The Love You Take

A/N: Thanks to my beta reader, DeeMichelle, my Brit-picker, MagicAlly, and my alpha reader, Sshg316. Y'all rock the casbah. Wherever that is.

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Severus pressed his back against the warded bathroom door and took a deep breath, profoundly shaken. Without further ado, he tore open his fly and with a shudder, took his aching cock into his hand. Impotence potion? He would laugh if he weren’t so bloody –

Coherent thought ceased as he wrapped the fingers still damp and fragrant from Hermione’s essence about his weeping member and stroked once – twice – thrice – before spilling all over his fist, his gasp of relief almost immediately followed by a long string of swear words.

He flung off his clothes and stepped beneath a viciously cold spray to cleanse himself of their mingled scents. Standing within the punishing, icy shower, he admitted to himself that he had seriously misjudged the situation. Damn and blast! He had reckoned without his body’s reaction to the girl’s – the woman’s – need. Her body was perfect in form and lovely in her longing – and he was a damned geriatric pervert for thinking so! Miss Granger was his student, who deserved his protection – she was a fellow Order member, who deserved his loyalty – and she was a witch of uncommon skill and cleverness, who deserved his respect.

Yet here he was, remembering his fingers inside her slick heat and wishing it had been his cock, instead.

Eyeing the bar of soap, still wet from her earlier shower, he imagined her standing where he now stood, passing the soap over her flawlessly smooth skin. He wanted to touch her in all the same ways the soap had done – and he was disgusted afresh when his cock twitched at the notion.

With a groan of defeat, he pressed his forehead to the icy marble tile. How could an impotence potion be expected to work when all of that out-of-control passion was directed at him? He had been so sure that deeply-seated compassion would prevent his arousal on some level – but he had never dreamt that she would behave to him with such particular desire. She has asked him – her ugly, old teacher – to kiss her wanton lips – then she had kissed him – as if she could not help herself. Was he not just a useful pair of hands – a convenient mouth – for that matter, a handy cock? How could she make it so bloody personal? She had even asked him to undress – did she want his naked skin next to her own?

Well, it would bloody well never happen. This was not about him – if Hagrid had been here when Miss Granger’s eyes had opened, she would be asking him to undress!

That horrifying mental image enabled him, finally, to take up the soap and wash.

---

Ron spotted Harry at the top of the marble staircase in the entrance hall and ran up to him two steps at a time.

‘She’s not in the Great Hall!’ he panted, pausing on the top step to catch his breath.

‘She’s not in her room, either,’ Harry answered, his green eyes dark with worry. ‘Ginny checked. We’ve got to tell Dumbledore.’

Ron looked doubtful. ‘Shouldn’t we tell McGonagall?’ he asked. ‘After all, she’s Hermione’s Head of House.’

‘Good morning, Mr Weasley,’ the headmaster’s calming voice said from behind them. ‘Good morning, Harry,’ he added.

The boys turned to him. ‘Good morning, sir,’ they responded.

‘I believe we have something to discuss. Would you join me in my office for breakfast?’

---

Once seated in the chairs about the small round table where eggs, toast, and bacon were set out for them, Harry ignored the food, whilst Ron immediately began loading his plate.

‘Professor,’ Harry said. ‘Hermione never came back last night. I’m afraid something has happened to her.’

Dumbledore offered a bowl of scrambled eggs to Harry, then took two slices of toast from the rack and began to spread them with raspberry jam.

‘You are quite right, Harry,’ the headmaster said, looking up from his toast, his blue eyes keen over the half-moon spectacles. ‘Miss Granger was taken last night by Lord Voldemort’s Death Eaters.’

In his haste to leap to his feet, Harry knocked the bowl of scrambled eggs flying, providing a marble bust on the nearest bookcase with an odd yellow toupee. Ron’s mouth dropped open, displaying for their edification his partially-masticated food.

‘She’s all right,’ Dumbledore said, speaking now with some force. ‘I brought her back myself.’

‘But where is she?’ Harry asked urgently, still poised for flight. ‘Her bed hasn’t been slept in!’

Ron nodded his agreement to this question, swallowing his food with some difficulty.

‘Harry,’ Professor Dumbledore said, ‘please sit down. I will tell you everything you need to know and answer your questions, as well.’

The headmaster waited with perfect patience as Harry righted his seat and sat again, whereupon Professor Dumbledore served his plate with bacon and toast. Nothing was said of the fate of the eggs, which had slid down the face of the bust to puddle in lumps about the marble base.

‘Miss Granger has been cursed by Lord Voldemort,’ the old wizard said, seeming to choose his words very carefully. Before Harry could begin to question him, he raised a finger and continued, ‘She is alive, and she is physically unharmed, but the Dark curse cast upon her is causing her some distress, so I have made arrangements for her to pass the weekend where she can receive the care she needs.’

Ron managed to swallow again before asking, ‘What kind of curse, sir? Is it the Imperius, or ….’

‘An excellent question, Mr Weasley,’ Dumbledore replied. ‘It is not one of the Unforgivable curses, but a Dark one, nonetheless.’

