Chapter Fifteen

A/N: Some of Dumbledore's dialogue was inspired by his discussion with Harry concerning Slughorn's memory in HBP. Everything you recognize belongs to JKR. Many thanks to Irishredlass, whose thought-provoking discussions on the nature of Snape's emotional self inspired parts of this chapter, RedOrchid who kept me from being schmaltzy, and, of course, all my love to Shellsnapeluver, who not only betas this story with speed and grace, but made a beautiful piece of art to go with this chapter. See it here.

Merlin's fucking pants. The ring. Snape did not hesitate, but pocketed his wand and reached out blindly with both hands. As soon as he had found her, he seized her and crushed his lips to hers in a fierce and possessive kiss.

"Miss Granger, I will explain. But I must see the Headmaster immediately. Go to my chambers and wait for me there."

"I don't know how to get there without the Floo," she said, and her voice was breathless but much calmer. "Parvati and Lavender--"

"My office--you can Floo from there."

"Of course," she said. "I don't know what I was--"

"Go."

He heard the swish of her robes and the clatter of her feet as she descended the stairwell. He waited for a moment for his heartbeat to slow and then knocked firmly at the door.

"I wondered when you might get around to coming in," Dumbledore said as he entered.

Bugger it all to Hades and back. How much had he heard?

"Forgive me, Albus," he said coldly. "The rings you charmed for my wife and myself occasionally have... unforeseen consequences."

"Consequences, Severus? Surely, you are not committing yourself to the girl?"

Snape took a deep breath before replying. Clearly, his performance was not yet finished for the day.

"Committing myself? You mean beyond the marriage that you so hastily arranged?"

"Your marriage, as you well know, is part of a plan--a plan made in wartime. I do not want you forming attachments that will confuse your loyalties. Your duty is to Lily Potter's son."

Lily Potter's son. Those eyes... He thought of Lily as he had first known her. The fiesty witch on the playground with the flashing green eyes, the way the sun danced in her hair as if it had traveled light years just to take up residence there. Lily, gone. Lily, ended, and with her all the hope he'd had that someone might truly see him... And yet, it seemed that her memory had been handled a time too many, and she slipped like porcelain from his fingers and shattered. Why was he living for the memory of a woman who had never wanted him? It was the hope he had treasured, not the witch who had chosen so foolishly. He stared at Dumbledore. The man had a trace of smugness around his mouth, as if he had tasted his victory and found it sweet.

But hope was not gone. Hope sat in his living room, waiting for the man who had been chosen for her, and whom she'd chosen against all reason. Yes, he knew where his duty lay, and there the Headmaster was correct. His duty was to protect Potter, to see that he lived, to see that he triumphed. For if he could ensure that Voldemort was destroyed, he could give his fierce, Muggle-born wife back all her choices.

"I assure you, I understand my loyalties perfectly, Albus."

"Good. I'm pleased to hear it. Now, on to more pressing matters. Your note said you expected a celebration. What was Voldemort celebrating?"

"It seems that Malfoy has become assured of success. The Dark Lord spoke of a cabinet being in place."

"A cabinet?"

"I do not know. Malfoy still refuses to divulge his plan."

Dumbledore looked at him steadily. "And you feel you have done everything possible, used all your considerable skills, to pry this information from him?"

Snape stared back, unwilling to be cowed. "Alienating the boy by pushing him too hard seems unwise. He is past the breaking point already. He has become dangerous."

"My point exactly. How many students will suffer before you intercede? What if it had been Miss Granger in the Hospital Wing today?"

Did the bastard honestly think he had not considered that exact possibility? When the message had come that a Gryffindor had been poisoned, he had been truly afraid for the first time in years. Suddenly, it seemed, he had so much to lose.

"Fortunately for the students," Snape said, cocking an eyebrow, "the conclusion of our plan seems to be drawing near. The Dark Lord insists that your absence from the school is all that they wait for."

"At least that gives us a modicum of control."

"Indeed."

"Very well, Severus. Be ready. I shall contact you before I leave the school for any reason." Dumbledore looked unruffled, but his words brought home the truth of what he had promised to do.

"Albus--" Despite his anger, despite everything, he could not imagine how he would bring himself to kill the man who had saved him, who had offered him this final chance.

"You know what must be done."

Snape stood and turned quickly away. "As you wish."

