The Love You Take
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Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
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Adult +
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Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
28
Views:
44,792
Reviews:
275
Recommended:
4
Currently Reading:
3
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 12: Confusion
A/N: Love and thanks to DeeMichelle and Sshg316, who beta read, and to MagicAlly, who Brit-picked. And to RichardGloucester, who objected to lemon in Severus’ tea – I took it out just for you, Dickie.
Chapter 12: Confusion
Severus nodded to Madam Pince and reached for the two books from the Founder’s Collection that she had found for him over the holiday. He had been back at the school for nearly a week now, but he had found himself reluctant to pick up the threads of his term-time routine. With the girl spending rather more time in his quarters than in her own, he recognised it was far more pleasant to sit with her by the fire, each of them ensconced in one of the wing chairs, and read for pleasure. She had come across Alain Foucalt’s Merlin et Nimüe on his bookshelf, and he had given her permission to read the wizarding classic, a somewhat romanticised version of the story of the great wizard and his great downfall. It was a joy to watch her reading his copy of the book, eagerly absorbing all that she read – and then looking up at him with a knowing expression which seemed to say she knew he had been watching her. He would glare before lowering his eyes to pretend to read the book lying neglected in his lap.
At other times, when she looked up at him, he knew she was in need. Without a word, she would rise, go into his bedroom, and begin to undress. In equal silence, he would follow her, schooling his face carefully not to show his amazement that this vital creature willingly slipped into his bed and waited in trembling anticipation for him to touch her. He could do with her as he wished, enjoy her body in ways he had never dreamt a witch would permit him to do – and she welcomed it all, eager for him at every juncture.
He knew she was driven by the Dark magical compulsion – that her eagerness was the result of the Dark Lord’s horrible curse – but when the girl looked at him with her big brown eyes and grasped his cock her small, knowledgeable hand, and asked him in her passion-ragged voice to fuck her – to please, please fuck her – it felt fatally authentic.
He was moved from his reverie when Potter and Weasley entered the library, their heads close together, whispering. They passed the desk without sparing a glance for it; had he been Lord Voldemort, Potter would have been dead on the floor. Idiot boys! And why in thunder would the Dunderheaded Duo be in the library the night before term began? His eyes narrowed. They were looking for their bushy-haired third. He waited for them to walk down the central aisle and turn left toward the girl’s favoured study table, beneath the great oriole stained glass window in the northwest corner of the cavernous room.
Moving stealthily, he tracked them, slipping down to the shelf directly behind them, where he stood like a statue, listening to their interaction.
‘Harry! Ron!’
He sneered. Obviously, she was delighted to see her two swains. Impatient to see her face, he Disillusioned himself and levitated half a row of books to the very top of the shelves. Now he could see half of her face, as well as the backs of Weasley’s and Potter’s heads.
‘We need to talk to you – now.’
Potter sounded quite tense. Severus’ adrenaline flooded his blood stream. Had something happened? Was the Boy Who Shirked about to lead his two faithful followers into a bit of rule-breaking?
‘What is it?’
He nodded approvingly. She sounded doubtful – they wouldn’t easily be able to lead her down some stupid garden path. Now Weasley spoke.
‘We did a bit of research over the hols, Hermione – on compulsion curses.’
Severus tensed, and he was certain the girl did, as well. Who could have predicted that the two laziest students in their form would bestir themselves to do research?
‘Well? What do you want to say?’
She sounded appropriately irritated. He smirked.
Potter leant closer to her and spoke so softly that Severus had to cast a silent amplification charm to hear them properly. ‘It’s a sexual curse, isn’t it?’
The girl was unable to mask her reaction; her eyes grew wide and stricken.
‘See?’ Weasley said, forgetting to speak softly. They would have Madam Pince down on them if he didn’t quiet down. ‘Look at her! I told you it had to be that! She won’t even hold my hand any more!’
Severus frowned. He had availed himself of the girl’s memories about Weasley – once even by her invitation – and she had no romantic feelings for the dolt. Had she neglected to inform him of that fact?
Potter silenced Weasley with a glare, then turned back to her. ‘Hermione – why didn’t you come to us? We would have helped you – done anything for you.’
Weasley waited a moment for emphasis, then reiterated, ‘Anything.’
She sat back in her chair, the sheaf of parchment upon which she had been writing clutched protectively to her chest, as if to ward them off. ‘The headmaster explained it to you – I was embarrassed and didn’t want to speak about it – especially not to you lot!’
Weasley spoke again, his voice still immoderately loud. ‘But Hermione – the headmaster? It’s just wrong!’
Her mouth dropped open, and Severus closed his eyes for a moment, readying himself for the end of any peace in his life. Did he really want to hear what she would say to them about him? His craven self wanted to flee, but he stubbornly held his ground.
‘Of course not!’ she hissed at them. ‘That’s just gross!’
Weasley leapt to his feet, ignoring Potter’s white-knuckled attempt to keep him in his seat. ‘Who, then? Who are you having sex with every day?’
Severus had to exercise restraint to prevent himself from cursing aloud – or hexing the two boys. The girl surprised him when she said to them, ‘Go to hell!’ and ran from the room, leaving her things behind.
‘Smooth move, Ron,’ Potter said angrily, taking the time to gather the girl’s books. ‘We agreed not to get physical with her – she’s practically a rape victim!’
‘She’s not your girlfriend!’ Weasley snapped, his profile now turned to Severus, who was witness to the way the boy’s ears reddened when he was angry.
Potter hefted the girl’s familiar book bag over his shoulder and turned away. ‘She’s not your girlfriend either, Ron – she never forgave you for Lavender, remember?’ He began to walk away, throwing over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to find her and talk to her. Don’t come unless you’re capable of remembering this is about her and not about you.’
Severus watched as Weasley went impetuously after Potter, and for several minutes after Hogwarts’ golden trio had disappeared from his sight, he remained standing with his eyes fixed on the empty chair where the girl had sat.
The clock stuck ten, and Severus replaced the girl’s bookmark in Merlin et Nimüe before rising from the chair. It had been three hours since she had fled the library with the dunderheads in hot pursuit – eight hours since he had held her wrists over her head, inciting her to cling to him with her legs, and whispered filthy words in her ear as he slowly moved in and out of her body, prolonging his pleasure and her torment, bringing her off three times before spending himself deep within her womb.
She was past due for relief, but she wasn’t here yet.
What could prevent her from coming? Some unlooked-for Head Girl duty? Tending to the egos of her two so-called ‘best friends’?
An ugly sneer settled on his face as he began to pace. His life had been peaceful before the headmaster had dumped this intolerable nuisance on him. Not only did she clutter his living space with her own belongings – he aimed a kick at the fluffy pink sock peeking from beneath the coffee table – but she absorbed all his free time, made incessant demands upon his physical abilities, and chattered inanely when he was trying to work. It infuriated him that the remainder of his life – for surely, he would not outlive his master – was to be given to catering to an eighteen-year-old, empty-headed bint!
Restlessly, he glanced again at the clock. Ten-fifteen.
He eyed the box of Floo powder on the mantel, then forced his eyes away. His only obligation was to meet her needs, and she was to seek him out for that purpose. He had never used the Floo connexion between her room and his to go to her. Damned if he would start now.
Ten-twenty.
Perhaps she was ill – perhaps she was incapacitated in some way, unable to come to him. As if in answer to his thought, the fake Galleon in his pocket burned. He pulled it out and frowned over it. Obviously, she had activated the charm, but she had included no details of the when and where to meet her.
Something was wrong.
Throwing a handful of Floo powder into the flames, he stepped into the grate and said, ‘Hermione Granger’s room.’
When the spinning stopped he stepped immediately out of the fireplace, unmindful of the soot on his robes. He took in the tableau before him in an instant. Potter lay upon the floor, rigid, obviously the victim of Petrificus Totalus, his wand uselessly tucked away in its sheathe at his belt. Weasley held the girl’s fake Galleon in one hand and with the other hand he had a pincer-like grip on her upper arm, keeping her seated on the side of her bed beside him. On Weasley’s far side, out of her reach, her vine wood wand lay abandoned on the duvet. She was struggling against him, talking, but Weasley was not listening to her.
‘Ron – give it to me! He’ll come, now. I told you to let me go! You don’t understand!’
