Author’s Note: I’m rating this one M for Mature due to the graphic sexual themes. Please heed the warning if that sort of thing bothers you.

This takes place several years after ‘Deathly Hallows’ and assumes that Severus Snape survived. I’m not usually one to write scenarios in which that is the case, but this story was written as a gift for a friend (I hope you don’t mind me posting it here) and it just seemed to fit the type of story I thought she might enjoy. This is Snape/OFC so if you don’t like that either, then this also might not be your cup of tea.

The Gift

He had been watching her for some time now, weeks really. It was far less sinister than it sounded. He had no designs on her; he was cognizant enough of his own physical failings and personality flaws to be more than realistic where such matters were concerned, but the truth was she fascinated him and he liked to watch her.

She reminded him of no one he had ever known, and seeing as he was doing his best to leave his old life in the past that pleased him. Her soft brown hair, struck through with gold, pale skin, dark eyes were captivating; the way her fingers slid down the page of whatever she was reading until they reached the bottom most corner before turning it; the way she always stirred the cream into her coffee in a counter clockwise direction; the way she seemed completely absorbed, utterly unaware of anything going on about her when she was engaged in her studies…

He was much too old and worn out to be noticing such details about a complete stranger in the cafes of Paris. True, he was not yet fifty, but she looked to be not yet thirty and it really was appalling of him, he knew. He would have stopped going to the café if he could, but she was like an opiate to him - a sweet, hazy dream into which he would let himself slip, drown, die...

He had tried it one week, just to convince himself that he was not irredeemably perverse. He had quit going all together and out of the blue. ‘One week’, he had told himself, just to know that he could do it.

He had lasted a day.

One day without seeing her and then the pain of separation had become so acute that he knew that if he did not go to the café, did not see the pale creaminess of her skin against the crisp white of the café’s table linens he would take to fantasizing about her, and that was something he refused to do. Absolutely. That would ruin it. Cheapen it.

It had been then that he had realized for the first time that perhaps she was more to him than a mere infatuation. If she was only that, why would he care if he indulged in the occasional fantasy or two. God knew he could use it. How many years had it been…? He squelched the thought. Best not to dwell on the truly depressing statistics of that…

Sometimes he wondered himself why he did not avail himself of the variety of very fine options available to him in “The City of Love”. It was not as though he did not have the money. After his name had been cleared and they had released him from Azkaban, the Ministry had been only too eager to pay him well to keep his mouth shut in regard to their bumbling and incompetence, and as he had never had any compunction to go running to “The Prophet” in the first place, he had gladly and willingly accepted the wholly unnecessary hush money.

The thing that disturbed him more than anything else was the fire this strange woman had lit in him. He had gone years without even the slightest hint of human affection, why he should crave it now after a year in St. Mungo’s and nearly two in Azkaban, he would never know. He may have only been forty-nine years of age, but his body had had quite the toll taken from it, all things considering, and he was probably vastly less fit for such exertions than he had been in all the lonely years he had spent at Hogwarts. It was the damn city no doubt, whatever had he been thinking in relocating to such a place?

On this particular afternoon she was late, and he had already been through two espressos and three cigarettes by the time she finally strolled in. Her usual table was taken by a rather rotund and overly painted middle aged woman and her small poodle, and so her dark inquisitive eyes swept over the rest of the small patio in search of an alternative seat. To his great disappointment he realized that all of the other tables were full, which meant that she would no doubt leave or choose to sit inside.

At that moment the waiter returned inquiring if he was in need of anything else. He ordered something (he had no idea what after the man had gone) and then waived him away, scanning the crowd in search of her, but she was gone. With a sigh he lit up another cigarette and cursed the fact that he had ordered something else which would now require him to stay at least until it was brought.

“Pardon, Monsieur?”

He turned and looked behind him in irritation, expecting to see another member of the wait staff, but instead he found himself looking up into the face of the very one he had just been seeking. She smiled.

“All the tables are full, you see.” She motioned around her. “You will forgive me if I join you at yours, non?”

