The end is nigh, as we delve further into this strange romance...

Part 2

A witch and a wizard stood outside the gates of Hogwarts. One could be seen, and one could not.

"Will the spell hold, do you think?" she asked, staring up at the Headmistress' tower.

"It's held every other time."

"Every other—wait." Without thinking, she thrust her hand out then sucked in a breath when she encountered the side of his body. Her hand, so unused to initiating contact, wavered. Strangely, though, her heart did not stutter; her breath did not catch. She felt… comfortable with the fact that her hand was digging into his hip. The bone there was sharp and somehow she registered that he was apparently wearing enough layers to soften her jab. It should have shocked her, that she could touch him and not react, but Snape hissed and impropriety won out over her triumph.

"You've been before?" she mumbled, removing her hand. "You didn't tell me. How is it that a former Headmaster cannot enter the Restricted Section?"

"I can. Of course I can. Minerva can, too. But…" he faltered. "Albus indulged Irma, and to my knowledge, she still reigns in the library…"

"Oh, yes. She very much does."

"In that case, she knows about everyone that enters. Everyone."

"She has wards? Wards that you can't adjust?" Impossible, she thought, though she certainly wasn't about to say that.

"I could. But she'd know, and since only a Head can adjust them, she'd no doubt ask Minerva, who then…"

Hermione exhaled with a growl. "Are you coming in with me?"

"To the library. Not into the Restricted Section. We'll work it out as we go along."

"You're so…" She searched for words, then went with: "Chipper. You're very chipper."

When he finally responded, his voice was so close to her that her eyelids fluttered. His breath was warm as it ghosted over her ear. She suspected that he was amused.

"How did you think I would be, hmm?"

Laughing nervously, she managed an awkward, "I didn't think you'd be anything. I thought you were off somewhere sunning yourself. But four years… you're more positive than I'd expect."

He left her side to bark out a hoarse laugh, but then he was back beside her, murmuring in that baritone voice that slid into her ear and slithered through her veins, igniting as it went. "I have been content, Miss Granger. It was… nice, to be unseen for a time."

"But you want to be seen now?" she pressed. "You're ready to come back?"

"Back? To society?" Snape chuckled; again she thought his throat was unused to producing such a sound, for his laugh was more of a rasp than anything else. "No. Can't imagine anything worse. But I'd like to function without resorting to Confundus charms."

"Explain."

"Can't very well shop at the store can I, eh? How'd you fancy seeing vegetables floating through the air, if you were a no-nonsense Muggle?"

Stifling a giggle, she thought of her Tory voting grandfather following the track of a bag of onions as it floated through a supermarket. "That's very true. How are you even alive, then? Have you been eating at all?"

He snorted. "I've got a team of house elves at my beck and call."

"No!"

"No," he allowed, and she knew that he was grinning. Having never seen it before, she thought she might quite like to see a grinning Snape. It'd probably be quite frightening. Terrifying, even.

"Ready?"

He sighed. "Or not, here I come."

"God!" exclaimed Hermione, marching through the gate. "Terrible joker. Absolutely terrible."

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They stood at the rope that divided the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. It was a quiet morning; only a handful of students were working and from the looks of them, they'd arrived during a senior study period.

"Well?" he whispered, standing as close as he could without touching her.

It wasn't that she'd mentioned anything, but he'd watched her during the afternoon before summoning the courage to reveal himself in her flat. There was something… there was something about it, about touch. She was as skittish as a colt, which was not how he remembered her. Severus recalled that she was the one who was always touching; it was one of the things that used to annoy him. She'd sling her arms around a companion's shoulders, or pinch someone's ear if she had to. Once, she'd even touched him, on the long, long night when he'd healed her after the debacle in the Department of Mysteries. He could see it clearly still: a vision of her, weeping on the bed, grasping at his arms as he held onto her shoulders to steady her from moving too much.

He'd gritted his teeth against recoiling, then. He was no stranger to such an aversion.

But what had happened to Granger, to make her so like…himself?

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"Well," she said, depositing the pile on the coffee table, "that was certainly fruitful."

She felt his presence at her side. Both stood back from the table, and she jerked her chin to him, indicating that he could do the honours. The pile of shrunken books began to expand slowly until the table was groaning under their weight. Hermione estimated that there would be about twenty books – no wonder Irma had scowled so.

