Chapter Three

A/N: Everything you recognize belongs to JKR. Endless thanks to my beta, Shellsnapeluver.

Unwilling to wait for any further comments from Dumbledore, Snape grabbed Hermione's arm, barely giving her time to snatch up her bag before he wrenched her into the Floo. She stumbled after him through the fireplace and into his study where he released her and crossed the room. So he had her here, this child, his wife, in his study. And what on earth to do with her now?

Gods, he had never been so angry with Albus. The worst of it was that he'd allowed himself to be taken in, that he'd actually believed the old man had set up this abominable scenario to protect him. It is imperative that you have some means by which to contact Harry Potter. He should have realized that it was all for Potter. And why was he surprised? Hadn't Dumbledore's acceptance of him always been predicated on the notion that he would protect Potter?

The rub was that he would have agreed to it if Albus had put it plainly. He would have fought, of that there could be no question, but in the end he would have acquiesced as he always did. Dumbledore would have invoked Lily, and he would have been powerless to disagree. What he could not abide was that Dumbledore had seen, had somehow known, how badly he wanted to be saved. And used it.

He turned and watched Hermione goggling at his study. And this girl, this poor, foolish girl, so blinded by her own bravery that she hadn't seen how neatly Dumbledore had folded her into his plan. Merlin alive, by the end of it she'd been fighting him, insisting he agree to this travesty. How soon until she realized what she had done?

"Miss Granger," he said formally.

She stared at him, terrified, by the looks of her.

"Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, sir." She was twisting the ring finger of her left hand.

"You've noticed the ring," he said.

"Why can't I see it?"

"It's a charmed ring. Dumbledore and Moody conjured them as part of the binding." He pulled his own from his finger. "They're tangible enough and visible when removed," he said, holding his up for her to see, "but invisible when worn." He replaced the ring and touched it with his wand. "Do you feel that?"

"It's warm," she said.

"Your powers of perception have always astounded me," he said, and she scowled at him.

"The rings hold a Protean Charm. Should you need to contact me, touch your wand to your ring. It will burn until I remove it. Inside, I will find your message."

Hermione removed her ring from her finger and glanced inside. There she read the words he had sent. Happy Birthday.

She looked at him questioningly.

"Is it not your birthday?"

She nodded.

"Then you'll never have any trouble remembering the day that Albus Dumbledore consigned you to hell."

"Pardon?"

"I pity you, Miss Granger. How easily you let yourself be taken in. He called on every noble impulse in your pathetic Gryffindor heart. Save Professor Snape, indeed."

"Then what--?"

"Potter, you fool! It was all for Potter. He needed to ensure that I'd have means to contact Potter once he is gone. He knows that Potter won't listen to me; the imbecile believes me a loyal Death Eater. Dumbledore has always been the go-between. Now, you will find yourself in that role."

Hermione listened quietly. Snape recognized the look she wore; it was one he had often seen on her face through the years. She was putting the pieces together. This time a bit more slowly than usual. The girl's brains were fine, he admitted. But her Achilles heel was her heart.

"Then it doesn't matter," she said firmly.

"Pardon?"

"It doesn't matter. I would have done it anyway, even if he'd put it like that."

He looked at her now, long and hard, taking the measure of the girl who was his wife. There was a steely, defiant look in her eyes. At least there was some cold comfort in the notion that she'd thought she was doing it for him.

"As would I, Miss Granger."

Her look softened. "You didn't know either," she said.

"Not until the very end."

"Then that explains--"

"What?"

"Nothing."

They stood quietly for a moment. Hermione clearly didn't know what to do any more than he did.

Finally, she spoke. "So we have to--"

"So it would seem." And because he didn't want to frighten the girl any more than was necessary, he asked, "Would you like some tea?"

"Tea?" She looked as if she had never heard the word before.

"Yes, tea. It's a warm beverage made by steeping the leaves of the tea bush in hot water. I'm certain you've heard of it."

She smiled slightly and shook her head. "You never stop, do you? And no, thank you. I think I'd rather we just got on with it."

He nodded and took a step forward, at which she flinched.

"I meant it when I said that I didn't fancy myself a rapist, Miss Granger," he said. "Did you or did you not agree to this?"

"Of course I did. Forgive me if I--" she began archly.

