The next two months were spent with a great deal less tension than the first few weeks of the term. She looked covertly at me at meals. I subtly followed her through the halls.
We went no longer than a week without ruthlessly fucking.
Sometimes in the classroom for a feigned detention, sometimes in my office, and once (recklessly) in the prefect's bathroom.
It's difficult to articulate what it was between us. I am not without emotion, nor have I ever been, much to the surprise of many, I'm sure. It was there, though… the quiet build of emotion for Granger in the constant ruckus of war, subterfuge, and rough sex.
The first month had been nothing more than that: sex.
Our eyes would meet at some point, and we'd inevitably find ourselves naked mere hours later.
Once, after this type of exchange in the classroom, she had brashly asked me a question so unrelated to the topic that I took points without thinking. She looked at me expectedly. I had warned her of making such displays in the classroom.
Needless to say, that is where her detentions spawned. I cannot say she was scrubbing cauldrons.
Other times, we'd pass each other in the hall, brown eyes glancing up from the normal ten books or so she'd be holding. An empty classroom would soon be filled with her bent over a desk only minutes later.
Worst of all, she had left a note at the bottom of an ever-lengthy scroll turned in at the end of class. I returned from a late night summons, unsure of finding anything as I entered the prefect's bathroom, unaware of anyone watching me.
She was there, of course. Wards were placed, but none so stringent as to make us completely unnoticeable. I had the passing thought to cast one of my own, but Granger seemed… aroused by the thought of getting caught.
Everyone has their fetishes. It was a bit of a delight to find Granger with such a kink-but then, someone who had broken every rule in Hogwarts by twelve was like to grow into a rule-skirting nymphomaniac.
In a month where every waking moment was filled with thoughts of the coming war, the slow trickle of black up Dumbledore's hand, and more frequently called Death Eater meetings…
That October seems almost blissful in retrospect. Nubile flesh, absolutely unquestioning, no thought of reprimand.
I had never rebelled so much against society; I had never been so lax with my actions.
But then November came.
She stopped hastily putting on clothes and leaving without a second glance at me.
In the chill of those early weeks, Granger began putting on those cursed knee-socks too slowly, buttoning her shirt too pain-stakingly.
Things had been too easy. I would watch her, silently. Waiting for the change.
It came on a Saturday morning when most everyone was at Hogsmeade. She had doubled back to my office, her friends unaware that she was not, in fact, at the bookshop.
Knowing both Dumbledore and McGonagall to be absent, I couldn't resist taking her right over my desk. I had raised her legs well above my shoulders, her moans echoing loudly in a room I had only barely passed a silencing spell over. I moved slowly over her, savoring the lack of haste we so often expelled with each other. It was unlikely to see anyone other than Filch or a second year lost in the corridor.
With that unusual stretch of time, Granger took to it with the slowest process of dressing I'd ever seen.
She slowly pulled on her socks; achingly tied her tie.
I nearly rolled my eyes. This "slow" dressing had been an obvious sign of her prolonging our time together. I could only image what question she was dying to ask.
"Were you hurt… recently?"
That was unexpected. I narrowed my eyes as she met mine, almost nervously. Amazing that she would still be nervous after I'd plundered her from every orifice.
She bit her lip. "You've… uh, you've been… shaky?" she seemed at a loss. "Everytime we've, had sex," she swallowed, "your fingers and arms have twitched after. Until I leave."
She paused, looked expectantly. I gave no answer.
"It looks like Crucio."
She inhaled audibly.
"Are you a mediwitch?"
"Well, no sir, of course not-"
"Then what business is it of yours to diagnose me?"
"I fucking have sex with you! You look like you're in pain but you haven't stopped touching me!"
The expletive and the bits of spit flying out of her mouth caught me unaware.
My eyes must have widened, because she only went on faster.
"How am I supposed to keep this up if you're in pain? I don't want to tax your body further, or, or… I don't know. Distract you. Somehow. You've come to me late at night, and I know where you've come from, and you'll smell and shake and be rough. I don't care if you're rough, and I know what you need to do. But I can't. I can't do this if you're hurting. Crucio recovery is supposed to be a week's worth of rest followed by gradual exercise!"
