Soul Searching

Soul Searching Soul Searching By Quillusion   A/N: OK, pay attention. (cueing up a tune from Sesame Street): "One of these things is not like the others…   Something about this chapter is just a little bit different. ;-)   Chapter 18   I'm exhausted. Which isn't to say I didn't sleep well. Last night- or, more precisely, this morning- was the first night in over a week with no nightmares. I've just reached the end of my endurance. This is not the sort of exhaustion that comes from staying up too late too many nights in a row, and not the sort you get from playing Quidditch to the point of idiocy. This is the sort of fatigue that comes from too much stress, too little rest, and no end in sight.   But it seems I'm forgetting something.   There is an end in sight. A decisive end, if all goes well. I don't want to think about things not going well. Last night almost went as not well as things could have, and I couldn't turn the thought out of my mind until I finally fell asleep. I refuse to think about it any more. There's something more pleasant tugging at the back of my mind, something else that begs to be remembered and savored.   Ah yes… the dream.   I dreamt about her last night.   I've dreamt about her before. Every time, it has been those dreams that have kept away the nightmares, that have given me the one night of restful sleep that stops me from going over the edge with fatigue. It would seem that, in sleep as in waking life, Hermione Granger is destined to be my guardian angel.   I never thought an angel would be sent to watch over a gargoyle.   Contemplating the improbability of that last thought, I stretch cautiously, mindful of the less than pleasant experiences of the previous night- but, to my relief, I feel no residual bruising or stiffness. In fact, I can't remember the last time I felt this comfortable. Fatigue aside, I feel quite well. What an unusual way for me to start a day.   I roll to my back and blink a bit, clearing the sleep from my eyes and waiting as they adjust to the light. A glance at the small clock on the nightstand tells me it's only 8:30, and I sigh; I've never routinely been allowed to sleep late, even on weekends, and this is as late as I can manage, even when permitted. Pity. I don't have to be out at the gates of the school until quarter to noon, and Circe knows I could use the rest. But a lifetime of experience has taught me there's no use in trying. I just can't sleep in daylight, and there's enough of that filtering through my window to let me know it's sunny out.   I shiver, and belatedly realize that I've kicked off almost all the covers. There's nothing over me but the sheet, and I sleepily reach down for the comforter and drag it upward.   That's when I notice the- er- aftereffects from The Dream, and it all floods back into my brain with the immediacy only an erotic dream seems to have.   Oh….   I find it eminently reassuring to know I've got my usual morning erection; after Lucius Malfoy's display of tactical aim yesterday, I was worried that something might have been damaged beyond repair. Merlin knows it felt like it for a good long while. I can't help smiling at that- what a basic male instinct it is, to worry about one's equipment even as the small matter of a violent death hangs over one's head in a very real and immediate fashion. At least it took my mind off said violent death, for a while, anyway. I was nearly paralyzed with pain when I finally came round last night, and that's despite what I know Hermione did for me with the Cleve Potion.   I consider that for a moment. It didn't take me long after Ronald Weasley's donation of soul to work out the necessity of the donor caring for the recipient. What I don't know is how deep that caring has to go, or whether the power of the potion varies with the strength of the emotion. Given what that potion had to do to pull me back from the brink, I'd say it was the strongest batch yet. I owe Hermione my life- and for the first time, I don't resent the burden of a life debt. More so because I owe it to her.   Which brings me back to the subject of Miss Hermione Granger: researcher extraordinaire, former Head Girl, savior, know-it-all, and- dare I hope- friend? She was far nicer to me last night than any casual acquaintance could have been expected to be, and given what I suspect about the Cleve Potion, it might even be possible that she cares about me in more than a hypothetical way. I amend that thought instantly- my continued existence is proof that she cares. She did more than just the basics; as she went over me inch by inch, I felt her scrutiny, and I was far more alert than she might have realized- she seemed to remember every injury they handed me from my memories in the Pensieve. Her memory is good, but I'd be hard pressed to recall that much unless I had a vested interest in what was going on. No, she healed everything she could find and a good number of things she had to know were there without visible proof. For which gift, much thanks. I'm so careful of what I say around her now that I doubt I could have managed to string two words together on the subject of male anatomy without making a fool of myself; like as not my tongue would only have tripped over the foot in my mouth.   And Merlin only knows what would have happened if she'd looked.   I suppose that's what I get for reading that book. I would resent Gerontius Nooke for sending it to me, except for the fact that it's given me the most wonderful moments of the last two years of my life. Save for the last few months, when her presence in my life has been real.   Although perhaps not quite as real as I would like it to be.   I mull over the dream again. I've had erotic dreams before, of course; but the last few months have brought me more than my fair share, and they've been more intense than any I've had in the past. Last night, the best dream yet gave me Hermione Granger, wearing a green velvet dress slit up to you-know-where, dancing in my lap until I thought I was going to come without ever touching her. I couldn't bear the thought, so I reached for her- and she let me. She actually let me kiss her.   