The Love You Take

A/N: This chapter is over twice as long as the longest one in this story, which is why it has taken me so long to update. There are lemons galore herein, but I hope you can see the exquisite agony as well as the ecstasy. Sshg316, my darling Shug, has informed me that I really need to remove this story from the PWP category, for there is far too much plot. I tell you that as a warning, in case you do not care for too much plot with your lemons.

Extra special love to DeeMichelle, who, in addition to beta-reading this chapter, babied me through the middle bits where I was wibbling and wanting to quit. Love to MagicAlly, who does her damnedest to scrub all the Yankisms out of my stories. Mistakes are mine.
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The Love You Take


Chapter 8: Imbroglio


Hermione was startled when the acid tones woke her from a deep sleep.

‘Wake up, Miss Granger!’

Her eyes flew open. She was in Professor Snape’s bedroom, in his bed, and she was naked. Every available candle was lit, filling the room with more light than she had seen in these rooms all weekend. Standing at her side, looking down at her with a terrible sneer, was her Potions master. He was fully dressed in his black teaching robes, and he towered over her, remote and cold, like a distant star. Clutching the bedclothes to her neck, she stared up at him questioningly.

‘What’s happened, sir?’

He removed a gold watch from his pocket and flipped it open, turning the face to her. ‘Morning has happened, Miss Granger,’ he replied tersely. ‘Monday morning, to be precise. You will return to your so-called normal life today.’

Hermione felt the blow of his disdain as if he had struck her with his fist. Less than two hours ago, he had woken her and made love to her with such unspoken intensity that she had been utterly transported. Why was he behaving this way now?

His lips thinned as he watched her emotions flicker across her face, and when he crossed his arms over his chest, she struggled to school herself. She would not reveal her hurt to him – he obviously could not be trusted, and she certainly could not judge his moods. She had been under the impression that they had come to some sort of understanding in the last forty-eight hours, yet he was behaving as if none of their interactions had ever occurred!

‘It is 5:30,’ he snarled. ‘You have to return to your room and make your preparations for the day before your join your House for breakfast in the Great Hall. Before that, we must discuss how we will proceed. Do you think you can manage to dress yourself and join me in the sitting room?’

Hermione made no effort to answer him, for he had spun on his heel and swept from the room before she could do so. At the foot of the bed, she found the clothes she had worn the night she had been taken by the Death Eaters; obviously, he meant for her to put them on. Defiantly, she stood and pulled on the garish green satin dressing gown, allowing it to trail behind her like a queen’s train as she followed him into the sitting room.

He stood before the mantel, his hands clasped behind his back, resembling a great bat. Hermione stopped behind the sofa and stared at him, her chin lifted mutinously. Damned if she would sit down and let him lord it over her.

‘Sit!’ he barked.

‘After you,’ she said with exaggerated politeness, adding sarcastically, ‘sir.’

It seemed to Hermione and her sweating palms that she and the professor glared at one another for an eternity, but at last he sat in his chair, and she responded by sitting on the sofa, tucking her feet in the folds of the dressing gown.

‘The headmaster has provided an explanation for your absence for the weekend,’ Professor Snape stated, producing a parchment envelope from his robes. ‘Please familiarise yourself with the information therein, Miss Granger – pretend it is a textbook, and soon you will be able to regurgitate it word-for-word, upon command.’ He smiled nastily as he extended the envelope to her, malice dancing in his glittering black eyes.

Her lips pressed together to prevent her from answering in kind, Hermione took the envelope and stowed it in a pocket. Why was he speaking to her this way? He was deliberately saying hurtful things – she could almost sense him reaching for the most cutting remark in his arsenal each time he opened his mouth. Why had she never seen this about him before? If was almost transparently obvious.

Next he produced a pair of Galleons, identical to the ones Dumbledore’s Army had used, during the reign of Dolores Umbridge, to communicate the meeting times. ‘No doubt you recognize these,’ he said.

She shrugged indifferently.

‘You will carry this token with you at all times, Miss Granger,’ he said, clearly irritated by her shrug. ‘When you find yourself in discomfort due to curse-related symptoms, you will send me a message, and I will make the necessary arrangements to meet with you. If you do not hear from me to the contrary, you will proceed to my office. Is that clear to you?’

Hermione, who felt the horrific stirring of the need even now, responded by hunching her shoulder at him.

She startled when he slapped the table top, the sound seeming to echo in the small room. ‘Answer me, girl!’

Goaded, Hermione rose and flounced out of the room, her dignity somewhat impaired by the over-large dressing gown. All she wanted was the sanctuary of the next room, where she could close the door upon his hateful face and try to work out how she would get through the day without coming to him for surcease of the damned compulsion!

