Trust

Author’s Note: The Harry Potter universe belongs to J K Rowling, as much as I wish it was mine.

I had an idea for a fairly long story from Snape's point of view but that was killed by HBP & DH. This is Hermione's view of some of the events which were planned for that story. Constructive criticism is appreciated but no flames please.

This is also posted at Ashwinder. I have refreshed the document as of 18/10/08 because the text wasn't displaying properly, but the story is unchanged (i.e. it is not HBP or DH compliant).

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Trust


There was a loud crack as the two robed figures Apparated into the small flat situated in a quiet part of Muggle London, not far from the Leaky Cauldron. It was an unassuming place with one small bedroom, sparsely furnished and scrupulously tidy. It made an ideal retreat for members of the Order of the Phoenix in need of somewhere to clean up and regain their composure before returning to number twelve, Grimmauld Place to report on the evening’s activities.

No one wanted to have to pass on bad news while covered with the bloody evidence of the act.

The smallest of the pair immediately started to stumble towards the bathroom, sheer willpower the only thing preventing her from heaving the contents of her stomach all over her shoes where she stood. Halfway across the darkened room, she realised that she wasn’t going to make it and abandoned her plan, dropping instead to her knees beside the thankfully empty wastepaper basket in the corner of her room. Grabbing it, she managed to tuck it under her chin mere seconds before her self-control cracked and she started to vomit.

Her companion, who until then had remained stock still at their initial point of entry into the room, threw off his blood-soaked robes and crossed to her in two long strides. He reached down to gather the mass of bushy curls, which were falling around her face, in his fist, pulling the strands back so that they were safely out of harm’s way, and when Hermione Granger stayed bent over the rubbish bin and continued to retch, Severus Snape knelt down beside her and began to rub soft, soothing circles on her back.

“It’s all right, Miss Granger,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, one that would have astonished her friends had they been there to hear it. There was no sign of the sarcasm they had come to expect from their Potions professor as he tried to comfort the distressed young woman at his side. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right,” Hermione choked, her eyes filled with tears of frustration, of tiredness and of anger. “It’s too much.”

Another excursion had ended in death and destruction; at times like this their position seemed hopeless, and she wondered why they hadn’t simply thrown in the towel and allowed Lord Voldemort to rule the wizarding world as he so desperately wanted. They couldn’t seem to get a foothold as the war got progressively more intense, and the inability of those on the side of the Light to perform even the smallest of manoeuvres without loss of life was an endless source of aggravation.

Meanwhile she was exhausted - just so tired of everything. The war hadn’t ended with her schooldays as everyone had expected it would; Harry Potter had tried his best to kill Voldemort but he just wasn’t powerful enough yet. He still had more to learn, and while Albus Dumbledore taught him everything he could in a secret location, the other members of the Order of the Phoenix were doing their best to keep everyone else hoping for the miracle of Voldemort’s defeat. It was hard work, and Hermione felt she was starting to struggle with the weight of expectation being placed on her shoulders.

It wasn’t something she was used to; never before had a task presented a problem for the former Head Girl of Hogwarts. She had left school with a record-breaking number of N.E.W.T.s to her name, thus making herself even more of a target for the Death Eaters than she had been previously. For the staunchest believers in Voldemort’s philosophy, a moderately successful Muggle-born was hard enough to take, but one who stubbornly insisted on outshining all purebloods was a liability who must be dealt with quickly and harshly.

Displaying typical Gryffindor bravery, (or, as the Potions Master would have it, typical Gryffindor stupidity) Hermione refused to be afraid. Her only concession to the increased threat to her person was to arrange for her parents to go into hiding for their own safety, and immediately following graduation she had become a member of the Order of the Phoenix along with Harry, Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom.

The pride she’d felt at her induction surpassed anything she’d felt before and she hadn’t stopped smiling all day - the thought that she might not be able to cope with the burden of defending a nation at such a young age had never even entered her head at that point. It would only be later, in the dark moments which invariably followed the news of yet another unnecessary death, that she would wonder how she could have possibly believed that she could make any sort of difference to the world.

Ron and Neville had been quick to begin their Auror training after leaving Hogwarts, and Harry, at first, wanted to join them. However, Dumbledore felt that he should devote his full attention to attaining the skills necessary to defeat the Dark Lord, and Harry had eventually been convinced that this was the right course of action.