He looked suddenly at her eyes, which were at once shielded and vulnerable. The girl was a virgin; it was written all over her face. Dear God. How on earth to calm her enough to get through this? His thoughts flashed back to Dumbledore's office, how she had visibly relaxed when he had begun to give her directions.

"Would this be easier for you," he asked quietly, if not gently, "if we were to approach it as an academic pursuit?"

"I--I don't know quite what you mean, sir."

"Simply that you have always known me as your Professor. Would it be easier if I... instructed you?"

She looked at him so gratefully that it stung him.

"Yes, sir," she said nearly inaudibly.

"There are potions we could take," he said, but she shook her head.

"How will I learn if I don't know whether you're responding to a potion or to me?"

And heaven forbid this not be a learning experience, he thought acerbically, but a tiny, unregistered thought slipped across his mind: She intends to learn to please me?

"Very well," he said. "Follow me."

Snape led her into the sitting room and shut the door behind them, warding it. There was no need--no one could enter the sitting room without first entering his quarters, a feat that would be impossible for anyone but him--and then remembering their vows, he mentally added and her. But he recognized that she would be exceptionally vulnerable for the next few hours. Any assurances of privacy that he could give her could only ease her discomfort.

He lit a fire in the grate, rare for this room where he received no communications, and sat down on a long, stiff velvet couch, motioning her over. She sat stiffly beside him, staring straight ahead.

"It is important to remember when beginning this type of encounter not to rush ahead to the inevitable pleasure," he said. "The first touch must never be a sexual touch. The first touch is only an invitation."

She nodded, but her posture had not even begun to relax.

"How are you finding Defense Against the Dark Arts this term?" he asked.

She looked taken aback. "Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

He pursed his lips and gave her a long-suffering look. "Yes. Are you enjoying the class?"

"Yes, sir," she said, still appearing confused.

"Do you find it very different from the way it has been taught in the past?"

Slowly, slowly, her spine began to curve as she spoke, allowing her to sink back into the couch. She explained her thoughts on the practical aspects of Defense, times when she felt wand work was more important than spell work and times when she felt the reverse was true. He nodded. She proceeded to launch into an impassioned speech about the differences between simple hexes and Dark magic and how, to truly be defended against the Dark, one must be willing to walk the line in between. Though Snape was sure she hadn't realized it, she had drawn her legs onto the couch as she spoke and was sitting side-saddle now, leaning toward him, a hair's breadth away from pointing in his face as she lectured.

"Do you feel different when you perform spells that you think, as you say, walk the line between light and Dark?" he asked, intent upon keeping her talking and hence relaxed.

"Do I feel different how?" she asked. "Do you mean conflicted, or lured by the Dark, or different physically, like getting a headache?"

"Either one," he said, although inwardly he groaned. How on earth had he ended up with Hermione Granger in his sitting room, and how had he come to the pitiable conclusion that he should seduce her by letting her talk? Though, he admitted, he agreed with her point about hexing. He cast about in his mind for some entrance, some justifiable beginning to what they had to do.

"No, but I have noticed that when I perform a wordless hex, it seems to come from a different part of me than when I use the incantation."

"So you've had luck with wordless magic?" he asked, and she glared at him. Deservedly, perhaps. She had been the first in the class to do it successfully, not that he'd commented at the time.

"I have."

"Tell me, then. Where does the spell seem to come from?"

"With an incantation, there's the sense that it's here," she said, touching her throat for a moment and then letting her hand drift down her wand arm. "Wordless... it's more like...," she thought for a moment and then rested her hand against a spot just below her ribcage, "here."

Tentatively, he reached out and touched her throat where she had indicated. "Here?" he asked.

She gulped audibly. "Yes, sir."

"I find, myself, that an incantation comes from here," he said, reaching around to the back of her neck, squeezing her shoulder as he went.

She looked interested in spite of herself.

"You're tense, Miss Granger," he said.

"Can you blame me?"

"Turn around."

Reluctantly, she swiveled on the couch so that her back was facing him. He laid both hands on her shoulders.

"May I?" he asked and hoped she understood. It would be the only time he asked for permission on this night. He refused to go about this like a tentative, bumbling schoolboy.

"All right."

He worked the balls of his thumbs into her muscles, drawing the tension away from where it lurked in her shoulders. He paused to swipe his wand from the couch and cast a Warming Charm on his hands, noting with gratification that when he resumed she leaned into the pressure of his fingers.

