Severus sneered at his reflection and relaxed when his reflection sneered back. He was the same physically; mentally, he wasn't quite sure. He was attracted to Hermione Granger—Granger of all people! He'd noticed it during third year when she began to fill out, particularly in the hip and stomach area. He watched her grow up from a knobby-kneed little girl, a walking encyclopedia to a beautiful, curvy young woman with enough brains to hold a conversation. Before, he'd thought she was simply an overly eager little girl, aching to please her peers; but beauty and brains was something that was hardly common. Most girls of twelve didn't know how to correctly brew Polyjuice, even if it did turn her into an anthropomorphic cat-girl. He watched as she grew in beauty and intelligence, in wisdom and maturity before many of her peers even noticed she was a girl.
Behind him, he saw Draco enter his rooms and turned halfway, eyeballing his godson's partner. One Harry Potter, complete with tousled black hair, the lightening scar, and his mother's green, green eyes. "Hello," Harry said pleasantly as his green eyes met black ones.
"Hello, Harry," replied Snape with a nod.
"Narcissa got a hold of Hermione," Lily's son said quietly, squeezing Draco's hand. Snape's head whipped around so fast, he nearly gave himself whiplash. His stomach coiled into a knot at the thought of Narcissa Malfoy sinking her talons into such sweet, succulent flesh like Hermione; he turned on his heel and stalked towards the young man.
Draco let out a snort of laughter that he barely smothered with his hand.
Snape stopped, bouncing on the balls of his heels, feeling the tension in his shoulder bunch up. All his anger slid into his muscles and wound tight in his thighs as he tried to still himself. His hands shook slightly so he crossed his arms behind his back, clenching his jaw tight enough to crack his molars.
"She said something about it being girls' night," mused his godson, staring at his godfather through long, pale lashes, silvery eyes gleaming with mischief.
The ex-Death Eater felt his nostrils flare as he watched Harry cross the room, hand-in-hand with Draco. How dare they touch what was his? He was seething with anger that she'd attempt to alter her appearance but froze suddenly when it dawned on him. She wasn't his. Never had been. Some of the anger drained out of him and his hands fell limp at his hips. He closed his eyes. "I need a drink," he said quietly. He could feel his godson smirking.
"Good. We brought Firewhiskey." Draco shook the bottle with a shit-eating smirk.
The crowded dance floor made Snape nervous, twitchy, anxious. He glowered out at the giggling girls trying to get him to dance with them. He felt blurry, out of sorts. The cherry-scented fog was making everything creepy and he felt his hands twitching for his wand. How on earth had he let Harry and Draco drag him here? A fucking club, with big-eyed witches teetering in heels, far too similar to the idiots he'd taught, and metro-sexual boys with thick lips?
"Hello," whispered a familiar voice. He turned his head to the side and his jaw dropped, the light, bleary fuzz of alcohol clearing with the sharp clarity of recognition.
The witch before him was curvy and very voluptuous and pretty, with big, milk chocolate eyes and long, curly honey-brown hair. Her skin was golden and, under the strobe lights, he saw a smattering of freckles across her face. She wore a tight, red halter top that hugged her breasts very deliciously and a tight, gold skirt that hugged her hips in a very nice way and she teetered on sky high heels. Her arms jangled with golden bracelets.
The minute he turned to her, her mouth went slack and her eyes went wide. "P-P-Pr-Professor?" she squawked and stumbled back, rocking dangerously in her high heels. His arm shot out and wound tight around her waist; she was pressed chest to knee against him and he could feel the heat of her skin, of her body, against him.
"Miss Granger?" he croaked, suddenly uncomfortable. He felt like a teenager all over again, his heart thumping as she wiggled out of his grasp, turned, ready to wobble away. He grabbed at her shoulder and he lost his breath when his skin touched hers; for several long, stretched-out minutes, all he could hear was Hermione, feel her silky skin against his, smell the sweet, clean scent on her. He could hear her harsh breathing, panting, trying to remain calm. In her gorgeous eyes was a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't sort through; he could feel her trembling. She tried to pull away again, a little weak, before she gave up.
"Why are you dressed like that?" he rasped and her eyes darted down to his lips. He felt a surge of heat spike through him.
"Like what?" she asked acidicly and her voice was so soft that he barely heard her over the music. Gripping her upper arm firmly, he led her to a dark, secluded corner reserved for couples looking for privacy and cast a few silencing charms.
The music vibrated through his feet.
"Like…like—" he stammered, his face warming when he glanced down to find she'd crossed her arms and was staring up at him expectantly. Apparently, she was waiting for him to continue. Unfortunately, his eyes strayed to the smooth skin of her breastbone and the way a light dusting of freckles covered her shoulders and arms. And the plush, inviting cleavage of her breasts. He stilled for a moment before she finished the sentence for him.
"Like a woman, Professor?" she asked and the disdain was clear in her voice; he felt himself shake slightly.
"Y-yes—I mean no—I mean—" He was stumbling over his words like a teenager all over again, his heart thumping, the bass drumming against his eardrums. He felt heady and breathless.
"Believe it or not, Professor Snape, I am a woman now and I do want to look nice from time to time. Maybe even bring home a man, given that my so called dog doesn't try to bite the bloke's head off first," she hissed and the venom and disdain made him grow cold. He'd hurt her deeply, he realized abruptly, and an "I'm sorry, Granger. Please forgive me and go out with me" wasn't going to fix it.
He watched her for a moment before he made up his mind and leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. She smelled clean, like soap, and of hot skin, warm soil, spring. He let himself indulge in breathing her in. "Miss Granger," he found himself saying in her eardrum, speaking in loud volumes to be heard over the music that was beginning to grind on his nerves, "Would you like to find somewhere quieter to speak?"
With the sting of Lily's rejection fresh on his tongue, he waited with bated breath.
He didn't expect her to eyeball him and reluctantly agree. He conjured a coat for her, shooting his famous death glares at the wandering eyes of many wizards, and escorted her into the brisk night air. For a chat, he told his crotch, which seemed to swell at the idea of such a plump, beautiful, intelligent witch coming home with him.
Sure, said the lust-ridden, schoolboy part of his brain, just a chat. He honestly wasn't quite sure it was going to be just a chat. Hopefully, he wouldn't be awkward and do something embarrassing, inappropriate or make her angrier than before.
Hopefully being the keyword.