He nodded and mumbled something, which he later could not recall. “I will be no bother, I assure you, Monsieur. I only need a place to read, you see.” She held open the brown leather satchel that had been slung over her shoulder and he could see that it contained various academic journals, a vast array of what looked to be student essays, and a small paperback novel.

“Yes…” He waved his hand at her like an idiot but she obviously interpreted it correctly and sat down. The waiter returned with another espresso and a croissant and he stared down at it with distaste. He could hardly be expected to eat when his stomach was fluttering about like a pathetic schoolboy’s.

“And for Mademoiselle?” The waiter nodded his head in her direction.

“The same please.”

“No wait.” The waiter stopped and looked back, and she turned toward him too, her eyes locked on him. “Have mine. I’ve ordered it and now find I don’t want it.”

“Are you quite sure?” She asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“Yes, yes. Have it.”

“Merci, Monsieur.”

“As Monsieur wishes…” The waiter’s voice was haughty and clipped. He was obviously put out that he had just been cheated out of a larger tip. He made a mental note to leave one anyway.

She pulled the coffee and pastry toward her and took a bite, turning to her papers, just as she had promised.

He now found himself in a very uncomfortable situation. His main reason for coming to the café was to watch her, so he rarely brought any reading material, unless a newspaper headline happened to catch his eye in the short walk between his studio and the café. Today he had brought nothing. He could not very well sit there and stare at her when she was a mere foot or so away…

He turned in his seat to stare out at the bustle of the street beyond. It was the usual traffic for that time of the afternoon, and there was nothing of any real interest in it. He would much rather be looking at her. Even with his eyes focused on the street beyond he could still feel her behind him, the mere closeness of her burning like fire against his back, setting the little hairs at the base of his neck on end.

To his mortification he noted that his breathing had quickened as he had focused on it. He forced it back to its usual rhythm and then did his best to attend to something else, but she was close enough that he could smell her, a soft clean smell like freshly laundered linens. It seemed perfect. Perfectly her. He imagined what it might be like to press his nose against the soft skin behind her ear, wondered what she might taste like.

“Monsieur?”

He turned back quickly, eagerly, and then berated himself inwardly, trying desperately to appear nonchalant as a rush of adrenaline shot through his veins at the sight of her large dark eyes locked on his. She had removed her small sweater, and now her bare shoulders glowed warmly in the sun. There was a tiny heart shaped mole just below her left clavicle, just before the start of the soft swell of her breast…

“Forgive me, but it appears I have forgotten my pen. Would you happen to have one I might borrow?”

“Oh yes…” He fumbled about in his pocket, and finally, silently and almost unconsciously conjured one from thin air beneath the table. He was pleased to see that it was a fine instrument as he lifted it from his pocket. Especially when her eyes lit up at the sight of it, and she weighed it admiringly in her hand as he handed it to her.

“Oh, merci, merci. It is beautiful, Monsieur. Too beautiful a thing for me to use for my meager scribblings…” She moved to hand it back to him, but he shook his head.

“Nothing could be too lovely for you, Mademoiselle…” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he saw her blink a little in surprise, a soft smile coming to her lips, and a hint of color coming to her cheeks. He looked away quickly.

“Forgive me. It was presumptuous of me… Forgive me, Mademoiselle.” He really needed to leave, and quickly too before he made a complete and utter ass of himself. He had the ability to ruin first meetings more thoroughly than anyone he had ever met.

He pushed away from the table in a rush and moved to get up, but she reached out, her thin, pretty fingers fastening over his wrist in a remarkably firm grip. “Non, Monsieur. Do not go, please…Please stay…” He swallowed his pride and worked up the courage to look back into her eyes. They were deep, and sparkling with hint of something…

Her hand lingered on his wrist, and he said nothing, not wanting to jinx it, though he was certain she could feel the racing of his pulse beneath the pads of her fingers. He sat back down. “You watch me, Monsieur; I see you…”

He forced himself to hold her gaze. There was no accusation in her tone, and her eyes were dancing, teasing. Was she…? Could she possibly be flirting with him? He dismissed the idea instantly as sheer lunacy. Wishful thinking on his part. “No Mademoiselle…”

She smiled playfully, and lifted an eyebrow. “You do and you know it. There is no use denying it. I have seen you…”

There really was no use in lying now, she had found him out, and besides, he found himself more and more curious to see where she intended to lead. “Oui Mademoiselle, on occasion I have watched you.” The smile broke forth in full glory then and he felt his skin grow warm beneath the light of it. She had remarkably straight teeth.

