The Love You Take

A/N: This chapter was beta read by DeeMichelle and Brit-picked by MagicAlly. As usual, Shug alpha-read.





The Love You Take



Chapter 19: Recognition





Spring warmed the air, and the old snow melted from the mountainsides as the Easter holiday approached. Hermione was happy for the coming period of time when she could focus on revising for her N.E.W.T.s—but she wasn’t terribly happy about her destination.



‘But why do we have to go to Prince House?’ she asked.



Her professor flicked his eyes over her, then directed his attention back to his marking. ‘Are you under the impression that repeatedly asking the same question will produce a different answer?’



She glared at him without speaking, and he smirked.



‘You are obviously accustomed to dealing with weak-minded dunderheads—unlike me.’



The all but imperceptible emphasis on the last word drew her eye to his face, and she felt the familiar sensation of the curse quickening her blood. It seemed that the longer she loved him, the more often he triggered the compulsion. Her tongue darted out to moisten her suddenly dry lips, and it was obvious to her from the abrupt sharpening of his gaze that he had noticed. He lay down his quill and relaxed infinitesimally into his chair as he awaited her next action. He was not above initiating intimacy between them, but he seemed to particularly relish her precipitate pouncing, when the urge came upon her with little warning. Her new familiarity with his past interactions with women explained this to her—he had spent a good deal of his life believing he was undesirable. She proved to him, over and over again, that this was incorrect.



Now, if she could only convince him of the truth of her attraction, aside from the Eternus Perturbatio Curse.



Hermione rose from the sofa before the fire and walked to him, brown eyes locked to black, her heart rate increasing with the slick ache between her thighs. Stopping before the desk, she tugged her jumper over her head and let it fall, revealing her braless state. Her tongue laved her lips again, and she was aware of the division of his attention, his eyes moving from her tongue to her breasts and back again.



‘Please,’ she said, her fingers plucking at her tight nipples.



‘What do you want?’ he asked her quietly. It was Friday night, and they had time for such niceties.



She came around his desk. ‘Suck me,’ she said, her own words causing a profoundly pleasurable sensation deep inside of her.



Wordlessly, he pushed his chair away from the desk, providing an empty lap for her. With hands now fumbling with urgency, she unfastened her jeans and stepped out of them and her knickers, straddling his thighs wearing nothing but her socks. He apparently found no objection to his mode of dress, for he tugged her head down to his and kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth and suckling it as his hands covered her breasts, encompassing them and gently squeezing.



Hermione slid further forward, bringing her wet quim into contact with the bulge in the front of his black trousers, her moan echoing in the room as he released her lips and guided her breasts to his mouth.



‘Yessss,’ she hissed, feeling his teeth with the lightest of pressure against the tender skin of her areole. He sucked hard, flooding synapses with wondrous sensations. She arched her back, offering her breasts more fully, and gripped his hips more firmly with her thighs, grinding herself against him.



When he had her emitting whimpering pleas for more, he deserted her breasts to press kisses to her throat. ‘Up on the desk,’ he purred into her ear.



Hermione scrambled ungracefully from his lap, and his steadying hands at her waist saved her from an ignominious tumble onto the floor, her knees as wobbly as a new fawn’s in her advanced state of excitement. Secure again on her feet, she backed up to the desk and hopped up on the blotter. He remained where he was for a moment, his lazy gaze taking in her hair, with tendrils escaping the thick plait down her back, her pleading eyes, her parted thighs, and the fragrance emanating from her.



‘Sit back,’ he instructed, and she obeyed, scooting her bottom to the middle of the desk and placing the flats of her feet on the desktop as well, leaning back to support herself on her hands, braced behind her. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured, and Hermione quivered with the visceral reaction of her body to that particular tone of his voice.



Now, he moved his chair forward again, as if he were going to resume his marking—but her quim was before him, sloppy-wet and redolent. His murmured incantation caused the desk height to adjust, until the edge was at his shoulder level; he had but to lower his head …



He raised his hands and applied pressure to her inner thighs; she splayed them wider, displaying herself even more lewdly than before. Further murmured words of praise wrung a moan from her, and his eyes flicked up to her face once before he lowered his mouth, his long fingers spreading her labia as if she were a melon to be opened and devoured.



