As per usual, Severus and Hermione belong to JKR. This is now a two-shot.

Little Blue Dress

The December afternoon is bitterly cold and Hogsmeade is covered in snow. As she trudges along, head bent down against the wind, Hermione decides that the village looks like the inside of a snow globe.

The streets are almost deserted, though it does not fool her. Most of the other students are here somewhere to buy last minute gifts, and the shops are so full that they look as if they'll burst at any moment. But not many are outside; instead they hurry from shop to shop, easing their way inside crowded aisles and shouting out apologies for bringing in the weather.

She is bundled up in layers in an attempt to hold off the chill that will no doubt seep into her bones. Her hood is pulled up and almost over her face; she is largely unrecognisable.

Just another student.

Which is probably for the best, considering what currently has her transfixed.

Students don't bother to come this far up the main street; fair enough, she supposes, given it caters more to those who live within the village. There are the odd clothing stores, and a nondescript looking pub towers over everything else.

Except for this store.

It's tiny. A poor excuse for a retail shop, really. Hermione wonders if she should send an anonymous suggestion via Owl then dismisses the idea as foolish.

Besides, it means that it'll stay this way. Small, inviting.

Discreet.

She is so close to the window that her nose almost touches the glass. The display is beautiful, but it isn't the flowers that cascade down from the roof inside that has caught her eye.

No - it is the dress.

Next to her average height, it is positively miniscule. The mannequin would surely only come up to her knees.

She places her palms onto the glass window and sighs. It is enchanting. Hermione can see it in her mind's eye now, this lovely little blue dress. It would fit a little girl - lost in the daydream, she decides that the girl has wild, mahogany curls (for how could a babe be born of her body and not inherit her horrid hair, after all).

The dress is sleeveless - the type that is terribly unsuited to the current weather. Lace lines the collar; just a small amount of pure white. The material of the garment looks so soft that it could be silk - foolish for a child that would spill something onto it in seconds, but perhaps charms have been added to it.

Forgetting herself, Hermione clucks her tongue and huffs. Of course there are charms added to it.

Sometimes she forgets where she actually is - forgets what she is.

Especially when she is fixated on the beautiful blue dress. Hermione is too young for a child - she's not married, nor is she in a relationship for goodness' sake, but for a long moment her chest burns with the longing of it all. It burns so much that she doesn't factor in the fact that she is only nineteen – twenty now, if she's honest – and has only just survived a war.

Perhaps it's the time of year - she's always a bit maudlin, a little emotional, around Christmas. It could be the war; surviving it has led to a desire for something tangible rather than sweaty handshakes and medals shoved into her grasp by warbling personalities.

Her heart aches for this little girl that she sees in the back of her mind. A little girl that twirls and spins, a girl that sticks her tongue out to catch the falling snow.

Is it a glimpse of her future?

"Oh, I hope so," she whispers reverently, so lost in the image that she doesn't realise how her hands have clutched onto her empty stomach.

Hermione finally notices the little ivory coat that the shopwitch has just levitated onto another mannequin - it is to match the dress. She sighs again, taken over by the simple, delicate beauty of the clothes.

A child!

She hasn't ever thought of children - hasn't ever dreamed of a swollen belly nor ten little fingers and ten little toes. The whole concept should be absurd to her, at her age.

But it isn't.

"Oh," she breathes, unable to formulate words. The desire is so strong that it is almost painful.

It is then that she sees him.

Him.

He doesn't know she's noticed him. Of course he hasn't - he'd be gone in the blink of an eye.

He is but a shadow across the street, leaning with his back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

All of this is normal.

And yet...

She dares to glance at his reflection. Even from here, she can see how his eyes are burning; she can picture easily just how intense the obsidian orbs would be.

He isn't looking at her.

No. Not at all.

He's focusing on the same thing that she is - he believes he is safe, because he's sensed, even from across the street, how beguiled Hermione is by the dainty little blue dress in the window.

