Chapter Five

Stgulik and I cannot thank you enough for the amazing comments you've given us for Droxy's Folly. We hope you will continue to enjoy the story.

Please note this chapter contains explicit sexual content.

After he abandoned his disappointed escort at the ball, Severus returned to his spacious London flat. It was another gift from a grateful leader, and reflected cold good taste and quality. To Severus, it was the place he slept, showered, shaved, moped. He poured himself a tall glass of firewhisky, downing half the contents in one gulp. He grimaced as the fire spread throughout his body, and he flopped down in his favourite chair, loosening the dress robes. He winced as he pulled the collar aside. The scar felt raw, exposed; a fitting commentary on his life if he'd ever heard one.

Severus looked back on his stint as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as one long, continuous, streaming nightmare, more painful even than Nagini's wound. He had been reviled so thoroughly it was like a pall in the air. The living energy of students and faculty alike had been so negative that he nearly crumpled from it on a daily basis. He had always declared himself a loner and proud of it, but this was a loneliness that bore weight and heft, and like a slow poison, it was killing him by inches in a hundred insidious ways.

On the night that Phineas Black's portrait had informed him Potter was with his friends in the Forest of Dean, he had felt it was a night like any other...one where he was forced to do things for reasons unknown. The resentment of constantly being someone's puppet was as crushing as the hatred he was exposed to, and he thought of the endgame not as his death, but as his escape. It was a notion that grew sweeter with every passing day.

He performed Dumbledore's bidding with the sword, and as he prepared to return to the school, something literally stopped him in his tracks. It was deep, strong magic, as solid as stone, as clean as mountain water. He stilled, frowning. This was no ordinary repelling charm.

It was powerful enough to discourage any wizard in the country; he could sense Notice-Me-Not, Muggle Repellent, traces of Fearful Fog, and a tried-and-true Silencing Charm. No one, Muggle or Magical, should be able to get within ten feet of this blanket of wards before remembering a prior engagement, looking right through it, and having a sudden urge to go to the toilet.

Why could he sense this powerful cocktail as if he were the one who cast it?

Cautiously, he pressed against it. He was flooded with sensation; it carried a complexity and skill almost equal to his own. There was an irresistible protectiveness about it that felt holy and pure, like a mother's love. Severus closed his eyes as it washed over him. Lily's magic had been like this, strong and sure, with firm pliability, and it had always accepted him, until that horrible, life-destroying day.

Unable to help himself, Severus stepped closer, until the magic stung his nose like bleach. He leaned against it, mesmerised at how it supported and embraced his weight. This was no ordinary repellent charm. This was a charm that recognised emotion and feeling and kinship, and it felt as sweet and comforting as lying down on a feather bed...

He was too enthralled at her wards, and did not react quickly enough. He froze when the tip of a wand glowed hot against his jugular. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," a low voice growled menacingly.

Severus forced himself to be calm. "Because you couldn't cast an Unforgivable, Miss Granger. It isn't in you."

"You might be surprised," she snarled.

He swallowed, and the wand slid along his Adam's apple. "Perhaps, but you won't do it. I'm not your enemy, Miss Granger. Your wards would have repelled me."

There was the slightest of hesitations. "Didn't they?"

He turned to look at Hermione Granger for the first time. There was nothing of the irritating swot about her now. She was a warrior, hair-trigger alert, dressed in shabby Muggle clothes. Her large amber eyes flashing with suspicion and anger.

He thought she looked beautiful.

Before he said anything stupid, he turned to Disapparate. At the last second, she threw her arms around him. They both gasped in panic as they flew through the nothingness at odd angles and crooked circles, until they landed in a heap in his kitchen at Spinner's End.

Severus was the first to gather his wits, and he launched himself ponderously to his feet. Hermione was only marginally slower, and much, much angrier. "You bloody idiot! Why did you do that?" she shouted at him, listing slightly as she tried to regain her balance.

