Damnation of Memory

Title: Damnation of Memory
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Suspense, romance, angst
Warnings: Character Death, Violence, Adult Situations
Summary: DH-EWE: With every generation, a Dark Wizard rises. Hermione Granger has survived one. However, after nearly thirteen years, a dead man returns to inform her that she must fight again, and this time, Harry Potter will not be the one to save the world from madness.
Author's Notes: This is my 1st full length SS/HG fic and my second 1st person POV fic. Please note that not every detail is canon, including the canon floor plan of Grimmauld Place. This chapter is also unbeta’d, so please, pardon the mistakes!




Damnation of Memory - VIII




It had seemed like an age since I had seen my friend, when in fact it had only been a few days. When I saw Percy, I honestly hoped that I was not placing him in any sort of danger or trouble with the Ministry. The need for information was far too important however.

Percy Weasley balked at the sight of me and dropped his fork onto his plate in the Thai restaurant on Cockspur Street. There were Muggles all around, but they took no notice at Percy’s gaping mouth and the splatter of sauce on his impeccable sky blue tie.

He sat alone, near the front windows, and after convincing the host I was there to ‘meet a friend,’ I was allowed in the dining area. I slipped into the seat across the table and smiled coyly. Percy, after a long moment, began blotting at the sauce on his tie with a napkin, his pale eyes moving about the restaurant. I knew that he wished he could draw his wand and Charm the stain away.

“Hermione,” he gasped in half surprise, half greeting.

I smiled as a waiter came by almost immediately upon my sitting down and set a glass of water down before me. I waved the waiter away when I expressed I had no interest in lunch.

“Where in Merlin’s name have you been?” Percy asked in an agitated whisper, pushing his plate aside to lean over the table slightly.

I winced at his mention of Merlin, surprising myself. I tried to continue smiling.

“I decided to take some time off…”

“You should have gone with Hestia for reassignment,” Percy scolded, throwing his napkin up from his lap to the side of his plate.

I shrugged. “It isn’t that important right now…” I trailed.

Percy frowned. “What are you doing with yourself then? After being so angry that your department was dissolved…”

“Just some time off, that’s all. I thought I might do some traveling,” I said softly. “But, there was something I was going to ask you, something Harry mentioned…”

“If it is Ministry business, you know that I cannot…”

I raised a hand, “I know, if I’m not currently or actively employed, there is not much you can tell me, but Perce…” I cooed, using the name I called him when it meant that I had something personal and important to say or ask. “I’m just concerned. Harry told me Malfoy Manor was attacked and that one of your agents was killed.”

Percy’s eyes hardened. “Harry should not have told you about that.”

I sighed. “Don’t be cross with Harry. He only mentioned it because I told him about your agents clearing out my office—this is between us, Perce. I’m worried…about you.”

Percy blinked and turned his sapphire eyes to his half eaten lunch.

“Do not mention this to anyone, Hermione,” he started, crossing his arms before his chest. “Not Potter, no one.”

I nodded, crossing my legs under the table nervously.

“I had to order a raid on Malfoy Manor.”

I blinked, but held my tongue.

“An order came down to confiscate an item from Malfoy Manor. Why the order did not go to the MLE, I haven’t the foggiest. What’s more, my department has been charged in investigating the theft of another item from the Lestrange House, again, a job for the MLE.

I signed the papers to confiscate the item from Malfoy Manor, but somehow, the orders were lost, misplaced, forgotten, and my men went in without any documentation.”

I said nothing, but straightened.

“And now, one of my men is dead. As much as I want to blame Malfoy, I cannot.”

Percy fell silent. I studied his face. His brow was furrowed; he was upset, just as Harry had said, however there was something about his eyes that made me feel as if Percy were keeping something from me, something important. I had not been some simple interrogator in my Auror years…

A small upwelling of distrust began in my mind. Percy was my friend, but so many things were not adding up. Percy was fastidious in everything he did; he was strict with those in his department. In many ways, Percy was a well-mannered tyrant. I had been fortunate working in his department, simply not because I was his friend, but because I was just as meticulous about my work. And because of those qualities in Percy Weasley, it was hard for me to simply believe that someone outside his reach and department were manipulating the Department of Intelligence. Percy was a control freak when it came to his status as Head. Thus, the distrust began to grow.