The first touch was the tip of his tongue, beginning at her perineum and lapping up and up, completing the tortuously slow trip with a gentle lipping of her clitoris. ‘So sweet,’ he purred, and Hermione fell back onto her elbows with a groan, straining to press herself more insistently into his face.



‘Suck me,’ she begged, almost a whisper, and laid back on the desktop, uncaring of the way the desk edge dug into the back of her neck as her head dangled over the side. It didn’t matter—nothing mattered, save the insistent tug of suction upon her quim, the fingers which plumbed her depths, curving, reaching for and finding that spot which produced the most guttural of cries from her. He growled in response, redoubling his efforts as she slid from one blinding peak to the next, never quite coming down, her body now a vessel for the river of molten passion, burning away all else. Her eyes closed; she was aware only of the golden white lights generated by the twin stimuli of his fingertips upon her vaginal wall and his lips and tongue, warm and suckling—until at last her body convulsed at the zenith, and she was airborne, free of gravity, soaring.



She came to herself again when he lifted her limp form from the desktop and carried her into the bedroom, where a non-verbal spell drew back the counterpane, and she was placed upon crisp, fresh-smelling sheets. She entangled one fist in his hair and forced her eyes open to see the glittering jet of his gaze. ‘Come to bed,’ she murmured. ‘Fuck me.’



‘Oh, I shall,’ he promised, releasing her and straightening to shed his clothing, letting it drop to the floor, as he seldom did—except when his need overcame his fastidiousness.



She stretched, knowing how he enjoyed seeing her body with muscles taut, nipples rigid, and quim receptively slick. She flicked her fingers and the candles in the wall brackets sprang to life, illuminating his body for her visual delectation. The breadth of his shoulders, tapering along the too-thin lines of his torso to his narrow hips never failed to excite her. He could—and would, if she had anything to say about it—stand to gain some weight, but the defiant erection he sported spoke nothing of ill-health or fragility. She hungered for him, for him alone, and the smirk upon his face said he knew it very well. How had she ever imagined the muscle-bound physique of Viktor Krum was superior to the lean grace of her own personal panther?



She received him eagerly between her thighs; she reached to guide him into her body but he tauntingly caught her hands and thrust them over her head as he stretched out atop her. She had to settle for wrapping her legs about his hips and straining up to kiss his sneering lips; as his tongue slipped into her mouth, his hardness filled her softness, and she sighed into his mouth, longing to speak again the words he had no desire to hear.



I love you, she thought, watching his face, his eyes closed, nostrils flared, lips slightly parted as he pounded into her. She watched him until the repeated exquisite friction of his gloriously formed male parts and her eminently receptive female ones claimed her undivided attention. She cried out as she crested again, inarticulate sounds of unspeakable pleasure, and she was aware of the change in his breathing which indicated the approach of his own climax. Still vibrating with the aftershocks of her orgasm, she opened her eyes to bear witness as he visibly shattered, losing himself for a priceless moment in her.



I love you, she thought again, mouthing the words to his tightly closed eyes.



His movements slowed, the spasms of his pleasure passing, leaving in their wake what peace he seemed to derive from the act of intercourse. ‘Hermione,’ he murmured, slipping to his pillow at her side and pulling her against him, holding her as if he would not let go.



‘I love you,’ she whispered, but there was no sign he heard.

---

Standing before the looking glass in her bedroom at Prince House, Hermione was thankful for the gently nagging, reassuring presence of Scampy, the house-elf. She had heard the arrival of the Tiberius Prince family scarcely an hour before, and she had opened the door to her bedroom just long enough to ascertain, by the sound of her very annoying voice, that Morgen Singer had accompanied her sister’s family on their Easter holiday.



‘Where is Miss Hermione’s party dress?’ Scampy enquired, looking askance at the meagre selection of clothing hanging in the wardrobe.



Hermione shrugged out of her dressing gown, revealing the simple but pretty white matching undergarments she wore, and sat down before the dressing table. ‘Scampy, would you please Transfigure something for me to wear? And arrange my hair?’



Scampy snapped her long fingers and the plain black satin robes transformed into an elegant white strapless sheathe. ‘Scampy knows her business, Miss,’ the house-elf replied repressively, now frowning over Hermione’s sensible low-heeled black dress shoes. ‘Scampy will make Miss much prettier than Miss Morgen.’



Hermione was startled into laughter. ‘What did you say?’