Severus caught her arm to steady her. "I'm not the one who wrapped around someone attempting to Apparate, am I?" he shot back, frantically checking her arms and legs for any signs of Splinching. Satisfied that they both were unharmed, he released her, and she staggered back slightly, watching him silently as he rummaged in one of the kitchen cupboards. He found a single, dusty glass and blew into it to clean it.

"Where are we?" she said, defensively wrapping her arms around herself.

He sneered in her general direction. "Buckingham Palace. Where do you think, Granger? You're in my home." He found his bottle of firewhisky, and miracle of miracles, there was still a finger or two left swilling around at the bottom. He emptied the contents in the glass and took a warming gulp, welcoming its raw burn. He held out the glass to her. "Drink."

Hesitantly, she took the glass from him, took a cautious sip, then grimaced as she passed it back. "Gods, I don't know how you can make that look remotely appetising."

"Because it's the only thing in this house right now that makes sense. Talk to me, Granger. What the fuck did you think you were doing, hanging on to me like that?" He sounded his usual belligerent self, in spite of his jangled nerves. "I could have been heading straight for a meeting with the Dark Lord."

She looked at him blankly, then grew still. "Why did you say my wards would have repelled you?" Her eyes were distrustful. "Didn't they?"

Severus took another drink and passed the glass back to her. "They engulfed me."

This time, she took a larger gulp, grimacing at the heat searing her lungs. "How?"

He studied her. "Are your defensive spells and wards set to recognise certain magical signatures?" When she did not answer, he nodded. "No. They allow those you care about to penetrate them. Those you love."

Oh, that made her turn away. Fortified with just enough firewhisky to throw a little caution to the winds, Severus moved closer to increase the intimidation factor. In his most persuasive, velvety tone, he purred, "Tell me, Miss Granger, why did your wards... caress me?"

"Why did you come to the Forest of Dean?" she hissed, unable to meet his eyes.

Severus took a deep breath. Did he really want the answer to his question? Perhaps it was for the best.

He put her out of her misery by explaining how he came to know where to meet Harry Potter to ensure he found the Sword of Gryffindor. Hermione was not impressed. In fact, she was incensed. "That snake, Phineas Black!" she muttered, shaking her head in anger. "Fucking Slytherins. Can't trust them as far as you can throw them." She looked back at Severus. "Gods, I'm such an idiot." She stood. "I'll be going now."

"You're going nowhere, Granger. Tit for tat," he replied. "I tell you what I was doing, you tell me why I was doing it."

Hermione turned to him, her eyes reproachful. "I've defended you, you know. Ever since I was a first year. I've stood up for you, had points away from my own house by arguing when someone called you names, I've told Harry and Ron and anyone who would listen that you were Dumbledore's man." She looked away. "I believed in you, right up until you blew him off that tower." She shook her head. "Why did it have to be you? Why couldn't it have been anyone else?"

Severus looked at her, his heart pounding. Merlin help him. He knew. He'd heard her; even as he laughed at her behind her back for the last six years, he'd known she championed him. Let Potter say and do his worst; this little witch would defend the defenseless. No matter how harsh his detractors had been, Hermione Granger looked upon him with respect and recognition of his proficiency and skill. She had admired him.

The sadness, the loss of regard for him in her voice hurt worse than all the cuts and hatred he'd experienced at Hogwarts that year...more than he'd ever felt in his lifetime, and something broke. His anger, fueled by his own hurt and frustration, flared.

"Why me? Why has Dumbledore always chosen me, Granger? Why do you think? Because I promised I'd do anything for that meddling bastard, and I have! Do you honestly think I killed him because I hated him! I loved that old man!"

The words flew from him before he could pull the drawbridge down. "I brought St. Potter the Sword of Gryffindor because Albus told me to. Do you know why? I fucking don't! I was just following orders!" He grabbed the glass and threw it into the fire, watching as amber droplets flew from the edges of the broken glass. Hermione jumped but held firm. "I'm sick of it, Granger! I'm sick of taking orders that lead to nothing but pain and being vilified for it. I'm sick of being everyone's puppet and punching bag and sacrificial goat and being spat on for the privilege. But most of all, I'm sick of people thinking I'm something I'm not!"

