A/N: The video isn't mine but I thought it fit this one shot perfectly. ;)
-The Thought Of You-
The thought of you lingers like the trail of your perfume after you walk away.
~*~
Hermione Granger woke up with a start. She flung herself into an upright position on her comfy bed, her unruly mop of curls flying over her face and being blown in every direction by her harsh breaths. She snapped to the left, then the right, desperately trying to determine where she was and which images that remained in her mind were that of reality or of her startling dreams. And what dreams they were.
At the movement of her knee rising under her red and gold duvet, a pile of books fell onto the floor, stirring up scraps of notepaper that had been discarded onto the ground. The gleaming light of the early morning sun shining through her window caught the particles of dust the landslide of books disturbed, making it look like ashes being coughed up into the air during a volcanic eruption; her textbooks serving as the rocks and debris that cascaded down the side of the mountain.
She covered her color drained face with her ink stained hands, trying with all of her might to erase the dream that had started this bed shattering devastation. This wasn't the first time she had been woken up by such a jarring dream. It wasn't the second or third time either. It was more like the fifth or seventh or twelfth time she had fallen asleep atop her schoolbooks and found her mind conjuring up explicit - beyond explicit, if there were a word for such things - images she'd rather not see. She couldn't for the life of her figure out why her mind would create those images to begin with! Since when has she picture herself with - with - she couldn't even say who! She was far too embarrassed to acknowledge the man who had crept into her dreams without permission like the quiet, overpowering shadow that he is. What right did she have to think or dream these things?! None! None at all! If he knew that she has been having these inappropriate dreams...
She groaned and pushed her covered face further into her knees at the thought of it; at the thought of his cold glare and disgusted snarl. She felt the heat of her embarrassment at the mere picture of it. Just think of how much her shame would double - triple - if she was witnessing that look for real.
Hermione kicked off the thick blankets, finding that the clothes she wore were not her pajamas, but the clothes she had worn the day before. Yet another thing that was not uncommon. She has frequently stayed up late to study and, lacking energy to do more than stay awake, decided to go to bed as she was; jeans, jumper, and all. Not that it mattered; her appearance inside of the bedroom or outside. Who did she have to impress inside of her bedroom? Who did she have to impress outside of her bedroom? Professor Sna-
Nope! Most definitely not him! Standing at the side of her bed, she vigorously shook her head to clear it of the thoughts that had just begun to fade away. The unfortunate fact was, those thoughts hardly ever faded away completely. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she forced them, they always remained, lingering in the back of her mind like forbidden chocolate being dangled out for her, luring her into the trap that lead to certain death, or worse, humiliation.
Glancing at her Muggle clock, she calculated she had a little over twenty minutes to collect herself, to shower and decide there was nothing to do to make her hair the slightest bit presentable, just like every morning.
Turning on her shower, she undressed and leaned against the tile wall with her eyes shut, waiting for the steam to cloud the mirror as a sign the water was as hot as she needed. She rubbed her right eye, five hours of sleep not nearly enough to rejuvenate her mind and body; it never was. Lolling her head to the side, she winced and grabbed her neck, her muscles unusually sore. Rubbing out the kink in her neck, she noticed the other sore muscle at the base of her stomach, a tender ache that wobbled on the line dividing painful and pleasurable. Furrowing her prominent brows, she thought back to the activities of the day before, wondering what she had done to cause this soreness in her muscles. The knot in her neck and back could be blamed on crouching over mounds of textbooks and notes, but the gentle smart in her belly...how curious is that?
The swirling steam from the stifling shower prevented her from thinking about her aching muscles any longer. The hot water of the shower was enough to unwind her muscles and make her forget about them completely. As she allowed the water to run down her face and lathered up some soap, she tried not to envision the hands in her dreams roaming up and down her figure, smearing soap all over her, cleaning her and dirtying her at the same time. She did all but succeed in blocking out that beautiful image. So, with a huff, she gave the shower up completely, furiously rinsing out the conditioner in her hair, and stomped out.
Skin wet and shining, hair flat (for once) and dripping, she took out her anger on the shower handle as she turned it to "off", slamming the door when the water ceased. While she clawed herself dry with her towel, she briefly found it a wonder that she hadn't shattered the glass in the shower door.
Throwing the towel onto the floor, she spell dried her hair and yanked on her clothes, pushing her arms through her robes as though she were rehearsing a series of karate punches.
Control yourself, Hermione Granger. Control yourself. She shook her head and raised her chin, her bushy curls moving as one instead of in waves.