Snape was silent. Tactfully, she turned and made for the kitchen, allowing him a measure of privacy with which to become reacquainted with his belongings.

"Are they the very worst ones?" she asked quietly, her attention mostly on the content of her cupboards. Bread, pickles… there was cheese in the icebox, so lunch was sorted. Sometimes it threw her, living in a completely Magical environment; her own flat was a hybrid, thanks to George and Arthur's experiments. She could live Magically, and hence freely bar rent, but she maintained enough connections to watch a film once in a while, or invite her parents over and flick light switches instead of her wand. But a fridge and microwave, she happily did without. It was small enough without adding in a big, white and humming fridge in the spot where Crooks' food tray went.

His absentminded voice floated over to where she stood assembling the sandwiches. "Not the worst, no. These are just the most obscure. The worst are in, and have always been in, my home. The standard offerings are also there; Kingsley managed to send many on with none the wiser, but Irma had been lusting after my books for years. He had to bargain with her."

Hermione was filled with a sudden appreciation for the Hogwarts librarian. No limp fish was Pince. Not for the first time, she commented, "Kingsley would've been far better at this than I, you know."

"Yes, but how could he explain being at Hogwarts? There'd be questions." He paused. "I dislike questions."

The absurdity of the comment threw her off, and she let out a peal of laughter that ended with a graceless hoot. "You're completely mad," she said, mostly to herself, but she smiled when he chuckled under his breath. "Who would've thought? The dour teacher and the bookworm. Researching Disillusionment."

"The bookworm? Is that still how you see yourself?"

She headed back into the sitting area with the sandwiches. Wasn't that what she was? Wasn't that how everyone saw her? Penniless co-owner of a tiny law firm with Padma, and everyone still saw her as the witch with her nose in a book. There wasn't much point in reminding them that books were what gave her the degree – she'd studied for three years as an Apprentice at the Ministry. The paper confirming it was framed and on the wall at work. But not many saw that achievement – they just saw the girl poring over a tome, quills in her hair, tea at her elbow.

"No," she said honestly, handing his shimmer a plate. "Here. Cheese and pickles."

He gave a pleased, quiet sigh. "My favourite. Thank you."

"You've got to stop thanking me. I'll begin to get used to it." She sank down onto the sofa and only realised once she was there that he was sitting on it, too. They weren't close enough to touch, but he was so entirely not there that she wondered if she'd even mind if their knees bumped.

Between mouthfuls, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck; she often felt this way when she was working out whether to fill the silence or wait for the other person to speak. And then, surprising herself, she thought about kissing a Disillusioned man; how would his lips feel? Soft? Cold? She'd always been attracted to intelligence, but surely this was something else – being attracted to a man that wasn't even there at all, only because of the things that came out of his mouth. That was it, decided Hermione: she was attracted to him—no use hiding it—because he had a nice voice, and she liked that she could hear his brain working. There was evidence that he had one. He didn't bother to hide it – he was upfront about it. 'I'm intelligent, now piss off.' She giggled, delighted with his unapologetic ways.

"What are you giggling about?"

She finished the sandwich and wiped her mouth. "Oh, nothing," she sighed, turning on the sofa to face him. Or, to face what she could see of him. "How does it feel?" she blurted, frowning. "How does your body feel? After being Disillusioned for so long?"

"Cold," he answered immediately; she hadn't expected the honesty. "Cold, and… quiet. That was enough for a long time. But now, I should like to be warm again."

Without a word, she pointed her wand at the grate in the corner and watched the fire spring to life.

"I wouldn't call you a bookworm," he muttered after he'd sent both plates to the sink. Squinting, she could see his outline enough to know that he was leaning forward on the couch, staring at the opposite wall. His elbows were resting on his knees. There wasn't much else, though she had an impression of long, long hair before he turned to her and there was only a blurred shimmer again.

"What would you call me? Do I even want to know?" Hermione winced. Probably not. But then, it was a good enough test – his answer would determine how she felt. The bizarre awareness of him could be stifled, deleted, if he was less than kind now.

He cleared his throat. "I think you are extraordinarily lovely."

"Do you?" There wasn't enough breath in her body to support saying anything else. Her cheeks blazed, and she held herself completely still.

Softly, he murmured, "I suppose I do."

Hermione brushed a stray hair from her forehead, self-conscious.

