The Love You Take
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
28
Views:
44,793
Reviews:
275
Recommended:
4
Currently Reading:
3
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
28
Views:
44,793
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 13: Regrouping
A/N: As always, beta-reading love goes to DeeMichelle, Brit-picking love to MagicAlly, and alpha-reading/cheerleading love to Shug.
The Love You Take
Chapter 13: Regrouping
He lay staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, the tremendous swell of emotion engendered by their coupling finally beginning to dissipate. His superbly sensitive sense of smell identified numerous scents: the Inamorata perfume, the bruised Bacarra rosebuds, and the exquisite blending of their sweat and sexual emissions. The girl was curled up against his side, asleep; he held her clamped possessively to him with his left arm. As he watched the long, smooth ringlets the house-elf had wrought commencing their reversion to the natural, bushy state of her hair, he was moved to revulsion by the contrast of the innocence of her countenance to his infernal Dark Mark, clearly visible against her porcelain skin.
Acutely imprinted on his memory was the expression of adoration on her face as he had said to her, ‘I didn’t make you beautiful. You are beautiful – has no one ever told you so?’ He had followed up that somewhat forgivable lapse – for were men not famous for saying anything and everything during the act of sex? – by calling her ‘petal’, like a damned fool.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was indulging himself – no! He was indulging her with sentimental behaviour, which had gone from unwise to dangerous. This state of affairs had come about because of an inane progression of thought, if one could call it that. In short, he was behaving like a lovesick fuckwit of Brobdingnagian proportions. He had become weak where she was concerned. The day would come when she would be gone from him – for he would be dead, or Potter would surely fulfil his only raison d'etre and defeat the Dark Lord – and when that happened, she did not need to be confused by a perceived emotional attachment to him.
It was unmistakeably his duty to distance himself from her again.
When she woke him just before dawn with greedy hands and lips, Severus disciplined himself to icy aloofness to atone for his lapse. The girl, ever sensitive to his moods, was quick to address the change.
'Sir?' she inquired from the opposite side of the bed.
He did not answer her. These post-coital moments were amongst his most vulnerable, and he was careful to steel himself against the entreaty in her voice.
'Have I done something to offend you?' she whispered into his silence.
'Sleep, Miss Granger,' he said, deliberately rolling away from her and extinguishing the candles.
Staring stonily into the dark, he plainly heard her soft weeping. He knew his emotional withdrawal, on the heels of their soppy – but intense – interactions after the Valentine’s Day Ball, was a tough changeabout to process – even he felt the hollowness of his reply. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bedclothes with his fists and willed himself not to respond. When she slipped away, he did not move or speak, and the green glow of the Floo had scarcely faded when he moved resolutely into the middle of the mattress, telling himself it was a relief to be able to stretch out all he wanted in his own bed.
The next few days followed a new pattern.
As before, she came to him when she had need, accepted the attentions he provided, and departed when the need was assuaged. He imposed a new, rigid control of himself, pulling out when she found the relief she sought, denying her the satisfaction of seeing him in such an unguarded state. He realised he would not manage it every time – he was, after all, only human – but it helped him to re-establish in his own mind his place in her life. His purpose was to provide relief for her from the effects of the compulsion curse. He would be civil, but she would have to find her emotional solace and support elsewhere.
He was, after all, only human.
On the next Friday morning, Minerva McGonagall accosted him before his first sip of coffee.
‘Care for a friendly flutter on the game, Severus?’ she inquired, seating herself beside him at the high table.
Severus took a sip of coffee, his expression blank, and cast about in his mind for what she was on about.
‘Next Saturday,’ she goaded him. ‘Slytherin versus Gryffindor, Severus – it looks like the fourth year in the row for Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup.’
He turned a stony glare upon her. ‘Gryffindor has won the last two years – not three.’
McGonagall smirked and helped herself to food from the serving platter. ‘Well, we can’t count the year of the Triwizard Tournament, can we? And Gryffindor won the Cup the year before that – so, I say it’s four years running.’
Severus turned his eyes away from the disgusting fried egg on McGonagall’s plate and regarded his porridge. ‘Don’t count your dragons before they’re hatched, Minerva,’ he advised her acidly. ‘When Slytherin defeats Gryffindor, our chances will be even.’
