A Yearning

Snape looked at her, the tie still held within his hands. Hermione couldn’t say anything; the look he gave her chilling her to the bone and rendering her speechless. Unable to hold back, she gulped down a breath trying hard not to make a single sound.

As slowly as time allowed, Snape pulled away from the tie, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s.

“Your tie, Miss Granger,” he said slowly, his voice lower than his normal drone, his hand holding it out to her, waiting for her to take it.

Reaching out to take it from him, Hermione’s hand grazed his as her fingers wrapped themselves around the fine silk cloth. Her eyes never leaving his, she could feel his thumb run over the back of her hand, the light pressure on her skin sending shock waves to her brain, the skin of her body prickling as if she had been submerged in a pool of ice water.

“Professor,” she whispered, unable to say anything else. As much as she wanted to run away, her feet would not move and her mind yearned to know what would happen next.

Snape continued to stare at her, his eyes boring deep into her, searching for her soul. He took a step closer to her, his face contemplative, as if he were trying to decide whether or not to do something. He wavered for a moment and then stood still, drawing his hand back to his side.

“Leave, Miss Granger,” he said, watching her closely, listening to her ragged breathing. “Now, Hermione,” he growled, shocking her out of her trance. Jumping up, she took one look at him and turned, running out of the room before he could say anything else to her.

As she stumbled into the Gryffindor common room, she ran as fast as she could to her dormitory, throwing herself on her bed and closing the drapes around her. Glancing down at her hands, Hermione could see she was shaking a considerable amount, her hands still bloody from the loss of her fingernails. As much as she wanted to go to see Madame Pomfrey, she couldn’t bring herself to leave the safety of her bed. She needed to think over what happened and why Professor Snape, of all people, would touch her hand that way.

………………………………………………………………

Snape stalked into his private chambers, his mind reeling at what he had just allowed himself to do.

“You bloody fool,” he said to himself as he looked at his reflection in the mirror above his bathroom sink. “How could you do something like that?”

He had not intended to touch her; he had not wanted to touch her. But as he stood there and took in her scent, he couldn’t get over how powerful it had been, how he had wanted it to take over his soul. He could smell her magic, her incredibly powerful magic. And when she had stumbled back into the room, he had been so caught off guard that he had not known what to do. He had expected her to go to Pomfrey, to have her nails taken care of and then return to the dungeons. But when she had returned earlier than he had expected, all he could do was look at her, hoping she wouldn’t do anything he would regret.
And she hadn’t. She had stood there, frightened at what she saw and captivated at the same time. When he had touched her hand it had been an accident the first time, but the second…that had been no accident. He wanted to feel her skin, feel the skin that housed her powerful magic. And when he had touched it, he had wanted to touch more of it, all of it. That was the moment he wavered, knowing if he had given in to temptation, he would have given up everything. And that was when he told her to leave, wishing she wouldn’t, knowing she did not want to go.

“Wonderful job Severus; you’ve really set yourself up you fool,” he spat at his reflection, staring into his dark eyes. He hated what he saw…what he had become. His face no longer resembled that of his teen years. His skin had become pale and sallow, while his large, hooked nose did nothing for his features. Over the years he had become increasingly thin, his body now bony and gaunt. Long hours slaving under the Dark Lord had done that to him, as well as given him more scars than he cared to admit. His hair fell into his eyes, the black, greasy mess as unkempt as that of Harry Potter’s. As much as he did not want to compare himself to the Chosen One, he had realized years ago that their hair behaved in the same manner.

His mouth was a cruel sneer, never forming into anything over a smirk. He had no reason to smile; he was not a happy man, incapable of love. There was nothing for him to smile about. Those around him viewed him as a traitor and those who knew what he was viewed him as a nothing -- insignificant and unimportant. Longing to break the mirror in front of him, he walked away, wishing he could disappear into nothing.

Stalking back into his room, he flung himself into a chair beside the lit fire. Staring into the dancing flames, he contemplated what he was going to do. Hermione was sure to pursue what had happened; she couldn’t leave anything like that alone. It was her damn need for knowledge and new experience. A need her shared.

