growled, his face full of acrimony. “I’m not some pet for the Order. I wasn’t a spy because I’m a ‘good man’. Whichever side I work against, remember, I am still a dark wizard.” His thoughts were pulsing red and black, nothing in them refuting his words, not even a hint of doubt inside him that he was telling the truth. “I may not enjoy outright torture, but I’m not kind.” His mind filled with flashes of his life: dropping a tree branch nearly on top of Petunia Evans, being sorted into Slytherin because he was cunning and ruthless, excelling at the Dark Arts, falling in with the worst crowd, creating his own Dark spells, using them without remorse, a few drops of steaming red liquid into a bottle, his father dead on the floor, doing everything in his power to ensure his success in the Dark Lord’s inner circle…
“You’ve been searching my mind for a month now, trying to figure out what I’m really like, so see now for yourself, the truth of Severus Snape.” He pushed his memories at her as he spoke, flashes of his school years intermingled with his life as a Death Eater, his potion’s apprenticeship, his career at Hogwarts. “I don’t pretend to be hostile, I am very much a dangerous man, and I’ve not once hesitated to further my own interests.”
He let the dishonorable memories fade, and his gaze softened slightly, her terrified face flashing through his thoughts.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Doing something that would cause you to truly hate me would be disadvantageous to my goal of bedding you.” He said crudely, his thoughts filled with the thought briefly, before it was replaced by his interpretation of her own mind.
She was nearly in tears, his words stinging her pride, making her feel like she was worth no more than a quick shag in his opinion. Her aching need for stimulation only made her feel worse, the reminder of how much she wanted the man who thought so little of her. His words threw into sharp relief how childish her assumption that he’d been less heinous toward her because he might actually like her was. Nothing he’d done had been for her, it’d been for himself.
His eyes closed, his face crinkled with frustration, and when he looked at her once more, his gaze was burning, urging her to understand what he said, what he thought.
“I don’t think of you as… as a piece of meat. I do want to fuck you, I want to make you scream my name with bliss, but not because I’m some randy young boy who can’t keep it in my pants. Because it’s you.” Memories of herself came to her. Frizzy haired over a cauldron, instructing her fellows as well as brewing her own. Bruised and beaten after a fight, but still standing, smiling and victorious. Her sleeping face, mouth hanging open slightly, hair everywhere, mumbling slightly under her breath in response to some dream.
“I know you desire me, and that’s enough for now, but I’m through pretending. I want you, I care for you, and I’m willing to do anything for you. I need you to understand that. I need you to understand me, as only one other has. I don’t want you to come to me as the result of lies, or trickery. I want you to choose me, not some mask.” His thoughts were in flux, warping around embarrassment at his words, his need for her to embrace him. His thoughts held his truth, the way he’d craved her before, how the need for her had grown with their month of solitude, his obsession becoming more rounded, filling out as he learned more details about her, something akin to love forming as he watched her learn and work toward finding a new headquarters. It wasn’t the same way she felt love, warm and caring. It was darker, protective, wary, consuming. Just as strong as he’d felt for Harry’s mum, but with more of an edge.
“You… you think you love me?” Hermione choked, her bewilderment warring with concern, and endearment. She couldn’t quite decide if she felt upset by his level of passion, or flattered.
“You think I’m obsessive?” He volleyed, his eyes narrowed in irritation.
“You are. I don’t think it’s on purpose though…” Hermione mused, searching his thoughts, seeing how very obsessed he was. He seemed to have dropped every single wall of his Occlumency, and with the unlimited access to his past, present, and emotions, she could see the way he’d obsessed for years over Lily. The way he’d been bedeviled by thoughts of Hermione, a student, completely out of bounds, and the only person left in the world who he seemed to want. Their month and a half together had only reinforced his torment, reminding him every day of what he couldn’t have, her training putting into focus how very real the danger to her life was. Visions of her sleeping, eating, charming, arguing, and reading all intensifying his desire to make her his. That thought alone was deeper than a well, the possessiveness of his desire for her, his lust to claim her, as more than a sexual partner, his will to drive every other wizard from her mind, and leave room for only him, even if it meant irritating her into thinking about him. But he was past that now. He didn’t want to have to provoke her to see her eyes burning with passion, to see her face flushed. His infatuation was dark in places, filled with fear, jealousy, and a push-pull of dominance over her, and giving her whatever she asked. But she saw lighter parts to it as well, his tranquility as he watched her read, his hope that she’d be able to outlive the war. A warmth that seeped into his own desire to live, to keep her safe, to make her happy, no matter what it cost him.
