SILENCE

Obligatory Disclaimer: Unfortunately they're still not mine.

Author's Notes: This is the prize for the 1000th review of Chasing The Sun, finally caught by my friend frusie, who has been trying to get one of the milestones since the start of Post Tenebras Lux! Her prompt was very simple: "Detention." To elaborate – pure, shameless, detention-fantasy smut. If you don't like this pair being together while Hermione's still a student, you shouldn't read this, although she is of age.

This takes place in an AU post-DH setting. The war is over and Hermione's back at school for a final year to finish her education and take her NEWTs, because we all know she'd do that. Severus survived (naturally) and is back where he belongs as the Potions master.

Enjoy.

Warnings: Smut. Duh.

"There are moments when silence, prolong'd and unbroken,
More expressive may be than all words ever spoken,
It is when the heart has an instinct of what
In the heart of another is passing..."
– Owen Meredith.

Sometimes the past couple of years almost seemed to have been a dream.

Hermione looked around the classroom briefly before turning her eyes back to her work, shaking her head slightly. This time last year she had been on the run, being hunted by Snatchers and Death Eaters up and down the country, barely staying one jump ahead of the constant pursuit. She and her best friends were trying to find and destroy the remaining Horcruxes when they had no idea of what they were looking for, while the Order of the Phoenix fell apart in confusion following Dumbledore's murder, with her parents in Australia with no memory of who she was.

And now here she was taking notes on Healing potions, preparing to take her NEWTs at the end of the summer term, as though nothing had happened.

Admittedly some things were strange. For a start, she was the oldest student present by almost two years. Like the others, she had been given a choice; she could come back to Hogwarts for a final year and then take her exams, or she could be given an approximate grade based on her academic performance up until that point and walk into any job she liked as a decorated war veteran. Nobody had been surprised that she had chosen to come back and do it properly; equally, nobody had been surprised that she was the only one in her year to do so. Most of the year below had also chosen not to return, sadly including Ginny and Luna, so she was well and truly on her own. In fact, only about half the former students had come back, and the only Slytherins in the castle were from the new intake of first years – the entire House had unanimously refused to return, with many transferring to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang. There were rumours that the board of governors had tried to abolish Slytherin House altogether and just have the other three, but Headmistress McGonagall had refused.

Hogwarts wasn't the settled machine it had been. It was March, and yet only a month or so since the first term of the year had started; the autumn term simply hadn't happened. There had been a lot of repairs needed to erase the signs of battle, and it had taken time to locate all those who had fled or disappeared and find out who was even still alive. And everyone, teachers and students alike, had needed time to recover both physically and psychologically from the war before life could return to normal – in some cases a single term probably hadn't been long enough.

Ron and Harry should be here with her, she reflected quietly. It was too strange being here without them. But she had always known she would never be able to convince them to come back to school when they didn't have to, and it had been easier not to try; they had dived straight into the Auror training program and seemed set to shine. Nothing had held them here anyway – Harry's devotion to the castle didn't require his physical presence, and had been tainted by the memories of the battle. Where Harry went, so did Ron – and she and Ron hadn't even lasted until her nineteenth birthday back in September. In hindsight, their breakup had been inevitable – even without the traumas and losses of the war, they weren't as well suited as they had hoped they were. She was just relieved that they had managed to stay friends, and it had been a good experience. She missed him sometimes, but she missed Harry more; she had nobody to talk to here now.

A soft voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. "Miss Granger."

Startled, Hermione looked up and found her Potions teacher in front of her desk. "Sir?"

"I asked you a question."

"I... I didn't hear you, sir. I'm sorry."

There was a short and rather awkward silence; it was hardly surprising she hadn't heard him. Professor Snape's voice was little more than a whisper, these days, courtesy of Nagini ripping his throat open; it was quite often difficult to hear him, especially if you had an afternoon lesson and he had been trying to talk to classes all day. And she knew she hadn't been listening anyway; she sometimes found it difficult to concentrate on anything for very long, now.

"Obviously not," Snape said finally. His voice might be nearly gone, but it could still hold every possible nuance of cold silky irritation, and his black eyes were as hard and expressionless as ever. "I have very few expectations of my students, Miss Granger, but I do expect you to pay attention."

"I'm sorry, sir," she repeated, looking down. She couldn't meet his eyes any more, not that it had ever been easy – every time she did, she remembered the Shrieking Shack, and watching over Harry's shoulder as his eyes glazed with pain before the life left them.

