The Love You Take

The Love You Take

Chapter 6: The Confrontation


Hermione’s eyes opened slowly, and she blinked, disoriented. The world had gone a dirty, murky green colour … and why in the name of Nimüe was she naked?

Struggling to move, she finally recognised where she was: In the underwater city of the Merpeople, beneath the lake. Surely she had done this already? Wildly, her eyes darted from side-to-side; as she grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that she was surrounded, but not by Merpeople – she was ringed by Death Eaters. Beyond the Death Eaters, she could see the vague shapes of Viktor and Harry, swimming back and forth, but not daring to come forward to rescue her.

Again, Hermione tried to move her arms, to move her feet, but she was still immobilised by the enchantment, which had put her to sleep and had enabled her to breathe normally underwater. This had happened when she was fifteen years old, she was sure of it, but Viktor had pulled her out of the water, and she had never woken up until she was back on dry land – so why was she awake now?

Glancing down at herself, she flushed with shame: She was completely naked. The nipples of her breasts were crinkled with the cold of the water, and in spite of her discomfort, she felt unbelievably aroused to be in this position. In fact, if she could get her hands free, she wasn’t entirely sure that she would not begin to touch herself, in spite of her audience. The building desire was unnerving to her – she had to do something to relieve the tension ….

There was movement on the periphery of her vision, and she looked back again to see the Death Eaters trying to flee – but they were far too slow. Arriving like a strong wind, Severus Snape was upon them, and a blast of magic from his wand sent the robed-and-masked villains spinning off in every direction, until Hermione could no longer see them. Then Snape swam up to her, and miraculously, Hermione was able to move again.

She twined herself about his torso as if she were a climbing ivy, and grabbing his empty hand, she pulled it shamelessly between her thighs, plunging his fingers in the warm wetness there. His black eyes watched her expressionlessly, but his fingers seemed to know their business, expertly seeking out and rubbing her clitoris in a steady circular motion. Not satisfied, she put a hand behind his head and urged him down, arching her back to thrust her aching nipples toward his mouth.

For a moment, his touches within her vulva ceased, and Hermione cried out her frustration, wriggling against his hand wildly, never letting up on her insistent urging of his head to her breast. Then thin lips closed satisfactorily around her nipple, and hard suction tugged her entire areole into the warm depths of his mouth, as the fingers slipped inside her channel, the thumb now beginning a lazy circling of her nub.

Hermione’s reasoning ability swiftly deserted her as she fell into the languid bliss of the dark head moving back and forth from breast to breast, and clever, knowing fingers teasing her efficiently over the edge into euphoria, obediently continuing the motions until she had peaked yet again. Tangling her hand in his shoulder-length hair, she dragged him up from her breast to her lips and kissed him before drifting again into the murky depths.

---

Severus followed the impossible wench back into sleep; she had never truly wakened during her assault of his person. Vainly, he tried to empty his mind, but he could not escape the memory of her nipple in his mouth – or of her lips, warm upon his own.

---

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open to find her professor’s eyes fixed upon her face.

‘Hi,’ she said, gladness filling her at the sight of him.

‘Hello,’ he responded, continuing to watch her carefully.

‘Have we slept the day away?’ she asked, resisting the urge to touch his face with her fingertips.

‘Only five hours of it,’ he replied.

Hermione smiled. ‘Five hours? I went that long without ….’

He burst her bubble with a quick shake of his head. ‘No – you woke me once.’

She felt her face flush. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, feeling like such a huge bother.

‘Don’t waste your energy on self-recrimination,’ he said. ‘It will profit you nothing, and I do not require your apologies.’

She felt her eyes fill with tears at this unlooked-for kindness and was moved to take the hand lying upon the counterpane and nurse it to her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

He neither spoke nor tugged his hand from her grasp but remained perfectly still. Hermione noted the colour of his eyes, so dark the pupil was scarcely differentiated from the iris. There was a faint crease between his eyebrows; otherwise, his face was remarkably unlined, save for the brackets about his mouth. This was not the face of a man who smiled, but of one who scowled; she was moved to smile tenderly at him, turning her face so that his fingers cupped her nose and her lips touched the palm of his hand.