The moment Hermione perceived Severus’ presence in the room, she ceased her struggles against Weasley. Severus could see at a glance that she was in a bad way, her limbs already subject to the involuntary tremor which afflicted her when the desire was upon her for too long before it was assuaged. Her eyes filled with tears and her cheeks flushed in shame; she turned her face from him and stared at the wall.
Blinding rage drove Severus across the room. He jerked Weasley from the bed and whirled, slamming him against the door. The look of anguished shame on her face was too much – not embarrassment over her curse-driven need, but humiliation over being physically bested by someone inferior to her in every way. Severus recognised the first ten years of his life playing out in this room, and he wanted to choke the life from the worthless specimen before him.
‘All right, Weasley?’ he hissed, slamming him once again against the wooden door. ‘Do you like pulling the wings off flies, too? Kicking puppies?’
‘Gerroff me, you greasy git!’ Ron shouted, shoving against his Potions teacher with all the strength and energy of his twenty-years-younger body. ‘Get off me and stay away from her – you disgusting pervert!’
Severus staggered back from the boy, caught off-balance by the strength of Weasley’s push. He reached for his wand, suddenly remembering that he was a wizard and possessed of far better ways to control an adversary than his own physical strength. He saw Weasley reaching for his wand as well and prayed his own would be in his hand first. In the next instant, a jet of light shot past his shoulder and sent Weasley’s wand skittering across the floor.
‘Stay where you are, Ron, or I’ll hex you.’
Severus looked over his shoulder; the girl stood in the proper duelling stance, her wand trained on her best friend. Severus relaxed an iota and stepped back out of her way. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sotto voce.
‘I’m fine,’ she snarled, her gazed fixed on the terrified freckled countenance before her. ‘Except for the fact that I needed to be with you two hours ago, and I stayed to talk to my friends, to try to help them understand – except for that, I’m simply brilliant, Professor – thanks for asking!’
He saw the tremble in her hand, and he knew she was coasting on pure nerve. Rather than speaking to her again, he freed Potter, who leapt to his feet, his bespectacled face full of fury.
‘Ron, you prat!’ he shouted. ‘How could you do that to her? Take her wand? Hold her down? You deserve whatever Snape does to you!’
In a flash, the girl had lowered her wand and stepped past Severus, slapping Weasley’s face. ‘You think he raped me?’ she hissed. ‘He never did anything to me I didn’t beg him to do – and then only after we had tried every other avenue to treat this curse. Professor Dumbledore asked him to take care of me. It’s not his fault that You-Know-Who cursed me! It was done because I’m Harry’s friend – and because You-Know-Who is a twisted deviant.’ She stepped even closer to Weasley and Severus and Potter each took a step back, as if to give her more elbow room for whatever she planned to do to him. ‘If anyone did anything to me against my will, Ronald, it was YOU. You who took my wand – you who forcibly held me down – YOU.’ She pulled back from him, a look of contempt on her face. ‘I’d spit at your feet if I wouldn’t have to clean it up myself.’
‘Don’t let that deter you, Miss Granger,’ Severus drawled, his wand levelled threateningly at Weasley. ‘I imagine Potter and I would both be willing to undertake that chore on your behalf – for the privilege of seeing you actually do it.’
A loud banging on the door, followed by the stentorian accents of Minerva McGonagall, interrupted them.
‘Miss Granger! Miss Granger, open this door immediately, or I will blast it down!’
Undoubtedly, the noise had caused someone to alert the Head of House. Severus stepped forward and pulled an unresisting Weasley away from the door. Looking over his shoulder, he spoke quietly to the girl. ‘Go. I will be there as soon as I can.’
He waited only for the green glow of her departure to clear before he opened the door. ‘Good evening, Minerva. Pray, come in. Unless you would prefer to, ah, blast the door down?’
McGonagall’s lips thinned to a pinched line at the sight of him, but she swept imperiously past him, looking about the room for her nurslings. ‘Where is Miss Granger?’ she demanded.
‘He sent her to his rooms,’ Weasley blurted, unable to restrain his stupid mouth, even in the face of two wands levelled on him. ‘He’s molesting her! Every single day! And no one cares!’
‘Mr Weasley!’
Severus repressed a shudder – that tone from McGonagall still elicited a Pavlovian response from him, as if he were a foot and a half shorter, and she had her beady eyes trained on him.
Weasley shut his mouth and stared at the floor, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest.
McGonagall was fully aware of the circumstances of the girl’s misfortune; she could be depended upon to deal with Weasley as was appropriate. With icy authority, McGonagall said, ‘You will go directly to the headmaster’s study, Weasley – you as well, Potter – and I will meet you there.’
Weasley cast one last look of sickened disgust at Severus before he left the room; Potter gave him another look – one of puzzled inquiry – and they were gone.
‘Is she all right?’ McGonagall asked anxiously.
‘She was kept in this room against her will past the time she needed … assistance,’ he replied tersely. ‘Do what you have to do to keep them quiet, Minerva – don’t let them humiliate her further by gossiping about this.’
McGonagall frowned at him. ‘I understand your annoyance, Severus, but they are her best friends – they have been inseparable since they were first-years – they would do nothing to injure her.’
Severus sneered. ‘You mean like keeping her from the sure relief of her symptoms, until her hands were trembling with need?’ He waited for and saw on McGonagall’s face the faint touch of distaste at the notion of how the girl’s need was addressed, then he lowered his voice menacingly. ‘Please do not try to smooth over this blatant disregard for her best interests and her express wishes – I will be making a report to the headmaster, as well – and I will not be satisfied with pathetic excuses.’
She was pacing and wringing her hands when he Flooed into his sitting room. She turned to him anxiously as he stepped onto the hearth rug; he cast a silent charm to remove the soot from his robes and schooled his features to impassivity before he looked at her.
‘I’m so sorry you had to hear that,’ she said tempestuously, grabbing his arms.
‘Why are you still dressed?’ he asked, looking down into her earnest face. It was surprising to him that even in a state of physical desperation, she could spare a thought for his feelings. Had anyone, since he was sixteen years old, given a damn about his feelings?
‘Don’t joke!’ she cried. ‘I should have said more to them – told them more about how kind – how thoughtful …’
Wordlessly, he shook her hands from his arms and pulled her against him, as much to silence her as to comfort her. When his body came into contact with hers, she gasped aloud, and reaching for his head, she pulled him down into a fierce kiss. He kissed her back, helping her to move them to the sofa, for they would not make it to the bed this time to assuage her terrible need. As he freed himself from his trousers, and thrust into her slick heat, groaning at his need for her, he yet felt a small sadness that his touch had led straight to passion – bypassing tenderness altogether.
When she screamed beneath him, calling upon him to continue, harder, more, faster, please – he rotated his hips and knew it had been a random thought – what could be better than a woman who asked no more of him than constant mindless rutting?
Term began, and they settled again into their routine. She needed him no less often than she had done before. He noticed that she came to his rooms earlier in the evenings, and that she spent more time with her books and papers spread about her at the coffee table than previously. Obviously, she was spending less time with Potter and Weasley in their common room.
The headmaster had given him a full report of his dealings with the girl’s friends the night they had tried to ‘reason’ with her. Potter had expressed willingness to reserve judgement until he had a chance to discuss it alone with Miss Granger. Weasley had been another kettle of fish altogether; he had raved and argued until Dumbledore very kindly offered to have Arthur and Molly Weasley visit to explain it to him – then, he had capitulated completely.
Severus wasn’t certain how much interaction took place now between Miss Granger and her two former best friends. He had been tempted to ask her but stopped himself every time the question rose to his lips. Already, far too much intimacy existed between them outside the confines of their sexual relationship. She had, after all, pushed her way through his family to reach his side after the Dark Lord punished him, and she had diligently and successfully nursed him back to full health.
He had been too weak to hold his eyes open, but he had clearly heard what had taken place when he had come back from his summons. She had stood up to even his grandmother, had pre-empted a house-elf, and had run his sickroom with a ruthless efficiency which he had very much admired – in complete silence, of course.
If only he could find a witch like that for his own …
Of course, he already thought of her as his own – on loan, as it were. He understood that he would have to give her back, once the Dark Lord fell – and he knew very well that he was unlikely to survive once his betrayal of his master became known.
