The Love You Take

The Love You Take

Chapter 2: The Quagmire


Hermione’s eyelids fluttered, and she awoke with a small scream, struggling to throw herself upright.

‘No! You shan’t take me!’

Even as she uttered the words she realised they were not apropos; she was obviously not in immediate peril. She lay upon a leather sofa in a small but warm room, tightly wrapped in a blanket, which accounted for her inability to move her limbs. There was a fire in the hearth, crackling merrily, and the room was lined with bookshelves which were full to bursting with leather-bound volumes of every size and colour.

As she gazed at the books, she became aware of a growing disquiet in her mind. In the seconds since she had awoken, the vague discomfort had increased to the point that she felt the urge to flee – but she was confined by the blanket and could not work her arms free.

‘You’re awake.’

Hermione wrenched her neck around to find the source of the male voice and was perplexed to see her Potions master approaching. He seated himself in a straight chair by her head and studied her critically. Hermione tried to think of a reason why she would be in a room alone with Professor Snape, but the ever-increasing uneasiness in her mind impeded her reasoning ability.

‘How do you feel?’ Professor Snape asked, his black eyes fixed upon her face.

Hermione felt herself begin to calm somewhat; she had a sudden, unshakeable belief that her professor’s presence was her salvation and that nothing bad could happen to her if she was with him.

‘I’m all right,’ she answered, ‘but I really wish I could sit up.’

He continued to study her face, his own devoid of expression, but the voice in which he spoke was kinder than usual. ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’ he asked.

Hermione thought for a moment. ‘I was out in the greenhouses, working on my Herbology project, and when I was finished, I thought I would stroll down to see Hagrid. I didn’t get there, though – the last thing I remember is walking along the edge of the Forest.’

‘Careless,’ he said, the line between his brows deepening. ‘Why were Potter and Weasley not with you?’

Hermione smiled in spite of the new discomfort she felt, which had migrated, somehow, from her mind to her body. ‘It’s Friday night, sir,’ she said. ‘The boys never study or do homework on Friday nights.’

Her Potions master’s eyes narrowed. ‘You will be more careful from now on, Miss Granger, or you will have me to answer to.’

A distant part of Hermione’s brain informed her that Professor Snape had no business saying such a thing to her, but the predominant part of her mind wanted him to keep talking. She wanted to move closer to him; in fact, her skin felt hyper-sensitised beneath the slightly rough weave of the blanket. She struggled again to move her arms, but was wrapped up so tightly she could not quite manage it.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘could you help me sit up? I can’t seem to get my arms loose.’

Professor Snape made no move to help her, simply continuing his scrutiny of her face. ‘You were taken by the Death Eaters, Miss Granger. The headmaster went to retrieve you from them; it is to him that you owe thanks for your current adornment.’ He glanced with scarcely concealed distaste at the Gryffindor-coloured blanket. ‘My understanding is that beneath the blanket, you are naked. In my bathroom, I have set out some things for you to wear. May I assist you to reach them?’

Hermione nodded, and Professor Snape stood, bending and scooping her into his arms, blanket and all. The moment he touched her, even though the warm woollen blanket was between his hands and her skin, she was horrified to have to repress a little moan. What in the world was wrong with her? Her nipples were erect, stimulated by the movement of the blanket over her flesh, and her lower abdomen ached as if she had been reading from her stash of erotica – or as if she had been pleasuring herself as she sometimes did beneath the sheets of her curtained bed in Gryffindor Tower. She had never felt like this in the presence of another person, and even though she knew she ought to feel shame, her only emotion was a thrill of pure desire.

To her relief, Professor Snape seemed ignorant of her physical state. He carried her to the bathroom, which was already illuminated by numerous candles, and set her on her feet upon the marble-tiled floor.

‘Please feel free to make use of the facilities in any way you wish,’ he said woodenly. ‘You may bathe or shower or you may simply don the clothing on the counter before you join me in the sitting room for tea.’

Hermione was quite sure she had not managed to suppress the whimper which escaped her when the professor took his hands from her, but he still did not seem to have noticed. She felt the urge to push the blanket to the floor and to rub her extremely sensitive skin against the lawn of his white shirt and the wool of his black trousers. Her face flushed crimson at the audacity of her thoughts, but the voice of reason was being swiftly drowned out by the clamouring of her want. Striving to gather her thoughts, she said, ‘Was I – was I raped, sir?’

The faintest glimmer of humanity touched the stern black eyes. ‘No, Miss Granger.’

‘But why am I here instead of my own room?’ She tried to ignore the plaintive note in her voice.

‘Perhaps you could save your questions until you have dressed and joined me for tea?’ He managed to sound both deferential and sardonic at the same time.

Hermione nodded dumbly and watched as the bathroom door closed behind her professor. In her standing position, she was easily able to shrug out of the blanket, and she walked directly into the shower, twisting the taps to turn the spray on full force, hoping to wash away the insane roiling in her blood. All she could think about, with rapidly increasing frequency, was rushing to find Professor Snape and placing his hands upon her body, begging him to touch her.

