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Chapter Two

He looked strange sitting in her living room, on her cream coloured sofa.

He was sitting there, his pale face stark against his black hair that fell to his shoulders. His cheeks were sunken, making his nose looked far larger than it already is. And his eyes, oh, his eyes.

'Are you real?' It was all she could say. Her fingers had reached out for him, itching, yearning to touch his face but she forced herself to stop. It felt as though he would disintegrate if she touched him, like the him who visited her in her dreams.

'Yes.' His voice sent shivers down her spine. How long had she yearned, wished to hear him speak? To hear his voice once again. To hear him call her name.

'You are dead,' she said. 'I saw you…'

'I know.'

She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout at him. At the world. It felt as though she might burst from the rush of emotions that attacked her constantly in angry waves. She was furious, yes, but relieved and happy and Merlin, she loved him, still loved him, with all her might, and the sight of him, alive at her doorsteps just –

Their lips collided.

His taste, Merlin, his taste. She missed it. She missed him. His arms circled her waist, pulling close against him as his lips hungrily sought hers, his tongue trailing across her lips, tasting her, exploring her.

She could taste the saltiness of tears – whose, she did not know.

They were an implosion of emotions. The world collapsed around them as their lips and hands desperately found each other. They were a car crash, high impact, bodies colliding, adrenaline screaming, tires screeching as nails found skin through layers of cotton and silk. And tears, there were tears, tears and desperation and pain.

Maybe – Maybe through her kisses she could convey all her longing, her pain, her passion, her love to him and maybe through his kisses could she understand what he was feeling.

He had pressed her up against the wall, her back slamming against the cream coloured wall where a picture of them hung. His hand was underneath her shirt, his thumb brushing against the thin fabric of her bra, and the other cupped her face, his fingers tangled up in the wildness of her hair. His erection was pressing against her and she felt that familiar pool of heat burning inside. 'Severus.' His name falls off her lips in short breathless gasps, warm against his ears.

She wanted him. She needed him. Seven years. It had been seven years and all these time he had been alive. Alive. Under her nose. Under everyone's noses.

That woke her up.

She pushed him away, cheeks tear stained and lips swollen. She must look like a mess.

'We need to talk,' she said and she could see the exact same words flashing through his eyes.

Rationally speaking, she was supposed to be angry. The person she loved apparently feigned his own death but she couldn't. Not at him, not when he looked like this, almost broken and almost disintegrating, trying so desperately hard to retain a façade of apathy.

She closed her eyes, willing her tears to disappear. She. Must. Not. Cry.

They found themselves on the couch once more. He took in a deep breath, his hair tousled from their kiss.

'I was dead. My heart stopped for seven seconds. It is a miracle, really, that I am still alive,' he said, his voice soft, controlled, overly controlled.

She looked at him, pain and sorrow –for him - in her eyes, her hand finding his.

'I do not know what had exactly transpired between dying and waking up, but I assume that my house elf, Finny - you have met her – had apparated me away from the Shrieking Shack and instead of my quarters, she had left me out on a Muggle street instead. I was found by a woman – muggle, who worked as a Doctor and had nursed me to health, using electricity to jump start my heart. It took a month before I regained full conscious and another three months before I could walk. I hid. Until today.'

His words were clipped and cold, uncomfortably distant. His fingers on his right arm curled into the flesh of his left, his nails almost breaking through the skin and were sure to leave red crescent dents on his pale arm.

She fought the urge to caress his face and draw him into her embrace, to whisper that everything was okay and over repeatedly into his hair. Everything was not okay. There was no point in pretending it was.

'I hid. It was cowardly of me, I know that. I-'

'Stop. You are not a coward. You are one of the bravest men I have ever known, as infuriating and stubborn as you can be,' she stopped him, her heart aching for him. She knew that what he did to her, to everyone was selfish, but wasn't she selfish for needing him, for potentially robbing him of his need to heal in solitude? It was not like she could immediately forgive him, no. He had hurt her but he was hurting too.

It was hurting her mind.

She could feel a headache forming inside her skull.

'Hermione.'

It was strange to hear him say her name again. The way his lips formed her name sent pangs of sourness straight to her heart.

'I – You're… How are you?'