Not interested in following the same path as her friends, Hermione had instead endeavoured to do what she did best – namely acquire a vast amount of knowledge in a very short space of time. By day she studied Transfiguration as the apprentice of Minerva McGonagall, and most nights were spent fervently researching whatever topic the Order needed more information on for the activities of that particular week.

Her ability to pinpoint exactly what facts were required and develop a suitable method of dissemination, so as to allow everyone to understand the key points, was highly valued by those she worked with, and both McGonagall and Snape had discussed with Dumbledore the possibility of offering Hermione a teaching position at Hogwarts after the war ended, although the latter would rather have died than admit he had suggested such a thing to anyone. No one mentioned the idea to Hermione either, given that it was based on the increasingly unlikely assumption that the Light would triumph and the school would still exist. It would be tempting fate, and fate could be cruel indeed.

Occasionally she was called upon to put theory into practice by accompanying one of the older members of the Order on a reconnaissance mission, which was how she and Snape had spent their evening. Ron had been due to accompany Snape but had cried off, and although the professor could easily have managed alone, it had been decided that Hermione should accompany him for the experience. But what had started as a routine meeting had ended very badly, and she truly believed that they had been very lucky to escape with their lives. The strain was starting to tell on the young witch, and truth be told Hermione was finding the realisation that she couldn’t handle everything with ease even more difficult to cope with than the stress of fighting daily for survival.

It didn’t help that she grew increasingly irritated with herself for letting it get to her as much as it was. If Harry had to live with the fact that he was the one who would have to defeat Voldemort or die trying, surely she could deal with her own growing anxiety for the future.

She was also irrationally annoyed with her spying partner for dispensing with his usual disdain just when she needed it to force her to pull herself together, and most of all she was furious with the other members of the Order for allowing their organisation to be compromised.

There could be no doubt now that this was what had happened; there was no other explanation for the veritable army of masked Death Eaters who had descended on the appointed rendezvous point a little over three hours previous.

They had succeeding in killing the informants Hermione and Snape had intended to meet, but the two Order members had fought hard for their lives and emerged triumphant. They had eventually been able to escape thanks to their emergency Portkey – a locket Snape had placed around Hermione’s neck before their arrival. It had transported them to Diagon Alley and they had immediately Apparated onwards to the flat, just in case they were being followed. You could never be too careful, as some of the late members of the Order had learned to their cost.

Only a select few knew the whereabouts of the safe house, and Hermione thought that it was extremely unlikely that any of them was the mole who was leaking information about the business of the Order to Voldemort and his followers. But she also knew that in war, no one could be completely trusted, and there was definitely a spy in their midst. She only hoped that whoever it was hadn’t passed on information about the location of this flat or, more importantly, number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Thinking of what might happen if their secret headquarters were discovered made a further wave of nausea hit her. Then, further disgusted with herself for showing such weakness, she quickly sniffed her tears back and brought a shaking hand up to wipe away the wetness which had escaped.

How she longed to be like Snape at times like this. His cool detachment was never threatened even in the gravest situation, and she was quite sure he had never lost his lunch after completing a mission.

“I have,” he said, and with a start she realised that she must have been thinking aloud. His thin lips twisted into a wry smile at her surprise. “When I first became involved in all this, I – as you so eloquently described it - ‘lost my lunch’, and indeed also my dinner, on a number of occasions.”

When I first became involved in all this. Hermione knew by now that the phrase was understated Snape-speak for the days he spent as a Death Eater. She had worked closely with her former professor many times since joining the Order and had come to realise that he was a much more complex man than she had previously imagined. He was dark and brooding for a reason, not just because it suited his image as a former Death Eater and current spy. He had done so much for the Order and yet was still widely distrusted; Hermione couldn’t blame him for being naturally reserved.

He, for his part, had gradually taken the young woman into his confidence and shared much more about his past than she had expected him to tell her. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone with permanent foot-in-mouth disease to ask the inevitable questions about his past life at Voldemort’s side, although Hermione thought that his unexpected disclosures were more likely the result of a desire to put a stop to her incessant chatter. Certainly he’d told her enough to stun her into silence in his presence for three solid weeks, and she also knew that no matter how horrible tonight had been for her, he’d seen much, much worse.

A shudder ran through her as her mind returned to trying to process what had happened. The memory of Draco’s face as his own father extinguished his short life would haunt her forever; she would never be able to forget the way that fear and pain had mingled in his expression as Lucius’ curse had hit him.