Scampy snapped her fingers again and elegant silvery-white sandals replaced the mundane black, complete with four-inch heels and sexy ankle straps. The house-elf placed the shoes reverently on the floor and turned to Hermione, levitating herself and beginning to brush through Hermione’s unruly brown hair.



‘Miss Morgen has been coming to this house for years and hurting Master Severus,’ Scampy said, a fierce scowl upon her round face. ‘First she’s too good for him, then she has to have him, then she’s going to marry him, then she married that Bad Man.’ Scampy glanced nervously over her shoulder and shuddered. ‘The Bad Man was very bad to house-elves, Miss. And when she was married to him, Miss Morgen was no better.’



Hermione listened and watched clever elf fingers smoothing and twirling her hair until it was piled artfully upon her head, secured by elf magic, rather than by hair pins.



‘Scampy knows Miss Hermione loves Master Severus and will be a good girl for him to love,’ Scampy added, motioning for Hermione to stand and magicking the white sheathe carefully over her head without touching the fancy hair-do.



Hermione stood still as Scampy worked the back zip on the dress. ‘You … you know I love him?’ she asked shyly.



Scampy smoothed the linen sheathe over Hermione’s hips and moved in front of her to adjust the empire waist belt, above which the boned bodice, with its flattering sweetheart neckline, hugged her breasts.



‘Scampy has known Miss loves Master Severus since Christmas,’ the house-elf proclaimed, fetching the shoes and placing them before Hermione like an offering at a shrine.



Hermione accepted the help of the elf’s strong steadying arm as she stepped into the shoes, thankful that Scampy placed a charm on the high-heels, permitting Hermione to walk in them without falling. ‘Do you know, Scampy?’ she asked, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. ‘Does Master Severus love me?’



Scampy secured the dainty straps about Hermione’s ankles and stepped back to look her over. ‘Miss is as pretty as a picture,’ she said with great satisfaction.



Hermione turned to the full-length mirror and stared. Why could she never produce the results when she dressed herself that Scampy brought about so handily? The chic dress fit her perfectly, the hem just skimming her knees, the boned bodice emphasizing the gentle curve of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her back, from the shoulder blades up. The shoes were smart and sexy without being sluttish. The four inch heels made her silky bare legs look shapely and showcased her feet, which Scampy had managed to groom to a smooth polish, including barely-there pearlescent lacquer upon her toenails. Her hair was piled in an impossibly complicated up-do, with artful corkscrew wisps emphasizing her delicate throat and her vulnerable nape. Her hand went briefly to her collarbone, wishing she had a necklace to wear.



‘A Revealing Spell will show the Nexus, Miss,’ Scampy said.



Hermione turned shocked eyes to her. ‘Isn’t that rather bold?’ she said uncertainly.



Scampy shrugged, her fierce expression still in place. ‘My Mistress gave Miss the chain to wear it, didn’t she?’ Scampy glanced nervously about the room again. ‘Showing the Nexus will help everyone remember who you are, Miss,’ she said significantly.



Hermione understood the small creature clearly: Openly showing the Nexus would remind Morgen of who shared Severus’ bed. Briefly, she wondered if Morgen had done something to make Scampy angry with her, other than slighting Scampy’s beloved Master Severus.



She fetched her wand and tucked it securely in its sheath, giving Scampy a small smile. ‘I’ll think about it, Scampy,’ she murmured. She seated herself again upon the dressing table bench, more on level with the tiny creature. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Scampy,’ she said. ‘Does Master Severus love me?’



Scampy’s tennis-ball sized eyes narrowed and her lips pursed tightly. ‘Master Severus does not know, Miss—but he needs to find out.’ Scampy nodded once to emphasize her point.



‘Right,’ Hermione said, standing and looking one last time to make sure all was as it should be. Then she took a deep breath and went downstairs to dinner.

---

The only concession to the Easter holiday to be found in the drawing room was a huge bank of hot-house Easter lilies, each in their own foil-wrapped pots and artfully arranged in a corner. Otherwise, the room was a bit dark and drear, less enlivened by the presence of the three Prince brothers than one might have expected. The young men were sitting together at a games table across the room, engaged in what appeared to be a game of Exploding Snap.



‘Good evening, Hermione,’ Madam Prince said, her strong voice belying the fragility of her appearance as she sat in her high-backed chair.