"You will be," he replied, sneering at her when she glanced up again. "Detention, here, tonight. Nine o clock." Turning on his heel, he strode back to the front of the classroom and resumed his lecture.

That was something else that had changed, Hermione reflected, keeping her head down and trying not to blush as she listened to his soft voice. She had never had a detention before, as shocking as that was for anyone who had run around with Harry and Ron for years. Damnit.

At exactly nine that evening Hermione tapped hesitantly at the half-open door to the Potions classroom and peered inside. Snape was working at his desk; he glanced up impatiently and beckoned sharply, pointing wordlessly at the bench immediately in front of him. Puzzled, she approached rather warily; the bench was bare, with no sign of any of the gruesome and messy jobs Snape usually assigned for detentions. The door slammed behind her, making her jump; swallowing, she took a seat at her teacher's gesture. "What did you want me to do, sir?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied softly.

"Sir?"

He smirked at her. "Nothing, Miss Granger," he repeated. "You will sit still and you will be quiet."

Hermione stared at him in confusion for a long moment before understanding dawned. You bastard, she thought ruefully with a kind of annoyed admiration, as his eyes glittered with malice. He couldn't have chosen a worse punishment; she hated having nothing to do. Especially now, when her concentration was so poor; her thoughts sometimes wandered into dangerous territory. "For how long, sir?" she asked stiffly, trying her best not to show her irritation – she would rather have gutted toads.

"Until I say otherwise, naturally," he said in his soft, slightly rasping voice. "In silence and without fidgeting." Returning his attention to his desk, he picked up his quill once more and settled to ignoring her, as she tried to make herself comfortable and prepared to endure a truly horrible evening.

When she looked hopefully at her watch what felt like several hours later and found it had only been fifteen minutes, Hermione wondered if her sanity was going to survive this evening. She had been looking around the room – despite her orders not to fidget – but except for sixth year under Slughorn, this classroom hadn't changed since her first year and there was nothing in it she hadn't seen a thousand times before. She wouldn't put it past Snape to keep her here long after midnight just because he could, but that didn't bother her too much; she normally couldn't get to sleep until around then anyway.

With nothing to do and nothing else to look at, she looked back at Snape. Ordinarily that was somewhat risky – he always knew when he was being watched; she'd learned over the years that if she needed to ask a question about the potion they were working on and he wasn't paying attention, all she needed to do was stare at him until he looked up – but he'd asked for it this time. Even by his standards this detention was just spiteful, albeit brilliant in an evil sort of way.

The Potions master was ignoring her, at least – she couldn't have handled it had he been gloating over her discomfort, but he was focused on his work and the scratch of his quill was the only sound in the quiet classroom. She had thought when she first came in that he was marking essays, but he seemed to be making notes about something, occasionally pausing to consider what he'd written or to cross something out. She had the impression that he would have been doing this whether she was there or not, although probably in his office rather than the classroom.

Even now, Hermione reflected, this man was a complete enigma. Despite everything they had learned about him from the memories he had given Harry, Snape hadn't changed, at all. He was still as stern, cold, sarcastic and disliked as ever, and just as indifferent to it. Apparently one or two Order members had tried to talk to him about it all – Harry included, naturally – and all had been rebuffed with stony silence that turned to open rudeness if they kept pushing. Quite clearly he had not planned to survive his little confession, and now seemed determined to pretend none of it had ever happened.

She wasn't even sure why he was here; he had clearly never liked his job, and that too hadn't changed. She was inclined to believe the rumour that McGonagall had had no choice but to ask him to come back, since no other former Slytherin had been willing to teach here – everyone had been surprised when Slughorn had declared angrily he wasn't going to come back and try to deal with the fallout after his entire House had been unjustly imprisoned during the final battle just for being Slytherins. Nobody had realised the old wizard had morals before. Other rumours said Snape had had no choice but to beg for his old job back because nobody else would hire him, but Hermione doubted it – even if his skills and qualifications weren't enough for him to earn a living elsewhere despite his reputation, his pride would never have let him beg.

If anything he was less popular now than he had been before. Yes, by now everyone knew the truth of what had really happened – that he had in fact saved them all, and at a dreadful cost to himself – but the fact remained that he had done some truly terrible things. There were children in the school now who had been tortured by him. Some of her friends – Neville, Ginny, Luna – had needed a lot of medical help to recover from what he had done to them. And he had made things worse for himself by flatly refusing to talk about it, even going so far as to hex a couple of reporters from the Prophet when they absolutely would not leave him alone, and giving a mouthful of abuse to anyone in the Order who had tried to talk to him.