Hermione shoved her textbooks under her arms and took in a deep breath, facing her door as though she were about to walk onto a battle ground. Swinging her door open, she left her room behind with a confident stride that only we know was a fake. She kept her head down as she passed her fellow Gryffindors, afraid that they could see into her dreams if she made eye contact with anyone.
She was able to keep her thoughts in order for her first classes of the day; her hand mechanically taking notes and her mind doing its best to absorb the material her tired eyes strained to read. There were times, of course, when her mind did in fact slip away. An occurrence that happens to every student, no matter how different or self disciplined they thought they were. In her one class, as she smoothed out the fabric of her robes on her lap, Hermione couldn't help the image of his hands repeating the action.
Those hands. She thought. Those strong hands and long, elegant fingers.
It was the sound of her wand that had rolled out of her fingers and clattered onto the ground that drew Hermione from her reverie. She flushed at the sight of the heads turned her way, curiously staring at her as if she had sighed out loud.
Oh, Merlin! What if she had?!
She continued to chastise herself during the rest of the class and afterwards, when she was walking to her next class: Potions.
Honestly, Hermione, out of all the wizards in Hogwarts, you choose him to fantasize about? It would be less pathetic to dream about Harry for crying out loud! At least he's your age! How old is Pro- ehem - him, anyways? Fifty? Sixty? One hundred? Compared to you, Hermione Granger, he might as well be three hundred. Who will your hormonal mind think of next? Headmaster Dumbledore?
She couldn't help the chuckle and smile that formed at the ridiculous thought. And that was the expression on her face as she entered the dark classroom: smiling despite the fact that she hadn't been speaking or listening to anyone.
She was amongst the last group of students to enter into the dungeon-like classroom; highly unusual for the eager student everyone knew. It wasn't that she was losing her appetite for knowledge, it was only that she wasn't all that anxious to see-
"Miss Granger."
The deep, drawling, unimpressed voice halted her in her steps. She found herself planted in the walkway between the desks, almost to her assigned spot in front of the class. At the sound of him, her smile immediately dropped, her eyes raising to meet the black eyes of him, the man she has been dreading and dreaming about all night and all morning.
Her voice came out weak when she responded, her mind angry that her efforts to prepare herself for this class instantly disappeared at the sound of his rumbling voice, "Y-Yes?" She found it odd that he was staring at her mouth, as if he disapproved of the very idea of a student smiling in his Potions class. But she wasn't smiling now, so why was he still glaring at her?
"Your paper?" His eyes, the eyes that looked like two jet stones, lifted to hers, looking impatient and agitated at having to ask. Professors never ask their students anything other than a rhetorical question. It is the students that ask the professors.
"O-Oh. Right." Hermione stuttered as she shuffled through the stacks of books and papers she carried with her. The books piled in her arms slid this way and that, each movement looking like they would surely fall, but they didn't. Finding the requested paper at last, she slid it out of the stack and handed it over to her professor, who was glaring at her from between his fingers he placed over his face. "Here. Sorry."
Professor Snape slid his hand down his face and leaned forward, snatching the essay out of her hand with an unwavering scowl. He never muttered a "thank you" or even grunted to express his thanks. He merely placed the paper on his desk with the others and leaned back in his chair, moving his gaze away from Hermione and waiting for the rest of the students to get seated. Looking around her, Hermione realized she was the last student to be standing.
She quickly shuffled to her seat at the table in front of the class, keeping her eyes trained on the wooden table before her.
The class began, her professor's eyes never drifting towards her. As he spoke of the potion they were to be making that day, Hermione fought away the tingles his baritone voice sent to the pit of her stomach, the same spot that ached this morning and continued to ache now.
Hermione knows exactly how old her professor is, despite what she said earlier. The man is thirty-eight; although his weary features aged him at least ten years. Hermione had always preferred older men, no matter how hard she tried not to. All of the men her age were too ignorant, too daft; they lacked the wisdom and intelligence an older man had in spades. Or, more specifically, what Professor Snape had in spades.
Professor Snape's lecture came to an end, his quirked eyebrow informing the students it was time to being brewing. Hermione stood along with the others, grabbing her attention with two hands to drag it to the task at hand.
The ingredients chopped and measured, she dropped them into the black cauldron, jumping back at the small burst of smoke. Her eyes darted to the back of the classroom, hoping Professor Snape had not seen the embarrassing miniature explosion. She spotted him leaned over one of her classmates and eyeing his cauldron instead, a wave of relief causing her face to relax.