Lucius Malfoy had shown no mercy towards the young man he considered to be a blood traitor. If he had used the Killing Curse, he would have granted his only son a relatively clean and instantaneous death.

He had chosen instead to slice an artery with a Severing Charm.

Draco had been standing in front of Hermione, trying to shield her from the many curses being thrown, when it happened. He was looking over his shoulder at her, telling her to leave, go quickly, she was far too important to the Order to die tonight, when his eyes had widened in surprise and he collapsed into her arms. His pure blood had poured relentlessly from the gaping wound next to his heart as Hermione tried in vain to stem the flow. She’d ignored both his whispered pleas to run and the battle raging around them in favour of cradling his head gently as his life slipped away. This war was such a waste of young lives; Draco was not the first of Hermione’s classmates to perish.

It was difficult to believe that her childhood nemesis was dead, even though she’d watched him meet his end. She hadn’t trusted him at all when it was first revealed that Snape had recruited him, but when the information he’d gleaned from carefully watching his father’s movements and had offered in exchange for admittance to the Order had saved innocent lives, she’d tried hard to put her past prejudices aside and welcome him into their group. So had the others, and Ginny had managed it far more successfully than anyone else. The redhead was going to be devastated when she found out her boyfriend was dead.

Her stomach was empty now but the thought of Ginny’s reaction made her heave for several minutes longer. The gentle pressure of Snape’s hand at her back never wavered and eventually Hermione felt able to place the bucket on the floor and rock back on her heels.

“Thanks,” she muttered, both unable and unwilling to say anymore.

Beads of sweat had formed on her forehead and she fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe them away. However she was hampered in her search by her wish to avoid touching her bloodied robes, and eventually Snape handed her his own square of green silk. He waited until she’d blown her nose and wiped her mouth before asking the question she could see in his eyes.

“Did you see what happened to Draco?” he asked as if he could read her thoughts, and she guessed that he had already had a fair idea. Even so, it was difficult to confirm his death to the very person who had brought the young man into their fight.

“His father…Lucius…killed him. Draco’s dead,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the scene which was again replaying in her head. She heard his soft intake of breath before there was a slight pause.

“And then what did Lucius do?” Snape probed.

His voice was still soft and he hadn’t ceased his comforting caresses on her back, but Hermione could hear the underlying urgency in the question. He would mourn Draco, she knew, but she also understood that it was vital that the Order was aware of Lucius' fate – he was one of their most dangerous opponents and if he had already returned to the Dark Lord’s side, some of their number could be in danger. However, she didn’t know if she could say the words that needed to be said. She drew in her breath and tried to steel herself.

“Lucius is…Lucius is dead,” she managed at last.

“Are you sure, Miss Granger?”

Snape sounded so incredulous at the idea of Lucius Malfoy’s death that it made her smile, despite the hideousness of the situation she found herself in. When she first joined the Order she had still disliked him, but as time passed and they were forced to work closely together she had come to appreciate him for what he was; a man possessed of a brilliant mind.

There was no denying that he could still be a greasy git at times, and she’d received a verbal lashing from his sharp tongue more times than she could count, but ever since her unfortunate passion for Gilderoy Lockhart had been extinguished Hermione had chosen to value brains far more highly than easy-going charm or good looks.

In that respect Severus Snape had no equal, and it made him a fascinating companion for a young woman still fiercely determined to cram every corner of her mind with knowledge. Not that she would ever admit how she felt, of course. She didn’t think she would be able to cope with the derision that would follow from all quarters, including from the object of her affections.

“I’m sure,” Hermione confirmed now. She kept her eyes closed before adding the rest, not wanting to see the expression on Snape’s face as her words registered. “I’m sure because I killed him.”

A long, unbearable silence followed her announcement. His hand slackened at the nape of her neck, releasing her bushy hair to fall back around her face. A knot of unshed tears remained in Hermione’s throat, but she felt strangely calm now that she had admitted the truth. She opened her eyes to gaze up at her teacher and, impatiently brushing away the lock of hair obscuring her view of him, repeated her statement.

“Draco saved my life. And in return, I killed his murderer.” She thought that there was a look of compassion in Snape’s dark eyes, and if she hadn’t suddenly been feeling so numb that would have startled her. It wasn’t an emotion she’d thought him capable of. “I cast my first Unforgivable tonight.” She rose unsteadily to her feet, grabbing onto the doorframe for support. “I hope it’s my last too, Professor, although no doubt that’s a futile wish.”

