Chapter 13

A/N: I am running out of superlatives to describe the talents of beaweasley2 and clairvoyant. I couldn't do it without them! I do not own the Potterverse, but I thoroughly enjoy playing in it. Thank you to everyone who reads this story and particularly to those who take the time to review it. Caution: here be lemons....

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Chapter 13

Hermione cried out when Snape Apparated them both to his room. When the unpleasantly familiar constriction of Apparition left her, she shivered violently in his arms and then thumped him on his chest with her free hand. "Bastard... You could have warned me...!"

She felt, as well as heard, his deep chuckle before he crushed her against his body and kissed her once more.

Merlin, those kisses were... were.... Words were insufficient to describe the tumbling sense of falling and grasping that she felt in his embrace. Their bodies were still slick with the water from the baths, and as a light breeze swept through the open door to his bedchamber, Hermione felt goose bumps rise on her body, which added to the physical sensations of being with him.

She felt him lower her to his bed, and her mind dimly recognised the softness of his mattress beneath her naked back and the comfort of the cushions piled up behind her head and shoulders before he lowered himself onto the narrow pallet beside her.

He ran his hands along her flank from her shoulder to her hips, and she shifted a little onto her side so she could return the favour. She discovered that Severus was very warm to the touch as she swept her fingers along the length of his lean body. She loved the sensation of his skin, smooth and warm, beneath her hands, and she revelled in the feeling of how his muscles shifted and flexed under his skin. As she experimentally traced her fingers around one of his nipples, she heard him sigh and felt him shudder. She slid her hand downward over his taut abdomen, smiling as his muscles tightened with almost a shiver as she did so. Feeling emboldened, she curled her other hand around his erection, and she was rewarded when he sucked in his breath sharply, groaned, and shifted his hips towards her. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, and she moaned, squeezing him rhythmically. He made a growling noise in his throat, and his right hand traced the scar Bellatrix's knife had left on her neck, gently following it on to her collarbone, then further down to her breasts, where the evidence of Dolohov's hex could still be felt running between them and looping around her ribcage. His lips followed his fingers, slowly, gently, surely, licking and nibbling and sucking.

As he moved down her body, she buried her hands in his hair, cradling the back of his head and writhing beneath him as her pleasure levels rose to previously unknown heights.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to be rational. Hermione squirmed in his arms once more as he inched lower and lower. He kissed her belly, in the delicate spot on the inside of her hip, and hooked his fingers into the tops of her Transfigured knickers, tugging them gently, but firmly, downwards. She lifted her hips and squirmed to help him to get rid of them, and then her eyes rolled backwards in her head as she felt him kiss her there. Without thinking, she parted her legs and felt him settle between her thighs.

Who is this man? A few days ago, he had been a memory, a connection to the most horrific time in her life. Watching him die as she knelt over him had been a defining moment in her existence; discovering the reality of the contribution he had made to the Order's victory, the depth of his sacrifice, the misery of his earlier life, the abuse that he had suffered (and the fact that it had not broken his resolve) had only deepened her regard for him.

But here and now in this moment, she realised that there had been more. He had become an obsession; she wanted to remember him, and she needed others to understand him. She had wanted to rescue his reputation, his legacy, and as she tied this desire to her own life, to her own career, she could now see what others tried to point out to her. When she had started sending copies of her articles and papers to Minerva, her friend had asked her about the dedication note, and Hermione had not been able to answer her. It had been inexplicable, but now she knew. She needed a tangible connection to him, and to see his initials in print, linked to her own name and her work, seemed to be a natural thing, a necessary thing. Her feelings for her little glass amulet, too, were part of that desire to have a connection, no matter how tenuous, with her dead professor.

Snape made a particularly thoughtful move with his tongue, and Hermione was abruptly transported back to reality. "Ohhhh, yesss," she moaned, moving her hips in rhythm with his actions. She reared up, reached down, and tangled her fingers in his hair, trying to draw him closer, harder. He began to hum or growl against her, and Hermione revelled in the additional sensations that it brought and fell back onto the cushions. She was going to climax soon; a burning and insatiable thrill was passing through her stomach, swelling her chest with the sensation. She felt a rush of blood to her neck and face, and she began to tremble uncontrollably as her orgasm exploded through her. She arched her body off the bed and dragged her hands through the bed covers as she moaned her release.

Through a haze, she felt him climb slowly and rather awkwardly up the bed to settle beside her, his cock still hard and his skin burning hot. She cupped his face in one hand, brushing a lock of his still-wet hair out of his eyes and behind his ear. She felt him smile and caressed his roughened cheek with her fingers.