He had noticed a tendency on her part toward possessiveness, as well – witness her reaction to Morgen.
The day after Boxing Day, whilst he still recuperated in the bed, Scampy had delivered to him a note from Morgen Singer, which read:
Darling Severus,
If you cannot bear to see me or to speak to me – after all we have been to one another – I cannot bear to remain here. I will go back to Germany today. Please know that I will always be waiting.
As Ever,
Morgen
With a sardonic snort, he had said, ‘Scampy – put it on the fire.’
The girl, who had been watching him covertly – but not very expertly – from the corner of her eye, jumped to her feet and snatched the perfumed sea-green parchment from his fingertips. ‘I’ll do it!’
He had simply sat back against his pillows and watched as she surreptitiously read the note before putting it to burn with great satisfaction. What she had shown then, and what she showed now, were simply different sides of the same coin: she, like he, did not care to put her mouth where another had been – nor any of the other involved body parts. It was a straightforward enough preference.
There was nothing personal about it.
When he walked into the Great Hall on the feast day of Saint Valentine, he was repulsed to see the lurid pink, lavender, and red hearts hanging from the ceiling, with occasional showers of glittering, heart-shaped confetti. Muttering an oath towards Dumbledore, who clearly adored that step from the sublime to the ridiculous, he placed a shield charm about his person, which prevented the damn confetti from falling into his dark roast. After he had consumed a cup of coffee, he felt strong enough to raise his head and to gaze out upon the students, and as always happened now, his eye fell upon the girl, and he could not look away.
They had very nearly missed breakfast. It had been a lazy Saturday morning, and he had found himself unable to stop partaking of the pleasures of her body. Every kiss was returned, every touch brought a sigh, each stroke of his tongue upon her clitoris brought a gasp. He had often wondered how many times he could make her come before she would call a halt to his activities, but they had never possessed the leisure to explore that question. Even now, the scent of her secretions lingered upon his hands and face, and he idly wondered if she would go into Hogsmeade with Potter, or if she would come back to his quarters where he could …
The owls flew into the Great Hall burdened with the day’s mail, and Severus’ concentration was broken when he saw a familiar eagle owl coming directly to him. The bird dropped its package into his waiting hands and wheeled in mid-air to fly off again. The perfumed sea-green envelope atop the box gave away the identity of the sender; he grimaced and placed the box in the pocket of his robes.
What he found more disturbing by far was the scene playing out at the Gryffindor table. Potter had entered hand-in-hand with the Lovegood girl, who broke tradition and sat with her boyfriend for breakfast, rather than with her House. Longbottom and the Weasley girl exchanged cards and stolen kisses, and Weasley sat between Lavender Brown and the frightening Romilda Vane like a king at court. In the midst of it all, the girl sat alone. At first glance, it appeared that she was in the thick of the laughing group, but a discerning eye – the eye of the person who knew her best – saw that although she was among them, she was not one of them. She was without peer in that company – did she know it?
She turned her face then and looked directly into his eyes, and he saw the truth – she was fully aware of her isolation. It was the wistfulness of her expression which smote him, that of a young woman who recognises the silliness of the situation, yet still longs to participate in that silliness.
‘You will be at the ball tonight, Severus?’ the headmaster asked cheerfully as he took the seat to Severus’ left.
Severus turned the full force of his glare upon his employer. ‘Did you not order me to attend?’ he asked sourly.
Dumbledore smiled and nodded before turning his attention to his bowl of porridge. ‘I did, indeed. Perhaps you will ask Miss Granger to dance.’
Severus did not deign to answer. He poured a second cup of coffee and stalked from the table, his eyes narrowed, brooding over the girl’s discontent.
Just before lunch, she Flooed into his rooms, all business.
‘Let’s get this over with. I want to go to Hogsmeade this afternoon,’ she said without looking at him. She headed directly to the bedroom.
Treading cautiously, he followed her, pausing in the doorway and leaning against the jamb, watching as she shed her Muggle jeans, knickers, and jumper. This was an odd mood for her, and although he was damned if he would tolerate disrespect, he was willing to make allowances for the fact that all her friends were spending a soppy, romantic day, and she was not. He had been Head of Slytherin House for long enough to know how adolescent girls felt about such things.
Advancing into the room, he seated himself on her side of the bed near her feet and raised an eyebrow at her. ‘How shall we proceed?’
‘Just do it,’ she replied shortly, avoiding his eyes.
He frowned. ‘It’s a terrible day, Hermione. You are welcome to hide down here and avoid it all – but the headmaster will require both of us to be present at the ball tonight. The Head Girl cannot miss the Valentine’s Day Ball.’
She pushed herself into a sitting position, glaring at him. ‘It’s not a terrible day for you,’ she said heatedly. ‘You received a Valentine this morning.’
Comprehension dawned on him. ‘I received a letter,’ he replied neutrally.
‘What does dear Morgen have to say?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I forgot I had it.’
She rolled her eyes and turned her face away from him; obviously, she did not believe him. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the box and its attendant perfumed sea-green envelope. ‘Since it is a matter of such importance for you,’ he said, ‘I shall open it.’
The girl turned her face back to him and seemed to wince at the sight of the package. He made quick work of the brown paper, which revealed a slim black leather case, embossed with Grundell and Ridges, Jewellers to the Discriminating Wizard Since 1217. Diagon Alley, Paris, Moscow, Salem. He heard her gasp and wondered if it was disgust or amazement, but he did not look at her to find out. Instead, he opened the case and gave it a cursory glance before passing it to Hermione.
‘It’s a gold pocket watch,’ she informed him unnecessarily.
‘Hmm,’ he said noncommittally, perusing the note which had accompanied the gift.
‘It’s much nicer than the one you have now,’ she continued, poking at the timepiece as if hoping her touch might render it less elegant.
‘The one I have now belonged to my grandfather Prince,’ he informed her absently. ‘My grandmother gave it to me when I came of age. I have no interest in replacing it.’
‘It’s engraved,’ she said, and he looked up. She had the watch in her hand and was holding it to the light. He made an unsuccessful grab for it, but she turned away from him. ‘24/12/80 – what is the significance of that date?’
He stood and removed the watch and its case from her reach. ‘Enough,’ he replied. He strode to the highboy across the room and shoved the expensive bauble in amongst the other things Morgen had given him over the years. When he turned back, the impertinent girl was reading Morgen’s note. Merlin’s arse! Was there no line she would not cross?
‘Give me that,’ he snapped, snatching it from her hands. ‘I said enough!’
She stared up at him with stricken brown eyes. ‘You’re betrothed to her? Betrothed? You told me you were not involved with anyone!’
He turned from her, his jaw clenched. He had no intention of discussing his convoluted history with Morgen Singer with Hermione Granger.
‘I am betrothed to no one,’ he said, turning to look at her. ‘Now, do you want …?’
She rose on her knees, her mood changing as if upon command. ‘Good,’ she said, running her hands lightly down her own body in a way she knew he liked. ‘It would be really awkward for me to be knocking on your wife’s bedroom door asking if I could come … in …’ her hand reached her mound, and she slipped a finger through the nest of dark curls. Her head fell back as she arched into her own touch, and he felt the sudden rush of passion pounding in his ears, engorging his cock, driving him across the room to fall to his knees and to replace her hand with his mouth.
Her hands came down to twine in his hair, and she held his face to her quim as if he was kissing her mouth, crying aloud her encouragement.
Later, long after her friends had left to go into Hogsmeade, he spooned against her back, slowly rocking, both of them beyond themselves in the transcendent moment of rapture, taking each breath in tandem. When he came – the third time in two hours, unaided by the potion – there was scarcely any ejaculate. Even in his exhaustion, his first thought was for her, and he turned her onto her back, his fingers seeking and finding her clitoris. ‘More?’ he whispered to her, and she spread her thighs and moved against his fingers in agreement. When she shuddered against him for the last time, she rolled once more, so that her face rested upon his pillow, her nose lightly rubbing the tip of his much larger one.
‘No wonder she cannot bear to let you go,’ she said.
‘Shut up,’ he replied, too tired to put much weight behind it.
They slept.
In the early evening, she availed herself of his bathtub, and he hastened to the sitting room to Floo his grandmother in privacy.