"Will you lift your hair?"

"My hair?"

"Its weight, I'd gather, is part of what makes your neck so stiff."

She gathered her hair with both hands and twisted it high on her head. Gradually, he kneaded higher up the graceful curve of her neck, sinking his fingers into the hair at the base of her scalp. He leaned forward, letting her become used to his breath against her skin. He could feel a different kind of tension building under her flesh as he worked, something taut and singing, although underneath it he could feel her muscles unclenching and giving way to his touch. Unwilling to push this particular foray any further, he let his hands return to her shoulders and rhythmically squeezed down her biceps, urging the gathered tension down her arms and out her fingertips. She released her hair, and he rubbed his hands up and down her arms for a moment.

Then, miracle of miracles, she leaned back against his chest, letting her head rest against his collarbone. Surely it was that infernal Gryffindor bravery, her determination to get it over with as she'd said, but he was surprised at how grateful he was for her help in moving things along. She'd accepted the invitation. Such a quick study. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, he was registering the soft tickle of her curls on his throat, the warm pressure of her body against his, and the sound of her breath, slow and deep now. He reached up and traced a finger along the perimeter of her face and down her neck.

"And wordless?" he asked. "Where did you say?"

"Here," she said softly, taking his hand and pressing it against her ribs. Her fingers lingered over his.

"For me, it is the same," he whispered, his lips grazing the outer shell of her ear. He felt her fingers tighten over his wrist, at first mistaking it for stop, then gradually realizing that she was responding.

Responding! Sweet Merlin, but the girl was brave. For how often had these lips spoken words meant to sting, and now she was allowing them passage over the tender skin of her earlobe. He used his free hand to guide her head to one side, exposing her neck. He dragged his mouth over the smooth, young flesh until he found the liminal point where her neck joined her shoulder, and... gently now, mustn't scare... he bit her.

He felt her gasp and arch into him and was able to turn her slightly in his arms so that he could find her mouth with his. Her kiss was untutored and guileless, her soft lips malleable under his. He was forcibly reminded of Lily, of the one kiss he'd ever stolen from her down in the dungeons during his fifth year. There was pain in the memory, but sweetness, too, in finding it here after all this time. Snape took her hand and guided it to his shoulder to give him a better grasp on her, but she ran it up his throat to his face. Her fingers explored him with hesitant, feather-light touches, over his eyelid, the bridge of his nose, and then along the shape of his mouth where it joined hers. Finally, she thrust it into his hair, and he felt the oddest sense of becoming someone else.

Perhaps he was someone else. What other explanation could there be for the fact that he held in his arms the Princess of Gryffindor, her fingers twining in the slick, baby-fine hair he knew she abhorred? There was heat here, where he had least expected it, heat brewing between them like a cauldron left to simmer. It flared as his tongue penetrated her mouth.

There was some urgency, now, to her kisses, and her tongue explored his mouth with sweet, tentative thrusts. Snape found himself stroking her legs where they were curled on the couch, his other hand cradling her head to ensure that her lips could not escape the ministrations of his. Finally, he broke away. He looked into her dark eyes, expecting to find that once the pressure stopped, the fear would return. He needed to see the fear again, to know that he was Snape and she was Granger and that the world had not somehow ceased to exist.

Gradually, the hunger in her eyes turned into a question. Instruction. The girl was waiting for instruction. Never breaking her gaze, he cleared his throat, found his silkiest teaching voice and said, "I see you are ready for the second lesson, Miss Granger."

Ah. That was better. There was the trembling he had expected. She seemed to notice that she was sprawled across the couch and moved to gather herself together, but he put his hand on her arm to still her.

With slow, deliberate motions, he freed the clasp of her robes and eased them back over her shoulders. She was fully dressed beneath, of course; what mattered was the act, the intention. She shrugged out of her robes gracelessly, looking every ounce the inexperienced schoolgirl that she was. He looked disparagingly at her abandoned robes, which had settled into a pile in his lap.

"Should I move them?" she asked.

"Leave them. Right now you need to be concerned with mine."

"Yours?"

"Would you rather I left them on?" he asked, cocking his eyebrow at her.

Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the closure. He made no move to help her; she would have to learn how to free a man's robes sooner or later. Finally, she mastered the catch and slid her hands under the heavy black cloth, over the Oxford shirt beneath. He bent and nudged her face upward with his nose, reclaiming the heat of her mouth, dimmed now with fear, but warming. Their kiss bumped and faltered as she urged his robes open.

