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The Potions classroom was warmer than usual, a faint haze of steam hanging above the cauldrons. The smell of herbs and metal lingered in the air, and the steady drip from one of the condensers filled the quiet between quills. Hermione sat near the front, trying to focus on the rows of measurements she’d written, but her thoughts kept slipping. Across the room, Professor Snape moved between benches, his footsteps even and unhurried, the soft sweep of his robes marking his place.

She sits straight-backed, her eyes sore from too many late nights lately. It’s the kind of tiredness that lingers behind her temples and in her writing hand, dull but insistent. Lately, everything seemed to run together - Arithmancy, Runes, Potions - all blurring into one long line of work she could never quite finish. The work load would need to let up soon, or she may not survive this year. Though, that wasn’t necessarily what has been keeping her up lately… 

“Your attention,” says Professor Snape, not loudly.

The room’s collective spine seems to stiffen. 

“The Draught of Heat-Truth,” he begins, chalk tapping against the board, “simply exposes what’s already there, once brought to the proper temperature. Much like people,” he adds dryly, “who tend to reveal their true nature when pushed to their limit.” A line curves under his hand rising, leveling, then dipping sharply. “We will stop shy of catastrophe today - although, knowing this class, some of you will attempt it out of sheer vanity.”

A titter follows and Hermione suppresses a smile. There are a few in this class who come to her mind when she hears catastrophe. She spares a quick glance to her partners for the day. Hermione copies the curve Snape has drawn on the board, and writes hold here in her tidy hand - marking the spot that he’s illustrating. Her eyelids sag a bit, and she shakes her head to lift them. 

Get it together, Hermione. 

“Booth Two,” Snape says without turning, “will conduct the flame series, four-degree increments, fluxweed syrup. Miss Granger, mind the meniscus. Your partners will observe and not, Merlin, help us all, interfere.”

She rises, finding the cauldron at booth two. Her partners, Bletchley and Cresswell, arrive with the shuffling humility of condemned men. Her classmates always seem to be uncomfortable under Snape's watchful eye in the classroom. Not her. Hermione lays out the glassware, measures the syrup, checks the copper ring for warps, and squares the bench with the edge of the stone. She is precise. 

First increment. The syrup loosens with reluctance. Hermione notes: viscosity decreases, surface tension holds; fragrance: sweet herb, low. Second increment. Light skates across the rim. Third: a deep breath from within the liquid. 

“Do you smell the caramel?” whispers Cresswell. 

Hermione shushes him. When will they learn that Snape prefers silence when working at the flame? She sniffs the air, waiting for the tell-tale smell. 

Almost there…

Eighth degree. Bitterness uncovers its shoulder. The shadow of the beaker jitters as if nervous. She gulps. 

“Careful, Miss Granger,” Snape says from the front without looking up. “You’re about to cultivate scorch.”

“I’m calibrating, sir,” she says, and the word comes out hot.

“Calibrate,” he says, “without performance.”

She adjusts the flame. The syrup holds. Meniscus shining like a blade in the mixture. She can feel Snape's attention on the back of her neck and it makes her squirm. His gaze is stifling, and even when her back is turned, she can feel its heat. 

It should not matter that he is brilliant with heat, or that his hands don’t tremble, even when the room does. It should not matter that he’s so unlike all of the boys in Hermione's year, so focused and well read. It should not matter that his corrections are exact, nor that his praise, rare as it is, lands like the first drink of water after drought. It should not matter that he speaks about dark arts the way other men speak about weather, or that his voice has the gravity of a tide. It should not matter, and yet - are these not the thoughts keeping her awake at night?

It does not matter, she tells her blood. You are here to learn. You will leave here having learned. You will not-

“Granger,” he says, and she realizes her hand has stalled, a beaker half turned over the mixture before her, lost in thought. “Shall I alert Professor Dumbledore you have been petrified by a wandering Basilisk? Or are you holding us in suspense for your own amusement?"  

The class laughs nervously, eyeing each other and then Hermione. 

Bastard. 