***

She was on the couch again when he stepped through the Floo, though this time she was awake, staring blankly into the flames. She was not crying; yet now that she was visible, he could see the distress he had caused her. Her eyes were swollen and puffy, and her skin was ashen.

"Miss Granger," he said, and she looked at him, as she so often did, with a nakedness that he could hardly bear. He felt sure he had never given anyone such a look, never laid so much of himself open.

She said nothing, but simply stared at him, waiting, he supposed, for an explanation. But what explanation was there to give? Today, I visited my old friends. They looked a bit the worse for wear, to tell you the truth. They saw power in me, wholeness in me, and they wanted it. But all I wanted was you.

"I was summoned to Voldemort, as you know," he said, and he saw the attention leap into her eyes. "It was a celebration of sorts. They expect... a breakthrough."

She remained completely still, watching him.

"There was music and food. Everyone wore their best robes, put on their best faces. The years have cost the Death Eaters their glamour, as I'm sure you can imagine. But today, everyone tried to look... powerful."

Nothing. She stared at him implacably. What did she want him to say?

"I danced, Hermione. That is all. I danced with women who saw, somehow, that I have not yet been broken--who saw life left in me, and who wanted it."

"Just dancing?" Her voice was harsh and grating as it cut across his.

"Just dancing," he agreed. She took a very deep, shuddering breath that seemed to drive out whatever anguish was left inside her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I am unhurt," he said, though that was not precisely what she'd asked.

She stood and approached him tentatively. Her delicate hand reached out and fingered the fabric of his sleeve.

"You look," she said, considering, and he braced himself, "striking."

He closed his eyes. How could he do this, knowing what was to come? He pulled away from her.

"There are things we need to discuss. Wait here."

He left the room for his laboratory. His chest felt crushed. There would never be another opportunity; he was sure of it. He could have let her touch him. He could have... But how many opportunities would there be to give her what she needed to carry out this godforsaken plan? The timing was ideal; now, he would pass her the potion.

Returning with a slim, unmarked phial, he held it out to her. "This is Vita Secundus."

"Second Life," she breathed. "But, sir--Vita Secundus takes--"

"Years to brew. I began it in your third year, when Pettigrew returned. Dumbledore felt, quite rightly, that it was a sign of things to come."

"And you intend to use it on--"

"I intend for you to use it. For Potter, should it be required."

She stared at the phial in her hand. "For Harry."

"Indeed. For Potter and no one else. No matter what. Is that clear?"

"But why me?"

"I would think that would be obvious. Because you will be with him. Only you will know when and if the time is right to administer it. The potion is only effective on wounds, magical or otherwise. It has no effect on--"

"The Killing Curse."

"Quite. I suspect that the Dark Lord will not wish to try the Killing Curse on Potter a second time. But if he is... mortally wounded... the Vita Secundus will save him. It can only be used once, Miss Granger. There is no Third Life. So, you must be absolutely certain."

She nodded. "Why are you giving it to me now?"

"The Dark Lord is celebrating. The time draws near."

"The time?"

"You recall, I'm sure, that we married for a reason," he said archly. She looked away.

"You're leaving," she said. It was not a question.

"You know that I must."

"Why?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Fuck double blind! Why are you leaving?" She did not say, Why are you leaving me? but the question hung between them all the same.

"Because it is absolutely necessary."

She said nothing, but the tears returned to her eyes.

"You must keep the potion with you at all times. Be constantly aware. Potter must live. He must succeed."

"Succeed at what? Killing Voldemort? But how?"

"That is between Potter and the Headmaster."

"And me?"

"You know what your job is. Your job is to believe."

***

Hermione used her wand to create a small, cushioned pocket in her robes and slipped the phial into it. Then she turned back to him and said firmly, "I can do that."

"Can you?"

"I can."

His eyes looked far away to her, as if he were remembering other promises, unkept.

"I will," she said, but still he stood stiffly, and his eyes did not return to her.

"Professor?"

Finally, he seemed to focus on her. "Not 'Professor.' Not anymore. Not here."

At his words, something warm and heavy coursed through her bloodstream. From the moment he had entered his chambers, she had longed to claim him, to wrench him back to her from the arms of whatever witches had held him that day. But more than that, now, she wanted to give him her final reassurance, to force from his eyes the look of defense and defeat.

She nodded, though she did not have the courage yet to say his name. Instead she reached for the buttons on his tailcoat, carefully unfastening them from the top down. "These are lovely robes," she said. "But they are Death Eater's robes. They don't belong here."

