Four

I am so sorry for the wait for this update. I have had great and rather unfortunate issues in RL which have distracted me from this world recently, but I am back on track now and should be updating regularly.

So ... get ready for the emotional pull ...

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The twisting throb in Hermione's depths was now constant.

The incident in the dungeon had fired her desire intensely. Never had she thought such longing possible. His reaction had thrilled her. She now knew her feelings were reciprocated. But exactly how? How far he would want, dare, to take it she was not sure. Would he allow himself to give in to her? To be seduced?

She may be able to influence his body, but his mind was a different matter. And his soul – would he ever open that to her? She knew she needed that as much as anything. This extraordinary man, who had been part of her life for so long, suddenly imprinting himself on her mind; it all seemed so clear now. The antagonism which had bubbled within her during her adolescence now seemed merely a prequel to what could be, what could always have been. Yes, he had aggravated her, tormented her. She had responded with aggrieved dismissiveness. But there had always been a passionate connection, albeit a resentful one. The reason they had sparked off each other seemed to her now a case of their similarities: an intellectual tussle which would eventually require resolution. As she had grown into a woman of remarkable fortitude and maturity, it suddenly seemed to her that some convergence of thought or common purpose was inevitable.

Her life after the war felt so empty; it required direction, meaning. Who better to travel with her through the continuing confusion of life than a man of remarkable intellect, who due to his own experiences would not pander to any perceived frailties left by the horrors of war.

And he, so beaten, tortured and desolate. Her mind replayed her own torture under Bellatrix Lestrange. She closed her eyes in remembered agony. The parallels in their lives hit her hard.

Empathy.

As well as her intellectual connection with him, Hermione's nurturing and caring disposition wanted at that moment to open him, tell him how much she understood, how much she wanted to share the torment with him.

She closed her eyes against the thought. He would not tolerate being patronised.

But they needed each other. Of that she was certain. Her body heaved with the realisation. It thrilled and terrified her equally.

But for now, her desire overrode her anxieties and concerns. The relentless tension in her depths pushed the questions to the back of her mind. The giddiness which consumed one in the early days of a revealed passion threatened to overwhelm her. But she was determined to control it, not to allow it to reduce her to the fawning simpers she had witnessed so often in her classmates.

But she had no doubt that she would pursue the emotions which had taken hold. She had never been so convinced that this was not something which should be ignored.

As she sat to supper that night, her view to high-table uninterrupted, her mind burned. He must be there.

After ten agonised minutes, the side door opened and the familiar black billowing robes emerged. His head was down, although she saw his features relaxed, calm even. The ache inside intensified immediately. She dared to hope.

Again, she ate virtually nothing. She knew she was staring openly, but luckily her companions were so engaged in their vapid discussion of who had the best thighs in Ravenclaw, that they did not notice.

He did not look up. Hermione thought she would pass out from the concentration of willing him to do so.

And then, just when she thought she must give up, his head moved.

Slowly, agonisingly, it came up, although his eyes remained hooded. And then the lids were raised, just as slowly, and his obsidian black eyes lifted to stare directly at her.

Her belly instantly somersaulted with darkest pleasure.

He did not lower his gaze. His eyes scorched her own, and she saw the same glow behind them that she had noticed only once before. She stared back, her breath held, the twisting in her core unbearable.

McGonagall turned to him, asking him something. Hermione saw his mouth move in a brief, terse response, but still his eyes bore into hers. She was exultant.

And then someone got up and stood between them. Hermione felt as if her guts had been pulled from her. She swore almost aloud. The person remained blocking her view for a while, and when at last they moved away, there was an empty chair where he had been.

The sudden withdrawal of the connection between them threw her, and Hermione gripped the table, confused, uncertain what to do.

She must go to him.

Standing, she left the hall, sprinting once outside, round to where she thought he may emerge. And indeed, on turning one corridor, she saw his black figure just before her, walking swiftly. She was propelled towards him but followed at a discreet distance, through corridors, up stairs, up again, to the very top of the castle. He finally reached a door leading outside.

Snape opened the door and walked out. The door led onto the castle battlements at the pinnacle of the highest tower. It was a part of the building that was hardly ever explored, although it provided breath-taking views over the surrounding mountains. She followed through the door and stopped.

He was standing quite still, leaning on the ramparts, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his hair blowing gently in the chill breeze. She studied him curiously for a while. Her nerves sparked, but she knew what she must do. She stepped out, stopping a few feet away. He had not noticed her.

"What do you see when you look out there?"

He spun quickly, clearly surprised by her presence. His eyes opened wider momentarily, then masked over, and his head turned back again to the view. He said nothing.

She came and stood next to him, only one or two feet away, breathing in deeply. "It is beautiful, isn't it? Nourishment for the soul."

He said nothing for a while before finally speaking, his voice icy and clipped. "I would not know."

"Why is that?"

"I no longer have a soul." His voice was empty.

She did not respond immediately, but at length said softly, "I think we both know that isn't true."

He spun angrily towards her again, his words spat out. "Do not presume to lecture me on the truth of my existence. You know so little ... nothing ... about me."

She was taken aback momentarily, but her desire and need gave her fortitude and she raised herself up and fixed her eyes into his.

"Oh, but you see, Professor Snape ... I do."

He did not look away, but his eyes filled with such burning emotion that she struggled to remain upright.

Then he turned from her again, hissing, "Leave me."

She stood firm, but her mind tormented her. She was so used to complying instantly with what this man demanded of her. No longer.

