The Taking of Tea

CHAPTER SIX: WHEN WE FIRST FACED



When first we faced, and touching showed

How well we knew the early moves,

Behind the moonlight and the frost,

The excitement and the gratitude,

There stood how much our meeting owed

To other meetings, other loves.



The decades of a different life

That opened past your inch-close eyes

Belonged to others, lavished, lost;

Nor could I hold you hard enough

To call my years of hunger-strife

Back for your mouth to colonise.



Admitted: and the pain is real.

But when did love not try to change

The world back to itself--no cost,

No past, no people else at all--

Only what meeting made us feel,

So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange?





Hermione did not find the dungeons to be particularly foreboding, although they did tend to be rather chilly during the day. But at night they were pleasantly warm, thanks to the many torches illuminating the windowless dark. She walked down a wide hallway, her soft shoes slapping against the granite floor until she made her way to Professor Snape’s office door. Covering the wooden surface was a medieval tapestry in beautiful condition, sewn not only in green and silver, but in rich yellows and browns and innumerable other colors. In its background, the red and yellow threads of a hearth fire waved back and forth, assumedly keeping the tapestry’s single occupant warm, an aging, bearded alchemist who tried eternally to turn lead to gold. The ochre thread of his curly hair shifted gently as he looked up from his workbench, regarding Hermione with moss eyes and speaking through a pastel mouth. The whole tapestry seemed to ripple as he spoke, each fine thread rearranging itself to accommodate the movement.



“Madame,” the figure said, speaking in a Slavic accent Hermione couldn’t place, “unless you’ve come to tell me how to turn this bar to gold, I suggest you knock. Not there!” The figure amended as Hermione reached a closed fist toward a large cauldron, “not there, you’ll upset everything.”



“Sorry,” Hermione said, tempted to tell the figure that his efforts were useless, anyway. Instead she knocked on the woven image of a stained-glass window, and after a few moments the door opened to reveal Professor Snape. He was without his usual frock coat, and seemed rather bare in a black flannel and trousers. His wayward hair was pulled tightly back, which Hermione had never seen before, and the seam of his lips was stained with red.



“Miss Granger,” he greeted her, his voice surprisingly neutral, “what is it that you need?” Looking into his severe face, Hermione noticed that he had a spot of ink above his left eyebrow.



“I was hoping I might speak with you, Sir. Briefly, that is.”



“Very well,” he agreed, opening the door further and gesturing for her to come inside. She followed him into a rather cramped office; a cherry desk dominated much of the room and held several quills, two stacks of parchment, and a half-empty glass of red wine. Beside it were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of the same dark wood, filled mostly with volume collections. The east wall was entirely shelving, and contained potions ingredients that Snape had wisely chosen to keep out of his storeroom. None of the jars there were labeled, and many of them were opaque. One appeared to be full of eyes, and another contained what Hermione suspected were dragon claws. A green mason jar held illegal unicorn horns.



“Please sit down, Miss Granger,” Snape said, his tone clearly suggesting that she stop inspecting his private stores, and one long, ink-stained hand gesturing to a black chaise in front of the fireplace. Hermione obeyed, settling into one corner and pausing for a moment to admire a marvelous magical reproduction of Botticelli’s La Prima Vera. She never seen such a thing, and was sure that the forger must have been a master in his own right.



Plucking his glass of wine from the desk before moving to the chaise, Snape took the opposite end and fixed Hermione with an expression of frank appraisal. Although his behavior thus far had been absolutely cordial compared with its usual, Hermione thought it would be best to get straight to the point, particularly before he decided to say something unpleasant. And he surely would.



“I came by to,” she paused, as her voice sounded high and nervous. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her robes and took a deep breath, taking in the rich scent of pine from the burning fire. “I wanted to thank you for all the help you’ve given me lately. Regarding…everything that happened. I… I’m in your debt.”



“There is no debt,” he told her, his basso profundo smooth as ever, “but you would do better to name the thing for what it is.”



“Pardon?” Hermione said, her eyes again fixed on the wonderful painting.



“By ‘everything that happened’ you mean your rape, and the subsequent venereal disease, and Gray’s priggish bragging about his sexual prowess. Don’t you?”



Hermione wasn’t sure whether Snape was being cruel or attempting to employ some kind of tough love tactic, but the words stung deeply, whatever the case.



“I’ve never heard you call Voldemort by his name,” she shot back.



