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Hermione Granger thanked the gods and her genes for her late growth spurt—the one her parents guaranteed was a certainty, the one she’d had absolutely no faith in—as it had made it possible to look the insensitive, domineering, wizarding patriarchy straight in the eye as she’d scathingly attacked and fragmented their last, great hope in enacting a Marriage Law. Her scowling up at the underside of their chins would have been SO much less effective.
Her outfit hadn’t hurt either. She loved how it moved and how powerful it made her feel. She’d started with her black Louboutin patent leather peep-toe pumps, deepening the red colour of their undersides to match her silk blouse. Sheer black stockings completed her leg dressing, and though it was nobody’s business but her own, they were held up with a deep green, satin garter belt. It still amazed her how powerful she could feel wearing something silky and sexy under her clothes. Thank Circe for friends like Pansy, Ginny and Padma, who’d convinced her of their merit. The slippery silk blouse was long-sleeved and high-necked, cut to appear as if it was draped across her chest and fastened to her right shoulder with tiny, curved onyx buttons. The skirt had started as a severe black pencil, but she’d transfigured it slightly by adding a black, satin cumberbund waistline and a whimsical flare of black, Amelie-style lace at the hem. She loved how it swished around her knees when she walked. Her black robes were discarded early during her presentation whilst she’d complained about the room’s stuffiness. She was rewarded with several clandestine smirks from those who understood it wasn’t the air she was commenting on.
Though a faint, sickly, sweet, toxic male undertone permeated the room, it was quickly forgotten as she and her team pressed their barrage of extensive and accurately investigated points.
Now that the fools had accepted that throwing teenage and young adult genitalia together would be a massive mistake, tomorrow’s meeting would encompass bashing the patriarchy over its collective head with the myriad of moral, sensible, and well-researched alternatives to increasing the wizarding population. Hermione still found it incomprehensible that supposedly learned witches and wizards hadn’t realised that a Marriage Law would create more disorder, abuse and illicit birth control methods than large, happy magical families. Hopefully, they’d only have one more afternoon of explaining to the men and women of the Wizengamot the correct way to increase their numbers: encouragement, monetary incentives, tax breaks, better childcare…, and so many other options they’d never even considered. Fools.
Then she smirked as she strode down the cool Ministry hallway, robes draped over her arm, skirt swirling triumphantly about her knees. Her grin was shark-like as she glanced up to see a wall of black standing stock still in the middle of the hallway ahead of her. Her grin unknowingly softened, and an eyebrow rose to high mast.
Holy fuck, he thought, Granger?! She looked, well, damn…, rather sensational. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her ‘dressed’ before; they attended the same Ministry functions, after all—though he was an expert at finagling a way out of them. She was usually dressed to the nines at the Ministry-mandated events, probably by Pansy, and pestering any Ministry official she could wheedle attention out of. Around the Ministry, she was usually buried in several books at once—especially in the canteen—rumpled, with coffee stains on her blouse and her mass of curls stuck to one side of her head or the other with her wand. Or a quill. Or a biro—though possibly all three. He came to a halt in the middle of the hallway, eyeing the curl bouncing against one cheek, his gaze moving down to the fuck-me-sailor pumps and back up again. His smirk reacted favourably to the look on her face; she looked positively dangerous.
She finally shifted her focus to see that her way was partially blocked, and in a flash, the dangerous grin shifted into a genuine and satisfied smile. How the hell do women do that? And why? He shook his head as if to clear it, and when she came to a halt a few paces off, he eyed her up and down in a meanderingly obvious way, taking his time to soak in the sight of her. By the time his eyes made their way back to her face, her smile had smirked at the corner, her eyes were sparkling, and an eyebrow was poised near the top of her forehead.
Reaching over ever so slowly, he pulled and released the loose curl, watching it bounce before making eye contact. “Who’ve you killed today, Granger? Because you look positively lethal.”
Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, even while a lightning-fast sliver of thought flitted through her mind before whisking away…wasSeverusSnapeflirtingwithher?