Snape moved, distracting her; she automatically looked away, worried that he would lose his temper, but when nothing happened she glanced up again through her lashes. He shrugged out of his robe and left it hooked over the back of his chair, then reached up to slide a finger under the tight collar of his coat and shirt, tugging slightly at the cloth as though to ease it before undoing a couple of the buttons at his throat. As he pulled the neck of his garments open a little, Hermione saw the reddened marks on his pale skin and blinked, surprised; she hadn't realised he still bore the scars from Nagini's bite. She had spent too long in the wizarding world, she reflected – she was too used to magic being able to heal everything. Stupid, really, given that she had two scars of her own that hadn't healed properly and given that his damaged voice showed that his throat hadn't healed, but she hadn't really thought about it before.

As Snape returned his attention to his notes, she studied his neck, suppressing a shiver as she remembered watching the snake slashing his throat open. Obviously the wound hadn't been quite as bad as it seemed, since he had survived it, but there had been so much blood, and the way he had screamed... No. Don't think about that. Hermione was used to suppressing unpleasant memories by now, and began firmly reciting prime numbers in her head, concentrating on it until the momentary tightness in her throat passed and she relaxed once more.

Half an hour crawled by, excruciatingly slowly. Snape was still working quietly; he had glanced at her with an annoyed expression once or twice, and told her off for fidgeting once, but now as she found herself watching him again he seemed wholly absorbed in whatever he was working on and almost seemed unaware that she was there – not that she was daft enough to believe that for a second; this was Snape, after all. Seeing him like this was interesting, in an odd way; when he wasn't sneering or snapping he could seem almost like another person.

Right now he was frowning slightly, his shoulders slightly hunched as he bent over his notes and his dirty hair pushed back behind his ears out of the way, his whole attitude one of focused, relaxed concentration. He had been idly scratching the scars on his neck earlier, not as though they really itched but apparently out of habit, but he had stopped that now and was focused entirely on his work as his quill scratched across the parchment.

Hermione watched his face, curiously now; like every other first year she had learned to look at Professor Snape as little as possible for safety's sake, and she had never really paid much attention to him before. The arched bridge of his hooked nose wasn't quite straight; it wasn't really very noticeable, but it had obviously been broken and poorly set in the past. His pale skin didn't have much of the sickly, sallow cast to it that had once characterised him, but he didn't exactly have a healthy glow either, and his face was thin and almost gaunt. It was the shadows under his eyes that drew her gaze, though; now she was actually paying attention for the first time, he looked very tired. Not in the manner of someone who had been up too long, or who had missed an hour or two of sleep; these were the deep shadows of someone who hadn't slept well in weeks if not months.

Maybe even years, in his case, she thought as she watched him. After all, he must have been under a truly insane amount of stress, acting as a double agent in such dangerous circumstances for three years – the final year of which must have been spent completely alone, after his killing Dumbledore had isolated him from his allies. At least she had had Harry, and Ron most of the time, and the knowledge that she had friends and family somewhere waiting when she was able to return to them. But Snape... he couldn't have had anyone. Really, now that she thought about it, it was a miracle he was even sane, and hardly surprising that he was so nasty to people.

Pensively biting her lower lip as she studied his face, she wondered if the dark hollows under his eyes came from nightmares too. Ever since being caught and held in Malfoy Manor, she hadn't been able to sleep well, and her dreams could be horrible, forcing her to relive the battle in the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix torturing her, watching Snape bleeding to death in the Shack, the bloody horror of the final battle... and how much worse must her teacher's memories be? Even now nobody really knew for certain just what happened among the Death Eaters, but if even half the rumours were true...

Abruptly Hermione realised that Snape was looking at her, returning her gaze steadily. He looked mildly irritated, but not as much as she would have expected – he wasn't even scowling, at least not much. Those black eyes were always hard and cold to some extent, but mingled with it now was something speculative and almost thoughtful; he almost seemed curious, and she realised in surprise that he was studying her in much the same way that she had been studying him.

He looked like he was in the process of solving a puzzle, actually. She knew he was an accomplished Legilimens, but there was no weight to his gaze, no sense that he was reading her thoughts – frankly she couldn't imagine why he'd bother. He laid his quill down carefully and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, continuing to watch her, and she looked away; it wasn't quite making her uncomfortable, but she didn't much like it either. Tit for tat, I suppose, she conceded – she had been staring rather rudely.