McGonagall poured strong black tea from the earthenware pot by her cup. ‘It was such a shame when Slytherin lost to Hufflepuff,’ she said with false sympathy, obviously relishing her opportunity to take the piss out of him. ‘But I thought you might enjoy a bit of a flutter – just to make it interesting.’
Severus affected a shrug of indifference, making a mental note to have a chat with the Quidditch team. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘What are you willing to lose?’
The old hag chuckled darkly. ‘Now you’re entering into the spirit of the thing,’ she said. ‘It should be something that will cause a pang, don’t you agree?’
Severus responded with a grunt of assent, ignoring his cooling porridge in favour of another cup of dark roast.
‘Right, then,’ McGonagall said briskly. ‘When Slytherin loses, you’ll pay me with a bottle of Bruichladdich Single Malt – the 40 year reserve, of course.’
Severus blanched. Dumbledore had lost a wager with McGonagall during the tenure of the Umbridge bitch, and back then, it had cost the Headmaster more than two hundred Galleons to buy a bottle of the stuff. Surely, the price had only gone up in two years?
Managing a bland tone, he replied, ‘I have simpler tastes. The same expenditure on your part, when Gryffindor loses, will procure for me a case of Ogden’s Very Rare.’
McGonagall offered her hand. ‘Oh, I would even throw in a crystal decanter, Severus – but you won’t win, of course.’
Severus accepted her handshake to seal the bargain, struck by the difference in the feel of the old woman’s skin, as compared to Hermione’s ….
He released McGonagall’s dry, gnarled hand and turned, almost against his will, to seek out the girl. She sat alone, her nose buried in a textbook. Ever since her two so-called friends had learnt of her curse and of how Severus helped her deal with it, her friendship with the Dunderheaded Duo had become visibly strained. Over time, she had come to forgive Weasley for the things he had done and said to her, but she would likely never trust him as she once had done. Potter had stood staunchly by her side, but their friendship had been irrevocably changed by Hermione’s curse – and her resulting association with Severus.
Wrenching his eyes from her solitary figure, he began to shovel the cooled, sludge-like porridge into his mouth. He well knew how poor nutrition further exacerbated his temper, which needed no additional challenges. With the use of judicious wanking, he had managed to withhold his climax from her in rather more than fifty percent of their encounters in the six days past. He no longer scrupled to leave her gasping from her own orgasm and to lock himself in his bathroom to achieve release by his own hand. She had very nearly ceased to pepper him with questions and pleas to know how she had transgressed; he had long since decided it was better to ignore her than to reason with her.
An excited murmur from the students drew his eyes again to the four long tables below, and he was perplexed to see Potter and Weasley enter the Great Hall in the company of a vaguely familiar looking young man. The students were craning their necks to look at the visitor, and some were pointing the newcomer out to their friends. Turning to McGonagall, he said, ‘Who is that?’
McGonagall turned aside from her conversation with Flitwick, following the jerk of Severus’ head.
‘Oh, excellent,’ she said, standing and straightening her hat. ‘That’s who’s covering Rolanda Hooch’s lessons whilst she attends a family wedding.’
McGonagall hurried down, apparently to greet the temporary flying instructor, but before she reached him, a peculiar thing happened: Hermione’s head turned, as if in response to her spoken name, and in the next moment, she had flung herself into the eager arms of the black-haired, hook-nosed man.
‘Bugger!’ Severus swore under his breath as the identity of the young man dawned on him.
Viktor Krum had returned to Hogwarts – just in time to coach Gryffindor in their Quidditch match against Slytherin. For although Krum had made friends in Slytherin when he was in residence at Hogwarts, Severus had no illusions as to which team Krum would favour with his training tips: Krum and Potter had been as thick as thieves ever since competing against one another in the Triwizard Tournament.
And Minerva had been careful to inveigle him into a wager on the match before he was aware of the arrival of the International Quidditch star – how very Slytherin of her!
But what was far more disconcerting was this: Krum was an alumnus of Durmstrang Institute, where the Dark Arts, not just defence against them, were taught to the students from the tender age of eleven years. Krum would unerringly note the change the Nexus had wrought in Hermione – and by the glowing look the Bulgarian was bestowing on the girl, he would do all in his power to ensnare her.