He is looking at the dress. Staring at it, drinking it in like a man whose mouth is parched.

Hermione no longer watches the dress. She is very careful; she does nothing except move her eyes to study his reflection, to catch the way one of his hands reaches out just for a second as if he is chasing another little girl, one with straight silken hair, one with eyes as dark as the night sky.

He is as lost as she is.

It knocks the wind out of her to see him like this. Since his return to Hogwarts, he has been vacant, quiet, and almost unobtrusive in his unfamiliar teaching methods. He barely raises his voice these days, and she had thought him close to dead inside.

Until now.

His lower lip is turned down into a slight wince and he closes his eyes, as if the longing for something he believes he'll never have is just too hard.

Seeing him like this bothers Hermione; it hurts her just as much as the desire for this phantom child did.

She doesn't want to bring him out of whatever scene he has conjured in his mind - she's sure that it would be beautiful, that the child he's thinking of would be absolutely stunning - but she can't bear to see him like this.

Not after all he's done.

In a movement so swift that Professor Snape flinches with surprise, she whips around and marches across the street. She pretends that she hasn't seen him until she attempts to move past him to get into the shop he's been hovering outside of - some dull looking Divination store - and she crashes into him with purpose.

"Oh!" Hermione stumbles a bit, and his strong hands take a hold of her arms to steady her. She blinks the snow out of her eyes and looks up at him to see him scowling down at her. It's a relief, the scowl. It's been as absent as his usual snarl.

"Hello, Professor Snape," she murmurs, daring to smile so he's distracted enough to keep his hands on her. "Lovely day."

He says nothing.

He's so close that she begins to wonder if she should just kiss him. It stuns her, this thought, and by the widening of his eyes it's obvious that he saw the way her gaze darted to his thin lips. She's never wanted to kiss Professor Snape before.

And why not? It's a valid question, one to be thought over; he's an arresting, striking man. Intelligent and almost beautiful in his gracefulness. Even his hair – she wants to touch the thin strands of black silk and see for herself how they truly feel.

Hermione has barely wanted any other man at all.

But he's caught her, taken her in hook line and sinker and he hasn't even meant to do so.

Hermione swallows and clears her throat. He won't speak; she knows now that he won't even say a word.

The strange, tense atmosphere between them is excruciating and she doesn't know how to get herself out of it. All she knows is that she must - she must move past him, she must go back to the castle, she must sit on her own and analyse just why she suddenly and very unexpectedly wants this unhappy, bitter man settled between her thighs, moving with her. She wants his downturned lips on her skin; she wants his long, talented fingers to trace circles down her spine.

She wants to be the catalyst for him to feel alive again.

Hermione is almost breathless.

"Sir," she mumbles, her cheeks a mortified shade of red. She doesn't want to look away from his eyes - he looks puzzled now, almost intrigued by this slip of a girl who he's still holding onto. He tilts his head to the side. Hard black eyes soften.

"Sir?"

A door opens somewhere down the street and the noise that cascades over them is enough for Professor Snape to blink twice then give a short, tense huff. His fingers uncurl and slowly retreat from her warm winter cloak.

Hermione doesn't want him to speak. She knows he'll go for the jugular, insult her in some way, and she doesn't want to ruin the realisation that she desires him so fiercely that underneath all of her layers, her upper arms are burning from the way he held her.

And somehow, judging by the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again, Hermione thinks that he has come to the same conclusion. He looks down at his hands and examines them, like he has been branded from touching her. This is most telling; exceedingly gratifying.

She must leave.

"Good afternoon, Professor," she whispers, breaking the moment without meeting his eyes. She walks away from him quickly, not even bothering to enter the shop.

At the end of the street, she is filled with temptation and she gives into it. Hermione turns and searches for him.

He's still there.

She grins widely; she even giggles a bit.

Because he's still standing in exactly the same place and the display in the shop window has been forgotten.

Now he is watching her.