Snape pushed his chair back and stood, stretching, and she glanced back at him; her watch said it wasn't even ten yet. Surely he wasn't going to let her off after less than an hour? Slowly he walked around to stand in front of his desk before shifting his weight to settle leaning against the edge of it, tilting his head slightly to one side and continuing to regard her with slightly more open curiosity as he absently scratched the scarring on his neck again.

There was something very strange about this, Hermione reflected as she looked back at him uncertainly. The atmosphere had changed subtly, and she wasn't sure why. Part of it was just Snape's lack of anger – he always seemed annoyed with everything, in public, and she'd never been alone with him before to see him slightly more relaxed. But there was more to it than that, something that was affecting her... finally it dawned on her. She wasn't keeping anything from him. Snape knew everything she'd been through last year, and nobody else really did.

Even the boys didn't really know everything. She'd never told Ron how much she hated him for walking away from them the way he had; even now she hadn't really forgiven him for it, she'd just moved on and ignored it because it couldn't be forgiven. Harry didn't know that either, and he hadn't known how hard she'd found it, how lonely and scared she'd been. Neither of them knew exactly what Bellatrix had done to her, either; they'd heard her screams, but she'd lied and told them it had only been a couple of rounds of the Cruciatus – 'only' an Unforgiveable! Well, that's okay, isn't it? They didn't know how many times she had actually been cursed, or about Bella carving 'Mudblood' into her arm. They didn't know she still had a scar from where Dolohov had cursed her in the Ministry either. And they didn't know how alone she was feeling this year; she kept her letters cheerful, as she did to her parents, who knew virtually nothing of what had happened.

Nobody else in her life knew much at all. She hadn't talked about it to anyone. Over the course of the term all her old teachers had found excuses to talk to her and see how she was doing, and she had told them all she was doing fine, really. She'd pretended it was okay, even to her friends, not mentioning the nightmares or the problems with concentration or the occasional anxiety attacks. It hadn't been difficult – she'd spent half her life pretending to know what was going on, pretending to be confident and sure of herself, pretending not to mind when people made fun of her.

Her pretence had never fooled Snape. Some of the comments he'd left on her essays over the years had made that clear. And from the way he was looking at her now, she still wasn't fooling him; his eyes seemed to be staring straight through all her defences. Alone of everyone in the Order, he knew what she'd been through. He had been watching the three of them for most of the year, as often as he could; she was certain of it even if his memories hadn't explicitly said so. And Phineas' portrait would have reported to him regularly, and he would have heard about her torture, probably from Bellatrix herself. And, it occurred to her, he probably knew more than anyone else in the wizarding world about the psychological effects of experiences like that. Perhaps that was why he hadn't taken points off as well as assigning the detention; maybe he'd guessed why she hadn't been paying attention.

She didn't need to pretend to be all right. Just for these couple of hours, she didn't have to fake it; Hermione was surprised at how much more relaxed she felt, just from that. Looking into his calm eyes, she could acknowledge that she was still frightened and angry and very much not okay; nobody else was in a position to understand.

That must go two ways too, she realised. Harry had blurted out the biggest secret in front of the entire battlefield, so now the whole wizarding world knew all about Snape's lifelong dedication to Lily Potter and her son, but her friend had insisted on keeping the details private and only she and Ron had seen the memories Snape had given him. Harry was mostly focused on how it affected him and his life, naturally – it was understandable, and Snape's refusal to talk to him had kept him selfish; she doubted Ron had really given it another thought. That meant she was probably the only person who had really considered just how Snape must have felt for all that time and what a savage toll last year must have taken on him.

Slowly, not at all sure what she was doing, Hermione pushed back her chair and stood up, watching his face uncertainly. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't move or say anything as she walked around the bench to lean against it facing him, mirroring his stance. A little more of the hard coolness in his eyes had faded, his shields thinning a little; he really did look tired, behind the apparently sincere interest in his gaze. She wasn't sure she had ever seen him so easy to read. He must be letting her see this for a reason, but why?

Maybe he feels alone, too? It sounded odd to think about Snape feeling anything of the sort, but Hermione remembered how she'd felt when she first saw those memories. He had been such an isolated, awkward boy; she had thought him quite sweet, actually, trying hard to be something he wasn't, and he hadn't deserved the way he'd been treated. As far as she could tell, he had been isolated all his life, and she doubted he had people asking him how he was feeling about things. Enduring what he had been through was miraculous enough; going through it all completely alone was almost unbelievable. Nobody else would have been able to survive it. And as far as she could tell, nobody cared. It must hurt, to have been through all that and not be recognised for it; anyone else would have been hailed as a hero, and instead nothing had changed. He was still stuck in a life he had never seemed to want.