“Well you have been honest with me, which is admirable considering the seriousness of your offense, and so now I shall share with you my little secret,” and before he knew what was happening she had gotten to her feet and leaned across the table until her lips were mere inches from his ear. The smell of her surrounded him then, overwhelmed him, and he let his eyes slide shut for just a moment, let himself drown in it, in the intoxicating sensation of her warm breath against his earlobe, the way the soft strands of her hair brushed against his jaw.

And then her voice, that smooth, sweet voice like warm honey pouring over him as she spoke quietly in his ear. Not quite a whisper, but still quiet enough that no one else could hear. “I have watched you too, Monsieur. There are days that I come here just to watch you, and I have been trying to work up the courage to come and sit with you for some time.”

Her hand which had been resting on his wrist only moments before had slid up his forearm as she leaned forward and now slid back again as she returned to her seat. The sensation of her fingers brushing against the now faded mark on his forearm sent strange and rare sensations through him and he wished she would do it again, but was finding it rather hard to speak, or even think. Somewhere at the back of his brain he registered the dark look in her eyes, the husky quality to her voice, the fact that she had licked her lips as she pulled away, had lifted her free hand to brush lightly over her jaw and briefly skim the mound of her breast, the now pert peak of her nipple beneath the thin white linen of her dress, and realized that together all of these things pointed to one thing.

Desire.

Did she want him?

Oh Merlin, gods, he most certainly hoped so. He most certainly wanted her, suddenly and inexplicably wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. It was like a raw and untamable hunger that seemed to have risen out of nowhere and surprised even him. He was not given to fits of bestial yearning. His self-control was one of the things he had always prided himself on, but it seemed to be slipping now, and at a fantastic rate.

He knew that his desire for her must now be clearly evident in his eyes, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to prevent it from becoming evident elsewhere as well.

“You live close by?” Her tone was casual.

“Yes. Not far. Do you know the patisserie two streets over?”

She nodded.

“Just above it.”

“Mmm…not far then…”

“No.”

“And you want to show it to me, non?” A becoming flush rose to her pale cheeks the moment she had said it, and her eyes flitted away from his almost shyly.

By god she was giving him an open door, practically inviting herself. He was fairly certain that he was not misinterpreting her intentions now, and he had no idea what in the name of all that was holy or base he had done to encourage or fan the flames he could see burning behind her eyes. “Yes…” he breathed.

She smiled again and this time the hunger in her eyes made it look almost wicked. He had best get them there as quickly as possible. He was losing his battle with the evidence of his desire. He considered Apparation for a mere second before coming to his senses, and realizing that they would have to walk. She was already packing her bag and in a moment she had finished and gotten to her feet. He rose himself and tossed a handful of Euros on the table, no doubt five times what the waiter deserved, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to count.

The brisk walk managed to clear his head a little, but by the time they reached the patisserie and had climbed the narrow stairs to his studio the delicious ache had returned full force, and his hands shook a little as he fumbled with the key in the lock. The door finally gave way with a soft click and he pushed it open, holding it open for her, and then closing it tightly behind him and locking it again.

The flat had a vast array of floor to ceiling windows that looked down on the street, and he had purposefully hung only the sheerest of curtains from them, not wanting to block out any of the light. There were shutters for in the evenings, but in the day he had wanted to let the light in. He had spent too many years in the dark.

She had dropped her bag by the door when she walked in, and now she stood in the middle of the room, her back to him as she took in the room. The sun shone through the thin fabric of her dress giving him a delightful silhouette of her hips, the tiny gap between her thighs, the soft upside down heart of her buttocks.