She gave a watery chuckle at his words. How are you. It used to be her words to him ever since she had found him, injured, in a dark corridor after attending a Death Eater revel. She had tried to nurse him to health but she was evidently lacking, his injuries far worse than what she could cope with. Still, she tried, and he, well, he survived that night. It became a habit, really, to ask after him.

'As good as I can be.' She smiled, her cheeks hurting.

Silence overwhelmed them.

'Are you - '

They blurted.

He signalled for her to go first.

'Are you with her?' her voice was barely above a whisper. She had to know. She –

'No,' he replied. 'She's married. To a nurse. He, too, helped take care of me.'

She nodded slowly, staring down at her hands.

'Are you…?'

'No. I was. Now no, not married, not with anyone, no.'

'Was?' Did she hear a tinge of sadness, of betrayal in his voice? Anger bubbled inside of her which she immediately tried to suppress.

'Ron. I was with him a year after you… And we ended things three years ago,' she said, looking at him in the eye.

'Right,' he said. 'I think I saw some pictures.'

Silence.

When had things become so difficult between the two of them? Right. Yes, of course. Ever since he faked his own death.

'What are you doing now?' she finally broke the silence.

'I am trying to apply for a job, reintegrate myself back into society. It will be difficult, obviously, but I will try. I owe you that, at least.' His voice was soft, gentle, almost chockfull of unsaid emotions. He changed. He really did and she just wanted to so desperately pull him into a crushing hug, to kiss that haunted look from his eyes.

'Where are you staying?'

'Spinner's End. But my belongings are all gone. I have to search for them. It couldn't be helped. It has been seven years, after all. I don't expect my belongings to remain, not when everyone thought I was dead.' It seemed like he had taken up her habit of rambling.

'I have them. Your belongings. I have them with me in a vault.' She bit her lower lip, which he stared at. 'We can collect them, together, if you want.'

'That would be nice.'

The conversation was painful. It was too clipped, too formal, too distant to convey what they really wanted to ask and say. There were so many things that they had to work through, so many questions that were unanswered. Everything just settled as a thick layer of blubber in her organs, a constant, heavy reminder of the pain and hurt she went through.

She closed her eyes, tears welling up in them again.

She did not know if she wanted him to remain dead. She felt as though she might implode.

'Professor, why… why did you come?' she finally asked, tears dripping down her cheeks.

'You. I want you.'

'Good morning Professor. How are you this morning?' she asked with a horribly annoying smile the moment he regained consciousness from his deep potion induced slumber.

He groaned and turned away from the stream of sunlight. 'Return to your dormitory right now, Miss Granger.'

'I will, sir. Remember to take your potions,' she couldn't help but to nag, barely suppressing a smirk when his face contorted into a deeper frown.

She thought she had heard a 'thank you' when she left.

'Good afternoon sir,' she greeted him in the corridor as he brushed past her. 'How are you?'

'None of your business, Miss Granger. Five points for meddling.'

'Good evening sir,' she said as she entered his office.

'Exactly on time, as always.' He did not look up from his stack of essays.

'Should I start cleaning the beakers now?'

'No, Miss Granger. You shall categorise the articles about potion makings. Right there,' he drawled, impatience dripping from his words.

'Yes sir!' She could barely contain her excitement. Articles! Academic articles and research about potions!

She settled down at the corner, eager to start her work. Maybe detention with Professor Snape was not too bad after all.

'Sir?' She looked up from her papers.

No response.

'How are you?'

'Fine,' he replied curtly.

She grinned.

She hugged him.

Before she could process what she was doing, she hugged him, fuelled by the rush of adrenaline and excitement and oh my god! It was the original research paper by the renown potions master, Raynold Litmus, detailing the connection between muggle science and potion making.

'Thank you thank you thank you!' she gushed into his chest, her eyes wide and glistening with excitement. He stood there, awkwardly, his arms not quite knowing where to go.

'Miss Granger.' He cleared his throat.

'Sorry Professor,' she leapt away from his arms, flushed and missing the feel and warmth of his robes.

He gave a curt nod.

'How are you?' she blurted.

He looked at her, surprised. His lips twitched. 'What do you think?' he said as he walked away, his cloak billowing behind him.

'You read Shakespeare?' she asked, surprised by the collection of plays she had found in his room.

'Is it that surprising?' he arched his eyebrows and took a long sip of his tea.

'Well, no. I mean. Kind of? Not many purebloods engage in Muggle literature. But I suppose that someone of your calibre would read Muggle literature.' She hummed, curling up in one of his couch, flipping open one of the leather bound books.

