But something tugged interestingly in his chest whenever his thoughts lingered on her. She was not an unattractive woman. And he couldn’t remember the last time he knew a witch had been attracted to him; the thought was alien to him, foreign and ill-fitting. It seemed foolish to even consider the idea, and Severus Snape was not a man prone to daydreaming, but still. He stole little moments from her, sly glances out of his peripheral vision, observing her, feeding the tug in his chest.