She turned then, her eyes glowing. “It is lovely. So much light. Do you paint?”

“On occasion, and with little success.”

She laughed. “So honest…” Her voice softened and she walked toward him until she was only inches away. “When I first noticed you, it was your hands. Honest hands…” She reached down and took them in hers, staring down at them, as her thumbs grazed the tops of his fingers. “Your eyes were so dark. They held many secrets, unreadable secrets, but your hands…Your hands always told the truth. I saw them and I thought – ‘what truths might I learn from those hands? What secrets might they tell…?’”

He watched her as though in a dream as she lifted first one and then the other to her lips and pressed them, warm and full and moist against his knuckles. The sensation of it was sweet agony, and he stopped trying to fight the desire that was threatening to suffocate him. She was there now, and she wanted him.

As much as he did not want to break the contact, he pulled his hands slowly away from her lips and brought them up to cup her face. “What is your name?”

She smiled. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Genvieve. And yours?”

“Severus.”

“Severus…”

“Yes.”

“Enough talk. These…” she reached up and took his wrists again, pulling his hands gently from her face. “These will speak loudly enough, do you not think?”

He nodded. She stood there before him, waiting, wanting his hands on the soft pliable landscape of her body, wanting him to explore it, to discover its secrets, and who was he to deny her her heart’s desires. The question really was where to begin. There were so many delightful possibilities, and he fully intended to take his time.

She let go of his wrists and simply stared up at him. Now that he was close…oh so very close… he could see in the soft diffused light of the studio that her eyes were not nearly as dark as his, but were rather a rich chocolate brown, and that if he looked into them long enough they told him everything he could have ever wished to know about her. Now – here – in this moment – she was completely and utterly terrified.

Perhaps she had managed to get herself into this situation and now discovered that it was not what she wanted at all. Perhaps she did not now know how to extricate herself. His body berated him for his thoughtfulness, raged against his heart. Oh how very, very much he wanted her. “You do not want this…not really…”

There was some sort of inner battle visible behind her eyes, and they grew sad, as she bit distractedly at her full bottom lip. “But I do…”

He shook his head. “No you don’t.” But he still couldn’t bring himself to walk away, as he knew he should.

She shook her head. “I…I do. It is only that…I have never done this before, you see - impose myself upon a complete stranger...” Her eyes dropped from his to the floor, and she let out a weak laugh. “Whatever must you think of me…” and then her eyes were gazing back into his again - full, glowing, longing, thirsty. She was as thirsty for it as he, and not just this moment, this potential coupling, but rather so much more. “I find that I do not know myself where you are concerned, Monsieur.”

What would she do if he touched her now, he wondered? Would she vanish like a sweet clinging mist beneath the warmth of the morning sun? Would he wake from this dream, burning with an ache he would be forced to alleviate himself, as he had for so many, many years? Would she pull away, turn, snatch up her things and leave? Or might she stay? Was she brave enough to stay? Was he brave enough to test her and see?

He took a small step toward her and he could see her breathing hitch and then quicken, the throb of her pulse in the shallow cup of her throat begin to flutter like the heart in the chest of a baby bird, but she did not back away.

He was astounded at her courage.

Her eyes still stared up into his, as though she could not tear them away, and they were caressing him now, begging him to do something, anything to end her torment. It was not only the desire – no - like him it appeared that she had a lifetime of things that she needed to forget, wished to bury. Those eyes, so like his in many ways, reached out and twined about his heart until he knew that he could not walk away from her, could not until it was finished.

He took another step closer and her eyes slid shut, her tongue darting out to subconsciously moisten her full pink lips. He wanted to claim them, drown in them, to die there in that one single embrace, but he did not take them, instead he brushed past her and moved around behind. He expected that she would open her eyes, turn to see if he meant to leave, but she didn’t move.

