Hermione couldn't breathe. The pressure, the tightness in her chest was…all consuming.

The brightness of the hall stabbed at her, the swirl of music, of chatter, of the overpowering scents of people and food and alcohol, a tumult that spun and twisted over and around and through—

A clean breath. One clean breath in the shadow of this fucking alcove. Just one. Her heart pounded, a wild drum in her head, in her veins and she gripped the back of the nearby chair, her knuckles strained and stretched, the pain of it pushing into her bones.

Fuck. Fuck. Not here. Not now—

"Miss Granger…"

Her head snapped up and the vice in her chest squeezed that much harder. Him. Oh fuck. For him to see her on the very edge of falling into a breathless puddle of panic—

Long pale fingers tilted her chin up and she stared, startled, into that familiar black gaze. He was silent, simply breathing. Drawing in air and letting it out through the perfect purse of his lips. And she echoed it. Her one clean breath.

"There…" And his voice was a velvet warmth that loosened some of the manic rush to her veins. "Listen to me." His callused thumb teased along the line of her jaw. His touch was—her belly hollowed—magical. And why was he here with her? Damn him, was he playing with her? "Tonight, witch, let me take control. Me. Just…me."

He was. Oh, he bloody well was. Sour pain chased away the warmth, the hope and her old anger was back. Hermione opened her mouth to demand who did think he was? She was not one of his…his war groupies—

"Hermione… I will play with you."

He was all shadow and strength and the delicious hints of spices and the old ache rose in her as it always did. The need she had for him. Always—and only—for him.

"But I promise it will be in ways that we'll both enjoy."

His words were sin. And heat. And the promise of every dark and decadent act that had twisted through her fantasies. Of blindfolds and silk on her bare and straining skin. Of spankings and collars and of being his very good girl…

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, caught by those illicit thoughts. The wild panic of her flesh spiralled down and away and a slower…slower and a more dangerous thrum filled her in its stead.

"Oh, little witch. You're wound tight." His lip curled upwards and her heart squeezed, the familiar want chasing through her. "Tighter than Minerva's knicker elastic."

Hermione barked a shocked laugh and slapped a hand to her mouth. "Sir!"

Heat flooded her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was a mortifying rush that was in part outraged at him for the insult to her former master…and at herself. The word 'sir' had always been a molten slide through her flesh. Ached for. Wanted. Illicit. And she was twenty three. Hogwarts was years in the past for both of them. She had no need to call him sir. None. It was mortifying.

And now the urge to run only added to the heat of her horror. To run and hide and try to forget what he'd demanded of her…and how much she desperately wanted him to do just that.

"Miss Granger!"

It was short and sharp. A reminder to pay attention, to look to him and only him. And her head snapped up to meet that midnight gaze. An endless and riveting black.

A callused fingertip drew air above her cheekbone, the barest of touches…but it scorched through her. "You need this, Hermione. And have for some time."

"Then why have you never—?"

She bit off the rest of the question. But it was there, unsaid.

Why had he never approached her? After the Final Battle, with him healed from that dreadful snake. The short time he remained at Hogwarts with her as Minerva's apprentice. Numerous events, just like this one, celebrations, and ministry shindigs and conferences were they both spoke as Masters.

He had been a shade to her. Always. And trailed by his war groupies. Vacuous—and not so vacuous—women eager to cater to the every whim of the dark spy and war hero, Severus Snape.

"I am not a good man, Hermione. And I was trying to be. But…" He drew a slow line along her jaw, more of a brush of air than a true touch. Still, it swept through her, down to her toes. "You need this. Me. And I…fuck, girl, I want to be yours."

A tear broke free, she couldn't stop it, the fist squeezing so hard in her chest it was painful with the hope, the ache that he wasn't simply saying this. That he truly…

His thumb caught her tear and it glistened on the curve of his skin. "The bright tear of a virgin." His lip curled up in a slow, dark smile. "Just before she is thoroughly…deflowered. Priceless."

Her mouth parted. Was that all he wanted from her? Because he knew he could have the Ice Princess, as the shits at The Prophet had started to label her. Thanks to one bitter and spurned idiot, Ronald Weasley.

He licked the tear from his thumb, the sight of the tip of his tongue shocking through her. Something…decadent. And his dark eyes never left her, gleaming and hot even in the shadow of the alcove. "Make no mistake, I want everything."

"Everything?"

The word was mouthed, no sound escaping.

"No one can see us, little witch. There's only you and I. And I, I will keep all of your secrets." He lifted that infamous Snape eyebrow and her breath caught. "And what you truly need, Miss Granger, is to be…taken in hand. Is that not so?"

His tone had changed. It was a dark and delicious rumble, edged with his undeniable power.

Gods… Hermione blinked, her heart a drum. She was certain her face was quite, quite pink…but she jerked a nod, hoping, hoping that he truly meant what she thought he meant. One word finally escaped her. "Please…"

"Please, what?"

His hot breath stirred over her parched and parted lips, the ghost of their very first kiss an ache in her straining flesh.

He wanted everything. And so did she.

"Please…Sir."