'Firstly, I am not pureblood. Half-blood. Secondly… My calibre?' he stared her down and she, not daring to look up from her book, could hear his signature arching of his brows in his voice.

'Well…' She flushed. 'You are highly intelligent, you like books, literature, and I know that you are not as prejudiced as what you like people to think. In fact, I think you are not prejudiced against us, muggle-borns at all. And well, you would find the value in Muggle literature, especially by those considered to be literary geniuses…' She stopped, her cheeks far too warm for her liking and she ducked behind the book once again in embarrassment, peeking out to gauge his reaction.

He is silent, leaning against his bookshelf, his eyes scrutinising her and she felt herself burn underneath the intensity of his gaze which seemed to be made of liquid fire. She remembered what he had told them in their first Potions lesson – 'ensnare the mind and bewitch the senses'. She found that that applied rather too well to his gaze.

'What is your favourite?' She found herself embarking onto another ramble and she got up, taking quick steps towards him to return the book to its proper position on his shelf.

'Mine is, embarrassingly, Romeo and Juliet. I know, now that I think of it, it really is essentially a love story between a pair of lovers who really only known each other for a few days, and Juliet is barely fourteen. Still, it does have it charms with its themes of love and fate and gender. I was nine when I read it and I just… Well, and there is this line, "For saints have hands that pilgrims do touch, and-'

Her lips found hiss, soft and sweet against his chapped ones, eating up her words. He stood there, still, surprised, but made no movement to push her away and instead, against all rationality, softens into the kiss.

'palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss,' she breathes. She did it. She kissed him. Weeks and weeks and weeks of suppressing that crazy itchy desire had finally been tamed in a simple chaste kiss. Then another flame, much itchier than the one before, settled in the pit of her stomach.

She must have lost her mind, really, to kiss him (her Professor!). Just that he – well, she could not deny the desire she had for him and he just looked so kissable leaning against his shelves and as she had leaned towards him in an attempt to return the book, she had caught a whiff of his scent and blimey, he smelled absolutely amazing, and look, Hermione, you sound like a creep now.

She knew better than to think that there was a slight pink tinge to his normally pale cheeks.

'I- I am sorry sir. H-How are you?' she blurted and ran.

She did not hear his quiet reply.

('Euphoric. Guiltily so, Miss Granger.')

It was an explosion of repressed desires.

The room was silent except for the quiet cackling of the fire and their heavy breathing. Or hers, really. She had always been the passionate one hadn't she? The young, immature witch so blindly infatuated with her professor that she followed behind him blindly like some dog, wagging its tail, desperate for attention.

She was eighteen, remember? Older than her peers by a year because of her all too frequent usage of the time turner in her third year at Hogwarts. She was not a child. She was far from it. She stopped being a child in her first year, when she was almost killed by a troll. She stopped being a teenager in her fifth year when she was hexed by a Death Eater and she witnessed the death – the murder- of her friend's godfather. But under his gaze, she felt so small, insignificant, a dust in the wind that happened to stain his pristine robes.

'You don't get to do this to me, Professor Snape,' she snarled, spitting his name in anger.

'You don't get to speak to me in this tone, Miss Granger.' The seething anger was evident in his voice but she did not care.

She did not deserve to be treated like this – like some child begging for sweets from the big bad wolf. He did not get to ignore her then give her what felt like the stars then nothing, again and again. He did not get to insult and degrade her and treat her like she was dirt, in front of Slytherins or no. He went too far. He did not get to disappear on her just to return with so many wounds on his body and neglecting them and –

Why won't her stupid tears stop? She wasn't supposed to cry. She rubbed furiously at the angry tears.

'What are we. Professor, what are we? What do you want?' she sighed in defeat, looking at him with those brown eyes that pierced right through his body.

He looked at her. Still, silent, mind fighting mind, heart fighting heart. How far was he willing to go? How far would he allow himself to indulge in emotions he knew he had to suppress?

She inched forward, her body almost touching his.

'Tell me Professor. What do you want?' she whispered, her breath warm and ticklish against his skin.

His eyes dropped to her lips.

She smelled of mint and citrus, fresh and warm and full of light.

Light. So full of light.