Her hair waved gently as it fell down over her shoulders, and the sun streaming through the windows only accentuated the streaks of gold woven there. What did summer smell like he wondered? What would it be like to bury one’s face in pure sunlight? Reaching out tentatively he let the backs of his fingers brush against the cascade of her hair. She didn’t move, hardly even breathed, and he felt that it might be alright to continue.

Her hair was thick as he reached in to brush it from off of her neck, parting it first over one shoulder and then the other until the full of her neck was exposed, and he could follow the exact, sensual curve of her spine from the nape of her neck, down between her shoulder blades until it disappeared beneath the flowing folds of her dress. There was a tiny trail of pearl buttons running the length of it, one button for each vertebra, and he counted them down as he unfastened them one-by-one, until the whole of her back was laid bare to him, uninterrupted, so pale and perfect.

He stood very still and watched her ribs expand and contract beneath her skin as her breathing came quick and shallow. It fascinated him. The longer he stood there, motionless, the more aroused she seemed to become. He lifted a hand to lightly brush past the hair parted on either side of her neck again, and watched as a galaxy of tiny goose bumps erupted over the pale expanse of her flesh.

The mere sight of it sent a renewed surge of fire racing through him, and he let the throbbing, surging blood in his veins flow where it willed, even though it meant that the pressure against the fabric of his trousers made the situation border on the painful.

She shivered a little and then sighed, a long, satisfied exhalation as he traced the backs of his fingers from her neck all the way down to the top of her white silk knickers peeking above the small gap below the last button at the back of her dress. And then he wanted to feel the vastness of that pale landscape of flesh pressed against the thin, scarred skin that stretched over his own feeble bones, wanted to know what it would feel like to be molded against so much sweet softness, and fumbling out of his own shirt in desperation he strode forward and reached beneath the fabric of her dress to wrap his lean arms around her bare waist, press the sharp contours of his ribs against the yielding suppleness of her back. She was considerably shorter than him, and her head fell back to rest just beneath his chin.

He tilted down and buried his nose in her hair and breathed deeply. It smelled like peaches and flowers, like summer, just as he knew it would, and he let his eyes slide shut again, simply resting there with his face buried in the meadow of her hair, and as the tension of yearning built in his body, it seemed as though something else, something dark, and heavy and cold flowed out to make room for it. His skin felt hot, like liquid fire against the cool sweetness of hers and he realized that he could not remember the last time he had been warm. It seemed as though he had spent the majority of his life with ice flowing through his veins – a lifetime of waiting for this, this moment, this feeling, this woman.

Due to the difference in their heights, the soft curve of her buttocks pressed up just beneath the part of him straining for freedom, and he tightened his grip about her waist a little, trying to get her closer to discover what new heights of need she might unlock if she were to come closer, to rub against him just so… She yielded instantly and a soft sound, something akin to a whimper escaped her lips as she did.

No doubt she could feel the hard, throbbing length of him pressing urgently against the small of her back. The fact that she pressed into it , squirmed deliciously in his arms, shrugging from beneath the thin straps that kept her dress draped precariously from her shoulders, let it fall to the floor in a heap, and then turned in his arms, pressing her breasts against his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him in close as her lips, her tongue, oh god, her tongue, reached out to taste him, left him weak, dizzy, and he knew that he had to get them somewhere where they would not be reliant on the steadiness of their legs.

His bed, small, unassuming, more of a cot than a bed, was mere feet away, but he did not know now how he could even make it that far. Her fingers had found the scars that criss-crossed across his back, scars he had learned to hide since a boy. The memories that accompanied them fought to rise to the surface as they always did, but her small hands were fumbling with the buckle of his belt, the button at the top of his trousers, and everything faded but that one thing, that one sensation, the need, the absolute and utter necessity of being freed from the prison of that garment. She did not make him wait long, and when she finally released him, when he finally felt the fabric slip down his legs, felt her ease his pants over his hips, felt the burning, yearning length of him press against the now sweat slick smoothness of her belly, he couldn’t help but moan against her forehead, and thrust urgently against her.