She spoke evenly. "I don't want to. And I don't believe you want me to either."

He sneered. "Again you presume too much. Do not try to read me, Miss Granger. You will only be disappointed."

"I am prepared for that."

He spun to her. "What do you want? Why are you here? I have nothing for you."

"I do not ask anything of you. Why should your happiness be dependent on what you can give? Have you never thought that perhaps you could be the one to whom happiness is given? You simply have to open to it. I know you can."

"I have seen no evidence for this."

She laughed a little. "It's not a clinical trial!" He sneered. She stepped up to him. "Do not be afraid to be happy. You would not be here at all if you thought there was no hope. You wouldn't have come back to this place; this place that I also find myself in once again. I have seen what you are. Now that it's all over ... I know what you can be."

He moved to look out again, his voice dropping but still clear. "No." His words came with a chilling finality. "I have served my purpose."

She stared in astonishment. "You can't say that. You mustn't say that." Hermione breathed in deeply to draw strength. "If that is the way you feel, then you must find a new purpose."

"I do not want a new purpose. I have been through it all ... all. I will not repeat one moment of that." His words were stark and desolate. He leaned heavily on the parapet, his back bowed. At that moment, she had never seen anyone so broken.

She struggled with his words, with the sight of him before her, and tried again, fearful of what she should say.

"You must only allow yourself to be guided."

He shook his head, forcing his words out as much to himself as her. "Stop it. Stop it. I have nothing left ... nothing ..." He spun his eyes to hers. "You say I have a soul. If I do then it is empty, it is barren, desolate. It is incapable of holding onto anything ... Nothing can change that now."

"That isn't true. There is always hope."

"Hope ..." He sniffed derisively. "The folly of youth rages more wantonly within you than even I would have anticipated, Miss Granger."

His words seared her, but still she continued. The fact that he was conversing at all was enough to motivate her. His physical presence was so alive and tangible beside her she struggled not to reach out to touch the black robes blowing tantalisingly within her reach.

"No, Professor Snape. I know that there will always be hope ... and ..."

He turned to her. Even in the gloom of dusk his dark eyes were alight. "And what, Miss Granger ... what?" He was daring her to voice it.

"Love."

The face before her drained of all life. It made her heart freeze. For a time he merely looked at her. Her breathing became painful within the tightness of her chest. At length the low baritone reached her ears. "That word is meaningless to me."

"It wasn't before." She knew she should stop, scared of what he may say, but couldn't.

He shook his head slowly, menacingly. "Do not speak of that ..."

She knew she should give up, leave him, but she could not, for his sake alone. She spoke once more. "You have done it once. You can do it again."

Snape turned to her, his words now more unequivocal than ever. He spoke with a deep certainty. "I do not want to do it again."

Hermione looked in desperate grief at the man before her. Perhaps, after all, the agony of his life had destroyed him for any future joy or even anticipation. Perhaps indeed she was simply a young idealistic fool. Her youth struck her forcefully, and she hung her head in shame.

But why was he now here? Why had he simply not allowed death to slip him away, away from it all, away from the memories and the thwarted dreams?

Frustration and incomprehension raged through her. She could not, should not give up, but for now, there seemed no way forward. He stood before her closed and barricaded. After all he had been through, could he not muster one more ounce, open a mere inch? Now that she was standing here with him, giving her soul to him, he gave her nothing in return.

She looked in anguish at him, and asked, her voice almost empty with despair, "Will you never allow yourself to love again?"

There was a long pause. Then his voice broke the cold air, so icy it seemed part of the atmosphere around them. "No."

She hung her head, pain and desolation squeezing her heart in a vice-like grip, breathing in hard to steady herself. She had tried: for her sake, for his. The ache inside was burning stronger than ever, but now, she could go no further.

"Then, indeed, Severus ... there is nothing I can do for you."

With that she turned and started the heavy walk away from him. She could no longer feel her heart within her. A deep sob began to well up from her depths, and she struggled not to collapse. But still she walked, leaving him behind.

Then sharp, quick footsteps.

Fingers closed swiftly, hard, around her arm and she was pulled back, suddenly and desperately. He caught her and spun her into him. She landed with a jolt against his chest and the breath was pulled out of her.

His hands came up, clasping her head hard in them, pulling it up to sear her eyes with his momentarily. Then his head descended, his lips crashing into hers, frantically and brutally. He opened her mouth desperately and she parted her lips willingly to his onslaught. Amidst the urgent lust, she noticed him; he tasted like his aroma, only sweeter, more honeyed. She could not prevent a small groan bubbling from her depths. Her body started to melt into him. She pressed every inch of herself along him, feeling his firm muscles, taut and ready. Her hips ground instinctively against him and were rewarded by a desperate hardness, a force seeking her out between his own legs.

His hands still held her head hard, his mouth engulfing hers. His tongue now quested deep into her, as if trying to possess her. She responded with equal ardour, their tongues swirling, darting, mingling. The fire in her belly threatened to engulf her. Please, please.

Suddenly an owl swooped noisily, close over their heads. Snape abruptly broke off, his eyes filled with a look of agonised confusion. He took a furtive, unsteady step back, lowered his head and hurried away, leaving her heaving for breath, burning with unrequited lust.

Hermione collapsed slowly down along the rampart, leaning her head against it, unable to stop the gasping sobs tearing their way out of her body.

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Keep going, Hermione! No one said it would be easy.

Let me know your thoughts. LL x