“May I?” he murmured, motioning to her robes. She nodded, still recovering, and he slipped them easily over her shoulders as she switched her briefcase from one hand to the other. They both heard the sound of cascading thumps from within the bag that sounded remarkably like a tower of books slipping to the floor. She cringed; he chuckled. “And your victim?” he asked again. She reached out and patted him on the chest, letting her fingers trail down the silver buttons of his grey lab coat as she stepped away and down the hallway.
“The bloody wizarding patriarchism and their budding Marriage Law, Master Snape, and may they rest in fitful peace.”
His rich, deep laughter followed her as the lift descended to the Atrium floos below.
Gods, she loved to make him laugh. Or speak. Or…had his fingers brushed over her collarbone as he’d settled the robes on her shoulders? Did she imagine the intent of his look while his fingers manipulated her curl? Could it possibly just be that she already thought he was sex-on-a-stick and was assigning alternate meanings to any of his small gestures? And what the fuck, Hermione! What was that fingerplay on his buttons? Bloody hell, girl. But even when he was a snarky Professor, greasily hunched over a burbling cauldron, she had seen what others had not. And now? Not skeletal, or forced into an unfulfilling job, not serving the bickering arseholes of Light & Dark? Holy Wow. As a teacher, especially during her sixth and eighth years, his voice was knicker-creamable. She wondered if he sang….
She stood before the floo—thankfully not busy yet—with a hand covering her eyes. She must be crazy to consider returning upstairs. Finally, she threw a bit of floo powder into the fireplace, murmured her address and tossed her briefcase up the chimney. The runes carved around her fireplace’s opening would siphon off any floo-scurf and move it to her desk so she wouldn’t fall over it when arriving later. Floo’g was disorienting on its own; adding obstacles was asking for trouble, especially for her.
Walking over to the nearest fountain, she sat at its edge and stared at the intricate, abstract fleur-de-lis patterned tiles beneath her Louboutins. Lost in thought, undecided on whether to encourage or discourage herself from backtracking to the Forensic Laboratory, she hardly noticed when a pair of well-cared-for dragonhide boots topped with dark jeans encroached into her view of the Atrium floor.
“Granger? What are you still doing here?”
Her eyes slid up the dark jeans to the black wool coat covering a black and green marled v-necked jumper and dark grey turtleneck. A long, fat, black plait slipped over his shoulder as he gazed down at her, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, and she watched it swing before her eyes finally met his. Her long, slow glance hadn’t been necessary; his voice had already given him away.
“Contemplating new victims?”
She shrugged lightly. “Aah…, well, contemplating, yes… New victims? Not so much,” she smiled, sitting up straighter. “Well, that may not be exactly true….” He chuckled and, noting that she was attempting to rise, offered a hand, which was quickly withdrawn after pulling her to stand. A frown flitted across her brow as the withdrawal was seen to be contrary to what she’d initially surmised; he appeared to have no inclination whatsoever to make contact of any sort.
“Well,” he began, noting her frown, “Have a lovely evening, Granger.”
“Yes, uh, I mean, thank you; you enjoy your evening, as well,” she murmured, her voice slipping into a whisper, “…Severus.”
He was already turned and raising a backhanded wave in her direction when his name’s soft, sibilant syllables fell from her lips. He came to an abrupt halt and turned. Searching her face, he spoke. “You called me Severus.” A simple statement, not a question.
Knowing it was now or never, she sighed softly and raised her chin to look him in the eye. Grasping her Gryffindor bravery and the incredible power of her sensual undergarments, she replied, “I did; it’s how I think of you.”
He would've done a double-take if he hadn’t been such an excellent spy.
“You think of me.” Another short statement.
“Often.” The shortest statement of them all.
They stood, saying nothing, as the Ministry populace began to ebb and flow around them, making for the floos and other exits.
Finally deciding, he took the last few steps back to her and held out an elbow.
“May I, Miss Granger, escort you to dinner this eve to celebrate the vanquishing of your enemy?”
A bright, bubbling laugh escaped her lips as she tucked her arm through his. “You may, kind sir, it would be much appreciated, but please… call me Hermione.”