The Love You Take

The Love You Take

Chapter 9: Involvement, Part 1


Severus Snape stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, the slow, steady breathing of the girl upon his chest a soothing counterpoint to the cacophony of his inner turmoil. Her final words before sleep would not leave him be:

‘And then you kissed me – after the compulsion had been satisfied – and I … I wanted you again. Just me, wanting you – without the curse…. Isn’t that odd?’

So, she thought she had felt desire for him apart from the curse? Why would she say such a thing? Was she trying to ingratiate herself with him? Did she think he wanted to hear such a thing?

You bloody well know you do, his traitorous inner voice taunted him. As if a bright, attractive girl would ever have any use for you – have you forgotten about her?

‘Oh, sod off,’ he rumbled aloud, and the girl murmured, as if in response to his voice.

Bugger fucking shite.

Closing his eyes, he tried to will himself to sleep. Merlin knew he was physically exhausted from meeting the girl’s demands as the curse burned through her. He had lost count of the number of times he had made her come – and did not want to think about what the physical consequences would be for him taking the Potency Potion so many times in one day.

More surprising to him was the number of times he had not needed the potion to be physically able to see to her needs.

Perhaps I’m not as old and dried up as I think, he mused as sleep overcame him.

---

The next days were a learning curve for Severus as he came to know what to expect from the Eternus Perturbatio curse. He found early on that if he woke the girl thirty minutes earlier than his usual rising time and took care of her then, she could almost always make it to lunch without having to resort to the use of the fake Galleon to let him know she was in need and on the way to his office. It was also a convenient way to take care of his morning hard-on and ever so much more pleasant than a cold wank in the shower.

She would leave his bed then, her hair a mare’s nest from her writhing beneath him, and he would watch her naked arse twitch across his bedroom floor as she headed for the Floo. On the best days, he would not see her again until lunch, although she would often be too distraught to make it to the bedroom, and she would end up pushing him into his armchair and riding him until she came as many times as she could. Her aggression on these occasions dumbfounded him; he had never been aware that nice women behaved in such a way. A paid woman might be induced to conduct herself that aggressively, but wives and girlfriends certainly never did so – did they? She seemed intent, as well, on ensuring pleasure for him in their encounters. He did what he could to discourage her efforts in that area, but when she had seen him so many times at his most vulnerable, it was virtually impossible for him to repel her.

Especially when he had no desire to do so.

When she drove herself hard and achieved from two to four orgasms at lunch, she was often able to leave him in peace until the dinner hour. Evenings would consist of one or two interludes. She often slept overnight in his bed. Dumbledore had arranged for a house-elf to be assigned to their cause; Winky was famous for her loyalty, and when she was assigned to her new job, she gave up Butterbeer on the spot. It was Winky who brought food to his quarters when they were unable to make it to meals in the Great Hall, and it was Winky who answered the door in Hermione’s room when the Head Girl was in the dungeons.

Potter and Weasley were more difficult to handle, and Severus left that up to the headmaster. Dumbledore assured Potter that there was no need for him to be distracted from his studies to help with researching a counter-curse for Hermione. The headmaster also begged to borrow Potter’s map – the one his sainted father and the other rule-breaking bastards had created – to watch for suspected Dark activity in specific parts of the castle. Potter had gladly contributed his map to Dumbledore’s cause. Now the obnoxious brat would not be able to find the dot reading “Severus Snape” superimposed over the dot reading “Hermione Granger” and actually come to the correct conclusion – that his best friend was shagging their Potions teacher in the dungeon.

The girl, herself, was able to assist in this, by returning as much as possible to her usual manner with her two cohorts. Over time, she gave them more details of her abduction, although she was unable to tell them anything of what took place after she was taken, for she had no memory of it. She believed that she had been kept unconscious the whole time, and the headmaster was wont to agree with her.

As the days passed into weeks, Potter and Weasley were distracted by the dramas of their own adolescent lives. As long as Hermione looked all right – and as long as she nagged them and helped them with their homework – they were content to leave her well-being in the hands of Professor Dumbledore.

They did commiserate with her over the fact that she spent virtually every lunch period with the surly Potions master, whose expertise in the area of Dark Magic was unchallenged by even the belligerent Potter. It was understood that Snape worked with her to recover any memory she might have of when she had been cursed, as well as teaching her Occlumency to block the Dark Lord from accessing her thoughts, and other defensive spells to help her deal with her curse.

What they really did, of course, was fuck. Although sometimes he would put his mouth on her, breathing the fragrance of her arousal and tasting her sweetness, and other times he would spank her and finger her until she cried out – but without a doubt, any knowledge of their true activities together was carefully shielded from her two best friends.

One night in early December, Severus was uneasy, for it was after seven and Hermione had yet to Floo into his rooms, demanding sex. He wondered where she could be – but more importantly, he wondered with whom.