“Which is very different. You’re aware of my situation, Miss Granger; do you think it would be wise if I became so comfortable with the title ‘Voldemort’ that I used it in the Dark Lord’s presence?” He demanded, suddenly angry.

“I,”



“You don’t know anything about real fear, Miss Granger. I have witnessed rapes that would make your encounter with Gray look like a romantic interlude, believe me,” he snarled, though he remained perfectly still on the chaise, and kept his eyes to the fire. “Don’t be stupid enough to think that what happened to you is somehow exceptional, or that I for one moment meant to play your rescuing hero.”



“Will you just stop it,” Hermione shouted, slamming her first into the plush upholstery of the chaise, where it landed with a muted and ineffectual “thump.” “I only came here to thank you! Why must you always be such a… a,”



“A what, Miss Granger,” he needled, his tone falsely solicitous as he steepled his fingers beneath his chin in mock contemplation. “A great bat? A greasy git?”



“No,” Hermione countered, feeling a strange weight in her chest. “You’re none of those things,” she insisted, turning on the chaise to give him her young and earnest face. “You’re none of those things, and you know it. If only you weren’t so rude, I…I might not have to defend you all the time. You might be appreciated on your merits, for once.” She finished with a huff.



“Oh, yes,” Snape intoned in a dark voice of recollection, “Hermione Granger, Queen of the Realm and Defender of everything, included but not limited to house elves, bumbling students, and unpopular members of the faculty. Your piousness is exceedingly tiring.”



To his surprise, Hermione responded by letting her head fall onto the back of the chaise and loosing a deep sigh.



“Would you stop picking on me for one blasted second,” she asked, her tone deflated. “I just wanted to say ‘thank you,’ and maybe ask why,” she sighed again, a shake of her head sending her curls into a riot, “never mind. I’ll leave you be.” She decided, but before she could rise from the chaise, Snape took her wrist in a hard grip, suddenly close.



“Ask me what?”



“Ask you why, that is, why you… why you helped me.” Looking offended, he pulled on the caught wrist, bringing them nearly nose-to-nose.



“Despite what your nasty little friends think, I would never hesitate to protect a student. Have I not done so before?” He demanded, “what would make you think otherwise?” When she kept silent, he shook her by the arm, making her joints click until she winced in pain. “What?”



“You hate me,” she confessed, her face hot. “You make it a point to ignore me in class, and if you can’t do that you make it a point to let everyone know just how irritating you find my presence.”



“You flatter yourself by thinking that you earn so much of my attention, Miss Granger; I do not hate you.” His breath was cool on her face, pushing the bitter and smoke of merlot into her senses. She could see the deep lines that bracketed his mouth, and a line of teeth that were not entirely even or entirely white. Overwhelmed, she closed her eyes, and then moved her gaze to where he was still clutching her wrist. She was fine-boned and his hand was large—the calloused pads of his fingers lipped over his thumb, all smudged with ink, and there was a small scratch on the back of his hand.



“You’re so cruel,” she told him, voice high and steady and piercingly honest. “You make me feel so terrible. When you harass Neville or Ron it’s because they’ve botched a potion or haven’t handed in an essay, but you seem to hate me just for being who I am. You’re just like the rest of them,” she scowled, looking up at him again, her face a terrible contortion of hurt and anger.



“Like whom?”



“Please,” she chuffed, trying suddenly to wrench her wrist from him with a hard pull, and sending him stumbling to the floor with its force. Without letting go he got to his knees before her, and took her other hand in a grip just as tight. He gave both arms an insistent tug.



“Who am I like?”



“Malfoy,” she spat, “And everyone else in Slytherin, not to mention a healthy dose from the other houses. You don’t think I hear the word ‘mudblood’ behind your sneer every time you dress me down?”



A heavy silence fell between them. It had honestly never occurred to Snape that Hermione might perceive his hostility towards her as prejudice, or for that matter that the girl was anything other than the over-confident and self-righteous figure she appeared to be. It had never occurred to him that her tireless studying might be an attempt to prove herself to those who would never consider her worthy, or that the rather solitary Head Girl was hurt by the endless taunting from the likes of Draco and Parkinson. Or that being raped would increase that feeling tenfold, and leave her wondering if she weren’t in fact a piece of trash to be discarded.



“Hermione,” he released her arms and took hold of her face, nearly swallowing it with his hands. “You are not a mudblood, and I’m deeply sorry if I ever inferred that you were.”