Her feelings finding some relief in the satisfying bang! of the slamming door, she settled for mere hiccupping sobs as she shrugged out of the professor’s dressing gown and reached for her bra. How could he be so physically tender to her one moment and so verbally vicious and petty in the next? He was worse than any boy her own age could ever be!

A wave of desire passed over her and she sobbed a little louder in sheer frustration – she should be able to overcome these feelings! She was the brightest witch of her age – everyone said so! Her intellect should be able to rule the impulses of her body!

With shaking hands, she wrapped the bra around herself backwards and upside down, fumbling ineffectively with the hooks. She would go to her room and wash in her shower and dress in her clothes and go to breakfast with her friends and go to her classes – and all would be as it had been before the dark-cloaked, masked figures had stepped out of the shadow of the forest and changed everything. It had to be!

The involuntary swelling of her genitals, accompanied by the copious lubrication, made each movement a titillation; she fought to concentrate, struggling to fasten the hooks of her bra, in spite of her shaking hands. No! She would not be weak! She would outlast this urgency; if she did not give in, it would pass, and in time, the desire would stop occurring – wouldn’t it? Surely this was no worse than a Muggle drug addict fighting the jones for a fix – she could and would go cold turkey on Severus Snape! Oh, dear Merlin, she simply could not be subject to his horrible contempt from now until the fall of Voldemort! It was too much!

Really – she would rather be dead.

Giving up on the impossible bra hooks, she hurled the offending garment across the room and resorted to pulling on her jumper; if she was careful about how she moved, no one would notice her breasts bouncing. Her breasts … oh, how they ached; the knit of the jumper rasped over erect nipples, sending jolts straight to her throbbing quim.

She was crying in earnest now, anger, annoyance and acrimony combining with the bloody curse to wrench emotional control from her reason, handing it over to her blazing need.

He was upon her before she knew he was in the room, wrapping his arms around her from behind and lifting her bodily from the floor.

‘Put me down!’ she screeched. ‘I hate you! Let me go!’ Kicking and striking out with her fists, she landed a blow to his jaw before he pushed her onto the mattress and restrained her by the simple expedient of using his greater weight to pin her to the bed. ‘No! Get away!’ she cried.

Ruthlessly, his face pinched with concentration, he grasped her jaw with ungentle fingers on either side of her chin, and he stared unflinchingly into her tear-drenched brown eyes. Exposed, Hermione felt all of her thoughts and emotions spinning through her mind like film from a spool, every pathetic hope for overcoming the Eternus Perturbatio, every spiteful thought in response to his cruelty, every encounter they had shared in the last sixty hours, all laid bare for his probing, inquisitive mind.

At length, he released her face, and had she been standing, Hermione would have fallen from the sensation of being pushed from him. As it was, she was flooded upon his liberation of her mind by what felt like a doubled need to come.

‘I hate you!’ she repeated before craning her neck to kiss him with such force that their teeth clashed. She tasted blood and did not know if it was his or hers, but she did not care; she had to have him – had to have him now.

‘Spiteful cat!’ he snarled, pulling back from her, a bead of blood upon his broken lower lip. ‘Stop or I’ll bind your hands!’

The desire pounding in her blood stepped up a notch at this suggestion and she leant forward to lick the drop of blood from his lip. ‘Please, sir – please bind my hands.’

Swearing, he did as she asked, capturing her wrists and magically securing them over her head – it felt as if a soft yet strong cord bound her wrists together and secured them to a stationary object – such as the bedstead. The sensation of helplessness added to her excitement as he loomed over her, alien in his teaching robes, but she knew from the set of his mouth that he would do what needed to be done. And oh, sweet Merlin, she needed it badly.

‘The potion is …’ she began, her traitorous body writhing beneath him, seeking to make contact in every possible way.

‘…unnecessary,’ he replied, reaching between them and then repositioning himself, his hardness slipping within her with a sure thrust of his hips.

She wrapped her legs around him, knowing he had reviewed her memories of each time they had done this before, knowing she should be angry with him for the violation, but needing his cock in her quim too badly to be able to act upon her knowledge.

And he seemed to be putting what he had learnt to good account, kissing her deeply, invading her mouth with his tongue and mimicking the movements of their lower bodies in such a way that she felt her orgasm coming at her from a great distance, and she was aware of each connected sensation as the synapses fired in succession. She was pushed to the peak as if propelled from behind by a meteor, then she leapt from summit to summit, maintaining a level of arousal so intense for so long that she continued to shudder with reverberations long after he came with a roar, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck tensed with effort.