Cursing his possessive instinct regarding the girl, he pulled on his teaching robes and his cloak, heading out into the corridors to patrol for wrong-doers. If she came into his quarters and did not find him there, she could very well wait for him, as he had waited for her ….

Students who were so unlucky as to run afoul of the Potions master in the halls that night lost points for breathing – or so it seemed to them. Professor Snape took points for such infractions as ‘insolence’ for merely looking at him as he passed by – and the unfortunates who were found snogging – or other related activities – won a week’s detention with Mr Filch.

He had nearly made it up to the Astronomy Tower, where he fully intended to give miscreants bedpan duty in the hospital wing for the next month, when the fake Galleon in his trousers pocket burned. Snatching it out with an unsteady hand, he frowned over the message there. Why on earth did the girl want to meet him in the Forbidden Forest?

He did not stay to wonder, but moved swiftly through corridors and down staircases, until he strode through the great oaken castle doors into the crisp December night. The sky was blacker than ink, and the stars twinkled like gems in a jeweller’s case. Severus noted none of these things, but entered the darkly twisted trees of the primeval forest with the air of a man who would brook no trifling; the centaurs and Acromantulas had damn well better leave him alone.

When he found her, he had been walking steadily deeper into the trees for twenty minutes. She greeted him with a weak cry, lying upon the cold, mossy ground near an ancient tree whose gnarled roots erupted from the ground in a five foot circumference around the enormous trunk.

‘Thank God,’ she cried, levering herself onto her elbows.

Severus stood over her for a long moment, glaring. She wore her uniform skirt and jumper beneath her cloak, and she was shivering from her long exposure to the icy night air and the unforgiving cold ground. It was clear to him that she had been crying, for her face bore that streaked, pinched look, and even now, her lip trembled as if she was on the verge of shedding yet more tears.

‘What do you mean by this?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Get up from there.’

‘Don’t be an arse!’ she flung at him. ‘Do you imagine I would have called for your help if I didn’t need it?’ She struggled to move to a sitting position but seemed unable to do so because one of her legs would not bear the movement. ‘I can’t get up – I fell from the tree and I must have knocked myself unconscious for a while. I think I twisted my ankle, but I might have broken it – and I’m afraid to try to heal myself.’

‘What in the devil are you doing in the Forbidden Forest after dark to begin with?’ he demanded, squatting and placing his hands upon her injured leg.

‘Ouch!’ she cried, but she quieted under his quelling glare. ‘Professor Sprout told us there’s Enchanted Mistletoe growing in the forest this year – it only blooms once every seven years, you know –’

‘Yes,’ he snarled nastily, ‘I seem to recall having taken an Herbology class once!’ His initial fury was calming as he found her more or less unhurt; a sprain – even a broken bone – could be easily mended. He drew his wand and cast some elementary diagnostic spells upon her. ‘It’s not broken,’ he said. ‘I will heal the sprain and then you will remain stationary for half-an-hour. I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry you back to the castle.’

‘I don’t want you to!’ she snapped, apparently stung by his condemnatory attitude.

‘And whilst we wait,’ he continued, as if she had not spoken, ‘you can explain to me for whom you felt it necessary to venture into the Forbidden Forest to procure Enchanted Mistletoe.’

‘Well, I won’t!’ she said. ‘I don’t answer to you!’

Severus did not respond to her, for he had pulled her into a sitting position, and he was in the middle of casting the spell to heal her sprain. His anger spiked so violently that he actually saw red as he concentrated to finish the spell. Tightly controlling his temper, he spoke through gritted teeth. ‘How does your leg feel now?’

She flexed her ankle. ‘It feels better now – thank you, sir.’

Her suddenly contrite manner did not appease him. He knew very well why she was being conciliatory – he could smell her arousal. Now that the pain of the sprain was repaired, the compulsion, long overdue for propitiation, had reasserted its supremacy over her nervous system.

‘I’m sorry I was rude,’ she added, darting a glance at him from the corner of her eyes.

Severus stood again, towering over her. ‘Answer my question.’

‘Sir … it’s so late … I would have been in your rooms two hours ago if I hadn’t fallen from the tree ….’

His temper slipped its leash. ‘Answer. The. Question.’ He bit out each word at such volume that spittle flew from his lips; he knew he looked and sounded demented, but he did not care.

She looked at him doubtfully, as if she would turn from him, but she could not move if she did not wish to negate the healing spell on her ankle. Haltingly, she began to speak. ‘Professor Sprout told us the properties of Enchanted Mistletoe –’

‘Yes, spare me the adolescent raptures!’ he spat viciously. ‘I know all about how couples who kiss beneath Enchanted Mistletoe love one another forever more!’ He knelt again, moving into her personal space, putting his disdainful face inches from her own. ‘Well, it’s a lie! The enchantment is very short-lived, and has been responsible for more than one unplanned pregnancy and a lifetime of regret for the irresponsible idiots who muck about with magic they do not understand for the thrill of it! Have you never wondered why you have never seen Enchanted Mistletoe at Hogwarts? It’s because it is forbidden!’ He took hold of her chin and stared into her eyes. ‘Just which one of your dunderheaded companions did you wish to trap into thinking they were in love with you?’