I've wanted to kiss her for years. I wanted it long before it would have been acceptable; she has no idea that I spent the entirety of her seventh year Potions final staring covertly at her lips, forcing myself to sit still and leave bad enough alone. After the intoxication of brewing the Cleve Potion with her- of smelling her perfume in my lab for days afterward- the incredible rush of forcibly ignored arousal when I held her close to use the Time Turner- I could not have done otherwise. I've relived that night when I held her against my chest, my arm circling her body a scant hairsbreadth below those marvelous breasts; I've fantasized, dreamt, wished.   And that was all before she left school. It grew exponentially more complex once she was at SCAI and we were no longer student and teacher. That afternoon in Diagon Alley was an experience I still don't know how to interpret. We had lunch together, like adults, and talked for hours about things few other people find interesting; it was marvelous. I felt like I'd just found someone to whom I could really relate, who could really understand me- if I were free to be myself. Bittersweet as it was, it was something- to know that, if we ever defeated Voldemort, there might be someone who would be able to see me as I really am. To not let the past cloud their vision.   But that wasn't all. That day, for the first time in my life, I heard her say my given name. I've never much liked my name, but in that soft voice, it sounded right. And for a moment, before that thrice-damned idiot waiter poked his stubby nose in and interrupted, I could have sworn-   I'm probably just imagining things. Merlin knows I've imagined so much else, it's not unlikely. I wouldn't know how it feels to have a woman want to kiss me, and I certainly wouldn't recognize the expression on her face that says she's about to try. I think, if I'd leaned forward and she'd backed away, that I just might have died of mortification. There's nothing more pathetic than an old man leering after a young woman who is visiting with him out of a sense of duty- or worse, pity. That was the only thing that kept me from hexing the waiter with a particularly nasty impotence curse. Surely, if things had looked to him the way they looked to me, he would have realized the timing was bad, and waited a moment to come take our order.   Surely he didn't think she needed to be rescued from me?   Don't go there, I tell myself sternly. No sense in making matters worse. Besides, this was the same waiter who brought a bill to the table next to us when they hadn't even placed their order yet; he might well be a Quaffle short of a Quidditch match.   Buen len leaving that lunch date out, it's still hard to make heads or tails of things. I still wonder what Hermione was after when she got onto me about going to the Burrow. I've never seen her act like that before- coquettish and practical by turns, blinding me with alternating flashes of the adult I know she has long since become- and the child she has not been for years.   That entire conversation took an incredible toll on me; I think, by the end, I would have agreed to anything to get her out of my rooms. I was terrified the entire time that she might crack open The Book- I was an idiot to tell her it was a textbook, as if I didn't know perfectly well that there is no textbook on Earth Hermione Granger will not agree to read cover to cover. I didn't know what she'd say, if she read those stories, or even glimpsed one or two of the more suggestive titles, and worked out that the last book I'd read was one that involved the two of us in rather compromising positions. And after graduation, when she joined the Nooke's of the Month Club, I was nearly overcome with fear- because she now had the one connection that might secure her a copy of her own. Then, because of what it would mean if she were to receive The WIKTT Archives as her first selection- as I did- I began to fear that she would not.   She still hasn't told me what her first book was, and I am certain she's had whatever it is for several weeks by now, if not months. That doesn't tell me much; if she received The WIKTT Archives and was as surprised by it as I was, it may be taking a while to sink in. I couldn't quite bring myself to read it until I'd had it for three months, but then I couldn't put it down. I've been reading it ever since; it's become my reward for finishing an issue of Ars Alchemica.   I stifle a chuckle at the memory of that well-loved green leather book. I'm amazed by those women; Mr. Nooke has said they're in an alternate universe, and I'm sorry to hear it. I could kiss every one of them for opening my eyes to something I would never have known I was missing. These- well, for lack of a better name, I've taken to calling them WIKTTeers- have a gift for the written word, as well as a frightening degree of insight into my personality. Each story shows a different side of me; they seem aware that I'm not always the exact same person, and the fluctuations in their representations of me reflect the fact that I am playing a role, and that who I am and who I seem to be are often at odds.   Which reminds me. They seem to have a certain degree of fascination with another fellow in a similar situation, a fact which seems to make him what I believe the Muggles call an actor.   Lucky man. If he knows what's good for him, he'll listen to their advice, if they ever give him any.   