“I believe that the Office of the Minister is trying to lay some of the responsibility of the MLE on my department. You would know how stretched thin the MLE can be at times…”

I nodded. However, I began watching how Percy’s mouth seemed to tighten. He was holding something back, something he did not want me to know.

“I’m afraid that the Office of the Minister will try to consolidate the Department of Intelligence, combining with the MLE…”

I had begun to tune out. I watched Percy’s hands as they began to move as he spoke. Percy had always had the habit of moving his hands as he spoke when he was nervous. All I could think was: something was off. His gesticulations were too obvious; he did not realize I could tell that he was holding something back when he spoke to me.

Interrogation can be approached many ways. Suggestibility, deception, the Reid technique which employs a combination of techniques but reads much into body language, and, as a last resort, torture. Three were other lesser techniques, most employed by American law enforcement—good cop/bad cop, empathetic interrogation, and Reid… As I sat across from Percy, I knew I would have to change his line of thought, to determine his reaction and the nature of the information he was withholding.

“I heard that Horace Slughorn was found…”

Percy’s face turned stony, and then I knew.

“I heard this morning,” he said coolly.

I had not said ‘dead.’

Percy’s eyes dulled, his mouth tightening in the corners. His hands did not move when he spoke, and I knew—Percy knew something about Slughorn.

Percy spoke about trivial matters from that point on, reminding me that despite my self-imposed vacation and seemingly endless free time, he still had a job to get back to at the Ministry. I kept my talk small, all the while my brain working.

The ‘item’ to be confiscated surely was Abraxas Malfoy’s portrait, just as the ‘theft’ from the Lestrange House had been Arcturus Black’s portrait. Percy knew what was needed by whomever it was in the Ministry that was seeking out information on the Knights of Walpurgis. And now with Horace…

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to the National Gallery next week, there’s a Caravaggio show opening, I think it is combination of traveling exhibition and what the National Gallery…”

“I don’t know, Perce, I should probably get ready for whatever assignment I get when I go back to the Ministry,” I said sheepishly, a blatant lie. I did not intend to go back to the MoM.

Percy’s face softened in disappointment. “Then at least dinner sometime?”

I smiled, trying not to appear disquieted. “Of course.”



My world seemed to rotating too fast on its axis. I Flooed from the Leaky Cauldron back to Grimmauld Place, but as soon as I stepped out to find Severus at the kitchen table reading a Daily Prophet, the klaxon sounded.

The klaxon was connected to the protections of Grimmauld Place, and this particular klaxon alerted me that someone was at the front door of the house. Distantly, from Kreacher’s cellar, I could hear Walburga screeching.

I began to move, but by some feat, Severus moved before I could. He streaked from the kitchen and up the steps to the front corridor. I had only managed to make it up the kitchen stairs when the door was opened and light streamed into the house. Heavy footfalls sounded even as the klaxon, a terrible magical ringing, ended.

“Move Granger!” a raspy voice hissed in the dark as the door was slammed shut.

I nearly fell down the steps and into the kitchen as Greg Goyle pushed by me. I opened my mouth to question as he moved down into the scullery, Severus on his heels.

I lingered in the door leading down into the scullery, watching. Greg placed what seemed to be a bundle of rags upon the scullery table, stepping back as Severus stepped in.

“Kreacher!” Severus called.

The elf appeared with a low pop, and Severus began barking orders as he drew his wand.
Potions, bandages, a basin of warm water…

I shifted, slipping out of my heels, kicking them aside on the kitchen floor. Greg sank onto a stool near the sink, and it was then I began to understand what I was seeing.

Greg was shirtless, and his wide hairy barrel chest was black with blood and grime. His face was set, and cuts adorned his face. Gashes adorned his scalp and his shoulders. He clutched his wand in bloody, swollen fingers. By all appearances, Greg had been fighting with his fists and his wand.

“Hermione, see to Goyle,” Severus hissed as Kreacher returned with everything Severus had ordered, everything levitating next to the scullery table in easy reach.

I snapped to attention and moved, drawing my wand. I did not have time to see what Severus was fussing over, and moved to Greg who was breathing heavily, strained. Greg’s face seemed to soften as his chestnut brown eyes noticed and recognized me.

“What happened?” Severus snarled.

Greg licked his lips and tried to take a proper breath. I started, casting a Cleansing Charm over him, finding that not all of the blood on his large, hairy body was his. I then began casting Healing Charms on the worst of the cuts. I frowned, as the cuts did not heal well, indicating that some hex or curse had caused them.