The Great Hall, decorated for the Valentine’s Day Ball, was slightly less repulsive than it had been that morning. The staff planning committee had come to the agreement that the headmaster could decorate for the meals, but Filius Flitwick would be in charge of decorations for the dance. Evergreens coated with enchanted snow lined the walls, decorated with living faeries. The strategically placed tables were lit by silver and gold heart-shaped candles, and the decorative cupids suspended in the air were made of ice, which glittered in the faerie lights.
Severus stood sentry near the teachers’ table, making the students nervous with his mere presence – and watching the door for the girl, curious as to what her demeanour would be.
She entered just behind Potter and Lovegood, standing for an instant in the doorway on her own, her eyes scanning the room. She wore again the black satin robes she had worn at Prince House, the bodice clinging to her breasts, the neckline slightly décolleté. On her feet were the shoes which had nearly driven him mad the last time she had worn them; he flashed upon a vivid memory of the stiletto heels resting upon his shoulders as he fucked her – then he brought his gaze to her face and was surprised to find her eyes upon him.
Scampy had obviously been here, just as he had requested of his grandmother – the girl had not turned the house-elf away but had permitted Scampy to help her dress for the party. As before, her hair hung in glossy brown ringlets which shone in the candlelight, and amongst the curls tiny clear jewels were scattered, making it appear as if she were crowned with stars.
And tucked in at strategic points were the Black Bacarra roses from his grandmother’s greenhouses. The colour of the rose was such a dark red that it appeared quite black at times. The deep burgundy was the perfect foil for the girl’s very fair skin. He was quite pleased with the artistry he had wrought from afar, until he saw the number of adolescent male eyes trained upon her.
She was unaware the she was the cynosure of so many eyes, for her attention was still riveted upon him. Then Potter looked over his shoulder and spoke to her, and she stepped out of the doorway to follow her friends to their table. When she began to walk, Severus saw with a mixture of justifiable annoyance and a throb of lust that Scampy had altered the girl’s robes, allowing for a slit up one side which travelled to mid-thigh, displaying too much smooth alabaster leg with every step the girl took.
It was going to be a long night.
Severus had a plan to which he adhered rigidly, hoping Scampy’s improvisations had not rendered the girl so popular that she would have no dances free. It was an inconvenient, unpleasant task, but he had vowed he would do what he could to give the girl a tiny taste of gratification on this thrice-damned ‘holiday’.
First, he danced with Minerva, engaging in a pleasant exchange of barbed comments. Next, he danced with Professor Vector, during which they discussed a recently published Arithmancy theory. He took a break to drink some punch and to clear his mind of vaguely understood Arithmantic equations. When the next dance started, he bowed to Pansy Parkinson, neatly cutting out Draco Malfoy, and led the pug-faced, sharp-tongued Slytherin into a dance. As she chattered non-stop, he was only required to occasionally nod and murmur.
With a pattern of behaviour firmly established, he could now safely dance with the girl. He waited until Head Boy Ernie Macmillan delivered her to her table, and he stepped up to her just as Potter bounced out of his chair and took her hand. Inwardly cursing his bad luck, painfully aware of the titters of some fourth-year girls at the table behind him, Severus drew himself to his full height and assumed his most pestilential stare.
But the girl had seen him arrive, and her eyes were fixed on his face. ‘Sorry, Harry,’ she said, bypassing Potter and walking up to Severus. ‘Professor Snape promised this dance to me – thank you, sir.’
It was providential that she had finagled a way for them to dance together, for this was the last of the slow songs until the very last dance – and he dared not be seen dancing the traditional lover’s dance with a student. It would be his part to go into the grounds, then, and to scare the snoggers and gropers out of the shrubbery.
Holding her at an appropriate distance, he could still smell the perfume she wore – he had never smelt it on her before.
‘It’s called “Inamorata,”’ she explained with a giggle. ‘Parvati put it on me – it’s wizard-made. Do you like it?’
He struggled with the desire to tell her it made her smell like a common trollop. It wasn’t true; it was a lovely scent, and it made him want to bury his nose in her throat. If it sparked that response in him, then it would spark the same response in other men – in these callow boys who watched her with hungry eyes – and he hated that idea. But the whole point of this evening, the way he had planned it, was to make the girl feel better – to make her feel as if she had got to experience some small part of what her friends had experienced that day.
‘It is very nice,’ he replied stiffly.
She shifted slightly closer to him, her arm further encircling his waist, and she looked up into his face, tilting her head back. ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said.
Ah. He had prepared for this. ‘What are you babbling about?’
She smiled. ‘These gorgeous roses, Professor – thank you. It’s almost like a real Valentine’s Day when a girl gets flowers.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied with practiced indifference.
The imp actually nipped him with her fingers, bringing his sternest look to her face.
‘Deny all you want, sir, but the very exotic nature of the blooms – the luscious texture, the extravagant colour – I don’t know another person, wizard, witch, or child, who would have chosen such a gift for me.’
He did not speak again. He danced with her, pretending it was another time and another place, where he was not a teacher and she was not his student – where she had chosen him of her own free will, rather than been imprinted upon him by a Dark curse – where he was not a spy, and there was not a war, and the fate of the wizarding world did not rest upon the actions of James Potter’s brat.
He was aware of Dumbledore watching them with benign approval, of Weasley watching them with nauseous rage, and of Potter watching them as if a question had been answered.
He returned to his rooms, fresh from rousting Hufflepuffs from their ‘hiding places’ on the grounds, and found the girl waiting for him, still completely dressed. A fresh tea service resided on the low table before the sofa, and she poured a cup for him, adding a generous dollop of milk – she knew to a nicety precisely the way he took his evening tea.
He accepted the cup from her and sagged into the wingchair. ‘How are you?’ he inquired.
‘No desperation,’ she replied with a tiny smile. ‘Just – oh, garden variety desire.’
He allowed one eyebrow to travel up. ‘Do you plan to enlighten me?’
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment before saying, ‘It’s the natural desire a woman feels for the man who provided her finery for the ball, then danced with her and made her feel beautiful. It’s the desire a woman feels for the most attractive man in a huge room full of magical men.’
He simply watched her, his face blank, trying to imagine what she was up to.
‘I watched you tonight, you know,’ she confided, leaning towards him, her brown eyes shining as they rested upon his face. ‘You stood guard over us until we were all safely in the Great Hall, then you began to dance for the first time in all the time I have know you. You have the finest body, the most regal bearing, and the keenest mind of any man I have ever met – and in a roomful of other wizards, in comparison to them, the power radiates from you like rays from the sun.’
Stunned into silence, his mind tried to go in five different directions at once to weigh her words and determine her motive for uttering them. After a time, she interrupted his preoccupation when she set her teacup down and stood, opening a large rectangular box he had not noticed before.
‘It’s a music box,’ she said, and he saw this was true, for it began to play a vaguely familiar song. ‘Please dance with me – properly – because I want you to hold me as a man holds the woman he desires.’
It was a silly request – and a dangerous one – but she stood there looking so sexy, and he wanted her so badly, he could only stand and do as she asked. There was very little room for dancing in his sitting room, but she led him into the bedroom and stepped into his arms, her hands running up his back and down his bum in ways entirely unrelated to dancing as he knew it. Soon they were kissing, and he lifted her onto the bed, where she lay fully clothed. The music box continued to play until it wound down, and he would always remember that air with a particular fondness.
He removed every stitch he was wearing and stretched out beside her, caressing her body through her clothing until she was whimpering with need. He lifted the robes to her waist and removed the lacy black knickers with his hands, before insinuating himself between her thighs and thrusting into her.
He fucked her until she cried out – and then he fucked her until she cried out again. And when little beads of sweat at her hairline and the smudged quality of her makeup made her lovelier than she had ever been before, he made love to her slowly, undressing her, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed, striking her to silence with the quality of intense concentration he focussed on her. She was watching him almost fearfully as he pushed himself again into the welcoming warmth of her channel, and he moved over her with exquisite endurance, watching every expression on her face.
‘I didn’t make you feel beautiful,’ he told her as the coming detonation built inexorably to its final climax. ‘You are beautiful. Has no one ever told you so?’
When he lay upon his back, too spent and sore to budge, she magically moved the bedclothes from beneath him and covered them both. Then she curled against his side and whispered, ‘Thank you for the flowers.’