\'Why you fool! Why did you have to touch her?\'

He could have easily passed off smelling her tie for trying to smell for some kind of solvent or potion ingredient that could have soaked into the fabric. But when he had touched her, he had crossed a boundary he knew he would never be able to cross again. He had opened a box he knew he would not be able to close and he regretted every moment of it. But oh how she had smelled of knowledge…and power. And her skin had felt like solid electricity beneath his thumb. The moment he had touched her he could feel her energy, her life force and he longed to feel it again. If he touched her again, he would do it out of pure want and nothing more. Want for power and strength and that’s all it would be and ever be.

………………………………………………………………

Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall dressed in a pair of jeans and a big sweater. She had spent most of the night thinking and now she regretted it. She had been able to doze off sometime after 3 am, but having overslept and almost missing breakfast, she had thrown on the closest thing to her bed and ran down to the Great Hall. Glancing up at the Staff Table, she could see Dumbledore speaking with Professor McGonagall, their heads lowered and tilted toward each other. As her gaze scanned the table, it finally fell upon Professor Snape, who immediately sought her out when he could feel her staring at him. Unable to do anything except stand and stare, she didn’t notice when Harry and Ron called her name.

“Hermione! Hermione!” Ron yelled then decided to walk over and wave his hand in front of her face when he received no reaction.

Her sight left the Staff Table as she concentrated on the hand in front of her face. “What do you want, Ron?” she asked him, looking at his face.

“Um, Earth to Hermione. We were calling you but you weren’t paying attention.”

“I…was distracted,” she said, making her way to the Gryffindor table. She took a seat beside Harry.

“How are you feeling, Hermione? Was the Bat his usual self last night?”

Realizing she still had not gotten her fingernails healed yet, she immediately placed her hands in her lap, staring down at the plate in front of her.

\'How can you be so negligent?\'

“Yeah, he was as silent as a rat and said nothing at all. I washed so many cauldrons last night I never want to see another one.”

“Are you coming to Hogsmeade?” Ron asked as he took a sip of the Pumpkin juice in the mug that had been in front of him.

“I don’t think so,” she said, glancing back up at the Staff Table and noticing that Snape no longer was present. She looked back at Ron. “I have some stuff I need to get done for Charms and I also need to do some research for Arithmancy. Snape’s detentions have not helped me this week and I have some catching up to do.”

“Hermione, even if you couldn’t read you wouldn’t need to catch up. I’m sure you’d still be top in our year if you couldn’t even see the class material,” Harry said, taking a bite out of a large apple.

“Thanks, Harry, but I need to do it.” Risking her hands for a moment she reached across the table and grabbed a piece of toast. Buttering it quickly, she took a large bite out of it and then chugged down the glass of water sitting in front of her. “Have fun today, I’ll see you guys later,” she said, standing up and making her way out of the Great Hall.

As she made her way up the large staircase that lead to the hospital wing, she was taken back when she saw Snape walk toward her.

“Miss Granger,” he said, stopping in front of her.

“Hello, Professor,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off him but wishing she could look at the ground.

He looked her over noticing her disheveled appearance. “Miss Granger, you look like a mess.”

Becoming angered by his remark, she no longer wanted to look at the ground.

“I’m sorry, Professor. But I’ve found that lack of sleep and long hours cleaning cauldrons can do that to a person,” she spat, wanting to show him she no longer was scared.

“Miss Granger, need I warn you that I could easily give you another week of detention? Don’t try my patience.” He glanced down at her hand and took hold of it when he saw that she had not yet gotten her nails fixed. “I doubt I have to tell you to take care of this, but really, Miss Granger, I expected better of you,” he said, his eyes searching her fingers as his hands touched the dried blood on her skin.

Unable to stop himself, he found his hands repeating the same motion they had the night before, his thumbs rhythmically rubbing the backs of her hands.
Looking at him closely, she could feel her breathing become erratic and wanted nothing more than to push him and run away. But she couldn’t move, her body entranced by his gaze and her mind wanting nothing more than to learn why he touched her in that way

Snape realized what he was doing and quickly pulled away.

“Go to the Hospital Wing, Miss Granger,” he said, turning away from her and walking away.

Hermione stood and watched his back as he moved down the corridor, never once stopping to look back at her. Unable to determine what happened, she heard a loud crash behind her and then she ran, unnoticing of Peeves and his attempt to knock over a large row of statues.