“Ambushed…” he gasped.

Severus did not turn, as he too was casting Healing Charms on what I realized to be a person laying on the scullery table.

I healed Greg the best I could, healing the gashes and cuts as well as the cracked bones in his fists. The bruises about his ribs were alleviated, but I knew that Greg would have to rest. When I stepped back, I could see that he could breathe better, and then he began explaining…

“I was on the platform, on my way to work, when in the back of the platform, some people started screaming. I could feel it…magic. And then, there she was, pushing through the Muggles, running the best she could, straight at me. I don’t think she knew I was there, she seemed surprised…”

I turned to the figure on the table. Severus had Vanished most of the rags so that a short, old woman lay upon the table in only what looked to be a dingy full slip. Her face was bruised and bloody; as was the slip she wore. Her hair was a mess of dull grey curls, falling over the end of the table and the tips touching the floor.

Perpetua Fancourt was nearly dead, and as Severus worked, I wondered if I should call Ginny.

“She was being chased by men, and they did not care that there were Muggles around. They killed a few, I know. They blasted into the crowd, Muggles were pushed onto the tracks—it was chaos.

She grabbed a hold me of me and I knew she was hurt. I Apparated.”

I let my eyes drop to the scullery floor, but Greg continued.

“I suppose there was a tracking spell on me, ‘cause just before I went, I felt something hit me in the back.

I Apparated to my flat, a man in black was right behind. The flat was demolished. I Apparated to Hogsmeade, just in the middle of High Street, he followed me. He got off a few hexes, and I took most of them, but she…”

Greg’s mournful eyes moved to the unmoving figure of Perpetua Fancourt.

“She got a few…”

Greg rubbed his face with the back of his hand, still clutching his wand.

“I went again, this time to the countryside, I don’t know where. I tore off my jacket and shirt and went again. He did not follow.”

I raised my eyes. “How many times did you Apparate, Greg?”

“About twenty. I was afraid he’d find me…”

“Who was he?” I asked.

Greg shook his large head. “Never saw him before in my life. He and the others I saw on the platform—they were wearing black Ministry robes.”

I gritted my teeth as Severus finished his healing spells. The woman on the table seemed to have some of her colour back and was breathing easier. Greg rose from the stool and moved to the opposite side of the table from Severus.

“She’s Perpetua Fancourt,” Greg said simply. “I hadn’t even started looking for her when she found me…”

Greg gazed sadly at the woman, and as I watched, I was surprised to see emotion in Greg’s face, as if the woman were someone dear.

“How bad is she?” Greg asked Severus then.

Severus paused before speaking, a phial of potion poised to pour into the woman’s mouth.

“Her age is against her, but I’m sure with time and rest, she’ll be fine,” Severus said in a near whisper as his large hand cradled the back of the woman’s head and he poured the liquid slowly between her lips.

Perpetua Fancourt coughed and spluttered, but swallowed the potion as Greg’s hand moved to help her drink. I felt useless, watching the two men. With a grimace, I moved into the kitchen and called for Kreacher.

“Surely, there is a room somewhere in the house where we can let this woman rest?” I asked the elf.

Kreacher grunted. I took the grunt as an affirmative.

“Prepare it. Mr. Goyle will be staying as well…”

I stood in the kitchen staring at the floor.

Horace Slughorn was dead and Perpetua Fancourt targeted. I had a sinking feeling as to the welfare of Aberforth Dumbledore.



We sat on Conjured couches in the front room. I had affixed the portraits to the wall next to the Black Family tapestry. On one leather chesterfield, I sat next to Greg, facing the door, and on the other, facing the wall was Severus and Harry.

Upstairs, in a prepared bedroom, Perpetua Fancourt slept after Severus had healed her to the best of his ability. Kreacher kept check on the sleeping woman, and was instructed to come to the front room if she should wake.

It was late. Harry was exhausted, as was Greg, who both lounged on the couches, their eyes heavy. We had spoken with the portraits that stared down at us, deep in thought. Greg had elaborated on how he came to bring one of the Knights of Walpurgis to Grimmauld Place. I had added what little I had learned from Percy Weasley, including my observations. Harry had yet to add anything about the circumstances to Horace’s death.

“Murder, that is what the Ministry will rule,” was all Harry had said.

There was too much to think about.