The last bit came out as such a bookish reprimand, I almost laughed at her using the exact same tone with me as I'd seen her do to countless students.
She paused to catch her breath from her tirade.
She looked at me warily.
"We will continue." She looked unsure; a slim question of consent sliced through my brain.
"If you still so desire," I added.
"I… I do. I don't want to hurt you."
The idea that a seventeen year old girl was routinely having illegal sex with her professor and was afraid of physically hurting him…
"Granger. It is quite impossible for you to… cause me pain. Annoyance, yes. Irritation, absolutely."
Her nostrils flared at the unexpected insults. I continued.
"Desire, as well."
Her eyes widened. We did not speak of attraction. Or anything, for that matter.
"I do not take my duties lightly, to the school, or the Order. I would not be doing this if I had no benefit from it."
"It is a benefit to me. You do not harm me. It is your decision to continue, but under the knowledge now that you do not cause me undue harm. Leave."
She pursed her lips, whiteness around flushed red. She left.
I sat awake for several hours that night, wondering how I had gone from a lecherous fiend to a patient of study for a teenage girl.
She came to me after class the following Tuesday; she pushed me down upon the floor, riding me so that, to be fair, I exerted minimal effort. She had stripped herself of that little tight shirt, her full breasts bouncing enticingly as she continued to wear her skirt.
I pulsed into her and she immediately placed a hand on my biceps, silently mouthing a count of how many twitches followed.
At the bottom of her essay turned in on that Thursday, she wrote, "Mediwizard, Terrance Middleton, is in the midst of researching the benefits of cinnamon and shrivelfig on the vascular affects of Cruciatus."
Things had already begun changing between us. I'm not sure how I had missed it.
It was the first of December, and we were naked in the Room of Requirement. That had been far too risky, in retrospect, but she had insisted. I had met her there at roughly one in the morning, her completely nude underneath Potter's blasted invisibility cloak. We had entered the door after the customary three turns down the corridor; she had surprised me. We were on a rolling moor, dusky pinks lining the sky to mimic a sunrise; a blanket softly crushed the tall grasses. There was a basket full of food.
I had been almost silent at the time. She appeared uncharacteristically nervous. But then, she was always nervous; her only tell to one with the knowledge was the chewing of her lower lip. Her peers never noted how anxious she was in every task she did, always with the self-inflicted pressure to excel in everything she did. Even with me.
I had picked her up, the cloak still over her arm falling as I pushed her onto the blanket, making her weep within moments of latching onto a nipple. I made her come twice with my mouth before a third time with my cock.
Silent minutes had passed before she had said it. Firmly, like she had consistently done with the Dark Lord's name in the presence of others. A forced inflection to give strength to the words.
I had turned my head to her, our legs and strands of hair the only things touching as our bodies cooled from the heat of sex. She looked at me; the fierce expression of her eyes nullifying the chew of her bottom lip.
She pursed her lips at my drawl.
"I should call you by your name," she seemed to insist.
"I cannot condone it."
"Why?" she had muttered, her hair bouncing with her tits as she sat up in anger.
"What if you slip up? What if five points from Gryffindor results in my name cursed on your breath in the classroom? It is a liability."
She seemed to fume; I remained calm, my eyes locking on her still puckered nipples.
"Are you staring at my breasts?" she asked, irritably.
"It appears I am," I smirked.
"This is exactly why I should be saying your name. Look at us," she gestured wildly. "You're my professor. I'm… I'm a prefect, for heaven's sake! What are we doing here?"
I felt my stomach drop slightly. I hadn't thought we would ever bring some sort of definition to…us. We had connected physically so easily; it had seemed natural that we should just continue to connect. A summons or a meeting with the dying old wizard at the school… they had all seemed so small when I was fucking her. When she was grasping me as if she would die if I let go. I hadn't wanted to let go. I hadn't wanted to think about it.