Flipping through the textbook lying open on her table, she reread the passage and hastily added the ingredients that would counter the mistake she had made. Soon after pouring in the new substance, the liquid simmering within the black pot morphed into an inviting silver color, indicating the potion was balanced.
The next step in the textbook was to stir the mixture, counterclockwise, until the silver color changed to a more dazzling gold. Ten minutes later that was what Hermione was still doing, in spite of the potion's color being gold for the past five minutes. Her mind had again wandered off. When the silver substance before her had changed into a milky sort of white, Hermione couldn't stop herself from noticing how similar the color was to Professor Snape's skin; or what she could see if it. Which led her to wondering if the skin his coal black robes concealed was as ivory and inviting as the skin expos-
"Miss Granger."
Hermione jumped at the professor's closeness, the metal spoon she had been holding falling with a loud clunk! Whipping around to meet the midnight eyes of her Potions professor, she spoke two octaves higher than normal, "Severu-" she stopped herself and then quickly mended, "I mean, Professor?" She found it strange that his first name was the name that felt more natural on her tongue. What she found even stranger was the response it received.
Severus Snape didn't look angry, like he would reprimand her and bark at her. Instead he looked eager, excited; his form coming shy of leaping towards her at the sound of his first name almost escaping her precious lips.
Raising her thick brows, Hermione stared at her professor, an odd look tilting her head. Noticing her expression, Professor Snape swiftly recoiled, rewinding the small step he had taken towards her. Swiping his face clean of emotion, he peered down his large nose and drawled, "Lower your arm another inch and the sleeve of your robes will burst into flames."
Snapping her head down to the place Professor Snape had just referred to, Hermione saw that the sleeve of her robe was, as he had said, an inch from touching the over cooked potion. She jumped back, yanking her arm away. The next thing she felt - other than her immense startle at the near accident - was a strong hand firmly grasping her slim wrist. Looking up, she saw that, as she had drew back and threw her arm far from danger, she had thrown it directly at the professor's agitated face.
Professor Snape kept a hold on her wrist that was stopped a breath away from his protruding nose; no doubt trying to emphasize and bring attention to the irritation he felt at Hermione's clumsiness. He eyed her from behind her closed fist, his face and eyes blank, peeved. However, before Hermione could even begin stuttering a 'sorry', her hand was unceremoniously dropped and she went back to being unnoticed by her Potions professor.
After the tall column of black mass walked away, Hermione stood for a moment rubbing her wrist. He hadn't hurt her. No, Severus Snape would never hurt the insufferable know-it-all. His appearance had been far more firm than his grip on her. What Severus Snape had done was touch her. He hadn't touched her robes as he gripped her. He had touched her. Skin on skin, flesh on flesh, no barrier whatsoever. And what a wonderful feeling it was.
Her potion well past finished, Hermione spent the rest of the class sitting in her seat, ghosting her fingers over the area that had been covered by those long elegant fingers; the fingers she felt freely roam over her form in her dreams. No barriers, no restrictions; just flesh on flesh, skin on skin.
At the end of the class, the exiting students brought Hermione out of her mind; a place she has been finding herself lost in more and more. Abandoning her wrist, she gathered her books and materials and stood from her seat. But, before she could walk two steps towards the door, towards her undesired freedom, a voice with an intense rumble halted her, "Miss Granger." Hermione almost felt a wave of relief, tired of trying to deny the fact that she didn't truly want to leave the presence of him.
Turning towards him and clutching her books close to her for what - protection? - she bit back the impulse to say his first name and instead answered, "Yes, Professor?"
Seated again at his desk, he said impatiently, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
It took a moment, but Hermione eventually remembered. From the testy glare of her professor she didn't dare to not remember.
"Oh. Right, Sir." She cleared her throat and stuffed her hair behind her ear. "What do you need help with first?"
So, what was it that Hermione Granger forgot and, thankfully, remembered? Well, a lot of the teachers, and some of the students (Hermione included of course) had noticed something particular about their oh so beloved Potions professor. What had they noticed? They had noticed that the lines that defined his face were no longer fine lines of an aging wizard, but harsh lines of a man who appeared over worked and under slept. What the students didn't know about and the teachers did, was the rise in the Dark Lord's needs for his loyal Death Eaters. So, much to Snape's dislike and dismay, Professor McGonagall insisted that he had someone to help take the load off his daily teaching routine. And, much to Hermione's secret delight, she had been chosen as Professor Snape's temporary assistant. For a brief moment, Hermione couldn't believe she had forgotten that today she would start working closely with the figure in her dreams.
The first demand from the Potions professor was a simple one, but the most surprising. Standing from his desk he folded his robes over his arms and said dryly, "No wands. No magic."