"Professor..."

"Don't call me that! I'm not your professor anymore and I never will be!" He was breathing hard, near tears, and his heart felt as if it were going to burst. "It kills me that I've broken your faith. I have done and will do anything I'm told to keep this sorry mess going until Potter is ready, but it's killing me. And do you know what kills me more than anything?"

She shook her head, clearly convinced he had gone mad. "What, S-Severus?"

At the sound of his name, coming from her throat, Severus felt his rage and fear leave him. He slumped, and closed his eyes. He was tired, so tired. Brokenly, he said, "It kills me that you cared enough to allow your wards to touch me and protect me, and now they never will again."

For a moment, the room was quiet, except for his harsh breathing. Then her arms went around his neck, and she held him close. He felt her lips upon his cheek, soft, caring. The simple act of affection shocked and staggered him, and confused him to the point of pushing her away.

"Miss Granger, please. Don't unman me even further with your pity. This is ... unseemly."

She looked up at him, puzzled. "Unseemly to comfort someone I care about? Unseemly to reassure you of my respect? Unseemly to tell you how brave you are, and how sorry I am that you're all alone? That's not unseemly, Severus. And it's not pity." She touched his face with the tips of her fingers. "It's deciding to believe in you again."

The retort died in his throat. His own expression froze as he looked down into her trusting face, and before he could help himself, his erection stirred and hardened. Hermione held him, and pressed her cool little cheek to his. Without conscious thought, his arms stole around her slender waist, and Merlin help him, he pulled her into his embrace. She relaxed against him, and they stood, silent and still, for a moment.

At last, she leaned back and looked up at him. Something shifted between them; something raw and elemental, and her body melted against him. Her budding breasts pressed against his chest, and his erection nestled against her belly. "You're a fine woman, Hermione Granger," he said, his normally silken voice hoarse and low.

She smiled shyly. In a soft, husky voice, she replied, "My wards will always recognise you, Severus."

His mouth was on hers before he could think, before he could stop himself, and she was open and willing and so sweet he pulled her closer and clasped the back of her head in his hand to drink from her lusciously soft lips. She pressed closer and her tongue snaked out to battle his, and with a ragged moan he forced his tongue between her teeth, and drained her dizzyingly wet mouth.

His cock pulsed painfully, and he kissed her over and over again, wanting more than he could ask for, more than she could give. Duty, honour, loyalty: all forgotten as he gave himself up to her, unable to pull away from the lure of her warmth, her fire.

He didn't remember how they found themselves on his bed, only that he undressed her with desperate haste, pulling her jumper over her head and all but tearing the bra from her shoulders. She was panting and flushed and unbuttoning her own jeans with shaking, impatient fingers. He yanked the jeans down her lush hips, raining kisses on her body, moaning helplessly at the silken feel of her skin, the soft, clean scent of her flesh.

He didn't bother undressing; all he could see was her, all he could feel was her. Her eyes were glazed with arousal and heavy-lidded, and her body was slender and pale, with a soft pink blush of desire. She was perfect, all tender curves and lush round breasts, capped with small, tight rosy nipples. His eyes roamed over her hungrily, and lingered on the small patch of curls at the apex of her thighs.

As his eyes flicked back to her face, her expression was unreadable. "I want this," she whispered, her breathing harsh and fast. "Please don't stop."

She held out her arms to him, and he surrendered without a struggle.

He pressed her down on the bed, suffocating her with his desperate kisses, his hands stroking everywhere he could reach. His tongue licked a trail down the fine column of her throat, and he felt her fingers twining through his hair to pull him closer. His hand closed over her soft, round breast, her nipple digging into his palm, and he lowered his body until he was sucking on that rosy little tit, hearing her cry out in pleasure. He licked and suckled and tugged, and when she whispered shyly, "Bite it a little," he whimpered helplessly and almost came like a randy teenager.

