32: Atropos

This was so much more than a mere kiss.

The centaura had kissed him. They had also lavished attentions on him that he had never experienced before. It was a unique thrill to be the central focus of four pairs of hands, four mouths, four tongues, all vying for his attention. All beautiful, all murderously powerful, and all driven by unrelenting outrage that their stallions had dared to couple with anyone but them. He would be dead if he had refused them--if not by their hand, then by that of the Master--but his acquiescence had little to do with the mortal threat.

For one thing, he had underestimated their magic. Though it always disinhibited him, making him banter and flirt in a most uncharacteristic manner, he'd always maintained his limits in the past. That had made him overconfident, and when their seductions went beyond their usual amusing pastime, he had been swept away by the true force of their power.

He knew that they were simply using him as the instrument to punish the impudent stallions who, with their arrogance and possessiveness, were certainly devastated by the whole affair. These were magical creatures, sentient but not human, and their psyches were governed by extremes of tragedy and comedy. Even the Muggles understood this, and created mythology to represent them as such. He was partaking fully of Centaur culture and he knew it, and it was an honor to be brought into the clan in this way.

Furthermore, he understood being used by the centaura. There was a certain relief in knowing that there would be no expectations of him after the acts were completed. The few partners he'd had in his youth had been similar arrangements. Nearly all were older women whose agendas required the services of a Dark Potionmaster, and they were only too happy to pay in whatever currency he requested. At the time, the idea of exchanging poisons for sex had suited him perfectly, as he wanted no truck with weak abstractions like love and desire. Such things were obviously not meant for him, and he'd long ago decided they were not worth having. Only much later did he come to understand that his body should be as sacrosanct as his mind, and as such, was not intended to be given away for mere beads and trinkets.

But none of these factors had mattered, for ultimately he was a willing participant with the centaura. Bitterly alone for his entire life, it was irresistible to revel under their ministrations. The four "Marauders" had stripped him of his self-regard in his youth, and there was something marvelously symmetric about these four Sirens proclaiming him as a perfect man for their desires. They did not love him, but they truly wanted him, and for such a lonely man, being wanted that way was intoxicating.

Draco, too, had wanted him, in a way that felt almost as foreign as the centaura's desires. Draco's passion was infused with love, or at least some intense facsimile of it, and was therefore more unfamiliar--and frightening. It was a bit disconcerting to realize that Draco's inherent maleness was one of the least distressing factors in their recent tryst. What concerned him the most was that Draco had unwittingly bestowed upon him the power to break the young man's heart. Severus Snape had a very short list of people whom he would rather NOT hurt, and the majority of those names ended with "Malfoy."

He had meant it when he said that Draco was beautiful. He had Narcissa's pale and delicate skin, and fine, aristocratic features that were completely unlike the coarse visage that met Snape in the mirror every morning. But it was more than that. Draco had inherited Narcissa's heart as well, though he tried so hard to emulate that of his father. He went through the motions of thoughtless cruelty and dispassion, but there was something about him, some seed lurking below the surface that threatened to bloom at any time. Draco might grow into a facade that resembled Lucius, but he would never be Lucius. He lacked that fundamental ruthlessness, or, put another way, he possessed too much of a conscience. Draco wouldn't last a year if he were forced to fill his father's shoes among the Death Eaters, which was all the more reason that Voldemort had to be slain, and soon.

Once Snape had made his initial decision to yield to Draco's misbegotten fantasy, it had been easy to kiss him. A bit of long-forgotten curiosity had been dredged back up from the depths of his subconscious, and bloody hell, the lad really could kiss. If Draco had paced himself, things might have ended differently, but the overt sexual gesture was too much. Draco had not yet discovered that his heart and body were too precious to hand over at the first sign of kindness, and that was a lesson Snape could only teach by example.

A lesson Snape was rapidly forgetting in Hermione's embrace.