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Severus wanted to kick himself. Forty-four, and he was making sheep's eyes at the girl. Thank the gods for small graces, he thought, remembering that she couldn't see his mooning.

He'd made that stupid comment, the 'lovely' comment, and her lips had quirked. Not in a smile, nor with a withheld speech. She'd looked at him, eyes wide and blinking, and moved her mouth.

Had she…

Was she…

He'd wanted to kiss her when she came out of the Restricted section with his old books. Her smile was so triumphant and smug, that he instantly wanted to wipe it away from her lips – a kiss was the first method that came to mind.

Why?

Why?

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The next day, he shadowed her at the Ministry library. When they read through the tomes in her flat later that night, she realised that he was muttering the words under his breath.

When she was sure that he wasn't paying any attention to her at all, Hermione closed her eyes and listened to the melodious sound of his deep voice sliding over obscure potion ingredients. He kept doing it – he kept reading out loud, and before long they'd spent an hour with her sitting with her head against the back of the sofa, and her feet on the table. Her eyes were closed; she was listening with all her senses.

When she dragged herself to bed, her mind was with the invisible man on the couch. Her clitoris was throbbing. She didn't quite know what she wanted to do about it.

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It came to a head three days later. Hermione stumbled into the flat, exuberant. She was met with the smell of alcohol.

"What is this?"

"Forgive me," said Disillusioned Severus—she'd stopped thinking of him as Snape; when he was sleeping on her couch, Severus was more fitting—and he waved a bottle of beer in the air to show her that he was standing in the kitchen. Warily, she set her bag down and approached him. She stood close enough to feel the coldness of his body, and fancied that she heard him swallow.

Puzzled, she repeated, "What is this?"

He leaned closer to her; she could see an outline of his face, but again, the charm held too well. All that was apparent was a faint impression of longer hair and sharp features. At that moment, she wished that she could see him; she wanted to see his eyes, to see if the black oil within was aflame.

"I, ah…" he began, then swore quietly. She giggled, disarmed by his lack of composure. There was something in the air then, something that made her think that he was smiling. She could feel the warmth of it.

"I thought I needed something to start me off," he said slowly. She had the distinct impression that he was studying her; again, Hermione considered how bizarre it was that she was speaking to an invisible former teacher who was looming over her, apparently smiling.

"Start you off?" She shifted on her feet; looked around the flat. "For what?"

Without preamble, he said carefully, "I think I may have found the solution to my… predicament. There's a butterfly, we should find it in Kew Gardens. And when it sucks on a certain nectar, it reacts with its—ah, anyway. It's what I think should work. I'll get it, then create the potion around it. Our work, for now, is… complete. And I don't know how I feel about that. So, I'm drinking. To start me off."

She was taken aback. The news hit her in a way that felt like a physical shock. Blinking, she mumbled, "I don't know how I feel about that either."

He couldn't be seen, and thus she took her courage in hand and crossed her arms. "I don't think I'm very… happy."

"No," he said, and he was hesitant. "No, neither am I…"

"Are you going to leave?" she demanded.

She'd grown used to his invisible presence; it was reassuring in an off-the-wall way. And she'd… she'd… she'd grown used to listening to him read aloud on ingredients and techniques and charms, and using the memory of his independent analyses to stroke herself into oblivion each night. She didn't know how she felt about his success, but she did know that she didn't want to lose whatever it was that she had with him. Companionship, she decided eventually. That was what it was. He was her companion – he felt it, she knew he did. And somehow she knew that she shouldn't kiss him yet. He didn't know yet – he was still undecided, still careful. She was ready to coax him into her, to guide his cock inside until she was filled.

Which would be an obstacle, for a witch who hadn't touched a man in years.

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Was he going to leave?

He went to sleep thinking about it. Was he? He should, surely. There was no other reason for him to be here with her, in her flat, on her sofa.

Severus turned over and burrowed into the pillow. He was warm here, and comfortable.

He didn't want to leave.

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She booked in two day's leave – the first leave she'd taken since establishing the firm. He was proud of her, if he could even make such a claim on the witch. She was frazzled and off-kilter and every single movement she made had a wild purpose – to stride across the room, to shove her hair off her face, to throw open a door because she had no damn time to do it politely, thank you very much.