Hermione came forward to take the frail, veined hand and made the tiniest of curtsies. ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ she replied politely.



The keen blue eyes of her hostess surveyed her minutely from her toes to the crown of her coiffeur, and the old lady nodded appreciatively. ‘You’ve grown since Christmas,’ she pronounced.



Hermione flushed. Grown? That was ridiculous! She was eighteen years old; she’d done with growing ages ago!



The aged witch chuckled, as if she could read Hermione’s thoughts. ‘Not in stature, perhaps,’ she allowed, ‘but you have matured—it sits well upon you.’



Hermione blinked as the stately old woman inclined her silvered head in a regal salute. Good heavens! Would she ever understand the professor’s grandmother? The old harridan went from scary to kind and back again without drawing breath.



‘Thank you,’ she said, clueless as to a more appropriate response. She glanced about the room, but other than the boys, they were alone.



‘The others went for a stroll in the garden,’ Madam Prince informed her. ‘Eileen always has to have her “alone time” with Severus, or she feels ill-used.’ She sneered, her expression no doubt the genesis of the one Hermione had come to love in the professor. Now the old woman raised her voice. ‘Boys! Say hello to Hermione!’



The Prince brothers rose to their feet upon their grandmother’s command, coming forward with varying degrees of gladness to greet her.



‘Hermione!’ John said, taking her outstretched hands and looking her up and down in frank admiration. ‘You look smashing!’



Paul, who had truly grown since Christmas, nudged his brother aside and carried Hermione’s hand to his lips. ‘We meet again,’ he said, giving her a saucy wink.



Hermione laughed, cheered by the stunningly ordinary behaviour of Severus’ cousins. Thirteen-year-old George flushed beet red when Hermione turned to shake his hand, but she spoke to him so sensibly about his classes at Durmstrang that he quickly got over his embarrassment.



She was immersed in playful conversation with the Prince boys when the others came in from their stroll in garden. Hermione turned politely to greet them, shaking hands in turn with Tiberius and Ava Prince, the boys’ parents, and receiving an unnervingly kind greeting from Eileen Snape, whose cheeks were so pink from the chilly air that she looked better than Hermione had ever seen her.



Her duties as a good guest discharged, she became aware of eyes upon her, and she turned to face her professor, who lounged with one shoulder upon the mantelpiece, sipping at a glass of liquor and watching her. Forcing herself to swallow, Hermione walked over to him, stopping only a foot away from him, wanting very much to slip her arm through his and rub her cheek against the velvety black of his dress robes.



As if reading her intent, he said quietly, ‘Mind where you are, Miss Granger.’



Hermione hesitated. She had rather forgotten she was in his grandmother’s drawing room. Nevertheless, she eased one step closer, feeling quite confident in her very grown-up clothing. ‘You said yourself that the whole family knows about us—why do we have to pretend in front of them?’ Her heart sped up as she said the words; what would it be like to be seen in a group of people with this man, acknowledged as his woman—to have him acknowledged as her man? The very notion was intoxicating.



The pure ice in his voice froze her in her tracks. ‘Have you lost what little sense you possess?’ he demanded softly but lethally, his tone flaying her like a whip. ‘You will behave with decorum in my grandmother’s home, or I will see to it that you don’t leave your room for the rest of our stay!’



Hermione turned her face away to hide her sudden tears, feeling herself pale with mortification. Dear Merlin, but the man could be the veriest bastard!



As if sensing some bit of what was transpiring between them, John approached her, nodding tersely to his cousin before speaking. ‘Come have some Butterbeer, Hermione—or we have mulled mead! I know you don’t want any of that Firewhisky my cousin drinks.’ He accompanied this pronouncement with a genuinely sweet smile.



Hermione thankfully took his proffered hand, feeling pathetically grateful for the easy way to save face. ‘Thanks—I’d love some.’ Without glancing at her professor, she followed John to the drinks tray, where he poured a glass of mulled mead for her.



‘I don’t care if you are his,’ John said, his voice for her ears alone, his dark eyes warm with concern. ‘He has no business speaking to you in that tone.’



Hermione sighed. ‘Did you … could you hear what he said?’



John shook his head. ‘No, but it was clear he was telling you off.’



Hermione gave him a rueful smile. ‘You’re a terribly nice boy, John. You’re going to make some witch very happy.’