As he obediently nipped at the delicious nipple, she mewled and writhed beneath him. He wanted to take his time and explore her, but his libido would not allow it. He was aching for her now, ready to plunge into her sweet heat, and he paused only to lick two fingers and ease them into her labia. She was heart-stoppingly wet already. He swirled his fingers through the slick honey, and pulled away from her tender nipple with a little pop.

"Is this for me, Hermione?" he growled, sliding the pad of his index finger over her swollen and distended clitoris. She shivered as he circled the little bundle of nerves. "Are you wet for me?"

"Yes!" she cried, arching her hips to urge his finger to that place she needed him to be. "Oh, gods, it feels so good it almost hurts," she moaned, her face tense with arousal.

He managed to kiss her gently, their tongues battling against one another. "I'll soothe that ache, I promise." He eased in, teasing her clit with all the skill he could claim, and felt her shudder. "That's it," he soothed, so ready he could feel the orgasm burning his cock. "Let's see you come."

Watching the young, beautiful witch come apart around his fingers was one of the most erotic moments of his life. Even as she was crying out his name, pulsing against his fingers, he opened his robes and pushed his cock into her tight, hot passage. He could feel her body trembling in its orgasm, and he wanted to be gentle with her, wanted to ease his body into hers and not be an animal with her. She was so virgin-tender and sweet and blissfully responsive, but the moment his cock entered that hot, sweet slit, her little petals melted around him and he slid home with a helpless bellow of ecstasy.

The pleasure of sheathing himself within her almost blinded him, and he sobbed as he drew back and slammed against her, praying the gods and this witch forgive him for being so rough. It was too exquisitely good; he could not help but pound into her, and she grabbed his shoulders and reared up to meet his pistoning hips.

He didn't last. He knew he wouldn't. Looking down into her face, at once trusting and enraptured, he thrust five, six, seven times before his orgasm flayed him open. He howled his release, his awful cry of completion muffled against her downy breasts. Even as he dragged air into his straining lungs, he wanted to weep, knowing that in that short, frantic time of their joining, his life had changed.

She gave him a charmed Galleon of her own design, showed him how it worked, and promised to come to him the next night. Allowing her to return to Potter and Weasley was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Immediately after she kissed him goodbye and left, he Apparated back to Hogwarts and sequestered himself in his study, seeing no one for almost twenty-four hours.

For the next three weeks, she came to him at Spinner's End almost every night. He didn't ask how she got away, and she didn't volunteer the information. They took stupid risks. The fact of the matter was he didn't care, as long as she was in his arms and undressing him and panting in his ear.

He could think of nothing but her; during the days and nights he could not see her he would be in a state of complete misery, longing for her. Hogwarts business was forgotten; he could not function properly. He forced himself not to think about her taste, her scent, her wet, tight cunt that beckoned to him, the mad tendrils of her hair, which snaked around his waist as he drove into her, pulling him closer, deeper.

By the time she arrived each night, he would tear her clothing from her with ruthless efficiency, plundering her mouth with his, grasping her silky flesh with greedy fingers, filling her with his needy cock. He was jealous of every waking moment he could not be with her. They would fuck for hours, whispering their desire, kissing the moans and gasps from one another's lips. Every time he made her come, she cried out his name in a delirium of joyous release, and it always burned him to cinders.

She was young and inexperienced, but she was utterly fearless in telling him what she wanted, how she wanted to be pleasured. She was starved for affection; he was voracious for her; and in that moment they found the perfect balance of need and care and tenderness. They talked of many things, foolish things of no consequence, like music and dreams and spells and magical lore. They refused to utter the names Potter and the Dark Lord and Hogwarts.

In between conversations they made love, rutted and fucked. They taught one another how they wanted to be touched, and being the quick learners they were, soon mapped out the passion of one another's bodies with surgical precision. She was loving and tender and greedy for his body, and he hungrily took her, reveling in her soft cries of rapture.

