Tension in the Laboratory

Snape gritted his teeth. Nothing was going the way the he had planned.

He remembered the early days, when Hermione had just been one of many students passing through his class. Never had he taught a more brilliant student, and never had he regretted it more. That she was Potter’s close friend and a Gryffindor to boot made him clench his fists in frustration. What he couldn’t have shown her if she had been a Slytherin! No chance of that, though. She fit her House profile all too well and reminded him, uncomfortably, of another Gryffindor from the past.

As the years progressed, he began to notice other things about the plain but clever little witch. He watched her small attempts at vanity—-the corrected overbite, the ironed hair—-and suppressed many a smirk. They were all alike, these girls, narcissistic little tarts. But then, she surprised him, going no further with improving her appearance and concentrating on Harry, although Snape could tell by her behavior that she neither expected nor wanted anything in return, and on eliminating cruelty and unfairness wherever she found it. He began to feel unwilling respect for her and in response, came down harder than ever on her during class. To his further astonishment, she responded as if to a pleasant challenge, becoming even more adept (if that were possible) at potions, though very little at concealing her feelings from him.

One of his great secrets where Hermione was concerned was how little he had to resort to Legilimency to know her thoughts. Often when he asked to see her eyes, he only wanted a clear view into an open book. At first, he arrogantly put this down to her lack of guile and his greater skill, but over the last two years, he had come to a faltering doubt about that. He saw that she could deceive others when she needed to. He was starting to realize that he understood her so well because, in some ways, they were much alike (though not in others, he would always add ruefully).

He remembered well the time she had come to class in obvious pain, trying to conceal it. He had admired that. And he had not forgotten the lenttempus curse, though she seemed to have done. He was still working out who might have hexed her. In her last year at Hogwarts, he had suffered agonies of guilt over his attraction to her, berating himself for falling for one so young and idealistic. He had been secretly delighted that she asked to work in the laboratory with him after graduation. How perfect! Now he could bully her toward what they both wanted, keeping the upper hand always. But then his conscience had intervened. Most inconvenient. You can’t court a former student, Severus. It isn’t right. You’re too old for her, too jaded, too cynical, too used to living alone and having your own way, and too—let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?—cruel. Well, I’ve had to be. It’s saved many a life, not to mention my own. He had resolved to keep his distance from her and push her out of his life, but her little speech on that last day and pierced his defenses, and he had come perilously close to showing her what he felt that day.

Later, when he found out she had obtained the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching position, he was torn between jubilation and rage. How dare she? But then again, how pleasant to have her nearby and eager to please after offending him. He had looked forward to exacting retribution for her little infraction. Then, things had quickly gotten out of control in his office. He hadn’t been able to resist pushing her a little. Had she ever done this? Or this? He had scrupulously kept everything above the neck, but even something as relatively innocent as having her hand kissed seemed to cause her breathing to catch. She wanted him. He didn’t have to be a wizard to read it. And the knowledge inflamed him to keep pushing his luck and pushing her, after which he would berate himself and become abrupt with her.

Things had taken a turn for the much worse after she overheard him talking with Minerva, the nosy old hag. Snape had a grudging respect for the Head of Gryffindor, but she irritated him beyond endurance most of the time. Rarely had he been more unpleasantly surprised than when Hermione began chucking everything that wasn't nailed down in her classroom at him. He was even more surprised to find himself not retaliating, as was his wont. For this plain young witch, he would swallow his pride, let her rain whatever she might over his head.

He had followed her at a discreet distance when he saw her heading for the Quidditch field the next day. He knew that Draco was under the stands planning some mischief. He had made it his business to keep abreast of Draco’s doings now that he had graduated from Hogwarts. Snape harbored a secret platonic fondness for Draco’s mother, who had always seemed to trust and defend him in her own cold way. In return, Snape did her whatever favors lay in his power to grant. Currently, he was trying to squelch the more dissolute of Draco’s propensities, so as not to give Narcissa further cause for alarm. When Snape strode beneath the stands, he could tell at a glance that Draco was not going to disappoint him. He had Hermione nearly cornered. Naturally, he hadn’t attacked her until he had the overwhelming advantage in numbers. Snape had felt black rage, but he tamped it down, kept his mind purposely blank and his feelings at bay. He would allow himself to acknowledge them later. He had saved Hermione without losing face with either Draco or her.

But then, he had very nearly broken everything off after that bloody Quidditch match. He hadn’t counted on her objecting to his usual behavior. He had waited expectantly in his office the following morning to be humbly thanked for saving her from Draco and to be humbly pliant to whatever more tangible form of thanks he might request. He had not counted on being stood up in his own office. Coming to her tiny flat to exact revenge, he had instead felt almost sorry for her. Her rooms were tiny to the point of inducing a wince, though she didn’t seem to mind. She looked terrible. Thankfully, she had quickly cleaned up her appearance. But then...what came after...

Snape still couldn’t bring himself to think about the happenings of the last two hours. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from being brusque and close to harsh. He didn’t want some weak, clinging girl—-too close to how he saw himself as a youth. He knew it was her first time. Well. He had done what he could to make things as pain-free as possible. He couldn’t hold back any more, though. Not for years had he wanted someone like this. He could feel the intensity with which she returned his feelings, Merlin knew why. He wasn’t going to look a gift Hippogriff in the beak. He had pushed her as far as he dared and then some, trying to give her the upper hand for a change, trying to give her some measure of comfort and affection, though that never came easily to him, and trying to show her just enough of his feelings to keep her satisfied without revealing their depth. He couldn’t bring himself to show more. At least he had been successful in bringing her to climax. He felt his cock twitch at the memory of her inner walls tightening rhythmically around him and the way her eyes had closed while a ragged gasp had come from that too-wide mouth. Snape might lie to anyone else, but not himself. He wanted this young witch, both physically (his mind flashed to a mental inventory of the surprisingly lush figure she had been hiding under those loose woolen jerseys) and as a close ally. He hadn’t had such an ally for many years, and distrustfully, he wanted to marry her in part to keep her as close as possible so as to keep an eye on her. Dumbledore, apparently, thought his motives might be more pure.

Thank Merlin she hadn’t wanted him to go down on one knee and propose with declarations of—-here his stomach did a nauseating little twist—-undying love! But now he had blurted out what he wanted, and he inwardly writhed waiting for what he knew must be her rejection.