My silence was stretching seconds into tenuous minutes.
"Severus," she repeated.
"Only in privacy. Even then… I cannot say I agree with it. The walls, even here, may have ears."
She snorted. "That hasn't stopped you from fucking me until I scream."
I practically purred in response, "Yes, perhaps we should test how loud you can go, Granger."
She looked at me seriously, "Will you call me Hermione?"
I couldn't; as frightened as I was of her crossing a further line in addressing me by my first name… to bring her sweet name across my tongue was even more dangerous. What if I called it in my sleep; I breathed it through a breath of Crucio induced pain? I felt almost terrified sometimes for even thinking her name.
"Just once," she pleaded.
I remained silent, though my hold on her seemed to increase. As if this were some test I was failing with her. She wasn't falling boneless into my arms as she always did.
I was losing control everywhere around me; I could not control the curse that wracked Dumbledore's body; I could not control the foolish Malfoys with their vows and misplaced trusts. I had to remain in control here; bringing forth pleasure from Granger brought me a sense of relief I had not thought possible. I could not let go of my control here, too.
"Severus…" I sighed in response to her stubborn will to say my name, but she continued, "…What's to become of us? What is this?"
"You enjoy it. Why complicate it? The school year will end and you'll connect with Weasley." The words made me feel sick. That was new.
"Why would the end of the year matter?" She said quietly.
I turned my face to look at her angled profile, her eyes locked on a particularly long blade of grass.
"Granger. This can't... won't last forever. You are young. The McLaggen boy is already after you. Merlin, I'm sure every blasted teacher here will make you Head Girl. You will not need me as a distraction anymore."
"What if you're not just a distraction?" she said shakily.
We had grown from almost silent sex to far more complex conversations than I could have anticipated in the months we had taken to each other… but never emotionally. Potions texts. A spell theory of hers. My opinion of Lavendar Brown's recent escapades (much to her amusement). Never…We never talked about us. I certainly hadn't considered an "us."
But then, I certainly wasn't bedding anyone else.
"Granger… enjoy what we have while we have it. Being a know-it-all grows tiresome; do not analyze everything in front of you." A dark joke from a spy, as I analyzed every tense muscle she had at that moment, wondering where this conversation was leading.
"What if I don't wish to be Head Girl," she said brashly, her flushed face turning to me.
"Why wouldn't you be?"
She shrugged, ever defiant, and threw back my words, "Why would the end of this year signal an end to us? Why not now? Why not the end of next school year when I graduate?"
My jaw must have clenched. I forgot too often how clever she was.
"You haven't answered my question, Granger."
"Neither have you," she said firmly.
We stared at one another. Something about the rigidity of her shoulders gave me pause.
Had we both uncovered something about the other inadvertently? At the time, she had used the one thing that could drive me to distraction.
"Sleep with me," she cooed as her arms wrapped around me, preventing an observation of her face.
So we had.
The next few weeks, something had yet again changed between us. She had come to me only once; I had sought her out not at all. I didn't feel as if our…escapades… were quite over. Something else entirely had changed between us.
She looked at me more often, for one. I found myself lingering behind her in the classroom, coming uncomfortably close to her as she dueled an enchanted target or cast curses at Weasley or Potter.
We had crossed another boundary.
NOTE: I had gotten caught up in some "real life" writing projects. Oops. Like I said, much of this story has been written, but I do come back and touch up, diminish, expand, etc.
In response to some comments: some have said it seems OOC for Snape to reveal so much to an interviewer. For the purposes of not giving too much away, I only ask for some suspension of disbelief. I thank those that find my writing of him more in character, and only recommend you overlook the overall device for this story (an interview) until later chapters. ;)
As for Hermione's age, it does not involve a time-turner, but something canonical I've never seen anyone touch on. It will come.
More of this story will come with the coming holidays. Thanks for reading, as always, and I appreciate all reviews. Constructive criticism can appear both negative and positive, and I welcome both.