‘What has it done to her?’ Harry whispered, his eyes riveted on the old man’s face. ‘If she’s well, why can’t we see her?’

‘You cannot see her because she is not in the Hospital wing. I have placed her with a caretaker who specializes in these types of curses – but you will undoubtedly see her back in class on Monday.’ Dumbledore frowned as he continued, ‘As for the effects of the curse, those are rather personal to the individual who has been cursed. Some of the effects may be embarrassing to Miss Granger – things she may not wish to discuss with young men, even if you are her best friends. I would like to have your word, Harry – and yours, Mr Weasley – that you will not question her about the specifics.’

After exchanging a speaking look with Ron, Harry said, ‘If you think we shouldn’t ask her, we won’t – but please, sir, why can’t we know more about the type of curse?’

Dumbledore looked rueful. ‘I cannot tell you what curse it is, Harry, for we have not determined that, as yet. Professor Snape has the most experience of any of us studying the Dark Arts and associated curses. I assure you that he and I shall work tirelessly with Miss Granger to discover the type of curse and to determine a way to counter its effects.’

‘I want to help look for a counter-curse,’ Harry said immediately, continuing to ignore the food on his plate. He stared stubbornly, with an air bordering on defiance, at the headmaster. ‘Why can’t you tell us what’s wrong with her?’

Professor Dumbledore studied Harry for an unnervingly long time over the rims of his eyeglasses before reaching out and placing a calming hand upon the young man’s arm. ‘I know what it is to love a friend and to wish to assist them, no matter what,’ he said kindly. ‘In this case, however, you must consider what Miss Granger’s wishes would be. We must be sensitive to her feelings in the matter, as well as our own, or we may make her even more uncomfortable for no good reason, Harry.’

With abrupt energy, the headmaster stood. ‘I have a meeting which I must attend now, but please feel free to stay and finish eating.’ He eyed the defiled marble bust and cleaned the cold eggs from it with a wave of his hand. ‘Poor old Paracelsus,’ he murmured absently, ‘I wonder if he had not always wished to have yellow hair?’ Turning suddenly, he strode to the door, saying as he left, ‘Trust me once more, boys – I pledge to you that Miss Granger shall receive the best care and assistance which Hogwarts can provide.’

The instant the door closed behind Dumbledore, a house-elf Apparated into the room with a fresh bowl of scrambled eggs. ‘Eat up, young sirs!’ it squeaked cheerfully, spooning eggs onto their plates.

---

Freshly showered and dressed, Severus stood over the figure sleeping in his bed, dreading the necessity of waking her. He had swallowed another measure of the impotence potion, but he dared not take a third; three doses in twenty-four hours would have him attending to the girl’s needs from his sickbed.

‘Wake up, Miss Granger,’ he said calmly.

Her eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, and the look of warm welcome in her brown gaze rendered him nearly breathless. She smiled and reached her arms to him, as if expecting him to join her in the bed. He was within an instant of doing just that, simply for the pleasure of holding her sleep-warmed body next to his own, when his reason piped up again.

If Hagrid had been here when she opened her eyes, she would be welcoming him into her bed, he reminded himself ruthlessly. There is nothing personal in her pleasure at seeing me.

As he watched her face, her eyes seemed to become unfocussed, and he repressed a sigh. Thank Merlin he had put the food under a warming charm.

---

Severus savoured his second cup of tea, ostensibly reading the Daily Prophet, whilst keeping an eye on his guest. Hermione sat upon the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her in the voluminous folds of the green dressing gown. She had eaten steadily for several minutes when she had been served her first plate of food and was now dawdling over seconds.

‘Sir?’

Severus grunted his answer.

‘I was wondering if I can go see my friends?’

Lowering the paper, Severus met her anxious gaze. ‘Professor Dumbledore has met with Potter and Weasley, Miss Granger.’

The girl flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘They … they know?’ she whispered, patently mortified.

‘They are aware of your abduction; they know you were cursed. They know nothing of the nature of the curse, of its effects on you, or of your present whereabouts.’ Her relief was palpable, and he felt a flash of satisfaction for his part in bringing that reprieve.

‘I would like to have my schoolbooks,’ she said, ‘and my own clothes.’

He nodded. ‘A house-elf has been deputed to bring those things to this room while you sleep.’

‘Why can’t I go myself?’ she asked crossly. ‘In fact, why can’t I go to my room?’

‘How long do you think you will have before the compulsion comes upon you again?’ he inquired softly. ‘And if your friends see you in your room, how will you explain the story which the headmaster has so helpfully told on your behalf?’

She turned her face away from him, studying a bookshelf near at hand; she looked very unsure of herself, and he felt the faintest flicker of pity for her situation.

‘I hate being such an inconvenience to you,’ she informed the bookshelf.

‘You may as well accustom yourself, Miss Granger: You will be an inconvenience to me until the Dark Lord falls – or until, out of the goodness of his heart, he lifts the curse you bear.’ He spoke the last in a tone of such sneering derision that she turned back to face him fiercely.

‘It wasn’t my idea!’ she flashed. ‘Do you think I want to be like this with you?’