He maintained his place, his slackening cock in her body, his weight supported on his arms, as he watched over her and the after-shocks of her orgasms. When at least she ceased to gasp, he released her hands and slipped to the side, pulling her securely into his arms, one long-fingered hand repeatedly smoothing her hair until she also ceased to quiver.

‘I hate you,’ she said groggily, his robes fisted in her hands, her lips pressed to the pulse beating in his throat.

‘It is the only sensible course of action,’ he murmured to her, cradling her as he might a blown-glass figurine.

Hermione realised, without knowing why, that it was as close to an apology as she would get.

---

Standing before the mirror in her own room, dressed in her school robes, she studied herself, looking for some sign of the terrible thing that had happened to her or of the life she had been living for the last few days. In her skirt pocket resided the fake Galleon bearing the Protean Charm; in the zippered bag containing her personal toiletry items was the herbal mixture in which the professor had had her bathe twice a day for the soreness and chafing of her tender places. Hidden deep in her trunk, wrapped in a pair of old socks, was an odd-looking item which Professor Snape had handed her last of all, just before she Flooed from his quarters to hers.

‘What is it, sir?’ she had asked, her ever-present curiosity overriding the vague unease she had felt about returning to her normal routine.

‘Research the Nexus,’ he had advised. ‘When you have done so, we can discuss it.’

That, however, was for later. Just now, other than her shadowed eyes, she could see no obvious indication of her worst weekend ever. Undressed, the marks of her professor’s hands showed at her waist, but fully dressed, there was nothing. The unobservant boys, her best friends, would probably not notice her wan, weary look.

With a final twitch of her robes, Hermione made her way down to the Gryffindor Common Room. As she came to the landing, she saw Harry and Ron sitting on straight chairs which had been moved to face the stairwell. The expressions of joyful relief on their dear faces as they caught sight of her gladdened her heart. She ran down the last few steps and launched herself at them, crying and laughing simultaneously as they engaged in a three-way hug.

‘Are you all right?’ Harry asked at last, holding her at arm’s length, his hands upon her shoulders.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said.

‘What happened?’ Ron asked urgently.

‘Ron – no!’ Harry cut across him. ‘We promised Dumbledore.’

Hermione gave Harry a grateful smile, then said to Ron, ‘I do want to tell you about it – but not just now. Let’s go down to breakfast.’

The boys agreed, and the three exited the portrait hole and set out along the corridor in silence. Desperate to relieve the tension, Hermione said, ‘So, how was team practice on Saturday?’

She was quite gratified when Ron began to eagerly recount his many saves, and she struggled to concentrate on the Quidditch pitch, rather than reflecting upon what she had been doing with her professor on Saturday.

---

Severus straightened his shoulders, consciously occluded his mind, and strode into the Great Hall through the teachers’ entrance, directly onto the raised dais. He passed his colleagues without greeting, and reaching the headmaster, he seated himself on the old man’s right.

‘Severus?’ Dumbledore said hesitantly.

‘Headmaster?’ he replied irritably, reaching for the nearest coffee pot and filling his cup with the dark roast he favoured.

‘Dear boy,’ Professor Dumbledore said, ‘your lip ….’

Severus closed his eyes, furious with himself. He had forgotten to heal the split lip the girl had given him – and judging by the headmaster’s disturbed look, the glancing blow to his face had left him with a shiner, as well. Bugger!

‘Did you perhaps engage in fisticuffs on the way to breakfast?’ Dumbledore asked, his tone now betraying his amusement.

Severus felt quite sure the old duffer knew precisely how he had sustained his injuries. Damn the wench to hell!

‘Oh, dear me, no,’ he replied smoothly, aware that all his colleagues within hearing distance were straining to eavesdrop. ‘I slipped in the shower this morning, and I thought Poppy could do a better job of healing it than I.’ He turned his head suddenly, his scathing glance flitting past Flitwick, Vector, and McGonagall to fall upon the school matron with a challenging stare. ‘Isn’t that right, Poppy?’

The matron hurried into speech. ‘Of course, Severus – directly after breakfast! I have some nice, fresh dittany – there won’t be a scar to be seen!’

Severus nodded to the old hag before chancing a look down at the Gryffindor table. There she was, the author of his embarrassment, chattering with her two dunderheaded acolytes as if she had not spent the last two days fucking her Potions teacher like a brazen harlot. How lovely for her that her so-called life continued on unchanged!

In that moment, she looked up at him, as if she had heard his disrespectful appellation for her. The expression in her eyes, undeniably clear, even from this distance, was one of ineffable sadness.

