NARC by KMuggle

Rated: R

Disclaimer: All credit goes to Mrs. Rowling, but I have taken a few tiny artistic liberties.

Feedback: It's a good thing!

Summary: "Love, can you love me babe? Love, is this loving babe?"

Author's Note: I'm a HUGE fan of the band Interpol, and while listening yesterday to their album Antics, I got the idea for a songfic based on their song "NARC." I highly highly recommend listening to the song, (shameless plug for my favorite band.)

Also to note, I must thank the genius that is Paul Banks for writing the lyrics. I have also incorporated in this story the lyrics from another Interpol song, "The Specialist," but they aren't in italics.

Touch your thighs, I'm the lonely one.

You sit there, a blend of innocence mixed with a coquettish intrigue I have tried to deny for years. I've heard the whispers and seen the looks of the fools here who thought you to be prudish and more acquainted with the anatomy of a book than a human body, but I know deep down there is a goddess that lies latent. Yes, she's in there just dying to come out.

Remember that last sweat, cuz that was the right one.

I curse myself for thinking of you in such a manner when I am supposed to be watching the other dunderheads in Advanced Potions. I thank the gods that this is my last course of the day. Of course, I do check to make sure everyone's work, for the most part, is precise, but my eyes always snake their way back to you.

The beauty lies in that you have yet to notice how I burn for you. I've burned for you in this, your final year at Hogwart's. It has caused me to be harsher with you than the other student's grade wise, of course, but I am not the only one who expects great things from you. And of course, you always come through for me.

All your mysteries are moving in the sun.

I've heard Minerva dribble about how you plan on furthering your studies in the United States. It disappoints me. Let me scratch that, it sends a spike of despair in that our time is running out. It's as if you want to run as far away as possible from me, from everything you've ever known. In less than five days, you will be finished with your educational career at Hogwart's.

Apparently, the wizarding school in Salem, Massachusetts was seeking an apprentice in all things POTIONS! I thought of approaching you for such a position, even though one has never really existed here. I would have accommodated and yielded to you if you would have allowed it. I had fleeting images of us working together, creating potions, and conducting research. I would discover the intricate mysteries that composed Hermione Granger.

My time in your presence is running out. I will never have a student of your aptitude, and that thought is a constant layer of dread in my psyche. I'm not some dumbstruck lovefool. You have inadvertently lured me, and you don't even know it.

I show some love and respect.

You have always respected me. I know that is true. You may not like me. You may hate me, but I know you respect me. Ever a proper enigma, I recalled the times I overheard you defending me and my role as a spy. You were the one who cast the shadow of doubt when I "killed" Albus. It was too soon to reveal the intricate plot that had been layered out by Albus and I as a last resort years before the name Voldemort ever passed through your lips. You brought logic back onto the table of discussion. Even though you never overtly acknowledged it, you believed in me, and that was the first time you were truly imprinted in my mind.

I wanna get some love and respect.

I don't deserve you, but I want you. I won't say need because there is a fine difference between needing someone and wanting someone. I'm afraid it might one day come to needing you, but I'm more than satisfied with the want.

I will not put you on a shelf, like Potter, Weasley, Krum, or whatever dunderhead is smart enough to give you love and respect you deserve. You are not a trophy, and I know you will refuse to fit into the image someone else has molded for you. This is one quality I admire about you.

But baby you can see that the gazing eye won't lie,

Don't give up your lover tonight.

I approach my desk and decide to sit things out for awhile. It might do me some good. If I can focus on something else, it will take these thoughts out of my head, but still, long after you walk out of this classroom, the thoughts will still be there.

If I had you, just once, what would we do? I would be content with tea and talk, but I won't deny there would be the hope for something more. I let my vision move to you, and you continue, ever the studious person. You are stirring your potion, hair in a high ponytail. It doesn't surprise me that you are almost finished with your work, when others are still chopping up their ingredients. It is then, as if sensing it, you look up at me for a second, then, go back to your work.

I think you were expecting for me to berate you, but I don't have the energy to invest in it. You make me lose my buttons, and you've become colder than yourself in this classroom. Who would have thought that the absence of Weasley and Potter in a classroom would have that affect on you. You don't let your temper get the best of you now, which is something I have been guilty of provoking on purpose sometimes.

Those packaged eyes, those vicious lips. I don't care if you've been caressed by other lovers. I just want to lay a claim on you, even if it is only once. Still lost in thought, the class period is over, and I carelessly advise the students to bottle up what they have done so far. It will be completed tomorrow, but she will have a free period. I fail to realize that she is approaching my desk with her finished product.