Hermione blinked, looking and sounding incredulous, "No wands or magic? Why ever not?"
Professor Snape paused in his descend from the raised platform containing his desk. For a moment he looked taken aback; from Hermione daring to ask a question or from Hermione's ignorance she couldn't tell.
Resuming down the one step and towards one of the tables he said, "The mixture contained within these cauldrons is highly flammable. The slightest spark could result in a colossal disaster."
Insulted that her professor would doubt her ability to handle her wand she sputtered, "Sir, I'll have you know that I am fully capable of handling my wan-"
"I'm not implying that you are incapable, Miss Granger, but as you know, accidents do happen." He eyed her as he spoke the last three words of his sentence, seeming to stress each syllable. It was only when the professor himself put away his wand that the fury within Hermione dissipated. As Professor Snape sheathed his wand, the front of his robes pulled back and Hermione saw the square bulge in the Potion Master's right pocket. She only saw a glimpse of it, however, for as fast as it flashed it was concealed once more by his teacher's robes.
Not another word was spoken between either of them from then on. This silence wasn't the kind of quiet that follows an unsettled argument, where the two individuals carry on with their lives still steaming. It was a comfortable silence, one that individuals share when they have spend uncountable amounts of hours together. They no longer needed to speak to one another to communicate, they already knew their place; what they should do, what they should not do.
It surprised Hermione how comfortable she felt in Snape's presence, and how equally calm he was around her. The way they moved about the classroom cleaning up cauldrons without colliding reminded her of the way married Muggles operate in kitchens during the after dinner clean up. Their system was almost as smooth as the 'You Wash, I'll Rinse' system. It also surprised her that she already knew what to do, without having to be told by her professor. Even though she had never been to their locations before, she knew exactly where the cauldrons would go, where the spoons should be placed, where the ink bottles were stacked. Not only that, she knew exactly how Professor Snape preferred them stacked and placed. He hadn't told her, but she had a feeling that the spoons should be in perfect line up, that the cauldrons should be in rows of five, and the ink bottles should be in stacked rows of three. Why did she know all of this?
The explanation for this series of strange events is this: This wasn't Hermione's first day assisting Professor Snape. In reality, her first day as Snape's assistant was close to a year and a half ago. What Hermione didn't know was, what was meant to be a temporary position in Snape's isolated life, became a permanent position. In fact, each of them were quite unaware, at first, that this little arrangement would lead into something more, something that would change both of their lives. You see, to Hermione, today was the first day of her life at Severus' side. To Severus, it was a day like any other day, except for one thing...
As unlikely as it sounds, the Slytherin and the Gryffindor Hogwarts inhabitants had fallen in love. It started slowly, as to be expected, but once that accidental seed grew out of the infertile ground, it bloomed into one of the rarest of flowers, so beautiful one would think it a sin to plant it.
It was a miracle in itself that the young Miss Granger and the middle aged Mr. Snape didn't do an Unforgivable in the beginning. But gradually, Miss Granger - and Mr. Snape - had discovered that the walls the Slytherin had built to keep others away and him away from others had finally begun to crumble; all due to one persistent and insufferable know-it-all. That one persistent and insufferable know-it-all had finally found the way into Snape's fortress, and, no matter how hard he tried, Snape couldn't find a way to remove her; nor did he want to.
For years he had pushed people away by being cold and unapproachable; both because of earlier heartache and because of his duty as a spy. But once Granger had managed to slip her way under his skin, the warmth she created and the love she provided made it impossible for Severus to remove her; the reluctance similar to the unwillingness to remove a blanket in the early morning chill.
Hermione had known everything; Severus had told her everything. His loyalty to Dumbledore; his love for Lily Evans (and the misery of losing her twice; once to James Potter and once to Death); his duty as a spy in the Dark Lord's army; his parents and his unhappy childhood. He had told her everything over the span of a year. A lot of the information slipped through his kiss bruised lips as they laid in bed; post-coital and lazily talking about everything and nothing.
So why was this Hermione's first day as Snape's assistant and Severus' five-hundred and forty seventh day? The answer to that question is both simple and complicated: there was an accident.
It was an innocent accident, one neither of them could see coming, one no one could blame on anyone. Severus had been brewing a potion; an experiment of sorts, trying to pass his time during the Summer holiday. It wasn't a potion that was meant to be taken; not by Severus, not by Hermione. However, while desperately searching for a Headache Potion, it was Hermione that took the wrong bottle. As Severus said earlier, "Accidents do happen."