He knew, then: She performed for her friends just as he performed for his fellow teachers. Her thoughts, like his, were back in his bedroom, where they had coupled repeatedly. She was not carefree, regardless of appearances.

She was haunted.

---

Hermione fooled herself for a while, once she was ensconced amongst her friends, that everything was the same – that nothing had changed – that she had not changed. But then her eyes fell on Ginny, spreading jam on Neville’s toast as he sweetened her tea, and on Harry, exchanging a tender smile with Luna Lovegood, who sat at the Ravenclaw table, and she had to face it: Her life was forever changed. She had eagerly – if insanely – given up her virginity to a man twenty years her senior – a man, moreover, who despised her and everyone she loved. She had pursued him, begged him, kissed him, and had his vicious mouth on every intimate place on her body – and she would do it again and again and again. No matter how cruelly he spoke to her, no matter how egregiously he violated her privacy (no matter how assiduously he pursued her pleasure – no matter how many times he brought her to gibbering, shuddering completion) – she would yet beg of him to take her to his bed and fuck her with his cock until she came. She would probably say it just like that, too – for had she not this very morning said the word aloud for the first time in her life? Moaned it in his ear, asking for more, harder …?

She felt, in that instant, that his eyes were upon her, and she turned to face him, a shattered spirit, bereft of every ounce of pride she had ever possessed. Their eyes met, and she knew he felt as much separated from the people and the happenings surrounding him as did she. For the second time since her life had ceased to be her own, they looked into one another’s eyes and recognized a kindred soul.

He was not untouched – he was haunted by these happenings as surely as she was.

---

The compulsion did not begin to stir until she was in her second class, and when it did, there were no preliminary twinges: It fell upon her like a wave upon the shore and washed her away as if she had no moorings.

She was desperately glad that there were only fifteen minutes of her Charms class left to endure. The next period was a free one for her. Making an excuse to Harry and Ron, she headed for the library, pulling the coin from her pocket and touching it with her wand as she hurried towards the dungeons, too distraught to think to check and make sure the boys were not following her. All she could focus on was reaching Professor Snape’s office. Once she did, she would be all right – he would make it stop.

He opened the office door before she could knock, and she practically fell into his arms. With a muttered oath, which sounded like, ‘Merlin’s Hairy Nuts,’ he thrust her behind him and closed the office door, warding against intrusion and adding a Silencing Spell. That done, he turned to her with a scowl.

‘Kindly save your raptures until the door is closed behind you,’ he snapped. ‘Do you want every casual passer-by to see you throwing yourself at me?’ He sneered nastily. ‘I’m sure my credit can withstand the gossip, but I’m not so sure about yours.’

Hermione ignored him, frantically unfastening her robes and pushing them off, her breathing ragged with need. Frowning, he stilled her hands. ‘How long have you been like this?’ he demanded. ‘Didn’t we discuss not letting it progress to this stage?’

‘Make it stop!’ she screeched, pulling her hands from his. ‘No talk!’

A man of action, her professor moved to his chair, tugging her along by the wrist and pulling her onto his lap. Without another word, he fastened his lips to hers, his tongue immediately invading her mouth, one hand buried in her hair, the other skimming purposefully up beneath her skirt. Hermione latched onto his tongue, stroking it with her own whilst she tried clumsily to unbutton his shirt, but she was effectively halted when he magicked her knickers off.

‘How did you …?’ she gasped, distracted, but his fingers sought and found her centre, and she moaned loudly, still clawing ineffectually at his shirt front. ‘Hurry!’

‘Relax,’ he murmured, the liquid velvet of his voice caressing her psyche, and at his suggestion, she sagged against him, ceasing her efforts to undress him. ‘Good girl,’ he crooned, two fingers slipping up her channel as his thumb began to circle inexorably.

She caught the lobe of his ear between her teeth and nipped before trailing kisses down to his throat, her soaking quim moving in rhythm with his fingers. ‘Intercourse lasts longer,’ she reminded him, gasping as he varied his activity and plucked at her clitoris.

‘No time,’ he said, sliding his other hand up her side to seek out and find a nipple through her clothing. He mimicked his plucking motion and she nearly arched off his lap as the jolt rushed through her body, an orgasm sending her gasping cries ricocheting about amongst the specimen jars on his shelves. When she had quieted somewhat, he said, ‘That should hold you until lunch. I will be in my quarters if you should have need of me.’

Hermione stood, calmer now, and looked around the floor. ‘Where are my knickers?’

His face was expressionless, save for the eyebrow which quirked up at her question. ‘I Vanished them.’