"Patience," he purred, and she gave him the same open, questioning look as before. He slipped his arms free of the obstructing material and folded her into them, tangling his hands in her hair. He nuzzled the curve of her neck, laving it with his tongue, and tugging her hair slightly to tip her head, he licked the warm hollow of her throat.

He could feel her pulse quickening beneath his lips, but he heard nothing to indicate her arousal.

"Are you holding your breath, Miss Granger?"

She let it out in a long sigh.

"If you will not speak, at least breathe, so that I will know what pleases you."

"Should I... speak?"

"Only if you feel comfortable. As I said, the changes in your breathing can speak for you. You should be listening to mine."

"Yes, sir."

His lips twitched slightly. How odd that she remembered the signifier even now. Not that he had ceased calling her 'Miss Granger.' He wondered what the use of her given name would do to her and made a mental note to experiment with it later.

He returned his face to her neck--she was breathing regularly now--and inhaled deeply, learning the scent of her. She was all parchment and wood with mild undertones of honey, all of which he found... pleasant. He resumed his assault on her skin, nipping the delicate, tender flesh at the base of her throat. He listened as her breathing quickened and deftly began to undo the buttons of her shirt.

"Sir?" she said tentatively.

"Yes?" His fingers stilled. Would she be one of those insufferable women who couldn't stand to be looked at? Well, he would have to break her of that.

"It's just... what should I be doing?"

He paused and sat back, struck again by her bravery. "If there is something specific that I desire, I will let you know. Until then, imagine that we are dancing and let me lead you. If you feel the need to act," he said slowly, "reciprocate."

She nodded. There was a moment in which they were both paralyzed, staring at one another, unable to see the way back to where they had been. Then she grinned and tossed her head, whipping her hair back, and said, "Right, then. As you were."

He snorted--as close to a laugh as he had been in some time, he thought--and plunged his face into the cloud of hair that was already resettling itself over her shoulders. He was mildly surprised to feel her fingers working the buttons of his shirt and burrowing inside. Her touch sent tiny shocks of electricity through him, awakening his nerves and setting them aflame. He closed his eyes and kissed her, suckling first her upper lip and then her lower. When she moaned softly into his mouth, the electricity increased in intensity until he was nearly gasping for air. Good God, where was this coming from? How could this... this student... be mastering his senses, leaving him as nakedly aroused as an adolescent? He attacked the buttons of her shirt and wrenched it free from her skirt, sliding his hands over the smooth planes of her ribs. He heard her inhale sharply, though her muscles did not tense under his fingers. His hands traveled up her back, pulling her in and then... oh, the sudden and soft pressure of her lips on his neck. His breath caught in his throat, and seeming to hear it, she quickened her pace, her tongue tracing silky figure eights on his skin.

"No... slow," he breathed, and her mouth turned languorous, snaking upward until she found his ear and gently licked its rim.

Aahhh, fuck. His hands scrabbled for the opening of her skirt. Fuck. She nipped his earlobe, and he tugged the zipper down, running his hands over her waist. Pressing her lips to his, she eased herself off the couch, dropping her skirt with previously unknown aplomb. Reciprocate, he thought as if it were a spell, Reciprocate! And then her hands were at his waist, flicking the buttons apart and freeing the erection that was straining toward her. Still their lips were joined, his tongue plundering her mouth, as she climbed into his lap. It would be so easy--so easy!--to wrench her knickers aside and thrust, to drive himself home into her sweet depths.

No. It was too soon. There must be pleasure for her before the pain. He would hold on until the lesson was complete.

He broke their kiss. "I think we're getting ahead of ourselves, Miss Granger," he panted.

Her eyes shuttered, and all expression fell from her face. He had forgotten how the slightest sense of rejection could wound when everything was laid bare. He cupped her chin in his palm. What to say to reassure her?

"Bedroom," he growled.

She nearly leaped from his lap.

He indicated a door, and she walked toward it. He needed a moment to attend to his clothing, as he refused to be seen crossing a room while holding up his pants. He watched her as she moved, entering his bedchamber wearing only her open school shirt, knickers, and socks. He had been afraid that he would be unable to perform when he saw her uniform and had thought about transfiguring her clothing at the outset. However, now he spared it no more attention than to think that he had best get it off her as soon as possible. Somehow, despite the charade, he had ceased to think of her as his student. At least for the moment.