Twenty-four and she'd completed an Apprenticeship at the Ministry and started her own law firm. He knew now that Padma was the one who fronted up at court; the Ravenclaw was more persuasive, less in-your-face-and-piss-off-if-you-disagree than Granger. Hermione was the one who did the background work – assessing cases, researching positions, dissecting laws to find loopholes.

She was marvellous at it.

There. He couldn't hide it. He was proud of her.

Was it a polite kind of proud?

Severus tapped his pen on the table and scratched out the coordinates of where the ingredient could be found.

No; it probably wasn't a polite kind of proud. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to kiss her.

It was a very different kind of proud.

And he thought… that is, he suspected that… it might be welcome.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, appearing at his elbow. He hadn't told her, but when she placed herself so close to him, the heat of her body to his Disillusioned form was amplified and heady and raw. His limbs were so absorbed in the coldness of the spell, that her warmth was a marked difference. Slightly, he leaned towards her, eyelids fluttering.

Surprising himself, he asked her, "What happened with it? With touch?" Where did it go? Why don't you use it? Why do you shy away from it?

She pursed her lips. He caught himself thinking that if she were his, he could pull her onto his lap, stroke her back and call her Darling, and perhaps it would soothe her.

Sighing, Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "The Manor. She was on me, Bellatrix, and—and I—well…" He reached for her then, just the tip of his index finger to where her hand was flat on the table beside him. Severus pressed down, the smallest of touches. She held her breath and then released it in a trembling gush of air.

"Control. That's what I didn't have. And that's what I need. No fleeting moments. No independent thought. I want control over absolutely everything, so… So, I'm not…" Here she paused and roughly rubbed at her eyes. She didn't want to cry, and he was fascinated with how she managed to force her eyes not to.

"So I'm not a very good person. To be with. I'm not a very good person to be with."

He said nothing.

Encouraged by the silence and the fact that any reactions he may have would go unseen, she continued, and her voice was just a little louder. "The first time I had sex, I think he thought it was a game. He loved it. I tied his hands to the frame of the bed and—and I swung my leg over. Our bodies touched here…" She grabbed his hand—she was furious, he realised—and jerked it in one movement down from her hip bones to her thigh, before she dropped it. "…to here, and that was it. He thought it was great; until the next time was the same. And the next. And the next. And I went to therapists, that first year. Muggle, Magical. Nothing worked; nothing at all. And then I left it – stupidly. Because of course it worsened, and it ran rampant in the end. It is rampant, in a way. But I have it: this thing. This… inconvenience. It's part of me now, I suspect."

Severus hung his head. He burned with mortification—not shame, no, never that—because his body was aflame with desire and his cock was hard and aware. He wanted her to ride him. He wanted this woman, this young, tiny package of a woman, to ride him and fix him and fuck him until she realised that he came to her with no designs. He'd needed her help, that was it, and he was almost a blank slate when it came to women. She could mould him to whatever it was that she wanted: a decade he'd gone without anything, and he'd stopped placing importance on that long ago.

Comprehending that he couldn't effectively solve her problems, he offered what he knew instead. "Take it out."

"What?" She sat down at the table, frowning. "Sorry. What?"

He repeated, "Take it out. The memory; take it out. Store it. You'll be left with… you'll know that it happened. The knowledge will stay. But the feelings, the minute details…"

Hermione stared at the table; Severus wished he knew what she was thinking. "Gone?" she whispered, her dark eyes darting to his.

He nodded slowly. "I'm sure you've considered this."

She said, "Yes, yes. Except… I don't have a pensieve. I can't afford one. The Ministry has a formal one that we can use if need be but it's…"

"Too public."

"Indeed."

"Minerva's?"

"At Hogwarts? No. No, I can't. The same reasons, I suppose."

"Fair enough."

They sat in silence for a handful of minutes until Severus cleared his throat; there was a grin on his face. "I have one. You may use it."

One tear fell before she could stop it. Hermione closed her eyes, smiled. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

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They ignored the ingredient for the day. Instead, he took her to Spinner's End. She held her wand to her temple and drew out the sickly, silvery memory.

It wouldn't fix her, but he hoped it would lessen what pained her.

And hope… hope was new for Severus, who had spent the last few years on his own, re-establishing what it meant to live and breathe and function. He'd needed the time to himself, but as Hermione reached for him and awkwardly embraced him as she wept, he knew that he'd had enough. He wanted to come back.