“You said you’re willing to do anything for me?” Hermione corroborated, looking away, to keep her thoughts from him for a moment.
“Anything within my power.” He clarified, his hair shifting as he tilted his head in puzzlement.
“Get off of me.” She ordered, knowing just how it would cause instant turmoil within him. His claim to give her what she wanted would war with his desire to take what he wanted, regardless of her words.
He pushed himself away, removing every point of contact he had with her, and shuffled the two feet to his own side, saying nothing as he stared at her, and she sat up.
“If I told you to leave, and kill yourself, would you?” She asked, keeping her gaze aimed at his chest, gauging his mental stability without letting him see her worries.
“I’ll go, but if you want me dead, you’ll have to do it yourself.” His voice was flat, but she didn’t dare look up.
“And if I told you to kill someone else?”
“That would depend on who.” He answered, lifting a hand to his face in thought. “Death Eaters, gladly. A bystander, no. You’d never be able to live with yourself if I actually followed through, and you were indirectly responsible for the death of an innocent.”
“So you’d kill innocents if I was able to get over it?” She asked, looking at the tent flap, and listening carefully to his voice.
“No- You’re-... I have no desire to tear apart my soul, girl, and I don’t enjoy killing. I will rephrase: I am not going to blindly follow commands like some attack dog. I will do things for your benefit, without the expectation of compensation. And yes, if it came down to your life, or that of a stranger, I would not hesitate to take that burden upon myself to keep you breathing. Though, if it’s a child, I make no promises on my adherence to that statement. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, thank you.” Hermione replied, finally meeting his eyes. She felt a wash of relief at the honesty she found there, the revulsion he felt at the thought of how he’d pointed his wand at Albus at the end. He never wanted to feel that again, but compared to how he’d felt after Lily had been taken from the earth, there was no contest for which he’d prefer. He felt frustrated that he was so far from her now, unable to feel her skin under him, or watch her face contort with pleasure. He was worried about how little of a reaction she was having to his honesty. He’d been expecting her to lose her mind, and have to take at least a few days for her to cool down before he could talk to her again. But she seemed so calm, accepting. Was she occluding her anger, shock, or revulsion? No, that wasn’t like her. He could see her turning his revelations over in her mind, weighing them separately, and as a whole, trying to make a decision on whether she could allow this, whatever it was, to continue. He contemplated that for a minute, the odd balance of sexual tension, and repeated attacks on her mouth. He would desist if she asked, but he was also willing to do more. Whatever she wanted- needed, he was willing to give, no restrictions, no awkwardness, no uncomfortable pushing if she wanted to stop.
Hermione felt her face darken as she realized he was aiming these thoughts at her, more like an offer than a statement.
“Are you offering to be… Friends with benefits?” She asked, using a term she’d heard a classmate voice once. The thought made her uneasy, the idea of something so casual not something she’d ever considered doing before.
“Would you even consider this a friendship?” He returned derisively. Hermione thought that yes, she supposed she had started to think of him as sort of a friend. A moody, antagonistic friend, but still someone she could rely on.
“Don’t get off track, answer the question.” Hermione covered up her embarrassment with irritation.
“No. I’m offering to be whatever you desire. If you want me to be far away from you, I’ll go, as far away as I can get. If you want me to be close to you, I will be as close as you want.” His voice was low, husky, full of promise. Hermione struggled for a moment to think around his offer, to remember whatever else they’d been discussing a moment ago.