Having said everything she wanted to, Hermione turned away into the bathroom. Unfastening her robes as she walked, she shrugged them off and allowed them to fall in a heap onto the tiled floor. The jeans and blue t-shirt she wore underneath were also caked with various unknown substances, and she moved straight to the shower and turned on the water. Without stopping to undress, she stepped into the cubicle and allowed the water to cleanse her body, clothes and all, desperately trying to wash away the mud and blood and death that clung to every fibre of her being.

The door of the shower cubicle opened again behind her. “Miss Granger.”

Hermione tipped her head back and opened her mouth, allowing water to trickle inside and then swallowing hard in an effort to remove the sour taste of vomit which lingered.

“Miss Granger.”

She closed her eyes and let the water run over her face, wishing she could rinse her soul clean in the same way. Fumbling for the tap, she moved it so that the temperature increased from warm to hot, and then after a moment’s pause she kept turning. She would happily have scalded herself if long fingers hadn’t closed over hers then and taken control of the knob.

“I know how you feel, Miss Granger, but boiling yourself alive is not the answer, trust me,” Snape said quietly.

He was standing behind her; she felt his arm reach past her and then heard the soft pop of a bottle cap being flipped open.

“What about drowning yourself?” she asked, and if she had been capable of feeling, she would have been gratified by the dry chuckle the question prompted. But it was as if her overworked brain had finally had enough and had decided to shut down; Hermione was operating on autopilot now.

“I’ve tried that one too, and as I’m still here I was obviously unsuccessful,” he replied, and suddenly she felt his fingers on her head massaging her scalp, just as her nose detected the scent of apples. “Those damned house-elves are always interfering.”

Hermione was too taken aback by the realisation that her Potions professor was washing her hair to respond to his attempt at humour. As he worked the shampoo through her wet curls he continued to talk quietly, and the combination of his touch and his breath at her ear partially reawakened something inside of her. The lump in her throat dissolved and she began to sob softly, the noise of the running water almost drowning out the sound of her distress.

“I know it must be hard for you, Hermione, but what you did tonight doesn’t make you a bad person,” Snape said. He lifted the showerhead from its stand and began to rinse away the foam, running his fingers through the brown strands with surprising care. “You did what was necessary to survive.”

She shook her head, scattering little droplets of clear liquid everywhere. “But I killed someone,” she whispered, her breath hitching as she tried to speak. “I took a life.”

Snape carefully replaced the showerhead and smoothed her hair back from her face. Dazed by the events of the evening and also the attention Snape was now lavishing on her, Hermione could only dimly focus her gaze on the tiles in front of her. A bright red smear stood out against the stark white ceramic and she knew it was Draco’s blood. Lifting a shaking hand, she reached out and wiped it off, watching as the water turned a soft pink and drained away.

“It was him or you,” her companion said. “And I, for one, am glad it was him.” He grasped the edge of Hermione’s t-shirt. “Lift your arms.”

She obeyed almost without thinking and Snape swiftly yanked the wet cloth over her head, leaving her top half clad in only a white cotton bra. Soaked through as it was it did little to protect her modesty, and Hermione crossed her arms across her chest self-consciously. However, Snape seemed wholly unmoved by the revelation of her flesh, which she found strangely insulting. Picking up a bar of soap, he made a gentle lather between his palms and then began to rub it slowly across her exposed skin.

“I did this once,” he said almost conversationally. “After I got my Dark Mark, I stepped into the shower fully clothed and tried to wash away the pain and the guilt.”

He moved his hands down her spine, applying gentle pressure and deftly untying the knots in her muscles as he went. Then he returned his attention to her shoulders and, almost without her noticing, eased down the shoulder straps of her flimsy top to make sure he covered every inch of dampened skin.

“It didn’t work for me and it won’t work for you. I suspect you know that already, Hermione.” His breath was soft at the nape of her neck and she shivered slightly, but couldn’t determine if it was because of his obvious nearness or prompted by the unfamiliar use of her given name.

Whatever it was, the effect was hypnotising. When he unsnapped the clasp of her bra, it didn’t raise even a murmur of protest from her; she was so focused on what Snape had to say that she was past caring about the fact he was undressing her. It felt good. After he had touched her, she felt clean. That was all that mattered.

“It takes more than water to wash something like this away; there are some things you have to learn to live with,” he added with surprising nonchalance. When he further commented, “I have always suspected that Gryffindors might not have the strength of character to do so,” she had the distinct impression he was trying to bait her back to life.

To a certain extent, it worked.

“Have no fear, this Gryffindor has the strength. But it’s not very reassuring to think that I’ll have to prove it,” Hermione said sharply.

Snape finished soaping her back and slid his arms around her waist to start on her stomach before he answered, tracing his foam-covered fingers lightly across the flat expanse.

“I did not mean it to be reassuring,” was all he said in reply, and she felt rather than saw him shrug his shoulders. She almost smiled; at least she could always count on him not to sugarcoat things like Dumbledore was wont to do.

When his hands drifted down to the buttons of her jeans, she let him undo them without protest. The contact of his body against hers was soothing; their closeness felt natural rather than forced, and suddenly it didn’t seem strange at all that Snape would offer this comfort, or that she would take it. He slid the denim down over her hips and past her knees, and Hermione stepped out of the trousers without being prompted to do so.

Kneeling down behind her, Snape carefully washed each of her legs in turn from hip to ankle, taking care to leave no area untouched. He kept up his quiet yet commanding commentary as he removed the last traces of the battle from her skin.

“Think of what Voldemort has done, Hermione. Think of Cedric Diggory and all the other young lives lost. Think of Sirius Black; much as I hated him, I never wished him dead. Think of Lily and James Potter and the sacrifice they made; think of Harry Potter and what he must do. Think of Draco Malfoy, and the way you saw him die.”

“I don’t want to die.” It was the first time she had given voice to that thought since she joined the Order and when she did Snape’s hands stopped moving for a moment, hovering at the back of her left knee.

“No one wants to die. But it’s not always a matter of choice,” he said at last.

“But isn’t it what you want? That’s what people think you want, anyway,” Hermione argued stubbornly. “They think you lock yourself away and ponder the inevitable end to your meaningless existence.”

“You have no idea how thrilled am I with your description of my life,” Snape replied dryly, his breath against her thigh causing the flesh to pucker slightly. “However, you have been grossly misinformed. Contrary to what others may believe I most certainly do not want to die, but if that is how it must be then so be it.” She turned her head and looked down over her shoulder at him to find that he was gazing up at her with a strange light in his dark eyes. “You know as well as I do that we have to fight him, that he must be stopped. Sometimes it will be painful, sometimes it will be distasteful, but what you must remember is that it will always be right.”

He stood up swiftly and grasped Hermione’s shoulder, forcefully turning her round to face him. She was stunned by the determination she saw in his expression.

“I don’t want to die,” he said again, “and I know that you don’t either. But I don’t believe that you didn’t fully consider the price you might have to pay before you accepted your role in this fight. I don’t believe that you didn’t know exactly what doing this might cost you, but you decided to do it anyway.”

Her arms fell to her sides, allowing the material she had used to shield herself to fall away, but neither occupant of the shower noticed. Snape gripped Hermione roughly at the elbows. His eyes locked on hers and she couldn’t look away.

“You didn’t come into this with unrealistic expectations. For all you might pretend you didn’t expect to have to kill, you knew that you would. I know that you knew, because I know that you’re much too intelligent to think otherwise,” he stated.

He was right. Hermione was so taken aback by the realisation that she barely comprehended that the snarky Potions Master had paid her a compliment. At times she had thought of little else but the prospect of losing her life in the war against Voldemort. Death was a very real possibility every day, as was the fact that she may have to defend herself by harming others, and yet it hadn’t stopped her from throwing herself into her new role with gusto.

Their cause was noble, but the fight would be dirty.

He saw the confirmation of his statement on her face and gave her another wry smile. “You and I are more alike that you might think, Hermione.” His tone, although softened, left no room for argument.

She didn’t know how to reply to that, and so chose instead to ignore it.

“We should probably think about getting dried off and reporting back to Grimmauld Place,” she said half-heartedly, and then suddenly aware of her nakedness raised her arms again to cover herself.

“If you are ready to return to Headquarters, I certainly have no objection,” Snape said in a neutral tone. He gave no indication that he had noticed the return of her shyness, which for some reason made her blush even more.

Hermione was about to respond in the affirmative when she suddenly thought of Ginny, waiting to hear news of Hermione’s meeting with Draco, and knew she couldn’t face her. Not yet. Unconsciously, she shook her head to clear the pictures lurking within.

“However, there’s no rush,” Snape continued smoothly as if she hadn’t done anything. “Albus knew there was a chance we’d be delayed. Informants are notoriously unreliable at the best of times. You can’t trust anyone in these dark times.”

She knew it was true, but as she remembered once again the look on Draco’s face as he took his last breath, it was too hard to accept.

“Not Draco,” she snapped back. “We could always trust Draco. I didn’t always like him, even after he turned, but after a time I came to realise that he would never betray us. Don’t ask me how I knew, but I did,” she added in a rush on seeing the scepticism on his face.

The suspected breach in the Order had prompted Ginny and Draco to keep their relationship secret from all but their most trusted friends. To announce their love would also give the snitch in their midst something to exploit; he or she would undoubtedly have tried to break one of the couple by threatening or harming the other. Draco and Ginny both point-blank refused to put their lover in danger, and so their love had remained a private subject. And even though Draco would never know whether she’d broken his confidence or not, Hermione wasn’t about to commit the final betrayal.

Thinking of her friends and their bravery brought new power to her voice. “In fact I’m certain of it, Severus. And you know it, too,” she finished forcefully.

His dark gaze locked with hers for a long moment. “Yes,” he agreed finally, “Draco would never have betrayed us. We have Miss Weasley to thank for that.”

The revelation that Draco had also trusted Snape with details of his newfound love gave her a jolt, but it also gave her the impetus to reveal the thought which was troubling her most.

Severus understands, she thought. I can tell him, and he’ll understand. If Draco trusted him, then surely I can too?

Hermione wasn’t actually sure about that last part at all – she knew for definite now that the Order had been breached, and it was madness to tell anyone anything they didn’t absolutely have to know - but because she was and always would be a Gryffindor, she followed her gut instinct.

“I hated him so much,” she said haltingly, looking down at her feet. She shifted uncomfortably in the constricting space. “Lucius Malfoy, I mean. I hated him so much when I cast that curse.”

“That’s why it worked,” Snape affirmed with a nod. He paused for a moment, and when he continued it was as if he had read her thoughts. “There is no need to be ashamed of the way you acted, or your reaction on our return here. As I said before, what happened tonight doesn’t make you a bad person. In fact, you’re one of the most annoyingly good people I know, save for that blasted twinkling Headmaster, of course.”

She smiled at that despite her anguish. It really was comical, she thought. If someone had told her when she woke up that morning that she would finish the day standing in only her panties in a running shower with her fully-dressed former professor, she would have told them to lay off the Firewhisky. And yet here they were, talking about life and death as easily as if they were talking about the weather.

After allowing herself to be amused by that thought for a brief moment, Hermione forced her mind back to the discussion at hand. She knew that if she didn’t ask him the questions plaguing her she would never be able to rest.

“Then why don’t I feel anything?” she asked him softly. “Why don’t I feel pain, or relief, or remorse, or disgust?” She shook her head. “I don’t feel a thing, Severus. I just feel…well…dead inside.”

Snape sighed and raised a hand to her face to push away an errant strand of hair. “It is to be expected, because you have been through a terrible experience and suffered a very large shock tonight.”

He gentled her cheek, trailing his long fingers down to her chin before allowing his hand to drop.

“But you are a passionate person; I can see it in your eyes and I have no doubt you feel everything one hundred, one thousand times worse than I ever will. That is your punishment to bear alone, but it is also your reward for a life which will be far more fulfilling that most.”

She raised her eyes to meet his again, watching him wordlessly.

“You will feel all those things you speak of, Hermione, and when they come to you you’ll wish them gone again.” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “Trust me, I know. I have walked in your shoes countless times before, and I no doubt will again. No one will be spared the pain, you may be certain of that.”

His gaze burned steadily into hers and in an instant she realised what she needed to do to make herself come alive again. It was almost unthinkable, and if her friends found out they would never understand why she was compelled to do such a thing, but she had to do it or nothing would change. But how to put it into words?

Trust him, he knows. The little voice whispering in her head sounded suspiciously like Albus Dumbledore, which made Hermione’s stomach churn even more. The Headmaster was the last person she wanted to think of at a time like this. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then plunged straight in.

“I need to feel. Help me.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and the Potions Master immediately prompted her to repeat herself.

“Ask me again,” Snape said quietly. “I need to know exactly what you want me to do.”