He lifted the hand holding the rosebud he had plucked from her hair with his teeth as he ravaged her and stroked the furled petals down her petal-soft cheek. ‘You’re welcome, petal,’ he replied.
A/N: You may see the Black Bacarra roses here:
And here:
Severus nodded to Madam Pince and reached for the two books from the Founder’s Collection that she had found for him over the holiday. He had been back at the school for nearly a week now, but he had found himself reluctant to pick up the threads of his term-time routine. With the girl spending rather more time in his quarters than in her own, he recognised it was far more pleasant to sit with her by the fire, each of them ensconced in one of the wing chairs, and read for pleasure. She had come across Alain Foucalt’s Merlin et Nimüe on his bookshelf, and he had given her permission to read the wizarding classic, a somewhat romanticised version of the story of the great wizard and his great downfall. It was a joy to watch her reading his copy of the book, eagerly absorbing all that she read – and then looking up at him with a knowing expression which seemed to say she knew he had been watching her. He would glare before lowering his eyes to pretend to read the book lying neglected in his lap.
At other times, when she looked up at him, he knew she was in need. Without a word, she would rise, go into his bedroom, and begin to undress. In equal silence, he would follow her, schooling his face carefully not to show his amazement that this vital creature willingly slipped into his bed and waited in trembling anticipation for him to touch her. He could do with her as he wished, enjoy her body in ways he had never dreamt a witch would permit him to do – and she welcomed it all, eager for him at every juncture.
He knew she was driven by the Dark magical compulsion – that her eagerness was the result of the Dark Lord’s horrible curse – but when the girl looked at him with her big brown eyes and grasped his cock her small, knowledgeable hand, and asked him in her passion-ragged voice to fuck her – to please, please fuck her – it felt fatally authentic.
He was moved from his reverie when Potter and Weasley entered the library, their heads close together, whispering. They passed the desk without sparing a glance for it; had he been Lord Voldemort, Potter would have been dead on the floor. Idiot boys! And why in thunder would the Dunderheaded Duo be in the library the night before term began? His eyes narrowed. They were looking for their bushy-haired third. He waited for them to walk down the central aisle and turn left toward the girl’s favoured study table, beneath the great oriole stained glass window in the northwest corner of the cavernous room.
Moving stealthily, he tracked them, slipping down to the shelf directly behind them, where he stood like a statue, listening to their interaction.
‘Harry! Ron!’
He sneered. Obviously, she was delighted to see her two swains. Impatient to see her face, he Disillusioned himself and levitated half a row of books to the very top of the shelves. Now he could see half of her face, as well as the backs of Weasley’s and Potter’s heads.
‘We need to talk to you – now.’
Potter sounded quite tense. Severus’ adrenaline flooded his blood stream. Had something happened? Was the Boy Who Shirked about to lead his two faithful followers into a bit of rule-breaking?
‘What is it?’
He nodded approvingly. She sounded doubtful – they wouldn’t easily be able to lead her down some stupid garden path. Now Weasley spoke.
‘We did a bit of research over the hols, Hermione – on compulsion curses.’
Severus tensed, and he was certain the girl did, as well. Who could have predicted that the two laziest students in their form would bestir themselves to do research?
‘Well? What do you want to say?’
She sounded appropriately irritated. He smirked.
Potter leant closer to her and spoke so softly that Severus had to cast a silent amplification charm to hear them properly. ‘It’s a sexual curse, isn’t it?’
The girl was unable to mask her reaction; her eyes grew wide and stricken.
‘See?’ Weasley said, forgetting to speak softly. They would have Madam Pince down on them if he didn’t quiet down. ‘Look at her! I told you it had to be that! She won’t even hold my hand any more!’
Severus frowned. He had availed himself of the girl’s memories about Weasley – once even by her invitation – and she had no romantic feelings for the dolt. Had she neglected to inform him of that fact?
Potter silenced Weasley with a glare, then turned back to her. ‘Hermione – why didn’t you come to us? We would have helped you – done anything for you.’
Weasley waited a moment for emphasis, then reiterated, ‘Anything.’
She sat back in her chair, the sheaf of parchment upon which she had been writing clutched protectively to her chest, as if to ward them off. ‘The headmaster explained it to you – I was embarrassed and didn’t want to speak about it – especially not to you lot!’
Weasley spoke again, his voice still immoderately loud. ‘But Hermione – the headmaster? It’s just wrong!’
Her mouth dropped open, and Severus closed his eyes for a moment, readying himself for the end of any peace in his life. Did he really want to hear what she would say to them about him? His craven self wanted to flee, but he stubbornly held his ground.
‘Of course not!’ she hissed at them. ‘That’s just gross!’
Weasley leapt to his feet, ignoring Potter’s white-knuckled attempt to keep him in his seat. ‘Who, then? Who are you having sex with every day?’
Severus had to exercise restraint to prevent himself from cursing aloud – or hexing the two boys. The girl surprised him when she said to them, ‘Go to hell!’ and ran from the room, leaving her things behind.
‘Smooth move, Ron,’ Potter said angrily, taking the time to gather the girl’s books. ‘We agreed not to get physical with her – she’s practically a rape victim!’
‘She’s not your girlfriend!’ Weasley snapped, his profile now turned to Severus, who was witness to the way the boy’s ears reddened when he was angry.
Potter hefted the girl’s familiar book bag over his shoulder and turned away. ‘She’s not your girlfriend either, Ron – she never forgave you for Lavender, remember?’ He began to walk away, throwing over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to find her and talk to her. Don’t come unless you’re capable of remembering this is about her and not about you.’
Severus watched as Weasley went impetuously after Potter, and for several minutes after Hogwarts’ golden trio had disappeared from his sight, he remained standing with his eyes fixed on the empty chair where the girl had sat.
The clock stuck ten, and Severus replaced the girl’s bookmark in Merlin et Nimüe before rising from the chair. It had been three hours since she had fled the library with the dunderheads in hot pursuit – eight hours since he had held her wrists over her head, inciting her to cling to him with her legs, and whispered filthy words in her ear as he slowly moved in and out of her body, prolonging his pleasure and her torment, bringing her off three times before spending himself deep within her womb.
She was past due for relief, but she wasn’t here yet.
What could prevent her from coming? Some unlooked-for Head Girl duty? Tending to the egos of her two so-called ‘best friends’?
An ugly sneer settled on his face as he began to pace. His life had been peaceful before the headmaster had dumped this intolerable nuisance on him. Not only did she clutter his living space with her own belongings – he aimed a kick at the fluffy pink sock peeking from beneath the coffee table – but she absorbed all his free time, made incessant demands upon his physical abilities, and chattered inanely when he was trying to work. It infuriated him that the remainder of his life – for surely, he would not outlive his master – was to be given to catering to an eighteen-year-old, empty-headed bint!
Restlessly, he glanced again at the clock. Ten-fifteen.
He eyed the box of Floo powder on the mantel, then forced his eyes away. His only obligation was to meet her needs, and she was to seek him out for that purpose. He had never used the Floo connexion between her room and his to go to her. Damned if he would start now.
Ten-twenty.
Perhaps she was ill – perhaps she was incapacitated in some way, unable to come to him. As if in answer to his thought, the fake Galleon in his pocket burned. He pulled it out and frowned over it. Obviously, she had activated the charm, but she had included no details of the when and where to meet her.
Something was wrong.
Throwing a handful of Floo powder into the flames, he stepped into the grate and said, ‘Hermione Granger’s room.’
When the spinning stopped he stepped immediately out of the fireplace, unmindful of the soot on his robes. He took in the tableau before him in an instant. Potter lay upon the floor, rigid, obviously the victim of Petrificus Totalus, his wand uselessly tucked away in its sheathe at his belt. Weasley held the girl’s fake Galleon in one hand and with the other hand he had a pincer-like grip on her upper arm, keeping her seated on the side of her bed beside him. On Weasley’s far side, out of her reach, her vine wood wand lay abandoned on the duvet. She was struggling against him, talking, but Weasley was not listening to her.
‘Ron – give it to me! He’ll come, now. I told you to let me go! You don’t understand!’
The moment Hermione perceived Severus’ presence in the room, she ceased her struggles against Weasley. Severus could see at a glance that she was in a bad way, her limbs already subject to the involuntary tremor which afflicted her when the desire was upon her for too long before it was assuaged. Her eyes filled with tears and her cheeks flushed in shame; she turned her face from him and stared at the wall.