Hermione turned on him, scowling. ‘I’m supposed to go to Arithmancy without underpants?’

His lips thinned. ‘I didn’t hear you objecting at the time.’

She turned her back on him, huffing, and went to retrieve her robes from the floor. As she fastened them, she closed her eyes, her shoulders sagging. What sort of loathsome person came running down to her teacher for a quick finger-fuck in the middle of the morning? How was she ever going to survive this curse?

Almost as if he was reading her mind, Professor Snape spoke from behind her, his voice devoid of the derogatory maliciousness with which he had greeted her. ‘The first seventy-two hours of the curse will be up sometime after midnight, tonight. At that point, according to all the texts we have read, the symptoms will become less frequent.’

Hermione turned to face him, trying to remember that he hated this every bit as much as she did; the curse had hijacked his life as surely as it had done hers. ‘Thank you for reminding me,’ she said quietly. ‘I – I’ll see you at lunch, then.’

He sat in the chair behind his desk in his teaching robes, his greasy black hair and ugly hooked nose marking him surely as her Potions master, but the smear of her lipstick on his cheek and the slick of her secretions on his fingers marked him just as surely as her lover.

Hermione took up her book bag and rushed from his office towards her Arithmancy class, wondering if anything in her life would ever make sense again.

---

‘Hermione, you look all sweaty,’ Harry said, concerned. ‘Are you feeling sick? We could take you to see Madam Pomfrey.’

Hermione clutched her bag to herself and gave Harry and Ron a grimace. They never used to come and find her after Arithmancy! ‘I think I’ll just have a bit of a lie-down during lunch,’ she lied, the pull of her need making it difficult for her to stand and talk to her friends. ‘I’m just tired.’

Ron frowned. ‘We’ll walk with you,’ he said, taking her elbow and gently propelling her in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione balked. ‘There’s no need, Ron – really ….’

Harry lifted the strap of her book bag onto his shoulder. ‘We were worried about you all weekend,’ he explained, ‘and you’re not exactly setting our minds at rest now, Hermione. We’ll walk with you.’

Acquiescing to the inevitable, Hermione led the way to Gryffindor Tower, too agitated for casual conversation. He had said if she would come at lunch they could do it properly – and maybe that would get her through her afternoon classes. Then, she could go back to the professor’s quarters and remain there until the seventy-two hour limit was passed ….

‘…Hermione?’ Harry asked.

‘She’s not listening to you, mate,’ Ron advised, glancing over at her as they walked. ‘She’s a million miles away.’

Hermione wrenched her mind from the professor’s bed back to her present companions. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking about all the homework we have to do.’

She could tell by the eye-rolling over her head that the boys bought her explanation. It was a lucky thing, because she was swiftly losing her ability to exchange small talk.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Harry asked as they paused at the bottom of the staircase to the girls’ dormitory.

‘I’m sure a nap will set me right,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in Transfiguration.’

With some reluctance, they allowed her to escape up to her room. Hermione knew she ought to be thankful for such caring friends, but their solicitousness was giving her the urge to scream. Locking her door, she stepped into the Floo and said, ‘Professor Severus Snape’s quarters.’

She stepped onto the hearth rug and found him in his armchair, reading a periodical. She did not speak to him, or he to her. She dropped her book bag on the hearth and headed for the bedroom, shedding clothing as she went. When she arrived at the bedside, she wore only her skirt, which she stepped out of before climbing up on the mattress.

He was right behind her, leaning negligently in the doorway, his hands reposing in his trousers pockets. ‘I see you still haven’t found any knickers to wear,’ he commented.

‘Please don’t make me wait,’ she grated, glaring at him. ‘You said I could come at lunch if I had need of you ….’

He did not speak again, but began to undress as he approached the bed, taking care to place his clothing neatly upon the bedside chair. Hermione waiting with gritted teeth, sweat glistening upon her face, incipient tremors beginning in her deep muscles. Struggling to keep her voice under control, she said, ‘You’ve forgotten the potion.’

He turned from disposing his black socks in his black boots, saying, ‘It is unnecessary,’ and Hermione saw this to be true. He came onto the bed and moved over her swiftly, wasting no time on preliminaries. Indeed, foreplay was unnecessary for her; she was in an advanced state of arousal before he touched her.

Nudging her knees apart, he entered her with one swift thrust, and she cried out in relief, her body immediately synching to his rhythm. Upon his face was an expression of intense concentration, but he was not looking at her; he seemed to be looking at the wall behind the bed, his lips moving silently.