And so here we are - here Hermione is - back at day one. And here is Severus, day five hundred and forty-seven, living the agony of the love of his life not knowing, not remembering, the special flower that was their love. Here he is making up as many chores as he can to keep her with him after class. Today was wandless cleaning, yesterday was an accidental spill that was entirely intentional. All he could do is wait. Wait for that momentous moment that happens everyday. Wait for-
"Severus."
Hermione's breathless voice halted Severus in his tracks. They were in his rooms now, tending to the new textbooks that had arrived and needed to be looked over in his private time. Hermione had been in his bedroom to fetch a piece of paper that needed grading. When Severus turned to see her form in his bedroom's doorway, she looked pale and wide eyed, her breath scarce even though she had only been walking.
Hesitantly, Severus straightened his form and carefully peered down at her, "Yes?"
She stared at him for a few more moments, as if he were some figure she had been waiting to see her entire life. Her breathing still rapid and her eyes still bright, she rushed forward with an ear to ear smile and wrapped her arms around his slender torso, "Oh, Severus!" She hugged him tight, her eyes squeezed shut. "Severus, I remember everything!"
At the last sentence, Severus dropped the books he had been holding and wrapped his arms around her, "Hermione. My sweet Hermione. My love, my bright light." He held her as if she had been dead and suddenly brought back to life.
It took longer today, longer for her to snap back and remember. But it happened everyday, at one time or another; sometimes in the mornings, sometimes in the afternoons, rarely in the evenings - like today. Severus didn't know what triggered her memory, he was only glad that it happened.
He knew that someday she wouldn't remember, that she wouldn't stay after class to help him, to torment him. She had almost forgotten to stay after class today, and would have left if he hadn't reminded her. He almost didn't remind her. He lived in constant fear that she would find feelings for some other wizard, a wizard closer to her age, a wizard better than him, for there were many in his eyes. He had been afraid that the seemingly smitten smile she had had when she walked into his class today was the result of such a wizard. He had thought today was the end, the day he would remain acting cold to her and ignoring her for the rest of their lives. But he couldn't let her go, he had to at least try to see if she would remember the arrangement he had at first despised and then came to love. It was a good thing that he had; that for once he resisted his urge to control himself and remain reserved and aloof.
Once she did remember, they oftentimes spent the rest of the day closed off from the world in the dungeons Severus resided in. Some nights they just talked and enjoyed one another's company. On others, like the night before and this night, they made love until the first rays of morning shone on Hogwart's grounds. During those evenings, Severus' comments about no longer having a teenage drive always received a laugh from Hermione. But, despite his aging body, she always managed to restore his energy and need for intimate pleasures.
And the square bulge Hermione had seen in Severus' pocket? That bulge had been, and still is, a ring box. An engagement ring to be precise. He had bought it almost a half a year ago, intending on giving it to Hermione on their one year anniversary. That one year anniversary had passed, however, with no celebration, no proposal. That one year anniversary had been a day of confusion for Hermione, a day where she accused Severus of many horrible things concerning her virtue and integrity. She had said she would never forgive him for drugging her and kidnapping her from her dormitory; a place she hadn't slept at for months. But that didn't truly matter because, the next morning, she had awoken in her bed in Gryffindor Tower, not remembering the night before, or the night before that.
Until there comes a morning when Hermione remembers the night before and the man she fell in love with, the man she saved, the ring will remain in Severus' pocket; patiently waiting like the man who bought it.
But would that day ever come? Or would the inevitable day Severus dreads be the day that becomes a reality; the day where she remembers nothing?
Severus knew that someday even her dreams would cease, that her feelings for him would diminish entirely, that she would finally notice the yearning stares boys like Ronald Weasley gave her. Then she would be lost completely. What would he do then? Force himself to forget her as well? Brew some potion to wipe his memories and make him as free as Hermione? If so, would he go back to his longing for Lily? Perhaps.
Until either day comes - the unlikely day or the inevitable day - Severus savors the moment when Hermione comes back to him, the moment when he is free to hold her in his arms and kiss each freckle on her smooth face.
~*~
Hermione Granger woke up with a start. She flung herself into an upright position on her comfy bed, her unruly mop of curls flying over her face and being blown in every direction by her harsh breaths. She snapped to the left, then the right, desperately trying to determine where she was and which images that remained in her mind were that of reality or of her startling dreams. This wasn't the first time she had been woken up by such a jarring dream. It wasn't the second or third time either. And what dreams they were.
To Hermione, they were dreams; only dreams. But to Severus, they were memories; mere memories.
_________________
~Finite Incantatum~