As she mechanically ran soap over her skin, her hands performing the mindless task of cleansing herself, she was seized with the impulse to assuage the screaming of her nervous system. She abandoned the soap, the fingers of one hand slipping between her thighs, the other hand sliding up her ribcage to pinch her nipples. Within three minutes, she was ready to scream with vexation – no efforts of her own could bring her off, yet she had succeeded in pushing herself to the edge, a point beyond which she could not pass.

She leant against the wall of the shower and cried her annoyance into her hands. After a short time, she hiccupped into silence when she heard Professor Snape’s voice outside the bathroom door.

‘Miss Granger, you will be out in the sitting room in five minutes, or I will be in to fetch you. Is that clear?’

Hermione moaned into her hands – dear God how she wished he would storm through the door and carry her off and – well, do whatever was necessary to make this clamouring stop! Something inside of her said he was her only hope of peace.

Steeling herself as best she could, she called, ‘Yes, Professor,’ and twisted the taps to the off position. She took up one of the Slytherin-green towels and dried herself, wrapping her hair in a towel of its own. She was pleased to see a brand new toothbrush still in its package, which she broke open and used with the accompanying toothpaste to vigorously clean her teeth. How odd that the professor would be so thoughtful about her oral hygiene when his own teeth were such a fright, and when rumour had it that he never cleaned his hair or his teeth.

She turned from the basin and took up the clothing set out on the counter. She found a soft grey nightshirt with buttons half-way down the front, which she pulled over her head, only to have the hem fall to her ankles. There was also a dressing gown of green satin with silver piping, which she pulled on and belted around her; this garment puddled on the floor about her feet in excess length, but she was able to roll the sleeves up enough to permit her hands to peek out. It was rather luxurious and a strange contrast to the nightshirt. Finally, there was a pair of plain thick grey socks, such as one might wear underneath boots in the cold Scottish climate; Hermione donned them gratefully, and still had one foot in the air when the door to the bathroom thudded open and an exasperated-looking Potions master confronted her from the doorway.

‘You’re dressed,’ he said, sounding and looking momentarily embarrassed. Hermione wondered for a wild moment if he had hoped to find her undressed, and her rampant libido flared to life again.

Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded. The professor stepped back from the open door, motioning without a word for her to precede him into the sitting room.

A tea service was set out upon a low table before the sofa, and an intriguing-looking book was resting on the corner of the same table. Hermione felt the unease increasing; she was in Professor Snape’s presence, and there was nothing sufficiently distracting to take her mind off the provoking ache in her lower abdomen and the tingling of her nerve endings.

Distraught, she turned to face him, the two of them standing between the sofa and the coffee table. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me!’ she cried, tugging helplessly at the collar of the nightshirt. ‘I feel so …’ she trailed off in embarrassment, loath to put her feelings into words.

Professor Snape spoke compellingly. ‘I think I may be aware of how you are feeling, Miss Granger – will you sit, please? Let me pour you some tea.’

Hermione stood for a moment, irresolute, wringing her hands to keep from reaching out to grasp her professor’s shirt. She felt so sure that touching him – being touched by him – would assuage the feelings inside of her which seemed to grow more intense with every passing moment. It was only his implacable, ‘Sit, Miss Granger. Now,’ which moved her to obey.

Hermione sat on the edge of the sofa with the feeling of wanting to leap from her skin beating against her mind like a fist on a wooden door. ‘Please, sir,’ she said desperately as Snape seated himself in one of the wing chairs and took up the teapot and a cup, ‘I don’t think I can …’

Snape thrust a steaming cup into her hand. ‘Drink,’ he commanded.

Hermione opened her mouth to object, and the professor barked, ‘Now!’

With a moan of sheer irritation, Hermione complied and took a sip. Almost immediately, she felt infinitesimally better. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, raising huge brown eyes to his face.

‘It is an old-fashioned tisane,’ he replied, ‘blended with the strongest sedative I feel safe giving you.’

Hermione swallowed another mouthful. ‘Will it make me sleep?’ she asked trustingly.

‘No,’ he answered shortly – and it seemed to Hermione as if there was also a touch of regret in his tone. ‘In fact, it will also not sedate you for very long, but I hope it will clear your mind enough for you to hear and understand what I have to say to you.’

Hermione drained the last of the tisane from her cup, feeling the calm of the sedative spreading through her, outwards to her fingers and toes. As the distress subsided, she felt more like herself again – and she was fairly certain her professor was offering to tell her something. He did not offer to part with information easily – she ought to pay particular attention. Leaning forward, she placed the teacup on the table and angled herself slightly to face him. ‘I’m ready, sir,’ she said.

Professor Snape looked into her eyes for a long moment, then, apparently satisfied with what he had seen, he gave her a curt nod.
‘Are you familiar with this book?’ he asked, one thin finger tapping on the tome between them.

‘May I?’ Hermione asked, and the professor nodded again, turning the book so that she could read the gilt of the title upon the aged leather. ‘Pravus Veneficus,’ she murmured. She glanced up at the intense black eyes. ‘It’s a Dark Arts text,’ she said. ‘You can find a copy in the Restricted Section – but only if you know how to remove the cloaking charm.’