Her interest in his extracurricular activities deserted her abruptly as her first climax rippled through her consciousness; she wrapped her legs about his hips, quickening her own movements, driven by a compulsion much stronger than her reason. The next peak glimmered in her mind, behind her closed eyes, and she strove to reach it, seeking relief.

Cresting again with an inarticulate cry, her eyes flew open and she found the professor’s gaze fastened upon her face, his eyes glittering behind half-closed lids, his lips still moving. Her direst need assuaged, Hermione watched him as he laboured over her, and she reached her hands to stroke his flanks. When she touched him with her hands, he groaned aloud, saying, ‘Ununbium!’ before his completion quaked through him, and he promptly slid to her side, his eyes closed, his breath coming in panting gasps.

Hermione rolled on her side to watch him, a frown upon her face. When he seemed to be breathing more easily, she said, ‘What did you say, sir?’

His eyes opened to slits and he glared at her. ‘Ununtrium,’ he snapped.

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. ‘No you didn’t! You said “Ununbium” – you were reciting the periodic table!’

The black eyes closed again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Hermione could not fathom why a person would recite the periodic table of elements whilst engaging in intercourse, but she could not understand much at all about her professor and his interactions with her. She decided it was not worth her while to question him about it. She was hungry and her lunch period was very nearly over.

She slipped from the bed and bent to retrieve her skirt. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely.

He lay upon the white counterpane, his forearm thrown over his eyes, unconcerned by his nudity. Without looking at her, he said, ‘If you look upon the coffee table in the sitting room, you’ll find a tray of sandwiches covered by a tea towel. Eat before you leave.’

‘I will,’ she said, and her stomach rumbled in agreement. To her surprise, a grin touched his lips, but he still did not look at her. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, feebly, and retraced her steps back into the sitting room, picking up and donning clothing as she went.

The tray held not only sandwiches, but delicious crunchy pickles and large slabs of cake. Hermione ate some of everything, relishing the food. She heard the shower running in his bathroom, but he did not emerge again before she had to Floo back to her room. Conscientiously covering the food again with the tea towel, she picked up her book bag and departed.

---

Harry and Ron were waiting for her again in the common room when she ran down the stairs.

‘We were going to send Ginny up to look for you,’ Ron grumbled.

‘Do you feel better?’ Harry asked, looking at her closely. ‘You still look a bit peaky, to me.’

‘I’m a little better,’ she said. ‘I’ll make a really early night of it tonight, and hopefully I’ll be fine by tomorrow.’

They headed through the portrait and began the trek to Professor McGonagall’s classroom, Ron throwing frequent looks at her from the corner of his eyes. ‘The weekend must have been very tiring for you,’ he said cautiously.

Hermione tensed, hoping Harry would say something, but he simply waited to see how she would respond.

‘Yes, it was tiring,’ she agreed. ‘The curse is very taxing on my strength.’ There. She had mentioned the curse – and it was taxing on her strength, in a way.

Ron opened his mouth to ask another question, but Harry frowned him down. ‘I’m going to help the headmaster find a counter-curse for you, Hermione,’ he said quietly. ‘I won’t rest until we’ve found one.’

Oh, for the love of Merlin! Hermione thought. The very last thing I need is to have Harry hovering over me now.

Hermione cast her eyes down. ‘Thanks, Harry,’ she said softly. She would just have to find a way to distract him – life was going to be complicated enough until Voldemort died without having to dodge Harry every time she needed to visit the dungeons.

---

They were half-way through double-Herbology with the other N.E.W.T.-level students when the compulsion came upon her again. Hermione clutched the wooden table at which she was standing with Harry, Ron, and Neville Longbottom, her head down, her eyes closed. Within seconds she could feel a touch of moisture at the top of her thighs.

She had to have it now.

‘Miss Granger?’

Professor Sprout was at her side, having been motioned over by the boys, who were seriously alarmed by Hermione’s state. The kindly older witch bent her face close to Hermione’s. ‘Is it that time of the month?’ she murmured.

Grasping at the proffered straw, Hermione nodded. ‘I need to go to my room,’ she said.

Rushing up to the castle from the greenhouses, Hermione felt the need upon her like a menacing presence in her mind. She had had no concept of how difficult it would be for her to be constantly overcome with these horrible, inappropriate feelings in the middle of a normal day. What had come to seem normal when she was living in the isolation of her professor’s rooms was simply humiliating in the context of her real life. She would almost rather be dead.

She entered the castle and headed straight for the dungeons, her inner guidepost directing her adamantly to the source of her relief. Reaching the corridor to his classroom, she increased her speed to a near run, until she flung open the door and stood, panting, in the doorway.