He grinned back at her. ‘I have to tell you about Elspeth!’ he enthused, and Hermione was glad of the diversion from her embarrassment to his exciting new relationship with a young witch from the French Ministry’s Department of International Magical Cooperation.



Ava Prince and Eileen sat together near Madam Prince, speaking quietly, whilst Tiberius Prince spoke with his nephew. Hermione listened as John chattered happily, feeling herself calming under his pleasant influence. She was so involved with him that she failed to notice the sudden silence of the others in the room, until its cause spoke to her.



‘Look at you, all in white!’



Hermione turned slowly, checking to make sure her wand was in its ornamental sheath at her waist. Morgen Singer stood in the doorway, drawing the eyes of the other adults, her manicured hands placed at her hips, managing to pull her tightly-fitting emerald gown even more tautly, emphasizing her small waist and slim hips. Her almond-shaped eyes reflected the colour of her dress, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders in burnished waves of copper. With her height and her manner of pure-blood superciliousness, she might have been a goddess descended in their midst.



Hermione felt like a candle burning valiantly to outshine the sun.



Morgen looked her up and down dismissively. ‘White dress, white shoes … you look quite bridal, my dear.’



Hermione could feel the eyes of Professor Snape upon her, and although she still felt the sting of his rebuke, she knew with a certainty that he was hers. Even if she could not lay claim to him in the presence of his family, for the duration of the compulsion curse, they belonged to one another, and nothing Morgen Singer said or did—no matter how many times she tried to humiliate Hermione before other people—would make Severus want her, ever again. She had been good for a tumble, but he would never trust her again with his heart.



Buoying herself with this knowledge, Hermione lifted her chin and said in a light tone, ‘Bridal? Me?’ She managed a creditable laugh; not silvery, as Morgen’s was, but young and carefree, as Morgen would never be again. ‘No, I’m not thinking of marriage—I’m too young, really—and I will take my time to be sure, before I become engaged. It would be a terrible shame if I changed my mind in the middle of it all and decided to marry someone else, wouldn’t it?’



She heard Eileen and Ava gasp at this jab, but it was the ghost of a chuckle from her professor which encouraged her to go for broke.



‘Just think of the disgrace, if I were to become engaged to one man and then marry another!’ She looked into the blazing fury of Morgen’s face with mock chagrin. ‘I would never be able to hold my head up amongst decent people again if I were to behave like that.’ She delivered a shining smile to the dangerously angry witch in the doorway, and with magic surging in her like waves at high tide, she cast a non-verbal Revealing Spell, and touched her throat. At the touch, the Nexus was visible, its delicate silver chain suspending the powerfully magical object just above the valley between her breasts. Even George was aware of the forceful pulse which rolled from Hermione, and the room as a whole held its breath to see how the two witches would resolve the contention between them.



Hermione stood straighter, wearing the emblem of her womanhood, the ancient enchanted Nexus given to her by her professor. He had been forced to take her virginity, and this had been the highest honour he could conceive of bestowing upon her. It was not a badge of shame, but one of honour, and she would wear it openly and proudly and let the chips—or bitches—fall where they may.



With one finger tracing the wrought silver Nexus, she said, ‘So, no—I’ve no plans to marry … at present.’



Morgen moved precipitately into the room, walking over to the sardonically smirking Severus Snape, who still lounged against the mantelpiece. Tiberius Prince stood there, as well, and at Morgen’s approach, he stepped back into the shadows, as if to put himself out of range. Ignoring her brother-in-law’s retreat, Morgen stopped in front of Professor Snape, her breasts rising and falling magnificently with each agitated breath she drew.



‘Are you going to stand there and permit that insolent little Mu—’



‘Aunt Morgen!’ John said warningly, his voice stopping her cold. ‘Remember where you are!’



Morgen gave no indication that she had heard John. ‘Do you mean to allow your student to speak to me in that way?’ she said to the impassive wizard, her tone between insistence and entreaty.



‘Excuse me, Morgen,’ Professor Snape said silkily, ‘but I’m afraid that I do not follow your reasoning. You rather impolitely compared Miss Granger’s very attractive ensemble to that of a bride, and instead of demanding what business it is of yours how she dresses, she explained to you precisely in what way you were wrong.’ He drank the remainder of the Firewhisky in his glass and set it on the mantle before turning from her indifferently. ‘Uncle, did you say the Potions master at Durmstrang is retiring at the end of summer term?’