When she had finished unbuttoning his coat, she pulled back and waited. She knew it had not been a proper invitation; there was something too blatant, too intrinsically sexual, about disrobing to have been truly considered an invitation, but it had been the best she could come up with on short notice.

He eased the heavy, brocaded tailcoat over his shoulders, and something that had been wound tight in her relaxed. He had accepted. He might not yet have accepted her, not the way she had him anyway, but he had accepted the invitation.

"This needs to be hung," he said, and it did, of course, or the silk would crumple, but wasn't there magic for those sorts of things? He turned and strode into the bedroom, and understanding dawned over her turbulent thoughts. Ah, yes. Right. It needed to be hung. She followed silently, afraid that if he so much as noticed her breathing, he would throw her out.

She watched, unmoving, as he attended to his coat. His movements were slow and deliberate as he smoothed the fabric of the garment and hung it in his armoire. When he turned back to her, he was unfastening his collar. He said nothing, but gazed at her steadily as he freed each button from its hole, setting his cufflinks on the top of his dresser. Hermione knew that he could do this with magic; a flick of his wand would see everything removed and carefully put away, but he did it by hand, with maddening slowness. She could not tear her eyes away from his fingers, those long, dexterous fingers, guiding and pushing, pulling and smoothing.

"Yes?" he asked, finally.

"I--yes," she said, rising from the pit of desire she had been wallowing in and finding enough presence of mind to begin removing her own robes. Something inside her tensed as she waited for him to ask what in Merlin's name she thought she was doing, but he said nothing.

She shrugged out of her robes, revealing the same day-old clothes she'd thrown on that morning when her ring had burned. Silently, she cursed herself. You've had all day. You couldn't have at least come up with something clean? However, Snape's eyes did not appear to register her Muggle clothes, seeming to look beneath them, perhaps even beneath her skin.

He was naked from the waist up, and she drank in the sight of him as she crossed the room. His skin was almost translucent in contrast to the dark green of his trousers and the black of his hair. He looked to her like something new and tender, too precious ever to have been exposed to sunlight. And yet, there were the scars, which spoke a very different truth. Some were still pink and fresh, others somehow more shocking for their very whiteness, paler even than his skin. Suddenly, she realized that he was not undressing at a snail's pace to entice her but to give her time to reconsider. Did he think she would be disgusted by what she found here? She'd done this work herself. She reached out and traced one of the newer scars with her fingertips. The seam felt smooth and straight. Her wandwork had been good, and it pleased her to think that she'd done well by him. Beneath her fingers lay the measure of the man she had married. Harry wanted proof? Here was the proof. He stood between her and madness and had this to show for it.

She pressed her palms to his chest and looked up into his face. He stood rigidly, and his eyes remained cloaked against her. What? What was he waiting for? He stood there like a statue for her inspection, seeming to think that at any moment she would turn and run. Only the slightest hitch in his breathing told her that he knew she was there at all. She took a step back and reached for his hand, pressing it between both of hers. As she leaned down to touch her lips to his fingers, she understood. It was the Mark. She could just see it beneath the tangle of her curls that had fallen over his arm as she'd leaned in to kiss him. It was ugly, yes, an abomination on what should have been the unblemished expanse of his skin. But she'd been here before, hadn't she? There wasn't an inch of him she hadn't seen. Perhaps he thought it would remind her to doubt him. Perhaps he thought she couldn't forgive him for ever having chosen it. But whatever reasons he might have had for taking the cursed thing, she knew in her soul that he was not a Death Eater.

He flinched as she touched it and nearly jerked his hand from her grasp, but she'd been expecting that and held on for all she was worth. Keeping his left hand captured in hers, she traced the Mark with the fingers of her right hand. It was so dark, so jagged, that she had nearly expected it to be sunken into his skin, and she was a bit surprised to find that had her eyes been closed, she would not have known that it was there at all.

"Don't," he said brokenly, but she ignored him and pressed her lips to the hateful thing.

In an instant, he had twisted from her grip and, seizing her wrist in his hand, yanked her upright. He brought her arm up above her head and caught her other wrist, bringing it up to join the first. She was afraid, but she did not struggle. If she had pushed too far, then it was best to let him lash out and pay the price now, rather than suffer his brooding silence. If not...