Why does he treat her this way in front of the class? During their one on one study sessions, he’s focused on her learning - often even encouraging. Not… this. This cruel, unaffected version of him. 

She mumbles a yes-sir and continues the series. The syrup takes the heat and the smell of caramel surrounds them, telling her what she already knows. It’s done. She douses the flame at precisely the right second, and her partners exhale like the bench had been on their ribs.

“Finished.” Snape says, no mention of her success. Typical. 

Hermione finds her seat again, leaning her cheek against her palm. She’s proud of her work, though she knows she could’ve done it in her sleep. In fact, she practically had. 

Merlin, she needs a nap… 

When class dismisses, benches bump, chairs scrape, and the students flood out the door into the corridor. Hermione snaps her notebook shut with a small, orderly click. 

Perhaps she can sneak into bed instead of dinner this evening. Her spirits lift a bit at the thought. 

“Miss Granger.” His voice stops her in her tracks, just as she’s about to make her way through the door. 

“Yes, sir?” She turns. 

“Stay.” He does not look up from the ledger he’s annotating. “Registers need updating. I assume you can be neat even when no one is watching.”

“Of course,” she says, and hates how quickly the part of her that likes to be useful in his company jumps to attention. 

Her partners are quick to abandon her, lest they get tasked with a chore as well. Bletchley vanishes without a word, while Cresswell mutters an apology to no one in particular and flees. The door pulls a draft in as it shuts behind them. The room settles into the tense quiet of the nearly-empty: the drip of a condenser somewhere, the pitch change of flame under reduced noise, the steady beating of Hermione’s own heart.

She sits at the work station furthest from Snape’s desk, pulling the course register from a drawer, her quill ready to annotate. 

The ledger is scarred and old, nearly overflowing with entries. She arrays the vials by date, then by batch, her quill moving quickly down the columns to track the activities of the day: A3 -acceptable; A4 - acceptable; A5 - hold for sediment check. 

In her peripheral vision, she sees Snape rise, and with a flick of his coat - begin his slow walk towards her. Her heart begins to hammer in her chest, and her palms begin to grow sweaty. Will he be the version of him she sometimes got in private? The conspiratorial professor who helped her gain confidence with potions? Or would he still be in his sour classroom mood? She feels him long before he speaks.

“Your notes,” he says, and sets her parchment beside the ledger. His sleeve slips back as he does, and she sees a pale seam crossing his wrist, a story she does not dare ask for. “Sound. Deduct three points for your hesitation, and five for Mr. Bletchley’s conversational courage.”

“Understood,” she says. She doesn’t have it in her to argue - not this week. Normally, she might tell him she never hesitates, but would it truly be better to admit what was on her mind in the moment? Likely not. 

“You are not,” he says mildly, “half so inscrutable as you hope.”

“I wasn’t trying to be inscrutable,” she says, and then wants to bite her tongue off. This is not a conversation she feels like having. 

“You are trying,” he says, “to be everything at once.”

“I’m trying to be adequate,” she says. It comes out too quickly. Isn’t that all she has wanted? To be adequate for him? To prove to him that she has something worth his attention? “The rest of it - never mind.”

“Ah.” He leans a fraction of an inch against the bench, his voice closer to her ear. She nearly shivers. “Adequacy. That elusive beast we all sprint to chase until our lungs fail.” He glances at the vials. “You do realize that glass breaks when asked to hold too much too quickly?”

“Is that an analogy,” she says, “or a threat to my beakers?”

“Yes,” he says, and she lets out a small sound, half laugh, half sigh. 

For this moment, they seem to exist in the only pocket of warmth in the cold room. The candles burn, the fire rages, but Hermoine only feels the odd, curdling heat coming from within herself. Her eyes rise to meet his, and she’s afraid her every thought is much too obvious in her gaze, but she doesn’t look away. He is a person she should not think of outside this bench. She thinks of him anyway, when her eyes close at the end of the night, and her mind goes bright and hungry like a burner turned low. 

“Do you ever sleep,” he asks without inflection, as if inquiring after the weather, his eyes searching hers. 