“Why the sudden candor?” She asked, feeling his arousal ebb and flow like a tide as they chatted, as though the conversation was distracting him, but not completely.
“As I said: I’m through pretending. To hell with morally objectionable,” His words were accompanied by flashes of his own doubt, his own self-flagellation over her being so much younger, his student. “To hell with what anyone else might think.”
His thoughts were a swirling mass of self-confidence, red-streaked lust, and shimmery steel-colored determination. After years of playing different parts for different people, he wasn’t quite sure how to be himself anymore. So he was offering her the basest, truest form of himself: his entire mind. He didn’t know how to be himself around anyone else, but he wanted her to see him. He’d been afraid that letting her see this much earlier on would have frightened her away from him forever, but now, he knew she was strong, fierce, and he hoped she wouldn’t find the confusing contradictions inside him to be worthy of abandonment.
“I’m not scared of you, Professor.” She confirmed aloud for him, her eyes sifting through his kaleidoscopic mind with eagerness. She was the first person to ever freely have access to the plethora of Severus Snape’s secrets, and each one she discovered was like another piece of a puzzle. The puzzle of Snape. She gave a soft laugh at the imagery, noting how the truth of him seemed less like a puzzle and more like a coded book, to which she was merely deciphering the various indexes. A few of the pieces were familiar, his awful childhood, his love for Lily, the woman choking with pleasure. Without him putting up barriers, she realized just how talented he was at Occlumency. She’d managed to steal a few glances at his secrets, but he’d managed to keep many more hidden, and even the ones she glimpsed hadn’t been whole.
She lingered a bit on the image of his fingers wrapped around the woman’s neck, her eyes rolled back, her hands clutching the sheet. He’d fed her that once before, but had kept much of the memory hidden. In its entirety, Hermione could hear the woman’s grunts and moans, feel his cock slamming into her, smell the sweat and sex that filled the room. Their bodies made a loud, nasty slapping noise, and the woman’s hips bucked underneath him, her walls clenching as she neared orgasm, and through puffed, reddened lips, she managed to croak ‘harder’. Her face nearly turned beet-red as Snape’s fingers gripped tighter, and a her head pushed forward, encouraging more, more. She was crying out, her voice choking off strangely through his hold, her body trembling as she climaxed, and Severus released her, letting her gasp in air as he braced himself with her thighs, and hammered into her, driving her orgasm further, making her voice hitch, high-pitched, and completely unaware of the world around her as she was driven beyond coherence, and then pushed further, his fingers alighting between her legs, twirling quick circles to keep her flying along whatever cloud she was on.
Hermione pulled away from the memory, and inspected an unfamiliar one at leisure. It was from earlier that very day, her climbing lesson. He’d been fighting back laughter as he watched her try to climb, and had difficulty keeping his face calm as she fell on her rear. He’d suggested the smaller tree, and as he stepped closer to help her ‘roll’, he could smell her shampoo, floral, and feel the warmth of her back. His hands on her hips was much too tempting, so he quickly moved his hands to her ribs, trying to dispel the urge to press into her and show her what he meant. Her rear had been shapely, the denim hugging her hips and thighs as she attempted to do what he instructed. His hands left her like she was on fire, and as she fell again, he had to turn away to keep her from seeing both his face, and the slight tent in his trousers. He’d wanted to bury his face in her hair, pull her jeans down, and take her right there. But he wouldn’t. He felt a bit guilty for taking so much pleasure from such a simple task, and he looked forward to future hands-on lessons.
Hermione pulled away from that memory, too, and searched for something to give her an idea of why she should say no to him. What was he scared for her to see?