It was so much more than a simple kiss. He had fallen in love with this silly, silly girl months ago. He was hopelessly in love with her now, foolishly, selfishly in love with her, even though she was far better than he deserved and would surely come to her senses sooner or later. She would wake up one morning and set her eyes upon someone young and handsome, and her dour old Potions professor would be yesterday's news. He knew it. He also knew he might not survive long enough to see the interest fade from her eyes, and that alone was worth it. He might yet go to his grave with the knowledge that at least one lover's tear would be shed over it (well, besides Draco's...) Even if her departure preceeded his death and he was forced to endure the loss, it would be worth it. He had never felt more alive than he did in her arms, and that was a treasure worth any price.

Everywhere she touched him, his skin felt ablaze. Every soft little cry or moan that escaped her throat sent a rush of heat through his body. He was only half-conscious of leading her toward the divan; he would have carried her, but he was lightheaded from breathing so hard and was not sure he could make it without stumbling. When she pulled away with a fiendish smile and tugged his hand toward the bedroom, he stopped short and closed his eyes, fairly certain that it would be a mistake to follow her even though the reason was momentarily unclear.

"Come on, Severus," she breathed, still smiling as she backed towards the bedroom door.

Lord Voldemort, sitting at his kitchen table, speaking her name. "Hermione, I can't...not yet." She began to scoff, but the intrusion of THAT particular memory had brought back his resolve. "Not because you're too young, or because you're my student! Hermione, I absolutely can not do this until you've mastered Occlumency. I can't. Please!" Merlin's blood, I can't turn you down, either... Damn it to seven hells, please, Hermione, please don't push me any further.

"Oh, Severus!" An echo of Draco's sigh, yet infused with exasperation, not surrender. "Give over, already! If I'm forced into Legilimency, he'll see all this anyway. What difference does it make at this point if we... you know?" She glanced down demurely, smirking at her own sudden, absurd shyness.

Praise the Goddess for safe topics. "I'll tell you the difference, Miss Granger; in fact, I shall make it our last Occlumency lesson for the term." His voice almost resumed its normal timbre and his breathing slowed. "You're correct that all of this is a terrible risk, and I am a weak and foolish man for subjecting you to it. Had I not vowed, in an equally weak and foolish moment, never to Obliviate you, you would be in the corridor already with a slight headache and a strange tingling in your stomach."

She glowered at him, but he did not give her time to interrupt. "My only justification, inadequate though it is, lies in the fact that you are an Occlumens, Hermione. I believe that right now, were you pressed by a typical Legilimens, you could keep your secrets. I doubt that anyone short of Albus or the Dark Lord could extract your memories of... this." To Snape's horror, he felt his cheeks begin to flush. Damn that girl! Fortunately, she was gazing unfocused at the floor, a proud little smile on her face as she absorbed his compliment.

"And naturally, they're the only ones I'm likely to encounter any time soon," she finally uttered softly. "But that proves my point even more so, Professor Snape. Again I ask: If you think I can't help but give our sordid tale away, then why not at least make it a story worth telling?" She grinned at him, bold and coy at the same time. How does she DO that?

He took two steps toward her before realizing what he was doing, whereupon he halted abruptly and let out a heavy sigh. "If you can behave yourself for five more minutes, you wicked girl, I will explain it!" She wrinkled up her nose, but at least the fire in her gaze fell back to a low simmer. "Right now, Hermione, most of your memory is visual. A cursory Legilimentic glance, even by the very strong, could still yield nothing of interest--at least, not professional interest. Behind the screens in your mind, it could be passed off as mere fantasy. A daydream, such as you formerly indulged in during my class." Her eyes widened in alarm, and he couldn't keep himself from smirking. "What happened... in my chambers..." he began, grinding his teeth at the look of recognition in her eyes, "that is a tactile memory, and a powerful one at that. Such things are very difficult to conceal, my dear. Which is why I left you alone at the time. I wanted no association in your mind between that event and myself."

"Severus...that event is completely associated with you--"

"Silence!" he barked, then more softly, "Be still, Hermione, please. Don't reinforce that idea. Again, right now, it can pass as a fantasy, part of your imagination rather than your memory. That is what you must say if, by the blood of Merlin, you are interrogated. That you have fancied me for some perverse, inexplicable reason, that it was never expressed, nor returned. Naught but a schoolgirl's fantasy, played out in your mind in such detail that it very nearly seems real."

Hermione glanced away and covered her mouth with her hand. "Good heavens, Severus, they'll think I'm a world-class party girl, sitting there in Potions and 'making up' such stories."