“Sometimes,” she says.

“When?”

“When I don’t have anything left to think about.”

“How often is that?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Mm.” He reaches in front of her to mark something in the ledger. “In the future, do me the courtesy of using your eyes during class. You drifted.”

“I did not drift,” she says, stung by the accuracy. “I… I was just… thinking.”

“Language is so helpful,” he says dryly. “Think next time about the task in front of you.” He draws a small notation she cannot see and shuts the ledger. His hand gently brushes hers as he pulls the book away, and her breath catches just slightly. 

He clears his throat. 

“Dinner.” He says. 

It is a dismissal. She should go. Instead, her hazy sleepiness inspires a small spark of bravery, and she starts, “Severus, I want to know-”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

He looks at her then, full on, and the look contains several sentences she cannot read. “No,” he repeats.

She swallows. The air in her lunges feels impossibly heavy. The question sits there anyway, a bright fish in a shallow bowl: do you feel this too?

The walls lean in. The hissing candles stop to listen.

No, she thinks, he can’t be allowed to continue this. She needs to know. 

“Why do you do this?” She asks, her tone low, defeated. 

Snape turns his head, glancing out the window - avoiding her searching eyes. 

“Do what, Miss Granger?” His tone is flat, that practiced disinterest she knows all too well by now.

“You know precisely what I mean.”

Her voice was quiet, not accusing - but the quiver beneath it betrayed her.

A beat.

A twitch in his jaw. 

“I assure you, I don’t.”

“In class,” she says, stepping forward despite every instinct telling her not to. “You speak to me as though I’m nothing but an irritation to be endured. Then afterwards-”

She stops, breath catching on the implication.

One dark brow lifts, and he glances back down at her.

“Afterwards,” he repeats, voice low. “You imagine I transform into something else?”

She swallows. “I know you do.”

Silence. Heavy as potion sludge, filling every space between them.

Perhaps she should have kept these thoughts to herself. What good could it possibly do? There are rules to be followed, lines not meant to be crossed. She’s making a fool of herself. 

“Whatever… impression you believe you’ve gathered,” he says, carefully neutral, “I advise you to forget it.”

Before she can reply, he turns away - his coat moving in a way that suggests he does not turn away gently. 

“Go.” His voice is cool, disinterested. 

Hermione gathers her notes, her quill shaking gently in her slick fingers. She tells herself to walk. She tells herself to leave the room as if nothing has happened. Had anything happened? She wasn’t sure. Obviously, it would not - could not - be indulged. She is Hermione Granger. She cannot be losing herself to-

“Hermione.”

She doesn’t know whether she truly hears him, or if her tired ears were simply wishing. 

She stops.

In the quiet that follows, she discovers what an ache her name could make. 

He is standing at the end of his desk, leaning slightly against it. He rubs at his jaw, his eyes on her shoes. Candlelight climbs the scar at his wrist and disappears into shadow. His expression is the opposite of invitation. It is a frustrated caution.

“Yes, Professor?” she asks. Her tone is hopeful, and she hates herself only slightly for it. 

“Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know.” He says, his voice now a little more gentle in the quiet hum of distance between them. 

She waits for him to continue, not daring to voice what he may know. For a moment, she fears he’s going to mock her. Could it be, that all this is - all it has been - is a school girl crush? Is he embarrassed on her behalf? Does he truly feel nothing? 

But then, his eyes finally meet hers. He reaches for the desk with both hands behind him, his knuckles white. She sees it all in his eyes. No, this is not a school girl crush. It is something much more, and it’s not only affecting her. The look in his eye suggests she may not be the only one losing sleep over the idea of… this. 

“Potions…” he says, holding her gaze. It’s vulnerable, tortured. “They require the discipline to know when to stop. Before they are ruined.”

“I know when to stop,” she says, and only after the words leave does he finally tear his eyes away. He looks up to the ceiling, taking a slow measured breath. 

“I’m afraid I do not.”

She watches a drop of water crawl down the inner curve of a beaker - and find the lip and fall, the world inside its skin inverted and perfect until the moment it breaks. She feels inverted and perfect and on the verge of breaking herself. 

