Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

A/N: For AdelaideArcher, based on a particularly delicious GIF that has been doing the rounds. If I could put links here, I would!

The Lure

He sits in the corner of the staff room; the leather chair is tucked half into the shadows. There is another chair angled towards his yet still she does not take it; it has been years, and always she stays in the seat at the end of the main table that she has had since what feels like time immemorial.

There is a faint scratching coming from his side of the room, and Hermione stretches in her chair, casting a surreptitious look his way. It is enough to ascertain that there is red ink present, and hence he is in The Mood. Already something unnameable tightens within her belly, twisting until it becomes an ever present ache.

She looks down at the book open on the table; it holds no more sway over her than it did when she first entered and found herself alone with Severus Snape. It is this time that she treasures, these moments of peace, of quietness, of stillness, where the only sounds in the room are his slow even breaths and her own swallows that surely must be audible.

It is not a well kept secret. Oh, she has tried – gods above, has she tried. For one entire year, Hermione Granger was very, very good. Her eyes were trained just behind him so she did not look into his gaze that is so grey it is black, and she schooled her tongue not to wet her lips when he passed in the corridors, the elegant, catlike stalk causing all moisture to flee her mouth.

She is sure that he knows; how could he not? The man is perceptive, yes, and there are a million more things that she could say to describe his attentive eyes and calculating looks but more than that – he simply knows.

He knows that her heart is beating out a military tattoo because of his proximity. He is well aware that by this point, her knickers are uncomfortably wet. There is no hiding the fact that her cheeks, too, are flushed. She is a hopeless case. It is as if she has been denied him for an age, for all of her life; she wants him this badly.

Even want is too simple a word. Hermione desires Severus Snape – nay, she needs Severus Snape. With one purred word, he could have her on her knees and reaching for his belt buckle if he so chose. A single direct command would send her diving for her wand to ward the room and have her robes in a neat pile on the nearest chair while she presents her bare form to him on the table, ready for his inspection.

He does not do these things. Though she despairs of it, Severus does not order her to take him deep into her mouth in dark alcoves, nor does he ever even hint at taking her on the table of the staff room.

Hermione sits at this table now, and she wants. All of these things, she wants, yet does not verbalise. He will see them one day, in one of the looks that lasts too long, a telling sign that he has gone searching for hidden secrets.

Good.

She wants that, too.

Still he sits in the corner, the quill moving steadily over some poor little bastard's attempt to please their Professor. Hermione knows how to please this man; yes, yes she does. Not that he would ever admit to it, but she is not without her own feminine talents.

She takes care to be extra loud when easing her body out of the chair; sighing as if her back has ached from sitting there for an hour, then moaning innocently when she raises her hands above her head as she stretches. A breath is caught in the room, and it does not belong to her.

Schooling her features, the witch tucks her book under her arm. She is an exceedingly polite woman when she wishes to be, and it gives her the most convenient excuse. There is one thing she is after tonight: only one; she isn't greedy, after all. And he will give it to her - just one look is all she desires.

Hermione adjusts her robes and twists her loose hair around her fingers before letting it fall down her back. Advancing on him slowly, she lets her mouth form a friendly smile.

Time stops when she halts in front of his chair. He does not raise his head.

Her voice, sharp and clear as unsullied waters announces her reason for approaching him. "Good night, Severus."

The black hair stays bent down. The movement of the quill pauses. There is a small sound that reminds her of someone taking a deep breath in before the plunge. And again, it is not her lips that it is drawn into.

Victory is ever so sweet.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Severus' eyes begin the journey from her feet to the robes of deepest black that swim over her curves. Up, up, up they come until finally, finally, black orbs meet whiskey.

His stare is piercing and it thrusts into her, leaving her wanting, speculating. She bites her lip, allowing one white-as-pearl canine to sink into the soft lower bank of her mouth. The juxtaposition of the white on plum lipstick is intended. Ever the consummate actor, Severus does and says nothing; there is only the hint of dilation in the sea of black that are his eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd think him disinterested.

His voice is an art form. It is sin and redemption all at once; it is beguiling and commanding, sly and demanding, but there is something else in it. It is cautious. He is unsure, not wholly certain; the obsessive attraction she has felt for him for all of these years slams into a rigid, unbending wall of love.

She is ruined.

The wizard speaks, his dark, coffee coloured voice just above a whisper. "Good night, Hermione."

It seems like another night of failure, another night of returning to her bed and trying to catch a release that just won't come.

And yet…

When Hermione turns to leave the room, there it is.

There!

His eyes, believing they are safe, flick down to the curve of her backside under her robes. Intentionally and just so damn silently ecstatically, she begins the walk out of the room, offering a tiny exaggeration to the swing of her hips.

Oh, she has him all right.