Now I'm hot under the collar again as I recall all the stories I've read in the last three years- not to mention the pictures. If I think the WIKTTeers are far from shy with their exploration of my psyche, they are downright gregarious when it comes to my sex life. I've never been so lucky in my life as these women suggest- although it is amusing to see who pairs me up with Hermione as a virgin, and who invents a mysterious woman in my past to set things up. As fun as it is to see them speculate, it's even more satisfying to know the truth myself, even if it isn't as newsworthy as their stories are. And some of them are impressive. I've seen nearly every possible scenario occur, and while I'll admit the notion of being Not Exactly A Sex God is a little humbling, I'm intrigued by the concept of the Seducing Severus Snape Challenge.   And I won't even start on the subject of the Bachelor Auction. That one held me spellbound for weeks.   I can't help wondering if their assessment of Hermione is as accurate as their reading of me. If it is…. Oh, Circe, if only it was!   Part of me dearly wants Hermione to read the book, just to tell me what she thinks of some of the outrageous plots; farfetched as some of them are, they are still fun to read- mostly because they're so farfetched. Part of me wants to know if she really feels the way the authors suggest she might. I nearly handed the book to her when she sent me off to the Burrow- but there is too much of the spy in me to let her see it. If it's secret, if no one knows about it, I don't have to worry about it, unless Mr. Nooke sent a copy her way. I can't quite commit to the level of personal arrogance required to assume that what she most wants to read is a book of erotic stories about the two of us- I doubt she thinks of me that way- but at the same time, I didn't think of her that way until I got the book.   Perhaps what I most wanted at that time was proof that someone, anyone, could look at me that way. And if Hermione feels that same sense of longing, Mr. Nooke may well have sent her a copy of The WIKTT Archives.   On the other hand, she might not have gotten it at all. I'm not sure which scenario is worse.   I can't tell what to make of the whole matter. But I need to make something of it soon, because time is running out for us. And I'll be damned if I leave Hogwarts again without settling something. What I've read in that book is too tempting, sounds too good, to let go without at least trying for it. For all I know, she could just be waiting for me to make the first move.   Like I did in that dream.   Last night, for a few blissful moments, I dreamt that I pulled Hermione Granger against me and kissed her so thoroughly that she whimpered and melted into my arms. She liked it- she wanted it.   She wanted me. No one else ever has. Not like that.   Always, in past dreams, I've awakened right before the dream got really good. But not last night.   Oh, Hermione. Someday I want to know what she really feels like.   I shift onto my stomach again, ignoring the faint protestations of my cock that I'm ignoring it. I'm too busy enjoying the dream to bother with a trivial matter like masturbation- besides which, the genuine article is still asleep on the couch, and I don't dare risk waking her. Not only would I be mortified if she caught me at it, but I think it might shock her already-overtaxed system to receive such direct and immediate proof that I am, in fact, male. And while I know Miss Granger to possess a far more discerning mind than any of her classmates, I am perfectly aware that for most of her life- if not all- she has thought of me as a professor, and not as a man.   She's not alone. Student opinion writes me off as the greasy git, the snarky Potions master, and I allow it- actually encourage it, in fact. Small wonder if I've convinced Hermione of the truth of it, despite what little bit of my true self she's seen. But now I'm regretting my thoroughness, as my inexperience in matters of the heart makes it so hard for me to undo it. I may not be the most handsome professor on staff, despite being the only faculty member under the age of sixty-five, but that doesn’t make me blind or sexless. If anything, knowing that I am not free to involve myself with a woman- even if one were to be interested in me- has made women all the more fascinating to me. To be precise, it has made one woman intensely interesting to me.   A soft snort from the other room catches my attention, and I go still, listening carefully for sounds of wakefulness. I hear none, and relax, smiling faintly.   Now there's material for a fantasy. Hermione Granger, asleep on a couch before my fireplace, warm and sleepy and hopefully mostly naked- although I know she was wearing most of her clothing, including her robes, when she fell asleep last night. Even I barely bothered to undress; I know I've still got on my trousers, though my shirt is crumpled up on one of the chairs still beside my bed. Unbidden, an image of Hermione wearing my shirt drifts into my mind's eye, and I suck in a deep breath at the vision. Why is it that the sight of the woman he loves wearing one of his shirts is among the most erotic things a man can imagine?   I can admit that now- I love her. I would have denied it viciously, at great length, and with inventive invective up until yesterday. To be honest, until we started this odd but satisfying relationship of sorts, I don't think I really knew what love was- but after what she did for me yesterday, I can't ignore my feelings any longer. I will not return bitterness or indifference in response to such giving. I've loved her for a long time, but never trusted myself- or her- to live up to the expectations of love. Such is the distrusting heart of a cynic who's been burned too many times.   But I underestimated Hermione, and possibly myself as well. Yesterday, she lived up to everything that one can possibly ask of a friend, and gave me even more. As I said, I know perfectly well that she put a little of her life in the potion she gave me, to save mine.   It's probably all I'll ever have of her soul- and it's more than I ever thought to hope for.   