Blinding rage drove Severus across the room. He jerked Weasley from the bed and whirled, slamming him against the door. The look of anguished shame on her face was too much – not embarrassment over her curse-driven need, but humiliation over being physically bested by someone inferior to her in every way. Severus recognised the first ten years of his life playing out in this room, and he wanted to choke the life from the worthless specimen before him.
‘All right, Weasley?’ he hissed, slamming him once again against the wooden door. ‘Do you like pulling the wings off flies, too? Kicking puppies?’
‘Gerroff me, you greasy git!’ Ron shouted, shoving against his Potions teacher with all the strength and energy of his twenty-years-younger body. ‘Get off me and stay away from her – you disgusting pervert!’
Severus staggered back from the boy, caught off-balance by the strength of Weasley’s push. He reached for his wand, suddenly remembering that he was a wizard and possessed of far better ways to control an adversary than his own physical strength. He saw Weasley reaching for his wand as well and prayed his own would be in his hand first. In the next instant, a jet of light shot past his shoulder and sent Weasley’s wand skittering across the floor.
‘Stay where you are, Ron, or I’ll hex you.’
Severus looked over his shoulder; the girl stood in the proper duelling stance, her wand trained on her best friend. Severus relaxed an iota and stepped back out of her way. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, sotto voce.
‘I’m fine,’ she snarled, her gazed fixed on the terrified freckled countenance before her. ‘Except for the fact that I needed to be with you two hours ago, and I stayed to talk to my friends, to try to help them understand – except for that, I’m simply brilliant, Professor – thanks for asking!’
He saw the tremble in her hand, and he knew she was coasting on pure nerve. Rather than speaking to her again, he freed Potter, who leapt to his feet, his bespectacled face full of fury.
‘Ron, you prat!’ he shouted. ‘How could you do that to her? Take her wand? Hold her down? You deserve whatever Snape does to you!’
In a flash, the girl had lowered her wand and stepped past Severus, slapping Weasley’s face. ‘You think he raped me?’ she hissed. ‘He never did anything to me I didn’t beg him to do – and then only after we had tried every other avenue to treat this curse. Professor Dumbledore asked him to take care of me. It’s not his fault that You-Know-Who cursed me! It was done because I’m Harry’s friend – and because You-Know-Who is a twisted deviant.’ She stepped even closer to Weasley and Severus and Potter each took a step back, as if to give her more elbow room for whatever she planned to do to him. ‘If anyone did anything to me against my will, Ronald, it was YOU. You who took my wand – you who forcibly held me down – YOU.’ She pulled back from him, a look of contempt on her face. ‘I’d spit at your feet if I wouldn’t have to clean it up myself.’
‘Don’t let that deter you, Miss Granger,’ Severus drawled, his wand levelled threateningly at Weasley. ‘I imagine Potter and I would both be willing to undertake that chore on your behalf – for the privilege of seeing you actually do it.’
A loud banging on the door, followed by the stentorian accents of Minerva McGonagall, interrupted them.
‘Miss Granger! Miss Granger, open this door immediately, or I will blast it down!’
Undoubtedly, the noise had caused someone to alert the Head of House. Severus stepped forward and pulled an unresisting Weasley away from the door. Looking over his shoulder, he spoke quietly to the girl. ‘Go. I will be there as soon as I can.’
He waited only for the green glow of her departure to clear before he opened the door. ‘Good evening, Minerva. Pray, come in. Unless you would prefer to, ah, blast the door down?’
McGonagall’s lips thinned to a pinched line at the sight of him, but she swept imperiously past him, looking about the room for her nurslings. ‘Where is Miss Granger?’ she demanded.
‘He sent her to his rooms,’ Weasley blurted, unable to restrain his stupid mouth, even in the face of two wands levelled on him. ‘He’s molesting her! Every single day! And no one cares!’
‘Mr Weasley!’
Severus repressed a shudder – that tone from McGonagall still elicited a Pavlovian response from him, as if he were a foot and a half shorter, and she had her beady eyes trained on him.
Weasley shut his mouth and stared at the floor, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest.
McGonagall was fully aware of the circumstances of the girl’s misfortune; she could be depended upon to deal with Weasley as was appropriate. With icy authority, McGonagall said, ‘You will go directly to the headmaster’s study, Weasley – you as well, Potter – and I will meet you there.’
Weasley cast one last look of sickened disgust at Severus before he left the room; Potter gave him another look – one of puzzled inquiry – and they were gone.
‘Is she all right?’ McGonagall asked anxiously.
‘She was kept in this room against her will past the time she needed … assistance,’ he replied tersely. ‘Do what you have to do to keep them quiet, Minerva – don’t let them humiliate her further by gossiping about this.’
McGonagall frowned at him. ‘I understand your annoyance, Severus, but they are her best friends – they have been inseparable since they were first-years – they would do nothing to injure her.’
Severus sneered. ‘You mean like keeping her from the sure relief of her symptoms, until her hands were trembling with need?’ He waited for and saw on McGonagall’s face the faint touch of distaste at the notion of how the girl’s need was addressed, then he lowered his voice menacingly. ‘Please do not try to smooth over this blatant disregard for her best interests and her express wishes – I will be making a report to the headmaster, as well – and I will not be satisfied with pathetic excuses.’
She was pacing and wringing her hands when he Flooed into his sitting room. She turned to him anxiously as he stepped onto the hearth rug; he cast a silent charm to remove the soot from his robes and schooled his features to impassivity before he looked at her.
‘I’m so sorry you had to hear that,’ she said tempestuously, grabbing his arms.
‘Why are you still dressed?’ he asked, looking down into her earnest face. It was surprising to him that even in a state of physical desperation, she could spare a thought for his feelings. Had anyone, since he was sixteen years old, given a damn about his feelings?
‘Don’t joke!’ she cried. ‘I should have said more to them – told them more about how kind – how thoughtful …’
Wordlessly, he shook her hands from his arms and pulled her against him, as much to silence her as to comfort her. When his body came into contact with hers, she gasped aloud, and reaching for his head, she pulled him down into a fierce kiss. He kissed her back, helping her to move them to the sofa, for they would not make it to the bed this time to assuage her terrible need. As he freed himself from his trousers, and thrust into her slick heat, groaning at his need for her, he yet felt a small sadness that his touch had led straight to passion – bypassing tenderness altogether.
When she screamed beneath him, calling upon him to continue, harder, more, faster, please – he rotated his hips and knew it had been a random thought – what could be better than a woman who asked no more of him than constant mindless rutting?
Term began, and they settled again into their routine. She needed him no less often than she had done before. He noticed that she came to his rooms earlier in the evenings, and that she spent more time with her books and papers spread about her at the coffee table than previously. Obviously, she was spending less time with Potter and Weasley in their common room.
The headmaster had given him a full report of his dealings with the girl’s friends the night they had tried to ‘reason’ with her. Potter had expressed willingness to reserve judgement until he had a chance to discuss it alone with Miss Granger. Weasley had been another kettle of fish altogether; he had raved and argued until Dumbledore very kindly offered to have Arthur and Molly Weasley visit to explain it to him – then, he had capitulated completely.
Severus wasn’t certain how much interaction took place now between Miss Granger and her two former best friends. He had been tempted to ask her but stopped himself every time the question rose to his lips. Already, far too much intimacy existed between them outside the confines of their sexual relationship. She had, after all, pushed her way through his family to reach his side after the Dark Lord punished him, and she had diligently and successfully nursed him back to full health.
He had been too weak to hold his eyes open, but he had clearly heard what had taken place when he had come back from his summons. She had stood up to even his grandmother, had pre-empted a house-elf, and had run his sickroom with a ruthless efficiency which he had very much admired – in complete silence, of course.
If only he could find a witch like that for his own …
Of course, he already thought of her as his own – on loan, as it were. He understood that he would have to give her back, once the Dark Lord fell – and he knew very well that he was unlikely to survive once his betrayal of his master became known.
He had noticed a tendency on her part toward possessiveness, as well – witness her reaction to Morgen.
The day after Boxing Day, whilst he still recuperated in the bed, Scampy had delivered to him a note from Morgen Singer, which read:
If you cannot bear to see me or to speak to me – after all we have been to one another – I cannot bear to remain here. I will go back to Germany today. Please know that I will always be waiting.