Another familiar image cropped up, the naked woman, the one Bellatrix had tortured for days. It was clearer, more detailed, and thicker than he’d ever let her see. Bellatrix had dragged the woman in by her hair, burned her clothes right off her body, leaving a few blisters behind where the cloth clung to skin. Voldemort had watched with glee as the woman was forced to her knees before him and made to beg for his mercy, to disparage herself, and all muggles. She’d suffered through several rounds of the cruciatus before the snake-faced villain had sat down in a chair, and gestured for Bellatrix to give the woman what she deserved. Hermione let the scene play out, fighting back revulsion as she felt Snape’s own bile rise at the sight of the woman beaten, healed, whipped, raped, and cursed. She was trembling on the ground, freezing, in agony, but no longer possessing any will to fight, or flee. “Severus, come, play.” Bellatrix had taunted, the words more than an invitation. In front of the Dark Lord, he dare not refuse. He dampened his own disgust, fixed a cruel smile on his face, and stepped forward, pulling his wand from his robes. The woman rose into the air with a silent flick of his wand, and gave a half-hearted wail of fear as she hung upside down by her ankle. As he got closer, he could see her tears, her filthy face, her bleeding skin. “I suppose you want her alive after I’m finished?” he’d asked callously, circling as if to find the best part of an animal. Hermione watched horrified as Snape locked his humanity in a box, cleared his mind of anything but mild disgust and revulsion that he directed toward the woman, knowing that his Master would be in his thoughts every moment he spent hurting the woman. He lifted his wand, and cast spell after spell, implementing more pain on her already beleaguered body. He tuned out her screams, her cries, and the surrounding people’s encouragement, and focused solely on the Dark Arts he was practicing. He could smell the blood, the mess she’d made earlier, pissing herself in fear, and the sick that she’d spewed after Bellatrix had sent a harsh nausea charm at her. He could see the tired look in her eyes as she resigned herself to her death, and then, when she was inches from grasping that final darkness, the Dark Lord himself stepped forward. “Enough, Severus. You’ve had your fun, and now it’s time for dinner.” The woman dropped to the floor, and Severus stepped away, letting Bellatrix do what she would to keep her alive, or let her die. He didn’t allow himself to hope for the latter, but knew that it was the merciful option.
Another memory swam in, and broke Hermione’s stoic silence. She whimpered slightly as the face of her best friend swam before her, slightly blurry, but the green eyes prominent, defined. He was dirty, battle-worn, and looked both melancholy, and confused. “Look at me…” Snape’s voice choked from a searing throat, the venom feeling like fire filling his neck, shoulder, and traveling up along his jaw. It felt like it was constricting his throat, making it more difficult to breath, and through the burning pain, he felt cold. He knew he was bleeding to death, and as the three forms above him blurred, he could feel his consciousness slipping away. The pain receded slightly, and he floated, glad for the reprieve, but hoping he went completely soon. He could still feel his breath pulling slowly, haltingly into his lungs. And then that, too, stopped. The venom had stopped burning, and he was enveloped in cold, and if he’d had the strength even to shiver, he would have. His lungs were starting to burn, and his lips parted, trying desperately to pull in air that didn’t seem to even exist anymore. A loud explosion shocked his whole frame, jostling his throat and lungs into choking in one last breath, an extension of his death, and as soon as the oxygen flooded him, his thoughts came back, and he regretted the lungful. The pain was unbearable, the cold was relentless, and the urge to cough and choke as his lungs pulled in a second breath was hindered only by the inability to move forcefully enough to cough. He just wanted to be dead already. He deserved to be dead after everything he’d done. But there was a voice, and he tried to focus… A spell? His next breath didn’t include the need to choke, and he felt a wave of despair. Someone was trying to save him. He wanted to scream at them to leave him to die, but he heard them begging for help. A tapping at his face was more startling than the words, and his eyes focused beyond the darkness, seeing a mass of brown hair. Familiar, frazzled. She was here, torturing him in his last moments, reminding him of just one more thing he was dying for. But she was panicked, her eyes wide, and the dust swirling around her face reminded him of the blast. She was in danger, and she was asking for his help. He knew that she had no idea about his sick fantasies involving her, but he felt the need to atone for them, regardless. “Home…” He finally managed to choke, recalling his store of blood replenishers, and anti-venom. If she needed his help, he would have to keep himself alive awhile longer. His eyes drifted shut, and he felt the sucking vortex of Apparation, and passed out completely.
