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He hadn't meant it to start, never mind go on this long. But it had been too long since he'd last felt the touch of a woman, and longer still since he felt the spark of attraction, and he’d fallen headfirst into the quagmire that was being madly in love with Hermione Granger.
He hadn't plucked up the courage to tell her, and likely never would. Severus' life was not filled with moments of spontaneous daring and he couldn't imagine that humiliating himself in front of a respected colleague would be what would tempt him into one. Severus considered and calculated, and those sums had never come out in his favour.
He hadn't thought it possible for it to hurt as badly as it did though, this knowledge that she'd end up with someone kinder and more attractive, who could find words and actions that spoke to her heart, and treat her the way she deserved to be treated.
He hadn't meant for any of it to happen, but life hadn't been kind to him this far, why would it start now.
He hadn’t intended on buying new dress robes when he’d walked into Madame Malkin’s to pick up his order of dragonhide boots – black of course – but then he’d seen Weasley and Ginerva, and his stomach had turned hearing of Weasley’s plans to appear at the Yule Ball looking smashing and sweep her off her feet. Surely it would take more than that to woo a woman like Hermione.
He hadn’t thought himself capable of being pleased with his appearance at all, until the Madame herself had pulled back the curtain and revealed Severus in all his dark, forest green glory, and he’d internally agreed with her that he cut a handsome figure, the bespoke robes nicely covering the myriad personality flaws that lurked beneath.
He hadn’t meant to stroke the plush fabric near his chest, and slip into a daydream that it was Hermione’s hand instead.
He hadn’t intended on tipping nearly 50% but his confidence had been built up a surprising amount in just a few hours and he was feeling more optimistic about the possibility of Hermione seeing him as something more than her cruel old potions master that he couldn’t help himself.
He hadn’t meant to spend the rest of the afternoon slipping into fantasies of meeting her at the ball like some kind of foolish muggle fairy tale, and having her confess her feelings to him breathlessly before he kissed her passionately in the middle of a crowded room which she didn’t mind because she adored him and wasn’t at all embarrassed about being seen with him.
He hadn’t meant to be so deep into his silly musings that he’d melted – melted – a cauldron that same afternoon, though he had meant to commit to occluding before brewing until he could get a handle on his ridiculous obsession. If he managed to injure himself he’d have her fussing over him at all hours, and would likely end up doing something daft like telling her he was absolutely mad for her.
He hadn’t meant to let the whole pathetic, sordid tale slip to Lupin over post-staff meeting drinks, but he supposed it was better the wolf than Minerva, the nosy, meddlesome witch. Lupin hadn’t twinkled at him – he might have throttled him if he had – instead patting Severus’ arm sympathetically and suggesting that perhaps he should just tell Hermione how he felt, which had earned the Defense Professor a poignant snort.
He hadn’t meant to confess that he’d bought new dress robes either, but somehow that moment of weakness came tumbling out. Lupin had looked amused at that, assuring Severus that at the very least it would be a surprise to anyone who was looking. Which he desperately hoped Hermione would be.
He hadn’t meant to get caught being helped back to his rooms by the aforementioned werewolf, by Hermione bloody Granger herself, though the giggling from the woman of his dreams when she realized what she was witnessing warmed Severus’ chest more than all the firewhiskey they had consumed – which it turns out had been a lot.
He hadn’t meant to glare at her when Lupin had begged off taking him the rest of the way to his rooms, but its power over her seemed diminished as she laughed at his antics again. In truth, he loved when she took care of him, and though he knew it was just fuel for his demented fantasies, he couldn’t help himself, especially with copious amounts of whiskey coursing through his veins.
He hadn’t meant to stumble closer to her, too close, close enough to smell her hair, and feel the edges of her soft curves. Fortunately, she found the situation amusing, wrapping an arm around him and inquiring as to how two professors had managed to get sloshed on a weekday, whilst at school.
He hadn’t the mental fortitude at the moment to lie to her directly, but years of spycraft and paranoia kicked in, and he mumbled something vague about drinking because of personal issues, though all of those were pinned conveniently on the werewolf who’d abandoned him. No need for her to know that his mad obsession with a witch half his age was driving him to levels of insanity even the dark lord hadn’t managed.
He hadn’t meant to sloppily kiss her cheek after she'd deposited him on his couch, but she’d been so close, and it was right in front of him as she’d leaned him back against the cushions and attempted to pull her arm free.
He hadn’t been able to stop the resultant blush either, though he took some comfort that at least it matched hers.
He hadn’t bothered fighting back the tears that fell after she’d mumbled something incoherent about having a good night and bolted from the room immediately after, undoubtedly horrified about his overstep.
He hadn’t thought she’d be so repelled by him.
He hadn’t been this big a fool in a long time.
He hadn’t been this nervous about a Hogwarts ball since he was a boy in Lucius’ too big hand-me-downs, filled with thoughts of being charming and witty and stealing Lily away from Potter. Not much had changed in that respect, he had mused, depressingly. He was still the awkward, gangly creature, smitten with the prettiest girl, who would end up laughing in his face, if she ever forgave him, and scorning him and marrying the handsome buffoon.