Tiberius Prince cleared his throat nervously. ‘Yes, Severus, I did say that,’ he admitted, darting looks to his sister-in-law, who stood staring at Severus as if he had grown another head.



Hermione dug her nails into her palms, forcing herself to remember where she was, for she wanted nothing so much as to disregard every Prince in the room save her own dear love and to throw her arms around him and thank him for standing up for her. She felt as if she had just passed all of her N.E.W.T.s with Outstanding in each subject.



A squeaky voice spoke from the doorway into the dining room. ‘Dinner is served, Mistress,’ Scampy said.



Madam Prince stood, leaning upon her cane. ‘Paul, please escort your mother in to dinner,’ she said with calm authority. ‘John, you may escort your Aunt Eileen.’ The two older boys moved with their charges into the dining room as their grandmother extended her hand to her youngest grandson. ‘Come along, George; you can walk your old grandmother in to supper.’ As she waited for George to reach her side, she glanced over at the end of the room where stood her son, her eldest grandson, Morgen, and Hermione. ‘I’ll leave the rest of the grown ups to sort themselves out,’ she said, her words a warning, and she allowed George to guide her out of the drawing room.



Hermione bit her lip, waiting with a wildly beating heart to see what would happen next. Would her professor pour oil upon the troubled waters and offer his arm to Morgen?



Doing his part to preserve the peace, Tiberius Prince moved toward Hermione with a charming smile. ‘Come, Miss Granger—allow me to escort you to supper.’



Swallowing her disappointment, Hermione nodded to Tiberius Prince, and Morgen moved toward the professor, a victorious light in her eyes.



‘Excuse me, Uncle,’ Professor Snape said smoothly. ‘I’ll escort Miss Granger to supper.’



Hermione’s heart turned over in her chest and her tummy swooped as if she had missed a step walking down the staircase. He reached her side and offered his arm with a purely enigmatic expression, and she smiled up at him with all her roiling emotion in her eyes.



Placing his hand proprietarily over hers as it rested in the crook of his elbow, Professor Snape began to lead her across the room, murmuring sotto voce, ‘If you go about looking at me like that, we will have no secret at all.’



Their passage through the room was halted by a screech.



‘Don’t touch me!’



Hermione and her professor turned to see Tiberius Prince backing away from Morgen, his hands lifted, palms facing outward. ‘Come and have your supper, Morgen,’ he said coaxingly.



Rather than responding to him, Morgen looked across the room, raising her hand as if she would cast a spell at Hermione and Professor Snape. The professor swiftly propelled Hermione behind him. ‘Don’t even think of it, Morgen,’ he said coldly.



The red-haired witch answered shrilly, her eyes wild. ‘I warned you!’ she shrieked. ‘Just don’t try to say I didn’t tell you it would come to this!’



Ava Prince appeared in the far doorway. ‘Morgen!’ she scolded, very much the big sister. ‘Stop this at once!’



Morgen turned angrily on her sister. ‘Shut up, you stupid cow!’



Ava’s cry of outrage was drowned out by the professor’s thundering voice. ‘You’re raving, Morgen. Go to your room and calm yourself. I’ll send a house-elf with a Calming Draught.’



‘I’m not staying here to watch you cuddle and coo with your child whore!’ she screamed, and she Disapparated in a flash of violet light.



Tiberius Prince quickly crossed the room to embrace his wife, who was crying softly into her hands. Holding her close by his side, Tiberius began to walk her slowly to the entrance hall. As they passed Hermione and Professor Snape, the older wizard said, ‘Would you send up the Calming Draught for Ava please, Severus?’



‘Of course,’ the professor responded, pulling Hermione toward the dining room. ‘Scampy will bring it up directly.’



The professor seated Hermione in the chair usually occupied by Morgen and excused himself to speak with Scampy. Hermione unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap, aware that all eyes were on her. She picked up her water goblet and drank.



‘I apologize that you were spoken to that way in my home, Hermione,’ Madam Prince said, her tone grave. ‘I would not have had it happen for the world.’



Hermione looked up into the startling blue eyes and read there her hostess’s sincerity. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she replied graciously, ‘but I really don’t see that it was your fault at all.’



Madam Prince smiled at her. ‘Perhaps not, but we, as a family, have tolerated Morgen’s childishness for far too long. She will not be invited back again any time soon.’