He even thought that he could come back to her.

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The next day, he took her hand and Apparated them both to a greenhouse nestled within Kew Gardens. She, too, was Disillusioned and she thought they made quite a pair. But when they reached where the butterfly resided—it was as blue as blue could ever be—he bade her to remove the spell. Somehow she sensed that he was uncomfortable with her remaining in the state for longer than she needed to be.

"Here," he said, moving to stand behind her. His voice was a slow rumble that began deep within his chest. It unnerved her, his closeness, but she revelled in it.

"Do you see?" Carefully, he reached around her and picked up her hand, pointing with her fingers to where the butterfly was settled. With the other hand, he placed a pair of magical glasses over her eyes; he'd retrieved them from Spinner's End, and they were perfect. She could see everything that should have ordinarily been hidden to her.

"I see," she breathed in wonder as she watched the butterfly. It was there in the middle, drinking the nectar – lapping at it, even, she might have said.

"And do you see…" Severus breathed in, and the air felt thick; heavy. "Do you see the proboscis? Do you see the butterfly, how he is… He is on the flower, and his tongue—not his nose, no use calling it a nose, because it isn't, and still tongue suits our purpose here more than tube—is working to draw in the nectar. All of it – the sweetness, the wetness. Do you see how the two halves of it are twisted and curled together? Do you see how the slender tongue devours the nectar? Can you see how he is sipping the nectar, even devouring it?"

She was so aroused and aware and alive that she could barely stand. Her knees were trembling. She moaned, a tiny breathy sound, and he was at her, his chest flush against her back, his arm snaking around to hold her waist.

"Do you see?" he repeated hoarsely, his breath stirring tendrils of hair near her ear. "Do you?"

Hermione smiled lazily, triumphantly. "I do. I see it, oh… I see it."

Abruptly, Severus left her. She felt cold and she mourned the loss of his solidity. "Where—what—where are you?"

His voice came from where the butterfly had been. She'd been too aroused, too unfocused, to realise that somehow, he was extracting what the butterfly had just taken in. It was held in the invisible cage of his hands, and when he released it, it flew into the air, bright blue wings beating with a heavy look of confusion.

She cocked her head and grinned. She rather knew how that felt.

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Hermione Apparated them into her bedroom. He was flustered, and she was wet.

"Let me make the potion," he implored her, invisible hands roaming over her breasts. The rest of him stayed away, stayed far enough so she couldn't feel him pressed against her, but oh, gods, she wanted to. "Let me make it."

"No, no, no," she exclaimed, head falling back against the door. "No. I want you. Oh, I just—god, I just want you like this. Now." She wouldn't say: 'please'. Not for this, and not like this. "I want you," she repeated, hissing with pleasure when he bent and pressed his lips around where her nipple was. Her singlet was damp and cold on the sensitive skin when he left it, and she smirked, pulling off her own clothes in a few swift movements.

When she was naked before him, she heard, rather than saw, his clothes fall to the floor.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, allowing her to push him onto the bed. "Do you know how alluring you are now? Ride me," he demanded, groaning as she followed him, crawling over his body until he could feel her slick quim pressing down, down, down onto his cock. "Gods—I can't—I won't—Hermione…"

"Shh." Her hips were undulating, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. She bit down on her lower lip, considering, and then her mouth was on his and she was kissing him, sucking his tongue into her mouth at the same time as she sunk down onto him, drawing him into tight, wet heat.

Because he couldn't be seen, Severus arched his back and moaned, his face contorting with pleasure. Because he couldn't be seen, he closed his eyes and cried out her name as she fucked him until he lost all traces of coherent thought.

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One week later, he was visible.

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Two weeks later, she sat him down in the kitchen and took scissors to his hair. He'd let it meander its black, silken way down to his buttocks and she refused to allow him to chop it all off entirely. They compromised; Hermione cut it to the middle of his back, and when he kissed her in the bath that night, she wound his hair around her wrists.

"There," she said, smiling at him from under her lashes. "You are mine, now. You cannot leave. I have you now."

His black eyes burned. Pale, spidery fingers cupped her cheeks, tracing the soft angles of her face. "I have you now," he echoed faintly, and he smiled.

fin.

Original prompt by Amorette, for the 2016 Crossgen fest on Livejournal: SSHG in a research project together, Hermione trying to deny the lust she feels.