Bloody fucking shite.
Chapter 13: Regrouping
He lay staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, the tremendous swell of emotion engendered by their coupling finally beginning to dissipate. His superbly sensitive sense of smell identified numerous scents: the Inamorata perfume, the bruised Bacarra rosebuds, and the exquisite blending of their sweat and sexual emissions. The girl was curled up against his side, asleep; he held her clamped possessively to him with his left arm. As he watched the long, smooth ringlets the house-elf had wrought commencing their reversion to the natural, bushy state of her hair, he was moved to revulsion by the contrast of the innocence of her countenance to his infernal Dark Mark, clearly visible against her porcelain skin.
Acutely imprinted on his memory was the expression of adoration on her face as he had said to her, ‘I didn’t make you beautiful. You are beautiful – has no one ever told you so?’ He had followed up that somewhat forgivable lapse – for were men not famous for saying anything and everything during the act of sex? – by calling her ‘petal’, like a damned fool.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He was indulging himself – no! He was indulging her with sentimental behaviour, which had gone from unwise to dangerous. This state of affairs had come about because of an inane progression of thought, if one could call it that. In short, he was behaving like a lovesick fuckwit of Brobdingnagian proportions. He had become weak where she was concerned. The day would come when she would be gone from him – for he would be dead, or Potter would surely fulfil his only raison d'etre and defeat the Dark Lord – and when that happened, she did not need to be confused by a perceived emotional attachment to him.
It was unmistakeably his duty to distance himself from her again.
When she woke him just before dawn with greedy hands and lips, Severus disciplined himself to icy aloofness to atone for his lapse. The girl, ever sensitive to his moods, was quick to address the change.
'Sir?' she inquired from the opposite side of the bed.
He did not answer her. These post-coital moments were amongst his most vulnerable, and he was careful to steel himself against the entreaty in her voice.
'Have I done something to offend you?' she whispered into his silence.
'Sleep, Miss Granger,' he said, deliberately rolling away from her and extinguishing the candles.
Staring stonily into the dark, he plainly heard her soft weeping. He knew his emotional withdrawal, on the heels of their soppy – but intense – interactions after the Valentine’s Day Ball, was a tough changeabout to process – even he felt the hollowness of his reply. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bedclothes with his fists and willed himself not to respond. When she slipped away, he did not move or speak, and the green glow of the Floo had scarcely faded when he moved resolutely into the middle of the mattress, telling himself it was a relief to be able to stretch out all he wanted in his own bed.
The next few days followed a new pattern.
As before, she came to him when she had need, accepted the attentions he provided, and departed when the need was assuaged. He imposed a new, rigid control of himself, pulling out when she found the relief she sought, denying her the satisfaction of seeing him in such an unguarded state. He realised he would not manage it every time – he was, after all, only human – but it helped him to re-establish in his own mind his place in her life. His purpose was to provide relief for her from the effects of the compulsion curse. He would be civil, but she would have to find her emotional solace and support elsewhere.
He was, after all, only human.
On the next Friday morning, Minerva McGonagall accosted him before his first sip of coffee.
‘Care for a friendly flutter on the game, Severus?’ she inquired, seating herself beside him at the high table.
Severus took a sip of coffee, his expression blank, and cast about in his mind for what she was on about.
‘Next Saturday,’ she goaded him. ‘Slytherin versus Gryffindor, Severus – it looks like the fourth year in the row for Gryffindor winning the Quidditch Cup.’
He turned a stony glare upon her. ‘Gryffindor has won the last two years – not three.’
McGonagall smirked and helped herself to food from the serving platter. ‘Well, we can’t count the year of the Triwizard Tournament, can we? And Gryffindor won the Cup the year before that – so, I say it’s four years running.’
Severus turned his eyes away from the disgusting fried egg on McGonagall’s plate and regarded his porridge. ‘Don’t count your dragons before they’re hatched, Minerva,’ he advised her acidly. ‘When Slytherin defeats Gryffindor, our chances will be even.’