Hermione let the memory drift away, feeling her shoulders shake slightly, and her eyes focused on the Snape before her. He’d moved closer, and was holding out his hand. She looked at it in confusion a moment, before realizing he held out a handkerchief. The present world snapped into place, and she felt her cheeks tickling with tears, her eyes burning, and her breath catching in her throat. She grabbed the linen square and buried her face in it, using it as a shelter from his gaze as she forced herself to calm back down. She’d just experienced him nearly dying, as though it had been her, and it had shaken her beyond what she might have expected. She’d been running for her life for the past year, but actually feeling the slow trespass of oblivion was terrifying, and her own body seemed to be rejecting the feeling, reassuring her with hiccuping sobs and an influx of emotion that she was very much alive.
“Shh… It’ll pass.” He murmured, and she felt a gentle hand brush at her hair. He was trying to comfort her, while maintaining the distance she’d requested earlier. Her chest was shaking, and her thoughts were tumultuous, but she knew one thing for certain: he’d earned her complete trust.
She scooted forward, seeking more of his soothing words, and calming touches, her lips trembling as she held back a total lack of control.
“You’re safe…” He whispered, his arms wrapping completely around her shoulders, holding her against his chest. Hermione blindly buried her face into him, accepting the warm circle of his arms, letting his presence and voice bring her slowly out of her swirling terror. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, and her cheeks felt flushed with her tears, but her breathing slowed, and her tears trickled to a halt. She tried to swallow the sticky lump in her throat, and opened her mouth to suck in a deep, shuddering breath. She could almost taste his scent around her, and she sniffled a few times, using her runny nose as an excuse to smell him more deeply. He smelled like the soap they both had been using, and an undercurrent of natural spice. It was heady, and made her want to bury her face deeper in his shirt.
She pulled back slightly, wiping at her face as his arms slid down her back, allowing her to lean away, without releasing her.
“How-” Her voice croaked, and she cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing as she tried to speak. “How’d you do that?”
“Do what?” He asked, meeting her gaze levelly, and seeing a deeper understanding of her question in her thoughts. She put her question to the forefront, returning his words, his embrace, and her confusion at how quickly it had managed to calm her down. His thoughts were still open, but more jumbled than she’d ever seen them, nearly inseparable from one another, all a muddled technicolor of emotions and observations. She could feel him debating how much to tell her, part of his thoughts locked up away from her, as he contemplated in private, and then, the safe broke, and he let her in once more.
He kept each brief, merely as an explanation to his actions, rather than another full memory for her to experience. The feeling of being too cold, or not being able to breathe, lungs on fire. Spinning off into darkness, while the world faded away. Being revived before he got too far, and left to recover on his own, feeling just the way she had when she’d come out of his thoughts.
“It wasn’t the first time I’d almost died. Just the closest I’ve gotten.” He added the words aloud, putting the images into perspective for her. There were at least two other times he’d shown her of the near-death experiences. She cautiously gave one a tug, preparing herself for what she might find out. He didn’t stop her, but his hands tightened on her back in warning as she delved head-first into his body, as though she were staring out through his eyes, looking up at the pale-faced snake above her. He was gloating, but she couldn’t hear, and her lungs were burning, demanding air that simply wasn’t there. Voldemort’s wand was pointed at them, and his mouth moved as he looked around at his followers, making an example of the tardy Severus. It was after Cedric’s death, and though Lord Voldemort appreciated Snape’s forethought in not blowing his cover with the Order, he still needed to be put in his place. Or so he’d claimed, before sucking the air right out of his lungs, and leaving him to suffocate on the stone floor. Severus’s mind was swirling into blackness, and he passed out, all feeling fading as he writhed, and Voldemort paid his choking body no mind, as though he were going to let him die. He’d woken up a few hours later, his head pounding, his lungs feeling inadequate to the task of rejuvenating his body. His muscles ached, and he felt too warm as blood pounded through him, reminding him that he still lived. He’d shaken slightly as he stood, and kept his hatred locked tightly behind self-loathing as he groveled before his Master, praising his mercy, and begging forgiveness.