“Please go to dinner, Miss Granger.” His voice is lower now, less sharp. There’s a note of begging she hasn’t heard from him before. 

“I’m not hungry.”

He makes a small, pained sound that she feels all the way to her ankles. “Go anyway.”

She does not. She stands there, willing him to meet her eyes. To look at her - see her. Accept her. His chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, and then slowly, painfully, his eyes trail back down to hers. 

For the first time in her six years at Hogwarts, she sees something resembling fear in Professor Snape's eyes. 

“Close the door.” 

She obeys. 

Snape steps away from the desk, and motions for her to come closer. 

Hermione Granger does not hesitate. 

Her feet take her across the floor, each step drawing her closer to a line that can never be uncrossed, she’s sure. Though, perhaps they have already crossed that line, time and time again. 

She thinks of the long evenings spent in his classroom after everyone else had gone,  parchment spread across the desk between them, the lamps burning low, his voice steady as he guided her through some impossible equation or obscure bit of theory. He was different with her then, softer. At first it had seemed like an interest in an eager student, though now she realizes it was never purely academic. She remembers the look from the Yule Ball, when she’d danced with Ron under the pale lights of the Great Hall, and felt Snape's gaze from across the room - his scowl painted quite clearly before he was able to hide it. She had seen it, and now she knows - every moment had always been leading them to this. 

She finally reaches him, a wave drawn to the moon, and he turns her, placing her back against the desk. 

“Sit.” He commands. 

Again, she obeys, lifting herself up to sit on the edge of his desk. 

He stands before her legs, his hands flexing and unflexing at his sides. His eyes are a portrait of pure torment. 

Hermione decides to push him off the cliff's edge. They have spent too much time on this bluff, it’s time to fall. 

She spreads her legs, and slowly, so slowly, reaches to raise her skirt. She feels the cool air between her thighs, and she lifts, until Snape's eyes are fixed on her underwear covered center. 

There is an aching, almost painful silence at first. Neither of them speak, and Hermione keeps her eyes on Professor Snape, and his eyes between her spread legs. She wonders for a moment if she can see her wetness through the underwear. Perhaps she should be embarrassed. 

The silence continues. 

His chest rises once, twice. 

“I deserve Azkaban for this.” He says finally, and then he’s on her. 

He advances quickly, one hand reaching behind her head, pulling her hair and tilting her head back. He leans in close, his mouth nearly touching hers. When she strains to reach his lips, he tightens his grip on her hair, not allowing her to close the distance. 

And then his other hand lands on her thigh, and suddenly - Hermione can’t breathe. His hand, impossibly large and so, so warm, begins to slide higher. 

They both look down, watching it as it makes its way under her skirt - going higher, higher, until - oh. The line drawn in the sand, washed away completely by the tide. 

It’s gentle at first, his fingers lightly tracing over her, and then it’s more firm, pressing hard into her most sensitive spot. 

A small, indecent sound leaves her lips, and Snape presses harder. 

“Has he touched you here?” He asks, his grip on her hair tight. 

For a moment, she’s too consumed with his fingers, she can’t process what he’s just asked. Has who touched her? Oh. Ron. 

“N-no.” She breathes, her voice breaking. 

“Has anyone?” His fingers pause to pull her underwear aside before continuing.

She moans fully then, and it earns her hair a tug. The warmth of his fingers against her sends a hot shiver down her spine. Every sensation, every touch - all brand new. 

“No.” She moans, struggling to keep her breath. 

“Don’t lie to me, Miss Granger. Has anyone?”

His pointer finger presses into her, filling her, and his thumb lifts to continue rubbing her. She feels something begin to build, closer… closer. His speed and pressure increase, his long finger making a come here motion inside of her. Her body begins to tighten with overwhelm, like a string pulled much too tight. 

“Only me!” Hermione practically screams, her hips beginning to rock gently against his hand.