McGonagall poured strong black tea from the earthenware pot by her cup. ‘It was such a shame when Slytherin lost to Hufflepuff,’ she said with false sympathy, obviously relishing her opportunity to take the piss out of him. ‘But I thought you might enjoy a bit of a flutter – just to make it interesting.’
Severus affected a shrug of indifference, making a mental note to have a chat with the Quidditch team. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘What are you willing to lose?’
The old hag chuckled darkly. ‘Now you’re entering into the spirit of the thing,’ she said. ‘It should be something that will cause a pang, don’t you agree?’
Severus responded with a grunt of assent, ignoring his cooling porridge in favour of another cup of dark roast.
‘Right, then,’ McGonagall said briskly. ‘When Slytherin loses, you’ll pay me with a bottle of Bruichladdich Single Malt – the 40 year reserve, of course.’
Severus blanched. Dumbledore had lost a wager with McGonagall during the tenure of the Umbridge bitch, and back then, it had cost the Headmaster more than two hundred Galleons to buy a bottle of the stuff. Surely, the price had only gone up in two years?
Managing a bland tone, he replied, ‘I have simpler tastes. The same expenditure on your part, when Gryffindor loses, will procure for me a case of Ogden’s Very Rare.’
McGonagall offered her hand. ‘Oh, I would even throw in a crystal decanter, Severus – but you won’t win, of course.’
Severus accepted her handshake to seal the bargain, struck by the difference in the feel of the old woman’s skin, as compared to Hermione’s ….
He released McGonagall’s dry, gnarled hand and turned, almost against his will, to seek out the girl. She sat alone, her nose buried in a textbook. Ever since her two so-called friends had learnt of her curse and of how Severus helped her deal with it, her friendship with the Dunderheaded Duo had become visibly strained. Over time, she had come to forgive Weasley for the things he had done and said to her, but she would likely never trust him as she once had done. Potter had stood staunchly by her side, but their friendship had been irrevocably changed by Hermione’s curse – and her resulting association with Severus.
Wrenching his eyes from her solitary figure, he began to shovel the cooled, sludge-like porridge into his mouth. He well knew how poor nutrition further exacerbated his temper, which needed no additional challenges. With the use of judicious wanking, he had managed to withhold his climax from her in rather more than fifty percent of their encounters in the six days past. He no longer scrupled to leave her gasping from her own orgasm and to lock himself in his bathroom to achieve release by his own hand. She had very nearly ceased to pepper him with questions and pleas to know how she had transgressed; he had long since decided it was better to ignore her than to reason with her.
An excited murmur from the students drew his eyes again to the four long tables below, and he was perplexed to see Potter and Weasley enter the Great Hall in the company of a vaguely familiar looking young man. The students were craning their necks to look at the visitor, and some were pointing the newcomer out to their friends. Turning to McGonagall, he said, ‘Who is that?’
McGonagall turned aside from her conversation with Flitwick, following the jerk of Severus’ head.
‘Oh, excellent,’ she said, standing and straightening her hat. ‘That’s who’s covering Rolanda Hooch’s lessons whilst she attends a family wedding.’
McGonagall hurried down, apparently to greet the temporary flying instructor, but before she reached him, a peculiar thing happened: Hermione’s head turned, as if in response to her spoken name, and in the next moment, she had flung herself into the eager arms of the black-haired, hook-nosed man.
‘Bugger!’ Severus swore under his breath as the identity of the young man dawned on him.
Viktor Krum had returned to Hogwarts – just in time to coach Gryffindor in their Quidditch match against Slytherin. For although Krum had made friends in Slytherin when he was in residence at Hogwarts, Severus had no illusions as to which team Krum would favour with his training tips: Krum and Potter had been as thick as thieves ever since competing against one another in the Triwizard Tournament.
And Minerva had been careful to inveigle him into a wager on the match before he was aware of the arrival of the International Quidditch star – how very Slytherin of her!
But what was far more disconcerting was this: Krum was an alumnus of Durmstrang Institute, where the Dark Arts, not just defence against them, were taught to the students from the tender age of eleven years. Krum would unerringly note the change the Nexus had wrought in Hermione – and by the glowing look the Bulgarian was bestowing on the girl, he would do all in his power to ensnare her.
Bloody fucking shite.