"That was...," her voice cracked and became silent. She could still feel the aftershocks of her orgasm settling through her stomach and through the flush in her cheeks. She stroked his face again, and then she leaned forward to kiss him. He tasted sweet and musky, and she groaned once more when his clever fingers began to feel her tender nub as he kissed her. She caught his hand with hers. "Too soon, too much," she said breathlessly. "Let me...." She took him once again in her hand, stroking him firmly and rhythmically as he began to shift and move his hips in little circular movements under her hand.

Soon, his kisses became more frantic and demanding, and she felt him move over her body until he rested between her legs. She could not see much of him in the darkness, but she could feel his trembling body and hear the catch in his breathing as he fought for control.

"Hermione... are you ready?" he asked, and his voice sounded deep and scratched by emotion. She reached down and took him in her hand, swiping him through her slick folds to show him that she was more than prepared. She let a slight chuckle escape her.

"Oh, yes," she said, and he plunged home.

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"Harry, darling...." Helen Granger's voice betrayed a wealth of emotions as she crushed him in her arms. Beside her, her husband Robert was standing numbly at Hermione's hospital cot, staring down at his daughter's pale, lifeless visage.

Harry returned Helen's hug fiercely, trying to convey in his embrace all that he could. Helen released him and sank down into Harry's vacated bedside seat. She, too, searched Hermione's face with worried eyes and reached out and sought her husband's hand.

Gabrielle and Alberto stood quietly behind the chair. Both of them looked shattered, and Harry knew that they had expended a huge amount of magical energy in Apparating the Grangers to Naples in such a short period of time. Gabrielle was almost swaying with exhaustion. Harry noticed that Alberto was holding her arm underneath her elbow.

"How is she? Has there been any change?" Robert Granger's voice was rough from lack of sleep. Harry shook his head.

"What have the doctors said?" Helen Granger whispered, holding tightly to her daughter's hand.

Harry frowned. "Not much, I'm afraid. They do not know why she won't wake up, nor can they explain how she came to be so badly injured. A nurse came in a few minutes ago to check on her, but all she did was look at these print-outs and sign the form at the end of the bed." Harry left out the part about her horrified reaction to his presence, her panicked threat to call hospital security (he assumed they had been called, anyway, through her near hysterical body language), and his hurried Obliviate and Disillusionment before she withdrew.

"Could it be... you know... something to do with your world?" Helen's voice was very quiet.

Harry shrugged. "Possibly," he said. "I dunno, Mrs Granger. But I think it's important that we let the Healers take a look in St Mungo's, so I've arranged for a Portkey to take us there straight away. The Healers should be here in a few moments to do the transfer."

Robert Granger's face flushed. "She took herself out of your world," he said pugnaciously. "She wanted nothing more to do with it after the war and what she had to do. She was living a normal life. Why should we trust your hocus-pocus to heal her?"

"Robert...." Helen squeezed her husband's hand, but he shook it free.

"No, Helen! I want to talk to a doctor before we start vanishing off to some sort of wizard's voodoo hut."

"St Mungo's is a hospital..."

"I don't bloody care! I want to talk to a doctor, not a, a..."

"Look!" Gabrielle's alarm voice cut through Robert Granger's rising tones.

Their attention had been on each other, but with Gabrielle's shout, all eyes returned to Hermione. A warm, bluish glow was slowly rising from her chest. Her lips were still pale, but they seemed to move for a moment, and her fingers tightened perceptibly into the sheets on either side of her body as her body arched slightly off the bed. The machine measuring her pulse and other vital signs began to increase the frequency and pitch of its noise. After a few seconds, during which time the machine by her side emitted a screeching whine, the bluish light faded, the frequency and volume of the machine's beeping decreased, and her body slumped back into stillness.

"What was all that about?" asked Mr Granger in a shocked voice, his face slack with surprise.

"I don't know, Robert," Helen Granger said unsteadily, "but I am sure it was magical." She squeezed her husband's hand again. "Love, she needs to be in a place where they understand... what we've just seen so that they can help her."

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Slowly, Severus Snape came to consciousness. He knew it was nearly dawn. It was his habit to wake before the household to check on his potions, to take a bath, or to go out into the city to conduct his business. He felt deliciously uncomfortable. His body was warm, relaxed, and pleasantly thrumming with energy; his arm was wrapped possessively about a warm, comfortable form, his nose buried in a cloud of her hair....