Still he watched her, and she realised she smelled her own scent upon his fingers – he smelled of her arousal. The knowledge acted as a catalyst, need falling upon her so suddenly that she was breathless. She shuddered and deliberately kissed the palm of his hand, her tongue tracing down to his wrist.

The hand tremored, then he removed it from her face. ‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice smooth and sweet to her ears; already, she was beginning to associate those low, intimate tones with mind-numbing pleasure.

‘Could you –’ she gasped, desperately needy, but loath to say the words. ‘Like before?’

He rose above her, his weight supported on one elbow, his lips very close to her ear. ‘With my mouth?’ he asked, the warmth of his breath, which also smelled of her, stirring the hair at her temple.

‘Yes,’ she breathed and sighed in expectation as he moved down the bed, insinuating himself between her thighs. She had read of this sort of love-making in her books of erotica, but she had never quite been able to imagine anyone she knew doing such a thing.

When he parted her labia and prodded her clitoris with the tip of his tongue, she made an inarticulate cry and let the bliss flood her being. Oh, it was delicious to have that vicious tongue put to such good use, and he seemed to like it; he certainly made no objection to continuing, even after she came, to bring her off again – oh, and again.

Gaining coherence once more, she raised her head to look at him, only to find midnight eyes gleaming at her from the apex of her thighs, the lower portion of his face glistening from her secretions.

‘I’ll order dinner,’ he said.

‘I’m starving!’ she blurted.

He pushed himself to a sitting position. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he said dryly. He sat at the end of the bed, his back to her. ‘Do you need the lavatory?’

‘I can wait,’ she said.

He stood and crossed the floor to the bathroom, and Hermione’s eyes tracked his progress, noting the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips – and the tenting of the front of his trousers.

Good Merlin! Did he desire her?

He paused in the doorway of the bath, and Hermione darted a glance at his face, only to find him watching her. He had seen her staring at his erection! Flushing guiltily, she looked away, but not before she caught a flash of something in his expression – something which very much resembled self-satisfaction.

---

She required his services again before the house-elf popped into the sitting room with their dinner tray, but it was a relatively quick release, achieved by the use of both his long-fingered hands, reaching from behind her as she leant against his chest, sitting in the vee of his legs upon the bed.

She relished her dinner of roast chicken and potatoes, eating steadily until she scraped the last of her pudding from its dish. Professor Snape, on the other hand, picked at his food, the crease between his eyes deep as he scowled at his sprouts.

‘A Sickle for your thoughts,’ she murmured, watching him over her after-dinner cup of tea.

‘The going rate is a Knut,’ he countered.

Hermione sat forward and set her cup on the coffee table. ‘May I read everything you have on Eternus Perturbatio?’ she asked.

He looked up at her, abandoning his apparent attempt to glare his sprouts into non-existence. ‘You wish to read Dark Arts texts?’

Hermione nodded solemnly. ‘Knowledge is power, sir,’ she said quietly.

Immediately, he stood from his chair and chose three volumes from his shelves, stacking them on top of the book from which she had read earlier. Each new book, as he removed it from the bookcase, assumed an entirely new appearance as it was touched by its owner; obviously, he carefully warded the more dangerous books in his collection from curious eyes.

The professor seated himself beside Hermione on the sofa, making and holding eye contact with her. ‘Let there be no misunderstanding of my terms for this privilege,’ he said sternly, and Hermione sat straighter to demonstrate her acknowledgement of his munificence. ‘You may read the pertinent sections in each of these books. You may read these pages when I am present in the room with you. You may not read any other sections, nor may you read if I am not present – that includes being in the next room, Miss Granger. Do you understand?’

Hermione nodded her agreement.

Holding her gaze for one more moment, during which time Hermione felt strangely close to him, Professor Snape then picked up each of the books in turn, bookmarking the beginning and the ending of the sections pertaining to Hermione’s curse. At last, he turned his attention back to her.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, his meaning obvious.

‘I’m fine,’ she assured him.

‘I will sit and mark papers whilst you read.’ He nodded to the fine old cherry-wood desk placed perpendicular to the sofa.

‘Yes, sir,’ Hermione responded, and before her professor’s bum had left the cushion, her hand closed about the top text book, and she began to read.