She could not tell what year was in session, for she did not recognize any of the students, but their robes proclaimed them to be Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. The students all turned to look at her, curiosity written on their faces, but it was the pinched face of Professor Snape which struck such fear into her heart that, for a moment, the compulsion gave way to a stronger force.

He was seated at his desk, marking papers whilst the students brewed their potions. His eyes blazed at her, and the Galleon in her skirt pocket suddenly weighed very heavily against her thigh – she had forgotten all about warning him of her condition and of her approach, had completely failed to follow his instructions to go to his office, not to his classroom – and now twenty lower-form students were looking furtively from her to their professor and back, wondering what would happen next.

‘You may come in, Miss Granger,’ Professor Snape said smoothly, his slightly bored tone masking perfectly the anger she had glimpsed in his eyes.

Hermione closed the door and made her way past the tables and through the billowing steam from the many cauldrons.

‘I would advise you all to return to your brewing, if you do not wish to receive zeros for today’s lesson,’ he added in a deliberately cutting tone.

All of the students turned instantly back to their cauldrons; no one cared to earn a zero for the day. Hermione passed by the first row of desks and stopped before her professor’s desk, the sight of him bringing the compulsion back at double the strength. She placed one trembling hand upon his desk top, her eyes beseeching him. She knew he was, again, probing her mind without her permission before he spoke again.

‘Very well, Miss Granger; I believe we have that potion in the storeroom, but you will have to search for it.’ He stood, nodding tersely towards the door of his private storeroom. ‘You will all remain on task in my absence; anyone whose assignment is found to be incomplete at the end of class will lose five House points. Is that clear?’

Hermione reached the door and was relieved to find it unlocked; she heard the students chorusing, ‘Yes, Professor Snape,’ behind her as she passed into the large cupboard, lined on three walls with shelves that reached to the ceiling.

He passed through the door and closed and locked it behind him, casting a Silencing Spell and a Muffliato Spell as well. Hermione opened her mouth to speak but the words were stilled upon her lips as his hands gripped her waist and lifted her to sit upon a narrow table which had not been there before. Stepping between her legs, he unfastened her cloak and her robes with sure fingers, then patiently unbuttoned her white school blouse. A murmured spell Vanished her bra, and she wondered dimly if she would have any clothes left by the time this curse was lifted.

He fell upon her with a sweeping impact, both of his hands going beneath her skirt, two fingers of one hand slipping into her vagina, two fingers of the other hand beginning with her clitoris, his head descending to suck her nipple into his warm mouth. Hermione gave herself bonelessly into his keeping, biting her lip to keep from moaning her appreciation of his efforts.

He moved his lips from one nipple to the other, his manner urgent, but his movements languid. When the first orgasm radiated from the combined efforts of his hands and his mouth, she wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth up to hers, invading it with her tongue, biting at his lips and bucking against his hands, seeking and finding a second release.

To her surprise, rather than stepping away from her, his hands rose to pull her more tightly against him, one at the small of her back, the other at the back of her head, holding her head still as he retaliated, kissing her fiercely, wildly, his erection amazingly hard between them. He ground himself against her and she moaned throatily into his mouth.

‘Please,’ she gasped when he released her mouth to place burning kisses down her throat.

‘Please what?’ he taunted, apparently unmindful of the classroom of students on the other side of the door, undoubtedly wondering what could be taking their teacher so long in the storeroom.

Hermione gasped as he hefted her breasts and pressed them together, his long, serpentine tongue darting out to swipe from one turgid nipple to the other and back again. He lifted his face then, his black eyes blazing with intensity as he held her gaze and deliberately took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, steadily applying equal pressure until her eyes closed and she whimpered with pleasure.

His teeth nipped at a sensitive spot on her throat, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. ‘Please what?’ he demanded again, his lips upon her ear, his tongue now lightly tracing its outer shell.

‘Please fuck me!’ she gasped, quivering in his arms. The compulsion was past, assuaged; she now trembled for him and him alone.

With infinite gentleness, he buttoned her blouse, fastened her robes, and clasped her cloak at her throat. ‘No,’ he said at last, lifting her from the table and setting her upon her feet. He cast a Cleansing Charm first upon her, then upon himself.

Hermione simply stood and stared at him, feeling weak-kneed and exhausted. Avoiding her eyes, he reached up to a high shelf and brought out a tray of phials, each containing the Potency Potion; he placed this in her hands.

‘Bring that with you, tonight,’ he said and removed the wards from the door, striding back to his desk.

Hermione followed him out, feeling terribly flushed and dishevelled.

‘Tell Professor Flitwick no more than one dose per hour,’ he instructed her, a faint trace of amusement lurking in his eyes.