Hermione tugged at the second memory, and a chill washed over her mind. Snape stood in his Hogwarts lavatory, the door to his bedroom hanging open, as he stared into the mirror above the sink. His whole body was trembling as he poked his wand at his own skin, slowly sealing the various bloody cuts that were scattered across him. Blackness was edging his vision, and the chill was coming more from inside him than the dank dungeon. He’d lost a lot of blood already, and the wounds were slow-healing, his own Sectumsempra curse more painful than he’d imagined. Some of the wounds were merely skin-deep, others seemed to gouge muscle, and he knew if he didn’t finish soon, he would die from blood loss. His breath was short shakey pants, and his face was streaked with blood where he pushed his hair out of the way to see his work better. Hermione saw his face in the mirror, and gasped slightly. He was much younger, nearly her own age, his hair was shorter, but still a chin-length disaster of grease, beginning to clump together with his own blood as he pushed it again from his eyes. She could feel his thoughts from the memory, and feel the anger at ‘Kasey’. A fellow Death Eater, who’d accused him of being a traitor, and used his own curse against him. He was dead now, Snape’s shield charm protecting him from the deadly second curse the man had launched, while bouncing it right back at the caster. Snape had managed to get himself back to Hogwarts, and into his chambers, the summer air stinging his wounds through his robes until he closed the chamber door behind him, and began stripping, wincing in agony as the black fabric peeled from the bloodied skin, and pulled at the cursed gashes. His wand nearly vibrated with his hand tremors as he spelled a wound at his shoulder closed, his vision fading, as a pounding sounded at his door. McGonagall’s voice came through to the bathroom, demanding to know why there was a trail of blood, asking if he was well. His wand clattered into the sink, his fingers no longer able to grip it, and the floor rushed up to meet him, blood soaking the tiles he fell, his eyes wide, and his breathing nearly imperceptible as he heard McGonagall enter, and Dumbledore’s voice close behind, but there was nothing they could do. Only he knew the countercurse, and no matter what McGonagall was saying about it being okay, he knew he had mere moments left to live. Darkness overtook him once again, and he was left in a swirling, frigid void while the pain ceased, and and his breathing trembled determinedly into his lungs, desperate to keep him alive, even as he bled out.
Hermione pulled away, knowing that McGonagall and Dumbledore must have saved him, and stared at the black eyes above her with a newfound respect. He’d been through a very real hell, and suffered nearly in silence, only able to wish for the same comfort he’d provided her.
“Thank you.” Snape’s voice was low, his eyes narrowed with some emotion, and she frowned up at him, confused. “For not pitying me.” He explained, one hand lifting away from her back, to stroke her hair again. It was a pleasant feeling, and she leaned her head into it slightly, pulling her eyes from his to hide her own thoughts. He was touching her hair casually, still holding her, and she was embarrassed. He was being completely honest with her, showing her what he wanted, what he was, and she couldn’t even admit to him that she was enjoying his attentions. For him, all she could be was a coward. She wanted to touch him back, to breath in the scent of him, to lean up, and kiss him, and try to make him forget for a moment what his past held. She felt a stab of envy as his fingers sifted through her hair again, and she darted a glance up at his silky black locks. She wanted to feel his hair, and inspect the trail of black curls she’d seen disappearing into his sweats, and feel the warm skin that was so pale it seemed like it should be cold to the touch. She wanted to be hugged, and comforted, and able to relax around him as though they were actually friends.
She pulled away, removing herself from his arms, and closed her eyes, trying to clear her thoughts. Did she actually want him, or was it an unavoidable side-effect of being alone except for him for over a month? Was she just craving affection, and he happened to be there? Was she mistaking her own loneliness for an attraction to him? She thought of how she’d known she fancied Viktor, the dark eyes, the way he seemed absolutely engrossed with her in her disheveled state of study, when no other had even hinted at her being even passably pretty. She’d appreciated how he tried to explain in broken English that he kept coming to the library to see her, and that he didn’t want the horde of girls following him.