He hadn’t seen Hermione since the drunken incident.
He hadn’t wanted to.
He hadn’t figured out what to say, or how to say it. Apologize. Confess. Some ridiculous combination. Lupin had said he should carry on as normal, let Hermione come to him if she wanted to. The what if she never did stayed unspoken between them — they both knew what he was, Lupin better than most.
He hadn’t wanted to occlude, but he knew he wouldn’t make it out the door otherwise. Healthy? Perhaps not, but he needed to do something to push himself along, lest he spent the night getting sloshed in his rooms alone again, with only the ghosts of his poor decisions for company.
He hadn’t quite held back his gasp when he saw her in the ballroom, but fortunately the music was loud. Her dress was modestly cut – she was a Professor after all – but he could still see every delectable curve and great gods above the colour; a dark Slytherin green. The colour of his sheets. The colour of his shiny new dress robes. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away, even when Lupin had found him and forced a drink into his hand. His new friend’s eyes had tracked his and he had chuckled, saying something silly about birds of a feather.
He hadn’t believed his luck when she’d approach him.
He hadn’t been breathing.
He hadn’t enough control over himself when she complimented his robes and his tied back hair, and shamefully felt his cheeks heat. He’d replied that she looked well also, while staring directly at the ground, not wanting to ruin the gift that was her apparent forgiveness of his earlier misstep by being a lecher.
He hadn’t noticed he’d finished his first drink until she vanished and reappeared moments later, pressing another into his hands. She had to touch him to do it, and his heart had skipped a beat at the contact.
He hadn’t known what to do but nod when she asked him to accompany her outside for some fresh air, and when she’d tipped her head back and sighed in contentment, his chest ached with the knowledge that he would never be the cause of that sigh from her.
He hadn’t thought he’d ever been susceptible to romantic strolls in the moonlight, but out in the gardens with her that night, he could understand why people wanted this.
He hadn’t believed his desire for her could grow any stronger, but when she sat down on a bench and motioned for him to join her, his palms itched with the almost violent desire to reach out and touch her.
He hadn’t.
He hadn’t been able to stop the dreams over the following month. In them he’d not been a coward, and he’d taken a chance and kissed her on that bench, and she hadn’t run away.
He hadn’t walked her to her room, they’d sprinted, stopping to kiss passionately on the stairs or behind tapestries and undo buttons. And when they’d finally reached her door, she’d been giggling breathlessly as she pulled him across the threshold, a wicked grin on her perfect lips.
He hadn’t forgotten the reality though, where he’d kept a respectful distance and did his best to ignore how she put her hands on his arm when she was making a point, or brushed shoulders with him as they’d walked back towards the ball. She’d claimed fatigue and he’d done the gentlemanly thing and walked her to her rooms, averting his eyes as her perfect arse swayed side to side as she’d climbed the stairs ahead of him.
He hadn’t moved a muscle towards her at her door, bowing stiffly and wishing her a goodnight, not making eye contact lest she think he was making another unwanted move.
He hadn’t wanted to only be her friend, but if that was the closest he could get to the sun, he would bask in it. He would learn from the mistakes of his past, and not destroy hope for any kind of friendship with a gorgeous, brilliant woman, just because she had eyes and good judgment and he was an obsessive lunatic.
He hadn’t quite managed to put a lid on the bubbling-over cauldron that was his feelings for Hermione when the worst happened; conference season resumed.
He hadn’t been since after the infant Potter had half-offed the dark lord and before the second war had started, when his schedule hadn’t included being crucio’d regularly. He’d presented at a number of conferences then, having ample time to do research and write papers.
He hadn’t thought a second year professor would already be conducting and presenting original works, but that was rather daft when it came to this brilliant witch. Of course she’d exceeded expectations, of course she was already the talk of the circuit, of course he had already been approached a handful of times by youthful, male associates, wondering if he could introduce them.
He hadn’t cursed any of them on the spot, but each time it was a near thing.
He hadn’t been to any of her talks, if anyone asked, but of course that was a lie. He’d hidden in the back – coward – at all of them, blown away each time by her knowledge, her creativity, her poise, and Merlin’s ghost her legs in those pencil skirts.
He hadn’t had a night that didn’t feature those legs and her voice reciting some interesting aspect of her research in months now.
He hadn’t thought the madness could get worse until she’d started consulting him on a charmed potions project (healing wounds made by dark curses and cursed objects) and he realized they would be working closely for at least two years.
He hadn’t wanted to take dreamless sleep the night before their work began, but he knew he’d not see a full night's rest after they started.
He hadn’t been wrong.
He hadn’t realized nearly six months had passed until Hermione pointed it out to him during a meeting to evaluate their progress. Of course they’d made good headway, their combined minds churning out ideas to test and experiments to run at a rapid pace.
He hadn’t expected the transition from distant admirer to very close working colleague was one he would be able to tolerate but as long as he kept a tight rein on his errant feelings, Hermione seemed content to be the consummate professional, and they were nearly ready to begin testing.