The tears which had gathered in her eyes spilled over and ran down her cheeks, splattering and pooling on the fingers holding her face. Her body had begun to tremble from the combination of sexual need and bone-chilling cold. Still, she held his gaze and said quietly, ‘She told us, sir, that the only legitimate use of Enchanted Mistletoe is as an ingredient in an analgesic for migraine headaches – like the ones you have.’

His sneer was a truly ugly thing to behold. ‘And I am to believe that you were in the forest in the dark climbing trees in your school skirt to fetch Enchanted Mistletoe to make a potion for my headaches?’

The girl lowered her face slightly, digging the tip of her chin into the v-shape made by the hand which held her, her brown eyes never leaving his. ‘Go on – look. You know you’re going to, anyway – do it with my permission, for once.’

He cast the spell by thinking the incantation and was welcomed into her memories. He saw her in Herbology, taking notes as Pomona Sprout prattled about seasonal plants; in the margin of her parchment she had scrawled, headache cure? Severus? Christmas?

Angrily he pushed away from that memory, going deeper, feeling her resistance, but ignoring it. He was looking for evidence to support his conclusion, and he would bloody well not stop until he found it.

For several tense minutes he reviewed her memories of Potter, of Weasley, of a French Muggle boy she had met on holiday, of Viktor Krum – and nowhere did he find memories of current romantic plans for any of them. He saw that she had once nursed a liking for Weasley, but that she no longer felt that way. Constantly, he found the memories circling to times she had spent with him, and each time he approached those he pushed them away and changed directions. It was odd that those memories tended to involve the two of them sitting together whilst they read, or talking together whilst they lay in his bed, or chopping ingredients side-by-side in his private brewing room, making more Potency Potion or replenishing her birth control philtre. The memories did not include the many, varied times he had made her come in a screaming frenzy. But never mind; he had no desire to view her feelings for him. He had made that mistake once in his life, and he had sworn never to repeat it.

At last, he released her, and although she drew back from him, she did not look away from his eyes. He could not fault the girl for her courage; she did not like it when he shouted or sniped, but she was fundamentally unafraid of him.

‘Are you satisfied?’ she said, her voice throbbing with indignation.

He did not look away from her scornful expression; he could not show that kind of weakness to her – but he did not answer. He did not know what to say.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, scrubbing at her face with her hands, ‘I really do hate you.’

Silently, he took his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her, moving to sit beside her. She accepted the scrap of linen without comment, simply drying her cheeks and recommencing her shivering.

‘Why did you come out here dressed like that?’ he demanded. ‘It’s far too cold for those clothes.’

‘I didn’t think I’d be out here that long, but there wasn’t any of the mistletoe closer to the castle, and then I fell.’ She sighed and shivered more violently.

Severus took a fold of her cloak between his fingers. ‘This fabric isn’t thick enough to keep you warm in April, much less December. This isn’t even wool.’ He frowned at her. ‘You didn’t buy this in Diagon Alley.’

‘It’s a polyester blend,’ she said. ‘It was less expensive than the cloaks at Madam Malkin’s. I bought it in a Muggle shop and used the extra gold to buy my own copy of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration.’

Severus rolled his eyes; he might have known the story would involve a book. He moved until his body was pressed against hers; then, he lifted his arm and pulled her against him, covering her with his cloak. As he had suspected, she was driven to clutch at him, twisting her torso to rub one breast against him. The compulsion was long overdue for satisfaction.

‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Don’t move the injured leg.’

‘Oh, please,’ she whispered brokenly.

He unfastened the cloak, securing it about her throat, and moved down to urge her to raise the knee of the undamaged leg. Without speaking, he pressed the leg gently out of his way as far as possible. She sobbed a bit with relief when his probing fingers found her clitoris and began to gently stroke; he reminded her quietly not to move her leg when she seemed in danger of it, but otherwise, he simply stimulated her until she cried out. He removed his handkerchief then from her hand and wiped her eyes for her again.

‘It’s been thirty minutes,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can walk?’

She did not answer him, except to wrap her fingers in his hair and tug his head down to kiss him, pulling him on top of her and wrapping both legs about him, her hips moving in a circular motion against his.

‘I wanted the mistletoe to make a gift for you,’ she said, sucking his tongue into her mouth.

He did not reply, except to hike her skirt to her waist and to Vanish another pair of knickers.

---

Only the forest creatures saw the humans who coupled and slept beneath the heavy dark cloak until the moon set. They seemed not to feel the cold, unlike most of their kind, and only rose and made the trek out of the forest when the snow began to fall, with bundles of Enchanted Mistletoe dangling from their hands.

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A/N: Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration is mentioned in canon.