"Lie down on the bed," he called, picking up their discarded robes and laying them carefully over the back of the couch. He was going to need to calm down for a moment if he was to continue this seduction without shooting off in her hand like a fifth year. He folded her skirt and set it atop their robes and stepped out of his trousers, adding them to the pile. Finally, he took a deep breath and entered the bedroom. It was dark, and his eyes were struggling to adjust. He could see the vague outline of the bed and could hear her breathing, but it went against all his instincts to enter an occupied room in the dark. He lit a sconce with his wand and finding nothing but a still damnably clad Miss Granger, he set the wand on his bedside table.

In the flickering candlelight, her skin was shadowy and warm. He bent and pressed his face to her exposed belly, licking her from navel to sternum. She wriggled under his touch.

"Ticklish?" he said, and she nodded.

He drew her knickers down her legs and dropped them to the floor. When he turned back to her, her knees were pressed together tightly.

He stroked her legs, expecting them to unlock, but they did not. Ah. It was the light. Well, that could not be helped. He would need to see her face. Snape settled himself on the bed, drawing her up alongside him. He kissed her--long, deep, open-mouthed kisses that left them both breathless. He slid his hand into her open shirt, cupping the silken weight of a breast, then lowering his mouth to the tip. He suckled greedily, taking her nipple between his teeth and torturing it with his tongue. A sound escaped her, not unlike the whistle of a teakettle, but it was a lovely sound to him in that moment. There was a reedy quality to her breathing that told him he could part her legs without objection now.

Sliding down her length, he slipped between her knees. He could feel her tense as he ran his hands up the insides of her thighs. He rested them there for a moment, letting her adjust to the feel of him near her most intimate parts. Slowly, he leaned forward, letting his hands take his weight and lowered his face to her quim.

"Professor," she whispered.

"Mmm?" he replied, looking up. Her brows had knit, and she had pulled her lower lip into her mouth.

"I need instruction." He could read the trepidation in her face.

He gave her a burning look, a look that was meant to convey how very much he wanted to pleasure her. I am not in the least disgusted by what I am about to do. This is right between a man and a woman. "You need only to remember to breathe, Miss Granger," he said and stroked the palm of his hand over her mound, cupping it. She hissed in her compliance as he rubbed her desire-plumped lips. A finger penetrated her seam, sliding easily through the moistened flesh. Again, she sucked in a breath between her teeth, but she did not flinch or pull away. How could she exhibit such trust in him? For here, and he parted her lips with his fingers, here she was as vulnerable as he had ever seen a woman, naked and exposed to his mercy. He bent and licked her, sliding his tongue through her folds, seeking the sounds that would tell him what she liked the best.

His tongue swirled and flicked, dancing close to her clitoris but not quite willing yet to engage it. She squirmed beneath him, urging him higher and higher, until finally he gave in to her desire and circled it with the point of his tongue. Quickly, he retreated, now sucking her labia between his lips, now plunging his tongue into her core. He kneaded her thighs restlessly with his hands, pulling her closer, grinding his face against her, and she arched into his touch, quivering with mounting tension. He could feel her straining toward release, actively seeking it now, though he wondered if she knew just what she was seeking. He allowed himself to return to her clit, laving it with long flat strokes, then suddenly circling and sucking.

He glanced up at her, her chin raised and the muscles of her neck pulled firm and taut. Her fists clutched the bedclothes into a wad, and her face looked both intense and mindless, as if she had become unmoored from everything save the sensation between her legs. He returned to his task with renewed fervor, slipping two of his long, slim fingers inside her, relishing the high, keening sound of her welcome. Still, his tongue danced over her clit, and he could feel how close she was, how quickly she would come apart for him, for they had sailed out far past the shallows now, past what she would do for him or for Potter, and were tumbling, in their tiny boat, on the huge swells of desire. Triumph surged through him as she shuddered beneath him, at the tiny cry that accompanied her release--this was his boat, he the captain and the master of this vessel, her body.

He laid his cheek against her thigh and waited for her breathing to become regular. One of her hands roamed idly about in his hair. When her pulse slowed, and her muscles began to tense and tighten beneath him, he asked, "Are you ready to proceed, Miss Granger?"