As Ever,
Morgen
With a sardonic snort, he had said, ‘Scampy – put it on the fire.’
The girl, who had been watching him covertly – but not very expertly – from the corner of her eye, jumped to her feet and snatched the perfumed sea-green parchment from his fingertips. ‘I’ll do it!’
He had simply sat back against his pillows and watched as she surreptitiously read the note before putting it to burn with great satisfaction. What she had shown then, and what she showed now, were simply different sides of the same coin: she, like he, did not care to put her mouth where another had been – nor any of the other involved body parts. It was a straightforward enough preference.
There was nothing personal about it.
When he walked into the Great Hall on the feast day of Saint Valentine, he was repulsed to see the lurid pink, lavender, and red hearts hanging from the ceiling, with occasional showers of glittering, heart-shaped confetti. Muttering an oath towards Dumbledore, who clearly adored that step from the sublime to the ridiculous, he placed a shield charm about his person, which prevented the damn confetti from falling into his dark roast. After he had consumed a cup of coffee, he felt strong enough to raise his head and to gaze out upon the students, and as always happened now, his eye fell upon the girl, and he could not look away.
They had very nearly missed breakfast. It had been a lazy Saturday morning, and he had found himself unable to stop partaking of the pleasures of her body. Every kiss was returned, every touch brought a sigh, each stroke of his tongue upon her clitoris brought a gasp. He had often wondered how many times he could make her come before she would call a halt to his activities, but they had never possessed the leisure to explore that question. Even now, the scent of her secretions lingered upon his hands and face, and he idly wondered if she would go into Hogsmeade with Potter, or if she would come back to his quarters where he could …
The owls flew into the Great Hall burdened with the day’s mail, and Severus’ concentration was broken when he saw a familiar eagle owl coming directly to him. The bird dropped its package into his waiting hands and wheeled in mid-air to fly off again. The perfumed sea-green envelope atop the box gave away the identity of the sender; he grimaced and placed the box in the pocket of his robes.
What he found more disturbing by far was the scene playing out at the Gryffindor table. Potter had entered hand-in-hand with the Lovegood girl, who broke tradition and sat with her boyfriend for breakfast, rather than with her House. Longbottom and the Weasley girl exchanged cards and stolen kisses, and Weasley sat between Lavender Brown and the frightening Romilda Vane like a king at court. In the midst of it all, the girl sat alone. At first glance, it appeared that she was in the thick of the laughing group, but a discerning eye – the eye of the person who knew her best – saw that although she was among them, she was not one of them. She was without peer in that company – did she know it?
She turned her face then and looked directly into his eyes, and he saw the truth – she was fully aware of her isolation. It was the wistfulness of her expression which smote him, that of a young woman who recognises the silliness of the situation, yet still longs to participate in that silliness.
‘You will be at the ball tonight, Severus?’ the headmaster asked cheerfully as he took the seat to Severus’ left.
Severus turned the full force of his glare upon his employer. ‘Did you not order me to attend?’ he asked sourly.
Dumbledore smiled and nodded before turning his attention to his bowl of porridge. ‘I did, indeed. Perhaps you will ask Miss Granger to dance.’
Severus did not deign to answer. He poured a second cup of coffee and stalked from the table, his eyes narrowed, brooding over the girl’s discontent.
Just before lunch, she Flooed into his rooms, all business.
‘Let’s get this over with. I want to go to Hogsmeade this afternoon,’ she said without looking at him. She headed directly to the bedroom.
Treading cautiously, he followed her, pausing in the doorway and leaning against the jamb, watching as she shed her Muggle jeans, knickers, and jumper. This was an odd mood for her, and although he was damned if he would tolerate disrespect, he was willing to make allowances for the fact that all her friends were spending a soppy, romantic day, and she was not. He had been Head of Slytherin House for long enough to know how adolescent girls felt about such things.
Advancing into the room, he seated himself on her side of the bed near her feet and raised an eyebrow at her. ‘How shall we proceed?’
‘Just do it,’ she replied shortly, avoiding his eyes.
He frowned. ‘It’s a terrible day, Hermione. You are welcome to hide down here and avoid it all – but the headmaster will require both of us to be present at the ball tonight. The Head Girl cannot miss the Valentine’s Day Ball.’
She pushed herself into a sitting position, glaring at him. ‘It’s not a terrible day for you,’ she said heatedly. ‘You received a Valentine this morning.’
Comprehension dawned on him. ‘I received a letter,’ he replied neutrally.
‘What does dear Morgen have to say?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘I forgot I had it.’
She rolled her eyes and turned her face away from him; obviously, she did not believe him. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the box and its attendant perfumed sea-green envelope. ‘Since it is a matter of such importance for you,’ he said, ‘I shall open it.’
The girl turned her face back to him and seemed to wince at the sight of the package. He made quick work of the brown paper, which revealed a slim black leather case, embossed with Grundell and Ridges, Jewellers to the Discriminating Wizard Since 1217. Diagon Alley, Paris, Moscow, Salem. He heard her gasp and wondered if it was disgust or amazement, but he did not look at her to find out. Instead, he opened the case and gave it a cursory glance before passing it to Hermione.
‘It’s a gold pocket watch,’ she informed him unnecessarily.
‘Hmm,’ he said noncommittally, perusing the note which had accompanied the gift.
‘It’s much nicer than the one you have now,’ she continued, poking at the timepiece as if hoping her touch might render it less elegant.
‘The one I have now belonged to my grandfather Prince,’ he informed her absently. ‘My grandmother gave it to me when I came of age. I have no interest in replacing it.’
‘It’s engraved,’ she said, and he looked up. She had the watch in her hand and was holding it to the light. He made an unsuccessful grab for it, but she turned away from him. ‘24/12/80 – what is the significance of that date?’
He stood and removed the watch and its case from her reach. ‘Enough,’ he replied. He strode to the highboy across the room and shoved the expensive bauble in amongst the other things Morgen had given him over the years. When he turned back, the impertinent girl was reading Morgen’s note. Merlin’s arse! Was there no line she would not cross?
‘Give me that,’ he snapped, snatching it from her hands. ‘I said enough!’
She stared up at him with stricken brown eyes. ‘You’re betrothed to her? Betrothed? You told me you were not involved with anyone!’
He turned from her, his jaw clenched. He had no intention of discussing his convoluted history with Morgen Singer with Hermione Granger.
‘I am betrothed to no one,’ he said, turning to look at her. ‘Now, do you want …?’
She rose on her knees, her mood changing as if upon command. ‘Good,’ she said, running her hands lightly down her own body in a way she knew he liked. ‘It would be really awkward for me to be knocking on your wife’s bedroom door asking if I could come … in …’ her hand reached her mound, and she slipped a finger through the nest of dark curls. Her head fell back as she arched into her own touch, and he felt the sudden rush of passion pounding in his ears, engorging his cock, driving him across the room to fall to his knees and to replace her hand with his mouth.
Her hands came down to twine in his hair, and she held his face to her quim as if he was kissing her mouth, crying aloud her encouragement.
Later, long after her friends had left to go into Hogsmeade, he spooned against her back, slowly rocking, both of them beyond themselves in the transcendent moment of rapture, taking each breath in tandem. When he came – the third time in two hours, unaided by the potion – there was scarcely any ejaculate. Even in his exhaustion, his first thought was for her, and he turned her onto her back, his fingers seeking and finding her clitoris. ‘More?’ he whispered to her, and she spread her thighs and moved against his fingers in agreement. When she shuddered against him for the last time, she rolled once more, so that her face rested upon his pillow, her nose lightly rubbing the tip of his much larger one.
‘No wonder she cannot bear to let you go,’ she said.
‘Shut up,’ he replied, too tired to put much weight behind it.
They slept.
In the early evening, she availed herself of his bathtub, and he hastened to the sitting room to Floo his grandmother in privacy.
The Great Hall, decorated for the Valentine’s Day Ball, was slightly less repulsive than it had been that morning. The staff planning committee had come to the agreement that the headmaster could decorate for the meals, but Filius Flitwick would be in charge of decorations for the dance. Evergreens coated with enchanted snow lined the walls, decorated with living faeries. The strategically placed tables were lit by silver and gold heart-shaped candles, and the decorative cupids suspended in the air were made of ice, which glittered in the faerie lights.
