The age difference had always unnerved him. It held him back from making an open declaration.
“When you were eleven, I was thirty,” he said. “Not a good thing to think about at all.”
“Well, I’m the one who’s thirty now,” she replied, sipping her drink. Above the rim of her cocktail glass she fluttered her eye lashes at him in a mock-flirtatious way that he found utterly arousing.
But he never told her that, of course and so when she was thirty-one she married another wizard who appeared to have rather more fully realised prospects.
“When I was eighteen, you were thirty-seven,” she said. “After the war you seemed so old and tired and battle–worn, I didn’t think you would live much beyond another year.” She put her champagne glass to her lips and ran her hand lightly over the sleeve of his coat. Her touch burned through to the skin of his arm.
He felt his passion grow, but he never told her that, of course.
“Well, you’re the one who’s thirty seven-now,” he replied. He looked at her lovely face with fathomless black eyes that masked his lust. “And divorced yet again, I hear.”
On her fortieth birthday she asked him: “You never found love, after Lily? Has there never been anyone in all these years?”
“No one would have me,” he said and placed a fresh tot of rum in front of her. His tone was light, but his burgeoning ardour seethed inside him.
She knocked back the rum in one go.
“I might,” she pouted at him. “Think about it, but don’t take an age.”
Severus eyed those lips with ravening hunger. All those years of slipping love potions into her drinks had finally paid off.
Hermione leaned forward. She wan't getting any younger. She hoped she'd done the right thing when she'd finally decided not to take her anti-love-potion potion before coming to meet him.
(I hope that I got my sums right).