Opening his fist to accommodate both her wrists, he reached down with his free hand and tugged her t-shirt up over her head. She ducked out of it, and he released her hands to let her free herself completely from the garment. But as soon as she had emerged, he flung it to the floor and recaptured her in his arms. He had pinned her arms to her sides in his unyielding grip and tugged her hair until her head tipped back, swooping in and taking her mouth with the same fierce possession that he had shown in the stairwell. It was a kiss that claimed her, that subsumed all reason, and forced her to admit with her lips and tongue and teeth that everything she had promised was true: my blood, your blood; my home, your home; my life, your life. She kissed him furiously, breathlessly, trying with all her might to force a new language into his mouth, to swear that she would choose him above all things, that she would believe.

***

Kissing her was like tumbling into a tunnel that had no bottom. It went on and on, changing in texture from time to time, sometimes demanding and sometimes yielding, but always warm and wet and welcoming. He felt certain he could stand there kissing her for eternity, never needing anything but the tiniest gasp of air to sustain him, and yet, the needs of his body were becoming more urgent than ever. He took a cautious step forward, urging her backward with his body, and though it was awkward, at least they were in motion now. He continued until he felt the slight bump that indicated to him that she had just run up against the end of the bed.

A whole language seemed to be born out of their kiss, and as they stood there, at the precipice, they carried out a furious conversation. He made reckless demands of her, forcing her to swear with her mouth that she belonged only to him. He knew that time was running short in more ways than one. He would have her now, yes; and it would almost certainly be the only time before his hideous treachery drove her from him. And then, in all likelihood, he would be killed. But he would not die without this--to have, just once, been touched, accepted by someone... wanted by a woman whom he wanted in return. He knew that he should not--must not--do this. How would she feel, knowing that she had given herself to the man who would rip her world apart? And yet, he was powerless to stop himself. He pushed her gently, and she sank onto the mattress.

He followed her, urging her toward the head of the bed with his mouth and hands. He could feel the power they were creating between them; the air seemed heavy and electric with desire, and every place she touched him felt like it was being consumed from the inside by sweet flames. He had never known anything like this. He thought of their wedding night, a memory so often revisited, and yet, this was infinitely better. Her body reached for him so easily, so greedily. There was no debt here, no duty, no sacrifice. Her arousal had nothing to do with his manipulation of her body, but simply his presence. He wanted to commit her every breath to memory, to be able to remember later what it felt like to be so desired, but he found he had no wish to do anything but experience it.

He managed to tear his lips away from hers long enough to bend and suck her breast into his mouth. He drew greedily on her nipple, which had already furled tightly in response. She had arched her back, urging her breast against his lips, and her hands clutched spasmodically at his arms. He took the bud of her nipple between his teeth, flicking his tongue over it until she gasped and writhed against the sheets. He could feel her hands trying to force their way between their bodies, and only then did he realize that he was grinding himself against her leg like a schoolboy. She fumbled blindly with the buttons of his trousers, and he reluctantly released her nipple to aid her. Nudging her hands out of the way, he whipped the buttons open, already beginning to struggle free of the offending material. Belatedly, he recognized that his shoes were still on, and he kicked them off impatiently. There was nothing graceful about the two of them wriggling out of their clothes, but he found it almost frighteningly arousing.

Hermione was prising off her own shoes and shoving her denims down her legs. It was a pleasure to watch her, her hair fanning wildly across his pillow, her breasts jiggling gently as she shimmied from her absurd Muggle trousers. As soon as her legs were free, he was upon her, reclaiming her mouth and thrusting a hand inside her knickers. Why hadn't she removed the dratted things? Well, he would be rid of them soon enough. He ran his index finger over her clit, tracing circles in her slickness. She spread her legs wider, reaching across her body to take him into her hands. He struggled to keep a hold on his mind when her fingers brushed his cock. Everything went dark and focused--he would explode; he would come, but he would die if she didn't continue to touch him. They were like teenagers, he thought, but the notion brought no disgust, even when his mind insisted on reminding him that she was a teenager. She was Transfiguring him. He was becoming something else. The idea of being a teenager suddenly seemed completely reasonable, even necessary. He would be a teenager, and none of these horrors would have happened yet; he would be free of his terrible choices at last, free to touch this lovely creature beside him without guilt, without fear...

Her hand continued to stroke him, perhaps a bit harder than he would have liked, but still, it was perfect... perfect.

"Hermione," he whispered urgently. "I--I can't wait."