He hadn’t rid himself of dreams of her, but the pain that permeated his chest each time he pushed his feelings down had become so normal he barely noticed it anymore. The dreams themselves shifted wildly depending on her outfit that day; when she wore those thrice damned pencil skirts, his dreams were hot and passionate and he usually awoke having finished in his sleep; when she wore something cozier, an oversized sweater say, his dreams featured their lives together, drinking tea and reading, cuddled up on his couch together, and awaking from those broke what remained of his heart each morning.
He hadn’t thought he could become more pathetic, until he found himself warding his private lab doors shut one evening. The lab had been stifling as they’d brewed for nearly 6 hours straight, and at some point Hermione had decided his torture hadn’t been severe enough, depositing her sweater in an out of the way corner. She’d forgotten about it when she left for the evening, and his guilt warred with his obsession as he buried his face in it as he jerked himself off almost violently that night.
He hadn’t been able to look her in the eyes for the next several days, and the shame had unmanned him when he’d finally returned the sweater. Hermione hadn’t asked questions about where it had been for days, for which he was exceedingly grateful; whatever spy abilities he had seemed to have spent the better part of two decades accumulating seemed to evaporate in Hermione’s presence.
He hadn’t told Lupin the particulars of his latest disgusting lapse in judgment, only that his obsession continued, as did his cowardice. There was alcohol involved, of course, but Severus moderated his intake; he couldn’t have a repeat of the last drunken stumble back to his rooms – this time he might do something even more ridiculous than just kissing her on the cheek.
He hadn’t bothered concealing his expression of ridicule when Lupin, once again, tried to argue for telling her how he felt. But this time, damn him to hell, the wolf went further, arguing that even if Hermione didn’t feel the same at least he’d have gotten it off his chest and he could move on.
He hadn’t even considered it – moving on. His last obsession had really only ended because he’d gotten her killed, and even then, it had still propelled him to switch sides and spy on the dark lord for another decade. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d not thought of Hermione at least once in the day, and most days it was far more than that.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about Lupin’s words for the next week, that perhaps he could lift this weight that seemed to live in his chest if he just said the words out loud; and he thought maybe he could do it, tell her the truth, and go even further if she wanted him to, maybe he could make her happy, or at least spend the rest of his life trying to.
He hadn’t expected himself to be brave enough to try, but standing outside her door, more terrified than he had ever been in front of the dark lord, he attempted to take a deep breath and steel himself, channeling whatever Gryffindor traits might exist inside him. Lupin had been right – at least when she outright rejected him, he could retreat and lick his wounds and attempt to let go of this foolish dream of having her.
He hadn’t been eloquent, or particularly suave, though that was hardly in his nature. He’d stumbled over his words, trying to condense the last two years into two minutes, trying to convince her that he could try to be worthy of her – though he knew he wasn’t and would never be – that he would never hurt her or allow her to come to harm, if she was his – though he knew she needed no protection, his least of all, and he would most likely be the one to hurt her the most.
He hadn’t been able to meet her eyes through it, staring at the floor, nervous to watch her face transform from interested in why he was visiting her rooms, to disturbed and trying to find the best way to throw him out.
He hadn’t told her everything, of course, skipping the most sordid, embarrassing details. He could hardly live with her rejection if she was disgusted on top of it.
He hadn’t expected her to smile then, in a way that had his heart stuttering over itself in his chest.
He hadn’t expected her to come closer, amber eyes warm and smiling.
He hadn’t expected her kiss most of all, soft but hungry, all consuming.
He hadn’t expected his own response, as if he’d lost what was left of his mind and surrendered completely to the feeling of her in his arms, soaking up her little gasps, moaning into her mouth as she traced his tongue with hers.
He hadn’t expected her to want him like he wanted her.
He hadn’t expected her to cling to him as tightly as he held her, afterward, as if she were just as afraid he’d disappear.
He hadn’t expected her to still want him there there in the morning, or be ordering breakfast in bed before cuddling into his chest, fingers running through his hair like he belonged there.
He hadn’t thought she’d have a confession of her own then, that she’d wanted him – loved him for nearly as long as he’d been obsessed with her, that she’d thought he’d only kissed her cheek because he was drunk and avoided him after to spare herself the rejection, that she never thought he’d see her this way because she was his ex-student, and a Gryffindor, and a thorn in his side, that she’d be with him for as long as he wanted her – splendid, forever then – that it wouldn’t matter about telling her friends, because they all already knew and teased her mercilessly about it. She’d been shocked that he hadn’t noticed, and in truth even if he’d seen signs, Severus never would have allowed himself to believe it.
He hadn’t expected his fortunes to turn around in such a short amount of time, and even the thought of Lupin’s insufferable grin when he found out wouldn’t be enough to truly dampen Severus’ mood.
He hadn’t thought he’d have everything he wanted, wrapped in his arms, because he was a little brave and a lot mad.
Really, he hadn’t.