‘Rid yourself of the notion that it was my wish to have a pathetic schoolgirl foisted onto me for the foreseeable future!’ he snarled, stung by her emphasis – or so it seemed to him – on the word ‘you.’ ‘You are no more appealing to me than I am to you, foolish girl!’

She rose blindly, knocking the china from the table, where it missed the thick area rug and shattered on the unforgiving stone of the dungeon floor. Sublimely unaware, she rushed from his presence, heading for the bathroom, he supposed, and was proven right when the bathroom door slammed with a force which set the tea service on the low table to rattling.

‘Bugger,’ he swore. Obviously, there would be no peaceful tea-drinking this weekend. He placed his cup back on the tray and stood to inspect the broken cup. As he had suspected, there were traces of blood – the blasted girl had cut herself – and the drops of blood led, with increasing splatter, all the way to the bathroom door.

He stood outside the bathroom, irresolute, listening to the sobbing emanating from within. He glared at the wood and touched the handle, unsurprised to find she had locked it against him. He strode back into the sitting room to clear away the broken cup and the trail of blood drops; by the time he was before the door again, he could hear the water running.

Good. She could clean up, and she would feel better; he had often observed this phenomenon with the young women of Slytherin House. A good cry, followed by a hot bath, could cure almost any ill. With some optimism, he seated himself in the armchair near the bedroom fire and attempted to read while he waited.

Minutes ticked by slowly, demonstrated by the number of times he consulted the bedside clock, and after twenty minutes, he strode to the door and knocked firmly.

‘Miss Granger?’

‘G-go away,’ she said pitifully.

Disregarding her, he cast a non-verbal unlocking spell and entered the bathroom.

‘Get out!’ she cried, crossing her goose-pimpled arms over her breasts.

Her left foot was wrapped in a face flannel and elevated on the side of the tub; the cloth was stained red. Whipping his wand from its sheathe with one hand, he lightly removed the flannel with the other.

‘Why have you not healed it?’ he demanded roughly, the hand on her ankle surprisingly gentle.

‘I left my wand in the bedroom,’ she said, obviously embarrassed.

‘Brilliant,’ he snapped. ‘Have you removed the glass?’

She shifted, as if to remove her foot from his grasp, but he only tightened his hold. ‘I can feel it, but I can’t get it out,’ she admitted in a small voice.

‘I can see you mean to be inconvenient in a plethora of ways,’ he remarked sardonically, then he levitated her from the water with a non-verbal flourish of his wand and wafted her into the bedroom and onto the bed, oblivious to her screeching protests.

‘I’ll – I’ll bleed on the bedclothes!’ she shrieked, attempting to hop onto the floor.

‘Give over, girl!’ he thundered impatiently, and he was gratified when she desisted in her attempts to stand. Kneeling on the floor with his face very close to her cut and bruised foot, he performed the spell to remove any foreign particles from the wound, then, with great concentration, sang the incantation to heal the cut. When he was satisfied with the results of his labours, he pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and removed a tiny red phial, from which he decanted a small amount of fluid and applied it to the faint scar. ‘Essence of dittany,’ he murmured, looking up for the first time and addressing the girl.

She sat unclothed upon his bed, her bushy brown hair a tangle upon her shoulders, her eyes fixed upon him with a hunger every bit as naked to him as was her flesh to his eyes. Unable to resist the impulse, he ran his thumb again over the sole of her foot, and she shuddered, her thighs parting, the scent of her need evident to him.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he knew the gist of the words she would utter – her desire was clearly written on her face. He looked down at the foot in his hand, so small, compared to his own, and infinitely more delicate, with its daintily arched sole and its taunting, frivolous pink toenails. He saw again the faint mark, now slick with dittany, where he had healed her – and a wave of possessiveness as fierce as a dagger thrust pierced his defences.

Mine, he thought hazily, closing long fingers about her ankles and tugging until she sat on the edge of the mattress, her navel on level with his nose.

‘Sir, I ….’ she began, but he knew her request before she spoke it.

His hands slid up her calves and ghosted over her knees before coming to rest upon the tops of her legs, his thumbs curved down to touch her inner thighs in a compelling, circular caress. There was no necessity for speech; her need spoke eloquently to his instinctive response, and she lay back with a sigh of acceptance, parting her legs so that her hungry little quim was directly before his eyes. He silently buried his face amongst her fragrant curls, his fingers spreading her labia and his serpentine tongue darting out for his first taste of nectar. She purred like a cat when his lips closed over her nub, and her hands twined in his hair to keep him where she wanted him. It chanced across his mind, when she had ground herself to her third consecutive orgasm by way of his greedy mouth, that he had grossly misjudged his ability to remain unmoved before her unrestrained passion.

Spent, she sprawled untidily across the foot of his bed. Still without a word, he stood and lifted her into his arms, taking down the bedclothes with a non-verbal, wandless spell, and settling her upon a pillow. He stretched out by her side, fully clothed, his aching erection mocking the carefully brewed potion he had ingested to prevent its occurrence. The girl curled up against his side, and they passed into sleep almost simultaneously.