"Then don't," she said and raised herself off the mattress to slide her knickers from her legs. She grabbed at his shoulders, dragging him over her. He settled between her knees and swiped his swollen tip through her folds, moistening it.

A low sound escaped her, and it was nearly his undoing. Merlin, what was happening to him? What was he becoming? He plunged into her, sinking as deeply as he could, and she cried out something unintelligible.

"Yes?" he asked, hesitating.

"Yes," she murmured, grasping his hips and urging him further on.

His rhythm was jagged and uneven, but she met his every stroke, pulling her knees higher and giving him more and more access to her body. He hooked one of her legs over his arm and drove into her wildly.

"Hermione--"

She opened her mouth, but the word seemed lodged in her throat. She rose to kiss him, but he pulled his face out of her reach.

"Hermione, please."

She closed her eyes and raised her hips ever higher, rocking against him.

"Say it," he gasped. "Please, say it."

She hitched in a breath, and he waited.

"Severus," she whispered, and everything was on fire, everything.

There was no world; there was no war; there were no masters excepting this tender and astounding one beneath him, no magic but what they made between them. He could not stop himself from shooting into her, and he clutched her to him tightly and whispered her name again and again into her hair.

When he had found himself again, he withdrew from her. She started to protest, but he growled, "Hush. We're not finished here yet." And crawled backward, kneeling once more between her legs. He lowered his face to her quim and swept his tongue between her lips, tasting his semen mixed with her essence. Bitter, so bitter and sweet, to taste them mingled and joined, and he attacked her with fervor, his tongue dancing through her folds, seeking what he had been too overcome to manage before--her release. She squirmed, but he held tightly to her hips, pressing his face more deeply into her, circling and plunging. Where? Where had she liked it best? He struggled to remember. But then he heard the hissing intake of her breath through her teeth, and he knew. Not a circle. Back and forth. Slowly, inexorably, he teased her with his tongue until she whimpered and bucked against his face, but still he did not stop.

Back and forth. He slid two fingers inside her, pressing until the heel of his hand rested against her. Back and forth. Her head tossed on the pillow. Back and forth. She was close now; he could feel it. Back and forth.

"Severus!" she cried, and he could feel her pulsing against his fingers. He raised his face to look into hers, and she was flushed with lust; her eyes seemed huge and black with it. And was it possible that he was hard again? Had she somehow stripped him of the years between them? He slid easily inside her, her passage slicked with the results of their desire. She shuddered as he entered her.

"Too much?"

"No... no. J-just... slow. Easy."

Slow.

Easy.

Yes.

He propped himself up on his hands and stared into her face as he slid... slow... easy... in and out of her. He swiveled his hips, making lazy circles as he moved, and he could feel the tension building in her again. He moaned, low in his throat, and she returned the sound, some wordless communication that went beyond speech.

He found he could not come again, but brought her there so slowly and deliberately that she cried when he broke her. She turned her face to hide her tears, and he rolled off her and tucked her into his arms, stroking her hair until she quieted.

Finally, she looked up at him, and he saw the same look in her eyes that he had seen when she had come to his office to warn him about Potter. It was a dangerous look, and he wished that he could snap and snarl and vanish it, but he had let them get too far, and now it could not be undone.

"How long do you think we have?" she asked after a time.

"I cannot say. It depends upon the Headmaster."

"Will I know when it happens?"

"You will undoubtedly feel... the effects. But I will try to warn you if I can."

"Thank you."

They lay in silence until he began to fear that they would fall asleep.

"Hermione, I think it best that this not happen again."

"I figured as much."

He wished he could say more to her, to explain that the more he grew to love her, the more paralyzed he would become. Already his tasks seemed impossible to contemplate. And then, of course, the more she permeated his thoughts, the harder she would be to hide. Whatever he had to show the Dark Lord, he would never reveal her face so pink-splotched with lust, her pupils expanded until he could nearly fall into the pits of her eyes. And yet, he never wanted to see anything else. He closed his eyes, and there she was again, her lips parted and wet, her breath shallow and uneven.

He banished the image from his mind. "I will get you a potion. But you must go back tonight."

"I know. Thank you, sir," she said, and he started at her words. 'Sir' cut so harshly across the bed they'd made. But truly, in that single syllable was every reason he loved her. She had known that, in a moment, he would have had to call her 'Miss Granger,' and she hadn't made him do it.