Disclaimer: I own nothing at all, and am very, very glad that I do not for that means I have the chance to play with these characters and toss them into a very AU type of cauldron. The title is directly from Bill Whelan's piece 'Riverdance', because I am an utter (and very unapologetic) romantic. The excerpt at the beginning is from the song. Expect more excerpts, because I simply cannot resist.

Rating: M, to be careful.

Author's Note: This originally came to me as a one-shot but I do foresee that I shall continue with this, though it will not be particularly long – as you will see, you'll be thrown right into the thick of things. Perhaps another time will see me writing a longer story to do justice to this pairing, but for now, this particular story will be about 4 chapters long I believe. Obviously, this is an AU – Severus is 46 (not even in his full prime of life, yet), Hermione is 26, both are teachers at Hogwarts, though most other things in canon have occurred. Enjoy!

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Chapter 1: Hunger

Hear my cry in my hungering search for you
Taste my breath on the wind
See the sky as it mirrors my colors
Hints and whispers begin

November, 2006.

The sounds of merriment in the corridors and halls above are muffled by layers of stone and spells, a fact that has left Severus a very satisfied man. Sitting on a chair by the fire, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, all he hears are the crackles in the air as the flames jump in time with each word his eyes take in on the pages in front of him. It is a good book, he supposes; adequate, not wholly dull, somewhat enlightening. He is almost tempted to reach over to the coffee table in the middle of the two chairs in front of the fire to grab a pen and paper to take some notes (let it not be said that Severus Snape does not know the strange pleasure to be taken out of setting a pen to paper rather than quill to parchment), though his hands only twitch as he reads a line that makes his eyes roll. The book is discarded.

Absentmindedly he does decide to pick up the writing materials, though he does not put any words to the paper. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight is for him and him alone – the students are celebrating something or other, the other Heads of Houses are enjoying themselves, and he is utterly content with ignoring the whole sodding thing and enjoying some well deserved peace and quiet. For now, anyway.

He leans back in the chair and lets his head fall against the cushioned headrest. For a long moment his eyes close, the silence only punctured by the scratch of his pen as he forms lines and shapes that mean absolutely nothing at all. He looks down at his work and snorts out a bitter laugh, realising that even in barely there scribbles he has done exactly eight of them (whatever they are) and eight is a number he knows all too well.

It has been eight years since 'the day'; or 'the war'; or perhaps 'the defeat'. He has heard them all, seen them all written on front pages, capitalised, un-capitalised, italicised, underlined, Merlin name it – he has seen it. Eight years of new students who whisper stories that have grown more and more embellished; each month seems to bring new revelations or surprising twists. Twists that, of course, he has heard bugger all of before they come out of the stammering mouths of the first years that he teaches. Each new one does provide some measure of entertainment, although it is rare that he is spoken well enough of to leave him with more than the urge to growl. He did come back to Hogwarts after all – perhaps it is his penance to listen to such rumours and indulge trembling students with a glower every so often.

Without much thought he rises and heads further over to the small kitchen that runs along half of one side of the wall. It is orderly enough, though he cannot resist a small smirk when he sees the books strewn over the coffee tables (of which there are two; one between the two chairs at the fire, and another in front of the black couch in the middle of the room, sitting on top of a rug). He is a tidy man, and quite fastidious with his appearance – or at least his personal cleanliness – but one look at his private quarters will show that Severus is indeed a man that enjoys a moderate amount of freedom to fling his robes in the corner of the room when he arrives in a billow of black from a particularly trying class (when are they ever not trying?) or to let a mug or two stand in gaps on the multiple bookcases that line all of the walls with the exception of the fireplace and the kitchen. Open plan living suits him, he thinks, then inevitably he shrugs at the ridiculousness of such a thought. It does not escape him, however, that he has the time to think of such a thing; it is a very decadent thought, he decides, and so he stirs the dark hot chocolate with as much pleasure as he can rouse, then stretches out on the couch to stare again at the flames, taking sips every now and then.

The Muggle clock above the fireplace ticks the seconds away and he tries not to ponder the fact that he is, as he has been for nigh on a year now, waiting. He takes another long drink of the warm chocolate, a vice she is responsible for, though could any man resist when she'd managed to procure something with such dark percentage? It is nothing like the drinks served up by the house elves, nothing like the steaming mugs that the students clutch on cold days. It is rich, smooth, bitter. Almost like silk.

Another tick of the clock and Severus has finished his drink. He lets his head rest on the arm of the couch, his feet dangling over the other end. He is affecting nonchalance, something that works quite well for him – because he knows that she is here.

How?