‘Yes, sir,’ Hermione answered automatically.

He picked up his quill again and began to mark the parchments upon his desk; Hermione weaved her way back through the younger students, glad of the billowing mists to disguise her confusion.

---

Hermione started when the headmaster materialised behind the boys as they sat at dinner in the Great Hall that night.

‘Hello, sir,’ she said, causing Harry and Ron to look behind themselves and to greet the old man as well.

‘Miss Granger, you will be making an early night of it, tonight?’ Professor Dumbledore inquired with courteous concern.

‘Yes, Headmaster, I thought I would,’ Hermione agreed, feeling a faint flush touch her cheeks.

‘Excellent,’ the old wizard said. ‘Harry, perhaps you and Mr Weasley can make sure no one disturbs her rest?’

After dinner, Hermione sighed with relief as she left the boys in the common room and climbed to her bedroom. For tonight, at least, she was free from the interfering good wishes of her best friends.

---

It was a fortunate thing for them that the Potency Potion worked as well as it did, for she turned to her teacher for assistance no fewer than five times before midnight. After the fifth time, she retired to his bathroom to soak in the healing herbs which soothed her sore genital tissues; she was horrified when the pressure of the curse came upon her again. Exhausted and discouraged, Hermione gave in to tears. She sat in the warm water of the ancient marble tub in Professor Snape’s bathroom, her knees pulled up to her chest, and cried her frustration.

He entered the room so quietly that she was unaware of him until he helped her from the bath and stood her upon the Slytherin green rug, drying her with one of the fluffy bath towels from the shelf. She hated to be so weak, but she wilted against him in her despair, and he willingly supported her. When she was dry, he lifted and carried her to the bed, stretching out beside her, his nearness a comfort to her.

‘Are you in need?’ he asked her, his brow furrowed.

Hermione nodded, tears tracing down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said desolately.

He sat up and moved to slip between her thighs, lapping at her quim with the very broadest part of his tongue, as if he were licking icing from a spoon. Instantly, she was focussed on his efforts, no longer mindful of either her weariness or her discouragement. All she knew was his mouth upon her, his lips fastened around her clitoris, sucking it into his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. The orgasms came over her one right behind the other, rattling her with the intensity, after all she had already been through since she had woken up that morning. The professor moved up again to face her, watchful, and for perhaps three minutes, she felt blessed relief. But it did not last; she stared into his face as the compulsion came upon her again.

He did not ask, but moved over her, kissing her mouth with lips still wet from her quim. With a primal sound, she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and began to suckle it greedily, sharing her own taste with him. He growled ferally and lifted one of her legs, driving into her at an angle, watching her face as he fucked her. Hermione moved with him, watching him as well, feeling the new climax building in her like an enormous thunderhead which began on the horizon and grew broader and taller as the storm grew ever closer. Some of her tension communicated itself to him and he quickened his pace; their eyes were locked as surely as were their bodies. Hermione was aware of flashes of light in the periphery of her vision, like lightning heralding the coming of the rain, and then she raked her fingernails down his back as the answering thunder impacted her. Amazingly, he seemed to feel it as well, for they gasped in unison, both refusing to look away, and they watched each other ride out the powerful completion of their combined efforts.

He slid off to lie beside her, but she clung to him, skin to skin, and he did not push her away. The carriage clock over the mantel in the sitting room chimed one A.M., and at that moment, Hermione felt the compulsion loosen its hold on her.

Gasping, she turned her face, seeking his black eyes. ‘Did you feel that?’ she whispered.

He nodded. ‘The seventy-two hour mark has been passed.’

She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. ‘I’ll be all right, now?’

‘The compulsion will come on you with less frequency,’ he replied, ‘but you will still feel it more than once per day – and you are still imprinted upon me.’

Hermione felt the exhaustion of the day creeping over her, and her eyelids fluttered closed as she moved her cheek upon his chest, making herself more comfortable. ‘Do you remember when we were in the storeroom today?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he replied dryly, causing her to open her eyes and to note his wry expression. ‘I am not likely to soon forget today in the storeroom.’

‘You know that I … came … twice with your fingers in me,’ she said, blushing a bit to be speaking such words so frankly to him.

‘Yes,’ he replied gravely, watching her with calm eyes.

‘And then you kissed me – after the compulsion had been satisfied – and I … I wanted you again. Just me, wanting you – without the curse.’ She yawned, and her eyelids fluttered closed again. ‘Isn’t that odd?’ she murmured, on the precipice of slumber.

‘Very odd, indeed,’ his voice responded, following her consciousness into sleep.