Merlin's tits! He was suddenly wide awake in the darkness of his bedchamber, his heart thundering against his ribcage, his body tense. Not trusting himself to breathe, he carefully slid his right arm backwards from underneath her pillow and propped himself up on his elbow to look down on her face in the pre-dawn light. Hermione. Oh, gods. What happened here?

The witch in question made a soft, contented noise, and shifted backwards against him, nestling once again into the warmth of his chest. Severus froze, looking down at her, trying to see her face in the darkness. In the dim glow of the pre-dawn, he could see the flutter of her dark eyelashes, the smoothness of her skin on her cheek, her jutting shoulder, and as his eyes travelled lower to the swell of her breast, her upper ribs, her hip....

He shivered slightly. It was a little chilly on his back. Experimentally, he ran his fingertips lightly along her flank and felt gooseflesh rise under them. Frowning, he looked towards the base of the bed and saw his blanket kicked to the bottom of the mattress. With a slight wave of his hand, the edge of the blanket slid up their bodies and into his hand. Gently, he tugged it over her body and was rewarded as another sigh escaped her lips, and she snuggled down further. A strange wave of tenderness crept over him as he regarded the young woman in his bed. He wanted to protect and cherish her. She had seen him at his most vulnerable and had offered herself to him without hesitation. He remembered how delicious she had tasted, how responsive she had been to his touch, and how utterly breathtaking it had felt to be embraced by her along his length as he had finally moved inside her. He felt a peculiar sensation in his belly at the memory of their lovemaking, a tightening and reaching, and realised that he was becoming hard again against her.

He was not sure how long he had lasted the previous night, but he knew that almost as soon as he had reached his completion he had fallen into a deep and restful sleep. A slight feeling of anxiety began to crush his earlier confidence. Did she enjoy it? He had no idea. He had not even waited to see that she had... But she did, didn't she...? Before...? He told himself to stop being such an insecure idiot. Memories flooded his mind of her arching under him, her grabbing his back with her strong hands, her moaning his name as he thrust into her, and he grinned a huge smile of satisfaction and pride. He was unaccustomed to such emotions, and they immediately triggered more memories of yesterday.

Pertus. Oh, no, no. The potion and his lab... the earthquake... Marcus... the volcano... Sabazios.

He sighed and looked down again at the lovely young woman in his bed. No time for self-indulgence. He had to assess the damage to his laboratory and determine their next course of action. Gently, he began to wiggle free so he could slip away from the bed. As he moved, he caught a whiff of their combined smell, a delicious, musky scent, and his cock bobbed hopefully in response. He flushed again and stood. First, he needed a quick wash and some clothes. Grabbing his old black tunica from a bench at the side of the room, he cast one final look at Hermione, still asleep and curled up under his blanket, before quietly moving into the courtyard and descending the steps to his bath suite.

The bath filled quickly, and the magical sconces illuminated the room with their customary dancing light. Snape bathed efficiently, scrubbing his underarms and belly with vigour. His ribs felt completely healed, and he had a strange, extraordinary soaring feeling in his chest. He felt confident and strong, ready to face the trials of the day. He turned to get out of the water, and his eyes fell on a glittering object lying on top of Hermione's discarded and filthy stola from last night.

He got out of the bath and picked up a towel, absently swiping it across his body to dry himself off, and approached the glittering thing. He could not quite make out what it was, as it was half-buried in the clothing. When he reached down to pick it up, however, he knew what it was instantly. He held the object up to the light. It was smaller than he remembered, and she had attached it to a chain he did not recognise, but it was certainly his mother's perfume vial.

It was his Horcrux.

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The Healers at St Mungo's were thoughtful, intelligent, caring, and completely bemused by the injury sustained by patient number 4AS3D246738, Granger, Hermione Jean. Robert Granger paced the corridor of the magical hospital, running his hand through his frizzy brown hair and trying to remain as calm as possible in front of his wife and his daughter's odd friends.

They were on the fourth floor of what appeared, from the outside, to be an abandoned red brick department store. Robert's stomach had still not settled from the Portkey experience, and he had refused the sandwich Helen had offered him a short while ago.

When the Healers had grabbed Robert's hand and had pushed it onto what looked suspiciously like a used bedpan, he had felt an uncomfortable twisting and spinning sensation, and he had found himself spiralling around Hermione's inert form. He clung for dear life to Helen's hand on the one side, his other hand caught in the grip of one of the Healers on the other. In front of him, Harry Potter appeared to be completely in control of the situation, cycling his legs carefully while remaining upright, his left hand gently lying atop Hermione's leg. As Robert fell, seemingly through thin air, he met Harry's eyes and saw the younger man read the concern in his face and grin reassuringly at him. They hit the pavement with a bone-jarring crunch.