But it was in that final moment, when pleasure and duty and pain and longing melded together and raced down his cock into her waiting womb, that Severus felt truly, wholly, beautifully alive, right down to the tips of his fingers and toes, out of the ends of his hair. For the first time since his youth, he wanted to survive this war, so that he could make love to Hermione Granger every night until he was so old he no longer had the ability. He would never lose the inclination.

He became obsessed with impregnating her. As she dozed in his arms, he would cast silent conception charms over her flat belly, praying to the gods to leave a piece of himself behind in her. He whispered incantations against her lips as she slept, and she made sweet little noises and drew him closer.

The last time he saw her before the battle was late February. They had been unable to come together for almost a month, and he was nearly demented with need. The Dark Lord had become obsessed with what he called 'Deathly Hallows,' and had minions scouring the countryside for evidence of their existence. Remembering that fateful night in the Forest of Dean, a night that would forever be burned in his memory, Severus became convinced taking the Sword of Gryffindor to Potter had something to do with these hallows.

He never should have called for her that night. He was exhausted, running on almost no sleep and very little to eat. He was almost dizzy from sleep deprivation and faint with hunger. He should have waited until he was stronger and could think properly. But the need to see her, to touch her overcame his good judgment. He summoned her using the galleon, praying she would come. He felt ill for want of her; it was as if she were just another deprivation he suffered from. Surely he would die if she did not come to him.

They met in a cheap Muggle hotel in Shepherd's Bush, one of the many anonymous row hotels in the area. He had got there first, and was sitting in a chair, his robes unbuttoned, stroking his cock, when she Apparated in. She took one look at him, sitting there, playing with himself, and she began to undress for him, slowly, making an erotic show of it, her eyes blazing with lust. By the time she was down to her knickers he was almost on the verge, grasping his cock painfully to stave off his imminent climax.

In a hoarse voice, he ordered, "Come here. Sit on it. Now."

She straddled him on the chair and fucked him, their mouths fused to one another's. She whimpered and shivered and shook as she moaned of her need for him, the longing, the addiction he had planted in her body for him. He understood; he, too, had gone cold turkey too long. This was a high from which he never wanted to come down.

Neither had lasted more than a few moments. As soon as they ground out their climax, they started again, too greedy to allow their bodies time to recover.

Later, they lay spent and drifting. Severus took Hermione's hand. "I need to ask you something," he began, having no idea how to say what he knew he must.

She sighed despondently. "Will it upset me? It seems everything upsets me nowadays."

He swallowed, and wound a strand of her hair through his fingers. "In all likelihood, yes."

She nodded against his chest. "Go ahead. Hurt me with it."

He turned until they were facing one another, resting their heads on their forearms. She looked so tired and careworn. He tenderly stroked her face. "Hermione, why did Dumbledore send me to your camp with the Sword of Gryffindor?" He cursed silently as she stiffened and glanced away. "Don't you realise by now you can trust me?"

She took his hand in hers but she no longer met his eyes. "Dumbledore told...told Harry not to trust anyone."

"Dumbledore is the one who sent me into the bloody woods with the sword, Hermione," he said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. "If I knew what you were doing, I could help you. I have all of Hogwarts at my disposal."

She turned back, giving him a beseeching look. "Don't ask this of me, Severus," she pleaded, in a small voice. "Don't make me do something..."

He pulled his hand from her grasp. "That might end this war sooner? Hermione, what do you take me for?"

She leaned back and looked at him uncertainly. "I take you for my lover, Severus."

"Lovers help one another," he replied, trying to keep a lid on his frustration. It would do no good to lose his temper. "What kind of future do you think we can have together if you can't trust me?"

She rose from the bed. "A future where I'm not told to keep secrets from you! I can't tell you because I can't tell you, Severus. I'm sorry, but..."

"Hermione," he said, rising as well, "don't be this way. I need you to trust me..."