“Someone from St. Mungo’s will perform an autopsy in the morning. We’ll know for sure then,” Harry said, breaking the silence of the room. “There were no witnesses to the event, nothing that would implicate anyone responsible.”

“Would it be a stretch to assume that it is the same people who killed the Muggles in Glasgow?” Greg asked.

Severus had found something for Greg to wear in a drawer in Sirius’ old room, an oversized Muggle shirt, and a grey button down shirt that had once been white. I figured it was something Sirius had left behind.

“’Men in black,’ or so Hermione has been calling the agents of the Department of Intelligence,” Severus corrected.

I was slightly taken aback by Severus’ voice and his utterance of my name. I glanced to him and how his elbow rested upon the arm of the couch, supporting his head and the curtain of oily, black hair.

“It is a definite possibility,” I conceded. “It could not be a coincidence that these ‘agents’ attacked Malfoy Manor, then Greg and Fancourt…”

“How many of these ‘agents’ are there?” Greg asked, turning to me.

I shook my head. “I was never privy to that sort of information. Most of the ‘agents’ were people Percy recruited personally…”

“A few came from MLE,” Harry added. “Remember?” he asked me.

I nodded. I did remember. Percy, when he was still a junior member of the Office of Ministry, began pitching the idea of the department soon after the War. He had had a list of people he claimed he wanted to help structure the new department. I had been on the list, as had Ron. There were others—Marcus Flint, Timothy Proudfoot, Ernie MacMillan.

“I did not recognize any of these ‘agents’ when I did work at the Ministry…” I began.

“Polyjuice or glamours,” Harry muttered.

I bit my lip. “You mean…”

Harry nodded. “The one that Malfoy killed in the Manor, the Williams fellow, I knew him. He used to be a hit-wizard. Not long after we arrived on the scene, we identified him. The potion must still have been active when you and Severus arrived at the Manor…”

Severus shifted, brushing his long hair back from his face. “So, in truth, we do not know who these men are?”

Harry frowned, “There had been a rumour a while back that Percy’s men were concealing their identities for matters of ‘homeland security.’ A magical Gestapo…”

Greg groaned and I shifted, the backs of my bare legs sticking to the leather of the couch.

“Have you ascertained why Horace was in Cornwall, Mr. Potter?” Arcturus asked, startling me as I had forgotten about the portraits in my weariness.

“No,” Harry sighed. “I have not been able to trace his exact movements between the time he left Hogwarts and was found floating in Portleven harbour.”

I glanced to the portraits that appeared just as dejected as I felt.

“At least Fannie is safe,” Abraxas sighed. I assumed ‘Fannie’ was Perpetua Fancourt. “For that, you should know how grateful we are, Mr. Goyle.”

Greg said nothing but tugged at the large collar of his shirt.

“For the time being, we should all get some rest,” Harry suggested. “I’ll stay here for the night. Goyle, Kreacher has a room for you on the third floor next to the old woman…”

“More respect for your elders, Potter,” Arcturus hissed. Harry paid no mind.

“I have a feeling that we might have a house full by the end of the week,” Harry finished.

I did not ask why Harry thought we might have more people the house as he rose and exited the room. Greg followed, muttering he wanted to check on ‘Fannie.’ Severus was the next to leave, and I was suddenly alone with the portraits.

“This Weasley boy, Percy, I would not trust him, Miss Granger,” Arcturus said softly.

“I am growing suspicious,” I admitted with a sigh.

“If you believe he knows more about us than he is letting on, you are most likely right to mistrust him,” Abraxas drawled.

I frowned at the two older men in the frames.

“Why do you say that?”

Both portraits grinned knowingly. “We have been talking,” Arcturus began.

“And we have been debating on why Aberforth needed you to be part of the Knights…
You see, in an unofficial capacity, I was the bard,” Abraxas said with a huff, apparently not too happy with his role. “I was a historian of sorts. Horace was the vates, the keeper of the ‘Old Ways’ and laws. Aberforth is the druid, the keeper of the secret.”

I moved on the couch to face the portraits properly.

“As the bard, I have kept the history of the Knights—the Order of Merlin, a secret. The bloodlines…”

“Which you sometimes confuse,” Arcturus muttered, still sore after the confusion about Greg’s bloodline.

Abraxas cleared his painted throat and glanced to his left toward Arcturus who was on the wall next to him in a much smaller frame.

