Chapter Three

Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.

'Your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.'

'And yours ... is willfully to misunderstand them.'

Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice

He had brewed enough to last a week, and he prayed to whatever gods listened that he would not need the whole batch. All the books said that day seven was something of a cut-off, that the odds of rescuing a person's soul were severely diminished after that.

He approached the bed and sat down next to her. He took her wrists in his hands and could not resist the temptation to brush the insides of each with his fingers. 'I'm sorry,' he murmured, and rope spun itself out of thin air, magically securing her to the bed.

She woke with a start, the look in her eyes telling him that this was Clíona...well, he'd known it would be, but by God, it would be something if Hermione could fight through, could wake in his bed on her own, without the goddess. He quickly tipped the new potion down her throat and followed it with Veritaserum, just in case.

As she came to herself, the look in her eye was frantic. 'Oh gods, I passed out and...oh my God,' Hermione said, eyes wide as she saw the ropes. 'Is this your bed? What the fuck am I doing here? Oh God, what did I do?'

'Are you Clíona?' he asked.

'No, I'm Hermione and...' Her eyes darted about the room and to the restraints. 'Oh my fucking Merlin, what the...' She looked at him, horrified. 'I can't remember anything. You drugged me!' she shrieked. 'Oh my God, we shagged and I can't remember...'

'Hermione...'

'How could you do that...'

'Hermione!'

'Oh my...'

'Hermione!' he yelled, and that shut her up quickly. 'Would you prefer the long or short version?'

'Short,' she said tersely. 'Untie me.'

Ignoring her, he stared at his hands as he spoke, summoning all of his resolve, hoping she'd understand. 'We fell asleep by the harbour. When I awoke, you were gone...you'd drowned. Cian and I found your body on the shore, but when we Enervated you, you weren't ... yourself. I've run a full set of diagnostic spells; physically, you are fine, but while you were underwater, you were possessed by Clíona, a minor Irish goddess who, incidentally, has a connection to Glandore Harbour and is Queen of the Banshees. Your soul is essentially trapped under hers. I had to brew a potion to ensure your lucidity for this conversation. Do you have any questions so far?' he asked.

She shot him a look that told him what she thought of that. 'Where are we, why am I restrained, and where the bloody hell is my wand so I can hex you into next week? And how can you prove that any of that is true?'

He twitched. 'Fair enough.'

'I'm waiting,' she said.

He ticked off his fingers. 'We are at my home in the Isles of Scilly...St. Agnes, to be specific. You are restrained because I don't know when Clíona will overpower you. She's strong and determined to physically assault me,' he said. Well, it wasn't a lie. 'Your wand is in Cian's safekeeping because the use of it would make Clíona's presence in your body permanent. And this is true because I also have taken a drop of Veritaserum, and because Cian explained it all here.' He released one of her hands from the restraints and handed her the letter. 'The Dictoquill was dipped in Veritaserum, as you can tell by...'

'The colour of the ink,' she murmured, immediately perusing the letter.

He paused. 'You're taking this ... better than expected.'

She pursed her lips. 'I've seen this happen before. I know this is not your fault...I'll endeavour to be calm as long as you haven't taken me in this state,' she said quietly.

He folded his arms across his chest. 'And why would I do that?'

She visibly struggled, fighting the serum in order to choose her words carefully. 'Because you feel ... strongly ... about me.'

He plunged on. 'Symptoms include...'

'Memory loss, physical exhaustion, magical depletion...like I said, I've seen it before.'

'And you are not concerned?' he couldn't help but ask.

'We're alike, you and I,' she started. 'I'm sure I'm as worried as you are gleeful that this has happened, and we are both doing an admirable job of containing our emotions.'

He clenched his fists together, and he felt so hot that he could have stared a hole through the bedspread. 'What makes you think that I am gleeful?' he asked through gritted teeth.

She handed him Cian's letter. 'Well, we played right into her hands, harbour and everything. Damn indiscriminate immortals. Why me?'

Ignoring the fact that this possession was hardly indiscriminate, he answered, 'Perhaps because you've been haunted by the banshee's wail.'

Her eyes widened with perceptible fear. 'How the hell do you know that?'

'Clíona can access your memories.'

Hermione blanched. 'I...' She took a deep breath and put her head in her one free hand. 'I've never seen that before.'

'So this is different. Different is good,' Severus said. He sat on the bed and leaned closer to her, unable to resist the energy that crackled between them, a live wire strung with untold questions and latent desire. He cleared his throat. 'What did you and your ... organisation usually do in such scenarios?'

Hermione's shoulders slumped. 'We didn't do anything. There are rumours of objects that can trap an immortal's soul, but we were never able to save anyone.'

Severus looked at the floor, trying to mask his disappointment. 'So you watched them lose themselves in their own bodies?' he asked.

'Yes.' She turned her head. 'How much time do we have?'

'Could you be more specific?'

'This conversation.'

'I've no idea,' he said.

'Seven days, right?' she asked, leaning back into the pillows.

'This is not a terminal diagnosis, Hermione,' he said.

'With all due respect, Severus, we've had our most brilliant witches and wizards working on this project for years. No results.'

'With all due respect, Hermione, your boss tried to recruit me to lead that research team.'

Her lip twitched into a smile. 'I heard about that.'

He rose. 'Do you have any more questions, or shall I leave you with the books?'

'Just one,' she said. 'Why didn't you listen, before? When you came to ... see me?'