Something sparked in his dark eyes that suggested she had guessed right, a flicker hinting at the odd mutual understanding that seemed to have formed between them. Of everyone else in the castle at this moment, they were the only two who knew everything that had happened, the only two who weren't lying to one another or keeping secrets from one another. The only two who could understand and appreciate how the other one felt.

Then he smiled slightly, and she stared; she had never seen Snape genuinely smile before. It was only a slight curve of his lips at one side of his mouth, but it reached his eyes, turning them from hard and cold to expressive and deep, softening some of the harsh lines of his face. He seemed almost another person for a moment, and she felt as though she was catching a brief glimpse of the real Snape for possibly the first time in seven years.

And she liked what she saw.

Her mind began babbling dozens of possible explanations as she stared at him – some messed up sort of pity, or the fact that she and Ron had broken up nearly six months ago and there hadn't been anyone else, or hormones, or God alone knew what. His slight smile increased fractionally, and now she was half-convinced he really could read her thoughts, finding herself trying not to smile back. Stop over-thinking. In fact, just... stop thinking.

There was no need to make this so complicated. Whatever was happening between them, it wouldn't last once this strange atmosphere broke, and it didn't need to. They were consenting adults, they were both hurt and alone, and after all they had both been through she felt the world owed them this much. Hermione drew a deep breath, not quite sure what she was going to say, and Snape stretched out his arm and laid his fingers against her lips in the lightest possible touch. His fingers were warm, and she could feel the faint roughness of a half-formed callus on one where it rested against her lower lip. She took the hint; there was no need to say anything at all.

Lowering his hand, Snape gestured towards the door, leaning back slightly while making no attempt to move himself. He was giving her a chance to leave. Neither of them had said or done anything incriminating; she could walk away now with no consequences and she knew neither of them would ever refer to tonight again. But if she left now, there would be no other chance; this would never happen again. Hermione hesitated for a moment before making her decision; straightening up so that she was no longer leaning against the bench, she met his eyes once more, slowly stepping forward and reaching up to rest her fingers on the scarring that marred one side of his throat. He flinched almost imperceptibly at her touch, but he let her do it, half-closing his eyes as she felt the rough slickness of the scar tissue before moving over his neck to feel his pulse jumping rapidly under his jaw. His throat moved slightly as he swallowed, his eyes closing completely; he had long eyelashes. She had never noticed before.

Gently her hand moved upwards over his jaw and the angular planes of his face, and she laid her palm against his cheek, feeling the faint roughness of the day's stubble. He leaned subtly into her hand before opening his eyes; his expression wasn't so easy to read now, but that slight smile touched the corner of his mouth again before he reached out to gently brush a stray curl back from her face, not quite touching her skin. A shiver of pure electricity ran down her spine in response and Hermione closed her eyes, feeling light headed and not sure why she wasn't nervous. This was absolutely insane, and it wasn't as if she had a great deal of experience anyway, and it was Snape. But, now, that didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more, just this, as his fingers trailed down her cheek and along her jaw before lightly pressing on her chin to lift her face and she felt his breath against her skin; she was desperate to feel alive again.

His lips were soft against hers as he kissed her, more gently than she would have expected if she had ever thought about this before. There was no aggression to the kiss, no demand, just the soft pressure of his mouth, and she let herself relax against his body as the hand on her face slid into her hair and his other arm came around her waist to pull her closer. He was thin, but strong, and it felt good just to be held for a while; breathing in his scent, something subtle and complex that reminded her slightly of rain, she sighed against his mouth as her lips parted.

He didn't take advantage, keeping the kiss gentle as he drew it to a close and lifted his head; opening her eyes, Hermione looked at him, wondering again why she wasn't panicking. His dark eyes were calm still as he searched her gaze, but there was something else there, something heated and intent that made her shiver as she smiled shakily at him and licked her lips. His hand tightened in her hair with just the right amount of pressure before he lowered his head and kissed her once more; it began as gently as the first, until she tentatively traced his lower lip with her tongue and his arm tightened around her waist as he deepened the kiss and it became far less gentle.

Ron had been her first and only lover, and although they hadn't been together very long it had been pretty good on the whole; she had mostly enjoyed being with him, even if things hadn't worked out emotionally. But he had never made her feel quite like this; as Snape explored her mouth she felt a slow burn beginning to spread through her, little shivers running down her spine as she kissed him back and slid her arms around his waist to press closer. For once, to Hell with the consequences; she needed this, and it seemed so did he, as their kisses turned hungrier and he backed her up against the bench she had been sitting at.