Snape makes a pained groan, and presses into her harder, his thumb flicking lightly over her. Snape knows exactly what to do, exactly where to touch her. If she didn’t know any better, she would think he’s been studying it for years. She’s so close to her release, she can hardly think straight. So close, she’s so- 

“Do you think about this, when you touch yourself?” His voice is a whisper in her ear, and his hot breath pushes her over the edge. 

She bucks wildly against his hand between her legs, his other in her hair holding her in place. She’s chanting her answer, yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. 

Her eyes seem to defy their anatomy for a moment, rolling back into her head, and she feels as though she’s been struck by lightning. The pleasure is too much - too overwhelming - and she tries to arch away but he doesn’t let her. He continues his ministrations, wringing every last moan out of her.

It’s too intense of a sensation, so different from when she does it herself. Then, it’s hasty and silent, and only ever when she has a moment alone in the dormitory. It has never felt like this. She never wants it to end. 

Eventually, he recedes. Releasing her hair, he steps back slightly from her, and much to Hermione’s astonishment, he raises his fingers to his lips. 

“If you think you are the only one affected at night by unwelcome thoughts, Miss Granger…” Hey says, closing his eyes as he wraps his mouth around his finger. He groans once more, shifting on his feet. “You are mistaken. I am a haunted man.” 

A haunted man. 

She knows the feeling. 

Hermione's eyes travel down, and she sees a very distinct bulge pressing against the front of Professor Snape’s pants. Despite herself, and what just happened, she blushes and looks away. Of course she knows what it is, and what it means, but she’d never really seen it. Not outside of a textbook, anyway. 

“Lie back.” Snape says, pulling his coat off. He's left in his black button down, and he slowly begins to roll the sleeves up, his eyes fixed on her. 

She swallows hard, lying back against the desk. Are they going to… 

“Such an obedient girl for me.” He says, stepping between her legs hanging off the side of the desk. Snape looks down at her, his gaze hungry and desperate. He runs one hand gently from her jaw, down between her breasts, over her stomach, and finally, to her skirts, lifting them just enough to hook his finger in her underwear. 

This time, he pulls them off completely. 

Hermione doesn’t know what to say, or do. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? What she’s pictured for so long, what she’s craved, without even knowing it? And yet, she can’t help but feel nervous. What if it hurts? 

Snape lifts her knees until her feet are flat against the desk, and then - much to her absolute horror - he kneels before her. 

“Professor!” She gasps, attempting to close her knees, but he catches them, holding them apart. 

“Exquisite.” He says from between her legs. 

Hermione gasps when she feels a kiss on her thigh, then another between her legs at her center. Her back arches from its own volition. He's… he’s kissing her there. This was certainly not in her textbooks. 

It dawns on her that this is the first time he’s kissed her, not on the lips, not on the cheek, not even the forehead. But there. 

He licks once down her middle, and she jolts, her fingers wrapping tightly around a piece of parchment to her side. A surprise squeak escapes from her lips before she can stop herself, and she hears a low chuckle come from the man between her thighs. 

“You linger, even in dreams. I wake, and you are still here,” he says, as if to himself, and licks her one more, slow and languid. “It’s torture.” 

He begins to lick in earnest, his tongue light and dancing, every once in a while pushing hard into her, and then returning to her sensitive nub. It feels unlike anything she has ever experienced before. Confusingly, she both wants to reach her peak, but also does not want this to end. Not ever. 

“Oh,” she moans, a hand reaching down to thread into his black hair. “That’s- that’s-“ 

He shushes her, and reaches up to place her feet on his back, her thighs on his shoulders. Her whole body melts into a gelatinous pile. 

His mouth continues to work, his tongue doing just the right dance over her to elicit sounds she has never once heard come from her mouth. If she had more wits about her, she may be embarrassed, but she can’t find it in her to care. It feels like every nerve in her body is reacting to each pass of his tongue, alive and electric. She looks down, and watches his face pressed against her - his eyes closed like an inmate on death row, savoring his last meal. Her hand tightens in his hair. 