Professor Snape regarded her with more interest at this statement than at any other time in the six years she had known him, and Hermione felt a flush of pride.

‘And why have you been in the Restricted Section removing protective charms from the forbidden texts?’ he inquired acidly, as if to make up for a previous error.

Hermione frowned. ‘Because they’re books I haven’t read,’ she said simply.

For a moment, the two sat and looked at one another, as like will recognise its kind when in unfamiliar territory. In that fleeting instant, Hermione felt a flash of kinship with the Dark wizard across from her.

In the next breath, Professor Snape’s thin lips twisted in a smirk. ‘Indeed,’ he said. A small frown deepened the crease between his eyes. ‘And have you read it?’

Hermione shook her head regretfully. ‘No, there’s still an alarm ward on it which I couldn’t remove.’ She paused and cast a suspicious look at her abandoned teacup. ‘Was there Veritaserum in that drink?’

‘There was not,’ he said with a show of annoyance.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘But why am I telling you things that can get me into trouble?’ she wondered aloud.

‘Because you know I am asking for a good reason,’ Snape answered smoothly. ‘For now, turn to the page indicated by the bookmark.’

Hermione hesitated. ‘Is the ward …?’

‘This is my own copy, and I have made it safe for you to read it,’ he replied.

Without another qualm, Hermione took the book into her hands and flipped to the bookmarked page. The chapter contained information on compulsion curses; this bit was dedicated to the Eternus Perturbatio curse. Absorbing first the information regarding the theory behind the curse, Hermione then read the behaviours peculiar to the person cursed with this spell. As she read, she felt her face flush with embarrassment; she had been aware that there were spells and curses of a sexual nature, but it was not something that had been covered thus far in her wizarding education – and here she was, reading about the first one she had encountered whilst Professor Snape, of all people, watched her. How embarrassing!

But as she continued to read, her embarrassment faded and horror began to dawn. Irrational desire? Complete loss of inhibition? Deteriorating ability to reason or think clearly? Repetitive carnal fantasies focussed on one person? Inability to obtain release by own efforts? All of these things had been raging in her before Professor Snape had given her the sedative.

Dimly, she was aware of her previous discomfort beginning again, a nagging at the back of her mind, disrupting her concentration. Imprinted … fixated … irreversible …. At last, she closed the book and placed it back on the table with trembling hands.

‘Who?’ she whispered piteously. ‘Who did this to me?’

‘The Dark Lord,’ Snape replied in a tone of voice which suggested such a stupid question scarcely merited a direct answer.

‘Why?’ She rose from her place on the sofa and began to pace, the sedative calm falling from her with increasing speed; now, the rampaging need swarmed over her with more urgency than ever before.

Professor Snape retained his place in the wing chair, only his eyes moving as he followed her progress.

‘To distract Potter from his purpose,’ he said, ‘and to embarrass Professor Dumbledore.’

‘You-Know-Who meant for me to see Professor Dumbledore when I woke!’ she said as the need to remove her clothing began to echo in her mind. If she could be rid of the clothes, she would be more comfortable, for her skin was so sensitive now she could not bear the touch of the cloth. She unbelted the dressing gown and shrugged it off without halting her pacing. ‘Oh my God, I would have had to have sex with the headmaster!’ She turned on Snape now, nearly feral in her torment, her prowling having brought her to his chair. She stood before him in naught but his own pathetic grey nightshirt and with a low sob of anguish she cried, ‘Why did he bring me to you?’

For the first time since she had woken in her professor’s private rooms and this whole nightmare had begun to unfold, Severus Snape’s face showed emotion: complete and utter disdain.

‘I suppose because it is a headmaster’s privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks,’ he spat. ‘I assure you I did not beg for the job.’

Hermione knew she should be insulted by this proclamation, but the exigency of her condition precluded such mundane considerations. She required relief from the terrible agitation throbbing between her legs, and the ugly, sneering man before her was her only hope of achieving it.

‘Will you help me?’ she asked, thinking he would surely deny her and wondering if he would be more amenable to killing her, for she would surely go insane if something was not done soon.

‘You have only to ask,’ he replied steadily, the sneer gone from his face now, replaced by the impassive mask he had worn since she had first seen him tonight.

‘Please, help me,’ Hermione cried. ‘Make it stop!’

She could not have explained the difference, but her Potions master shifted in his seat, so that his posture was open and welcoming. The black hair hung like curtains about his thin, sallow face and the endless black eyes never wavered from her face.

‘Come along, then,’ he said, and Hermione collapsed into his lap and buried her face in his neck, giving herself into his capable hands.

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A/N: Snape's taunt of ‘I suppose because it is a headmaster’s privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks,’ is a direct quote from the US edition of OoTP. Severus says it when Sirius wants to know why Dumbledore does not teach Harry to do Occlumency.

Beta reading thanks to DeeMichelle and Sshg316, and Brit-picking thanks to MagicAlly.