Cuz it's just you and me and this wire, alright

"Professor Snape, are you alright?" she asks, her eyes glinting with worry.

I avoid her question and reach for her completed assignment. Our fingers briefly brush, and I know that she notices too.

"Is there anything else Miss Granger?" I ask, hoping my manner will throw her off.

"Well, I was wondering if there was something else I could work on tomorrow, since I'm finished and everything."

"Yes, the know-it-all seems to fit you still in this, your final year." I reply, studying her finished work as a way to distract myself from propositioning her right then and there.

Let's tend to the engine tonight –

Lookout

I just look up at her, still, patiently awaiting my answer. I am trying to think of something to say, but can't resort to coherent speech. I just wander what it would be like to kiss her. Would she be shy and modest, or would she eat me alive?

She found the lonely sound.

She keeps on waiting for time out there.

"Sir?" I hear her say a few seconds later. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"What's it to you?" I reply back. There's the snappy Snape I've seen to have lost recently.

"I'll leave you to your work."

And as soon as I hear you utter those words, the door to my classroom is closed. I have a Dobby moment where I just want to bash my head over and over and over again against an ingredients cabinet.

Love, can you love me babe?

Could you ever love someone like me? It is a pervasive question I force myself to ask, but I shall never receive an answer. I know my destiny. I know that I will most probably have my own life end when the ultimate battle reaches us. You, still in the freshness of your youth, will live.

Love, is this loving babe?

What can I say, when I obsess, I obsess. It can't be love; I have yet to understand what that is truly like. I thought maybe it lingered in me when I myself was a student at Hogwart's. Lily Potter. That name crosses my mind from time to time, but you have replaced her for some strange reason.

Is time turning around?

I came to the dreaded conclusion a long time ago, that it is too late for me to love and be loved. I am here for a specific purpose, and there are more important things in life than love.

Feast your eyes, I'm the only one.

Dinner goes by without incident. You are there, discussing important matters, I'm sure with Potter and Weasley. It looks as if you are handing out some sort of schedule to the two dunderheads, no doubt, you are the den mother of the trio.

I want you to look at me once, the way you look at them. I want you to focus on me the way I've seen you focus on them.

Control me, console me, cuz that's just how it should be done.

You still have a hand over me. I fear walking the halls around your Head Girl room for fear that I will knock one night. You like control, and I would let you have it all. Anything. Everything. It could all be yours, if only for a fleeting moment.

Your history's like fire from a busted gun.

I show some love and respect.

Don't wanna get a life of regret.

I've seen you evolve, and grow into the woman that you are. An unconventional beauty that no one else notices is before me. I feel as though I have yet to discover the real you. I see the person who is the voice of reason and practicality. I see the person who knows anything and everything, all in the quest for knowledge. I'm also afraid that I see a person who has had some regrets. If you were to let go, for once, what awe it would bring to me.

I won't admit to myself that I have regrets. Mistakes, yes, but regrets no. You could be a mistake in the long run, but at this moment, it doesn't matter. We will never have that opportunity to test that theory.

As you get up from the dinner table, I know that in a matter of hours you will conduct your rounds as a duty of being the Head Girl. I will, no doubt, see you in your stroll later on tonight, as it is my turn for rounds.

But baby you can see that the gazing eye won't lie,

I see you approaching me in the hallways. Nightly rounds are somehow less dreadful when your company is there somewhere in another part of the castle. Once again, our time is running out. I wonder if you are counting down the days you have left until you will be free of conducting these walks which are required of the Head Boy and Head Girl. It is almost midnight, and we will both be off to our own separate bedchambers.

When you see me, your walk begins to slow down a bit. The robes slow in their swishing. I feel as if time is slowing. You don't stop to tell me that you are heading off to bed. You just continue towards me with a look in your eyes that breathes apprehension. It's as if you are unsure about something, but still, you continue until you are right in front of me.

No, don't give up your lover tonight.

Lookout.

"Forgive me" you whisper before you bring your lips to mine, and I yield without a second thought as to what we are doing.

The apprehension I saw in your brown eyes, has not carried itself to your lips. There is no modesty in that area, and I begin to realize that I am witnessing the goddess as she is about to come to full bloom.

She found the lonely sound.

She keeps on waiting for time out there.