"As it should be, Miss Granger," he deadpanned, earning a fierce scowl.

"So, you believe I can pass your kisses off as daydreams? I admire your confidence, Severus," she grumbled flatly. "So if, over the summer, I am captured and subjected to intense Legilimency by You-Know-Who, you'll feel safe and secure because he'll never suspect it's anything but wishful thinking?"

Snape glared at her angrily. "I will not feel secure in any sense of the word if you taken by the Dark Lord."

"But you're certain he won't find out about us?"

A sudden painful hitch in his chest stole his breath away for a moment. "No," he finally confessed. "I can't be certain. I can only hope that what you have learned will be enough."

She looked at him dispassionately, nodding. "Then we've already passed a point of no return, by your own admission. Isn't that what you just said?"

Walked right into that one. "No! Well, perhaps yes, but damn it all, Hermione, you've twisted my words against me." He straightened up and paused, his voice squeaky in his stunned sincerity. "I don't think anyone's ever done that before!" Good grief, not even Albus can pin me down in one of my own arguments.

The novelty was only worth a brief distraction, and he quickly set his jaw again. "Yes, it's true that perhaps we've already gone too far to pass the memories off as insignificant. It is also true that we may not have passed that point, that it still lies just on the other side my chamber door. Listen to me, Hermione." He slowed his speech, giving each word plenty of time to set in. "If the worst were to happen, I could not live with the knowledge that my actions led to... to..."

Voldemort, at his kitchen table, speaking her name. Snape's knees started to buckle before he could banish the image from his mind.

"All right, Severus." She stared through half-lidded eyes at the floor between them, leaning back against a stone shelf laden with glass jars. "All right. I'm tired of this, but all right." She raised her eyes again, their warmth all but blotted out by a veneer of frustration. "You're asking a lot, you know," she finished sternly.

"I know," he replied. She raised her brows cynically as he continued. "But I have one more lesson, one which might ameliorate the situation, if you'll hear it."

Hermione exhaled loudly through her nose and folded her arms, but she also cracked an indulgent smile at him, shaking her head in disbelief at her acquiescence. Snape stepped before her and delicately placed his hands above her elbows.

"Auditory memory, Hermione, is the least reliable of all in Legilimency. So many words one hears in a lifetime, so many voices... it's nearly impossible to sort real from imaginary. That's why Legilimency isn't used in the Wizengamot. Aside from crimes of blood, most legal matters exist in the realm of words, and verbal testimony extracted through Legilimency is far too subjective. Because of this, I will speak freely to you for a moment."

He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, even though they were in no danger of being overheard. "Your brush with your own mortality inspired you, licensed you, to live more passionately. Well, if you have not surmised it already, dear girl, my impulse to disappear in the South Seas was fueled by the same desire. I, too, would like nothing more than to renounce all of this absurdity and reclaim my life and the power to spend it only as I choose. Do you understand, Hermione?"

She made no sound at all, staring at him in wide wonder, but gave her head a quick, tiny nod.

"Yes, of course you do," he said quietly, brushing the side of her face lightly with his fingertips. "Just as you know that such a course is impossible. I am mired here, Hermione; I have no choice but to continue this journey to its end. And thus I must be cautious in the extreme, if I'm to have any... anything left when this war is over. You do understand that, don't you?" He searched her eyes, hoping that his own expression was not too pathetically pleading.

She finally averted her gaze, resting her hands on his forearms. "I do, Severus, I do." She glanced up at him sheepishly several times, then grinned wryly. "You won't blame me for trying, will you?"

Snape let his eyes fall shut as he soaked in the delicious notion that right now, this woman wanted him, wanted him. "Blame you? Silly girl. I haven't come over here to blame you."

Her eyes glinted with genuine curiosity. "Really? Then what are you up to, Severus Snape?" she asked coquettishly, squeezing his forearms. Her eyes darted up and down, between his eyes and his lips, clearly anticipating a kiss in the immediate future.

Snape was only too happy to oblige, parting her lips with his tongue in a desperately brief concession, then raised his head but a hand's breadth and looked her steadily in the eye.

I love you. "I love you, Hermione Granger."