---

Hermione was a fast reader, a skill which had stood her in good stead for all of her school career. She had even delved into her school bag, brought to the professor’s sitting room by a house-elf whilst she slept, and pulled out parchment, quill, and ink for note-taking purposes.

She finished the first book with a faint frown, which steadily deepened as she made her way through the significant pages of each successive text. When she closed the cover of the last one and reached to place it on the coffee table, she found Professor Snape’s eyes on her with a certain wariness.

Hermione, her jaw set, stood and crossed the room to him, wadding the parchment as she walked up to stand directly before him. He remained in his chair, unmoving, as she hurled the parchment into his face. ‘How could you?’ she cried.

He made no attempt to dissemble but picked up the parchment from where it had fallen on his desk and smoothed it open, reading her jotted notes, speaking even as he did so. ‘I did what I felt was best.’

‘Knowing that full intercourse is the only remedy which will bring me relief for any extended length of time, you still refused?’ she rasped, barely able to speak in her anger and confusion.

‘Yes,’ he responded, watching her closely.

Hermione began to pace, all the way to the door that led into the hallway, then back to the desk, the ludicrous green satin dressing gown dragging behind her, giving her the appearance of a little girl dressing in her father’s clothes. ‘I must be truly repulsive to you,’ she threw at him, turning her back on him and pacing back to the door. ‘Any other man would have been glad for the opportunity of a bit of a shag, but not you, no!’

His response seemed ripped from him, his tones utterly unlike the silky way he had spoken to her with his hands on her body. ‘I am not made of marble!’ he bellowed, gaining his feet and walking around the desk to stand in her path. ‘I am made of flesh and blood, just like those men who would have been glad for a bit of a shag!’ He repeated the phrase she had used with such derision that she whirled to face him, scrambling in the capacious pocket of his dressing gown for her vine wood wand.

Pointing it at his face, anguish rising in her like a wave, she said, ‘So it’s personal to me, then! What were you thinking of? How could the headmaster have given me to you if you can’t even bear to do what needs to be done?’

Even through the tears which pooled in her eyes and fell to her cheeks, she could see him standing fearlessly before her drawn wand, his posture relaxed, his hands open at his sides. My God, but he’s magnificent! she thought, her longing springing into being again like a tickle at the back of her mind.

He watched her, his face impassive, until her tears began to fall. Then, he strode slap up to her, until her wand dug into the centre of his chest. ‘Feel free,’ he said, taking the wand tip and moving it just to the left of his sternum.

Overcome by his nearness, Hermione let her wand clatter to the floor, her hands rising to cover her face. She could not help wanting him, and he could not bear to want her. What was she going to do?

In the next moment, strong arms enveloped her and pulled her against his hard chest; Hermione immediately wrapped her arms about his waist, allowing the fabric of his shirt to absorb her tears. Then his nose was in her hair, his lips right next to her ear.

‘You’re not repulsive,’ he ground out, as if each word caused him pain. ‘Your body is lovely, your manner is enticing, and your passion is bewitching. Only my doubt has held me in check.’

Hermione’s response was to raise her face to him; the naked pleading in her expression drew a response from him, for he lowered his lips to hers, initiating a kiss for the first time. His lips were warm and soft upon hers for a moment, then he was looking into her eyes and speaking to her frankly and openly.

‘You didn’t choose me, but I will no longer deny you if it is your wish,’ he said.

‘You didn’t choose me, either – but I don’t care,’ she responded, raising her hand to trace his jaw line with her fingertips, as she had longed to do before. ‘I need you, whether you need me or not.’

He startled her when he swept her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. ‘Don’t make assumptions about my needs,’ he said gruffly, striding into the bedroom and laying her upon the counterpane. He plunged both hands into his trousers pockets, pulling from one a stoppered phial of emerald green potion, and from the other an object which resembled nothing so much as a miniature silver baby’s rattle. The rattle he placed on his bedside table, but the potion he handed to her. ‘Please swallow that.’

Hermione took the phial and removed the stopper, immediately smelling thistles. ‘Contraceptive?’ she queried.

He nodded and began to unbutton his plain white lawn shirt. Hermione was completely distracted from the potion as, before her eager eyes, the shirt fell away from his chest. She saw the pectoral muscles sparsely peppered with the black hair which became more pronounced as it travelled down his abdomen, to become a thick line of ebony which disappeared into his trousers.