The sensation of sliding against her skin, the sound of her own moans as she clawed at his back, as she tried to draw him closer, nearly sent him over the edge and he had to pull away, just a little, which elicited a tiny cry of protest from her lips. He found it endearing and he surprised himself by smiling against her hair. It felt strange, but not forced; more foreign, like trying to walk again after months of being bed-ridden.

She looked up at him, and her eyes clouded. “What?” There was suspicion and something akin to hurt in her voice. She thought he was laughing at her, and he could not bear it.

“You…You are so…beautiful...like…like light, and…” but his words trailed off, he was babbling nonsense. It made little sense even to his own ears, and a tiny furrow had started to form between her eyes. He lifted a hand to her cheek. “I’m not laughing at you…please…” She could not leave now. Not now. Oh gods - bloody, fucking Merlin, how he needed her. She could not leave him like this. Surely it would kill him.

Her eyes searched his, and she seemed to understand because she nodded slowly, and drew close again, the full length of her body pressing against him, her pale skin flushed a delicate rosebud pink beneath the heat of her desire. She took a step forward forcing him backward, back toward the bed. She needed it too, needed to sink beneath the weight of these sensations. He let her lead and then pulled her down on top of him when they reached the bed, relishing in the weight of her above him, her lips against his neck, her ragged breaths against the place where it curved to meet his shoulder.

He arched up against her, needing to have all of her now that she was so close, and it was only then that he realized she was still in her knickers. She could not take them off without getting off of him again and he had no intention of breaking contact now that she was spread out fully over the length of his body. Besides, the silk was fine, and wet with her desire and the sensation of it sliding smooth and easy over his skin was nearly as intoxicating as it would have been to slip inside her.

She seemed to feel the same way, and she began to search for and soon found a delicious rhythm as she ground herself against him, and then her lips began to trace hot trails of kisses along his neck, behind his ear, exactly where he had long dreamed of tasting her.

The afternoon was growing warm and the temperature inside the studio was rising with it, causing their writhing bodies to become moist and slick. Hands slid over flesh, limbs entwining, skin against skin, the rhythm of their hearts beating as one, and then she was there, her face hovering above his, lips parted, eyes glazed with the need for release, and her lips were only inches from his, and he wanted to kiss her. He shouldn’t kiss her. He barely knew her, but something about her body seemed to fit perfectly with his, something about the look in her dark eyes made him forget propriety and scruples, and they were every bit as sweet as he had always hoped they would be, her mouth tender and yielding, her tongue sweet and hot in his mouth as he took her.

She kissed him with a desperation he had never experienced and he returned the embrace in kind, willingly losing himself in it. There was nothing now but her – this. The rhythmic dance of her body riding his quickened, the kiss deepened and he knew that they would come together, knew it like he knew the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

He forced his eyes open and looked up at her above him, eyes squeezed shut like a child taking that first flying leap from a swing at the zenith of its upward arch. She was so very close. He was so close. He felt the tension in her body building, an electric energy passing from the heat of her skin to his and then she gasped, moaned against his lips, lifted her hand to weave through his hair, and the last thing he noticed before he was carried away by the strength and power of his own release were the perfect sparkling jewels of the tears that clung to her lashes.

One last stroke of silk against burning, yearning flesh and he felt it grip him – the first real release that he had experienced in years. Everything narrowed to that. There was only her flesh, her cries the salt of her tears on his skin…or were they his? The force of the release wrung him to the very core, until with a final shudder and a long, relieved sigh, she collapsed on top of him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her arms raised above her head, both hands buried in his hair.

How it had happened, he would never know. If one had told him a few hours prior that he would be here with her, like this, he would have called them mad, but now here she was, nearly naked, slick with his sweat and the aftermath of their coupling, resting contentedly in his arms with no apparent compunction to bolt. Until this very moment he had always assumed that the universe despised him for some inexplicable reason, but now…

Everything had changed.

She had freed him, and he did not know how.

“Genvieve…” he finally whispered after some time.

“Mmm…”

“Thank-you.”

He felt her smile against his neck.

Yes, everything had changed, and he rather thought he liked it.