Beneath

He stiffened and shoved his hands further into his pockets, drawing his overcoat closer around his face. His skin was freezing. If not for his protective warming potion, he would surely have developed a malaise. Another cold blast tore across his face, his body. His eyes blinked back the tears caused by the abrasive wind, and he turned into wallwall for protection. He heard the smooth purr of the Malfoy\'s enchanted Jaguar, and risked a glance around the corner.

There she was, his obsession.

Devilishly loud, grinding music and groaning lyrics, presumably of the Muggle variety, pounded through the shell of the car, beating against the buildings, the ground, and Severus\' head. Why did she insist upon introducing young Malfoy to every aspect of the Muggle world, personally? There was a course for t was wasn’t there? Couldn’t he take the damn classes? She opened her door and stretched. Her hands pushed up to the heavens, as moonlight streamed over her lithe little body. Severus’ mouth dried like the Sahara. His heart stopped in his chest, as the moment dragged centuries.

Recovering a bit, he realized she was wearing that ridiculously short skirt again. It was plaid, proudly woven in Gryffindor crimson and gold, of course. It grazed Hermione’s long, strong, beautiful legs softly at mid-thigh. He remembered overhearing her tell Ginny Weasley that she found it in a muggle shop in New York City olidaliday with her family, along with that impossibly small sweater. He loved, no hated, no loved it when he saw her wearing it for the first time, coming out of Gringots, just a few days before the start of her seventh year. That was the day he started calling her Hermione inside his head, and the first day of his free fall into the deepest pit of hell.

Gods, how he wanted her!

He wanted to strip away all of the pretence and touch her, taste her. He wanted to run his hands just under the hem of that skirt, slowly, back and forth, over the tops of her legs, between her thighs. He wanted to flutter his fingertips over her delicate nub, softly teasing, tempting her to open. He started to shiver as he imagined her parting her legs for him, willingly, wantonly. He knew she would taste of honeyed apricots, as he imagined running his tongue over and into her...

He was losing his mind more each moment, and moments flowed into hours, days, months, years.

Sighing deeply, he wondered how his life had gone so far beyond the pale. His thoughts turned back to his decision to leave Voldemort and the weeks that followed. He had been so inspired then, so focused, during his first few years at Hogwarts with Albus. He smirked slightly, thinking of Albus Dumbledore\'s lectures in the early days. He insisted that Severus would be the only thing standing between the young Slytherins and Voldemort. He remembered begging Albus to allow him to teach the Slytherins all of their subjects. He wanted to try to reach the students immediately. He needed their full attention, to give them choices he never had, but Albus refused. Then, Severus offered to fill the vacant Defense Against the Dark Arts position. At least he could help protect those like him, with familial tto sto some of Voldemort’s highest-ranking followers, the students who would be among the first targeted by the dark ones. But again Albus denied him, stating that hopefully the students would seldom need to defend themselves, but that they would use potions in their every day lives. He insisted that Severus\' talents as an educator, and his ability to contribute worthwhile research to their community, would be severely limited in the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.

This rejection burned inside Severus for a very long time. Now, as well as then, he understood Albus\' point well enough. He just didn’t like it. If someone had only shown him a crumb of concern or support in his youth, he might not have become the worthless shell he was, driven to succeed in his quest, driven to skulking around corners, full of soul wrecking, body clenching desire for a brilliant, captivatingng wng woman. Gods, how he loathed himself! But it was too late for him.

In the beginning, he really didn\'t actively dislike the students outside of his house. He didn\'t give them that much thought. He was pursuing the identities of Voldemort’s secret followers, the ones he had never seen, and trying to offer a future to the children in his house who were raised to be mindlessly obedient. As time passed, he began to resent the extra demands on his time and attention. The Ravenclaws were fairly self-sufficient, but the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors stole precious class and research time from him and his Slytherins. He supposed this was the point at which his identity and reputation as an “odious bastard” first emerged. He was never a patient man, and the need to see as many Slytherins as possible go on to lead productive lives drove him. After so many years, he wouldn’t have the first clue as to how to be a charming, affable teacher like that joke of a wizard, Lockhart. Such niceties were reserved for people with time.

He was determined that his fate would not be shared by others like him, the so-called \"pure bloods\". Every pure and decent thing about them had been bred or beaten out long before their arrival at Hogwarts. He might not be able to rewrite their histories, but he damn well would give every ounce of his strength to ensure that they were not under Voldemort\'s thumb when they left school. He wanted so much for them to have the full life he never did. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to reflect with pride upon the succession of students who graduated since his tenure as the Slytherin head of house began. His careful attention had developed some of the finest Slytherin aurors, Ministry administrators, teachers, researchers, and business people in decades, and in doing so, built an intricate network of informants and spies for the Order of the Phoenix, the extent of which, even the Order’s most highly placed leaders could not conceive. He kept Albus apprised of his activities and those of his proteges; that was sufficient. Now that Voldemort was dead, most of his former students were free to enjoy their lives, which is what he wanted, wasn‘t it? Not their appreciation…

Sudden movement across the street jolted him. He watched Hermione begin to make her way to the Three Broomsticks entrance. She smiled and turned back to young Malfoy\'s conveyance, gesturing for Draco to hurry. Beneath the skin his body began to heat. His blood pounded against his temples, and down through him, permeating the surface. A stream of liquid fire licked along his skin. “Discipline, discipline,” he reminded himself, under his breath, forcing his body back under control.