We are but lonely souls, even though we are surrounded by many. I hear a slight moan, and as much as I don't want to, I am the one to pull away.

She refuses to look at me, focusing her glazed vision on the ground, awaiting a harsh berating, but I pray that there was/is no one here to witness what just occurred between the two of us.

I surprise her by placing my hands on her head and bringing our foreheads together. I feel the tension and worry in her. I can imagine her thoughts. She is questioning her actions, wondering if what we have just done was a huge mistake. All the while, I am praying to any and every god and goddess that will lend me an ear, to have our moment continue undisturbed.

Love, can you love me babe?

Love, is this loving babe?

Is time turning around?

"What have I done?" she says.

I just relish in her, complete by the feeling of her forehead meeting mine.

"I just kept thinking that our time was running out. In less than a week, I'll be gone." She whispers.

I grab her cold hand, and without hesitation, she follows me, without question, as we run down the empty halls. Our shoes making noises that are slightly noticeable, but I turn my head around to see, once again, that look of slight apprehension. She didn't have to ask where we were going; she just let me lead the way. Before I knew it, we were running down the stairs that led to my private chambers.

The door is opened and we both run inside, almost wild like a group of thirteen year olds running from the law. There is a slight grin on her face; the look of a girl who just got busted with her hand in "the cookie jar" so to speak as she leans against the door.

Her look then becomes pensive, as she slightly runs her hand over the back of her neck, contemplating just what it is she is doing in her Potions professor's private chambers. She looks up at me again, awaiting the next move, either one of us is afraid to make.

Acting on initiative, her back pushes herself away from my door, and she approaches me yet again. Her eyes still have a glassy look to them that I find hypnotic. Her skin, flushed, never ceases to end in its glow. The goddess is spreading out her petals.

We steps into the bedroom babe,

"Tell me this is wrong." She whispers as she begins to undo the buttons of her robes. "Tell me that what we are about to do isn't right." Her fingers continue to glide through each button, until finally, the robes are on the floor.

She starts to unbutton the shirt of her uniform, but I refuse her that pleasure. I continue the task at hand, seeking out her lips as a reminder of what is to come.

"Tell me…….we can't……do……this." She adds in, trying to find some reason to end things as they stand. Her hands find their way to my buttons and I allow those hands to undo me in more ways than one.

You know me, this is alright.

"This is right. This is right. This is right." I say over and over again to both her, and anyone or anything that would dare to hear me out.

Holdings we'll make soon will sustain us through the night.

Inside my bedroom baby

Touch me, oh tonight

Poses we'll make soon will reveal our sense of right.

Her body entwined with mine is sheer bliss. We met each other, flame to flame over and over again. The goddess came into full bloom in front of my eyes. Every inch of her skin I memorized with kisses. What others lacked wisdom wise to the realization of her beauty - I was granted with a torrent of passion.

You should be in my space.

I woke up to her eyes meeting mine. No words were shared, but just the stare in realizing that what perspired last night will be the only time. This time next week, she will be off in Salem.

You should be in my life.

I try to convince myself that this is not what I want. I don't want to wake up to a warm body, her body, every morning. I don't want my passion to bleed for her like it did last night. I don't want to feel the ecstasy of singing into her lips between kisses when she comes, "This is right. This is right. This is right."

You should be in my space.

I drift off into sleep, the last thing in my vision, are her eyes.

You should be in my life.

Her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes. Her eyes…………..

You could be in my space!

She graduated, top of her class of course. Our eyes would meet every now and then. I still had small pangs of longing, but my head would swell with the time we stole underneath the finger of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And then, she was gone.

Time passed without her, and I sometimes wondered how my little know-it-all was doing in Salem. I would hear occasional words from Minerva about how she was doing, but I kept my distance from the curiosity. Before I realized, two years had passed.

Grading a set of horrible first year essays, I groaned in frustration at the fact that my worst fears were realized. Each year, the dunderheads grow dumber and dumber. I was about to throw the stash into the fireplace when I heard a tapping on the window. It was an owl I wasn't familiar with.

I approached the window and took the envelope, not forgetting to give the animal a piece of bread I didn't finish for dinner before it flew away. The envelope didn't have any writing on it, and I feared it would be some sort of prank via George and Fred Weasley. I took out the folded sheet of paper, and opened it.

The handwriting was all too familiar. The precise and neat handwriting that I hadn't seen in two years – she didn't even sign her name. There were only four short, simple words.

"Come and find me."