Severus stood sentry near the teachers’ table, making the students nervous with his mere presence – and watching the door for the girl, curious as to what her demeanour would be.
She entered just behind Potter and Lovegood, standing for an instant in the doorway on her own, her eyes scanning the room. She wore again the black satin robes she had worn at Prince House, the bodice clinging to her breasts, the neckline slightly décolleté. On her feet were the shoes which had nearly driven him mad the last time she had worn them; he flashed upon a vivid memory of the stiletto heels resting upon his shoulders as he fucked her – then he brought his gaze to her face and was surprised to find her eyes upon him.
Scampy had obviously been here, just as he had requested of his grandmother – the girl had not turned the house-elf away but had permitted Scampy to help her dress for the party. As before, her hair hung in glossy brown ringlets which shone in the candlelight, and amongst the curls tiny clear jewels were scattered, making it appear as if she were crowned with stars.
And tucked in at strategic points were the Black Bacarra roses from his grandmother’s greenhouses. The colour of the rose was such a dark red that it appeared quite black at times. The deep burgundy was the perfect foil for the girl’s very fair skin. He was quite pleased with the artistry he had wrought from afar, until he saw the number of adolescent male eyes trained upon her.
She was unaware the she was the cynosure of so many eyes, for her attention was still riveted upon him. Then Potter looked over his shoulder and spoke to her, and she stepped out of the doorway to follow her friends to their table. When she began to walk, Severus saw with a mixture of justifiable annoyance and a throb of lust that Scampy had altered the girl’s robes, allowing for a slit up one side which travelled to mid-thigh, displaying too much smooth alabaster leg with every step the girl took.
It was going to be a long night.
Severus had a plan to which he adhered rigidly, hoping Scampy’s improvisations had not rendered the girl so popular that she would have no dances free. It was an inconvenient, unpleasant task, but he had vowed he would do what he could to give the girl a tiny taste of gratification on this thrice-damned ‘holiday’.
First, he danced with Minerva, engaging in a pleasant exchange of barbed comments. Next, he danced with Professor Vector, during which they discussed a recently published Arithmancy theory. He took a break to drink some punch and to clear his mind of vaguely understood Arithmantic equations. When the next dance started, he bowed to Pansy Parkinson, neatly cutting out Draco Malfoy, and led the pug-faced, sharp-tongued Slytherin into a dance. As she chattered non-stop, he was only required to occasionally nod and murmur.
With a pattern of behaviour firmly established, he could now safely dance with the girl. He waited until Head Boy Ernie Macmillan delivered her to her table, and he stepped up to her just as Potter bounced out of his chair and took her hand. Inwardly cursing his bad luck, painfully aware of the titters of some fourth-year girls at the table behind him, Severus drew himself to his full height and assumed his most pestilential stare.
But the girl had seen him arrive, and her eyes were fixed on his face. ‘Sorry, Harry,’ she said, bypassing Potter and walking up to Severus. ‘Professor Snape promised this dance to me – thank you, sir.’
It was providential that she had finagled a way for them to dance together, for this was the last of the slow songs until the very last dance – and he dared not be seen dancing the traditional lover’s dance with a student. It would be his part to go into the grounds, then, and to scare the snoggers and gropers out of the shrubbery.
Holding her at an appropriate distance, he could still smell the perfume she wore – he had never smelt it on her before.
‘It’s called “Inamorata,”’ she explained with a giggle. ‘Parvati put it on me – it’s wizard-made. Do you like it?’
He struggled with the desire to tell her it made her smell like a common trollop. It wasn’t true; it was a lovely scent, and it made him want to bury his nose in her throat. If it sparked that response in him, then it would spark the same response in other men – in these callow boys who watched her with hungry eyes – and he hated that idea. But the whole point of this evening, the way he had planned it, was to make the girl feel better – to make her feel as if she had got to experience some small part of what her friends had experienced that day.
‘It is very nice,’ he replied stiffly.
She shifted slightly closer to him, her arm further encircling his waist, and she looked up into his face, tilting her head back. ‘Thank you for the flowers,’ she said.
Ah. He had prepared for this. ‘What are you babbling about?’
She smiled. ‘These gorgeous roses, Professor – thank you. It’s almost like a real Valentine’s Day when a girl gets flowers.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he replied with practiced indifference.
The imp actually nipped him with her fingers, bringing his sternest look to her face.
‘Deny all you want, sir, but the very exotic nature of the blooms – the luscious texture, the extravagant colour – I don’t know another person, wizard, witch, or child, who would have chosen such a gift for me.’
He did not speak again. He danced with her, pretending it was another time and another place, where he was not a teacher and she was not his student – where she had chosen him of her own free will, rather than been imprinted upon him by a Dark curse – where he was not a spy, and there was not a war, and the fate of the wizarding world did not rest upon the actions of James Potter’s brat.
He was aware of Dumbledore watching them with benign approval, of Weasley watching them with nauseous rage, and of Potter watching them as if a question had been answered.
He returned to his rooms, fresh from rousting Hufflepuffs from their ‘hiding places’ on the grounds, and found the girl waiting for him, still completely dressed. A fresh tea service resided on the low table before the sofa, and she poured a cup for him, adding a generous dollop of milk – she knew to a nicety precisely the way he took his evening tea.
He accepted the cup from her and sagged into the wingchair. ‘How are you?’ he inquired.
‘No desperation,’ she replied with a tiny smile. ‘Just – oh, garden variety desire.’
He allowed one eyebrow to travel up. ‘Do you plan to enlighten me?’
She pursed her lips and thought for a moment before saying, ‘It’s the natural desire a woman feels for the man who provided her finery for the ball, then danced with her and made her feel beautiful. It’s the desire a woman feels for the most attractive man in a huge room full of magical men.’
He simply watched her, his face blank, trying to imagine what she was up to.
‘I watched you tonight, you know,’ she confided, leaning towards him, her brown eyes shining as they rested upon his face. ‘You stood guard over us until we were all safely in the Great Hall, then you began to dance for the first time in all the time I have know you. You have the finest body, the most regal bearing, and the keenest mind of any man I have ever met – and in a roomful of other wizards, in comparison to them, the power radiates from you like rays from the sun.’
Stunned into silence, his mind tried to go in five different directions at once to weigh her words and determine her motive for uttering them. After a time, she interrupted his preoccupation when she set her teacup down and stood, opening a large rectangular box he had not noticed before.
‘It’s a music box,’ she said, and he saw this was true, for it began to play a vaguely familiar song. ‘Please dance with me – properly – because I want you to hold me as a man holds the woman he desires.’
It was a silly request – and a dangerous one – but she stood there looking so sexy, and he wanted her so badly, he could only stand and do as she asked. There was very little room for dancing in his sitting room, but she led him into the bedroom and stepped into his arms, her hands running up his back and down his bum in ways entirely unrelated to dancing as he knew it. Soon they were kissing, and he lifted her onto the bed, where she lay fully clothed. The music box continued to play until it wound down, and he would always remember that air with a particular fondness.
He removed every stitch he was wearing and stretched out beside her, caressing her body through her clothing until she was whimpering with need. He lifted the robes to her waist and removed the lacy black knickers with his hands, before insinuating himself between her thighs and thrusting into her.
He fucked her until she cried out – and then he fucked her until she cried out again. And when little beads of sweat at her hairline and the smudged quality of her makeup made her lovelier than she had ever been before, he made love to her slowly, undressing her, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed, striking her to silence with the quality of intense concentration he focussed on her. She was watching him almost fearfully as he pushed himself again into the welcoming warmth of her channel, and he moved over her with exquisite endurance, watching every expression on her face.
‘I didn’t make you feel beautiful,’ he told her as the coming detonation built inexorably to its final climax. ‘You are beautiful. Has no one ever told you so?’
When he lay upon his back, too spent and sore to budge, she magically moved the bedclothes from beneath him and covered them both. Then she curled against his side and whispered, ‘Thank you for the flowers.’
He lifted the hand holding the rosebud he had plucked from her hair with his teeth as he ravaged her and stroked the furled petals down her petal-soft cheek. ‘You’re welcome, petal,’ he replied.
A/N: You may see the Black Bacarra roses here:
And here: