Sanctuary

********Mandatory though self-explanatory disclaimer********
Neither of these characters belongs to me. They belong to JK Rowling. Nothing you recognize from the Harry Potter universe belongs to me. I do not get paid for writing these stories unless you count the time I spend scribbling down ideas while on the clock at Target...

*********A/N**********
This short story is in response to a challenge given to me by Moaning Myrtle in an attempt to get my creative juices flowing again. The rules of her challenge are as follows:
-- 2,500 words or less
-- HG/SS romance (I'll let you choose whether the feelings have just been recognized, the relationship has just begun, or they've been together for some time)
-- HBP compliant (heh -- that'll be a challenge)
-- Rating of R or higher
-- Hermione has a migraine; Severus tries an interesting "cure"

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If Harry Potter could see me now, he would probably have me hanged for treason. I wonder if that’s why my head is pounding now. Logic tells me that this migraine is most likely not the result of any contagion other than this incredible stress.

Severus Snape, murderer of Albus Dumbledore and the man who single-handedly signed Harry Potter’s death warrant.

Here.

In my tiny, post-Hogwarts flat.

And he’s snoring.

If my eyes didn’t feel like they were falling out of my head, I would roll them now... violently.

He showed up at my door last night, rain-soaked and looking more like a drowned rat than Peter Pettigrew ever had. I nearly slammed the door in his face, but his eyes bored through mine, and though my every instinct fought it, I began to listen to his story and believe his words. He’d explained his involvement in the re-emergence of Lord Voldemort, or lack thereof. I had always wanted to believe in his innocence, but even I, the eternal optimist in all matters Snape-ish, had been forced to admit that I was probably wrong about him after the fateful events that unfolded during our sixth year at Hogwarts. But somehow he’d always known I’d believed in him. Somehow he’d known that he could trust me.

And so he’d sought me out, tired of running after all this time. He’d professed his innocence and begged for sanctuary. I think I felt the first pin pricks of pressure behind my eyes at that point.

But by the time I actually allowed him inside, I know my head was already pounding. I believed him. So help me God, I may have ended up dead or raped because of it, but I believed him. Honestly, we spent a whole school year with a Mad-Eye Moody imposter and hadn’t even noticed, so how far off could Snape’s story be?

But I had insisted on him drinking my emergency supply of veritaserum anyway. The eagerness with which he grabbed the flask from my shaking hand shocked me, though. Even if he had been telling the truth, I assumed his damn pride would have prevented him from so hastily humbling himself, but he’d drunk it readily and told me the exact same story he’d sputtered outside my door. I smiled a little knowing that I’d always been right about him but cringed immediately as the contraction of facial muscles somehow caused me to feel as if hot, sharp needles were being drilled through my temples.

And I knew Harry was going to kill me.

So, Snape had found his sanctuary in my tiny flat, and after taking a shower (I know, I was shocked, too) and eating a healthy portion of my Frosted Flakes (emptying the box!), had unceremoniously fallen asleep on my couch, wearing an old Nine Inch Nails T-shirt and black sweatpants left from an old boyfriend.

That reminds me.

I hate Nine Inch Nails.

And that boy.

He stole half of my CDs when he left.

And none of this reminiscing is helping my head, so I decide to take my three-hundred pound head off to bed. Maybe everything will seem easier and make more sense in the morning. The cool sheets feel entirely too inviting as I slip under them, and though my eyes begin spasming as I close them and keep them closed, it’s not long before I feel myself thankfully drifting away.

I’m halfway asleep before I realize Harry is coming over in the morning.

Oh, shit!

The migraine is back with a vengeance, and my stomach churns as I sit-up in bed. How am I going to explain this to Harry? I used up the last of my veritaserum on Snape, and Harry will never believe his innocence! And now that I know Snape really is innocent, I can’t let Harry see him! He’ll kill him! And I live in a Muggle flat! That means Muggle police are bound to show up when the body of a greasy-looking man is found in the flat of a young, innocent-seeming woman. I mean, no one here knows I’m a witch. I can’t explain the war and that my best friend is the poster boy for the good side and that he accidentally killed a good guy who he thought was a bad guy!

I run to the bathroom and empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Damn nerves! I know it sounds trite and self-evident, but I hate being at war. Besides the protesting and crusading it inevitably brings out of my rally-holding personality, being personally involved in fighting a war is exhausting and heart-hardening, and though I could count on one hand the number of times I had ever vomited before fighting this war, I have lost count since the war started. Most of the time, I get these headaches, too, but I’d never tell anyone. That would mean I’m weak and soft, and I cannot be either of those things. Not until Voldemort is defeated.

After that bastard’s dead I think I could be quite happy being as girly as possible, marrying someone, having his kids, and never leaving the house again. Funny how the things a person dreams about change as she ages.

I make my way to the kitchen slowly, half of the way with my eyes closed. Hot chocolate, that’ll make me feel better. Always does. I try only marginally to be quiet out of respect for my guest, still snoring on the couch, though I cannot stifle the beep of the microwave. Snape stirs and turns over at the sound, and I have to giggle. He is an awfully tall man to be squished onto my tiny sofa, and his long legs dangle over the edge.

He would kill me if he ever found out how I’d felt about him during my days at Hogwarts. He’d die if he ever saw my old parchments scribbled with Hermione loves Severus. I think I’d die if he ever saw them.

Sighing, I pour a considerable amount of firewhiskey into my mug. I’ve never tried to get drunk with a migraine- never tried firewhiskey in hot chocolate, come to that- but if anything is going to get me through a night in my apartment with the only man I ever fantasized about, who, coincidentally, somehow knew he could trust me out of the entire wizarding community, then it’s going to be good-old liquid courage.

Hell, it got me through losing my virginity...

I move to curl up in a recliner opposite the sofa and begin to watch my dear Professor Snape. I really would prefer to turn on the television, but I don’t want to wake him up. There’s just enough light shining through the street lamps outside that I can make out his sleeping form.

And if that hadn’t been adequate, I’m sure I could have located him through sonar with all of that bloody snoring! I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with a nose that size.

I smile and giggle softly to myself. Even given that nose, I have never thought any man more attractive than Severus Snape. All those daydreams during Potions class... it’s a wonder I never blew anything up. Well, except that one time, but I’d managed to pass it off as Neville’s mistake.

Snape stirs again and turns toward me.

Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up.

“Hermione?”

Fuck. Now he’s gone and noticed me staring at him!

“Hey,” is all I can manage to sputter. Lame, Hermione! And it’s then that I realize that I have no idea how to address him. He’s not my professor anymore, and I’m fairly sure he’d give me the patented Snape glare if I dared call him “Severus.” Perhaps just “Snape” or-

“What are you doing awake?”

Watching you sleep and wondering how you can still seem so goddamn beautiful even after I believed you killed my headmaster for years...

“Have a headache. Can’t sleep.”

“It’s nothing to do with me, is it?” He smiles sheepishly, and I realize it’s probably the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.

“No,” I lie. I can see his face fully now, and he’s staring at me. “What?”

“Your hair in the moonlight.”

God! Always my bloody hair! My hand flies up to try and smooth it, but I realize it’s not messy or bushy or anything. Snape smiles and sits up.

“It’s beautiful.”

Umm, what?

He’s risen from the couch now and moves towards me. Kneeling at my feet, he takes my mug from me and sets it on the end table. My eyes dart around his face, trying to read his intentions, but they come to a screeching halt as he slowly raises a hand to cup my cheek.

“Uh, thank you, Professor.”

For the love of God, Hermione! Must you fuck up everything!

Snape only smiles and moves in closer to me.

“Thankfully, I am no longer your professor,” he chuckles, his lips inches from mine. Firewhiskey or no, I am like a deer in headlights. What can he possibly mean by this? Did I mix veritaserum and a love potion? “If I was your professor, I would never be allowed to do this.”

Oh, God, he’s gonna kiss me...

His lips are gentle against mine at first, and surprisingly soft, but as I feel myself scoot forward on the chair, his arms wrap around my waist and the kiss intensifies. Wake up, Hermione! No wet dreams about the Potions Master when he’s actually staying in your flat! But I’m not dreaming, and soon his tongue slides into my mouth, and I cannot help but moan. How long have I wanted this? Snape smiles against my lips and lifts me from the chair and into his lap, seated on the floor.

“Hermione...” Oh, God! No one’s ever moaned my name, and if they did, it was nowhere near as intoxicating as his moan. I shift myself on his lap and wrap my legs around him. I can feel his arousal through the thin material of the sweatpants and of my ridiculously little-girly white cotton panties. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you...”

Well, this is an interesting turn of events. But I cannot take time to relish the knowledge of his lust for me; there are much more pressing matters at hand, and right now those matters are pressing against my thigh as he turns me and lays me flat on my back. Oh, I’m going to have carpet burn in the morning.

He hovers above me for a moment, tracing the outline of my face with the back of one hand. He smiles sweetly at me, and, if it’s even possible, I want him more. I pull him back down against me in a demanding kiss. The tone of our little foray into the heretofore unexplored pleasures of each other is accelerated as I begin to rock my hips against his. I am awarded as one of his hands travels down my stomach and finds its final destination between my legs and the other hand begins unbuttoning my nightshirt.

God, I should have told him how I felt while I was still at Hogwarts! Might’ve saved me from some really shit relationships!

Though it takes only seconds for him to rip off my pajamas, it feels like an eternity, and though I choose to believe I cannot see his expression, I know that in reality I’m ignoring the fact that he’s laughing at my simple, prudish underwear. Screw you, buddy! I didn’t know I should have been wearing my sexy underwear, and you’re just lucky I’m not wearing a bra and that I remembered to shave!

But all thoughts of underwear choice is forgotten as he slides one and then two of his extraordinarily long, dextrous fingers inside me. I moan wordlessly because even in my lust I cannot decide what name I should be calling him. I cannot wait any longer and hastily tug the sweatpants from his slim hips, the only hang up coming when the fabric caught on his erection. I smile as I spy it for the first time. He is indeed a beautiful man, and yes, ladies, long hands are indicative of... you know...

I know he’s seen my reaction to him, and I know he’s pleased, but I decide to show him how much I admire him, and I take him in my hand. I grin broadly as he bucks into hand almost uncontrollably. He removes himself from me only long enough to take off his shirt.

Unable to wait any longer, he positions himself above me and looks to me for permission. His eyes are so black I feel like I could drown in them, and I raise my head to kiss him gently before he enters me. I would be willing to bet that he hasn’t had very much human contact at all in the past years, let alone any intimate relations, and before long he’s thrusting rather roughly into me. I don’t mind. He’d be shocked to find the whips and chains in my closet. Another time... I wrap my legs around his waist, and since I know it won’t be long, I rock my hips back against him with abandon. He gathers me into his arms so that my rather excited nipples graze his chest, and I moan. I can feel him losing control as a veil of his thick black hair falls against my face and he kisses me almost violently. With one last groan of my name, he comes inside me, and he slumps against me. As we lay back against the carpet, I kiss his forehead before he leans it against my breast. He’s slowly softening inside me, but I can’t bring myself to want him to leave me completely.

After a few seconds of recovery, he does indeed remove himself from me, and he moves up to hold me, one hand lazily and possessively cupping my breast. He kisses my hair gently.

“How’s your head?”

Funny, I hadn’t thought about that for a while...

“Better,” I reply, smiling a little sheepishly.

“Ninety percent of all headaches are caused by stress.” I giggle. My thoughts exactly. “And I would be happy to relieve your stress any time you are in need.”

A sly, almost evil smile spreads across my face.

“In that case, we’d better keep going. Harry’s going to be here in the morning, and I have no idea how I’m going to explain that I’m shagging his arch-enemy. In fact, it’s really stressing me out.”

An equally predatory gin plasters itself on his face.

“Then by all means, let’s get started.”

I sigh contentedly. We still have at least eight hours before Harry gets here, and luckily I have a double bed.

As he carries me to my bedroom I realize that tonight both of us have found our sanctuary.

I doubt my headaches will return.

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