‘Miss Granger – I’m up here.’

Hermione jumped guiltily and looked up into his warmly amused eyes; the intimacy of his expression, and the way he deliberately held her eyes as he unfastened his belt, was dead sexy. She could scarcely breathe.

‘The potion will do you no good if you hold it in your hand,’ he said. ‘If you wish for me to come over there, you must drink it.’

His voice caressed her ears as she longed for his hands to smooth over her skin; she poured the potion down her throat in one go. He approached the bed, his trousers unbuttoned, and held out his hand for the empty phial. She dropped it into his hand, unable to resist the urge to tilt her head and to press her lips to the bare skin of his ribcage, the bones far too evident on his thin frame.

He froze when her lips made contact with his skin, and she was conscious of a shudder running through his body, muscles quivering with sensation. In one swift movement he removed his trousers and pants and stretched out beside her, his flesh pale in the candlelight.

Hermione felt the passion pounding in her with more insistence than ever before, like a pulse beating in her quim, eager for penetration. She shrugged out of the dressing gown and moved against him, feeling his skin upon hers and moaning aloud in anticipation. He rose over her, allowing his eyes to travel down her body, and she could clearly see from his expression that he found her desirable – and his jutting erection, purplish against his white skin, bespoke his eagerness, as well.

His face descended and their lips touched, a hot, open-mouthed kiss in which he swiftly expressed his dominance, his tongue invading and claiming. Hermione gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed her breath, his hands now upon her breasts, inflaming her beyond reason. How she had hungered for his touch! He teased her nipples with his fingers, followed by his burning lips, and his hands moved down first to stroke her flank, then gently to squeeze her bum, and finally to touch her at her drenched centre. She bucked against hand, shameless with desire.

When at long last he moved between her legs, she eagerly embraced him with her arms, urging him on. He positioned himself to enter her and watched her face as he pushed into her body; Hermione was conscious of an impression of fullness, far beyond how his fingers had felt, and then the conflagration of her need for him flared and she wrapped her legs about his hips, urging him in further, ever further. A very distant sensation of pain touched her awareness, but it was far overshadowed by the rapture of joining with him and feeling the fire ignite within him as well. He loomed over her, supporting himself on his elbows, his black eyes glittering as he thrust into her body, visibly as transported by their passion as she was.

Her climax, when it came, was of such a violent nature that she saw lights before her eyes as she screamed his name; had she not already been climbing again to a new peak, she might have lost consciousness. As it was, she clung to his striving form, her sensible-length fingernails leaving indentations in his shoulders that would not fade for two full weeks. She could hear his rapid breathing and was aware of every ridge upon his penis as it moved with ever-increasing speed in and out of her body, stroking her clitoris with every pass. Her next orgasm, coming as it did in conjunction with his, did take her outside herself for a time, and she felt as if she was a wisp of cloud, floating softly in the night sky.

Then he moved from her embrace, and her eyes opened; he was kneeling between her legs, and she could feel his fingers, gently probing what was now a very sore part of her body.

‘Sleep with me,’ she murmured, reaching a hand to him, feeling so exhausted that it was a miracle she could lift her hand.

He moved again, placing an object on his bedside table, and he sat upon the bed, his back to her. ‘I can sleep on the sofa in the sitting room,’ he said over his shoulder, his former reticence in place once more.

‘You bloody well won’t,’ she said crossly, and with a super-human effort, she struggled into a sitting position, wrapped her arms about his shoulders, and allowed herself to fall backwards to the welcoming bed again.

She heard his chuckle, then was gathered into his arms; sighing as she relaxed into this haven, Hermione drifted toward dreamless sleep, her last conscious moment marked by a quick tightening of his arms about her torso, and the uttering of one word in his silken voice:

‘Mine.’

---

A/N: Beta reading thanks to DeeMichelle and Brit-picking kudos to MagicAlly.

The "goody trail" was added to this chapter for minuet99, who knows why! She demanded that I include the following photograph with this chapter. This is Alan Rickman, circa 1984, when he was thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight - just like Severus is in this story.

*smirk*

To view the picture, copy and paste the address below into your browser window:
http://i50.photobucket.com/albums/f304/akathryna/LuckyChance.jpg