Some time later, Robert found himself just as lost and powerless in the face of the magical medical profession as he had been in the hospital in Naples. The Healers were kindly people. Professor Spleen, a thin, patient elderly man, explained that they had placed Hermione under a number of spells designed to monitor her vital signs and keep her in a kind of suspended animation until they could diagnose what spell damage had caused her condition. His daughter was lying still and unmoving beneath the careful glow of what looked like a luminescent green web of magical energy that arched over her. The web pulsed like a heartbeat. There had been no repeat of the strange blue energy rush inside her since they had arrived at St Mungo's.

There was nothing to do but wait and pace. Robert darted a glance at his wife as he passed where she was sitting and could see the tension in her body, the way she was clasping her hands together and sitting ramrod straight. Beside her, talking quietly among themselves, were Harry and his wife. Adjacent to them, a strange-looking blonde girl who he remembered had an odd name. Luna, wasn't it? To her left sat a nervous young man, tall and brown haired, who held Luna's hand tightly in his own and who looked as uncomfortable as it was possible to be. Slumped next to them was Ron, his freckled face drawn with anxiety and concern.

Robert sighed with frustration. The Healers had no idea how long it would take the diagnostic spells to confirm the full nature of her injuries. There was nothing for him to do but to pace and wait.

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Severus held the pendant and recognised it for what it was. And he knew in that moment that what she felt for him and what he felt for her was nothing more than the pull of the Horcrux, the pieces of his soul that he had rendered and that now longed to be reunited.

Suddenly, everything became clear – his ability to summon her, his attraction to her, Hermione's untamed affection for him, the strength of their mutual connection. The intense satisfaction that making love to her had brought. He was a fool... and a bastard. She had kept the perfume bottle safe, just as he had hoped. No, he corrected himself, full of self-loathing, just as I had intended. Horcruxes were made with Dark Magic, magic of need and want and selfishly dark desire. He had bound her to him with this little bottle, and in doing so, he had brought her to this place with him to die.

He wanted to smash it, but was unable to do so. He raged around the bathroom, his chest feeling as if a spike had been driven through it, his head swimming with the memories of the previous night mixed with the memories of his actions eleven years ago. She had had no control over her actions. The Horcrux had called to her and was trying to unite them both once again. Their emotions were not genuine and, therefore, not to be trusted.

He knew that if he destroyed the wretched thing it would weaken him, and he needed to be strong. He also realised, as he calmed down, that he did not have the means by which to destroy it. He had no Basilisk venom, no capacity to control Fiendfyre, no handy goblin-made magical sword impregnated with venom.... There was nothing further to do than control his treacherous feelings and focus on the task that lay ahead, for which he was certain he would need her help, if she would give it.

So, he left the thing where it had lain, ascended the steps to the peristyle, levitated Pertus' stiffened body to his new resting place in the atrium, made breakfast, and waited for the woman whom he had thought he was falling in love with to wake up.

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When Hermione stirred, she immediately knew that she was alone in the bed and it was light outside. Languorously, she stretched her naked body, feeling the bones in her spine crack into realignment and a delightful soreness, which spoke of last night's activities, spread through her groin. She ran her hand through her hair and found it to be hopelessly tangled, and she realised that someone – Severus – had pulled a blanket over her.

Severus.

The events of yesterday evening crashed in on her consciousness, and Hermione immediately sat up and looked about the room. She felt a sudden stab of loss, and her hand flew up between her breasts to discover that she was not wearing her pendant. A moment later, she remembered taking it off in the bathroom before.... Her face coloured with the memories that flooded in then, but she refused to feel ashamed. He had needed comfort, and she had certainly enjoyed the enthusiasm and ardour of his affections.

She stretched out her hand and called for her wand. Some moments later, it was nestled in her hand. Then she called for her pendant and slipped it over her head, revelling in the familiar comfort of its weight around her neck and on her body. She really knew she must offer it back to him. But not just yet, she told herself, feeling that familiar hum of connection and security it had always brought to her.

There were noises outside in the peristyle. She got out of bed and wrapped the blanket around her body, ready to go in search of some clothing.