The cat, of course. The cat always comes before she does – he has long suspected that she gives the thing a nudge or two to conjure up a reason to come and see him. Never once has he said directly that she need not do such a thing for that would require admitting that her presence in his chambers a few nights a week is welcome, something that he looks forward to.

Which it is.

She makes no sound as she enters; she lets the cat do the talking for her and he cracks open one eye as Crookshanks jumps up and settles his substantial weight on Severus' stomach.

"Your cat is far too familiar with my person," he remarks dryly, not bothering to turn his head to where she is undoubtedly standing at the doorway, taking in the sight. Why she does such a thing he'll never know, considering this has been repeated since she began coming all the way down here. In fact, he has never even understood why she comes at all. But he is too far gone to tell her to stop. Becoming dependent on a person is not something that he wishes, not after serving two masters and living to see them both die, and he is too old to think of himself as a fool that waits for the moment that she silently enters the room, yet he does wait. Quite foolishly, at that.

"He was cold," she says in return, defending herself. He shrugs it off and smirks into the air until she walks into the room, waving her hand so the door shuts quietly behind her with a click. "Tell me again why one must walk through your classroom to reach your quarters."

"Ten points for impudence."

"Twenty for being a cantankerous git," Hermione hurls back and he almost laughs. Of course they cannot deduct points – they are, after all, equals in a strange way. He knew her when she was young enough to be the most ridiculously annoying little child he had ever taught, and now he knows her as a woman who is nearing thirty. When she became that woman and not a child… well, Severus is uncertain, which in itself is disturbing and sobering. He is silent for a long moment as she settles into one of the chairs in front of the fire.

"I trust everything is under control upstairs," he says eventually, inwardly rolling his eyes at the realisation that it sounds like he actually cares about upstairs at all – he does not. But he does want to hear her voice.

"Somewhat," she says with a smile. "Someone managed to bring in some… treats."

"Oh?" Despite himself, his interest has been piqued and he opens both of his eyes and shuffles until his hands are linked behind his head to prop him up, all the better to see how her cheeks flush slightly. Or perhaps he is imagining it.

"Mmm," she hums, drawing it out with a familiar looking smirk that only widens when he huffs. "Something you would no doubt enjoy."

"Whiz-bangs," he says at once. This time he cannot stop a bark of laughter as she nods and covers her smile with a hand, looking away from him to face the fire. His fingers itch to push her hand away; it struck him a long time ago that she has a rather delightful smile. He clenches his hands together resolutely instead, wondering when he started using words like 'delightful'.

"I should have been there," he says with a grin, noting her pleased look. Why she always looks satisfied when he truly smiles, he has no idea.

"No you shouldn't have – you would have betrayed your dour persona by laughing."

"Well, there's that," he admits easily. Did her eyes just dart to where his shirt has ridden up? She looks away and somehow he is no longer in his forties, he is a stupid sod of a teenager again, so he yanks at the offending material until it covers his scarred stomach and she pretends not to notice. Does she truly find him so repulsive? Obviously not his company, as bad as it is, for she does keep coming, but not for the first time Severus finds himself wishing that he was not tortured by the beautiful, young, smooth woman sitting a few feet away from him. He is old, far older than he wants to be when she is in the room, yet there it is – he is old, she is young, he is a fool and seeing things that are not there. Even in her teaching robes, open to show only a plain pair of jeans and a white shirt underneath, she is far more beautiful than any woman he has spoken to in years. Her hair is not as bushy as it once was, she's grown it longer, but it's still curly and wild enough to make him want to thrust his fingers into the mess of it. She does not have many new wrinkles on her face apart from laugh lines but she is taller, and softer – somewhere, somehow (he does not know where nor when, something that is comforting) her breasts grew fuller, her waist more pronounced, her face… her face is older, in a way that he cannot place. Her eyes have seen things, to be sure, but she laughs with a strange seriousness, and she frowns more often than she used to. Perhaps this was what drew his attention to her in the first place; she is not dissimilar to him, which is a very, very strange idea.

"What were you reading?" she asks, her fingers flitting over the many titles on the coffee tables.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Hermione leans forward in her chair, one eyebrow cocked. "Severus," she says, eyeing him as she would a lying first year. His name catches him off guard – for a second he wonders what it would sound like if it came out from her lips like a sigh, or a cry of pleasure. He coughs and clears his throat.

"Truly, nothing. I was…" he waves a vague hand towards the empty mug, snorting when she beams.

"Hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate," he confirms.

"So you do like it!"

He resists the urge to make a comment insulting her intelligence, though his deadpan look must say it all because soon enough she shakes her head and stands up, only to jerk her chin to the side impatiently. "Move, then," she orders. He wastes no time and soon she flops down beside him, both of their socked feet resting on any spare place on the coffee table that isn't already occupied by a book.