"Why?" she insisted, growing angry. "Why do you need to know? In the wrong hands that information could cost the war!"

He could almost see the red mist settling over his vision. "The wrong hands? Is that what you think this is about? That I'll go running off to the Dark Lord and tell him Hermione Granger's deep, dark secret?" When she didn't answer him, he felt his blood run cold. "I see," he said, his voice flat and empty. He started to dress. "Well, at least I know where I stand with you."

Hermione grew pale. "Please don't be this way, Severus! We only have a little time..."

"I have no time, Hermione!" he shouted, anger and desperation crowding out prudence. He was too tired, too damn tired. "I'm going to be dead soon, and you won't even allow me the privilege of gaining the information needed so I won't have died in vain!"

"Please don't say that!" Now she was crying, clutching the edge of the bed sheet to her, as if ashamed to be arguing with him naked. "Please understand, Severus..."

"I understand all this has meant nothing to you but the occasional shag! You can't even show enough respect to help me!" He strode up to her so quickly she took a step back. In a low, dangerous voice, he said, "I could force it out of you, you know, Granger, but I didn't want to stoop to that."

In that instant, he was staring down the business end of her wand, and even though her hand shook, he had no doubt she would use it. In a trembling voice, she said, "If you ever think of threatening me with Legilimency again, Snape, you won't need that thing between your legs any more. Do you hear me?"

The moment the words left her mouth, she looked shocked that she'd said them. Severus looked at her, wondering how they had gone from inseparable lovers to threats in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, it was all too much, and his hurt morphed into cold anger. "Once again, you've made it clear exactly what I mean to you." He looked away, unable to stand the stricken look in her eyes. She had hurt him, dammit, not the other way around. "I'll assure you, Miss Granger, you will never have to contemplate 'that thing between my legs' ever again."

She made a low, mournful sound, and began to cry. A demon of exhaustion and sorrow plucked at his brain, and he sneered at her. "I bid you a good life, Miss Granger. What's left of it, in any case." He turned away, pretended to consider, then turned back. "Oh, and thank you for the fucking. You were ... an adequate diversion, I suppose. But for a man, anything's better than nothing." His eyes roamed over her disdainfully. "Almost."

He Apparated, telling himself that he wasn't sorry he'd said it. He found his way back to his chambers, crawled into a bottle of firewhisky, and didn't emerge for almost three days. Only a command from the Dark Lord had been sufficient to bring him out of his hole. By then, he had reconciled himself to having played the fool over a Gryffindor witch yet again. His despondency over her self-righteous refusal to trust him had fueled his wounded pride, and by the time he faced the Dark Lord, he didn't have to pretend contempt.

Besides, it made it easier to accept his inevitable fate. He spent the remaining weeks at Hogwarts in a numb, stoic fog of bitterness, wallowing in the misery and ecstasy of being misunderstood and beneath the notice of the object of his desire. He had a duty to perform. He had allowed himself to be sidetracked by nothing more than a bout of meaningless sex. It was time to focus on what was truly important.

Any hope of reconciliation was lost on the night of the Battle. He'd pushed away yet another person he cared for. If he didn't dwell on it, he could ignore the pain of losing her. He'd been doing that long enough to know how.

In her tiny flat, Hermione lay on her bed, curled up on her side. Her lovely rose-colored dress robes lay in a heap on the floor, her uselessly painful shoes in the rubbish bin. She closed her eyes and heard his voice, mocking her, hating her. She felt his hands, hard and joyless, grasping her waist. She saw his large, dark eyes boring into hers, accusing, cursing.

She saw him put his arm around another woman and pull her possessively to him.

In the dark, she began to tremble; she gasped over and over, trying to stem the hot, rebellious tears that streamed from her eyes.

She wanted to hate him. He had been the one who forced them apart; he had been the one who had taken something precious and killed it. He had been the one to blame.

And yet, Hermione thought of his lips on hers, and how he stole her heart right out of her chest when she wasn't looking.

Gods, she wished with all her being that he would give it back.