When she emerged into the sunlight, her first sight was Severus setting a table with bread, fruit and cheeses. He saw her as soon as she came out of his room, and he stood up stiffly, not quite meeting her eyes. She smiled at his apparent nervousness and felt a flood of affection for him ripple through her body.

"Good morning," she said, holding the blanket about her firmly. Snape seemed to suffer a moment of indecision, but he smiled faintly at her and returned the greeting.

She looked about her to the couch where they had laid Pertus out and found that it was no longer there. She looked at him but did not need to ask the question.

"I have moved him to the atrium," Severus explained softly. "He will rest there until we can cremate him later today."

"Cremate him...?" Hermione queried gently.

Snape scowled. "I don't want him dug up in two thousand years' time by some Muggle archaeology student and put out on display for tourists," he spat derisively.

Hermione flinched. Ouch, that hurt, she thought, and she drew herself together. "How are you feeling?" she asked and immediately regretted such an obvious question, as he shot her a defensive look of guilt mingled with regret.

"I am feeling like we have to get on with our plans, Miss Granger, if we are to prevent more unnecessary bloodshed in the future," he said. Then he straightened and looked more keenly at her, his face colouring.

"I... I apologise for my actions last night," he ground out eventually. "You must understand that I was somewhat... overwhelmed by circumstances. I took advantage of you, of this..." he gestured between them with his hand "...this, this connection between us."

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out in a controlled way. "It's alright, Severus, I understand," she said evenly. "I had a good time. I hope you enjoyed it, too." Damn, she thought, damn, damn, damn....

Snape harrumphed and coloured up again, ducking his head once more to avoid her speculative look. His body language eased a little, and she thought that it might have been with relief. Somehow, that had made her feel even worse. She needed to pull herself together. Come on, Hermione, you knew what last night was; you're not a teenager anymore, she chided herself.

She felt her hand clutching at the glass pendant for comfort through the folds of the blanket. She had only known him like this for a few days; how could she have thought that anything deeper was going on? She saw Snape's gaze rest on her hand as it grasped the pendant for a moment and saw his brow furl into a faint scowl.

"We have a very dangerous task to accomplish this morning. It is something I had hoped to avoid having to do again," he stated flatly, and she immediately felt a nervous cramp in her stomach. "But the attack on my potions laboratory wrecked the current batch of Metamorphmagus Potion, so it must be remade. The active ingredient is difficult to acquire, and I would... I would benefit from your help in the matter." His voice was so stiff and formal again.

Hermione longed for the more relaxed Snape from the walk through the city and the party afterwards. She longed even more for the considerate and passionate lover and the comfort she had felt in his arms. She cast an eye at him again as he turned his head slightly, and she saw, with a flash of pride that thrilled her, a purplish bruise on the soft skin of his neck where she had bitten him the night before. He appeared not to have seen it. No mirrors, she realised.

"Severus, what do we have to do?" She was pleased to be able to keep her tone light and businesslike.

"I have to gather the active ingredient for the Metamorphmagus Potion," he said. He frowned and stared at her uncertainly. "The active ingredient comes from the blood of a very powerful magical being. If you are willing... I need your help to bleed a Manticore."

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise, and her mind raced with a hundred questions. Manticores were considered to be so dangerous that they did not appear on the NEWT syllabus for Care of Magical Creatures. Even Hagrid was frightened of them – although she remembered vaguely from her fourth-year studies that Hagrid had persuaded one of them to mate with a fire-crab (Merlin knew how) to produce Blast-Ended Skrewts.

Snape continued to speak, "The last time I had to do this, the creature proved to be... highly resistant."

She nodded, clutching the blanket around her body a little closer. "I remember your arm and ribs."

"Yes." Snape's smile twisted and he sighed once again. "It is worse than you think. We cannot use magic around the creature. For the potion to be effective, the blood must be untainted with our magic."

"Oh. Right." Wonderful, she thought, chewing her lower lip nervously.

"This will be dangerous, Hermione. If you are unable to help me, then I will understand."

Hermione felt a now familiar trickle of fear running through her at the tone of his voice. Her mind returned to the memory of his wounds and bruises and of Marcus' words in the garden less than twenty-four hours ago. But then she also remembered her resolve and her commitment to helping him and her much-ridiculed Gryffindor courage. Despite his coolness towards her now, the regret he clearly felt at their pairing last night, she had made a commitment to help him, and help him she would. Her back straightened, and she nodded.

"Don't be a prat, Severus. I'll just have a wash and put some clothes on, then, shall I?" she asked and left him staring after her as she returned to her bedroom to find some clothes.