Reaching up, she tangled her fingers in his hair to keep his mouth on hers, discovering absently that it wasn't as greasy as it looked – not exactly clean, no, but not as bad as it seemed. And considering how bad his teeth looked, his mouth tasted sweet and clean as his tongue slid against hers; really, it seemed she'd been wrong about just about everything where this man was concerned. She'd certainly never dreamed that he could kiss like this, as she arched her back to press closer still and bit back a moan.

Both of them were beginning to breathe heavily when they broke the kiss, and his eyes were burning now with open hunger that made her shiver again. Reaching out, he tugged her robes open and pushed the cloth off her shoulders, reaching past her to spread it over the bench behind her; Hermione touched the scars on his neck again before starting to undo the buttons of his coat, trembling in anticipation more than nervousness. Snape moved to help her, swiftly pulling the buttons open, more obviously eager now as she finally pushed the heavy cloth off his shoulders and he carelessly let it drop to the floor behind him before leaning in for another kiss, catching her lower lip between his crooked teeth.

Trying not to whimper, she dug her fingers into his narrow shoulders, returning his kiss as fiercely as she could; she could feel his erection pressing against her now where his body pinned hers against the bench, and she felt her pulse speeding up in reaction. His hands slid down her back, pulling her more tightly against him, and she heard his breath hitch before he gripped her hips; taking the hint, she steadied herself against his shoulders and wriggled back onto the bench as he lifted her.

Hermione very nearly started laughing; the bench was the perfect height, and she couldn't help wondering irrationally who had designed it this way. She really couldn't see Snape having done it deliberately, for all that his dark eyes were glittering with momentary amusement. It served to lighten the mood a little, and she was smiling as she kicked her shoes off and wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling her jumper off over her head. She shuddered as he ground his hips against her before leaning in to nuzzle at her neck, nipping lightly at her skin and finding sensitive places she hadn't known were there.

He started undoing her shirt, breathing harder now as he tugged it out of the waistband of her skirt, and she realised belatedly that she wasn't using the charm that normally hid the scars on her chest and arm. She felt more relieved than concerned; the whole reason she was here, sitting on this bench and enthusiastically kissing Snape of all people, was that he knew what she'd been through. She had always felt a little guilty about hiding it from Ron. Certainly Snape didn't seem particularly bothered as he impatiently shoved her shirt over her shoulders, and she struggled out of it in between fumbling at the buttons of his own.

If she'd had time to think, she might have started to feel self-conscious as the cold air of the dungeons hit her skin and she realised how exposed she was, but he had already lowered his head to nibble at her collarbone and work his way downwards. His breath was warm against her cleavage, and his hand was beginning to move upwards along her thigh under her skirt, and she was too distracted to concentrate on anything except pulling his shirt open and letting her hands roam across his chest and his slightly prominent ribs before daring to reach lower and cup him through his trousers. He felt almost painfully hard, and she shivered in pleased anticipation.

Snape made a soft sound that his damaged throat turned into a rasping growl and leaned into her, pushing her to lie back on the bench as his hand slid higher and his fingers began to trace teasing patterns on her inner thigh. Kissing her deeply once more, his other hand pushed underneath her back to work at the clasp of her bra, and she arched under him to give him more room, sliding her hands into his shirt again and round to his back. He shuddered and broke the kiss as she felt the slick ridges and ripples of quite a lot of scar tissue, pushing himself upright and giving her a warning look; she took the hint. He wasn't comfortable with that, which was presumably why he'd left the shirt on.

Smiling apologetically, Hermione sat up to twine her arms around his neck instead, tangling a hand in his hair and drawing him back down to her. He kissed her more gently, reaching with both hands to unhook her bra properly and pulling it from her before breaking away once more to look down at her, his eyes darkening in appreciation that was a very nice ego boost. That small half-smile touched his lips again as he took in the view, and he cleared his throat roughly before leaning in to push her back down onto the bench again, lowering his head to her breasts; his long hair brushed teasingly across her skin and made her shiver before his lips closed around her nipple and she fought not to moan.