She’d felt for Ron for a long time before they’d even kissed, and had been torn apart internally when he’d snubbed her for Lavender. She thought of Severus, putting off his much desired death to keep her alive, teaching her how to enter his mind, though he knew what she’d find there. She wondered briefly how she’d feel if he suddenly showed up with another woman, and pawed all over her the way Ron had been with Lavender. A spike of anger filled her, and she glared at the ground while Snape sat silently, watching her face twist with thought.
“Did you and Harry’s mum ever… take things further?” She asked, keeping her eyes down, unwilling to let him see her envy at the thought of Lily Evans having more than an emotional hold on the man.
“No. Why?” He answered after a moment, his fingers curling into loose fists, the only indication that he was uncomfortable.
“No reason.” She lied, and pulled a blanket of calmness over her thoughts, covering everything but her indecision as she looked up to meet his eyes. She kept her own thoughts well-guarded from his limited abilities, and plundered his mind.
He wanted to touch her more, wanted her to be familiar with him caressing her. There were brief flashes of fantasy, where she sat reading, and he walked up to her, and casually ran his hand through her hair, or over her shoulder, and she didn’t pull away. These were followed by a partial fantasy in the reverse, of her, reaching out to him, not at all inhibited in her easy grasp of his hand. He’d nearly melted with satisfaction when she’d leaned into his embrace, and let him comfort her. The mere thought of her being comfortable with him was making him gleeful, his mind sparkling bright yellow, interspersed with black strips of doubt. She inspected one, and saw it was attached to his current thoughts, his eyes watching her, her mind locked from his inspection, and he was beginning to worry. She was clearly debating something, by the calculating look in her eye, and the firm set of her mouth, but he couldn’t tell what she was debating. He was starting to worry that she was thinking about telling him to leave for good, or about to declare that she never wanted him to touch her again. She’d seen some of the worst parts of him, and some of the best, and he was nearly terrified that she was going to judge him not-worthy. Just the way Lily had. She’d been unable to accept the darkness that was a part of him, and had been unable to forgive his most shameful error, calling her a Mudblood in an attempt to save his own pride while James Potter dangled him upside down, and taunted him. Inside his head, Hermione could see what Harry’s mum never had. The instant regret and shame that took over as soon as the words had left his mouth. He never actually believed that tripe. He was just afraid. His father had terrorized him and his mother; Potter and Black had tormented him, and the only way to stop the cycle was to become more powerful than them all. So he’d accepted the invitation of his housemates to the secret gatherings. He’d loved what he’d found in the tomes on Dark magic, and he’d excelled at making his own life more miserable by simply trying to keep the fear at bay. He’d managed to rid himself of fear, but it had been replaced by anger, resentment, self-loathing. He’d become exactly what he hated. A bully. And he loved being one. He loved being the one in charge for once, the one that made others cower. He enjoyed trying to drag everyone down into his misery, without actually appearing miserable. Never again would he let anyone see his true emotions. Never again would anyone be able to make him afraid for his pride, his self-confidence, or his ego. Until he allowed a pair of soft brown eyes to peer into his skull, and see everything. Hermione Granger had the power to send a chill of fear up his spine as she sat, silently judging what she found. He let the fear trail through him, acknowledging it as he never had before. He’d only ever tried to push it back, to override it, but now, he welcomed it as an old adversary, recognizing its existence, without letting it shut him down. He knew who he was, and he could accept himself, whether she did, too, or not. He wanted her, but never again would he hide who he was, just to placate someone else.
“I didn’t think Slytherins could be brave.” Hermione teased gently, letting her lips lift into a small smile. He smirked back.
“Well, it’s only taken me nearly forty years.” He joked back.
“How old are you, anyway?” Hermione asked, not bothering to cover her interest with the blanket that hid her other thoughts. She’d denied him being ‘that old’ when he’d had her pinned to the tree, but she was suddenly curious just how much older he was.