Once more, Hermione feels Professor Snapes finger begin to press into her, his tongue moving quickly against her. It’s blissful, it’s-it’s-

Without warning, her entire body seizes, and she’s coming undone once more. It’s so unexpected, so heavenly, and she has trouble controlling her body and the way it convulses from the sensation. Hermione begins to see stars behind her clenched eyelids. His hand grips her in place at the hip, his other slowly pumping his finger in and out, his mouth matching every involuntarily thrust and jerk. When she stills, he gives her one final, lapping lick through her center, and rises before her. 

Snape looks positively indecent. His hair stands on end from where she's pulled it, his face wet with… her. For a moment, he just stands and stares, towering above her like a malevolent force. 

He wipes his face with the back of his forearm, and she almost lets out another moan just from the sight, before she catches herself. 

“You, Miss Granger, are much less immune to impropriety than I had assumed.” He says wryly, and gives her one of his small smiles she sees so rarely and she melts a bit further into the desk. Oh Merlin, she is positively damned. 

But then, “We stop here.” 

What? 

No. 

They can’t stop here. She needs more. So much more. She needs him. 

She sits up straight on the desk, her mouth fumbling for the words. 

“What?” Hermione says, rather stupidly. “B-but we haven’t- I mean, I’d like to-“ 

“No.” Snape interrupts, and he backs up a step, running his hand through his hair. 

“Yes!” Her tone is petulant, even to her ears, but she doesn’t care. She’ll beg if she has to. 

But she needn’t beg, she has a secret weapon. One he revealed first at the Yule Ball, and then again tonight with his questions. 

“Do you truly expect Ron to be my first? After this?” 

It has the intended effect. Professor Snape's eyes go dark, and he advances on her yet again, this time - his hand wrapping around her throat. Not so tight to restrict her air, but tight enough to be a warning. 

“Don’t play with me, Miss Granger.” He rumbles.

“He will never touch me.” She replies, her chin rising above his hand. “As long as you show me tonight.” 

“He will never touch you, period.” He grumbles, and she nods quickly. 

“Never, Professor. There is only you.”

Snapes eyes narrow, his grip tightening just a fraction before he lets her go. He steps back, and for a moment she thinks he’s retreated again, but is delighted when he begins to unbuckle his belt. He takes it off slowly, letting it fall to the ground a top his coat. Next comes his pants button, and then his zipper, moving at a torturous pace, making Hermione gulp in anticipating. 

He’s teasing her, she thinks. Testing her desire.

Lucky for her, Hermione has never failed a test, and she certainly doesn’t intend to start now. 

“I have thought about this every night for nearly a year,” she whispers. “I can’t go on like this. Please.” 

His eyes soften just a bit at her admission, and he takes a deep breath. Finally, he pulls himself out, and she feels her face heat. She can see him, all of him - and it is beautiful. He walks towards her spread legs slowly, his eyes on her center, his right hand pumping himself. She can’t look away, hypnotized. 

He reaches her, and she leans back on her hands against the desk, and they both watch as he bunches her skirts into one hand. With his other, he gently guides his length to her, gliding between her wet folds. With each pass, he hits where she’s most sensitive, and her body jolts with overstimulation. 

They’re both breathing heavy, transfixed and watching where he moves against her, not saying a word. 

Snape closes his eyes for a moment and groans, the sound coming from deep within him, sounding almost pained. 

“So far beyond adequate,” he pants, rubbing against her harder. “Extraordinary. So wet for me.” 

Hermione has trouble catching her breath, but she needs to tell him she wants more. She wants him inside of her. She’s ready. 

“Please,” she says again, and his eyes meet hers. A corner of his lip raises in a smile. 

“If you crave it so bad, put it in yourself, Miss Granger.” 

She reaches down, feeling him between her, pumping against her over and over. He’s warm and so soft, and she needs it so much she can hardly contain herself. 

With her fingers, she gently stops him from pushing forward, instead directing him to her center. 

He pushes against her gently, and she feels an impossible spreading. Oh, Merlin. 

“It’s too tight,” she says, the pressure building between her legs where he’s only just started pushing in. “Severus, it’s too tight.”