“There have always been eight members, eight descendants of the Order, Miss Granger. Seven are born of the offspring of seven of the sisters who lived on Avalon.”

I had heard the story. There were nine sisters, of which Morgan le Fey was chief, residing on Avalon. The nine sisters were witches, by modern standards, all possessing extraordinary magical ability. I had read, when researching the validity of Arthurian legend by Wizarding standards that the nine sisters did not need to use wands to perform magic. From the simple to the complex, the nine sisters had so much magical ability that no wand was needed to either filter or amplify their power.

“There were nine sisters, seven had children of mortal men, thus seven offspring. Morgan le Fey was one of the seven, and her line descends through her son Ywain. Morgan le Fey was powerful, though her son was not. Ywain had a son by a witch, the son was Mabon, the divine son, and from Mabon, a powerful blood line was wrought through time,” Abraxas continued.

“But this is not your line, Miss Granger,” Arcturus said with a satisfied grin.

Abraxas grumbled at the interruption, but went on. “Melusine, who did not have children was one of the nine. Melusine’s two sisters, Melior and Palatyne, are part of the seven from which some of us are descended. The mother of the eighth was not a sister, but more of an attachment to the nine Morgens, Viviane, or Nimue, or whatever names you would like to call her. The eighth descendant comes from the union of Nimue and Merlin.”

I cocked my head, slightly incredulous.

“I know what you said about there being a bit of truth in every legend, but I do know my mythology. Melusine and her sisters come from French legend and have been appropriated into British legend in the Sixteenth Century. In addition, Mabon is the son of Modron, a Welsh derivative of Morgan le Fey.

And, if I am following your line of thought, you theorize that I am descended from some legendary union of Nimue and Merlin? Gentlemen, please…”

“Legend and myth do not always have it right, Miss Granger,” Abraxas grumbled, on the verge of anger. “This a truth that has been passed down through the generations. We Pure-bloods can trace our lineage. Even Half-bloods like Potter can trace their line. But you, Miss Granger, are a Mud-Muggle-born and because of that, all we have are theories.”

I did not retort.

“We can trace Potter, Goyle, Dumbledore, Fancourt, Slughorn, and even Snape, but you, Miss Granger, are a mystery. Aberforth must know your lineage, Miss Granger, or at least has come to a similar conclusion, else you would not have been contacted,” Arcturus said calmly.

“And there is also the fact that there is a member missing. Before Slughorn’s murder, there were seven…” Abraxas trailed.

“Then it is possible that I am not some legendary product of two of the most powerful magical folk in the history of Britain?” I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

The portraits said nothing.

I sighed, knowing that I was far too tired to banter with portraits of two old men any longer. I filed their theory under ‘improbable,’ and left the room.




Harry had taken his own bedroom, as I had expected. Greg was in a prepared guest room next to a small room that held a sleeping Perpetua Fancourt. Kreacher would not come when I called, as it was half the time I did call for him. I moved to the door to the boy’s bedroom, figuring that I could sleep on Jamie’s larger bed for the night.

However, as I walked down the corridor, I found that the door to Sirius’ old room was open and candlelight streamed out into the darkness. The door the Potter boy’s room was locked and would not open no matter what spell I used. I groaned softly and muttered a curse upon the nasty elf as my bare feet carried me to the open door. Awkwardness remained between Severus and I, and I knew it had to end at some point.

Standing in the door, I noticed that my carpetbag was resting on the top of the dresser and Severus was standing next to the window, looking out onto the overgrown back garden of the house. He stood in a loose pair of black pyjama pants, and no top. In the candlelight, the scars I had noticed the night before were more defined.

Severus’ over long hair fell over his shoulders, obscuring the top of the vertical scars, but as before, the pattern reminded me of wood grain. I studied his posture as he slumped forward against the wall next to the window, his right forearm lifted slightly to steady him. His shoulders were wide, his ribs tapering down to a narrow waist. Under the scars and pale skin, I could see strength, power.

Heat spread down from my belly to my core, and I grimaced as the flush of arousal seared through my body. I cleared my throat to announce that I was just in the door, and Severus turned slowly.

“Kreacher enlarged the bed,” Severus sad dully, moving away from the window.

My eyes moved to the bed, and indeed, the bed was enlarged to comfortably accommodate two people. It occurred to me that Kreacher really did hate me, after all. Elf-warding the door to the boy’s room was only the start.