“I turned thirty-eight in January.” Snape answered, his mind providing a brief flash of McGonagall’s terse ‘happy birthday, headmaster’ her clipped tone not at all celebratory. He’d all but forgotten it until the witch had said the words, and he’d spent the rest of the day brooding about how very unhappy of a birthday it was. Hermione’s mind was quick with the math, determining just how much older than her he was. Nineteen years. This year she would be exactly half his age. He wasn’t yet forty, which somehow put her at ease. As though forty was some marked barrier between ‘older’, and ‘too much older’. It didn’t sound quite so bad when she thought ‘Next year, I’ll be twenty, and he’ll still be in his thirties.’ It made the age-gap seem much smaller to think of it in generalizations like that.
“Don’t try to dress it up, girl.” He snapped, his eyes flashing as he gave her a stern glare. “I’m twice your age, and no amount of word play will change it.”
Hermione nodded sheepishly, and turned her eyes away from his irritation, perfectly understanding that he didn’t want her to pretend the issue wasn’t present. He knew it was there, and he’d worked through his own guilt about it. They both knew that Ron, or another classmate would be the ‘proper’ choice for her. He was hoping she’d overlook propriety, and choose him, instead. She was tempted to, but her thoughts of Ron brought another bout of guilt for her.
She’d fancied Ron for so long, and almost as soon as he seemed to reciprocate, they were torn apart. What sort of cruel joke was the world playing on her? If she believed in signs from a higher power, she might take it as one, but her logical mind was unwilling to thrust aside reason for superstition. Her body, apparently, was totally willing to thrust aside reason for passion, though, and she glanced back toward the raven-haired man sitting across from her. He managed to seem masculine, even just sitting there, making Ron seem boyish in comparison. Even Viktor, the well-muscled quidditch star didn’t seem to have the same effect as Severus Snape, and no one in their right mind would call the seeker ‘boyish’. Perhaps it was the fact that he was twice her age, or perhaps the fact that he’d endured more damnation than any other man she knew, and was still alive, healthy, and so sure of himself that he could still relax.
Part of her was tempted to keep him at arm’s length, to wait for Ron, because she would rescue him. Another whispered that there was no guarantee she would be able to rescue Ron, and that even if she did, he may be so damaged he wouldn’t be able to love again. That perhaps he’d say his kiss during the battle hadn’t meant what they’d thought. Any number of things could happen, and she could be stuck, waiting for a boy who might never love her back, just to see some teenage crush through to the end.
Or she could take a giant leap off the deep end, and give in to her illogical desire to touch the surly man who’d tormented her throughout her school years. Maybe her passion toward him stemmed from her previous hatred of him? She’d heard someone say once that love and hate were closely related, and could easily turn on each other. She didn’t love Snape, but she appreciated him. She wanted him to herself. She respected him, and wanted so badly to snatch his offer to be whatever she needed. She just wasn’t sure what she needed.
A/N: I am 100% using the legilimancy as an excuse to display both of their sides without actually having two perspectives bouncing back and forth, like most of my other things... one of these days, I may actually do a single-person's limited experience in a story. lol

Cheese_And_Crackers: Does this work as a handhold to help with that last cliff you were hanging from? haha, though, I guess this counts as a cliffhanger too, especially if you're me, and know the title to the next chapter. >:)
owlofpaper: I'm very pleased that my writing made you check the manga out, and now I NEED to know what you thought of the manga, too!
crushingonsnape: That was exactly my thought when I put both up. ;) haha, only one for this time, though.
Lunarose : Haha, I know! I can't describe the hilariously giddy feeling I got at all you guys' reactions to the cliffhaner, though! I used to be a big fan of writing chapter endings that were a good leaving-off place, but... It's kinda funny to cut off at just the wrong moment. sorry. XD
Clem_: Well... It's pretty easy to leave it there, as I get to read ahead, and know what happens in the next chapter, and I know exactly the moment things get all hot and bothered. :) BUT please don't die. <3
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