“It will fit.” He groans, his eyes on where he’s pressing into her. “Bloody hell, I will make it fit.” 

Snape wraps his hands around her hips, and with one strong thrust, he sits himself flush inside of her. Hermione nearly screams, her center impossibly full, the pleasure of the invasion coming over her entirely. He sits there for a moment, letting her adjust, breathing hard into the top of her head. 

The sensation is so new to her, so overwhelming. She realizes how… empty she has always been - empty and waiting for this very moment. It’s tight, and there’s a slight uncomfortableness to the stretch, but it feels so right. It feels like a missing puzzle piece has fallen into place. She pants, and gives a slight nod. She wants him to move. 

And then, much to Hermione's delight, he obeys. He’s slow at first, pulling all the way out to the tip before plunging back in again, moving at an angle that allows Hermione to feel every single ridge of him. It’s exquisite, unlike anything she has ever felt before. 

“This is what you desired, Miss Granger?” He asks, picking up speed. She nods frantically in reply, unable to form words over the moans continuously falling out of her mouth like an oath. 

He picks up speed, each trust becoming more and more punishing, his hips pushing against her thighs. 

“Don’t you dare,” he says, his voice breathy and frantic, “use the Weasley boy against me again.”

Again, she says nothing, her mind only able to concentrate on the way he feels inside her. She’s so full, so stretched, each movement building something steady inside her. This time it’s different, the feeling. More carnal, deeper.

“Do you understand?” Snape snaps, and his hands rise to grip each side of her head, forcing her gaze to his. 

His eyes are dark, animalistic, and she feels a flood of heat rush to her core. 

“Y-yes Professor.” She moans, arching her back against the desk to meet his thrusts. 

He kisses her then. Finally. His mouth is hot on hers, and he’s pushing his tongue in between her lips, moving almost frantically. She tastes herself on his tongue, and it makes her shiver. She needs more, so much more. 

She leans forward, wrapping her legs around his waist and lacing her fingers through his hair, tugging him forward into her. She wants every inch of her touching him. She needs to feel him everywhere. She wants to tear off the clothes that separate them, toss them in the fire perhaps. She wants for him to lay her flat, to cover her body with his, and for them to spend eternity there. 

The pressure builds in her core, and she knows she’s almost there. So close to her undoing, and so is he. His breaths have all become moans, his kisses open mouthed and messy, almost feral. 

His hips are moving fast and hard, and then, suddenly, he slams into her one last time, groaning loud into her ear. The sound is so pure, filled with every word they have left unsaid all this time. The sound of a haunted man. And then she’s falling - the feeling inside of her cresting, there there there-

“Miss Granger.” He says, and his voice sounds odd - distant and upset. The room begins to shift, turning hazy. 

What’s happening? 

“Miss Granger.” 

She blinks.

“Miss Granger.”

Her view is different. So is the light. The room is full again, jammed with bodies and breath and careless noise of a classroom. Her palm twitches where her chin rests against it, her eyes heavy with sleep. 

Professor Snape stands over her desk, close enough that she can see where chalk has ghosted his forefinger. His mouth is an angry, wrathful line.

“If the aim,” he says, “was to nap so emphatically that you endangered your neighbor’s parchment with drool, congratulations, you have mastered unconsciousness. If, on the other hand, you meant to attend the lesson currently unfolding in front of you, I suggest you wake up in the next three seconds.” 

A few students snicker. Hermione flushes scarlet, snapping upright. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, feverish and disoriented, the phantom heat of her dream still clinging to her skin.

Snape’s lip curls, but he doesn't move away. Instead, his gaze lingers - too long for mere irritation. His eyes flick over her face, and for a fleeting second, she thinks she sees it: recognition. As though he could see the shape of whatever had just unraveled in her mind.

His expression shutters immediately, jaw setting hard. 

“See me after class,” he says, and turns without waiting for her reply, his robes snapping behind him like a closing door.

Hermione stares at the back of his head, pulse tripping, breath unsteady.

Whether she had imagined that flicker of comprehension - she can’t tell.

But Merlin, she hopes she has.