I slowly slide back under the covers, my eyes closed, struggling to recall the faint, sensual wisps of dream memory- they're as elusive as the memories I had to put into the Pensieve yesterday to recover. But they are there, and slowly I remember-   Yes.   Oh, yes….   Another soft snort from the direction of the couch, and I freeze again. I'm not doing anything wrong, per se, but if Hermione comes over here right now, she'll get an eyeful. The sheet is tented over my hips, and it would take far more motion than I think is discreet at the moment to disguise the fact.   Silence falls again, and after several very very long moments, I cautiously sit up. The mattress is utterly silent as I do so, and for the first time I actually notice this fact.   That could prove convenient, observes a long-dormant part of my brain in a knowing voice, and I impatiently slap it back into its corner as I slowly move until Hermione is in my field of vision.   She's sitting on the couch, and she's clearly awake.   Oh, my God.   She's more than awake. She's…   And I thought it would shock Hermione to see me doing that.   I have half a mind to go over there and shock her.   But the other half of my mind has better self-preservation instincts. Instead, I stealthily shift myself so that I can watch. I know it's an invasion of privacy, I know it's wrong, but I can't not watch. Besides- I can't go anywhere. I'm trapped. Still, I can admit that that's irrelevant; I wouldn't leave now if it suddenly became possible to Apparate on the grounds of Hogwarts. on on your life.   Not when Hermione Granger is lying on that couch, her head thrown back in abandon, her body arching up as she does what I've longed to do for the last three years.   I watch her, my mouth going dry as I soak up the incredible sight before me. I don't want to look away for fear of missing anything; I know I'm going to store this sight in mmorymory and savor it for the rest of my life. It might be the only chance I get to be this close to the woman I love when she feels this way.   Her eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed, and my heart thumps painfully against my chest as I see that flush spread slowly downward to her neck and chest. Her blouse is loose, and as she twists sweetly under the lash of desire, I can see a peaked nipple press up into the fabric. Her free hand slides up to play with that same nipple, and I almost cry out with longing- I want to be the one to tease her, to taste her and make her whimper with pleasure.   But I stay put, and the delicate hand between her thighs moves a little faster, gently but firmly caressing herself in exactly the way she likes. I pay close attention, wanting to know what she likes, even though I know it's information I will never use. Still- this is a man's erotic ideal, and I'm not fool enough to throw it away.   I can feel my erection straining even harder against my trousers, and I shift a little to accommodate it. If I dared, I'd sit up and follow her example while watching her. But I'm afraid that if I do, she'll see me, and I'll be in a very awkward position indeed- and worst of all, the show will be over, and she might kill me for watching. Better to enjoy what I can. I shift my weight a little, settling myself flat on my stomach, and prop myself up just enough on my elbows to let me watch while retaining the ability to fall flat swiftly and avoid detection.   She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And she's clearly excited; her breathing is coming in soft pants now, shivering between her lips in ragged gusts. Her movements are faintly erratic, and I can tell her orgasm is nearing. I've never wanted to see something so badly in my life; it's been the subject of more fantasies than any other, including my dream last night.   What does Hermione Granger look, sound, and feel like when she comes?   Granted, I won't know how she feels. But I'm too excited at the prospect of learning the other two things to quibble. I can feel my hips shifting, rocking subtly against the mattress as my body wistfully does what it would do if she were here with me, on my bed, instead of on that couch.   Damn couch. Although, come to think of it, there's a certain symmetry in her doing this on that couch- before I transfigured it into a couch, it was the chair I usually sit in to do the same thing.   I want her so much I can taste it.   Her scent is soft in the air, and I can tell she's highly aroused. The sweet musk of her is intoxicating, and I nearly moan aloud with delight at the smell. My hands are shaking as I grip the cool iron of the footboard on my bed, and I can't tear my eyes from the sight before me. My hips circle slightly on the bed against my will, and for an instant I'm grateful for the silence of the springs.an san see her thighs parted, her hips bucking up to meet her touch, and I'm suddenly, intensely jealous; I want to be the one she's straining to meet. I want to be beside her- inside her- to tell her to make as much noise as she wants- the more, the better. I want so many things I cannot have….   Then she's there, her back arching steeply with the force of her orgasm, and she bites her lip to keep the cries to herself. I can hear the faint whimpers of delight, however, and they slither down my spinal cord to lick at my groin with a heat I know I will have to douse later.   But not yet. I savor every moment of her climax and the soft, drifting relaxation after, her eyes still closed as she plays out the rest of her inner fantasy, my heart slowing slightly and ceasing to thunder in my ears.   That's when I hear it.   "Severus…"   And in that moment, I know I can face anything.     A/N: Hope you enjoyed Severus's point of view- he was dying to tell it. Ars Alchemica is not my invention- not sure where it came from, maybe it's canon? Anywway, for those of you who I am sure are wondering, this is not the last of the lemon. Why, there's more in the next chapter!! Which I will post as soon as I can.