She’s awake. She’s awake and yet she’s not moving. Nor is she speaking. He finds that quite contradictory to her character.

Her lips must be exhausted.

He smirks to himself, drawing her small frame closer to his, pressing himself against her back. She appears to be a bit cold so he draws the covers farther up over her body. He has no intentions of anything- not this morning- but he would like to touch her.



He’s very warm. She always thought he would be cold, a harsh body with no comfort to offer hers.

As he roughly pulls her back to him, a bit of his hair brushes against her neck. His hair is absolutely the worst thing she has ever felt. She quite enjoys his face, though. She traces the lines in it. Each line makes him seem older than he is. He doesn’t have much more than twenty years on her, which, by wizarding standards, is not that bad. Despite such, she prefers to think in muggle terms.

He’s old. He’s a jaded, wretched, soulless man with no hopes for the future. No expectations for the future. Soulless may seem a harsh judgment for a “redeemed” man but she prefers him that way. Souls are capable of love.



She has wicked eyes. She has no good intentions for him- her eyes deceive her.

She’s very beautiful, he believes. Not in a traditional sense, of course, but when has he ever been traditional? She’s Victorian. She’s striking.

Yet she no longer has the innocent look that she did in her youth. Granted, on paper she’s young, but it’s only her body that is such. Her purity is tainted.

He’s always been drawn to the evil, enigmatic sort. How fortunate for him that she’s not only callous but also exquisite.

He traces fingers over the curve of her hip and grasps her thigh.

She doesn’t even move.



Couldn’t he speak with her? He seems so unemotional with her. As though she requires no reaction, no ardor.

In her opinion he’s quite articulate when he wants to be. Articulate, cunning, vindictive. She wonders if he is only capable of wit when he’s being malicious.

She wonders if that would be so bad.

She admits that it would. She enjoys conversation. Honestly, her thoughts in an hour could fill an encyclopedia set.

She’d love a book right about now. Some people smoke, she likes to read a bit. She used to read after conversation and cuddling. She is fairly sure that the clutching of the thigh and pressure of his body is as close as she’ll get to cuddling. She doubts he’s even aware she’s awake.

She sighs.



“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, preparing to leave the bed.

“No,” she says, slowly, then reconsiders, “Are you?”

“No,” he says simply. He considers her to be quite comfortable. Comfortable, soft and…and moving. She is turning around to face him.



Smile, damn you. Would it really hurt you to give me a slight grin? His lack of reaction to their coupling upsets her.

Everything they did, she had to initiate. It was as though he was doing her some favor.

She settles herself a bit farther away from him, laying a hand where his neck and shoulder meet. He keeps a hand on her hip, rather possessively, to her approval. At least he’s somewhat affectionate physically, if not verbally. Yet his supposed affection is still a bit rough for her liking. Inexperienced with reciprocation, she supposes. She realizes he’s staring at her.

She sighs once more, in exasperation with his silence, “Then, what are you?”

“What am I?” He’s infuriating. Gods, one would think that he could respond to a simple question.

“What are you, if not uncomfortable?” she demands.



His eyebrows draw downward as he gazes at her- she seems quite displeased with him. He would honestly prefer she simply spoke without requiring a response. That suited her fine prior to this morning.

“Well?” Such impatience. “Are you comfortable? Sated? Disappointed?” She slides a hand downward and squeezes. “Randy?”

Though he appreciates the gesture, he does not care for the context. He takes her hand and runs his fingers over hers. “Yes, quite, not at all, and-“ he pauses, considering, “though I do not wish for you to take offense, no.”

Her mouth turns upwards, but she does not quite smile.



A whole sentence. Wow. Maybe if she tries really hard, he’ll utter two by the evening.

“Does it seem to you,” she speaks slowly, “as though I am the one who instigates everything?”

He makes a sound of accord, studying her eyes.

She stares at him, widens her eyes and then closes them, saying, “I find this to be difficult.”

She opens her eyes as she feels his gaze leave her face. He’s looking above her head, to avoid the eye contact.



“I find this to be exceptionally difficult.” She sits up, the sheets dropping to her waist, modesty fleeing the situation. He truly would have preferred she stayed around a bit longer before leaving him. She was exceptional. She whispers, looking downward, “Do you want me at all?”

“Yes.” He sits up a bit, himself, leaning against the headboard, no longer touching her. “Am I supposed to tell you that?”

“Not exactly…” She looks so tired. “You don’t touch me unless I touch you.”



He sighs, and raises a hand to cover his eyes. “I do not want- I do not want to make unwelcome advances, Hermione.”

Unwelcome. The man has been inside her body and he fears being unwelcome.

“How tight a string are we balancing on?” She is exasperated. “You fear a sudden change of heart? You expect me to suddenly realize my fantastic error and flee in an opposing direction?”

He inhales sharply and removes his hand.



“Well, Severus Snape, you play the martyr. I refuse to dictate this relationship. If you want to touch me, then you will do so without aid. We’re both adults. I know that you want me and you would have to be daft, Severus-“ she takes his hand and lays it against her chest, “if you think that I am indifferent to you.”

He doesn’t want those dark eyes on him, evaluating him. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want this responsibility. He can feel her leaving the bed, taking her warmth away from him. He doesn’t want that, either.



She loses her breath as he slides down into the bed pulling her against him. She grins against his chest, moving her legs over his.

She had no intentions of leaving to begin with.