No, she had never felt like this; she could almost feel her brain dissolving into a cloud of lust. Whimpering, she made herself untangle her fingers from his hair before she ended up pulling handfuls out, digging her nails into his shoulders through his shirt instead as he licked and sucked and even bit very gently. Lost in the feel of his mouth hot and wet against her breasts, she barely felt his palm resting low on her stomach until the faint ripple of magic made her shiver. It said a lot about him that he had thought of contraception; if he'd actually asked her, she could have told him it wasn't necessary, since she took the Muggle pill for hormone reasons anyway, but it was still surprisingly responsible of him. His hand slid under her skirt once more, sliding up her inner thigh until he could stroke her through her knickers and feel her arousal, and she heard that quiet growl in his throat again as his touch sent a jolt of pleasure through her and made her gasp softly.

What little restraint either of them had left vanished at that point. Breathing raggedly, Snape straightened up, pushing her skirt up around her waist as she lifted her hips to help him before unceremoniously pulling her knickers down. Kicking them away impatiently, she sat up, shivering at the look in his eyes as he stared down at her, and reached to undo his belt and the buttons of his trousers, deliberately brushing against his erection as she did so and grinning when she heard him hiss before he batted her hands away. He shoved his trousers and underwear down over his narrow hips, nearly overbalancing as he fought to keep the tangle of cloth from tripping him up, almost snarling in frustration before freeing himself.

She took a moment to look him up and down, trying to catch her breath. He was thin and scarred and generally looked like life had used him hard, but his black eyes were filled with more life than she had ever seen in his expression, blazing with need and lust as he looked her over in return, and as her eyes moved lower she found herself grinning again. If the Marauders really had succeeded in stripping him naked that day, it probably hadn't been as embarrassing for Snape as they had hoped. He certainly didn't have anything to be ashamed of there. She met his eyes again and saw the last scraps of self control snap.

Pushing her back on the bench, he leaned down and kissed her hungrily, his weight pinning her under his body as his hand slid up her leg; closing her eyes and kissing him back, Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping into his mouth as their hips met. She felt him reaching between them, fumbling to line himself up before pushing forward and sinking into her, and she groaned in pleasure as her muscles stretched to accommodate him. It had been a long time for her, and she was probably going to be sore tomorrow, but right now it felt so good she couldn't care less.

He was obviously trying to move slowly and give her a chance to adjust, but she could feel him trembling and hear his uneven breathing growing heavier and it had apparently been quite a while for him too. Besides, this was Snape, and being a gentleman probably didn't come naturally to him. Digging her heels into the backs of his thighs by way of encouragement, she arched beneath him and dug her fingers into his back, feeling the thin cloth of his shirt growing slightly damp as he began to sweat. He groaned very softly, shivering, and thrust in earnest, making her cry out despite her best efforts to keep quiet.

After a few moments they began to find a mutual rhythm, learning how to move together, and she found herself briefly grateful for how solid the benches in the Potions classroom were as his movements grew rougher and his hand dug into her hip. Gripping his shoulders, she did her best to meet each thrust, wordlessly urging him on before gasping as he found just the right angle and hit the perfect spot to make her tighten around him. Snape groaned again, shuddering, and fought to maintain the rhythm he had found, shifting his weight to free one arm and reach down between their bodies to stroke her.

The strength and power in his thin frame was surprising, but it felt so good; she could feel the long muscles in his back flexing with every thrust as he drove into her. So close... Hermione couldn't hold back a moan of pleasure, seizing a fistful of his hair and dragging his head down to kiss him again; he returned it hungrily before throwing his head back, gasping for breath and obviously close to losing control. Every thrust increased the sense of building pressure; whimpering, she stared up at him, at the open and almost frantic desire and need in his eyes, and as his fingers matched the movements of his hips something gave way and her eyes squeezed shut as she cried out. Her body bucked under him as she clawed at his back reflexively, shaking with the intensity of her orgasm.

When she could focus again, Snape was still moving, much more slowly now; he rocked against her, looking down at her, and when she met his eyes that hint of a smile touched his expression as he began to pick up the pace once more. He pushed himself up on his arms, still staring down at her, renewing the force behind each thrust, and as the last aftershocks of her climax ebbed away she watched in sated fascination as his expression twisted and his already heavy breathing grew more laboured. His hips jerked as he lost his careful rhythm, he closed his eyes and shuddered, then cried out wordlessly in his soft rasping voice. He thrust one more time and she felt his release deep inside her, before he slumped forward onto his elbows, burying his face in her neck.

They lay sprawled over the bench for a few minutes, calming down. Hermione could feel his breath against her neck and found herself smiling lazily as she listened to his panting gradually slowing, stroking the damp skin of his back through his now very rumpled shirt. He was heavier than such a thin man really should be, now the ecstasy was fading, but she didn't want to ask him to move just yet; he was warm and she didn't have the energy to get up anyway at the moment.