He knows there is a question coming – why else would she sit closer to him? Hermione seems to prefer contact, touch, and while he does not particularly enjoy it, he certainly cannot bring himself to complain when her shoulder brushes his for a second, even if she could not possibly have meant to do it. Hermione is the type to put her hand on someone's arm if she is requesting something, or grab onto someone's hand if she is demanding instead. Once, she even laid a soft hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently, an act of comfort that he had not experienced for many years.

"Severus?"

He grunts in acknowledgement.

"Are you staying for Christmas?"

"That is an absolutely inane question, even coming from you."

When she replies, he can hear the smile in her voice. "Well, I thought I'd check."

"You have asked me that question each year since you began teaching," he replied, barely holding back a sneer.

"Maybe one year you will decide to… not stay," she says, then rubs her forehead. "Sorry. It was a stupid question, wasn't it? I just…"

"You just?"

"Never mind," she mumbles. Oh, but he does mind, Hermione – he does so want to know what you were going to say, but he won't ask.

"Right."

"Severus?"

He turns to her and their eyes meet, long enough to notice that her pupils dilate, though it's more than likely a trick of the light. "Yes?"

"I, uh…" Hermione has never been this tongue tied before. Severus waits, though he soon becomes impatient and his fingers start tapping on his bad knee. She sucks in a breath when she notices, obviously embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Do not apologise if you do not have a reason to," he chastises her, returning to the safe ribbing that they are accustomed to. Her sigh of relief is audible and whatever she was going to say has been swallowed up when she jumps up and goes to fix her own cup of hot chocolate. There is no telling what was going to come out of her mouth, but he brushes it aside, knowing that it can never be what he admits that he wishes to hear.

Eventually, he realises that he should say something. "How are your classes?" He knows, of course. Hermione's Muggle Studies classes are virtually the only classes that the students in his House talk of positively. Hermione has made a reputation for herself as the fair Professor; she does not favour anyone, no matter if their colours are green or red and gold.

"Oh," she grumbles inaudibly under her breath. "Fine. Really, they're fine," she says, noting his raised eyebrows. "I'm just a bit tired, that's all."

At once the atmosphere is tense. Severus knows that his face has frozen into its mask of politeness, the way it does when she refers to her life outside of their little bi-weekly meetings. The idea that she is seeing someone is… bewilderingly disconcerting. A slow heat spreads throughout his body, and it takes him a while to understand that he is angry that she is tired because of… because of what?

"Why?" He cannot stop himself. He has to know. For all that he is in his forties and she is in her twenties, for God's sake she is in her twenties, he has to know.

Hermione coughs and bites her lower lip, the movement so tantalizing that he cannot bring himself to look away.

Finally, she meets his gaze again. "I can't sleep. Or… yes. I'm not sleeping."

"You're not…" he trails off, seeing her words for what they are. Of course she has someone – of course there is a man in her bed that sees what he cannot, that touches what he cannot. For two years he has met her smiles in the staff common room with the polite half smiles that he has mastered, and now for one year he has sat with her in his chambers, or walked with her on the grounds outside when she bounds in with her endless energy, refusing to stay underground.

It does not give him any claim over her, though he bloody well wishes that it did. Not that he wants to claim her – no, claim is not the right word. 'Have' is not the right word, either. He simply… he simply wants. He has been a sodding fool to entertain the idea that, by some Muggle type miracle, there would be a woman on the earth who would desire his company. And he has found that woman in Hermione – she keeps returning to his chambers, making the trek through his classroom to his private quarters, flopping down on the couch or chair and making mindless conversation. It took him two months to enjoy the concept of it all, and four more months after that for her slender body to haunt his dreams. And now, after six months of waking to an uncomfortable hardness every fucking morning, he is marked for the fool that he always knew he was.

"If you are tired, then it is time for you to retire," he says curtly. "Goodnight."

He does not wait for her to answer him. It is a childish thing to do, but he gets up immediately and strides quickly through the room until he reaches the door at the other side, wrenches it open and then slams it behind him. The small corridor in front of him holds three doors, one to his bathroom, one to his bedroom, one to his private laboratory. He does not wait for her to leave, and after a moment's deliberation he chooses the door to the lab, descends the stairs in silence, and then stands in the dark and cold room, just registering that his hands are shaking with anger and disappointment.

He stands there for twenty minutes, and only when he notices the wards registering her departure does he push his shirt sleeves up and move robotically towards the cabinets, his mind already blank as he reaches for the ingredients to distract him. He has upset her, of that he has no doubt, and it is a measure of just how much she has wormed her way into his heart that it takes him only two minutes of chopping and measuring before he begins thinking of ways to apologise without really saying the words.