His lips tightened. 'You were with someone else.'

'I tried to explain. He's just a friend...'

'Who kisses you on the lips?' he asked, his voice sharp, too sharp, and he instantly regretted it. He rose to leave.

'And how about before?' she asked, raising her voice. 'We had the most wonderful week and I was bloody on top of you, when you decided to be a bloody...'

'There is a difference between want and want, Hermione. I am not interested in the former,' he said, slamming the door behind him, dearly wishing he hadn't taken the Veritaserum.

*

A half hour later, he was fixing dinner when he felt warm arms around him.

'Severus,' came the soft voice, and he closed his eyes as her hands trailed down his front.

'Hermione,' he whispered as she brushed against him, and her name brought him back to his senses.

He whipped around and caught her chin between his fingers. One look told him all he needed to know. 'Clíona,' he snarled.

'You can tell the difference based on eyes alone?' She laughed. 'But you're good, aren't you? Even more powerful than...'

She pressed her chest against him and he pushed her away so violently that she fell backwards over a chair. He cringed. It was still Hermione's body, and he was relatively certain that she'd want it back in good condition.

'I never thought you'd be one to hurt your witch,' Clíona said, rising from the floor.

His jaw clenched. 'I'm not.'

She gestured towards her scraped arm and bleeding foot.

'Bloody hell,' he muttered.

'Someone has a temper,' Clíona said.

'You are the most irritating wench. You're not a woman; you're a bored goddess attempting to make my life a living hell. I do not desire another master, Clíona. I'd have thought you'd have known that,' he said, Summoning a bottle of dittany to apply to her foot.

'But you do desire this witch, and I can give her to you,' Clíona said, moaning as he rubbed the dittany on the wound as sparely as possible.

'Go to hell,' he said.

*

He drowned himself in whisky.

Hermione...Clíona...was bound and drugged with Dreamless Sleep. He'd have to keep track of how often he drugged her, but he did not have the energy to handle her tonight. The reality of the situation fell on him like chains, and so ... whisky. He had draughts of sobering and hangover potions near him, just in case.

It had been a hell of a day. First, guilt at his treatment of her. Remorse, grief, and fear at the sight of her lifeless body. Fear...yes, fear, that she was lost. The thrill of the chase as he sought her possessor's identity. Guilt, again, at the hand he'd played in it. In hindsight, he was damn lucky to have spotted Clíona that quickly...but that was also a curse, since this possession was so personal. Gods, Hermione couldn't...couldn't...know his history with the banshees, of Clíona's deeply personal interest. Of his feelings. His lip curled at the thought; he'd never been good with those, as evidenced by the fact that as the three adult encounters had been enough to cause him to care for Hermione, so they had convinced Hermione that he couldn't care less.

They'd crossed wires somewhere, and that rankled, but he was damned if he knew how to untangle it all.

He Summoned his Pensieve. Drunk and remorseful was not, perhaps, a recipe for productive reflection, but he felt like wallowing, so he'd take a look at that night. Again.

*

One year ago...China

They sat side by side in the living room of her suite, drinking wine, an entire table of hors d'oeuvres laid before them.

'To you,' she proposed, and the glint in her eye killed him, watching it, seeing her intent. 'And the idea that made it all work.'

He was a few glasses worse for the wear in this memory and clinked glasses with her as he leaned in. 'To my general who masterminded this expedition.'

She tilted her head up, and he took it in his fingers and cradled it, traced his finger over her lips, and her lips parted, and that was all the invitation he needed.

Severus watched the scene unfold, wishing he could feel what he had felt in that moment, desire and her acceptance swirling in him, a heady cocktail for a parched soul. He watched as his past self crushed his mouth to Hermione's, and she practically threw her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her. He watched...dear God, tortured himself...as his past self kissed her. Snogging sounded too much like teenagers...he loved her with his mouth as best he knew. Severus found himself seeking out flashes of skin; he knew this like it was choreography...a bit of cleavage here, followed by a heady expanse of thigh. He bit his knuckle to stop from moaning as he watched her forearms, taut with tension as her fingers scrambled up his past self's shirt, and her hips bucked against his, seeking skin and sex still contained by clothing.

At some point, they stumbled to the bed, frantic with need, and that was when it all went pear shaped. Severus knew his past self's thoughts, could read them in his face: when he thought that a week was not nearly enough time to be able to fully know and appreciate this woman, that while he was not the best with emotions, he knew something good when he found it, and perhaps this was not the best idea, especially when they were two bottles of wine worse for the wear. He'd lost himself in this woman, who had just lost her skirt and was straddling him in barely-there knickers, and his knuckles brushed against her inner thigh, and he watched his past self realise that this was ... more...and what he sought to present as an opportunity, she immediately interpreted as rejection.

He continued to watch as the tension in the room, once so promising, curdled with anger and misunderstanding, and he retreated into his mind, seeking the cabinets where old habits dwelt, which opened up to vast lakes and starless skies, and he chased numbness and caught it just as he saw the scene before him disintegrate. She pulled up her skirt; he begged her to listen. She screamed; he swore. She said he obviously didn't want this and that she was sorry to have ruined a perfectly good working relationship with mere sex; he asked, 'Is that all this is to you?' and she yelled, 'Don't you dare say that to me! Not now!'

And he pushed himself out of the memory with such force that he stumbled to the floor as the world spun around him, and he closed his eyes, whereupon he was taken by drink and dreams.