Finally, slowly, Snape began to untangle himself from her, straightening up with a soft groan as he withdrew. Vaguely mourning the loss of his warmth, she stretched contentedly, refusing to let herself think because she knew she would probably start panicking the moment she did. This had been insane, and stupid, and every single person she knew would be horrified and disgusted if they ever found out, and she didn't regret it in the slightest. She watched him wipe his face on the sleeve of his shirt before rather unsteadily bending to retrieve his coat from the floor and find his wand, and she was a little surprised but pleased when he courteously directed a careful cleansing charm at her before attending to himself.

Sitting up, she pulled her robes around her shoulders and began half-heartedly wandlessly Summoning her rather scattered clothing. Her knickers were a lost cause, and he'd bent one of her bra hooks out of shape; smiling to herself, she tugged her skirt down as much as possible without getting off the bench, not at all sure her legs would hold her just yet given the definite ache she could feel between her thighs. Snape was watching her through the curtains of his now rather dishevelled black hair as he pulled his trousers back on; his expression was rather guarded and uncertain.

It occurred to her that he had taken an unbelievable risk by doing this. If she walked out of the room and screamed rape, nobody in the entire wizarding world would hesitate for a second before condemning him, and given his history he'd find himself executed or in Azkaban before he had time to say 'lawyer'. There didn't seem much point in saying anything; Snape had never put any faith in words, only actions, and Hermione didn't really want to speak anyway in case reality came crashing down on them if she did. Instead she settled for giving him a smile that felt a lot lazier and more self-satisfied than she had intended it to be, slowly sliding off the bench and steadying herself against it before picking up her shirt.

He relaxed slightly, although his expression was still a little guarded, and did up his shirt briskly before stretching; his eyes were half-hooded with a faint lazy glitter that made her smile a little. Whatever happened now, at least they had both enjoyed themselves. It had definitely been worth it. Retrieving the rest of her clothing, she slipped her shoes back on and found her abandoned bag, shoving her underwear into it and carefully fastening her robe to hide her half-dressed state before turning to look at him, starting to wonder just what happened next. Outwardly, she knew, nothing had changed – Snape was still Snape, he would be his usual unpleasant and abrasive self the next time she saw him – but there was that indefinable understanding between them now, a kind of mutual appreciation of how bad their experiences in the war had been. Things weren't going to be the same, even if this never happened again.

There were a lot of things she could do at this point, Hermione reflected, making a doomed attempt to smooth out the worst of the frizz from her curly hair. She could say she assumed her detention was over now. She could ask if she had earned Gryffindor any House points, although she doubted he would find it funny – she didn't. She could just slink off, and wait for the stereotypical walk of shame to make her feel absolutely wretched. She could attempt to talk to him and find out if this was likely to happen again. She could even sit down and continue to stare at him just to annoy him. Finger-combing out tangles, she looked around the room to make sure she hadn't left anything behind, then turned back to Snape and looked at him steadily, waiting for him to respond – his courtesy had been a nice gesture and had successfully conveyed that he didn't think badly of her, but he was going to have to do a little better than that.

When he looked up again, his eyes were shielded and almost unreadable once more, but even he couldn't manage complete aloofness when five minutes ago he'd had his tongue in her mouth as he fucked her on a classroom bench, and as far as she could judge he wasn't really any more certain about how to handle things than she was. He glanced away long enough to do up his belt before looking back at her; he tilted his head slightly to one side with the same thoughtful look in his eyes he had had earlier that evening before half-smiling and shaking his head almost ruefully.

Stepping closer, he reached out and laid his fingers against her lips once more; she could smell herself on his hand and smiled a little, taking the hint and staying silent. Removing his hand, he lowered his head and kissed her, much as he had the first time, gentle rather than passionate. She returned it in kind, closing her eyes and relaxing against him, reassured not so much by the kiss itself but by the fact he had done it – clearly he saw nothing wrong with their actions tonight and she suspected he wouldn't be averse to repeating it if she decided later that was what she wanted. When they drew apart, she looked up into his eyes, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the black irises; his face was impassive again, but those dark eyes were smiling slightly and held a little rare warmth, faint creases touching the corners.

There was no need to say anything; they had shared something rare and indescribable tonight, and she wasn't going to forget it. Returning his slight smile, she turned away and left the room, feeling more like her old self than she had done in a very long time; this was one secret she wasn't going to mind keeping.

This could potentially tie in to a future story, I'm not sure yet... Anyway, frusie, I hope you like it.