“He won’t come when I call,” I murmured. “I can sleep in the front room.”

Severus did not answer, but sat down on the far side of the bed away from the door, placing his wand on the bed stand, his back to me. I crossed into the room and went to retrieve my carpetbag. I could bathe and change in the bathroom. As I took the bag down from the dresser, I heard the bed shift.

“No, you won’t.”

I turned, my bag heavy in my hand as my arm fell to my side. I found Severus staring at me, his onyx eyes glittering just as they had when I had gone out earlier in the day.

“There’s no need to sleep down there…”

I swallowed. My thighs itched to rub together and I could feel my knickers sticking to my sopping centre. I almost wished he would not speak to me, his voice sent shivers through my nerves. I also wished his black eyes were not so deep or glittered. I then wondered if he could see something in my eyes, not with Legilimency, but with something else. I quickly turned my eyes away.

“I’m going to wash up,” I murmured again, and tried my best to make my way quickly from the room without looking as if I were running away.

The bathroom offered little solace as I bathed. I wondered if I were going mad. After so many years, attraction had been the last thing on my mind. However, as I began toweling off my bare legs and hips, I could still feel an unnatural heat between my thighs. I stared into a half fogged mirror at my face and the blush that seemed to be permanently burned on my cheeks.

I was tired.

Exiting the bathroom in my old tee shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts, I carried my bag in my left hand, my wand in my right hand. I could Transfigure something to sleep on, I figured, and in the morning, find a room or closet to use as a room. Of course, I knew I could go back to Sheffield, but the idea was distasteful to me. As Severus had said, it was too isolating. A month ago, the isolation had suited me.

Sighing, I found Severus already in bed, his back to me, and the candles extinguished. I closed the door behind me, noticing that at some point the latch had been fixed from where I had kicked the door open the night before. Setting the carpetbag on the top of the dresser again, I padded to the vacant side of the bed, closest to the door.

By the time I slipped under the covers, I believed Severus to be asleep. We had at least a foot of space between us. I closed my eyes, allowing my body to comfortably fall into the enlarged mattress, my head into a new down filled pillow. I inhaled as I placed my hands over the sheets to my belly, a position I took as I tried to go to sleep.

Severus rolled onto his back, startling me, and I heard him exhale through his crooked nose loudly.

“Does this feel as ridiculous to you?”

His voice was soft, but still deep, the reverberation echoing through my chest.

I opened my eyes. “Define ‘this.’”

“Sleeping next to me.”

I licked my lips. “’Awkward’ might be a better word for it.”

“Because I am…”

Severus did not finish, but shifted again on the bed, so that he gazed into the side of my face. I could not look at him; I did not want to see what was in his eyes.

“You said that I was with you, in your dream.”

It was then I turned. I had hoped he had forgotten the night in Sheffield. Of course, I knew he would not. He was Severus Snape. He paid attention to details. I rolled onto my side until we were face to face, only the dim light from the bedroom window making it possible to see his eyes staring into mine.

“In your dream, you loved me. Why?”

I licked my lips again, for lacking of knowing how to react in a manner that would seem I was comfortable. Severus’ right thumb was on my bottom lip, suddenly, and my felt my heart give a particularly painful wrench.

“Why?” he asked again, his voice taking on a different quality than ever before. Seductive.

The pad of his thumb moved to the corner of my mouth to allow me to speak.

“I don’t know,” I whispered, my mouth dry.

His face was impassive, but his thumb brushed my lips again, tracing the outline.

“It was a dream…” I trailed as his other fingers joined in on the quest to trace my face. An uncomfortable dampness was wetting the crotch of my knickers under the boxer shorts I wore. “I wanted…”

He kissed me, but it was clumsy.

He moved on the bed and the sheets whispered against our skin. Severus’ kiss was suddenly real, deep, and I buried my fingers into his hair. I could feel his arms moving, to cradle my head and shoulders, and in return, my own arms moved of their own accord. We held each other.

It made no sense. My world was still rotating too fast.

The tip of his hooked nose brushed my cheek as our mouths opened and our tongues tangled. Heat, need, whatever one could call it, raced through me. There was something too rushed about the situation, but I did not want him to stop kissing or holding me. It was far better than my dreams.

It did stop, eventually, and Severus stared down at me, his face still impassive, but his lips visibly reddened in the poor light. My arms fell to my sides as he leaned over me.