Professor Snape entered again, taking his place beside Hermione.



‘Do you agree, Severus?’ his grandmother said.



The professor picked up his goblet, swallowing water before he said, ‘Agree with what, ma’am?’



‘That Morgen will not be invited back for our next holiday gathering,’ the old lady replied, watching his face closely.



‘Good God yes, Grandmother,’ he replied, motioning for the house-elf to serve the soup. ‘I’ve said so many times these past few years.’



Madam Prince’s gaze flicked from Hermione to Severus. ‘So you have,’ she agreed evenly, allowing the house-elf to ladle soup into her bowl.

---

Professor Snape indulged his grandmother with a game of chess after supper, and Hermione played Exploding Snap with the boys until the tremors of need forced her to lay down her cards.



‘I’m too sleepy to play one more game,’ she proclaimed with as much gaiety as she could manage. ‘I will see you all tomorrow!’



She accepted the good-night wishes of the other occupants of the room and escaped upstairs before she disgraced herself, hoping that her professor would be close behind her.



She had scarcely closed the bedroom door behind her before Scampy appeared.



‘Miss did it!’ the house-elf cried with great excitement. ‘Miss showed the Nexus, and Miss Morgen went away!’



Hermione took a firm hold of the nearest post of the four-poster bed and tried to force herself to concentrate on what the house-elf was saying rather than on the throbbing in her quim.



Scampy came forward. ‘And Master Severus knows, now,’ Scampy added, still very excited.



The bedroom door opened again, and Professor Snape stood there, frowning down at the house-elf. ‘Master Severus knows what, Scampy?’ he asked, closing the door.



Scampy bobbed a curtsey. ‘Scampy will come back later!’ she squeaked and popped out of the room.



As soon as she was gone, Hermione wriggled out of her knickers and faced the professor, her hands upon her hips.



‘Shoes on or off?’ she demanded tersely.



He advanced upon her, unfastening his robes as he came. ‘On.’

---

Calmed and languorous, Hermione lolled against his naked chest and kissed his throat.



‘Thank you,’ she said, truly sleepy now.



‘For what?’ he said, sounding as sleepy as she felt.



‘For standing up for me,’ she said dreamily. ‘For choosing me.’



He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. ‘It was nothing.’



She pushed herself up so that she loomed over him. ‘It was something to me,’ she said firmly. ‘It was brilliant.’



He evaded her eyes and shifted to his side, away from her. With a flick of his wrist, the candles were extinguished. ‘It was the right thing to do,’ he said to the wallpaper.



Lying down again, Hermione curled up against his back, kissing his shoulder blade. ‘I love you,’ she said, beginning to drift to sleep.

---

When the ruckus began, they had been sleeping and were startled awake. Identifying the pounding as someone knocking on the bedroom door, Hermione lit the candles, her heart racing from being so rudely awakened. She pulled the bodice of her dress back up into place, magicking the zip up as she stumbled to the door, half her attention on her professor, who had awakened with a hiss, clutching his Dark Mark, and was now dressing himself with grim efficiency.



Hermione flung the door open and was too off balance to do aught but fall back as Morgen pushed her into the room and followed her in.



Professor Snape never slowed his methodical buttoning of his robes; he only stared at Morgen as he did it. ‘What have you done?’ he asked flatly.



Morgen did not answer his question but walked right up to him and thrust an envelope into his face.



‘From the Dark Lord,’ she said triumphantly, her eyes alight with a mad glee.



Hermione moved past the other witch, her mind in turmoil, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening. ‘What is it?’ she asked quietly.



Her professor crushed the parchment in his fist, staring at Hermione, but clearly not seeing her.



‘Is he summoning you? Why would he summon you and send a letter, too?’ Hermione asked, ignoring the insane chuckles emanating from Morgen.



Professor Snape blinked once, his long, thin face leeched of all colour, taking him from sallow to pasty. When he blinked, his eyes focussed again on her face. ‘To tell me to bring you, too,’ he said hollowly.



Hermione shook her head; nothing was making sense. ‘To tell you what?’



His hands closed about her shoulders. ‘To bring you,’ he said again. ‘You’re coming with me to see the Dark Lord.’



Hermione saw the truth of the words in the endless black tunnels of his eyes, and she swayed on her feet, the only sound in her ears Morgen’s maniacal laughter.