From his expression, however, she knew that he’d understood her plea, perhaps even before she’d had the strength to put it into words, and it gave her the courage to say it again. She wondered if he knew because someone had once done the same for him, long ago. Not that it really mattered; that was the past and they were fighting a different battle now. The rules had changed.

“I need to feel, Severus. Help me to feel, please, help me.” Hermione extended shaking arms towards him in an unmistakable invitation, suddenly fearful that his answer would be no.

But she had no reason to be afraid. His response was immediate; he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, crushing his mouth against hers before she had a chance to change her mind.

Not that she wanted to; winding her arms around her neck she clung to him desperately. Severus Snape was Hermione’s anchor in the storm, and that meant allowing his tongue to ravage her mouth as it pleased and arching her body forward against the hand which snaked down to fondle her breast. Her sensitised nipple brushed against the rough skin of his palm and she moaned softly, eliciting a groan from him in response.

“Hermione,” he muttered softly, sliding his other hand up to tangle in the wet curls at her neck. “Are you sure about this? There are other ways; we could discuss-”

She cut him off by pressing her lips firmly to his again, and it was clear to both that there would be no discussion. That decided, each surrendered to the heat of the moment.

Hermione sighed from pure pleasure as Snape pushed her back against the tiled shower wall, pressing his surprisingly hard body to hers. She could feel that he was already aroused, and she was glad of that. She didn’t want this to be a night of tender lovemaking. It had to be hard and fast and satisfying. It had to make her feel alive.

With a sharp pull on the strands of her hair wrapped around his fingers, he roughly yanked her head to one side as she wriggled against his erection. Her small cry of protest, however, soon turned into a whimper of pleasure when he assaulted the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder with his lips.

Slipping one of her hands around his head she urged him to nuzzle harder, and he obliged by nipping gently at her soft skin with his teeth. Her other hand snaked down between them and she rubbed at his hard shaft through his wet trousers, wanting to return some of the pleasure he was giving her.

Snape responded to her attentions by trailing kisses down from her neck to her right breast, as if determined to prove he could make her feel better than she was trying to make him. He trailed his tongue lazily around the rosy peak for a moment, causing it to tighten almost unbearably, and then just as the sense of frustration was strong enough to make Hermione moan aloud again he finally drew it between his lips.

She instantly lost all sense of the rhythm she had found and her caresses became jerkier as he sucked lightly at her. When he simultaneously flicked her other nipple with his fingers, the sensations which coursed through her were so strong her legs almost collapsed under her.

Momentarily overcome by the experience, Hermione squirmed and tried to push Snape away, but she was trapped against the tiles and he was determined to do what she had asked of him. When his hand dropped from her head to brush against the soft brown curls between her thighs, there was nothing she could do except surrender completely.

Her legs parted almost of their own accord and his fingers were instantly coated with her juices. However, Hermione had no time to feel embarrassed when, after a gentle exploration, he found her clitoris and pressed it lightly with his thumb, sending excitement rippling through her. She gasped as one finger slipped inside her tight passage, then two, and her hips began to move instinctively against his hand.

“That’s it, good girl,” she dimly heard Snape say through the rush of water and the pounding of her heart that seemed to have filled her ears.

True to form, the encouragement of a teacher was all that was required to inspire Hermione to reach for greater heights. Thrusting her arms above her head to grasp at the shower pipe for support, she concentrated on trying to find the rhythm which would give her the maximum pleasure. Snape continued to pass his thumb across her nub in hard, swift strokes while his fingers pumped into her and she increased her pace, trying to find the fulfilment she ached for.

The final straw came when he captured her nipple again and began to torment it with his teeth. Hermione’s last remnant of self-control shattered under his relentless attentions, and as she came she cried his name, her muscles clenching around the long fingers she had so often covertly admired during Potions class.

When she finally descended from the dizzy heights he had driven her to, she noticed that Snape raised his head to look at her. Keeping his mouth firmly clamped to her breast, he raised an eyebrow as if asking her if she wanted him to continue.

In answer, Hermione sent buttons flying everywhere by reaching down to grasp the sides of his sodden shirt and ripping it open, before she yanked it brutally down his shoulders. Straightening up, Snape stopped momentarily to smirk at her – “That was a commendable display of strength, from a Gryffindor” - and then tore her wet panties from her body in return.