“No one has ever loved me,” he whispered. “I don’t think I would forget that void in my memory.”

I touched his bare chest, my fingers brushing against the line of dark hair between the defined pectoral muscles to the old circular scar.

“Why would you love me, even if it were in your dreams?”

My mouth opened, and words came out, words that I had not consciously considered before.

“You were with me because you wanted to be. You loved me.”

Severus blinked, the impassivity of his face burning away to something else, something I could not identify. He leaned down on his elbows so that his face was only inches from mine.

“I don’t know you, Hermione Gragner,” he whispered and my heart fractured. His words had not been cold or cruel, but they were true. He did not know me, and if he did not know me, how could he ever love me?

A dream was a dream, after all. Even in my waking hours, I did not wish someone to love me, and I did not know if I could love anyone. I did not know what love was—I only knew what it was to love something that was dead. A mother’s love is different from the love between a man and woman, and I had never really had that, even with Ron.

Oh, but I wanted to know what it was to love. I knew there would be good times and bad, I had had that facsimile with Ron. Love, out of some self-imposed obligation, it, in the end, was not love at all.

I turned my face away and into the pillow. However, pale hands grasped my face and again, Severus kissed me. I had so much self-pity buried deep in my soul that it made me sick.

It was wrong. It was unfair. I felt as if my heart was being broken, yet my body wanted to hold him inside for as long as he would let me. I knew this man better than he knew himself, but he did not know me and it was not stopping him from sliding under the sheets and into the cradle of my hips.

He kissed along my jaw, and I found myself relishing the feel of his thin lips upon my skin. It was not simply the thrill of being touched by another person; it was far more than that.

I had dreamt of him, and I wondered if I had dreamt of him even before he appeared in the front room of Grimmauld Place. At that thought, I opened my eyes.

Severus’ eyes were like bottomless pits. I could not tell where the irises ended and the pupils began in the dark. The abyss of his eyes would have scared me, perhaps, but somewhere deep in the dark, there was a peculiar spark of life.

“How long?” I began, not trusting my voice. I could feel him against my pelvis, the warmth of his stiffening cock trying to press into the space between my labia. “How long was it between your first conscious moment and your arrival here?”

I had asked the question to divert my thoughts from myself, from the moment. As much as I wanted more from the man above me, his very touch was excruciating. It made me remember all the wrong things, made me feel all the wrong things.

Severus’ eyes flickered and within I believed I saw the slight distancing of sight as he tried to remember.

“My first conscious memory… A stained glass window.”

I said nothing, but stared into his eyes, a hand moving to brush an oily strand of ebony hair from his pale face.

“My father took me to church a few times, more to keep me occupied on Sundays and out of his sight. I remembered the Bible lessons—the raising of Lazarus. That was the window I saw. The next moment was the graveyard outside, and the yew tree…”

I swallowed. I had let other thoughts overwhelm me from something that I needed to know. I had let my own body distract me.

I had never laid much to my dreams, as they had been either one or the other for years since the War. Trees—always one tree, or the other. In one, Severus stood at my side, gazing upon the golden apples with my mother in the background. In the other, and only on occasion, I was pulling Severus from the yew tree on a low tumulus in a bleak graveyard.

I did not believe in providence or signs, at least, I felt it to be too illogical to believe. But as it was, Severus Snape was alive and free from the confines of the yew tree of my dreams.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

I shook my head; I was too tired and too aroused to think. I wanted to denigrate myself in some fashion. Severus Snape’s hips were nestled against mine and my lips still tingled from his kiss. Why did I have to analyze and overanalyze everything?

Severus pulled away, and I nearly protested. The moment his warmth and weight was gone, I realized how silly it had been. We were thrown together by circumstance, the dreams meant nothing.

“I should like to know…” he trailed, but shaking head, did not finish. Instead, we fell silent, sleepy.

We moved in unison after a few moments, rolling to our sides. When his right arm slipped about my waist, I was reminded of the night in Sheffield and how small I felt against him. I wondered if Severus had ever loved anyone besides Lily Potter. He claimed that no one loved him, but whom had he loved?

Was Severus always so aloof and acerbic? Could he ever be tender, especially now that he was free of Dumbledore and Voldemort?

I sighed softly. Severus Snape and I, sleeping together in the same bed—that seemed more like a dream than any I had had in years.



TBC...