'You. I want you.' The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

They were a volcanic explosion, months of desire bursting through, burning their fleshes as their lips met and hands roamed, as robes were removed, discarded and forgotten. His lips were scalding on her skin, sending a trail of flames down her body.

His kisses – his kisses must be made of lava because she felt as though her body was disintegrating under his touch.

She gasped as his tongue found her nipple drawing circles around it and oh –

She arched into his arms, her head lolled back, body tingling. His second finger trailed circles against her through the thin cotton fabric as his lips found their home in between her collar bones, teeth nibbling on the soft skin and tongue soothing the sharp pain.

Her body was burning.

Her own hands managed to find their own path down to his crotch, and she tentatively stroked his length, finding it already hard, but growing under her light, touches.

'Stop teasing, witch,' he growled into her ears, barely supressing the gasp that rippled through his body.

'Stop teasing, mister,' she breathed, her thumb circling the tip of his member.

She didn't know what she was doing, not really. She was mostly following her carnal instincts and knowledge she had gained from books she once read under the sheets, face flushed, fingers sometimes finding themselves stroking at her clit, her heart pounding in her ears, her teeth digging into her lower lips, as if she were afraid of making any noise (she had cast a ward around her bed). Sometimes, sometimes, she closed her eyes and pictured him, his black hair falling over his face as his fingers flicked and rubbed at her. His fingers, not hers. Not hers.

She found herself on the bed, legs spread, his head in between her thighs – oh.

God.

Godgodgodgodgodgod

He chuckled, the vibrations running through her body. 'I never pegged you as the religious sort.'

'Shut up,' she gasped. 'Get back to whatever you are doing with your tongue.'

He smirked against her skin and his tongue flickered across her clit, sending another jolt of whatever-it-was. As his tongue and fingers did their magic, she writhed, her back arching and fingers digging into the soft sheets, biting so hard on her lower lips that she thought she would draw blood.

'Let me hear you,' he said, eyes looking into hers and oh sweet merlin, his fingers –

She released a moan, sweet, resounding across the room as she came, hard, against his fingers.

'I want you. I want you now,' she gasped.

'What do you want, Granger?' he quirked and eyebrow, index finger lazily trailing across her engorged clit, wet and slick. The scent of their arousal filled the air.

'Fuck me. I want you to fuck me,' she almost growled, glaring at him.

'Language, Miss Granger. I'm appalled.' He entered her, slowly, painfully so, filling her up bit by bit and she moaned, the feel of him inside of her simply addictive.

'Severus, oh. Severus.' His name rolled off her tongue as he pumped in and out of her.

They shifted and she found herself straddling him, her hips rocking back and forth, up and down as she found her own rhythm, controlling the pleasure that blinded her. His hips thrust up, meeting her own movements, and they fall into a rhythm that intoxicated them both.

His eyes fell on her breasts, that heaved with every move she took and he held them in his palms, fingers flickering and tugging at the erect buds. He watched as her head lolled back, moans and gasps falling off her lips that were red and swollen from his kisses. Her hair was wild, almost alive, falling all over her face, down her chest and he wanted to run his fingers through them.

She got off him and he pulled her into his embrace, her face to his chest as he entered her once more, their limbs tangled and her clit rubbing against his skin. He met her thrust for thrust and he could feel her clenching against his member and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. He could not help but let a groan escape his throat as she bit his neck, her tongue swirling over the mark.

He quickened his pace, and her moans turned into yelps.

'Severus,' she gasped, her voice thin and wavering as she trembled, the wave of pleasure washing over her.

'Come for me,' he said, looking at her, taking her in. Her eyes were half closed, her nails digging into his back, her body trembling, frantic, desperate for release.

His fingers found the spot where they joined and he drew frantic, quick circles over and over her clit and she shattered in his arms, him collecting her pieces and holding her together.

Her walls clenched onto his member and he felt himself tightening, on the verge of release.

'Fuck, Hermione,' he groaned.

She flickered a tongue over his right nipple.

'Hermione' he hissed into her hair as she continued her ministrations on his chest.

Too much. Too much.

He came, body shuddering as he held tightly onto her, pressing her close as he thrust, his eyes shut tight, his groan reverberating.

They lay there, breathing laboured, bodies slicked with sweat, hearts pounding.

He was warm and safe and perfect. She inhaled his scent, falling asleep in his arms.

When the morning came, he was gone, leaving a cold spot next to her.