As one of his hands clamped on her right hip to keep her firmly in place, the other unsnapped his trousers. Without ceremony he stepped out of both trousers and undergarments, kicking them to one side, and then both hands moved to cup her buttocks. His fingers stroked her for a moment and then he lifted her upwards, thrusting towards her at the same time so that he slid inside her easily.

Hermione gasped at the sensation of being filled completely. She had a little experience of sex, thanks to some Firewhisky-induced fumbling with Ron, but it had never been like this. Her arms went around Snape’s neck again and she raised her legs to wrap around his waist, crossing her ankles behind his back to bring him in closer. Their mouths met in a passionate kiss and as their tongues tangled feverishly he drove into her again and again, his deep thrusts quickly taking her to the brink of another orgasm.

Suddenly, Snape dragged his mouth from hers. “Hermione,” he said, and some corner of her lust-addled brain was shocked by how in control he sounded. She was even more confused when he held himself still inside her. “Do you know who has compromised the Order?”

She bucked against him, trying to force him to move again. “So close,” she whispered hoarsely, tugging at his neck in an effort to draw him back into her kiss. “I’m so close, Severus.”

“I know, Hermione. And I’ll take you there soon, I promise,” he soothed, reached up to smooth some hair back from her flushed cheek. “But you have to answer the question first.”

“I don’t know,” she cried, and was rewarded with a slow thrusting of his hips. She immediately tried to tighten her muscles around him and hold him in, but instead he withdrew from her completely.

“You have no idea?” He kissed her hard, allowing her to try to entice him back into her embrace by searching his tongue out and stroking it gently with hers, before he bit down on her lower lip.

Hermione yelped in pain and pulled her mouth away. “No,” she sobbed, wanting his mouth on hers again and desperate to feel him inside her again. “No, I don’t know who’s telling our secrets!” She could taste the blood tricking into her mouth. “I don’t know, Severus. Please!” Despite the way he’d hurt her, she still wanted him; she needed him to finish what he’d started.

He stared at her for a long moment and then nodded once. “Trust no one, Hermione. It’s the only way you’ll survive this war.” He slid a hand under her chin and forced her head up so that he could meet her eyes. “Remember that.”

Then he lowered his mouth to hers and she tensed, expecting him to bite her again, but instead he carefully licked away the blood around her lip. When his mouth opened against hers she followed suit without hesitation, and then she was gripping Snape’s shoulders tightly as he drove back inside her and pinned her against the wall once more.

He moved urgently now, returning her instantly to the point of orgasm and then taking her beyond it with one final thrust. She threw her head back, offering her throat to him to devour with his lips, not caring when she made contact with cold ceramic. They came together; their cries mingled as waves of white-hot pleasure washed over Hermione and she started to spasm around Snape, milking every last drop of semen from him. She called his name again and he responded by whispering her own softly. Then his arms tightened around her, supporting her easily as she rode out the last moments of her climax.

At last the waves receded, and as they did the final barrier keeping her emotions in check was swept away. Slumping against Snape, Hermione started to cry, finally feeling all the pain she’d been denying since the moment Draco died.

She hardly noticed when Snape carried her from the shower and into the bedroom. Nor did she react when he lowered their still entwined bodies onto the bed. And she was unaware that he held her in his arms until finally, exhausted by the events of the evening, she slept.

* * * * *

When Hermione stirred the following morning, she was alone in the bedroom. Wrapping a sheet around her, she stumbled into the living room to find Snape dressed and gazing out of the window.

“I must return to Headquarters,” he said without turning towards her. “You may stay here as long as you wish. I shall inform the others that you have come to no harm.”

Hermione raked her fingers through her tangled hair, wishing he would look at her. “Thank you for last night, Severus.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Granger,” was his cool response, and it made her heart ache. “You will remember what I said last night?”

“I will remember,” she confirmed softly. “I will remember everything.” When he did not answer her, she took a step towards him and then halted uncertainly. “Professor, will you look at me? Please?”

Finally, almost reluctantly, he turned to her.

“I love you,” she whispered, but she knew that even though it was true, it wasn’t the most important thing she could say to him. Emboldened by the memory of the way he had said her name tenderly the night before, she added more forcefully, “and despite what you said last night…I trust you.”

She thought for a moment that she saw his steely gaze soften, but when he spoke his face was emotionless and she decided she had been mistaken.

“You may love me if you must,” Snape said quietly, “but please, Miss Granger, never trust anyone.”

Then with a loud crack he disappeared, leaving Hermione standing alone.