“And you aren’t a Death Eater,” she quipped, lips crooked and eyes too bright. “Half the lot thinks I’m untouchable because of my birth, and the other half thinks I’m some kind of genderless bibliophile.” She shrugged, her face resigned.



“Stop your nonsense,” Snape commanded softly, and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead. He didn’t move, and after a moment he heard a hiccupping sob. He held her small face in his hands, feeling the fine bones of her jaw and the soft flesh of her ears.



“Please don’t pity me,” she whispered, and he pushed his thick fingers into her hair, which was the texture of webbed silk.



Instead of answering, he pushed her to sit again on the chaise. Then he pulled his hands from her hair and down her neck, over the ridge of her collarbones and the swell of her breasts, into the dip of her waist and down her lap to her ankles, where he took hold, cuffing the fine bones with his thick fingers. He did not look into her eyes. Other than a hitch of breath she’d made no noise of affirmation or protest, and he doubted he could bear to see either in that sad, china doll face. He palmed her calves, up and into the darkness of her robes, taking them along with the rough wool of her skirt until it was all bunched at her waist. He pulled her forward so that the hips of her red cotton briefs rested on the edge of the chaise, her hands following to steady herself. The knuckles turned white when he took her underwear by their hem and pulled them past her ankles in a gesture that was smooth and unhurried and terribly devastating to Hermione, who sat stock-still above him and prayed he wouldn’t stop whatever it was he planned to do.



Her plan to keep silent flew out the window when he sat back on his haunches, and without preamble, put his face to her sex.



“Oh,” she said softly, her voice full of surprise and discovery. His tongue was long and rough and opened her easily, plotting her sex with deep, sure strokes that made her shiver and gasp. It sounded absolutely indecent, like wet shoes in mud, turning her red face a shade hotter with embarrassment. He was as firm and deliberate as a mama cat, stroking into her and then against her clitoris in a long, delicious upsweep. Her hands were clutching the edge of the sofa so tightly they were beginning to cramp, and her back ached, strung wire-tight with the force of her need.



He stopped and looked up at her, backlit by the fire like some demon epiphany. His lips and chin were wet and she jumped in her seat, sure he was about to tell her that she tasted awful. Instead he put a hand to her shoulder, giving it a gentle press.



“Lie back, now,” he told her, in the gentlest voice she’d ever heard him use, one that sent something hot and sharp as his tongue straight through her belly. She was sweating; the hair at her nape had gone from damp to wet, and she wiped a hand across her forehead. With the moment’s respite from the intensity of Snape’s mouth, Hermione realized that she could smell herself—the forest floor moss of her arousal and her perfumed sweat. Snape sent her shoulders to the back of the chaise with another push, stretching his long body up and over her while he brought a hand back to her sex. He was sweating, too, perspiration darkening the hair at his temples to blue-black. He gave chaste kisses to her nose and cheeks and chin, and she could again smell the sweet and sour of wine on his breath. He pushed the blunt tips of two fingers into her opening, his thumb circling her clitoris quick and hard. With his free hand he swept the damp hair from her face before settling it against her chest, right over the mad beating of her heart. He put a third finger into the furnace of her body, making her shout. She thought she might cry.



“Come for me, Hermione,” he said against her ear, his breath hot, his voice a purr. “Let me make you come.”



And she did, as though he’d willed it. Her whole body was aching, muscles tight and jumpy like she was running at full speed, and then came an incredible climax, every cell in her blood bubbling in ecstatic release, every piece of skin and bone melting in the flash fire heat. As she took several deep breaths, suddenly aware of her need for air, Snape pulled back, bending over again to clean her sticky sex with that wicked tongue, sending static shocks through her frayed nerves until she squirmed away, unable to take any more. In response, he kissed the cap of each knee before pulling her briefs back onto her sluggish body, then sliding her skirt and robes back down where they belonged. He stood up, wiping her wet from his face with two fingers before sucking them clean.



The whole thing, added to the mind-numbing orgasm she’d just received, had a hallucinatory quality, and when he reached out a hand she took it, struck dumb, and let him pull her up from the chaise. He pulled her close for a moment, and spoke into the crown of her head.



“I don’t pity you,” he told her, before pushing her shuffling feet towards his door. “Go now; it’s late.”



And a week later, while she was still screwing up the courage to ask him if he might please, please, do that again, he killed Albus Dumbledore, and disappeared forever.

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A/N: Well, hopefully that cleared things up. Snicker…